In the small stall, near the window and behind the counter, sat three women and two men. All had mugs of beer in their hands. The women were all young, and one of them was handsome. They were dressed nattily, jauntily, in modish, girlish hats, and their dainty jackets fitted closely to their slight figures. Their liquor had just been served, and their voices were ringing with wild laughter. Their white teeth shone from their rouged faces with a mirth which met no answering smile from the strange young man without. He stood like a shadow against the pane. The smile on the face of the youngest girl stiffened into a strange contortion. Her eyes looked straight ahead into the eyes of the stranger. Her smile smoothed out. Her face paled; her eyes expanded with wonder till they lost their insane glitter, and grew sad and soft and dark. "What is it, Nell?" the others asked. She did not hear them. She seemed to listen. Her eyes seemed to see mountains--or clouds. A land like her childhood's home with the sunset light over it. Her mug fell with a crash to the table. She rose. Her hand silenced them, with beautiful finger raised: "Listen! Don't you hear him? His eyes are calling me. It is Christ." The others looked, but they saw only a tall figure moving away. He wore a long black cloak like a priest. "Some foreign duffer lookin' in. Let 'im look," said one of the other girls. "One o' them Egyptian jugglers," said another. "What's the matter of ye, Nell? You look as if you'd seen a ghost of y'r grandmother. Set down an' drink y'r beer." The girl brushed her hand over her eyes. "I'm going home," she said in a low voice from which all individuality had passed. Her face seemed anxious, her manner hurried. "What's the matter, Nell? My God! Look at her eyes!--I'm going with her." The girl put him aside with a gesture. Her look awed him. One of the others began to laugh. "Stop! You fool," one of the girls cried. They sat in silence as the younger girl went out, putting aside every hand stretched out to touch her. She walked like one in stupor--her face ghastly. The arch of her beautiful eyebrows was like that of Ophelia in her bitterest moment. The others watched her go in silence. One of them drew a sigh and said: "I'm going home, too; I don't feel well." "I'll go with ye," one of the men said. "Stay where you are!" said the girl sharply. * * * * * Once on the street, the younger girl hurried on the way the stranger had gone. His face seemed before her. She could see it; she should always see it. It was the face of a young man. A firm chin, a strong mouth with a feminine curve in it, a face with a clear pallor that seemed foreign somehow. But the eyes--oh, the eyes!