 18. Isn't it fun? The talk thus started interrupted the progress of the book for some time. Glide, being drawn out by questions from Marjorie, gave somewhat in detail her experiences of a year before and moved them all to laughter by her vivid account. Marjorie added at its close, with some vehemence, that she also hated New Year's calls and hoped that her mother would not consider it necessary that they should be victimized this year. Well now, said Mr. Maxwell, my experience differs from yours. I like the old-time custom well carried out. Provided I can have the arranging of my program, I do not know any other day which I enjoy better than the first one of the year. Do you always make calls? asked Glide, and her tone expressed surprise. Always, he said, smiling. May I know why you put that exclamation point into your voice? Glide laughed and blushed. I did not know there was an exclamation point in it, she said, but I confess that I felt surprised. You did not impress me like the kind of man who makes New Year's calls. They could not help laughing over this, and Mr. Maxwell declared his inability to decide whether he had been complimented or otherwise. Then he said, I wonder if I could not secure some allies for my calls this year. I do not know many people in this region, and my enjoyment will be limited, I fear, unless I can take friends with me. How would it do for you three ladies to depart from your usual custom and make calls with me? Glide's eyes opened wide. Why, Mr. Maxwell, ladies do not make New Year's calls, do they? Yes, indeed. I have had the pleasure of taking ladies with me on several occasions. You see, the calls which I plan are not of the conventional order. We take our refreshments with us, even to the coffee, Miss Douglas, though I own that sometimes the ladies have to pour it. Oh! said Glide, her eyes growing bright. I begin to understand. You call upon poor people, those who have no pleasant holiday save the part you bring them. Is that it? Must not that be lovely marjorie? Oh, I wish I could do it. I would like to go and call on some of those girls I saw in that meeting in New York and take them some pretty things and have some good talks with them. New York is too far away, said Mr. Maxwell. Will not some girls in your own town do? In short, for the next half hour the book was practically abandoned while they discussed with steady growing interest this new plan. By the time they were ready to return to the story it had been decided that the three ladies should give themselves up for the entire New Year afternoon to Mr. Maxwell's directions and guidance. It was evident that he knew how to guide them. To Glide's exclamation that there were no people in her own town like the girls she meant, he had replied that if a town having ten or twelve thousand people in it could be found who would not be the better for the sort of calls he was planning then that town must be ready for the millennium. After which he had instanced so many of whom even Mrs. Edmonds had never heard that she frankly admitted his superior knowledge in certain lines at least of the town where she had spent twenty years of her life and tea not so many weeks. New Year's Day dawned in glorious beauty and was welcomed by Glide Douglas for the first time since her childhood with a certain gleefulness. Her father not being so well as usual this winter had determined weeks before this not to receive his old acquaintances and Glide was therefore at liberty. The girls who had been invited to join some new friends of theirs, the McAllisters, and were expecting in a specially exciting day, had time only to question Glide a little as to her plans and to exclaim over the oddity of it all and over Marjorie's willingness to do anything out of the common order, however pokey it might be. But Mrs. Douglas entered with some zest into the preparations. The Douglas family were, it is true, what they called poor, but they were ready to make unlimited cake and sandwiches for almost any occasion. So Glide's basket was well stocked, and it was with very bright eyes indeed that precisely at one o'clock she opened the front door of their home in response to Mr. Maxwell's ring, and found a handsome sleigh awaiting her with Mrs. Edmonds in the back seat and Marjorie holding the horses. Miss Edmonds was good enough to manage my horses during several stops which we had to make, explained Mr. Maxwell, as Glide wondered whether she was to have the honor of the back seat, and therefore it became necessary to separate her from her mother. I will leave you and she to decide who is to have the pleasure of sitting with Mrs. Edmonds now. Glide, said Marjorie, would you be afraid to hold these animals while Mr. Maxwell stops at the express office and the market and the confectioners and a dozen other places? I never held horses, said Glide, her eyes dancing, but I think I could. Then that settles it. I shall keep my place and lend my mother to you, because Mr. Maxwell stops at these places or some other every few minutes, and my mother's neck at least is too precious to admit of any aid from novices. I have held horses before, and I rather enjoy holding these. There was a sparkle in her eyes which her mother had not seen for weeks. She looked almost like her own bright self at that moment. They were off like the wind in a few seconds more, as they passed the McAllister home, where there was a temporary lull from the stream of collars, Estelle Douglas, standing by the window, exclaimed, "'Isn't that a splendid turnout? I declare if that isn't Mrs. Edmonds' lodger and Marjorie sitting by his side as erect as a princess. I really do not know now, but that is getting to be a flirtation. Somebody ought to warn Ralph Bramlett. He is so busy nowadays, poor fellow, that he doesn't have time to look after her, and he doesn't drive such horses as those, either.' Entirely oblivious of the eager tongues, which, thus started, were used for some time in discussing their affairs, the slaying party went mirrorly on its way. Mrs. Edmonds was right in thinking that her daughter seemed more like herself, but she would have been almost sad over it, perhaps, had she understood how much effort of will there was about the matter. These holiday seasons were times of trial to Marjorie, such as it would have been hardly possible for one not in full sympathy with her to appreciate. Christmas and New Year's days, and all the days between, had been so distinctly associated with Ralph Bramlett as far back as her memory reached, that to arrive at such a season, with all association entirely cut off, had about it an element of bewilderment. Christmas Day had been more indurable, because she had learned, incidentally, that Ralph had been suddenly sent away on important business for his firm, two days before the holiday season opened. But he had returned, and the same busy agents, who are sure, in towns of this size, or indeed of almost any size, to report in certain sets the doing of others, informed her that he intended to make calls as usual. It was this fact more than any other which had made Marjorie set her face like a flint against keeping open house on that day. Ralph would not call, of course. It would be almost insulting in him after ignoring her for so long, to come on a day when anyone who had a bowing acquaintance with her was at liberty to call. Nor could she decide to sit smiling and talking with other young men, knowing that Ralph was smiling and talking with perhaps Estelle Douglas at the moment, making it apparent at last to everybody that he was not on calling terms with her. This might be avoided at least a little longer by letting it be distinctly known that their home was not open to guests on New Year's Day. This she had caused to be made known. Her next decision had been that she would not sit moping at home. For her mother's sake she would rouse herself and do something to make the day pass brightly. Because her heart ached, was no reason why she should selfishly condemn her mother to loneliness and silence. Therefore she had received Mr. Maxwell's proposition with interest, and entered into it with a stern determination to be herself in every respect so far as outward appearance went. She succeeded remarkably well. The clear frosty air was exhilarating, and margaery, always fond of horses, liked to whirl along the streets holding these splendid specimens in with skillful hands. Not a little to her surprise she also enjoyed the call which they presently made. It was upon a teacher, old and worn, who, with his old bent wife, occupied two rooms in a large boarding-house, and did what they meekly called light housekeeping. Mr. Maxwell, it appeared, knew that their housekeeping was very light indeed, that their suppers consisted often of crackers and tea, and their breakfasts of bread without butter, and tea, because they had, oh, such a tiny income to depend upon, and when illness or accident or the utter giving away of some long-mended article of clothing necessitated an extra expenditure, the butterless bread and the very weak tea followed as a matter of dollars and cents until they could make up the extra sum. Think what it must have been to set out the little round table for such a couple, and laid it with such luxuries as turkey and cranberry sauce, and delicious homemade bread, and butter which smelled of June roses, and pie and cake and cheese and fragrant tea, and many another dainty, the like of which the old teacher and his old wife had not seen for many a day. Not only a dinner for this New Year's Day, but enough to crowd the meek little cupboard in the corner with dainty's to last them well into the month. It was such a delight as even Mrs. Edmonds had never before experienced. Then what a rare pleasure it was to hear this old couple talk. Glide Douglas watched, and listened to them almost with awe. How old they were! How white were their hairs! Yet they were refined and cultivated, and sweet and bright. The old professor greeted Mr. Maxwell like some beloved pupil of his earlier days, called him my dear boy, yet talked with him about the latest deliverances in science, and the recent paper on anthropology, with the keen relish of a man who kept in touch with the present, and knew that his views would be treated with respect. And the little bent woman, with her white satin hair and her dimming eyes, and her years fast hastening toward forescore, had yet her eager interests. Had they heard the latest news from our mission in Syria, and wasn't it blessed that, in that land of all others, the name above every name was beginning to draw the people? Glide, listening to her, learned more about the progress of the cause of Christ in that faraway portion of the earth than she had ever known before. While they listened, they worked, she and Marjorie, making everything ready for the feast which the two were to have when they were gone, putting away the extra packages of tea, sugar, and other extras which Mr. Maxwell had marked for them. Isn't it fun? whispered Glide, while Mr. Maxwell replied with respectful courtesy to the old professor, and Mrs. Edmonds listened thoughtfully and interestingly to what the little wife was telling her. Isn't it fun? and isn't it grand in him to think of such fun as this? And Marjorie, her eyes bright with real interest, acknowledged that it was. When all was ready they gathered round the fire which Mr. Maxwell had replenished royally, for he knew that a coal wagon was following in his train, and kneeling the old man prayed such a prayer as the patriarch Jacob might have made, leaning on his staff. Only this Jacob never would have said, few and evil have my days been. His heart seemed overflowing with gratitude and good cheer, and the little old wife suddenly reached forth a trembling hand, and placed it tenderly on the head of Marjorie, who was kneeling nearest her, and whispered, Lo, bless the child even with a father's blessing. Did her sweet fading blue eyes discern by the light of another world than this, that Marjorie was in special need of a blessing? This is the nicest time I ever