Miss Kling undoubtedly would have been shocked at being thus addressed even on the wire, by a strange person—a person certainly, although unseen; but Nattie, used to the license that distance gave, whether wisely or unwisely, had never, thought it necessary to check the familiarity.

Pondering over what he had hinted about leaving permanently, in the leisure usually devoted to chatting with him, but which that day she hardly knew how to fill, Nattie wondered if, should they ever come face to face, they would feel like the old friends they were, or if the nearness would bring a constraint now unknown? Yet she was fain to confess she would like to see him and ascertain the personal appearance of one who occupied so much of her thoughts. But how strange it would be, if, after all their friendly talks and gay confidences, he should pass out of the way that was both their ways now, and they never know anything more about each other than that one was "C" and one was "N!" something not impossible either, or even improbable; for fate is a sort of switch-board, and a slight move will switch two lives onto wires far asunder, even as the moving of a peg or two will alter everything on the board that shows its power so little.

With such thoughts in her mind, Nattie was rather among the shadows that day, and presented no laughing face to the curious passers-by, much to that opposite clerk's relief, who came to the conclusion that she had once more recovered her senses.

About an hour before the time for closing the office, as she was counting over her cash, and thinking how glad she was that "C" would be back to-morrow, she became conscious of some one waiting her attention outside, and went forward, scarcely looking at him, expecting, of course, a message. But instead, the individual, who filled the air with a suffocating odor of musk, asked,

"You are the regular operator here, I suppose?"

With a start Nattie looked up, expecting a complaint, an occurrence often prefaced by some like question, and scrutinizing him more particularly, saw a short, rather stout young man, possessing an air of cheap assurance, hair that insisted on being red, notwithstanding the bear's grease that covered it, teeth all at variance with each other, and seeming to rejoice obtrusively in the fact, and light blue eyes of a most insinuating expression, trimmed around with red.

"Yes," Nattie replied as she took this survey. "I am."

"You don't know me, I suppose?" was the next question.

"No," Nattie replied with a glance at the large mock diamond pin, and immense imitation amethyst ring he wore; "I certainly do not."

"I think you are mistaken about that," he rejoined, smiling at her in a most unpleasantly familiar manner.

Surprised and offended, Nattie drew back haughtily. "I think, rather, you are mistaken," she said, stiffly. "May I inquire your business?"

With an air of easy confidence and familiar remonstrance, he replied,

"Come, now, don't freeze a fellow; why, I came to see you. That's my business and no other!"

"He is drunk," thought Nattie, indignantly, but before she could reply he added,

"I am an operator, you see."

"Oh!" said Nattie, comprehensively, but not at all delightedly, for operator or no operator, and notwithstanding the sort of freemasonry between those of the craft, she preferred his room to his company. But constraining herself, she added as civilly as possible, "Did you wish to send a message, or speak to any one on the wire?"

"No, thank you," he answered; then, with an insinuating smile,

"Can't you guess who I am?"

"I really can't," Nattie replied, coldly and indifferently; thinking, "some of the operators down town, I suppose, and a delightful set they are if he is a specimen! So impertinent of him!"

"Can't you?" laughing and displaying his obtrusive teeth to their utmost advantage. "Now just think of some one you have been buzzing lately, and then guess, won't you, N?"

Without the least suspicion Nattie shook her head impatiently, feeling very much disgusted, and longing for some interruption to occur. But his next words were startling. Leaning forward very confidentially, he asked with a smile of consciousness,

"Do you see that twinkle, N?"

"What!" ejaculated Nattie—so forcibly that a passing countryman stopped with a peanut half cracked, to stare—and clutching at an umbrella hanging by her side, for support, she turned a horror-stricken face to the questioner, who, looking as if he expected her to be enraptured, added,

"You know a fellow that signs 'C,' don't you?"

The bump of self-conceit must have largely overbalanced the perceptive faculties of this obnoxious young man, if he could possibly mistake the expression on Nattie's face for rapture, as, frantically grasping the umbrella, she gasped,

"No—no—it can't be—you are not—not—"

"Not C? Ain't I, though!" laughed the proprietor of the ring, pin, bear's-grease, et cetera.

"But," said poor Nattie, clinging desperately to hope and the umbrella, "C said this morning he was going to B a—and—"

"That was a trick to take you by surprise," he interrupted, with great enjoyment of his own words. "I knew I was coming here, all the time, but I wanted to give you a nice little surprise. Think I have, eh?" and he laughed again, and winked with almost vulgar assurance.

Nattie let go of hope and the umbrella, and collapsed with her romance into a chair; and she thought of Quimby's warning about the "soiled invisible," and barely suppressed a groan. Involuntarily she stole a glance at this too-visible person, and shuddered. Could she reconcile "C," her visionary, interesting, witty and gentlemanly "C" of the wire, with this musk-scented being of greasy red hair, cheap jewelry and vulgar manners? Impossible!

"It is the nightmare! it cannot be!" she thought, with the despairing refuge in dreams we often take when suddenly overwhelmed with terrible realities.

As she made no reply to his last observation, her visitor, glancing at her as if slightly puzzled by her behavior, went on—

"I did not think you would be so bashful, after all our talks. I am not,"—a fact hardly necessary to mention. "We ought to be pretty good friends by this time. Say, do I look as you expected I would? and as if to give her a better view, he pushed his hat back on his head, a kindness wholly unappreciated, as Nattie had seen more than sufficient of him already.

"Not—not exactly!" she stammered, in a sort of dazed way.

"I believe you thought I was one of those slim fellows whose bones rattle when they walk, didn't you? I am no such a fellow, you see. But you ain't a bit as I imagined. May I be a plug [1] forever if you are!"

[1] "Plug" is the common telegraphic expression for an incompetent operartor.

Nattie was too wretched, too unable even yet to realize that her "C" and this odious creature were one and the same, to ask, as he evidently expected natural curiosity would induce her to do, in what way she so differed from the person of his imagination.

"You go beyond all my calculations," he continued, flatteringly, after waiting in vain for a question from her; "Only you are more bashful than I supposed you would be, after the dots and dashes we have slung. But then it's easier to buzz on the wire than it is to talk, isn't it? For all a fellow has to do is to take up a book or a paper, pick things out to say, and go it without exercising his own brains!"

At these words, that explained the previous incomprehensible difference between the distant "C" and present person, the realization of the companionship, the romance, the friendship gone to wreck on this reef of musk and bear's-grease came over Nattie with a rush, and for a moment so affected her that she could hardly restrain her tears. And yet, after all, was not "C," her "C," the "C" whom she knew by his conversation only—"picked out of books!"—an unreal, intangible being, and not this so different person who claimed his identity?

"I think we astonished some of them on the wire with all the stuff we had over!" went on with his monologue the knight of the collapsed romance, who, not being troubled with fine sensibilities, had no idea of the feelings under which she was laboring.

"Yes—I—doubtless!" stammered Nattie, and turned very red, as, suddenly remembering the tenor of some of what he so elegantly termed "stuff," the appalling thought, what if he should say "my dear?" presented itself in all its horrors, and the idea punished her for that girlish imprudence in allowing the familiarity from afar.

Evidently he noticed the access of color, and attributed it to his own fascinations, for he smiled complacently as he said,

"I wish I had longer to stay with you, but my train goes in five minutes." Nattie breathed a sigh of relief. "Too bad, isn't it? But I will come again some time! By the way," a cunning expression that seemed uncalled-for crossing over his face, "don't say anything on the wire about my being here to-day, will you? I don't want any one to know. Let them think I was at B a."

"Certainly not!" replied Nattie, with an alacrity born of the knowledge that she should hold no further communication of any kind with him; then, in order to give a hint of her intentions, she added, bracing herself up to mention what was so difficult to speak of to this vampire who mocked her with her vanished "C."

"Now that the—the mystery is solved, and I—and we have met, I don't think there will be much amusement in talking over the wire."

Somewhat to her surprise, and not at all flattering to her vanity, he answered, without a remonstrance,

"No! I don't know as there will!"

"Perhaps he doesn't like my looks any better than I do his!" was Nattie's natural and indignant thought at this quiet reception of her hint. And if anything had been necessary—which it certainly was not—to her utter repudiation of him, this would have sufficed for the purpose.

"You mentioned this morning you thought of leaving X n. Do you expect to go soon?" she asked, catching at the idea that a few hours ago had caused so much alarm, with a hope that he might be about to vanish from her world finally and forever. But even as she spoke, the difference of the now and then smote her like a pain.

"Did I say that?" he said, with a look that she could not understand, as if for some secret reason, he was so well pleased with himself, he could hardly avoid laughing outright. "Oh! well! I was only fooling!"

Nattie's face fell, but, catching at the opportunity to convey the impression that in her opinion they had not been very friendly, after all, she said,

"I suppose no one really means what they say on the wire. I am sure I do not!"

"But we mean what we say now," he replied, with an insinuating smile. "Next time I come we will be more sociable. But we've have had a nice talk, ain't we?"

For a moment the repulsive person before her overcame the remembrance of the lost "C," and Nattie replied, sarcastically,

"I trust the talk has not been too much of an exercise for your brain!"

He looked at her doubtfully, and then laughed. "You are sort of a queer girl, ain't you? I wish though, I could stay and buzz you longer, but I have only time to get my train, so good-by."

