 CHAPTER XIII. LIVING BELOW ONES PRIVILEGES. Uncle Anthony had transacted one other piece of business during his day's shopping, about which he said nothing to glide. While she was absorbed over some lovely Christmas cards, he slipped back to the cashier's desk and carried on a low-toned conversation after this manner. What has become of that meeting which occupied your thoughts so fully a year ago? The cashier turned from his roll of bills with a winning smile. It absorbs me as much as ever, and is holding its own as usual. We meet tonight in the old place, won't you come?" How many times have you asked me? said Uncle Anthony, returning the smile. A dozen years or so in succession, isn't it? But I never came in search of an invitation before, did I? No, don't rejoice too soon. I'm the same old six-pence, but I have a bright new penny in my train, a little girl who is in search of a model prayer meeting. We went to one of the uptown churches the other night, and didn't find it, the model you understand, and she was so disappointed that I thought of you. I've set out to entertain the child if I can, so we may come around to your barracks tonight. It was because of this that at eight o'clock of that wonderful day, Glide and her uncle entered the door of a large plain building which did not look like a church, just as the hymn was being sung that had attracted the attention of Ralph Bramlett. Had he known that the people who were just passing in were Glide Douglas and her uncle, perhaps, for the very surprise at the coincidence, he might have followed them. In that case, would some of the story of his life been forever different? Who can tell? This was a prayer meeting very unlike any which Glide had associated with New York, very unlike anything which she had ever seen before. The size of it, her uncle thought, must satisfy her. The room was large and was closely packed with human beings. It was a very plain room indeed, not a bit of upholstery anywhere, nor frescoing. The walls, which were as clean as whitewash could make them, were hung with mottos that flashed back in glowing colors, familiar words. Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Ho! every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters. Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as wool. And others, less familiar, at least to Glide, but very striking. The room was brightly lighted, and the seats, though so plain, were comfortable. Everyone seemed to have singing books. Indeed, almost the first thing Glide noticed was a row of young men near the door, one of whom darted towards them as they entered, with two singing books open to the hymn which was being sung. Glide knew the hymn and joined in the singing almost before she was seated. There was such a volume of song filling the room that she could not help singing. The hour which followed will stand out in her memory forever. Her experience with prayer meetings was confined to the church of which she was a member, a large, well-appointed church with a small prayer meeting, and a pastor who was struggling with the problem of how to make it sufficiently interesting to win to a regular attendance those who had covenanted to sustain it. As yet this was an unsolved problem, it will describe to those interested in prayer meetings the condition of things as fully as if a page had been written concerning it. Glide was used to decorous, proper-sounding prayers in response to invitations from her pastor. Most of the people who prayed were more or less cultured, at least sufficiently familiar with the use of language to choose smooth, flowing words and to ask for the usual proper things. Glide, listening, had wondered how they ever had the courage to offer the first prayer. Did they write it out, she queried, and commit it to memory? And did they, by degrees, add a word here and a sentence there until they had it to their mind? The prayers did not vary greatly she observed through the months. Certain phrases were nearly always present. Proper ones, beautiful ones indeed, meaning a great deal. But Glide had grown so used to them that sometimes they did not mean much to her. She had wondered if they did to the petitioners. She had rejoiced in the thought that she was a woman and would therefore not be called upon for such duty, for the various religious organizations springing up over the country in which women took equal part with men had not yet found favor in the town where she lived. But in this meeting were men and women who prayed apparently as naturally as they breathed. The petitions seemed to come from those who were just thinking aloud. Very brief for the most part. Heart cries for help, for strength, for encouragement, to one who was expected to understand without explanation all the details. Lord, help me to be true where thou hast placed me. Lord, I thank thee for sustaining grace today. Father, I want to be faithful, strengthen me. Lord Jesus, remember my temptations. These and a dozen other petitions followed in quick succession, and the voices of the women apparently excited not the slightest surprise in any mind but hers. Looking about her during the next song service, she discovered some of the faces which she had imagined she might see in New York. Men and women and even young girls who looked as though their experiences of life must have been far from satisfactory. Still they were all decently dressed and behaved with the utmost decorum so that they could not be of the lowest. It was an extraordinary mixture to this novice who yet had studied faces somewhat and found a charm in doing so. Some of the people were unmistakably from the cultured world. Their dress did not indicate it, for even Glide herself in her elegant new sack felt almost too fine for the place. But there was an unmistakable air of ease and refinement about them which had to do with a daily life quite above that which Glide lived for instance. Yet they mingled as naturally with these people, and seemed to be as entirely of their mind as though they were brothers and sisters. It soon became apparent that not only reformed men were present but reformed women and girls. One, a girl not older than Glide herself, arose and said, Since I gave myself to God I have had peace for the first time in my sinful life. And the marks of sin were so apparent on her old young face that even Glide could read. Yet a lady sitting near, sweet-faced, pure as a lily, whose voice when she sang gave forth the exquisite melody of a highly cultivated one. Turned as the girl sat down, and smiling as an angel might, clasped the hard bare hand in a warm human grasp which brought the tears to Glide's eyes. What must it have done for the girl? All over the room they arose as witnesses to the power of God to save them from the drink habit, the gambling habit, and the curse of other sins too low in the scale to be mentioned. Ernestness was written all over their strong, sin-marked faces. Then perhaps the next voice would be from that other, sheltered, cultured world, and the face would indicate purity and strength. Yet the witness would be the same, the power of God to keep in peace and safety from small temptations so-called, as well as from great ones. Then perhaps the next voice would be from that other, sheltered, cultured world, and the face would indicate purity and strength. Yet the witness would be the same, for eight ones. As Glide listened and sang and joined in the prayers, her heart grew warm as never before with the sense of fellowship in Christ. Surely this was a prayer meeting which her Uncle Anthony could approve. She glanced at him occasionally but could make nothing from his face. He sat very still, not even joining in the singing, of which he was exceptionally fond. Much of the time his face was shaded by his hand. She could not be sure whether he was interested or bored. She did not know how entirely he had been taken into his sweet and sorrowful past. He used occasionally to go with her Aunt Estelle to such meetings. He had avoided them most fiercely for years. Only his love for the little girl he had found, and the desire to please her in every way, had broken through his grim resolve and brought him again into the atmosphere which he had dreaded. Not far from them was a young man to whom Glide gave some interested thought. There was something about him which made her think that he was a stranger like herself. He watched with a certain suppressed eagerness to see what would be done next. He listened with marked intensity to every word which was spoken. He joined in the singing as though his soul were in it. Yet he was from another class than most of the young men. A gentleman in every respect, Glide decided, and one who had always lived a life that honoured his mother. Was he a Christian, she wondered? She was not used to young gentlemen who were Christians. Now that she thought of it, she lived in a town where it did not seem to be the custom for young men to attend prayer meetings. Even the estimable young men, those who waited sometimes at the church doors to attend their friend's home, nearly always waited at the doors. It did not seem to be expected that they would come farther. She had not given the matter much thought, but how many she could recall whom this state of things described. There was Ralph Bramlett, for instance, who was an intimate friend of their family, who passed their house on his way to and from town, and often stopped to chat with them. Who had walked with them more than once as far as the church door on prayer meeting evenings, when they had chanced to meet. Yet she had never heard the girls ask him to go into the meeting, nor express surprise that he never came. But then, to be sure, Ralph was not a Christian, and neither was Marjorie Edmonds. Perhaps, if she were, it would be different with Ralph. Perhaps, if they were both in the habit of attending such prayer meetings as this, they might be helped to enter that way. Surely, they could not remain in such an atmosphere long without wanting to be one with it. And then poor Glide fell into wondering where, in her part of the world, such an atmosphere as this could be found. Would Ralph and Marjorie be likely to be helped by the prayer meeting, which she was in the habit of attending? Pity the girl, and pity the church to which she belonged, because she was in all honesty obliged to confess to her secret soul, that she was afraid they would not be, that it was, too often, only a duty and a weariness to her. Then the young man suddenly broke in upon her train of thought by springing to his feet. Brethren, he began, I cannot resist adding my word as a witness. I am a stranger in the city. This is the first time I have been in a prayer meeting since I left home. But I find myself among brothers and sisters, those who serve under the leader to whom I belong, those who have discovered for themselves the power of God to save and to keep. Brothers, if some of you have not tried that power, I add my voice to-night to help to convince you of its reality. Then followed such words as Glide felt must help the rose and rose of young men who listened earnestly. They helped her. No, she certainly did not know any young man like this one. She wished that she did. When the meeting was concluded, Glide was surprised to see a middle-aged gentleman rush toward her uncle and hold out his hand. We are so glad to see you here once more, he said. We have missed your visits very much. Isn't the question settled yet, brother? When I saw you tonight, my heart gave a great leap of joy. I thought we should hear from you. Never mind me, said Uncle Anthony cheerily. Give your attention to the young people. To that end, let me introduce my niece. She is one of your kind, I