 CHAPTER XVIII The story of the riot in which Ronald played so important a part, filled the town and stirred society to its innermost circles, those circles namely in which the Delacys lived and moved. The whole town began talking of the Glengarry men, and especially of their young leader who had, with such singular ability and pluck, rescued the Ottawa's with Harry and Lieutenant Delacys from their perilous position. The girls had the story from Harry's lips, and in his telling of it, Ronald's courage and skill certainly lost nothing. But to Mamie, while it was pleasant enough for her to hear of Ronald's prowess, and while she enjoyed the reflected glory that came to her as his friend, the whole incident became altogether hateful and distressing. She found herself suddenly famous in her social world. Everyone was talking of her, but to her horror was connecting Ronald's name with hers in a most significant way. It was too awful, and if her Aunt Francis should hear of it, the consequences would be quite too terrible for her to imagine. She must stop the talk at once. Of course she meant to be kind to Ronald. He had done her great service, and he was her Aunt Murray's friend, and besides she liked him, how much she hardly cared to say to herself. She had liked him in Glengarry, there was no doubt of that, but that was two years ago, and in Glengarry everything was different. There everyone was just as good as another, and these people were all her Aunt Murray's friends. Here the relations were changed. She could not help feeling that however nice he might be, and however much she might like him, Ronald was not of her world. Well, tell him so. Let him see that, said Kate, with whom Mamie was discussing her difficulty. Yes, and then he would fly off, and I, we, would never see him again, said Mamie. He's as proud as anyone. Strange too, said Kate, when he has no money to speak of. You know I don't mean that, and I don't think it's very nice of you. You have no sympathy with me. In what way? Well, in this very unpleasant affair, everyone is talking about Ronald and me as if I—as if we had some understanding. And have you not? I thought. Kate hesitated to remind Mamie of certain confidences she had received two years ago after her friend had returned from Glengarry. Oh, absurd! Just a girl-and-boy affair, said Mamie impatiently. Then there's nothing at all, said Kate, with a suspicion of eagerness in her voice. No, of course not. That is nothing really serious. Serious? You mean you don't care for him at all? Kate looked straight at her friend. Oh, you are so awfully direct. I don't know. I do care. He's nice in many ways, and he's—I know he likes me, and I would hate to wound him. But then, you know, he's not just one of us. You know what I mean? Not exactly, said Kate quietly. Do you mean he is not educated? Oh, no, I don't mean education altogether. How very tiresome you are. He has no culture and manners and that sort of thing. I think he has very fine manners. He's a little quaint, but you can't call him rude. Oh, no, he's never rude. Rather abrupt, but—oh, dear, don't you know? What would Aunt Frank say to him? Kate's lip curled a little. I'm very sure I can't say, but I can imagine how she would look. Well, that's it. But, went on Kate, I can imagine, too, how Ranald would look back at her if he caught her meaning. Well, perhaps, said Mamie with a little laugh. And that's just it. I wish he were a lieutenant, suggested Kate. Well, yes, I do, said Mamie desperately. And if he were, you would marry him, said Kate, a shade of contempt in her tone that Mamie failed to notice. Yes, I would. Kate remained silent. There now you think I am horrid, I know, said Mamie. I suppose you would marry him if he were a mere nobody. If I loved him, said Kate, with slow deliberation and a slight tremor in her voice, I'd marry him if he were a shanty man. I believe you would, said Mamie, with a touch of regret in her voice. But then you've known Aunt Frank, thank Providence, replied Kate under her breath. And I'm sure I don't want to offend her. Just listen to this. Mamie pulled out a letter, and turning over the pages, found the place, and began to read. I am so glad to hear that you are enjoying your stay in Quebec, fine old city, gates and streets, old days, noble citadel, glorious view, finest in the world. No, that isn't it. Oh yes, here it is. The Dalaisies are a very highly connected English family, and very old friends of my friends, the Lord Archers, with whom I visited in England, you know. The mother is a dear old lady, so stately and so very particular, with old-fashioned ideas of breeding and manners, and, of course, very wealthy. Her house in Quebec is said to be the finest in the province, and there are some English estates, I believe, in their line. Lieutenant Dalaisie is her only son, and from what you say, he seems to be a very charming young man. He will occupy a very high place someday. I suppose Kate will—oh yes—and if Mrs. Dalaisie wishes you to visit her, you must accept, and tell Kate that I should be delighted if she could accompany me on a little jaunt through the eastern states. I have asked permission of her father, but she wrote you herself about that, didn't she? And then listen to this. How very odd you should have come across the young man from Glengarry again. Mac Lennon is it? Mac something or other? Your Aunt Murray seems to consider him a very steady and worthy young man. I hope he may not degenerate in his present circumstances and calling, as so many of his class do. I am glad your father was able to do something for him. These people ought to be encouraged. Now, you see? Mamie's tone was quite triumphant. Yes, said Kate, I do see. These people should be encouraged to make our timber for us that we may live in ease and luxury, and even to save us from fire and from bloodthirsty mobs, as occasions may offer, but as for friendships, and that sort of thing. How Kate, burst in Mamie almost in tears, you are so very unkind. You know quite well what I mean. Yes, I know quite well. You would not invite Ronald, for instance, to dine at your house, to meet your Aunt Frank and the evences, and the Langfords and the Maitlands, said Kate, spacing her words with deliberate indignation. Well, I would not, if you put it that way, said Mamie, petulantly, and you wouldn't, either. I would ask him to meet every Maitland of them, if I could, said Kate, and it wouldn't hurt them, either. Oh, you are so peculiar, said Mamie, with a sigh of pity. Am I, said Kate? Ask Harry, she continued, as that young man came into the room. No, you needn't mind, said Mamie. I know well he will just side with you, he always does. How very amiable of me, said Harry. But what's the particular issue? Ronald, said Kate. Then I agree at once. Besides, he is coming to supper next Sunday evening. Oh, Harry! exclaimed Mamie in dismay. On Sunday evening? He can't get off any other night, works all night, I believe, and would work all Sunday, too, if his principles didn't mercifully interfere. He will be boss of the concern before summer is over. Oh, Harry! said Mamie in distress, and I asked Lieutenant Delacy and his friend Mr. Sims for Sunday evening. Sims! cried Harry, little cad. I'm sure he's very nice, said Mamie, and his family. Oh, hold up, don't get on to your ancestor worship, cried Harry impatiently. Anyway, Ronald's coming up Sunday evening. Well, it will be very awkward, said Mamie. I don't see why, said Kate. Oh, cried Harry scornfully. He will have on his red flannel shirt and a silk handkerchief, and his trousers will be in his boots. That's what Mamie is thinking of. You were very rude, Harry, said Mamie. You know quite well that Ronald will not enjoy himself with the others. He has nothing in common with them. Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Mamie, said Kate. I will talk to Ronald. But Mamie was not quite sure how she should like that. You are just your Aunt Frank over again, said Harry, in a disgusted tone, clothes and people. Mamie was almost in tears. I think you are both very unkind. You know Ronald won't enjoy it. He will be quite miserable, and they'll just laugh at him. Well, it better laugh at him when he isn't observing, said Harry. Do you think Ronald would really mind interposed Kate addressing Harry? Do you think he will feel shy and awkward? Perhaps we'd better have him another evening. No, said Harry decidedly. He is coming, and he's coming on Sunday evening. He can't get off any other night. And besides, I'd have to lie to him, and he is an unpleasant way of finding you out when you're doing it. And once he does find out why he is not asked for Sunday evening, then you may say good-bye to him for good and all. Oh, no fear of that, said Mamie confidently. Ronald has good sense, and I know he will come again. Well, cried Harry, if you were not going to treat him as you would treat Delacy in that idiotic Sims, I won't bring him. And with that he flung out of the room. But Harry changed his mind for next Sunday evening, as the young ladies with Delacy and his friend were about to sit down to supper in their private parlor. Harry walked in with Ronald, and announced in triumph the man from Glengarry. Mamie looked at him in dismay and indeed she well might, for Ronald was dressed in his most gorgeous shanty array, with red flannel shirt and silk handkerchief and trousers tucked into his boots. Sims gazed at him as if he were an apparition. It was Kate who first broke the silence. We are delighted to see you, she cried, going forward to Ronald with hands outstretched. You have become quite a hero in this town. Quite, I assure you, said the lieutenant in a languid voice, but shaking Ronald heartily by the hand. Then Mamie came forward and greeted him with ceremonious politeness, and introduced him to Mr. Sims, who continued to gaze at the shantyman's attire with amused astonishment. The supper was not a success. Ronald sat silent and solemn, eating little and smiling not at all, although Mr. Sims executed his very best jokes. Mamie was nervous and visibly distressed, and at the earliest possible moment broke up the supper-party and engaged in conversation with the lieutenant and his witty friend, leaving Harry and Kate to entertain Ronald. But in spite of all they could do, a solemn silence would now and then overtake the company till at length Mamie grew desperate and turning to Ronald said, What are you thinking of? You are looking very serious? He is thinking of home and mother, quoted Mr. Sims in a thin piping voice, following his quotation with a silly giggle. Kate flushed indignantly. I am quite sure his thoughts will bear telling, she said. I am sure they would, said Mamie, not knowing what to say. What were they, rant, Mr. MacDonald? I was thinking of you, said Ronald, gravely looking straight at her. How lovely! murmured the lieutenant. And of your aunt, Mrs. Murray, and of what they would be doing this night. And what would that be, said Kate, coming to the relief of her friend. But Ronald was silent. I know, cried Harry, let's see, it is ten o'clock. They will all be sitting in the man's dining room before the big fire, or no, they will be in the parlor where the piano is, and John Alec will be there and they will be singing. And he went on to describe his last Sabbath evening two years before in the Glengarry man's. As he began to picture his aunt and her work, his enthusiasm carried him away and made him eloquent. I tell you, he concluded, she's a rare woman, and she has a hundred men there ready to die for her, eh, Ronald? Yes, said Ronald, and his deep voice vibrated with intense feeling. They would just die for her, and why not, she is a great woman and a good. His dark face was transformed, and his eyes glowed with an inner light. In the silence that