AI-Generated Graded Readers Masaru Uchida, Gifu University Publication webpage: https://www1.gifu-u.ac.jp/~masaru/a1/ai-generated_graded_readers.html Publication date: May 22, 2026 About This Edition This book is a simplified English adaptation created for extensive reading practice. The text was generated using ChatGPT and prepared for intermediate English learners as part of an educational project. Target reading level: CEFR A2-B1 This edition aims to support fluency development through accessible vocabulary, expanded narration, and improved readability while preserving the original story structure. Content Note This adaptation is based on a historical literary work. It may contain expressions, attitudes, or depictions that some readers may consider inappropriate or offensive by today’s standards. Such elements have been retained or reflected where necessary in order to preserve the historical and literary character of the original work. Source Text Original work: The Four Million; The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million; The Voice of the City; Whirligigs; Roads of Destiny; Waifs and Strays [Part 1] Author: O. Henry Source: Project Gutenberg https://www.gutenberg.org/ Full text available at: https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2776/pg2776.txt (The Four Million) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3707/pg3707.txt (The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1444/pg1444.txt (The Voice of the City) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1595/pg1595.txt (Whirligigs) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1646/pg1646.txt (Roads of Destiny) https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2295/pg2295.txt (Waifs and Strays [Part 1]) The original text is in the public domain. Copyright and Use This simplified edition is intended for educational and non-commercial use only. The source text is provided by Project Gutenberg under its public domain policy. Users should refer to the Project Gutenberg License for full terms: https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html This adaptation was generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence and edited for readability and educational purposes. Disclaimer This edition is an educational adaptation and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Project Gutenberg.

 
O. Henry, Selected Short Stories by O. Henry (Simplified Edition, Adapted and Simplified by ChatGPT)

CONTENTS

The Gift of the Magi
After Twenty Years
The Cop and the Anthem
The Furnished Room
A Service of Love
The Romance of a Busy Broker
The Last Leaf
Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen
While the Auto Waits
The Whirligig of Life
A Retrieved Reformation
Hearts and Hands



The Gift of the Magi

Part 1

　　One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all Della had. She counted it once, then again, and then one more time. The number stayed the same each time. Tomorrow would be Christmas, and she had only one dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy a gift for Jim.
　　Sixty cents of it was in pennies. She had saved those pennies one by one. She had argued over prices with the grocer, the butcher, and the vegetable man. Each penny had cost her time, pride, and care. Now all her saving was lying in her hand, and it still was not enough.
　　There was only one thing she could do then. She threw herself down on the old little couch and cried. It was not a small polite cry. It was the kind of crying that comes when a person hopes, plans, saves, and still cannot reach the thing that matters. Della cried because she loved Jim and because Christmas was so near.
　　After a while she stopped. Then the room seemed to show itself more clearly. It was a furnished flat that cost eight dollars a week, and everything in it looked poor and tired.
　　Down below, near the door, there was a letter box that never seemed to get letters. There was also an electric bell that did not ring. On the wall was a card with the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.” Once, when life had been better, “Dillingham” had looked proud and important. Now Jim earned less money than before, and even that long name seemed too big for their smaller life.
　　But when Jim came home, none of that mattered very much to Della. She did not think of him as “Mr. James Dillingham Young.” He was simply Jim. When he opened the door, she ran to him and hugged him with all her heart. Their flat was poor, but their love was not poor at all.
　　Della stood up and dried her face. Then she went to the window and looked out into the gray afternoon. A gray cat was walking on a gray fence in a gray yard. The whole world seemed dull and cold. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only one dollar and eighty-seven cents for Jim’s present.
　　She had been saving for months. She had wanted to buy him something special. She did not want something silly, cheap, or showy. She wanted something fine, simple, and good. She wanted something that would be worthy of Jim. But now she had only a few coins in her hand and a heavy feeling in her heart.
　　Between the two windows there was a long narrow mirror. In that kind of poor flat, it was not easy to see your whole face and body at once. But Della was thin and quick, and she knew how to use it. She turned suddenly from the window and stood before the mirror. Her eyes were bright now, but her face had gone pale.
　　There were two things in the flat that Jim and Della were truly proud of. One was Jim’s gold watch. It had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him. The other was Della’s hair.
　　Her hair was beautiful. When she let it down, it fell like a long brown river. It shone softly, and it reached below her knees. It was so rich and full that it almost covered her like a second dress. For a moment she looked at herself in the mirror with her hair falling all around her, and then she quickly tied it up again. A few tears dropped onto the old red carpet.
　　She stood still for a little time. Then the thought in her mind became clear. She was afraid of it, but she did not push it away. Jim needed a gift. Christmas was coming. The money was not enough. So something else had to become money.
　　Della put on her old brown jacket. Then she put on her old brown hat. She moved quickly now, as if stopping to think too long would make her weak again. Her eyes still shone, and there was now both fear and purpose in them. Then she opened the door, ran down the stairs, and went out into the street.

Part 2

　　Della stopped in front of a sign. It said, “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” She ran up one flight of stairs and stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Then she went inside. The woman there was large, pale, and cold. She did not look soft or kind. She looked like a person who only cared about business.
　　“Will you buy my hair?” Della asked.
　　“I buy hair,” the woman said. “Take off your hat and let me look at it.”
　　Della took off her hat. Her long brown hair fell down at once. The woman lifted it in her hand and looked at it carefully. “Twenty dollars,” she said.
　　“Give it to me quick,” said Della.
　　After that, everything moved fast. Della left the shop with short hair and twenty dollars more in her hand. Now she had enough money to buy a real gift for Jim. But she also felt strange. Her head felt light, and the cold air touched her neck in a new way. Still, she did not stop. She had something important to do.
　　For the next two hours she looked in many stores. She searched carefully and did not buy the first nice thing she saw. She wanted the right thing for Jim. It had to be simple, strong, and good. It had to fit him.
　　At last she found it. It was a platinum chain for a watch. It was plain, but it was beautiful. It was not bright in a cheap way. It was fine because it was real. As soon as Della saw it, she knew it was for Jim. It looked like him: quiet and valuable.
　　Jim’s watch was very special. It had belonged to his father and his grandfather. It was a fine gold watch, but Jim used an old leather strap with it. Because of that, he did not like to take it out in front of other people. Della had noticed this many times. Now, with this new chain, Jim could carry the watch proudly anywhere.
　　The chain cost twenty-one dollars. Della paid for it and hurried home with only eighty-seven cents left. But now she felt happy. She had found the perfect gift. She knew Jim would love it. For a little while she forgot her short hair and thought only about his face when he opened the gift.
　　When she got home, her excitement became a little weaker, and careful thought came back. She took out her curling irons, lit the gas, and began to work on her hair. It was a big job. Love had made her brave, but now she had to fix what love had changed.
　　After forty minutes, her head was covered with small close curls. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. Her new hair made her look like a little schoolboy. Then she spoke to herself in a worried voice. If Jim did not kill her, she thought, he might say she looked like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what else could she do with one dollar and eighty-seven cents?
　　At seven o’clock the coffee was ready, and the frying pan was hot for the chops. Della sat on the corner of the table near the door. She held the watch chain in her hand and waited. Jim was never late. When she heard his step on the stairs below, she turned white for a moment. Then she said a little silent prayer: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

Part 3

　　Jim stopped in the door when he came in. He stood very still and looked at Della. His face did not show anger, surprise, or anything clear that she could understand. He simply looked at her in a strange way. That look frightened her more than any sharp words could have done.
　　Della jumped down from the table and went to him. “Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me like that. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I had to get a gift for you. It will grow again. You won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows very fast.”
　　She spoke quickly because she was afraid of silence. “Say ‘Merry Christmas,’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice gift I bought for you.”
　　Jim came inside and shut the door. Then he put his arms around Della. For a little time, they just stood there together. Whatever he had first felt, his love for her had not changed. That was the most important thing in the room.
　　Then Jim took a package from his overcoat pocket and put it on the table. “Don’t make a mistake about me, Dell,” he said. “Nothing like a haircut could make me love you less. But if you open that package, you will understand why I looked at you like that at first.”
　　Della opened the package quickly. First she gave a cry of joy. Then, almost at once, she began to cry. The gift in the package was the set of combs she had loved for a long time.
　　They were the beautiful combs she had seen in a Broadway window. She had wanted them so much, but she had never hoped to own them. They were lovely and expensive, and they were made for the long brown hair that was now gone. Della held them to her heart and smiled through her tears.
　　After a little while, she looked up at Jim and said softly, “My hair grows very fast, Jim.” Then she remembered her own gift and grew bright again. She held out the platinum watch chain in her open hand. “Isn’t it fine, Jim?” she said. “I looked all over town to find it. Now you can use your watch every day. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”
　　But Jim did not take out his watch. He lay down on the couch and smiled. Then he put his hands behind his head and looked at Della with tired kindness. “Dell,” he said, “let’s put our Christmas gifts away for a while. They are too nice to use right now.”
　　Then he told her the truth. He had sold the watch to get the money to buy the combs for her hair. So now her chain had no watch, and his combs had no long hair. For a moment, all they could do was look at each other and understand.
　　But what they had done was not foolish in the deepest way. Each had given up the thing most precious to buy something for the other. Their gifts could not be used now, but their love had been made clear by them. That is why they were wise. Among all who give gifts, these two were the wisest.


After Twenty Years

Part 1

　　A policeman walked slowly down a dark street in New York. It was ten o’clock at night. The wind was cold, and a little rain was beginning to fall. Most of the stores were already closed, and only a few restaurants and cigar shops still had lights.
　　The policeman did his work in a careful and quiet way. As he walked, he looked at doors, windows, and corners. He tried each door as he passed it. He was not in a hurry. He was simply making sure that everything on his street was safe.
　　On one block he saw a man standing in the doorway of a dark store. The man had a cigar in his mouth, but it was not lit. The policeman stepped closer at once.
　　“It’s all right, officer,” the man said quickly. “I’m just waiting for a friend. We made this plan twenty years ago.”
　　The policeman looked at him with interest. “Twenty years is a long time,” he said.
　　“Yes,” the man answered. “But we were young then, and we meant what we said. There used to be a restaurant here, Big Joe Brady’s. My friend Jimmy Wells and I ate dinner there on the night we said goodbye.”
　　“I know,” said the policeman. “That restaurant was here once. It was torn down some years ago.”
　　The man seemed pleased to hear that. “Then you know the place,” he said. “Jimmy and I grew up together in New York. We were close friends. I was eighteen, and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I left for the West. I wanted to make money, and I believed I could do it there.”
　　“And your friend stayed here?” the policeman asked.
　　“Yes,” said the man. “Jimmy never wanted to leave New York. For him, New York was the only place in the world. So we agreed to meet again here, at this same spot, exactly twenty years later.”
　　The policeman nodded. “Did you keep in touch?”
　　“For a while,” the man said. “We wrote letters for a year or two. But after that, we lost touch. The distance was too great. The West is wide, and people move around a lot. But I always believed Jimmy would remember this meeting.”
　　Then the man struck a match and lit his cigar. For one second, the light showed his face clearly. He had a pale face, sharp eyes, and a small white scar near his right eyebrow. He also wore a large diamond on his tie. He did not look poor, and he did not look weak. He looked like a man who had done well in life and knew it.
　　“You did well in the West, then?” asked the policeman.
　　“Very well,” said the man. “The West gave me what I wanted. A man only has to be bold enough there. I worked hard, and I got what I went for. I hope Jimmy has done well too, but I do not expect him to have done as well as I did. He was a good man, but he was not the kind to chase big chances across the country.”
　　He smiled a little when he said this, but there was real feeling in his voice too. “Still,” he went on, “Jimmy was the truest friend I ever had. I would walk a long way to meet him tonight. I came all the way from the West for this meeting. If Jimmy is alive, he will come.”
　　“You sound very sure,” the policeman said.
　　“I am sure,” the man answered. “Jimmy always kept his word. If he said he would be here, he will be here. I’ll wait at least half an hour. That is nothing after twenty years.”
　　The policeman looked at him for another moment. Then he said, “I hope your friend comes,” and gave him a small nod. After that he walked on down the street, once again trying doors and looking into the wet, quiet night.
　　The man stayed in the doorway alone. The wind moved around the corner and touched the end of his cigar. He pulled his coat tighter and listened to the street. Now and then a person passed, walking quickly because of the weather, but no one stopped.
　　He looked confident, but he was thinking hard too. Twenty years is enough time to change a city, a job, and a face. It can change a man’s voice. It can change what he believes. It can even change what kind of life he has lived. Still, the man in the doorway believed that some things did not change. He believed that Jimmy Wells would come.
　　About twenty minutes passed. Then a tall man in a long overcoat crossed from the other side of the street and came toward the doorway. His coat collar was pulled high, and his face was hard to see in the dim light.
　　“Is that you, Bob?” the tall man asked.
　　The waiting man stepped forward at once. “Jimmy Wells!” he cried.
　　They caught each other’s hands warmly.
　　“Bob, I was sure you would come if you were alive,” said the tall man.
　　“And I knew you would come too, Jimmy,” Bob answered. “This is wonderful. Twenty years! I can hardly believe it.”
　　“Come on,” said the tall man. “Let’s walk a little and talk.”
　　Bob stepped out of the doorway with a wide smile. He felt proud, happy, and full of old memories. His friend had come, just as he had hoped. For the moment, the cold wind, the dark street, and the long years between them all seemed to disappear.

