 CHAPTER 25 A WAITING WORKER Yet in the days that immediately followed, had Mrs. Burnham been questioned in regard to her hopes for her husband's change of views, she would have admitted that they were never at a lower ab. Even as regarded his acquiescence in, or endurance of, almost any form of active Christian work for herself, she was almost hopeless. The question that seemed pressing for decision was, how far must she allow deference for his opinions to hold her passive? Meantime he grew, if possible, more gloomily unrecognized to the quiet of the house, and it seemed to his wife that they could not even take an evening walk without meeting something that added to the bitterness of his unrest. They were lingering together in the park just as twilight was falling. The walk had been of her proposing, and was one of her many devices for drawing him, if possible, away from some brooding care or anxiety. She could not be sure of what nature it was, and while she suspected that it might have to do with his daughter Minta, she did not dare to question. Her sole hope was to rest him from the burden for a while. He had consented half apathetically to the walk, only stipulating somewhat sharply that Erskine should not be of the company, declaring himself to be in no mood for a child's incessant questionings. So Erskine, to his great grief, had been left at home, and the two had wandered aimlessly through the park, on whose beauty the touch of another autumn was already beginning to settle. Ruth had left her husband's side and gone forward a few steps to examine more closely some gay foliage plants about a fountain, when she saw, on the opposite side of the driveway, two familiar forms. It took but a glance to recognize Mr. Satterley, but the lady she had to study carefully before she could be sure that it was Estelle Hollister. Younger she looked and prettier than Mrs. Burnham had ever seen her before, and as she listened to what her companion was saying, the soft pink flesh on her face could be distinctly seen. At that moment the two turned suddenly and met her eyes, both faces flushed, and as if by common consent, they stood quite still in the walk. Ruth bowed cordially, and then Mr. Satterley seemed to recover himself and, bowing low in reply, moved on. It was but a moment afterwards that, rising up from the shrub over which she had been, Mrs. Burnham saw that the girl had broken away from her companion and was coming toward her. She was evidently in the habit of being as simply direct in what she had to say, as was Ruth herself. She began at once without waiting to reply to the cordial good evening that accompanied Ruth's outstretched hand. Mrs. Burnham, do you think it wronged for me to be taking a walk with him? He asked me to come out here where it was quiet and where he could talk with me undisturbed. He has not forgotten. We have neither of us forgotten. There are some things you know that people cannot forget, but he says she asked him to talk with me and tell me some things that she wanted me to understand, and I promised her to forgive him, you know. Mrs. Burnham could hardly forbear a smile. It was a duty which the poor little thing was so manifestly willing to perform, yet she was so consciously desirous of doing only the right thing and of paying the utmost deference and respect to the memory of the one who was gone. She hastened to speak her assurance. My dear girl, why should it be wrong unless indeed you are wronging yourself? Mrs. Burnham has gone where none of these things can touch her any more. I should think there would be no impropriety in Mr. Satterley's carrying out her wish in regard to seeing you, but if you would really like my advice for yourself, if I were you, I would go home to my mother without delay, and be guided by her as to anything in the future. You owe it to her and to yourself. I mean to, said Estelle, with half a smile and wholly a sob. Goodbye and thank you. Meantime Mr. Satterley had joined Judge Burnham, and the two had been speaking together, apparently of matters about which both were indifferent. He acknowledged Mrs. Burnham's coming toward them only by another low, brave bow, and immediately turned away. Judge Burnham did not speak a word for the next five minutes. Then he said, in a voice which seemed to have taken on an added tinge of bitterness, it seems to me Satterley has sought and found consolation very early for one who was so nearly brokenhearted as he. They are friends of longstanding, Ruth said, simply and gently. There was no need now to say more. The grave had closed over all necessity for revealing that chapter which would be only an added sting to the father's heart. Ruth smiled to think that she could be loyal to both husband and daughter and do no harm. And as they walked on in silence in the gathering darkness, it almost seemed to her that she could hear again that singularly flute-like voice, and once more it said, Mama, thank you. Their next encounter was a business friend of Judge Burnham's, and an important business conference must needs be held then and there. And as Ruth stood aside and waited, there came to her presently a bit of life that was all her own. A plainly dressed young man who looked as though he might be a mechanic, but who lifted his hat to her with an air of a gentleman, stopped before her on the pathway. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Burnham, for speaking to you, you do not know me, I suppose, yet I know you so well, and have so much for which to thank you, that it seemed to me I could not let this opportunity pass. The twilight had fallen very fast. The face before her was but dimly defined. Ruth's first impulse was to draw back and step quickly to her husband's side, but he was close at hand. What was there to fear? Why not learn what the man meant? I think you must be mistaken in the person, she said with gentle dignity. I am sure you have no occasion to give me thanks. Indeed I have. I ask God daily to bless you forever, but for you I shudder to think what the next step would have been. A sudden sweet memory came to Ruth. You are that young man to whom I spoke that Sunday, she said hesitating, throwing both hope and doubt into her voice. I am that young man to whom you, on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, made plain as daylight the way to eternal life. I thought you ought to know that I kept my promise to go