*XVII*

_*FRIENDSHIP’S MINISTRY*_

If any man would learn the glory and beauty of a mighty tree we would

bid him range the untroubled forest where God’s masterpieces stand in

rich profusion. But we are wrong. Not there will he learn how precious

and how beautiful are the stately oak and the spreading beech and the

whispering pine. But let him dwell a summer season through upon some

treeless plain or rolling prairie, and there will be formed within him a

just and discriminating sense of the healing ministry committed to these

mediators between earth and sky.

And men learn friendship best where friends are not. Not when surrounded

by strong and loving hearts, but when alone with thousands of

indifferent lives, do we learn how truly rich is he who has a friend.

To find then one who really cares is to confront in sudden joy a

familiar face amid the waste of wilderness.

Alone among indifferent thousands as he alighted from the train, Harvey

Simmons turned his steps, the streets somewhat more familiar than

before, towards the house where dwelt the only man he knew in all the

crowded city. A few enquiries and a half hour’s vigorous walking

brought him within sight of the doctor’s house; he was so intent on

covering the remaining distance that two approaching figures had almost

passed him by when he heard a voice that had something familiar about

it.

"I’ll do the best I can, Wallis," the voice was saying, "but I guess

we’ll have to put the child under chloroform."

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

doctor himself.

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

The older of the two men turned suddenly on his heel, the keen gray eyes

scrutinizing the figure before him. It was but a moment till the same

kindly smile that Harvey remembered so well broke over his face. Both

hands were on the young man’s shoulder in an instant.

"You don’t mean to say—I know you, mind—but you don’t mean to say you’re

that young fellow from, from Glenallen—that brought his mother to me

about her eyes?"

By this time Harvey had possession of one of the hands. "I’m the very

same," he said, his face beaming with the joy of being recognized.

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

The light faded a little from Harvey’s face. "She can’t see at all now,

sir," he answered soberly. "She’s quite blind—only she can tell when

it’s morning."

"Thank the Lord for that," said the other fervently; "that’s always a

gleam of hope." Then followed a brief exchange of questions and

answers.

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

"Oh, she’s lovely—she’s just as sweet and patient as she can be; doesn’t

think of herself at all."

"Your mother must be a regular brick."

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

her up."

"Shouldn’t wonder—it’s the best kind of stimulant I know of," the doctor

answered in a droll sort of way, turning and smiling at his companion.

"Oh, excuse me, Wallis—what’s this the name is?" he asked Harvey; "I’ve

just forgotten it."

"Simmons, Harvey Simmons," the other answered.

"Of course; it’s quite familiar now that I hear it. This is Dr.

Wallis—and this is Mr. Simmons," he said to the other. "Dr. Wallis was

just taking me to see a patient. Did you want to see me about anything

in particular, Harvey?—you won’t mind my calling you that, will you?"

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

familiarity.

"Well, really, I did," Harvey responded frankly. Wherewith, briefly and

simply, he told his friend the purpose which had brought him to the

city, outlining the academic course he intended to pursue, earnest

resolve evident in every word. "And I wanted to get your advice about a

boarding-house," he concluded; "you see, I thought you might know some

nice quiet place that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be too dear," he said,

flushing a little. "I’m quite a stranger in the city—but I don’t want

to go to a regular boarding-house if I can help it."

"Well, no," the doctor began, knitting his brows. "And I really ought to

be able to help you out on that. But I tell you—you come along with us;

then we can talk as we go along. Besides, I’m sure Dr. Wallis here will

be able to advise you much better than I could—he knows every old woman

in the city."

His confrère smiled. "It’s mostly the submerged tenth I know," he

answered; "I’m afraid there aren’t many of my patients you’d care to

board with. Want a place near the college, I suppose?"

"That’s not so essential," said Harvey; "I wouldn’t mind a walk of a

mile or so at all."

"Good idea," said the other; "most students are pretty cheerful

feeders—want a room to yourself?"

"I’d prefer it—if it wouldn’t add too much to the expense. I’ve always

got to consider that, you know," returned Harvey, smiling bravely

towards his new-found friend.

"Right again," affirmed the doctor. "Single stalls are the thing;

everybody sleeps better without assistance. Sooner have a few children

around? Some fellows study better with kids in the house, and others

again go wild if they hear one howl."

"I believe I’d get along just as well without them," said Harvey,

laughing; "you see, I’ll need to study very hard—and I don’t believe

they help one much."

"It’s like studying in a monkeys’ cage," asserted Dr. Wallis vigorously;

"what I hate about little gaffers in a boarding-house is the way they

always want to look at your watch," he enlarged solemnly, "and five

times out of six they let it fall. It’s fun for them, as the old fable

says, but it’s death to the frogs. And of course you want to get into a

place where they have good cooking; it’s pretty hard to do the higher

mathematics on hash and onions—and lots o’ students have lost their

degrees through bad butter. I’ve known men whose whole professional

life was tainted by the butter they got at college."

"But I’m not over particular about what I eat," began Harvey; "if the

place is warm, and if they keep it——"

"That’s all right enough," broke in the other, "but it makes a

difference just the same. You’ve got the same kind of internal

mechanism as other fellows, and you’ve got to reckon with it. Well,

we’ll see what we can do. I’ve got a place or two in mind now. I’ll

tell you about them later—we’re almost at my patient’s house. I say,

you may as well come in—it’ll be a little glimpse of life for you; and

we can see more about this matter after we come out."

Another hundred yards brought them to their destination, a rather

squalid looking cottage on a rather squalid looking street. Dr. Wallis

knocked at the door, pushing it open and entering without tarrying for

response. As Harvey followed with the older doctor a child’s wailing

fell upon his ears, emerging from the only other room the little house

contained.

"Just wait here," said Dr. Wallis to the other two; "the child’s in

there—I’ll be back in a minute."

He disappeared, Harvey and his friend seating themselves on a rude bench

near the door. Both looked around for a minute at the pitiful bareness

of the room; and the eyes of both settled down upon a tawdry doll that

lay, forsaken and disconsolate, on the floor. Tawdry enough it was, and

duly fractured in the head; but it redeemed the wretched room with the

flavour of humanity, and the solitary sunbeam that had braved the grimy

window played about the battered brow, and the vision of some child’s

wan face rose above the hapless bundle.

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

water."

"Who?" asked Harvey.

For answer, the doctor jerked his head backward towards the adjoining

room. "He just lives among poor people like these—they’re all idolaters

of his. He gives away every cent he makes; when he does get a rich

patient he makes them shell out for the poor ones. I know one of my

patients called him in once for an emergency—sprained his big toe

getting out of the bath-tub—and Wallis charged him fifty dollars for

rubbing it. Then he went out and gave the money all away; the patient

forgot all about his toe after Wallis got through with him, I can tell

you—the pain went higher up. But I was kind of glad—he was the head of

a big plumbing firm, and I always thought Providence used Wallis as the

humble instrument to chasten him."

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

Sitting alone, Harvey listened to the muffled sounds within. The crying

subsided as the odour of chloroform arose; and the voice of weeping was

now the mother’s, not the child’s. Finally both grew still and a long

silence followed. So long did it seem that Harvey had moved towards the

door, intending to walk about till the operation should be over, when

suddenly both men emerged from the tiny apartment.

"It’s all over," said Dr. Horton—"and I think it’s been successful; I

believe the child will see as well as ever she did."

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

life.

"I say, Horton," broke in the other doctor, "what’ll you charge for

this? Better tell me, and I can tell her," nodding towards the room

where the mother was still bended over the beshadowed child.

"Oh, that’s not worrying me," said the specialist, carefully replacing

an instrument in his case as he Spoke. "Nobody looks for money from a

neighbourhood like this," indicating the unpromising surroundings by a

glance around. "I’ll get my reward in heaven."

"A little on account wouldn’t do any harm," returned the cheery Wallis.

"It’s out of the question to ask a man of your station to pike away down

here for nothing; I’m going to try anyhow—just wait here till I come

back," wherewith he turned towards the little room, closing the door

carefully behind him as he entered.

He had hardly got inside before, to Harvey’s amazement, Dr. Horton

dropped his surgical case and tiptoed swiftly to the door, stooping down

to gaze through a keyhole that long years and frequent operations had

left more than usually spacious. Watching intently, Harvey could see the

face of his friend distorted by an expression partly of mirth and partly

of indignation. For Dr. Horton could descry the woman still bending

over the little bed, evidently oblivious to the fact that the doctor had

returned; and Dr. Wallis himself was conducting a hurried search through

his pockets upper and nether, a grimace of satisfaction indicating that

he had found at last the material he was in quest of.

The spying specialist had barely time to spring back to where Harvey was

standing, when the other reappeared, smiling and jubilant.

"You never can tell, Horton," he began, holding out a bill; "you can

never tell—there’s nothing like trying. Here’s a five I collected for

you, and it was given gladly enough. It’s not very much but——"

"You go to the devil," broke in the specialist, trying to look angry;

"you think you’re infernal smart, don’t you?—but you haven’t got all the

brains in the world."

"You surprise me, Dr. Horton," the other began vigorously, commanding a

splendid appearance of injured amazement. "You don’t mean to insinuate

that I put part of the fee in my pocket, do you?" he demanded, striking

a martial attitude, and inwardly very proud of the way he had changed

the scent.

"Put that rag back in your left-hand vest pocket where you got it,"

growled the senior physician as he picked up his hat. "You may work

your smart-Alec tricks with the poor natives round here—but you can’t

come it on me. Take Simmons along and find him some place to lay his

head," he added, opening the door and leading the way outward to the

street.

The three walked together for perhaps four or five squares, the two

physicians still engaged in the genial hostilities that Dr. Wallis’s

financial genius had provoked. Suddenly the latter came to a standstill

at the junction of two streets, his eyes roving along a richly shaded

avenue to his left.

"I guess you’d better go along home, Horton," he said—"you’ll want to

post your ledger anyhow, after a profitable day like this. And I think

I’ll just take your friend here and go on the still hunt for a little.

Don’t look much like a boarding-house street, does it?" he added, as he

marked the look of surprise on his contemporary’s face. "But you never

can tell—anyhow, I’ve got a place along here in my mind’s eye, and we

may just as well find out now as any other time."

"Wish you luck," the older man flung after them as he went his way; "if

you get lodgings at any of those houses you’ll have to sleep with the

butler."

"It does look a little unlikely, I’ll admit," Dr. Wallis said to Harvey

as they started down the avenue; "but the whole case is quite unusual.

This is a woman of over fifty I’m going to see—nobody knows exactly—and

she’s almost the only rich patient I’ve got. She lives a strange, half

hermit kind of life—goes out almost none—and mighty few people ever get

in. Except her clergyman, of course—she insists on seeing her minister

constantly; I think he’s just a curate, and I’ve always had the feeling

that he’d consider death great gain—if it came to her. But for a while

back she’s been talking to me as if she wouldn’t mind some one in the

house, if they were congenial. It seems one or two attempts have been

made to break in at nights—and the butler sleeps like a graven image.

