A CHANCE SAMARITAN.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2104, 1 February 1908, Page 3 (Supplement)

A CHANCE SAMARITAN.

(By Margaret Cameron.)

Having learned that his friends had left the hotel, Carrington was hurrying through the crowded hall towards the street, when he found himself face to face with Jean Beveredge. It was the first time they iiad met since the evening, months before, when she had bidden him choose between her love and liis professional integrity, and lie had gone from her embittered presence to prosecute an inquiry that had brought, as he had known it must, exposure and discredit to her father, in an old' age previously honored. Carrington had grown lean during those months. His face was worn almost to .haggardness ,aiul the line of his lips was stern. Now, as his one brief glauco took account of the ravages sorrow and anxiety had made in her face, he bowed, and passed so quickly that he did not notice her slight detaining gesture. He heard' her call, however, and turned instantly, only his startled, stormy eyes betraying his emotion. A red flame scorched her face, and died, overcome by an icy pallor, but her voice was perfectly steady and of the impersonal tint one uses in addressing a stranger. “I beg your pardon,” said sne, “but do you happen to- know where Mr. Sawyer is taking Mrs. Knowles .and 1 the crest to dine tonight?” “No,” lie replied, striving to respond to the key she had set. “I haven’t heard him say.” “Ah! I thought you might- know. Thank you,” Then, because he still lingered, she added, as if to dismiss him .and the subject together: “I was to meet them here. Evidently they have been detained.” To liis perturbed' consciousness her words seemed entirely calm, but ho saw that she was troubled; indeed, he knew that only in 60re straits would she accost him, even casually, and refused to take his conge, finding a fanatic pleasure in. prolonging his pain in her service. • “Perhaps I can be of use?” he suggested . “No, —thank- you,” coldly. “They, will come presently.” “Undoubtedly; but. still —I .assure you I don’t wish to seem persistent —or officious, but—suppose they shouldn’t come?” “Oil, they will! They must!” iFor a moment her careful manner broko under the spur of apprehension. “Don’t you think they will? 1 mean,” more quietly, “you have no reason for thinking they won’tP” “None whatever! except—l infer that they’re very late, and there’s always a possibility of .accident or misunderstanding. If there is anything I can ” “Thank you—no. There is noth- 1 ing.” Bowing slightly, she would have turned away, had he not inter- j posed, with a manner for the moment as formal as her own., j

“I 'hope you will try to see this impersonally—neutrally.” Once again color overspread her face, rising hotly to her hair, but he continued, in the same tone: “I quite understand that you spoke to me only because Jim Sawyer and I are close friends, you thought I might know about his plans this evening. Unfortunately I don't; but there are certain things that I can offer to any woman—and that you can accept from any man—who is Sawyer’s friend. Will you meet me on that ground, and let me know how I can be of service to you both?”

After the briefest pause, she conceded, somewhat unevenly: “Thank you. 1 am in—in a sort of—dilemma.” As she went on, she was fairly successful in reducing the cold hostility of her tone to the steady, impersonal note with which she had begun “Mr. Sawyer ’phoned me. this morning that Mrs. Knowles and Maud were in town and he had persuaded them to stav over for dinner. Ho was going to ask some others, and wanted me to meet them all hero at half x>ast six.” “You’re sure it was here?” “That's what 1 understood, though, the ’phone was working badly. I told them not to wait past the hour, as if I came I would be on time; but I’ve been here since quarter past six, and I haven’t seen anv of thorn.”

Carrington looked at his watch. “It is five minutes past seven. H'h! I’m afraid it’s a case of a needle in a haystack now! Of course they weren’t going to dine here?” “No. 1 think they were going to some shabby old- place Mr. Sawyer likes, where the walls are as smoky as the cooking is good.” Carrington shrugged his shoulder* hopelessly. “That may be any one of a dozen places scattered from the Battery to the Bronx,” he said. “If that’s the case. I’m afraid we must give it up. You—you’ll let me take you to the ferry?” “Oil no! No, I'd rather not!” slm exclaimed. Then, as he flushed and drew back, she hastily continued: “You’re very kind, but—l’m not going home. Not just yet. I can’t. I mean—Don’t you think I could possibly find them? It’s rather important that I should, for—for other reasons than—than just dinner*’ ’ if

