was more like real snow now, and the air was much colder; and by and by,
when Overholt had read a letter that Barbara brought him, he felt so
terribly cold all at once that his teeth chattered, and then he was so
hot that the perspiration ran down his forehead, and he steadied himself
against the heavy glass case of the Motor a moment and then almost
tumbled into a sitting posture on the stool before his work-table, and
his head fell forward on his hands, as if he were fainting.

The letter said that his account was overdrawn to the extent of three
hundred and fifty-two dollars and thirteen cents, including the cheque
he had drawn on the thirty-first, and would he please make a deposit at
his earliest convenience?

It had been just a little mistake in arithmetic, that was all. He had
started with the wrong balance in his note-book, and what he thought was
credit was debit, but the bank where he had kept all the money that had
been put up for the Motor, had wished to be friendly and good-natured to
the great inventor and had not returned his cheques with N.G. on them;
and if his attention had already been called to his deficit, he must
have forgotten to open the letter. Like all men who are much talked of
in the newspapers, though they may be as poor as Job's turkey, he
received a great many circulars addressed by typewriter, and the only
letters he really cared for were from his wife, so that when he was very
hard at work or much preoccupied the others accumulated somewhere in the
workshop, and were often forgotten.

What was perfectly clear this morning was that starvation was sitting on
the doorstep and that he had no moral right whatever to the dinner
Barbara was already beginning to cook, nor to another to-morrow, nor to
any more; for he was a proud man, and ashamed of debt, though he mixed