Wanamaker’s had a familiar sound to Mary.  The place where she had lunched only two days before would seem like home after these bewildering stranger-filled streets.  So when the bargain-hunting trio started in that direction, she followed in their wake.  They paused often to look in at the windows, and each time Mary paused too, as far from them as possible, since she did not want to call attention to the fact that she was following them.

The last of these stops was before a window which looked so familiar that Mary glanced up to see the name of the firm.  Then she felt that she had indeed reached a well-known haven, for the name was the same that was woven in gold thread in the tiny silk tag inside her furs.  It was the place where Joyce had brought her to select her Christmas present, and there inside the window was the pleasant saleswoman who had sold them to her.  She had been so nice and friendly and seemed to take such an interest in pleasing them that Joyce had spoken of it afterward.

Then the woman recognized her—­looked from the furs to the eager little face above them and smiled.  It seemed incredible to Mary that she should have been remembered out of all the hundreds of customers who must pass through the shop every day, but she did not know that the sight of her delight over her gift had been the one bright spot in the saleswoman’s tiresome day.

Instantly her mind was made up, and darting into the shop in her impetuous way, she told her predicament to the amused woman, and asked permission to telephone to her sister.

Joyce, painting away with rapid strokes, in a hurry to finish the stent she had set for herself, looked up a trifle impatiently at the ringing of the telephone bell.  Her first impulse was to call Mary to answer it, but reflecting that probably the call would require her personal attention sooner or later, laid down her brush and went to answer it herself.  She could hardly credit the evidence of her own ears when a meek little voice called imploringly, “Oh, Joyce, could you come and get me?  I’m at the furrier’s where you bought my Christmas present, and I haven’t a cent in my pocket and don’t know the way home.”

“What under the canopy!” gasped Joyce, startled out of her self-possession.  All morning she had been so sure that Mary was in the next room that it was positively uncanny to hear her voice coming from so far away.

“I’ve never known anything so spooky,” she called.  “I can’t be sure its you.”

“Well, I wish it wasn’t,” came the almost tearful reply.  “I’m awfully sorry to interfere with your work, and you needn’t stop till you get through.  They’ll let me wait here until noon.  I’ve got a comfortable seat where I can peep out at the people on the street, and I don’t feel lost now that you know where I am.”  Then with a little giggle, “I’m like the Irishman’s tea-kettle that he dropped overboard.  It wasn’t lost because he knew where it was—­in the bottom of the sea.”