"It was a delicate business, as you can imagine, to make her

acquaintance in the face of such a state of things; but I managed it,

fortunately, through doing her a little service on the 'piazza,' and

from that I went on to press my society upon her cautiously. In a few

days we were on very good terms, and took a few of the customary walks

and drives in the neighborhood, with other persons at first, and then

alone. I was puzzled to find her so easy as to this, being a foreigner;

but I believe I convinced her of my trustworthiness, and she must have

found out easily, from my acquaintances in the place, just who I was.

Then she seemed to have outgrown foreign prejudices in some way; and I

confess, besides, that I accounted for it at the time by fancying that I

had begun to make some impression upon her.

"I determined there shouldn't be any doubt about it. Yes, it was a

serious matter, Middleby; I had come to a point when I meant to offer

myself to her the very next day. I got her consent to go to Artists'

Falls, where I meant to lay my passion before her. Hideous name, by the

way--Artists' Falls!" broke off Fearloe, testily. "No affair could have

prospered in a spot with such a shoppy name."

He relapsed into gloomy reflections, from which I roused him, insisting

that the story should be finished.

"It was the evening before our intended excursion," he then went on.

"She and I were sitting on a retired part of the piazza, just about

sunset. Everything about us was rarely beautiful; the flush of the

evening just dying away from old Rattlesnake, and the line of the great

peaks at the distant head of the valley, with Washington's dome in the

midst, looking, to the fancy--as you have probably seen them--like giant

ghosts of the great men they commemorate. Then, across the intervale,

with its hundreds of little brooks and its soft elms, we looked at

White-horse Cliff, and that waterfall that seems to flutter from the

distant hill-side like a white banner. You remember? A single star was

poised above it. I shall never forget that scene. It came upon me with a

kind of surprise, after all, that we could have anything so lovely here,

and I began contrasting it with Europe. I wanted to hint something about

going back there, you know--lead up in a sort of way to my intended

declaration in the morning. So it was natural that, in talking of the

other side, and the voyage, and all that, I should begin to tell her

about that odd fellow on the _Weser_ when we went over, you

know--Steavens."

"Miserable man!" I exclaimed, at this point, remembering my discomfiture

at that dinner. "You told her, and then you found she was some one I had

already met and told before?"

Fearloe glared at me in amazement, then slowly smiled in a melancholy

manner, and shook his head. "Don't be childish, Middleby," said he; "and

please don't interrupt me. I fancy I know something more about Steavens

than _you_'ve ever told. This particular time I'm describing to you I

was surprised to find that my listener didn't seem to enter into the fun

of the thing. I didn't mention his name, yet I almost suspected she knew

something about the man. But as she didn't relish the absurd side of

him, I thought I'd give her a proper dose of the serious. I went on to

impart what I had learned about a desperate love affair of his at Bad

Pfeiffers; and this, by the by, is news to you, Middleby."

"Not quite," I said, with a vain smile. (It must be kept in mind that

Fearloe and I had claimed a joint ownership in Steavens as a comic

spectacle, and I was jealous of any other kind of property in him as a

sentimental one.)

"No?" rejoined Fearloe, rather surprised, but cool. "Well, then, you can

judge how flat I felt on finding that the beginning of his romantic

episode didn't seem to strike her much more than the rest I had said

about him.

"'You seem rather to despise your compatriot,' she said, when I had got

as far as telling her what I had heard about his rivalry with Scharlach

for the favor of a young lady whom they met at the baths. 'But why

shouldn't he feel the same love and devotion that another might, even if

he were not the most accomplished of his nation?'

"I answered, 'Ah, that is like you, to defend a man for holding a

generous sentiment. It is to be hoped you would be equally kind in

judging a less out-and-out American who dared to love one of your race.'

(I imagined she blushed just there.) 'But if you had seen this man

Steavens, you would understand just how I look at him. You don't know

much yet about such raw specimens of my kind.'

"The fact is, Middleby, I put something of a sneer into my words. I was

angry at her liking the man even in fancy. However, I finished my story.

"'He certainly was very devoted;' I admitted that. 'He was quite as

brave as the other man.'"

"'No braver, you think?' asked she, quietly, with a tone I did not

comprehend.

"'You shall decide,' said I. 'The sequel was this: My German gentleman,

Scharlach, got perfectly raving mad, I'm told. He looked upon the lady

as his absolute right, and couldn't be quieted; while Steavens behaved

so calmly that he began to get on terms with the lady and her uncle

again, even after his rebuff. If you have ever been at Pfeiffers,' I

said to her, 'you know the gorge of the Tamina; but you can't guess

what's coming. It happened, one day, that Steavens went in there, when

Scharlach had already gone to the spring, and was coming back along the

foot-bridge.' I can tell you, Middleby, she looked interested when I

came to this--just as you do now. She was startled, too. 'Now, by the

strangest coincidence, the obdurate uncle and his niece also went down

there shortly afterward, not knowing that either of the rivals was in

the cave. They had gone some little way along the dangerous path, when

they heard a terrible shout, like the cry of a wild man. They tried to

make haste forward to see what it meant, after the first moment of

terror, and came in sight of the two men just in time. Scharlach was

making a rush upon Steavens, who stood perfectly still, with a pale

face, but resolute and terribly stern.

"'He braced himself as well as he could. The shock came. There was a

stout, short struggle, and suddenly Scharlach went over, plunging toward

the rough torrent full of rocks, and was lost.'

"Then, Middleby, you should have seen that woman's eyes as she sat there

in the twilight. How they flashed, as she rose in her chair! Yet there

was an intense pain in her expression. 'This is too terrible,' she said.

'But no; I must speak now. Mr. Fearloe, did the person who told you this

story also tell you how, when Scharlach fell, Steven tried to hold

him--tried to save the man who had just been seeking his life? Ah, there

his true and great nobility were seen!'

"'Good heavens, madam,' cried I, 'who are you? You saw them? Then you

must be--'

"Just then, Middleby, the coach from the station had come up, and the

passengers were getting out. Madame was exclaiming, without heed to my

questions, 'Oh, I cannot bear this! That scene all comes back to me.

Steven! Steven! why are you not here?' And, as if in answer to her

words, the man came up behind her with his travelling-bag in his hand. I

felt as if lightning had struck me! But to _her_, calmness returned in

an instant. She rose, and with her arm in his she said, coldly, 'Steven,

do you remember Mr. Fearloe?' He recalled me at once, and started to

take my hand. But she checked him, and said to him, while looking at me

like ice, 'Ah, it's a pity you remember him, for you must learn now to

forget him!' And with that she wheeled away, carrying him with her."

"It was Miss Raslaff," I cried. "And how did it happen you didn't know

her?"

"I had forgotten the name. Ah, my boy, I have been fearfully punished. I

had a conceited contempt for that man, and see how it has been visited

on me."

"Then she has married him?"

"By this time, yes. She clung to her savage old uncle till he died, then

came over to marry Steavens, though by condition of the will she must

forfeit all her uncle's money in doing so."

"Fearloe," I remarked, after a pause, "I think we will neither of us

relate our funny encounter with Steavens any more. What did we, with all

our fancied supremacy, gain by going to Europe, compared with this man?

After all, it was a real inspiration of his to 'strike right down to Bad

Peppers'!"

THREE BRIDGES.

I.

THE IMPORTANCE OF A HAT.

Within a distance of about ten miles Shagford River makes three long

curves, each of which is crossed by a bridge.

The first is for the railroad. The second, thrown across at a point

where the ground is lower, carries a country road from bank to bank.

Still further down is the third, which is of stone, and forms a paved

street connecting the two parts of the factory town of Shagford.

On the afternoon of a superb summer day a fast train from the north-west

swept around the curve leading to the bridge-head, and emerged upon the

open iron-work structure which bore the double track above the water.

The fireman was shovelling coal, and the engineer had just withdrawn his

hand from a cord which blew the whistle when he caught sight of a man,

in a round Bombay hat, half way across and walking in the same direction

the train was taking. Again he pulled the string, sending out four

hoarse notes: "Lo-ook oout, a-head!" But the man did not step aside, as

would have been expected, on to the line of plank provided for foot

passengers between the tracks. The engineer turned on the air-brake and

shouted; but there was a strong breeze blowing against him; and at best

a voice could hardly rouse a traveller deaf to the steam notes. The last

chance of escape appeared to have passed when the stranger, moved by an

instinct of danger, though hearing nothing, turned his head.

For the space of a second he confronted the swift, trembling glitter of

steel and brass and the pallid face of the engineer at the cab-window. A

look of unutterable horror convulsed his own features, and he sprang

wildly into the air. Falling again, without being hit by the engine, he

went tumbling down through an interstice of the iron beams into the

muddy water below. The train was soon stopped and reversed. Slowly the

wheels revolved backward--with a solemn, funereal movement, as if

conscious of the inanimate body that might soon be added to their

freight.

