The Atonement of Hustler Joe (continued 2)

“Certainly, sir. Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, Mozart, Chopin——”

“Yes, yes, put me up one of each,” interrupted Westbrook hastily; he was growing suspicious of the clerk. He left the store with more dignity than he usually displayed.

The real estate business would have suffered in the next few days had it depended entirely upon Westbrook, for the greater share of his time was spent in poring over the recent addition to his library. At the end of a month he was sadly entangled in a bewildering maze of fugues, sonatas, concertos and symphonies, in which the names of Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Handel, Mendelssohn, Mozart and Chopin were hopelessly lost.

XIII

Westbrook often met the lawyer at the Barringtons’ after that first visit. Martin’s music and Martin’s voice seemed to be unfailing attractions in the eyes of Miss Barrington. Westbrook studied his “lives” assiduously, but only once did he venture to take any part in the discussions of composers which were so frequent between Miss Barrington and the lawyer. That once was sufficient to show him how hopeless was the task he had set for himself; and ever after he kept a discreet silence on the subject of music and all that pertained thereto.

As the winter passed, Westbrook was seen more and more frequently in the company of Miss Barrington. His eye had lost its gloom and his step had gained a new springiness. Just why, Westbrook did not stop to consider. Indeed, the considering of anything was what the man most wished to avoid.

It was on a beautiful morning in May that he asked Miss Barrington to drive with him. The air that brushed his cheek was laden with the fragrance of green-growing things, and the girl at his side had never seemed so altogether lovely. He let the reins loosen in his hands as he settled back for an hour of unalloyed enjoyment.

“I am particularly glad to take this drive today,” remarked Miss Barrington, smiling into his eyes, “for, as I go away tomorrow, I may not have another opportunity of enjoying one at present.”

“What?” demanded Westbrook, suddenly sitting upright.

“I merely said I was going away tomorrow,” she returned merrily, picking out with intuitive skill that portion of her remark which had so startled him. Then something in his face made her add—“for the summer, you know.”

Westbrook pulled the reins taut and snapped the whip sharply. Going away! Of course; why not? What of it? Yes, what of it, indeed! Long days fraught with sudden emptiness loomed up before him and stretched on into weeks devoid of charm. He understood it all now—and he a felon! He could hear a girl’s voice saying, “I knew you were a good man the minute I saw your face!” Unconsciously he shrank into the corner of the carriage, and was only brought to a realization of his action by a voice—amused, yet slightly piqued—saying:

“Really, Mr. Westbrook, I hardly expected so simple a statement would render you speechless!”

“Speechless? No, oh, no—certainly not! I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” he said, talking very fast. “You’re going away, you tell me. It is needless to assure you that we shall all miss you very much. Where do you go, if I may ask—and how long are you to remain?” And he turned to her with eyes so full of misery that she could scarcely believe she had heard his words aright.

Before she could answer there came the wild, irregular clattering of unguided horses’ feet. Westbrook turned quickly to see two frightened animals rushing toward them dragging a swaying empty carriage. By a swift and skilful turn he just escaped the collision, but Ethel Barrington felt the hot breath of the beasts as they flew past. In another moment their own startled horse had dashed after the runaways with speed scarcely less than their own.

Westbrook brought all his great strength to bear, then—the right rein snapped. The horse swerved sharply, throwing the man to his knees. The next moment he was crawling cautiously, but rapidly, over the dashboard on to the thill, then to the back of the frightened animal, where he could grasp the dangling broken reins. One strong pull, and the horse stopped so suddenly that the man shot over her head to the ground; but he did not relax his hold, and the trembling animal stood conquered.

Westbrook turned to look into the shining eyes of the girl, who had leaped from the carriage and come close to his side.

“Oh, that was wonderful! But—my God! I thought you’d be killed,” she cried, holding out two trembling hands, then sinking to the ground and sobbing out her nervousness and relief.

The man looked down at her with yearningly tender eyes. Involuntarily he extended his hand as though to caress the bowed head; but he drew back shuddering—that hand had forfeited all right to such a touch. The look in her eyes had thrilled him to his finger-tips, but it as quickly stabbed him with the revelation that not he alone would suffer.

“Miss Barrington, don’t, I beg of you,” he said finally, in a voice that was stem with self-control. “You are completely unnerved—and no wonder.” Then he continued more gently, “But see—Firefly is quiet now. Will you dare to drive home behind her if I can manage somehow to mend the reins?”

A vivid color flamed into the girl’s cheeks and she rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Yes, indeed,” she asserted, forcing her trembling lips to speak firmly. “I am ashamed of myself. I hope you will pay no attention to my babyishness, Mr. Westbrook.”

“You were not babyish, Miss Barrington,” objected Westbrook gravely; “on the contrary you were very brave.” But as he helped her into the carriage he averted his eyes and refused to meet her questioning gaze.

All the way home Ethel Barrington talked with a nervous volubility quite unlike herself. Westbrook made an effort to meet her brilliant sallies with something like an adequate return, but after two or three dismal failures he gave it up and lapsed into a gloomy silence broken only by an occasional short reply.

“I expect my friends will come this evening to say good-bye—I shall see you, shall I not?” she asked gaily as she gave him her hand in alighting at her own door.

Before Westbrook fully realized what the question was, he had murmured, “Yes, certainly”; but when he drove away he was muttering, “Fool, what possible good can it be to you now? Just suppose she knew you for what you are?”

Ethel entered her door and slowly climbed the stairs to her room.

“He cares; I know he does!” she exclaimed under her breath. “But why—why couldn’t he—?” Then the conscious red, that was yet half in pique, flamed into her cheeks and she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

When Westbrook called that night she gave him a gracious hand and looked frankly into his eyes with the inward determination to “have no more nonsense”; but her eyelids quickly fell before his level gaze and she felt the telltale color burning in her cheeks. She was relieved when her father broke the awkward silence.

“Well, Westbrook, we shall miss you—we’ve got so we depend upon seeing you about once in so often. We shall be in Skinner Valley in August. You must plan to run down to The Maples then and make us a visit. I should like to show you the mines.”

“Thank you,” replied Westbrook, glancing toward the door and, for the first time in his life, welcoming the appearance of Martin.

Martin advanced, smilingly sure of his welcome, nor did he notice that Miss Barrington’s greeting was a shade less cordial than usual. His coming was the signal for an adjournment to the music-room, and there Westbrook sat with clouded eyes and unheeding ears while the air about him rang with melody. After a time he was conscious that the music had stopped and that Ethel was speaking.

“I think I never heard of anything so horrible!” she said.

From Martin’s next words Westbrook gathered that they were talking of a particularly atrocious murder that had been committed in the city the night before. Then the girl spoke again, her voice vibrating with feeling.

“Oh, but Mr. Martin—only think of a human being fiendish enough to attack his own son!”

Westbrook tried to rouse himself, to speak, to move; but he seemed bound by invisible cords. His head was turned away from the speakers, but he saw their reflection in the mirror facing him, and he noticed that the lawyer’s gaze was fixed across the room upon himself with a peculiar intentness as he said:

“Yes, incredible, I grant, Miss Barrington; and yet, in a little New England town of my acquaintance a boy of twenty shot down his own father in cold blood at their own fireside.”

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Martin—the human fiend!” shuddered Ethel.

The lawyer’s eyes did not waver; a strange light was coming into them.

“A human fiend, indeed,” he repeated softly, half rising from his chair.

Something seemed to snap in Westbrook’s brain, and he forced himself to his feet.

“Your music set me to day-dreaming,” he began, with a smile as he crossed the room, “and your creepy murder stories awoke me to a realization that the sweet sounds had stopped. Come”—he looked straight into Martin’s eyes—“some time you may tell me more of this gruesome tale—I am interested in studies of human nature. No doubt you meet with many strange experiences in your business; but now I want you to sing ‘Calvary’ for me. Will you, please? Then I must go.”

Martin rose to his feet with a puzzled frown on his face and picked up a sheet of music from the piano.

“Thank you,” said Westbrook, when the song was finished. Then he turned to Ethel with extended hand. “I hope you will have a pleasant summer,” he said in stilted politeness.

“You are very kind. Shall I wish you the same?”

Her voice and her fingers were icy. Her pride was touched, and she expressed no hope as to their future meeting, and certainly Westbrook dared not. He left the house with a heart that was bitterly rebellious, and the blackness outside seemed to him symbolical of his own despair.

That night, and for long nights afterward, he rode over the hills outside the city. Little by little his life dropped back into the old rut. All the new warmth and brightness faded with the going of Miss Barrington, and he threw himself into business with a zeal that quickly brought “Westbrook & Company” into the front rank and filled his purse with yet greater wealth—wealth which he had come to hate, and for which he had no use.

XIV

One morning, long after sunrise, Westbrook entered the outskirts of the city and allowed his tired beast to slow to a walk. In one of the poorest streets of the tenement district he saw a white-faced woman, a group of half a dozen puny children and a forlorn heap of clothing and furniture. He was off his horse in a moment, and a few kindly questions brought out the information that they had been evicted for arrears in rent amounting to thirty dollars because the woman had been too ill to work. He straightway paid the sleek little agent not only the amount due, but also a year’s rent in advance and rode away, followed by a volley of thanks and blessings from the woman. He did not know that Martin was the landlord and that he came out of the tenement in time to hear the details of the incident fresh from his agent.

As Westbrook turned the corner of the dingy street a curious elation took possession of him. How the sun shone—how exhilarating the air was! How his heart beat in tune with it all! What was this new joy that seemed almost to choke and suffocate him? Was this the shadow of peace at last?

He threw the reins to the groom with so beaming a smile that the man scratched his head meditatively for a full half-minute.

“Faith, an’ what’s got into the master?” he muttered as he led the horse to the stable.

In the days that followed society was treated to a new sensation—the Mystery turned into a Philanthropist. A school, a library and a hospital were under way in a wonderfully short time. Did Westbrook hear of anyone wanting anything—from a toy to a piano or a dinner to an education—he promptly bought and presented it. The result was disastrous. There came a constant stream of beggars to his door, varying from those in rags asking a nickel to bank presidents demanding a million—for “investment,” of course; furthermore, he was obliged to hire two private secretaries to attend to his mail.

In August came a cordial note from Mr. Barrington inviting him to The Maples for a two weeks’ visit. The stiffly worded refusal which Westbrook despatched by return mail threw John Barrington into a state of puzzled dissatisfaction, and John Barrington’s daughter into a feeling of unreasoning anger against the world in general and Joseph Westbrook in particular. The anger was not less when, two months later, Westbrook called on the Barringtons just four weeks after they had come up to their town residence in Dalton.

It was not a pleasant call. Westbrook was stilted, Mr. Barrington plainly ill at ease, and Ethel the personification of chill politeness; yet she became cordiality itself when Martin appeared a little later. She chatted and laughed with the lawyer and sent merry shafts of wit across the room to Westbrook and her father. But when Westbrook had gone she lapsed into bored indifference and monosyllables.

Mr. Barrington was called from the room after a time, leaving his daughter and Martin alone. The lawyer broached subject after subject with unvarying ill success, even music itself failing to awaken more than a passing interest. At last he said abruptly:

“Queer chap—that Westbrook!”

“Queer? Why?” almost snapped Miss Barrington.

Martin raised his eyebrows.

“How can you ask?” he returned. “You’ve seen him—you know him!”

Miss Barrington gave the lawyer a swift glance. Just what did he mean? Had he noticed the change in Westbrook’s manner—his indifference—his coldness? Did he think that she——?

Miss Barrington laughed softly.

“Indeed, yes, Mr. Martin, I do know him—slightly, perhaps; but ‘queer’ is not the adjective I would have applied to him.”

The lawyer leaned forward.

“Miss Barrington, what do you know of him? Did it ever occur to you how very little any of us know of this man?”

The lady stirred uneasily.

“Really, Mr. Martin, I know him for a gentleman, as you do—I might also add that he is quite a noted philanthropist, of late,” she added teasingly.

“‘Philanthropist!’” scorned the lawyer.

Miss Barrington’s manner instantly changed.

“Mr. Westbrook is doing a world of good with his money; I admire him for it,” she said with decision.

“Oh, of course,” returned the man smoothly. “Still, I wonder why—this sudden generosity!”

“Sudden? It’s a long time since I first heard of Mr. Westbrook’s good deeds, Mr. Martin,” replied Miss Barrington, a vision of Pedler Jim and his hospital rising before her eyes.

“H’m-m,” murmured the lawyer, his level gaze on her face, “you knew him before, perhaps—this man they—er—call ‘Westbrook.’”

The lady sprang to her feet and crossed the room to the piano.

“Oh, fie, Mr. Lawyer!” she laughed nervously. “I’m no poor victim on the witness stand. Come—let’s try this duet.”

The man followed her and leaned his elbow on the piano, but he did not pick up the music nor take his eyes from her face.

“You have known him before, then—under his other name, of course,” he hazarded.

A swift red came into Ethel’s cheeks.

“Perhaps—perhaps not! I really do not care to discuss it.” And she wheeled around upon the piano-stool and dashed into the prelude of the duet.

Martin waited until her hands glided into the soft ripple of the accompaniment.

“Then you, of all people, Miss Barrington,” he began again, “should know that this philanthropic mummery is nothing but a salve for his conscience. Admirable, I’m sure!”

The music stopped with a crash.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “I don’t know what you are talking about, with your miserable innuendoes.”

Martin’s face paled.

“Innuendoes!” he burst out, losing his temper; “then I’ll speak plainly, since you demand it! Since when, Miss Barrington, have you made a practice of shielding—murderers?”

He regretted the word the instant it had left his lips, but he forced himself to meet Miss Barrington’s horrified gaze unflinchingly.

“Murderer!” she gasped. “Hustler Joe was no murderer!”

At that moment Mr. Barrington re-entered the room and Martin turned to him in relief. Five minutes later he had made his adieus and left the house.

XV

Murderer!

Ethel fled to her room and locked the door, but the word laughed at bolts and bars. It looked from the walls and the pictures and peeped at her from the pages of the book she tried to read. She opened the window and gazed up at the stars, but they, too, knew the hated word and spelled it out in twinkling points of light.

Murderer?

Ah, no, it could not be—and yet——

Away back in Ethel’s memory was a picture of the Deerfield woods that skirted the lawn at The Maples. She saw the tall, grave-faced miner and the imperious girl, and even now the words rang in her ears—“I’m not the good man you think, Miss Barrington!” Half-forgotten tales of “Hustler Joe’s queerness” came to her, too, and assumed an appearance of evil.

And was this to be the explanation of that ride—that ride on which she had almost betrayed herself only to be met by stern words of conventionality? Was this the meaning of the infrequent calls, the averted face, the eyes so misery-laden if by chance they met her own?

A murderer?

Ah, no, no! He was so good—so kind—so brave! There were Pedler Jim, the miners whose lives he had saved, and the multitudes of the city’s poor to give the lie to so base a charge; and yet—Martin had said that these very benefactions were but a lullaby to a guilty conscience.

The night brought Ethel no relief. The dark was peopled with horrid shapes; and sleep, when it came, was dream-haunted and unrefreshing. In the morning, weary and heavy-eyed, she awoke to a day of restless wandering from room to room. Twenty-four hours later her trunk was packed and she was on her way to The Maples.

It was at about this time that Westbrook’s philanthropy took a new turn. He began to spend long hours in the city prison while society looked on and shrugged disdainful shoulders. The striped-garbed creatures behind the bars seemed to possess a peculiar fascination for him. He haunted their habitation daily, yet he never failed to shudder at every clang of the iron doors.

Particularly was he kind to those outcasts from human sympathy—the murderers. So far did he carry this branch of his charity that the authorities ventured to remonstrate with the great man one day, telling him that he was putting a premium on the horrible crime. They never forgot the look that came over the beneficent Mr. Joseph Westbrook’s face as he turned and walked away.

It was on that night that the servants said he sat up until morning in his library, raging around the room like some mad creature, so that they were all afraid, and one came and listened at the door. There he heard his master cry out:

“My God—is it not enough? Is there no atonement—no peace?” Then there was a long, quivering sigh, and a noise as of a clinched hand striking the desk, and a low muttered, “Oh, the pitiless God of Justice!”

In the morning Westbrook left the house before breakfast and boarded the eight o’clock train for Skinner Valley.

