Introductory material (continued 2)

At this point a note came from Mrs. Lockhart which spurred Nannie to more decisive speech.

“I want to tell you something,” she announced, calling Lucy to her. “You had better think carefully before you leave home for if you go you can’t come back here! It will be final.”

“But, Mamma, Papa⁠⁠⸺” Lucy began.

“This is my final decision,” interrupted Nannie in a manner almost ludicrously like Mrs. Lockhart’s.

“Very well, Mamma,” replied Lucy, hardly able to keep back the tears, and choking with a sense of injustice.

Arthur came in at this juncture.

“What’s this, Anna?” he inquired peremptorily.

Nannie was silent and avoided his gaze. He turned to Lucy who told him what had taken place.

“My child shall come to my home as often and as long as she pleases,” he declared. “Lucy, come upstairs. I want to talk with you.”

The father and daughter left the room together.

Aunt Martha had been called in to help with the arrangements for Lucy’s departure. Nannie heard the old negress’s voice, then the voices of Arthur and Lucy, and the sound of a trunk being moved. Shut in her own room she was conscious of the feet that hurried past her door and the general bustle of packing for a journey. When there was no one about she stepped into the hall and listened. She convinced herself that Lucy would not really take this step but that the appearance of unusual preparation was arranged to deceive and punish her.

After a time, the father and daughter went out, Lucy locking her door. Aunt Martha went home at the same time. Nannie, from a window, watched them until they were out of sight and, notwithstanding her determination to discredit all evidences of Lucy’s decision, began to feel very forlorn.

She prepared herself some luncheon, eating as heartily as usual, but she was convinced that she was heartbroken. She was indeed bothered by the uncertainty and, most of all, by the fact that her daughter and husband were together.

Late in the afternoon Lucy and her father returned with a number of packages.

“Where did he get the money to buy all those things? I wonder what they are?” Nannie said to herself.

She could hear the murmur of their voices in Lucy’s room as they opened the packages and arranged the contents of the trunk and valises. When Lucy descended to the kitchen to prepare supper Nannie tip-toed to the open door of the bedroom and peered in at the still scattered belongings of her daughter. She saw a pair of new shoes and an unfamiliar hat which were a concrete affirmation of all that she had tried to deny.

“Lucy leaves in the morning on the nine fifteen,” volunteered Arthur when the three were seated at their evening meal.

Nannie was speechless. She gave him one scathing look and fled to her room.

Lucy followed her and knocked but Nannie would not open the door. She could be heard sobbing. What disturbed the girl was that the supper she carried up on a tray and left outside her mother’s door was not eaten. At bed time Nannie had not appeared. Lucy kissed her father good night, but when she lay down she could not sleep.

When Arthur and Lucy were eating breakfast the next morning an expressman came for the trunk. Nannie had not yet descended to the dining room and still refused to open her door though Lucy had been to her several times and asked for admittance. When Mrs. Merwent saw the baggage carried away, however, her tragic resolution was broken, and, after hesitating at the head of the stairs, she composed her face to what seemed an appropriate expression of her state of mind and went down.

It was a beautiful late summer morning. The lawn was visible through the half open front door. The grass was parched, and the vines on the porch were beginning to turn yellow. There was a tinge of autumn crispness in the air, but the sunshine that flooded the hall was golden.

Lucy came out of the dining room and laid her gloves, coat, and a little hand bag on the hat stand. She had on the new hat, which was very becoming, and wore a new blue serge frock. She was excited by the unusual prospect of a journey and looked exceptionally pretty.

“Lucy!” Nannie began in an ominous voice. The girl, a little startled, turned to face her mother.

Mrs. Merwent wore a soiled lace négligée. Her hair hung down her back, loose and uncombed. Her habitual precautions to ward off wrinkles and retain her good looks had been neglected. She seemed much older than on the previous day when Lucy had seen her carefully dressed, rouged and with well ordered hair.

“You wicked, selfish, cruel girl!” continued Nannie in high pitched strident tones. “You mean, hard hearted, wretched beast!” She suddenly advanced toward Lucy who retreated in frightened astonishment.

Arthur appeared in the hall doorway.

“That is enough!” he said sternly.

Nannie suddenly lost all self control.

“Get out of my house!” she screamed. “You stinking⁠⁠⸺!” and a stream of awful invectives that seemed from a brothel poured from her lips. She picked up Lucy’s belongings from the hat stand and threw them against the front door where they fell on the threshold.

“Anna!” Arthur spoke calmly, but he only succeeded in evoking another paroxysm of screams and vile words directed at himself.

“Put your things on, Lucy,” he said, and in a moment the two fairly fled into the street, leaving Nannie in a state of hysteria bordering on madness.

“I can’t go on this way, Papa!” exclaimed Lucy, looking back at the house after they had walked half a block.

“All right. Do as you wish,” he responded without emotion.

“Yes, it’s better that I should go,” she decided as if to herself, and they did not speak again until they reached the station.

As they stood waiting for the train Lucy studied Arthur’s set face furtively.

“I don’t want my going to make more trouble between you and Mamma,” she ventured at last, timidly.

Arthur’s eyes sought hers slowly.

“Don’t worry,” he replied heavily in his deep voice. “What you saw today is only a fair sample of what I’ve enjoyed for years. In the beginning I used to hold a quarter of an hour’s argument to get two minutes’ peace. Then I quit that and she tried to punish me with long periods of curdled gloom. Finally I took to staying away from the house in self defense. Long before you grew up things were as bad as they could be, so don’t blame yourself, Daughter. You have had nothing to do with it.”

Lucy was surprised by this unprecedentedly long speech.

“Don’t you think that maybe when I’m gone you and Mamma⁠⁠⸺” she did not know how to proceed.

“I wouldn’t ask her for a drink of water if I were dying,” Arthur answered. Lucy had never heard such suppressed hatred and vehemence in his tone. “There’s the train,” he added in his ordinary manner, and they moved toward the platform.

“Here are your tickets, and here is your money,” explained Arthur as they entered the Pullman. “Miss Storms will meet you. She will wear a bunch of white carnations. Here is a white carnation for you to wear. Miss Storms knows all about your plans.” He removed a flower that was in his button hole and Lucy fastened it on her jacket. They kissed. The train began to move.

“Good-bye, Daughter. Write often. I will try to get up there to see you soon,” he called.

The journey began.

It was late at night and rain was falling when Lucy arrived in Chicago. Leaving the train she was bewildered by the people, noises, and bustle about her. As she stood looking around the thronged platform misted by the radiance of many lights, a very tall woman, dressed in a grey linen tailored suit with a grey hat, and holding some white carnations in her hand, came up and spoke.

“I think you are Lucy.”

“Are you Miss Storms?”

“I am. Where are your baggage checks, dear?”

Lucy handed over her single check and pointed out her smaller baggage which Miss Storms entrusted to a leather coated chauffeur. In a few minutes Lucy found herself in a luxurious limousine gliding through the crowded streets of the city.

A few evenings later, at a small dinner to which Miss Storms had invited some young people of her acquaintance, Lucy found herself between a red haired girl and a fresh faced young man, both from the Art School.

“Lucy, this is Nora Stimpson,” began Miss Storms, and Lucy bowed to the red haired girl. “Your right hand partner is John Winter,” continued Miss Storms.

Lucy, following Miss Storms’ direction, looked into the smiling blue eyes of John. He rose and reached out his hand to take hers.

Lucy’s romance had begun.

VIII

After Lucy’s departure the Merwent home went from bad to worse. In times past her presence had often sufficed to prevent the more sordid expressions of the disgust and contempt which Arthur felt for Nannie, and of Nannie’s feeling of fear and distrust toward him. He now avoided being at home alone with his wife until he became almost a stranger in the house.

The scandal loving people of Russellville, like the inhabitants of all small towns when similar opportunity is afforded, began to talk, and Arthur’s name was linked with that of Mrs. Low. This, in time, came to Nannie’s ears.

Arthur’s law practice, now that he was put to extra expense for Lucy’s maintenance and education, barely supported the family, and Nannie began to feel the pinch of poverty more keenly, especially in the matter of her wardrobe. Mrs. Lockhart was bitter toward her daughter and made no effort toward consolation. In short, Nannie felt herself hardly used by the world.

She exerted all her ingenuity, however, in making an appearance that belied her pocket book, and achieved a certain amount of success.

“You could turn a good many pennies dressmaking, if you only had horse sense, Anna. Minnie could get you work among her friends. She could put it to them that it was a kind of favor, and if you’d keep your mouth shut nobody would be the worse for it,” remarked Mrs. Lockhart one day, eyeing one of Nannie’s costumes with reluctant approval.

But Nannie was very much hurt by such a suggestion. She had no desire to use her arts to teach other and more prosperous women to dress becomingly.

It was evident, nevertheless, that something must be done to supplement Arthur’s earnings. She still attended social events at the “big house” as often as she could squeeze an invitation from “Cousin Minnie,” and it was to “Cousin Minnie’s” influence, rather languidly exerted in her behalf, that she applied for a solution of her problem.

It came in the shape of a position in a small private school in Russellville.

The school, which had existed precariously for several generations, was usually referred to as “The Academy.” A short while previously it had appeared to be almost moribund, but it had lately been taken over by one Mr. Walsh, called “Professor Walsh,” though he held no degree or official position; and it had, for the time being at least, awakened to unwonted patronage.

Though Professor Walsh was from a nearby town, no one seemed to know much of his antecedents. He was a large slow-spoken man with a low-pitched pleasant voice. He had fat features and was rather pale. His hair, parted in the middle, was wetly and thinly combed over a glistening scalp. He had thick curveless lips. His eyes were a nondescript blue and he wore nose glasses which glittered inscrutably.

He had an air of decorum and responsibility, and his smile, which displayed double rows of perfect teeth, was full of warmth and condescension. He was peculiarly apt as a listener, showed a subdued but flattering appreciation of the broad talk of men, and was earnestly sympathetic, though somewhat noncommittal, when he gave ear to the ladies.

