Rudyard Kipling 101 me up in the night sometimes. You oughtn’t to know anything about it.” “How do you know?” “Never mind. Is your three hundred a year safe2” “It’s in Consols.” “Very well. If any one comes to you and recommends a better investment, — even if J should come to you, — don’t you listen. Never shift the money for a minute, and never lend a penny of it, — even to the red-haired girl.” “Don’t scold me so! I’m not likely to be foolish.” “The earth is full of men who'd sell their souls for three hundred a year; and women come and talk, and borrow a five-pound note here and a ten-pound note there; and a woman has no conscience in a money debt. Stick to your money, Maisie, for there’s nothing more ghastly in the world than poverty in London. It’s scared me. By Jove, it put the fear into me! And one oughtn’t to be afraid of anything.” To each man is appointed his particular dread, — the terror that, if he does not fight against it, must cow him even to the loss of his manhood. Dick’s experience of the sordid misery of want had entered into the deeps of him, and, lest he might find virtue too easy, that memory stood behind him, tempting to shame, when dealers came to buy his wares. As the Nilghai quaked against his will at the still green water of a lake or a mill-dam, as Torpenhow flinched before any white arm that could cut or stab and loathed himself for flinching, Dick feared the poverty he had once tasted half in jest. His burden was heavier than the burdens of his companions. Maisie watched the face working in the moonlight. “You’ve plenty of pennies now,” she said soothingly. “I shall never have enough,” he began, with vicious emphasis. Then, laughing, “I shall always be three