morning!"

He was marketwise enough to know that some of these busy people were
commission men, and some grocers, and some buyers, stewards, clerks.
It was a womanless thoroughfare. At the busiest business corner,
though, in front of the largest commission house on the street, he saw
a woman. Evidently she was transacting business, too, for he saw the
men bringing boxes of berries and vegetables for her inspection. A
woman in a plain blue skirt and a small black hat.

A funny job for a woman. What weren't they mixing into nowadays!

He turned sidewise in the narrow, crowded space in order to pass her
little group. And one of the men--a red-cheeked, merry-looking young
fellow in a white apron--laughed and said: "Well, Emma, you win. When
it comes to driving a bargain with you, I quit. It can't be did!"

Even then he didn't know her. He did not dream that this straight,
slim, tailored, white-haired woman, bargaining so shrewdly with these
men, was the Emma Byers of the old days. But he stopped there a
moment, in frank curiosity, and the woman looked up. She looked up,
and he knew those intelligent eyes and that serene brow. He had
carried the picture of them in his mind for more than thirty years, so
it was not so surprising.

He did not hesitate. He might have if he had thought a moment, but he
acted automatically. He stood before her. "You're Emma Byers, ain't
you?"

She did not know him at first. Small blame to her, so completely had
the roguish, vigorous boy vanished in this sallow, sad-eyed old man.
Then: "Why, Ben!" she said quietly. And there was pity in her voice,
though she did not mean to have it there. She put out one hand--that
capable, reassuring hand--and gripped his and held it a moment. It was
queer and significant that it should be his hand that lay within hers.

"Well, what in all get-out are you doing around here, Emma?" He tried
to be jovial and easy. She turned to the aproned man with whom she had
been dealing and smiled.

"What am I doing here, Joe?"

Joe grinned, waggishly. "Nothin'; only beatin' every man on the street
at his own game, and makin' so much money that----"

But she stopped him there. "I guess I'll do my own explaining." She
turned to Ben again. "And what are you doing here in Chicago?"

Ben passed a faltering hand across his chin. "Me? Well, I'm--we're
living here, I s'pose. Livin' here."

She glanced at him sharply. "Left the farm, Ben?"

"Y