dressmaker cocked their heads interestedly. Mrs. Blaisdell rose to her
feet and advanced toward the steps to meet the man coming up the walk.

He was a tall, rather slender man, with a close-cropped, sandy beard,
and an air of diffidence and apology. As he took off his hat and came
nearer, it was seen that his eyes were blue and friendly, and that his
hair was reddish-brown, and rather scanty on top of his head.

"I am looking for Mr. Blaisdell--Mr. James Blaisdell," he murmured
hesitatingly.

Something in the stranger's deferential manner sent a warm glow of
importance to the woman's heart. Mrs. Blaisdell was suddenly reminded
that she was Mrs. James D. Blaisdell of the West Side.

"I am Mrs. Blaisdell," she replied a bit pompously. "What can we do
for you, my good man?" She swelled again, half unconsciously. She had
never called a person "my good man" before. She rather liked the
experience.

The man on the steps coughed slightly behind his hand--a sudden
spasmodic little cough. Then very gravely he reached into his pocket
and produced a letter.

"From Mr. Robert Chalmers--a note to your husband," he bowed,
presenting the letter.

A look of gratified surprise came into the woman's face.

"Mr. Robert Chalmers, of the First National? Jim!" She turned to her