THE GUTTER-SNIPE
A clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour.
Midnight!
Polly Wickes rose hastily from the corner of the big leather-upholstered Chesterfield in which her small figure had been tucked away.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. Every one else has been in bed ages ago."
"I think," said Locke gravely, "that it is our duty to stand by that last log. It's been a rather jolly fire, you know. I—"
"That is the second one you have put on after having made the same remark twice before," she accused him severely.
"I know," said Locke. "I'm guilty—but think of the extenuating circumstances."
Polly Wickes laughed.
"No," she said.