IX

At the offices of Philip Colton & Co., just off Wall Street, an

unusual stir was apparent--an air of expectancy seemed to pervade

everything. The cashier had arrived at his desk half an hour earlier

than usual, and so had the stock clerk and the two book-keepers. This

had been in accordance with Mr. Colton's instructions the night

before, and they had been carried out to the minute. The papers in the

big copper loan, he had told the stock clerk, were to be signed at

half-past eleven o'clock the next morning, and he wanted all the

business of the preceding day cleaned up and out of the way before the

new deal went through. This accomplished, he said to himself, Mr.

Eggleston would be able to retire a part if not all of his special

capital, and his dear Madeleine, to quote a morning journal, find a

place by the side of "one of the bright young financiers of our time."

Mr. Eggleston, in tan-colored waistcoat, white gaiters and shiny silk

hat, a gold-headed cane in one hand--the embodiment of a prosperous

man of affairs--also arrived half an hour earlier--ten o'clock,

really, an event that caused some astonishment, for not twice in the

whole year had the special partner reached his son's office so early

in the day.

Young Eggleston reached his desk a few minutes after his father. His

dress was as costly as his progenitor's, but a trifle more insistent.

The waistcoat was speckled with red; the scarf a brilliant scarlet

decorated with a horseshoe set in diamonds, and the shoes patent

leather. He was one size smaller than his father and had one-tenth of

his brains. With regard to every other measurement, however, there was

not the slightest doubt but that in a few years he would equal his

distinguished father's outlines, a fact already discernible in his

middle distance. In looking around for the missing nine-tenths of gray

matter his father had found it under Philip Colton's hat, and the

formation of the firm, with himself as special and his son as junior,

had been the result.

At half-past ten Mr. Eggleston began to be nervous. Every now and then

he would walk out into the main office, interview one of the clerks as

to his knowledge of Phil's whereabouts and return again to his private

office, where he occupied himself drumming on the desk with the end of

his gold pencil, and watching the clock. The junior had no such

misgivings--none of any kind. He had a game of polo that afternoon at

three, and was chiefly concerned lest the day's work might intervene.

The signing of similar papers had once kept him at the office until

five.

At eleven o'clock a messenger with a bank-book fastened to his waist

by a steel chain, brought a message. "The treasurer of the Seaboard,

with the company's attorney, would be at Mr. Eggleston's office," the

message read, "in half an hour, to sign the papers. Would he be sure

to have Mr. Philip Colton present." (The special's social and

financial position earned him this courtesy; most of the other

magnates had to go to the trust company to culminate such

transactions.)

The character of the message and Philip's continued delay only

increased Mr. Eggleston's uneasiness. The stock clerk was called in,

as well as one of the book-keepers. "What word, if any, had Mr. Colton

given the night before?" he asked impatiently. "What hour did he leave

the office? Did any one know of any business which could have detained

him? had any telegram been received and mislaid?"--the sum of the

replies being that neither word, letter nor telegram had been

received, to which was added the proffered information that judging

from Mr. Colton's instructions the night before that gentleman must

certainly be ill or he would have "showed up" before this.

A few minutes before half-past eleven the treasurer and his attorney

were shown into the firm's office, the former a man of sixty, with a

cold, smooth-shaven face, ferret eyes and thin, straight lips, thin as

the edges of a tight-shut clam, and as bloodless. He was dressed in

black and wore a white necktie which gave him a certain ministerial

air. His companion, the attorney, was younger and warmer looking, and

a trifle stouter, with bushy gray locks under his hat brim, and bushy

gray side-whiskers under two red ears that lay flat against his head.

He was anything but ministerial, either in deportment or language.

What he didn't know about corporation law wouldn't have been of the

slightest value to anybody--not even to a would-be attorney passing an

examination. Both men were short in their speech and incisively

polite, with a quick step-in and step-out air about them which showed

how thoroughly they had been trained in the school of Street

courtesy--the wasting of a minute of each other's valuable time being

the unpardonable sin.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Eggleston," exclaimed the treasurer, with one

finger extended, into which the special hooked his own. The official

did not see the junior partner; he dealt only with principals.

