A sleepless night had left him a late riser.
There was an office to be reached by nine, and a shave and a hasty cup
of coffee to be crowded into the interval.
He visited his barber shop and then hurried on his way. He pocketed
his paper, meditating a belated perusal of it at the luncheon hour.
At the next corner it fell from his pocket, carrying with it his pair
of new gloves. Three blocks he walked, missed the gloves and turned
back fuming.
Just on the half-hour he reached the corner where lay the gloves and
the paper. But he strangely ignored that which he had come to seek.
He was holding two little hands as tightly as ever he could and
looking into two penitent brown eyes, while joy rioted in his heart.
"Dear Jack," she said, "I knew you would be here on time."
"I wonder what she means by that," he was saying to himself; "but it's
all right, it's all right."
A big wind puffed out of the west, picked up the paper from the
sidewalk, opened it out and sent it flying and whirling down a side
street. Up that street was driving a skittish bay to a spider-wheel
buggy, the young man who had written to the heart-to-heart editor for
a recipe that he might win her for whom he sighed.
The wind, with a prankish flurry, flapped the flying newspaper against
the face of the skittish bay.
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