straight to the Lord Jesus and claim his help, and I got it, bless his name. I belong to him now in life and death. Was ever sweeter music than this offered to a Christian's ears? There were only a few more words after that. Inquiries as to the young man's plans and prospects. He was doing well. He had found already that to be a servant of the Lord meant more than a hope of heaven. It meant very much for this life also. He said this with a smile which she could feel rather than see. It sounded in his voice. Then he had thanked her again, strong, hearty words, and had told her that he knew she must be going on with her work. He felt sure God had called her to the saving of young men who were like himself, almost lost. Only a few minutes, but when she turned, Judge Burnham was alone, was waiting for her, and it did not need the firm grasp with which he drew her hand through his arm to tell her that he must have overheard the last words and was annoyed. You seem to have acquaintances of all sorts, he said hodlily, and to be fated to meet them tonight. Let us get out of this park as soon as possible. Pray, who was that young fellow who presumes to speak to you so familiarly? He was not familiar, Judge Burnham. Nothing could have been more deferential than his tone. He is a young man whom I met at the Gospel meeting. I thought you did not attend those meetings. I have not since that one Sunday which you must remember. Oh, and this was the tobacco-smelling fellow with whom you were kind enough to talk. If he has not improved in his habits, it is well we were surrounded by so much fresh air. He has improved. He is a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, and I am glad over it with a gladness which I wish you could understand. Thank you for all kind wishes, and I presume it is hardly necessary to remind you again that I will not, on any account, have you meet familiarly with those people, nor allow your name to be associated with theirs. And Mrs. Burnham went home from her walk more hopeless in regard to some things than she had been before, but more sure than ever that she must decide, and speedily, as to her next most. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, Judge Burnham went away again. Another member of the firm was to go, but sickness detained him, and the business was important and complicated and tedious. It involved much travel and long delays, and Ruth was left more utterly alone than ever before in her life. There were no young ladies this time to almost bewilder her with their comings and goings. There were no sounds of gay society life in the great silent house. And Mr. Satterley was not there to make occasional calls out of respect to the family tie which had once existed. He was going to New York on business which might detain him for some time, so he told her when he called to say goodbye. And Mrs. Burnham, who knew that Estelle Hollister had gone home, wondered as to the nature of the business, and was somewhat anxious and silent. It made her smile and yet almost humiliated her to find that even Mr. Satterley was missed. There was a painful sense of not belonging to anybody which sat heavily upon this lonely woman. As often as she wandered through the lonely halls of her handsome house, she wondered what could be done with it. Since society had shrouded it in crepe and passed it by, to what use could those large silent rooms be put which would reflect honor on the one to whom all hers was consecrated? Ah, therein lay the secret of the difficulty. She must say, our rooms. If only she could say, all ours is consecrated, how plainly would the answer to this painful riddle glow before her. She knew a dozen beautiful things which might be done with cultured consecrated homes. Did she not know all about Flossy Shipley Roberts and the Green Room and all the schemes to which it was consecrated? This was certainly her most, and though she clung to her one weapon, the power of prayer, and though she daily, even as Erskine had said, talked with God about this, kept it before him that it was this which she wanted most, yet certainly her heart was very heavy and her faith was weak. Her husband had gone before there had been time for that long talk with him which she had planned. She had meant to say, in all gentleness and yet in plainness, that the time had certainly come when she could no longer fold her hands in graceful idleness to please his tastes. She must find her appointed niche in the Lord's great workshop and do her part. She had meant to ask, very humbly, what there was that he was willing to have her undertake. She would like to go to that woman's gospel meeting. It was there the Lord had met her and told her what to say for him, and she felt that she could do such work as this again. But if for any reason he shrank from that particular form of work, and was yet willing that she should undertake some other that would be honest work, she would not press her wishes against his will. Only this must be understood. She was bound by command and covenant to work in some direction, and felt that she could wait no longer. Even while she thought it out, what she should say and what he might possibly reply, and if so what she could answer, there came to her that same sad memory over which she winced as in mortal pain. Her husband might say to her, if he understood these things well enough to use their language, the Lord gave you work to do. He placed two young girls in your special care, gave you all the appliances with which to work, and bade you shape and mold and train them for himself, and you failed him. To one of them he reached out loving arms and snatched her from the perils of the life in which you had started her feet, and took her to himself. But the other, where is the other? There was no danger that Judge Burnham would speak any of these terrible truths to his wife, but there was also no need. Her own conscience knew how to press them home with tremendous power. Still she was in earnest now, and she must not longer make the mistake of sitting idle, glooming over the past, while present opportunities ran to waste. But there had been no time for that talk with her husband. He had been gone for several weeks when Mrs. Stuart Bacon sent up her card one morning with a penciled request that she might be seen if possible as her business was urgent. I do not want to see her, said Mrs. Burnham, aloud and