other envelopes—larger ones than those directed to Mr. James Perkins, and these—three in all—when he had finished them, bore the following inscriptions: "Mail at first port reached after February 15th." "Mail at first port reached after March 31st." "Mail at first port reached after May 15th." Into these envelopes the notes directed to Mr. James Perkins were slipped, and the young man, snapping an elastic band around all of them, placed the packet inside a breast pocket. He then pushed back his chair and got up. He crossed the room to a coat-rack, slipped into an overcoat that hung upon it, took down a soft felt hat, and went out into the hall.
Descending two flights of softly carpeted stairs, he passed, on his way to the front door, unmistakable glimpses of home at every turn—flowering plants here; a bird in a cage there; and through the glass doors of a second-floor living-room, burning logs and a stretch of books in a low case, with photographs in silver frames, on top of it.
The doors were slightly ajar, and as the young man passed them a woman's voice called out, "Is that you, Nathan?"
"Yes," the young man replied. "Don't stay up for me."
He had an expressive voice. Any one could tell that he was addressing a woman, and a woman for whom he felt tender regard.
"Will you be home late?"
"Not very," he called back in the gently reassuring tone which an adult sometimes assumes toward a child.
He let himself out of doors, a moment later, and
