She drove first to Dr. Capon's church and, going around, walked in at the side door near the east end, where the robing rooms and the rector's study were. She remembered to have seen on a door somewhere there a sign on which was painted in gilded letters the fact that the rector's office hours were from 12 to 1 on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and this was Thursday. The hour, however, was now nearly three, and she had called only on a chance of catching him, a chance which a stout and gloomy looking verger, who appeared from somewhere at her foot-fall, told her at first was lost; but when he recognized her, he changed his air, grew quite interested, and said he would see if the doctor was in. He had been there he knew after lunch, but he might have left. He entered and closed the door softly behind him, leaving the girl in the gloom, but a moment later he returned and showed her in. The rector, with a smile of unfeigned pleasure on his face, was standing just beside a handsome mahogany writing desk, near a window, awaiting her entry, and he greeted her with cordiality.

"Oh! my dear young lady, come in. I was just about going off, and I'm glad I happened to have lingered a little—getting ready to launch a new year-book." He laid his fingers on a batch of printer's proof lying on the desk beside a stock bulletin. "I was just thinking what a bore it is and lo! it turned into a blessing like Balaam's curse. What can I do for you?" The rector's large blue eyes rested on his comely parishioner with a spark in them that was not from any spiritual fire.

"Well, I don't know," said the girl doubtfully.

"I see you were at the grand ball, or whatever it was last night, and I was so delighted to see that it was for a charitable object—and the particular object which I saw."

"Yes, it is for Mr. Marvel's work out among the poor," said Miss Leigh. The rector's expression changed slightly.

"Oh! yes, that is our work. You know that is our chapel. I built it. The ball must have been a great success. It was the first knowledge I had that you and your dear aunt had returned." His voice had a tone of faint reproach in it.

"Yes, we returned yesterday. I wish the papers would leave me alone," she added.

"Ah! my dear young lady, there are many who would give a great deal to be chronicled by the public prints as you are. The morning and evening star is always mentioned while the little asteroids go unnoticed."

"Well, I don't know about that," said the girl, "but I do wish the papers would let me alone—and my father too."

"Oh! yes, to be sure. I did not know what you were referring to. That was an outrageous attack. So utterly unfounded, too, absolutely untrue. Such scurrilous attacks deserve the reprobation of all thinking men."

"The trouble is that the attack was untrue; but the story was not unfounded."

"What! What do you mean?" The clergyman's face wore a puzzled expression.

"That our car was hitched on to the train——"

"And why shouldn't it be, my dear young lady? Doesn't the road belong to your father; at least, to your family—and those whom they represent?"

"I don't know that it does, and that is one reason why I have come to see you."

"Of course, it does. You will have to go to a lawyer to ascertain the exact status of the title; but I have always understood it does. Why, your aunt, Mrs. Argand, owns thousands of shares, doesn't she, and your father?" A grave suspicion suddenly flitted across his mind relative to a rumor he had heard of heavy losses by Mr. Leigh and large gains by Mr. Canter, the president of the road, and his associates who, according to this rumor, were hostile to Mr. Leigh.

"I don't know, but even if they do, I am not sure that that makes them owners. Did you read that article?"

"No—well, not all of it—I glanced over a part of it, enough to see that it was very scurrilous, that's all. The headlines were simply atrocious. The article itself was not so wickedly——"

"I should like to do some work among the poor," said the girl irrelevantly.

"Why, certainly—just what we need—the earnest interest and assistance of just such persons as yourself, of your class; the good, earnest, representatives of the upper class. If we had all like you there would be no cry from Macedonia."

"Well, how can I go about it?" demanded the girl rather cutting in on the rector's voluble reply.

"Why, you can teach in the Sunday-school—we have a class of nice girls, ladies, you know, a very small one—and I could make my superintendent arrange for Miss—for the lady who now has them to take another class—one of the orphan classes."

"No, I don't mean that kind of thing. If I taught at all I should like to try my hand at the orphan class myself."

"Well, that could be easily arranged—" began the rector; but his visitor kept on without heeding him.

"Only I should want to give them all different hats and dresses. I can't bear to see all those poor little things dressed exactly in the same way—sad, drab or gray frocks, all cut by the same pattern—and the same hats, year in and year out."

"Why, they have new hats every year," expostulated the rector.

