 CHAPTER XIX Mr. Leonard Maxwell sat, with an open letter before him, staring thoughtfully into space. He had been so sitting for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. There seemed, as he from time to time referred to it, to be some connection between the letter and his thought. Yet it was a very short letter to have roused such grave and apparently unsatisfactory study. Less than a dozen lines comprised the whole. It ran thus. My dear Leonard, at last the impossible has been accomplished, and I am to have a vacation. To be entirely honest, I've done what you said I would, overworked. We have had a good deal of sickness this spring, and I've been run to death. When I got where I could not sleep nights, even though I had a chance, I determined to call a halt. I've arranged with Weston and Barnes to divide my calls between them, and I'm planning for a whole month of play. The question is, do you want me to come and play with you? I know you are at work, perhaps I can play for you when I can't with you. If there is room where you are staying, wire me, and I'll come on at once. As ever, Frank! When the three-quarters had lengthened into an hour, Mr. Maxwell sprang up, letter in hand, and hurried downstairs as though an idea had just occurred to him. Mrs. Edmonds was in her sitting-room alone. May I come in? he asked. I have a very large favour to ask. I hardly know how to commence it, because I am aware that you do not keep a boarding house. But, do you suppose you could be induced to take pity on another man, if I will agree to share my room with him? He laughed at Mrs. Edmonds's look of bewilderment. You think my sudden attack of benevolence needs explanation? Why, it is just this way. There are only two of us, my brother Frank and I. Frank is a hard-worked physician who hasn't taken a vacation since he graduated, and now is to have a month of enforced rest. Mother is abroad, as you know, so he can't be with her, and he naturally thought of me. Is it asking too much? Mrs. Edmonds, greatly surprised, considered the pros and cons, expressed courteous interest in his brother, and polite regret that she had not more room to spare in her house than asked tentatively what seemed to be an embarrassing question. Am I to understand that you very much desired to make this arrangement, Mr. Maxwell? That gentleman hesitated, a flush rising on his usually pale face, and slowly spreading until it reached his temples. He laughed in response to her questioning look. Mrs. Edmonds, do not make me too much ashamed of myself, he said hurriedly. I have been fighting a battle with selfishness for the last hour. My brother Frank is the best fellow in the world, and there is not a man living that I so much desire to see. Yet, can you understand a little how hard it is for me to deliberately put away from myself a portion of this summer? She felt that he must know she understood, and smiled gravely as she said. Yet it must be a pleasure to you to think of having an entire month with the brother from whom you have been so much separated. Of course it must, he said quickly, and if you can arrange for it without too much inconvenience I shall be grateful, otherwise I ought to plan to meet him at some other point. The evident distress in his tone as he added that last thought touched the mother's heart. Oh, we shall be able to arrange for it, she said. It is only you who will be inconvenienced on account of the limited number of rooms. He thanked her hurriedly and went away to send his telegram while Mrs. Edmonds sought her daughter and began to plan for the addition to their family. I don't like it, Marjorie said, with a shadow on her face. We are so cozy now, and have such good times together, we three. A fourth will be almost sure to spoil it all. It isn't within reason to expect the other brother to be so nice as this one. Mama, I am even afraid we shall dislike him. That would certainly be sad, said Mrs. Edmonds breaking into a laugh. But since he is this one's brother and wants to visit him, we could do no less than receive him, could we, dear? Oh, of course not. But it will be disagreeable. You see if it isn't. He will not be in the least like Leonard. Brothers never are. With which most ambiguous sentence she turned away without catching her mother's slight, quickly suppressed sigh. Her daughter's preference for the present Mr. Maxwell was too outspoken for her to build any castles upon. In truth Mrs. Edmonds's castles troubled her not a little during these days. Absolutely certain of Mr. Maxwell's desires, and he made it apparent to her that they grew stronger with each passing day. She could not see that her daughter thought of him as other than a very exceptionally choice brother. Sometimes her impatience with the obtuseness of a girl who was so quick to observe in all other lines brought her to the verge of speech. It was only Mr. Maxwell's reiterated assurance that he would not for the world have Marjorie's peace disturbed that held the mother to silence. Meantime the policy of the two to be always seen together was being literally carried out. The mornings on Mr. Maxwell's part were given to uninterrupted work. But every afternoon found him at leisure to walk or ride or read, according as Marjorie's mood dictated. Quite often now she yielded to her mother's wish to be left undisturbed at home, and took long walks or drives with Mr. Maxwell. Occasionally, and as the days passed this grew to be a frequent occurrence, they would call for Hannah Bramlett to accompany them. These excursions were more often than otherwise errands of mercy to the factory portion of the town. The gaping world must have looked on with exceeding interest during those long bright summer days as Mr. Maxwell drove gaily by, or sauntered leisurely along, with Marjorie Edmonds and Hannah Bramlett for his companions. It was Mr. Maxwell who at first suggested Hannah as a companion. At least, when Marjorie was expressing her indignation concerning the gossip, and her sorrow that a good, well-meaning girl like Hannah Bramlett should have been its victim, he asked to what extent it had victimized her, and when Marjorie explained that she seemed to have almost no intimate friends, and that some foolish people apparently stood aloof from her on account of the stories, though no respectable person believed them, he had said, There is remedy for such a state of things, why don't we cultivate her acquaintance? If we are to call in friendly fashion and invite her to drive with us, for instance, occasionally, wouldn't it be helpful? Marjorie had clasped her hands in an ecstasy of satisfaction. It is the very thing, she exclaimed. Why do you always think of things to be done, and why do they never come to me? It is doubtful if Mr. Maxwell meant to inaugurate such a state of affairs as immediately followed. He might even have kept silence had he known that he would be so literally and constantly interpreted. Marjorie planned to walk for that very afternoon with Hannah Bramlett for an accompaniment, and two days afterwards proposed that she drive with them to the Skyler Farm where they were going to call. It was certainly hard to have a third person so frequently interposed. But Mr. Maxwell could not, despite this, help enjoying Hannah's evident comfort in these excursions, and her mother's no less evident satisfaction over them. For the Bramlitz were in sore trouble during these days, and whatever contributed to their sense of self-respect was so much balm to their wounded sensibilities. It was now nearly a month since the painful episode in Ralph Bramlitz Parler. All the people who suffered that night had a chance to grow accustomed to the pain and to try to accommodate themselves to the inevitable. So far as Mr. Maxwell and Marjorie's share in the scene, they had kept it quite to themselves. Marjorie could not be sure whether or not any other person knew of the manner of Ralph's homecoming and its disgraceful cause. How much the girl Lena surmised, or how far she was to be trusted, were matters of which Marjorie could not be certain. She deemed it safer to remain in ignorance than to ask questions. With regard to the insulting words spoken to herself, she had received from Estelle Bramlitz a cold little note offering a semi-apology for any thoughtless words that she might have spoken in her distraction. Mr. Bramlitz, she explained, had been overcome by fatigue and had hastily swallowed a tonic by a physician's advice. It proved to contain alcohol, and his system being entirely unaccustomed to the drug, had responded promptly. Hence the disgraceful scene which she was sorry to say Marjorie and her friend had witnessed. She supposed it was not necessary to remind her of the importance of its not being made known. It is doubtful if Marjorie was not even more hurt by this note of supposed apology. She showed it to Mr. Maxwell, her lip quivering a little as she said. That last fling is hard to bear. She was half insane with fear and grief the other night, and it did not matter what she said. But this is premeditated. Mr. Maxwell had returned to the note with a grave face and had answered, Still Marjorie, you can afford to feel only sorrow for her. She is mistaken if she supposes that a few swallows of prescribed medicine put her husband into the condition that he was last night. I have the very gravest fears for his future. His is a temperament with which alcohol makes short work. Marjorie had paled before the suggestion that his words implied. She said passionately that she could not have this friend of her childhood sink into a drunkard's grave. Why did he have fears? Did he not believe in prayer, and had not he covenanted with her to pray for Ralph until he was converted? No, he said in grave earnestness. Forgive me, Marjorie, if I pain you, but I did not make any such promise. Grace is free. There is no forcing process in the plan of salvation. What Mr. Bramlett wills must be. If he will not be saved, be sure that God will respect even that. Then what is the promise worth whatsoever ye ask in my name believing ye shall receive? My friend, it is worth everything. If, in answer to my prayer, I receive God's assurance that that for which I plead shall be, then indeed I can continue to ask believing. It is like the solid rock to my feet, and I know I can claim its fulfillment, though I may have to wait a lifetime. Nay, long after my life here is over. Have you such an assurance in regard to Ralph, Bramlett? Yes, she said steadily. I know Ralph will yet receive what I most desire for him. Then thank God for the assurance, and hold to it. He never fails. Yet Marjorie, even at the moment, could not help wondering whether the feeling that she had was assurance, or a determination on her part that what she desired should be. The thought made her say almost complainingly. Sometimes, Leonard, I cannot help wondering why the way of life was made so hard in a sense. Hard for obstinate natures, I mean. Why must one's diseased will be held in such honor? Why not save men in spite of themselves? When you give entrance to such thoughts, do you remember what salvation really is? Would heaven be heaven to me if I did not want to be there, hated the power that reigns there, desired to be free from his presence? Of course not. I meant, why