And the day had been uncommonly troublous.  Customers had been inordinately trying; the buyer in her department had scolded her roundly for letting her stock run down; her best friend, Mamie Tuthill, had snubbed her by going to lunch with that Dockery girl.

The Girl from Sieber-Mason’s was in that relaxed, softened mood that often comes to the independent feminine wage-earner.  It is a mood most propitious for the man who would woo her.  Then she has yearnings to be set in some home and heart; to be comforted, and to hide behind some strong arm and rest, rest.  But Miss Claribel Colby was also very sleepy.

There came to her side a strong man, browned and dressed carelessly in the best of clothes, with his hat in his hand.

“Lady,” said the Man from Nome, respectfully, “excuse me for speaking to you, but I—­I—­I saw you on the street, and—­and—­”

“Oh, gee!” remarked the Girl from Sieber-Mason’s, glancing up with the most capable coolness.  “Ain’t there any way to ever get rid of you mashers?  I’ve tried everything from eating onions to using hatpins.  Be on your way, Freddie.”

“I’m not one of that kind, lady,” said the Man from Nome—­“honest, I’m not.  As I say, I saw you on the street, and I wanted to know you so bad I couldn’t help followin’ after you.  I was afraid I wouldn’t ever see you again in this big town unless I spoke; and that’s why I done so.”

Miss Colby looked once shrewdly at him in the dim light on the ferry-boat.  No; he did not have the perfidious smirk or the brazen swagger of the lady-killer.  Sincerity and modesty shone through his boreal tan.  It seemed to her that it might be good to hear a little of what he had to say.

“You may sit down,” she said, laying her hand over a yawn with ostentatious politness; “and—­mind—­don’t get fresh or I’ll call the steward.”

The Man from Nome sat by her side.  He admired her greatly.  He more than admired her.  She had exactly the looks he had tried so long in vain to find in a woman.  Could she ever come to like him?  Well, that was to be seen.  He must do all in his power to stake his claim, anyhow.

“My name’s Blayden,” said he—­“Henry Blayden.”

“Are you real sure it ain’t Jones?” asked the girl, leaning toward him, with delicious, knowing raillery.

“I’m down from Nome,” he went on with anxious seriousness.  “I scraped together a pretty good lot of dust up there, and brought it down with me.”

“Oh, say!” she rippled, pursuing persiflage with engaging lightness, “then you must be on the White Wings force.  I thought I’d seen you somewhere.”

“You didn’t see me on the street to-day when I saw you.”

“I never look at fellows on the street.”

“Well, I looked at you; and I never looked at anything before that I thought was half as pretty.”

“Shall I keep the change?”

“Yes, I reckon so.  I reckon you could keep anything I’ve got.  I reckon I’m what you would call a rough man, but I could be awful good to anybody I liked.  I’ve had a rough time of it up yonder, but I beat the game.  Nearly 5,000 ounces of dust was what I cleaned up while I was there.”