Just the other day I suggested she might take in a nurse, a young lady I

know, who wants to get a quiet home—but I nearly had to run for shelter;

she gave her whole sex the finest decorating I’ve heard for years. No

women for her, thank you."

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

The doctor looked him in the eyes and laughed. "Well, rather! Odd, I

should say she is. But she’s just as genuine as she can be. And if you

get in there you’ll be as comfortable as you’d be in Windsor

Castle—quiet and secluded as a monastery, the very place for a student.

She’s been gathering beautiful things for years, all sorts of curios and

rarities—and she’s passionately fond of animals, keeps a regular

menagerie. And she’s great on keeping well; pretends to despise all

doctors, and has a few formulas for every occasion. Deep breathing is

her specialty—she’s a regular fiend on deep breathing. But you’ll see

for yourself," the doctor concluded, as they turned in at an open gate

and began to mount the stone steps that led to a rather imposing-looking

door.

Spacious and inviting, if somewhat neglected looking, were the

old-fashioned grounds about the old-fashioned house. Great spreading

trees stood here and there, perhaps thirty or forty in all, some in the

sombre dishabille of autumn, some in unchanging robes of green. And two

summer-houses, one smaller than the other, nestling in opposite corners,

stood deserted and lonely amid the new-fallen carpet of dying leaves. A

solitary flower-bed, evidently ill at ease amid the unfettered life

about it, waved its few remaining banners, the stamp of death upon them,

pensively in the evening breeze. There was an ancient fountain, too,

but its lips were parched and dry, and the boyish form that stood in

athletic pose above it looked weary of the long and fruitless vigil. Two

brazen dogs stood near the gate, sullen and uncaring now, the chill wind

awakening memories of many a winter’s storm, and foretelling, too,

another winter waiting at the door.

Dr. Wallis gave the brazen door-knob an uncommonly vigorous tug. "She

likes you to ring as if you meant it," he explained to Harvey, the

distant product of his violence pealing and repealing through the house.

"We’ll likely have to wait a little while," the doctor remarked; "she

never lets a servant come to the door till she peeks through that upper

left-hand window herself. Don’t look," he added hurriedly; "she

mightn’t let us in if she catches any one looking."

After a few minutes’ further waiting, the harsh grating of the heavy

bolt and the violent turning of the reluctant handle were followed by

the apparition of a head of iron gray, a pair of absolutely emotionless

eyes fixed upon the visitors in turn. Dr. Wallis nodded, the man barely

returning his salutation as he led the way into a large and solemnly

furnished apartment on the left. Harvey’s principal impression was of

the height of the ceiling and the multitude of mirrors that confronted

him on every hand; there seemed to be a goodly assemblage in the room,

so often were its two solitary inmates reproduced.

Harvey and the doctor were still engaged in a mental inventory of the

room, its paintings, bronzes, and what not, all claiming their

attention, when the solemn head of iron gray reappeared at the door.

"Miss Farringall says she’ll see you in her room," said the sphinx, his

lips closing with an audible smack; whereupon the scanty procession was

reformed, following the servant as he led the way up a winding flight of

stairs. The man knocked at the door of a small sitting-room,

precipitately retiring as soon as he had pushed it partly open.

*XVIII*

_*VOICES OF THE PAST*_

Harvey followed his companion inside, peering eagerly for what awaited

them. The mistress of the house fitted her surroundings well. She was

reclining in an ample chair, a half-emptied cup of tea on a little table

beside her. She was evidently much above medium height, spare and thin,

a rusty dressing-gown folded loosely about her. Her hair was quite

gray, and quite at liberty, not at all ill-becoming to the large, strong

features, and the well-formed head. The brow was broad and high,

wrinkled slightly, and furrowed deeply down the centre; high

cheek-bones, a rather mobile mouth, a complexion still unfaded, joined

with the bright penetrating eyes to make a decidedly interesting

countenance. The face looked capable of tenderness, yet as if

tenderness had cost her dear. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat

shimmering on her brow; one swift shuffle of the face reduced them to

their proper sphere.

"Barlow didn’t tell me there were two," she said, without looking at the

doctor. She was looking beyond him at the stranger’s face. "He’s got

both arms anyhow, thank heaven," she said, looking at Harvey. "He

nearly always brings people with one arm, that want help," she explained

to the newcomer, motioning towards a chair.

"This is Mr. Simmons, Miss Farringall," the doctor began blandly. "I

took the liberty——"

"I know him," she interrupted gently, still surveying Harvey. "Didn’t

you hear me talking to him? And I know all about the liberty too—I do

wish Barlow would count people before he shows them up."

"How do you feel to-day, Miss Farringall?" enquired the physician.

"Better," replied his patient. "I gave Barlow that medicine you sent

me—I always feel better after Barlow takes it. Is your friend going to

be a doctor?" she went on in the same breath, inclining her head towards

Harvey.

"Oh, no, he’s going to the university—he’s a student," the doctor

informed her.

"That’s quite different—that’ll save somebody’s life. What did you

bring him for?" she demanded frankly, turning the keen eyes for the

first time from Harvey’s face and fastening them on the doctor’s.

"Well, he was with me; he’s a friend of Dr. Horton’s and mine—and I

thought I’d just bring him in. This is his first day. Besides," and the

wily tactician paused a moment, "I wanted to ask your advice."

"I’ll charge you doctor’s rates," said the spinster, restoring her

spectacles to their former altitude.

"That’s cheap enough for anything," retorted the other. "And anyhow,

I’ll take the usual time to pay it. But seriously, Miss Farringall, I

want your counsel on a matter we’re both interested in. You see, I’ve

promised to help Mr. Simmons get a boarding-house if I can, and I

thought you might know of some suitable place—you’ve lived so long in

the city," he explained with an amiable smile.

"That’s remarkably true," interrupted the lady as she rattled the spoon

in the cup beside her—"and I’ve knocked about so much; lived in the

streets, haven’t I?—been a kind of a city missionary, I suppose. What

kind of a place does your friend want?" she enquired with mock

seriousness.

"Oh, any nice quiet place," answered the intrepid doctor, "with plain

honest people that’ll make him comfortable. He wants quiet—and

refinement—more than anything else, I should say."

"If I had my things on, I’d just go out now and enquire around among the

neighbours," the woman avowed gravely, trying to control two very

rebellious corners about her mouth. "Where do you come from, sir?" she

asked abruptly, turning on the silent Harvey.

"From the country, Miss Farringall—from a place called Glenallen."

"Parents living?"

"My mother’s living, ma’am; she lives alone—except, I have a sister."

"What’s her name?"

"Jessie."

"Sensible name. Are you a churchman?"

"Yes, Miss Farringall—at least I hope so."

"High?"

"No," answered Harvey, wondering slightly. "No, just Presbyterian."

"Oh!" said Miss Farringall, "I see. But you can repeat the creed?"

"Oh, yes, we learned that at school."

"And if you were living in a—in a church family, you’d be willing to

come in to prayers when the rector came? You’d be quite willing, I

suppose?"

"I’d love to," said Harvey fervently.

"And do you love animals?"

"A good many," Harvey answered cautiously.

"Birds?"

"I love birds," said Harvey.

"Dogs?"

"Better still," replied the interrogated.

"Cats?"

"Sometimes. Of course, Miss Farringall, I won’t have a great deal of

time to devote to pets. I’ll have to study pretty hard; it’s largely

through the kindness of a couple of friends that I have the chance to——"

But his interrogator was already ringing a hand-bell with great vigour.

"Barlow," she said, as the butler reappeared, "bring Grey here."

"Yes, mum," murmured the mobile servant as he disappeared, returning a

minute later with a large specimen of the feline tribe at his heels.

The animal was mewing loudly as it came. Barlow turned and departed as

his four-footed companion bolted in at the open door.

Miss Farringall made a slight outward motion with her hands and the cat

promptly sprang into her lap. Then he turned to survey the company,

wasting only the briefest glance on the doctor’s familiar face, but

subjecting Harvey to the scrutiny that his strangerhood seemed to render

necessary.

"You may go, Grey," the woman said in an almost inaudible voice,

whereupon the cat slowly descended, standing still a moment to continue

its examination of the stranger. Gradually it drew closer, rubbing its

sides at length against Harvey’s ankles, still scrutinizing the face

above. Harvey smiled, whereat the creature looked more intently than

before.

"Don’t speak," whispered Miss Farringall, "I believe he’s going to——"

the prediction lost in a little gasp of excitement as the feline

suddenly bounded into Harvey’s lap, thence to his shoulder, its tail

aloft like a banner, while a gentle purring issued forth as it began an

affectionate circuit of Harvey’s head.

Miss Farringall’s face was radiant, her spectacles now at high mast as a

result of much facial contortion. "You can stay here if you like, Mr.

Simmons, till—till I find a place for you," she said, her eyes still

fixed in admiration on the cat. Dr. Wallis said nothing, inwardly

blessing the whole feline race.

"You’re very kind, ma’am," Harvey began, his face crimson with an

excitement he could hardly explain. "And I’ll be good to Grey," he

added desperately, not knowing what else to say.

"You mustn’t feed him, mind," the other broke out intensely—"not a

mouthful of anything. And no thanks, if you please; I never knew Grey

to make a mistake. Besides, there’s something about you that reminds me

of—of somebody else," she concluded, her tone softened into unwonted

gentleness.

"Was he a relative, Miss Farringall?" the doctor ventured, anxious that

the reference should be appropriately received.

"Who said he was a he at all?" retorted his friend, turning suddenly

upon him as she groped aloft for the departed spectacles.

"You can have the room over the dining-room," she went on, addressing

Harvey again; "it opens on the lawn, and you must leave your window open

summer and winter—wherever you maybe in winter," she corrected; "and

breathe deep—breathe deep of the fresh air of heaven. Are you a deep

breather, Mr. Simmons?" she enquired anxiously.

"I’ve never thought much about it," said Harvey frankly; "but I’ll try

and learn, Miss Farringall," quenching a smile as he looked up at the

earnest face.

"It’s life," she assured him earnestly, "pure life."

"Miss Farringall’s right," the doctor added gravely. "There’s nothing

more connected with life than breathing. I’ve often noticed that in my

practice."

But the irreverent reflection was wasted on the zealous heart of Miss

Farringall. "Where are you going to stay to-night?" she asked; "it’ll

soon be dark."

Harvey hesitated. "I thought I’d just take him home with me," the

doctor volunteered; "then he could come here to-morrow."

"Where’s your trunk?" pursued the hostess.

"It’s at the station," said Harvey; "I’ve got the check."

"Barlow’ll attend to having it sent up; there’s really no reason for him

going away from here to-night. I’m willing—you and Grey are credentials

enough for me," she added, her face relaxing into a more pronounced

smile than Harvey had seen there before.

