She hugged Lucy, who had finished eating. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet. Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk, to attend Divine service. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. He was—a millionaire. Still—you must learn for yourself.
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