"Our attorney," he continued, nodding to his companion, "has got the

papers. Are you all ready? Where is Mr. Colton?" and he looked around.

"I'm expecting him every minute," replied the special in a nervous

tone; "but we can get along without him. My son is here to sign for

the firm."

"No, we can't get along. I want him. I have some questions to ask him;

these are President Stockton's directions."

Before Eggleston could reply the door of the private office was thrust

open and Philip stepped in.

Mr. Eggleston sprang from his chair, and a combination smile showing

urbanity, apology, and contentment, now that Phil had arrived,

overspread his features.

"We had begun to think you were ill, Colton," he said in a relieved

tone. "Anything the matter?"

"No, I stopped to see Mr. Gregg. I am on time, I believe, gentlemen,

half-past eleven, wasn't it?" and he consulted his watch. There was a

peculiar tremor in Phil's voice that made his prospective

father-in-law fasten his eyes upon him as if to learn the cause.

Colton looked as if he had been awake all night; he was pale, but

otherwise he was himself.

"Yes, you are on the minute," exclaimed the treasurer, picking up the

bundle of papers and loosening the tape that bound them together. "You

have just returned from the property, we hear. What do you think of

it?"

"We have the certificate of the mining engineer," interrupted Mr.

Eggleston in a bland tone, regaining his seat.

"Yes, I have it here," the treasurer answered, tapping the bundle of

papers. "It is your personal opinion, Mr. Colton, that we want. The

president insists upon this; he has a reason for it."

Colton stepped nearer and looked the treasurer square in the eyes.

"My personal opinion, sir," he answered in clear-cut tones, "is that

the deposit is practically exhausted. I came here to tell you so. The

engineer's report is, I think, too highly colored."

Both father and son started forward in their chairs, their eyes

glaring at Philip. They could hardly believe their senses.

"What!" burst out Mr. Eggleston--"you don't mean to say that----"

"One moment, please," interrupted the treasurer, with an impatient

wave of his hand towards Eggleston: "Do you think, Mr. Colton, that

the issue had better be deferred?"

"I do. Certainly until the mine makes a better showing."

Again Mr. Eggleston tried to interrupt and again he was waved into

silence.

"When did you arrive at this conclusion?"

"This morning. I thought differently yesterday, but I have changed my

mind. So much so that it would be impossible for me to go on with this

loan."

"Shall I take that message to the president?"

"Yes. If I have any cause to change my opinion I'll let him know. But

it is not likely I will--I'm sorry to have given you all this

trouble."

"Thank you," said the trust company's representative, rising from his

chair and extending his hand to Philip. "I might as well tell you that

we have heard similar reports and our president felt sure that you

would give him the facts. He has great confidence in you, Mr. Colton.

If he authorizes me to sign the papers after what you have said to me

I'll be back here in a few moments. Good-day, sir!" and with a grim

smile lighting his face, the treasurer nodded himself out.

Eggleston waited until the trust company's attorney had gathered up

his papers and had closed the door behind him--a mere matter of

routine with him; almost every day a transaction of this kind was

either deferred or culminated--then he swung himself around in his

revolving chair, his cheeks purple with rage, and faced Philip.

"Well, sir! what do you think of the mess you've made of this

morning's business! Do you for one instant suppose that Stockton will

go on with this deal after what you have told him?"

"If he did, sir, it would not be with my consent," answered Philip

coldly.

"Your consent! _Your consent!_ What do you know about it? Did you ever

mine a pound of copper in your life? Did you ever see a pound mined

until you made this last trip? And yet you have the effrontery to set

yourself up as an expert against one of the best men in his

profession! Do you not know that you have made not only the firm but

me ridiculous, by your stupid vacillation--and with the Seaboard, of

all trust companies! Why didn't you find out all this before you

brought these people down here?"

"It is never too late to be honest, sir."

