"Certainly, sir," he said. "This sort of a message always goes rush. Wish you luck, sir." The operator has not yet completely gathered the reason for the reproving stare Jimmy gave him. In part it has been explained to him. But, as Jimmy has said since, the man deserved censure for drawing an erroneous conclusion from another's mistake. It was then noon, so Jimmy and Mary, at Mary's suggestion, got an appetite by making another tour of the shops. In the meantime a snail-paced messenger boy was climbing the Putnam steps with the telegram in his hand. III Lucy took the telegram from the boy and told him to wait until she saw if there should be an answer. She tore off the envelope, unfolded the yellow slip of paper, read the message, gasped, blushed and turned and left the patient boy on the steps. Into the house she rushed, calling to her mother. She thrust the telegram into her hands, exclaiming: "Read that! Isn't it what we might have expected?" "Mercy! What is it? Who's dead?" "Nobody! It's better than that," was Lucy's astonishing reply. Mrs. Putnam read the telegram, and then beamingly drew her daughter to her and kissed her. The two then wrote a message, after much counting of words, to be sent to Jimmy. It read: "Of course. Mama will come with me. Telephone to papa." When this reached Jimmy he was nonplused. He rubbed his forehead, studied the message, reread it, and then handed it to Mary with the suggestion: "Maybe you can make it out. I can't." Mary knitted her brows and studied the message in turn. At length she handed it back. "It is simple," she decided. "She is a nice, sweet girl, and she wants me to meet her mama and papa. Or maybe she wants us to be chaperoned." So Jimmy and Mary waited in the hotel parlor until Lucy should arrive. Reminded by Mary, Jimmy went to the 'phone and told Mr. Putnam that Lucy was coming to lunch with him. "Well, that's all right, isn't it, Jimmy?" Mr. Putnam asked. "Yes. But she told me to telephone you." "Why?" "I don't know. But won't you join us?" "Is that other matter arranged, Jimmy?" "N-no. Not yet." "I told you I didn't want to see you until it was. As soon as you wake up, let me know. Good-by." Jimmy, red, returned to the parlor, and there was confronted by a vision of white, with shining eyes and pink cheeks, who rushed up to him and kissed him and called him a dear old thing and said he was the cleverest, most unconventional man that ever was. Limp, astounded, but delighted, James Trottingham Minton drew back a pace from Lucy Putnam, who, in her dainty white dress and her white hat and filmy white veil, was a delectable sight. "I want you to meet Cousin Mary," he said. "Is she to attend?" "Of course," he answered. They walked toward the end of the long parlor where Mary was sitting, but half way down the room they were stopped by Mrs. Putnam. She put both hands on Jimmy's shoulders, gave him a motherly kiss on one cheek, and sighed: