a mystified way, "I wonder
if uncle William plays heads and tails all alone in the office?"

Mr. Denner stood holding the penny, and gazing blankly at it, unconscious
of the dust upon his cheek.

"That did not decide it," he murmured. "I must try something else."

For Mr. Denner had some small superstitions, and it is doubtful if he
would have questioned fate again in the same way, even if he had not been
interrupted at that moment by the rector.

Dr. Howe came into the office beating his hands to warm them, his face
ruddy and his breath short from a walk in the cold wind. He had come to
see the lawyer about selling a bit of church land; Mr. Denner hastily
slipped his penny into his pocket, and felt his face grow hot as he
thought in what a posture the rector would have found him had he come
a few minutes sooner.

"Bless my soul, Denner," Dr. Howe said, when, the business over, he rose
to go, "this den of yours is cold!" He stooped to shake the logs in the
small stove, hoping to start a blaze. The rector would have resented any
man's meddling with his fire, but all Mr. Denner's friends felt a sort of
responsibility for him, which he accepted as a matter of course.

"Ah, yes," replied Mr. Denner, "it is chilly here. It had not occurred
to me, but it is chilly. Some people manage to keep their houses very
comfortable in weather like this. It is always warm at the rectory, I
notice, and at Henry Dale's, or--ah--the Misses Woodhouse's,--always
warm."

The rector, taking up a great deal of room in the small office, was on
his knees, puffing at the fire until his face was scarlet. "Yes. I don't
believe that woman of yours half looks after your comfort, Denner. Can't
be a good housekeeper, or she would not let this stove get so choked with
ashes."

"No," Mr. Denner acknowledged--"ah--I am inclined to agree with you,
doctor. Not perhaps a really good housekeeper. But few women are,--very
few. You do not find a woman like Miss Deborah Woodhouse often, you
know."

"True enough," said Dr. Howe, pulling on his big fur gloves. "That
salad of hers, the other night, was something to live for. What is
that?--'plunge his fingers in the salad bowl'--'tempt the dying anchorite
to eat,'--I can't remember the lines, but that is how I feel about Miss
Deborah's salad." The rector laughed in a quick, breezy bass, beat his
hands together, and was ready to start.

"Yes," said Mr. Denner, "just so,--quite so. But Miss Deborah is a
re