“Good morning, Miss Burch,” he said.  “I hope you’ll excuse so early a call.  You remember me, don’t you?  I’m George Burton, who had the bunk next to Rust’s.”

“Surely I remember you, Mr. Burton, and I’m glad to see you,” replied Carley, shaking hands with him.  “Please sit down.  Your being here must mean you’re discharged from the hospital.”

“Yes, I was discharged, all right,” he said.

“Which means you’re well again.  That is fine.  I’m very glad.”

“I was put out to make room for a fellow in bad shape.  I’m still shaky and weak,” he replied.  “But I’m glad to go.  I’ve pulled through pretty good, and it’ll not be long until I’m strong again.  It was the ‘flu’ that kept me down.”

“You must be careful.  May I ask where you’re going and what you expect to do?”

“Yes, that’s what I came to tell you,” he replied, frankly.  “I want you to help me a little.  I’m from Illinois and my people aren’t so badly off.  But I don’t want to go back to my home town down and out, you know.  Besides, the winters are cold there.  The doctor advises me to go to a little milder climate.  You see, I was gassed, and got the ‘flu’ afterward.  But I know I’ll be all right if I’m careful. . . .  Well, I’ve always had a leaning toward agriculture, and I want to go to Kansas.  Southern Kansas.  I want to travel around till I find a place I like, and there I’ll get a job.  Not too hard a job at first—­that’s why I’ll need a little money.  I know what to do.  I want to lose myself in the wheat country and forget the—­the war.  I’ll not be afraid of work, presently. . . .  Now, Miss Burch, you’ve been so kind—­I’m going to ask you to lend me a little money.  I’ll pay it back.  I can’t promise just when.  But some day.  Will you?”

“Assuredly I will,” she replied, heartily.  “I’m happy to have the opportunity to help you.  How much will you need for immediate use?  Five hundred dollars?”

“Oh no, not so much as that,” he replied.  “Just railroad fare home, and then to Kansas, and to pay board while I get well, you know, and look around.”

“We’ll make it five hundred, anyway,” she replied, and, rising, she went toward the library.  “Excuse me a moment.”  She wrote the check and, returning, gave it to him.

“You’re very good,” he said, rather low.

“Not at all,” replied Carley.  “You have no idea how much it means to me to be permitted to help you.  Before I forget, I must ask you, can you cash that check here in New York?”

“Not unless you identify me,” he said, ruefully, “I don’t know anyone I could ask.”

“Well, when you leave here go at once to my bank—­it’s on Thirty-fourth Street—­and I’ll telephone the cashier.  So you’ll not have any difficulty.  Will you leave New York at once?”

“I surely will.  It’s an awful place.  Two years ago when I came here with my company I thought it was grand.  But I guess I lost something over there. . . .  I want to be where it’s quiet.  Where I won’t see many people.”