Dr. Wallis was already moving towards the door. The grave Barlow had it

open in advance. "You’ll let us know in good time when you get another

place for my friend, Miss Farringall—that is, when he has to leave."

"Oh, yes, I’ll attend to that," she assured him. "Don’t let Grey get

out, Barlow—it’s too cold for him. Keep your mouth closed,

Barlow—breathe through your nose," for the sudden shock of the

intelligence that the doctor’s words implied, the idea slowly filtering

in upon him that a stranger was to pass the night beneath that sacred

roof, had thrown poor Barlow’s mouth as wide open as his ears.

"Miss Farringall’ll let you know when you’ve got to leave, Mr. Simmons,"

said Dr. Wallis as he glanced furtively at Harvey, winking violently the

while. "You’ll feel more comfortable, I’m sure," he resumed, his

features quite composed again as he turned towards the mistress of the

house, "to have a man around at nights—there have been two cases of

house-breaking on this street lately."

"I know that," she answered with bated breath; "I’m often afraid at

nights. I thought some one was breaking in last night; I was so sure of

it that I turned on the light and began reading the prayer for those in

peril on the sea—but it was just Barlow snoring. You snore like Niagara

Falls, don’t you, Barlow?"

"Yes, mum," replied the accomplished, without moving a muscle.

With a last cheery word to Harvey, and promising to return soon, Dr.

Wallis withdrew, leaving the new-found relation to work itself out as

best it could. Harvey waited a few minutes amid the mirrors in the

parlour while his room was being prepared for its new occupant; to which

he was promptly conducted by Miss Farringall herself, Barlow having

retired for repairs to a very startled system.

"I should think your trunk would be here a little after supper," she

said as she showed him in, "and I’d advise you to change your flannels

when it comes. Excuse my advice on such matters," she added, a delicate

little flush stealing to her cheek, "but I’m old enough to be your

mother—and besides, it’s getting quite cool outside. I think there’s

nothing so wholesome as warm flannels—warm flannels and deep breathing.

Sometimes I think people wouldn’t ever die if they’d only change their

flannels when the weather changes—and keep on breathing deep," she

concluded, drawing a profound breath the while, her lips locked like a

vice. "Supper’ll be ready in half an hour."

Then she hurried back to her little sitting-room, the kindly bosom

rising and falling as she faithfully pursued the wondrous treatment.

Gaining the room, she immediately rang the bell, and a moment later the

partially recovered butler stood before her. He, too, had had a

treatment; for which cause he breathed as lightly as the demands of

nature would permit.

"Hand me that box from my secretary, Barlow—that ebony box."

He obeyed; and Miss Farringall held it a moment in her hands, then

adjusted a tiny key and turned the lock. A queer little tremor rippled

over her lips as the thin fingers groped a moment at the very bottom of

the box. Those same fingers showed just the least unsteadiness as they

released the dim gold clasp that bound a jet-black frame, which,

opening, disclosed the portrait of a man about twenty-two or

twenty-three years of age. She held it musingly in front of her a

moment. Then she held it out towards Barlow, who promptly moved forward

like some statue out-marching from its niche, his arms rigid by his

side.

"You’ve never seen that before, Barlow?"

"No, mum."

"Who do you think it’s like, Barlow?"

"I couldn’t say, mum."

"Don’t you think it resembles that visitor of ours—that young man Dr.

Wallis brought this evening?"

"Yes, mum," Barlow assented, almost before she had finished her

question.

"Do you think it very much like him, Barlow?"

"It’s his livin’ image, mum," said the talking statue.

"You can go, Barlow."

"Yes, mum," said Barlow, already gone.

The woman sat alone in the fading light, the picture still before her.

Suddenly she started, started as violently, almost, as if the dead face

before her had broken into speech. Again the bell awoke the echoes of

the lonely house, and again the servant stalked like a shadow to the

door.

"Barlow, what did Dr. Wallis say was that young man’s name?"

"I couldn’t say, mum," answered Barlow, with the air of one who has been

charged with murder. Even in the shadow he noticed the whiteness of the

lips that questioned him.

"Well, find it out then," she exclaimed, her voice rising as she half

rose in her chair—"find it out, I say. What do you suppose you’re here

for, if it’s not to know who’s in the house?"

"Yes, mum," Barlow responded, his tone now the tone of the convicted.

"Never mind that—go and find out the name. Tell him we’ll need to know

when the postman brings the letters—tell him anything—go now," as the

menial vanished in the direction of Harvey’s room.

It was but a moment till he was back. "It’s Simmons, mum—he says it’s

Simmons."

Miss Farringall was now erect. "What was his father’s name?—his mother

lives alone, he told me. Ask him what was his father’s name—this minute,

hear."

Barlow was back in even less time than before. "Simmons," he said

solemnly; "it seems his father’s name was Simmons too, mum."

His mistress advanced a step or two towards him; the faithful Barlow

bowed his head like one ready to be offered. "Go back," she said in a

low tense tone, "go back and ask him what his father’s first name was.

I want to know. And if you blunder this time, sir, you’ll walk out of

my house, mind."

"Yes, mum," agreed the man, lifting his eyes devotedly as he spoke, and

vanishing into the outer gloom.

"Edward, mum," he informed her in a moment, "Edward Simmons—and he says

what might you want to know for, mum."

A wave of indescribable emotion swept over the woman’s face. She walked

slowly to the window, gazing blindly out at the encroaching shadows of

the autumn night. She saw the lurid sky beyond the city’s utmost

fringe, still crimson with the gilding of a departed sun, touched with

the colour that was fading fast; even as she looked, the once radiant

clouds were turning cold and gray, the ashen hue of age displacing the

splendour of their transient joy. And the withered leaves,

contemptuously tossed by the rising wind, moaned about the knees of many

a heartless tree that had once flaunted them so proudly, whispering the

story of their beauty to both earth and sky. But the silent gazer saw

little of the autumn scene. For the grave and tender eyes were fixed on

something far beyond it, far behind, nestling in the bosom of departed

years; and what they saw was blighted with no decay of autumn, but stood

fresh and beautiful in the light of summer. Green fields they saw, and

tender bud and opening blossom everywhere, the very clouds beautiful in

noble gloom because of the unconquerable sun. And that sun was Love—and

the face she saw amid it all was the face of Edward Simmons.

Her eyes suddenly seemed to withdraw themselves from the scene without,

turning wistfully upon the picture she still held in her hand. Only a

moment did they linger there before they were turned again upon the

autumn world without. And lo! The blackness of it all, its loneliness,

all the pathos of the withered summer, seemed now to rise up before the

woman’s creative gaze; the sky, with its mystic tragedy as the glow

surrendered to the gloom, the unbannered trees, the hurrying, homeless

leaves, the dirge of the mournful wind—all these were deepened and

darkened by that other vision of summer gladness that now was past and

gone. For there is no mmistrant to sorrow like the sweet face of some

dead happiness; it is June that gives November all its bitterness.

Long musing, she turned at last from the window, again summoning the

faithful servant.

"Barlow," she said, the tone quite low, "go to the vault—look in that

lower left-hand drawer and bring me a parcel of papers there. They’re

only newspapers," she added, "all tied together; bring them here."

A few minutes later Barlow handed her the parcel. "Shall I light the

gas, mum?" he asked, turning at the door.

"No, thank you; I don’t want it—but you can kindle the fire."

Then she sat, the papers and the photograph in her lap, till the

crackling flame was bright. And again the wistful eyes pored over the

past as though it were an open book. Far clearer now she saw it than

before. For every leaping tongue of flame babbled of other days while

the hearth-fire plied its ancient subtle industry, calling up

long-vanished faces as it ever does, rebuilding the ruined past, echoing

once again the long silent tones of love—and the panorama of the bygone

years passed in a lane of light between the burning eyes and the mystic

fire, both knowing, both caring, both sorrowing.

It was almost dark when the spare and slender form rose from the chair,

moving to the secretary in the corner of the room. From the lowest

compartment of it she lifted, very gently, a little bundle of letters.

Then she picked up the photograph again, extracting an old newspaper

from the parcel before her; a quick glance at its date confirmed what

she already knew. Then, with the old daguerreotype and the old letters

and the old faded newspaper in her hand, she sank upon a hassock that

lay beside the fire—the fire too was old, so old and dear—and she smiled

to herself as she settled down in the old girlish way, the lonely blaze

greeting her as it flung its glow again upon the flushed and quivering

face, as dear to it as in the gladder days of yore. One by one she

turned them over—the picture and the letters and the paper—the whole

story of her life was there. The shadows gathered deeper and darker as

she sat and fondled these precious things, the only real treasure of all

her treasure-laden house—but the fire burned on as brightly as in other

days, as brightly as if it had never faltered through the years.

It was a new sensation that crept about Harvey Simmons’ heart that

night, such a sensation as can come only to the youth who is denied for

the first time the vision of his mother’s face. It seemed strange to

have said good-night to nobody in the old familiar way, to hear no

reassuring sound of voices indistinctly chatting in the distance, as

Jessie’s and his mother’s always could be heard, and to give or hear no

final word of mirth or message as the lamp went out and the comfortable

couch received him.

The room appointed to him was replete with all that might minister to

comfort, even rich and elegant in its appointments. How often Harvey

had wished his own humble home had boasted such a room, not for himself

but for another; yet, now that he had come into possession of all he had

so often envied, how paltry and insignificant it seemed, how far beneath

what he had imagined—and how gladly he would have exchanged it all for

his little room at home, if he might have but again been near the dear

ones from whom he had never been parted a single night in all the course

of his uneventful life.

His eyes fell upon a little table in the corner, generously furnished

with materials for writing. It was, in consequence, very late before he

committed himself to sleep. Yet he had only written two letters, the

first to his mother, a faithful and exhaustive narrative of every hour

since he had seen her last. It was a new experience to him, and he

wondered a little at the almost mysterious ease with which he filled

page after page. It was a new-found joy, this of writing—and both

intellect and emotion entered into the task with a zest and instinct

that surprised himself.

The second letter was begun with much misgiving, and after long

consideration. For it was to Madeline, to whom, in a kind of way he was

quite at a loss to understand, his thought went out in his

loneliness—far more, indeed, than it had ever done when he lived beside

her. Much misgiving about this second letter there was, as has been

said; and yet he felt it could not be unwelcome since its purpose was so

far from personal—for its main story was of the little child and the

poor family of whom he had come to know through his contact with Dr.

Wallis. And he knew Madeline would love to help, in some way her own

delicate judgment would suggest. But before he was through his pen had

rather run away with him; and some of his impressions of the new life

about him, with a little, too, that treated of life in general, had

sighed itself in a kind of lonely soliloquy through the expanding pages.

And he read this second letter over twice, correcting it with great

care, a process the first had been denied.

