mrs. burke denby was a little surprised at the number of letters directed to her husband in the morning mail that first day of november, until she noticed the familiar names in the upper left-hand corners of several of the envelopes.

"oh, it's the bills," she murmured, drawing in her breath a little uncertainly. "to-day's the first, and they said they'd send them then. but i didn't think there'd be such a lot of them. still, i've had things at all those places. well, anyway, he'll be glad to pay them all at once, without my teasing for money all the time," she finished with resolute insistence, as she turned back to her work.

if, now that the time had come, and the bills lay before her in all their fearsome reality, helen was beginning to doubt the wisdom of her financial system, she would not admit it, even to herself. and she still wore a determinedly cheerful face when her husband came home to dinner that night. she went into the kitchen as he began to open his mail—she was reminded of a sudden something that needed her attention. two minutes later she nearly dropped the dish of potato salad she was carrying, at the sound of his voice from the doorway.

"helen, what in heaven's name is the meaning of[pg 83] these bills?" he was in the kitchen now, holding out a sheaf of tightly clutched papers in each hand.

helen set the potato salad down hastily.

"why, burke, don't—don't look at me so!"

"but what does this mean? what are these things?"

"why, they—they're just bills, i suppose. they said they'd be."

"bills! great cæsar, helen! you don't mean to say that you do know about them—that you bought all this stuff?"

helen's lip began to quiver.

"burke, don't—please don't look like that. you frighten me."

"frighten you! what do you think of me?—springing a thing like this!"

"why, burke, i—i thought you'd like it."

"like it!"

"y-yes—that i didn't have to ask you for money all the time. and you'd have to p-pay 'em some time, anyhow. we had to eat, you know."

"but, great scott, helen! we aren't a hotel! look at that—'salad'—'salad'—'salad,'" he exploded, pointing a shaking finger at a series of items on the uppermost bill in his left hand. "there's tons of the stuff there, and i always did abominate it!"

"why, burke, i—i—" and the floods came.

"oh, thunderation! helen, helen, don't—please don't!"[pg 84]

"but i thought i was going to p-please you, and you called me a h-hotel, and said you a-abominated it!" she wailed, stumbling away blindly.

with a despairing ejaculation burke flung the bills to the floor, and caught the sob-shaken little figure of his wife in his arms.

"there, there, i was a brute, and i didn't mean it—not a word of it. sweetheart, don't, please don't," he begged. "why, girlie, all the bills in christendom aren't worth a tear from your dear eyes. come, won't you stop?"

but helen did not stop, at once. the storm was short, but tempestuous. at the end of ten minutes, however, together they went into the dining-room. helen carried the potato salad (which burke declared he was really hungry for to-day), and burke carried the bills crumpled in one hand behind his back, his other arm around his wife's waist.

that evening a remorseful, wistful-eyed wife and a husband with an "i'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me" air went over the subject of household finances, and came to an understanding.

there were to be no more charge accounts. for the weekly expenses helen was to have every cent that could possibly be spared; but what she could not pay cash for, they must go without, if they starved. in a pretty little book she must put down on one side the money received. on the other, the money spent. she was a dear, good little wife, and he loved her 'most to death; but he couldn't let her run up bills[pg 85] when he had not a red cent to pay them with. he would borrow, of course, for these—he was not going to have any dirty little tradesmen pestering him with bills all the time! but this must be the last. never again!

and helen said yes, yes, indeed. and she was very sure she would love to keep the pretty little book, and put down all the money she got, and all she spent.

all this was very well in theory. but in practice—

at the end of the first week helen brought her book to her husband, and spread it open before him with great gusto.

on the one side were several entries of small sums, amounting to eight dollars received. on the other side were the words: "spent all but seventeen cents."

"oh, but you should put down what you spent it for," corrected burke, with a merry laugh.

"why?"

"why, er—so you can see—er—what the money goes for."

"what's the difference—if it goes?"

