A BUSINESS

PROPOSITION

T WAS a warm afternoon in middle September. On the railing surrounding the piazza of a small house in Berk

ley sat a young WOman, slowly pulling the petals from a purple-red passion-flower and dropping them one by one into the tangle of vines below. She was not acting the modern Margueriteshe was simply examining the wonderful blossom and became so absorbed in e process that she entirely forgot, for the time being, the presence of a broadbacked, long-limbed young man on the upper step.

His chin rested on one hand, his elbow on his knee and his round straw hat was tipped so that it shaded his fine dark eyes from the sun. His gaze wandered away across the vivid square of bluegrass and out between the feathery perper trees lining the sidewalk, to the stretch of glistening bay water lying between the Alameda shore and San Francisco. He was not thinking especially of the beauty of the scene, he was not thinking of anything in particular; he was luxuriating in a period of complete relaxation.

There was that blending of grace and dignity in his pose which characterized him and invariably commanded respect from men and admiration from women. The features visible below the hat-brim were large, clear-cut and regular, but the cheeks were just a little too hollow and the clear skin just a little too white.

Presently he spoke:

"This is a restful kind of place; I should think you would like it out here." "I do; I enjoy it very much, particularly on Sundays."

She looked out at the fence mantled with ivy-geranium and down at the mass of blossoming heliotrope close to where Everett sat, and drew a deep breath of sweet-scented satisfaction.

"It is a little quiet for you though in the evenings, I should imagine." He gave her a little mischievous glance out of the corner of his eye. "If I remember rightly, you generally liked to be around where there was something lively going on."

The girl laughed a little.

As she sat on the railing with jaunty erectness, one foot swinging gently back and forth below the short walking skirt, Everett thought to himself that she had not changed much since he had last seen her. That was the winter he had first come out from Louisville and accepted an ordinary reporter's position on a San Francisco paper, living in a cheap boarding-house and taking a vast interest in everything about him. Agnes Hastings occupied the seat next him at table. She was the first girl of any kind he had met in California, and the first girl of her particular kind that he had ever met in his life. She was seeking an office position at the time and he never ceased to wonder at her unfailing courage and her absolute selfreliance. It could not be said that this spirit of independence wholly coincided with Wallace Everett's preconceived ideals of womanhood, but he found her extremely interesting and their acquaintance rapidly developed into one of those semi-Bohemian friendships which flourish so freely in this unconventional city.

"Oh well," she said in answer to his last remark, "I had just come down from the country then, and every phase of life was new and interesting to me. I

imagined the assortment of dry-goods clerks and insurance solicitors in our boarding house there to be swell society, and their little beer-and-sandwich suppers high social functions. I can't say that I ever thoroughly enjoyed it thouga, for you know I had an inbred prejudice against beer, and the order of their humor was something quite beyond my comprehension; but I liked to be there as a lookeron and I had a vague hope I might work up to it in time. Had it not been for some good brotherly advice administered by a certain young man, I fear I might have come to realize too late that I had been trying to work down instead of up."

Everett placed his hand on his breast and executed a profound bow in recognition of the tribute. The girl ignored the action and said earnestly: "I wonder why it is that all people cannot realize from the start that it is the simple things of life that give the most lasting satisfaction."

"I suppose you go over to the theatre once in a while?"

"No; Mrs. Sanborn cannot leave the children so we never go."

"I've had to cut out that too since I came over here. When a man's working his way through college he don't have much to spare for expensive luxuries on the outside. Only one year more of it, thank goodness, and then I hope things will be different."

He sighed and sat looking down meditatively. Agnes Hastings knew perfectly well that she had no particular place in his plans. They were renewing their acquaintance on the old basis of easy friendship and mutual confidence.

She leaned over and stuck the despoiled blossom into the grill-work of the porch absently, then facing about with a sudden resolution she said:

"I am going to make you a business proposition; I would like to go but I have no one to go with-if I furnish the tickets will you furnish the escort?"

Everett flushed. He thought he knew the girl pretty well but he was not quite prepared for this.

"Well, really," he hesitated, "nothing would give me greater pleasure—”

"Now Wallace," she interrupted, "if you are going to be so dreadfully formal about it, I shall be sorry that I spoke. I thought you knew me well enough to understand that I meant what I said purely as a business proposition. I am naturally a practical girl, and four years of office work have not served to make me any less practical. I would much rather buy the tickets myself than feel obliged to entertain some stupid young man who might be foolish enough to ask me to go with him. I want to talk only when I feel like it and laugh only when I am amused, and of course you must understand if you agree to this arrangement that entertainment isn't in the bargain."

Wallace Everett threw back his head and laughed immoderately. It was so like the old Agnes. There was the same expression of saucy independence in the outward curve of the short upper lip and the upward slant of the small nose. He wondered that he had ever allowed the friendship to lapse. Rising suddenly and walking over to where she sat, he took her hand gently and said:

"It shall be as you say. But look, little girl," he added as with an afterthought, "are you sure that you can afford it?"

