The scene was the executive chamber of the newly elected Governor of
the State of New York some three weeks after the news conveyed to
Clyde by McMillan. After many preliminary and futile efforts on the
part of Belknap and Jephson to obtain a commutation of the sentence
of Clyde from death to life imprisonment (the customary filing of a
plea for clemency, together with such comments as they had to make
in regard to the way the evidence had been misinterpreted and the
illegality of introducing the letters of Roberta in their original
form, to all of which Governor Waltham, an ex-district attorney and
judge from the southern part of the state, had been conscientiously
compelled to reply that he could see no reason for interfering) there
was now before Governor Waltham Mrs. Griffiths together with the
Reverend McMillan. For, moved by the widespread interest in the final
disposition of Clyde's case, as well as the fact that his mother,
because of her unshaken devotion to him, and having learned of the
decision of the Court of Appeals, had once more returned to Auburn
and since then had been appealing to the newspapers, as well as to
himself through letters for a correct understanding of the extenuating
circumstances surrounding her son's downfall, and because she herself
had repeatedly appealed to him for a personal interview in which she
should be allowed to present her deepest convictions in regard to
all this, the Governor had at last consented to see her. It could do
no harm. Besides it would tend to soothe her. Also variable public
sentiment, whatever its convictions in any given case, was usually on
the side of the form or gesture of clemency--without, however, any
violence to its convictions. And, in this case, if one could judge by
the newspapers, the public was convinced that Clyde was guilty. On the
other hand, Mrs. Griffiths, owing to her own long meditations in regard
to Clyde, Roberta, his sufferings during and since the trial, the fact
that according to the Reverend McMillan he had at last been won to a
deep contrition and a spiritual union with his Creator whatever his
original sin, was now more than ever convinced that humanity and even
justice demanded that at least he be allowed to live. And so standing
before the Governor, a tall, sober and somewhat somber man who, never
in all his life had even so much as sensed the fevers or fires that
Clyde had known, yet who, being a decidedly affectionate father and
husband, could very well sense what Mrs. Griffiths' present emotions
must be. Yet greatly exercised by the compulsion which the facts, as he
understood them, as well as a deep-seated and unchangeable submission
to law and order, thrust upon him. Like the pardon clerk before him, he
had read all the evidence submitted to the Court of Appeals, as well
as the latest briefs submitted by Belknap and Jephson. But on what
grounds could he--David Waltham, and without any new or varying data of
any kind--just a re-interpretation of the evidence as already passed
upon--venture to change Clyde's death sentence to life imprisonment?
Had not a jury, as well as the Court of Appeals, already said he should
die?
In consequence, as Mrs. Griffiths began her plea, her voice
shaky--retracing as best she could the story of Clyde's life, his
virtues, the fact that at no time ever had he been a bad or cruel
boy--that Roberta, if not Miss X, was not entirely guiltless in the
matter--he merely gazed at her deeply moved. The love and devotion of
such a mother! Her agony in this hour; her faith that her son could not
be as evil as the proven facts seemed to indicate to him and every one
else. "Oh, my dear Governor, how can the sacrifice of my son's life
now, and when spiritually he has purged his soul of sin and is ready
to devote himself to the work of God, repay the state for the loss of
that poor, dear girl's life, whether it was accidentally or otherwise
taken--how can it? Can not the millions of people of the state of New
York be merciful? Cannot you as their representative exercise the mercy
that they may feel?"
Her voice broke--she could not go on. Instead she turned her back and
began to cry silently, while Waltham, shaken by an emotion he could
not master, merely stood there. This poor woman! So obviously honest
and sincere. Then the Reverend McMillan, seeing his opportunity, now
entering his plea. Clyde had changed. He could not speak as to his life
before--but since his incarceration--or for the last year, at least,
he had come into a new understanding of life, duty, his obligations
to man and God. If but the death sentence could be commuted to life
imprisonment----
And the Governor, who was a very earnest and conscientious man,
listened with all attention to McMillan, whom, as he saw and concluded
was decidedly an intense and vital and highly idealistic person. No
question in his own mind but what the words of this man--whatever they
were, would be true--in so far as his own understanding would permit
the conception of a truth.