His trunk had been duly delivered, as Miss Farringall had assured him it

should be, and it was with a kind of reverent tenderness that the lonely

stranger raised the lid and surveyed all his poor belongings, each one

lying where it had been placed by the loving hands that were now so far

away. The care-worn face rose again before him as he bended over these

last tokens of his mother’s devoted care; and instinctively, with a dumb

sense that she would have wished it so, he searched first for the sacred

book he had seen her place there. He soon found it, and carrying it to

where the light might fall upon it, he turned wistfully to the fly-leaf.

Still with his eyes fixed on it he sat down on the bed beside him, the

dim mist gathering as the poor misguided handwriting looked up at him in

all the eloquence of sightless love:

"_Dear Harvey_

_From his loving mother_"

was all that was written there. But every character was aflame with

fondness, and every word was a vision, bright with tender beauty,

fragrant of the unselfish courage that had filled their lowly lives with

a gladness denied to many a richer home. The very waywardness of the

writing, the lines aslant and broken, enhanced the dauntless love that

penned them; and Harvey’s lips were touched to the mute symbols with

reverent passion.

Still swimming, his eyes fell again upon the page, and he noticed—what

he had not seen before—that something had been written at the lower

corner. Isaiah 66:13, it said; and a moment later he had found the text.

The full heart overflowed as he read: "As one whom his mother comforteth

so will I comfort you." With a stifled sob, and still repeating the

wonderful words, he sank on his knees beside the bed. And as he did so

there arose before him the vision of other days, long departed now, when

he had thus knelt for his evening prayer; a tranquil face looked down

again upon the childish form, and he could almost feel the chill of

little feet seeking cover while he prayed; the warm hands held his own,

reverently folded together, and amid the stillness that wrapped his

heart there floated out, with a silvery sound like that of an evening

bell, the tones of the dear voice that had been so quick to prompt his

childish memory or to recall his wandering thoughts. The hurried

ending, the impulsive uprising, the swift relapse into boyish merriment,

the plunge into the waiting crib, the good-night kiss, the sudden

descent of darkness, the salvo of farewells the cozy cuddling into the

arms of slumber—all these came back to him with a preciousness he had

never felt before.

His loneliness, prompted by every reminiscence, slowly turned to prayer.

He tried to thank God for all the treasure his soul possessed in the

dear ones at home, and to ask for strength to be worthy of love and

sacrifice so great. He promised to be true; a swift memory of his

mother’s fear lest dormant appetite should prove his foe mingled with

his prayer a moment, and was gone. For the whole burden of his pleading

seemed to revolve again and again about the love-laden text that had

taken such a hold upon his heart, till at last he only repeated it over

and over before God: "As one whom his mother comforteth so will I

comfort you." Suddenly he paused; for he felt, though he knew not why,

that his mother too was kneeling by the Mercy Seat—distant far, sundered

by weary miles, yet he could not dispel the assurance, which warmed and

caressed his very life, that another kept her sacred midnight vigil.

And as he thought of Jessie’s slumbering face, and of the other’s,

upturned in pleading for her son, a deeper peace than he had known

before crept about him, the loneliness vanished like a mist, and but a

few minutes passed before he slept the sweet sleep of all homeless lads

who trust the keeping of their mother’s God.

*XIX*

_*A BRUSH WITH DEATH*_

It was quite in vain that Harvey tried to read. For two much-loved

faces, one worn and grave, the other bright and hopeful, kept coming and

going between him and his book. Another, too, whose setting was a

wealth of golden hair.

"You seem in a hurry to get on—guess you’re going home," broke in a

voice from the seat immediately opposite his own in the crowded car.

Harvey smiled and laid his book aside. "I’m in a hurry all right," he

answered, "though I don’t know that looking at one’s watch every few

minutes helps matters much. But I don’t relish the idea of being late."

"Student, aren’t you?" asked the man, nodding towards a pin in evidence

on Harvey’s coat.

"Yes—I’m just going home for a little visit."

"Been long at college?"

"A couple of years," answered Harvey; "they go rather slowly when a

fellow’s anxious to get through. Say, isn’t this train going at a

tremendous pace? What’s the matter?" his voice rising as he clutched

savagely at the side of the seat.

It was too late for his companion to make reply—already he was being

caught into the current of the storm.

What followed defies description. Harvey’s first thought was of some

irregularity that would last but a moment—he could not realize that the

worst had happened. A shrill voice from another part of the car cried

out that they were off the rail, but he swiftly rejected the suggestion.

An instant later he was as one struggling for his life. The engine had

never left the rail and the driver was quite unconscious of the

situation. Dragged ruthlessly along, the car leaped and bounded like a

living thing: it seemed, like a runaway horse, to be stampeded by its

own wild plunging as it was flung from side to side, bouncing almost

clear of the road-bed with every revolution of the wheels.

Flung into the corner by the window, Harvey braced himself as best he

could with hands and feet, dimly marvelling at the terrible length of

time the process seemed to last. He glanced upward at the bell-rope,

swingly wildly; but he knew any attempt to reach it would be disastrous,

if not fatal. Still the mad thing tore on; shrieks and cries rose above

the din; parcels and valises were everywhere battering about as if flung

from catapults; one or two of the passengers cried out in plaintive

wrath, some as if remonstrating with a mettlesome steed, others as if

appealing for a chance against the sudden violence. Harvey remembered,

long after, how he had said to himself that he was still alive—and

uninjured—and that all might yet be well, if it would only stop.

Confused and terrified though he was, his senses worked with almost

preternatural acuteness; he remarked the spasmodic eagerness with which

men clutched at one another, muttering the while like contestants in a

mighty struggle; the very grotesqueness of the thing flashed upon his

mind an instant, as, the car taking its last desperate bound, he saw

strong men flung about like feathers in a gale; two or three near him,

shouting wildly, were tossed to the very ceiling of the car, their limbs

outflung as when athletes jump high in air. Then the coach was pitched

headlong; the man to whom he had spoken but a moment before was hurled

through the spacious window, and the overturning car sealed his lips

with eternal silence; two stalwart men fell full on Harvey’s crouching

form—darkness wrapped him about as the car ploughed its way down the

steep embankment.

"This is death," he said involuntarily, and aloud, as the dread descent

was being accomplished. Many things—much that could never be reproduced,

more that could never be uttered—swam before him in the darkness. A

sort of reverent curiosity possessed his soul, hurrying, as he believed

himself to be, into the eternal. He was to know now! All of which he

had so often heard, and thought, and conjectured, was about to unfold

itself before him. A swift sense of the insignificance of all things

save one—such an estimate as he had never had before—and a great

conception of the transcendent claim of the eternal, swept through his

mind. Then suddenly—as if emerging from the very wreck of things,

illumining all the darkness and clothing the storm with a mysterious

calm, there arose the vision of his mother’s face. A moment later all

was still; blessed stillness, and like to the quietness of death. The

car was motionless.

But only for a moment did the stillness reign. Then came the wild

surging of human voices, like the sound of many waters; appeal, frenzied

fear, tormenting pain, pitiful enquiry—all blended to make it such a

discord of human sounds as he had never heard before. It froze his soul

amid all the agony of suspense he himself was bearing. For that human

load was still upon him, still holding him pinned tight in the corner of

the now overturned and shattered car; how much more might hold him down,

he could not tell. And with this came his first real taste of terror;

the thought of imprisonment beneath the heavy wreckage—and then the

outbreaking fire—tore for a moment through his mind.

But already he could feel the forms above his own writhing in their

effort to rise; one, his thigh fractured, gave over with a loud cry of

pain. The other was trying to lift him as gently as he might. Soon both

were from above him. The moment that followed thrilled with

suspense—Harvey almost shrank from the attempt to straighten himself up

lest he might find himself pinned beneath the deadly truck. But he

tried—and he was free. And he could see through the window of the door,

upside down as it was, the sparkling sunshine, never so beautiful

before.

With a gasp of joy he bounded towards it—then stopped suddenly, checked

by the rebuke of what he saw about him. For—let it be recorded to the

praise of human nature and the credit of sorrow’s ministry—every man who

was unhurt seemed engaged with those who were. Strong, selfish-looking

men, utter strangers, men who had sat scowling behind their newspapers

or frowning because some child’s boisterousness disturbed them, could

now be seen bending with tender hands and tenderer words above some

groaning sufferer, intent only on securing the removal of the helpless

from the threatened wreck.

Not threatened alone, alas! For even as they were struggling towards

the sweet beguiling light a faint puff of smoke floated idly in about

them; and the first to notice it—not with loud outcry but with hushed

gasp of terror—was one unhappy man whom the most desperate efforts had

failed to free from the wreckage. But as the car gradually filled with

the smoke, and as, a little later, a distant crackling could be heard,

the stifled moan became a cry, and the cry at length a shrieking appeal

for deliverance from the living death that kept ever creeping nearer.

"My God," he cried frantically, "you can’t leave me here—I’ll burn to

death," his eyes shining with a strange unearthly light; "I’ll burn to

death," he repeated in grim simplicity.

Harvey never left him till the all-conquering flame had all but kindled

his own garments; half-blind, soaking with perspiration, gasping for

breath, he at last turned his back upon the awful scene and staggered

away. The waters of death were now surging about the man—if the

unfitting metaphor may be allowed. As he groped his way towards the brow

of the up-torn declivity, Harvey stumbled on the silent form of the man

who had sat beside him in the coach—a brakeman was hurrying towards it

with a sheet. Then dense darkness flowed about, and kind unconsciousness

delivered him.

* * * * * *

"You’ve made as good progress as any man could look for," the doctor

said; "don’t you think so, Mr. Nickle? He’s been lucky all through, to

my mind; two broken ribs, and a twisted elbow, was getting off pretty

well—considering what he came through. Another week will do wonders."

"It’s bad eneuch," rejoined the cautious Scotchman; "but it micht hae

been waur."

"Well, old chap, I guess I’ll have to go," the doctor said as he began

putting on his gloves; "just have patience and you’ll be all right.

What you’ll feel most will be the result of the shock—don’t get

discouraged if you sag sometimes, and feel as if the bottom were falling

out of everything. You’ll likely have queer spells of depression—all

that sort of thing, you know. ’Twouldn’t be a bad idea to take a little

spirits when you feel one coming on; and if a little doesn’t help, take

a little more," he concluded, laughing.

Mrs. Simmons’ face was white and drawn; but she controlled herself, and

no word escaped her lips. When the doctor left the room she followed

him, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later he returned:

"Oh, I’ve just been thinking over that matter, Harvey," he began

carelessly, "and I believe this prescription would be a fully better

stimulant," producing pencil and pad and beginning to write.

He remarked how Harvey received the advice—the latter’s lips were pale,

and the doctor could see them quivering. "Don’t fool with the other at

all," he added impressively: "I don’t believe it would do you a bit of

good."

