But once a year by r O'Grady, a shabby little woman detached herself from the steadily marching throng of the avenue and paused before a shop window, from which solid rows of electric bulbs flashed brilliantly into the December twilight. The ever increasing current of Christmas shoppers flowed on now and then it rolled up like the waters of the Jordan. While a lady with rich, warm furs about her shoulders made safe passage from her car to the tropic atmosphere of the great department store, warmth and the savory smells from a bakery kitchen wafted up through the grating of a nearby pavement, modifying the nipping air. The shabby little woman, only half conscious of such gratuitous comfort, adjusted her blinking gaze to the brightness and looked hungrily at the costumes shimmering under the lights. Wax figures draped with rainbow tented filmy evening gowns caught her passing admiration, but she lingered over the street costumes, the soak lined coats and soft warm furs, elbowed by others, who, like herself, were eager to look, even though they could not buy. She held her ground until she had made her choice. With her wistful gaze still fixed upon her favorite, she had begun to edge her way through the crowd at the window when she felt, rather than saw, someone different from the rest close at her side. At the same instant, she caught the scent of fresh cut flowers and looked up into the eyes of a tall young girl in a white plumed velvet hat with a bunch of English violets in her brown mink fur. As their glances met, the shabby little woman checked a start and half defensively dropped her legs. The smile that shone evanescently from the girl's corridial eyes had aroused in her a feeling of something unwanted and strangely intimate. There had lashed over the immobile face beneath the velvet hat, a look of personal interest, an unmistakable impulse to speak. The thrill of response that set the woman's pulses throbbing died suddenly. The red that motteled her rayish cheeks was the red of shame. Through the window, in a mirrored panel, cruelly ablaze with light, she saw herself, her made over turban, her short pigeontailed jacket of a style long past, and her old otter cape with its queer caudal decorations and its yellowed cracks grinning through the plucked and ragged fur. One glance at her own image was enough. The little woman pushed determinedly into the slow moving crush and headed toward the nearest elevated station, to be carried on irresistibly by the army of pedestrians. She caught a last glimpse of the tall young girl coming in her direction, still watching her with that same eager look. But what of that? She knew why women stared curiously at her. By the time her station was reached, the occurrence had assumed in her mind a painful significance which emphasized the sordidness of her evening's routine. She made her way along a narrow, dimly lighted street, walking with the aimless gait of one who neither expects nor is expected, but loiter as she might. She soon reached a neighborhood where rows of narrow brick tenements brooded over dingy cluttered basement shops. Here she found it necessary to accelerate her pace to make way for romping children and bare headed women hurrying from the shops with their suppers and paper bags. In spite of the wintry chill, the section had an air of activity all its own. Neither did it lack occasional evidences of Christmas chair. In the window of a little news and fruit shop, against the smeared and partly frosted glass, a holly wreath was hanging, and within stood a rack of gaudy, tensiled Christmas cards. The woman hesitated as if about to enter the shop, then abruptly passed on. She ascended one of the stops that were all alike, Standing in a blur of reddish light that filtered through the broken glass above the door, She looked back the way she had come. For an instant her poses quickened again, as they had done on the Avenue downtown. At the corner, a tall girl with a white plume velvet hat was smilingly picking her way through this warming element so foreign apparently to one of her class. As the white plume came nearer and nearer, the tremulous little woman regained her self control. It was but one of the whinsis lenses of the city. She told herself, turning resolutely away, The door slam shut behind her. Odd, she thought, as she groped her way through the dimly lighted lower hall and the complete darkness of the upper, that such a girl should be living in such a neighborhood. Then with an effort she dismissed the matter from her mind to find a match and lengthest buttering gasp required but very few steps in her tiny box of her room. When that was accomplished, she could think of nothing more to do. Her little taste of excitement had spoiled her zest for any of the homeing rights which at other times formed the biggest events of her day. As she sank down upon the cot without removing her wraps, she was grated by the usual creaking of rusty springs. Her table, with its meager array of dishes, its coffee pot and little alcohol burner, sat as ever in its corner, inviting the preparation of her evening meal. But to night she did not want to eat. She had not visited the big shop on her way home. She had not even bought her daily paper, the corner stand where the postcards were those gay Christmas cars that bring new greetings from friends. As she slowly removed her turban, her jacket and fur cape, and without getting up, tossed them across the chair against the opposite wall. The dull ache of dissatisfaction in her heart grew slowly to a sharp pain and desire. She wanted to do something, to have something happen that might break the sordid routine of her existence. Still, habit and environment would continue to force at least a part of this routine upon her. She glanced at her fingers, staying to an oily, bluish grime by the cheap dye of the garments that furnished her daily work. Mechanically, she rose to wash, while her hands were immerged in the lather of rankly perfumed toilet soak. There came a gentle knock at the door. Come in, invited the woman, expecting some famine, pressed neighbor for a spoonful of coffee or a drawing of tea. The door opened slowly a tentative aperture, May I come in, asked a voice that was sweeter than the breath of violence that preceded. The collar into the room, with the towel clutched in her dripping hands. The woman flung wide open the door, then hastened to unload the chair which held her wraps. Her only chair. Thank you don't bother, urged the visitor. I should like sitting on the couch. There was a melody of enthusiasm in this remark, which the complaining of the cot, as the girl dropped easily upon it, could not wholly drown. The woman, having absently hung her towel on the doorknob, stared dazedly at the visitant. She could hardly credit her eyes. It was. It was, indeed, the girl, with a white ostrich plume and the bouquet of violence in her brown made fur. I feel like an intruder, began the girl, and do you know? Her appraising glance, directed to the old fur collar on the chair, was guiltily withdrawn as she spoke. Do you know I've such a silly excuse for coming? She laughed, and the laugh brought added music to her voice. The woman, now at last recalled from her abstraction, smiled, and the weariness passed from her face. She seated herself at the extreme end of the humpy, complaining cot. I'm sure you'll understand resumed the girl. At least, I hope you'll not be offended. I heard that is I noticed you had a rare fur piece. Her vivid glance returned to the pile of wraps on the chair. And I want to ask a very great favor of you. Now. Please don't be shocked. I've been ransacking the city for something like it, and with a determined air of taking the plunge, I should like to buy it, of you buy it, scorned the woman, with a sun dull red staining her sallow cheeks. I can't see why any one would want to pay money for such a thing as that. It. It's a rare pattern, you know, broke the girl, her sweet tones assuming an eloquent, persuasive quiver. And and you don't know how glad I'd be to have it. The indignant color faded out of the woman's face. If you really want it, then abruptly, she put her bizarre possession into her strange visitor's lap. If you really want it, but I don't see yearning crept into her work, deaded eyes, a yearning that seemed to struggle with disillusionment. Tell me she broke off? Is that all you came here for. Apparently oblivious to the question, the young woman rose to her feet. You'll sell it to me, then, she triumphed, opening her gold bound purse. But see here, demurred the woman. I can't, it ain't worth. The girl's gloved hands went fumbling into her purse, while the old fur cap hung limply across one velvet arm. You leave it to me, she commanded, and smiled, a radiant, winning smile. Impulsively, the woman drew close to her guest. Excuse me, she faltered, But do you know you look ever so much like a little niece of mine back home? Do I? That's nice? The visitor looked at her watch. A note of abstraction had crept into her beautiful voice, but still held the caress that invited the woman's confidence. Yes, my little niece. Excuse me, I haven't seen her for twelve years, most fifteen years. I guess she be growed up. But I thought when I saw you downtown, Oh you remember me? Then forgive me for following. The girl ceased the woman's soaked, reddened hands in a sudden, fervent clasp. I understand, she breathed, you must be lonely. I have tried to see you again. I surely