in a barouche."

He added, in response to the enquiry of her lifted brows: "Barouche?
That's what we'd call in England a landau."

She stood with a foot upon the fender, her tired, passive face inclined
meditatively, her rusty old black gown drawn back by one hand from the
snapping sparks. "No," she said, slowly, joyless resignation mingling
with pride in her voice. "I was born here over the shop."

"Well, good God! so was I," he commented, lustily. "But that's no reason
why I shouldn't wind up in Park Lane--or you either."

She had nothing to say to this, apparently. After a little, she seated
herself again, drawing her chair closer to the hearth. "It's years since
I've lit this fire before the first of November," she remarked, with the
air of defending the action to herself.

"Oh, we're celebrating," he said, rubbing his hands over the reluctant
blaze. "Everything goes, tonight!"

Her face, as she looked up at him, betrayed the bewilderment of her
mind. "You set out to tell me what it was all about," she reminded him.
"You see I'm completely in the dark. I only hear you say that you've
made a great fortune. That's all I know. Or perhaps you've told me as
much as you care to."

"Why, not at all," he reassured her, pulling his own chair toward him
with his foot, and sprawling into it with a grunt of relief. "If you'll
draw me a glass of that beer of yours, I'll tell you all about it. It's
not a thing for everybody to know, not to be breathed to a human being,
for that matter--but you'll enjoy it, and it'll be safe enough with
you."

As she rose, and moved toward a door, he called merrily after her: "No
more beer when that keg runs dry, you know. Nothing but champagne!"

CHAPTER III

THORPE took a long, thoughtful pull at the beer his sister brought him.

"Ah, I didn't know I was so thirsty," he said, when he put the glass
down. "Truth is--I've lost track of myself altogether since--since the
big thing happened. I seem to be somebody else--a comparative stranger,
so to speak. I've got to get acquainted with myself, all over again. You
can't imagine what an extraordinary feeling it is--this being hit every
few minutes with the recollection that you're worth half a million.
It's like being struck over the head. It knocks you down. There are such
thousands of things to do--you dance about, all of a flutter. You don't
know where to begin."

"Begin where you left off," suggested Louisa. "You were going