Kilo | Page 7

of distance would emphasize the types she was
now seeing, and that by the middle of the winter, when once more in
her New York apartment, her present experiences and observations
would have the right perspective, and their salient features would stand
out more plainly. So she won the hearts of her hostess, and of the dozen

or more children of the house, with small gifts, and overjoyed with this
she set about making the whole community happier. Little presents,
smiles, and kind words meant so much to the overworked, hopeless
women, and her cheery manner was so pleasant to men and children,
that all worshipped her--clumsily and mutely, but whole-heartedly. She
was a fairy lady to them.
The truth was that, in her eagerness to secure the most vivid kind of
local color, she had gone a step too far. Clarence, with its decayed
sidewalks and rotting buildings, was not typical of middle Iowa any
more than a stagnant pool lift by a receded river after a flood is typical
of the river itself. Before the days of railroads Clarence had been a
lively little town, but it was on the top of a hill, and, when the engineer
of the Jefferson Western Railroad had laid his ruler on the map and had
drawn a straight line across Iowa to represent the course of the road,
Clarence had been left ten or twelve miles to one side, and, as the town
was not important enough to justify spoiling the beauty of the straight
line by putting a curve in it, a station was marked on the road at the
point nearest Clarence, and called Kilo. For a while the new station was
merely a sidetrack on the level prairie, a convenience for the men of
Clarence, but before Clarence knew how it had happened Kilo was a
flourishing town, and the older town on the hill had begun to decay.
Even while Clarence was still sneering at Kilo as a sidetrack village,
Kilo had begun to sneer at Clarence as a played-out crossroads
settlement. Clarence, when Mrs. Tarbro-Smith visited it, was no more
typical of middle Iowa than a sunfish really resembles the sun.
In Clarence Mrs. Smith's best loved and best loving admirer was Susan,
daughter of her hostess, and, to Mrs. Smith, Susan was the long sought
and impossible--a good maid. From the first Susan had attached herself
to Mrs. Smith, and, for love and two dollars a week, she learned all that
a lady's maid should know. When Mrs. Smith asked her if she would
like to go to New York, Susan jumped up and down and clapped her
hands. Susan was as sweet and lovable as she was useful, and under
Mrs. Smith's care she had been transformed into such a thing of beauty
that Clarence could hardly recognize her. Instead of tow-colored hair,
crowded back by means of a black rubber comb, Susan had been taught

a neat arrangement of her blonde locks--so great is the magic of a few
deft touches. Instead of being a gawky girl of seventeen, in a faded blue
calico wrapper, Susan, as transformed by one of Mrs. Smith's simple
white gowns, was a young lady. She so worshipped Mrs. Smith that she
imitated her in everything, even to the lesser things, like motions of the
hand, and tossings of the head.
When Mrs. Smith broached the matter of taking Susan to New York,
she received a shock from Mr. and Mrs. Bell. She had not for one
moment doubted that they would be delighted to find that Susan could
have a good home, good wages, and a city life, instead of the existence
in such a town as Clarence.
"Well, now," Mr. Bell said, "we gotter sort o' talk it over, me an' ma,
'fore we decide that. Susan's a'most our baby, she is. T'hain't but four of
'em younger than what she is in our fambly. We'll let you know, hey?"
Ma and Pa Bell talked it over carefully and came to a decision. The
decision was that they had better talk it over with some of the
neighbors. The neighbors met at Bell's and talked it over openly in the
presence of Mrs. Smith.
They agreed that it would be a great chance for Susan, and they said
that no one could want a nicer, kinder lady for boss than what Mrs.
Smith was--"but 'tain't noways right to take no risks."
"You see, ma'am," said Ma Bell, "WE don't know who you are no more
than nothin', do we? And we do know how as them big towns is
ungodly to beat the band, don't we? I remember my grandma tellin' me
when I was a little girl about the awful goin's on she heard tell of one