"Right O!" she cried. "That's it! You buck up sime as I told yer. Y'
ain't stony broke an' there's 'allers to-morrer."

Antony Dart's expression was weirdly retrospective.

"I did not think so this morning," he answered.

"But there is," said the girl. "Ain't there now, curick? There's a lot
o' work in yer yet; yer could do all sorts o' things if y' ain't too
proud. I'll 'elp yer. So 'll the curick. Y' ain't found out yet what
a little folks can live on till luck turns. Me, I'm goin' to try Miss
Montaubyn's wye. Le's both try. Le's believe things is comin'. Le's
get 'er to talk to us some more."

The curate was thinking the thing over deeply.

"Yer see," Glad enlarged cheerfully, "yer look almost like a gentleman.
P'raps yer can write a good 'and an' spell all right. Can yer?"

"Yes."

"I think, perhaps," the curate began reflectively, "particularly if you
can write well, I might be able to get you some work."

"I do not want work," Dart answered slowly. "At least I do not want the
kind you would be likely to offer me."

The curate felt a shock, as if cold water had been dashed over him.
Somehow it had not once occurred to him that the man could be one of the