“We’ll carry this between us,” I said, “and I’ll walk with you to the place.” Without a word of demur she took firm hold of the stout twine with which the parcel was tied, and thus linked we set off together down Randolph Street to La Salle. Conversation was nearly impossible, for we were edging our way for the most part along crowded pavements. When we stood for a few moments at a crossing, waiting for a check in the tide of traffic, she confided to me that she had come to Chicago from “----ville” to see a lawyer. “You are often in the city,” I suggested, delighted to talk on the pleasant, easy terms which were springing up between us. “Oh, no! I ain’t,” she said, and then she was innocently superior to the compliment implied in my feigned surprise, and she began to question me about myself. “What do you do for a living, young man?” “I am out of work, and I am looking for a job,” I said, evasively. “What is your line of work?” she continued; for the bucolic mind was bent on a sure footing from which to launch out into further inquiry. “I shall be glad of any work that I can get,” I said. “Any work at all,” I reiterated, thinking that she might put me in the way of a job. “Where do you live when you’re to home?” and the question indicated a new tack in the quest for certitude. “I came out here from the East” I answered; “I have no home here.” “I guess you ain’t been doing just right, or else you wouldn’t be ashamed to tell,” she said, while a graver look came into her sober eyes. The situation was so keenly delightful that I lacked the moral strength to do aught but prolong it. “Ah, madam, if you but knew!” I said, and I fear that my tone conveyed to her a tacit confession of deep depravity. We had reached the required number in La Salle Street. I led the way to the elevator, and found the door of the lawyer’s office. The woman stood for a few moments in the passage; I was evidently on her conscience. “Haven’t you got any family or friends?” she continued, in a voice tender with sympathy. “I had both,” I replied. “Then, young man, you take my advice, and just go back to your family, and tell them you’re sorry that you done wrong, and you mean to do better. They’ll be good to you and help you.” Her words were swift with the energy of conviction. “I am sure that you are right,” I agreed. And now a well-filled open purse was in her hand, and I saw her fingers hesitating among some loose coins. Presently she held out a quarter. “You’ve been real nice to me,” she said, “and I want to ask you not to make a wrong use of this money. You’ll not buy liquor with it, will you?” “Indeed I will not,” I assured her. “I have little temptation to do that, for I can quench my thirst for nothing; it is food that I find it hard to get. And, madam,” I continued, “I am deeply grateful to you for your good advice.” She smiled upon me, her pretty mouth and dimpled cheeks and dark blue eyes all playing their part in the friendly salutation.