Even after dawn “10:30 A. M.” seemed far distant. But there was much to do toward vacating the flat. Already the landlord had given her grace of three days and the new tenants were “moving in.” Everything of value had gone to the pawnbroker over on Lenox Avenue. The remnant of furniture would be called for during the forenoon by the junk man who had advanced her money for the funeral. The Trevor Trent alligator suit-case, its original claims to distinction contested by the years, she had retained for her wardrobe and keepsakes. This, when packed, she carried across the hall and left, “to be called for,” with one of yesterday’s emergency mourners. After neatly sweeping the floors as a wordless return for the un-landlordly lenience shown her, she stood for one last moment on the threshold of the living-room. Although no sound escaped her, there rose from heart to quivering lips the wail of the young animal bereft at once of parent and home. Down at the corner a subway entrance suggested. The estate of Trevor Trent was closed, his last obligation honorably met. In the purse of his sole heir lay her legacy, enough to carry her swiftly and at ease to the neighbor-hood of her promised employment--promised to her by Vincent Seff. She took out the lone coin and started for the entrance. An old friend, the Italian fruiterer, who yesterday had eyed her with the impressionability of his race, stopped her to press into her hand a luscious-looking, out-of-season nectarine. Dolores tried to thank him, but choked on the words. She decided to walk downtown. Without a clink, her nickel slid into the coin-box at the corner of his cart, as if fearful of being considered payment for this and other of his kindnesses since her little girlhood. Dolores, too, was fearful. She hoped the flush on her wontedly pale face hadn’t made him suspect. At the corner she glanced back. The old friend waved to her. Happily he had not heard; had not seen. Ten-fifteen. Somewhat winded, she hurried her already stiff pace at the warning of the church-tower clock on the cross-street just above the lingerie establishment. The outer doors were wide open and through the inner ones of plate glass she could see gracefully dressed women clerks shaking out and arranging their flimsy wares with a nice regard for effect. As yet there looked to be no customers. But then, as Dolores reminded herself, Vincent Seff’s was an ultra-fashionable shop. The fine ladies destined to wear his creations scarcely would be stirring beneath their satin and eider-down at ten-fifteen A. M. She was there. But even Father Time could not bully her into entering at once. She found herself palpitating with the uneasiness of one who, for the first time, offers her services for wage. Three times she approached the door before her courage bore her through. Down the aisle a fashion-plate of a man stepped out to meet her. “May I direct mam’selle?”--he, in unctuous voice.