which reduce existence to a matter of
food and a roof, the ceaseless anxiety destroying every vestige of
personal charm, the necessity of asking for loans that both borrower
and lender know to be gifts--grudgingly given--accepted in mingled
bitterness and relief--Helen Dunbar had seen it all. The pictures which
rose before her were real. In her nervous state she imagined herself
some day envying even Mae Smith, who at least had health and
irrepressible spirits.

But there must be no more tears, she told herself at last. They were a
confession of weakness, they dissipated courage; and the handkerchief
which had been a moist ball dried in her hot hand. She said aloud to her
flushed reflection in the glass:

"Well," determinedly, "I've never thought myself a coward and I won't
act like one now. There's been many a thousand before me gone through
this experience without whining and I guess I can do the same. Until I'm
a sure enough down-and-outer I'll do the best I can. I must find a
cheaper room and buy an oil-stove. Ugh! the first step on the down
grade."

There was a rap upon the door and she lowered the shade a little so that
the bell-boy with her evening paper should not see her reddened eyes.
Instead of the paper he carried a long pasteboard box.

Flowers? How extraordinary--perhaps Peters; no, not Peters, as she read
the name of a side street florist on the box, he was not to be suspected
of any such economy as that. Roses--a dozen--a little too full blown to
last very long but lovely. T. Victor Sprudell's card fell out as she
took them from the box.

XIII

"OFF HIS RANGE"

Bruce stood before the blackboard in the Bartlesville station studying
the schedule. A train went west at 11.45. The first train went east at
11.10. He hesitated a moment, then the expression of uncertainty upon
his face hardened into decision. He turned quickly and bought a ticket
east. If Sprudell had lied he was going to find it out.

As he sat by the car window watching the smug, white farm-houses and big
red barns of the middle west fly by, their dull respectability, their
commonplace prosperity vaguely depressed him. What if he should be
sentenced for life to walk up to his front door between two rows of
whitewashed rocks, to live surrounded by a picket fence, and to die
behind a pair of neat green blinds? But mostly his thoughts were a
jumble of Sprudell, of his insincere cordiality and the unexpected
denouement when Abe