“Well, we can try; but there’s about one chance in -a thousand. You p refer to wait “here?” “Yes, I—no, it will save time if Igo with you. That is,” a hurried . glance swept his face, “if you don’t * mind.” “Not at all. Just as you wish, v of course.” Nevertheless, lie frowned uneasily, and l*oked sharply about 1 * as they went towards the door. He seemr od, also, to bo making a .rapid, hunt through his pockets, and a curious blankness which she, her face turned" steadily away from (him, did' not perceive, settled* upon his countenance. At the door ho hesitated before turning towards Broadway. “I’m sorry I shall bavo to ask you to go in a street-car,” ho then said.

“It would give me great pleasure to call a cab, but the truth is,” laughing .awkwardly, “I have exactly forty cents in, my possession at this moment, and I haven’t been able, since meeting you, to get my eye on a man I know. I may even be driven to borrowing car fare from you before we get to the end exped'itition.” “But you . can’t 1” she cried. “That’s what’# the matter! That’s the reason I can’t go homo until I find somebody I know. I’ve lost my purse and my commutation ticket. I haven’t a cent.” “You might, have asked me!” he began hotly, but instantly checked himself. Her glance had put glacial infinities between, them. “No.” The tone was level and hard. “I couldn’t. Besides,” with a whimsical smile, “what would it have profited ‘me? Forty cents would not carry me very far.” Startled by the vistas opening at this suggestion, they stopped, in the white circle of an arc-light, staring at each other. Carrington thrust liis fingers into liis waistcoat pocket and withdrew a. quarter and three nickels. Systematic search through many other pockets failed to reveal so much as a copper more. Spreading the coins out on his palm, he glanced ruefully from them to her W blank face. Then, inopportunely, grotesquely, the common, sense of , humor that had been one of strongest bonds between them, assert ed itself. A leaping spark in her eye kindled a flash in his, and' in, the next instant they were irresistibly laughing together, almost in the old way. "When Realisation, with bitter mien, again overtook them, a barrier was down that could not be easily re-erected', .and each was shaken by a crowd of turbulent emotions loosed in that moment of unrestrained laughter.

The woman was first to speak, in. futile effort to restore to their relation its lost balance. “I’m afraid I’m embarrassing you more than even your friendship for Mr. Sawyer would warrant,” she said, not very steadily. “I’ll go back to the hotel. They'll surely find me in time.”

“Why should they?” Only his words were under control. Husky voice and glowing eyes betrayed stirred depths of feeling. “You told Sawyer you might not come. They won’t even, look for you. But if you don’t mind waiting at the hotel a little while, until I get some money.”

“You can’t! How can you?” “I 'liave a friend somewhere in this vicinity who can probably let me have some, but I must find him fiSSt, and it may take some time”’ “You mean that you intejud to pawn something—your watch, of course.” Again her tone was hard. She knew that~the watch bad been his father’s, and that lie valued it highly. “Well —that- would be a solution.” “On the contrary.” “But I shall not- lose the watch—and I can!t-let you sit in that hotel reception-room all night, even if the management would, which I doubt?’*"** We’ll try to find Sawyer and Mrs. P Knowles,' but, failing that, you must 'get home somehow; —don’t you see? j;—there is no other way.” 'He spoke * gently, persuasively, but his voice ~ was still irrepressibly vibrant, and the 1 girl’s face grew more inflexible with - a , each syllable. ;| “I cannot let you pawn your . watch.” The cold finality of her . manner chilled him. “There must 'be some other way. If I had only asked what theatre they were going to 1” || “Theatre! Are they going to the theatre?” |i “Yes. Didn’t I tell you?” “Then we have them! They’ll go to see ‘The Pink Paroquet.’ Sawyer’s , fancy for that piece amounts to an 1 obsession. That’s where we’ll find them!” | “Oh!” There was an awkward little pause, which, again, she broke, her voice flat and colorless. “Then, !'—l needn’t, trouble you further. You , havo been very kind. Thank you—• .and' good night.” |j “Please!” he begged. “You can’t i'go to the theatre alone.” I “I prefer to.” j “And you’ve had no dinnfier. Oh, I quite understand,” bitterly, as she made a quick, protesting gesture, “that you would not dine with me. But surely you’ll not me, as Sawyer’s friend l , to see, first, j that you have something to eat, and later, that you join his party safely I at the theatre?”

