 CHAPTER XXIII. In due course of time the first Sabbath in the new year arrived, and Ralph Bramlett succeeded in creating fully as much of a sensation as he had planned. His mother was better, but too ill to think of attending church. This being the case, he had magnanimously decided to tell her of his intentions that Sabbath morning. He had been touched by her way of receiving the news. She was a shy, quiet mother, always dominated by her children, especially by her son. But she had kissed him, a thing she had not seemed to find an opportunity to do since he had considered himself a man, and shed a few tears over him, as she told him that he was her dear boy, that she had always known he would be a comfort to her, and that she had long looked forward in the hope of such a day. If she could only be in church to see him received, her bliss would be complete. He had returned the kiss warmly, and assured her that he meant to be a comfort to her always in the future as in the past, and had gone away feeling that he was a good son in every way, that there were not many like him. As they were driving to church, Ralph B. thought himself that it might be better to explain matters to his father lest the surprise be too great for him. Mr. Bramlett was not a professing Christian, but his son had no hesitancy in talking about such topics with him, and felt at no loss for the proper words. By the way, father, he said, just as his father had concluded a sentence about the unusually mild weather they were having for that time of year, I am to unite with the church today, I thought I would perhaps better mention it lest you might be taken by surprise. Well, said Mr. Bramlett, the single word bristling with surprise, I certainly am astonished, I hadn't thought of such a thing. When did you decide that? It is a sudden move on your part, isn't it? Not particularly so, sir, my mind was made up some days ago. Well, said Mr. Bramlett again, after a thoughtful silence, I suppose I am glad to hear it, I ought to be, I respect that sort of thing when it is genuine, I hope you know what you are about and mean it. I generally know what I am about, I believe, said Ralph with dignity. Yes, you think you do, I am sure. What I mean is that it would be a serious matter to make any mistakes in this line. It always seemed to me to be a very important thing this making a profession of religion. I know a good many people who don't appear to do anything but profess it, but there is a genuine kind and I have seen it, I wouldn't want any other kind myself. I don't think I understand you, sir, I trust you do not mean to intimate that I am not earnest in this matter, that my kind isn't genuine? Oh, no, no, of course not, I didn't mean anything special, I was only trying to put you on your guard. Young people sometimes enter into that sort of thing thoughtlessly, I think, though you are not one of the thoughtless sort exactly either. Well, I hope you will be glad of it. Silence for a few minutes, then Mr. Bramlett spoke again. You will be getting out of your present business pretty soon, won't you? I don't know why, I am sure. The son spoke testily. What has my present business to do with it? I am giving entire satisfaction, I believe, to my employers, and I am earning more money than has been earned in a single day on the farm since I have known it. Why should I undertake to make a change, at least in these hard times? Oh, I don't know, you know what I think about these things, Ralph. I am not a professor of religion myself, but as a man I have my views. You know I have never looked with satisfaction on this business of yours. There is something to be considered besides money. It didn't seem to me that it belonged to a religious profession to have to do with a distillery. If you will excuse the expression, sir, I must say that I consider that utter nonsense. I have no more to do with the distillery than you have. I suppose I would abolish it tomorrow if I had the power. I am certainly just as much of a temperance man as I ever was in my life. But why not look at these things from a common-sense standpoint instead of as children? The distillery is in existence, and its bookkeeping has to be done by somebody. Why in the world shouldn't I do it, and get the salary which they are willing to pay for it? There is neither more nor less liquor made because I am keeping the books. I look at that from a purely business point of view. As matters stand with us, I cannot afford to throw away a fifteen hundred dollar salary for the sake of sentiment. Is it mere sentiment, Ralph? Suppose the business were the making of counterfeit money. His son gave an irritable twist to his shoulders and prefaced his reply by a contemptuous exclamation which is beyond the scope of orthography. He did not believe that his father's strength consisted in argument. That strikes me as an exceedingly irrelevant remark, as far from referring to a parallel case as possible. The making of counterfeit money is against the law, the business in which the Sniders are engaged is sustained by the laws of the land, and they occupy an exceedingly respectable position in the world. If I ever reach as prominent a place as any member of that firm holds in the world's opinion, I shall have cause to be thankful. It does not seem to be necessary for us to discuss these matters any further, Father. My mind is quite made up, and my conscience is entirely at ease. Meantime the family you will remember is profiting by my decision. It would not have been possible for me to have surrounded my mother with as many comforts as I have since she has taken ill if it had not been for the salary which it seems to be orthodox to despise. If his aim was to silence his father, he succeeded. Mr. Bramlett was not at any time a man of many words. The day was beautiful, and the large church was well filled. Those who were not regular in their attendance at any other time made an effort to get out to the First Communion Service of the year, that time which seems to be almost weighed down with the good and weak resolutions of the careless and ill at ease. A larger number than usual of those who were not communicants were present. It had in some way gotten abroad among the young people of their circle that Ralph Bramlett was on that day to be received into the church. In short, nearly everything connected with this new departure of his had worked according to his mind. Dr. Ford, upon being notified of the young man's intentions, had expressed his unbounded gratification there at, and had taken the deepest interest in the whole matter. Among other questions asked had come this. Do you care