father had to say.

In the meantime, Mr. Flanders had remained doggedly constant. He had
surrendered, as a man will, to reason, and had set about to find the
girl of his choice, determined to make his peace with her. But nowhere
was she to be found. He laid aside the unfinished play. What was the
sense of writing a play if there was no one to play the principal
part? He was disconsolate. He cursed himself for the stupid thing he
had done. He had wrecked his life, that's what he had done--poor fool!

And then came the unexpected meeting in the home of Thomas Singleton
Bingle, and the detached scene in the shelter of the window-nook.

Mr. Bingle experienced a second shock just before Flanders darted out
of the house to jump into the waiting automobile which was to take him
to the station for the 10:17 train.

"Well, good night, Mr. Bingle," cried the tall young reporter,
sticking his head through the library door in response to the host's
invitation to "come in." "Thank you for the greatest evening of my
life. It's just like a fairy story. Oh, yes, before I forget it: I
want to tell you how much I enjoyed 'The Chimes.' I never knew that
Dickens could write anything so--"

"'The Chimes'?" cried Mr. Bingle, abruptly leaving the little group at
the fireplace and bearing down upon the unconscious offender. "What do
you mean? It wasn't 'The Chimes' that I--"

"Certainly not," exclaimed Mr. Flanders, glibly. "Of course, it
wasn't. I never think of 'The Christmas Carol' without first thinking