 CHAPTER VII. WHAT NEXT? Well! said Uncle Anthony, as he tried to tilt back in what he called a biscuit chair, which was in Glyde's room on the third floor of a large hotel, and surveyed her expectant face with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. What next? I suppose you have had a dull day. It is beyond me to understand what you could have found to amuse you. But, to judge from your story and your face, you have had excellent success, and my qualms of conscience over your loneliness have been wasted. Glyde laughed gleefully. I never thought of being lonely. She said, there were so many things to look at out of the windows, and such crowds of people passing all the time. It did not seem possible that they could all know just exactly where they wanted to go and what they wanted to do. Her uncle laughed, but said, with a shade of gravity in his voice, it is safe to state that about one third of them are going exactly where they ought not, and another third were doing exactly what they didn't want to. That is about the proportion in New York, I think. It was the evening of their first day in the city. Uncle Anthony, having established his travelling companion in excellent quarters, and surrounded her with what was, to her, the very extravagance of luxury, had been obliged to leave her quite to herself during business hours. He had rushed from one point to another in extreme haste, all the time distressed by the thought that the little girl, as he called her in his thoughts, whom he had brought away from home and mother for the first time in her life, must have such a wretched beginning to her holiday. It was, therefore, a happy surprise on returning to the hotel just in time for dinner, to find her face as bright as the day had been. While they were at dinner, she gave him eager descriptions of the wonders she had seen from the windows. In this, as in all other respects, she was a contrast to her sister Estelle. When, on a memorable occasion, he took that young lady to Syracuse with him, he remembered she had found the hours that she had been compelled to solitude, with no other employment than window-gazing, such intolerable bores as to lead him at times to seriously doubt whether the delightful evenings and the few hours of daylight which he could spare her were sufficient compensation for such martyrdom. Yet her windows had been much more hopeful of possible entertainment than were glides. That young lady regarded him with a serious, half-wistful look in response to the alarming statement he made about the people she had watched, and said timidly, "'They all looked comfortable, Uncle Anthony. I was thinking about that this afternoon. I have heard and read a good many things about the poor of New York. But I haven't seen a single, really ill-dressed or very doleful-looking person this entire day. They all hurried by as though they knew just where to go and how to plan for themselves.' Uncle Anthony laughed again. "'You are not in the right quarter of the city to see the sights in the way of dress, for instance, of either extreme.' He said, "'I could take you to portions of this interesting town where you would get a glimpse of the poor. But I think we will try to do something pleasanter at least this evening. I suppose you would like to go to the theatre. Have you selected the point you want to aim for? You received this evening paper I sent up, didn't you? Where is it? I haven't had time to see what is going on.'" "'Here is the paper, Uncle Anthony, but...' He noticed at once the change of tone, and turned quickly and looked at her. "'Well,' he said, "'what is it? Have you some other plan? Let's have it in that case. I have no object in view except to give you as pleasant an evening as I can. I mentioned the theatre, because it was always Estelle's first thought. Where do you want to go?' "'Oh, I haven't any plans, Uncle Anthony, and I want to go wherever you wish to take me. Only I thought...' She stopped again. It seemed difficult for her to frame sentences to her satisfaction. Her uncle waited, however, apparently not intending to assist her, and she began again. "'Uncle Anthony, I had almost decided that I would not go to theatres.'" "'The mischief you had! I did not know that you had had an opportunity. Do they have theatres in your town?' "'Oh, travelling once occasionally, every winter indeed. But I did not mean those. I meant that I would not go, even though I had an opportunity to come to New York, for instance, though I never expected to come here.' "'And am I to be informed why this tremendous decision was reached? Don't your tastes lie in that direction?' "'Yes, I think they do. I should not be surprised if they lay very much in that direction, though I have never had opportunity to decide for myself. But I like everything in the line of acting. When the girls used to have at school, and in our societies, what we called private theatricals, I became so fond of them that while we were preparing for an entertainment I could hardly think of anything else. But the reason I had almost decided that I would not go was because, well, I am a member of the church, you know?' "'No, I was not aware of it. But what has that to do with the matter? So is your sister Estelle, I believe.' "'Yes, but she and Fanny have been members of the church for a number of years, and I only united last winter. Ah, am I to understand that one has to remain away from theatres and places of that sort for a term of years after uniting with the church, and then are at liberty to begin again?' "'Glide laughed pleasantly. Oh, Uncle Anthony, of course not! I am sure I don't know how to tell you what I mean. I am not like Estelle and Fanny. I mean I don't think as they do about some things. I know they are older, but then?' She stopped in evident embarrassment. She recognized the apparent egotism in that last sentence, and did not seem to know how to make her position clear. But Uncle Anthony only looked at her with his keen gray eyes and waited. So she began again. "'Uncle Anthony, when people unite with the church, they promise, you know, to walk in love with that particular church and be guided by its advice. At least the covenant of our church has such sentences. Not guided contrary to their own consciences, of course. But I mean they promise to consider carefully what that church thinks and agree with it if they can. Now I know that Dr. Ford, our pastor, doesn't attend theatres and doesn't approve of them. Neither do certain other members of our church, some who are reckoned among the wisest and best people we have. I thought there must be good reasons for their position. They all have young people in their families who join heartily in other pleasures. Once last winter I was invited to attend a theatre. It was a very good play, they said, and a great many of our young people went. I declined the invitation because I thought I had promised to be guided by the views of the church in such matters, and that the pastor represented the church. Estelle and Fanny did not agree with me. They laughed at me indeed. Estelle said it showed that I had a very weak nature, or that I was making a mere puppet of myself, not claiming to have any views of my own. And when I came to think about it carefully I found it true enough that I had no particular views on the subject because I knew very little about it. I didn't feel quite as Estelle did about taking advice, because what is the use of giving advice if people are never to take it? Still I knew it was the right thing to have settled opinions for oneself, so I borrowed a book about theatres that I had seen in Dr. Ford's study and read it carefully. And really, Uncle Anthony, if the half that that book said was true, I shouldn't think any self-respecting people would frequent the theatre. Why, I don't mean that, of course. Pausing suddenly while her face flushed Crimson over the thought that Uncle Anthony took Estelle to the theatre every evening while they were in Syracuse. But I mean, I don't understand how people can make a business of going. Probably the book was written by some fanatic who had never been inside a theatre in his life. Volunteered Uncle Anthony, more it must be confessed for the purpose of seeing what this new niece would say next than because of any deep personal interest in the matter. Oh, no, it wasn't! He had been to a good many of them and had studied the plays most carefully as they are presented and knew a great deal about them. I asked Dr. Ford about it afterwards, and he said that everyone who had given attention to the matter knew that the statements made in that book could not be contradicted. He said attempts had been made to contradict them which had proved utter failures. After that I read several newspaper and magazine articles in the same line. I remember it seemed to me as though items about the theatre kept falling into my hands without my looking for them, but of course it just happened so. And so you almost decided never to go? Her uncle said, looking at her with a twinkle in his handsome grey eyes. How much ground is that almost supposed to cover? Why I didn't positively say that I would never go. Nobody has talked with me about it except Estelle and Fanny, and of course they didn't care how I decided it. I have never been invited to go but just twice, so I haven't had much temptation. Estelle said she would risk me if I ever got a chance to go to a real city theatre. But what I decided was that unless something happened, that is unless I read some books or had a talk with people whom I trusted, who could assure me that much which had been said in that book and other books against theatres was false, why I should just not go to them, that is all. Don't depend upon me to try to change your views. Her uncle said dryly, I shall not undertake the task. Glyde laughed a slightly embarrassed laugh and began again in a deprecating tone. Uncle Anthony, I hope I have not made you think that I would like to keep you away from anything which you wish to do. Won't you please go out tonight just as usual? I promise you I shall not be in the least homesick or lonely. I must finish my letter to mother, and then I saw a book downstairs which I am sure I can borrow. The lady who was there this afternoon asked me if I had ever read it, and said she knew I would like it. Won't you please, Uncle Anthony, act just as though I wasn't here? Her uncle laughed good-naturedly. Won't I please go off to the theatre by myself and leave the little girl I brought along to amuse me to play alone, eh? Not if I am acquainted with myself. My child, you need have no compunctions of conscience over me. The theatres which I have attended during the last seven years have been perfect boars to me. I have gone chiefly to please some niece or cousin or young friend whom I had in charge. I shall be entirely willing to take up some new role. What shall it be, a prayer meeting? He was teasing her. She saw the fun in his eyes, but she laughed merrily. It was winsome teasing, with nothing bitter about it. She rather enjoyed it. Having the laugh, she said, You are making fun of me, Uncle Anthony. I know that. But, to be real honest, I have thought that some time I should like to go to a very large city prayer meeting, such as I suppose they must have in these great churches in New York. I have read of prayer meetings which it seemed to me it must be a perfect delight to attend. I don't mean to night, of course, and indeed I don't mean to insist on you taking me at any time. I am ready to go wherever you would like me to go, or to stay at home with you and let you rest. I truly haven't any pet schemes which must be carried out. I believe you think I am a little bit of a girl who must have the particular toy that I want to play with, or I shall go off in a corner and pout. No, he said emphatically. On my word I don't. I haven't seen a pouting streak in your makeup. A prayer meeting, eh? That's entirely out of my line. Never in all of my experience with nieces have I been called upon to produce one before. But we ought to be able to find one within reaching distance, I should think. If I mistake not, this is the regulation night in this city for entertainments of that character. I have run across one once or twice in a business way, I remember. We'll sally out and see what we can do. As Glide settled her pretty hat before the mirror and slipped her arms dexterously into her sister's sack, and hunted eagerly for the pair of gloves which suited her best for evening wear, her uncle watched her with a curious mixture on his face of amusement and tenderness. A close observer would have been sure to have noted the touch of sadness also. Some sweet past memory had been awakened and was tugging at his heart. Had he spoken the words which floated through his mind they would have been something after this fashion. So this is a new type of niece altogether. Takes me back eight, nine, how many years? She is like her aunt Estelle. Queer that the other one should look like her, and this one be like her. I thought the type had gone out of style. My little girl had very much the same notions about theatres, I remember, with neither pastor nor books to help her to her conclusions. She did not like some of the things she saw there, and so would have none of them. She was a positive little woman, yet with gentle ways about her positiveness such as this one has. I have not seen anything of the kind since. The soliloquy closed with a sigh, but it was not so heavy as the lonely man's sighs were apt to be when his thoughts strayed into his precious past. He was conscious of a new interest in life. Up to this time he had petted Estelle because she bore the charmed name, and finding her totally different from his original, had told himself that he must expect nothing else. There were no girls in these days like his Estelle. He thought of her as though she had been gone from earth for generations, as indeed it sometimes seemed to him that she had. But here was a revelation. Behold his niece, Glide, whom he had hitherto noticed at all simply because she was his favorite sister's daughter, and with whom he had not exchanged a dozen words connectedly since she emerged from childhood. Now she was blossoming before him into something like his ideal young womanhood. At least she strongly suggested it, and it would be worth studying to see how much they really were alike. He had discovered her by a happy accident. Whatever it was which had detained the nutting party, he hoped of course that nothing unpleasant had happened. But he owed them all a vote of thanks for having discovered to him this particular niece whom he would take care not to lose again. So you have on your sister's sack? He said, as Glide turned presently from the mirror, and daintily gloved, announced herself quite ready. Her face flushed crimson under his question and his critical survey. Oh, Uncle Anthony! she said pitifully. How did you know? Why, the transom was open, you remember, and I heard things unlawful for a guest to hear. Never mind, you did not say anything that I shall not forgive. How does the sack fit? Perfectly! Estelle and I have the same figure, though I am a trifle taller than she. Doesn't it look well on me? I don't see anything to find fault with. What does Estelle wear in the meantime? That is what troubles me a little, or would if I were not so selfish that I cannot remember to be troubled about anything just now. She wears mine, I suppose, and she doesn't like it. Mine is really rather shabby, and I am truly ashamed of having taken hers without asking for it. What do you propose to wear when you get home? Oh, I can wear the old sack there well enough, but it was too shabby for New York. I don't go out a great deal, you know I am the third one, and that does make a difference. I am afraid you do not like the sack after all. Don't I look all right in it? With a little anxious survey of herself as she noticed the shade of gravity on her uncle's face. You look remarkably well, I should say. How does it happen that there is such a striking difference between her winter rig and yours? Why, it was her turn this winter. We have to take turn about. There are so many of us, you know, and father is sick. I don't mind. Being the youngest, of course it doesn't make so much difference. I see. But Estelle is not the oldest of you girls. No. Slowly and with a little perplexity of tone and manner. Fanny is the oldest. But then Estelle is—she stopped to laugh and went on merrily. She is the unfortunate one, perhaps. Her clothes are always growing shabby before Fanny's and mine. She dashes about a good deal and is harder on her clothes. Perhaps you don't know what a difference there is in girls in that respect, but mother realizes it, I am sure. Poor mother has kept busy day and night trying to plan for us all. I think Estelle cares more about things than Fanny does, perhaps. She seemed trying to explain satisfactorily to herself the evident difference which had to be made between the two elder sisters. Her uncle followed her downstairs with the shade of gravity still on his face. He was thinking of the burdened life of his favorite sister. Somehow he had learned more about the circumstances of the family in his few short conversations with Glyde than all his trips over the country with Estelle had evolved. Estelle had seemed to be absorbed with herself. She belongs to another world. He said once more, thinking of Glyde, to the world of prayer meetings and all the things which match. They went out among the moving throngs on the street. They took the El Road, which was a never-failing source of pleasure to Glyde. She liked to whirl along over the tops of tall buildings and watch for the new and curious sights which such elevations afforded her. They left the car at 42nd Street and walked briskly down several blocks, reaching at last a massive stone pile whose spire pointed heavenward. Several people were passing into the building by a side entrance, and they followed, reaching presently an audience room larger and finer than Glyde had ever seen before. The great doors seemed to be hung in air, so silently without visible help did they appear to open and close. The carpet gave back no answering sound to any footfalls. The lights which flooded the room came from hundreds of lily bells which drooped their graceful heads for that purpose. An upright piano occupied a central position near the desk, and at the left was a handsome pipe organ which was giving forth sounds of exquisite harmony as they moved down the aisle. The seats were perhaps half filled with men and women, chiefly women. No ushers were in attendance, and Glyde and her uncle helped themselves to seats, as seemed to be the fashion of the place. A hymn-book lay unused near them, and Glyde assayed to find the hymn which was being sung but failed. It apparently occurred to no one to assist her. Following the hymn the pastor called upon someone to pray, and a prayer followed remarkable to Glyde for two things, long and involved sentences and large words. It also grew to be remarkable for its continuance. She thought the petitioner must be deeply interested in every nation and question under the sun, for he seemed to her to omit nothing in all the wide range of human interest, save the people who were present with him in the place of prayer. Poor Glyde assured herself that it was undoubtedly a beautiful prayer, and she was deeply mortified because she could not keep her thoughts in line with it. Despite every effort to the contrary, they would go back to the groups of people she had watched that day and to her uncle Anthony's remark concerning them. Was New York different from other places, or could the world be almost divided into two classes of people, those who did what they ought not, and those who could not do as they would, with only a very few sprinkled in between who made life a success? This girl of nineteen wanted all lives to be successful. She not only mourned, but felt a restless sense of injury in the thought that it was not so. Why had fate arranged that such a multitude of people should be disappointed? She said, fate, from motives of respect, and felt that she was reverent in doing so. She would not have called God in question, but that mysterious creature named fate she was willing to arraign. She wondered if uncle Anthony liked to talk about such matters, and what shrewd remarks he would make concerning them. And then she brought herself back sharply to the thought of prayer to find that it was at last concluded. There followed what uncle Anthony called an address from the man who was presumably the pastor. He read a few verses from the Bible, but the address did not immediately follow the reading, and the two seemed to have no connection. He had much to say about medieval Europe, which topic it must be confessed had no interest whatever for glide. She was bitterly disappointed, and during the progress of the address could not keep her eyes from turning in the direction of the great clock which ticked solemnly from a conspicuous pedestal. Once she caught her uncle's eye, but it was so full of fun that she was afraid to look in his direction again lest she might laugh. On the whole, glide's first prayer meeting in New York could not in any sense of the word be called a success. She tried to join in her uncle's bits of merriment at her expense, but at her heart was a sore troubled feeling. She was a young Christian, and her experiences thus far had not been rose-colored. Was it strange that the watchful enemy, especially of all young creatures, contrived to smuggle in the questionings as to whether the high hopes she had indulged about this new life when she began it were a delusion? Did it mean a mere commonplace plodding along the road? Prayer meetings from a sense of duty with no joy in them, and nothing outward anywhere which was calculated to win others, men like her uncle for instance. Glide admitted to herself that the girls seemed to be satisfied with such a state of things, or rather they seemed to her to think nothing about religious matters save at stated times. But she had confessed to Uncle Anthony that she was not like her sisters, and she felt that in this, as in other matters, it was true. After the prayer meeting they went sightseeing. Uncle Anthony knew just where to lead his novice to make her eyes open wide with wonder and her whole face sparkle with delight. But he brought the shadows to it again by saying, as he kissed her good night, well, if the first part of our evening was a dismal failure, the last half was a brilliant success. In the great law office of Messer's Peel and McMaster's, business was pushing as usual. Shorthand reporters were clicking their typewriters at their utmost speed, transcribing their notes of the previous night, and the quieter but no less busy clerks who wrote with pens were at their desks giving undivided attention to business. The only unoccupied person in the room was a young man with alert face and keen eyes, who was evidently taking in the possibilities of the place with a view to or hope of the possible future. In the private office the senior partner of the firm and one of his confidential assistants were in close conversation when a knock at the door interrupted them. The young man has come, sir, said the intruder hurriedly, speaking as one who knew he must save all the time possible. You gave orders, you remember, that you were to be told when he arrived. Here is his card and a letter of introduction from— What young man? interrupted the chief. Oh, I remember, we telegraphed him. It was unfortunate, too, now that this unexpected matter has come up in the trial. We have no time for minor business affairs of any sort. But it cannot well be helped now, I suppose, and we are certainly in need of more help in the office. How does he appear, Mr. Albertson? Does he want to stay now, or has he only come to survey the land? Let him work, if you can, on approval. Tell him I will see him later, to-morrow if possible, or the next day. If he is good for anything, he can work a few days on suspense. Close the door now, and don't let us be interrupted again. Thus summarily were the young man's interests disposed of, and he had waited for months and planned for weeks with regard to this hour. As he waited now, outside, in that busy office, his heart throbbed unnaturally in alternate throes of hope and fear. It meant so much to him this opportunity. Mr. Albertson tiptoed back. The habit of his life was not to disturb the workers in that office. He carried on an undertone conversation with the stranger, a short one. He had learned not to waste words. Mr. Peel cannot see you today. He is very sorry. Mr. McMasters is out of town, called out unexpectedly. However, that will make no difference if you want to go to work. We