"Really, though, I'll never get as much joy out of my abundant
riches as I did out of financial embarrassments."

"But think how fine it is, Monty, not ever to wonder where your
winter's overcoat is to come from and how long the coal will last,
and all that."

"Oh, I never wondered about my overcoats; the tailor did the
wondering. But I wish I could go on living here just as before.
I'd a heap rather live here than at that gloomy place on the
avenue." "That sounded like the things you used to say when we
played in the garret. You'd a heap sooner do this than that--don't
you remember?"

"That's just why I'd rather live here, Peggy. Last night I fell to
thinking of that old garret, and hanged if something didn't come
up and stick in my throat so tight that I wanted to cry. How long
has it been since we played up there? Yes, and how long has it
been since I read 'Oliver Optic' to you, lying there in the garret
window while you sat with your back against the wall, your blue
eyes as big as dollars?"

"Oh, dear me, Monty, it was ages ago--twelve or thirteen years at
least," she cried, a soft light in her eyes.

"I'm going up there this afternoon to see what the place is like,"
he said eagerly. "And, Peggy, you must come too. Maybe I can find
one of those Optic books, and we'll be young again."

"Just for old time's sake," she said impulsively. "You'll stay for