us."

The girl lingered a second, curiosity writ large on her countenance.
Plainly she wished to discover what Miss Hazel Weir would be getting in
a package that was delivered in so aristocratic a manner. But Hazel
was in no mood to gratify any one's curiosity. She was angry at the
presumption of Mr. Andrew Bush. It was an excellent way of subjecting
her to remark. And it did not soothe her to recollect that he had
threatened that very thing.

She drew off her gloves, and, laying aside her hat, picked up a
newspaper, and began to read. The girl, with no excuse for lingering,
reluctantly gathered up her broom and dustpan, and departed. When she
was gone, and not till then, Miss Weir investigated the parcel.

Roses--two dozen long-stemmed La Frances--filled the room with their
delicate odor when she removed the pasteboard cover. And set edgewise
among the stems she found his card. Miss Weir turned up her small nose.

"I wonder if he sends these as a sort of peace offering?" she snorted.
"I wonder if a few hours of reflection has made him realize just how
exceedingly caddish he acted? Well, Mr. Bush, I'll return your
unwelcome gift--though they are beautiful flowers."

And she did forthwith, squandering forty cents on a messenger boy to
deliver them to Mr. Bush at his office. She wished him to labor under
no misapprehension as to her attitude.

The next day--Sunday--she spent with Jack Barrow on a visit to his
cousin in a near-by town. They parted, as was their custom, at the
door. It was still early in the evening--eight-thirty, or
thereabout--and Hazel went into the parlor on the first floor. Mr.
Stout and one of her boarders sat there chatting, and at Hazel's
entrance the landlady greeted her with a startling bit of news:

"Evenin', Miss Weir. 'Ave you 'eard about Mr. Bush, pore gentleman?"
Mrs. Stout was very English.

"Mr. Bush? No. What about him?" Hazel resented Mr. Bush, his name,
and his affairs being brought to her attention at every turn. She
desired nothing so much since that scene in the office as to ignore his
existence.

"'E was 'urt shockin' bad this awft'noon," Mrs. Stout related. "Out
'orseback ridin', and 'is 'orse ran away with 'im, and fell on 'im.
Fell all of a 'eap, they say. Terrible--terrible! The pore man isn't
expected to live. 'Is back's broke, they say. W'at a pity! Shockin'
accident, indeed."

Miss Weir voiced perfunctory sympathy, as was expected of her, se