His personality was such that he impressed one, in his genial restraint, as being responsible for the group.

He was enough of an enigma to overawe people and acquired the reputation of being learned. The teachers in the school were afraid of him. By patronizing some and snubbing others, and by frequent vague allusions to distinguished acquaintances and remote but exalted relations, the Professor forced the first families of Russellville, so styled by themselves, into receiving him. At the institution over which he presided Nannie gave piano lessons to the younger pupils. She rather enjoyed than disliked her task, for her position allowed her to remind Arthur that he could not support her, and besides Professor Walsh soon became interested in her and was, as she told herself, exceedingly kind and sympathetic.

She also found it pleasant to meet the grown boys, or “young gentlemen,” as they were called, who attended some of the higher classes. Professor Walsh left her little opportunity to talk with these youths but their presence lent a piquancy to his attentions.

She was rather afraid of him, but the envy with which the teachers looked on such signal favor as she received from this august person reconciled her to those things in his make-up which she found incomprehensible. She was further led to encourage his attentions by the fact that there was no one to contest with him the rôle of exclusive admirer.

Professor Walsh, being of ambiguous antecedents, realized fully the advantages of a connection with some family which exemplified the southern tradition. He easily perceived that Nannie Merwent was susceptible to influence, and he hoped through her to cement an alliance with the Sheldons, the most prosperous and dictatory citizens of Russellville.

Professor Walsh’s plans were not laid in a day; but, without her realizing it, he considered each circumstance of Nannie’s life as she presented it to him, and decided on its possible relation to his own future.

At one of the few receptions which Arthur had felt bound to attend in Russellville, he met Professor Walsh.

“I am honoured to know you, Mr. Merwent,” remarked the educator affably, when they were introduced. “I have the deepest admiration for your profession. A—ah—distant connection of mine—though our names are not spelt the same—James K. Walshe of Chicago. You may have heard of him?”

“Every lawyer knows the reputation of your relative, Mr. Walsh,” replied Arthur. “In criminal cases he has few equals.”

“In case you ever go to Chicago I shall be most happy to give you a letter of introduction to him,” offered the Professor.

“Thank you,” returned Arthur, “I hardly think⁠⁠⸺” Then he appeared to reconsider. “It is true that I shall probably go to Chicago in the near future, and I should be very glad to go to see your relative.”

“Well, sir, you shalt have the letter.” The Professor compressed his lips, put the tips of his fingers together and regarded Arthur curiously. “Without fail. I will send it to your office tomorrow,” he added.

“Thank you,” repeated Arthur. And the two separated.

Nannie, on one of the rare occasions when Arthur was at home, sneeringly alluded to his attentions to Mrs. Low.

“You will kindly not interfere with the conduct of my personal affairs while you are so careless of your own,” he requested in a tone that closed the conversation.

A few days later the gossips of Russellville were informing their friends that Mrs. Low had gone to Chicago for an indefinite stay. Nannie at once wrote furiously to Lucy accusing her of plotting with deliberate intent to wreck her mother’s life.

Nannie’s accusations were so obviously ill founded that the only recourse left for Lucy’s wounded pride was silence, and she made no reply to a succession of violently worded letters.

Arthur appreciated in part the difficult situation in which his daughter was placed, and did his best to prevent her being drawn into this conflict. It was not long after Mrs. Low’s arrival in Chicago that Lucy learned that her father was spending most of his time in the state capital, where he was making important legal affiliations. In this way Nannie, left almost entirely to herself, began to depend more and more on the benevolent Professor, who showed a reserved but unfailing interest in her affairs.

He had a way of regarding her enigmatically through his twinkling glasses that made her always a little afraid of him, but he was also always able to impress other people, and her cautious instincts prompted her to lean toward his poise and aplomb while her vanity still further urged her to his conquest. Nannie was not unaware of the fact that the town had begun to comment on her association with him but her terror of being alone was greater than her habit of caution.

One evening after leaving school, a note from the Professor was delivered to her, in which he suggested that she come to the school building that night, as he had heard some rumors of Arthur’s doings which he thought she should know.

Nannie dressed herself and went out without hesitation, but she was careful to find her way along obscure streets and hoped fervently that neither “Cousin Minnie” nor her other relatives would hear of the visit.

The Academy was a large old fashioned red brick building with many additions and one wing which had a private entrance in a little-frequented lane where the Professor’s office was situated.

As Nannie came up the walk she could see his large shadow as he bent over his desk between the window and the light. She rang the bell at the side door and he himself admitted her. For some reason which she could not explain she felt at first an unusual discomfort in his presence, and, when he leaned forward and took her hand in a kind but casual manner, her heart gave a sudden leap and she glanced up at him suspiciously. However, he patted her shoulder comfortingly, and, as he repeated to her in a low tone some incidents of gossip about Arthur which had lately come to his ears, she was completely reassured. She was certain that he admired her tremendously, and she was determining in her heart that she would use his devotion as a weapon of defense against the continual disapprobation of “Cousin Minnie.”

Professor Walsh talked so long and so comfortingly that Nannie was startled when she looked at a clock on his book shelf and realized that she had allowed herself to remain until an hour which Russellville would consider scandalous. When Professor Walsh offered to escort her home she protested vehemently. If he were seen walking with her at such a time it might rob her of the position of an injured party which was what she desired the world to permit her in view of Arthur’s neglect.

It was a terrible moment for Nannie when she had told the Professor good night and walked into the street, only to find herself confronted at the very gate by a strange man who stepped up to her with an air of quiet determination and inquired if she were Mrs. Merwent.

“Y—yes,” stammered Nannie doubtfully, terror clutching her throat, though she was unable to conceive of what was about to happen.

“Why yes, this is Mrs. Merwent,” affirmed a brisk masculine voice as, from the deep shadow thrown by the Academy walls, Mr. Blair, Arthur’s colleague in several law cases, stepped out, followed by Arthur himself and another strange man.

Nannie, though technically guiltless of wrongdoing, was almost in a state of collapse and, scarcely knowing what she did, agreed to coöperate in the arrangements Arthur desired for a divorce.

Only once during the conversation, which was carefully listened to by all of Arthur’s companions, did she weakly demur; whereupon he coldly declared he would bring suit on a graver charge, would not shrink from publicity and would use the incident of the night to prove his case, as the two men unknown to her were reputable witnesses.

Nannie was conquered.

After a few days of reflection, however, Mrs. Merwent persuaded herself that her husband could never bring himself to the point of taking the step he contemplated.

The scene which followed the actual filing of Arthur’s suit for divorce, therefore, was no worse than numerous other scenes to which she had treated her husband at frequent intervals throughout their married life, many of them precipitated by trifles.

When she perceived that rage, abuse, and sarcasms all failed to affect Arthur’s calm, she grew really frightened and began to weep hysterically.

Arthur gazed at her still unmoved.

As a last resort she referred pathetically to their life together.

“You can’t mean that you will carry this thing through, Arthur!” she moaned. “For Lucy’s sake you can’t do such awful things.”

His sudden cold fury was terrible.

“For Lucy’s sake,” he repeated slowly and gratingly, “after you have driven her out of the house and poisoned her youth! Yes, it would be highly appropriate for us to stay together for Lucy’s sake.”

“Arthur, I can’t believe that you hate me that much!” Nannie pleaded. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“I can’t put my feelings into words,” he answered mercilessly. “You poison the air. I wonder the flowers don’t die as you pass by.” His tone was coldly implacable and he did not raise his voice.

She gazed at him an instant with silent and helpless animosity.

“You cruel monster!” she shrieked, springing suddenly from her chair.

Arthur turned on his heel and went out.

Nannie’s first act following this interview with her husband was to see Professor Walsh. Since Lucy’s rebellion she had grown afraid of Mrs. Lockhart’s comments on family difficulties. Nannie felt that the Professor’s accidental rôle in her embarrassment constituted a sort of obligation on his part.

Their meetings of late had been slightly constrained. But once in his private office he listened gravely and kindly to her agitated story.

Without much having been said on either side Professor Walsh had understood for some time from Mr. Sheldon that the family would not look unkindly on the prospect of some one eventually taking Nannie off their hands.

“My advice is that you do not contest the suit,” he said, when she had finished, “but I should try to get him to agree to something for your support if I were you, Anna. This could be done amicably and out of court. It is no more than right that he should do something for you financially.”

Nannie had not noticed that he called her by her given name and broke in with, “But, Professor Walsh⁠⁠⸺”

“Call me Edward, Anna,” he interrupted, taking her hand.

She tried to withdraw her hand but he retained it.

“We are such good friends,” he continued. “Aren’t we, Anna?”

“Yes,” she admitted uncomfortably.

“Well, it is agreed then. I should refuse to talk about it to others if I were you. And anything new that may come up you will let me know at once, won’t you, dear?”

“Yes—Edward,” answered Nannie, hesitating slightly, somewhat bewildered by the new aspect which her affairs had taken.

IX

After the scene in which he announced the beginning of his divorce proceedings Arthur never entered his house again. He had established a residence in the state capital but was still compelled, in the course of various suits and details of the legal practice he was disposing of, to make frequent visits to Russellville. On such occasions he slept in his office and ate his meals at the local hotel.

Nannie, who was always panic stricken when alone, less from fear than from lack of resources within herself, went, on her own initiative and despite a grudging welcome, to live with Mrs. Lockhart at “Cousin Minnie’s.”

The divorce was granted in due time and all Russellville was agog with the news. Nannie considered it a matter of propriety that she should stay in semi-retirement for a while, and so went out very little. However, when she did leave the sanctum which “Cousin Minnie” had provided, she always managed to see Professor Walsh, to whom she came to look for advice and help in every situation.

It was the same season, the second of Lucy’s attendance at the Art School, that Lucy and John Winter were married. On account of Nannie’s violent reproaches at the time of the divorce Lucy had not communicated with her mother for many months, but when she decided to marry John she immediately wrote to Nannie.

