Great Taylor sank into a broken armchair, her huge calloused hands rested in her lap, wrists crossed, palms turned upward, fingers stiffly curled. "I know who you are," she mumbled, leaning forward and peering through the half-light. "What do you want?" "You hung out a sign...." "You ain't the man I expected." "No?" He rocked up on his toes and made a gesture that indicated the piles of junk. "You're done." "I'm done," assented Great Taylor. "I ain't going to lay a hand on the cart again. Ten years...." "Uhm. You have a right to the things that other women have. But...." He glanced around the dingy warehouse. "Is this all you have for your ten years?" Great Taylor made no reply. "It isn't much," said the man. "It's something," said Great Taylor. "Not enough to live on." "Not enough to live on," she echoed. "But I can't go on working. I can't go on alone. The cart's too heavy to push alone. I'm done." She drooped there. "I think we can arrange something." For a moment the man was silent, his queer eyes moving over her body. "I had something in mind when I entered--something aside from junk. I could make a place for you. I'll do better than that. With this rubbish you buy a half share in one of my places and sit all day with your hands folded. You can make more in a week than you ever made in a year...." His voice flowed smoothly on until Great Taylor raised her head. "I didn't come ten years ago." The man laughed. "Who cares how you make your money? Do you know what people say when they hear you calling through the streets? They say, 'It's nothing, it's only Great Taylor.' And do you know what they think when they look down upon you and your junk-cart? They think of you just as you used to think of Grit...." She staggered to her feet. "You leave Grit out of it!" For ten years a sentence had been pulsing through her mind. "Get out!" she cried, "_Grit warn't dirty underneath_!" The pain in her breast choked her and stopped her short as she moved threateningly toward him. The piece of iron fell heavily to the floor. "Who sees underneath?" came the voice of the man. "Grit," she moaned, "Grit sees underneath." And she hurled her tortured body forward, striking at him with her fists. She fell upon the pile of scrap iron. Each heave of her breast was a sob. She struggled to her feet and glared around her. But the man was not there. Moaning, she sank into the armchair. "What's the matter with me? There warn't nobody here! _He_ warn't here. No man could stay the same for ten years." The piles of junk seemed slowly to revolve around her. "What's the matter with me?" she asked again. "Ain't I got a right?..." "Of course you have a right to the things you want." From the top of the hill of rags came his voice. It brought Great Taylor to her feet, sobbing. But the pain in her side, more fearful than ever, held her motionless.