“I—do not understand.” “Then let me explain. Margaret here is the medium of correspondence between Mrs. Harcourt and her Washington and Baltimore friends, and this began from her writing a letter for old Moses to his mistress when she was last in Washington.” “It was very kind of Miss Wynthrop. I heard of it,” said Harcourt. “Well, she has been in correspondence with a certain lawyer, Amos Merritt, of Washington, who forwards from time to time money for an old debt due by a Baltimorean to your father, and now being paid by installments. The money is sent in checks, made payable to Dorothy Harcourt. She is quite able to write her autograph on the back, and with her indorsement Margaret has got them cashed at the Logwood bank, and has paid doctors’ and druggists’ bills, and also some others. She has all the receipts, if you would like to look at them.” Harcourt’s face flamed. The idea of his requirement of these receipts from such disinterested benefactors! “By no means, my dear madam! But since you kindly give me permission, I would like to make some arrangement for my dear mother’s permanent abode with you,” he said. “Well, talk to Margaret about it. She is my housekeeper, accountant, and everything. Margaret, my dear, take Mr. Harcourt into the office and settle this matter with him. By the time you get through your father and the boys will be in for their dinner.” “Come, Mr. Harcourt, and see papa’s little office. It used to be called ‘the study,’ but papa never ‘studies,’ he only keeps his farm books there.” Harcourt followed her out of doors to a little brick building of one room, standing on the lawn in the rear of the irregular house. She opened the door and admitted him. It was a rude place, heated by an iron stove, and furnished with a writing-desk, a book shelf, a table, an armchair and two or three other chairs. “Mr. Harcourt,” she inquired, when they were seated, “did you know this Mr. Amos Merritt, of Washington?” “Very slightly,” answered the young man. “The reason why I asked was this—he seems to be so anxious to find you. In every letter he has written, enclosing checks, he has inquired if we had heard from you. And I must also add that we, too, often returned the question, and asked if he had received news of the missing man; for you were a missing man for months, Mr. Harcourt.” “I know it; but my dear Miss Wynthrop, I cannot just now fully explain my absence.” “I do not ask you to do so. Your mother thought that you were at college. She pined to see you, especially at Christmas; but she thought that you remained at college to pursue your studies through the holidays.” “But you knew better?” “Of course we did; for I wrote to President Ewell to inquire for you, and learned that you had not been there since last summer.” “And you did not tell my mother?” “Oh, no! We could not. We said nothing, but left her to that delusion, as to others.”