ltered his mind, or, worse still, had his old obstinacy again
taken possession of him, hardening his heart so that he would never
relent? And so, with his mind as checkered as the shadow-flecked path on
which they stepped, he pursued his way beneath the wide-spreading trees.

When the two had crossed the street St. George's eye rested upon a group
on the sidewalk of the club. The summer weather generally emptied
the coffee-room of most of its habitues, sending many of them to the
easy-chairs on the sprinkled pavement, one or two tipped back against
the trees, or to the balconies and front steps. With his arm in Harry's
he passed from one coterie to another in the hope that he might catch
some word which would be interesting enough to induce him to fill one
of the chairs, even for a brief half-hour, but nothing reached his
ears except politics and crops, and he cared for neither. Harding--the
pessimist of the club--a man who always had a grievance (and this time
with reason, for the money stringency was becoming more acute every
day), tried to beguile him into a seat beside him, but he shook
his head. He knew all about Harding, and wanted none of his kind of
talk--certainly not to-day.

"Think of it!" he had heard the growler say to Judge Pancoast as he was
about to pass his chair--"the Patapsco won't give me a cent to move my
crops, and I hear all the others are in the same fix. You can't get a
dollar on a house and lot except at a frightful rate of interest. I tell
you everything is going to ruin. How the devil do you get on without
money, Temple?" He was spread out in his seat, his legs apart, his fat
face turned up, his small fox eyes fixed on St. George.

"I don't get on," remarked St. George with a dry smile. He was still
standing. "Why do you ask?" Money rarely troubled St. George; such small
sums as he possessed were hived in this same Patapsco Bank, but the
cashier had never refused to honor one of his checks as long as he had
any money in their vaults, and he didn't think they would begin now.
"Queer question for you to ask, Harding" (and a trifle underbred, he
thought, one's private affairs not being generally discussed at a club).
"Why does it interest you?"

"Well, you always say you despise money and yet you seem happy and
contented, well dressed, well groomed"--here he wheeled St.
George around to look at his back--"yes, got on one of your London
coats--Hello, Harry!--glad to see you," and he held out h