"But you, personally, Mr. McMillan," the Governor at last found voice
to say, "because of your long contact with him in the prison there--do
you know of any material fact not introduced at the trial which would
in any way tend to invalidate or weaken any phase of the testimony
offered at the trial? As you must know this is a legal proceeding. I
cannot act upon sentiment alone--and especially in the face of the
unanimous decision of two separate courts."
He looked directly at McMillan, who, pale and dumb, now gazed at him
in return. For now upon his word--upon his shoulders apparently was
being placed the burden of deciding as to Clyde's guilt or innocence.
But could he do that? Had he not decided, after due meditation as
to Clyde's confessions, that he was guilty before God and the law?
And could he now--for mercy's sake--and in the face of his deepest
spiritual conviction, alter his report of his conviction? Would that
be true--white, valuable before the Lord? And as instantly deciding
that he, Clyde's spiritual adviser, must not in any way be invalidated
in his spiritual worth to Clyde. "Ye are the salt of the earth; but
if the salt have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be salted?" And
forthwith he declared: "As his spiritual advisor I have entered only
upon the spiritual, not the legal aspect of his life." And thereupon
Waltham at once deciding, from something in McMillan's manner that he,
like all others, apparently, was satisfied as to Clyde's guilt. And so,
finally finding courage to say to Mrs. Griffiths: "Unless some definite
evidence such as I have not yet seen and which will affect the legality
of these two findings can be brought me, I have no alternative,
Mrs. Griffiths, but to allow the verdict as written to stand. I am
very sorry--oh, more than I can tell you. But if the law is to be
respected its decisions can never be altered except for reasons that in
themselves are full of legal merit. I wish I could decide differently.
I do indeed. My heart and my prayers go with you."
He pressed a button. His secretary entered. It was plain that the
interview was ended. Mrs. Griffiths, violently shaken and deeply
depressed by the peculiar silence and evasion of McMillan at the
crucial moment of this interview when the Governor had asked such an
all important and direct question as to the guilt of her son, was still
unable to say a word more. But now what? Which way? To whom to turn?
God, and God only. She and Clyde must find in their Creator the solace
for his failure and death in this world. And as she was thinking and
still weeping, the Reverend McMillan approached and gently led her from
the room.
When she was gone the Governor finally turned to his secretary:
"Never in my life have I faced a sadder duty. It will always be with
me." He turned and gazed out upon a snowy February landscape.
And after this but two more weeks of life for Clyde, during which
time, and because of this ultimate decision conveyed to him first
by McMillan, but in company with his mother, from whose face Clyde
could read all, even before McMillan spoke, and from whom he heard
all once more as to his need of refuge and peace in God, his Savior,
he now walked up and down his cell, unable to rest for any length
of time anywhere. For, because of this final completely convincing
sensation, that very soon he was to die, he felt the need, even now of
retracing his unhappy life. His youth. Kansas City. Chicago. Lycurgus.
Roberta and Sondra. How swiftly they and all that was connected
with them passed in review. The few, brief, bright intense moments.
