that
he could put out his hand in the dark and make sure it was there. For
it was the first new suit of clothes that he remembered ever to have
possessed. He had not intended to wear it until Sunday, but the
psychological moment had arrived.

With trembling fingers and many pauses for rest, he made his toilet.
He looked in the mirror, and his heart nearly burst with pride. The
suit, to be sure, hung limp on his gaunt frame, and his shaven head
gave him the appearance of a shorn lamb, but to Sandy the reflection
was eminently satisfying. One thing only seemed to be lacking. He
meditated a moment, then, with some misgiving, picked up a small linen
doily from the dresser, and carefully folding it, placed it in his
breast-pocket, with one corner just visible.

Triumphant in mind, if weak in body, he slipped down the back steps,
skirted Aunt Melvy's domain, and turned the corner of the house just
as the Nelson phaeton rolled out of the yard. Before he had time to
give way to utter despair a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon,
for the phaeton stopped, and there was evidently something the matter.
Sandy did not wait for it to be remedied. He ran down the road with
all the speed he could muster.

Near the gate where the little branch crossed the turnpike was a
slight embankment, and two wheels of the phaeton had slipped over the
edge and were buried deep in the soft earth. Beside it, sitting
indignantly in the water, was an irate lady who had evidently
attempted to get out backward and had taken a sudden and unexpected
seat. Her countenance was a pure specimen of Gothic architecture; a
massive pompadour reared itself above two Gothic eyebrows which
flanked a nose of unquestioned Gothic tendencies. Her mouth, with its
drooping corners, completed the series of arches, and the whole
expression was one of aspiring melancholy and injured majesty.

Kneeling at her side, reassuring her and wiping the water from her
hands, was Ruth Nelson.

"God send you ain't hurt, ma'am!" cried Sandy, arriving breathless.

The girl looked up and shook her head in smiling protest, but the
Gothic lady promptly suffered a relapse.

"I am--I know I am! Just look at my dress covered with mud, and my
glove is split. Get my smelling-salts, Ruth!"

Ruth, upon whom the lady was leaning, turned to Sandy.

"Will you hand it to me? It is in the little bag there on the seat."

Sandy rushed to do her bidding. He was rather hazy as to the object o