NANCY HAS A GREAT ADVENTURE
There was no doubt whatever in Nancy's mind that it was Mildred who had
cheated in the examination. But whether Mildred had deliberately left
the book on Alma's desk, or whether she had simply forgotten it, she
did not know. The fact remained, however, that so far Mildred had made
no effort to clear Alma of the suspicion, and knowing Mildred's nature
as she did, Nancy was not inclined to think that Mildred would ever do
so of her own accord. Nancy was willing to give her the benefit of the
doubt so far as believing that she had not intentionally thrown Alma
into such a damaging position. In the first place, she had no motive
for injuring Alma, and in the second place, she ran a very great risk
of discovery herself. Leaving the whys and wherefores, Nancy regarded
the simple fact; that having thus injured Alma, Mildred was not going
to try to clear her, and pay the penalty herself. The thought that
most wounded Nancy was that Alma was under obligations to the girl who
had treated her so badly. The handsome fur neck-piece Mildred had
"lent" her, was not yet paid for, and Nancy shrank from the idea of her
sister's owing money to her. She had, of course, not mentioned this to
Alma, although it had been the first thought that sprang into her own
head, when she first became certain that Mildred was the culprit. It
would have troubled Alma, who was already troubled enough, and she
could have done nothing about it.
"I've got to get that money somehow," Nancy said to herself grimly. "I
can write to Mother for part of it--about half, perhaps, but the other
half I've got to get myself." Naturally, her first idea was to pocket
her pride, and to ask her Uncle Thomas for the money. Not even that
would hurt her so much as the thought of owing it to Mildred; but then
she dismissed this plan from her mind. It was impossible; it would be
a breach of their terms of friendship, for one thing, and for another,
she felt that to explain to him her reasons for wanting it would be
unjust to Alma.
While she was turning one plan after another over in her mind, she
absently took her mother's letter from her pocket, and slit the
envelope open with a hairpin. She glanced almost carelessly at the
lines, written in Mrs. Prescott's pointed, flourishing hand, then all
at once the meaning of the first sentence fixed her wandering attention.
"MY DARLING, DARLING LITTLE DAUGHTERS:
"I can hardly bring myself to write this letter. You don't know how
hard it is for me--but I deserve the pain and humiliation. I am a very
foolish woman, but, oh, my dears, I have made my mistakes only in
trying to help you both. And now, what _have_ I done to you? There
was no one to advise me, and I know nothing whatever about business,
but it seemed so perfectly practical, so absolutely _sure_."
All this was perfect Greek to Nancy, and she saw that her poor mother
had evidently written the letter in an almost desperate state of mind.
After two pages of self-reproach, it was gradually made clear to Nancy
that Mrs. Prescott had made an unfortunate investment of her little
capital, though the extent of the loss Mrs. Prescott did not explain.
In an effort to increase their meagre income, she had taken all her
money, or part of it, and bought stock in some oil interest in Texas.
A Western promoter had assured her that it was the opportunity of a
lifetime, he himself being either an unconscionable fraud or a
self-deceiving optimist. Nancy had not the remotest idea when her
mother had made the investment, but evidently the news of its complete
failure had just reached her, and it was equally evident that it had
been a total loss.
Utter bewilderment confused Nancy's thoughts, so that at first she
could hardly realize all that the misfortune might mean; she felt no
terror; only a wave of pity and tenderness for her mother, whose misery
was so pitifully expressed in the letter. Then she thought of Alma.
Misfortune of that kind would hit both of them harder than herself,
because they had a greater need for luxury and pleasure than she.
There was nothing terrible to her in the thought of work, and of
difficulties to be overcome, because, in her quiet way, she had a great
wealth of self-confidence, the ardent ambition of youth, and that zest
for struggle which is characteristic of strong natures. Alma and her
mother, on the other hand, saw nothing but the wretchedness of thwarted
hopes in such an existence of poverty and work. They were created for
ease and luxury, just as the hollyhock is made to bloom against the
sunny garden wall. Poor Mrs. Prescott, who had dreamed such happy
fairy tales for her daughters, and who, with her own hands, as it were,
had so innocently destroyed the little they possessed; and Alma, so
thirsty for pleasure and beauty,--it was only on their account that
Nancy suffered. She understood that it would be impossible for herself
and Alma to come back to school for the next term; but that would have
been impossible anyway, Nancy thought, even with Alma cleared of the
dreadful suspicion that rested on her; for Nancy's stiff pride could
not brook the thought of living among people who had doubted her
sister, even though the circumstantial evidence against Alma had been
very strong.
