“Nice green lettuce sam--” He came suddenly to a dramatic dead-stop as he beheld William sitting before him, wearing that strange new dignity and Mr. Baxter's evening clothes. “Name o' goo'ness!” Genesis exclaimed, so loudly that every one looked up. “How in the livin' worl' you evuh come to git here? You' daddy sut'ny mus' 'a' weakened 'way down 'fo' he let you wear his low-cut ves' an' pants an' long-tail coat! I bet any man fifty cents you gone an' stole 'em out aftuh he done went to bed!” And he burst into a wild, free African laugh. At seventeen such things are not embarrassing; they are catastrophical. But, mercifully, catastrophes often produce a numbness in the victims. More as in a trance than actually William heard the outbreak of his young companions; and, during the quarter of an hour subsequent to Genesis's performance, the oft-renewed explosions of their mirth made but a kind of horrid buzzing in his ears. Like sounds borne from far away were the gaspings of Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, striving with all their strength to obtain mastery of themselves once more. ... A flourish of music challenged the dancers. Couples appeared upon the platform. The dreadful supper was over. The ineffable One, supremely pink, rose from her seat at William's side and moved toward the platform with the glowing Joe Bullitt. Then William, roused to action by this sight, sprang to his feet and took a step toward them. But it was only one weak step. A warm and ample hand placed itself firmly inside the crook of his elbow. “Let's get started for this one before the floor gets all crowded up,” said Miss Boke. Miss Boke danced and danced with him; she danced him on--and on--and on---- At half past one the orchestra played “Home, Sweet Home.” As the last bars sounded, a group of earnest young men who had surrounded the lovely guest of honor, talking vehemently, broke into loud shouts, embraced one another and capered variously over the lawn. Mr. Parcher beheld from a distance these manifestations, and then, with an astonishment even more profound, took note of the tragic William, who was running toward him, radiant--Miss Boke hovering futilely in the far background. “What's all the hullabaloo?” Mr. Parcher inquired. “Miss Pratt!” gasped William. “Miss Pratt!” “Well, what about her?” And upon receiving William's reply, Mr. Parcher might well have discerned behind it the invisible hand of an ironic but recompensing Providence making things even--taking from the one to give to the other. “She's going to stay!” shouted the happy William. “She's promised to stay another week!” And then, mingling with the sounds of rejoicing, there ascended to heaven the stricken cry of an elderly man plunging blindly into the house in search of his wife. XXVIII RANNIE KIRSTED