“John is only beginning business and we shall have to be very economical for a while at least,” the letter said. “Miss Storms has asked us to be married at her flat, but we shall have a very simple wedding. I would be glad to have you come here but I suppose you had rather not under the circumstances. We have rented some furnished rooms that will be convenient for light housekeeping but I hope soon we can get out in the suburbs where it will be cheaper and healthier.”

Although Professor Walsh had questioned Nannie closely regarding Lucy and the girl’s attitude toward family affairs, Nannie replied to her daughter’s letter without consulting him.

“I am only your mother,” Nannie wrote, “so of course it would be preposterous to consider me in regard to the step you are taking. I have suffered a great deal at the hands of your father but I have not lost my pride and self respect yet, and if there was anything more you could do to further alienate me, this was it. You forfeited all right to my affection when you deserted me in my hour of trial in order to pursue your own selfish aims, but this marriage to a man I know nothing about, who may be a nobody from Heaven knows where, is the climax. I think from now on there is not much use in our writing to one another.”

Arthur was still engaged in an important case at the capital and could not be present at the wedding.

“I am sorry I can not be there,” his letter read. “All the advice I can give you, Lucy, is don’t let your mother intrude on your happiness.”

John sent an invitation to his parents, but Dr. Winter, a clergyman, was old and in ill health, and was not able to bear the double strain of the journey and the cold weather. Mrs. Winter, a kindly sentimental lady who would never have thought of leaving her husband, sent tearful regrets, and bemoaned the fact that John and Lucy did not come to the home town and so make it possible for Dr. Winter himself to officiate at the wedding of his only son.

In the end only Jim Sprague and Miss Storms witnessed the quiet affair. These two had liked each other since the day of their first meeting. Miss Storms’ interest in Jim had risen from the fact that he was John’s business associate and intimate. Later she gave him her friendship for his own sake and often referred to him affectionately as “our Jim.” There was an unanalysable and very subtle comprehension between the two, though Miss Storms remained quite as kindly aloof from him in her manner as she did with John and Lucy; and Jim, as in all his relations, was ungiven to self-revealing speech.

“Well, Jim, Lucy has good taste in friends as well as in husbands,” Miss Storms remarked, smiling at him with quizzical complaisance when the wedding ceremony was over. “I hate all the immodest fol-de-lol of church weddings,” she went on, changing the subject, “but it is a shame that anything as pretty as Lucy in those new togs should be wasted on the desert air. For you and I don’t count.”

While she was speaking Lucy came up. Miss Storms took her hand.

“Well, dear?”

Lucy’s eyes swam with tears. She clasped Miss Storms’ hand in both her own and squeezed it impulsively. Miss Storms kissed her forehead.

“I’m jealous, child,” the older woman declared.

“So am I,” John laughed.

“Neither of you need be.” Lucy smiled unsteadily.

“What about you, Jim?” Miss Storms turned to the other guest.

“I’ve always been jealous of John,” Jim answered, flushing a little as he spoke.

Arthur and Mrs. Low, for reasons best known to themselves, were not married in Chicago as expected, but at the state capital where Arthur’s new practice had begun to flourish. When the notice of the wedding was copied by the Russellville Weekly Clarion, another outburst of gossip occurred, but, as neither of them returned to the place after their marriage, it did not disturb them. Arthur made two visits to Chicago, and on one of these, not long after Dimmie’s birth, he spent a night at Rosedene. Here he met Jim Sprague for whom he afterward expressed a strong liking.

Nannie had no means of escape from the public attention attracted to herself and her interests, and the wounds to her vanity were keenly felt. The protest of her self-esteem was her conspicuous appearance in frequented places with Professor Walsh. Again Russellville talked, but not for long. Nannie’s persistent recklessness of opinion in this matter palled. She ceased to be a popular object of criticism. Events settled into the routine that is characteristic of small communities.

The years glided by without any outward change in Nannie’s life. Of Arthur’s doings, she knew nothing except an occasional hint. Mrs. Lockhart had issued an ultimatum on Lucy’s marriage by forbidding any further relation with such an undutiful daughter, and Nannie, overawed by the old lady and more or less dependent on her, dared not disobey.

Professor Walsh was often at the “big house” and, chiefly through his universally acknowledged friendship with the Sheldons, was yearly becoming more and more a power in the community. He paid much special and flattering attention to Mrs. Lockhart, who was rapidly growing deaf and would otherwise have been lonely.

Although the professor’s interest in Nannie was tacitly recognized by the family, Mrs. Lockhart employed all the ingenuity of a jealous and neglected old woman to curb impatience on the part of her niece and nephew, while Professor Walsh, who was already receiving for nothing the benefits that Nannie represented, constantly abetted the old lady’s wiles in so subtle a manner that Nannie hardly realized her own position.

After four years of this régime Mrs. Lockhart died, and Nannie was left in “Cousin Minnie’s” house with no one upon whom she could persuade herself she had the semblance of a claim. “Cousin Minnie” herself, on whom seemed to have descended Mrs. Lockhart’s mantle of decision, soon banished any doubts that Nannie may have had regarding her status in the “big house.”

“When are you going to marry Professor Walsh?” she asked Nannie abruptly one day not long after Mrs. Lockhart’s death.

“Why—I never said I was going to marry him,” responded Nannie with a demurely girlish giggle.

“Well, everybody has been expecting you to for the last three or four years, and if you don’t intend to you will please not give people further reason to gossip about you while you are in my house. The best people have dropped you for it and I don’t care to be included.”

“Why, Cousin Minnie⁠⁠⸺” began Nannie, tearful in an instant.

“Where do you get so many good clothes?” “Cousin Minnie” interrupted.

“Why—why⁠⁠⸺” Nannie faltered. But “Cousin Minnie” did not remain to discuss the matter.

This, and a number of similar happenings, led Nannie to consider her position seriously, and she made a surreptitious pilgrimage to consult her oracle, Professor Walsh, regarding her future.

“We can not marry for another year, at least, Anna,” said he didactically. Nannie’s eyes opened wide at this.

“Of course, Edward,” she acquiesced dutifully.

“Could you not visit your daughter for a while?” he suggested. “As a rule it is not best to remain too long with one relative.”

Nannie swallowed hard, as the recollection of her letter on the occasion of Lucy’s marriage came over her.

“But, Edward, I’ve told you how matters are between Lucy and me. You know how Mother took her going away and marrying a stranger afterward.”

“Just a minute, Anna. Don’t become so excited. Remember what I have told you so often, that ‘stillness of form and steadiness of feature are signal marks of good breeding.’ I was just about to say that now your mother is dead, it is a good time to write your daughter and renew your old relations with her. She will be most useful to us, and besides, a mother and daughter should not be separated.”

“I’m sure I have no hard feelings toward Lucy,” admitted Nannie, somewhat uneasily.

“Quite so, quite so. A letter properly written would in all probability readjust matters satisfactorily to all. You might advert to the fact that your mother persisted in a hostile attitude and that you were dependent on her. Also you had best adopt a generous tone.”

“Very well, Edward,” agreed Nannie.

“Good. Now that is settled. You had better write at once, my dear. And you might let me see the letter before sending it.”

Nannie wrote that night.

The letter began vaguely. Mrs. Lockhart’s memory was invoked. Forgiveness was offered, though for what was not specified, a reconciliation was taken for granted, and a visit to Lucy proposed in terms that were difficult to ignore or refuse.

Nannie pathetically reminded Lucy that Arthur paid no alimony, and recounted indignantly the heartlessness of the Sheldons. The letter contained no mention of Professor Walsh. “I am thrown on the world,” concluded the epistle. “Your father has deserted me and my own relatives have threatened to put me in the street.”

In a few days came Lucy’s reply. It was an invitation to pass an indefinite time at Rosedene.

X

Nearly a week had passed since Mrs. Merwent’s arrival at Rosedene and Jim had not visited the Winter home. This was an unprecedented length of time for him to stay away.

“How is Mr. Sprague, your partner?” Nannie queried one evening at dinner.

“Oh, he’s all right,” responded John, and then added, “Why he’s not been out since the day you came! I’ll ask him out to dinner tomorrow night. He’s no extra trouble.”

Lucy was silent.

“I’d like to get acquainted with him,” pursued Mrs. Merwent. “Of course if it’s too much work for Lucy⁠⁠⸺”

“Why no,” answered John. “Lucy never has anything extra for Jim. Do you, Lucy? I want you to know him, Nannie. You’ll like him fine.”

“Lucy hasn’t said anything,” persisted Nannie. “I think she’d rather not have anybody.”

“No, it’s all right,” agreed Lucy. “Jim’s no extra trouble, ever.”

The next morning John told Jim.

“Nannie and Lucy want you for dinner,” John said. “You didn’t use to have to be asked. Why didn’t you come out before?”

“I’ve been going over the books,” explained Jim. “We must raise our prices on those small houses. We don’t make anything on them at present figures.”

That evening they took the train out to Rosedene together.

When they arrived Lucy was in the kitchen and Mrs. Merwent met them at the door.

“Are you tired?” she murmured solicitously as she kissed John’s cheek, then, smiling and extending her hand to Jim, “How do you do, Mr. Sprague? You’re quite a stranger. Lucy thought you had deserted us.”

“No, I’ve been busy,” he replied, taking her hand and smiling in turn.

When the three entered the dining room, Mrs. Merwent picked up two boutonnières from the table and pinned first one on Jim’s coat lapel, and then the other on John’s.

“Thank you, Mrs. Merwent,” said Jim.

John patted her shoulder.

“Why, how sweet of you, Nannie!” he exclaimed.

At this juncture Dimmie rushed in and, throwing himself headlong into Jim’s outstretched arms, yelled delightedly, “Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim, the cat’s got kittens!”

“Why how boisterous you are, Jimmie.” Mrs. Merwent spoke reprovingly. (She never called him “Dimmie.”)

“Yes,” said John. “You make too much noise, Dimmie.”

“He’s all right. I’m used to him,” put in Jim. He realized as he spoke that never before had he interfered in the child’s training.

“Well, if you like it.” Mrs. Merwent smiled. “I’m afraid you spoil him, Mr. Sprague,” she added.

