I hope, if I am cooler than
you expected, and more considerate than you desire. It would be a
crime to attempt to merge that young woman's life into yours."

"I know you have a pretty low estimate of me, but I won't resent it.
We are to be cool."

"And considerate," said Lyman, with a slight bow.

"Yes, sir; and considerate. But I don't see where the crime would come
in. My family is as good as hers."

"That may be. I am not looking at her family, but at her. She was
spoiled, it is true, but she is developing into the highest type of
American womanhood."

"Yes, but I haven't come to discuss her. We were talking just now
about the prospect of your going away, and the probability that you
might not have money enough to settle in a city. Mr. McElwin is
willing to help you toward that end, and has signed a check for five
hundred dollars, made out in your name. Here it is." He handed the
check to Lyman, who took it, looked at it and said: "He writes a firm
hand. Money gives a man confidence in himself, doesn't it?" He held
out the check toward Sawyer. The latter did not take it, and it
fluttered in the air and fell to the floor. Sawyer took it up and put
it on the table, with an ink stand on it to hold it down.

"It is yours, Mr. Lyman; it is made out to you."

"Upon the condition that I leave here and remain away as long as one
year. Is that it?"

"Well, yes."

"I told you that I have enough money to burn a wet elephant. I
haven't--I haven't enough to scorch a dry cricket."

"Then you will accept the check," said Sawyer, brightening.

Lyman had struck a match, as if to light his pipe. He took up the
check and held it to the blaze. "Look out," he said, as Sawyer sprung
to interfere. "Sit down." He took the cinders and wrapped them in a
piece of paper, folding it neatly. "Give this to Mr. McElwin and tell
him that I have cremated the little finger of his god, and send him
the ashes," he said.

Sawyer stood gazing at him in astonishment.

"I told you to sit down. You won't sit down. And you won't take the
god-ashes to the devotee. Come, that's unkind."

"Sir, you have insulted me."

"What, again?"

"And you shall regret it. And you shall leave this town," he added,
turning to go. "You have not only insulted me, but you--you have put
an indignity upon Mr. McElwin." Indignity was rather a big word,
coming from him unexpectedly out of his vague recollection, and he
halted to stiffen with a better opinion of