had, said Glide, when they had shaken hands all around and were in the sleigh again. Mr. Maxwell, I do not in the least wonder that you like to make New Year calls if this is a specimen of your kind. But they were not all like this. The fourth call was in quite another part of the town, where the factory tenement houses were. Mr. Maxwell knocked twice, tried the door, then said, I think they must all be away from home. But at that moment a little curly head appeared at the window, and a piping voice called out, We're locked in, look up high and you'll see the key. Sure enough, dangling above their heads was a small key attached to a string. Mr. Maxwell reached for it, opened the door, and entered with his party. A small room with a bed in one corner, an old table in another, a broken stove where was no fire, and children everywhere, five of them. The oldest, who had given directions about the door, stood and stared curiously at her visitors. The others ran and hid behind the rickety table and the broken chair. Well, Marietta, said Mr. Maxwell cheerily, are you housekeeper and nurse today as usual? Where's your mother? I thought she would be at home. Isn't this a holiday at the mill? Yes, sir, but Mama went to wash for Ms. Wheelock. She broke her leg and can't wash, and she promised Ma some old clothes and a bag of meal if she would come, and Ma says she's got to do extra work to pay for the doctor's bill and things when Jimmy was sick. The idea! said Mrs. Edmonds, a mother with five little children, leaving them home alone and going out to wash. On New Year's Day at that! said Mr. Maxwell. This is her extra, you understand, a sort of holiday entertainment. On ordinary days she works in the mill from six in the morning until six at night. This little girl is the woman in charge during her mother's absence. Was she afraid to let you have a fire, Marietta? Yes, sir. The stove is broke, so she thought it wouldn't be safe. The baby he tears around the stove, and Jimmy ain't much better. Besides, we ain't got much coal. We are going to have a fire when mother gets home, and some potatoes. We ain't had our dinner yet. The ladies exclaimed over this. Such a condition of things was a revelation to them. But Mr. Maxwell seemed to have heard of such before. This family belongs to the class that we occasionally hear of. He said to Mrs. Edmonds, called the deserving poor. The mother is a widow, her husband was killed last fall by an accident at the mills, and she is trying to support her five children and pay doctor's bills and funeral expenses. I am at a loss whether to give the children their treat or set the basket out of their reach somewhere, and let the mother have the pleasure of ministering to them herself. What do you think? It was Glide who answered, all her heart in her eyes. Oh, Mr. Maxwell, I know how to plan it. Couldn't you let me stay and clear up this room a little, and put the children in order, and set the table, and make things a little bit home-like for the mother's coming? I should like to do it ever so much. I have some toys and picture-books for the children, and some fresh aprons. I could make them look so nice in their mother's eyes. And you could call for me on your return, could you not? Mr. Maxwell's eyes were almost as bright as the girl's. I could, certainly, he said. If you are sure you want to be left here, it is a dreary sort of a place for a young lady. Mrs. Edmonds, what do you advise? Why, if there could be a fire, said that lady doubtfully, and Glide is willing, of course it would be a beautiful thing to do, but I should not like to have her stay in the cold. Oh, there must be a fire, he said gaily. I will manage that part if Miss Douglas will engage to keep Jimmy and the baby away from the stove. Marietta, where do you keep your coal? I'm going to make a fire, and this lady will stay awhile and help you watch it. Tell your mother that the coal closet will be filled to the brim before night. As he spoke, he threw off the heavy cape of his overcoat, and set to work about the old stove, with such skill that in a very few minutes a brisk fire was crackling, and the children, whose noses were blue with cold, despite the sunshine from the one window which the mother had counted upon for warming them, began to creep out from their hiding places and crow and gurgle over the sense of cheer and warmth. She really enjoyed the thought of staying to help them, Mrs. Edmunds said of Glide as the sleigh sped away without her. Did you see how bright her face was over the thought of the changes she could make? It was a beautiful thing to do. Some girls would not have been willing to sacrifice themselves in that way. Glide is very fond of sleigh-riding, too, and gets extremely little of it. Her two elder sisters have all the extras in that home. She can make changes, said Mr. Maxwell. I have a sufficiently vivid imagination to be able to foresee what a difference a little soap and water will make there, to say nothing of a few aprons. I think she spoke of aprons. It is fascinating work. I confess I do not wonder that it caught her. Nevertheless, it is true, as you say, that some young women would not have been so caught. Do you remember that Ms. Douglas told us the other night that the best thing she had brought away from New York was a more intimate acquaintance with Jesus Christ? I was struck with her words. She shows marks of the intimacy. She said no word. In her heart she wondered why Glide had done this thing. There was not dire necessity for it. The children were as well off as they were on most days probably, and would be again. She could not have done it. Not that she wanted to ride, or cared for the ride. She simply could not have brought herself to the effort. Once she could, but not now. She did not want anything. Was her heart dead, so that she cared not for her own pleasure, nor for the comfort of others? If she had that intimate acquaintance of which Mr. Maxwell spoke, would it make a difference with her? CHAPTER 19. YOU PRAY Their next call was at a very different place. A speck of a home, part of a tenement house, but the part that they entered looking very unlike the rest. The doorstep was clean, the coarse white curtains at the windows were clean, and a pot of geraniums in the window bloomed as though they did it for very delight in life. The small room was in perfect order, and a bright fire glowed in the bit of a cookstove. The furnishings were very few and plain. The only easy chair the room contained was drawn close to the front window, and in it sat a woman of middle age, who smiled on them as they entered in response to her invitation, but made no effort to rise. I'm glad enough to see you, she said, holding out her hand to Mr. Maxwell. I've been thinking you would remember me ever since you told me that you sometimes made New Year's calls. Oh yes, I'm quite alone. Jim couldn't take a holiday. A boy who has a helpless mother to support cannot stop for holidays. He managed to find some overwork for which he will get extra pay. He went off as gay as a lark this morning, telling me he would have an extra supper tonight in honor of New Year's. There never was such a boy, ma'am, as my Jim. This to Mrs. Edmonds, who had been duly introduced and seated. In response to some kindly question, the mother was glad to go on. Yes, he's my only one. I buried the others when they were babies. But Jim lived. And what I should have done without him I can't even guess. It makes me tremble sometimes merely to think of it. You see, ma'am, I'm a cripple. I have to be lifted from the bed to the chair and from the chair back to the bed again. Just as much trouble as a baby would be. It is going on four years since I've taken a step. It's rheumatism, ma'am, and taking cold, being exposed, you know, to all sorts of weather. I'm a widow. Yes, I've seen hard times. My husband was unfortunate. As good-hearted a man has ever lived and a skillful workman if he could have let the drink alone. But he couldn't. The temptations were too much for him. He worked for Snyder and Co., the big distillery men, and the sight and smell of the stuff seemed to get into his very bones. There were a few years when I lived in mortal terror lest my Jim should follow his father. But he didn't. He's as good as gold, and I have everything to be thankful for. He fixes me up like this every morning before he goes away, and here I sit until he gets back at night. Jane, next door, comes in at noon and gives me my bit of dinner, and she fixes it almost as nice as Jim could. She works nearby so she can run home at noon, but Jim doesn't. She's as good a girl as ever was, and couldn't be kinder to me if I was her mother. You see, she and Jim are going to get married if they ever can, poor things, but I don't see how they ever can while I'm alive, and yet they do every blessed thing they can to keep me here, both of them. Yes, I don't deny that I get pretty lonesome before six o'clock sometimes. If I could read a little it would be different, but my eyes are pretty well used up. The trouble settled in them one time, and I liked to have lost them both. They won't read, and they won't sew. But that last is of no consequence, for my hands are so twisted that I couldn't hold the work. Still, my eyes are a good deal of use, for I can see the folks passing, and I can watch the sun setting. We have beautiful sunsets out of this window. Oh, I have lots of blessings. Isn't it a comfort to be kept so clean and neat all the while? I was a master hand for cleaning when I could get around, and Jim declares I shan't pine for soap and water anyhow. And Sundays Jim reads to me all the morning, and Jane, she comes in the afternoon, and she reads some, and sings, she and Jim sing beautiful. And we have a bit of a tea together. Oh, Sunday is just heaven. I have to live all the week on the reading I get Sundays. She glanced at the little table where lay a book and two papers. Jim brought me them this morning. He thought Jane would be at home today, and I could have some reading for new years. But he hadn't been gone an hour when she came to tell me that she had got a chance to earn an extra dollar, and away she went. She don't let no extra dollars slip through her fingers. She's too eager to help Jim for that. It was a phase of life utterly unknown to Marjorie. This clean, bright, elderly woman sitting in her chair from which she could not move, counting her mercies, and rejoicing over Jim and Jane. As Marjorie thought of them and of the pleasant times they must have together, caring for the grateful mother, she felt that she could almost envy them. The tears actually started in her eyes, and she moved toward the other window to hide her feelings. Miss Edmonds, said Mr. Maxwell, will you help me unpack this basket and arrange the goods in Mrs. Baxter's cupboard? Marjorie went at once and busied herself with the packages. Her mother was still talking with the crippled woman. She came over to Mr. Maxwell presently, smiling as she spoke. I believe I have caught Glide's disease. I would like to stay here a little while and read to this poor woman. Don't you think she has a letter from her sister in Scotland? The postman brought it this morning, and she is waiting for evening and Jim or Jane in order to hear it. Have you another errand which you and Marjorie could do, while I read that letter and a scrapper too from the paper, and a few verses from the book? That is the way she speaks of the Bible. Jim always reads a few verses from the book, she says, before he puts me to bed. Mr. Maxwell signified his entire willingness to carry out his part of the program, and, of course, there was nothing for Marjorie but a send. She was, however, not disturbed, but the rather amused by this turn of events. Is there not some old woman or baby with whom you can leave me? She asked, laughing, as they drove away. Then you might take your drive in peace and quietness. What if we should take the drive first? He asked. I have only one more call on my list. We shall probably be detained there but a moment, and I am afraid the letter from