"Yes. You know I have a Government position now and my expenses over here are less than they were in the city. Of course we will have it in the agreement that if either of us wishes to discontinue the arrangement at any time, we can do so and no hard feelings and no questions asked."

"All right, so be it."

Everett released her hand and leaned against the rail beside her. He was looking at the upward sweep of her thick blonde hair and rich color in her fair smooth cheeks. He mentally wondered if she blushed as easily as in the time past. He decided to tease her a little and see. The retorts came even more readily than formerly, he found, and so difficult was the task that the color came quite as often to his own cheeks as to those of the girl.

It was late in the afternoon when he awoke to the recollection of a still un

The theatre arrangement proved a success. Agnes had the privilege of seeing what she chose when she chose, and Everett found the plays, which were the best put on the boards that winter, of practical assistance to him in the course of study which he was pursuing. He wrote some acceptable articles along the line of the drama and before spring came his hitherto vague determination to become a dramatic critic began to assume definite form.

After graduation, however, none of the periodicals, which had given him so much encouragement during his college course, seemed to have anything regular in the way of a position to offer. He fell to writing special articles on general subjects, which sold for a small price and brought him in more or less of an income, but the uncertainty of it worried him a good deal. One holiday, in a nt of desperation, he had taken a flying trip to Shadybrook, a summer resort twenty miles distant, and written an article about it which fortunately so pleased the fancy of the proprietor that he paid him a price for it which was equal to twice that received for any other article. It was Agnes' suggestion and she had accompanied him with her kodak and taken the views with which the article was illustrated. He had insisted on her taking half the money received for it, out she had obstinately refused.

Everett was thinking of this one day as he walkeu slowly away from the Oakland Library. He came from a long line of proud Southern ancestry, and there was a galling sense of obligation about this and similar acts of the girl's which even her extreme practicability could not dispel. He had meant to make her a nice present some day which should more than cover it all, when he should be in a financial position to do so, but that time now seemed more hopelessly far off than ever.

He was startled from his meditations by the laying of a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, Bronson, old man, how are

you?" he said, when he saw who had come up with him.

"Finer than silk," responded Bronson; "things have been coming my way since I saw you last."

"Yes? Glad to hear it," answered Everett, shaking the outstretched hand. Bronson was a short, rather stout man, of thirty, with plain serious features and brown eyes that lit up with genuine pleasure at the sight of the man who had always held first place in his esteem and admiration. He admired him both for his well built frame and for his superior mental qualities. He himself

was slow and he knew it, but he took hold when opportunity offered and held on. A third party might have considered that the two men now stood in the same relation to each other as the hare and the tortoise at the end of the race. Walter Bronson was shy with most people, but he had ever found a sympathetic confidant in Everett and he let himself out to the full, telling of his gradual promotion with the firm whose office he had entered several years before as bookkeeper, until he had reached the position of virtual manager. His face beamed as he went on, and Everett listened with the deepest interest. When he had finished an account of his last interview with the president of the company, Everett wheeled around and grasping his hand again said warmly, "I'm glad, Walter, I'm glad."

They walked on in silence for a few moments and then he reopened the conversation by remarking lightly, "You cught to be getting married now."

Bronson laughed, and his naturally ruddy cheeks reddened a little more. He turned to his companion with a sudden earnestness. "Do you know, Wallace, I've been thinking about that myself. But I'm not popular with the ladies, you know that. I did meet one the other night though, who really seemed to enjoy talking with me, and she was just my sort too. She could talk about things that interest a man, sensible and yet very lively and witty. She was pretty too; at least she has very handsome eyes and a fine complexion. Hastings, Miss Hastings, was

her name; she lives out your way-may be you know her?"

The mention of the name came like a blow on the brain to Everett. He did not answer for a moment, but as Bronson gave him an enquiring glance he shook his wits together and replied:

"Yes; yes, certainly, I know her." "Nice girl, isn't she?" enquired Bron

son.

"Oh yes, nice girl; she's a fine girl." Everett could not have told why but he was conscious of a rising resentment against this man.

Bronson was puzzled by his companion's sudden unresponsiveness. He looked at him, but his face was inscrutable. He never had understood Everett, but he felt sure of his sympathy and continued:

"She didn't ask me to call. I suppose I should have asked her permission, but I hadn't the courage. I might make up some excuse to go around there. Yes, there was an address she gave me I can pretend to have forgotten. If sne receives me cordially and asks me to spend the evening, I might invite her to go to the theatre next week. That's ne usual way, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's about it-in this country," replied Everett slowly, as with an effort.

His whole mind was concentrated on one thought and that was how to be rid of this fellow, whom he had greeted with genuine warmth but a few moments before. It seemed to him providential that a Shattuck-avenue car turned the corner at that moment.

