ss
Rogers--Nattie--you know!"

The blacking-brush left Clem's hand, but not to fly at the expectant
Quimby. It simply dropped onto the floor, while Clem gave vent to his
feelings in a prolonged whistle.

"Is it possible!" he said, having thus relieved himself of his first
astonishment. "I might have suspected as much if I had stopped to think,
though!"

"Yes, I--I think I showed it plain enough, you know!" said Quimby
candidly. "You see, I--I tried to tell her of it once, before you came
here, when you were invisible, you know, but some way she--she didn't
just understand, and--and bolted, you know! So just tell me how to do
it, that is a good fellow, for do it I must!"

Clem picked up his blacking-brush, and very deliberately smeared the
boot he had just polished, with another coat of blacking, before
answering.

"How can I tell you?" he said at last. "You don't suppose proposing is
an every-day habit of mine, do you? My dear boy, I never proposed in my
life!"

"But you--you ought to--I mean you will sometime, you know! Just give me
a--a start, you know!" pleaded Quimby, sitting down on the edge of the
bed.

"Shall I call her and propose for you?" inquired Clem, somewhat
ironically, and glancing at the sounder.

"No--no--I--_No!_" cried Quimby in great alarm at this proposition. "She
might think you meant yourself, you know!"

"In which case the rejection would be sure!" said Clem. Then flinging
his brush savagely into a corner, he added as he went out,

"You must settle it yourself, old fellow! No one can help us in those
matters. There is no duplex!"

Quimby was therefore left to his own devices; and his own devices
brought about a most extraordinary result.

That same evening, Nattie coming over to Cyn's room, and finding her
absent, sat down to await her return, which Mrs. Simonson assured her
would be very soon. There was no gas lighted, and in the dusk Nattie
remained, feeling, perhaps, an affinity with the somber shadows of the
twilight. As she sat musing, now wishing "C" had left her life forever
when he left it with the odors of musk and bear's-grease about him, and
now despising herself for the weakness she found it so hard to overcome,
she became conscious of a denser shadow in the shadows of the open door.

"I--I beg pardon. Is it Cyn?" asked this shadow, in the voice of Quimby.

"No," Nattie replied, "Cyn is out."

"I--I beg pardon. Is it _you_?" the shadow asked with accents of delight