unconsciously, rising from the low chair against which Erskine had leaned while he made careful attempts over the figures which had been set him to add. Why not, Mama? said this wide-eyed questioner, who was not held to rigid rules during school hours, his mother being his sole teacher. Because, said Ruth, still speaking out her troubled thoughts rather than addressing Erskine, she will want me to do what I cannot. Don't you know how, Mama? Oh, yes, with a half-smile on her face over the question while she lingered to arrange her dress. I may know how to do it, but there are other difficulties in the way. Don't you think it ought to be done? Indeed I do, this reply was given with energy. Erskine paused, pencil in hand, curly yellow head dropped a little on one side, and gravely considered this problem which was more puzzling to him than the column of figures. At last he reached a solution. Then, Mama, I should think of it ought to be done, and you know how, that God would want you to do it. Whereupon the mother laughed again, albeit her eyelashes were moist, and kissed her young logician, and went down to Mrs. Bacon. But that lady, who was generally clear-brained and hurried, delayed the special reason for her call in a most trying way. She talked about the last sabbath's meeting with earnestness, indeed, but forgot even to hint of the pleasure it would have been to have had Mrs. Burnham's help. She told a long story about a young girl whom she had taken into her family under circumstances of peculiar distress, and how deep was her interest in the matter, and how much there was in just such lines that needed doing. Under other circumstances, Ruth would have been deeply interested in the story, but it was at this time so manifestly being told to cover an embarrassment over something not yet reached that to the listener it was simply irritating. When her collar, having exhausted the story, went back to the weather, waxing eloquent over the beauty of the morning, Ruth felt almost like saying that if her errand was really no more important than it appeared, she would like to be excused. And then at last Mrs. Bacon broke off in the midst of a statement that the air reminded her of a certain September morning in Italy to say, But dear Mrs. Burnham, to tell you the truth, I did not come to you this morning to talk about the weather. I want to ask you to forgive me for what I earnestly hope is unnecessary interference on my part, and then to tell you plainly what I have heard. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of Judge Burnham's Daughters I know it is possible that you may have heard the same reports, but I told Mr. Bacon this morning that I did not believe you knew anything about it, and I was just going to try to do as I would be done by. A nervous little laugh finished the sentence, and then Mrs. Bacon launched a question that covered the ground over which she had just gone. Do you know anything of Mrs. Hamlin's circumstances, my dear Mrs. Burnham? I have not heard from her or of her since she left her father's house on the evening before her sister was buried, Ruth said with steady voice but rising color. The unnatural relations that now existed in the disorganized family were sources of continual embarrassment to her. I was sure of it, affirmed Mrs. Bacon with an air of relief. I was sure that your kind heart would lead you to act in the matter now that in your husband's absence the responsibility falls on you. Well, my dear, I will not make a longer story than is necessary. It is said that her husband has gone from bad to worse. He has been getting into very dangerous relations again with certain men, gambling, you know, and, well, I am afraid, forging notes. Mr. Bacon thinks it will hardly be possible to save him from state prison this time. We have also heard that he has kept his wife in a very straightened condition. They have changed boarding places several times, even in these few months, and always I am told of necessity because they were in arrears with bored. And only last night I heard from what I am afraid as a reliable source that he had deserted her and that she was really in very destitute circumstances. Do you know where she is to be found? It was the only question that Ruth's lips seemed able to fray. Yes, I do. I took special care to learn. She is on Court Street, away down toward the river, in one of those long houses, on the third floor back. I don't wonder you start, Mrs. Burnham. It is terrible to think of Judge Burnham's daughter in a tenement house on Court Street, isn't it? However, you will be able to write all that, if the man must really go to prison, why the poor thing will be rid of him, at least. She had risen as she spoke, and was drawing her rap about her with the air of one who had done her part in the best way she knew, and Ruth, quivering in every nerve, with a sense of shame for her husband's sake, yet had sense enough to feel that this good woman had done the best that the circumstances would admit, had really said the only comforting thing that could be said, even though what comfort there was must grow out of the fact of there being prisons for convicted criminals. Verily, Minta Burnham had chosen for herself. What to do was the imperative question staring Ruth in the face, demanding immediate reply. She was by no means so clear of her course, or of her ability to accomplish, as Mrs. Bacon seemed to be for her. Of course, something must be done. A daughter of Judge Burnham's could not be left in a Court Street tenement house alone. Yet would she, at Ruth's request, and under her care, go elsewhere? And if so, where was the suitable place for her, and what was the next step to take? It was all bewilderment, and while she struggled with it, she could not tell whether to be glad or sorry that Judge Burnham was absent. If he were at home, he would know just what to do. But were not the chances that he would do the wrong thing? Yet what was the right thing? Troubled exceedingly by these in kindred questionings, she yet made herself ready with all speed for a journey to town. Erskine came questioning, why were they not to have a geography lesson? Why was she going to town? Could he go along? He would like to go to the city very much. No, his mother said. He could not go with her this time, because she had something to do in which he would be in the way. What was that, he wanted to know. And