“She had on a white dress, a real dress—not a skirt and bib—that covered her, and without much fixings. Her hair was drawn back plain like a kid’s. I knew right off she’d got in wrong, and I thought it was up to me to get her out of that joint.
“I went over to her and said: ‘Excuse my nerve, little girl, but I guess you’re in the wrong pew.’
“She looked at me sort of funny; then she smiled and said: ‘Same to you!’
“Her voice sounded like low, soft music—contralto kind.
“‘Yes;’ I said. ‘You’re right. I’m a cowboy, not a country boy, and I’m in Chicago to see the sights; but I’d ask for blinders if I stayed around here much longer. Who brought you here?’
“‘Nobody,’ she said, looking down. ‘I came by myself.’
“‘I’m glad of it,’ I tell her, ‘and I’m the guy that’s going to take you away from here.’
“‘Why?’ she asked me, ‘and how do you know I’ll go with you.’
“She’d kept her eyes away from me all this time. I said: ‘Look at me.’
“She did. Right at me, the way kids do—not bold—just curious. Good night! It did something to my heart when her eyes looked into mine that way.