humor. Norman laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"You ought to go on the stage," said he. "How Josephine--Miss Burroughs
would appreciate it! For she's got a keen sense of humor."

"Not for the real jokes--like herself," replied Miss Hallowell.

"You're prejudiced."

"No. I see her as she is. Probably everyone else--those around her--see
her money and her clothes and all that. But I saw--just her."

He nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked penetratingly at her. "How did
you happen to learn to do that?" he asked. "To see people as they are?"

"Father taught me." Her eyes lighted up, her whole expression changed.
She became beautiful with the beauty of an intense and adoring love.
"Father is a wonderful man--one of the most wonderful that ever lived.
He----"

There was a knock at the door. She startled, he looked confused. Both
awakened to a sense of their forgotten surroundings, of who and what
they were. She went and Mr. Sanders entered. But even in his confusion
Norman marveled at the vanishing of the fascinating personality who had
been captivating him into forgetting everything else, at the
reappearance of the blank, the pale and insignificant personality
attached to a typewriting machine at ten dollars a week. No, not
insignificant, not blank--never again that, for him. He saw now the full
reality--and also why he, everyone, was so misled. She made him think of
the surface of the sea when the sky is gray and the air calm. It lies