Front matter (continued 4)

Harvey yielded to the embrace—and understood. When at length David partially released him, he looked into the face before him. The eyes that met his own were swimming, and David's face was aglow with the yearning and compassion that only great souls can know.

"Oh, Harvey," the shaking voice began, hardly above a whisper, "I love you like my own son. Don't, Harvey—for God's sake, don't; kill your mother some other way," and again he drew the now sobbing lad close to his bosom.

A moment later he whispered something in Harvey's ear. It was a question—and Harvey nodded, his face still hidden.

"I thought so," David murmured. "I thought so—an' there's only one way out, my boy, there's only one way out. An' it's by fightin'—jest like folks fight consumption, only far harder. That ain't nothin' to this. Jest by fightin', Harvey—an' gettin' some One to help you. All them other ways—like pledges, an' promises, an' all that—they're jest like irrigatin' a desert with one o' them sprayin'-machines for your throat. I ain't much of a Christian, I know—but there ain't nothin' any good 'cept what Dr. Fletcher calls the grace of God. An' if you think it'd help any, from an old fellow like me—I'll—I'll try it some, every mornin' an' night; 'twouldn't do no harm, anyway," and the protecting arms again drew the yielding form into the refuge of his loving and believing heart.

Only a few more sentences passed between the two; only a few minutes longer did David wait. But when he passed by the church on his homeward way his head was bowed, and his face was like to the faces of those whose lips are moist with the sacramental wine.

XX

THE RESTORING OF A SOUL

"And you think you'll go back to-morrow, Harvey? Are you sure you feel strong enough, my son? Your voice is weak."

Harvey's answer was confident enough. But pale he certainly was—and the resolute face showed signs of abundant struggle, and a new seriousness sat on the well-developed brow. "I think life'll be all different to me now, mother," he went on; "a fellow can hardly go through what I have, without seeing things in a different light. I didn't think so much of it when Mr. Nickle said it, but it's been running through my mind a lot lately—he said what a terrible thing it is for a fellow to snatch spoils from death and then waste them on his after life."

"He's a godly man," the mother rejoined musingly. "He's been like a light to me in my darkness—often I think my heart would have broken if it hadn't been for him. When things looked darkest, and he'd drop in for a little talk, I always seemed to be able to take up the load and go on again. He and Mr. Borland have been good angels to us all," and the sightless face was bright with many a gladsome memory.

"Mother, when you speak of darkness—and loads—do you mean—do you mean about your sight?"

His mother reached out, instinctively guided, and laid a thin hand on one of Harvey's. "Do I speak much about loads, my son, and darkness?" she asked in a gentle voice. "For I've always asked for grace to say little of such things as those."

"But you haven't answered me, mother," the son persisted. "Mother," he went on, sitting up straight, his voice arresting her startlingly, "you've been more to me, I think, than ever mother was to a son before. But I know, mother—at least, I think I know—I'm almost sure you've never told me all that troubles you; I feel sometimes as if there were some sealed book I've never been allowed to see. Don't you understand, mother?"

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

"Well, mother," he went on, his voice low and serious, "look at it this way. You know how easily a mother kind of scents out anything like that about a son—just by a kind of instinct. Well, don't you think sons love mothers just as much as mothers love sons?—and don't they have the same kind of intuitions? Don't you understand, mother?"

She drew him closer to her side. "Yes, my son," she said after a long silence; "yes, I understand, my darling. If I understand anything, it's that. And I'm going to ask you something, Harvey—you'll forgive me, my boy, won't you? But what you've just said opens the door for what I'm going to ask. And I've wanted to do it ever since you came home."

Harvey's heart told him what was coming. The very faculty he had been trying to define was pursuing its silent quest, he knew. And no movement, no exclamation betrayed surprise or resentment when his mother whispered her trembling enquiry in his ear.

Perhaps he had never learned as well the luxury of a mother's love. Once or twice he looked up wistfully, as though his mother's eyes must be pouring their message into his, so full and rich was the tide of her outflowing love, strong, compassionate, healing, But the curtain still veiled the light of the luminous soul behind—and he realized then, as never before, that his loss had been almost equal to her own. Yet the soulful tones went far to make amends, caressing him with tenderness, inspiring him with courage, as little by little they drew from him the story of the days.

"It all went so well for a long time, mother," he said, much having been said before. "Perhaps too well. I got the scholarship, as you know—and then another—and I was elected one of the inter-collegiate debaters. Then I got on the first eleven; perhaps that pleased me most of all; and I used to go to the other towns and cities often, to play. And I was so happy and comfortable at Miss Farringall's—she's been so good to me. And I gradually met a lot of nice people in the city; and I had quite a little of social life—that was how it happened," he said in a minor tone, his eyes on the floor.

The mother said nothing, asked nothing. A moment later he went on of his own accord. "I don't mean to make excuses, mother," he began, "but I didn't really deliberately break the promise I gave you—and that comforts me a lot. But it was one night I was out at a Southern family's home—they had just come lately to the city, and Dr. Wallis knew them. Well, they had refreshments; and they had a lot of queer Southern dishes. One was a little tiny thing—they called it a syllabub, or something like that; I had never heard of it before. And I took it—it had wine in it—and oh, mother," his eye lighting and his voice heightening at the memory, "no one will ever know—it was like as if something took fire. I didn't know what it meant—I seemed so helpless. And I fought and I struggled—and I prayed—and I wrote out my promise to you and I used to read it over and over. And I was beaten, mother—I couldn't help it," he cried pitifully, his voice echoing every note of pain—"and then I felt everything was up and I had nothing more to fight for, and I just—oh, I can't tell you; it maddens me when I think of it—nobody'll ever know it all. And Miss Farringall tried so to help me—so did Dr. Wallis—but I wouldn't let anybody. I turned on them," he exclaimed fiercely; "and I tried to forget about you, mother—I tried to forget about you and Jessie. Then I played the coward. I came back afterwards to Miss Farringall, and I—I borrowed money from her;" he forced the words like one who tells a crime. "And after that——"

Thus ran the piteous tale. The mother spoke no word for long, staunching the flowing wound as best she could and by such means as only mothers know. And she mutely wondered once or twice whether this—or that other night—had brought the deeper darkness.

But when his voice was still; when the poor wild wailing that had rung through it all had hushed itself, as it were, within the shoreless deep of her great, pitying love, she asked him another question:

"How much did you borrow from Miss Farringall, Harvey?" the voice as calm as if no storm of grief had ever swept it.

"Five dollars, mother," he answered, the crimson face averted. "But I know one or two things I can deny myself this term—and that'll pay it back;" the glance that stole towards his mother was the look of years agone.

Without a word, dignity in every movement, she rose and made her way to a little bowl that stood on the table. From it she took an envelope, her fingers searching it; then she handed him its contents, the exact amount.

He broke out in loud protest; but she was firm. "You haven't anything there that you can afford to give up," she said quietly, "and we can afford this, dear—but not the other. Take it for mother's sake," as she thrust the bill into his hand. It was worn and faded; but his eyes fell upon it as upon a sacred thing, hallowed by the love and sacrifice and courage that had wakened many a holy vow in his heart before. As they did now again, this latest token burning the hand that held it, melting the heart that answered its appeal of love.

And the mother's tryst began anew; closer than ever she clung to her unseen Helper; more passionately than before she turned her waiting eyes towards the long tarrying Light.

XXI

A HEATED DEBATE

The years had left Harvey wiser than when first he entered college. The passing months, each opening the door a little wider, had admitted him farther and farther to the secrets of the new life about him—farther too, for that matter, into the mystery of life itself, the great complicated maze of which college life is at once the portal and the type.

And as he stood in the main hall of the great Gothic building this bright spring morning, a reminiscent smile played about his lips as he recalled the day, far distant now, whereon he had first gazed in wonder on the animated scene. For that had been an epoch-marking day in Harvey's life. The very stateliness of the surroundings had filled him with a subdued awe he had never felt before, and his breath had come quicker at the thought that he, a humble child of poverty, was really a successor to the many great and famous men who had walked these halls before him. His gown was faded and rusty now, but he could recall the thrill with which he had first donned it years ago, the only badge of rank he had ever worn. And how fascinated he had been by the restless throng of students that buzzed about him that opening day, each intent upon his own pursuit, and all, or nearly all, indifferent to the plain-clad stranger who felt himself the very least among them. Some, with serious faces, had hurried towards the professors' rooms or gravely consulted the time-table already posted in the hall; while others, oblivious to the portent of the day, had seemed to hail it only as the gateway to a life of gaiety, entering at last upon the long-anticipated freedom their earlier lives had been denied.

Not a few had moved idly about, turning blank faces here and there, all unquickened by the stimulus of the atmosphere and the challenge of the hour—dumb driftwood in life's onmoving stream. And some there had been—on these Harvey's gaze had lingered longest—who were evidently there by virtue of a heroism not their own, their plainness of apparel and soberness of mien attesting the struggle that lay behind the opportunity they had no mind to waste.