Geordie Nickle lingered after the doctor had taken his departure; but he

found it quite impossible to engage Harvey in conversation. "I hae nae

doot a’ this sair experience’ll be for some guid purpose," he began, the

face of the saintly man suffused with the goodness of his heart; "only

dinna let it be wasted, laddie. A wasted sickness is a sair thing, an’

a wasted sorrow’s waur—but there’s naethin’ sae sad as to look intil the

face o’ death, wi’oot bein’ a different man to a’ eternity. It’s a

waesome thing when a soul snatches spoils frae death—an’ then wastes

them on life, my laddie," earnestness and affection mingling in the eyes

that were turned on Harvey’s chair.

But Harvey’s response was disappointing. "If I could only sleep a

little better, Mr. Nickle. I’m really all right except for my nerves.

Yes, what you say is very true, Mr. Nickle."

After one or two equally fruitless attempts, the old man seemed to

realize the hopelessness of his efforts. "Weel," he said pleasantly, "I

maun be gaein’—yon’s the kirk bell that’s ringin’. Why, there’s David,"

he cried suddenly, looking out of the window; "I’ll juist gie ye intil

Mr. Borland’s care. I think yir mither said she’s gaein’ till the

kirk—we’ll gang thegither," as the kindly patriarch made a brief

farewell, withdrawing to join Mrs. Simmons and guide her to the house of

prayer.

"Hello, Harvey! Why, you’re lookin’ like a morning-glory," was David’s

salutation as he drew his chair up beside Harvey’s. "I jest thought I’d

drop in an’ look you over a bit when Madeline an’ her mother was at

church. Ought to be there myself, I know," he went on, a reproachful

smile on his face; "but it’s such an elegant mornin’—an’ besides, I’m

doin’ penance. I remembered it’s jest two years ago to-day, by the day

o’ the month, since I traded horses with Jim Keyes—an’ I thought mebbe I

shouldn’t have took any boot—so I thought I’d jest punish myself by

stayin’ away from the meetin’ this mornin’. How’re you keepin’, Harvey?"

he concluded earnestly, his elbows on his knees as he peered into the

patient’s face.

"I’m not bad," said Harvey—"only a little grouchy. Is that really the

reason you’re not going to church this morning, Mr. Borland?" he asked,

a slight note of impatience in the tone. David might have noticed,

indeed, that Harvey seemed ill at ease, and as if he would as soon have

been alone.

David stared at him. "That there accident must have bumped all the

humoursomeness out o’ you," he said, grinning. "No, of course it’s

not—but Dr. Fletcher ain’t goin’ to preach to-day. That’s the real

reason. An’ he’s got a fellow from Bluevale rattlin’ round in his

place; can’t stand him at all. He’s terrible long—an’ the hotter, the

longer. They say he dives terrible deep; an’ mebbe he does—but he comes

up uncommon dry," and David turned a very droll smile on his auditor.

"The last time I heard him, he preached more’n fifty minutes—passed some

excellent stoppin’-places, too," David reflected amiably; "but the worst

of it was when he come to conclude—it was like tyin’ up one o’ them

ocean liners at the dock, so much backin’ up an’ goin’ furrit again, an’

semi-demi-quaverin’ afore he got plumb still. That’s the principal

reason I’m punishin’ myself like this," he added gravely. "Say, Harvey,

what’s makin’ you so kind o’ skeery like?—anythin’ hurtin’ you?"

Harvey cleared his throat nervously. "I say, Mr. Borland," he began

nervously, "would you do something for me?"

David, very serious now, drew his chair closer.

"You bet—if I can. What is it?"

Harvey stood up and walked unsteadily towards the table. Then he thrust

the little paper the doctor had left into a book. "I wonder if you’d go

to the drug-store for me," he began rather huskily, "and get me a

little—a little spirits—or something like that; spirits would be the

best thing, I think—the doctor spoke of that. I’m just about all in,

Mr. Borland—and I think if I were only braced up a little—just to tide

me over, you know," he stammered, his courage failing him a little as

David’s steady eyes gazed into his own.

David looked long in silence. Then he rose, and without a word he took

Harvey in his arms. Slowly they tightened round the trembling form, the

old man holding the young as though he would shelter him till some cruel

storm were past. Tighter still he held him, one hand patting him gently

on the shoulder as though he were a little child.

Harvey yielded to the embrace—and understood. When at length David

partially released him, he looked into the face before him. The eyes

that met his own were swimming, and David’s face was aglow with the

yearning and compassion that only great souls can know.

"Oh, Harvey," the shaking voice began, hardly above a whisper, "I love

you like my own son. Don’t, Harvey—for God’s sake, don’t; kill your

mother some other way," and again he drew the now sobbing lad close to

his bosom.

A moment later he whispered something in Harvey’s ear. It was a

question—and Harvey nodded, his face still hidden.

"I thought so," David murmured. "I thought so—an’ there’s only one way

out, my boy, there’s only one way out. An’ it’s by fightin’—jest like

folks fight consumption, only far harder. That ain’t nothin’ to this.

Jest by fightin’, Harvey—an’ gettin’ some One to help you. All them

other ways—like pledges, an’ promises, an’ all that—they’re jest like

irrigatin’ a desert with one o’ them sprayin’-machines for your throat.

I ain’t much of a Christian, I know—but there ain’t nothin’ any good

’cept what Dr. Fletcher calls the grace of God. An’ if you think it’d

help any, from an old fellow like me—I’ll—I’ll try it some, every

mornin’ an’ night; ’twouldn’t do no harm, anyway," and the protecting

arms again drew the yielding form into the refuge of his loving and

believing heart.

Only a few more sentences passed between the two; only a few minutes

longer did David wait. But when he passed by the church on his homeward

way his head was bowed, and his face was like to the faces of those

whose lips are moist with the sacramental wine.

*XX*

_*THE RESTORING OF A SOUL*_

"And you think you’ll go back to-morrow, Harvey? Are you sure you feel

strong enough, my son? Your voice is weak."

Harvey’s answer was confident enough. But pale he certainly was—and the

resolute face showed signs of abundant struggle, and a new seriousness

sat on the well-developed brow. "I think life’ll be all different to me

now, mother," he went on; "a fellow can hardly go through what I have,

without seeing things in a different light. I didn’t think so much of

it when Mr. Nickle said it, but it’s been running through my mind a lot

lately—he said what a terrible thing it is for a fellow to snatch spoils

from death and then waste them on his after life."

"He’s a godly man," the mother rejoined musingly. "He’s been like a

light to me in my darkness—often I think my heart would have broken if

it hadn’t been for him. When things looked darkest, and he’d drop in

for a little talk, I always seemed to be able to take up the load and go

on again. He and Mr. Borland have been good angels to us all," and the

sightless face was bright with many a gladsome memory.

"Mother, when you speak of darkness—and loads—do you mean—do you mean

about your sight?"

His mother reached out, instinctively guided, and laid a thin hand on

one of Harvey’s. "Do I speak much about loads, my son, and darkness?"

she asked in a gentle voice. "For I’ve always asked for grace to say

little of such things as those."

"But you haven’t answered me, mother," the son persisted. "Mother," he

went on, sitting up straight, his voice arresting her startlingly,

"you’ve been more to me, I think, than ever mother was to a son before.

But I know, mother—at least, I think I know—I’m almost sure you’ve never

told me all that troubles you; I feel sometimes as if there were some

sealed book I’ve never been allowed to see. Don’t you understand,

mother?"

"What do you mean, my son? How could it be so?"

"Well, mother," he went on, his voice low and serious, "look at it this

way. You know how easily a mother kind of scents out anything like that

about a son—just by a kind of instinct. Well, don’t you think sons love

mothers just as much as mothers love sons?—and don’t they have the same

kind of intuitions? Don’t you understand, mother?"

She drew him closer to her side. "Yes, my son," she said after a long

silence; "yes, I understand, my darling. If I understand anything, it’s

that. And I’m going to ask you something, Harvey—you’ll forgive me, my

boy, won’t you? But what you’ve just said opens the door for what I’m

going to ask. And I’ve wanted to do it ever since you came home."

Harvey’s heart told him what was coming. The very faculty he had been

trying to define was pursuing its silent quest, he knew. And no

movement, no exclamation betrayed surprise or resentment when his mother

whispered her trembling enquiry in his ear.

Perhaps he had never learned as well the luxury of a mother’s love.

Once or twice he looked up wistfully, as though his mother’s eyes must

be pouring their message into his, so full and rich was the tide of her

outflowing love, strong, compassionate, healing, But the curtain still

veiled the light of the luminous soul behind—and he realized then, as

never before, that his loss had been almost equal to her own. Yet the

soulful tones went far to make amends, caressing him with tenderness,

inspiring him with courage, as little by little they drew from him the

story of the days.

"It all went so well for a long time, mother," he said, much having been

said before. "Perhaps too well. I got the scholarship, as you know—and

then another—and I was elected one of the inter-collegiate debaters.

Then I got on the first eleven; perhaps that pleased me most of all; and

I used to go to the other towns and cities often, to play. And I was so

happy and comfortable at Miss Farringall’s—she’s been so good to me.

And I gradually met a lot of nice people in the city; and I had quite a

little of social life—that was how it happened," he said in a minor

tone, his eyes on the floor.

The mother said nothing, asked nothing. A moment later he went on of

his own accord. "I don’t mean to make excuses, mother," he began, "but

I didn’t really deliberately break the promise I gave you—and that

comforts me a lot. But it was one night I was out at a Southern

family’s home—they had just come lately to the city, and Dr. Wallis knew

them. Well, they had refreshments; and they had a lot of queer Southern

dishes. One was a little tiny thing—they called it a syllabub, or

something like that; I had never heard of it before. And I took it—it

had wine in it—and oh, mother," his eye lighting and his voice

heightening at the memory, "no one will ever know—it was like as if

something took fire. I didn’t know what it meant—I seemed so helpless.

And I fought and I struggled—and I prayed—and I wrote out my promise to

you and I used to read it over and over. And I was beaten, mother—I

couldn’t help it," he cried pitifully, his voice echoing every note of

pain—"and then I felt everything was up and I had nothing more to fight

for, and I just—oh, I can’t tell you; it maddens me when I think of

it—nobody’ll ever know it all. And Miss Farringall tried so to help

me—so did Dr. Wallis—but I wouldn’t let anybody. I turned on them," he

exclaimed fiercely; "and I tried to forget about you, mother—I tried to

forget about you and Jessie. Then I played the coward. I came back

afterwards to Miss Farringall, and I—I borrowed money from her;" he

forced the words like one who tells a crime. "And after that——"

Thus ran the piteous tale. The mother spoke no word for long,

staunching the flowing wound as best she could and by such means as only

mothers know. And she mutely wondered once or twice whether this—or that

other night—had brought the deeper darkness.

But when his voice was still; when the poor wild wailing that had rung

through it all had hushed itself, as it were, within the shoreless deep

of her great, pitying love, she asked him another question:

"How much did you borrow from Miss Farringall, Harvey?" the voice as

calm as if no storm of grief had ever swept it.

"Five dollars, mother," he answered, the crimson face averted. "But I

know one or two things I can deny myself this term—and that’ll pay it

back;" the glance that stole towards his mother was the look of years

agone.

