ON the morrow’s morning Brant went to his work with a choir of new resolves making melody in his heart. He would get speech with Dorothy by fair means or other and make a frank avowal of his love, telling her what she should know of his past, and pleading only for the time wherein to make good his promises of amendment. Then he would settle down to his work, walking straitly and shunning even the appearance of evil through the weeks or months or years of his probation. And in the end he would win her and wear her in the face of all the world, and none should say him nay. Thus he planned as he bent over the drawing-board, etching in the scheme of the future while he traced the intricate lines of the map. From summarizing he presently came down to the successive steps in the outworking of the problem, and then he remembered that he still held the money won in the night of madness at Draco’s. Then and there he determined to return it, whether the chief gambler would or no, and on the heels of this resolve came a nobler. He would draw out of his bank balance every dollar that had not come to him hallowed by honest toil, and, since it was manifestly impossible to make individual restitution, he would give the money to some worthy charity. Being a man of action, he did not suffer the good resolution to cool by delay. Within the hour he had made a deposit in his bank, purchased New York exchange for the amount won at Draco’s, and cashed his check for six hundred and eight dollars and fifteen cents, the exact sum with which he had left Silverette on the night of the tragedy. Then he begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from the cashier and scribbled a note to Draco: “Here is the money which you refused to take back the other night,” he wrote. “It is not yours, but it is still less mine, and I don’t want it. I have put it into New York exchange, so you will know it is out of my hands. Keep it, or throw it away, as you please.” That done, he began to wonder what he should do with the six hundred odd dollars. There were worthy charities a-plenty, but he shrank equally from giving without explanations and from telling any part of his story to a stranger, however charitable or devout. Since it had to be done, he finally chose Dorothy’s clergyman as his beneficiary, and, having so decided, sought out the address and boarded a street car for the house of the minister. A servant answered the bell, and, in reply to Brant’s inquiry, sent him across the street to the church. “You’ll find the study at the back,” she said. “If Mr. Crosswell ain’t there, you can go in and wait. He’ll not be long gone.” Brant did as he was directed, and when his tap at the half-open door was unanswered, he went in. A young woman was sitting in a corner reading, and when he saw that it was Dorothy he stood abashed like any schoolboy. Only for a moment, however, for Dorothy rose quickly and came forward with hands outstretched.