declared. "To tell the truth, I rather enjoyed it when I got started. I'll have the fun of shocking people even if I lose in the end. I did n't have much show as things were going; I might as well run to the finish."

"That 's right," agreed Captain Amos, heartily. "Give the plan a fair trial. I'll help you all I can, though I'm trustin' more to women's contrariness now than to my own judgment. I guess it 's safer in the long run."

FOR a week Billy lived in the unreal world of his imagination, and he took no pains to keep it to himself. It seemed to him that he walked the streets of his native town in an atmosphere heavily charged with suspicion and disapproval. On Friday he met Mr. Paddleford, the pastor of the Second Church, and instead of the cordial hand-clasp and the pleasant word with which he had grown familiar,

he received only a preoccupied nod and a sad "Good afternoon" in greeting.

He was to learn, too, that when a man begins to go down-hill, Fate stands ready to assist. A sailor whom he had often befriended, then lying ill at Black Jim's low resort on Meadow Street, having called him in to see him on Saturday afternoon, Billy was leaving the saloon at dusk just as Deacon Armstrong was passing. The deacon sadly confided the fact to his friends. He added that he would not have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. Naturally, he was now quite prepared to believe the things that his eyes had not seen.

A day or two later Captain Amos met Billy on the Shore Road.

"See here, boy," he said, "ain't you gittin' deeper in the mire 'n you was in the muck? Now, when I thought up that little piece of play-actin', I did n't suppose you was goin' to carry it on to King

dom Come. Seems to me you 're ruther overdoin' it."

"You said keep it up-not back down," Billy replied, with an obstinate look.

"Yes, I guess that 's so," Captain Amos acknowledged. "That 's so; but if you want to mistrust my judgment, don't mind sayin' so. I ain't so blame' sure of it myself." Then suddenly he burst forth irritably: "Consarn women-folks, anyway! They ain't reliable, Billy. They certainly ain't. Now, why don't you come up to the house to-night an' make a clean breast of the whole business? Lydia can see the p'int of a joke quick 's any one; an' I 'll shoulder the blame."

"No, sir," replied Billy, obstinately. "If she takes me now, she 's got to take me just as I am."

"You mean just as you ain't, don't you?" corrected Captain Amos.

"Yes," agreed Billy-"what she thinks I am. Lord knows what that is. Well, I'm going to Mr. Paddleford's donation to-morrow night, and I 'll try again. I've learned something since that first trial." "What you goin' to do?" asked Captain Amos, in alarm.

Billy laughed.

"Oh, I'll just wait around for a chance for an opening," he said, "and give the plan another trial."

ON the night of the donation Billy passed the brilliantly lighted parsonage several times before summoning sufficient courage to enter; but when at last, through sheer shame, he went up the path, and, opening

the door without knocking, after the casually cheerful custom of that festival dedicated to the gods of hospitality, stepped into the hall, it was only to rail at his folly for coming. Though he could detect no flaw in the greetings of Mr. Paddleford and his wife, he was sensitively alive even to the supposed lifting of an eyebrow it seemed to him that Mr. Paddleford showed that slight measure of surprise. Its effect was to make him obstinately shy.

For a moment he paused to glance into the sitting-room, now temporarily used for supper. About the long tables the older guests were sitting, and as Billy

caught sight of Captain Amos, he stepped back, dreading a too public greeting. As he turned, he caught a momentary glimpse of the parlor, filled apparently with those of his own age. He passed up the stairs to one of the dressing-rooms, in and out of which, and through the hall, girls and boys, in couples, tramped steadily, singing the old game:

"It rains and hails, it 's cold, stormy weather;

In comes the farmer, drinking cider. Who 'll go reaper, who 'll go binder? I've lost my true love, and I can't find her."

As he returned to the hall, crowding past the players, and approached the stairs, up and down which younger children raced, a sudden feeling of diffidence came to him at the thought of the possibility of meeting Lydia in the parlor, with inquisitive eyes looking on. The door of the minister's study in the "extension" stood open, and the empty room looked inviting. Glad for a momentary retreat, he passed in, and idly began to scan the backs of the books that lined the walls just as Deacon Armstrong's wife came up the stairs. Being a careful woman, with a keen sense of responsibility, the thought

to her that the children racing through the halls might enter the study and disturb the minister's papers and books. She softly closed the door, and, turning the key, passed on.

At the sound of the closing door, Billy turned and caught sight of Lydia on the far side of the room, lifting her eyes from a book.

"Oh, good evening," he said. "I did n't see you."

"Good evening," she replied. "I don't see why you shut the door," she added coldly. "I wish you 'd open it."

"Why, I did n't do it," he replied. "It was the children, I suppose."

He stepped to the door, and, seizing the knob, turned it angrily, but of course without effect.

"It is locked!" he exclaimed.

"Well, then ask them to unlock it," she commanded, and dropped her eyes to her book, turning her back upon him.

It was only after much calling and sharp knocking that he heard children's voices outside.

"Say," he called, "do you hear me? Unlock the door, somebody."

Hands fumbled at the key, but there was no responsive click of the lock, and he thumped again angrily. Perspiration gathered on his brow as he heard Lydia sharply close her book.

"Come, hurry!" he called sharply. From the outside drifted a child's plaintive voice:

"It won't turn. It just wiggles."

"Turn harder," he encouraged.

Apparently a new hand was at the key, for it rattled vigorously, and the door was thumped, evidently with the laudable intention of loosening something; but nothing happened, and the efforts ceased. A boy called:

"It won't unlock."

Billy imagined he detected a note of exultant pleasure in the voice, and the blood rushed to his face. In desperation he knocked for attention.

"Tell Mr. Paddleford to come up and unlock the door," he called slowly and distinctly. "It 's his door." This explanation was made to Lydia.

His order was generously obeyed, for he heard the whole troop of children rush to the stair-rail and unitedly scream Mr. Paddleford's name.

"Oh, how ridiculous!" exclaimed Lydia. "They 'll have everybody up!" With a muttered word, Billy pounded on the door.

"See here," he snapped, "one of you go down and whisper to Mr. Paddleford to come up. You don't need to raise-the dead."

But Mr. Paddleford was already flying up the stairs, with half the company at his heels. The general impression was that some one had knocked over a lamp and the house was afire. Billy heard the agitated voice of the minister crying as he approached:

"Where is it? Where is it?" The next instant he had caught the knob, and was shouting: "Open the door! Open it instantly!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Billy. He put his head close to the door and called with forced calmness: "The key is on-the outside. Somebody locked it. Please turn it, will you?"

"Who are you?" demanded Mr. Paddleford. He had now become impressed with the notion that thieves were in the

room.

"Mr. Lunt," called Billy.

There was relief in the minister's audible "Oh," and Billy's spirits rose.

"I strolled in here to look at the books,"