Jim lifted Dimmie to his shoulder and went off to inspect the kittens. On the way they passed through the kitchen.

“Hello, Lucy.” Jim held out his hand. “Heard you thought I’d deserted you.”

“I can’t shake hands with you. My hands are all over flour,” she explained. “You know I never thought any such thing!”

“Yes, I know,” he answered.

Dimmie grew impatient.

“It’ll get dark and you can’t see the kittens,” he complained.

After Jim and Dimmie had left the dining room, Nannie, who was standing by the table, began to look about as if in search of something.

“Why, Lucy must have forgotten to order it,” she observed, as if to herself. Then she turned to her son-in-law, placing her hand on his arm.

“John,” she asked, smiling, “would you do Nannie a favor?”

“Sure,” he consented. “What is it?”

“I wish you would get me a little fruit to keep in my room. I like to eat a little before going to bed.”

“Of course. I’ll have some sent around in the morning.”

“I meant tonight—if you didn’t mind.”

“All right. Jim and I’ll go and get it after dinner.”

“You cruel boy! You want to advertise my weakness to the world. I didn’t want anybody to know.”

“Good. I’ll just pop out and get it right away. How’s that?”

“You’re a dear boy. I’m afraid Lucy wouldn’t approve of spoiling me this way.” Mrs. Merwent walked into the hall where John followed her.

“Well, we won’t tell anybody,” declared John. He took his hat from the rack and went out the front door, closing it gently after him.

Jim and Dimmie came back from the kitten inspecting expedition and, entering the living room, found Mrs. Merwent alone.

“Mother was asking for you a minute ago, Jimmie,” she told the little boy.

Dimmie ran to the kitchen.

Jim sat down by the fire place.

“Everybody has left me to amuse myself, Mr. Sprague.” Nannie looked up at him challengingly from the depths of the Morris chair in which she was reclining.

“Why where’s John?” he asked.

“He’s gone out some place for a few minutes. I don’t know where,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to smoke?” She rose. “I’ll get some of John’s cigarettes.”

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke cigarettes. I’ll fill my pipe if you don’t mind.”

“I smoke cigarettes sometimes, when I’m quite alone,” she confided, laughing slightly.

“Yes?”

“I suppose you don’t approve of ladies smoking, do you?” she insisted.

“If they want to.”

“Does Lucy smoke?”

“No.”

Mrs. Merwent laughed again.

“I didn’t know,” she declared.

Jim gazed at her steadily. The front door clicked and she started.

“Was that John?” she asked.

Jim rose and glanced through the window.

“No,” he responded. “It was Dimmie. He threw his ball into the street. Did you want anything, Mrs. Merwent?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “I just wondered. He said he was coming right back. Well, we don’t need a chaperone, do we?”

“Hardly,” replied Jim.

Mrs. Merwent dropped a marquise ring she had been pulling on and off her finger. Jim picked it up and handed it to her.

“Thank you. I shouldn’t be wearing rings with this old gown. I just put it on from force of habit.”

“Which?” asked Jim, smiling.

“The ring, of course, you sarcastic thing,” she retorted, striking his knee with the lace handkerchief in her hand.

“The dress is charming, Mrs. Merwent.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re going to be nice after all. Well, I was quite prepared to find you so. Lucy and John can’t say enough good things about you.”

“I’m much obliged to them,” he remarked, smiling again. “I can say the same of them.”

“How lovely! I do think real friendship is the grandest thing—and so rare.”

“No doubt about that, Mrs. Merwent.” Jim smiled once more.

“Now I believe you’re making fun of me, Mr. Sprague.”

“I can assure you I’m not, Mrs. Merwent.”

“I envy them, you know. I’ve been so lonely since my—trouble.”

“I can quite imagine,” said Jim sympathetically. “But now you are with your children and⁠⁠⸺”

“Yes,” she interrupted hastily, “and isn’t John just the dearest fellow! I do so regret our misunderstanding. Though I was not to blame for it,” she added.

“John’s a good sort,” Jim agreed.

“And Lucy,” Mrs. Merwent now smiled. “You haven’t said anything about Lucy.”

“We weren’t talking about her.”

“Well, she’s a dear girl, although—why I’ve burnt my slipper!” she broke off. “Do you know, Mr. Sprague, that I have the hardest time to get shoes narrow enough. It seems that most women, especially here in the North, have big feet. Lucy takes after her father. He was a Northern man.”

Jim seemed amused, and Mrs. Merwent concluded hastily.

“But here I am chattering on about me,” she said, “and you haven’t told me anything about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to tell, Mrs. Merwent.”

“Well, if you could hear Lucy and John talk about you you wouldn’t be so modest.”

“Neither of them has much critical acumen in matters of friendship.”

“But you are their only intimate friend.”

Jim laughed.

“That’s just it,” he asserted.

“You cynical thing!” she reproved banteringly. “I know you men with no illusions. I declare I’m afraid of you.”

“Not dangerous—believe me, Mrs. Merwent.”

“No. You despise us women too much to take us seriously.”

“Some of the biggest individuals I have met have been women,” Jim answered gravely.

“Lucy, for instance.”

“Yes, Lucy,” agreed Jim.

“Well, I’m not much like her. Do you think so?”

“Our acquaintance is pretty brief to justify a fundamental judgment of that sort.”

“Oh, I’m not at all intellectual or deep. I can’t talk about Bergson and books like Jean Christophe that Lucy reads. I’m afraid you won’t like poor little me much.”

“There are lots of people I don’t like who talk about philosophy and musical novels.” His tone was pleasant.

“Well, I have a feeling already that you don’t like me very well.”

“I don’t think I could help liking Lucy’s mother,” Jim answered without conviction.

“Thanks! I don’t know that I care to be liked because I’m Lucy’s mother,” she replied, laughing nervously. “Your liking seems to be confined to Lucy and things belonging to her. That’s not very complimentary to the rest of us.”

Jim, who had been staring at the empty grate, glanced up and met Mrs. Merwent’s eyes. Her gaze dropped.

“Yes, I do like Lucy, and the people she likes,” he acknowledged frankly, “and if anybody liked me on the same recommendation I should feel honored. She is a person any man or woman must feel it a great privilege to know.”

Mrs. Merwent arched her brows.

“Of course I think just as you do about Lucy, Mr. Sprague, but if I were John I might” (she smiled again) “object the tiniest bit to your—enthusiasm.”

“Object?” Jim looked blank.

“Maybe that is the wrong word.” Nannie’s smile grew more meaning. “It isn’t every man who enjoys having his wife admired too much.”

“If John objects he only needs to say so. I don’t think you quite understand the atmosphere of this household yet, Mrs. Merwent.”

“This household?”

“Your daughter then.”

“Well, I certainly think I ought to know her.”

“You ought, but the most charitable thing is to believe you don’t.” There was decided asperity in Jim’s tone.

Mrs. Merwent’s manner changed. She rose haughtily.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed.

Jim rose also, and the two scrutinized each other in silence for a moment.

“No offense intended,” he protested, turning and knocking his pipe out on the mantel shelf.

Nannie was still injured.

“I don’t see how such innocent remarks can be so misinterpreted,” she insisted, crumpling her handkerchief.

Jim did not answer at once. When he spoke his manner was authoritative.

“Don’t you think it would be wise to drop this topic, Mrs. Merwent?”

She preserved her air of dignity, but her uneasiness was obvious.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Sprague. I certainly will not be stopped from doing my duty in protecting Lucy no matter if you do misunderstand me.”

“Protecting Lucy?” Jim’s eyes hardened.

Mrs. Merwent twisted her handkerchief nervously.

“Do you think Lucy needs to be protected from me, Mrs. Merwent?” he went on inexorably.

Lucy’s voice was heard calling Dimmie. Nannie backed toward the hallway.

Jim heard Lucy too.

“I think Lucy needs protecting from her own ignorance and inexperience,” explained Nannie defensively. “I’ve suffered enough from public opinion even though I was innocent, Mr. Sprague, and I can’t be expected to welcome the same thing for her.”

Jim seemed nonplussed.

“I confess you have the best of me, Mrs. Merwent.”

Nannie was mollified by seeing how disturbed he looked.

“I knew you would consider Lucy’s welfare just as I do.” Then she seemed to dismiss the discussion. “There she is now. She does spoil Jimmie so!”

“It has begun to rain, Dimmie. You mustn’t stay out in the rain. Where’s Papa?” Lucy was heard saying.

“Dear me! It is raining. I left a coat suit airing in the window. I’m packing away my winter things. You will excuse me while I go and take it in, Mr. Sprague?” Mrs. Merwent was smiling now, though she continued to regard Jim with apprehension.

Jim turned to face her suddenly.

“Hold on, Mrs. Merwent!” he began in an odd tone, his voice not quite under his control.

Nannie continued to smile impersonally but in spite of herself she hesitated.

“You will please tell me now just what you mean about Lucy and myself,” he demanded rather than asked.

“Maybe Uncle Jim knows where Papa is.” Lucy came toward the living room door.

Nannie raised her brows again and nodded at Jim significantly.

“Ahem—I really don’t think we had better⁠⁠⸺” she murmured.

Jim shrugged his shoulders with a baffled air and began to refill his pipe. At the same moment Lucy appeared in the doorway behind her mother.

“Where’s John?” Lucy asked, entering the room with Dimmie and glancing about inquiringly.

“Why he went out for a few minutes. I must run upstairs and take my clothes out of the rain,” Mrs. Merwent murmured, brushing past her daughter into the hallway.

“Whatever made John run away just when dinner was ready? And it’s begun to rain too!” Lucy walked over to the fireplace and placed a screen in front of it.

“Tell me a story, Uncle Jim,” Dimmie begged, pulling Jim’s coat tails and indicating the Morris chair which Nannie had quitted.

“It’s too near dinner time,” Lucy remonstrated, noticing how abstracted Jim appeared. She looked at the clock on the writing desk. “Is it as late as that?” she asked in surprise.

Jim took out his watch.