“I certainly shall not permit- you to pawn—anything—in order that I may dine.” Her lips were- very stiff. “Anyway, I don’t—need, -any dinner.”

“Pardon me, you do need dinner. At least, let- me lend you forty cent-s.” Against the heavy depression now settling upon him, lie strove to leaven his words with humor. “You can get something for that; soup -and -coffee—and perhaps even a pie. Who knows?” “And —you?” m Something .in her hesitation set his heart aleap, although he instantly reasoned that it w-as the result of her unwillingness to accept -a sacrifice from him. . He had learned his lesson well, and his head was not to be befooled, however his pulses might clamor. Still, he could not hold his voice quite steady. "Oh, I shall do very well. I shall find food —enough.” “Food for thought?” she swiftly questioned, in nervous effort to second his attempt at humor mid 1 give the conversation a lighter, more careless aspect, Then, to cover the impulsive suggestion, and the lack of poise that it- betrayed, she hurried on into further mazes, “Or -perhaps' you mean thought for food? At any rate,” hastily, “I -doubt if you would find it sustaining, and I certainly cannot deprive you of your last penny.” “Then let- me share my last penny with you 1 I mean,” looking away, lest he should.again encount-

er the icy displeasure of her glance, and eliminating from his tone all but Urn wAicitude any ganger might e-rimme * a similar oase, “will you OBfTnul (fee feaico for «m hour, 4ino ■ —or more Hap with me, and permit me f» »ke yot? to ttoo theatre t« meet yo«r ipioads,—or., failing that, to neo you •tfeiy homo?" He held his bmtli through the silence that ensue*!. When she finally spoke, it seemed' to Him that hor Voice rv as even colder and moro »oraoto than it had yot been, ‘‘As Air. Sawyer’s friend?" “As Mr, Sawyer's friend." It wa» a pledge. Another pause. Then she looked him full in the eyes, her own strangely alight, her head thrown a little bm-k. "

“Very well," she said, half defiantly. “I will.” Carrington** heart was in his throat, suffocating him. She saw him go white, and heard his one quick breath before he made himself say. Quietly: “Thank you. So far as 1 know, there is just one place in this neighborhood where we can get decent food for what, we have to pay. .Have yon ever been in one of Kydd's places P” “No.”

“There's one in the nest block. They are not fashionable —no one who known us will be there —hut they are good of their kind, and clean, — and they are cheap." “Tfc»n, by alt means, let’s go there.”

To Kydd’s. accordingly, they went, casually commenting on the street scenes about them, as might the veriest strangers they pretended to he. Once a witty comparison of his brought a quick, excited 1-aught from her .and once, in crossing the screot, touched her arm and winced inwardly as-she lustily withdrew from the contact, Nevertheless, when they entered the white-tiled res tan rant, a tinge of color crept into her cheeks and her eyes were defiant, while Carrington, in his role of Sawyer’s friend, had resolved ,o abandon himself to the joy of the moment’s companionship, giving no to,, thought to the doubly desolate morrow. W v . , They , found- places together near ... ./the back of the room, at a tablo where were already seated a fat woman whose -untidy toilet was crowned by a flaring hat with aggressive blue plumes, three tired-looking girls in black gowns and neat white collars and cuffs, a stolid youth jivat finishing his meal, and, opposite Jean, an elderly man from out whose deeply lined face shone eyes se. ruoly calm. Curious glances were directed from all sides towards the newcomers, whose manner no less than their raiment proclaimed them ; trayed from their accustomed environment.

