—La Rabide.
N the following morning Kate and I met as usual in the office of the mission; and as usual she appeared three quarters of an hour after the time she was nominally to be expected. She looked more ravishing than ever; the art that conceals art had never more inconspicuously pervaded every line and shade of her garments, every tress of her hair; her smile opened up a long vista of possibilities. Again I strongly felt the sentiments that had inspired me overnight; I could have closed the desk on the spot and seized her hands; but I restrained myself and merely asked instead what had become of her fellow-missionary. She was indisposed, it appeared, and could not come to-day.
“She's rather worried about our finances,” said Kate, though not in a tone that seemed to share the anxiety.
I had more than once wondered where the money was coming from and how long it would last, but hitherto I had avoided this sordid aspect of the crusade.
“We can't go on any longer unless we get some more money,” she added. “What with all my other expenses I can't run to much more, and Miss Clibborn isn't very well off.”
“My own purse—” I began.
“Oh,” she interrupted, “we want a capitalist to finance us regularly, and Miss Clibborn has found a man who may help if he approves of our work. He is coming down this morning.”