"It may be for them, but it does not console me much just now."

"But you don't make allowance enough for the rich. Perhaps they are
under a necessity of doing something. I was reading this morning in the
diary of old John Ward of Stratford-on-Avon this sentence: 'It was a
saying of Navisson, a lawyer, that no man could be valiant unless he
hazarded his body, nor rich unless he hazarded his soul.'"

"Was Navisson a modern lawyer?" I asked.

"No; the diary is dated 1648-1679."

"I thought so."

There was a little laugh at this, and the talk drifted off into a
consideration of the kind of conscience that enables a professional man
to espouse a cause he knows to be wrong as zealously as one he knows to
be right; a talk that I should not have remembered at all, except for
Margaret's earnestness in insisting that she did not see how a lawyer
could take up the dishonest side.

Before Margaret went to Lenox, Henderson spent a few days with us.
He brought with him the abounding cheerfulness, and the air of a
prosperous, smiling world, that attended him in all circumstances. And
how happy Margaret was! They went over every foot of the ground on which
their brief courtship had taken place, and Heaven knows what joy there
was to her in reviving all the tenderness and all the fear of it! Busy
as Henderson was, pursued by hourly telegrams and letters, we could
not but be gratified that his attention to her was that of a lover. How
could it be otherwise, when all the promise of the girl was realized
in the bloom and the exquisite susceptibility of the woman? Among other
things, she dragged him down to her mission in the city, to which he
went in a laughing and bantering mood. When he had gone away, Margaret
ran over to my wife, bringing in her hand a slip of paper.

"See that!" she cried, her eyes dancing with pleasure. It was a check
for a thousand dollars. "That will refurnish the mission from top to
bottom," she said, "and run it for a year."

"How generous he is!" cried my wife. Margaret did not reply, but she
looked at the check, and there were tears in her eyes.

XV

The Arbuser cottage at Lenox was really a magnificent villa. Richardson
had built it. At a distance it had the appearance of a mediaeval
structure, with its low doorways, picturesque gables, and steep roofs,
and in its situation on a gentle swell of green turf backed by native
forest-trees it imparted to the landscape an ancestral tone which is