But to the amazement of every one on board, staring frightened into the

river, the hurt man was seen to be already struggling out of the

current, and clambering--wet, hatless, with dripping hair--up the steep

bank they had just left. On reaching the top he began to walk aimlessly

away from the train, as if nothing had happened, but presently sat down

on the ground looking weak and bewildered.

"Well, if he ain't the coolest hand!" exclaimed the brakeman. "Must be a

new sort of water-rat." This same brakeman, however, was prompt to go

with the conductor to the aid of the stranger. They found him conscious,

but stupefied, and so helped him into the train, which then continued on

its way, bearing him off to Shagford.

"Where are you bound?" asked the conductor.

The man, who was of middle age, with a sun-browned face and close

iron-gray whiskers along the upper jaws, felt for his hat and, not

finding it, looked uneasy. "There must be no delay," he said, half to

himself. "I'll tell you in a moment," he added.

But he sat for some time without speaking; and it was evident that the

shock of his terrible fall had worked confusion in his brain. Even on

reaching Shagford he was unable to collect himself. But they persuaded

him to consult the nearest physician, whom he sought under care of the

young brakeman. This resulted in his being taken temporarily to the

hospital, for, though seemingly without physical injury, he had suffered

so peculiar a mental effect that rest and proper care were thought

advisable.

Shortly after the occurrence of this singular accident a vehicle crossed

the turnpike bridge, of which mention has been made. The vehicle was a

buggy, occupied by a single figure--that of a man say about

thirty-eight, clothed in a close-fitting suit of mixed brown. He was of

prosperous but not portly aspect, and what was most noticeable in him

was that his eyes scanned the river in a sudden, peculiar way. One might

have said that, emerging from the softly massed trees upon the bank, he

had an uneasy sense of being exposed to unexpected observation on the

open stretch of the bridge. But perhaps the more likely explanation

would be that he was an inquiring, energetic person, who habitually

looked everywhere. Habit or chance, whichever it might be, his alert

vision was not exercised in vain that day. He saw on the river, floating

toward his point of vantage, an upturned hat. Now, this hat was the

identical one which had quitted the head of the unlucky man at the

railroad bridge; for, being made of cork, it was perfectly adapted to

navigation.

"That's what comes of sharp eyes," said the driver of the buggy aloud,

much as though he were stating a moral maxim which it did him good to

hear. "Who knows but this may turn out important? If anybody's been

drowned, or--" The alternative was lost in a clucking sound with which

he accompanied the urging of his horse; for he had formed a plan.

The bridge was low; the hat was drifting toward one of the numerous rows

of spiles, hence he believed he could fish it up with his long-handled

whip. Dismounting, and watching his opportunity, he succeeded after a

few moment's novel angling in bringing up, by a noose made of the

lash-end, his piece of flotsam.

As I have said, this man wore a comfortable mien; his face was smooth,

rosy, firm and beardless, and though the structure of his lips was

rather hard and determined, the corners of the lips indicated constant

readiness for a smile which, however, never culminated when he was

alone. Still, at this moment, a beam of satisfaction rested on his

features. The recovery of the hat presented itself to him in the light

of a virtuous action. Looking into it he saw the owner's name written on

the leather band: "Simeon Piper." As this conveyed no impression, he

turned his attention to a small folded paper stuffed inside of the band

and making a slight bulge in it. On examining what was inscribed upon

the sheet, his countenance changed; the beaming look vanished, and his

eyebrows, always describing an acute angle to the temples, grew sharper

than ever. It was a movement analogous to that of an animal drawing back

its lips before biting, or darting a fang out. His expression, in fact,

had become wolfish.

What did it mean? Merely that the name he had seen this time was his

own. "Martin E. Hounshell," he read, in a half voice, finding it for an

instant even stranger than the strange name he had encountered just

before. But he had seen other things on the page with his name; things

which he would not articulate even here; certain names and dates for

which he deemed silence the fittest atmosphere.

Hounshell's next act was to toss the hat back into the river, and he was

about to tear up the paper scrap and send it after the hat, when he

changed his mind. He put the memorandum into an inside pocket and

buttoned up his coat, tapped the surface of the coat snugly, then got

into his buggy and drove on--thoughtful and puzzled, but with equanimity

returning and ready to spring his patent smile in a moment, should he

meet an acquaintance.

Nevertheless, what had just happened was startling. If the paper which

now lay over his heart had possessed the power of receiving a photograph

from his brain he could not have been more astonished. The invisible had

become visible; what had lain concealed for years in his own mind now

confronted him from without. And who was Simeon Piper--a total

stranger--in whose hat so mysterious a revelation had taken place?

Hounshell's horse dragged that question along unconsciously to the end

of the bridge, where, for the moment, it disappears from our pen

unanswered.

The small waves flashed lightly around the spiles; a breeze rustled in

the woods, perhaps looking for something it had lost there and never

could find again. The two bridges were deserted; all was silent, dreamy.

Then from the unseen bridge lower down a shrill clamor arose to break

the serenity of the evening; a chorused shriek of twenty unearthly

voices blended together. Unexpected and wild, loudly startling it was,

so that there seemed something uncanny about it. One might have thought

it the cry of monsters discovering human prey, or a mob of witches

revelling in some crime that had been found out there. But as a matter

of fact no one indulged in either of these impossible fancies. Everybody

knew that the uproar came from the mills of Shagford, blowing the hour

of release from work.

II.

FATHER, DAUGHTER, AND--WHO ELSE?

At this signal the operatives streamed forth like school-children; and

from Hounshell's flannel-mill in particular came one elderly man, who

threw himself with all the energy of a boy into a row-boat that lay at

the waterside, and began oaring his way lustily up-stream. He had not

gone far before he turned the bow into a secluded bay where water-lilies

grew thickly. Here, paddling about and causing the boat to lurch

violently as he stooped over the side, he pulled a few of the flowers.

He looked tired and hard-worked; there was something indescribably

pathetic in his making so much effort after the day's labor. But he did

not seem to see this; and so, after getting a bunch of lilies, he

continued up the river with a business-like stroke that implied some

past familiarity with life on the water. The end of the course was soon

reached; he moored the boat close to a little cottage that stood apart

from the houses of the other working-people, and wore a peculiarly

well-cared-for aspect.

On one side of the path was a tomato-patch; on the other a minute

flower-garden; a grape-vine laid its flat leaves by one of the windows,

and everything about the place was neat, cosey, sheltered. As the weaver

came up toward it, however, he saw that there were two persons in the

room behind the vine, instead of only one, as he had expected. He

paused, looking in, and saw that it was Hounshell with his daughter. The

mill-owner at that moment took her hand in a somewhat fervent way,

addressing her eagerly, and led her toward the window. Instantly the

girl withdrew her hand and came running out.

"Oh, father, dear, how lovely! Did you bring them for me?"

"Who else d'you s'pose, Addie? I'm not courting any one."

He looked at her quizzically as she received the lilies, his

weather-worn face glowing mildly at the same time, with pride in her

beauty and delight at having pleased her.

"That's mean of you, father," she said, half offended, yet smiling as

she inhaled the delicate, sweet-almond scent of the blossoms.

"What? Not to be courting?" he asked, putting his arm fondly around her.

"I can do better than that, lass, by coming home. Four bells have

struck; time for a kiss, you know." Whereupon she put her lips to his

faded, fatherly check.

Addie was certainly beautiful in her way, and Scofield thought there was

no way to compare with it. She was tall, fresh, dark-eyed; her

complexion was rich with the soft, clear brown which our American sun so

deftly diffuses over a healthy face that ripens in its warmth; and she

always looked as cool, as sparkling and lithe as if she had just stepped

from a bath in the river. You felt that, were you to place your hand on

her shoulder, she would resist springily, like a young bough in the

woods.

"And you can do a good deal better than I can; that's certain," said

Hounshell to Scofield, breaking in. He had come to the threshold and

witnessed this little passage.

"You ought not to talk about it before me, anyway," declared Addie,

whose code of propriety never allowed ceremony to stand in the way of

truthfulness. And, having administered this rebuke, she blushed as if it

were she who had offended modesty.

"Oh, well, don't take on about it!" said the mill-owner, apologetically.

"I don't know how to talk when I get down here. Different up to the

mill; ain't it, Scofield?" Here he winked at the father with humorous

comradeship. Then, turning again to Addie: "All is, I want you to be my

wife, and you know it, and so does the old man. So where's the harm,

talking about? Lord! there ain't nothing high daddy about me. I worked

my way up, and I like working-people; so, 'stid of going round among the

high daddies, I come to you and say I want to marry you. I've seen you

grow into a woman, just like"--the speaker, embarrassed, gazed

helplessly round the garden for a comparison, and proceeded:--"Like one

of those tomaytoes there, when it comes to fruit. And I know all about

you."

