I've
got, it's money," she confided perfectly simply. "So you see, Mr.
Barton," she added with sudden wistfulness, "there's almost nothing on
the face of the globe that I couldn't have--if I only had some place
to put it." Without further parleying she proffered the roll of bills
to him.

"Miss Edgarton! Are you crazy?" Barton asked again quite
precipitously.

Again the girl answered his question equally frankly, and without
offense. "Oh, no," she said. "Only very determined."

"Determined about what?" grinned Barton in spite of himself.

"Determined about an attic," drawled little Eve Edgarton.

With an unwonted touch of vivacity she threw out one hand in a little,
sharp gesture of appeal; but not a tone of her voice either quickened
or deepened.

"Why, Mr. Barton," she droned, "I'm thirty years old--and ever since I
was born I've been traveling all over the world--in a steamer trunk.
In a steamer trunk, mind you. With Father always standing over every
packing to make sure that we never carry anything that--isn't
necessary. With Father, I said," she re-emphasized by a sudden
distinctness. "You know Father!" she added significantly.

"Yes--I know 'Father,'" assented Barton with astonishing glibness.

Once again the girl threw out her hand in an incongruous gesture of
appeal.

"The things that Father thinks are necessary!" she exclaimed softly.
Noiselessly as a shadow she edged herself forward into the light till
she faced Barton almost squarely. "Maybe you think it's fun, Mr.
Barton," she whispered. "Maybe you think it's fun--at thirty years of
age--with all your faculties intact--to own nothing in the world
except--except a steamer trunkful of the things that Father thinks are
necessary!"

Very painstakingly on the fingers of one hand she began to enumerate
the articles in question. "Just your riding togs," she said, "and six
suits of underwear--and all the United States consular reports--and
two or three wash dresses and two 'good enough' dresses--and a lot of
quinine--and--a squashed hat--and--and--" Very faintly the ghost of a
smile went flickering over her lips--"and whatever microscopes and
specimen-cases get crowded out of Father's trunk. What's the use, Mr.
Barton," she questioned, "of spending a whole year investigating the
silk industry of China--if you can't take any of the silks home?
What's the use, Mr. Barton, of rolling up your sleeves and working six
months in a heathen porcelain factory--j