himple don't get married, and it's the icy mitt
for anybody that asked her; and plenty did."

"She's a funny old----"

"You say a word about her, Lucien Torrance, that ain't nice, and I'll
knock the head off'n you. She's--she's--well, there ain't another like
her except Ma."

"I wasn't going to say anything----" began Lucien.

William cut him short. "You started wrong then," he said, "that's all
there is to it; and now what about your boss?"

"Mine?"

"Yes; he's going crazy about a girl."

"He's what?"

"You heard me; you know you did. Say, he can't sleep nights thinking
of that girl, by the looks of him, and he don't see her more'n seven
times a week, and she's just as looney about him too; but she ain't
showing it much."

"I don't believe it!"

"There you are again, and a lot of this thing going on under your very
nose. Say, you're sticking so close to business you can't see a blame
thing but your work. Do you ever have a day dream, Lucien?"

"I'm too busy."

"That's it, busy--too busy to have day dreams. Gee, I don't know what
I'd do if I never had 'em. Say----"

Whimple entered at this moment with Simmons. The lawyer was urging the
architect to "buck up." William smiled. "The girl loves you," Whimple
said, in an undertone, but not pitched low enough, for the two boys
heard it quite distinctly. William winked at Lucien, and the latter
blushed. Simmons refused to be comforted, and passed into his own
office, melancholy settled heavily on his usually bright face, and
Lucien followed him.

"William," said Whimple a few minutes later, "will you please take this
letter to Mrs. Stewart, and wait for an answer?"

William's "yes" was prompt. He liked Mrs. Stewart, a young and pretty
widow, to whom of late he had carried a number of notes. While he was
putting on his cap, Whimple, who was sitting in his own room, began to
sing softly. William did not pay particular attention to the air
until, as he started toward the outer door of the office, Whimple's
voice rose a little, and then he listened intently. Whimple could sing
well, and he was singing well now, and the song was "Annie Laurie."
William paused irresolutely, looked at the letter, counted swiftly on
one hand, then opened the door, and ran quickly down the stairs. At
the bottom of the stairs he paused again, once more he counted, and
then said to himself, "Friday, and I've taken five letters to her this
week, and brought five back,