Lack of space forbids that we should trace our two sojourners step by step and day by day through the ensuing fortnight. A few vignettes, a few small thumb-nail views of them, taken in the privacy of their fireside, will suffice, this chronicler hopes, progressively to suggest the course of developments in pursuance of their ambitions for the happiness of the dwellers in that isolated hamlet of Pleasant Cove. For example, an intimate little scene was enacted before the hearthstone on the second evening but one following their arrival. Mr. Bugbee was wrestling manfully with a cigar of an exceedingly formidable aspect. That morning he had made a lamentable discovery. It was that he had forgotten to bring along two boxes of his favorite brand of specially cured Havanas which were purchased expressly with that intent. His pocket case was almost empty when he became aware of the oversight. He looked upon it in the light of a tragedy; a confirmed smoker will appreciate how laden with tragic possibilities such a situation might become. He had wired for a supply to be forwarded immediately, but in these parts immediately might be a relative term. So to bridge over the emergency he had procured some substitutes from Mr. Talbot's somewhat restricted stock. It was with one of the substitutes that now he contended. He freed an intake of smoke and choked slightly, then coughed fretfully. "It is called 'Jake's Choice,'" he said. "I read it on the box. It was an exceedingly beautiful box--a regular whited sepulcher of a box. I wonder who Jake was? Probably a friend of the manufacturer. But I'll say this much for him--he was no customer! It may have its good qualities. It's certainly very durable and it has splendid powers of resistance--fights back every inch of the way. But for smoking purposes it is open to the same criticisms that a rag carpet is." "Why don't you throw it in the fire, then?" suggested Mrs. Bugbee. "When I came in here a minute ago I thought for a second the flue must be defective." "I'd have you know I'm not to be daunted by an enemy that I could crush--maybe--in the palm of my hand. Besides, it's easy enough for you to give such advice--you with plenty of your favorite cigarettes on hand. But cigarettes are not for me--I'm what they call a man's man." "Speaking of cigarettes--" began Mrs. Bugbee, but got no further. It would seem that Mr. Bugbee was not to be diverted from his present morbid mood. "Now you take Jake's peculiar Choice," he went on. "I wish I'd had the job of christening this article. I'd have labeled it the 'R. C. N. W. M. P.'" "What does that stand for?" "Royal Canadian Northwestern Mounted Police--to give the full title." "I don't see the application." "You would if you knew the motto of that magnificent force--'Always Gets Its Man.'" Again he coughed. "Speaking of names, Anna--" "You were speaking of cigarettes a moment ago."