Sweet Edith! There she was that young Spring morning, living, breathing, hurrying through the crowds of children, innocent as they, fresh as a new wild-rose, light on her feet, and full of the yearning fire of the blue. Can’t you see her, her little blue hat stuck with a black feather, her bending blue-eyed face, her lithe little body gracefully gliding through the cool air? Surely she was made for happiness, for motherhood and home, and all the quiet round of human life! She turned into shining Grand Street; she walked down the street to a tall loft-building, entered, climbed a flight of stairs, and pushed open a door into the “factory.” There in twilight were the garment-makers, stitching, cutting, and crazily racing the machines. She passed through the hubbub to the front, opened a door of a partition, and stepped into the offices. There were four of these, partitioned from each other, and connected by doors. The center one was the show-room, with large oak-table, and racks. Two young men were chatting at the open window and gazing down at the street. Edith did not notice them, but passed into the adjoining office, took off hat and coat, opened the window, pulled the cover from the typewriter, and set to work busily cleaning the machine. The hum of the young men’s voices reached her, but she paid no heed to their words. The young men were chatting amiably. One of them was Frank Lasser, the new traveling salesman, territory Pennsylvania--a smartly dressed fellow, almost insolently handsome. He had large black eyes, a little brown mustache, and black hair smoothly plastered on a high forehead. His chin was weak. He spoke volubly and cynically. His companion was Jonas Zug, salesman for New York State, young, but almost bald. As they talked trade and territory, a barrel organ in the street below loosed a wild waltz-music. The young men leaned out of the window. Four little school-girls had handed their books to others and were dancing in the center of an absorbed circle of people. They executed, not a waltz, but a wild street-dance, passionate, swift, their whole bodies playing rhythmically. One forgot tattered shoes and torn aprons and thin cheeks--so wild a magic was wrought by the dance. All the fresh glory of the morning, all the yearning and fire of the sun and the air, seemed to pulse through the world from them. Zug spoke grimly: “That’s where the chorus girls come from, eh? My! but they dance!” Frank laughed, and pointed: “See that one with the red sweater? Ain’t she a peach, though?”