"I don't believe I'm like a tomayto one bit," said Addie, with

conviction. The next moment, allowing herself a saucy smile: "And I

don't know all about you, you see. So there!"

Her mature admirer did not resent this, but stood really abashed and

disconcerted. "What am I to do, Scofield?" he asked, stepping out on to

the walk. "You see how it goes."

Addie seized the moment for escaping into the house, while her father,

regarding his employer meditatively, replied: "Take soundings, and then

try again. That's all I can say."

"I don't know," observed Hounshell, shaking his head. He tried to bring

his regulation smile into play, but the springs would not work. He was

really attached to the girl; and there was a painful longing in his

mind, besides another motive, of which he could not speak. He was

unnerved.

Presently they went into the house. "Won't you stay to supper?"

suggested Scofield.

"No, thank'ee. I'm going. Addie!"

"Yes, sir." She looked at him from her cool, liquid eyes as steadily and

with as much unconsciousness in her clear-lined face as if she had never

heard him speak of marriage.

"I've a word to say, if you'll come out to the gate."

"All right." Addie put the cups on the table for her father and herself,

and then followed Hounshell, who bade the weaver good-night.

"I want you to treat me differently," said the miller, when they were

alone. "This is a very serious matter, and there's more in it than you

think. You ought to consider your father."

The girl's eyes flashed. "You don't mean," she began, "that you--"

"No, I don't mean any harm to him, of course. Take me or leave me, he'll

be all right. But if you take me, my father-in-law don't remain in the

weaving-room, by a long shot. I'll make him my partner instid."

Addie appeared to weigh this.

"Well, that's right," she said. "He ought to be." Hesitatingly, she went

on: "I know it's generous of you, but--but--"

"There's another reason, too," the suitor hastened to explain. "I can't

tell you now, but I might afterward. It's very serious. Oh, I can't

stand it, if you don't consent!" he almost groaned.

She was startled by his strenuous manner.

"What reason can it be?" she asked, quivering a little.

"It's been on my heart so long," Hounshell said, pressing both hands on

his chest. "It's there now," he continued, sinking his voice. At the

precise instant of speaking his fingers felt beneath the coat that

fateful fold of paper which the river had brought him, and both arms

fell as if he had been struck.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, staring at her.

It seemed to him that she, too, must have felt the paper and its

tell-tale words.

"What have I been saying?" he asked, in a bewildered tone.

The change in him within a few moments had been extraordinary, and Addie

experienced a shock. Any one who had seen the wolfish glare of his eyes

on the bridge would have been surprised at the human emotion he now

betrayed.

"You frighten me," said the girl, shrinking; but she was conscious of

feeling more pity than fright.

"Don't be frightened," urged Hounshell, trying to speak gently; but his

voice broke. It sounded abject rather than soothing. "I s'pose I'm

making mistakes again. You can't understand me. Only this--think of

this: I shall never get over it if you don't have me. You may do me a

great wrong by turning me off. Can't you consider about this a little

more?"

"I--I will try to consider, Mr. Hounshell," faltered Addie.

"Then I'll go; I'll bid you good-night," he said, regaining some of his

customary stiffness.

"Good-night," she returned.

He got into the waiting buggy; there was a grinding of wheels, a puff of

whitish dust from them, and then the dusk obliterated him, much to her

relief. She went back into the house slightly paler than when she had

left it.

"Father," she declared, "I never can marry that man."

"What! Hounshell?"

"Yes. There's something strange about him--and wrong."

"Careful! He's been our best friend, lass; there can't be anything

wrong."

"All the same, I shall not marry him."

The old man was hurt.

"Have you thought over all?" he asked. "You wouldn't be the only

gainer."

He glanced down at his arm, which still bore marks of sailor's

tattooing, and at his hard hands all day in service at the loom; and

then he sighed, as if despairing of rest.

"I know, dear father," said his daughter. "Mr. Hounshell would be very

generous to you, so I wish I could do it. But oh, I can't, I can't!"

She put one hand on his arm and looked piteously into his face.

"I see how it is," said Scofield. "You have fixed your fancy on Jonah."

Addie softly moved away. All her color had returned, but she said

nothing. They had barely seated themselves at the table when a knock was

heard.

"Come in!" cried Addie, and on the entrance of the new-comer,

"Oh--Jonah!"

"Did you think it was--well, never mind who."

Jonah, in whose spruce attire, as he now presented himself, it was not

easy to recognize the brakeman of the afternoon train, made this

enigmatical remark rather uneasily, and subsided into regretful silence.

"Sit down, Jonah, and have some supper," said old Scofield, with a

slight lingering gruffness.

The young man, however, accepted without compunction; and in a twinkling

Addie had spirited on to the table an extra cup, plate, knife and fork,

which were suspiciously ready to her hand.

"We had a queer thing happen on the train this afternoon," said Jonah,

as the hot tea roused him into talkativeness again. And he proceeded to

relate the occurrence with which our narrative of these events began.

"Man's name is Piper," he continued--"Simeon Piper. No one knows

anything about him, and he can't tell why he was there or where he was

going. The shock put a screw loose in his brain somewhere, the doctor

says. May get over it, and may not. But they won't keep him at the

hospital long, because there's nothing the matter with him much, except

that."

"Poor fellow!" Addie murmured. "What will he do when they send him away,

if he doesn't know where he wants to go?"

"Can't make it out," was Jonah's answer. "Some one ought to take hold

and help him till he gets well."

Addie made a prompt resolution.

"We'll take hold; won't we, father? Couldn't you bring him out here,

Jonah?"

The brakeman reflected a moment. Piper was not young; so there was no

objection on that score.

"Yes," he said, "I'll bring him out when I get back from my run

to-morrow. They say he seems pretty well-to-do, too. He'll pay board."

"Never mind if he does," said Miss Scofield, artlessly. "We can be kind

to him just the same."

It was settled accordingly.

After supper the two men went out into the garden. They had a serious

subject to talk over, and Jonah began it by saying:

"The men are pretty near all agreed, Mr. Scofield, and we've got to do

something soon. How is it in your mill?"

"Hounshell's, you mean," corrected the ex-sailor and weaver, cutting a

piece of tobacco. "Well, I suppose a good many of our hands will go with

you, if it comes to a strike. But I can control a number, I guess; and

I'm bound to tell you that we shall stick to work and stand out ag'in

you."

"That's bad--bad," mumbled the young railroader, with a troubled air. He

plucked a spear of tall grass and began biting it. "I can't see,

Scofield," he burst out (dropping the "Mr." this time), "why you stick

to that man against all your own interests and the interests of your

fellow-workmen. What's Hounshell compared with them?"

"He's my friend and benefactor; that's all. Didn't he take care o' my

poor wife the day she died? And when I come back from sea, after a long

cruise and a shipwreck, and my wife was dead, didn't I find that he had

taken my little girl in tow, and was eddicating her? Look here,"

Scofield pushed up the sleeve of his coat and shirt and displayed the

dim blue anchor on his fore-arm; "as long as that stays there I'm going

to be true to the man as was true to me," he said.

"I know all that," said Jonah. "He's done a lot. The others are a little

jealous of you, sometimes; and that's one reason I want you to be with

us. If you ain't, they'll say: 'Oh, yes, it's very fine for Scofield to

stay out! The boss helped him to a nice cottage, and give his daughter a

pianna. But the rest of us have got to look out for ourselves.' That's

what they'll say. And as for me, I say it's barter and trade; that's

what! Hounshell give Addie an education and a pianna, and now he wants

her to give herself in exchange."

"That ain't the way to look at it," retorted Scofield. "It ain't fair.

And if you mean to insult my daughter by your talk about barter and

trade, why, you'd better--"

"You're the first to say 'insult,'" Jonah answered, in an angry,

constrained tone. "I love Addie; and I don't believe she'd marry in any

such way. And what's more, I--I kind of hope she'll marry me. There

again, there's another reason why I wanted you to be on our side--now

that we've got everything together, and the railroad hands and mill

hands are ready to move at the same time. But I see it's no use; I've

done my best."

"No; it's no use," assented the weaver. "I'm doing my best, too."

Thus it happened that the young man took his departure in some heat; but

it was of her own accord that Addie followed this lover to the gate; and

she did not let him go without a few sweet words to comfort him.

III.

LISTENING.

Martin Hounshell had three good causes for wishing to marry Addie

Scofield. First, so far as in him lay, he loved her. Secondly, knowing

that opposition was afoot among the men, he feared the influence that

Jonah Brown might obtain over Scofield, should he succeed in his

courtship of the daughter; for he relied much on the sailor-weaver's

loyalty to fight off the trouble. Thirdly, he had some time since been

guilty of a secret misdeed, which he hoped to repair by bestowing

further benefits on the Scofields.

