Produced by Al Haines.





                          _*THE WEB OF TIME*_


                                  _By_

                         _*ROBERT E. KNOWLES*_

             _Author of "St. Cuthbert’s," "The Undertow,"_
                       _"The Dawn at Shanty Bay"_



                       _New York Chicago Toronto_
                      _Fleming H. Revell Company_
                         _London and Edinburgh_




                          Copyright, 1908, by
                       FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY



                       New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
                       Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue
                    Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W.
                     London: 21 Paternoster Square
                     Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street




                                   To
                              My Daughter

                      ELIZABETH ELLIS KNOX KNOWLES

                       whose gentle hands, guided
                       from afar, have woven many
                      a golden strand into life’s
                      mysterious web, this book is
                   dedicated with unuttered fondness.




                               *CONTENTS*

      I. The Ashes on the Hearth
     II. The Wine-Press Alone
    III. Love’s Labourer
     IV. The Riches of the Poor
      V. A Flow of Soul
     VI. An Investment
    VII. "Effectual Calling"
   VIII. Of Such is the Kingdom
     IX. A Belated Enquirer
      X. Sheltering Shadows
     XI. Food for Thought
    XII. The Encircling Gloom
   XIII. The Dews of Sorrow
    XIV. The Weighing of the Anchor
     XV. A Parental Parley
    XVI. David the Diplomat
   XVII. Friendship’s Ministry
  XVIII. Voices of the Past
    XIX. A Brush With Death
     XX. The Restoring of a Soul
    XXI. A Heated Debate
   XXII. Breakers Ahead
  XXIII. Ingenuity of Love
   XXIV. The Victor’s Spoils
    XXV. What Made the Ball so Fine?
   XXVI. "The Fair Sweet Morn Awakes"
  XXVII. A Brother’s Mastery
 XXVIII. A Light at Midnight
   XXIX. How David Swept the Field
    XXX. A Journalist’s Injunctions
   XXXI. The Trough of the Wave
  XXXII. Harvey’s Unseen Deliverer
 XXXIII. Plain Living and High Thinking
  XXXIV. The Overflowing Hour
   XXXV. "Into His House of Wine"
  XXXVI. A Mistress Of Finance
 XXXVII. The Conqueror’s Home-Going
XXXVIII. The Fleeing Shadows




                          _*THE WEB OF TIME*_



                                  *I*

                      _*THE ASHES ON THE HEARTH*_


"No, father’s not home yet—go to sleep, dear," and the mother-hand
tucked the clothes securely about the two snuggling forms; "don’t ask
any more, Harvey, or you’ll waken Jessie—and go to sleep."

Mrs. Simmons went back to the kitchen, crooning softly to the wakeful
baby in her arms.  Glancing at the clock, she marked, with an
exclamation of surprise, how late it was.  "He might be in any minute
now," she said to herself as she thrust in another stick for the
encouragement of the already steaming kettle.  Then she busied herself a
few minutes about the table; a brief pause, as if pondering, ended in
her moving quickly towards the pantry, emerging a moment later with some
little luxury in her hand.

"Poor Ned, this night-work seems so hard—if he’s working at all," she
thought to herself, "and he’ll be cold and tired when he comes in—hush,
baby, isn’t that your father?" as she laid a finger on the crowing lips.

The footfall came nearer, firm and steady, too—at which the anxious face
lighted up; but a moment later it was gone, and silence reigned again.
The baby seemed, in some mysterious way, to share the disappointment; in
any case, it became suddenly quiet, the big blue eyes gazing up at the
mother’s. The unfathomed depths, as such depths are prone to do, seemed
to start some hidden springs of thought in the woman’s mind; for the
anxious eyes that peered into them were now suffused with tears, then
bright again with maternal fondness as she clasped the infant to her
breast.

For she dreaded the home-coming of her husband, even while she longed
for it.  The greatest of all books assures us that fear is cast out by
love—but love may still fear something in the very one it loves above
all others; some alien habit, some sin that changes the whole complexion
of a soul.  And thus was it with the wife who now awaited her husband’s
coming with a troubled heart.

It had not been ever thus.  Far different had it been in the happy days
with which her thoughts were busy now as she moved hither and thither,
doing what deft and loving hands could do to make all bright and cheery
before her husband should arrive. Those vanished days had been happy
ones indeed, with nothing to cloud their joy.

When Edward Simmons first crossed her path, she knew that her hour of
destiny had come.  He was then a journeyman printer—and he was handsome
and chivalrous and fascinating; sensitive to the last degree, imperious
by nature, but tender in the expression of his love for her.  And how
rapturously sure of the happiness that lay before them both! Passionate
in temper he undoubtedly was—but tideful natures ever are.  And he was
slower to forgive himself than others.

She had been little more than a girl, a fatherless girl, when first she
met Edward Simmons—Ned, as his friends all called him—and in less than a
year after their meeting she gave herself to him forever. Then her real
life began, she thought; but before a year had passed, it was
new-quickened and enriched beyond all of which she had ever dreamed.
Her first-born son came to swell the fullness of her joy, and Eden
itself broke into flower at his coming. The anguish and the ecstasy of
motherhood had come twice again since then—and she marvelled at the new
spring of love that each new baby hand smites in the wilderness of life.

But the sky had darkened.  When at its very brightest, the clouds had
gathered.  Steady employment and good wages and careful management had
enabled her to garner a little, month by month; womanlike, she was
already taking thought of how Harvey should be educated.  And just when
everything seemed prosperous, that awful trouble had come among the
printers—between the masters and the men.  Then came strikes and
idleness—work by spasmodic starts, followed by new upheavals and
deepening bitterness—and Ned had been more with the muttering men than
with his Annie and the children.

And—this was so much worse—he had gradually fallen a victim to a sterner
foe.  A tainted breath at first; later on, thick and confused utterance
when he came home at night; by and by, the unsteady gait and the clouded
brain—one by one the dread symptoms had become apparent to her.  She had
known, when she married, that his father had been a drinker; and one or
two of her friends had hinted darkly about hereditary appetite—but she
had laughed at their fears.  Hereditary or not, the passion was upon
him—and growing.  Lack of work proved no barrier.  Little by little, he
had prevailed on her to give him of her hard-saved treasure, till the
little fund in the post-office savings was seriously reduced.

But there was another feature, darker still.  It had changed him so.
His whole moral nature had suffered loss.  No wonder the woman’s face
bore tokens of anxiety as she waited and watched through the long
midnight hours; for drink always seemed to clothe her husband with a
kind of harshness foreign to his nature, and more than once she had
trembled before his glance and shuddered at his words.  Against this,
even her love seemed powerless to avail; for—and it is often so with the
mysterious woman-heart—she seemed but to love him the more devotedly as
she felt him drifting out to sea.  She could only stretch vain hands
towards the cruel billows amid which she could see his face—but the face
she saw was ever that of happier days.

Suddenly she started, her heart leaping like a hunted hare as she heard,
far-off, clear sounding through the stillness of the night, the footfall
she was waiting for.  The child’s eyes seemed to fasten themselves upon
the mother’s as if they caught the new light that suddenly gleamed
within them; she held her babe close as she went swiftly to the door and
slipped out into the night.  The silent stars looked down on the poor
trembling form as she stood and waited, shivering some—but not with
cold—listening for the verdict her ears must be the first to catch.

She had not long to wait; and the verdict would have been plain to any
who could have seen her face as she turned a moment later and crept back
into the house.  The stamp of anguish was upon it; yet, mechanically,
the babe’s eyes still on hers, she took up the little teapot and poured
in the boiling water—the kettle went on with its monotonous melody.  She
had just time to hurry up and steal a glance at the children; they were
asleep, thank God.

The baby turned its eyes towards the door as the shambling feet came up
to it and the unsteady hand lifted the latch.  The mother pretended to
be busied about the table, but the eager eyes stole a quick glance at
her husband, darkening with sorrow as they looked.  The man threw off
his coat as soon as he entered.

"I’m hungry," he said in a thick, unnatural voice.

"I’ve got your supper all ready, dear," the woman’s low voice returned.
She tried hard to keep it steady; "and I’ll just pour the tea.  Are you
tired, Ned?"

He did not answer.  Staggering towards the table, he began eating
greedily, still upon his feet. "To-day’s been the devil," he muttered;
"I can’t eat, I tell you—there’s only one thing I want, and I’ve had too
much of that.  But I’ve got to have it."

"You didn’t speak to baby, Ned," she said timidly, trying to come closer
to him, yet shrinking instinctively; "see how she jumps in my arms—she
knows you, Ned."

"I wish she’d never been born," the man said brutally; "it’ll only be
another hungry mouth—how much have we left in the savings?"

"And she was trying to say ’daddy’ to-day—and once I’m sure she did,"
the mother went on, fearful of his quest and hoping to beguile him thus.

"What’s that got to do with it?" he demanded angrily, commanding his
words with difficulty. "The strikers had to give in—and we went back
to-day.  An’ the bosses won’t take us on again—they’ve sacked us, damn
them, and every man of us has to come home to his hungry kids.  How much
is left out o’ what we’ve saved?" he repeated, tasting a cup of tea,
only to let it fall from his shaking hand so suddenly that it was
spilled about the table.

"There’s about three hundred, Ned," she said hesitatingly.  "We did have
nearly five, you know—we’ve used such a lot of it lately."

"I want some of it," he said gruffly.  "I’ve got to pay into the fund
for the men—and anyhow, I want money.  Who earned it if it wasn’t me?"

"Oh, Ned," she began pleadingly, "please don’t—please don’t make me,
dear.  It’s all we’ve got—and it’s taken so long to save it; and if
times get worse—if you don’t get work?"

The pitiful debate was waged a little longer. Suddenly she noticed—but
could not understand—a peculiar change that came slowly over his
countenance.

"Maybe you’re right," he said at last, a leer of cunning on his face.
"There ain’t goin’ to be any quarrellin’ between us, is there?  We’ll
see about it to-morrow."  His whole tactics changed in a moment, the
better to achieve his purpose.  "You’ve always stood by me, Annie, an’
you won’t go back on me now.  Hello, baby," as he tried to snap his limp
fingers, coming closer to the two.

The child laughed and held out its arms.  The father’s feet scraped
heavily on the floor as he shuffled towards it.  "It knows its dad all
right," he said in maudlin merriment; "glad to see its old dad—if he did
get fired.  Come, baby, come to your old dad," and he reached out both
hands to take it.

The mother’s terror was written in her eyes. "Oh, don’t, Ned—don’t,
please," she said; "she’ll catch cold—I’ve got her all wrapped up."

"I’ll keep the blanket round her," he mumbled; "come to your old dad,
baby," his voice rising a little.

But his wife drew back.  "Please don’t to-night, Ned," she remonstrated;
"it’ll only excite her more—and I can’t get her to sleep," she pleaded
evasively.

His heavy eyes flashed a little.  "I want that young ’un," he said
sullenly, advancing a little; "I ain’t goin’ to eat her."

The mother retreated farther, her lips white and set, her eyes leaping
from the babe’s face to its father’s.  "I can’t, Ned," she said; "let us
both carry her, dear; come, we’ll make a chair of our hands, like we
used to do for Harvey—and I’ll keep my arm about her, so," and she held
out one hand, holding the baby firm with the other.

He struck it down.  "Give me that young ’un," he said, his nostrils
dilating, his voice shaky and shrill.

She stood like a wild thing at bay.  "I won’t, Ned, I won’t," her voice
rang out; "good God, Ned, it isn’t safe—go back," she cried, her voice
ringing like a trumpet as she held the now terrified infant to her
breast, the child rising and falling as her bosom heaved in terror.

His eyes, unsteady now no longer, never left her face as he moved with a
strange dexterity nearer and nearer to them both.  The woman glanced one
moment into the lurking depths, all aflame with the awful light that
tenderness and madness combine to give, saw the outstretched hand, felt
the fumes outbreathing from the parted lips—and with a low gurgling cry
she sprang like a wounded deer towards the door.  But he was too quick
for her, flinging himself headlong against it.  Aroused and inflamed by
the fall, he was on his feet in an instant, clutching at her skirt as he
arose.

"Give me that young ’un," he said hoarsely; "we’ll see whose child this
is."

The woman’s lips surged with the low moaning that never ceased as the
unequal struggle raged a moment, the helpless babe contributing its note
of sorrow.  Suddenly the man got his hands firmly on the little arms;
and the mother, her instinct quick and sensitive, half relaxed her hold
as she felt the dreadful wrenching of the maddened hands.  With a gasp
he tore the baby from her, reeling backward as the strain was suddenly
relaxed.  Struggling desperately, he strove to recover himself.  But the
strain had been too much for the ruined nerves. The child fell from his
hands, the man’s arms going high into the air; an instant later he
slipped and tottered heavily to the floor, the woman springing towards
them as his outclutching hands seized her and bore her heavily down, the
man now between the two, the silent infant beneath the struggling pair.

She was on her feet in the twinkling of an eye, tearing him aside with
superhuman strength.  But the baby lay in the long last stillness; its
brief troubled pilgrimage was at an end.  And the little dreamers
up-stairs still slept on in uncaring slumber—nor knew that their long
rough journey was at hand.  And the kettle on the stove still murmured
its unconscious song.

                  *      *      *      *      *      *

The evil spirit had departed from the man.

It had gone forth with the destroying angel, both with their dread work
well performed.  And the man knew—with preternatural acuteness he
interpreted his handiwork in an instant.

And they knelt together—that is the wonder of it—together, above the
baby form.  Both noted the dimpled hand, and the rosebud mouth—both
touched the flaxen hair.  No word of chiding fell—from the mother’s lips
nothing but an inarticulate broken flow, sometimes altogether still,
like the gurgling of an ice-choked brook.

But he was the first to declare that the child was dead, maintaining it
fiercely, his eye aglow now with anguished pity, so different from the
weird lustre that it had displaced.  And she would not believe it,
dropping one tiny hand that she might chafe the other, lest death might
get advantage in the chase.

She was still thus engaged when he arose and looked about the room for
his hat.  It was lying where he had flung it when he came in an eternity
ago.

"Good-bye—till—till the judgment day," he said huskily, standing above
her, something of the wildly supernatural in the tone.  He waited
long—but she spoke no word, nor lifted her eyes from the dead face, nor
relinquished her stern struggle with the complacent Conqueror.

He went out—and was gone with steady step. She knew it not.  Perhaps it
was about half an hour later when he returned, opening the door gently
and passing her swiftly by.  A father’s yearning sat upon the ashen
face—he went quickly and softly up the stairs.  Then he lighted a match,
shading it at first with his hands lest it should wake the shut eyes—and
while it lent its fleeting light the stricken man drank deep of his
children’s faces.  Then the darkness swallowed them up, and he groped
his way down-stairs and passed out into the night.


It was still dark when she at last surrendered—but to God.  And the fire
was black and the house was cold when she too went out, closing the door
carefully behind her.  She groped about the little porch, feeling in
every corner; and she examined the tiny veranda, and searched through
all the neglected garden; she even noticed the fragrance of some simple
flowers—they had planted them together, and the children had helped in
turn, having one toy spade between them.  But it was all empty, all
still.

"Oh, Ned," she cried softly, passionately, her hands outstretched
beneath the all-seeing stars, her face now the face of age, "oh, Ned,
come back—you didn’t mean to do it and you didn’t know. Come back, Ned,"
she cried a little louder, "come back to Harvey and Jessie—they’ll never
know.  Oh, Ned," as the outstretched hands were withdrawn and pressed
quickly against her bosom.  For it pained her—with its mother-burden—and
she turned to go back to her baby.  Then she saw its still face in the
darkness—and her hands went out again towards the night.  The silent
stars looked down, pitying, helpless; she went back to her fatherless
and her God.




                                  *II*

                        _*THE WINE-PRESS ALONE*_


"The woman’s name’s Simmons, sir—an’ she took the whole o’ this half
plot.  She keeps a little store, mostly sweeties, I think," said
Hutchins, as he laid his spade against the fence.  "An’ there wasn’t no
funeral—just her an’ her two children; she brought the little one here
from the city—that’s where it was buried afore she came here to live."

His chief asked the labourer a question in a low voice.

"Oh, yes, that was all right," the man answered, picking an old leaf
from a geranium plant as he spoke. "She showed me the original
certificate she got in the city—or a copy of it, leastways; it said the
baby came to its death from a fall on the floor.  So that was all
right—I asked the chairman.  I couldn’t help feelin’ sorry for the
woman, sir; she took on as bad as if it was new.  An’ the two little
shavers was playin’ hide an’ seek round the tombstones afore I got the
little grave filled in—she seemed to be terribly alone.  It’s funny,
sir, how hard it is to get used to this business—I often says to my
missus as how no man with kids of his own has any license to hire here,"
and the kindly executioner went off, spade in hand, to make a new wound
in the oft-riven bosom of God’s hospitable earth.

The hired helper had told about all that was known in Glenallen
concerning their new townswoman. Indeed, rather more; for comparatively
few knew anything of the little family gathering that had stood one
early morning beside the tiny grave.  The village was small—Glenallen
had not yet achieved its fond hope that it would outgrow the humiliating
state of villagehood—and its inhabitants were correspondingly well
posted in the source, and antecedents, and attendant circumstances of
all who came to dwell among them.  But almost all they could ascertain
regarding Mrs. Simmons was that she had come from the city, that she had
two children living—as far as they could learn, their father was
dead—that she had some scanty means with which she had embarked on the
humble enterprise that was to provide her daily bread.

And thus far they were correct enough.  For the first darkness of the
great tragedy had no sooner overswept her than she began to shrink with
an unspeakable aversion from all that was associated with the old life
that had now no memory but pain.  Her heart turned with wistful yearning
towards some spot where she might live again the simple country life she
had known in the early days of childhood.  The cold selfishness of the
city chilled her to the soul.  She longed for some quiet country
place—such as Glenallen was—where she might make a living, and live more
cheaply; where her children might have a chance; where the beauty of
God’s world might do its share of healing.

She had known but few in the city, simple folk—and they had seemed to
care but little.  Yet they had to be kept in the dark; and the careful
story of her baby’s fall had been an often crucifixion.  They thought
her husband had suddenly been crazed with grief, hinting sometimes at
the cowardice of his desertion—and she made no protest, dissembling with
ingenious love for his sake and her children’s.  Few were aware when she
left the city, and fewer seemed to care.  She had little to bring—one
sacred treasure was her chiefest burden—and it slept now beside her. And
Harvey and Jessie must not know that their father was alive—not yet.
They would have enough to bear; and moreover, who could tell?  In any
case, was he not dead to them?

She never knew exactly what was the cause of it—whether blow or
shock—nor did she care; but she trembled for her children as it became
more and more certain that her eyesight was failing.  It had begun to be
impaired soon after that very night.  Yet she went bravely on, clinging
to her little ones, clinging to life, clinging to hope—even to joy, in a
dim, instinctive way.  And ever, night and day, she guarded the dread
secret; ever, night and day, she cherished the hope that her eyes might
look again, if God should spare their light, upon the face she had last
seen with that awful look upon it as it came nearer and nearer to her
own.  So her lips were set tight, lest any revealing word should escape
to any soul on earth.

And it was not long till the curious residents of Glenallen felt that
the stranger among them was acquainted with grief—but of what sort it
was, the most vigilant never knew.  Thus did she tread the wine-press
alone, pressing silently along the upward path of pain.

And thus had the years gone by.




                                 *III*

                          _*LOVE’S LABOURER*_


"Cut him off another piece, mother—a bigger piece; that there chunk
wouldn’t satisfy a pigeon.  Fruit-cake isn’t very fillin’—not to a boy,
leastways, and there’s nothin’ lonelier than one piece of cake inside of
a boy that’s built for nine or ten."

Mr. Borland’s merry eyes turned first upon his wife’s face as he made
his plea, then wandered towards a distant field, resting upon the
diminutive figure of a boy.

"Oh, David," answered his wife, her tone indicating a measure of shock,
"you’re so vivid with your illustrations.  It isn’t artistic—I mean
about—about those inside matters," as she smiled, rather than frowned,
her mild reproof.

"That’s all right, mother; it’s true to life, anyhow—an’ it all deals
with his inner bein’; it tells of sufferin’ humanity," rejoined her
husband.  "The smaller the boy, the bigger the hunk—that’s a safe rule
when you’re dealin’ in cake.  Bully for you, mother—that there slice’ll
come nearer fittin’ him," he concluded jubilantly, as his wife completed
a piece of surgery more generous than before.

"Who was it hired Harvey to pick potatoes, father?" inquired Mrs.
Borland.  "How can he eat this without washing his hands?" she
continued, almost in the same breath; "it’s such dirty work."

"You just watch him; that won’t trouble him much.  Boys love sand.  It
was me that hired him, Martha.  He come right up to me on the street an’
took off his hat like I was an earl: ’Can you give me any work to do,
Mr. Borland?’ he says.  ’I’m going to make enough money to make mother’s
eyes well,’ an’ the little fellow looked so earnest an’ so manly, I fair
hated to tell him the only kind of job I could give him.  I just hated
to.  But I told him I wanted some one to pick potatoes.  An’ Harvey
brightened right up.  ’All right, Mr. Borland,’ he says, ’I’ll come.
I’m awful fond of potatoes, an’ I can pick two at a time—three, if
they’re not too big,’ he says, an’ I couldn’t keep from laughin’ to save
myself."

"What’s the matter with his mother’s eyes?" asked Mrs. Borland, as she
tore the front page from the weekly paper, preparing to wrap it about
the cake.

"I didn’t like to ask him.  The little fellow seemed to feel real bad
about it—an’ I never did like to probe into things that hurt," replied
her husband.  "Even when I was a boy at school, I never could stand
seein’ a fellow show where he stubbed his toe," continued the homely
philosopher, reaching out his hand for the little parcel.  "There was
one thing about the boy that took me wonderful," he went on; "I asked
him would he work by the day or by the bushel, an’ he said right quick
as how he’d do it by the bushel—I always like those fellows best that
prefers to work by the job.  Hello, there, old sport," he suddenly
digressed as a noise from behind attracted him, "an’ where did you come
from?  You’re always turnin’ up at cake time.  I thought you were goin’
to ride to Branchton," glancing as he spoke at the riding whip the girl
held in her hand.

Full of merry laughter were the eyes, so like his own, that sparkled
upward towards her father’s face. The wild sweet breath of happy
girlhood came panting from her lips, half breathless with eager haste;
while the golden hair, contrasting well with the rosy tide that suffused
her cheek, and falling dishevelled on her shoulders, and the very aroma
of health and vitality that distilled from her whole form, tall and
lithe and graceful as it was, might amply justify the pride that marked
her father’s gaze.

"So I was," the chiming voice rejoined.  "But I turned back.  I despise
a coward."  The eyes flashed as she spoke.  "And Cecil Craig’s one—he’s
a real one," she elaborated warmly.  "We met a threshing engine half-way
out—and of course I was going to ride past it.  But he wouldn’t—he got
off and tied his horse to a tree.  And it broke the lines and got away.
I was so glad—and I rode on, and Doctor threw me," rubbing her knee
sympathetically as she spoke; "that’s what made me so glad his own horse
got away," she affirmed savagely, "and the two engine men stopped and
caught Doctor for me and I got on him again—astride this time—and I made
him walk right up and smell the engine; and Cecil had to walk home.  The
men told him to touch himself up with his whip and it wouldn’t take him
long—and that made him awful mad.  You see, they knew he was a coward.
Who’s that fruit-cake for?" she inquired suddenly, flinging her gloves
vigorously towards the hat-stand.  "I’ll just try a piece
myself—fruit-cake’s good for a sore knee," and she attacked it with the
dexterity that marks the opening teens.

"It’s for a little boy that’s workin’ in the field—little Harvey
Simmons.  He’s pickin’ potatoes, an’ I thought a little refreshment
wouldn’t hurt him," her father answered, pointing fieldward as he spoke.

"I know him," the maiden mumbled, her mouth full of the chosen remedy;
"he goes to school—and he always spells everybody down," she added as
enthusiastically as the aforesaid treatment would permit.  "Let me take
it out to him, father," the utterance clearing somewhat.

The father was already handing her the dainty parcel when her mother
intervened.  "No, Madeline, it’s not necessary for you to take it.  It’s
hardly the correct thing, child; I’ll call Julia—she can take it out."

"’Tisn’t necessary, mother," quoted her husband. "I want this here cake
to mean something.  I’ll just take it myself," and in a moment he was
striding energetically across the intervening paddock, the untiring form
of the little labourer alternately rising and falling as he plied his
laborious toil.

"Your father is the best-hearted man in the county, Madeline," Mrs.
Borland ventured when her husband was out of hearing.

"He’s the best man in the world," the girl amended fervently; "and Cecil
says his father’s a member of the Church and mine isn’t," she went on
more vehemently; "he said father didn’t believe the right things—and I
just told him they weren’t the right things if my father didn’t believe
them, and I wouldn’t believe them either," the youthful heretic
affirmed.  "Lally Kerr told me Cecil’s father made some poor people give
him money for rent that they needed for a stove—I didn’t want to tell
Cecil that, but when he said his father believed all the right things I
told him my father did all the good things, and he was kind to the
poor—and I told him he was kind to them because he was poor once himself
and used to work so hard with his hands, and——"

"Why, child," and the mother frowned a little, "where did you get that
idea?  Who told you that?"

"Father told me," replied the child promptly. "He told me himself, and I
think I heard him telling Cecil’s father that once too—Cecil’s father
wanted not to give so much money to the men that worked for him.  I
think they were talking about that, and that was when father said it,"
the unconscious face looking proudly up into her mother’s.

"You don’t need to speak about it, dear; it doesn’t sound well to be—to
be boasting about your father, you know.  Now run away and get ready for
lunch; father ’ll be back in a minute."

The child turned to go upstairs, singing as she went, forgetful of the
mild debate and blissfully ignorant of all the human tumult that lay
behind it, conscious only of a vague happiness at thought of the great
heart whose cause she had championed in her childish way.  Less of
contented joy was on the mother’s face as she looked with half exultant
eyes upon the luxury about her, trophies of the wealth that had been so
welcome though so late.

Prompted by the conversation with Madeline, her mind roamed swiftly over
the bygone years; the privations of her early married life, the growing
comfort that her husband’s toil had brought, the trembling venture into
the world of manufacture, the ensuing struggle, the impending failure,
the turning tide, the abundant flow that followed—and all the fairy-land
into which increasing wealth had borne her.  Of all this she thought as
she stood amid the spoils—and of the altered ways and loftier friends,
of the whirl and charm of fashion, of the bewildering entrance into such
circles of society as their little town afforded, long envied from afar,
now pouring their wine and oil into still unhealing wounds. Dimly, too,
it was borne in upon her that her husband’s heart, lagging behind her
own, had been content to tarry among the simple realities of old,
unspoiled by the tardy success that had brought with it no sense of
shame for the humble days of yore, and had left unaltered the simplicity
of an honest, kindly heart.

Her husband, in the meantime, had arrived at the side of his youthful
employee, his pace quickening as he came nearer to the lad, the corners
of his mouth relaxing in a sort of unconscious smile that bespoke the
pleasure the errand gave him.  Absorbed in his work, and hearing only
the rattle of the potatoes as they fell steadily into the pail beside
him, the boy had not caught the approaching footfalls; he gave a little
jump as Mr. Borland called him by his name.

"Here’s a little something for you, my boy—the missus sent it out."

Harvey straightened himself up, clapped his hands together to shake the
dust from them, and gravely thanked his employer as he received the
little package.  Slowly unwrapping it, his eye brightened as it fell on
a sight so unfamiliar; in an instant one of the slices was at his lips,
a gaping wound in evidence as it was withdrawn.  A moment later the boy
ceased chewing, then slowly resumed the operation; but now the paper was
refolded over the remaining cake, and Harvey gently stowed it away in
the pocket of his blouse.

"What’s the matter?" inquired Mr. Borland anxiously.  "Aren’t you
well—or isn’t it good?"  The boy smiled his answer; other reply was
unnecessary and inadequate.

"Goin’ to take it home?" the man asked curiously.

"No, sir.  I’m just going to keep it a little while," the youngster
replied, looking manfully upward as he spoke, a little gulp bespeaking
the final doom of the morsel he had taken.  "You don’t mind, sir?" he
added respectfully.

"Me mind!  What would I mind for?  You’re quite right, my boy—it’s a
mighty good thing when a fellow finds out as young as you are that he
can’t eat his cake and have it too; it takes most of us a lifetime to
learn that.  How old are you, Harvey—isn’t that your name?"

"Yes, sir.  I’m most fourteen," the boy answered, stooping again to
resume his work.

"Do you go to school?" the man inquired presently.

"Mostly in the winter, sir; not very much in the summer.  But I do all I
can.  You see, I have to help my mother in the store when she needs me.
But I’m going to try the entrance next summer," he added quickly, the
light of ambition on his face.

"Where is your mother’s store?" asked Mr. Borland.

"It’s that little store on George Street, next to the Chinese laundry.
It has a red door—and there’s a candy monkey in the window," he hastened
to add, this last identification proffered with much enthusiasm.

A considerable silence followed, broken only by the rattling potatoes as
they fell.  "Mr. Borland, could you give me work in your factory?" the
boy inquired suddenly, not pausing for an instant in his work.

"In the factory!" echoed Mr. Borland.  "I thought you were going to
school."

"I could work after four," replied the boy. "There’s two hours left."

Mr. Borland gazed thoughtfully for a moment. "’Twouldn’t leave you much
time to play," he said, smiling down at Harvey.

"I don’t need an awful lot of play," the boy returned gravely; "I never
got very much used to it. Besides, I’ve got a lot of games when I’m
delivering little parcels for mother—games that I made up myself.
Sometimes I play I’m going round calling soldiers out because there’s
going to be a war—and sometimes I play I’m Death," he added solemnly.

"Play you’re Death!" cried the startled man. "What on earth do you mean
by that?  I thought no one ever played that game but once," he
concluded, as much to himself as to the boy.

"Oh, it’s this way, you see—it’s one of the headlines in the copy-book
that pale Death knocks with—with—impartial steps at the big houses and
the little cottages—something like that, anyhow.  And it’s a good deal
the same with me," the boy responded gravely, looking up a moment as he
spoke.  "It’s a real interesting game when you understand it.  Of course
I’m not very pale," he continued slowly, "but I can feel pretty pale
when I want to," he concluded, smiling at the fancy.

Mr. Borland was decidedly interested.  And well he might have been.  For
there was just enough of the same mystic fire in his own heart,
untutored though it was, to reveal to him the beauty that glowed upon
the boyish face before him.  The lad was tall for his years,
well-formed, lithe, muscular; dishevelled by his stooping toil, a wealth
of nut-brown hair fell over an ample forehead, almost overshading the
large blue eyes that were filled with the peculiar shining light which
portrays the poetic mind.  His features were large, not marked by any
particular refinement, significant rather of the necessity—yet also of
the capacity—for moral struggle; distended nostrils, marking fullness of
life and passion, sensitive to the varying emotions that showed first in
the wonderful eyes; a deep furrow ran from nose to lips, the latter
large and full of rich red blood, but finely formed, curving away to
delicate expression at either side, significant of a nature keenly alive
to all that life might have to give—such lips as eloquence requires, yet
fitted well together, expressive of an inner spirit capable of the
firmness it might sorely need.

"Could you drive a horse, lad?" the man suddenly inquired, after a long
survey of the unconscious youth.

Harvey hesitated.  "I think I could, sir, if the horse was willing.
Sometimes we play horse at school, and I get along pretty well."

Mr. Borland looked keenly, but in vain, for any trace of merriment on
the half-hidden face.  "I drove the butcher boy’s horse once or twice,
too. And I managed all right, except when it backed up—I hate to drive
them when they’re backing up," the boy added seriously, with the air of
an experienced horseman.

Mr. Borland laughed.  "That’s jest where it comes in," he said; "any one
can drive anything when it’s goin’ ahead—it’s when things is goin’ back
that tries your mettle.  I’ll see what I can do.  Some of our horses
drives frontwards—horses is pretty evenly divided between the kind that
goes frontwards and them that won’t," he mused aloud as he walked away.
"I’ve struck a heap of the last kind—they backed up pretty hard when I
was your age," Harvey could just overhear as he plucked the dead vines
from another mound and outthrew its lurking treasures.




                                  *IV*

                       _*THE RICHES OF THE POOR*_


The retreating figure had no sooner gained the house in the distance
than Harvey began to cast glances, eager and expectant, towards the road
that skirted the outer edge of the field in which he was working.  Once
or twice he straightened up, wincing a little with the ache that long
stooping brings, and peered intently towards the top of a distant hill
beyond which he could not see.  Suddenly his eye brightened, and a
muffled exclamation of pleasure broke from his lips, for the vision he
longed for had appeared.  Yet it was commonplace enough—only a coloured
sunbonnet, some four or five feet from the ground, and swaying a little
uncertainly in the noontide light.  But it was moving nearer, ever
nearer, to the waiting boy, who knew the love that lent strength to the
little feet and girded the tiny hands which bore something for himself.

The girlish form was now well beyond the curving hill, trudging bravely
on; and Harvey saw, or thought he saw, the happy smile upon the eager
face, the pace quickening as she caught sight of her brother in the
distance.  Harvey’s eyes filled with tenderness as he gazed upon the
approaching child; for the poor, if they love and are loved again, know
more of life’s real wealth than the deluded rich.

A few minutes more and she was at the bars, panting but radiant.  Harvey
ran to lay them down, taking the bundles from her hands.  "Oh, but my
arms ache so," the girl said, as she sank upon the grass; "it must be
lovely to have a horse."

"Some day we will," her brother returned abruptly. "You just wait and
see—and then you won’t ever walk anywhere.  But you oughtn’t to carry
these all this way, Jessie; I could bring it in my pocket just as well."

The girl’s face clouded a little.  "But then it gets so cold, Harvey—and
what’s in there ought to be nice and warm," she said hopefully, nodding
towards the pail.  "Mother heated the can just when we put it in, and I
came as fast as ever I could, so it wouldn’t cool—and I held it in the
hot sun all the time," she concluded triumphantly, proud of her
ingenuity.

"That’s lovely, Jessie," replied the boy; "and you’re quite right," he
went on, noticing the flitting sign of disappointment.  "I just hate
cold things—and I just love them hot," he affirmed as he removed the
lid.

Jessie bended eagerly over it and the faint steam that arose was as
beautiful to her eyes as was ever ascending incense to priestly
ministrant.

"It’s hot, Harvey!  I thought it would be," she cried.  "Mother was so
anxious for you to have a nice dinner—I knew that was what you liked,"
as an exclamation of delight came from the boy.  "Mother said she never
saw such a boy for meat-pies as you. And there’s something further down,
that you like too—they’re under a saucer, and they have butter and sugar
both, on them.  No, you’d never guess what it is—oh, that’s not fair,"
she cried, "you’re smelling; any one can guess what it is if they
smell," laughing merrily as she tried to withdraw the pail beyond the
range of his olfactory powers.

"It’s pancakes!" pronounced her brother, sniffing still.

"Yes, of course—but you never would have guessed.  Mother made them the
very last thing before I started.  And I cried when she was putting them
in—oh, Harvey, it was so sad," the girl burst out with trembling voice,
her hands going to her face as she spoke.  "And mother cried too," she
added, looking out at her brother through swimming eyes.

Harvey halted in his attack.  "What for?  What were you crying about?"
he asked earnestly, the food still untasted.

"It was about mother’s eyes.  You see, she put the pancakes on the table
beside the stove—and there was a pile of table mats beside them.  Well,
when mother went to put them into the pail, she took up the mats
instead—never knew the difference till she felt them.  And I could see
how sad it made her—she said she was afraid she soon wouldn’t see at
all; and I just couldn’t keep from crying.  Oh, Harvey," the shaking
voice went eagerly on, "don’t you think we’ll soon be able to send her
to the city to see the doctor there?—everybody says he could cure the
right eye anyhow; mother thinks the left one’s gone.  Don’t you think we
will, Harvey?"

Harvey looked into space, a large slice of the tempting pie still in his
hand.  "I’m hoping so," he said—"I made almost thirty cents this
morning; I counted it up just before you came—and there’s the two
dollars I made picking raspberries that mother doesn’t know about—it’s
in that knot-hole in the closet upstairs, you know.  And maybe Mr.
Borland’s going to give me more work—I asked him, and then——"

"I told mother I was going to sell Muffy," his sister broke in
impulsively.  "But she said I mustn’t; I guess she’s awful fond of
Muffy, she cried so hard."

"I’d hate to sell Muffy," the boy responded judicially; "she’s the only
one that always lays big eggs. And then, besides, they might kill her
and eat her up—rich people nearly always do their hens that way."  Two
pairs of eyes darkened at thought of a tragedy so dread.

"We wouldn’t, even if we was rich, would we, Harvey?" the girl resumed
earnestly.

"No, not with Muffy," Harvey assured her. "They’re awful rich over
there," he volunteered, pointing to the large stone house in the
distance.

"It must be lovely," mused the girl.  "We could have such lots of lovely
things.  Why don’t you eat your dinner, Harvey?—it’ll get so cold."

"I don’t want it much," replied her brother.  "You see, I had a pretty
good breakfast," he explained cheerfully.

The loving eyes, still moist, gazed into his own. She was so young, some
years younger than he, and as inexperienced almost as a child could be;
yet the stern tuition of poverty and sorrow had given something of
vision to the eyes that looked so wistfully out upon the plaintive face
before her.  She noted his shabby dress, the patches on his knees, the
boots that stood so sorely in need of impossible repairs, the grimy
stains of toil from head to foot, the furrowed channels that the flowing
perspiration had left upon his face.  And a great and mysterious pity
seemed to possess her.  She felt, dimly enough, yet with the sad reality
of truth, that her brother had hardly had a chance in life’s unequal
struggle.  His tenderness, his unselfishness, his courage, all these she
recognized, though she could not have called them by their names.  She
knew how ardently he longed to do so much that chill penury forbade; and
as she glanced at the dust-covered pile in the distance that his toil
had gathered, then back at the tired figure on the grass, all stained
and spotted, the food he so much needed untasted in his sorrow, she felt
more and more that there was only one hero in the world, however baffled
and unrecognized he might be.

"Mother’ll be so disappointed," the girl pleaded, "if you don’t eat it,
Harvey; she tried so hard to make it nice.  Besides, I’ll just have to
carry it back," she suddenly urged, a note of triumphant expectation in
her voice; "and it was real heavy, too," well pleased with the
culminating argument.

The boy hesitated, then slowly raised the tempting morsel to his lips.
"I didn’t have such an awful lot of breakfast," he conceded; "I really
am pretty hungry—and it was so good of you to fetch it to me, sister,"
his gaze resting affectionately on her.

A long silence ensued, Jessie watching delightedly as the little repast
was disposed of, entertaining her brother the while with a constant
stream of talk, all fed from the fountain-head of their own little
circle, their own humble and struggling life.  But however far afield
her speech, with her thought, might wander, it kept constantly returning
to the one central figure of their lonely lives, to her from whom their
own lives had sprung; and the most unobservant listener would soon have
known that the unselfish tenderness, the loving courage, of the
mother-heart that had warmed and sheltered their defenseless lives, was
reaping now its great and rich reward.

Jessie had reverted again to the dark shadow that overhung them both,
their mother’s failing eyesight; and two earnest little faces looked
very soberly one into the other, as though they must together beat back
the enemy from the gate.

Suddenly Harvey broke the silence.  "I’m pretty sure she’s going to get
well," he said earnestly, holding the bottle in one hand and the glass
stopper in the other.  "I had a dream last night that—that comforted me
a lot," he went on, slightly embarrassed by the fanciful nature of his
argument; he could see that Jessie had hoped for something better.  "I
dreamed I was walking some place on a country road.  And it was all
dark—for mother, at least—it was awful dark, and I was leading her by
the hand. I thought there was something troubling her that you didn’t
know about—nor me—nobody, only mother.  Well, just when we were groping
round in the dark, a great big black cloud broke up into little bits,
and the sun came out beautiful—just like—like it is now," he described,
glancing towards the orb above them.  "Of course, that was only in my
dream—but we went straight on after that and mother could see to walk
just as well as me," he concluded, smiling as hopefully as if dreams
were the only realities of life.

Jessie, holding her sunbonnet by both strings and swinging it gently to
and fro, had a curious look of interest, not unmixed with doubt, upon
her childish face.  "That was real nice, Harvey," she said slowly at
length, "but I don’t just understand.  You see, people always dream
their dreams at night—and the sun couldn’t come out at night; anyhow it
never does."

Harvey gazed indulgently.  "It can do anything when you’re dreaming," he
said quickly, a far-off look in his thoughtful eyes.  "That’s when all
the wonderful things happen," he went on, still looking absently across
the fields.  "Poor folks have just as good a time as rich folks, when
they’re asleep," he concluded, his voice scarcely audible.

"But they know the difference when they wake up," retorted his sister,
plucking a clover leaf eagerly. "Only three leaves!" she exclaimed
contemptuously, tossing it aside.  "Yes, it’s very different when they
wake up—and everybody’s awake more than they’re asleep," she affirmed,
as confident in her philosophy as he in his.

Her brother said nothing as he proceeded to fold up the rather generous
remains of his dinner; poor laddie, he knew the taste of bread eaten
with tears, even if he had never heard the phrase.  His face brightened
a little as his hand went out to the pocket of his blouse, extracting a
parcel wrapped in paper. He held it with both hands behind his back,
uncovering it the while.

"Shut your eyes, Jessie—and open your mouth," he directed, as
enthusiastically as though the formula were being tested for the first
and only time.

Jessie obeyed with a confidence born of long experience, and her
brother, all care vanished meanwhile from his face, held the plum-cake
to her lips.  "Now, bite," he said.  Jessie, already faintly tasting,
made a slight incision.  "Oh, Jessie, bite bigger—bite bigger, Jessie!"
he cried in dismay; "you’re just trying how little you can take—and I
kept it for you."  But Jessie’s eyes were wide open now, fixed on the
unwonted luxury.  "Too much isn’t good for little girls," she said
quaintly, swallowing eagerly, nevertheless; "I’ll eat one piece if
you’ll eat the other, Harvey," she said, noticing the double portion.

"I’m keeping mine for mother," said the boy resolutely.

"So’m I," the other exclaimed before his words were out.  "I’d sooner
have the pancakes, anyhow," she added, fearing his protest.  "Will you
take it to her, Harvey—or me?"

"I think you’d better," replied her brother, "and I’ll eat the rest of
the dinner if you’ll promise to eat your part of the cake when you get
home."

Jessie nodded her consent, and a few minutes saw Harvey’s portion of the
contract nobly executed, his sister as satisfied as he.




                                  *V*

                           _*A FLOW OF SOUL*_


Good Dr. Fletcher always said a little longer grace than usual when he
dined at Mr. Craig’s.  Whether this was due to the length of the ensuing
meal, or to the long intervals that separated these great occasions, or
to the wealth that provided them, or to the special heart-needs of the
wealthy, it were difficult to say.  But one thing is beyond all doubt,
and that is that the good minister of the Glenallen Presbyterian Church
would no more have thought of using an old grace at Mrs. Craig’s table
than she herself would have dreamed of serving the same kind of soup, or
repeating a dessert whose predecessor was within the call of memory.

On this particular evening Dr. Fletcher’s invocation had been
particularly long, due perhaps to the aroma, more than usually
significant, that had escaped the kitchen to assure the sanguine guests;
and a sort of muffled amen broke from their waiting lips, soon to
confirm the word by all sincerity of action. This amen was doubtless due
in part to gratitude for what had ended, as well as to anticipation of
what was about to be begun.  Cecil Craig, seated beside his mother, took
no part in the terminal devotion; long before the time to utter it, his
open eyes were turned towards the door through which the servants were
to enter, and from which, so far as he could reckon, all blessings flow.

Soup came first, and young Craig dauntlessly led on in the attack.  His
mother tried eagerly to call to his attention, and to his alone, that he
had seized the spoon meant for his dessert; but Cecil was already in
full cry, the mistaken weapon plying like a paddle-wheel between his
plate and his mouth—and no signal of distress could reach him.  The most
unfortunate feature of it all, however, was the speedy plight of one or
two timorous guests, who, waiting for the lead of any members of the
family, had followed Cecil’s; and, suddenly detecting whither he had led
them, were soon floundering sadly in such a slough of despond as they
scarce escaped from during the entire meal.

Mr. and Mrs. Borland were there, one on either side of Dr. Fletcher; and
the light of temporary peace was upon Mrs. Borland’s brow—for the
Craigs’ home was nearer to a mansion than any other in Glenallen.  A
slight shade of impatience flitted across her face as she glanced
athwart Dr. Fletcher’s portly form, surveying her husband’s bosom
swathed in snowy white, his napkin securely tucked beneath his chin.
But David was all unconscious, the region beneath the napkin being
exceeding comfortable; for the soup was good, and her spouse bade fair
to give Cecil a stern chase for the honours of the finish.

Soup is a mighty lubricant of the inward parts; wherefore there broke
out, when the first course was run, a very freshet of conversation; and
the most conspicuous figure in the flow was that of Mr. Craig. He had
the advantage, of course, of an erect position, for he had risen to
inaugurate his attack upon the helpless fowl before him; an entrance
once effected, he would resume his seat.

"It beats me," he was saying, glancing towards Dr. Fletcher as he spoke,
"it beats me how any man can go and see sick folks every day—I’d sooner
do hard labour.  Don’t you get awful tired of it, Doctor?"

The minister’s gentle face flushed a little—the same face at sight of
which the sad and the weary were wont to take new hope.  "I don’t think
you understand it, Mr. Craig," he answered quietly; "any one who regards
it as you do could never see the beauty of it—it all depends on what you
take with you."

"Good heavens, do you have to take things with you?" cried the
astonished host.  "Matters are come to a pretty pass when they expect a
poor preacher to be giving—as well as praying," he affirmed, affirmed,
savagely at the victim on the platter.

David Borland was listening intently, nabbing dexterously the while at a
tray of salted almonds that lay a good arm’s length away from him.  "The
minister’s quite right," he now broke in; "you don’t understand, Mr.
Craig—Dr. Fletcher don’t mean that he takes coal an’ tea, when he visits
poor folks.  But what he says is dead true just the same—any one can
carry a bag of turnips, or such like, to any one that’s willin’ to take
’em.  But a minister’s got to give somethin’ far more than that; even on
Sundays—at least that’s my idea of it—even on Sundays, what a preacher
gives is far more important than what he says."

"You mean he ought to give himself," Mrs. Craig suggested, stirring the
gravy as she spoke, the dismembered turkey being now despatched to its
anointing.

"That’s it exactly," rejoined David, beaming on his hostess, her own
face aglow with the gentle light that flows from a sympathetic heart.
"Everythin’s jest a question of how much you give of your own self; even
here," his voice rising as he hailed the happy illustration, "even in
this here house—with this here bird—we ain’t enjoyin’ it because we’re
gettin’ so much turkey, but because we’re gettin’ so much Craig," he
went on fervently.  "I could buy this much turkey for a quarter,"
passing a well-laden plate as he spoke, "for twenty-five cents at an
eatin’ house—but it wouldn’t jest taste the same.  It wouldn’t have the
Craig taste, you see—there wouldn’t be no human flavour to it, like; an’
turkey ain’t nothin’ without a human flavour.  That’s what makes
everythin’ taste good, you see," he concluded, smiling benignly around
on the assembled guests.

"I don’t believe in any such," retorted Mr. Craig; "no mixture of that
kind for mine.  Turkey’s one thing, and humanity’s another—no stews for
me," he directed, smiling broadly at this flash of unaccustomed wit;
"people eat turkey—but not humanity," he concluded victoriously.

"You’re wrong there," replied David Borland quickly.  "Folks lives on
humanity—only it’s got to be served warm," he added, falling to upon the
turkey nevertheless.

"What do you think about it, Doctor?" Mrs. Borland enquired absently,
for her real concern was with David; his dinner knife was her constant
terror when they were dining out.  All was well so far, however, her
husband devoting it as yet to surgery alone.

"I think exactly what your husband thinks," replied the minister.  "He
has said the very thing I have often wished to say.  I have always felt
that what a preacher _gives_ to his people—of his heart and love and
sympathy—is far more than what he _says_ to them.  If it were not so,
they’d better stay home and read far finer things than he can say; I
often feel that preparing to preach is far more important than preparing
a sermon.  And I think the same holds true of all giving—all
philanthropy, for instance.  What you give of yourself to the poor is
far more than what you give from your pocketbook—and, if the truth were
told, I believe it’s what the poor are looking for, far more than they
are for money."  The tenderness in Dr. Fletcher’s face and the slight
quiver in his voice attested the sincerity of his feeling; they might,
too, have afforded no little explanation of the love that all Glenallen
felt for the humble and kindly man.

Mr. Craig laughed; and that laughter was the key to his character.
Through that wave of metallic merriment, as through a tiny pane, one
might see into all the apartments of a cold and cheerless heart.

"That’s mighty pretty, Doctor," he began jocosely; "but if I was poor
I’d sooner have the cash—give me the turkey, and you can have the
humanity.  I believe in keeping these things separate, Dr. Fletcher," he
went on sagaciously; "no mixin’ up business with religion, for me—of
course, helping the poor isn’t exactly religion, but it comes mighty
near it.  And if I give anything to the poor—I used to, too, used to
give—to give so much every year, till I found out one family that bought
a watermelon with it, and then I thought it was about time to stop.  But
when I used to—to give to the poor, I always did it strictly as a matter
of business; just gave so much to—to an official—and then I didn’t want
to know how he dispensed it, or who got it, or anything about it."

"Did the—the official—did he give all his time to dispensin’ it, Mr.
Craig?  Or did he just do it nights and after hours?" enquired David
Borland, detaching his napkin from his upper bosom and scouring an
unduly merry mouth with it the while.

Mr. Craig glanced suspiciously at his guest.  "I didn’t wish to know,"
he replied loftily in a moment; "all I’m making out is the principle
that governed me.  And I always take the same stand in my
business—always assume the same attitude towards my men," he amplified,
as proud of his language as of his attitude.  "Of all the men I’ve got
hired, I don’t believe I know a half dozen except the foremen.  I get
their work, and they get their pay every second and fourth Tuesday—and
that’s the end of it."

"You don’t know how much you miss," the minister ventured, quite a glow
of colour on his otherwise pallid cheek.  "There’s nothing so
interesting as human life."

"You bet—that’s just it," chimed David’s robust voice; "that’s where a
fellow gets his recreation.  I don’t think I’m master of my business
till I know somethin’ about my men—there ain’t no process, even in
manufacturing half so interestin’ as the doin’s of folks in their own
lives.  I know lots of their wives, too, an’ half the kids—please give
me a little more stuffin’, Mrs. Craig: it’s powerful good," and David
passed his plate as cheerfully as his opinion.

"That may be your way of taking your recreation, Mr. Borland, but it
isn’t mine," retorted the host, obviously a little ruffled.  "Business
on business lines, that’s my motto.  Just the other day a little gaffer
asked me for work, on the plea that he wanted to fix up his mother’s
eyes—wanted to send her to a specialist, I think—and I told him that had
nothing to do with the case; if I wanted him I’d take him, and if I
didn’t, nobody’s eyes could make any difference."

"Was his name Harvey Simmons?" David enquired somewhat eagerly.

"I believe it was.  Why, what do you know about him?"

"Oh, nothin’ much—only I hired him.  And he isn’t goin’ to have no blind
mother if my givin’ him work will help—that’s more.  She’s got a son
worth lookin’ at—that’s one thing sure.  An’ he earned every penny I
ever gave him, too—what was you goin’ to say, Doctor?"  For he saw the
minister had something to offer.

"I know the little fellow well," said Dr. Fletcher, evidently glad of
the opportunity.  "Poor little chap, he’s had hard lines—his father was
a slave to drink, I believe, and the poor mother has fought about as
good a fight as I ever saw.  I’m sure she carries about some burden of
sorrow nobody knows anything about.  She has two children.  Well, a long
time ago now, one of the richest couples in my church offered to adopt
the little girl—and they got me to sound her on the subject.  Goodness
me!  You should have seen the way the woman stood at bay. ’Not till the
last crust’s gone,’ she said.  She was fairly roused; ’I’m richer than
they are,’ she said; ’I’ve got my two children, and I’ll keep them as
long as I can lift a hand to toil for them.’  Really, I never felt more
rebuked in my life—but I admired her more than I could tell.  And the
wee fellow raged like a little lion.  ’Did he want to take sister?—tell
him to go home, mother,’ and he was fairly shouting and stamping his
little foot, though the tears were running down his cheeks all the
while.  I said she had two children," the minister added, "but I think
she lost a baby through some sad accident years ago."

David Borland’s eyes were glistening.  "Bully for you, Doctor!" his
voice rang through the room. "Bully for you—I knew the lad was worth
stickin’ to.  I’m proud to be mixed up with a chap like that," thumping
the table as he spoke.

"That’s what I often say to Peter," Mrs. Craig began mildly during the
pause that followed.  "I often feel what you sometimes say in your
sermons, Doctor—that we ought all to be mixed up a little more together.
The rich and the poor, I mean.  They need us, and we need them—and we
both have our own parts to play in the great plan."

"That’s it, Mrs. Craig," David broke in lustily again; "that’s exactly
it—last Sunday when we sang that line, ’My web of time He wove,’ I jest
stopped singin’—it struck me, like it never done before, as how God
Himself couldn’t weave much without us helpin’ Him—the rich an’ the
poor—it’s Him that designs, but it’s us that has to weave.  An’ I reckon
our hands has got to touch—if they’re workin’ on the same piece," he
concluded, drinking in the approving smile with which Dr. Fletcher was
showing his appreciation of the quaint philosophy.

A considerable silence followed, the host showing no disposition to
break it.  Cecil was the first to speak.

"Harvey wears patches on his knees," he informed the company.  "What is
there for dessert, mother?"

Mrs. Craig whispered the important information; the radiant son
straightway published it to the world: "Plum pudding!—I like that—only I
hope it has hard sauce."

Which it ultimately proved to have—and to Mrs. Borland’s great dismay.
For David, loyal to ancient ways, yet ever open to the advantage of
modern improvement, passed back his plate for a second helping.

"I used to think the kind of gravy-sauce you slashed all over it was the
whole thing—but I believe that ointment’s got it beat," he said; whereat
Mrs. Borland laid her spoon upon her plate, the ointment and the
anointed untasted more.




                                  *VI*

                           _*AN INVESTMENT*_


David Borland stood quite a little while gazing at the contents of the
window before he entered the tiny store.  Rather scanty those contents
were; a few candy figures, chiefly chocolate creations, a tawdry toy or
two, some samples of biscuits judiciously assorted, a gaudy tinselled
box of chewing-gum, and a flaming card that proclaimed the merits of a
modern brand of tea.

These all duly scrutinized, David pushed the door open and entered the
humble place of business.  The opening door threw a sleigh-bell,
fastened above it, into quite an hysterical condition, and this in turn
was answered by hurrying footsteps from the inner room.  It was Harvey
who appeared.

"Good-morning, Mr. Borland," the boy said respectfully.  "Did you want
to see mother?" he enquired a little anxiously; "she’s gone to the
market, but I think she’ll soon be back."

"That’s all right, my boy," the man responded. "No, it wasn’t your
mother I wanted; it was you—I come to do a little business."

"Oh," said Harvey, glancing hopefully towards the window.

"’Tain’t exactly shop business," David said, a little nervously, "I come
to—to buy a hen," he blurted out. Harvey’s hand went like lightning into
the glass case.  Withdrawn, it produced a candy creature of many
colours, its comb showing the damage that vandal tongues had done.
"Totty Moore licked at it once or twice when we wasn’t lookin’," he
explained apologetically; "it used to be in the window—it’s a settin’
hen," he enlarged, indicating with his finger a pasty pedestal on which
the creative process was being carried on.

David grinned broadly.  "’Tain’t that kind of a hen I’m wantin’," he
said.  "I want the real article—a real live two-legged hen."

"Oh," said Harvey, staring hard.

"Where’s your chicken-house?" enquired David, coming to business direct.

"It’s outside," the boy replied instructively—"but there ain’t very
many."

"Let’s go and see them," said the man.

The boy led the way, David ducking his head several times en route,
bowing profoundly at the last as they entered the little house.

"This your hennery?" he asked, surveying the inmates amid a storm of
cackling; "sounds like you had hundreds of ’em."

"Just five," said Harvey, peering towards his customer through the
semi-darkness.

"I think I’ll buy that there one on the roost," David said after due
deliberation; "seems to be the highest-minded of the bunch."

"Can’t," said Harvey, "that’s Jessie’s; it’s only got just one
eye—that’s why Jessie wanted it.  Can’t sell Jessie’s," he concluded
firmly.

David agreed.  "Haven’t you got one called Pinky?" he enquired.

"No," Harvey replied solemnly, "she’s dead—we had her a long, long time
ago.  I can show you her grave outside in the yard."

"Never mind," said Mr. Borland; "this ain’t no day for inspectin’
graves.  I might have known she’d passed away—how long does a hen live,
anyhow—a healthy hen?"

"Depends on how they’re used," said the boy; "Pinky sneezed to death—too
much pepper, I think. Who told you about Pinky, sir?"

"Depends a good deal, too, on how often the preacher comes to dinner,
don’t it?  It was Madeline told me about Pinky—you know my girl, don’t
you?"

"Yes," and Harvey’s face was bright; "I’m awful sorry Pinky’s dead—I
could sell you one of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children, Mr. Borland."

"What?" said Mr. Borland, turning a straw about and placing the unchewed
end in his mouth, "one of what?"

"One of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children.  You see, her child was
Fluffy, and its child was Toppy—that was her grandchild; well, its child
was Blackie—and that’s her scratchin’ her cheek with her left foot.
She’s done scratchin’, but that’s her over there."

"She’s got the Pinky blood in her all right?" asked Mr. Borland.

"She’s bound to have it," the boy answered gravely; "they was all born
right in this room; besides, I’ve got it all marked down on the door."

David surveyed the descendant critically.  "Does she lay brown eggs?" he
enquired presently. "Madeline said Pinky always laid brown eggs."

Harvey hesitated a moment.  "They’re—they’re pretty brown," he said
after a pause.  "They mostly turn brown a little after they’re laid."

"I’m terrible fond of brown eggs," remarked the purchaser.

"What for?" asked Harvey, looking full into his face.

"Well, really—I don’t know," and David grinned a little.  "Only I always
fancy they’re kind o’—kind o’ better done, don’t you think?  Besides,"
he added quickly, "I always like my toast brown, too—and they kind o’
match better, you see."

"Yes," said Harvey reflectively; "I never thought of that before.  Of
course, there isn’t any hen can be taught _always_ to lay them brown—I
think Blackie tries to make them as brown as she can," glancing fondly
at the operator as he spoke. "If you was to feed her bran, Mr. Borland,
I think she’d get them brown nearly all the time."

"That’s a thunderin’ good idea," affirmed Mr. Borland, Harvey chiming in
with increasing assurance of success as he marked the favour with which
his theory was received.

"We’ll call it a bargain," said David.

"All right," exclaimed the boy, "just wait a minute till I get a bag."

"Don’t bother about that; I’ll just leave her here till I send for
her—she’ll earn her board.  But I may as well pay you now—how much is
she worth?"

The boy pondered.  "I don’t hardly know—of course the brown kind comes a
little dearer," he ventured, glancing cautiously at Mr. Borland. "She’s
an awful well-bred hen—I can show you on the door.  And she’ll eat
anything—Jessie’s string of beads broke loose in the yard once and
Blackie ate them all but two; that shows she’s healthy," he concluded
earnestly.

"It’s a wonder she ain’t layin’ glass alleys," remarked David.  "Well,
about the price—I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you.  Here’s a bill—an’
if she keeps on at the brown business, mebbe I’ll give you a little
more."

He handed the boy a crisp note, the lad’s hand trembling as he took it.
He gave the door a push open that the light might fall on it.  "Oh, Mr.
Borland," he cried, in a loud, shrill voice, "I won’t—you mustn’t, you
mustn’t.  Mother wouldn’t let me—I can’t—please take it back, Mr.
Borland," and David noticed in the fuller light that the boy was shaking
with emotion, his face aglow with its eager excitement.

"Nonsense, my lad; what you going on about? I reckon I know somethin’
about the price of hens—especially the brown kind.  No, I won’t take it
back.  She’s worth that much to me jest to keep the yard red up o’
glass."

"Oh, Mr. Borland—I wish I——"

"Tut, tut," David interrupted; "boys should take what’s set before ’em,
an’ ask no questions—an’ don’t you tell nobody now, only your mother.
Say, isn’t that her callin’?  Listen—it is, sure enough—that’s your
mother callin’ you," and David took advantage of the interruption to
unlatch an adjoining gate, slipping through to the outer lane, his face
the more radiant of the two.




                                 *VII*

                      *"*_*EFFECTUAL CALLING*_*"*


"I’ll go with you as far as the door, dear—but the elders wouldn’t want
me to come in, of course."  Thus spoke Mrs. Simmons to her son as the
little family were seated at their evening meal.  Very humble it was,
indeed, with its strawberry jam, and bread and cheese, these themselves
carefully measured out.

"Come away, Jessie; what’s keeping you?" the mother called to the outer
kitchen.

"I’ll come in a minute, mother," the child’s cheery voice replied.  "I’m
doing something," which was evident a little later when Jessie appeared,
flushed and triumphant, bearing in one hand a little plate of
well-browned toast, and in the other, her little fingers tingling with
its heat, a large brown egg, evidently an unwonted luxury.

"Jessie, my child, what have you been doing?" the mother asked, peering
rather closely at the dainties the child had laid upon her plate.  "Oh,
Jessie, you shouldn’t have done it—you know we can’t afford it, dear; we
need to sell them all," she remonstrated, affection and gratitude
nevertheless mingling in her voice.

"It was cracked, mother—it got a little fall," the child explained
artfully.

"Jessie gave it a little fall; she always gets the biggest one cracked a
little when there isn’t much for supper—don’t you, sister?" Harvey asked
knowingly.

His sister blushed, but the reply she was struggling to provide was
interrupted by the tinkling of the bell above the door in the little
room without.  This was a signal the mother was never slow to obey;
customers were rare enough and must not be permitted to escape.  Rising
quickly, she made her way, her hands extended rather pitifully, to the
little room that did duty as a store.  Jessie bore the little delicacies
back to the kitchen, lest they should cool in the interval.

The mother was back again in a minute, sighing as she resumed her seat.

"Did they buy anything, mother?" her son enquired.

"No, nothing—they wanted something we didn’t have; I sent them to
Ford’s," referring to a more elaborate establishment on an adjoining
street.  "I was speaking about you going to the elders’ meeting,
Harvey—I’ll go with you as far as the church, as I said.  And you
mustn’t be afraid, son; they’ll be glad you’re going to join the church.
And you must just answer what they ask you, the same as you do to me at
home."

"Will they ask me the catechism, mother?"

"Some of the questions, most likely.  Be sure you know ’effectual
calling’—I think they nearly always ask ’effectual calling.’"

"I know that one all right," the boy answered. "I said it to Jessie four
times last night—do you think there’ll be others there to join the
church, mother?"

"I couldn’t say for sure, but it’s likely there’ll be some.  I guess
it’s almost time to go now, dear," she said rising.  "Jessie, you’ll do
the best you can if anybody comes in—I’ll not be long."

"Will it be all right about—about you finding your way back, mother?"
Harvey asked slowly, his voice full of solicitude.

"Of course, child, of course—you and Jessie are growing quite foolish
about me.  I’m not so bad as that," she protested.  "Why, I can tell the
day of the month, when I stand up close to the calendar—this is the
23d," she affirmed reassuringly, stepping out into the night with Harvey
clinging close beside her.

Neither spoke much as they walked on towards the village church.  Often,
when she thought the boy’s eyes were not upon her, the woman lifted her
own upward to the silent stars; the night always rested her, something
of its deep tranquillity passing into the tired heart that had known so
much of battle.  And yet the long struggle had left upon her face the
marks of peace rather than the scars of conflict.  Of merriment, there
were traces few or none, although sufficient provocation could recall
the old-time sparkle to the eyes that had been so often dimmed; but
something noble was there instead, a placid beauty such as comes alone
from resignation, born of a heart that has found its rest in a Strength
and Tenderness which dwell beyond the hills of time. If one could have
caught a vision of that face, upturned to the radiant sky above her, the
glimpse would have disclosed features of shapely strength, marked by
great patience, the eyes full of brooding gentleness and love, conscious
of the stern battle that composed her life, but conscious, too—and this
it was that touched the face with passion—of invisible resources, of an
unseen Ally that mysteriously bore her on.

"Let us go in here a minute," the mother said when they were almost at
the church.

Harvey followed her, unquestioning.  He knew whither her feet were
turned, for he had often followed that well-marked path before, often
with toddling feet.  They entered the quiet churchyard, passing many an
imposing monument, threading their way with reverent steps among the
graves, careful that no disrespect should be shown the humblest sleeper.
On they pressed, the dew glistening upon their shoes as they walked,
their very breathing audible amid the oppressive silence. Gradually the
woman’s steps grew slower; and as she crept close to an unmarked grave
that lay among the untitled mounds around it, the slender frame trembled
slightly, drawing her poor shawl closer as she halted with downcast
eyes, gazing at the silent sepulchre as it lay bathed in the lonely
light of the new-risen moon.  The boy stood behind her for a moment,
then crept close to her, his hand gliding into hers; the woman’s closed
about it passionately, its warmth stealing inward to her heart.

"I think I remember when baby died," Harvey began, after they had stood
long together by the grave; "I was asleep, wasn’t I, mother?  I remember
in the morning."

"Yes, dear," said his mother, her voice tremulous; "yes, you were
asleep—I was with baby when she died."

"Was father there too, mother?"

"Yes, Harvey, yes—pull that weed, dear; there, at the foot of baby’s
grave."

"Did father cry when baby died, mother?—like you did, mother?"

"I don’t know, dear—yes, I think so.  We’ll have to bring some fresh
flowers soon, won’t we, Harvey?" the mother’s lips trembling.

"Yes, mother, I’ll pick some pretty ones to-morrow. Did father die long
after baby, mother?" the boy pursuing the dread subject with the strange
persistence wherewith children so often probe a secret wound.

"No, my son—yes, I mean; yes, Harvey, it was the same night, I think,"
her nervous fingers roving about Harvey’s uncovered head.

"You _think_, mother?" the tone full of surprise.

"It was near the same time, Harvey," she answered hurriedly, unable to
control her voice.  "I can’t tell you now, son—some day, perhaps.  But
mother was so sorry about baby that she hardly knows—don’t ask me any
more about it, Harvey," she suddenly pleaded; "never any more—some day
I’ll tell you all about your father, and all you’ve asked me so often.
But don’t ask me any more, my son—it makes mother feel bad," as she bent
over to kiss the curious lips.

He could see the tears upon his mother’s cheeks, and he inwardly
resolved that her bidding should be done, silently wondering the while
what this mysterious source of pain might be.

After a long silence the boy’s voice was heard again: "Weren’t baby’s
eyes shut when she died, mother?"

"Yes, darling—yes, they were closed in death," and the unforgetting
heart beat fast at the tender memory.

"But they’re open now, aren’t they, mother?—and wasn’t it God that did
it?"

"Yes, Harvey, they’re open now—God opened them, I’m sure."

"Couldn’t He make people see all right before they’re dead, mother?
Couldn’t He do it for you?"

"Yes, child—yes, He could if He wanted to."

"And why wouldn’t He want to?" the boy asked wonderingly.  "I’m sure He
could; and I’ve been asking Him to do it for us Himself—if we couldn’t
get the money for the doctor to do it.  Wasn’t that right, mother?"

The moon, high now, looked down upon the lonely pair; they stood
together, they two, beside the unresponsive grave, the elder face bathed
in tears, the younger unstained by grief and wistful with the eager
trust of childhood.  The insignia of poverty was upon them both, and the
boy shivered slightly in the chill air; but the great romance and
tragedy of life were interwoven there, love and hope and sorrow playing
the parts they had so often played before. The woman stooped down amid
the glistening grass and took her child into her arms, pressing him
close to her troubled bosom, her face against his cheek, while her eyes
roved still about his sister’s grave.

"We must go on," she murmured presently. "Can you see a light in the
church?"

"Did you join when you were just a girl, mother?" the boy asked, his
lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she replied, "I was very young when I joined."

"Did father ever join the church?" Harvey went on, releasing his face to
gaze about the sleeping city.

"No, dear—no, your father never was a member of the church," she said
softly.

"Wasn’t he good enough?  Wouldn’t they let him?" the lad asked
wonderingly.

"They never—they never refused him," his mother faltered.  "But he never
thought he was good enough."

"But he was, wasn’t he?" the boy pursued.

"Yes, dear—yes, he was once—he often was.  He always meant to be good;
he loved you, Harvey. And he made me promise that some day I would tell
you why he thought—why he thought he wasn’t good enough.  He was afraid
you might be the same; it was something he—something he couldn’t help
very well—I’ll tell you some day, Harvey. Who’s that?" she whispered
excitedly, pointing towards a shadowy figure that was winding its way
silently towards them.

His mother straightened up as she spoke, Harvey’s hand tight clasped in
hers again.  The figure came swiftly on.

"It’s Madeline," the boy said rather excitedly. "It’s Madeline Borland—I
guess she’s going to join too."

Which proved indeed to be the case.  "I knew it was you," the girl
began, almost breathless as she came up to them.  "The beadle said it
was you, Harvey; Julia walked to the church with me, and she’s waiting
till I join.  I thought perhaps we might go in together; I don’t want to
go in alone."  Harvey could see in the dim light how eagerly the girl’s
eyes were searching his mother’s face.  He did not withdraw his hand,
but unconsciously straightened himself in quiet dignity.

"This is my mother," he said simply, quite unfamiliar with the modes of
introduction; "and that’s Miss Borland, mother."

"Please don’t say that," the girl interrupted.  "I think you might call
me Madeline; anyhow, I heard you call me Madeline to your mother," as
she stepped gently around the foot of the grave and extended her hand to
Harvey’s mother.  The older woman was evidently struck by the girl’s
beauty, by the simple grace and kindliness of her manner.  At any rate
she held the outstretched hand rather long in hers, gazing on the sweet
face upturned in the quivering light.

"And this—this is my sister’s grave," Harvey’s subdued voice added a
moment later.

The girl said nothing, turning a solemn gaze upon the lowly mound.  She
had been long familiar with the quiet acre, but this was perhaps the
first time she had realized the dread personality that clothes the grave
with dignity.

"You haven’t any treasure here, have you, Miss Madeline?" the mother
asked timidly, when the pause had become almost painful.

"No, not any," the girl answered in hushed tones; "we haven’t even got a
plot—I never had a little sister," she affirmed, the moistening eyes
turning now to Harvey’s face.  He looked down, then up again, and the
soulful gaze was still fixed upon him. A kind of wave, strange and
unfamiliar, seemed to bathe his soul; he did not wish to look longer,
and yet a sort of spell seemed to keep his eyes fastened on her face.
The girl’s look was eloquent of much that neither he nor she was able to
interpret, the first venture out to sea on the part of either soul.

"Doesn’t it seem strange that we should meet here—here at your sister’s
grave," she said slowly, after the gaze of both had fallen.  "Of course,
we’ve often seen each other at school—but this is our first real
meeting, isn’t it?" she went on, gazing now towards the light that
twinkled feebly in the distant church.

"Yes," he answered simply, "yes, it is—I guess we’d better go.  Do you
know the catechism?" he digressed, beginning to move forward, half
leading his mother by the hand.

"No, I don’t.  Father doesn’t believe in catechisms,—I wanted him to
join along with me, but he said he wasn’t good enough.  Only he said
he’d see—it would be just like him to come without my knowing."

"That’s what my father said," Harvey interjected quickly; "and my mother
says he was often good—only of course it’s too late now," a little sigh
escaping with the words.

"Perhaps they join them in heaven," the girl suggested in an awestruck
voice.  "Father says that’s where the real joining’s done; if your
father was good, I’m sure they’d join him," she concluded earnestly,
looking into both the serious faces as she spoke.

"Don’t you think maybe they would, mother?" pleaded the boy.  The habit
of a lifetime committed everything to the mother for final judgment.

"That’s in God’s hands, dear," the delicate face glancing upward through
the mist.  "I’m sure God would do it if He could—we’d better hurry on;
they’ll be waiting for us in the church."

The little procession wound its way back to the humble temple, Harvey
still holding his mother by the hand, Madeline following close behind.
And the shadowy home of the little child was left alone in the silence
and the dark.

The youthful pair disappeared within the ivy-grown door.  The mother,
her dim eyes still more dimmed by tears, turned upon her homeward way, a
troubled expression on her face.  Why had she not told him more, she
wondered to herself—something about his father, and the cruel appetite
that had been his shame and his undoing?  And her lips moved in
trembling prayer that God would save her son from the blight of his
father’s life, that the dread heritage might never wrap his life in the
same lurid flame.




                                 *VIII*

                       _*OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM*_


The predominant national type among the Glenallen folks was Scotch, and
that distinctly.  David Borland was one of the few exceptions; and the
good folk about him had varied explanations for the baffling fact that
he, American-bred though he was, had been one of the most prosperous men
of the community.  Some maintained that his remote ancestry must have
come from the land o’ cakes, even though he himself were oblivious to
heaven’s far-off goodness.  Others contended that his long association
with a Scottish neighbourhood had inoculated him with something of their
distinctive power; while the profounder minds acknowledged frankly that
the ways of Providence were mysterious, and that this lonely spectacle
of an alien mortal, handicapped from birth and yet rising to affluence
and distinction, was but an evidence of the Omnipotence that had wrought
the miracle.

But if, in matters temporal, the historic Scotch stock of Glenallen had
been compelled to divide the spoil with those of lesser origin, the
control of affairs ecclesiastical was carefully reserved for Scottish
hands alone.  This went without saying.  Over every door of church
officialdom, and especially of the eldership, he who ran might read: "No
Irish need apply,"—and the restriction included all to whom heaven had
denied the separate advantage of Scottish birth or ancestry.

Wherefore it came about that the assembled elders who on this particular
night awaited the arrival of applicants for church-membership were about
as formidable to look upon as any half dozen of mere men could be.  The
dignity of their office filled the little room and the sense of
responsibility sat gravely on every face.  Two there were among them,
newly elected to the office—the highest office in the gift of their
fellow-men—and these two were fairly dripping with new-born solemnity.
The older men, relaxing with the years, had discarded some of the sombre
drapery that the newer elders wrapt about them with pious satisfaction.

Æneas Ramsay, one of the veterans, had ventured to ask one of the newly
ordained if they would finish the threshing at his farm to-morrow.  The
question was put before the meeting had well begun, and was whispered in
the ear at that; but the shock was easily seen on the new elder’s face,
who, recovering in a moment, informed his senior that they would discuss
the matter after the "sederunt" was adjourned.  Which purely
Presbyterian term rolled from his lips with the luxurious unction known
to Presbyterian elders, and to them alone.

The Session had been constituted, and good old Sandy McKerracher had led
in prayer, the other elders standing through the exercise.  Most of them
had one foot upon a chair, the elbow resting on the knee and the chin
upon the hand, before Sandy had concluded.  In fact, the precaution of
an adjoining chair was seldom overlooked by any when the Moderator named
Sandy for this solemn duty, his staying powers famous for fifty years.
The chief emphasis of his prayer was laid on the appeal to Infinite Love
that none of the intending communicants might eat and drink damnation to
themselves. This was a favourite request with all of them on such
occasions—excepting one elder, and good Dr. Fletcher himself—and it was
largely because of this that the Moderator was wont to see the Session
constituted before the candidates were admitted to the room.

"There’s some bringin’ their lines frae ither kirks," Robert MaCaig
began, when the Moderator asked if there were any candidates for
membership, "but there’s nae mair nor twa to join on profession o’
faith," he added, turning a despondent eye upon his brother elders.  "We
used to hae a dizzen or mair."

"Twa souls is an awfu’ lot, Robert—twa never dyin’ souls!"  It was
Geordie Nickle who sounded the hopeful note.  He was the saintliest
elder of them all, and the saintliest are the sanguinest.  "We maun be
thankfu’ for twa mair to own the Saviour’s name," he added reverently.

"But they’re only bairns," Robert urged; "there’s no’ a muckle man among
them."

"That’s a’ the better," returned Geordie; "the Maister was aye glad to
hae the bairns come—ca’ them in," he said, the slightest note of
impatience in his voice.

A moment later Harvey and Madeline were ushered in, very shy and
embarrassed, their downcast eyes fluttering upwards now and then to the
stern faces fixed upon them.

There was considerable skirmishing of a preliminary sort, the elders’
questions booming out solemnly like minute guns.  Suddenly Robert McCaig
proceeded to business.

"We’ll tak a rin ower the fundamentals," he said, brandishing the
age-worn term as though he had just invented it.  "What is original
sin?" he demanded; "tell the Moderator what’s original sin."

"The Moderator kens fine himsel’," Andrew Fummerton whispered to the
elder at his right, smiling grimly.  But the man beside him scarcely
heard, for every mind was intent with the process under way; scores of
times had they witnessed it before, but it was again as new and
absorbing as the prowess of a fisherman landing his reluctant prize.

There was a long silence, still as death.  Suddenly Willie Gillespie
fell to sneezing; he it was at whose farm the threshers had been that
day, and who had been profanely questioned by Æneas Ramsay, as already
told.  Perhaps it was the day’s dust that provoked the outburst; but,
from whatever cause, the explosion was remarkable in its power and
duration, one detonation following another with heightening tumult till
the final booming was worthy of the noblest efforts of modern artillery.
As the bombardment increased in power, the elders unconsciously braced
themselves a little on their chairs, dismayed at the unseemly outbreak,
considering the place and the occasion.

Harvey, for the life of him, could not forbear to smile; this human
symptom was reassuring to him amid the statuesque solemnity of the
room—it made original sin less ghostly, somehow, and he looked almost
gratefully at the dynamic Willie.  This latter worthy, recoiling like a
smoking cannon, groped frankly for his nose as if apprehensive that it
had been discharged; finding it uninjured, he repaired hastily to the
tail pocket of a black coat that had sustained the dignity of a previous
generation in the eldership, extracting therefrom a lurid
pocket-handkerchief—that is, originally lurid—but now as variously
bedecked as though the threshers had enjoyed its common ministry that
day.  Whereupon there ensued a succession of reports, inferior only to
their mighty predecessors themselves, resembling nothing so much as the
desultory firing that succeeds the main attack.

"Ye was askin’ what might be original sin," Willie murmured
apologetically from behind the faithful handkerchief, swishing it back
and forward on his nose the while as though he were polishing the
knocker on a door; he glanced apologetically towards Mr. McCaig as he
spoke, anxious to repair the connection he had so violently disturbed.

"If my memory serves me," Robert returned severely, "if my memory serves
me, that is what we was dealin’ wi’—order’s a graun’ thing at a meetin’
o’ sic a kind as this," he added sternly, his gaze following the
disappearing banner now being reëntombed.

"What is original sin, laddie?  Mebbe the lassie can gie me the answer,"
he suggested, Harvey’s silence impressing him as incurable.

"I’m not very sure," faltered Madeline—"was it the kind at the
beginning?"

Robert McCaig had no desire to be unnecessarily severe; therefore turned
enquiringly to his colleagues, implying that the verdict lay with them.

"Very good, child, very good," Dr. Fletcher said approvingly.  "It’s
very hard to answer Mr. McCaig’s question—he’d find it difficult enough
himself. What is it, Harvey?" he asked, smiling at the boy, who seemed
to have an idea ready.

"I’m not very sure either; but isn’t it—isn’t it the kind that doesn’t
wear off?" the lad ventured timidly, rather ashamed of the description
after it was finished.

"Capital, my boy; first-rate!" the minister cried delightedly.  "That’s
better than anything I learned in college.  I don’t believe any one
could get much nearer to it than that—now we’ll just pass from this,"
smiling around at the elders as he made the suggestion; "there are other
things more important—has any of the elders anything else to ask?"

It was not long before two or three of them were in full cry again.
Stern questions, weighty interrogatives, suggestive of the deepest
mysteries, were propounded to the youthful pair as complacently as
though they were being asked how many pints make a gallon.  One wanted
to know their view of the origin of evil, following this by a suggestion
that they should each give a brief statement of the doctrine of the
Trinity.  Another urged that they should describe in brief the process
of regeneration.  Still another asked if they could repeat the books of
the Bible backwards—any one, he said, could do it the old way—and one
good elder capped the climax by saying he would like to hear them tell
how to reconcile the free agency of man with the sovereignty of God.

But just at this juncture Geordie Nickle rose, his face beaming with
tenderness, and addressed the chair.

"They’re fashin’ the bairns, Moderator," he said gently.  "Wull ye no’
let me pit a wee bit question or twa till them mysel’?"

The Moderator was evidently but too well pleased, and his nod gave
Geordie the right of way.  The old man moved to where Harvey and
Madeline were seated, taking his stand partially behind them, his hands
resting gently on the heads of both.

"I mind fine the nicht I joined the kirk mysel’," he began; "it was the
winter my mither gaed awa, an’ I think God answered her prayer, to mak
her glad afore she went—but the elders askit me some o’ thae vera
questions—an’ I kent then hoo far they was frae the soul," he said
gravely, looking compassionately on the faces now upturned to his own.
"Sae I’m juist gaein’ to ask ye what I was wishin’ they’d ask frae me.
Div ye no’ love the Saviour, lassie—and div ye no’ ken He’s the son o’
God?" he asked reverently, tenderly.  "Div ye no’ ken that, lassie?—an’
the same wi’ yirsel’, my laddie?—I’m sure ye’re baith trustin’ Him, to
the savin’ o’ the soul; are ye no’, bairnies?" and the old man’s face
shone as the great truth kindled his own simple soul.

Harvey and Madeline nodded eager assent, a muffled affirmative breaking
from their lips.

"An’ ye ken the Saicrament’s juist the meetin’-place where He breaks
bread wi’ His children, and where they say, afore a’ the folk, that they
love Him, and trust Him, an’ want to be aye leal an’ true till Him, and
show forth His death till He come—div ye no’ ken it that way?" the
kindly voice went on, his hands still resting on the youthful heads.

Harvey answered first: "That’s what I’d like to be—that’s what I want to
do," he said simply.

"I want to, too—I’m the same as Harvey," Madeline faltered sweetly.

Then Geordie Nickle straightened himself and turned towards Dr.
Fletcher.  "Moderator," he said earnestly, "we canna mak the way mair
open nor the Maister made it; an’ I move that these twa be received
intil full communion, an’ their names—the Clerk kens what they are—be
added to the roll o’ communicants in good standin’ i’ the kirk."

This was carried without further protest and ordered to be done
forthwith.




                                  *IX*

                         _*A BELATED ENQUIRER*_


The youthful candidates had hardly left the room when the beadle,
compared with whose solemnity the gravity of the elders was frivolity
itself, announced that a further candidate was in waiting.

"It’s Mr. Borland," he said in an awed whisper—"Mr. David Borland.  He
wants to jine, Mr. Moderator," the beadle informed the court in much the
same tone as is employed when death-warrants must be read.  "An’ it’ll
be on profession," he added, unable to forego the sensational
announcement, "for he never jined no church afore."  Then the beadle
retreated with the mien that becomes an ecclesiastical sheriff.

An instant later he reappeared with Mr. Borland, whom he left standing
in the very centre of the room.  The elders gazed wonderingly at the
unexpected man.

"Dinna break oot again," Robert McCaig whispered to the now tranquil
Willie, fearful of another explosion; "it’s no’ often a kirk session has
sic a duty to perform," and Willie responded by rising slightly and
sitting down hard upon the contents of his coat-tail pocket, as though
the fuse for the explosion were secreted there.

David looked round upon the elders, in no wise abashed; he even nodded
familiarly to two or three with whom he was more intimately acquainted.
"It’s a fine evening," he informed one nearest him, to the evident
amazement of his brethren.

The usual process began, one or two undertaking preliminary examination.

"Have you ever joined before, Mr. Borland?" one of the elders asked him
after a little.

"Never joined a church before—haven’t been much of a joiner," David
answered cheerfully; "joined the Elks once in the States when I was a
young fellow—an’ they made it pretty interestin’ for me," dispensing a
conciliatory smile among the startled elders as he turned to catch
another question.

"What maks ye want to join, Mr. Borland?" enquired one of the new
elders, hitherto silent. "What’s yir motive, like?  Hae ye got the root
o’ the matter in ye, div ye think?" he elaborated formally.

David started somewhat violently, turning and looking his questioner
full in the face.  "Have I got what in me?" he cried—"what kind of a
root? That’s more than I can say, sir; I don’t catch your meanin’."

Dr. Fletcher interposed.  "You’re not familiar with our terms, Mr.
Borland," he said reassuringly. "Mr. Aiken only wants to know why you
feel impelled to become a member of the church—perhaps you could answer
the question when it’s put that way?"

David’s first sign of answer was to stoop and pick up a rather shapeless
hat lying at his feet.  This symptom decidedly alarmed the elders,
several of them sitting up suddenly in their chairs as though fearful
that so interesting a subject might escape. But David had evidently
seized it only for purposes of reflection, turning it round and round in
his hands, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

"It was a queer kind of a reason," he began abruptly, clearing his
throat with all the resonance of a trumpet—"but mebbe it ain’t too bad a
one after all.  It was Madeline," he finally blurted out, staring at all
the brethren in turn.  "I knew she was goin’ to join—an’—an’ I wanted to
keep up with her.  If she’s agoin’ to heaven, I’m agoin’ too—an’ I
reckon this here’s the way," he added, feeling that the phraseology was
not too ill-timed.  Then he waited.

"Very good, Mr. Borland—very good," the Moderator pronounced
encouragingly.  "But about—about your own soul.  I’m sure we all hope
you—you—realize your need, Mr. Borland.  It’s a sense of sin we all
need, you know.  I’m sure you feel you’ve been a sinner, Mr. Borland?"
and the good man turned the most brotherly of faces upon the applicant.

"Oh, yes," responded David agreeably; "oh, yes, I’m all right that
way—I’ve been quite a sinner, all right.  The only thing I’m afeart of
is I’ve been ’most too good a sinner.  I wisht I wasn’t quite so handy
at it," he went on gravely.  "I reckon I’ve been about as bad as—as any
of the deacons here," glancing towards the open-mouthed about him as he
made the comparison, "an’ some o’ them’s got quite a record, if all
reports is true.  I traded horses onct with Robert there," nodding
familiarly in the direction of Mr. McCaig, "an’ the first time we
traded, he sinned pretty bad—but that’s nothin’; bygones is bygones—an’
anyhow, the second time we traded, I sinned pretty bad myself.  So I’m
all right that way, Doctor," he again assured the Moderator, making a
last desperate effort to tie his hat into a knot.

"I didna ken the mare was spavined, Moderator," Mr. McCaig broke in,
gasping with emotion; "an’ a meetin’ o’ session’s no place for
discussin’ sic like matters onyway," he appealed vehemently.  "Thae
week-day things has nae richt to be mentioned here—a meetin’ o’ elders
is no’ a cattle fair," and Robert looked well pleased with this final
stroke.

"That’s all right, Robert, that’s all right," David returned in his most
amiable tone; "don’t get excited, Robert—we both traded with our eyes
open. An’ all these things makes life, anyhow—they all go to the weavin’
of the web, as I say sometimes, an’ besides——"

But Robert’s blood was up.

"Onyhow, I didna swear," he exclaimed in a rising tone; "I didna say
damn, Mr. Moderator—an’ the horse-doctor tellt me as how the candidate
afore us said damn mair nor aince when he found oot aboot the spavin.
He’d mak a bonnie member o’ the kirk!" and the elder’s face glowed with
righteous indignation.

The Moderator cast about to avert the storm. "Maybe he was taken
unawares," he interposed charitably; "any one might be overtaken in a
fault. Did you, Mr. Borland—did you say what Mr. McCaig says you did?"
as he turned a very kindly face on the accused.

David was more intently employed than ever with his hat.  "I won’t say
but what I mebbe did," he acknowledged, an unfamiliar confusion in his
words. "You see, sir, I should a knowed a spavin when I seen it; the
signs is awful easy told—an’ that’s what made me mad.  So I said I was a
fool—an’ I said Robert here was an elder.  An’ I likely said both of us
was—was that kind of a fool an’ an elder, the kind he says I said—it’s
an awful handy describin’ word," he added, nodding respectfully towards
the Moderator’s chair.

"So I have heard, Mr. Borland," the Moderator replied, smiling
reproachfully nevertheless, "though I think there are others just as
good.  However, if that is the worst sin you’ve been guilty of, I
wouldn’t say you’re beyond the pale."

"Oh, there’s lots of things I’ve done, far worse than that," David
exclaimed vigorously.  "I don’t allow that’s a sin at all—that’s just a
kind of a spark out o’ the chimney.  I reckon nearly everybody, even
ministers, says that—only they don’t spell it just the same.  I’d call
that just a kind of splutter—an’ everybody splutters sometimes.  Robert
there, he says ’bless my soul’ when he gets beat on a trade—but he means
just the same as me.  Oh, yes," he went cheerfully on, "there’s lots o’
worse things than that against me.  There’s lots o’ little weak spots
about me; an’ I’ll tell them if you like—if the deacons’ll do the same,"
he proposed, looking earnestly around for volunteers.

There was no clamour of response, and it fell to Geordie Nickle again to
break the silence.

"These is no’ the main things, David," he began solemnly.  "Tell us, div
ye trust the Saviour wi’ yir soul?"

David halted, the gravity of the question shading his face.  "I think—I
think I do," he ventured after a long pause.  "I wouldn’t trust it to no
one else. My mother taught me that."

"An’ div ye want to follow Him, an’ to let yir licht shine upon the
world?  Div ye want to be a guid soldier, an’ wull ye try it, wi’ His
grace?" the old man asked tenderly.

David’s voice was very low.  "I’m not very far on the road," he said
falteringly, "an’ I’m afeared there ain’t much light in me—but I’d try
an’ do my best," he concluded earnestly.

The venerable elder proceeded with his gentle art, leading the belated
enquirer on from stage to stage, seeking to discover and disclose the
hidden treasures of the soul.  He was never slow to be convinced of
goodness in any heart that he thought sincere, and it was not long till
he turned to the Moderator, proposing, as before, that this new name
should likewise be enrolled among those of the faithful.

But one or two thought the examination hardly doctrinal enough, nor
carried sufficiently far afield.

"Perhaps Mr. Borland would give us a word or two regarding his views on
the subject of temperance," suggested Morris Hall.  He was a
comparatively modern elder; in fact, he had been but recently reclaimed,
one of the first-fruits of a spring revival, himself snatched from the
vortex of intemperance and correspondingly severe upon all successors in
his folly.  For largeness of charity, as a rule, is to be found only
with those who have been tempted and prevailed.

"I’m not terrible well up on temperance," David began placidly; "but I
don’t mind givin’ you my views—oh, no, not at all."

Then he sank into silence, and the Moderator had finally to prompt him.
"Very well, then, Mr. Borland, give us your views on the subject."

"Well," David began hesitatingly, "my views on the subject of temperance
is terrible simple.  I really hardly ever take anything—never touch it
at all except it’s before or after meals," he assured the brethren
earnestly, the younger men frowning a little, one or two of the older
nodding approvingly.  But none seemed to remark how generous was the
margin this time-table provided for a man of moist propensities.

"Sometimes, when I run acrost an old friend, if he looks kind o’ petered
out," David went on sympathetically, "sometimes then I have a view or
two—most always soft stuff, though," he enlarged, looking hopefully
towards his spiritual betters; "most generally they takes the same view
as me," he informed them gravely; "my view is to take it an’ let it
alone—I do both—only I never do them both at the same time," he added
seriously.  "You see, when I’m well it doesn’t hurt me, and when I’m
sick—why, mebbe I need somethin’.  That’s one o’ my views.  An’, oh,
yes"—he hurried on as if glad that he had not forgotten, "I always take
a little when a new century comes in—I took a little when the clock
struck 1900; it’s been a custom for quite awhile in our family, always
to take a little when a new century comes in—a man has to be careful it
doesn’t grow on him, you see.  So I confine it pretty much to them two
occasions.  An’ I think them’s pretty much all my views, gentlemen, on
the subject o’ liquors.  The less views a man has on them, the better.
It’s the worst plague there is—an’ I’m gettin’ more set agin’ it all the
time," and David nodded to the elders in quite an admonitory way.

But these views, simple and candid though they were, were far from
satisfactory to Mr. Morris Hall, who violently declaimed against such
laxity, and quoted statistics concerning poorhouses, jails and lunatic
asylums in much the same tone, and with the same facility, that a boy
exhibits when quoting the multiplication table.  Mr. Hall concluded with
an appeal to David’s sense of shame.

This was rather much for the gentle candidate, familiar as he was with
the impeacher’s record in days that were yet hardly dry.

"There’s one thing sure, anyhow," he returned hotly, in his intensity of
feeling.  "I didn’t never have to be toted home on a stone-boat—that’s
one thing certain."  This was a reference to authentic history of no
ancient sort, and Mr. Hall’s relapse to silence was as final as it was
precipitate.

Whereupon Geordie Nickle again reverted to his motion that Mr. Borland
be received.  He briefly reviewed the case, emphasizing the obvious
simplicity and candour that had been remarked by all, while admitting
David’s evident unfamiliarity with the formulas and doctrines of the
church.

"But there’s mony a man loves flowers wha disna ken naethin’ aboot
botany," he pleaded; "an’ there’s mony a soul luvin’ Christ, an’
trustin’ till Him, wha kens little or naethin’ aboot theology."

This view seemed to prevail with the majority, and the proposal of the
kindly elder would doubtless have been speedily endorsed, had it not
been for the protest from David himself.  "I’m terrible thankful for
your kindness to a lame duck like me—but I believe I’d jest as soon wait
awhile," he said.  "I’ll try an’ follow up the best I can.  But Dick
Phin’s comin’ to visit me next week—Dick’s an old crony I haven’t seen
for a dog’s age.  An’ besides, Robert there has kind o’ set me thinkin’;
an’ I jest minded Tom Taylor’s comin’ on Monday to try an’ trade back
the three-year-old he got in August.  So I think mebbe I’d better wait.
But I’ll follow up the best I can."




                                  *X*

                         _*SHELTERING SHADOWS*_


Two chestnut steeds, securely tied, looked reproachfully at the
retreating figures as Madeline and her father pressed on beneath the
shadow of the great oaks that looked down upon the merry picnickers.
For Glenallen’s Sunday-school scholars were _en fête_ beneath them.
Very gladly did these mighty guardians of the grove seem to welcome back
the happy throng as each returning summer brought the festal day.  And
very tenderly did they seem to look down upon the varied
pleasure-seekers that gathered beneath their whispering branches;
children, in all the helplessness of childhood, mingling with other
toddlers whose was the helplessness of age—little tots whose toilsome
journey was at hand, and patriarchs whose weary pilgrimage was almost
past.  Many were there whose fathers’ fathers, snatching a brief truce
from their struggle with the poverty and stress of early days, had
rested and rollicked as only pioneers know how; masters and men, their
respective ranks forgotten, had sat side by side about the teeming
board, or entered the lists together as they flung the bounding caber,
or raced across the meadow-sward, or heaved the gleaming quoits, or
strained the creaking cable in the final and glorious tug of war.

As David Borland and his daughter drew near to the central group of
picnickers, they found them employed in a very savoury task.  They were
emptying the baskets one by one, the good things translated
promiscuously to the ample table around which all were about to take
their places.  Pies of every sort there were, cakes of every imaginable
brand and magnitude, sandwiches, fruits, pickles, hams that would
waddle, fowls that would cackle, tongues that would join the lowing
choir, nevermore—all these conspired to swell the overflowing larder.

Suddenly David’s eyes fell on a face in the distance, a face for which
he had long had a peculiar liking.  It was Geordie Nickle’s, the old man
sitting apart on a little mound, his kindly eyes bright with gladness at
the lively scene around him.

"You go off an’ have a swing, Madeline," he said; "I’m goin’ to have a
chat with my friend Geordie here—I’ll see you in a little while."

Madeline scarcely heard him nor did any response escape her lips.  For
other words had fallen on her ears, hot and tingling now with shame and
indignation.

"Isn’t this the limit," a jibing voice was saying; "isn’t this the human
limit?—rhubarb tarts!  Three of them!  Who wants to buy a tin plate?"
the voice went jeeringly on.  It was Cecil Craig’s voice, and he held
the humble contributions aloft as he spoke.

"There must be some awful rich folks here to-day—I guess these tarts are
meant for the minister.  That’s all there is in the basket—so I guess
some one must keep a rhubarb farm; look at the size of them—big as a
full moon!  I believe I’ll give them to my horse," he cried with a
contemptuous laugh.  "Have you any idea who sent these, Harvey?" turning
with the question to the conscious boy who stood on the outer edge of
the circle.

A few joined in thoughtless laughter.  But it was no laughing matter for
poor Harvey, trying now to steal alone and unnoticed from among the
throng. Yet not alone; for one humble little form clung close beside
him, retreating as rapidly as he, her face flushed and drawn.  They had
taken but a few steps when Jessie’s hand stole caressingly into her
brother’s, the little legs trying eagerly to keep pace with his ardent
stride.

"Don’t mind, Harvey, don’t mind," she said soothingly.  "He’s just as
mean as he can be.  It’s all because he’s rich—an’ he thinks we’re poor.
He doesn’t know how good mother is at makin’ tarts, or he wouldn’t talk
like that."

Harvey glanced at his sister as though he scarcely saw her.  His eyes,
usually so mild, were now almost terrible in their fiery anger, and his
hand closed so tightly over his sister’s that she cried out in pain.
Once he looked swiftly back and caught a glimpse of Cecil leering at him
in the distance; he fixed his teeth tight together and strode swiftly
on.

"Aren’t you goin’ back, Harvey?" Jessie enquired a little wistfully.
"I’m real hungry, Harvey—an’ I saw chickens there, an’ there was some
peaches too—they looked awful nice," she said earnestly.

"Going back!" Harvey almost shouted.  "No, you bet I’m not going
back—and neither are you; I’d starve before I’d touch a bite of their
stuff.  A lot of stuck-up things," he cried passionately, "and you and
me cast out everywhere because we’re poor!  I’ll show them yet—you just
see if I don’t; if I can get half a chance—and to think the way poor
mother worked at them, and she thought she was making something real
nice too, and——"

"An’ she put sugar in them too, Harvey—an’ she hardly ever puts sugar in
anything now.  She put lots of butter an’ sugar in, for I saw her.  But
ain’t you goin’ back, Harvey?—there’s lemonade, you know, a whole boiler
full of it.  I tasted it and it was lovely," she assured him, looking
wistfully up into the angry face.

"The young whelp!" Harvey muttered wrathfully; "hasn’t any more brains
than a handspike—hasn’t got anything but a rich, proud father—I’ll fix
him yet, you see if I don’t."  Suddenly he stopped, standing still as
the trees around him.  "Hello!" he said musingly, then began whistling
significantly.

"What’s the matter, Harvey?" asked the mystified Jessie.

"Oh, nothing—nothing at all.  In fact, everything’s all right—see that
sorrel horse tied to that hemlock over there?  It’s Cecil Craig’s."

"Yes," replied Jessie wonderingly; "it’s kickin’ with its legs," she
added informatively—"what’s it doin’ that for, Harvey?"

"Flies," replied the other absently.  "I say, Jessie," he began in quite
a different tone, his brow clearing like a headland when the fog is
lifting, "you better go on back and get your dinner—don’t eat too much,"
he added cautiously, for Jessie, her hand still tight in his, had
already turned right about face, her radiant gaze fixed on the distant
tables; "and you know mother doesn’t want you to take any
stuffin’—you’ll have to take castor oil if you eat any stuffin’,
Jessie."

"Won’t you go, Harvey?" his sister asked eagerly, supremely indifferent
to matters medicinal; she was already pressing onward, half leading her
brother by the hand.  The boy started to refuse vigorously. Suddenly,
however, he seemed to change his mind. "I’ll go back with you for a
minute, Jessie—just a minute, mind.  I’ll get you a seat if I can; but
I’ll have to come right away again.  I’ve got—I’ve got to do something."

The hungry Jessie asked no further information, well content, poor
child, to regain the treat she had so nearly lost.  Her hurrying legs
twinkled in the sun as she led the way, Harvey following, half
reluctantly, back to the appetizing scene.  The boy looked at no one as
he mingled with the excited throng; nor did many remark his return, so
all absorbed are youthful minds in one pursuit alone when that pursuit
leads to the dinner-table.  This pleased Harvey well; and, confident of
their indifference, he took his place beside the three bulky tarts that
had been the text for Cecil’s scorn.

Good Dr. Fletcher’s special care, at such a fête as this, was to see
that all heads were reverently bowed while grace was being said.  And so
they were on this occasion, all but Harvey’s.  Availing himself of the
opportune devotion, he thrust the unoffending tarts roughly within the
shelter of his coat, buttoning it tightly over them, quite careless of
results.  Then, wild chaos and savage attack succeeding the reverent
calm, while his ravenous companions fell upon the viands like starving
animals, he quietly withdrew, holding his coat carefully about him as he
went.


David Borland and the venerable Geordie Nickle were deep in conversation
as Harvey passed them by at a little distance, finding his way back to
the outer fringe of woods.

"Yon’s an uncommon laddie," Geordie remarked to David, his staff pointed
in the direction of the disappearing boy.

"Who?  Oh, yes—that’s Harvey.  You’re right, Mr. Nickle; the grass
doesn’t grow very green under Harvey’s feet.  He works for me, you
know—does a little drivin’ between four and six."

"Did ye hear aboot the minister, David?  He was sair vexed wi’ Mr.
Craig; he went till him, ye ken, to get a wee bit help for the laddie’s
mither—her eyesicht’s failin’, it seems.  An’ Mr. Craig wudna gie him
onythin’."

David was busy kicking to pieces a slab of dead wood at his feet.  "That
man Craig makes me mad," he said warmly—"thinks he owns the earth ’cause
he’s got a little money.  He got the most of it from his father,
anyhow—he hasn’t got brains enough himself to make his head ache.  An’
it looks like the young cub’s goin’ to be a chip o’ the old block; you
can see it stickin’ right out of him now," he declared, nodding towards
the blustering Cecil, who was flinging his orders here and there.

"I was thinkin’ ower the maitter, David," the old man went on quietly;
"I was thinkin’ mebbe I micht gie the puir buddy a wee bit help mysel’—I
hae a wee bit siller, ye ken, an’ I haena vera muckle to dae wi’t. Div
ye think ye cud see aboot it, David?—aboot sendin’ his mither till the
city doctor, ye ken?  I cud gie the money to yirsel’, an’ naebody need
ken aboot it but us twa."  Poor Geordie looked half ashamed as he made
the offer; such is the fashion of his kind.

"It’s mighty clever of you," David answered, smiling a little curiously,
"and I’d be terrible glad to fix it for you—only I happen to know it’s
fixed already.  Just found that out to-day.  A fellow sent the money to
them—some fellow that doesn’t want any one to know.  But it’s just as
good of you, all the same, Mr. Nickle."

"Oh, aye, aye, I ken," Geordie responded enigmatically, "aye—juist
that."

"Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy," David resumed quickly, to hide a little
embarrassment.  "He works like a beaver all day; steady as a clock and
bright as a dollar.  It’s a darned shame he hasn’t got a better
chance—that boy’d be heard from yet if he got some eddication," he
concluded, opening the big blade of his jack-knife and beginning
operations on a leafy limb he had just broken off.

Geordie’s face was full of sympathetic interest. "Div ye ken, David,
I’ve been thinkin’ the same aboot the laddie.  Dr. Fletcher tellt me
aboot him first—an’ I’ve been enquirin’, an’ watchin’ him a wee bit in a
canny kind o’ a way, since the nicht he jined the kirk.  An’ I’ve got a
wee bit plan, David—I’ve got a wee bit plan."

"Yes, Mr. Nickle?" David responded encouragingly, throwing away the
leafy limb and sitting squarely round.

"It’s no’ quite a fittin’ time to mak ony promises," the cautious
Scotchman went on, seeing that David expected him to continue.  "But ye
ken, David, I hae neither wife nor bairns noo; they’re a’ wi’ God," he
added, bowing reverently, "an’ yon laddie kind o’ minds me o’ wee
Airchie—Airchie died wi’ the scarlet fever.  An’ I’ve been thinkin’,
David, I’ve been thinkin’ I never spent the siller that wud hae gone for
Airchie’s schoolin’.  Ye ken, David, div ye no’?"

David knew not how to answer.  But his heart was more nimble than his
lips.  "I was awful sorry when you lost your little boy," he said, his
eyes upon the ground; "I never had a son myself—so you’re better off nor
me."




                                  *XI*

                          _*FOOD FOR THOUGHT*_


One pair of eyes, at least, had watched Harvey’s unostentatious retreat
from the clamorous throng about the table.  And no sooner had Madeline
noted his departure than she quietly slipped into the vacant place
beside his sister, who welcomed her with a smile as generous as the
absorbing intensity of the moment would permit.  Madeline’s cheeks were
still rosy with the flush of angry resentment that Cecil’s cruel words
had started.  Twice had he taken his place beside her at the table, and
twice she had moved away; even now his eyes seemed to follow her,
casting conciliatory glances that found no response.

The picnic feast was finally concluded—but not till sheer physical
inability proclaimed a truce—and Madeline and Jessie withdrew together.

"Let’s go down into the gully, Jessie," Madeline suggested, pointing
towards a slight ravine a little way in the distance; "I think we’d find
flowers there, perhaps."

Jessie was agreed.  "But I wish Harvey would come," she said; "I wonder
where he is—he went away just when we began our dinner."

"Oh, he’s all right," replied the older girl.  "I saw him going
away—he’ll be back in a little."

"An’ I didn’t see—I didn’t see the rhubarb tarts mother made," Jessie
continued, her mind still busy with the missing.  "You don’t suppose
Cecil Craig threw them away, do you?" she asked, suddenly fearful; "he’s
so mean."

"Don’t let’s speak about him at all," Madeline interrupted.  "The tarts
are all right," she went on consolingly.  "I saw one boy very—very busy
with them," she concluded dexterously.  "Besides," she added, the
connection not so obvious as her tone would indicate, "I’ve got
something to say to you, Jessie—sit down; sit down beside me here."

Jessie obeyed and they sank together on a mossy mound, a few stately
oaks and maples whispering welcome; for they were jealous trees, and had
begrudged the central grove its throng of happy children, the merry
scene just visible from their topmost boughs.

"I’ve got awful good news for you, Jessie," Madeline began ardently,
after a momentary struggle as to how she should introduce the subject.

"What’s it about?" Jessie asked, her eyes opening wide.

"It’s about your mother," answered Madeline.

Jessie looked gravely at the other.

"Anything about the tarts?" she enquired earnestly, her mind still
absorbed with the tragedy.

"No, no—of course it’s not about anything like that.  It’s about her
eyes—I’m pretty sure they’re going to get well."

Jessie’s own were dancing.  "Who said so? Why?  Tell me quick."

"Well, I know all about everything," Madeline replied, importantly.  "I
know about you wanting to take her to the doctor in the city—and she’s
going to go," she affirmed conclusively.

"When?" Jessie demanded swiftly.

"Any time—to-morrow, if you like," Madeline returned triumphantly,
withdrawing her hand from her bosom and thrusting the crisp notes into
Jessie’s; "my father gave me all that money to-day—and it’s to pay the
doctor—it’s to pay everything," she amended jubilantly.  "Only father
doesn’t want any one to know who did it—when do you think she’ll go,
Jessie?" she asked, a little irrelevantly, for matters had taken a
rather unexpected turn.

Jessie was staring at her through swimming eyes, the import of the great
moment too much for her childish soul.  Her mother’s face passed before
her, beautiful in its tender patience; and all the pathos of the long
struggle, so nearly over now, broke upon the little mind that knew not
what pathos meant except by the slow tuition of a sorrow-clouded life.
Poor child, she little knew by what relentless limitations even great
city doctors may be bound.

"Is it because you’re glad, Jessie?" Madeline enquired in a reverent
sort of voice, dimly diagnosing the paradox of human joy.  But Jessie
answered never a word; her gaze was fixed downward now upon the money,
such a sum of it as she had never seen before in her poor meagre life.
And the big tears fell on the unconscious things lying in her lap, the
poor dead symbols baptized and quickened by the living tokens of human
love and feeling.

"Oh, yes," she sobbed at last, "it’s ’cause I’m glad—mother’ll be able
to see the flowers now, an’ the birds, an’ everything—she loves them so.
An’ poor Harvey won’t have to spend his raspberry money; he hasn’t any
winter coat, but now—I’m nearly as glad for Harvey as I am for mother,"
she broke off, suddenly drying her eyes, the ever-ready smile of
childhood returning to the playground from which the tears had driven
it.

"What makes you so glad about Harvey?" Madeline broke in, hailing the
returning smile with one no less radiant of her own.

"Because—because mother was sorrier about Harvey than anything else.
You see, he’s nearly ready to—to be a scholar.  An’ mother always said
she’d be able to do everything for Harvey—everything like that, you
know—if she could only see.  Our Harvey’s goin’ to be a great man—if he
gets a chance," she prophesied solemnly, looking straight into
Madeline’s face, the bills quite forgotten now, one or two of them
having fallen among the leaves upon the grass.

"Mind you, our Harvey isn’t always goin’ to be poor—mother says there’s
lots of rich people gets poor, an’ lots of poor people gets rich.  An’
that’s what Harvey’s goin’ to be—an’ mother an’ me’s goin’ to help him,"
the little loyalist proclaimed, her face beaming with confidence.

This opened up quite a vein of conversation, to which the youthful minds
addressed themselves for a serious season.  Finally, forgetting all
philosophic matters, Jessie exclaimed: "I wonder where Harvey is—he
doesn’t often leave me alone like this.  Won’t he be glad though?—I’m
goin’ to find Harvey."


Little did either of them dream how the object of their wonderings had
been employed while they were sequestered in their peaceful nook.

Having left the table, Harvey loitered about till varying sounds assured
him that the meal he had abandoned was completed.  Then he strode along
till he stood beside the drowsy sorrel, still doing spasmodic battle
with the flies.  Unbuttoning his coat, he removed the tarts and hid them
in a hollow log; their confinement had not improved them much.  Then he
stood a while, pondering.  A relieved and purposeful expression at
length indicated that his mind was formed.  But considerable time
elapsed before a wandering urchin hove in sight—and such a being was
absolutely necessary.  The boy who thus suddenly appeared was evidently
bent on an inspection of the animal, looking even from afar with the
critical eye that universal boyhood turns upon a horse.  The youngster
drifted nearer and nearer; he was contriving to chew a slab of tamarack
gum and eat an apple at one and the self-same time, which tempered his
gait considerably.

Harvey nimbly slipped the noose in the bridle rein, the strap dangling
free; the horse was quite oblivious, trying to snatch a little sleep
between skirmishes.

"Hello there!" Harvey called to the boy, "come here—I want you to run a
message."

The boy responded with a slightly quickened pace, and was almost at his
side when he suddenly stood still and emitted a dreary howl.

"What’s the matter?" Harvey asked, slightly alarmed, the sorrel waking
completely and looking around at the newcomer.

"I bit my tongue," the urchin wailed, disgorging his varied grist as he
spoke.  The dual process had been too complicated for him and he
cautiously pasted the gum about a glass alley, storing both away in his
breeches pocket.  Then he bent his undivided powers upon the apple.

"That’ll soon be all right," Harvey assured him—"rub it with your gums,"
he directed luminously. "Don’t you see that horse is loose?—well, I want
you to run back and tell Cecil Craig his horse has got untied; don’t
tell him who said so."

"What’ll you give me?" enquired he of the wounded tongue, extending the
injured member with telescopic fluency, squinting one eye violently down
to survey it.  "Is it bleedin’?" he asked tenderly.

"No—’tisn’t even cut," Harvey responded curtly, examining it seriously,
nevertheless, with the sympathy that belongs to boyhood.  "Let it
back—you look like a jay-bird."

The other withdrew it reluctantly, the distorted eye slowly recovering
its orbit till it rested on Harvey’s face.  "What’ll you give me?" he
asked again, making another savage onslaught on the apple.

Harvey fumbled in his pocket, rather dismayed. But his face lightened as
his hand came forth.  "I’ll give you this tooth-brush," he said, holding
out a sorely wasted specimen.  "I found it on the railroad track—some
one dropped it, I guess.  Or I’ll give you this garter," exposing a
gaudy circlet of elastic, fatigued and springless; "I found it after the
circus moved away."

The smaller boy’s face lit up a moment at reference to the sacred
institution whose departure had left life so dreary.

"Charlie Winter found a shirt-stud an’ half a pair of braces there," he
said sympathetically; "he gave the shirt-stud to his sister, but he
wears the braces hisself," he added, completing the humble tale.

"Which’ll you take?" Harvey enquired abruptly, fearful lest the sorrel
might awaken to his liberty.

"I don’t want that," the younger said contemptuously, glancing at the
emaciated tooth-brush; "we’ve got one at home—a better one than that.
An’ I don’t wear garters," he added scornfully, glancing downwards at
his bare legs, "except on Sundays, an’ I’ve got one for that—the left
leg never comes down.  Haven’t you got anything else?" he queried,
looking searchingly in the direction of Harvey’s pocket.

"No, that’s all I’ve got," returned Harvey as he restored the
tooth-brush to its resting-place, still hopeful, however, of the garter.
"It’ll make an awful good catapult," he suggested seriously.

"Let me see it," said the bargainer.

Harvey handed it to him.  "I’ll hold your apple," he offered.

"Oh, never mind," the other replied discreetly; "I’ll just hold it in my
mouth," the memory of similar service and its tragic outcome floating
before him.  The boy took the flaming article in his hand and drew it
back, snapping it several times against the sole of his uplifted foot.

"All right," he said, withdrawing what survived of the apple, "it’s a
little mushy—but I’ll take it."

The errand having been repeated in detail, the youngster departed to
perform it, an apple stem—but never a core—falling by the wayside as he
went. Harvey gazed towards the brow of the hill till he caught the first
glimpse of a hurrying form, then slipped in behind the tree, carefully
concealed.

Cecil Craig came apace, for he could see the dangling strap at a little
distance.  Hurriedly retying the horse, he was about to retrace his
steps when he suddenly felt himself in the grip of an evidently hostile
hand, securely attached from behind to the collar of his coat.

"Now you can ask me those questions if you like," he heard a rather
hoarse voice saying; and writhing round he looked into a face flaming
with a wrath that was rekindling fast.

Young Craig both squirmed and squealed; but the one was as fruitless as
the other.  Harvey was bent on dealing faithfully with him; and lack of
spirit, rather than of strength, made the struggle a comparatively
unequal one.  After the preliminary application was completed, he
dragged Craig to where he had hidden the rhubarb tarts, still
crestfallen from solitary confinement.

"Why don’t you make some more jokes about the tarts my mother made?"
Harvey enquired hotly; "you were real funny about them just before
dinner."  This reference to his mother seemed to fan the flame of his
wrath anew, and another application was the natural result.

"Let me go," Cecil gasped.  "I was only joking—ouch! I was just joking,
I say," as he tried to release himself from Harvey’s tightening grip.

"So’m I," retorted Harvey; "just a piece of play, the same as yours—only
we’re kind o’ slow at seeing the fun of it, eh?" shaking the now solemn
humourist till his hair rose and fell—"I’d have seen the point a good
deal quicker if my mother hadn’t worked so hard," he went on, flushing
with the recollection and devoting himself anew to the facetious
industry. "Pick up those tarts," he thundered suddenly.

Cecil looked incredulously at his antagonist.  One glance persuaded him
and he slowly picked up one by the outer edge.

"Take ’em all—the whole three," Harvey directed in a low tense tone.
Which Cecil immediately did, not deeming the time opportune to refuse.

"Now give them to your horse," Harvey said; "you know you said you’d a
good mind to feed him with them."

"I won’t do it," Cecil declared stoutly.  "I’ll fight before I do it."

Harvey smiled.  "It won’t do to have any fighting," he said amiably.
"I’ll just give them to him myself—you better come along," he suggested,
tightening his grip as he saw Cecil glancing fondly towards the brow of
the hill, visions of a more peaceful scene calling him to return.

Harvey escorted his captive to the horse’s head; the equine was now wide
awake and taking a lively interest in the animated interview; such
preparations for mounting he had never seen before.  But he was
evidently disinclined to be drawn into the argument; for when Harvey
held the rhubarb pie, rather battle-worn now, beneath his nose, he
sniffed contemptuously and turned scornfully away.

Cecil, somewhat convalescent, indulged a sneering little laugh.  "Your
little joke don’t work," he said. "Pompey won’t look at "em."

"You’ll wish he had, before you’re through with them," Harvey returned
significantly—"you’ve got to eat them between you."

"Got to what?—between who?" Cecil gasped, years of grammatical
instruction wasted now as the dread prospect dawned grim and gray; "I
don’t understand you," he faltered, turning remarkably white for one so
utterly in the dark.

"It doesn’t need much understanding," Harvey returned laconically.  "Go
ahead."

Then the real struggle began; compared to this difference of opinion,
and the physical demonstration wherein it found expression, the previous
encounter was but as kittens’ frolic in the sun.

The opening argument concluded after a protracted struggle, Harvey
emerged uppermost, still pressing his hospitality upon the prostrate
Cecil.  "May as well walk the plank," he was saying; "besides, they’re
getting dryer all the time," he informed him as a friend.

"Let me up," gurgled Cecil.  Harvey promptly released him; seated on a
log, the latter began to renew the debate.

"I’ve had my dinner," he pleaded; "an’ I ate all I could."

"A little more won’t hurt you—always room at the top, you know.  Anyhow
it’s just dessert," responded Harvey, holding out one of the tarts.
Whereat Cecil again valiantly refused—and a worthy demonstration
followed.

The conquered at last kissed the rod and the solemn operation began,
Harvey cheerfully breaking off chunk after chunk and handing them to the
weary muncher.  "There’s lots of poor children in New York would be glad
to get them," he said in answer to one of Cecil’s most vigorous
protests.

"Say," murmured the stall-fed as he paused, almost mired in the middle
of tart number two, "let me take the rest home an’ eat ’em there—I’ll
really eat ’em—on my honour; I promise you," he declared solemnly.

"I’m surprised a fellow brought up like you would think of carryin’
stuff home to eat it—that’s bad form.  Here, take it—shut your eyes and
open your mouth," commanded his keeper, holding another generous
fragment to his lips.

"I say," gulped Cecil plaintively, "give us a drink—it’s chokin’ me."

"Shouldn’t drink at your meals," returned Harvey; "bad for your
digestion—but I guess a drop or two won’t hurt you.  Here, come this
way—put on your cap—an’ fetch that along," pointing at the surviving
tart; "the exercise’ll do you good," and he led the way downwards to a
little brook meandering through the woods.  No hand was on the victim’s
collar now; poor Cecil was in no shape for flight.

"Give us your cap," said Harvey, thrusting it into the sparkling water
and holding the streaming receptacle to Cecil’s lips; "that’s
enough—that’ll do just now; don’t want you to get foundered."

"I’ve had enough," groaned the guest a minute later, as if the moment
had only come; "I’ve got it nearly all down—an’ I hate crusts.  I won’t;
by heavens, I tell you I won’t," bracing himself as vigorously as his
cargo would permit.

"I’m the one to say when you’ve had enough," Harvey retorted shortly,
throwing himself into battle array as he spoke, "an’ you bet you’ll eat
the crusts—I’ll teach you to eat what’s set before you an’ make no
remarks about the stuff—specially when it’s not your own," he said,
reverting to the original offense and warming up at the recollection.
"You’d make a great fight, wouldn’t you—fightin’ you’d be like fightin’
a bread-puddin’," he concluded scornfully.

Cecil munched laboriously on.  "There," Harvey suddenly interrupted,
"now you’ve had enough—that wasn’t rhubarb you were eatin’," he flung
contemptuously at him; "’twas crow—an’ that’ll teach you to make sport
of folks you think beneath you. You’ll have some food for thought for a
while—you’d better walk round a bit," he concluded with a grin as he
turned and strode away, leaving the inlaid Cecil alone with his burdened
bosom.




                                 *XII*

                        _*THE ENCIRCLING GLOOM*_


Real boyhood, with its cheerfulness amid present cares and its oblivion
to those that were yet to come, was almost past.  Such at least would
have been the opinion of any accurate observer if he had noted Harvey’s
face that summer morning as he pressed along the city street.  A deeper
seriousness than mere years bestow looked out from the half-troubled,
half-hopeful gaze; not that it was ill-becoming—the contrary rather—for
there was something of steady resoluteness in his eyes that attested his
purpose to play some worthy part in this fevered life whose stern and
warlike face had already looked its challenge to his own.

How pathetic were many a poor procession—and how romantic too—if we
could but see the invisibles that accompany the humblest trudgers on the
humblest street!

For Memory and Hope and Fear and Sorrow and silent Pain—Death too,
noiselessly pursuing—and Love, chiefest of them all, mute and anguished
often-times, crowding Death aside and battling bravely in the shadowy
struggle; how often might all these be seen accompanying the lowly, had
we but the lightened vision!

Thus was it there that summer day.  The careless noticed nothing but a
well developed lad, his poor clothes as carefully repaired and brushed
as faithful hands could make them for his visit to the city; and they
saw beside him only a white-faced woman, her whole mien marked by
timidity and gentleness, as if she felt how poor and small was the part
she played in the surging life about her.  Both made their way
carefully, keeping close in under the shadow of the buildings, as if
anxious to escape the jostling throng. The woman’s hand was in her
son’s; she seemed to be trusting altogether to his guidance and
protection, and very tenderly he shielded her from the little perils of
the street.  Timidly, yet right eagerly, they made their way—for the
quest was a great one; and all the years to come, they knew, were
wrapped in the bosom of that anxious hour.

"Hadn’t we better get on one of those street cars, mother?" the boy
asked, glancing wistfully at a passing trolley.  "I’m sure you’re
tired."

"How much does it cost, Harvey?" the mother asked.

"I’m not very sure, but I think it’s ten cents for us both," he
answered, relaxing his pace.

The mother pressed on anew.  "We can’t afford it, dear," she said;
"it’ll take such a lot to pay the doctor—we’ll have to save all we can;
and I’m not very tired," she concluded, taking his hand again.

When, after much of scrutiny and more of enquiry, they stood at length
before the doctor’s imposing place, both instinctively stopped and gazed
a little, the outlines of the stately house floating but very dimly
before the woman’s wistful eyes.

"Will we ask him how much it costs before we go in?" Harvey’s mother
asked him anxiously.

The boy pondered a moment.  "I don’t think so," he said at length; "he
mightn’t like it."

"But perhaps we haven’t got enough."

"Well, we can send the rest after we get home—I’ve got the raspberry
money left."

The woman sighed and smiled together, permitting herself to be led on up
the steps.

Harvey’s hand was on the bell: "You don’t suppose he’ll do anything to
you, will he, mother?  He won’t hurt you, will he?"

"No, no, child, of course not; he’ll make me well," his mother said
reassuringly.  In a moment the bell was answered and the excited pair
were ushered in.

Nothing could have been more kindly than their reception at the hands of
the eminent doctor; nor could the most distinguished patient have been
more carefully and sympathetically examined.  Almost breathless, Harvey
sat waiting for the verdict.

But the doctor was very vague in his conclusions. "You must use this
lotion.  And—and we’ll hope for the best," he said; "and whenever you’re
in the city you must come and see me—don’t make a special trip for that
purpose, of course," he added cautiously.

