s clenched as though to do battle at
her behest.

"Mine's a wasted life; for years everything has seemed futile. I'm glad
you spoke to me. I need to be brought up short."

Nan nodded. This was not a debatable question; undeniably he did need to
be brought up with a sharp turn. It was in her mind that perhaps she had
said enough; but she wished to make sure of it.

"Nobody can touch you at your best; it's your best that you've got to
put into the struggle. It mustn't be said of you that you neglect
business, and even refuse cases; and they do say that of you."

"I've grown careless and indifferent," he confessed; "but it's time for
me to wake up. I can't see Phil heading for the poorhouse and that's
where we're going."

"No doubt of it!" she assented. "Phil's aunts complain of you, and say
that if you won't care for her you ought to turn her over to them.
That's funny, on one side, and on the other it isn't. There's a good
deal to support their attitude. Phil's needs are those of a girl ready
to meet the world, and she will need money. And I've noticed that money
is a shy commodity; it doesn't just come rolling uphill to anybody's
doorstep."

Kirkwood knew perfectly well the elusiveness of money; it seemed less
so now from Nan's way of stating the fact. When one needed a dollar one
should go and find it; this was clearly Miss Nan's philosophy, and in
her own affairs he knew that she had demonstrated its efficacy.

He lowered his voice as though about to touch upon a matter even more
confidential than any that had engaged their attention. It was evidently
something wholly pleasant that he wished to speak of; his eye brightened
and his face flushed slightly. The look he bent upon her was of
unmistakable liking.

"'The Gray Knight of Picardy' is booming. I saw a stack of him at
Crosby's to-day: half a dozen people have asked me if I read it. It was
put out so late in the spring that it's astonishing how it's carried
through the summer. Some of the papers are just reviewing it--and the
more deliberate journals are praising it. And when we were speaking of
money matters a bit ago, I clean forgot that I have a check from the
publisher that I'm going to hand you now."

He drew from his pocket a draft which she took eagerly and glanced at.

It was for two thousand dollars, payable to Nancy Bartlett. Nan slipped
it quickly into the drawer of her sewing-table. As she drew her hand
away, he caught and held it an instant