to tell me what led you to a consideration of this subject, or rather what led you to make the final decision? After this Ralph had reflected thoughtfully for a few moments, and then had replied that he supposed he might say that he had brought himself to the decision. The question had presented itself to him one night, not only as eminently practical, but as one which a reasonable person ought to decide without further delay, and he had accordingly done so. This reply seemed to impress his pastor exceedingly. He repeated it to the examining committee, and remarked that it was an illustration of the power of a cultivated conscience, and an encouraging reminder of the fact that the truth was working in quiet ways of which they knew nothing. He went home greatly encouraged, and told his wife that young Bramlett was a rather unusual young man. Truly he should think a man of decision and of action. Such a person ought to be a power among young men especially. He looked to see results from the stand which had been taken that day. His wife said, Bramlett, there is but one young man in the Bramlett family is there. He must be the one who has accepted a clerkship in that great distillery where the Sniders make their money. A rather strange position for one to take, who was contemplating uniting with the church, was it not? Yes, said the minister thoughtfully. I suppose this decision came afterwards. I had forgotten that he was employed there. Of course he is only a bookkeeper, but then, if he were my son, I shouldn't like it. He will probably make a change as soon as he can. Some things are queer, my dear. Perhaps we should not expect too much of young men who have to earn their own living. I learned the other day that our Mr. Bemis, who has been a member of this church for at least thirty years, is the probable owner not only of that large hotel on the corner of Bond and Belmont streets, but of the cafe and saloon connected with it on the other corner. Is it possible? said Mrs. Ford. Still an owner seems a little different, doesn't it? He doesn't run the hotel. No, he only leases it for a very large sum, and pockets the money. Some of it he puts into our church, quite a good deal indeed. He has benevolently inclined, you know. The hotel is chiefly famous for the choice wines and liquors which it furnishes its guests. What can we look for from the Ralph Bramlitz of the world when the church sets them such brilliant examples? He sighed as he spoke. He was a young minister, and had not been long in this pastorate, and every day gave him some fresh item to consider. There were times when he could not but feel that the problems of life were thickening around him. Oh, for young, strong men to lean upon and to lead into the thick of the conflict, would Ralph Bramlitz prove such in one? The examining committee had decided that his examination was eminently satisfactory. So was his public reception. It was, as he had supposed it would be, more marked because of his coming entirely alone. One or two of the brethren had commented on that. They said it showed independence of character and a strong conviction of his duty. It cannot be denied that, as the young man stood before the altar, listening to and giving grave assent to the articles of faith which that church held, he looked in all respects the model. More than one mother thought so, and sighed, and wished that their sons could have stood beside him. Some of them thought that his mother ought to have been there to see. They gathered about him after service, old friends and many new ones, and shook hands and congratulated him and themselves. Some of them spoke earnest words of advice. Old men in the church, who held his hand in a firm grasp as they did so, and he bent his head toward them and listened with deference, and honestly meant to profit by their words, and looked handsome and distinguished and could not forget that he did. When he had first planned this entire scene, it was Mrs. Edmonds and her daughter whom he had especially meant to impress. He hardly knew what he had expected from them. It happened that their seat was across the church from the one that he occupied, as far removed from his indeed as space would permit. And during the period of their estrangement it had not seemed strange that they had not even exchanged bows on Sundays. But on this day it was all to be different. He had meant to put himself directly in their way. Since he had planned to hold out his hand to Mrs. Edmonds, and gravely and magnanimously forgive her for all the supposed evil which she had done him. On New Year's Day he had almost decided not to make that proposed call in order to have the excitement of the first meeting on that eventful sabbath. Finding himself not willing to wait for this he had compromised. If Marjorie should happen not to be at home, then he would wait until Sunday, and looking at her with grave reproachful eyes as he held out his hand to her, would say, May I walk with you a little way as we used to do in the old times? But all these plans had been utterly and hopelessly destroyed. He was a person of consideration, but the ones for whom he had planned cared nothing about it. He met them in the aisle, it is true. He had been determined that he would, and bestowed upon Mrs. Edmonds the most dignified of bows, keeping its counterpart for Marjorie. Then at just the right moment, when it would be impossible for her not to hear, he had said to the young lady in front of her, Estelle, wait for me a moment, please, I must speak with old Mr. Crawford. He had put an air of quiet command into his tone, as one who had the right to direct her movements, and Estelle's expressive face had responded delightfully to his power. Did Marjorie understand? It was the only thing he could think of to show her that he was not crushed. Poor Ralph. If his aim had been to astonish Marjorie, it is almost a pity that he could not have known how thoroughly he had accomplished it. It happened that she had not heard of his intention until his name was announced in the church. One who was watching her might have noticed that as she caught the name, the blood rolled in waves over her face, and then as quickly receded, leaving her very pale. Indeed, her surprise amounted almost to dismay. Her own decision in regard to this matter had been so very recent, and her experience so brief, that the thought of recognition by the visible church had not even as yet occurred to her. Almost immediately, however, she had thought of Ralph. Had recalled what Glide had said about her influencing him, and had wondered in what ways she could bring that influence to bear upon