laughing. The man wore eye-glasses and looked like a drummer, and he walked up to the show-case where Miss Weed was gathering up the books, and smiled down at her, in such a pleased way.
"Is your papa in, dear?" he asked.
Miss Weed sort of gasped and looked up at him, and then a funny little shine came into her eyes. "No, sir," she said, kind of shyly.
"And are you waiting on customers all by yourself?" he asked in over-affected astonishment.
"Yes, sir," said Miss Weed.
"My, my!—and how old are you?"
"Twenty-seven, sir," said Miss Weed, in her natural voice.
The man's mouth positively fell open. "I—I beg your pardon, Miss,—I certainly do—I had no idea—" and just then Dad hove in sight, and we grabbed our hats and made for the open air.
After dinner things went along quite smoothly; only they did get one joke on me. Dad was upstairs taking an order for some picture frames, when a tall German came in and asked for him. I said that he would be down in a few minutes, and so the man decided to wait, and began strolling