are in need of help, and my orders are to set you at work if you are willing. On approval, you understand? Of course, we cannot say that it will last for twenty-four hours. Oh, I am quite ready to go to work on those terms! The stranger said quickly. I am ready now. He looked about, apparently, for a place to set down his hat and seemed eager to commence at once. Mr. Albertson allowed himself to smile. It is true, he had seen eagerness for work before, and was often skeptical as to the length of time it would last. But something about this young man attracted him, and the eagerness lasted. All that day and the next, the stranger wrote steadily on whatever was given him to do. Mr. Peel still continuing too busy to talk with him. A novice he was, of course, needing much direction and continual oversight, but before the first day was over, Mr. Albertson knew that he approved of the young man. You will have more chances for study, of course, if you remain with us. He remarked kindly at the close of the first day. Things are more than usually rushed with us just now, on account of unexpected developments in the great lawsuit for which they are getting ready. But in ordinary times Mr. Peel will often give you a few minutes, and Mr. McMasters is very kind and helpful to students. While you are waiting for them, if there is anything I can show you about books, or in any line, just call upon me. This was a great deal for Mr. Albertson to say, if the stranger had but known it. It evidenced an unusual liking for him on the part of this silent man, who was yet a power in the workroom. During a moment of leisure on the following day, it occurred to Mr. Albertson to question where the new man was stopping, and if he cared to look up a boarding place, or would prefer to wait until his affairs were more settled. Upon being informed that the young man was stopping with his uncle, and could continue to do so in the event of a permanent engagement, Mr. Albertson liked him better than ever. Lawyers clerks who were living in boarding houses, among strangers, were so liable to get into scrapes. It happened that, before that second day had quite closed, Mr. Albertson had occasion to spend nearly five minutes in the same room with his chief. He watched for an opportunity when that busy man seemed to be stopping for a moment of rest, and rushed in his sentence. The new young man takes hold well, sir. We haven't had a student in five years who has seemed so thoroughly in earnest. He gives his attention so fully to the business in hand that he makes few mistakes, fewer than some who have been with us for months. Ah, is that so? came from Mr. Peel in an absent-minded tone. Yes, sir, and between times he studies with all his might, knows how to study too, I should say. Glad to hear it, said Mr. Peel. I hope he will make a success of it. I knew his father years ago and shall be willing to give the son a lift. But, of course, we must go slowly in such a matter. Don't give him any encouragement as to permanency, Albertson. Remember, we can afford to have only a certain class of students about us. Tomorrow or the next day I may be able to have a talk with him. Tomorrow passed without the opportunity being found. It was toward the closing hours on the fourth day of the new student's appearance that another young man entered the office. That young man was Ralph Bramlett. To account for this extremely tardy arrival, it will be necessary to go back to the morning on which he first heard of the opportunity and its probable loss. He expressed himself freely on the subject, and his sister Hannah, who was not given to sparing words, was equally outspoken. What do you suppose we could do about it? Two women here alone. If you hadn't stayed away from home all night like a silly boy, you would have been here in time to have attended to your own business. This was too true to be palatable, but it was also too true to contradict. Ralph was moody and miserable during what was left of the morning, and by afternoon, his father not having yet returned, he announced his intention of driving to a town some twelve miles distant to see to some business which would have to be attended to before long. In vain his mother protested. The storm was increasing in violence. It was not the day for a long drive into the country. Ralph had a slight cold now, and this was exactly the weather calculated to increase it. She did not believe that father would like to have the horses exposed unnecessarily to the storm. There was no haste about that matter, it could wait another week as well as not, and there were dozens of things to be done which the rain need not hinder. She might as well have spared her breath. Ralph was inexorable. He would take that twelve miles drive and attend to that particular business on that very day. We have had enough of delays already, he said savagely, and he looked at his mother and sister as though he considered them to blame for all the annoyances which had resulted from the last one. End of Chapter 8 He had his way and took his twelve miles drive, only to discover that the man he had gone to see was miles away from home in another direction. Thoroughly soaked and thoroughly miserable, he reached home somewhere near midnight and went supperless to bed, declining almost roughly the choice dishes which mother and sister pressed upon him. He could not eat a morsel, he declared. He had a headache and wanted to be let alone. By the next morning it was apparent that he had not only headache but fever. A wretched cold kept him an unwilling and irritable prisoner for two days. On the third, common sense began to assert itself and take him to task for not going to New York as soon as he heard of the call. How could he be sure that the opportunity was lost even though he was a few hours behind time? The more he thought about it, the more he accused himself of folly, and finally he resolved to go that very day and learn his fate in person. You can explain how it was that you were detained, said his father. That is, if you have anything to explain. At least you can state that you have been ill, and that is always a reasonable excuse. I do not suppose that it will be absolutely necessary, in the cause of truth, to add that you brought the illness upon yourself. It is very unfortunate, the whole of it. If Mr. Peel is in the least like he was as a young man, he will demand promptness and frankness above all things. I do not understand the situation very well myself. I thought you had grown up, my boy. All this was very irritating to Ralph. He was in a condition to be irritated easily. He had driven to town that afternoon and spent an hour walking about aimlessly, trying to decide whether he should call upon Marjorie after the old fashion, as if he had run in for a moment's chat as a matter of course. Before he had determined whether this was the proper thing to be done, it was settled while he was still half a block away from her door by seeing Marjorie emerge from it and walk briskly downtown. He crossed the street and followed at such good speed that he overtook her just as she was entering Melbourne's store. Good afternoon, he said hurriedly, the importance of being in haste if he would not lose her in the vortex inside, finally settling the vexed question for him. She turned her head, much as she might have done if a child had arrested her steps, said in her quietest, most indifferent tone, Good afternoon, and immediately disappeared among the crowds of people inside the store. When before had Marjorie Edmonds responded thus coldly to greeting of his. His indignation returned with violence. Very well, he told himself angrily, if Marjorie Edmonds had decided to break with him merely because he did not obey her orders like a child, she was at liberty to do so. He would go away at once to New York and stay there if he possibly could. Forever perhaps, at least long enough for her to bitterly repent her treatment of him. So it was, after all, this experience which finally sent him to wait in the office of Miser's Peel and McMasters. What name did you say, sir? Mr. Albertson had asked him, moving a step nearer with a look of surprise and bewilderment on his face. Now Ralph was still in the mood which had been evolved by all the exasperating occurrences of the past few days and could not be expected to be courteous to one whom he regarded as a mere clerk. Bramlett, he said irritably, and in a louder tone than was generally used in the office. It is a sufficiently uncommon name to be remembered, I should think. And you are expected, do you say? Certainly I am, I have had letters from Mr. Peel and finally a telegram. He omitted to state how many days had elapsed since the telegram reached him. Mr. Albertson's step was slower than usual, and there was a look of undoubted mystification on his face as he made his way toward the private office and waited for admittance. There is a young man, sir, he said hesitatingly when he finally had permission to speak, and then he told Ralph's story. What is all this? asked Mr. Peel, who had been writing during his clerk's opening sentences. He held his pen in the air now and whirled about on his chair for a full view of the speaker's face. I have written him, does he say, and telegraphed him. When, pray, what does it all mean? What do you say the name is? That is the strange part of it, he says his name is Bramlett. Bramlett? Why, I thought that young man had been at work in our office for four or five days and was giving satisfaction. Isn't that his name? I certainly understood so from you. He sent in his card if you remember. I did not so much as glance at it, nor did you. But you told me he was the young man you expected, and I knew that that young man's name was Bramlett. You ordered me to set him to work. And did he say he had a telegram from me? No, sir, he said nothing to me about telegrams. It was you who told me you had telegraphed him. And on the strength of that you set him to work without identifying him even by name. I'm afraid you would not succeed as a lawyer, Mr. Albertson. I supposed, of course, it was Bramlett. I was not expecting anybody else. But it seems we both jumped at conclusions. Well, unravel the mystery in any way you think best. Are they twins, do you suppose? No, sir, I shouldn't say that they were. They look and act very unlike. And you like the first one and don't the second. That is plain. I'm afraid you would make a prejudice juryman, Mr. Albertson. Report whatever results you reach to me. I haven't time for details. The great man turned again in his chair as the sentence was completed, and before the door closed he was writing again. Mr. Albertson went back toward the public office more annoyed than he often allowed himself to become. He had certainly taken to the new clerk in a way that was unusual for him. If he should now discover that it was all a mistake and that this intruder was to have the choice position which had been long watched for by more than one, the gray-haired clerk's heart would be sad. He preferred the Mr. Bramlett who was now in possession. Even his chiefs rarely spoke to him in the tone that the intruding Bramlett had used that morning. Instead of returning at once to the main room, he turned aside to a small semi-private office, and summoning a call boy, directed that the young man who sat at desk number two be sent to him. Am I mistaken, he said, in supposing your name to be Bramlett? Yes, he was. The new clerk's name was Burwell, Paul Burwell. And did you receive a telegram from Mr. Peel the evening before you were called here? Oh, no indeed. He had never heard from Mr. Peel by letter or telegram. An old friend of his mother's, George Marshall of Kennecott, had learned incidentally that there was a possible opening in this office, and knowing his extreme anxiety to secure such an opportunity had offered him a letter of introduction to Mr. Peel, which Mr. Burwell had delivered to the clerk on the morning of his arrival, and had been promptly set at work temporarily in the office. He did not state how great had been his surprise and delight at this immediate result. Matters began to look very serious so far as this faithful worker's prospects were concerned. Evidently the intruder was the expected Mr. Bramlett, who had received letters and telegrams. Mr. Albertson was intensely mortified. It was the first time, in all the fourteen years of his service with the