him even now, so that he might be one for Christ. All those first days of her Christian life this may have been said to have been her study, a brave and loyal study. Every thought of influence which she had planned to bring to bear upon him, she had resolved, must come through Estelle Douglas. She must reach an influence her. Estelle was a church member, and could therefore be approached on the subject with some hope, at least, that she would be interested. And if she could be led to feel as Glide did, for instance, of course her thought in prayer would be for Ralph. Such was Marjorie's plan, and she had prayed long about it that morning. A peculiar prayer, chiefly a cry to this newly found powerful friend of hers, to take from her heart the feeling of a version for Estelle Douglas which had grown upon her of late, and help her to love her and be intimate with her, and to try in all wise kind ways to help her Christ word. She prayed that she might do this for her sake, and not alone for Ralph Bramlett's. Coming from such a prayer, it struck her strangely, almost bewilderingly, that this young man for whose soul she had wrestled was far ahead of her, was actually being received that day into the church, and she had not known that he had ever given this subject a serious thought. Strangely enough, this seemed to remove him still farther from her. If he had, during their estrangement, passed through the experience which had just come to her, without a thought of her in it all, with no desire to help her, then indeed he must have gotten very far away from the old friendship. Once more she asked herself the sorrowful question why he could not in it all have acted like a friend. She thought about it sorrowfully during the walk home while her mother and Mr. Maxwell talked together. How strange it all was! Such a little time ago that she and Ralph had gone that November morning in search of nuts and pleasure, and had spent one of their gayest and happiest days together. Then he had acted so strangely that evening, and then she had not exchanged a dozen words with him since, and the gulf was widening every hour between them. Could she even be friends with Estelle and try to help through her? Perhaps for some reason he did not want even this. How very strangely he had acted. Since he was a man and had her right to speak, why had he not come to her frankly and told her the story of his discoveries and asked her to rejoice with him in his new plans and hopes. She thought that she could have done it. She had put herself so entirely into the background that, for the time being, she believed herself ready to rejoice with him in anything that gave him joy. How unaccountable it was that it had seemed to him necessary to put this old friend of his so utterly away from him that he could not even clasp hands with her on this morning of mornings. She had it in her heart to say, Ralph, I am so glad, God bless you! And he had given her no chance. Arriving at home she went directly to her room and closed and locked her door and locked the communicating door and sat down on a low chair by the window which was her favorite seat and hid her face in her hands. She shed no tears, she was rarely given to tears. Be glad for her that after a few minutes of intense and nerve-straining silence she slipped from her chair to her knees. She believed that life was thorn spread for her, but she had found a comforter. In the parlor was Mr. Maxwell looking for a book and preparing to pass the brief interval of time which intervened between the church service and his going out for his dinner. Contrary to her usual custom, Mrs. Edmunds lingered also. She had seen the look on her daughter's face. She knew that she must be left alone, that even the sound of someone moving about in that other room would be, perhaps, a pain to her. So she waited below, moving restlessly from one point to another, taking up and laying down first a book, then a paper. Presently, seeing Mr. Maxwell's inquiring eyes upon her, she left a little consciously. I am really developing nerves in my old age. She said, I hardly know why I should feel so disturbed. One thing I am afraid of, that I am growing suspicious and cruel in my judgments. I have no good reason for it, but I cannot believe in the sincerity of that young man who was received into the church today. I hope I may be doing him injustice, but I really could not feel as though there was anything but the merest form about it all. He did not laugh in response, as she had half expected that he would, but instead dropped the book at which he had been looking, and began a slow, thoughtful walk up and down the room, his face grave almost sad. At last he stopped before her, still grave. Perhaps we are both being overcritical, he said. I must frankly confess to you that, without sufficient cause it may be, I have very much the same feeling. I have seen a little of the young man lately, and I must own that the service this morning, the part of it with which he was connected, gave me only pain. We have too many church members now whose entire moral standard is low. Still, of course, we may both be mistaken. Let us hope and pray that it may prove so. CHAPTER XXIV As Marjorie had expected, very early in the week which followed that eventful Sabbath, came Estelle Douglas with her confidences. Oh Marjorie! she began, as soon as they were left alone together. I have something to tell you, a secret for nobody but you as yet, and it is about something so wonderful to have happened to me. Then had followed in detail the story which Marjorie had been sure she would hear, a story so glorified by being drawn through the channel of Estelle's heart that Ralph himself would not have recognized it. The commonplace words, which had been spoken, as it will be remembered he had admitted to himself, on the impulse of the moment, had sounded to Estelle's eager ears like the most passionate appeal. In full belief in her honesty she was so translating it to Marjorie. And I was so astonished, she said. Oh, you cannot imagine what a surprise it was! You see, it all came upon me so suddenly. Why, I have been for years in the habit of supposing that you and Ralph were, if not formally engaged, at least so sure of each other that you did not think of anybody else. Though Ralph and I have always been good friends you know, and I could not help noticing that of late he has taken the trouble to seek me out more than he used to. I did not understand it, and was anxious and troubled. Actually, Marjorie, I was anxious about you some of the time. But when Ralph explained to me that that was all the merest nonsense, and that