"Good-by," said Nattie, betraying all her relief at his departure in the sudden animation of her voice, something so different from her preceding manner that he could but notice it, and he turned, looked at her, as if a suspicion of its true cause penetrated his mind at last, frowned, and then with that former look she did not understand crossing his face, nodded and ran for the depot, coming into violent collision with a fat Dutchman, looking perplexedly for a barber's shop. And thus the red hair, the bear's grease, the sham jewelry, and the obtrusive, fighting teeth disappeared forever from Nattie's sight, leaving her with a bewildered look on her face, as if, indeed, just awakened from that imagined nightmare.

She looked around the office blankly. Everything was there just as usual, the little key and the sounder, over which had come all "C's" pleasant talk. "C!" That creature! The odor of his detestable musk hovered about her even now, but not yet could she realize that her "C" was no more.



CHAPTER VII.

"GOOD-BY."

It was a very long face that Nattie carried to the Hotel Norman that night; so long that Miss Kling at once saw that something was amiss, and while curiously wondering as to the cause, took a grim satisfaction in the fact. For Miss Kling liked not to see cheerful faces; why should others be happy when she had not found her other self?

Nattie's first act on gaining her own room was to drag forth that carefully-preserved pen and ink sketch, and tear it to atoms, annihilating the chubby Cupid with especial care.

"And now," she thought to herself savagely, as she burned up the pieces, "I never will be interested in people again, unless I know all about them. Imagination is too dangerous a guide for me!"

Having thus exterminated the illustrated edition of her romance, Nattie felt the necessity of unburdening her mind, her sorrow not being too deep for words, and with that object sought Cyn; a proceeding much disapproved of by Miss Kling, who, knowing well that weakness of human nature that seeks a friendly bosom wherein to repose its sorrows, rightly surmised her lodger's destination and design, and decidedly objected to any one knowing more than she herself did.

Nattie found her friend at home, but to her vexation, not alone. With her was Quimby, who had called in the untold hope of gleaning tidings of the young lady who had—as he said to himself—floored him. His confusion at the sight of her, remembering as he did the somewhat unusual circumstances of their last meeting, was indescribable; indeed, his knees actually knocked together. Nattie, however, whose latest experience had effaced the effect, and almost the remembrance of that former one, bade him good-evening, without the least trace of consciousness or embarrassment, a composure of manner that astounded but at the same time filled him with admiration.

As he did not take his departure, being, in fact, unable to tear himself away, Nattie, in her anxiety to tell Cyn all that was in her mind, and reflecting that he really was of no consequence—an argument not flattering to its object, but one that he probably would have been first to indorse had he known it—and, moreover, that he already knew the prologue, disregarded his presence and said,

"The most incomprehensible thing has happened, Cyn! I cannot realize it even now!"

Quimby quaked in his boots, and grew hot all over with the fear that she was going to relate their last evening's adventure. Could it be possible?

"I knew that something was the matter the moment you entered the room," said Cyn. "I cannot imagine, why you should look as if you were going into the grave-digging business!"

"Ah, Cyn!" exclaimed Nattie, as if the words hurt her, "He—'C', called on me to-day!"

Quimby gave a bounce, and then grew limp in all his joints.

"Is it possible? Personally?" questioned Cyn, with great interest and animation; then glancing at Nattie's face, her tone changed as she added, "He was not what you thought! I understand, poor Nat!"

Quimby straightened himself up. He fancied he saw a gleam of hope ahead.

"Far enough from what I thought!" replied Nattie, with a mixture of pathos and disgust. "Why did he not remain invisible?" then, in a burst of disappointment— "Cyn, he is simply awful! All red hair and grease, musk, cheap jewelry, and insolent assurance!"

Quimby glanced in the opposite glass, and his face brightened all over. He felt like a new man!

"Oh, dear! Is it as bad as that?" said Cyn, looking dismayed. "He was so entertaining on the wire, I can hardly believe it. Are you quite sure it was 'C'?"

"I could not realize it myself, but it is a fact nevertheless," Nattie answered sorrowfully, and then related what she termed the "disgusting details." Cyn listened, vexed and sorry, for she too had become interested in the invisible "C," but Quimby found it impossible to restrain his joy at this complete overthrow of one whom he had ever considered a formidable rival.

"It is no use to talk about romance in real life!" said the annoyed Cyn, yielding to the conviction that the obnoxious visitor really was "C," as Nattie concluded. "It is nice to read about and to enact on the stage, but it's altogether too unreliable for our solid, every-day world. Well, dear!" consolingly, "it's better to know the truth than to have gone on blindly talking to so undesirable an acquaintance!"

"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," quoted Nattie, with a shrug of her shoulders. "But—yes—I suppose I—ought to be glad I know the worst."

"I—I beg pardon, but I—I think I hinted it might be as it has proved, you know!" said Quimby, trying not to look triumphant, and failing signally.

Not particularly pleased at having his superior discernment thus pointed out, Nattie replied rather shortly,

"It was luck and chance anyway, and it was my luck to stumble on the most disagreeable specimen in the business. That is all."

"Do you suppose he is aware of the impression he produced on you?" asked Cyn.

"No, indeed!" Nattie replied scornfully. "Is there anything so blind as vulgar, ignorant, self-conceit? I have no doubt he thinks I was charmed!"

"Then how will you manage when he wants to talk on the wire again?" asked Cyn.

"I shall have to make excuses until he takes the hint. Oh, dear!" said Nattie with a sigh, "I believe it is impossible to get any comfort out of this world!"

"Oh, no, it isn't!" said Cyn in her bright cheery manner. "The way to do is not to allow ourselves to fret over what we cannot help. I am almost as disappointed as you, dear, over this total collapse of what opened so interestingly; but the curtain has fallen on the ignominious last act of our little drama, so farewell—a long farewell to our wired romance!"

As Cyn spoke, the somewhat unmusical voice of Jo Norton was heard in the hall, singing an air from a popular burlesque, followed by the appearance among them of Jo himself. Of course the whole story had to be related for his benefit, and very little sympathy did Nattie receive from him.

"Let this teach you a lesson, young lady!" he said, with mock solemnity, "namely, Attend to your business and let romance alone!"

"As you do!" said Cyn.

"As I do," he echoed, "and consequently be happy as I am! I tell you, romance and sentiment and love, and all that bosh, are at the bottom of two-thirds of all the misery in the world!"

Notwithstanding which sage remark, and the fact of the curtain having fallen on the end, as Cyn said, for a moment yesterday was as if it had never been, when Nattie entered her office the next morning and was greeted with the familiar,

"B m—B m—B m—where is my little girl at B m, to say good-morning to me?" and she made an involuntary movement towards the key to respond in the usual way.

The remembrance of the actual state of things checked her just in time, and then, with a rather uncertain and tremulous touch of the key she answered,

"Good morning! wait—am busy!"

"One untruth!" she thought to herself, as "C" became mute, "not the only one I shall have to tell, I fear, before I succeed in conveying my exact meaning to the understanding of—the person. I will pick a quarrel, if possible, and he persists in talking! Oh, dear! I could have endured the red hair, even those dreadful teeth, had it not been for the bear's-grease and general vulgarity of the creature. Well, it's all over now!" and she sighed, from which it may be inferred that Jo's admonitions had not been of much consolation to her.

We do not take the lessons our experience teaches us, to heart immediately; first, their bitterness must be overcome.

To Nattie's great relief, the wire happened to be very busy that morning, but whenever it was possible "C" called her, and called in vain.

Immediately after her return from dinner, however, having just received and signed for a message, "C," the moment she closed her key, said,

"Where have you been to-day? are you not glad to have me back again? it cannot be I am so soon forgotten?"

Unable to avoid answering, Nattie responded on the wrong side of truth again. "Have been busy; wait, please, a customer here."

"I cannot help saying, confound the luck!" "C" responded, savagely. To which anathema Nattie turned up her nose scornfully, and made no reply.

The nervous dread of his "calling," that was upon her all day, caused her to make more blunders than she had ever done in all her telegraphic career. She gave wrong change continually, numbered her messages incorrectly, and "broke" so much that the operator who sent to her had a headache with ill-humor. Usually very quick at deciphering the illegible scrawls often handed her for transmission, she to-day was frowned at for her stupidity in making them out; and one lady to whom a message was sent through poor Nattie's office, was much exercised on receiving it, to learn over an unknown gentleman's signature, that he would be with her at midnight. He really was her husband, but Nattie had transmitted the name the writing looked most like, which was one very remote from the real one.

All these mistakes she laid at "C's" door, and grew more disgusted with him, accordingly, especially when she counted her cash, and found herself a dollar short. She managed, however, by frequent excuses, to get along without holding any conversation with him until the latter part of the afternoon, when, the wire not being in use, and business slacking up, he called persistently, savagely, and entreatingly—all of which phases can be expressed in dots and dashes—interspersing the call with such expressions as,

"Please answer, N! Where are you, N? Why will you treat thus a poor fellow who thinks so much of you?"

"I should think he might take a hint! Must I tell him in plain words that a personal inspection leads me to decline the honor of farther acquaintance? when, too, he particularly requested me not to mention his visit, over the wire?" thought Nattie; and then, as he continued to call, she arose impatiently, and answered shortly,

"B m!"

"You naughty little girl!" immediately responded "C," "where have you been all day? Is it thus you treat me on my return, when I expected you would be glad to see me again?"

