North of Fifty-Three | Page 3

are worth a barrel of
money. Wouldn't you like your own carriage, and servants, and income
enough to have everything you wanted?"
"Of course," Hazel answered. "But they don't look as if they really
enjoyed it."
"Fiddlesticks!" Barrow smilingly retorted. "Everybody enjoys luxury."
"Well, one should," Hazel admitted. But she still held to the impression
that the couple passing got no such pleasure out of their material
possessions as Jack seemed to think. It was merely an intuitive
divination. She could not have found any basis from which to argue the
point. But she was very sure that she would not have changed places
with the woman in the carriage, and her hand stole out and gave his a
shy little squeeze.
"Look," she murmured; "here's another of the plutocrats. One of my
esteemed employers, if you please. You'll notice that he's walking and
looking at things just like us ordinary, everyday mortals."
Barrow glanced past her, and saw a rather tall, middle-aged man, his
hair tinged with gray, a fine-looking man, dressed with exceeding
nicety, even to a flower in his coat lapel, walking slowly along the path
that bordered the pond. He stopped a few yards beyond them, and stood
idly glancing over the smooth stretch of water, his gloved hands resting
on the knob of a silver-mounted cane.
Presently his gaze wandered to them, and the cool, well-bred stare
gradually gave way to a slightly puzzled expression. He moved a step

or two and seated himself on a bench. Miss Weir became aware that he
was looking at her most of the time as she sat casting the bits of bread
to the swans and ducks. It made her self-conscious. She did not know
why she should be of any particular interest.
"Let's walk around a little," she suggested. The last of the crumbs were
gone.
"All right," Barrow assented. "Let's go up the ravine."
They left the log. Their course up the ravine took them directly past the
gentleman on the bench. And when they came abreast of him, he rose
and lifted his hat at the very slight inclination of Miss Weir's head.
"How do you do, Miss Weir?" said he. "Quite a pleasant afternoon."
To the best of Hazel's knowledge, Mr. Andrew Bush was little given to
friendly recognition of his employees, particularly in public. But he
seemed inclined to be talkative; and, as she caught a slightly inquiring
glance at her escort, she made the necessary introduction. So for a
minute or two the three of them stood there exchanging polite
banalities. Then Mr. Bush bowed and passed on.
"He's one of the biggest guns in Granville, they say," Jack observed. "I
wouldn't mind having some of his business to handle. He started with
nothing, too, according to all accounts. Now, that's what I call success."
"Oh, yes, in a business way he's a success," Hazel responded. "But he's
awfully curt most of the time around the office. I wonder what made
him thaw out so to-day?"
And that question recurred to her mind again in the evening, when Jack
had gone home and she was sitting in her own room. She wheeled her
chair around and took a steady look at herself in the mirror. A woman
may never admit extreme plainness of feature, and she may deprecate
her own fairness, if she be possessed of fairness, but she seldom has
any illusions about one or the other. She knows. Hazel Weir knew that
she was far above the average in point of looks. If she had never taken

stock of herself before, the reflection facing her now was sufficient to
leave no room for doubt on the score of beauty. Her skin was smooth,
delicate in texture, and as delicately tinted. The tan pongee dress she
wore set off her dark hair and expressive, bluish-gray eyes.
She was smiling at herself just as she had been smiling at Jack Barrow
while they sat on the log and fed the swans. And she made an amiable
grin at the reflection in the glass. But even though Miss Weir was
twenty-two and far from unsophisticated, it did not strike her that the
transition of herself from a demure, business-like office person in sober
black and white to a radiant creature with the potent influences of love
and spring brightening her eyes and lending a veiled caress to her every
supple movement, satisfactorily accounted for the sudden friendliness
of Mr. Andrew Bush.
CHAPTER II
HEART, HAND--AND POCKETBOOK
Miss Weir was unprepared for what subsequently transpired as a result
of that casual encounter with the managing partner of the firm. By the
time she went to work on Monday morning she had almost forgotten
the meeting in Granville Park. And she was only reminded of it when,