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 his own life in his own way, and be satisfied with that? Why were they always interfering with him—trying to make him do what they wished, instead of what he knew was best for him? Here was Miss Morris, now. What did she know about Margaret that she should turn on him so?

He stepped out angrily, glaring at the pavement ahead of him, and splashing from the curbstones into the running gutters as he crossed the streets. The avenue was deserted, except for an occasional belated cab that dragged by, on its noiseless tires, behind a slow clatter of tired hoofs, the driver muffled to the ears in his rain cape, his fares shut in behind the misted panes of windows that were as dark as those of the closed houses which Don passed. He strode down the shining flagstones, alone with his indignation and driven by it, swinging his clenched hand.

It was the very violence of his pace that brought him relief at last; for the blood drove through his body with a brisk exhilaration that was irresistible. He threw back his shoulders to fill his lungs; he put his chin up; his frown began to change from a worried glower to an expression of defiance. . . . If they were all against him, why, let them be so! Let it rain! What did he care? The whole world had been against him. Fortune had done its worst. And in spite of it—in spite of everything—he had won Margaret back to join him; his life was working out in the way he had planned; and his happiness was already almost upon him, like the burst of sunshine in which this black downpour would come to an end in the morning.