She began to scheme and dream--to plot ways of getting about him, of
routing him out, of tearing him from his rut.

And then one afternoon at two she risked her all. It was an opportune
time. Joe--wonder of wonders--was doing nothing, but sitting back like a
gray wreck, with his feet crossed on his desk, and a vile cigar in his
mouth. It was the first cigar in ages, and he puffed on it and brooded
dreamily.

Myra came over, sat down beside him, and spoke airily.

"Hello, Joe!"

"Why, hello, Myra!" he cried. "What d'ye mean by helloing me?"

"I'm glad to meet you."

"Same to you."

"I've come back from the country, Joe."

"So I see."

"Do you?"

"Haven't I eyes?"

"Well," she said, flushed, bending forward, "Joe Blaine, where have your
eyes been these five weeks?"

"They were on strike!" he said, promptly.

"Well," she said, "the strike's over!"

They laughed together as they had not since far and far in the beginning
of things.

Joe leaned near.

"Myra," he said, "I need an airing. Take me out and shake me out! Oh!"
he stretched his arms above his head. "Have I been hibernating and is it
springtime again?"

Myra hesitated.

"Joe."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"I want you to take me somewhere."

"I will."

"To--the printery--I want to see it again."

"Go 'long wid you! Marty Briggs and me are bad friends, see?"

She reveled in this new gaiety of his.

"Joe, you're waking up. _Please_ take me!"

"Put on your hat, your coat, and your little black gloves, young woman.
Me for the printery!"

They went out together, glad as young children. The world was sheathed
in a hard ice-coated snow; icicles dangled from every sill and cornice;
the skies were melting blue, and the sun flashed along every surface. It
was a world of flashing fire, of iridescent sunbursts. Through the
clean, tingling air they walked, arm in arm, the stir of a new life in
their hearts.

"Joe," said Myra, "I want you to signalize your resurrection by a great
sacrifice to the gods."

"I'm ready. Expound!"

"I want you to buy a new hat."

He took off his hat and examined it.

"What's the matter with this?"

"It's like yourself, Joe--worn out!"

"But the boys of Eighty-first Street won't know me in a new hat."

"Never mind the boys of Eighty-first Street. Do as I tell you."

"Aw, Myra, give me a day to steel my heart and strengthen my sinews.
Wait till we come back."

"And you'll get it then?"

"Sure as fate."

"We