"I shall sleep some to-night," he remarked. "Don't you always sleep?" enquired Dorothy. "I sleep better when there are no loose ends tickling my brain," was the reply. As Dorothy left the office a few minutes after six he called her back. "If I've forgotten anything you'd best remind me." "Mother," she remarked, when she got home that evening, "John Dene's the funniest man in all the world." "Is he, dear?" said Mrs. West non-committally. Dorothy nodded her head with decision. "He wastes an awful lot of time, and then he hustles like--like--well, you know." "How do you mean, dear?" queried Mrs. West. "Well, he'll sit sometimes for an hour looking at nothing. It's not complimentary when I'm there," she added. "Perhaps he's thinking," suggested Mrs. West. "Oh, no!" Dorothy shook her head with decision. "He thinks while he's eating. You can see him do it. That's why he thinks salmon is pink cod. No; John Dene is a very remarkable man; but he'd be very trying as a husband." Dorothy spoke lightly; but during the last few days she had been asking herself what she would do when John Dene was gone. Sometimes she would sit and ponder over it, then with a movement of impatience she would plunge once more into her work. What was John Dene to her that she should miss him? He was just her employer, and in a few months he would go back to Canada, and she would never see him again. One morning she awakened crying from a dream in which John Dene had just said good-day to her and stepped on a large steamer labelled "To Canada." That day she was almost brusque in her manner, so much so that John Dene had asked her if she were not well. The next morning when Dorothy arrived at the office, she found John Dene sitting at his table. As she entered, he looked round, stared at her for a moment and then nodded, and as if as an after-thought added, "Good morning." Dorothy passed into her own room. She was a little puzzled. This was the first morning that John Dene had been there before her. As she came out with her note-book she looked at him closely, conscious of something in his manner that was strange, something she could not altogether define. His voice seemed a little husky, and he lacked the quick bird-like movements so characteristic of him. She made no remark, however, merely seating herself in her customary place and waited for letters. He drew from his pocket some notes and began to dictate. Never before had he used notes when dictating. Several times she glanced at him, and noted that he appeared to be reading from the manuscript rather than dictating; but she decided that he had probably written out rough drafts in order to assure accuracy. His voice was very strange. "Did you sleep well last night, Mr. Dene?" she enquired during a pause in the dictation. "Sleep well," he repeated, looking up at her, "I always sleep well."