"Oh, Jean," said Barbara, laughing, "you are hopelessly practical. If ever you could let your money affairs slide, I should think it would be to-day! But give me this Mrs. Alderman's address, and I will see what I can do."
Barbara was a clever woman. She went into the city the next day and interviewed the alderman's wife. A little pressure and a threat to sell her portrait to a second-hand dealer, and she gave in, writing Barbara a cheque for the stipulated amount before she left the house.
"It was an unpleasant business," admitted Barbara, "but a profitable one."
And Jean's cares seemed to melt away with this sum in hand.
When the doctor came to see her again, he was surprised at the rapid progress she had made.
"My mother will not believe that you are an invalid, if you go on like this," he said. And then he and Jean plunged into a long talk, which was delightful only to themselves.
"I am a little shy of you still," said Jean, laying her hand lightly on his coat sleeve. "You have always been so grave and silent to me, that I feel I don't properly know you."
"Are you afraid of my unknown qualities?" the doctor asked, imprisoning her hand in his, and looking at her with his old humorous twinkle in his eyes.
She looked up at him sweetly.
"'Perfect love casteth out fear,'" she said. "I used long ago to pride myself upon my strength of will and purpose. I gloried in standing alone, but I have come to see that dependence is sweeter. I somehow think I have made a mess of my life, and now I am going to put the fragments of it into your keeping, and never have an anxious thought again of what I am to do and how I am to do it."