smiling faintly over the apparent incongruity of her statements, she confessed that she did not know what she was going to do. Why, Mama, he said in great amaze, then how can you do it? She couldn't, she explained, not until she learned. She was to try to find out what was the wise and right thing to do in a matter of great perplexity. Over this statement Erskine considered for a moment, then came his wise, sweet question that went to the root of things. Why don't you ask God to tell you? I will, she said, turning toward him with a smile that yet was very close to tears. It was a surprising thing when one stopped to look at it. She, a Christian woman, hurrying to an emergency that she consciously did not know how to meet, yet taking no time to consult, not only the acknowledged source of all wisdom, but one who had graciously said, Ask of me. She held out her hand to Erskine, and the two knelt in their accustomed place of prayer, while Erskine voiced the request that the dear Lord Jesus should show Mama just what he wanted her to do. Do you know now? He asked her cheerily, a moment after. Evidently there had not entered into the child's mind a question as to her doing without fail, whatever the Lord Jesus wanted done. Has he told you yet, Mama? Not yet, she said, smiling over his lesson on faith. Oh, well, he will, I'm sure he will, and he'll do it in time. And in the light of this earnest assurance she went to her task. The lower part of Court Street was not used to carriages such as the one which Mrs. Burnham summoned to her aid. There was much staring from behind half-closed blinds and the noisy following of certain ragged little boys and girls who felt no need of blinds to hide behind. The stairs were somewhat narrow and somewhat steep, and a very slatternly girl, from whose contact Ruth carefully held her dress, toiled upward just ahead of her to show the way. Denginess increased upon them as they mounted, and the third story back was destitute of anything like comfort. A well-known voice answered Ruth's hesitating tap and still uncertain what to do or how to make known her errand if she had one. She entered, and stood face to face with Minta Hamlin. Oh, it is you! This was her greeting, intense astonishment bristling in every letter, and then the two women stood and looked at each other. Certainly the situation was striking. Several times in their lives had these two confronted each other under sufficiently startling circumstances, but neither perhaps had ever felt it more than at this moment. The beautiful girl of Mrs. Burnham's memory had changed even in these short months. Her face was almost deathly pale, even in this moment of excitement, and her hair was pushed straight back from her forehead in unbecoming plainness. She wore a dark silk dress which had once been pretty, but which was now drabbled in torn. The lace of one sleeve hung in careless frays, the skirt was dobbed with something which looked like paint, and one elbow was worn to a decided whole. The furniture of the bare and cheerless room matched the dress of its mistress. Shabby remnants of bygone finery is a sentence which sufficiently describes it. And in this room Minta Hamlin, who in her father's house was accustomed to all the elegancies and to all the trained attention that money will furnish, was apparently preparing, with very insufficient appliances, to do some washing for herself. A small hand bath tub filled with suds occupied a perilous position on a slippery chair that was once upholstered in haircloth and a pile of soiled clothing lay on the floor. That the girl looked miserably ill would have been apparent to the most casual observer, and the hollow cough which she frequently gave reminded Mrs. Burnham each time she heard it of Seraph. Well, she said at last, after that prolonged silence, accompanied by a haughty stare, to what am I indebted for this most unexpected honor? You did not send up your card, so I was not prepared. I thought it was my landlord. Even then there was a mocking smile on her face, as of one who could almost enjoy the embarrassment because of the fact that it must be a very embarrassing moment to the other person. Just then came a knock at the door quite unlike Ruth's timid one, sharp and imperative. The opening of the door almost immediately afterward threw Ruth just back of it, and the intruder did not see her. He was a young man with an impudent face and a voluble tongue. I have called once more for the money, he began, and we may as well understand one another this time. I don't propose to climb these stairs again for nothing. Either you give me the month's rent now, or else you walk out of this flat without any more delay. People cannot expect to rent furnished flats with nothing but promises, and I have instructions, too. He did not finish his sentence. All the Erskine blood, which in its way was certainly as intense as any that belonged to the house of Burnham, seemed to boil in Ruth's veins as she heard her husband's daughter thus familiarly and insolently addressed. It increased her indignation to discover that the girl-woman who confronted the man was pallid with terror and evidently felt herself to be in his power. He'll do it in time, Mama. Erskine's last assuring words, mingling with his goodbye kisses, seemed to sound in her ears. Did God tell her what to do in this crisis of her life? She thought of it wonderingly afterwards, the painful doubt of the moment before, the instant decision flashing upon her from somewhere. You forget yourself strangely, sir, she said, stepping with the air of a princess from behind the half-open door. If you have any claim on this lady, you may present your bill at Judge Burnham's office, 263 Fourth Street, tomorrow morning at 10 o'clock, and it will be paid. The alarmed young man made confused efforts to apologize to explain, but he might as well have attempted to address an iceberg. There could be no explanation, the lady said, which could justify the use of such language to a woman, all she wished of him was to retire, which he did in haste and dismay. And then Ruth speedily forgot him in the unexpected work she found for thought in hands. The poor, haughty girl who had tried to be so self-sufficient and so daring in her insolence, had suddenly felt her strength giving way. The room spun dizzily around her, then grew dark and wavered in that sickening fashion, which is the last