“The boss writes,” he announced, “ordering me to come up to-day, and directing that before I leave New York I am to do forty-seven things, ranging in importance from buying her the last novels to matching some white”—he looked at his letter, and spelled out—“‘f-l-o-s-s’ as per sample inclosed. I haven’t time to do more than forty-five, and I’m afraid I’ll never hear the last of the remaining two unless you’ll save me.” “How?” “Well, three times in her letter she tells me that I’ve got to bring you, the last time as good as saying that my life won’t be an insurable risk if I don’t. Since she puts so much stress on your presence, it’s just possible that if I fill that order she’ll forget the rest.” “I would go, Mr. Blodgett, but”— “Oh, I understand all that,” he interrupted. “Of course, if you stay in the cool fresh air of the city, you won’t run any risk of the malaria the Berkshires are full of; I know the New York markets have peas as large and firm as bullets, while those in our garden are poor little shriveled affairs hardly worth the trouble of eating; our roads are not Belgian blocks, but only soft dirt, and we haven’t got a decent flagged sidewalk within ten miles of My Fancy. I understand perfectly that you’ll get well faster here, and so get to work sooner; but all the same, just as a favor, you might pull me out of this scrape.” I need not say I had to yield, and together we took the afternoon express. On the train we found Mr. Whitely,—as great a surprise, apparently, to Mr. Blodgett as it was to me. “Hello!” exclaimed the banker. “Where are you bound for?” “I presume for the same destination you are,” Mr. Whitely replied. “I am going up to see Miss Walton, and if Mrs. Blodgett cannot give me a night’s hospitality, I shall go to the hotel.” “Plenty of room at My Fancy, and I’ll guarantee your welcome,” promised Mr. Blodgett pleasantly. “Here’s the doctor going up for a bit of nursing.” Much to my surprise, my former employer entered the compartment, and, offering me his hand, sat down by the lounge I was stretched upon. “You’ve had a serious illness,” he remarked, with a bland attempt at sympathy. I only nodded my head. “I hope you will recover quickly, for you are needed in the office,” he went on. I could not have been more surprised if he had struck me, though I did not let it appear in my face. “Whitely’s been trying to go it alone on his editorials, and the papers have all been laughing at him,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett. “Just read us your famous one, Whitely,—that one about The Tendency of Modern Art, with the original Hebrew from Solomon you put in.” I saw my employer redden, and in pity for his embarrassment I said, “I do not think I shall ever come back to the office, Mr. Whitely.” “Why not?” he exclaimed. “You committed an unwise action, but business is business, and I see no cause why we need let a single mistake terminate a relation mutually profitable.”