“Ellik McCosh,” he said, “a girl in our village who went to Boston, learned to dance, and when she came back she taught two or three. Her communion medal was removed from her,” he added with complete veracity. “Perhaps,” he went on conversationally, “you don't have communion medals in Richmond--it's a little lead piece you have when you are in good standing at the Lord's table. Mine was taken away for three months for whistling by the church door. A long while ago,” he ended in a different voice. He thought of the fruit cake, and breaking off a piece offered it to the silent girl. “It's like your own,” he told her, placing it on a piece of paper at her side; “it's from Richmond and wasn't even paid for with strange silver.” At this last a sudden uneasiness possessed him, and he hurriedly searched his pockets. He had exactly fifty cents. Until the present he had totally overlooked the depleted state of his fortune. Elim had some arrears of pay, but now he seriously doubted whether they were collectible. Nothing else. He had emerged from the war brevetted major but as penniless as the morning of his enlistment. He doubted whether, in the hurry of departure, Rosemary Roselle had remembered to bring any money. Still, she would be cared for, supplied with every necessity, at Bramant's Wharf. There he would leave her ... his breathing stopped, for, incredibly, he saw that her hand was suspended over the piece of cake. She took it up and ate it slowly, absently. This, he felt, had created a bond between them; but it was a conviction in which, apparently, she had no share. She might have thanked him but she didn't. An underhanded and indefensible expedient occurred to him, and he sat for a perceptible number of minutes concentrating his memory upon a dim and special object. Finally he raised his head. “Indy,” he quoted, “a large light mulatto, hasn't much sense but a great deal of sensibility. That,” he added of himself, “is evidently very well observed.” He saw that Rosemary turned her head with an impatient curiosity. “She is very unfortunate,” he continued uncertainly; “she lost a present of money and couldn't work till it was given back.” “But how,” demanded Rosemary Roselle, “did you know that?” Curiosity had betrayed her. Elim Meikeljohn concealed a grin with difficulty. It was evident that she profoundly regretted the lapse, yet she would not permit herself to retreat from her position. She maintained a high intolerant aspect of query. “Have you forgotten,” he went on, “how the dread day rolled around?” He paused wickedly. “The slough of despond?” he added. “What silly stuff!” Rosemary pronounced. “It was,” he agreed, “mostly. But the paper about Indy was a superior production. B plus, I think.” A slow comprehension dawned on her face, blurred by the night.