you and he had never been anything to each other but real good friends, nor had thought of any other relation in your lives, why it made everything look entirely different. Marjorie, you who know him so well must be ready to congratulate me, I am sure. Isn't it strange that after being brought up in the same town, as we have been, going to school together, and all that sort of thing, and you and Ralph being so exceedingly intimate all these years, that all of a sudden one may say he decided that I must be his special friend for life? Still, it is not so surprising after all when one thinks of it. People rarely marry those with whom they were intimate in childhood and early boyhood. Extremely intimate, I mean. But I certainly was very much deceived, and I think other people have been. Why, Marjorie, almost everybody thought you were engaged to Ralph Bramlett. If you had cared, dear, I never could have listened to him, of course. I don't know what I should have done, but I am so glad to know that it has all turned out just right in every way. She was very sincere. Her heart was full of love and desire for all humankind. She had not the slightest wish to hurt Marjorie. Why should she have? She was sincerely and heartily glad over her supposed discovery that there had been always an understanding of friendship between Ralph and her schoolgirl friend, and that Marjorie was at least on the verge of a very satisfactory settlement of her own future. She was a girl of a vivid imagination in some directions, and had been given all her life to the habit of doing much planning ahead. During the short time since there had been what she called an understanding between Ralph and herself, she had indulged in her favourite habit. One query was whether she and Marjorie were not sufficiently intimate friends to plan their marriages for the same day. The ceremonies could be performed in the church, thus giving their very large circle of acquaintances opportunity to be present. It would be peculiarly appropriate, too, she thought, since Ralph and Marjorie were such old and very intimate friends. To unite their forces would give each the opportunity to make a better display than either could do alone. Yes, she said display in connection with it. She would not have been Estelle Douglas if she had not. One does not plan to be married but once in a lifetime, she told herself. Why shouldn't one have everything as grand as possible? Marjorie and I would look well together. We are sufficiently unlike to set off each other's appearance. Of course it would not do to talk about it yet. She must wait for Marjorie's confidence, and even then she must suggest it to Ralph before talking it over with Marjorie. Because, she admitted to her secret self, he was inclined to have a mind of his own, and it might occur to him to dislike the entire plan. She must wait. Besides, of course she could not speak of the details of marriage until Ralph had hinted that there was such an event in expectation. With these thoughts in mind, though she would not for the world have allowed them to appear on the surface, Estelle closed her confidence by asking what she meant to be a very pointed question. And now, Marjorie dear, I have chosen you, you see, for my most confidential friend, told you every little particular almost, and I haven't told anybody else outside of our own family. Ralph says he has a horror of people gossiping about our affairs, and I certainly agree with him. But you are different from other people. I told him that I would like to tell you all about it, and he agreed that that was a very different matter from talking to people in general. Why, you and he are almost like brother and sister, aren't you? What a disagreeable sister he has, by the way. I never could endure Hannah Bramlett. But what I was going to ask you, dear, was, haven't you a story to tell me? We ought to be very intimate friends now, you and I. I am sure you must have something nice to tell me in return. Yes, said Marjorie, a grave sweetness in tone and manner. I have. I thought when I saw you coming to-day that I would like to tell you my story, and I have a special desire to do so after hearing yours. Something very wonderful has come to me, Estelle. After living in indifference toward him all these years, I have suddenly learned the value of a friend who has been calling after me, asking my trust and my allegiance. He has been very patient with neglect and almost insult on my part, and has waited for me. At last I have listened to his call and given myself to him. I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ, Estelle, forever. And Estelle, dear me, do you mean that you have made up your mind to join the church? What a queer way you have of telling it! You don't do anything like anybody else, Marjorie, do you? The slow color mounted in Marjorie's face. Was there any use in coming to Estelle Douglas with confidences like these? Still she tried. As I said, Estelle, I have a special desire to talk with you about this now. I realize how much more you and Ralph can be to each other because you both belong to Christ. How very, very glad you must have been to have seen him take the stand which he did last Sunday! Estelle regarded her with curious, wondering eyes. This was so unlike the story which she had expected to hear. Yes, she said, after a moment. Of course I was glad. It was very nice of him to join the church. How splendid he looked, didn't he? I heard ever so many speak of it. I have always thought him fine-looking, but I never saw him look so well as he did last Sunday. That is the most becoming suit of clothes he ever had, and I think it was nice in him to wear it then for the first time. It showed such respect for the service, you know. Oh, I was delighted, you may be sure, but awfully surprised. I didn't know a thing about it until I heard his name announced from the pulpit. Glide came home from somewhere the night before, with a story to the effect that he was going to be received the next day. But I laughed at it. I said people were always talking about Ralph, and that that was the last idea they had gotten up. I thought, of course, he would have mentioned it, or that I should have heard of it in some way if there had been any foundation for the report. Wasn't it queering him to keep it so private even from me? Did you know anything about it beforehand, Marjorie? No, said Marjorie, glad for Estelle's sake that she could answer promptly in the negative. But dismayed to think that these two were beginning their life together in this way. How extraordinary that Ralph should not want to talk it all over with the one whom he