followed, Kate went to the harmonium and began to play softly. Ronald stood up as to go, but suddenly changed his mind and went over and stood beside her. You sing, don't you? said Kate as she played softly. You ought to just hear him, said Harry. Oh, what does he sing? I only sing the psalm tunes in church, said Ronald, and a few hymns. He, cards, ejaculated the lieutenant to Mamie, psalms and hymns, and how the fellow knocked to those Frenchmen about. Sing something, Kate, won't you? said Mamie, and Kate, without a word, began the beautiful air from Mendelssohn's Saint Paul. But the Lord is mindful of his own, singing it with a power of expression marvellous in so young a girl. Then, without further request, she glided into the lovely area, oh rest in the Lord. It was all new and wonderful to Ronald. He did not dream that such majesty and sweetness could be expressed in music. He sat silent, with eyes looking far away, and faith alight with the joy that filled his soul. Oh, thanks very much, murmured the lieutenant when Kate had finished. Lovely thing that area, don't you know? Very nice, echoed Mr. Sims, and so beautifully done too. Ronald looked from one to the other in indignant surprise, and then turning away from Mam to Kate, sit in a tone almost of command. Sing it again. I'll sing something else, she said. Did you ever hear, no, I never heard anything at all like that, interrupted Ronald. Sing some more like the last. The deep feeling showing in his face and in his tone touched Kate. How would this do? she replied. It is a little high for me, but I'll try. She played a few introductory chords, and then began that sweetest bit of the greatest of all the oratorios. He shall feed his flock, and from that passed into the soul-moving he was despised from the same noble work. The music suited the range and quality of her voice perfectly, and she sang with her heart thrilling in response to the passionate feeling in the dark eyes fixed upon her face. She had never sung to anyone who listened as Ronald now listened to her. She forgot the others. She was singing for him, and he was compelling her to her best. She was conscious of the subtle sense of mastery overpowering her, and with a strange delight she yielded herself to that commanding influence. But as she sang she began to realise that he was thinking not of her but of her song, and soon she too was thinking of it. She knew that his eyes were filled with the vision of the man of sorrows of whom she sang, and before she was aware the pathos of that lonely and despised life set forth in the noble words of the ancient prophet was pouring forth in the great master's music. When the song was ended no one spoke for a time, and even Mr. Sims was silent. Then the lieutenant came over to the harmonium and, leaning toward Kate, said in an earnest voice, unusual with him, Thank you, Miss Raymond, that was truly great. Great indeed, said Harry, with enthusiasm, I never heard you sing like that before, Kate. But Reynolds sat silent, finding no words in which to express the thoughts and feelings her singing had aroused in him. There is that in noble music which forbids unreality rebukes frivolity into silence, subdues ignoble passions, soothes the heart's sorrow, and summons to the soul high and holy thoughts. It was difficult to begin the conversation. The trivial themes of the earlier part of the evening seemed foreign to the mood that had fallen upon the company. At length Mr. Sims ventured to remark with a giggle, It's awfully fine, don't you know, but a trifle funereal makes one think of graves and that sort of thing. Very nice, of course, he added apologetically to Kate. Reynolds turned and regarded the little man for some moments in silence, and then with unutterable scorn exclaimed, Nice, man, it's wonderful, wonderful to me, whatever, makes me think of all the great things I ever saw. What things, Kate ventured to say. For a few moments Reynolds paused and then replied. It makes me think of the big pine trees waving and wailing over me at night, and the big river rolling down with the moonlight on it, and other things. What other things, Reynolds persisted, Kate, but Reynolds shook his head and sat silent for some time. Then he rose abruptly. I will be going now, he said. You will come again soon, Reynolds, said Mamie, coming toward him with a look on her face that reminded him of the days in the Glangary Mance. She had forgotten all about his red shirt and silk handkerchief. As Reynolds caught that look a great joy leaped into his eyes for a moment, then faded into a gaze of perplexity. Yes, do come, added Kate. Will you sing again, he asked bluntly. Yes, indeed, she replied with a slight blush, if you want me to. I will come. When, tomorrow night? Yes, certainly tomorrow night, said Kate, blushing deeply now, for she noticed the slight smile on Harry's face and the glance that passed between Mr. Sims and the lieutenant. Then Reynolds said good night. I have never had such pleasure in my life, he said, holding her hand a moment, and looking into her eyes that sparkled with a happy light. That is, he added with a swift glance at Mamie, from music or things like that. Kate cut the glance and the happy light faded from her eyes. Good night, said Reynolds, offering his hand to Mamie. I am glad I came now. It makes me think of the last night at the Mance, although I am always thinking of it. He added simply with a touch of sadness in his voice. Mamie's face grew hot with blushes. Yes, she answered hurriedly. Dear Aunt Murray. He stood a moment or two as if about to speak, while Mamie waited in an agony of fear not knowing what to expect in this extraordinary young man. Then he turned abruptly away and, with a good night, due to Lacey and a nod to Mr. Sims, strode from the room. Great Caesar's ghost! exclaimed the lieutenant. Pardon me, but has anything happened? That young man now and then gives me a sense of tragedy. What has taken place? he panted, weakly. Nonsense laughed Mamie. Your nervous system is rather delicate. Ah, thanks, no doubt that's it. Miss Kate, how do you feel? I, said Kate, waking suddenly, thank you, quite happy. Happy, sighed Lacey, ah, fortunate young man. Great chap that, cried Harry, coming back from seeing Randall to the door. Very, said Lacey, so emphatically that everyone laughed. Someone really ought to dress him, though, suggested Mr. Sims with a slight sneer. Why? said Kate quietly, facing him. Oh, well, you know, Miss Raymond, stammered Mr. Sims, that sort of attire, you know, is hardly the thing for the drawing-room, you know. He is a shanty man, said Mamie, apologetically, and they all dress like that. I don't suppose that he has any other clothes with him. Oh, of course, assented Mr. Sims retreating before this double attack. Besides, continued Kate, it is good taste to dress in the garb of your profession, isn't it, Lieutenant Delacey? I'll come now, Miss Kate, that's all right, said the Lieutenant, but you must draw the line somewhere, you know. Those colours now you must confess are a little startling. You didn't mind the colours when he saved you the other day from that awful mob. One for you, Delacey, cried Harry. Quite right, answered the Lieutenant, but don't mistake me. I distinguish between a fellow and his clothes. For my part, said Kate, I don't care how a man is dressed. If I like him, I like him, should he appear in a blanket and feathers. Don't speak of it, gasped the Lieutenant. Do let's talk of something else, said Mamie impatiently. Delighted, I'm sure, said Delacey, and that reminds me that Madam was thinking of a picnic down the river this week, just a small company, you know. The man would drive her down and take the hamper and things, and we would go down by boat. Awful pole back, though, he added regretfully, but if it should give any pleasure, delighted, you know. Bowing gallantly to the ladies. Delightful, cried Mamie. And Ranald poles splendidly, said Kate. Mamie looked at her, wondering how she knew that. I don't think Ranald can get away every day. I'm sure he can't. Can he, Harry? she said. No, said Harry. No more can I, worse luck. The Governor is sticking awfully close to work just now. And, of course, you can't be spared, said Kate mockingly. But couldn't you both come later? We could wait tea for you. Might, said Harry, I shall make my best endeavor for your sake, bowing toward Kate. But I am doubtful about Ranald. Perhaps we'd better not. Why, certainly, old chap, said the lieutenant. What's the matter? Well, the fact is, blurted out Harry desperately, I don't want to drag Ian Ranald. I like him awfully, but you may feel as if he were not quite one of us. You know what I mean. Your mother doesn't know him. Harry felt extremely awkward knowing that he came perilously near to suspecting the lieutenant of the most despicable snobbery. Why, certainly, repeated the lieutenant. That's all right. Bring your Glengarry man along if anyone wants him. I do, said Kate, decidedly. Kismet replied the lieutenant. It is decreed. The young man must come, for I suspect he is very much one of us. But, of this, the lieutenant was not quite so certain by the time the day of the picnic had arrived. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Man from Glengarry This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary, the man from Glengarry, a tale of the Ottawa, by Ralph Conner. Chapter 19 One Game at a Time The Glengarry men were on the Montreal boat, leaving for home. MacDonald Vane's farewell to his nephew was full of sadness, for he knew that henceforth their ways would lie apart, and full of solemn warnings against the dangers of the city, where Ranald was now to be. It is a wicked place, and the pitfalls are many, and they are not in the places where the eyes will be looking for them. Ye are taking the way that will be leading you from us all, and I will not be keeping you back, nor will I be laying any vows upon you. You will be a true man, and you will keep the fear of God before your eyes, and you will remember that MacDonald never fails the man that trusts him. And long after the great man was gone, his last words kept tugging at Ranald's heart. Ranald Lad remember us up yonder in the Indian lands, he said, holding his hand with a grip that squeezed the bones together. We will be always thinking of you, and more than all, at the Bible class and the meetings she will be asking for you and wondering how you are doing, and by night and by day the door will be on the latch for your coming, for, laddy, laddy, you are a son to me and more. The break in the Big MacDonald's voice took away from Ranald all power of speech, and without a word of reply he had to let his uncle go. Yankee's goodbye was characteristic. Well, guess I'll get along, wish you were coming back with us, but you've struck your gate, I guess, and you're going to make quite a dust. Keep your wind till the last quarter, that's where the money's lost. I ain't afraid of you, you're green, but they can't break you. Keep your left eye on the suckers. There ain't no danger from the feller that rips and rears and gets up on his hind legs, but the feller that sidles round and sort of shums it up to you and wants to pay for your drinks, by jings, kick him. And, say, Yankee's voice here grew low and impressive. Get some clothes. These here are all right for the woods, but with them people clothes counts an awful lot. It's the man inside that wins, but the clothes is outside. Get them and get them good, none of your second-hand Jew outfits. It'll cost, of course, but—here Yankee closed up to Randall, but here's a wad, ain't no particular use to me. Then Randall smote him in the chest and knocked him back against a lumber pile. I know you, he cried, you would be giving me the coat off your back. If I would be taking money from any