"That _is_ a mistake," he admits frankly. "No doubt we should have found it out in the course of settlement. I trusted most of this matter to Eugene, and he surely should not have wronged himself. But it is all of no consequence now; as well tear up the memorandum. But, Mr. Grandon, if you are to be your brother's banker, may I trouble you to settle these?" He hands Floyd three notes. They aggregate nearly two thousand dollars. Floyd Grandon folds them without a motion of surprise, and promises to attend to them to-morrow, when the note is taken up. "Your brother has not your father's head for business," Wilmarth says, with scarcely concealed contempt. "No. It is quite a matter of regret, since it was to be his portion." "To-morrow we will meet here for the settlement of the note," announces Mr. Connery. Then they say good morning with outward politeness. Wilmarth's eyes follow Grandon's retreating figure. He has mistaken his man, a thing he seldom does; but Floyd's antecedents, his refinement, and scholarly predilections have misled him into believing he could be as easily managed as Eugene. Wilmarth has given his adversary one advantage which he bitterly regrets. When Eugene named half for his share of the note he had let it go, and in the two or three after-references Eugene clearly had not seen it. Wilmarth had repeated the statement carelessly, and now he would give much to recall it, though otherwise it might have gone without a thought. Eugene absents himself all day. Mrs. Grandon is much distressed, but she is afraid to question Floyd. Even the next morning they merely nod carelessly, and no word is said until Floyd brings home the notes. "Have you any more debts?" Floyd asks in a quiet tone, which he means to be kindly as well. "No." Then curiosity gets the better of the young man. "Was there an awful row, Floyd?" "Mr. Wilmarth, of course, saw the utter impossibility of any such agreement. Eugene," slowly, "is there anything you would like better than the business?" "No business at all," answers Eugene, with audacious frankness. "I really haven't any head for it." "But you understand--something, surely? You can--keep books, for instance? What did you do in father's time?" "Made myself generally useful. Wrote letters and carried messages and went to the city," is the laconic reply. Floyd is so weary and discouraged that something in his face touches Eugene. "I wish you wanted to take my mare, Beauty, for part of this," he says, hesitatingly. "She cost me a thousand dollars, but I won back three hundred on the first race. She's gentle, too, and a saddle horse, that is, for a man. You would like her, I know." Floyd considers a moment. "Yes," he makes answer, and hands Eugene the largest note, which balances it. "Make me out a bill of sale," he adds. "You're a good fellow, Floyd, and I'm obliged."