"T

HEM last medallions ain't set in right." The forelady looked at Teresa Soracco, and there was more than dissatisfaction with the medallions in her eyes.

"I guess there ain't much the matter with them medallions."

When I say they ain't right, they ain't. See?" The forelady's thin lips set.

"All right. Put it up to Barney. I'm willin'." Before the other could stop her Teresa had beckoned to the young foreman, and he was coming quickly down between the long lines of whirring machines.

"She says they ain't in right." Teresa looked up softly from under her thick black lashes. "What's the matter with 'em? No other forelady ever said my work was bum, an' I been here four years."

Barney Farrol's blue eyes glanced hastily over the work and then settled on the throbbing spot at the base of Teresa's round, brown throat.

fitted the work under the foot. The machine whirred.

'I say, kid!"

The machine whirred on.
"Tessie!"

"Well?" Teresa threw the finished nightgown on its pile.

“Would-you-care about going to a dance some night? There's a swell one at Hinman's, on Sixth Avenue, to morrow." Teresa turned. Her eyes passed over the cutting-table and Paolo. He was still standing rigid, his jaw set, his face black with anger. She smiled straight into Barney Farrol's eyes. "Sure-I'll come."

"Good." Teresa was bent over her machine again, but Barney Farrol stood for a moment looking down at the tiny black curls that clung about her ears. Then he went.

The long hot afternoon dragged to a close. The machines roared. The electric fans whirled the suffocating air. Paolo Scorti worked with his back to Teresa. His hands were cold, and from time to time they trembled violently. But the blood roared in his ears louder than the whirring belts of the machines. He had seen. Teresa Soracco had smiled into the eyes of a man. And this man had touched her, twice put his hand on the thin, open lace of her waist. When the gong sounded at five-thirty, Paolo took his hat and coat and was on the street before the first elevator emptied its load.

Teresa Soracco and Filomena Ricardi came down in the third trip. As they stepped out on the sidewalk Filomena looked about nervously with her little red-rimmed eyes.

"He is not here. What hast thou done, wicked one? For the first time he waits not to walk with us."

66

Bene!" Teresa shrugged her indifference. "He can go where he likes. There are others." Filomena shook her head. No, no; thou cannot make so with a man."

66

"Bah! This is not Italy. No man shall say to me, Do this, do that,' like Amadeo says to Carmela and she runs like a dog." Filomena slipped her hand into Teresa's

arms. "But his face was black like the blackness above Vesuvio when the boss talked with thee."

"So." Teresa nodded her complete satisfaction. "And what color, then, will it be when he hears that to-morrow night I go with the boss to a dance?"

"Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, save us!" Filomena's hand dropped from Teresa's arm. "Thou wilt not do that!"

"Most surely will I do so. Dost think I will grow old, bent all day above a machine and at night over the cursed coats, till the eyes fall out on the face, to look only at the needles and the face of that frog Pepe ?" Truly, he cannot stand before the glass with Paolo, but he has a good business and he hopes soon to buy a house on Grand Street."

Filomena sighed.

66

"He may buy twenty houses. He has the face of a frog."

Filomena's little red eyes saddened. She shrugged her thin shoulders submissively. "Ecco! Thou art young and pretty, Teresa. But there are many girls in New York who-" Teresa turned quickly. " Amiga mia,” she whispered. "Wilt do a favor for me—a great favor and I will return it to thee in any way thou wilt."

"Thou knowest, little one-if it is possible."

66

The sallow girl blushed. He will not-" Teresa laughed. "It is for thee to say. He looks for a wife."

Filomena did not answer, but Teresa felt the fingers trembling on her arm. They walked on silently. When they came to the door of the tenement where Teresa lived, they stopped.

66 'Well? Thou wilt do what I ask, Filomena mia? Thou wilt not refuse ?"

66 Bene. I will do it. Thou couldst beg the heart from the devil, little pigeon."

Teresa threw her arms about the other's neck and kissed her. "Remember also," she whispered, "he has a fine business and looks to buy a house on Grand Street." Laughing, she vanished into the blackness of The long hall.

Filomena walked on, thoughtful, through the crowded street cluttered with babies and shrieking women and brawling hucksters. As she passed the bakeshop of Il Sorcio, the Mouse, she met Paolo hurrying in. At his "Buona sera" Filomena's heart beat quickly. The little red eyes were soft as she looked after him.

"If he " Filomena sighed. She was not envious. It was so useless. She went on to the three small rooms on the top floor where she and her old grandmother lived alone-two good, ugly women without a man.

As Paolo came quickly into the little room behind the shop Il Sorcio looked up from the corner of the table where he was eating his supper.