did not God compel people to love him, whether they would or not? Can you make yourself love a person, Marjorie? No, she said, blushing under his earnest gaze. But God could make me. Could he? What would such love be worth? How much could it be depended upon? Oh, she said, turning away half impatiently. I know I'm talking nonsense, but it does not seem to me sometimes, as though I could have people managing their lives in the way they do. I cannot help thinking that if I had the power, I would make them do differently. I understand you. God himself uses that power continually, I suppose. The remainder of wrath he restrains, you remember? But when it comes to forcing love and confidence, I can imagine what utterly disappointing machines we should make. I would not care for the allegiance of the very dearest thing on earth, if it were a forced allegiance. Sometimes I think that this world of punishment, about which we talk so much and understand so little, is simply the gathering together of beings who will not accept the destiny for which they were intended, in a place by themselves, away from those whose bliss would only make their self-ruin more complete. In other words, that God does for them the best that he can, since they refuse his best. Poor Marjorie was obliged to confess to herself that she had very little outward appearance on which to build her assurance for Ralph Bramlett's future. It is true that he might have been taken unawares on that fateful evening, and such an experience might not happen to him again, but he was undeniably and indeed openly engaged in the liquor-traffic. From the evening that he had boldly proclaimed it to his wife, he had not made the slightest attempt at further concealment. Indeed, before the next day was over, he went to his father, and in a long argument labored to convince him that the step he had taken was in the interest of good citizenship. He had protected the imperiled corner from unprincipled persons, and established a law-abiding business about which not a whisper of reasonable complaint could be made. His sister Hannah repeated these and kindred statements to Marjorie, her lip curling over them the while. Once she interrupted herself to ask, did you suppose that Ralph could ever become such a fool? What his wife thought Marjorie could not positively discover. Evidently she had reconsidered her determination made on that dreadful evening, and had not claimed the shelter of her father's house. She was to all appearances living her life in her husband's house as before, but Marjorie knew from Glide Douglas, who was not only deeply distressed, but frightened as to what might come next, that the apparent calm was only on the surface. The distressed sister owned with tears that Ralph and Estelle did not even speak to each other. They sat together at meals as before, and observed all the outward proprieties, but Estelle had told her that she had not spoken one word to her husband since the morning after she had discovered the disgraceful business with which he had identified himself, nor did she intend to, until he should rid himself entirely of all connection with it, and ask her pardon for the offense. What conversation passed between them before this period of ominous silence was reached? Marjorie could surmise better than Glide. Meantime the tongues of the gossips ran freely. Those who were able to say, I told you so, rejoiced over those who had not believed the reports. Moreover, if rumour was to be credited, already the boasted quietness of the corner store was being interrupted, and scenes more or less directly connected with it were being enacted, not quite in accordance with good citizenship. Such was the condition of affairs at the time that Mr. Maxwell was expecting his brother. CHAPTER XXII. With your permission, said Mr. Maxwell, I will drive to the station. The 520 train is just due, and we can take my brother home with us. They were just returning from a trip to what was known as Factoryville, meaning that part of the town in which the factories and tenement houses for the operatives were located. Mrs. Edmonds and her daughter occupied the backseat of the carriage, and the vacant seat beside Mr. Maxwell had been filled by Hannah Bramlett, whom they had just left at home. They had been on an errand of mercy, every available space of the carriage having been filled with comforts for the homes where there was illness. Raining in the horses at the station, Mr. Maxwell secured them carefully, shaking his head with a smile in response to Marjory's offer to hold them. I always have an extra attack of prudence when I am near a railway station, he said. I prefer the chain and ring to your hands in case of any excitement. Mrs. Edmonds proposed while they waited that she step across to the office of the laundry and make some business arrangements, and as Mr. Maxwell entered the station to consult a timetable, Marjory was left to herself. Her thoughts were not enlivening. She dreaded the advent of the stranger more than she cared to have anyone understand. In her judgment their party was now quite perfect. Hannah Bramlett was having the good times that had heretofore been denied her, and on occasion whenever it was good for her the dear mother could be depended upon to join them. What space was there for another? He will be out of sympathy with our ways and plans, murmured this malcontent, and will demand the constant attention of Leonard when we want him ourselves. I wish he had stayed well and at work. Then suddenly there was an excitement. She could never afterwards recall just how it was, everything happened so quickly and so unexpectedly. Just as she became aware that the 520 Express had shrieked itself into the station, and that Mr. Maxwell and a stranger were issuing from the front door, she knew also that her mother was crossing the street in front of an electric car, and that another was gliding swiftly along in the other direction. Spacey enough for one who understood what should be done and make a safe transit. But Mrs. Edmonds became suddenly bewildered. The moving car that she had not at first seen startled her, and instead of hastening forward she jumped back fairly into the jaws of the treacherous monster on the other track. At least so it seemed to Marjorie, and that the danger for an instant was imminent was evidenced by the immediate crowd that surrounded them. There was a sudden exclamation from the stranger abound forward, and before Mr. Maxwell, who was busy with the horses, knew, safe for Marjorie's scream, that anything had happened, his brother was literally carrying Mrs. Edmonds toward the carriage. Ha! that was quick work and brave work, too! exclaimed a looker on in strong excitement. Who is that man? Don't know, said a policeman, a stranger and a plucky fellow. He saved the old lady's life, I guess. Allow me to sit with her, said the newcomer to Marjorie. No, Leonard, take the young lady in front and let me get in here. I know better how to care for her. Does she belong to your party, do you say? That is fortunate. We shall get her home quicker. Do not be alarmed, madame. To Marjorie. She is not injured and has only fainted. It is simply a nervous shock. I believe you two have not been introduced yet. This was Mr. Maxwell's remark some two hours later, when the excitement had somewhat calmed. The newly arrived doctor, instead of being welcomed to their home as they had planned, had himself taken the initiative. He issued his orders right and left, and sought to it that they were obeyed. He had just come down from Mrs. Edmunds's room with the announcement that she was now quietly sleeping, and was on no account to be disturbed, when his brother made the above remark, looking from the doctor to Marjorie with a grave smile on his face. Only he himself had any idea how often, during the last few days, he had imagined the meeting of these two, and wondered how they would impress each other. Certainly no such meeting as had taken place had been imagined. Marjorie held out her hand impulsively. We need no introduction, she said, or rather we have had one that will make us friends forever. He saved my mother's life. Naturally an acquaintance so begun progressed rapidly. Within a week Marjorie and Dr. Maxwell were the best of friends. It was a friendship, however, that from the first was as unlike as possible to that which she had given his brother. She never asked the doctor's opinion on any personal subject, nor deferred to him in any way, save where her mother's physical condition was concerned. Apparently they differed upon every subject under the sun, and sparred continually in the merriest ways. On one point she had been mistaken. So far from having no interest in their daily plans and occupations, Dr. Maxwell entered with Zest into them all. He even seemed to be better acquainted with Hannah Bramlett before the first week had passed than his brother had become. He questioned intelligently with regard to their protégés at Factoryville, and suggested certain sanitary improvements of which they had not thought. He went with Glide Douglas to see her little crippled boy Robbie, and before he had been there fifteen minutes improvised a rest for his back that was so simple it seemed strange that no one had thought to try it, and with all so restful that it brought the grateful tears to Robbie's eyes. In short, by the time his vacation was half gone, Mrs. Edmonds was entirely willing to vote with her daughter that Mr. Maxwell was a decided acquisition, and to mourn over the thought that he had but two weeks more. However, you didn't need those so far as I can see, Marjorie told him gaily. I believe he is a fraud, don't you think so, Leonard? Pretending that he needed rest when all he wanted was a chance to come down here and play with his brother a little while. That was it exactly, the doctor said, entering into her merry mood. Leonard and I haven't had a regular do-down as they say in the East for nearly a dozen years. I began to fancy myself an old man, but I feel like a boy again. I don't know how it will be when I get back to my work. His face grew suddenly grave as he added, What do you think it would be, Miss Marjorie, to spend your days and a great part of your nights among the sick and the suffering, listening to their woeful tales of sleepless nights and racking pains and wearing coughs? How long do you suppose your nerves would endure it? I should think it would be a blessed life, she said, with a gravity as sudden as his own and as sweet as it was sudden, to be able to relieve pain and quiet racking coughs and bring hope and cheer where the shadows of awful fears had gathered. It makes one think of the Christ on earth again, the great physician. I always liked that name for him. Ah, but sometimes one cannot relieve the pain, and in spite of every effort the poor human imitator of his master may make, the shadows gather in deepen. What then? Even then, he added quickly before she could speak. One can always point them to the great physician who waits to care for them, that is true. But, with a sudden change of tone, there are so many who grumble you see and groan, and those who have the least to suffer are the loudest groaners, young ladies they are always you understand. Then the merry sparring would