"Why?" Harvey asked acutely.

The doctor made an evasive reply.  Harvey’s face was dark.

"How much is it?" he said in a hollow voice, his hand going to his
pocket as he spoke.

"Oh, that’s not important—we’ll just leave that till you’re in the city
again," said the kindly doctor, shaking Harvey playfully by the
shoulder.

"I’d sooner pay it now, sir; I’ve got—I’ve got some money," declared the
boy.

"Well, all right," returned the physician; "let me see—how would a
dollar appeal to you?  My charge will be one dollar," he said gravely.

Harvey was busy unwinding his little roll.  "It’s not very much," he
said without looking up; "I thought ’twould be a lot more than that—I
haven’t got anything smaller than five dollars, sir."

"Neither have I—what a rich bunch we are," the doctor answered quickly;
"I tell you—I’m liable to be up in Glenallen some of these days for a
bowling match; I’ll just collect it then," leading the way towards the
door as he spoke, his farewell full of cordial cheer.


Neither mother nor son uttered a word till they were some little
distance from the doctor’s office. Suddenly the former spoke.

"The world’s full of trouble, Harvey—but I believe it’s fuller of
kindness.  It’s wonderful how many tender-hearted folks there are.
Wasn’t it good of him?"

Harvey made no answer, but his hand loosened itself from hers.  "I
believe I—I forgot something," he said abruptly.  "Just wait here,
mother; I’ll be back in just a minute—you can rest here, see," leading
her to a bench on the green sward of a little crescent not much more
than half a stone’s throw away.

A minute later he was back in the doctor’s office, the surprised
physician opening the door himself. "What’s the matter, boy—forgotten
something?" he queried.

"No," Harvey answered stoutly, his face very white; "but I knew you
didn’t tell me everything, sir—and I want to know.  I want you to tell
me now, quick—mother’s waiting."

"Why do you want to know, laddie?"

"Because she’s my mother, sir.  And I’ve got a little sister at home—and
I’m going to take care of them both; and I want to know if mother’s eyes
are going to get better, sir," he almost panted, one statement chasing
the other as fast as the words could come.

The doctor’s face was soft with grave compassion; long years of
familiarity with human suffering had not chilled that sacred fire.
Putting his arm about the youth’s shoulder, he drew the throbbing form
close to him.  "My boy," he began in a low voice, "I won’t deceive you.
Your mother’s eyesight is almost gone.  But still," he hastened on as
the lad started and turned his pleading eyes up to the doctor’s face,
"it might come back—you can never tell.  It’s an affection of the optic
nerve—it’s often aggravated by a violent shock of some kind—and I’ve had
cases where it did come back.  It might return, lad, might come very
slowly or very suddenly—and I can say no more than that."

The poor boy never moved; the mournful eyes never wandered an instant
from the doctor’s face. The silence seemed long; at least to the
physician. One or two patients had arrived meantime, waiting in the
outer room—and a coachman’s shining hat could be seen through the
spacious window.  But it did not dawn on Harvey that such a doctor could
have any other care in all the world, or any serious duty except such as
now engrossed them both.

"What are you going to do?" the physician said presently.

"I’m going back to my mother," the boy answered simply, picking up his
hat.

"Oh, yes," and the other repressed a smile; "but I mean—what are you
going to do at home?  What will you go at in Glenallen—you go to school,
don’t you?"

"I’m going to work all the time," Harvey replied resolutely, moving
along the hall.

The doctor’s hand was on the door.  "I’m sorry for you, my lad," he said
gently.  "But there’s always hope—we’re all God’s patients after all,"
he added earnestly.

Harvey put his hand against the opening door, his face turning in
fullness of candour and trust towards the doctor.

"I’ve prayed about mother for a long time," he said; "is it any use to
keep on, sir?  You’re a specialist and you ought to know."

The doctor closed the door quite tight.  "Don’t let any specialist
settle that matter for you," he said a little hoarsely.  "It often seems
as if the good Lord wouldn’t begin till they get through.  So you pray
on, my lad—for there’s no healing, after all, but comes from God."  Then
he opened the door and the broken-hearted went out into the street.

Suffused and dim, blinking bravely through it all, were the mournful
eyes as Harvey retraced his steps towards his mother; swift and deep was
the train of thought that wound its way through his troubled mind.  For
there is no ally to deep and earnest thinking like a loving heart that
anguish has bestirred—all true quickening of our mental faculties is the
handiwork of the soul.  Harvey saw the trees, the sky, the birds
between—all different now, more precious, more wonderful to behold; for
he saw them in the light of his mother’s deepening darkness, and the
glory of all that was evanishing from her appeared the more beautiful,
pitifully beautiful, to his own misty eyes.

Involuntarily he thought of the future; of the twilight years that lay
beyond—and his inward eyes turned shuddering away.  The years that were
past, those at least that had come and gone before the threatening
shadow first appeared, seemed to lie behind him like a lane of light.
Poverty and obscurity and sorrow and care had been well content to abide
together in their humble home—almost their only guests save love.  Yet
his memory now of those earlier years was only of their gladness, their
happiness, their light—all the rest had vanished like a dream when one
awakes.  He remembered only that they two, the fatherless, had been wont
to look deep and lovingly into the eyes that looked back their wealth of
fondness into the children’s faces—night or day, day or night, that
light was never quenched; they could see her and she could see them—and
to look was to possess, though his early thoughts could not have defined
this mystic truth, cherish it fondly though they did.  But for the
future—ah me! for the future, with blindness in a mother’s eyes.


Yet Harvey’s thought, swift and pensive as it was, was troubled by no
prospect of burden for himself and by no apprehension of all the load
that must be moved, under cover of the fast-falling dark, from his
mother’s shoulders to his own.  His thought was what must be called
heart-thought, and that alone. If a fleeting view of new
responsibilities, or a melting picture of his sister’s face, hung for a
moment before the inward eye, it retreated fast before the great vision
that flooded his soul with tenderness, the vision of a woman—and she his
mother—sitting apart in the silence and the dark, the busy hands denied
the luxury of work, the ever-open Bible closed before her, the great
world of beauty receding into shadow; and, most of all, there rose
before him the image of her face, unresponsive and unsmiling when the
tender eyes of her own children should fall upon it, mutely searching,
yearning silently for the answering sunshine of days that would come no
more.

Without a word Harvey took his seat beside his mother.  Her hand slipped
quietly out and took his own, but without speech or sound—and in that
moment Harvey learned, as he had never known before, how cruel are the
lips of silence.  Suddenly he noticed a cab, rolling idly along, the
driver throwing his eyes hither and thither, poising like a kingfisher
for its plunge.

The boy raised his hand in signal and the cabby swooped down upon him
like one who has found his prey.

"Get in, mother—we’ll drive back," he said quietly.

His mother, startled beyond measure at the prospect of extravagance so
unwonted, began to remonstrate, almost refusing.  But a different note
seemed to have come into Harvey’s voice, his words touched with
something that indicated a new era, something of the authority that
great compassion gives, and in a moment she found herself yielding with
a dependent confidence she had never felt before.

"Where to?" asked the man.

"Anywhere," said Harvey—"somewhere near the station; I’ll tell you
where."

"It’ll—it’ll cost a dollar," the man ventured, his hand still on the
door and his eyes making a swift inventory of the boy’s rather
unpromising apparel.

"I’ll pay you," the latter answered sternly.  "Shut the door; close the
window too," he ordered—"close both the windows.  And don’t drive fast."

The spendthrift impulse must have been heaven-born and that vagrant
chariot been piloted from afar. For they two within felt something of
sanctuary peace as the driver vanished to his place and they found
themselves alone—alone with each other and the sorrow that was deep and
thrilling as their love. They could hear and feel the busy tide of life
about them; the pomp of wealth and the tumult of business frowned from
towering mansions, or swept indifferent by, knowing nothing, caring
less, about those nestling two who were all alone in the mighty city—but
they had each other, and the haughty world was shut out from them, all
its cruel grandeur, all its surging billows powerless to rob them of
what their stricken hearts held dear.  And, if the truth were told, many
a stately house and many a flashing carriage that passed them by, held
less of love’s real wealth than did the mud-bespattered cab that creaked
and rumbled on its way.

Several minutes elapsed before either spoke. Then the mother turned
towards the silent lad, her face sweet in the wistful smile that stole
across it.

"Did you find what you went back for, dear?" she asked.

Harvey cast one sharp agonized glance towards the gentle face—and it
told him all.  He knew then that the pain of either concealing or
revealing was to be spared him; but his heart leaped in pity and in
boundless love as he saw the light upon the worn face, the brave and
tender signal that he knew the wounded spirit had furnished all for him.

He spoke no answer to her words; he knew that she expected none.  But
the answer came nevertheless, and in richer language than halting words
could learn.  For he rose half erect in the carriage, careless as to
whether the world’s disdainful eye might see, his arms stealing around
the yielding and now trembling form with a strength and passion that
were the gift of the first really anguished hour his life had ever
known.

The woman felt its power, caught its message, even inwardly rejoiced in
the great security; pavilion like to this she had never found before in
all her storm-swept life.

"Oh, Harvey," she murmured at last, "Harvey, my son, God’s been good to
me; I’m almost happy when—when I feel how much you are to me now—and
Jessie too," she added quickly; "poor Jessie—it’ll be hard for her."

Mutely, reverently, guided from on high, Harvey strove to speak the
burden of his heart.  But it ended only in tears and tender tokens of
hand and lip, his sorrow outpouring the story of its pity and devotion
as best it could.

"I’ll always take care of you, mother," he whispered; "always—just like
you’ve taken care of us. And we’ll wait till you get better,
mother—we’ll wait together."

His mother’s fingers were straying about his hair. "I know it, darling,"
she said; "some ways I’m so poor, Harvey; but other ways I’m wonderfully
rich—the highest ways.  And now, Harvey," straightening up as she spoke,
"there’s something I want to attend to.  You must tell the man to drive
to a store where we get clothes—coats and things, you know. I want to
get something."

"What?" asked Harvey suspiciously.

"It’s for you.  It’s a winter coat—you know you haven’t one, Harvey."

Then followed a stout protest and then a vigorous debate.  But the
mother conquered.  "You mustn’t forget that I’m your mother, Harvey,"
she finally urged, and Harvey had no response for that.  But after they
had alighted and the purchase had been duly made he contrived to
withdraw the genial salesman beyond reach of his mother’s hearing.

"Have you got something the same price as this?" he asked hurriedly;
"something for a lady—a cloak, or a dressing-gown—one that would fit,
you know," he said, glancing in the direction of his mother.

The clerk was responsive enough; in a moment the exchange was effected,
and Harvey, his mother’s arm linked with his, led the way out to the
crowded street.

They made their way back to the station.  As Harvey passed within its
arching portals, he bethought himself sadly of the high hope, now almost
dead and gone, that had upborne his heart when last he had passed
beneath them.  It seemed like months, rather than a few hours, so
charged with suspense and feeling had those hours been.

The train was in readiness and they were soon settled for the homeward
journey.  But scarcely had they begun to move when the door before them
opened and Cecil Craig made his appearance.  He evidently knew that
Harvey and his mother were aboard, for his eye roamed enquiringly over
the passengers, resting as it fell on the two serious faces. Suddenly he
seemed to note that Harvey had pre-empted the seat opposite to the one
on which he and his mother had taken their places; a small valise and
the parcel containing the surreptitious purchase were lying on it.
Whereupon Cecil strode forward. "Take those things off," he
hectored—"Want the whole train to yourself?  Don’t you know that’s
against the rules—I want to sit there."

Harvey had not seen him approaching, for his eyes had been furtively
studying his mother’s face.  He started, looking up at Cecil almost as
though he were not there; then he quietly removed the encumbrances and
even turned the seat for Cecil to take his place.  He wondered dumbly to
himself what might be the cause of this strange calmness, this absolute
indifference; he did not know how a master-sorrow can make all lesser
irritations like the dust.

"Keep it," Cecil said insolently.  "I’m going back to the Pullman—I
wanted to see who’d walk the plank to-day," casting at Harvey a
contemptuous sneer the latter did not even see.  And no thought of
Cecil, or his insult, or his phantom triumph, mingled with Harvey’s
grave reflections as they rolled swiftly homeward; he had other matters
to consider, of more importance far.




                                 *XIII*

                         _*THE DEWS OF SORROW*_


The dusk was gathering about them as the returning travellers wended
their way along the almost deserted street.  The dim outline of the
slumbering hills could be seen across the river—for Glenallen had grown
in a circle upon surrounding heights—and as Harvey’s eyes rested now and
again upon them in the dying light of the summer day, he felt a secret
sense of help and comfort, as if some one knew and cared for his clouded
life. It seemed good to walk these streets again—so different from those
of the city—with the familiar faces and the kindly voices; and often was
he stopped and questioned, not without delicacy and chaste reserve, as
to the outcome of their pilgrimage.  Which gave his heart some balm, at
least for the moment.

"Look, mother," he cried suddenly, forgetting in his eagerness; "look—I
can see our light," his face glowing as if the gleam were from palace
windows. His mother raised her head quickly, as if she also saw.
Perhaps it was even clearer to her, though she beheld it not.  But
together they quickened their pace, for they knew that earth’s dearest
shelter, how humble soever it might be, was just before.

And as they came closer, Harvey could see, the white frock showing clear
against the shadows, the outline of his sister’s form.  Poor child, the
day had been long for her, waiting and wondering, the portent of the
tidings that the night might bring mingling with all her childish
thoughts.  She was moving out from the door-step now, peering eagerly,
starting forward or restraining herself again as doubt and certainty of
the approaching pair impelled her. Suddenly she seemed to be quite sure,
and with a little cry she bounded along the street, the eager footfalls
pattering with the rapidity of love.

The mother knew that music well; her hand slipped out of Harvey’s grasp,
the hungry arms outstretched as she felt the ardent form approaching—and
in a moment, tears and laughter blending, the girlish arms were tight
about the mother’s neck and warm kisses were healing the wound within.
Presently Jessie withdrew her face from the heaving bosom, her eyes
turned wistfully upon her mother’s, plaintively searching for the cure
her childlike hope had expected to find obvious at a glance.
Disappointment and pain spoke from her eyes—she could see no
difference—and she turned almost reproachfully upon her brother.

"What did he—what——?" she began; but something on Harvey’s face fell
like a forbidding finger on her lips and her question died in silence.

"I brought you something pretty from the city, Jessie," the mother broke
in.  She knew what had checked the words.  "It’s in the satchel,
dear—and we’ll open it as soon as we get home."

"What’s in that other bundle?" asked the child.

"It’s Harvey’s winter coat," replied the mother.

"I’m so glad," Jessie said simply.  "And oh, I’ve got good news too,"
she went on enthusiastically. "I sold three pairs of those knitted
stockings—all myself; and the man wouldn’t take any change—I only asked
him once.  It was thirty-one cents—and the money’s in the cup," she
concluded eagerly as they passed within the little door, the bell above
clanging their welcome home.

The valise was duly opened and Jessie’s present produced amid great
elation.  Only a simple blue sash, selected by her brother with grave
deliberation from the assortment on a bargain counter that lay like
victims on an altar; but Jessie’s joy was beautiful to behold, aided and
abetted in it as she was by the other two, both mother and son trying on
the flashing girdle, only to declare that it became Jessie best of all.

Suddenly the girl exclaimed: "Oh, Harvey, the chickens missed you so.
I’m sure they did—Snappy wouldn’t take any supper.  They’re in bed, of
course, but I don’t think they’re sleeping—let’s just go out and see
them.  Come."

Harvey was willing enough, and the two sallied out together.  But Jessie
held her hand tight on the door, drowsy chucklings within all unheeded,
as she turned her white face upon her brother.

"Now," she said imperiously, the voice low and strained, "tell me—tell
me quick, Harvey."

"I thought you wanted me to see the chickens," he evaded.

"I hate the chickens—and that was a lie about Snappy’s supper.  I just
wanted to ask you about mother.  Tell me quick, Harvey."

Harvey stammered something; but he needed to say no more—the girl sank
sobbing at his feet.

"I knew it," she cried.  "I just knew it—oh, mother, mother!  And she’ll
soon never see again, and it’ll always be night all the time—an’ she’ll
never look at you or me any more, Harvey, she’ll never look at you or me
again.  An’ I got a little photograph took to-day, a little tintype—just
five cents—an’ I thought she’d be able to see it when she came back.
Oh, Harvey, Harvey," and the unhappy child, long years a struggler with
poverty and cloud, poured forth, almost as with a woman’s voice, the
first strain of anguish her little heart had ever known.

Harvey sank beside her, his arm holding her close. The twilight was now
deepening into dark, a fitting mantel for these two enshadowed hearts.
The still form of the bending brother, already giving promise of
manhood’s strength, seemed, even in outward aspect, to speak of inner
compassion as he bended over the slender and weaker frame of his little
sister. Strong and fearless and true he was; and if any eye had been
keen enough to penetrate that encircling gloom and catch a vision of all
that lay behind the humble scene, the knightly soul of the struggling
boy would have stood forth like a sheltering oak—so powerless,
nevertheless, to shield the clinging life beside him, overswept as it
was by the winds and waves of sorrow.  But the purpose and the heart
were there—the fatherless spreading gentle wings above the
fatherless—and the scene was a holy one, typical of all humanity at its
highest, and faintly faltering the story of the Cross.  For if human
tenderness and pity are not lights, broken though they be, of the great
Heart Divine, then all life’s noblest voices are but mockery and lies.

"Don’t, Jessie, please don’t," he murmured, his own tears flowing fast.
"It’ll only keep her from getting better—she’ll see your eyes all red
an’——"

"She won’t—she can’t," sobbed the girl; "you know she can’t—she can’t
see, Harvey," a fresh tide outbreaking at the thought.

"But she’ll feel it, Jessie.  Mothers can feel everything like
that—’specially everybody’s own mother," he urged, vainly trying to
control his own grief. "And anyhow, the doctor said she might get better
some time—perhaps all of a sudden.  And we’ve got to help her, Jessie;
and we’ve got to make her happy too—and we can—mother said we could," he
cried, his tone growing firmer as the great life-work loomed before him.

Hope is the most contagious of all forms of health; and with wonderful
gentleness and power the youthful comforter drew the sobbing heart
beside him into the shelter of his own tender courage, the hiding-place
of his own loving purpose.  Soon Jessie was staring, wide-eyed, at her
brother, as he unfolded the new duties they must perform together.  That
word itself was never used, but her heart answered, as all true hearts
must ever answer, to the appeal of God.

"I’ll try, Harvey," she said at last.  "I’ll do the best I can to help
mother to get well—an’ I’ll get up in the mornings an’ make the porridge
myself," she avowed, smiling, the first step showing clear.

Hand in hand they went back to the house, the light of eager purpose
upon both their faces. As they entered, a familiar voice fell on
Harvey’s ear.

"We was jest a-goin’ by,"—it was David Borland’s staccato—"an’ I thought
I’d drop in an’ see if you was all safe home.  Don’t take off your
things, Madeline; we’re not a-visitin’," he said to the girl beside him.
For she was bidding fair to settle for a protracted stay.

"Yes, we’re safe home, thank you," answered Mrs. Simmons, "and it’s
lovely to get back.  I’m a poor traveller."

"’Tain’t safe to travel much these days," rejoined Mr. Borland after he
had greeted Harvey; whose face, as well as a fugitive word or two,
hushed any queries that were on David’s lips—"so many accidents, I
always feel skeery on the trains—must be hard to run Divine
predestination on schedule, since they got them heavy engines on the
light rails.  I often think the undertakers is part of the railroad
trust," he concluded, smiling sententiously into all the faces at once.

Some further conversation ensued, prompted in a general way by the
excursion to the city, and dealing finally with the question of eminent
city doctors and their merits.

"I only went onct to a big city man like that," David said
reminiscently, "and it was about my eyes, too.  You see, I rammed my
shaving-brush into one, one evenin’ when I was shavin’ in the dusk.
Well, I was awful skeery about what he’d charge—didn’t have much of the
almighty needful in them days.  An’ I heard he charged the
Governor-General’s missus five thousand dollars, a week or two before,
for takin’ a speck o’ dust out of her eye—castin’ out the mote, as the
Scriptur says; I’d leave a sand-pit stay there before I’d shell out like
that.  Well, anyhow, I was skeered, ’cause I knew me an’ the nobility
had the same kind of eyes.  So I didn’t dress very good—wore some old
togs.  An’ after he got through—just about four minutes an’ a half—I
asked him what was the damage.  Says he: ’What do you do, Mr. Borland?’
’I work in a foundry,’ says I. ’Oh, well,’ says he, ’call it five
dollars.’  So I yanked out a roll o’ bills about the size of a hind
quarter o’ beef, an’ I burrows till I gets a five—then I gives it to
him.  ’How do you come to have a wad like that, Mr. Borland,’ says he,
’if you work in a foundry?’ ’I own the foundry,’ says I, restorin’ the
wad to where most Scotchmen carries their flask.  ’Oh!’ says he, lookin’
hard at the little fiver.  ’Oh, I’ll give you another toadskin,’ says I,
’jest to show there’s no hard feelin’.’  ’Keep it,’ says he—an’ he was
laughin’ like a guinea hen, ’keep it, an’ buy a marble monument for
yourself, and put at the bottom of it what a smart man you was,’" and
David slapped his knee afresh in gleeful triumph.  For the others, too,
there was laughter and to spare; which very purpose David had designed
his autobiography to accomplish. A moment later Madeline and her father
were at the door, the little circle, laughing still, around him as they
stepped without.

"You’re a terrible one for shakin’ hands, girl," David said to his
daughter as they stood a moment on the step.  "That’s a habit I never
got much into me."  For Madeline’s farewell had had much of meaning in
it, the sweet face suffused with sympathy as she shook hands with
all—the mother first, then Jessie, then Harvey—and the low voice had
dropped a word or two that told the depth and sincerity of her feeling.
When she said good-bye to Harvey, the pressure of her hand, light and
fluttering as it was, found a response so warm and clinging that a quick
flush overflowed her face, before which the other’s fell, so striking
was its beauty, so full of deep significance the message of the strong
and soulful eyes.  Her father’s child was she, and the fascination of
sorrow had early touched her heart.

The door was almost closed when David turned to call back lustily:

"Oh, Harvey—Harvey, Mr. Nickle wants to see you; Geordie Nickle, you
know; an’ if you come round to my office to-morrow about half-past four,
I think you’ll find him there.  He’s got a great scheme on; he’s the
whitest man I ever run acrost, I think—for a Scotchman."




                                 *XIV*

                     _*THE WEIGHING OF THE ANCHOR*_


Surely the years love best to ply their industry among the young.  For
two or three of them, each taking up the work where its predecessor laid
it down, can transform a youth or maiden to an extent that is really
wonderful. Perhaps this is because the young lend themselves so
cheerfully to everything that makes for change, and resent all tarrying
on life’s alluring way.  They love to make swift calls at life’s chief
ports, so few in number though they be; they are impatient to try the
open sea beyond, unrecking that the last harbour and the long, long
anchorage are all too near at hand.

The difference that these silent craftsmen can soon make upon a face
might have been easily visible to any observant eye, had such an eye
been cast one evening upon the still unbroken circle of the Simmons
home.  The mother had changed but little; nor had anything changed to
her—unless it were that all upon which her eyes had closed shone
brighter in the light that memory imparts.  Still holding her secret
hidden deep, her fondness for those left to her seemed but to deepen as
the hope of her husband’s return grew more and more faint within. If the
hidden tragedy delved an ever deeper wound under cover of her silence,
it had no outward token but an intenser love towards those from whom she
had so long concealed it.

But Jessie and Harvey had turned the time to good account.  For the
former had almost left behind the stage of early childhood, merging now
into the roundness and plumpness—and consciousness, too—that betoken a
girl’s approach to the sunlit hills of womanhood.

Yet Harvey had changed the most of all.  The stalwart form had taken to
itself the proportions of opening manhood—height, firmness, breadth of
shoulders, length of limb, all made a strong and comely frame.  The
poise of the head indicated resolute activity, and the evening light
that now played upon his face revealed a countenance in which sincerity,
seriousness, hopefulness, might be traced by a practiced eye.  Humour,
too, was there—that twin sister unto seriousness—maintaining its own
place in the large eyes that had room for other things beside; and the
glance that was sometimes turned upon the autumn scene without, but
oftener upon his mother and his sister, was eloquent of much that lay
behind. The tuition of his soul had left its mark upon his face.  Early
begun and relentlessly continued, it had taught him much of life, of
life’s ways and life’s severities—not a little, too, of the tactics she
demands from all who would prevail in the stern battle for which he had
been compelled so early to enlist.  New duties, unusual
responsibilities, severe mental exercise such as serious study gives,
stern self-denial, constant thought of others, these had conspired to
provide the manly seriousness upon the still almost boyish face.

Autumn reigned without, as has been already said, and in robes of gold.
Glowing and glorious, the oak and the elm and the maple wrapt in bridal
garments, glad nature went onward to her death, mute preceptress to
pagan Christians as to how they too should die.

A graver autumn reigned within.  For the little circle was to be broken
on the morrow, and the humble home was passing through one of earth’s
truest crises, giving up an inmate to the storm and peril of the great
world without.  The world itself may smile, stretching forth indifferent
hands to receive the outgoing life; what cares the ocean for another
swimmer as he joins the struggling throng?—but was the surrender ever
made without tumult and secret tears?

"Look, look," Jessie cried, as she turned her face a moment from the
pane; "there goes Cecil and Madeline—I guess he’s taking her for a
farewell drive."

In spite of himself, Harvey joined his sister at the window.

"Is Madeline with him?" he said, throwing quite an unusual note of
carelessness into the words.

"Yes, that’s the second time they’ve driven past here—at least, I’m
almost sure it was them before," Jessie averred, straining her neck a
little to follow the disappearing carriage.

"I wonder what he’ll do with his horse when he’s away," Harvey pursued,
bent on an irrelevant theme, and thankful that the light was dim.  The
inward riot that disturbed him would have been much allayed could he
have known that the parade before their door was of Madeline’s own
contriving; presuming, that is, that he understood the combination of
the woman-heart.

"Doesn’t it seem strange, Harvey, that you and Cecil should start for
the University the very same day?—he’s going on the same train in the
morning, isn’t he?" enquired Jessie, her eyes abandoning their pursuit.

"I think so," her brother answered carelessly. "Jessie," he digressed
decisively, "I want you to promise me something.  I’m going to write you
a letter every week, and I want you to take and read it—or nearly all of
it; sometimes there’ll be bits you can’t—to Mr. Nickle.  If it weren’t
for him—for him and Mr. Borland—I wouldn’t be going to college at all,
as you know."

"That I will," the sister answered heartily; "I think he’s just the
dearest old man.  And I can manage it easily enough—there’s hardly a day
but he comes into the store to buy something.  He and Mr. Borland always
seem to be wanting something, something that we’ve always got, too.
They must eat an awful lot of sweet stuff between them.  And every time
Mr. Nickle comes in, he says: ’Weel, hoo’s the scholarship laddie the
day?’—he’s awfully proud about you getting the scholarship, Harvey."

Her brother’s face brightened.  "Well there’s one thing I’m mighty glad
of," he said, "and that is that I won’t be very much of a charge for my
first year at any rate—that hundred and fifty will help to see me
through."

"But you mustn’t stint yourself, Harvey," the mother broke in with
tender tone.  "You must get a nice comfortable place to board in, and
have a good warm bed—and lots of good nourishing things to eat.  I know
I’ll often be waking up in the night and wondering if you’re cold.  Do
you know, dear," she went on, her voice trembling a little, "we’ve never
been a night separated since you were born—it’s going to be hard for a
while, I’m afraid," she said a little brokenly as the youth nestled down
beside her, his head resting on her lap as in the old childhood days.

"It’ll be harder for me, mother," he said; "but I think I’d be almost
happy if you were well again.  It nearly breaks my heart to think of
leaving you here in—in the dark," he concluded, his arm stealing fondly
about her neck.

The woman bended low to his caress.  "Don’t, Harvey—you mustn’t.  It’s
not the dark—it’s never dark where Christ abides," she broke out with a
fervour that almost startled him, for it was but rarely that she spoke
like this.  "I’ve got so much to thank God for, my son—it’s always light
where love makes it light.  And I’m so proud and happy that you’re going
to get the chance you need, Harvey. Oh, but He’s been good to my little
ones," she cried, her voice thrilling with the note of real gratitude
that is heard, strangely enough, only from those who sit among the
shadows.  The noblest notes of praise have come from lips of pain.

"You’ll write to me, won’t you, mother?—you’ll tell Jessie what to say,
and it’ll be almost like getting it from yourself."

"Oh, yes," she answered quickly, "and I’ll always be able to sign my
name.  And if you’re ever in trouble, Harvey—or if you’re ever
tempted—and that’s sure to come in a great city like the one you’re
going to—remember your mother’s praying for you.  I’m laid aside, I
know, my son, and there’s not much now that I can do; but there’s one
thing left to me—I have the throne of grace; and if any one knows its
comfort, surely it’s your mother."

"Mother, won’t you tell me something?" he interrupted decisively.

"What is it, my son?"

"Isn’t there something else, mother—some other sorrow, I mean—that I
don’t know about?  I’ve had a feeling for a long time that there was—was
something else."

The mother was long in answering.  But she raised her hand and drew his
arm tighter about her neck, the protecting love very sweet.  "There’s
nothing but what I get grace to bear—don’t ask me more, my child," and
as she spoke the bending boy felt the hot tears begin to fall.  They
soon came thick and fast, for the mother’s heart was melting within her,
and as he felt the sacred drops upon his head the son’s soul rose up in
purpose and devotion, making its solemn vow that he would be worthy of a
love so great.

The evening wore away, every hour precious to them all.  Very simple and
homely were the counsels that fell from the mother’s lips; that he must
be careful about making new acquaintances, especially such as would hail
him on the street, and speak his name, and cite his friends in
witness—they doubtless all knew about the scholarship money; that he
must study with his light behind him—not in front—and never later than
half-past ten; that a couple of pairs of stockings, at the very least,
must always be on hand in case of wet feet and resultant colds; that if
cold in bed, he must ask for extra covering—he simply must not be afraid
to ask for what he wants; that he must be very careful on those crowded
city streets, especially of the electric cars; that in case of illness
he must telegraph immediately, regardless of expense; that he must not
forsake the Bible-class on Sabbath afternoons, but find one there and
enroll himself at once; that he must accept gladly if fine people asked
him to their homes, caring nothing though other students may be better
dressed than he—they didn’t get the scholarship, anyhow.

And Harvey promised all.  More than likely that he took the admonitions
lightly; he was not so much concerned with them as with the conflicting
emotions that possessed him, eager joy that the battle was about to
begin in earnest and yearning sympathy for the devoted hearts he was to
leave behind.  If all to which he was going forth loomed before him as a
battle, it was as a delicious battle, whose process should be perpetual
pleasure, its issue decisive victory.  No thought of its real peril, its
subtle conflict, its despairing hours, marred the prospect of the
beckoning years; he knew not how he would yet revise his estimates as to
who are our real enemies, nor did he dream that his fiercest foes would
be found within—and that the battle of inward living is, after all has
been said and done, the battle of life itself.

"And now, my children," the mother said at last when the evening was far
spent, "we’d better go to our rest, for we’ll need to be up early in the
morning.  But I want to have a little prayer with you before we
part—we’ll just kneel here;" and she sank beside her chair, an arm about
either child.  It was quite dark, for none seemed to wish a light—they
knew it could add nothing to the mother’s vision—and in simple, earnest
words, sometimes choking with the emotion she could not control, she
committed her treasures to her God.  "Oh, keep his youthful feet, our
Father," the trustful voice implored, "and never let them wander from
the path; help him in his studies and strengthen him in his soul—and
keep us here at home in Thy blessed care, and let us all meet again.
For Jesus’ sake."

The light—that light that they enjoy who need no candle’s glow—was about
them as they arose, the mother’s hand in Jessie’s as they turned away.
Harvey sought the shelter of the room that was so soon to be his no
more.  He closed the door as he entered, falling on his knees beside the
bed to echo his mother’s prayer.  Then he hurriedly undressed and was
soon fast asleep.

It was hours after, the silent night hurrying towards the dawn, when he
suddenly awoke, somewhat startled.  For he felt a hand upon his brow,
and the clothes were tight about him.  Looking up, he dimly discerned
his mother’s face; white-robed, she was bending over him.

"Don’t be frightened, Harvey; go to sleep, dear—it’s only me.  I wanted
to tuck you in once more, like I used to do when you were little.  Oh,
Harvey," and a half cry escaped her as she bent down and put her arms
about him, "I don’t know how to give you up—but go to sleep, dear, go to
sleep."

But Harvey was now wide awake, clinging to his mother.  "Don’t go," he
said, "stay with me a little."

There was a long silence.  At last Harvey spoke:

"What are you thinking about, mother?"

The woman drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders and settled herself
on the bed.  "I think I’ll tell you, Harvey," she said in a whisper; "it
seems easier to tell you in the dark—and when Jessie’s asleep."

"What is it?" he asked eagerly.  "Is it anything that’s hard to say?"

"Yes, my son, it’s hard to tell—but I think I ought to tell it.  Are you
wide awake, Harvey?"

"Yes, mother.  What is it?" he asked again.

"Do you remember, Harvey, the night you went to join the church?—and how
I walked with you as far as the door?—and we went into the cemetery
together?  Don’t you remember, Harvey?"

"Yes, mother, of course I do.  But why?"

"Can you remember how, when we were standing at the baby’s grave, you
asked me why your father never joined the church, and I said he didn’t
think he was good enough—and you asked me why, and I said I’d tell you
some time.  Do you remember that, my son?"

"Yes," Harvey answered slowly, his mind working fast.

"Well, I’m going to tell you now.  Your father was so good to me,
Harvey—at least, nearly always. But he used"—she buried her face in the
pillow—"this is what I’m going to tell you, Harvey; he used—he used to
drink sometimes."

The form beside her lay still as death.  "Sometimes he used to—we were
so happy, till that began. And oh, Harvey, nobody can ever know what a
dreadful struggle it is, till they’ve seen it as I saw it. For he loved
you, my son, he loved you and Jessie like his own soul—and it was the
company he got into—and some discouragements—and things like that, that
were to blame for it.  But the struggle was terrible, Harvey—like
fighting with one of those dreadful snakes that winds itself about you.
And I could do so little to help him."

She could feel his breath coming fast, his lips almost against her
cheek.  A little tremor preceded his question.  "Was he—was father all
right when he died?"

It was well he could not see the tell-tale lips, nor catch the quiver
that wrung the suffering face.  "Oh, Harvey," she began tremblingly, "I
asked you never to speak of that—it hurts me so.  And I wanted to tell
you," she hurried evasively on, "that his own father had the same
failing before him.  And I’m so frightened, Harvey, so frightened—about
you—you know it often descends from father to son.  And when I think of
you all alone in the big city—oh, Harvey, I want you to——" and the rest
was smothered in sobs as the sorrow-riven bosom rose and fell, the tears
streaming from the sightless eyes.

Both of Harvey’s arms were tight about his mother, his broken voice
whispering his vow with passionate affection.

"Never, mother, never; I promise," he murmured. "Oh, my mother, you’ve
had so much of sorrow—if you want me, I won’t go away at all.  I’ll stay
and take care of you and Jessie, if you want me, mother," the strong
arms clinging tighter.  But she hushed the suggestion with a word,
gently withdrawing herself and kissing him good-night again.

"Go to sleep, my son," she said gently; "you’ve got a long journey
before you," and he knew the significance of the words; "God has given
me far more of joy than sorrow," as she felt her way to the door and
onwards to her room.

Long he lay awake, engulfed in a very tumult of thoughts and memories;
finally he fell into a restless slumber.  The day was dimly breaking
when he suddenly awoke, thinking he heard a noise.  Stealing from his
bed, he crept across the room, peering towards his mother’s.  He could
see her in the uncertain light; she was bending over his trunk, the
object of her solicitude for many a previous day, and her hands were
evidently groping for something within.  Soon they reappeared, and he
could see a Bible in them, new and beautiful.  She had a pen in one
hand, and for a moment she felt about the adjoining table for the
ink-well she knew was there. Finding it, the poor ill-guided pen sought
the fly-leaf of the book she held; it took long, but it was love’s
labour and was done with care.  She waited till the ink was dry, then
closed the volume, kissed it with longing tenderness and replaced it in
the trunk. Rising, she made her way to a chest of drawers, opened one or
two before her hands fell on what she wanted, and then produced a little
box carefully wrapped in oilcloth.  Some little word she scrawled upon
it, and the unpretentious parcel—only some simple luxury that a mother’s
love had provided against sterner days—was deposited at the very bottom
of the trunk. She closed the lid and kneeled reverently beside the now
waiting token of departure; Harvey crept back to his bed again, his
sight well-nigh as dim as hers. When the little family gathered the next
morning at the breakfast-table the mother’s face bore a look of deep
content, as if some burden had been taken from her mind.  And the
valiant display of cheerfulness on the part of all three was quite
successful, each marvelling at the sprightliness of the other two. They
were just in the middle of the meal when the tinkling bell called Jessie
to the shop.  A moment later she returned, bearing a resplendent cluster
of roses.  "They’re for you, Harvey," she said, "and I think it’s a
great shame—boys never care anything for flowers.  They ought to be for
me."  But she did not hand them to her brother, nor did he seem to
expect them.  For she walked straight to the mother’s chair, holding
them before her; and the patient face sank among them, drinking deep of
their rich fragrance.

"Who sent them, Jessie?" her brother asked with vigorous brevity.

"I don’t know—the boy wouldn’t tell.  He said ’a party’ gave him ten
cents to hand them in—and the party didn’t want the name given.  I hate
that ’party’ business; you can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman.  I
guess it wasn’t a man, though—look at the ribbon."

One would have said that Harvey thought so too, judging by the light on
his face.  "I’ll take the ribbon," he said, "and just one rose—you and
mother can have the rest."

"Then you’re sure it wasn’t a man sent them?" returned the knowing
Jessie.

"No, I’m not—what makes you say that?"

"Well—what are you taking the ribbon for, if you’re not?"

"Because—because, well, because it’s useful, for one thing; I can tie my
lunch up in it, or a book or two—anything like that," Harvey replied,
smiling at his adroit defense.  "Who’s this—why, if it’s not Mr. Nickle
and Mr. Borland!" rising as he spoke to greet the most welcome guests.

"Ye’ll hae to pardon us, Mrs. Simmons," Geordie’s cheery voice was the
first to say; "David here brocht me richt through the shop, richt ben
the hoose, wi’oot rappin’.  We wantit to say good-bye till the
laddie—only he’s mair a man nor a laddie noo."

"It was Mr. Nickle that dragged me in by the scuff o’ the neck,"
interjected Mr. Borland, nodding to all the company at once.  "When he
smelt the porridge, you couldn’t see him for dust. Hello! where’d you
get the roses?—look awful like the vintage out at our place.  Don’t
rise, Mrs. Simmons; we just dropped in to tell Harvey tra-la-la."

"I’m glad to find ye’re at the porridge, laddie," Geordie said genially,
as he took the chair Jessie had handed him.  "The porridge laddies aye
leads their class at the college, they tell me—dinna let them gie ye ony
o’ yon ither trash they’re fixin’ up these days to dae instead o’
porridge; there’s naethin’ like the guid auld oatmeal."

"You Scotch folks give me a pain," broke in David; "how any one can eat
the stuff, I can’t make out.  The fact is, I don’t believe Scotchmen
like it themselves—only it’s cheap, an’ it fills up the hired men so
they can’t eat anythin’ else.  Unless it’s because their ancestors ate
it," he continued thoughtfully.  "I’ll bet my boots there’s Scotchmen in
Glenallen that’s eatin’ porridge to-day jest because their grandfathers
ate it; an’ they’ll put it down if it kills ’em—an’ their kids’ll eat it
too or else they’ll know the reason why.  It’d be just the same if it
was bran—they’d have to walk the plank.  But there ain’t no horse blood
in me, thank goodness," he concluded fervently.

"Jealousy’s an awfu’ sair disease," retorted Geordie, smiling pitifully
at the alien; "but we canna a’ be Scotch."

"I’m so glad you came in," Harvey began, turning to his visitors as the
laughter subsided; "we were just speaking of your kindness last
night—and I’m glad to have a chance to thank you again just before I go
away."

"Stap it," Geordie interrupted sternly.  "That’s plenty o’ that kind o’
thing—I’ll gang oot if there’s ony mair, mind ye," he declared
vehemently, for there are few forms of pain more intolerable to natures
such as his.

"You’ll have to be careful, Harvey," cautioned Mr. Borland; "he’s one o’
the kind that don’t want their left hand to know the stunt their right
hand’s doin’.  Very few Scotchmen likes the left hand to get next to
what the right one’s at—it wouldn’t know much, poor thing, in the most
o’ cases," he added pitifully—"but our friend here’s a rare kind of a
Scotchman.  By George, them’s terrible fine roses," he digressed, taking
a whiff of equine proportions.

"I canna gang till the station wi’ ye, Harvey—David’s gaein’," said
Geordie Nickle, taking his staff and rising to his feet, "but guid-bye,
my laddie, an’ the blessin’ o’ yir mither’s God be wi’ ye," and the
kindly hand was unconsciously laid on Harvey’s head.  "We’re expectin’
graun’ things o’ ye at the college.  I mind fine the mornin’ I left my
faither’s hoose in Hawick; he aye lifted the tune himsel’ at family
worship—an’ that mornin’, I mind the way his voice was quaverin’.  These
was the words:

    ’Oh, spread Thy coverin’ wings around
    Till all our wanderin’s cease,’

an’ I dinna ken onythin’ better for yirsel’ the day. Guid-bye, my
laddie—an’ ’a stoot heart tae a steep brae’, ye ken."

As Harvey returned from seeing the old man to the door, Jessie beckoned
him aside into his room, not yet set to rights after his fitful slumbers
of the night before.

"Harvey," she began in very serious tones, "I only want to say a word;
it’s to give a promise—and to get one.  And I want you to promise me
faithfully, Harvey."

"What is it, sister?" he asked, his gaze resting fondly on the girlish
face.

"Well, it’s just this.  You see this room?" Harvey nodded.  "And this
bed?—you know I’m going to have your room after you’re gone.  Well, it’s
about mother—I’m going to pray for her here every night; right here,"
touching the side of the bed as she spoke. "Dr. Fletcher said it would
be sure to help—I mean for her sight to come back again; I asked him
once at Sunday-school."

"The doctor in the city told me that, too," broke in her brother.

"Dr. Fletcher knows better’n him," the other declared firmly—"he said
God made lots o’ people see because other people prayed.  An’ I want you
to always ask the same thing—at the same time, Harvey, at the very same
time; an’ when I’m asking here, I’ll know you’re doing the very same
wherever you are.  You’ll promise me, won’t you, Harvey?"

Harvey’s heart was full; and the unsteadiness that marked his words was
not from any lack of sympathy and purpose.  "What time, Jessie?" he
asked in a moment.  "Would eight o’clock be a good time?"

"I don’t think so," the girl said after pondering a moment.  "You see,
I’ll often be in bed at eight—I’m going to work very hard, you know.  I
think half-past seven would be better."

Thus was the solemn tryst arranged, and Harvey bade his sister good-bye
before he passed without for the last farewell to his mother.

No tears, no outward sign, marked the emotion of the soulful moment, and
soon Harvey and Mr. Borland had started for the station.  Once, and only
once, did the youth look behind; and he saw his mother’s tender face,
unseeing, but still turned in wistful yearning towards her departing
son.  Jessie was clinging to her skirts, her face hidden—but the
mother’s was bright in its strength and hopefulness, and the image sank
into his heart, never to be effaced.

It was evident, from the long silence he preserved, that David was
reflecting upon things in general. Harvey was coming to understand him
pretty well, and knew that the product would be forthcoming shortly.
Nor was he disappointed.

"They’re great on givin’ advice, ain’t they?"

"Who?" enquired Harvey, smiling in advance.

"Them Scotch folks—they’d like awful well to be omnipotent, wouldn’t
they?  It’s pretty nigh the only thing they think they lack.  It’s great
fun to hear a Scotchman layin’ down the law; they don’t see no use in
havin’ ten commandments unless they’re kept—by other people."

"You’re not referring to Mr. Nickle, are you?" ventured Harvey.

"Oh, no! bless my soul.  Geordie’s all wool and sixteen ounces to the
pound," responded Mr. Borland, prodigal of his metaphors.  "That’s what
set me thinkin’ of Scotchmen in general, ’cause they’re so different
from Geordie.  That was an elegant programme he fired at you there;
what’s this it was, again?—oh, yes, ’when it’s stiff climbin’, keep your
powder dry’—somethin’ like that, wasn’t it?"

"He gave it the Scotch," answered Harvey, "’a stoot heart tae a steep
brae,’ I think it was."

"That’s what I said," affirmed David, "an’ it’s a bully motto.  It’s
mine," he avowed, turning and looking gravely at Harvey.  "I heard a
fellow advertisin’ a nigger show onct; he was on top of the tavern
sheds, with a megaphone.  ’If you can’t laugh, don’t come,’ he was
bellerin’—an’ I thought it was elegant advice.  Kind o’ stuck to me all
these years.  You take it yourself, boy, an’ act on it—you’ll have lots
of hard ploughin’ afore you’re through."

"It suits me all right," Harvey responded cheerfully; "they say
laughter’s good medicine."

"The very best—every one should have a hogshead a day; it washes out
your insides, you see.  If a man can’t laugh loud, he ain’t a good man,
I say.  I was talkin’ about that to Robert McCaig the other day—you know
him, he’s the elder—terrible nice man he was, too, till he got
religion—an’ then he took an awful chill.  By and by he got to be an
elder—an’ then he froze right to the bottom.  Well, he’s agin
laughin’—says it’s frivolous, you see.  I told him the solemnest people
was the frivolousest—used the rich fool for an illustration; he was
terrible solemn, but he was a drivellin’ _ejut_ inside, to my way o’
thinkin’. Robert up an’ told me we don’t read of the Apostle Paul ever
laughin’—thought he had me.  What do you think I gave him back?"

"Couldn’t imagine," said Harvey, quite truthfully.

"’That don’t prove nothin’,’ says I; ’we don’t ever read of him takin’ a
bath, or gettin’ his hair cut,’ says I, ’but it was him that said
godliness was next to cleanliness.’  An’ Robert got mad about it—that’s
how I knew I had him beat.  He said I was irreverent—but that ain’t no
argyment, is it?" appealed David seriously.

His companion’s opinion, doubtless favourable, was hindered of
expression by the snort of the approaching locomotive, signal for a
sprint that was rather vigorous for further exchange of views.  There
was barely time for the purchase of a ticket and the checking of the
trunk, the conductor already standing with one eye on the baggage truck
and the other on the grimy figure that protruded from the engine window.

"I ain’t Scotch," David said hurriedly, as he and Harvey stood together
at the rear platform of the train, "but I had a father, for all that,
just the same as all them Sandys seem to have.  An’ when I was pikin’
out to find the trail—it’s a long time ago—the old man stood just like
I’m standin’ here with you, an’ he says to me: ’David,’ he says, ’trust
in God an’ do your duty.’  An’ I believe them’s the best runnin’ orders
on the road.  The old Sandys can’t beat that much, can they?"

Harvey had no chance to make reply; for almost in the same breath David
went on, thrusting an envelope into his hand as he spoke: "Here’s a
letter of interduction I want you to present to a fellow in the
city—he’s the teller in the Merchants’ Bank, an’ you might find him
helpful," David concluded with a hemispheric grin; "hope you’ll endorse
my suggestion," he added, the grin becoming spherical.

Harvey tried to protest as best he could, protest and gratitude
mingling; but the train was already moving out and his communications
were chiefly in tableau.

"That’s all right," David roared above the din; "good-bye, my boy.
Remember Geordie Nickle’s motto—an’ don’t blow out the gas."




                                  *XV*

                         _*A PARENTAL PARLEY*_


"Better eat all you can, Madeline; you can’t never tell when you’re
goin’ to have your last square meal these days," and David deposited
another substantial helping on his daughter’s plate.

"Why, father, what’s the matter?  What’s making you so despondent all of
a sudden?" Madeline asked in semi-seriousness, following her father’s
advice the while.

"You don’t understand your father, Madeline—he’s always joking, you
know," interjected Mrs. Borland. "You shouldn’t make light of such
solemn matters, David," she went on, turning to her husband, "hunger’s
nothing to jest about."

"Exactly what I was sayin’," responded David, "an’ if things goes on
like they promise now, you an’ Madeline’ll have to take in washin’ to
support this family—that’s the gospel truth."

"I don’t believe father’s in fun," Madeline persisted.  "Anything go
wrong to-day with business matters?" she enquired, looking across the
table at her father.

That David was in earnest was obvious enough. "Everything wrong,
appearin’ly," he said, rolling up his napkin and returning it to its
ring.  "The men’s goin’ to strike—seems to me there’s a strike every
other alternate day," he went on.  "Doin’ business nowadays is like a
bird tryin’ to hatch out eggs when they’re cuttin’ down the tree—some o’
them darned firebrands from St. Louis have been stirrin’ up the men; a
lot o’ lazy man-eaters," he concluded vehemently.

"What do the men want, David?" his wife asked innocently.

Mr. Borland looked at her incredulously.  "What do they want—the same
old thing they’ve been wantin’ ever since Adam went into the fruit
business—less work an’ more pay.  An’ they’ve appointed a couple o’
fellows—a delegation they call it—to wait on the manufacturers privately
an’ present their claims.  There’s two different fellows to interview
each man—an’ they’re comin’ here to-night.  They didn’t tell me they was
comin’—I jest heard it casual."

"To-night!" echoed Mrs. Borland, "where’ll they sit?"

"Chairs, I reckon," replied her spouse.

"You’re so facetious, David.  Where’ll they sit when they’re talking to
you?—you know what I mean."

"Oh, I reckon we’ll have it out in the den—there’ll be lots o’ growlin’,
anyhow.  I’m not worryin’ much about where they sit; it’s the stand they
take that troubles me the most," and David indulged a well-earned smile.

"You’re very gay about it, father," Madeline chimed in, "making merry
with the English language."

"There’s no use o’ bein’ gay when everything all right, daughter; that’s
like turnin’ on the light when it’s twelve o’clock noon.  But when
things is breakin’ up on you, then’s your time to cut up dog a little.
I’m a terrible believer in sunshine, Madeline—the home-made kind, in
particular.  I always tell the croakers that every man should have a
sunshine plant inside of him—when the outside kind gives out, why, let
him start his little mill inside, an’ then he’s independent as a pig on
ice.  An’ really, it’s kind o’ natural—there’s nothin’ so refreshin’ as
difficulties, in a certain sense.  Leastways, that’s the kind of an
animal I am—when I’m on the turf, give me a hurdle now an’ again to make
it interestin’."

"Is this a pretty stiff business hurdle you’ve got to get over now?"
asked Madeline, as she smiled admiringly at the home-bred philosophy.

"Well, it’s stiff enough.  Of course, I’ve done pretty good in the
foundry—ain’t in it for my health.  But it’s terrible uncertain; you
know the Scriptur’ says the first shall be last—an’ it’s often that way
in business.  We’re really not makin’ hardly any money these days; of
course, if you tell the men that, they—they close one eye," said David,
illustrating the process as he spoke.  "Where are you off to, Madeline?"
he asked abruptly, for his daughter had passed into the hall and was
putting on her cloak.

"I’m going for my lesson—I’m taking wood-carving, you know.  Pretty soon
I’ll be able to do it myself; and then I’m going to make lots of pretty
things and sell them.  My class and I are going to support four India
famine children," she said proudly.

"Bully for you!  You’ll do the carvin’, an’ they’ll do the eatin’—I
suppose that’s the idea."

Madeline’s merry laughter was still pealing as she closed the door
behind her.  Mrs. Borland turned a rather fretful face to her husband.

"She’s taken a class in Sunday-school," she said, lifting her eyebrows
to convey some idea of her opinion on the subject.  "I did my best to
dissuade her, but it was no use."

"What in thunder did you want to prevent her for?" asked David.

"Oh, well, you understand.  They’re a very ordinary lot, I’m afraid—just
the kind of children I’ve always tried to keep her away from.  I never
heard one of their names before."

"I think she’s a reg’lar brick to tackle them," returned her husband.
"It does me good to see Madeline takin’ that turn—nearly all the girls
her age is jest about as much use as a sofa-tidy, with their teas an’
five-o’clocks an’ at-homes, an’ all them other diseases," David
continued scornfully.  "It’s all right to have girls learned——"

"Taught, David," corrected his wife.

"It’s the same thing," retorted Mr. Borland.  "I’m too old for you to
learn me them new words, mother—it’s all right, as I was sayin’, to get
them learned an’ taught how to work in china, an’ ivory, an’ wood an’
hay an’ stubble, as the good book says, but it’s far better to see them
workin’ a little in human bein’s.  It must be terrible interestin’ to
try your hand on an immortal soul—them kind o’ productions lasts a
while.  So don’t go an’ cool her off, mother—you let her stick to them
kids without names if she wants to."

"But she tells me, David, she tells me some of them come to
Sunday-school without washing their hands or faces."

"Tell her to wear buckskin mits," said Mr. Borland gravely.

"It’s all very well to laugh, David—but they seem to have all sorts of
things wrong with them. Madeline told me one day how she couldn’t get
the attention of the class because one of them kept winding and
unwinding a rag on his sore finger for all the class to see it; he said
a rat bit it in the night."

"Rough on rats’d soon fix them," said David reflectively; "I mind out in
the barn one time——"

"But I’m serious, David," remonstrated Mrs. Borland; "and there’s
something else I hardly like to tell you.  But only last Sunday Madeline
was telling me—she laughed about it, but I didn’t—how she asked one of
the boys why he wasn’t there the Sunday before, and he said: ’Please,
ma’am, I had the shingles.’"

"Shingles ain’t catchin’," declared David, as he gasped for breath.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he roared, "that’s the richest I’ve heard since the nigger
show.  Ha, ha! that’s a good one—that’s the kind of a class I’d like to
have.  None o’ your silk-sewed kids for me, with their white chiffon an’
pink bows!  It seems a sin for them teachers to have so much fun on
Sundays, don’t it?" and David extricated his shank from beneath the
table, venting his mirth upon it with many a resounding slap.

Mrs. Borland sighed discouragedly.  "Well," she said at length, "I
suppose there are greater troubles in life than that.  In fact, I was
just thinking of one of them when you were speaking about where you’d
entertain the men when they come to-night."

"I’m afeard what I’ll say won’t entertain them a terrible lot," said
David, passing his cup for further stimulus as he thought of the ordeal.

"Well, about where you’ll talk to them, then," amended Mrs. Borland.
"My trouble’s something the same.  Only it’s about the servants; at
least it’s about Letitia—she’s the new one.  It seems she belongs to a
kind of an Adventist church, and she told me this morning that the Rev.
Mr. Gurkle, the minister, is coming up to call on her some afternoon
this week.  And she asked where would she receive him! Receive him, mind
you, David—she’s going to _receive_!  And she asked me where—asked me
where she’d receive him."

"Well, that was natural enough.  What did you tell her?" David asked,
marvelling at the agitation of which the feminine mind is capable.

"Why, I told her where else would she receive him except in the
kitchen—you don’t suppose my maids are going to entertain their company
in the parlour, do you, David?"

Mr. Borland turned his face reflectively towards the wall, gazing at the
lurid painting of a three-year-old who had been the pride of last year’s
fair. Finally he spoke: "Yes, Martha, I reckon she will.  I ain’t much
of an interfere!—but there ain’t agoin’ to to be no minister of the
Gospel set down in the kitchen in this house.  Black clothes is too easy
stained.  Besides, it ain’t the way I was raised."

"But, David, surely you don’t——"

"Yes, I do—that’s jest exactly what I do.  I know this Gurkle
man—dropped into his church one night when some revival meetin’s was
goin’ on.  He’s a little sawed-off fellow, with a wig—an’ his cuffs has
teeth like a bucksaw—an’ he wears a white tie that looks like a horse’s
hames.  An’ he has an Adam’s apple like a door-knocker; it kept goin’
an’ comin’ that night, for there was a terrible lot of feelin’ in the
meetin’.  An’ Mr. Gurkle was a cryin’ part of the time, an’ he’s that
cross-eyed that the tears run over the bridge of his nose, both
different ways.  But I believe he’s a good little man—an there ain’t
goin’ to be no minister asquintin’ round the kitchen in this house.
He’s goin’ to the parlour, mother.  The kitchen’s all right for
courtin’—come in there myself the other night when Mary had her steady
company; there was three chairs—an’ two of ’em was empty. That’s all
right for courtin’—it don’t need no conveniences, nor no light, nor
nothin’.  Two young folks an’ a little human natur’s all you need for
that. But prayin’ an’ sayin’ catechism’s hard enough at the best; so I
reckon they’ll have to do it in the parlour, mother," and Mr. Borland
rose from his chair and moved slowly towards the window, patting his
wife playfully on the shoulder as he passed.

"By George, here they are," he suddenly exclaimed; "I believe that’s
them comin’ now."

"Who?" asked his consort, not with much zest of tone.  She was still
ruminating on her maid’s religious advantages.

"It’s the delegation—it’s them two fellows that’s goin’ to present the
claims of the union.  They’re turnin’ in at the carriage gate, sure’s
you’re livin’."

"I’m going up-stairs," announced Mrs. Borland. "I’ve got to fill out
some invitations for an at-home next week—you don’t mind my leaving,
David?"

"No, no, mother, certainly not.  Far better for you not to be around.
You see, certain kinds o’ labour agitators is always complainin’ that
the manufacturers jest lives among beautiful things; an’ you’re the
principal one in this house, mother; so I reckon you better slope," and
David’s hand was very gentle as it went out to touch the frosting locks.
Mrs. Borland smiled indifferently at the compliment, secretly hugging it
the while.  Every true woman does likewise; the proffered pearl is
carelessly glanced at and permitted to fall to the ground—then she
swiftly covers it with one nimble foot, and solitary hours yet to come
are enriched by communion with its radiance.




                                 *XVI*

                         _*DAVID THE DIPLOMAT*_


His wife was hardly half-way up the stairs before David was in the
height of perfervid activity.  "I’ll have an at-home myself," he
muttered under his breath; "I’ll have a male at-home," as he rang the
bell.

"Yes, Mr. Borland," said the maid, parishioner to the Rev. Mr. Gurkle,
as she appeared in answer.

"Take all them dishes away," he instructed breathlessly; "all the eatin’
stuff, I mean," waving his hand over the suggestive ruins.  "Is there
any salt herrin’s in the house?"

"Yes, sir, there’s always herrin’s on Friday; we keep ’em for
Thomas—Thomas is a Roman," she said solemnly, an expression on her face
that showed she was thinking of the judgment day.

David grinned.  "I’ll bet the Pope couldn’t tell one from a mutton chop
to save his life," he said; "but anyhow, put three herrin’s on the
table—an’ a handful o’ soda crackers—an’ some prunes," he directed
quickly, "an’ make some green tea—make it strong enough to float a
man-o’-war.  By George, there’s the bell—when everything fixed, you come
in to the sittin’-room an’ tell me supper’s ready—supper, mind,
Letitia."

Then he hurried through the hall to the door, flinging it wide open.

"Why, if this ain’t you, Mr. Hunter," he cried delightedly, "an’ I’m
blamed if this ain’t Mr. Glady," giving a hand to each.  "Come away in.
Come on in to the sittin’-room—parlours always makes me think it’s
Sunday."

The men followed in a kind of dream.  Mr. Hunter’s embarrassment took a
delirious form, the poor man spending several minutes in a vain attempt
to hang his hat on the antlers of a monster head about three feet beyond
his utmost reach.  Finally it fell into a bowl of goldfish that stood
beneath the antlers; great was the agitation among the finny inmates,
but it was nothing as compared to Mr. Hunter’s.

"That’s all right," David sang out cheerily; "reckon they thought it was
an eclipse o’ the sun," he suggested.  "Fling your lid on the floor—I
hate style when you have visitors," whereupon Mr. Hunter, fearful of
further accident, bended almost to his knees upon the floor and
deposited the dripping article carefully beneath the sofa.  Mr. Glady,
more self-possessed, resorted to his pocket-handkerchief, his hat still
safe upon his head.  Hiding his face in the copious calico, he blew a
blast so loud and clear, that the little fishes, mistaking it for
Gabriel’s trump, rose with cue accord to the surface—and David’s
favourite collie answered loudly from the kitchen. Compelled by a sense
of propriety to reappear from the bandana, Mr. Glady began hurriedly to
sit down and was about to sink upon the glass top of a case of
many-coloured eggs, Madeline’s especial pride, when David flew between.

"Don’t," he cried appealingly, "them’s fowl’s eggs—an’ anyhow, this
ain’t the clockin’ season," whereupon Mr. Glady leaped so far forward
again that he collided with a small replica of the Venus de Milo on a
mahogany stand, the goddess and the mahogany both oscillating a little
with the impact.

Mr. Glady stared at the delicate creation, then cast quick glances about
the floor.  "Did I break off those arms?" he asked excitedly, pale as
death.

"Oh bless you, no—she was winged when she was born," said David, trying
to breathe naturally, and imploring the men to be seated, whereat they
slowly descended into chairs, as storm-bruised vessels creep into their
berths.

When both were safely lodged a deep silence fell. David looked
expectantly from one to the other and each of the visitors looked
appealingly towards his mate.  Finally Mr. Glady brought his lips apart
with a smack: "We come—we come to see you, Mr. Borland, because you’re
an employer of labour and——"

"By George, I’m glad to hear that," David chimed in gleefully; "that’s
elegant—there’d be less jawin’ between labour an’ capital if there was
more visitin’ back an’ furrit like this.  I can’t tell you how tickled I
am to see you both.  I don’t have many visitors," he went on rather
mournfully, "that is, in a social way.  A good many drops out to see me
with subscription lists—but they never bring their knittin’," David
added with a melancholy smile.  "Most o’ my evenin’s is very lonely.
I’ve seen me wearyin’ so bad that I asked the missus to play on the
pianner—an’ one night I shaved three times, to pass the time."