Carrington spread before l hem, in li»n- of a. table-cloth, two tiny napkins .taken from a pile or the tincovered marble slab serving is a table, and took up the bill of fare, —framed, like a child’s slate in wood, —asking in his courtliest and most impersonal manner, “What may I order for you:" “Caviare,” said she, “and whitebait, -and —pheasant, 1 think. You may fill in the gaps.” Apparently she had left behind her mood of cold formality, and, in its place had come a hard sparkle and a ton© of gay, sardonic raillery. f'-' “I would suggest coffee,” gravely returned Carrington. “They serve it here, I see, in. generous and—or—substantial cups, for five cents.” “Oh, coffee, of course 1” “Tw» coffee. That’s ten cents, now —nro yon hungry?” “I —am. If you want to know the whole truth', I am ravenous!” “And yet, you- would havo gone without dinner 1” “Yes; but —I’m to have dinner, you know,” she suggested.

N " “True,” He returned to the study of the card in 'his hand. “Then—do you prefer oysters or steak?” “Let me see.” she looked over his shoulder. “I don’t want raw oysters —not at fifteen cents!—and, cooked, they cost far too much. What a remarkable price-list! Where’s the steak? Ok, we can’t afford that! It’s twenty-five cents 1” “You must have steak.” Carrington was acutely conscious of her use of the -firstr-pereon plural, and also of the derisive little smile playing about her lips, “I’m not at all hungry ” “Indeed, I’ll do nothing of the kind! You forget the terms of our agreement. We share this penny.” For a moment he wondered whether she could be deliberately tempting him, and found himself baffled by the light in her eyes Was it challenge or mockery? “Oh, are those desserts? Are there any within our means?” “Pies in season,” lie read. “ ‘Crullers, apple sauce chocolate eclairs, vanilla cornstarch’—oh yes, Jots of things for five cents.” “Delightful! I’ll have—what are Napoleons? . Or do you thing Bath buns sound more interesting?” “If that is your standard, I suggest vanilla cornstarch as probably affording the maximum of sensation —for the price.” “N-no, I’m not interested quite to that extent. I shall try Napoleons. It sounds so—F-renchy, don’t you think ?” ‘•"I trust you’ll not be forcibly reminded' that the Man of Destiny was a Corsican. What else will you have?” “Can we manage all this? Five cents for coffee, five cents for dessert, and —that leaves us only ten cants for the piece do resistance.” By this time the obvious disparity between their resources and their appearance had excited the undisguised and sympathetic interest of a) their table companions, with the ex ception- of the stolid youth, who noisily pushed back his eliair and departed. An immaculately whiteclad waitress paused behind them, but at a word from Carrington passed on. “Wo ought to save a tip for the girl,” said he. I’ll go without pie, and we’ll give- her five cents. 0 r —I’ll tell you I Here’s a side order of beans with any of the above for five cents. Now, you order the beans ,and we’ll give the girl the difference.” “Fie on your mathematics!” she retorted. “All ‘the above’ are very, very expensive. ‘Fried or broiled ham’ is the cheapest, and that is twenty cents. Beans would make it twent*4ive, and—you see? No, I want-Oh, here’s chicken salad! I’m devoted to— Oh!” with exaggerated disappointment-, “it s twentyj five cents, too,-and I did want chicken salad!” . ~ ' “Have -it, then,” recklessly- "« 11 manage somehow.”

“No,” sternly drawing hi her lips. “We can’t afford it!” ‘«*r POrnetl-beef hash.” “It’s fifteen cents!” “Yes, I know, —but it's 'browned in the pan.” "Well, I'll give »p Bonaparte and have hash." dancing up, she encountered tlu> ntLmiriitg and sympathetic gaze of aiderly man oppo tftoe. and hastily resumed, “Now,

are you going to have?” “the delight of my boyhood,— buckwheat cakes and maple syrup.” “And pie.” “No; the price of my pio goes i’o the waiter lady.”

Carrington gave the order, and heard it repented almost instantly to the cook. The elderly man leaned across tho table. "Broke?” ho asked, confidentially. “Yes,” said Carrington. “Flat.”

“I’ve been there.” The other nodled reminiscently, shrewdly adding, “Yon two ain’t used to it, though.” “No.” Carrington admitted ; “wo— I’m not. Not yet.” He shot a glance at Jean, expecting to find traces of annoyance in her fare, but she was regarding tho man with mocking eyes and an odd, wry little smiHo. A small steak, a tiny dish of French fried potatoes, and a plate of hot teabiscuits were placed before their neighbor.

