"See that tree there? It's a oak. Look; from a little acorn like this it grew. See, this is a acorn, and in the start that tree wasn't no bigger than this little thing." "Quit your kiddin'!" But she smiled and her lips were parted sweetly; and always unformed tears would gloze her eyes. "Here, sit here, little lady. Wait till I spread this newspaper out. Gee! Don't I wish you didn't have to go back to the city by two o'clock, little lady! We could make a great day of it here, out in the country; lunch at a farm and see the sun set and all. Some day of it we could make if--" "I--I don't have to go back, Eddie." His face expanded into his widest smile. "Gee, that's great! That's just great!" Silence. "What you thinking of, little lady, sitting there so pretty and all?" "N-nothing." "Nothing? Aw, surely something!" A tear formed and zigzagged down her cheek. "Nothing, honest; only I--I feel right happy." "That's just how you oughtta feel, little lady." "In three months, if--aw, ain't I the nut?" "It'll be a big Christmas, won't it, little missy, for both of us? A big Christmas for both of us; you as sound and round as a peach again, and me shooting up like a skyrocket on the pay roll." A laugh bubbled to her lips before the tear was dry. "In three months I won't be a T.B., not even a little bit." "Sh-h-h! On the farm we wasn't allowed to say even that. We wasn't supposed to even know what them letters mean." "Don't you know what they mean, Eddie?" "Sure I do!" He leaned toward her and placed his hand lightly over hers. "T.B.--True Blue--that's what they mean, little lady." She could feel the veins in his palm throbbing. MR. EBERDEEN'S HOUSE[9] By ARTHUR JOHNSON From _The Century_ [9] Copyright, 1915, by The Century Company. Copyright, 1916, by Arthur Johnson. It loomed there, high and large, uncompromised by the gloom of mist about it, unruffled by the easterly gusts that bent the two rows of larches which stretched in deliberate diagonal lines from the street to the corners of its grim façade. Hastings could hear the beating of the sea; it was probably in that chaos of space behind the house. As he stood leaning against one of the tall gate-posts and surveying the scene, he began to feel, almost in spite of himself, in sympathy with it. A motor drew up near where he stood. Instinctively his attention was directed from it to the green Georgian portal, which at the moment was drawn in to permit somebody to pass out. She was in glaring contrast to her setting; she was fresh and lovely, young and fashionable-looking. She paused on the wide stone step, glanced up at the sky, opened her umbrella, and briskly proceeded down the avenue to the gate. Within a few yards of it she raised her eyes from the puddled gravel and started back at sight of him. "Jack!" she cried out. "How did you get here? Why didn't you tell me? I am this minute on my way to meet you."