"However shall I get all the money to pay Alma's debt now?" she
thought, dazedly. "I can't get even half of it from Mother, because
she would certainly deny herself the very necessities of life to send
it. I _cannot_ ask Uncle Thomas for it." She knew that in all
probability she could influence Mr. Prescott, through his increasing
affection for her, to help her mother out of their present difficulty,
but the thought of doing so was utterly repugnant to her, and, it
seemed to her, intolerably humiliating both for Mrs. Prescott and Alma.
She was afraid that Mrs. Prescott, learning that Uncle Thomas had shown
a favoritism for her, might urge her to this course, and she could not
decide whether she should swallow her pride for her mother's sake and
for Alma's, or whether she should insist that they fight their way
courageously out of the difficulty. So far as she herself was
concerned, there would have been no question; there was nothing that
she would not endure rather than ask her uncle for a cent.
Her hands were trembling as she folded the letter up, and put it in her
bureau drawer under her handkerchief case.
"How am I going to tell Alma?" Well, she would break the news
to-night. First of all, she must solve the problem of the debt to
Mildred, Only one course was possible. There was her father's ring,
which she always kept, and which was her very dearest, possession. It
was of the heaviest gold, and set with a large seal stone of
lapiz-lazuli. She might raise perhaps thirty-five or forty dollars on
it--which left about seventy still to be found by hook or crook. Never
had any sum appeared so gigantic to Nancy. She could see no other
possible means of getting it than by borrowing it temporarily from
Charlotte, and paying it back by one way or another during the
holidays. She knew that Charlotte would be glad to lend it to her, but
she shrank from the thought of putting their friendship to such a use.
However, there was no help for it. In Alma's pocketbook she found
enough money to pay her way into the city. Her mother would certainly
be sending them a little more in a day or two for their return home.
She took the money--two or three dollars, left from the ten which Alma
had borrowed from her,--and began to change into her suit, thinking,
meanwhile, with a smile of incredulity, of the imprudence of sending
herself and Alma to one of the very schools where their poverty would
be contrasted with the abundance of Mildred Lloyds and Katherine
Leonards.
When she was ready for town, she went to Miss Leland's office, and told
her simply that she had just received a letter from her mother which
made it necessary to go to the city without delay. Miss Leland gave
the consent, which Nancy, in her excited state of mind, was ready to go
with or without. She caught the next train to New York, and by
one-thirty was in the Grand Central Station, wondering where on earth,
now that she was there, she would be able to get the money on the ring.
She had a vague idea that the only possible place would be some
pawn-shop, and she had read in Nicholas Nickleby that one can tell a
pawn-shop by three golden balls hanging in front of it, and also that
one would be likely to find it only in a squalid section of the
business district. The dealer would certainly be Jewish, and he would
in all probability not give her a tenth of what the ring was worth.
None of these thoughts were likely to raise her spirits at all, and,
when at length she found herself outside a dirty little shop on lower
Sixth Avenue, gazing in upon a window display of dusty violins and
guitars, travelling bags and tawdry jewelry, while above her the
traditional golden balls creaked in a sharp wind, her courage all but
failed her. She was frankly terrified by the sordid strangeness of her
environment, by the dirty, sodden loafers that shuffled past her, and
by the thought of haggling for money over the counter of that dingy and
even sinister-looking little shop. At length, however, she plucked up
courage and, with her heart in her throat, entered.
The front part of the shop was empty and very dark. At the back was a
swinging door, leading into another room, from which issued the sound
of voices of two men. The little bell over the front door had rung as
Nancy entered, to apprise the shopkeeper of a customer, and under the
swinging door she saw a pair of shuffling feet moving toward it. The
shopkeeper emerged, followed by the other man, who was evidently a
customer come to make a purchase of some antique piece; for the
pawnbroker seemed to deal in old bric-a-brac and what not, besides his
regular historic business of money-lending.
"I vill gif you dat box for vun hundert dollars,--mit dat it iss a
gift," the shopkeeper was saying doggedly, as he came toward Nancy, and
the other man, following him, laughed.
