k of an old woman now, but ten dollars would be a
fortune." Silence fell upon them. Then:

"Charity is commanded," he proceeded, "but out of the hands of authority
it is a difficult and treacherous virtue. The people are without
comprehension," he made a gesture of contempt.

"With age," the deliberate voice went on, "the soul grows restless and
moves in strange directions, struggling to throw off the burden of flesh.
But I that know tell you," Merlier paused at the door, "the charity of
material benevolence, of gold, will cure no spiritual sores; for spirit is
eternal, but the flesh is only so much dung." He stopped abruptly,
coughed, as though he had carried his utterance beyond propriety. "The
Nickles," he repeated somberly, "are worthless; they make trouble in my
parish; with money they make more."

XI

The year, in the immemorial, minute shifting of season, grew brittle and
cold; the dusk fell sooner and night lingered late into morning.

William Vibard moved with his accordion from the porch to beside the
kitchen stove. He was in the throes of a new piece, McGinty, and Gordon
Makimmon was correspondingly surprised when, as he was intent upon some
papers, Rose's husband voluntarily relinquished his instrument, and sat in
the room with him.

"What's the matter," Gordon indifferently inquired; "is she busted?"

William Vibard indignantly repudiated that possibility. A wave of purpose
rose to the long, corrugated countenance, but sank, without finding
expression in speech. Finally Gordon heard Rose calling her husband. That
young man twitched in his chair, but he made no other move, no answer. Her
voice rose again, sharp and urgent, and Gordon observed:

"Your wife's a-calling."

"I heard her, but I'd ruther sit right where I am."

She appeared in the doorway, flushed and angry.

"William," she commanded, "you come straight out here to the kitchen. I
got a question for you."

"I'll stay just where I am for a spell," he replied, avoiding her gaze.

"You do as I tell you right off."

A stubborn expression settled over his face and shoulders. He made her no
further reply. Rose's anger gathered in a tempest that she tried in vain
to restrain.

"William," she demanded, "where is it? It's gone, you know what."

"I ain't seen it," he answered finally; "I really ain't, Rose."

"That's a story, only you knew. Come out here."

"Get along," Gordon interrupted testily. "How can I figure in this
ructi