His desire for more--more--that intense desire he had felt there in
Lycurgus after Sondra came and now this, this! And now even this was
ending--this--this----Why, he had scarcely lived at all as yet--and
these last two years so miserably between these crushing walls. And of
this life but fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight of
the filtering and now feverish days left. They were going--going. But
life--life--how was one to do without that--the beauty of the days--of
the sun and rain--of work, love, energy, desire. Oh, he really did not
want to die. He did not. Why say to him so constantly as his mother and
the Reverend McMillan now did to resolve all his care in divine mercy
and think only of God, when now, now, was all? And yet the Reverend
McMillan insisting that only in Christ and the hereafter was real
peace. Oh, yes--but just the same, before the Governor might he not
have said--might he not have said that he was not guilty--or at least
not entirely guilty--if only he had seen it that way--that time--and
then--then--why then the Governor might have commuted his sentence to
life imprisonment--might he not? For he had asked his mother what the
Reverend McMillan had said to the Governor--(yet without saying to her
that he had ever confessed all to him), and she had replied that he
had told him how sincerely he had humbled himself before the Lord--but
not that he was not guilty. And Clyde, feeling how strange it was
that the Reverend McMillan could not conscientiously bring himself
to do more than that for him. How sad. How hopeless. Would no one
ever understand--or give him credit for his human--if all too human
and perhaps wrong hungers--yet from which so many others--along with
himself suffered?
But worse yet, if anything, Mrs. Griffiths, because of what the
Reverend McMillan had said--or failed to say, in answer to the final
question asked him by Governor Waltham--and although subsequently in
answer to an inquiry of her own, he had repeated the statement, she was
staggered by the thought that perhaps, after all, Clyde was as guilty
as at first she had feared. And because of that asking at one point:
"Clyde, if there is anything you have not confessed, you must confess
it before you go."
"I have confessed everything to God and to Mr. McMillan, mother. Isn't
that enough?"
"No, Clyde. You have told the world that you are innocent. But if you
are not you must say so."
"But if my conscience tells me that I am right, is not that enough?"
"No, not if God's word says differently, Clyde," replied Mrs. Griffiths
nervously--and with great inward spiritual torture. But he chose to say
nothing further at that time. How could he discuss with his mother or
the world the strange shadings which in his confession and subsequent
talks with the Reverend McMillan he had not been able to solve. It was
not to be done.
And because of that refusal on her son's part to confide in her,
Mrs. Griffiths, tortured, not only spiritually but personally. Her
own son--and so near death and not willing to say what already
apparently he had said to Mr. McMillan. Would not God ever be done
with this testing her? And yet on account of what McMillan had already
said,--that he considered Clyde, whatever his past sins, contrite and
clean before the Lord--a youth truly ready to meet his Maker--she was
prone to rest. The Lord was great! He was merciful. In His bosom was
peace. What was death--what life--to one whose heart and mind were at
peace with Him? It was nothing. A few years (how very few) and she
and Asa and after them, his brothers and sisters, would come to join
him--and all his miseries here would be forgotten. But without peace
in the Lord--the full and beautiful realization of His presence, love,
care and mercy...! She was tremulous at moments now in her spiritual
exaltation--no longer quite normal--as Clyde could see and feel. But
also by her prayers and anxiety as to his spiritual welfare, he was
also able to see how little, really, she had ever understood of his
true moods and aspirations. He had longed for so much there in Kansas
City and he had had so little. Things--just things--had seemed so very
important to him--and he had so resented being taken out on the street
as he had been, before all the other boys and girls, many of whom had
all the things that he so craved, and when he would have been glad to
have been anywhere else in the world than out there--on the street!
That mission life that to his mother was so wonderful, yet, to him,
so dreary! But was it wrong for him to feel so? Had it been? Would
the Lord resent it now? And, maybe, she was right as to her thoughts
about him. Unquestionably he would have been better off if he had
followed her advice. But how strange it was, that to his own mother,
and even now in these closing hours, when above all things he craved
sympathy--but more than sympathy, true and deep understanding--even
now--and as much as she loved and sympathized with, and was seeking
to aid him with all her strength in her stern and self-sacrificing
way,--still he could not turn to her now and tell her--his own mother,
just how it all happened. It was as though there was an unsurmountable
wall or impenetrable barrier between them, built by the lack of
understanding--for it was just that. She would never understand his
craving for ease and luxury, for beauty, for love--his particular kind
of love that went with show, pleasure, wealth, position, his eager
and immutable aspirations and desires. She could not understand these
things. She would look on all of it as sin--evil, selfishness. And in
connection with all the fatal steps involving Roberta and Sondra, as
adultery--unchastity--murder, even. And she would and did expect him to
be terribly sorry and wholly repentant, when, even now, and for all he
had said to the Reverend McMillan and to her, he could not feel so--not
wholly so--although great was his desire now to take refuge in God,
but better yet, if it were only possible, in her own understanding and
sympathetic heart. If it were only possible.
