ight find the girl and confess to her, for he
felt, beyond doubt, that it would give her joy.

He believed this, not because he wanted to believe it, but because he
felt the truth of it, and presently it gave him courage.

But there was Cameron!

Finally Raymond discovered that his business was suffering. He grew
indifferent to the exact hour of leaving his office; took no pride in
his well-regulated habits. He began to dislike Cameron and he dreamed of
Nancy. Day and night he saw her as the safe and sweet solution of all
that was best in him. She held sacred what his inheritance reverenced;
she was human and divine; she was his salvation--or Cameron's.

At this point Mrs. Tweksbury gave him an unlooked-for stab.

"Well!" she remarked with a groan--she never sighed, "I guess Clive
Cameron has got in at the death!"

She looked gruesome and defeated. Raymond grew hot and cold.

"What do you mean?" he asked, and glared shamelessly.

"I mean," Mrs. Tweksbury confronted Raymond as if repudiating him
forever, "I mean that you've let the chance of your life slip through
your fingers and fall into the gaping mouth of that Clive Cameron. It's
disgusting, nothing less!"

"Aunt Emily! What in thunder do you mean? Nancy Thornton has only been
here a month; if she's so easily gobbled"--the discussion waxed
crude--"I'm sure I could not prevent it--I'm not a gobbler."

"No--you're a fool!"

"Come, come, Aunt Emily." Raymond flushed and Mrs. Tweksbury grew
mahogany-tinted.

"Oh! I know"--two tears--they were like solid balls--rolled down the
deep red cheeks. Almost it seemed that they would make a noise when they
landed on the expansive bosom.--"I sound brutal, but I'm the female of
the species and it hurts to know defeat the--the second time."

"The--second--time?" gasped Raymond.

"Yes--your father! I could--oh! Ken, it is no shame to say it to
you--but I could have made him happy, but it came, the chance, too late.
Then when you came I pledged my soul that I would try to secure your
happiness. I know what you want, need, and deserve, and here is this
perfect child--the one woman for you, snatched from under your nose by
Clive Cameron who will--" Emily Tweksbury sought for a figure of
speech--"who will, without doubt, end in dissecting her!"

"Good Lord!" gasped Raymond. The dramatic choice of words was unnerving
him.

"Oh! you men," spluttered Mrs. Tweksbury. "You make me weary--disgusted;
you're no more fit to m