The buzz and jarring of the machinery have
ceased and silence fills the place. Even the offices are deserted, with
the exception of one from which issues the steady click, click, of a
typewriter.
Jane Horton, private secretary and confidential clerk to the millionaire
president of the company, is a very busy as well as a very important
individual. The sound of that whistle means release for the workers in
the rooms above, the toilers at the machines where she herself labored
so many years ago; it means release for stenographers, bookkeepers,
clerks, in the general office without; but for her, there yet remain
many things to be attended to before she can take advantage of the half
holiday and seek the seclusion of her small suburban home. Important
letters must be written, private letters which cannot be entrusted to
the care of an ordinary stenographer. For some time longer Jane's
typewriter clicks unceasingly, and it is nearly dusk before her task is
finished and she is free to lock her office door and leave the building
for the night.
She walks rapidly along the darkening streets, sorry that she is so
late. She fears Marie will have been watching for her all the afternoon
and worrying perhaps, little Marie, the lame factory girl whom she has
befriended, the girl with eyes so strangely like to Richard's. The
resemblance is startling at times, though Richard's eyes were ever
merry, ever dancing with fun and mischief, while Marie's are grave and
sweet and sad.
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