ask your pardon; will you make up, and be friends? I like you, and if
they've got any more of your sort here, I shall like Killamet!"

Morton extended his hand readily enough, and felt it seized in a close,
strong pressure which pleased him, though he could not have told why,
and the young man turned again to his aunt.

"Here we are at--now, what is that name, my lad?"

"Miss Zeba Osterhaus, sir."

"Oh, yes! I believe I could remember it if I could once see it spelled,
however"--

The rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell
above the door, as Morton opened it; and the warning note brought Miss
Zeba herself from an inner room.

Whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died
out at the sight of her. She was small, like a little child, but had the
wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between
her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of Christian's burden, that
painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to
endure, a hump back.

Instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew
almost tender, as he said,--

"We beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this Miss Osterhaus?"