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Dear Lizzie Parsons (she read),

I’m outside of the door waiting to come in and say hello.

Your old friend,

Lou Seabury.

In spite of her dread, in spite of her determination to die rather than face home folks, she dropped her powder puff, made one bound for the door, flung it wide.

“Oh, Rigoletti—give me a yard of spaghetti,” warbled Halloran from below.

With a little checked cry, Elizabeth reached out both hands. A plump, pink cheeked young man took them and somewhat diffidently stepped into the little square of room. But Elizabeth clung to him shamelessly and her voice caught when she tried to speak. He was the first link between two years of loneliness and the yesterdays of happy childhood.

“Lou,” came at last, “Lou Seabury!”

“I got a nerve, haven’t I,—walkin’ in on you like this?”

His pink face flushed a deeper pink as she pulled the chair from the dressing-table, thrust him into it, and stood looking down. “You’re just an angel from heaven, that’s what you are! How ever in the world did you find me?”