ing amounts which she was accustomed to were vague and unreckonable. "Thank you very much," she went on politely to Mr. Perkins, as they moved out toward the daylight streaming down the winding stairway; and then, just as she started to ascend, "I suppose you would be willing to help me make out a check," she faltered, "if I should ever need to."
"Certainly, certainly, certainly! But there's your father, you know,—your own father, Miss Jerome."
"Oh, would you mind not telling my father just yet—that I—that I've been here?" she pleaded. "Later, of course, but not now—not just now," she floundered, blushing deeply at the realization that she was stooping to actual deceit. "Oh, I don't know what you can think of me," she broke off. She had sat before Mr. Perkins before she joined the church. "It was mostly from curiosity. Cousin Pattie said that I—that my grandfather—I thought I ought to know at least—it seemed to me"
Mr. Perkins' big, soft hand suddenly reached out and patted Reba's shoulder. "You come to me any time you want to, Miss Jerome," he said. "Any time you want to. I won't tell tales out of school."
