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r get it," Edgar remarked. "I've a notion it would be a dangerous thing to trust even a Northwest policeman with. You're not all quite perfect yet." Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered the letters and eagerly opened the one from Sylvia. It consisted of a few sentences in which she carelessly told him that if he came over he would not see her, as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel. The hint of regret that her journey could not be put off looked merely conventional, but she said he might make his visit in the early summer, as she would have returned by then. George's face hardened as he read it, for the disappointment was severe. He thought that Sylvia might have remembered that he could not leave the farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded and, for once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic faith, which idealized its object, was bound to bring him suffering when dispelled by disillusion; offering sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation was quick and generous, he must believe in what he admired, and it was, perhaps, a misfortune that he was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical good-humor. He could distinguish white from black--the one stood for spotless purity, the other was very dark indeed--but his somewhat restricted vision took no account of the more common intermediate shades. For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming Sylvia. Her letter had hurt him, but he began to make excuses for her, and several that seemed satisfactory presented themselves; then, feeling a little comforted, he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety. When he read it, he let it drop upon the table and set his lips tight. His cousin informed him that it would be most injudicious to raise any money just then by selling shares, as he had been requested to do. Those he had bought on George's account had depreciated in an unexpected manner and the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must carry on his farming operations as economically as possible, until the turn came. "Bad news?" said Edgar sympathetically. "Yes. I'll have to cut out several plans I'd made for spring; in fact, I don't quite see how I'm to go on working on a profitable scale. We'll have to do without the extra bunch of stock I was calculating on; and I'm not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening wheat. There are a numbe
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