Seizing a small hand-mirror, he placed it in juxtaposition to his right eye, and closely studied his left profile as exhibited in the larger mirror. Then he examined his right profile, subjecting it to a like scrutiny emotional, yet attentive and prolonged. “By George!” he exclaimed, again. “By George!” He had made a discovery. There was a downy shadow upon his upper lip. What he had just found out was that this down could be seen projecting beyond the line of his lip, like a tiny nimbus. It could be seen in PROFILE. “By GEORGE!” William exclaimed. He was still occupied with the two mirrors when his mother again tapped softly upon his door, rousing him as from a dream (brief but engaging) to the heavy realities of that day. “What you want now?” “I won't come in,” said Mrs. Baxter. “I just came to see.” “See what?” “I wondered--I thought perhaps you needed something. I knew your watch was out of order--” “F'r 'evan's sake what if it is?” She offered a murmur of placative laughter as her apology, and said: “Well, I just thought I'd tell you--because if you did intend going to the station, I thought you probably wouldn't want to miss it and get there too late. I've got your hat here all nicely brushed for you. It's nearly twenty minutes of one, Willie.” “WHAT?” “Yes, it is. It's--” She had no further speech with him. Breathless, William flung open his door, seized the hat, racketed down the stairs, and out through the front door, which he left open behind him. Eight seconds later he returned at a gallop, hurtled up the stairs and into his room, emerging instantly with something concealed under his coat. Replying incoherently to his mother's inquiries, he fell down the stairs as far as the landing, used the impetus thus given as a help to greater speed for the rest of the descent--and passed out of hearing. Mrs. Baxter sighed, and went to a window in her own room, and looked out. William was already more than half-way to the next corner, where there was a car-line that ran to the station; but the distance was not too great for Mrs. Baxter to comprehend the nature of the symmetrical white parcel now carried in his right hand. Her face became pensive as she gazed after the flying slender figure:--there came to her mind the recollection of a seventeen-year-old boy who had brought a box of candy (a small one, like William's) to the station, once, long ago, when she had been visiting in another town. For just a moment she thought of that boy she had known, so many years ago, and a smile came vaguely upon her lips. She wondered what kind of a woman he had married, and how many children he had--and whether he was a widower---- The fleeting recollection passed; she turned from the window and shook her head, puzzled. “Now where on earth could Jane and that little Kirsted girl have gone?” she murmured.