North of Fifty-Three | Page 5

trunk. I can have a better time even on less a week."
"Well, I hope you get along nicely," Hazel proffered.
"Oh, I will. Leave that to me," Miss Morrison laughed. "By the way,
what do you think of Mr. Bush, anyway? But of course you haven't had
much to do with him yet. You'll find him awfully nice and polite, but,
my, he can be cutting when he gets irritated! I've known him to do
some awfully mean things in a business way. I wouldn't want to get
him down on me. I think he'd hold a grudge forever."
They walked together until Hazel turned into the street which led to her
boarding place. Nelly Morrison chattered principally of Mr. Bush. No
matter what subject she opened up, she came back to discussion of her
employer. Hazed gathered that she had found him rather exacting, and
also that she was inclined to resent his curt manner. Withal, Hazel
knew Nelly Morrison to be a first-class stenographer, and found herself
wondering how long it would take the managing partner to find
occasion for raking her over the coals.
As the days passed, she began to wonder whether Miss Morrison had
been quite correct in her summing up of Mr. Andrew Bush. She was
not a great deal in his company, for unless attending to the details of
business Mr. Bush kept himself in a smaller office opening out of the
one where she worked. Occasionally the odor of cigar smoke escaped
therefrom, and in that inner sanctum he received his most important
callers. Whenever he was in Miss Weir's presence, however, he
manifested none of the disagreeable characteristics that Nelly Morrison
had ascribed to him.
The size of the check which Hazel received in her weekly envelope was
increased far beyond her expectations. Nelly Morrison had drawn

twenty dollars a week. Miss Hazel Weir drew twenty-five--a substantial
increase over what she had received in the shipping department. And
while she wondered a trifle at the voluntary raising of her salary, it
served to make her anxious to competently fill the new position, so
long as she worked for wages. With that extra money there were plenty
of little things she could get for the home she and Jack Barrow had
planned.
Things moved along in routine channels for two months or more before
Hazel became actively aware that a subtle change was growing
manifest in the ordinary manner of Mr. Andrew Bush. She shrugged
her shoulders at the idea at first. But she was a woman; moreover, a
woman of intelligence, her perceptive faculties naturally keen.
The first symptom was flowers, dainty bouquets of which began to
appear on his desk. Coincident with this, Mr. Bush evinced an
inclination to drift into talk on subjects nowise related to business.
Hazel accepted the tribute to her sex reluctantly, giving him no
encouragement to overstep the normal bounds of cordiality. She was
absolutely sure of herself and of her love for Jack Barrow. Furthermore,
Mr. Andrew Bush, though well preserved, was drawing close to
fifty--and she was twenty-two. That in itself reassured her. If he had
been thirty, Miss Weir might have felt herself upon dubious ground. He
admired her as a woman. She began to realize that. And no woman ever
blames a man for paying her that compliment, no matter what she may
say to the contrary. Particularly when he does not seek to annoy her by
his admiration.
So long as Mr. Bush confined himself to affable conversation, to
sundry gifts of hothouse flowers, and only allowed his feelings outlet in
certain telltale glances when he thought she could not see. Hazel felt
disinclined to fly from what was at worst a possibility.
Thus the third month of her tenure drifted by, and beyond the telltale
glances aforesaid, Mr. Bush remained tentatively friendly and nothing
more. Hazel spent her Sundays as she had spent them for a year
past--with Jack Barrow; sometimes rambling afoot in the country or in
the park, sometimes indulging in the luxury of a hired buggy for a drive.

Usually they went alone; occasionally with a party of young people like
themselves.
But Mr. Bush took her breath away at a time and in a manner totally
unexpected. He finished dictating a batch of letters one afternoon, and
sat tapping on his desk with a pencil. Hazel waited a second or two,
expecting him to continue, her eyes on her notes, and at the unbroken
silence she looked up, to find him staring fixedly at her. There was no
mistaking the expression on his face. Hazel flushed and shrank back
involuntarily. She had hoped to avoid that. It could not be anything but
unpleasant.
She had small chance to indulge in reflection, for at her first
self-conscious