“How did he get away?” asked Dosia. She longed pitifully to take the boy’s little hand and kiss it, and hold it against her cheek, although the hurt had been over so long ago. “Oh, he lit out when he was about thirteen. He didn’t tell me the whole of it. He sold papers in New York, and went to night-school; and next he went to college and rowed in the crew. He met up with some of his own people, too. Then he was war correspondent in Cuba—I guess some of the wounded know what he did for them. Later he went to South America on some government business; he’s a personal friend of the President. He’s young, too, not more’n twenty-eight. He’s bound to get ahead at whatever he sets himself to. But he’s got an awful tender heart; I saw him nearly kill a big Swede once that was wallopin’ a sick horse. What you laughin’ at, Miss Dosia? I reckon we’re all of us made two ways. Shucks! it isn’t _that_ time, is it?” He turned with startled amaze to look behind him at the clock that was striking. “I’m afraid it is,” affirmed Lois. “Then I’ve got to make tracks to catch that eleven-fifteen. ’Tisn’t manners to eat and run, I know, but—” He had risen and was swiftly putting on his coat in the hall. “Thank you, Miss Dosia, I guess I can get into this best by myself; I know where to humor the sleeve-linin’. Is that my hat? Mrs. Alexander, I think a mighty lot of your hospitality; I do _so_. I—” He was loping down the path already, his long legs making preternatural shadows on the snow in the moonlight. Dosia called after him mischievously, “You’d better wait until the twelve-three,” before she shut the door. The momentary rush of cold air was as invigorating, as wholesome and clear in the atmosphere of the lamp-lit, evening-heated room, as Mr. Cater’s presence had been. She went to her room, leaving Lois down-stairs clearing away the remains of the little supper, her offer of assistance having been refused. Lois wished to be there alone when her husband came in, experience having taught her that he was much more apt to be communicative at that time than at any other. Fresh from a social experience, and feeling still the interest of it, he would like to talk of it; by morning it would have relapsed so deeply into his inner consciousness that it would take a sort of conversational derrick on the part of his wife to bring up any reminiscence whatever. He came in now, fresh, eager, and alert, pleased and surprised to find traces of a convivial evening, when he had expected to be late. “Mr. Cater has been here,” announced Lois, in explanation. “Cater! I’m sorry to have missed him.” “He was very sorry you were not at home. He did not go until eleven, and I was sure you would be in before that.” “Well, I meant to be.”