Chapter LIII

Spring came. Their mine made its first shipments of ore and was no longer a paper success. The balance-sheet for the first month after shipments had begun made Wilmot whistle. He couldn't believe the figures, and worked till late into the night, trying to find some dreadful error. Finding none, finding that with the help of others he had really made good at last, the rough life began to lose its savor. If he still owed money it could be but for a short time. He was free as air--free to do what he pleased--almost to spend what he pleased.

"Barbs," he said, the next morning, "the mine's no good; we've got to tackle something else."

"What do you mean, no good? Why, you said--"

"I know what I said. The mine is a success. Aside from what your father has, you're a rich woman. And I'm a rich man. And that's the difficulty. There's no use working our hearts out over a thing that's a definite success--is there? No fun in it. We've got to look round for something else. Now we are always going to have money--that's certain. What are we going to do with it? Think of something hard--something worth while."

"Oh," she said, "I can't--can you?"

"No," he said almost angrily, "I can't. And that's the rotten side of money. That's the stumbling-block for everybody who succeeds in collecting a lot of it. The distribution is infinitely harder than the collecting. I think we'd better pull up stakes, go back to New York, and think hard."

"Yes. Let's."

"I'd like to have a talk with Blizzard."

Barbara's eyebrows went high with surprise.

"Why not? Your father writes that the man is doing more good right in New York City where it's most needed than any six philanthropists the place ever owned. Maybe he's got something really big in view, and maybe he'll let us in on the ground floor."

"Well," said Barbara, "considering everything, I shouldn't care to have much to do with him."

Wilmot put back his head and laughed aloud. "That," said he, "is precisely the sort of advice that I used to give you."

Barbara blushed. "I'd like to forget that such a man ever came into my life in any way."

"You can't forget it, dear. You asked him in. You _would_ do it. And now you can never forget. And that's one of the penalties you have to pay for going against the people who love you most."

"Well," said she, "I'm willing to keep on paying--if the right people will keep on loving. Anyway, philanthropy--good works--are none of my business. My business, sir, is to make you a home. And with the exception of one person that I know about positively, the rest of the world can go hang."

"That statement," said Wilmot, "sounds very pagan and profane to me and also very, very beautiful. But, who, may I ask, is this _other_ person?" His brows gathered a little jealously.

"This other person," said Barbara quietly, "is at the present moment a total stranger to us,"

Then she leaned forward until her head was on his breast. And she gave a little sigh which was fifty per cent comfort, and fifty per cent courage. She could hear his heart beating like a trip-hammer. Had he burst into immortal eloquence, his words would have been of less consequence in her ear.

"And when you think," said she, "that some women spend the best years of their lives making _statues_!"