r get it," Edgar remarked. "I've a notion
it would be a dangerous thing to trust even a Northwest policeman with.
You're not all quite perfect yet."

Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered the letters and
eagerly opened the one from Sylvia. It consisted of a few sentences in
which she carelessly told him that if he came over he would not see
her, as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel. The hint of
regret that her journey could not be put off looked merely
conventional, but she said he might make his visit in the early summer,
as she would have returned by then.

George's face hardened as he read it, for the disappointment was
severe. He thought that Sylvia might have remembered that he could not
leave the farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded and, for
once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic faith, which idealized
its object, was bound to bring him suffering when dispelled by
disillusion; offering sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he
had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation was quick and
generous, he must believe in what he admired, and it was, perhaps, a
misfortune that he was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical
good-humor. He could distinguish white from black--the one stood for
spotless purity, the other was very dark indeed--but his somewhat
restricted vision took no account of the more common intermediate
shades.

For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming Sylvia. Her letter
had hurt him, but he began to make excuses for her, and several that
seemed satisfactory presented themselves; then, feeling a little
comforted, he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety. When
he read it, he let it drop upon the table and set his lips tight. His
cousin informed him that it would be most injudicious to raise any
money just then by selling shares, as he had been requested to do.
Those he had bought on George's account had depreciated in an
unexpected manner and the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must
carry on his farming operations as economically as possible, until the
turn came.

"Bad news?" said Edgar sympathetically.

"Yes. I'll have to cut out several plans I'd made for spring; in fact,
I don't quite see how I'm to go on working on a profitable scale.
We'll have to do without the extra bunch of stock I was calculating on;
and I'm not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening wheat.
There are a numbe