man, I'd take it from you, but let me tell you I will have no money that I do not earn. Then, seeing Yankee's disappointed face, he added, but indeed I owe you for your help to me and mine when help was needed sore, more than I can ever pay back. Then, as they shook hands, Randall spoke again, and his voice was none too steady. And I have been thinking that I would like you to have Lisette, for it may be a long time before I will be back again, and I know you will be good to her, and if ever I need your help in this way, I promise I will come to you. Yankee chewed his quid of tobacco hard and spat twice before he could reply. Then he answered slowly, Now, look ye here, I'll take that little mare and look after her, but the mare's yours, and if—and if, which I don't think will happen, if you don't come back soon, why, I will send you her equivalent in cash, but I'd rather see, I'd rather see you come back for it. It was with a very lonely heart that Randall watched out of sight the steamboat that carried to their homes in the Indian lands, the company of men who had been his comrades for the long months in the woods and on the river, and all the more that he was dimly realizing that this widening blue strip of flowing river was separating him forever from the life he so passionately loved. As his eyes followed them he thought of the homecoming that he would have shared, their meetings at the church door, the grave handshakeings from the older folk, the saucy hurrows from the half-grown boys, the shy blushing glances from the maidens, and last and dearest of all, the glad, proud welcome in the sweet, serious face with the gray brown eyes. It was with the memory of that face in his heart that he turned to meet what might be coming to him with the resolve that he would play the man. Hello, old chap, who's dead? It was Harry's gay voice. You look like a tomb. He put his arm through Randalls and walked with him up the street. Where are you going now, he asked, as Randalls walked along in silence, to get some clothes. Thank the great powers he ejaculated Harry to himself. What? And where are you going to get them? I do not know some store, I suppose. Randalls had the vaguest notions not only of where he should go but of the clothes in which he ought to array himself, but he was not going to acknowledge this to his friend. You can't get any clothes fit to wear in this town, said Harry, in high contempt. Randalls's heart sank. But come along, we will find something. As they passed in front of the little French shops with windows filled inside and out with ready-made garments, Randalls paused to investigate. Oh, Shah! cried Harry. Don't know what you'll get here. We'll find something better than this cheap stuff. And Randalls, glad enough of guidance, though uncertain as to where it might lead him, followed meekly. What sort of a suit do you want? said Harry. I don't know, said Randalls doubtfully. It had never occurred to him that there could be any great difference in suits. There had never been any choosing of suits with him. Like yours, I suppose, he continued glancing at Harry's attire, but adding cautiously, if they do not cost too much. How about forty dollars, said Harry lightly, then noticing the dismayed look on Randalls' face, he added quickly, but you don't need to spend that much, you know. I say, you let me manage this thing. And fortunate it was for Randalls that he had his friend's assistance in this all-important business. But it took all Harry's judgment, skill, and delicacy of handling to pilot his friend through the devious ways of outfitters. For Randalls' ignorance of all that pertained to a gentleman's wardrobe was equaled only by the sensitive pride on the one hand that made him shrink from appearing poor and mean, and by his scotch caution on the other that forbade undue extravagance. It was a hard hour and a half for them both, but when all was over, Randalls' gratitude more than repaid Harry for his pains. Come up to-night, said Harry, as they stood at the door of the Hotel du Nord where Randalls had taken up his quarters. No, said Randalls abruptly, unconsciously glancing down at his rough dress. Then I'll come down here, said Harry, noting the glance. I will be very glad, replied Randalls, his face lighting up, for he was more afraid than he cared to show of the lonely hours of that night. It would be the first night in his life, away from his own kin and friends. But he was not so glad when, after tea, as he stood at the door of the Hotel, he saw sauntering toward him not only Harry, but also Lieutenant Delacy and his friend, Mr. Sims. These fellows would come along, explained Harry. I told them you didn't want them. Showed how little he knew, said the Lieutenant. I told him you would be delighted. Will you come in? said Randalls, rather grudgingly, though there is nothing much inside. What a bear, said Mr. Sims to Harry, disgustedly, in a low voice. Nothing much, said the Lieutenant. A good deal, I should say, from what one can hear. Oh, that is nothing, replied Randalls. The boys are having some games. The bar room was filled with men in shanty dress, some sitting with chairs tipped back against the wall, smoking the black French twist tobacco, others drinking at the bar, and others still at the tables that stood in one corner of the room, playing cards with loud exclamations and oaths of delight or disgust, according to their fortune. The Lieutenant pushed his way through the crowd, followed by the others. A jolly lot by Jove, he exclaimed, looking with mild interest on the scene, and with the offer of some sport, too, he added, glancing at the card players in the corner, where men were losing their winter's wages. What will you take, said Randalls, prompted by his highland sense of courtesy, and would you have it in the next room? Anywhere, said the Lieutenant, with alacrity, a little brandy and soda for me, nothing else in these places is worth drinking. Randalls gave the order, and, with some degree of pride, noticed the obsequious manner of the bartender toward him and his distinguished guests. They passed into an inner and smaller room, lit by two or three smoky lamps in brackets on the walls. In this room, sitting at one of the tables, were two Frenchmen playing a cartet. As the Lieutenant entered, one of them glanced up and uttered an exclamation of recognition. It is our warlike friend, cried Delacy, recognizing him in return. You play this game also, he continued in French. Not Mosch, said Lenoir, for it was he with the grand salute. Will the Capitaine join and his friends? Randalls shook his head and refused. Come along, said the Lieutenant, eagerly to Randalls. The game was his passion. Mr. Sims, you will. Harry, what do you say? I will look on with Randalls. Oh, come in, MacDonald, said the Lieutenant. The more the better, and we'll make it poker. You know the game, he said, turning to Lenoir. And your friend, I have not the pleasure. Mr. Roulot, said Randalls and Lenoir together, presenting the young Frenchman who spoke and looked like a gentleman. Do you play the game? said the Lieutenant. A very lethal, but I can learn him. That's right, cried the Lieutenant approvingly. What do you say, Randalls? said Harry, who also loved the game. No, said Randalls shortly, I never play for money. Make it pennies, said Mr. Sims, with a slight laugh. Go on, Delacy, said Harry, angry at Mr. Sims' tone. You've got four, that'll do. Oh, very well, said Delacy, his easy, languid air returning to him. What shall it be, quarter chips with a dollar limit? Brandy and Soda, Mr. Lenoir, and you, Mr. Roulot? Two more glasses, garceau. And the game began. From the outset Roulot steadily won, till his chips were piled high in front of him. You play the game well, said the Lieutenant. Shall we raise the limit? As you lack, said Roulot, with a polite bow. Let's make it five dollars, suggested Mr. Sims, to which all agreed. But still the game was Roulot's, who grew more and more excited with every win. The Lieutenant played coolly, and with seeming indifference, in which he was imitated by Mr. Sims, the loss of a few dollars being a matter of small moment to either. It would make it more interesting if we made it a dollar to play, at length, said Mr. Sims. The suggestion was accepted, and the game went on. At once the luck began to turn, and in a half hour's play Roulot's winnings disappeared and passed over to the Lieutenant's hand. In spite of his bad luck, however, Roulot continued to bet eagerly and recklessly, until Rannel, who hated to see the young lumberman losing his season's wages, suggested that the game come to an end. The night is early, said the Lieutenant, but if you have had enough, he said, bowing to Lenoir and Roulot. No, exclaimed Roulot, the fortune will to me encore. We make it the two dollars to play. That will break the luck. I think you ought to stop it, said Harry. But the demon of play had taken full possession of both Roulot and the Lieutenant, and they were not to be denied. Roulot took from his pocket a roll of bills and counted them. Fifty dollars, he cried, bow! I play him, me. The others deposited a like-sum before them, and the game proceeded. The deal was de laces. After a few moments' consideration, Mr. Sims and Lenoir each drew three cards. In a tone of triumph which he could not altogether suppress, Roulot exclaimed, these are good enough for me. The Lieutenant drew one card, and the betting began. Twice Roulot, when it came to his turn, bet the limit, the others contending themselves by raising one dollar. On the third round, Lenoir, remarking, thus little too quick for me, dropped out. Once more Roulot raised the bet to the limit, when Mr. Sims refused and left the game to him and the Lieutenant. There was no mistaking the eager triumph in the Frenchman's pale face. He began to bet more cautiously his only fear being that his opponent would call too soon. Dollar by dollar the bet was raised, till at last Roulot joyously gathered his last chips, raised the bet once more by the limit, exclaiming as he did so, alas, there is no more. He had played his season's wages that night, but now he would recover all. The Lacy whose coolness was undisturbed, though his face showed signs of his many brandy and sodas, covered the bet. Hula! exclaimed Roulot in triumph, ease to me. He threw down his cards and reached for the pile. Excuse me, said the Lieutenant, quietly looking at Roulot's cards. Ha! a straight flush, queen high. Coolly he laid his cards on the table. Thought you might have had the ace, he said, languidly leaning back in his chair. He too held a straight flush, but with the king. Roulot gazed, thunderstruck. More dur, he exclaimed excitedly. The deal was from you. Mine, said Delacy quietly, looking up at the excited Frenchman. Ha! cried Roulot beside himself. It is what you call one cheat. Cheat! The Lieutenant sat up straight in his chair. Do you mean that I cheated you? he said with slow emphasis. Beware what you say. Wee! cried the Frenchman. Sacré, so I mean! Before the words had well left his lips and before anyone could interfere, Delacy shot out his arm, lifted the Frenchman clear off his feet, and hurled him to the floor. Stop, you coward! Reynolds stood before the Lieutenant with eyes blazing and breath coming quick. Coward? said Delacy slowly. You hit a man unprepared. You are prepared, I suppose, replied Delacy deliberately. Yes, yes, cried Reynolds eagerly the glad light of battle coming into his eyes. Good! said Delacy, slowly putting back his chair and proceeding to remove his coat. Glangari! cried Lenoir, raising the battle cry he had caused to remember so well, and flinging off his coat upon the floor he patted Reynolds on the back, yelling, Go in, bully-boy! Shut the door, Lenoir, said Reynolds quickly, and keep it shut. Delacy cried