Before Nussbaum’s saloon she saw the long beer wagon; its splendid Norman horses tossing their heads playfully, the stout driver in his leathern apron lugging in the kegs of beer. The sight pleased her; and when Nussbaum, in white shirt-sleeves and apron, stepped to the door for his breath of morning air, she smiled and nodded to him. His round ruddy face beamed pleasantly. "Hello, Gustie," he called. "How are you this morning? How’s your father?" "Oh, he’s better, thank you, Mr. Nussbaum," replied Gusta, and she hastened on. As she went, she heard the driver of the brewery wagon ask: "Who’s that?" And Nussbaum replied: "Reinhold Koerner’s girl, what got hurt on the railroad the other day." "She’s a good-looker, hain’t she?" said the driver. And Gusta colored and felt proud and happier than before. She was not long in reaching Claybourne Avenue, and it was good to see the big houses again, and the sleighs coursing by, and the carriages, and the drivers and footmen, some of whom she knew, sitting so stiffly in their liveries on the boxes. At sight of the familiar roof and chimneys of the Wards’ house, her heart leaped; she felt now as if she were getting back home. It was Gusta’s notion that as soon as she had greeted her old friend Mollie, the cook, she would rush on into the dining-room; but no sooner was she in the kitchen than she felt a constraint, and sank down weakly on a chair. Molly was busy with luncheon; things were going on in the Ward household, going on just as well without her as with her, just as the car shops were going on without her father, the whistle blowing night and morning. It gave Gusta a little pang. This feeling was intensified when, a little later, a girl entered the kitchen, a thin girl, with black hair and blue eyes with long Irish lashes. She would have been called pretty by anybody but Gusta, and Gusta herself must have allowed her prettiness in any moment less sharp than this. The new maid inspected Gusta coldly, but none of the glances from her eyes could hurt Gusta half as much as her presence there hurt her; and the hurt was so deep that she felt no personal resentment; she regarded the maid merely as a situation, an unconscious and irresponsible symbol of certain untoward events. "Want to see Mrs. Ward?" the maid inquired. "Yes, and Miss Elizabeth, too," said Gusta. "Mrs. Ward’s out and Miss Ward’s busy just now." Mollie, whose broad back was bent over her table, knew how the words hurt Gusta, and, without turning, she said: "You go tell her Gusta’s here, Nora; she’ll want to see her." "Oh, sure," said Nora, yielding to a superior. "I’ll tell her." Almost before Nora could return, Elizabeth stood in the swinging door, beaming her surprise and pleasure. And Gusta burst into tears. "Why Gusta," exclaimed Elizabeth, "come right in here!"