"Please, Mr. Borland, supper’s on the table," said a small voice at the
door.

David leaped to his feet.  "Come on, Mr. Hunter—come away, Mr. Glady,
an’ we’ll get outside o’ somethin’," taking an arm of each and turning
towards the door.

The men faintly protested, pleading a similar previous operation; but
David overbore them with sweeping cordiality.  "Let’s go through the
motions anyhow," he said.  "I’m an awful delicate eater myself; the bite
I eat, you could put in—in a hogshead," turning an amiable grin on his
guests.  "Here, you sit there, Mr. Hunter—an’ I guess that’s your stall,
Mr. Glady; I’m sorry my missus can’t come—she’s workin’.  An’ my
daughter’s away somewhere workin’ at wood—turnin’ an honest penny.  Will
you ask a blessin’, Mr. Hunter?"

Mr. Hunter stared pitifully at his host.  "Tom there’ll ask it," he
said, his lips very dry; "he used to go to singin’-school in the
church."

Mr. Glady’s head was bowed waiting.  "Mr. Hunter’ll do it himself," he
said, without moving a muscle; "his wife’s mother’s a class-leader in
the Methodists."

Whereupon the piously connected man, escape impossible now, began to
emit a low subterranean rumble, like the initial utterances of a bottle
full of water when it is turned upside down.  But it was music to the
ear of Mr. Glady, listening in rigid reverence.

"What church do you go to, Mr. Glady?" David asked as he poured out a
cup of tea, its vigour obvious.  "Both sugar and cream, eh—Letitia, have
we any sugar round the house?"

"There’s a barrel an’ a half," the servant responded promptly.

"Oh, yes, I see—fetch the half; we live awful plain, Mr. Glady.  Don’t
go to no church, did you say?  Terrible mistake—why don’t you?"

"Well," his guest responded slowly, "I look at it this way: if a fellow
works all week—like us toilers does—he wants to rest on Sunday.  That’s
our rest day."

"Terrible mistake," repeated David; "two spoonfuls?—it’s the workin’ men
that needs church the most.  I was readin’ in a book the other day—it
was either the ’Home Physician’ or the dictionary, I forget which—how
the Almighty trains the larks in England to scoot up in the air an’ sing
right over the heads o’ the toilers, as you call ’em—the fellows workin’
in the fields.  You see, the Almighty knows they’re the kind o’ people
needs it most—an’ they hear more of it than lords an’ ladies does.  An’
it’s them kind o’ folks everywhere that needs entertainment the most;
an’ I don’t think there’s anythin’ entertains you like a church, the way
it gets at the muscles you don’t use every day.  If you go to sleep,
that rests you; an’ if you keep awake, it ventilates you—so you gain
either way.  Oh, yes, every one should go to some church," he concluded
seriously.

"That’s all right for rich manufacturers," broke in Mr. Hunter; "it’s
easy to enjoy a sermon when you’re thinkin’ of the five-course dinner
you’ll get when it’s over.  But when you’ve nothin’ afore your eyes only
a dish of liver—an’ mebbe scorched—a sermon don’t go quite so good."

"That’s jest where I’m glad to have a chance to learn you somethin’,"
David returned with quite unwonted eagerness.  It was evident he had
struck a vein.  "There ain’t near so much difference as you fellows
think.  Do have some more prunes, Mr. Glady—they don’t take up no room
at all.  As far as eatin’ is concerned, anyway, there’s terrible little
difference.  It’s a caution how the Almighty’s evened things up after
all—that’s a favourite idea o’ mine," he went on quite earnestly, "the
way He gives a square deal all round.  In the long run, that is; you
jest watch an’ see if it ain’t so.  I ain’t terrible religious, an’ I
ain’t related to no class-leaders, but there’s a hymn I’m mighty fond
of—I’d give it out twicet a Sunday if I was a preacher—it has a line
about ’My web o’ time He wove’; an’ I believe," David went on, his face
quite aglow, "it’s the grandest truth there is.  An’ I believe He puts
in the dark bits where everybody thinks it’s all shinin’, an’ the
shinin’ bits where everybody thinks it’s all dark—an’ that’s the way it
goes, you see."

"That’s all very fine," rejoined Mr. Glady, a little timid about what he
wished to say, yet resolved to get it out; "that’s all very fine in
theory—but a fellow only needs to look around to see it makes quite a
bit o’ difference just the same," he affirmed, casting an appraising
glance around the richly furnished room.  "Money makes the mare go, all
right."

"Mebbe it does," said David, a far-off look in his eyes.  "I wisht you’d
both have some more crackers an’ prunes; mebbe it does, but it don’t
make her go very far in—in where your feelin’s is, I mean.  There’s far
more important things than for the mare to get a gait on.  Look at that
Standard-oil fellow, out there in Cleveland, that’s got more millions
than he has hairs.  Well, money made the mare go—but if it’d make the
hair stay, I reckon he’d like it better. They say there ain’t a hair
between his head an’ heaven.  He could drop a million apiece on his
friends, an’ then have millions left; but they say he’s clean forgot how
to chaw—if he takes anythin’ stronger’n Nestle’s food it acts on him
like dynamite, an’ then he boosts up the price o’ oil—he does it kind of
unconscious like—when he’s writhin’.  I wouldn’t board with him for a
month if he gave me the run of his vault.  But there’s the fellow that
drives his horses; he sets down to his breakfast at six o’clock—with his
hair every way for Sunday—an’ he eats with his knife an’ drinks out of
his saucer. An’ when all his children thinks he’s done, he says: ’Pass
me them cucumber pickles—an’ another hunk o’ lemon pie,’—so you see
things is divided up pretty even after all.  I believe luck comes to
lots o’ men, of course—but _one_ of its hands is most gen’rally always
as empty as a last year’s nest—you can’t have everything," concluded
David, looking first at the men’s plates and then down at the crackers
and prunes.

"But one handful’s a heap," suggested Mr. Glady, lifting the keel of a
ruined herring to his lips.

"’Tain’t as much as you think for," retorted the host.  "It don’t touch
the sore spot at all.  If a fellow’s got a good deal of th’ almighty
needful, as they call it, it may make his surroundin’s a little more—a
little more ornamentorious," he declared, wrestling with the word.  "But
there ain’t nothin’ more to it than that.  Take me, if you like; I’ve
got more than lots o’ fellows—or used to have, anyway.  But the
difference is mostly ornament; a few more things like that there
statute—or is it a statue?—I can’t never tell them two apart; that there
statute of the hamstrung lady you run up agin in the sittin’-room. But I
never eat only one herrin’ at a time, an’ I jest sleep on one pillow at
a time—an’ if I have the colic I jest cuss an’ howl the same as some
weary Willie that a woman gives one of her own pies to, an’ he eats all
the undercrust.  I’m afeard you don’t like our humble fare," he
digressed in a rather plaintive voice; "won’t you have some more
crackers an’ prunes between you—they’ll never get past the kitchen,
anyhow."

The horny-handed guests, declining the oft-pressed hospitality, began
about this time to look a little uneasily at each other; visions of
their original errand were troubling them some.  Finally Mr. Hunter
nodded very decidedly to his colleague, whereat Mr. Glady again produced
his trusty handkerchief, and, after he had tooted his disquietude into
its sympathetic bosom, cleared his throat with a sound that suggested
the dredging of a harbour, and began:

"Me and Mr. Hunter’s got a commission, Mr. Borland. We’re appointed
to—to confer with you about, about the interests of the men, so to
speak; about a raise—that is, about a more fairer distribution of the
product of our united industry, as it were," he went on, serenely
quoting without acknowledgment from the flowing stanzas of a gifted
agitator whose mission had been completed but a week before.

"I’m terrible glad you brought that up," David responded
enthusiastically.  "I hated to mention it myself; but I’ve been
wonderin’ lately about a little scheme.  D’ye think the men would be
willin’ to kind of enter into a bargain for gettin’ a certain per cent.
of the profits an’——"

"I’d stake my life they would," Mr. Hunter broke in fervidly.  "Of
course, we haven’t no authority on that point, but I’m sure they’d be
willin’—a more agreeable lot of men you never seen, Mr. Borland. Don’t
you think so, Tom?" he appealed to the approving Glady.  The latter was
framing an ardent endorsement—but David went on:

"An’ of course I’d expect them to enjoy the losses along with us
too—then we’d all have the same kind o’ feelin’s all the time, like what
becometh brethren.  An’ we’re havin’ a lot o’ the last kind these days.
What do you think, Mr. Glady?"

Mr. Glady was sadly at a loss; with a kind of muscular spasm he seized
his cup and held it out towards David; "I think I’ll take another cup o’
tea," he said vacantly.

"Certainly—an’ I want you an’ Mr. Hunter to talk that little scheme over
with the men.  An’ you must come back an’ tell me what they think—come
an’ have supper with me again, an’ I’ll try an’ have somethin’ extra,
so’s we can eat an’ drink an’ be merry."

Nobody had suggested departure; but already the three men were moving
out into the hall.  "How’s all the men keepin’, Mr. Hunter?—the men in
our shops, I mean," the genial host enquired.

"All pretty good, sir—all except Jim Shiel, an’ he’s pretty sick.  He’s
been drawin’ benefits for a month now."

"Oh, that’s too bad; but I’m glad you told me. I’ll look around an’ see
him soon—your folks all well, Mr. Glady?"

"Yes, thank you.  But don’t call me Mr. Glady," said the friendly
delegate; "I’d feel better if you’d just call me plain Tom."

"An’ my name’s Henry," chimed Mr. Hunter, "just plain Henry."

"Them’s two elegant names," agreed Mr. Borland, "an’ I think myself
they’re best among friends. Speakin’ about first names reminds me of an
old soldier my grandfather used to know in Massachusetts. He fought for
Washington, an’ he had great yarns to tell.  One was that one mornin’ he
assassinated thirty-seven British fellows before breakfast; an’
Washington, he came out an’ smiled round on the corpses. Of course, he
slung old Hollister a word o’ praise. ’I done it for you, General,’ says
old Hollister. ’Don’t,’ says Washington, ’don’t call me General—call me
George,’" and David led the chorus with great zest.

"Well, we’ll be biddin’ you good-evenin’," said Mr. Glady, extending his
hand.

"Jest wait a minute; I sent word to Thomas to hitch up the
chestnuts—he’ll drive you down.  Here he is now," as the luxurious
carriage rolled to the door.  Thomas controlled himself with difficulty
as he watched Mr. Borland handing his petrified guests into the handsome
equipage.  Panic takes different forms; Mr. Glady wrapped the lap-robe
carefully about his neck, while Mr. Hunter shook hands solemnly with the
coachman.

"I don’t use this rig a terrible lot myself," he heard David saying;
"it’s a better fit for the missus.  If you feel like drivin’ round a bit
to get the air, Thomas’ll take good care o’ you.  Good-night, Henry;
good-night, Tom," he sung out as the horses’ hoofs rattled down the
avenue.

Then David went slowly back into the house.  He wandered, smiling
reminiscently, into the sitting-room. Pausing before the Venus de Milo,
he chucked the classic chin.

"Well, old lady," he said gravely, "there’s more ways of chokin’ a dog
besides chokin’ him with butter."




                                 *XVII*

                       _*FRIENDSHIP’S MINISTRY*_


If any man would learn the glory and beauty of a mighty tree we would
bid him range the untroubled forest where God’s masterpieces stand in
rich profusion.  But we are wrong.  Not there will he learn how precious
and how beautiful are the stately oak and the spreading beech and the
whispering pine.  But let him dwell a summer season through upon some
treeless plain or rolling prairie, and there will be formed within him a
just and discriminating sense of the healing ministry committed to these
mediators between earth and sky.

And men learn friendship best where friends are not. Not when surrounded
by strong and loving hearts, but when alone with thousands of
indifferent lives, do we learn how truly rich is he who has a friend.
To find then one who really cares is to confront in sudden joy a
familiar face amid the waste of wilderness.

Alone among indifferent thousands as he alighted from the train, Harvey
Simmons turned his steps, the streets somewhat more familiar than
before, towards the house where dwelt the only man he knew in all the
crowded city.  A few enquiries and a half hour’s vigorous walking
brought him within sight of the doctor’s house; he was so intent on
covering the remaining distance that two approaching figures had almost
passed him by when he heard a voice that had something familiar about
it.

"I’ll do the best I can, Wallis," the voice was saying, "but I guess
we’ll have to put the child under chloroform."

Harvey turned a quick glance on the speaker.  It was none other than the
doctor himself.

"Dr. Horton—is that you, Dr. Horton?" the youth asked timidly.

The older of the two men turned suddenly on his heel, the keen gray eyes
scrutinizing the figure before him.  It was but a moment till the same
kindly smile that Harvey remembered so well broke over his face. Both
hands were on the young man’s shoulder in an instant.

"You don’t mean to say—I know you, mind—but you don’t mean to say you’re
that young fellow from, from Glenallen—that brought his mother to me
about her eyes?"

By this time Harvey had possession of one of the hands.  "I’m the very
same," he said, his face beaming with the joy of being recognized.

"How is she?" the doctor asked like a flash.

The light faded a little from Harvey’s face.  "She can’t see at all now,
sir," he answered soberly. "She’s quite blind—only she can tell when
it’s morning."

"Thank the Lord for that," said the other fervently; "that’s always a
gleam of hope."  Then followed a brief exchange of questions and
answers.

"How does your mother take it?" the doctor asked finally.

"Oh, she’s lovely—she’s just as sweet and patient as she can be; doesn’t
think of herself at all."

"Your mother must be a regular brick."

"She’s a great Christian," quoth her son.  "I think that’s what keeps
her up."

"Shouldn’t wonder—it’s the best kind of stimulant I know of," the doctor
answered in a droll sort of way, turning and smiling at his companion.
"Oh, excuse me, Wallis—what’s this the name is?" he asked Harvey; "I’ve
just forgotten it."

"Simmons, Harvey Simmons," the other answered.

"Of course; it’s quite familiar now that I hear it. This is Dr.
Wallis—and this is Mr. Simmons," he said to the other.  "Dr. Wallis was
just taking me to see a patient.  Did you want to see me about anything
in particular, Harvey?—you won’t mind my calling you that, will you?"

It only needed a glance at the pleased face to see how welcome was the
familiarity.

"Well, really, I did," Harvey responded frankly. Wherewith, briefly and
simply, he told his friend the purpose which had brought him to the
city, outlining the academic course he intended to pursue, earnest
resolve evident in every word.  "And I wanted to get your advice about a
boarding-house," he concluded; "you see, I thought you might know some
nice quiet place that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be too dear," he said,
flushing a little.  "I’m quite a stranger in the city—but I don’t want
to go to a regular boarding-house if I can help it."

"Well, no," the doctor began, knitting his brows. "And I really ought to
be able to help you out on that.  But I tell you—you come along with us;
then we can talk as we go along.  Besides, I’m sure Dr. Wallis here will
be able to advise you much better than I could—he knows every old woman
in the city."

His confrère smiled.  "It’s mostly the submerged tenth I know," he
answered; "I’m afraid there aren’t many of my patients you’d care to
board with. Want a place near the college, I suppose?"

"That’s not so essential," said Harvey; "I wouldn’t mind a walk of a
mile or so at all."

"Good idea," said the other; "most students are pretty cheerful
feeders—want a room to yourself?"

"I’d prefer it—if it wouldn’t add too much to the expense.  I’ve always
got to consider that, you know," returned Harvey, smiling bravely
towards his new-found friend.

"Right again," affirmed the doctor.  "Single stalls are the thing;
everybody sleeps better without assistance.  Sooner have a few children
around? Some fellows study better with kids in the house, and others
again go wild if they hear one howl."

"I believe I’d get along just as well without them," said Harvey,
laughing; "you see, I’ll need to study very hard—and I don’t believe
they help one much."

"It’s like studying in a monkeys’ cage," asserted Dr. Wallis vigorously;
"what I hate about little gaffers in a boarding-house is the way they
always want to look at your watch," he enlarged solemnly, "and five
times out of six they let it fall.  It’s fun for them, as the old fable
says, but it’s death to the frogs.  And of course you want to get into a
place where they have good cooking; it’s pretty hard to do the higher
mathematics on hash and onions—and lots o’ students have lost their
degrees through bad butter.  I’ve known men whose whole professional
life was tainted by the butter they got at college."

"But I’m not over particular about what I eat," began Harvey; "if the
place is warm, and if they keep it——"

"That’s all right enough," broke in the other, "but it makes a
difference just the same.  You’ve got the same kind of internal
mechanism as other fellows, and you’ve got to reckon with it.  Well,
we’ll see what we can do.  I’ve got a place or two in mind now.  I’ll
tell you about them later—we’re almost at my patient’s house.  I say,
you may as well come in—it’ll be a little glimpse of life for you; and
we can see more about this matter after we come out."

Another hundred yards brought them to their destination, a rather
squalid looking cottage on a rather squalid looking street.  Dr. Wallis
knocked at the door, pushing it open and entering without tarrying for
response.  As Harvey followed with the older doctor a child’s wailing
fell upon his ears, emerging from the only other room the little house
contained.

"Just wait here," said Dr. Wallis to the other two; "the child’s in
there—I’ll be back in a minute."

He disappeared, Harvey and his friend seating themselves on a rude bench
near the door.  Both looked around for a minute at the pitiful bareness
of the room; and the eyes of both settled down upon a tawdry doll that
lay, forsaken and disconsolate, on the floor.  Tawdry enough it was, and
duly fractured in the head; but it redeemed the wretched room with the
flavour of humanity, and the solitary sunbeam that had braved the grimy
window played about the battered brow, and the vision of some child’s
wan face rose above the hapless bundle.

"He’s a jewel," Dr. Horton said in a half whisper, "a jewel of the first
water."

"Who?" asked Harvey.

For answer, the doctor jerked his head backward towards the adjoining
room.  "He just lives among poor people like these—they’re all idolaters
of his.  He gives away every cent he makes; when he does get a rich
patient he makes them shell out for the poor ones.  I know one of my
patients called him in once for an emergency—sprained his big toe
getting out of the bath-tub—and Wallis charged him fifty dollars for
rubbing it.  Then he went out and gave the money all away; the patient
forgot all about his toe after Wallis got through with him, I can tell
you—the pain went higher up.  But I was kind of glad—he was the head of
a big plumbing firm, and I always thought Providence used Wallis as the
humble instrument to chasten him."

"Just come this way please, Dr. Horton," said a voice from the door.

Sitting alone, Harvey listened to the muffled sounds within.  The crying
subsided as the odour of chloroform arose; and the voice of weeping was
now the mother’s, not the child’s.  Finally both grew still and a long
silence followed.  So long did it seem that Harvey had moved towards the
door, intending to walk about till the operation should be over, when
suddenly both men emerged from the tiny apartment.

"It’s all over," said Dr. Horton—"and I think it’s been successful; I
believe the child will see as well as ever she did."

Harvey looked as relieved as though he had known the parties all his
life.

"I say, Horton," broke in the other doctor, "what’ll you charge for
this?  Better tell me, and I can tell her," nodding towards the room
where the mother was still bended over the beshadowed child.

"Oh, that’s not worrying me," said the specialist, carefully replacing
an instrument in his case as he Spoke.  "Nobody looks for money from a
neighbourhood like this," indicating the unpromising surroundings by a
glance around.  "I’ll get my reward in heaven."

"A little on account wouldn’t do any harm," returned the cheery Wallis.
"It’s out of the question to ask a man of your station to pike away down
here for nothing; I’m going to try anyhow—just wait here till I come
back," wherewith he turned towards the little room, closing the door
carefully behind him as he entered.

He had hardly got inside before, to Harvey’s amazement, Dr. Horton
dropped his surgical case and tiptoed swiftly to the door, stooping down
to gaze through a keyhole that long years and frequent operations had
left more than usually spacious. Watching intently, Harvey could see the
face of his friend distorted by an expression partly of mirth and partly
of indignation.  For Dr. Horton could descry the woman still bending
over the little bed, evidently oblivious to the fact that the doctor had
returned; and Dr. Wallis himself was conducting a hurried search through
his pockets upper and nether, a grimace of satisfaction indicating that
he had found at last the material he was in quest of.

The spying specialist had barely time to spring back to where Harvey was
standing, when the other reappeared, smiling and jubilant.

"You never can tell, Horton," he began, holding out a bill; "you can
never tell—there’s nothing like trying.  Here’s a five I collected for
you, and it was given gladly enough.  It’s not very much but——"

"You go to the devil," broke in the specialist, trying to look angry;
"you think you’re infernal smart, don’t you?—but you haven’t got all the
brains in the world."

"You surprise me, Dr. Horton," the other began vigorously, commanding a
splendid appearance of injured amazement.  "You don’t mean to insinuate
that I put part of the fee in my pocket, do you?" he demanded, striking
a martial attitude, and inwardly very proud of the way he had changed
the scent.

"Put that rag back in your left-hand vest pocket where you got it,"
growled the senior physician as he picked up his hat.  "You may work
your smart-Alec tricks with the poor natives round here—but you can’t
come it on me.  Take Simmons along and find him some place to lay his
head," he added, opening the door and leading the way outward to the
street.

The three walked together for perhaps four or five squares, the two
physicians still engaged in the genial hostilities that Dr. Wallis’s
financial genius had provoked.  Suddenly the latter came to a standstill
at the junction of two streets, his eyes roving along a richly shaded
avenue to his left.

"I guess you’d better go along home, Horton," he said—"you’ll want to
post your ledger anyhow, after a profitable day like this.  And I think
I’ll just take your friend here and go on the still hunt for a little.
Don’t look much like a boarding-house street, does it?" he added, as he
marked the look of surprise on his contemporary’s face.  "But you never
can tell—anyhow, I’ve got a place along here in my mind’s eye, and we
may just as well find out now as any other time."

"Wish you luck," the older man flung after them as he went his way; "if
you get lodgings at any of those houses you’ll have to sleep with the
butler."

"It does look a little unlikely, I’ll admit," Dr. Wallis said to Harvey
as they started down the avenue; "but the whole case is quite unusual.
This is a woman of over fifty I’m going to see—nobody knows exactly—and
she’s almost the only rich patient I’ve got.  She lives a strange, half
hermit kind of life—goes out almost none—and mighty few people ever get
in.  Except her clergyman, of course—she insists on seeing her minister
constantly; I think he’s just a curate, and I’ve always had the feeling
that he’d consider death great gain—if it came to her. But for a while
back she’s been talking to me as if she wouldn’t mind some one in the
house, if they were congenial.  It seems one or two attempts have been
made to break in at nights—and the butler sleeps like a graven image.
Just the other day I suggested she might take in a nurse, a young lady I
know, who wants to get a quiet home—but I nearly had to run for shelter;
she gave her whole sex the finest decorating I’ve heard for years.  No
women for her, thank you."

"Is she a little odd?" Harvey ventured to enquire.

The doctor looked him in the eyes and laughed. "Well, rather!  Odd, I
should say she is.  But she’s just as genuine as she can be.  And if you
get in there you’ll be as comfortable as you’d be in Windsor
Castle—quiet and secluded as a monastery, the very place for a student.
She’s been gathering beautiful things for years, all sorts of curios and
rarities—and she’s passionately fond of animals, keeps a regular
menagerie.  And she’s great on keeping well; pretends to despise all
doctors, and has a few formulas for every occasion.  Deep breathing is
her specialty—she’s a regular fiend on deep breathing.  But you’ll see
for yourself," the doctor concluded, as they turned in at an open gate
and began to mount the stone steps that led to a rather imposing-looking
door.

Spacious and inviting, if somewhat neglected looking, were the
old-fashioned grounds about the old-fashioned house.  Great spreading
trees stood here and there, perhaps thirty or forty in all, some in the
sombre dishabille of autumn, some in unchanging robes of green.  And two
summer-houses, one smaller than the other, nestling in opposite corners,
stood deserted and lonely amid the new-fallen carpet of dying leaves.  A
solitary flower-bed, evidently ill at ease amid the unfettered life
about it, waved its few remaining banners, the stamp of death upon them,
pensively in the evening breeze.  There was an ancient fountain, too,
but its lips were parched and dry, and the boyish form that stood in
athletic pose above it looked weary of the long and fruitless vigil. Two
brazen dogs stood near the gate, sullen and uncaring now, the chill wind
awakening memories of many a winter’s storm, and foretelling, too,
another winter waiting at the door.

Dr. Wallis gave the brazen door-knob an uncommonly vigorous tug.  "She
likes you to ring as if you meant it," he explained to Harvey, the
distant product of his violence pealing and repealing through the house.

"We’ll likely have to wait a little while," the doctor remarked; "she
never lets a servant come to the door till she peeks through that upper
left-hand window herself.  Don’t look," he added hurriedly; "she
mightn’t let us in if she catches any one looking."

After a few minutes’ further waiting, the harsh grating of the heavy
bolt and the violent turning of the reluctant handle were followed by
the apparition of a head of iron gray, a pair of absolutely emotionless
eyes fixed upon the visitors in turn.  Dr. Wallis nodded, the man barely
returning his salutation as he led the way into a large and solemnly
furnished apartment on the left.  Harvey’s principal impression was of
the height of the ceiling and the multitude of mirrors that confronted
him on every hand; there seemed to be a goodly assemblage in the room,
so often were its two solitary inmates reproduced.

Harvey and the doctor were still engaged in a mental inventory of the
room, its paintings, bronzes, and what not, all claiming their
attention, when the solemn head of iron gray reappeared at the door.

"Miss Farringall says she’ll see you in her room," said the sphinx, his
lips closing with an audible smack; whereupon the scanty procession was
reformed, following the servant as he led the way up a winding flight of
stairs.  The man knocked at the door of a small sitting-room,
precipitately retiring as soon as he had pushed it partly open.




                                *XVIII*

                         _*VOICES OF THE PAST*_


Harvey followed his companion inside, peering eagerly for what awaited
them. The mistress of the house fitted her surroundings well.  She was
reclining in an ample chair, a half-emptied cup of tea on a little table
beside her. She was evidently much above medium height, spare and thin,
a rusty dressing-gown folded loosely about her.  Her hair was quite
gray, and quite at liberty, not at all ill-becoming to the large, strong
features, and the well-formed head.  The brow was broad and high,
wrinkled slightly, and furrowed deeply down the centre; high
cheek-bones, a rather mobile mouth, a complexion still unfaded, joined
with the bright penetrating eyes to make a decidedly interesting
countenance.  The face looked capable of tenderness, yet as if
tenderness had cost her dear.  A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat
shimmering on her brow; one swift shuffle of the face reduced them to
their proper sphere.

"Barlow didn’t tell me there were two," she said, without looking at the
doctor.  She was looking beyond him at the stranger’s face.  "He’s got
both arms anyhow, thank heaven," she said, looking at Harvey.  "He
nearly always brings people with one arm, that want help," she explained
to the newcomer, motioning towards a chair.

"This is Mr. Simmons, Miss Farringall," the doctor began blandly.  "I
took the liberty——"

"I know him," she interrupted gently, still surveying Harvey.  "Didn’t
you hear me talking to him? And I know all about the liberty too—I do
wish Barlow would count people before he shows them up."

"How do you feel to-day, Miss Farringall?" enquired the physician.

"Better," replied his patient.  "I gave Barlow that medicine you sent
me—I always feel better after Barlow takes it.  Is your friend going to
be a doctor?" she went on in the same breath, inclining her head towards
Harvey.

"Oh, no, he’s going to the university—he’s a student," the doctor
informed her.

"That’s quite different—that’ll save somebody’s life.  What did you
bring him for?" she demanded frankly, turning the keen eyes for the
first time from Harvey’s face and fastening them on the doctor’s.

"Well, he was with me; he’s a friend of Dr. Horton’s and mine—and I
thought I’d just bring him in. This is his first day.  Besides," and the
wily tactician paused a moment, "I wanted to ask your advice."

"I’ll charge you doctor’s rates," said the spinster, restoring her
spectacles to their former altitude.

"That’s cheap enough for anything," retorted the other.  "And anyhow,
I’ll take the usual time to pay it.  But seriously, Miss Farringall, I
want your counsel on a matter we’re both interested in.  You see, I’ve
promised to help Mr. Simmons get a boarding-house if I can, and I
thought you might know of some suitable place—you’ve lived so long in
the city," he explained with an amiable smile.

"That’s remarkably true," interrupted the lady as she rattled the spoon
in the cup beside her—"and I’ve knocked about so much; lived in the
streets, haven’t I?—been a kind of a city missionary, I suppose.  What
kind of a place does your friend want?" she enquired with mock
seriousness.

"Oh, any nice quiet place," answered the intrepid doctor, "with plain
honest people that’ll make him comfortable.  He wants quiet—and
refinement—more than anything else, I should say."

"If I had my things on, I’d just go out now and enquire around among the
neighbours," the woman avowed gravely, trying to control two very
rebellious corners about her mouth.  "Where do you come from, sir?" she
asked abruptly, turning on the silent Harvey.

"From the country, Miss Farringall—from a place called Glenallen."

"Parents living?"

"My mother’s living, ma’am; she lives alone—except, I have a sister."

"What’s her name?"

"Jessie."

"Sensible name.  Are you a churchman?"

"Yes, Miss Farringall—at least I hope so."

"High?"

"No," answered Harvey, wondering slightly. "No, just Presbyterian."

"Oh!" said Miss Farringall, "I see.  But you can repeat the creed?"

"Oh, yes, we learned that at school."

"And if you were living in a—in a church family, you’d be willing to
come in to prayers when the rector came?  You’d be quite willing, I
suppose?"

"I’d love to," said Harvey fervently.

"And do you love animals?"

"A good many," Harvey answered cautiously.

"Birds?"

"I love birds," said Harvey.

"Dogs?"

"Better still," replied the interrogated.

"Cats?"

"Sometimes.  Of course, Miss Farringall, I won’t have a great deal of
time to devote to pets.  I’ll have to study pretty hard; it’s largely
through the kindness of a couple of friends that I have the chance to——"

But his interrogator was already ringing a hand-bell with great vigour.

"Barlow," she said, as the butler reappeared, "bring Grey here."

"Yes, mum," murmured the mobile servant as he disappeared, returning a
minute later with a large specimen of the feline tribe at his heels.
The animal was mewing loudly as it came.  Barlow turned and departed as
his four-footed companion bolted in at the open door.

Miss Farringall made a slight outward motion with her hands and the cat
promptly sprang into her lap. Then he turned to survey the company,
wasting only the briefest glance on the doctor’s familiar face, but
subjecting Harvey to the scrutiny that his strangerhood seemed to render
necessary.

"You may go, Grey," the woman said in an almost inaudible voice,
whereupon the cat slowly descended, standing still a moment to continue
its examination of the stranger.  Gradually it drew closer, rubbing its
sides at length against Harvey’s ankles, still scrutinizing the face
above.  Harvey smiled, whereat the creature looked more intently than
before.

"Don’t speak," whispered Miss Farringall, "I believe he’s going to——"
the prediction lost in a little gasp of excitement as the feline
suddenly bounded into Harvey’s lap, thence to his shoulder, its tail
aloft like a banner, while a gentle purring issued forth as it began an
affectionate circuit of Harvey’s head.

Miss Farringall’s face was radiant, her spectacles now at high mast as a
result of much facial contortion. "You can stay here if you like, Mr.
Simmons, till—till I find a place for you," she said, her eyes still
fixed in admiration on the cat.  Dr. Wallis said nothing, inwardly
blessing the whole feline race.

"You’re very kind, ma’am," Harvey began, his face crimson with an
excitement he could hardly explain.  "And I’ll be good to Grey," he
added desperately, not knowing what else to say.

"You mustn’t feed him, mind," the other broke out intensely—"not a
mouthful of anything.  And no thanks, if you please; I never knew Grey
to make a mistake.  Besides, there’s something about you that reminds me
of—of somebody else," she concluded, her tone softened into unwonted
gentleness.

"Was he a relative, Miss Farringall?" the doctor ventured, anxious that
the reference should be appropriately received.

"Who said he was a he at all?" retorted his friend, turning suddenly
upon him as she groped aloft for the departed spectacles.

"You can have the room over the dining-room," she went on, addressing
Harvey again; "it opens on the lawn, and you must leave your window open
summer and winter—wherever you maybe in winter," she corrected; "and
breathe deep—breathe deep of the fresh air of heaven.  Are you a deep
breather, Mr. Simmons?" she enquired anxiously.

"I’ve never thought much about it," said Harvey frankly; "but I’ll try
and learn, Miss Farringall," quenching a smile as he looked up at the
earnest face.

"It’s life," she assured him earnestly, "pure life."

"Miss Farringall’s right," the doctor added gravely. "There’s nothing
more connected with life than breathing.  I’ve often noticed that in my
practice."

But the irreverent reflection was wasted on the zealous heart of Miss
Farringall.  "Where are you going to stay to-night?" she asked; "it’ll
soon be dark."

Harvey hesitated.  "I thought I’d just take him home with me," the
doctor volunteered; "then he could come here to-morrow."

"Where’s your trunk?" pursued the hostess.

"It’s at the station," said Harvey; "I’ve got the check."

"Barlow’ll attend to having it sent up; there’s really no reason for him
going away from here to-night.  I’m willing—you and Grey are credentials
enough for me," she added, her face relaxing into a more pronounced
smile than Harvey had seen there before.

Dr. Wallis was already moving towards the door. The grave Barlow had it
open in advance.  "You’ll let us know in good time when you get another
place for my friend, Miss Farringall—that is, when he has to leave."

"Oh, yes, I’ll attend to that," she assured him. "Don’t let Grey get
out, Barlow—it’s too cold for him.  Keep your mouth closed,
Barlow—breathe through your nose," for the sudden shock of the
intelligence that the doctor’s words implied, the idea slowly filtering
in upon him that a stranger was to pass the night beneath that sacred
roof, had thrown poor Barlow’s mouth as wide open as his ears.

"Miss Farringall’ll let you know when you’ve got to leave, Mr. Simmons,"
said Dr. Wallis as he glanced furtively at Harvey, winking violently the
while.  "You’ll feel more comfortable, I’m sure," he resumed, his
features quite composed again as he turned towards the mistress of the
house, "to have a man around at nights—there have been two cases of
house-breaking on this street lately."

"I know that," she answered with bated breath; "I’m often afraid at
nights.  I thought some one was breaking in last night; I was so sure of
it that I turned on the light and began reading the prayer for those in
peril on the sea—but it was just Barlow snoring.  You snore like Niagara
Falls, don’t you, Barlow?"

"Yes, mum," replied the accomplished, without moving a muscle.

With a last cheery word to Harvey, and promising to return soon, Dr.
Wallis withdrew, leaving the new-found relation to work itself out as
best it could. Harvey waited a few minutes amid the mirrors in the
parlour while his room was being prepared for its new occupant; to which
he was promptly conducted by Miss Farringall herself, Barlow having
retired for repairs to a very startled system.

"I should think your trunk would be here a little after supper," she
said as she showed him in, "and I’d advise you to change your flannels
when it comes. Excuse my advice on such matters," she added, a delicate
little flush stealing to her cheek, "but I’m old enough to be your
mother—and besides, it’s getting quite cool outside.  I think there’s
nothing so wholesome as warm flannels—warm flannels and deep breathing.
Sometimes I think people wouldn’t ever die if they’d only change their
flannels when the weather changes—and keep on breathing deep," she
concluded, drawing a profound breath the while, her lips locked like a
vice.  "Supper’ll be ready in half an hour."

Then she hurried back to her little sitting-room, the kindly bosom
rising and falling as she faithfully pursued the wondrous treatment.
Gaining the room, she immediately rang the bell, and a moment later the
partially recovered butler stood before her.  He, too, had had a
treatment; for which cause he breathed as lightly as the demands of
nature would permit.

"Hand me that box from my secretary, Barlow—that ebony box."

He obeyed; and Miss Farringall held it a moment in her hands, then
adjusted a tiny key and turned the lock.  A queer little tremor rippled
over her lips as the thin fingers groped a moment at the very bottom of
the box.  Those same fingers showed just the least unsteadiness as they
released the dim gold clasp that bound a jet-black frame, which,
opening, disclosed the portrait of a man about twenty-two or
twenty-three years of age.  She held it musingly in front of her a
moment.  Then she held it out towards Barlow, who promptly moved forward
like some statue out-marching from its niche, his arms rigid by his
side.

"You’ve never seen that before, Barlow?"

"No, mum."

"Who do you think it’s like, Barlow?"

"I couldn’t say, mum."

"Don’t you think it resembles that visitor of ours—that young man Dr.
Wallis brought this evening?"

"Yes, mum," Barlow assented, almost before she had finished her
question.

"Do you think it very much like him, Barlow?"

"It’s his livin’ image, mum," said the talking statue.

"You can go, Barlow."

"Yes, mum," said Barlow, already gone.

The woman sat alone in the fading light, the picture still before her.
Suddenly she started, started as violently, almost, as if the dead face
before her had broken into speech.  Again the bell awoke the echoes of
the lonely house, and again the servant stalked like a shadow to the
door.

"Barlow, what did Dr. Wallis say was that young man’s name?"

"I couldn’t say, mum," answered Barlow, with the air of one who has been
charged with murder.  Even in the shadow he noticed the whiteness of the
lips that questioned him.

"Well, find it out then," she exclaimed, her voice rising as she half
rose in her chair—"find it out, I say.  What do you suppose you’re here
for, if it’s not to know who’s in the house?"

"Yes, mum," Barlow responded, his tone now the tone of the convicted.

"Never mind that—go and find out the name. Tell him we’ll need to know
when the postman brings the letters—tell him anything—go now," as the
menial vanished in the direction of Harvey’s room.

It was but a moment till he was back.  "It’s Simmons, mum—he says it’s
Simmons."

Miss Farringall was now erect.  "What was his father’s name?—his mother
lives alone, he told me. Ask him what was his father’s name—this minute,
hear."

Barlow was back in even less time than before. "Simmons," he said
solemnly; "it seems his father’s name was Simmons too, mum."

His mistress advanced a step or two towards him; the faithful Barlow
bowed his head like one ready to be offered.  "Go back," she said in a
low tense tone, "go back and ask him what his father’s first name was.
I want to know.  And if you blunder this time, sir, you’ll walk out of
my house, mind."

"Yes, mum," agreed the man, lifting his eyes devotedly as he spoke, and
vanishing into the outer gloom.

"Edward, mum," he informed her in a moment, "Edward Simmons—and he says
what might you want to know for, mum."

A wave of indescribable emotion swept over the woman’s face.  She walked
slowly to the window, gazing blindly out at the encroaching shadows of
the autumn night.  She saw the lurid sky beyond the city’s utmost
fringe, still crimson with the gilding of a departed sun, touched with
the colour that was fading fast; even as she looked, the once radiant
clouds were turning cold and gray, the ashen hue of age displacing the
splendour of their transient joy. And the withered leaves,
contemptuously tossed by the rising wind, moaned about the knees of many
a heartless tree that had once flaunted them so proudly, whispering the
story of their beauty to both earth and sky.  But the silent gazer saw
little of the autumn scene.  For the grave and tender eyes were fixed on
something far beyond it, far behind, nestling in the bosom of departed
years; and what they saw was blighted with no decay of autumn, but stood
fresh and beautiful in the light of summer.  Green fields they saw, and
tender bud and opening blossom everywhere, the very clouds beautiful in
noble gloom because of the unconquerable sun. And that sun was Love—and
the face she saw amid it all was the face of Edward Simmons.

Her eyes suddenly seemed to withdraw themselves from the scene without,
turning wistfully upon the picture she still held in her hand.  Only a
moment did they linger there before they were turned again upon the
autumn world without.  And lo!  The blackness of it all, its loneliness,
all the pathos of the withered summer, seemed now to rise up before the
woman’s creative gaze; the sky, with its mystic tragedy as the glow
surrendered to the gloom, the unbannered trees, the hurrying, homeless
leaves, the dirge of the mournful wind—all these were deepened and
darkened by that other vision of summer gladness that now was past and
gone.  For there is no mmistrant to sorrow like the sweet face of some
dead happiness; it is June that gives November all its bitterness.

Long musing, she turned at last from the window, again summoning the
faithful servant.

"Barlow," she said, the tone quite low, "go to the vault—look in that
lower left-hand drawer and bring me a parcel of papers there.  They’re
only newspapers," she added, "all tied together; bring them here."

A few minutes later Barlow handed her the parcel.  "Shall I light the
gas, mum?" he asked, turning at the door.

"No, thank you; I don’t want it—but you can kindle the fire."

Then she sat, the papers and the photograph in her lap, till the
crackling flame was bright.  And again the wistful eyes pored over the
past as though it were an open book.  Far clearer now she saw it than
before.  For every leaping tongue of flame babbled of other days while
the hearth-fire plied its ancient subtle industry, calling up
long-vanished faces as it ever does, rebuilding the ruined past, echoing
once again the long silent tones of love—and the panorama of the bygone
years passed in a lane of light between the burning eyes and the mystic
fire, both knowing, both caring, both sorrowing.

It was almost dark when the spare and slender form rose from the chair,
moving to the secretary in the corner of the room.  From the lowest
compartment of it she lifted, very gently, a little bundle of letters.
Then she picked up the photograph again, extracting an old newspaper
from the parcel before her; a quick glance at its date confirmed what
she already knew.  Then, with the old daguerreotype and the old letters
and the old faded newspaper in her hand, she sank upon a hassock that
lay beside the fire—the fire too was old, so old and dear—and she smiled
to herself as she settled down in the old girlish way, the lonely blaze
greeting her as it flung its glow again upon the flushed and quivering
face, as dear to it as in the gladder days of yore.  One by one she
turned them over—the picture and the letters and the paper—the whole
story of her life was there.  The shadows gathered deeper and darker as
she sat and fondled these precious things, the only real treasure of all
her treasure-laden house—but the fire burned on as brightly as in other
days, as brightly as if it had never faltered through the years.


It was a new sensation that crept about Harvey Simmons’ heart that
night, such a sensation as can come only to the youth who is denied for
the first time the vision of his mother’s face.  It seemed strange to
have said good-night to nobody in the old familiar way, to hear no
reassuring sound of voices indistinctly chatting in the distance, as
Jessie’s and his mother’s always could be heard, and to give or hear no
final word of mirth or message as the lamp went out and the comfortable
couch received him.

The room appointed to him was replete with all that might minister to
comfort, even rich and elegant in its appointments.  How often Harvey
had wished his own humble home had boasted such a room, not for himself
but for another; yet, now that he had come into possession of all he had
so often envied, how paltry and insignificant it seemed, how far beneath
what he had imagined—and how gladly he would have exchanged it all for
his little room at home, if he might have but again been near the dear
ones from whom he had never been parted a single night in all the course
of his uneventful life.

His eyes fell upon a little table in the corner, generously furnished
with materials for writing. It was, in consequence, very late before he
committed himself to sleep.  Yet he had only written two letters, the
first to his mother, a faithful and exhaustive narrative of every hour
since he had seen her last.  It was a new experience to him, and he
wondered a little at the almost mysterious ease with which he filled
page after page.  It was a new-found joy, this of writing—and both
intellect and emotion entered into the task with a zest and instinct
that surprised himself.

The second letter was begun with much misgiving, and after long
consideration.  For it was to Madeline, to whom, in a kind of way he was
quite at a loss to understand, his thought went out in his
loneliness—far more, indeed, than it had ever done when he lived beside
her.  Much misgiving about this second letter there was, as has been
said; and yet he felt it could not be unwelcome since its purpose was so
far from personal—for its main story was of the little child and the
poor family of whom he had come to know through his contact with Dr.
Wallis.  And he knew Madeline would love to help, in some way her own
delicate judgment would suggest.  But before he was through his pen had
rather run away with him; and some of his impressions of the new life
about him, with a little, too, that treated of life in general, had
sighed itself in a kind of lonely soliloquy through the expanding pages.
And he read this second letter over twice, correcting it with great
care, a process the first had been denied.

His trunk had been duly delivered, as Miss Farringall had assured him it
should be, and it was with a kind of reverent tenderness that the lonely
stranger raised the lid and surveyed all his poor belongings, each one
lying where it had been placed by the loving hands that were now so far
away.  The care-worn face rose again before him as he bended over these
last tokens of his mother’s devoted care; and instinctively, with a dumb
sense that she would have wished it so, he searched first for the sacred
book he had seen her place there.  He soon found it, and carrying it to
where the light might fall upon it, he turned wistfully to the fly-leaf.
Still with his eyes fixed on it he sat down on the bed beside him, the
dim mist gathering as the poor misguided handwriting looked up at him in
all the eloquence of sightless love:

"_Dear Harvey_
       _From his loving mother_"

was all that was written there.  But every character was aflame with
fondness, and every word was a vision, bright with tender beauty,
fragrant of the unselfish courage that had filled their lowly lives with
a gladness denied to many a richer home.  The very waywardness of the
writing, the lines aslant and broken, enhanced the dauntless love that
penned them; and Harvey’s lips were touched to the mute symbols with
reverent passion.

Still swimming, his eyes fell again upon the page, and he noticed—what
he had not seen before—that something had been written at the lower
corner. Isaiah 66:13, it said; and a moment later he had found the text.
The full heart overflowed as he read: "As one whom his mother comforteth
so will I comfort you."  With a stifled sob, and still repeating the
wonderful words, he sank on his knees beside the bed.  And as he did so
there arose before him the vision of other days, long departed now, when
he had thus knelt for his evening prayer; a tranquil face looked down
again upon the childish form, and he could almost feel the chill of
little feet seeking cover while he prayed; the warm hands held his own,
reverently folded together, and amid the stillness that wrapped his
heart there floated out, with a silvery sound like that of an evening
bell, the tones of the dear voice that had been so quick to prompt his
childish memory or to recall his wandering thoughts.  The hurried
ending, the impulsive uprising, the swift relapse into boyish merriment,
the plunge into the waiting crib, the good-night kiss, the sudden
descent of darkness, the salvo of farewells the cozy cuddling into the
arms of slumber—all these came back to him with a preciousness he had
never felt before.

His loneliness, prompted by every reminiscence, slowly turned to prayer.
He tried to thank God for all the treasure his soul possessed in the
dear ones at home, and to ask for strength to be worthy of love and
sacrifice so great.  He promised to be true; a swift memory of his
mother’s fear lest dormant appetite should prove his foe mingled with
his prayer a moment, and was gone.  For the whole burden of his pleading
seemed to revolve again and again about the love-laden text that had
taken such a hold upon his heart, till at last he only repeated it over
and over before God: "As one whom his mother comforteth so will I
comfort you."  Suddenly he paused; for he felt, though he knew not why,
that his mother too was kneeling by the Mercy Seat—distant far, sundered
by weary miles, yet he could not dispel the assurance, which warmed and
caressed his very life, that another kept her sacred midnight vigil.
And as he thought of Jessie’s slumbering face, and of the other’s,
upturned in pleading for her son, a deeper peace than he had known
before crept about him, the loneliness vanished like a mist, and but a
few minutes passed before he slept the sweet sleep of all homeless lads
who trust the keeping of their mother’s God.




                                 *XIX*

                         _*A BRUSH WITH DEATH*_


It was quite in vain that Harvey tried to read. For two much-loved
faces, one worn and grave, the other bright and hopeful, kept coming and
going between him and his book.  Another, too, whose setting was a
wealth of golden hair.

"You seem in a hurry to get on—guess you’re going home," broke in a
voice from the seat immediately opposite his own in the crowded car.

Harvey smiled and laid his book aside.  "I’m in a hurry all right," he
answered, "though I don’t know that looking at one’s watch every few
minutes helps matters much.  But I don’t relish the idea of being late."

"Student, aren’t you?" asked the man, nodding towards a pin in evidence
on Harvey’s coat.

"Yes—I’m just going home for a little visit."

"Been long at college?"

"A couple of years," answered Harvey; "they go rather slowly when a
fellow’s anxious to get through. Say, isn’t this train going at a
tremendous pace? What’s the matter?" his voice rising as he clutched
savagely at the side of the seat.

It was too late for his companion to make reply—already he was being
caught into the current of the storm.

What followed defies description.  Harvey’s first thought was of some
irregularity that would last but a moment—he could not realize that the
worst had happened.  A shrill voice from another part of the car cried
out that they were off the rail, but he swiftly rejected the suggestion.
An instant later he was as one struggling for his life.  The engine had
never left the rail and the driver was quite unconscious of the
situation.  Dragged ruthlessly along, the car leaped and bounded like a
living thing: it seemed, like a runaway horse, to be stampeded by its
own wild plunging as it was flung from side to side, bouncing almost
clear of the road-bed with every revolution of the wheels.

Flung into the corner by the window, Harvey braced himself as best he
could with hands and feet, dimly marvelling at the terrible length of
time the process seemed to last.  He glanced upward at the bell-rope,
swingly wildly; but he knew any attempt to reach it would be disastrous,
if not fatal.  Still the mad thing tore on; shrieks and cries rose above
the din; parcels and valises were everywhere battering about as if flung
from catapults; one or two of the passengers cried out in plaintive
wrath, some as if remonstrating with a mettlesome steed, others as if
appealing for a chance against the sudden violence. Harvey remembered,
long after, how he had said to himself that he was still alive—and
uninjured—and that all might yet be well, if it would only stop.

Confused and terrified though he was, his senses worked with almost
preternatural acuteness; he remarked the spasmodic eagerness with which
men clutched at one another, muttering the while like contestants in a
mighty struggle; the very grotesqueness of the thing flashed upon his
mind an instant, as, the car taking its last desperate bound, he saw
strong men flung about like feathers in a gale; two or three near him,
shouting wildly, were tossed to the very ceiling of the car, their limbs
outflung as when athletes jump high in air.  Then the coach was pitched
headlong; the man to whom he had spoken but a moment before was hurled
through the spacious window, and the overturning car sealed his lips
with eternal silence; two stalwart men fell full on Harvey’s crouching
form—darkness wrapped him about as the car ploughed its way down the
steep embankment.

"This is death," he said involuntarily, and aloud, as the dread descent
was being accomplished. Many things—much that could never be reproduced,
more that could never be uttered—swam before him in the darkness.  A
sort of reverent curiosity possessed his soul, hurrying, as he believed
himself to be, into the eternal.  He was to know now!  All of which he
had so often heard, and thought, and conjectured, was about to unfold
itself before him.  A swift sense of the insignificance of all things
save one—such an estimate as he had never had before—and a great
conception of the transcendent claim of the eternal, swept through his
mind.  Then suddenly—as if emerging from the very wreck of things,
illumining all the darkness and clothing the storm with a mysterious
calm, there arose the vision of his mother’s face.  A moment later all
was still; blessed stillness, and like to the quietness of death.  The
car was motionless.

But only for a moment did the stillness reign. Then came the wild
surging of human voices, like the sound of many waters; appeal, frenzied
fear, tormenting pain, pitiful enquiry—all blended to make it such a
discord of human sounds as he had never heard before.  It froze his soul
amid all the agony of suspense he himself was bearing.  For that human
load was still upon him, still holding him pinned tight in the corner of
the now overturned and shattered car; how much more might hold him down,
he could not tell.  And with this came his first real taste of terror;
the thought of imprisonment beneath the heavy wreckage—and then the
outbreaking fire—tore for a moment through his mind.

But already he could feel the forms above his own writhing in their
effort to rise; one, his thigh fractured, gave over with a loud cry of
pain.  The other was trying to lift him as gently as he might. Soon both
were from above him.  The moment that followed thrilled with
suspense—Harvey almost shrank from the attempt to straighten himself up
lest he might find himself pinned beneath the deadly truck.  But he
tried—and he was free.  And he could see through the window of the door,
upside down as it was, the sparkling sunshine, never so beautiful
before.

With a gasp of joy he bounded towards it—then stopped suddenly, checked
by the rebuke of what he saw about him.  For—let it be recorded to the
praise of human nature and the credit of sorrow’s ministry—every man who
was unhurt seemed engaged with those who were.  Strong, selfish-looking
men, utter strangers, men who had sat scowling behind their newspapers
or frowning because some child’s boisterousness disturbed them, could
now be seen bending with tender hands and tenderer words above some
groaning sufferer, intent only on securing the removal of the helpless
from the threatened wreck.

Not threatened alone, alas!  For even as they were struggling towards
the sweet beguiling light a faint puff of smoke floated idly in about
them; and the first to notice it—not with loud outcry but with hushed
gasp of terror—was one unhappy man whom the most desperate efforts had
failed to free from the wreckage.  But as the car gradually filled with
the smoke, and as, a little later, a distant crackling could be heard,
the stifled moan became a cry, and the cry at length a shrieking appeal
for deliverance from the living death that kept ever creeping nearer.

"My God," he cried frantically, "you can’t leave me here—I’ll burn to
death," his eyes shining with a strange unearthly light; "I’ll burn to
death," he repeated in grim simplicity.

Harvey never left him till the all-conquering flame had all but kindled
his own garments; half-blind, soaking with perspiration, gasping for
breath, he at last turned his back upon the awful scene and staggered
away.  The waters of death were now surging about the man—if the
unfitting metaphor may be allowed. As he groped his way towards the brow
of the up-torn declivity, Harvey stumbled on the silent form of the man
who had sat beside him in the coach—a brakeman was hurrying towards it
with a sheet. Then dense darkness flowed about, and kind unconsciousness
delivered him.

                  *      *      *      *      *      *

"You’ve made as good progress as any man could look for," the doctor
said; "don’t you think so, Mr. Nickle?  He’s been lucky all through, to
my mind; two broken ribs, and a twisted elbow, was getting off pretty
well—considering what he came through.  Another week will do wonders."

"It’s bad eneuch," rejoined the cautious Scotchman; "but it micht hae
been waur."

"Well, old chap, I guess I’ll have to go," the doctor said as he began
putting on his gloves; "just have patience and you’ll be all right.
What you’ll feel most will be the result of the shock—don’t get
discouraged if you sag sometimes, and feel as if the bottom were falling
out of everything.  You’ll likely have queer spells of depression—all
that sort of thing, you know.  ’Twouldn’t be a bad idea to take a little
spirits when you feel one coming on; and if a little doesn’t help, take
a little more," he concluded, laughing.

Mrs. Simmons’ face was white and drawn; but she controlled herself, and
no word escaped her lips. When the doctor left the room she followed
him, closing the door behind her.  A few minutes later he returned:

"Oh, I’ve just been thinking over that matter, Harvey," he began
carelessly, "and I believe this prescription would be a fully better
stimulant," producing pencil and pad and beginning to write.

He remarked how Harvey received the advice—the latter’s lips were pale,
and the doctor could see them quivering.  "Don’t fool with the other at
all," he added impressively: "I don’t believe it would do you a bit of
good."

Geordie Nickle lingered after the doctor had taken his departure; but he
found it quite impossible to engage Harvey in conversation.  "I hae nae
doot a’ this sair experience’ll be for some guid purpose," he began, the
face of the saintly man suffused with the goodness of his heart; "only
dinna let it be wasted, laddie.  A wasted sickness is a sair thing, an’
a wasted sorrow’s waur—but there’s naethin’ sae sad as to look intil the
face o’ death, wi’oot bein’ a different man to a’ eternity.  It’s a
waesome thing when a soul snatches spoils frae death—an’ then wastes
them on life, my laddie," earnestness and affection mingling in the eyes
that were turned on Harvey’s chair.

But Harvey’s response was disappointing.  "If I could only sleep a
little better, Mr. Nickle.  I’m really all right except for my nerves.
Yes, what you say is very true, Mr. Nickle."

After one or two equally fruitless attempts, the old man seemed to
realize the hopelessness of his efforts.  "Weel," he said pleasantly, "I
maun be gaein’—yon’s the kirk bell that’s ringin’.  Why, there’s David,"
he cried suddenly, looking out of the window; "I’ll juist gie ye intil
Mr. Borland’s care.  I think yir mither said she’s gaein’ till the
kirk—we’ll gang thegither," as the kindly patriarch made a brief
farewell, withdrawing to join Mrs. Simmons and guide her to the house of
prayer.

"Hello, Harvey!  Why, you’re lookin’ like a morning-glory," was David’s
salutation as he drew his chair up beside Harvey’s.  "I jest thought I’d
drop in an’ look you over a bit when Madeline an’ her mother was at
church.  Ought to be there myself, I know," he went on, a reproachful
smile on his face; "but it’s such an elegant mornin’—an’ besides, I’m
doin’ penance.  I remembered it’s jest two years ago to-day, by the day
o’ the month, since I traded horses with Jim Keyes—an’ I thought mebbe I
shouldn’t have took any boot—so I thought I’d jest punish myself by
stayin’ away from the meetin’ this mornin’. How’re you keepin’, Harvey?"
he concluded earnestly, his elbows on his knees as he peered into the
patient’s face.

"I’m not bad," said Harvey—"only a little grouchy.  Is that really the
reason you’re not going to church this morning, Mr. Borland?" he asked,
a slight note of impatience in the tone.  David might have noticed,
indeed, that Harvey seemed ill at ease, and as if he would as soon have
been alone.

David stared at him.  "That there accident must have bumped all the
humoursomeness out o’ you," he said, grinning.  "No, of course it’s
not—but Dr. Fletcher ain’t goin’ to preach to-day.  That’s the real
reason.  An’ he’s got a fellow from Bluevale rattlin’ round in his
place; can’t stand him at all. He’s terrible long—an’ the hotter, the
longer.  They say he dives terrible deep; an’ mebbe he does—but he comes
up uncommon dry," and David turned a very droll smile on his auditor.
"The last time I heard him, he preached more’n fifty minutes—passed some
excellent stoppin’-places, too," David reflected amiably; "but the worst
of it was when he come to conclude—it was like tyin’ up one o’ them
ocean liners at the dock, so much backin’ up an’ goin’ furrit again, an’
semi-demi-quaverin’ afore he got plumb still.  That’s the principal
reason I’m punishin’ myself like this," he added gravely.  "Say, Harvey,
what’s makin’ you so kind o’ skeery like?—anythin’ hurtin’ you?"

Harvey cleared his throat nervously.  "I say, Mr. Borland," he began
nervously, "would you do something for me?"

David, very serious now, drew his chair closer.

"You bet—if I can.  What is it?"

Harvey stood up and walked unsteadily towards the table.  Then he thrust
the little paper the doctor had left into a book.  "I wonder if you’d go
to the drug-store for me," he began rather huskily, "and get me a
little—a little spirits—or something like that; spirits would be the
best thing, I think—the doctor spoke of that.  I’m just about all in,
Mr. Borland—and I think if I were only braced up a little—just to tide
me over, you know," he stammered, his courage failing him a little as
David’s steady eyes gazed into his own.

David looked long in silence.  Then he rose, and without a word he took
Harvey in his arms.  Slowly they tightened round the trembling form, the
old man holding the young as though he would shelter him till some cruel
storm were past.  Tighter still he held him, one hand patting him gently
on the shoulder as though he were a little child.

Harvey yielded to the embrace—and understood. When at length David
partially released him, he looked into the face before him.  The eyes
that met his own were swimming, and David’s face was aglow with the
yearning and compassion that only great souls can know.

"Oh, Harvey," the shaking voice began, hardly above a whisper, "I love
you like my own son. Don’t, Harvey—for God’s sake, don’t; kill your
mother some other way," and again he drew the now sobbing lad close to
his bosom.

A moment later he whispered something in Harvey’s ear.  It was a
question—and Harvey nodded, his face still hidden.

"I thought so," David murmured.  "I thought so—an’ there’s only one way
out, my boy, there’s only one way out.  An’ it’s by fightin’—jest like
folks fight consumption, only far harder.  That ain’t nothin’ to this.
Jest by fightin’, Harvey—an’ gettin’ some One to help you.  All them
other ways—like pledges, an’ promises, an’ all that—they’re jest like
irrigatin’ a desert with one o’ them sprayin’-machines for your throat.
I ain’t much of a Christian, I know—but there ain’t nothin’ any good
’cept what Dr. Fletcher calls the grace of God.  An’ if you think it’d
help any, from an old fellow like me—I’ll—I’ll try it some, every
mornin’ an’ night; ’twouldn’t do no harm, anyway," and the protecting
arms again drew the yielding form into the refuge of his loving and
believing heart.

Only a few more sentences passed between the two; only a few minutes
longer did David wait.  But when he passed by the church on his homeward
way his head was bowed, and his face was like to the faces of those
whose lips are moist with the sacramental wine.




                                  *XX*

                      _*THE RESTORING OF A SOUL*_


"And you think you’ll go back to-morrow, Harvey?  Are you sure you feel
strong enough, my son?  Your voice is weak."

Harvey’s answer was confident enough.  But pale he certainly was—and the
resolute face showed signs of abundant struggle, and a new seriousness
sat on the well-developed brow.  "I think life’ll be all different to me
now, mother," he went on; "a fellow can hardly go through what I have,
without seeing things in a different light.  I didn’t think so much of
it when Mr. Nickle said it, but it’s been running through my mind a lot
lately—he said what a terrible thing it is for a fellow to snatch spoils
from death and then waste them on his after life."

"He’s a godly man," the mother rejoined musingly. "He’s been like a
light to me in my darkness—often I think my heart would have broken if
it hadn’t been for him.  When things looked darkest, and he’d drop in
for a little talk, I always seemed to be able to take up the load and go
on again.  He and Mr. Borland have been good angels to us all," and the
sightless face was bright with many a gladsome memory.

"Mother, when you speak of darkness—and loads—do you mean—do you mean
about your sight?"

His mother reached out, instinctively guided, and laid a thin hand on
one of Harvey’s.  "Do I speak much about loads, my son, and darkness?"
she asked in a gentle voice.  "For I’ve always asked for grace to say
little of such things as those."

