ke of the future, the dim,
vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation's poet
laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his glory and
wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels. The disagreeable problems
connected with the future they ignored, or casually dismissed with,
"Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by." Oh, it was a
wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful, bitter-sweet
afternoon.

And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'s office
window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train, saw that
train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant a small hand
waved behind the dingy glass of the car window. His own hand waved in
reply. Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke the silence.

"Who was you flappin' your flipper at?" inquired Issachar. "Girl, I'll
bet you! Never saw such a critter as you be to chase after the girls.
Which one is it this time?"

Albert made no reply. Between embarrassment and sorrow he was incapable
of speech. Issachar, however, was not in that condition; at all times
when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Price could, and usually did,
speak.

"Which one is it this time, Al?" demanded Issy. "Eh? Crimus, see him get
red! Haw, haw! Labe," to Mr. Keeler, who came into the office from the
inner room, "which girl do you cal'late Al here is wavin' by-bye to this
mornin'? Who's goin' away on the cars this mornin', Labe?"

Laban, his hands full of the morning mail, absently replied that he
didn't know.

"Yes, you do, too," persisted Issy. "You ain't listenin', that's all.
Who's leavin' town on the train just now?"

"Eh? Oh, I don't know. The Small folks are goin' to Boston, I believe.
And George Bartlett's goin' to Ostable on court business, he told me.
Oh, yes, I believe Cap'n Lote said that Fosdick woman and her daughter
were goin' back to New York. Back to New York--yes--yes--yes."

Mr. Price crowed triumphantly. "Ah, ha!" he crowed. "Ah, ha! That's the
answer. That's the one he's shakin' day-days to, that Fosdick girl. I've
seen you 'round with her at the post office and the ice cream s'loon.
I'm onto you, Al. Haw, haw! What's her name? Adeline? Dandelion?
Madeline?--that's it! Say, how do you think Helen Kendall's goin' to
like your throwin' kisses to the Madeline one, eh?"

The assistant bookkeeper was still silent. The crimson, however, was
leaving his face and the said face was paling rapidly.