This evening, after going from the cottage and leaving his horse at

home, he went down to the deserted mill, entered the office, locked

himself in, and then spread out on his desk the discovered memorandum.

The words with which it began were these: "Martin E. Hounshell. Property

delivered, April 13th, 1877. Adelaide Scofield died same day. Husband

returned--."

The date here was omitted. Below followed the names of certain persons

in California, and two or three other brief notes.

To the mill-owner, sitting there in the dim candlelight, with a hand

pressed nervously over his lips, this told the whole story. To any one

it would at least suggest suspicion. Should he destroy the paper? He

held it up toward the candle; then hesitated. It might be desirable

first to find out who had written it, and to do this he would keep it as

evidence. No place so unapproachable by others as his own pocket; so he

put it away again.

The injury he had done to the unsuspecting Scofield had been crowned

with success to himself, but it had tormented him, too. In spite of

having given the man employment and having assisted the daughter, he

could not escape his remorse. But when he should have wedded Addie, and

lifted the weaver into a subordinate partnership, he felt sure that his

mind would be at rest. "As it is," he muttered, "I have done more than

most would have done, to make amends. I can't give up all--the whole

thing. It ain't reasonable. And if I get to be his son-in-law, why,

we're all together, and that squares it."

But who and where was this other man, this unknown Piper, who carried

dangerous information which might at any moment, if disclosed, give a

sudden check to the comforting plan thus formed? That must be learned

without delay.

It was not until the next afternoon that, looking over the Shagford

_Minute-Hand_ more carefully than he had had time to do in the morning,

he saw an account of the accident at the railroad bridge, which

accounted for the floating hat. Simeon Piper, then, was in the very

town, at the hospital--perhaps at this instant telling some one the tale

which had come to his knowledge! Preposterous unkindness of fate, to

deal such a blow at this late day! Hounshell only half believed it could

be dealt him; yet when he rose from his chair he felt very weak, and the

solid walls of the mill as he passed outside seemed decidedly rickety.

He very nearly expected them to fall over upon him. As directly as he

could he made his way to the hospital, and by the time he reached it was

aware that his interest in the stranger might appear somewhat singular.

To prevent this he began carelessly, to the attendant:

"Queer sort of case, that one you had yesterday from the railroad."

"Yes, a very narrow escape."

"I read about it in the _Minute-Hand_. How's he getting along?"

"Very well indeed. He's left us."

"Left a'ready!" Hounshell wondered if his face looked as white as it

felt. "There's no chance, then--"

"No chance to see him now," said the attendant, far from suspecting the

anxiety under that word "chance," as used by Hounshell.

"He's lucky to get off so soon," remarked the latter, a cold

perspiration on his back. "Gone from town, I s'pose."

"I believe so."

Hounshell was afraid to ask anything more. He covered his retreat by

discussing his ostensible errand, which was to make arrangements for

possibly sending to the hospital the invalid wife of one of his men. He

had no intention of actually sending her, but he went away leaving an

impression of his remarkable kindness.

How dear to him was all this false reputation, which cost so little

except in secret mental twinges! He doubted whether a respectability

honestly worked for would have yielded him nearly so keen an enjoyment;

and he was determined to hold on to that which he had gained. Where to

look for Piper, and just how to dispose of him, was the problem now

before him. But he began to feel easier, and his thoughts returned to

the impending labor revolt.

It was desirable to see Scofield in private, and with this end in view

he drove out to the cottage again at evening.

On entering the little sitting-room he was annoyed to find a stranger

there comfortably adjusted in a rocking-chair.

"I didn't know you had company here," he observed frigidly, eying

Scofield.

"Oh, that won't interfere!" said Scofield. "It's only Mr. Piper; the man

that--"

"Piper!" ejaculated Hounshell, in a voice harsh with horror.

The stranger looked up at him astonished.

"Yes," said the weaver. "Mr. Piper, this is our boss, Mr. Hounshell."

It was all over--so the miller thought. He stood staring, waiting for

Simeon Piper to spring up with deadly denunciation on his lips. But that

individual merely bowed and inspected his _vis-a-vis_ with a

good-natured air. The only thing worthy of remark about him was that

there was a sort of pained blankness in his face; and as he met

Hounshell's fixed gaze he lifted one hand and pressed his forehead

vaguely for an instant. The other man was quick to take the respite

offered.

"I'm glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Piper," he said, exhibiting

his smile with great success. "I've heard about your escape."

Then he looked at Scofield imperiously, and they went out together.

"What is that man there for?" he demanded, taking the weaver's arm

sharply.

"Why, he's come out to board; that's all. Do you know him? You seemed a

good deal shaken up."

"No; I don't know him. I s'pose this labor combination is making me

nervous. I kind of suspect people."

"Pshaw! This man's an outsider; comes from California. He was a

rancheero, or something, out there, I believe. I can tell you how we

happen to have him here." And the explanation was given. "He's dropped

the bottom out of his memory, like, and wants to wait till he can fit a

new one to it."

"Oh, that's it!" exclaimed Hounshell, once more secure. He saw that his

name had not been recognized by his enemy; and perhaps the memorandum in

his pocket was the only connecting link that would ever lead to such a

recognition. "Still," he said, "I don't like Jonah's bringing him here.

It won't hurt if you let him go his way this side of next week."

They then proceeded to a discussion of the state of things in the mill;

and Hounshell went home without attempting an interview with Addie. But

first, after driving a little way, he stopped, went back on foot, and

stealthily looked through the vine-hung window. Addie was reading

something to the robust-looking invalid, who still sat in the

rocking-chair, his face as blank as ever. Her father occupied himself

with carving a small piece of wood, twisting his lips in sympathy with

the knife. Everything was placidly reassuring.

Hounshell wondered at the thinness of the partition that stood between

him and ruin; but he did not care if it was only an egg-shell, so long

as it did not break.

But while he was still gazing through the pane, the sound of a distant

train on the railroad came through the night. The watcher was scarcely

aware of it until he saw Piper start up in his chair, listening, with a

roused, intent expression. The girl ceased from her reading; Scofield

stopped his work and looked at their guest. No one spoke in the little

room. The noise of the train grew louder; now it became a rumbling hum

or a rattle--busy, swift, determined in character. It was as if a

gigantic shuttle were being driven through the woof of the darkness, to

carry one more strand into that great web of civilization, woven day and

night continually. But there was something mysterious and warning in the

sound besides. Under the general subdued roar could be heard the sharp

click of the wheels from rail to rail, in definite pulsations; the sound

thus grew so precise one might have suspected that it would break into

speech. Had it not some message to deliver of which this was the vague

prelude?

That at least was what Piper seemed to hope as he rose excited, finally

gaining his feet, with a quicker intelligence in his face than had been

there before. As if it would be possible to catch the message more

distinctly should he look out, he turned his eyes toward the window.

Hounshell barely missed betraying himself there, but slid away into the

dark swiftly.

"Was that a face?" Simeon Piper demanded. "No; I see it must have been

an illusion," he added, despondently, once more putting his hand to his

head.

The father and daughter exchanged looks of pity.

By this time the cars had got farther off and were less audible. Piper's

agitation died away proportionately, and he sank back into his seat.

But the same sort of thing happened on the following day when he heard

the distant movement of a train.

"Listen!" he cried to Addie, who was with him. "Don't you hear? It's

going to say something. I shall get hold of the idea and find out what

is the matter. Listen! listen!"

Then, as before, the hollow rumble diminished, gradually softened to a

stir no louder than a sigh, and finally was quite lost. Only the baffled

breeze continued its hopeless search among the leafy boughs by the

river.

"What is it you think you might hear?" asked Addie, gently.

The strong man looked at her with tears in his eyes.

"A secret, young lady; a secret! I knew it, and now it is gone. It's

strange that cars should excite me this way, but something has hurt my

brain. You are very kind; and if you go on being so perhaps my mind will

get right again."

A week passed. Piper listened each day to the passing trains; sometimes

at night too, when he lay alone, and it seemed still more likely that

through its relation with this sound the lost clew might disclose

itself. But all in vain; he was unable to recover what had escaped him.

During these days Hounshell did not come out to the cottage, but the

labor movement culminated, and all the railroad and mill employes

demanded an advance of wages.

IV.

THE THIRD BRIDGE.

The employers met in conference, and agreed not to yield--so the strike

began. Scofield, however, and a small group with him, stoutly refused to

join the movement; and some work was still done at Hounshell's. This

encouraged the other mill-owners and directors, and exasperated the men

in revolt. At first everything was quiet and orderly; but as the success

of the laborers grew more doubtful to them, anger and excitement gained

sway.

"I feel almost afraid for father," said Addie to Simeon Piper, on the

fourth day of the strike. For, in fact, there were now serious threats

of riot.

"I don't believe they would do him any harm," said the Californian,

easily. "The most they'll do will be to make him stop working, and then

he'll have a holiday."

