Not Under the Law

by Grace Livingston Hill

Joyce smoothed her hair with the tiny comb and mirror in her handbag, and decided to hunt up the railroad station and wash her face. She did not care to appear at Mrs. Bryant’s until her arrangements were more complete, neither did she wish her to know that she was so hard put to it for shelter that she had slept in a newspaper bed all night. It would not look well for her reputation to be poor as a tramp. She wanted to be respected if she was poor, and she wanted to hold up her head and feel independent, not to have people feel they must offer her charity. She must hunt up those two men right away and try to make them take that money back, or thank them at least if she found it would hurt their feelings to restore the money. She felt deeply touched at the thought of their act of kindliness. Perhaps they had daughters of their own, and had noticed her thin little purse. Men who would take the trouble to dig up a vine and make a shelf to keep it safely must have fine souls within them.

Joyce folded her bed into an innocent-looking pile of papers, so that it would tell no tales of the night, in case any one looked in the window, pulled the casements shut, and moving the box against the wall softly opened her door. As she did so she noticed for the first time a key hanging on a nail high up on the door frame. She fitted it into the lock and found to her joy that it worked perfectly. The coast seemed to be clear for the moment. The yellow Ford, without a muffler, had whizzed away after another load of freight, and the only person on the side street was walking away with his back toward her. She cast a furtive glance toward Mrs. Bryant’s kitchen door but it seemed to be closed and no one about, so she locked her door, slipped quickly out the gate and around the corner without being seen.

She found on inquiry that the pretty little stone railroad station was only four blocks away. It contained a tiny wash room that was in tolerably clean condition, so that she was able to make herself quite respectable, although her serge dress did look a bit rumpled from sleeping in it, and she realized that a hot iron for pressing must be among the first necessities, if she was to keep neat and presentable for finding a job. An iron would mean some kind of a stove. What kind? There was no gas in her little house, and she hated oil. Aunt Mary had felt it was dangerous. Still, that was probably the only thing possible. Mrs. Bryant would perhaps let her press her dress once, but she did not want to be constantly beholden to her landlady for the every-day necessities. Well, a way would come. She must trust and work each problem out as it appeared. She could not face them all at once.

She stepped into a drug store and got a glass of good milk and three butter thin crackers at the soda counter, and then went out to hunt up the two men who had left the money.

But they were not where they had been the day before, and a careful search for several blocks finally discovered only the truck man who said the other two were on another job that day and would probably not return to that suburb at all as the work was about done there. When she told him that she wanted to thank them for their kindness, she could see by the way he said he would tell them that he knew nothing about their kindly act, and she had to turn away and be satisfied with only this. Looking up to the waving leaves of the trees in the sunshine, and to the blue, blue sky overhead a great thankfulness came into her heart for all that had come to her, and she lifted a little prayer, “You tell them, Father. Make them know I thank them.” She wondered whimsically as she walked down the pleasant street, whether she would meet them some day in heaven, and make them understand then how truly she had appreciated what two strangers had done for a lonely girl.

She went back to the little line of stores that was already beginning to make this new suburb look like a commercial centre, and found a small utility shop where she bought thread, needles, a thimble, a paper of pins, enough cheese cloth for window curtains, some blue and white chintz that the woman let her have for fifteen cents a yard because it was all that was left, half a yard of white organdie, and a big blue and white checked apron of coarse gingham that would cover her dress from neck to hem and was only fifty cents.

There was a hardware store next door, and here she found a partial solution to her fire problem in canned alcohol and a little outfit for cooking with it. She also invested in some paper plates and cups, a sharp knife, a pair of good scissors, a hammer, a can opener, some tacks, and a few long nails.

She stopped at the grocery store on her way back and bought a can of vegetable soup, a box of crackers and some bananas, and hurried back to her domicile, excited as a child with a new toy. She had spent just six dollars and twenty-three cents.

But first she must pay her ground rent, so after depositing her bundles she ran to Mrs. Bryant’s door and knocked.

Mrs. Bryant welcomed her with a smile: