Owen's
boarding-house. By the way, who's this school-teacher Aunt Sally has
taken up--saw her at the party-great chum of the old lady's."
"You must mean Miss Sylvia."
"Sylvia?"
"Miss Sylvia Garrison. Colonel Ramsay," continued Rose earnestly,
resting an elbow lightly on her typewriter, "you and I are old pals--you
remember that first winter I was over at the State House?"
"Very well, Rose."
"Well, it wasn't a good place for me to be. But I was a kid and hadn't
much sense. I've learned a good deal since then. It ain't so easy to
walk straight; so many people are careless about leaving banana peelings
lying round."
The Colonel nodded.
"You needn't apologize to me, Rose. It's all right now, is it?"
"You can be dead sure of it, Colonel. Miss Garrison caught me by the
heel of my shoe, just as I was going down the third time, and yanked me
back. There's a good many cheap imitations of human beings loose around
this world, but that's a woman, I can tell you!"
"Glad you struck a good friend, Rose. You did well to come along with
Harwood."
"Well, she fixed that, too, after I cut loose from _him_--you
understand? I guess Miss Garrison and Mr. Harwood are pretty good
friends."
"Oh!" ejaculated Ramsay. "So there's that, is there?"
"I hope so; they're all white and speak the same language. This is on
the dead.
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