My friend the tune-maker has often unintentionally amused his acquaintances by the gravity with which he attributes significance to the most trivial occurrences.

He turns the most thoughtless speeches, uttered in jest, into prophecies.

“Very well,” he used to say to us at a cafÉ table, “you may laugh. But it's astonishing how things turn out sometimes.”

“As for instance?” some one would inquire.

“Never mind. But I could give an instance if I wished to do so.”

One evening, over a third bottle, he grew unusually communicative.

“Just to illustrate how things happen,” he began, speaking so as to be audible above the din of the cafÉ to the rest of us around the table, “I'll tell you about a man I know. One February morning, about eight years ago, he was hurrying to catch a train. There was ice on the sidewalks and people had to walk cautiously or ride. As he was turning a corner he saw by a clock that he had only five minutes in which to reach the station, three blocks away. An instant later he saw a shapely figure in soft furs suddenly describe a forward movement and drop in a heap to the sidewalk, ten feet in front of him. A melodious light soprano scream arose from the heap. A divinely turned ankle in a quite human black stocking was momentarily visible. He was by the side of the mass of furs and skirts in three steps.

“He caught the pretty girl under the arms and elevated her to a standing posture. She recovered her breath and her self-possession promptly and glowed upon him with the brightest of smiles. He had never before seen her.

“'Oh, thank you,' she said; adding, with the unconscious exaggeration of a schoolgirl, 'You've saved my life.'

“Realizing the absurdity of this speech, she blushed. Whereupon her rescuer, feeling that the situation warranted him in turning the matter to jest, replied:

“'That being the case, according to the rules of romance, I ought to marry you, like all the men who rescue the heroines in stories.'

“'Oh,' she answered, quickly, 'this isn't in a novel; it's real life.'

“'Yes; besides which, I see by the clock over there I have only four minutes in which to catch a train. Good morning.'

“And he ran off without taking a second glance at her. He arrived at the station in due time.

“Three years after that he married the most charming woman in the world, after an acquaintance of only six months.

“This woman is as beautiful as she is amiable. Nature has not been guilty of a single defect in her construction. A tiny scar upon her knee is all the more noticeable because of its solitude.

“It is a peculiarity of scars that each has a history. The history of this one has thus far, for no adequate reason, remained a family secret.

“Another noteworthy fact about scars is that they may be, and in many cases they are, useful for purposes of identification.

“Of course you anticipate the dramatic climax of my story, gentlemen. Nevertheless, let me give it, for the sake of completeness, in the form of a dialogue between the husband and the wife.

“'How came the wound there?'

“'Oh, I fell against the corner of a paving-stone one icy morning three years ago.'

“'And to think that I was not there to help you up!'

“'True; but another young man served the purpose, and I'm afraid he missed a train on my account.'

“'What! It wasn't on the corner of —— and —— Streets?'

“'It was just there. How did you know?'

“So you see, as they completely proved by comparing recollections, the little speech uttered in merriment had been prophetic, a fact that they probably would never have learned had it not been for the identifying service of the scar.”

“But if this has been kept a family secret, how do you happen to know it, and by what right do you divulge it?” one of us asked.

The ballad composer blushed and clouded his face with tobacco smoke; and then it recurred to us all that “the most charming woman in the world” is his wife.