rtunately cared not
at all for the hugely expensive pomp of the life of the rich; if he had,
he would have hopelessly involved himself, as after all he was not a
money-grubber but a lawyer. But when there appeared anything for which
he did care, he was ready to bid for it like the richest of the rich.

Therefore the investment of a few thousand dollars seemed a small matter
to him. He had many a time tossed away far more for far less. He did not
dole out the sum he had agreed to provide. He paid it into the Jersey
City bank to the credit of the Chemical Research Company and informed
its secretary and treasurer that she could draw freely against it. "If
you will read the by-laws of the company," said he, "you will see that
you've the right to spend exactly as you see fit. When the money runs
low, let me know."

"I'll be very careful," said Dorothea Hallowell, secretary and
treasurer.

"That's precisely what we don't want," replied he. He glanced round the
tiny parlor of the cottage. "We want everything to be run in first-class
shape. That's the only way to get results. First of all, you must take a
proper house--a good-sized one, with large grounds--room for building
your father a proper laboratory."

Her dazed and dazzled expression delighted him.

"And you must live better. You must keep at least two servants."

"But we can't afford it."

"Your father has five thousand a year. You have fifteen hundred. That
makes sixty-five hundred. The rent of the house and the wages and keep
of the servants are a charge against the corporation. So, you can well
afford to make yourselves comfortable."

"I haven't got used to the idea as yet," said Dorothea. "Yes--we _are_
better off than we were."

"And you must live better. I want you to get some clothes--and things of
that sort."

She shrank within herself and sat quiet, her gaze fixed upon her hands
lying limp in her lap.

"There is no reason why your father shouldn't be made absolutely
comfortable and happy. That's the way to get the best results from a man
of his sort."

She faded on toward the self-effacing blank he had first known.

"Think it out, Dorothy," he said in his frankest, kindliest way. "You'll
see I'm right."

"No," she said.

"No? What does that mean?"

"I've an instinct against it," replied she. "I'd rather father and I
kept on as we are."

"But that's impossible. You've no right to live in this small, cramping
way. You must broaden out and