t he said.

And why shouldn't she see a good deal of Tom Reynolds? she asked
herself. There was that in Henry's tone which opened up the old-time
anger. Here he was, questioning her again, this time questioning her
friends. He was questioning Tom!

Had Henry wished to further the young man's chances with his sister to
the best of his ability, he could not have chosen a more effective
method. Tom, who had been doing very well on his own account, was now
made doubly romantic through persecution. Nor do I think Nancy should be
condemned as over-sentimental for feeling so, for if the reader--who
cannot conceivably be thought over-sentimental--examine his own
experience, I dare say he will find a parallel. In any event, Nancy was
in a fair way to discover a tender interest in Tom, if, indeed, she had
not already done so.

But in the meantime, she must be true to herself and live richly. She
had not yet determined what her new work would be, nor should she
determine what it would be until she had considered the matter more
dispassionately than she had the last one. Until the right thing was
apparent, therefore, she would devote herself with more assiduity to the
physical, mental, and spiritual progress of her nephew. After all, what
finer work could there be than the rearing of a first-class American
youth?

Henry had sent his son to Miss West's kindergarten when he was scarcely
four. Harry had not done well at the various cutting and pasting
exercises, but he had been somewhat precocious at reading and was
already advanced into the third reader. His orthographic sense, however,
had not yet unbudded, and it was to the gentle fostering of this, in
particular, that Nancy now committed herself. She also thought it high
time that his musical education should commence, and the services of
Miss Marbury were invoked. Harry, unlike the general run of his fellows,
was wholly charmed with the prospect of playing, and the old piano was
assailed with a diligence reminiscent of the youthful Haendel. So it
happened that Harry was practising in mid-afternoon on the day when
Leofwin Balch called, something over a week after the debacle of Nancy's
social service career.

Nancy, too, was at home and was much surprised and annoyed when her late
assistant appeared. Not the least surprising feature of his call was his
costume. Usually clad with a conspicuous and artistic carelessness, he
was today arrayed like the lilies of the field. He wa