e tray in her alarm.

"And is it the schtomic ache ye be ahfter havin'?"

"No, Mrs. Brady, it is higher up than the stomach. I am glad to see my
tea. 'The beverage which cheers but does not inebriate' may make me feel
better."

"Phwat ye need is a wife to look ahfter ye and keep ye straight.
Schmokin', schmokin' all the time an' brroodin' over the fire is not
good for a young gintleman. An' your disk and floor littered up wit'
paaperrs and ashes."

The kindly old soul began to clear off the untidy desk and stooped to
pick up a piece of paper that had fallen from Molly's letter without
Professor Green's having read it or noticed its existence. She started
to put it in the waste basket, but the professor noticed the action,
being, like most scholars, impatient of having his books and papers
touched. In fact, he had over his desk a framed rubbing of Shakespeare's
epitaph which he had once confided to Molly he kept there especially to
scare Mrs. Brady and make her let his things alone:

"Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare
To digg ye dust encloased heare
Bleste be ye man yt spares the stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones."

"Wait, my good Mrs. Brady! What is that you are throwing away?"

"Nawthin' but a bit o' blue paaperr, Profissorr. To be shure there's a
schrap o' writin' on the back. Blue things always brring to me mind the
swate eyes o' Miss Molly Brown, the saints protict her" and she handed
the stray piece of thin, blue, foreign letter paper to the eager young
man, who clutched it and smoothed it out and read the following
postscript:

"My cousins, the d'Ochtes, have been very anxious to get up a party and
take us to Fontainebleau to see the palace and then drive through the
forest; but I have done everything to keep from going and I hope the
scheme has fallen through. You have told me so much of the wonderful
forest and the walk from Fontainebleau to Barbizon that I am hoping to
see the place for the first time with you. The spring is the time to see
it, anyhow, I am sure, and perhaps by then you can find a suitable
substitute and have a holiday."

Professor Green looked up from the perusal of the little half sheet of
paper with his face beaming. What can't a woman put in a postscript? The
pain, which he had confessed to Mrs. Brady was a little higher up than
his stomach, had entirely disappeared. He was no longer jealous of "any
little, black, dried-up Frenchman." That is the way he