For the most part Caleb and the dog sat together in the office, and their friendship for each other was one of the natural outcomes of the master’s life. The solitary man loved his dog, and the dog, in turn, adored him and lay content for hours at his feet. It was the seventh week after he had carried Diana into his little shop, and as he sat there, by his desk, the moving sunshine slanting across the floor of the office, he recalled the instant when her head lay unconsciously on his shoulder and her cheek touched his rough coat. For one long moment his mind dwelt on it, and dwelt on her by his fire, with the glow of it in her eyes, her soft voice, her sweet manners, in which there was just a suggestion of condescension, until she forgot it and spoke to him naturally and freely. He saw her plainly again, as plainly as he saw the swaying boughs of the silver birch before his window. Then he thrust the thought resolutely away and turned almost with relief to face the shambling country youth who had entered without knocking. “Well, Zeb?” he said shortly, but not unkindly. “I stopped by ter see yo’, Mr. Trench,” Zeb Bartlett drawled slowly; “I thought mebbe yo’d help me out.” Trench glanced at him and saw that he had been drinking. He was a lean, lank boy of nineteen, with a weak face that gave evidence of a weaker brain, and he bore a strong resemblance to his half-sister; he was accounted almost an idiot by the gossips of Eshcol, and was always in trouble, but, as he was the only grandson of a poor old woman, he escaped his deserts. “What do you want now, Zeb?” Trench asked dryly, turning back to his papers; he was still studying law with a zeal that was later to bear fruit in the case that divided Eshcol. “I want two dollahs,” Zeb said with a whine. “I haven’t had any work fer a week, an’ Jean’s starvin’ agin. Gimme two dollahs, Mr. Trench, an’ I’ll return it with--with interes’ on Saturday night, sho’,” he said, triumphing at the end, and pulling off his soft felt hat to rub his head helplessly. “Not two cents,” said Caleb; “you’d get drunk.” “I sure won’t!” protested Zeb, his mouth drooping and his hands falling weakly at his sides, as if he had suddenly lost the starch necessary to keep his lines crisp. “I ain’t seen liquor fer a month.” “What have you been drinking then?” Trench asked, with the ghost of a smile. “Water,” said Zeb, rallying, “water--ef it warn’t fer that I’d be dry ez punk. ’Deed, Mr. Trench, I needs money. Jean’s mighty sick.” “No, she isn’t,” said Caleb. “I spoke to her at the market this morning.” Zeb’s mouth opened again, like a stranded fish, and he stared; but he wanted the money. “She wuz took sick after that,” he explained, brightening, “she asked me ter git it. Gimme er dollah, Mr. Trench.” “No,” said Caleb. “Fifty cents,” whined Zeb, but a sullen look was coming into his light eyes. “No!” “Twenty-five cents!” pleaded the borrower, wheedling, but with angry eyes.