“Seven fifteen,” he informed her, replacing his time-piece, and walking over to the darkened window he remained, with his back to her, gazing into the faintly lit street.

She scrutinised his half averted face.

“Are you bothered about something, Jim?”

He started slightly.

“Why, no, not particularly. I was figuring out what would be the cheapest material we could put into that new row of houses,” he lied. “I’ve got to send in the final estimates tomorrow.” He moved away from the window and seated himself in the Morris chair with Dimmie in his lap.

“I can’t imagine what keeps John,” Lucy remarked again.

Jim slid Dimmie to the floor.

“Don’t you want me to go and hunt him up?”

“Why—no-o. I⁠⁠⸺” Lucy demurred. “I don’t think⁠⁠⸺”

Just then there was the sound of a key turning in a latch and Dimmie darted forward into the hall shouting, “There’s Papa! There’s Papa!”

John left a parcel on the stand with his hat and overcoat and entered the living room.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you intended going out, John? I wouldn’t have taken dinner up. I’m afraid it is spoiled,” Lucy said good naturedly as she came forward to meet him.

“Oh, you know I—well⁠⁠⸺” John explained running his fingers through his hair with an embarrassed gesture.

“What in the world did you have to buy that couldn’t wait until after dinner?” Lucy walked into the hall and picked up the package which lay beside his hat.

“Why, it’s some fruit. I thought it might be nice to have some,” he said lamely, following her to the hat stand.

“But there’s plenty of fruit in the house.”

Nannie appeared on the stairs.

“Why, where have you been, John? We were all looking for you,” she called rather uneasily.

XI

John and Nannie entered the dining room together. Jim followed with Lucy and Dimmie.

“Did Nannie give you those flowers, Uncle Jim?” Dimmie asked as they went through the hall. He reached for the boutonnière which Jim was wearing.

“Yes. Do you want some?” Jim answered, taking the sprig of blossoms from his button hole and halting to decorate Dimmie’s blouse with it.

In the dining room there was a little confusion as John pulled out a chair for Nannie and she seated herself with a rustle. She began to serve the soup. Jim observed Lucy stealthily.

When the plates were distributed Nannie noticed Dimmie’s adornment.

“Why, you’ve lost your flowers, Mr. Sprague!” she exclaimed, without looking at Jim.

“I gave them to Dimmie,” he answered quickly.

“Oh,” said Nannie.

John regarded Jim with an expression of surprise but lowered his eyes as Jim met his gaze.

“I don’t believe Mr. Sprague likes flowers, does he, Lucy?” inquired Mrs. Merwent sweetly.

“Of course he does, Mamma,” Lucy declared patiently. There was a brief silence.

“Now we’ll have one of the good old evenings!” cried John, rubbing his hands. “By the way, you two are too formal, Nannie. Why don’t you call each other by your names?”

“Mr. Sprague doesn’t approve of getting acquainted too rapidly,” retorted Nannie.

“I see by the paper that some rich guy has loaned a lot of Corots to the Field Museum. That ought to interest you, John,” remarked Jim, changing the subject.

“Do you know, I was thinking of Corot today,” responded John enthusiastically. “His art is a fairy art. He gives you the poetry of Nature without being irritatingly subjective.”

“I just love Corot,” put in Mrs. Merwent ecstatically.

“Don’t you!” pursued John eagerly. “I tell you, Nannie, that lots of greatly admired things make me sick, jammed full of Christian sentiment, or reminding one of literary illustrations. Why can’t artists stick to their purpose! What was that you said the other evening, Jim, about Botticelli’s Spring—that it was both pagan and subtle, wasn’t it?”

“Forgotten,” said Jim, who was helping Dimmie to potatoes.

“That was it.” Lucy smiled approvingly. “Won’t you have another croquette, Mamma?”

“I believe I will, thank you,” assented Mrs. Merwent, even as she spoke accepting the helping. “There! There! That’s more than plenty, Lucy. You’ll have Mr. Sprague thinking I’m a gourmand.”

“Good stuff, Lucy,” declared Jim, taking a second croquette himself. “Wouldn’t blame your mother if she were.”

“But really, Mr. Sprague, as a rule⁠⁠⸺”

She was interrupted by John.

“Jim, why on earth can’t you call Nannie by her name! One would think she was a perfect stranger.”

“She is, nearly,” said Lucy, smiling again.

“Well, we’re all starting over now,” returned John in a tone of mild reprimand, “and she won’t be in the future, so let’s not be so formal.”

An uncomfortable pause followed.

“You’ve dropped your flower, John.” As Nannie spoke at last, she picked up the boutonnière from the table and replaced it in the lapel of his coat. “What was that you were saying about art?”

“Oh! Well you know, Nannie, I was just going to say that I don’t have any more use for these new movements in art than for the moralizing and story telling things of the last century. These cubist and futuristic cranks forget the same thing the others do. That is that the artist’s purpose is to create beauty. Why can’t they give us the beauty they see and let us judge of it, instead of trying to tell us something about it we aren’t interested in. Now take Inness, for instance⁠⁠⸺”

“I just love him! Aren’t his things fine!” Nannie chimed in.

John rumpled his hair.

“Yes, an Inness,” he repeated. “Doesn’t it give you enough? Can’t you look at it and hear the wind in the trees? It isn’t only atmosphere, it’s the beauty of nature in its simplicity, and that’s what we want in art—simplicity.” He looked around the table.

“You’ve thought a lot about such things,” exclaimed Mrs. Merwent admiringly.

“It isn’t so much an intellectual conception as a feeling for the true thing that counts in art, Nannie,” replied John.

“That’s what I mean,” she explained.

“Your dinner’ll get cold, dear,” interrupted Lucy.

John began to eat again and silence reigned for some moments.

Lucy turned to Jim.

“The croquettes aren’t all gone yet. Have another?” she invited.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll take one, Lucy, if you don’t mind,” interposed Nannie. Lucy passed the dish hastily.

“Why of course, Mamma.”

Silence descended again on the group.

“We seem to be a quiet family,” Mrs. Merwent observed after a few moments.

John looked up from his plate.

“What’s the matter with you, Jim? And you too, Lucy?” he inquired, glancing from one of them to the other. “It seems as though a funeral had struck the place. Neither of you have a word to say tonight.”

“Seems to me I’m talking as much as usual,” said Jim defensively, laughing a little. “The trouble is that you’ve quit talking. We always listen to you.”

“Rot!” retorted John. “You haven’t said half a dozen words.”

“I thought you all discussed the most abstruse things,” put in Nannie.

“We do,” avowed John. “I can’t understand what’s come over them.”

“Do talk about something profound, Mr. Sprague. I love to listen even if I can’t join in the discussion,” she urged.

“You’re really mistaken, Mrs. Merwent. I talk very little,” Jim protested. “John’s joking.”

“I suppose it depends on the company you’re in,” she parried.

“I talked a lot to you before dinner.” Jim turned his eyes on her.

Nannie avoided his gaze.

“My friend Professor Walsh, who is head of the school at home, has a better opinion of me than some other people,” she declared after a pause, ignoring Jim’s remark and speaking to the table at large.

“What nonsense, Mamma!” Lucy interrupted gently. “Whoever made any comparison!”

“Comparisons can be made by inference,” Mrs. Merwent insisted with dignity. “Professor Walsh knows all kinds of erudite things and he never considers it any condescension to talk to poor little me!” she finished.

“Neither do we! What’s got into you, Nannie?” John exclaimed, slightly irritated, but laughing.

“I know you don’t, John.” Nannie smiled at him.

Lucy rose.

“Help me bring in the dessert, Jim,” she invited.

“Lucy does need a servant,” Nannie declared when she and John were alone together.

After dinner the men remained in their places to smoke as was their custom, and a little later they all drew their chairs back and the conversation became more animated as John related at length some of his experiences at the art school. Then Lucy began to clear the table.

Jim glanced once or twice at Mrs. Merwent who was listening to John and asking questions about various girls mentioned by him in the course of his narrative.

“Let me help you with the dishes, Lucy,” Jim lowered his voice slightly.

“Why of course, Jim. I thought you had forgotten your job,” Lucy agreed, at the same time regarding her mother, who seemed much amused by something John had just said and entirely oblivious to her daughter.

Jim removed his coat and he and Lucy carried the dishes to the kitchen, Dimmie assisting with invaluable efforts and advice.

While the dish washing was in progress Mrs. Merwent appeared in the kitchen doorway, and surveyed the scene of activity: Jim, coatless and aproned, Lucy with her sleeves rolled up, and Dimmie in general administrative charge.

“Why, Lucy, I didn’t know you were washing the dishes! Do let me help!” Nannie begged rather weakly.

Lucy replied pleasantly.

“No, thank you, Mamma. We’ll be through in a minute.”

Nannie went back to the dining room.

“They don’t seem to need us out there,” she informed John. “Do tell me some more about that Miss Stimpson at the Art School—the one with the red hair. I think she’s so interesting.”

Soon Lucy and Jim returned to the dining room. Dimmie was hanging to his mother’s skirt and rubbing his eyes. She looked down at the child.

“I think I know a little boy who wants to go to sleepy town.” She smiled at him and took his hand. “Kiss Papa and Uncle Jim,” she continued, leading him up to John.

“And Nannie! Would you forget poor Nannie?” complained Mrs. Merwent, presenting her cheek which Dimmie dutifully kissed.

“Good night, Dimmie,” Jim called after the child.

“You’re quite domestic, Mr. Sprague,” Nannie commented after Lucy and Dimmie had gone upstairs.

“Lucy turns old Jim into a regular hired girl when he’s here.” John grinned at his friend.

Jim was lighting his pipe and did not show that he had heard Nannie’s remark. When he spoke it was to John.

Dimmie fell asleep in the midst of the first bedtime story, and Lucy soon left him. When she came into the dining room her mother was moving about as though searching for something.

“What is it, Mamma?” inquired Lucy.

“Why a piece of sheet music I put here on the bookcase doesn’t seem to be here. Jimmie must have moved it.”

“Let me help you find it,” offered John, jumping to his feet.