conscious feeling that the victim to a fainting fit remembers. And but for Ruth's sudden spring to her side she would have fallen. It was very unpoetical what followed. Ruth could not get her charge to a chair. The utmost that her strength could accomplish was to lay her gently on the dingy carpet, then look about for water. The soap suds in the bathtub was the only liquid at hand. There was no help for it but to dip her hastily ungloved hand into the foam and bathe the pallid face with it. It was well, perhaps, for all concerned that there was no disinterested looker on to view the ludicrous side of this scene. It was really the first conscious thought of the proud girl as she came slowly back to life. She darted a suspicious glance at her stepmother and attempted to push her ministering hand away and rise to a sitting posture. But Ruth, as she splashed the soapy water right and left, was too manifestly absorbed in ministering to the best of her powers to have room for any other thought. You are better now, she said inquiringly. Oh, I would not try to move just yet. Let me put my arm under your head, so, and lie still just a few minutes longer. The tone was gentle, soothing, as she might have spoken to a frightened child, and Minta, who had never in her life, saved in these five miserable weeks just past, known what it was to think of and plan for her own necessities, and who was amazed and frightened and miserable in every possible way, struggled for just another minute to regain her haughty voice and speak her repelling words, then suddenly covered her white face with both hands and burst into a perfect storm of tears. Poor child, said her stepmother, wholly sympathetic and pitiful. Poor frightened child, I do not wonder you are overcome, the wretch to dare to speak to you as he did. Never mind, he has gone away, and will be quite sure not to return. Then from that mysterious inner source of strength there came to her, not by thinking it out, but some way entirely as a matter of course, what to do. She spoke as though the matter had been planned for weeks. I have a carriage at the door. As soon as you are able to move, it will do you good to get into the open air. This room is stifling. We will drive directly home. I will just lock this door and send Mrs. Barnes to attend to everything. Come, Minta, I would try not to cry so much. It will take your strength, and you need it to get ready. She had not meant to go home, this angry girl who had not yet sufficiently reached her right mind not to suppose herself ill-treated in some way. She had not expected to have the chance to go during these later weeks, but she assured herself bitterly that if she were to have the chance she would spurn it with scorn. She had been surprised to see her stepmother, but true to her plans had tried to summon the scorn. But she was utterly alone. Her husband, for whom she had risked everything, had cruelly deserted her under circumstances of peculiar misery. She was entirely without money or friends. She was in a strange part of the city, the very noises of which kept her in a state of fear day and night. She was faint for lack of proper food. She had despised her supper the night before and loathed her breakfast that morning. She had not known what she could say to the landlord's agent when he called again and had gotten ready that tub of soap suds and made her pitiful preparations to wash under the dim impression that when he should turn her into the street it would be better for her to have clean clothes to carry. But as she lay there limp and helpless on the floor with the absurd incongruity of one's thoughts in moments of high excitement she remembered the little heap of soiled clothes and it seemed to her that she could never, never get them washed. And then there came another knock on the door and she had so far recovered as to make a desperate effort to struggle into the little cane-seed rocker, the only touch of comfort which the room held. It was Ruth who answered the knock and held open the door indignified silence while the woman who had the general charge of all these flats stood and looked at her in open-mouth astonishment and finally said, Oh, I didn't know. What she did not know was not explained. It might have taken a very long time. Mrs. Burnham was a woman who, however she might question and delay on ordinary occasions, in an emergency knew just what to say. The present seemed to her an emergency. Do you want anything? She asked with gentle dignity. And the woman murmured that she thought she heard a noise and didn't know but and then she stopped. You did not know but you might help us, finished Ruth pleasantly. Thank you, you can. Mrs. Hamlin is not well. She has been quite faint but is better now and I want to take her away immediately. If you will see that the halls and stairs are clear of idle children so we can reach the door and my carriage without annoyance I will take care that you are paid for your kindness. I will lock Mrs. Hamlin's room and take the key with me. I shall send my housekeeper to attend to her property here as soon as possible and after that you may let the proper persons know if you please that the room is vacant. The miserable young wife could not have told afterwards how it was that she who had meant to be so independent of her home should have been thus easily managed but she felt so weak and faint and the thought of getting out of that dreary room into the fresh air was so inspiring and her stepmother was so prompt in matter of course in all her movements that really the fact was the girl was lying back among the cushions being whirled toward her old home before she had rallied enough to think what she must do next. As for Mrs. Burnham the uppermost thought in her mind was one of surprise that there could have been any doubt as to what to do. With Mrs. Hamlin the feeling of irresponsibility of yielding to the inevitable continued after she reached home. She was very miserable but the quiet beauty of her old room with its familiar belongings rested her nerves though she did not know it. She was a deserted wife, disgraced, penniless, broken-hearted, yet the bed was so soft and its coverings were so pure and the pillows were so fair. She let hot tears soil their purity but still she buried her face in their depths with a feeling that all these belongings fitted her as those with which she had had to do of late did