commence again and be carried on as vigorously as though they had not just had a spasm of common sense. It was difficult for Marjorie to realize that this merry-eyed man was his brother's senior by two years. He looked enacted nearly always like the younger man. The spirit of boyish fun seemed ready to bubble over at the slightest provocation. Mr. Maxwell referred to this one evening, as his brother, having lingered on the piazza indulging in a merry war of words with them all, suddenly took himself off to post a letter. Frank acts like a schoolboy released, he said, laughing. I can almost make myself think that old Father Time has traveled backward and that Frank is home for his college vacation instead of being an overworked physician. You should see him at his work, Mrs. Edmonds. He is grave enough then, too grave. The fact is, responsibility rested too early and too heavily on his shoulders. He almost stepped into my Father's large practice and became a burdened man at the time when most young physicians are looking for their first patients. He needs someone to keep his home life bright and strong. Marjorie had glimpses occasionally of the physician. One day in particular she realized that her companion was a man, not a boy. They were driving together, she and Leonard and Hannah Bramlett and Dr. Maxwell. The four drove often together and had such cheery times as almost made Hannah's face that had aged too early look young and pretty. Indeed, but for the sense of disgrace that Ralph's conduct had brought to her and the fact that her father was steadily losing strength, Hannah could have been almost happy during this time. She had by no means dropped her interest in Jack Taylor, but because these new friends of hers claimed so much of her time, there had been little food of late for the Gossips and, their attention being engaged elsewhere, they had temporarily dropped her. Dr. Maxwell, who understood perfectly why his brother and Marjorie desired to shield Hannah by their attentions, entered into the scheme with great hardiness. They had been driving that afternoon to a celebrated falls, and on their return trip were to call for a moment at Susie Miller's that Hannah might learn why she had not been at school for the past three evenings. As they neared the house, to their surprise, Glide Douglas opened the door and came out hurriedly. Oh, Dr. Maxwell! She said, relief in her voice, as she caught sight of the doctor, and ignored the others. Would you be willing to come in here a few minutes? A little child is very ill. The doctor has not been here since morning, and sends word that there is no need for him to come, that there is nothing he can do, and the poor mother is almost distracted. Before these explanations were concluded, the doctor had sprung from the carriage, and was hastening toward the house, leaving the ladies to follow him while Mr. Maxwell gave attention to his horses. It was the same little desolate inner room in which Glide had watched the life go out from the poor little Miller baby a few months before. Only the disheartening features were enhanced this time, if possible, by the fact that although the day was not especially warm outside, yet in this little room with its one small window coming within eight feet of a blank wall, the air was simply oppressive. The victim was a little girl of five or six, burning with fever and groaning with every breath that came from her swollen and purple lips. The mother, bending over her in abject, speechless misery, had evidently lost all hope, and was only waiting the inevitable end. More children huddled in corners, and Susie, whose eyes were red with weeping, had to push them aside before she could make room for the guests. Dr. Maxwell gave one glance at the bed and another comprehensive one about the room. Then he stepped to the door and surveyed the room through which they had made their way. Desolation reigned there. In the cook's stove a small fire was burning, apparently for the purpose of heating water for the sick child. This room is better, said the doctor. Bring the child out here. Then the mother spoke. The doctor said I mustn't move her, not change her in any way, or she would die. I am a doctor, madame. Take the child in your arms and bring her out here. Miss Bramlett opened both those windows wide, and pour some water on that fire. Miss Marjorie, let me have your fan and wet this handkerchief dripping wet and bring it to me. Leonard, see if you can raise some ice somewhere. Then I wish you would drive back and get my medicine case. You will find it in the top till of my trunk. I think if we work fast we may save a life. It was wonderful how promptly they all fell into obedience under the power of this master's voice. In less time than it has taken to tell it, his rapidly given instructions were obeyed, and Mr. Maxwell had headed his horses towards home and was driving at full speed. See if the mother will let one of you hold the child. Was the next peremptory direction? Here let me, said Hannah Bramlett, pushing forward and receiving the burden from the almost fainting mother. See to her, was the doctor's order to Marjorie with a nod toward the mother. She ain't eat anything today, volunteered Susie, coming to try to help her mother to the open door. She was so awful anxious about Maisie and that dreadful doctor wouldn't come. He said doctors were to help the living and that Maisie couldn't live. Oh dear! Mama, do you hear what he says? He is a great doctor from the city and he thinks maybe he can cure Maisie. Nearly two hours afterwards the doctor came out to the little stoop where his brother and Marjorie were waiting for further orders. I shall stay here tonight, he said. The child is very ill, but there is a ray of hope for her. She will need the most intelligent nursing and I can give it. But Frank, do you think you are equal to an all-night strain? Certainly I am when it is such evident duty. The little one has been neglected. I suppose it is a case of an overworked doctor discouraged by the surroundings. Hannah had come to the door to hear his opinion just as Marjorie asked, is there nothing that any of us can do to help? Miss Bramlett has been helping. He said, smiling on her, she is a born nurse. If one of you could stay tonight it might enable that worn-out mother to get a little rest. She is nearly ill with anxiety and watching, and the daughter is too frightened to be of much service. I wish I could stay, said Hannah mournfully, but mother cannot spare me at night while father is so feeble. Before her sentence was concluded Marjorie had eagerly interposed. Let me stay, there is nothing to hinder me. I do not know a great deal about caring for the sick, but I can do as I am told. A rare qualification, said Dr. Maxwell. I know of no higher one. Why not, Leonard? In response to Mr. Maxwell's disapproving shake of the head, she is young and strong, and it is an opportunity for service. After that no shake of the head could have deterred Marjorie. She dispatched a note to her mother for needed articles, among them a comfortable little supper, and saw the others depart with satisfaction. In all her after-years that night stood out vividly as the first one in which she had accepted and fully sustained her share of care and responsibility. Through all the night Dr. Maxwell was alert, watchful, patient, peremptory. He gave her directions in the same business-like tone that he would have used to a medical student. He did not spare her in the least when there was need for her help. He even allowed her to sit for a full hour on guard while the child and the overtaxed mother slept, and himself took a nap seated in the wooden back chair, the best accommodations that the room afforded, with his head on the window seat. Yet he watched carefully that the newly-installed nurse did not needlessly exert her strength, and sent her away to rest with as much decision as he did everything else. In the great dawn of the early morning she prepared for him a little breakfast that her mother's forethought had made possible, and as he drank his coffee he said with a rare smile, I think you and I, with God's gracious blessing, have conquered. I wonder for what sort of a life we have saved that child. CHAPTER XXI BROTHERS IN DEED The very next thing to be done, said Mr. Maxwell to the people who appeared next morning to get their orders, is to get that child and her mother into cooler and more comfortable quarters. No child could reasonably be expected to rally with such surroundings, and the mother is utterly worn out with care and anxiety and the want of suitable food. Unless she is rested in some way, a six-week siege, and then probably a coffin, are just before her. Is there no provision save the poor house made in this town for the poor whom sickness disables? A hospital isn't exactly the place for the mother at present, though she will be a candidate for it if we wait long enough. But I am told that your little hospital is overcrowded now. What sort of provision ought there to be, doctor? It was the practical Hannah who asked the question. The doctor laughed. Such provision as has not been made, I believe, this sight of heaven, save for our very own. There should be a home, Miss Bramlett, worthy of the name, and half time, and cut wages, and rum, have made this father unable to furnish one. What is that large building on the first hill beyond the factories? It is an empty house, said Hannah Bramlett eagerly. It belongs to an old family who used to live here. There is some trouble with the title, and they can't sell it, and no one wants to rent so large a place, though the rent is very low. How low! Hannah named a sum at which the doctor smiled incredulously. You can't mean those figures, Miss Bramlett. Yes, she was quite certain of them. She had wished so much that one of the girls in her class could be moved there for a while. She had even tried to raise the necessary money, but the girl had died before she accomplished it. Who will be a committee to secure a suitable bed and an easy chair or two, and, in short, the necessary articles of furniture for the removal of this mother and child to that house tomorrow? This question almost took Hannah Bramlett's breath away. But the money, she said eagerly, and the brothers Maxwell responded almost in the same breath, the money will be forthcoming. Send the bills to my brother, added the doctor with the Mary look in his eyes. Suppose you drive to the agents at once Leonard, and see what terms you can make for a month, say, or two months. No contagious disease. If he succeeds, the cleaning and furnishing part we will delegate to the ladies. Miss Bramlett, I think I will make you chairman. That Miss Bramlett, said the doctor, as he drove home the next afternoon, having settled his family, as he called them, in a great clean room in the breezy house on the hill, is tingling to her finger's ends with suppressed energy. It ought to be utilized. You should have gone in Leonard to see the room she arranged with such a trifle of money, too. I was astonished at the sum she returned to me. She showed splendid sense, not an unnecessary expenditure, and yet real comfort. Poor Mrs. Miller looked as though she thought it was heaven, as she dropped into the big arm chair. It is my belief