“I wanted to tell you when you were ordering,” lie said, looking at Joan, “that you got potatoes aucT biscuits with steak. 1 thought, mobhe you didn’t know.” “No,” she replied. “I didn’t know. I’ve never been hero before.” “That so? Then I’m sorry I didn't toll you. But I didn’t just like to put it in that way. Some folks would not stand for it.” “It wouldn't have made any difference, anyway—to-night. ’ ’ “Oh!” said the man, comprehensively. He divided his smaill steak, with a queer, half-deprecating glance at the couple opposite, and put part of it carefully aside on the biscuitplate. “Oh, he then observed, “worse things might happen to you than just being broke. You know that, don’t you?” to Carrington. “Yes,” tho younger man returned, somewhat grimly, “I know that.” “’Taint real convenient—being broke,” continued the other, sagely smiling. “I guess mebbe you’re finding that out too. But you’re both young, and you’ve got each other, so, after all, what do you care?” “Obviously,” da id Jean, with a, hard littlle laugh, “we don’t care at all,”

“That’s right. Anybody can see you don't. You just make a joke of it, and go on having your good times together, anyhow. And that’s right, too, for then, whatever happens, nothing can ever take away from you the good times you have had.” “Nor tho. hard times, either,” she dryly supplemented. “Ola, I don’t know. When you’ve travelled a long way and look back, most of the hard times are like valleys in a picture. They sort n’ drop out o' sight, and it’s the good times that stand up and show. Now, when you’re on your feet again, you won’t chink much about how it hurt to fall clown, but you’ll remember that when tho two of you only had forty veins for your dinner, he wanted to spend twenty-five or thirty of .-it on you.” “Oh, undoubtedly 1 But you do him an injustice. He wanted to give mo the whole forty.”

“Well, there you are! There’s a pair of you, too, for I heard him say you wanted to go without dinner. And you,” he .turned to the now taciturn Carrington—“you won’t remember much -about the worry of it, once it’s over, but you’ll never forget that at the very worst dm toughed and made a joke of it all. And she wouldn’t take more than fier hali, either. She played fair. You*Tl never forget that.” “Our consideration for eacii other to-night is certainly touching,” cynically observed Jean, although a deep flush burned in her face. “But don’t you think, if we try hard, we may atone for.it Hater?”

For a moment he regarded her mildly, puzzled as much by tho tone as by the words. Then said he, simply '• • . . “I guess that’s one of your jokes, too, ain’t it? I ain’t just sure I know what you mean, but anybody can see with one eye that you two have got what money won’t buy—and, wliat a more, you both know it. And that s the kind o’ thing that gives a man courage to fight and win out —and you’ll do it, too.” “Perhaps,” said Carrington. Nothing in his whole encounter with Jean had so emphasized in his mind their changed relations as her ready acceptance of the role assigned hei by this stranger in the . bitter little comedy they were playing. He had expected to feel the barrier of her una-bated-anger, but her use of tho situation created by the guileless man across the table convinced him that she deliberately sought to wound him. “Oh, sure! You’re down oil your luck now, and I can see you’re blue, but. you can’t stay discouraged as long as you’ve got her. I know! I\o been there, too. And, anyhow, this ain’t real trouble you’ve got. . . . Is it?” lie asked, suddenly suspicious of bis own insight. “What do you call real trouble f parried the girl, perceiving that Carrington would have no part in the discussion.