He was opening a letter from Jessie now, handed to him from the morning mail; and the tide of youth flowed unnoticed about him as he devoured it, still standing on the spacious stair that led upward from the main entrance of the college. The smile on his face deepened as he read; for the letter was full of cheery tidings, all about their every-day toilful life, quickened as it had been by the good news concerning his progress in his studies. "We're quite sure you'll get another scholarship," wrote the hopeful Jessie. And then followed the news of the village—much regarding Dr. Fletcher and the church, and a reference to the hard times that were paralyzing business—and a dark hint or two about the struggle David Borland was having to pull through; but it was rumoured, too, that Geordie Nickle was giving him a hand, and doubtless he would outride the storm. And Cecil had been home two or three times lately, the letter went on to say—and he and Madeline had been seen a good deal together, and everybody knew how anxious Mrs. Borland was that it should come to something—but everybody wondered, too, what was coming of Cecil's work in the meantime; these things the now unsmiling Harvey read towards the close of the letter. And the last page or so was all about their mother, her sight giving as yet no sign of improvement, and her general health causing Jessie no little alarm. But they were hoping for the best and were looking forward with great eagerness to Harvey's return when the college year should be ended.

Harvey was still standing with the letter in his hand when a voice broke in on his meditations.

"Well, old sport, you look as if you'd just heard from your sweetheart," as Harvey looked quickly up. It was Cecil himself, and he stopped before his fellow student as if inclined to talk. For much of the antagonism between the two had been dissolved since both had come to college, Cecil being forced to recognize a foeman worthy of his steel when they had met on an arena where birth and patrimony go for nothing. A few casual meetings had led to relations of at least an amicable sort; once or twice, indeed, he had sought Harvey's aid in one or two branches of study in which his townsman was much more capable than himself. But such occasions were obviously almost at an end. For the most uninitiated might have diagnosed Cecil's case as he stood that spring morning before the one he had so long affected to despise.

A false ideal of life, and of what constitutes life's enjoyment, and a nature pampered from childhood into easy self-indulgence, together with strong native passions and ample means wherewith to foster them, had made their handiwork so plain that he who ran might read. The face that now was turned on Harvey was stained and spotted with marks significant of much, the complexion mottled and sallow, the eye muddy and restless, the voice unnaturally harsh and with the old-time ring departed—such a voice as years sometimes give. Real solicitude marked Harvey's gaze as it rested on the youth before him; something of a sense of kinship, because of old-time associations—in spite of all that had occurred to mar it—and a feeling that in some indefinable way the part of protector was laid upon him, mingled with his thoughts as he noted the symptoms of the ill-spent years.

"From your very own, isn't it?" Cecil bantered again, looking towards the letter in Harvey's hand.

"You're right enough; that's exactly where it came from," the other answered, smiling.

"I was just thinking about you," Cecil went on; "I've kind of chucked classes for this session—going to study up in the summer and take the 'sup's' in the fall. I've been too busy to work much here," he explained with a grimace—"but that's not what I wanted to speak to you about; some of the fellows asked me to bring you round to a little meeting we're going to have this evening—seven to eight o'clock—we're going to the theatre after it's over. It's something kind of new; Randolph got on to it down in Boston, and they say it's fairly sweeping the country. I believe myself it's the nearest thing to the truth, in the religious line, anybody's discovered yet."

"What is it?" Harvey asked interestedly.

"Well, it's a kind of religious meeting, as I said," Cecil informed him—"only it's new—at least it's new here; it's a kind of theosophy, you know—and many of the strongest minds in the world believe in it," he added confidently. "That's why we want you to sample it."

Harvey waited a little before answering. "I've heard a bit about it," he said at length; "I've read about it some—and I'd advise you to leave that sort of thing alone, Craig."

"You're not fair," the other retorted; "you've never heard it expounded, have you, now?"

Harvey admitted that he had never had that privilege.

"Then I want you to come to-night," urged Cecil; "come and give it a trial anyhow."

A little further parley ended in Harvey's consenting to attend the gathering of the faithful, not, however, without much candid prediction of the issue.

Seven o'clock found him there. The believers, some thirteen or fourteen in all, were already assembled, and Harvey's scrutiny of the different faces was swift and eager. Some few he recognized as those of earnest students, men of industry and intelligence. Others, the light of eager expectation on them as though the mystery of life were at last to be laid bare, belonged to men of rather shallow intellect, novelty-mongers, quick to yield to a seductive phrase or a plausible theory, men with just enough enterprise of soul to put out from shore, yet not enough to take their bearings or to find a pathway in the deep beyond. And two or three, conspicuous amongst whom was Cecil, were evidently hospitable to any theory, however fanciful, that would becalm the inward storm of their own making, and promise healing to secret wounds of shame, and absolve from penalties already pressing for fulfillment. Not intellectual unrest, but moral ferment, had been the tide wherewith they had drifted from the moorings they were now endeavouring to forget and professing to despise.

The little room was fairly full and Harvey was seated on a small table in the corner. The proceedings were opened by a solemn-visaged youth who evidently felt the responsibility of his office. For he paused long, looking both around him and above, before he proceeded to read some ponderous passages from a book, evidently their ritual.

Much of this was punctuated by ejaculatory eulogies of one, Lao-tsze. Harvey had never heard this name before, but the expounder pronounced it frequently in terms of decided reverence; and he was at great pains to convey to his hearers his dependence upon this man of unpronounceable name as the fountain-head of inspiration and guidance.

The solemn disquisition ended, several others added their testimony to the light and comfort this teaching had afforded them, one or two venturing further to expound some doctrines which all seemed to find precious in proportion as they were obscure. Such phrases as "explication of the Divine Essence," "deduction of the phenomenal universe," "unity imminent in the whole," were freely dispensed, the listening faces answering with the light of intelligence, the light most resolutely produced where the shades were deepest. "Paracelsus" was a name several hastened to pronounce, and familiarly, as though he were an old-time friend. One very small student with a very bespotted face broke his long silence by rising to solemnly declare that since he had been following the new light he had come to the conclusion that God was the great "terminus ad quem," taking a moment longer to express his surprise and disappointment that all men did not so discern the truth in its simplicity.

Another rose to deplore that so little was known of the life of the great and good Lao-tsze, but comforted his hearers with the assurance that this distant dignitary had been reincarnate in a certain American poet, whose name he mentioned, well known as a wandering printer whose naked lucubrations were given at intervals to a startled world. This later apostle then received his share of eulogy, after which the ardent neophyte quoted copiously from his works, scattering the leaves of grass among the listening circle.

Exhausted, the speaker surrendered the floor to another, who launched into a glorification of the great Chinaman—and his successor—amounting to a deification. To all of which Harvey listened in respectful weariness, for he knew something of one of them at least, and of his works. Suddenly the devotee introduced the great name of Jesus Christ; for purposes of comparison alone did he quote the latter name, conceding to the founder of the Christian faith a place among the good and great, but making no attempt to conceal the deeper homage he accorded to the other.

This was too much for the visitor, who could hardly believe his ears. Indifference had gradually taken the form of contempt, this in turn deepening to disgust as he listened to what at first struck him as shallow platitude, descending later to what he esteemed as blasphemous vulgarity. Deeper than he knew was his faith in the One his mother had taught his childish lips to bless; and, as there rose before him a vision of the humble life that same faith had so enriched and strengthened, of the heavenly light that had gilded her darksome path, of the sweetness and patience that this light and faith had so wonderfully wrought, his soul rose up in a kind of lofty wrath that overbore all considerations which might have sealed his lips. Moreover, a casual glance at his watch informed him that it was exactly half-past seven—and the covenant he had scarcely ever forgotten at that hour was secretly and silently fulfilled.

Rising during a momentary silence, he was received with a murmur of subdued applause. But the appreciation of the circle was short-lived.

"Did I understand the last speaker to say," he asked in a low, intense voice, "that he puts that man he quoted from—that American poet—alongside of, or ahead of, Jesus Christ?—as a moral character, I mean, and as a teacher of men?"

The youth thus addressed made some evasive reply, not, however, revising his classification in the least.

"Then listen here," exclaimed Harvey as he reached for the volume of poems lying on the table. "I'll read you something more from your master." Hastily turning the leaves, he found the passage he was in search of after some little difficulty, and began slowly to read the words, their malodour befouling the atmosphere as they came.

One of the faithful rose to his feet with a loud exclamation of protest. But Harvey overbore him. "If he's all you say he is, you can't reasonably object," he declared; "I'm not reading anything but what he wrote," still releasing the stainful stream.

Harvey flung the book on the table as he finished. "The gutter's the place for that thing," he blurted out contemptuously; "that's where it came from—a reprobate that deserted his own children, children of shame though they were, and gave himself to kindling the lowest passions of humanity—these be your gods, oh Israel," he went on scornfully. "I'll crave permission to retire now, if that's the best you've got to help a fellow that finds the battle hard enough already—I'll hold to the old faith till I get some better substitute than this," moving towards the door as he spoke.

The leader almost angrily challenged him. "Perhaps our friend will tell us what he knows about 'the old faith,' as he calls it, and why he clings to it so devotedly—it's not often we get a chance to hear from a real Christian," he added jeeringly, "and it's a poor cause that won't stand argument."

A chorus of voices approved the suggestion. "If you've got one good solid intellectual argument for it, let us hear it," one student cried defiantly. "We've had these believers on general principles with us before."

Harvey turned, his hand already on the door, his face white and drawn. "Yes," he cried hotly, "I'll give you one reason—just one—for the faith that's in me. I don't profess to be much of a Christian—but I know one reason that goes for more with me than all the mouthings I've heard here to-night. It's worth a mountain of such stuff."

"Let's have it, then," the leader said, moving closer to where Harvey stood. "Give us your overwhelming argument."

Harvey cast a haughty glance at him and those behind him.