Part 2

　　The two men walked down the street together, arm in arm. Bob talked more than his friend. He spoke about the West, about success, and about how life had gone for him. The tall man listened and said only a little.
　　“I had a hard start,” Bob said, “but I did well. The West gave me what I wanted. A man only needs to be bold enough.” Then he laughed a little and added, “You have changed, Jimmy. I think you are a little taller than you used to be.”
　　“Maybe I am,” the other man said. His face was still hard to see because of the coat collar and the dark street. But Bob was too pleased by the meeting to think much about that yet.
　　They kept walking until they came to a drugstore on the corner. Bright electric light shone through the windows. When they stepped into that light, Bob looked closely at the other man’s face. At once he stopped walking.
　　“You are not Jimmy Wells,” Bob said sharply. “Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man’s nose like that. My friend Jimmy had a different face.”
　　The tall man looked at him calmly. “Sometimes twenty years changes more than a face,” he said. “Sometimes it changes a good man into a bad one.” Then he spoke even more clearly. “You are under arrest, Bob. Chicago police have been looking for you.”
　　Bob’s face changed at once. The joy went out of it. The old meeting place, the warm handshake, and the happy talk about the past all seemed different now. For a moment he said nothing.
　　“I see,” he said at last.
　　The plainclothes officer took a small note from his pocket. “Before we go,” he said, “I was asked to give you this.” Bob opened the note and began to read it. His hand shook a little as his eyes moved down the page.
　　The note said that Jimmy Wells had come to the meeting place on time. When Bob lit his cigar, Jimmy had seen his face clearly and had known at once that Bob was the man wanted by the Chicago police. But Jimmy could not arrest his old friend himself. So he had gone away and sent another officer to do it.
　　Bob read the note again. Jimmy had come. Jimmy had remembered the promise. Jimmy had done exactly what Bob had believed he would do. But Jimmy was also a policeman, and he had chosen his duty.
　　Bob folded the note slowly and put it into his pocket. Then he looked at the officer beside him and gave a tired little smile. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
　　The two men walked away together into the wet New York night. Behind them, the bright drugstore lights stayed warm and clear. But the old dream of friendship had already gone dark.


The Cop and the Anthem

Part 1

　　Soapy moved uneasily on his bench in Madison Square. When winter is near, certain signs appear. Cold birds fly above at night, the wind grows sharper, and a man like Soapy begins to think seriously about where he will sleep. A dead leaf fell into his lap, and that was enough to tell him the season was changing.
　　Soapy knew what the cold months meant for a poor man with no room of his own. The night before, he had tried to keep warm with newspapers under his coat, around his legs, and over his lap. But that had not been enough. The cold had still reached him. Winter was coming, and he had to make a plan.
　　He did not dream about warm trips to the South or beautiful blue water. Those things belonged to rich people. What Soapy wanted was much smaller and much more certain. He wanted three months on Blackwell’s Island. There he would have food, a bed, and shelter from the winter wind.
　　Some people might think a charitable home would be better. But Soapy did not agree. He felt that charity asked too many questions and took too much pride away from a man. A bed given by charity often came with washing, checking, and shame. Prison was different. It had rules, but it did not ask about a man’s private life. Soapy thought the law was kinder than charity.
　　Once he made up his mind, he began at once to think of the easiest way to get arrested. There were many ways to do that in New York. The one he liked best was simple. He would go to a fine restaurant, eat a large expensive meal, and then say he had no money. The manager would call a policeman, and the magistrate would do the rest. It seemed like a clean and easy plan.
　　So Soapy left the park and walked toward Broadway and Fifth Avenue, where the lights were bright and the restaurants were good. He chose a place where the food was rich and the tables were fine. In his mind he could already see the dinner: roast duck, a bottle of wine, and maybe even a cigar. Then would come the quiet trip to the police station and, after that, three safe winter months on the Island.
　　But the plan failed before it really began. Above the waist, Soapy looked almost good enough for the dining room. But below the waist, his trousers and shoes told the truth. The head waiter saw those at once. Soapy was turned away before he could sit down. Strong hands pushed him back to the street, and there was no dinner and no policeman.
　　Soapy did not stop to feel sorry for himself. He quickly thought of another plan. Near him was a large shop window. He picked up a stone and threw it through the glass. The crash was loud. People ran toward the sound, and a policeman came fast.
　　Soapy stood near the broken window with his hands in his pockets. He almost smiled. Now, he thought, the matter would be easy. But when the officer asked where the man was who had done it, he did not believe Soapy could be the one. In his mind, a man who breaks a window runs away. He does not stay and talk calmly. So the policeman ran after another man who was hurrying down the street, and Soapy was left free again.
　　His next idea was less grand. He went into a cheap restaurant where his old clothes would not matter. There he ate well enough and, when he was done, told the waiter he had no money. This time he even asked politely for a policeman. But the waiter and another man chose a faster answer. They threw him out into the street instead. He landed hard on the sidewalk while a policeman nearby only laughed and walked on.
　　Soapy got up slowly and brushed himself off. By now he felt that bad luck was following him closely. He wanted prison, but the city would not give it to him. He had tried a fine dinner, a broken window, and an unpaid meal, and still he was free. Pulling his thin coat close against the wind, he walked on to look for another way.

Part 2

　　Soapy walked on for five more blocks before he tried again. This time he thought success would be easy. A young woman was standing near a shop window, and a large policeman was standing only a few steps away.
　　Soapy decided to act like a foolish man bothering a woman in the street. He fixed his tie, pulled out his cuffs, and set his hat at a bold angle. Then he moved closer to the young woman and smiled in a cheap and silly way. He spoke to her as if he were exactly the kind of man a policeman should stop.
　　Soapy was sure the plan would work. He could already imagine the policeman catching him by the arm. He could already feel the warm police station and the safe road to Blackwell’s Island. All the young woman had to do was show the smallest sign of trouble.
　　But the plan failed at once. The young woman did not move away in fear. Instead, she came closer to Soapy and acted as if she was pleased. She said she had wanted to speak first, but the policeman had been watching. Then she held onto his arm as if she were happy to go with him.
　　Soapy had no wish to continue that game. He quickly got away from her and moved down the street. Once again, he had tried to get arrested and had failed.
　　Then he tried another plan. In a brighter part of the city, he began to shout, sing, and act like a drunk man. He made noise, waved his arms, and danced in the street. He was sure that no policeman could ignore such behavior.
　　But the officer nearby only turned away. He told another man that Soapy must be one of the college boys celebrating a football victory. He said the police had orders not to touch them. So even loud foolish behavior did not bring arrest.
　　Soapy stopped at once. He now felt that luck was truly against him. It seemed to him that whenever he wanted the police, they did not want him.
　　Then he saw another chance. A man had put down an umbrella in a shop doorway while lighting a cigar. Soapy stepped in, took the umbrella, and walked away slowly. The other man followed him and said the umbrella was his.
　　“Why don’t you call a policeman?” Soapy said in a rude voice. “I took it. There stands one on the corner.” He thought this would surely end the matter.
　　But once again, luck failed him. The umbrella owner became uncertain. He said maybe it was not really his umbrella after all. He explained that he had picked one up in a restaurant that morning and might have made a mistake. Soapy said angrily that the umbrella was his, and the other man quickly went away. The policeman on the corner saw nothing worth doing and hurried off to help a tall blonde woman cross the street.
　　Soapy threw the umbrella away in anger and walked eastward through quieter streets. He was tired, cold, and full of disgust. He wanted the police to take him, but they seemed to think he could do no wrong. Every plan had failed.
　　At last he reached a quieter avenue and turned back toward Madison Square. Even when a man sleeps on a bench, he still feels the pull of home. As he walked, the city became less bright and less noisy.
　　Then Soapy stopped. Before him stood an old church. It was dark and old-fashioned, with one soft light shining through a colored window. From inside came the sound of an organ playing. The music was gentle and serious, and it held him still where he stood by the iron fence.
　　The moon was high above, and there were very few people in the street. For a little while, the place did not feel like the city at all. It felt calm and almost holy. The music drifted out into the night and reached something deep inside Soapy, something he had not felt for a long time.

Part 3

　　Soapy stood still by the iron fence and listened to the church music. The sound was soft, but it was strong enough to stop all his restless thoughts. It reached into his heart and woke up old memories.
　　He remembered better days. He remembered a time when he had hopes, friends, clean clothes, and good plans for his future. He remembered a life before the streets, before the park bench, and before his long fall into idleness and shame. The music made him see clearly what he had become.
　　For the first time in a long while, Soapy felt ashamed of himself. But with that shame came something better. A strong wish to change rose inside him. He told himself that he would fight his way back. He would leave the streets. He would work again. He would become a man other people could respect.
　　He began at once to make a plan. The next day he would go to the man who had once offered him work as a driver. He was still strong enough to do honest labor. He would stop drifting from bench to bench. He would stop trying to enter prison. He would build a new life for himself.
　　Soapy straightened his body and stepped away from the fence. He felt a new strength in himself. The night was still cold, but now it did not seem like an enemy that could defeat him. For the first time that evening, he was no longer thinking about Blackwell’s Island. He was thinking about tomorrow.
　　Then a hand touched his arm.
　　Soapy turned quickly. A policeman was standing beside him.
　　“What are you doing here?” the officer asked.
　　“Nothing,” said Soapy.
　　But the answer did not help him. The policeman looked at him with suspicion. A man standing at night by a church fence, doing nothing, looked wrong to him. That was enough. “Come along,” the officer said.
　　The next morning, in police court, the judge looked at Soapy and spoke in a short, official voice. “Three months on the Island,” he said.
　　Soapy had tried all evening to get arrested and had failed every time. But when he had finally decided to change his life, the law caught him at once. That was the bitter joke of it all. He found the prison term he had wanted only after he had stopped wanting it.


