presence of either may bring about an explosion when it is least expected."
"Well, well," was the good-natured response; "we have not exploded yet; and we have done away with Lowrie's pipe."
Derrick carried the history of his ill success to Anice, somewhat dejectedly.
"All this is discouraging to a man," said Derrick, and then he added meditatively, "As to the rest, I wonder what Joan Lowrie will think of it."
A faint sense of discomfort fell upon Anice—not exactly easy to understand. The color fluttered to her cheek and her smile died away. But she did not speak,—merely waited to hear what Derrick had to say.
He had nothing more to say about Joan Lowrie:—when he recovered himself, as he did almost immediately, he went back to the discussion of his pet plans, and was very eloquent on the subject.
Going home one evening, Derrick found himself at a turn of the road only a few paces behind Joan. He had thought much of her of late, and wondered whether she was able to take an utterly unselfish view of his action. She had a basket upon her arm and looked tired. He strode up to her side and spoke to her without ceremony.
"Let me carry that," he said. "It is too heavy for you."
The sun was setting redly, so perhaps it was the sunset that flung its color upon her face as she turned to look at him.
"Thank yo'," she answered. "I'm used to carryin' such-loike loads."
But he took her burden from her, and even if she had wished to be left to herself she had no redress, and accord-
