“And a romance was spoiled in the first act,” added Cyn, rising from the now vanished feast.
“Poor C!” said Mr. Stanwood, following her example. “Really, Miss Archer, I have enjoyed this dinner better than any I ever had, and the climax is the best of all!”
“I wish we might have such a feast every day!” said Jo, regretfully.
“And, except the damage—I don’t refer to any done myself, I—I am used to it, you know—I quite agree with you about the dinner. And as for the joke—I—I—really it was quite a serious one to Miss Rogers, at the time, I assure you. Bless my soul! You should have seen how—how blue she was for a week, you know!” said Quimby.
Nattie colored as Mr. Stanwood glanced at her, and knowing he could not but notice the blush, thought angrily, “How dreadful it is to have such honest, outspoken people as Quimby about!”
“Come, Nat, and help me clear away the remains,” said Cyn. Apparently glad enough was Nattie to obey, and turn aside her burning face from the sight of those merry brown eyes.
In a very few moments the banqueting hall was transformed to a parlor, with only Quimby sucking an orange on his stool that he refused to leave, Jo cracking nuts, and the Duchess eating a fig, to tell of what had been.
X
The Broken Circuit Reunited
Mr. Stanwood sat down at the table where Nattie was looking over Cyn’s album, and seemed to have become very thoughtful; Cyn meanwhile busied herself in dressing an ugly gash the ever-unfortunate Quimby had managed to inflict on his hand.
Suddenly Nattie was disturbed by Mr. Stanwood drumming with a pencil on the marble top of the table, and glancing up casually, observed his eyes fixed upon her with a peculiar expression, and at the same moment her ear seemed to catch a familiar sound. With a slight start she listened more attentively to his seemingly idle drumming. Yes—whether knowingly, or by accident, he certainly was making dots and dashes, and what is more, was making N’s!
“I will soon ascertain if he means it or not!” thought Nattie, and seizing a pair of scissors, the only adaptable instrument handy, she drummed out, slowly, on account of the imperfectness of her impromptu key—pretending all the while to be entirely absorbed in the album,
“Are you an operator?”
Mr. Stanwood, in his turn, seemingly deeply engaged in the contents of a book, immediately drummed in response,
“Yes.”
Nattie felt the color come into her face.
“Oh, dear!” she thought, “and Cyn told him that ridiculous story! Every operator in town will know it now.” Then with the scissors she asked,
“Why didn’t you say so? Where is your office?”
“I have none now,” the pencil answered, while Cyn, glancing across the room, wondered to see the two so studious, and unsuspiciously asked Quimby if he supposed they were practicing for a drum corps? After a few meaningless dots, the pencil went on,
“A little girl at B m was dreadfully sold one day!”
The album Nattie held fell from her hands as she stared petrified at her vis-à-vis, who kept his eyes on his book with the most innocent expression imaginable, one that even a Chinaman could not have equaled. Where could he have heard those words, once so familiar? A moment’s thought gave her the most probable key.
“You are in the main office of this city, and have heard me talking with C!” she wrote, as fast as the scissors would let her.
“No, to the first of your surmise,” came from the pencil, “and yes to the last.”
“What office were you in?” the scissors asked.
“X n,” responded the pencil.
“What! with C?” asked the scissors, and if ever there was a pair of excited scissors, these were the ones.
“Well—yes,” replied the pencil with provoking slowness. “Don’t you ‘C’ the point? Can’t you ‘C’ that you did not ‘C’ the ‘C’ you thought you did ‘C’ that day?”
Nattie’s breath came fast, and her hand trembled so she could not hold the scissors. With a crash they dropped on the table, making one loud, long dash. But the imperturbable pencil went on calmly,
“It was all a mistake. I am—C!”
Disdaining scissors and pencil, Nattie started up, exclaiming vehemently,
“What do you mean? it can’t be possible!”
The consternation of Cyn, who was just informing Quimby that his wound would do very well now, the horror of the patient, and the surprise of Jo Norton at this emphatic and unaccountable outburst from the hitherto so silent Nattie was indescribable.
“Good gracious, Nat! what in the world is the matter?” cried Cyn, starting up and bringing the bottle of liniment she held in violent contact with Quimby’s head, a circumstance that even the victim did not notice, so absorbed was he in amazement.
At Nattie’s exclamation, Mr. Stanwood threw aside his book, pencil, and innocent countenance together, and regardless of anyone but her, sprang to his feet, advanced with both hands extended, and shining eyes, saying,
“I mean just what I said, it is possible!”
Hardly knowing what she did, utterly confused and bewildered, Nattie placed her hand in the two that clasped it, while Cyn stared with distended eyes, Quimby with wide-open mouth, and Jo gave a long whistle. Cyn was first to recover, and began to scold.
“Well,” she exclaimed, “this is a pretty piece of business, never yet played on any stage, I should think! Nat, will you, or will somebody have the goodness to explain this sudden and extraordinary scene?”
“I—I don’t understand!” Nattie murmured faintly, and looking half-frightened, and half-beseechingly at Mr. Stanwood, who in response smiled and said, with a firmer clasp of the hand he still held,
“I will explain in a very few moments how it is possible that I am the real C!”
“What!” screamed Cyn.
“What!” shouted Jo.
“What!!” absolutely yelled Quimby.
“There has been a mistake!” Mr. Stanwood said, now looking at Cyn.
“A mistake!” she repeated excitedly, “what do you mean? You C, our C, of the wire? Nonsense! You are joking!”
“Yes, he is joking!” Quimby reiterated, but his teeth chattered as