The Furnished Room

Part 1

　　In some parts of New York, many people live in furnished rooms and move often from one place to another. They do not stay long. They carry their few things with them and live among chairs, beds, and tables that belong to no one in a true way. These rooms are full of passing lives, and the houses that hold them seem to keep many quiet secrets.
　　In one of these streets, one evening, a young man was going from house to house. He carried a small bag, and his face showed that he was tired. He had already searched many places that day. Still, he kept ringing bells and asking the same question.
　　At last he stopped at a house and rang. A woman opened the door. She was large, pale, and unhealthy-looking. Her face and voice both seemed dull and tired, as if she had lived too long in bad air and among too many strangers.
　　“Do you have a room to let?” the young man asked.
　　“Come in,” the woman said.
　　She led him upstairs through a dark hallway and up worn stairs. The house smelled old and shut in. The carpets were tired, and the air seemed heavy with dust, dampness, and the breath of many people who had come and gone.
　　At last she showed him a room on the third floor at the back. It was a furnished room like so many others. There were old chairs, a bed, a worn carpet, a mirror, and a cheap dresser. The woman praised it in the usual way. She said it was a nice room, that good people had stayed there, and that it never stayed empty long.
　　But the young man was not listening very closely to her praise. He had only one true reason for being there, and soon he asked the question that had clearly brought him to this house.
　　“Did a young woman ever live here,” he asked, “named Miss Eloise Vashner? She may have used another name. She was fair, not very tall, slender, with reddish-gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow.”
　　The woman shook her head. “No,” she said. “I do not remember anyone like that. Stage people often use different names, and many people come and go. I cannot remember such a one.”
　　The answer was the same answer he had heard again and again. For five months he had searched for Eloise. By day he had looked in theatres, agencies, schools, and all kinds of places connected with the stage. By night he had searched poorer and darker streets too, afraid of what he might find and yet unable to stop looking. He loved her, and that love had made his whole life into one long question.
　　Still, the city gave him only silence.
　　He took the room and paid a week in advance. The woman left him alone there. Then he sat down and looked around him. The room seemed at first only poor and common. Yet after a while it began to feel different. Little details started to stand out.
　　There were marks on the floor and on the walls left by people who had once lived there. There were old scratches, old stains, and the tired look that comes when too many lives pass through one place without leaving happiness behind. Across the mirror someone had scratched the name “Marie.” One part of the plaster was broken and stained, as if something had once been thrown against it in anger.
　　The room did not feel alive. It felt used up. It felt like a place that had taken in many hopes and had given back very little.
　　Still, the young man kept looking. He could not stop. Everything in the room might be nothing, but anything might also be a sign. A ribbon, a pin, a smell, a mark on the dresser, a thread on the floor—any small thing might tell him that Eloise had once been there.
　　He listened too. From other rooms came bits of life: laughter, angry voices, the sound of a child, a chair moving, someone coughing, someone playing music badly. Outside, the city went on with its own noise. But inside that room, he felt alone with his search and with his hope, which had grown thin but had not yet died.
　　Then something happened. A sudden sweet smell came into the room. It was the smell of mignonette. At once the young man stood up. His whole body changed. He knew that smell. Eloise had loved it. In one moment, the tired room no longer seemed empty. It seemed full of her. He cried out softly and began to search with wild new hope.

Part 2

　　The smell of mignonette filled the room for a moment, and that was enough. The young man knew it at once. Eloise had loved that scent. He felt sure she had once stood in that very room, breathed that very air, and left some part of herself behind. His tired heart suddenly came alive again.
　　He began to search the room with quick, shaking hands. He opened drawers. He looked under the bed and behind the dresser. He picked up small objects and threw them down again. He searched like a man who believes that one little sign may save him from despair.
　　In one drawer he found a torn handkerchief and pressed it to his face. But it did not carry the scent he wanted. It smelled of another flower. He threw it away at once. In another drawer he found old buttons, a theatre program, a pawnshop card, and other small forgotten things. None of them meant anything to him.
　　He found a black ribbon and held it for a moment. Then he dropped that too. It was a woman’s thing, yes, but it could have belonged to anyone. He needed something clearer, something that could truly say her name.
　　The room soon became untidy around him. Small things were out of place, drawers stood open, and the poor furniture seemed to suffer under his desperate search. But he did not care. He could still smell the mignonette. As long as that smell remained, hope remained too.
　　Then he ran out into the hall and began to ask questions at other doors. Had anyone seen a fair young woman? Had anyone known a stage girl named Eloise Vashner, or one like her with reddish-gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow? But the people who answered him had nothing useful to say. Some were annoyed. Some looked curious. Some hardly listened. No one gave him what he needed.
　　He went downstairs again and asked the housekeeper once more. This time he asked not only whether Eloise herself had lived there, but whether any young woman like her had stayed in the third-floor back room during the last year. The woman tried to remember. She named other lodgers, other lives, other troubles. But no name and no face she remembered matched Eloise.
　　So he went back to the room. By then the smell had faded. The mignonette was gone. In its place there was once again only the old dead air of the house, the smell of damp walls, worn furniture, and shut windows. The room felt empty now in a worse way than before, because it had seemed full for one short moment and then had gone dead again.
　　He sat down and looked at the gaslight. The room no longer held any promise. The city had once again swallowed the woman he loved and had given him nothing he could truly use. For five months he had followed weak signs, half memories, and passing hopes. Now even the strongest sign had faded into nothing.
　　Still, he could not quite stop loving, and so he could not quite stop hoping either. He told himself that she might still be somewhere else in the city. She might still be alive. She might still be waiting in another room, under another name. But his thoughts no longer had real strength in them. The room had brought him as close to her as he had come in months, and even here he had failed.
　　Around him the house went on with its usual life. Someone laughed in another room. Someone moved a chair. Somewhere a child cried. Somewhere a person sang badly for a little while and then stopped. All these sounds made the room feel even lonelier. Life was still going on nearby, but none of it was hers.
　　The young man sat very still now. The wild searching was over. The hope that had risen so suddenly had fallen even more suddenly. The tired room, the old furniture, and the weak yellow light all seemed to press in on him. He now stood very near the end of his strength, though he had not yet spoken that truth aloud even to himself.

Part 3

　　When he came back from the housekeeper, the room felt empty again. The sweet smell was gone. There was only the old bad air of the house, the smell of damp walls, old furniture, and shut windows. The room no longer seemed full of Eloise. It seemed dead.
　　With that change, something inside him changed too. For many months he had kept going because hope had kept him moving. He had believed that the next street, the next house, or the next question might lead him to her. Now that hope had almost fully broken. He sat looking at the gaslight as if it were the only living thing left in the room.
　　The sounds of the house still went on around him. Someone laughed. Somewhere a chair moved. Somewhere a child cried. Life was still continuing close by, but none of it touched him. That made his loneliness even heavier.
　　After a long time, he stood up and went to the bed. He did not move wildly now. He moved with a strange calm. He began to tear the bed sheets into long strips and pushed them into the cracks around the windows and the door. He worked slowly and carefully so that no air could come in.
　　When he had finished, he turned out the light. Then he turned the gas on fully and lay down on the bed. The room was quiet now except for the soft sound of the gas. He did not struggle anymore. He seemed only tired, and more than tired. He seemed finished.
　　Later that night, downstairs, some women were talking together. Mrs. Purdy, the housekeeper, said that she had rented the third-floor back room that evening to a young man. Mrs. McCool asked whether she had told him. Mrs. Purdy answered that rooms were rented to let, and she had not told him anything.
　　Mrs. McCool said that many people would refuse a room if they knew someone had died there by suicide. Mrs. Purdy agreed. Then Mrs. McCool remembered that it had been only one week since they had found the young woman who had died in that same room. She said the girl had been pretty and had a sweet face.
　　Mrs. Purdy nodded and added the last detail. The girl, she said, would have been very pretty if not for the dark mole near her left eyebrow. Then the women went on talking in their ordinary way, as if this were only one more sad thing in a house full of passing lives. But upstairs, the young man had found the truth only when it was too late to save him.


A Service of Love

Part 1

　　Joe Larrabee came from the Middle West because he wanted to be a painter. Even when he was a small boy, people in his town had said he had talent. He once drew a picture of the town water pump, and the people there were proud of it. So, when he was twenty, he went to New York with some money, a strong hope, and a very large belief in art.
　　Delia came from a small Southern village because she wanted to become a musician. Her family believed in her gift and helped her go North to study. She was serious about music, and she loved the piano deeply. She too came to New York with hope and with the feeling that a better life was waiting there.
　　Joe and Delia met in a studio where young artists and music students gathered. In such places, people talked about painting, music, famous teachers, and beautiful things that they hoped to do one day. Joe and Delia quickly found that they liked the same things. They liked art, they liked each other’s dreams, and soon they liked each other as well.
　　It did not take long for love to grow between them. They were young, poor, and full of plans, and that made love seem simple and natural. So they were married. After that, they lived in a small flat that had very little comfort in it, but they did not care much at first. They had each other, and they had art, and that seemed enough.
　　In those early days they were very happy. They talked about their future while eating simple meals. They encouraged each other after lessons and study. Joe believed fully in Delia’s music, and Delia believed fully in Joe’s painting. Each one thought the other would do something fine one day.
　　Joe studied painting under Magister, a famous teacher. Delia studied music under Rosenstock, who was also well known. Their lessons were expensive, but for a little while they managed. They still had some money then, and hope made their small room feel larger and warmer than it really was.
　　But art asks for money before it gives any back. After some time, the little amount they had brought with them began to disappear. Rent still had to be paid. Food still had to be bought. Their lessons still cost as much as before. Very soon, it became clear that they could not go on paying for both sets of lessons and also keep themselves fed.
　　Delia was the first to speak clearly about it. She said that when a person truly loves art, no work done for that art seems too hard. Then she said she would try to give music lessons for a while. In that way, she thought, Joe could keep studying with Magister while she helped support them both.
　　Joe did not like the idea at all. He could not bear the thought that Delia should go out and earn money while he stayed with his painting. He said he would rather sell newspapers or work in the street than let her do that. But Delia came close to him, put her arms around his neck, and spoke to him very gently.
　　She told him he was foolish. She said she would still be living in music if she taught it. Teaching, she said, was not giving music up. It was simply another way of staying close to it. And if she could earn enough money, Joe could go on with Magister, and one day they would both be glad she had been brave.
　　At last Joe gave in, though not happily. He loved Delia too much to go on fighting her when she spoke like that. She smiled then and told him again that no service is too hard when love is behind it. After that, Joe tried to smile too, and he talked about a drawing he was doing, and Delia talked about the pupils she hoped to find.
　　For two or three days Delia went out looking for students. She climbed stairs, knocked on doors, and asked questions in many places. Joe stayed busy with his own work, but he was thinking about her all the time. Then one evening she came home with bright eyes and quick steps. She had found a pupil at last.
　　She told Joe the whole story at once. The pupil was the daughter of General A. B. Pinkney, and the family lived in a large house on Seventy-first Street. The girl’s name was Clementina. She was eighteen, wore white clothes, and had gentle manners. Best of all, Delia was to teach her three times a week for five dollars each lesson.
　　Joe tried to be glad, and he did smile. But under the smile there was still pain. Delia saw it and tried to make everything lighter. She told him about the fine house, the rich rooms, and the old General, who was kind and full of interest in music though he knew very little about it. As she talked, the little flat seemed less sad, because she made the new work sound almost like part of a story.
　　Joe still said he hated to think of her earning money while he stayed with his painting. Delia answered that he must not talk like that anymore. She said that with fifteen dollars a week they could be happy and that he must keep going to Magister. Then she kissed him and told him to stop worrying, because supper was ready and life was still good.

