I was roused from the study into which this plunged me by Miss Fraenkel's interest in the catastrophe. As I bought my stamps and posted my letters she continued to discuss its possibilities. "What a story it would make!" she observed. "A thing like that coming down here, of all places, and nobody expecting it. Like Sherlock Holmes." "Very," I said. "I must try my hand at it some day." "And of course," she went on, "you'll have to fix up a love interest. You remember you told me it was absolutely necessary to have one." "Yes, I'll try that too," I assured her. "And the post-mistress as well. All the best stories have one." "Don't you dare," she called after me, laughing. My friend was busy at his easel, blocking out a poster for a breakfast-food. "Where's Bill?" I asked. With a movement of his head as he reached for his matches, he indicated next door. Presently she returned, rather pale and at first reluctant to say very much. It came out slowly as she arranged it in her mind. "She has seen him," she said. "And he wrote to her. It put notions in her head. But she can't explain--in English, you know. She kept saying, 'My heart! Oh, my heart!...' And yet she's glad in a way. It would have been splendid and awful if he had--don't you think? Just fancy!... He was one of those men--I did what I could to soothe her ... He will be home to-morrow, too, if all is well.... Poor thing!" * * * * * It is on the point of dusk as we stand at the studio-window and watch him coming up the hill, seeking vaguely for the foot path in the snow. He is wrapped up warmly, and his Derby hat is set firmly upon his down-bent head. The corn-cob pipe smokes on as ever, and he pauses to shake out the ash as he steps down upon the road. At this there is a sudden rush across the street of two small men in scarlet jerseys and caps. He stands and looks down at them, a quizzical smile on his face. Then he looks up and seeing us, makes a grave gesture of salutation. His glance sweeps over to his house, his own inviolate home, and drops once again to his children tugging at his hands. And then, with a reflective air, he steps across to the sidewalk, and walks sedately up to his door. THE END FOOTNOTES: [A: The word "Kill" is Dutch in origin and signifies very much the same as Kyle (Scot), meaning _a deep arm of the sea_.]