"But you haven’t answered me, mother," the son persisted.  "Mother," he
went on, sitting up straight, his voice arresting her startlingly,
"you’ve been more to me, I think, than ever mother was to a son before.
But I know, mother—at least, I think I know—I’m almost sure you’ve never
told me all that troubles you; I feel sometimes as if there were some
sealed book I’ve never been allowed to see.  Don’t you understand,
mother?"

"What do you mean, my son?  How could it be so?"

"Well, mother," he went on, his voice low and serious, "look at it this
way.  You know how easily a mother kind of scents out anything like that
about a son—just by a kind of instinct.  Well, don’t you think sons love
mothers just as much as mothers love sons?—and don’t they have the same
kind of intuitions?  Don’t you understand, mother?"

She drew him closer to her side.  "Yes, my son," she said after a long
silence; "yes, I understand, my darling.  If I understand anything, it’s
that.  And I’m going to ask you something, Harvey—you’ll forgive me, my
boy, won’t you?  But what you’ve just said opens the door for what I’m
going to ask.  And I’ve wanted to do it ever since you came home."

Harvey’s heart told him what was coming.  The very faculty he had been
trying to define was pursuing its silent quest, he knew.  And no
movement, no exclamation betrayed surprise or resentment when his mother
whispered her trembling enquiry in his ear.

Perhaps he had never learned as well the luxury of a mother’s love.
Once or twice he looked up wistfully, as though his mother’s eyes must
be pouring their message into his, so full and rich was the tide of her
outflowing love, strong, compassionate, healing, But the curtain still
veiled the light of the luminous soul behind—and he realized then, as
never before, that his loss had been almost equal to her own.  Yet the
soulful tones went far to make amends, caressing him with tenderness,
inspiring him with courage, as little by little they drew from him the
story of the days.

"It all went so well for a long time, mother," he said, much having been
said before.  "Perhaps too well.  I got the scholarship, as you know—and
then another—and I was elected one of the inter-collegiate debaters.
Then I got on the first eleven; perhaps that pleased me most of all; and
I used to go to the other towns and cities often, to play.  And I was so
happy and comfortable at Miss Farringall’s—she’s been so good to me.
And I gradually met a lot of nice people in the city; and I had quite a
little of social life—that was how it happened," he said in a minor
tone, his eyes on the floor.

The mother said nothing, asked nothing.  A moment later he went on of
his own accord.  "I don’t mean to make excuses, mother," he began, "but
I didn’t really deliberately break the promise I gave you—and that
comforts me a lot.  But it was one night I was out at a Southern
family’s home—they had just come lately to the city, and Dr. Wallis knew
them. Well, they had refreshments; and they had a lot of queer Southern
dishes.  One was a little tiny thing—they called it a syllabub, or
something like that; I had never heard of it before.  And I took it—it
had wine in it—and oh, mother," his eye lighting and his voice
heightening at the memory, "no one will ever know—it was like as if
something took fire.  I didn’t know what it meant—I seemed so helpless.
And I fought and I struggled—and I prayed—and I wrote out my promise to
you and I used to read it over and over.  And I was beaten, mother—I
couldn’t help it," he cried pitifully, his voice echoing every note of
pain—"and then I felt everything was up and I had nothing more to fight
for, and I just—oh, I can’t tell you; it maddens me when I think of
it—nobody’ll ever know it all.  And Miss Farringall tried so to help
me—so did Dr. Wallis—but I wouldn’t let anybody.  I turned on them," he
exclaimed fiercely; "and I tried to forget about you, mother—I tried to
forget about you and Jessie. Then I played the coward.  I came back
afterwards to Miss Farringall, and I—I borrowed money from her;" he
forced the words like one who tells a crime. "And after that——"

Thus ran the piteous tale.  The mother spoke no word for long,
staunching the flowing wound as best she could and by such means as only
mothers know. And she mutely wondered once or twice whether this—or that
other night—had brought the deeper darkness.

But when his voice was still; when the poor wild wailing that had rung
through it all had hushed itself, as it were, within the shoreless deep
of her great, pitying love, she asked him another question:

"How much did you borrow from Miss Farringall, Harvey?" the voice as
calm as if no storm of grief had ever swept it.

"Five dollars, mother," he answered, the crimson face averted.  "But I
know one or two things I can deny myself this term—and that’ll pay it
back;" the glance that stole towards his mother was the look of years
agone.

Without a word, dignity in every movement, she rose and made her way to
a little bowl that stood on the table.  From it she took an envelope,
her fingers searching it; then she handed him its contents, the exact
amount.

He broke out in loud protest; but she was firm. "You haven’t anything
there that you can afford to give up," she said quietly, "and we can
afford this, dear—but not the other.  Take it for mother’s sake," as she
thrust the bill into his hand.  It was worn and faded; but his eyes fell
upon it as upon a sacred thing, hallowed by the love and sacrifice and
courage that had wakened many a holy vow in his heart before.  As they
did now again, this latest token burning the hand that held it, melting
the heart that answered its appeal of love.

And the mother’s tryst began anew; closer than ever she clung to her
unseen Helper; more passionately than before she turned her waiting eyes
towards the long tarrying Light.




                                 *XXI*

                          _*A HEATED DEBATE*_


The years had left Harvey wiser than when first he entered college.  The
passing months, each opening the door a little wider, had admitted him
farther and farther to the secrets of the new life about him—farther
too, for that matter, into the mystery of life itself, the great
complicated maze of which college life is at once the portal and the
type.

And as he stood in the main hall of the great Gothic building this
bright spring morning, a reminiscent smile played about his lips as he
recalled the day, far distant now, whereon he had first gazed in wonder
on the animated scene.  For that had been an epoch-marking day in
Harvey’s life. The very stateliness of the surroundings had filled him
with a subdued awe he had never felt before, and his breath had come
quicker at the thought that he, a humble child of poverty, was really a
successor to the many great and famous men who had walked these halls
before him.  His gown was faded and rusty now, but he could recall the
thrill with which he had first donned it years ago, the only badge of
rank he had ever worn.  And how fascinated he had been by the restless
throng of students that buzzed about him that opening day, each intent
upon his own pursuit, and all, or nearly all, indifferent to the
plain-clad stranger who felt himself the very least among them.  Some,
with serious faces, had hurried towards the professors’ rooms or gravely
consulted the time-table already posted in the hall; while others,
oblivious to the portent of the day, had seemed to hail it only as the
gateway to a life of gaiety, entering at last upon the long-anticipated
freedom their earlier lives had been denied.

Not a few had moved idly about, turning blank faces here and there, all
unquickened by the stimulus of the atmosphere and the challenge of the
hour—dumb driftwood in life’s onmoving stream.  And some there had
been—on these Harvey’s gaze had lingered longest—who were evidently
there by virtue of a heroism not their own, their plainness of apparel
and soberness of mien attesting the struggle that lay behind the
opportunity they had no mind to waste.


He was opening a letter from Jessie now, handed to him from the morning
mail; and the tide of youth flowed unnoticed about him as he devoured
it, still standing on the spacious stair that led upward from the main
entrance of the college.  The smile on his face deepened as he read; for
the letter was full of cheery tidings, all about their every-day toilful
life, quickened as it had been by the good news concerning his progress
in his studies.  "We’re quite sure you’ll get another scholarship,"
wrote the hopeful Jessie.  And then followed the news of the
village—much regarding Dr. Fletcher and the church, and a reference to
the hard times that were paralyzing business—and a dark hint or two
about the struggle David Borland was having to pull through; but it was
rumoured, too, that Geordie Nickle was giving him a hand, and doubtless
he would outride the storm.  And Cecil had been home two or three times
lately, the letter went on to say—and he and Madeline had been seen a
good deal together, and everybody knew how anxious Mrs. Borland was that
it should come to something—but everybody wondered, too, what was coming
of Cecil’s work in the meantime; these things the now unsmiling Harvey
read towards the close of the letter.  And the last page or so was all
about their mother, her sight giving as yet no sign of improvement, and
her general health causing Jessie no little alarm.  But they were hoping
for the best and were looking forward with great eagerness to Harvey’s
return when the college year should be ended.

Harvey was still standing with the letter in his hand when a voice broke
in on his meditations.

"Well, old sport, you look as if you’d just heard from your sweetheart,"
as Harvey looked quickly up.  It was Cecil himself, and he stopped
before his fellow student as if inclined to talk.  For much of the
antagonism between the two had been dissolved since both had come to
college, Cecil being forced to recognize a foeman worthy of his steel
when they had met on an arena where birth and patrimony go for nothing.
A few casual meetings had led to relations of at least an amicable sort;
once or twice, indeed, he had sought Harvey’s aid in one or two branches
of study in which his townsman was much more capable than himself.  But
such occasions were obviously almost at an end.  For the most
uninitiated might have diagnosed Cecil’s case as he stood that spring
morning before the one he had so long affected to despise.

A false ideal of life, and of what constitutes life’s enjoyment, and a
nature pampered from childhood into easy self-indulgence, together with
strong native passions and ample means wherewith to foster them, had
made their handiwork so plain that he who ran might read.  The face that
now was turned on Harvey was stained and spotted with marks significant
of much, the complexion mottled and sallow, the eye muddy and restless,
the voice unnaturally harsh and with the old-time ring departed—such a
voice as years sometimes give.  Real solicitude marked Harvey’s gaze as
it rested on the youth before him; something of a sense of kinship,
because of old-time associations—in spite of all that had occurred to
mar it—and a feeling that in some indefinable way the part of protector
was laid upon him, mingled with his thoughts as he noted the symptoms of
the ill-spent years.

"From your very own, isn’t it?" Cecil bantered again, looking towards
the letter in Harvey’s hand.

"You’re right enough; that’s exactly where it came from," the other
answered, smiling.

"I was just thinking about you," Cecil went on; "I’ve kind of chucked
classes for this session—going to study up in the summer and take the
’sup’s’ in the fall.  I’ve been too busy to work much here," he
explained with a grimace—"but that’s not what I wanted to speak to you
about; some of the fellows asked me to bring you round to a little
meeting we’re going to have this evening—seven to eight o’clock—we’re
going to the theatre after it’s over.  It’s something kind of new;
Randolph got on to it down in Boston, and they say it’s fairly sweeping
the country.  I believe myself it’s the nearest thing to the truth, in
the religious line, anybody’s discovered yet."

"What is it?" Harvey asked interestedly.

"Well, it’s a kind of religious meeting, as I said," Cecil informed
him—"only it’s new—at least it’s new here; it’s a kind of theosophy, you
know—and many of the strongest minds in the world believe in it," he
added confidently.  "That’s why we want you to sample it."

Harvey waited a little before answering.  "I’ve heard a bit about it,"
he said at length; "I’ve read about it some—and I’d advise you to leave
that sort of thing alone, Craig."

"You’re not fair," the other retorted; "you’ve never heard it expounded,
have you, now?"

Harvey admitted that he had never had that privilege.

"Then I want you to come to-night," urged Cecil; "come and give it a
trial anyhow."

A little further parley ended in Harvey’s consenting to attend the
gathering of the faithful, not, however, without much candid prediction
of the issue.


Seven o’clock found him there.  The believers, some thirteen or fourteen
in all, were already assembled, and Harvey’s scrutiny of the different
faces was swift and eager.  Some few he recognized as those of earnest
students, men of industry and intelligence. Others, the light of eager
expectation on them as though the mystery of life were at last to be
laid bare, belonged to men of rather shallow intellect, novelty-mongers,
quick to yield to a seductive phrase or a plausible theory, men with
just enough enterprise of soul to put out from shore, yet not enough to
take their bearings or to find a pathway in the deep beyond.  And two or
three, conspicuous amongst whom was Cecil, were evidently hospitable to
any theory, however fanciful, that would becalm the inward storm of
their own making, and promise healing to secret wounds of shame, and
absolve from penalties already pressing for fulfillment.  Not
intellectual unrest, but moral ferment, had been the tide wherewith they
had drifted from the moorings they were now endeavouring to forget and
professing to despise.

The little room was fairly full and Harvey was seated on a small table
in the corner.  The proceedings were opened by a solemn-visaged youth
who evidently felt the responsibility of his office.  For he paused
long, looking both around him and above, before he proceeded to read
some ponderous passages from a book, evidently their ritual.

Much of this was punctuated by ejaculatory eulogies of one, Lao-tsze.
Harvey had never heard this name before, but the expounder pronounced it
frequently in terms of decided reverence; and he was at great pains to
convey to his hearers his dependence upon this man of unpronounceable
name as the fountain-head of inspiration and guidance.

The solemn disquisition ended, several others added their testimony to
the light and comfort this teaching had afforded them, one or two
venturing further to expound some doctrines which all seemed to find
precious in proportion as they were obscure. Such phrases as
"explication of the Divine Essence," "deduction of the phenomenal
universe," "unity imminent in the whole," were freely dispensed, the
listening faces answering with the light of intelligence, the light most
resolutely produced where the shades were deepest.  "Paracelsus" was a
name several hastened to pronounce, and familiarly, as though he were an
old-time friend.  One very small student with a very bespotted face
broke his long silence by rising to solemnly declare that since he had
been following the new light he had come to the conclusion that God was
the great "terminus ad quem," taking a moment longer to express his
surprise and disappointment that all men did not so discern the truth in
its simplicity.

Another rose to deplore that so little was known of the life of the
great and good Lao-tsze, but comforted his hearers with the assurance
that this distant dignitary had been reincarnate in a certain American
poet, whose name he mentioned, well known as a wandering printer whose
naked lucubrations were given at intervals to a startled world.  This
later apostle then received his share of eulogy, after which the ardent
neophyte quoted copiously from his works, scattering the leaves of grass
among the listening circle.

Exhausted, the speaker surrendered the floor to another, who launched
into a glorification of the great Chinaman—and his successor—amounting
to a deification.  To all of which Harvey listened in respectful
weariness, for he knew something of one of them at least, and of his
works.  Suddenly the devotee introduced the great name of Jesus Christ;
for purposes of comparison alone did he quote the latter name, conceding
to the founder of the Christian faith a place among the good and great,
but making no attempt to conceal the deeper homage he accorded to the
other.

This was too much for the visitor, who could hardly believe his ears.
Indifference had gradually taken the form of contempt, this in turn
deepening to disgust as he listened to what at first struck him as
shallow platitude, descending later to what he esteemed as blasphemous
vulgarity.  Deeper than he knew was his faith in the One his mother had
taught his childish lips to bless; and, as there rose before him a
vision of the humble life that same faith had so enriched and
strengthened, of the heavenly light that had gilded her darksome path,
of the sweetness and patience that this light and faith had so
wonderfully wrought, his soul rose up in a kind of lofty wrath that
overbore all considerations which might have sealed his lips. Moreover,
a casual glance at his watch informed him that it was exactly half-past
seven—and the covenant he had scarcely ever forgotten at that hour was
secretly and silently fulfilled.

Rising during a momentary silence, he was received with a murmur of
subdued applause.  But the appreciation of the circle was short-lived.

"Did I understand the last speaker to say," he asked in a low, intense
voice, "that he puts that man he quoted from—that American
poet—alongside of, or ahead of, Jesus Christ?—as a moral character, I
mean, and as a teacher of men?"

The youth thus addressed made some evasive reply, not, however, revising
his classification in the least.

"Then listen here," exclaimed Harvey as he reached for the volume of
poems lying on the table. "I’ll read you something more from your
master."  Hastily turning the leaves, he found the passage he was in
search of after some little difficulty, and began slowly to read the
words, their malodour befouling the atmosphere as they came.

One of the faithful rose to his feet with a loud exclamation of protest.
But Harvey overbore him. "If he’s all you say he is, you can’t
reasonably object," he declared; "I’m not reading anything but what he
wrote," still releasing the stainful stream.

Harvey flung the book on the table as he finished. "The gutter’s the
place for that thing," he blurted out contemptuously; "that’s where it
came from—a reprobate that deserted his own children, children of shame
though they were, and gave himself to kindling the lowest passions of
humanity—these be your gods, oh Israel," he went on scornfully.  "I’ll
crave permission to retire now, if that’s the best you’ve got to help a
fellow that finds the battle hard enough already—I’ll hold to the old
faith till I get some better substitute than this," moving towards the
door as he spoke.

The leader almost angrily challenged him.  "Perhaps our friend will tell
us what he knows about ’the old faith,’ as he calls it, and why he
clings to it so devotedly—it’s not often we get a chance to hear from a
real Christian," he added jeeringly, "and it’s a poor cause that won’t
stand argument."

A chorus of voices approved the suggestion.  "If you’ve got one good
solid intellectual argument for it, let us hear it," one student cried
defiantly. "We’ve had these believers on general principles with us
before."

Harvey turned, his hand already on the door, his face white and drawn.
"Yes," he cried hotly, "I’ll give you one reason—just one—for the faith
that’s in me.  I don’t profess to be much of a Christian—but I know one
reason that goes for more with me than all the mouthings I’ve heard here
to-night.  It’s worth a mountain of such stuff."

"Let’s have it, then," the leader said, moving closer to where Harvey
stood.  "Give us your overwhelming argument."

Harvey cast a haughty glance at him and those behind him.

"I will," he thundered; "it’s my mother, by God," he cried passionately,
the hot blood surging through his brain—"do you hear that—it’s my
mother."

There was a brief hush, for they must be reprobate indeed who would not
recognize that sovereign plea. But one intrepid spirit soon broke the
silence; a young stalwart of nineteen or twenty, towering among the
rest, was quickly to the fore with his verdict. "Just what I expected,"
he drawled derisively; "the old story of a mother’s influence; you
forget, my dear fellow," turning towards Harvey as he spoke, "how
credulous the woman-heart is by nature—and how easily they imagine
anything they really want to believe.  Besides, we haven’t the advantage
of knowing your saintly relative," he added, something very like a sneer
in the voice.

He was evidently bent on developing his idea, but the words had hardly
left his lips before Harvey had brushed aside those who stood between as
he flung himself towards the speaker.  His eyes were aflame, and his
burning cheek and flashing eye told how deep the taunt had struck.  He
did not stop till his face was squarely opposite the other’s, his lips
as tense as though they would never speak again.

"Gemmell," he said, calling the man by name, "I don’t know whether you
mean to insult me or not—but I’ll find out.  You don’t know anything
about my mother—and she’s not to be made the subject of discussion here.
But I know her; and I know the miracle her dark life’s been.  And if you
say that that’s all been just her imagination, and her credulity, then I
say you’re a liar and a cad—and if you want to continue this argument
outside, by heavens, here’s the door—and here’s the invitation, —— you,"
as he smote the astonished debater full in the face.  Parrying the
return blow, his lips white and livid, he turned to lead the way
outside.  His fuming antagonist made as if to follow him; but two or
three, springing between the men, undertook the part of peacemakers.
Perhaps Cecil’s efforts were as influential as any. "Let the thing drop,
Gemmell," he counselled his friend in a subdued voice; "I know him of
old—and he’s the very devil in a fight."

Whatever the cause, the fact remains that when Harvey paused a minute or
two outside the door he found himself joined by none but Craig himself.

"Come on," said the latter, "what’s the use of making fools of ourselves
over religion?  Come on, and we’ll go to the theatre.  I told you we
intended going there after anyhow—but I doubt if the others will be
going now; so we’ll just go ourselves.  There won’t be anything very
fine to hear, perhaps—but there’ll be something real interesting to look
at," with a laugh that his companion could hardly fail to understand.
But Harvey was thinking very little of what his guide was saying, his
mind sufficiently employed with the incident just concluded, and he
hardly realized whither he was being led till he found himself before
the box-office in the lobby.  A rubicund face within was the background
for a colossal cigar that protruded half-way through the wicket; Cecil
was enquiring from the source of the cigar as to the price of tickets.

Rallying, Harvey made his protest and turned to go away.  "I’ve got to
work to-night," he said; "it’s too near exams."

Craig laughed.  "Don’t get nervous," he retorted significantly.  "I’ll
pay the shot—it’s only half a dollar each."

Whereat Harvey, the pride of youth high within him, strode back to the
window, almost pushing his companion from him as he deposited his money
and pressed on into the crowded gallery.

Not more than half an hour had passed when the spectacular side, as
Cecil had so confidently predicted, grew more and more pronounced.

"I told you," he whispered excitedly to Harvey; "look at that one in the
blue gauze skirt," leaning forward in ardent interest as he spoke.

Harvey’s answer was given a few minutes later when, without a word to
the enchanted Cecil, he rose and quietly slipped towards the door and
downward to the street.  "Money with blood on it, too," he half muttered
hotly to himself as he passed the office that had received the hard-won
coin.

Hurrying towards home, he suddenly noticed a heavy dray backed up
against the window of an office; evidently the moving was being done by
night, that the day’s work might not be interrupted. Pausing a moment to
watch, the stormy face brightened a little as he stepped up to the man
in charge of the waggon.  There were only two, which made Harvey more
hopeful of his scheme.

"Want any help?" he asked abruptly.

"You’re right we do," the man answered promptly. "Another of our men was
to be here to-night, but he hasn’t turned up—I’ll bet a five he’s in the
gods over there," nodding towards the festive resort that Harvey had
deserted.

"How long will it take?" enquired the student.

The man reflected a moment.  "Oh, I guess about two hours," he surmised;
"that is, to get the things out and then get them hoisted in at Richmond
Street."

"How much’ll you give me if I help you?"

"I’ll give you forty cents—and you’ll have a free ride," said the man
jocosely.

"Make it fifty," proposed Harvey.  "I owe half a dollar—I’ll do it for
fifty cents."

"All right," replied the teamster, whereat Harvey flung the coat from
his back and the burden from his conscience.  And the face which Miss
Farringall was now coming to await so eagerly was very bright when he
got home that night, her own beaming as she marked its light.




                                 *XXII*

                           _*BREAKERS AHEAD*_


There is a peace, deep and mysterious, which only the defeated know.  It
is familiar to those who, struggling long to avert a crisis, find that
their strivings must be all in vain.  The student long in doubt; the
politician weary of his battle; the business man fighting against
bankruptcy—all these have marvelled at the strange composure that is
born when the last hope of victory is dead.  Many an accountant and
confidential clerk, contriving through haunted years to defer the
discovery which must some day lay bare his shame, has felt this
mysterious calm when destiny has at last received him to her iron bosom.
And who has not observed the same in some life struggling against
weakness and disease?—when the final verdict is announced and Death
already beckons, the first wild tumult of alarm and anguish will
presently be hushed into a silent and majestic peace.

David Borland’s kindly eyes had less of merriment than in the earlier
years.  The old explosive spark was there indeed, unconquerable still;
but the years had endowed the face with a gentle seriousness, not
visible before, which yet became it rather better than the merriment it
had unconsciously displaced.  And there were signs that other enemies
than the passing years had wrought their havoc on the mobile face. For
care and conflict, hope of victory to-day and fear of overthrow
to-morrow, had wrought such changes as the years could not effect.

Yet there was more of peace in the serious eyes than there had been of
yore.  Madeline was beside him as he sat this morning by the window,
gazing long in silence at the handiwork of spring without.  Soft wavy
clouds floated in the sky, pressing serenely on their way as if there
were no such things as tumult and pain and disappointment in the world
beneath them; the air was vocal with many a songster’s jubilation that
his exile was past and gone; the bursting trees and new-born flowers and
tender grass all joined the silent anthem that acclaims the regeneration
of the year—and David thought they had never seemed so beautiful.

"There isn’t nothin’ can take that away from us, Madeline," he said at
last, obviously as much to himself as to the girl beside him.

"What, father?" she enquired softly.

"Oh, lots o’ things—all the real things, that is. All that’s lovely; all
I’m lookin’ at now—nobody can’t take them away, the trees, an’ the
flowers, an’ the birds.  No matter how poor we get, they’re some o’ the
things thieves can’t break through an’ steal, as the Scriptur’ says," he
mused, gazing far over the meadow at the orchard in its bridal robes,
and beyond them both to the distant grandeur of the sky.

"Will we really have to give up very much, father?" the girl ventured,
unconsciously turning as she spoke and permitting her eyes to rove a
moment about the richly furnished home.

David was silent quite a while.  His face seemed wrung with a pain he
could not control, and his hands went out gently towards the girl’s
head.

"Let it down, daughter," he said quietly.

"What, father?  Let what down?"

"I like it better the old way, dear," he said in answer, already
releasing the wealth of lovely hair; "let it fall over your shoulders
the way it used to do, Madeline," as the flowing tresses, but little
darkened by the darkening years, scattered themselves as in other days.
"Now sit here, Madeline—come.  No, you’re not heavy, child; I’ve got
kind o’ used to carryin’ loads these days—an’ this always seems to make
’em lighter," as she nestled in his arms.

Another long silence followed, broken at last by David’s brave,
trembling voice.  "This is the hardest part o’ the whole business,
Madeline," he said resolutely. "But I just found out the worst this
mornin’ —an’ I ain’t goin’ to keep nothin’ back.  I’ve failed, daughter;
I’ve failed—leastways, I’ve failed in business.  I don’t think I’ve
failed no other way, thank God," he added in firmer tone, but still
struggling with his words.  "There won’t be no stain, Madeline," his
lips touching the flowing strands as he spoke; "but things got awful
tight—an’ I made one last terrible effort—an’ it failed; it failed,
Madeline."

The girl’s arm was about his neck.  "I knew there wouldn’t be any
stain," she murmured as her face was bended downward to his own; "not
with my father—and it won’t stop us being happy, will it?" she added
hopefully, looking into the care-worn eyes.

"No, dear, no," responded David—"only there’s just one thing troubles me
the most.  It’s about Geordie Nickle.  He bought a lot o’ the stock; I
felt at the time he done it just to help me—an’ I didn’t ask him—an’ I
kind o’ hoped it’d all come out all right.  But it didn’t, Madeline—an’
Geordie’s lost an awful lot.  I don’t know if he has more left—but I’m
hopin’ so.  There ain’t no better man in the world than him.  One of the
things that’s always kept me believin’ in God, is—is just Geordie
Nickle. Men like him does more to keep faith livin’ than all the
colleges an’ all the professors in the world; he’s a beautiful argument
for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o’ proves God, just the same as
one sunbeam proves the sun," David concluded, his eyes still fixed on
other credentials in the silent glory that wrapped earth and sky.

It was some time before Madeline spoke again. "Poor old father," she
said gently; "what you must have suffered all these long months—more
than mother and I ever thought of."

"It’s been years, child," the father answered softly; "lots o’ times I
thought I couldn’t stand it no longer—but it came awful easy at the
last," he suddenly exclaimed.  "It was a kind of a relief when I knew
the worst—real funny, how calm I took it.  It’s a little like some women
I seen once at an afternoon five-o’clock at-home," he went on dryly, a
droll smile stealing over his face; "they was eatin’ them little rough
cakes they call macaronies—an’ I was watchin’ two or three of the
nobbiest of ’em.  Well, they nibbled an’ nibbled so dainty, like a mouse
at a hunk o’ cheese—an’ then, when they thought nobody wasn’t lookin’,
they just stuck the whole thing in an’ swallowed it like a bullfrog does
a fly, an’ then passed their cup as calm as you please for another
helpin’ o’ tea.  That’s a good deal the way I took my medicine when I
got the last dose of it—had a kind of a feelin’ of relief.  Didn’t you
never notice how easy an’ quiet a stream runs when it’s past the
waterfall? Shouldn’t wonder if this feelin’ I’ve got’s somethin’ the
same as the way some fellows enjoys gettin’ a tooth yanked after they’ve
been holdin’ hot salt to it every night for a month," and David heaved a
reminiscent sigh as the memory of his own sleepless nights drifted
before him for a moment.

Very low, much of it inarticulate, some of it altogether silent, was the
language with which Madeline sought to comfort the weary and wounded
heart, little knowing how successful she was; the father held her closer
and closer to him; and the swiftly slipping treasures around them, that
must soon be sacrificed, seemed more and more insignificant as the
preciousness of love’s possessions grew more real and more dear.

"Do you know, Madeline, they tell me I won’t be worth nothin’ when
everythin’s sold—an’ I only hope there’ll be enough for everybody—they
tell me I won’t be worth nothin’—but I never felt richer than I do this
minute," the words coming from lips half hidden among the golden hair.
"They can all go to thunder about their assets, so long’s I’ve got this
one—Bradstreet’s an awful liar about how much a man’s worth," he added
almost gleefully, holding Madeline’s soft hand to his furrowed cheek.

"And I never loved you so much as I do right now," the girl responded,
employing his own words, her hand wandering among the gray.  "Only I’m
so sorry for mother—she was so fond of all the things. Where do you
suppose we’ll live, father?" she asked him timidly after a pause.

Mr. Borland made no reply for a little, his eyes fixed upon a lane of
sunbeams that came dancing through the window.

"I can’t exactly say, Madeline," he began slowly. "Only I reckon it’ll
be a little place, wherever it is—but them’s often the kind that has the
most room," he went on reflectively; "I’m sure there’ll be room for
everybody we love, an’ every one that loves us.  I often think how it
was the One that hadn’t no place to lay His head that offered everybody
else a place to rest in," he mused reverently; "an’ I think it ought to
be a little that way with folks, no matter how poor they get."

Before his words were ended Madeline had slipped from his arms; looking
up, David could just see her disappearing as she hurried up the stairs.
Half in sorrow, half in jubilance, he was still holding communion with
his thoughts when she returned, the dancing sunbeams falling athwart her
face as she resumed the place she had deserted.

"I’ve got something to tell you, father," she began excitedly, drawing a
tiny paper book from its envelope. "It’s just a little surprise—but I’m
so glad I’m able to do it.  No, father, you mustn’t refuse," she
protested as she saw him beginning to speak, his eyes remarking what she
held in her hand.  "I saved this all myself, father; I began over two
years ago—it’s nearly three hundred dollars," she declared jubilantly
after a fitting pause, "and I was going to get something with
it—something special, something wonderful—it doesn’t matter now what it
was—besides, I wanted you to see how saving I could be.  But now I want
you to take it all, father," the eager face, so unfamiliar with
financial magnitudes, radiant with loving expectation, "and pay those
awful creditors.  Won’t that help, father?—won’t it help?" she cried
again, not knowing what to make of the expression on her father’s face.

David Borland’s hands shook as he took the little pass-book.  His head
was bowed over it and the silence lasted till a hot blur fell upon it, a
message from afar.

"Yes," he murmured huskily.  "Yes, thank God, it helps; more than any
man can tell till he’s got a broken heart like mine," he said
passionately, the long stifled tide of grief and care bursting forth at
last.  "It more than helps—it heals," he murmured iow again, holding the
pass-book close over his brimming eyes.  "Who’s that?" he suddenly
digressed sharply, the deathlike stillness broken by a knock at the
door.  "Who’s got to go an’ come now of all times?" as he released the
wondering girl, already moving forward to answer the summons.

"Come in, come in," David heard her cry delightedly a moment later, his
own face brightening as he recognized the voice.  Instinctively he rose
as if to rush across the room and bid welcome to the visitor; yet
something seemed to check the impulse as he sank back in his chair, an
expression of deepening pain on the tired face.  But the resolve formed
strong within him again and the voice rang like a trumpet.

"Come in, Mr. Nickle," it cried, echoing Madeline’s, "come in, an’
welcome.  I see by your face you know it all—an’ I knew you wouldn’t be
long o’ comin’.  Sit down—here, alongside o’ me."

A man shall be as a refuge from the storm; so runs the ancient message
that has shed its music on multitudes of troubled hearts.  And how
wonderfully true!  How mysterious the shelter that one life affords
another, if only that life be strong and true; gifted it need not be,
nor cultured, nor nimble with tender words nor skilled in caressing
ways—for these are separate powers and sparingly distributed.  But let
the life be true, simple and sincere and brave, and its very existence
is a hiding-place; no word may be spoken, or aim achieved, or device
employed, but yet the very being of a strong and earnest man remains the
noblest pavilion for the defeated and the sad.

How oftentimes the peace of surrender is deepened by an experience of
friendship such as comes only to the vanquished!  And friendship’s
sweetest voice is heard by the despairing heart.  Thus it was with David
Borland as his friend sat beside him, so grave and tender, his very look
betokening that he knew all about the long, bitter conflict, as he
obviously knew the disaster that had marked its close.  He sat long in
comparative silence, only a word at intervals to show that he was
following David’s story.

"An’ I feel worse over that than all the rest," David said at length,
"to think you lost by me. But I’ll see yet that no man will lose a cent
by me, if I’m spared long enough—there’s a heap o’ work in these old
bones yet," he went on bravely, "if only——"

"And what about me, father?—what about me?" Madeline broke in, drawing
near with half outstretched hands; "I’m going to work too—there isn’t
any one in this house as strong as I am," she affirmed, her glowing face
and flashing eyes indicating the sincerity of her words.

David Borland almost groaned as he took the extended hands.  "Oh, child,
they’re so soft, they’re so soft and tender.  And you’ll never do a
day’s work while your old dad can work for you," he said tenderly,
gazing into the deep passion of her eyes.

"Won’t I though?  I’ll show you, father," she cried in sweet defiance.
"Do you think I’m nothing but an ornament, a useless ornament?" she
asked reproachfully.  "Why can’t a woman bear her part in the battle
just as well as men?—I’m going to do it, anyhow.  I know how to do lots
of things; I can teach, or sew, or do woodwork—or I can learn
stenography—it doesn’t matter which; only we’ll fight it out together,
father, you and me—and mother," she added dutifully.

David’s eyes were swimming with loving admiration. Once or twice he
tried to utter what he felt, but the words seemed to choke before they
reached his lips.  Finally he found the very ones he wanted. "Madeline,
you’re a thoroughbred," was all he said; but the girl knew the greatness
of the eulogy.

David turned again to his visitor.  "Please don’t think I’m buttin’ in
where I’ve no business—but I can’t keep from wonderin’ if—if—if this has
took everythin’," he said in much embarrassment.  "That’s been kind of
hauntin’ me for months."

The old man smiled.  "I dinna feel it maitters muckle aboot mysel’," he
answered slowly.  "I’ll hae what I’ll be needin’ till I gang till my
rest, I’m thinkin’," he went on quietly; "an’ ony way, I gaed intill’t
wi’ my eyes open—but I thocht it was for the best.  There’s juist ae
maitter that’s giein’ me mair trouble than anither."

"What’s that?" David asked abruptly; "I’ll bet all I haven’t got it’s
not yourself."

"Weel, ye’re richt—it’s no mysel’," Geordie answered; "I could thole it
better if it was.  It’s the laddie—it’s Harvey, ye ken.  You an’ me’ll
no’ be able to help him ony mair—an’ the laddie was daein’ fine at the
college; an’ I’m dootin’ it’ll be a sair blow on his puir mither to tak’
him awa.  Does she ken?" he asked, slowly raising his head towards
David.

"I don’t think so," said his friend; "but I suppose she’ll have to be
told sooner or later."

"Hoo lang will it be till the laddie’s through?"

"He gets his degree the next graduating class," volunteered Madeline,
her face showing the keenness of her interest.  "It’s not so very, very
long," she added wistfully, looking as unconcerned as possible.

Then the old man began in the quietest and most natural way to tell
David and Madeline all about his circumstances, the simple story touched
with the pathos of an utterly unselfish heart.  For his chief concern
was evidently not for himself at all—he would have enough with strict
economy to keep a roof still above his head—but his grief for Harvey’s
interrupted career was sincere and deep.  He recognized fully, and
admitted frankly, that it would take what little was left him to supply
the humblest necessities of his remaining years.  But this seemed to
give him little or no disquietude; his thoughts were divided between
Harvey and his mother, and he seemed troubled as to how the latter
should be apprised of the cloud that had brought this additional
darkness to her life.

"She’ll no’ learn it frae the lips o’ gossip, if I can help it," he said
resolutely at last, his staff coming down with emphasis on the floor.

"Go easy on that Turkey rug, Mr. Nickle," David interrupted with
valorous merriment; "it belongs to my creditors now, you know."

Geordie permitted himself to abandon his line of thought long enough to
say: "Ye dinna mean to tell me, David, that ye’ll hae to part wi’ a’ yir
bonnie bit things aboot the hoose?"

David never flinched as he looked straight into the sober eyes.

"All that’s of any value," he answered resolutely; "no stolen plumage
for me—I’ve no desire for it, thank God," he added cheerily.  "I don’t
want nothin’ but a few little necessaries—an’ a couple o’ luxuries, such
as this here," drawing Madeline within his arm as he spoke; "it’s great
how the law can’t get at a fellow’s real treasures.  Just what I was
sayin’ to you a few minutes ago, Madeline—the things that counts the
most is the things that’s left, no matter how poor a fellow gets."

Geordie’s eyes were shining with delight; such philosophy as this
touched the inmost heart of him.

"Ye’re richt, David, ye’re richt," he cried fervently. "Man, but it’s
bonnie to see ye takin’ the chastenin’ o’ th’ Almichty like ye dae.  I
was sair feart for ye, when I found oot what was gaein’ to happen.  But
ye’ve got the richt o’t, David, ye’ve got the richt o’t," the old man
went on earnestly; "it’s a sair loss, nae doot—but it canna rob ye o’
what ye love the most. An’ I’ll tell ye anither thing, David," he
pursued, his voice the prophet voice, "it canna rob ye o’ the providence
o’ God—it canna change the purpose o’ His will for ye," and Geordie’s
outstretched hand, not often or lightly so extended, took David’s in its
own.  "But aboot Harvey’s mither," he suddenly resumed, recalling the
thread that had been broken; "she’ll no’ hear what’s happened frae the
lips o’ gossip.  I’ll tell her mysel’," he affirmed, the resolution
forming swiftly; "an’ I’ll dae it when I’m gaein’ hame frae here,"
proceeding forthwith to button up his coat preparatory to departure.

"I’ll go with you," David said quietly.  "There’s no reason why I
shouldn’t.  I’ve a lot to regret, but nothin’ to be ashamed of—nothin’
to be ashamed of, as I said afore.  Where’s your mother, Madeline?—I
want to see her afore I go."

"She’s up-stairs," Madeline answered in rather a subdued tone.  "I think
she’s looking over some things."

David sighed as he rose and turned towards the stair.  Reaching the room
above, he found his wife gazing upon the rich contents of several
receptacles whose treasures were outturned upon the floor.  He sat down
beside her on the bed, making rather a plaintive attempt to comfort the
heart whose sorrow he knew was different from his own.

"I’m going to keep everything of Madeline’s I can," she said, after some
preliminary conversation.  "Poor child, she was looking forward so to
her coming-out party—but I guess that’s all a thing of the past now,"
she sighed.  "And everybody said you were going to be elected the town’s
first mayor, too.  I was counting so much on that—but of course they
won’t do it now.  But do you know, David, there’s one bit of consolation
left to us—and that’s about Madeline. I think, I think, David, she’ll be
provided for, all right, before very long," smiling significantly as she
made the prediction.

"How?" David asked, quite dumfoundered, yet not without a kind of chill
sensation in the region of his heart.

"Oh, the old way," responded his wife; "the old, old way, David.  I’ve
seen signs of it, I think—at least I’ve seen signs that some one else
wouldn’t mind taking care of her, some one that would be able to give
her quite as much as we ever did," she concluded, a note of decided
optimism in the voice.

David sat up straight and gasped.  "Surely," he began in a hoarse voice,
"surely you ain’t talkin’ about—about matrimony, are you, mother?"

Madeline’s mother smiled assentingly.  "That’s the old, old way, David—I
guess that’s what it’ll end in, if things go on all right.  Don’t look
so stormy, David—I should think you’d be glad."

"Glad!" cried David, his voice rising like a wind. "Good Lord,
glad—glad, if a fellow’s goin’ to lose everything an’ then be left
alone," he half wailed; "you expect a fellow to be glad if he gets news
that he might have to part with the dearest thing he’s got?" he went on
boisterously.  "But I’m makin’ a goat o’ myself," chastening his tone as
he continued; "there ain’t no such thing goin’ to happen.  Who in
thunder do you imagine wants our Madeline?—I’d like to see the cuss
that’d——"

"But, David," his wife interrupted rather eagerly, "wait till I tell you
who it is—or perhaps you know—it’s Cecil; and I’m quite sure he’d be
ever so attentive, if Madeline would only permit it.  And I don’t
suppose any young gentleman of our acquaintance has the prospects Cecil
has."

David’s face wore a strange expression; half of pity it seemed to be and
half of fiery wrath.  "That’s so, mother," he said in quite a changed
voice; "if all reports is true there ain’t many with prospects like
his—he’ll get what’s comin’ to him, I reckon. But there’s one thing I’m
goin’ to tell you, mother," and the woman started at the changed tone of
the words, so significant in its sternness, "an’ I’ll jest tell it to
you now—an’ it’s this.  Mebbe we’ll have to beg our bread afore we’re
through—but Cecil ain’t never goin’ to have our Madeline—not if me an’
God can help it," whereat he turned and went almost noiselessly from the
room, his white lips locked in silence.  And Madeline wondered why his
eyes rested so yearningly on her when he returned, filled with such
hungering tenderness as though he were to see her never more.




                                *XXIII*

                         _*INGENUITY OF LOVE*_


Neither Geordie nor David spoke a word as they went down the steps and
passed slowly along the avenue that led from the gate to the house.  But
just as they opened the gate David turned and took a long wistful survey
of the scene behind.

"It’ll be quite a twist to leave it all," he said, trying to smile.
"I’ve got so kind o’ used to it—there’s a terrible pile o’ difference
between _bein’_ poor an’ _gettin’_ poor," he added reflectively.

"But ye’d hae to gang awa an’ leave it, suner or later," Geordie
suggested; "it comes to us a’—an’ it’s only a wee bit earlier at the
maist."

"That’s dead true," assented David; "sometimes I think th’ Almighty
sends things like this to get us broke in for the other—a kind of
rehearsal for eternity," he concluded, quite solemnly for him.  "Look
there, Mr. Nickle," he suddenly digressed, pointing towards the house,
"d’ye see that upper left-hand window, with the light shinin’ on it, an’
the curtain blowin’ out?—well, that’s where Madeline was born. It’s kind
o’ hard," he said, so softly that Geordie scarcely heard.

"But ye hae the lassie wi’ ye yet—the licht’s aye shinin’ frae her
bonnie face," Geordie replied consolingly.

"Poor child, she’s had to scrape up most o’ the sunshine for our home
herself this last while," responded David, "but it ain’t goin’ to be
that way after this—when things is dark, that’s the time for faces to be
bright, ain’t it?—even if a fellow does lose all he’s got.  Do you know,
Mr. Nickle," he went on very earnestly, "I’ve a kind of a feelin’ a man
should be ashamed of himself, if all his money’s done for him is to make
him miserable when it’s gone. I mean this," turning and smiling
curiously towards Geordie, "if a fellow’s had lots o’ money, an’ all the
elegant things it gets him, it ought to kind o’ fit him for doin’
without it.  I don’t believe you catch my meanin’—but money, an’
advantages, ought to do that much for the man that’s had ’em, to learn
him how to do without ’em if he has to—it ought to dig wells in him
somewhere that won’t dry up when his money takes the wings o’ the
mornin’ an’ flies away, as the Scriptur’ says."

"Yon’s graun’ doctrine, David," Geordie assented eagerly; "forbye,
there’s’ anither thing it ought to dae for a man—it should let him ken
hoo easy thae man-made streams dry up, an’ what sair things they are to
minister till the soul.  An’ they should make him seek the livin’ water,
so he’ll thirst nae mair forever.  I seem to ken that better mysel’ than
I’ve ever done afore."

"Mebbe that’s part o’ the plan," David made reply; "’cause how a fellow
takes a thing like this here that’s happened me, depends ’most
altogether on jest one thing—an’ I’ll tell you what it is—whether he
takes it good or bad depends on whether he believes there’s any plan in
the business at all.  I mean some One else’s plan, of course.  There’s a
terrible heap o’ comfort in jest believin’ there’s a plan.  When things
was all fine sailin’ with me, I always held to the plan idea—always kep’
pratin’ about the web a higher hand was weavin’ for us all—an’ I ain’t
agoin’ to go back on it now," he added with unwonted vehemence. "No,
sir, I never believed more in God’s weavin’ than I do this minute.
’Tain’t jest the way I’d like it wove—but then we don’t see only the one
side," he added resignedly.  "D’ye know, Mr. Nickle, we’re terrible
queer critters, ain’t we?  It really is one of the comicalest things
about us, that we don’t believe th’ Almighty’s plan for us is as good as
our own plan for ourselves.  Funny too, ain’t it, now?" he pursued, "an’
the amusin’ part o’ the whole business is this, how the folks that’s
most religious often kicks the hardest when they ain’t allowed to do
their share o’ the weavin’," he concluded, looking earnestly into his
friend’s face.

Geordie’s reply found expression more by his eyes than by word of mouth.
But both were interrupted by their journey’s end, for by this time they
had arrived at the little store.  Entering and enquiring for Mrs.
Simmons, they were conducted by Jessie into the unpretentious
sitting-room where Harvey’s mother was seated in the solitary armchair
that adorned the room, her hands busy with the knitting that gave
employment to the passing hours.

Grave and kindly were the salutations of her visitors, equally sincere
and dignified the greetings in return.  After some irrelevant
conversation, David introduced the purpose of their visit with the tact
that never fails a kindly heart, bidding his friend tell the rest; and
the half-knitted stocking fell idle on her lap as the silent listener
composed herself bravely to hear the tidings that something assured her
would be far from welcome.

Once or twice she checked a rising sigh, and once or twice she nervously
resumed the knitting that had been given over; but no other sign bespoke
the sorrow and disappointment that possessed her.  If any wave of pain
passed over the gentle face, it found no outlet in the sightless eyes.
Geordie kept nothing back; the whole story of their present
situation—and of their consequent helplessness to further aid her
scholar son—was faithfully rehearsed.  And the very tone of his voice
bore witness to the sincerity of his statement that the whole calamity
had no more painful feature than the one it was their mission now to
tell.

"I’m content," she said quietly when Mr. Nickle had concluded.  "I’ll
not deny that the hope of—of what’s evidently not to be—has made the
days bright for me ever since Harvey went away," she went on, as if her
life had never known darkness; "but he’s had a good start, and he can
never lose what he’s got already—and maybe the way’ll be opened up yet;
it’s never been quite closed on us," she added reverently, "though it
often looked dark enough.  The promise to the poor and the needy never
seems to fail.  And I’m sure Harvey’ll find something to do—and oh," she
broke in more eagerly than before, "I know the very first thing he’d
want me to do is to thank you both for your great kindness, your
wonderful kindness to us all," she concluded, both hands going out in
the darkness to hold for a moment the hands of her benefactors.

The conversation was not much longer continued, both Geordie and David
retreating before the brave and trustful resignation as they never would
have done before lamentation or repining.  And after they had gone
Jessie and her mother sat long together in earnest consultation; for the
one was as resolved as the other that something must be done to avert
the impending disaster.

"Just to think, mother, he’d be a B.A. if he could only finish with his
class," said Jessie; "and then, then he could be nearly any thing he
liked, after that.  If only business were a little better in the shop,"
she sighed.

"But it’s losing, Jessie," the mother replied, forcing the candid
declaration.  "I can tell that myself—often I count how many times the
bell above the door rings in a day; and it’s growing less, I’ve noticed
that for a year now.  It’s all because Glenallen’s growing so fast,
too—that’s the worst of it; what helps others seems to hurt us."

Jessie understood, the anomaly having been often discussed before; it
had been discussed, too, in the more pretentious shops, though in a far
different frame of mind.  "We’ve got along so well this far—we’ve got
almost used to doing without things," she said with a plaintive smile,
"and it seems such a pity to have to stop when the goal’s in sight."

"If I were only stronger," mused the mother; "but I’m not," she added
quietly, the pale face turning towards Jessie’s—"your mother’s not
gaining any; you can see that, can’t you, dear?"

Jessie’s protest was swift and passionate.  "You mustn’t talk that way,"
she cried appealingly; "you’ve spoken like that once or twice—and I
won’t hear of it," the voice quivering in its intensity. "You’re going
to get well—I’m almost sure you will. And there’s nothing more I’d let
you do," her eyes glowing with the ardour of her purpose, "if you were
as well and strong as ever in your life."

Mrs. Simmons smiled, but the smile was full of sadness.

"Have it as you will, my child," she said, "but there’s no use shutting
our eyes to the truth—it’s for your own sake I spoke of it, Jessie.
When you write to Harvey, do you tell him I’m gaining, dear?" a smile on
the patient face.

Jessie was silent a moment.  "Don’t, mother don’t," she pleaded.  "Let’s
talk about what we’ll do for Harvey.  Oh, mother," the arms going about
the fragile form in a passion of devotion, "it seems as if your troubles
would never end; it’s been one long round of care and struggle and pain
for you ever since I can remember.  And this last seems the worst, for I
know how you’ve lived for Harvey.  And it shan’t all be for nothing;
we’ll get through with it somehow—I know we will."

"You shouldn’t pity me so, my daughter," and the mother’s voice was as
calm as the untroubled face. "I really don’t think you know how much
happiness I’ve had; I often feel there’s nothing so close to joy as
sorrow.  And you and Harvey have been so good—and I’m so proud of him.
The way’s always been opened up for us; and God has strengthened me, and
comforted me, beyond what I ever thought was possible. And besides,
dear," the voice low and thrilling with the words that were to come,
"besides, Jessie, I’ve had a wonderful feeling lately that it’s getting
near the light—it’s like a long tunnel, but I’ve caught glimpses of
beauty sometimes that tell me the long darkness is nearly over.  Oh, my
darling," she went on in the same thrilling voice, holding her close in
a kind of rapture, "I never was so sure before—not even when I could see
all around—never so sure—that it’s all light after all, and my very
darkness has been the light of God.  I don’t know why I should cry like
this," she sobbed, for the tears were now falling fast, "for I’m really
happy—even with all this new trouble; but for days and days lately I’ve
kept saying to myself: ’They need no candle, neither light of the
sun’—and I can’t think of it without crying, because I know it’s true."

Very skillfully did Jessie endeavour to turn the conversation into other
channels; her own sinking heart told her too well that her inmost
thought was not far different from her mother’s.  For the dear face was
daily growing more pale and thin, and the springs of vitality seemed to
be slowly ebbing.  But on this she would not permit her mind to dwell.

"Don’t you think we could get some bright girl to mind the shop, mother;
some young girl, you know, that wouldn’t cost very much?  Because I’ve
just been thinking—I’ve got a kind of a plan—I’ve been wondering if I
couldn’t make enough to help Harvey through.  You know, mother, I can
sew pretty well—Miss Adair told me only yesterday I managed quite as
well as the girls with a regular training, and she just as much as
offered me work.  And I’ll see her about it this very day; we could get
some one to mind the shop for a great deal less than I could make—and
Harvey could have the rest.  You wouldn’t object, would you, mother?  I
wouldn’t go out to sew; some of the girls take the work home with them,
and so could I.  Or, if I was doing piece-work, I might be able to mind
the store myself at the same time—there seems to be so little to do
now," she added, looking a little ruefully towards the silent shop.

The expression of pain deepened on the mother’s face as she listened.
Yet she did not demur, although the inner vision brought the tired
features of the unselfish girl before her.  "It seems hard," she said at
length; "I was always hoping you’d soon have it a little easier—but this
will only make it harder for you."

"But not for long," Jessie interrupted cheerily; "just till Harvey’s
through—and then he’ll be able to make lots of money.  And maybe you and
I’ll be able to go away somewhere for a little rest," she added
hopefully, her eyes resting long on the pallid face.

"Harvey must never know," the mother suddenly affirmed; "we’ll have to
keep it from him, whatever happens, for I know he wouldn’t consent to it
for a moment.  Where are you going, Jessie?" for she knew, her sense of
every movement quickened by long exercise, that the girl was making
preparations to go out.

"I’m going to see Miss Adair, mother.  I won’t be long—but now that my
mind’s set on it, I can’t rest till I find out.  If I can only get that
arranged, it’ll make it so much brighter for us all."

The mother sat alone with many conflicting thoughts, marvelling at all
that so enriched her life, dark though it was, and bearing about with it
a burden that no heart could share.

Jessie’s errand was successful, as such errands are prone to be; and
only those who understand life’s hidden streams could have interpreted
the radiance on the maiden’s face as she returned to announce her
indenture unto toil, new gladness springing from new sacrifice, for such
is the mysterious source whose waters God hath bidden to be blessed.


David was absorbed in a very sober study as he walked slowly homeward.
Not that he shrank from the personal sacrifice that his present
circumstances were about to demand, or that any sense of dishonour
clouded his thought of the business career that seemed about to
close—from this he was absolutely free. But he was feeling, and for the
first time, how keen the sting of defeat can be to a man whose long and
valiant struggle against relentless odds has at last proved unavailing.

Still reflecting on this and many other things, he suddenly heard
himself accosted by a familiar voice; turning round, he saw Mr. Craig
hurrying towards him.

"Going home, Borland?" said the former as he came up with him; "I’ll
just walk along with you if you are—I want to talk to you."

David’s mind lost no time in its calculation as to what the subject of
this conversation would likely be; during all his period of struggle,
well known and widely discussed as it had been, Mr. Craig had never
approached him before.  David felt an unconscious stiffening of the lip,
he scarce knew why.

"I wanted to tell you, Borland, for one thing," Mr. Craig began as they
walked along, "how much I feel for you in the hard luck you’re having."

"Thank you kindly," said David promptly.

"I don’t suppose I’m just able to sympathize as well as lots of men
could," Mr. Craig observed; "unbroken success doesn’t fit one for that
sort of thing."

"Oh!" said David, volumes in the tone.

"Well," said the other, not by any means oblivious to the intonation, "I
suppose it does sound kind of egotistical—but I guess it’s true just the
same.  I suppose I’m what might be called a successful man."

"I reckon you might be _called_ that, all right," said David, getting
out his knife and glancing critically at a willow just ahead.  The
spirit of whittling invariably arose within him when his emotions were
aroused.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Craig enquired, a little ardently.  He had
noticed David’s emphasis on one particular word.

"I don’t mean nothin’," responded David, making a willow branch his own.

"You seem to doubt a little whether I’ve really been successful or not?"
ventured the other, looking interrogatively at his companion.

"Depends," said David laconically; "you’ve been terrible successful
outside."

"I don’t just follow you," Mr. Craig declared with deliberate calmness.
"I don’t suppose we judge people by the inside of them—at least I
don’t."

"I do," answered David nonchalantly.  "A fellow can’t help it—look at
this here gad; it looked elegant from the outside," holding it up to
show the wound his knife had made.

"What’s the matter with it?" Mr. Craig rejoined, pretending to look
closely.

"It’s rotten," said David.

"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Craig demanded rather more sharply.

"I don’t mean nothin’," responded David.

"Then it hasn’t anything to do with the question of success?"

"That’s an awful big question," David answered adroitly, "an’ folks’ll
get a terrible jolt in their opinions about it some day, I reckon—like
the rich fool got; an’ he thought he was some pun’kins, too. Nobody
can’t tell jest who’s a success," he went on, peeling the willow as he
spoke.  "I reckon folks calls me the holiest failure in these parts—but
I’m a terrible success some ways," he went on calmly.

"What ways?" Mr. Craig enquired rather too quickly for courtesy.

"Oh, nothin’ much—only under the bark—if it’s anywheres," David jerked
out, still vigorously employed on the willow.  "But there ain’t no good
of pursuin’ them kind of thoughts," he suddenly digressed, making a
final slash at the now denuded branch; "they’re too high-class for a
fellow that never went to school after he left it—let’s talk about
somethin’ worldly.  They say you’re goin’ to be Glenallen’s first mayor;
goin’ to open the ball—ain’t that so?"

Abating his pace, Mr. Craig drew closer to David, a pleased expression
displacing the rather decided frown that had been gathering.

"To tell the truth, now that you’ve mentioned it," he began
confidentially, "that’s the very thing I wanted to talk about.  Of
course, there’s no use in my pretending I don’t want the office, for I
do—the whole thing is in being the _first_ mayor, you see, after
Glenallen’s incorporated.  Kind of an historical event, you
understand—and, and there seems to be a little misunderstanding," he
went on a trifle hesitatingly, "between you and me.  I find there’s a
tendency to—to elect you—that is, in some quarters," he explained, "and
I thought we might come to a kind of an agreement, you understand."

"What kind?" David asked innocently.

"Oh, well, you understand.  Of course, I know you wouldn’t care for the
office—not at present, at least. I’ve felt perfectly free to say as much
whenever the matter was mentioned to me."

"You’re terrible cheerful about resignin’ for other people," rejoined
David with some spirit; "some folks is terrible handy at makin’ free
with other folks’ affairs."

"Oh, well, you know what I mean—you’ve got your hands full——"

"They’re not terrible full," David corrected dismally.

"And besides, you see," Mr. Craig went bravely on, "you’re not British
born—you were born in Ohio, weren’t you?"

"Not much," David informed him; "there’s no Buckeye about me—I was born
in Abe Lincoln’s State.  Peoria’s where I dawned—and he often used to
stop at my father’s house when he was attendin’ court."  David was
evidently ready to be delivered of much further information, but the
candidate had no mind to hear it.

"Well, anyhow," he interrupted, "I think it’d be more fitting that the
first mayor should have been born under the British flag.  But you don’t
mean to say you think you’ll stand?" he suddenly enquired, evidently
determined to ascertain the facts without further parley.

"Couldn’t jest say," David replied with rather provoking deliberation;
"you see, I’ll have a good deal o’ time lyin’ round loose, now that I’m
givin’ up business for my health," this with a mournful grin. "So mebbe
I’ll be in the hands o’ my friends—that there expression’s one I made up
myself," he added, turning a broad smile upon his friend’s very sober
face. Mr. Craig, to tell the exact truth, grew quite pale as he heard
the ominous words.  For his heart had been sorely set on the immortality
the first mayorship of Glenallen would confer, and he knew how doubtful
would be the issue of a contest between David and himself.

"I was thinking," he began a little excitedly, "perhaps we could make
some arrangement that would be—would be to our mutual advantage," he
blurted out at last; "perhaps—perhaps I could give you a little lift; I
could hardly expect you to withdraw for nothing.  And now that you’re in
financial difficulties, so to speak, I thought perhaps a little quiet
assistance mightn’t go amiss."

But David had come to a dead standstill, his eyes flashing as they
fastened themselves on the other’s face.  "D’ye mean to say you’re
tryin’ to bribe me?" he demanded, his voice husky.

"Oh, no, Mr. Borland—oh, no, I only meant we might find common ground
if——"

"Common ground!  Common scoundrelism!" David broke in vehemently; "you
must think I’m devilish poor, Mr. Craig," his voice rising with his
emotion, "an’ it appears to me a man has to be sunk mighty low afore he
could propose what you’ve done.  I’ve bore a heap, God knows—but no man
never dared insult me like this afore; if that’s one o’ the things
you’ve got to do if you’re pure British stock, then I thank the Lord I’m
a mongrel."

"Be calm, Mr. Borland," implored his friend suavely, "you don’t
understand."

"I understand all right," shouted David; "a man don’t need much breedin’
of any kind to understand the likes o’ you—you want a man that’s lost
all he’s got, to sell himself into the bargain," the withered cheek
burning hot as David made his arraignment.

"Now, Mr. Borland, do be reasonable—I mean nothing of the sort.  I only
wanted to give you a helping hand—of course, if you can do without it——"

"Yes, thank God," and David’s voice was quite shaky, "I can do without
it all right.  I can do without your dirty money—-an’ everybody else’s
for that matter—but I can’t do without a conscience that ain’t got no
blot on it, an’ I can’t do without a clean name like my father left it
to me," he went hotly on, his flushed face and swift-swallowing throat
attesting how deeply he felt what he was saying.

"Oh, come now, Borland," Mr. Craig urged, reaching out a hand towards
his shoulder, "come off your high horse—preachin’ isn’t your strong
point, you know."

"I ain’t preachin’," David retorted vigorously. "I’m practisin’—an’
that’s a horse of a different colour," he added, casting about to recall
the amiability that had almost vanished.

"There’s no need for any trouble between us, Borland," Mr. Craig began
blandly; "’twouldn’t be seemly, considering all that’s liable to
happen—if things go on as they’re likely to," he added significantly.
"We’ll need to be on the best of terms if we’re going to be relations,
you know."

"What’s that you’re sayin’?—relations, did you say?"  David was quite at
a loss to understand, and yet a dim fear, suggested not so long before,
passed for a moment through his mind.

"Yes, relations," returned Mr. Craig, smiling amiably; "these young
folks have a way of making people relations without consulting them—at
least, till they’ve gone and settled it themselves.  I guess you
understand all right."

A hot flush flowed over David’s cheek.  "Do you—do you mean my
Madeline?" he stammered, staring like one who did not see.

"Well, maybe—but I mean my Cecil just as much. All this won’t make any
difference to Cecil."

"What won’t?" David groped, the words coming as if unguided, his
thoughts gone on another mission.

"Oh, these little difficulties of yours—all this financial tangle, I
mean; your failure, as they call it round town.  That’ll never budge
Cecil."

The men were still standing, neither thinking of direction or of
progress.  But David moved close up to the other, his eyes fixed on the
shrewd face with relentless sternness.

"It don’t need to make no difference," he said through set teeth.
"There ain’t nothin’ to get different—if you mean your son, Craig—or if
you mean my daughter, Craig," the words prancing out like a succession
of mettled steeds; "either you or him’s the biggest fool God ever let
loose.  There ain’t no human power, nor no other kind, can jine them two
together.  Perhaps I’ll have to go beggin’—but I’ll take Madeline along
with me afore she’ll ever go down the pike with any one like your Cecil,
as you call him."  David paused for breath.

"She’d be mighty lucky if she got him," Cecil’s father retorted
haughtily.  "One would think you were the richest man in the county to
hear you talk."