"I have been busy," Nattie replied briefly, with a repetition of her platitude, and cringing at the same time over the first of his remark, as she recalled his tout ensemble.

"So you have said every time I have called," "C" answered, apparently entirely unconscious of the possible reason. "What is the cause? You never used to be busy always, you know!"

"How different he is on the wire from what he is in reality!" thought Nattie, with a return of her first disappointment, "and how hard it is to merge the two in one!" But she answered,

"There is a first time for everything; besides, I have not felt like talking to-day."

"Not with me?" queried "C."

"No!" replied Nattie briefly, and to the point.

"C" held his key open a moment.

"I do not understand it," he said at last. "It isn't possible that I have done anything to offend you?"

"Only offended me with the sight of you!" thought Nattie; but unwilling to be really impolite, replied, "Certainly not!"

"You are not angry about yesterday, are you?" pursued "C."

"Certainly not," repeated Nattie, adding to herself, "A faint idea that I did not exactly fall in love with you is creeping into your red head, is it?"

"If I have done anything, I beg you to tell me what, for I am ignorant of it, and I assure you I am penitent, and that I forgive you!" continued "C," "only please don't be cross to me!"

Nattie saw her opportunity for picking a quarrel, and seized it.

"I do not know what you mean by my being cross!" she said. "I am sure I was not aware that I was obliged to talk to any one unless I felt like it. I am not in the mood to-day, and I will not be forced. You have no right to call me cross, and when I am in the humor to talk with you again I will let you know!"

"Very well!" "C" replied promptly, undoubtedly angry himself now; "I will wait your pleasure!" and then was mute.

"It has not been quite so gradual as I intended, but I think I have effectually settled the matter, and my mind is relieved," thought Nattie; yet she sighed, and her satisfaction was followed by depression, for with "C" departed the pleasantest part of her office life, a fact she could not disguise. In the week that followed, when "C," true to his word, waited, saying nothing, she missed continually the sympathy, the gay talk, the companionship that had made the constantly-occurring annoyances endurable, and the days that dragged so now seem short. The office business did not fill half her time, and the constant confinement began to be irksome to her, whose nature demanded activity; in consequence, she often grew impatient and answered unnecessary questions of customers with a shortness that gave considerable offence; and had it not been for Cyn, who brought her sunny presence quite often into the office, heedless of the "no admittance" on the door, the monotony that had now displaced the romantic side of telegraphy would have plunged Nattie among the shadows almost constantly.

Of course the sudden cessation of the intimacy between "C" and "N" was a theme of much surprise and bantering comments along the line, especially from "Em." But these facetious remarks gradually became fewer as the wonder subsided. One day, nearly two weeks after the "collapse," Nattie was surprised to hear the old familiar "B m—B m—B m—X n." Wondering if he had grown tired of waiting and was about to attempt a renewal of their former friendship, Nattie rather impatiently answered. But it proved he had a message, an occurrence quite infrequent with him. This he sent without unnecessary words. But after she had given "O. K." and closed her key, he opened his to say,

"Please, don't you want to make up, N?"

"I have nothing to make up!" Nattie replied.

"O. K." was "C's" response as he again subsided.

"He snubs easily!" thought Nattie, much relieved.

The following Saturday night, however, as she was taking in from the shelf outside the blanks, ink, and bad pens that excited the ire of irascible customers, preparatory to closing, "C" once more called. With a devout hope that he was not going to be annoying, Nattie answered.

"Notwithstanding the late coolness between us, which was not my fault, and for which I cannot account" he began, and then some one with a rush message broke in.

"What is he coming at now I wonder—he commenced with a great display of words," thought Nattie curiously; and then with a little curl of her lip, "a sentence out of some book, I suppose."

But as soon as the wire was quiet she said,

"To 'C' Please g a—account"

"I could not leave, as I am about to do to-night, without saying good-by, in remembrance of our former pleasant intercourse," concluded "C."

"You mean you are leaving permanently?" queried Nattie, surprised.

"Yes, this is my last day here. Monday I leave town; and so, with much regret that anything unpleasant should have interrupted our acquaintance—although what it was I assure you I do not know, since you deign me no explanation—I will say, not as I would once, au revoir, but good-by."

"Good-by," answered Nattie, forgetting for the moment everything but "C," the old "C," the "C" who had enlivened so many hours, and about whom had dwelt that romantic mystery. "Good-by. Believe me, I shall always remember the many social talks we have enjoyed."

"Possibly we might enjoy them again, if you desired," "C" said then, as if he gave her a chance for explanation or to express such a wish.

But Nattie, recalling now the bears-grease, the musk, the cheap jewelry and their obnoxious possessor, answered only, "Good-by."



CHAPTER VIII

THE FEAST.

Pondering discontentedly over the perplexities of life, a habit she had allowed herself to indulge in quite frequently of late, one day not long after the final exit of the once interesting but now obnoxious "C," Nattie suddenly became aware of a pair of merry brown eyes, belonging to a fine-looking young gentleman, observing her critically, and with apparently no intention of discontinuing their scrutiny. At which, in her present state of temper, Nattie turned very red and very angry. "I am not on exhibition," she thought, indignantly, and rising majestically, went towards him with the curt inquiry,

"Did you wish to send a message, sir?" The young gentleman hesitated, and appeared slightly embarrassed, but did not take his eyes from her face, nevertheless.

"I merely wished to ask the tariff to Washington," he replied, at length.

"Forty cents," Nattie answered, shortly.

"Thank you," he said, but without moving, and after a moment, as if desirous of opening a conversation, he continued, smiling, "I hardly think I will send a message to-day; I presume you will not object to being spared the trouble?"

Nattie, having been quarreling all day with intangible somethings, was rather glad than otherwise to find a real object upon which she could vent the unamiability resulting from her surplus discontent. The young man's evident desire to talk more than circumstances warranted, was displeasing to her, and she rejoined very stiffly,

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me," and turned away.

With an amused smile, he looked at the back thus presented to his view, opened his lips to speak, hesitated, and finally walked away. Nattie, looking after him out of the corners of her eyes, saw him glance back as he opened the door, and had a remorseful feeling that perhaps she had been crosser to him than he really deserved, for he was certainly very fine-looking. But what was done could not be undone, and with no expectation of ever seeing him again, she dismissed the matter from her mind.

The best, perhaps the only really pleasant part of Nattie's life now, was her evenings, passed almost invariably with Cyn. Indeed, Cyn seemed to be a magnet, around which all gathered—Quimby, although, of course, Cyn herself was not his chief attraction—Celeste Fishblate, who determinedly pushed herself into an intimacy, and Jo Norton, who, had it not been for the fact so loudly proclaimed by himself, of his having no sentiment in his soul, would have been suspected of being on the road to falling in love with Cyn, so strangely was he attracted to her company. But this, of course, was impossible for him!

"That will not do, dear," Cyn remarked, when Nattie related her little adventure with the young gentleman. "Do you know you have been in a dreadful state of mind ever since 'C' intruded his personality?"

Nattie colored a little as she replied, discontentedly, "Oh, it isn't that, I assure you; the truth is, I am ambitious, Cyn. I suppose I forgot it, slightly, while I was so interested in 'C;' but I cannot be content with a mere working on from day to day, in the same old routine, and nothing more."

Cyn looked at her scrutinizingly, as she asked, "But in what particular way are you ambitious? to be rich, or what?"

"Oh! not for money!" Nattie answered, with a slight contempt for that necessary and convenient article. "I am ambitious for fame! I want to be a writer; but when I think of the obstacles in my way to an opening, even, in that direction, I am daunted. I have attacks of energy, it is true, but I fear it is fitful; it comes and goes."

"I understand," Cyn replied, with more than wonted seriousness. "Your ambition is great enough to render you useless and discontented, but you need something to stimulate your energy, else it will waste itself in idle dreams. Perhaps love may come to be that motive power; perhaps—" and a shade crossed her sunny face—"some great disappointment."

There was a moment's silence, Nattie pondering thoughtfully on these words; and then Cyn continued,

"But in the meantime, since you can at present accomplish nothing, why not get all the enjoyment you can out of life, as it goes? So, when the opportunity comes, and you seize it, you will not have to look back on years wasted in vain longings for the then unattainable. That is my philosophy—and I, too, am ambitious."

"Your philosophy is cheery, at least," said Nattie, smiling. "But I am afraid it is very hard for ambitious people to take life easy: and that is not all of my troubles," she continued, gayly, "I can't get anything good to eat!"

"Poor child," said Cyn, with mock seriousness, "this is coming from the sublime to the ridiculous. What is the cause of the lamentable fact?"

"Oh! I am so tired of both boarding-houses and restaurants. In the former they never have what one likes—and ah! such steak!—while in the latter you have to pick out all the cheap dishes, or ruin yourself at a meal."

Cyn laughed.

"I assure you I can appreciate your feelings, from sad experience! I, myself, am positively longing for a nice sirloin steak." Then, a sudden thought striking her, "I will tell you what we will do, Nat, we will have a little feast!"

"A feast?" repeated Nattie, not exactly comprehending.

"Yes—I have a little gas stove—low be it said, lest Mrs. Simonson hear and bring in a terrific bill for extra gas!—I use it sometimes to cook my dinner, when I do not feel like going out, and why should we not have a feast all to ourselves some day? and the sirloin steak shall be forthcoming! and what do you say to Charlotte Russe? In short, we will have everything we can think of, and you shall be assistant cook!"

