t me tell him. You said a while ago, daddy, that there
were only two of us--just you and I--and that it had always been so
and--"

"Well, isn't it true, little girl?" It's extraordinary how blind and
stupid a reasonably intelligent father can be on some occasions, and
this one was as blind as a cave-locked fish.

"Yes, it WAS true, daddy, when you went upstairs, but--but--it isn't
true any more! There are three of us now!" She was trembling all over
with uncontrollable joy, her voice quavering in her excitement.

Again Jack tried to speak, but she laid her hand on his lips with--

"No, please don't, Jack--not yet--you will spoil everything."

MacFarlane still looked on in wonderment. She was much happier, he could
see, and he was convinced that Jack was in some way responsible for the
change, but it was all a mystery yet.

"Three of us!" MacFarlane repeated mechanically--"well, who is the
other, Puss?"

"Why, Jack, of course! Who else could it be but Jack? Oh!
Daddy!--Please--please--we love each other so!"

That night a telegram went singing down the wires leaving a trail of
light behind. A sleepy, tired girl behind an iron screen recorded it
on a slip of yellow paper, enclosed it in an envelope, handed it to a
half-awake boy, who strolled leisurely up to Union Square, turned into
Fifteenth Street, mounted Peter's front stoop and so on up three flights
of stairs to Peter's door. There he awoke the echoes into life with his
knuckles.

In answer, a charming and most courtly old gentleman in an embroidered
dressing-gown and slippers, a pair of gold spectacles pushed high up on
his round, white head, his index finger marking the place in his book,
opened the door.

"Telegram for Mr. Grayson," yawned the boy.

Ah! but there were high jinks inside the cosey red room with its low
reading lamp and easy chairs, when Peter tore that envelope apart.

"Jack--Ruth--engaged!" he cried, throwing down his book. "MacFarlane
delighted--What!--WHAT? Oh, Jack, you rascal!--you did take my advice,
did you? Well I--well! I'll write them both--No, I'll telegraph
Felicia--No, I won't!--I'll--Well!--well!--WELL! Did you ever hear
anything like that?" and again his eyes devoured the yellow slip.

Not a word of the freshet; of the frightful loss; of the change of
plans for the summer; of the weeks of delay and the uncertain financial
outlook! And alas, dear reader--not a syllable, as you have perhaps
noticed, of poor daddy totter