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Christopher Morton, Jr., was looking through the morning mail in the office when there came a knock at the door. He glanced at the clock and frowned. It was too early for visitors by five minutes, and this vigilant young man of business was very careful of his minutes.

While he hesitated, the door opened without ceremony and admitted a gaunt, unfashionable figure, hollow-chested and sallow-faced.

"Hello, Christy, old chap!" cried the intruder, stretching out a hearty hand and feeling apparently no doubt of a welcome. "How are you?"

For an instant the other looked at him vaguely, the crease still showing in his forehead. Then his eyes lit.

"Why, Jim Perry, is it you!" he shouted, getting around the table with a bound.

"Part of me," said Jim, sinking into a chair. He panted a little, but he smiled yet.

Christy looked him over discontentedly.

"What have you been doing to yourself?" he asked.

"Caught a fever," explained Jim, with a nod. "The missionaries sent me home. I might better have stuck it out there, but I had no breath to argue with them, so they packed me off. I am to go back in September."