id Duncan mean by such negligence? Why did he
challenge her to a verbal combat and then refuse an engagement? Why had
he appeared to be interested in her on one day and then utterly
indifferent the next?" It was in forming and revolving such questions
in her mind that she passed the evening, and, meanwhile, the harmless
college boy struggled and sputtered on.

At one end of the Sanderson drawing-room was a settee placed behind a
few palms; although it was in the room, it was sufficiently hidden to
remove people sitting there from the observation of others. When music
had been suggested Florence Moreland and Harold Wainwright had wandered
toward this seat. The two had been childhood friends and in later years
the intimacy had continued. Harold had been left an orphan without
fortune, and Florence had always taken a deep interest in his success.

After leaving college Harold had come to the western metropolis and, by
hard and creditable work had built up a flourishing law-practice. He was
only twenty-seven and possessed in a marked degree the best qualities of
young American manhood. He was one of those young men so numerous in
Western cities, whose earnest and energetic characters, untouched by Old
World follies and vices, make them the heirs of the pioneer of the past.
Florence had admired Harold as a sister might admire a strong, splendid
brother. She trusted and looked up to him, and she often confided her
thoughts to him. He was a sympathetic friend, but that was all; she, at
least, was not a lover.

"Do you know, Harold," Florence said, as they took their seats on the
settee, "that we have not had one of our old talks since you were home
last summer. There has been a succession of bothersome people to
interfere ever since I arrived. Tell me, are you working as hard as
ever?"

"Yes," he replied. "I am still toiling away, but to what end I don't
know."

"That doesn't sound like you, Harold."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you are not the man to mind the bumps in life's road. You can
see beyond them."

Harold was silent; he seemed thoughtful; a little sigh escaped him. "Can
I, Florence?" he finally said. "You know me better than I know myself.
What can I see?"

"A successful career."

"Is that all?"

"No; friends."

"Of what use are they?"

"Dr. Johnson called friendship 'the cordial drop that makes the nauseous
draught of life go down'."

"He was wrong."

"Why, Harold! you forget that I am your frie