"What do you mean by that!" snapped Eggleston.

"I mean just what I say." Philip's voice was without a tremor, low,

forceful and decisive. "The floating of these bonds on the present

condition of the mines would have been a fraud. I didn't see it in

that way at first, but I do see it now. It is done every day in the

Street, I grant you, but it will never be done again with my consent

so long as I am a member of this firm!"

Eggleston's lip curled. "You seem to have grown singularly honest

overnight, Mr. Colton," he sneered. "According to your ideas Bates,

Rankin & Co. were frauds when they floated the Imperial, and so were

Porter & King when they sold out the Morningside for two millions of

dollars."

"None of them are paying, sir, and it was dishonorable to float the

bonds." He was still on his feet, facing his prospective

father-in-law, holding him at bay really.

"What's that got to do with it?" snarled Eggleston. "They will pay

sometime. As to your honor: That's the cheap sentiment you Southern

men are always shouting. Your kind of honor won't hold water here! It

was your honor when you tried to hold on to your niggers; and it's

your honor when you murder each other in duels, and----"

"Stop, Mr. Eggleston!" said Philip, his face white as chalk, every

muscle in his body taut--"this has gone far enough. No position that

you hold towards me gives you the right to speak as you have. I have

done what was right. I could not have looked either you or Madeleine

in the face if I had done differently."

Here the door was swung back, cutting short Eggleston's reply, and a

note was passed in, the clerk making a hurried inspection of the faces

of his employers, as if to learn the cause of the disturbance.

Eggleston read it and handed it to his son, who so far had not opened

his mouth. He could reach the game in time, anyhow.

"Just as I expected!" hissed Eggleston between his teeth: "'Must

decline the loan,' he says. 'Thank Mr. Colton for his frankness.

Stockton, President.' Thanks Mr. Colton, does he! If you want my

opinion I'll tell you that by your confounded backing and filling

you've thrown over the best operation we've had since this firm was

formed. Find the money somewhere else, Mr. Colton, that I've put in,

and I'll draw out. This morning's work convinces me that no sensible

man's interests are safe in your hands."

"That will be difficult, sir, when the condition of our firm is known,

as it must be. Furthermore, it would be impossible for me to ask it.

Since I've been here I've done my best to look after your interests.

Some of our ventures, I regret to say, have been unsuccessful. Instead

of releasing your capital I shall need some fifty thousand dollars

more to carry us through. The situation is upon us and I might as well

discuss it with you now."

"We don't owe a dollar we can't pay," blurted out Eggleston, picking

up his hat and cane.

"That is true to-day, but to-morrow it may not be. The refusal of this

loan by the Seaboard will send back to us every copper stock we have

borrowed money on. They are good, better than Portage, but the banks

won't believe it. I want this additional money to tide this over."

"You won't get a dollar!"

"Then I'll notify the Exchange of our suspension at once. If we stop

now we can carry out your statement and pay every dollar we owe. If we

keep on with the market as it is we may not pay fifty cents. Which

will you do?"

"Not a dime, sir! Not a cent! Do you hear me--not one cent! You two

fools can work it out to suit yourselves. I'm through with you both!"

and he slammed the door behind him.

* * * * *

The boys were already crying the news of the downfall of his house

when, late that afternoon, Philip pushed aside the velvet curtain and

stepped into Adam's studio. He had bought an extra on his way uptown

and held it in his hand. "Failure in Wall Street! Philip Colton & Co.

suspend!" the headlines read.

"It's all over, Gregg," he said, dropping into a chair, without even

offering the painter his hand.

"And he refused to help!" exclaimed Adam.

"Yes, not a cent! There was nothing else to do. We can pay every

dollar we owe, but it leaves me stranded. Madeleine is the worst part

of it. I did not think she'd go back on me. They are furious at her

house. I stopped there, but she wouldn't see me--nobody would. She's

wrong, and when she gets the truth she'll think differently, but it's

pretty hard while it lasts."

Adam laid his hand on Phil's shoulder and looked steadily into his

face.