"That would be splendid!" cried Nattie, delighted, "only it will have to be some Sunday, as that is my only leisure day, you know."

"All the better, for then we will be less liable to intrusion," responded Cyn, gayly. "So make a memorandum to that effect, for next week. We must not let Mrs. Simonson know, however, on account of the gas stove; I pay her too much rent now. I am afraid we shall have a little difficulty about dishes. The few I have are not exactly real Sevres china, or even decently conventional. But—"

"Oh! never mind the dishes!" interrupted Nattie. "Anything will do! I have myself a cracked tumbler, and a spoon, that will perhaps be useful for something."

Agreeing therefore to hold dishes in strict contempt, the following Sunday found the two girls with closed doors, in the midst of great preparations for a truly Bohemian feast, as Cyn termed it; Nattie with her crimps tied down in a blue handkerchief, and Cyn with her sleeves rolled up, and an old skirt of a dress doing duty as apron.

"Let me see," said Nattie merrily, taking account of stock. "Two pounds of steak—the first cut of the sirloin, I think you said?—waiting, expectant of making glad our hearts, on the rocking-chair, potatoes in plebeian lowliness under the table, tomatoes and two pies on your trunk, Charlotte Russes—delicious Charlotte Russes—where? Ah!—on your bonnet-box, in a plate ordinarily used as a card receiver, and sugar, butter, et cetera, and et cetera lying around almost anywhere, and the figs, oranges and homely, but necessary bread, where are they? I see, on top of 'Dombey & Son!'"

"And our dishes will not quarrel, because thev are none of them any relation to each other!" laughed Cyn, as she peeled the tomatoes. "I fear goblets will have to take upon themselves the duties of cups, and that cracked tumbler of yours must be used for something. I am sorry that saucepan is so dilapidated, but it is the best I own!"

"And in that saucepan we must both boil the potatoes and stew the tomatoes. Won't one cool while the other is doing?" queried Nattie, hovering lovingly over the steak.

"I think not;" Cyn answered. "You won't mind the coffee being boiled in a tin can, once the repository of preserved peaches, will you?"

"Ah, no!" replied Nattie emphatically, and sawing at the steak with a very dull knife, without a handle. "It will be just as good when it's poured out."

"I had a coffee-pot once, but I melted the nose off and forgot to buy another yesterday," Cyn said, putting on the potatoes.

"We will call our contrivance a coffee-urn; it sounds aristocratic," suggested Nattie, as she cleared the books from the least shaky table, and spread it with three towels, in lieu of a table-cloth. "But what shall we do for plates to put the pies on?"

"Take those two wooden box covers in the closet," promptly responded Cyn. "That is right, and see, here is room also for the coffee—pardon me, I had almost said commonplace coffee-pot!"

"But the tomato! what can we pour that in?" suddenly exclaimed Nattie, with great concern.

Cyn scanned every object in the room with dismay.

"The—the wash-bowl!" she insinuated at last, determined not to be daunted.

"Don't you think it rather large? to say nothing of its being too suggestive?" said Nattie, laughing.

Cyn did not press the point, but shook her head, dubiously.

"I have it!" cried Nattie, "there is a fruit-dish in my room."

"Just the thing!" interrupted Cyn ecstatically, "I will run and bring it, if you will attend to the cooking."

"Look out for Miss Kling," said Nattie, warningly; "if she catches a glimpse of you making off with my fruit-dish, she will never rest until she finds out everything."

"Rely on me for secrecy and dispatch," said Cyn, going. "If she sees me, I will mention nuts and raisins; merely mention them, you know."

But Miss Kling, for once, was napping; perhaps dreaming of him Cyn called the Torpedo—Celeste's father—and she obtained the dish, reached her own door again without being seen by any one except the Duchess, and was congratulating herself on her good luck, when suddenly, like an apparition, Quimby stood before her.

Cyn started, murmured something about "oranges," slipped the soap-dish she had also confiscated into her pocket, and tried to make the big fruit-dish appear as small as possible.

She might, however, have spared herself any uneasiness, for this always the most unobservant of mortals, was too much overburdened with some affair of his own, to notice even a two-quart dish.

"Oh! I—I beg pardon, I—I was coming with a a—request to your room," he said eagerly. "I—would it be too much to—to bring a friend, he knows no one here, and I am sure he and you would fraternize at once, if I might bring him, you know."

"Certainly—yes!" replied Cyn, too anxious to get away to pay much attention to his words, particularly as an odor of steak reached her nostrils.

"Thank you! I—I never knew any one who understood me as well as you!" he said with a grateful bow, and without more words, Cyn left him.

"How long you have been gone!" Nattie remarked, looking up, her cheeks very red, and her nose embellished with a streak of smut, as Cyn entered. "Did you see any one?"

"No one except Quimby, who stopped me to ask about bringing a friend to call some evening," Cyn replied, displaying the fruit, and producing the soap-dish.

"Mercy on us!" Nattie said, looking rather aghast, "it is rather large, isn't it? and what did you bring-that soap-dish for?"

"I thought it might come handy," laughed Cyn. "We will make a potato holder of it for the time. 'To what base uses may we come at last?'—Why—" in a tone of surprise, "here is the Duchess!"

And sure enough, up by the window sat that sagacious animal, winking and blinking complacently, and evidently determined to be a third in the feast.

"She came in unnoticed under the shadow that fruit-dish threw," said Nattie, teasingly.

Cyn shook an oyster fork at her threateningly.

"Say another such word and you shall have no steak!" she said tragically, "instead, a dungeon shall be your doom. We will let the Duchess remain as a receiver of odds and ends. I suppose her suspicions were excited by the sight of these articles. A rare cat! a learned cat! now please set the table, for our feast will soon be prepared!" and Cyn bent over the sizzling steak, that emitted a most appetizing odor.

Setting that table was no such easy matter as might appear, for what with the big fruit-dish, wooden covers, different sizes of plates and other incongruous articles, considerable management was necessary.

"I shall have to put the sugar on in the bag," Nattie said, incautiously backing to view the general effect, and so stumbling over the saucepan of potatoes that sat on the floor, but luckily doing no damage.

"Ah, well! Eccentricity is quite the rage now, you know," responded the philosophical Cyn, "and certainly, a sugar-bowl so closely resembling a brown paper bag as not to be distinguishable from the real thing, is quite recherche. But my dear Nat, where am I to set the steak if you have that big fruit-dish in the center of the table, taking up all the room?"

"I shall have to put it on the floor, then," Nattie answered, despairingly, "for I have tried it on all parts of the table! If you set it on the edge," she added hastily, seeing Cyn about to do so, "you will tip the whole thing over!"

"Then we must have a side-board," Cyn announced, with a plate of steak in one hand, and the big fruit-dish in the other. "Put my writing-desk on a chair, please; spread a towel over it, and there you have it!"

"But what a quantity of eatables we have! Two pounds of steak, ten big potatoes, a two-quart dish of tomatoes, two large pies, two Charlotte Russes, an urn of coffee, a dozen oranges and a box of figs—good gracious! Think of two people eating all that!" exclaimed Nattie, decidedly dismayed at the prospect.

"It is considerable," Cyn confessed, surveying the array with a slightly daunted expression. "You see I am not used to buying for a family, and I was afraid of getting too little. But," brightening, "there isn't more than one quart of the tomatoes, and there are three of us, you know—the Duchess!"

"To be sure; I had forgotten her!" Nattie said, recovering her equanimity, and glancing at the purring animal, who was looking on approvingly, and evidently appreciated the difference between sirloin and her usual rations of round.

"Then let the revels commence, at once!" cried Cyn, rolling down her sleeves, while Nattie wiped the smut from her face.

But now another difficulty presented itself; the chairs were all too low to admit of feasting with the anticipated rapture; this was soon overcome, however, by piling a few books in the highest chair, and appropriating the music-stool.

"Now for a feast," exclaimed Nattie, exultantly, as they sat down triumphant, and she brandished her very big knife and extremely small fork, while Cyn poured the coffee from the—urn; an undertaking attended with some difficulty, and requiring caution; and the Duchess looked on expectantly.

And then—the goal almost reached—upon their startled ears came a dreadful sound—the sound of a knock at the door!

Down to the ground went Nattie's knife and fork, the coffee-urn narrowly escaped a similar fate, up went the back of the Duchess, and two dismayed Bohemians and one impatient cat gazed at each other.



CHAPTER IX.

UNEXPECTED VISITORS.

"It must be Miss Kling, overpowered by curiosity!" murmured Nattie.

"No!" answered Cyn in a stage whisper, "the knock is too timid. Good gracious! there it is again! Stand in front of the gas stove, Nat, lest it be Mrs. Simonson, while I go and invent some excuse for not letting in whoever it is."

And having given these hasty directions, Cyn opened the door the smallest possible crack. As she did so, and before she could speak, it was pushed back violently, almost knocking her over, and in burst Quimby. This, however, might not have much disconcerted them, as he could have been disposed of easily enough, had not at his heels came a tall, fine-looking young man, a perfect stranger to both Cyn and Nattie.

"You see I keep my word!" was the enigmatical remark the smiling Quimby made as he entered. Then, catching sight of the festive board, he stopped short and stared, with an utterly confounded face, at that, at the embarrassed Nattie, at Cyn, behind the door, and at the saucepan cover, which, embellished with potato parings, occupied a prominent position in the middle of the floor.

