102 The Light That Failed pence short in my accounts.” “Why three pence?” “I carried a man’s bag once from Liverpool Street Station to Blackfriar’s Bridge. It was a sixpenny job, — you needn’t laugh; indeed it was, — and I wanted the money desperately. He only gave me three pence; and he hadn’t even the decency to pay in silver. Whatever money I make, I shall never get that odd three pence out of the world.” This was not language befitting the man who had preached of the sanctity of work. It jarred on Maisie, who preferred her payment in applause, which, since all men desire it, must be of he right. She hunted for her little purse and gravely took out a three penny bit. “There it is,” she said. “I'll pay you, Dickie; and don’t worry any more; it isn’t worth while. Are you paid?” “I am,” said the very human apostle of fair craft, taking the coin. “I’m paid a thousand times, and we'll close that account. It shall live on my watch-chain; and you re an angel, Maisie.” “I’m very cramped, and I’m feeling a little cold. Good gracious! the cloak is all white, and so is your moustache! I never knew it was so chilly.” A light frost lay white on the shoulder of Dick’s ulster. He, too, had forgotten the state of the weather. They laughed together, and with that laugh ended all serious discourse. They ran inland across the waste to warm themselves, then turned to look at the glory of the full tide under the moonlight and the intense black shadows of the furze bushes. It was an additional joy to Dick that Maisie could see color even as he saw it, — could see the blue in the white of the mist, the violet that is in gray palings, and all things else as they are, — not of one hue, but a thousand. And the moonlight came into Maisie’s soul, so that she, usually reserved, chattered