Emily dropped the subject from her conversation, but she did not drop it from her thoughts. It was with her all that day, and it was the first thing in her mind the next morning, So incessantly did it recur to her, that, in search of relief, she went finally to the bank. She asked for old Morton, and when he shuffled up to the window, she made him go with her back to the directors' room, haunted as it was with memories of her father. "They sell mortgages sometimes, don't they?" she asked as soon as they were alone. "Yes, yes," her father's old clerk replied, delighted at being consulted confidentially in matters of finance. "And could you get one for me, if I gave you the money, and told you the one?" He smiled, as he had seen his superiors smile. It would be a treat for him to buy someone's mortgage. She told him, and he scratched his head a moment. "I think," he said, "that's over't the Polk National; I ain't sure now, but it seems to me--" "Well, find out," said Emily, and the old man started. "You spoke just like your father then," he said, in a mild, reminiscent way that touched her. He managed the matter for her in the end, and she bought the mortgage by borrowing the money of one of her trustees, who said he was glad to advance it to her, though he was careful to take out the interest for himself in advance. Emily had the mortgage canceled, and took it herself to her mother-in-law that night. "Here it is, mother," she said, "Jerome had forgotten it. You know how neglectful he is!" And she smiled, as if she had named a virtue in the man. "Law, yes!" said Mrs. Garwood, folding the mortgage in her trembling fingers. "Bless the boy! He always puts things off, but he never forgets his poor old mother in the end!" II The Emersons had arrived in Washington at the beginning of February. Their trunks, scuffed with constant travel but given a cosmopolitan air of distinction by the _etiquettes_ with which they were plastered, were ranged around the room in which the Emersons had quartered themselves at the Arlington, and stood with yawning lids, ready for Dade to dive into them after some new toilet with which to astound the guests when she swept into the dining-room. Her mother, spent by the long winter voyage, had collapsed upon arrival, and had taken her meals in her room, vowing that if she could reach Grand Prairie alive, she would never leave there again. She was anxious now, to have Doctor Larkin undertake her cure. No one, she assured Dade, had ever understood her case as well as he, and no one had ever helped her as he had helped her. She longed to start for home immediately; but she did not feel equal to the trip just then; it would be necessary for her to remain in Washington awhile and gather strength for the journey.