enhouses," he said.

After a pause he got the wire:

"Send me a dozen and a half--no, nineteen--American Beauty roses on
today's train, without fail. This is Dr. Clay of Millford talking."

He put back the telephone, and lay back with a whimsical smile,
twisting his mouth. "The frosted ones are mine," he said to himself,
"there will be no blight or spot or blemish on Pearl's roses."

It was quite like Pearl to walk into the doctors' office without
embarrassment. It was also like her to come at the exact hour she had
stated in her telephone message--and to the man who sat waiting for
her, with a heart of lead, she seemed to bring the whole sunshine of
Spring with her.

Ordinarily, Dr. Clay did not notice what women wore, they all looked
about the same to him--but he noticed that Pearl's gray coat and furs
just needed the touch of crimson which her tam o'shanter and gloves
supplied, and which seemed to carry out the color in her glowing
cheeks. She looked like a red apple in her wholesomeness.

He had tried to get the grittiness of the sleepless night out of his
eyes, and had shaved and dressed himself with the greatest care,
telling himself it did not matter--but the good habit was deeply
fastened on him and could not be set aside.

There was nothing about the well-dressed young man, with his carefully
brushed hair and splendid color, to suggest disease. Pearl's eyes
approved of each detail, from the way his hair waved and parted back;
the dull gold and purple tie, which seemed to bring out the bronze
tones in his hair and the steely gray of his eyes; the well-cut
business suit of rough brown tweed, with glints of green and bronze,
down to the dark brown, well-polished boots.

Pearl was always proud of him; it glowed in her eyes again today,
and again he felt it, warming his heart and giving him the sense of
well-being which Pearl's presence always brought. All at once he felt
rested and full of energy.

When the first greetings were over, and Pearl had seated herself, at
his invitation, in the big chair, he said, laughing:

"'Tis a fine day, Miss Watson."

"It is that!" said Pearl, with her richest brogue, which he had often
told her he hoped she would never lose.

"And you are eighteen years old now," he said, in the same tone.

"Eighteen, going on nineteen," she corrected gaily.

"All right, eighteen--going on--nineteen. Three years ago there was a
little bargain made between us--without witnesses, th