firm, that he could be called to account for carelessness. There was nothing for it but to repair to his chief with the information which he had gained. The unexpected result was that Mr. Peel threw down his pen and summoned Ralph Bramlett to an immediate interview, during which that young man was subjected to a running fire of cross questions. Where was he when the telegram arrived? What hindered him from making an immediate reply, either in person or by wire? Was he too ill to telegraph? Poor Ralph, unused to such close questioning, and with a foolish feeling at his heart that he had something to conceal, blundered and stammered and contradicted himself about headache and fever and thunderstorms and an all-night absence, until Mr. Peel regarded him with suspicious eyes and wondered how much of the story was fact and how much he was composing for the occasion. He was left in the private office to consider the matter, while Mr. Peel himself strode into the large room to confer with the incumbent of desk number two, and experienced so unusual as to startle all the clerks in the office. The final result was as poor Ralph might have known. A young man three or four days behind time, with such a confused and contradictory account of himself to give, could hardly expect consideration at the hands of such businessmen as Mr. Peel and McMasters. Mr. Peel recounted as much of the interview as was necessary to his partner afterwards, and laughed in an annoyed way as he said, so it has come to pass that we, who are supposed to be exasperatingly particular in regard to those who come to our office as students, and who have at least a dozen estimable young men always watching for our vacancies, have established a perfect stranger, who was not even heard of until the morning when he presented himself, and was set to work. Fate must have had a hand in that affair. Perhaps the young man had a hand in making his own fate, observed the partner. More fate is made by promptness and faithful attention to business than young people dream of. Where has this other young fellow been during the days which intervened between the telegram and the appearance? He doesn't know, said Mr. Peel, laughing. He is the most confused person you ever heard of, unless I am more confused than he by his story. There was a storm and a ride at night and a headache and a bad cold, and he was sick in bed at the same time that he was taking the drive, I think. Anyhow, matters are hopelessly confused in both our minds. Albertson takes to the other one, and there is no known reason for displacing him when we offered him the place on approval. He has given entire satisfaction so far. Besides, I have looked up his letter of introduction, and it expresses a great deal in a short space, and comes from a high source. Oh, he is probably the one. We'll try him anyway. I should like to have gratified my old acquaintance, Bramlet, but he couldn't expect businessmen to wait four days. Now, Mr. McMasters, I am ready for business, if you are. When Ralph Bramlet walked slowly away from the office that morning, he had a bitter sense of his own folly. How long he had waited for this golden opportunity? An assured position in the office of Peel and McMaster was almost as good as being a lawyer oneself. It opened the way, as no other office did, for steady advancement and final success. And he had felt so sure of the position so soon as it opened. Mr. Peel's letters had been most kind. He had remembered his father pleasantly. He had promised his personal attention to the matter, and had given it. And he, Ralph, had thrown it away for the sake of avoiding the passing sarcasms of Estelle Douglas. He hated her when he thought of it. Even after that he need not have been a fool. Why had he not taken the first train for New York that next morning, and explained in a manly way that he had been absent from home, and came by the first train after receiving his call? Then he would have been in time. He knew that he had not done so, simply because he had given way to a feeling of being ill-used, to a notion that fate was against him, and that there was no use in his trying to be anybody but applauding farmer, which was his way of referring to that manly employment when he was in the depths. Nay, even after all the delays, why had he told such a confused schoolboy story to the great lawyer? What did he care about storms and picnics and colds? Had he simply said that he had been absent from home when the telegram arrived, and later had been too ill to give attention to business, he would at least have preserved his self-respect. On the whole the young man had a wholesome feeling of self-dissatisfaction. He was even willing for the moment to admit that he had been to blame for all his trials, that Marjorie Edmonds was justified in feeling hurt and offended. He walked the length of an entire block considering the matter in this light. He felt an almost irresistible desire to have Marjorie's sympathy at that moment. He felt quite certain that she would have sympathy to give. If he could call upon her now within the next hour and say, first, Marjorie, I want to tell you that I acted like an idiot and a bear the other night. I don't know what possessed me. Or, that is not true, I do. I wanted to save you and myself from the merciless ridicule of Estelle Douglas, and so allowed her to persuade me against my better judgment. I want you to forgive me. If I had known how much your heart was set upon being at home that night, I would not have disappointed you for a thousand Douglas girls. And then, oh Marjorie, I have failed in the desire of my heart. For three years I have been hoping to get in at the great law firm of Peel and McMasters. And only that night, that fateful night, they telegraphed me, and I was not there to receive it, and I have lost my opportunity. How certain he was that she would speak gentle, encouraging words such as no other could. Never mind Ralph, he could seem to hear her voice. You know, of course, that I am sorry, ever so sorry, but there will be another opportunity soon. Missers Peel and McMasters are not the only lawyers in the world, and even they may have an unexpected vacancy very soon. Don't give up heart, make up your mind that you will have the place you believe you are fitted for, and then watch for it. Some such words as those he would be certain to hear from her lips. He longed for them. He believed he would go home and carry out his part of the program so as to ensure hers. He took out his timetable and studied it. In two hours there would be a return train. Should he take it? He had met Estelle Douglas in the street the evening before, and told her he was going to New York to spend the winter. If he returned the very next day, how strange it would look to her. How many absurd things she could say because of it. His face flushed over the thought of her ridicule. Why had he told her he was going to spend the winter? Still, he need not rush home like a home sick child. Why not stay and see a little of the city now that he was here? No, he must get home. He could ill afford the money that it would cost to stay. He would wait simply for the midnight train. That would bring him home in the morning in time for the day's duties. The next question was, how should he spend the intervening time? There was sight seeing enough for the hours of daylight, but there was the evening. When evening had fully come he was still considering the question while he walked the street. He passed a large, plain building which did not look like a church, but they were singing inside a hymn which Margaery sang once in the choir at home. He paused and was on the eve of entering the door. He wanted to hear more of that hymn. But he turned on his heel with a half-contemptuous smile. What an idea to spend his only evening he had for New York in a prayer meeting. How would that sound repeated? He went instead to a theater. The play was neither of the best nor the worst. Perhaps the utmost that could have been briefly said of it was that it was weak. The hero was an ill-used man, a victim of fate which pursued him relentlessly even to the bitter end. Ralph Bramlett followed him breathlessly to that end. Then came away moody and miserable. He listened in vain for the sound of Margaery's voice in encouragement. Something had hushed it. He told himself once more that there was no use in his trying. In that wretched young man who tried and failed he saw himself. Fate was against him. Even Margaery, his friend from childhood, had turned coldly away, offended over a trifle. She might stay offended then. He should not apologize. What was there for him to apologize about? It was she who had given them a wretched fright and put everything awry for the next day. Poor Ralph! The being he called Fate had gotten possession of him again. 10. A Marked Day Years afterwards, whenever Glide Douglas wanted to refer to an especially happy period in her life, she was sure to go back to New York and spend over again those days with Uncle Anthony. Especially to that lovely Friday which followed the attempt to find a prayer meeting. Uncle Anthony gave up almost the entire day to his niece. In the morning they went shopping. The conversation which was held just before they started is, perhaps, worthy of record. Glide had confided to her uncle the existence of the two-dollar bill and the important part which it was to play in her affairs. He was the most sympathetic of confidants. All right, he said, his gray eyes twinkling with pleasure. We'll attend to that the first thing. What have you thought of? Oh, nothing! Glide explained. Or, rather, a hundred things. Still, I think I have very nearly settled upon some of them. I must have something silk for mother. I suppose it will have to be a handkerchief. Does she particularly dot on silk handkerchiefs? I don't think she has any. I mean a soft white one that she can knot up and wear at her throat when she is dressed. You don't know how it would be done, Uncle Anthony, but I do. She would look pretty in it. And, for father, I think I shall get some new neckties. I know the kind he likes, and I heard mother tell him that his were getting shabby. I think I can get two, but perhaps not. I don't suppose you know what those neat little black ones cost, do you? They are not in the least like the ones you wear. That means I suppose that mine are not neat. Never mind, I can stand it. No, I don't know what they cost, but there is probably somebody in town who does. Go on, what next? Why, the girls are the hardest. Not because there are so few things to get them, but so many. Yesterday, when we were going downtown, we passed a jewelry store. It looked large and handsome, and the windows were brilliantly lighted. And there were some tiny pins displayed, wee bits of pins, clover leaves, you know, and violets, and mignonette. They were marked only thirty-five cents. Could they possibly have been good for anything at that price? Good for bits of glass and bright-colored paper, said Uncle Anthony. Glide laughed cheerfully. I was afraid so, she said. Then I am undecided in regard to the girls. I thought if thirty-five cents could buy anything of that sort which Estelle and Fanny could wear, I should like to get them, for it happens that both of them have broken their pins. Oh, well, said Uncle Anthony, we might look them up and see. Perhaps they would do for every day wear. Seems to me you are very modest in your wishes. Silk handkerchiefs and even neat neckties are small affairs to represent your first visit to New York, are they not? Well, but I have to be modest. Laughed Glide. Didn't I tell you what my resources were? I see. But give free reign to your imagination, can't you, for the fun of the thing? Suppose you had, well, for purposes of illustration, we will say a hundred dollars to spend this morning. I'll venture a neat necktie that you would waste the entire morning tossing over things and wouldn't have the least idea how to spend them. Wouldn't I, with a little emphatic nod of her head, which was very becoming to Glide? I know just exactly how to spend them. I've spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars in that way, Uncle Anthony, and I'm thoroughly posted. All right, go ahead. Let me hear you think aloud. I never saw a girl who could spend a hundred dollars quickly and sensibly. What would you get for that mother of yours, for instance, besides