The musician rose precipitately. His station! he was desolated to conclude an acquaintance so auspiciously begun. He gave piano lessons in Tinkham! His card: M. Anatole Beaulieu. _Peutêtre_---- "_Au plaisir, Monsieur!_" Tom sat down laughing. "Five minutes more, and we should have been swearing eternal friendship and singing the 'Marseillaise.' Nice little fellow! give me the Caucasian every time! Only ten minutes now! I wonder if she'll like----" Mr. Lee cast a surreptitious glance around him. There were very few people in the car now, and nobody was paying any attention to him. (The Vassar freshman had got out, with a backward glance.) He furtively drew from an inside pocket a small case, and inspected its contents. It certainly was a good stone: _vieille roche_, the Peking jeweler assured him, and he believed it. The setting was good, too; he thought she would like the setting. Of course nothing was good enough for Kitty, but---- "Ticket, please!" Tom started, and looked up to meet the keen, quizzical gaze of a pair of extremely intelligent brown eyes. "Some ring!" said the conductor. "Likely to give satisfaction, I should judge. Coming events cast their shadows before, what? Getting out at Cyrus, ain't you?" Blushing absurdly for such a big brown creature, Tom handed over his ticket and pocketed the ring. "I dare say you know how it is yourself!" he said with a half-laugh. "Bet your life! married mine last fall. Wish you--_suffering Moses_! if this isn't Tom Lee, you may toast and butter me and I won't say one word. Well, well, well! you _are_ a stranger! 'Member Bunty Jackson over to Tupham? That's me!" Amid mutual greetings, friendly reminiscences, laughter and chaff, the train drew into Cyrus station, and Tom was bundled off, rather bewildered, with "Good luck, Tommy! see that you get her, and when you've _got_ her----" _Exit_ train: _manet_ Thomas Lee, portmanteau in hand, looking about him through a curtain of rain. It was raining harder than it had all day; the rain came sluicing down in torrents; it flowed like a stream along the gleaming platform: it poured off the sou'-wester of the oil-skin clad figure standing with one hand on the neck of a mighty good horse, Tom observed. No Flanagan there! Flanagan must be dead. "Cab?" he asked. The boy--looked like a boy: might be anything, muffled like that: Flanagan's son, perhaps?--for all reply opened the door of the carryall. Tom was about to step in, when a man, appearing suddenly from nowhere, jostled rudely against him, and tried to thrust past him into the carriage. "Here!" said Tom Lee. "Get out, will you? Where were you brought up?" He had a glimpse of a white, furious face, that was somehow familiar; of eyes glaring at him in what looked like insane rage: what had he run into? Next moment his nostrils dilated; he sniffed, inhaling a pungent odor. Whiskey! That explained all.