Without a word, dignity in every movement, she rose and made her way to

a little bowl that stood on the table. From it she took an envelope,

her fingers searching it; then she handed him its contents, the exact

amount.

He broke out in loud protest; but she was firm. "You haven’t anything

there that you can afford to give up," she said quietly, "and we can

afford this, dear—but not the other. Take it for mother’s sake," as she

thrust the bill into his hand. It was worn and faded; but his eyes fell

upon it as upon a sacred thing, hallowed by the love and sacrifice and

courage that had wakened many a holy vow in his heart before. As they

did now again, this latest token burning the hand that held it, melting

the heart that answered its appeal of love.

And the mother’s tryst began anew; closer than ever she clung to her

unseen Helper; more passionately than before she turned her waiting eyes

towards the long tarrying Light.

*XXI*

_*A HEATED DEBATE*_

The years had left Harvey wiser than when first he entered college. The

passing months, each opening the door a little wider, had admitted him

farther and farther to the secrets of the new life about him—farther

too, for that matter, into the mystery of life itself, the great

complicated maze of which college life is at once the portal and the

type.

And as he stood in the main hall of the great Gothic building this

bright spring morning, a reminiscent smile played about his lips as he

recalled the day, far distant now, whereon he had first gazed in wonder

on the animated scene. For that had been an epoch-marking day in

Harvey’s life. The very stateliness of the surroundings had filled him

with a subdued awe he had never felt before, and his breath had come

quicker at the thought that he, a humble child of poverty, was really a

successor to the many great and famous men who had walked these halls

before him. His gown was faded and rusty now, but he could recall the

thrill with which he had first donned it years ago, the only badge of

rank he had ever worn. And how fascinated he had been by the restless

throng of students that buzzed about him that opening day, each intent

upon his own pursuit, and all, or nearly all, indifferent to the

plain-clad stranger who felt himself the very least among them. Some,

with serious faces, had hurried towards the professors’ rooms or gravely

consulted the time-table already posted in the hall; while others,

oblivious to the portent of the day, had seemed to hail it only as the

gateway to a life of gaiety, entering at last upon the long-anticipated

freedom their earlier lives had been denied.

Not a few had moved idly about, turning blank faces here and there, all

unquickened by the stimulus of the atmosphere and the challenge of the

hour—dumb driftwood in life’s onmoving stream. And some there had

been—on these Harvey’s gaze had lingered longest—who were evidently

there by virtue of a heroism not their own, their plainness of apparel

and soberness of mien attesting the struggle that lay behind the

opportunity they had no mind to waste.

He was opening a letter from Jessie now, handed to him from the morning

mail; and the tide of youth flowed unnoticed about him as he devoured

it, still standing on the spacious stair that led upward from the main

entrance of the college. The smile on his face deepened as he read; for

the letter was full of cheery tidings, all about their every-day toilful

life, quickened as it had been by the good news concerning his progress

in his studies. "We’re quite sure you’ll get another scholarship,"

wrote the hopeful Jessie. And then followed the news of the

village—much regarding Dr. Fletcher and the church, and a reference to

the hard times that were paralyzing business—and a dark hint or two

about the struggle David Borland was having to pull through; but it was

rumoured, too, that Geordie Nickle was giving him a hand, and doubtless

he would outride the storm. And Cecil had been home two or three times

lately, the letter went on to say—and he and Madeline had been seen a

good deal together, and everybody knew how anxious Mrs. Borland was that

it should come to something—but everybody wondered, too, what was coming

of Cecil’s work in the meantime; these things the now unsmiling Harvey

read towards the close of the letter. And the last page or so was all

about their mother, her sight giving as yet no sign of improvement, and

her general health causing Jessie no little alarm. But they were hoping

for the best and were looking forward with great eagerness to Harvey’s

return when the college year should be ended.

Harvey was still standing with the letter in his hand when a voice broke

in on his meditations.

"Well, old sport, you look as if you’d just heard from your sweetheart,"

as Harvey looked quickly up. It was Cecil himself, and he stopped

before his fellow student as if inclined to talk. For much of the

antagonism between the two had been dissolved since both had come to

college, Cecil being forced to recognize a foeman worthy of his steel

when they had met on an arena where birth and patrimony go for nothing.

A few casual meetings had led to relations of at least an amicable sort;

once or twice, indeed, he had sought Harvey’s aid in one or two branches

of study in which his townsman was much more capable than himself. But

such occasions were obviously almost at an end. For the most

uninitiated might have diagnosed Cecil’s case as he stood that spring

morning before the one he had so long affected to despise.

A false ideal of life, and of what constitutes life’s enjoyment, and a

nature pampered from childhood into easy self-indulgence, together with

strong native passions and ample means wherewith to foster them, had

made their handiwork so plain that he who ran might read. The face that

now was turned on Harvey was stained and spotted with marks significant

of much, the complexion mottled and sallow, the eye muddy and restless,

the voice unnaturally harsh and with the old-time ring departed—such a

voice as years sometimes give. Real solicitude marked Harvey’s gaze as

it rested on the youth before him; something of a sense of kinship,

because of old-time associations—in spite of all that had occurred to

mar it—and a feeling that in some indefinable way the part of protector

was laid upon him, mingled with his thoughts as he noted the symptoms of

the ill-spent years.

"From your very own, isn’t it?" Cecil bantered again, looking towards

the letter in Harvey’s hand.

"You’re right enough; that’s exactly where it came from," the other

answered, smiling.

"I was just thinking about you," Cecil went on; "I’ve kind of chucked

classes for this session—going to study up in the summer and take the

’sup’s’ in the fall. I’ve been too busy to work much here," he

explained with a grimace—"but that’s not what I wanted to speak to you

about; some of the fellows asked me to bring you round to a little

meeting we’re going to have this evening—seven to eight o’clock—we’re

going to the theatre after it’s over. It’s something kind of new;

Randolph got on to it down in Boston, and they say it’s fairly sweeping

the country. I believe myself it’s the nearest thing to the truth, in

the religious line, anybody’s discovered yet."

"What is it?" Harvey asked interestedly.

"Well, it’s a kind of religious meeting, as I said," Cecil informed

him—"only it’s new—at least it’s new here; it’s a kind of theosophy, you

know—and many of the strongest minds in the world believe in it," he

added confidently. "That’s why we want you to sample it."

Harvey waited a little before answering. "I’ve heard a bit about it,"

he said at length; "I’ve read about it some—and I’d advise you to leave

that sort of thing alone, Craig."

"You’re not fair," the other retorted; "you’ve never heard it expounded,

have you, now?"

Harvey admitted that he had never had that privilege.

"Then I want you to come to-night," urged Cecil; "come and give it a

trial anyhow."

A little further parley ended in Harvey’s consenting to attend the

gathering of the faithful, not, however, without much candid prediction

of the issue.

Seven o’clock found him there. The believers, some thirteen or fourteen

in all, were already assembled, and Harvey’s scrutiny of the different

faces was swift and eager. Some few he recognized as those of earnest

students, men of industry and intelligence. Others, the light of eager

expectation on them as though the mystery of life were at last to be

laid bare, belonged to men of rather shallow intellect, novelty-mongers,

quick to yield to a seductive phrase or a plausible theory, men with

just enough enterprise of soul to put out from shore, yet not enough to

take their bearings or to find a pathway in the deep beyond. And two or

three, conspicuous amongst whom was Cecil, were evidently hospitable to

any theory, however fanciful, that would becalm the inward storm of

their own making, and promise healing to secret wounds of shame, and

absolve from penalties already pressing for fulfillment. Not

intellectual unrest, but moral ferment, had been the tide wherewith they

had drifted from the moorings they were now endeavouring to forget and

professing to despise.

The little room was fairly full and Harvey was seated on a small table

in the corner. The proceedings were opened by a solemn-visaged youth

who evidently felt the responsibility of his office. For he paused

long, looking both around him and above, before he proceeded to read

some ponderous passages from a book, evidently their ritual.

Much of this was punctuated by ejaculatory eulogies of one, Lao-tsze.

Harvey had never heard this name before, but the expounder pronounced it

frequently in terms of decided reverence; and he was at great pains to

convey to his hearers his dependence upon this man of unpronounceable

name as the fountain-head of inspiration and guidance.

The solemn disquisition ended, several others added their testimony to

the light and comfort this teaching had afforded them, one or two

venturing further to expound some doctrines which all seemed to find

precious in proportion as they were obscure. Such phrases as

"explication of the Divine Essence," "deduction of the phenomenal

universe," "unity imminent in the whole," were freely dispensed, the

listening faces answering with the light of intelligence, the light most

resolutely produced where the shades were deepest. "Paracelsus" was a

name several hastened to pronounce, and familiarly, as though he were an

old-time friend. One very small student with a very bespotted face

broke his long silence by rising to solemnly declare that since he had

been following the new light he had come to the conclusion that God was

the great "terminus ad quem," taking a moment longer to express his

surprise and disappointment that all men did not so discern the truth in

its simplicity.

Another rose to deplore that so little was known of the life of the

great and good Lao-tsze, but comforted his hearers with the assurance

that this distant dignitary had been reincarnate in a certain American

poet, whose name he mentioned, well known as a wandering printer whose

naked lucubrations were given at intervals to a startled world. This

later apostle then received his share of eulogy, after which the ardent

neophyte quoted copiously from his works, scattering the leaves of grass

among the listening circle.

Exhausted, the speaker surrendered the floor to another, who launched

into a glorification of the great Chinaman—and his successor—amounting

to a deification. To all of which Harvey listened in respectful

weariness, for he knew something of one of them at least, and of his

works. Suddenly the devotee introduced the great name of Jesus Christ;

for purposes of comparison alone did he quote the latter name, conceding

to the founder of the Christian faith a place among the good and great,

but making no attempt to conceal the deeper homage he accorded to the

other.

This was too much for the visitor, who could hardly believe his ears.

Indifference had gradually taken the form of contempt, this in turn

deepening to disgust as he listened to what at first struck him as

shallow platitude, descending later to what he esteemed as blasphemous

vulgarity. Deeper than he knew was his faith in the One his mother had

taught his childish lips to bless; and, as there rose before him a

vision of the humble life that same faith had so enriched and

strengthened, of the heavenly light that had gilded her darksome path,

of the sweetness and patience that this light and faith had so

wonderfully wrought, his soul rose up in a kind of lofty wrath that

overbore all considerations which might have sealed his lips. Moreover,

a casual glance at his watch informed him that it was exactly half-past

seven—and the covenant he had scarcely ever forgotten at that hour was

secretly and silently fulfilled.

Rising during a momentary silence, he was received with a murmur of

subdued applause. But the appreciation of the circle was short-lived.

"Did I understand the last speaker to say," he asked in a low, intense

voice, "that he puts that man he quoted from—that American

poet—alongside of, or ahead of, Jesus Christ?—as a moral character, I

mean, and as a teacher of men?"

