And he did stumble through some such gallant speech, but all the while he was thinking: “So I have got to take this! This frivolous old lady with a spot of red paint on either cheek and a pair of penciled eye-brows.” Why had he not mentioned rouge in his letter? Mrs. Young still looked at him, still held his hand, remembering of old the value of long looks and of silence. Of a truth many and many a man had she captivated in this way in the days of long ago and once again in her mind’s eye she could see suitor after suitor at her feet. She had refused them all, after the first one had given her his name and then gone into the unknown world. Even after coming into the Old Ladies’ Home, she had refused offers of marriage, and yet, now of a sudden, she wished to share the good fortune and the ill fortune of Samuel Jessup. She laid her free hand on his shoulder and murmured a line from her favorite Browning—Browning who was a mere name and scarcely that to Samuel: “Grow old along with me, The best is yet to be.” Samuel was embarrassed. He pushed his wig back from his brow and, going opposite to the natural, sidewise slant of his head, it gave him a rakish expression, delightful to Mrs. Young’s eye. Then all of a kindle with the light of an eager hope went Samuel’s own brown orbs. “Yes, yes,” he said glibly, “but the best ain’t _ter be_. It’s here, right now, in the dinin’-room. Come along with me.” He was so mixed as to his own desires and emotions that he half hoped, half feared that she would stand the test, but when she saw the basket and its contents, first horror crossed her face, then the shadow of a deep disappointment fell among the wrinkles and the rouge and the penciled eye-brows. Sadly she faced Samuel Jessup as if certain of his answer before her questioning: “And you insist on a-keeping it?” “It’s mine. It belongs ter me. I had it jest half a day, but now all the women in the country couldn’t make me give it up. I don’t want ter be imperlite,” added Samuel in a milder tone, “but them’s the facts. Me an’ the basket, or ‘Good-bye, Samuel.’” She interpreted him literally. Holding out her fragile, jeweled hand, she clasped his warmly, yet with honest sadness and compassion: “Good-bye, Samuel. If it hadn’t been for the basket—.” She paused, slowly withdrawing her hand, and then went on again: “You’re makin’ an awful mistake. Who’d a thought it of a man o’ your age! I shall never forget you. Good-bye, Samuel.” With one swift, half hungering, half frightened glance at the basket, she slipped out of the room. Samuel did not laugh and his eyes did not twinkle as he went up to the matron’s desk. “Miss Jessica, they’ve all practically refused me. What shall I do?” He had a vision of an endless quest of an eligible, willing old lady from an old folks’ home. Miss Jessica thought a long while, biting the end of her pencil, and at last she said slowly, half reluctantly: