ozen times what it is worth."

"Yes. He does not count money when he has set his heart upon anything.
And you refused?"

"Yes."

"But Nellie Dean says the town also wished to buy and you refused its
offer, too."

"Yes."

"You don't seem to care for money, either, Mr. Paine. Are all Cape Cod
people so unmercenary? Or is it that you all have money enough--. . .
Pardon me. That was impolite. I spoke without thinking."

"Oh, never mind. I am not sensitive--on that point, at least."

"But I do mind. And I am sorry I said it. And I should like to
understand. I see why the townspeople do not want the Lane closed. But
you have not lived here always. Only a few years, so Miss Dean says.
She said, too, that that Mr. Taylor, the cashier, was almost the only
intimate friend you have made since you came. Others would like to be
friendly, but you will not permit them to be. And, yet for these
people, mere acquaintances, you are sacrificing what Father would call a
profitable deal."

"Not altogether for them. I can't explain my feeling exactly. I know
only that to sell them out and make money--and heaven knows I need
money--at their expense seems to me dead wrong."

"Then why don't you sell to THEM?"

"I don't know. Unless it was because to refuse your father's offer and
accept a lower one seemed a mean trick, too. And I won't be bullied into
selling to anyone. I guess that is it, as much as anything."

"My! how stubborn you must be."

"I don't know why I have preached this sermon to you, Miss Colton, your
sympathies in the fight are with your father, naturally."

"Oh, no, they are not."

I almost dropped the rod.

"Not--with--" I repeated.

"Not altogether. They are with you, just at present. If you had sold--if
you had given in to Father, feeling as you do, I should not have any
sympathy with you at all. As it is--"

"As it is?" I asked eagerly--too eagerly. I should have done better to
pretend indifference.

"As it is," she answered, lightly, "I respect you as I would any sincere
fighter for a losing cause. And I shall probably feel some sympathy
for you after the cause is lost. Excuse my breaking in on your sermon,
provided it is not finished, but--I think you have a bite, Mr. Paine."

I had, very much of a bite. The minnow on my hook had been forgotten and
allowed to sink to the bottom, and a big pout had swallowed it, along
with the hook and a section of line. I dragged the creature out of the
water and