Scotland will not have been read by the time we could return. I am disposed, if you do not object, to drive out on the foundry road for a mile or two. The slaying is exceptionally good on that road, and Salim and his friend are impatient for one real spin. It was a regular spin. His own fine horse was well mated, and being a loud free rein they fairly flew over the road. The slaying was, as Mr. Maxwell had said, superb, and despite her belief that her heart was dead, Marjorie could not help enjoying the exhilarating motion. It was when they were on the return trip that the blood flowed in unnatural waves to her face and then receded, for there passed them, also making rapid speed, a single slay in which receded Ralph Bramlett and Estelle Douglas. Ralph had departed from his usual custom then, and instead of making New Year's calls, was giving the day to Estelle. A sudden conviction came to Marjorie that the two were engaged, and with it the feeling that if this were so she ought not to even think of Ralph any more. She could not know, of course, that Estelle, instead of taking a slay ride, should have been at that moment in the McAllister's parlours receiving calls, nor that she had said to Ralph, who came in his slay to call, that she was just dying for a breath of fresh air, the rooms had been so crowded and so overheated all day. Didn't he want to take her a few rods up the road until she could get her breath? Now Ralph had determined in his own strong mind that the very next call he made should be upon Marjorie Edmonds, also that he would act as though he supposed, of course, that she was receiving as usual, and perhaps he would make a formal call, just as any gentleman of slight acquaintance with her might do. He would be guided by circumstances. Having decided while he was at the McAllister's upon this sudden course of action, he chafed under the delay involved in taking Estelle for that breath of fresh air, but he could not well refuse a point blank request of the kind. And then they had passed Salim and his friend rushing over the ground with Mr. Maxwell and Marjorie. This was Estelle's opportunity. Upon my word, matters are really getting serious in that direction. What do you mean, Ralph, by allowing it? Glide says the Edmonds lodger spends all his evenings with the family reading aloud and visiting. He even takes tea there very frequently. Glide is cultivating an intimacy with Marjorie since she came home, and is always meeting Mr. Maxwell. She was to drive with them to-day, she and the mother Edmonds, for appearance's sake, I suppose. But they have done something with both of their companions, and are whirling along quite alone. They have been out since noon. I must say that if people did not know that you and Marjorie belonged to each other, it would look like a serious matter. As it is, it looks queer. Do you honestly enjoy such goings on? Excuse my asking the question. We are friends of such long standing. Ralph was white to his lips, but his voice was perfectly steady. You have an alarming way of taking things for granted, Estelle. Why should people suppose that they know so much about my affairs? I have never taken them into confidence. As a matter of fact, Mr. Maxwell is at liberty to take Marjorie Edmonds for as many drives as he pleases. I mean, so far as I am concerned, I never meant to be selfish in my friendships. I might as well say I did not like to have you ride out with your friends as to object to her doing it. Once for all, Estelle, Marjorie Edmonds is on exactly the same footing with me as are my other old friends, and she is nothing more. I am very glad, said Estelle, with so much feeling in her voice that he could not doubt it. Glad for your sake I mean, forgive me, Ralph, for saying so. I might have known that you were man enough to look after your own interests, but I felt so sure from things that Glide has told me and from what I have seen and heard myself that Marjorie was getting very deeply interested in Mr. Maxwell that I feared I really did that there was trouble in store for you. Ralph laughed, a harsh on musical laugh, and begged her not to borrow any trouble on his account. But all this, of course, Marjorie did not know. She was, at that moment, being helped from the sleigh in front of one of the dreariest tenement houses at which they had stopped that day. I am very much interested in the woman I am going to take you to see. Mr. Maxwell had told her as they drove. She is a young wife and an unhappy one. She married a poor victim of Snyder, Snyder and Co's business, married him not knowing how deeply he drank, I believe, and has learned it since to her terror and horror. He is one of the cruel kind when he is intoxicated, has actually kicked her more than once, and she is a slight frail creature. It makes my blood boil when I think of what she has suffered already from that man, and what she must suffer if she lives. The last time I saw her she was ill with a violent cold. I could not help thinking that perhaps that was to be her way out of the tragedy which she has made of life, but I do not know—those frail creatures sometimes live and suffer. Will you give her some of those oranges you brought, Miss Edmonds? I have a basket of nourishing food for her. She looks to me as though she might be quietly and systematically starving herself. Then they had knocked at the dreary door again and again, receiving no reply. Mr. Maxwell looked above and around him for a key. This cannot be another case of locking in, I should think, he said, for she and her worthless husband live alone. I should like to lock him in and leave him until he acquired some sense, but I am afraid she would not resort to any such measures. Miss Edmonds, I am going to open this door. It is not locked, and I have a sort of pre-sentiment that something may be wrong. Saying which he turned the knob, and as the door swung open, there was revealed to them the face of a figure on the bed who seemed to marjory to be all eyes. I said, come in, she explained, but I could not speak loud enough. Even this brief explanation was given with difficulty, the speaker stopping again and again and panting for breath. Mr. Maxwell looked inexpressibly shocked. You are suffering very much, he said. How can we help you? Are you alone? She nodded her head, explaining, again with great difficulty, that her neighbor on the left was kind and often looked in to help her, but today she was gone away and the folks on the right didn't speak to her. Then, gathering all her strength, she put it into an earnest question. Could you find my Jack? I don't want anything else. I haven't seen him in four days, and I must see him again before— She did not finish her sentence. It was only too evident what she meant. I will try, said Mr. Maxwell, and I will bring you a doctor right away. You must have help. She tried to shake her head and to explain again about the only thing she wanted, but a terrible paroxysm of coughing seized her. Mr. Maxwell supported her head as well as he could, and Marjorie came in haste with a cup which seemed to contain water. The woman tried to take a swallow and presently fell back utterly exhausted. Mr. Maxwell tiptoed from the room, motioning Marjorie after him. She has gone down with incredible rapidity. He said, It is three weeks since I last saw her. Could you, would it be possible for you to remain here while I go for a doctor and some help? The houses on either side seem to be deserted, and we cannot leave her alone, can we? No, said Marjorie. We cannot. I will stay, of course. But never in her life had she so shrank from what was a manifest duty. If her mother were only here, he saw the thought in her eyes. I will get your mother as soon as I can, Ms. Edmonds, but she is quite a distance from here, remember, and I think there should be a physician without delay. The woman looks to me as though she were dying. He was untying and unblanketing his horses while he spoke, and with the last word was off. Marjorie returned to the apparently dying woman. A great terror was upon her heart. What if the poor creature should die while Mr. Maxwell was away? She could not help feeling that in such a case the woman might as well be utterly alone for all the help her presence could afford. What did she know about death? She had never in her life seen any one die. To her childish eyes her father had looked much as usual on that last night when he had kissed her and smiled on her and held his hand on her head while he prayed for her. And then she had gone away and slept. And in the morning her mother had told her gently, very gently, trying to smile through her tears, that the angels had come in the night and carried her father away to his beautiful home. But it was not possible to surround this dying bed with any idea of beauty or any suggestion of angels. The woman was in mortal suffering, was in need of help, and she could not help her. The extreme exhaustion which followed the last proxism of coughing did not pass. Marjorie moistened her lips, bathed her forehead, and fanned her gently, but the gray pallor which had overspread the woman's face deepened rather than lessened. She looked at Marjorie with great hungry eyes that had a mute appeal in them which was worse than words. What is it? the girl asked gently, holding herself to outward quiet by a supreme effort. Is there something I can do for you? Try to bear it for a few minutes. Mr. Maxwell has gone for the doctor and for my mother. They will be able to do something to help you. But the hungry look remained in those great, sad eyes. The power of speech seemed to have left her. At last, evidently summoning her waning strength for one mighty effort, she spoke distinctly one word. Pray. Oh! said Marjorie, with blanching face, and her voice sounded like a groan. I cannot pray. She looked like one immortal terror. She turned and gazed beseechingly toward the door. If Mr. Maxwell could only come. If anybody would come, who knew how to pray? Could she let this woman die with that one beseeching word on her lips, receiving no response? Yet how was it possible for her to pray? To attempt such a thing she felt would be mockery. She knew much theoretically of the character of God. She had learned many verses in her childhood, verses which indicated his willingness to hear the feeblest cry. They thronged about her now, and pressed her with their questions. Ought she not to try to speak for this departing soul? He would know that her words were sincere, and that she did not know how to pray. Under the spell of those solemn, inquiring eyes, which seemed to burn into her soul, she dropped upon her knees, covered her face with her hands, and cried out, Oh God, have mercy on this woman for Christ's sake, and give her what she needs. Just that sentence nothing more. Pray, said the voice again from the bed, and she repeated the same sentence again, and yet again, no others came to her. After a little she arose and continued her small ministrations, bathing the temples, moistening the white lips, trying meantime to find the thread of life in the woman's wrist. For her eyes had closed and she was lying again as one dead. The sound of bells broke on the intolerable stillness, and in a moment more, Marjorie heard Mr. Maxwell's step at the door. He came swiftly over to the bedside, and spoke to her in a low tone. The doctor will be here in a few minutes. I did not wait to get your mother. She is a mile away in the other direction, and I thought perhaps you would prefer to have me wait until the doctor came before going for her. Has your patient made any sign of life? Before Marjorie could reply, the great troubled eyes opened once more, but they seemed not to see, and fixed themselves on vacancy. Her lips moved and formed distinctly that one word again, lower than it was before. Just a faint shadow of a word now. Pray. Mr. Maxwell, bending to listen, caught the word, and was on his knees in a moment. Marjorie knelt beside him. It was so good to have one who could pray. Then the poor woman's needs were presented before the king in the words of one