"I will," he thundered; "it's my mother, by God," he cried passionately, the hot blood surging through his brain—"do you hear that—it's my mother."

There was a brief hush, for they must be reprobate indeed who would not recognize that sovereign plea. But one intrepid spirit soon broke the silence; a young stalwart of nineteen or twenty, towering among the rest, was quickly to the fore with his verdict. "Just what I expected," he drawled derisively; "the old story of a mother's influence; you forget, my dear fellow," turning towards Harvey as he spoke, "how credulous the woman-heart is by nature—and how easily they imagine anything they really want to believe. Besides, we haven't the advantage of knowing your saintly relative," he added, something very like a sneer in the voice.

He was evidently bent on developing his idea, but the words had hardly left his lips before Harvey had brushed aside those who stood between as he flung himself towards the speaker. His eyes were aflame, and his burning cheek and flashing eye told how deep the taunt had struck. He did not stop till his face was squarely opposite the other's, his lips as tense as though they would never speak again.

"Gemmell," he said, calling the man by name, "I don't know whether you mean to insult me or not—but I'll find out. You don't know anything about my mother—and she's not to be made the subject of discussion here. But I know her; and I know the miracle her dark life's been. And if you say that that's all been just her imagination, and her credulity, then I say you're a liar and a cad—and if you want to continue this argument outside, by heavens, here's the door—and here's the invitation, —— you," as he smote the astonished debater full in the face. Parrying the return blow, his lips white and livid, he turned to lead the way outside. His fuming antagonist made as if to follow him; but two or three, springing between the men, undertook the part of peacemakers. Perhaps Cecil's efforts were as influential as any. "Let the thing drop, Gemmell," he counselled his friend in a subdued voice; "I know him of old—and he's the very devil in a fight."

Whatever the cause, the fact remains that when Harvey paused a minute or two outside the door he found himself joined by none but Craig himself.

"Come on," said the latter, "what's the use of making fools of ourselves over religion? Come on, and we'll go to the theatre. I told you we intended going there after anyhow—but I doubt if the others will be going now; so we'll just go ourselves. There won't be anything very fine to hear, perhaps—but there'll be something real interesting to look at," with a laugh that his companion could hardly fail to understand. But Harvey was thinking very little of what his guide was saying, his mind sufficiently employed with the incident just concluded, and he hardly realized whither he was being led till he found himself before the box-office in the lobby. A rubicund face within was the background for a colossal cigar that protruded half-way through the wicket; Cecil was enquiring from the source of the cigar as to the price of tickets.

Rallying, Harvey made his protest and turned to go away. "I've got to work to-night," he said; "it's too near exams."

Craig laughed. "Don't get nervous," he retorted significantly. "I'll pay the shot—it's only half a dollar each."

Whereat Harvey, the pride of youth high within him, strode back to the window, almost pushing his companion from him as he deposited his money and pressed on into the crowded gallery.

Not more than half an hour had passed when the spectacular side, as Cecil had so confidently predicted, grew more and more pronounced.

"I told you," he whispered excitedly to Harvey; "look at that one in the blue gauze skirt," leaning forward in ardent interest as he spoke.

Harvey's answer was given a few minutes later when, without a word to the enchanted Cecil, he rose and quietly slipped towards the door and downward to the street. "Money with blood on it, too," he half muttered hotly to himself as he passed the office that had received the hard-won coin.

Hurrying towards home, he suddenly noticed a heavy dray backed up against the window of an office; evidently the moving was being done by night, that the day's work might not be interrupted. Pausing a moment to watch, the stormy face brightened a little as he stepped up to the man in charge of the waggon. There were only two, which made Harvey more hopeful of his scheme.

"Want any help?" he asked abruptly.

"You're right we do," the man answered promptly. "Another of our men was to be here to-night, but he hasn't turned up—I'll bet a five he's in the gods over there," nodding towards the festive resort that Harvey had deserted.

"How long will it take?" enquired the student.

The man reflected a moment. "Oh, I guess about two hours," he surmised; "that is, to get the things out and then get them hoisted in at Richmond Street."

"How much'll you give me if I help you?"

"I'll give you forty cents—and you'll have a free ride," said the man jocosely.

"Make it fifty," proposed Harvey. "I owe half a dollar—I'll do it for fifty cents."

"All right," replied the teamster, whereat Harvey flung the coat from his back and the burden from his conscience. And the face which Miss Farringall was now coming to await so eagerly was very bright when he got home that night, her own beaming as she marked its light.

XXII

BREAKERS AHEAD

There is a peace, deep and mysterious, which only the defeated know. It is familiar to those who, struggling long to avert a crisis, find that their strivings must be all in vain. The student long in doubt; the politician weary of his battle; the business man fighting against bankruptcy—all these have marvelled at the strange composure that is born when the last hope of victory is dead. Many an accountant and confidential clerk, contriving through haunted years to defer the discovery which must some day lay bare his shame, has felt this mysterious calm when destiny has at last received him to her iron bosom. And who has not observed the same in some life struggling against weakness and disease?—when the final verdict is announced and Death already beckons, the first wild tumult of alarm and anguish will presently be hushed into a silent and majestic peace.

David Borland's kindly eyes had less of merriment than in the earlier years. The old explosive spark was there indeed, unconquerable still; but the years had endowed the face with a gentle seriousness, not visible before, which yet became it rather better than the merriment it had unconsciously displaced. And there were signs that other enemies than the passing years had wrought their havoc on the mobile face. For care and conflict, hope of victory to-day and fear of overthrow to-morrow, had wrought such changes as the years could not effect.

Yet there was more of peace in the serious eyes than there had been of yore. Madeline was beside him as he sat this morning by the window, gazing long in silence at the handiwork of spring without. Soft wavy clouds floated in the sky, pressing serenely on their way as if there were no such things as tumult and pain and disappointment in the world beneath them; the air was vocal with many a songster's jubilation that his exile was past and gone; the bursting trees and new-born flowers and tender grass all joined the silent anthem that acclaims the regeneration of the year—and David thought they had never seemed so beautiful.

"There isn't nothin' can take that away from us, Madeline," he said at last, obviously as much to himself as to the girl beside him.

"What, father?" she enquired softly.

"Oh, lots o' things—all the real things, that is. All that's lovely; all I'm lookin' at now—nobody can't take them away, the trees, an' the flowers, an' the birds. No matter how poor we get, they're some o' the things thieves can't break through an' steal, as the Scriptur' says," he mused, gazing far over the meadow at the orchard in its bridal robes, and beyond them both to the distant grandeur of the sky.

"Will we really have to give up very much, father?" the girl ventured, unconsciously turning as she spoke and permitting her eyes to rove a moment about the richly furnished home.

David was silent quite a while. His face seemed wrung with a pain he could not control, and his hands went out gently towards the girl's head.

"Let it down, daughter," he said quietly.

"What, father? Let what down?"

"I like it better the old way, dear," he said in answer, already releasing the wealth of lovely hair; "let it fall over your shoulders the way it used to do, Madeline," as the flowing tresses, but little darkened by the darkening years, scattered themselves as in other days. "Now sit here, Madeline—come. No, you're not heavy, child; I've got kind o' used to carryin' loads these days—an' this always seems to make 'em lighter," as she nestled in his arms.

Another long silence followed, broken at last by David's brave, trembling voice. "This is the hardest part o' the whole business, Madeline," he said resolutely. "But I just found out the worst this mornin' —an' I ain't goin' to keep nothin' back. I've failed, daughter; I've failed—leastways, I've failed in business. I don't think I've failed no other way, thank God," he added in firmer tone, but still struggling with his words. "There won't be no stain, Madeline," his lips touching the flowing strands as he spoke; "but things got awful tight—an' I made one last terrible effort—an' it failed; it failed, Madeline."

The girl's arm was about his neck. "I knew there wouldn't be any stain," she murmured as her face was bended downward to his own; "not with my father—and it won't stop us being happy, will it?" she added hopefully, looking into the care-worn eyes.

"No, dear, no," responded David—"only there's just one thing troubles me the most. It's about Geordie Nickle. He bought a lot o' the stock; I felt at the time he done it just to help me—an' I didn't ask him—an' I kind o' hoped it'd all come out all right. But it didn't, Madeline—an' Geordie's lost an awful lot. I don't know if he has more left—but I'm hopin' so. There ain't no better man in the world than him. One of the things that's always kept me believin' in God, is—is just Geordie Nickle. Men like him does more to keep faith livin' than all the colleges an' all the professors in the world; he's a beautiful argument for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o' proves God, just the same as one sunbeam proves the sun," David concluded, his eyes still fixed on other credentials in the silent glory that wrapped earth and sky.

It was some time before Madeline spoke again. "Poor old father," she said gently; "what you must have suffered all these long months—more than mother and I ever thought of."

"It's been years, child," the father answered softly; "lots o' times I thought I couldn't stand it no longer—but it came awful easy at the last," he suddenly exclaimed. "It was a kind of a relief when I knew the worst—real funny, how calm I took it. It's a little like some women I seen once at an afternoon five-o'clock at-home," he went on dryly, a droll smile stealing over his face; "they was eatin' them little rough cakes they call macaronies—an' I was watchin' two or three of the nobbiest of 'em. Well, they nibbled an' nibbled so dainty, like a mouse at a hunk o' cheese—an' then, when they thought nobody wasn't lookin', they just stuck the whole thing in an' swallowed it like a bullfrog does a fly, an' then passed their cup as calm as you please for another helpin' o' tea. That's a good deal the way I took my medicine when I got the last dose of it—had a kind of a feelin' of relief. Didn't you never notice how easy an' quiet a stream runs when it's past the waterfall? Shouldn't wonder if this feelin' I've got's somethin' the same as the way some fellows enjoys gettin' a tooth yanked after they've been holdin' hot salt to it every night for a month," and David heaved a reminiscent sigh as the memory of his own sleepless nights drifted before him for a moment.