David’s face was closer than ever.  "Craig," he said, his voice low and
taut, "there’s mebbe some that’s good enough for Madeline—I ain’t
a-sayin’—but th’ Almighty never made no man yet that my daughter’d be
lucky if she got.  An’ I know I’m poor; an’ I know I’ve got to take to
the tall timbers out o’ there—where she was born," the words coming with
a little gulp as he pointed in the direction of his home, "but I’m a
richer man, Craig, than you ever knew how to be.  An’ you can go back to
your big house, an’ I’m goin’ to hunt a little one for us—but I wouldn’t
trade you if every pebble on your carriage drive was gold.  An’ I’m
happier’n you ever knew how to be.  An’ your Cecil can’t never have our
Madeline.  An’ when it comes to budgin’, like you was talkin’ about, I
reckon I can do my share of not budgin’, Craig—an’ you can put that in
your pipe an’ smoke it."

David started to move on; he was panting just a little.  But Mr. Craig
stopped him; and the sneer in his words was quite noticeable:

"I suppose you’ll be giving her to your charity student—she’ll be head
clerk in the Simmons’ store yet, I shouldn’t wonder."

David was not difficult to detain.  He stared hard for a moment before
speaking.  "Mebbe they’re poor," he said at length, "an’ mebbe his blind
mother has to skimp an’ save—that settles any one for you all right.
But it wouldn’t take me no longer to decide between that there charity
student an’ your son, than it would to decide—to decide between you an’
God," he concluded hotly, turning and starting resolutely on his way.
"Now you know my ideas about success," he flung over his shoulder as he
pressed on; "you’re a success, you know, a terrible success—I’m a
failure, thank heaven," his face set steadfastly towards home, bright
with the hallowed light that, thought of his treasure there kept burning
through all life’s storm and darkness.

But Mr. Craig fired the last shot.  "I wish you luck with the coming-out
party," he called after him mockingly; "be sure and have it worthy of
the young lady—and of her father’s fortune," he added, the tone
indicating what satisfaction the thrust afforded him.

David answered never a word.  But the taunt set him pondering,
nevertheless; once or twice he stopped almost still, though his pace was
brisk, and something in his face reflected the purpose forming within
him.  When he reached his home he found Madeline and her mother
together; they were still employed with the sombre task of selecting
what should be the survivors among their domestic treasures.

"How did Mrs. Simmons take it?" Madeline asked almost impatiently, as he
drew her down in the chair beside him.

"She took it like as if she believed in God," David answered solemnly;
"an’ she took it that way ’cause she does—that’s more," he added
emphatically. "But I’ve got somethin’ to say—somethin’ important."

Both waited eagerly to hear.  "Tell me quick," said Madeline.

"Well, it’s this.  I don’t want nothin’ touched here—not till after what
I’m goin’ to tell you.  We’ll have to waltz out o’ here, of course," he
said, looking gravely around the room; "but it’ll be some considerable
time yet—an’ as long as we’re here, we’ll be here, see?  An’ we’re goin’
to have your comin’-out party, Madeline—we’re goin’ to have it the last
night. So it’ll be a comin’-out party, an’ a goin’-out one, at the same
time—ain’t that an elegant idea?  An’ it’ll be a dandy, too—there’ll be
high jinks till nobody can’t see anybody else for dust.  An’ we’re goin’
to have things jest like they are now—no use o’ kickin’ down your
scaffold till you’re through with it," he concluded, chucking Madeline
under the chin in his jubilation.

Madeline and her mother gasped a little as they exchanged glances.  Mrs.
Borland was the first to speak.  "Don’t you think it’ll throw a gloom
over everything, David, when everybody’ll know what—what’s going to
happen?"

"If anybody begins that kind o’ throwin’, I’ll throw them out sideways,"
David replied fiercely.  "Most certainly it won’t.  Everybody’d always
be slingin’ gloom round, if that’d do it—’cause nobody ever knows what’s
goin’ to happen any time.  Leastways, nobody only One—an’ He ain’t never
gloomy, for all He knows.  Anyhow, nothin’ ain’t goin’ to happen—’cept
to the furniture," he added scornfully, glancing at the doomed articles
that stood about.

"One good thing," Madeline suggested radiantly, "there’ll be nothing to
hide—everybody’ll know they’re expected to be jolly."

"Sure thing!" echoed David, utterly delighted. "I’m goin’ to have that
on the invitations—there ain’t goin’ to be no ’Answer P.D.Q.’ on the
left-hand corner; I’m goin’ to have somethin’ else—I’m goin’ to have
what that cove on the tavern sheds yelled through the megaphone: ’If you
can’t laugh don’t come.’  I often told you about him, didn’t I?—well,
that’s the prescription’s goin’ to be on the admission tickets."

Considerable further dialogue was terminated by a very serious question
from the prospective débutante. "Won’t it look kind of strange, father?"
she ventured rather timidly, "going to all that expense—just at this
particular time?"

David put his arms about her very tenderly, smiling down into the sober
face.  "There ain’t goin’ to be no champagne, Madeline," he said
quietly, "nor no American beauties—there’ll jest be one of heaven’s
choicest.  It’ll be an awful simple party—an’ awful sweet.  An’ music
don’t cost nothin’; neither does love, nor friends, nor welcomes—the
best things is the cheapest.  An’ I’ll show them all one thing," he went
on very gravely, his eyes filling as they were bended on his child, "one
thing that ain’t expensive—but awful dear," the words faltering as they
left his lips.




                                 *XXIV*

                        _*THE VICTOR’S SPOILS*_


"Of course you ought to go.  I’ve got a kind of feeling, though I don’t
know why, that the whole party will be spoiled if you’re not there."

"Spoiled!  Spoiled for whom?"

"Oh, for somebody—I guess you know all right."

It was Miss Farringall who was pressing her advice so vigorously; Harvey
the beneficiary.  They were seated in the little room in which they had
first met, everything in the same perfect order, the fire still singing
its song of unconquerable cheer, the antique desk in the corner still
guarding its hidden secrets. The domestic Grey, the added dignity of
years upon him, had come to regard the one-time intruder with almost the
same affection that he lavished on his mistress in his own devoted,
purring way.  He was slumbering now on Harvey’s knee, and, could he have
interpreted the significance of human glances, he might have seen the
fondness with which the woman’s eyes were often turned upon the manly
face beside her.

"If I thought Miss Borland really wanted me to come," mused Harvey.

"Maybe Miss Borland doesn’t care very much," his friend retorted
quickly, "but I’m sure Madeline wants you," her eyebrows lifted
reproachfully as she spoke.

Harvey smiled in return.  "Of course, it would give me a chance to see
mother," he said reflectively; "and Jessie says she’s very poorly.
Perhaps I really ought to go—Jessie’s quite anxious about her."

"I think both reasons are good ones," Miss Farringall said after a
little silence.  "Do you know, Harvey," she went on, a shade almost of
sadness coming over her face, "I feel more and more that there’s only
one thing in life worth gaining—and one should never trifle with it.  If
you lose that, you lose everything—no matter how much else you may have
of money, or luxury—even of friends," she said decisively; "even of
friends—if you miss that other."

Harvey, slightly at a loss, fumbled about for something to say.  "You
have everything that money can provide, Miss Farringall—and that’s a
good deal," he added, magnifying the lonely asset as best he could.

"Yes, perhaps I have—and maybe it is," she said as if to herself.  Then
neither spoke for a long interval.  But finally Miss Farringall turned
towards Harvey with a peculiar expression, as if she had just come to a
decision after much inward debate.

"Would you like to hear something I’ve never told any one else?" she
said impressively—"not even to the rector.  He has a second wife," she
explained, smiling, "and they’re always dangerous."

"If you wish to trust me with it," was Harvey’s answer.

"Well, I will—and you’ll tell me whether I did right or not.  It’s not a
long story, and I’ll tell it as directly as I can.  It’s about a man—a
gentleman," she corrected.  "No, I never loved him—doesn’t this language
sound strange from me?" as she noticed the surprise on Harvey’s face.
"But it was—it was different with him.  He was a married man, too. And
his wife was very rich—richer than he was. And she hated him—they lived
in the same house, but that was all; a proud, selfish woman; so selfish,
she was."

Miss Farringall rose and moved to the window, gazing long on the leafy
scene about her.  The silence was broken suddenly by the butler’s voice,
his approach as noiseless as ever.

"Please, Miss Farringall, the rector’s here—he’s in the hall.  And he
wants to know——"

"Tell him he can’t," Miss Farringall said softly, without turning her
eyes from the window.

"Yes, mum," as the impassive countenance vanished.

Harvey did not speak, did not even look towards the silent figure at the
window.  He knew, and waited.  Presently the woman turned and silently
resumed her chair.

"It was different with him, as I said," she slowly began again—"not that
I ever encouraged him; it terrified me when I found it out.  Well, one
day when we were alone together, he—he forgot himself," a slight tremor
of the gentle form and a deep flush upon the cheek betokening the
vividness of the memory. "And I fled from him—and I vowed we should
never meet again," the sad face lighting up with the echo of a far-off
purpose.  "And I kept the vow for years," she went on, gazing into the
fire—for there it is that the dead years, embalmed of mystic forces, may
be seen by sorrow-brightened eyes.

Harvey waited again, silent still.  And once again the strange narrative
was resumed.  "But I broke it at last," she said.  "He was dying—a slow,
painful disease.  And he had everything money could give him; he had
everything that anybody wants—except that one thing.  His wife went on
in her old, idle, fashionable way, caring nothing, of course.  Well, one
day he sent for me—it was his wife who brought the message; she knew
nothing of what had happened, of course, and she told me of his request
and asked me if I wouldn’t come and sit with him sometimes.  And I
went—I went often—used to read to him; many different books at first,
mostly poetry—but as it came nearer the end it was hardly ever anything
but the Bible....  The end came at last. And just the day before he died
he said to me: ’It’ll be to-morrow—to-morrow about this time.’  Then he
took a big envelope from under his pillow, and he said: ’This’ll be
good-bye; God bless you for what you’ve been to a dying man.  And I want
you to do this.  I want you to come to my grave a year from the night of
the day I’m buried—and open this envelope there—but not for a year.’
And we said good-bye.  Well, I couldn’t refuse the request of a dying
man—I did as he asked me.  But I waited a year and four days, Harvey,"
and Miss Farringall’s voice was quite triumphant; "I waited that long
because I knew no man would believe a woman could do it.... And that’s
how I’m situated as I am, Harvey. I don’t think anybody ever knew—I
guess nobody cared; principally stocks, simply transferred.  Do you
think I did right, Harvey?" she asked after a pause.

"Yes," said Harvey quickly, unable to take his eyes from her face.

"Not that the envelope ever did me very much good," she went on.  "I
often think how much happier I’d have been if I’d been poor—and had had
that other.  But it wasn’t to be.  And all this never made me
happy—there was only one could have done that; and he went out of my
life long ago—long ago now," she said, her gaze scanning his face in
wistful scrutiny, her heart busy with the photograph entombed in the
silent desk before her.

"So I think you certainly ought to go, as I said," she resumed, quietly
reverting to the original topic. "I know the signs," she added in
plaintive playfulness—"even if they do call me an old maid; I shouldn’t
wonder if they know the signs best of all.  But this is all nonsense,"
straightening herself resolutely in her chair, "and has nothing to do
with what we’re talking about.  When is the party, Harvey?"

"It’s Friday night week—the very day after I graduate.  And they leave
the old home the next day—I told you all about Mr. Borland’s failure.
It seems they’ve been prepared to leave for some months—and now it’s
actually come.  Mr. Borland gave up everything to his creditors, I
believe.  And this is a notion of his own—just like him, too—that
they’ll celebrate the last night in their old home this way; he’s going
to have Madeline’s coming-out party for a finish.  Quite an original
idea, isn’t it?"

"Will that young fellow from your town be there?—Mr. Craig, you know?"
asked Miss Farringall, without answering his question.  She did not look
at Harvey as she asked her own.

"Oh, yes," Harvey answered, "he’ll be there, of course—he’s very
attentive."  Harvey’s eyes were also turned away.

"Who’s he attentive to?"

"Why, to Miss Borland—to Madeline, of course. He’s been that for a long
time."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes.  At least, I suppose so.  Why?" Harvey asked wonderingly.

"Oh, nothing much—only I heard his affections were divided; another
Glenallen girl, I heard."

"What was the name?" asked Harvey, interestedly.

"I did hear, I think—it doesn’t matter.  Please don’t ask me any
more—really, I’m ashamed of myself, I’m getting to be such a silly old
gossip.  Tell me, are you going to get the medal when you graduate?"

The look on the face before her showed that the conversation had turned
his thoughts towards something more absorbing than college premiums,
covetable though they be; he too was coming to realize that life has
only one great prize, and but one deep source of springing joy.

"I have my doubts about the medal," Harvey answered after a pause; "I’m
afraid of Echlin—but I’ll give him a race for it.  I think I’m sure of
my degree, all right.  That’s another reason inclines me to go home next
week," he added cheerfully; "I want to give my sheepskin to my mother;
it’s more hers and Jessie’s than it is mine—and I want them to see my
hood, too, when I get one; and the medal," his face brightening, "if I
should have the luck to win it.  But there’s another thing that troubles
me a little," he added with a dolorous smile, "and that is that I
haven’t got anything to wear, as the ladies say.  I haven’t a dress
suit, you know—and I’m afraid anything else’ll be a little conspicuous
there."

Miss Farringall smiled the sweetest, saddest smile, as she turned her
face to Harvey’s.  "Oh, child," she said, "you’re very young; and you’re
certainly very unfamiliar with the woman-heart.  A girl doesn’t care a
fig for dress suits—I think they rather admire men who dress
originally," she went on assuringly; "I know I did, then.  And besides,
it’s all to your credit that you haven’t one—I think that’s one of the
fine things about you, that you haven’t got so many things you might
have had, if you’d been a little more selfish," she said, almost fondly.

"Talk about not being selfish," Harvey broke in ardently; "I’m a monster
of selfishness compared to some others I could name—you ought to see my
mother and my sister," he concluded proudly.

"I hope I may some day," she answered.  "But meantime—about what you’ll
wear.  I’d wear the medal if I were you.  But tell me first," she went
on in a woman’s own persistent way, "that you’ll accept the invitation.
Can’t you make up your mind?"

Harvey was silent for a moment.  "No," came his answer decisively, "I
don’t think I will.  I’m going to decline with thanks—self-denial’s good
for a fellow sometimes."

"Some kinds of self-denial are sinful," said Miss Farringall quietly;
"but they bring their own punishment—and it lasts for years."  She
sighed, and the light upon her face was half of yearning, half of love.


"Is our Tam hame frae Edinburgh yet?"  Such were the last wandering
words of an aged brother of the great Carlyle, dying one summer night as
the Canadian sun shed its glory for the last time upon his face.  Thrice
twenty years had flown since, fraternal pride high surging in his heart,
he had clung to his mother’s skirts while she waited at the bend of the
road for the returning Tom.  Carrying his shoes, lest they be needlessly
worn, was that laddie wont to come from the halls of learning where he
had scanned the page of knowledge with a burning heart—carrying his
shoes, but with his laurels thick upon him, his advent the golden
incident to that humble home in all their uneventful year.  And in
death’s magic hour the thrilling scene was reënacted as the brother
heart of the far-wandered one roamed back to the halcyon days of
boyhood.

The same spirit of pride, the same devotion of love, brooded over the
happy circle as Harvey sat this placid evening between his mother and
sister in the home that had furnished him so little of luxury, so much
of welcome and of love.  He was home, and he was theirs.  Trembling joy
mingled with the mother’s voice as now and then she broke in with kindly
speech upon the story Harvey found himself telling again and again.  The
story was of his career in general, and of the last great struggle in
particular; how he had shut himself up to his work in a final spasm of
devotion, pausing only to eat and sleep till the final trials were over
and the victory won.  And the great day, his graduation day, was
described over and over, both listeners in a transport of excitement
while he told, modestly as he might, of the ovation that had greeted him
when he was called forward to receive his hard-won honours.

"And you’re a B.A., Harvey, now—a real B.A., aren’t you, Harvey?" Jessie
cried ecstatically.  "It seems almost too good to be true."

Harvey merely smiled; but his mother spoke for him.  "Of course he is,"
she answered quietly; "it’ll be on all his letters.  But the medal,
Harvey—oh, my son, I always knew you’d win it," her voice low and
triumphant.  "I can hardly just believe it; out of all those
students—with their parents so rich and everything—that my own son
carried it off from them all.  And has it your name on it, Harvey?—with
the degree on it too?" she enquired eagerly.

"Of course," said Harvey, "it’s in my trunk—and my hood’s there too;
they’re both there, mother.  It’s a beautiful hood—and I’ll show them to
you if you’ll wait a moment," he exclaimed impulsively, rising as he
spoke.

But his eyes met Jessie’s and a darkness like the darkness of death fell
upon them both.  Jessie was trembling from head to foot, her hand going
up instinctively to her face as if she had been struck.  Harvey’s pale
cheek and quivering lips betrayed the agony that wrung him.

"Forgive me, mother," his broken voice implored as he flung himself down
beside her, his arms encircling her; "forgive me, my mother—I forgot,
oh, I forgot," as he stroked the patient face with infinite gentleness,
his hands caressing the delicate cheeks again and again.

"He didn’t mean it, mother—he didn’t mean it," Jessie cried, drawing
near to them; "he just forgot, mother—he just forgot," the words
throbbing with love for both.

But the mother’s voice was untouched by pain. "Don’t grieve like that,
my darling," she pleaded, pressing Harvey’s hands close to her cheek; "I
know it was nothing, my son—I know just how it happened.  And why will
you mourn so for me, my children?" she went on in calm and tender tones,
her arms encircling both.  "Surely I’ve given you no reason for
this—haven’t I often told you how bright it is about me?  And something
makes me sure it’s getting near the light.  Don’t you remember, dear,
how the doctor said it might all come suddenly?—and I feel it’s coming,
coming fast; I feel sure God’s leading me near the light."

"Are you, mother?" Harvey asked.  The question came simply, earnestly,
almost awesomely.

"Yes, dear; yes, I’m sure."

"We always asked for that.  Harvey and I have, every day—haven’t we,
Harvey?" Jessie broke in eagerly.

Harvey nodded, his gaze still on his mother’s face. For the light that
sat upon it in noble calm entranced him.  No words could have spoken
more plainly of the far-off source that kindled it; and a dim, holy
sense of the grandeur of her outlook, the loftiness of her peace, the
eternal warrant of her claim, took possession of his soul.  The beauty
that clothed her was not of time; and no words of tender dissembling
could conceal the exultant hope that bespoke how the days of her
darkness should be ended.

The silence was broken by his mother’s voice. "Go and get them,
Harvey—bring your medal and your hood.  Bring them to your mother, my
son," she said, as she released him to do her bidding.

He was gone but a moment; returning, he bore in one hand the golden
token, his name inwoven with its gleam.  The other held his academic
hood, its mystic white and purple blending to attest the scholar’s
station; he had thrown his college gown about him.

Mutely standing, he placed the medal in his mother’s hands.  They shook
as they received it, the thin fingers dumbly following its inscription,
both hands enclosing it tightly, thrilling to the glad sensation.  Then
he held the hood out towards her, stammering some poor explanation of
its material and its meaning.

"Put it on, Harvey," she said.

He swiftly slipped it about his neck, the flowing folds falling down
from his shoulders.  Involuntarily he bended before his mother, and the
poor white hands went out in loving quest of the dear-bought symbol,
tracing its form from end to end, lingering fondly over every fold.  She
spoke no word—but the trembling fingers still roved about the glowing
laurel as her scholar boy stood silent before her, and the hot tears
fell thick and fast upon it.  For the memory of other days, days of
poverty and stress; and the vision of the childish face as she had last
beheld it; and the thought of all the hidden struggle, more bitter than
he ever knew, that had thus brought back her once unknown child in
triumph to his mother’s home—back, too, in unchanged devotion and
unabated love, to lay his trophies at the feet of her who bore him—all
these started the burning tears that trickled so fast from the unseeing
eyes and fell in holy stains upon the spotless emblem.


Clocks are the very soul of cruelty, relentless most when loving hearts
most wish that they would stay their hands.  The ebbing moments,
inconsiderate of all but duty, tell off the hours of our gladness, even
of sacramental gladness, with unpitying faithfulness. And yet, strange
as it may seem, how blessed is the law that will not let us know when
the last precious moments are on the wing!  How often do devoted hearts
toy with them carelessly, or waste them in unthinking levity, or drug
them with unneeded slumber, or squander them in wanton silence, as
though they were to last forever!  How the most prodigal would garner
them, and the most frivolous employ, if it were only known that these
are the last golden sands that glisten their parting message before they
glide into the darkness!

We may not know.  As these two did not; and the last unconscious hour
was spent in the company of another.  "It’s so good of you to come and
sit with me, Miss Adair, while the children are at the party," was Mrs.
Simmons’ welcome to the kindly acquaintance as she entered.  "Jessie’s
going on ahead—she promised to give Madeline some little help, so she
had to go earlier.  Won’t you need to be starting soon, Harvey?"

"I’m going just in a minute, mother," her son answered.  "And you should
have seen our Jessie," he digressed, turning to their visitor.  "She
never looked sweeter in her life.  And the dress that she had on, she
made it herself, she said—I didn’t know Jessie was so accomplished."

"Oh, Jessie’s made many a—she’s made many an admirer, by her dresses,"
the adroit Miss Adair concluded, noticing a quick movement of Mrs.
Simmons in her direction, and suddenly recalling the injunction she had
forgotten.

"I’m so sorry her flowers were withered," Harvey broke in, quite
unconscious of what had been averted. "I sent her some from the city—but
they were so wilted when they came that I didn’t want her to take them."

"Wait a minute, Harvey—I’ll go with you a step or two," his mother
interrupted as her son stooped to bid her good-night.  "Please excuse
me, Miss Adair; I’ll be back in a minute," taking Harvey’s arm as he
turned towards the door.

"It was so thoughtful of you to send those flowers to Jessie," she said
as they moved slowly along the silent street; "she was quite enraptured
when they came."

"I sent some to—to Madeline too," Harvey informed her hesitatingly.
"You see, I didn’t expect, till this morning, to go to the party at
all—and I wrote Madeline declining.  So she isn’t expecting me. Jessie
promised not to tell her I had changed my mind; and in my letter I told
Madeline I was sending the flowers in my place—but I’m afraid they’ll be
withered too.  What’s the matter, mother?" for her whole weight seemed
suddenly to come upon his arm.

"Nothing, dear; nothing much," she said, a little pantingly.  "Let us
sit here a minute," sinking on an adjoining step.  "I’ve had these off
and on lately," she added, trying to smile.  "I’m better now—the doctor
says it’s some little affection of the heart.  I guess it’s just a rush
of happiness," she suggested bravely, smiling as she turned her face
full on Harvey’s.

"I’m so happy, my son—so proud and happy. You’ve done so well; and God
has watched over you so wonderfully—and protected you."  Then her voice
fell almost to a whisper, faltering with the words she wanted to speak,
yet shrank from uttering.  These spoken, she listened as intently as if
for the footfall of approaching death.

"No, mother," he answered low, "no, never once since—yet I won’t say I
haven’t felt it; I know I have, more than once.  If I’m where it is—even
if I catch the odour of liquor—the appetite seems to come back.  And it
frightened me terribly; it was like the baying of hounds," drawing
closer as he spoke.

"That’s like what your father used to say," she whispered, quivering.

"But never once, mother—never a single time, since. I’ve always
remembered that first night you came into my room—and that other time."

"And I," she cried eagerly, "haven’t I?  I’ve been there many a night
since then, when Jessie was asleep—I used to try and imagine it was you,
Harvey," she said, turning her face on his in the uncertain light.

The gentle colloquy flowed on while the shadows deepened about the
whispering pair, the one happy because youth’s radiance overshone his
path, the other peaceful because a deeper, truer light was gathering in
her heart.  One cloud, and one alone, impaired the fullness of his joy;
and that was, what even his hopeful heart could not deny, that his
mother’s strength was obviously less than when he had seen her last.
But all the devotion of the years seemed gathered up into this gracious
hour; the mother, mysteriously impelled, seemed loath to let the
interview be at an end, though she knew Harvey must soon be gone.

"You’d better hurry now, dear," she said when their own door was
reached; "no, no, I can go in alone all right—on with you to the party,
Harvey; they can’t any of them be happier than I am to-night. And tell
Madeline, for me, there’s only one chick like mine in the world—and
whoever gets——"

The remainder of the message was lost in laughing protest as the
good-byes were said; the mother stole softly in to her patient guest,
her son hurrying on to the gathering revelry.




                                 *XXV*

                    _*WHAT MADE THE BALL SO FINE?*_


Harvey could not forbear to indulge a glance through the flaming windows
as he drew near the house.  He noted, a little ruefully it must be said,
that almost every gentleman guest was attired after the conventional
fashion he had predicted; but a moment’s reasoning repelled any
threatening embarrassment with scorn.  Pressing bravely on, he had soon
deposited his hat and coat, and after a minute or two of waiting in the
dressing-room began his descent of the stairs to mingle with the
animated scene.

Looking down, one of the first to be descried was David Borland himself,
as blithe and cheerful as though he were beginning, rather than
concluding, his sojourn in the spacious house.  He was chatting
earnestly with Dr. Fletcher, interrupting the conversation now and then
to greet some new-arriving guest.  Near him was his wife, absorbed in
the pleasant duty of receiving the steadily increasing throng who were
to taste for the last time the hospitality for which that home had long
been famous.

But all others, and there were many whom Harvey recognized at a glance,
were soon forgotten as his eyes rested on one whose face, suddenly
appearing, filled all the room with light.  For Madeline was making her
way into the ample hall, flushed and radiant; her brow, never so serene
before, was slightly moistened from the evening’s warmth, while the
wonderful hair, still bright and sunny, glistened in the softly shaded
light.  Aglow with excitement, her cheeks seemed to boast a colour he
had never seen before, the delicate pink and white blending as on the
face of childhood; and the splendid eyes, crowning all, were suffused
with feeling.  The significance of the hour and the animation of the
scene united to create a sort of chastened mirthfulness, brimming with
dignity and hope, yet still revealing how seriously she recognized the
vicissitude time had brought, how well she knew the import of the change
already at the door.

Harvey stood still on the landing, gazing down unobserved, his eyes
never turning from the face whose beauty seemed to unfold before him as
he stood.  Yet not mere beauty, either—he did not think of beauty, nor
would he have so described what charmed him with a strange thrill he had
never owned before—but the rich expression, rather, of an inward life
that had deepened and mellowed with the years.  Great sense was there,
for one thing—and in the last appeal this feature of womanhood is
irresistible to a truly manly heart; and her face spoke of love, large
and generous, as if the weary and the troubled would ever find in her a
friend; cheerfulness, courage, hope, the dignity of purity, the
sweetness that marks those who have been cherished but not pampered and
indulged but not petted, all combined to provide a loveliness of
countenance that fairly ravished his heart as he peered through
spreading palms upon the unconscious face beneath.

Yet the joy he felt was not unmingled.  For he could see, as a moment
later he did see, that other eyes were turned with equal ardour in the
same direction as his own.  Madeline’s appearance was a kind of
triumphal entry; and there followed her, willing courtiers, two or three
of the gallants of the place, whose function it evidently was to bear
the glorious groups of flowers that various admirers had sent.  Harvey’s
face darkened a little as he noted that Cecil was among them; though, to
tell the truth, his seemed the most careless gaze of all—if admiration
marked it, it was hungry admiration and nothing more.  But the flowers
he was carrying were pure; he had asked leave to carry them—and they
themselves could not protest, shrink as they might from the unfitting
hand.  Others, nobler spirits, had burdens of equal fragrance, all fresh
and beautiful as became the object of their homage.

Slowly Harvey moved down the stairs.  The proprieties were forgotten—all
else as well—as he passed Mr. and Mrs. Borland by, the one glancing at
him with obvious admiration, the other with impatient questioning.  He
was standing close in front of Madeline before she knew that he was
there at all; suddenly raising her head as she turned from speaking with
a friend, the soulful eyes fell full on his. She did her best—but the
tides of life are strong and willful, and this one overswept the swift
barrier she strove to interpose, as straws are swept before a storm.
And the flood outpoured about him, surging as it smote the passion that
leaped to meet it, the silent tumult beating like sudden pain on heart
and ears and eyes, its mingled agony and rapture engulfing him till
everything seemed to swim before him as before a drunken man.

What voices silent things possess!  And how God speaks through dull
inanimate creatures as by the living lips of love!  And what tell-tale
tongues have the most trivial things to peal out life’s holiest
messages!  For he saw—dimly at first and with a kind of shock, then
clearly and with exultant certainty—he saw what was in her hand.  It was
only a bunch of simple flowers; but they were sorry looking things
compared to their rivals whose fragrance filled the air, and the languor
of death was upon them—yes, thank God, their bloom was faded, their
freshness gone.  For he recognized them, he knew them; and in the swift
foment of his mind he even saw again the hard commercial face of the man
from whom he had bought them, again the hard spared coins he had
extracted from the poor total his poverty had left him, his heart the
while leaping within him as though it could stand imprisonment no more.
Dimly, vaguely, he saw behind her the noble clusters that other hands
had sent—but other hands than hers were bearing them—and his were in her
own, in the one that was bared in careless beauty as her glove hung
indifferent from the wrist, unconscious of all that had displaced it.
Careless observers had doubtless noted the dying flowers, marvelled
mayhap; they knew not how instinct they were with life, how fadeless
against the years their memory was to sweeten and enrich.

He stood silent a moment with his hand half-outstretched, his eyes
divided between the flowers beneath and the face above.  His soul
outpoured itself through them in a riot of joy he had neither desire nor
power to restrain.  Madeline stood like some lovely thing at bay, her
eyes aglow, their message half of high reproach and half of passionate
welcome.

"You told me you weren’t coming," she said in protesting tones, the
words audible to no one but himself; "and I didn’t expect you," her lips
parted, her breath coming fast and fitfully, as though she were
exhausted in the chase.  Her radiant face was glorified—she knew it
not—by the rich tides of life that leaped and bounded there, disporting
themselves in the hour they had awaited long.  Yet her whole attitude
was marked by a strange aloofness, the wild air of liberty that is
assumed by captive things; and her voice was almost controlled again as
she repeated her remark.

"You said you weren’t coming;" the words voiced an interrogative.

"So I did," he acknowledged, his eyes roaming about her face; "but I
came," he added absently, a heavenly stupidity possessing him.

"How’s your mother?" she asked, struggling back.

"She’s not at all well," he answered, the tone full of real meaning; for
this was a realm as sacred to him as the other.

She was trying to replace her glove, the latter stubbornly resisting.

"Please button this for me," as she held out her arm.  He tried eagerly
enough; but his hand trembled like an aspen.  Her own was equally
unsteady, and progress was divinely slow.  He paused, looking helplessly
up into her face; her hand fell by her side. Before either knew that he
was near, Cecil’s voice broke in: "Allow me, Madeline," he said; "I’m an
old hand at operations like this—I’ll do it for you, Madeline," as
though he gloried in the name, and almost before she knew it he had
seized her arm, swiftly accomplishing his purpose.

Madeline was regal now, her very pose marked by unconscious pride.
"Thank you," she said, still sweetly, "but I don’t believe I want it
fastened now—it’s quite warm here, isn’t it?" and with a quick gesture
she slipped it from her hand, moving forward towards her father.  Harvey
stood still where he was; but the new heaven and the new earth had come.

The evening wore on; nor could any gathering have been enriched with
more of feeling than pervaded the triumphant hours.  All seemed to
forget the occasion that had convened them, remembering nothing but the
valued friends who were still to be their own, even if outward
circumstances were about to undergo the change so defiantly
acknowledged. The crowning feature came when the simple supper was
finished and the table partially cleared; for they who would remember
David Borland at his best must think of him as he appeared when he
called the guests to order and bade them fill their glasses high.

"Take your choice of lemonade or ginger ale," he cried with a voice like
a heightening breeze; and they who knew him well silently predicted the
best of David’s soul for the assembled guests that night. "There ain’t
nothin’ stronger," he went on with serious mien; "drinks is always soft
when times is hard—but drink hearty, friends, an’ give the old house a
good name."

Possibly there was the slightest symptom of a tremor in his voice as it
referred thus to what he held so dear, now about to be surrendered; but
a moment later the old indomitable light was kindled in his eye, the
strong face beaming with the unquenched humour that had been such a
fountain in his own life and the lives of others.  Something of new
dignity was noticeable in his entire bearing, the bearing of a man who,
if beaten, had been beaten in honourable battle, resolved still to
retain all that was dearest to his heart; this explained the look of
pride with which he marked, as he could hardly fail to mark, the
affection and respect with which every eye regarded him as he stood
before his friends.

The toast to the King, and one other, had been disposed of, David
proceeding merrily to launch another, when suddenly he was interrupted
by Geordie Nickle, who rose from his place at the further end of the
table.

"Sit doon, David," he enjoined, nodding vehemently towards his friend,
"an’ gie an auld man a chance.  Ladies an’ gentlemen," he went on,
directing his remarks to the company, "I’ll ask ye to fill yir glasses
wi’ guid cauld water for to drink the toast I’ll gie ye—naethin’ll fit
the man I’m gaein’ to mention as weel as that; there’s nae mixture aboot
him, as ye ken.  I’m wantin’ all o’ ye to drink a cup o’ kindness to the
man we love mair when he’s puir nor we ever did afore.  Here’s to yin o’
th’ Almichty’s masterpieces, David Borland—an’ may He leave him amang us
till He taks him till Himsel’."

Geordie paused, his glass high in air.  And the fervid guests arose to
drink that toast as surely toast had never been drunk before.  With a
bumper and with three times three, and calling David’s name aloud after
a fashion that showed it had the years behind it, and with outgoing
glances that spoke louder than words, every face searching his own in
trust and sympathy and love, they did honour to the host who should
entertain them there no more.

It was almost too much for David.  He arose when his guests had resumed
their seats, and stood long looking down without a word.  But he began
at last, timidly, hesitatingly, emotion and language gradually making
their way together as his eyes were slowly lifted to rest upon the faces
of his friends.  He referred frankly to the occasion that had brought
them together, thus to bid farewell to the scene of many happy
gatherings.  "Folks say I’m beaten," he went on, "but that ain’t true.
I’m not beaten. I’ve lost a little—but I’ve saved more," as he looked
affectionately around.  "I’m not really much poorer than I was.  I never
cared a terrible lot about money; ’twas the game more.  Just like boys
with marbles; they don’t eat ’em, they don’t drink ’em—but they like to
win ’em."

Then he referred to the justice of the power that disturbs the security
of human comfort, though he employed no such terms as those.  "A
fellow’s got to take the lean with the fat," he said resignedly; "hasn’t
got no right to expect the clock’ll strike twelve every time.  A miller
that sets his wheel by the spring freshet, he’d be a fool," he announced
candidly, knowing no term more accurate, "’cause it’s bound to drop some
time.  Of course, it comes tougher to _get_ poor than to _be_ poor; it’s
worse to be impoverished than jest to be poor, as our friend Harvey here
would say; he’s a scholar, you know, and a B.A. at that," he added,
turning his eyes with the others towards Harvey’s conscious face.

"A stoot heart tae a steep brae, David!" broke in Geordie’s voice as he
leaned forward, his admiring gaze fixed on his friend.

"Them’s my sentiments," assented David, smiling back at the dauntless
Scotchman.  "I mind a woman out in Illinois—she was terrible rich, and
she got terrible poor all of a sudden.  Well, she had to wash her own
dishes, after the winds descended an’ the floods blew and beat upon her
house, as the Scriptur’ says—an’ she jest put on every diamond ring she
had to her name an’ went at it.  That’s Mr. Nickle’s meanin’, my
friends, I take it—an’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do myself.  I don’t
know exactly what I’m agoin’ to go at," he went on thoughtfully; "I’ve
got a kind of an offer to be a kind of advisin’ floor-walker for the
line I’ve been at—an’ maybe I’ll take it an’ keep my hand in a bit.
We’re goin’ to live in a little cottage—an’ there’ll always be heaps o’
room for you all.  An’ we’re goin’ to manage all right," he went on, his
eye lighting at what was to follow; "I’ve got an arrangement made with
Madeline here. We won’t have a terrible lot of help round the house; so
she’s goin’ to attend to the furnace in the winter—an’ I’m goin’ to look
after it in the summer.  So we’ll get along all right, all right.  An’
now, friends," he continued seriously, "I must hump it to a close, as
the preachers say.  But there’s one thing—don’t believe all Mr. Nickle
tells you about me; I ain’t near as good as he says.  These Scotchmen’s
terrible on epitaphs when they once get started.  An’ he’s like all the
rest o’ them—when he likes a man he swallows him whole.  But I want to
thank you all for helpin’ us to make the last night so jolly.  I don’t
find it hard myself, for I’m as certain as I ever was of anythin’ it’s
all for the best.  I want you to give that hymn out again next Sunday,
doctor," and David’s face had no trace of merriment as he turned to look
for his pastor by his side; "oh, I forgot the doctor goes home early—but
I’ll ask him anyhow, an’ we’ll sing it louder’n we ever did before.
It’s been runnin’ in my mind an awful lot lately: ’With mercy an’ with
judgment’—you can’t beat them words much; it’s the old comfortin’
thought about Who’s weavin’ the web.  So now I jest want to thank
everybody here for comin’—we’ve had good happy years together, an’
there’s more to follow yet, please God," he predicted reverently as he
resumed his seat, the deep silence that reigned about him being more
impressive than the most boisterous applause.

The pause which followed was broken by a suggestion, low and muffled at
first, gradually finding louder voice and at last openly endorsed by
Geordie Nickle, that "auld lang syne" would be a fitting sequel to what
had gone before.  David hailed the proposal with delight.

"We’ll sing it now," he said enthusiastically, "an’ we’ll have the old
doxology right after—they’re both sacred songs, to my way o’ thinkin’,"
as he beckoned to Geordie to take his place beside him, the company
rising to voice the love-bright classic.

But just as cordial hands were outgoing to loyal hands outstretched to
meet them, the door-bell broke in with sudden clamour, and some one on
the outer edge of the circle called aloud the name of Harvey Simmons.
There was something ominous in the tone, and one at least detected the
paleness of Harvey’s cheek as he hurried towards the door.  A moment
sufficed the breathless messenger to communicate what he had to tell,
and in an instant Harvey had turned swiftly towards the wondering
company. He spoke no word, offered no explanation, but his eye fell on
Jessie’s in silent intimation of what she already seemed to fear.
Noiselessly she slipped from the now voiceless circle, joining her
brother as they both passed swiftly out into the night.




                                 *XXVI*

                  *"*_*THE FAIR SWEET MORN AWAKES*_*"*


Darkness was about them, dense and silent; nor were the shadows that
wrapped their hearts less formidable.  For something seemed to tell
Harvey that one of life’s great hours was approaching, like to which
there is none other to be confronted by a lad’s loving soul.
Involuntarily, almost unconsciously, his hand went out in the darkness
in search of his sister’s; warm but trembling, it stole into his own.
And thus, as in the far-off days of childhood, they went on through the
dark together, the slight and timid one clinging to the strong and
fearless form beside her.  But now both hearts were chilled with
fear—not of uncanny shadows, or grotesque shapes by the wayside, or
nameless perils, as had been the case in other days—but of that
mysterious foe, one they had never faced before, ever recognized as an
enemy to be some day reckoned with, but now knocking at the gate.  Yet,
awful though they knew this enemy to be, their feet scarce seemed to
touch the ground, so swiftly did they hurry on to meet him, counting
every moment lost that held them back from the parting struggle.  Hand
in hand they pressed forward, these children of the shadows.

"Did they say she was dying, Harvey?" Jessie asked in an awesome voice,
little more than a whisper.

"That’s what they thought," he answered, his hand tightening on hers;
"she thought so herself."

The girl tried in vain to check the cry that broke from her lips.
"Don’t, sister, don’t," he pleaded, his own voice in ruins; "maybe she
won’t leave us yet—but if she does, if she does, she’ll see—she’ll see
again, Jessie."  The emotion that throbbed in the great prediction
showed how a mother’s blindness can lay its hand on children’s hearts
through long and clouded years.

"But she won’t see us, Harvey, she won’t see us before she goes.  Oh,
Harvey, I’ve longed so much for that, just that mother might see us—even
if it was only once—before she dies.  And, you know, the doctor said if
it came it would come suddenly; and I’ve always thought every morning
that perhaps it might come that day.  And now," the sobbing voice went
on, "now—if she goes away—she won’t have seen us at all.  And we always
prayed, Harvey; we prayed always for that," she added,
half-rebelliously. Her brother answered never a word.  Instead, he took
a firmer grasp upon his sister’s hand and strode resolutely on.  By this
time his head was lifted high and his eye was kindled with a strange and
burning glow, his heart leaping like a frightened thing the while; for
he could descry the light of their cottage home.  Tiny and
insignificant, that home stood wrapped in darkness save for that one
sombre beacon-light—but the flickering gleam that rose and fell seemed
to call him to the most majestic of all earthly scenes, such scenes as
lend to hovel or to palace the same unearthly splendour.

"Will she know us, do you think?" Jessie whispered as they pushed open
the unlocked door and went on into the dimly lighted house.  Harvey did
not seem to hear, so bent was he on the solemn quest, ascending the
stair swiftly but silently, his sister’s hand still tight within his
own.  As they came near the top they could just catch, through the
half-open door, the outline of their mother’s face, the stamp of death
unmistakably upon it; she lay white and still upon her pillow, two forms
bending above her, one of which they recognized at once as the doctor’s.
Whereat suddenly, as if unable to go farther, Harvey stopped and stood
still; Jessie did likewise, turning with low sobs and flinging herself
into her brother’s arms, her face hidden while he held her close,
silently endeavouring to comfort the stricken heart.

"Don’t, Jessie," he whispered gently.  "Let us make it easier for her if
we can—and let us think of all it means to her—all it’ll bring back
again. Come," the last word spoken with subdued passion, courage and
anguish blending.  They went in together, slowly, each seeming to wait
for the other to lead the way.  Their look, their movements, their
manner of walk, the very way they leaned forward to peer with eager,
awe-inspired eyes upon their mother’s face—all spoke of childhood;
everything reverted in this great hour to the sweet simplicity of that
period of life that had bound them to their mother in sacred
helplessness.  The primal passion flowed anew.  And the two who crossed
the floor together, tip-toeing towards the bed whereon their only
earthly treasure lay, were now no more a laurel-laden man and a maiden
woman-grown, waging the stern warfare life had thrust upon them; but
they were simply boy and girl again, hand linked in hand as in the far
departed days when two stained and tiny palms had so often lain one
within the other—boy and girl, their hearts wrung with that strange
grief that would be powerless against us all, could we but remain
grown-up men and women.  For the kingdom of sorrow resembles the kingdom
of heaven, in this, at least, that we enter farthest in when we become
like little children; and an all-wise Father has saved many a man from
incurable maturity by the rejuvenating touch of sorrow, by the
youth-renewing ministry of tears.

"Look, oh, Harvey, look," Jessie suddenly whispered in strange, excited
tones.  Subdued though her voice was, a kind of storm swept through it.
Harvey started, looked afresh—and saw; and instinctively, almost
convulsively, he turned and clutched Jessie tightly by the arm.  She too
was clinging to him in a very spasm of trembling.

"She sees us," came Jessie’s awesome tidings, her face half-hidden on
her brother’s shoulder.

"She sees us," he echoed absently, his face turning again towards the
bed, his eyes resuming the wondrous quest.

He gazed, unspeaking, as one might gaze who sees within the veil.  All
else was forgotten, even great Death—so jealous of all rivals—whose
presence had filled the room a moment or two agone.  And the silent
years beyond—ah me! the aching silence after a mother’s voice is
hushed—were unthought of now. And the grim and boding shade of
orphanhood, deepening from twilight into dark, was unavailing against
the new-born light that flooded all his soul with joy.

For he saw—and the bitter memories of bygone years fled before the
vision as the night retreats before the dawn—he saw a smile upon his
mother’s face, the smile he had not seen for years; unforgotten, for it
had mingled with his dreams—but it had vanished from her eyes when those
eyes had looked their last upon her children’s faces.  Yes, it was in
her eyes—brightness he had often seen before on cheek and lip, merriment
even—but this was the heart’s loving laughter breaking through the
soul’s clear window as it had been wont to do before that window had
been veiled in gloom.

He remembered afterwards, what he did not then remark, that the doctor,
observing his rapt expression, came close with some whispered
explanation—some discourse on the relaxation of the optic nerve as a
result of physical collapse—something of that sort, and much more, did
the good man stammer forth to eke out this miracle of God.  But Harvey
heard him not—nor saw him even—for the love-light in his mother’s eyes
called him with imperious voice, and almost roughly did he snatch
himself from Jessie’s grasp as he pressed forward with outstretched
hands.  He moved around the foot of the bed, his hands still extended;
and as he did so he noticed, with wild surging joy, that the devouring
eyes followed him as he went.  The sensation, new, elemental,
overpowering, almost overcame him; something of the sense of
repossession of a long absent soul, or the kindling of a long
extinguished fire, or the cessation of a long tormenting pain, laid hold
upon his heart.  As he drew near and bent low above the bed, his
mother’s face was almost as a holy thing, so transfigured was it with
its glow of love.  The rapture in her eyes was such as conquerors
know—for it was the moment of her triumph after the long battle with the
years.  And her lips moved as if they longed to chant the victor’s song;
yet they were muffled soon—for the hands she laid upon the bended
shoulders of her boy were hungry hands, and that strange strength so
often vouchsafed the dying was loaned her as she drew the manly form,
all quivering and broken now, close to her throbbing bosom.  A moment
only—for the yearning eyes would not be long denied—till she gently
released the hidden face, holding him forth before her while the long
thirsting orbs drank deep of holy gladness.

"Oh, Harvey," she murmured low, "Harvey, my son—my little son."

"Mother—my mother," he answered back, as his hand stroked the pallid
cheek; for the new vision was as wonderful to him as her returning
vision could be to her.  "Oh, mother, don’t—don’t leave us now, dear
mother," he sobbed in pleading, the child-note breaking through his
voice again, "now, when we’ll all be so happy, mother."

She smiled and shook her head faintly; his plea seemed to find but faint
lodgment in her mind.  For she was otherwise employed; she gazed, as
though she could never gaze enough, upon the loving, pleading face
before her; she was searching for all that would reveal the soul
behind—all that might speak of purity, and temperance, and victory; she
was gathering traces of the years, the long curtained years through
which his unfolding soul had been hidden from her sight.  And her eyes
wandered from his face only long enough to lift themselves to heaven in
mute thanksgiving to that God whose truth and faithfulness are the
strength and refuge of a mother’s heart.

Suddenly she turned restlessly upon her pillow, her gaze outgoing beyond
Harvey’s now bended head.

"Oh, Jessie," she said with returning rapture, "oh, Jessie—my wee
Jessie—my little daughter; oh, my darling," as she drew the awe-stricken
face down beside her brother’s.  There they nestled close, there as in
blessed and unforgotten days, all the fragrance of the sorrow-riven
past, all the portent of the love-lorn future mingling in baptism upon
their almost orphaned heads.

The thin white fingers toyed with the girl’s lovely hair; "it’s so much
darker," she half whispered as if to herself, "but it’s beautiful; your
face, Jessie; let me see your face," she faltered, as the maiden turned
her swimming eyes anew upon her mother.  "Thank God," she murmured, "oh,
let me say it while I can—He’s been so good to me.  He’s kept us
all—all—so graciously; and He’s—always—found the path. It was
never—really—dark; and now He’s made it light at eventide," she half
cried with a sudden gust of strength and gladness.  "And I know—I’ve
seen—before I go; it’ll make heaven beautiful," and she sank back, faint
and exhausted, on her pillow.

The devoted doctor and the faithful friend had both slipped noiselessly
from the room.  They knew that love’s last Sacrament was being thus
dispensed, the precious wine to be untasted more till these three should
drink it new in the kingdom of God.  But now Miss Adair, her love
impelling her, ventured timidly back; she came gently over, so gently
that she was unnoticed by the bending children, taking her place beside
Harvey.  She touched him on the shoulder; his eyes gave but a fleeting
spark of recognition as they fell on what she held in her hand.

"I thought she’d like to see them," said the kindly woman; "she couldn’t
before, you know," and as she spoke she bended above the bed, a look of
expectation on her face as she held Harvey’s hood, and his medal, before
the new-illumined eyes.  The lamp’s dim light fell athwart them and they
gleamed an instant as if in conscious pride.

The dying woman saw them; her eyes rested a moment on them both, and the
kindly purposed neighbour made as if to put them in her hands.  But the
purpose died before she moved—for the mother’s glance showed her that
these things were to her now but as the dust.  The time was short; the
night was coming fast; the dying eyes, so strangely lightened for this
parting joy, were consecrated to one purpose and to that alone—and the
gleaming gold and the flashing fabric lay unnoticed on the bed, the
mother’s face still turned upon her children’s in yearning eagerness, as
though she must prepare against the years that would hide them from her
sight till the endless day should give them back to her undimmed gaze
forever.

Few were the words that were spoken now.  The stream of peace flowed
silently; and the reunited three held their high carnival of love—and of
strange sorrow-clouded joy—the long tragedy of their united lives
breaking at last into the blessedness of resignation, resignation aglow
with hope.  For this pledge of God’s faithfulness was hailed by every
heart; and they felt, though no lip voiced the great assurance, that
life’s long shadows would at last be lost in love’s unclouded day.

Into a gentle, untroubled slumber their mother fell at length.  When she
awaked, her eyes leaped anew, fastening themselves upon her children as
though the precious gift had been bestowed afresh.

"I had a lovely—dream," she faltered.  "I saw you—both—little
children—like you used to be. And I thought your father—was—there too.
It was heaven," she went on, her face brightening with a far-off light;
"I thought he was there—and all the—the struggle—was past and gone.  You
asked—me—once, dear—if he was there," her sweet smile turned on Harvey.
"Not yet, dear—not yet—but——"  She motioned him to bend down beside her.
"Your father’s living," she whispered low, her shining eyes fixed on
his.  Jessie retreated, not knowing why, but the wonderful light told
her that it was a great moment between mother and son. "He’s living,"
the awed voice whispered again—"but he’s afraid.  He’ll come back—some
day—Harvey. And you—you—must forgive him.  He’ll tell you.  And love
him; tell him—I’m—waiting there.  You must love him—and forgive him—and
bring him——"  Then she stopped, breathless.

The wonderful tidings seemed at first almost more than the son could
bear.  With face suffused and eyes aglow, he gazed upon his mother.
Suddenly his lips began to move; he spoke like one who has descried
something wonderful, and far away.

"Yes, mother," he whispered low, "yes, I’ll love him—I love him now;
I’ll love him—like you love him.  And I’ll bring him, mother, when he
comes back; I’ll bring him—we’ll come together.  I’ll tell him what you
said," he cried, forgetful who might hear, "and then he’ll come—I know
he’ll come," his face radiant with the thought.

"And Jessie," the mother murmured, "Jessie too."

"Yes, Jessie too," he answered; "come, Jessie—come," as he beckoned to
her; she moved gently over and kneeled with him beside the bed.

The day had broken.  And the glowing heralds of the approaching sun were
making beautiful the path before him.  Hill and dale, their shining
outlines visible in the distance, were clothed in golden glory; the opal
clouds announced the coming of their king; the fragrant trees, and the
bursting buds, and the spreading blossoms, and the kindling sward, and
the verdure-covered fields gave back the far-flung smile of light.  Like
a bride adorned for her husband, all stood in unconscious beauty as far
as eye could reach.

"Look, mother, look," Harvey cried suddenly, gently lifting the dear
head from the pillow as the sanctity of the scene impelled him.  "Oh,
mother, you can see them all," rapture and sorrow mingling in the tone.

The far-seeing eyes turned slowly towards the window, rested one brief,
wonderful moment upon the wonderful sight, then turned away in ineffable
tenderness and longing, fastening themselves again where they had been
fixed before.  For love is a mighty tyrant and the proudest kings must
take their place as vassals in his train.

An instant later the dying eyes seemed to leap far beyond, beautiful
with rapture.  "Look, look," she cried as though the others were the
blind, "look, oh look," her voice ringing clear with the last energy of
death; "it’s lovelier yonder—where it’s always spring.  Don’t you see,
Harvey?  Jessie, don’t you see?  And baby’s there, Jessie—Harvey, the
baby’s there—and she’s beckoning; look, look, it’s you—not me—she’s
calling.  Let us all go," she said, the voice dropping to faintness
again, the eyes turning again upon her children; "let us—all—go; it’s
so—lovely; and we’re—all—so tired," as the dear lips became forever
still.

And the rejoicing sun came on, the riot of his joy untempered, no badge
of mourning in his hand.  And he greeted the motherless with unwonted
gladness as he filled the little room with light, kissing the silent
face as though he would wish it all joy of the well-won rest.  For he
knew, he knew the secret of it all.  He knew Who had transfigured hill
and dale and tree and flower with the glance of love; he knew the source
of all life’s light and shade; he knew the afterward of God; he knew
Death’s other, sweeter name.

But the motherless made no response.  Still they knelt, one on each side
of the unanswering form; and still, tightly clasped, each held a wasted
hand.




                                *XXVII*

                        _*A BROTHER’S MASTERY*_


It was the following night, the last night of all. Harvey lay with wide
staring eyes that sought in vain to pierce the darkness; he felt it were
almost a sacrilege to sleep, even could he have done so, since there
would lie never more beneath the long familiar roof the beloved form
that he had never known absent for a single night.  He suddenly realized
this—and it leaped like fire in his brain—that he had never spent a
night in this, the only home he had ever known, without the dear
presence that must to-morrow be withdrawn.  He recalled the comfort and
the courage this had given him in many a trembling hour when the
nameless fears of childhood gathered with the night; how sometimes,
tormented by grotesque shapes and grotesquer fancies, his terror had
vanished like a dream when he had heard her cough, or sigh, or break
into the gentle tones he had early learned were between her soul and
God.  He recalled, too, that often, startled by some unreasoning fear,
he would call out loudly in the night; and in a moment the gentle form
would be beside his bed, her hand upon him as she caressed him with a
word, which word became the lullaby upon whose liquid wave he was borne
back to dreamland.

All this could never be again, he mused in bitter loneliness.  As he
dwelt upon it the thought became almost intolerable; and suddenly
rising—for he had not yet undressed—he began noiselessly to descend the
stairs, purposing to go out into the night; for there is healing in the
cool cisterns of the midnight air.  But he noticed, to his surprise, a
light stealing from beneath Jessie’s door; instinctively he turned and
knocked, his lonely heart glad of the sympathy he would not seek there
in vain.

She bade him enter; obeying, he stood amazed as he beheld how his sister
was employed.  For Jessie was full dressed; it was after three o’clock,
but she had made no preparations for retiring.  Instead, she was seated
on the bed, the room bestrewed with materials for the toil that was
engrossing her.  Cloth, of various kinds and in various shapes,
separated fragments yet to be adjusted, were scattered about; scissors
and spools and tape measures lay upon the bed on which the stooping form
was seated.  And Jessie herself, a lamp whose oil was almost exhausted
stationed high above her, was sewing away as if for life itself; worn
and weary, her fingers chafed and sore, a burning flush on either cheek,
the tired shoulders stooped and bent, she was pressing on with her
humble toil.

He uttered a quick exclamation of surprise, almost of reproach, as his
eyes fell on the pitiful face and noticed the signs of drudgery about
her.  His first thought, as soon as he could collect himself, was that
his sister was preparing the habiliments of mourning which her
orphanhood would now demand.  But sad and striking contrast, the fabric
over which the fragile form was bent was of a far different kind.  The
material was of the richest and gayest sort, while yoke of rarest
embroidery, and costly lace, and rich brocade, spoke of wealth and
fashion far beyond their station.

Jessie started as if detected in some guiltful work; she even made one
swift attempt to hide the handiwork that lay glistening across her knee.

Harvey closed the door; and there was more of sternness in his voice
than she had ever heard before. "Jessie," he said gravely, "our mother’s
lying dead downstairs."

Alas! the poor girl knew it well.  And her only answer was a quick and
copious gush of tears.  It was pitiful to see her snatch the delicate
creation and toss it quickly from her, lest her grief should stain it;
then she rocked gently to and fro in a gust of sorrow.

"Oh, Harvey," she sobbed, "you didn’t mean that, brother.  I know you
didn’t mean it."

He was still in the dark.  But the anguish of this dear heart, so loyal
to him through the years, was more than he could stand.  With one quick
stride he took his place beside her on the bed, his arm encircling her
with infinite tenderness.

"Don’t, sister," he said, "don’t cry like that; I didn’t mean it,
dear—only I didn’t understand—I can’t understand."

She offered no explanation, sobbing gently a few minutes in his arms.

"I couldn’t understand, Jessie," he said again a little later.

"I couldn’t help it," she said at last without raising her head.  "I
didn’t want to sew, with mother lying dead—but I couldn’t help it.  I
really couldn’t. It’s not for me," she flung out at last, the long
hidden secret surrendered after all.  "It’s not for me—and I had to get
it done.  They insisted so—and I couldn’t afford to lose them—it’s for a
party."

The blood left Harvey’s face, then surged hotly back to it again.  His
arms fell from about her and he sat like one in a trance.  His eyes
roved dumbly about the room, falling here and there upon many a thing,
unnoticed in the first survey, that confirmed the assurance which now
chilled him to the heart. Then his eyes turned to his sister’s face.  It
was averted, downcast—but he could see, what he had but casually
remarked before, how the hand of toil had left its mark upon it.  Sweet
and tender and unselfish, courage and resolution in every line, he could
now read the whole sad story of what lay behind.  The worn fingers were
interlocked upon her lap, and he could see how near the blood was to the
very fingertips. And as he reflected, almost madly, upon the desperate
necessity that had held her to her work under the very shadow of death,
and driven her to it though with a broken heart; as he recalled the
mysterious sources of support that had never failed him till his college
course was done, a flood of sacred light broke upon it all—and the dear
form before him, tired and wasted as it was, was gently drawn to his
bosom with hands of reverent love, his murmuring lips pressed lightly to
the burning cheeks in penitent devotion.

"Forgive me, sister," he pleaded in a faltering voice, "oh, forgive me;
for I did not know—I did not know."

Her answer was never spoken; but it came.

It was not long till he had learned, and from her own reluctant lips,
all the story of the toil and drudgery that had been thus so suddenly
revealed. But, protest as he might, Jessie was resolved to press on with
the work she had been engaged in.

"I’m just as well able to work as you are, Harvey," she said earnestly.
"I certainly will not give up the store."

"But I’m sure of a position on the newspaper I was telling you about,
Jessie," Harvey urged—"and I can at least help; I can always spare a
little," he assured her confidently, "and there’s one thing you must do
before very long," he went on eagerly; "you’ve really got to come and
stay a while with Miss Farringall.  She practically made me promise for
you.  Couldn’t somebody mind the store while you’re away?"

"I suppose so," Jessie relented enough to say; "Miss Adair could manage
it well enough, of course. And I’d love to have a long visit with you,
brother," she added fondly.  "We’re all alone in the world now, Harvey,"
her voice trembling as the tired eyes filled to overflowing—"we haven’t
anybody else but each other now."

Harvey looked her full in the face.  "There’s another," he said in a
whisper after a long silence.

Jessie started violently; then her demand for more light came swift and
urgent.

As gently as he could, he broke to her the wonderful news.  The girl was
trembling from head to foot.

But her first thought seemed to be of her mother. "And that was it," she
cried amid her sobs; "that was the sorrow mother carried about with her
all the time.  Oh, Harvey, I always knew there was something—I always
felt mother had some burden she wouldn’t let us share with her—I always
felt her heart was hungry for something she hoped she’d get before she
died.  Poor, poor mother—our dear, brave mother!"

Harvey staunched the tide of grief as best he could.  Their talk turned,
and naturally enough, to the hope of their father’s return some day,
both promising the fulfillment of their mother’s dying wish.

"We’ll do just as mother would have done," the girl said in sweet
simplicity; "and we’ll wait together, Harvey—we’ll watch and wait
together."

"And you’ll help me, won’t you, sister?" Harvey asked suddenly.

"What to do?" Jessie said wonderingly.

"Just help me," he answered, his voice faltering. "Will you promise me
that, Jessie; you don’t know yet all it means—just always to stick to
me, and help me, and believe in me—till—till father comes?" he
concluded, looking steadfastly into her wondering eyes.  "Come with me,
sister—come."

The darkness was at its deepest, the lamp-light now flickered into
gloom, as he rose and led her gently from the room.  Groping
noiselessly, they two, the only living things about the house, crept
downward to the chamber of the dead.  The door creaked with a strange
unearthly sound as Harvey pushed it open and drew his sister in beside
him.  Onward he pressed, his arm still supporting her, till they stood
above the silent face.  It lay in the pomp of the majestic silence,
calmly awaiting the last earthly dawn that should ever break upon it,
awaiting that slow-approaching hour when the last movement should be
made, the last tender rudeness which would lay it, swaying slightly,
upon the waiting bosom of the earth—and then the eternal stillness and
the dark.

They stood long, no sound escaping them, above the noble face.  Its dim
outlines could be just discerned, calm and stately in the royal mien of
death. They gazed long together.  "I believe she’s near us," Harvey
whispered.  Then he drew her gently down till their faces met upon the
unresponsive face of their precious dead.

A moment later he led her tenderly away.  She passed first through the
door; but he turned and looked back.  The first gray streak of dawn was
stealing towards his mother’s face; and he saw, or thought he saw, a
look of deeper peace upon it than had ever been there before.  And the
still lips spoke their benediction and breathed their love upon her
children—all the more her own because she dwelt with God.




                                *XXVIII*

                        _*A LIGHT AT MIDNIGHT*_


"There’s something—but I don’t know what it is.  But there’s something;
now Jessie, do sit up straight, and breathe deep—you know you promised
me you’d breathe deep.  Yes, there’s something wrong with Harvey."

