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 make good for everybody that reposes a dollar's worth of confidence in me. I have—in honor, you know."

As he said this, his eyes glowed with a fine light. Fay saw that he was right, and was willing to try to be patient and resigned.

"And how long will it take to work the thing out?" she asked hopefully.

"Only five to seven years," responded George in accents of cheer.

"Oh, my God!" Fay groaned. Her face had become gray and frightened. "Seven years?" she whispered the words to herself as if weighing them in her mind, pronouncing the numeral as if it had been seventy instead of seven. "I'll—George!" and she clutched at him helplessly. "I'll be an old woman then. I'll be past thirty."

It was only her profound seriousness that saved her husband from jeering, from ejaculating "Rats!" or some other such disrespectful and unfeeling expletive. Instead he expostulated with sweet reasonableness: "Why, Fay! You'll just be coming into your prime. What a wonderful woman you'll be at thirty! No woman gets to her real beauty before that."

But the wife sat pulling her hands restlessly, with the gray look again in her face, and George had recourse to an old expedient for rallying her spirits. He painted the picture of his ultimate ideal for the plant—a huge hive for a happy