Very low, much of it inarticulate, some of it altogether silent, was the language with which Madeline sought to comfort the weary and wounded heart, little knowing how successful she was; the father held her closer and closer to him; and the swiftly slipping treasures around them, that must soon be sacrificed, seemed more and more insignificant as the preciousness of love's possessions grew more real and more dear.

"Do you know, Madeline, they tell me I won't be worth nothin' when everythin's sold—an' I only hope there'll be enough for everybody—they tell me I won't be worth nothin'—but I never felt richer than I do this minute," the words coming from lips half hidden among the golden hair. "They can all go to thunder about their assets, so long's I've got this one—Bradstreet's an awful liar about how much a man's worth," he added almost gleefully, holding Madeline's soft hand to his furrowed cheek.

"And I never loved you so much as I do right now," the girl responded, employing his own words, her hand wandering among the gray. "Only I'm so sorry for mother—she was so fond of all the things. Where do you suppose we'll live, father?" she asked him timidly after a pause.

Mr. Borland made no reply for a little, his eyes fixed upon a lane of sunbeams that came dancing through the window.

"I can't exactly say, Madeline," he began slowly. "Only I reckon it'll be a little place, wherever it is—but them's often the kind that has the most room," he went on reflectively; "I'm sure there'll be room for everybody we love, an' every one that loves us. I often think how it was the One that hadn't no place to lay His head that offered everybody else a place to rest in," he mused reverently; "an' I think it ought to be a little that way with folks, no matter how poor they get."

Before his words were ended Madeline had slipped from his arms; looking up, David could just see her disappearing as she hurried up the stairs. Half in sorrow, half in jubilance, he was still holding communion with his thoughts when she returned, the dancing sunbeams falling athwart her face as she resumed the place she had deserted.

"I've got something to tell you, father," she began excitedly, drawing a tiny paper book from its envelope. "It's just a little surprise—but I'm so glad I'm able to do it. No, father, you mustn't refuse," she protested as she saw him beginning to speak, his eyes remarking what she held in her hand. "I saved this all myself, father; I began over two years ago—it's nearly three hundred dollars," she declared jubilantly after a fitting pause, "and I was going to get something with it—something special, something wonderful—it doesn't matter now what it was—besides, I wanted you to see how saving I could be. But now I want you to take it all, father," the eager face, so unfamiliar with financial magnitudes, radiant with loving expectation, "and pay those awful creditors. Won't that help, father?—won't it help?" she cried again, not knowing what to make of the expression on her father's face.

David Borland's hands shook as he took the little pass-book. His head was bowed over it and the silence lasted till a hot blur fell upon it, a message from afar.

"Yes," he murmured huskily. "Yes, thank God, it helps; more than any man can tell till he's got a broken heart like mine," he said passionately, the long stifled tide of grief and care bursting forth at last. "It more than helps—it heals," he murmured iow again, holding the pass-book close over his brimming eyes. "Who's that?" he suddenly digressed sharply, the deathlike stillness broken by a knock at the door. "Who's got to go an' come now of all times?" as he released the wondering girl, already moving forward to answer the summons.

"Come in, come in," David heard her cry delightedly a moment later, his own face brightening as he recognized the voice. Instinctively he rose as if to rush across the room and bid welcome to the visitor; yet something seemed to check the impulse as he sank back in his chair, an expression of deepening pain on the tired face. But the resolve formed strong within him again and the voice rang like a trumpet.

"Come in, Mr. Nickle," it cried, echoing Madeline's, "come in, an' welcome. I see by your face you know it all—an' I knew you wouldn't be long o' comin'. Sit down—here, alongside o' me."

A man shall be as a refuge from the storm; so runs the ancient message that has shed its music on multitudes of troubled hearts. And how wonderfully true! How mysterious the shelter that one life affords another, if only that life be strong and true; gifted it need not be, nor cultured, nor nimble with tender words nor skilled in caressing ways—for these are separate powers and sparingly distributed. But let the life be true, simple and sincere and brave, and its very existence is a hiding-place; no word may be spoken, or aim achieved, or device employed, but yet the very being of a strong and earnest man remains the noblest pavilion for the defeated and the sad.

How oftentimes the peace of surrender is deepened by an experience of friendship such as comes only to the vanquished! And friendship's sweetest voice is heard by the despairing heart. Thus it was with David Borland as his friend sat beside him, so grave and tender, his very look betokening that he knew all about the long, bitter conflict, as he obviously knew the disaster that had marked its close. He sat long in comparative silence, only a word at intervals to show that he was following David's story.

"An' I feel worse over that than all the rest," David said at length, "to think you lost by me. But I'll see yet that no man will lose a cent by me, if I'm spared long enough—there's a heap o' work in these old bones yet," he went on bravely, "if only——"

"And what about me, father?—what about me?" Madeline broke in, drawing near with half outstretched hands; "I'm going to work too—there isn't any one in this house as strong as I am," she affirmed, her glowing face and flashing eyes indicating the sincerity of her words.

David Borland almost groaned as he took the extended hands. "Oh, child, they're so soft, they're so soft and tender. And you'll never do a day's work while your old dad can work for you," he said tenderly, gazing into the deep passion of her eyes.

"Won't I though? I'll show you, father," she cried in sweet defiance. "Do you think I'm nothing but an ornament, a useless ornament?" she asked reproachfully. "Why can't a woman bear her part in the battle just as well as men?—I'm going to do it, anyhow. I know how to do lots of things; I can teach, or sew, or do woodwork—or I can learn stenography—it doesn't matter which; only we'll fight it out together, father, you and me—and mother," she added dutifully.

David's eyes were swimming with loving admiration. Once or twice he tried to utter what he felt, but the words seemed to choke before they reached his lips. Finally he found the very ones he wanted. "Madeline, you're a thoroughbred," was all he said; but the girl knew the greatness of the eulogy.

David turned again to his visitor. "Please don't think I'm buttin' in where I've no business—but I can't keep from wonderin' if—if—if this has took everythin'," he said in much embarrassment. "That's been kind of hauntin' me for months."

The old man smiled. "I dinna feel it maitters muckle aboot mysel'," he answered slowly. "I'll hae what I'll be needin' till I gang till my rest, I'm thinkin'," he went on quietly; "an' ony way, I gaed intill't wi' my eyes open—but I thocht it was for the best. There's juist ae maitter that's giein' me mair trouble than anither."

"What's that?" David asked abruptly; "I'll bet all I haven't got it's not yourself."

"Weel, ye're richt—it's no mysel'," Geordie answered; "I could thole it better if it was. It's the laddie—it's Harvey, ye ken. You an' me'll no' be able to help him ony mair—an' the laddie was daein' fine at the college; an' I'm dootin' it'll be a sair blow on his puir mither to tak' him awa. Does she ken?" he asked, slowly raising his head towards David.

"I don't think so," said his friend; "but I suppose she'll have to be told sooner or later."

"Hoo lang will it be till the laddie's through?"

"He gets his degree the next graduating class," volunteered Madeline, her face showing the keenness of her interest. "It's not so very, very long," she added wistfully, looking as unconcerned as possible.

Then the old man began in the quietest and most natural way to tell David and Madeline all about his circumstances, the simple story touched with the pathos of an utterly unselfish heart. For his chief concern was evidently not for himself at all—he would have enough with strict economy to keep a roof still above his head—but his grief for Harvey's interrupted career was sincere and deep. He recognized fully, and admitted frankly, that it would take what little was left him to supply the humblest necessities of his remaining years. But this seemed to give him little or no disquietude; his thoughts were divided between Harvey and his mother, and he seemed troubled as to how the latter should be apprised of the cloud that had brought this additional darkness to her life.

"She'll no' learn it frae the lips o' gossip, if I can help it," he said resolutely at last, his staff coming down with emphasis on the floor.

"Go easy on that Turkey rug, Mr. Nickle," David interrupted with valorous merriment; "it belongs to my creditors now, you know."

Geordie permitted himself to abandon his line of thought long enough to say: "Ye dinna mean to tell me, David, that ye'll hae to part wi' a' yir bonnie bit things aboot the hoose?"

David never flinched as he looked straight into the sober eyes.

"All that's of any value," he answered resolutely; "no stolen plumage for me—I've no desire for it, thank God," he added cheerily. "I don't want nothin' but a few little necessaries—an' a couple o' luxuries, such as this here," drawing Madeline within his arm as he spoke; "it's great how the law can't get at a fellow's real treasures. Just what I was sayin' to you a few minutes ago, Madeline—the things that counts the most is the things that's left, no matter how poor a fellow gets."

Geordie's eyes were shining with delight; such philosophy as this touched the inmost heart of him.

