Edith turned quickly and looked at Star, a mobile stiffness clouding her face, not knowing how to take Star's words. "Ha, ha, ha," laughed her father; "you are an extraordinary girl, Miss Barton--as extraordinary as Edith." "Thank you," returned Star, bowing to him. "I have reasons to feel extraordinary since two weeks ago." Father, daughter and ward whiled away the time for an hour in such kind of interchange of colloquy. Then John returned, with his tray full of letters, and set it down on Mr. Jarney's desk. "Mr. Winthrope," said Mr. Jarney, looking up, with a deceiving frown, which caused John to have queer sensations go through him at first; "Mr. Winthrope, I am going to--I am tired of signing letters, and shall delegate that power to you. So sit down here at my desk, and put your 'John Hancock' on these, using my name, of course, instead of your own. You may do this while Miss Barton and I take a little turn down the street. Edith, I will leave you here to see that Mr. Winthrope does not shirk his work." John was amazed; Edith was astounded; Star was astonished. Mr. Jarney repaired to the cloak room, from whence he returned in a few minutes wearing a high silk hat and heavy overcoat, and carrying a gold-headed cane. "Miss Barton, will you accompany me?" he said to Star, after his preparation, taking it for granted that she would not refuse. When they went out, Edith seated herself in the chair where John sat when he took down her father's dictations. John sat in her father's chair at the desk, looking so near overwhelmed at the turn of things, since morning, that he felt like sinking through the floor, or going straight up to the ceiling and out through the roof to some other country. As Mr. Jarney and Miss Barton went out the door, John turned and looked at Edith. He blushed; she blushed. "This is certainly an unusual situation," said John. "It more equals our encounter that night," she replied. "But under pleasanter circumstances," he returned. "If we had that old umbrella of mine, how realistic we might make it," she said, giving a little laugh, and sinking back into the depths of the cushioned chair, folding her gloved hands as though perfectly at ease, although showing some timidity of expression in her conversation. "I have it yet," he said, as he took up a pen loaded with ink, as if it were his intention to commence signing the letters but looking at Edith shyly. "Yet?" she raised her eyebrows. "I put it away among my other keepsakes," he answered, turning now as if he really did intend to execute his "John Hancock" on the letters. "What for?" asked Edith, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair. "Oh, as a hobby; I always try to keep something to remember any unusual happening in my life," said he, forgetting to sign the name of "Hiram Jarney." "Do you know what I did with yours?" she asked, folding her arms.