prodigal son in him; his brother had more than half expected to see
him come back in a year or two with empty pockets. But New York had
seemed to agree with Oliver. He never told what he was doing--what
he wrote was simply that he was managing to keep the wolf from the
door. But his letters hinted at expensive ways of life; and at
Christmas time, and at Cousin Alice's birthday, he would send home
presents which made the family stare.

Montague had always thought of himself as a country lawyer and
planter. But two months ago a fire had swept away the family
mansion, and then on top of that had come an offer for the land; and
with Oliver telegraphing several times a day in his eagerness, they
had taken the sudden resolution to settle up their affairs and move
to New York.

There were Montague and his mother, and Cousin Alice, who was
nineteen, and old "Mammy Lucy," Mrs. Montague's servant. Oliver had
met them at Jersey City, radiant with happiness. He looked just as
much of a boy as ever, and just as beautiful; excepting that he was
a little paler, New York had not changed him at all. There was a man
in uniform from the hotel to take charge of their baggage, and a big
red touring-car for them; and now they were snugly settled in their
apartments, with the younger brother on duty as counsellor and
guide.

Montague had come to begin life all over again. He had brought his
money, and he expected to invest it, and to live upon the income
until he had begun to earn something. He had worked hard at his
profession, and he meant to work in New York, and to win his way
in the end. He knew almost nothing about the city--he faced it with