It was raining. At one of the stations a pretty girl entered the car, her mackintosh and umbrella dripping. John Winter, although farthest from the aisle, jumped quickly to his feet to offer her his place. Sprague moved next to the window, to allow her to sit down without passing him, and at once resumed his figuring. Winter hung to a strap and continued the reading of his paper and his frequent remarks to his friend, glancing now and then at the girl’s profile which was particularly pleasing. She looked demurely at her gloves, smiling slightly at some of John’s conspicuously uttered sallies to Jim. After three stations were passed she arose, and, with a hasty glance at the pleasant boyish face of the young man standing, left the car. Winter’s gaze followed her to the door. “Why don’t you sit down, John?” asked Sprague without lifting his eyes from his work. Winter sat down rather suddenly. “We ought to put cement into that cellar wall of Howland’s house,” Sprague continued. “I told him so today and it was included in the estimates.” “I didn’t know he came to the office,” returned Winter. “When was he there?” “Just before you got back from lunch,” answered his companion. “I was looking at some designs for art tiles,” explained John, “and so I was late. I wanted to see Howland badly. Did he say anything about my decoration scheme for the interior?” “I showed it to him,” responded Sprague, “but he said he couldn’t afford it.” “I’m sorry we ever touched his rotten house!” exclaimed Winter. “He has no more taste than a billy goat.” “He’s coming in again tomorrow.” Sprague smiled a little. “So you can talk with him yourself.” Then, after a pause, “Lucy is expecting her mother, you said. When does she get here?” “Tomorrow,” replied John with a grimace, taking up his paper again. Jim resumed his figuring. “Here, wake up,” he said a few minutes later, glancing out of the window as the train slowed down at a small station. “This is Rosedene. Suppose we get off here.” And the two alighted from the car. When they turned into the street where John lived the rain had ceased falling, and they saw Mrs. Winter and Dimmie waiting at the gate in front of the pretty yard. Lucy Winter’s smile was of the slow but warming kind. Her child’s was also warm, but quicker, like his father’s. As Lucy kissed John, Dimmie (who was named for Sprague, “Jimmie” having been corrected into “Dimmie” by the young gentleman himself at a fabulously tender age) attacked Jim with such demonstrations of esteem as would have disconcerted a less robust and self-contained individual.