Harry, this must not go on. Reynolds, think what you were doing. You didn't notice his remark, apparently, Sinclair, said the Lieutenant calmly. Never mind, cried Harry, he was excited in any way. The thing must end here. There is only one way. Does he retract? said Delacy quietly. Reynolds Harry cried beseechingly. You know he is no coward. You did not mean that. By this time Reynolds had himself in hand. No, he said regretfully, forcing himself to speak the truth. I know he is no coward. I have seen him where no coward would be. But, he added, he struck a man unguarded, and that was a coward's blow. MacDonald said Delacy deliberately. You are right. True, he called me a cheat, but I should have given him time. Still, he added, rolling up his sleeves, I hope you will not deprive yourself or me of the privilege of settling this little business. I will be glad, said Reynolds, his eyes once more lighting up. Very glad indeed, if you wish. Nonsense cried Harry passionately. I tell you I will not have it. He has given you ample apology, Delacy, and you, Reynolds, I thought a MacDonald never fought except for sufficient cause. Harry remembered the fighting rule of the MacDonald gang. That is true, said Reynolds gravely, but it was a cruel blow, pointing to Roulot, who, supported by Lenoir, was sitting on a chair, his face badly cut and bleeding, and that too after taking from him the wages of six months in the bush. I suppose you admit the game was fair, said the lieutenant, moving nearer to Reynolds, the threat in his tone evident to all. The game was fair, said Reynolds, facing Delacy, but I will say the lad was no fair match for you. He chose to risk his money which you were not willing to do. Delacy felt that he was being put in an unpleasant light, and was determined to anger Reynolds beyond control. Reynolds caught the sneer. If I did not play, he cried hotly, it was for no fear of you or any of you, it was no man's game whatever, he continued contemptuously. Now Delacy cried Harry again, let this stop, the man who fights will first fight me. Perhaps Mr. McDonald would show us how the game should be played, said Mr. Sims, coming as near to a sneer as he dared. It would not be hard to show you this game, said Reynolds, ignoring Mr. Sims, and looking the lieutenant in the eyes, or perhaps the other. Good! cried Harry, gladly seizing the opportunity of averting a fight. The game, take your place, gentlemen. The lieutenant hesitated for a moment as if uncertain what to do. Then with a slight laugh he said, very well, one thing at a time, the other can wait. Come on, cried Harry, who goes in? Lenoir, you? Lenoir looked at Reynolds. What's your say? No, said Reynolds shortly, this is my game. With that he turned aside from the table and spoke a few words in a low tone to Lenoir, who assisted Roulot from the room, and after some minutes absence returned with a little linen bag. Reynolds took the bag and began to count out some money upon the table before him. I will play to one hundred dollars, he said. The lieutenant and Mr. Sims each laid the same amount before them upon the table. I have not so much on me, said Harry, but perhaps my IOU will do. What shall we say, said Mr. Sims, a dollar to play and five dollars limit? Say five and twenty-five, said Deleysi, who was commanding himself with a great effort. Is that too high, said Harry, looking toward Reynolds? No, said Reynolds, the higher the better. It was soon evident that Reynolds knew the game. He had learned it during the long winter nights in the shanty from Yankee, who was a master at it, and he played it warily and with iron nerve. He seemed to know us by instinct when to retreat and when to pursue, and he played with the single purpose of bleeding the lieutenant dry. Often did he refuse to take toll of Harry or Mr. Sims when opportunity offered, but never once did he allow the lieutenant to escape. You flatter me, said the lieutenant sarcastically, as Reynolds' purpose became increasingly clear. I will have from you all you have won, replied Reynolds in a tone of such settled resolve that it seemed if nothing could prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. In vain the lieutenant sought to brace his nerves with his brandy and sodas. He played now recklessly and again with overcaution, while Reynolds, taking advantage of every slip and every sign of weakness, followed him with relentless determination. With such stakes the game was soon over. It was not long before the lieutenant was stripped of his hundred, while Harry and Mr. Sims had each lost smaller amounts. You will try another hundred, said the lieutenant, burning to get revenge. Without a word Reynolds laid down his hundred. The others did likewise, and once more the game proceeded. There was no change in Reynolds' play. Thorough knowledge of the game, absolute self-command, an instinctive reading of his opponent's mind, and unswerving purpose, soon brought about the only result possible. The lieutenant's second hundred, with a part of Harry's and Mr. Sims's, passed into Reynolds' possession. A game Delacy challenged to play. No, said Reynolds, I have done. He put back into his linen bag his one hundred dollars, counted out two hundred, and gave it to Lenoir, saying that is Roulos, and threw the rest upon the table. I want no man's money, he said, that I do not earn. The lieutenant sprang to his feet. Hold, he cried, you forget there is something else. No, said Reynolds, as Harry and Mr. Sims put themselves in Delacy's way, there is nothing else to-night. Another day, and any day you wish, you can have the other game. And with that he passed out of the room. End of chapter 19 Chapter 20 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. The Man from Glen Gary, A Tale of the Ottawa, by Ralph Conner Chapter 20 Her Clinging Arms The ancient capital of Canada, the old grey queen of the mighty St. Lawrence, is a city of many charms and of much stately beauty. Its narrow climbing streets with their quaint shops and curious gables, its old market with chaffering habitat farmers and their wives, are full of living interest, its noble rock crowned with the ancient citadel, and its sweeping tidal river lend it a dignity and majestic beauty that no other city knows. And everywhere about its citadel and walls and venerable sacred buildings, there still linger the romance and chivalry of heroic days long gone. But there are times when neither the interests of the living present nor the charms of the romantic past can avail, and so a shadow lay upon Mimi's beautiful face as she sat in the parlor of the Hotel de Cheval Blanc, looking out upon the mighty streets and the huddled roofs of the lower town. She held in her hand an open note. It is just awfully stupid, she grumbled, and I think pretty mean of him. Of whom, may I ask, said Kate, pausing in her singing? Or is there any need? What says the gallant lieutenant? Mimi tossed her the note. The picnic is postponed. Well, of course, the rain told us that, and he is unavoidably prevented from calling and entreats your sympathy and commiseration. Well, that's a very nice note, I am sure. Where has he been these three days? He might have known it would be stupid, and Harry is no one's satisfaction. Mimi was undeniably cross, and Ranald, too, she went on. Where has he been? Not even your music could bring him, with a little spice of spite. I think men are just horrid anyway. Especially when they will keep away, said Kate. Well, what are they good for if not to entertain us? I wish we could do without them, but I do think Ranald might have come. Well, said Kate emphatically, I can't see why you should expect him. Why not? I think you ought to know. I, how should I know? Mimi's innocent blue eyes were wide open with surprise. Nonsense cried Kate with impatience rare in her. Don't be absurd, Mimi. I am not a child. What do you mean? You needn't tell me you don't know why Ranald comes. Do you want him to come? Why, of course I do. How silly you are. Well, said Kate deliberately, I would rather be silly than cruel and unkind. Why, Kate, how dreadful of you, exclaimed Mimi, cruel and unkind. Yes, said Kate, you are not treating Ranald well. You should not encourage him to, to care for you when you do not mean to, to go on with it. Oh, what nonsense! Ranald is not a baby. He will not take any hurt. Oh, Mimi, said Kate, and her voice was low and earnest. Ranald is not like other men. He does not understand things. He loves you, and he will love you more every day if you let him. Why don't you let him go? Let him go, cried Mimi. Who's keeping him? But as she spoke, the flush in her cheek and the warm light in her eye told more clearly than words that she did not mean to let him go just then. You are, said Kate, and you are making him love you. Why, how silly you are, cried Mimi. Of course he likes me, but no, Mimi, said Kate, with sad earnestness. He loves you. You can see it in the way he looks at you, in his voice when he speaks, and oh, you shouldn't let him unless you mean to, to go on. Send him right away. There were tears in Kate's dark eyes. Why, Kate, he cried Mimi, looking at her curiously. What difference does it make to you? And besides, how can I send him away? I just treat him as I do, Mr. Delacy. Delacy cried Kate indignantly. Delacy can look after himself, but Ranald is different. He is so serious and so honest, and he means just what he says, and you are so nice to him, and you look at him in such a way. Why, Kate, do you mean that I try to? Mimi was righteously indignant. You perhaps don't know, continued Kate, but you can't help being fascinating to men. You know you are, and Ranald believes you so, and you ought to be quite straightforward with him. Poor Kate could no longer command her voice. There now, said Mimi, caressing her friend, not unpleased with Kate's description of her. I'm going to be good. I will just be horrid to both of them, and they'll go away. But oh, dear, things are all wrong. Poor Ranald, she said to herself, I wonder if he will come to the picnic on Saturday. Kate looked at her friend a moment and wiped away her tears. Indeed, I hope he will not, she said indignantly, for I know you mean to just lead him on. I have a mind to tell him. Tell him what? said Mimi, smiling. Just what you mean to do. I wish she would tell me that. Now I tell you, Mimi, said Kate, if you go on with Ranald so, any longer, I will just tell him you are playing with him. Do, said Mamie scornfully, and be careful to make clear to him at the same time that you are speaking solely in his interest. Kate's face flushed red at the insinuation, and then grew pale. She stood for some time looking in silence at her friend, and then with a proud flash of her dark eyes, she swept from the room without a word. Nor did Mamie see her again that afternoon, though she stood outside her door in treating with tears to be forgiven. Poor Kate, Mamie's shaft had gone too near a vital spot, and the wound amazed and terrified her. Was it for Ranald's sake alone, she cared? Yes, surely it was. Then why this sharp new pain under the hand pressing hard upon her heart? Oh, what did that mean? She put her face in her pillow to hide the red that she knew was flaming in her cheeks, and for a few moments gave herself up to the joy that was flooding her whole heart and soul and all her tingling veins. Oh, how happy she was! For long she had heard of the glengarry lead from Mamie and more from Harry till there had grown up in her heart a warm, admiring interest. And now she had come to know him for herself. How little after all had they told her of him! What a man he was! How strong and how fearless! How true-hearted and how his eyes could fill with love! She started up. Love. Love? Ah, where was her joy? How chill the day had grown, and how hateful the sunlight on the river. She drew down the blind and threw herself once more upon the bed, shivering and sick with pain, the bitterest that heart can know. Once more she started up. She is not worthy of him, she exclaimed aloud. Her heart is not deep enough. She does not, cannot love him. And oh, if someone would only let him know. She would tell him herself. No, no. Mamie's sharp arrow was quivering still in her heart. Once more she threw herself upon the bed. How could she bear this that had stricken her? She would go home. She would go to her mother tomorrow, go away forever from— Ah, could she? No, anything but that. She could not go away. Over the broad river the warm sunlight lay with kindly glow, and the world was full of the soft, sweet air of spring and the songs of mating birds. But the hours passed, and over the river the shadows began to creep, and the whole world grew dark, and the songs of the birds were hushed to silence. Then from her room Kate came down, with face serene, and but for the eyes that somehow made one think of tears, without a sign of the storm that had swept her soul. She did not go home. She was too brave for that. She would stay and fight her battle to the end. That was a dreary week for Ronald. He was lonely and heart-sick for the woods, and for his home and friends, but chiefly was he oppressed with the sense of having played the fool in his quarrel with Delacy, whom he was beginning to admire and like. He surely might have avoided that, and yet whenever he thought of the game that had swept away from Ruloh all his winter's earnings, and of the cruel blow that had followed, he felt his muscles stiffen and his teeth set tight in rage. No, he would do it all again, nor would he retreat one single step from the position he had taken, but would see his quarrel through to the end. But worst of all, he had not seen Mamie all the week. His experience with Harry in the ordering of his suit had taught him the importance of clothes, and he now understood as he could not before Mamie's manner to him. That would be it, he said to himself, and no wonder what would she do with a great coarse tyke like me. Then, in spite of all his loyalty, he could not help contrasting with Mamie's uncertain and doubtful treatment of him, the warm frank friendliness of Kate. She did not mind my clothes, he thought, with a glow of gratitude, but sharply checking himself, he added, but why should she care? It rather pleased him to think that Mamie cared enough to feel embarrassed at his rough dress. So he kept away from the Hotel de Chevelle Blanc till his new suit should be ready. It was not because of his dress, however, that he steadily refused Harry's invitation to the picnic. No, I will not go, he said, with blunt decision after listening to Harry's pleading, it is Lieutenant de Lazy's picnic and I will have nothing to do with him, and indeed he will not be wanting me. Oh, he's forgotten all about that little affair, cried Harry. Has he? Indeed, then, if he is a man he has not. I guess he hasn't remembered much of anything for the last week, said Harry, with a slight laugh. Why not? Oh, Shaw, he's been on a big tear, he only sobered up yesterday. Huh! grunted Reynolds contemptuously. He had little respect for a man who did not know when he had had enough. What about his job? he asked. His job? Oh, I see. His job doesn't worry him much. He's absent on sick leave. But he's all fit again, and I know he will be disappointed if you do not come tomorrow. I will not go, said Reynolds, with final decision, and you can tell him so, and you can tell him why. And Harry did tell him with considerable fullness and emphasis not only of Reynolds' decision, but also Reynolds' opinion of him, for he felt that it would do that lordly young man no harm to know that a man whom he was inclined to patronize held him in contempt and for cause. The lieutenant listened for a time to all Harry had to say with apparent indifference. Then suddenly interrupting him he said, Oh, I say, old chap, I wouldn't rub it in if I were you. I have a more or less vague remembrance of having rather indulged in heroics. One can't keep his head with poker and unlimited brandy and sodas, they don't go together. It's a thing I almost never do, never in a big game, but the thing got interesting before I knew. But I say that glengarry chap plays a mighty good game. Must get him on again. Feels hot, eh? I will make that all right, and what's the French chap's name? Boileau Rondeau Roulot. Yes, and where could one see him? I can find it from Lenoir, who will be somewhere near Ronald. You can't get him away from him. Well, do, said the lieutenant lazily, bring Lenoir to see me. I owe that Roulot chap an apology, beastly business, and I'll fix it up with McDonald. He has the right of it by chauve. Rather lucky I fancy he didn't yield to my solicitations for a try at the other game, from what I remember of the street riot, eh? Would not mind having a go at him with the gloves, though. I will see him tomorrow morning. Keep your mind at rest. Next morning, when Lenoir came to his work, he was full of the lieutenant's praises to Ronald. That's fine, feller le capitaine, eh? That's de grand senior for sure. He's mackied all right with Roulot. He's paid a cash money and he's mackied de good position for him, and set him up de champagne, too, by car. Ha! grunted Ronald. Run that crib around the boom there, Lenoir. Break it up and keep your gang moving to-day. Oh! said Lenoir with alacrity. I give him de big move, me. But however unwilling Ronald was to listen to Lenoir singing the lieutenant's praises, when he met Harry at noon in the office, he was even more enthusiastic than Lenoir in his admiration of Delacy. I never saw the likes of him, he said. He could bring the birds out of the trees with that tongue of his. Indeed, I could not have done what he did whatever. Man, but he is a gentleman. And are you going this evening? That I am, said Ronald. What else could I do? I could not help myself. He made me feel that mean that I was ready to do anything. All right, said Harry, delighted. I will take my canoe around for you after six. And, continued Ronald with a little hesitation, he told me he would be wearing a jersey and duck trousers, and I think that was very fine of him. Why, of course, said Harry, quite mystified. What else would he wear? Ronald looked at him curiously for a moment and said, a swallow-tail perhaps, or a blanket, maybe? And he turned away, leaving Harry more mystified than ever. Soon after six Harry paddled around in his canoe and gave the stern to Ronald. What a joy it was to him to be in a canoe stern again, to feel the rush of the water under his knees, to have her glide swiftly on her soundless way down the full bosomed sun-bathed river, to see her put her nose into the little waves and gently, smoothly push them asunder with never a splash or swerve, to send her along straight and true as an arrow in its flight, and then flip-flip to swing her off a floating log or around an awkward boat lumbering with clumsy oars. That was to be alive again. Oh, the joy of it! Of all things that move to the will of man, there is none like the canoe. It alone has the sweet smooth glide, the swift silent dart answering the paddle sweep, the quick swerve in response to the turn of the wrist. Ronald felt as if he could have gladly paddled on right out to the open sea, but sweeping around a bend a long clear call hailed them, and there, far down at the bottom of a little bay at the foot of the big scarred and wrinkled rock, the smoke and glimmer of the campfire could be seen. A flip of the stern paddle and the canoe pointed for the waving figure, and under the rhythmic sweep of the paddles sped like an arrow down the waters, sloping to the shore. There, on a great rock, stood Kate directing their course. Here's a good landing, she cried. Right at the dock dashed the canoe at full speed. A moment more, and her dainty nose would be battered out of all shape on the cruel rock, but a strong back stroke, a turn of the wrist, flip, and she lay floating quietly beside the rock. Splendid cried Kate. Well done by Jove, exclaimed the lieutenant, who was himself an expert with the paddle. I suppose you have no idea how fine you look, cried Kate. And I am quite sure, answered Harry, you have no suspicion of what a beautiful picture you all make. And a beautiful picture it was. The great rocky cliff in the background tricked out in its new spring-green of moss and shrub and tree, the grassy plot at its foot where a little stream gurgled out from the rock, the blazing campfire with the little group about it, and in front the sunlit river. How happy they all were, and how ready to please, and to be pleased, even little Mr. Sims had his charm. And at the making of the tea which Kate had taken in charge, with Ronald's superintending, what fun there was with burning of fingers and upsetting of kettles. And then the talk and the laughter at the lieutenant's brilliant jokes, and the chaffing of the lumbermen over their voracious appetites. It was an hour of never-to-be-forgotten pleasure. They were all children again, and with children's hearts were happy in childhood's simple joys. And why not? There are no joys purer than those of the open air, of grass and trees flooded with the warm light and sweet sense of the soft springtime. Too soon it all came to an end, and then they set off to convoy the stately old lady to her carriage at the top of the cliff. Far in front went Kate, disdaining the assistance of Harry and Mr. Sims, who escorted her. Near at hand the lieutenant was in attendance upon Mamie, who seemed to need his constant assistance, for the way was rough, and there were so many jutting points of rock for wonderful views. And often the very prettiest plants were just out of reach. Last of all came Madame de Lacey, climbing this deep path with difficulty and holding fast to Ranald's arm. With charming grace she'd discoursed of the brave days of old, in which her ancestors had played a worthy part. An interesting tale it was, but in spite of all her charm of speech and grace of manner, Ranald could not keep his mind from following his heart and eyes that noted every step and move of the beautiful girl, flitting in and out among the trees before them. And well it was that his eyes were following so close, for, as she was reaching for a dainty spray of golden birch holding by the lieutenant's hand, the treacherous moss slipped from under Mamie's feet, and with a piercing shriek she went rolling down the sloping mountainside, dragging her escort with her. Like a flash of light Ranald dropped Madame's arm, and seizing the top of the tall birch that grew up from the lower ledge, with a trick learned as a boy in the glengarry woods, he swung himself clear over the edge, and dropping lightly on the mossy bank below, threw himself in front of the rolling bodies, and seizing them, held fast. In another moment, leaving the lieutenant to shift for himself, Ranald was on his knees beside Mamie, who lay upon the moss, white and still. Some water for God's sake, he cried hoarsely to Delacy, who stood dazed beside him, and then, before the lieutenant could move, Ranald lifted Mamie in his arms, as if she had been an infant, and bore her down to the river's edge, and laid her on the grassy bank. Then, taking up a double handful of water, he dashed it in her face. With a little sigh she opened her eyes, and letting them rest upon his face, said gently, Oh Ranald, I am so glad you—I am so sorry I have been so bad to you. She could say no more, but from her closed eyes two great tears made their way down her pale cheeks. Oh Mamie, Mamie, said Ranald in a broken voice, tell me you are not hurt. Again she opened her eyes, and said, No, I am not hurt, but you will take me home, you will not leave me. Her fingers closed upon his hand. With a quick strong clasp, he replied, I will not leave you. In a few minutes she was able to sit up, and soon they were all about her, exclaiming and lamenting. What a silly girl I am, she said with a little tremulous laugh, and what a fright I must have given you all. Don't rise, my dear, said Madame de Lacey, until you feel quite strong. Oh, I am quite all right, said Mimi confidently. I am sure I am not hurt in the least. Oh, I am so thankful, cried Kate. It is the Lord's mercy, said Ranald in a voice of deep emotion. Are you quite sure you are not hurt, said Harry anxiously? Yes, I really think I am all right, but what a fright I must look. Thank God, said Harry fervently, I guess you are improving, at which they all laughed. Now I think we must get home, said Madame de Lacey. Do you think you can walk, Mamie? Oh, yes, cried Mamie, and taking Ranald's hand she tried to stand up, but immediately sank back with a groan. Oh, it is my foot, she said. I am afraid it is hurt. Let me see, cried Harry. I don't think it is broken, he said, after feeling it carefully, but I have no doubt it is a very bad sprain. You can't walk, for certain. Then we shall have to carry her, said Madame de Lacey, and she turned to her son. I fear I can offer no assistance, said the Lieutenant, pointing to his arm which was hanging limp at his side. Why, Albert, are you hurt? What is the matter? You are hurt, cried his mother anxiously. Not much, but I fear my arm is useless. You might feel it, he said to Ranald. Carefully, Ranald passed his hand down the arm. Say nothing, whispered the Lieutenant to him. It's broken. Tie it up some way. Without a word Ranald stripped the bark of a birch tree, and making a case laid the arm in it and bound it firmly with his silk handkerchief. We ought to have a sling, he said, turning to Kate. Here, said Madame de Lacey, untieing a lace scarf from her neck. Take this. Kate took the scarf, and while Ranald held the arm in place, she deftly made it into a sling. There, said the Lieutenant, that feels quite comfortable. Now let's go. Come, Mamie, I'll carry you up the hill, said Harry. No, said Ranald decidedly. She will go in the canoe, that will be easier. Quite right, said the Lieutenant. Sims, perhaps you will give my mother your arm, and if Miss Kate will be kind enough to escort me, we can all four go in the carriage. But first we shall see the rest of the party safely off. Come, then, Mamie, said Harry, approaching his sister. Let me carry you. But Mamie glanced up at Ranald, who, without a word, lifted her in his arms. Put your arm about his neck, Mamie, cried Harry. You will go more comfortably that way. Ranald won't mind. He added, with a laugh. At the touch of her clinging arms the blood mounted slowly into Ranald's neck and face. Showing red through the dark tan of his skin. How strong you are, said Mamie softly, and how easily you carry me. But you would soon tire of me, she added with a little laugh. I would not tire for ever, said Ranald, as he laid her gently down in the canoe. I shall send the carriage to the wharf for you, said Madame Delacey, and you will come right home to me and you too, Miss Raymond. Ranald took his place in the stern with Mamie reclining in the canoe so as to face him. You are sure you are comfortable, he said, with anxious solitude in his tone. Quite, she replied, with a cozy little snuggle down among the cushions placed around her. Then let her go, cried Ranald, dipping in his paddle. Goodbye, cried Kate, waving her hand at them from the rock. We'll meet you at the wharf, take good care of your invalid, Ranald. With hardly a glance at her, Ranald replied, you may be sure of that, and with a long swinging stroke shot the canoe out into the river. For a moment or two Kate stood looking after them, and then with a weary look in her face turned, and with the lieutenant followed Madame Delacey and Mr. Sims. You are tired, said the lieutenant, looking into her face. Yes, she replied with a little sigh. I think I am tired. The paddle home was all too short to Ranald, but whether it took minutes or hours he could not have told. As in a dream he swung his paddle and guided his canoe. He saw only the beautiful face and the warm light in the bright eyes before him. He woke to see Kate on the wharf before them, and for a moment he wondered how she came there. Once more, as he bore her from the canoe to the carriage, he felt Mimi's arms clinging about his neck, and heard her whisper, you will not leave me, Ranald. And again he replied, No, I will not leave you. Swiftly the Delacey carriage bore them through the crooked climbing streets of the city and out along the country road, then up a stately avenue of beaches, and drew up before the stone steps of a noble old chateau. Once more Ranald lifted Mimi in his arms and carried her up the broad steps and threw the great oak-paneled hall into Madame Delacey's own cozy sitting-room, and there he laid her safely in a snug nest of cushions prepared for her. There was nothing more to do but to say good-bye and come away, but it was Harry that first brought this to Ranald's mind. Good-bye, Ranald, said Mimi, smiling up into his face. I cannot thank you for all you have done today, but I am sure Madame Delacey will let you come to see me sometimes. I shall always be glad to see you, said the little lady, with gentle old-fashioned courtesy, for we both owe much to you this day. Thank you, said Ranald quietly. I will come, and passed out of the room followed by Harry and Kate. At the great hall door Kate stood and watched them drive away, waving her hand in farewell. Good-bye, cried Harry, don't forget us in your stately palace. But Ranald made no reply. He had no thought for her. But still she stood and watched the carriage till the beaches hid it from her view, and then with her hand pressed against her side she turned slowly into the hall. As the carriage rolled down the stately avenue, Ranald sat absorbed in deepest thought, heeding not his companion's talk. What's the matter with you, Ranald? What are you thinking of, at last cried Harry impatiently? What? answered Ranald in strange confusion. I cannot tell you. Unconsciously as he spoke he put up his hand to his neck, for he was still feeling the pressure of those clinging arms, and all the way back the sounds of the rolling wheels and noisy rattling streets wrought themselves into one sweet refrain. You will not leave me, Ranald, and often in his heart he answered, No, I will not, with such a look on his face as men wear when pledging life and honour. The Albert was by all odds the exclusive club in the capital city of Upper Canada, for men were loath to drop the old name. Its members belonged to the best families, and moved in the highest circles, and the entree was guarded by a committee of exceeding vigilance. They had a very real appreciation of the rights and privileges of their order, and they cherished for all who assayed to enter the most lofty ideal. Not wealth alone could purchase entrance within those sacred precincts, unless indeed it were of sufficient magnitude and distributed with judicious and unvulgar generosity. A tinge of blue in the common red blood of humanity commanded the most favourable consideration, but when there was neither cerulean tinge of blood nor gilding of station, the candidate for membership in the Albert was deemed unutterable in his presumption, and rejection absolute and final was inevitable. A single black ball shut him out. So it came as a surprise to most outsiders, though not to Ranald himself, when that young gentleman's name appeared in the list of accepted members in the Albert. He had been put up by both Raymond and Sinclair, but not even the powerful influence of these sponsors would have availed with the members had it not come to be known that young MacDonald was a friend of Captain DeLacy's of Quebec, don't you know, and a sport begat of the first water, for the Albert's favoured athletics, and loved a true sport almost as much as they loved a lord. They never regretted their generous concession in this instance, for during the three years of his membership it was the Glenn Gary MacDonald that had brought glory to their club more than any half-dozen of their other champions. In their finals with the Montrealers two years ago, it was he, the Prince of all Canadian half-backs as everyone acknowledged, who had snatched victory from the exultant enemy in the last quarter of an hour. Then, too, they had never ceased to be grateful for the way in which he had delivered the name of their club from the reproach cast upon it by the challenge long flaunted before their aristocratic noses by the cadds of the athletic, when he knocked out in a boat with the gloves the chosen representative of that ill-favoured club, a professional too, by Jove, as it leaked out later. True, there were those who thought him too particular and undoubtedly he had peculiar ideas. He never drank, never played for money, and he never had occasion to use words in the presence of men that would be impossible before their mothers and sisters, and there was a quaint old-time chivalry about him that made him a friend of the weak and helpless, and the champion of women, not only of those whose sheltered lives had kept them fair and pure, but of those others as well, sad-eyed and soul-stained, the cruel sport of lustful men. For his open scorn of their calloused lust some hated him, but all with true men's hearts loved him. The club rooms were filling up, the various games were in full swing. Hello, little Merrill. Young Merrill looked up from his billiards. Glengarry by all the gods, throwing down his cue and rushing at Randall. Where in this lonely universe have you been these many months, and how are you, world chap? Merrill was excited. All right, Merrill, inquired the deep voice. Right, so help me, exclaimed Merrill solemnly lifting up his hand. He's inquiring after my morals, he explained to the men who were crowding about, and I don't give a blank blank who knows it, continued little Merrill warmly. My present magnificent manhood, smiting himself on the breast, I owe to that same dear old solemnity there, pointing to Randall. Shut up, Merrill, or I'll spank you, said Randall. You will, eh? cried Merrill, looking at him. Look at him, vaunting his beastly fitness over the frail and weak. I say, men, did you ever behold such condition? See that clear eye, that velvety skin, that—oh, I say, pax, pax, peccoy! There, said Randall, putting him down from the billiard table, perhaps you will learn when to be seen. Brute, murmured little Merrill, rubbing the sore place, but ain't he fit, he added, delightedly. And fit he looked. Four years of hard work and clean living had done for him everything that it lies in years to do. They had made of the lank, raw, shanty lad, a man, and such a man as a sculptor would have loved to behold. Straight as a column he stood two inches over six feet, but of such proportions that seeing him alone one would never have guessed his height. His head and neck rose above his square shoulders with perfect symmetry and poise. His dark face, tanned now to a bronze, with features clear-cut and strong, was lit by a pair of dark brown eyes, honest, fearless, and glowing with a slumbering fire that men would hesitate to stir to flame. The lines of his mouth told of self-control, and the cut of his chin proclaimed a will of iron, and altogether he bore himself with an air of such quiet strength and cool self-confidence that men never feared to follow where he led. Yet there was a reserve about him that set him a little apart from men, and a kind of shyness that saved him from any suspicion of self-assertion. In vain he tried to escape from the crowd that gathered about him, and more especially from the football man who utterly adored him. You can't do anything for a fellow that doesn't drink, complained Starrie Hamilton, the big captain of the football team. "'Drink, a nice Captain UR, Starrie,' said Randall, and thanksgiving so near. We haven't quite shut down yet,' explained the Captain. "'Then I suppose a cigar is permitted,' replied Randall, ordering the steward to bring his best. In a few minutes he called for his mail, and excusing himself slipped into one of the private rooms. The manager of the Raymond and Sinclair Company and prominent club man, much sought after in social circles, he was bound to find letters of importance awaiting him, but hastily shuffling the bundle he selected three and put the rest in his pocket. So she's back, he said to himself, lifting up one in a square envelope, addressed in large angular writing. He turned it over in his hand, feasting his eyes upon it, as a boy holds a peach, prolonging the blissful anticipation. Then he opened it slowly and read, "'My dear Randall, all the way home I was hoping that on my return, fresh from the stately homes of England, and from association with lords and dukes and things, you would be here to receive your share of the luster and aroma my presence would shed. That's a little mixed, I fear. But with the most horrible indifference to your privileges, you are away at the earth's end, no one knows where. Father said you were to be home to-day, so though you don't in the least deserve it, I am writing you a note of forgiveness, and will you be sure to come to my special party to-morrow night? I put it off till to-morrow, solely on your account, and in spite of Aunt Frank, and let me tell you that though I have seen such heaps of nice men, and all properly dear and devoted, still I want to see you, so you must come. Everything else will keep. Yours, Mamie." Over and over again he read the letter till the fire in his eyes began to gleam, and his face became radiant with a tender glow. Yours, Mamie, eh? I wonder now what she means, he mused. Seven years and for my life I don't know yet, but to-morrow night, yes, to-morrow night I will know. He placed the letter in its envelope and put it carefully in his inside pocket. Now, for Kate, dear old girl, no better anywhere. He opened his letter and read. Dear Ronald, what a lot of people will be delighted to see you back. First, dear old Dr. Marshall, who is in despair over the institute, of which he declares only a melancholy ruin will be left if you do not speedily return. Indeed, it is pretty bad. The boys are quite terrible, and even my angels are becoming infected. Your special pet, Coley, after reducing poor Mr. Locke to the verge of nervous prostration, has quit, and though I have sought him in his haunts and used my very choicest blandishments, he remains obdurate. To my remonstrances, he finally deigned to reply, No, they ain't none of them any good no more, them ducks is too pious for me. I don't know whether you will consider that a compliment or not, so the institute and all its people will welcome you with acclaims of delight and size of relief, and someone else whom you adore and who adores you will rejoice to see you. I have begged her from Mamie for a few precious days, but that's a secret. And last of all, and least of all, there is your friend Kate. P.S. Of course you will be at the party tomorrow night. Mamie looks lovelier than ever, and she will be so glad to see you. Kate. What a trump she is, murmured Randall, unselfish, honest to the core, and steady as a rock. Someone else whom you adore, who can that be? By Jove, is it possible? I will go right up to night. His last letter was from Mr. Sinclair, who was the chief executive of the firm. He glanced over it hurriedly, then with a curious blending of surprise, perplexity, and dismay on his face. He read it again with careful deliberation. My dear Randall, welcome home. We shall all be delighted to see you. Your letter from North Bay, which reached me two days ago, contained information that places us in rather an awkward position. Last May, just after you left for the North, Colonel Thorpe of the British American Coal and Lumber Company, operating in British Columbia and Michigan, called to see me and made an offer of seventy-five thousand dollars for our Bass River limits. Of course you know we are rather anxious to unload, and at first I regarded his offer with favour. Soon afterwards I received your first report, sent apparently on your way up. I thereupon refused Colonel Thorpe's offer. Then, evidently upon the strength of your report, which I showed him, Colonel Thorpe, who by the way is a very fine fellow, but a very shrewd businessman, raised his offer to an even hundred thousand. This offer I feel inclined to accept. To tell you the truth, we have more standing timber than we can handle, and as you know we are really badly crippled for ready money. It is a little unfortunate that your last report should be so much less favourable in regard to the east half of the limits. However, I don't suppose there is any need of mentioning that to Colonel Thorpe, especially as his company are getting a good bargain as it is, and one which of themselves they could not possibly secure from the government. I write you this note in case you should run across Colonel Thorpe in town to-morrow, and inadvertently say something that might complicate matters. I have no doubt that we shall be able to close the deal in a few days. Now I want to say again how delighted we all are to have you back. We never realised how much we were dependent upon you. Mr. Raymond and I have been talking matters over, and we have agreed that some changes ought to be made, which I venture to say will not be altogether disagreeable to you. I shall see you first thing in the morning about the matter of the limits. Mamie has got home, and is, I believe, expecting you at her party to-morrow night. Indeed, I understand she has determined that it should not come off until you had returned, which shows she shares the opinion of the firm concerning you. I am, your sincerely, Eugene Sinclair. Rattlesat staring at the letter for a long time, he saw with perfect clearness Mr. Sinclair's meaning, and a sense of keen humiliation possessed him as he realised what it was that he was expected to do. But it took some time for the full significance of the situation to dawn upon him. None knew better than he how important it was to the firm that this sale should be affected. The truth was, if the money market should become at all close, the firm would undoubtedly find themselves in serious difficulty. Ruin to the company meant not only the blasting of his own prospects, but misery to her whom he loved better than life. And after all, what he was asked to do was nothing more than might be done any day in the world of business. Every buyer is supposed to know the value of the thing he buys, and certainly Colonel Thorpe should not commit his company to a deal involving such a large sum of money without thoroughly informing himself in regard to the value of the limits in question. And when he, as an employee of the Raymond and Sinclair Lumber Company, gave in his report, surely his responsibility ceased. He was not asked to present any incorrect report. He could easily make it convenient to be absent until the deal was closed. Furthermore, the chances were that the British American Coal and Lumber Company would still have good value for their money, for the west half of the limits was exceptionally good. And besides, what right had he to besmirch the honour of his employer and to set his judgment above that of a man of much greater experience? Reynolds understood also Mr. Sinclair's reference to the changes in the firm, and it gave him no small satisfaction to think that in four years he had risen from the position of Lumberchecker to that of manager with an offer of a partnership. Nor could he mistake the suggestion in Mr. Sinclair's closing words. Every interest he had in life would be furthered by the consummation of the deal, and would be imperiled by his refusing to adopt Mr. Sinclair's suggestion. Still, argue as he might, Reynolds never had any doubt as to what, as a man of honour, he ought to do. Colonel Thorpe was entitled to the information that he and Mr. Sinclair alone possessed. Between his interests and his conscience the conflict raged. I wish I knew what I ought to do, he groaned, all the time battling against the conviction that the information he possessed should, by rights, be given to Colonel Thorpe. Finally, in despair of coming to a decision, he seized his hat, saying, I will go and see Kate, and slipping out of a side door he set off for the Raymond home. I will just look up Coley on the way, he said to himself, and, diving down an alley, he entered a low saloon with a billiard-hall attached. There, as he had expected, acting as marker, he found Coley. Mike Cole, or Coley, as his devoted followers called him, was king of St. Joseph's Ward. Everywhere in the ward, his word ran as law. About two years ago Coley had deigned to favour the institute with a visit, his gang following him. They were welcomed with demonstrations of joy and regaled with cakes and tea, all of which Coley accepted with lordly condescension. After consideration, Coley decided that the night classes might afford a not unpleasant alternative on cold nights to alleyways and saloons, and he allowed the gang to join. Thenceforth the successful conduct of the classes depended upon the ability of the superintendent to anticipate Coley's varying moods and inclinations, for that young man claimed and exercised the privilege of introducing features agreeable to the gang, though not necessarily upon the regular curriculum of study. Sometime after Rannell's appearance in the institute as an assistant, it happened one night that a sudden illness of the superintendent laid upon his shoulders the responsibility of government. The same night it also happened that Coley saw fit to introduce the enlivening but quite impromptu feature of a song and dance. To this Rannell objected, and was invited to put the gang out if he was man enough. After the ladies had withdrawn beyond the reach of missiles, Rannell adopted the unusual tactics of preventing exit by locking the doors, and then immediately became involved in a discussion with Coley and his followers. It cost the institute something for furniture and windows, but thenceforth in Rannell's time there was peace. Coley ruled as before, but his sphere of influence was limited, and the day arrived when it became the ambition of Coley's life to bring the ward and its denizens into subjection to his own overlord, whom he was prepared to follow to the death. But, like any other work worth doing, this took days and weeks and months. Hello, Coley, said Rannell, as his eyes fell upon his sometime ally and slave. If you are not too busy, I would like you to go along with me. Coley looked around as if seeking escape. Come along, said Rannell, quietly, and Coley, knowing that anything but obedience was impossible, dropped his marking and followed Rannell out of the saloon. Well, Coley, I have had a great summer, began Rannell, and I wish very much you could have been with me. It would have built you up and made a man of you. Just feel that, and he held out his arm, which Coley felt with admiring reverence. That's what the canoe did. And then he proceeded to give a graphic account of his varied adventures by land and water during the last six months. As they neared Mr. Raymond's house, Rannell turned to Coley and said, Now I want you to cut back to the Institute and tell Mr. Locke, if he is there, that I would like him to call around at my office tomorrow. And furthermore, Coley, there's no need of your going back into that saloon. I was little ashamed to see one of my friends in a place like that. Now, good night, and be a man, and a clean man. Coley stood with his head hung in abject self-abasement, and then ventured to say, I couldn't stand them ducks know-how. Who do you mean, said Rannellt? Oh, them fellers at runs the Institute now, and so I cut. Now look here, Coley, said Rannellt, I wouldn't go throwing stones at better men than yourself, and especially at men who are trying to do something to help other people and are not so beastly mean as to think only of their own pleasure. I didn't expect that of you, Coley. Now quit it and start again, and Rannellt turned away. Coley stood looking after him for a few moments in silence, and then said to himself, in the voice full of emphasis, Well, there's just one of his kind, and there ain't any other. Then he set out at a run for the Institute. It was Kate herself who came to answer Rannellt's ring. I knew it was you, she cried, with her hand eagerly outstretched, and her face alight with joy. Come in, we're all waiting for you, and prepare to be surprised. When they came to the drawing-room, she flung open the door, and with great ceremony announced, The man from Glengarry has Harry would say. Hello, old chap, cried Harry, springing to his feet. But Rannellt ignored him. He greeted Kate's mother warmly, for she had shown him a mother's kindness ever since he had come to the city, and they were great friends, and then he turned to Mrs. Murray, who was standing waiting for him, and gave her both his hands. I knew from Kate's letter, he said, that it would be you, and I cannot tell you how glad I am. His voice grew a little unsteady, and he could say no more. Mrs. Murray stood holding his hands and looking into his face. It cannot be possible, she said, that this is Rannellt MacDonald, how changed you are. She pushed him a little back from her. Let me look at you. Why, I must say it, you are really handsome. Now, and he, cried Harry, reprovingly, don't flatter him, he is utterly ruined now by everyone, including both Kate and her mother. But really Harry continued Mrs. Murray in a voice of delighted surprise. It is certainly wonderful, and I am so glad, and I have been hearing about your work with the boys at the institute, and I cannot tell you the joy it gave me. Oh, it is not much that I have done, said Rannellt deprecatingly. Indeed it is a noble work and worthy of any man, said Mrs. Murray earnestly, and I thank God for you. Then, said Rannellt firmly, I owe it all to yourself, for it is you that set me on this way. Listen to them admiring each other, it is quite shameless, said Harry. Then they began talking about Glengarry, of the old familiar places, of the woods and the fields, of the boys and girls now growing into men and women, and of the old people, some of whom were passed away. Before long they were talking of the church and all the varied interests centering in it, but soon they went back to the theme that Glengarry people everywhere are never long together without discussing, the great revival. Harry had heard a good deal about it before, but to Kate and her mother the story was mostly new, and they listened with eager interest as Mrs. Murray and Rannellt recalled those great days. With eyes shining and in tones of humble, grateful wonder, they reminded each other of the various incidents, the terrors, the struggles, the joyful surprises, the mysterious powers with which they were so familiar during those eighteen months. Then Mrs. Murray told of the permanent results, how over three counties the influence of the movement was still felt, and how whole congregations had been built up under its wonderful power. And did you hear, she said to Rannellt, that Donald Stewart was ordained last May? No, replied Rannellt, that makes seven, doesn't it? Seven what? said Kate. Seven men preaching the gospel today out of our own congregation, replied Mrs. Murray. But Aunty, cried Harry, I have always thought that all that must have been awfully hard work. It was, said Rannellt emphatically, and he went on to sketch Mrs. Murray's round of duties in her various classes and meetings connected with the congregation. Besides what she has to do in the manse, exclaimed Harry, but it's a mere trifle, of course, to look after her troop of boys. How can you do it? said Kate, gazing at her in admiring wonder. It isn't so terrible as Harry thinks. That's my work, you see, said Mrs. Murray. What else would I do? And when it goes well, it is worthwhile. But Aunty, don't you feel sometimes like getting away and having a little fun? Own up now. Fun! laughed Mrs. Murray. Well, not fun exactly, but a good time with things you enjoy so much, music, literature, and that sort of thing. Do you remember Kate the first time you met Aunty when we took her to Hamlet? Kate nodded. She wasn't quite sure about it, but I declared till I die I will never forget the wonder and the delight in her face. I tell you, I wept that night, but not at the play, and how she criticized the actors, even Booth himself didn't escape, continued Harry. And so I say it's a beastly shame that you should spend your whole life in the backwoods there, and have so little of the other sort of thing. Why, you are made for it. Harry answered Mrs. Murray in surprise. That was my work, given me to do. Could I refuse it? And besides, after all, fun, as you say, passes. Music stops, books get done with, but those other things, the things that Ronald and I have seen, will go on long after my poor body is laid away. But still, you must get tired, persisted Harry. Yes, I get tired, she replied quietly, at the little touch of weariness in the voice, Kate, who was looking at the beautiful face so spiritual, and getting oh so frail, felt a sudden rush of tears in her eyes. But there was no self-pity in that heroic soul. Yes, I get tired, she repeated, but Harry, what does that matter? We do our work, and then we will rest. But, oh, Harry, my boy, when I come to your city and see all there is to do, I wish I were a girl again, and I wonder at people thinking life is just for fun. Harry, like other young men, hated to be lectured, but from his aunt he never took anything amiss. He admired her for her brilliant qualities, and loved her with a love near to worship. I say, auntie, he said, with a little uncertain laugh, it's like going to church to hear you, only if the deal more pleasant. But Harry, am I not right? she replied earnestly. Do you think that you will get the best out of your life by just having fun? Oh, do you know, when I went with Kate to the institute the other night, and saw those boys, my heart ached. I thought of my own boys, and the voice ceased in a pathetic little catch. The sensitive lips trembled, the beautiful grey-brown eyes filled with sudden tears. For a few moments there was silence. Then, with a wavering smile and a gentle apologetic air, she said, but I must not make Harry think he is in church. Dear Aunt Murray, cried Harry, do lecture me, I'd enjoy it, and you can't make it too strong, you are just an angel. He left his seat and going over to her chair, knelt down and put his arms about her. Don't you all wish she was your aunt? he said, kissing her. She is mine, cried Kate, smiling at her through shining tears. She's more, said Randall, and his voice was husky with emotion. But with the bright joyous little laugh Randall knew so well, she smoothed back Harry's hair, and kissing him on the forehead said, I am sure you will do good work some day. But I shall be quite spoiled here. I must really get home. As Randall left the Raymond House, he knew well what he should say to Mr. Sinclair next morning. He wondered at himself that he had ever been in doubt. He had been for an hour in another world where the atmosphere was pure and the light clear. Never till that night had he realized the full value of that life of patient self-sacrifice so unconscious of its heroism. He understood then, as never before, the mysterious influence of that gentle, sweet-faced lady over everyone who came to know her, from the simple, uncultured girls of the Indian lands to the young men about town of Harry's type. Hers was the power of one who sees with open eyes the unseen, and who loves to the forgetting of self, those for whom the infinite love poured itself out in death. Going home, Harry, inquired Randall. Yes, right home, don't want to go anywhere else to-night. I say, old chap, you're a better and cleaner man than I am, but it ain't your fault. That woman ought to make a saint out of any man. Man, you would say so if you knew her, said Randall, with a touch of impatience, but then no one does know her. They certainly don't down in the Indian lands, for they don't know what she's given up. That's the beauty of it, replied Harry. She doesn't feel it that way. Given up? Not she. She thinks she's got everything that's good. Well, said Randall, thoughtfully, after a pause. She knows, and she's right. When they came to Harry's door, Randall lingered just a moment. Come in a minute, said Harry. I don't know. I'm coming in to-morrow. Oh, come along just now. Aunt Frank is in bed, but Mimi will be up, said Harry, dragging him along to the door. No, I think not to-night. While they were talking, the door opened and Mimi appeared. Randall, she cried in an eager voice. I knew you would be at cakes, and I was pretty sure you would come home with Harry. Aren't you coming in? Where's Aunt Frank? asked Harry. She's upstairs, said Mimi. Thank the Lorde, added Harry, pushing in past her. Go away in and talk to her, said Mimi. Then, turning to Randall and looking into his devouring eyes, she said, Well, you might say you're glad to see me. She stood where the full light of the doorway revealed the perfect beauty of her face and figure. Glad to see you. There's no need of saying that, replied Randall, still gazing at her. How beautiful you are, Mimi, he added bluntly. Thank you, and you are really quite passable. And I am glad to see you. That's why you won't come in. I am coming to-morrow night. Everybody will be here to-morrow night. Yes, that's certainly a drawback. And I shall be very busy looking after my guests. Still, she added, noticing the disappointment in his face, it's quite possible, exactly, his face lighting up again. Have you seen Father's study, asked Mimi innocently? No, replied Randall, wonderingly, is it so beautiful? No, but it's upstairs, and quiet. Well, said Randall, and perhaps you might like to see it, tomorrow night. How stupid I am. Will you show it to me? I will be busy, but perhaps Harry will you, said Randall, to come in close to her with the old imperative in his voice. Mimi drew back a little. Do you know what you make me think of, she asked, lowering her voice? Yes, I do. I have thought of it every night since. You were very rude, I remember. You didn't think so then, said Randall boldly. I ought to have been very angry, replied Mimi severely. But you weren't, you know you weren't. And do you remember what she said? What I said, how awful of you, don't you dare, how can I remember? Yes, you do remember, and then do you remember what I said? What you said, indeed, such assurance. I have kept my word, said Randall, and I am coming tomorrow night. Oh, Mimi, it has been a long, long time. He came close to her, and caught her hand, the slumbering fire in his eyes, blazing now in flame. Don't, don't, I'm sure there's Aunt Frank. No, no, she pleaded in terror. Not to-night, Randall. Then will you show me the study tomorrow night? Oh, you were very mean. Let me go. Will you, he demanded, still holding her hand. Yes, yes, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. My hand is quite sore. There now, good night. No, I won't shake hands. Well, then, if you must have it. Good night. End of chapter 21