The youth thus addressed made some evasive reply, not, however, revising

his classification in the least.

"Then listen here," exclaimed Harvey as he reached for the volume of

poems lying on the table. "I’ll read you something more from your

master." Hastily turning the leaves, he found the passage he was in

search of after some little difficulty, and began slowly to read the

words, their malodour befouling the atmosphere as they came.

One of the faithful rose to his feet with a loud exclamation of protest.

But Harvey overbore him. "If he’s all you say he is, you can’t

reasonably object," he declared; "I’m not reading anything but what he

wrote," still releasing the stainful stream.

Harvey flung the book on the table as he finished. "The gutter’s the

place for that thing," he blurted out contemptuously; "that’s where it

came from—a reprobate that deserted his own children, children of shame

though they were, and gave himself to kindling the lowest passions of

humanity—these be your gods, oh Israel," he went on scornfully. "I’ll

crave permission to retire now, if that’s the best you’ve got to help a

fellow that finds the battle hard enough already—I’ll hold to the old

faith till I get some better substitute than this," moving towards the

door as he spoke.

The leader almost angrily challenged him. "Perhaps our friend will tell

us what he knows about ’the old faith,’ as he calls it, and why he

clings to it so devotedly—it’s not often we get a chance to hear from a

real Christian," he added jeeringly, "and it’s a poor cause that won’t

stand argument."

A chorus of voices approved the suggestion. "If you’ve got one good

solid intellectual argument for it, let us hear it," one student cried

defiantly. "We’ve had these believers on general principles with us

before."

Harvey turned, his hand already on the door, his face white and drawn.

"Yes," he cried hotly, "I’ll give you one reason—just one—for the faith

that’s in me. I don’t profess to be much of a Christian—but I know one

reason that goes for more with me than all the mouthings I’ve heard here

to-night. It’s worth a mountain of such stuff."

"Let’s have it, then," the leader said, moving closer to where Harvey

stood. "Give us your overwhelming argument."

Harvey cast a haughty glance at him and those behind him.

"I will," he thundered; "it’s my mother, by God," he cried passionately,

the hot blood surging through his brain—"do you hear that—it’s my

mother."

There was a brief hush, for they must be reprobate indeed who would not

recognize that sovereign plea. But one intrepid spirit soon broke the

silence; a young stalwart of nineteen or twenty, towering among the

rest, was quickly to the fore with his verdict. "Just what I expected,"

he drawled derisively; "the old story of a mother’s influence; you

forget, my dear fellow," turning towards Harvey as he spoke, "how

credulous the woman-heart is by nature—and how easily they imagine

anything they really want to believe. Besides, we haven’t the advantage

of knowing your saintly relative," he added, something very like a sneer

in the voice.

He was evidently bent on developing his idea, but the words had hardly

left his lips before Harvey had brushed aside those who stood between as

he flung himself towards the speaker. His eyes were aflame, and his

burning cheek and flashing eye told how deep the taunt had struck. He

did not stop till his face was squarely opposite the other’s, his lips

as tense as though they would never speak again.

"Gemmell," he said, calling the man by name, "I don’t know whether you

mean to insult me or not—but I’ll find out. You don’t know anything

about my mother—and she’s not to be made the subject of discussion here.

But I know her; and I know the miracle her dark life’s been. And if you

say that that’s all been just her imagination, and her credulity, then I

say you’re a liar and a cad—and if you want to continue this argument

outside, by heavens, here’s the door—and here’s the invitation, —— you,"

as he smote the astonished debater full in the face. Parrying the

return blow, his lips white and livid, he turned to lead the way

outside. His fuming antagonist made as if to follow him; but two or

three, springing between the men, undertook the part of peacemakers.

Perhaps Cecil’s efforts were as influential as any. "Let the thing drop,

Gemmell," he counselled his friend in a subdued voice; "I know him of

old—and he’s the very devil in a fight."

Whatever the cause, the fact remains that when Harvey paused a minute or

two outside the door he found himself joined by none but Craig himself.

"Come on," said the latter, "what’s the use of making fools of ourselves

over religion? Come on, and we’ll go to the theatre. I told you we

intended going there after anyhow—but I doubt if the others will be

going now; so we’ll just go ourselves. There won’t be anything very

fine to hear, perhaps—but there’ll be something real interesting to look

at," with a laugh that his companion could hardly fail to understand.

But Harvey was thinking very little of what his guide was saying, his

mind sufficiently employed with the incident just concluded, and he

hardly realized whither he was being led till he found himself before

the box-office in the lobby. A rubicund face within was the background

for a colossal cigar that protruded half-way through the wicket; Cecil

was enquiring from the source of the cigar as to the price of tickets.

Rallying, Harvey made his protest and turned to go away. "I’ve got to

work to-night," he said; "it’s too near exams."

Craig laughed. "Don’t get nervous," he retorted significantly. "I’ll

pay the shot—it’s only half a dollar each."

Whereat Harvey, the pride of youth high within him, strode back to the

window, almost pushing his companion from him as he deposited his money

and pressed on into the crowded gallery.

Not more than half an hour had passed when the spectacular side, as

Cecil had so confidently predicted, grew more and more pronounced.

"I told you," he whispered excitedly to Harvey; "look at that one in the

blue gauze skirt," leaning forward in ardent interest as he spoke.

Harvey’s answer was given a few minutes later when, without a word to

the enchanted Cecil, he rose and quietly slipped towards the door and

downward to the street. "Money with blood on it, too," he half muttered

hotly to himself as he passed the office that had received the hard-won

coin.

Hurrying towards home, he suddenly noticed a heavy dray backed up

against the window of an office; evidently the moving was being done by

night, that the day’s work might not be interrupted. Pausing a moment to

watch, the stormy face brightened a little as he stepped up to the man

in charge of the waggon. There were only two, which made Harvey more

hopeful of his scheme.

"Want any help?" he asked abruptly.

"You’re right we do," the man answered promptly. "Another of our men was

to be here to-night, but he hasn’t turned up—I’ll bet a five he’s in the

gods over there," nodding towards the festive resort that Harvey had

deserted.

"How long will it take?" enquired the student.

The man reflected a moment. "Oh, I guess about two hours," he surmised;

"that is, to get the things out and then get them hoisted in at Richmond

Street."

"How much’ll you give me if I help you?"

"I’ll give you forty cents—and you’ll have a free ride," said the man

jocosely.

"Make it fifty," proposed Harvey. "I owe half a dollar—I’ll do it for

fifty cents."

"All right," replied the teamster, whereat Harvey flung the coat from

his back and the burden from his conscience. And the face which Miss

Farringall was now coming to await so eagerly was very bright when he

got home that night, her own beaming as she marked its light.

*XXII*

_*BREAKERS AHEAD*_

There is a peace, deep and mysterious, which only the defeated know. It

is familiar to those who, struggling long to avert a crisis, find that

their strivings must be all in vain. The student long in doubt; the

politician weary of his battle; the business man fighting against

bankruptcy—all these have marvelled at the strange composure that is

born when the last hope of victory is dead. Many an accountant and

confidential clerk, contriving through haunted years to defer the

discovery which must some day lay bare his shame, has felt this

mysterious calm when destiny has at last received him to her iron bosom.

And who has not observed the same in some life struggling against

weakness and disease?—when the final verdict is announced and Death

already beckons, the first wild tumult of alarm and anguish will

presently be hushed into a silent and majestic peace.

David Borland’s kindly eyes had less of merriment than in the earlier

years. The old explosive spark was there indeed, unconquerable still;

but the years had endowed the face with a gentle seriousness, not

visible before, which yet became it rather better than the merriment it

had unconsciously displaced. And there were signs that other enemies

than the passing years had wrought their havoc on the mobile face. For

care and conflict, hope of victory to-day and fear of overthrow

to-morrow, had wrought such changes as the years could not effect.

Yet there was more of peace in the serious eyes than there had been of

yore. Madeline was beside him as he sat this morning by the window,

gazing long in silence at the handiwork of spring without. Soft wavy

clouds floated in the sky, pressing serenely on their way as if there

were no such things as tumult and pain and disappointment in the world

beneath them; the air was vocal with many a songster’s jubilation that

his exile was past and gone; the bursting trees and new-born flowers and

tender grass all joined the silent anthem that acclaims the regeneration

of the year—and David thought they had never seemed so beautiful.

"There isn’t nothin’ can take that away from us, Madeline," he said at

last, obviously as much to himself as to the girl beside him.

"What, father?" she enquired softly.

"Oh, lots o’ things—all the real things, that is. All that’s lovely; all

I’m lookin’ at now—nobody can’t take them away, the trees, an’ the

flowers, an’ the birds. No matter how poor we get, they’re some o’ the

things thieves can’t break through an’ steal, as the Scriptur’ says," he

mused, gazing far over the meadow at the orchard in its bridal robes,

and beyond them both to the distant grandeur of the sky.

"Will we really have to give up very much, father?" the girl ventured,

unconsciously turning as she spoke and permitting her eyes to rove a

moment about the richly furnished home.

David was silent quite a while. His face seemed wrung with a pain he

could not control, and his hands went out gently towards the girl’s

head.

"Let it down, daughter," he said quietly.

"What, father? Let what down?"

"I like it better the old way, dear," he said in answer, already

releasing the wealth of lovely hair; "let it fall over your shoulders

the way it used to do, Madeline," as the flowing tresses, but little

darkened by the darkening years, scattered themselves as in other days.

"Now sit here, Madeline—come. No, you’re not heavy, child; I’ve got

kind o’ used to carryin’ loads these days—an’ this always seems to make

’em lighter," as she nestled in his arms.

Another long silence followed, broken at last by David’s brave,

trembling voice. "This is the hardest part o’ the whole business,

Madeline," he said resolutely. "But I just found out the worst this

mornin’ —an’ I ain’t goin’ to keep nothin’ back. I’ve failed, daughter;

I’ve failed—leastways, I’ve failed in business. I don’t think I’ve

failed no other way, thank God," he added in firmer tone, but still

struggling with his words. "There won’t be no stain, Madeline," his

lips touching the flowing strands as he spoke; "but things got awful

tight—an’ I made one last terrible effort—an’ it failed; it failed,

Madeline."

The girl’s arm was about his neck. "I knew there wouldn’t be any

stain," she murmured as her face was bended downward to his own; "not

with my father—and it won’t stop us being happy, will it?" she added

hopefully, looking into the care-worn eyes.

"No, dear, no," responded David—"only there’s just one thing troubles me

the most. It’s about Geordie Nickle. He bought a lot o’ the stock; I

felt at the time he done it just to help me—an’ I didn’t ask him—an’ I

kind o’ hoped it’d all come out all right. But it didn’t, Madeline—an’

Geordie’s lost an awful lot. I don’t know if he has more left—but I’m

hopin’ so. There ain’t no better man in the world than him. One of the

things that’s always kept me believin’ in God, is—is just Geordie

Nickle. Men like him does more to keep faith livin’ than all the

colleges an’ all the professors in the world; he’s a beautiful argument

for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o’ proves God, just the same as

one sunbeam proves the sun," David concluded, his eyes still fixed on

other credentials in the silent glory that wrapped earth and sky.

