It was one afternoon when he had been in New York for a week, that a visitor entered, unannounced, the office where he was listening intently to Sutton's crisp explanations of business routine. Zeke looked up at the sound of the opening door. Then, his jaw dropped, his eyes widened. Next moment, he sprang to his feet, his face radiant with welcome. His phrases, in the excitement of this meeting, were the mountaineer's idioms, which new associations were beginning to modify in his ordinary speech. "Why, hit's shorely Miss Josephine!" he cried, as he advanced upon her, with outstretched hand. He saw the dog, straining toward him on the leash. "An' thet-thar man-faced dawg!" There was a little interval of confusion, while greetings were exchanged amid the demonstrative antics of the bull-terrier. Sutton was called away presently, and then the girl explained the object of her visit. "You never noticed it," she said somewhat pettishly; "but one time on the yacht, I came up on deck with Chubbie. You were over by the rail. You snapped your fingers to him. I ordered him to stay with me. He wouldn't mind. He went to you. Well, I decided right then what I'd do." "Why, shucks, Miss Josephine!" Zeke exclaimed, in much distress. "He jest nacherly didn't mean nothin' by thet." "He showed something by it, though," was the retort. "He showed that he belonged to you, and not to me. So, here he is." She held out the leash to Zeke, who took it doubtfully, only half-comprehending. As he was about to speak, a gesture checked him. "I'm not really a bit generous in giving him to you. My dog must like me better than anyone else in the world. That's why I really don't want Chubbie any longer. You're first in his heart, and I'm second. And, though I'm quite selfish about it, I know I'm doing him the greatest favor in the world--that is, if you're willing to take him." "I'd shore be tickled to death to have him," Zeke admitted. "But it don't seem right." "Providence seems to have arranged it that way, anyhow," Josephine declared, airily. "Perhaps, if a surgeon operated on him for the dent you put in his skull, he might cease loving you. But nothing else seems likely to stop him." The dog, thrusting its cold muzzle against Zeke's palm, whined assent. Josephine regarded her disloyal pet a little regretfully. "He's a good dog," she said, softly. "He deserves to be happy." "Plutiny'll be plumb tickled to see the critter I've wrote sech a heap about," Zeke remarked. His eyes were suddenly grown dreamy. "You and your Plutina!" she railed. But her voice was very kindly. When she had learned of the young man's prospects and the nearness of his return home, she uttered a remark that puzzled Zeke. "You don't need to envy anyone." There was a light almost of jealousy in the blue eyes. "Why, I never thought o' sech a thing!" he answered indignantly. "Why should I?"