"But he won't stop," the girl affirmed, excitedly. "I know father better

than you."

"Well, then," suggested Piper, still seeking an easy way out, "persuade

your friend Brown--my friend, too--to come over to father's side."

Piper, with a Western taste for convenience and cordiality, had adopted

this mode of referring to Scofield.

"But I--I don't want to," faltered Addie, with a soft blush.

"Hoity-toity!" cried Simeon. "What does that mean?"

"I want him--the strikers, that is--to win."

"Against father?" Piper raised his good-humored eyebrows.

"Oh dear, I wish they were on the same side! I only know I'm fearful.

They'll hurt him; I know they will."

"Oh, look here," said Piper, "that's all foolishness! But I'll tell you

what: we'll walk down to town and see how things are going."

"Shall we? Oh, how nice you are, Mr. Piper! Come on, then."

And they started.

A great many men were standing about the streets, looking ominous of

ill; but as yet no disturbance was made. The mill stood at one end of

the street-bridge; and as Piper and Addie came up to it they heard the

noise of a crowd approaching around one corner of it. A moment after

they had gained the entrance, this crowd, which numbered some

twenty-five men, armed with thick sticks and some heavy stones, arrayed

itself face to face with them.

"Where do you lot plan on going?" asked Piper, in a leisurely manner.

"In here," said some of the group, "to stop them working."

"I guess not," observed the Californian. His tone was even genial.

"We'll see," retorted a leader, moving forward.

The mill-door was fast, but at this moment the bolts were loosed, and

Scofield made his appearance.

"Addie," he commanded, sternly, "come in, and out of the muss! and you,

too, Piper."

"You can send daughter in," answered Piper, indicating Addie, who--far

from quailing--looked as serene and fresh as ever. "But I'm going to

stand in front of this door. Now," he continued, with determination,

fronting the rioters, "you leave the old man and his girl alone. If you

don't you've got to fight me. One of your locomotives run me off the

bridge t'other day and didn't kill me; and I guess you can't, either. I

promise to corral the whole herd, if you try to come in here."

Some of the men showed defiance, but those nearest were in no hurry to

attack. It had suddenly become apparent to them that their antagonist's

shoulders were particularly square and rugged. Scofield wondered whether

his champion knew what he was about; the Piper certainly seemed to be in

possession of all his faculties.

The leaders began to confer.

As luck would have it, the owner of the mill, who had been absent, and

was not aware of the immediate danger, just then came up. He had not

seen the crowd until within a few yards. At once a threatening cry

arose:

"Hounshell!"

A strange sensation came over Piper; a loud, tumultuous noise following

the word, filled his ears. Was it the rush of the river, or the thunder

of a railroad train? He could not tell; but he shouted suddenly with

fierce exultation:

"Hounshell--that's the name! Hounshell's the man!"

His memory had come back to him.

The strikers, diverted by this new object, turned as if to assault the

"boss;" but Piper was before them. He had darted forward and toward

Hounshell, who, blanched with fear, and thinking Piper in league with

the men, took flight, making for the bridge; the Californian after him.

The little mob, itself bewildered, followed; but Piper had already

clutched the fugitive when it caught up with them.

"I've got him," he cried. "This man's a fraud. Do you want to know why?

He took the money left to the other man--Scofield--hurrah! that's the

other name. He stole the money, I tell you, and bought that mill, and it

don't belong to him. The mill is Scofield's; d'you hear?"

"Let go," gurgled Hounshell, trying to wrench himself free. But his

captor shook him once, and he was quiet.

The workmen crowded up to get a clearer understanding of this

extraordinary statement; and as it broke fully upon them, "Throw him

over the bridge," became their watchword. But by this time several other

persons had advanced over the street bridge, among whom were Jonah and

Scofield.

"No violence, boys," said Jonah, lifting his voice, which had authority.

"You're disgracing the cause."

The men became silent, but Scofield was indignant with his ally of a

moment before.

"What are you doing to the boss?" he demanded, hotly. "You must be

crazy."

"Yes; he's crazy," said Hounshell, trying to assume the air of a

composed and meritorious person placed at a disadvantage.

"You must have been yourself," the Californian vehemently declared,

"when you took that legacy to pay to Mrs. Scofield, and then stole it

because she died and no one knew about it. The mill belongs to Scofield,

I say, and I can prove it in a little time."

"You've got no evidence," asserted Hounshell, very pale and a trifle

wolfish.

"Evidence! I've got you, and you're chock full of it. I believe I could

shake it right out of you if I tried."

Piper glared at him, and then, without releasing his hold, made a dive

with one hand at his captive's breast.

"It's gone," said Hounshell, huskily. "I've burned it."

"Burned what?"

"The paper," Hounshell muttered; "your memo--"

"Oh, you had it, then! You've convicted yourself by that, my fine

scamp."

"I give up," said the wretched criminal. "Let's go. Take me away--the

mill! Bring Scofield. I give up."

Seeing that this was best, Simeon acceded.

"Come along, Scofield," he said.

Jonah pressed up to Scofield and congratulated him as they went, but the

older man scarcely responded. When they were again at the mill one

striker renewed the idea of coercing the workers. But Jonah imposed his

veto.

"Not now," he said.

And Scofield added:

"Boys, if the mill belongs to me it's settled beforehand. You get your

advance."

This sent them off with a cheer and the prophecy that the rest of the

bosses would have to follow suit.

The four men, left alone, entered the office.

"Is it true?" asked Scofield.

Hounshell winced, but replied steadily:

"It's all true."

The weaver went to the window and put his head on his arm. It was he,

the innocent man, who was overwhelmed by the disgrace of the one who had

wronged him.

"But how did you find it out?" Jonah asked of Piper.

"Roundabout," was the answer. "First off, from a man I was hiring on my

ranche. He came from here and spoke about Scofield; said he was a

weaver. I'd heard something about that rich brother in 'Frisco that

hadn't seen the rest of the Scofields for years, and left 'em his money;

so I saw there might be something wrong. I looked it up, and came on

here."

Jonah took his hand.

"But you must have known the Scofields, or had some interest in them,"

he said, after a moment.

Simeon Piper looked down; then he looked away; finally he twirled his

thumbs.

"I could afford the time," he said. "Got money enough. Well, yes, I

suppose you might call it interest. Fact is, I knew Scofield's wife's

sister when she was young. I--didn't marry her. But, then, I never

married any one, you see."

And with this he faced his questioner, turning upon him a pair of eyes

that beamed as if he had just set forth a remarkably cheerful

circumstance.

On further inquiry it was understood how Piper had taken the wrong train

for Shagford, and, finding that it branched off, had started foolishly

to walk along the track when overtaken on the bridge. He was now

convinced that a hat was not a good place in which to deposit important

documents.

Finding that evidence for his conviction could soon be obtained, in

addition to his confession, Hounshell executed a deed of the mill to

Scofield.

"And what do you propose to do with me?" he asked. "Are you going to get

me locked up?"

The others held a conference, before answering. Scofield was in favor of

letting the malefactor go, but the decision was at last given to Piper,

who said:

"I'm sorry for you, Hounshell. It would have been better for you if you

had emigrated some time ago. But as it is, I guess the law'll have to

decide where you're to locate."

And, subsequently, it did so.

"Well," said the deposed malefactor, when sentence had been passed, "I'm

almost glad of it."

A soft summer rain was falling as they led him out of court to go to

prison; and, strangely enough, he had not felt so happy for years. Once

more he was open to the charm of the pattering drops, the sweetness of

refreshed flowers, the cool air, as he had been in boyhood.

"It's only fair to you," Scofield remarked, forgivingly, "to say that

you showed conscience."

"Yes--if I'd only followed it," Hounshell answered. "A man ought to

trust his conscience instead of letting it trust him. I tell 'ee it's an

awful sharp creditor when the time does come to pay up."

IN EACH OTHER'S SHOES.

I.

John Crombie had taken a room at the new apartment building, The Lorne;

having advanced so far in his experience of New York as to be aware that

if he could once establish himself in a house associated by name with

foreign places and titles his chance of securing "position" would be

greatly increased. He did not, however, take his meals in the expensive

cafe of that establishment, finding it more economical to go to an

outlandish little French restaurant, some distance away, which had been

nicknamed among those of his acquaintance who resorted to it, "The Fried

Cat." This designation, based on a supposed resemblance to the name of

the proprietor, Fricat, was also believed to have value as a sarcasm.

