“You tried, sir,” he said. “Don’t you remember when you said, ‘The numbers won’t stand still,’ and asked me if I couldn’t open it? And I told you I didn’t know the combination?” Rosenstein gazed upon him in horror. The room became close. He went out and stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. In the street, directly in front of the store, stood a white horse. A seedy-looking individual stood on the curb holding the halter and gazing expectantly at Rosenstein. “Good-morning, boss!” he cried, cheerfully. Rosenstein glared at him. “Go away!” he cried. “I don’t allow horses to stand in front of my store. Take him somewhere else.” “I’ll take him anywhere ye say, boss,” said the man, touching his cap. “But ye haven’t paid for him yet.” Rosenstein’s heart sank. Then suddenly a wave of bitter resentment surged through him. He strode determinedly toward the man. “Did I buy that horse?” he asked, fiercely. “Sure ye did,” answered the man; “for yer milk store.” “But I haven’t got a milk store,” answered Rosenstein. The man’s eyes blinked. “Don’t I know it?” he cried. “Didn’t ye tell me so yerself? But didn’t ye say ye wuz going to start one? Didn’t ye say that this horse was as white as milk, and that if I’d sell him to ye y’d open a milk store? Didn’t ye make me take him out of me wagon and run him up and down the street fer ye? Didn’t ye make me take all the kids on the block fer a ride? Am I a liar? Huh?” Rosenstein walked unsteadily into the store and threw his arm around the bookkeeper’s neck. “Get rid of him. For God’s sake get him away from here! Give him some money—as little as you can. Only get him away. Some day I will increase your salary. I am sick to-day. I cannot do any business. I am going home.” He started for the rear door, but stopped at the threshold. “Don’t take the horse, whatever you do,” he said. Then he went home. Mrs. Rosenstein was sitting on the doorsteps knitting and beaming with joy. When she saw her husband she ran toward him. The tears stood in her eyes. “Dearest husband! Dear, generous husband! To punish me for my stubbornness and then to fill me with happiness by gratifying the dearest wish of my heart! It is too much! I do not deserve it! One room is all I wanted!” Rosenstein’s heart nearly stopped beating. Upon his ears fell a strange noise of scraping and tearing that came from the doorway of his house. “Wh-wh-what is it?” he asked, feebly. His wife smiled. “The paper-hangers are already at work,” she said, joyfully. “They said you insisted that all the work should be finished in one day, and they’ve sent twenty men here.” Mr. Rosenstein sank wearily down upon the steps. The power of speech had left him. Likewise the power of thought. His brain felt like a maelstrom of chaotic, incoherent images. He felt that he was losing his mind. A brisk-looking young man, with a roll of red wall-paper in his hand, came down the steps and doffed his hat to Rosenstein.