XVI

Westbrook had gone back to Skinner Valley for a talk with Pedler Joe, having it in his mind to tell the little hunchback his life story as that of a friend of his and so get the benefit of sound advice without quite betraying his secret. But the door opened suddenly and Bill Somers burst into the store.

“There’s another blow-up at the mine!” he gasped thickly. “An’ the old man’s daughter—she——”

“What old man’s daughter?” demanded Westbrook, his lips white.

“She—Barrington’s girl—is down there in that hell! She went in with her friends at two o’clock. They——”

“Which entrance?” thundered Westbrook, with his hand on the door.

“Beachmont! They——”

Westbrook dashed down the steps and across the sidewalk, whipped out his knife and cut loose a horse from the shafts of a wagon in front of the store. The next moment he had mounted the animal and was urging it into a mad run toward the Beachmont entrance of the Candria mine.

Again did he face a crowd of weeping women and children crazed with terror; but this time there stood among them the bowed form of the great mine-king himself. John Barrington’s lips were stern and set, and only his eyes spoke as he grasped Westbrook’s hand.

Once more did a band of heroic men work their way bit by bit into the mine, fighting the damp at every turn under Westbrook’s directions.

Barrington had looked at the preparations in amazement.

“How comes it that this Westbrook, this millionaire, knows the mine so well?” he stammered.

A woman standing near—Bill Somers’s wife—answered him.

“That’s Hustler Joe, sir,” she said softly.

Hustler Joe! John Barrington drew a deep breath as the memories of the Bonanza catastrophe came to him.

“Thank God for Hustler Joe!” he breathed fervently. “If anyone can save my little girl, ’tis he!”

“You’re right, sir—an’ he’ll do it, too,” returned the little woman, her eyes full of unshed tears.

XVII

Slowly, so slowly, the rescuers worked their way into the mine. One by one the unconscious forms of the miners were borne back to fresh air and safety. But no trace could be found of Miss Barrington and her band of sightseers.

At last, far down a gallery, Westbrook heard a faint cry. With an answering shout of reassurance he dashed ahead of the others and came face to face with Ethel Barrington.

“You!” she cried.

“Yes, yes; you’re not hurt?”

She shook her head and leaned heavily against the wall. The reaction was making her head swim.

“And your friends?”

“Here”—she pointed to the ground almost at her feet. “They’re not hurt—they fainted.”

Stalwart miners poured into the narrow chamber and lifted the prostrate forms, leaving Westbrook to follow with Miss Barrington. That young lady still leaned against the wall.

“I—we should be going; can you—let me help you,” stammered Westbrook.

“Oh, I can walk,” she laughed nervously, making a vain attempt to steady her limbs as she moved slowly away from her support.

Westbrook caught her outstretched hand and passed his disengaged arm around her waist.

“Miss Barrington, you’re quite unnerved,” he said, his voice suddenly firm. “Pardon me, but you must accept my assistance.” And he half carried, half led her down the long gallery, at the end of which they could hear the steps and voices of their companions.

All the misery of the last few days fled from Ethel’s mind. She was conscious only of the strength and bravery and tenderness of the man at her side. Martin’s hated words became as phantoms of a past existence.

“You—you haven’t told me how you came to be here today, Mr. Westbrook,” she began again, a little hysterically. “I thought you were in Dalton.”

“I came down this morning,” he said. Then added softly, “Thank God!”

Ethel was silent for a moment. When she spoke again her voice shook.

“As usual, Mr. Westbrook—you are near when I need you! If I am ever in danger again, I shall promptly look for you. Now see that you do not disappoint me!” she added with assumed playfulness, trying to hide her depth of feeling.

They had almost reached the turn when a distant rumble and vibrating crash shook the walls about them, throwing Westbrook and Miss Barrington to the ground. It was some time before the man could stagger to his feet and help his companion to stand upright.

“What—what was it?” she gasped.

Westbrook advanced two steps only to come sharply against a wall of earth and timbers.

“My God—the roof is fallen!” he cried.

She came close to his side.

“Then there was another explosion?”

“Yes.”

“But they will find us?”

“That wall may be—” he stopped abruptly.

“Many feet in thickness, I know,” she supplied.

“And the damp—if it should enter the gallery from the rear—” his voice choked into silence.

“I know—I understand. But—we are together!” She laid her hand on his arm.