"Do you regret it, Phil?" The old search-lights were sweeping right

and left again.

"Yes, all the trouble it brings and the injury to the firm and to Mr.

Eggleston, for I don't forget he's my partner. I didn't think it would

end in ruin. I bungled it badly, maybe."

"Are you sorry?"

"No, I'd do it over again!" answered Philip firmly, as he glanced at

the portrait.

Gregg tightened his grasp on Philip's shoulder. "That's the true ring,

my son!" he cried, his eyes filling with tears. "I've never loved you

as I do this minute Now you begin to live. This day marks the parting

of the roads: From this day you go forward, not back. It doesn't make

any difference what happens or what things you----"

"And you don't think Madeleine will----"

"Think Madeleine will lose her love for you! You don't know the

girl--not for one minute. Of course, everything is upside down, and of

course there'll be bad blood. Mr. Eggleston is angry, but he'll get

over it. What he has lost to-day he has made a dozen times over in his

career in a single turn in stocks, and will again. Keep your head up!

Finish your work at the office; pay every cent you owe; come back here

and let me know if anything is left, and then we'll see Madeleine.

You'll find my check-book in that desk at your elbow. I'll sign as

many checks in blank as you want and you can fill them up at your

leisure. We'll fight this thing out together and we'll win. Madeleine

stop loving you! I'll stake my head she won't!"

* * * * *

Events move with great rapidity in the Street. When a tin case the

size of a candle-box can be brought in by two men and a million of

property dumped out on a table, an immediate accounting of assets is

not difficult. Once their value is fixed by the referee they can be

dealt to those interested as easily as a pack of cards.

By noon of the following day not only did the firm of Philip Colton &

Co. know exactly where they stood, but so did every one of the firm's

creditors: Seventy per cent cash and thirty per cent in sixty days was

the settlement. All their outside stocks had been closed out under the

rule. Philip's thorough business methods and the simplicity and

clearness with which his books had been kept made such an adjustment

not only possible, but easy. The net result was the wiping out of the

special capital of Philip's prospective father-in-law and all of his

own capital and earnings. The junior partner was not affected; his

allowance went on as usual. He did not even sell his stud; he bought

another pony. His father gave him the money; it helped the family

credit.

So far not a word had come from Madeleine. Philip had rung the bell of

the Eggleston mansion three times since that fatal morning and had

been told by the butler in frigid tones that Miss Eggleston "was not

at home." None of his notes were answered. That so sensible a girl as

Madeleine, one whose whole nature was frankness and love, could be so

cruel and so unjust was a disappointment more bitter than the failure.

"She has been lied to by somebody," broke out Philip as he paced up

and down Adam's studio, "or she is locked up where nothing can reach

her. All my notes come back unopened; the last redirected by Mr.

Eggleston himself. Neither he nor his son has been to the office

since the settlement. They leave me to sweep up after them--dirty

piece of business. Will there be any use in your seeing Mr.

Eggleston?"

Adam looked into space for a moment.

He had never met the senior. He had, out of deference to Phil, and

contrary to his habitual custom, given him preference over his other

sitters, but Eggleston had not kept his appointment and Gregg had

postponed the painting of the portrait until the following season.

Phil had made excuses, but Adam had only smiled and with the

remark--"Time enough next winter," had changed the subject.

"No. Let a young girl manage her own affairs," Adam answered in a

decided tone, "especially a girl like Madeleine." He had seen too much

misery from interfering with a young girl's heart.

"What do you advise then?"

"To let the storm blow over," Adam replied firmly.

"But you've said that for a week and I am no better off. I can't stand

it much longer, Old Gentleman. I _must_ see Madeleine, I tell you.

What can you do to help? Now--not to-morrow or next week?"

"Nothing that would be wise."

"But you promised me to go and see her the afternoon we went to

smash."

"So I did, and I'll go if you wish me to."

"When?"

"To-morrow morning. It is against my judgment to do anything until you

hear from her. A woman always finds the way. Madeleine is no

exception. She loves you too well not to. But I'll go, my boy, and

try."