will goodbye. The girl was gone, and all at once the room seemed colder and danger than it ever had before. But the woman was not cold. As she sat huddled on the cot, warmth and vitality glowed within her, kindled by the memory of a recent kindly human touch. The following evening, after working hours, the shabby woman, wearing a faded scarf about her neck to replace the old fur collar, dividently accosted a saleslady of the sixth Avenue department store. She wanted to buy a brown mink collar, just like one worn by a figure and green in the window. It was an usual to sell expensive furs to such a customer, but people might send what freaks of servants they pleased to do their Christmas shopping, provided they sent the money too. In this case, the shabby little woman was prepared. She produced three crisp ten dollar bills, the fabulous sum which the girl had left in her hand at courting, and two dollars more from the savings in her born little purse. Then, hugging the big black box against the tight fitting bosom of her jacket, she triumphantly left the store in a sort of tender ecstasy. She dallied along until she came to a florist's window. As she paused to gaze at great bunches of carnations and roses tied with broad and streaming ribbons, the anxious look that attends the doubtful shopper returned to her face. Would it be of any use to go in? Since she must either keep moving or be came carried along by the crowd. She edged through the revolving door. English violets fifty cents for the small bunches clipped off the red cheeked sales girl. In reply to the woman's croaking inquiry. The perturbed shopper turned reluctantly away, hesitated, and then asked, but the roses? A single half blown rose twenty five apiece, replied the girl in the same mechanical tones, while she busied herself in rearranging a basket of flowers. Ay, I'll take the rose At the express office, where scores were waiting before her. The woman had ample time to untie her box and slip the rosebud beneath the tissue paper of the inner wrapping, then, having retied it securely, and stuck a do not open until Christmas tag in a conspicuous place. She took her stand in line. When it finally came her turn at the desk, a stump who worked like an automaton and breathed like an ox, tore the package from her lingering grasp and dashed across the wrapper the address she gave. She paid the charges, wadded the receipt into her purse, and turned briskly away. First crillers she took to her room from the bake shop, having bought them from a dark, greasy woman, whom she wished a Merry Christmas in a voice that almost sang. At dusk, she had coffee in her room. It was Christmas Eve, and she must begin early to get her full share of the season's peculiar indulgences. After she had read her paper for an hour or so by the recklessly flaming gas jet, she bustled about to brew another cup of coffee, and faced it upon crullers for the second time. At last, she filled a water bottle with tepid water from a faucet in the hall, and prepared for bed. The shill of the bedclothes upon which the tepid water bottle had little effect, could not touch the cozy warmth about the woman's heart. Neither were the happy memories of her strange and lovely visitor disturbed by knowledge of an incident that was taking place at that very hour. As she bounced into her cot coming a little tone, she did not know that at a downtown theater a popular young actress was just responding to an insistent curtain call. Nor could she have recognized the graceful young girl issuing from the wings in a new character part an extreme type of eccentric maidenhood, except for the plucked and ragged fur piece which formed the keynote of the performer's quaint attire. No knowledge of this episode disturbed the half drowsing, half blissful state which supplanted the woman's sleep that night. The incident cast no cloud upon her eager awakening, nor retarded her active leap from that when the voice of her landlady aroused her with a start on Christmas morning, eggs Press, eggs spress a package from miss La lore Full chested and lingering, the call reverberated up three flats of naked stairs, and by the time the woman had donned her skirt and sweater and had merged into the twilight of the upper hall. Frowsy curious heads protruded from every door. She carried the bulky Christmas package to her own room, moving deliberately in shy, half guilty triumph, and placed it on the cot behind her closed door. She untied it, removed the cover, and smilingly bent down to draw an eager inhalation from the tissue paper folds. Then, with careful fingers, she parted the crisp in her wrappings and unearthed a wilding, half blown rose from its nest in the brown bank fur end of but once a year by R. O'Grady