“Twenty-five cents, I think,” he hazarded briefly.
She started, but smiled again. “Twenty-five cents for all zees—ze medicine, ze strips for ze head, ze hair cut”—she glanced at the paper parcel he had given her—”it is only twenty-five cents?”
“That’s all.”
He selected from her outstretched palm, with some difficulty, the exact amount, the smallest coin it held. She again looked at him curiously—half confusedly—and moved slowly into the shop. The miner, who was still there, retreated as before with a gaspingly apologetic gesture—even flattening himself against the window to give her sweeping silk flounces freer passage. As she passed into the street with a “Merci, M’sieu, good a’night,” and the hackman started from the vehicle to receive her, the miner drew a long breath, and bringing h