who had long known how. Ernest, direct, in language simple as a child would use, it seemed to Marjorie that no human speech could be better fitted to her needs. Yet there was a restless movement of the sick woman's hands. Presently she turned her eyes and sought Marjorie's face, and said in a solemn whisper, You pray. Mr. Maxwell looked well nice startled as Marjorie herself had done. He knew that whatever ability this young girl might have to minister to human pain, she had not learned this supreme need of the soul. Miss Edmonds, he said, she is asking you to pray. Oh! said Marjorie again, in bitter anguish. I cannot pray. Why does she want it when you are here? Kneel down, Mr. Maxwell, and pray again. Do. She cannot mean me. It was evident that the woman understood. You. She said distinctly, with her eyes on Marjorie. That same prayer. Mr. Maxwell looked bewildered, but Marjorie understood. She must be calling for those very words which had been spoken in her extremity. Could she possibly speak them before this man who knew that she did not pray? Yet what was any man now? In a few minutes the woman would be in the presence of God. Could she let her go with her last cry refused? She must say those words again. In much less time than it has taken to record them, these thoughts passed through her mind, and once more she was on her knees saying, Oh God! Have mercy on this woman and give her what she needs for Christ's sake. Amen. Said Mr. Maxwell. Again. Said the voice of the dying, and again Marjorie's tremulous lips cried the prayer. Have mercy for Christ's sake. It was the voice from the bed which repeated those words slowly, distinctly. Once, twice, three times, pausing many times for breath. The voice grew fainter. Seized. She lay quite still, but her eyes were not closed. They were lifted upward, and on her face there was the semblance of a smile. Let us rejoice that we have a God who is always ready to hear. Said Mr. Maxwell, as the solemn silence having continued for some minutes, they arose from their knees. This has been a very trying ordeal to you, he added kindly. I did not realize that she was so near death, or I would not have left you. Asked Marjorie in an awestricken voice, her face almost as pale as that of the silent woman on the bed. The pulse has stopped. With her last breath she's said, for Christ's sake. Let us hope that she is even now in his visible presence. Life here had certainly no joy for her, and but little hope. There is nothing more that we can do, Miss Edmonds, but I think we must remain until the doctor comes. There are no neighbors to whom we can appeal. The doctor must surely come in a few minutes. Even while he spoke there was the merry jingle of bells coming to a halt before the door. At the same moment the back door opened, and a woman with a shawl over her head appeared. How is she? she asked, nodding to Marjorie as she spoke. I've been gone all day, and I couldn't help kind of worrying about her. She seemed so low and miserable this morning. Oh mercy! you don't say she is gone? Dear, dear, I was afraid of it, and yet I didn't think it would be so sudden, or I would have let the dollar go, poor as I am, and stayed with her. And she has been alone here all day, I suppose. Poor young thing! it seems awful cruel, doesn't it? But there! what else could we do? Poor folks has to work, and I thought I could afford to get some extra bits of comfort for her with this day's work. Oh no, ma'am, she ain't nothing to me, except that I'm her next door neighbor, and I've tried to do for her as well as I could. I've looked in every morning before I went away and every night when I came back. And Saturdays and odd times I've took hold and helped do up her bit of work. I felt sorry for her on account of her being so young and so sick, and having such a worthless husband. She mourned for him so, that's just what has broke her down. She ain't seen a sight of him now for three or four days. By and by he will come sniveling home and go on at the greatest rate because she is gone. And he did nothing for her while she was here. I ain't no patience with them kind of men. Jack would be a decent fellow, too, if he could let the whiskey alone. It is that awful whiskey that makes such times for poor folks, ma'am. And then to see decent people helping the trade along, that beats me. Well, we'll do everything we can for her now she's gone. That's Mr. Maxwell, isn't it? I thought I knew him. He's been awful good to her, been here time and again, brought her oranges and things, and coal, and once he built up a fire with his own hands. And he's talked and prayed with her and everything. He's a saint that man is, if ever there was one. I'm glad he was here today. I wonder if he knows anything about Jack. Dr. Potter? Suddenly turning her attention to the physician, to whom a single glance at the bed had revealed the condition of things, he was drawing on his gloves again while he exchanged a few words with Mr. Maxwell. Dr. Potter, don't you know where we could find Jack Taylor? You know him, don't you? That good-for-nothing fellow who is always drunk nowadays when he isn't at home sleeping off the effects. He ain't been home for almost a week. That's what has run her down so. But he ought to be looked up now for decency's sake. If we could get him sober enough for the funeral, it seems as if it would kind of comfort her. The doctor had no information or advice to give, beyond the suggestion that they see some of the distillerymen from Sniders. He had heard that Jack Taylor was hanging around there, trying to get work again, though he had been twice discharged. They ought to keep him, said the woman significantly. He begun this thing out there. Was as nice a fellow as ever I see till he went to work for them. They might finish up their work, I think. There wouldn't be any need for their business anyhow if it wasn't for the drunkards or those who are traveling that road as fast as they can. Then, while the doctor made haste away, she turned her attention to Mr. Maxwell. That gentleman, however, cut her short in the midst of a sentence, and did much of the talking himself. He spoke low so that Marjorie could not catch a word. Save that as he turned away she heard him say, I will come to-morrow morning and give you any further help you may need. I think you understand that you are to do whatever is needful. Yes, said the woman, nodding her head. There was an undercurrent of satisfaction in her voice which it was impossible not to note. I understand, and I think you kindly too. I was troubled to see how we could give her decent burial. And we so poor all of us, and him so shiftless and worthless. It is very good of you, and we won't forget it. She was too much of a lady to be buried by the town. There was a nice young couple once, Mr. Maxwell. A woman I used to work for used to know her before she was married. She said she'd come of a good family, and they didn't want her to marry Jack, but she would, and they kind of got out with her, and now they are gone, father and mother both. But Jack was sober enough when she married him, had been sober for quite a spell, and she thought she could keep him from drinking any more, just as lots of women folks do. It is queer how, one after another, we women make exactly the same blunder, and no one learns from the last one. That good woman loves to talk. Mr. Maxwell said, with a faint smile, as he helped Marjorie to her seat in the slay. But her heart is in the right place. Silence for a few minutes, then he added with a heavy sigh. The woman is right, Miss Edmonds. Day after day, and year after year, the tragedy goes on being played before our eyes. Woman after woman, grave after grave. Not only women, but little children sacrificed to our Moloch. And the Christian world looks on, and sometimes sighs, and often her smiles and lets it go. Sometimes I get so wrought up about this liquor business that it seems to me impossible to live longer in a country which permits it. I wonder that the victims do not lose their reason and rise in protest. A strike of the wives of drunkards, Miss Edmonds. A riot made up of the wives and children and mothers who are victims of the saloon. Can you imagine it? The connection might not have been plain to all persons, but despite her effort to put the thought away, there arose before Marjorie just then the image of a bookkeeper in a distillery. What had he to do with Jack Taylor, the drunkard, who had broken his wife's heart? He was merely a bookkeeper, and bookkeeping, everyone knows, is legitimate employment. New Year's Day was over at last, and Marjorie was in her room alone, free to go over all its varied experiences and let her face flush and pale, and her heart tremble if it would, without fear of being watched and commented upon. Mr. Maxwell had been very thoughtful of her during that homeward drive, shielding her as much as possible even from her mother. We struck sorrow in one of its most desolating forms, he explained, and your daughter has been tried in strength and nerves. Then after giving her a very brief account of what had taken place, he began to question her in regard to the old lady to whom she administered, leaving no room for questions upon her part concerning the tragedy they too had lived through. When Glide joined them the way was easier. She was in a high state of excitement and enthusiasm. They had had wonderful times, she and the children. It had been so delightful to wash their faces and comb their hair and make changes in their dresses which amazed them. It had been such fun to sweep the room and clear off the shelf and put everything in order, even to the washing of the few poor dishes. And they had set the table with dainty things which the baskets furnished, and gotten everything ready for the mother's homecoming. Then to see that mother's face when she finally came. That was beyond even Glide's descriptive powers. She had never had such an experience in her life before. She knew now just what she would like to do in the world. Didn't they have city missionaries or town missionaries in some places, whose duty it was to go around among the people and do just such things? She had read of them, she thought. Wouldn't it be possible for her to get some such work to do? Didn't they pay salaries for such work? She wouldn't want any pay now, of course, but if she should take it up for a life work. One wouldn't want much, just enough to buy very plain clothes and a little food every day. How perfectly delightful it would be to give one's whole time to work like that. Mr. Maxwell entered heartily into her enthusiasm, helped her plans along by suggesting ways out of difficulties which presented themselves to her mind, and evolved new plans by his very questions. It is true he thought that it would be necessary for her to wait until she was a little older, but he assured her soothingly that time was a very fast traveler, and that some morning before she knew it she would awaken old enough to take such work upon her shoulders. She argued that point with him a little. Why did everybody persist in thinking her so young? She was nineteen, nearly as old as Marjorie, who everybody knew was a young lady, while they spoke of her as a little girl. That was simply because she had two older sisters who themselves considered her a child. But why should she wait to be old? Children would like her better as she was, and it was the children she wanted to reach. She wanted to tell them stories, such stories as would help them. Why, they were startlingly ignorant, those children with whom she had been visiting. They knew almost nothing of the Bible, and their ideas of God were really shocking. It was true, Mr. Maxwell said gravely, home missionaries were needed in just that line, and in the very town in which she lived. Perhaps she could do something in a small way even while she was so young, but there were difficulties to be considered. In many families, where the children were in sore need, it would not be safe for a young lady to visit. For instance, he would hardly have left her where he did, had