Before going home he went hastily round to see various people, from whom he hoped to borrow the necessary money. From his great-uncle Stephen Roquevillard, an original old fellow who passed for a miser, from his Aunt Teresa, pious and charitable, he secured some loans, about a thousand francs, besides five hundred from his sister Mrs. Marcellaz, as well as from his future brother-in-law Raymond Bercy. He had to concoct some story about debts contracted during his student days in Paris. It was a ruse that caused him some humiliation--a sacrifice which he offered to his love, but without deriving much comfort from it. He did not stop to think, moreover, that all the strangers to whom he had applied had refused him, while his family, whether with tenderness or crustiness, had hastened to help him in his imaginary plight. At six o’clock he returned to Frasne’s offices, just as the clerks were closing up. “I’ve a letter or two to write,” he said. “I’ll lock up.” He did write, as a matter of fact, to the most influential of his acquaintances, asking that some lucrative place in Paris might be gotten for him as promptly as possible. Having taken prizes in all his courses, he counted on the recommendations of his old law professors to help him. He was not easily dashed by the difficulties of existence, and had no doubt of his ability to surmount them easily. Where should the answers to his letters be sent? He hesitated, then wrote down: _Milan, post restante_. By these preparations, which kept his mind occupied, he succeeded in obscuring his regret at parting. It came over him again, however, sharp and poignant, when he crossed the threshold of his father’s house for the last time. He slipped in furtively and was at once noticed, but shut himself up in his room. Margaret came to look for him there at dinner time, and found him with his head in his hands beneath the lamp, so absorbed that he did not hear her knock. “Maurice,” she asked, “what’s troubling you?” “Nothing.” “I’m your little sister, and you’re not willing to tell me your worries. Who knows if I might not be of some use to you?” To account for his air of worry, which he could not deny, he fell back again on his pretended need of money, the story that he had just been telling in various forms. The girl stopped him at once. “Wait a moment,” she said. She disappeared, and came back a little later triumphantly, placing in front of him a fine blue bill for one thousand francs. “Is that enough? Father gave me three of them for my trousseau, and luckily this one’s left.” “You are mad, Margaret. I don’t want it.” “Yes, yes, take it. I shall be so glad. A few bits of linen more or less will scarcely make me feel poor.” She laughed, and he, his nerves all strung, felt the tears gather at the edge of his eyes. By a great effort he succeeded in controlling himself, and rested content with drawing the girl to his heart--a heart which, after all, did not belong entirely to Mrs. Frasne.