y it is; I
never did any real good with money. I'm going to see what a man can do
to help his fellows with his bare hands. I want to help, not with
money, but just to be some account on earth without money. And so
yesterday I cleaned up the whole deal forever."

He paused to let it sink in. Finally Jeanette asked, "And are we poor,
father--poor?"

"Well, my dear," he expanded, "your grandmother Barclay has always
owned this house. An Omaha syndicate owns the mill. I own $5,000 in
bank stock, and the boy who marries you for your money right now is
going to get badly left."

"You aren't fooling me, are you, John?" asked his mother as she rose
from her chair.

"No, mother," answered the son, "I've got rid of every dirty dollar I
have on earth. The bank stock I bought with the money the Citizens'
Committee subscribed to pay me for winning the county-seat lawsuit. As
near as I can figure it out, that was about the last clean money I
ever earned."

The mother walked toward her son, and leaned over and kissed him again
and again as she sobbed: "Oh, John, I am so happy to-night--so
happy."

In a moment he asked, "Well, Jeanette, what do you think of it?"

"You know what I think, father--you know very well, don't you?"

He sighed and nodded his head. Then he reached for the package on the
floor and began cutting the strings. The bundle burst open and the
stock of the National Provisions Company, issued only in
fifty-thousand-dollar and one-hundred-thousand-dollar shares, littered
the floor.

"Now," cried Barclay, as he stood looking at the litter, "now, Molly,
here's what I want you to do: Burn it up--burn it up," he cried. "It
has burned the joy out of your life, Molly--burn it up! I have fought
it all out to-day on the river--but I can't quite do that. Burn it
up--for God's sake, Molly, burn it up."

When the white ashes had risen up the chimney, he put on another log.
"This is our last extravagance for some time, girls--but we'll
celebrate to-night," he cried. "You haven't a little elderberry wine,
have you, mother?" he asked. "Riley says that's the stuff for little
boys with curvature of the spine--and I'll tell you it put several
kinks in mine to watch that burn."

And so they sat for an hour talking of old times while the fire
burned. But Molly Brownwell's mind was not in the performance that
John Barclay had staged. She could see nothing but the package lying
on her cloak in the girl's room upstairs. So sh