oes, and then I guess some
way will be opened."

Then there came over Andrew's exaltation, to which Fanny's words had
spurred his flagging spirit, a damper of utter mortification and
guilt. He felt that he could bear this no longer. He opened his
mouth to tell her what he had done with the money in the bank, when
there came a knock on the door, and Fanny fled into the bedroom. She
had unfastened her dress, and her face was stained with tears. She
shut the bedroom door tightly as Andrew opened the outer one.

The man who had loaned him the money to buy Ellen's watch stood
there. His name was William Evarts, and he worked in the
stitching-room of McGuire's factory, in which Andrew was employed.
He was reported well-to-do, and to have amassed considerable money
from judicious expenditures of his savings, and to be strictly
honest, but hard in his dealings. He was regarded with a covert
disfavor by his fellow-workmen, as if he were one of themselves who
had somehow elevated himself to a superior height by virtue of their
backs. If William Evarts had acquired prosperity through gambling in
mines, they would have had none of that feeling; they would have
recognized the legitimacy of luck in the conduct of affairs. He was
in a way a reproach to them. "Why can't you get along and save as
well as William Evarts?" many a man's monitor asked of him. "He
doesn't earn any more than you do, and has had as many expenses in
his family." The man not being able to answer the question to his
own credit, disliked William Evarts who had instigated it.

Andrew, who had in his character a vein of sterling justice, yet
felt that he almost hated William Evarts as he stood there before
him, small and spare, snapping as it were with energy like electric
wires, the strong lines in his clean-shaven face evident in the
glare of the street-lamp.

"Good-evening," Andrew said, and he spoke like a criminal before a
judge, and at that moment he felt like one.

"Good-evening," responded the other man. Then he added, in a hushed
voice at first, for he had fineness to appreciate a sort of
indecency in dunning, in asking a man for even his rightful due, and
he had a regard for possible listening ears of femininity, "I was
passing by, and I thought I'd call and see if it was convenient for
you to pay me that money."

"I'm sorry," Andrew responded, with utter subjection. He looked and
felt ignoble. "I haven't got it, Evarts."

"When are you going to