suspect. At least she was hungry and thirsting after a prayer meeting. I am glad to see you, the gentleman said, giving Glide a hearty grasp of the hand. Now I must return the kindness and introduce my nephew. Paul, this way, please. Mr. Burwell, Miss Douglas, my nephew from the West. And Glide found herself exchanging greetings with the young man whose words had helped her. He was a stranger, then, like herself, and yet his heart had been so full of the theme that he could not keep silence. What if she had tried to tell what Jesus Christ was to her? The mere thought of it set all her pulses to bounding. I don't think I could have done it, she told herself sorrowfully. And yet I do love him and I want to be his witness. Just behind her stood a young girl who had prayed and spoken a few words. Glide remembered the words. Today, under strong temptation to anger, my heart trusted in him and I was helped. She was a plain, common-looking girl in coarse dress and without any gloves at all. Yet Glide gazed upon her with a feeling of respect, almost amounting to awe. How wonderful that she could stand and say quietly such words in a prayer meeting. Nay, how wonderful to be able to say them at all, to be sure of having been helped in her commonplace daily life by the Lord Jesus Christ. They passed out into the street together. Her uncle and the elder Mr. Burwell, who were evidently old acquaintances, were talking earnestly. Naturally, Mr. Paul Burwell stepped back beside her. It was good to be there, was it not, he said. I have been half-tempted to be homesick in this great city, but this evening I found myself at home. Said Glide, how many men there were who seemed to have sorely needed help and found it? Yes, indeed. Reformed men, a large number of them, and reformed women. Did you notice the woman on your left, three or four seats down? My uncle says she has been a terrible character, one of the most to be feared in the city perhaps, because of her influence over younger ones. Five months ago Christ won her, and now she has a power in that meeting and in her neighborhood. Isn't it a blessed thought, Miss Douglas, that we have never yet heard testimony like this? I cried unto the Lord, and he did not answer. I pleaded for help and received none. Do you suppose there is never such testimony? asked Glide, slowly, wonderingly. She did not know how to converse about religion. She felt embarrassed at the thought of trying to do so, but she must be honest. Not even for the sake of appearances could she pretend by silence or evasive answer that prayer was to her what it seemed to be to those people. I mean, she explained, do not people often or at least sometimes pray and receive no answer? People who are in need and who feel their need and cry to him for help? No, how could they? He cannot deny himself. Hasn't he promised? Oh, we often pray, I presume, for what he will not for our own sakes give us, and we often pray for that which we do not with all our hearts desire. But I mean cases of felt need such as were represented there tonight. To all such, I think, he has said, before they call, I will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear. Pardon me, Miss Douglas, but do you not know the truth of this from your own experience? I think so, she said thoughtfully. At the least, I mean, I hope I know him in that sense. In fact, I know I do. I belong to him, Mr. Burwell, and there are some ways in which I could have witnessed for him if I only had the courage. But I do not think I can speak so positively as I could last winter for instance, and as I thought then I always should. To be entirely frank, I have a half-disatisfied feeling over my religion a great deal of the time, and yet I would not be without it. But some way I want it to be more to me than it is. I do not suppose I am making myself understood, and I do not know why I am speaking in this way to a stranger. I understand you perfectly. We are not strangers. We both claim the elder brother as our own. Will you forgive me for suggesting that perhaps you are trying to be satisfied with less than he can give? When I first united with the church, I tried to content myself with living as others did around me, and as it was a cold church, one in which the young people met often socially without saying a word about their leader or hinting in any way that they had a leader to whom they were glad to give supreme control, you can imagine the result. I was dissatisfied, discontented, half-hearted, and a good deal of the time miserable. When I found, some time afterward, that Christ was willing to be a center around which my business and my pleasure as well as my hours of direct service could gather, and that to accept him as the literal center of all my time was the only way to be a happy Christian, I really think I was glad of it, for I had been having a most unhappy time, because in some way my convictions had gotten ahead of my practice. This was strange new talk to glide, yet her heart went out to meet it. She felt that it was true. She had been trying to be satisfied to do as Estelle and Fanny and the other girls who were church members did. So far as outward life was concerned, she had done as they did. When had she spoken with any person about Jesus Christ? How did she make it known to anybody that he was the one who had supreme control? She had wished quite earnestly that Ralph Bramlett and Marjorie were Christians, and had prayed for them both. But had she ever in any way hinted to either of them that she cared whether they knew Christ or not? Why had she not? Was it not because others did not talk about these things, and she did not like to seem so different from others? I think you are right, she said impulsively, speaking hastily as she saw that her uncle and his friend had halted at the corner just ahead, and were evidently planning to take different routes. I have been willing to stay below my privileges. In fact, I think I never realized what my privileges were until to-night. I believe it will be different with me hereafter because of your words. Thank you! Marjorie Edmonds sat long that night confronting her problem. She kept faith with her mother and opened the door between the rooms when she was ready for bed, but the watchful mother knew that this time did not come until the night was far spent. The girl made no record in her diary. It is noticeable that, with young people, diaries are for happy hours. When grave and desolating questions press down upon them, they want better confidence than those. For the first time in her life this young girl faced the situation as it was, and tried to understand it. Ralph Bramlett had failed her. That was too evident. The playmate of her childhood whom she had alternately commanded and petted, the schoolmate of her girlhood whom she had held to a high standard in his classes by the spirit of emulation, the young man whose development she had watched with delight and a secret sense of ownership such as she felt sure no other human being could feel, had, in the space of a few weeks, so changed that he could write her the letter which was spread open before her, and which she had read until it seemed as though every word was engraved upon her heart. It was an utter bewilderment to her. In all her curious questionings concerning her future there had never for one moment come to her a thought of it as separated from Ralph Bramlett. Had she then expected to become the wife of a man who had never so much as mentioned the subject of marriage to her? She blushed painfully as she asked herself this question. Her thoughts of the future had all been girlish, even childish. She had not considered the questions of love and marriage. There had simply been a rose-colored stretch of years in which she and Ralph, and mother, walked gaily down the paths, always together and always happy. But now that she had suddenly become a woman, she reminded herself that although Ralph had never mentioned the subject of marriage to her, yet she had a woman's right to think of him as her future husband. Had he not shown her in every possible way, ever since she was a child, that she was always first in his thoughts? Since childhood had been left in the distance and they had been looked upon by others as grown people, had not his attentions become, if possible, more marked than ever, until everybody who knew them had said, Ralph and Marjorie, as naturally as though they were indeed of one name. She took herself sternly to task for her blushing. She had the right to claim him. Not that she was by any means in haste to be married, she told herself, or had ever given a serious thought in her life to that phase of the question. It was only that, of course, they were to be together in some way, and to be always more to each other than to any other persons. That being the case, she must have known, she assured herself, that there was but one way of accomplishing it. But there was no occasion for feeling humiliated over such a thought, for if anybody had been sought, she could truly say that she had. The question for consideration was, what did Ralph's present conduct indicate? Had he simply been playing with her all these years? That was nonsense. Had he been disappointed in her, or mistaken in his feelings? Was it only as a boy that he cared for her, and when he began to call himself a man, had he found that she did not satisfy his nature? That must be the explanation of his strange conduct. It was folly for her to try longer to deceive herself, and say that she had ill-treated him. It is one thing to speak coldly to a man who has been rude to one, and quite another for that man to answer a note written with the old-time friendliness in the heartless way in which Ralph had answered her. Miss Edmunds, indeed! Why, he had never before called her that. But more, and infinitely worse than all these small matters, was the fact, placed on paper by himself and staring her in the face, that he had gone directly contrary not only to her ideas of honour, but to what she had supposed were his convictions of right. Ralph Bramlett, bookkeeper in a distillery! The thing seemed so incredible that she found herself looking again at the letter to make sure that those were the words written thereon. Was there not some reading between the lines to prove that this was a horrid joke? In truth it was a night which might well make a vivid impress upon Marjorie Edmunds's memory, such a night of disappointment and pain and searching and surrender as she had never before endured. It came to her at last, and came overwhelmingly, that she must give up this friend of her childhood and womanhood, that all the pleasant days they had spent together were past, and all the pleasant days which were planned for the future were not to be. Ralph was strangely, mysteriously changed. Henceforth she was to be to him Miss Edmunds, and she must learn to call him Mr. Bramlett. This girl of nineteen, who understood life as little as she did her own heart, felt nevertheless as real a pang over the breaking of her idol and the tearing away of all the pretty fabric of her imagined future, as though they had been worth the sorrow. Yet she resolutely tore them away. She had made all the concessions and advances that she could. More than she ought perhaps. It might be that Ralph had been annoyed by her writing to him in the old familiar way. That very act might even have helped to show him how mistaken he had been in her. Nay, he might have planned his whole conduct with a view to making plain to her his changed feelings. And she in her ignorance had not thought of such a thing, but had credited him with obstinacy and an overweening fear of silly tongues. Then suddenly there flashed upon her another thought. Perhaps, after