had chosen, explaining to her the wonderful revelation which he must have had, and the solemn conclusions which he must have reached about many things. It was not like Ralph to be so reticent. I tell you everything, he had said to her, not six months before. A plan is only half formed in my mind before I have to rush off to you with the story of it. She had rejoiced in his confidences. She was not, like Estelle, given to making or receiving them. She had felt that she was Ralph's only confidential friend. But now that he had changed everything, of course that entire oneness of feeling, which had seemed to be between him and herself, ought to be a mark of this new relation which he had formed. Actually, she began to be anxious for them. No, not for them, for him. She wanted him to begin entirely right and to be entirely happy. Her love for him had by no means turned to bitterness. She must name it friendship hereafter. But it was honest, earnest friendship. Every good gift that earth had to be stow, she claimed for him. She believed in him as thoroughly as ever girl believed in man. He had done wrong, she felt, in not trusting her, in not being sure that she would be his friend and helper, though she was to have nothing more. But that was because she had not shown him plainly enough her better nature, so that he could dare to trust it. If she had seemed selfish and exacting to him, he could not help that. She wanted all womanly graces for Estelle because she was his promised wife. She wanted to love her, help her. She yearned over her almost as a mother might over a child. Suddenly Estelle, who was two years older than herself, seemed young and ignorant of the world compared with herself. Perhaps he wanted to give you a beautiful surprise. She said, speaking a part of her thought aloud, Estelle, I am glad for you that Ralph has settled the question of all questions. You will be able to help each other in a truer sense than you could have done without this. And to help other people, there is so much to be done in the world. It seems strange that I never realized it before. I don't think Ralph will be a half-hearted Christian. I look for him to be a power in the church, for both of you to have great influence. She added this last part of the sentence hastily. What good times you and he can have reading and studying the Bible together and praying and planning your work for Christ together. There was an exalted light in her eyes as she spoke, and no tremble of her lips. She had not for nothing spent half the night praying over this entire matter. Estelle, she added earnestly, begin right. Don't make the mistake of putting Ralph first. That is natural for us women. We have to watch it. Put Christ first, and live a strong life for him. It is in that way that you can best help your husband. My religion means so much to me. I have known this powerful friend of mine but a few days, and yet it seems as though he had accomplished great things for me already. Excuse me if I seem to be giving advice. I am inclined to forget that other people know him much better than I do. Estelle laughed a little in a half-embarrassed way. You are an enthusiast, she said. You remind me of Glide. She has gotten some new and queer ideas since she went to New York. By the way, the child had a talk with Ralph, don't you think? The idea. And I had never dared to open my lips to him on the subject. I must ask him now just what she said. It was before we were engaged. Why, Marjorie, of course we will live as Christian people ought to when we live together. That is a time away in the distance, I presume. We have not begun to plan for it. But I do not think that I was ever intended to be—well, to get into a fever of enthusiasm about matters of this kind. I am a plain practical person. I believe in doing church work, of course, and in being identified with all its interests in a reasonable way. If I had any money to give, I should like to give it through the church. I always thought that would be great fun. Ralph will have to do that part. I shouldn't wonder if he would be a rich man one of these days, Marjorie. Despite his anxiety to study law, he is developing into quite a business man. Father heard that young Mr. Snyder say that he was the best bookkeeper they ever had, and that they meant to hold on to him and make it worth his while to stay with them. Nothing could make it worth his while, said Marjorie, with a sudden flesh of indignation which was more like her old self than anything Estelle had seen that morning. I do not believe he will remain there. I do not see how any motives which have to do with money-making or mere business advantages can have weight with him now. He owes it to his position as a Christian to throw his entire influence on the side of right, and while he is engaged in helping to manage such a business as the Snyders, he cannot do this. Oh, well! said Estelle, rather coldly. People have different ways of looking at these things. I never saw anything very wrong about his being bookkeeper in an establishment. He has nothing whatever to do with the business. If he were offered a partnership that might be another matter, but as it is that is being sentimental Marjorie, Ralph isn't sentimental. I wonder you and he got along together so long as you did, for you are very much so. I think Ralph has a splendid streak of real good common sense, and that he showed it when he refused to stay around home and wait for an opportunity to his mind, but went right to work in the first place that opened for him. He has done some very nice things for his mother since he began to get a regular salary. I don't know how they would have gotten along now that she is sick without his help. There are worse things in the world than a fifteen hundred dollar salary, and I should think none the worse for Ralph for looking twice at it before he decided to give it up for a mere sentiment. Still, there is no use in our discussing it. Ralph has a mind of his own and will do as he likes. You made that discovery some time ago, didn't you? On the whole the talk closed most unsatisfactorily. Estelle went home feeling annoyed over what she chose to consider a criticism of Ralph. All the more sensitive, be it confessed, because her father had expressed himself frankly as disapproving of a distillery clerk for a son-in-law. As for Marjorie, there was a sinking feeling at her heart that Estelle was not calculated, in the truest sense of the word, to be a help to Ralph Bramlett. There was also a dreary fear that she would not be able to help either of them in the ways in which she had tried to plan. In point of fact she had