sprinkling the
floor--young Tom had a visitor who was earlier still. Pausing in the
doorway, Mr. Gaylord beheld with astonishment a prim, elderly lady in a
stiff, black dress sitting upright on the edge of a capacious oak chair
which seemed itself rather discomfited by what it contained,--for its
hospitality had hitherto been extended to visitors of a very different
sort.

"Well, upon my soul," cried young Tom, "if it isn't Euphrasia!"

"Yes, it's me," said Euphrasia; "I've been to market, and I had a notion
to see you before I went home."

Mr. Gaylord took the office-boy lightly by the collar of his coat and
lifted him, sprinkling can and all, out of the doorway and closed the
door. Then he drew his revolving chair close to Euphrasia, and sat down.
They were old friends, and more than once in a youth far from model Tom
had experienced certain physical reproof at her hands, for which he bore
no ill-will. There was anxiety on his face as he asked:--"There hasn't
been any accident, has there, Euphrasia?"

"No," she said.

"No new row?" inquired Tom.

"No," said Euphrasia. She was a direct person, as we know, but true
descendants of the Puritans believe in the decency of preliminaries,
and here was certainly an affair not to be plunged into. Euphrasia was
a spinster in the strictest sense of that formidable and highly
descriptive term, and she intended ultimately to discuss with Tom a
subject of which she was supposed by tradition to be wholly ignorant,
the mere mention of which still brought warmth to her cheeks. Such a
delicate matter should surely be led up to delicately. In the meanwhile
Tom was mystified.

"Well, I'm mighty glad to see you, anyhow," he said heartily. "It was
fond of you to call, Euphrasia. I can't offer you a cigar."

"I should think not," said Euphrasia.

Tom reddened. He still retained for her some of his youthful awe.

"I can't do the honours of hospitality as I'd wish to," he went on; "I
can't give you anything like the pies you used to give me."

"You stole most of 'em," said Euphrasia.

"I guess that's so," said young Tom, laughing, "but I'll never taste
pies like 'em again as long as I live. Do you know, Euphrasia, there
were two reasons why those were the best pies I ever ate?"

"What were they?" she asked, apparently unmoved.

"First," said Tom, "because you made 'em, and second, because they were
stolen."

Truly, young Tom had a way with women, had he only been aware of it