re'n once," was Dorinda's comment.

"Now, Dorinda, what kind of talk is that? Wouldn't have time to whistle?
You do say more things without any sense to 'em! Just talk to hear
yourself, I cal'late. What are you grinnin' at, Roscoe?"

"I can't imagine, Lute. This clam pie is a triumph. May I have another
helping, Dorinda?"

Dorinda did not answer, but the second helping was a liberal one. She
was so quiet and the glances she gave me from time to time were so odd
that I began to feel uneasy. I was fairly sure that she approved of my
new venture, but why did she look at me like that?

"Well," said I, looking at my watch and rising, "what do you think of
it? Am I doing right?"

Lute leaned back in his chair. "There's consider'ble to be said on that
subject," he announced. "Work, as a general thing, I consider all right;
I've told you that afore. But when it comes to--"

"What do you think, Dorinda?" I interrupted.

Dorinda stirred her tea.

"Think?" she repeated. "I think . . . When's that Colton girl comin' to
call on Comfort again?"

I had taken my hat from the hook. Now, with it in my hand, I turned and
faced her.

"How should I know that?" I demanded. "That's a trifle off the subject,
isn't it?"

"Um-hm," said Dorinda. "Maybe 'tis."

I went out hurriedly.

Within the week I was at home in my new position. The strangeness of
regular hours and regular employment wore away with surprising rapidity.
There were, of course, mornings when sea and sky and the freshness of
outdoors tempted me and I wondered whether or not I had been foolish
to give up my fine and easy life. But these periods of temptation were
shorter and less frequent as I became more and more familiar with my
duties and with the routine of the bank. I found myself taking a greater
interest in the institution and, to my astonishment, I was actually
sorry when Saturday came. It seemed odd enough to once more have money
in my pocket which I had earned. It was not a great amount, of course,
but I felt it to be mine. Yes, there was no doubt about it, I had done
the right thing, and was glad. I was grateful to Taylor for having given
me the opportunity. Perhaps I should have been grateful to the person
whose brutal and impertinent frankness had piqued me into grasping that
opportunity, but I was not.

She made her second call upon Mother two days after our impromptu picnic
at Seabury's Pond. I heard all about it when I came home that afternoon.
It