." Changing his tone, he went on almost coaxingly: "Surely,
Paula, you realize what is at stake! There is no time to be lost. The
cable announcing your father's death reached you five days ago.
According to his instructions the old will was not to be opened until
three weeks after his demise. That will give us just time to reach New
York before the old will is offered for probate. Don't you see the
danger of delay? A large fortune awaits you. If you don't go to America
and claim it, you may lose it all. Can't you be ready?"

The girl's pale face flushed with anger. Hotly she said:

"I can't go until my work is done. You lawyers are all alike--only the
material, sordid things of life have any weight with you. I think more
of my work than of all the money in the world--you know that. Why must I
go to America? To be compelled to meet and be pleasant to relatives who
at this moment are unaware of my very existence, and who will have every
reason to detest me and consider me an interloper. I hate America. What
has America ever done for me? It robbed me all these years of a father
who, had he seen more of his only child, might have learned to love me.
Its severe climate killed my mother, and, when she went, I was
alone--without even a friend."

"Have you forgotten me?" he interrupted quietly.

Quick to remark the note of reproach in his voice, she held out her
hand:

"Forgive me," she murmured. "It is most ungrateful of me to talk like
that. Yes--you are indeed my friend. I shall never be able to repay all
that you have done for me. Forgive me. This sudden terrible news from
America has unnerved me. I'm all unstrung. Don't mind what I say. I'll
go to New York if you think it necessary, but my work--what of my work?"

"Your work?" he echoed gravely. "Haven't you other work left undone in
New York? Work more important than that you are now doing?"

"What work?"

"Your Settlement work--have you forgotten those poor people in the slums
who each day looked forward to your coming as if you were an angel sent
from Heaven to dry their tears and bid them not despair? Has it not
occurred to you during these past few days what God might wish you to do
with the large fortune your father has left you? You are so different to
most women. You are not vain, selfish, preoccupied only with foolish,
trivial pleasures. At least I think you are not. I like to imagine that
you are one of those noble women who would not hesitate to devote h