im!"

"I always say Ray was a smart girl. She wasn't no beauty, and the
chances didn't come so thick; and now to walk in her house you wouldn't
think she did the courting! A more devoted boy than Abe I don't know."

"Do you like that bow at the belt, mamma?"

"Yes.... Tillie," called Mrs. Katzenstein, raising her voice, "turn on
the lights in the parlor, and then tell Mr. Katzenstein I said to put on
his coat."

"I don't want the lights on, mamma--it looks better that way."

"You want it to look like we was stingy with light yet! How does that
look--just the gas-logs going! You tell Mr. Katzenstein, Tillie, that I
insist that he should put on his coat to meet Birdie's company--his
newspaper will keep. There's the bell! Tillie, go to the door."

After a well-timed interval Birdie entered the soft-lighted parlor; the
gas-logs gave out a mellow but uncertain light. It was as if the spirit
of fire were doing an elf dance about the room--glinting on the polished
surface of the floor, glancing on and off the gilt frame of a
wall-picture, and gleaming at its own reflection in the mahogany
table-legs and glass doors of the curio cabinet.

Mr. Gump was seated in a remote corner, elbows on knees and face in
hands, like a Marius mourning among the ruins of his Carthage.

"Howdy-do, Marcus? Such a dark corner you pick out! It's just as cheap
to sit in the light," said Birdie.

He rose and came toward her, squaring his shoulders and tossing his head
backward after the manner of a man throwing off a mood, or of the strong
man before he stoops to raise the thousand-pound bar of iron.

"What's the matter, Marcus? You aren't sick, are you?"

"Sure I'm not," he said. "I'm just catching up on sleep."

They shook hands and smiled, both of them full of the sweet mystery of
their new shyness. His hand trembled, and he released her fingers
abruptly.

"Well, how did you get over last night, Marcus? Honest, you look real
tired! Didn't we have the grandest time? Henrietta called me up this
morning and said she nearly split her sides laughing when you imitated
how Mr. Latz sells cigars."

"To-night," he said, running a hand over the woolly surface of his hair
and exhaling loudly, "I feel as funny as a funeral."

"Marcus," she said, "honest, you don't look right; you're pale!"

He seated himself on the divan, with her as his immediate _vis-a-vis_.
The light played over them.

"You can believe me, Birdie; somehow when I'm with y