“Why, I have very little use for money, and no chance, here in the country, to spend it. Roger is extremely generous. Every few weeks he makes me take some. I often give it away to the poor people hereabouts. Only a fortnight ago I refused to take any more on account of my still having this. It’s agreed between us that I may give what I please in charity, and that my charities are my own affair. If I had only known of you, George, I should have appointed you my pensioner-in-chief.” George was silent. He was wondering intently how he might arrange to become the standing recipient of her overflow. Suddenly he remembered that he ought to protest. But Nora had lightly quitted the room. Fenton repocketed his twenty dollars and awaited her reappearance. Eighty dollars were not a fortune; still they were eighty dollars. To his great annoyance, before Nora returned Roger presented himself. The young man felt for an instant as if he had been caught in an act of sentimental burglary, and made a movement to conciliate his detector. “I am afraid I must bid you good by,” he said. Roger frowned, and wondered whether Nora had spoken. At this moment she reappeared, flushed and out of breath with the excitement of her purpose. She had been counting over her money, and held in each hand a little fluttering package of bank-notes. On seeing Roger she stopped and blushed, exchanging with her cousin a rapid glance of inquiry. He almost glared at her, whether with warning or with menace she hardly knew. Roger stood looking at her, half amazed. Suddenly, as the meaning of her errand flashed upon him, he turned a furious crimson. He made a step forward, but cautioned himself; then, folding his arms, he silently waited. Nora, after a moment’s hesitation, rolling her notes together, came up to her cousin and held out the little package. Fenton kept his hands in his pockets and devoured her with his eyes. “What’s all this?” he said brutally. “O George!” cried Nora; and her eyes filled with tears. Roger had divined the situation; the shabby victimization of the young girl and her kinsman’s fury at the disclosure of his avidity. He was angry; but he was even more disgusted. From so vulgar a knave there was little rivalship to fear. “I am afraid I am rather a marplot,” he said. “Don’t insist, Nora. Wait till my back is turned.” “I have nothing to be ashamed of,” said Nora. “You? O, nothing whatever!” cried Roger with a laugh. Fenton stood leaning against the mantel-piece, desperately sullen, with a look of vicious confusion. “It is only I who have anything to be ashamed of,” he said at last, bitterly, with an effort. “My poverty!” Roger smiled graciously. “Honest poverty is never shameful!” Fenton gave him an insolent stare. “Honest poverty! You know a great deal about it.” “Don’t appeal to poor little Nora, man, for her savings,” Roger went on. “Come to me.”