the silk handkerchief? I should get her a silk dress, a beautiful black silk dress. Just such an one as she ought to wear to church and everywhere. I don't suppose you half understand mother's, Uncle Anthony. Yours died when you were such a little boy, but you see they have a way of giving everything up to their daughters, and sons too, I suppose, and going without themselves. When I was a little girl, mother used to have a black silk dress which she wore to church almost every Sunday. I can remember drawing my hand over it to feel how soft it was, and I know just how mother looked in it. But she hasn't worn a silk dress for—it must be five years. She cut that one over for Estelle that time when she went to Syracuse with you, you remember, and she has never had another. You see, there are so many grown-up daughters that she cannot do things for herself—at least, she thinks she cannot. As for father, I should buy a great big splendid overcoat for him, just as warm and comfortable as could be. He wears a rather shabby one now, and it is not warm enough for the coldest weather, either. But when we talk to him about it, he shakes his head and says it will do nicely for him. Then, for the girls, since it is something which will last forever, I should get real truly pins, costing as much as five or six dollars. There, haven't I spent almost my hundred dollars? But at this tremendous estimate for a truly pin, Uncle Anthony had thrown back his head and laughed so long and loud that it was some moments before he could answer her. You have done very well, he said at last, remarkably well for a girl, especially about the expensive pins. Well, but—she said with a pretty pretensive indignation that was, if possible, more fascinating than her merriment. What would you have me do? I could not spend it all on pins, could I, and have nothing left for the dress and overcoat? That is the way they do it, three-fourths of the time, my dear, I verily believe, said Uncle Anthony, sobering at once, and regarding his niece with an air of peculiar tenderness. In truth, his laughter had been very near to tears. This innocent little girl, who had fallen so unsuspectingly into his trap, had revealed much more than she realized. The fact presented itself to him for the first time that his favourite—and indeed only surviving sister—was straightened even in her wardrobe, and his pale-faced brother-in-law, who had for years been carrying on a hand-to-hand struggle with feebleness, wore a shabby overcoat which was not heavy enough for him, while he, Anthony Ward, without wife or child or anyone dependent upon him, was receiving a fine salary and tossing it about carelessly without regard to the comfort of even his very own. And here was this unselfish girl, with only two dollars of her own in the world, planning to spend every cent of it in little useful things for her loved ones, conscious all the while of greater needs which she could not supply. They went out very soon after this, making their way with all speed downtown, and plunging presently into the wonders and delight of Denning's store. Here, for the moment, Glyde lost her head entirely over the glories displayed, and Uncle Anthony smiled to himself as he thought he saw the soft white silk handkerchief lose its important place in her memory. He'd need not have feared. In a very few minutes she pulled herself up sharply, and said, with the gravity of one who had responsible matters on her shoulders, Uncle Anthony, take me to the handkerchief department, please. I must not spend time over these lovely things until my work is done. He obeyed in subdued silence, and, with the utmost care, the handkerchief was chosen from a great multitude. The particular maiden must have it just so fine, and of just such a delicate tint of creamy white, with just such a hemstitch and no other. Before the purchase was completed, the patient saleswoman and the patient waiter realized that the shopper knew just what she wanted. Then Uncle Anthony electrified them both by gravely asking to be shown some black silk which would match the handkerchief. You mean black silk handkerchiefs? said the bewildered clerk. Handkerchiefs? No, indeed. I mean black silk dresses, or the stuff to make them of, such as ladies wear. I have a fancy for seeing how a white handkerchief looks on a black silk dress. With a strange mixture of bewilderment, dismay, and delight setting all her pulses to throbbing, Glide followed her uncle through the intricacies of one department after another, until the silk room was reached. Here he suddenly developed into the keen critical man of business, examining textures and shades with the air of an expert, and asking questions which betrayed such a surprising knowledge of grades and styles as to fill the mind of his niece with ah and the clerk with respect. He ignored Glide's timid hints that that silk was very expensive, and the other was very heavy, and tossed the precious fabrics about with careless hand. At last came the important question. How much does it take to make a dress for a woman of medium size? The clerk suggested sixteen yards. Then give me twenty of this kind. He said, promptly, selecting the finest piece on the counter. Glide fairly held her breath while the rich bretts were being counted off. Once she began a timid protest. Uncle Anthony, can you possibly be buying that for Mother? I never even dreamed of such a thing, and Mother would be so mortified if she thought that I— He interrupted her. See here, I gave careful and silent attention to your shopping. Now you just hold on until I get through with mine. She was my sister long before she was your mother, remember? And if I have a fancy to see how a black silk dress looks under a white silk handkerchief, what is that to you? Give me all the belongings that go with such a dress, buttons and braid and lining, and everything you can think of. This last, to the amused saleswoman, who hastened to do his bidding. Never was silk dress better supplied with belongings than was that. From the silk department Uncle Anthony asked in a low tone to be shown to the room where they kept sacks for young ladies like this one, with a nod of his head toward Glide. The appreciative attendant returned the nod and led the way swiftly, Glide following her uncle in a state of mind more easily imagined than described. In vain she exclaimed and protested when she found to what he had brought her. Uncle Anthony had taken matters entirely into his own hands and would have his way. That sack is all very well for Estelle, he assured her, and I don't deny that it is rather becoming to you, but you might as well have one of your own, and I have a fancy for a kind they used to wear which I see has come back again. Try this one on, little girl, and see how it strikes me. It was one of the newest styles, fine and heavy and beautifully trimmed, yet simply enough for a girl of the most refined tastes. The quick eye of the saleswoman had caught the right size, and the garment fitted as though made to order. It suits me exactly, Uncle Anthony announced, in his most complacent tone. Your aunt Estelle used to wear one very much like it. Go over to the mirror, little girl, and see what you think. If it pleases you as much as it does me, we'll call it a bargain. No girl could have looked at herself in a full-length mirror and caught such a reflection as Glyde did without being pleased. Her face spoke for her. You like it? said Uncle Anthony. Glad of it. You may as well keep it on and have the others send home. It is warmer than that, and this is a pretty cold morning. But Uncle Anthony, she said, moving toward him and speaking low. Her appalled eyes had caught sight of the figure marked on the sleeve card, and she did not know how to make her protests strong enough. I truly do not need it. My sack which I have at home is warm, warmer than Estelle's, and I do not mind it being a little old fashion. And indeed I cannot think that you know how very expensive this one is. Yes, I do. I know exactly what it costs. You don't suppose I am foolish enough to buy an article without finding that out first thing, do you? I call it very reasonable for a garment gotten up in that style. It is well lined you see and will outlast three or four like that one you had on. The question is, does it suit you as well as anything you see around here? Oh, it could not be lovelier, but— Then we won't waste time over conjunctions, disjunctive ones at that. Just let the young lady wear it home, will you, and send the other to my hotel with the handkerchief, you know, and other things? The sympathetic saleswoman laughed. She had not had such an enjoyable customer in many a day. Her heart was in the entire enterprise. She led the way for Uncle Anthony with such promptness and success that several more bewildering purchases were made by him before he announced himself ready for luncheon. Uncle Anthony's lunches, which he managed entirely, were little studies in art for his companion. On this particular day the oysters he ordered were served on a little silver-covered dish and the coffee in a tiny silver coffee pot, as he served his companion to oysters and beamed on her while she poured him a cup of coffee and carefully sugared and creamed it to his liking. He said, This is something like, a little table to ourselves and somebody to look after me. I'll tell you what, Glide, I think I'll steal you and carry you home to keep house for me. How should you like that? The only trouble is, I don't stay at home three weeks at a time. And what would become of my bird in her cage while I was scurrying around the country? What will you have, Glide, for a finish? Cream or what? We must be somewhat expeditious, it is later than I supposed, and there is a good deal of business to be done yet. Glide assured him that she had thought everything, and more too, was already done. But before the day had fairly closed she saw how mistaken she had been. The neckties were duly attended too, and then Uncle Anthony seated her in a chair in a large clothing store and went off on his own account. He knew about overcoats, and needed none of her assistance or protests. But he laughed softly while he tumbled them over and examined and criticized, and finally selected, at the thought of the mixture of delight and dismay with which the little girl would examine his trophy when he displayed it in her room that evening. He took care that it should be heavy enough and of a material which would last for several winters at least. But no word concerning the purchase was hinted when he returned to Glide to know if she was rested and ready for more shopping. Then he dazzled her completely by the display of glories in a certain jewelry store on Broadway. It was by no means the one in which he had seen the thirty-five cent pins, and she exclaimed in almost terror over the marks attached to those in the show window, and to her uncle's suggestion that she might as well have a look at some real things while she had the opportunity, replied that it seemed almost wicked even to look at such extravagance. It does, really, she said in great earnestness, as he bent over the case with her and followed her eyes. Look at that blazing circle of diamonds marked two thousand dollars. Think of wearing as much money as that to fasten one's collar. I am honest in saying I think it is wicked. If I were, oh, ever so rich, I am sure I shouldn't do it. At least I mean I hope I shouldn't, for mustn't it be wicked when the world is so full of people who actually haven't bred enough? Don't torture me with any ethics of that kind today, little girl. Her uncle said good humor, Lee. I am not in the mood for them. I'm not going to buy any two thousand dollar diamonds, though. You need not be troubled. But it will do no harm to admire them. Come to this side and see if you find anything which pleases your taste and your morals better. The case on the other side gleamed with beauty, and Glide studied it and exclaimed and enjoyed to her uncle's entire satisfaction. They did not seem so wicked, she assured him. There, for instance, was a perfectly lovely pin marked fifteen dollars. To be sure she would not think of buying it, not if she had the money in her hand any more than she should the two thousand dollar one. But then, being the real thing, she supposed they could not make it any cheaper than that. And she could imagine herself, if she had a great deal of