“Perhaps it’s on the piano where you were practicing this afternoon,” suggested Lucy.

Mrs. Merwent disappeared into the living room, followed by John, and a moment later the strains of Massenet’s Ouvrez tes Yeux floated in to the dining room.

“Sit down, Jim,” Lucy bade Sprague, who was standing with his hands in his coat pockets.

He seated himself a little distance from her.

“Well, Jim, Mamma and I are not much alike, are we?” Lucy remarked, smiling with a tired expression.

“Wait till I pinch myself,” Jim answered.

There was a brief pause.

“We’ll just have to do the best we can with things,” Lucy said, rising and averting her face as she spoke. She walked over to the mantel and arranged some flowers in a vase.

“I’m outclassed,” Jim admitted.

“Maybe it’s not for always.” She spoke consolingly, looking at the floor and continuing to smile determinedly. “When people see things clearly there’s always a way, so let’s not get panicky.”

“The trouble is we don’t all see through things.” Jim shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably.

The music ceased abruptly but almost immediately began again and Nannie sang, Vous Dansez, Marquise.

“Give John a little time, Jim. He’ll see more than the rest of us before long,” Lucy went on, as though defending her husband from an unspoken accusation.

Jim smoked fiercely.

“I hope so,” he said at last, “but, as a rule, meeting a problem on the installment plan is pretty poor spiritual economy.”

“Lucy,” he resumed after a pause, “your mother and I had a talk before dinner.”

“I thought so.”

“Well, unless I’m greatly mistaken⁠⁠⸺” Jim hesitated.

The music had stopped.

“Lucy, why don’t you and Jim come in and listen?” John stood in the doorway.

Mrs. Merwent’s laugh tinkled from the other room.

“John, you dear silly boy!” she called. “You should allow people to enjoy themselves in their own way.”

“I was just going back to town,” announced Jim, standing up. Lucy stared at him with a surprised expression.

At this juncture Nannie appeared in the doorway behind John. Both entered the dining room.

“Why what do you mean, Jim?” John inquired.

“I’ve got to get to the office early tomorrow.”

“I thought Mr. Sprague always spent the night,” remarked Nannie. “Lucy showed me his room.”

“He does,” declared John, and turned to Jim. “You’ll have plenty of time in the morning. We’ll take the six forty.”

“I must look over the specifications for those houses, and they’re in my room.”

“Well, if you must, you must,” John agreed, “but why didn’t you say so before?”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Merwent,” Jim said, ignoring John’s question. “Good night, Lucy.” They shook hands.

“I’ll go to the station with you,” John offered.

“No,” declined Jim. “No need. I’ve just time to catch the nine five. Good night.” He went into the hall and seized his hat from the rack.

“Good night,” called John. “See you in the morning.”

Dimmie, awakened by the noise in the hall, cried out, “Mamma!”

Lucy went to him.

An hour later she heard John and her mother tip-toeing up the stairs, trying to avoid disturbing her.

John had breakfast early the succeeding morning as he wished to reach the office simultaneously with Jim. When Mrs. Merwent came downstairs it was already close to the lunch hour and she asked to have her breakfast in the kitchen so that she might talk to Lucy who was at work there.

“Your friend, Mr. Sprague, doesn’t like me,” Mrs. Merwent began as she buttered her toast contemplatively.

“Why, Mamma, I don’t see what makes you say that.” Lucy measured some flour.

“Do you mean you didn’t notice what he said after dinner about parents being in secret competition with their children?”

“Yes, I heard that, but he was speaking generally. He was probably not thinking about you at all.”

“No, he doesn’t consider me intellectual enough to be worth thinking about. Professor Walsh is a great deal better educated than Mr. Sprague, so I guess I can console myself with the fact that he does find me worth talking to.”

Lucy referred again to her recipe book.

“Really, Mamma, you have no reason to feel this way. I’m sure Jim was as attentive to you as you let him be.”

“Well, it was mere politeness. He wasn’t at all interested in anything I said.”

“I’m sure I don’t know how you know. He listened to everything you said to him. Of course he doesn’t know any of the people you talked about, and he isn’t good at small talk, and besides you talked almost entirely to John, but I thought he was very nice.”

“Very patronizing, you mean, Lucy. I can see very plainly that he has a low opinion of women—except you, of course. He seemed anxious enough to talk to you.”

“Mamma, I wish you wouldn’t speak that way.”

“Speak what way?”

Lucy paused in her task and gazed steadily at her mother.

“You know perfectly well, Mamma. The reason he talked to me was that you wished it, and besides I ask you not to talk about Jim in that tone.”

“Well, anyone could see that he was crazy to be with you,” Nannie began angrily.

“Mamma!” Lucy was indignant.

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears.

“Why, Lucy, I don’t see how you can twist my words so. I didn’t mean there was anything between you.”

Lucy gasped.

“Who said you did?” she ejaculated, articulating with difficulty. “I only meant that you were unjust to Jim.”

Mrs. Merwent continued to regard her daughter reproachfully.

“You don’t know him, Mamma. He’s the very best kind of a man,” Lucy went on more gently.

“Yes! I suppose I am incapable of appreciating him. Well, you seem to at any rate,” Nannie taunted.

Lucy paused ominously.

“Well, Mamma, if you don’t like him, I can’t help it,” she resumed at last in an odd strained voice. “He’s our friend, but I’m not responsible for him or his opinions. You’ll just have to like him or dislike him for yourself.”

“I never said I disliked him,” retorted Nannie. “I said he disliked me. Any one would think to hear you talk that he was⁠⁠⸺”

“Suppose we don’t discuss it any longer, Mamma,” Lucy interrupted shortly.

“Oh, very well. If I had known you couldn’t bear to have the slightest hint of criticism of him I’d have kept still.”

Lucy said no more.

XII

The friendship between John and Jim was of the sort that has its roots deep in the past. They had been playmates and chums since early childhood.

Jim was two years the elder and one of his first memories was of wishing he had a mother like John’s. His own mother had died when he was an infant and Mrs. Winter gave the lonely child many a happy hour mothering him along with her own child.

Jim’s father, a dry minded man who owned a hardware store, was mystified by the boy’s quaint fancies.

“Are the flowers lonesome at night?” the child asked Mr. Sprague one day. And once when it was raining he said, “The sky is crying and the trees are sorry,” as the latter bent in the wind.

His father always laughed at such speeches and advised him not to be a fool. At first Jim would slip from the room and weep, but later he learned to conceal his hurt feelings as his father whipped him if he found him crying. So the child gradually acquired the habit of keeping his thoughts to himself.

Though Jim’s faith in things mystical had in early childhood been the most eager and ardent, he was the first of the two boys to become a sceptic. Mr. Sprague in his hardware store had a business which seemed to be an appropriate emblem of his nature, and he had never attempted to meet his imaginative son half way; but it was Jim’s own habit of inquiry regarding the world around him, rather than the fault of his unsympathetic parent, which brought about a change in his childish outlook.

“I don’t believe in Santa Claus any more, John,” he confessed the first Christmas after his faith had forsaken him.

“Well I do!” John answered indignantly. “He’s going to bring me a new sled too. You’re jealous because he’s not going to bring you one.” And John ran away out of earshot of heresy.

Jim went home and threw himself face downward on the bed in the bare room where he and his father slept. While he lay there he admitted to himself that he was jealous of John but that did not alter his painfully won conviction.

Jim loved companionship with animals. A tailless cat, a lame gosling, chickens, and anything else that needed care, shared his affection. If one of these outcasts became ill he ministered to it as though it were a baby. One Sunday he sat for three hours holding a dying puppy in his lap.

Mr. Sprague did not like pets and was often cruel to Jim’s charges, refusing food for them. Then Jim would deny himself and save the food from his plate for his protégés. His father grew angry at this, regarding it as disobedience to the spirit of his commands, and one day ordered Jim to turn the pets loose, in his rage kicking a little puppy. Jim rebelled and, as was usual on such occasions, was whipped. As soon as his father released him Jim gathered up the hurt puppy tenderly. After this he tried to keep his pets out of his father’s sight.

At school John was, as a rule, the head of his class, but Jim always had to help him with his mathematical problems. Jim never obtained more than fair marks except in mental arithmetic, in which study he rapidly became the pride of all his teachers.

Although Jim took the initiative and led in all their games and expeditions it was tacitly understood that John was, in some way, the superior of the two. This tradition dated from their earliest memories. It was not founded solely on the fact that John had a mother, for John’s father, too, was a cultured man and wrote for a religious review, while Jim’s only sold hardware. Even in later years when Jim faced life and weighed values this attitude never quite left him.

During their high school days John fell in love with Gertie Pierce, who had red cheeks and yellow hair. This lifted him still higher in Jim’s opinion. John wrote poetry about Gertie, which he read to Jim. In these poems he called her a “dryad,” explaining to Jim what the word meant, and pointing out how beautifully it rhymed with “sad.”

As a rule Jim paid scant attention to his girl acquaintances and schoolmates. They made him uneasy with their giggling and whispering, and he always imagined that they were talking about him and making fun of him.

After his graduation from high school Jim entered his father’s store. It had been decided that John was to go to college and he left the following autumn. Jim, robbed of the old companionship, felt his isolation more than ever before in his life. He wanted something, he hardly knew what. It seemed to him that life was cheating him, but he looked in vain for understanding from the boys and girls with whom he had grown up. Occasional enthusiastic letters from John in which college life was described to the stay-at-home, not without a note of condescension, added to Jim’s dissatisfaction and unrest.

One day, about a month after John’s departure to attend college, a young widow of the town, Mrs. Johnson, whom Jim had often seen on the street and admired for her brilliant coloring and dashing though somewhat overdressed appearance, came into Mr. Sprague’s hardware store. She wished to order some gas fittings for her house, which was being remodeled. Jim had heard laughing references to her powers as a siren and these remarks were of a nature that reflected rather darkly on her moral conduct, so when he went forward to wait on her it was with some inward trepidation.

