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."