too, for it's a good paper. Even Rogers is sick of it now; he'd sell
for a song. I'd borrow the money and buy it if it weren't for the
presses; I'd have to have new presses. Everything here is in pretty
good shape," he finished, with an air of changing the subject.

"And what would new presses cost?" Sidney Burgoyne persisted, pausing
on the big main stairway, as they were leaving the house a few minutes
later.

"Oh, I don't know." Barry opened the front door again, and they stepped
out to the porch. "Altogether," he said vaguely, snapping dead twigs
from the heavy unpruned growth of the rose vines, "altogether, I
wouldn't go into it without ten thousand. Five for the new presses,
say, and four to Rogers for the business and good-will, and something
to run on--although," Barry interrupted himself with a vehemence that
surprised her, "although I'll bet that the old Mail would be paying her
own rent and salaries within two months. The Dispatch doesn't amount to
much, and the Star is a regular back number!" He stood staring gloomily
down at the roofs of the village; Mrs. Burgoyne, a little tired, had
seated herself on the top step.

"I wish, in all seriousness, you'd tell me about it," she said. "I am
really interested. If I buy this place, it will mean that we come here
to stay for years perhaps, and I have some money I want to invest here.
I had thought of real estate, but it needn't necessarily be that. It
sounds to me as if you really ought to make an effort to buy the paper,
Barry, Have you thought of getting anyone to go into it with you?"

The man laughed, perhaps a little embarrassed.

"Never here, really. I went to Walter Pratt about it once," he
admitted, "but he said he was all tied up. Some of the fellows down in
San Francisco might have come in--but Lord! I don't want to settle
here; I hate this place."

"But why do you hate it?" Her honest eyes met his in surprise and
reproof. "I can't understand it, perhaps because I've thought of Santa
Paloma as a sort of Mecca for so many years myself. My visit here was
the sweetest and simplest experience I ever had in my life. You see I
had a wretchedly artificial childhood; I used to read of country homes
and big families and good times in books, but I was an only child, and
even then my life was spoiled by senseless formalities and conventions.
I've remembered all these years the simple gowns Mrs. Holly used to
wear here, and the way she played with us, and the