he not been quite sure that the husband and father who lived just next door was not at home and would not be during the day. Sometimes it was very unsafe for a stranger and a lady to be in the neighborhood when he was at home. The trouble is, Miss Douglas, he said gravely, that rum makes husbands and fathers and neighbors into wild animals sometimes. It is that element in some form or other which renders it unsafe for young ladies to do a great many things which they might otherwise do. It is, however, only too true that if it were not for rum a great deal of the work would not need to be done, so the problem is complicated. Throughout these conversations Mr. Maxwell almost pointedly left Marjorie outside, even answering for her once or twice when Glide appealed to her. It was done in such a manner that she could not but understand him as planning rest for her overstrained nerves. He by no means forgot her, the slightest disarrangement of the robes which were carefully talked about her was noticed and remedied on the instant, and in a dozen little unobtrusive ways did he let her know that his thought was for her. Once he gave her the reins for a moment and bending forward rearranged the wrappings about her feet. While he did so Ralph Bramlett's sleigh passed them and that young men glowered at him in a way that he would not have understood had he noticed it. As for Marjorie she missed the look. Mr. Maxwell was leaning forward in such a manner that she could not see who passed them. Alone in her room that evening she thought of those quiet attentions and was grateful. She saw in them only added marks of his thoughtfulness for womanhood. How gracious and courteous and kind he was always. Truly kind and truly good. She realized it that evening as she had not before. She told herself that it was pleasant to have such a man for a friend, and that she would never forget all the kindnesses he had shown to her mother and herself. Then she turned her thoughts from him and allowed herself to gaze steadily at Ralph Bramlett for a few minutes, realizing in the depths of her heart that it was a sort of farewell gaze. It had now become very plain to her that he had settled his future. When next she met Estelle Douglas she felt certain that she would have a story to tell which would prove the truth of this. Such being the case it should have something to do with those letters and gifts which she had decided long ago not to return. That decision had not been reversed but she must keep them no longer. Since Ralph Bramlett belonged to another she had no right to treasure the tokens of his long friendship for her. There was a cheery fire burning in her grate more for pleasure than necessity as the house was heated by furnace, but it would serve her purpose well to-night. She brought out the locked box and untied package after package to assure herself that nothing besides Ralph's notes had by accident been included with them. Then, not allowing herself to read so much as a page, she consigned them one by one to the flames. It was a slow, grave piece of work, as one might steadily and knowingly put away what had been part of one's very self. Not only letters but valentines, pretty boyish ones which had come to her in the days when both were children and had spent hours in studying what selections to make for each other. Then there were dainty booklets, ribbon-tied, two or three of them heart-shaped, and there were cards with very special verses underscored, some with verses written on the reverse side in Ralph's own fine style. He was a good penman and had always enjoyed doing especially fine work for Marjorie's eyes. These cards, pretty as they were, must be sacrificed to the flames, even the underscored sentences were such as it would not do to have on exhibition now. There were dried flowers, half blown rose buds withered before their time, and pressed violets by the handful. The flames leaped up about them eagerly, seeming to rejoice in this wholesome holocaust. Marjorie lingered over a photograph of Ralph, taken when he was just nineteen. It was a boyish, handsome face. Surely she might keep that. People had photographs of their friends. She held it long, clasped it in both hands, and considered. The conclusion was that she leaned forward solemnly and laid it on the coals. She would be true not only to herself, but to that other woman who had a right to claim Ralph now. This could not be like other photographs standing about on easels, on library tables, or family romantles, to be handled and chatted over by friends. This had memories and associations which could never be separated from it. She did not want to keep it. It was not hers any longer. She did not hurry through any part of this work. She was slow and grave, more like a middle-aged woman who was taking a retrospective view of her long ago past, rather than a girl who was putting away what was so recent and vivid. In truth Ralph's management of this entire affair had removed him so far away from her, and made the time seem so long, that sometimes she almost thought it must be years since she had met him familiarly. All the while she was at work there was in her mind a solemn undertone of feeling that there was something else, something of infinitely more importance which must be considered. She was not one who could get soon or lightly away from the experiences of that afternoon. Death in one of its most solemn forms had confronted her. She had almost been alone with it. She had realized its certainty as never before. The thought had forced itself upon her heart that here was one who would be faithful. No matter how long he delayed, he was absolutely certain to come at last, and he might appear at any moment. How suddenly he had come to the woman whom she had watched die, taking the miserable husband so utterly unawares that perhaps he did not even yet know that his wife had escaped from him forever. For such an absolute certainty as this, the merest common sense would suggest that one ought to be ready. But there was more than this thought pressing upon her heart. She felt alone, dreary, desolate, in need of a friend. Such a friend as Jesus Christ seemed to be, not only to Mr. Maxwell, but to Glyde Douglas, the young girl who was maturing so rapidly and so sweetly under his guidance. What must it be to have an ever-present friend to speak to as Mr. Maxwell had spoken to the Lord Jesus that afternoon? What must it be to be able to realize his help in trouble? In little troubles, as Glyde had said, as well as in the heavier ones which were weighing down her soul. She believed in Christianity. She believed in the Lord Jesus Christ as a personal Savior. She knew there were people who had so accepted him and who lived in daily realization of his presence. Suppose that the great mass of those who professed this were merely church members as she had hinted to Glyde the other day. What had that to do with her? Since there were some genuine Christians, must she needs to be a hypocrite or a worldling or a self-deceived professor? In the depths of her heart she knew that from her childhood there had been an intention to sometime give her mind to this subject and settle it for herself. For the first time in her life this intention presented itself before her as something not much better than an insult so long as it was delayed. Was it possible that she could be the sort of person who would be willing to dally with such offers of love and help and care as this? Besides, what utter folly it was? Could a reasonable being find one excuse for it? That hour of death about which she had thought, why not get ready for it? That poor woman struggling for breath, gasping out her once in language almost unintelligible, ought to have had no such serious business to attend to at that hour, ought to have been ready. Moreover, she might not have had even those few last moments in which to try to repair her lifetime of neglect. The moment Marjorie thought this, that other thought about the insult of it all presented itself to her in a new form. Could anything be meaner than for a girl like herself, for instance, young and strong, with such opportunity for work before her perhaps, to deliberately put away the claims of this one who asked for allegiance now, put them away until some hour when she should feel herself in sore need, and then cry to him to give her what she had refused at his hands through the years? Imagine an earthly friend so treated! Marjorie's heart was very sore just then over earthly friendships. She knew just how silence and coldness and indifference could sting. Was it a possible thing that Jesus Christ wanted her, claimed her love, would give her love in return, and she had been treating his call, not with scorn, but with what was in some respects worse, utter indifference? How could she expect him to tarry much longer waiting for her? Why should she wait? Didn't she need him? Oh, didn't she need him now? Could she do it? Could she be the sort of Christian that she should? She had been held back, she knew, for years by the feeling that there were too many Christians now of a certain kind, and that she would only be another of the same sort. But since there were experiences which seemed to change one's very nature, could not she have such a change as this? How did people get it? CHAPTER XXI GIVE ME WHAT I NEED Theoretically Marjorie Edmonds knew a great deal about conversion. Yet when it came to the practical, she realized that her knowledge was very unsatisfactory. The words repentance and regeneration had been as familiar, all through her childhood, almost as her own name. The catechism of her mother's church was A, B, C to her so far as mere words were concerned. But she had not understood their meaning any better than Ralph Bramlett had the meaning of the Lord's Prayer. Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and Thou shalt be saved was one of the familiar verses which floated her mind. What did it mean? She had believed on him all her life. She knew that he was a reality and a Savior. But she knew also that she was not saved. Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness was another verse which came and stood before her. That indeed she had not done. She had put his claim deliberately from her too many times not to be sure of it. But how did one seek? And how long a process was it? It ought not to be very long, she reflected, because there was that faithful messenger who might come. What was there to assure her that he might not call for her that very night even while she slept? People did die so. She had heard of more than one instance and that recently of sudden death. No, she was not frightened. She was not in any sense of the word a coward. She did not suppose it very probable that she would be called to die before morning. She was simply like a person of common sense, she told herself, looking at the possibilities. Besides, she did not want to wait for long processes. She wanted to settle it now. Oh, Marjorie, won't you think about what I asked you? Glide had murmured, as she clasped her hand for good-bye that afternoon. There had been no opportunity for further words, but Marjorie had understood. Glide had not known what she had been through, nor how certainly she would have to think about these things this evening. But surely they required more than thinking about. She felt very far away indeed from Christ. Felt as though some tremendous change ought to be wrought within her before she would dare intrude upon him. Yet this was not in accordance with her theoretic teaching. It must be, however, something like what people meant when they talked about conversion. But how did they get it? She looked for her Bible with a vague feeling that it ought to be able to point the way. She knew no better where to read than Ralph Bramlett had done. But she had no idea of starting with the first chapter of Genesis. She had not yet learned how to find Christ in the Old Testament, and it was Christ she wanted. She opened it at random and read, Jesus answered and said unto him, What wilt thou that I should do