hdraw their proposals should they change their minds. It may be
stated, however, that they had no temptation to do so. Times rapidly
grew worse instead of better.

But Keith had occasion to know how sound was Squire Rawson's judgment
when, a little later, another of the recurrent waves of depression swept
over the country, and several banks in New Leeds went down, among them
the bank in which old Rawson had had his money. The old man came up to
town to remind Keith of his wisdom.

"Well, what do you think of brass and credulity now?" he demanded.

"Let me know when you begin to prophesy against me," said Keith,
laughing.

"'Tain't no prophecy. It's jest plain sense. Some folks has it and some
hasn't. When sense tells you a thing, hold on to it.

"Well, you jest go ahead and git things in shape, and don't bother about
me. No use bein' in a hurry, neither. I have observed that when times
gits bad, they generally gits worse. It's sorter like a fever; you've
got to wait for the crisis and jest kind o' nurse 'em along. But I don't
reckon that coal is goin' to run away. It has been there some time,
accordin' to what that young man used to say, and if it was worth what
they gin for it a few years ago, it's goin' to be worth more a few years
hence. When a wheel keeps turnin', the bottom's got to come up sometime,
and if we can stick we'll be there. I think you and I make a pretty good
team. You let me furnish the ideas and you do the work, and we'll come
out ahead o' some o' these Yankees yet. Jest hold your horses; keep
things in good shape, and be ready to start when the horn blows. It's
goin' to blow sometime."

* * * * *

The clouds that had begun to rest in Norman Wentworth's eyes and the
lines that had written themselves in his face were not those of business
alone. Fate had brought him care of a deeper and sadder kind. Though
Keith did not know it till later, the little rift within the lute, that
he had felt, but had not understood, that first evening when he dined at
Norman's house, had widened, and Norman's life was beginning to be
overcast with the saddest of all clouds. Miss Abigail's keen intuition
had discovered the flaw. Mrs. Wentworth had fallen a victim to her
folly. Love of pleasure, love of admiration, love of display, had become
a part of Mrs. Wentworth's life, and she was beginning to reap the
fruits of her ambition.

For a time it was mighty amusing to her. To shop al