Lord, it was all so terrible! He was so alone, even in these last few
and elusive hours (the swift passing of the days), with his mother and
also the Reverend McMillan here with him, but neither understanding.
But, apart from all this and much worse, he was locked up here and they
would not let him go. There was a system--a horrible routine system--as
long since he had come to feel it to be so. It was iron. It moved
automatically like a machine without the aid or the hearts of men.
These guards! They with their letters, their inquiries, their pleasant
and yet really hollow words, their trips to do little favors, or to
take the men in and out of the yard or to their baths--they were iron,
too--mere machines, automatons, pushing and pushing and yet restraining
and restraining one--within these walls, as ready to kill as to favor
in case of opposition--but pushing, pushing, pushing--always toward
that little door over there, from which there was no escape--no
escape--just on and on--until at last they would push him through
it--never to return! _Never to return!_
Each time he thought of this he arose and walked the floor. Afterwards,
usually, he resumed the puzzle of his own guilt. He tried to think of
Roberta and the evil he had done her, to read the Bible--even--lying
on his face on the iron cot--repeating over and over: "Lord, give me
peace. Lord, give me light. Lord, give me strength to resist any evil
thoughts that I should not have. I know I am not wholly white. Oh,
no. I know I plotted evil. Yes, yes, I know that. I confess. But must
I really die now? Is there no help? Will you not help me, Lord? Will
you not manifest yourself, as my mother says you will--for me? Will
you get the Governor to change my sentence before the final moment to
life imprisonment? Will you get the Reverend McMillan to change his
views and go to him, and my mother, too? I will drive out all sinful
thoughts. I will be different. Oh, yes, I will, if you will only spare
me. Do not let me die now--so soon. Do not. I will pray. Yes, I will.
Give me the strength to understand and believe--and pray. Oh, do!"
It was like this in those short, horrible days between the return
of his mother and the Reverend McMillan from their final visit to
the Governor and in his last hour that Clyde thought and prayed--yet
finally in a kind of psychic terror, evoked by his uncertainty as to
the meaning of the hereafter, his certainty of death, and the faith
and emotions of his mother, as well as those of the Reverend McMillan,
who was about every day with his interpretations of divine mercy and
his exhortations as to the necessity of complete faith and reliance
upon it, he, himself coming at last to believe, not only must he have
faith but that he had it--and peace--complete and secure. In that
state, and at the request of the Reverend McMillan, and his mother,
finally composing, with the personal aid and supervision of McMillan,
who changed some of the sentences in his presence and with his consent,
an address to the world, and more particularly to young men of his own
years, which read:
In the shadow of the Valley of Death it is my desire to do
everything that would remove any doubt as to my having found Jesus
Christ, the personal Savior and unfailing friend. My one regret at
this time is that I have not given Him the preëminence in my life
while I had the opportunity to work for Him.
If I could only say some one thing that would draw young men to Him
I would deem it the greatest privilege ever granted me. But all I
can now say is, "I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded
that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him
against that day" [a quotation that McMillan had familiarized him
with].
If the young men of this country could only know the joy and
pleasure of a Christian life, I know they would do all in their
power to become earnest, active Christians, and would strive to
live as Christ would have them live.
There is not one thing I have left undone which will bar me from
facing my God, knowing that my sins are forgiven, for I have been
free and frank in my talks with my spiritual adviser, and God knows
where I stand.
My task is done, the victory won.
CLYDE GRIFFITHS.
