It was late when K. Le Moyne retired to bed. Wrapped in a paper and securely tied for the morning's disposal, was considerable masculine underclothing, ragged and buttonless. Not for worlds would he have had Sidney discover his threadbare inner condition. “New underwear for yours tomorrow, K. Le Moyne,” he said to himself, as he unknotted his cravat. “New underwear, and something besides K. for a first name.” He pondered over that for a time, taking off his shoes slowly and thinking hard. “Kenneth, King, Kerr--” None of them appealed to him. And, after all, what did it matter? The old heaviness came over him. He dropped a shoe, and Reginald, who had gained enough courage to emerge and sit upright on the fender, fell over backward. Sidney did not sleep much that night. She lay awake, gazing into the scented darkness, her arms under her head. Love had come into her life at last. A man--only Joe, of course, but it was not the boy himself, but what he stood for, that thrilled her had asked her to be his wife. In her little back room, with the sweetness of the tree blossoms stealing through the open window, Sidney faced the great mystery of life and love, and flung out warm young arms. Joe would be thinking of her now, as she thought of him. Or would he have gone to sleep, secure in her half promise? Did he really love her? The desire to be loved! There was coming to Sidney a time when love would mean, not receiving, but giving--the divine fire instead of the pale flame of youth. At last she slept. A night breeze came through the windows and spread coolness through the little house. The ailanthus tree waved in the moonlight and sent sprawling shadows over the wall of K. Le Moyne's bedroom. In the yard the leaves of the morning-glory vines quivered as if under the touch of a friendly hand. K. Le Moyne slept diagonally in his bed, being very long. In sleep the lines were smoothed out of his face. He looked like a tired, overgrown boy. And while he slept the ground-squirrel ravaged the pockets of his shabby coat. CHAPTER II Sidney could not remember when her Aunt Harriet had not sat at the table. It was one of her earliest disillusionments to learn that Aunt Harriet lived with them, not because she wished to, but because Sidney's father had borrowed her small patrimony and she was “boarding it out.” Eighteen years she had “boarded it out.” Sidney had been born and grown to girlhood; the dreamer father had gone to his grave, with valuable patents lost for lack of money to renew them--gone with his faith in himself destroyed, but with his faith in the world undiminished: for he left his wife and daughter without a dollar of life insurance. Harriet Kennedy had voiced her own view of the matter, the after the funeral, to one of the neighbors:-- “He left no insurance. Why should he bother? He left me.” To the little widow, her sister, she had been no less bitter, and more explicit.