would meet and their souls would rush together in such a head-on collision as is sometimes referred to as love at first sight. But in Miss Featherington’s hero worship gloom had no part. Her ideals never ceased to smile, whether they slew or caressed, and perpetually 26 they carried themselves with a jaunty swing or a dashing stride.

The fact that there had been storm mutterings within the awful cave of Old Grim Barnes had never before had a depressing effect upon her hero. He had always sallied forth with airy tread, humming a tune or laughing with his eyes. What could have happened at this fateful meeting? Perhaps he had been disinherited. Rapture of raptures, he had confessed his love for some howling beauty of humble station, had been cut off with the inevitable shilling and was now going forth to earn his bread.

Marietta Featherington’s heart came up and throbbed in her throat as Whitney Barnes suddenly wheeled and confronted her. Leaning back upon his cane, he looked at her––very, very solemnly.

“Miss Featherington,” he pronounced slowly, “I wish to ask you a question. May I?”

Marietta was sure that her puffs were on fire, so fierce was the heat that blazed under her fair skin. She concentrated all her mental forces in an effort to summon an elegant reply. But all she could get out was a stifled:

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you, Miss Featherington,” said the young man. “My question is this: Do you believe in soul mates? That is, do you, judging from what you have observed and any experience you may have had, believe that true love is controlled by the hand of Fate 27 or that you yourself can take hold and guide your own footsteps in affairs of the heart?”

Teddie O’Toole had crammed “Deep Blood Gulch” into his hip pocket and was grinning from ear to ear.

Miss Featherington was positive that her puffs were all ablaze. She could almost smell them burning. She looked down and she looked up and she drew a long, desperate sigh.

“I believe in Fate!” she said with emotion that would have done honor to Sarah Bernhardt.

“Thank you, Miss Featherington,” said Whitney Barnes, with profound respect, then turned on his heel and went out into the corridor of the great office building.

Unconsciously he had dealt a ruthless blow and there is not a scintilla of doubt but that he was responsible for the box on the ears that made Teddie O’Toole’s head ring for the remainder of the day and thereby took all the flavor from the thrills he had found in “Deep Blood Gulch.”