He received my remark with such unruffled serenity that I was angry with myself for engaging in a wordy warfare with him, when he was sure to be victorious. He sat with us for a short time after dinner, chatting so graciously that I came to the conclusion he was not, after all, so out of sympathy with my little benevolent projects as his words often implied. When he rose to go he came to me, and, taking out his pocket-book counted out fifty dollars and laid them in my hand. He paused a moment with the pocket-book still open.
"This is a special case, little one," he said, kindly. "May I be permitted to contribute something for your friend?"
He laid another note in my hand, but I did not wait to see the amount. I started to my feet impulsively.
"Oh, Mr. Winthrop, I must confess to you. I have not been real honest. Won't you forgive me?"
I felt the tears rush to my eyes, and my lips quivered like some frightened child's, making me feel sadly ashamed of myself. He looked startled.
"What is it, Medoline?"
"I earned the money myself. I have been selling pictures."
"Is that the worst offense you have to confess?" he asked, with a keen look into my upturned face.
"It is the worst just now," I faltered.
"Very well, then, I will forgive you; but I must stipulate to see your pictures before they go to market after this, and also that you consult with me first before launching into other business enterprises. You might be tempted with something not quite so suitable for a young lady as picture-selling."