"Well, you certainly give awfully expensive presents," he remarked. "A
hundred dollars, you old rascal--no one on earth would give that for a
little box."
"Vell, only try to duplicate it--you vill not find such a handsome
piece dis side de ocean," returned the shopkeeper with a shrug. "Vot
can I do for you, young lady?"
But Nancy had temporarily lost all power of speech. She was not sure,
indeed, that she wasn't dreaming--it was all so utterly strange, and
whimsical, and impossible, that surely it could be so only in a dream.
For the young man who had followed the pawnbroker out of the inner room
was George Arnold! She was standing with her back to the door, but the
light that came through the dirty glass shone squarely on his face, so
that if she had not already recognized his voice she would have
recognized his features beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her first
impulse was to turn and fly, or to conceal herself hastily in one of
the odd little sentry boxes, which were evidently designed to preserve
the incognito of the pawnbroker's indigent customers. But already Mr.
Arnold had cast a second curious glance at the unusual sight of a
well-dressed, well-bred young girl in such surroundings, and with that
second glance he had recognized her. His mouth opened slightly in a
repressed gasp of astonishment. Probably, with a moment's thought, he
might have pretended that he had not recognized her, in order to spare
her any embarrassment, but he had already exclaimed, involuntarily:
"Why, Miss Prescott!" and had taken a step toward her. Nancy turned
scarlet, and could only gaze at him helplessly.
"How can I serve you, young lady?" repeated the shopkeeper. Nancy
hesitated, in a perfect agony of embarrassment, while Mr. Arnold
continued to look at her, evidently very much at a loss. On the one
hand, he disliked to discomfit her by being present while she
transacted her business with old Zeigler, the pawnbroker, and on the
other, he was equally unwilling to leave her to be swindled, as she
very probably would be. Furthermore, while he realized that he had no
business to inquire into her affairs, and that, to say the least, it
would be the height of bad taste to do so, nevertheless he felt that
she was in some difficulty and needed advice. The squalid little shop
was an odd place in which to find the niece of old Thomas Prescott; for
it was not likely that she had come there as he had, to browse around
in a dilettante search for curios.
Nancy read the question, "What are you here for?" in his face, and
guessed his indecision. On her part she wished fervently that he would
go, and was racking her brains for some excuse to leave the shop and to
come back later. But her frantic efforts at evolving some plan of
escape within the space of fifteen seconds were fruitless. Zeigler for
the third time repeated his question to her with a touch of impatience.
Then Mr. Arnold desperately took the bull by the horns, and with a
touch of pretended gaiety asked with a laugh:
"Are you in search of adventure? You aren't running away from school,
are you?"
"No--that is----" stammered Nancy; then, driven to take him into her
confidence to some extent, and trying to put her situation in the light
of a prank, she laughed mischievously, and added with an air of candor,
"You've caught me."
"What are you up to, young lady? Selling the family plate?" inquired
Mr. Arnold boldly, and speaking to her as if she were a mischievous
youngster, though his eyes were grave and puzzled. Nancy put up her
chin, as if she were being scolded, and answered with a touch of
childish defiance: "Don't tell on me."
"Well, I won't--though you deserve it, ma'am," replied Mr. Arnold. "I
won't--on one condition,--that you come with me, and 'fess up to all
your misdemeanors, and let me give you the sage advice of a hardened
sinner before you do anything rash. I realize that I'm taking a
liberty, Miss Prescott, in concerning myself in what is strictly your
own affair," he added seriously, "but isn't our friendship firmly
enough established to allow me that privilege? What time is it?" He
glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes past two, and I've had no luncheon.
Have you?" Nancy admitted that she hadn't.
"Good. I can't begin to tell you how awfully lucky I consider myself
in having met you, Miss Prescott. I wish you would come with me to
some nice little restaurant where we can decide the affairs of the
nations. Are you in a great hurry?"
Nancy said that she wasn't. To tell the truth she was very glad that
Mr. Arnold _had_ concerned himself in her affairs, which she had begun
to believe she was not managing any too well. They had talked in low
voices so that the shopkeeper could only have heard fragments of their
conversation, and then left the shop, without even a word of
explanation to the irritated old money-lender.
Mr. Arnold hailed a taxi-cab, and they rolled off in state. Mr. Arnold
had given the driver the address of a little French restaurant on West
Forty-fifth Street.