not and being very tired as well as very miserable she quite soon forgot her sorrows in sleep. But with Mrs. Burnham the case was different. She was alone in the library and the reaction from all the day's excitement was upon her. There was time for her to think over what she had done and to imagine some of the results which might follow. It was not that she doubted the wisdom of her movements thus far. She was still upheld by the calm assurance that what she had done was the thing to do. But she could not, even with this assurance, keep her overtired brain from surrising results. What would her husband say? What would he do? Nothing apparently was more firmly impressed upon his mind than the fact that he had disowned his daughter and here she was domiciled in her old room. Would Judge Burnham tolerate this innovation? From his wife's knowledge of him, gleaned by many experiences during the years, she did not believe he would and yet it had seemed to her the one thing to do. There was nothing for her but straightforward action in the line which was plain to her. Judge Burnham's duties she could not shoulder for him. But certainly the next thing for her was to write him a plain statement of affairs as they now stood. It was not an easy letter to write. She avoided the central figure of it longer than was her fashion. She told the absent father much about Erskine and his sweet bright ways and much even about the common details of home life before she brought herself to the sentence. And now I have something to tell that will alarm in paying you. I heard today some very startling news. What will you think when I tell you that? She held her pen at this point and considered. She had often spoken to Judge Burnham about the girls. She had often of late years said your daughters but now there was only one and the circumstances were such that to say your daughter seemed almost to insult him. How should she manage the sentence? Her face as she held her pen waiting and looked away into space with thoughtful yet resolute eyes would have been a study for a painter. Did not this woman realize that she had deliberately and of her own will introduced once more into her home that which had been its chief discordant element in the past? No. After careful deliberation I think I may say to you that she realized at last that such was not the case. Either you have been a thoughtless reader or I have failed of my purpose if you have not discovered that Ruth Burnham has reached higher ground than that on which her feet ever trod before. It is not easy to explain just how much that sentence means. It was not that she had reached serene heights where daily pettinesses could not disturb her more. It was not that she was not keenly alive to the discomforts to call them by no stronger name that would probably come to her through this latest movement of hers, but it does mean that she was keenly alive to her mistakes in the past and believed them to have been the chief sources of her unhappiness. One of them she knew had been a persistent effort to carry her own burdens even after she had been to the cross and professed to leave them there, and another of them had been a persistent determination to do her own planning even after she had asked the Lord to plan for her. These two mistakes she had resolved to make no more, and it was the thought that the one to whom Erskine had appealed for help had assuredly told her what to do that held her eyes and her heart quiet even though so far as her foreknowledge went there were seas of trouble yet to cross. Suddenly she bent over her paper and the pen moved on. What will you think when I tell you that our daughter Minta is at this moment in her old room sleeping quietly? I went for her this morning and brought her home. I found her in a very third-rate house on Court Street. Think of it. She is not well. Has a cough that reminds me painfully of Seraph. It seems that her miserable husband deserted her some weeks ago, left her quite without money in this wretched flat that he had rented on Court Street. Her meals were brought up to her, prepared by a woman who rented the kitchen, and made her living by serving the occupants of the rooms with badly cooked food. When I found her she was on the eve of being turned out of even this refuge by the landlord's agent because she owed for two weeks rent. None of them seemed to be aware of her relationship to us. Of course I knew that she must come home at once. She was very willing to do so for she felt sick and frightened. A line from Mr. Bacon, received since I reached home, informs me that there is very little doubt but that Hamlin, on whose track detectives have been ever since he fled the city, has been arrested and is now in confinement awaiting trial. It is forgery again. Mr. Bacon thinks there will be no possibility of his escaping justice this time. I have not told poor Minta this and do not know how to tell her. I think I will wait for advice from you. Meantime your heart would ache for her if you could see her. She is very pale and has grown alarmingly thin. I think the poor girl has suffered more than perhaps we shall ever know. It frightens me to think of her having been alone in that part of the city and she's so young and still so beautiful. And then had followed a few sentences expressive of her loneliness in his absence and her hope that these days of separation were nearly over. And then this weary woman closed her writing desk with a little sigh because her heart could not escape wondering what he would say to it all. There was also perplexity as to the very next day. She could not determine what would be Minta's line of action, whether she would remain the pale passive woman she was now or whether she would rebel and insist on escaping ever so kind a control of her movements, or whether, indeed, she would assume that she had rights in that home equal, if not superior, to those of the woman who had brought her here. Ruth could not but admit that this last state would be more like the Minta Burnham of her acquaintance than either of the others, and in view of her father's present position, would work disastrously for the girl. Having wearied herself after this fashion imagining scenes that might take place, she suddenly remembered with a smile of relief that the part that was impossible for her to arrange she had a right to leave. I think it was perhaps, as well for