A RESCUE
The drizzle and mist blew in under the top of the
cut-under as they drove rapidly into town, and bright
little drops sparkled on the fair hair above the new
editor’s forehead and on the long lashes above
the new editor’s cheeks.
She shook these transient gems off lightly, as she
paused in the doorway of the office at the top of
the rickety stairway. Mr. Schofield had just
added the last touch to his decorations and managed
to slide into his coat as the party came up the stairs,
and now, perspiring, proud, embarrassed, he assumed
an attitude at once deprecatory of his endeavors and
pointedly expectant of commendation for the results.
(He was a modest youth and a conscious; after his
first sight of her, as she stood in the doorway, it
was several days before he could lift his distressed
eyes under her glance, or, indeed, dare to avail himself
of more than a hasty and fluttering stare at her when
her back was turned.) As she entered the room, he
sidled along the wall and laughed sheepishly at nothing.
Every chair in the room was ornamented with one of
his blue rosettes, tied carefully (and firmly) to
the middle slat of each chair-back. There had
been several yards of ribbon left over, and there was
a hard knot of glossy satin on each of the ink-stands
and on the door-knobs; a blue band, passing around
the stovepipe, imparted an antique rakishness suggestive
of the charioteer; and a number of streamers, suspended
from a hook in the ceiling, encouraged a supposition
that the employees of the “Herald” contemplated
the intricate festivities of May Day. It needed
no genius to infer that these garnitures had not embellished
the editorial chamber during Mr. Harkless’s
activity, but, on the contrary, had been put in place
that very morning. Mr. Fisbee had not known of
the decorations, and, as his glance fell upon them,
a faint look of pain passed over his brow; but the
girl examined the room with a dancing eye, and there
were both tears and laughter in her heart.
“How beautiful!” she cried. “How
beautiful!” She crossed the room and gave her
hand to Ross. “It is Mr. Schofield, isn’t
it? The ribbons are delightful. I didn’t
know Mr. Harkless’s room was so pretty.”
Ross looked out of the window and laughed as he took
her hand (which he shook with a long up and down motion),
but he was set at better ease by her apparent unrecognition
of the fact that the decorations were for her.
“Oh, it ain’t much, I reckon,” he
replied, and continued to look out of the window and
laugh.
She went to the desk and removed her gloves and laid
her rain-coat over a chair near by. “Is
this Mr. Harkless’s chair?” she asked,
and, Fisbee answering that it was, she looked gravely
at it for a moment, passed her hand gently over the
back of it, and then, throwing the rain-cloak over
another chair, said cheerily:
