rned no bridges behind me, but merely filled my spare hours with
writing and with showing it to Ethel."

"It was now that the second area of perturbation of my life came to me.
I say the second, because the first had been the recent dawning belief
that Ethel thought about me when I was not there to remind her of
myself. This idea had stirred--but you will understand. And now, what
was my proper, my honourable course? It was a positive relief that at
this crisis she went to Florida. I could think more quietly. My writing
had come to be quite often accepted, sometimes even solicited. Should I
speak to her, and ask her to wait until I could put a decent roof over
her head, or should I keep away from her until I could offer such a
roof? Her father, I supposed, could do something for us. But I was not
willing to be a pensioner. His business--were he generous--would be
to provide cake and butter; but the bread was to be mine and bread was
still a long way off, according to New York standards. These things I
thought over while she was in Florida; yet when once I should I find
myself with her again, I began to fear that I could not hold myself
from--but these are circumstances which universal knowledge renders it
needless to mention, and I will pass to the second perturbation."

"A sum of money was suddenly left me. Then for the first time I
understood why I had during my boyhood been so periodically sent to see
a cross old brother of my mother's, who lived near Cold Spring on the
Hudson, and whom we called Uncle Snaggletooth when no one could hear us.
Uncle Godfrey (for I have called him by his right name ever since)
died and left me what in those old days six years ago was still a large
amount. To-day we understand what true riches mean. But in those bygone
times six years ago, a million dollars was a sum considerable enough to
be still seen, as it were, with the naked eye. That was my bequest from
Uncle Godfrey, and I felt myself to be the possessor of a fortune."

At this point in Richard's narrative, a sigh escaped from Ethel.

"I know," he immediately said, "that money is always welcome. But it
is certainly some consolation to reflect how slight a loss a million
dollars is counted to-day in New York. And I did not lose all of it."

"I met Ethel at the train on her return from Florida, and crossed with
her on the ferry from Jersey City to Desbrosses Street. There I was
obliged to see her drive away in the carriage with