His companion also paused, a surprised and amused smile lurking in his merry brown eyes as he looked at Nattie, seemingly regardless of anything else in the room.

Cyn was the first to recover from the general petrifaction, and with the involuntary thought, "what an excellent stage situation!" came from behind the door, where Quimby's impetuous entrance had thrust her, saying, with as much ease as she could possibly gather together,

"Don't be frightened at what you see, friend Quimby; we were only extemporizing a little feast, that is all. Will you join us?"

But Quimby only stared harder than ever; he was evidently struck speechless.

His companion, thus placed in the awkward position of an unintroduced intruder, withdrew his eyes from Nattie, took in the situation at a glance, and turning to Cyn, said, smiling,

"I think we owe you an apology for our intrusion; my friend Quimby, on whom I called to day, in pity for my being a stranger in the city, kindly offered to introduce me to some friends of his. He informed me we were expected, but I fear we have made a mistake."

At this Quimby recovered his voice.

"No!" he cried, in stentorian tones, "it was not—I cannot have made a mistake this time, you know! Cyn"—looking at her reproachfully—"you knew about it! I met you a short time ago, and asked you—and you said we might come, you know!"

Half amazed and half amused, Cyn shook her head in denial, at which action Quimby started and turned pale.

"Why I—I beg pardon—but in the hall! you said, 'certainly,' you know!"

"Oh!" said Cyn, a light breaking in upon her. "I see, but I did not then understand you, I suppose;" rallying from her embarrassment, "my mind was so occupied with our feast, I was incapable of thinking of anything else; so please consider this an apology for the condition in which you find us, to yourself and your friend, whom, you will pardon me for reminding you, you have not introduced," and Cyn looking laughingly at the stranger, who also laughed.

"Oh! I—I beg pardon, I am sure, for—for all my stupidities. I—I am always doing something wrong, but I—I am used to it, you know," said the disconcerted Quimby; then wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he added clumsily, "my friend, Mr. Stanwood—Cyn—and Miss—Miss Rogers."

Mr. Stanwood gayly shook hands with Cyn, whom Quimby had nervously forgotten to honor with a Miss, and then advanced to Nattie, who had not stirred from her position as screen for the gas stove, saying,

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Rogers."

And as Nattie accepted his proffered hand, in an embarrassed way, not yet being able to rise to the situation, and observed the peculiarly roguish expression with which he regarded her, she suddenly became aware that she had seen him on some previous occasion, but where she was utterly at loss to remember.

Cyn, too, was struck by something a little odd in his manner to Nattie, and glanced at him curiously, as she said in her most cordial tones,

"And now, gentlemen, as we have exchanged apologies all around, please be seated."

Quimby immediately bounced up from the music-stool, on which, in his agitation, he had involuntarily dropped.

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed hastily. "We—we did did not come to dinner, you know!"

Cyn smiled at Quimby's anxiety to disclaim intentions no one thought of attributing to him, and turning to Mr. Stanwood, asked, thereby greatly scandalizing Nattie,

"But supposing you were invited to stay and share our banquet, would you?"

"Were I sure the invitation was heartfelt, I should be sorely tempted; wouldn't you, Quimby?" Mr. Stanwood replied, easily.

Poor Quimby twirled his thumbs confusedly, and murmured something about leaving the ladies to enjoy their "feast" alone.

"We have eatables enough for six, as Nat was just now intimating," went on Cyn, who certainly had a touch of true Bohemianism in her composition, as well as Jo Norton. "But our dishes, 'ay, there's the rub,'" and she laughingly held up the coffee-urn, while the less adaptable Nattie thought apprehensively of the propensity of things to cool.

Undaunted by the urn, Mr. Stanwood said, with humorous wistfulness, but looking at Nattie,

"You won't force us to eat the dishes, will you? and that steak smells so nice, and I haven't had any dinner!"

"Then away with ceremony and sit down to the banquet!" said the reckless Cyn, regardless of the protest in Nattie's face; and truth to tell, the former young lady was not at all averse to this addition to their number.

And to the consternation of Quimby, and dismay of Nattie, and possibly a little to the surprise of Cyn, Mr. Stanwood replied by seating himself down in a rocking-chair, and saying gayly,

"I feel positive that I am about to enjoy myself as I have not since I was a boy, and stole eggs, and cooked them on a flat rock behind my uncle's barn, and had raw turnip for dessert. Sit down, Quimby!"

Upon this Quimby, with a blushing protest against an intrusion, that did not seem to trouble his merry friend in the least, also sat down.

As he did so, Nattie screamed; but too late. On the crowning glory of the feast, on those enticing Charlotte Russes, crowded from the table on to a chair, there was Quimby!

"Bless my soul! what is the matter?" he asked, staring astounded at Nattie's scream, but still sitting there, entirely of the ruin he had wrought.

Cyn's anguish knew no bounds, as she saw what had happened.

"Get up!" she cried, wringing her hands, "can't you get up? good gracious! don't you know what you are sitting on?"

"Eh?" he queried, rising obediently, and looking at her with a blank expression. "Sitting on?" then following her frantic gesture, he turned and looked at the chair behind him, and instantly horror overspread his countenance.

"Bless my soul!" he gasped, turning round and round, trying to get a glimpse of his own coat-tails. "How did it come there? what is it?"

"It is—was Charlotte Russe!" said Nattie, in gloomy despair.

"Charlotte Russe!" echoed Quimby, still turning himself around like a revolving light. "It—it don't look much like it, you know!"

At this, Mr. Stanwood, who had with difficulty suppressed his laughter until now, burst into an uncontrollable roar, in which he was joined by Cyn, and then by Nattie. They laughed until utterly exhausted, Quimby all the time keeping up his rotatory motion, with a face whose lugubriousness cannot be described.

"I—I—bless my soul! I will replace what I have destroyed! I—I assure you, I will!" the unfortunate Quimby groaned, as soon as he could be heard. "I—what can I say, to express my sorrow—I—" and suddenly ceasing to revolve, he snatched Mr. Stanwood's hat, and started for the door.

"Where are you going!" his friend questioned as gravely as he could.

"More Charlotte Russes!" he responded incoherently, and with an agonized face.

"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion," said Mr. Stanwood with labored gravity, "I should say, some little change in your toilet would be quite appropriate before going on the street, and moreover, that my hat will not fit your head!"

At this, Quimby dropped the hat he held as if it had been red-hot, glanced at the chair whereon he had so lately distinguished himself, took up the tails of his coat one in each hand, revolved again, and then without a word darted from the room.

As well as she could from laughing, Cyn called after him, telling him not to mind about getting the Charlotte Russes, and to hurry back, but he made no response.

"Poor Quimby!" said Mr. Stanwood, wiping the tears of excessive mirth from his eyes. "He is such a good fellow, it is too bad he always is in hot water."

"Yes," assented Cyn, removing the chair with the remains of what had been clinging to it from sight, Nattie following it with a somewhat rueful glance. "Shall we wait for him? I fear our dinner is getting cold."

"I don't think we had better," Nattie, who had long been filled with a similar presentiment, responded. "There is no knowing whether he will return or not, and it's no use in having everything spoiled."

"I do not think he will expect us to wait," Mr. Stanwood said.

"Well then," said Cyn, "here is a chair for you, Mr. Stanwood. It's all right, so you need not look before sitting. Luckily you are taller than we, and need no books to raise you. Now the question is, what shall we give you to eat from? Ah! here is the bread plate! Nat, can't you find another wooden cover? No? Then spread a piece of brown paper over 'Scribner's.' How fortunate we have an extra knife and fork; you don't mind their being oyster forks? I thought not! Nat and I will use the same spoon, so you can have a whole one. Nat, you and I will have to drink from that cracked tumbler."

"Allow me," interrupted Mr. Stanwood. "Do you know," solemnly, "a cracked tumbler is and always was the height of my ambition."

"Well then, we are all right!" said the jovial Cyn. "But I fear," she added, helping to steak, "if Quimby comes before we finish, he will have to go foraging for his own dishes!"

Mr. Stanwood was praising the steak, which he certainly ate as if the admiration was genuine, when a timid rap announced Quimby's reappearance on the scene. In complete change of raiment, smelling like a field of new-mown hay, and figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes, he entered.

"I—I beg pardon," he said, looking not at those he addressed, but humbly at the Duchess, who had been walking the floor impatiently and indignantly, but was now contentedly chewing. "I—I assure you I shall be delighted to go out and get Charlotte Russes to replace those I so wantonly destroyed. Will you—may I be allowed?"

"Not on any account," said Cyn, quickly. "Besides, the stores are closed to-day."

"So they are, so they are!" he exclaimed, putting his hand to his head dejectedly.

"But we can exist without Charlotte Russes, I think," Nattie said. She had quite recovered her good humor, and was reconciled even to Mr. Stanwood's company; indeed, had secretly confessed he was really an acquisition. Such is the power of good beefsteak!

"Some other time we will talk about it," Cyn said. "And now, we must improvise you a cup, plate, knife, fork, and spoon. I know you must be hungry after your exploit."

Quimby blushed.

"I—you shall have fifty Charlotte Russes tomorrow!" he ejaculated. "But the articles you mention—I—have in my room, and will bring them. You see I—sometimes have a little private lunch myself, you know," and departing, he in a moment returned with his dinner accouterments which Cyn commanded him to put down at once, lest he demolish them.

