She smiled sometimes to think how no one in the office knew about it, wondered what they would think if they knew. Often she would find someone in the office looking at her strangely. She used to wonder about it a little. And then one day Mr. Osborne sent for her to come into his office. He acted so queerly. As she came in and sat down near his desk he swung his chair around and sat there with his back to her. After that he got up and walked to the window. The head stenographer had complained of her cough. She said she did not think it right either to the girl or to the rest of them for her to be there. She said she hated to speak of it, but could not stand it any longer. That had been the week before, and ever since he had been putting it off. But now he could put it off no longer; the head stenographer was valuable, and besides he knew that she was right. And so he told her--this was all he could think of just then--that they were contemplating some changes in the office, and for a time would have less desk room. If he sent her machine to her home, would she be willing to do her work there for a while? Hers was the kind of work that could be done at home. She was sorry, for she wondered if she could find a place in her room for the typewriter, and it did not seem there would be air enough there to last her all day long. And she had grown fond of the office, with its “literature” and pictures and maps and the men who had just come from Out There coming in every once in a while. It was a bond--a place to touch realities. But of course there was nothing for her to do but comply, and she made no comment on the arrangement. She pushed her chair back and rose to go. “Are you alone in the world?” he asked abruptly then, “Yes; I--oh yes.” It was too much for him. “How would you like,” he asked recklessly, “to have me get you transportation out West?” She sank back in her chair. Every particle of colour had left her face. Her deep eyes had grown almost wild. “Oh,” she gasped--“you can't mean--you don't think--” “You wouldn't want to go?” “I mean”--it was but a whisper--“it would be--too wonderful.” “You would like it then?” She only nodded; but her lips were parted, her eyes glowing. He wondered why he had never seen before how different looking and--yes, beautiful, in a strange kind of way--she was. “I see you have a cold,” he said, “and I think you would get along better out there. I'll see if I can fix up the transportation, and get something with our people in one of the towns that would be good for you.” She leaned back in her chair and sat there smiling at him. Something in the smile made him say, abruptly: “That's all; you may go now, and I'll send a boy with your machine.”