She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling. "Miriam Leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters, "Five—hundred—dollars. Signed—Ambrose—North. There. When you have no money, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for my family, and I want to do it."
"Thank you." Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check.
"The date," he said; "I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it?"
She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she had been dreading.
"The date, Miriam," he called. "Will you please tell me what day of the month it is?"
"The seventh," she answered, with difficulty.
"The seventh? The seventh of June?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill whisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day."