Mrs. Wellington led the timid neophyte along the wavering floor of the car and flung back the door of the observation car. She found Ira Lathrop holding Anne Gattle's hand and evidently explaining something of great importance, for their heads were close together. They rose and with abashed faces and confused mumblings of half swallowed explanations, left the platform to Mrs. Wellington and her new pupil. Shortly afterward Little Jimmie Wellington grew restive and set out for a brief constitutional and a breath of air. He carried a siphon to which he had become greatly attached, and made heavy going of the observation room, but reached the door in fairly good order. He swung it open and brought in with it the pale and wavering ghost of Mrs. Temple, who had been leaning against it for much-needed support. Wellington was stupefied to observe smoke pouring round Mrs. Temple's form, and he resolved to perform a great life-saving feat. He decided that the poor little woman was on fire and he poised the siphon like a fire extinguisher, with the noble intention of putting her out. He pressed the handle, and a stream of vichy shot from the nozzle. Fortunately, his aim was so very wobbly that none of the extinguisher touched Mrs. Temple. Wellington was about to play the siphon at her again when he saw her take from her lips a toy cigar and emit a stream of cough-shaken smoke. The poor little experimentalist was too wretched to notice even so large a menace as Wellington. She threw the cigar away and gasped: "I think I've had enough." From the platform came a voice very well known to Little Jimmie. It said: "You'll like the second one better." Mrs. Temple shuddered at the thought, but Wellington drew himself up majestically and called out: "Like second one better, eh? I suppozhe it's the same way with husbandsh." Then he stalked back to the smoking room, feeling that he had annihilated his wife, but knowing from experience that she always had a come-back. He knew it would be good, but he was afraid to hear it. He rolled into the smoking room, and sprawling across Doctor Temple's shoulders, dragged him from the midst of a highly improper story with alarming news. "Doc., your wife looks kind o' seedy. Better go to her at once." Dr. Temple leaped to his feet and ran to his wife's aid. He found her a dismal, ashen sight. "Sally! What on earth ails you?" "Been smok-oking," she hiccoughed. The world seemed to be crashing round Dr. Temple's head. He could only gurgle, "Sally!" Mrs. Temple drew herself up with weak defiance: "Well, I saw you playing cards and drinking." In the presence of such innocent deviltry he could only smile: "Aren't we having an exciting vacation? But to think of you smoking!--and a cigar!" She tossed her head in pride. "And it didn't make me sick--much." She clutched a chair. He tried to support her. He could not help pondering: "What would they say in Yp-hip-silanti?"