all, Ralph did not fear Estelle Douglas as much as she had imagined. Perhaps instead he admired her. They had talked freely together over her shortcomings in the past. But the past was ever so long ago. Ages ago it seemed to this poor girl. Ralph had changed in other respects. Why not in that one? The longer she considered it, the more she felt this to be the solution. Ralph had discovered that Estelle Douglas was to be the friend of his maturer years. Then pride came to her rescue. If such were really the case, he need not fear any interference on her part. She began to feel bitterly humiliated over the thought of her note to him. Why had she not listened to her mother when she hinted that Ralph might misunderstand her writing? It is true the mother had meant nothing of this kind, but Marjorie's nerves were in a state to so translate it. Having settled that she had discovered at last the true cause of the change in Ralph, a dozen questions came up at once for consideration. How should she plan her immediate future with regard to this lost friend? Should she gather all the notes and letters, literally hundreds of them, which had accumulated through the years? For when people are two miles apart and like to write, many excuses can be found for notes. And, packing them all, tied in pink ribbons as they were, in a neat box, together with the little keepsakes which had come as birthday and Christmas offerings, send them to him. With this thought in view, she brought out the box and began to look over its contents. How amused her mother had been, a way back in their childhood, when she had assured her that she was going to keep every note of Ralph's. Her cheeks burned over the memory of the words she had spoken in her babyhood. Mama, when I am an old woman, and Ralph is an old man, won't it be funny, Mama, for us to be old? Then we shall like to sit together and look over these letters, won't we? Here is one that tells about our first birthday party we had together. Isn't it nice that our birthdays are only a week apart, and we can always celebrate them together? And here is one about our picnic that we got up. How funny it will be, when our hairs are white, to read them over and remember all the nice times we had. In the solitude of her own room, she felt the hot blood mounting to her temples over these memories as they came surging back upon her. Then her face began to pale and her heart to tremble over the thought that their future, hers and Ralph's, sitting together reading letters, would never come. Instead, Ralph would sit in that large armchair she had imagined, with his white head leaning against the cushions, and Estelle beside him talking over together the plans that they too had formed, and Marjorie would be left out and forgotten. Finally she decided that the letters and the keepsakes should not be returned. That would look as though she had made serious business of them, and Ralph Bramlett was never to know that she had made serious business of anything that he had ever said to her. That should be her role for the future. Boy and girl friends she and Ralph had been, nothing more. Both had grown up now. It was time to put childish things away. Both had put them away. That was all. Never mind if her heart broke in the process. No one should know it. Even her mother must never imagine that she had suffered in putting away her childhood dream. Boy and girl friendship, the mother had called it, and that it must remain to her. Poor, foolish child! Little did she understand what a mother's eyes and heart can read. That good woman, with her head resting on her pillow, was fully as wakeful as her daughter, and her thoughts were quite as busy and anxious. Could she have known what decision that daughter had reached, she might almost have gone peacefully to sleep. What she feared was the renewal of old friendship upon a new basis. A basis which both the young people would understand as having to do with a settled future. Not that she believed it possible that Marjorie Edmonds would ever submit to becoming the wife of a man employed in a distillery. Her temperance principles were too ingrained for that. The danger was that Marjorie's stronger will would assert itself, and that Ralph would speedily find some way out of the business engagement which he had made, and that all differences would be smoothed over. And then this woman also took a journey into the past, and remembered how amused she had been over Ralph and Marjorie in their childish devotedness to each other, how she had laughed with her neighbors over the friendship, how she had petted the two almost equally through their period of early youth, and only lately had begun to be anxious over the natural results of such bringing up. If she had it to live over again, this life, how differently she would order all things. Then she moralized a little. What a pity it was that people could not go back over their lives just once after their eyes had been opened to their mistakes. What different experiences they could make possible. So, for these various reasons, it was quite the beginning of a new day before sleep came to the Edmunds's home. Notwithstanding Marjorie's resolve that her mother should know nothing about the changed condition of things, before evening of the next day she had shown her Ralph Bramlett's note, whatever Mrs. Edmunds's mistakes as a mother may have been, she had succeeded in establishing and maintaining the most perfect intimacy between her daughter and herself, and for Marjorie to hide from view such a letter as that was to act in direct contradiction to the principles in which she had been reared. Her first intention had been to say to her mother that her letter had been answered, and that the answer was not satisfactory, and keep the details of that answer to herself. But before evening she had decided that this would be treating her mother with injustice and discourtesy. So she gave her the letter without comment, and waited in silence while it was being read. It was so different from the letter which Mrs. Edmunds had schooled her heart to expect, and astonished her so, that for some moments she was entirely silent, feeling unable to decide how to meet such a revelation. At last she asked, almost timidly, What do you make of this, daughter? The daughter had expected a burst of indignation, which, in attempting to overcome, would almost oblige her to take Ralph's part. It was harder to meet this quiet question. There seems to be but one explanation possible, she said at last. Ralph is very tired of our friendship and has taken this way of bringing it to an end. He takes an unnecessarily troublesome and disagreeable way, then, said Mrs. Edmunds, waxing indignant over the realization of what such an admission as this must mean to her daughter. Yet, despite the indignation, there was an undertone of intense joy. What a merciful interposition of providence it would seem, if Ralph would, with his own rash hand, break the ties which had bound him to her child, break them so utterly that there need be no fear of their ever being fastened again. It meant present suffering for Marjorie, of course. That was part of the penalty which she, the mother, must bear for her folly. But that the suffering could be very deep or very lasting the mother did not believe. She was an older student of human nature than her daughter, and she was unalterably sure that Ralph Bramlett would never have satisfied that daughter's matureer heart. Still, she could afford to be indignant with Ralph for his way of managing. I thought, she added, seeing that Marjorie kept silent, that he could, as a rule, be gentlemanly, but he seems to have lost every semblance of a gentleman. I admire yourself control Marjorie in being able to be so quiet over such a letter as that, in reply to the extremely kind one which you wrote to him. Yet I cannot but be glad that you have received it. Do you not see, dear, how different his character is from that which you have imagined it? What I have for some time been aware of must be beginning to be plain to you. Nothing is plain to me, said Marjorie. Save that the old friendship is broken. I have not understood, Ralph, that is all. I supposed that his conduct of late was simply the result of a passing vexation, instead of which he is evidently tired of me. Yet, after all, I presume I have brought this upon myself. It certainly was very rude and disagreeable in me to march away alone in the middle of the night, and not only give them all such a fright, but expose him to the ridicule that he must have had to bear ever since, for my sake. I did not think for a moment of his side of the question, or I would not have done it. It was only you, Mama, that I thought about and planned for. But the whole thing exposed him to unnecessary and disagreeable experiences, such as I did not in the least realize until I heard Estelle go on about it. Perhaps it is not strange that he has decided that my friendship is not worth having. She was blaming herself altogether. The next thing would be a humble apology to Ralph and amic acceptance of perhaps even the distillery. The mother could not endure it. Marjorie, she said after a moment's silence, and the change in her voice made the daughter feel that something very serious must be coming. Do you not think that that is a very childish way of looking at the whole matter? Too childish for one of your years? A mere difference of opinion between two persons, leading each to choose his or her own way of managing a matter, while it may be unpleasant, has no very lasting results with sensible people. If Ralph Bramlett really valued your friendship at any time and was worthy of it, he would not have broken with you on such slight provocation, would he? I told you, Mama, said Marjorie, trying not to make her voice tremble, that I thought he had grown tired of me and took this way of making it known. And I think nothing of the kind, said Mrs. Edmonds, her indignation rising uncontrollably. What I think and believe is that he is a conceited, self-indulgent, obstinate, passionate boy who thinks to bring you to humiliating terms by holding aloof from you and nursing his ill temper until you realize how serious a matter of difference with him can be. It was this in part which led him to accept a position which he knew would be utterly obnoxious not only to you, but to your mother. He expects you to write him in reply to this, a heartbreaking letter assuring him of your undying friendship and your willingness to continue the friendship, even though he become a rumseller. Do you really think, Marjorie, that a young man capable of acting as he has and with the motives which have evidently actuated him, is worthy of your friendship? For your mother's sake, my dear, if not for your own, I hope you will break with him utterly now. Let him understand distinctly that he cannot play revengefully with a girl of your character. She was saying a great deal more than she had meant to when she began. She was conscious that she was overdoing the matter, doing mischief perhaps for her own cause. Yet she seemed unable to resist this temptation to express herself freely for once with regard to Ralph Bramlett's character. But Marjorie took it all quietly enough, perhaps because she did not believe a word of it, but thought that her mother was misjudging Ralph with almost every sentence. She did not feel revengeful herself, only humble and sorrowful. Ralph was disappointed in her and had cast her aside. That she believed was the plain fact. It was bitter enough, but she did not want anyone to know it. If it would comfort her mother to feel that he had not cast her off, but was waiting and hoping to hear from her again, she might get what relief