Once, Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and had priced hand-made lingerie in the shops.  When she came back with an itemised report, Barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the wealth of Croesus looming up ahead.  She had soon learned, however, that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the horde of Summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel.  At times, she thought that Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken.

Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write—­for she had never been to school.  If she should sell everything, why, there would be more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father, who was beginning to look shabby.

“But they won’t,” Barbara said to herself, sadly.  “I can’t expect them to buy it all when I’m asking so much.”

Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly for Barbara.  “Yes,” he said, somewhat impatiently, “I know she’s upstairs, for you’ve told me so twice.  What I want to know is, why doesn’t she come down?”

“She’s busy at something, probably,” returned Miriam, with forced carelessness, “but I think she’ll soon be through.”

“Barbara is always busy,” he answered, with a sigh.  “I can’t understand it.  Anyone might think she had to work for a living.  By the way, Miriam, do you need more money?”

“We still have some,” she replied, in a low voice.

“How much?” he demanded.

“Less than a hundred dollars.”  She did not dare to say how much less.

“That is not enough.  If you will get my check-book, I will write another check.”

[Sidenote:  The Old Check-Book]

Miriam’s face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath her dark brows.  She went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book out of the drawer.

“Now,” he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, “please show me the line.  ’Pay to the order of’——­”

She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling.  “Miriam Leonard,” he spelled out, in uneven characters, “Five—­hundred—­dollars.  Signed—­Ambrose—­North.  There.  When you have no money, I wish you would speak of it.  I am fully able to provide for my family, and I want to do it.”

“Thank you.”  Miriam’s voice was almost inaudible as she took the check.

“The date,” he said; “I forgot to date it.  What day of the month is it?”

She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak.  This was what she had been dreading.

“The date, Miriam,” he called.  “Will you please tell me what day of the month it is?”

“The seventh,” she answered, with difficulty.

“The seventh?  The seventh of June?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause.  “Twenty-one years,” he said, in a shrill whisper.  “Twenty-one years ago to-day.”