Part 2

　　During the next week, the Larrabees had breakfast early every day. Joe was excited about morning sketches he was making in Central Park, and Delia sent him out at seven o’clock with praise, kisses, and all the encouragement she could give. Then she too went out to her own work. Each of them wanted the other to feel hopeful and strong.
　　Most evenings Joe came home at about seven. He looked tired, but he also looked pleased, as if the day had gone well enough. Delia came home tired too, but in a sweet and proud way. Their little flat was still poor, but now it had a new rhythm in it. Both of them were working hard, and both wanted the other to feel that the work was worth it.
　　At the end of the week, Delia came in with bright eyes and laid three five-dollar bills on the little center table. She said that Clementina sometimes made the lessons hard because she did not practice enough and needed to be told the same things again and again. Still, Delia spoke kindly about her. She said Clementina always wore white and that the great house on Seventy-first Street was very beautiful.
　　Then she spoke of General Pinkney too. He was the kindest old man, she said. Sometimes he came into the drawing room while the lesson was going on and stood there pulling his white beard and asking how the music was progressing. Delia smiled as she described the rich room, the fine woodwork, the heavy curtains, and Clementina’s soft little cough. She said she was already growing fond of the girl.
　　Joe answered her with pride of his own. He pulled money from his pocket and laid it beside Delia’s. He had sold a watercolor, he said, to a man from Peoria. The man had first thought the picture was a windmill, but he had bought it anyway. Even more, he had ordered another picture, an oil painting of the Lackawanna freight depot. Joe told this story with so much pleasure that it made the little flat feel rich for a while.
　　Delia laughed happily and said they had never had so much money at one time before. She said they would have oysters that night. Joe added filet mignon and mushrooms to the plan, and for a little while they forgot all worry. When poor people have hope, even one evening can feel like a holiday.
　　The same pattern continued for another week. Joe left early in the morning for his “sketches,” and Delia went out to teach “Clementina.” Each returned in the evening with the signs of work on face and hands. They talked about art, about progress, and about the future. And each one hid the truth because each wanted the other to keep studying and keep believing.
　　On the next Saturday evening, Joe came home first. He spread eighteen dollars on the table and then went to wash. He washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands. Half an hour later Delia came in. Her right hand was tied up in a large bundle of cloth and bandages.
　　Joe was alarmed at once and asked what had happened. Delia laughed, but not in her old easy way. She said that Clementina had wanted Welsh rabbit after the lesson. The General had run for the chafing dish himself, she said, and while the food was being served, the hot mixture had spilled over her hand and wrist. It had hurt badly, but the girl had been terribly sorry, and the old General had nearly lost his senses. He had rushed someone out for oil and bandages, and now the hand was not hurting quite so much.
　　Joe took the hand gently and looked at the bandage. Then he noticed some soft white strands under it and asked what they were. Delia answered quickly that it was only something soft with oil on it. But at once she changed the subject and asked whether Joe had sold another picture. She had already seen the money on the table.
　　Joe said yes, the man from Peoria had taken the new picture that day and might want more later. Then he asked Delia one quiet question. What time, exactly, had she burned her hand? Delia answered that it had been about five o’clock. Then she began to speak again about General Pinkney, but her words were not as steady as before.
　　Joe drew her to the couch and put his arm around her shoulders. He was very gentle, but now there was a seriousness in him that Delia could feel at once. The room seemed to grow quiet around them. Then he asked her plainly what she had really been doing for the last two weeks.

Part 3

　　At first Delia tried to keep up the old story about General Pinkney and Clementina. But she could not do it for long. Joe was holding her close, and his voice was gentle, and that made the truth harder to hide. At last she began to cry and told him everything.
　　She said there had been no music pupil at all. She had not found any lessons. She had gone to work in a laundry on Twenty-fourth Street and had spent her days ironing shirts. She had made up the story about the General and his daughter because she wanted Joe to keep studying with Magister.
　　Even while she cried, she tried to smile a little through her tears. She asked Joe whether she had not created the General and Clementina quite well. Then she said again the words she had believed from the start: when a person loves art, no service seems too hard. This time the words were sadder, but they were also truer than before.
　　Joe held her closely and told her not to worry. He said he would love her no matter what kind of work she did. It did not matter to him whether she taught music, ironed shirts, sold flowers, or did anything else. What mattered was that she was Delia, and that she had done it for love.
　　Then he asked her to listen quietly for a moment. He said he had something to tell her too. At once Delia stopped crying so hard and looked up at him. There was a new sound in his voice now, and she knew another truth was coming.
　　Joe told her that he had not been selling paintings to a man from Peoria. He had not been spending his days making Central Park sketches for buyers. For the last two weeks, he said, he had been working in the same laundry where she worked. Only he had been downstairs in the engine room, feeding the furnace. The dark matter he had washed from his hands that evening had not been paint at all.
　　Delia stared at him with wide eyes. The whole little false life they had built between them now became clear at once. She had invented rich music lessons so he could keep his painting dream alive. He had invented picture sales so she could keep her music dream alive. Each had been working hard in secret for the other.
　　Joe then explained how he had known the truth about her hurt hand. That afternoon, he said, a girl in the ironing room had burned her hand on a hot iron. The man in the engine room had sent Joe upstairs with oil and cotton for the burn. When he came into the room and saw Delia sitting there, he had understood everything. Later, when he saw the soft white cotton in her bandage, he was sure.
　　For a little while neither of them laughed. The feeling was too deep for laughter at first. They had both been foolish in one way, because they had both hidden the truth. But they had also both been brave and kind. Each had been willing to grow tired and dirty and work hard so that the other one would not have to give up art.
　　The little flat was still poor. The rent still had to be paid. The food on the table was still simple. Nothing outside them had changed. But something inside the room had become warmer and stronger than before. Their love now seemed larger than their disappointments.
　　After a while the sadness became softer. Joe smiled first, and then Delia smiled too. He told her again that no work done for love could ever seem low to him. She leaned against him and did not try to speak about General Pinkney anymore. There was no need. The truth was humbler than the story, but it was better.
　　So their pretty false stories ended there, but the love under them did not end. If art had not yet made them great, love had already made them generous. And that, for the time, was enough.


The Romance of a Busy Broker

Part 1

　　Pitcher, the head clerk in Harvey Maxwell’s office, was not a man who was easy to surprise. He had worked too long in a busy Wall Street office for that. He had seen too many rushed mornings, too many nervous clients, and too many strange moments. But on this morning, even Pitcher looked a little surprised.
　　Harvey Maxwell came into the office at half past nine. With him came his stenographer, Miss Leslie. Maxwell gave Pitcher a quick greeting and rushed straight to his desk. At once he began opening letters and telegrams with great speed, as if every second mattered.
　　Miss Leslie had worked in the office for a year. She was beautiful, but not in a loud or showy way. She wore gray clothes that were simple and elegant, and on this morning her face looked especially bright and gentle. She seemed very happy, as if something sweet had happened recently and was still in her thoughts.
　　Usually she would go at once to her desk in the inner office. But that morning she stayed for a moment near Maxwell’s desk. It was as if she expected him to notice something important. But Harvey Maxwell was already lost in his work. His letters, telegrams, and business papers had filled his mind completely.
　　At last he looked up quickly and asked whether she wanted something. His voice was not unkind, but it was full of hurry. He seemed not to see the meaning in her face at all. Miss Leslie answered that it was nothing and moved away quietly.
　　Then she turned to Pitcher and asked a strange question. Had Mr. Maxwell said anything the day before about hiring another stenographer? Pitcher answered that he had. In fact, he had already sent word to the agency, and a few young women might come that very morning to apply for the place. Miss Leslie said only that she would stay and keep working until someone came. Then she took off her hat and went to her desk.
　　Before long the office became very busy. The ticker began to chatter. The telephone rang again and again. Messenger boys came and went. Clerks moved quickly from one desk to another. Men entered asking questions, giving orders, and demanding answers. The whole room seemed full of money, fear, and speed.
　　Harvey Maxwell seemed made for such a place. He worked standing up, moving from desk to ticker, from ticker to telephone, and from telephone back to his desk. He was thinking about stocks, bonds, prices, and clients. In that hour he looked less like an ordinary man than like a machine built for business. There did not seem to be any room left in him for rest, memory, or feeling.
　　Miss Leslie worked quietly in the middle of all this noise. She took notes, carried papers, and moved in and out of the inner office as she always did. But now and then Pitcher noticed that her face still held that soft bright look from the morning. It was as if she carried a private happiness inside her, something gentle that the office noise could not fully crush.
　　Harvey Maxwell noticed none of this. He was too deep in business. The market was moving wildly, and every minute brought new pressure. For him, the city, the season, and even the people near him seemed to disappear behind the flood of numbers and orders. If someone had told him that beauty and affection were only a few steps away from his desk, he might not have understood what those words meant.
　　So the morning rushed on. Pitcher kept the office moving as best he could. The clerks stayed busy. Miss Leslie did her work quietly and well. And Harvey Maxwell gave all his strength to the market, not knowing that before the day ended, one simple human truth would matter more than all the business in his office.

Part 2

　　In the middle of all this noise, a new young woman came into the office from the stenographers’ agency. She wore a large hat and carried herself with the confidence of someone who had come to apply for work. Pitcher was ready for her because he had already sent for possible replacements. He turned to Maxwell and said that the new stenographer had arrived.
　　Maxwell looked up sharply, as if Pitcher had said something foolish. For a moment he seemed unable to understand the words. Then he answered in an irritated voice that there was no need for another stenographer. Miss Leslie, he said, had done good work for a year, and her place was not open.
　　Pitcher reminded him that he himself had told the agency to send one. But Maxwell only grew more impatient. He said Pitcher must be mistaken and told him to send the young woman away at once. So the girl from the agency left, offended and confused, while Pitcher stared after her and wondered whether his employer was forgetting his own orders.
　　The business of the office quickly swept on again. Men came and went. The ticker rattled. The telephone kept ringing. Maxwell once more gave all his attention to the market, and the odd matter of the new stenographer seemed to disappear into the storm of work. But it had not truly disappeared. It had only shown that something unusual was wrong in Harvey Maxwell’s mind that day.
　　Then, near the lunch hour, the pressure of the morning eased a little. Maxwell stood at his desk with papers in his hands, a fountain pen still hooked over his ear, and his hair falling over his forehead. The window was open because spring was beginning to warm the city. Through that open window came a soft smell of lilac.
　　That scent stopped him. In one instant the whole market seemed to grow small. The noise of stocks, bonds, and prices moved back, and something much more human came to the front of his mind. He thought suddenly of Miss Leslie. He thought not of her shorthand, her desk, or her place in the office, but of her as a woman. And just as suddenly, he felt that he must speak to her at once.
　　He hurried into the inner office. Miss Leslie looked up from her desk, and the soft bright expression of the morning was still on her face. Maxwell leaned on the desk, still holding papers, still wearing the pen above his ear, and began to speak quickly.
　　He told her that he had only a minute and so she must listen without delay. He said he loved her and wanted her to marry him. There was no time, he added, for long speeches or romantic words, because he was the busiest man in New York and would never have enough quiet time if he waited for it. But the feeling was real, and he wanted his answer now.
　　Miss Leslie stood up slowly. Her face turned pink, and her eyes filled not only with feeling but with surprise. She looked at him in a very strange way, as if she cared for him deeply and yet could not believe what she was hearing. She did not answer at once.
　　For one second Maxwell thought perhaps she had not understood him. But then he saw that her surprise was different. It was not the surprise of a woman receiving an unexpected proposal. It was the surprise of a woman hearing something that made no sense at all.

