THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT WRITE. 63 brought the other end and the truth together against his head at once. “You don’t say! Beg pardon. What did he die of? So you ’re runnin’ the business? Well, I’ve come to get a reclining-chair for my wife. One of these big ones, you know, that tip back into last week. Expensive, I s’pose, but you see she’s got bad in her back, and nothin’ Il do for her but one of them chairs. Thought I’d step in this mornin’ and price one. Up stairs? I’ll go right along up. Beg pardon, 1’m sure! What did you say he died of ?” Jem did not say. In fact, she did not say anything. Something in the loud man’s long speech had set her think- ing suddenly and sharply. She followed him quite up stairs in silence before she remembered to tell him that they had not a reclining-chair in the store, but one shop-worn sample. By that time she had thought hard. ‘“ Runnin’ the business herself, was she ?”” Why! For a moment she lost her breath. The next, before she knew it, she had said to the loud man, “T can get you such a chair as you want, sir, in three days. We have to send to Chicago for them, and I can’t promise it before that; but I can meet your order in three days,’ — had said it, and could n’t help it now. “ Prompt?” said the loud man. “ Yes, sir.” “T want a plenty of springs, mind, and good horse-hair stuffing, and a latch that won’t get out of order.” “Yes, sir.” Jem took down the orders in her note-book, fast.