She stopped, uncertain.

One of the porters, a short, sickly man, who stood aloof from the rest, pushed open a door for her with his staff.

Margret had a quick memory for faces; she thought she had seen this one before as she passed,--a dark face, sullen, heavy-lipped, the hair cut convict-fashion, close to the head.

She thought too, one of the men muttered "jail-bird," jeering him for his forwardness.

"Load for Clinton! Western Railroad!" sung out a sharp voice behind her, and, as she went into the street, a train of cars rushed into the hall to be loaded, and men swarmed out of every corner,--red-faced and pale, whiskey-bloated and heavy-brained, Irish, Dutch, black, with souls half asleep somewhere, and the destiny of a nation in their grasp,--hands, like herself, going through the slow, heavy work, for, as Pike the manager would have told you, "three dollars a week,--good wages these tight times." For nothing more?
Some other meaning may have fallen from their faces into this girl's subtile intuition in the instant's glance,--cheerfuller, remoter aims, hidden in the most sensual face,--homeliest home-scenes, low climbing ambitions, some delirium of pleasure to come,--whiskey, if nothing better: aims in life like yours differing in degree.