“It is only--only----” Miss Sherwood choked, then cast a swift glance at the profile of the melancholy young man. The perfectly dismal decorum of this gentleman seemed to inspire her to maintain her own gravity. “It is only that it seemed such a pity about that fly,” she explained. From where they sat the journalistic silhouette was plainly visible, and both Fisbee and Miss Sherwood looked toward it often, the former with the wistful, apologetic fidelity one sees in the eyes of an old setter watching his master. When the lecture was over many of the audience pressed forward to shake the Hon. Mr. Halloway's hand. Tom Martin hooked his arm in that of the sallow gentleman and passed out with him. “Mighty humanizin' view Kedge took of that there insect,” remarked Mr. Martin. “I don't recollect I ever heard of no mournfuller error than that'n. I noticed you spoke of Halloway as a 'thinker,' without mentioning what kind. I didn't know, before, that you were as cautious a man as that.” “Does your satire find nothing sacred, Martin?” returned the other, “not even the Honorable Kedge Halloway?” “I wouldn't presume,” replied old Tom, “to make light of the catastrophe that overtook the heedless fly. When Halloway went on to other subjects I was so busy picturin' the last moments of that closin' life, stuck there in the fly-paper, I couldn't listen to him. But there's no use dwellin' on a sorrow we can't help. Look at the moon; it's full enough to cheer us up.” They had emerged from the court-house and paused on the street as the stream of townsfolk divided and passed by them to take different routes leading from the Square. Not far away, some people were getting into a buckboard. Fisbee and Miss Sherwood were already on the rear seat. “Who's with him, to-night, Mr. Fisbee?” asked Judge Briscoe in a low voice. “No one. He is going directly to the office. To-morrow is Thursday, one of our days of publication.” “Oh, then it's all right. Climb in, Minnie, we're waiting for you.” The judge offered his hand to his daughter. “In a moment, father,” she answered. “I'm going to ask him to call,” she said to the other girl. “But won't he--” Miss Briscoe laughed. “He never comes to see me!” She walked over to where Martin and the young man were looking up at the moon, and addressed the journalist. “I've been trying to get a chance to speak to you for a week,” she said, offering him her hand; “I wanted to tell you I had a friend coming to visit me Won't you come to see us? She's here.” The young man bowed. “Thank you,” he answered. “Thank you, very much. I shall be very glad.” His tone had the meaningless quality of perfunctory courtesy; Miss Briscoe detected only the courtesy; but the strange lady marked the lack of intention in his words.