After a week of unrest, which he blamed upon the dulness of the practice of medicine, he remembered the roll of music which she had carried under her arm, and since it happened to be the same day of the week, to give nepenthe to his dulness he took the train down town which they had both taken that other day. She was there, and he fitted himself into the seat at her side with the utmost assurance of a welcome. She bubbled with laughter. “Suppose I had told thee it was taken?” “Impossible—for you,” he laughed. “Why?” “You are a Quaker, and Quakers always tell the truth.” “I do not,” she said. “It was really the only vacant seat in the car.” “I am glad,” she laughed, and knew that there were many others, “that thee does not.” “Oh! Glad?” But he was not sure. “Then that is not the truth, I suppose?” “If there had been another seat, thee would have taken it.” “More prevarication!” he laughed. “Wouldn’t thee?” “No,” he said. “If you knew what a villain I am, you would shun me—” “I have not been permitted to shun thee,” she interrupted. He persisted. “I deliberately selected this day and this train to go down town because I knew that you would be on it. Now, then, what is my punishment?” “I thank thee.” “What?” Though it was all persiflage, he could not believe his ears. She went on gravely, now, in quite a Quakerish fashion: “I have desired to thank thee for thy assistance to me a week ago to-day. There is no telling where such injuries may end if they do not receive prompt attention at the beginning. On that day—I was so—so—full of pain—that I forgot to thank thee. Now, at last, I do. It was very thoughtless, and I have looked for thee every day with the purpose of thanking thee—I had even thought of writing thee a note.” Rem laughed with real embarrassment—a new emotion to him. “I don’t believe that I am awake,” he said. She turned her head away, and the long bonnet hid her face from him. “The pain was so great that I forgot—” In reaching for something—perhaps a handkerchief—Rem did not know where such a thing might be concealed in such a toilette—her hand came in contact with his, and his pounced upon it instinctively. For a moment it struggled and then was regretfully released. “The pain was—so great—” she was repeating dreamily, and Rem could see a part of one cheek now. It bloomed with the very roses of June. “The—pain—was—so—great—” “There was no pain,” laughed brutal John Rem. “And it couldn’t have hurt after the first minute.” She suddenly faced him, and he was altogether bewildered by the smiling happiness in her eyes. “Then I thank thee for that. It is much better to be thankful that there was no hurt—than that there was—does thee not think so?” He did. And he followed that wandering, fluttering, little hand until it again came under the dominion of his, and was again—a trifle more slowly now—withdrawn. “My hand is not hurt,” she said. “Heavens! I believe my heart is,” he laughed.