will get you what you want
half so surely."

"Well, why not do it? Why not?" A fresh, glad courage sparkled in the
wife's eyes.

"Why, Mary," said John, "I never in my life tried so hard to do anything
else as I've tried to do that! It sounds easy; but try it! You can't
conceive how hard it is till you try it. I can't _do_ it! I _can't_ do
it!"

"_I'd_ do it!" cried Mary. Her face shone. "_I'd_ do it! You'd see if I
didn't! Why, John"--

"All right!" exclaimed he; "you sha'n't talk that way to me for nothing.
I'll try it again! I'll begin to-day!"

"Good-by," he said. He reached an arm over one of her shoulders and
around under the other and drew her up on tiptoe. She threw both hers
about his neck. A long kiss--then a short one.

"John, something tells me we're near the end of our troubles."

John laughed grimly. "Ristofalo was to get back to the city to-day:
maybe he's going to put us out of our misery. There are two ways for
troubles to end." He walked away as he spoke. As he passed under the
window in the alley, its sash was thrown up and Mary leaned out on her
elbows.

"John!"

"Well?"

They looked into each other's eyes with the quiet pleasure of tried
lovers, and were silent a moment. She leaned a little farther down, and
said, softly:--

"You mustn't mind what I said just now."

"Why, what did you say?"

"That if it were I, I'd do it. I know you can do anything I can do, and
a hundred better things besides."

He lifted his hand to her cheek. "We'll see," he whispered. She drew in,
and he moved on.

Morning passed. Noon came. From horizon to horizon the sky was one
unbroken blue. The sun spread its bright, hot rays down upon the town
and far beyond, ripening the distant, countless fields of the great
delta, which by and by were to empty their abundance into the city's lap
for the employment, the nourishing, the clothing of thousands. But in
the dusty streets, along the ill-kept fences and shadowless walls of the
quiet districts, and on the glaring facades and heated pavements of the
commercial quarters, it seemed only as though the slowly retreating
summer struck with the fury of a wounded Amazon. Richling was soon
dust-covered and weary. He had gone his round. There were not many men
whom he could even propose to haunt. He had been to all of them. Dr.
Sevier was not one. "Not to-day," said Richling.

"It all depends on the way it's done," he said to himself; "it needn't
degrade a man if i