“Yes.”

“Well, I filled this up by order of the president, and you’ll have to see him about it, if you want more than me money.”

“Can I see him?”

“Come this way.”

They went into a small office at the end of the bank.

“Mr. Dyer,” said the cashier, “this is Mr. Stirling, and he’s come to see about that check.”

“Glad to see you, Mr. Stirling.  Sit down.”

“I wish to learn who sent the check.”

“Very sorry we can’t oblige you.  We had positive instructions from the person for whom we drew it, that no name was to be given.”

“Can you receive a letter?”

“That was forbidden too.”

“A message?”

“Nothing was said about that.”

“Then will you do me the favor to say to the lady that the check will not be cashed till Mr. Stirling has been able to explain something to her.”

“Certainly.  She can’t object to that.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”  The president rose and escorted him to the door.  “That was a splendid speech of yours, Mr. Stirling,” he added.  “I’m not a bit ashamed to say that it put salt water in my old eyes.”

“I think,” said Peter, “it was the deaths of the poor little children, more than anything I said, that made people feel it.”

The next morning’s mail brought Peter a second note, in the same handwriting as that of the day before.  It read: 

    “Miss De Voe has received Mr. Stirling’s message and will be
    pleased to see him in regard to the check, at half after eleven
    to-day (Wednesday) if he will call upon her.

    “Miss De Voe regrets the necessity of giving Mr. Stirling such
    brief notice, but she leaves New York on Thursday.”

As Peter walked up town that morning, he was a little surprised that he was so cool over his intended call.  In a few minutes he would be in the presence of a lady, the firmness of whose handwriting indicated that she was not yet decrepit.  Three years ago such a prospect would have been replete with terror to him.  Down to that—­that week at the Pierce’s, he had never gone to a place where he expected to “encounter” (for that was the word he formerly used) women without dread.  Since that week—­except for the twenty-four hours of the wedding, he had not “encountered” a lady.  Yet here he was, going to meet an entire stranger without any conscious embarrassment or suffering.  He was even in a sense curious.  Peter was not given to self-analysis, but the change was too marked a one for him to be unconscious of it.  Was it merely the poise of added years?  Was it that he had ceased to care what women thought of him?  Or was it that his discovery that a girl was lovable had made the sex less terrible to him?  Such were the questions he asked himself as he walked, and he had not answered them when he rang the bell of the old-fashioned, double house on Second Avenue.