"oh, shucks! you can't keep a cash account that way! you have to put 'em both down, and then—er—balance up and see if your cash comes right. see, like this," he cried, taking a little book from his pocket. "i'm keeping one." and he pointed to a little list which read:[pg 86]—

lunch $.25

cigar .10

car-fare .10

paper .02

helen 2.00

cigars .25

paper .02

"now that's what i spent yesterday. you want to put yours down like that, then add 'em up and subtract it from what you receive. what's left should equal your cash on hand."

"hm-m; well, all right," assented helen dubiously, as she picked up her own little book.

helen looked still more dubious when she presented her book for inspection the next week.

"i don't think i like it this way," she announced, with a pout.

"why not?"

"why, burke, the mean old thing steals—actually steals! it says i ought to have one dollar and forty-five cents; and i haven't got but fourteen cents! it's got it itself—somewhere!"

"ho, that's easy, dear!" the man gave an indulgent laugh. "you didn't put 'em all down—what you spent."

"but i did—everything i could remember. besides, i borrowed fifty cents of mrs. jones. i didn't put that down anywhere. i didn't know where to put it."

"helen! you borrowed money—of that woman?"[pg 87]

"she isn't 'that woman'! she's my friend, and i like her," flared helen, hotly. "i had to have some eggs, and i didn't have a cent of money. i shall pay her back, of course,—next time you pay me."

burke frowned.

"oh, come, come, helen, this will never do," he remonstrated. "of course you'll pay her back; but i can't have my wife borrowing of the neighbors!"

"but i had to! i had to have some eggs," she choked, "and—"

"yes, yes, i know. but i mean, we won't again," interrupted the man desperately, fleeing to cover in the face of the threatening storm of sobs. "and, anyhow, we'll see that you have some money now," he cried gayly, plunging his hands into his pockets, and pulling out all the bills and change he had. "there, 'with all my worldly goods i thee endow,'" he laughed, lifting his hands above her bright head, and showering the money all over her.

like children then they scrambled for the rolling nickels and elusive dimes; and in the ensuing frolic the tiresome account-book was forgotten—which was exactly what burke had hoped would happen.

this was the second week. at the end of the third, the "mean old thing" was in a worse muddle than ever, according to helen; and, for her part, she would rather never buy anything at all if she had got to go and tell that nuisance of a book every time!

the fourth saturday night helen did not produce the book at all.[pg 88]

"oh, i don't keep that any longer," she announced, with airy nonchalance, in answer to burke's question. "it never came right, and i hated it, anyhow. so what's the use? i've got what i've got, and i've spent what i've spent. so what's the difference?" and burke, after a feeble remonstrance, gave it up as a bad job. incidentally it might be mentioned that burke was having a little difficulty with his own cash account, and was tempted to accuse his own book of stealing—else where did the money go?

it was the next monday night that burke came home with a radiant countenance.

"gleason's here—up at the hancock house. he's coming down after dinner."

"who's gleason?"

helen's tone was a little fretful—there was a new, intangible something in her husband's voice that helen did not understand, and that she did not think she liked.

"gleason! who's doc gleason!" exclaimed burke, with widening eyes. "oh, i forgot. you don't know him, do you?" he added, with a slight frown. burke denby was always forgetting that helen knew nothing of his friends or of himself until less than a year before. "well, doc gleason is the best ever. he went to egypt with us last year, and to alaska the year before."

"how old is he?"

"old? why, i don't know—thirty—maybe more. he must be a little more, come to think of it.[pg 89] but you never think of age with the doctor. he'll be young when he's ninety."

"and you like him—so well?" her voice was a little wistful.

"next to dad—always have. you'll like him, too. you can't help it. he's mighty interesting."

"and he's a doctor?"

"yes, and no. oh, he graduated and hung out his shingle; but he never practiced much. he had money enough, anyway, and he got interested in scientific research—antiquarian, mostly, though he's done a bit of mountain-climbing and glacier-studying for the national geographic society."