It was with no pleasant sensations, therefore, that Crombie, waking on a

gray and drizzling morning of November, remembered that he must hie him

to the "Fried Cat" for an early breakfast. He was in a hurry that day;

he had a great deal to do. His room was very small and dark; he bounced

up and dressed himself, in an obscure sort of way, surreptitiously

opening the door and reaching vaguely for his shoes, which stood just

outside, ready blacked. Nor did it add to his comfort to know that the

shoes were very defective as to their soles, and would admit the water

freely from the accumulated puddles of the sidewalks. In fact, he had

been ashamed to expose their bad condition to the porter when he put

them out every night, as he was forced to do, since they were his only

pair. Drawing them on hastily, in order to conceal his mortification

from even his own mind, he sallied forth; and though at the moment of

putting them on a dim sense of something unfamiliar crossed his mind, it

was not until he reached "The Fried Cat" that he became fully aware that

he had carried off some one else's shoes. He turned up the soles,

privately, underneath the low-hanging table-cloth, and by a brief

examination convinced himself that the gaiters did not belong to him.

The test was simple: his feet were unaccountably dry, and there were

none of those breaks in the lower surface of their leather covering

which he had so often been obliged to contemplate.

He saw at once that the porter of The Lorne had made a mistake, and must

have deposited at another apartment his own very insufficient foot-gear;

but there was no chance now to remedy the confusion. Crombie had barely

time to reach the office where he was employed.

On an ordinary occasion he would perhaps have gone back to The Lorne and

effected an honorable exchange. This particular day, however, was by no

means an ordinary occasion. Crombie had made up his mind to take a

momentous step; and it was therefore essential that he should appear at

his desk exactly on time.

He was a clerk in an important engraving company. For several years he

had occupied that post, without any opportunity having presented itself

for a promotion. At the best, even should he rise, what could he expect?

To be cashier, perhaps, or possibly, under exceptional circumstances, a

confidential private secretary. This prospect did not satisfy him; he

was determined to strike for something higher.

It will naturally be inferred that he was ambitious. I am not in a

position to deny this; but all I can be certain of is, that he was in

love--which is often about the same thing.

Several times at The Lorne he had met in the hallways or in the elevator

a young lady, who was in no small degree beautiful, and charmed him

still more by her general presence, which conveyed the idea of a

harmonious and lovely character. She had light hair and blue eyes, but

these outward attributes were joined with a serenity and poise of manner

that indicated greater stability than is attributed, as a rule, to

individuals of her type.

Once he happened to arrive at the main entrance just as this vision of

beauty emerged to take her place in a coupe which was waiting by the

curbstone. She dropped her card-case upon the sidewalk, and Crombie's

heart throbbed with delight as he picked it up, gave it to her, and

received her smiling thanks for his little service. Another time, as he

was descending in the elevator, a door opposite the shaft, on the second

floor, stood open, and he caught a glimpse of the apartment to which it

gave access. The room was finished in soft tints, and was full of

upholstery and hangings that lent it a dim golden atmosphere. In the

middle of it stood the young girl, clad in the palest blue, above which

her hair shone like a golden cloud on some dim evening sky.

Slight occurrences of this sort had affected him. He learned that she

was the daughter of Littimer, the rich, widowed banker: her name was

Blanche.

II.

In these new, stout shoes that did not belong to him Crombie trod with a

buoyancy and assurance strongly in contrast with the limp and

half-hearted pace to which his old, shabby gaiters had formerly inclined

him. He rattled down the stairs of the elevated station with an alacrity

almost bumptious; and the sharp, confident step that announced his

entrance into the company's office made the other clerks quite ashamed

of their own want of spirit.

He worked at his desk until noon; but when the bells of Trinity rang

twelve in solemn music over the busy streets, he dropped his pen, walked

with a decisive air the length of the room, and, opening a door at the

other end, presented himself before Mr. Blatchford, the treasurer, who

was also an influential director.

"Crombie, eh? Well, what is it?"

"I want to speak with you a moment, sir."

"Anything important? I'm busy."

"Yes, sir; quite important--to me. Possibly it may be to you."

"Fire away, then; but cut it short." Mr. Blatchford's dense, well-combed

gray side-whiskers were directed toward the young man in an aggressive

way, as if they had been some sort of weapon.

Crombie nonchalantly settled himself in a chair, at ease.

"I am tired of being a clerk," he said. "I'm going to be a director in

this company."

"I guess you're going to be an inmate of a lunatic asylum," Mr.

Blatchford remarked, with astonished cheerfulness.

"That seems as unlikely to me as the other thing does to you," said

Crombie.

Hereupon Mr. Blatchford became sarcastically deferential. "And just

about when do you propose to become a director?" he asked.

"In the course of a month. The election, I believe, takes place in

December."

"Quite right," said his senior, whose urbanity was meant to be crushing.

"Meanwhile, you will need leisure to attend to this little matter.

Suppose I oblige you by saying that the company has no further need of

your services?"

"Suppose you do. What then?"

Mr. Blatchford gave way to his anger. "What then? Why, then you would

have to go; that's all. You would be thrown out of employment. You would

have to live on your principal, as long as there was any; and afterward

you would be obliged to find some other work, or beg, or borrow, or--"

"That's enough," said Crombie, rising with dignity.

"No, it isn't," the treasurer declared, "for you don't seem to

understand even now. I discharge you, Mr. Crombie, on the company's

behalf, and you may leave this office at once."

Crombie bowed and went out. "I'm going to be a director, all the same,"

he told Mr. Blatchford before he closed the door. Then he collected the

few articles that belonged to him from his desk, and departed, a free

man. He had his future to himself; or else he had no future worth

speaking of; he wasn't sure which. Nevertheless, he felt quite happy.

Such a result as this had seemed to him, in the prospect, hardly

possible; but now that it had arrived he was not discomfited. Unbounded

courage seemed to rise from the stout soles of the alien boots,

percolating through his whole system. He was surprised at himself. He

had intended to use more diplomacy with Mr. Blatchford, and it was no

joke to him to lose his place. But instead of feeling despondent, or

going at once in search of new employment, he cheerfully went about

making calls on several gentlemen who, he thought, might be induced to

aid in his ambitious project. His manner was that of a person sure of

his powers and enjoying a well-earned leisure. It had its effect. Two or

three stockholders of the company joined in agreeing with him that

improved methods could be introduced into its management, and that it

would be a good thing to have in the board, say, two young, fresh,

active men--of whom Crombie, by reason of his experience and training,

should be one.

"I own a little stock," said the deposed clerk, who had taken the

precaution to obtain a couple of shares by great effort in saving.

"Besides, not having any other engrossing interests at present, I could

give my whole attention to the company's affairs."

"Quite so," said the merchant whom he was addressing, comfortably. "We

must see if we can get together a majority; no time to be lost, you

know."

"No, sir. I shall go right to work; and perhaps you will speak to some

of your friends, and give me some names."

"Certainly. Come in again pretty soon; will you?"

Crombie saw that he had a good foundation to build upon already.

Blatchford was not popular, even among the other directors; and sundry

stockholders, as well as people having business with the company, had

conceived a strong dislike of him on account of his overbearing manners.

Therefore it would not be hard to enlist sympathy for a movement

obnoxious to him. But it was imperative that the self-nominated

candidate should acquire more of the stock; and to do this capital must

be had. Crombie did not see quite how it was to be got; he had no

sufficient influence with the bankers.

The afternoon was nearly spent, and he trudged up-town, thinking of the

ways and means. But though the problem was far from solved, he still

continued in a state of extraordinary buoyancy. Those shoes, those

shoes! He was so much impressed by their comfort and the service they

had done him in making a good appearance that he resolved to get a new

pair of his own. He stopped and bought them; then kept on toward The

Lorne, carrying his purchase under his arm without embarrassment. The

cold drizzle had ceased, and the sunset came out clear and golden,

dipping its bright darts into the shallow pools of wet on the pavement,

and somehow mingling with his financial dreams a dream of that fair hair

that gave a glory to Miss Blanche's face.

On regaining his modest apartment he sent for the boot-boy, and inquired

the whereabouts of his missing shoes.

"Couldn't tell you, sir," said the servant. "Pretty near all the men's

boots in the house has gone out, you see, and they'll only be coming

back just about now. I'll look out for 'em, sir, and nab 'em as soon as

they show up."

"All right. Whose are these that I've been wearing?"

The boy took them, turned them over, and examined them with the eye of a

connoisseur in every part.

"'Them?' I should say, sir, them was Mr. Littimer's."

Crombie blushed with mortification. Of all the dwellers in The Lorne,

this was the very one with whom it was the most embarrassing to have

such a complication occur; and yet, strange inconsistency! he had been

longing for any accident, no matter how absurd or fantastic, that could

bring him some chance of an acquaintance with Blanche.

"Take these boots, dry them right away, and give 'em a shine. Then carry

them up to Mr. Littimer's rooms." He gave the boy a quarter: he was

becoming reckless.

Now that he had embarked upon a new career, he perceived the impropriety

of a future director in the Engraving Company going to dine at the

"Fried Cat," and so resolved to take his dinner in the gorgeous cafe of

The Lorne. While he was waiting for the proper moment to descend

thither, he could not get the shoe question out of his mind. Surely, the

boot-boy could not have been so idiotic as to have left that ancient,

broken-down pair at Littimer's threshold! And yet it was possible.

