There was a light burning upstairs in the “Herald” office. From the street a broad, tumble-down stairway ran up on the outside of the building to the second floor, and at the stairway railing John turned and shook his companion warmly by the hand. “Good-night, William,” he said. “It was plucky of you to join in that muss, to-night. I shan't forget it.” “I jest happened to come along,” replied the other, drowsily; then, with a portentous yawn, he asked: “Ain't ye goin' to bed?” “No; Parker wouldn't allow it.” “Well,” observed William, with another yawn, which bade fair to expose the veritable soul of him, “I d'know how ye stand it. It's closte on eleven o'clock. Good-night.” John went up the steps, singing aloud: “For to-night we'll merry, merry be, For to-night we'll merry, merry be,” and stopped on the sagging platform at the top of the stairs and gave the moon good-night with a wave of the hand and friendly laughter. At that it suddenly struck him that he was twenty-nine years of age; that he had laughed a great deal that evening; that he had laughed and laughed over things not in the least humorous, like an excited schoolboy making his first formal call; that he had shaken hands with Miss Briscoe when he left her, as if he should never see her again; that he had taken Miss Sherwood's hand twice in one very temporary parting; that he had shaken the judge's hand five times, and William's four! “Idiot!” he cried. “What has happened to me?” Then he shook his fist at the moon and went in to work--he thought. CHAPTER VII. MORNING: “SOME IN RAGS AND SOME IN TAGS AND SOME IN VELVET GOWNS” The bright sun of circus-day shone into Harkless's window, and he awoke to find himself smiling. For a little while he lay content, drowsily wondering why he smiled, only knowing that there was something new. It was thus, as a boy, he had wakened on his birthday mornings, or on Christmas, or on the Fourth of July, drifting happily out of pleasant dreams into the consciousness of long-awaited delights that had come true, yet lying only half-awake in a cheerful borderland, leaving happiness undefined. The morning breeze was fluttering at his window blind; a honeysuckle vine tapped lightly on the pane. Birds were trilling, warbling, whistling. From the street came the rumbling of wagons, merry cries of greeting, and the barking of dogs. What was it made him feel so young and strong and light-hearted? The breeze brought him the smell of June roses, fresh and sweet with dew, and then he knew why he had come smiling from his dreams. He would go a holiday-making. With that he leaped out of bed, and shouted loudly: “Zen! Hello, Xenophon!” In answer, an ancient, very black darky put his head in at the door, his warped and wrinkled visage showing under his grizzled hair like charred paper in a fall of pine ashes. He said: “Good-mawn', suh. Yessuh. Hit's done pump' full. Good-mawn', suh.”