If it was easy to talk to Dick, it was delightful to watch her as she listened. She had pushed aside the reading lamp, and with her hands was shading her eyes from its light; but still he could see the quick frown which would draw down her brows when the meaning of one of his technicalities baffled her, and her nod of comprehension when she understood. There was no need for explanation now: he was telling her of his first meeting with Sponley, and how the desire, aroused by the speculator’s suggestion that he leave his father’s bank, had grown until it was irresistible, and, finally, how he had told his father of his determination to go to work for Dawson. At the mention of Sponley’s name Dick had dropped her eyes, and the pencil resumed its play over the blotter; her dislike for the man was so strong that she was afraid of showing it to his friend. But when John told her of his parting from his father, she looked up again. “That must have been a terrible disappointment to--grandfather,” she said slowly. “I never heard you call him that before.” “I don’t believe I ever did; I know I never have thought of him that way. And I never was truly sorry for him till just now.” “Sorry for him!” John exclaimed. Dick nodded. “Perhaps because it’s Christmas Eve,” she said. “Do you suppose,” she asked a moment later, “that he’ll come over to-morrow? He always comes on Christmas, doesn’t he?” “Nearly always,” he answered. “He generally comes two or three times a year. But he’s getting pretty old now.” “What an utterly lonely life he’s led all these years,” said Dick. “Think of it! I wonder--” The sharp jangle of the telephone bell cut her short. John sprang up to answer it. “Yes. Who is this?--Thomas Jones? Oh, yes--at the bank--What do you say?--Are you sure? Have you a doctor there?--Yes, I’ll be over directly.” He turned to Dick, who had risen and was standing close beside him. “I’ve got to go out for a while,” he said. “There’s--a man--sick over at the bank.” “Who is it?” she asked. “Is it grandfather?” John answered her, “He’s over at our bank--his bank. The watchman telephoned. He thinks he’s dead, but it may be only a faint. I’m going down there right away.” As he spoke, he turned back to the telephone; his hand was on the bell crank when Dick said:-- “I’m going, too. You telephone for a carriage, and I’ll be ready as soon as it comes.” “You! You mustn’t go. There’ll be nothing you can do.” “I want to--very much,” she answered. “Please take me.” With a nod of assent he rang the bell, and she hurried from the room. Their drive to the bank was a silent one, and though they went rapidly, it seemed a long time to Dick before they stopped in front of the dismal building in the narrow street. When they alighted, John led the way into the bank, picking his way about in the dimness with the confidence of perfect familiarity; he knew that nothing had been changed in all the years.