He caught the hand and held it in both his own, then slowly raised it and laid the soft palm against his lips.

“Ethel—Ethel—may God forgive me!” he whispered brokenly.

She swayed dizzily, and he caught and held her close.

“I—I think I am going to faint,” she murmured. “I——”

His arms tightened their clasp and her head drooped until it lay in the hollow of his shoulder.

“Ethel, darling—only one little word! Ah, sweetheart—I’ve loved you so!”

She raised her hand and just touched his cheek with her fingers, then let her arm fall about his neck. His head bent low and his lips closed over hers as she drew a long, quivering sigh.

“May God forgive me,” he breathed, “but ’tis the end—the end!”

XVIII

When Ethel Barrington regained consciousness she was in her own bed at The Maples, but it was a full two days after that before they let her ask the questions that so often came to her lips. It was her father who finally answered her.

“Yes, dear, you were unconscious when the miners found you. Westbrook could barely speak. Why, girlie, when that second crash came and the miners realized that Hustler Joe—as they insist upon calling that remarkable man—was himself imprisoned, they swarmed into that mine like ants and attacked the fallen wall like madmen! Those that had no pickaxe clawed at the dirt and stones with their naked fingers.”

“And—Mr. Westbrook?”

“Is all right and has been here every day to inquire for you and to bring you these,” replied Mr. Barrington, with a wave of his hand toward the sumptuous red roses on the table.

The girl’s eyes lingered on the flowers and her cheeks suddenly glowed with a reflection of their vivid color.

“He is very kind,” she murmured as she turned her face away.

For a week Westbrook and his roses made daily calls. At the end of that time it was reported to him that Miss Barrington was feeling quite like herself. The next morning Westbrook did not appear, but his roses came in charge of a boy together with a note for Miss Barrington.

The missive bore no date, no salutation, but plunged at once into its message.

That I should address you at all is an insult, but my cowardly weakness when we were last together makes it a greater insult for me to keep silence now. I have waited until you were quite recovered before giving you this, for I know that it will give you pain—and that it will give you pain is at once my greatest curse and my greatest joy. That I should have dared to love you is despicable, but that I should have allowed you to give me even one tender thought in return is dastardly—and yet, nothing in heaven or hell can take from me the ecstasy of that one moment when your dear lips met mine!

Forgive me—think kindly of me if you can, for—God help me—I am going away, never to look on your face again. I was a boy of twenty when I committed the sin against God and man that has made my life a thing of horror. For years I have sought for peace; adventure, work, wealth, philanthropy—each alike has failed to bring it. I am going now to my boyhood’s home to receive my just punishment.

Ah, Ethel, Ethel, my lost love—what can I say to you? I have but words—words—empty words! I can see the horror in your dear eyes. I am not worthy of even the thought of you, and yet, my darling, oh, my darling, were it not for this dread shadow on my life, I swear I would win you for my darling in very truth!

But now—God help me—farewell!

There was no name signed, but this Ethel did not notice until she had read the note three times with her tear-dimmed eyes; then she whispered:

“Poor fellow! He could not sign ‘Westbrook’ and he would not sign—the other.”

Much to John Barrington’s amazement, his daughter insisted upon going to town on the noon train that day. In response to his persistent objections she assured him that she felt “perfectly well and quite equal to a journey around the world, if necessary.”

At four o’clock Lawyer Martin was surprised by an urgent note summoning him to the Barringtons’ Dalton residence on Howard Avenue. Half an hour afterward he was ushered into the presence of Miss Barrington herself.

The interview was short, sharp and straight to the point. A few hours later Miss Barrington and her maid boarded the eight o’clock express for the East.

XIX

Twenty-four hours passed after Westbrook had sent his letter to Miss Barrington before he could so arrange his affairs as to start for the little New England village of his boyhood. All day and all night he had worked with feverish haste, and the time had flown on wings of the wind; now, when he was at last on the morning “Limited,” the hours seemed to drag as though weighted with lead.

He could see it all—the proud new name he had made for himself dragged low in the dust. He knew just how society would wonder and surmise; just how the maneuvering mamas would shake their skirts in virtuous indignation and how the doting papas would nod their heads in congratulation over a miraculous escape.

