“Have you received any bill for flowers yet?” “I've received bills for brooms, mops, pails, towels, cups, plates, nails, tacks, picture hangers, baking tins, soap, and God knows what all,” replied Mr. Morse in a breathless and ferocious voice. “Yes? And which of those do you find in the floral catalogues?” queried the Bonnie Lassie interestedly. “If you want to know,” she added as the Meanest Man struggled for competent utterance, “those flowers came from your own back yard. Look at it some time. You'll be pleased.” The Meanest Man was pleased when he looked, so pleased that one fresh and glorious June day when he should by the known regimen of his life have been at the Y. M. C. A. (supposedly reading) he came home early to putter about among the pansies. At the moment of his arrival Molly Dunstan, her work finished and her shawl laid aside, was standing in her neat, close-fitting black dress, inside the area railing, brooding with deep eyes over the glad flush of summer which glorified Our Square, and thinking, if the unromantic truth must be told, of the little place up near White Plains where her ducks and chickens would have been so happy and productive if D. Wiggett (she shivered) hadn't kept the place and her money too. The owner of the house stood regarding her with surprise and disfavor. “What are you doing here?” he barked. With a startled jump, Molly came out of her brown study and returned the natural but undiplomatic answer: “I'm the housekeeper.” “You! What has become of Mrs. Dun-stan?” “I'm Mrs. Dunstan.” Realization of her self-betrayal came to her. The soft tears welled up into her soft eyes. “Oh, dear; oh, dear!” she mourned. “Don't make that noise,” he ordered testily; “what's the matter with the woman!” “Ye'll not--not be wanting me here any more.” “Oh, I don't say that,” returned the cautious Mr. Morse. “You're not wholly unsatisfactory. But what does that mummery of an old woman mean?” In vain Molly tried to penetrate the blue glasses which masked his expression. Anyway, his voice had mollified. “I'll tell ye it all, if ye'll listen,” she said wistfully. Miles Morse surprised himself by promptly saying: “I'll listen.” No one could have wished a more intent listener. Molly told it all, including the deal whereby D. Wiggett had secured her money. At the conclusion her employer suggested that Molly bring him the deed, or other documents in the case, on the morrow. She did so. He read the principal document with a queer tightening of the lips which Molly couldn't understand at all, but which the Bonnie Lassie, had she been present, would have interpreted readily enough since she had seen it on another occasion, when the spare and arid man had set out to trail the horse-flaying teamster to justice. “This isn't a deed at all,” said he. “That's what Mr. Wiggett was telling me.” “What else did he tell you?”