the coast. One proved sufficient. He spent that laying holly wreaths on graves under mossy live oaks. Then he betook himself to Macon, to lunch and dine and sup with his old-time S. A. E. friends of Mercer, scene of his earliest college years. He found them in law offices, doctor shops, banks and trade—glad to see him, but busy. Then, bankrupt of emotions, he began to stand on the street corners during their busy hours and watch the people pass.

And watching thus, he had seen her.

And, finally, after three days more in his hotel, much boring of friends and many fruitless chases of false rumors, and hours in front of Wesleyan College, he had arrived at the conclusion that he was, after all, a sublime ass. Bearing this added burden, he had taken himself off to New York, in what old-time writers were pleased to call a frame of mind.

But, at the bottom of a formidable array of Christmas greetings piled on his desk by his devoted friend, Terence, the office boy, he found an envelope postmarked “Jacksonville, Fla., Dec. 25.” Within was a card, one of the kind sold five for a nickel, bearing these lines:

“I found your card in my bag on my way to Florida. Am keeping it in memory of the only impudence I have ever encountered at the hands of a man. Nevertheless, I am wishing for you a very happy Christmas and New Year. This, I take it, is the proper Christmas spirit.

“Beautiful.”

“P. S. Very likely I shall return to New York before Easter.”

And for King Dubignon, Christmas came back.

Also for Terence. The tip was five dollars, and an injunction:

“Small boy, note this handwriting! You will perceive that it is more of a jumping than a running hand—well, it belongs on the top of all mail. Understand?”

“I’m on,” said Terence with his broadest grin.

“Return to New York,” quoted King, self communing; “I should have known from the way she crossed the street she belonged in New York.”

“Sir?”

“On your way, Terence; on your way!” but this with a smile.

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