or and yet not impoverish the child herself?" "We'll have an
Italian class and a Greek. And there are others, you know, Poles,
Armenians, Syrians. We'll manage as many as we can."

They sat down to planning classes and hours, and Jeffrey, looking on,
noted how keen the two girls were, how intent and direct. They balked at
money. If the classes were for the poor, they proposed giving their time
as Miss Amabel gave her house. But she disposed of that with a
conclusive gravity, and a touch, Jeffrey was amused to see, of the
Addington manner. Miss Amabel was pure Addington in all her unconsidered
impulses. She wanted to give, not to receive. Yet if you reminded her
that giving was the prouder part, she would vacate her ground of
privilege with a perfect simplicity sweet to see. When she got up
Jeffrey rose with her, and though he took the hand she offered him, he
said:

"I'm going along with you."

And they were presently out in Addington streets, walking together
almost as it might have been when they walked from Sunday school and she
was "teacher ". He began on her at once.

"Amabel, dear, what are you running with Weedon Moore for?"

She was using her parasol for a cane, and now, in instinctive
remonstrance, she struck it the more forcibly on the sidewalk and had to
stop and pull it out from a worn space between the bricks.

"I'm glad you spoke of Weedon," she said. "It's giving me a chance to
say some things myself. You know, Jeffrey, you're very unjust to
Weedon."

"No, I'm not," said Jeff.

"Alston Choate is, too."

"Choate and I know him, better than you or any other woman can in a
thousand years."

"You think he's the same man he was in college."

"Fellows like Moore don't change. There's something inherently rotten in
'em you can't sweeten out."

"Jeffrey, I assure you he has changed. He's a power for good. And when
he gets his nomination, he'll be more of a power yet."

"Nomination. For what?"

"Mayor."

"Weedon Moore mayor of this town? Why, the cub! We'll duck him, Choate
and I." They were climbing the rise to her red brick house, large and
beautiful and kindly. It really looked much like Miss Amabel herself, a
little unkempt, but generous and belonging to an older time. They went
in and Jeffrey, while she took off her bonnet and gloves, stood looking
about him in the landscape-papered hall.

"Go into the east room, dear," said she. "Why, Jeff, what is it?"

He was standing still, looking