We did not have Mehronay with us more than a year after his wedding. Mrs. Mehronay knew what he was worth. She asked for twenty-five dollars a week for him, and when we told her the office could not afford it she took him away. They went to New York City, where she peddled his pieces about town until she got him a regular place. There they have lived happily ever after. Mehronay brings his envelope home every Saturday night, and she gives him his carfare and his shaving-money and puts the rest where it will do the most good. When the men from our office go to New York--which they sometimes do--they visit with Mehronay at his office, and sometimes--if there is time for due and proper notice of the function in writing--there is an invitation to dinner. Mehronay fondles his old friends as a child fondles its playmates and he takes eager pleasure in them, but she that was Columbia Merley all but searches their pockets for the tempter. Mehronay has never broken his word. He knows if he does break it she will tear him limb from limb and eat him raw. So he goes to his work, writes his pieces, hums his gentle bee-song--so that men do not like to room with him at the office--and has learned to keep himself fairly well buttoned up in the great city. But Miss Larrabee that was--who used to edit the society page for our paper, but who now lives in New York--told us when she was home that as she was walking down Fourth Avenue one winter day when the street was empty, she saw Mehronay standing before the window of a liquor store looking intently at the display of bottled goods before him. When he saw her half a block away he turned from her and shuffled rapidly down the street, clicking his cane nervously. It was not for him! XVIII Sown in Our Weakness