that that woman hasn't been really rested since her married life began. I told that husband of hers that one glass of rum would keep him from crossing that door sill, so if he wanted to call upon his wife and child he must let it alone. I think the poor wretch would do so if he thought he could. The world has made it too easy for him to ruin himself and his family. What do you think Miss Bramlett said, as she surveyed the kitchen and closet where she had arranged all the little conveniences for cooking nourishing food? I'd like to live here, she exclaimed, and make good wholesome things for people to eat, and keep that room in there always ready for somebody who needed heartening up. She looked positively handsome as she said it. She ought to have some such chance, too. Her life expresses power run to waste. How would you like such a life as that? He had suddenly lowered his voice and bent toward Marjorie, who occupied the seat with him, glied Douglas being in front with Mr. Maxwell. I would like to help, she said earnestly. I feel as though to help other lives was the only thing that made this life worth living, but I don't know in just what way I could do it best. I do, he said. I know just what you could accomplish. I should like to plan your life for you. There was a heightened color on Marjorie's cheeks, and she began eagerly to talk to Glide about some additional comfort for the new house. Evidently she did not feel ready to have her life planned for her. The next day a long delayed storm held pleasure-seekers closely at home, the first day that had been of necessity passed at home since Dr. Maxwell came among them. He, it is true, braved the weather, and went to look after his family, telling, with great glee on his return, that he had called for Miss Bramlett and taken her with him. She is not one of your fair weather philanthropists, he added, with a merry look for Marjorie. I found her simply delighted with an excuse for ministering again. I'll tell you how it is with Miss Bramlett. She missed her playtime altogether. I know as well as I want to that she was a woman grown when she ought to have been a child, and that big room up there that she has helped to make into a home is her plaything. I'm charmed with the whole affair. I'd like to keep her playing there for a lifetime. The evening closed in upon them, still stormy. The curtains were drawn early, and the great reading lamp lighted. It was not an unpleasant experience, this quiet cozy evening. They had a dozen plans for making it one of the most enjoyable that had come to them. But the doorbell ringing spoiled it all. Who can be coming to call on such a night? asked Marjorie with a touch of impatience. Then, as a valuable voice from the hall reached them, she turned to her mother in dismay. Mama, it is Mrs. Kenyon. Must we have her come in here? She will stay the entire evening, and she is quite the worst gossip of all. This last offered an explanation to the doctor. Have her in by all means, he said gaily. I delight in gossip. No character on the whole affords a more racy study than a woman who talks because she cannot help it, and when she has nothing to say, invents something. Just as Mrs. Edmunds had murmured, I think we must receive her here, daughter. She is accustomed to it, you know. The collar pushed open the door, and announced herself voluably, as usual. Oh, Mrs. Edmunds, how do you do? And Miss Marjorie. Good evening, Mr. Maxwell. Happy to know Dr. Maxwell, I am sure. Dear me, how cozy you look here, as though there wasn't any trouble in the world. Dreadful storm, isn't it? Almost like march outside. But I felt as though I must brave it to hear what you thought of the news. Perfectly dreadful, isn't it? I declare I never was so shocked, though I may say I have been expecting it this good while, at least expecting something of the kind. I said to Mr. Kenyon only last night, you mark my words, I said, if there doesn't come a crash of some sort before long, then my name isn't Matilda Kenyon. Even the liquor business, I said, can't stand everything. Such extravagance, you know. New lace curtains only last week, and she almost a bride yet, one may say. It is the wife that has ruined him. I shall always stick to that. You see, I've been in a position to know a good deal about her goings on. Weren't you awfully astonished, Mrs. Edmunds? And, Miss Marjorie, I expected to find her quite cut up about it, so intimate as they have been, though to be sure she has other things to think about now if report is to be believed. You are taking us entirely by surprise, Mrs. Kenyon. It was really Mrs. Edmunds's first chance for a word. We have not heard any distressing news of late. She tried not to look at her daughter's glowing cheeks and to speak in her normal, usual, gentle tone. But her words were like an electric shot to the newsmonger. You don't say you haven't heard of it? Why, where have you kept yourselves all day? I know it's been stormy, but I saw him go out, with an emphatic inclination of her head toward the doctor. And I made sure he would bring you back the news. Somehow I expected you to hear of it first thing. You've been so intimate. And you really don't know that he has been took up for forgery? Yes, indeed, a plain case, and he's in jail this minute. Mr. Kenyon says he doesn't believe anybody can be found to go bail for him. It wouldn't be safe, you see. Such a fellow as he has proved to be would take to like bail, as they say, in a hurry. Just think of it. Behind prison bars to-night, while we all sit here so comfortable. I'm sorry for his poor father, especially, being he so feeble. But I must say I haven't any great sympathy for his wife. She has brought it all on herself. Marjorie moved across the room and laid her hand on the talker's arm. Mrs. Kenyon, won't you tell us about whom you are talking? My patience, child, how you frightened me! Haven't I told you who it was? I thought I had. And anyway I supposed you'd know without my telling. Why, it's Ralph Bramlett, of course. There is no other townsman of ours I should hope that could disgrace us so. Child, you look like a ghost! Visions of tales that she would tell to eager listeners must have begun at once to float through Mrs. Kenyon's brain. For she became somewhat distraught, although Mr. Maxwell held her steadily to talk, in order to shield Marjorie as much as possible from her further observation. He fancied he could hear her saying, Now you mark my words, that girl is just as fond of him as she ever was, for all he is a married man, and she has two or three others dancing after her. She turned as white as a sheet when I told her the news, and I thought she was going to faint. This was so much Mrs. Kenyon's style of talk that it required no very great stretch of imagination to set her at it. Marjorie had dropped back into the shadow of the cozy corner. Dr. Maxwell bent over her, speaking low. It is undoubtedly exaggerated, such stories always are. He has perhaps fallen into some financial difficulties, from which we can help to rescue him. It is too late to night to see the proper persons, but the very first thing in the morning Leonard and I will see what can be done. Thank you, she said, her lips still very white. He was the playmate of my childhood, and I have known his wife ever since we both were babies. It is awful. Is there nothing that we can do in the meantime, Dr. Maxwell? Yes, he said, as Christian people I think there is. Are you willing that I should suggest it here and now before that woman retires? Only half understanding, yet trusting him fully, she said simply, if you think so. Dr. Maxwell at once turned to the others. Mrs. Edmonds, he said, if I understand the situation, an old acquaintance of yours has fallen into deep trouble. Not only that, but he is a member of the Church of Christ, and in that sense our brother. Can we do better for him tonight, than ask God to lead into the best ways for helping him and his? In a very few minutes thereafter, one astonished woman's mouth was effectually closed, and she was on her knees, listening to as earnest a prayer for Ralph Bramlett as ever fell from human lips. Whatever else those prayers may have accomplished, they silenced Mrs. Kenyan, and sent her home early and thoughtful. Perhaps there was given to her a new idea, that there was something better to do for people in trouble, even though that trouble was caused by sin, than to sit tearing open the wounds that sin had made merely to gape at them. After the brothers had gone to their room that evening, Dr. Maxwell was strangely silent for him. He stood staring out of the window into the blackness for some minutes without speaking. Suddenly he turned with a question. Can it be possible that such a glorious creature as she threw away her heart's wealth on that fellow? If you mean Ralph Bramlett, said Mr. Maxwell, no, she threw it away years ago on an ideal, and lost that when she lost her respect for him. They were not engaged, but pledged. She would have been loyal, but he deserted her, and so opened her eyes. But she is true, true as steel. He was her childhood friend, and she must always suffer for his sins. She believes that he will yet turn to God, but her faith is having hard blows. Dr. Maxwell drew a long breath like one relieved. Thank you, he said. How well you understand her. Have you any encouragement for me? She is capable of the holiest love, but am I the one to awaken it? You know how it is with me, brother. When I first came here I thought you must certainly have found your ideal. I do not yet understand how you, and she for that matter, could have helped becoming all in all to each other. But I thank God that neither of you see it in that light. Tell me, Leonard, could I not in some time make her willing to become your sister? Mr. Maxwell was bending over his writing case, seemingly searching for some important paper. He continued to search for a full minute. Then he turned and looked at his brother, and his smile was sweet to see. That is a sort of joy with which not even a brother must intermeddle, is it not? He said. I can only say as I have said of every effort of your life thus far, God bless you. On his face was the look, strongly marked, that made others think he must certainly be the older brother. The doctor came forward quickly and grasped his hand. That is true, he said impulsively. Never was better brother born than I possess. It would go hard with me, old fellow, to run against your wishes in any way. I held my breath for the first day or two until I understood. It might seem strange to some persons that I should have known my own mind so suddenly. But that is my way, you know. I wrote to mother the night before I came here, in response to some of her motherly anxieties, that I never had seen the woman whom for five consecutive seconds I had desired to make my wife, and I told her in good faith that since there was a popular prejudice against a man marrying his mother, I thought I should have to remain single, and twenty-four hours afterwards I should have had to write her a different story. We are strange beings, aren't we? Five minutes afterwards the two were consulting earnestly as to the best ways of managing the effort that they meant to make for Ralph Bramlett at the earliest possible