He had told her that he had no debts and she believed him, and had been so glad, and thought he had broken from his old associates and habits, and was trying to do better. And it was not so at all; he had not broken off; he still had dealings with a mysterious Joe, whoever he might be. Some great hulking fellow, no doubt, who drank, and raced, and gambled, and had led Everard astray. Rossie’s heart was very sad and her voice full of sorrow as she asked next: “Was it gambling? Was it at play that you incurred this debt?” “Yes, by George, you’ve hit it again!” he exclaimed, catching at the word _play_. “It was a play, and for fun I thought at first, but it proved to be the real thing,—a lark,—a sell,—a trap. By Jove, I b’lieve it was a trap, and they meant me to fall into it; I do, upon my word, and I fell, and now Joe must have fifty dollars from me.” “Fifty dollars!” and Rossie gasped at the enormous sum. Where would he get it? Where could he get it? Not from his father, that was certain, and not from her, for her quarterly interest on her two thousand dollars was not due in weeks, and even if it were, it was not fifty dollars. Perhaps Miss Belknap would loan it if she were to ask her, and assume the payment herself. But in that case she must give the reason, and she would not for the world compromise Everard by so much as a breath of censure. Bee must think well of him at all costs, for Rossie’s heart was quite as much set on Beatrice’s being the mistress of Forrest House, some day, as the mother’s had been. She could not borrow of Miss Belknap, but,—Rossie started from her chair as quickly as if she had been struck, while her hands involuntarily clutched her luxuriant hair, rippling in heavy masses down her back. She _could_ do that for Mr. Everard, but her face was white to her lips, which quivered a little as she resumed her seat, and said: “What is Joe’s other name? Joe what?” Everard looked at her cunningly a moment, and then replied: “Guess!” “I can’t,” she replied, “I have nothing to start from; nothing to guide me; I might guess all day, and not get it.” “Suppose you start with some kind of fruit, say _pears_. What varieties have we in our garden?” he said; and Rossie answered: “There are the Seckels. Is it Joe Seckels?” “No.” “Joe Bartlett?” “No.” “Joe Bell?” “No.” “Joe Vergelieu?” “No.” “Joe Sheldon?” “No.” “There’s the Louise Bonne de Jersey. It can’t be Joe Bonne de Jersey.” “No, stupid.” “Well, Flemish Beauty? It can’t be that.” “How do you know? Joe is a beauty, and a Flemish one, if you change the _sh_ into _ng_. No, try ’em again.” “Joe Fleming?” Rossie asked, and with an insane chuckle Everard replied: “_You bet!_ Rossie, you are a brick! You are a trump! You’ve hit it exactly,—_Joe Fleming_.” Rossie had in her pocket a pencil, and on a bit of newspaper wrote the name rapidly, and then asked: “Does he live in Amherst?” “No.” “In Ellicottville?” “No.”