"You _must_ go. I tell you I can't and won't wait. I have done nothing

I'm ashamed of. Our wedding is off, of course, until I can look around

and see what I'm going to do, but that's no reason why we can't

continue to see each other."

* * * * *

The butler met him with a polite but decided: "Miss Eggleston is not

receiving."

"Take her that card," said Gregg. "I'll wait here for an answer."

The erect figure of the painter, his perfect address, coupled with the

air of command which always seemed a part of him, produced an

instantaneous curve in the butler's spine.

"Step into the library, sir," he said in a softer tone as he pushed

aside the heavy portieres for Adam to enter.

Gregg entered the curtain-muffled room with its marble statues, huge

Sevres vases and ponderous gold frames, swept a glance over the blue

satin sofas and cumbersome chairs in the hope of finding Madeleine

curled up somewhere among the heap of cushions, and then, hat in hand,

took up his position in front of the cheerless, freshly varnished

hearth to await that young lady's coming. What he would say or how he

would approach the subject nearest to his heart would depend on her

mental attitude. That she loved Phil as dearly as he loved her there

was no question. That she had begun to suffer for loss of him was

equally sure. A leaf from his own past told him that.

Again the butler's step was heard in the hall; there came a sound of

an opening door, and Mr. Eggleston entered.

As he approached the dealer's description of his white hair and red

face--a subject Franz Hal would have loved--came back to the painter.

Adam advanced to meet him with that perfect poise which distinguished

him in surprises of this kind. "Mr. Eggleston, is it not?"

"Yes, and whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"--glancing at the

card in his hand.

"I am Adam Gregg. We were to meet some time ago, when I was to paint

your portrait. This time I came to see your daughter Madeleine."

Mr. Eggleston's manner dropped thermometer-like from the summer heat

of graciousness to the zero of reserve: the portrait was no longer a

pleasant topic. Moreover he had always believed that the painter had

advised Philip the morning of his "asinine declination" of the trust

company's proposition.

"May I ask what for?" It was a brutal way of putting it, but the

banker had a brutal way of putting things. Generally he confounded the

person before him with the business discussed, venting upon him all

his displeasure.

"To try and have her receive Philip Colton, or at least to get her

reason for not doing so. It may be that it is due to your own

objection; if so I should like to talk the matter over with you."

"You are quite right, sir; I do object--object in the strongest

manner. I don't wish him here. I've had all I want of Mr. Colton, and

so has my daughter."

"May I ask why?"

"I don't know that it is necessary for me to discuss it with you, Mr.

Gregg."

"I am his closest friend, and have known him ever since he was five

years old."

"Then I positively decline to discuss it with you, sir, for I should

certainly say something that would wound your feelings. It is purely a

matter of business, and that you artists never understand. If you will

excuse me I will return to Mrs. Eggleston; she is an invalid, as you

have no doubt heard, and I spend the morning hour with her. I must ask

you to excuse me, sir."

* * * * *

On his return to his studio Gregg began to pace the floor, his habit

when anything worried him. Phil was to return at three o'clock and he

had nothing but bad news for him. That his visit had only made matters

worse was too evident. Never in all his life had he been treated with

such discourtesy. Eggleston was a vulgarian and a brute, but he was

Madeleine's father, and he could not encourage her to defy him. He, of

course, wanted these two young people to meet, but not in any

clandestine way. Her father, no doubt, would soon see things

differently, for success was the foot-rule by which he measured a

man, and Phil, with his energy and honesty, would gain this in time.

Phil must wait. Everything would come right once the boy got on his

legs again. The failure had in every way been an honest one. In this

connection he recalled the remark of a visitor who had dropped into

the studio the day before and who in discussing the failure had said

in the crisp vernacular of the Street: "Bitten off more than they

could chew, but square as a brick." It was an expression new to him

but he had caught its meaning. That his fellow-brokers had this

opinion of Philip meant half the battle won. Men who by a lift of

their fingers lose or make fortunes in a din that drowns their voices,

and who never lie or crawl, no matter what the consequences, have only

contempt for a man who hides his wallet. "Hands out and everything

you've got on the table," is their creed. This done their pockets are

wide open and every hand raised to help the other fellow to his feet.