"Let me see," she added, as he meekly deposited his burden on the nearest piece of furniture—which happened to be the piano. "I can make room for you here, next me, I think."

"No! no!" he exclaimed quickly; "if you will be so kind, I—I would rather sit on that little stool in the corner, where I can do no damage, you know!"

"Oh! we must not make a martyr of you!" laughed Nattie, as she cut a pie with a very dull knife, which caused the very unsteady table to shake, so that every one's coffee slopped over.

"No, indeed; there is plenty of room here," added Mr. Stanwood, steadying his cracked tumbler. But Quimby shook his head.

"Now, really—I—I shall feel much more comfortable if I may—if you will allow me to sit on the stool. I—I am used to it, you know! 'Pon my word, I—I mean all right, but some way I always make a mess of it!"

Cyn would have remonstrated further, but Mr. Stanwood said, "We had better let him be happy in his own way; I suppose he will not be easy unless we do!"

And so Quimby, much to his satisfaction, was allowed to eat his share of the feast on a low stool, in the corner, like a naughty school-boy.

Visitors were destined to be numerous to-day, for hardly had Quimby been served, when a knock at the door was followed by the appearance of Jo, who tip-toed into the room, and in a mysterious whisper, said,

"I saw Quimby enter this room, bearing utensils that could only be used for one purpose! I smelt a savory odor! and here I am!"

"And welcome, too!" said Cyn, laughing; "come, sit here by me. Are you and Mr. Stanwood acquainted?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Jo, perching himself on the arm of a rocking-chair close to Cyn, and appropriating a wooden cover for a plate as he spoke. "He and Quimby did me the honor to call on me to-day, but left for metal more attractive—whether the dinner or you ladies, I will not pretend to say!"

"It was we ladies, you dreadful matter-of-fact creature!" said Nattie. "Their presence at the dinner was quite accidental; Cyn and I started out for a little quiet feast, and behold the result! Bohemian enough for even you, isn't it, Jo?"

"Exactly what I like!" replied Jo—and very close indeed to Cyn had Jo managed to get, but then the table was very small—"But the idea of you two girls proposing to selfishly enjoy such a feast all alone!"

"I begin to think we did make a mistake, in not making preparations for, and inviting a larger party," acquiesced Cyn.

"I wonder if Miss Rogers has overcome her anger towards offending me?" questioned Mr. Stanwood, looking at her roguishly, as she helped him to a second piece of pie.

"My anger towards you?" repeated Nattie, coloring.

"Yes; you did not want me to accept Miss Archer's most kind invitation, and remain; now confess, did you?" he asked, laughing.

Nattie was rather embarrassed at this instance of the young gentleman's perceptive faculties, and not exactly able to refute the charge, was somewhat at loss how to reply.

"I—I do not get acquainted quite so easily as Cyn," she stammered.

"Except on the wire!" Cyn added.

"Except on the wire," repeated Nattie, with a smile; then meeting the curious glance of Mr. Stanwood, it suddenly flashed upon her that he was the same young gentleman who had called at the office, and inquired about the tariff to Washington, for the sole object of talking, as she then supposed.

"I have seen you before!" she exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment.

"That sounds like a novel! what is coming now?" ejaculated Jo, with his mouth full of pie.

Mr. Stanwood laughed very heartily at Nattie's exclamation, and asked in reply,

"Have you just discovered it? I recognized you the moment I entered the room to-day. That is one reason I was so anxious to remain. She snubbed me most outrageously," he added to Cyn, in explanation, "and simply because I tried to be agreeable to her one day at the office."

"But you had no business to be agreeable!" said Nattie, also laughing, and not at all displeased.

"Of course you had not," interrupted Jo.

"I never talk to strangers," concluded Nattie.

"Except, perhaps, on the wire, as you said just now!" he suggested.

"You have caught her now!" said Cyn gayly, as she peeled an orange. "But you will never do even that again, will you, Nat?"

"One such experience is quite enough for me," Nattie replied.

"Still, the next one might not have red hair, or smell of musk!" Jo remarked.

"He might be even worse, though!" interposed the penitent on the stool.

With a strangely puzzled look, Mr. Stanwood glanced from one to the other, observing which, Cyn said,

"You don't understand, of course. May I tell him, Nat?"

"Ah! well—yes!" Nattie replied with an air of vexed resignation. "I suppose I may as well make up my mind to be laughed at on account of that story forever and a day."

"I am as much of a victim as you, for I was intensely interested in the unknown," laughed Cyn; then turning to Mr. Stanwood, she went on. "It appears telegraph operators have a way of talking together over the wire, knowing little about each other, and nothing at all of their mutual personal appearance. In this manner, Nat became acquainted with a young man whom she knew as 'C,' and grew, to speak mildly, interested in him—Now, Nat, you know you did—and so, as I remarked previously, did I—we were introduced over the wire. In fact, he seemed everything that was nice and agreeable, and if we did not actually fall in love with him—you see, I am sharing your glory all I can, Nat—it is a wonder."

"If this 'C' knew the impression he made on two young ladies, he would certainly feel complimented," Mr. Stanwood, who was playing with his knife and fork, here interrupted.

"Fortunately, he never really knew," replied Cyn, while Nattie looked somewhat gloomily at her goblet of coffee, in memory of the romance that collapsed. "To continue this ower true tale!—Thus far all was mysterious, enchanting, romantic. But now comes the dark sequel. One day 'C' called—bodily."

Mr. Stanwood started and looked quickly up at Nattie, who, without observing his glance, murmured contemptuously,

"Odious creature!"

At this he turned with a perplexed look again to Cyn, who proceeded.

"Yes, an odious creature he proved to be. Only think, he had red hair, and dreadful teeth, smelt of musk, wore cheap jewelry, and, in short, was decidedly vulgar!"

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Stanwood, staring at her as if he thought she was bereft of her senses. "What!" and he dropped his knife and fork, and pushed his chair back violently, to the alarm of the Duchess, who was immediately behind.

Cyn appeared astonished at his vehemence; but Nattie, too occupied with thoughts of this newly-revived grievance to observe it, repeated,

"Red hair, all bear's grease, and everything to match!"

"Do you mean to tell me," Mr. Stanwood asked, looking at her earnestly, and speaking with great energy, "that a person, such as you describe, called on you and represented himself to be 'C'?"

"Exactly," Nattie replied; "first telling me he was going away to substitute for a day, and then coming upon me in all his odiousness."

"The story seems to interest you," added Cyn, glancing at him scrutinizingly.

Mr. Stanwood looked at her, at Nattie, mused a moment, and then burst into a laugh, equal even to the one Quimby had caused.

"It does interest me," he said, as soon as he could speak; "very much, indeed. It is really the best joke—considered from one point—I ever heard. And, of course, after that day, 'C' was cut?"

"Indeed he was," Nattie replied, scornfully.

"The circuit was broken after that!" Jo added, technically.

"And a romance was spoiled in the first act," added Cyn, rising from the now vanished feast.

"Poor 'C'!" said Mr. Stanwood, following her example. "Really, Miss Archer, I have enjoyed this dinner better than any I ever had, and the climax is the best of all!"

"I wish we might have such a feast every day!" said Jo, regretfully.

"And, except the damage—I don't refer to any done myself, I—I am used to it, you know—I quite agree with you about the dinner. And as for the joke—I—I—really it was quite a serious one to Miss Rogers, at the time, I assure you. Bless my soul! You should have seen how—how blue she was for a week, you know!" said Quimby.

Nattie colored as Mr. Stanwood glanced at her, and knowing he could not but notice the blush, thought angrily, "How dreadful it is to have such honest, outspoken people as Quimby about!"

"Come, Nat, and help me clear away the remains," said Cyn. Apparently glad enough was Nattie to obey, and turn aside her burning face from the sight of those merry brown eyes.

In a very few moments the banqueting hall was transformed to a parlor, with only Quimby sucking an orange on his stool that he refused to leave, Jo cracking nuts, and the Duchess eating a fig, to tell of what had been.



CHAPTER X.

THE BROKEN CIRCUIT RE-UNITED.

Mr. Stanwood sat down at the table where Nattie was looking over Cyn's album, and seemed to have become very thoughtful; Cyn meanwhile busied herself in dressing an ugly gash the ever-unfortunate Quimby had managed to inflict on his hand.

Suddenly Nattie was disturbed by Mr. Stanwood drumming with a pencil on the marble top of the table, and glancing up casually, observed his eyes fixed upon her with a peculiar expression, and at the same moment her ear seemed to catch a familiar sound. With a slight start she listened more attentively to his seemingly idle drumming. Yes—whether knowingly, or by accident, he certainly was making dots and dashes, and what is more, was making N's!

"I will soon ascertain if he means it or not!" thought Nattie, and seizing a pair of scissors, the only adaptable instrument handy, she drummed out, slowly, on account of the imperfectness of her impromptu key—pretending all the while to be entirely absorbed in the album,

"Are you an operator?"

Mr. Stanwood, in his turn, seemingly deeply engaged in the contents of a book, immediately drummed in response,

"Yes."

Nattie felt the color come into her face.

"Oh, dear!" she thought, "and Cyn told him that ridiculous story! Every operator in town will know it now." Then with the scissors she asked,

"Why didn't you say so? Where is your office?"

