the room----" says Gertrude.

"I believe I am still capable of attending to my own affairs," is the
lofty rejoinder.

Marcia, with her head full of coming events, waylays Floyd on his
return that morning.

"I want some money," she says, with a kind of infantile gayety. "I have
bills and bills; their name is legion."

"How much?" he asks, briefly.

"I think--you may as well give me a thousand dollars," in a rather
slow, considering tone.

He looks at her in surprise.

"Well," and she tosses her head, setting the short curls in a flutter,
"is a thousand dollars so large a sum?"

"You had better think before spending it," he answers, gravely. "You
will then have four thousand left."

"It is my own money."

"I know it is. But, Marcia, you all act as if there was to be no end to
it. If you should get all your part, the ten thousand, it would be only
a small sum and easily spent. What do you want to do with so much just
now?"

"I told you I had bills to pay," she says, pettishly, "and dresses to
get." Then she lights upon what seems to her a withering sarcasm. "I
have no one to take me to Madame Vauban's and pay no end of bills. If I
bought dresses like that when I had no need of them and was not in
society----"

"Hush, Marcia!" he commands, "you shall have your money. Spend it as
you like," and he strides through the hall. He has been sorely tried
with Eugene, who will _not_ interest himself in work, and has been
indulging in numerous extravagances; and business has not improved,
though everything in the factory goes smoothly.

Violet is in Cecil's room, teaching her some dainty bits of French. She
looks up with a bright smile and a blush, the color ripples over her
face so quickly. His is so grave. If she only had the courage to go and
put her arms about his neck and inquire into the trouble. She is so
intensely sympathetic, so generous in all her moods.

He has come home to take her to drive. It is such a soft,
Indian-summery day, with the air full of scents and sounds, but all the
pleasure has gone out of it now for him.

"Papa, listen to me," says Cecil, with her pretty imperiousness. "I can
talk to mamma in real French."

He smiles languidly and listens. If a man should lose his all, this
dainty, dimpled little creature playing at motherhood could set a
table, sweep a house, make her children's clothes and perhaps keep
cheerful through it. Was there ever any such woman, or is he dreaming?

He go