Part 3

　　For one moment Maxwell only stared at her. Her words seemed impossible, and yet her face, her voice, and the look in her eyes all made them feel true at once. The strange happiness she had carried all morning suddenly made sense. The gentle sadness in her smile made sense too.
　　Then she spoke very softly and clearly. She told him that she understood now. It was his business, she said. The office, the market, and the pressure of the morning had driven everything else out of his mind. She had been a little frightened at first, but now she saw what had happened.
　　After that she reminded him of the simple fact that changed the whole scene. They had been married the evening before. The wedding had taken place at eight o’clock in the Little Church Around the Corner. She was not hearing a new proposal at all. She was hearing her own husband ask her to marry him again because he had forgotten the wedding overnight.
　　In one instant the whole morning became clear. The bright look on her face, her waiting near his desk, the question about another stenographer, and the strange pain she had been quietly carrying all day now had one meaning. Harvey Maxwell had gone through his marriage ceremony the evening before and had come back to the office next morning so lost in business that he had forgotten it. The market had pushed even love to the back of his mind for a few hours.
　　But there was something sweet in the mistake too. His proposal had been foolish, yes, but it had also been real. He had spoken because he truly loved her. He had not remembered that she was already his wife, but his heart had still moved toward her in the same strong direct way. In the middle of all the noise and pressure, love had broken through again.
　　Miss Leslie, now truly Mrs. Harvey Maxwell, did not laugh at him cruelly. There were tears in her eyes, but they were not angry tears. She had been surprised, then hurt, and then touched. It was hard to stay offended with a man who loved her enough to propose twice, even if the second time came from forgetfulness.
　　Maxwell himself must then have understood how strange he looked. He was standing there with papers in his hands, a pen above his ear, and all the wild hurry of Wall Street still hanging around him. He had made his great speech not in a garden, not in a quiet room, but in the middle of a business day. That was exactly the kind of man he was. He could not even love slowly.
　　The office outside still went on as before. The ticker still rattled. The telephone still rang. Clerks still moved quickly from desk to desk. Pitcher was no doubt still keeping everything from falling apart. But inside the inner office, for one small important moment, business had lost.
　　That is the romance in the story. Harvey Maxwell was not a cold man. He was an overworked man. He loved deeply, but his busy life moved so fast that it even pushed his wedding out of his mind for a morning. Yet when the right moment came, love returned at once and spoke in its own voice. That made the mistake funny, but it also made it human.


The Last Leaf

Part 1

　　In a small part of New York, west of Washington Square, the streets did not go in straight lines. They turned suddenly, crossed each other, and formed short little places that seemed to have minds of their own. Artists liked that part of the city. The houses were old, the rents were low, and many windows faced north, which was good for painting.
　　In one of those old brick houses, at the top of the third floor, Sue and Johnsy had a studio together. Johnsy’s real name was Joanna, but everyone called her Johnsy. Sue was from Maine, and Johnsy was from California. They had met in a restaurant, found that they liked the same things, and soon became friends. After that, they decided to live and work together.
　　That was in May. But by November everything felt different. A cold sickness called pneumonia came into the neighborhood. It moved quietly through the streets and chose its victims without mercy. It touched Johnsy, and after that she lay in bed, very weak, looking out of the window at the blank wall of the next building.
　　One morning the doctor took Sue out into the hall and spoke to her privately. He said that Johnsy had only one chance in ten. Even that small chance, he added, depended not only on medicine, but on whether she herself wanted to live. If a sick person begins to think only about death, he said, then medicine can do very little.
　　Sue asked if Johnsy was worried about some man. The doctor said no. He thought the trouble was not love, but weakness and hopelessness. Then he said that if Sue could get Johnsy to ask about clothes, sleeves, or some other ordinary thing again, the chances might become better. After that he went away to his other patients.
　　Sue went into the workroom and cried for a while into a paper napkin. But she did not cry long. She had work to do, and she had to stay brave for Johnsy. So she came into the bedroom with her drawing board and began to whistle softly, trying to sound cheerful.
　　She was drawing a picture for a magazine story. It showed a cowboy from Idaho, and she needed to finish it because she needed the money. In that little studio, art, rent, food, and sickness were all tied together. Sue could not stop working just because her heart was afraid.
　　While she worked, she heard Johnsy say something in a low voice. Sue looked over and saw that Johnsy’s eyes were open and fixed on the window. She was counting backward. First she said “twelve,” then “eleven,” and then “ten,” “nine,” “eight,” and “seven.”
　　Sue went quickly to the window and looked out. There was only a small yard, the blank brick wall of the next house, and an old ivy vine climbing up it. Autumn had taken almost all its leaves. The branches were dark and nearly bare.
　　Sue asked Johnsy what she was counting. Johnsy answered very quietly that there were only six leaves left. Three days before, she said, there had been almost a hundred. Now they were falling one by one, and when the last leaf fell, she herself would die too. She said she had known this for three days already.
　　Sue was shocked and angry at the same time. She told Johnsy that old ivy leaves had nothing to do with getting well. She said the doctor had given her a chance, and that chance was real. Then she tried to make Johnsy think about food, work, and ordinary life again. She said she needed to finish the drawing so she could sell it and buy good things for them both.
　　But Johnsy kept looking at the vine. Another leaf fell while they watched. Now only five were left. Johnsy said the last one would fall before dark and that she would go with it. Her voice was calm, but that made the words even harder to hear.
　　Sue bent over her and begged her to close her eyes and stop looking out. She said she could not work without light, but she would gladly pull the shade down if Johnsy would promise not to stare at the leaves. Johnsy agreed for a little while, but only because she was tired. Then she said she wanted to see the last leaf fall and be done with waiting.
　　Sue told her to try to sleep. But Sue herself knew sleep was not the real answer. What had to be fought was the strange dark idea in Johnsy’s mind. Somehow she had tied her life to the old ivy vine outside the window. Before another leaf fell, Sue knew she would have to find some way to fight that thought, or she might lose her friend.

Part 2

　　Sue waited until Johnsy closed her eyes and lay still. Then she went into the other room and tried to work again. But she could not keep her mind on the drawing for long. The leaves outside the window seemed to pull at her thoughts again and again.
　　At last she decided to go downstairs and get old Behrman. He lived on the ground floor. She wanted him to come up and pose as the old miner in her picture. But she also wanted to tell him what was happening to Johnsy. She felt she could not carry the fear alone any longer.
　　Behrman was past sixty. He had a large beard and a rough face. He had always talked about painting a great masterpiece one day, but he had never done it. Instead, he painted little things for money and sometimes posed for younger artists who could not pay much.
　　He was loud, rough, and often drank too much. But under all that, he cared deeply for Sue and Johnsy. He watched over them in his own hard way. He acted like a fierce old guard dog, but his heart was full of kindness for the two young women upstairs.
　　Sue told him everything. She told him about Johnsy’s illness, about the doctor’s warning, and about the strange idea that had entered Johnsy’s mind. Johnsy believed she would die when the last ivy leaf fell from the vine outside the window. When Behrman heard this, his face grew angry at once.
　　He shouted that it was foolishness. Was there such a thing in the world, he cried, as a person choosing death because leaves fell from a vine? He could hardly bear the thought of it. Sue answered that Johnsy was very sick and very weak, and that weakness had made her think in dark and foolish ways.
　　Then Sue asked him again to come upstairs. If he did not want to pose, she said, he could say no, but she needed to finish her picture and needed him there. Behrman grumbled and shouted some more, but of course he came. He would not leave the two girls alone with such trouble.
　　When they went upstairs, Johnsy was asleep. Sue pulled the shade down so that she could not see the vine for the moment. Then Behrman sat for the miner picture while Sue worked. But both of them kept thinking about the old ivy outside and the storm that was beginning to rise.
　　Through the window they could see the wall, the bare branches, and the dark evening sky. The rain had begun, and the wind was growing stronger. It was a cold hard storm, the kind that tears weak things loose and drives them away. Sue knew very well what such a night could do to the few leaves still clinging to the vine.
　　The hours passed slowly. The wind beat against the window. The rain struck the glass. Now and then snow mixed with the rain. The room felt small, poor, and full of waiting.
　　When morning came, Johnsy asked in a weak voice for the shade to be raised. Sue obeyed, though she was afraid of what she would see. She expected the vine to be bare at last. But on the wall there was still one leaf.
　　It was dark green near the stem and yellow at the edges. It hung from a branch high above the ground. It looked old and weak, and yet it was still there after the whole night of rain and wind. Johnsy stared at it for a long time without speaking.
　　“It is the last one,” she said at last. “I thought it would surely fall in the night. I heard the wind. It will fall today, and then I shall die too.” Sue tried again to make her think of other things. She told her not to be silly, and she reminded her that people do not die because leaves fall. But Johnsy still watched the leaf in silence.
　　All day the leaf stayed there. Even when the light began to go, they could still see it against the wall. Then night came again, and with it came more rain and more cold wind. Sue tried to hide her fear, but she could not stop thinking that by morning the leaf might finally be gone.
　　She gave Johnsy broth and moved quietly around the room. She spoke about small things and tried to sound calm. But the window seemed to pull both their thoughts back again and again. Outside, the storm worked at the wall. Inside, one girl watched and waited, and the other kept watch over her.
　　So the second night passed like the first, only with more fear in it. The wind and rain did not stop. The city outside went on in darkness and cold. And when the weak morning light began to return once more, everything seemed to depend on what would be seen on the wall when the shade went up again.

Part 3

　　When it was light enough, Johnsy told Sue to raise the shade again. Sue did it slowly, with fear in her heart. But when the window was uncovered, the last leaf was still there.
　　It still hung against the brick wall. It was dark green near the stem and yellow at the edges. It looked old and worn, but it had not moved. After two nights of cold rain and strong wind, it was still there.
　　Johnsy looked at it for a long time and said nothing. Then something changed in her face. The leaf had stayed. It had not given up. And because it had stayed, it seemed to tell her that she too had been wrong to give up.
　　At last she turned to Sue and spoke in a different voice. She said she had been a bad girl. Something had made that last leaf stay there to show her how wrong it was to want to die. Then she asked for some broth and a little milk with port in it. After that, she asked for a mirror and wanted to sit up in bed and watch Sue cook.
　　Later she spoke of the future again. She said that one day she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples. That was the clearest sign of all. A person who is making plans for the future has already turned back toward life. Sue heard those words and knew at once that hope had returned.
　　That afternoon the doctor came again. He examined Johnsy and then took Sue into the hall. This time his face was different. He said the chances were now good. With proper care, food, and rest, Johnsy would live. Medicine had done what it could, and now the rest depended on strength and time. Sue’s fear finally began to grow lighter.
　　But the doctor had more to say. He told Sue that he must now go downstairs to see another patient. It was Behrman. He too had pneumonia. He was old and weak, and the illness had taken strong hold of him. There was very little hope for him, the doctor said. He would be taken to the hospital, but it was not likely to save him.
　　The next day the doctor brought better news for Johnsy and the end for Behrman. Johnsy was now out of danger, he said. She had won. But old Behrman had died in the hospital. He had been sick only two days. Then Sue went to Johnsy’s bed and put one arm around her. She had something important to tell her.
　　Sue said that on the morning Behrman fell ill, the janitor had found him in his room downstairs. His clothes and shoes were wet and icy cold. No one could understand at first where he had been on such a terrible night. Then they found a lantern still burning, a ladder moved from its place, some brushes, and a palette with green and yellow paint on it.
　　Then Sue asked Johnsy to look again at the last leaf on the wall. Had she never wondered, Sue asked, why it had not moved in the wind? That leaf was not a real leaf at all. It was Behrman’s masterpiece. He had painted it there on the wall the night the last real leaf fell.


Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

Part 1

　　There is one day in the year that many Americans still keep in a special way. On that day they think about old homes, old meals, and old customs. In New York too, Thanksgiving had become a kind of custom, and one small custom in Union Square had now lasted for nine years.
　　Stuffy Pete sat on the third bench to the right as a person entered Union Square from the east, near the path by the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken that same seat at one o’clock. He came there now almost by habit, as if the day itself pulled him to that spot.
　　But on this Thanksgiving Day, Stuffy Pete was not hungry. In fact, he had just finished a very large dinner somewhere else. He had eaten so much that only breathing and walking still seemed possible to him.
　　His eyes looked small and weak in his swollen face. His clothes, which kind people had repaired only a week before, were already under too much pressure from his heavy meal. His shirt was open at the front, and some of his buttons had even come off. The cold November wind, with a little fine snow in it, felt good to him because his body was too warm from so much food.
　　That first meal had come to him by chance. On his way toward Union Square, he had passed a large red brick house near Fifth Avenue. In that house lived two old ladies who kept their own Thanksgiving custom.
　　Every year, one of their servants waited by the side door and brought in the first poor-looking man who passed after noon. Then the old ladies fed that man a full holiday dinner. Stuffy Pete had appeared at the right moment and had been treated exactly as their tradition required. That was why he reached the bench already full.
　　So he sat there now, heavy, tired, and almost unable to move. He looked out at the square with the dull serious face of a man who has eaten too much and can no longer enjoy even his good luck. Then, after some minutes, he turned his head to one side.
　　What he saw filled him with sudden fear. The Old Gentleman was crossing Fourth Avenue toward him. At once Stuffy Pete understood the danger.
　　For nine years the Old Gentleman had come to that bench every Thanksgiving Day and had found Stuffy Pete there. For nine years he had taken him away to dinner. It was no passing act of kindness anymore. It had become a fixed custom, and the Old Gentleman cared for it deeply.
　　He was tall, thin, and about sixty years old. He wore black clothes, old-style glasses, and carried a large cane with a curved handle. His hair was thinner and whiter than it had been before, but he still came with the same serious purpose. To him, the yearly dinner was almost like an institution he himself had built.
　　Stuffy Pete wanted to run, but he could not. His body was too full and too heavy after the first feast. So he stayed where he was and watched the Old Gentleman come closer.
　　“Good morning,” said the Old Gentleman. “I am glad to see that another year has left you alive and moving in this beautiful world. If you will come with me, I will give you a dinner that should please both body and mind.”
　　He spoke those same words every year. They had become part of the custom itself. And every year before this one, they had sounded wonderful to Stuffy Pete. But now they sounded almost terrible, because he had already eaten all he could bear.
　　The Old Gentleman’s eyes were bright with the joy of giving. He stood there in the cold, thin but proud, and looked at Stuffy Pete not as a burden but as the necessary other half of his yearly kindness. Stuffy Pete looked back at him in helpless pain.
　　At last Stuffy made a strange bubbling sound. The Old Gentleman understood it well, because he had heard it many times before. It was Stuffy’s usual answer of acceptance. “Thankee, sir. I’ll go with ye, and much obliged. I’m very hungry, sir.”
　　That was not true in the simple sense. But Stuffy Pete felt that his Thanksgiving hunger no longer belonged to him alone. It belonged to the custom. It belonged to the Old Gentleman. So he rose heavily from the bench and went with him.
　　Together they walked south to the restaurant where the meal always took place. The waiters there knew them already. To any person watching, they may have looked like a touching picture: an old giver and a poor receiver, keeping a holiday custom alive together. Only Stuffy Pete knew that another full Thanksgiving dinner now stood waiting for him like an enemy.

Part 2

　　Stuffy Pete looked up at the Old Gentleman in deep trouble. The old man’s face was full of kind purpose. He had come, as he always came, to keep his small Thanksgiving custom alive. There was real happiness in his eyes, and Stuffy Pete did not have the heart to spoil it.
　　So he gave the answer that the day seemed to require. He said he would go, and he even said he was hungry. The words were not true in the simple bodily sense. But they were true in another way, because the old custom had now become bigger than Stuffy Pete’s private feelings.
　　The two men walked south to the restaurant where the meal always took place. The waiters there knew them from earlier years. To the Old Gentleman, this dinner was not just a meal. It was an institution he had built by repeating one act of kindness year after year.
　　They sat down at the table, the Old Gentleman glowing with satisfaction. Stuffy Pete sat opposite him in quiet misery. Yet when the food began to arrive, he did what honour, habit, and pity seemed to demand. He ate.
　　He ate as bravely as a soldier might fight a battle he had no chance of winning. Dish after dish came, and he forced himself through all of it. Turkey, side dishes, pie, and the full weight of a second Thanksgiving dinner moved before him, and he did not fail the old man. Every mouthful cost him effort, but he kept going because he could not bear to hurt the giver’s happiness.
　　The Old Gentleman watched him with deep pleasure. To see Stuffy Pete eat was to him proof that the custom still had value. He sat there with the grave joy of a man who believed that one repeated act of kindness could become almost as solid as history. The sight before him satisfied something in his heart that food itself could not have touched.
　　At last the meal ended. Stuffy Pete leaned back and gave thanks in short weak sounds, like steam escaping from a damaged pipe. He rose heavily from the chair and moved in the wrong direction at first until a waiter turned him toward the proper door. The Old Gentleman then counted out the bill with great care and added a small tip, just as he had done before.
　　Outside the restaurant, the two parted as always. The Old Gentleman went one way, and Stuffy Pete went another. To anyone watching, the scene would have looked calm and complete. The old man had given, the poor man had received, and Thanksgiving had once again been properly observed.
　　But Stuffy Pete had gone only a short distance when his body gave up. He stopped, swelled strangely inside his poor loose clothes, and then dropped to the sidewalk. A crowd gathered quickly, and soon an ambulance came. There was no smell of whiskey about him, so he was not treated like a common drunk. Instead he was lifted into the ambulance and taken to the hospital.
　　There young doctors looked him over with lively interest. His case was not mysterious in any deep medical way, but it was unusual enough to attract them. A man in such condition on Thanksgiving Day raised questions, and the answer, though simple, had not yet been spoken aloud. Stuffy Pete had not been destroyed by hunger that day. He had been struck down by far too much kindness at once.

Part 3

　　About an hour later, another ambulance came to the same hospital. This time the patient was the Old Gentleman. He too was taken in and placed on a bed. At first the doctors thought he might have appendicitis, because he looked weak and unwell in just the right way for such a guess. So now both men from the Thanksgiving dinner were in the hospital on the same afternoon.
　　One of the young doctors soon spoke to one of the nurses and explained the difference between the two cases. Stuffy Pete, he said, would be all right. He was sick because he had eaten too much. The dinner had been too large, and then another full dinner had followed it. His body had simply been asked to carry more than it could bear.
　　But the Old Gentleman’s condition was much more serious. He had not eaten anything for three days. He had gone hungry so that he could save enough money to pay for Stuffy Pete’s Thanksgiving dinner. The man who gave the meal had done without food himself in order to keep his yearly act of kindness alive.
　　That was the true turn in the story. Stuffy Pete looked like the one who needed food, but on that day he already had too much of it. The Old Gentleman looked like the giver, and he was the giver, but he had paid for that role with his own hunger. The institution he had built for nine years had become so important to him that he had almost starved himself to keep it going.
　　So the two men met Thanksgiving in opposite ways. One was made sick by too much kindness. The other was broken by the effort of giving it. And in that strange way, the old custom in Union Square showed both the warmth and the sadness that can live together inside human charity.


While the Auto Waits

Part 1

　　At the beginning of twilight, the girl in gray came again to the same quiet corner of the same small park. She sat on a bench and opened a book. There was still enough light left for reading, and she used it calmly, as if she had all the time in the world.
　　Her dress was gray and plain at first sight, but it was very well made and fit her perfectly. A large veil covered her hat and softened the beauty of her face without truly hiding it. She had come at the same hour on the day before and on the day before that, and there was one person who had noticed this very carefully.
　　The young man who had noticed her stayed nearby and trusted himself to luck. He had seen her before, but he had not yet found the right chance to speak. This evening luck helped him. As she turned a page, the book slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground a little way from the bench.
　　The young man was there at once. He picked up the book and gave it back to her with the respectful boldness that often appears in parks and other public places. Then he made a small remark about the weather and waited to see whether she would welcome him or send him away.
　　The girl looked at him slowly. He was neat, but ordinary. There was nothing especially striking in his clothes or face. After a moment she spoke in a calm, full voice and said that he might sit down if he liked. The light was now too poor for reading, she said, and she would rather talk.
　　The young man sat beside her gladly. But his first words were not wise. In the easy foolish style that often begins such talks, he told her she was one of the most beautiful girls he had seen in a long time.
　　At once her voice turned cold. She said she was a lady. If her invitation had made him forget that, then the invitation was withdrawn. The young man quickly apologized. He said he had spoken badly and that he was sorry. In parks, he explained, a man sometimes meets many different kinds of girls, and he had made a mistake.
　　That answer seemed to satisfy her. She let the matter pass and then surprised him by asking not about himself first, but about the people in the park. Where were they all going, she asked, and why did they hurry so much, and were they happy? The young man answered carefully that it was always interesting to watch people and wonder about their lives.
　　She said she herself was not curious in that way. She came there, she explained, because only there could she sit near the great common heart of humanity. Her own life was shut away from common life, she said, and that was why she liked the park. Then she asked whether he could guess why she had chosen to talk to him. The young man gave his name as Parkenstacker and waited for her answer.
　　The girl then said that if she told him her real name, he would know it at once, because it was often in the newspapers. This hat and veil, she said, belonged to her maid and were the only disguise she could manage. She was tired, she went on, tired of money, tired of luxury, tired of fine dinners, tired of jewels, travel, and rich men who all seemed the same. Even the sound of ice in a glass of champagne almost made her ill.
　　The young man listened quietly. He said that money must be pleasant in some ways. She answered that a moderate amount might be pleasant, but too many millions only made life dull. Then she added, with a little change in her voice, that sometimes she thought she could love a man of lower position, a man who worked and had a real purpose in life. Rank, she said, often built a wall around a woman and did not let her live freely.
　　When she asked him what he did, he answered honestly enough that his work was humble, though he hoped to rise. Encouraged by what she had just said, he then asked whether she truly meant it when she said she might love a poor man. She answered that no honest work would be too low if the man himself was right. Then he told her that he worked in a restaurant across the street. He was not a waiter, he added quickly, but the cashier there.
　　That answer seemed to break the mood a little. She looked quickly at the small watch on her wrist and rose in haste. She said she had to go. A dinner was waiting, then a box at the theatre, and after that the same old dull rich life again. Then she asked whether he had noticed the white automobile with the red wheels waiting at the upper corner of the park. That, she said, was her car, and her driver was waiting there for her. If he respected her wishes at all, he must remain on the bench for ten minutes after she left. Then she said good-night and moved away quickly through the dusk.

Part 2

　　The girl in gray moved away quickly through the dusk, carrying her little story with her as lightly as she had carried the book on the bench. The young man stayed where he was because she had asked him to. But he watched her closely as she crossed the street. At once he saw something that surprised him. She did not go toward the white automobile with the red wheels waiting at the corner of the park. Instead, she went into the cheap little restaurant across the street.
　　For a minute he remained on the bench and smiled a little to himself. Her rich life, her tired talk of jewels and titled men, and her waiting motor-car had all been only a story. She was not a great lady escaping from wealth for one quiet hour in the park. She was only a girl who liked to sit on a bench at twilight and imagine herself different from what she was. There was no cruelty in his smile. He had been playing a part too.
　　Then he rose and crossed the street in the other direction. He did not go into the restaurant after her. He went instead to the white automobile waiting near the park corner. Beside it stood a handsome young woman in a rich evening dress, looking a little impatient and a little relieved when she saw him.
　　She asked him where he had been and said they had been looking for him at the club. Her voice made it clear at once that this was the real world of money, motors, and late dinners. The young man answered calmly that he had been talking to a girl in the park. He added, with quiet amusement, that she was a very pretty girl, though perhaps a little too fond of pretending she was rich.
　　Then, as he put his foot on the step of the car, he asked the chauffeur whether he was late for dinner. That one small question changed everything. The man who had said he was only a restaurant cashier was in fact the person for whom the automobile had been waiting all along. The girl on the bench had pretended to be rich. The young man had pretended to be poor. Each had wanted, for a little while, to be loved under another name and in another life.


