“I’m not begging!” she cried. “All I want is the chance to pay you—every cent, and I could do it—I will do it.” “Perhaps you will tell me how you are going about it,” he said coldly. She sank back into her chair. “Yes!” she said slowly. “I am—begging. I am begging for time. Give me another year—give me this summer, and let me—try!” He was studying the girl’s passionate face with a curious interest. A singular idea had presented itself to him, and he was considering it half mockingly. Nevertheless it lent a human sound to his voice as he answered her. “See here, Miss Preston,” he said. “I admire your pluck and energy. But let me tell you that you don’t want to hold on to that farm. The orchards are too old to be productive; the land needs fertilizers, rotation, all sorts of things that require brains and money. That old fool, Morrison, hasn’t managed the place properly, and can’t. It’s a losing fight, and you’d better give it up—peaceably.” “But I want it,” she urged, “for Jimmy. I want to hold the place for him. He’ll soon grow up now, and—he’s the last of the Prestons.” She stopped short and sprang to her feet, with a little gasp of angry protest. “You are laughing at me!” she cried indignantly. “You have no right——” She was mistaken; Stephen Jarvis seldom indulged in laughter; but his hard-set mouth had relaxed somewhat under his clipped mustache. His greenish brown eyes shone with an unaccustomed light. He was thinking his own thoughts, and for once, at least, he found a singular pleasure in them. “Don’t get excited,” he advised her coolly. “Sit down and we’ll talk this over. You want to keep the farm for that half-brother of yours, you say. Well, I’m disposed to give it to you to do as you like with, if you——” She gazed at him almost incredulously. “You’ll give me time to try?” she asked breathlessly. “Oh, thank you!” He answered her impetuous question with another. “Did you notice the person who showed you in? Yes; I see you did, particularly. Well, she’s my housekeeper. She’s been here since my—since I buried the late Mrs. Jarvis. But I—well; I’m tired of seeing the woman about. I shall need somebody to take her place, and—Stop! I want you to hear me out.” The girl had not resumed her seat at Jarvis’s bidding. She retreated swiftly toward the door. The man’s imperious voice followed her. “Come back! I’m not done with what I had to say!” But Barbara had already closed the door definitely behind her. The woman in black silk stood just outside. She had, in fact, been listening. “Well!” she breathed explosively, staring at Barbara. Then she rustled toward the front door, her ample draperies filling the narrow twilight passage with a harsh, swishing sound. “You better not show your face here again!” she said in a low, fierce voice, as she held the door wide for Barbara to pass out. IV