He advised her to choose plain square brass brackets which he thought much prettier than the ornate scrolled gilt ones which she seemed to prefer. She hesitated and then looked up at him.

“Well, if you think these are prettier, I’ll take them. Please have them sent around to the house this afternoon, for the plumbers are coming tomorrow.”

Jim, put at his ease by her deference to his taste, promised, and carried over the fixtures himself about three o’clock. Mrs. Johnson met him at the door. Jim, remembering the very stylish street costume she had worn that morning, was somewhat taken back by the sight of her none too clean wrapper, run over slippers, and hair loose down her back.

“Come in,” she invited, smiling and showing extremely pretty teeth. “If I’d known it was you who were coming I’d have fixed myself up. Take a seat,” she continued volubly, laughing as she removed some sewing from a chair. “I’m all alone.”

Jim deposited his hat and bundle on a table in the center of the room and seated himself. She drew another chair for herself very close to his.

“I expect I look the limit!” she exclaimed, leaning her head back and shaking her hair out in a rippling cascade over her shoulders. “I’ve been washing my hair.”

Jim glanced timidly at her wide opened pale blue eyes, smooth fair skin, pink cheeks, and the rounded arm which was displayed to advantage as she modestly held her wrapper together over a salient bosom. The sunlight fell on her blond hair which was really exquisite.

“I think you look beautiful,” said Jim impulsively, turning very red at his own temerity.

“I could almost kiss you for that,” she answered with another laugh. “Wait till I get you some beer to pay you for your compliment,” and she rose and went toward the kitchen, humming a tune as she disappeared.

Jim’s gaze followed her. Delia Johnson made a pleasant picture and Jim had missed the shallowness, indolence, and sensuality in her face and the incipient heaviness in her figure. As her yellow hair was lost to view through the doorway he gave a sigh.

She returned in a few minutes with a bottle of beer and two glasses.

“Good luck,” she chattered, laughing once more as she poured a glass for him and another for herself.

They clinked glasses and drank, Jim, who did not like the taste of beer, being careful not to make a wry face.

“Don’t you smoke, Mr. Sprague?” she asked when they had finished the beer.

Jim did not smoke, but in view of Delia’s eyes and the “Mr.” he answered, “Yes,” adding, “but I haven’t any cigars with me.”

“I’ll get you some cigarettes,” she offered, opening a drawer in the table. “I’ll have one too,” she went on with her inevitable laugh, as she removed a cigarette from the package before handing it to him.

They smoked a moment in silence, Delia inhaling her cigarette with evident pleasure.

“Are you a partner in your father’s business?” she inquired, at length, knocking the ash from her cigarette.

“No,” returned Jim hastily, “I’m only clerking for him. I’ve just finished high school.”

“How much does he pay you?” she pursued.

She was smiling at him bewitchingly and Jim put aside the crudeness of her questions.

“He don’t pay me anything,” he admitted honestly.

“That’s better,” she declared. “It shows that he intends to give you a share in the concern.”

Jim shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t know about that.”

“You’re his only child, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course he will,” she affirmed with emphasis, “and in time you’ll have it all. He’s rich, isn’t he?”

“Why, no,” began Jim.

“Pretty well fixed, anyway,” she put in laughing. “Well, there’s many that would like to be in your shoes, Mr. Sprague.”

Jim placed his half finished cigarette on the ash tray.

“Have some more beer?” she queried.

“No, thank you.”

“What’s your given name?” she demanded suddenly.

“James.” He was smiling now.

“Do they call you Jimmie?”

“No, Jim,” he replied, glancing at her hair.

“Then I’m going to call you Jim too.”

“All right, Mrs. Johnson, I’m⁠⁠⸺”

“You mean thing!” she interrupted. “I don’t believe you like me a bit!”

Jim looked surprised.

“Do you?” she insisted.

“Why, yes.” He studied her a moment, then, with increasing emphasis, “Of course I do. I like you fine.”

She reached over and touched his cheek lightly.

“Then you must call me Delia,” she stipulated, and added, “I like you, too, Jim, awfully well.”

He blushed and trembled a little at the caress.

“I—I must go,” he stammered, rising.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she pleaded. “Let’s talk a minute.”

Jim hesitated and then reseated himself. Delia moved her chair a little farther from him.

“Wasn’t that awful in the morning’s paper about their killing the strikers in Chicago?” She spoke in a more impersonal tone.

Jim drew a long breath.

“I think it’s terrible!” he exclaimed. “Those men have no other way of protesting against injustice than by striking.”

“The paper says they’re trying to wreck business.”

“They’re not any such thing!” he insisted. “They’re most of them fathers of families and dependent on their wages. It’s nonsense to suggest such things. What they want is enough to live on.”

“You aren’t an anarchist, are you?”

“No,” he disclaimed, “but I hate lies and hypocrisy, and that sheet” (pointing to the paper lying on the floor where Delia had dropped it) “is in the pay of the capitalists, and people read it and swallow any dope they hand out. This country will never progress till labor is represented in the capital at Washington and—and until things are reorganized on a basis of justice and equality,” he concluded rather lamely.

He was flushed and seemed somewhat startled by his own outburst.

“My, but you think a lot!” Delia applauded admiringly.

“It’s time men began to think,” resumed Jim, encouraged. “It’s the duty of citizens to think and act. The good men stay away from the polls and let things slide, and the bad element gets in its dirty work, and the poor suffer. When I’m old enough to vote I’m never going to miss⁠⁠⸺”

“Why, aren’t you twenty-one yet?” put in Delia.

Jim was abashed.

“I’m only seventeen past,” he admitted reluctantly.

“You look at least twenty-two or three,” she insisted.

Jim was pleased and grateful.

“And you understand things so well. I like to hear you explain them, but I can’t talk—only about women’s things.” Delia looked demure.

Jim, who as a rule talked little on any subject, was uncomfortable over having expressed himself so freely. Delia changed the subject again.

“Have you seen Will Bennett since his wife died?” she inquired.

“No,” replied Jim, relieved.

“I saw him yesterday on the street,” said she. “Did you go to the funeral?”

“No,” answered Jim again.

“He looked as chipper as a sparrow. That’s the way men are. The funeral was beautiful,” and Delia launched into a minute description of the obsequies, Jim listening attentively.

“I really must go,” he declared, at last, rising once more as she concluded, and extending his hand.

“Well, you must drop in again to see me,” she invited, holding his hand as she spoke. “I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

“Thank you. So have I,” returned Jim.

She released him as he took his hat from the table, and followed him to the door.

“Don’t forget,” she smiled.

“I’ll not forget,” he smiled back.

When Jim returned to the store Mr. Sprague looked up from his ledger.

“It took you a long time to deliver those fixtures,” he grumbled.

“I—I didn’t come right back,” stammered Jim.

Mr. Sprague scrutinized his son’s flushed face.

“I should think you didn’t. Well, next time you come right back! Do you hear?”

Jim passed behind the counter without replying.

Jim remembered his promise to Delia. He thought of her almost constantly during his waking hours. The day following his visit he walked past her house. The plumbers were laying gas pipe from the street through the yard. He did not see Delia and went on.

“It’s too soon yet,” he said to himself.

The next day he passed the house again. The window shutters were all closed and he did not ring the bell, telling himself that Delia was not at home. He continued to pass the house once or twice every day, without asking for admittance, wondering each time if she were there, or if some one else were with her, or if she really meant that she wanted him to come again. He was amazed that such a beautiful woman had remained without remarrying. He had decided that the slurs cast on her reputation were unjust. She was too innocent-hearted and Bohemian. The narrow minded people who made up the population of the town could not understand her. Jim found her like the heroine of a French novel he had been reading. He dreamed about her at night.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, a week after his first visit, he passed her house as usual and saw no sign of life. He proceeded down the street and walked a block or two. Then he retraced his steps. As he came by the house again he heard someone call his name. Before he could decide what to do the curtains in a window were parted and Delia’s smiling face confronted him.

“Why don’t you come in, Jim?” she called.

He hesitated.

“Wait, and I’ll unlock the door,” she added, and, with a final smile, left the window.

Jim entered the gate, and had not crossed the small lawn when the door was opened.

“You mean thing! You wouldn’t have come in at all if I hadn’t called to you!” was her greeting.

“I thought you weren’t at home,” he explained.

“Well, let’s not talk about it,” she said, shutting the door. “You’re here anyway. I’ve been wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town. Sit down and tell me about yourself,” she invited, leading the way to the sitting room he remembered so well. “Here! Give me your hat. You’re at home here.”

Jim was surprised to feel himself suddenly at ease.

Delia chatted volubly, smiling and laughing, without giving him an opportunity to talk about himself. She produced a flattering atmosphere of dependence and admiration that led Jim unconsciously to assume the part of the conquering male.

“You didn’t really forget me, did you?” she asked, her ingratiating manner anticipating his reply.

“Not quite,” Jim told her with new-found assurance.

Delia gazed into his eyes a moment and came over to his chair and, bending down, put her cheek against his.

“You didn’t, did you, Jim?” she repeated in a whisper.

He drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

Delia was in a fresh wrapper, with her beautiful hair becomingly arranged, and a scent of violets clung about her. Jim was considerably surprised at his own passion.

“You naughty boy!” she cried, laughing. Then she sat on his knees and pulled his hair. Jim kissed her again.

This was the beginning of frequent visits which soon became daily.

“I see you’re hanging around that Johnson woman,” Jim’s father remarked one evening at supper.

Jim turned pale, then red, and poured himself some more tea without replying.

“You stay away from there. Do you hear?” the elder Sprague went on.

“I hear, but I’ll do as I see fit,” retorted Jim.

“You’ll do as I see fit, or I’ll know the reason why,” snapped his father.

“Father,” began Jim, “I’m old enough to⁠⁠⸺”

“Old enough be damned!” Mr. Sprague fairly roared. “You’re old enough to do what I tell you until you’re twenty-one years old, and that ain’t all—you’ll do what you’re told, if you expect to stay in my house!”

Jim rose and seized his hat.

“I don’t intend to have you running around with a bitch like that at your age,” continued the older man, as though closing the discussion.