Having written this--a statement so unlike all the previous rebellious
moods that had characterized him that even now he was not a little
impressed by the difference, handing it to McMillan, who, heartened by
this triumph, exclaimed: "And the victory _is_ won, Clyde. 'This day
shalt thou be with me in Paradise.' You have His word. Your soul and
your body belong to Him. Praised, everlastingly, be His name."
And then so wrought up was he by this triumph, taking both Clyde's
hands in his and kissing them and then folding him in his arms: "My
son, my son, in whom I am well pleased. In you God has truly manifested
His truth. His power to save. I see it. I feel it. Your address to the
world is really His own voice to the world." And then pocketing the
note with the understanding that it was to be issued after Clyde's
death--not before. And yet Clyde having written this, still dubious
at moments. Was he truly saved? The time was so short? Could he
rely on God with that absolute security which he had just announced
now characterized him? Could he? Life was so strange. The future so
obscure. Was there really a life after death--a God by whom he would
be welcomed as the Reverend McMillan and his own mother insisted? Was
there?
In the midst of this, two days before his death and in a final burst
of panic, Mrs. Griffiths wiring the Hon. David Waltham: "Can you say
before your God that you have no doubt of Clyde's guilt? Please wire.
If you cannot, then his blood will be upon your head. His mother."
And Robert Fessler, the secretary to the Governor replying by wire:
"Governor Waltham does not think himself justified in interfering with
the decision of the Court of Appeals."
At last the final day--the final hour--Clyde's transfer to a cell in
the old death house, where, after a shave and a bath, he was furnished
with black trousers, a white shirt without a collar, to be opened at
the neck afterwards, new felt slippers and gray socks. So accoutered,
he was allowed once more to meet his mother and McMillan, who, from
six o'clock in the evening preceding the morning of his death until
four of the final morning, were permitted to remain near him to counsel
with him as to the love and mercy of God. And then at four the warden
appearing to say that it was time, he feared, that Mrs. Griffiths
depart leaving Clyde in the care of Mr. McMillan. (The sad compulsion
of the law, as he explained.) And then Clyde's final farewell to his
mother, before which, and in between the silences and painful twistings
of heart strings, he had managed to say:
"Mama, you must believe that I die resigned and content. It won't be
hard. God has heard my prayers. He has given me strength and peace."
But to himself adding: "Had he?"
And Mrs. Griffiths exclaiming: "My son! My son, I know, I know. I have
faith too. I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He is yours. Though
we die--yet shall we live!" She was looking heavenward, and seemed
transfixed. Yet as suddenly turning to Clyde and gathering him in her
arms and holding him long and firmly to her, whispering: "My son--my
baby----" and her voice broke and trailed off into breathlessness--and
her strength seemed to be going all to him, until she felt she must
leave or fall----And so she turned quickly and unsteadily to the
warden, who was waiting for her to lead her to Auburn friends of
McMillan's.
And then in the dark of this midwinter morning--the final moment--with
the guards coming, first to slit his right trouser leg for the metal
plate and then going to draw the curtains before the cells: "It is
time, I fear. Courage, my son." It was the Reverend McMillan--now
accompanied by the Reverend Gibson, who, seeing the prison guards
approaching, was then addressing Clyde.
And Clyde now getting up from his cot, on which, beside the Reverend
McMillan, he had been listening to the reading of John, 14, 15, 16:
"Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God--believe also in
me." And then the final walk with the Reverend McMillan on his right
hand and the Reverend Gibson on his left--the guards front and rear.
But with, instead of the customary prayers, the Reverend McMillan
announcing: "Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God that He may
exalt you in due time. Cast all your care upon Him for He careth for
you. Be at peace. Wise and righteous are His ways, who hath called us
into His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that we have suffered a
little. I am the way, the truth and the life--no man cometh unto the
Father but by me."
But various voices--as Clyde entered the first door to cross to the
chair room, calling: "Good-by, Clyde." And Clyde, with enough earthly
thought and strength to reply: "Good-by, all." But his voice sounding
so strange and weak, even to himself, so far distant as though it
emanated from another being walking alongside of him, and not from
himself. And his feet were walking, but automatically, it seemed. And
he was conscious of that familiar shuffle--shuffle--as they pushed
him on and on toward that door. Now it was here; now it was being
opened. There it was--at last--the chair he had so often seen in his
dreams--that he so dreaded--to which he was now compelled to go. He was
being pushed toward that--into that--on--on--through the door which was
now open--to receive him--but which was as quickly closed again on all
the earthly life he had ever known.
* * * * *
It was the Reverend McMillan who, gray and weary--a quarter of an hour
later, walked desolately--and even a little uncertainly--as one who
is physically very weak--through the cold doors of the prison. It was
so faint--so weak--so gray as yet--this late winter day--and so like
himself now. Dead! He, Clyde, had walked so nervously and yet somehow
trustingly beside him but a few minutes before--and now he was dead.
The law! Prisons such as this. Strong, evil men who scoffed betimes
where Clyde had prayed. That confession! Had he decided truly--with the
wisdom of God, as God gave him to see wisdom? Had he? Clyde's eyes! He,
himself--the Reverend McMillan had all but fainted beside him as that
cap was adjusted to his head--that current turned on--and he had had to
be assisted, sick and trembling, from the room--he upon whom Clyde had
relied. And he had asked God for strength,--was asking it.
He walked along the silent street--only to be compelled to pause and
lean against a tree--leafless in the winter--so bare and bleak. Clyde's
eyes! That look as he sank limply into that terrible chair, his eyes
fixed nervously and, as he thought, appealingly and dazedly upon him
and the group surrounding him.
Had he done right? Had his decision before Governor Waltham been
truly sound, fair or merciful? Should he have said to him--that
perhaps--perhaps--there had been those other influences playing upon
him? ... Was he never to have mental peace again, perhaps?
"I know my Redeemer liveth and that He will keep him against that day."
And then he walked and walked hours before he could present himself
to Clyde's mother, who, on her knees in the home of the Rev. and Mrs.
Francis Gault, Salvationists of Auburn, had been, since four-thirty,
praying for the soul of her son whom she still tried to visualize as in
the arms of his Maker.
"I know in whom I have believed," was a part of her prayer.
SOUVENIR
Dusk of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of the city of San
Francisco--tall and gray in the evening shade.
And up a broad street from the south of Market--now comparatively
hushed after the din of the day, a little band of five--a man of about
sixty, short, stout, yet cadaverous as to the flesh of his face--and
more especially about the pale, dim eyes--and with bushy white hair
protruding from under a worn, round felt hat--a most unimportant
and exhausted looking person, who carried a small, portable organ
such as is customarily used by street preachers and singers. And by
his side, a woman not more than five years his junior--taller, not
so broad, but solid of frame and vigorous--with snow white hair and
wearing an unrelieved costume of black--dress, bonnet, shoes. And
her face broader and more characterful than her husband's, but more
definitely seamed with lines of misery and suffering. At her side,
again, carrying a Bible and several hymn books--a boy of not more
than seven or eight--very round-eyed and alert, who, because of some
sympathetic understanding between him and his elderly companion, seemed
to desire to walk close to her--a brisk and smart stepping--although
none-too-well dressed boy. With these three, again, but walking
independently behind, a faded and unattractive woman of twenty-seven or
eight and another woman of about fifty--apparently, because of their
close resemblance--mother and daughter.
It was hot, with the sweet languor of a Pacific summer about it all. At
Market, the great thoroughfare which they had reached--and because of
threading throngs of automobiles and various lines of cars passing in
opposite directions, they awaited the signal of the traffic officer.
"Russell, stay close now." It was the wife speaking. "Better take hold
of my hand."
"It seems to me," commented the husband, very feeble and yet serene,
"that the traffic here grows worse all the time."
The cars clanged their bells. The automobiles barked and snorted. But
the little group seemed entirely unconscious of anything save a set
purpose to make its way across the street.
"Street preachers," observed a passing bank clerk to his cashier girl
friend.
