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“Fifteen–twenty–why–why! that’s two hundred dollars for me after paying Mr. Taylor.” The chill of doubt was over now. The fever of hope had set in. “Two hundred! Two hundred!” she kept repeating, as her fingers caressed the certificate snuggling close to her heart.

When she swung wide the porch door and threw her arms around her astonished mother’s neck, the refrain was still on her lips. It had been years since the hard-working girl had given way to any such joyous outburst.

“Oh, I’m so happy! Don’t ask me why–but I am!”

The mother kissed her in reply and patted the girl’s shoulder. “There is somebody,” she sighed to herself. “And they’ve made up again”–and a prayer trembled on her lips.

Her joy now became contagious. The expressman noticed it; so did Mrs. Skitson and the storekeeper. So did Mr. Taylor, who stopped his wagon and leaned half out to shake her hand.

“You do look wholesome this morning, and no mistake, Miss Abbie” (he always called her so). “Don’t forget what I told you–lots more where that come from”–and he drove on muttering to himself: “Ain’t no finer woman in Taylorsville than Abbie Todd.”

Keep & Co. letters arrived now by almost every mail. With these came a daily stock-list printed on tissue-paper, giving the sales on the exchange. Rock Creek was still holding its own between 13 and 15. “From my brokers,” she would say with a smile to Maria, falling into the ways of the rich.

One of these letters, marked “Private and confidential,” she took to Maria. It was in the writer’s own hand and signed by the senior member of the firm. Literally translated into uncommercial language by that female financier, it meant that Miss Todd, “on notice from Keep & Co.” should write her name at the bottom of the transfer blank on the back of the certificate and mail it to them. This done they would buy her another ten shares of stock, using her certificate as additional margin. There was no question that Rock Creek would sell at forty before the month ended, and they did not want her to be “left” when the “melon was cut.”

Another and a newer and a more vibrant song now rose to her lips. Forty for Rock Creek meant four–six–yes, eight hundred dollars–with two hundred to Mr. Taylor! Yes! Six hundred clear! The scrap of paper in her bosom was no longer a receipt for money paid, but an Aladdin’s lamp producing untold wealth.

That night the music burst from her lips before she had taken off her cloak and hat.

“You made six hundred dollars, Abbie! You!” cried the mother, with a note of wonder in her voice.

Then the whole story came out; her mother’s arms about her, the pale cheek touching her own, tears of joy streaming from both their eyes. First Maria’s luck, then that of her fellow-clerks; then the letters, one after another, spread out upon her lap, the lamp held close, so the dim eyes could read the easier–down to the stake-money of two hundred dollars.

“And who gave you that, child? Miss Furgusson?” The mother’s heart was still fluttering. After all, the sun was shining.

“No; Mr. Taylor.”

The mother put her hands to her head.

“Hiram! You ain’t never borrowed any money of Hiram, have you?” she cried in an agonized voice.

“But, Mother dear, he forced it upon me. He came–“

“Yes, that’s what he did to me. Give it back to him, child, now, ‘fore you sleep. Don’t wait a minute. Borrowed two hundred dollars of Hiram–and my child, too! Oh, it can’t be! It can’t be!”

The mother dropped into a chair and rocked herself to and fro. The girl started to explain, to protest, to comfort her with promises; then she crossed to where her mother was sitting, and stood patient until the paroxysm should pass. A sudden fright now possessed her; these attacks were coming on oftener; was her mother’s mind failing? Was there anything serious? Perhaps it would have been better not to tell her at all.