hour. An outsider would not have known that either of them had been strongly moved. CHAPTER XXII. A HARVEST Of all the people who were plunged into the depths of distress by Ralph Bramlett's fall, no one was more surprised and dismayed than the young man himself. That night, during which he sat bolt upright in his chair with the consciousness upon him that his door was locked and that for the first time in his life he could not turn the lock at will, was one that aged him visibly. He was not so much surprised that the deed had been done as that he had been discovered. The deed had been simply enough, merely the signing of the firm name as he had done under orders hundreds of times. To do it without orders had seemed so easy and so reasonable. It was not stealing, why should one have such an ugly thought in connection with it? Above all, that other uglier word, forgery, should not be applied to it. Of course he meant to replace the money he had used only small sums for convenience and meant at the earliest opportunity to make all right. Was he to blame that the opportunity had never come? Was he to blame because the liquor business had not been so lucrative as he had supposed? In truth the business had been misrepresented to him. Had he not been allowed to count on the support of certain men, who, instead of appreciating their privileges, had been angry because a saloon had been opened in their neighborhood and given all their custom elsewhere. Moreover there had been an appalling number of bad debts and a few ugly accidents that took money. Then there had been those miserable debts with which he started and others that he had been foolish enough to contract on the strength of his prospects. It had all been a wretched business from beginning to end. His days and nights for weeks past had been haunted with the troubles that were thickening about him. Yet in his gloomiest hours he had not for a moment thought of locks and keys and a convict's dress. He shuttered at the last idea and buried his face deeper in his hands as if to shut out the picture. It had all come upon him so suddenly. That hypocrite of a junior partner with his benevolent desires to start the younger man in a lucrative business, pretending that he did not care anything about the thousand dollars advanced, and he kept so close an eye on the expenditures as to trample matters from the first and wanted the surplus paid back to him before the new year had fairly opened. Then what business had he to come mousing among the books and examining papers in the bookkeeper's private desk? He was a contemptible hypocrite and nothing else. And the young man, who was at that moment under arrest as a forger of the firm name, a forger not once nor twice, but at least half a dozen times, felt a certain sense of relief in applying the name hypocrite to one of the members of the firm. At the time it did not even occur to him that the same word was already in hundreds of mouths applied to himself. But there came a harder night to Ralph Bramlett than that. It was after the heavy bail, which Mrs. Kenyon had been sure he could not secure, had been promptly guaranteed by the brother's Maxwell, and he was allowed to walk the streets again. Following hard upon these first moments of relief came a summons to the home of his childhood. His father, from whom it had been found impossible to keep the dread news, had fallen under it as though it had been a blow. Ralph remembered for years afterwards, with a vividness that made every breath a pain, the horror of those hours during which he knelt an abject shrinking thing beside his father's dying bed, shrinking from the curious eyes of physician and nurse, turning even from the pity and gaze of his sister Hannah, to whom he had not spoken for months, not since he had angrily accused her of disgracing the family, shrinking most of all perhaps from the stricken face of his mother, yet waiting hungrily for some word from his father. They had been afraid that he had come too late for that, the painful restlessness of the day, during which every effort was being made to hasten the tardy hands of justice and release the prisoner, had been followed by a night of stupor, from which the attending physician believed the patient would not rally. Yet Dr. Maxwell, who had been called in council, moved around to the wretched young man's side just after the doctor had expressed this belief, and murmured low, do not leave the bedside for a moment, I am confident that he will rally and ask for you, as they tell me he did at intervals during the entire day. They waited in that most miserable of all waitings, while a life slowly ebbed away, feeling that there was nothing to be done. For nearly an hour no one spoke. Mrs. Bramlett sat close to her husband, holding his work-worn and wrinkled hand in hers. From time to time she caressed it tenderly, as she might have done a little child's. Then, bending low, she would murmur fond, meaningless words in the dulled ears. Mrs. Bramlett had been in feeble health for years, and the husband had been the one to watch her comings and goings, and save her steps where he could. She had thought that she would be the one to lie some day, breathing her life away, attended lovingly by the husband of her youth. But it had come to pass, as it so often does, that the stronger one had failed suddenly and become the invalid. She knew, poor mother, that the man who lay dying beside her had made his only son his idol, and when the idol disappointed him, the old man's strength gave way. During all this waiting time the mother did not so much as glance toward that kneeling figure at the foot of the bed. But it was because the mother heart was strong within her, and she knew instinctively that he could not bear to meet her eyes. As for Hannah, she kept her post immovably just at the bed's head, within sight of her father's face, yet within the shadow of the headboard. Her time had not come for tears. She had not shed one since she heard of Ralph's disgrace. She had hovered about her father, watchful of each murmured word or sign of need, ministered to him ceaselessly, and sought not so much as a word or glance of recognition in return. All during that wretched day, while the doctor came and went, and shook his head more gravely at each coming, and the neighbors whispered in the kitchen, and one or two privileged ones tiptoed about the house doing needful things, Jack Taylor had appeared from time to time with messages for Miss Hannah. Mr. Maxwell had sent him to say that there had been an unexpected delay in finding just the right man, but they were still hopeful. Or, Mr. Maxwell sent word that all was in shape now and they hoped for a speedy hearing. Or later, Mr. Maxwell feared it could not be accomplished before evening. And then, later still, breathless with the haste he had made, stumbling past the curious neighbors who would have asked questions, eager, silent, he made his way to Hannah and whispered that, Dr. Maxwell and Mr. Bramlett were coming, would be there in ten minutes. And then, before she had had time to think what she should say to her brother or whether she would ask her mother to go out and meet him, he had slipped past her and knelt at the foot of the bed and covered his ghastly face with the bed clothes, and then they had waited. Suddenly there was a movement on the part of the dying man. He flung his disengaged arm out one side and passed his hand along the bed clothes as if in search of someone. Where is he? he asked distinctly. Where is my boy? Why doesn't he come? It was Hannah who bent over him, her voice clear and steady. He has come, father, he is here. At the same moment Ralph arose and aided by Dr. Maxwell staggered forward, dropping on his knees again close to his father's side. His mother pushed back her chair to make room for him, and Hannah guided the groping hand to his head. It rested there tenderly as it had in the boy's childhood, and the father's voice was quite distinct as he said, I cannot see you my boy, my sight is gone, but I know it is you. My hand would recognize your head among a thousand, my little boys. Oh Ralph, I remember all about it now. I haven't been the father to you that I ought or it could never have happened. I take blame to myself, I will tell God so. But oh my boy, my boy, speak to him yourself and ask him to forgive you. Don't you know how merciful he is? Like as a father pityeth his children, that gives me such comfort, for I have only pity for you in my heart. Begin again, my boy, begin again. It isn't too late. God will forgive you and bless you. I must see you again, Ralph. My earthly sight is gone, but your father mustn't miss seeing you in heaven. Promise me, Ralph, that you will be there. The silence that fell while that answer was waited for was terrible. Speak to him. It was Hannah's voice that broke in upon it, stern, commanding, yet with an undertone of such beseeching agony that it seemed as though a stone must have responded. The wretched young man raised his face for a single moment from his trembling hands, a face so utterly charged with woe that his worst enemy must have pitied him and said two words. Oh God! Yes, said the dying man with solemn emphasis. That is it, Ralph. Never mind me. Speak to God. Oh God, hear my boy. He cries to thee. For the sake of thy son, who died for him, hear my boy. Pray, Ralph. Pray. He pray. Never before had the awful mockery of his prayers stuck on this man's soul. He could not have uttered a sentence had his life been at stake, but he clutched at the hand of the man who stood beside him and groaned out one word. Pray. And Dr. Maxwell, dropping on his knees beside the wretched son, said, Into thy hands, our father, we commend his spirit, asking thee for Christ's sake to hear his last prayer. And then a great wailing cry arose from the poor daughter, for she knew that her father's voice would be heard no more, and there came to her such a homesick longing to have only one word for him for her very self, as she had not known her heart could feel. Somebody thought of her and led her tenderly away, and somebody else put a pitiful arm about that poor old widow, and supported her while she tottered out. As for the son, Dr. Maxwell kept a firm hand upon his arm and did not release him until the doors of his old room closed after him. Then he said, with a long-drawn sigh, I will stand guard, but I think that such misery as his must be better born alone. And in truth he almost needed guarding, for it seemed to him at times that he must lose his reason. Such an abyss of hopeless despair yawned before him as only sin can make. He had loved his father more even than he had himself realized. A selfish love it had been without doubt. All the emotions of his life thus far had been painfully mixed with self. But always there had been in the mind of the young man a lingering desire to do something great for his father and mother, to make their lives easier. The burden's incident to straightened means had pressed heavily upon him because of them. There had been times when he had hated the farm, old family homestead though it was, because it seemed to him the synonym for poverty and worry. In his boyish days his dreams of being a great lawyer had been always intermingled with dreams of the state of luxury