Good-by.

My name's Bowers--Jim Bowers, of Mendocino.

If you're up my way, give me a call.

And if you do write to this yer 'White Violet,' and she's willin', send me her address." He shook the editor's hand warmly--even in its literal significance of imparting a good deal of his own earnest caloric to the editor's fingers--and left the room.

His footfall echoed along the passage and died out, and with it, I fear, all impression of his visit from the editor's mind, as he plunged again into the silent task before him.
Presently he was conscious of a melodious humming and a light leisurely step at the entrance of the hall.