"It'll be fairly empty now, and we can find just the table we want.
_I_ shall order your luncheon for you, because I know just exactly what
things are peculiar to this place--their special tid-bits, and I feel
like ordering a regular knock-out of a feast as a sort of celebration.
Really, you've no idea how delighted I am to have discovered you." His
frank, boyish pleasure in this freak of chance was so plainly written
on his beaming face, that Nancy colored with a schoolgirl's naive
delight in such sincere flattery. The dreaded undertaking of her trip
to the city was turning into a very charming little surprise party. In
some way, she felt that she had known Mr. Arnold for a very long time,
and that really there was not the slightest need for concealing
anything from him. His odd, attractive face was so friendly, his
bright brown eyes so full of eager sympathetic interest, that almost
before she had given a second thought as to whether she should or she
shouldn't, she had begun to tell him the reason for her appearance at
the pawnbroker's.
They had found a little table in a corner of the restaurant, and Mr.
Arnold had insisted upon ordering almost everything on the menu that
attracted his fancy.
"And above all things, you must try the hot chocolate, Miss Prescott.
I suppose it's not manly, but I have the most juvenile fondness for hot
chocolate, with great big blobs of whipped cream."
So hot chocolate they had, and innumerable rolls, hot and fresh from
the oven, and various and sundry other delicacies, calculated to
cripple a weak digestion for a month at the very least.
Drawn out by her growing confidence in him, and by her craving to talk
out her troubles to some one whose advice would be sound and based on
genuine sympathy, Nancy told him about her necessity for getting some
money. The explanation involved a good many complications, and Nancy
was as a rule unusually reserved. But Mr. Arnold was one of those
rather rare people who can understand a great deal more than is said in
just so many words, and she did not have to go into details as to why,
for example, she hesitated to ask her uncle for the money, or why it
was impossible to write to her mother for it. She told him simply that
there was a girl at school to whom her sister was indebted, and who had
played Alma a very shabby trick; and that, therefore, she felt that it
was absolutely imperative to clear Alma of the obligation to her. He
listened attentively, interposing occasionally in the friendly tone
such as an older man might use to a young one, so that she felt no
embarrassment in making the whole affair clear to him. Nor did he seem
to think that there was anything very awful in her trying to raise the
money for herself with the ring as a security.
"Only you should have gotten someone's advice, Miss Prescott. A man
like Zeigler would swindle you outrageously, and there are plenty of
reputable places which make loans on jewelry as a security. How large
is the debt?" Nancy told him.
"A hundred and ten dollars? You are unwilling to ask your uncle?"
Then seeing a look of distress in her face, he went on hastily: "Well,
I think I can understand. I admire your independence, Miss Prescott.
I say," he asked suddenly, with a touch of shyness, "would you mind if
I should call you Nancy? It sounds so much more friendly."
"I---I'd like you to," replied Nancy, simply. "It makes me feel sort
of old to be called Miss Prescott."
"Very well, and it makes me feel quite antique to be called Mr. Arnold.
I wish you'd flatter me into believing myself young once more by
calling me George."
"Oh, goodness, I don't believe I could! I--I mean that sounds so
dreadfully cheeky!" exclaimed Nancy.
"I suppose I must seem actually prehistoric to you," he said with a
laugh that sounded just a little bit forced. "But if you practised a
bit, you'd probably find that it would get easier for you, and it would
please me very much. To return to business--I think that if you will
let me have the ring, I can get the money on it for you this afternoon.
I know the best place to go, where you will get something really
proportionate to its value, and on the best terms."
Nancy could have hugged him in her relief and gratitude. She protested
a little feebly against his putting himself to any trouble, but he
waved her words aside, and she took the ring from her bag, and gave it
to him. He looked at it curiously; inside the broad finger band was
inscribed in characters almost obliterated by wear, the words, "To
George, on his 21st birthday, 1891."'
"It was Father's. Uncle Thomas gave it to him," explained Nancy,
simply, and at the same moment both of them were thinking of the
eccentric old gentleman, whose gift to a beloved nephew was now being
used to assist that nephew's daughter in a difficulty in which _his_
help was denied her.
"Now, how would you like to spend your time for three-quarters of an
hour or so?" asked Mr. Arnold, as they walked out of the restaurant.