"Sure--I see them up here nearly every Wednesday."
"Gee, it's pretty tough on the little kid, I should think. He's pretty
small to be dragged around on the streets, don't you think, Ella?"
"Well, I'll say so. I'd hate to see a brother of mine in on any such
game. What kind of a life is that for a kid anyhow?" commented Ella as
they passed on.
Having crossed the street and reached the first intersection beyond,
they paused and looked around as though they had reached their
destination--the man putting down his organ which he proceeded to
open--setting up, as he did so, a small but adequate music rack. At
the same time his wife, taking from her grandson the several hymnals
and the Bible he carried, gave the Bible as well as a hymnal to her
husband, put one on the organ and gave one to each of the remaining
group including one for herself. The husband looked somewhat vacantly
about him--yet, none-the-less with a seeming wide-eyed assurance, and
began with:
"We will begin with 276 to-night. 'How firm a foundation.' All right,
Miss Schoof."
At this the younger of the two women--very parched and spare--angular
and homely--to whom life had denied quite all--seated herself upon the
yellow camp chair and after arranging the stops and turning the leaves
of the book, began playing the chosen hymn, to the tune of which they
all joined in.
By this time various homeward bound individuals of diverse occupations
and interests noticing this small group so advantageously disposed near
the principal thoroughfare of the city, hesitated a moment,--either to
eye them askance or to ascertain the character of their work. And as
they sang, the nondescript and indifferent street audience gazed, held
by the peculiarity of such an unimportant group publicly raising its
voice against the vast skepticism and apathy of life. That gray and
flabby and ineffectual old man, in his worn and baggy blue suit. This
robust and yet uncouth and weary and white-haired woman; this fresh and
unsoiled and unspoiled and uncomprehending boy. What was he doing here?
And again that neglected and thin spinster and her equally thin and
distrait looking mother. Of the group, the wife stood out in the eyes
of the passers-by as having the force and determination which, however
blind or erroneous, makes for self-preservation, if not real success in
life. She, more than any of the others, stood up with an ignorant, yet
somehow respectable air of conviction. And as several of the many who
chanced to pause, watched her, her hymn-book dropped to her side, her
glance directed straight before her into space, each said on his way:
"Well, here is one, who, whatever her defects, probably does what she
believes as nearly as possible." A kind of hard, fighting faith in the
wisdom and mercy of the definite overruling and watchful and merciful
power which she proclaimed was written in her every feature and gesture.
The song was followed with a long prayer by the wife; then a sermon by
the husband, testimonies by the others--all that God had done for them.
Then the return march to the hall, the hymnals having been gathered,
the organ folded and lifted by a strap over the husband's shoulder. And
as they walked--it was the husband that commented: "A fine night. It
seemed to me they were a little more attentive than usual."
"Oh, yes," returned the younger woman that had played the organ. "At
least eleven took tracts. And one old gentleman asked me where the
mission was and when we held services."
"Praise the Lord," commented the man.
And then at last the mission itself--"The Star of Hope. Bethel
Independent Mission, Meetings every Wednesday and Saturday night, 8 to
10. Sundays at 11, 3, 8. Everybody welcome." And under this legend in
each window--"God is Love." And below that again in smaller type: "How
long since you wrote to Mother."
"Kin' I have a dime, grandma. I wana' go up to the corner and git some
hot chestnuts." It was the boy asking.
"Yes, I guess so, Russell. But listen to me. You are to come right
back."
"Yes, I will, grandma, sure. You know me."
He took the dime that his Grandmother had extracted from a deep pocket
in her dress and ran with it to the chestnut vendor.
Her darling boy. The light and color of her declining years. She must
be kind to him, more liberal with him, not restrain him too much, as
maybe, maybe, she had----She looked affectionately and yet a little
vacantly after him as he ran. "For _his_ sake."
The small company, minus Russell, entered the yellow, unprepossessing
door and disappeared.
THE END
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]