Please apply.'" "They'll apply over my dead body." "You're a dear, good boy to say it.

No, please, Wally, don't or I shall go upstairs.

Now sit by the fire again--that's better--and smoke if you want to, and let me finish these papers." They were for the greater part the odds and ends which accumulate in every desk.

There were receipted bills, old insurance policies, letters that had once seemed worth prizing, catalogues of things that had never been bought, prospectuses, newspaper clippings, copies of old contracts.
And yet they had an interest, too--an interest partly historical, partly personal.
This merry letter, for instance, which Mary read and smiled over--who was the "Jack" who had written it?
"Dead, perhaps, like dad," thought Mary.
Yes, dead perhaps, and all his fun and drollery suddenly fallen into silence and buried with him.
"Isn't life queer!" she thought.

"Now why did he save this clipping ?" She read the clipping and enjoyed it.