loves, that held his mind from time to time in the mixture 
of after events. Patience Barlow was kissed by him in 
secret ways many and many a time before he found an- 
other girl. She and others of the street, which was 
highly respectable, ran out to play in the snow of a 
winter's night, or lingered after dusk before her own door 
when the days grew dark early. It was so easy to catch 
and kiss her then, and to talk to her foolishly at parties. 
Then came Dora Fitler, when he was sixteen years old 
and she was twelve; and Marjorie Stafford, when he was 
seventeen and she was fifteen. Dora Fitler was a brunette, 
but much lighter-complexioned than Patience Barlow; 
and Marjorie Stafford was as fair as the morning, with 
bright-red cheeks, bluish-gray eyes, and flaxen hair, and 
as plump as a partridge. 
Shall the story of Marjorie be told? It isn't as inno- 
cent as the others. But, no, let it go. There will be 
more than sufficient without it. 
It was at seventeen that, having endured all he could 
of the so-called educative processes of the time, he de- 
cided to leave school. He had not graduated. He had 
only finished the third year in high school; but he had 
had enough. Ever since his thirteenth year his mind had 
been on finance, and that only in the form in which he 
saw it manifested in Third Street. There had been odd 
things that he had been able to do to earn a little money 
now and then. His Uncle Seneca had allowed him to 
act as assistant weigher at the sugar-docks in Southwark, 
where three-hundred-pound bags were weighed into the 
government bonded warehouses under the eyes of United 
States inspectors. In certain emergencies he was called 
to assist his father, and paid for it. He even made an 
arrangement with Mr. Dalrymple to assist him on Satur- 
days; but his father became cashier of his bank shortly 
after his son had reached his fifteenth year, and, receiving 
an income of four thousand dollars a year, it was self- 
evident that Frank assisting a grocer on Saturdays was