pkin on the envelope flap, just above
the seal. And I want you to make a funny sign-board to flap from a pole,
the way they did in 'Rudder Grange.' If you could make a wooden
Jack-o'-Lantern, we could have a candle inside it at night, and then the
sign would be just like the house. We can get the paint and things down in
the village. Won't it be cute? We're farmers, now, so we'll have to
pretend we like it."

Harlan repressed an exclamation, which could not have been wholly inspired
by pleasure.

"What's the matter?" asked Dorothy, easily. "Don't you like the design for
the note-paper? If you don't, you won't have to use it. Nobody's going to
make you write letters on paper you don't like, so cheer up."

"It isn't the paper," answered Harlan, miserably; "it's the typewriter."
Up to the present moment, sustained by a false, but none the less
determined pride, he had refrained from taking his wife into his
confidence regarding his finances. With characteristic masculine
short-sightedness, he had failed to perceive that every moment of delay
made matters worse.

"Might I inquire," asked Mrs. Carr, coolly, "what is wrong with the
typewriter?"

"Nothing at all," sighed Harlan, "except that we can't afford it." The
whole bitter truth was out, now, and he turned away wretchedly, ashamed to
meet her eyes.

It seemed ages before she spoke. Then she said, in smooth, icy tones:
"What was your object in offering to get it for me?"

"I spoke impulsively," explained Harlan, forgetting that he had never
suggested buying a typewriter. "I didn't stop to think. I'm sorry," he
concluded, lamely.

"I suppose you spoke impulsively," snapped Dorothy, "when you asked me to
marry you. You're sorry for that, too, aren't you?"

"Dorothy!"

"You're not the only one who's sorry," she rejoined, her cheeks flushed
and her eyes blazing. "I had no idea what an expense I was going to be!"

"Dorothy!" cried Harlan, angrily; "you didn't think I was a millionaire,
did you? Were you under the impression that I was an active branch of the
United States Mint?"

"No," she answered, huskily; "I merely thought I was marrying a gentleman
instead of a loafer, and I beg your pardon for the mistake!" She slammed
the door on the last word, and he heard her light feet pattering swiftly
down the hall, little guessing that she was trying to gain the shelter of
her own room before giving way to a tempest of sobs.

Happy are they who can drown all pain,