“As to that,” Jarvis said quietly, “I can assure you that your time is worth all and more than you receive for it. But——” He looked down and fingered his driving gloves absent-mindedly. “There have been certain events, transpiring since the date of your engagement—your agreement, I should say better—with the person of whom we are speaking, which would seem to indicate that possibly—mind I say possibly, I cannot speak certainly as yet—but possibly your services may not be required at all.” “What must I do? Of course the money——” “Naturally, a part of it will be forfeited to you,” said Jarvis coolly. To all outward appearance he was the hard-headed man of affairs discussing a disputed contract. “I attended to that for you,” he went on. “It is nothing more than fair, since you still hold yourself in readiness to fill your part of the contract.” Barbara was gazing at him with parted lips. “I chanced to meet an acquaintance of yours this afternoon,” Jarvis went on, his observant eyes on her face. “A—er—Mr. Whitcomb.” Her look puzzled him. “He informed me that he wished to marry you.” The girl’s eyes sank in shamed confusion. “I—said I could not promise until—unless——” she faltered. He arose, gripping his chair-back with tense fingers. “It will be impossible to learn the ultimate intentions of my client at present,” he said. He continued to look at her as she sat in the soft radiance of the lamp-light, her head bowed, her slender hands, browned and roughened by the labors of sorrowful years, tightly clasped in her lap; and a great compassion for her friendless youth, her woman’s tenderness and weakness, swept over him like a flood. He longed to take her in his arms, to comfort her unforgotten griefs and forever to shield her from the coldness of an unfriendly world. She seemed so slight, so fragile a creature in her thin dress of faded muslin, with the heavy masses of her hair knotted low against her slender neck. “You say you cannot tell me who it is?” she murmured. “It is so strange not to know—to wait, being afraid every day. Why, any time Jimmy might come home and find me gone.” Her voice trembled into silence. He bent toward her, his face transfigured with love and pity. “Barbara!” he cried, in a low voice of yearning. She looked up at him, startled, afraid. He perceived this, and the next instant his features had resumed their expression of cold serenity. “I was about to tell you that any excessive anxiety on your part is wholly unnecessary,” he said. “You will certainly be notified at least a week in advance. And—as my client is situated at present—I think I may predict with tolerable certainty that the call will not come before—autumn.” Her face brightened. “In October,” she said, “we shall harvest the orchards. Then I could pay back the money.” A swift shadow crossed his face. “Money; is it of that you must always be thinking?” he asked.