"I mean the same kind of hat. Tall and short; stout and thin; slim or pudgy; they all wear the same horrible, round hats—I can't bear to look at them. I vow I'd give them all a different hat for Christmas."

"Oh! my dear, you can't do that—you would spoil them—and it's against the regulations. You must remember that these children are orphans!"

"Being orphans is bad enough," declared the girl, "but those hats are worse. Well, I can't teach them, but I might try some other poor class?"

"Why, let me see. The fact is that we haven't any"—he was speaking slowly, casting his mind over his field—"very poor people in this church. There used to be a number; but they don't come any more. They must have moved out of the neighborhood. I must make my assistant look them up."

"You have no poor, then?"

"Not in this congregation. The fact is this church is not very well suited to them. They don't mix with our people. You see our class of people—of course, we are doing a great work among the poor, our chapels—we have three, one of them, indeed, is a church and larger than many independent churches. Another has given me some anxiety, but the third is doing quite a remarkable work among the working people out in the east end—that under my assistant, the young man you interested yourself so much in last year—and which your ball committee was good enough to consider in selecting the object of its benevolence."

"Yes, I know—Mr. Marvel. I will go out there."

"Oh! my dear, you couldn't go out there!"

"Why not? I want to see him."

"Why, it is away out on the edge of the city—what you might call the jumping-off place—among manufactories and railroad shops."

"Yes, I know. I have been out there."

"You have—why, it is away out. It is on—I don't recall the name of the street. It's away out. I know it's near the street-car terminus that your family own. It's a very pretty chapel indeed. Don't you think so? It is natural that you should take an interest in it, as your aunt, Mrs. Argand, helped us to build it. She gave the largest contribution toward it. I don't know what we should do without charitable women like her."

"Yes, I know. And Mr. Marvel is coming on well?"

A change came over the face of the rector. "Oh, very well—rather an ungainly fellow and very slow, but doing a very good work for our parish. I have been wanting to get the Bishop to go there all this year as there are a number of candidates for me to present; but he has been so busy and I have been so busy——"

"I will go there," said Miss Leigh, rising.

"I don't think you will like it," urged the rector. "It is a very bad part of the town—almost dangerous, indeed—filled with working people and others of that sort, and I don't suppose a carriage ever——"

"I will go in the street cars," said the girl.

"The street cars! Yes, you could go that way, but why not come here and let me assign you a class?"

"I wish to work among the poor."

"The happy poor!" said the rector, smiling. "Why not come and help me in my work—who need you so much?" His voice had changed suddenly and he attempted to possess himself of the gloved hand that rested on his table, but it was suddenly withdrawn.

"I thought we had settled that finally last year," said Miss Leigh firmly.

"Ah, yes; but the heart is not so easily regulated."

"Oh! yes, yours is. Why don't you try Aunt Sophia again?"

"Try—again?—who?" The rector was manifestly somewhat embarrassed.

"Why, Aunt Sophia—'the evening star,'" said Miss Leigh, laughing.

"Who says—? Did she say I had—ah—addressed her?"

"No—I got it from you. Come on now——"

"Which way are you going? That is just my way. May I have the pleasure of driving up with you? I must go and see your aunt and welcome her back. One moment." He had shown the young lady out of the door. He now turned back and folding up the stock bulletin placed it carefully in his pocket.

As the carriage with its smart team turned into one of the broader streets, two young men were standing in a window of a large building highly decorated, looking idly out on the street. They had just been talking of the threatened strike which the newspapers were discussing, as to which they held similar views.

"I tell you what is the matter with those scoundrels," said the elder of the two, a large, pampered young fellow; "they need cold steel—they ought to be made to work."

"How would that suit us?" laughed the other.

"We don't have to."

"Hello! What's old Bart after?" observed the first one.

"Shekels," said the other, and yawned.

"After her—he's taking notice."

"Oh! no; he's wedded to the tape—goes into the Grand five times a day and reads the tape."

"Bet you, he courts her."

"How'll you prove it?"

"Ask her."

"Bet you you daren't ask her."

"How much?"

"What you like."

"I don't want to win your money."

"Don't you? Then hand me back that little fifteen hundred you picked up from me last week."

"That was square, but this is a certainty."

