oney into Cyprian's palm.

Several kind strangers helped Adela into the open air.

"It's the crush and the heat," said one sympathiser to another; "it's
enough to turn anyone giddy."

When she next came across Cyprian he was standing in the crowd that
pushed and jostled around the counters of the book department. The dream
look was deeper than ever in his eyes. He had just sold two books of
devotion to an elderly Canon.

THE QUINCE TREE

"I've just been to see old Betsy Mullen," announced Vera to her aunt,
Mrs. Bebberly Cumble; "she seems in rather a bad way about her rent. She
owes about fifteen weeks of it, and says she doesn't know where any of it
is to come from."

"Betsy Mullen always is in difficulties with her rent, and the more
people help her with it the less she troubles about it," said the aunt.
"I certainly am not going to assist her any more. The fact is, she will
have to go into a smaller and cheaper cottage; there are several to be
had at the other end of the village for half the rent that she is paying,
or supposed to be paying, now. I told her a year ago that she ought to
move."

"But she wouldn't get such a nice garden anywhere else," protested Vera,
"and there's such a jolly quince tree in the corner. I don't suppose
there's another quince tree in the whole parish. And she never makes any
quince jam; I think to have a quince tree and not to make quince jam
shows such strength of character. Oh, she can't possibly move away from
that garden."

"When one is sixteen," said Mrs. Bebberly Cumble severely, "one talks of
things being impossible which are merely uncongenial. It is not only
possible but it is desirable that Betsy Mullen should move into smaller
quarters; she has scarcely enough furniture to fill that big cottage."

"As far as value goes," said Vera after a short pause, "there is more in
Betsy's cottage than in any other house for miles round."

"Nonsense," said the aunt; "she parted with whatever old china ware she
had long ago."

"I'm not talking about anything that belongs to Betsy herself," said Vera
darkly; "but, of course, you don't know what I know, and I don't suppose
I ought to tell you."

"You must tell me at once," exclaimed the aunt, her senses leaping into
alertness like those of a terrier suddenly exchanging a bored drowsiness
for the lively anticipation of an immediate rat hunt.

"I'm perfectly certain that I oughtn't to tell you anything about it,