"Ye're richt, David, ye're richt," he cried fervently. "Man, but it's bonnie to see ye takin' the chastenin' o' th' Almichty like ye dae. I was sair feart for ye, when I found oot what was gaein' to happen. But ye've got the richt o't, David, ye've got the richt o't," the old man went on earnestly; "it's a sair loss, nae doot—but it canna rob ye o' what ye love the most. An' I'll tell ye anither thing, David," he pursued, his voice the prophet voice, "it canna rob ye o' the providence o' God—it canna change the purpose o' His will for ye," and Geordie's outstretched hand, not often or lightly so extended, took David's in its own. "But aboot Harvey's mither," he suddenly resumed, recalling the thread that had been broken; "she'll no' hear what's happened frae the lips o' gossip. I'll tell her mysel'," he affirmed, the resolution forming swiftly; "an' I'll dae it when I'm gaein' hame frae here," proceeding forthwith to button up his coat preparatory to departure.

"I'll go with you," David said quietly. "There's no reason why I shouldn't. I've a lot to regret, but nothin' to be ashamed of—nothin' to be ashamed of, as I said afore. Where's your mother, Madeline?—I want to see her afore I go."

"She's up-stairs," Madeline answered in rather a subdued tone. "I think she's looking over some things."

David sighed as he rose and turned towards the stair. Reaching the room above, he found his wife gazing upon the rich contents of several receptacles whose treasures were outturned upon the floor. He sat down beside her on the bed, making rather a plaintive attempt to comfort the heart whose sorrow he knew was different from his own.

"I'm going to keep everything of Madeline's I can," she said, after some preliminary conversation. "Poor child, she was looking forward so to her coming-out party—but I guess that's all a thing of the past now," she sighed. "And everybody said you were going to be elected the town's first mayor, too. I was counting so much on that—but of course they won't do it now. But do you know, David, there's one bit of consolation left to us—and that's about Madeline. I think, I think, David, she'll be provided for, all right, before very long," smiling significantly as she made the prediction.

"How?" David asked, quite dumfoundered, yet not without a kind of chill sensation in the region of his heart.

"Oh, the old way," responded his wife; "the old, old way, David. I've seen signs of it, I think—at least I've seen signs that some one else wouldn't mind taking care of her, some one that would be able to give her quite as much as we ever did," she concluded, a note of decided optimism in the voice.

David sat up straight and gasped. "Surely," he began in a hoarse voice, "surely you ain't talkin' about—about matrimony, are you, mother?"

Madeline's mother smiled assentingly. "That's the old, old way, David—I guess that's what it'll end in, if things go on all right. Don't look so stormy, David—I should think you'd be glad."

"Glad!" cried David, his voice rising like a wind. "Good Lord, glad—glad, if a fellow's goin' to lose everything an' then be left alone," he half wailed; "you expect a fellow to be glad if he gets news that he might have to part with the dearest thing he's got?" he went on boisterously. "But I'm makin' a goat o' myself," chastening his tone as he continued; "there ain't no such thing goin' to happen. Who in thunder do you imagine wants our Madeline?—I'd like to see the cuss that'd——"

"But, David," his wife interrupted rather eagerly, "wait till I tell you who it is—or perhaps you know—it's Cecil; and I'm quite sure he'd be ever so attentive, if Madeline would only permit it. And I don't suppose any young gentleman of our acquaintance has the prospects Cecil has."

David's face wore a strange expression; half of pity it seemed to be and half of fiery wrath. "That's so, mother," he said in quite a changed voice; "if all reports is true there ain't many with prospects like his—he'll get what's comin' to him, I reckon. But there's one thing I'm goin' to tell you, mother," and the woman started at the changed tone of the words, so significant in its sternness, "an' I'll jest tell it to you now—an' it's this. Mebbe we'll have to beg our bread afore we're through—but Cecil ain't never goin' to have our Madeline—not if me an' God can help it," whereat he turned and went almost noiselessly from the room, his white lips locked in silence. And Madeline wondered why his eyes rested so yearningly on her when he returned, filled with such hungering tenderness as though he were to see her never more.

XXIII

INGENUITY OF LOVE

Neither Geordie nor David spoke a word as they went down the steps and passed slowly along the avenue that led from the gate to the house. But just as they opened the gate David turned and took a long wistful survey of the scene behind.

"It'll be quite a twist to leave it all," he said, trying to smile. "I've got so kind o' used to it—there's a terrible pile o' difference between bein' poor an' gettin' poor," he added reflectively.

"But ye'd hae to gang awa an' leave it, suner or later," Geordie suggested; "it comes to us a'—an' it's only a wee bit earlier at the maist."

"That's dead true," assented David; "sometimes I think th' Almighty sends things like this to get us broke in for the other—a kind of rehearsal for eternity," he concluded, quite solemnly for him. "Look there, Mr. Nickle," he suddenly digressed, pointing towards the house, "d'ye see that upper left-hand window, with the light shinin' on it, an' the curtain blowin' out?—well, that's where Madeline was born. It's kind o' hard," he said, so softly that Geordie scarcely heard.

"But ye hae the lassie wi' ye yet—the licht's aye shinin' frae her bonnie face," Geordie replied consolingly.

"Poor child, she's had to scrape up most o' the sunshine for our home herself this last while," responded David, "but it ain't goin' to be that way after this—when things is dark, that's the time for faces to be bright, ain't it?—even if a fellow does lose all he's got. Do you know, Mr. Nickle," he went on very earnestly, "I've a kind of a feelin' a man should be ashamed of himself, if all his money's done for him is to make him miserable when it's gone. I mean this," turning and smiling curiously towards Geordie, "if a fellow's had lots o' money, an' all the elegant things it gets him, it ought to kind o' fit him for doin' without it. I don't believe you catch my meanin'—but money, an' advantages, ought to do that much for the man that's had 'em, to learn him how to do without 'em if he has to—it ought to dig wells in him somewhere that won't dry up when his money takes the wings o' the mornin' an' flies away, as the Scriptur' says."

"Yon's graun' doctrine, David," Geordie assented eagerly; "forbye, there's' anither thing it ought to dae for a man—it should let him ken hoo easy thae man-made streams dry up, an' what sair things they are to minister till the soul. An' they should make him seek the livin' water, so he'll thirst nae mair forever. I seem to ken that better mysel' than I've ever done afore."

"Mebbe that's part o' the plan," David made reply; "'cause how a fellow takes a thing like this here that's happened me, depends 'most altogether on jest one thing—an' I'll tell you what it is—whether he takes it good or bad depends on whether he believes there's any plan in the business at all. I mean some One else's plan, of course. There's a terrible heap o' comfort in jest believin' there's a plan. When things was all fine sailin' with me, I always held to the plan idea—always kep' pratin' about the web a higher hand was weavin' for us all—an' I ain't agoin' to go back on it now," he added with unwonted vehemence. "No, sir, I never believed more in God's weavin' than I do this minute. 'Tain't jest the way I'd like it wove—but then we don't see only the one side," he added resignedly. "D'ye know, Mr. Nickle, we're terrible queer critters, ain't we? It really is one of the comicalest things about us, that we don't believe th' Almighty's plan for us is as good as our own plan for ourselves. Funny too, ain't it, now?" he pursued, "an' the amusin' part o' the whole business is this, how the folks that's most religious often kicks the hardest when they ain't allowed to do their share o' the weavin'," he concluded, looking earnestly into his friend's face.

Geordie's reply found expression more by his eyes than by word of mouth. But both were interrupted by their journey's end, for by this time they had arrived at the little store. Entering and enquiring for Mrs. Simmons, they were conducted by Jessie into the unpretentious sitting-room where Harvey's mother was seated in the solitary armchair that adorned the room, her hands busy with the knitting that gave employment to the passing hours.

Grave and kindly were the salutations of her visitors, equally sincere and dignified the greetings in return. After some irrelevant conversation, David introduced the purpose of their visit with the tact that never fails a kindly heart, bidding his friend tell the rest; and the half-knitted stocking fell idle on her lap as the silent listener composed herself bravely to hear the tidings that something assured her would be far from welcome.

Once or twice she checked a rising sigh, and once or twice she nervously resumed the knitting that had been given over; but no other sign bespoke the sorrow and disappointment that possessed her. If any wave of pain passed over the gentle face, it found no outlet in the sightless eyes. Geordie kept nothing back; the whole story of their present situation—and of their consequent helplessness to further aid her scholar son—was faithfully rehearsed. And the very tone of his voice bore witness to the sincerity of his statement that the whole calamity had no more painful feature than the one it was their mission now to tell.

"I'm content," she said quietly when Mr. Nickle had concluded. "I'll not deny that the hope of—of what's evidently not to be—has made the days bright for me ever since Harvey went away," she went on, as if her life had never known darkness; "but he's had a good start, and he can never lose what he's got already—and maybe the way'll be opened up yet; it's never been quite closed on us," she added reverently, "though it often looked dark enough. The promise to the poor and the needy never seems to fail. And I'm sure Harvey'll find something to do—and oh," she broke in more eagerly than before, "I know the very first thing he'd want me to do is to thank you both for your great kindness, your wonderful kindness to us all," she concluded, both hands going out in the darkness to hold for a moment the hands of her benefactors.

The conversation was not much longer continued, both Geordie and David retreating before the brave and trustful resignation as they never would have done before lamentation or repining. And after they had gone Jessie and her mother sat long together in earnest consultation; for the one was as resolved as the other that something must be done to avert the impending disaster.

"Just to think, mother, he'd be a B.A. if he could only finish with his class," said Jessie; "and then, then he could be nearly any thing he liked, after that. If only business were a little better in the shop," she sighed.