"I'd chance it—bet you a thousand, Jim, you daren't ask her to her face if old Bart isn't courting her and hasn't asked her to marry him."

"Oh! that's different. You want to make me put up and then make my bet for me. I tell you what I'll bet—that she's the only girl I know I wouldn't ask that."

"That may be. Now, I tell you what I'll bet—that you want a drink—ring the bell."

"That's a certainty, too," laughed his friend, and they turned and sank wearily in deep chairs till a drink should give them energy to start a fresh discussion.

Having put down the Rev. Bartholomew at the door of her aunt's imposing mansion, Eleanor Leigh, after a moment of indecision, directed her coachman to drive to a certain street in the section known as "down-town," and there she stopped at a pleasant looking old house, and jumping out of the carriage, ran up the worn stone steps and rang the bell. It was a street that had once been fashionable, as the ample, well-built houses and the good doors and windows testified. But that fickle jade, Fashion, had long since taken her flight to other and more pretentious sections and shops, loan-offices, and small grocers' markets had long engulfed the mansions of the last generation. Had any gauge of the decadence of the quarter been needed it might have been found in the scornful air of Miss Leigh's stout coachman as he sat on his box. He looked unutterably disgusted, and his chin was almost as high as the chins of his tightly reined-up horses.

Miss Leigh asked of the rather slatternly girl who came to the door, if the Miss Tippses were in, and if so, would they see her. When the maid went to see if they were at home, Miss Leigh was shown into a large and very dark room with chairs of many patterns, all old, placed about in it, a horsehair sofa on one side, a marble-topped table in the centre; an upright piano on the other side, and on a small table a large piece of white coral under a glass cover. Where the fireplace had once been, a large register now stood grating off the heat that might try in vain to escape through it.

Presently the maid returned. "Miss Pansy" was in, and would the lady please walk up. It was in the third story, back, at the top of the stairs. Miss Leigh ran up and tapped on the door, waited and tapped again. Then, as there was no answer, she opened the door cautiously and peeped in. It was a small hall-room, bare of furniture except two chairs, a sewing-machine, a table on which was an ironing-board at which at the moment stood a little old lady with a forehead so high as to be almost bald. She was clad in a rusty black skirt, a loose morning sacque of blue cotton, and she wore loose bedroom-slippers. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her arms were thin and skinny. She held a flat-iron in her hand, with which she had evidently been ironing a white under-garment which lay on the board, and another one was on a little gas-stove which stood near a stationary wash-stand. As Miss Leigh opened the door, the old lady gave a little exclamation of dismay and her hand went involuntarily to her throat.

"Oh! I beg your pardon!" said the girl, starting to retire and close the door; "I thought the servant told me——"

By this time the other had recovered herself.

"Oh! come in, won't you?" she said, with a smile and in a voice singularly soft and refined. "My sister will be ready to receive you in a moment. I was only a little startled. The fact is," she said laughing, "I thought the door was bolted; but sometimes the bolt does not go quite in. My sister—Won't you take a chair? Let me remove those things." She took up the pile of under-garments that was on one chair and placed it on top of a pile of dishes and other things on the other.

"Oh! I am so sorry," protested the girl, who observed that she was concealing the dishes; "I was sure the girl told me it was the door at the head of the stairs."

"She is the stupidest creature—that girl. I must really get my sister to speak to Mrs. Kale about her. I would, except that I am afraid the poor thing might lose her place. There is another door just off the little passage that she probably meant."

"Yes—probably. It was I that was stupid."

"Oh! no, not at all. You must excuse the disorder you find. The fact is, this is our work-room, and we were just—I was just doing a little ironing to get these things finished. When your card was brought up—well, we both were—and as my sister is so much quicker, she ran to get ready and I thought I would just finish this when I was at it, and you would excuse me."

"Oh! I am so sorry. I wouldn't for anything have interrupted you," repeated the girl, observing how all the time she was trying unobtrusively to arrange her poor attire, rolling down her sleeves and smoothing her darned skirt, all the while with a furtive glance of her eye toward the door.

"Oh! my dear, I wouldn't have had you turned away for anything in the world. My sister would be dÉsolÉe. We have a better room than this, where we usually receive our visitors. You will see what a nice room it is. We can't very well afford to have two rooms; but this is too small for us to live in comfortably and we have to keep it because it has a stationary wash-stand with hot water, which enables us to do our laundering."

