Christy got out an envelope and dipped his pen in the ink. Then he let it rest over the edge of the desk, where it dried. He picked up the roll of money. “You must have been collecting this for some time.” “All summer,” said Chippy. “There’s a good deal of it. Lin and Miss Loretta had just begun to talk about where they would carry it when you first began to take up money here. I told them about it and I told them that, so long as this was where I worked, I thought you’d ought to get it. So after a bit they decided on that.” Chippy plainly felt that the bestowal of Lin’s patronage was no light thing. Christy agreed with him. “I’m very much obliged to you,” he said heartily. “This will help me along splendidly. Let’s put it in at once.” He pulled at the twine string, which was tied in a very secure knot, and laid open the hoard. It was made up of all the original pennies and nickels; there was also one dime among them. The sum total was $2.11. Christy handed Chippy a nickel and held one himself. He brought the missionary box. “Now, drop yours in,” he directed. “Then I will drop mine. We’ll take turn about.” Chippy was eager. His interest grew with every rattling coin until the last was safely inside. Then he straightened himself with a long breath. “Lin said she was going to do it, and she’s done it,” he said. “And she doesn’t know how much she has done,” said Christy, soberly. “That’s so,” answered Chippy, with quick perception. “That’s the best of it, I suppose. The best of everything, Lin says, is what the Lord can make out of it. Anything will go twice as far with Him, she says. You talk a great deal like her.” Christy lifted the box. “It’s about full,” he said. “It’s just about ready to empty again. But there is a little space yet. We will leave it. I shall be glad to see what gift will be put in on top of this.” The weeks passed. Several times over the missionary box was emptied into the pigeon-hole. On a foggy December afternoon a Mr. Richards was alone with Christy in the office. He had brought the young man a windfall of $1,000. “It is by happy strokes like these,” said Mr. Richards, “that a man grows rich.” Many such strokes of various kinds had come in the way of Mr. Richards during a long life. “I have built up my own fortunes,” he continued, “from the stub. From what I see of you, Mr. Morton, I predict you success.” He regarded Christy with a glint of favor in his iron-gray face as he added in climax, “You are very much like I was at your age. You are like myself.” Christy was rather silent. When he was left alone he thought of Jim Perry. He often thought of Jim now. His late visitor and his classmate stood side by side before his mind. “There is wealth and wealth,” he mused. “Mr. Richards has one kind, Jim has another. I am not so awfully pleased,” he thought resentfully, “with my likeness to Richards. I don’t fancy being a cash register. All the man’s fortunes are in money.”