had even provided him with a homemade sewing outfit. He fished this gear out of his suitcase and sat down in the dilapidated Morris chair and set to work awkwardly with needle and thread. This was a new sort of task for Harold and he did not do very well with it. At almost the first push of the needle through the cloth his hand slipped. The needle met Harold's chin, bent low over his toil, and inflicted a gash. He arose and walked over to the mirror hanging over his washstand to inspect his cut and staunch the trickle of blood. The glass in the mirror was soaped just as were the windows. Harold took out his handkerchief and wiped a portion of it clear.
Then suddenly he stopped and stared in credulously.
Framed in the cleaned part of the mirror was reflected a pretty feminine face in a ravishing setting of brown curls. The prettiest girl Harold had ever seen. Harold turned and stared rapturously at Peggy Sayre, who stood uncertainly in the doorway. A dream had come true! Dazedly he pointed at her, as if to fix the fact that it was really she. And, strangely enough, the amazed girl was pointing at him too. It was as if he was asking mutely and gladly, "You?" And she was replying similarly, "You?" Standing there