He knew how the poor and friendless in the great city would first deny the charge, then weep over the truth. He knew, too, the look that would come to the faces of the miners, and he winced at even the thought of this—Hustler Joe had prized his place in the hearts of his miner friends.

There was one on whom he dared not let his thoughts rest for a moment; yet it was that one’s face which seemed ever before his eyes, and it was that one’s voice which constantly rang in his ears.

Again the sun had set and it was twilight in the little New England village. The street had not changed much—the houses were grayer and the trees taller, perhaps.

As he neared the familiar gate, he saw in the window the face of a silver-haired woman. Was that his mother—his dearly beloved mother of long ago? She turned her head and he was answered.

After all, would it not be better to pass on and away again, rather than to bow that gray head once more in grief and shame?

His steps lagged and he almost passed the gate. Then he drew a long breath, turned sharply, strode up the path and pulled the bell.

The sweet-faced woman opened the door. The man’s dry lips parted, but no sound came, for from an inner room advanced Ethel Barrington with a gray-haired man whose kindly face wore a strangely familiar smile.

“What is it, wife? Is it—Paul?” he asked in tremulous tones.

EPILOGUE

It was long hours afterward that Paul Joseph Weston sat with Ethel alone in the library.

“But yourself, dear—you have not told me yet how you came to be here,” he said.

She laughed softly.

“Rash boy! Was there not need of someone’s preparing your father and mother for so wonderful a home-coming? I found out by judicious inquiry that you had not yet left the city, so I knew, when I took the train, that I had at least a few hours’ start of you.”

“But how—what—how could you, dear? Surely I didn’t tell——”

Again she laughed, but this time she dimpled into a rosy blush.

“When your very disquieting letter came, sir, I remembered something Mr. Martin had once said to me. I went to town, sent for Mr. Martin and insisted upon his telling me all that he knew of—your youth.”

“And that was?”

“That he believed you to be Paul Weston, who had quarreled with his father and run away after apparently killing the poor gentleman. Mr. Martin said that the father did not die, but slowly recovered from his wound and made every possible effort to find his son, even sending Martin himself to seek for him. Once Martin traced the boy to a mining camp, but there he lost the trail and never regained it until he thought he saw Paul Weston’s features in Joseph Westbrook’s face.”

“Ethel, what did Martin first tell you of me that caused you to go to him for aid?”

“He hinted that you were a—ah, don’t make me say it, please!”

The man’s face grew stern.

“And he knew all the time it was false!” he cried.

She put a soft finger on his tense lips.

“We just won’t think of him—and really, I’ve forgiven him long ago, for it was he that helped me in the end, you know. Besides, he acknowledged that he didn’t really suppose you were Paul Weston. I—I fancy he didn’t want me to think too highly of this interesting Mr. Joseph Westbrook!” she added saucily.

The arm that held her tightened its clasp.

“He needn’t have worried,” she continued, with uptilted chin. “I shall never, never marry Mr. Joseph Westbrook!”

“Ethel!”

“But if Hustler Joe or Paul Weston should ask——”

Her lips were silenced by a kiss and a fervent, “You little fraud of a sweetheart!”

Interludes

THE rich man speaks about how he spends his money, while his friends speak about how he made it.

You could tell the old-time hero by his medals; the modern one is known by his collection of loving-cups.

The spendthrift sometimes does more good with his money than the philanthropist.

The fact that figures won’t lie probably accounts for the invention of statistics.

A political job differs from any other kind, inasmuch as you work before you get it, instead of afterward.

The miser holds on to his own money; the millionaire to other people’s.

His Cogitation

“WELL, then, amongst others, there’s the man who habitually talks to himself,” ruminatingly said the Pruntytown Philosopher the other evening. “If he does it in order to listen to himself, he is a fool; if he does it to avoid listening to his friends, he is a sage; and if he does it to save his friends from listening to him, he is a philanthropist.”

The Safe Side

REPORTER—Were you quoted correctly in that interview in the morning papers?

Senator—Come around the day after tomorrow. How can I tell until I see how the interview is going to be taken?

An Inference

“MY wife and I have lived happily together for twenty-five years.”

“Now, tell me, old fellow—in confidence, of course—which one of you has had the other bluffed all this time?”