she could out of the thought. It brought none to Marjorie. Mrs. Edmund's outburst had one unfortunate effect. There was less sympathy between mother and daughter than ever before. Each retired to her room that night with a sense of loneliness such as never had come to them since they had been lonely together. CHAPTER XV Glide Douglas was at home again, with her wonderful story to tell and her wonderful gifts to display. She had not spent that two dollars after all. Uncle Anthony had counseled her to keep it forever as a souvenir, as a curiosity, to prove that one girl could spend two weeks in New York and come home again with money in her pocket. The gifts he had bought he assured her were her own tokens to be presented by herself. To this end he had carefully boxed and marked each individual article with her full name, and he got into such a hurry at last that he waited only to see her safely off the cars at her own station, then sprang back again and continued his journey westward. Truth to tell, he had overstayed the extreme limit of his time in order to give Glide as much of an outing as possible. His visit he told her could afford to wait until next year. Never had a homecoming in the Douglas family made more of a stir. During the days of her absence it had been discovered that Glide was really an important person. Every member of the family had been so accustomed to having her to appeal to for assistance on all possible occasions that to miss her presence and help was a revelation. Not one of them had realized before how helpful she was. They welcomed the old Glide with open arms, but the girl who came back to them was in a certain sense a new Glide. A day or two after her return Estelle found herself looking at her sister curiously. Certainly she was changed, and indefinable something was there which Estelle at least had never before discovered. Was it self-assertion? But Glide had never been sweeter or more unselfish. It could not be her dress entirely, though there was change enough about that. Uncle Anthony had not contented himself with the stylish sack. Before the first Sabbath which they spent in New York had arrived he had discovered a ready-made dress which was exactly to his mind, and which he said matched the sack. Despite Glide's earnest protests and explanations he forced her to try it on and to admit that the fit was perfect. Then he ordered it sent to their hotel in triumph. After that there were gloves and handkerchiefs and a cunning little muff, things which he continually explained belonged to the sack and felt lonesome away from it. There was a hat with a plume which was exactly the shade of the muff. In short Uncle Anthony could not be restrained until his little girl's wardrobe had undergone entire transformation. When she was attired in her new suit, with the fifteen-dollar pin fastening the bit of lace at her throat, the reflection which the girl's mirror gave back must certainly have pleased her artistic eye. Yet strangely enough, at that moment she thought of the girl in the coarse dress and gloveless hands, who had told in the meeting about being kept from the temptation to anger. Why should Glide Douglas have so much and that girl so little? She said something of the sort to her uncle, but he turned it aside with one of his gay replies. I have nothing whatever to do with that girl and much with this one. For once in my life I mean to have the pleasure of seeing her dressed according to my fancy, even though some girl whom I never saw goes without new shoestrings in consequence. But this thought and many others which were new to her lingered with Glide after her homecoming, especially did the influence of that prayer meeting and the talk she had had with Paul Burwell linger. They had to do with the subtle difference in her which every member of her family noticed. She was alone one evening in the little room which opened from the parlour and which was dignified by the name of Music Room. In the parlour was Ralph Bramlett, waiting for Estelle, who was to accompany him to a lecture. Glide was busy with the music, assorting, rearranging, trying to bring order out of the confusion which was always to be found about the piano after a stormy day, during which the girls amused themselves more with music than at other times. As she worked she hummed a familiar tune that lingered pleasantly in her thoughts. It was the one which was being sung when she and her uncle entered that large plain room every corner of which was photographed on her memory. She was not conscious that she was humming until the curtains suddenly parted and Ralph appeared. You are singing a favorite tune of mine, he said. You couldn't guess where I last heard it. I know where I did, said Glide, and I should think I might be able to trace your association with it. You have heard it often in our own church. It is one of Marjorie's favorites, you know. She uses it sometimes as a solo. I know, but I heard it last in New York as I passed a church I suppose it was, though it didn't look like one. It was not being sung as a solo. A great many people were singing I should judge. It sounded very well indeed. I was almost tempted inside to get nearer to it. said Glide. Why, that is a strange coincidence. The last time I heard it was in New York, and I was inside of a large plain building which was a church, or at least a hall where they hold church services, and a great many people were singing. What if it should have been the same evening? When was it, Ralph? We were in New York at the same time, you know. She proceeded to give him a careful statement as to date and surroundings. Then our associations with it must be the same in a way, said Ralph. It was on that very evening, and in just that locality that I halted at the door, half tempted to spend what I suppose then would be the only evening I had for New York in a religious meeting in order for a nearer approach to an old tune. He laughed as he spoke, as though the idea must be an absurd one to Glide. She regarded him wistfully. Oh, Ralph, I wish so much you had come in! I am sure you never attended such a meeting as that was, and perhaps it would have done even more for you than for— She broke off abruptly, not inclined to be confidential with Ralph Bramlett as to what the meeting had done for her. After a moment she began again, still with that wistful look on her face. Ralph, do you know that I cannot help wishing very much that you were a Christian? She could not keep her voice from trembling as she spoke. Even so simple a demonstration as this was a startling departure from her habit of life. It was a development from that statement which she had made to Mr. Burwell to the effect that life would be different with her after this. Ralph laughed in a slightly embarrassed way. This was new to him also, and was almost as much of a surprise as though a kitten had suddenly appealed to him in human speech. Why in the world should you wish that? He asked, more because a reply of some sort seemed to be necessary than because he needed to have such a wish explained. Why shouldn't I? She asked. And why shouldn't you above everything else? Isn't it strange how we go on living, just as busy as we can be, day after day and year after year, with the less important things, the most important ones not being so much as thought of apparently? It has always seemed strange to me. Before I was a Christian at all, I used to think people acted very foolishly about such matters. Yet, after all, when I became a Christian myself, I acted just like most others. But I don't want to, and I don't mean to any more. I do wish very much indeed that you were a Christian man. I thought of you first, because, well, I knew you better than I do most young men. At that meeting to which you didn't go, Ralph, there were ever so many young men, and they all took part in the meeting, spoke as witnesses for Christ. It did seem so grand, and so reasonable, too. It seems to me we ought to expect young men almost more than young women, because one would think they would be drawn to Jesus Christ in a peculiar manner, and want him for their friend. Of course, you think about such things sometimes, Ralph. How is it that you do not choose Jesus Christ for your intimate friend? This point blank question coming from a child, as Glide Douglas had always seemed to him, astonished and all but confused the young man. She was looking steadily at him out of bright, earnest eyes, and seemed to expect a definite answer which he did not know how to make. It happened that this was the first direct question of the kind which had come to him since childhood. Still, of course, there was no way but to make an evasive response. How do you know I ever think of such abstruse matters? He asked, trying to speak lightly, and in the tone which he might use to a very young person. "'Because,' she said gravely, "'you have not seemed to me like an entirely frivolous person, and I cannot think that any save the utterly thoughtless leave such questions out of their minds entirely. If I am in the least acquainted with you, I should think you would be the kind of man who would want Jesus for a friend. Do you not admire his character? It grows upon one so as one studies it. The only character the world has ever known, which did not in the least little way, disappoint one. I should think a young man would have, oh, almost a consuming ambition to grow like him. That is what I want for myself, to take him for my model, and try every day to have something about me which will remind others of him." That is a pretty strange ambition for a young girl. Red Ralph, still bent upon treating the whole matter lightly, and still speaking in that half condescending tone which some people used to those very much younger than themselves. She took his words with utmost seriousness. "'Yes, I know it is, but not an impossible one. That is what seems so very wonderful about it all. It is one of the things he came especially to do for us, you know, that we might be conformed to his image. That is the verse I have taken for my motto and daily reminder, to be conformed to his image. Is not that an ambition worth having? You have studied his character in a historical way, haven't you, Ralph?" It struck the young man as a humiliating thing to have to answer this question in the negative. He made his answer as careless as possible. "'I cannot say that I ever have, at least not what you would call study, perhaps, though, of course, I am more or less familiar with the story as it is set down for us.'" As he spoke he was conscious of a feeling of relief in the thought that he need not undergo a cross-examination with regard to even this superficial knowledge. Still with the relief there was a sense of humiliation. It was, as Glide intimated, somewhat surprising that a man who prided himself upon his common sense and thoughtfulness should have to confess ignorance of a character so easily studied and so universally acknowledged as this one. If he could pose as an infidel or an unbeliever in the Bible in any sense of the word it would perhaps be different, though even then he admitted that an honest unbeliever ought to be familiar with the evidences before he rejected them. But believing fully, as he did, in such tremendous truths as those which circled around Jesus Christ, it was certainly humiliating to have to admit that he had lived all these years without making a careful study of them. There were movements overhead which indicated that Estelle might soon be with them, and Glide made haste to finish what she wanted to say. But Ralph, that doesn't seem like your usual good sense, does it? I wish so very much that both you and Marjorie could be led to study this question with the care which its importance deserves. There could be but one result, for you are both so sensible. And Marjorie is the sweetest girl in the world. There needs only one added touch to make her life perfect. She would be interested in it if you were. It seems perfectly natural to think of you and she studying things together. Won't you promise to think about it? His reply was very disappointing. You are a good little girl, he said graciously. A great deal better than most of your friends, it seems to me. I feel especially honoured in being the one you have selected to present these new ideas to. They are rather new, are they not? Ah, but that isn't promising anything, she said earnestly. No, I am rather afraid of promises. They mean altogether too much to me. Being a man of my word you see, I have to look out for them. I promise to be very glad that I have such a good little friend as you to interest yourself in me, and I have no doubt we should all be improved if we thought more about such matters than we do. Then Estelle came down and he turned back to the parlor to meet her, leaving glide with a sadly disappointed heart. Ralph Bramlett would never know what force of will it had taken to overcome her usual reserve and speak to him out of her deeper feeling, and to realise that it had been for naught was bitter. However, Ralph Bramlett was not so entirely indifferent to the whole matter as he had professed. The simple yet evidently earnest words which had been spoken to him on an unusual subject lingered with him. He let Estelle chatter as they walked down the street together, and went over the conversation sentence by sentence. It was a curious thing for a child to do, he told himself. Some new influence must have touched her. Perhaps she had fallen in with a different class of friends from those he had met in New York. Suppose he had gone into that prayer meeting. Would he have met a different class of persons and been influenced by them? Actually he speculated over the thought and was curious about it. Then he recalled the promise for which he had been asked, and smiled indulgently over the idea of his promising that child anything. Yet it was certainly very pretty in her to ask it, and eminently sensible. She had linked his name with Marjorees as a matter of course, and that had been soothing. It is true he had not so much as exchanged boughs with Marjoree during the weeks he had now been in the employ of Snyder, Snyder and Co., but he looked every day for a change in that direction. Each evening on reaching home he went eagerly over his mail, and questioned closely with regard to any messages that might have been brought for him. His belief was that if he gave Marjoree time enough, she would write in reply to his note, asking why he had absented himself so persistently, and reminded him once more that he had friends on Maple Avenue. Such a notice he had planned that she should write him, he had decided would be a sufficient balm to his wounded feelings to admit of his calling and talking over with her the entire matter. After that he determined that their friendship should be reestablished upon an entirely different basis. By this time Marjoree would have learned that she must not undertake to control him in any way, that he was master as a man should be, and that her duty as a woman was to yield at all times to his superior judgment. Thus much mischief her last note to him had wrought. It had removed from his mind any shadow of fear as to the final result of the difference between them. A girl who could, after his weeks of absence and silence, write to him in the extremely kind way that she had, must think a very great deal of him indeed. Quite as much as he thought of her. It was only a matter of time for him to reestablish himself in the Edmunds family, or rather to settle himself as an assured force there, for he believed that Marjoree had quite as much influence over her mother as he had over her. He must simply be patient and bide his time, then all would be well between them, much better than it ever had been. For the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Marjoree had been too willing to direct, and too sure that he would follow her lead. Meantime, while he was waiting, it would do no harm to cultivate the friendship of Estelle Douglas. She evidently enjoyed his society, and it would not injure his cause with Marjoree for her to learn that he was not cut off from friendly companionship because she had chosen to break with him. You will observe that he had given up any idea that he was to blame in all this matter. On the contrary, he had begun to congratulate himself on his good judgment in not exposing a company of young people to a long ride in the night air, when it could as well be taken by daylight. In short, Ralph Bramlett was completely reinstated in his good opinion of himself, and it cannot be denied that Marjoree's note had done much toward bringing him to his habitual frame of mind once more. It was because he felt complacent that Glide's appeal had interested him. It appealed, he told himself, to his common sense, and while it may be a surprise to some, it is nevertheless the fact that this young man prided himself upon his common sense. Now that he thought of it, he admitted that it really was quite strange that a young man of his stamp should not have given serious attention to such subjects. Glide had spoken of him as one who, she thought, would like to become friends with Jesus Christ. The thought did not fill him with awe, but with a sense of eminent fitness. What more reasonable than to suppose that the Lord Jesus Christ would be pleased with his acquaintance? Oh, he did not put it quite so boldly as that, but the thought, analysed, suggested almost condescension upon his part. He began seriously to consider whether some such step would not be the proper one to take next. Finally it would sound very well indeed to have it said that Ralph Bramlett, who was supposed by some to have taken a step downward on account of the clerkship which he had accepted, had become deeply interested in religious matters, had, in fact, taken a decided stand. This would astonish, and perhaps not a little, discomfort some people. It would serve to show that the business relations which he had formed, instead of proving his ruin, had led him to a serious consideration of the most important business. Not only a consideration, but a decision. Why should he not decide at once to unite with the church? His character was undoubtedly beyond reproach. He lived as entirely a Christian life to all appearance now, as did those of his acquaintance who were church members. It is true that Christian people read the Bible, he supposed, with a certain degree of regularity, and this he had not been in the habit of doing. But it was entirely proper, and he had no objections whatever to doing so. Moreover, they prayed, with more or less frequency, and that too seemed to him a most suitable thing to do. When he was a little fellow he used to pray quite regularly. It was probably owing to his unfortunate environment that he had ever given up the habit. So far as the weekly prayer meeting was concerned, he reflected with satisfaction that he knew many eminently respectable church members who evidently did not find it consistent with their other duties to attend, at least with any degree of regularity. Of course he could go occasionally. He thought he should quite like to do so. In short, while Estelle Douglas was giving an elaborate description of a fancy dress entertainment of which he had heard, and explaining voluably how they might adapt it to their needs, so as to make a sum of money for benevolent or missionary purposes, her companion was deliberately deciding to become forthwith interested in the subject of religion, and to unite himself without much more delay with the visible church. This plan, besides appealing to his common sense, seemed to him a delicious piece of diplomacy to show Mrs. Edmonds and her set how utterly they were mistaken in him. Was Ralph Bramlett then a hypocrite? Not in the slightest degree. He was simply a self-deceived young man who knew no more about the real claims of Jesus Christ or of his power over the heart and conscience than did the various child. He honestly believed that for a moral, upright young man like himself the one step needed in order for him to identify himself fully with all the religious movements of the day was to unite with the church and adopt the forms of service which church people used. It seemed to him, as Glide had said, a surprising thing that he had not taken this step before. He told himself that if he had thought about it seriously he undoubtedly would have done so. And that he had not thought about it was owing to the fact that he was surrounded by a class of people who gave little heed to such things and had made no attempt to press their claims upon him. So after all the delay was their fault, not his. CHAPTER XVI O what some power the gifty Gias to see ourselves as either see us! Notwithstanding the injury which his companions had done to this estimable young man by not urging him to the important step which he now contemplated, he could not seriously regret the delay, for he told himself that he could not have had a more opportune time than the present. He by no means used, in thinking it over, the words which would have honestly described his desire, which was to create a sensation. Instead he made use of a phrase which he had somewhere heard about letting his light shine. It seemed an eminently appropriate idea. He had light plenty of it. Why not let it shine? He interrupted Estelle's description with an apparently irrelevant remark. Your little sister Glide has developed in a new direction. Has she not of late? Oh, yes, said Estelle, wondering by what process of mental arithmetic he had added Glide to the theme which they were supposed to be considering. The child really blossomed out when she went on her trip with Uncle Anthony. I think I never knew a girl to change so much in so short a time. I can't define the change, either. It eludes description, but it is perfectly palpable nevertheless. How does she exhibit it to you? I thought she seemed more seriously inclined than usual. Serious? Religiously, do you mean? Has she been talking to you? Estelle laughed as though this were a matter for amusement, and also one which demanded apology. Don't mind her, Ralph. It is something that will wear off. She fell in with a company of fanatics, I think, while she was away. Very queer people they must have been from the account she gives. She went to a meeting somewhere, down among the slums, I suppose, judging from the character of the people, and there she heard all sorts of queer ideas advanced. She is at an impressionable age, you know, and the whole thing evidently made a deep impression. We are very much surprised to see in what way New York life took hold of her. It is the last experience we should have expected with Uncle Anthony for a companion. He is eminently practical. If Glyde were not so young and so easily influenced, I should feel quite worried about her, for of all fanaticisms I think religious is the very worst. Do not you? Ralph, shielded by the darkness, curled his mustached lip very slightly. He did not call Glyde's words to him fanatical. On the contrary, he considered them not only sensible, but reasonable. He told himself that he had a much higher opinion of her religion than he had of Estelle's. Then he assured himself that he must always have had a religious nature in order to have such matters impress him as they did. Perhaps he should really quite enjoy his change of base. When he went to his room that evening, he took down the Bible which had been a gift of his Sunday school teacher on his fifteenth birthday, and which had been opened only at rare intervals since, and looked at its pages with a certain degree of interest. This was part of the new life which he had resolved to commence. Where should he read? Why not at the very beginning? People who profess to use the Bible daily should know it as a whole. The thought of turning to the life of Christ and making himself acquainted with the character which had so impressed Glyde occurred to him, but was promptly dismissed. He could not have told why he shrank from this. He did not allow himself to realize that he did so. He simply explained to himself that the New Testament was for children and undeveloped young people like Glyde Douglas. Every ordinarily educated person of his years was more or less familiar with it. He remembered its stories perfectly. He would take the very first chapter of the Old Testament. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. The majestic story spread itself before him, calling upon a thoughtful man to take in its stupendous simplicity and depth. But very little attention did this reader pay to the words over which his eyes were roving. It is an actual fact that it had not deeply impressed itself upon him that it was important to give his entire mind to what he read. His thoughts, if they had been written out, would have been something like this. I wonder what that immaculate Mrs. Edmonds would think. Could she know how I am occupied just at this time? She believes that I have gone to the dogs because I have chosen to accept a salary which will help my father, instead of hanging around all winter doing nothing, waiting for something to come to me. It is not the position which I should have chosen, but it is the one evidently to which Providence assigned me. When he thought this he felt religious in the extreme, and put away even from his memory all knowledge of the fact that his own obstinacy and carelessness had closed some doors which were apparently wide open. The first chapter of Genesis and the accompanying thoughts moved on together. And God said, Let us make man in our image after our likeness, and so far from this new business demoralizing me, as I believe my Lady Edmonds hopes it will, I am actually beginning a new life because of it. I wonder if Marjorie reads her Bible every day, such as Saint George's mother must have brought her up to these habits I should think, though to be sure Marjorie has a mind of her own. The views of most other people do not affect her. I fancy I know one who can influence her when he really sets about it. That little glide seemed to think that all Marjorie needed to bring her out as a church member was for me to take the lead. I shouldn't wonder if she were correct. I think I shall unite with the church at once. There is no use in waiting after one's mind is made up. I believe the communion service in our church occurs on the first Sunday in the year. That is an interesting time at which to take a stand. I should like to have Marjorie join with me, but that would be too soon for her perhaps, and on the whole the effect may be better if I come out first and alone. There might be some who would be foolish enough to think that I was influenced by her if we came together. I think I will go alone, if there are no others to join at that time so much the better, as my example will be all the stronger. The chapter finished, and he ended it with the thought. I hope some of those self-righteous persons who decided that because I tried to do the best I could for my family I was on the high road to perdition, will have their eyes opened to see that there are thoughtful, conscientious people in the world besides themselves. He closed the Bible and assumed the attitude of prayer. When before had he been on his knees? His mind went swiftly back to the time when his little sister Dora lay dying, and the minister asked them all to kneel while he prayed for her passing soul. He had knelt with the rest but kept his eyes on his sister's face, and had seen a strange light come into her eyes, and a heavenly smile bathe her features as though the angels about whom she had talked had indeed come to get her. As a matter of fact, when the prayer was finished and they arose from their knees, it was found that Dora had gone away. Ralph had thought then that he never should forget that look, and the impressions which the entire scene left upon his heart. But he was barely sixteen at that time, and he had not thought of his little sister before for years. One sentence of the minister's prayer came back to him as he knelt, and wondered what it would be proper to say. Prepare us each for this solemn hour when it shall come to us. The thought of death had startled him then. It startled him now. He did not want to be prepared for that solemn hour. He wanted to live. He intended to live, to be a successful businessman, yes, and a successful Christian, to be respected, admired. He had always been considered an estimable young man. It was quite time that he was also an example for others in this direction. He had no objection whatever, so that it did not interfere with his success in life. Oh, he did not let that idea halt before him, so he could look at it and see what it really meant. It simply floated through his mind. It will be noted that he had yet to learn that people who are prepared for the solemn hour of death are the only ones who are ready to live. But all this was not praying. The kneeling man began to feel a certain sense of ah at the thought that he was in the presence of the Lord and preparing to speak to him. What words would be appropriate? What did he want? If he had but realized that he did not want anything, which it would be wise to bring before the Lord Jesus Christ, the thought might have helped him. Instead, he began to feel that he must be naturally of a very reverent disposition, since the idea of prayer filled him with such a sense of ah. At last he decided, and began in an appropriate tone, Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, and continued through to the majestic closing, for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory. Nothing he assured himself could be more proper than the Lord's own prayer which he had himself taught his disciples. That ought to voice all the needs of the human soul, and it was as familiar to him as his own name. Alas for Ralph, the green parrot on its perch in the minister's study, could have recited the words nearly as well as he, and would have had almost as full a sense of their deep spiritual meaning. Thy kingdom come! How little this young man cared for the Lord's kingdom! If his prayer had been answered then and there, and the kingdom had been set up on the earth, hardly anything could have interfered more entirely with his plans and hopes. How very far he was from desiring to do the Lord's will! Whenever that will was pleasant, convenient, in a line with his own ideas and inclinations, why then, of course? But the moment the wills crossed, it must be Ralph Bramlett's which was to have the ascendancy. This was not only his wish, but his intention, although he had never put it into words. More is the pity, if we would occasionally put our passing thoughts into bold words and study their spirit, they might teach us to know ourselves. Ralph Bramlett did not in the least understand that such was his trend of thought. On the whole he arose from his knees quite satisfied with himself. He had begun the new life. He had read the Bible. He had prayed. He had declined to give any promise to glide concerning these matters, and had not, when he left her, intended to give them a second thought. So it was no weak girl's influence which had brought him to a decision. It was his own superior judgment and will. This recollection gave him great pleasure. Meantime, Mr. Maxwell's acquaintance with the Edmunds family had made rapid progress. Not apparently because of the planning of any of them, but by natural sequence. On the first evening following their walk together, when he and Marjorie met in the hall, it was, of course, entirely the proper thing to do to ask particularly after her welfare, and as to whether the unusual exposure on the evening before had worked ill in any way. Of course, for Marjorie to have assumed the air of a stranger, after his extreme friendliness and kindness would have been ridiculous. So they presently found themselves chatting together as friends of some standing. Mr. Maxwell had a book in his hand, and explained to Marjorie that he had found a description of her glen, or else there was a remarkable degree of similarity between two choice portions of the world, and he challenged her to listen while he read. This roused a discussion with regard to that glen and some others, and led to a talk concerning that particular author and other authors and books in general, so that, when Mr. Maxwell, who had been invited to take a seat while he was reading his extract, arose to go, it came to pass that it was quite an hour later than when he stopped in the hall for kindly inquiries. He apologized for his intrusion, and Mrs. Edmonds met him cordially. Don't apologize, I beg. We have enjoyed the hour. Marjorie and I are often quite alone here at this time of day. It is pleasant to have company, and to talk with a third person about the books we have been reading is a refreshment to me. I come in contact with so few people in these days who seem to read books at all, at least any that I care for. As she spoke, her daughter regarded her with a sort of tender surprise. Had her mother then been often lonely? They had lived such a preoccupied and entirely satisfactory life together, she and Ralph, that the mother had perhaps been sometimes almost forgotten. Oh, they had read many books together, she and her mother. Their winter afternoons were almost certain to be spent in this way. But when Ralph came, the books had been laid aside as a matter of course, and conversation and music had taken their place with her. Not with her mother, she was obliged to admit. Mrs. Edmonds did not sing, and Marjorie realized that their habits of late, hers and Ralph's, had been to go early in the evening to the piano, to turn over the music, and sing snatches of favorite songs, conversing together between times generally in low tones so as not to disturb the reading which was being carried on at the further end of the room. Her mother always had beside her a book which was supposed to occupy her quiet moments. It really had not occurred to Marjorie until now, that possibly at those times she felt alone. It was perhaps because she was grieved and penitent over this new idea that she accepted with such cordiality Mr. Maxwell's next kind offer of friendship. They had been speaking about a new book, one which was creating a sensation in the literary world. In the course of the next two or three days Mr. Maxwell announced that he had secured a copy of the book, and that if it would be entirely agreeable he would like to read aloud from it on leisure evenings while they worked. He confessed frankly that he had grown very weary of reading alone, was in fact hungering and thirsting for an audience. This was while Ralph Bramlett was still in New York, so Marjorie's evenings were entirely at her disposal. She held the proposition with gratitude even on her own account. She had so many things to think about, with which she began to have an instinctive feeling that her mother was not in sympathy, that she could not help thinking it would be a relief to seem to be occupied in listening to someone reading aloud, while at the same time she was at liberty to carry on her own train of thought. But Mr. Maxwell proved to be a delightful reader, and the book he had chosen was one calculated to fascinate a cultivated taste. By the time he was well into the story, she had determined to leave her individual thinking to more convenient hours and give undivided attention to the book. They did not make very rapid progress with the story. It was surprising how many questions they had to stop to discuss, and how many arguments were carried on vigorously with regard to the writer's views or style or intentions. By degrees the entire plot of the book, not only as it had already appeared, but as they fancied it would develop, was eagerly discussed and improvements suggested, and, when a difference of opinion was expressed, each combatant argued with energy for his side. At first Marjorie meant to listen, allowing her mother and Mr. Maxwell to do the arguing. But this was by no means so easy a task as she had supposed. She found that her own ideas were pronounced, and would insist on being brought to the front. She found also that Mr. Maxwell's ideas often differed from hers, and that an argument between them could be spirited with a keen play of wit on either side, and yet could be thoroughly enjoyable. Very often during this war of ideas Mrs. Edmonds of Choice dropped a little into the background, and indulged in her own thoughts, which ran a little in this wise. How is it possible that Marjorie can enjoy such conversations with a thoroughly cultivated man, and not feel how sharp is the contrast between him and Ralph Bramlett? Because there is no accounting for the obtuse-ness of some young women under certain circumstances. During those days Marjorie's loyal heart drew no pictures illustrating the difference between the two gentlemen. She enjoyed Mr. Maxwell. She was ready to heartily agree with her mother that he was refined and scholarly, and that the hours of reading he had given them were very pleasant not only, but educational in the best sense. And perhaps at the very moment her heart would be wondering how much longer Ralph meant to wait before writing. Sometimes she would ask herself if it would be possible that she had so hurt him by her manner that afternoon, that he was really afraid to write at all. If she could have been sure of that she would have written to him during those early days. When Ralph finally returned and the notes were exchanged and the real break came, Mr. Maxwell became Marjorie's greatest stronghold. He knew nothing, of course, of the fiery trial through which she was passing. She could therefore sit quietly in his presence and seemed to listen as before to his reading, and live all the time her separate life of self-concentrated pain without tearing her mother's heartstrings by solitude. So she hailed the advent of another book when the first was finished, with such evident satisfaction as to deceive even her mother. Thus it came to pass that the readings became an almost nightly occurrence. If the reader noticed that Marjorie took little part in the discussions, he made no sign, but talked as well and with as keen a zest as before. And in truth Mrs. Edmonds was a woman whose ideas were well worthy of attention and respect. What a curious revelation there would have been to these three if the secrets of hearts could have suddenly been laid bare before them. Something like this would have been the result for each with surprised eyes to read. Marjorie It is just a year ago tonight that we went to Hartwell together, and Ralph gave me his photograph taken in that new way. And he said, Marjorie, let us have our photographs taken every year for each other until I am eighty. After that I suppose we will not care for fresh ones. I wonder if it is possible that he does not think of any of those old times. Oh, I must not think of them any more. I must not let poor Mama know that I am living in my past. Mrs. Edmonds My poor darling, if her mother only dared to tell her how much she sympathizes with her. Every one of these evenings is an anniversary of something which now gives her pain. If I could be sure that the pain would last, and that I ought to give her up to him, I would humiliate myself, yes, crucify myself for her sake, and try to bring them together. I am persuaded that it would take but a word from me. He is simply salking, and cannot get the consent of his pride to make the first advance. But oh, surely it cannot be that I ought! Mr. Maxwell She is paler than usual to-night. Women with hearts must needs feel, even though the object which calls out those feelings is made of the nearest putty. I must try to hold the mother's attention away from her tonight. I see no other way to help her yet. CHAPTER XVII Matters were in about this shape when Glide Douglas came one afternoon to have a little visit with Marjorie. Glide was a favorite not only with Marjorie but her mother. Mrs. Edmonds, who was always watching without seeming to, saw the brightening of her daughter's pale, quiet face as Glide appeared, and pressed with earnestness her invitation to remain to tea, promising if she would to make a certain kind of muffins of which the young people were especially fond. She was in the kitchen intent upon her hospitable task, and the two girls were alone in the pleasant back parlor. On the table lay the book which was being read aloud. Glide picked it up and examined it with interest from the flyleaf where Mr. Maxwell's name was written in his own hand to the few line illustrations scattered through it, stopping here and there to read a sentence as a word caught her eye. "'Is this nice?' she asked, using her pet word, which had to do duty for many unlike things. "'How interesting it looks, doesn't it? Are you reading it, Marjorie? You and your mother have good times together, reading books, don't you?' There was a wistful note in Glide's voice. The home life in this bit of a home was like a glimpse of paradise to her. Someway the Douglas family had never been in the habit of having much home life. "'It is a very good thing, I believe,' Marjorie said indifferently. At least my mother likes it, and Mr. Maxwell considers it quite a masterpiece. It is unlike anything that I ever read. I have not decided what I think about it. It is a religious novel, Glide. I never used to think that I could be made to care for religious novels.' "'Why not?' asked Glide quickly, wondering if possibly her opportunity might be coming. There were words that she wanted to speak to Marjorie if only she could discover just the right time. "'Do you mean that you thought you would not be interested in them because they had to do with religion?' "'No, not exactly that. But it has always seemed to me as though religion ought to have to do with true things, and as though fiction were not its realm. True religion, I mean. There is a certain shamkind which I despise in life and in books.' "'Ah, but a story, a good story, is just a picture of real life, I think,' said Glide eagerly. And if that is so, religion couldn't be left out, Marjorie, for religion has to do with real life, must have more or less, whether we want it to or not.' "'Why must it?' asked Marjorie, amused. Like Ralph Bramlett, she had always thought of Glide as a little girl. She found herself wondering how much the child could talk about such matters. "'Why, because?' said Glide, with great earnestness. Life is intertwined with it. Not with religion, perhaps, either. I do not know that I can make myself clear. What I mean is that life has to do with the facts which underlie religion, and must have. Why, all people sin and suffer and die, you know, Marjorie. I was going to say that all people loved, but sometimes that does not seem so certain. But the other three cannot be denied. And religion, the religion which I am talking about, means a saviour from sin and right living and eternal life. Now, how can these be ignored in any history of human life? When one stops to think of it, one would suppose that such tremendous issues as these must have to do with all stories that are worth considering. "'What do you know about suffering?' asked Marjorie, with sudden gravity. She felt, poor girl, that she had drank the cup of trouble almost to its dregs. But what could this young creature understand as to the first syllable of its meaning? "'Not much, of course,' said Glide, with sweet seriousness. In the light of other people's experiences I have never had any trouble worthy of the name. Yet young girls have their troubles, Marjorie, and petty as they may seem to others, and to themselves afterwards, they are hard while they last. One of the wonders about Jesus Christ is that he seems able to sympathize with little petty troubles as well as great ones. She was not accustomed to speaking of him thus familiarly. The effort to do so made her face flush and her voice tremble a little. Marjorie regarded her curiously and recognized the subtle change which had been so noticeable to the Douglas family. You are growing into a woman, Glide, she said. I used to think you were only a little girl. Oh, yes, girls have their troubles. I remember that mine used to seem very large. She spoke as though her own girlhood were a state which had been put far into the past. So you have gotten where you like religious books? She added, still regarding Glide with the air of one who was trying to understand some new development. You would enjoy this one, then. It is a pity you could not hear it read. Mr. Maxwell is an excellent reader and is so entirely in sympathy with the chief character in the story that he reads as though he were telling his own experience. Is Mr. Maxwell a Christian? There was no mistaking the eagerness in the girl's tone nor the interested light which suddenly flashed in her eyes. Marjorie could not repress a slight laugh. Is there anything so very wonderful about that, Glide? She asked. Your eyes shine like the stars. Yes, I suppose he is a Christian. In fact, I know he is, one of the very marked kind. He puts his religion first, I fancy. Does that awaken your curiosity to how he sees it? It rests me, said Glide with energy. Did you ever think, Marjorie, how very few Christian young men we have? Almost none indeed. There are only three or four in our large church, and they are absent from home most of the time. And when they are here, well, they are not the kind of Christians I am talking about. But there are so very few. Isn't it strange? So many girls are church members, and most of the boys seem not to have so much as thought of such things. How many of the girls have really thought of such things? asked Marjorie cynically. Do you not suppose that most of them joined the church because others did, or because it seemed the proper thing to be done next, or somebody that they wanted to please urged them to do so? I don't know, said Glide sorrowfully. I would not like to say so. One would not like to call in question the motives of others. I think we have acted very much that way, all of us perhaps. I have, I know. But oh Marjorie, I don't want to. I didn't join the church simply because others did. I joined because I meant it from my soul. But I haven't lived so, I know. I have lived as though religion was a very secondary matter indeed to me. I want to be different, and I want others to be different. I wish I knew how to reach and help somebody. I would like to know this Mr. Maxwell if he is the kind of Christian you think. They are so helpful, such people. I met one or two in New York. I had only a few minutes' conversation with them, but I cannot tell you how much they helped me. Glide made not the slightest attempt to analyze the feeling which led her to use the plural pronoun in speaking of her interview with Mr. Burwell. But now she had embarrassed her audience. Marjorie had not had the least expectation of awakening so humble a confession. Here, too, for her sarcastic criticisms in these directions had called forth only indignant protests, or the good-natured reminder that she was talking about something of which she knew nothing. Glide's tremulous voice and humble words were of another world than any which Marjorie knew. She had no reply ready, and was meditating a change of subject to muffins or some other safe commonplace when Glide began again. I'll tell you what I wish, Marjorie. It isn't a new idea. I have thought about it a great deal all this week. I wish with all my soul that you were such a Christian as you could be, and as I think you surely would be if you gave your heart to Christ's guidance. You could help us all so much. You know you have influence among those who need helping in this very direction. They are used to following your lead and are glad to do so. You could almost certainly lead them toward Christ. Oh, dear Marjorie, won't you think about this matter seriously? It seems to me I have thought of little else since the idea first came to me. Every time I have prayed I have asked the Lord to let me speak some word which might possibly influence you. Not that I wanted to be the one to do it. I was willing that anybody should do it, if you would only listen and take hold of the matter with the energy which you give to other things. Marjorie's embarrassment deepened. She was as unaccustomed to direct personal appeals upon this subject as Glide was to leading in a religious conversation. She was deeply moved, too, for almost the first time in her life. As she watched Glide's expressive face and thought of what she had known of her here to for, she told herself that here was a genuine experience. Glide knew what she was talking about and meant what she said, and, behold, she was appealing to her, Marjorie Edmonds, for help in a direction of which she knew nothing. Glide waited for her answer. It was evident that she expected one, and Marjorie did not know how to frame it. You dear little girl! She said at last, bending over and kissing the flushed cheek. I did not mean you when I made my sweeping, and I presume ill-natured remarks about a certain class of church members. I believe in you, and in a few other people. But about myself, as for my helping others, you are woefully mistaken in me. My influence is a mere name. The girls do not really follow my lead in any matter of importance, and never did. It is well perhaps that it is so, for no one could be farther away from leading them in the right direction than I am, and I never felt my influence over others less, or felt less inclined to exert any influence than at this time. I do not want anyone to follow me, I am sure. I am too far from being satisfied with the road I am traveling to desire any person to take it with me. But Marjorie, what I want is to have you follow Christ, and follow him so closely that the rest of us who are not so strong as you will be led to follow in your way. It isn't all a name, Marjorie, just joining the church and nothing more. Give me there is a reality in it, and a help such as nothing else can afford. If you really are dissatisfied with yourself, I am sure you will find it the very thing you need. But I confess frankly that I was not thinking so much of your needs as of those of others. You seem so self-reliant always that I cannot realize your needs as well as I can our own. It is the same with Ralph. I was saying something of this kind to him the other night. If you and he, I told him, were only Christians, such Christians as you could be, it seems to me that you could take all our circle for Christ this winter. Surely that would be an ambition worth living for. She coupled their names as a matter of course. This young girl who was really thinking of more important matters than a possible coldness between the two had forgotten if she had ever heard shrewd surmises of trouble between them. No one, save the parties immediately concerned, knew of a certainty that such was the case. It happened that this season, usually so gay, was one of marked quiet in their circle owing to the fact that there was illness of a more or less serious character in the families of two of their number, and also because several of the young people, prominent in their set, were away for the holidays. Moreover, Ralph Bramlett had not found his new position the mere sinecure that the commercial traveller had almost led him to expect. There was plenty of work to be done, and some of it of such a character as to require over hours and much puzzling to straighten out. It came to pass that more often than otherwise, instead of coming home on the sixth or even the five o'clock express, as his employers so often did, he was likely to have to wait for the seven-thirty accommodation, and, cold, tired, and cross, make his way out to the Bramlett farm supperless some time after the hour when the evening entertainments generally commenced. Those who knew these facts and knew no others saw abundant reason why both Ralph and Marjorie were absent from the few entertainments which the more courageous planned at this time. Even Estelle Douglas was not sure that Ralph had not called upon Marjorie a number of times during the past weeks. It was impossible for Marjorie not to change color under the sound of the familiar words which she had not heard for so long, and which were once of almost hourly repeatal, you and Ralph. She looked at Glyde closely with a shade of suspicion. Had she grown into a shrewd young woman, and was she trying in this way to win confidences which were not intended for her? No, Glyde's face was pure and her glance free and sweet, to act apart, however small, would be foreign to her nature. Her whole heart was evidently absorbed in matters far removed from such as those. What did he say? Marjorie asked, under the power of the thought that she must say something, and feeling too that it would be a comfort to hear from Ralph even at second hand. Oh, not much! He is skillful at evasion, you know, when he wishes to be. I had very little time to talk with him. It was the night of the stoddard lecture. He came for Estelle, I suppose, because he knew you were not at home, and it was only while we were waiting for her to come that I had any chance. Marjorie gave a little start. He had taken Estelle to the lecture then. She had not heard of this before. She had been in town that day on a shopping excursion, had chosen that particular day indeed, because of the lecture, and the thought that, for almost the first time in years, when a lecture of importance was to be given, Ralph would not ask her to enjoy it with him. She had not been able to decide to accept Mr. Maxwell's invitation to her mother and herself to keep him company, so she had persuaded that watchful mother that no other day would do for their important shopping in town. She had been tardy with her shopping, and they had come out in the accommodation. Marjorie told herself it was because they had been necessarily delayed, but in her heart she knew that a central reason for it was because she had heard that Ralph often took that train. He did not take it that evening, though she watched furtively every muffled traveler until the train was well out of the station. She thought of him as possibly detained for a still later train. For some reason it had not occurred to her that he would be at the lecture with a stell Douglas by his side. I do not think Ralph is interested, continued Glide humbly. I do not suppose my words to him did any good. I have thought since that perhaps they even did harm. But how easily you could influence him! He is always so ready to join you in any way. How can you bear not to use your power? He needs to be influenced now, I think, more than ever before. By this time the muffins were ready, and there came a summons to tea, much to Marjorie's relief. She felt that she could not have borne another word. To the surprise of the girls, Mr. Maxwell made a fourth at the table. Your mother tempted me, he explained gaily to Marjorie. She was taking up the muffins just as I brought the mail. Of course I could not resist the temptation to say that they looked like my mothers. What son could? And she was cruel enough to consider it a hint that I wanted some of them, though I give you my word of honour that no such thought was in my mind. He was a delightful addition to the family party. Glide, who was at first inclined to be half afraid of him, frankly admitted this when the tea was over. At all times a good talker, he exerted himself on this occasion apparently to entertain them all. In his heart was a desire to relieve Marjorie from the burden of talking. She looked so wan and worn that he could not help feeling a great pity for her. Unsignificant question he asked Glide, at least it became significant because of her answer. It was your first visit to New York, I believe? What was the best thing you brought away from there? The question was awakened by a passing curiosity to know how this young creature raided life. What would she regard as a best thing? Her quiet, serious answer took him by surprise. A fuller knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ. I knew him before, but not in the way in which I met him there, nor as I have realized his presence since. Then you brought away the best knowledge that life has, he said heartily. It is not possible to improve upon that except in degree, though you should live a hundred years. But what a place in which to find such a pearl. Jesus Edmonds does not such testimony go far toward redeeming the reputation of New York? Who is it that says we find what we are looking for? It was found to be a not difficult task to persuade Glide to remain for the evening reading. She confessed her hearty desire to do so, and explained that she had looked forward to an evening alone, for the girls were going out, and as father was not well mother would be likely to spend her evening in his room ministering to him. No, in answer to Mrs. Edmonds' careful inquiry, they would not be troubled by her late coming. She had prepared them for that by saying that she would perhaps stop at Auntie Bennet's for the evening. Auntie Bennet was their next door neighbor. They presently settled themselves for an hour of enjoyment. Glide brought out her work, and Glide established herself in a corner of the sofa beside her with a view to helping, and the reading began. One third of the book had already been read aloud, but Mr. Maxwell showed himself to be an excellent synoptist, and Glide was a good questioner, so she presently had a very fair idea of the opening chapters, and was prepared to listen to a somewhat elaborate description of some New Year's calls. They had a better time with New Year's calls than I do, she announced, in one of the pauses for conversation which made these readings so delightful. I always dread New Year's Day. Are calls from your friends particularly disagreeable to you on that day? Mr. Maxwell asked. Oh, I do not receive, not formally. I have almost no gentlemen friends. My sisters nearly always receive with some of their particular friends, and the callers we have are some of my father's business acquaintances, who keep up the formality more for old timesake than because they particularly enjoy it, I think. Men call whom my father rarely sees at any other time, and does not particularly care to see I fancy. But they sit and talk ever so long, and drink coffee, which I have to serve, and even smoke some of them. I have to be in attendance all the time to wait on them, the most of them pay not the slightest attention to me. Still, there are a few who do notice me, and then I wish they wouldn't. I am always glad when the day is over.