through scurrying clouds its scarlet and purple glory, he hastily dressed, sat down at his table and poured out his anguish in burning words of tenderness and love. He read it over with renewed hope. Never had he expressed himself so well. The letter was a living thing. No woman's hand could touch it without feeling its vital power. An immortal soul beat within it.
He had added the last line of a postscript begging her to name an early hour at which he might call, and sat in dull moody reverie unconscious of the flight of time.
A gentle knock on his door roused him. He opened it and stared blankly at Susie's gentle face.
"I trust you're not sick, Mr. John," she said. "Everybody is through breakfast. I've kept yours warm."
"Thank you, Miss Susie. I've only a little headache. I won't eat any breakfast. I've important work at the office. I'm going down at once."
As he passed her at the head of the stairs she said with a wistful look:
"Mama says she heard you stirring all night. If I can help you, won't you let me?"
"Yes, little comrade, I will. I'll let you know," he answered, swinging quickly down the stairs and out the front door.