If Jessie was not breathing very deep she was breathing very fast.  Even
Grey felt a nameless agitation in the domestic atmosphere, looking up
with cat-like gravity into Miss Farringall’s troubled face. He had
noticed, doubtless, that the mercurial spectacle, had been ascending and
descending from nose to brow and from brow to nose with significant
rapidity. Grey did not look at Jessie—except casually.  She not been
sufficiently long in the house—and belonged to one of the oldest and
best-bred of feline families.

Still Jessie did not speak.  But her hostess, dear soul, was ever equal
to double duty.  Like most maiden ladies, Miss Farringall had the
dialogue gift abundantly developed; nor was it liable to perish through
disuse.

"Yes," she went on as cheerfully as her perplexity would allow, "he’s
been so different lately.  He comes home at such strange hours, for him.
And sometimes he waits a long time at the door, as if he didn’t know
whether to come in or not.  Of course," she added reassuringly, "no one
else knows but me; Barlow never hears anything, for he’s dead all
night—he never resurrects till half-past seven," a timid smile lighting
her face a moment.  "But Harvey’s different every way; all his fun and
merriment are gone—and he seems so depressed and discouraged, as if he
was being beaten in some fight his life depended on.  I don’t know what
to make of it at all."

Jessie’s face showed white in the gaslight; and her voice was far from
steady.  "Has this all been since—since mother died?" she asked, with
eyes downcast and dim.

"Not altogether.  No, not at all.  I noticed it first, a while after he
went on the _Argus_.  He was so proud about getting on the staff—he got
hold of a life of Horace Greeley in the library, and he used to joke
about it and say some day he’d stand there too. But it began one
morning—the change, I mean—and he’s never been the same since.  And one
night, just before he went out, he brought me an envelope and asked me
to keep it till he came back.  I’m not very sure, but I think there was
money in it—and it was just at the end of the month too," she added
significantly.

"Doesn’t he like newspaper life?" enquired Jessie.

"Oh, yes; I think he’s crazy about it.  You see, with his education and
his gifts—he’s a born writer—there isn’t any kind of business could suit
him better. I think he has his own times with Mr. Crothers—he’s the city
editor, a kind of manager.  He’s a strange man, blusters and swears a
good deal, I think—but he’s got a good heart, from what I can hear."

"Why don’t you have a confidential talk with Harvey?" suggested Jessie.
"He’d tell you almost anything, I’m sure."

"I’ve thought of that.  But I was going to ask you the very same thing.
Why don’t you?—you’re his sister."

Jessie’s lip quivered.  "I couldn’t," she said hesitatingly; "I couldn’t
stand it.  Besides, you know, I ought to go home to-morrow.  Miss
Adair’s expecting me—and she says the store always prospers better when
I’m there myself; she’s had charge for ten days now, while I’ve been
visiting here."

Miss Farringall sighed.  "I wish I could coax you out of that," she
said.  "Why will you go away so soon, Jessie?  These days you’ve been
here have been such a joy; I’m such a lonely creature," she added
glancing out at the silent, dimly-lighted hall.  "There’s hardly ever
anybody around now but Barlow—and he’s a ghost.  Of course, Dr. Wallis
comes when I send for him—but we always quarrel.  Then, of course, the
rector comes every little while—but he’s a kind of a prayer-book with
clothes on; he gets solemner every day.  What I’m getting to hate about
him," she went on, vehemently, "is that he has his mind made up to be
solemn, and he’s not meant for it—red-headed men with freckles never
are," she affirmed decisively.  "But you and Harvey, you almost seem,
Jessie—you might have been my own children, I think sometimes," a queer
little tremor in the voice, the withered cheek flushing suddenly.  But
Jessie did not remark the strange tenderness of the glance she cast
towards the treasure-hiding desk in the corner. "Some day I want to tell
you——"

But her voice suddenly died away in silence as both women turned their
eyes eagerly towards the door.  For they could see the approaching form
of the subject of their conversation.  And it needed but a glance to
confirm the opinion Miss Farringall had already expressed.  Harvey was
making his way heavily up the stairs, his step slow and uncertain, his
whole bearing significant of defeat.  As he passed the door a faint
plaintive smile played upon the face that was turned a moment on the
familiar forms within; the face was haggard and pale, the eyes heavy and
slightly bloodshot, the expression sad and despondent.  Yet the old
chivalrous light was there; clouded it was as if by shame and
self-reproach, yet with native pride and honour flashing through it all
as though the fires of a stern and unceasing conflict were glowing far
within.

Jessie started as if to greet him.  But something checked her—she would
wait till they were alone.

Entering his room and pausing only to remove his boots, Harvey flung
himself with a stifled groan upon the bed.  How long he had lain there
before interruption came, he neither knew nor cared.  For the unclosed
eyes were staring out into the darkness, his brain half-maddened with
its activity of pain.  Nearly everything that concerned his entire life
seemed to float before him as his hot eyes ransacked the productive
dark.  Childhood days, with their deep poverty and their deeper wealth;
the light and music of their darkened, sorrow-shaded home; the plaintive
enterprise of their little store; the friends and playmates of those
early days—and one friend, if playmate never; the broadened life of
college, and all his discovery of himself, his powers, his
possibilities, his perils; the one epoch-making night of life, its light
above the brightness of the sun—his burning face hid itself in the
pillow, his hands tight clenched as those half-withered flowers in
Madeline’s hand rose before him, his hopes more faded now than they.
Then came the holy scene that had followed fast, so wonderfully vivid
now—for in the dark he could see his mother’s dying face with strange
distinctness, the dear eyes open wide and filled with tender light as
they turned upon her son, the thin hands outstretched as if to call the
tired one to the comfort of her love.

The glow of filial passion lingered but a moment on the haggard face.
For other memories followed fast.  How he had bidden farewell to Jessie,
returning to the city with high resolve to snatch nobler gains than the
poor laurels her secret heroism had enabled him to win—his hood and
medal flitted for a moment through his thought, only to be cast aside as
paltry baubles, garish trifles, with their dying sheen; how, later, he
had secured a worthy place on the news staff of one of the leading
dailies of the city, his heart high with hope for the career that should
await him; how his gifts and his opportunity had conspired to confirm
the hope.

Clouds and darkness were about the remainder of his reverie.  But part
of it had to do with his hour of joy and triumph.  He felt again the
jubilance, the separate sort of thrill, that had possessed him when the
great "scoop" had been accomplished—to use the vivid metaphor that
journalists employ.  And he recalled the annual banquet—he could see
many of the faces through the dark—at which his own name had been called
aloud, actually requested as he had been to propose the toast to the
paper it was his pride to serve. Then came the brief, fatal struggle as
the glasses were lifted high.  He ground his teeth as he remembered
Oliver—once friend and chum, now fiend and enemy; and Harvey’s thought
of him was lurid with a kind of irrational hate—for Oliver had spurred
and stung him to his fall with one or two quick sentences that seemed
cogent enough at the time; the appeal had been to shame, and to what was
due the concern that had honoured him, and to other things of that kind;
in any case, it had all been like lashing a horse that hesitates before
a hurdle.  And he had leaped it—oh, God, he thought to himself, this cad
against his mother!  He had leaped it.  And then the slumbering passion
that had sprung anew to life within him—not passion perhaps, nor yet
appetite either—but a kind of personal devil that had tangled its will
all up with his own, and had seemed to laugh at his feeble struggling,
and to exult like one who had won again an unforgotten victory, running
riot in fiendish glee since his prowess had prevailed once more. Harvey
held his hands to his burning brow as he recalled the pitiful resistance
that had followed; he could feel the ever-tightening grasp again, like
the relentless coils of the sea-monsters he had read about so often; he
recalled how his soul had fluttered its poor protest, like some helpless
bird, against this cruel hand that was bound to have its will with
it—and how struggle and promise and pledge and prayer had all seemed to
be in vain.

He thought, too, but only for a moment—he could not, would not longer
dwell upon it—of the shameful peace he had found at last; the peace of
the vanquished; such peace as servile souls enjoy, for it can be
purchased cheap—and the evil memory of it all surged over him like
hissing waves.  Nearly a week had followed, such a week as any mother,
bending above the cradle of her child, might pray God to—

But this was like groping in a morgue—and it must stop.  He rose half
erect from his bed, shaking himself like one who tries to clamber back
from the slough of evil dreams.  Just at this moment a knock came to the
door; his soul leaped towards the sound—it was a human touch at least,
thank God, and he needed some such Blucher for such a Waterloo.

"Come in," he said huskily, lest reinforcement of any sort whatever
might escape.

And she came.  Without a word, but her whole being fragrant of sympathy
and love, she moved unhesitatingly towards the bed.  She caught, as she
came nearer, the fateful fumes.  And she knew—the most innocent are the
most sensitive to the breath of sin—but her heart only melted with a
tenderer compassion, her arms outstretched in yearning, taking the
stalwart frame into what seemed to him like the very guardianship of
God.

"Oh, Harvey," the voice thrilling with the melody of love; "oh, my
brother."

He clung closer to her, without speaking.

"Tell me, Harvey—won’t you tell me?"  He could feel the care-wrung bosom
heaving.

Still no word.

"We’ve never had any secrets, brother—won’t you tell me, Harvey?"

"You know," after a long pause.

Still silence.  Why did she breathe so fast?

"Don’t you know, Jessie?"

Silence long—"Yes, I know," she said, "and I never loved you as I love
you now."

Then the flood-gates were rolled back and the tide burst forth.  Oh, the
luxury of it; the sweetness of it—to feel, nay, to know, that there was
one life that clung to him, trusted him, loved him, through all the
waste and shame!  And the blessed relief it gave; to tell it all,
keeping nothing back, blaming no other—not even Oliver—breathing out the
story of the struggle and the overthrow and the humiliation and the
anguish.  And in that hour Hope, long absent and aloof, came back and
nestled in his heart again. On he went, the story long and intimate and
awful, coming closer and closer by many and circuitous routes to the
very soul of things, hovering about the Name he almost dreaded now to
speak, yet yearned with a great longing to pronounce; his soul was
crying out for all that was behind his mother’s name, the comfort and
sympathy and power which he felt, dimly but unconquerably, could not be
stifled in a distant grave.

"Do you think she knows?" he asked at last, in a tone so low that even
Jessie could scarcely hear.

They could catch the sound of the wind upon the grass as they waited,
both waited.  "Yes," as she trembled closer, "yes, thank God."

He started so suddenly as to frighten her.  The conflict-riven face
peered into hers through the dark.

"What?" he asked sternly.  "What did you say?"

"I think she knows," the calm voice answered. "I’m sure God knows—and it
makes it easier."

He held her out at arm’s length, still staring at her through the gloom.
"What?—I thought sorrows were all past and over—for her," the words
coming as a bitter questioning.

Jessie’s face, serene with such composure as only sorrow gives, was held
close to his own.  "We cannot tell," she whispered low; "that is between
her and God—they both know."

He struggled silently with the deep meaning of her words.

"You see," sweet girlishness in the voice again, "you see, Harvey, they
know what’s farther on—oh, brother, brother dear, it’ll be better yet,"
her voice breaking now with an emotion she could control no longer; "it
won’t always be like this, Harvey—you won’t do it any more, will you,
brother?" sobbing as she buried her face beside his own.  "We’ve had so
much trouble, Harvey—the joy’s only been the moments, and the sorrow’s
been the years—and we got mother safe home," the quivering voice went
on, "and I thought we’d follow on together—and—some day—we’d find our
father.  And you won’t make it all dark again, will you, Harvey?  You’ll
fight—and I’ll fight—we’ll fight it out together, Harvey.  It seems
nothing now, what we had before—I mean, it doesn’t seem a bit hard just
to be poor—if we can only keep each other, Harvey," and the poor
trembling form, so long buffeted by life’s rude billows, clung to the
only shelter left her, her soul outbreathing its passionate appeal.

There was more of silence than of speech while they waited long
together.  He could feel the beating of the brave and trustful heart
beside his own; this seemed to bring him calm and courage.  In a
mysterious way, she seemed to link his wounded life anew to all the
sacred past, all the unstained days, all the conflict for which he had
had strength and to spare, all the holy memories that had drifted so far
from him now, a yawning gulf between.

"Won’t you come home with me, Harvey?" she said at length.

"Why?"

"Well, perhaps it would help us both.  I was going to ask you to come
anyhow—for one thing, I wanted you to help Mr. Borland," she added
quickly, glad of the fitting plea.  "He’s going to run for mayor, you
know—and I thought you’d like to do what you can."

Harvey smiled.  "I guess my own contest will give me enough to do," he
said rather bitterly.  "It was good of you to ask me, Jessie—but I’ll
stay on my own battlefield," his lips tightly shut.

A long silence reigned again.  "Look," he cried suddenly, "it’s getting
light."

Jessie turned and looked.  And the wondrous miracle crept on its mystic
way; healing, refreshing, soothing, rich with heavenly promise and aglow
with heavenly hope, telling its great story and bidding every benighted
heart behold the handiwork of God, the silent metaphor was uttering
forth the lesson of the returning day.  For the new heaven and the new
earth were appearing, fresh with unspotted beauty, recurring witnesses
to the regenerating power of the All-sanguine One.

"It’s getting light," she echoed dreamily.  "Do you remember that line,
Harvey, mother used to love so much?"

"No; what line?"

"It’s a hymn line," she answered softly.  "’The dawn of heaven
breaks’—I’m sure she sees this, too. Look at the clouds yonder, all gold
and purple—it’s going to be a lovely day."

"It’s going to be a new day," he said, gazing long in silence at the
distant fount of light.




                                 *XXIX*

                     _*HOW DAVID SWEPT THE FIELD*_


"Go and wash your hands, Madeline, before you fix your father’s tie.  I
little thought my daughter would ever come to this—filling those
wretched kerosene lamps; it’s bad enough to have to come down to lamps,
without having to fill them," and Mrs. Borland sighed the sigh of the
defrauded and oppressed.

"Don’t worry about me, mother; if you only knew how much better a girl’s
complexion shows with them than with the gas, you wouldn’t abuse them
so.  All right, father, I’ll put the finishing touches on you in a
minute—what did you say was the hour for the meeting?  I wish I could
go—one of the hardest things about being a girl is that you can’t go to
political meetings," and Madeline’s merry face showed how seriously she
regarded the handicap.

"Them lamps is all right, mother—they come of good old stock," and David
regarded a tall, umbrageous one with something very like affection;
"that there one was the last light that shined on my father’s face," he
added reminiscently, "an’ I’m awful glad we kept it.  The meetin’s at
half-past eight, Madeline.  An’ don’t feel bad ’cause you can’t go—us
politicians has our own troubles," he continued with mock gravity; "it
was this kind o’ thing killed Daniel Webster—an’ I’m not feelin’
terrible peart myself.  But I’m goin’ to wear my Sunday choker," he
concluded cheerfully enough, holding his tie out to Madeline, the
dimpled hands now ready for the important duty.

"Tie it carefully, Madeline—if your father’s going to resign, he should
look his best when he’s doing it," and Mrs. Borland surveyed the
operation with a critical eye. "I’ll warrant you Mr. Craig’ll be dressed
like a lord."

"I ain’t goin’ to resign, mother—I’m only goin’ to withdraw," David
corrected gravely.  "There’s all the difference in the world between
resignin’ an’ withdrawin’; any one can resign, but it takes a terrible
smart man to withdraw.  You’ve got to be a politician, like me, afore
you know what a terrible difference there is between words like them;
can’t be too careful, when you’re a politician—for your country’s sake,
you know.  No, mother—no, you don’t—I ain’t goin’ to wear that long
black coat."

"Oh, father," began Madeline.

"But, David," his wife remonstrated, interrupting, "remember you’re
going to make a speech—and when would you wear it, if not to-night?  I’m
sure Mr. Craig’ll have on the best coat he’s got—and that tweed’s
getting so shabby."

"I won’t go back on it when it’s gettin’ old an’ seedy," David retorted
vigorously; "I know what that feels like myself.  It stuck to me when I
seen better days, an’ I’m not goin’ to desert it now—I ain’t that kind
of a man.  An’ if Craig wants to dress up like an undertaker, that’s his
funeral.  Besides, a fellow’s ideas comes easier in an old coat—an
orator’s got to consider all them things, you know.  Confound this
dickie, it won’t stay down—I believe Madeline put ’east in it," as he
smote his swelling bosom, bidding it subside.

"I’m sorry you’re not going to stand, David; I believe you’d be elected
if you’d only run.  I always hoped you’d be the first mayor of
Glenallen—let me just brush that coat before you go," and Mrs. Borland
fell upon it with right good-will.

"Words is funny things," mused David, as he suffered himself to be
turned this way and that for the operation; "’specially with orators an’
politicians. If a fellow stands, that means he’s runnin’—don’t scrape my
neck like that, mother," ducking evasively as he spoke.  "It’s somethin’
like what I heard a fellow say at the Horse Show; he says, ’the judges
look a horse all over—them fellows don’t overlook nothin’,’ says he.
No, I ain’t goin’ to stand, mother; nor I won’t run, neither.  I’ll jest
sit down. You see, a fellow that lives in a cottage this size, there
ain’t nothin’ else for him to do—not unless he’s a fool.  Don’t brush my
hat like that, mother; you’re skinnin’ it—what did it ever do to you?
Well, good-bye, mother; I’m a candidate now—but I’ll only jest be a man
when I get back.  I won’t even be an orator, I reckon.  Good-bye,
Madeline—wrap that there black coat up in them camp-fire balls," he
directed, nodding towards the rejected black.

"I’m going with you as far as the gate, father; you’ve got to have some
kind of a send-off."

"That’s all right, daughter; welcome the comin’, part the speedin’
guest, as the old proverb says."

"Speed the parting guest, you mean, David," Mrs. Borland amended
seriously.

"Same thing, an hour after he’s gone," David responded cheerily; "feed
him’d be better’n either of ’em, to my way o’ thinkin’," as he started
forth on his momentous mission.


Mrs. Borland was not far astray in her prediction. For when at length
the two candidates—and there were but two—ascended the platform in the
crowded hall, David’s rival was resplendent in a new suit of which the
far-descending coat was the most conspicuous feature.  Mr. Craig had
fitting notions as to what became the prospective mayor of a town which
had never enjoyed such an ornament before.

And his speech was almost as elongated as the garment aforesaid, largely
composed of complacent references to the prosperity the town had enjoyed
as the product of his own.  Surreptitious hints to the effect that only
the commercially successful should aspire to municipal honours were not
wanting.  "It’s a poor assurance that a man can manage public affairs,
if he can’t look after his own successfully," he said, as David sat
meekly listening; "and," he went on in a sudden burst of feeling,
hastening to the conclusion of his speech, "I may, I think, fairly claim
to have been a successful man.  And I won’t deny that I’m proud of it.
But, fellow citizens, nothing in all this world could give me so great
pride as to be elected the first chief-magistrate of this growing town.
I’ve known something of life’s honours," he declared grandiloquently,
"and I’ve mingled some with the great ones of the earth; at least,"
hesitating a little, "I did when I was a child.  And just here I’ll tell
you a little incident that I can never refer to without feeling my heart
beat high with pride."  (Mr. Craig had no little fluency as a public
speaker when he discoursed of things concerning himself.)  "As many of
you know, my father was a gentleman of leisure—and he travelled widely.
Well, I can still recall one winter we spent in Spain—I was but a
child—but I can remember being at a great public meeting in Madrid.
Some members of the Royal family were there," he declared, as he paused
to see the effect on the gaping sons of toil, "and I remember, as if it
were but yesterday, how, when the Infanta was going down the aisle and I
was standing gazing up into her face, she laid her hand upon my boyish
head as she passed me.  I’ll not deny, fellow citizens, that that touch
has been sacred to me ever since—but I say to the working-men before me
to-night that I consider it a greater honour to hold the horny hand of
the working-man, the hands that will mark the ballots that shall bring
me the crowning honour of my life," and the candidate gathered up the
folds of his spreading coat as he resumed his seat, smiling benignly
down upon the rather unresponsive crowd.

For many of his auditors were decidedly in the dark as to the source of
this honour that had befallen him in ancient Spain.

"What kind of a animal was that, Tom, that tetched him on the head?" one
bronzed toiler asked of his companion as he still gazed, bewildered
rather, on the reclining Mr. Craig.  "Did he say a elephant—sounded
summat like that anyhow, didn’t it?"

"No, no," the other answered, a little impatiently; "what would
elephants be doin’ at a public meetin’? He said ’twas a infantum—I heard
him myself."

"What’s a infantum?" the first persisted earnestly.

"Oh—well.  Well, it’s a kind of a baby—only it’s feminine," he explained
learnedly.  "An’ I think it’s got somethin’ to do wi’ the cholery—don’t
talk, there’s Mr. Borland gettin’ up.  Hurrah," he shouted, joining in
the general chorus, and glad of this very opportune escape.

David began very haltingly.  Yet he could not but feel the cordiality of
his welcome; and his glance, at first rather furtive and shy, became
more confident as he gradually felt the ground beneath his feet.  "I
ain’t much used to public speakin’," he started hesitatingly; "never
made but one speech like this before.  They were a little obstreperous
when I began, but before I got through you could have—have heard a
crowbar drop," he affirmed, to the delight of his audience.  "I can’t
sling it off like my friend Mr. Craig, here; mebbe it’s because I’ve not
moved in them royal circles," he ventured as soberly as he could.
"Though I think I’ve got him beat when it comes to rubbin’ noses with
the quality. I’ve done a little in that line myself—when I was a little
shaver, too.  None o’ them royal folks ever patted me on the head—but I
threw up all over Abe Lincoln once.  Old Abe used to stop at my father’s
in Peoria when he was ridin’ the circuit," David explained carefully;
"an’ once he picked me up—I was jest a baby—an’ threw me up to the
ceilin’; then I done the same when I came down—too soon after dinner,
you see," he added, his words lost in the mirth that stormed about him.
"But other ways, I ain’t what you’d call a successful man, I reckon," he
went on, the quotation obvious.  "I’ve always been kind o’ scared, ever
since I was a young fellow, for fear I’d be too successful—that is, the
way some folks reckon success.  I knew a terrible successful man in
Illinois one time—he was that successful that he got richer than any
other man in the county.  An’ he got so fond o’ bein’ successful that he
nearly gave up eatin’—jest to be more successful. He got that fond of it
that by and by he wouldn’t even spend the money for gettin’ his hair
cut; he used to soak his head, in the winter, an’ then stand outside
till it froze stiff—then he’d break it off.  He was a terrible
successful man, to his way o’ thinkin’," David went on gravely, the
crowd rocking to and fro in a spasm of delight.  "So I think, my
friends, I’d better jest own up I’ve been a failure.  An’ I thank you,
more’n I can say, for wantin’ me to be your first mayor—but I’m goin’ to
sit back quiet an’ give some better man the job.  For one thing, I’m
gettin’ to be an old man—an’ that’s a disease that don’t heal much.
Besides, I’ll have enough to do to make a livin’.  I won’t deny I used
to wake up nights an’ think it’d be fine to be the first boss o’ the
whole town; but I reckon it ain’t comin’ my way—it ain’t intended to be
wove into my web, by the looks o’ things.  But I thank you for—for your
love," David blurted out, vainly searching for a better word.  "An’ what
kind o’ gives me a lump in my throat, is the way I see how the men that
used to work for me is the loyalest to me now.  That’s terrible rich
pay—an’ I can stand here to-night an’ say, afore God an’ man, that I’ve
tried to be more a friend than a boss.  Your joys has been my joys, an’
your sorrows has been my sorrows," his voice quivering a little as he
spoke the gracious words; "an’ I ain’t disgraced—if I did get beat in
business.  This here’s far sweeter to me now than if it’d come my way
when I was livin’ in the big house, wadin’ round knee-deep in clover.
It’s when a fellow’s down he loves to find out how many true friends
he’s got; any old torn umbrella’s just as good as a five dollar one—till
the rain’s peltin’ down on him—an’ then he knows the difference.  So I
can’t do nothin’ but thank you all, an’ tell you how glad you’ve made
me.  I’ll be all right," he concluded with heroic bearing, "I’ll get my
bite an’ my sup, an’ I’ll go down to my rest in peace; an’ I’m
richer—far richer than I ever thought. It’s friends that make a fellow
rich; an’ I intend keepin’ them as long as I live—an’ after, too," he
concluded, turning from his chair to add the words, electrical in their
effect.

Then came a scene, such a scene as gladdens the heart of but one man in
a generation.  All sorts and conditions of men joined in the storm of
protest, refusing to permit David to withdraw his name.  Many, mostly
toil-stained working-men, struggled for the floor.  Testimonies came
thick and fast, volunteered with glowing ardour.

"He never used to pass my little girl on the street without givin’ her a
nickel or a dime—most always a dime," a burly blacksmith roared, his
voice as powerful as his muscle.

"Mr. Borland kept me on when times was hard," an old man proclaimed in a
squeaky voice; "he kept me mowin’ the grass four times a week, when
everythin’ was burnt up wi’ the drooth."

"He sent my little boy to the Children’s Hospital in the city," another
informed the thrilling multitude; "an’ now he can run like a deer—it was
hip-disease."

"He sat up two nights hand-runnin’ with Jake Foley when he had ammonia
in both lungs," imparted one of the lustiest of David’s former workmen,
"an’ the next day they found ten dollars in a sugar jug; an’ when they
axed him if he done it he said they wanted to insult him—said it was the
same as axin’ a man if he’d been tastin’.  But we ain’t all fools,"
concluded the witness, his indignant eulogy cheered to the echo.

After a valiant struggle the chairman secured order, Mr. Craig looking
on with the expression that children wear when they see their tiny craft
being borne out to sea.  The noble electors demanded a vote; which, duly
taken, voiced the overwhelming desire that David should be their man.
Whereupon Mr. Craig, not slow to remark the signs of the times,
possessed himself of a very imposing hat and made as if to leave the
platform, the crowd suddenly subsiding as it became evident he had a
word to say before retiring.

"I’m done with municipal life from this time on," he declared hotly, as
quiet was restored.  "I’m not going to enter the lists with a man that
has proved—that hasn’t proved—with David Borland," he concluded,
floundering.  "If the town can do without me, I guess I can do without
the town."

"You’d better go and travel abroad in them foreign parts, an’ mebbe——" a
voice from the audience began to advise.

"That’s mean," David cried above the returning din; "that’s mean—sit
down, Mr. Craig," turning with a grace even those who knew him best
would hardly have thought he could command.

"I withdraw," Mr. Craig shouted hotly.

"But don’t go yet," David pleaded in the most unconventional voice.  "I
don’t like to see a man withdrawin’ that way."  Somewhat mollified, Mr.
Craig resumed his seat.

Loud demands for a speech finally brought David to his feet again.
"Well, friends," he began, "I’m all used up.  I never expected nothin’
like this—an’ I don’t hardly know what to say.  But I can’t—I jest can’t
refuse now," he said, his words lost in a mighty cheer.  "I didn’t know
you all felt that way—so much.  An’ I believe I’m gladder for—for two
people that ain’t here to-night," he said in a low, earnest voice, "than
for any other reason in the world.  An’ I’ll—I’ll take it—if Mr. Craig
here’ll help me," suddenly turning towards his rival of a moment before.
"He knows lots more about them things than me," moving over to where he
sat, "an’ if he’ll promise to help, we’ll—we’ll run the show together."

There being now no other candidate, the returning-officer declared Mr.
Borland the first mayor; and the vanquished, yielding to the great soul
that challenged him, took the other’s hand in his.




                                 *XXX*

                     _*A JOURNALIST’S INJUNCTIONS*_


"I don’t believe we’ll ever find him, Harvey. We have so little clue—and
almost all we can do is wait."  Jessie sighed; her life had had so much
of waiting.

"That’s the hard part of it," her brother answered, "but what else can
we do; it does seem hard to think one’s own father is living somewhere,
and yet we may live and die without ever seeing him.  I’ve tried all the
poor little ways I can—but they’re so ineffectual.  Yet I don’t think
there’s ever a day my mind doesn’t go out to him.  Mother said,
though—she said he’d come back some day."

"What did she mean?" Jessie asked eagerly.

"I don’t know," said Harvey.  "That is, I don’t know just what was in
her mind.  And she told me about his—his weakness," the brother’s face
flushing with the words.  "And if I ever succeed enough—if I ever get
rich enough, I mean—I’ll begin a search everywhere for him; she said no
father ever loved his children more," and Harvey’s eyes were very
wistful as they looked into his sister’s.

Jessie was silent a while.  "You’re—you’re going to succeed, aren’t you,
brother?" she said, timidly. "If father ever does come back—he’ll—he’ll
find we’ve—conquered, won’t he, Harvey?"

Harvey’s answer was very slow in coming.  Finally he reached out and
took his sister’s hand; the words rang hopefully.

"I feel somehow, I don’t know why, Jessie, but I feel somehow as if I
were just at the turning of the tide.  Nobody’ll ever know what a
fearful fight it’s been—but I don’t think I’ll have to struggle like
this much longer.  It’s like fighting in the waves for your life—but I
think it’s nearly over.  I don’t want you to go home again for a little,
Jessie."

"What do you mean, Harvey?  Do you mean anything particular’s going to
happen?"

He hesitated.  "I don’t know—but I think so. I’ve always had a feeling
to-morrow’d be a better day than yesterday.  I’ve always felt as if
something lay beyond; and when I reached it—and passed it, everything
would be different then."

There are few who know it—but the uncertainty of life is life’s greatest
stimulus.  That is, the sense of further possibilities, unexpected
happenings, developments not to be foreseen.  This is true of the poor,
the enslaved, the broken-hearted; it is no less true of the caressed of
fortune and the favourites of fate. The veil that hides to-morrow’s face
is life’s chiefesf source of zest, not excepting love itself.  Men’s
hearts would break if they could descry the plain beyond and search its
level surface to the end; wherefore the All-wise has broken the long way
to fragments, every turn in the road, the long, winding road, a
well-spring of hope and expectation.  The most dejected heart, proclaim
its hopelessness as it may, still cherishes a secret confidence that
things cannot always thus remain; downcast and tear-bedimmed, those eyes
are still turned towards the morrow, or the morning, or the
spring-time—for by such different symbols God would teach us how ill He
brooks monotony.

Especially is this true of one who struggles with his sin.  Beaten again
and again, vows turned to shame and resolutions to reproach, conscience
and will trodden under foot of appetite, the wearied warrior still
trusts that to-morrow will turn the battle from the gate.  Something
will turn up; if he could but get a fresh start, or if he could escape
from boon companions, or if he were once braced up a bit, or if this did
not worry and that beset—all these varied tones does Hope’s indomitable
voice assume.  Sad and pitiful enough, we say; and we smile at what we
call the weakness of poor humanity—but it all bears witness to that
hopeful anguish which is bred of manifold temptations; it is the earnest
expectation of the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of
God.


"Not enough snap about any of this stuff, I tell you, Simmons."  The
time was an hour and a half after Harvey had bidden Jessie, again Miss
Farringall’s willing guest, good-bye, and gone forth to his work until
the midnight.  The words were those of Mr. Timothy Crothers, city editor
and director in chief of the _Morning Argus_.  Mr. Crothers had taken
off his collar an hour before, which was silently accepted by the staff
as a storm-signal of the most accurate kind.  Cold let it be without or
hot, Mr. Crothers’ sanctum soon became a torrid region when once he had
removed his neck apparel—and Harvey looked up with more of expectation
than surprise, having already witnessed the divestiture.

"It makes a man hot under the collar," Mr. Crothers pursued wrathily,
giving a phantom jerk in the neighbourhood of his neck, "to have stuff
like this brought in to him; it’s as dry as Presbyterian preaching."

"Isn’t it true, Mr. Crothers?" Harvey asked, calmly opening his knife
and applying it to an exhausted pencil.  "That’s the first quality for
news, isn’t it?"

"First qualities be hanged," quoth Mr. Crothers contemptuously.  "And it
isn’t news at all—it’s chloroform.  Nothing’s news that doesn’t make
people sit up; you’ll never make a newspaper man till you learn how to
spice things up—lots of pepper, red pepper at that.  A paper that can’t
make ’em sneeze will never earn its salt."

"Are you referring to the report I wrote of the game with the Scotch
bowlers, Mr. Crothers?" Harvey enquired, nodding towards a confused
cluster of well-scrawled pages on the table.

"Yes, mostly that; you don’t make the thing bite. It’s nearly all about
how they played—and we don’t get twenty bowlers here from Scotland every
year."

"About how they played!" echoed Harvey. "What else is there?"

"Everything else.  Nobody cares a fig about how they played.  Serve up
something about the Johnnies themselves—something real interesting.
That’s the whole thing.  Now, for instance, look at some of this other
stuff," and Mr. Crothers took a chair close to Harvey, settling down to
business; "here you have an item about a law being enforced by the
Government, to provide that all dangerous lunatics must be confined in
asylums.  Don’t you see what’s the proper thing to say about that?"

"No," said Harvey.  "It strikes me that’s an occasion for saying mighty
little."

"Nothing of the sort.  It’s a bully fine chance to say that this means
the organ across the way will lose its editor.  Everybody’ll enjoy that,
don’t you see?"

"The editor won’t," said Harvey.

"Of course, he won’t—that’s just the point.  And here’s another
case—about the Hon. Mr. Worthing being struck by a street car.  I notice
you have him sitting up already.  That won’t do; a paper that cures them
as quick as that won’t be able to pay its office-boy soon.  Of course,
it’s true enough, I dare say—he’s probably playing billiards in his
home, with a trained nurse answering the front door; like enough, he’s
sitting up all night going over his accident policies.  But we’ve got to
have him bandaged to the teeth—the public loves lots of arnica and
sticking plaster—and he’s struggling for consciousness—and he’s got to
be crying out every now and then as if he were being ground to powder;
and his wife’s going into swoons and coming out of them like a train
running tunnels in the Rockies.  Besides, we’ve got to lambaste the
Company; the street-car line is our municipal
assassin—Moloch—Juggernaut—all that sort of thing.  But both those words
should be in—and you can’t use words like that if their victim’s going
to be down street to-morrow."

"You should have a staff of novelists," suggested Harvey.

"And here—here’s a capital illustration of what I mean," Mr. Crothers
hurried on, ignoring the innuendo. "I see Rev. Dr. Blakeley comes out
with the announcement that there’s no such place as hell—do you know
what I’d say there, Simmons?"

"You’d say you had no objections, I should think," Harvey’s face
lighting with unfamiliar merriment.

"I wouldn’t—the public doesn’t care a tinker’s malediction whether I
object or not.  There’s a great chance there for a civic stroke—I’d say
this information throws us back on Blankville," and Mr. Crothers named
with much contempt a rival city fifty miles away.  "It’s little gems
like that, that make a paper readable.  I see a fellow in that same city
was arrested for kissing girls on the street; then he was examined and
found insane.  Well, the thing to say there, is, that any one who had
ever seen their girls would have known the man was crazy.  News is like
food, Simmons—everything depends on how it’s prepared; nobody likes it
raw."

"But what about that game with the Scotchmen?" Harvey ventured, inwardly
rather chagrined with the verdict on his handiwork.

"Well, you’ve got it chuck full of points about the game—and that’s no
good.  It’s got to be interesting. You’ve got to give it a human touch.
There’s one of the Scotch bowlers, for instance, old Sanderson from
Edinburgh—they say he’s worth eleven millions.  Well, I’m told there’s
an old fellow that sweeps out a little struggling church on Cedar
Street—he’s its caretaker—and I’m told he used to go to school with
Sanderson.  Now, it’s the simplest thing in the world to have that old
geezer come around to the green with his feather duster in his hand—and
Sanderson stares at him a minute; then he recognizes him all of a
sudden, and the old dodgers fall to and hug each other like two old
maids.  And have them both weep—especially Sanderson, because he’s rich.
And some of those other millionaires should go off to the edge of the
lawn and blow their nose—you understand—the human touch, as I said.
Make Sanderson go home with the old geezer for supper; might just as
well—it wouldn’t hurt him."

"Sanderson wouldn’t relish the caretaker’s bill of fare, I’m afraid,"
Harvey said significantly.

"I guess you’re right.  And that brings me back to the thing I intended
particularly to speak about. Those Scotchmen were properly beaten, as
your score-card shows.  But you don’t give the real reason—and it’s the
kind of a reason everybody likes to hear about.  For all you say, any
one would think it was a mere matter of skill.  Now, of course, we all
know the reason—it’s the moist time they were having that licked them.
Most of them were full.  Of course, it wouldn’t do to put it that
way—nobody’d enjoy that.  But it’s a capital chance for some delicate
word-painting—keep it kind of veiled.  Say something like this: ’our
genial visitors drank deep of the spirit that was much in evidence
throughout the game.’  Or, better still: ’our genial visitors became
more and more animated by their national spirit as the game wore on—some
of them seemed quite full of it.’  Or something like this: ’in liquid
prowess our British cousins far outran us—if, indeed, that be the proper
verb, since many of our friends were in various degrees of horizontality
before the game was finished.’  You see, a description like that appeals
to the imagination—it’s subtle—keeps readers guessing. Or this would be
a fine way of putting it: ’it was evident yesterday that the little
finger plays an important part in the ancient game of bowling on the
green’—something like that.  What I’m getting at, Simmons, is
this—there’s a great chance there for something humorous, and a
journalist ought to make the most of it.  What makes you look so glum,
Simmons?—I don’t believe you’ve got much sense of humour yourself."

Harvey made no response.  But his face was resting on his hand, and
there must have been something in the plaintive eyes that engaged the
attention of Mr. Crothers.  He could hardly fail to see that all of a
sudden Harvey had become deaf to his tuition; and, more remarkable, the
care-worn face seemed but to grow graver as his monitor pursued his
praise of mirth.

"You’re looking rather blue, Simmons," he added after a keen scrutiny,
Harvey still remaining silent; "but that needn’t prevent you writing
lots of funny things.  Some of the funniest things ever written, or
spoken, have been done by people with broken hearts inside of them.
Take an actor for instance—doubling up his audience, and his own little
girl dying at home—most likely asking why father doesn’t come, too;
queer tangled world this, my boy, and nobody feels its pulse better than
us fellows. Anything the matter, Simmons?" he suddenly enquired, for
Harvey’s lips were pale; and the chief could see a quiver, as of pain,
overrun his face.

Harvey’s voice had a wealth of passion in it. "You’ll have to get some
other fellow to see the humorous side of—of—of that thing," he said.

"What do you mean?  What thing?" asked the dumfoundered Crothers.

"That drink business—God! it’s no comedy," and Crothers started as he
saw the perspiration breaking out on Harvey’s brow, his face a
battlefield, his hands clenched as if he saw an enemy.

Crothers indulged in a low whistle, his eyes never moving from Harvey’s
face.  For the veteran journalist was no child.  He knew the marks of
strife when he saw them; experience partly, and sympathy still more, had
fitted him to tell the difference between a man sporting in the surf and
a man fighting for his life against the undertow.  And one keen look
into the depths of Harvey’s outpouring eyes told him he was in the
presence of a tragedy.  He rose and put his hand on Harvey’s shoulder;
familiar with tender ways it was not—but it was a human hand, and a
human heart had laid it there.

"Simmons," he said, and the usually gruff voice had a gentle note;
"Simmons, I know what you mean.  May as well tell you straight, I’ve
heard a little—and I’ve seen a little, too.  And I should have known
better than talk like that to you.  And we all believe you’ll win out
yet, old chap.  Now I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do.  You
ought to go away somewhere for a little trip—there’s nothing helps a man
in a fight of this kind like having his attention taken up with
something else.  I’ll keep your place open for you here—and if you could
get a couple of congenial fellows to go off with you for a little
holiday you’d be like a new man when you came back.  Strictly
water-waggon fellows, of course," he added with a smile.  "I know it’s a
hard fight, my boy—but buckle right down to it.  And you go right home
now—you’re played clean out, I can see that—and take a good sleep till
noon.  Then you skip out just as soon as you can arrange it and have a
ripping good holiday; that’ll set you up better than anything else.
Good-night now—or good-morning, rather, I guess.  And remember this
above all things, Simmons—keep your mind diverted, always be sure and
keep your mind diverted," with which advice Mr. Crothers rose to
accompany Harvey to the door.




                                 *XXXI*

                       _*THE TROUGH OF THE WAVE*_


He was glad to be alone.  Lesser conflicts crave the help and
inspiration of human company; but there comes a time when a man knows
the battle must be fought out alone against the principalities and
powers that no heart, however strong or loving, can help him to
withstand.  For no other can discern his enemy but himself.

Harvey turned with swift steps towards home.  He thought of his waiting
room, with everything that could contribute to self-respect and comfort;
and of Miss Farringall, whose increasing devotion seldom failed to find
a voice, no matter how late the hour of his return.  But as he hurried
along he marvelled at the strange craving that gnawed persistently
within. The action of his heart seemed weak; his lips were parched; his
hands were shaky, his nerves a-tingle, while a nameless terror, as if of
impending ill, cast its shadow over him.  And through it all burned the
dreadful thirst, tyrannical, insistent, tormenting.

Resolved to resist to the last, he was still pressing steadily on.
Suddenly he stopped almost still, his eyes fixed upon a light in an
upper window.  His heart leaped as he saw a tall form pass between him
and the lamp.  For he recognized it, or thought he did.  The room was
Oliver’s—that same Oliver as had goaded him to that fatal toast—and it
was quite a common experience for that worthy to be playing host through
the small hours of the morning.  A sense of peril smote Harvey as he
looked; yet, reflecting a moment, he assured himself that he would find
around that brilliant light two or three whose blithe companionship
would help to beat back the evil spirit that assailed him.  A chat on
matters journalistic, a good laugh, an hour or two of human fellowship
would give him relief from this infernal craving. Besides, what hope for
him if he could not resist a little temptation, should such present
itself?

So his resolve was quickly formed; putting his fingers to his mouth, a
shrill whistle brought a familiar face to the window.

"Jumping Jehoshaphat! is that you, Simmons?" was the exclamation that
greeted Harvey as soon as he was recognized.  "Come on up—we were just
speaking of you.  I’ll be down to the door in less than half a minute."

The allotted time had scarce elapsed when Palmer, for such was the name
of the cordial blade—clerk in a mercantile house and friend to
Oliver—was at the door.  Taking Harvey’s arm he guided him cheerfully
through the somewhat dingy hall, ushering him into a rather dishevelled
room, in separate corners of which sat the hospitable Oliver and another
boon companion, Scottie Forrester by name.  Like Oliver, Scottie was in
newspaper life; his apprenticeship had been served in Glasgow.

"Brethren," Palmer said solemnly as they entered, "I know you’re always
glad when we can bring in any poor wanderer from the highways or byways.
I want you to be kind to the stranger for my sake—he hasn’t had anything
to eat since his last meal."

"Sit down, Simmons," directed Oliver.  "Don’t mind Palmer—he’s
farm-bred, you know, and he thinks it’s a deuce of an achievement to sit
up at night.  He used to have to go to bed with the calves."

"Now I sit up with the goats," rejoined the once rustic Palmer,
producing a pipe and calmly proceeding to equip it.  "But I ought to be
in bed.  I’m played out.  I was so tired at dinner to-night I went to
sleep over the salad course."

"Oh, Lord," broke in Forrester; "hear him prattling about night
dinners—and he never had anything but bread and molasses for supper on
the farm.  And hear him giving us that guff about the salad course, as
if he was the son of a duke.  If you’d lived in Glasgow, my boy, they’d
have brought you to time pretty quick.  A man’s got to be a gentleman
over there, I tell you, before he has evening dinners and all that sort
of thing—did you drink out of the finger-bowls, Palmer?"

"You needn’t talk, Scottie," growled Oliver.  "You write your letters at
the Arlington—and you get your dinner for fifteen cents at Webb’s, at
the counter, with your hat on."

"You’re a liar," retorted Scottie, meaning no offense whatever.  "I’ve
got as good blood inside of me as any man in this city; my mother was
born in Auchterarder Castle and——"

"I wouldn’t be found dead in a root-house with a name like that,"
interrupted the agricultural Palmer. "Anyhow, I guess she was the
cook—and what’s more, nobody here cares what you’ve got inside of you.
But there’s poor Simmons—he’s our guest—and he looks as if he hadn’t put
anything inside of him for a dog’s age.  Where’s the restorative,
Scottie?  It’s always you that had it last."

Scottie arose and walked solemnly to a little cupboard in the wall.
"I’ll inform you, Mr. Simmons," he began gravely, his back still turned
to the company, "that we’re here for a double purpose.  First, we were
having a little intellectual conference on—on the rise and fall of the
Russian empire, as a great authority put it.  You see, we’re a kind of a
Samuel Johnson coterie—and this is a kind of a Cheshire Cheese.  I was
there once when I was in London."

"He went to London with cattle," informed Oliver, striking a match—"he
was a swine herd in Scotland."

"And I’m Samuel Johnson," pursued Forrester, unruffled; "and Palmer,
he’s Boswell.  And we have a great time discussing things."

"Who’s Oliver?" Harvey enquired with faint interest.

"Oh, yes, I forgot him; Oliver’s the cuspidor—you ought to be right in
the middle of the room, Oliver," he continued amiably, turning round
with a large black bottle in his hand.  "And the other purpose we’re
here for, Mr. Simmons, is to celebrate Palmer’s birthday.  We don’t know
exactly how old he is—he’s lied about his age so long that he’s not sure
himself.  But this is his birthday, anyhow; and they sent him up a
little present from the farm.  It’s a superior brand of raspberry
vinegar, made by an aged aunt that’s worth twenty thousand and won’t
die."

"Stop your jack-assery, Forrester," broke in Palmer; "you can’t fool
Simmons—he’s got his eye on the label."

Which was true enough.  Harvey’s eye was gleaming, staring, like some
pallid woodsman’s when it catches the glare of an Indian’s fire.

"That’s all right, Simmons," explained Forrester calmly; "the bottle
happens to bear an honoured Glasgow name—and the liquid is worthy of it.
There isn’t a headache in a hogshead—try it and see."

Harvey’s lips were white and dry.  "No, thank you, Forrester," he said
in a harsh voice that sounded far away.  "I won’t take any."

"Take a little for Palmer’s stomach’s sake—he’s had enough."

Harvey refused again.  Destitute was his answer of all merriment or
banter.  He stood bolt upright, fixed as a statue, his eyes still on the
big black thing Forrester was holding out in front of him.  "Not any,
Forrester," he said; "I don’t want any, I tell you."

"Let him alone, Scottie," interrupted Palmer. "Simmons is on the
water-waggon, to-night anyhow—and besides, that stuff’s a dollar and a
half a quart."

Forrester was about to comply when Oliver suddenly arose from his
lounging position and shuffled out to where the two were standing.  He
had already familiarized himself with the bottle sufficiently to be in a
rather hectoring mood.

"Go and sit down, Forrester," he growled out; "I guess I’m the host
here.  And I don’t blame Simmons for turning up his nose," he went on as
he turned and opened a little cabinet—"poking a black bottle in front of
a man as if he were a coal-heaver; we’re not on the Glasgow cattle
market," he added contemptuously, producing a couple of glasses and
handing one to Harvey.  "Here, Simmons, drink like a gentleman—and I’ll
drink with you."  And the sweat came out on Harvey’s forehead as the
stuff poured out, gurgling enticingly as it broke from the bottle’s
mouth.  "Here, this is yours; and we’ll drink to the _Morning
Argus_—it’ll belong to you some day. I heard to-day it’s going to change
hands soon anyhow."

The mention of the name lent a wealth of resolution to Harvey’s wavering
will.  He recalled, his heart maddening at the memory, how Oliver had
pressed this self-same toast before.

"I won’t, Oliver," he said, controlling himself. "I don’t want any."

"Come now, Simmons, don’t be foolish; you’ve had a hard night’s work,
and you look all in—just a night cap to help you sleep."

"Look here, Oliver," Harvey’s voice rising a little, "I guess I know my
own mind.  I tell you I won’t drink.  I’m under promise.  I’m bound over
not to take anything; and I’ve got more at stake on it than I can afford
to lose—so you may as well shut up."

Oliver came a step nearer.  "You can’t bluff me, old man," he said
through his teeth, his heavy eyes snapping.  "And anyhow, I’ll pay it,"
he blustered, holding out the fuming glass, a leer of dogged cunning on
his face.  "I’ll pay your stake, Simmons."

"You go to hell," hissed Harvey, striking out wildly, one hand smashing
the bottle in fragments to the floor, the other clutching Oliver by the
throat; "you infernal blood-sucker," as he pressed him backward to the
wall.

Palmer and Forrester sprang towards the men; but before they were able
to interfere, Harvey had hurled Oliver against the table, which crashed
to the floor in a heap, Oliver mingling with the wreckage. While his
guests were helping him to his feet, Harvey strode towards the door; the
accursed fumes rose about him like evil spirits, importunate and deadly,
clutching at the very heart-strings of his will.

Pale and trembling, he turned when he reached the door.  "Anything more
to pay?" he muttered, nodding towards Oliver; "does he want to continue
the argument?"

Oliver made a stifled protest, but his friends united to declare that
the debate was at an end. "Come back, Simmons," appealed Palmer; "don’t
let our little evening break up like this—Oliver’s got no kick coming.
Sit down."

But Harvey uttered an inaudible malediction and slammed the door behind
him.  They could hear him finding his way along the unlighted hall.

"You got what was coming to you, old chap," Palmer informed his host;
"nobody’s got any right to badger a fellow the way you did Simmons.
It’s worse than setting fire to a barn—you’re a damned incendiary," he
concluded, resuming the smoke that had been so effectually interrupted.

While the debate, thus happily begun, went on its vigorous way, Harvey
was walking aimlessly about the street, caring little whither his steps
might lead him.  After the first gust of excitement had subsided a new
and delicious sense of victory possessed him.  Not from having worsted
Oliver—that was quite forgotten—but from having met and conquered his
temptation.  His breath came fast as he recalled, how stern and sore had
the conflict been; but a kind of elation he had never known before
mingled with the memory of it all.  For he had won—and under the most
trying circumstances—and he smiled to himself as he thought how he had
passed through the ordeal.  Its most hopeful feature was for the future;
it was a pledge of how he might hope to prevail if the fight should ever
be renewed.  Reassured, he even fell to thinking of other things; of his
promise to his mother—had she seen his struggle and gloried in his
victory, he wondered; and of Jessie, faithful ally; and of his
profession and his progress in it.  He recalled, as though it had
occurred long ago, Oliver’s prediction that he would some day own the
_Argus_—and his fierce anger towards Oliver abated a little.  Yet all
this was insignificant, he reflected, compared to the progress he was
making along higher lines.

But the elation did not last.  Fatigue crept upon him.  And he was
chilled; he was hungry, too. Besides, the nervous strain had been a
severe one, and the reaction was correspondingly acute.  Gradually the
tide ceased to flow, then stood stationary a moment—then began ebbing
fast.  And the sense of victory paled and died; the thrill of exultation
passed away; the ardour of battle and of conquest chilled within him.
And again his lips became parched, his hand again unsteady, his nerves
again unstrung. And the dreadful thirst returned.  To the swept and
garnished house the evil spirit crept back with muffled tread, hopeful
of a better tenure.

The stoutest castle is easily taken if its lord has ceased to watch.  Or
if he be absent, the capture is easier still—especially if he be gone to
feast on former battle fields where his right arm brought him victory.

Wherefore Harvey’s second struggle was brief and pitiful; the enemy had
caught him unawares.  And more shrill and impatient than before was the
whistle that sounded soon again beneath Oliver’s still lighted window.
And his welcome was not less cordial, Oliver himself taking the leading
part.

"What in thunder’s the matter, Simmons?" enquired Palmer; "you look as
if you’d been through a threshing machine."

Harvey paid no attention.  His blood-shot eyes looked about the room,
searching for something. His hand was shaking, and every now and then he
ran his tongue over the withered lips; the blood seemed to have left his
cheek.

"I’ve changed my mind," he began huskily; "I’m not well—and I’ll take
some of that, if you don’t mind.  Just a little—but I’ve got to get
braced up or I’ll collapse."

Forrester whistled.  "The spring’s gone dry, old man," he said.  "I’m
cruel sorry—but it was that little gesture of yours that did it."

Harvey’s eyes looked around imploringly.  The pungent fumes were still
rising from the floor, goading his appetite to madness.

"I’m afraid that’s right, Simmons," added Oliver; "there’s a teaspoonful
there in the heel of the bottle—but it’s not enough to make a swallow."

"Where is it?" muttered Harvey, starting to where the broken fragments
lay.

He found it; and even those who had tried so hard to overbear him a
little while before cast pitying glances as he stooped down, trembling,
lifting the bottom of the bottle in both his shaky hands, lifting it
carefully and holding it to his lips till the last drop was drained.

It was but a few minutes till he resumed the quest. "Must be some more
lying round somewhere," he said, with a smile that was pitiful to see.

"Afraid not," said Oliver; "that was the last."

"What’s in that cabinet?" Harvey urged, rising to his feet.

"No go, Simmons, I’m afraid," muttered Forrester; "if there was any
round, Oliver’d know it—when he gives up, there ain’t any."

Harvey got up and went over to Palmer, throwing his arm about his
shoulder.  "I say, old man," he began, controlling his voice as best he
could, "you don’t know how bad I’m feeling.  And you’ve got a flask with
you, haven’t you, Palmer?—I wouldn’t ask you, only I’m feeling so tough.
Had a hard time of it in the office to-night."

Palmer looked hard at him.  "If I had a tankful I wouldn’t give you a
drop, Simmons," he said.

Harvey winced.  And he stood looking into Palmer’s face like a guilty
man, his eyes gradually turning away in confusion before the other’s
searching gaze.  A hot flush of shame, not yet unfamiliar flowed over
cheek and brow.  But it was only for a moment—these better symptoms
retreated before the flame that consumed him.  "I’m going out," he said
presently, his eyes turning heavily from one face to the other, his
parched lips trembling.

"If you’ve got to have it, I think I know a place we can get in—I’m sure
I do," drawled Oliver, yawning.  "But bed’s the place for all of us."

Harvey was all alive.  "Come on, old chap," he exclaimed eagerly;
"that’s a good fellow—here’s your hat.  It won’t take long," he added
assuringly, moving towards the door.

There was little reluctance on Oliver’s part.  And a few minutes later
the two went out together arm in arm, the victor and the vanquished—but
vanquished both.  It was Harvey who clung close, almost fondly, to the
other; no memory of Oliver’s share in his undoing, no hatred of the
assassin-hand tempered the flow of fellowship between them now.


The morning had not yet come.  But passion’s gust was over and sated
appetite refused.

"I’m going home," said Harvey, his voice unnatural, his feet unsteady.

"Not yet," said Oliver—"let’s make a night of it."

"A night of it!" exclaimed the other bitterly. "Good God, Oliver!"

"Come on," said his companion doggedly.  "Come with me—we’ll both see
the thing through."

"Come where?" said Harvey.

"You’ll see.  Come down this alley here—wait a minute."

Three or four minutes had elapsed; they were still walking.

"There," said Oliver, standing still; "can you see that light?—there, in
that upper window."

He saw it.  It gleamed sinister, significant, through the mirk; blacker
than the deepest darkness was its baneful light.

"What about it?" said Harvey.

Oliver said something in a low voice; then he laughed.

Simmons turned full on his companion.  The moon was setting, but its
latest beams still shed a fitful light.  And they showed Harvey’s face
flushed and worn, the eyes unnatural in their heaviness and gloom.  But
there was a strange redeeming light in them as they fixed themselves on
Oliver, the light of indignant scorn; any who had known his mother would
have recognized something of the old-time light that had glowed from her
face before the darkness veiled it.

Harvey’s heavy eyes flashed as he spoke.  "Oliver," he said, and the
tone was haughty, old-time pride struggling against fearful odds as the
sun writhes its way through the mist; "Oliver, if you’re going to the
devil, you can go alone.  I’m not quite gone yet, thank God.  I’m a good
many kinds of a fool, I know—but I’m not that kind—I’m not a sot.  And
Oliver," coming closer up to him, "I’ll admit I’m as much to blame for
to-night as you are—but we’re done, Oliver, now.  We’re done with each
other—forever.  D’ye hear, Oliver?" as he turned and started back up the
shadowy lane.

Oliver blinked after him a moment; then he went on towards the light,
into the darkness.




                                *XXXII*

                     _*HARVEY’S UNSEEN DELIVERER*_


The succeeding day was melting softly into dusk.

While it may be true that none can utterly affirm, it is equally true
that none can finally deny, the ministry of the dead.  Probably none
altogether rejects the thought except those who disbelieve in the
immortality of the soul.  For if death be but the disenthrallment of the
spirit, and its engraftment on the infinite, how thus should its noblest
passion cease or its holiest industry suffer interruption?  We may not
know; though mayhap we may still receive.  If beneficiaries we are of
the unforgetting dead, we are unconscious of it—and this too shall swell
the sum of that great surprise that awaits us in eternity.

Some unconscious influence had brooded about Harvey through the day.
Except for a few brief minutes with Miss Farringall and Jessie, during
which neither had spoken much, the long hours had been spent alone.  And
the solitude had seemed to teem at times; with what, he scarcely knew.
Shame and discomfiture and fear had thronged his heart, and the day was
one of such humiliation as cloistered monk might rejoice to know.  Not
that he was conscious of the process, nor did he even inwardly call it
by any such name as that.  But he knew that he had been beaten—beaten,
too, in the very hour that had thrilled with the confidence of victory.
More than once, recounting his defects one by one, and recalling his
frequent vows, was he on the verge of self-contempt; against this he
fought as if for life.

As the day wore slowly by, the struggle deepened. A strange
heart-chilling fear of the night began to possess him.  Looking from the
window of his room, he could see the westering sun and the lengthening
shadows; both seemed to point the hour of returning conflict.

He tried in vain to dismiss this strange misgiving. The sun crept slowly
closer to the glowing west, and its silent course seemed to have
something ominous about it, solemnly departing as if it knew the peril
of the crafty dark.  He tried to read, but his eyes slipped on the
words.  Turning to one of his dead mother’s letters, he sought the
comfort of the loving words; but he found no shelter there, and the
relentless thirst kept deepening in his heart.  Then he tried to recall
some of the gayer scenes of departed college days; their mirth was
turned to ashes now.

Finally, and with a bounding heart, like a fugitive whose eyes descry
some long-sought place of refuge, he bethought himself of the Bible his
mother had hidden in his trunk when first he had left her care.
Reverently, passionately, hopefully he made his way to many a tree of
life within it—but its shade seemed riven above him and the fierce heat
still searched his soul.

With a stifled cry he sprang from the bed, despairing of reinforcement
elsewhere than in his own beleaguered heart.  He would fight it out,
though the fight should kill him.  The strange sinking fell again upon
his spirit and the unearthly fires burned anew within him.  His lips
again were parched and his shaking hand all but refused to do the
bidding of his will. He had not tasted food throughout the day; yet the
thought of food was intolerable.  What tormented him most was the
thought, presenting itself again and again, that if he had but the
smallest allowance of stimulant the pain would be at an end and the
threatened collapse averted.  But he knew how false and seductive was
the plea, and resisted.  Yet what could he do?—this unequal conflict
could not endure. The perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, though
he was shaken with chills as by an ague. Defiant, his resolution rallied
as he noted the symptoms of his weakness.  A kind of grim anger gathered
as he felt the deadly persistence of his enemy; and his step was almost
firm as he walked to the door of his room.  He locked it swiftly,
putting the key in his pocket, stamping his foot as he turned away.

This seemed to help him some.  It made him feel at least that he had
come to close quarters with his destroyer, shut up alone with his dread
antagonist. Herein was the hopefulness of the situation, that he had
come to recognize the strength of his enemy and the portent of the
struggle.  Had he been locked in the same room with a madman the
situation could not have been more real.

Suddenly a strange thing befell him.  Some would explain it in terms of
an overwrought nervous system, some in terms of a disordered fancy.  It
matters not. But Harvey heard, amid the wild tumult of that twilight
hour—he heard his mother’s voice.  Only once it came—and the sweet notes
slowly died, like the tones of some rich bell across a waste of
waters—but he heard it and his whole soul stood still to listen.  He
caught its message in an instant; the whole meaning of it was
wonderfully clear, and his heart answered and obeyed with instant
gladness.  For it seemed to point the way to rest, and victory, and
healing.

He glanced at his watch.  There was just time to catch the train; and
without pause or hesitation he unlocked the door and passed out into the
street.  A word to a servant, to allay wonder at his absence, was his
only farewell.

What greyhound of the seas is swift enough to outrun the greedy gulls
that follow?  And what heart, however swiftly borne, can escape its
besetting sin? It may ascend up into heaven, or make its bed in hell, or
take the wings of the morning, or plunge into the lair of darkness—but
temptation never quits the chase. Thus was poor Harvey pursued as the
bounding train plunged through the darkness towards his far-off boyhood
home.  Still the battle waged, and still the fangs of appetite kept
groping for his heart and clutching at his will.  But he endured as
seeing the invisible; and the City of Refuge came ever nearer.

As they came closer to Glenallen—when they were almost there—peering
through the dark, he caught now and then a fleeting glimpse of the
scenes of other days; fences that he had climbed; elms beneath whose
shelter he had played; braes he had roamed and burns he had waded and
brooks he had fished, he smiled, as the inward pain still smote him and
the dreadful craving burned—it seemed all but impossible that life could
have changed so much, the evening shadows threatening before its noon
had come.  And he felt, in a dim unreasoning way—what other men have
felt—as if he had been somehow tricked out of the sweetness of youth,
its glory faded and its fruitage withered before he had known they were
there.

The streets of his native town were hushed as he hurried towards his
home.  Nearing the familiar scene, he paused, standing still.  He felt a
kind of awesome fear and his head was bowed as he crept close to the
humble door.  Suddenly he lifted his eyes, survey ing the
well-remembered outlines through the gloom.  And suddenly they seemed
transfigured before him, speaking out their welcome in tender silence as
though they recognized the heart-sore wanderer.  It was with little
difficulty that he effected an entrance, a half-hidden window in the
rear yielding readily.

