t and discomfort in his mind. Mrs. Scott, his mother-in-law, was
a worldly, shrewd little person, but good-hearted, and as easily moved
or stirred as a child. This was one of her characteristic letters,
disconnected, ill-spelled, and scrawled upon scented lavender paper.
She wrote that she and Hetty were sick of San Francisco, and they
wanted Barry's permission to sell the Mission Street flats that
afforded them a living, and go away once and for all. Het, her mother
wrote, had had a fine offer for the houses; Barry's signature only was
needed to close the deal.

All this might be true; it sounded reasonable enough; but, somehow,
Barry fancied that it was not true, or at least that it was only partly
so. What did Hetty want the money for, he wondered. Why should her
mother reiterate so many times that if Barry for any possible reason
disapproved, he was not to give the matter another thought; they most
especially wanted only his simple yes or no. Why this consideration?
Hetty had always been persistent enough about the things she wanted
before. "I know you would consent if you could see how our hearts are
set on this," wrote Mrs. Scott, "but if you say 'no,' that ends it."

"Sure, I'll sell," Barry said, putting the letter in his pocket. But it
came persistently between him and his work. What mischief was Hetty in,
he wondered. Had some get-rich-quick shark got hold of her; it was
extremely likely. He could not shake the thought of her from his mind,
her voice, her pretty, sullen little face, rose again and haunted him.
What a child she had been, and what a boy he was, and how mistaken the
whole bitter experience!

Walking home late at night, the memory of old days rode him like a
hateful nightmare. He saw the little untidy flat they had had in New
York; the white winter outside, and a deeper chill within; little Billy
coughing and restless; Hetty practising her scales, and he, Barry,
trying to write at one end of the dining-room table. He remembered how
disappointment and restless ambition had blotted out her fresh, babyish
beauty; how thin and sharp her voice had grown as the months went on.

Barry tried to read, but the book became mere printed words. He went
softly into Billy's room, and sat down by the tumbled bed and the small
warm sleeper. Billy, even asleep, snuggled his hand appreciatively into
his father's, and brought its little fellow to lie there too, and
pushed his head up against Barry's arm.

And th