"Bene, bene, thou art just in time! Such a fine spaghetti thou hast never eaten. Sit! Sit!" He pushed another fork and the saucepan of spaghetti across the table. Paolo drew up a chair. Mechanically he plunged

the fork into the soft mass, twisted a little on his fork, and raised the fork to his lips. Then he threw the fork of twisted spaghetti on the floor and pushed back his chair.

"By the blood of San Gennaro," he burst out, like a rocket, "I will kill her !"

Il Sorcio swallowed his spaghetti, took a mouthful of wine, and wiped his mustache on the back of his hand.

So. Thou art in love."

Paolo glared. "I am in hell. One thousand devils eat my heart. I-" Paolo's voice broke. He covered his face with his hands. "She is beautiful-so beautiful! The eyes like stars and the throat like the breast of a dove."

Il Sorcio pushed the spaghetti nearer. "I will believe as thou sayest, but the eyes will not be more dull nor the throat less like the breast of the dove because thou dost not eat this fine spaghetti. Come."

But Paolo got up and began walking about the small room.

"Madonna mia, Madre de Dio, I will kill that boss, that Irish! Chained like a dog, I see him come close. He talks. She laughs into his eyes. He puts the hands on her." Little drops of dampness broke out on Paolo's forehead. With his hands he tried to crush the pictures in his throbbing brain. "Twice to-day he puts the hands so. He feels the skin through the lace, and I-by my hope of paradise, I will kill him!"

So. Most surely thou must kill

him!" I Sorcio pulled the ragged end of his gray mustache in thought. Thou hast been in this country three months. Already thou art tired to take every Saturday eighteen good dollars. Ecco! It is better to make shoes for the State till they put thee into a chair and kill thee with a bolt of lightning." Il Sorcio laughed. "And for a girl who three months ago was like a rock at the bottom of the sea to thee! Who is this witch who lights the fire in thy heart, my son ?"

"Teresa," Paolo whispered it reverently, Teresa Soracco."

"Ecco! Who else? Is he not rich? Art asleep that thou knowest not what the world says? But she waits. She plays like a cat with a mouse. She is an American, thy loved one, with the heart of ice. Deep in the heart she has shame of our people. She waits for an American with a fine house in Harlem, far away from Mott Street."

Paolo sat down heavily. His trembling hands made pitiful gestures of repulsion, beating back the words of Pepe as if they were blows. "It-is-not-true. She is good."

Ecco !" Il Sorcio poured another glass of thin, sour wine. Then he laid his hand kindly on Paolo's arm. "Listen. Many come, as thou, to talk to the Mouse, because he is old and has seen much. Bene. Then listen when I tell thee that if in the shell of thy head thou hast sense as much as a dried pea, thou wilt say to her, 'Go marry with Pepe. With an American.' And thou wilt look for a wife among those who have been not so long in this cursed country where the children laugh at the parents and the girls say to the men, In this way shalt thou do.' Ecco! There is the Ricardi. She is good. She learns not yet the wickedness of America." "The-Ricardi-with the face of

horse!"

a

this wickedness of America. I will marry with Teresa Soracco-or-I will cut the throat."

"Bene." Il Sorcio shrugged indifferently. "To marry or to cut the throat-it is the same. But the throat is thine."

Long after Paolo had gone Il Sorcio sat, smiling into space. At last he emptied the bottle into his glass. "To youth," he said, softly, and sighed as he wiped his mustache on his sleeve.

Paolo's heart beat so that he could hear it as he stood waiting for the door to open. As he entered the kitchen he saw only a confused blur and felt that he was walking through a thick fog.

Good-evening. Thou art a stranger. In a moment we finish this hand." Tomasso Soracco looked up from the table where he and Pepe sat playing cards. Paolo's throat tightened.

"Continue. No ceremony, please. I come only for a moment." Paolo crossed to the corner where Maria Soracco sat steadily sewing, a great pile of unfinished coats on the floor beside her.

"As always, you work, Signora."

Maria Soracco's tired eyes smiled at Paolo. "It takes much to live." She nodded to the corner where three small children sat playing with some scraps of bright paper. Paolo's eyes drifted with apparent carelessness about the kitchen, back to the pile of coats. "And the Signorina Teresa is too tired at night, she cannot help ?"

"Most surely she helps, always, two, three hours, when there is work. But to-night the best friend, Filomena Ricardi, is sick. She stays with her,"

Fil-o-men-a Ricardi-is sick?"

Maria Soracco folded a finished coat and began on another. "So, for two days she keeps the bed. She is not strong. I remember in the old country the mother of this one was always sick. Those with the faces so long and yellow are weak in the heart."

The spool he was fingering dropped from Paolo's hands. Stupidly he watched it roll away under the stove. His head whirled. He felt himself spinning dizzily through space. His heart was beating in his throat to escape. Dimly he saw Maria Soracco bending toward him. "Thou art ill. Thy face is red like fire."

Paolo heard himself laugh, something lifted him to his feet.