The stillness within almost overcame him.  Yet there must have been holy
power in it; for the evil spirit that had haunted him seemed to retreat
before it; and his groping eyes fell now on this familiar thing and now
on that, each an ally to his struggling soul.  He could see but dimly,
but they were all beautiful, each telling some story of the sacred days
that would come no more.  He felt his way through the little hall into
the room where he had last looked upon his mother’s face.  He stood
where he had stood before—and he looked down.  Long musing, he turned
and made his way up-stairs.  As he passed the half-open door on his way,
he could see the shadowy outline of the little store, as Miss Adair had
left it for the night, the petty wares consorting ill with the
significance of the hour.  Yet the nobility of all for which it stood
broke afresh upon him.

Ascending the creaking stairs, he stopped and listened.  It seemed as if
some voice must speak—for silence like to this he had never known
before. But all was still, wondrously still—this was the silence of
death.  He glanced into Jessie’s room; relics of her sore toil were
still scattered about; all was as she had left it when she had started
on her visit to the city.

Then he entered his mother’s room.  With head bowed low and with
noiseless step, as devout pilgrims invade some holy shrine, he passed
within the door. Then he lifted his eyes—the night seemed to stay its
hand—and he could see here and there traces of his mother’s life, many
of them undisturbed.  An apron that she used to wear, folded now and
spotless white, laid aside by Jessie’s loving hands; a knitted shawl
that had so often enclosed the fragile form; the unfinished knitting
from which the needles should never be withdrawn.  Then he gave a great
start, muffling a cry—for he thought he saw a face.  But it was his own,
moving in shadowy whiteness as he passed the little mirror—he marvelled
at his timidity amid such scenes of love.

He sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands.  He was trembling,
yet not with fear.  But something seemed to tell him that he was not
alone; no tempter, no turgid appetite, no relentless passion assailed
him now.  He was safe, he felt, like some ancient fugitive falling
breathless before a sacred altar—but he felt that he was not alone.
Some unseen power seemed to be about him, an influence so gentle, a
caress so tender, a keeping so holy as time could not provide.  He did
not seek to reason with the strange sensation, or to solve, or to
define; but his soul lay open to the mystic influence in helplessness
and hope, the ministry of the awful silence having its way with his
broken and baffled life.

Almost without knowing it, he rose and made his way to the little table
by the window; something dark lay upon it.  The touch told him in a
moment what it was—his mother’s Bible, that Jessie had begged him to
leave for her.  His hand trembled as he took it up; it opened of itself
and he peered downward on the well-worn page.  But it was dark, and he
could only see enough to know that one particular verse was gently
underscored.  Fumbling for a match, he lit it and its glow fell upon the
words:

"Unto Him that is able to keep you from falling and to present you
faultless."

The message flashed upon his soul with the import of eternal hope.  He
closed the book violently, as if something might escape, and sank again
upon the bed.  He felt as if God Himself had spoken through the shadows
and the silence.  His face was again buried in his hands, but his heart
was running riot with its exuberance of feeling, of purpose, of hope
from far-off fountains fed.  There gleamed before him a vision of the
reality of it all, the real truth that a worsted heart may find strength
somewhere higher up, away beyond this scene of human struggle—and that
the most stained and wasted life might yet become a holy thing, again
presented to the great God whose grace had saved it, a faultless life at
last.

Thus he sat, nor knew how long, while the regenerating moments flew.  He
was recalled by feeling something fall at his feet.  Stooping, he picked
it up; it was a letter, fallen from the leaves of the book he held.  A
brief search revealed a candle on a chair beside the bed.  This he lit,
holding the fitful flame above the missive now spread out before him.
The letter was from his mother and addressed to him. A swift look at the
date explained why it had never been sent—she had been busy with it when
he had unexpectedly returned the night of Madeline’s party. His eyes
burned their way over the opening sentences, all uneven as they were,
the unsteady hand having found its course as best it could.  And the
gentle epistle had come to a sudden close—the letter had never been
completed.  But his eyes were fixed in almost fierce intensity upon the
last words—probably the last the dear hand had ever written.  "And I’m
praying, my son," thus ran the great assurance, "as I shall never cease
to pray, that He will make His grace sufficient for you and that..."

He arose, recalling where his mother was wont to pray.  Had she not told
him, and had Jessie not spoken of it often?  Beside his own bed, he
knew—there, where he once had slept the sleep of childhood in the
innocent and happy days of yore; there had been her altar, where,
kneeling before God, she had pleaded that the keeping and guidance of
the Highest might be vouchsafed her absent son.  Thither he turned his
steps, his heart aflame within him; one hand still held his mother’s
Bible, the other the precious letter.  And he laid them both before the
Throne, sacred things, familiar to the all-seeing Eye, pledges of a
faith that must not be denied.

The silence still reigned about the bended form. But it was vocal with
unspoken vows, the vows of a soul that unseen hands, wasted once and
worn but radiant now and beautiful, had beckoned to the Mercy Seat.  He
could not see the bending face; he could not know the exultation of the
triumphant one—but he knew that the dear spirit shared with him the
rapture of that hour when his mother’s prayers were answered, when his
soul came back to God.




                                *XXXIII*

                   _*PLAIN LIVING AND HIGH THINKING*_


The day slipped past in quiet solitude, marked by the peace of penitence
and inward chastening; convalescence is the sweetest experience of the
soul and the outlook to the eternal is its rest.  Harvey felt in no
hurry to leave the pavilion-home, thronged as it was with blessed
memories.  But when the evening fell, a curious eagerness quickened his
steps towards David Borland’s altered home.  He had not visited it
before. Drawing near, the first figure he descried was that of David
himself, engaged in the very diminutive garden that lay beside the
house.  He had not noticed Harvey’s approach.  A shade of pain darkened
the eye of the younger man as, unobserved, he took a keen survey of the
older face.  For not alone was David more thin and worn; his cheeks had
lost their colour, pinched and pale, and it required no special
acuteness to detect how changed he was from the robust David of former
years.  Suddenly lifting his head, Mr. Borland saw Harvey close at hand;
he dropped the light tool he was holding, hurrying to greet the visitor.

"You’re as welcome as a registered letter," he cried in his old hearty
way; "come on an’ sit down—there’s nothin’ tastes so good in a new house
as an old friend.  I’ve been hungerin’ for a mouthful of you.  I was
jest doin’ a little work," he explained—"when a fellow’s got to work
hard, nothin’ makes it so easy as doin’ a little more.  I’m goin’ to
raise some flowers," he went on, pointing to a tiny bed; "nothin’ pays
like flowers—it pays better than manufacturin’, I think sometimes.
Here, sit beside me on the bench," for David seemed willing to rest.
"How’s Jessie?" he asked presently, his general observations concluded.

"Lovely," answered Harvey.  "She’s visiting Miss Farringall."

"So I believe.  They say Miss Farringall’s lovely too, ain’t she?"

Harvey pronounced a eulogy.

"She’s an old maid, ain’t she?"

"I suppose some would call her that," was Harvey’s rather deliberate
reply.

"Oh, that’s all right," David assured him; "I don’t mean no disrespect.
Most old maids is reg’lar angels—with variations.  I often tell the
missus if I was ever left alone I’d probably marry again, out of respect
for her—there’s nothin’ like an encore to show you’ve enjoyed the first
performance—an’ I always say I’d take an old maid.  Of course, I might
change my mind," David went on gravely; "most old fools does, takes up
with some little gosling that ought to be in school.  An’ I’ve noticed
how the fellows that yelps the loudest at the funeral begins takin’
notice the soonest—they don’t most gen’rally stay in long for repairs,"
he concluded solemnly, scraping the clay from his boot-heel as he spoke.

"If Miss Farringall’s an old maid," Harvey resumed, "she’s one of the
nicest I ever knew—and one of the happiest too, I think."

"Old maids is pretty much all happy," pronounced David, "that is, when
they stop strugglin’—but most of ’em dies hard.  They’d all be happy if
they’d only do what I heard a preacher advisin’ once.  I was mad as a
hatter, too."

"What about?" asked Harvey wonderingly.

"Well, I’ll tell you.  It was at a funeral in a church—last year, I
think—an’ after the service was over he came out to the front o’ the
pulpit.  ’The congregation ’ll remain seated,’ says he, ’till the casket
has went down the aisle; then the mourners will follow, an’ the clergy
’ll follow them.  After that,’ says he, ’after that, the congregation
will quietly retire.’  Quietly, mind you!" said David sternly; "did he
think we was goin’ to give three cheers for the corpse, I wonder?" and
he looked earnestly at Harvey for approval of his indignation.  "But
I’ve often thought, jest the same, how much happier everybody’d be,
’specially old maids, if they’d only retire quietly."

"I’ll have to tell that to the editor of the funny column," Harvey said
when his composure had returned; "and I’ll send it on to you when it
appears in the _Argus_."

"I’m a subscriber to that paper now," David said complacently; "how ’re
you gettin’ along?—like the editin’ business pretty good?"

"Fine," Harvey assured him cordially.  Then he told, as modestly as he
could, of what success he had achieved and of his prospects of
promotion.

"Where you got the start was goin’ into it as soon as you left school,"
David averred; "there’s nothin’ like gettin’ at your work early.  That’s
why I advise gettin’ up a little afore day—for other folks. You see,
you’ll get the hang of it—of editin’, I mean—afore you’re set in your
ways.  If you want to succeed these days, you’ve got to take time by the
fetlock, as one of them old philosophers said.  That’s what makes all
the difference between two fellows; one’ll waste his time gallivantin’
round, while the other’s learnin’ all about his business an’ gettin’
ready for somethin’ big.  Now, there’s poor Cecil, for instance—you’ve
heard what’s come o’ Cecil?"

"No," answered Harvey, sitting up very straight. "No, I haven’t heard
anything—has anything happened?"

"Oh, nothin’ terrible important.  Only he’s off for Africa—went last
week.  He was foolin’ an’ fiddlin’ round, spongin’ on his father—an’ he
got into one or two little scrapes.  An’ his father kind o’ got tired of
it—an’ Cecil got a chance of some kind of a job with some company that’s
buildin’ a railroad or somethin’ in South Africa.  An’ the old man let
him go—so he’s gone," David concluded earnestly, "an’ I reckon punchin’
mules is about the highest position o’ trust he’ll be occupyin’.  Let’s
go into the house."

"Is Cecil going to stay long in Africa?" Harvey asked as they walked
along.

"He won’t likely be back to tea very often," ventured David.  "Jemima!
I’m so short in the wind now," his breath coming fast.  "I don’t much
calculate he’ll be back till the walkin’s good—unless the old man
fetches him," a droll smile showing on David’s face, as they entered the
little house.

"Sorry Madeline’s not in," Mr. Borland began as he sank into a chair;
"she works pretty steady now, poor child—they say she’s a reg’lar
dabster at that wood-work.  She paints chiny too," he went on, pride in
the voice—"I think she’s out at Hyman’s, burnin’ it, this evenin’.  Sit
down, Harvey," motioning towards a chair, for his guest was standing in
a spasm of attentiveness.  "It’s a bit different from the old place,
ain’t it?" as he looked round the humble room.

"It’s just as good," said Harvey bluntly, rather at a loss.

"That’s where you’re shoutin’," David responded, something of his
old-time vigour in the tone.  "It’s jest every bit as good.  When I’m
settin’ here in the evenin’—I don’t work so very hard; they gave me a
nice easy job at the office—an’ Madeline’s puttin’ on my slippers or
runnin’ her fingers round my old gray head, when I shut my eyes I can’t
tell the difference. Never did set in only one chair," he mused as if to
himself, "never did wear but one pair o’ slippers, never did have but
one Madeline to cure my headaches an’ my heartaches an’ everythin’ like
that. An’ I like the lamp better’n the old sulky gas—an’ we’ve got the
best pump in the county," he went on enthusiastically—"right out there;
it’s far better’n the old tap water.  So we’re jest as happy, Harvey."

Harvey smiled, and lovingly, at the beaming face.

"An’ I can prove it," the old man suddenly resumed.  "I can prove it,"
he repeated eagerly. "See that fireplace there?" pointing to the hearth
on which the wood was already laid.  "Put a match to it, Harvey—you’re
younger than me.  Set it agoin’, Harvey, an’ I’ll show you—it’s gettin’
coolish, anyhow."

Harvey did as directed.  The shavings led the flame upward to the little
twigs, and the twigs hurried it on to the willing cedar, and the cedar
lit the way to the gnarled pine knots; these opened their bosoms to the
flame and soon the leaping tongues began their glad crusade against the
shadows, a revelry of sight and sound flooding the room with light and
music.

"There!" cried David jubilantly.  "Tell me the difference if you
can—ain’t that the very same as it used to be in the great big house?
Didn’t I tell you I could prove it?—there ain’t no difference, Harvey;
it’s jest the very same," he repeated once again, rejoicing in the great
truth he found so difficult to express.  "An’ that’s what I always
trained myself to believe," he went on after a long pause.  "I always
believed in simple livin’—even when I had lots o’ chance the other way.
Didn’t I, Harvey?" he pursued, gazing into the other’s eyes through the
glow.

"That you did, Mr. Borland," Harvey affirmed. "And that’s why it comes
so easy to you now."

"That was how I knew poor Mr. Craig was on the wrong tack," David
pursued thoughtfully.  "I spotted the signs as soon as they began; when
he started callin’ his sideboard a ’buffy’—an’ when he began sayin’
’blue mange’ instead o’ cornstarch; I heard him at his own table—an’
callin’ ’Johnny-cake’ corn-cake—an’ referrin’ to the cuspidor when he
meant a spittoon—when he began them tony names, I knew it was all up
with poor Mr. Craig. When a man gets so dainty that his horses stop
sweatin’ an’ begin perspirin’, he ain’t much good for common folks after
that.  That’s why Mr. Craig wanted so bad to be mayor—jest that buffy
idea, same thing," David explained pityingly.  "An’ then it wasn’t long
till he made the foolishest break of all," he went on; "d’ye know what
it was?" as he looked enquiringly at Harvey; "you’d never guess."

"No idea," admitted Harvey.

"Well, he began takin’ his dinner at supper time. Leastways, he began
callin’ it dinner—an’ it’s a terrible bad sign when a fellow begins
takin’ dinner when the dew’s fallin’.  His old father used to say:
’Well, I reckon it’s time to feed again,’ but Craig always said he
guessed he’d have to go home to dinner—an’ he wasn’t never the same man
after he begun that kind o’ foolishness," David affirmed seriously.
"The only other man I ever heard callin’ supper dinner was a terrible
rich fellow from New York.  He had a summer cottage on Lake Joseph; he
used to bring his own doctor with him, an’ his own minister—an’ his own
undertaker.  An’ he took his dinner about bedtime," David concluded
mournfully.

"Makin’ out pretty good at the newspaper business, Harvey?" David asked
presently, some minor themes disposed of.

Harvey pondered.  He was thinking of many things.  "Do you mean
financially, Mr. Borland?" he asked at length.

"Yes, I reckon so; you’re climbin’ up the ladder a bit, ain’t you?"

"I’m getting along pretty well, that way," Harvey replied.  "And I think
I’m getting an insight into the business.  They say the _Argus_ is going
to change hands—but that won’t affect my position at all."

"Pity you couldn’t get a-hold of it," said David reflectively.  "But
don’t worry about that, my boy. Don’t never be disappointed if success
don’t come as fast as you think it should.  It nearly always slips
through a fellow’s fingers at the last—so don’t get set up on it.  I’m
gettin’ to be an old man now; an’ if there’s one thing I’ve learned
better’n another, it’s how a man don’t have them things in his own
hands. I believe every man’s jest runnin’ on the time-table that’s laid
out for him; an’ he’ll spoil everythin’ if he tries too much to
interfere.  Often we think we’re terrible smart.  An’ mebbe we are—but
we find out sooner or later we’ve got to walk the plank, an’ it’s queer
how we get jockeyed jest when we think we’re at the winnin’ post.  We’re
pretty handy with the rod an’ the reel—but God handles the landin’-net
Himself.  That’s why the biggest ones most gen’rally always get away,"
and David nodded his head seriously as he peered into Harvey’s eyes.

"I’d sooner win along other lines than that," mused Harvey.

"Than what?"

"Than the money way.  That isn’t everything."

"That there was a beautiful thing you done in the cemetery," David
digressed suddenly.  "That there was high finance."

"What?" asked the bewildered Harvey.

"You know," said the other—"your mother’s gravestone.  I didn’t know
nothin’ about it till Madeline took some flowers out one evenin’.  That
was lovely, Harvey."

Harvey’s voice was thick.  "That was the first money I ever saved, Mr.
Borland," he said after a long silence; "the only money I ever saved."

"Savin’s like them is holy," David said simply. "An’ I’m goin’ to tell
you somethin’, Harvey," as he braced himself for the purpose.  "An’ I’m
goin’ to trust you not to tell any one—not any one in the world."

Harvey turned to gaze into the earnest face.

"I don’t know jest why it should be so hard to tell," David began
calmly.  "But it’s this, Harvey—my day’s jest about done—I ain’t goin’
to be here much longer, Harvey.  No, don’t now, please," he pleaded as
he stretched out his hand towards the livid youth, already leaping to
his feet.  "Don’t, Harvey, don’t—but it’s true.  An’ I’ve known it a
good while now; the doctor told me long ago," he continued calmly.  "My
old heart thinks it’s jest about quittin’ time, it seems.  An’ I don’t
blame it a terrible lot—it’s had a long day’s work, an’ I reckon it’s a
good deal like me, kind o’ ready for its rest," the tired voice went on.
"That’s where the trouble is, anyhow," he affirmed placidly, "but I
never told nobody—a fellow ought to burn his own smoke, I think, an’ not
let it trouble other people.  But I’ve told you now, Harvey—so you won’t
be so terrible surprised when ... And besides," his voice breaking for
the first time, "besides—I wanted to tell you somethin’ else, my boy—I
wanted to tell you—how—how much I loved you, Harvey—for fear—for fear I
mightn’t have another chance," as the tired face went downward to his
hands, the hot tears trickling between the fingers that were so thin and
worn.

The room was hushed in silence as Harvey’s tear-stained face was bowed
beside his friend.  He spoke no word, and no touch of tenderness was
felt except the slow tightening of his arm about the furrowed neck,
holding the quivering form close in strong and silent fondness.  David
spoke at length.  "I want you to come along with me, Harvey."

"Where?" Harvey asked in a startled voice.

"Oh, not there," said David, smiling.  "You thought I meant the long,
long road.  No, not that; but I’m goin’ to the communion, Harvey—that’s
what I meant—I’m goin’ to join the church."

"I’m glad," said Harvey after a long stillness.

"I nearly joined once afore," David went on. "I reckon you remember when
I had that meetin’ with the elders—kind o’ run agin a snag, I did.  An’
mebbe I ain’t much worthier yet—but I see it different. I ain’t much of
a Christian, I know—but I’m a kind of a sinner saved by grace.  An’ I’d
kind o’ like to own up in front of everybody afore—afore it’s too late,"
he said, his voice almost inaudible.

"When?" asked Harvey.

"Next Sunday," answered David.  "But I didn’t go up agin the elders this
time, mind you—I wouldn’t," he went on stoutly.  "It seems to me a
fellow ain’t no more called on to tell a lot of elders—human
elders—about them things, an’ his soul, than he is to tell ’em about his
love-makin’; so I jest went to Dr. Fletcher, an’ I told him what I felt
about—about Christ—an’ I said I felt like I’d had a bid from some One
higher up.  An’ Dr. Fletcher said no elder wasn’t to have a look-in this
time.  So I’m goin’, Harvey—an’ it’d be an awful comfort if you an’ me
went together.  It’s quite a spell since you was there, ain’t it,
Harvey?"

The fire had gone out upon the hearth.  And Harvey spoke never a word
amid the thickening gloom.




                                *XXXIV*

                        _*THE OVERFLOWING HOUR*_


The light had almost faded from the sky and the stealthy shadows were
settling down about Glenallen as Harvey strode towards one of the hills
that kept their ancient watch about the town.  He did not know whither
his course was tending; nor did he greatly care, for many and
conflicting were the thoughts that employed him as he walked.

Still fresh and vivid, almost overpowering sometimes, was his sense of
loss and shame.  The defilement of his besetting sin, and the
humiliation of a life so nearly honeycombed, and the tragedy of a will
so nearly sold to slavery—all these had their stern influence on his
soul.  The bruised and beaten past rose afresh before him; and if ever
human heart felt its own weakness, and human life its own unworthiness,
it was as Harvey Simmons climbed that solitary hill amid the deepening
dusk.  Mingling with his sense of shame was the realization of all that
it must cost him—for his manhood would refuse to claim what only a
worthier manhood could fairly win.

Passing strange it was that at that very moment, the moment of true
self-reproach and humiliation, his roving eyes should suddenly have been
startled as they fell on two white-clad figures that were climbing the
hill behind him.  One of them he recognized in an instant—it was
Madeline—and his heart almost frightened him, so violently did it leap.
He struggled to repress the rising tide—for the test had come sooner
than he thought—but a thrill of passion swept through all his frame.

Yet his resolve strengthened in his heart—the purpose that had been
forming within him through many days.  The resolve of a hero, too, it
was; and the native strength of the man flowed anew, stern and
unconquerable, as he made the great renunciation. Not that he loved the
less; the more, rather. And not because he doubted that her heart
answered, if perhaps less ardently, to his own.  He saw again, as he had
never ceased to see, the withered flowers in her hand.  That picture he
had cherished ever since, deep hidden in his deepest heart—patiently
waiting, till his achievements and his station should warrant him to
come back and drink to all eternity where he had but sipped before.

He knew now that this should never be.  He thought, and swift and lurid
was the image, of his own father, and of his mother’s broken heart, and
of the baneful legacy that had been his own—and of the shrouded chapter
that had been so carefully kept from him, tight shut like the chamber of
the dead. He knew, besides all this, that he loved too well to offer
Madeline a life that was not intrinsically worthy; if accounted worthy,
it could only be by the shelter of a living lie.  Thus was his resolve
taken, anguish-born.  Yet his hungering heart cried out that it could
not go its way in silence—this luxury at least it claimed, to tell its
story and to say farewell.

He turned and made his way downward to the approaching pair.  Lifting
his hat as he came close, he spoke Madeline’s name and stood still.  Her
surprise seemed to seal her lips at first, but he could see through the
gloaming what inflamed his heart afresh.

"I heard you were in Glenallen," her low voice began, "but I didn’t
expect to see you.  When did you come?  Oh, pardon me, let me introduce
you to my friend," as she spoke her companion’s name.

He removed his hat again and bowed.  One or two commonplaces passed.

"Where are you going?" Harvey asked abruptly.

"We’re going to see a little girl that’s sick; she lives on the first
farm outside the town.  She’s one of my class," Madeline explained, "and
I asked Miss Brodie to accompany me—my friend lives in that house
yonder," pointing to a residence near the foot of the hill; "it gets
dark so early now."

"I’ll go with you myself," said Harvey.

"What?" was all Madeline said, her voice unsteady.

"I’ll go with you myself," he repeated; "Miss Brodie won’t mind—we’ll
see her home first.  I wish to speak with you," and without further
explanation he turned to lead the way to Miss Brodie’s home.

Madeline’s protest came, but it was weak and trembling.  And her
companion spoke no word except to give assent.  For there seemed to be
some strange authority about the silent man; something in his voice, or
manner, or in the drawn face that looked into the distance through the
fading light.  They could not tell; but they followed as he led.
Madeline’s hand trembled as it made its way into her friend’s; a moment
later she withdrew it, walking on alone.  But her bosom rose and fell
with the movement of that eternal mystery that so many a maiden’s heart
has known, that none has ever solved.  And her eyes were moist and dim,
she knew not why; and now and then a strange quiver shook the graceful
form, protesting, reluctant, half-rebellious, yet at the mercy of
something she could neither fathom nor deny.

Bidding Miss Brodie good-night, they retraced their steps and pressed on
towards the outskirts of the town.  Perhaps both wondered why they
walked so fast, Madeline wondering, indeed, why she walked at all.  But
there was something indescribably sweet about the strange mastery in
which he seemed to hold her—and her eyes smiled, though she was
trembling, as she looked ahead into the waiting shadows.

"That’s the house."  These were the first words that broke the
stillness, and they came from Madeline’s lips—"that’s where she lives,"
pointing to a distant light.

"Who?" and Harvey turned his eyes upon her.

"The child I’m going to see—I told you."

Silence still; and still they walked on together. Once she stumbled over
an uneven plank.  His hand went out swiftly to her arm, and as he
touched it his whole frame swayed towards her.  In an instant his hand
was withdrawn; but not before a faint outbreak flowed from her lips.  He
looked down at her through the darkness—her face was deadly white.

"I don’t believe I’ll go," she said weakly; "I’ll go to-morrow."

He pointed into the darkness.  "I want to speak with you," he said,
striding on.

A little murmur surged to her lips.  She checked it.  "Will you wait for
me—till I come out, Harvey?" the last word coming slow.

"I can’t."

"What?" she said, her tone firmer, her pace abating.

"I cannot wait," he said; "you can’t go in till—after."

She cast a swift glance upwards—but his eyes were forward bent.  He
pressed swiftly on.  She walked beside him.

Suddenly he paused, then stood still.  He listened intently; no sound
but the desultory barking of a distant watch-dog.  He looked about—and
the voiceless night seemed to contain no other but those twain.  He
could see the blinking light in the window, the one Madeline had pointed
to; it made the solitude deeper, like a far-off gleam at sea.

"Let us go in here and sit down," he said, pointing towards a little
clearance under the shadow of two spreading oaks that towered above an
intervening thicket.

They stepped down from the rickety sidewalk. And they crossed the dusty
road, neither speaking; and the dew glistened on their feet as they went
on into the thickening grass—and Madeline could hear her poor heart
beating, but she uttered never a word.

It is the glory of a strong woman that she sometimes may be weak; nay,
that she must be, by very token of her strength.  For her strength hath
its home in love and in her capacity to love—there is her crown and
there the well-spring of her beauty and her charm.  Yet this knows its
highest strength in weakness; and its victory is in surrender.  And the
greatest moment in the life of the noblest woman is when convention and
propriety and custom—and the tyranny of the social code—yea, when even
her own native pride, her womanly reticence, her insistence on all that
a woman may demand, are defiantly renounced; when these all lie in ruins
at her feet, scorned and forgotten by reason of the torrent of her love;
when beauty’s tresses lie dishevelled, and its robes of dignity are
stained with tears, then is woman’s wild eternal heart at its very
noblest in all the abandon of the passion that sets it free from every
tie save one.

Wherefore Madeline—she of the beauteous face and of the snow-white
heart—went on with Harvey where he led.  Down from the pavement she
stepped, down into the earthly road, reckless of the dainty fabric that
the dust leaped to stain; and she walked on into the glistening grass,
and her eyes saw the waiting oak and the vast sky behind.  And the night
was dark, and even the distant blinking light was hidden; and she could
hear the soft language of the mother bird that kept her love-taught
vigil, and the whippoorwill’s cry came in mellow waves across the
rippling woods—and the great tender arms of the holy night were about
them all.

"Let us sit here," and Harvey motioned towards a giant log that lay
beneath the oaks.  "And I’ll tell you, Madeline."

She raised one white hand to her throat as she took her place; even then
he noticed the delicate tapering fingers, so well fitted for the work to
which her father had referred.  Something seemed to be choking her, so
long were the white fingers held to the soft flesh above.  The other
hand went out absently, uplifted, and she held tight to the
soft-swinging branch of the ancient oak, for the leaves bended about
them where they sat.

"Very well, Harvey," she said.  "Isn’t it about father—didn’t you see
him this evening?"  Commonplace questions enough they were; and her
heart had clutched wildly at them as her hand had seized the bough above
her.  But commonplace the words were not—a surge of fire made them glow
and gleam, to him at least, her troubled soul sweeping through them like
a flood.  For her voice was shaking as she asked the simple questions;
and her arm was still outstretched as she clung to the yielding
bough—and the white fingers still pressed the quivering throat.

"No, it isn’t about that," he said, his voice as low as the voices of
the night.  She never moved.  But he heard, actually heard, her lips as
they slowly parted—and her breath came as if she were resting from a
race.

"It’s about us—oh, Madeline, it’s about us," he began, and his words
came swift, as if they were driven out by force.  "You know, you know,
Madeline, all that’s in my heart—all that’s been there for years.  Ever
since I worked for your father—ever since we went to school—ever since
that night beside my baby sister’s grave—and since you came to see
mother when she got blind—and since I went to college—and always,
always, Madeline, through all the years. You know, Madeline, you know."
Then his words poured out in a passionate stream, swirling like waves
about her, and he told her what they both had known long, what neither
had ever heard before.  The maiden’s eyes shone dim; and one hand
clutched tighter at the crushed and broken twigs; the other slipped from
the quivering throat, pressed now to the paining bosom.  And the moist
lips were parted still, but the speech that flowed between was silent as
her listening soul.

"And I’ve told you the worst, Madeline," he vowed at length.  "I was
determined to tell you the worst, before I go away, before I go away to
take up the struggle against my sin—alone.  And to win—to conquer," he
added low.  "So I’m not worthy, Madeline—and the future’s uncertain—and
I know it and you know it.  And nobody but God can ever tell what it has
meant to me to say all I’ve said to-night; and it’s all because I love
you so... Oh, Madeline," and the strong voice struggled in vain to keep
on its way; too late, it broke and trembled, the pain and passion
bursting through it as he bowed his head and hid his face.  "So I’m
going away," he murmured low, "I’m going away."

The sighing wind was hushed and the mother bird was silent and the
whippoorwill was dumb.

"Harvey, don’t."

It was such a gentle note, barely audible, like the first faint cry of
some wood-born nestling when it sees the light.  But it filled and
flooded all his soul. He raised his head, so slowly, from his hands; and
slowly he turned his face till his eyes rested full upon her.  The moon
had risen and he could see her beauty.  Both hands were lying now in the
white folds of her dress, and between them were the crushed and broken
leaves, their fragrance outstealing from their wounds.  The branch she
had released was still swaying to and fro.  But Madeline saw it not; nor
aught else beside.  The veiled and glistening eyes were looking far
beyond; he could not tell whether they were fixed on the darkling
thicket or on the crescent moon.  But while his gaze stole upward to her
face a night-bird in the thicket piped softly to its mate—and he saw her
eyes search the frowning shade.  Then they were still.  But he could see
the radiance on cheek and brow, and he felt the life-stream that her
eyes outpoured, aglow with the emotion of her soul.  Her bosom rose and
fell, nor did she seem to know—again and yet again the candour of her
love spoke thus.  And while he looked she slowly turned her head.  He
noted, even then, and in the gathering light, the wealth of lovely hair,
the fair purity of her forehead, the mystic lure of her quivering lips,
the throb that beat swiftly in her throat, soft and white like the
lily’s bloom—but they all were lost in the glory of her wondrous eyes.
These were transfigured; surrender, conquest, yearning, pity, pride, the
joy of possession and the rapture of captivity—all that unite to make
that mysterious tide called passion, looked their meaning from her face.

Her breath, fresh from the parted lips, floated outward till it touched
his face—and to him spreading oak and whispering grove and shadowy
thicket and crescent moon had ceased to be.  He saw her eyes alone, his
soul swimming towards them through the torrent; his finger-tips touched
her shoulders first—and she was there—and the soft form yielded, and the
glory slowly faded as the eyelids fell, and the fragrance of her breath
made life a holy thing forever as he drew her into the strong shelter of
his love.




                                 *XXXV*

                    *"*_*INTO HIS HOUSE OF WINE*_*"*


They came up the little hill together.  And many eyes were turned on
them in wonder as they went up the aisle, David still leaning on the
strong man beside him.  It was Robert McCaig who took the token from Mr.
Borland’s hand, and his own told its welcome by its lingering clasp.

They were almost at David’s pew, Madeline and her mother already seated
there, when Harvey stood still and whispered.  "Let us go to my mother’s
seat," he said.

David’s assent was quick and cordial.  He knew the sacrament of love;
and the look with which Madeline and her mother followed them showed
that they recognized the higher claim.

Very beautiful was the service of that holy hour. The opening psalm
breathed the spirit of penitence and trust.  When Dr. Fletcher rose to
pray, his face was illumined with such joy as there is in the presence
of the angels when a new star swims into the firmament of heaven.  And
his prayer gave thanks for the cloud of witnesses that compassed them
about, and for those who had gone out from them along the upward path of
pain.

Wonderful stillness wrapped the worshippers about as the elders went
slowly down the aisle with the symbols of redeeming love.  It was not
his accustomed place, but Geordie Nickle bore the bread and wine to
where David and Harvey sat.  His eyes shone with a great light as he
placed the emblems first in David’s shaking hand; and the moist eyes
were upturned to God; and his lips moved while he stood before them in
the grand dignity of his priestly office.  The compassion glowing on his
face was worthy of the Cross.

David and Harvey bowed their heads together, the old man and the young.
The one was touched with the whitening frost of years, the other with
the dew of youth.  But their lips were moist with the same holy wine and
their hearts were kindred in their trembling hope.  Before them both
arose the vision of a Saviour’s face; but the old man’s thought was of
eternal rest, and the other’s was of the battling years beyond.

Harvey’s mind flew quickly over all the bygone days.  Love and
loneliness, conflict and respite, hope and despair, victory and
overthrow passed before him—and all seemed now to have conspired towards
this holy hour.  He felt that the way had been chosen for him amid
life’s perplexing paths; that an unseen Hand had been at the helm; that
the prayer and purpose of another’s life had led him back to the path
from which he had departed, fulfilling the design of an All-wise
Sovereign Will.

David gave a little start of surprise when Dr. Fletcher announced the
closing hymn.

"He done that for me," he whispered to Harvey; "he knows it’s mine."

They rose to sing the noble song.  The great words rolled slowly out
from many reverent lips:

    "The sands of time are sinking."


It was when they came to the soul’s great boast

    "With mercy and with judgment
    My web of time He wove,"

that Harvey turned his eyes towards David; and his heart melted as he
saw the tears rolling down the withered cheeks.  David’s head was bowed,
for it hurt him sore that men should see.  But there had come about him
such a tide of feeling—all his chequered life rising up before him—and
such a sense of the abundant grace that had made the shadows beautiful
with light, that his soul dissolved in gratitude to the Hand that guided
and the Heart that planned through all the labyrinth of years.

Other lips were still, and Harvey’s among them, when they reached the
closing lines:

    "Amid the shades of evening
      While sinks life’s lingering sand
    I hail the glory dawning
      In Immanuel’s land."


But those who were beside him marvelled at the strong rich tones with
which David sounded the exultant note.  His voice was no more the voice
of age; and the scars of battle had vanished from his face.  Strong and
victorious came the swelling strain, and his uplifted eyes had the glow
of unconquerable youth.  He had caught the lights of Home.




                                *XXXVI*

                       _*A MISTRESS OF FINANCE*_


"Some men are born lucky—and some get lucky—and some have the
confoundedst kind of good luck thrust upon them," affirmed Mr. Crothers,
nodding towards a letter in Harvey’s hand.

"I’m just going to read this over once more; it really seems too good to
be true," was Harvey’s rather irrelevant reply, his eyes fastened again
upon the letter.

"You’re dead right.  If any one had told me, that night three months
ago—you remember our conversation then—that you’d be given a position
like that so early in your career, I’d have laughed at them. I don’t
think I ever knew a man get as quick promotion in the newspaper business
as you’ve had, Simmons.  I really don’t.  But then you’ve got the
education—and the material above the eyes—and that’s the whole outfit.
Well, I can’t do any more than congratulate you, old man," and the
sincerity of Mr. Crothers’ words was evident as Harvey looked across the
table into the deep-set eyes.

"You’ve had more to do with it than anybody else, I’m sure," Harvey
returned; "and I’ll do all I can to make good.  I’ll expect you to——"

"I’ll tell you something I’ve been thinking of for quite a while," the
other broke in, lowering his voice and leaning far over the table.  "If
we could only get a hold of the business—the paper, I mean—the whole box
and dice!  The thing’s going to change hands, as you know; everybody has
known that, since the president got the collectorship of customs—and it
would be worth more to us than to anybody else. We could run it to the
Queen’s taste—the whole shooting-match.  But I suppose there’s no use
talking—can’t make bricks without straw.  Of course, I’ve saved a little
chicken-feed—not enough, though—there, that’s my total," as he pencilled
some figures on a blotting-pad and passed it over; "and if you could
duplicate it—or a little better—we’d have the thing in our mitt.  But I
suppose there’s no use thinking about it?" looking rather eagerly at
Harvey, nevertheless.

"Out of the question," answered Harvey decisively, leaning back in his
chair; "you can’t get blood from a turnip, or, as Geordie Nickle, a
Glenallen friend of mine, would say, you can’t take the breeks off a
Hielan’man.  I haven’t any money, that’s the English of it.  Of course,"
a tinge of pleasure in the tone, "I’ll have a pretty good salary now—but
what’s that for a plunge like this?" as he pushed the blotting-pad back
across the table.

"About as good as a dozen of eggs for an army," Mr. Crothers agreed
disconsolately.  "Oh, well, we’ll just have to make out the best we
can—but I’m mighty glad of your good luck, old man, just the same."

Both men turned to their work.  Harvey’s first move was to ring for a
stenographer.  But he changed his mind.  "I won’t need you for a few
minutes," he said; "I’ll write this one myself."

The letter closed as follows: "... So it’s come at last, sister—and your
days of drudgery are past.  They will always be a sacred memory to me,
for I wonder if any man ever came to his own through as noble sacrifice
as has filled all your life for me, yours and mother’s.  Now, Jessie, be
sure and do as I’ve told you.  Sell your business—lock, stock, and
barrel—or give it away; make Miss Adair a present of it, or rent it to
her, or anything you like. Only one thing remember—you’ll rest now, and
all my good fortune will be spoiled unless you share it with me.

Your ever loving
       "HARVEY."


Even Grey started with surprise when Harvey arrived home that night an
hour earlier than usual. And Miss Farringall’s face brightened suddenly
as Harvey’s knock at the door of her sitting-room was followed by the
appearance of a very radiant face. He had a letter in his hand.

"I want to speak first," she said impulsively, divining his purpose.

"Yes, Miss Farringall," he said enquiringly.

"It’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time—and I’m going to
do it now," she added very softly, rising and moving to the window; "did
your mother ever—did she ever speak to you about your father, Harvey?"

Harvey’s answer was slow.  "Yes," he said at length.

"Did you know he’s living?" she asked after a long pause.

"Yes," and Harvey’s voice was little more than audible.  "My mother told
me that when she was dying.  Why?" he asked resolutely, moving to where
she stood.

"I only wished to know, dear," and her tone breathed gentleness as she
turned and fixed her pensive eyes on his.  "I knew he was living, and——"

"Where—do you know where?" he broke out, almost with a cry.  "My mother
didn’t know, and——"

"No, I don’t know where," she interrupted, her eyes now looking far
without; "but I know he’s living yet. We’ll both know more some
day—what’s in that letter, Harvey?" the voice betokening that the
subject was dismissed, at least for the present.

"It’s something you’ll be glad to read," he answered absently as he
handed it to her.

Deep silence reigned a while.

"I knew it, Harvey," she said when she had finished.  "I expected this—I
was waiting for you to come home.  I wanted to see you very much.  Can
you think what for?"

"I don’t know," Harvey answered abstractedly, musing still.

"Barlow," she called.

"Yes, mum," a sepulchral voice answered from the hall, followed a moment
later by the apparition of the never distant servant.

"You know the vault, Barlow?"

"Yes, mum," replied its guardian of years.

"And the box in the lower left-hand corner?"

"Yes, mum."

"And the paper we deposited there yesterday?"

"Yes, mum."

"That Dr. Wallis helped me to draw?"

"Yes, mum."

"Then bring it to me at once."

"Yes, mum," and Barlow turned in his tracks as he had done for a quarter
of a century.

He was back in a moment.  "You can go now, Barlow—and shut the door.
Take Grey, and don’t stand outside.  Go and count the spoons."

"Yes, mum," and the immobile Barlow departed to make the oft-repeated
inventory.

"I expected this to come, Harvey," she began as soon as they were alone.
"I know the president of the _Argus_—or of the company, or whatever you
call it.  I’m not such a hermit as some people think. But I’ve been
wishing for something better for you, Harvey—can you guess what it is?"
her words ending in a nervous little cough.

Harvey’s face showed how innocent he was of any such knowledge.

"Well, it keeps running in my mind that you ought to own that paper."

Harvey gave a little laugh.  "That’s what Mr. Crothers was saying," he
began confusedly; "he thinks we could do wonders if we had it between
us—but of course it’s out of the question.  It would cost—oh, I don’t
know how much."

"I know all about that," and Miss Farringall’s cheek had a strangely
heightened colour.  "I’ve looked into all that," she added in a low
tone; "and do you think you could?  Would Mr. Crothers really make a
good partner?"

Harvey stared.  "He’s a jewel, Miss Farringall, every way—but why do——"

"Excuse me," Miss Farringall interrupted with authority.  "Let me
proceed.  I want to make an investment.  I want to buy a business that
belongs to you and Jessie.  Sign that paper, please," as she handed him
the document Barlow had brought.

Amazement took possession of Harvey as he read.

"Close your lips, Harvey—when you’re excited, breathe deep; it’s a great
sedative," and Miss Farringall smiled as she watched his face.

Harvey laid the paper down with a gasp.  "But, Miss Farringall," he
began excitedly, breathing as best he could, "the proposition is
preposterous—a sum of money such as this for a paltry outfit like that
little store in Glenallen!  The whole thing isn’t worth——"

"Be careful, Harvey Simmons, be careful, now," Miss Farringall broke in
sternly.  "You haven’t read the agreement.  Maybe the price does look
big—but did you see all I’m to get in return?"

Harvey shook the document excitedly.  "You ask the business—the stock,
and the good-will—and neither the one nor the other’s worth one tithe
of——"

"Wait a minute," broke in the prospective purchaser; "I ask more than
that.  The vendor goes with the sale," she announced, rising to her
feet. "It’s that way in the paper—Jessie goes with it; I buy her too.  I
can do what I like with the business—and Jessie comes to me.  Yes," she
cried, her voice shaking in its eagerness, "that’s what I want the
most—and Jessie’s willing.  I’ve found that out top—and she’s to be
mine, to keep and care for. And she’s to be shipped here, right side up
with care, and she’s to give me value for my money every time I see her
sweet face and hear her merry laugh.  I’ve spent a lot repairing this
old house—but that’s the kind of repair it’s been needing for long
years, and it’s going to get it now.  When you get the purchase money
you can invest it as you like; it’ll be your own—only sign, Harvey, sign
now.  I’ve got the price all ready," her voice ringing with merry music
as she brandished a bulky envelope before his eyes.

Harvey gazed long into the triumphant face.  Then he moved slowly up to
her, holding out his arms, and she put her own about his neck with
hurrying, passionate eagerness and held him tight.  When, released, he
looked again into the flushed and quivering face, the swimming eyes
seemed not to see his own, fixed in yearning on the silent desk that
held the secret of the years.




                                *XXXVII*

                     _*THE CONQUEROR’S HOME-GOING*_


"You’re wanted on the long-distance line, Mr. Simmons; Glenallen wants
to speak with you," was the message that interrupted Harvey and Mr.
Crothers in the midst of a very delightful conference; the future of the
_Morning Argus_ was the subject of discussion.

"Somebody wanting to congratulate you," ventured Mr. Crothers; "tell
them the new firm’s flourishing so far," a smile of great satisfaction
on his face.  The fulfillment of the ambition of half a life-time had
filled Mr. Crothers’ cup to overflowing.

Five minutes later Harvey had returned, the gladness vanished from his
eyes.

"What’s the matter, Simmons?—nothing gone wrong, I hope."

"I’ve got to leave within ten minutes," Harvey answered, stooping to
arrange some scattered papers on his desk.  "I’ll just have time to
catch the Glenallen train.  The dearest friend I have in the world is
dying, they tell me—and he wants me."

"Who?" asked Mr. Crothers, rising from his seat.

"Mr. Borland—David Borland.  You’ve often heard me speak of him."

Mr. Crothers’ countenance fell.  "I should think I have; I almost feel
as if I knew him, you’ve given me so much of his philosophy.  I always
hoped I might meet him—what’s like the trouble?"

"Heart," said Harvey, unable to say more.

"That was where his homely philosophy came from, I should say," ventured
Mr. Crothers; "it’s the best brand too."

Harvey nodded.  A few minutes later he was gone.


The evening sun was prodigal of its beauty.  And once, when Harvey
lifted up his eyes to look, he could see the flashing windows of David’s
old-time residence, its stately outlines showing clear against the
sombre trees behind.  But the little house on which his eyes were
fastened now—where a great soul was preparing for its flight—seemed far
the grander of the two.  For it was clothed with the majesty of things
invisible and the outlook from its humbler windows was to the Eternal.

He entered without knocking; and Mrs. Borland was the first to meet him.

"He’s sinking fast," she said, greeting Harvey with a warmth he had not
known before.  "He can still speak with us, though—and he’s been asking
for you."

"Who’s with him?" asked Harvey.

"Just Madeline.  We sent for Dr. Fletcher—but he’s away, attending some
meeting of ministers. Mr. Nickle’s coming, though—he’ll soon be here
now."

Harvey stood a minute at the door before he entered David’s room.
Madeline looked up and smiled; but her father’s eyes were turned away,
fixed on the distant hills.  The gaze of the younger man rested long and
lovingly on the pallid face upon the pillow.  Never had David looked so
grand before. The thin, responsive lips; the care-worn face, compassion
and sympathy in every line; the crown of silvery hair, so whitened since
Harvey saw it last; the large, far-seeing eyes, homes of the faith and
hope that had upborne his life and made it beautiful, out-gazing now
beyond the things of time, calm with the last long peace—all these gave
to the face that spiritual beauty which is the handiwork of God.

Harvey drew closer to the bed.  David slowly turned his head; his eyes
met Harvey’s, and he held out his hand.

"I knew you’d come," he said gently; we’re all together now—all but
Geordie."

Harvey’s answer was a warmer pressure of the wasted hand.

"The sands is runnin’ fast," David said with a faint smile—"the
battle’ll soon be done.  An’ I’m pretty tired, Harvey."

Harvey was still standing by the bed, bowed, still holding David’s hand.
And the dying man could see the tears that were making their way down
the quivering cheeks.

"Don’t, Harvey," he implored; "this ain’t no time for that.  Madeline,
read that bit again."

The girl lifted the Bible from the bed.  "She knows the place I
want—it’s John the fourteenth," David said, his face turned to Harvey’s.
"We love all the places—they’re all beautiful.  There’s lovely shade in
the Psalms when the hot sun’s beatin’ down—an’ it’s all good; but John
the fourteenth’s like a deep, clear spring, an’ that’s where we stay the
most—weary travellers loves a spring," and the dying man turned his eyes
eagerly on the book Madeline had opened.

"Let not your heart be troubled....  In My Father’s house are many
mansions; if it were not so I would have told you."  Thus flowed the
stream of love; and David closed his eyes, drinking deep indeed of the
living tide.

"Ain’t that beautiful?" he said, his voice thrilled with passionate
gladness.  "I like that about the mansions the best, I think.  Everybody
loves a mansion.  I got turned out o’ one—the one our Madeline was born
in; but this’ll be a far better one, an’ me an’ Madeline an’ mother’ll
live there always, an’ nobody can’t ever turn us out.  It’s our
Father’s," he added reverently.

Mrs. Borland was bending over him.  "Don’t talk, David," she pleaded;
"it’s too much for your strength."

He gazed up at her.  "I want to give a—a testimony—afore I go," he said
falteringly.  "I jest want to own up that I always loved God—lots o’
folks didn’t think so—an’ He always loved me, an’ picked the path for
me.  An’ He made everythin’ to happen as it did; an’ I believe I’m
thankfuller for the things I didn’t want to happen than for the ones I
did—He seen the best, ’cause He was higher up.  Madeline, sing for me,"
he appealed with failing breath; "sing a children’s hymn—that one about
the river," his eyes gently closing as he lay back upon the pillow.

"He always loved that one," his wife whispered brokenly to Harvey.
"It’s so simple.  We can’t, David," as she bended over him, "we can’t
sing now."

"I can, mother," and Madeline’s voice was firm. The others’ eyes were
hidden, but Madeline’s were fixed steadfastly on her father’s as the
crystal notes came low and sweet:

    "Soon we’ll reach the silvery river
      Soon our pilgrimage shall cease;
    Soon our happy hearts shall quiver
      With the melody of peace,"

and the dying lips broke in once or twice in a plaintive effort to swell
the triumph strain.

The singing ceased.  But David’s eyes still rested on his daughter.
Then they were turned on Harvey, as he stood beside her; they seemed,
indeed, to rest on both at once.  And their meaning could be easily
read.  Suddenly he motioned them down beside him; the girl was
trembling, her pale lips quivering slightly, for she had interpreted her
father’s look.

David feebly raised his hands till one touched each bended head.
"You’ll sing that hymn—that river hymn—often, together—won’t you; in
your—own home," drawing the bowed heads closer down—"in your happy
home?" he faltered.

For a moment neither moved nor spoke.  Then, in strong and passionate
silence, Harvey slowly lifted his face till his eyes spoke their great
vow to the dying man; and, unashamed, he placed his arm gently,
resolutely, about the maiden’s bended form, holding her close with a
fondness that kindled all his face with light.  But Madeline’s was
hidden, her head still bended low.

David’s face was wonderful in its glow of love and gladness.  Suddenly
his gaze went out beyond the plighted pair.

"Geordie!" he said, the name breathed out in tenderness as his misty
eyes saw the well-loved form coming slowly through the door.

The aged man came over, leaning heavily on his staff, his face suffused
with a gentleness that flowed from his very heart.  He bended low above
his dying friend, dumbly groping for his hand.  He still leaned heavily
on his staff, for his outgoing pilgrimage, too, was close at hand.  And
the two men looked long without a word; the memories of happy years
passed from soul to soul; in silence their eyes still rested on each
other, but the troth of many years was plighted once again as they stood
at the parting of the ways.  And both knew the promise was to all
eternity.

Slowly David drew the strong Scottish face down beside his own.  Then he
said something in a tone so low that no other ear could hear; Geordie’s
answer was in a trembling whisper—but both spoke a language not of time.

"Lift me up, Geordie—Harvey, lift me up," David’s feeble voice broke out
a moment later.  "I want to look once more," his eyes turning to the
window.  The sun had set, and the gilded west was bathed in glory as
they tenderly lifted the wasted form, the weary head resting on the
bosom of his child.

David’s eyes, wondrously lightened now, rested long on the crimson
pathway.  "It’s a lovely road to go!" he murmured, gazing at the lane of
light. "I’m glad I’m not goin’ in the dark—things looks so strange in
the dark.  An’ I’m glad..."

It was Geordie Nickle who bended low, as though he were love’s best
interpreter, passionately listening for the ebbing words.  The receding
tide flowed back in a moment, and David’s voice came clearer: "An’ I’m
glad it’s the evenin’—things looks clearest in the evenin’ or the
mornin’—it’s the long afternoon that’s dark."

Geordie was almost on his knees beside him, the strong Scottish face
wrung with its depth of feeling. "Oh, David," he cried with the
eagerness of a child, "ye’ll sune be hame.  An’ we’re all comin’—we’ll
no’ be lang.  An’ oor Faither’s hoose has mony mansions—if it were na’
so..." but the choking voice refused.

"He’d have—let us know," the dying man added gently, completing the
mighty promise.  "It’s gettin’ dark," he whispered suddenly, looking up
into Madeline’s eyes; "it’s time for Him to come—I don’t know the way."

In a moment his whole expression had undergone a change, such a change
as comes to darkening hill-tops when the morning sun loves them into
life. Light covered his face as with a flood.  The weary eyes opened
wide, the eager hands outstretched. "It’s all bright now," he
faltered—"an’ He’s comin’—He’s comin’, like He said.  I knew—He’d—come."

They were bending low about him; his weeping wife breathed a long
farewell.  But Madeline saw the last movement of the dying lips, and the
yearning eyes seemed to bid her listen.  Her face was veiled with
reverent love as she stooped to catch the parting breath; it came, and
her face became transfigured as by the light of God.

"I’m jest home," she heard him murmur; "I’m jest home."

Gently they let the dear form sink back to its long, long rest.  Geordie
softly closed the eyes, never to give their light again.  Then the aged
man, his frame shaken with the sobs he could not repress, bent down and
kissed the furrowed brow.

"His battle’s past," he said, the words struggling out like driftwood
through the surge, "an’ he was a guid soldier."

And the conqueror lay in noble stillness, the glory of the departed day
abiding on his face.




                               *XXXVIII*

                        _*THE FLEEING SHADOWS*_


It was long after midnight, and Harvey’s night’s work was almost done.
He was the last one left in the office, and, as far as his duties were
concerned, everything was almost ready for the waiting press.  He had
just snapped his watch with an exclamation of surprise at the lateness
of the hour as he hurriedly turned to conclude his writing, when he
fancied he heard a noise on the step outside his office door.

He thought nothing of it; and the pen flowed faster than before.  But
only a couple of minutes more had passed when a similar sound fell upon
his ear.  And it disturbed him strangely.  Perhaps he was nervous, for
the strain of the night’s work had been severe enough—and he was alone.
The sound, to his ears at least, had something unusual and ominous about
it—yet he knew not why.

He turned again to complete his work, his glance searching the room a
moment before he did so.  But the disturbance had come from without—the
room was just as his associates had left it.  He tried to concentrate
his attention; yet a strange feeling possessed him—he felt in a vague,
restless way, as though he were being watched.  His office at the very
top of the building was almost lonely in its separation; from the
half-open windows the sleeping city might be seen, wrapped in the
trailing garments of the dark.  His mind seemed strangely sensitive,
a-quiver almost, as if some influence were borne in upon him from the
haunted chambers of the night.

Suddenly, impelled by some mysterious impulse, he flung his pen upon the
table and turned his gaze over his shoulder with a swift motion, fixing
his eyes on the large pane of glass that formed the upper portion of the
door.

Involuntarily he uttered a startled cry—for he could see, two or three
inches from the pane, a human face.  And the eyes were wide, and
fastened upon him with almost fierce intensity.  The bearded face was
pallid and haggard—but the eyes were the outstanding features, gleaming
with a nameless significance that spoke of a soul stirred with passion.
They never flinched—even as Harvey sprang from his chair they did not
turn away.  Nothing could be seen but the face—and the impact of the
unmoving eyes was terrific.

Harvey stood a moment, trembling.  The face never moved.  Then he strode
swiftly to the door and flung it wide.

"What’s the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded sternly.  "What’s your
business here?"

The man’s eyes moved only enough to wander slowly about his face.  He
waited till Harvey’s lips were framing other words, his hand now on the
door as if to slam it shut.  Then he walked slowly in, his face still
turned upon the other’s.  He shut the door himself.

"I want you to look at something," said the man, and the voice was deep
and passionate.

He was clad in the meanest garments; poor repairs were on them here and
there.  The signs of poverty were everywhere about him, and his whole
appearance was that of one who had suffered much amid the billows of
misfortune.  He seemed to be struggling hard to resummon something he
had lost—the quivering lips and the despairing eyes told that he had
been beaten in the fight, yet not without stern resistance, nor yet left
without flickerings of the old-time fire.  His spirit seemed broken, yet
not utterly destroyed.

"What are you doing here?  What’s your business?" Harvey demanded; the
man was fumbling in the pocket of his coat.

"I’m a printer," he answered, "and one of your foremen gave me work
to-day.  I only began to-night—and I came upstairs to see you.  _I knew
you were here._"

Something in the way he uttered these last words clutched at Harvey’s
heart.  "I knew you were here," the man repeated, nodding his head
slowly, his eyes again on Harvey.  And they seemed to melt with a
strange wild longing, following him with a kind of defiant wistfulness.
Somehow, like a faint and fleeting dream, Jessie’s face—or an expression
Harvey had often seen upon it—passed like a wraith between him and the
bearded man.

"Who are you?" he said huskily.

The man’s eyes rested a moment on the floor—and he was trembling where
he stood.  Slowly he raised them till they rested on Harvey’s pallid
face. Then they looked long and silently at each other, the dread and
voiceless dialogue waging—that awesome interchange of soul with soul
that makes men tremble, when eyes speak to answering eyes as lightning
calls from peak to peak.

"I’m your father," the low voice said at last, the deep eyes leaping
towards him in a strange mastery of strength and passion.

Harvey gave a cry and started back.  The man followed him, straightening
as he came, the hungering face out-held a little, pursuing still.  The
younger man retreated farther, gasping; and his eyes, like something
suddenly released, raced about the unkempt form, surveying boots and
clothes and beard and brow in an abandonment of candour.

"No, no," he murmured as he kept creeping back, the man following still;
"no, no, it cannot be."

The stranger’s hand was outstretched now. Something whitish was in
it—and something black. "Look," he said, his lips parting in a weird,
unearthly smile, "look, and deny it if you can; it’s a photograph—and a
letter."

Harvey stood still; then took them from the outstretched hand.  The gas
jet was just above.  He read the letter first—it was his mother’s
handiwork. And the letter breathed of love, and hope, and of impatient
joy at their approaching wedding-day.

Then he held the sharp-edged tin-type up before him.  And then he knew.
For his eye fell first on his mother’s face, sweet with the new-born joy
of motherhood.  And a laughing babe was in her arms—and the man beside
her, one hand resting on her shoulder, was the man whose panting breath
he heard, whose burning eyes were fixed upon him now.

"That’s you," the man said hoarsely; "and that’s your mother—baby wasn’t
born.  And I hadn’t ever drunk a drop then," he added, a bleating cry
mingling with the words.

Harvey stood long, looking down.  Once the stranger put out his hand—but
he drew back with the picture, gazing still.  The tide of battle rose
and fell within him.  Then his hand shook like an aspen, his whole frame
trembled, his sight grew blurred and dim.  Yet through the gust of tears
he looked again upon the haggard face—and again, more clearly than
before, something of Jessie’s swam before him.  A moment later, and his
soul, surging like the ocean in a storm, went out in primal passion to
the quivering man; swiftly, overmasteringly, as if forevermore, he took
him in his arms.

                  *      *      *      *      *      *

"If you’ll help me, my son—if you’ll help me, I’ll try again."  The
flickering gas jet still gave its light above them and the silent stars
still watched the sleeping city.  And the son still held his father in
the clasp of a long-slumbering, new-awakened love.

"We’ll fight it out together—and we’ll win," the lips of youth replied.
"I know all about it, father—and I’ll help all I can.  I promised
mother—I promised to bring you, father.  Mother’s waiting; and I said
we’d come together—and Jessie, too."

"Will Jessie love me?" the broken voice enquired, the tone plaintive
with mingled love and fear.

"She’s always loved you, father," and the son’s voice was thrilling with
compassion.  "We’re both your children," and it was pitiful to see the
strong lips struggling; "we’re your children—and we promised mother."

Thus the gentle stream flowed on.  And as they talked a new peace flowed
into the haunted eyes; and the blessed tidings of those he loved—of her
whose sweet face was even now upon its pillow, and of the one who dwelt
with God—came with balm and healing to his soul.

"I’ll try, Harvey," he said again—"and I’ll trust your mother’s God."

As Harvey guided him out into the night the quiet stars above him seemed
to be the very sentinels of heaven.  And he marvelled that this wondrous
charge had come to him at last—over all the waste of years; and that the
secret plan of the Unseen, its deep design unchanging, had entrusted to
his hand the fulfillment of his mother’s prayers.


It was night again; but beautiful.  And if any of the Glenallen
slumberers, a moment waking, heard upon the pavement the tread of two
silent men, they knew not how holy was the mission that impelled these
pilgrims of the night.  They paused but once, these two; before a
weather-beaten little house, empty now, its grimy shop-window staring
out into the dark.  But the older man seemed as if he could not look
enough; like cathedral to reverent saint this squalid building was to
him.  Once the younger man pointed to an upper window—no light gleamed
from it now—but the other’s eyes, even when they had left it far behind,
turned to caress it with lingering tenderness.

They passed together through the gate that guarded the little city of
the dead.  The moon was hidden; and no word passed between them as they
made their way to the holy of holies where lay their precious dead.  But
Harvey’s hand went out to his father’s; and thus they went on together,
hand in hand through the darkness, as children go beneath life’s morning
sun.

They stopped beside two grassy graves.  Nearest to them, at their dewy
feet, lay the larger mound; the baby’s nestled close beside it.  The
older man’s head, uncovered, was bowed in reverence; even in the dark
Harvey could see the stamp of eternity upon his face.  The son’s love,
unspeaking, went out in silent passion to his father; so near he seemed,
so dear, so much his own in that holy hour.  Yet the broken heart beside
him carried a load of anguish of which the son knew nothing; it was torn
by a tragedy and rended by a memory no other heart could share—and the
weary eyes looked covetously at the quiet resting-place beside the
waiting dead.

His tears fell—on the baby’s grave.  He leaned over, as if he saw—first
above the one, turning again to the other—and God was busy meantime with
the wound, the long bleeding, unstaunched wound.

Harvey touched him on the shoulder.  He looked a moment into his son’s
face, almost as if surprised to see him there.  Then his eyes turned
again to the lowly mounds, and he sank on his knees between them.
Reverently, the yearning of the years finding now a voice, he stooped
low till his lips touched the sod above the mother’s face.  Then his own
was upturned to the distant sky, the lips moving.

Harvey knew the broken vow was for God alone. He turned away.  The moon
stole gently forth from the passing cloud; and, as he turned, his eye
fell on the new-illumined verse graven on the simple stone:

                  "UNTIL THE DAY BREAK AND THE SHADOWS
                               FLEE AWAY"



                                THE END



           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




                         *By Robert E. Knowles*


_The Attic Guest_

_The Web of Time_

_The Dawn at Shanty Bay_
       Decorated and Illustrated by Griselda M. McClure

_The Undertow_
       A Tale of Both Sides of the Sea

_St. Cuthbert’s_
       A Parish Romance