here," Barry supplemented. "I'll take you across the street,
Infant, I'll be right back, Sidney."

"But, Barry, why are you working now?" asked the lady a few minutes
later when he took his place at his desk.

"Oh, don't you worry," he answered, smiling; "I love it. The thought of
old Rogers' face when he opens his paper every morning does me good,
I'm writing this appeal for the new reservoir now, and I've got to play
up the Flower Festival."

"I'm not interested in the Flower Festival," said Mrs. Burgoyne
good-naturedly, "and the minute it's over I'm going to start a crusade
for a girls' clubhouse in Old Paloma. Conditions over there for the
girls are something hideous. But I suppose we'll have to go on with the
Festival for the present. It's a great occasion, I suppose?"

"Oh, tremendous! The Governor's coming, and thousands of visitors
always pour into town. We'll have nearly a hundred carriages in the
parade, simply covered with flowers, you know. It's lovely! You wait
until things get fairly started!"

"That'll be Fourth of July," Sidney said thoughtfully, turning back to
her exchanges, "I'll begin my clubhouse crusade on the fifth!" she
added firmly.

For a long time there was silence in the office, except for the
rustling of paper and the scratch of pens. From the sunny world
out-of-doors came a pleasant blending of many noises, passing wagons,
the low talk of chickens, the slamming of gates, and now and then the
not unmusical note of a fish-horn. Footsteps and laughing voices went
by, and died into silence. The clock from Town Hall Square struck
eleven slowly.

"This is darned pleasant," said Barry presently, over his work.

"Isn't it?" said the editor of the "Women's Page," and again there was
silence.

After a while Barry said "Finished!" with a great breath, and, leaning
back in his chair, wheeled about to find the lady quietly watching him.

"Barry, are you working too hard?" said she, quite unembarrassed.

"Am I? Lord, not I wish the days were twice as long. I"--Barry rumpled
his thick hair with a gesture that was familiar to Sidney now--"I guess
work agrees with me. By George, I hate to eat, and I hate to sleep; I
want to be down here all the time, or else rustling up subscriptions
and 'ads.',"

"And I thought you were lazy," said Sidney, finding herself, for the
first time in their friendship, curiously inclined to keep the
conversation personal, this warm June morning. It was a thing extr