contrast. This, however, was no fault of his. That mourning has artistic possibilities is a happy fact that has brought gentle solace to many a widow.

On the whole, Barton could not escape the deduction that the son reflected the present rather than the past. Try as he might, it was difficult for him to connect this young man with Grandfather Pendleton, shipbuilder of New Bedford, or with the father who in his youth commanded the Nancy R. But that was by no means his duty––as Don faintly suggested when he uncrossed his knees and hitched forward impatiently.

“Your father’s will is dated three years ago last June,” began Barton.

“At the end of my freshman year,” Don observed.

Jonas Barton adjusted his spectacles and began to read. He read slowly and very distinctly, as if anxious to give full value to each syllable:

“New York City, borough of Manhattan, State of New York. I, Donald Joshua Pendleton, being of sound mind and––”

Donald Pendleton, Jr., waved an objection with his cigarette.

“Can’t you cut out all the legal stuff and just give me the gist of it? There’s no doubt about father having been of sound mind and so forth.”

“It is customary––” began the attorney.

“Well, we’ll break the custom,” Don cut in sharply.

Barton glanced up. It might have been his late client speaking; it gave him a start.

“As you wish,” he assented. “Perhaps, however, I may be allowed to observe that in many ways your father’s will is peculiar.”

“It wouldn’t be father’s will if it wasn’t peculiar,” declared Don.

Barton pushed the papers away from him.

“Briefly, then,” he said, “your father leaves his entire estate to you––in trust.”

Don leaned forward, his stick grasped in his gloved hands.

“I don’t get that last.”

“In trust,” repeated Barton with emphasis. “He has honored our firm with the commission of serving as a board of trustees for carrying out the terms of the will.”

“You mean to fix my allowance?”

“To carry out the terms of the will, which are as follows: namely, to turn over to you, but without power of conveyance, the paternal domicile on West Sixtieth Street with all its contents.”

Don frowned.

“Paternal domicile––I can translate that all right. I suppose you mean the house. But what’s that line ‘without power of conveyance’?”

“It means that you are at liberty to occupy the premises, but that you are to have no power to sell, to rent, or to dispose of the property in any way whatsoever.”

Don appeared puzzled.

“That’s a bit queer. What do you suppose Dad thought I wanted of a place that size to live in?”

“I think your father was a man of considerable sentiment.”

“Eh?”

“Sentiment,” Barton repeated. “It was there you were born, and there your mother died.”

“Yes, that’s all correct; but––well, go on.”

“The rest of the document, if you insist upon a digest, consists principally of directions to the trustees. Briefly, it provides that we invest the remainder of the property in safe bonds and apply the interest to meet taxes on the aforesaid paternal domicile, to retain and pay the wages of the necessary servants, to furnish fuel and water, and to maintain the house in proper repair.”

“Well, go on.”

“In case of your demise––”

“You may skip my demise; I’m not especially interested in that.”

“Then I think we have covered all the more important provisions,” Barton concluded.

“All?” exclaimed Don. “What do you think I’m going to live on?”

Here was the clash for which Barton had