only one."

A clock somewhere in the city struck the hour of midnight, and while the
sound was still in the air, the door opened softly and Sally came into
the room. She had slipped on a wrapper over her nightdress, and her
hair, flattened and warmed by the pillow, hung in a single braid over
her bosom. There were deep circles under her eyes, which shone the more
brilliantly because of the heavy shadows.

"What is the matter, Ben? Why don't you come upstairs?"

"I couldn't sleep--I am thinking," I answered, almost roughly, oppressed
by my weight of misery.

"Would you rather be alone? Shall I go away again?"

"Yes, I'd rather be alone."

She went silently to the door, stood there a minute, and then ran back
with her arms outstretched.

"Oh, Ben, Ben, why are you so hard? Why are you so cruel?"

"Cruel? Hard? To you, Sally?"

"You treat me as if--as if I'd married you for your money and you've
made me hate and despise it. I wish--I almost wish we hadn't a penny."

I laughed the bitter, mirthless laugh that had broken from me at dinner.

"As a matter of fact we haven't--not a single penny that we can honestly
call our own."

She drew back instantly, her head held high under the branching electric
jet in the ceiling.

"Well, I'm glad of it," she responded defiantly.

"You don't in the least understand what it means, Sally. It isn't merely
giving up a few luxuries, it is actually going without the necessities.
It is practically beginning again."

"I am glad of it," she repeated, and there was no regret in her voice.

"Oh, can't you understand?"

"Tell me and I will try."

"I've lost everything. I'm ruined."

"There is nothing left?"

"There is honour," I said bitterly, "a couple of hundred thousand
dollars of debt, and a little West Virginia railroad too poor to go
bankrupt."

"Then we must start from the very bottom?"

"From the very bottom. Nothing that you are likely to imagine can be
worse than the facts--and I've brought you to it."

Something that was like a sob burst from me, and turning away, I flung
myself into the chair on the hearth-rug.

"Can't you think of anything that would be worse?" she asked quietly.

I shook my head, "The worst thing about it is that I've brought you to
it."

"Wouldn't it be worse," she went on in the same level voice, "if you had
lost me?"

"Lost you!" I cried, and my arms were open at the thought.

"I'm glad, I'm glad." With the words she was on her