than he has."

Grant uttered an amused little laugh.

"I was afraid you would say that," he answered. "You see, you don't
understand me, either. I don't want to make money. Can you understand
that?"

"Don't want to make money? Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"Well, everybody does. Money is power--it is a mark of success. It would
open up a wider life for you. It would bring you into new circles. Some
day you will want to marry and settle down, and money would enable you
to meet the kind of women--"

She stopped, confused. She had plunged farther than she had intended.

"You're all wrong," he said amusedly. It did not even occur to Zen
that he was contradicting her. She had not been accustomed to being
contradicted, but then, neither had she been accustomed to men like
Dennison Grant, nor to conversations such as had developed. She was too
interested to be annoyed.

"You're all wrong, Miss--?"

"I don't wonder that you can't fill in my name," she said. "Nobody knows
Dad except as Y.D. But I heard you call me Zen--"

"That was when you were coming out of your unconsciousness. I apologize
for the liberty taken. I thought it might recall you--"

"Well, I'm still coming out," she interrupted. "I am beginning to feel
that I have been unconscious for a very long time indeed. Let me hear
why you don't want money."

Grant was aware of a pleasant glow excited by her frank interest. She
was altogether a desirable girl.

"I have observed," he said, "that poor people worry over what they
haven't got, and rich people worry over what they have. It is my
disposition not to worry over anything. You said that money is power.
That is one of its deceits. It offers a man power, but in reality it
makes him its slave. It enchains him for life; I have seen it in too
many cases--I am not mistaken. As for opening up a wider life, what
wider life could there be than this which I--which you and I--are
living?"

She wondered why he had said "you and I." Evidently he was wondering
too, for he fell into reflection. She changed her position to ease the
dull pain in her ankle, which his talk had almost driven from her
mind. The rock had a perpendicular edge, so she let her feet hang over,
resting the injured one upon the other. He was sitting in a similar
position. The silence of the night had gathered about them, broken
occasionally by the yapping of coyotes far down the valley. Segments of
dull light fringed the horizon; the breeze wa