o walked out of the room as if he were carrying the message on
his head.

"Mother doesn't always see things just as I do," said Burson; "she was
willing to sign the mortgage, though," he added, "only she didn't need
to; she wanted me to get the money of Edmonson."

He put his hand into his pocket, and a light of discovery came into his
face.

"Have a peach," he said convivially, laying an enormous Late Crawford on
the corner of the desk. Mr. Anthony gave an uncomprehending glance at
the gift. "Hain't you got a knife?" asked Burson, straightening himself
and drawing a bone-handled implement from his pocket; "I keep the big
blade for fruit," he said kindly, as he laid it on the desk.

Mr. Anthony inspected the proffered refreshment with a queer, uncertain
smile; then he took the peach from the desk, drew the wastebasket
between his knees, opened the big blade of the knife, and began to
remove the red velvet skin. The juice ran down his wrists and threatened
his immaculate cuffs. He fished a spotless handkerchief from his pocket
with his pencil and mopped up the encroaching rivulets. His companion
smiled upon him with amiable relish as the dripping sections
disappeared.

"I errigated 'em more than usual this year, and it makes 'em kind of
sloppy to eat," he apologized; "it doesn't help the flavor any, but most
people buy for size. When you're out peddling and haven't time to
cultivate, it's easy to turn on the water. It's about as bad as a
milkman putting water in the milk, and I always feel mean about it. I
tell mother errigating's a lazy man's way of farming, but she says water
costs so much here she doesn't think it's cheating to sell it for
peach-juice."

Rufus came into the room, and bore down upon the pair with deferential
disdain. Mr. Anthony gave his fingers a parting wipe, and took the
papers from the envelope.

"It's all right, Burson," he said after a little, "you needn't mind
about your wife's signature. I'll risk it. Come back in about a week,
say Thursday, Thursday at ten, if that suits you. I'll have my attorney
look into it."

Burson got up and started out. Then he turned and stood still an
instant.

"Of course, I mean to tell mother about the deed," he said; "I wouldn't
want you to think"--

"Oh, certainly, certainly," acquiesced Mr. Anthony with an almost
violent waiving of domestic confidence. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Burson." He
whirled his revolving chair toward the desk with a distinct air o