both these women, that the next morning found the younger one quite ill. The program for that day, at least, was plain. Dr. Westwood must be sent for, and the role of decided invalidism must be carried out. It proved that the same line of action would do for several days. Minta was not alarmingly ill, but the doctor counseled quiet and utmost care, and Ruth in arranging for tea and toast and lemonade and various cooling drinks, and seeing to it that her patient was made comfortable in many ways, had little time for troubled imaginings. As for Minta, the necessity for asking to have the glass or the handkerchief handed to her, or the pillow moved, and for saying thank you frequently, overcame much of the painful embarrassment with which the new day began, and for the most part she was quiet and submissive. As the days passed and she grew better, and was presently able to sit in the large easy chair and watch the passers by on the street below, it became evident that she was very much subdued. One circumstance contributed largely to this result. Mrs. Burnham, in looking over a trunk of packed away treasures in search of something for which Minta had asked, came suddenly upon a little box of serifs that had not been opened. It closed with a spring that Ruth did not understand, but as she held it in her hand, it appeared that her fingers must have touched the hidden spring, for it flew open, and on the top lay a letter addressed to Minta in her sister's familiar writing. Ruth much moved, ceased her search, and carried the letter at once and in silence to the pale-faced girl, lying back among the cushions of the easy chair. She did not know, either then nor afterwards, what words Sarah had spoken for her last ones, but Minta's eyes were red with weeping when she saw her again and her voice seemed gentler and her manner more subdued after that time. It became apparent that she also had anxious thoughts about the future. She asked often for word from her father. When was he coming? Did he know that she was there? What had he said? And once she asked did Ruth think Papa would allow her to remain at home after all that had been? And Mrs. Burnham, whose heart was daily growing more full of pity for this deserted wife, who, even though she had sinned, was also certainly much sinned against, and who, though her love was so misplaced and so entirely selfish in its exhibition, had yet, in a sense, loved the man who had deserted her, felt that she would give much to be able to answer a hearty yes to this hesitating question and did not know how to reply. Her husband maintained an ominous silence in regard to the news she had sent him. His letters came as regularly as usual, but they were shorter, and she fancied colder. He was crowded with care and some anxiety. He hoped to get the complications straightened out before very long. She did not need the assurance that he would be at home as soon as possible, and then had followed messages for Erskine, very tender and fatherly, but not a word for or about Minta in any way. He seemed to have simply ignored her story. This voted no good for the future. There was nothing now but to wait with what patience they could. Each day it became evident to Mrs. Burnham that she was settling into the position held so long ago, looked upon by Minta as the intercessor between her and an indignant father, and each day she grew more doubtful about her ability to perform her part. Judge Burnham was cruelly proud. He had been cruelly stabbed and very publicly, too. He had publicly disowned his daughter. Would his pride ever let him acknowledge her again? More and more the wife felt that this household needed other than human power to settle it into anything like peace. Her cry for help from the omnipotent became daily more earnest. There was notably in her experience a certain Sabbath evening when her prayer rose into the realm which perhaps might be reverently called wrestling. And then, one morning, when all the air was crisp with frost and the earth was aglow in its latest autumn finery, came a telegram from Judge Burnham to his wife. Could she join him in Westford by the noon train to return that evening? Now Westford was a little city, but an hour's ride from their own greater one. Ruth had often been there, and there was nothing about the telegram in itself to cause her anxiety. She was frequently summoned to that or neighboring towns to meet her husband on business, to sign an important paper to tell her version of a bit of news that had been supposed trivial, but which had suddenly, in the light of events, grown important. It ought to have been simply a satisfaction that Judge Burnham was at last so near to home as this. But about everything which could happen during these days, there was an undertone of anxiety. It was an almost humiliating fact, but Ruth felt that she was somewhat in disgrace with her own husband and dreaded while she looked forward to meeting him. Of course she must obey the summons, but she looked wistfully at Erskine and was half ashamed to think how much she would like to be able to make herself think it sensible to take the child with her. He too was wistful. He never approved of his mother's absences from himself. He asked her the same question in many forms. Was she sure and certain and positive that she would return that very truly night? And would she bring Papa home with her? Over this last Ruth considered. The telegram was ambiguous after the manner of those two-sided messengers. Did it mean that she could return that night or that they both would? She did not know. Yet most she could say to Erskine was that she would come unless something which they could not foresee or help prevented, and that she would certainly bring Papa home if she could, and then she went away with all speed. Judge Burnham was on the platform before the train fairly halted. His greeting was warm, but he seemed preoccupied and in great haste. He hurried her into a carriage. I have to go at once to an important gathering, he explained. Will you mind coming in with me? I shall not be detained over a half hour. Is it a courthouse? She asked as the carriage drew up before a large building. Will there be ladies present, Judge Burnham? No, he said. It is not a courtroom but a public hall. Oh, yes, there would be plenty of ladies, but he should have to leave her and go to the platform. There was nothing unusual about