"But it's losing, Jessie," the mother replied, forcing the candid declaration. "I can tell that myself—often I count how many times the bell above the door rings in a day; and it's growing less, I've noticed that for a year now. It's all because Glenallen's growing so fast, too—that's the worst of it; what helps others seems to hurt us."

Jessie understood, the anomaly having been often discussed before; it had been discussed, too, in the more pretentious shops, though in a far different frame of mind. "We've got along so well this far—we've got almost used to doing without things," she said with a plaintive smile, "and it seems such a pity to have to stop when the goal's in sight."

"If I were only stronger," mused the mother; "but I'm not," she added quietly, the pale face turning towards Jessie's—"your mother's not gaining any; you can see that, can't you, dear?"

Jessie's protest was swift and passionate. "You mustn't talk that way," she cried appealingly; "you've spoken like that once or twice—and I won't hear of it," the voice quivering in its intensity. "You're going to get well—I'm almost sure you will. And there's nothing more I'd let you do," her eyes glowing with the ardour of her purpose, "if you were as well and strong as ever in your life."

Mrs. Simmons smiled, but the smile was full of sadness.

"Have it as you will, my child," she said, "but there's no use shutting our eyes to the truth—it's for your own sake I spoke of it, Jessie. When you write to Harvey, do you tell him I'm gaining, dear?" a smile on the patient face.

Jessie was silent a moment. "Don't, mother don't," she pleaded. "Let's talk about what we'll do for Harvey. Oh, mother," the arms going about the fragile form in a passion of devotion, "it seems as if your troubles would never end; it's been one long round of care and struggle and pain for you ever since I can remember. And this last seems the worst, for I know how you've lived for Harvey. And it shan't all be for nothing; we'll get through with it somehow—I know we will."

"You shouldn't pity me so, my daughter," and the mother's voice was as calm as the untroubled face. "I really don't think you know how much happiness I've had; I often feel there's nothing so close to joy as sorrow. And you and Harvey have been so good—and I'm so proud of him. The way's always been opened up for us; and God has strengthened me, and comforted me, beyond what I ever thought was possible. And besides, dear," the voice low and thrilling with the words that were to come, "besides, Jessie, I've had a wonderful feeling lately that it's getting near the light—it's like a long tunnel, but I've caught glimpses of beauty sometimes that tell me the long darkness is nearly over. Oh, my darling," she went on in the same thrilling voice, holding her close in a kind of rapture, "I never was so sure before—not even when I could see all around—never so sure—that it's all light after all, and my very darkness has been the light of God. I don't know why I should cry like this," she sobbed, for the tears were now falling fast, "for I'm really happy—even with all this new trouble; but for days and days lately I've kept saying to myself: 'They need no candle, neither light of the sun'—and I can't think of it without crying, because I know it's true."

Very skillfully did Jessie endeavour to turn the conversation into other channels; her own sinking heart told her too well that her inmost thought was not far different from her mother's. For the dear face was daily growing more pale and thin, and the springs of vitality seemed to be slowly ebbing. But on this she would not permit her mind to dwell.

"Don't you think we could get some bright girl to mind the shop, mother; some young girl, you know, that wouldn't cost very much? Because I've just been thinking—I've got a kind of a plan—I've been wondering if I couldn't make enough to help Harvey through. You know, mother, I can sew pretty well—Miss Adair told me only yesterday I managed quite as well as the girls with a regular training, and she just as much as offered me work. And I'll see her about it this very day; we could get some one to mind the shop for a great deal less than I could make—and Harvey could have the rest. You wouldn't object, would you, mother? I wouldn't go out to sew; some of the girls take the work home with them, and so could I. Or, if I was doing piece-work, I might be able to mind the store myself at the same time—there seems to be so little to do now," she added, looking a little ruefully towards the silent shop.

The expression of pain deepened on the mother's face as she listened. Yet she did not demur, although the inner vision brought the tired features of the unselfish girl before her. "It seems hard," she said at length; "I was always hoping you'd soon have it a little easier—but this will only make it harder for you."

"But not for long," Jessie interrupted cheerily; "just till Harvey's through—and then he'll be able to make lots of money. And maybe you and I'll be able to go away somewhere for a little rest," she added hopefully, her eyes resting long on the pallid face.

"Harvey must never know," the mother suddenly affirmed; "we'll have to keep it from him, whatever happens, for I know he wouldn't consent to it for a moment. Where are you going, Jessie?" for she knew, her sense of every movement quickened by long exercise, that the girl was making preparations to go out.

"I'm going to see Miss Adair, mother. I won't be long—but now that my mind's set on it, I can't rest till I find out. If I can only get that arranged, it'll make it so much brighter for us all."

The mother sat alone with many conflicting thoughts, marvelling at all that so enriched her life, dark though it was, and bearing about with it a burden that no heart could share.

Jessie's errand was successful, as such errands are prone to be; and only those who understand life's hidden streams could have interpreted the radiance on the maiden's face as she returned to announce her indenture unto toil, new gladness springing from new sacrifice, for such is the mysterious source whose waters God hath bidden to be blessed.

David was absorbed in a very sober study as he walked slowly homeward. Not that he shrank from the personal sacrifice that his present circumstances were about to demand, or that any sense of dishonour clouded his thought of the business career that seemed about to close—from this he was absolutely free. But he was feeling, and for the first time, how keen the sting of defeat can be to a man whose long and valiant struggle against relentless odds has at last proved unavailing.

Still reflecting on this and many other things, he suddenly heard himself accosted by a familiar voice; turning round, he saw Mr. Craig hurrying towards him.

"Going home, Borland?" said the former as he came up with him; "I'll just walk along with you if you are—I want to talk to you."

David's mind lost no time in its calculation as to what the subject of this conversation would likely be; during all his period of struggle, well known and widely discussed as it had been, Mr. Craig had never approached him before. David felt an unconscious stiffening of the lip, he scarce knew why.

"I wanted to tell you, Borland, for one thing," Mr. Craig began as they walked along, "how much I feel for you in the hard luck you're having."

"Thank you kindly," said David promptly.

"I don't suppose I'm just able to sympathize as well as lots of men could," Mr. Craig observed; "unbroken success doesn't fit one for that sort of thing."

"Oh!" said David, volumes in the tone.

"Well," said the other, not by any means oblivious to the intonation, "I suppose it does sound kind of egotistical—but I guess it's true just the same. I suppose I'm what might be called a successful man."

"I reckon you might be called that, all right," said David, getting out his knife and glancing critically at a willow just ahead. The spirit of whittling invariably arose within him when his emotions were aroused.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Craig enquired, a little ardently. He had noticed David's emphasis on one particular word.

"I don't mean nothin'," responded David, making a willow branch his own.

"You seem to doubt a little whether I've really been successful or not?" ventured the other, looking interrogatively at his companion.

"Depends," said David laconically; "you've been terrible successful outside."

"I don't just follow you," Mr. Craig declared with deliberate calmness. "I don't suppose we judge people by the inside of them—at least I don't."

"I do," answered David nonchalantly. "A fellow can't help it—look at this here gad; it looked elegant from the outside," holding it up to show the wound his knife had made.

"What's the matter with it?" Mr. Craig rejoined, pretending to look closely.

"It's rotten," said David.

"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Craig demanded rather more sharply.

"I don't mean nothin'," responded David.

"Then it hasn't anything to do with the question of success?"

"That's an awful big question," David answered adroitly, "an' folks'll get a terrible jolt in their opinions about it some day, I reckon—like the rich fool got; an' he thought he was some pun'kins, too. Nobody can't tell jest who's a success," he went on, peeling the willow as he spoke. "I reckon folks calls me the holiest failure in these parts—but I'm a terrible success some ways," he went on calmly.

"What ways?" Mr. Craig enquired rather too quickly for courtesy.

"Oh, nothin' much—only under the bark—if it's anywheres," David jerked out, still vigorously employed on the willow. "But there ain't no good of pursuin' them kind of thoughts," he suddenly digressed, making a final slash at the now denuded branch; "they're too high-class for a fellow that never went to school after he left it—let's talk about somethin' worldly. They say you're goin' to be Glenallen's first mayor; goin' to open the ball—ain't that so?"

Abating his pace, Mr. Craig drew closer to David, a pleased expression displacing the rather decided frown that had been gathering.

"To tell the truth, now that you've mentioned it," he began confidentially, "that's the very thing I wanted to talk about. Of course, there's no use in my pretending I don't want the office, for I do—the whole thing is in being the first mayor, you see, after Glenallen's incorporated. Kind of an historical event, you understand—and, and there seems to be a little misunderstanding," he went on a trifle hesitatingly, "between you and me. I find there's a tendency to—to elect you—that is, in some quarters," he explained, "and I thought we might come to a kind of an agreement, you understand."

"What kind?" David asked innocently.

"Oh, well, you understand. Of course, I know you wouldn't care for the office—not at present, at least. I've felt perfectly free to say as much whenever the matter was mentioned to me."

"You're terrible cheerful about resignin' for other people," rejoined David with some spirit; "some folks is terrible handy at makin' free with other folks' affairs."

"Oh, well, you know what I mean—you've got your hands full——"

"They're not terrible full," David corrected dismally.

"And besides, you see," Mr. Craig went bravely on, "you're not British born—you were born in Ohio, weren't you?"

"Not much," David informed him; "there's no Buckeye about me—I was born in Abe Lincoln's State. Peoria's where I dawned—and he often used to stop at my father's house when he was attendin' court." David was evidently ready to be delivered of much further information, but the candidate had no mind to hear it.

