And there'd be some swearing in the last line. If you want to get anything over you've got to drop the poetry business. It isn't real like a play. Will you go with me to a play next week?"

"Thank you ever so much, but----"

"Oh, drop the 'but.' I'll get the tickets Monday. We'll go to something jolly."

"I shouldn't enjoy it as much as this. This is the most beautiful, the most wonderful thing, I've ever seen."

d.i.c.k flushed with pleasure and settled in his seat as the curtain rose upon the last act.

Even he was moved by the _Miserere_, and when the dungeon scene was reached he whispered, "Golly, I like that, I've heard it on the hand-organs. I never guessed though that it was about the mountains." He started to hum it but Hertha gently silenced him, and he was quiet and attentive until the curtain went down.

"Your first opera, young man?" said the middle-aged gentleman from behind, whom Hertha had noticed smiling at them.

d.i.c.k was helping her with her coat, and he answered as he pulled up her collar, "Right you are! I'm just that much of a jay."

"Come again," the man said cordially as though the place belonged to him.

Hertha started to express her grat.i.tude as they stood outside her door but d.i.c.k waved it away. "You're the one who's been good," he said, "and I bet no one ever thought it was your coming-out party. I'll be here to-morrow at two; so long," and he was gone.

The next day found them together again walking across the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Ever done this before?" asked d.i.c.k.

"No," answered Hertha, "but isn't it wonderful?"

"You bet! Say, you're a good walker, though. I reckon you've walked a lot."

"Yes, I've often walked of a Sunday afternoon."

"Who with?"

"My brother."

There was a defiant tremor in her voice. Ever since her slip with Kathleen she had made up her mind that her past life should include a brother.

"Oh, if you've got a brother," turning on her abruptly, "why don't he take care of you?"

"He's too young; but anyway I wouldn't let him. I mean to support myself."

"Oh, I say, Miss Hertha, don't feel like that! Don't get like these modern girls up here who won't even let a man pick up a handkerchief for 'em. That isn't the kind of girl a man likes."

"Isn't it?"

"No. A man likes a girl he can help over places, whether they're out walking together just for the day or for life."

"I suppose you think a man never wants to be helped."

"Yes, he does, lots of ways. They're no end of ways a woman helps a man, to keep him straight and all that." He reddened a little. "But he ought to do the hard work, all the dirty jobs, and it's a dirty job going out to earn your living. And if it isn't dirty, it's too hard. Women ought not to have long hours like men. I bet your brother's reckoning on caring for you when he gets old enough."

Hertha was silent.

"Isn't he?"

"I reckon he'd like to."

"You let him then. Only likely you'll be married long before that."

They reached the end of the bridge and were rushed along in an elevated train until they got out at Prospect Park.

The March day was clear and almost warm, and as they walked down a pleasant path by the lake, Hertha was sure that she saw signs of the spring. Buds were swelling, the willow trees showed faint touches of yellow, while on a bare elm tree branch perched a bluebird.

"How lovely it will be here later," she said.

"There, that's exactly what I want to talk with you about," d.i.c.k Brown exclaimed. "Isn't this a lot nicer now than off the Bowery?"

The girl glanced at him questioningly.

"It's going to be mighty hot where you are as soon as summer comes. I'm right sure of it. And noise! Think of the noise when you have to sit with your windows open. Now, over in this part of the town it's always quiet, and there are trees and pleasant places to go for a walk. Won't it be bully here when spring comes! There's a robin, see him? And the folks say the flowers in the park are great; some of the bushes will be bright yellow, and then will come honeysuckle and no end of things."

"What are you driving at?"

"Just turn down this path, won't you? There's a little summerhouse at the end where we can sit down and look out over the lake."

They reached the summerhouse and by a bit of good fortune found it empty. The artificial pond was very muddy, and to two young people from the country the set, pretty outlook was a poor subst.i.tute for the coming spring by the woods and streams at home. But a subst.i.tute may be better than nothing, and as with hungry eyes they viewed the brown water and saw the sun glowing on the trunks of the bare trees, they felt refreshed and nourished. For the first time since Hertha had met him, Richard Brown was ready to sit quite still, looking into the treetops and beyond to the blue sky with its floating clouds.

At length he turned and told her what he had done. It seemed an old friend had turned up for a week in New York, and introduced him to a southern woman who had a house at the park's edge and who took a few boarders. She had not been especially successful with her rooms, and partly to help her, partly because he'd hated his stupid hall bedroom ever since he'd been sick in it, he had moved over here. It was a good way from work, but that didn't matter. There was rapid transit, and it didn't hurt him to stand up a few minutes night and morning. It was a lot better than living in the noisy, ugly city that they had just left.

Mrs. Pickens, his landlady, was the nicest person to cheer a fellow up, and care for him if he needed it. It was a pleasant house with good board, the sort of cooking you got at home, plenty of gravy on your meat, beaten biscuit for breakfast, and the best coffee in the city. She had a room left to rent, looking over the park where you could see the trees. She would enjoy to meet Miss Ogilvie, and if Hertha would go there this afternoon, just look in and see what the house was like, she'd be doing a favor to everybody. Of course she needn't decide now, but wasn't it worth considering? And he was sure he had found the best school at which she could study stenography and shorthand, only a few minutes in the cars from here.

So he talked, and Hertha, looking out over the lake to the tall trees, watched the purple grackles flying back and forth and wished that she did not have to decide so many things.

Was d.i.c.k Brown growing to be fond of her? She hoped that he was not, for he was the last man in the world for whom she could ever care. But if he really was learning to love her, what a nuisance to live in the same house with him; how demanding he would be, and how she would have to plan to get rid of him! No, it would be far better to stay on in the noisy little tenement with Kathleen.

"And I've one more thing to tell you, Miss Hertha," d.i.c.k said as though he believed it would be wise to change the subject. "My boss says that he's going to send me on the road this spring."

"On the road?"

"Yes, to sell goods. It means an advancement. Aren't you glad for me?"

"Why, of course, if you're glad."

"I'm glad of anything that means more money. Up here in New York that's the one thing to have. If you haven't money you'd better get up and go home. Look at those men at the opera last night! Why, they can give their women anything, all the music they want, silk clothes and pretty slippers, and automobiles to ride home in. It's slick here if you've plenty of cash, but it's b.u.m if you haven't. So I feel fine to think there's going to be more cash for me."

They left the summerhouse, and retracing their steps walked out upon a pleasant street where d.i.c.k led the way up a stoop, and pulled out a latchkey.

"I didn't say I'd go in," Hertha exclaimed.

"You aren't coming to look for a room if you don't want it," d.i.c.k pleaded; "but please come in and see Mrs. Pickens. She's admiring to meet you."

He swung open the door and before Hertha had made any decision she found herself in the hallway, with Mrs. Pickens, who had been watching for them from the window, holding out her hand.