t."

"How long has this happened, Jessie?" said Christie, taking her hand,
with a white but calm face.

"Nearly ever since we've been here, I suppose. It must be so, for he
says poor papa is still hopeful of doing something yet."

"And Mr. Munroe writes to you?" said Christie abstractedly.

"Of course," said Jessie quickly. "He feels interested in--us."

"Nobody tells ME anything," said Christie.

"Didn't--"

"No," said Christie bitterly.

"What on earth DID you talk about? But people don't confide in you
because they're afraid of you. You're so--"

"So what?"

"So gently patronizing, and so 'I-don't-suppose-you-can-help-it,
poor-thing,' in your general style," said Jessie, kissing her. "There!
I only wish I was like you. What do you say if we write to father that
we'll go back to Devil's Ford? Mr. Munroe thinks we will be of service
there just now. If the men are dissatisfied, and think we're spending
money--"

"I'm afraid Mr. Munroe is hardly a disinterested adviser. At least, I
don't think it would look quite decent for you to fly back without your
father, at his suggestion," said Christie coldly. "He is not the only
partner. We are spending no money. Besides, we have engaged to go to Mr.
Prince's again next week."

"As you like, dear," said Jessie, turning away to hide a faint smile.

Nevertheless, when they returned from their visit to Mr. Prince's, and
one or two uneventful rides, Christie looked grave. It was only a few
days later that Jessie burst upon her one morning.

"You were saying that nobody ever tells you anything. Well, here's your
chance. Whiskey Dick is below."

"Whiskey Dick?" repeated Christie. "What does he want?"

"YOU, love. Who else? You know he always scorns me as not being
high-toned and elegant enough for his social confidences. He asked for
you only."

With an uneasy sense of some impending revelation, Christie descended to
the drawing-room. As she opened the door, a strong flavor of that toilet
soap and eau de Cologne with which Whiskey Dick was in the habit of
gracefully effacing the traces of dissipation made known his presence.
In spite of a new suit of clothes, whose pristine folds refused to
adapt themselves entirely to the contour of his figure, he was somewhat
subdued by the unexpected elegance of the drawing-room of Christie's
host. But a glance at Christie's sad but gracious face quickly reassured
him. Taking from his hat a three-cornered parcel, he unfolded a