Mr. Gaylord took the office-boy lightly by the collar of his coat and lifted him, sprinkling can and all, out of the doorway and closed the door. Then he drew his revolving chair close to Euphrasia, and sat down. They were old friends, and more than once in a youth far from model Tom had experienced certain physical reproof at her hands, for which he bore no ill-will. There was anxiety on his face as he asked:--“There hasn't been any accident, has there, Euphrasia?” “No,” she said. “No new row?” inquired Tom. “No,” said Euphrasia. She was a direct person, as we know, but true descendants of the Puritans believe in the decency of preliminaries, and here was certainly an affair not to be plunged into. Euphrasia was a spinster in the strictest sense of that formidable and highly descriptive term, and she intended ultimately to discuss with Tom a subject of which she was supposed by tradition to be wholly ignorant, the mere mention of which still brought warmth to her cheeks. Such a delicate matter should surely be led up to delicately. In the meanwhile Tom was mystified. “Well, I'm mighty glad to see you, anyhow,” he said heartily. “It was fond of you to call, Euphrasia. I can't offer you a cigar.” “I should think not,” said Euphrasia. Tom reddened. He still retained for her some of his youthful awe. “I can't do the honours of hospitality as I'd wish to,” he went on; “I can't give you anything like the pies you used to give me.” “You stole most of 'em,” said Euphrasia. “I guess that's so,” said young Tom, laughing, “but I'll never taste pies like 'em again as long as I live. Do you know, Euphrasia, there were two reasons why those were the best pies I ever ate?” “What were they?” she asked, apparently unmoved. “First,” said Tom, “because you made 'em, and second, because they were stolen.” Truly, young Tom had a way with women, had he only been aware of it. “I never took much stock in stolen things,” said Euphrasia. “It's because you never were tempted with such pie as that,” replied the audacious Mr. Gaylord. “You're gettin' almighty stout,” said Euphrasia. As we see her this morning, could she indeed ever have had a love affair? “I don't have to use my legs as much as I once did,” said Tom. And this remark brought to an end the first phase of this conversation,--brought to an end, apparently, all conversation whatsoever. Tom racked his brain for a new topic, opened his roll-top desk, drummed on it, looked up at the ceiling and whistled softly, and then turned and faced again the imperturbable Euphrasia. “Euphrasia,” he said, “you're not exactly a politician, I believe.” “Well,” said Euphrasia, “I've be'n maligned a good many times, but nobody ever went that far.” Mr. Gaylord shook with laughter. “Then I guess there's no harm in confiding political secrets to you,” he said. “I've been around the State some this week, talking to people I know, and I believe if your Austen wasn't so obstinate, we could make him governor.”