Deborah--for how satisfying my linen would be if she had an eye on the
laundry, and I know she would not have bubble-and-squeak for dinner as
often as Mary does--than Miss Ruth comes into my mind. What taste she
has, and what an ear! No one notices the points in my singing as she
does; and how she did turn that carpet in Gifford's room; dear me!"

He sat clutching his extinguished pipe for many minutes, when suddenly a
gleam came into his face, and the anxious look began to disappear.

He rose, and laid his pipe upon the mantelpiece, first carefully knocking
the ashes into the wood-box which stood beside the stove. Then, standing
with his left foot wrapped about his right ankle and his face full of
suppressed eagerness, he felt in each pocket of his waistcoat, and
produced first a knife, then a tape measure, a pincushion, a bunch of
keys, and last a large, worn copper cent. It was smooth with age, but its
almost obliterated date still showed that it had been struck the year of
Mr. Denner's birth.

Next, he spread his pocket handkerchief smoothly upon the floor, and
then, a little stiffly, knelt upon it. He rubbed the cent upon the cuff
of his coat to make it shine, and held it up a moment in the stream of
wintry sunshine that poured through the office window and lay in a golden
square on the bare floor.

"Heads," said Mr. Denner,--"heads shall be Miss Deborah; tails, Miss
Ruth. Oh, dear me! I wonder which?"

As he said this, he pitched the coin with a tremulous hand, and then
leaned forward, breathlessly watching it fall, waver from side to side,
and roll slowly under the bookcase. Too much excited to rise from his