"I am going off with this ring and I'll be back with the money as soon
as I possibly can. You pick some place for me to meet you."
Nancy glanced up and down the street, trying to find some spot where
she could amuse herself.
"I think I'd like to look around some book-shop--is there one near
here?"
"I'm an authority on the subject. I know every book-shop in New York,
and if you'll follow me I'll show you my favorite haunt. Then I can be
sure that you won't wander away--my only trouble will be in getting you
out of the place, and if I were wise I wouldn't let you go there under
any circumstances. But my generosity was always very much greater than
my wisdom."
He conducted Nancy, accordingly, to this paradise, and rather
lingeringly withdrew on his errand, leaving her in the quaint little
shop, where perfect tidal waves of books rose on all sides of her,
distracting her with alluring, familiar titles, with the sight of
hundreds upon hundreds of rare old volumes, and with that peculiar
smell of leather and paper and ink and mustiness which is to the
nostrils of the book-lover as the scent of earth and trees is to the
wanderer.
On one of the shelves her eyes caught a glimpse of a name on the back
of three or four delicately bound volumes, and she quickly took one of
them down to inspect it, suddenly remembering her uncle's remark about
that "author-person." The name on the back of the book was "George
Arnold." It was a volume of stories, finely bound, and illustrated
with pen drawings by a very famous artist and designer; and was
prefaced by a foreword from the pen of one of the most celebrated of
the present-day English critics.
Nancy promptly climbed up on a high stool that stood near the shelf,
and with her heels hooked on the second rung and the book spread open
on her lap began to read. She had time to glance only here and there;
and it was with surprise and pleasure that she saw a sentence in the
preface which spoke of the "writings of Mr. Arnold" as being "an
example of the most delicate artistry. A talent so rare, so peculiarly
sensitive, so rich in a wholly inimitable poetry, and waywardness of
fancy, that one hardly hesitates to pronounce it actual genius." And
it was this "genius," this "prophet in his own country," who at the
present moment was hurrying off in _her_ service. Nancy felt a
positive thrill of dismay, mingled with something else that was wholly
pleasant and exciting. But how in the world could she ever call him
"George." Imagine calling a famous writer by his first name--it seemed
impertinent, to say the least.
To tell the truth, she spent a good deal more of her time thinking
about this simple, friendly gentleman than in browsing over the
book-shelves which, under ordinary circumstance, would have been so
fascinating to her. Why was he so very nice to _her_--insignificant
her? How could she possibly be interesting to a man who had probably
been intimate with many of the most celebrated men and women of the
day? But, of course, it was very likely that he wasn't particularly
interested in her, and was only that he had a generous disposition. He
was ever so much older than she was--thirty-four anyway--and probably
he thought she was a nice child.
She was pondering thus, the book still open on her lap, and her back to
the door, when he returned, flushed with satisfaction, and also with
haste.
"I say, I've done a marvellous stroke of business," he announced, as he
came up behind her. "You seem to have found a very absorbing book,
Nancy--aren't you at all interested in learning what my amazing talent
for high finance has accomplished?"
"I can't tell you how good you have been to me," began Nancy,
gratefully and shyly.
"I haven't been good to you a bit. It's you who have been good to
_let_ me help you," he said, smiling down into her eyes. "I take it as
a very high compliment that you were frank enough with me to tell me
how I could serve you; because there is nothing, you know, that I would
rather do. That sounds rather flowery, doesn't it? But it's quite
true. Now listen--I have brought you the sum of one hundred and fifty
American dollars. That's more than you expected to get on the ring,
isn't it?"
"A hundred and fifty!"
"Here it is, in beautiful clean notes. I'll explain it all to you
presently. Did you find anything nice? What book have you got there?"
He glanced at the volume she held, and seeing what it was, laughed, and
took it away from her.
"How did you ever find _that_?" he asked, in a deprecating voice,
though, at that, genuinely modest as he was, he was not ill-pleased.
"I thought you would have found something better. I'm not posing as
the modest author, and all that sort of thing, but there are some
wonderful books in here that you shouldn't have missed."
"I--I didn't know you were--I mean----"
"You mean you didn't know that I was all that that critic chap says I
am? Well, I'm not. He's just gotten into the amiable habit of saying
kind things in his old age--so that he can get into Heaven when he
dies, in spite of all the damage he did in his youth. Come
along--unless you want to look about you some more."
"I'll be ready in a moment," said Nancy, slipping off the stool.
"I--there's something being wrapped for me that I want to get." With
that she went off to the back of the store and had the little volume
tied up, and paid for it with the last cent in her pocketbook. Then
she returned.
"All right now? Here is your money." He took a fat envelope out of
his pocket and gave it to her, and they left the shop.
As they walked across to Fifth Avenue, he explained to her rather
vaguely the proceeding by which he had raised the money for her; but
while she quite failed to understand it all she rested upon her faith
in his superior intelligence in business matters.
"When I want to get the ring back again, what do I do? and don't I have
to pay interest?"
"Oh, no, you don't have to pay interest, that's the wonderful part of
it. And when you want it back, you just tell me. I'll have to get it
for you, but you won't mind that, will you?"
"Oh, no--oh, you _have_ been so kind, Mr. Arnold, I mean, G-George.
Only you won't say anything to Uncle Thomas--of course you won't, but
I'm just mentioning that."
"I won't breathe a word to any living thing on land or sea. This is
our own private conspiracy, and no one shall have any part in it," he
assured her, gaily. "Only please promise me that, if you should need
any help again, you'll ask me. I--it disturbed me very much to find
you at old Zeigler's, though of course it was my good fortune."
There was an abundance of time before Nancy's train left, so they
strolled at an easy pace down Fifth Avenue, stopping to look in at the
shop windows whenever they saw anything that caught their fancy, and
chatting together as if they had known each other all their lives. At
the corner of Forty-fourth Street, Mr. Arnold suddenly dove into a huge
florist's shop on the corner, and in a moment returned bearing a bunch
of Parma violets, tied with a silken cord and tassel.
"I say, will you wear these?" he asked, bluntly. "You know, I always
wanted to give a bouquet to a young lady, but I never could find the
young lady to whom I wanted to give them. The flowers were plentiful,
but I began to think that the lady didn't exist." Nancy colored at the
compliment with which he proffered her the flowers, and dimpled as only
a rosy girl can dimple. His attentions were very flattering, and his
half-shy, boyish manner made them doubly so.
"Now do tell me what book you have there?" he asked, as they turned
east on Forty-second Street. "Is it something very learned or very
frivolous?"
With a little laugh, Nancy handed him the package.
"You can open it, if you promise to tie it up again," she said,
watching his face out of the corners of her eyes, as he untied the
string. He glanced from the book to her face, trying to look
disapproving, though he could not quite conceal his look of naive
pleasure.
"_Very_ frivolous. I see that I shall have to direct your book-buying
as well as your business. Why didn't you let me get it for you if you
wanted it?"
"Because I wanted to get it for myself--you probably wouldn't have let
me get it."
"Well, if I had given it to you, I could have written something in it,
and that's something I always wanted to do, you know, something about
'the compliments of the author' in a flowing script."
"Well, why don't you write something in it anyway?"
"May I?"
"Only not 'the compliments of the author.'"
He took her to the train, and then standing beside her seat, took out
his fountain pen, and scribbled on the fly-leaf of the little volume.
"There," he said, handing it back to her. "Now, good-bye. I am going
to see you again in the holidays, am I not? I have enjoyed two or
three hours to-day more than I have enjoyed anything in years." He
took her hand and shook it warmly, and then as the train gave a warning
jerk, he hurried off.
With the great fragrant bunch of violets at her waist, with money in
her pocket to set her mind at rest, and with the memory of a singularly
pleasant episode, Nancy saw the wintry landscape, over which a fresh
snow was beginning to fall, through rosy spectacles. Somehow, not even
the thought of the latest and greatest trouble loomed so very black and
terrifying in her mind. She glanced down at the little book in her
lap, and then opened it at the fly-leaf. He had written, "To
commemorate To-day," and had signed it simply, "George." It had been a
day of unusual unhappiness and unusual pleasure--not even he had
understood what the mingling had been for Nancy, but the memory of the
pleasure outweighed the memory of trouble; as if ashamed of herself she
tried to fix her thoughts on plans for helping and advising her mother
and Alma; but at length she gave it up, to review the little,
delightful trivial memories of "To-day," putting off the recollection
of trouble until To-morrow.