e. It's against all the rules and
regulations and the librarian only told because at times I'm a beautiful
liar."

His thin face, looking thinner than ever from his sickness, wore a
worried expression, and one of his long hands moved nervously against
his side. At home he was accounted a confident youth who could grab up a
girl and swing away with her a little faster than the next man, but here
in New York he was off his ground. Moreover, this very pretty young
woman with her aristocratic ways gave him no help, but sat quite silent
as though questioning what right he had in her home. Awkwardly he rose
and played his last card.

"I've a letter I want you to see," he said, "it's from my mother. I
wrote and told her about you and how I hoped we'd get acquainted, only
New York's such a big place a girl has to be careful. It ain't much like
our country towns in Dixie, is it? Anyway, she wrote in answer, and
here's the letter. You can read it, postmark and all. Seems like it was
written for you."

He handed the letter to her with an attempt at self-confidence; but she
took it with so serious a face that, saying nothing further, he stood,
almost humbly, awaiting her decision.

Hertha read the letter through. It was badly written and showed more
than one lapse in spelling. Two pages were filled with admonitions to
keep sober and serve the Lord; the third contained bits of local news:
Cousin Sally Lou's visit, the number of partridges Uncle Barton had
brought in for dinner. But on the last was the message that was
doubtless meant for Hertha's eyes. "The young lady, from all you say,
must be mighty grand, but she needn't be afraid of you. You weren't one
to hang round the station every evening, or to steal out nights with the
fellows to get whisky. You've been a good son, Dick, and every mother
can't say that. Look at Jim Slade's mother, now----" and the letter
ended with an account of Jim's latest escapade.

Hertha handed it back with a pleasant smile. "It reads just like the
South, doesn't it?" she said cordially. "Down there we know every little
happening, while in New York you have to tell a story to learn where I
live."

The young man laughed noisily; his relief was great.

"You're right, all right," he said, sitting nearer her. "It's like one
big family down there, and if a visitor drops in there ain't a person in
town from the Baptist preacher to the poorest nigger who won't have the
news. Are you a Baptist, Miss