money, spending so much for a pin and thinking it right, because it was something which would always last. Then she asked, somewhat timidly, if her uncle supposed it possible in such an elegant place, that there could be any real cheap pins which were worth buying, like those she had told him about in the window. Wait a little, he said. No, I don't think that there are any of that kind here, but we can go elsewhere after we have had our enjoyment out of these. I like that twelve dollar one at the left, that one with the pearl in the center, don't you? They discussed and argued over the different styles, and agreed and disagreed a dozen times as to shapes and degrees of beauty, and enjoyed themselves as only a girl can, who is in love with the beautiful, and has had little chance to enjoy it, and a man who is lonely and is getting his pleasure entirely out of her enjoyment. When at last Glide obliged herself to draw back from the case and say, Uncle Anthony, I am keeping you dreadfully, am I not? I forgot that we ought to hurry. He closed the scene suddenly and struck her dumb with amazement and confusion by ordering two of the twelve dollar pins which she had insisted were the prettier, and also the identical fifteen dollar one which she had first noticed, and two which her affections had steadily clung. Oh, dear! she said, almost with a sob, as they emerged at last from the place of enchantment. Uncle Anthony, I don't know what to say to you. Say it is cold! said her uncle briskly, and that we must hurry home to dinner. We have got to hunt up another prayer meeting to-night. Marjorie Edmonds was in her room alone. It was late, and the house was still. The door which communicated with her mother's room, and which generally stood wide open, was closed. I will open it, mother, Marjorie had said. When I am ready for bed, I want to write in my diary first and do a few little things, and I am afraid of disturbing you. And then she had kissed her good night with a smile. But the mother had sighed after the door was closed. She knew that Marjorie had other things to think about besides her diary. She knew that her heart was ill at ease, and the mother felt so little in sympathy with the struggle which was going on that she must keep away from it. It was three weeks since that eventful nutting party had gone merrily on its way, without a thought of the day being seriously connected with the future of any of its members. Yet Marjorie had known few happy moments since that day. Indifferent as she had appeared to Ralph Bramlett, if that young man had been ever so slight a student of human nature, he would have seen that her very indifference was an indication of strong feeling. Indignation might be natural and pardonable under the circumstances, but Marjorie Edmonds was not the girl to put away thus suddenly the playmate of her childhood and the companion and confidant of her girlhood without keen pain. There had been no deliberate intention of putting him away. There had been at first only strong indignation. He deserved the fright she gave him. He deserved the coldness with which she had greeted him that afternoon. What young woman who respected herself could do less than that? She had asked herself as she closed the store door and made her way through the crowds of Christmas shoppers, thinking not of the purchases she had come to make, but of the young man outside. Yet even then she felt, rather than planned, that this sort of thing should not last. Ralph would call to see her, of course, probably that afternoon on his way home, or certainly in the evening. Then they would talk matters over. He would explain to her why he had been so hateful the other day, and now she more than half surmised the reason. He did not want me to be annoyed by Estelle's absurdities, said this forgiving heart. He would make it all plain to her and ask her to forgive him. And then, after he had humiliated himself quite as much as he should, she would softly admit that her part of the performance had been rash and cruel, that she was sorry for the fright she gave him. Then she would tell him how frightened she was, and how she had thought at the time that if he were only walking beside her she would not be afraid of anything. Why, it would all be made up between them, of course. How absurd in friends of their standing to quarrel over a trifle! For even at that early day Marjorie began to try to call Ralph's treatment of her a trifle. If he had called that evening, she would have been almost ready for him. But he did not. He went to New York. When Marjorie heard that, she was startled. Ralph must be very much hurt indeed to go out of town without seeing her. If she had known that he was going away, perhaps she would not have responded so coldly to his good afternoon. She heard also that he had been ill, which accounted she believed for his not coming at once to see her. She thought much about him during the next two days. Had Ralph taken that midnight train from New York as he at first planned, and called upon her the next evening, she would have been quite ready for him, and all the soothing words he had imagined as flowing from her lips would doubtless have been heard. But he did not come. And she heard, through Estelle Douglas, that he had gone to New York for the winter. And he did not write. Two weeks went by, and then suddenly, one morning, Ralph passed the house on the opposite side of the street. He was talking with Estelle Douglas, and as they walked slowly by, neither of them raised their eyes to her window. Then Marjorie began to grow indignant over again. If Ralph meant to cast her off in this way because she chose not to leave her mother all night, after he had failed her, then he might, she was willing. She drew herself up proudly, and looked after the slow walkers with dry eyes and glowing cheeks. But this mood did not last. She was sure Ralph must misunderstand. He could not know how she had longed to get home, and how she had suffered in coming. Perhaps he knew nothing about it. Perhaps he imagined that Mr. Maxwell had called for her by appointment, and taken her home. People will imagine anything, said poor Marjorie, when they are excited. By degrees it almost began to seem to her that Ralph was the injured one, and that she ought to speak some word which would reach his ears. Meantime the mother looked on, and was sometimes sympathetic, and sometimes indignant, and all the time miserable. It has doubtless been discovered before this that Ralph Bramlett was not Mrs. Edmund's choice for her daughter. In truth the daughter by no means made it manifest that he was her own choice. But the mother, looking on, feared exceedingly, yet was afraid to speak, lest that which she feared would be precipitated thereby. They are only boy and girl friends. She told herself encouragingly at times. But at other times she realized that boys and girls grew to be men and women. At least two years before this time she had felt sure that her daughter had outgrown Ralph Bramlett. But the daughter had not discovered it. What if she should never discover it? Then the mother wondered if Ralph Bramlett could not be made to grow even to overtake her daughter. To this end she had set herself to work to try to bring all wise influences to bear upon him. But Ralph, although it may be hoped that he did not know it, was skillful in putting aside wise influences. When the nutting party came and the break which grew out of it, this mother secretly rejoiced. When Ralph went to New York without word or sign, she was of course indignant with him for her daughter's sake, but secretly glad, too, for her sake. If only he would stay away and write no letters, in the course of time her daughter's self-respect would assert itself, and she would realize that she had been tossed aside in a pet. But now he had returned, and had been at home for a week, and some astounding things had occurred. For the first day or two following the young man's return, Marjorie had been nervous to a degree that no one had ever observed in here before. She had started and grown pale at every sound of the doorbell, and had been at all times on the alert for something to happen. Something happened, but it was not what she had expected. Does what we are expecting ever happen? Ralph Bramlett did not call, but Estelle Douglas did. Of course you know the latest item of news, she said. Indeed I suppose you knew it long before we did, and of course you approve, or it never would have been done, but I confess I was astonished when I heard it. That is very interesting, laughed Marjorie, or it would be if I had an idea what you were talking about. I cannot recall any item of news. Oh my dear little Marjorie, you mustn't tell fibs, and you a descendant of the Puritans. Such an unnecessary fib, too. Do you expect me to imagine for a moment that Ralph Bramlett transacts important business without your knowledge? Now the form in which Marjorie admins' pride was besetting her at this time, was that she could not endure the thought of having Estelle Douglas know that she did not understand Ralph's affairs as thoroughly as usual. So to this sentence no other reply could be made than a half- laughing, non-committal one. Estelle pressed the point. Tell me honestly, Marjorie, were you not surprised and a good deal disappointed when he told you about it? I said you would never consent to it, and that I did not believe Ralph would go contrary to your wishes. Of course, it is a wholesale business and all that, and Ralph is only the bookkeeper. He will have no more to do with selling the stuff than we shall, but still. This was growing alarming. Mrs. Edmonds in the next room caught, through the open doorway, a glimpse of Marjorie's pailing face and came to the rescue. Are you talking of Ralph's latest business venture? she asked, appearing at the door and speaking as calmly as though she had known for weeks all that there was to know concerning it. Yes, said Estelle, turning eagerly to a new medium for her coveted information. What did you say to it, Mrs. Edmonds? Mother and I said that Mrs. Edmonds would be shocked. That young people might comfort themselves with the thought that a bookkeeper in a distillery had nothing to do with the liquor business, but that women of Mrs. Edmonds's stamp would not take it so calmly. You are right, said Mrs. Edmonds, in her quietest tone. I do not approve of it at all. Mother, began Marjorie, turning glowing cheeks toward her. Do you think, and then she stopped, what she began to say was, do you think that we need to discuss Ralph Bramlett's affairs with outsiders? But the manifest rudeness of such a sentence, both to her mother and their guest, arrested her lips in time. Instead, she said, do you think I ought to try to get that letter off by this mail? Yes, said Mrs. Edmonds, it will save twenty-four hours if you do. Estelle will excuse you for a few minutes. And Marjorie ran away. The letter was one which could have waited, but the mother felt that her daughter could not endure more just then. And it was undoubtedly true that twenty-four hours could be saved by mailing it now, so she spoke only truth. When the door closed after Marjorie, she turned quietly to Estelle. This is a very sudden movement upon Ralph's part. The tone was ambiguous. It might have a slight rising inflection, but it was not intended to inform the guest that Mrs. Edmonds knew nothing about the matter and was seeking information. I suppose so, said Estelle. I did not know how long he had been planning it. I heard of it only yesterday. I must say I was surprised, and yet in a sense I wasn't. He was so dreadfully disappointed about that New York affair, you know, and he hates farming. Then, too, I suppose it is quite necessary that he get to work in some way. The bramlet farm is all run-down people say. This will be only temporary, of course, but it is a great temptation to a young man. He will have a very good salary. It was a settled thing, then, at least Estelle Douglas thought so. Mrs. Edmonds had continued in her very quiet way to get, without appearing to, what information she could, without giving any. When Marjorie returned, the letter having been posted, she was as quiet and uninteresting as her mother. They take it very differently from what I supposed they would, Estelle reported at home. Even Mrs. Edmonds, it seems, is willing to have him get fifteen hundred a year in these hard times. But