just as warm though, and I forgave that. When he threw aside his silly
little overcoat and stood before me, so tall and strong, so clean-cut
and faultless, from the part in his hair to the shine on his boot-tips,
I cried, "Heigh-ho, my fine gentleman!"

Then he blushed. I suspected that it pleased him vastly.

"Do you think it an improvement?" he faltered, standing with his back
to the fireplace and lifting himself to his full height.

Before I could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a
knock, and old Mrs. Bolum ran in. When she saw him, she stopped and
stared.

"Well, ain't he tasty!" she cried.

[Illustration: Well, ain't he tasty.]

Then she courtesied most formally. "How do you do, Mr. Hope?" she said.

"And how is Mrs. Bolum?" returned Tim gravely, advancing toward her
with his hand outstretched.

The old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually
accorded only to the preacher, and held it out. Tim seized it, but he
brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in
one mighty embrace.

"You'll spoil your Sunday clothes," panted Mrs. Bolum, when she reached
the floor again. Stepping back, she eyed him critically. "You look