“Just a few minutes, dear.”

Jane walked submissively out of the door, leaving it open behind her.  Then, having gone about six feet farther, she halted and, preserving a breathless silence, consoled herself for her banishment by listening to what was said, hearing it all as satisfactorily as if she had remained in the room.  Quiet, thoughtful children, like Jane, avail themselves of these little pleasures oftener than is suspected.

“Mother,” said William, with great intensity, “I want to ask you please to lend me three dollars and sixty cents.”

“What for, Willie?”

“Mother, I just ask you to lend me three dollars and sixty cents.”

“But what for?”

“Mother, I don’t feel I can discuss it any; I simply ask you:  Will you lend me three dollars and sixty cents?”

Mrs. Baxter laughed gently.  “I don’t think I could, Willie, but certainly I should want to know what for.”

“Mother, I am going on eighteen years of age, and when I ask for a small sum of money like three dollars and sixty cents I think I might be trusted to know how to use it for my own good without having to answer questions like a ch—­”

“Why, Willie,” she exclaimed, “you ought to have plenty of money of your own!”

“Of course I ought,” he agreed, warmly.  “If you’d ask father to give me a regular allow—­”

“No, no; I mean you ought to have plenty left out of that old junk and furniture I let you sell last month.  You had over nine dollars!’

“That was five weeks ago,” William explained, wearily.

“But you certainly must have some of it left.  Why, it was more than nine dollars, I believe!  I think it was nearer ten.  Surely you haven’t—­”

“Ye gods!” cried the goaded William.  “A person going on eighteen years old ought to be able to spend nine dollars in five weeks without everybody’s acting like it was a crime!  Mother, I ask you the simple question:  Will you please lend me three dollars and sixty cents?”

“I don’t think I ought to, dear.  I’m sure your father wouldn’t wish me to, unless you’ll tell me what you want it for.  In fact, I won’t consider it at all unless you do tell me.”

“You won’t do it?” he quavered.

She shook her head gently.  “You see, dear, I’m afraid the reason you don’t tell me is because you know that I wouldn’t give it to you if I knew what you wanted it for.”

This perfect diagnosis of the case so disheartened him that after a few monosyllabic efforts to continue the conversation with dignity he gave it up, and left in such a preoccupation with despondency that he passed the surprised Jane in the hall without suspecting what she had been doing.