He stood with his hands in his pockets, his unseeing eyes fixed upon the yellow gleam of the gas-stove, which was now the only point of light in the room.

            “And that is what Annette is crying about?” he asked at length.

            “Poor child,” murmured his mother, deprecatingly; “it is such a solemn moment, Maurice.”

            “Yes, yes—I know. That’s just it. That’s why I don’t understand—Annette is a very religious girl, isn’t she?”

            “Father Thurifer tells me that he has never seen a more religious nature. He said that it was as natural to her to believe as to breathe. Isn’t that such a beautiful expression?”

            “And yet—yet—at such a solemn moment, as you say, it is the color of her dress that is uppermost in her mind?”

            “Oh, Maurice, don’t you see that it is just because she has so much devotional feeling, poor child, that she suffers at the thought of not appearing worthily at such a time?”

            “As if Mrs. Stapleton should ask me to lead the cotillion at her ball when my dress coat is in pawn?”

            “Maurice!” said his mother.

            “I beg your pardon, mother; I didn’t mean that; forgive me. But it all seems so queer—I don’t understand.”

            “I wish you went oftener to church, Maurice,” said Mrs. Birkton, sadly.

            “I wish I understood Annette better,” he returned in a musing tone.

            “Annette is a very good girl,” said Mrs. Birkton, gathering up her pen and papers. “After the first shock is over she will bear her disappointment bravely; but don’t tell her that I have spoken to you about it, for she would never forgive me.”

            “Poor little thing,” Maurice sighed, as his mother groped her way to the door.

            He sat still in the darkness after she had left, companioned by the dismal brood of his disappointments, until half an hour later Annette’s knock told him that their slender supper was ready.

            When he re-entered the kitchen his sister’s face had grown as smooth and serene as that of some young seraph of Van Eyck’s. She had tied a white apron over her dress and was busy carrying the hot toast and fried eggs from the stove to the table, which had meanwhile been covered with a white cloth and neatly set for the evening meal.

            Maurice sat down between her and his mother, listening in silence to their talk, which fell like the trickle of a cool stream upon his aching nerves. They were speaking as usual of church matters, in which the daughter took an eager and precocious, the mother a somewhat ex-official interest; it seemed to Maurice as though Mrs. Birkton, who had resigned herself to getting on without so many things, had even surrendered her direct share in the scheme of redemption, or rather tacitly passed it on to her child. But what more especially struck him was the force of will displayed in Annette’s demeanor. Her disappointment, which he felt to be very real, was impenetrably masked behind a mien of gay activity; and Maurice, knowing his own facile tendency to be swayed by the emotion of the moment, marvelled at the child’s self-control.

            The next morning he went out earlier than usual. As he opened the hall-door he turned back and called to his mother, who was washing the breakfast dishes in the kitchen:

            “Mother, if Helfenridge comes you can say that you don’t know when I shall be back. Say that I may not be in all day.”

            “Very well, dear,” she replied, with some surprise; but her son’s face forbade questioning, and she went on silently with her work.

            Maurice, as it happened, returned in time for their one o’clock dinner. His mother thought that he looked pale and spiritless, and feared that he had endured another defeat at the hands of some unenlightened editor.

            “Has Helfenridge been here?” he inquired.

            “Yes,” Mrs. Birkton answered. “He stopped on his way down town just after you had gone out. He was very sorry not to find you, and said that he would come again to-morrow evening.”

            “Has Annette got back from school?” Maurice asked, irrelevantly.

            “I think I hear her step now,” Mrs. Birkton replied, and at the same moment the kitchen-door opened, admitting the young girl, whose small face was touched with a frosty pink by the cold.

            As she entered Maurice went up to her, extending something in his hand with an awkward gesture.

            “Look here—will that buy you a white dress like the rest of the girls?” he said, abruptly.

            Annette grew red and then pale; her lips parted, but she made no motion to take the roll of bills which he held out to her.

            “Maurice!” his mother gasped. “Have they accepted something? What is it? What is it to appear in?”

            Her small features, flattened into life-long submission to failure, seemed almost convulsed by the unwonted expression of a less negative emotion.

            Maurice made no answer; he was still looking at Annette.

            “Why don’t you take it, Annette?” he said, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

            “Annette! Annette! why do you stand there? Can’t you speak? Why don’t you thank your brother?” Mrs. Birkton cried, in a storm of exultation.

            Annette held out her hand, but as she took the bills her face again grew crimson.

            “Maurice, how did you know about the dress? Mother, you promised not to tell him!” Then, glancing at the roll of money, “But what have you given me, Maurice? A hundred dollars—a hundred and fifty dollars? Mother, what does he mean?”

            “Maurice!” Mrs. Birkton almost shrieked.

            “Well,” said Maurice with a laugh, “isn’t it enough to buy your dress?”

            Annette stood, trembling, between sobs and laughter; but her mother’s tears overflowed.

            “Oh, my boy, my son, I’m so happy! I knew it would come. I knew it must—Mr. Helfenridge said so only this morning. But I didn’t dream it would be so soon!” She lifted her poor, joy-distorted face to his averted kiss. “Oh, it’s too beautiful, Maurice, it’s too beautiful! But you haven’t told us yet which poem it is.”

            Maurice turned sharply away, his hand on the door.

            “Not yet—not now. I’ve forgotten something. I’m going out,” he stammered.

            “Why, Maurice! Without your dinner? You’re not well, my son!”

            “Nonsense, mother. I shall be back presently. Annette, keep some dinner for me.”

            “But, Maurice,” the girl cried, springing forward, “you mustn’t leave all this money with me.”

            “I’ve told you it’s yours,” he said, with a violence which made the women’s startled eyes meet.

            “Why, Maurice, you must be joking! A hundred and fifty dollars? I oughtn’t to keep a penny of it, with all the things that you and mother need.”

            “Nonsense, keep it all. If it’s too much for your dress, mother can take the rest for herself.