"Well, anyhow," he interrupted, "I think it'd be more fitting that the first mayor should have been born under the British flag. But you don't mean to say you think you'll stand?" he suddenly enquired, evidently determined to ascertain the facts without further parley.

"Couldn't jest say," David replied with rather provoking deliberation; "you see, I'll have a good deal o' time lyin' round loose, now that I'm givin' up business for my health," this with a mournful grin. "So mebbe I'll be in the hands o' my friends—that there expression's one I made up myself," he added, turning a broad smile upon his friend's very sober face. Mr. Craig, to tell the exact truth, grew quite pale as he heard the ominous words. For his heart had been sorely set on the immortality the first mayorship of Glenallen would confer, and he knew how doubtful would be the issue of a contest between David and himself.

"I was thinking," he began a little excitedly, "perhaps we could make some arrangement that would be—would be to our mutual advantage," he blurted out at last; "perhaps—perhaps I could give you a little lift; I could hardly expect you to withdraw for nothing. And now that you're in financial difficulties, so to speak, I thought perhaps a little quiet assistance mightn't go amiss."

But David had come to a dead standstill, his eyes flashing as they fastened themselves on the other's face. "D'ye mean to say you're tryin' to bribe me?" he demanded, his voice husky.

"Oh, no, Mr. Borland—oh, no, I only meant we might find common ground if——"

"Common ground! Common scoundrelism!" David broke in vehemently; "you must think I'm devilish poor, Mr. Craig," his voice rising with his emotion, "an' it appears to me a man has to be sunk mighty low afore he could propose what you've done. I've bore a heap, God knows—but no man never dared insult me like this afore; if that's one o' the things you've got to do if you're pure British stock, then I thank the Lord I'm a mongrel."

"Be calm, Mr. Borland," implored his friend suavely, "you don't understand."

"I understand all right," shouted David; "a man don't need much breedin' of any kind to understand the likes o' you—you want a man that's lost all he's got, to sell himself into the bargain," the withered cheek burning hot as David made his arraignment.

"Now, Mr. Borland, do be reasonable—I mean nothing of the sort. I only wanted to give you a helping hand—of course, if you can do without it——"

"Yes, thank God," and David's voice was quite shaky, "I can do without it all right. I can do without your dirty money—-an' everybody else's for that matter—but I can't do without a conscience that ain't got no blot on it, an' I can't do without a clean name like my father left it to me," he went hotly on, his flushed face and swift-swallowing throat attesting how deeply he felt what he was saying.

"Oh, come now, Borland," Mr. Craig urged, reaching out a hand towards his shoulder, "come off your high horse—preachin' isn't your strong point, you know."

"I ain't preachin'," David retorted vigorously. "I'm practisin'—an' that's a horse of a different colour," he added, casting about to recall the amiability that had almost vanished.

"There's no need for any trouble between us, Borland," Mr. Craig began blandly; "'twouldn't be seemly, considering all that's liable to happen—if things go on as they're likely to," he added significantly. "We'll need to be on the best of terms if we're going to be relations, you know."

"What's that you're sayin'?—relations, did you say?" David was quite at a loss to understand, and yet a dim fear, suggested not so long before, passed for a moment through his mind.

"Yes, relations," returned Mr. Craig, smiling amiably; "these young folks have a way of making people relations without consulting them—at least, till they've gone and settled it themselves. I guess you understand all right."

A hot flush flowed over David's cheek. "Do you—do you mean my Madeline?" he stammered, staring like one who did not see.

"Well, maybe—but I mean my Cecil just as much. All this won't make any difference to Cecil."

"What won't?" David groped, the words coming as if unguided, his thoughts gone on another mission.

"Oh, these little difficulties of yours—all this financial tangle, I mean; your failure, as they call it round town. That'll never budge Cecil."

The men were still standing, neither thinking of direction or of progress. But David moved close up to the other, his eyes fixed on the shrewd face with relentless sternness.

"It don't need to make no difference," he said through set teeth. "There ain't nothin' to get different—if you mean your son, Craig—or if you mean my daughter, Craig," the words prancing out like a succession of mettled steeds; "either you or him's the biggest fool God ever let loose. There ain't no human power, nor no other kind, can jine them two together. Perhaps I'll have to go beggin'—but I'll take Madeline along with me afore she'll ever go down the pike with any one like your Cecil, as you call him." David paused for breath.

"She'd be mighty lucky if she got him," Cecil's father retorted haughtily. "One would think you were the richest man in the county to hear you talk."

David's face was closer than ever. "Craig," he said, his voice low and taut, "there's mebbe some that's good enough for Madeline—I ain't a-sayin'—but th' Almighty never made no man yet that my daughter'd be lucky if she got. An' I know I'm poor; an' I know I've got to take to the tall timbers out o' there—where she was born," the words coming with a little gulp as he pointed in the direction of his home, "but I'm a richer man, Craig, than you ever knew how to be. An' you can go back to your big house, an' I'm goin' to hunt a little one for us—but I wouldn't trade you if every pebble on your carriage drive was gold. An' I'm happier'n you ever knew how to be. An' your Cecil can't never have our Madeline. An' when it comes to budgin', like you was talkin' about, I reckon I can do my share of not budgin', Craig—an' you can put that in your pipe an' smoke it."

David started to move on; he was panting just a little. But Mr. Craig stopped him; and the sneer in his words was quite noticeable:

"I suppose you'll be giving her to your charity student—she'll be head clerk in the Simmons' store yet, I shouldn't wonder."

David was not difficult to detain. He stared hard for a moment before speaking. "Mebbe they're poor," he said at length, "an' mebbe his blind mother has to skimp an' save—that settles any one for you all right. But it wouldn't take me no longer to decide between that there charity student an' your son, than it would to decide—to decide between you an' God," he concluded hotly, turning and starting resolutely on his way. "Now you know my ideas about success," he flung over his shoulder as he pressed on; "you're a success, you know, a terrible success—I'm a failure, thank heaven," his face set steadfastly towards home, bright with the hallowed light that, thought of his treasure there kept burning through all life's storm and darkness.

But Mr. Craig fired the last shot. "I wish you luck with the coming-out party," he called after him mockingly; "be sure and have it worthy of the young lady—and of her father's fortune," he added, the tone indicating what satisfaction the thrust afforded him.

David answered never a word. But the taunt set him pondering, nevertheless; once or twice he stopped almost still, though his pace was brisk, and something in his face reflected the purpose forming within him. When he reached his home he found Madeline and her mother together; they were still employed with the sombre task of selecting what should be the survivors among their domestic treasures.

"How did Mrs. Simmons take it?" Madeline asked almost impatiently, as he drew her down in the chair beside him.

"She took it like as if she believed in God," David answered solemnly; "an' she took it that way 'cause she does—that's more," he added emphatically. "But I've got somethin' to say—somethin' important."

Both waited eagerly to hear. "Tell me quick," said Madeline.

"Well, it's this. I don't want nothin' touched here—not till after what I'm goin' to tell you. We'll have to waltz out o' here, of course," he said, looking gravely around the room; "but it'll be some considerable time yet—an' as long as we're here, we'll be here, see? An' we're goin' to have your comin'-out party, Madeline—we're goin' to have it the last night. So it'll be a comin'-out party, an' a goin'-out one, at the same time—ain't that an elegant idea? An' it'll be a dandy, too—there'll be high jinks till nobody can't see anybody else for dust. An' we're goin' to have things jest like they are now—no use o' kickin' down your scaffold till you're through with it," he concluded, chucking Madeline under the chin in his jubilation.

Madeline and her mother gasped a little as they exchanged glances. Mrs. Borland was the first to speak. "Don't you think it'll throw a gloom over everything, David, when everybody'll know what—what's going to happen?"

"If anybody begins that kind o' throwin', I'll throw them out sideways," David replied fiercely. "Most certainly it won't. Everybody'd always be slingin' gloom round, if that'd do it—'cause nobody ever knows what's goin' to happen any time. Leastways, nobody only One—an' He ain't never gloomy, for all He knows. Anyhow, nothin' ain't goin' to happen—'cept to the furniture," he added scornfully, glancing at the doomed articles that stood about.

"One good thing," Madeline suggested radiantly, "there'll be nothing to hide—everybody'll know they're expected to be jolly."

"Sure thing!" echoed David, utterly delighted. "I'm goin' to have that on the invitations—there ain't goin' to be no 'Answer P.D.Q.' on the left-hand corner; I'm goin' to have somethin' else—I'm goin' to have what that cove on the tavern sheds yelled through the megaphone: 'If you can't laugh don't come.' I often told you about him, didn't I?—well, that's the prescription's goin' to be on the admission tickets."

Considerable further dialogue was terminated by a very serious question from the prospective débutante. "Won't it look kind of strange, father?" she ventured rather timidly, "going to all that expense—just at this particular time?"

David put his arms about her very tenderly, smiling down into the sober face. "There ain't goin' to be no champagne, Madeline," he said quietly, "nor no American beauties—there'll jest be one of heaven's choicest. It'll be an awful simple party—an' awful sweet. An' music don't cost nothin'; neither does love, nor friends, nor welcomes—the best things is the cheapest. An' I'll show them all one thing," he went on very gravely, his eyes filling as they were bended on his child, "one thing that ain't expensive—but awful dear," the words faltering as they left his lips.