"antiquarian? oh, yes, i know—old things. mother was that way, too. she had an old pewter plate, and a dark blue china teapot, homely as a hedge fence, i thought, but she doted on 'em. and she doted on ancestors, too. she had one in that old ship—mayflower, wasn't it?"

burke laughed.

"mayflower! my dear child, the mayflower is a mere infant-in-arms in the doctor's estimation. the doctor goes back to prehistoric times for his playground, and to the men of the old stone age for his preferred playmates."

"older than the mayflower, then?"

"a trifle—some thousands of years."

"goodness! how can he? i thought the mayflower was bad enough. but what does he do—collect things?"[pg 90]

"yes, to some extent; he has a fine collection of babylonian tablets, and—"

"oh, i know—those funny little brown and yellow cakes like soap, all cut into with pointed little marks—what do you call it?—like your father has in his library!"

"the cuneiform writing? yes. as i said, the doctor has a fine collection of tablets, and of some other things; but principally he studies and goes on trips. it was a trip to the spanish grottoes that got him interested in the archæological business in the first place, and put him out of conceit with doctoring. he goes a lot now, sometimes independently, sometimes in the interest of some society. he does in a scientific way what dad and i have done for fun—traveling and collecting, i mean. then, too, he has written a book or two which are really authoritative in their line. he's a great chap—the doctor is. wait till you see him. i've told him about you, too."

"then you told him—that is—he knows—about the marriage."

"why, sure he does!" burke's manner was a bit impatient. "what do you suppose, when he's coming here to-night? now, mind, put on your prettiest frock and your sweetest smile. i want him to see why i married you," he challenged banteringly. "i want him to see what a treasure i've got. and say, dearie, do you suppose—could we have him to dinner, or something? could you manage it? i wanted[pg 91] to ask him to-night; but of course i couldn't—without your knowing beforehand."

"mercy, no, burke!" shuddered the young housekeeper. "don't you dare—when i don't know it."

"but if you do know it—" he paused hopefully.

"why, y-yes, i guess so. of course i could get things i was sure of, like potato salad and—"

burke sat back in his chair.

"but, helen, i'm afraid—i don't think—that is, i'm 'most sure gleason doesn't like potato salad," he stammered.

"doesn't he? well, he needn't eat it, then. we'll have all the more left for the next day."

"but, helen, er—"

"oh, i'll have chips, too; don't worry, dear. i'll give him something to eat," she promised gayly. "do you suppose i'm going to have one of your swell friends come here, and then have you ashamed of me? you just wait and see!"

"er, no—no, indeed, of course not," plunged in her husband feverishly, trying to ward off a repetition of the "swell"—a word he particularly abhorred.

several times in the last two months he had heard helen use this word—twice when she had informed him with great glee that some swell friends of his from elm hill had come in their carriage to call; and again quite often when together on the street they met some one whom he knew. he thought he hated the word a little more bitterly every time he heard it.[pg 92]

for several weeks now the denbys had been receiving calls—burke denby was a denby of denby mansion even though he was temporarily marooned on dale street at a salary of sixty dollars a month. besides, to many, dale street and the sixty dollars, with the contributory elements of elopement and irate parent, only added piquancy and interest to what would otherwise have been nothing but the conventional duty call.

to helen, in the main, these calls were a welcome diversion—"just grand," indeed. to burke, on whom the curiosity element was not lost, they were an impertinence and a nuisance. yet he endured them, and even welcomed them, in a way; for he wanted helen to know his friends, and to like them—better than she liked mrs. jones. he did not care for mrs. jones. she talked too loud, and used too much slang. he did not like to have helen with her. always, therefore, after callers had been there, his first eager question was: "how did you like them, dear?" he wanted so much that helen should like them!

to-night, however, in thinking of the prospective visit from gleason, he was wondering how the doctor would like helen—not how helen would like the doctor. the change was significant but unconscious—perhaps all the more significant because it was unconscious.

