By and by Sarah forced back her tears. The cards mustbe written. But， still in a faint， golden glow from herdandeleonine dream， she fingered the typewriter keysabsently for a little while， with her mind and heart in themeadow lane with her young farmer. But soon she cameswiftly back to the rock-bound lanes of Manhattan， andthe typewriter began to rattle and jump like a strikebreaker’smotor car.
At 6 o’clock the waiter brought her dinner and carriedaway the typewritten bill of fare. When Sarah ate she setaside， with a sigh， the dish of dandelions with its crowningovarious accompaniment. As this dark mass had beentransformed from a bright and love-indorsed flower to bean ignominious vegetable， so had her summer hopes wiltedand perished. Love may， as Shakespeare said， feed on itself：
but Sarah could not bring herself to eat the dandelionsthat had graced， as ornaments， the first spiritual banquetof her heart’s true affection.
At 7：30 the couple in the next room began to quarrel：
the man in the room above sought for A on his flute；the gas went a little lower； three coal wagons startedto unload—the only sound of which the phonograph isjealous； cats on the back fences slowly retreated towardMukden. By these signs Sarah knew that it was time forher to read. She got out “The Cloister and the Hearth，”
the best non-selling book of the month， settled her feeton her trunk， and began to wander with Gerard.
The front door bell rang. The landlady answered it.
Sarah left Gerard and Denys treed by a bear and listened.
Oh， yes； you would， just as she did！
And then a strong voice was heard in the hall below， andSarah jumped for her door， leaving the book on the floorand the first round easily the bear’s. You have guessed it.
She reached the top of the stairs just as her farmer cameup， three at a jump， and reaped and garnered her， withnothing left for the gleaners.
“Why haven’t you written—oh， why？” cried Sarah.
“New York is a pretty large town，” said Walter Franklin.
“I came in a week ago to your old address. I found that youwent away on a Thursday. That consoled some； it eliminatedthe possible Friday bad luck. But it didn’t prevent myhunting for you with police and otherwise ever since！
“I wrote！” said Sarah， vehemently.
“Never got it！”
“Then how did you find me？”
The young farmer smiled a springtime smile.
“I dropped into that Home Restaurant next door thisevening，” said he. “I don’t care who knows it； I like adish of some kind of greens at this time of the year. I ranmy eye down that nice typewritten bill of fare lookingfor something in that line. When I got below cabbage Iturned my chair over and hollered for the proprietor. Hetold me where you lived.”
“I remember，” sighed Sarah， happily. “That wasdandelions below cabbage.”
“I’d know that cranky capital W ’way above the linethat your typewriter makes anywhere in the world，” saidFranklin.
“Why， there’s no W in dandelions，” said Sarah， insurprise.
The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket，and pointed to a line.
Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten thatafternoon. There was still the rayed splotch in the upperright-hand corner where a tear had fallen. But over thespot where one should have read the name of the meadowplant， the clinging memory of their golden blossoms hadallowed her fingers to strike strange keys.
Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green pepperswas the item：
“DEAREST WALTER， WITH HARD-BOILED EGG.”