unto thee? The blind man said unto him, Lord, that I might receive my sight. Jesus said unto him, Go thy way, thy faith hath made thee whole. And immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus in the way. The story, though perfectly familiar to her, sounded new. For some reason it touched the fountain of tears, and they began to gather for the first time in many days. How short it was, that prayer, shorter even than the one she had offered for the dying woman, and how instantaneous and complete was the answer. Immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus in the way. Was she ready to follow him? Certainly she would be, she thought, if she only knew what following meant in her case. If any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. This verse her I rested on as she turned the leaves. Was she ready to deny herself? But deny herself of what? The cross. Yes, she had a cross, and it was heavy, but the Lord Jesus Christ had nothing to do with it, so she thought. It was altogether a human cross, and she was bearing it alone. If there were another to bear for him, she would be almost glad of it. But she did not know how to find it. If he were here so that she might speak to him, as the blind man did, if he were out on the street, she would go this minute in the night and the darkness, and hurry until she caught up with him. Then what would she say? Lord, that I might receive my sight? Yes, that would do. It was what she wanted. Such mental sight as would enable her to understand his ways in which she wanted to walk. Would he say to her, Go thy way, thy faith hath made thee whole? Perhaps faith was what she needed. Yet she believed in Christ? Still she owned to herself that she did not believe, could not make herself believe, that he really and truly cared for her as an individual. That he would pay any attention to what she said. Why should he? There was nothing in her to win his love, nothing about her that he could enjoy. It was inconceivable that he would be willing to hold intimate companionship with her day by day. Yet, if he should, it would make all her life different. It is that which I need, she said aloud and sorrowfully. I need to be entirely different, to be made over. But, after all, that is pure selfishness. I do not suppose he answers selfish prayers. I suppose I want him because I am so utterly tired of myself. Oh, I don't know what I want, nor how to do any of it. The words of prayer which she had repeated so often that afternoon recurred again to her. If that was prayer it might answer for her as well as for the dying woman. God have mercy on me, she might say, and give me what I need. She sat and stared at the dying fire and the ashes of the treasures which she had committed to it for several minutes longer. Then, rising slowly, knelt before her chair and laying her head wearily on its cushions, repeated the words of which she had been thinking. Oh, God, have mercy on me and give me what I need for Christ's sake. He who knows the uttermost need of the human heart could tell better what that prayer meant than she could herself. Long she knelt, using no other words, not repeating those again, not praying consciously, simply waiting. She was not even thinking. There seemed to have come a lull in her thoughts. Presently there came to her the memory of a little old book hidden behind finer ones on the library shelves. Its title was, How I Found the Way. It was an old-fashioned book, and its language was quaint and queer. At least it had struck them so. She and Ralph had laughed together over some of its phrases. But the title was suggestive. Perhaps it could point the way for which she was seeking. She wished she had the book. There had come to her an overpowering desire to have this matter settled. She felt almost afraid of putting it from her again. Something, she was almost tempted to think that it was someone, was saying to her soul, Now is the time. Why should she not go downstairs and get that old book? The door was closed between her mother's room and hers, as it often was during these days. Her mother must be sleeping. She could go so quietly as not to disturb her. Besides, it could not be late. She had come early to her room. If her mother should hear her, it would be a common place enough explanation that she was in search of a book. Not giving herself time for further thought, she softly unlocked the door and slipped down the heavily carpeted stairs, match in hand. She meant not to light the gas until she reached the back parlor. But the back parlor was lighted, and standing before the book case, open book in hand, was Mr. Maxwell. He turned as the door swung open, and spoke at once. Miss Edmonds, I hope I have not frightened you. Your mother gave me permission to mouse along these old books of hers. I am in search of a quotation of whose authorship I am not certain. Miss Edmonds, I hope you are not ill. Can I serve you in any way? For he could not but note her extreme pallor, and in her eyes was a new look, of whose meaning he could not be sure. He came towards her as he spoke, and instinctively placed a chair for her. She did not look able to stand. I came for a book, said Marjorie, taking a sudden resolution. But perhaps you will do better than a book. There is something that I want to know. If I can help you in any way, be sure I shall only be too glad to do so. He spoke with exceeding gravity. Something in her tone and manner indicated that what she wanted to know was to be met with utmost seriousness. She dropped into the chair he had drawn toward her, and sat for some seconds looking straight before her into the fire, which still smoldered in the grate, saying nothing. Mr. Maxwell, she began at last, that woman who we saw die this afternoon, she was not ready to die, was she? No, said Mr. Maxwell, she was not ready to live, therefore, of course, not ready to die. The claims of the Lord Jesus Christ had been pressed upon her many times, and she had put them aside for what seemed to her more important matters. Yet, Miss Edmunds, we have so wonderful and so merciful a savior, that I can but hope and believe that he had pity for her ignorance and sympathy for her sorrows, and heard that eleventh hour cry of hers, and took her to himself. I am sorry that one so young and so unused to trouble as you are should have been suddenly thrust into the midst of such a scene. I know that it cannot but have made a deep impression, but I hope you will not let it wear upon your nerves. It isn't that, she said quickly. I am not nervous, at least I have never supposed that I was. I don't think it is because I am nervous that I have come to the conclusion which I have tonight. Perhaps it is simply common sense. Mr. Maxwell, I want to know Jesus Christ, to have a personal acquaintance with him such as Glide Douglas speaks of. I want him for a friend, a burden-bearer. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke those last words, but she hurried on, apparently in fear that she might be interrupted. I suppose I want what people mean when they talk about conversion, but I do not know how to get it. I have been reared in a Christian home by a Christian mother who tried to make the way plain. The terms which people use in speaking about these matters have been familiar to me since childhood, but some way they seem to be all words. They do not convey any meaning to me. The Bible says, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved. Now I have always believed on him. There is in my mind no shadow of doubt as to his existence and his power and his love for that matter, but I am not saved and I am conscious that I am not. What is there for me to do? Are you sure that you believe on him? If you do, will you not follow his directions? That is precisely what I want to do. I am telling you that I do not know how. The very first step to take is unknown to me. Give yourself to him, Ms. Edmonds. She turned quickly and looked at him out of earnest troubled eyes. Mr. Maxwell, how can I do it? I do not understand. He is not here, not invisible presence. How is it possible for me to give anything to him? That is figurative language, of course, but it does not express anything to me. What does it mean? Ms. Edmonds, will you give that handkerchief which lies in your lap to me? She glanced down at the square of Linen, then back to his face with a most surprised look. After a moment's hesitation, she said, Yes, of course, but I do not get your meaning. She picked it up, however, and reached it forth to him. He took it with utmost gravity. Thank you, he said, and then he wheeled a chair near her and sat down. Ms. Edmonds, he said, in passing this handkerchief over to me, were you not conscious of a distinct act of your will? You could, of course, have denied my request, could have said distinctly, No, I will not give it to you, or, saying nothing, could still have denied me. Instead, you consciously, deliberately passed it from your possession into mine. Now, what I want to convey by that illustration is the thought that there must be a conscious effort of the human will in this transaction between the Lord Jesus Christ and yourself. He asks for yourself, your power, your strength, your love, your allegiance. In short, all that is comprised in that term, yourself. Now, you can refuse him, you have the power. You can do so deliberately, with a heart determination, or you can do it by putting aside his claim, treating it with indifference, allowing yourself to forget all about it. Or, you can consciously and deliberately declare to him that you now, from this time, give yourself into his keeping, to be directed, guided, managed. It is as deliberate an act of will as it was to pass over your handkerchief to me. Do you get my thought? In part, she said, after a moment's hesitation, but not entirely after all. To give oneself means to give one's affections, and I cannot make myself love anyone, can I? No, you cannot. But the Lord Jesus Christ can. That is his part. Your part is the surrender. It is not a matter of feeling, but of decision. You might have disliked to give me this handkerchief. You might not have had the least desire to do it. Yet you might have obliged your will to perform the act. The mistake which we make in dealing with religious questions is to suppose that the matter turns of necessity on a question of feeling. I admit that there is likely to be more or less feeling at such a time, but not that it is to be taken into special consideration. If there is an honest, deliberate intention to give one's powers to the Lord Jesus Christ, to be known henceforth as his servant, to wear his colours as it were, to walk day by day in the paths which he directs, to do, as fast as we understand it, his pleasure, we may safely leave our feelings to take care of themselves. He, on his part, is pledged to take away the heart which does not feel for him, and give, in its stead, a heart of flesh. The divine part of this matter, the regeneration, is something which we do not understand. It is something which the Lord does for us in his infinite love and infinite power. But our part is very plain. We are not to make ourselves love him, we are not to wait until we do love him. It is part of his infinite condescension that we are permitted even to say to him that we are not conscious of any love for him in our strange, hard hearts, but that we have resolved to serve him, and he will hear us and accept us and ratify the covenant. The marriage relation, which is so often used as an illustration of this matter, is not complete in all its parts. Illustrations rarely are. In every true marriage the heart has passed over into another's keeping before the vows are taken. But in this marriage, between the Lord Jesus Christ and the soul, he accepts the vows even though we are not conscious that love goes with them, because he can control the human heart when the will is given into his keeping, and he knows that the love will follow. Am I making my meaning plain? Yes, she said. I think so. It is something of that kind which has troubled me. I did not