And the memory of the dead woman, who had been so kind to her, helped her. For her sake she could bear almost anything, and, putting on her hat, she left the house again, going this time to the office of the family lawyer, Mr. Russell, a kind, elderly man, who was very fond of Rossie, and at once put aside his papers when she came in. “Can I do anything for you to-day?” he asked, and she replied: “I’ve come to ask you to write me just such a receipt as you would write if somebody owed you seventy-five dollars and you paid it in full. Don’t ask me anything, only write it, and make it read as if the debtor didn’t owe the creditor a penny after the date.” Mr. Russell looked curiously at the flushed face raised so eagerly to him, and in part guessed her secret. Like Bee, he knew of Everard’s expensive habits, and suspected that this money had something to do with him. But he merely said: “What name shall I use? The receipt will read like this: ‘Received of,—blank,—seventy-five dollars,’ and so forth. Now, how shall I fill the blank?” Rossie thought a moment, and then replied: “Will it make any difference who writes the receipt?” “Not at all; the signature is what gives it its value.” “Then will you please give me a form,—a true one, you know,—which I can copy and send, and ought I not to register the letter to make it safe?” She was quite a little business woman, and the old lawyer looked at her admiringly as he gave her the necessary directions, suggesting that a draft or post-office order would be better than to send the money. But Rossie did not care for so much publicity as she fancied drafts and post-office orders would involve. She preferred to send the bills, a fifty, a twenty, and a five, directly to _Joe_, and she did so that very afternoon, for, as good luck would have it, Beatrice asked her to drive to an adjoining town, where she registered and posted her letter, and felt as if a weight were lifted from her mind. She had no suspicion of _Joe’s_ playing her false. He would, of course, return the receipt, and Mr. Everard would be free, and her heart was almost as light as her head when she returned home and went to Everard’s room. That poor shorn head, how it stared at her in the glass, and how she tried to brush up the short, wavy hair, and make the most of it. But do the best she could, she presented rather a forlorn appearance when she went in to Everard, and asked him how he was. He had missed her very much that day, and greeted her with a bright smile, so much like himself, that she exclaimed, joyfully: “Oh, Mr. Everard, you are better; you are almost well!” He was better, but his mind was still unsettled, and running upon the _scrape_ from which Rossie was to extricate him, and he said to her: “Have you fixed it yet? Is it all right?” “Yes, all right,” she answered; and he continued: “Every single bit right? Am I cut loose from the whole thing?”