It took Edith Rogers many weeks to make up her mind to spend any of William West’s money, and then she did it on account of Bobbie. Her mother had used every effort to convince her that she was acting like a fool in not launching out at once upon a career of wild extravagance, but the thought of her love for West, the folly she had contemplated, the latter’s sudden and tragic death, all filled her with horror. The money lay idly in the bank, and she could not bring herself to touch it.

With the coming of the hot weather, however, she began to listen to her mother’s arguments with a more willing ear. Bobbie was clearly not well. His cough, product of a March cold, still hung on in spite of all her efforts. His appetite was failing, his cheeks pale and wan. She felt the desirability of getting him away from the oven-like city at once, and one evening broached the subject to Donald.

“Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “that I ought to take Bobbie to the seashore?”

Donald looked up quickly. “I do, indeed,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time.”

“Then why haven’t you said anything about it?”

“I was waiting for you, dear. I know how you have felt about using this money that West left you, and I hesitated to suggest it on that account.”

“Do you think I ought to use it?”

“I can see no reason why you should not. His wish was that you should have it. He wanted you to enjoy it, otherwise he would not have left it to you. I regretted the poor old chap’ death quite as keenly as you did, but for all that I cannot see why you should feel so strongly about this money.”

Edith knew very well that he could not see why she felt as she did, nor had she any intention of allowing him to do so. “Very well,” she replied quietly. “I think I’ll look for a cottage somewhere along the Sound to-morrow. That would be much nicer than staying at a hotel, and you could come down every week end. In fact, Donald, I don’t see why you couldn’t just as well give up business altogether, and spend the summer with us. In the fall we might go abroad.”

He frowned at this. “I couldn’t think of it, dear,” he replied. “I’ve got my practise to keep up and the business in West Virginia to look after. I shouldn’t care to live on you, you know.” He smiled, and, coming over to her, patted her head affectionately. “It’s very good of you, Edith, to want me with you, and I should enjoy it more than I can tell you, but I couldn’t give up my work, my independence. You wouldn’t respect me if I did.”

She did not attempt to argue the question with him. Perhaps in her heart she felt that he was right. “Mother is coming up to-morrow morning,” she said. “I think I’ll try New London. I was there one summer for a month when father was alive, and I have never forgotten how lovely it was. Mother knows all about it. We’ll run up there to-morrow and see what we can find.”

Led by Mrs. Pope, the expedition in search of a cottage by the sea was an unqualified success. Edith had had in mind a small bungalow—a tiny house with a view of the water, but Mrs. Pope was burdened with no such plebeian ideas. To her money-loving mind a cottage such as befitted her daughter’s newly acquired wealth consisted of a picturesque mansion of some eighteen or twenty rooms, with a private bathing beach, extensive grounds, garage, stables, and a retinue of servants.

She had some little difficulty in finding what she wanted. Edith remonstrated with her continually but she was not to be balked. She told the real-estate agent to whom they had gone on their arrival that her daughter was prepared to pay as high as five hundred dollars a month, for the proper accommodations, furnished, and she refused quite definitely to consider anything that did not front on the water.

There were but three places answering her description that were available. The first Edith thought perfect, but her mother dismissed it at once. “Quite too small, my dear,” she remarked, with up-turned nose. “And I never could endure a house with no conservatory.”

The second place had a conservatory, it seemed, but Mrs. Pope found the plumbing antiquated, the number of bathrooms insufficient, and the furnishings not at all to her taste.

“We shall entertain a great deal,” she informed the overpowered real-estate man, who was mentally trying to adapt Mrs. Pope’s extravagant ideas to her anything but extravagant clothes. Edith wondered whom they were going to entertain, but forebore asking her mother at this time.

The third place withstood even Mrs. Pope’s attempts at criticism, and Edith fell in love with it at once. It was not quite so large as they had wanted, her mother remarked, but it might do. Edith was very sure that it would do. The house, a long, low, shingled affair, with many timbered gables, was partly overgrown with ivy. Climbing roses, in full bloom, embowered the wide verandas. The gardens were filled with handsome shrubbery and well-kept flower beds. There was a stable, a greenhouse, and a little boathouse and wharf. The lawns were immaculate, the furnishings within artistic and costly. The agent explained that Mr. Sheridan, the banker, who owned the house, had left unexpectedly for Europe the week before, and the place had just been placed on the market. Mr. Sheridan had intended to occupy it himself until the last moment, but his wife had been taken ill, and was obliged to go to one of the Continental baths to be cured. The price was two thousand dollars for the season, and would have been a great deal more had the place been put on the market a month earlier. Two parties had looked at it already, and it was not likely to remain unoccupied very long.

