he little white box in her
hands.

"_He_ left it for me," she said. "What can it be?"

Her brother snatched it impatiently.

"Why don't you open it and find out?" he demanded. "Perhaps it's his
latch key. Here! I'll do it myself."

He cut the cord and removed the cover of the little box. Inside was the
jeweler's leather case. He took it out and pressed the spring. The cover
flew up.

"Whew!" he whistled. "It's a present. And rather a decent one, too, by
gad! Look, Caro!"

He handed her the open case. She looked at the chain, spread carefully
on the white satin lining. Inside the cover was fitted a card. She
turned it over and read: "To my niece, Caroline. With wishes for many
happy returns, and much love, from her Uncle Elisha Warren."

She sat gazing at the card. Stephen bent down, read the inscription,
and then looked up into her face.

"_What_?" he cried. "I believe--You're not _crying_! Well, I'll be
hanged! Sis, you _are_ a fool!"

* * * * *

The weather that morning was fine and clear. James Pearson, standing
by the window of his rooms at the boarding house, looking out at the
snow-covered roofs sparkling in the sun, was miserable. When he retired
the night before it was with a solemn oath to forget Caroline Warren
altogether; to put her and her father and the young cad, her brother,
utterly from his mind, never to be thought of again. As a preliminary
step in this direction, he began, the moment his head touched the
pillow, to review, for the fiftieth time, the humiliating scene in the
library, to think of things he should have said, and--worse than all--to
recall, word for word, the things she had said to him. In this cheerful
occupation he passed hours before falling asleep. And, when he woke, it
was to begin all over again.

Why--_why_ had he been so weak as to yield to Captain Elisha's advice?
Why had he not acted like a sensible, self-respecting man, done what he
knew was right, and persisted in his refusal to visit the Warrens? Why?
Because he was an idiot, of course--a hopeless idiot, who had got
exactly what he deserved! Which bit of philosophy did not help make his
reflections less bitter.

He went down to breakfast when the bell rang, but his appetite was
missing, and he replied only in monosyllables to the remarks addressed
to him by his fellow boarders. Mrs. Hepton, the landlady, noticed the
change.

"You not ill, Mr. Pearson, I hope?" she queried. "I d