this. He had often to go to the platform when there were gatherings for the discussion of public interests. He seated her in the closely filled hall and hurried forward. He was evidently being waited for. He had only time to lay aside his hat and exchange a few words with a gentleman who stepped toward him book in hand, and then Ruth watched her husband as he took the book and came forward to the center of the platform and began to read. And this was what he read. There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel's veins, and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. I do believe, I now believe that Jesus died for me, that on the cross he shed his blood from sin to set me free. Can I tell you anything about it? Do you suppose the tumult of amazement and of joy surging in his wife's soul? She felt her face grow pale and then red under the power of her emotions. She held herself by main force of will, quiet on the seat. When it seemed to her she must spring up before them all and shout for joy. Those words read by the voice which was to her the finest in the world, read with such a peculiarly marked emphasis on the personal pronouns as to tell her, even if his reading them at all under such circumstances had not done it, that he had made of this a personal matter. I do believe, I now believe that Jesus died for me. She said the lines over in exultant undertone emphasizing the words as he had done while the great company burst into song. This was surely the noon prayer meeting about which he had heard much and which he had never before attended. Almost with the last note of song mingled Judge Burnham's voice again and he said, Let us pray. His wife bowed her head on the seat before her and her whole frame shook with emotion. She did not know afterwards whether she prayed or cried or laughed. I know, she said long afterwards telling Erskine about it. I know, I said hallelujah, if that is praying. An elderly lady seated beside her regarded the slight figure draped in mourning with an air of tender sympathy, and when a few moments afterwards there came from the leader of the meeting an invitation for those who would like to learn the way to Christ to rise that they might be especially remembered in prayer, the old lady touched her arm and whispered, Would you stand up, dear? It will help you ever so much. Then Ruth turned toward her a radiant face in which smiles were mingling with falling tears and shook her head as she whispered back. I know the way, isn't it glorious? But she could never give a very lucid account of that noon prayer meeting. There were other gentlemen who entered the same carriage with them and there was opportunity for only an exchange of smiles between her husband and herself until they reached a hotel and he had ordered and secured a private room. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her, his face indicating too deep feeling just then for words. It is a long story, my dear, he said when they were calmer, or rather it has been a long, long battle on my part and could be summed up in a few sentences. It began, oh, long ago, but it has been marked by a few very decisive incidents. That Sunday afternoon meeting I never forgot it, Ruth, nor your way of putting the facts. You were logical and your conclusion was inevitable and I was angry that it should be so. I silenced you but not my own conscience. I never got away from it. Then came our troubles and your attitude threw them all. You were different some way from what you ever were before. It angered while it awed me. I knew you were controlled by a power that I did not understand. About that time, too, Sareff told me many things that I did not know before. I began to realize something of what you had borne through the years. And then, Ruth, you know that I saw Sareff die. But the final appeal, he continued after a moment's silence, the final appeal came in that letter which I did not answer, the thought that you could voluntarily open your home again after what you had borne and I, her father, had disowned her. I cannot tell you all that it said to me. Neither will I try to tell you now about the conflict. It is a little too recent to speak of it calmly. Yet I will tell you this, Ruth. I reached a point last Sunday night when I felt sure that the decision must be made then and there for eternity. I have struggled with this question for years and affected skepticism whenever that was the most convenient way of stifling conscience and affected indifference when my heart was fairly on fire and hidden behind inconsistencies of others and all that sort of flimsiness. But last Sunday evening it was as if the Lord himself stood by me and said, Just this one more time, my friend, I offer myself as your advocate. It all came over me in an instant, Ruth, how often he had done it before and how certain I would be to offer my services but once to any man living, and I, well, my dear, I surrendered. Some time I'll tell you all about it. But now let us have some dinner and then get home. I was coming this afternoon. I expected to reach you by the three o'clock train, but I had to stop here on business and I met my old college friend, Maldon. He is here conducting these noon meetings and when he heard how it was with me he insisted that I should stay and lead this meeting until the businessmen where I stood. I had determined not to write to you. I wanted to tell my story. But when he pressed this matter it occurred to me that it would be only a fair return for the surprise you gave me that Sunday, you know, to telegraph you to meet me here and take you to prayer meeting with me. I'm glad I did. Your face was an inspiration. I shall never forget how it looked while I was reading that hymn, what a glorious hymn it is. Did you bring Papa home? It was Erskine's clear ringing voice which sounded down to them from the upper hall the moment he heard the grating of the latchkey in the street door. Did you bring Papa home? In the next instant he was flying down the stairs. And while the poor young frightened wife was nervously walking up and down the hall above and wondering and fearing how she should meet her father, Judge Burnham gathered his boy into his arms and said between the kisses in a voice which quivered with feeling, yes, my boy, at last she has brought your Papa home. End of Chapter 27, recorded by Tricia G. End of Judge Burnham's Daughters by Pansy.