“You have no right to call her that!” Jim’s eyes flamed as he faced his father excitedly.

“How do you know what right I’ve got?” asked Sprague unmoved.

“Be careful what you say,” Jim was pale with anger, his fists clenching.

Mr. Sprague looked at his son with interest. Jim felt very young and at a disadvantage. He turned to go.

“Just see that you remember what I said,” Sprague commanded, as the boy reached the door.

Jim went out without a word. He went straight to Delia’s house.

“Who is it?” a voice demanded, as he knocked, forgetting to ring the bell.

“It’s Jim,” he replied.

The sound of bare feet in the hall was heard, and Delia, unlocking the door, pulled at his sleeve.

“Come in, Jim,” she whispered.

Jim began to explain his errand as soon as they reached the sitting room.

“Delia, we must be married at once,” he announced.

She was yawning, but stopped to gaze at him curiously. Jim returned her regard steadily. He was in deadly earnest. Her eyes avoided him but he continued to observe her hungrily. Her wrapper had fallen open at the neck and the swell of her full white breasts showed. Her hair was in two long braids.

“Why, Jim, what’s the matter? We’re all right as we are.” She yawned again.

“Something has happened, Delia. I owe it—that is, it is best for us to be⁠⁠⸺” He fell back on his first declaration. “We must be married right away.”

Delia went up to him and put her arms around his neck. Her loose sleeves slid back. As he looked down on her he could see only her white arms and bosom.

“People know. I’ve got you talked about,” he said as she kissed him.

Delia laughed.

“I don’t care about that,” she assured him.

Jim was puzzled.

“Come and sit down, dearie,” she added, pushing him into a chair and seating herself on his knees.

“But, Delia⁠⁠⸺”

“We can’t get married now, Jim,” she said. “You haven’t anything to support us and if I marry I’ll lose all the money Johnson left me.”

Jim’s face showed his revulsion of feeling. Delia saw the change and clung to him.

“Let’s just love each other, Jim, and everything will come out all right.”

“But, Delia, I want to do what’s right and⁠⁠⸺”

She kissed him passionately. Jim felt a curious sense of drifting.

“Come on, dearie,” she whispered.

It was late when Jim left the house.

Mr. Sprague said nothing more to Jim on the subject of Delia, which circumstance disconcerted and worried the boy more than he was willing to admit to himself.

He tried to consider the matter calmly but his thoughts seemed to dissolve in a mist of beautiful hair, wide opened blue eyes, and white arms and bosom.

“She is right,” he told himself. “We can’t marry now, and we love each other so much that we must be all in all to each other.”

However, his conscience made him very miserable. He felt that one who had no religion should be morally strong. With all this he continued to go to Delia’s house.

He did not understand why she designated certain evenings for his visits and forbade him to come on others. One evening, rather late, feeling very lonely and very much in love, he turned his steps toward her house, notwithstanding the fact that it was a proscribed day.

He had nearly reached the gate when a man emerged from the doorway, and Jim, halting beneath one of the large trees that shaded the sidewalk, recognized his father.

His first feeling was of anger that he was being spied upon, but this turned to amazement and cold rage as Delia called Sprague back and, through the half closed door, kissed him, straightening his hat which she had knocked awry, calling, “Good night, dearie,” as he went off.

Jim watched his father disappear, and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked away with rapid strides. He sought his home when it was daybreak.

The old standards by which Jim had measured values were of no more use to him.

XIII

Jim came to look at the world and people with clearer eyes. He saw that his father kept him in the store to save clerk hire and not with any intention of giving him a share in the business. He realized that he had no home or career in his native town. He thought matters out very carefully and fully.

One morning at breakfast, after reading a letter just received from John, the complacent tone of which threw his own forlornness into relief, he announced to his father that he was going away to college.

“You’re going to stay right where you are,” responded Mr. Sprague from his side of the table.

“No, I’m going,” repeated Jim quietly.

“Well, you won’t get a cent from me,” exclaimed his father with the air of saying the last word in an argument. “I suppose this is another of the fool notions you’ve got from that Winter boy.”

“I didn’t expect anything from you,” explained Jim.

Mr. Sprague passed one hand over his stubbly chin and regarded his son with cold curiosity. The elder Sprague was burly and inclined to stoop. He wore reading glasses and now he peered through them with as much detachment as an entomologist who has a mildly interesting insect under the microscope. He was, as usual, in his shirt sleeves, and his deliberate untidiness of dress seemed the aggressively flaunted signal of that coarseness of spirit which was a matter of pride with him.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinkin’ I don’t mean what I say,” he remarked.

A month after this incident Jim informed his father that he was leaving for college.

“Well, remember, you needn’t come back,” Mr. Sprague told him.

Jim went to the station alone, carrying a small bundle under his arm, and climbed on the car unnoticed. As the train pulled out of the place he looked back on the little town. This was his last glimpse of his childhood home.

He arrived at college with one suit of clothes, a few extra shirts and other accessories, and three dollars in his pocket, having borrowed the money from Dr. Winter, John’s father, to pay for his ticket. His first act was to hunt up John who received him with his old affection.

“Gee, but I’m glad to see you!” John exclaimed boisterously, slapping Jim on the back.

He insisted that Jim share his room and allowance, but Jim had no intention of being dependent on anyone. He shoveled snow, cared for the furnaces in the college dormitory, sawed wood and split kindling for the families near the campus, and by working early and late managed to remain in the college and even won the scholarship in mathematics. The first money he earned above his living expenses was sent back to pay the debt he had incurred for his journey.

He and John now shared room and funds on equal terms and Jim, by imperceptible degrees, assumed his old responsibility for John’s welfare and progress.

John had never really decided what his profession or occupation should be. Jim brought the question up by declaring that he did not intend to follow a stated college course but planned to fit himself to be an architect. John believed himself a born artist and talked of studies in Rome and Paris after his course in college was ended. One day he rushed into the room and flung his cap into a corner.

“Jim!” he cried enthusiastically, “I’ve decided to be an architect too!” He went on to talk of the opportunities of the true artist in a profession that had lured the greatest masters from the Greeks to Michelangelo.

“But modern architecture is more of a science than an art,” Jim pointed out. “The calculations of stresses and strength of materials has more to do with it than the ‘visions of a dream in marble’ you are talking about.”

However, John was not to be dissuaded and the two boys were soon entered in the special courses marked in the institution’s catalogue as leading to proficiency in architectural science.

John’s difficulty with mathematics was a handicap in most of these courses, and Jim had to help him in his work as in the days of their early boyhood. Notwithstanding this aid, John (who always took high marks in more general courses) found it hard to keep pace with his fellows, and, after the end of the first semester, decided to abandon their plan. It was only Jim’s initiative and generous giving of time to help him that decided John on the continuation of their design.

John always went home for the holidays and vacations, while Jim stayed on alone in the almost empty dormitory, working and studying.

The characteristics of the two boys became more evident as they approached majority. John conceived confidence in anybody who pleased him, each new acquaintance possessing, for the time being, all the perfections. Jim developed an almost uncanny insight into the motives of those around him, and was slow to form friendships.

“Never mind what people say,” he would tell John. “Fix your attention on finding out why they say it. That’s the way to get at things.”

When they graduated, or rather, completed their courses, for neither received his degree, Jim began work at once in an architect’s office in the college town, and settled down with his customary methodical perseverance to make a place for himself. John returned home for a few months and then persuaded his parents to send him to the Art School in Chicago to study what he felt to be the higher aspects of his profession.

Soon after his entrance into the School of Art he returned to painting, and left designing to study oils and water color work. The former companions were separated but exchanged frequent letters and remained as close friends as ever. John always thought of Jim as “good old Jim.” Jim never quite analyzed his feelings for John, much as he loved to evaluate the motives of others. He had always needed and would always need some one to care for, and John was in his life. He did not go further than this.

A year after their separation, Jim’s employer gave him a share in the small business, and, dying a few months later, left Jim in full charge of his affairs. Jim, whose success and promise had been noticed by many, easily borrowed enough capital to buy the business outright from the heirs, and in a brief period had paid his debt and won the independent opportunity of which he had dreamed for years.

It was not many months after this that John, in one of his letters, interested his friend by announcing that he had fallen in love, and by raving in a school boy fashion over the object of his devotion. Jim for some time had considered the wisdom of transferring his business to Chicago. It seemed to have reached the limit of development in the little college town, and he was anxious for a field that put no restrictions on his ability. John’s letter spurred him to a decision as to the future and he replied with the news that he was coming to the city himself, and asked John to meet him at the station. At their first sight of each other they renewed the old familiar relation.

John discussed everything with all his former frankness and enthusiasm and Jim, listening, felt more than ever that John was his to care for and watch over.

“But what are you going to do to support a wife?” was Jim’s first question.

“Jim, I’m through with experiments. I’m going to work,” replied John earnestly.

“Where?” asked Jim.

“I’ve got a place as a draughtsman with Layard’s, a big building supply firm here,” the younger man explained. “Life is serious now and I’m going to do something.”

Jim said no more.

The following day John took him to call on Lucy Merwent.

The two young men went into partnership a few weeks before John and Lucy were married and it was not many months before it was evident that the business venture was succeeding on a fairly safe basis.

Nora Stimpson, the red-haired art student of Miss Storms’ first party, called on Lucy after the wedding. She also came to the office several times to see John, and each time the two talked and laughed like old friends. She smiled on Jim in a most friendly manner. He managed to be in the office whenever she was there but, as his air was far from cordial, she finally ceased visiting them.

The business developed but never became important. John did the draughting and Jim attended to the practical details of specifications and dealt with contractors.

When Lucy’s baby was born it was christened James Sprague Winter. The second year after their marriage John paid a flying visit to his parents; and on one occasion Dr. Winter attended a church convention in Chicago and stayed a week with his son and daughter-in-law. He questioned Lucy regarding her soundness in doctrine and was aghast at her honest replies. Nevertheless he liked her and carried back to Dimmie’s grandmother a favorable report of “John’s wife.”