of his sins when seeking sympathy: it was this candor that went so far to
convince people of his good-heartedness.

"I don't know as I ever heard that meat-pie was bad," said Mrs. Gaylord,
thoughtfully. "Mr. Gaylord used to eat it right along all through his
dyspepsia, and he never complained of it. And the cheese ought to have made
it digest."

"Well, I don't know what it was," replied Bartley, plaintively submitting
to be exonerated, "but I feel perfectly used up. Oh, I suppose I shall get
over it, or forget all about it, by to-morrow," he added, with strenuous
cheerfulness. "It isn't anything worth minding."

Mrs. Gaylord seemed to differ with him on this point. "Head ache any?" she
asked.

"It did this morning, when I first woke up," Bartley assented.

"I don't believe but what a cup of tea would be the best thing for you,"
she said, critically.

Bartley had instinctively practised a social art which ingratiated him with
people at Equity as much as his demands for sympathy endeared him: he gave
trouble in little unusual ways. He now said, "Oh, I wish you would give me
a cup, Mrs. Gaylord."

"Why, yes, indeed! That's just what I was going to," she replied. She went
to the kitchen, which lay beyond another room, and reappeared with the
tea directly, proud of her promptness, but having it on her conscience
to explain it. "I 'most always keep the pot on the stove hearth, Sunday