At last it was over.  Francisco stood with the bank book in his hand, a lump in his throat, waving a handkerchief.  The ship was departing rapidly.  He could no longer distinguish his parents among the black specks at the stern of the vessel.  Finally he turned, swallowing hard and put the bank book in his pocket.  What a thoughtful chap his father was!  How generous!  And how almost girlish his mother had looked in her new, smart travel suit!  Well, they would enjoy themselves for a year or two.  Some day he would travel, too, and see the world.  But first there was work to do.  Work was good.  And Life was filled with Opportunity.  He thought of Jeanne.

Suddenly he determined to test Robert’s advice.  Now, if ever, was the time to challenge Providence.  He had in his pocket Adrian’s check for $20,000.  The Stanley home was vacant.  But more than all else, Jeanne was being courted by a new reporter on the Chronicle—­a sort of poet with the dashing ways that women liked.  He had taken Jeanne to dinner several times of late.

With a decisive movement Francisco entered a telephone booth.  Five minutes later he emerged smiling.  Jeanne had broken an engagement with the poet chap to dine with him.

Later that evening he tipped an astonished French waiter with a gold-piece.  He and Jeanne walked under a full moon until midnight.

* * * * *

Two months after the Stanleys’ departure Francisco and Jeanne were married and took up their abode in the Stanley home.  Francisco worked diligently at his novel.  Now and then they had Robert and Maizie to dinner.  Both Jeanne and Francisco had a warm place in their hearts for little Maizie Carter.  It was perfectly plain that she loved Robert; sometimes her eyes were plainly envious when they fell on Jeanne in her gingham apron, presiding over the details of her household with, a bride’s new joy in domestic tasks.  But Maizie was a knowing little woman, too wise to imperil her dream of Love’s completeness with a disturbing element like her mother, growing daily more helpless, querulous, dependent.

And she had a fine pride, this little working girl.  From Robert she would accept no aid, despite his growing income as the junior partner in his father’s law firm.  Benito’s health had not of recent months been robust, and Robert found upon his shoulders more and more of the business of the office, which acted as trustee for several large estates.  Robert now had his private carriage, but Maizie would not permit his calling thus, in state, for her at the Mineral Cafe.

“It would not look well,” she said, half whimsically, yet with a touch of gravity, “to have a famous lawyer in his splendid coach call for a poor little Cinderella of a cashier.”  And so Robert came afoot each night to take her home.  When it was fine they walked up the steep Powell street hill, gazing back at the scintillant lights of the town or down on the moonlit bay, with its black silhouetted islands, the spars of great ships and the moving lights of tugboats or ferries.