elivered on the follies of clerkship; but to Hazel
they would only indicate recklessness and dissatisfaction. And, too,
Bill did take a drink frequently; in fact, Evan suspected that he made
a night of it occasionally to "drown his sorrow."

"Hazel," he said seriously, "Bill is one of the finest fellows I ever
worked with. I'm sure he's honest and true. He hates Castle and
Castle hates him: that's something to his credit--but it may keep him
back in the bank. But he'll never be false to a friend or a girl, I'm
sure of that."

The girl in the canoe looked wistfully at Nelson. "Somehow I wish you
were working in the same office with him. I always felt as though you
were--a solid sort of a chap, Evan."

The last few words were accompanied by a little laugh, to counteract
the suspicion of flattery that clung to them. But for that feminine
interpretation Evan might not have so fully appreciated her meaning.
He got a suggestion from her words: would it not be a good idea to
write Bill and tell him of the evening spent with Hazel? It might give
the slaving city-teller new vim for the eternity of figures and
celibacy before him.

On Sunday Evan did write to Watson. He described Saturday's pleasure
excursions with Hazel, dwelling on the enjoyment it gave himself and
upon the sincerity with which she spoke of "Billy." Evan meant the
letter to appeal. He knew that Bill knew him and would not resent
perfect candor, when properly mixed with the right brand of sympathy.
He thought, as he wrote, of the peculiar independence of character and
cynicism of Watson; the combined traits amounting almost to
recklessness. But he could not conceive of Bill's going wrong. He
reflected that Hazel must love Bill, in spite of her fear that he was
weak, and wondered at the tenderness of woman. Why was she so little
considered in this world of business?

The Morton girl's companionship, quite naturally, took Nelson back to
Mt. Alban, and Mt. Alban was only a few miles from Hometon and Frankie.
He did not consider it likely that Julia Watersea or Lily Allen were
still thinking of him; but he sighed when a vision of Frankie, with
blue skirt and cheap white waist like Hazel's, rose before him. He
wrote her a letter, the first in months, wishing her well, but saying
nothing of love. A dollar a day with board wasn't much, truly, to
apply against the great debit of matrimony, and why mention love at all
if it could not be consummated?