r to pay, glanced at the amount, and from that to
the velvety eyes with the half-abashed query in them. Miss Grierson's
eyes were her most effective weapon. With them she could look anything,
from daggers drawn to kisses. Just now the look was of child-like
beseeching, but Raymer withstood it--or thought he did.

"It is more than twice as much as we get for the best locations," he
demurred. "Wait a minute and I'll write you a check for the difference
and give you a receipt."

But at the word she was on her feet in an eager flutter of protest.

"Oh, please don't!" she pleaded. "If it is really too much, can't you
put the difference in the missionary box, or in the--in the rector's
salary?--as a little donation from us, you know?"

Then Edward Raymer found that he had not withstood the eye-attack and he
surrendered at discretion, compromising on a receipt for the pew-rent.
Thus the small matter of business was concluded; but Miss Margery was
not yet ready to go. From St. John's and its affairs official she passed
deftly to the junior warden of St. John's and his affairs personal. Was
the machine works the place where they made steam-engines and things?
And did the sign, "No Admittance," on the doors mean that no visitors
were allowed? If not, she would so much like to----

Raymer smiled and put himself once more at her service, this time as
guide and megaphonist. It was all very noisy and grimy, but if she
cared to go through the works he would be glad to go with her.

He did not know how glad he was going to be until they had passed
through the clamorous machine-shop and had reached the comparatively
quiet foundry. One of Miss Margery's gifts was the ability to become for
the moment an active and sympathetic sharer in any one's enthusiasms. In
the foundry she looked and listened, and was unsophisticated only to the
degree that invites explanation. It was a master-stroke of finesse. A
man is never so transparent as when he forgets himself in his own
trade-talk; and Raymer was unrolling himself as a scroll for Miss
Grierson to read as she ran.

"And you say that is one of the columns for poppa's new block?" she
asked, while they stood to watch the workmen drawing a pattern out of
the sand of the mould.

"No; that is the pattern: that is wood, and it is used to make the print
in the sand into which the melted iron is poured. This part of the mould
they are lifting with the crane is called the 'cope,' and the lower h