So completely had the present way of living possessed me that I fear that my first impulse at sight of her was born of the hope of a porter’s fee and not of the thought of helpfulness. But I grew more interested as I neared her, and increasingly embarrassed. There was a touch of beautiful coloring in her round, full face, and about the mouth was an expression of rare sweetness, while her dark-blue eyes looked out through gold-rimmed spectacles with preternatural seriousness. But my eye was drawn most by the hair that appeared beneath her bonnet; a heavy mass it was, and tawny red like that of Titian’s “Magdalene” in the Pitti. She might have been a shopkeeper’s wife come to the city from the suburbs or from some provincial village, and she was nervous in the noisy atmosphere of the unfamiliar. I had not yet offered my services to a woman in this new capacity of street porter, and I found myself puzzled as to how I should approach her. But the actual situation solved the difficulty, for when we were but a few steps apart, her bundles fell again into a state of irritating insecurity under her arm and she was again obliged to adjust them. Instantly I was beside her, bowing, hat in hand: “I beg your pardon, madam; won’t you let me help you?” She drew back and looked at me perplexed, and I could see the gathering alarm in her wide, innocent, serious eyes. [Illustration: SHE DREW BACK AND LOOKED AT ME PERPLEXED.] “Oh, no, thanks!” she said, and I knew that all that she had ever heard of bunco-steerers and of the wily crafts of the town was mingling in terrifying confusion in her mind with thoughts of possible escape. My distress was as great as her own. I had forgotten for the moment how dismaying to a woman must be an unexpected offer of service from a sudden apparition of full grown, masculine, street poverty. I felt guilty as though I had wantonly frightened a child. A parcel had fallen to the ground. I picked it up, and returned it to her with an apology most spontaneous and sincere. But as I turned away in haste to escape from the embarrassment of the situation, I found myself checked to my great surprise by a timid question: “Perhaps you can tell me the shortest way to number -- La Salle Street?” she said. My hat was off at once. “It will give me great pleasure to show you the way,” I replied, and not waiting for a refusal, I set off with, “Won’t you follow me, pray?” over my shoulder. At the curb of the first crossing I waited for her. “Keep close to me,” I said, “and I’ll see you safe across the street.” But I ignored the parcels, which were once more awry. On the opposite pavement she stopped. “Would you mind holding my bag,” she asked, “while I get a better grip on these bundles?” I accepted the bag with an assurance of the pleasure that it gave me. It was soon followed by a parcel, the largest and most unwieldy of the lot. She finished adjusting the others, and then extended her free hand for the remaining parcel.