"Ah, there's my car, Bronson," he said eagerly, "good bye," and he jumped aboard with more precipitation than was necessary and without pretending to see the hand that was partly extended toward him.

When he was alone with his thoughts, he had to acknowledge to himself what he never had acknowledged before, that it would be very hard indeed for him to give up Agnes Hastings. Something gripped his heart at the thought of it. When the friend whom he had left had suggested the possibility of gaining her for himself he felt like a man whose guest would plot to rob him in his own

house. Then the absurdity of his attitude came back to him with full force. He knew that he had no claims whatever upon her; on the contrary he was rather under obligations to her and he should be the last one to stand in her light. He believed that all women should marry and he knew that she would probably never have a chance to marry anyone who would take better care of her than Walter Bronson would. His simple heart was devotion itself.

When he had left the car he walked slowly toward the Sanborn house. He walked slowly, for he dreaded the task before him, but his mind was made up.

His discomfort was partially relieved as he approached the house and saw ner pruning a rose-bush near the gate. He would at last be relieved from the necessity of making a polite entry into and exit from the house.

She greeted him with her usual frank cordiality and made a little move toward the front door, but he detained her.

I will tell

"No, I can't come in," he began rapidly, "I came on an errand. it quickly for I have an engagement to keep. You remember it was in our agreement that if either of us wished to discontinue our business arrangementabout going out together you knowthat we were to say so and no hard feelings and no questions asked?"

He looked at her for the first time since he began speaking, but she was leaning over again busy with the pruning shears.

"Yes," she replied, without looking up. "It has come."

She straightened up and looked him directly in the eyes. "All right," she said; "no hard feelings and no questions asked."

She gave a little laugh and Everett attempted to do the same but ended in a dismal failure. Her face was flushed, Everett thought probably from stooping over, but there was no trace of disappointment in it. He realized with an inward thrust of self-contempt, that he had hoped there would be. Evidently there was a chance for Bronson, and e had at least the satisfaction of feeling that he had done the right thing.

Agnes made some remark about the beauty of the sunset-he never knew what it was-but he answered in the affirmative and making an abrupt adieu, walked rapidly down the street.

In the week that followed he moved his quarters over to the city, and walked about the street day and evening in search of some little incident that might serve as an inspiration for his pen and crowd out his own miserable thoughts. On the evening on which he had been accustomed to go to the theatre, he had been attending a performance at one of the cheaper playhouses, to which he had received a pass in recognition of a past favor. As he came out he walked down past the principal theatre, which was in the act of tardity emitting its richlydressed audience. A young couple passed directly in front of him, so near that he could have reached out and touched the lady, but they were apparently absorbed in each other and did not see him. It was Agnes and Bronson. He had only time to notice that the girl wore a new hat which was strikingly becoming, and that her eyes were looking into those of another man. He wondered how it was that he had never realized before how exquisitely beautiful her eyes were. He remembered with a pang Bronson's having mentioned it.

He

When Wallace Everett reached his room, he threw himself into a chair folded his arms upon the table and dropped his head down, upon them. sat so for over an hour, and when at last he raised his head the lines in his face were deeper and there was a visible moisture beneath his eyes.

His glance fell on an envelope lying on the floor. It had not been there when he went out, and he picked it up and looked at the return address. It was from a local weekly. He tore open the envelope listlessly, and slowly read as follows:

"Please call at our office in relation to position applied for some time since. We think we can now give you employment."

A few days ago such a communication would have brought joy to his soul, but now he dropped the sheet back to the floor and turned away toward the win

dow.

"It's too late now," he murmured half aloud. "But she didn't love me or she wouldn't have done it."

He threw up the window to its full height and leaning his back against the casing allowed the night air to blow across his face.

In the morning he read the communiIcation with a better appreciation of its value, and after breakfast walked directly to the newspaper office. After a short interview he was engaged to write up the local theatres and to contribute a page weekly on the drama in general, from a literary point of view. The salary was not a large one, but it was something for a regular dependance. The matter for the current week was already in and he was told it would not be necessary to report until the following Monday.

He began to think of some way to pass the time for the next few days. The air in the city was close and oppressive, the pavements blistering hot, and he decided to take a little run into the country. His thoughts involuntarily turned toward Shadybrook. It was there that he had been with Agnes last. He would go down and bury the image of her which he carried in his heart, and after that nothing should distract him from the work upon which he determined to expend his best energies.

It was well along in the afternoon when he arrived at the small country town which was the station nearest Shadybrook. He did not take the hotel 'bus which was in waiting at every train but struck out on foot. The place he had in mind was a spot about a mile up the stream where some great rocks lay out in the water and the shade was heavy overhead. They had spent the greater part of the day there and he hoped to find it solitary.

He walked with long strides and fif teen minutes after he left the station he was walking down the well-remembered path to the water. He picked his way cautiously over the rocks. The water was noisily pushing its way between them, but there was no other sound, and his wish for solitude seemed likely to be