“Then I suppose a cigar is permitted,” replied Ranald, ordering the steward to bring his best. In a few minutes he called for his mail, and excusing himself, slipped into one of the private rooms. The manager of the Raymond & St. Clair Company and prominent clubman, much sought after in social circles, he was bound to find letters of importance awaiting him, but hastily shuffling the bundle, he selected three, and put the rest in his pocket. “So she's back,” he said to himself, lifting up one in a square envelope, addressed in large, angular writing. He turned it over in his hand, feasting his eyes upon it, as a boy holds a peach, prolonging the blissful anticipation. Then he opened it slowly and read: MY DEAR RANALD: All the way home I was hoping that on my return, fresh from the “stately homes of England,” and from association with lords and dukes and things, you would be here to receive your share of the luster and aroma my presence would shed (that's a little mixed, I fear); but with a most horrible indifference to your privileges you are away at the earth's end, no one knows where. Father said you were to be home to-day, so though you don't in the least deserve it, I am writing you a note of forgiveness; and will you be sure to come to my special party to-morrow night? I put it off till to-morrow solely on your account, and in spite of Aunt Frank, and let me tell you that though I have seen such heaps of nice men, and all properly dear and devoted, still I want to see you, so you must come. Everything else will keep. Yours, MAIMIE. Over and over again he read the letter, till the fire in his eyes began to gleam and his face became radiant with a tender glow. “'Yours, Maimie,' eh? I wonder now what she means,” he mused. “Seven years and for my life I don't know yet, but to-morrow night--yes, to-morrow night, I will know!” He placed the letter in its envelope and put it carefully in his inside pocket. “Now for Kate, dear old girl, no better anywhere.” He opened his letter and read: