 Chapter 1 Of Judge Burnham's Daughters Mrs. Burnham stood by the west window of the long, low-ceilinged room, looking out into the grim and desolate twilight. The day had been rainy, the clouds having hung low and gray ever since the early morning, and the faint gleams of crimson and gold with which the west had tried to lighten the scene just at sunset had been quickly overcast and gray mist was fast enveloping the earth once more. On the street were to be seen only the hurrying umbrellas of a few belated people and the fast-moving water from overcharged gutters by the roadside. Only nothing in the prospect need have held Mrs. Burnham's steady gaze, yet she stood quite still and looked outward with far-reaching eyes that did not seem to see what was spread before them. She was not alone. A small boy in kilts and curls hovered restlessly from her side to the great, to the south window, to the niche which held the piano where the firelight made fantastic shadows, back to her side again, ever steadily plying her with questions the while. Mama, isn't it time to light the gas? Mama, why don't Sareff and Mint to come? Mama, can you see Papa coming down the street? Mama, isn't it almost time for dinner? Oh, Mama, won't you please not look out the window anymore and come and amuse your little boy? He's so tired. With the last appeal Mrs. Burnham turned, a faint smile appearing on her pale grave face. Is my little boy's tongue tired? She asked. Mama doesn't wonder if it is. You have kept it so busy today. But she moved from the window, waiting only to draw the curtains close, then crossing the room with the boy by the hand, dropped into an easy chair in front of the fire, which suddenly shot up gleams of light, revealing the fair head of the child as he leaned against her knee. His thoughts had taken a new turn. Mama, tongues don't get tired like hands and feet, do they? And they don't have to be washed and have clothes put on them. Wouldn't it be a funny thing if they had to wear clothes? He laughed merrily at the queerness of his own conceit, and the mother smiled on him and played lovingly with the curls about his head. But after a moment it was almost as trying to the child as the position by the window had been, for she'd fixed her steady gaze on the fire and seemed to go on with thoughts which were apart from him. To his great satisfaction there was an interruption in the shape of a quick tread down the hall. The door swung open, and Judge Burnham appeared, being greeted by the boy with a shout of delight. Blooming in the dark, he asked as he came forward and touched his lips lightly to his wife's cheek. What is the matter with the gas? Young gentlemen, why didn't you light the gas for your mother? This to the happy boy, who was promptly perched on his shoulder and under instructions, flooded the room with soft yellow light. A beautiful room it was. Evidences of cultured taste and unlimited means were apparent on every hand. A long room which might perhaps have looked narrow had not its length been broken into here and there by graceful alcoves and niches, carpeted in tints of green which bordered on the yellow just enough to suggest the sun at its setting, reveling in couches and easy chairs and low rockers, and abounding in books and magazines and the late papers. A perfect home room, not stately nor elegant, only easy and graceful. The gaslight revealed more plainly the pallor of the lady's face, and her husband who studied her closely for a moment seemed to notice it. Are you well tonight, Ruth? I believe you look paler than ever. As well as usual, thank you. Her voice was low and quiet, composed rather than cheerful. The weather is wretched enough to make people feel miserable, he said, standing with his back to the glowing grate, and bringing the boy to a sitting posture on his shoulder. And you keep housed up altogether too much for your health. Where are the girls? They went to Madame Reno's reception. They did, spoken in a slightly startled tone, with whom? They went quite alone, Judge Burnham. I was given to understand that such was your pleasure. The husband laughed slightly. Well, hardly my pleasure. I should prefer, of course, that they have company. I had forgotten that this was the afternoon for the reception. However, I could not have left the office today if I had remembered, and since you did not go, of course I suppose there was nothing left for them but to go alone. Mrs. Burnham looked up at him half deprecatingly, then gave a significant glance at the deep lack of her dress. You surely did not expect me to attend the reception, Judge Burnham? The sentence closed with the rising inflection, yet had hardly the tone of a question. The judge turned on his heel with a gesture that might have meant impatience, opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. After a moment came this sentence with a half laugh. No, I cannot be said to have expected it, with a marked emphasis on the word expected. What I may have desired is another question. Has this boy been out today? The boy answered for himself, No, Papa, it has been an ugly east wind all day, and Mama was afraid of my cough. Nonsense, you haven't enough cough to hurt a mosquito. You coddle him altogether too much, Ruth. You will have him as frail as a lily. He was quite hoarse this morning, Judge Burnham. The mother's voice was almost beseeching now, but the husband did not notice it. What if he was, a child has to breathe even when hoarse, and to breathe heated air all day vitiates the blood and weakens the lungs. Get your coat and hat, my boy, and I'll take a run with you on the piazzas. That will be better than nothing. As he spoke he placed the little fellow on his feet, but the child instead of running turned anxious eyes on his mother and hesitated. I'm afraid it will worry Mama, and I can stay in the house a whole week if she wants me to. Nonsense, in a sharp tone now. Get your hat at once, it is not necessary for you to decide these questions. Then Mrs. Burnham's voice, lower than before, quiet and perfectly controlled, don't keep Papa waiting, Erskine. Your little coat is in the lower drawer in Papa's dressing-room, the gray one, dear. It was a heavier garment than had been worn as yet this fall, and Judge Burnham laughed at the boy for getting bundled up like a little old man when he came back presently robed in the gray coat. I suppose you will not come with us, he said, his hand on the doorknob. Mrs. Burnham shook her head and smiled. Not tonight, thank you. I don't like the east wind. It seems to me unusually penetrating. That is because you have toasted yourself beside a coal fire all day. Then the door closed and she was alone. She sat still, staring straight into that coal fire with wide open, gray eyes, staring away beyond the fire, seeing images that drew no smile to her face, listening the while to the boys' merry voice, broken by an occasional cough, as with rapid feet he tried to keep up with his father's long strides. The dinner bell peeling through the house interrupted the promenaders, and at the same moment a carriage returned the young ladies to their own door. A little later and the family gathered in the dining-room. If you have read Ruth Erskine's Crosses, you probably remember the first family gathering in the Burnham dining-room. If you do not, may I ask that you will look up the book and glance over its history, that you will have the pleasure of contrasting the two scenes? A more marked contrast having to do with the same house and the same people could hardly be imagined. Yet I call it the same house more from courtesy than reality. The framework was the same, and the old-fashioned ceilings were the same, but the house had been added to and taken from until Mrs. Ferris, whom you will possibly remember, recognized it no longer as the old place. An L had been built on here and a bay window thrown out there and a side porch added to the south door and broad piazzas surrounded the house. Within windows reaching to the floor and paint and paper and furniture had so changed the original scene that the dining-room of the present, though having the same floor as the one that belonged to the past, had no other external that was the same. A lovely dining-room with the table set with every possible modern appointment and served by a trained waiter with exquisite care. To these things Ruth Burnham had been used all her life. But of the three she was really much less vestidious than were the young ladies, Miss Seraph and Miss Minta. What pretty girls they were! Mrs. Burnham glancing at them across the table could not help thinking so at this moment. Graceful, well-bred, faultlessly dressed in the very extreme of fashionable attire and voluble after the fashion of society young ladies over the last excitement of the day. And Papa, that young pole was there whom we met at the harpers, you remember. Seraph made quite a sensation promenading with him. I assure you she was the center of all eyes. That is not surprising, Judge Burnham said. Grace-stowing an admiring glance on the tall graceful girl with the wealth of reddish-yellow hair arranged with reference to the latest ideas concerning hair, which ideas chanced to be very becoming to her face. She received her sister's charge and her father's complement with equal composure. It was all because of the pole, Papa, if I hadn't been honored with his attentions I should have been lost to view entirely. Minta was the favorite most of the afternoon. Brilliant-massive Dr. Dorchester, who offers compliments much as an elephant might, assured me that your sister is even more brilliant than usual today, and that is unnecessary. The brilliant young sister, whose bright eyes flashed fun and fire at once, went off into a series of graceful little giggles over this ponderous compliment. Papa, I didn't say a witty thing this afternoon. I was studiedly stupid, and they laughed over the stupidest things, as though they were very amusing. I do think people can be the silliest when they get certain ideas into their minds. You see what it is to have a reputation, my daughter. Nothing could be fuller of satisfied pride than Judge Burnham's tones. Indeed it would not have needed close observation to discover that this father was both fond and proud of his two beautiful daughters. Whether he occasionally remembered the frights they were when he brought home his bride, barely six years ago, is doubtful. Men forget so soon and so entirely when it is convenient and satisfactory to do so. Yet remembering, I am not sure that he would have thought it very surprising. He might have looked upon it as an altogether natural and to be expected development from daughters belonging to the Burnham name and blood. Fifteen and seventeen very often give little hint of what twenty-one and twenty-three will be. Mrs. Burnham, however, remembered. Recalled often vividly and in detail the picture of those two uncouth, ill-dressed, ill-shaped, frightened girls as they came to her in the rag-carpeted front room not quite six years ago. She thought of it tonight. Some sudden motion of the head by the beauty, Miss Minta, a motion peculiar to her, extreme in its awkwardness once, softened into an actual charm now, recalled to Mrs. Burnham the hour and the scene in all its embarrassing details, and she did what Judge Burnham in these days never thought of doing in connection with his daughters. She drew a long, low sigh. The dinner-table talk went on in much the same strain that I have indicated. Who were at the reception? Who were conspicuous by their dress or their manner? But the Harper's thought of the entertainment, why the Tremains were not there, and a dozen other trifles discussed with a zest which belongs only to society-lovers. Always the talk was addressed to Papa. Throughout the meal, Mrs. Burnham was almost entirely silent, answering the remarks addressed to her by her husband, only in quiet monosyllables. Not apparently, however, for any other reason than because the remarks themselves called for no other answer. She's being confined almost exclusively to questions as to whether she would have more of this or that delicacy. She gave careful attention to Erskine's wants, but did not talk even with him. This, however, was not noticeable, for the boy had been taught to be almost entirely silent at the table, and he was apparently absorbed in listening to and enjoying his pretty sisters. Before the second course was concluded, Miss Sareff examined her watch with an exclamation of dismay. I did not know it was so late. Papa, we must call on the foresight for a moment tonight. Tremain is to leave town tomorrow morning. I told him we would call. Now, Papa, dear, don't frown. You really must be the victim tonight. Horace Wells wanted to call for us, but Minta gave him such a decided negative that he didn't dare to say anything about it to me. Well, he is such a bore, Papa. I would much rather have you. Thank you, Judge Burnham said, with a low bow and an amused smile. I am not disposed to frown young ladies. I am quite willing to attend you. I suppose, Ruth, there is no use in asking you to join us? Another of those sentences closing with the rising inflection yet spoken in a tone which makes a negative reply almost in necessity. Oh, no, thank you. I will remain with Erskine. Miss Seraph laughed. What a question, Papa. I should almost as soon expect one of the marble busts in the library to go out with you as mama. Oh, mama, that reminds me. Dr. Westwood asked today if you were going into a decline that you were seen so little in society. Yes, and I was guilty of the only pun I made this afternoon, chimed in, Miss Minta. I told him you had quite declined society of late, that was all the decline we knew of. Judge Burnham did not laugh at this, but bestowed a somewhat sharp, searching look on Ruth's pale face, where a little touch of crimson was glowing now. Is Joan disabled that she cannot have the care of Erskine? He asked, and there was a curious sharpness in his voice. Joan? Oh, no, but I do not choose to leave Erskine with her, you know. Shall we adjourn to the library, Judge Burnham? A few moments more and the father and daughters had departed, leaving mother and son alone together. The boy was very quiet and sweet and loving, exerting all his small powers for the manifest purpose of entertaining his mother, and she smiled on him and allowed herself to be entertained. It was when he was settled in his lace canopied crib in the lovely pink room which opened out from Ruth's lovely blue one that he put up his small hand and patted her cheek and said, Dear Mama, did it worry you to have me go and walk to-night? I couldn't help it, you know, and I'll try not to cough. I wouldn't have gone if I could have helped it. Mrs. Burnham stooped and kissed the full sweet lips and held the caressing hand in a sudden strong grass, but her voice was quick and firm. Of course not, my little foolish boy. It is always right to obey Papa. Good night, my darling. She went away from him at once out into the blue room and sat down before the open grate and let her hands drop idly in her lap and let great hot tears plash down on the hands. There must be no tears before the large-eyed boy, but there was no one to watch her now. CHAPTER II Plants that had blossomed Now you know as well as though I had written a volume to tell you about it that this is Judge Burnham's life had not yet settled into peace. Indeed it was so very far from peace that her wise-eyed son, although he was, understood perfectly that his mother was sad-hearted and troubled. Yet had Mrs. Burnham been called upon to tell you her life's story as it had been lived in the past five years, it would have been difficult, perhaps impossible, for her to have explained how she had reached the spot where she now seemed stranded so insensibly had she drifted thither. You remember with what strong purpose of soul she took up life anew at the bedside of her baby, when God gave him back to her after the last hope had vanished? She had by no means forgotten it, eagerly, I might almost say fiercely, had she tried to live the resolves born in that solemn hour. The sorrowful part of it was that her husband had been through no such experience, had made no such resolves, did not understand his wife, and had no sympathy with the desires that filled her soul. His sorrow had been heavy, his anxiety intense, or perhaps fierce would be the best word to describe it. But the moment the strain was over, he was ready to take up life again where they had dropped it so suddenly when their fears came upon them. It perplexed and annoyed him to find that his wife was not ready for this, that a subtle and to him utterly inexplicable change had passed over her. Once more Mrs. Burnham was struggling with the problem with which her married life had begun, namely, how shall two walk together except they be agreed, struggling with it with immensely greater odds against her than when she first began this divided life. You will recall the fact that the husband of a few weeks standing had succeeded with one pleasant pretext after another in drawing her away from the prayer meeting, from the Sabbath school, from very regular attendance at church. More than that, he had even drawn her away from her Bible and her daily secret communion with God. Not suddenly so that it startled her, not consciously perhaps on his part. He did not understand these things, how should he? He did not mean to do his wife an injury. But the excuses were so numerous, so plausible. The influence was so steady and so agreeable, it was so hard to break away from his plans, even when they jarred her conscience. The tendency had been always downward, but so slight that it was only dimly felt. Gradually too, she had been drawn more or less into the world of society and found that Mrs. Judge Burnham had a circle of influence which was more fascinating than any phase of fashionable life which had ever been presented to the girl Ruth Erskine. Then had come that holy thing into the innermost center of her heart, mother love. You remember how she made all interests, even the masters, second to this? And you remember perhaps how closely the shadows had drawn about her on that evening when the little life almost went out? Since that time, now nearly five years in the background, there had been kept up a steady struggle between her Christian life and her husband's tastes and plans. Not that she had not tried to explain to him, but the views which could not be explained during those first few months of married life were much harder to explain now. When she tried to tell him that, as a Christian, she must and must not, he confronted her with the statement that she was a Christian when he married her, and that she had by no means obtruded her peculiar ideas so offensively then as now. When she tried to make him understand the solemn experience lived on her knees, beside what she thought was the dying bed of her child, he assured her that it was fanaticism born of fright, and it was beneath a rational woman to make herself disagreeable to her friends because she had been worried by loss of sleep and the fear of losing her baby into making some rash and preposterous vows. And this was quite as much as he understood about it. How could she explain? She ceased to try, and as much as in her late determined to live her divided life and yet have peace. But peace was not what Judge Burnham was waiting for. He wanted concessions and an agreeable companion always with him in the life which was most to his tastes. As the days went by, it became apparent that these tastes were almost entirely diverse from his wives. Indeed there were hours when the poor wife stood appalled before the thought that they seemed to have no ideas in common any more. She had not imagined that there could be so many occasions of difference, but if he was in earnest so was she. He did not set about winning her as gracefully as he had at first. He had been too successful during his first attempts to give him other than a feeling of irritation when he thought of those days and the ease with which he had accomplished what seemed now impossible. I shall have to confess also that Ruth's old obstinacy came to her aid or to her hindrance as you will. Concessions which she could have made she would not, and when she might have resisted gently, gracefully, she often did it sternly with a determination to carry her point, which was much more evident to her husband than was the reason for carrying it. Thus the breach between them grew and widened. You are not to understand that they quarreled openly and sharply. Both were too well-bred for that. They grew cold toward each other at times almost haughty. They held endless discussions in cold tones with abundance of ladylike and gentlemanly sarcasm distributed through them. They planned in accordance with individual tastes very often when each might have planned for the other. Oh! There were constant errors which this poor blundering Christian wife made. She needed help from the human side, and she had chosen a broken reed to lean upon. Is it any wonder that she made mistakes? Not that they were necessary in view of her position. I am not excusing her. She might even under these circumstances have gone to the stronghold and received grace sufficient. What I am saying is that she had made life harder for herself than it need have been. In other words, led herself into temptation and was reaping some of the consequences. Meantime, many outside influences came to judge Burnham's aid. For one thing, the gay world sought them out in their seclusion, not merely their friends, but the fashionable world itself. The straggling little village to which Mrs. Burnham had been introduced as a bride would not have known itself if it had been shown its own photograph after the lapse of these half-dozen years. The town had received one of those sudden booms common to regions of the country near great cities. Two rival railroads had built connecting lines through the place passing one of them within five minutes' walk of Judge Burnham's grounds and making it possible to reach the city in ten minutes instead of two hours. This of itself had established the town on a new basis. Even with the railroads had come speculators, thoughtful businessmen who examined the river rolling quietly through the outskirts of the village with an eye not to the aesthetic but to business. In a brief space of time, stock companies were formed and huge factories were rearing their walls toward the sky. Real estatemen came, who bought and laid out townlots, and advertised them in city markets, and city merchants and lawyers looking for breathing places for their families came out to view the land and were charmed. So quiet, they said, so rural, so like the country in every respect, and yet within a few minutes of the city. They invested forthwith, and builders came at their bidding, and great four-storied palaces were reared, and the gas company and the waterworks company and the sewer company, and I know not what other company, followed hard after, and in an incredibly short time every vestige of country life had departed. Men who had toiled until their hairs were white over a few acres cut them up into townlots and retired on small fortunes, and thirty trains a day roared in and out to accommodate the sudden influx of city life. And all along the river bank for miles out were rows and rows of tenement houses built for the factory operatives, who had sprung up as if by magic at the first sound of the word factory. Judge Burnham's broad acres, which had belonged to the Burnham name for more than half a century, and yielded respectable returns from cabbage and potatoes, brought fabulous prices as city lots. Job Farris, hands in his pockets, mouth wide open in amazement, stood before two men who were clenching a bargain for a certain knoll, and finally expressed his mind. I am blessed if them two city chaps didn't pay more cash down for that ruthless hill, which has nothing but a few trees and grass on it, than I could make out of the field of turnips lying back of it if I was to raise two crops a year for the next fifty years. Of course, with all this incoming, fashion came also. Not a few from the fashionable world were drawn in this direction in the first place from the knowledge of the fact that Judge Burnham's country seat was there, and Ruth Erskine had been so charmed with it that she had gone there immediately on her marriage, instead of taking a house in town as the judge had supposed she would wish to do. The lady who used to be Ruth Erskine smiled gravely when she heard this, and wondered what her aristocratic acquaintances would have said could they have seen Judge Burnham's country seat as it looked when she first came to it. This train of thought always reminded her of his daughters, and then she would go over again their little past since she had known them with a feeling almost of bewilderment. When was it that these girls, whose beauty she almost felt as though she had created, stepped quietly, even gracefully, yet with an air of assurance, which at times amounted to insolence, beyond her into a life of which they seemed to think she knew nothing? When was it that they began to ignore her suggestions and advice, and go where and when they would, and where what they would? Often with graceful deference to the father, but with an air of apparent forgetfulness that she belonged to the same household. In the early months of her acquaintance with them, their deference to her had been almost painful. It had seemed to her such a pitiful thing that young ladies should appear to have no minds of their own, even in such small matters as how they should dress for dinner in their own home. She had looked forward to the time when they would be able to think and plan for themselves. Now in looking back, she could not remember just when that time had come, but that it had come was undoubted. In the old days she had been sometimes troubled, sometimes annoyed, because it was always she who was consulted, never the father. On the few occasions when she had sent them to him for decisions, they had been so thoroughly frightened as to vex him almost beyond endurance, and she had therefore abandoned all efforts to force a natural condition of things. Now as I said, this was strangely changed. Papa was constantly applied to for opinions regarding matters about which he might naturally be supposed to know very little, but as the two bloomed more and more into beauty and prominence in the fashionable world became leaders indeed in their circle, Judge Burnham's long slumbering paternal pride was nourished with what might almost be called a hot-house growth. He lavished every adornment on them which a fastidious taste could suggest and plenty of money could buy, and seemed to enjoy with daily increasing delight their deference to his judgment as to the color of a ribbon or the arrangement of a curl. The result of their combined tastes was often a picture. Only they had blossomed. The lady who had surveyed with satisfaction the result of her handiwork on that sabbath morning when they appeared in the first budding of fashionable attire looked with a feeling sometimes akin to dismay on the full bloom of the plants she had nurtured. The girls had opinions of their own today and they were not timid in expressing them. Neither were they like their stepmother in their tastes. Ruth Erskine had not been a leader of fashion simply because she would not be. Fashion, even in the days before conscience seemed to her to have anything to do with it, had not interested her, nor had she been a blind follower of prevailing styles, because they were a thing had never been a reason for her wearing it. Neither did she lay aside a style which suited her merely because it had ceased to be the rage. I wear what I please had been a sentence often on the lips of the haughty girl when these questions were being discussed among her friends. I am perfectly willing that others should wear it or not as they choose. Later in life this independence which in less cultured hands might have been somewhat startling toned down into a refinement that aimed to be stow enough regard to prevailing customs not to be a person of mark in any way in connection with them and yet to enjoy her individual tastes. Her step-daughters, as I have said, were not like her. They were quite willing to be marked in the fashionable world. The very extreme of the prevailing style was what they aimed to represent, and if they were the first to adopt something quite new in striking, the more were they pleased. To be described in the morning paper as having worn the night before at Madame Somebody's reception, the first American representation of a recent Parisian style which set off their remarkable beauty in a striking manner, etc., would have been a matter of intense disgust to Ruth Erskine, to the Burnham girls it was a pleasure. Such being the case, you are prepared to understand how constantly they differed even in matters pertaining to costume, and if you understand human nature, you also know that it became natural enough for girls of the type which I think you discovered Judge Burnham's daughters to be, to say at first to themselves, then more openly, Mama does not understand these things now. She is not in society. Besides she was always queer. The Tremains say so. Other changes had come to Ruth Burnham. Her honoured father, after struggling for three years with what was to him poverty, in a way which had filled his daughter's heart with exultant pride, and after one year more of such marked business success as to make any watchful businessman wonder whether, after all, his way had been the best, and there was such a thing as reward of honour, was suddenly called to that reward toward which his heart had tended during these later years. Very triumphant had been that home going, hushing the outburst of grief even from the lips of his wife, and making Judge Burnham repeat to his heart unconsciously the old cry, let me die the death of the righteous. But the desolation the father had left behind him was very great. His daughter mourned for him much more than she would have done in those early months of her married life. With the passing years and the bewildering changes in her own home, she had found herself drawn more and more closely to him. It was not strange, therefore, that on this evening as she sat alone in the blue room, and let the tears fall unheeded on her clasped hands, the outcry from her lonely heart should be wrung from her with a low moan. Oh, father, father, if you could only have taken me with you. CHAPTER III. Sunday morning and a blue sky and sunshine, the rain of the night before quite banished. So were the tears. Mrs. Burnham, presiding at the nine o'clock breakfast table, looked no paler than usual, and felt more thankful in her heart than she had for a long time. The reason being that Erskine had coughed but twice during the long night, though the east wind generally set him into a perfect storm of coughing about midnight, and she had lain awake until long after that hour watching for it. The boy was radiant also this morning, dressed for church in a deep blue velvet-kilt suit with a white collar and a knot of white velvet ribbon at his throat. The young ladies admitted, when alone, that Mama showed exquisite taste in dressing Erskine. The boy was happy over much the same thought that rested his mother's heart. He had slipped his plump little hands lovingly into hers on the way downstairs and questioned, did I cough, Mama? Only two little coughs, my darling, and those were less hoarse than during the day. Then a gleeful little laugh rang out. Goodie, I knew I shouldn't, I felt just as sure. Why, darling? Because that is a secret, and he reached up in tiptoe and whispered in her ear, I asked Jesus not to let me cough last night and worry you, and he said he wouldn't, and then of course I knew he wouldn't. And then the boy was kissed, long, clinging kisses, which had in them an element of pain. Would he grow up to be a comfort and an inspiration to her spiritually? Was this lonely mother to have help some day? The young ladies were in elegant mourning costumes made in a style which Ruth particularly disliked. Still she admitted that they looked well in them, that is, as well as persons could look in fashions so devoid of grace as she thought these to be. Papa, said Miss Seraph, as she helped herself to another muffin, suppose we go to town to church today? To town? What is the attraction there? Being very special, only Patti Hamlin sings at St. Paul's this morning for the first time this season, and I would rather like to hear her. I would rather like to see her, declared Miss Minta with a little laugh. I am never so very particular about hearing her, but if reports are correct, her costume will be something remarkable today. Her cousin Harold says it is stunning. Judge Burnham slightly frowned. Does young Hamlin frequently indulge in that style of language when conversing with ladies' daughter? What style? Stunning? Why, dear me, that is a very common word. So I think, too common to be agreeable. Oh, Papa, dear, don't you go to being a, what is the masculine for prude, I wonder? Seraph and I will be undone if you desert us and get to be overnice. There was a strong emphasis on the pronoun that referred to him. It marked, even in Judge Burnham's mind, the thought that his daughter wished to emphasize the fact that she considered her stepmother a prude. He felt that she ought to be frowned on for such an insinuation, but she looked so pretty, and her eyes were full of such a winning light, and her voice was so tender over the words Papa, dear, that he merely laughed. After all, she was young, and Ruth was very dignified, always had been. He admired it in her, he would not have her otherwise. But of course, she should be able to make allowances for girls, and they meant no disrespect. Those were not the tones in which disrespect were offered. Nevertheless, he smoothed his face into gravity again and said, I confess I do not like slang, especially when addressed to a lady. I would not allow a young man to say much to me about stunning things if I were you. But about St. Paul's Papa, if we are to go, you must eat your beefsteak faster than that. We shall want to take the ten o'clock train. This from Seraph. Why, I have no objection, since you young ladies are both of the same mind. His eyes happened to look into Erskine's as he spoke, and he noted the sudden, wistful flash in them. The boy was very fond of the cars and of the city, and indeed of going anywhere with his father. Do you want to go to town with us, monkey? The child's beautiful face was very bright for a moment, then became grave, and his eyes sought his mother. She was looking steadily at her plate, not even seeming to hear the conversation. So with a little sigh he answered, Not today, Papa, thank you. I will stay with Mama. Well, how do you know but Mama will come with us? Oh, I know she won't. Mama won't ride on the cars today. There was marked emphasis on the word today. A chorus of laughter greeted him, and the little boy's sensitive face flushed. He looked quickly at his mother to know whether what he had said was a subject for laughter. But she had not laughed. She gave him a rarely sweet smile and said, Judge Burnham, will you have another cup of coffee? While Seraph was exclaiming, the idea! And Minta added, You dear little prig, who have you heard say that? Not any more, thank you, said Judge Burnham to his wife. Then, my boy, what is there wrong about going on the cars to get to church? We cannot walk there, you know. The child looked puzzled, pained, turned questioning eyes from father to mother, and went back to his father's face again. Ruth did not know how to help him without openly showing discourtesy to his father. I don't know, Papa, the baby said at last. I mean, I don't know why it is wrong, but I know Mama thinks so, and that makes it so. The trio laughed again, and Judge Burnham said, A loyal disciple certainly, and as good a logician as the majority of overwise people. Then he looked at his watch. Well, Mrs. Burnham, according to this young champion against error, you will not join the party for St. Paul's. I advise you to do so. I do not believe you are equal to Mr. Beckwith's prosing today. I confess I hail any excuse for getting away. Thank you, said Ruth, as she tried to keep her voice steady. I do not care to go to St. Paul's today. Then she gave the signal for leaving the table. An hour later, dressed in deep black, she took her little boy by the hand and went down the wide-flagged street to the handsome new church on the corner that had taken the place of the desolate wooden structure that she had found when she first came. A pretty church it was, outside and in. From the handsome stained glass windows to the soft Brussels carpet on the floor, there was nothing to offend an aesthetic taste or lead worshipers to St. Paul's for relief. The music, too, if not so artistic as that found in city churches, was cultivated and the sweet-toned organ was well played. Rested and uplifted by the hymn and prayer, Ruth listened eagerly for the text. She felt so in need of help this morning. It was suggestive. This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee and manifested forth his glory. This heart-burdened woman felt as though almost a miracle was needed to take the jarring elements of her life apart and set them into harmony. No heavy burdens, so-called, but ten thousand little things, or what in our parlance are named little things, weighed down her heart, fettered her lips, filled her with a steadily increasing unrest. If only he would manifest his glory by showing his power in her heart and in her home, how blessed it would be. But alas for Ruth! She listened in vain for that which would help her troubled soul. The sermon was a well-worded, logical argument in proof of the genuineness of miracles. Helpful, perhaps, for those who needed such proof, if there were listeners of that character. She looked about her curiously, wondering if any habitual attendants at that church had doubts in regard to the Bible miracles. The only one who possibly was skeptical in this direction, as in many others, was at this moment listening to the elaborate music in St. Paul's, and Ruth decided that if he were by her side the sermon would not have helped him for the simple reason that he had not enough interest in the question to care to be helped. As for herself, she had full and abiding faith in the fact that the Christ of Galilee had lavished miracles many and wonderful upon that favored people eighteen hundred years ago. What she wanted was a miracle for her today, in her heart and life. She went wearily out from the church, bowing coldly to the people on either side, stopping not to exchange other salutations with any. She had held herself almost entirely aloof from the new world which had crowded in on them, and hardly more than recognized even old acquaintances who had become her neighbors. The name given to this by many of her old friends was pride, for the sudden rise of property all through that region had made Judge Burnham, who had been one of the rich men of the city before that time, almost fabulously wealthy in the eyes of the community. And Ruth Erskine had always been a proud girl, they said. What else could they expect of Mrs. Judge Burnham? But Ruth's secret heart knew that the knowledge of the fact that her choice of friends would be so entirely opposed to Judge Burnham's tastes and desires troubled her, and she held back the issue by retiring behind her mourning robes. Also she knew that this condition of things must soon be changed. Her very mourning was one of the elements of courteous contention, if I may use such a phrase, between her husband and herself. She had not wanted to wrap herself in black for her father. It was true that she felt desolate enough to describe it to the world by the heaviest crepe it could furnish her. But lingering over the deathbed scene, remembering the lighting up of her father's face as earth receded from him and heaven appeared, remembering the smile of unearthly radiance with which he finally entered in, it had not seemed fitting that she, a Christian, looking forward to the same entrance one day, should array herself in gloom and mourn as those who had no bright side to their sorrow. If it were wise or kind to make such distinctions, she had said to her sister Susan, I could wish that society would arrange that those whose friends have gone without a gleam of light into an unknown future should wear the crepe and bombazine and let us, who saw the reflection of the glory, signalize it by wearing dazzling white. But Judge Burnham was emphatically of another mind. He not only approved of the custom of wearing mourning, but he believed that it was a mark of disrespect to the dead not to do so. And for his wife to appear in any other than the deepest crepe for her father would, he argued, be translated by his acquaintances into a story that there was some hardness between her father and her husband in their business relations, and in this way she would actually, if she persisted in her strange ideas, bring disrespect upon the living husband as well as the dead father. So Ruth did not persist, she let her mourning be of the deepest gloomiest sort, and truth to tell was glad to hide her swollen eyes and quivering lips behind the heavy crepe bale. But as the months passed it was made apparent that no more emphatic had been Judge Burnham's desire to have the mourning worn than it was to have it laid aside at the earliest possible moment. One year, he argued, was as long as they ever wore mourning for a parent. And poor Ruth, who had always hated to do things for no other reason than because they did them, found herself shrinking from this change with a pertinacity which sometimes half frightened her. She could have summoned her Christian faith to the ordeal of facing the customs of society and worn no mourning at all. That would have been a tribute to the fact that her father had gone where they did not mourn. But to elect a certain day and hour in which to appear before the watching world and say, by one style of dress, Now my days of mourning are over, my father has been remembered long enough, I am ready for the gay world once more. On this she shrank so persistently and dwelt on the disagreeable side of it so much that she was growing morbid over it. This was the way matters stood on this Sabbath day, now nearly two years since her father had exchanged worlds. And Ruth, knowing that she must sooner or later yield, still hugged her mourning robes and shielded herself with them from the society which she despised. Then danced merrily by her side, glad that the restraints of the church service were over, and he could have his mama quite to himself. He and Ruth ate their luncheon alone. The party from the city could hardly arrive before the three o'clock train, and would probably lunch in some fashionable downtown resort. Despite the mother's earnest effort to put self in the background and make Sabbath a delight to her little boy, she but half succeeded. The afternoon wore away somewhat heavily to the restless child, and he broke into the midst of Ruth's Bible story with this irrelevant question. Mama, what makes it wicked to ride in the steam cars on Sunday? Ruth winced. She had no desire to enter into minute explanations with this wise-eyed child. Still he must be answered. My darling, don't you remember Mama told you how the poor men who have to make the cars go cannot have any Sunday, any time to go to church and read the Bible and learn about God in heaven? I know, Mama, but the cars go all the same, and the men have to work, and so why can't we ride on them? They wouldn't have to work any harder because we went along. The old questions always confronting those who tried to step ever so gently on higher ground than that occupied by the masses. The specious argument which is in the mouths of rum-sellers and wine-bivers and grown-up Sabbath-breakers all the world over. Surely not so astute a question, after all, since this baby presents it evolved from his own baby mind. Ruth could not help smiling faintly as she answered. That is true, my boy, but if we kept on taking the Sunday rides because others did and because the train would go anyway whether we went or not, how many people do you suppose we would buy our actions set to thinking that perhaps it was wrong? And how long do you suppose it would be before the thinking which we set in motion would help to change the customs of Sunday trains? Deep questions these for a boy who had barely reached the dignity of five years, but he had grown up thus far at his mother's knee and was accustomed to the grave discussion of all sorts of questions. The look in his eyes at that moment showed that he comprehended, at least in a measure, Ruth's meaning. He changed the line of argument. Papa rides on them? Ruth could hardly suppress a visible shiver. Here was the sore spot in her life thrusting its sharp point into her very soul, making it at times seem almost impossible for her to be loyal to her husband and true to her child. How was a wife to answer such a sentence as that? People think differently about these things, Erskine. You know Mama told you we have to think about them and pray about them and decide what we shall do, not what somebody else shall do. Did Papa pray about this and decide? Won't Mama's little boy leave Papa and everybody else out of the question just now except his own little conscience and tell me what he thinks is right? Will Mama tell me this? When I get to be a man, will I think as you do or as Papa does, do you suppose? He never will understand, perhaps, this innocent boy, how his questions probed the mother's heart. God only knows she could not help murmuring and arose quickly with a pretense of rearranging the fire but in reality to hide the starting tears. I mean Mama, he hastened to explain in a half apologetic tone, dimly aware that he had in some way grieved his mother. I only mean I will be a man, you know, and do gentlemen think things are right that sometimes ladies think are wrong? Erskine, Mrs. Burnham said, resuming her seat and taking both the chubby hands into her own. Tell me this, did God write one Bible for gentlemen and another for ladies? Why, no Mama. Then let me find a verse in his Bible about this for us to read. The place was found, and the low sweet voice of the child repeated after his mother the earnest words, if thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day, and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honorable, and shalt honor him, not doing thine own ways or finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words, then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord, and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father, for the mouth of the Lord has spoken it. The reading closed with a long-drawn, thoughtful sigh on the child's part, but the young logician kept his deductions to himself, for at that moment the party from the city heralded their return with the sound of merry laughter. CHAPTER IV Mrs. Burnham was entertaining a collar in her own room. Very few people were allowed the privilege of coming up to that lovely blue room which was the special refuge of the mistress of the house. The daughters understood, as by a sort of instinct, that they were not expected to intrude here, and the judge himself always tapped lightly before entering. Only Erskine was privileged to come when he would. But the collar was a special one, even Mrs. Dr. Dennis, and the two who posed before the world as dignified matrons were when alone Ruth and Marion still. They did not meet very often. Marion, as the wife of a busy pastor, had, of course, her many cares and her almost overwhelming social duties, and Ruth had fallen out of the habit of going even among these old friends very often. But the old, warm friendship burned strongly, and as often as they met they assured each other with equal earnestness and sincerity of purpose that the time between their calls should never be so long again. Still it always was, and there was always, consequently, a great deal to say. So it was, after Marion had been talking eagerly for nearly an hour, that she suddenly broke off in the midst of a sentence with the words, But I really have not time to tell you that. It is a long story, and I have stayed now longer than I meant. Ruth, dear, I came to see you for a special purpose today. I couldn't have come merely for pleasure, because we are unusually busy with church work this month. But I knew I was so old and tried a friend that I might venture to say a word to you about that pretty daughter of yours, the younger one I think she is. Ruth's face blushed a little. The skeletons in her home, if skeletons they really were, were never brought out for other eyes to behold. Marion Dennis saw the flush and hastened her speech. Of course I run the risk of meddling with what is none of my business, but Mr. Dennis said you would forgive because of the motive, and because it was I myself. He has great faith in our old friendship, you see. It is nothing very formidable, only to ask you if you know, if Judge Burnham knows, just what sort of person that young Hamlin is, with whom Minta rides and walks occasionally. Not quite that, either. For, of course, you don't know, but my errand is simply to put you on your guard in time. It was very gently put. Minta's walks and rides with the young man in question were much more than occasional. I know nothing whatever about him, Ruth hastened to say, and I never heard Judge Burnham mention his name. But I supposed, of course, he knew the sort of person with whom he allowed his daughter to associate. Well, perhaps not. Indeed, Dr. Dennis says it is more than probable, engrossed in business as he is, and looking upon his daughters as children, all men do that until they are old enough to be grandmothers. He has probably not given the matter a thought. And besides, Mr. Dennis says businessmen really know comparatively little about the men with whom they associate intimately. It is so different with a minister, you know. He is the confidential friend of so many people, and carries the burdens of others so continually that he learns to keep his eyes very wide open. Moreover, he came very near having a serious lesson of his own, you remember, and that has made him more watchful over all young daughters, I think. I remember your anxiety about Gracie. How did you manage it, Marion? There was a wistful tone in Mrs. Burnham's voice, which did not escape her collar's watchful ear. It said, almost as plainly as words could have done, I thought I knew all about managing, but these girls of mine are beyond my control, and I don't in the least know how to set to work to write anything which may be wrong. Oh! I didn't do much of the managing. I couldn't, you know. She would resent that, naturally. I don't think we ought to expect from young people much that is against nature. Her father had to do the talking. I kept myself as far as possible in the background, only helping with my wits, of course, where I could. It wasn't a formidable thing, though it looked so for a time. Gracie gave me credit for having more to do with it than I had. That was natural, too. But she recovered, and I think she has not thanked me for anything more earnestly than she has for helping save her as she expressed it, though, as I tell you, I did very little. She went to New York, you remember, and our blessed little Flossie, with her sweet, wise ways, came to the rescue. Then she met Ralph, and that helped immensely. The expulsive power of a new affection. I often think of that sentence in one of our old textbooks. It works magic with the human heart, Ruth. How is Gracie? Mrs. Burnham asked, shading her eyes with her hand, and trying to keep a longing sense of envy from appearing in her voice. Mrs. Dennis had very happy relations with her stepdaughter, if Ruth's experience could only have been like hers. Oh, she is well and happy and busy. Their letters would fairly make you tired, Ruth. They have so many schemes for their young men and women, and carry them out, too. It is no daydreaming. Gracie, with her young Ralph, not yet a year old to look after, and her housekeeping duties besides, accomplishes more for the cause of Christ in the world than dozens of young wives do all about her, who are boarding and have not a care in life. Mrs. Burnham sighed. How much she had meant to accomplish for the cause of Christ in the world. How had it happened that, so young, and with so much leisure, she had become stranded? But about this young man, said Mrs. Dennis, stealing a glance at her watch and looking startled. It seems he is very dissipated, drinks even to intoxication, and that quite frequently. Mr. Dennis says he has means of knowing that he has carried helpless to his room three nights out of a week. Is it possible? Ruth said in disgust. She had always shrunk from people who drank liquor to excess, as belonging to a lower order of beings. Yes, it is true. Of course, Mr. Dennis took pains to verify his fears before he mentioned them, not that it is anything unusual in a society man, but then— Isn't it unusual? You cannot mean that it is common among young men of the higher classes. Oh, you dear child, I am sorry to say it is. The higher classes are the worse off, perhaps, if there is any worse to the scourge. But you know— Ruth interrupted her again, glancing around instinctively to see if her child was within hearing, as she said fiercely almost under her breath. Erskine shall never taste the stuff. She looked around, said Mrs. Dennis afterward, in detailing this conversation to her husband, with almost the eyes of a tigress suddenly brought in contact with a danger which menaced her babies. Then you will have to be on the alert, my dear friend. It is none too early to begin with your line upon line, for I do assure you I am appalled at the waste of manhood which is going on in secret. I could almost pray, if I had sons, that I might bury them in their babyhood, lest I should live to see them stagger home. But perhaps that is not the worst of this young man's habits. He is a gambler, as well as a hard drinker. Almost a professional one, at least he uses his skill to decoy others, it is sad. But even that is not what I came to tell you this morning, my dear Ruth. She drew her chair closer, and her voice sank lower while she told rapidly, with as few words as possible, a story of sin which made the matrons face pale with righteous indignation. Now you know, Mrs. Dennis said, gathering her raps about her, why I dropped everything this morning and came out to you. I knew, of course, that Judge Burnham must be quite ignorant of facts and that he must be told. And now I have barely time to make my train. I expected to have taken the one that went up an hour ago. Left alone, Mrs. Burnham gave herself up to painful musings. How should she plan so as to save her husband's daughter from a possible experience of misery? If the relations between herself and that daughter had been what she had planned they would be, the way would have been easy. But now, when she had, in a way which she did not understand, been put one side, been plainly shown each day that her influence was less than nothing, what was there she could do? Her father had to do the talking, Marian had said, with a bright smile and a wifely pride in the reference to her husband, and Ruth would not for the world have hinted to another that this father was not in such hearty sympathy with her views as to talk in accordance with them. Not even Marian, intimate as they had been, should ever know from words of hers that there were any shadows in her married life. Yet all the same she knew that Judge Burnham did not think nor feel as she did about many things. Still, in this thing, of course, there would have necessity be agreement. The man was not a fit acquaintance for a lady, and the probability was that her husband would know how to put an end to the acquaintance. She need not borrow trouble over that. But she shrank from telling him. There were so many things nowadays to jar his nerves and spoil their home talks, it seemed a pity to add yet another. Of course he would be terribly angry. What father would not? Perhaps he would even blame her. Yet surely he could see how little influence she had. Her musings were broken in upon by the sound of a clear voice in the hall below. Kate, tell Miss Sara if she inquires for me that I went to ride with Mr. Hamlin, and that I will meet her at Chester's at three o'clock. Yesam, returned Kate, and Mrs. Burnham arose in haste and pulled the bell cord. Kate appeared almost immediately in answer. Kate, has Miss Minta gone out? No, ma'am, not yet. She's just going. The gentleman is waiting in the parlor. Ask her to stop here a moment, please, before she goes. Ten minutes passed, and then Minta's tap was answered. She swept into the room a beautiful girl in her perfect-fitting dress of dark blue cloth, more plainly made than was usual to her, and consequently more becoming. The glow of youth and health was on her cheek, and as her bright eyes rested with a sort of astonished inquiry on her mother, they said almost as plainly as words could have done, to what am I indebted for such unusual attention? It was true enough, though Mrs. Burnham did not realize that she had said, years ago, an excellent example for this indifference on the part of her step-daughters by being herself quite indifferent in regard to their movements, so long as they were well-dressed and well-behaved. Minta, she began hurriedly, I want to speak with you a moment. So Kate told me, please be as expeditious as is convenient, I have kept my escort waiting an unreasonably long time now. But I do not know that what I have to say can be told in a few minutes. She was visibly embarrassed and did not know how to commence her appeal. Miss Minta elevated her eyebrows. Indeed, she said, the tone being a triple supercilious, then perhaps it would be as well to reserve it for a more convenient hour, since I am already being waited for. But Minta, it is about that I wish to speak. I mean about your escort. It is Mr. Hamlin, is it not? I do not think, that is, I feel quite sure that your father would object to your riding with him. A perfectly foolish way in which to present the subject, no one could realize this better than she did herself. The flush on the young lady's face was brilliant, and her eyes flashed in dignation. I should like to understand you if I can, she said hodlily. Pray, why should my father suddenly object to my riding with a gentleman with whom I have rode every other day for a month or more? And if he objects, pray, why does he not tell me so, instead of? She paused suddenly, for Ruth was regarding her now with a face calculated to subdue insolence in speech at least. Her voice was less excited than before, but colder. I beg your pardon. I was unduly excited in my anxiety and made an unfortunate beginning. I mean I have recently heard that about Mr. Hamlin, which leads me to think that your father, when he hears of it, will have very serious objections to your continuing his acquaintance, and in his absence I considered it my duty to warn you. And I am expected to be grateful, I suppose. Am I to be treated to a dish of this precious gossip, whatever it is? The girl was very angry. There was clearly some reason beside the silly pride of being interfered with which flushed her cheek and made her eyes flash like coals of fire. When Ruth thought it over in more quiet moments, she recognized this fact. But now she, too, was angry. What right had this impudent girl who had belonged only to the backwoods until she brought her forward to characterize the conversation between Mrs. Dennis and herself as gossip? Still her voice was low and controlled. There had been that trait about Ruth Erskine, the girl. She had never allowed herself to speak with phrased voice or rapid denunciation, even when her anger reached a white heat. She had not lost so much power of self-control. I have nothing to say beyond the fact that I have such information concerning the person in question as should make a young lady grateful for a warning presented in time, she said, looking steadily at the angry girl. What your father may see fit to tell you I cannot say, but I certainly shall not trouble with details. You are very kind and very considerate. I am sure I ought to go on my knees to thank you. Meantime, if you have nothing further to offer, I suppose I may relieve the impatience of my friend who is waiting. I can give you the words but the tone in which they were spoken and the indescribable manner that accompanied them you must imagine. It was the most decided rebellion against her interference which Ruth had ever received. Even at that moment she thought of Mrs. Dennis and her daughter Grace. What would she have said or done under circumstances like these? Would such circumstances ever have arisen between them? Probably not. I, a quiet outsider, answer for her, because in the second place the two girls were essentially different, but also because in the first place Mirian had gone to her daughter from her knees, gone with a loving, tender, sympathetic heart and with infinite skill and patience had touched a sore point between them. Miss Minta's hand was on the door knob when her mother spoke again, still in that low, self-restrained voice. I have nothing further to say but I trust we understand each other. The world looks upon me as your proper guardian in company with your father, however unreasonable or silly that world may be, and therefore in his absence I must exercise my judgment and ask you to suspend further rides with the gentleman until you have your father's sanction. I shall not, of course, interfere further than that. The hand was still on the door knob, but its owner turned and gave a look of mingled rage and amazement at her stepmother. Do you take me for a complete idiot? This was all she said, and as the question did not seem to require an answer it received none. The door opened and closed with a very decided bang, and in less than five minutes afterward, Ruth, standing at the front window, saw the blue-robed maiden carefully lifted into the handsome carriage that stood in waiting, and the costly wrappings were tucked carefully about her by young Mr. Hamlin. CHAPTER V of Judge Burnham's Daughters When Judge Burnham led himself into his own hall that afternoon, it was not his wife who was waiting to meet him, but his daughter, Minta, attired faultlessly with a studied regard to his expressed tastes. Even her hair done in just the way he liked best, but with traces of tears on her beautiful face and a sort of childlike quiver on her pretty chin, which was inexpressibly bewitching to him. She reached out both arms, put them around his neck, and held up lovely pouting lips for a kiss, then suddenly drew back and burst into tears. What in the world does all this mean? Judge Burnham asked, dropping into one of the large easy-chairs that abounded in the wide hall and drawing his daughter to his side, where she nestled her head in his beard and cried gently and becomingly. I didn't know such bright eyes as yours ever had time for showers. Who has been bruising my gay little blossom? And he drew her face away from its hiding place and kissed her tenderly. I beg your pardon, Papa. I did not mean to cry. I know you don't like tears, but I have been so hurt today that I could not help it. What is it, little sensitive plant? How did you manage to have such troublesome feelings to be hurt if the east wind blows on them? And for a moment the father went back curiously to the years that seemed almost centuries away, so great had been the changes they had wrought, the years when these girls of his had been overgrown, ill-shapened country frights. And he reflected complacently that their appearance then was evidently only an embryo condition, and that the real Burnham blood told at last. In childhood they were like their mother, he told himself complacently, but as they develop they prove themselves to be true Burnham's. Papa, the rosy lips close to his and the voice quivering a little, I don't like to be talked about. To be talked about, of course not, but I am afraid it is something that you will have to endure, my little lady. Such a pretty face as yours must of necessity attract attention. Ah, but Papa, I don't mean that. He laughed at the sudden sparkle in her eyes, but he did not understand how much a part of her life it had become to be admired and flattered, nor understanding it was he well enough versed in the human heart to realize what an element of danger it was. I mean, Papa, being gossiped about ill-naturedly and blamed for little merry things which have no harm in them. You can't think how dreadful it is to a girl to feel that she has been talked over in that way by people who dislike her. Judge Burnham's face gloomed instantly. Of what are you speaking, my daughter? What persons choose to demean themselves by gossiping about you? I should suppose your father's name was sufficient to protect you. In society, of course, Papa, I am not afraid of what can be said because there is nothing to say, but don't you know how two women can get together and pick a girl to pieces if they choose? That Mrs. Dennis has been here all the morning, closeted with Mama, and I can just imagine how she opened her great big eyes and wrinkled her forehead and shook her head and looked owlish and hateful. She was an old maid, Papa, before Dr. Dennis married her, and she hasn't any sympathy with girls and never had. The armatages say that she made the life of Dr. Dennis's daughter perfectly miserable, and they were really thankful when she married. And now she must come poking herself into my affairs. Do you think I need stand anything of that kind, Papa? Of course not. Mrs. Dennis has nothing whatever to do with our affairs, and her sense of propriety should teach her better than to interfere, even if there were anything for her to try to manage. Nothing could be hottier than Judge Burnham's tones. His daughter had touched him at a sensitive point. He had always, in a silent way, resented Mrs. Dennis's influence over his wife, and had felt more than once that he owed some of the discomforts of his life to the unreasonable degree of deference which Ruth had for the opinions of both Dr. and Mrs. Dennis. He was in no mood to bear patiently with any word from them. Nevertheless he tried to speak reasonably to his pretty daughter. But, my dear little girl, why should you suppose that the ladies spent their time in discussing you? Certainly there could be no object in their doing so. Isn't that a little bit of imagining on your part? Oh, no indeed. I have only two good reason to believe that I was the subject of their talk. Mrs. Dennis was no sooner out of the house than Mama sent for me and read me such a lecture as I never received before. And it was so unlike her that I knew the source from which it came even before she mentioned her caller's name. Judge Burnham drew himself to an upright posture, and the frown on his face would have frightened her skin. I do not understand, Minta. Your Mama lectured you. What was the subject? And she told you that she had been advised to such a course of action by her friend Mrs. Dennis. That is hardly possible. Mrs. Burnham is a lady. Not exactly that, Papa, but Mrs. Dennis had been telling her some tiresome story about Mr. Hamlin. I am sure I don't know what. And Mama said something about it being very improper in you to allow me to ride with him, and said I should not. And he was waiting for me at that moment to ride. I told her that as you had never objected to my going out with him, of course I had no excuse to offer this morning. So I went as usual. But all the afternoon she has been cold and disagreeable. I know she will tell you a long story about me, and I cannot bear to have you think naughty things of me, Papa. And, oh, dear, I am so miserable, if Mama didn't dislike Seraph in me so much. It was put into words at last this tacit disagreement between the mistress and the daughters, which had been growing up so long in which Judge Burnham had dimly felt, rather than realized. He was man enough to wince under it. He did not like to hear his wife referred to in that manner. You should not speak in that way of your Mama, Minta. She is my wife, remember, and it is foolish to say that she dislikes you and Seraph. There could be no possible reason for such a feeling. The beauty sat erect now and looked full into her father's face with those witching eyes. She must make the most of this opportunity, for on her skillful handling of the subject might hang much of her future happiness, as she, poor silly girl, viewed happiness. Papa, you don't know. You are very wise and learned, and Seraph and I are just as proud of you as we can be. But there are some things you don't understand so well as we two girls. Don't you know Mama is jealous of us? She wants you all to herself. She can't bear to share you with two young ladies. It was well enough when we were children, and she could send us away when she didn't want us in the room. But in these late years it is different. And she, she doesn't mean to dislike us perhaps, but she almost can't help it, especially when she is influenced in that way by her friend Mrs. Dennis. And don't you see what a temptation it is to find fault with us about every little thing, our taste and our company and everything? Why, she even sets Erskine against us. He told us yesterday that he could not stay up in our room because Mama would not like it. She had stated the truth, this truthful young lady, but she had omitted to add what Erskine had that Mama would not like it because the clock was striking the hour when he took his daily lesson in her room. Judge Erskine sat appalled before these revelations. Was his daughter right? Was this the explanation of his wife's coldness and dignity and persistent thwarting of his plans and tastes? Was she even trying to turn the heart of his little son away from him? Minta, watching his face eager over his possible thoughts, suddenly put her lovely golden head on his shoulder in a caressing way and let her white and shapely fingers toy with his beard that was now plentifully streaked with gray and set in a sweet and plaintive tone. Isn't it hard, Papa, when you are our very own father and we have only you? Had they had even him before this mother, whose place the young lady was now trying to undermine, came into his home, was it possible that neither of them thought of the years of absolute neglect which that father had given them until the new wife roused him rather forced him to his duty? I really do not think that Judge Burnham thought of it. Men are very queer, men. He had let that unpleasant memory drop out of his life as much as possible. These were his daughters now admired, sought after. Even the famous criminal lawyer congratulated him occasionally on their exceeding beauty and grace. Why should he go back into that awkward past? As for Minta, she remembered it well. She was one of those who do not easily forget. On occasion she could have confronted her father with a story which would have made his face burn with shame. But she had just now a point to carry. Something must be done to forestall her stepmother's story, whatever it was, and leave her free to follow what she thought was happiness. It was not all pride, the motive which pressed her forward. There was an underlying influence that came from a meaner nature than hers and which held possession of her heart. They were interrupted. Erskine danced through the hall, sprang toward his father for the caress which he always claimed, and then delivered his message. Papa, Mama would like to see you in her room before dinner if you please and if you have time. It was a most inopportune moment for Ruth's summons. The meaning look, half appeal, half terror which Minta gave him, did not escape the judge's notice. He looked stern enough to have charged a jury in a case of high crime, but his manner was kindness itself to Minta. I must go, he said, rising, and putting her from him gently. Erskine, tell your Mama I will be there in a moment, and as the child sped away he added, and Minta, my daughter, I hope to hear no more of this nonsense born of over-sensitive nerves. It is quite natural for you to have them. The burnums, unfortunately, are a sensitive race. But your Mama has not the disposition which you imagine. From the very first of my intimate acquaintance with her she took the deepest interest in you two girls. The daughter sighed and looked steadily at him with those appealing eyes. As for this gossip, whatever it is, he made haste to say, of course we desire and will tolerate no interference from Mrs. Dennis or from any outsider. You may rest assured that no other commands than mine need trouble your conscience very much. So, saying, he ran upstairs to the blue room. Ruth was waiting for him with a feverish nervousness which was of itself calculated to make her words ill-chosen. She felt the importance of speaking at once, for from her standpoint this was serious business, and yet she shrank from it with a degree of timidity which humiliated her. Judge Burnum came toward her with his accustomed greeting and spoke carelessly. Erskine said you wanted to see me here. What can I do for your comfort? Nothing for me, thank you. I wanted to speak to you about Minta. I have heard that today which I am afraid will give you great anxiety. Judge Burnum, do you know this young Hamlin with whom she rides and walks? Oh, yes, I know him as the grandson of one of the most famous lawyers we ever had in the state. Why do you ask? Has he been so unfortunate as to come under the ban of your displeasure? He spoke in a bantering tone with an evident intention of turning her warning whatever it was into ridicule. It did not serve to quiet her nerves. I was aware that you knew his grandfather, she said, with heightened color. It was about the young man himself that I was inquiring. I have not the honor of his acquaintance, so my personal feelings are not at stake. What I want is simply to inquire whether you are sure he is the sort of person you desire as an associate for your daughter. As to that, I am not so foolish as to suppose that my daughter is going to gauge all her friendships to suit my individual tastes. The young man is well enough, I presume. Then I am afraid you are mistaken. Really, Judge Burnum, I wish you would give me your attention a few minutes. I have that to tell you which is certainly not pleasant for me to repeat, but which I think you ought to hear. For by this time the dutch had passed on into his dressing-room and was giving attention to his toilet. I can hear you, he called, with his face partly submerged in water, proceed with your testimony. It was not a comfortable way in which to talk. It did not lessen his wife's discomfort. She made her words as few and emphatic as possible. By the time she had finished, he emerged again from his dressing-room. Where did you hear this precious tale? he questioned, employed meanwhile in polishing his shapely fingernails. Ruth felt annoyed because with her reply came a deep flush that mounted even to her forehead. She knew by a sort of instinct that he did not like her informant. Mrs. Dennis came to see me this morning for the express purpose of warning us of danger, she replied. Very kind, certainly. There was that in the tone which was extremely irritating to excited nerves. The utmost his wife could do was to hold herself in silence until he should choose to speak again. Your friend, Mrs. Dennis, must be kept exceedingly busy if she takes the affairs of all the young people of other parishes on her hands as well as attending to her own. Isn't she aware that we are out of the pale of her ministrations? Judge Burnham, I did not suppose this subject would impress you as being simply food for ridicule. Mrs. Dennis' sole motive was the desire to do as she would be done by. I would not question a lady's motives, but her sources of information may often be at fault. There is a great deal of gossip afloat in this wicked world that true ladies would do well to avoid. I am sorry Mrs. Dennis thought it necessary to pour any of this into my wife's ears. I hardly know how to answer you. Ruth's voice was dropping into a still lower key, and she was struggling hard to maintain herself control. You receive this warning in such a different spirit from what I supposed you would. Is it possible that you do not understand Dr. and Mrs. Dennis well enough to know that they would be sure of their facts before they came to me with them? Do you forget that Dr. Dennis is a clergyman and that his profession gives him opportunities of knowing what may be unknown to others? Judge Burnham shrugged his handsome shoulders in a very exasperating way. I knew, he said, that clergymen were rather given as a class to prying into other people's affairs, but I was not aware that they managed a moral sewerage through which all the scum of the city had to pass. Upon my word I should want to introduce patent traps into my house to keep out the odor. And now I am sure you will almost forgive Mrs. Burnham for being exceedingly angry. Up to this moment she had occupied her favorite seat in the room, a low rocker by the south window, but she now arose and, moving a step or two forward, confronted her husband with steady gaze as she spoke. Judge Burnham, I beg you to remember that you are speaking to your wife about the honored pastor of her dead father, and that she will not tolerate such language concerning him even from you. Chapter 6 Drifting A more obtuse man than Judge Burnham was, could have easily seen that he had gone too far. He did plainly see it. He had no intention of hurting his wife's feelings, but his haughty pride had risen against the thought that Dr. and Mrs. Dennis had been discussing his family affairs and had even drawn his wife into the discussion. This, coupled with his talk with Minta, had made him unreasonably angry. He chose, however, to pass it all off lightly. He came toward his wife speaking as nearly as possible in his natural tone. My dear Ruth, don't go into heroics. Sit down and be comfortable. I beg your pardon if I hurt your feelings. I had no intention of doing so. It was your own remark which suggested my unfortunate illustration. Now let us understand each other, as to the share which your friend Mrs. Dennis had in this matter. I am grateful for her intentions, but not for the fact. She should not have burdened you with anything of the kind. If her husband, as a gentleman, has any information which he thinks I ought to receive, let him communicate with me, not send his wife to gossip with you. Pardon my word, my dear. I mean no offense. In point of fact, I attach exceedingly slight importance to the information. Young Hamlin is not absolutely perfect, I suppose. Few men are, but he belongs to an excellent family and cannot have gotten very far astray without my knowing it. The truth is that clergymen live very secluded lives, up in the clouds most of the time. Or, if you like the idea better, above the clouds, in air so pure that they cannot understand matters which are of the earth, earthy, and are very poor judges of what is going on. They are continually given to making molehills into mountains. Their ideas of business are simply absurd. Might do for the angels, but not for mortals. Now, I hope I have given your friend a sufficiently exalted character, and also shown you the folly of depending too much on his opinions. Ruth had suffered herself to be replaced in her chair, and had so far overcome her excitement that she could answer this half-bantering, half-serious statement with quiet voice and manner. I did not present opinions to you, Judge Burnham, but facts which can easily be proven, for I gave you names and dates. I was so far impressed with the importance of them, that I did what I could to hold your daughter away from association with the villain, at least until you should know the facts, even to giving what was equivalent to a command, but it proved of no avail. I am sorry to hear that, Judge Burnham's manner was grave now. Minta should not have disregarded your expressed wishes. As to commands, we must both remember that the girls are too old to be treated as children. Being legally of age, they of course have a right to choose their society. But I trust they are too entirely ladies to often disregard your courteously expressed wishes. Perhaps we must, in this case, make allowance for undue excitement under great provocation. If I am correctly impressed as to family affairs, you do not often notice what collars the young ladies have, and as, in my absence, they are shut up to the necessity of receiving their friends and paying their visits quite alone. Perhaps it is not strange that they should sometimes make unfortunate selections, nor indeed that they should wince under sudden commands. Judge Burnham, am I to understand that you disapprove of having your daughters receive calls and pay visits without me? Are you not aware that they decidedly prefer my absence, that, indeed, they would resent any attempts of this kind as an infringement on their liberties? Judge Burnham changed the graceful position which he had assumed before her, with one arm resting on the mantle, and his handsome eyes fixed on her. He ran his fingers through his hair in a weary way, walked to the window and looked out a moment, then turned back and spoke as one board to death. My dear wife, it is worse than useless for you and me to talk all these things over. I have no disposition to be a household tyrant toward either my wife or my daughters. I would have them all enjoy themselves in their own way if they can. That you have chosen a peculiar way in holding yourself almost entirely aloof from the society which naturally seeks us is, of course, far from agreeable to me, nor can I fail to see that it does not contribute materially to your happiness. That the girls have become accustomed to receiving their friends and visiting them without you is certainly not strange. What else would you have them do? Having per force educated them to this course it would be unreasonable to expect them to look for or desire any other way. You surely know that you have sought your own interests and left them to seek theirs until naturally enough they have done so, and after all, Ruth, it is just as well that we should remember it. You really are not their mother, you know. However, as to society, there is no occasion for grievance on that score. I am still in a condition to be glad of having your company whenever you shall choose to come out of your reclusive state. I promise you, society, enough and of a perfectly unobjectionable stamp. And now, cannot we dismiss all disagreeable subjects and go down to dinner? I think it must be at least ten minutes since the bell rang. So this was the end of her honest and painful effort to serve her husband's daughter. After all, you are not their mother, you know. Yes, she knew it only too well. Did she not know by the loving, clinging kisses of her own boy what it was to be really a mother? Yet what had she not done for those girls? Had they known any other mother than herself? There was certainly in their hearts no idol enthroned into whose place she had rudely come. Minta, at least, did not remember her mother at all, and Serif, but as a dim and flitting shadow. Why could not these girls have given to her the loyalty and attention which a mother has a right to expect at the hands of grown-up daughters? Alas, for Ruth, that she did not realize even yet how surely some of the fault was her own. She had taken hold of duty, it is true, with stern hands, and ordered their outward lives in a fashion that she had supposed would mean fairy land to them. But she had been content with this. Into their hearts as a central force moved under the impulse of love, she had never tried to come. She had not planned to have the sweets of fairy land intoxicate them until their brains were too dizzy to look beyond the new, dazzling outward life, but left amid its glories to revel for themselves what wonder that just this thing happened. I want to emphasize the thought just here that the grave mistake in this stepmother's life even now was in not recognizing and accepting the fact that part of the fault for this condition of things was her own. She did not recognize it. It seemed to her that she had done her duty, full measure, pressed down, and indeed sometimes running over by these girls. Had she not given up the joy of that first year of married life alone with one's husband for their sakes? Had she not pressed their claims firmly and triumphantly even against his will? And how had they rewarded her for it? She could have wept bitter tears, but she did not. Instead she went down with her husband to the waiting dinner and took her place at the head of the table and listened as usual to the chatter of a hundred gay nothings. Apparently Minta had recovered her spirits. She said not a word to her stepmother unless her flashing eyes spoke for her. Their language was, You and I have measured weapons, and if I mistake not, mine are the keenest. There is no use for you to try to poison my father against me. I secured the first hearing. To her father she was all smiles in winning ways, with a pretty little undertone air of gratitude which sat most gracefully upon her. However, to do Judge Burnham's good sense strict justice, he was by no means so much at ease about this young man who had created this breeze as he chose to have his wife think. Not that he credited a third of the story that had come to him. He had much faith in the statements which he had made that clergymen knew little or nothing about the doings of the world. And he should quite expect that what was considered fair enough in the business world might look black to Dr. Dennis. Knowing nothing practically of the lives of ministers of the gospel, being unaware to what extent they are entrusted by all sorts of people with inner histories, how indeed the faithful pastor becomes, in time, almost a receptacle for all that is sorrowful or terrible in the circle of his influence, and by this very process grows keen sighted, he actually believed that, of all persons, a clergyman was the one most likely to be imposed upon. Still, this young man must be looked after. He admitted to himself that it was true enough that he knew a great deal about his grandfather and very little about him. He must make some inquiries speedily. Pending these he detained Minta in the library as the others were passing out. See here, daughter, about this young Hamlin, there is nothing of any importance between you and him, I hope. Why, Papa, how should there be? I have only known him a little over two months. True, and that is not time enough in which to develop a special interest, eh? And he smiled on her pleasantly. I think you cannot be very seriously inclined, and I should not want you to be, you know, with a stranger. Of course not, Papa, nor without telling you about it, either. The girls in our set are very fond of riding with him because he drives such magnificent horses, and he seems to be fond of inviting me, and of course I like it ever so much because it is such fun to have all the girls envy me. That is the whole story, is it? Very well, I do not find it alarming. But see here, daughter, you must make all due allowance for your Mama. It is genuine regard for your interests that actuates her, nothing else. She was brought up by a father who had exceedingly strict, not to say narrow, views about some things, and of course his opinions color all her feelings. As a true lady you must respect her views and even her prejudices as much as you can. The beautiful lips pouted a little, a very little, not unbecomingly, and made answer. Very well, Papa, I'll try. But I should think she might trust me to you, the last pronoun pronounced very lovingly. The father, fed by pride, which was the chief source of his inner strength, smiled on her again and dismissed the subject with the mental determination to look carefully, nevertheless, into this young man's history without further delay. But he did not. The next was an unusually busy day with him in his office, and at the home dinner table, Seraph announced in the course of conversation that the Hamlins were to leave that evening for a six weeks trip to California. The girls had coaxed their cousin into taking them, and beside his uncle wanted him to go on some business they believed. But he did not like the idea. He said the whole thing was a bore. And I agree with him, Minta said, with a merry little laugh. I'm ever so sorry to have him go. He is the only real good company there is among the gentlemen. He is so witty, and beside he is going to send his horses into the country while he is gone. Her father laughed, asked her if she was certain which she was the more sorry about the absence of the gentleman or of his horses. And then he told himself that for his part he was glad young Hamlin was going. It would give him time to look up that story more quietly and see if it had any foundation. It was just as well to be careful about these things, though in six weeks probably his pretty daughter would have transferred her interest, which was evidently slight, to some other young gentleman who drove fast horses. As for Mrs. Burnham, she felt indignant that the name which had come to be associated in her mind with disgrace should be so freely on the lips of father and daughter. And to show you how little progress she was really making in her Christian life during these days, I shall have to confess to you that she said, as she went up the stairs that night, that she at least had done her duty and should not interfere again. No, not if she saw his daughter on the very verge of ruin. She had made an earnest effort and failed. No one certainly could blame her now for holding utterly aloof from it all. I do not think she meant all this. I think she would have put out her hand promptly enough to interfere if she had seen danger and known which way to move the hand. But that she could harbor these thoughts, even when action was not required, will show you, if you are one of those who desire to be conformed to his image, how feeble the flame was which burned in this poor heart. It was Sunday afternoon again, nearly two weeks after the domestic ruffle which Mrs. Dennis's visit had occasioned. Mrs. Burnham was in her own room with Erskine, a thing which was becoming habitual with her on Sunday afternoons. Indeed, the Sabbath had become a day of special trial to this much tried woman, very gradually so that she had not realized it first. A state of things had crept into her own house, which she utterly disapproved, yet found herself powerless to control. Attendance at church had not been a very regular thing of late years, even on her own part. Much of the time either the weather or Erskine's state of health made it necessary, in his mother's estimation, for him to remain at home. And she had made it a matter of principle to remain with him, both in order that his childhood memories of the Sabbath might be sweetly associated with her, and because she had no one in her employ with whom she was willing to leave a child. The young ladies were often so weary of a Sabbath, by reason of the late hours of the night before, as to unfit them for church, even had there been any desire on their part to attend. When they had new suits, or when they could arrange for a trip to the city, or when a stranger was to preach in their church, they could be dependent upon for morning service, but circumstances with them were as likely to prove unfavorable as otherwise. And as the days passed, their rule might almost be said to be to lounge through the morning in wrappers and slippers, and go to the city for a sacred concert at night, if that could be satisfactorily managed. Gradually a new program crept into the afternoon. At first it was a messenger from the choir leader petitioning for special assistance from Seraph, whose voice was worthy of her name when she chose to use it, but who by no means chose to sing often in church. As for being trampled by a regular engagement there, her father agreed with her that such positions would better be left for those who had to earn their own living. Yet when emergencies arose, she would graciously lend her aid, and the choir leader, a very aristocratic young man, was, if the truth be told, quite fond of creating emergencies and of being his own messenger to petition. The leading tenor was also very willing to join in the plea, and when they were successful and there was a specially difficult number to render, what more natural than that they should drop in during the afternoon and try their voices together. This being found necessary several times, it was thereby discovered that it would be agreeable to practice occasionally of a Sunday afternoon in order to be ready for future contingencies, and from singing to chatting the transition was easy enough. One afternoon the choir leader brought young Sherman with him to hear Miss Burnham render a solo and prove what the leader had said, that her voice ran clearer on the high notes than did the celebrated Miss Hamlin's, though she was a professional singer. And young Sherman enjoyed the afternoon and came again, at first with a flimsy excuse of some sort, and then boldly with no excuse at all. And he brought Mr. Snowden with him on occasion, who, if not musically inclined, was away from all his friends and dreadfully bored with Sundays, and it was only a charity to help him get through with the hours. Oh, I cannot explain how it all was. Mrs. Burnham understood only this. If the ladies had said, we are going to have a social gathering on Sunday afternoons in our parlors, Judge Burnham would have opened his eyes wide and reminded them that the customs of the locality in which they lived were not in accordance with such gatherings, and on the whole it would not be wise, and it could have been controlled. But no such thing had been said or even hinted. It had all come about by the most natural processes. And yet the fact was apparent, at least to the eyes of the lady of the house, that their parlors on Sunday afternoons had become lounging places, not only for young, but middle-aged gentlemen and occasionally ladies. This much by way of explanation, it is of one particular Sunday afternoon that I wish to tell you.