All these thoughts raced through Adam's head as he continued to pace

the floor. Now and then he would stop in his walk and look intently at

some figure in the costly rug beneath his feet, as if the solution of

his problem lay in its richly colored surface. Two questions recurred

again and again: What could he do to help? and how could he get hold

of Madeleine?

As the hours wore on he became more restless. Early that

morning--before he had gone to Madeleine's--his brush, spurred by his

hopes, had worked as if it had been inspired. Not only had the

sitter's head been blocked in with masterly strokes, but with such

fulness and power that few of them need ever be retouched--a part of

his heart, in fact, had gone into the blending of every flesh tone.

But it was all over now; his enthusiasm and sureness had fled. In

fact, he had, on his return, dropped his brushes into his ginger-jar

for his servant to clean, and given up painting for the day.

Soon he began fussing about his studio, looking over a portfolio for a

pose he needed; replacing some books in his library; adding fresh

water to the roses that stood under Olivia's portrait--gazing up into

its eyes as if some help could be found in their depths--his

uneasiness increasing every moment as the hour of Phil's return

approached.

At the sound of a quick step in the corridor--how well he knew the

young man's tread--he threw open the door and pushed aside the velvet

curtain. Better welcome the poor fellow with a smile and a cheery

word.

"Come in, Phil!" he cried--"Come--_Why, Madeleine!_"

She stood just outside the door, a heavy brown veil tied over her hat,

her trim figure half concealed by a long cloak. For an instant she did

not speak, nor did she move.

"Yes, it's I, Mr. Gregg," she sobbed. "Are you sure there's nobody

with you? Oh, I'm so wretched! I had to come: Please let me talk to

you. Father told me you had been to see me. He was furious when you

went away, and I know how he must have behaved to you." She seemed

completely prostrated. Buoyant temperaments pendulate in extremes.

He had drawn her inside now, his arms about her, holding her erect as

he led her to a seat with the same tenderness of voice and manner he

would have shown his own daughter.

"You poor, dear child!" he cried at last. "Now tell me about it. You

know how I love you both."

"Oh, Mr. Gregg, it is so dreadful!" she moaned in piteous tone as she

sank upon the cushions of the divan, Adam sitting beside her, her hand

tight clasped in his own. "I didn't think Phil would bring all this

trouble on us. I would forgive him anything but the way in which he

deceived papa. He knew there was no copper in the mine, and he kept

saying there was, and went right on speculating and using up

everything they had, and then when it was all to be found out he

turned coward and ruined everybody--and broke my heart! Oh, the

cruel--cruel--" and again she hid her face in the cushions.

"What would you think, little girl, if I told you that I advised him

to do it?" he pleaded as he patted her shoulder to quiet her.

"You couldn't do it!" Madeleine burst out in an incredulous tone,

raising herself on her elbow to look the better into his eyes. "You

_wouldn't_ do it! You are too kind."

"But I did--as much for your sake and your father's and brother's as

for his own. All the firm has lost so far is money. That can be

replaced. Had Philip not told the truth it would have been their

honor. That could never have been replaced."

And then with her hands fast in his, every thought that crossed her

mind revealed in her sweet, girlish face, Adam, his big, frank, brown

eyes looking into hers, told her the story of Philip's resolve. Not

the part which the portrait had played--not one word of that. She

would not have understood; then, too, that was Phil's secret, not his,

to tell; but the awakening of the dormant nature of an honest man,

incrusted with precedents and half-strangled in financial sophistries,

to the truth of what lay about him.