The Whirligig of Life

Part 1

　　Justice Benaja Widdup sat in the doorway of his little office and smoked his pipe. The Cumberland mountains stood blue and quiet in the afternoon light. A speckled hen walked proudly down the road as if the whole place belonged to her. Everything looked slow, still, and ordinary.
　　Then a cart came up the road. It was pulled by a bull and carried Ransie Bilbro and his wife, Ariela. The cart stopped at the Justice’s door, and the two climbed down. At once it was clear that they had not come for a friendly visit.
　　Ransie was tall, thin, and yellow-haired. He had the still face of a mountain man who did not show much feeling. Ariela looked worn, sharp, and tired. Yet in her face there was also a sign that she had once expected more from life than she had received.
　　Justice Widdup put on his shoes for the sake of dignity and let them come inside. Ariela spoke first. She said that they wanted a divorce. Then she looked at Ransie, as if to make sure she had said the matter clearly and fairly.
　　Ransie agreed at once. He said they could not live together anymore. He complained that it was hard enough to live in the mountains even when a man and woman cared for each other. But, he said, when a wife spit words like a wildcat and sat in the cabin like an angry owl, a man had no reason to stay with her.
　　Ariela answered just as quickly. She said a woman could not live happily with a useless husband who spent time with bad men, drank too much whiskey, and filled the place with hungry hounds. Then Ransie answered again. He said she threw lids, poured boiling water on the dogs, and would not cook his meals. Each one had a full list of hurts ready to speak.
　　They went on like that for some time. Ariela said Ransie fought the revenue men and had a bad name in the mountains. Ransie said Ariela could be sharp, cold, and hard to please. Yet what was strange was this: neither of them sounded full of real hate. They sounded more like two tired people who had lived badly together for too long and had forgotten how to stop.
　　Justice Widdup listened with great seriousness. The law books did not help him much, because they did not clearly say that a justice of the peace could give a divorce. Still, he thought the matter over in his own way. If a justice could marry people, he reasoned, then perhaps he could also separate them. That seemed fair enough to him.
　　At last he gave his decision. He said he believed he had the right to grant the divorce. Then Ransie took out a five-dollar bill and laid it on the table. It was all the money he had. The Justice accepted it as the proper fee and began writing the divorce paper with careful effort and great dignity.
　　When the paper was finished, he read it aloud. It said that Ransie and Ariela were now free from each other and no longer had to live as husband and wife. The words were formal, but the room stayed quiet while he spoke them. For all their complaints, the two mountain people did not look happy to hear their freedom announced.
　　Justice Widdup was just about to hand over the paper when Ariela stopped him. She said there was still one matter left. She wanted alimony. At once both men looked at her in surprise. But Ariela had thought farther than either of them, and now the real turning of the story began.

Part 2

　　Ariela stood firm and said she must have alimony. She said she had the right to it. Justice Widdup had to admit that the point was fair enough, even if the law books had not helped him much so far.
　　He asked her how much money would be proper. Ariela answered that five dollars would do. She said she needed shoes, snuff, and a few little things so she could travel to her brother Ed’s place on Hogback Mountain. The amount sounded small, but to people that poor it was not small at all.
　　Justice Widdup agreed at once. He ruled that five dollars was a reasonable sum. Then he turned to Ransie and ordered him to pay it before the divorce paper could be handed over.
　　Ransie looked helpless. He said he had no more money. The five dollars he had already paid for the divorce was all the money he had in the world. He had earned it by selling a bearskin and two foxes, and now it was gone.
　　But the Justice had become very serious about his own authority. He said that if alimony had been ordered, then alimony must be paid. Otherwise, Ransie stood in contempt of court. Since no money could be produced that day, the matter would have to wait until tomorrow.
　　So the divorce was not fully finished after all. Ransie and Ariela climbed back into their cart and drove away to spend the night at Uncle Ziah’s place. They had come to end their marriage, but now they were forced to wait one more day between being husband and wife and being free of each other.
　　That evening Justice Widdup spent his time as usual. He read his paper, smoked, and then walked home after dark. On the path near the laurel bushes, a man suddenly stepped out with a gun and told him to hand over his money at once.
　　The Justice was frightened and said he had only five dollars. The robber told him to roll the bill up and place it in the gun barrel. Widdup did exactly that. Then the robber took the money and vanished into the night, leaving the Justice poorer by exactly the amount he expected to admire the next day.
　　The next morning Ransie and Ariela came back to the office. This time Ransie handed a five-dollar bill to Ariela. Justice Widdup noticed at once that the bill looked strangely curled, but he said nothing. He then handed each of them a paper of divorce.
　　Now they were truly separated in law. But when they turned to go, their talk did not sound like the talk of two people who had fully left each other behind. Ariela asked whether Ransie would go back to the old cabin and reminded him where the bread and bacon were kept. She also told him not to forget to wind the clock that night.
　　Ransie asked whether she was really going to her brother Ed’s place. Ariela said she had nowhere else to go. Then she asked whether he wanted her to ride back with him and wind the clock for him. At once the feeling between them changed.
　　Ransie took her hand. He told her the dogs would not trouble her anymore and admitted that he had been mean. Ariela answered just as quickly. She said her heart was still in the old cabin with him and that she was not going to get angry anymore. Before the law had finished with them, life had already begun to turn them back toward each other.

Part 3

　　Justice Widdup had nearly forgotten himself while watching the two begin to come together again. But just as Ransie and Ariela turned toward the door, he stepped between them and spoke in his most official voice. In the name of the State of Tennessee, he said, he could not allow them to go on as if nothing had happened. The law, he explained, had already divorced them.
　　He went on to say that they were no longer husband and wife. They had been separated by proper paper and proper words. As such, they could not now simply go back to the old cabin and live together again as before. Ariela caught Ransie’s arm tightly when she heard that. It seemed cruel that they might lose each other just when they had at last understood what they really wanted.
　　But Justice Widdup was not finished. The court, he said, was fully prepared to remove the difficulty it had itself created. He was ready at once to perform the solemn ceremony of marriage. In that way, matters could be set right, and the two could return to the honorable state of married life. The fee for performing this ceremony, he added, would be five dollars.
　　Ariela understood his meaning at once. Quickly she put her hand to her bosom and drew out the five-dollar bill she had received as alimony. Then she placed it on the Justice’s table. Her face grew warm with feeling as she stood there hand in hand with Ransie and listened to the new words that joined them again.
　　So the same money had now done three different jobs. It had paid for the divorce. It had served as alimony. And now it paid for the marriage that undid the divorce. Life had truly turned like a wheel and brought them back to the very place from which they had tried to move away.
　　Justice Widdup performed the ceremony with full dignity. He had first separated them and now joined them again, and in his own mind he no doubt felt that he had served both justice and human feeling very well. When it was done, Ransie helped Ariela into the cart and then climbed in beside her.
　　The little red bull turned once more toward the mountains. The two rode away with their hands together, going back toward the old cabin, the clock, and the life they had thought they wanted to leave. The law had taken them apart and then put them together again. But it was life itself, turning and turning like a whirligig, that had taught them what they truly were to each other.


A Retrieved Reformation

Part 1

　　A guard came to the prison shoe shop and told Jimmy Valentine to come with him. Jimmy had been sewing shoe tops like the other prisoners. He went quietly to the front office.
　　There the warden gave him a pardon signed by the governor that very morning. Jimmy took it in a tired way. He had been in prison for almost ten months of a four-year sentence, but he had expected to get out much sooner. A man like Jimmy had friends outside, and such men usually did not stay in prison long.
　　The warden looked at him kindly enough and gave him some advice. He told Jimmy that he would go free the next morning and ought to make a new life for himself. He said Jimmy was not bad at heart. If only he would stop breaking into safes and live honestly, he could become a decent man.
　　Jimmy looked surprised. He said he had never broken into a safe in his life. The warden laughed. He had heard that kind of answer before. He reminded Jimmy of the Springfield job and of all the other stories innocent men liked to tell when they were caught. But Jimmy only repeated that he had never even been in Springfield.
　　The next morning, at a quarter past seven, Jimmy stood in the outer office wearing the clothes the prison gave to men who were leaving. The suit did not fit him well, and the shoes were stiff and noisy. The clerk gave him a train ticket and a five-dollar bill, as if that were enough money for a man to begin a new honest life. The warden gave him a cigar and shook his hand. Then Mr. James Valentine walked out into the sunshine.
　　Jimmy did not stop to admire the day. He did not stand there thinking about birds, trees, or freedom. Instead he went straight to a restaurant. There he ate a good meal with chicken and wine and then smoked a better cigar than the one the warden had given him. After that he went to the train station and traveled to a small town near the state line.
　　In that town he went at once to Mike Dolan’s place. Mike greeted him warmly and told him he had done what he could to get Jimmy out earlier, but the governor had been harder to move this time. Jimmy did not talk much about prison or reform. He asked only for the key.
　　Mike gave him the key, and Jimmy went upstairs to a back room. He opened the door and entered a place he knew well. There, on the floor, still lay Ben Price’s collar button from the day Jimmy had been arrested. Jimmy noticed it, but it did not trouble him. It was simply a piece of the past still lying where it had fallen.
　　He pulled down a folding bed and moved a panel in the wall. Behind it was a suit-case covered with dust. He took it out and opened it. Inside was a beautiful set of burglar’s tools, the finest kind. There were drills, braces, bits, clamps, and other carefully made steel tools, some of them of Jimmy’s own design. They had cost him almost a thousand dollars. He looked at them with real pleasure, like a skilled workman looking again at the tools of his best trade.
　　About half an hour later he came downstairs again, now dressed in good clothes and carrying the suit-case. Mike asked whether Jimmy had anything planned. Jimmy answered in an innocent voice that he did not understand the question. He said he was only representing a biscuit and cracker company. Mike laughed and gave him a drink, but Jimmy chose seltzer and milk. He did not drink strong liquor. He liked to keep his head clear.
　　A week later there was a neat safe burglary in Richmond, Indiana. Only eight hundred dollars were taken, but the work was very clean. Two weeks after that, in Logansport, a new kind of safe was opened easily and fifteen hundred dollars in money disappeared. Then, in Jefferson City, an old bank safe gave up five thousand dollars. In each case, only the cash was taken. Silver and securities were left behind. The jobs were fast, exact, and done by one expert hand.
　　The police who studied the three cases saw at once that the same man had done all of them. The style was too clear to mistake. When detective Ben Price looked into the matter, he did not need long to reach his own answer. He said the jobs carried Jimmy Valentine’s signature. Jimmy, newly pardoned and newly free, had gone back to the one business he knew best.

