erything I have in the world to him. Since he has retired, sold his
works to a trust, I think they call it, his whole life seems to be to
look after me. Pittsburgh isn't much of a place for a man who has no
business; so we thought we should try New York for a while, and we
bought the house last spring and spent the summer in Bar Harbor. Now
we are just settling down."

I was hardly listening as she spoke, for my mind was occupied by Rufus
Blight. He had reason and justice on his side. That much I
surrendered to him, but I clung obstinately to my dislike. I thought
of the Professor flying over the clearing to the hiding of the
mountains; I remembered him in the college hall, with his bitter words
pointing the way from which his own weakness held him back, the man
whose imagination ranged so far while his hands were idle. I pictured
his brother grown fat and happy at the trough of gold at which he fed,
and even had I not felt a personal feud with Rufus Blight, my sympathy
for the under-dog must have aroused my antipathy. But I hated him for
my own sake. For every foolish step that I had taken since that day
when he had carried Penelope away the fault seemed to have been his as
much as mine, and yet I was wise enough to see that if I would hold
Penelope's regard it would be very rash to show by word or deed that I
nursed any resentment.

"For your sake I will, Penelope," I said.

So soft and satisfied was the smile with which she rewarded me that I
vowed to myself that I really would forgive my old archenemy. A moment
before it had been on my lips to speak of my confiscated letters, for I
had no doubt that Rufus Blight had intercepted them. Now I realized
that in them was a mine which I might fire only to shatter our
new-found friendship. That treachery, too, I said, I should forgive.
When Penelope set the light to the fuse, I with rare presence of mind
stamped out the flames and prevented a disaster.

We had passed Fiftieth Street, and I was telling her of my last visit
home, of my father and mother, of Mr. Pound, and of all the friends of
our younger days, when she suddenly turned to me. It was as though the
question had for some time been hanging on her lips. "David, why did
you never answer the letters I wrote you?"

"Because." I was playing for time. To carry out my plan of silence,
it seemed that I must deceive her, and I hesitated to tell her an
untruth.

"Because why?" she insisted.

"Becau