One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. Andsixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and twoat a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable manand the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silentimputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.
Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-sevencents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on theshabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Whichinstigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs，sniffles， and smiles， with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsidingfrom the first stage to the second， take a look at the home.
A furnished flat at 8 per week. It did not exactly beggardescription， but it certainly had that word on the lookoutfor the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which noletter would go， and an electric button from which nomortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereuntowas a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during aformer period of prosperity when its possessor was beingpaid 30 per week. Now， when the income was shrunk to20， though， they were thinking seriously of contractingto a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. JamesDillingham Young came home and reached his flat abovehe was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. JamesDillingham Young， already introduced to you as Della.
Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks withthe powder rag. She stood by the window and looked outdully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Day， and she had only1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been savingevery penny she could for months， with this result. Twentydollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greaterthan she had calculated. They always are. Only 1.87 tobuy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour shehad spent planning for something nice for him. Somethingfine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit nearto being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier glass between the windows of theroom. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an 8 flat.
A very thin and very agile person may， by observing hisreflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips， obtaina fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della， beingslender， had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood beforethe glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly， but her facehad lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly shepulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now， there were two possessions of the James DillinghamYoungs in which they both took a mighty pride. Onewas Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and hisgrandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queenof Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft， Della wouldhave let her hair hang out the window some day to dryjust to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had KingSolomon been the janitor， with all his treasures piled up inthe basement， Jim would have pulled out his watch everytime he passed， just to see him pluck at his beard fromenvy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling andshining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached belowher knee and made itself almost a garment for her. Andthen she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once shefaltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or twosplashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket； on went her old brownhat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparklestill in her eyes， she fluttered out the door and down thestairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read： “Mme. Sofronie.
Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran， andcollected herself， panting. Madame， large， too white， chilly，hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair？” asked Della.
“I buy hair，” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’shave a sight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars，” said Madame， lifting the mass with apractised hand.
“Give it to me quick，” said Della.
Oh， and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings.
Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking thestores for Jim’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim andno one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores，and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinumfob chain simple and chaste in design， properly proclaimingits value by substance alone and not by meretriciousornamentation—as all good things should do. It was evenworthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew thatit must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—thedescription applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they tookfrom her for it， and she hurried home with the 87 cents.
With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxiousabout the time in any company. Grand as the watch was，he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the oldleather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave waya little to prudence and reason. She got out her curlingirons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing theravages made by generosity added to love. Which is alwaysa tremendous task， dear friends—a mammoth task.