in which he would establish his parents. In later years his decision to take the position of bookkeeper in a distillery, though hurriedly made and with motives uppermost that made him blush to remember, had yet this undertone of comfort that the large salary would enable him to help his father. It is true he had done nothing of the kind. Instead he had almost immediately plunged into debt. He had always assured himself that this was his wife's fault, and yet with that singular sense of double consciousness that had gone about with him despite his attempts at stifling it, he had known all the while that the lavish expenditure connected with his marriage and his establishing a home had been borne and fostered by his desire to show people that he was a prosperous man despite the fact that Marjorie Edmonds had preferred someone else. When months before he had awakened to the discovery that he was steadily running behind in his accounts, that his style of living was set on a scale that it would not be possible for him to continue unless his income was materially increased, and the rose-colored future pictured by the junior partner in the distillery had been pointed out to him, it was made especially attractive by the thought of what it would enable him to do for his father and mother. His father would no doubt feel bitterly prejudiced against the business. That was to be expected in so old a man. But his prejudices would grow less bitter from the day that the mortgage on the old farm was paid, and the land, every foot of which was dear to his father's heart, secured beyond question to the family name forever. Then the debt once disposed of, he dreamed of the improvements he would make still for the family benefit. Pipes should be laid from the grand old spring and the water brought not only to the house but to his mother's room. The new stable, on which his father's heart was set so long ago, should be built with the longed-for modern improvements for the comfort of horses. And his mother should have a summer kitchen with wire gauze windows and ventilating flues and the most modern of ranges, and a kitchen cabinet and every other device that could be found for making the daily routine of labour easy. Mother had had to do without such things all her life, but she should have them at last. These were only dreams, alas for the realities. Not a penny had he been able to pay towards cancelling that mortgage. Not a cent of the money advanced to him after the time when he pretended to be supporting himself had been returned. Instead of making the lives of father and mother easier, he had deepened their anxieties in a hundred ways. He had come to them with complaints of his sister and criticisms concerning her, which, however much deserved, had accomplished nothing safe to make their lives harder. Very plain words had been spoken to him by his wife. She had not hesitated to tell him that his last business venture, which he assured himself had really been made for their sakes, was killing his father, that if he died, as he would before very long, his son would be as surely his murderer as though he had taken a knife and stabbed him. The words had pierced the son's heart when they were spoken, and had sent him out, as he bitterly told himself, to his ruin. If it had not been for his wife's words, up to the very moment of the exposure that had shut him for a single horrible night within prison walls, Ralph Bramlett had steadily shielded himself and accused others. CHAPTER XXIII IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN Will there ever be a longer night than the one which that poor self-ruined man spent alone in the room peopled with memories of his childhood? He could not help looking about him occasionally and recalling memories. It was a long time since he had been in that room. Over there was the bed into which his mother had so often tucked him on cold winter nights, and when the blankets were just to his mind, she had bent and kissed him and said cheerily, pleasant dreams. How long ago that was? He must be at least a hundred years old now. Yonder was the table where he had sat when he wrote the essays of which they had been so proud. He remembered the one that took the prize. He could see, as if it were but yesterday, his father bending over it with him, asking his opinion about a certain word, offering a bit of shrewd advice about a sentence, which advice his son never took. He had been sufficient to himself and wiser than his father even in those early days. He could hear his own voice again. Every word of it is my father, spoken with swelling pride, and then, with an ascension of superiority, some of the fellows in school copy awfully. Then his father's voice, that is right, my boy, whatever else my son becomes in the world, I hope he will always be strictly honest in word and deed. At that very table he had practiced his lately acquired art of shading letters, making what his father considered beautiful writing. They had been proud of his penmanship. He drew out the old drawer that creaked a good deal, and came out crooked, and, halfway, refused to go farther. It had been an old table even so long ago as when this man, who felt so old, was a boy. Within were the very papers he had left when he went out from home. They were a family not given to change, and both mother and daughter had had a fancy for preserving this room of Ralph's just as it was. He turned over the papers, scraps of all sorts of youthful effort. He found a paper that stabbed him. It was simply names written all over in different styles of writing. His father's name, his uncles, his teachers, the ministers. He could hear his own voice distinctly now. Look, father, see how I can imitate Mr. Burr's handwriting. I don't believe you could tell that from his. And the father had shaken his head and said, a dangerous talent, my boy, I should not care to cultivate it. I have known of its getting more than one man into Miss Jiff. That had been long ago when he was the merest boy. Had the words been prophetic? They brought back suddenly to Ralph Bramlett his awful present. He shut the door with a groan and turned away. Yet where should he turn? The room was peopled with images. Let his eyes fall where they would, they brought him instantly stories of his youthful, comparatively innocent past. And between that past and this awful night lay a great gulf. Given to dreaming from his childhood, there had scarcely been a phase of possible experience that this young man had not at the same time lived mentally. When he was a lad of fifteen, there had been a death in the neighborhood that had left a young man fatherless, with a mother and two little brothers dependent upon him. The scenes connected with that time had impressed the boy vividly. In imagination he had put himself forward into manhood and arranged a similar experience. His father's sick bed, that presently became a dying bed, and himself the stay and comfort of all concerned. It had been he to whom his father had looked for strong and tender helpfulness. He alone had been able to change his position, administer medicine, or food. It had been his form that his father's failing eyes followed. His name had been the last word spoken by the paling lips, spoken in gratitude and trustfulness, commending his mother and sister to his care. Afterwards he had been his mother's refuge. He had supported her with his arm during the last trying moments. He had carried her fainting from the room. He had hung over her in self-forgetful tenderness all through the hours that followed, ministering to her every want. He had upheld his sister with kind, brave words, and had been told by her and by his mother again and again that they could not live but for him. He had thought of everything, been ready with directions to the outsiders who waited for his orders, been wise and thoughtful above any young man ever known before, and his praise had been on all lips. Such was the dream. Here was the reality and how awful the contrast. Some facts had repeated his dream. Only across the hall his father lay at that moment dead. His mother had been carried half fainting from the room, but he, the son and brother who was to have been all in all to her at that hour, had not dared to so much as raise his eyes to her face. Nobody consulted him, nobody thought of him. Ah, not that last! He knew that everybody thought of him, with contempt, with indignation, with shame. For a man like Ralph Bramlett to be able to conceive of the world as thinking of him with scorn and aversion was almost enough to dethrone his reason. As the hours were away and his haunting memories became more and more keen and piercing, he sprang up almost in terror. He began to walk the floor with rapid strides. How was it all to end? How could he get out of this room, this house, away from everybody who had ever seen or heard of him before? Was there not some refuge? He could not face those people and read their opinion of him as he glanced. He would rather have been left in prison, locked in from these awful retributions. It was a cruel kindness that had opened those prison doors and let him come forth. No, no, he did not mean that. He could not have borne it not to have heard his father's voice again, and his name had indeed been the last upon those dying lips. But, oh, could he ever, even when death mercifully released him from this horror of living, forget the reason. Even the wife of fifty years had been apparently forgotten for the son's sake. But the reason, the awful reason, it would drive him wild. Yet he had been forgiven, like as a father pitieth. He could seem to hear the familiar voice once again repeating the words. And that last word, that very last, what had it been? Pray, Ralph, pray. Oh, God! he said again in agony. I cannot. I don't know how to pray. I have never prayed in my life. I have been a hypocrite always and only. When I joined the church I was a hypocrite. When I married my wife I was a hypocrite. When I went into what I called business I was a hypocrite. I have deceived everybody, most of all myself. I have ruined my life. I am a felon, a convict, or soon will be. I am a murderer. I have killed my father. I shall kill my mother, if I could only kill myself. Yet I dare not do this. Could I risk the chance even of meeting my own father again? It was an awful experience. Yet one who had a real heart knowledge of human experience and of the refuge established for the sin haunted might have had a more hopeful feeling for that young man's future than ever before. At last he had been entirely frank with himself. For a single moment he had laid aside all subterfuges, all confessions of the sins of others, stripped himself of excuses, and stood with his naked soul before him, taking in not only its might have been, but its awful poverty. If only such gaze can last long enough an honest soul must be driven from itself in search of refuge, and it is then, if ever, that the claims of the Lord Jesus Christ may be urged. Meantime outside there were anxious conferences. I don't know what to do, said Marjorie Edmonds in great distress. It seems cruel to leave him to himself for so long. He may be almost insane with grief. This is no common sorrow. He ought to have some refreshment at least. Think what a night the