tiously and looked at it.

"I've got two dollars," he said, "and no prospect of getting any more.
Even Matt can't make two dollars last long."

The latch of the side gate clicked and the gate opened. Presently Uncle
Matt appeared round the rose-bushes. He had his market basket on his arm
and wore a thoughtful countenance.

"Uncle Matt!" Rupert called out to him. "I wish you would come here."

Notwithstanding his darkling moods, he was in a subtle way singularly
like Delia Vanuxem. He needed love and tenderness, and he was boy enough
yet to be unhappy and desolate through lack of them, though without quite
knowing why. He knew Uncle Matt loved him, and the affectionate care the
old man surrounded him with was like a warm robe wrapped about a creature
suffering from chill. He had not analyzed his feeling himself; he only
knew that he liked to hear his footsteps as he pottered about the house,
and when he was at his dreariest, he was glad to see him come in, and to
talk a little to him.

Uncle Matt came towards him briskly. He set his basket down and took off
his hat.

"Marse Rupert," he said, "dis hyer's a pow'fle scorcher of a mawnin'. Dem
young lawyers as shets up dey office an' comes home to lie in de grass in
de shade, dey is follerin' up dey perfession in de profitablest
way--what'll be likely to bring 'em de mos' clients, 'cause, sho's yo'
bawn, dere's sunstroke an' 'cussion or de brain just lopin' roun' dis
town--en a little hot brick office ain't no place for a young man what
got any dispect fur his next birfday. Dat's so."

"I haven't much respect for mine," said Rupert; "I've had twenty-two too
many--just twenty-two."

"'Scusin' me sayin' it, sah, but dat ain't no way ter talk. A man boun'
to have some dispect for his birfday--he _boun'_ to! Birfdays gotter be
took keer on. Whar's a man when he runs out of 'em?"

"He'd better run out of them before he runs out of everything else," said
Rupert. "Matt, I've just made two dollars this month."

He looked at the old man with a restless appeal in his big, deer-like
eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Matt," he said, "I'm terribly sorry, but you know--we
can't go on."

Uncle Matthew looked down at the grass with a reflective air.

"Marse Rupert, did you never heah nothin' 'bout your Uncle Marse Thomas
De Willoughby?"

Rupert was silent a moment before he answered, but it was not because he
required time to search his memory.

"Yes," he said, and then was silent