Though Cyrus the Gaunt could boast a thousand friends, he had accepted but one intimate. That was MacLachan the tailor. Every day they lunched on frankfurters and kohlrabi at Schwartz's. Thither Cyrus was wont to have his scanty mail sent from the house where he lodged. One blustery December day the tailor arrived late, to find his friend fingering a pink slip of paper, of suggestive appearance. “Ye'll have been aimin' a bit ootside!” commented MacLachan. Cyrus flipped the paper over to him. “Save us!” cried the awe-stricken Scot. “It's a thousan' dollars. All in the one piece!” “Two months overdue. He didn't have my address, I suppose.” “Ha'e ye been drawin' a lottery?” “No. It's a bet. Also my release. I'd almost forgotten. My time's up.” “Ye'll not be leavin' us?” said the tailor. Cyrus avoided his eyes. “I'm through, Mac,” he said dully. “It's no use. It's not worth while. Nothing's worth while.” There was a long pause. “Mon,” said MacLachan finally, “ha'e ye tho't what this'll mean to Our Square?” Cyrus the Gaunt thought. Behind the curtain of his impenetrable face there passed a panorama of recent memories; events which had, for the first time in his career, made him one with the fabric of life. Faces appealed to him; hands were outstretched to him confidently for the friendly help that he could give so well; the voices of the children hailed him as a fellow; the baseball team which did most of its practice at noon on the asphalt claimed a corner of his memory; his ears rang with the everyday greetings of his own people, and another panorama, summoned up by the pink slip, faded away. Cyrus folded the check and put it carefully in the pocket of his overalls. “Ye'll be stayin' here,” said MacLachan contentedly, having read his expression. Cyrus nodded. Then the tailor's dour-ness fell from him for the moment. He laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Laddie,” he said, “the little bronze dancer is in the window yet.” Cyrus turned a haggard face to him. “I know,” he said. “Do ye make nothin' o' that?” “Nothing. You know why--what she went away for.” “I ha'e haird.” “Well, I'm learning to forget.” “The little bronze dancer is in the window yet,” repeated the obstinate Scot.