little opportunity to try to help them. The intimacy which both girls had sincerely intended to cultivate did not make progress. Marjorie took an early opportunity to return Estelle's call and was quite as friendly and social as she knew how to be, but already there had come to Estelle a mysterious change. She said nothing about there being confidential friends or of Marjorie being like a sister to Ralph. She talked much about that young man it is true, speaking of him always with a certain air of appropriation which would have been amusing if Marjorie had felt like being amused, but at the same time with a certain reticence as regarded his affairs, which was as new as it was mysterious. Neither would she allow herself to be approached in the slightest degree upon the religious side of her nature. You were not at prayer meeting last evening? began Marjorie by way of trying to introduce the thoughts which were uppermost in her mind. No! Ralph had a headache and was nearly tired to death. I told him I did not think it was his duty to attend the prayer meeting while he was kept at business as late as he was last night. There is something besides prayer meetings to be thought of in this world. I just squarely coaxed him to stay with me instead. She said this with a little defiant toss of her head as though she expected Marjorie to disagree with her and would rather enjoy having her do so. He spoke of prayer meeting and said perhaps we ought to go, and I said perhaps we ought not to do any such thing, that I had been a member of the Church a good deal longer than he had, and not to be the better judge. I don't believe you can make either of us into fanatics, with a little un-musical laugh. I told Ralph something of what you said the other day. What do you suppose was his reply? He said you were the sort of material of which they used to make martyrs in the times when martyrs were fashionable. But he and I are not. We are real flesh and blood beings. Glide now is developing into a regular fanatic. She will be a disciple after your own heart. Last night there was a little gathering at the gardeners. New people, you know, and very choice. Harmon Gardener seems really to have taken quite a fancy to glide. She was invited last night. Only a dozen or twenty young people were honored. Even Fanny and I were not invited. No one but Glide. And Harmon Gardener wanted to call for her and take her there. Do you believe the child would not go? Simply because it was prayer meeting night. Mother told her she thought she might be excused under such special circumstances. She hasn't been going out much, you know, and this was a choice opportunity. Even Ralph tried to influence her. He told her she was standing in her own light, and that she must allow her judgment to come in and help settle some matters. It was all of no sort of use. She was just as firm as any little martyr you ever heard of. Not a step would she go, and she told Harmon Gardener the reason. He called early in the evening to see if he might come for her at the proper time, and she got it off to him just as though it was an excuse that he could appreciate. It was the regular prayer meeting evening in her church, and she had resolved not to let anything but necessity interfere with her going. I am very sorry. I heard him say in a disappointed tone, I wish this were a necessity. He acted as though he did not care whether the other guests came or not. I was provoked with glide. Ralph says Harmon Gardener is a very superior young man, but that is what happens to people when they get fanatical margaery, they take leave of their common sense. I shall have to confess that I'm glad Ralph isn't of that sort. By the way, that reminds me of his sister. You wouldn't have picked her out for a religious fanatic, would you? Notwithstanding the fact that she looks as though she had been a martyr all her days, but she has taken up a new role very lately. Nobody knows what has started her. She wants to go out to the Mission on Sunday afternoons, wants Ralph to drive her there and wait while she picks up somebody to teach. The idea, the only day of rest that he has. He told her it was out of the question for him to spend his Sabbath time in that way, and that if she got there she must walk. She was quite rod up about it, he says. She has gotten an idea that she ought to be doing somebody some good. Suppose you go and call upon her margaery. Perhaps you will find her just to your mind. CHAPTER XXV The last sentence had closed with the most disagreeable form of Estelle's disagreeable little laugh, and margaery had gone away a few minutes thereafter, wondering sorrowfully what could have come between them since their last talk together. Estelle had been indifferent enough then, but not almost bitter. Could it be that she had an unfortunate way of talking about religious matters which awakened the prejudices of others, and were Ralph and Estelle between them going to make little Glide's life a trial instead of a joy to herself and a blessing to others? She was right in her impression of a barrier having been set up between Estelle and herself since their last meeting. Many of her words on that occasion had been reported to Ralph, not carefully, for Estelle was not by nature a careful reporter. As has been said before, she gave often her impression of facts instead of the facts themselves. Therefore the unpleasant impression she had received from margaery's criticism of Ralph's business was duly reported in such a way that they made Ralph's dark face flush and his eyes look fierce. For instance, this. Don't you believe, Ralph? She says you cannot be a Christian because you are a clerk in a distillery. Did you ever hear of such absurd nonsense? Indeed, he had said haughtily. What am I, then, a hypocrite? After hearing all that Estelle had to tell, he had said with almost an air of authority, I think, my dear, that the less you have to do in the future with that young woman, the better it will be for you and for all concerned. She is evidently not the margaery we used to know intimately. Constant fellowship with a fanatic and a prig are making their impress upon her. She has chosen her own ways and must be allowed to go in them. It will be just as agreeable, perhaps, if our ways do not lie in the same direction. And then Estelle, who had fancied that he would like it if she would be very intimate with margaery, immediately changed her intention, somewhat relieved there at, admitting, not only to herself but to him, that margaery was not quite to her mind. She liked her, of course, as did all the girls, but then she had always been queer and was queerer now