"You wouldn't want his lips to touch yours, my child, if they were

stained with a lie; nor could you have worn your wedding-gown if the

money that paid for it had been stolen. Your father will see it in the

same light some day. Then, if he had a dozen daughters he would give

every one of them to men like Philip Colton. The boy wants your help

now; he is without a penny in the world and has all his life to begin

over again. Now he can begin it clean. Get your arms around his neck

and tell him you love him and trust him. He needs you more to-day than

he will ever need you in all his life."

She had crept closer to him, nestling under his big shoulders. It

seemed good to touch him. Somehow there radiated from this man a

strength and tenderness which she had never known before: In the tones

of his voice, in the feel of his hand, in the restfulness that

pervaded his every word and gesture. For the first time, it seemed to

her, she realized what it was to have a father.

"And won't you talk to papa again, Mr. Gregg?" she pleaded in a more

hopeful voice.

"Yes, if you wish me to, but it would do no good--not now. It is not

your father this time, it's you. Will you help Phil make the fight,

little girl? You love him, don't you?"

"Oh, with all my heart!"

"Well, then, tell him so. He will be here in a few minutes."

Madeleine sprang from her seat:

"No, I must not see him," she cried in frightened tones; "I promised

my father. I came at this time because I knew he would not be here.

Let me go: We are having trouble enough. No--please, Mr. Gregg--no, I

must go."

"And what shall I tell Phil?" He dared not persuade her.

"Tell him--tell him--Oh, Mr. Gregg, you know how I love him!"

She was through the curtains and halfway down the corridor before he

could reach the door. All the light had come back to her eyes and the

spring to her step.

Adam walked to the banisters and listened to the patter of her little

feet descending the stairs to the street. Then he went back into the

studio and drew the curtains. Thank God, her heart was all right.

Once more he picked his brushes from the ginger-jar where in his

despair he had thrust them. Nothing in the situation had changed. The

fear that Madeleine had lost her love for Phil had never troubled him

for an instant. Women's hearts did not beat that way. That Phil's

future was assured once he got his feet under him was also a foregone

conclusion. What Mr. Eggleston thought about it was another matter,

and yet not a serious one. He might be ugly for a time--would be--but

that was to be expected in a man who had lost his special capital, a

son-in-law and considerable of his reputation at one blow. What had

evidently hurt the banker most was the wounding of his pride. He had

always stood well with Mr. Stockton--must continue to do so when he

realized how many of his other interests depended on his good-will and

the trust company's assistance. Phil had not told Adam this when he

went over the scene in the office the morning they closed up the

accounts, but Gregg had read between the lines. The one bright ray of

sunshine was Madeleine's refusal to break her word to her father. That

pleased him most of all.

A knock at the door interrupted his revery. It did not sound like

Phil's, but Adam had been deceived once before and he hurried to meet

him.

This time a messenger stood outside.

"A note for Mr. Adam Gregg," he said. "Are you the man?"

Adam receipted the slip, dismissed the boy and stepped to the middle

of the room under the skylight to see the better. It was from Phil.

"I cannot reach you until late. Have just received a note

from the Seaboard Trust Company saying Mr. Stockton wants to

see me. More trouble for P. C. & Co., I guess. Hope for good

news from Madeleine."

This last note filled his mind with a certain undefined uneasiness.

What fresh trouble had arisen? Had some other securities on which

money had been loaned--made prior to Phil's awakening--been found

wanting in value? He hoped the boy's past wasn't going to hurt him.

With this new anxiety filling his mind he laid down his brushes--he

had not yet touched his canvas--put on his hat and strode out into the

street. A breath of fresh air would clear his head--it always did.

For two hours he walked the pavements--up through the Park; out along

the edge of the river and back again. With every step there came to

him the realization of the parallels existing between his own life's

romance and that of Philip's. Some of these were mere creations of his

brain; others--especially those which ended in the sacrifice of a

man's career for what he considered to be right--had a certain basis

of fact. Then a shiver crept over him: For honor he had lost the woman

he loved: Was Phil to tread the same weary path and for the same

cause? And if fate should be thus cruel would he and Madeleine forget

in time and lead their lives anew and apart, or would their souls cry

out in anguish as his had done all these years, each day bringing a

new longing and each day a new pain: he in all the vigor of his

manhood and the full flower of his accomplishment and still alone and

desolate.

