"You're so very kind, Frank," she said to him, one night. "I'm awfully
grateful. I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for
you."

She looked at his handsome face, which was turned to hers, with
child-like simplicity.

"Not at all. Not at all. I want to do it. I wouldn't have been happy if
I couldn't."

His eyes had a peculiar, subtle ray in them--not a gleam. She felt warm
toward him, sympathetic, quite satisfied that she could lean on him.

"Well, I am very grateful just the same. You've been so good. Come out
Sunday again, if you want to, or any evening. I'll be home."

It was while he was calling on her in this way that his Uncle Seneca
died in Cuba and left him fifteen thousand dollars. This money made him
worth nearly twenty-five thousand dollars in his own right, and he knew
exactly what to do with it. A panic had come since Mr. Semple had died,
which had illustrated to him very clearly what an uncertain thing the
brokerage business was. There was really a severe business depression.
Money was so scarce that it could fairly be said not to exist at all.
Capital, frightened by uncertain trade and money conditions, everywhere,
retired to its hiding-places in banks, vaults, tea-kettles, and
stockings. The country seemed to be going to the dogs. War with the
South or secession was vaguely looming up in the distance. The temper of
the whole nation was nervous. People dumped their holdings on the market
in order to get money. Tighe discharged three of his clerks. He cut down
his expenses in every possible way, and used up all his private savings