that much credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I should
begin to realize on the investment!"

"I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you," says the girl. "He
began to earn money as soon as he was nineteen, and he has never--"

"Time enough, too," the man breaks in. "It was a very fortunate thing I
had fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, when
your grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if I
hadn't prepared Dick to step in and make his living?"

"_Our_ living," says the girl.

"Our living, of course. It would be very strange if I weren't to reap a
bare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a living
out of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualities
for success?" The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuable
qualities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. "Dick hasn't
done any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what _he_ has
done, is so much more than nothing at all, that--" He stops as if it were
useless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact that
this conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with displeasure.

After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: "Well, if I haven't
earned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to please
you."

"You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our trip
to Europe?"