r; you send to the shop at the corner and buy
another. In the country--Jack's country, I mean--miles from a store, you
borrow your neighbor's, who promptly borrows your saucepan in return.
And it was so in larger matters: the old Chippendale desk with its
secret drawer was often the bank--the only one, perhaps, in a week's
journey. It is astonishing in these days to think how many dingy,
tattered or torn bank-notes were fished out of these same receptacles
and handed over to a neighbor with the customary--"With the greatest
pleasure, my dear sir. When you can sell your corn or hogs, or that
mortgage is paid off, you can return it." A man who was able to lend,
and who still refused to lend, to a friend in his adversity, was a
pariah. He had committed the unpardonable sin. And the last drop of the
best Madeira went the same way and with equal graciousness!

Peter, at Jack's knock, opened the door himself. Isaac Cohen had just
come in to show him a new book, and Peter supposed some one from the
shop below had sent upstairs for him.

"Oh! it's you, my boy!" Peter cried in his hearty way, his arms around
Jack's shoulders as he drew him inside the room. Then something in the
boy's face checked him, bringing to mind the tragedy. "Yes, I read it
all in the papers," he exclaimed in a sympathetic voice. "Terrible,
isn't it! Poor Minott. How are his wife and the poor little baby--and
dear Ruth. The funeral is to-morrow I see by the papers. Yes, of course
I'm going." As he spoke he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.

"Are you ill, my boy?" he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to a
seat on the sofa. "You look terribly worn."

"We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter," Jack replied with a glance at
Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.

"Yes--but not you. Out with it! Isaac doesn't count. Anything you can
tell me you can tell him. What's the matter?--is it Ruth?"

Jack's face cleared. "No, she is lovely, and sent you her dearest love."

"Then it's your work up in the valley?"

"No--we begin in a month. Everything's ready--or will be."

"Oh! I see, it's the loss of Minott. Oh, yes, I understand it all now.
Forgive me, Jack. I did not remember how intimate you and he were once.
Yes, it is a dreadful thing to lose a friend. Poor boy!"

"No--it's not that altogether, Uncle Peter."

He could not tell him. The dear old gentleman was ignorant of everything
regarding Garry and his affairs, except that he