feel sure that I loved anyone. I don't think I feel with my heart at all. It is just my judgment. Is your judgment willing to make the decision and leave the feelings to him? There was not an immediate reply to this question, and after waiting a moment, Mr. Maxwell continued. It was once my privilege to work in a series of meetings with an old and eminently successful minister of Christ, and I remember, and have occasioned to do so with deep gratitude, the form of covenant which he used. It ran in this wise. I do now upon my knees in thy presence give myself to thee. I do this honestly, intelligently, deliberately for time and for eternity. Are you ready to make such a surrender of self as that? Marjorie had removed her eyes from the smoldering fire and was looking down. She was still silent for several moments. Then she raised her eyes to his face and spoke slowly. I believe I am, Mr. Maxwell. If I understand myself, I think I am in dead earnest. I have thought about this matter before, of course, but never as I have tonight. I may say that I had reached the decision before I came downstairs. I came in search of a book which I thought might show me the way to do it. But I think I understand you perhaps better than I should have understood the book. Still, I am not satisfied. I feel mean. It seems to me that I am taking all and giving nothing. There is nothing in me for Christ to love. I do not know how it is possible for him to love me. I am selfish and hard and utterly hateful. Yet I cannot help wanting his love and care. The tears started as she spoke, and dropped slowly down on the hand with which he suddenly covered her eyes. Yes, I know. That is what we bring to him. Utterly unworthy of his love. Selfish we seem to ourselves in our very longing for it. Unable, it seems to us, to do a thing for him in return. Yet he waits for just such gifts as these, pledges eternal love and care, and begs us to accept the gift. May I kneel with you now, Miss Edmonds, and will you give yourself to him while he waits? Her answer was to rise and drop on her knees. A moment's solemn stillness, then her voice, clear and steady, repeated as nearly as she could remember them the words which Mr. Maxwell had given her, especially were the tones distinct and slow when she repeated that word deliberately, and those other words, for time and for eternity. Amen, said Mr. Maxwell, then he followed with a few earnest words of prayer commending this newcomer to the special and tender care of the Covenant-keeping Lord. She remembered long afterward how earnestly he asked that her heart might be so filled to overflowing with the love of Christ as to make all other loves seem unnecessary. As they arose he held out his hand to her with a grave smile. It is needless to try to tell you how much I thank you, he said, for letting me be a witness to this compact. I feel that it means solemn business, not only for eternity, but for time. And there is a sense in which that is more important to us now than eternity. It is our opportunity for service. I am sure there has been a worker received into the army tonight. God bless you and grant you the joy of harvest. I have no fears whatever in regard to that matter of feeling. I hope you will not allow the enemy of souls to torment you concerning it. You will love the Lord Jesus Christ with a supreme and all controlling love as soon as you come to know him better. A woman like you, who admires what is beautiful and good and pure, cannot help loving him. It is only because your interests have been absorbed elsewhere that you have not settled with him long before. He walked with her to the door and held it open for her to pass. It was at that moment that the sound of the doorbell peeled through the quiet house. Marjorie started nervously. It seems late for the bell to ring. She said, How late is it? The clock struck eleven not long ago. As Mr. Maxwell spoke, he drew a match from his pocket and lighted the hall gas. Then he stepped forward to the door, Marjorie waiting under the gas light to learn what could be wanted. She remembered for a long time just what a strange sensation it gave her when the locked and bolted door was finally unfastened and thrown open, revealing Ralph Bramlett. He uttered a single exclamation, which might have expressed only surprise. She could not afterwards recall what it was. As for her, her surprise was so great that she stood quite still and waited. But his errand was prosaic enough. He had reached home a short time before to find his mother quite ill and needing a woman's care, and his sister was out of town. Could Mrs. Edmonds give him the address of Nurse Crawford, who used to be in their family, and of whom they had lost sight? His mother thought that Mrs. Edmonds would know just where to find her. Yes, said Marjorie, coming out of her bewilderment and speaking quickly. Mama will know about her. She was here only a few days ago. I will ask Mama. And she sped up the stairs. Come in, said Mr. Maxwell, hospitably. Will you have a seat while you wait? Mrs. Edmonds has retired, I believe. There may be a few minutes delay. I hope your mother is not seriously ill. But he need not have tried to be sociable. The young man was in no mood for sociability. His attempt at reply was hardly civil, and Mr. Maxwell, feeling that words from him were evidently not wanted, stood silently by until Marjorie was seen coming downstairs. Then he went back to the library, closing the door after him. He need not have done so. Ralph Bramlett had no civil words even for Marjorie just then. In her heart was a kind, grave sympathy for him. It seemed as though he must have heard it in her voice. Mama says that Nurse Crawford is at the corner of Bond and Adams Streets. That boarding house, you know. She is not engaged anywhere and will be sure to go with you. Oh, Ralph, I hope your mother is not very ill. Mama wants to know if she can be of any assistance. She would be glad to come at once if she may. Mr. Maxwell will take her over there, I am sure. No, said Ralph sharply. She will not be wanted. Mother is not alarmingly ill. She simply needs care. I am sorry to have had to trouble you. I did not think of anybody else who would be likely to know about Nurse Crawford. Then he had turned and left her standing in the doorway. When he reached the first corner he looked back and Marjorie had disappeared. Mr. Maxwell stood in the doorway alone. He muttered something again, not complementary to that gentleman, and dashed around the corner at full speed. Marjorie went slowly back upstairs, Mr. Maxwell having assured her that he would make all fastenings secure. For a few weeks past she had occasionally occupied herself with surmiseings as to when they would meet face to face she and Ralph, and be compelled to speak to each other. Of course the time would come. They could not go on in this way through the years nor through the winter. Even in church they might meet occasionally, though the Bramlett pew was on the other side of the church from them, and for weeks they had successfully avoided each other. For that matter Ralph had not been very regular in his attendance at church. But of course there must come a change. How would it come? How would he treat her? Did he mean not to know her any more? In that note he had called her Ms. Edmonds. Must she say Mr. Bramlett? Could she train her lips to form those words? She had called him so in jests sometimes when they were young together, how long ago it seemed. She had tried various titles to see which would sound the best. Dr. Bramlett, Judge Bramlett, and the like, always returning to that word, Judge, and assuring him that that was the one which fitted his name and face. She thought she might in time learn to call him that. It did not sound so utterly strange as Mr. Bramlett. Now they had met once more. But what a strange meeting! Oh Ralph! she had said, without thinking, under the fear that his mother was seriously ill. But he had repulsed her. He would not have even her sympathy. He had called her nothing, but had rushed away as rapidly as he could, seeming to be almost angry with her. It was very strange. She had now no feeling of anger in her heart toward him. She could almost have said to him, Oh Ralph, don't treat me so. Let us be friends. If you cannot care for me any more, never mind. If you like Estelle instead of me, why you cannot help that? I forgive you, but let us be friends. No, she would not have said those words, of course, because he might have misunderstood them. But she could feel them. Mrs. Edmunds's door opened as her daughter came up the stairs. She was hastily dressing. What does he say, Marjorie? Does he want me to come? No, Mama, he said there was no need. He does not think his mother is seriously ill. But she needs care, and Hannah is away. He went at once for Nurse Crawford. She is at home. I saw her tonight as we passed. So it will be all right. What a pity it is that I disturbed you. If I had only thought a moment, I might have told him where to find Nurse Crawford without coming to you. Daughter, I do not understand. Did you answer the bell, and have you been up all this time? How came you to go down, dear, alone? I do not like to have you answering bells at this time of night. I did not, Mother. Mr. Maxwell was in the back parlor, studying those old books, and he went to the door. I was downstairs, too, so I saw Ralph as soon as the door was open. Was that sufficient explanation? Her mother regarded her curiously, somewhat anxiously. Were there always to be secrets between her daughter and herself? The communicating door was still closed. She had noticed it with a sigh when she dropped asleep. After waiting long it seemed to her. The anxious look in her eyes went to Marjorie's heart. She wanted to be very tender of her mother. It is not late, Motherie, she said, using the pet name which the mother had not heard for several weeks. It could not have been much after ten when I went downstairs. I was in search of an old book of ours, hoping that it would give me some help in a line where I greatly needed it. But I found Mr. Maxwell among the books, and he gave me just the help I was searching for. Motherie, I wanted to know how to give myself away forever into the keeping of Jesus Christ, and he told me how. That will make you glad, will it not? Will Marjorie ever have sweeter kisses than those with which her mother covered cheeks and lips? Will her head be ever drawn to a tenderer human resting place than the mother's breast afforded? Glad! Mrs. Edmonds, quiet, reserved woman that she was, could have shouted for joy. She knew it meant so much, the surrender of her daughters. By nature timid and shrinking, she had, by turns, admired and stood appalled before the indomitable energy and persistence of her child, and wondered where unto such power would lead her. But now that she had accepted a leader, the mother could feel how surely she would follow him and of what value her strength of will would be in his service. Then at last Marjorie turned the key in her own door, and was alone once more on this eventful night. She went and stood before her dressing bureau, and looked at herself deliberately in the mirror. Had any outward change taken place in her appearance? Of course there had not, and she smiled at her childishness, but a strange restfulness had certainly come into her heart. She felt as though her feet rested at last on firm ground. She realized that a matter of infinite importance had been settled since she last stood there. Whatever came to her in the near or distant future, nothing could unsettle the security of her present foothold. Life had taken on a new and solemn meaning. It was serious business, it was true, to live. But it was also dignified business, worthy of an immortal soul's best efforts. Hitherto she had played at life, now she would begin to live in earnest. It was not until the gas had been turned out for the night, and a communicating door had been set wide open, and Marjorie's head was resting on her pillow, that she remembered that her handkerchief was still in