“What were you doing at Jonas Tabor’s?” asked Joe, drinking his coffee with a brightening eye.

“We were sent for,” she answered.

“What for?”

She toasted the bread attentively without replying, and when she decided that it was brown enough, piled it on a warm plate.  This she brought to him, and kneeling in front of him, her elbow on his knee, offered for his consideration, looking steadfastly up at his eyes.  He began to eat ravenously.

“What for?” he repeated.  “I didn’t suppose Jonas would let you come in his house.  Was he sick?”

“Joe,” she said, quietly, disregarding his questions—–­“Joe, have you got to run away?”

“Yes, I’ve got to,” he answered.

“Would you have to go to prison if you stayed?” She asked this with a breathless tensity.

“I’m not going to beg father to help me out,” he said, determinedly.  “He said he wouldn’t, and he’ll be spared the chance.  He won’t mind that; nobody will care!  Nobody!  What does anybody care what I do!”

“Now you’re thinking of Mamie!” she cried.  “I can always tell.  Whenever you don’t talk naturally you’re thinking of her!”

He poured down the last of the coffee, growing red to the tips of his ears.  “Ariel,” he said, “if I ever come back—­”

“Wait,” she interrupted.  “Would you have to go to prison right away if they caught you?”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” he laughed, sadly.  “But I’m going to clear out.  I’m not going to take any chances.  I want to see other parts of the world, other kinds of people.  I might have gone, anyhow, soon, even if it hadn’t been for last night.  Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“You know I do,” she said.  “I’ve told you—­ how often!  But, Joe, Joe,—­you haven’t any money!  You’ve got to have money to live!”

“You needn’t worry about that,” returned the master of seven dollars, genially.  “I’ve saved enough to take care of me for a long time.”

“Joe, please!  I know it isn’t so.  If you could wait just a little while—­only a few weeks,—­only a few, Joe—­”

“What for?”

“I could let you have all you want.  It would be such a beautiful thing for me, Joe.  Oh, I know how you’d feel; you wouldn’t even let me give you that dollar I found in the street last year; but this would be only lending it to you, and you could pay me back sometime—­”

“Ariel!” he exclaimed, and, setting his empty cup upon the floor, took her by the shoulders and shook her till the empty plate which had held the toast dropped from her hand and broke into fragments.  “You’ve been reading the Arabian Nights!”

“No, no,” she cried, vehemently.  “Grandfather would give me anything.  He’ll give me all the money I ask for!”

“Money!” said Joe.  “Which of us is wandering?  Money?  Roger Tabor give you money?”