His curiosity was awakened now, and slipping the communication into his pocket, he summarily finished his duties by distributing the few remaining parcels without comment, and then walked away out of the room. It had occurred to him that that note-paper was of a sort that he had seen once or twice before, when Shirley had had occasion to send him a note of invitation. Outside in the hall, which was dimly lighted by an oil side-lamp screwed to the wall, Peter opened his inner envelope. Still in typewritten characters was a set of rhymes, cast in a popular fashion used by makers of humorous doggerel. His eye ran over them hurriedly, with a low ejaculation of astonishment and incredulity at the end; then he read them again more intently, looking as if he could not believe the evidence of his eyes, They ran thus: A farm owned by people named Bell Was a place where a Thorn would fain dwell. So he bought up a mortgage, Intending to war wage On the property-owners named Bell. Now one of the Bells, christened Peter, Thought life would be fuller and sweeter If the farm could be shorn Of this sharp-pricking Thorn, For he feared a foreclosure, did Peter. A designing young person called Townsend Was seeking investment (cash down), and She purchased the mortgage. She never will war wage, She’ll never foreclose, will S. Townsend. Peter had noticed, if nobody else had, when Shirley went out of the room. He now understood her sudden disappearance. He made a quick trip through the lower part of the house, paper in hand, his questioning gaze penetrating every corner. She was not in the sitting-room, or the dining-room, or the kitchen--at least he thought she was not, although he even looked into the wood-shed. As he was returning through the kitchen, an expression of determination on his face not wholly obscured by his patriarchal beard, whose hitherto uncomfortable presence he had quite forgotten, a slight movement of the pantry door caught his eye. He seized the door-knob. It would not turn for a moment; then it slipped slowly round, for his fingers were stronger than hers. The two confronted each other--the white-bearded gentleman, with the figure of an athlete and the eyes of an excited youth, and the slim girl in the gray silk, with cheeks like her scarlet ribbons. "What does this mean?" demanded Santa Claus. He put forth one vigorous arm and drew the runaway out from the closet by her resisting hand. "Just what it says, I should think," answered Shirley, bravely, although trembling. Had she offended him? Through the whole transaction that had been the one burden of her anxiety. "It doesn’t say it very clearly, but she never tried writing limericks before. They ’re not so easy as you might think." "She! Who?" "’S. Townsend.’" "Do you mean to say you ’ve actually bought that mortgage?": "Murray did the business. I didn’t see Mr. Thorn."