last one must have been to him and the day that followed it. Now it is almost morning again. Somebody ought to go to him. They were standing together for a moment, Dr. Maxwell and herself, near one of the eastern windows, consulting as to the various questions that had come up for decision. Dr. Maxwell, comparative stranger though he was, by reason of his profession, had been very closely allied to the tragedy that was being enacted. Hannah Bramlett, having seen evidences of his skill in the restoration of the little child at Factoryville, had insisted on his seeing her father. She had been equally determined to have Marjorie with her, begging her so earnestly to stay when she called the evening before, that it seemed cruel to deny her. So Marjorie had, of necessity, assumed a degree of management, the neighbors generally seeming to recognize in her an intimate friend. Mr. Maxwell had but a short time before driven home with Mrs. Edmonds, Marjorie agreeing to wait until she should see Hannah again. As she spoke, they both noted that the gray light of another morning was struggling into the sky. Who is there that can go to him? Dr. Maxwell asked. I thought at first it would be better to leave him quite alone, but we may be overdoing that part of it, as you say. By the way, where is his wife? I do not remember to have seen a glimpse of her. Is she not the one to help him now? Marjorie shook her head mournfully. She has not been here at all. She went to her father's as soon as she heard the news, that other news I mean, and refused to come out here or to see her husband again. I saw Glide for a few minutes last evening. She and Mr. Burwell were here. Mr. Burwell came last night, and Glide told me that he exerted all his influence to induce Mrs. Bramlett to come with them and be here when her husband arrived and failed. Dr. Maxwell's face darkened. Is that your idea of the meaning of marriage vows, Miss Marjorie? No, but there is something to be said for poor Estelle. She has suffered a great deal, I think. Sometimes I fancy she is hardly in her right mind. There has been an estrangement between them for some time. Indeed, I believe they have not even spoken together for weeks. Oh, I do not uphold her, of course, but don't you think it is very hard to determine what one would do under such terrible circumstances as hers? Perhaps so. Do you think it hard to determine what one should do? Oh, no indeed! I feel very sure that she ought to come, but I am afraid she is in such a condition mentally just now that that word ought has no power over her. Did it ever have? I beg your pardon if I seem to be unduly criticizing your friends, but I have wondered if most of the trials of the unhappy husband, and possibly of the wife also, had not grown out of their inability to grasp the force of that word ought, and make it a power in their lives. He seems to me peculiarly a man who has, perhaps from his early boyhood, allowed himself to do that which for the time being he chanced to feel like doing without weighing results, until he has educated himself into an overmastering desire to carry out his passing will, let the results be what they may. It is precisely his character. At least I suppose it is, she added humbly. My mother has had that feeling concerning him ever since his boyhood. I used not to think so, and there was a time when we were girl and boy together, that I think I might have helped him and did not. It is that thought which makes it so hard for me to—she did not complete her sentence. Dr. Maxwell looked down at her with a grave smile. Are you, too, haunted by that torturing it might have been? he asked. I think half the misery of wrecked lives must be comprehended in that phrase. I cannot believe that you can have made very grave mistakes so young as you are, and yet I can well understand that to a sensitive conscience, a memory of what one might have accomplished for another and did not, has power to sting. I know all about it by bitter experience. I stood side by side one evening with a young man, a boy, my friend and classmate, and felt impelled. I doubt not now by the power of the Holy Spirit to say to him, come with me into the room yonder where people are being shown the way to Christ, and I did not say it. I told myself that it would be of no use, that he was not in the mood for serious things, that he would possibly turn the whole matter into ridicule, that I might much better wait until some quiet time when we were alone together. And I never saw him again, Miss Marjorie. He never reached his home. An accident overtook him on the way and proved fatal. Do you not think I should be well able to understand the might have been of life? Marjorie had never seen him so moved. Yet, after a moment, he turned promptly, as his fashion was, from the thoughts of self to the needs of the hour. What about the sister? Could not she be depended upon in this emergency? Hannah? Oh, no, not to go to Ralph. At least, I think it would do no good. He is angry with her, has refused this long time even to speak to her. Indeed, Mr. Maxwell, you must think we have strange friends. I never realized the smallness of all these exhibitions so much as I do now. What a strange, terrible deathbed seen it was. But I do not think poor Hannah is to blame. I mean that she does not feel bitterly towards Ralph. She keeps away from him only because she fears to do more harm than good. It is difficult to know what to do. At that moment the door near which they stood opened, and Mrs. Bramlett came slowly out. She had been a brisk little woman all her life, not withstanding her feeble health, but she tottered now and put her hand out in a pitiful way in search of the wall for support. Her face had a drawn, haggard look, and altogether the weight of many added years seemed to have fallen upon her in a few hours. Marjorie moved swiftly toward her, speaking tenderly. Dear Mrs. Bramlett, we hoped you were getting a little sleep. Will you come into the front room and let me bring you a cup of tea and something to eat? Mrs. Bramlett shook her head. No, dear, she said. I don't feel the need of it. Do you know where my boy is? I want to go to him. He is over there in his old room. Dear Mrs. Bramlett, are you strong enough to see him now? Won't you take just a little nourishment first? The tea kettle is boiling, and I could make you a bit of toast in a very few minutes. I couldn't eat now, child. The first mouthful would choke me. I ought not to have left Ralph so long. It was selfish in me, poor boy. As she spoke she tottered toward Ralph's door, tapped gently, received no answer, tapped again, then turning the knob entered and closed the door behind her. These mothers, said Dr. Maxwell, brushing a mist from before his eyes. We might have known that she would come to the rescue. There is nothing that they cannot endure when their children are at stake. How one's sympathies are drawn two ways at once under such circumstances as these. I find myself feeling so glad that she has moved to go to him, and that his door was not locked against her. Yet at the same time I feel how despicable it is that the strong arm on which she ought to be able to lean in this time of her greatest human need has so utterly failed her. One does not know whether most to despise or pity that young man. If he has any heart at all, how it must goad him now to realize that in this hour of his opportunity he is a broken staff. the Bramlett family. Poor Ralph gave very little trouble to those who could forget the rare glimpses they had of his face. He kept to his room closely, not even coming to the family table, which, thanks to Mrs. Edmunds's thoughtfulness, was kept supplied with comforts and served with care. Glide Douglas came as though she, instead of her sister, were a daughter of the house, and her friend, Mr. Burwell, might have passed for a son-in-law, so untiring was he in his efforts to serve the stricken household. It was he who carried choice portions from the table to Ralph's door, never entering, however, for Mr. Burwell had been distinctly shown more than once that his very presence was distasteful to that young man. It was always the old mother who received the tray at his hands and made an effort to force the appetite that had almost entirely failed. As for Estelle, she steadily resisted all attempts to bring her to a show of propriety. The people whose influence she apparently feared, she disposed of by declining altogether to see them. As she kept her room and was guarded and cared for by her elder sister, this was not a difficult thing to accomplish. Among those to whom she had utterly refused admittance was her sister Glide, so that Marjorie, who had depended upon Glide for information, could not be sure as to the poor woman's state of mind save as it was to be shown by her determination not to do what was desired of her. Even her mother, who in general sided with Estelle, was of the opinion that she should attend the funeral. As for Marjorie, she was intensely anxious that this should be done. So much shame it seemed to her Ralph might be shielded from. Since he must appear before the public to be gazed at, surely his wife might bear the ordeal with him and thus close the eager mouths of the gossips in this direction. Moreover, his mother's heart was set upon it, so they all labored in various ways to bring it to pass and failed. I do not know a person who has influence over Estelle, said Marjorie mournfully, except Ralph himself. Since he has failed it seems useless for anyone to try. Has he made the effort? Dr. Maxwell asked. Oh yes, didn't you know? Glide says he sent a note to her last night, asking if she would do that one thing for his mother's sake, and the sister who stays with her said she read it, and turned her face to the wall, only shaking her head when asked if an answer was to be returned. Then she is utterly hardened, said Dr. Maxwell, with the stern look on his face which made one realize that he was a man, instead of what he sometimes appeared, a merry-hearted boy. No, said Marjorie, she is only a naughty child who cannot get the consent of herself to give up the role she had resolved upon. So many people seem to me never to have grown up. Poor Ralph is one of them. See how he treats Mr. Burwell. Yet he came from New York at this time on purpose to try to be of assistance to Ralph himself. Who is Mr. Burwell? Don't you know? He is engaged to Glide Douglas, but that doesn't tell you who he is, does it? He belongs to the firm of Peele and McMasters of New York. He was admitted to the bar only a few weeks ago, and retains his position in their office. Not exactly a partner, I suppose, but still associated with them in such a way that it is said his business success is secured. If that is so, said Dr. Maxwell eagerly, young Bramlett would do well to retain his influence. Such names as Peele and McMasters, to back one, are not secured easily. I suppose not, but it seems as though poor Ralph was always bent on working against his own interests. He has a prejudice against Mr. Burwell, an entirely unreasonable one, I think. Years ago he had an opportunity to enter the office of Peele and McMasters himself as a student. He had been eagerly waiting for some time in the hope of securing the next vacancy, but owing to