Crombie felt another flush of humility upon his cheeks. Then he wandered

off into revery upon the multifarious errands of all the pairs of boots

and shoes that had gone forth from the great apartment-house that day.

Patter, patter, patter! tramp, tramp!--he imagined he heard them all

walking, stamping, shuffling along toward different parts of the city,

with many different objects, and sending back significant echoes.

Whither had his own ruinous Congress gaiters gone?--to what destination

which they would never have reached had he been in them? Had they

carried their temporary possessor into any such worriment and trouble as

he himself had often travelled through on their worn but faithful soles?

Breaking off from these idle fancies at length, he went down to the

cafe; and there he had the pleasure of dining at a table not far from

Blanche Littimer. But, to his surprise, she was alone. Her father did

not appear during the meal.

III.

The fact was that the awful possibility, mere conjecture of which had

frightened Crombie, had occurred. Littimer had received the young man's

shoes in place of his own.

They happened to fit him moderately well; so that he, likewise, did not

notice the exchange until he had started for his office. He believed in

walking the entire distance, no matter what the weather; and to this

practice he made rare exceptions. But he had not progressed very far

before he became annoyed by an unaccustomed intrusion of dampness that

threatened him with a cold. He looked down, carefully surveyed the

artificial casing of his extremities, and decided to hail the first

unoccupied coupe he should meet. It was some time before he found one;

and when finally he took his seat in the luxurious little bank parlor at

Broad Street, his feet were quite wet.

His surprise at this occurrence was doubled when, on taking off the

shoes and scrutinizing them more closely, he ascertained that they were

the work of his usual maker. What had happened to him? Was he dreaming?

It seemed to him that he had gone back many years; that he was a poor

young man again, entering upon his first struggle for a foothold in the

crowded, selfish, unhomelike metropolis. He remembered the day when _he_

had worn shoes like these.

He sent out for an assortment of new ones, from which, with unnecessary

lavishness, he chose and kept three or four pairs. All the rest of the

day, nevertheless, those sorry Congress boots of Crombie's, which he had

directed his office-boy to place beside the soft-coal fire, for drying,

faced him with a sort of haunting look. However much he might be

occupied with weightier matters, he could not keep his eyes from

straying in that direction; and whenever they rested on that battered

"right" and that way-worn "left," turned up in that mute, appealing

repose and uselessness at the fender, his thoughts recurred to his early

years of trial and poverty. Ah! how greatly he had changed since then!

On some accounts he could almost wish that he were poor again. But when

he remembered Blanche, he was glad, for her sake, that he was rich.

But if for her sake, why not for others? Perhaps he had been rather

selfish, not only about Blanche, but toward her. His conscience began to

reproach him. Had he made for her a large life? Since her mother's

premature death, had he instilled into her sympathies, tastes,

companionships that would make her existence the richer? Had he not kept

her too much to himself? On the other hand, he had gratified all her

material wants; she could wear what she pleased, she could go where she

chose, she had acquaintances of a sort becoming to the daughter of a

wealthy man. Yet there was something lacking. What did she know about

old, used-up boots and all that pertains to them? What did she know

about indigence, real privation, and brave endurance, such as a hundred

thousand fellow-creatures all around her were undergoing?

Somehow it dawned upon the old banker that if she knew about all these

things and had some share in them, albeit only through sympathy and

helping, she might be happier, more truly a woman, than she was now.

As he sat alone, in revery, he actually heaved a deep sigh. A sigh is

often as happy a deliverance as a laugh, in this world of sorrows. It

was the first that had escaped Littimer in years. Let us say that it was

a breathing space, which gave him time for reflection; it marked the

turning of a leaf; it was the beginning of a new chapter in his life.

Before he left the bank he locked the door of the private parlor, and

was alone for two or three minutes. The office boy was greatly puzzled

the next morning, when he found all the new pairs of shoes ranged intact

in the adjoining cupboard. The old ones were missing.

Littimer had gone away in them, furtively. He was ashamed of his own

impulse.

This time be resolutely remained afoot instead of hiring a carriage. He

despatched a messenger to Blanche, saying that sudden business would

prevent his returning to dinner, and continued indefinitely on his

way--whither? As to that he was by no means certain; he knew only that

he must get out of the beaten track, out of the ruts. For an hour or two

he must cease to be Littimer, the prosperous moneyed man, and must tread

once more the obscure paths through which he had made his way to

fortune. He could hardly have explained the prompting which he obeyed.

Could it have had anything to do with the treacherous holes in the

bottoms of those old shoes?

As it chanced, he passed by the "Fried Cat;" and, dingy though the place

was, he felt an irresistible desire to enter it. Seating himself, he

ordered the regular dinner of the day. The light was dim; the

table-cloth was dirty; the attendance was irregular and distracted.

Littimer took one sip of the sour wine--which had a flavor resembling

vinegar and carmine ink in equal parts--and left the further contents of

his bottle untasted. The soup, the stew, and the faded roast that were

set before him, he could scarcely swallow; but a small cup of coffee at

the end of the well-nigh Barmecide repast came in very palatably.

In default of prandial attractions, Littimer tried to occupy himself by

looking at the people around him. The omnifarious assembly included

pale, prim-whiskered young clerks; shabby, lonely, sallow young women,

whose sallowness and shabbiness stamped them with the mark of integrity;

other females whose specious splendor was not nearly so reassuring; old

men, broken-down men, middle-aged men of every description, except the

well-to-do.

"Some of them," Littimer reflected, "are no worse than I am. But are any

of them really any better?"

He could not convince himself that they were; yet his sympathies,

somehow, went out toward this motley crowd. It appeared to him very

foolish that he should sympathize, but he could not help it. "And, after

all," was the next thought that came to him, "are we to give pity to

people, or withhold it, simply because they are better or worse than

ourselves? No; there is something more in it than that."

Leaving the "Fried Cat" abruptly, he betook himself to an acquaintance

who, he knew, was very active in charities--a man who worked

practically, and gave time to the work.

"Do you visit any of your distress cases to-night?" he asked.

"Yes, I shall make a few calls," answered the man of charity. "Would you

like to go along?"

"Very much."

So the two started out together. The places they went to were of various

kinds, and revealed a considerable diversity of misfortune. Sometimes

they entered tenement-houses of the most wretched character; but in

other instances they went to small and cheap but decent lodgings over

the shops on West Side avenues, or even penetrated into boarding-houses

of such good appearance that the banker was surprised to find his

friend's mission carrying him thither. All the cases, however, had been

studied, and were vouched for; and several were those of young men and

women having employment, but temporarily disabled, and without friends

who could help them.

"You do well to help these beginners, at critical times," said the

banker, with satisfaction, "I take a special interest in them."

It was almost the same as if he were receiving relief himself. Who

knows? Perhaps he was; but to the outward eye it appeared merely that,

with his friend's sanction, he was dispensing money and offers of good

will to the needy. What a strange freak it was, though, in Littimer! He

kept on with the work until quite late in the evening, regardless of the

risk he ran by continuing out-of-doors when so ill shod.

I think he had some idea in his mind that he was performing an act of

penance.

IV.

Having waited a reasonable length of time after dinner, Crombie again

left his room, resolved to make a call upon Mr. Littimer, on the plea of

apologizing for having marched away with his shoes.

He would not run the risk, by sending his card, of being denied as a

stranger; so, notwithstanding much hesitation and tremor, he approached

the door which he had once seen standing open, and knocked. A voice

which he now heard for the second time in his life, but which was so

sweet and crept so naturally into the centre of his heart that the

thought of it seemed always to have been there, answered: "Come in." And

he did come in.

"Is Mr. Lit--is your father at home?" It seemed to bring him a little

nearer to her to say "your father."

Blanche had risen from the chair where she was reading, and looked very

much surprised. "Oh," she exclaimed, with girlish simplicity, "I thought

it was the waiter! N-no; he hasn't come home yet."

"I beg pardon. Then perhaps I'd better call later." Crombie made a

feeble movement toward withdrawal.

"Did you want to see him on business? Who shall I tell him?"

"Mr. Crombie, please. It's nothing very important."

"Oh," said Blanche, with a little blush at her own deception, "haven't I

seen you in the house before? Are you staying here?"

She remembered distinctly the incident of the card-case, and how very

nice she had thought him, both on that occasion and every time she had

seen him. But as for him, his heart sank at the vague impersonality with

which she seemed to regard him.

"Yes, I'm here, and can easily come in again."

"I expect my father almost any moment," she said. "Would you like to

wait?"

What an absurd question, to one in his frame of mind! "Well, really, it

is such a very small matter," he began, examining his hat attentively.

Then he glanced up at her again, and smiled: "I only wanted to--to make

an apology."