"Yes, I see," murmured Miss Leigh softly.

"You see, we earn our living by making underclothes for—for a firm——"

"I see, and what nice work you do." She was handling a garment softly.

"Yes, my sister does beautiful work; and I used to do pretty well, too; but I am troubled a little with my eyes lately. The light isn't very good at night—and the gas is so expensive. I don't see quite as well as I used to do."

"How much can you do?" asked her visitor, who had been making a mental calculation.

"Why, I—It is hard to tell. I do the coarser work and my sister does the finishing; then she usually launders and I iron when I am able. I suffer with rheumatism so that I can't help her very much."

"I hope you make them pay you well for it," blurted out the girl.

"Why, we used to get a very good price. We got till recently seven cents apiece, but now it has been cut down—that was for everything, laundering and ironing, too. We are glad to get that."

"How on earth do you manage to live on it?"

"Oh! we live very well—very well, indeed," said the little lady cheerfully. "Mrs. Kale is very good to us. She lets us have the rooms cheaper than she would any one else. You see she used to know us when we lived back in the East. Her father was a clerk in our father's office, and her mother went to school with us. Then when we lost everything and were turned out, we found we had to make our own living and we came here to see about our case, and she found we were here—and that's the way we came to be here. But don't you let my sister know I told you about the sewing," she said, dropping her voice, as a brisk step was heard outside the door. "Ah! here she is now!" as at the moment the door opened and a brisk little old lady, almost the counterpart of her sister, except that she might have been ten years her junior, that is, sixty instead of seventy years of age, tripped into the room.

"Oh! my dear Miss Leigh, how good of you to come all the way out here to call on us! Sister, what in the world are you doing? Why will you do this? I can't keep her from amusing herself! (This with a shake of the head and a comical appeal for sympathy from her visitor.) Won't you walk into our sitting-room? Now, sister, do go and make yourself presentable. You know she will slave over all sorts of queer things. She really loves sewing and ironing. I'm quite ashamed to have you come into this pig-sty. Walk in, won't you?" And she led the way into a larger room adjoining the work-room, leaving Miss Leigh in doubt which was the more pathetic, the little old lady still delving over the ironing-board, making no pretence to conceal their poverty, or the other in her poor "best," trying to conceal the straits in which they were fallen.

Eleanor had observed that the older sister's gaze had constantly rested on the rose she wore, and as they were going out, the latter called her sister's attention to it. She said, she thought it possibly the most beautiful rose she had ever seen.

"Won't you have it?" said Eleanor, and unpinned it.

"Oh! no, indeed, I wouldn't deprive you of it for anything. It is just where it ought to be."

Eleanor persisted, and finally overcame both her reluctance and her sister's objection.

She was struck with the caressing way in which she took and held it, pressing it against her withered cheek.

"Sister, don't you remember the Giant-of-Battles we used to have in our garden at Rosebank? This reminds me of it so—its fragrance is just the same."

"Yes. We used to have a great many roses," explained the younger sister, as she led the way into the next room as if she were asking Eleanor into a palace, though this room was almost as bare of furniture as the other, the chief difference being an upright case which was manifestly a folding-bed, and a table on which were a score of books, and a few old daguerreotypes.

"Your friend, Mr. Marvel, was here the other day. What a nice young man he is."

"Yes," said Eleanor. "I am going out to see him. Where has he moved to?" Miss Pansy said she did not know the street; but her sister had the address. She would go and see. When she came back, she went over and opened the old Bible lying on the table. "Here is where we keep the addresses of those we especially value," she said, smiling. "Oh! here it is. When he was here the other day, he brought us a treat; a whole half-dozen oranges; won't you let me prepare you one? They are so delicious."

Eleanor, who had been holding a bank-note clutched in her hand, thanked her with a smile, but said she must go. She walked across the room, and took up the Bible casually, and when she laid it down it gaped a little in a new place.

"Oh, you know we have had quite an adventure," said Miss Pansy.

"An adventure? Tell me about it."

"Why, you must know there is a young man here I am sure must be some one in disguise. He is so—well, not exactly handsome, but really distinguished looking, and he knows all about railroads and things like that."

