had become
more and more sacred as time piled itself on time. Satisfied that he
alone was awake in the house, Huntington rose and drew a small table
before his chair, and with a key taken from his pocket unlocked the
drawer. It was a curious performance at that hour of night, and he
seemed to be filled with guilty apprehensions, for he glanced from time
to time at the closely-curtained door as if fearing interruption. The
lock yielded readily and the contents of the drawer lay in front of him.
Then, before seating himself again, he laid a fresh log on the open
fire, turned off the lights, and resumed his favorite seat, with the
table and the open drawer before him, illumined only by the flickering
glare from the fireplace.

For a moment he threw himself back in his chair, shading his eyes with
his hand as if the mental picture was even more delectable than the
sight of the actual objects before him. Then he sat upright again, with
a deep sigh, and transferred from the open drawer to the top of the
table a most remarkable collection of articles, which seemed to belong
to any one else rather than to him.

There was a long white glove, which he reverently unfolded and placed at
the further edge of the table-top; there was a bunch of faded flowers,
the dried petals of which fell softly onto the white glove in spite of
the delicacy of his handling; there was a yellowed envelope, from which
he drew a brief note, read it word by word, shook his head sadly,
replaced the note in its covering, and laid the envelope tenderly on the
table beside its fellow-exhibits. A piece of pink ribbon followed the
envelope, and then--fie! Monty Huntington! where did you get it?--then
came a pink satin slipper; and the exhibition was complete.

The showman seemed well satisfied with what he saw before him, for he
reached across to his smoking-table and found as if by instinct a
well-burnt brier pipe, with stem of albatross wing, which he filled with
his own mixture of Arcady and puffed contentedly, his eyes fixed upon
the exhibits. Then the dim, flickering light and the incense of the
tobacco accomplished their transmogrification. No longer was he William
Montgomery Huntington, lawyer, man of affairs, director, trustee
and--bachelor; he was Monty Huntington, senior in Harvard College, back
in his rooms in Beck after his Senior Dance, stricken by the darts of
that roguish Cupid who shot his shafts from the soft tulle folds of the
gown worn tha