It was some time before Madeline spoke again. "Poor old father," she

said gently; "what you must have suffered all these long months—more

than mother and I ever thought of."

"It’s been years, child," the father answered softly; "lots o’ times I

thought I couldn’t stand it no longer—but it came awful easy at the

last," he suddenly exclaimed. "It was a kind of a relief when I knew

the worst—real funny, how calm I took it. It’s a little like some women

I seen once at an afternoon five-o’clock at-home," he went on dryly, a

droll smile stealing over his face; "they was eatin’ them little rough

cakes they call macaronies—an’ I was watchin’ two or three of the

nobbiest of ’em. Well, they nibbled an’ nibbled so dainty, like a mouse

at a hunk o’ cheese—an’ then, when they thought nobody wasn’t lookin’,

they just stuck the whole thing in an’ swallowed it like a bullfrog does

a fly, an’ then passed their cup as calm as you please for another

helpin’ o’ tea. That’s a good deal the way I took my medicine when I

got the last dose of it—had a kind of a feelin’ of relief. Didn’t you

never notice how easy an’ quiet a stream runs when it’s past the

waterfall? Shouldn’t wonder if this feelin’ I’ve got’s somethin’ the

same as the way some fellows enjoys gettin’ a tooth yanked after they’ve

been holdin’ hot salt to it every night for a month," and David heaved a

reminiscent sigh as the memory of his own sleepless nights drifted

before him for a moment.

Very low, much of it inarticulate, some of it altogether silent, was the

language with which Madeline sought to comfort the weary and wounded

heart, little knowing how successful she was; the father held her closer

and closer to him; and the swiftly slipping treasures around them, that

must soon be sacrificed, seemed more and more insignificant as the

preciousness of love’s possessions grew more real and more dear.

"Do you know, Madeline, they tell me I won’t be worth nothin’ when

everythin’s sold—an’ I only hope there’ll be enough for everybody—they

tell me I won’t be worth nothin’—but I never felt richer than I do this

minute," the words coming from lips half hidden among the golden hair.

"They can all go to thunder about their assets, so long’s I’ve got this

one—Bradstreet’s an awful liar about how much a man’s worth," he added

almost gleefully, holding Madeline’s soft hand to his furrowed cheek.

"And I never loved you so much as I do right now," the girl responded,

employing his own words, her hand wandering among the gray. "Only I’m

so sorry for mother—she was so fond of all the things. Where do you

suppose we’ll live, father?" she asked him timidly after a pause.

Mr. Borland made no reply for a little, his eyes fixed upon a lane of

sunbeams that came dancing through the window.

"I can’t exactly say, Madeline," he began slowly. "Only I reckon it’ll

be a little place, wherever it is—but them’s often the kind that has the

most room," he went on reflectively; "I’m sure there’ll be room for

everybody we love, an’ every one that loves us. I often think how it

was the One that hadn’t no place to lay His head that offered everybody

else a place to rest in," he mused reverently; "an’ I think it ought to

be a little that way with folks, no matter how poor they get."

Before his words were ended Madeline had slipped from his arms; looking

up, David could just see her disappearing as she hurried up the stairs.

Half in sorrow, half in jubilance, he was still holding communion with

his thoughts when she returned, the dancing sunbeams falling athwart her

face as she resumed the place she had deserted.

"I’ve got something to tell you, father," she began excitedly, drawing a

tiny paper book from its envelope. "It’s just a little surprise—but I’m

so glad I’m able to do it. No, father, you mustn’t refuse," she

protested as she saw him beginning to speak, his eyes remarking what she

held in her hand. "I saved this all myself, father; I began over two

years ago—it’s nearly three hundred dollars," she declared jubilantly

after a fitting pause, "and I was going to get something with

it—something special, something wonderful—it doesn’t matter now what it

was—besides, I wanted you to see how saving I could be. But now I want

you to take it all, father," the eager face, so unfamiliar with

financial magnitudes, radiant with loving expectation, "and pay those

awful creditors. Won’t that help, father?—won’t it help?" she cried

again, not knowing what to make of the expression on her father’s face.

David Borland’s hands shook as he took the little pass-book. His head

was bowed over it and the silence lasted till a hot blur fell upon it, a

message from afar.

"Yes," he murmured huskily. "Yes, thank God, it helps; more than any

man can tell till he’s got a broken heart like mine," he said

passionately, the long stifled tide of grief and care bursting forth at

last. "It more than helps—it heals," he murmured iow again, holding the

pass-book close over his brimming eyes. "Who’s that?" he suddenly

digressed sharply, the deathlike stillness broken by a knock at the

door. "Who’s got to go an’ come now of all times?" as he released the

wondering girl, already moving forward to answer the summons.

"Come in, come in," David heard her cry delightedly a moment later, his

own face brightening as he recognized the voice. Instinctively he rose

as if to rush across the room and bid welcome to the visitor; yet

something seemed to check the impulse as he sank back in his chair, an

expression of deepening pain on the tired face. But the resolve formed

strong within him again and the voice rang like a trumpet.

"Come in, Mr. Nickle," it cried, echoing Madeline’s, "come in, an’

welcome. I see by your face you know it all—an’ I knew you wouldn’t be

long o’ comin’. Sit down—here, alongside o’ me."

A man shall be as a refuge from the storm; so runs the ancient message

that has shed its music on multitudes of troubled hearts. And how

wonderfully true! How mysterious the shelter that one life affords

another, if only that life be strong and true; gifted it need not be,

nor cultured, nor nimble with tender words nor skilled in caressing

ways—for these are separate powers and sparingly distributed. But let

the life be true, simple and sincere and brave, and its very existence

is a hiding-place; no word may be spoken, or aim achieved, or device

employed, but yet the very being of a strong and earnest man remains the

noblest pavilion for the defeated and the sad.

How oftentimes the peace of surrender is deepened by an experience of

friendship such as comes only to the vanquished! And friendship’s

sweetest voice is heard by the despairing heart. Thus it was with David

Borland as his friend sat beside him, so grave and tender, his very look

betokening that he knew all about the long, bitter conflict, as he

obviously knew the disaster that had marked its close. He sat long in

comparative silence, only a word at intervals to show that he was

following David’s story.

"An’ I feel worse over that than all the rest," David said at length,

"to think you lost by me. But I’ll see yet that no man will lose a cent

by me, if I’m spared long enough—there’s a heap o’ work in these old

bones yet," he went on bravely, "if only——"

"And what about me, father?—what about me?" Madeline broke in, drawing

near with half outstretched hands; "I’m going to work too—there isn’t

any one in this house as strong as I am," she affirmed, her glowing face

and flashing eyes indicating the sincerity of her words.

David Borland almost groaned as he took the extended hands. "Oh, child,

they’re so soft, they’re so soft and tender. And you’ll never do a

day’s work while your old dad can work for you," he said tenderly,

gazing into the deep passion of her eyes.

"Won’t I though? I’ll show you, father," she cried in sweet defiance.

"Do you think I’m nothing but an ornament, a useless ornament?" she

asked reproachfully. "Why can’t a woman bear her part in the battle

just as well as men?—I’m going to do it, anyhow. I know how to do lots

of things; I can teach, or sew, or do woodwork—or I can learn

stenography—it doesn’t matter which; only we’ll fight it out together,

father, you and me—and mother," she added dutifully.

David’s eyes were swimming with loving admiration. Once or twice he

tried to utter what he felt, but the words seemed to choke before they

reached his lips. Finally he found the very ones he wanted. "Madeline,

you’re a thoroughbred," was all he said; but the girl knew the greatness

of the eulogy.

David turned again to his visitor. "Please don’t think I’m buttin’ in

where I’ve no business—but I can’t keep from wonderin’ if—if—if this has

took everythin’," he said in much embarrassment. "That’s been kind of

hauntin’ me for months."

The old man smiled. "I dinna feel it maitters muckle aboot mysel’," he

answered slowly. "I’ll hae what I’ll be needin’ till I gang till my

rest, I’m thinkin’," he went on quietly; "an’ ony way, I gaed intill’t

wi’ my eyes open—but I thocht it was for the best. There’s juist ae

maitter that’s giein’ me mair trouble than anither."

"What’s that?" David asked abruptly; "I’ll bet all I haven’t got it’s

not yourself."

"Weel, ye’re richt—it’s no mysel’," Geordie answered; "I could thole it

better if it was. It’s the laddie—it’s Harvey, ye ken. You an’ me’ll

no’ be able to help him ony mair—an’ the laddie was daein’ fine at the

college; an’ I’m dootin’ it’ll be a sair blow on his puir mither to tak’

him awa. Does she ken?" he asked, slowly raising his head towards

David.

"I don’t think so," said his friend; "but I suppose she’ll have to be

told sooner or later."

"Hoo lang will it be till the laddie’s through?"

"He gets his degree the next graduating class," volunteered Madeline,

her face showing the keenness of her interest. "It’s not so very, very

long," she added wistfully, looking as unconcerned as possible.

Then the old man began in the quietest and most natural way to tell

David and Madeline all about his circumstances, the simple story touched

with the pathos of an utterly unselfish heart. For his chief concern

was evidently not for himself at all—he would have enough with strict

economy to keep a roof still above his head—but his grief for Harvey’s

interrupted career was sincere and deep. He recognized fully, and

admitted frankly, that it would take what little was left him to supply

the humblest necessities of his remaining years. But this seemed to

give him little or no disquietude; his thoughts were divided between

Harvey and his mother, and he seemed troubled as to how the latter

should be apprised of the cloud that had brought this additional

darkness to her life.

"She’ll no’ learn it frae the lips o’ gossip, if I can help it," he said

resolutely at last, his staff coming down with emphasis on the floor.

"Go easy on that Turkey rug, Mr. Nickle," David interrupted with

valorous merriment; "it belongs to my creditors now, you know."

Geordie permitted himself to abandon his line of thought long enough to

say: "Ye dinna mean to tell me, David, that ye’ll hae to part wi’ a’ yir

bonnie bit things aboot the hoose?"

David never flinched as he looked straight into the sober eyes.

"All that’s of any value," he answered resolutely; "no stolen plumage

for me—I’ve no desire for it, thank God," he added cheerily. "I don’t

want nothin’ but a few little necessaries—an’ a couple o’ luxuries, such

as this here," drawing Madeline within his arm as he spoke; "it’s great

how the law can’t get at a fellow’s real treasures. Just what I was

sayin’ to you a few minutes ago, Madeline—the things that counts the

most is the things that’s left, no matter how poor a fellow gets."

Geordie’s eyes were shining with delight; such philosophy as this

touched the inmost heart of him.