“He told me if I'd pay him the two thousand dollars and would go out there he'd see I got enough embroidery work so that I could easily make the twenty-dollar-a-month payments till I owned it all.” “He didn't tell you that if you failed in a payment you'd lose it all?” “Not till after.” “It's here in the agreement to sell. That's all this paper is”;--he flecked the document with a contemptuous finger--“an agreement to sell; not a deed. You've bought nothing but empty print. Did you never read this?” She shook her head. “I trusted Mr. Wiggett. He seemed so kind and helpful at first.” “Until the fly was in his web. You signed that paper without knowing what you were undertaking,” he accused. “Did you know that you were promising to pay taxes, interest, and insurance on the buildings?” “No,” said Molly Dunstan meekly. “And to keep the buildings in good repair and painted? What buildings were they?” “A house and a barn. They leaked.” “Naturally. Also”--Miles Morse referred to the document in his hand--“'to plant a good, live California privet hedge and to entertain the same.' What's your notion of a California privet hedge and entertaining the same? Could you do that?” Into Molly Dunstan's Irish-brown eyes there crept a little Irish devil of a twinkle. “Could I not!” said she. “Can ye not see me, of a moonlight night, taking me foot in me hand, and going out to entertain me dull and lonely hedge with a turn of Kilkenny jigging!” Her sole tapped the ground as she spoke. “Don't do it here,” he interposed hastily. “How you can joke about it is beyond me, with your two thousand dollars in the pocket of D. Wiggett. And what makes you look sick at the name of him?” he concluded sharply. “That's a terrible man,” she answered with a catch of the breath. “When I went to him to ask for a bit more time he swore at me. He threatened me with jail. He said he'd ruin my reputation. He said if I sent a lawyer there he'd hammer him to pulp. He could do it, for he's a terrible, big, strong, angry man. I came away sick to live in the same world with him. And that's why I got the carbolic,” she finished in a low, shamed tone. “Carbolic! You were going to kill yourself?” “Didn't Mrs. Staten tell ye?” “She told me nothing--but lies.” Miles Morse spoke harshly because he was experiencing within himself a stir of strange and wrathful and protective emotion. Abruptly he changed the subject. “Would you,” he said hesitantly, “for a raise of wa--ahem ---salary, come a little earlier and get me my breakfast?” “I'll not wait on table,” she returned with a flash of color. “It was not my idea,” he said quite humbly. “But if you would have a coffee machine and a toaster and sit opposite at the table, and--and--it would save me money as against the restaurant,” he added lamely. “I'll consult my manager,” returned his housekeeper with a twinkle.