Lispenard laughed at the earnestness with which the question was asked. “No,” he replied. “I was joking. Peter cultivates you, because he wants to know your swell friends.” Either this conversation or Miss De Voe’s own thoughts, led to a change in her course. Invitations to formal dinners and to the opera suddenly ceased, and instead, little family dinners, afternoons in galleries, and evenings at concerts took their place. Sometimes Lispenard went with them, sometimes one of the Ogden girls, sometimes they went alone. It was an unusual week when Peter’s mail did not now bring at least one little note giving him a chance to see Miss De Voe if he chose. In February came a request for him to call. “I want to talk with you about something,” it said. That same evening he was shown into her drawing-rooms. She thanked him with warmth for coming so quickly, and Peter saw that only the other visitors prevented her from showing some strong feeling. He had stumbled in on her evening—for at that time people still had evenings—but knowing her wishes, he stayed till they were left alone together. “Come into the library,” she said. As they passed across the hall she told Morden, “I shall not receive any more to-night.” The moment they were in the smaller and cosier room, without waiting to sit even, she began: “Mr. Stirling, I dined at the Manfreys yesterday.” She spoke in a voice evidently endeavoring not to break. Peter looked puzzled. “Mr. Lapham, the bank president, was there.” Peter still looked puzzled. “And he told the table about a young lawyer who had very little money, yet who put five hundred dollars—his first fee—into his bank, and had used it to help—” Miss De Voe broke down, and, leaning against the mantel, buried her face in her handkerchief. “It’s curious you should have heard of it,” said Peter. “He—he didn’t mention names, b-bu-but I knew, of course.” “I didn’t like to speak of it because—well—I’ve wanted to tell you the good it’s done. Suppose you sit down.” Peter brought a chair, and Miss De Voe took it. “You must think I’m very foolish,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s nothing to cry about.” And Peter began telling her of some of the things which he had been able to do:—of the surgical brace it had bought; of the lessons in wood-engraving it had given; of the sewing-machine it had helped to pay for; of the arrears in rent it had settled. “You see,” he explained, “these people are too self-respecting to go to the big charities, or to rich people. But their troubles are talked over in the saloons and on the doorsteps, so I hear of them, and can learn whether they really deserve help. They’ll take it from me, because they feel that I’m one of them.” Miss De Voe was too much shaken by her tears to talk that evening. Miss De Voe’s life and surroundings were not exactly weepy ones, and when tears came they meant much. She said little, till Peter rose to go, and then only: