“You know, dear, we can't sacrifice the future for the present. It's a beastly short time in which I am to make a substantial addition to my earn ings, and your father most expressly stipulates that I bring them up to some appropriate figure. In the event of my being able to do this he will entrust your happiness to my care, feeling assured I am and will continue to be worthy of the trust he reposes in me—and so on and so forth through the easy let-down that he gave me. On the whole he was fair... most fair.” Philip was silent for a moment, then he said: “That I have a thousand dollars and better in the bank was a point in my favor—if it had not been for that the chances for a respectful hearing would have been slim.” “It is quite a sum,” Barbara said. “Lots of people here, nice people, too, live on small salaries and never get anything ahead. Of course there are others, like the Perkinses, who are rich.” “It's pitifully small!” said Philip, and looked his disgust. “I don't know—one can do lots with a thousand dollars. You can buy a very pretty little home here for that,” said Barbara practically. “Of course your father knows the money was left me and that I didn't make it. He hinted that it was about time that I got into something certain. He even said that as soon as I did we might marry. It's awfully lucky about that money. I hope to goodness nothing will happen to the bank, for if there should, I might just as well quit.” Both laughed at the idea. “Isn't it absurd!” said Barbara dolefully. “No, it's very serious, dear. Let's think what I can do to get a salary out of the town. I wish I could go away, but I simply can't do that. I must stay and help out at home. I suppose I'd better try and bone the papers for more work. That's the only sure thing in sight. I can always get that in small doses, because it helps the sale. My friends are willing to pay something for the opportunity to criticize the drivel—it's about the only opportunity they have had yet. It's a great thing to be a literary man in a small town, Barbara!” “I hate to think I am to be bought,” Barbara said angrily. “That it all rests on money, as though love were valueless.” “It's a commercial age.” “You seem to believe in nothing.” There was marked disfavor in her glance. Philip raised his eyes to hers. “I believe in your happiness and mine if I succeed. I have every confidence in myself.” “But not in me—you never speak of that!” “Yes, dear, in you, too!” “You don't say it as if you meant it!” “I am not accustomed to saying things I mean seriously.” “I wish you would pay me the compliment of being serious.” “I do.” And truly beneath all the flippancy his heart-was heavy—and as lead. III It was Sunday morning. Philip pushed into the church as the congregation streamed out through the wide doors. He made his way up to the choir loft where a man had just risen from his seat before the organ. This was Franz Becker. “You are late, Franz,” he observed.