XXIV

THE VICTOR'S SPOILS

"Of course you ought to go. I've got a kind of feeling, though I don't know why, that the whole party will be spoiled if you're not there."

"Spoiled! Spoiled for whom?"

"Oh, for somebody—I guess you know all right."

It was Miss Farringall who was pressing her advice so vigorously; Harvey the beneficiary. They were seated in the little room in which they had first met, everything in the same perfect order, the fire still singing its song of unconquerable cheer, the antique desk in the corner still guarding its hidden secrets. The domestic Grey, the added dignity of years upon him, had come to regard the one-time intruder with almost the same affection that he lavished on his mistress in his own devoted, purring way. He was slumbering now on Harvey's knee, and, could he have interpreted the significance of human glances, he might have seen the fondness with which the woman's eyes were often turned upon the manly face beside her.

"If I thought Miss Borland really wanted me to come," mused Harvey.

"Maybe Miss Borland doesn't care very much," his friend retorted quickly, "but I'm sure Madeline wants you," her eyebrows lifted reproachfully as she spoke.

Harvey smiled in return. "Of course, it would give me a chance to see mother," he said reflectively; "and Jessie says she's very poorly. Perhaps I really ought to go—Jessie's quite anxious about her."

"I think both reasons are good ones," Miss Farringall said after a little silence. "Do you know, Harvey," she went on, a shade almost of sadness coming over her face, "I feel more and more that there's only one thing in life worth gaining—and one should never trifle with it. If you lose that, you lose everything—no matter how much else you may have of money, or luxury—even of friends," she said decisively; "even of friends—if you miss that other."

Harvey, slightly at a loss, fumbled about for something to say. "You have everything that money can provide, Miss Farringall—and that's a good deal," he added, magnifying the lonely asset as best he could.

"Yes, perhaps I have—and maybe it is," she said as if to herself. Then neither spoke for a long interval. But finally Miss Farringall turned towards Harvey with a peculiar expression, as if she had just come to a decision after much inward debate.

"Would you like to hear something I've never told any one else?" she said impressively—"not even to the rector. He has a second wife," she explained, smiling, "and they're always dangerous."

"If you wish to trust me with it," was Harvey's answer.

"Well, I will—and you'll tell me whether I did right or not. It's not a long story, and I'll tell it as directly as I can. It's about a man—a gentleman," she corrected. "No, I never loved him—doesn't this language sound strange from me?" as she noticed the surprise on Harvey's face. "But it was—it was different with him. He was a married man, too. And his wife was very rich—richer than he was. And she hated him—they lived in the same house, but that was all; a proud, selfish woman; so selfish, she was."

Miss Farringall rose and moved to the window, gazing long on the leafy scene about her. The silence was broken suddenly by the butler's voice, his approach as noiseless as ever.

"Please, Miss Farringall, the rector's here—he's in the hall. And he wants to know——"

"Tell him he can't," Miss Farringall said softly, without turning her eyes from the window.

"Yes, mum," as the impassive countenance vanished.

Harvey did not speak, did not even look towards the silent figure at the window. He knew, and waited. Presently the woman turned and silently resumed her chair.

"It was different with him, as I said," she slowly began again—"not that I ever encouraged him; it terrified me when I found it out. Well, one day when we were alone together, he—he forgot himself," a slight tremor of the gentle form and a deep flush upon the cheek betokening the vividness of the memory. "And I fled from him—and I vowed we should never meet again," the sad face lighting up with the echo of a far-off purpose. "And I kept the vow for years," she went on, gazing into the fire—for there it is that the dead years, embalmed of mystic forces, may be seen by sorrow-brightened eyes.

Harvey waited again, silent still. And once again the strange narrative was resumed. "But I broke it at last," she said. "He was dying—a slow, painful disease. And he had everything money could give him; he had everything that anybody wants—except that one thing. His wife went on in her old, idle, fashionable way, caring nothing, of course. Well, one day he sent for me—it was his wife who brought the message; she knew nothing of what had happened, of course, and she told me of his request and asked me if I wouldn't come and sit with him sometimes. And I went—I went often—used to read to him; many different books at first, mostly poetry—but as it came nearer the end it was hardly ever anything but the Bible.... The end came at last. And just the day before he died he said to me: 'It'll be to-morrow—to-morrow about this time.' Then he took a big envelope from under his pillow, and he said: 'This'll be good-bye; God bless you for what you've been to a dying man. And I want you to do this. I want you to come to my grave a year from the night of the day I'm buried—and open this envelope there—but not for a year.' And we said good-bye. Well, I couldn't refuse the request of a dying man—I did as he asked me. But I waited a year and four days, Harvey," and Miss Farringall's voice was quite triumphant; "I waited that long because I knew no man would believe a woman could do it.... And that's how I'm situated as I am, Harvey. I don't think anybody ever knew—I guess nobody cared; principally stocks, simply transferred. Do you think I did right, Harvey?" she asked after a pause.

"Yes," said Harvey quickly, unable to take his eyes from her face.

"Not that the envelope ever did me very much good," she went on. "I often think how much happier I'd have been if I'd been poor—and had had that other. But it wasn't to be. And all this never made me happy—there was only one could have done that; and he went out of my life long ago—long ago now," she said, her gaze scanning his face in wistful scrutiny, her heart busy with the photograph entombed in the silent desk before her.

"So I think you certainly ought to go, as I said," she resumed, quietly reverting to the original topic. "I know the signs," she added in plaintive playfulness—"even if they do call me an old maid; I shouldn't wonder if they know the signs best of all. But this is all nonsense," straightening herself resolutely in her chair, "and has nothing to do with what we're talking about. When is the party, Harvey?"

"It's Friday night week—the very day after I graduate. And they leave the old home the next day—I told you all about Mr. Borland's failure. It seems they've been prepared to leave for some months—and now it's actually come. Mr. Borland gave up everything to his creditors, I believe. And this is a notion of his own—just like him, too—that they'll celebrate the last night in their old home this way; he's going to have Madeline's coming-out party for a finish. Quite an original idea, isn't it?"

"Will that young fellow from your town be there?—Mr. Craig, you know?" asked Miss Farringall, without answering his question. She did not look at Harvey as she asked her own.

"Oh, yes," Harvey answered, "he'll be there, of course—he's very attentive." Harvey's eyes were also turned away.

"Who's he attentive to?"

"Why, to Miss Borland—to Madeline, of course. He's been that for a long time."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. At least, I suppose so. Why?" Harvey asked wonderingly.

"Oh, nothing much—only I heard his affections were divided; another Glenallen girl, I heard."

"What was the name?" asked Harvey, interestedly.

"I did hear, I think—it doesn't matter. Please don't ask me any more—really, I'm ashamed of myself, I'm getting to be such a silly old gossip. Tell me, are you going to get the medal when you graduate?"

The look on the face before her showed that the conversation had turned his thoughts towards something more absorbing than college premiums, covetable though they be; he too was coming to realize that life has only one great prize, and but one deep source of springing joy.

"I have my doubts about the medal," Harvey answered after a pause; "I'm afraid of Echlin—but I'll give him a race for it. I think I'm sure of my degree, all right. That's another reason inclines me to go home next week," he added cheerfully; "I want to give my sheepskin to my mother; it's more hers and Jessie's than it is mine—and I want them to see my hood, too, when I get one; and the medal," his face brightening, "if I should have the luck to win it. But there's another thing that troubles me a little," he added with a dolorous smile, "and that is that I haven't got anything to wear, as the ladies say. I haven't a dress suit, you know—and I'm afraid anything else'll be a little conspicuous there."

Miss Farringall smiled the sweetest, saddest smile, as she turned her face to Harvey's. "Oh, child," she said, "you're very young; and you're certainly very unfamiliar with the woman-heart. A girl doesn't care a fig for dress suits—I think they rather admire men who dress originally," she went on assuringly; "I know I did, then. And besides, it's all to your credit that you haven't one—I think that's one of the fine things about you, that you haven't got so many things you might have had, if you'd been a little more selfish," she said, almost fondly.

"Talk about not being selfish," Harvey broke in ardently; "I'm a monster of selfishness compared to some others I could name—you ought to see my mother and my sister," he concluded proudly.

"I hope I may some day," she answered. "But meantime—about what you'll wear. I'd wear the medal if I were you. But tell me first," she went on in a woman's own persistent way, "that you'll accept the invitation. Can't you make up your mind?"

Harvey was silent for a moment. "No," came his answer decisively, "I don't think I will. I'm going to decline with thanks—self-denial's good for a fellow sometimes."

"Some kinds of self-denial are sinful," said Miss Farringall quietly; "but they bring their own punishment—and it lasts for years." She sighed, and the light upon her face was half of yearning, half of love.

"Is our Tam hame frae Edinburgh yet?" Such were the last wandering words of an aged brother of the great Carlyle, dying one summer night as the Canadian sun shed its glory for the last time upon his face. Thrice twenty years had flown since, fraternal pride high surging in his heart, he had clung to his mother's skirts while she waited at the bend of the road for the returning Tom. Carrying his shoes, lest they be needlessly worn, was that laddie wont to come from the halls of learning where he had scanned the page of knowledge with a burning heart—carrying his shoes, but with his laurels thick upon him, his advent the golden incident to that humble home in all their uneventful year. And in death's magic hour the thrilling scene was reënacted as the brother heart of the far-wandered one roamed back to the halcyon days of boyhood.