Mr. Maxwell's possession. It would perhaps be hard to imagine a greater contrast than Ralph Bramlett's New Year's Evening presented to this one of Marjorie's. It will be remembered that he was a man of moods, and the great barometer in the office where he toiled could not have indicated changes of temperature more rapidly than his mental moods changed front. Very recently he had determined within himself that it was high time to end this farce. He had punished Marjorie, and for that matter himself too, quite enough. Probably the reason why she did not write to him, as he had fully expected her to do, was because her immaculate mother did not approve of it. He would call upon her formally enough, as he might on any passing acquaintance, but her way of receiving the call should guide him as to his next step. In his secret heart he believed that there would be no difficulty about that next step. There were moments when he felt quite certain that Marjorie's reception of his advances would be all that he could desire. Then he heard that the Edmunds home would depart from its time-honored custom and not open its doors to New Year's callers. For a few minutes he was annoyed. In the next few minutes he had decided that this was so much in his favour. He was not supposed to know that the house was not open as usual. He would ring their bell, and if the little maid, who was in the habit of serving them on special days, responded, he would tell her that he was too old a friend to stand on ceremony and bid her take his card to Miss Marjorie. This he told himself would be a stroke of genius. If Marjorie once got his card in her possession he felt sure of the rest, and they would not be annoyed by callers. If Mrs. Edmunds should answer the bell herself he would be as dignified as she could possibly be, but he would inform her that he wished to see Miss Marjorie on important business. She will hardly deny me the house, he said, waxing indignant over her possible coldness. It will have to be admitted in passing that he also prepared for another possibility by muttering to himself that if that puppy of a Maxwell came to the door he would kick him down the steps. To one of Ralph Bramlett's temperament, having carried out his intentions mentally to such perfection, even having arranged a programme of the conversation according to his favourite method, imagine what it was to have his plans completely overturned by seeing Marjorie drive gaily by, not only seated beside Mr. Maxwell, but actually driving his handsome horses for him. It was characteristic of the type of young men to which he belonged, that he took jealous thought even then to the fact that the horses were finer than any which he had to drive. After that imagine the torture which he must have endured for the next hour in listening to Estelle Douglas's eager information, having first committed himself before her in a way which he could not but feel would make his future with Marjorie more difficult still. Having returned Estelle to her place in the McAllister parlours, this much abused man gave himself up to gloom for the next few hours, evolving only this out of the chaos of his thoughts, that he would find out, if possible, just how far Marjorie's intimacy with her mother's lodger had progressed. The person who could tell him a great deal he was convinced was Estelle Douglas. With this thought in view he called upon her as early in the evening as he could hope to find her at home, and very soon began what he thought was a skillful method of questioning to secure all the information which she possessed. Unfortunately for his peace of mind Estelle believed that she possessed a great deal. Glide's innocent remarks concerning Mr. Maxwell's reading aloud in the Edmunds Parlor, her accounts of their plans for New Year's Day, and above all the eager story which she had to tell that evening, had furnished her far-seeing sister with much material. In truth her translation of certain remarks of Marjorie's and of Mr. Maxwell's would not have been recognized by themselves, not that Estelle meant to falsify or had an idea that she was really doing so. She possessed a vivid imagination and wanted to believe in the theory which she had built up out of her meager facts. She was successful to the degree that she convinced Ralph Bramlett that Marjorie had been, what he chose to call, playing apart with him. He jumped immediately to the wildest conclusions, made himself believe that even at the time she had written that last note to him, she was receiving Mr. Maxwell's special attentions. Nay, it was entirely possible that there had been an understanding between them on that very night in which she had walked away from the Skylar Farm in a supposed burst of indignation. Was it probable that she would have started off on a seven-miles walk at that time of night, if she had not been reasonably sure of being met and taken care of? It astonished and disgusted him that he had not thought of this before. It was all very plain now, he told himself. From first to last he had been made a fool of. Marjorie had pretended to be devoted to him at the very time when she was using him as a foil, the better to show off her perfections to Mr. Maxwell. How he could have concocted such an absurd theory as that, out of any material with which he had to build, cannot be explained by any laws based on reason and common sense. It must simply be remembered that he was a man of extremes, that he paid, when he was in a certain humor, the least possible attention to the dictates of common sense, and that the whim of the passing moment governed him to an alarming degree. Left to himself he might have concluded by the next day that he had been unnecessarily hasty and that Marjorie had been simply treating Mr. Maxwell as he had Estelle Douglas, entertaining herself during the period of coldness between them. In the course of the next thirty-six hours he would almost certainly have gotten back to his complacent frame of mind and been ready to plan again for that interrupted call. But he was not left to himself. Estelle took care to plan that she should not be interrupted by other collars, and as her sister Fanny was not at home she and Ralph had the evening together. So you think they are really engaged? He tried to ask the question carelessly, interrupting some remark of hers to do it. Why, I think they must be, of course. How else is such exceeding familiarity to be accounted for? To judge from Glide's reports they have gotten so far that they put all ceremony aside and treat each other like people who have had an understanding for ever so long. It isn't like Marjorie, you know, unless there is an engagement. I always thought her a very reticent person. Oh, I wouldn't have had such an idea if you had not told me this afternoon that there was nothing whatever between you and her, and had never been, save a boy and girl friendship. I confess that I have not understood it, and that I have been distressed both for Marjorie and for you. But the moment you told me that, and I realized that you and she had simply been like brother and sister all these years, it threw a new light upon everything. I hope it will be all right with Marjorie. He seems very much of a stranger. They really do not know anything about him, of course, except what he says of himself. But he is wealthy I have heard, and Marjorie likes money. At least she likes the luxuries which money will produce, and she is fond of position, too. He is an author, you know, and a college professor besides, one who has been given a year's vacation to enable him to complete the preparation of some stupid book. Textbook, I think. It must be a dreadful bore to have to do all the time with such an extremely literary man. But I presume that is what fascinated Marjorie at first. She is a little bit inclined to be aristocratic in her tastes. I have always known that. Mrs. Edmonds is not wealthy, it is true, but she belongs to a very old family, and Marjorie was always disposed, I think, to look down a little on people who had to earn their living in ways which did not happen to suit her taste. Ralph was turning over piles of music while Estelle was saying this, supposed to be hunting for a song which she had asked him to sing with her. He bent lower over the music rack in the hope that she might not see the dark flush which overspread his face at those words. He felt that he understood her only too well. What could she mean but that Marjorie had looked down upon him because he was earning his living as a bookkeeper instead of being a law student as he knew she had wished him to be? Well, let her go! After all these years of intimacy with him, if she had been fascinated by a stranger because he could write books and had a title or two after his name, she was not worthy of an honest man's love. He would have nothing more to do with her. He found the music at last, and they sang the song. Estelle remarking cheerfully at its close, Our voices sound well together, I think. What a pity we haven't an audience! Suppose we were to go around giving parlor concerts. We might make a good deal of money. We would look very well together, too. We are of about the right size. We could take Glide along to play the accompaniments. Wouldn't that be an original way to raise funds? She laughed gaily as she spoke and was talking the merest nonsense, of course. But Ralph replied gravely. We would look reasonably well together, perhaps under any circumstances. I do not know, but you and I are fairly well suited to each other. How would it do to enter into partnership on other lines than concert giving? He spoke under impulse, of course. When did this young man speak in any other way? He hardly realized the import of what he was saying. The strongest feeling of which he was conscious at that moment was a desire to show Marjorie Edmonds in some way that he was by no means brokenhearted over her, nor did he lack for intimate companionship because she had played him false. He was, possibly, unprepared for the deep womanly flush on Estelle's face and the light in her eyes. He was certainly unprepared for the warmth of her reply. He went home very early that evening, much earlier than Estelle thought desirable, and he told himself moodily, as he walked away, that he had gotten himself into trouble now. Why had he been such an idiot as to speak out his passing thoughts? At home he had found the state of affairs which has been explained, and had hurried back to town, glad of any excuse which would oblige him to call at the Edmonds home. On the way he speculated as to what might result from this call. Suppose he should happen to see Marjorie. He could hardly ask for her at so late an hour, but she might be there, and they might have a few minutes talk together, and a very few minutes might, perhaps, right all wrongs. Yes, he forgot Estelle Douglas entirely, and the words he had spoken to her, that mood had passed. He was in a reverent one now, and called his mother's illness a special interposition of providence in his behalf. When he rang the bell he had planned the words which he would speak to Marjorie, feeling sure that he would see her. Would not Providence take care of that? And he had seen her standing there under the gas jet with a strange light on her face, such as he by no means understood. The language of the country, once it was born, was utterly unfamiliar to him. Of course he misunderstood the situation. Of course Marjorie and Mr. Maxwell had been spending the evening together, and were taking leave of each other, probably, when he interrupted them. It was her feeling for him which could put such a light into the girl's eyes. The thought made him angry, so bitterly angry, that he could hardly treat her with the outward courtesy which decency demanded. As he rushed away into the night, he thought again of Estelle, and told himself that it was just as well that he had spoken to her as he did. She cared for him at least, and it was more than Marjorie had ever done. There wasn't any such thing as real disinterested love in the world. He had proved it.