“We’ll take it,” said Mrs. Pope promptly. “We’ll move in on Monday.” She began to plan aloud the disposition of the various bedrooms.

Mr. Hull, the agent, on the way to town, suggested the necessity of executing a lease and making a deposit to bind the bargain. “My daughter will give you a check for the first month’s rent in advance,” said Mrs. Pope loftily. “You have your check-book with you, my dear, I hope?”

Edith had. Her mother had insisted upon her taking it when they left the house. The first check she made against the income which William West’s half-million of capital was piling up to her credit at the bank was one for five hundred dollars to the order of Thomas Hull, agent. She signed it with trembling fingers.

Once the plunge was taken, however, the rest seemed easy. On the journey home Mrs. Pope mapped out a campaign of shopping that made her daughter’s head whirl, but she had ceased to object. One thing she insisted upon, in addition to her mother’s never-ending list of clothes, and that was a pony and cart for Bobbie. It had been the constant desire of his childish heart, ever since he had ridden in one the summer before at Brighton. Mrs. Pope approved the cart. She also suggested an automobile.

When Edith told Donald of the result of their trip that night his face became grave, but he said little. “It is your money, dear,” he contented himself with observing, “but if I were you I would not allow my mother to influence me too much. She has foolishly extravagant ideas. There is no use in burdening yourself with a mansion and a house full of servants just because you can afford it. The air isn’t any sweeter, the sun any brighter, because of them. I should have preferred a more modest establishment myself, but I suppose it’s too late to change matters now. I hope you have a wonderful summer, and that Bobbie and yourself get as well and strong as I should like to see you. I can’t be with you except on Saturdays and Sundays, but no doubt your mother and Alice will keep you company.”

“Yes. They will be with me, of course. Mother says she is looking forward to the happiest summer of her life. She hopes, too, she says, to entertain a great deal.”

“Entertain? Whom?”

“Why, all her old friends. And I’m going to have some of mine down, too, and Alice has already invited Mr. Hall to spend a week or two with us. He is coming east for his vacation.”

Donald raised his eyebrows. “I don’t mind the opinions of other people as a rule,” he remarked, “but how do you propose to explain our sudden wealth?”

Edith had not thought of that aspect of the matter. “I shall tell them the truth,” she answered, but the suggestion bothered her for many days thereafter. She by no means intended to tell her friends the truth. Such of them as had already heard the news had congratulated her upon her good fortune, with a secret wonder that West had left the money to her instead of to Donald, but Mrs. Pope, with characteristic bluntness, had set this right. “Poor, dear Mr. West had always been in love with my Edith,” she said. “He’d have married her, if it had not been for Donald. He hadn’t anyone else to leave his money to, and, of course, he left it to Edith. He was a noble young man. We owe him a great deal.”

Edith shuddered as she listened, but could say nothing. Once she ventured the remark that Mr. West had been Donald’s lifelong friend, but her mother would have none of it. “Pooh!” she said. “It was you he cared for, my dear. Anyone with half an eye could see that. Didn’t he spend all his time with you, right up to the time he died?” After that Edith ceased to remonstrate. She felt that in this direction she was treading on dangerous ground.

Once launched upon a career of spending, Edith soon came to acquire the habit, as any other habit may be acquired, if dutifully persisted in. A few weeks before she would have stood aghast at the mere thought of paying fifty dollars for a hat. Now she bought costly hand-made lingerie dresses with the calm assurance of one whose bank-account is increasing at the rate of a thousand dollars a week, and signed checks in an off-hand manner that seemed as natural to her as though she had never haggled over a bargain counter, or searched the columns of the daily papers for opportunities at marked-down sales.

She failed to satisfy her mother, however. That estimable lady seemed to think that Edith’s wealth was measured only by the number of checks in her check-book, and criticised her daughter loudly for her petty economies. “Don’t buy those cheap shoes, Edith,” she would remark. “It’s quite impossible to get anything fit to wear for less than ten dollars a pair.” Or, “Ready-made corsets, my dear, are an abomination. I insist that you go at once and be measured for half a dozen pair that will really fit.” Edith drew the line at such extravagances, and very nearly precipitated a row. “Let me alone, mother,” she said. “I know what I want, and, after all, it is my money we are spending, not yours.” My money! The irony of the thing did not occur to her. She bought Donald a new gold watch-chain, with match-box, cigar-cutter, knife, pencil and seals, all of gold, attached. When she presented it to him, she felt disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm, and wondered why he did not wear it. The reason was simple—as simple and homely as Donald himself. He detested jewelry, and contented himself with the leather fob initialed in gold which Edith had given him, years before, upon a birthday. He had loved this, because she had saved and denied herself to get it for him. The other, somehow, meant nothing to him.