"The Company is very glad to get as much as we can send it of actual illustration of our labours, so we make it a point to snap these scenes from time to tune. There is one picture, however, which was not taken for the Company. Hackett asked me to hold the lens on him for a shot to send to somebody up North there, so he went inside and freshened up a bit and came out grinning. I grinned back as I took the picture, and said I was glad to see him so cheerful. He replied that the smile was not for me--that though he had apparently looked at me he had really been looking through me at a person about as different from myself as I could well imagine. "It's a poor rule that doesn't work both ways, so I then took my place by the door of our palatial residence, and gazed--apparently--at Hackett's Indian-red visage. I found it entirely possible to forget, as he had done, the chap before me, and see instead--well--look at the picture! And please don't let those lashes drop too soon. When I imagine them they always do!" It was thus that the correspondence went on. Dorothy never replied directly to such paragraphs as these, but she did send him, a few weeks after the arrival of the Colombian photographs, a little snapshot of herself taken in winter costume as she was coming down the steps of her home. It was an exquisite bit of portraiture, even though of small proportions, and it called forth the most daring response he had yet made: "I know you wouldn't want it pinned up in the shack, and it's much too valuable to risk leaving it among my other possessions there. So I carry it about in an old leather letter case in my pocket. I hope you don't mind. I'm a little afraid of wearing it out, so I've constructed a sort of a frame for it, out of a heavy linen envelope, which will bear handling better than the little picture.... You are looking straight out at me--at _me_? I wish I knew it! Won't you tell me--Dorothy? You can trust me--can't you? There are some things which can't be said at long distance; they must wait. I get to feeling like a storage battery sometimes--overcharged! Meanwhile, trust me--Dorothy!" But she would send him only this: "Of course I was looking at you. Why not? It's only courtesy to recognize the salutation of a gentleman disguised in working clothes, standing in the door of a queer-looking South American residence. Besides--he looks rather well, I think!" One April evening Mr. Julius Broughton, sitting comfortably in his room in a certain well-known building at a well-known university, was summoned to telephone. Bringing his feet to the floor with a thump, flinging aside his book and puffing away at his pipe, he lounged unwillingly to the telephone box. The following conversation ensued, causing a sudden and distinct change in the appearance of the young man. "Broughton," he acknowledged the call. "Broughton? This is Waldron--Kirke Waldron." "Who?" "Waldron; up from Colombia, South America. Forgotten me?"