saw a loophole. "You don't think I'm going to take
praise for what belongs to _you_, do you?" he demanded.

"Why--"

"No, sir!" said Mr. Mix. "Not exactly. I'm going to tell the truth
about it at our next meeting, and I'm going to send a statement to the
_Herald_."

"Oh, it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. Maybe I'm too finicky, but that's the kind of man I
am."

"You're too generous," she murmured.

Mr. Mix wiped away a stray bead of perspiration, and breathed more
freely. With Mirabelle's money to back him, and the stigma of those
two pamphlets removed, perhaps he had a fighting chance for the
mayoralty yet.

* * * * *

It was a house-wedding, with very few guests, no decorations, and
perfectly digestible refreshments. When the last of the party had
gone down the steps, Mirabelle, in a travelling-suit which was new in
comparison with the rest of her wardrobe, approached the bridegroom.

"Theodore, I want you to have your gift before we start. I don't want
you to feel too dependent on me. Maybe after next month I'll make some
kind of a settlement on you, but that's neither here nor there. So ...
take it, and I hope it's what you wanted."

He took it, and his fingers trembled. A check? And for what generous
amount?

"_Well_--aren't you going to thank me?"

Mr. Mix tried to speak, but the lump in his throat prevented him. She
had given him what was the legal equivalent of five thousand dollars,
but it wasn't in the form of a check. It was his own demand note,
payable to John Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mirabelle. The
word "Cancelled" was written, in Mirabelle's angular hand, across the
face of it.

CHAPTER XIV

As Henry and his wife went down the steps, they exchanged glances and
smiled faintly. "First time I've been in that house for seven months,"
said Henry, half to himself. "It's a bully old shack, too. I lived in
it ever since I was six."

"Still, we're pretty comfortable right where we are, dear."

Henry lagged a little. "That _does_ hurt my feelings. Of course, I'm
so busy I could live in a dog-kennel and hardly notice it, but when
_you_ have to camp day in and day out in that measly little joint, and
smell everybody else's corned beef and cabbage, and dig like a
general-housework girl and cook, and manicure the stove, and peel the
potatoes and dust off the what-not and so on--not that you haven't
made it a mighty pretty place, b