ate of mind cannot be
changed in an hour."

"And you?" asked Carroll.

"Oh, I," he shrugged, "will go on as usual. I have my interests."

"I wish you would come out in our part of the country," ventured Orde.

Gerald smiled his fine smile.

"Good-bye," said he. "Going to a train is useless, and a bore to
everybody."

Carroll threw herself on his neck in an access of passionate weeping.

"You WILL write and tell me of everything, won't you?" she begged.

"Of course. There now, good-bye."

Orde followed him into the hall.

"It would be quite useless to attempt another interview?" he inquired.

Gerald made a little mouth.

"I am in the same predicament as yourselves," said he, "and have since
nine this morning taken up my quarters at the club. Please do not tell
Carroll; it would only pain her."

At the station, just before they passed in to the train, the general
appeared.

"There, there!" he fussed. "If your mother should hear of my being here,
it would be a very bad business, very bad. This is very sad; but--well,
good-bye, dear; and you, sir, be good to her. And write your daddy,
Carroll. He'll be lonesome for you." He blew his nose very loudly and
wiped his glasses. "Now, run along, run along," he hurried them. "Let us
not have any scenes. Here, my dear, open this envelope when you are well
started. It may help cheer the journey. Not a word!"

He hurried them through the gate, paying no heed to what they were
trying to say. Then he steamed away and bustled into a cab without once
looking back.

When the train had passed the Harlem River and was swaying its uneven
way across the open country, Carroll opened the envelope. It contained a
check for a thousand dollars.

"Dear old daddy!" she murmured. "Our only wedding present!"

"You are the capitalist of the family," said Orde. "You don't know
how poor a man you've married. I haven't much more than the proverbial
silver watch and bad nickel."

She reached out to press his hand in reassurance. He compared it
humorously with his own.

"What a homely, knotted, tanned old thing it is by yours," said he.

"It's a strong hand," she replied soberly, "it's a dear hand." Suddenly
she snatched it up and pressed it for a fleeting instant against her
cheek, looking at him half ashamed.

XXI

The winter months were spent at Monrovia, where Orde and his wife lived
for a time at the hotel. This was somewhat expensive, but Orde was not
quite ready