velvet as
green as grass and fire-red satin."

"Sounds as if you had the Scarlet Woman in mind," Joel said
disapprovingly, and before Persis had time to explain, young Mrs.
Thompson had knocked. She was a sorry figure for a wife of less than a
year's standing, a drooping little woman, pale, listless and heavy-eyed.

"Mr. Dale said something about your having a piece of my goods," she
explained with such an effect of indifference that Persis wondered she
had taken the trouble to call. Then her gaze went to the table and the
untouched meal. "I'm afraid I've interrupted you."

"Not a mite, Mis' Thompson. Walk right in! Joel!" Persis'
authoritative glance in her brother's direction indicated the propriety
of his withdrawal. Joel rose reluctantly. It was not a fitting that
was in prospect nor even a discussion of styles where questions might
arise which could not suitably be debated before one of the opposite
sex. But since Persis only wished to return the young woman a piece of
goods that had been overlooked when her dress was sent home, Joel felt
not unreasonably that he might have witnessed the transaction without
offending the most rigid notions of what was seemly.

Persis searched in her piece-bag and produced an infinitesimal scrap of
green voile. Young Mrs. Thompson accepted the offering with evident
surprise.

"Yes, that's my goods," she acknowledged. "But it's so little, I don't
see how I can use it."

"You never can tell when a scrap like that will come in useful," Persis
declared convincingly. "And by the way, Mis' Thompson, I wonder if
your husband happens to have handy that ridiculous letter that was
meant for another Thompson."

The worthless scrap of green dropped from the young wife's shaking
hands. "Why, what makes you think--"

"That letter," Persis explained steadily, "was written to a Mr.
Washington Thompson. I don't wonder he shortens it to a W., do you?
To have Washington for your first name must be a good deal like having
the Washington monument in your front yard, sort of overpowering. Of
course, as Enid says--Enid's the girl, you know--a love-letter as old
as that ain't of no real use. Love-letters and eggs are a good deal
alike. You can keep 'em in cold storage month in and month out, but
while they don't exactly spoil, they ain't the same as fresh ones."

Persis was talking to give the little woman time. From the pigeonholes
of her secretary she produced the letters she