“Oh, well, now! I suppose there’s as many kinds o’ trouble as there s kinds o’ people to make it. and nobody knows which kind wow'd be hardest for somebody else. I’ve bad a good many 'kinds myself, one time and another, but I never had any yet that got mo down and kept me down. But then.” though fully, “I’ve never had to stand disgrace—for myself or my boys. That must be hard!” Jean’s lips tightened and Carrington looked sternly into space. “And it’s always seemed to me that one ol the worst things for me to bear would bo to do a mean thing—a big mean thing —to somebody I—l cared for, you know, and then lose ’em before I could make up for it. That must be one of the hardest things there is, don’t you think so?” “Is it?” asked Jean, in a little, choked voice. The waitress brought their order and spread the dishes before them. “You haven’t brought me anv bread,” said Carrington. “Wo don’t give bread with cakes and syrup. Bread’s extra. Want some ?” “No. Never mind.” Before Joan could proffer part of liers, the mail opposite, glancing fmtivefiy at the three inattentive girls hi black, said, in an embarrassed undertone : “Say, young man. you—you take some of these biscuits. I aiir.t going

to oat nil of ’em, honest! And, aujrliow, I’vo go* » vih now, and t can buy moi'O ff I want '#n. Sure, take ’em I And 1 wish tam'd mu tho oilier half of this M, 100. You see, I put it off my pMfe because I thought I menu, bscunsc T wasn’t very hiinjfe.” Carrington flushed paittfelly. “No, thunk you,” said lie. “1 shall do very well with cakes and coll’eo.”

“No, you take it. My appotilo ain’t real good. to-night, and I’d halo to see good steak like that wasted.”

"Oli, take it 1" whispered Jean, looking with suddenly misted eyes from the car mist face to Carrington's clouded one, and the younger man, alter an instant's hesitation, perceived that, acceptance woufld he the only adequate return for such an oll’ou*

“’Hint's right! Us old fellows get when we don’t care so much about food, but 1 used to miss it a good deal when I was your age, and—-rations was sort o’ sh#rt, this way.” The fat woman had long since departed and now tho black-clad girls followed her, leaving the three alone at the, table. Tho crowd was clearing out, and the waitress put on the next, table a Cargo sign to tho effect that the back of the dining-room was closed, and looked significantly at the remaining trio. “You must have been having a run of bad luck,” nowobserved their neighbor, obviously dallying with . Ims food to prolong tho conversation. “I—have,” said Carrington, truthfully. “Let’s see, —what did you soy your trade was?” “I’m a lawyer.” “Oh—are you?” For an instant his surprise was tinged with suspicion. “I thought lawyers always— But mebbe you got hit hard, and lost everything at once?” After a moment’s hesitation, Carrington nodded, gloomily. “Say, that’s tough! Lose much?” Again the lawyer nodded. “That is tough! How did it happen?” “It happened,” said Jean, in a curiously vibrant tone, “because ho refused to he—bribed.” Carrington, who had been concocting a lie that should spare the illusions of the kindly and simple man across the table, heard the words and sat perfectly motionless, like one stunned, trying to determine what possible significance they could have, coming from her lips. “Oh I” exclaimed the other auditor, with new interest. “Mebbe you’re one of the felllows that’s been up against a big corporation.” “Something like that,” said the girl. “He was employed to investigate certain—abuses.” As Carrington turned swiftly, hie pulses pounding and in his eyes one burning question, she paled and shrank a little from him, but she- did not remove her steady gaze from the sympathetic, seamed face opposite. “Muck-raking, eh?” “Yes. And when he got into this case, he found that it involved the—the exposure of a friend—a very special friend of his. When this man and liis—associates—found out what was going to happen, they tried to stop tho investigation, and when that failed, they—they tried to —influence —”

