"I--I am, sir," gasped Melissa, gripping the small package tightly and shooting a look of apprehension at the kitchen window as if expecting to see a thief pop into the fifth story window. "Well, there is a thousand dollar bill concealed in that book. Don't drop it! It won't bite you. Put it under your pillow to-night, and be sure he gets it for breakfast. The little note will explain everything." "Goodness, Mr. Flanders, it's a dreadful thing to have in bed with a person. I won't sleep a wink." "So much the better," said Flanders cheerfully. "Now, you'll not forget to have it at his place in the morning, will you?" "If I live through the night, sir, it will be served with his coffee. I shan't even tell Mr. Diggs." She did not mean this as a reflection upon the integrity of her suitor, but, fearing that it might be taken as such, she made haste to add: "So if I'm found murdered in my bed, you needn't accuse him of doing it." In the meantime, Amy Colgate had kissed all of the children again and was standing guard over the heap of presents, talking so gaily and so incessantly that, despite Mr. Bingle's glances in the direction of the kitchen, he was unable to satisfy his curiosity. "You really are quite cosy here, Mr. Bingle," she was saying. "Have you anything new to show me?" He pondered. "I think there's a new hole in the carpet over there, Mrs. Flanders. And I've taken a new lease on life. Dr. Fiddler dropped in at the bank yesterday to tell me that Mrs. Bingle may be able to come home before long, so you see I shall have to get busy fixing the place up a bit. She likes to have everything neat and tidy, you know." "Is she still with her mother?" "Certainly. Fiddler says she may have to go to the hospital for a while before coming here, but it's nothing to be worried about. A trifling operation, he says. He's like all doctors. You never can get 'em to commit themselves. I shall go up to see her to-morrow. I've got a little present for her, you know. I've sort of been expecting something from her to-night--a pair of slippers or a half dozen handkerchiefs or something like that--but perhaps they will come in the morning. She never forgets me. Of course, being sick and discouraged may have kept her from--and then again, on the other hand, she may have crochetted me a dressing gown or a fancy waistcoat and prefers to give it to me when I go out to see her to-morrow, not wanting to trust it to the Express Company, don't you know. Well, Dick, how do you like our kitchen?" "Bully! Come along, Amy. We mustn't be late. See you soon, Mr. Bingle. You must bring Mrs. Bingle up to see the piece as soon as she's able. By George, we ARE doing business, though. Sixteen thousand dollars last week. Turning 'em away every night. Seventeen hundred dollars last night and--" "Hush, Dick! Mr. Bingle knows you are an author. You don't have to act the part, you know."