“Sure,” said the clerk.  “Hang it on that hook inside the p’scription-counter.  There’s one there already, b’longs to your friend, that young Bullitt fella.  He was in here awhile ago and said he wanted to leave his because he didn’t have time to take it to be pressed in time for next winter.  Then he went on and joined that crowd in Mr. Parcher’s yard, around the corner, that’s goin’ on a trolley-party.  I says, ‘I betcher mother maje carry it,’ and he says, ‘Oh no.  Oh no,’ he says.  ‘Honest, I was goin’ to get it pressed!’ You can hang yours on the same nail.”

The clerk spoke no more, and went to serve another customer, while William stared after him a little uneasily.  It seemed that here was a man of suspicious nature, though, of course, Joe Bullitt’s shallow talk about getting an overcoat pressed before winter would not have imposed upon anybody.  However, William felt strongly that the private life of the customers of a store should not be pried into and speculated about by employees, and he was conscious of a distaste for this clerk.

Nevertheless, it was with a lighter heart that he left his overcoat behind him and stepped out of the side door of the drug-store.  That brought him within sight of the gaily dressed young people, about thirty in number, gathered upon the small lawn beside Mr. Parcher’s house.

Miss Pratt stood among them, in heliotrope and white, Flopit nestling in her arms.  She was encircled by girls who were enthusiastically caressing the bored and blinking Flopit; and when William beheld this charming group, his breath became eccentric, his knee-caps became cold and convulsive, his neck became hot, and he broke into a light perspiration.

She saw him!  The small blonde head and the delirious little fluffy hat above it shimmered a nod to him.  Then his mouth fell unconsciously open, and his eyes grew glassy with the intensity of meaning he put into the silent response he sent across the picket fence and through the interstices of the intervening group.  Pressing with his elbow upon the package of cigarettes in his pocket, he murmured, inaudibly, “My Little Sweetheart, always for you!”—­a repetition of his vow that, come what might, he would forever remain a loyal smoker of that symbolic brand.  In fact, William’s mental condition had never shown one moment’s turn for the better since the fateful day of the distracting visitor’s arrival.

Mr. Johnnie Watson and Mr. Joe Bullitt met him at the gate and offered him hearty greeting.  All bickering and dissension among these three had passed.  The lady was so wondrous impartial that, as time went on, the sufferers had come to be drawn together, rather than thrust asunder, by their common feeling.  It had grown to be a bond uniting them; they were not so much rivals as ardent novices serving a single altar, each worshiping there without visible gain over the other.  Each had even come to possess, in the eyes of his two fellows, almost a sacredness as a sharer in the celestial glamor; they were tender one with another.  They were in the last stages.