Part 2

　　One afternoon Jimmy Valentine got off a mail wagon in Elmore, Arkansas, carrying his suit-case in his hand. He looked like a healthy young man from a college or a good business office. No one seeing him then would have guessed that he was a famous safe-breaker. As he walked toward the hotel, he saw a young woman cross the street and go into the Elmore Bank. In that one moment, when he looked into her face, something in him changed.
　　The young woman was Annabel Adams, the daughter of the banker. Jimmy did not know her name yet, but he knew at once that he wanted to know it. He stopped a boy near the bank steps and began asking questions. By spending a few dimes, he learned that the girl was Miss Annabel Adams and that her father owned the bank. He also learned enough about the town to understand that Elmore was small, respectable, and not the sort of place where people quickly forgot a stranger.
　　Jimmy then went to the Planters’ Hotel and wrote a new name in the register. He called himself Ralph D. Spencer. He said he might stay for a while and asked the clerk about business in the town. In a very short time he turned the talk toward shoes and learned that Elmore did not yet have a really good shoe store.
　　From that point on, the story of Jimmy Valentine began to move in a new direction. Ralph D. Spencer stayed in Elmore, opened a shoe store, and did well there. He was pleasant, good-looking, and easy to like. In a small town, those things matter, but steady work matters even more, and Ralph Spencer gave the town both.
　　The people of Elmore soon accepted him. Customers came to his shop. Men spoke well of him. Women trusted him. He seemed exactly what he appeared to be: a hard-working young businessman with good manners and a bright future. It was not only a false appearance. Little by little, it became his real daily life.
　　Most important of all, he came to know Annabel Adams. He saw her again, and then again. What had begun with one look in the street grew into love. Annabel loved him too, and the Adams family welcomed him warmly. Mr. Adams, who owned the bank, approved of him, and the whole family seemed to think Ralph Spencer was exactly the right sort of young man.
　　A year passed. During that year, Ralph Spencer’s store prospered, and his place in the town became stronger. At the end of that time, he and Annabel were engaged to be married in two weeks. He was now so close to the Adams family that he moved among them almost as if he already belonged to them. The old life of Jimmy Valentine seemed farther away with each passing day.
　　Yet Jimmy Valentine was not fully dead. He still had the suit-case with the fine steel tools in it. He still had the knowledge in his hands. He still knew that the past could come back if it wanted to. So, after a full year of honest business and quiet love, he made an important decision.
　　He sat down and wrote a letter to an old friend in St. Louis. In the letter he asked the man to meet him in Little Rock on Wednesday night. He said he wanted to give him the burglar’s tools, because he himself would never use them again. He wrote very clearly that he had left the old business a year before, that he had a good store, and that he was going to marry the finest girl on earth.
　　He wrote one thing even more important than that. He said he would not touch another man’s money now for a million dollars. Those were not the words of a man merely hiding under a new name. They were the words of a man who had begun to become someone else. Love, work, and daily honesty had done what prison had failed to do.

Part 3

　　On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote that letter, Ben Price came quietly into Elmore in a hired buggy. He moved around the town in his usual calm way and asked just enough questions to learn what he wanted to know. From the drugstore across the street from Spencer’s shoe store, he got a good look at Ralph D. Spencer. Then he said softly to himself that Jimmy was going to marry the banker’s daughter. The old detective had found his man, but he had found him standing inside a new life.
　　The next morning Jimmy ate breakfast with the Adams family. He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding suit and buy something nice for Annabel. It would be the first time he had left Elmore since coming there. More than a year had passed since his last safe job, and he believed he could risk the trip safely now.
　　After breakfast the family all went downtown together. Mr. Adams came, and so did Annabel, Jimmy, Annabel’s married sister, and the sister’s two little girls, May and Agatha. On the way they stopped at the hotel where Jimmy still had his room, and he ran upstairs to get his suit-case. Then they all went on to the bank, where his horse and buggy were waiting for the later drive to the station. It was an ordinary happy family morning, and nothing in it seemed dark or dangerous.
　　Inside the bank, Jimmy was welcome everywhere because he was soon to marry Annabel. The clerks smiled at him and greeted him warmly. He set his suit-case down, and Annabel, full of happiness and playfulness, picked up his hat and then lifted the suit-case too. She laughed and said she would make a fine traveling salesman. Then she gave a little cry at the weight of the case and said it felt as if it were full of gold bricks. Jimmy answered coolly that it held only nickel-plated shoe-horns that he was taking back, and that he was saving express charges by carrying them himself.
　　Mr. Adams was proud of the bank’s new vault and safe and insisted on showing it to everyone. It was a small vault, but it had a new patented door, three strong steel bolts moved by one handle, and a time-lock. He explained its workings proudly while Jimmy listened with polite interest and did his best to look like a man who understood very little about safes. The two children, May and Agatha, were delighted by the shining steel, the clock, and the knobs.
　　While the family was looking at the vault, Ben Price walked quietly into the bank and leaned on the rail. He told the teller that he did not want anything and was only waiting for a man he knew. No one in the room guessed why he was really there. He stood watching Jimmy with the patient eye of a man who has followed a trail to its end and is now only waiting for the right moment.
　　Then, all at once, the happy morning broke apart. There came a scream from one of the women and then another. In the spirit of play, little May had shut her younger sister Agatha inside the new vault and turned the handle just as she had seen Mr. Adams do. The heavy door closed, the bolts went into place, and Agatha was trapped inside. The whole room became full of fear at once.
　　Mr. Adams rushed to the vault and pulled at the handle with all his strength. But the door would not open. The time-lock had not been set properly, and the combination was not ready for use. The child inside began to cry wildly in the dark. Agatha’s mother beat on the steel and called her name in terror. The men all spoke at once, but no useful plan came forward. Someone said they would have to send to Little Rock. Someone else said there was not enough time.
　　Annabel turned then to Jimmy. Her face was full of fear, but also full of trust. To her, Ralph Spencer was the one strong and capable man in the room. She caught his arm and asked whether he could not do something, whether he would not try. At that moment Jimmy stood between two lives. Behind him was the honest life he had built in Elmore. Inside the vault was a frightened little child. And in the bank, only a few steps away, stood Ben Price watching him.

Part 4

　　Jimmy looked at Annabel for one short moment. Then he smiled in a strange gentle way and asked her for the rose she was wearing. She did not understand why he asked for it, but she trusted him completely. So she took the flower from her dress and gave it to him. He put it in his vest pocket, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. In that moment Ralph D. Spencer disappeared, and Jimmy Valentine stood there again.
　　He spoke quickly now in the hard calm voice of the old safe-breaker. Everyone was to move away from the vault door. No one was to stand near him. There was no time for long explanation and no need for it. The frightened people obeyed because fear had made them ready to obey any man who seemed able to act.
　　Jimmy placed the suit-case on the table and opened it. Then he laid out the shining steel tools one by one. The men in the room stared at them without speaking. They did not understand all they were seeing, but they understood enough. These were not shoe-horns. These were the tools of a man who knew how to open steel.
　　Jimmy bent to his work at once. His hands moved with perfect skill and speed. He drilled, listened, measured, and changed tools without waste of motion. As he worked, he whistled softly to himself, just as he had done in the old days. It was the sound of a professional at home in his trade.
　　The room stayed silent except for the little sounds of the tools and the weak crying of the child inside the vault. Annabel stood pale and still. Mr. Adams could only stare. And Ben Price, leaning by the rail, watched Jimmy closely and said nothing. The old detective had followed his man far, and now he was seeing the whole truth of him at last.
　　Jimmy worked with all the speed and care he had in him. The steel door answered his tools quickly. It was as if the whole lost life of Jimmy Valentine had returned to his fingers for one last task. In only a few minutes, he drew back the bolts and opened the door.
　　Little Agatha was pulled out at once and gathered into her mother’s arms. The women cried with relief. The men began to speak all at once. Fear broke into gratitude, noise, and movement. But Jimmy did not wait for thanks. He had done what he had chosen to do, and he knew what it had cost him.
　　He put on his coat quietly and walked toward the front door of the bank. He did not try to hide anything now. He did not even look around much. The old life had shown itself in full daylight before everyone, and there was no reason left for him to pretend to be Ralph Spencer any longer. He had saved the child, but he had also given up Annabel, the town, and the honest future he had built.
　　At the door he met Ben Price standing in his way. Jimmy looked at him and smiled in a tired but peaceful way. “Hello, Ben,” he said. “You’ve got me at last. Let’s go. I don’t suppose it makes much difference now.”
　　But Ben Price did a surprising thing. He looked at Jimmy for a moment and then spoke as if he did not know him at all. He said there must be some mistake. Then he asked whether Mr. Spencer’s buggy was not waiting for him. After that, Ben Price turned and walked away down the street.
　　That was the end of Jimmy Valentine’s old life. He had not truly changed because prison had told him to change. He had changed because love and honest work had slowly remade him, and because when the final test came, he chose to save a child even though doing so would ruin him. Ben Price saw that. The law had found Jimmy Valentine, but the man standing before him was no longer the same man the law had once known.


Hearts and Hands

Part 1

　　In one of the coaches of an eastbound train, a very pretty young woman sat alone. She was dressed in a quiet and elegant way. She looked calm, confident, and well brought up. Nothing in her face suggested that she expected anything unusual to happen that day.
　　Then two men came into the coach and took the seat facing her. They were handcuffed together. One of them was handsome, young, and well dressed. The other was darker, rougher, and more serious in face and manner. To most people looking at them, it would have seemed natural to think that the younger man was the prisoner and the rougher man was the officer.
　　The young woman gave a small cry of surprise. She had recognized the younger man at once. She reached out her hand warmly and called him Mr. Easton. She reminded him that they had known each other in Washington. Her face brightened with real pleasure, but almost at once her eyes dropped to the handcuffs and then rose again with quiet doubt. She was too polite to ask a direct question, yet the steel between the two men could not be ignored.
　　Easton took her hand and answered with a smile that looked friendly but a little uneasy. He said he could never mistake Miss Fairchild. Then he asked after her family and tried to speak as if the meeting were perfectly ordinary. But he coloured slightly and did not seem fully at ease. The handcuffs had already made the whole meeting awkward.
　　Miss Fairchild did her best to make things easier. She spoke of Washington and of old times. She said the East was not the same without him and that her family often spoke of him. It was clear that she remembered him as a man of good position and pleasant manners. The West, the train, and the handcuffs made him seem more interesting now than ever.
　　Before Easton could explain anything, the rougher man spoke. He said there was no reason for Miss Fairchild to worry. All marshals, he explained, handcuff themselves to their prisoners while traveling, so that the prisoner cannot escape. Mr. Easton, he added, was the marshal in this case. That simple answer changed everything for Miss Fairchild at once. The handcuffs no longer seemed shameful to her. They now seemed to be a sign of duty and importance.
　　Miss Fairchild’s face grew warm again. She asked whether Easton would soon return to Washington. He answered that his old easy days were probably over. Then she looked out of the train window and said that she loved the West very much. She and her mother had spent the summer in Denver, and she thought she could be happy there. She added that money was not everything, though many people foolishly believed that it was. Easton listened quietly while the rougher man waited beside him, still joined to him by the steel chain.
　　At last the rougher man said he wanted a drink and a smoke and had waited long enough. Easton rose and said lightly that he could not refuse tobacco to the unfortunate. Then he turned to Miss Fairchild and made ready to leave with the other man for the smoker. The strange little meeting in the coach was not over yet, but it was moving quietly toward its final truth.

Part 2

　　Miss Fairchild looked at Easton with friendly concern. She said she was sorry he was not going East, but she supposed he must continue on to Leavenworth with his prisoner. Easton answered simply that yes, he had to go on to Leavenworth. His words were quiet, and there was something tired in them, though Miss Fairchild did not seem to notice it.
　　The rougher man then said again that he wanted a smoke and had waited long enough. Easton rose and made his farewell to Miss Fairchild. He did not correct her understanding, and he did not try to explain anything more. Then the two men moved together down the aisle toward the smoker, still joined by the handcuffs.
　　Two other passengers had watched and listened to most of the meeting. After Easton and the other man had gone, one of them said that the marshal seemed like a good sort of fellow. The second man looked after them and then asked a quiet question. He wondered whether the first man had ever known an officer to handcuff a prisoner to his right hand.
　　With that one question, the truth became clear. Easton was not the marshal at all. He was the prisoner. The rougher man had been the real officer from the beginning, and he had kindly let Easton keep his old friend’s good opinion for a few more minutes.
　　That is what gives the little scene its meaning. Miss Fairchild was allowed to keep her warm memory of Easton a little longer, and Easton was allowed to stand before her with some dignity left. The real marshal, though rough in face and manner, showed more kindness than anyone else in the coach. Hands were joined by steel, but the deeper human act in the story was quiet mercy.