until he had reached home that night, burke had been so overjoyed at the prospect of an old-time chat with his friend that he had given little thought to[pg 93] gleason's probable opinion of the dale street flat and its furnishings. now, with his eyes on the obtrusive unharmony all about him, and his memory going back to the doctor's well-known fastidiousness of taste, he could think of little else. he did hope gleason would not think he had selected those horrors! of course he had already explained—a little—about his father's disapproval of the marriage, and the resulting cutting-off of his allowance; but even that would not excuse (to gleason) the riot of glaring reds and pinks and purples in his living-rooms; and one could not very well explain that one's wife liked the horrors— he pulled himself up sharply. of course helen herself was a dear. he hoped gleason would see how dear she was. he wanted gleason to like helen.

as the hour drew near for the expected guest's arrival, burke denby, greatly to his vexation, found himself growing more and more nervous. he asked himself indignantly if he were going to let a purple cushion entirely spoil the pleasure of the evening. not until he had seen gleason that afternoon had he realized how sorely he had missed his father's companionship all these past weeks. not until he had found himself bubbling over with the things he wanted to talk about that evening had he realized how keenly he had missed the mental stimulus of that father's comradeship. and now, for the sake of a purple cushion, was he to lose the only chance he had had for weeks of conversing with an intelligent[pg 94]—

with an almost audible gasp the shocked and shamed husband pulled himself up again.

well, of course helen was intelligent. it was only that she was not interested in, and did not know about, these things he was thinking of; and—

the doorbell rang sharply, and burke leaped to his feet and hastened to press the button that would release the catch of the lock at the entrance below.

"why, burke, you never called down through the tube at all, and asked who it was," remonstrated helen, hurrying in, her fingers busy with the final fastenings of her dress.

"you bet your life i didn't," laughed burke, a bit grimly. "you've got another guess coming if you think i'm going to hold doc gleason off at the end of a 'who is it?' bellowed into his ear from that impertinent copper trumpet down there."

"why, burke, that's all right. everybody does it," maintained helen. "we have to, else we'd be letting all sorts of folks in, and—"

at a warning gesture from her husband she stopped just as a tall, smooth-shaven man with kind eyes and a grave smile appeared at the open hallway door.

"glad to see you, doctor," cried burke, extending a cordial hand, that yet trembled a little. "let me present you to my wife."

"pleased to meet you, i'm sure," bobbed helen. and because she was nervous she said the next thing that came into her head. "and i hope you're pleased[pg 95] to meet me, too. all burke's friends are so swell, you know, that—"

"er—ah—" broke in the dismayed husband.

but the visitor advanced quietly, still with that same grave smile, and clasped mrs. denby's extended hand.

"i am very sure burke's friends are, indeed, very glad to meet you," he said. "certainly i am," he finished, with a cordial heartiness so nicely balanced that even burke denby's sensitive alertness could find in it neither the overzealousness of insincerity nor the indifference of disdain.

even when, a minute later, they turned and went into the living room, burke's still apprehensive watchfulness could detect in his friend's face not one trace of the dismayed horror he had been dreading to see there.

"gleason's a brick," he sighed to himself, trying to relax his tense muscles. "as if i didn't know that every last gimcrack in this miserable room would fairly scream at him the moment he entered that door!"

in spite of everybody's very evident efforts to have everything pass off pleasantly, the evening was anything but a success. helen, at first shy and ill at ease, said little. then, as if suddenly realizing her deficiencies as a hostess, she tried to remedy it by talking very loud and very fast about anything that came into her mind, reveling especially in minute details concerning their own daily lives, ranging all[pg 96] the way from stories of the elopement and the house-furnishing on the installment plan to hilarious accounts of her experiences with the cookbook and the account-book.

very plainly helen was doing her best to "show off." from one to the other she looked, with little nods and coquettish smiles.

to gleason her manner said: "you see now why burke fell in love with me, don't you?" to burke it said: "there, now i guess you ain't ashamed of me!"

