begin to look about you for things
to help--I mean hospitals and charities, and all that. The only time
when I envy great wealth is when I see some wrong which money can right.
Mr. Fordyce is a lawyer, but not a very famous one--he's only
twenty-eight; and while we are likely to have all we really need, we
can't begin to do what we'd like to do for others. I suppose Mrs.
Congdon has told you of us?"

"Where do you live?"

"We live in Chester, but Mr. Fordyce has an office in Philadelphia. We
have been engaged a long time, but I couldn't think of marrying while I
was so ill. I'm afraid I stayed so long that not even this climate can
help me."

This was indeed Bertha's conviction, and her untactful silence said as
much. Therefore, Alice hastened on to other more general topics. She was
very sprightly, but Bertha maintained a determined silence through it
all, quite unable to understand the girl's confidences.

When the men came out Alice took Haney to herself, and they seemed to
enjoy each other's society very keenly; indeed, their mutual absorption
became so complete that Ben remarked upon it to Bertha. "Miss Heath has
been crazy to meet your husband, Mrs. Haney. His adventurous life
appeals to her, as to me, very deeply. We don't mean to be offensive,
but to us you seem typical of the West."

What he said at this time made less impression on her than the way in
which he spoke. The light of an electric street-lamp fell upon his face,
revealing its charming lines. On his fine hand a ring gleamed. Autumn
insects were singing sleepily in the grass and from the trees. The
laughter of girls came from the dusk of neighboring lawns, and over all
descended the magical light of a harvest moon, flecking the surface of
the little garden with shadows almost as definite as those cast by the
flaming white globes of the street-lamps. It is on such nights that the
heart of youth expands with longing and sadness.

Crego and Congdon fell into hot argument (their usual method of
conversation), leaving the young people to themselves, and, Ben with
intent to provoke the grave little wife to laughter, told a funny story
which reflected on Congdon's improvidence.

Bertha was really grateful, for she felt herself at a great disadvantage
among these fluent and interesting folk, who talked like the characters
in novels. Their jests, their comment, meant little to her; but their
gestures, their graceful attitudes, their courtesies to each