"I have none now," the pencil answered, while Cyn, glancing across the room, wondered to see the two so studious, and unsuspiciously asked Quimby if he supposed they were practicing for a drum corps? After a few meaningless dots, the pencil went on,

"A little girl at B m was dreadfully sold one day!"

The album Nattie held fell from her hands as she stared petrified at her vis-a-vis, who kept his eyes on his book with the most innocent expression imaginable, one that even a Chinaman could not have equaled. Where could he have heard those words, once so familiar? A moment's thought gave her the most probable key.

"You are in the main office of this city, and have heard me talking with 'C'!" she wrote, as fast as the scissors would let her.

"No, to the first of your surmise," came from the pencil, "and yes to the last."

"What office were you in?" the scissors asked.

"X n," responded the pencil.

"What! with 'C'?" asked the scissors, and if ever there was a pair of excited scissors, these were the ones.

"Well—yes," replied the pencil with provoking slowness. "Don't you 'C' the point? Can't you 'C' that you did not 'C' the 'C' you thought you did 'C' that day?"

Nattie's breath came fast, and her hand trembled so she could not hold the scissors. With a crash they dropped on the table, making one loud, long dash. But the imperturbable pencil went on calmly,

"It was all a mistake. I am—'C'!"

Disdaining scissors and pencil, Nattie started up, exclaiming vehemently,

"What do you mean? it can't be possible!"

The consternation of Cyn, who was just informing Quimby that his wound would do very well now, the horror of the patient, and the surprise of Jo Norton at this emphatic and unaccountable outburst from the hitherto so silent Nattie was indescribable.

"Good gracious, Nat! what in the world is the matter?" cried Cyn, starting up and bringing the bottle of liniment she held in violent contact with Quimby's head, a circumstance that even the victim did not notice, so absorbed was he in amazement.

At Nattie's exclamation, Mr. Stanwood threw aside his book, pencil, and innocent countenance together, and regardless of any one but her, sprang to his feet, advanced with both hands extended, and shining eyes, saying,

"I mean just what I said, it is possible!"

Hardly knowing what she did, utterly confused and bewildered, Nattie placed her hand in the two that clasped it, while Cyn stared with distended eyes, Quimby with wide-open mouth, and Jo gave a long whistle. Cyn was first to recover, and began to scold.

"Well," she exclaimed, "this is a pretty piece of business, never yet played on any stage, I should think! Nat, will you, or will somebody have the goodness to explain this sudden and extraordinary scene?"

"I—I don't understand!" Nattie murmured faintly, and looking half-frightened, and half-beseechingly at Mr. Stanwood, who in response smiled and said, with a firmer clasp of the hand he still held,

"I will explain in a very few moments how it is possible that I am the real 'C'!"

"What!" screamed Cyn.

"What!" shouted Jo.

"What!!" absolutely yelled Quimby.

"There has been a mistake!" Mr. Stanwood said, now looking at Cyn.

"A mistake!" she repeated excitedly, "what do you mean? YOU 'C,' our 'C,' of the wire? Nonsense! You are joking!"

"Yes, he is joking!" Quimby reiterated, but his teeth chattered as he spoke. "He is a dreadful fellow to joke, Clem is!"

"Clem!" cried Cyn and Nattie, in the same breath.

"Do you begin to believe me?" said the gentleman who had caused all this disturbance, and looking at Nattic, who now, becoming conscious that her hand was yet in his, withdrew it hastily, with a deep blush.

"I don't know what to think!" cried Cyn.

"Do explain something, quick, or I shall burst a blood-vessel with impatience; I know I shall!" exclaimed Jo.

Mr. Stanwood complied, by saying,

"The fact of the case is simply this. That red-haired young man, so graphically described by you girls, that 'odious creature,' was the operator I went to substitute for that day!"

"Oh!" said Nattie, a light beginning to break upon her.

"But how—" commenced Cyn.

"I will tell you how, if you will be patient," Mr. Stanwood interrupted, smiling. "His office, as you," looking at Nattie, "remember, had once been on our wire. He had heard 'N' and I talking, and in fact had often annoyed us by breaking. So, as he was at the city, he took the opportunity to pass himself off for me; perhaps for the sake of a joke, perhaps from more malicious motives. I recognized his description at once, from your story to-day, and I remember, too, his telling me on his return, that he knew the best joke of the season; a remark I did not notice, never supposing it concerned me."

"Yes!" said Nattie, eagerly, "and he was very particular to ask me not to mention his call, on the wire."

"I do not suppose he imagined but we would eventually discover the fraud, however; and so we should, had not you," looking rather reproachfully at Nattie, "in your haste to drop so undesirable an acquaintance, avoided the least hint of the true cause. How the dickens was I to know what was the matter? I puzzled my brains enough over it, I assure you."

"And that red-headed impostor has been chuckling in his sleeve ever since, I suppose," said Cyn, indignantly; then seizing. Mr. Stanwood by the arms, she cried, in a transport of delight, "and it really is true? you are our 'C?'"

"What! am I not yet believed?" he questioned, laughing; "what more shall I do to convince you of my identity? you accepted our red-headed friend readily enough!"

"Oh! I believe you!" cried Nattie, eagerly; then stopped, and colored, abashed at her own so plainly shown delight.

But Mr. Stanwood looked at her with a gratified expression in his brown eyes.

"And you will not snub me any more, will you?" he said, pleadingly; "because I never use bear's grease or musk, and my hair isn't red a bit!"

"I will try and make amends," Nattie answered, shyly; adding, "I ought to have known there was some mistake. I never could reconcile that creature and—and 'C'!"

"Then I may flatter myself that I am an improvement?" asked Mr. Stanwood, merrily; at which Nattie murmured something about fishing for compliments, and Cyn replied gayly,

"Yes; because you have curly hair! You remember what I said on the wire, via Nat?"

"Could I forget?" he replied, gallantly.

"And it isn't a dream! You are 'C', the real 'C,'" replied Cyn, pinching herself, and then seizing Nattie, who, from the suddenness of it all was yet in a semi-bewildered state—there was not a bit of unhappiness in it, though—waltzed ecstatically around the room, crying, "Oh! I am so glad! I am so glad!"

At this point Quimby, who, during the preceding explanation had listened with a face illustrating every variety of consternation and dismay, attracted attention to himself by an audible groan, observing which, he muttered something about his "wound"—the word had a double meaning for him then, poor fellow!—and rising, came forward, took his friend by the shoulder, and asked, solemnly,

"Now, Clem—I—I beg pardon—but is it—is this all true, and—and not one of your jokes, you know? Honestly, are you that—that 'C'?"

"Here is a doubting Thomas for you!" cried Clem, gayly. "But, upon my word of honor, old boy, I truly and honestly am 'that C,' and I suppose you were the 'other visitor of no consequence,' who called with Miss Archer that day I was favored by an introduction to her. How little I thought it then!"

"How little I thought it!" groaned Quimby, as his hand fell dejectedly from Clem's shoulder. "But I—I am used to it, you know!" So saying he sank into a chair. That he had brought about such a result as this—that he had resurrected the dreaded "C" from the grave of musk and bear's grease was too much.

"But now that all is explained, I am really not sorry for the mistake," Clem said, utterly unconscious of his friend's state of mind. "For, had it not been for that I should never have learned, as I have to-day, from you two ladies, what a very interesting and agreeable fellow I am!" and he bowed profoundly, with a twinkle of merriment in his eyes.

"Over the wire," Nattie added, pointedly.

"Of course, over the wire!" he said, with another bow. "But it shall be my endeavor to make good my reputation, minus the wire!"

"You will have to work very hard to place Mr. Stanwood where 'C' was in our good graces!" said Cyn, archly.

"Then suppose we drop the Mr. Stanwood, and take up Clem, who already was somewhat advanced!" he said, adroitly.

"Ah! Clem sounds more natural, doesn't it, Nat?" questioned Cyn laughing; "we knew Clem and 'C,' but Mr. Stanwood is a stranger!"

"Then let us drop him by all means! and now say you are glad to see your old friend!" said Clem, gayly.

"We are transported with delight at beholding our Clem, so lately given up as lost forever!" Cyn replied with equal gayety; and Clem, then looking at Nattie, as if he expected her to say something also, she murmured,

"I am very glad to meet 'C,'" a remark that sounded cold beside that of enthusiastic Cyn. But in fact Nattie was so confused, so happy, and so strangely timid, that she longed to get away by herself and think it all over and quietly realize it; and besides, in her secret heart, Nattie felt a growing conviction that Cyn used the plural pronoun we more than previous circumstances actually warranted.

"But Nat," said Cyn, all unconscious of her friend's jealous criticism, "you have not yet told me how you found him out?"

"He telegraphed to me with a pencil on the table, and coolly informed me that he was 'C,'" Nattie explained.

"And then you jumped up and threw us uninitiated ones into a great state of alarm," said Cyn; "and instead of practicing for a drum corps, as I supposed, you were talking secretly, you sly creatures!" then turning to Clem, she asked, laughing, "what did you think when Nat dropped you so suddenly and completely?"

"What could I think, except that it was a caprice of hers," he answered, laughing. "At first I thought she was vexed at my having gone to B a, but she denied that, and finally I believe I became angry myself, and concluded to let her have her own way. Nevertheless, I could not resist calling to see her, when I came to the city, and had I met with any encouragement, I should probably have declared myself, but I was annihilated without ceremony."

