This new wave of hope swept aside the fact that she was the “greenhorn” janitress, that she was twenty-two and dowryless, and, according to the traditions of her people, condemned to be shelved aside as an unmated thing--a creature of pity and ridicule. “I can’t help it how old I am or how poor I am!” she burst out to the deaf and dumb air. “I want a little life! I want a little joy!” The bell rang sharply, and as she turned to answer the call, she saw a young man at the doorway--a framed picture of her innermost dreams. The stranger spoke. Shenah Pessah did not hear the words, she heard only the music of his voice. She gazed fascinated at his clothes--the loose Scotch tweeds, the pongee shirt, a bit open at the neck, but she did not see him or the things he wore. She only felt an irresistible presence seize her soul. It was as though the god of her innermost longings had suddenly taken shape in human form and lifted her in mid-air. “Does the janitor live here?” the stranger repeated. Shenah Pessah nodded. “Can you show me the room to let?” “Yes, right away, but wait only a minute,” stammered Shenah Pessah, fumbling for the key on the shelf. “Don’t fly into the air!” She tried to reason with her wild, throbbing heart, as she walked upstairs with him. In an effort to down the chaos of emotion that shook her she began to talk nervously: “Mrs. Stein who rents out the room ain’t going to be back till the evening, but I can tell you the price and anything you want to know. She’s a grand cook and you can eat by her your breakfast and dinner--” She did not have the slightest notion of what she was saying, but talked on in a breathless stream lest he should hear the loud beating of her heart. “Could I have a drop-light put in here?” the man asked, as he looked about the room. Shenah Pessah stole a quick, shy glance at him. “Are you maybe a teacher or a writing man?” “Yes, sometimes I teach,” he said, studying her, drawn by the struggling soul of her that cried aloud to him out of her eyes. “I could tell right away that you must be some kind of a somebody,” she said, looking up with wistful worship in her eyes. “Ach, how grand it must be to live only for learning and thinking.” “Is this your home?” “I never had a home since I was eight years old. I was living by strangers even in Russia.” “Russia?” he repeated with quickened attention. So he was in their midst, the people he had come to study. The girl with her hungry eyes and intense eagerness now held a new interest for him. John Barnes, the youngest instructor of sociology in his university, congratulated himself at his good fortune in encountering such a splendid type for his research. He was preparing his thesis on the “Educational Problems of the Russian Jews,” and in order to get into closer touch with his subject, he had determined to live on the East Side during his spring and summer vacation.