they have been such a fanatical temperance people always that I must say it astonished me. Oh, Mrs. Edmonds said she did not approve of it, but Marjorie colored up and looked annoyed at her for even that, though she said it quietly enough. And this was all that Estelle had learned. In the Edmonds' home utmost quiet reigned after the collars' departure. Marjorie had her sewing, and she sewed steadily and silently for some minutes. Then she said timidly, Mother, why don't you say something? Mrs. Edmonds turned from her cutting table and smiled tenderly on her daughter. What should I say, little girl? You do not believe that absurd report about Ralph, I suppose? I am afraid it is too true, dear. Estelle was not only thoroughly posted, but seemed to think that we were also. She says he is regularly engaged as bookkeeper on a salary of fifteen hundred dollars. But, Mother, it is too absurd. Ralph, a bookkeeper in a distillery. He is a temperance man. Mrs. Edmonds' lip curled a very little. She could not help it. She turned quickly back to her table to hide the curl. She wanted to say, He is not a man at all. He is only a grown-up boy with feelings instead of convictions, and he can therefore be swayed by the passing moment in any way that the current happens to be the strongest. But she forbore and took refuge again in silence. Mother, burst forth margery again, I think it is dreadful in you to listen to that girl's gossip about Ralph. If he has made her believe that he is about to do some desperate thing like that, he has been driven to it by disappointments and annoyances. But I do not believe she has any foundation for her story. You do not know Estelle so well as I do. To put it mildly, she is very careless with her statements, jumps at conclusions, and reports as facts, statements which are made sometimes in mere sport. Ralph has perhaps gotten off some nonsense to her, which with her usual haste she has made into a story and rushed to tell. I think I shall write a note to him, mother, and tell him what an absurd report is being circulated. Then was Mrs. Edmunds dismayed. A note to Ralph, written in the style in which margery could write it, would be likely she felt to put matters on the old footing between them, and from this her heart shrank with ever-increasing pain. I thought, daughter, she said, trying to keep her voice from expressing either pain or annoyance, that Ralph's treatment of you had been such as to make note writing to him out of the question, at least until he apologized. But the daughter had made a movement of impatience as she replied. Oh, mother, I don't feel about that quite as I did. I begin to understand it better. Ralph probably wanted to shield both himself and me from Estelle's witty and disagreeable tongue. I am sure after my experience this morning with her I ought to be able to sympathize with him. In any case, it does not seem to be just the right thing to let such a matter make trouble between friends of a lifetime. It wouldn't be a very Christian-like way to manage, would it? When Margery said that, she felt that it ought to close her mother's mouth. She made no pretensions to being a Christian herself, but surely her mother ought to be glad when she tried to govern her life by such principles. And Mrs. Edmonds, not in the least convinced, felt nevertheless that once more the time had come for silence. Margery wrote the note and brought it to her mother to read. Dear Ralph, it commenced! But that, of course, was nothing. Notes with more or less frequency had passed between these two ever since they had learned to write, and they had always been Dear Ralph and Dear Margery. The mother believed that if they were children again she would order her daughter's course differently. Was she beginning to reap what she had sown? But the note was simple enough. Margery ignored any trouble between them. I am writing a line in haste, she said, to tell you of a ridiculous rumor which I heard but this morning to the effect that you are going into the liquor business, or into a clerkship with liquor dealers, which is much the same thing. Of course I do not credit it, but thought I would give you a friendly hint of what tongues are busy about. I suppose you have been very busy since your return, but is it not nearly time for you to remember that you have friends living on Maple Avenue? A very simple note, but the mother was bitterly disappointed in it. What more could a young man desire? Surely she must protest even though she precipitated what she most feared. Her duty ought to be done. Daughter, she began, hesitating and trying to choose her words with utmost care. Are you not afraid that a young man like Ralph Bramlett will take advantage of such a note as that, under the circumstances? Marjorie opened her eyes wide in astonishment. I do not understand, she said. What advantage could he take? It is like dozens of notes that I have written him before. I know, and for that very reason is encouraging. You and Ralph cannot remain children. You have grown up, and he is of the age when one looks for at least a dawning of manhood. In a heedless boy many things can be overlooked which in a young man are almost unpardonably rude. Ralph was certainly very rude to you, and you felt it keenly. Yet you have written to him as though nothing had happened, and he was at liberty to be on the old footing without a word of apology. Again that movement of impatience, and the daughter spoke in a tone which her mother did not often hear. Mother, how can you be so hard upon Ralph, when you have known and cared for him ever since he was a little boy? He does not think of me as a young lady with whom he must be ceremonious. I was foolish to make so much of what was so small an affair. When one comes to consider it, how could he do as I wished without regard to the others? I suppose if the truth were known I am the one who ought to apologize, for he must have been dreadfully frightened about me. Every uttered word seemed to make matters more hopeless from the mother's standpoint. She resolutely closed her lips, resolving that no provocation should induce her to say more at this time. Nay, to Marjorie's somewhat timid question, put a few minutes later, Mama, do you really disapprove of my sending the note? She forced herself to reply. Oh, I presume not, daughter. As you say, it is a matter connected with a boy and girl friendship, instead of between a lady and a gentleman. I presume Ralph thinks of you in the light of a sister, and some boys think they can be rude to their sisters whenever they feel like it. Poor Marjorie had said nothing of this kind, but her poor mother liked to think that she had. End of CHAPTER XI. The note was sent, and three days passed before any reply to it was received. There were reasons for this state of things. In the first place, perhaps Ralph Bramlett had deteriorated more rapidly in the weeks which had intervened since he had seen Marjorie, then people can understand who do not know how rapid at times can be the descent of a soul. Just what forces were brought to bear upon him to help him downward would be difficult to explain. In truth there was no perceptible force, he simply slipped, and allowed himself to keep on sliding without an effort to recover himself. Without even realizing that he was sliding, or at least that he had anything to do with such a state of things. It was always fate. He did not take the midnight train for home as he had nearly planned. It was the hapless young victim whom he had studied at the theatre who prevented him from doing that. Since the world was going against him, let it go. He would have as good a time as he could by the way. That was the mood in which he had retired for the night at a late hour. It possessed him to an even greater degree when he arose the next morning with a headache and the dregs of his cold still shivering at him. He fell in that day with some companions who helped him in his slipping. Companions of that character can nearly always be found even without search. At the end of three days the money he had brought with him from home was very nearly exhausted. But he stayed on in the belief that he was looking for work. Though as he would do only certain kinds of work, and the market seemed to be already overstocked with people of like mind with himself, he had very little hope of success. Still he wrote home explaining what he fancied at times was his motive for staying, and his father raised not without difficulty the amount of money which his son believed he needed for a month's stay, and sent it to him. For this expenditure Hannah Bramlick quietly made some sacrifices of cherished hopes. Not large ones, but they meant a good deal to her. At the end of ten days the money was exhausted and Ralph came home. Nothing very alarming from an outsider's point of view had occurred during his stay in New York. He had held himself from grave troubles of every sort. Nothing more important appeared on the surface than a debt of five dollars which had been borrowed in an emergency from one of his new friends. He had been assured that it was of no consequence at all, in response to his repeated statements, that he would send the amount as soon as he reached home. He knew that he would do so, that his honorable father would somehow secure the sum, though it were many times that amount, rather than have a debt stain the Bramlick name. Ralph assured himself that by so much he was like his father, and as the train sped along he took pleasure in the thought that he was an honorable man, and that he was coming home from a first visit in the great city without any of the smurches on his name which some young men had brought from there. And yet, as has been said, Ralph had changed in many ways during that short period. One way in which it was evidenced was his manner of receiving a certain bit of information which came to him but the evening before he left the city. He fell in with a commercial traveller who had often visited his own town, and with whom he had a slight acquaintance. At that distance from home the man seemed like a friend, and Ralph confided to him his disgust for the farm and his futile efforts to secure a position to his mind. I'll tell you what, said the genial man. I believe I know just the place for you. Do you understand bookkeeping? Well, then, the place is waiting for you. I suppose you know the Sniders, by reputation at least. They are looking for a bookkeeper of the right sort. He isn't easy to find. Their business is very large, you know, and they must have a man of undoubted integrity. They give a fairly good salary on the start, with a chance for increase if there is satisfaction. Fifteen hundred a year is more than you can clear from the farm I fancy, and a few years of clerkship of this sort would enable you to save money enough to study law on your own account if you wanted to. There is a good deal of opportunity for study, by the way, in that sort of clerkship. It isn't steady work all the while that they pay for, you know, its responsibility. Why not try for the place? I think I could put you in the way of getting it. Our firm and the Sniders have business relations which make them very friendly. I believe our Mr. Perkins would recommend a name that I gave him, and the Sniders will be very likely to listen to Mr. Perkins. Shall I set the ball to rolling? Now the Sniders were well known to Ralph Bramlett. In fact, one of them had his handsome home in the same town where Ralph lived, and went to and from it every day by train to the city two hours distant where his business lay. It flashed through Ralph's mind that he could very possibly do the same, thus saving his board and enjoying what he had always fancied he should especially like a daily ride on the cars. Yet he hesitated. Why? Even so short a time as three weeks before, he would not have hesitated for a moment. He could almost hear the echo of his answer. No thank you, it is a very good birth for people of like views with the Sniders, but the Bramlitz for generations back have been staunch temperance men, you see, dead set against the whole business. For his grandson to become forever so short a time, bookkeeper in a distillery, would disturb even the rest of heaven for grandfather Bramlett, I am afraid. In point of fact there could have been no such echo, for he made no such answer. The commercial traveler, seeing his hesitation, continued, it isn't