im; he'll be right out."

Molly was standing by the fire. "What are you going to say, John?" she
asked.

"Oh, I don't know. There'll be enough for me to say, I suppose," he
replied, as he looked at the floor.

She gave him her hand, and they stood for a minute looking back into
their lives. They walked together toward the door, but at the
threshold their eyes met and each saw tears, and they parted without
words.

Neal Ward found Barclay prodding the fire, and the gray little man,
red-faced from his task, limped toward the tall, handsome youth, and
led him to a chair. Barclay stood for a time with his back to the
fire, and his head down, and in the silence he seemed to try to speak
several times before the right words came. Then he exclaimed:

"Neal, I was wrong--dead wrong--and I've been too proud and mean all
this time--to say so."

Neal stared open-eyed at Barclay and moistened his lips before
language came to him. Finally he said: "Well, Mr. Barclay--that's all
right. I never blamed you. You needn't have bothered about--that is,
to tell me."

Barclay gazed at the young man abstractedly for a minute that seemed
interminable, and then broke out, "Damn it, Neal, I can't propose to
you--but that's about what I've got you out here to-night for."

He laughed nervously, but the young face showed his obtuseness, and
John Barclay having broken the ice in his own heart put his hands in
his pockets and threw back his head and roared, and then cried
merrily: "All we need now is a chorus in fluffy skirts and an
orchestra with me coming down in front singing, 'Will you be my
son-in-law?' for it to be real comic opera."

The young man's heart gave such a bound of joy that it flashed in his
face, and the father, seeing it, was thrilled with happiness. So he
limped over to Neal's chair and stood beaming down upon the
embarrassed young fellow.

"But, Mr. Barclay--" the boy found voice, "I don't know--the
money--it bothers me."

And John Barclay again threw his head back and roared, and then they
talked it all out. He told Neal the story of his year's work. It was
midnight when they heard the telephone ringing, and Barclay, curled up
like an old gray cat in his chair before the fire, said for old times'
sake, "Neal, go see who is ringing up at this unholy hour."

And while Neal Ward steps to the telephone, let us go upstairs on one
last journey with our astral bodies and discover what Jeanette is
doing. After Molly's