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Eunice," said Bones, "—but don't start after her! Because it'll be over my dead body. She told me to keep you away till she was through. Said she was going to see to it that you wouldn't be let in if you did go."

"I wasn't. I've already been there."

"No foolin'!"

"Yup. Just now. Eunice—she—oh, Lord—" His face crinkled, and he laughed at last, helplessly, convulsively, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Bones, honest—you should see Eunice—mad—with the paint job off—she looks—she looks like hell——"

His hilarity passed in time. It had never been hilarity, really; just a tremendous release, a healing, in hilarity's guise. Jock sat quiet. Bye and bye he swung himself erect and walked over to a smoking stand in a corner, where he stood fumbling with pipe and tobacco. "Poor old Brad," he murmured.

But even as Bones opened his mouth to protest this indication of a contrite mood, Jock turned around again, shining-eyed. "Boy, haven't I got some mother?" he said simply.

He had firmly believed that within a day or two after he left college, or within a week at most, he would be numbered among the workers of the world. He had pictured himself going to New York early every morning, one of the army of alert, business-looking young men who spilled over daily from Jersey, and returning with them every evening, full of the fever of Commerce. In the interim, of course, the