"An apology!" echoed Blanche, becoming rather more distant. "Oh, dear!

I'm very sorry, I'm sure. I didn't know there'd been any trouble." She

began to look anxious, and turned her eyes upon the smouldering fire in

the grate. So this was to be the end of her pleasant, cheerful reveries

about this nice young man. And the reveries had been more frequent than

she had been aware of until now.

"There has been no trouble," he assured her, eagerly. "Just a little

mistake that occurred; and, in fact, I was hardly responsible for it."

Blanche's eyes began to twinkle with a new and amusing interpretation.

"Ah!" she cried, "are you the gentleman who--" Then she stopped short.

Crombie was placed in an unexpected embarrassment. How could he possibly

drag into his conversation with this lovely young creature so

commonplace and vulgar a subject as shoe-leather! Ignoring her

unfinished question, he asked: "Do you know, Miss Littimer, whether

the--a--one of the servants here has brought up anything for your

father--that is, a parcel, a--"

"A pair of shoes?" Blanche broke in, her eyes dancing, while her lips

parted in a smile.

"Yes, yes; that's what I meant."

"They came up just after dinner," Blanche returned. "Then you _are_ the

gentleman."

"I'm afraid I am," Crombie owned, and they both laughed.

Blanche quietly, and with no apparent intention, resumed her chair; and

this time Crombie took a seat without waiting to be invited again. Thus

they fell to talking in the friendliest way.

"I can't imagine what has become of papa," said Blanche. "He sent word,

in the most mysterious manner, that he had an engagement; and it is so

unusual! Perhaps it's something about the new house he's

building--up-town, you know. Dear me! it does make so much trouble, and

I don't believe I shall like it half as well as these little, cosey

rooms."

The little, cosey rooms were as the abode of giants compared with

Crombie's contracted quarters; but he drew comfort from what she said,

thinking how such sentiments might make it possible to win even so

unattainable an heiress into some modest home of his own.

"You don't know till you try it," he replied. "Just think of having a

place all to yourself, belonging to you."

Blanche lifted her eyebrows, and a little sigh escaped her. She was

reflecting, perhaps, that a place all to herself would be rather lonely.

"You have never met my father?" she asked.

"No. I have seen him."

"Well, I think you will like him when you know him."

"I don't doubt it!" Crombie exclaimed with fervor, worshipping the very

furniture that surrounded Blanche. "I hope we may become better

acquainted."

"Only I think, Mr. Crombie, he will owe _you_ an apology now."

"Why?"

"For keeping your shoes out so late."

"_My_ shoes!" said the young man, in vehement surprise.

"Why, yes. Didn't you know they came to him? The porter said so."

Crombie grew red with the sense of his disgrace in having his

poverty-stricken boots come to the knowledge of the banker. Really, his

mortification was so great that the accident seemed to him to put an end

to all his hopes of further relations with Blanche and her father.

"Oh, I assure you," he said, rising, "that makes no difference at all!

I'm sorry I mentioned the matter. Pray tell Mr. Littimer not to think of

it. I--I believe I'd better go now, Miss Littimer."

Blanche rose too, and Crombie was on the point of bowing a good-night,

when the door opened, and a weary figure presented itself on the

threshold; the figure of a short man with a spare face, and whiskers in

which gray mingled with the sandy tint. He had a pinched, half-growling

expression, was draped in a light, draggled overcoat, and carried an

umbrella, the ribs of which hung loose around the stick.

"There's papa this moment!" cried Blanche.

Crombie perceived that escape was impossible, and, in a few words, the

reason of his presence there was made known to the old gentleman.

Littimer examined the visitor swiftly, from head to foot--especially the

foot. He advanced to the fire, toasted first one and then the other of

the damp gaiters he had on, and at length broke out, in a tone bordering

on reproach: "So you are the owner, are you? Then my sympathy has all

been wasted! Why, I supposed, from the condition of these machines that

I've been lugging around with me half the day, that you must be in the

greatest distress. And, lo and behold! I find you a young fellow in

prime health, spruce and trim, doing well, I should say, and perfectly

happy."

"I can't help that, sir," retorted Crombie, nettled, but speaking with

respect. "I confess I was very happy until a moment or two ago."

"What do you mean by that?" the other demanded, with half-yielding

pugnacity. "Till I came in--is that the idea?"

"Oh, papa!" said Blanche, softly.

"Well, honey-bee, what's the matter?" her father asked, trying to be

gruff. "Can't I say what I like, here?" But he surrendered at once by

adding: "You may be sure I don't want to offend any one. Sit down, Mr.

Crombie, and wait just a few moments while I go into the other room and

rejuvenate my hoofs, so to speak--for I fear I've made a donkey of

myself."

He disappeared into an adjoining room with Blanche, who there informed

him artlessly of Crombie's consideration and attentiveness in restoring

the errant shoes. When they came back Littimer insisted upon having the

young man remain a little longer and drink a glass of port with him.

Before taking his departure, however, Crombie, who felt free to speak

since Blanche had retired, made a brief statement in satisfaction of

conscience.

"You hinted," he said, "that you judged me to be doing well. I don't

want to leave you with a false impression. The truth is, I am not doing

well. I have no money to speak of, and to-day I lost the position on

which I depended."

"You don't tell me!" Littimer's newly roused charitable impulses came to

the fore. "Why, now you begin to be really interesting, Mr. Crombie."

"Thanks," said Crombie; "I'm not ambitious to interest people in that

way. I told you only because I thought it fair."

"Don't be touchy, my dear sir," answered the banker. "I meant what I

said. Come, let's see what can be done. Have you any scheme in view?"

"Yes, I have," said Crombie, with decision.

Littimer gave a grunt. He was afraid of people with schemes, and was

disappointed with the young man's want of helplessness. Dependence would

have been an easier thing to deal with.

"Well," said he, "we must talk it over. Come and see me at the bank

to-morrow. You know the address?"

V.

The next day Crombie called at the bank; but Littimer was not there. He

was not very well, it was said; had not come down-town. Crombie did what

he could toward organizing his fight for a directorship, and then

returned to The Lorne, where he punctually inquired after Mr. Littimer's

health, and learned that the banker's ardor in making the rounds among

distressed people the night before had been followed by reaction into a

bad cold, with some threat of pneumonia. Blanche was plainly anxious.

The attack lasted three or four days, and Crombie, though the affair of

the directorship was pressing for attention, could not forbear to remain

as near as possible to Blanche, offering every aid within his power, so

far as he might without overstepping the lines of his very recent

acquaintance. But the Littimers did not, according to his observation,

number any very intimate companions in their circle, or at least had not

many friends who would be assiduous in such an emergency. Perhaps their

friends were too busy with social engagements. Consequently, he saw a

good deal of Blanche, and became to her an object of reliance.

Well, it was simply one of those things that happen only in fairy-tales

or in romances--or in real life. Littimer recovered without any serious

illness, and, after a brief conference with Crombie, entered heartily

into the young man's campaign. Crombie showed him just what combinations

could be formed, how success could be achieved, and what lucrative

results might be made to ensue. He conquered by figures and by lucid

common-sense. Littimer agreed to buy a number of shares in the Engraving

Company, which he happened to know could be purchased, and to advance

Crombie a good sum with which to procure a portion of the same lot. But

before this agreement could be consummated, Crombie, with his usual

frankness, said to the banker:

"I will conceal nothing from you, Mr. Littimer. I fell in love with

Blanche before I knew her, and if this venture of mine succeeds, I shall

ask her to become my wife."

"Let us attend to business," said Littimer, severely. "Sentiment can

take care of itself."

Their manoeuvre went on so vigorously that Blatchford became alarmed,

and sent an ambassador to arrange a compromise; but by this time Crombie

had determined to oust Blatchford himself and elect an entirely new set

of men, to compose more than half the Board, and so control everything.

He succeeded.

But Littimer did not forget the charitable enthusiasm which had been

awakened by a circumstance on the surface so trivial as the mistake of a

boot-boy. He did not desist from his interest in aiding disabled or

unfortunate people who could really be aided. Some time after Crombie

had achieved his triumph in the Engraving Company, and had repaid

Littimer's loan, he was admitted to a share in the banking business; and

eventually the head of the house was able to give a great deal of

attention to perfecting his benevolent plans.

When the details of their wedding were under discussion, Crombie said to

Blanche: "Oughtn't we to have an old shoe thrown after the carriage as

we drive away?"

She smiled; looked him full in the eyes with a peculiar tenderness in

which there was a bright, delicious sparkle of humor. "No; old shoes are

much too useful to be wasted that way."

Somehow she had possessed herself of that particular, providential pair;

and, though I don't want anybody to laugh at my two friends, I must risk

saying that I suspect Mrs. Crombie of preserving it somewhere, to this

day, in the big new house up-town.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's True and Other Stories, by George Parsons Lathrop