r and settled his vivid-hued neckerchief to his
liking, he turned, and stooping over his humble bed, slipped a hand
beneath the tumbled pillow and drew thence a letter; a somewhat crumpled
missive, this, that he had borne about with him all the preceding day
and read and reread at intervals even as he proceeded to do now, as,
standing in the radiant sunbeams, he unfolded a sheet of very ordinary
note paper and slowly scanned these lines written in a bold, flowing
hand:

Dear Mr. Geoffrey

I find I must be away from home all this week; will you please watch over
my dear boy for me? Then I shall work with a glad heart. Am I wrong in
asking this of you, I wonder? Anyway, I am

Your grateful

Hermione C.

P.S. I hear you are a peanut man. You!!

Truly the sun is a thrice-blessed thing--and yet--! Having read this
over with the greatest attention, taking preposterous heed to every dot
and comma, having carefully refolded it, slipped it into the envelope
and hidden it upon his person, he raised his eyes to the spotted text
upon the wall.

"You're right," quoth he, nodding, "an altogether wise precept and one I
have had by heart ever since she blessed my sight. I must introduce you
to her at the earliest--the very earliest opportunity."

Then he fell to whistling softly again, and opening the door, stepped
out into the bright little sitting room. Early though it was, Mrs.
Trapes was already astir in her kitchen, and since sunshine is
indubitably a worker of wonders, Mrs. Trapes was singing, rather harshly
to be sure, yet singing nevertheless, and this was her song:

"Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,
Obadiah, Obadiah, I am dry.
Said the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah,
Obadiah, Obadiah, so am I.
Said the young--"

The song ended abruptly as, opening the door, she beheld her lodger.

"Lordy Lord, Mr. Geoffrey," she exclaimed a little reproachfully,
"whatever are you a-doin' of, up an' dressed an' not half-past five
yet?"

"Enjoying the morning, Mrs. Trapes, and yearning for my breakfast."

"Ah, that's just like a man; they're almighty good yearners till
they get what they yearns for--then they yearns for somethin'
else--immediate!"

"Well, but I suppose women yearn too, sometimes, don't they?"

"Not they; women can only hope an' sigh an' languish an' break their
hearts in silence, poor dears."

"What for?"

"Would a couple o' fresh eggs an' a lovely ham rasher soot ye?" enquired
Mrs.