an absence from home he missed the telegram summoning him, and, by some misunderstanding, Mr. Burwell secured the vacant place. I could not learn that there was anything in the least underhanded about it, but Ralph persisted in thinking that there was. He has brooded over it all this while, and now, although Mr. Burwell is his sister's promised husband, refuses to have anything to say to him. The more I hear about that personage, said Dr. Maxwell, the more surprised I am that he has not ruined himself even earlier in life. He is, in all respects, so completely the spoiled boy. Is it ruined? Marjorie asked in a low voice, her face paling at the thought. No, not ruin, but salvation I hope and to a degree believe. It seems to me that that last prayer of his fathers will surely be answered. But as the average man looks at these things, I am afraid it is ruined. That is, I fear that there is no escape from the punishment that the law demands. I need hardly tell you that Leonard and I will do our utmost for him, and this young man Burwell is a powerful ally if he has the position you think he holds. But there is a powerful enemy to meet. The firm of Snyder, Snyder and Co., never noted for excessive kindness of heart, seems to be especially vindictive in this case. More particularly, that junior partner, who I am told Mr. Bramlett looked upon almost as a personal friend. There is another side to the matter, Miss Marjorie. This last added after a pause of some seconds. I am to do, as I told you, my utmost to save him from the penalty of the law, but I confess that I do it under protest, and out of regard for his friends rather than for himself. On general principles I am inclined to think that the best thing that can happen to a transgressor is to suffer the penalty. I am not sure, but this is especially the case in the present instance. To make wrongdoing easy to a man like Mr. Bramlett is, if I understand his character, to help him to self-ruin. Yet I am being overruled by my interest in his friends, and shall do my utmost without any prospect of success. The dreaded day was lived through, and the worn-out body of Ralph's father was consigned to its last rest. The expected crowd gathered, many of them sympathetic, some of them curious to the last degree. There was not a great deal on which to feed their curiosity. None of the family were to be seen, saving their transit from the upper hall to the carriage. Then the curious had opportunity to observe that the widow leaned heavily on the arm of her daughter, and that her son walked behind her in solitude, though the three entered the same carriage. Shouldn't you have thought that she might have had the decency to come to the funeral? The valuable voice of Mrs. Kenyon was observing, just as Dr. Maxwell returned from assisting the last departures into their carriages. Mr. Maxwell, with Mrs. Edmonds and Marjorie, had followed in the procession to the cemetery after the fashion of the locality. But Dr. Maxwell had tarried behind to be of use as occasion offered. He gave his first attention to Mrs. Kenyon. It just shows what a miserable hussy she is. I am sure Father Bramlett never did her any harm, whatever may be said of the son. Yet if he had, she might come and see him laid away in the ground. Anybody that will carry spite to such a length as that I have no patience with. I just as good as know there is some horrible trouble between her and him that drove him to the forging business. Her actions now show it. If you are speaking of Mrs. Ralph Bramlett, she is not out today because, as a physician summoned to give his opinion, I positively forbade her leaving her room. It was Dr. Maxwell's clear-cut voice just behind her that made the gossip start and turn hastily. I want to know! she said humbly. Is the poor thing sick? It is the very first I have heard of it. Well, well, troubles never come singly, they say. How true it is! I am sure she is excusable if she is sick. I will take pains to let folks know it. She isn't dangerous, I hope. She is suffering a good deal, said the doctor ambiguously, as he hastened away from further questioning. But, the evening before, he had taken Glide Douglas home, and while waiting for a package that he was to take to Marjory, had been hastily summoned to Mrs. Bramlett. She had been ill all day, but had utterly refused to see a physician. Now she had fainted and frightened her mother and sister into action. It was a relief to those especially concerned to be assured the next day by Dr. Maxwell that Mrs. Ralph Bramlett was much too ill to think of leaving her room. It is eminently more respectable to be able to speak of her as ill, said Mrs. Edmonds with a grave smile, than to be obliged to admit, at least by silence, that she is sulking at such a time as this. Mindful of those words, Dr. Maxwell had taken pains by informing Mrs. Kenyon to give the fact of illness as wide a circulation as possible. All things considered, it seemed to the Edmonds household as though months must have intervened since they gathered in the family's sitting-room. Now they had come to the last evening of Dr. Maxwell's stay with them. Already he had extended his leave of absence two weeks beyond the original period, and knew that he must not under any pretext tarry longer. Yet apparently he was as loath to leave his resting place as the others were to see him depart. I really don't know what we are going to do without your brother, Mrs. Edmonds had said that afternoon. He came to us so short a time ago a stranger, and now it seems like parting from one of my own children to say goodbye to him. But she spoke cheerily, dear innocent lady. She liked and admired Dr. Maxwell, next to his brother she felt that she liked him better than any of her friends, and of course it would be hard to part with him. But, after all, she told herself, it was not as if Leonard were going. She could see reasons why, for a time, it would actually be better to have the brother away. Next summer, perhaps, he would come to them for the entire season, and because of circumstances, feel even more at home with them than he did at present. But just now, and so the dear little mother dreamed her dream and smiled, and planned to make that last evening as social as possible. It is simply incredible how blind even very astute people can be at times when their minds and hearts are filled with preconceived ideas. Her social evening did not develop as she had planned. It is almost too pleasant for the house, she had said at the tea-table, yet I think we shall all want to stay at home tonight and in the house. We have been through so much of late. Besides, we want to make the most of the doctor's last evening and be where we can all look at him at once. A burst of laughter had followed this suggestion, and Dr. Maxwell had made much of it in the merriest way during the remainder of the meal. But no sooner was the late tea disposed of than Mrs. Edmund's household disappeared, melted away, one might say, before her eyes, or at least during an absence of a very few minutes. She went to the kitchen to give some directions to her maid, and on her return no one was to be seen. Within the pretty parlour everything was in order for a family gathering. Mrs. Edmund's, rejoicing that the evening was cool enough to admit of lights, made the room bright, wheeled the easy chairs into positions suggesting rest and comfort, and waited for her family. Ten minutes, fifteen, a half hour. It was very strange what had become of them. Marjorie was not in the habit of disappearing without a word to her mother. An occasional movement overhead suggested that one of the gentlemen was in his room. Perhaps both were there, but in that case where was Marjorie? Another half hour passed, and this mother, who had been so tenderly cared to here to for, began to have a curious sense of desertion and general ill treatment. Then there came slow, measured steps down the stairs, and Mr. Maxwell entered quietly. Alone, he asked, but in the tone that people use when they feel that something must be said rather than that they care for an answer. Why, yes, I seem to be. Have you any idea where Marjorie is? She said nothing to me about going out. I think they went for a walk, Mrs. Edmunds, she and Frank. That is very strange. I mean, it is very unusual. Marjorie is so accustomed to mentioning all her goings to me that I have fallen into the habit of expecting it as a matter of course. Besides, I thought we were all to have a sort of at-home evening together. Mr. Maxwell seemed to have no reply ready for this interrogative remark. He went over to the piano and struck a few notes apparently at random. Then, still standing, played through the melody of a hymn that was a favorite with him. Mrs. Edmunds, who was also very familiar with it, said over mentally the words as the melody proceeded. If through unruffled seas toward heaven we calmly sail, with grateful hearts, oh God, to thee will own the favoring gale. The strains continued, being repeated and repeated, as though the player were also giving the words with his inner consciousness. Mrs. Edmunds could not think of the next verse. She strained her memory, as people will, after the unimportant. But the only other words she could recall were, teach us in every state to make thy will our own, and when the joys of sense depart to live by the melody came to a sudden pause and the musician came over to where she sat. Do you know what is going on out there in the moonlight, my friend? She lifted startled eyes to his face. How should I? What do you mean? I hope you like my brother Frank very much. I assure you he is in every way worthy of respect and love. It was impossible not to understand his meaning. Look and tone added what was lacking in the words. The mother gave a little involuntary start, a murmured word of exclamation, then sat quite still for several minutes. Mr. Maxwell began a slow walk up and down the quiet room. Presently she broke the stillness. It may seem a strange question for a mother to ask, but do you know what the outcome will be? I mean, do you think that Marjorie—she stopped, unable to ask another whether her daughter's heart had been given away. I have no knowledge on the subject, Mrs. Edmonds, other than that which my inner consciousness gives me, but my belief is that it will presently be my duty to congratulate you. Then, with a sudden start, she realized the effort that it must cost him to say these words to her. Oh, Leonard! she said, a mother's tenderness in her voice. What can I say to you? He paused before her with a grave smile on his face. Mrs. Edmonds, do you know the words of the tune I was playing? Teach us in every state to make thy will our own. Can these things be mere accident? Must we not trust our father through whatever path he leads us? Footsteps were heard on the lawn and a murmur of voices. Good night! added Mr. Maxwell abruptly, and taking his hat from its station in the hall, he passed out at the side door as Marjorie and her companion entered the front one. Dr. Maxwell went directly upstairs, but Marjorie came to her mother and put loving arms about her. Oh, mothery! she said. I am afraid we have spoiled your quiet social evening, but Frank had something to tell me. Can you guess, Mama, what it is? End of Chapter 24