Pitcher, a clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless face when his boss happily entered at half past nine together with his young lady secretary. With a quick "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to jump over it, and then jumped into the mountain of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.

　　The young lady had been Maxwell's secretary for a year. She was beautiful. She wore no jewelry. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure nicely. She wore a neat black hat with a gold-green flower. On this morning her face shone with happiness. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks pink, her expression a happy one.

　　Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the room, where her desk was, she stayed in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.

　　The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by wheels and springs.

　　"Well—what is it? Anything wrong?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like snow on his crowded desk. His grey eye flashed upon her half impatiently.

　　"Nothing," answered the secretary, moving away with a little smile.

　　"Mr. Pitcher," she said to the clerk, "did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about hiring another secretary?"

　　"He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I asked the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few this morning. It's 9:45 o'clock, and not a single one has showed up yet."

　　"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black hat with the gold-green flower in its usual place.

　　And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker tape machine began to reel out its fitful coils of tape; the desk telephone rang time and again. Men began to crowd into the office and call at him over the railing, happily, sharply, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face looked more alive.

　　Maxwell pushed his chair against the wall and dealt with business after the manner of a dancer. He jumped from ticker to phone, from desk to door.

　　In the middle of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware someone new had arrived. He saw a young lady with a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a large round hat, and Pitcher was there to construe her.

　　"Lady from the Secretary's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.

　　Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.

　　"What position?" he asked.

　　"Position of secretary," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning."

　　"You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of them in here."

　　The lady left the office. Her hat almost hit Pitcher in the eye as she angrily walked past him. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.

　　The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows.

　　Some of his own holdings were in danger, and the man was working like some strong machinegoing at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages —here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.

　　When the lunch hour drew near everything quieted down.

　　Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and papers, with a pen over his right ear and his hair stood up on his head. His window was open, for the beloved Spring had turned on a little warmth.

　　And through the window came a faint—perhaps a lostsmell—a delicate, sweet smell of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this smell belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.

　　The smell brought her before him. The world of finance disappeared suddenly. And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.

　　"I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."

　　He dashed into the inner office. He jumped toward the desk of the secretary.

　　She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink color came over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still held papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.

　　"Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have only a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven't had time to show my love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please."

　　"Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and looked at him strangely.

　　"Don't you understand?" said Maxwell. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slowed down a bit. They're calling me for the phone now. Tell them to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"

　　The secretary acted very strangely. At first she seemed surprised; then tears flowed from her eyes; and then she smiled like the sun through rain, and one of her arms went tenderly around the broker's neck.

　　"I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."