"I was up in the office when he come in," said Dan. "He'd been held up for speeding and wanted his father to pay his fine."' "Did he do it?" "Of course. Mac always gets what he wants. He told Bean he wasn't going to stay at that school in Virginia if he had to make 'em expel him. Sure enough they did. Wouldn't I like to have his chance though!" "I don't blame him for not wanting to go to school," said Nance. Then she added absently, "Say, he's got to be a awful swell-looker, hasn't he?" That night, for the first time, she objected to stopping in Post-Office Square. "It ain't any fun to hang around there," she said impatiently. "I'm sick of doing tame things all the time." The next time Nance saw Mac Clarke was toward the close of the summer. Through the long sweltering hours of an interminable August morning she had filed and chipped bottles with an accuracy and speed that no longer gave cause for criticism. The months of confinement were beginning to tell upon her; her bright color was gone, and she no longer had the energy at the noon hour to go down the road to the elm-tree. She wanted above all things to stretch out at full length and rest her back and relax all those tense muscles that were so reluctantly learning to hold one position for hours at a time. At the noon hour she had the unexpected diversion of a visit from Birdie Smelts. Birdie had achieved her cherished ambition of going on the stage, and was now a chorus girl in the "Rag Time Follies." Meager news of her had reached the alley from time to time, but nobody was prepared for the very pretty and sophisticated young person who condescended to accept board and lodging from her humble parents during the interval between her engagements. Nance was genuinely glad to see her and especially gratified by the impression her white coat-suit and black picture hat made on the finishing room. "It must be grand to be on the stage," said Gert enviously. "Well, it's living," said Birdie, airily. "That's more than you can claim for this rotten grind." She put a high-heeled, white-shod foot on the window ledge to adjust its bow, and every eye in the room followed the process. "I bet I make more money in a week," she continued dramatically, "than you all make in a month. And look at your hands! Why, they couldn't pay me enough to have my hands scarred up like that!" "It ain't my hands that's worryin' me," said another girl. "It's my feet. Say, the destruction on your shoes is somethin' fierce! You orter see this here room some nights at closin' time; it's that thick with glass you don't know where to step." "I'd know," said Birdie. "I'd step down and out, and don't you forget it." Nance had been following the conversation in troubled silence. "I don't mind the work so awful much," she said restlessly. "What gets me is never having any fun. I haven't danced a step since I left Forest Home, Birdie."