been brought up in one of those small, dull country towns in
which all too many of the cleanly, white, God-fearing houses have no
home in them for a boy and his friends.

"If Lawson had had money, everybody would have thought he was all
right," he asserted shortly. "Perhaps we'd better be going home; it
looks as if there was a shower coming up. Money makes a lot of
difference in this world, Miss Dosia."

"I suppose it does; I've never had it," said Dosia simply.

"Maybe you'll have it some day," returned Mr. Sutton significantly.
His pale eyes glowed down at her as they walked back along the road
together, but the fact was not unpleasant to her; Lawson's name had
created a new bond between them. Poor, storm-beaten Dosia felt a warm
throb of friendship for George. He sympathized with Lawson; _he_
prized her highly, if nobody else did, and he was not ashamed to show
it. He went on now with genuine emotion: "I know one thing; if--if I
had a wife, she'd never have to wish twice for anything I could give
her, Miss Dosia."

"She ought to care a good deal for you, then," suggested Dosia,
picking her way daintily along the steeply sloping path, her little
black ties finding a foothold between the stones, with Mr. Sutton's
hand ever on the watch to interpose supportingly at her elbow.

"No, I wouldn't ask that; I'd only ask her to let me care for _her_. I
think most men expect too much from their wives," said George. "I
don't think they've got the right to ask it. And I don't think a man
has any right to marry until he can give the lady all she ought to
have--that's my idea! If any beautiful young lady, as sweet as she was
beautiful, did me the honor of accepting my hand,"--Mr. Sutton's voice
faltered with honest emotion,--"I'd spend my life trying to make her
happy; I would indeed, Miss Dosia. I'd take her wherever she wanted to
go, as far as my means would afford; she should have anything I could
get for her."

"I think you are the very kindest man I have ever known," said Dosia,
with sincerity, touched by his earnestness, though with a far-off,
outside sort of feeling that the whole thing was happening in a book.
Her vivid imagination was alluringly at work. In many novels which she
had read the real hero was the other man, whom no one noticed at
first, and who seemed to be prosaic, even uncouth and stupid, when
confronted with his fascinating rival, yet who turned out to be
permanently true and unselfish and omniscien