Mrs. Bowman sighed. “I thought, after all these years, that he must be dead,” she said, slowly, “or else married. But he says in his letter that he has kept single for my sake all these years.” “Well, he’ll be able to go on doing it,” said Mr. Clark; “it’ll come easy to him after so much practice.” “He—he says in his letter that he is coming to see me,” said the widow, in a low voice, “to—to—this evening.” “Coming to see you?” repeated Mr. Clark, sharply. “What for?” “To talk over old times, he says,” was the reply. “I expect he has altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow—and so dashing. After I gave him up he didn’t care what he did. The last I heard of him he had gone abroad.” Mr. Clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical fashion, began to build little castles with the draughts. He was just about to add to an already swaying structure when a thundering rat-tat-tat at the door dispersed the draughts to the four corners of the room. The servant opened the door, and the next moment ushered in Mrs. Bowman’s visitor. A tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of mignonette in his button-hole, met the critical gaze of Mr. Clark. He paused at the door and, striking an attitude, pronounced in tones of great amazement the Christian name of the lady of the house. “Mr. Tucker!” said the widow, blushing. “The same girl,” said the visitor, looking round wildly, “the same as the day she left me. Not a bit changed; not a hair different.” He took her extended hand and, bending over it, kissed it respectfully. “It’s—it’s very strange to see you again, Mr. Tucker,” said Mrs. Bowman, withdrawing her hand in some confusion. “Mr. Tucker!” said that gentleman, reproachfully; “it used to be Charlie.” Mrs. Bowman blushed again, and, with a side glance at the frowning Mr. Clark, called her visitor’s attention to him and introduced them. The gentlemen shook hands stiffly. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” said Mr. Tucker, with a patronizing air. “How are you, sir?” Mr. Clark replied that he was well, and, after some hesitation, said that he hoped he was the same. Mr. Tucker took a chair and, leaning back, stroked his huge mustache and devoured the widow with his eyes. “Fancy seeing you again!” said the latter, in some embarrassment. “How did you find me out?” “It’s a long story,” replied the visitor, “but I always had the idea that we should meet again. Your photograph has been with me all over the world. In the backwoods of Canada, in the bush of Australia, it has been my one comfort and guiding star. If ever I was tempted to do wrong, I used to take your photograph out and look at it.” “I s’pose you took it out pretty often?” said Mr. Clark, restlessly. “To look at, I mean,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Bowman gave him an indignant glance.