"You'd better look out for him," said Miss Leigh.

"Oh, do you think so? My sister and I were thinking of consulting him about our affairs—our railroad case, you know."

"Oh! Well, what do you know about him?"

"Nothing yet. You see, he has just come; but he joined us on the street this morning when we were going out—just shopping—and offered to take our bundles—just two little bundles we had in our hands, and was so polite. My dear, he has quite the grand air!"

"Oh, I see. Well, that does not necessarily make him a safe adviser. Why not let me ask my father about your matter? He is a railroad man, and could tell you in a minute all about it."

"Oh, could you? That would be so kind in you."

"But you must tell me the name of the road in which you had the stock."

"Oh, my dear. I don't know that I can do that. I only know that it was the Transcontinental and something and something else. I know that much, because it was only about sixty miles long, and we used to say that the name was longer than the road. My father used to say that it would some day be a link in a transcontinental chain—that's where it got its name, you know."

"Well, look out for your prince in disguise," said the girl, smiling as she rose to take her leave.

That evening at dinner, after Eleanor had given her father an account of her day, with which she always beguiled him, including a description of her visit to the two old ladies, she suddenly asked, "Father, what railroad was it that used to be known as the Transcontinental Something and Something?'"

"The what?"

"The 'Transcontinental Something and Something Else?' It was about sixty miles long, and was bought up by some bigger road and reorganized."

"I suppose you mean the 'Transcontinental, North-western and Great Iron Range Road.' That about meets the condition you mention. What do you know about it?"

"Was it reorganized?"

"Yes; about twenty years ago, and again about ten years ago. I never quite understood the last reorganization. Mr. Argand had it done—and bought up most of the stock."

"Was any one squeezed out?"

"Sure—always are in such cases. That is the object of a reorganization—partly. Why are you so interested in it?" Mr. Leigh's countenance wore an amused look.

"I have two friends—old ladies—who lost everything they had in it."

"I guess it wasn't much. What is their name?"

"It was all they had. They are named Tipps."

Mr. Leigh's expression changed from amusement to seriousness. "Tipps—Tipps?" he repeated reminiscently. "Bassett Tipps? I wonder if they were connected with Bassett Tipps?"

"They were his daughters—that was their father's name. I remember now, Miss Pansy told me once."

"You don't say so! Why, I used to know Colonel Tipps when he was the big man of this region. He commanded this department before I came out here to live, and the old settlers thought he was as great a man as General Washington. He gave old Argand his start. He built that road,—was, in fact, a man of remarkable foresight, and if he had not been killed—Argand was his agent and general factotum—They didn't come into the reorganization, I guess?"

"That's it—they did not—and now they want to get their interest back."

"Well, tell them to save their money," said Mr. Leigh. "It's gone—they can't get it back."

"They want you to get it back for them."

"Me!" exclaimed Mr. Leigh. "They want me to get it back! Oh, ho-ho! They'd better go after your Aunt Sophia and Canter."

"Yes; I told them you would."

"You did?" Mr. Leigh's eyes once more lit up with amusement.

"Yes: you see they were robbed of every cent they had in the world, and they have not a cent left."

"Oh! no, they were not robbed. Everything was properly done and absolutely regular, as I remember. It must have been. I think there was some sort of claim presented afterward by the Tipps Estate which was turned down. Let me see; McSheen had the claim, and he gave it up—that was when? Let me see. He became counsel for your Uncle Argand in—what year was it?—you were a baby—it must have been eighteen years ago."

"That was nineteen years ago, sir. I am now twenty," said his daughter, sitting up with a very grand air.

The father's eyes lit up with pride and affection as he gazed at the trim, straight figure and the glowing face.

"You were just a little baby—so big." He measured a space of about two span with his hands. "That was your size then, for I know I thought your Uncle Argand might have made me counsel instead of McSheen. But he didn't. And that was McSheen's start."

"He sold out," said the girl with decision.

"Oh, no—I don't think he would do that. He is a lawyer."

"Yes, he would. He's a horrid, old, disreputable rascal. I've always thought it, and now I know it. And I want you to get my old ladies' interest back for them."

"I can't do that. No one can. It's too long ago. If they ever had a claim it's all barred, long ago."

"It oughtn't to be—if it was stolen," persisted his daughter, "and it was."