With these reflections, none of them logical--but all showing the

perturbed condition of his mind and his anxiety for those he loved, he

mounted the stairs of the building and pushed open the door of his

studio.

It had grown quite dark and the studio was filled with shadows. As he

crossed to the mantel--he rarely entered the room without pausing for

a moment in front of the portrait--Olivia's face, with that strange,

wan expression which the fading light always brought to view, seemed

to stand out from the frame as if in appeal, a discovery that brought

a further sinking of the heart to his already overburdened spirit.

With a quick movement, as if dreading the power of prolonged darkness,

he struck a match and flashed up the circle of gas jets, flooding the

studio with light.

Suddenly he stopped and swept his eyes rapidly around the room. Some

one beside himself was present. He had caught the sound of a slight

movement and the murmur of whispering voices. Then a low, rippling

laugh fell upon his ears--the notes of a bird singing in the dark, and

the next instant Madeleine sprang from behind a screen where she had

been hiding and threw her arms around his neck.

"Guess!" she cried, pressing his ruddy cheeks, fresh from his walk,

between her tiny palms. "Guess what's happened! Quick!"

The revulsion was so great that for the moment he lost his breath.

"No! you couldn't guess! Nobody could. Oh, I'm so happy!

_Father's--made--it--up--with--Phil!_"

"Made it up! How do you know?" he stammered.

"Phil's just left him. Come out, Phil!"

Phil's head now peered from behind the screen.

"What do you think of that, Old Gentleman?" he cried, clasping Adam's

outstretched hand.

"And there isn't any trouble, Phil, over Mr. Stockton's note?"

exclaimed Gregg in a joyous but baffled tone of voice: he was still

completely at sea over the situation.

"Trouble over what?" asked Phil, equally mystified.

"That's what I want to know. You wrote me that it meant more trouble

for your firm."

"Yes, but that was before I had seen Mr. Stockton. Then I ran across

Mr. Eggleston just as he was coming out of the trust company, and he

sent me to Madeleine--and we couldn't get here quick enough. She beat

me running up your stairs. Hasn't she told you? And you don't know

about Stockton's letter? No! Why, he has offered me the position of

head of the bond department of the trust company at a salary of ten

thousand a year, and I go to work to-morrow! Here's his letter. Let me

read you the last clause:"

"No, let me," cried Madeleine, reaching for the envelope.

[Illustration: "It is all her doing, Phil."]

"No--I'll read it," begged Phil.

"No, you won't! I'll read it myself!" burst out Madeleine, catching

the letter from Phil's hand and whirling around the room in her glee.

"Listen: 'The Trust Company needs men like you, Mr. Colton, and so

does the Street!' Isn't that lovely?"

"And that's not all, Old Gentleman!" shouted Phil. "We are going to be

married in a month. What do you think of that!"

"And Mr. Eggleston is willing!"

"_Willing!_ Why, you don't think he would offend Mr. Stockton, do

you?"

Gregg had them in his arms now--Madeleine a bundle of joyous laughter;

Phil radiant, self-contained, determined.

For a brief moment the three stood silent. A hush came over them.

Adam's head was bent, his forehead almost touching Phil's shoulder, a

prayer trembling on his lips. Then with a sudden movement he led them

to the portrait, and in an exultant tone, through which an unbidden

sob fought its way, he cried:

"Look up, my children--up into your mother's face. See the joy in her

eyes! It is all her doing, Phil."

"Oh! my beloved, now you know."

* * * * *

The picture has never been taken from Gregg's studio. It still keeps

its place over the mantel. There is rarely a day that one of the three

does not place flowers beneath it; sometimes Madeleine and Phil

arrange them; sometimes Adam; and sometimes little blue-eyed,

golden-haired Olivia is lifted up in Gregg's strong arms so that she

may fill the jar with her own wee hands.