, invariably
suggested an alligator, opened the door of Mrs. Simonson's rooms,
opposite, and seeing Nattie, started back in a sort of nervous
bashfulness. Recovering himself, he then darted out with such
impetuosity that his foot caught in a rug, he fell, and went headlong
down stairs, dragging with him a fire-bucket, at which he clutched in a
vain effort to save himself, the two jointly making a noise that echoed
through the silent halls, and brought out the inhabitants of the rooms
in alarm.

"What is it? Is any one killed?" shrieked from above, a voice,
recognizable as that of Celeste Fishblate--two names that could never by
any possibility sound harmonious.

"What _is_ the matter now?" screamed Miss Kling, appearing at her door
with the query.

"Have you hurt yourself?" Nattie asked, as she went down to where the
hero of the catastrophe sat on the bottom stair, ruefully rubbing his
elbow, but who now picked up his hat and the fire-bucket, and rose to
explain.

"It's nothing--nothing at all, you know!" he said, looking upward, and
bowing to the voices; "I caught my foot in the rug, and--"

"Did you tear the rug?" here anxiously interrupted the listening Mrs.
Simonson, suddenly appearing at the banisters; not that she felt for her
lodger less, but for the rug more, a distinction arising from that
constant struggle with the "ways and means."

"Oh, no! I assure you, there was no damage done to the rug--or
fire-bucket," the victim responded, reassuringly, and in perfect good
faith. "Or myself," he added modestly, as if the latter was scarce worth
speaking of. "I--I am used to it, you know," reverting to his usual
expression in accidents of all descriptions.

"I declare I don't know what you will do next!" muttered Mrs. Simonson,
retreating to examine the rug.

"I think you must be in love, Quimby!" giggled Celeste; an assertion
that caused Miss Kling to give vent to a contemptuous "Humph" and
awakened in its subject the most excruciating embarrassment. The poor
fellow glanced at Nattie, blushed, perspired, and frantically clutching
at the fire-bucket, stammered a protest,--

"Now really--I--now!--you are mistaken, you know!"

"But people who are in love are always absent-minded," persisted
Celeste, with another giggle. "So it is useless to--"

But exactly what was useless did not appear, as at this point a
stentorian voice, the voice of Miss Kling's "fine, sensible man,"
roared,

"Enough!"

At which, t