the doctor, still with the grave smile and kindly eyes, listened politely, uttering now and then a pleasant word or two, in a way that even the distraught husband could not criticize. as for the husband himself, between his anger at helen and his anger at himself because of his anger at helen, he was in a woeful condition of nervousness and ill-humor. vainly trying to wrest the ball of conversation from helen's bungling fingers, he yet felt obliged to laugh in apparent approval at her wild throws. nor was he unaware of the sorry figure he thus made of himself. having long since given up all hope of the anticipated chat with his friend, his one aim now was to get the visit over, and the doctor out of the house as soon as possible. yet the very fact that he did want the visit over and the doctor gone only angered him the more, and put into his mouth words that were a mockery of cordiality. no wonder, then, that for burke the evening was a series of fidgetings, throat-clearings,[pg 97] and nervous laughs that (if he had but known it) were fully as distressing to the doctor as they were to himself.

at half-past nine the doctor rose to his feet.

"well, good people, i must go," he announced cheerily. (for the last half-hour the doctor had been wondering just how soon he might make that statement.) "it's half-past nine."

"pshaw! that ain't late," protested helen.

"no, indeed," echoed burke—though burke had promptly risen with his guest.

"perhaps not, to you; but to me—" the doctor let a smile finish his sentence.

"but you're coming again," gurgled helen. "you're coming to dinner. burke said you was."

burke's mouth flew open—but just in time he snapped it shut. he had remembered that hospitable husbands do not usually retract their wives' invitations with a terrified "for heaven's sake, no!"—at least, not in the face of the prospective guest. before he could put the new, proper words into his mouth, the doctor spoke.

"thank you. you're very kind; but i'm afraid not—this time, mrs. denby. my stay is to be very short. but i'm glad to have had this little visit," he finished, holding out his hand.

and again burke, neither then, nor when he looked straight into the doctor's eyes a moment later, could find aught in word or manner upon which to pin his watchful suspicions.[pg 98]

the next moment the doctor was gone.

helen yawned luxuriously, openly— helen never troubled to hide her yawns.

"now i like him," she observed emphatically, but not very distinctly (owing to the yawn). "if all your swell friends were—"

"helen, for heaven's sake, isn't there any word but that abominable 'swell' that you can use?" interrupted her husband, seizing the first pretext that offered itself as a scapegoat for his irritation.

helen laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"all right; 'stuck up,' then, if you like that better. but, for my part, i like 'swell' best. it's so expressive, so much more swell—there, you see," she laughed, with another shrug; "it just says itself. but, really, i do like the doctor. i think he's just grand. where does he live?"

"boston." burke hated "grand" only one degree less than "swell."

"is he married?"

"no."

"how old did you say he was?"

"i didn't say. i don't know. thirty-five, probably."

"why, burke, what's the matter? what are you so short about? don't you like it that i like him? i thought you wanted me to like your friends."

"yes, yes, i know; and i do, helen, of course." burke got to his feet and took a nervous turn about the tiny room.[pg 99]

helen watched him with widening eyes. the look of indolent satisfaction was gone from her face. she was not yawning now.

"why, burke, what is the matter?" she catechized. "wasn't i nice to him? didn't i talk to him, and just lay myself out to entertain him? didn't i ask him to dinner, and—"

"dinner!" burke fairly snarled the word out as he wheeled sharply. "holy smoke, helen! i wonder if you think i'd have that man come here to dinner, or come here ever again to hear you— oh, hang it all, what am i saying?" he broke off, jerking himself about with a despairing gesture.

helen came now to her feet. her eyes blazed.

"i know. you was ashamed of me," she panted.

"oh, come, come; nonsense, helen!"

"you was."

"of course i wasn't."

"then what was the matter?"

"nothing; nothing, helen."

