“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
young lady standing by the window in a trim gray walking suit, her golden—really golden—hair neatly done up under a small but rakish hat. It was not his Lady of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, but another,—a glorified, an apotheosized Evelyn, only her eyes and lips were the same. She stood quite still staring at him in a sort of half wonder, and he approached her speechless.
“Micky!” she gasped. “I thought you must be dead!”
“Is that why you did n’t answer my letters?” he asked stiffly.
“But I did,” she replied tremulously—“all I got.— I only received three. And I went on writing to you just the same. Have n’t you got them?”
“None,” answered Micky with a lump in his throat. “Oh, Evvy! I have n’t had anything but that postal from Cortina!”
“You poor boy!” she exclaimed, coming towards him. He started forward, questioning her with swimming eyes.
“Then you're not engaged to Cosmo Graeme?”
“No—of course not!” she cried with a lit-
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