“They tried to bribe—him?” Incredulously lie glanced at Carrington. “Not at first. They tried arguments —persuasion—threats —” “And they finally got him where they coufld squeeze him!” “Yes, —that’s what it 'amounted to.” <■- s “But’—had id c you ariy ..friends to stand by ; ’you? AVhpr© were his friends?” . '• “Jean!” breathed’ Carrington. “Jean!” * i She lifted her -handsW check him. “He had ono friend who could have helped him. Just one—a woman. He went to her and begged her to understand—but she wouldn’t. The man whom he had to attack was—was a relative of hers, and—” She hesitated a moment. “Oli, well! I guess nobody could expect her to go back on her own people 1” “She might at least have been honest, but she wasn’t! For when everything else had failed, it was she—this woman who might have saved him—who tried to bribe him.” “No! You don’t say!” The mu leaned his elbows on tho table, intent on the story. Carrington’s eyes blazed from a white face, and the girl continued,' j bitterfly: I “She offered him wliat she knew he wanted most in all the world, if ho would use his position and his power to- —to screen her relative. And when he refused, she discarded him. She sent him away. She said she hoped she might never see him again. And all the time she knew—down in her heart she knew perfectly well that lie was right and that her father was—” “He was more sinned against than sinning,” hoarsely interrupted Carrington. “He was old—and not very keen; he was a tool in the hands of a stronger mail. I tried to bring that ant.” Again she checked him with a gesture, refusing to meet his gaze, and by her own steady regard keeping him reminded of the listener across tlio table, to whom she spoke. The man was now looking from one to tho other, puzzled by evidences of a strong, uncharted undercurrent. “And when it was rtll over, she had to face—the truth. She had to realize what she had done and been “Never mind all that, Jean!” broke hoarsely .from Carrington. “Was there—nothing else?” “I say she had to face the truth about herself and—him.” She very pale now, and her trembling bands tightly gripped the cold marble. “Even then she might have saved bim—something, but site was a coward and proud.—and in the months since, she has never lilted an eyelash to help him—or to make reparation.” “That was pretty mean,” slowly commented tho mail opposite. “Pretty mean. Now you couldn’t do a thing (like that to save your life.” “No,” quickly interpolated Carrington, anticipating eonfesron, “she could not.”

Jean lifted her glance, which hail fallen, and her eyes were very sombre. “I did it once.” she said. “T in not You are mistaken about- me. I quarrelled with him, once, —because ho was stronger than I—-and for months I wouldn’t speak to him— nor see him—nor answer bis letters—although all the time I knew—” She faltered, her ebbing self-control further drained by t-lio intensity of Carrington’s gaze. “And then, one day, I had to speak to him about something,—and I was gllad. But even then I wouldn’t admit that there was

anything bigger or better than my pride—and I was angry because 1 was glad ; and I was lull’ll—and bilker —when 1 wasn’t flippant and silly, Hioi'aiiso—because I was so afraid lie woiJI fcoo—l jMMbcrntcJy hurt him—humiliated him—when 1 ought to have boon begging—” “No, no! Jean I Don’t !” “But you see, you ain’t liko tho other woman, after all,” said tho old man, gently, “and there’s no uso feeling had a limit it now, because in the end you made up for it. Didn’t she?” lie smiled at Carrington, “She’s making up for it—for everything—every instant!” The lawyer’s voice shook. “Of course she is I That’s wlmt I say. It’s worth losing a good deal —and bearing a, good doal —just to ho sum that now, whatever happens, slm will stick to you to the end.” “Yes,” said Carrington; “and you will, —won’t you Jean?” Sin) let him see deep into her eyes for an instant, as she answered tremulously: “To the very end.” Tlie tunu across the table nodded. “I know,” said he. “My wife was liko that, too. Well,” with a change of tone, “I guess they’re going to shut this place up in a few minutes, and we’d better be going. But see here, young man, I want you to take this.” Ho slipped a linlf-doffiar across tho table to Carrington, “ ’Tnin’t much, but I can it, and I’d hato to think that mebbe you two didn’t have any breakfast.” The younger man needed no prompting this time, nor was it posiblo to mistake tho sincerity of his gratitude as ho accepted the coin. “Thank you. Will you give me your name and address, please ?„ I shall pay you back in a lew days. “My name is John King, and I’m working for the Baker and Lcdgett Company; but there’s no burry, you know. I can «*wro it.” “1 understand, but 1 shall look you up soon. I don’t want to lose sight of you; and I hope the time may come tofien I can do as much for you as you have done for me to-night-hut it never wKl!” The other’s eyes widened in astonishment, “Ale?” Oh, you mean the steak and biscuits!!” He laughed genially. “I guess you never were broke before! A’ou can pay that hack to some other Fellow who’s in the same fix some day. That’ll" be all right. When they had parted from John King, Carrington said: “And now, clear, shall we go up to the theatre and borrow money from Jim Sawyer to get home on?” “Ob no! I don’t want to see peo-ple-vet.” she said, a little catch in her "voice. “Let’s-det’s go and pawn your watch!’