"there was, too. don't you suppose i know? but i tried to do all right. i tried to make you p-proud of me," she choked. "i know i didn't talk much at first. i was scared and stupid, he was so fine and grand. and i didn't know a thing about all that egyptian stuff you was talking about. then i thought how 'shamed you'd be of me, and i just made up my mind i would talk and show him it wasn't a—a little fool that you'd married; and i s'posed i was doing what you wanted me to. but[pg 100] i see now i wasn't. i wasn't fine enough for your grand friend. i ain't never fine enough for 'em. but i don't care. i hate 'em all—every one of 'em! i'd rather have mrs. jones twice over. she isn't ashamed of me. i thought i was p-pleasing you; and now—now—" her words were lost in a storm of sobs.

there was but one thing to be done, of course; and burke did it. he took her in his arms and soothed and petted and praised her. what he said he did not know—nor care, for that matter, so long as it served ever so slightly to dam the flood of helen's tears. that, for the moment, was the only thing worth living for. the storm passed at last, as storms must; but it was still a teary little wife that received her husband's good-night kiss some time later. burke did not go to sleep very readily that night. in his mind he was going over his prospective meeting with his friend gleason the next day.

what would gleason say? how would he act? what would he himself say? what could he say? he could not very well apologize for—

even to himself burke would not finish the sentence.

apologize? indeed, no! as if there were anything, anyway, to apologize for! he would meet gleason exactly as usual. he would carry his head high. there should be about him no air of apology or appeal. by his every act and word he would show that he was not in need of sympathy, and that he should[pg 101] resent comment. he might even ask gleason to dinner. he believed he would ask him to dinner. in no other way, certainly, could he so convincingly show how—er—proud he was of his wife.

burke went to sleep then.

it had been arranged that the two men should meet at noon for luncheon; and promptly on time burke appeared at the hotel. his chin was indeed high, and for the first two minutes he was painfully guarded and self-conscious in his bearing. but under the unstudied naturalness of the doctor's manner, he speedily became his normal self; and in five minutes the two were conversing with their old ease and enthusiasm.

the doctor had with him an egyptian scarab with a rarely interesting inscription, a new acquisition; also a tiny babylonian tablet of great value. in both of them burke was much interested. in the wake then of a five-thousand-year-old stylus, it is not strange that he forgot present problems.

"i'm taking these up to-night for your father to see," smiled the doctor, after a short silence. "he writes me he's got a new tablet himself; a very old one. he thinks he's made a discovery on it, too. he swears he's picked out a veritable thumb-mark on one side."

"nonsense! dad's always discovering things," grinned burke. "you know dad."

"but he says this is a sure thing. it's visible with the naked eye; but under the microscope it's wonderful.[pg 102] and— but, never mind! we'll see for ourselves to-night. you're coming up, of course."

"sure! and i want to see—" the young man stopped abruptly. a painful color had swept to his forehead. "er—no. on second thoughts i—i can't to-night," he corrected. in its resolute emphasis his voice sounded almost harsh. "but you—you're coming to dinner with us—to-morrow night, aren't you?"

"oh, no; no, thank you," began the doctor hastily. then, suddenly, he encountered his friend's steadfast eye upon him. "er—that is," he amended in his turn, "unless you—you are willing to let me come very informally, as i shall have to leave almost at once afterwards. i'm taking the eight-thirty train that evening."

"very good. we shall expect you," answered the younger man, with a curious relaxation of voice and manner—a relaxation that puzzled and slightly worried the doctor, who was wondering whether it were the relaxation of relief or despair. the doctor was not sure yet that he had rightly interpreted that steadfast gaze. two minutes later, burke, once again self-conscious, constrained, and with his head high, took his leave.

on his way back to work burke berated himself soundly. having deliberately bound himself to the martyrdom of a dinner to his friend, he was now insufferably angry that he should regard it as a martyrdom at all. also he knew within himself that[pg 103] there seemed, for the moment, nothing that he would not give to spend the coming evening in the quiet restfulness of his father's library with the doctor and an egyptian scarab.

as if all the egyptian scarabs and babylonian tablets in the world could balance the scale with helen on the other side!