a subordinate position, you know. As bookkeeper you would be looked upon as a gentleman and have more leisure and more courtesy shown you than in a lawyer's office by a great sight, and then there is the chance to rise. I know, said Ralph slowly, it would be a very good temporary opportunity if it were not for the business. My people are prejudiced in that direction. Oh, because it is a distillery? I see. But then, man, alive it isn't a partnership in the concern. As a clerk who keeps the books, of course you have nothing whatever to do with the sale of liquors. Why an angel might straighten out the books of a firm seems to me, there is no responsibility involved except with money. Now the commercial traveler was honest enough, he was not a deep thinker in any direction. He had never been educated along these lines, and the matter looked to him as he had stated it. But Ralph Bramlett, as far back in his family history as he could remember anything, had known of his grandfather as a temperance thinker, speaker, and writer, a radical of the radicals. His son, Ralph's father, had so far followed in the family line as to bring up his children to believe that liquor-selling was a sin, and that all connection with it, however remote, was therefore sinful. On occasion Ralph could argue for this side of the question, and had done so in the debating society, in a way to win commendation from certain who shook hands with him and assured him that they remembered his grandfather and that he was a worthy chip off the old block. Yet this young man with feelings, not convictions, hesitated and argued weekly, and allowed himself to be convinced, and the good-natured commercial traveler set the ball to rolling with such success that, before Ralph Bramlett had been at home two days, he received an invitation to become bookkeeper in the firm of Snyder, Snyder and Co. On the third day he accepted it. Not until after he had sent his letter of acceptance did he tell his father and mother and Hannah. It so happened that before he told even them, he had met Estelle Douglas and made haste, he could not have told why, to explain the situation to her. She had irritated him at the time as she nearly always did, despite the strange fascination which she had for him. What does Marjorie say about it? she had exclaimed. I don't see for my part why it is not a sensible enough thing to do. As you say, you have no more to do with liquor selling than the rest of us have, and keeping books is an honourable enough employment. But I shouldn't have supposed that Marjorie Edmonds would have thought so for a moment. Nor your father and mother, either, for that matter. But then you are of age, of course, and will do as you please. But I am amazed at Marjorie's giving her consent. Said the young man who was being swayed continually by impulse. Why do you always speak as though Marjorie Edmonds had a mortgage on my common sense and judgment and everything of that sort? I have said nothing about how she regarded it. Nor can I imagine why it should concern her. It is a purely business transaction with which my friends have nothing to do. Then Estelle had laughed, that trying little laugh of hers, and had answered, Oh Ralph, how absurd! Such old friends as you and I ought to be more honest with each other than that. Don't I know that everything connected with you in any way concerns Marjorie Edmonds? Did she know how much he wished that this were true? Or did she know of the serious break between them, and was she trying to comfort or torture him? He studied over these questions after he got away from her, and could make nothing of them. Also, he studied himself and tried to understand why he had been so precipitant. What effect would this last step of his have on Marjorie? Be sure he had thought of her when he took it. While he was writing his note of acceptance, the reckless mood was upon him. Marjorie had chosen to get angry at nothing and throw him over, therefore he was not bound to consult her wishes. Let her be shocked if she would. It was all her own fault. But for her ill treatment he would not have thought of such a thing. He imagined her trying to indignantly remonstrate with him, and he gloomily telling her that she had herself to thank for the entire matter. All this was very babyish, it must be admitted, but Ralph on occasion could be babyish. There were actually times when he exalted in her dismay and indignation. She had brought dismay upon him, why should she not feel it in return? There were other moods during which he entered into an argument to convince her that this step was the right and wise one. Times were hard, nothing could be done on the farm during the winter. His father was growing old and needed help. He had resolved to sacrifice himself and his prospects. There was no opening in the direction of his tastes, which promised immediate returns. Therefore his tastes should be crucified for the good of all concerned. In that mood he felt like a martyr who had risen above the prejudices by which he was surrounded, and therefore deserved a crown. From Estelle's interview with Marjorie, as ill fortune would have it, she came straight to Ralph. That is, she saw him at the corner and called, and of course he waited for her. She was still uncertain how Marjorie had received the news at Ralph's hands and still anxious to learn. I have been in to see Marjorie, she began gaily. I thought you might like to hear from her. I really pity you, my friend, if you have an engagement with her soon, for I do not think she is in an amiable frame of mind. Oh, she did not commit herself to me. Marjorie never is particularly communicative with us girls, you know. But her mother was more frank. She said in so many words that she did not approve of your new business at all. I presume she knew that that would harm no one. Said Ralph in his very stiffest tone. And then Estelle launched forth with her history of the things that Marjorie did not say, and with the description of her face and manner, which last was calculated to do the most harm under the circumstances. Estelle did not mean to speak other than the truth. She did not even mean to do mischief. She liked Marjorie Edmonds, but she liked Ralph Bramlett more. There were times when it seemed to her in Angel's work to save him from Marjorie's coldness and hardness if she could. She had taken certain impressions from Marjorie's silence, and these impressions she gave Ralph for facts. By the time he had left her at her own door, his soul was in a tumult of indignation. Somehow he had gotten the impression, from what had been told him, that Marjorie posed before the girls, before this girl at least, as one who owned him body and soul, and meant to manage all his affairs for him with a steady hand, or else have none of him. Was there ever a weak man who was not afraid of being managed by a woman? The very suggestion put this one into a fury, and he walked away, resolved upon showing the whole Edmonds set that he was his own master and meant to be. Nothing occurred to change this mood, and in the evening came Marjorie's letter. He received it and his sister Hannah's words with indignant eyes. Here's a note from Marjorie. I hope she tells you what she thinks of you. Perhaps you will care for her opinion since you don't for any of your own family. He answered her angrily that he knew his own business, and that to get no thanks from any of his family after sacrificing his own interests for their sakes was exactly the return he expected. Then he shut his door with a bang and sat down to read his letter. Dear Ralph, were the first words. He felt all his pulses thrill and throb under their touch. The old-time familiar words. He had piles of notes from her tied with pink ribbon, the color which she wore so much, and every one of them began, dear Ralph. There was no word of reproach, no hint of any difference between them. Apparently she had not thought of such a thing. It was just Marjorie's sweet, bright self, brushing aside as a thing of little moment an absurd rumour concerning him, only stopping to let him know of it so that he might say the proper things to people in return for their folly. What an unutterable fool he had been! If now he could answer this cheery little note in the spirit in which it was sent, could reassure her that he had not, of course, given a serious thought to the opportunity which had come to him, because his principles would not admit of it, and then could tell her in a superior and manly way of his numerous business disappointments while in the city, and enlarge upon the strangeness of providence in thus closing all other avenues, and putting in his way only that which his conscience would not allow him even to consider. What a letter he could write! He was fond of expressing himself on paper, and could not help lingering over some of the sentences which he might pen under other circumstances, even while realizing the folly of them as he had shaped things. What an opportunity was this for saying in reply to Marjorie's hint that he had friends on Maple Avenue, that, judging from the way in which he had been treated, he had feared that he had no friends there. Then he could enlarge upon the horrors of that night when she was missed and searched for frantically, and incidentally he could hint, not in apology but simply by way of explanation, how deeply he regretted his inability to do as she wished that night. There were certain reasons which he could not in honor explain to her why this was really impossible, but he had supposed that she could trust him. Was there ever a more delicate thrust than that? And to think that he had cut himself from all such possibilities. For, despite the commercial traveller's logic and his own many arguments, something assured him that Marjorie Edmonds and Marjorie Edmonds's mother would not receive a bookkeeper in a distillery on the same footing as they had received Ralph Bramlett Farmer. No, not even if his salary were fifteen thousand dollars instead of fifteen hundred. In time he might overcome the prejudices of the daughter, his influence was potent there. The very note which he held in his hand indicated it. But the mother would discourage that influence and would do what she could to prevent their intimacy, and it would be a long, hard, tiresome or a deal. If he had but known that Marjorie would write him such a letter as this, he would not have accepted the proposition, at least so he assured himself. What if he should throw it up even now? His father was bitterly disappointed in him, had told him he would rather starve than eat bread earned by a son of his through such a channel. His mother had cried, and Hannah had tossed her head and said, the Bramlett name was honoured now. Suppose he should write to the Sniders and ask for his release on the ground of his father's opposition. It would certainly appear well in a son to show such deference to the wishes of his father. Ah! But there was a stell Douglas again. Had he not talked over the family opposition with her, and assured her that he must do the best for all parties concerned, even though they reproached instead of thanked him? Would not Estelle, with her quick wits, know that it was Marjorie who had overturned the whole, and would not her quick tongue blazin' it abroad? He should be a laughing-stock for the town, a man in leading strings. It would never do, he must abide by his promise. If Marjorie had not ill-treated him, he would never have made that promise. Under the sting of this thought, he wrote, Miss Edmonds seems to have forgotten that she chose to act as though the writer had no friends on Maple Avenue. He is prompt to try to understand efforts of that kind. So far as the rumor referred to is concerned, he expects to go into business for the firm of Snyder and Snyder in two days more. When a man cannot secure what he would, he must needs take what he can get, and endure alike the reproaches of friends and the sneers of enemies. It was this letter over which Marjorie Edmonds bowed her head that night and cried. She had not shown it to her mother. She could not endure the thought of doing so. Yet her mother must be told how utterly Ralph had failed her. She did not know that, although it was barely three hours since the letter had gone out of his possession, that Ralph Bramlett would have given his entire prospective salary for the sake of having it back in his hands on red.