"You would not have been, perhaps, had you been honest in the first place, instead of asking unnecessary questions about tariffs," replied Nattie.

"Yes, but you were to recognize me by intuition you know, and I wanted to give you a chance," responded Clem, quickly.

Nattie looked a trifle abashed.

"But I am quite sure I should have suspected it was you, had I not given you up as hopelessly red-headed," she persisted; "why, almost the very first question the creature asked was, 'do you see that twinkle?'"

"So he heard and treasured that remark to some purpose," he said; "well, I will not dispute your intuition theory, since your last words assure me that I do not fall so far short of your imaginary 'C,' as did my personator. I imagine your expression of countenance, on learning the intelligence, was hardly flattering to his vanity."

Nattie, who had colored at the first of his remark, replied contemptuously,

"His self-conceit was too great to attribute my very uncordial reception to anything except, as he said, 'my bashfulness.' I presume it has afforded him great enjoyment to think how successfully he stepped into your shoes, and what a joke he had played upon me."

"Upon us, you mean," corrected Clem.

"Certainly; upon us," Nattie replied, with another flush of color. "I remember how indifferent he seemed when I hinted that now we had met the chief pleasure of talking on the wire was gone. And I believe he didn't actually say in so many words that he was 'C,' but left me to understand it so."

"And I am indebted to him for being such a lonesome, miserable fellow the latter part of my telegraphic career," said Clem, rather savagely.

Nattie murmured something about the time passing pleasanter when there was some one to talk with, and Cyn asked, curiously,

"Then you have left the dot and dash business, have you?"

"Oh, yes. It was merely temporary with me," Clem replied; then seating himself on the sofa beside Nattie, and drawing a chair up for Cyn, between himself and Jo—Quimby being at the other end of the room, a prey to his emotions—Clem continued;

"The truth of the matter is simply this, my father, with a pig-headedness worthy of Eugene Wrayburn's M. R. F. in 'Our Mutual Friend,' determined to make a doctor of me, not on account of any qualifications of mine, but for the simple reason that a doctor is a good thing to have in a family. But I, having an intense dislike to the smell of drugs, a repugnance to knowing anything more than absolutely necessary about the 'ills that flesh is heir to,' and decided objections to having the sleep of my future life disturbed, declined, and at the same time expressed a desire to go into the store with him, and become a merchant. Upon which my most immediate ancestor waxed wroth, called me, in plain, unvarnished words, a fool; and a pretty one I was to set myself up against his will! I, who couldn't earn my salt without him to back me! Being of a contrary opinion myself, I determined to test my abilities in the salt line. I began," looking at Nattie, merrily, "by salting you!"—then explaining to Cyn, Jo, and the silent Quimby, "'Salt' is a term operators use, when one tries to send faster than the other can receive. I began my acquaintance with N by trying to 'salt' her. To go on with my narrative, I had learned to telegraph at college, where the boys had private wires from room to room, and being acquainted with one of the managers in our city, succeeded in obtaining that very undesirable office down there at X n, where I remained until my stern parent relented, concluded to hire a doctor instead of making one, and offered me the control of a branch of the firm here in your city. And here I am!"

"And isn't it strange how you should have stumbled upon us, feast and all?" said Cyn, laughing.

Nattie was again disturbed by the plural pronoun, and also angry at herself for observing it.

"Isn't it?" Clem answered merrily; "what a lucky fellow I am! You see, not being at all acquainted in the city, I hunted up my old college friend Quimby, who asked me to call on some lady friends of his, mentioning no names, which of course I was only too glad to do! Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered who those friends were! But I don't know as I should have dared to reveal mvself, having been so often snubbed,"—With a roguish glance at Nattie— "if that story had not been told and the mystery solved. Imagine my dismay, though, at being called an 'odious creature,' and the surprise with which I listened to my own description! So earnest were you, that I actually, for a moment, thought my hair must have turned red!" and he ran his fingers through his curly locks with a rueful face.

The girls laughed, and Cyn exclaimed,

"What a pity it is you tore up that picture, Nat!"

"Yes," acquiesced Nattie, adding, in explanation, to Clem— "You remember that pen and ink sketch? My first act of vengeance was to destroy it!"

"Never mind, Jo will do another, will you not?" asked Clem, turning to that gentleman, who, upon being thus appealed to, arose, laid down the nutcracker he held, and said with the utmost solemnity,

"Jo is ready to draw anything. But Jo is aghast and horrified at being mixed even in the slightest degree with anything so near approaching the romantic, as the affair in question. What is the use of a fellow shaving off his hair, I would like to know, if such things as these will happen?"

"It is no use fighting against Nature!" laughed Cyn. "Romance always has been since the world was, and always will be, I suppose. Your turn will come, Jo! I have no doubt we shall see you a long haired, cadaverous, sentimental artist yet!"

"Never!" cried Jo heroically. "But you must confess that this affair is taking undue advantage of a fellow. A wired romance is something entirely unexpected!"

"And besides, viewed telegraphically, there is nothing at all romantic in the whole affair!" said Nattie, who, between her confusion at the turn the conversation had taken, and her alarm lest something should be said about that chubby Cupid—whom it will be remembered she had suppressed in her former description to "C "—was decidedly embarrassed.

Before Jo could express his satisfaction at this statement, Clem exclaimed, reproachfully,

"Oh! do not say that! not even to spare our friend's feelings can I deny the romance of our acquaintance."

"I quite agree with you," said Cyn; "I really believe Nat is going over to Jo's ideas. Never mind! just wait until your turn comes, you unsentimental Jo."

"Madam!" cried Jo, "when I find myself in the condition you describe, I will come and place the disposal of myself in your hands!" and he made her a profound bow.

There is many a true word spoken in jest, and none of the little party there assembled imagined how true, indeed, these words were to prove, as Cyn gayly answered,

"It is a bargain, Jo, and I shall have no mercy on you, I can assure you."

"And we must not forget that we are indebted to Quimby for the unraveling of all this mystery," said Nattie. She smiled on him where he sat, in his dismayed isolation, as she spoke, and although it was the warmest smile she had ever yet bestowed upon him, he was rendered no happier by its warmth.

"Yes, how fortunate it was, Clem, that you looked him up!" said Cyn.

Nattie wondered that she could pronounce the familiar name so easily. She was quite sure she herself could not.

"Was it not?" exclaimed Clem, delightedly; "and what is better than all, I am coming here to room with him!" At this Jo shook him cordially by the hand, Cyn and Nattie gave exclamations of pleasure, and Quimby suddenly started into life. "I—I beg pardon," he said, hastily, "but I—I really—I though you said you had rather be farther down town, you know."

"Yes, that was my first inclination, but as you urged me so much, and as I find so many old friends here, I have concluded to accept your offer, my boy, so consider the matter settled," replied Clem.

And in his own entire satisfaction and unconsciousness, Clem did not observe but what Quimby looked as happy as might be expected, at this intelligence.

"'Oh, won't we have a jolly time,"' sang Cyn, and Clem, Nattie and Jo—but not Quimby—took up the chorus.

And obtuse as he was, Quimby could not but observe that Nattie's eyes were shining in a way he had never seen them shine before, that the ever-coming and going flush on her cheeks was very becoming, and that there was an expression in her face, when she looked at Clem, that face had never held for him. Nor could he fail to think, that the romantic commencement of the acquaintance of these two, even the episode of the musk-scented impostor all now enhanced the interest Nattie had once felt for the invisible "C" neither did he need a prophet to tell him that the two girls would sit up half the night, talking confidentially over this unexpected and happy denouement, or even that Nattie's sleep would not be quite as sound as usual.

Love, it is said, is blind. So, to some things, perhaps, it is, but never to a rival.

And when at last Clem tore himself away, with the remark,

"What a fortunate day this has been! Quimby, my dear boy, how can I thank you? I shall take possession of my half of your apartment at once, to be sure no one shall again usurp my place; until then, au revoir!" and, in parting, perceptibly held Nattie's hand longer than was absolutely necessary, Quimby followed him with dejected mien, fully aware that of all the mistakes he had ever made he committed the worst, when he asked his old chum to call on some lady friends of his!



CHAPTER XI.

MISS KLING TELEGRAPHICALLY BAFFLED.

Miss Betsey Kling was quite uneasy in her mind about this time, not only because the Torpedo refused to see himself in the light of that other self, and fled whenever he saw her approaching, but also because some subtle instinct told her, that under her very nose, was going on something of which the details were unknown to her, and that listen as she would, could not be ascertained. This good-looking young man, who had so suddenly appeared on Mrs. Simonson's premises who and what was he? From Mrs. Simonson she learned that he was an old friend of Quimby's; that she believed he was also an old friend of Miss Archer's, or Miss Rogers', or of both, and that his father was very wealthy,

"Humph!" said Miss Kling, with a suspicious sniffle. "Strange that he should room with Quimby if his father is so wealthy? Why does he not have a room of his own?"

"He and Quimby are such friends, you see!" Mrs. Simonson explained.

Miss Kling gave another sniffle, this time of contempt, at such a reason being possible.

"Miss Rogers is in here about all her time when she isn't at the office, is she not?" was the next question.

"She is very intimate with Miss Archer," Mrs. Simonson replied.

"And I suppose he and that Quimby are in there with them every evening, are they not?" pursued Miss Kling.