little use for money at the Hanyards, least of all in the pockets of my
Sunday best, and not until she told me her plight did I realize the fact
that in the elation of starting from home, I had forgotten that money
might be necessary. Though I laughed, I watched her closely. Now she would
break down. No woman's heart could stand the shock.

"My possessions," she said, "are precisely two handkerchiefs, one of
Madame du Pont's washballs, and most of a piece of the famous
marry-me-quick."

I had been mistaken. She made no ado about our serious situation, but
spoke with a grave humour that fetched me greatly.

"Quite a lengthy inventory," I replied. "My contributions to the common
stock are--" and I fumbled in my pockets--"item, one handkerchief; item,
a pocket-knife; item, one pipe and half a paper of tobacco; item, one
flask, two-thirds full of Mistress Kate Wheatman's priceless peppermint
cordial, the sovereign remedy against fatigue, cold, care, and the
humours; item, something unknown which has been flopping against my hip
and is, by the outward feel of it, a thing to rejoice over, to wit, one of
Kate's pasties."

I pushed my hand down for it, and then laughed louder than ever, as I
drew forth my dumpy little Virgil.

"Item," I concluded, "the works of the divine master, P. Vergilius Maro,
hidden in my pocket by that mischievous minx and monkey, Kate Wheatman of
the Hanyards." And I told the story.

"Then if Kate had not hidden your beloved Virgil, you would not have gone