al, as the Scribe has duly
set forth. He got his inheritance, of course. Don't we all get ours?
Sometimes it skips a generation--some times two--but generally we are
wearing the old gentleman's suit of clothes cut down to fit our
small bodies, making believe all the time that they are our very own,
unconscious of the discerning eyes who recognize their cut and origin.

Nothing tangible, it is safe to say, came with Garry's share of the
estate--and he got it all. That is, nothing he could exchange for value
received--no houses or lots, or stocks or bonds. It was the INTANGIBLE
that proved his richest possession, viz.:--a certain buoyancy of
spirits; a cheery, optimistic view of life; a winning personality and
the power of both making and holding friends. With this came another
asset--the willingness to take chances, and still a third--an absolute
belief in his luck. Down at the bottom of the box littered with old
papers, unpaid tax bills and protested notes--all valueless--was
a fourth which his father used to fish out when every other asset
failed--a certain confidence in the turn of a card.

But the virtues and the peccadilloes of their ancestors, we may be sure,
were not interesting, our two young men as they swung up the Avenue
arm in arm, this particular afternoon, the sidewalks crowded with the
fashion of the day, the roadway blocked with carriages. Nor did any
passing objects occupy their attention.

Garry's mind was on Corinne, and what he would tell her, and how she
would look as she listened, the pretty head tucked on one side, her
sparkling eyes drinking in every word of his story, although he knew she
wouldn't believe one-half of it. Elusive and irritating as she sometimes
was, there was really nobody exactly like Miss Corinne.

Jack's mind had resumed its normal tone. Garry's merry laugh and
good-natured ridicule had helped, so had the discovery that none of his
friends had had anything to do with Gilbert's fall. After all, he said
to himself, as he strode up the street beside his friend, it was "none
of his funeral," none of his business, really. Such things went on every
day and in every part of the world. Neither was it his Uncle Arthur's.
That was the most comforting part of all.

Corinne's voice calling over the banisters: "Is that you, Jack?" met the
two young men as they handed their hats to the noiseless Frederick. Both
craned their necks and caught sight of the Wren's head framed by the
hand-ra