!" said Carmen. "You'd better keep
an eye on him, Rodney; he'll be giving your money to that theological
seminary in Alabama."

"That reminds me," Henderson said, cooling down, "of a paragraph in
The Planet, the other day, about the amount of my gifts unknown to the
public. I showed it to Uncle Jerry, and he said, 'Yes, I mentioned it to
the editor; such things don't do any harm.'"

"I saw it, and wondered who started it," Carmen replied, wrinkling her
brows as if she had been a good deal perplexed about it.

"I thought," said Henderson, with a smile, "that it ought to be
explained to you."

"No," she said, reflectively; "you are liberal enough, goodness
knows--too liberal--but you are not a flat."

Henderson was in the habit of dropping in at the Eschelles'
occasionally, when he wanted to talk freely. He had no need to wear a
mask with Carmen. Her moral sense was tolerant and elastic, and feminine
sympathy of this sort is a grateful cushion. She admired Henderson,
without thinking any too well of the world in general, and she admired
him for the qualities that were most conformable to his inclination. It
was no case of hero-worship, to be sure, nor for tragedy; but then what
a satisfaction it must be to sweet Lady Macbeth, coiled up on her sofa,
to feel that the thane of Cawdor has some nerve!

The Hendersons had come back to Washington Square late in the autumn. It
is a merciful provision that one has an orderly and well-appointed home
to return to from the fatigues of the country. Margaret, at any rate,
was a little tired with the multiform excitements of her summer, and
experienced a feeling of relief when she crossed her own threshold and
entered into the freedom and quiet of her home. She was able to shut
the door there even against the solicitations of nature and against
the weariness of it also. How quiet it was in the square in those late
autumn days, and yet not lifeless by any means! Indeed, it seemed all
the more a haven because the roar of the great city environed it, and
one could feel, without being disturbed by, the active pulsation of
human life. And then, if one has sentiment, is there anywhere that it is
more ministered to than in the city at the close of the year? The trees
in the little park grow red and yellow and brown, the leaves fall and
swirl and drift in windrows by the paths, the flower-beds flame forth in
the last dying splendor of their color; the children, chasing each
other with ho