since she had taken up these peculiar ideas with regard to religion. She has become simply an echo of Mr. Maxwell, she added, laughing. It is undoubtedly his influence which has so changed her. He is, as you say, a fanatic. I have not exchanged a dozen sentences with him, but I can see that. I wonder if your influence will be as forceful over me as his is over her. At least I am glad that you are not fanatically inclined. Well, I shall have as little to do with her as politeness will permit. So it came to pass that, after this exchange of calls, there were days even weeks together when the two did not meet. Margaery had by no means cast off either Estelle or Ralph. She had prayed and was praying for them too earnestly to do this. She thought about them a great deal, always coupling their names in her thoughts with a resolute determination which would have been pitiful to one who could understand the human heart. Loyalty in thought as well as in action was a necessity to a nature like hers. She watched for the two each week in the prayer meeting, but they did not come. Part of the time it was headache and disinclination, but often, so far as Ralph was concerned, it was genuine detention at his place of business. As the weeks went by and he succeeded in proving himself a success in his work, more and more heavy responsibility was laid upon him, and more entirely was he trusted. This was all very pleasant from one point of view, but it made his work hard and his evenings sometimes short and full of anxiety. Meantime Margaery received one day an unexpected call from Hannah Bramlett. She had never been intimate with this young woman, chiefly perhaps because of the disparity in their ages, and while she had not shared the manifest dislike of Estelle Douglas, she yet confessed to herself that she did not feel drawn to the girl in any way. Intimate as she had been with Ralph during these many years, she and his sister had not exchanged a dozen calls in their lives, and of late had had hardly even a speaking acquaintance. It was therefore with surprise, and a little nervous query as to why she had come and what they should talk about, that Margaery went down to receive her. I have been wanting to come and see you for a week or two, began Hannah abruptly, as soon as the ordinary civilities had been exchanged. I wanted to have a talk with you. I heard you had been converted, is it so? Why, I knew it must be so. You go to prayer meeting every week, now they say, and have taken a class in Sunday school. I want to teach in the Sunday school, but there is no one to go with me anywhere. I wish there were, or else that women did not have to be hedged in by all sorts of rules. Well, that's not what I came for. What I wanted to talk to you about was doing things. The church Sunday school comes at a time when I can't leave home. Mother isn't well, she doesn't get her strength back. She was a good deal sicker than they thought, that time when I was away. I have to look after things a good deal that she used to see to herself. So I'm needed just at Sunday school time. Now what is there that I can do? Perhaps you will wonder why I don't ask my own brother, since I've come to a beginner, and he is one. But the truth is, he hasn't your kind of beginning. His is Estelle Douglas' kind, and that's a pity, I think. He is in earnest, at least I hope he is, but he is young and busy and easily influenced, and Estelle Douglas isn't the sort of girl to influence a young man like that in the right way. It is a pity to have to say so. I oughtn't to do it, perhaps, since they are engaged to each other. But I'm not saying it out on the street. You know them both. I used to think, Marjorie, that you were to be my sister, and I always liked the notion. Excuse me for speaking of it. She added deprecatingly, as she saw the red on Marjorie's cheeks deep in and spread. I don't mean to be rude. They have always called me blunt, and I suppose I am. I never succeed in saying the right thing somehow. What I mean is that you seem different from other girls. You always have been for that matter, and I thought you would be a different kind of a Christian from others. I have never been satisfied with my religion. It is genuine, I think, what I've got of it. But you can't keep a thing like that corked up all the while and do nothing for anybody else and have it amount to much. Oh, I know there is work at home. That is what Dr. Ford tells me. But it is work that I can't do, except housework and things of that kind. I can do plenty of that, and I do do it. I'm not planning to shirk it. But I want a little bit of the other kind, just enough to keep me alive. Mother is a Christian woman, if ever there was one, and she doesn't need any doing for in that line. And Father, well, there isn't a living thing I can do for him, except to make him as comfortable as I know how and look after his clothes and all that. Father is bound up in Ralph, and Ralph can influence him. But I can't. He doesn't even think I'm grown up yet, though I am going on to twenty-seven years. He just thinks of me as a little girl who ought to stay at home and mind her mother and be good. And mother thinks that I am hard on Ralph because I see his faults and speak of them once in a while when I love every hair of his head better than I do my whole body. I die for him any time. But there, that's nothing to do with what I want to talk about. The point is, Marjorie, isn't there a living thing for me to do in the world for somebody? I get so downright sick of myself sometimes that it doesn't seem as though I could endure myself any longer. I thought that when Ralph joined the church, perhaps it would be different. Perhaps he would go to work at something somewhere, and I could get in. I thought about his coming home early on prayer-meeting nights and me having his supper ready and he driving back to town and taking me along. But he doesn't do anything of the kind. Half the time he can't help it. He has to stay in that old distillery so late that he loses all the early trains, and a good deal of the time he doesn't come home at all until eleven or twelve o'clock. He stops at Douglas's, and has his supper there and lounges in their back parlor and is petted by Estelle. That is natural, too, of course. I have no business to find fault with it. But it isn't the way I planned. Nothing ever was or ever will be, I presume. But I just thought that I would come and have a talk with you, and ask if you knew anything in life that a body like me could do. Isn't there a poor girl or a poor boy somewhere, who hasn't any friends, whom even I could help? Marjorie regarded her collar with the deepest interest and sympathy. This was different from any Hannah Bramlett that she had known. Her talk sounded like the cry of a hungry soul. Would it be possible, for one who felt the need of being herself set to work, to help this other one? There are people enough who need your help, she said at last, if we only knew where to find them. With so much to be done in the world, it is an infinite pity that one who is willing to work should not find the people and the opportunity. The people who need helping are more easily found than the opportunity. I have been thinking all the morning of one who is in sore need, but how to reach him in any way I haven't the least idea. Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Jack Taylor? I have become painfully interested in him quite lately. It is only a short time since he buried his wife. While she lay dead in the house, he reeled home intoxicated, not knowing what had happened. It was a terrible shock to him, sobered him at once. He has been in a wretched condition ever since. It seems that the poor fellow loved her in spite of his treatment of her, and now that it can do her no good he is trying to reform. But it is going to be very hard work. He is utterly discouraged. He feels that he has disgraced himself in the eyes of all who know him, and that he has no friends. I know a Jack Taylor by sight, said Hannah, but he cannot be the one you are talking about. This one is a mere boy. I noticed him a few days ago passing our house, and asked Father who he was. He said he was a worthless fellow whose name was Jack Taylor. He had secured work at the Simmons Place, that is, half a mile or so beyond us. But he supposed he wouldn't keep it long because he didn't stay sober twenty-four hours at a time. The character fits the one you know, but this fellow cannot be more than nineteen. It is the same one, said Marjorie. He looks like a boy, and is a boy in fact, not twenty-two yet, though he has been married nearly two years. We heard that he had gotten work at the Simmons Place. I do hope he can keep it. If he did not have to pass a dozen saloons on his way out there, I should have more hope of him. He goes back and forth, you say. I wonder if it would not be possible for them to let him sleep their nights so that he would not be subject to so much temptation. I don't know, said Hannah. I wonder if it can be possible that that poor fellow is a widower. It is a pity to have so young a life wasted. I couldn't help noticing him as he passed. He looked so utterly discouraged, as though he had lost all hope in the world. I might set a trap for him at our house, perhaps, and have him step in and get a little acquainted. I wish you would, said Marjorie earnestly. Perhaps that is your opportunity. Somebody will have to help him, and that very soon, if he is to be saved. Wouldn't it be a glorious thing if you could lead him to the only one who can save him? She was touched to see how Hannah's face brightened. The woman was actually longing to be of use in the world. I might try it, she said, rising to go, and speaking with half-suppressed eagerness, as though she could hardly wait for the opportunity. I never have helped anybody so far as I know, and I don't suppose I know how, but he looks miserable enough for me to make the trial. I couldn't make matters worse than they are now, at least. She went away with a brisk step, and Marjorie prayed for Jack Taylor that night with more faith than she had been able to exercise before. During the weeks which followed, life settled with Marjorie into a sort of routine. Not by any means, however, a stagnation. She set herself resolutely at work to be systematic and faithful in all that she undertook. She planned her days without most care. She began to give regular attention to her music once more, and took up a neglected study of German with Mr. Maxwell for a tutor. In one way or another she and her mother continued to see much of Mr. Maxwell. Nothing could be more natural or unpremeditated on their part than this, since he was a lodger in their own house and spent much of his time at home. The evening readings continued and broadened in their scope. Not popular books alone, so-called, but real mental studies came in for their share of attention. Books which Mr. Maxwell was reading in line with his work, and which he insisted were much better appreciated when he had an audience. Then a very earnestly put question from Marjorie when she met him in the hall one morning, concerning the best ways of reading and studying the Bible, led him to ask, soon afterwards, if she and her mother would be willing to join him in a systematic course of Bible study, which he had laid out for himself. He had planned to give one hour of each evening to it, to accomplish as much as he could in that time, and then turn resolutely away from it. He added with a smile that he had discovered the study of the Bible to be the most fascinating of all pursuits, and that, unless he hedged himself in with hours and minutes, he was very much given to neglecting other work for this favorite study. Nothing that he had heretofore proposed had given Marjorie so much satisfaction. She felt more or less able to pursue other studies by herself, but had been astonished and humiliated to discover what a very child she was in her knowledge of the Bible. A multitude of verses she knew, and great was the help and comfort which she derived from them, but any consecutive knowledge of the book as a book, or as a compilation of many authors, or as a history reaching over a long period of time, she found she had not. It came to pass therefore that every otherwise disengaged evening was systematically appropriated in this way, and the back parlor of the Edmunds home became to all intents and purposes a school room. The Bible study came first. They gave it the best of their evening from seven until eight o'clock, and they grew so interested in their work, both mother and daughter, that very often Mr. Maxwell's inexorable closing of the books, as the mantle clock told eight, was met by reproachful looks from them both. From eight to nine they took up the historical study which Mr. Maxwell was pursuing in a line with his writing. Very delightful study it was to Marjorie, and apparently quite a satisfactory to her mother. But the daughter often had qualms of conscience when alone, over the thought that their teacher must surely be wasting very valuable time upon them. It was eminently courteous in him to call it study for himself, but nothing was more apparent than that he was already thoroughly conversant with his theme. No question that she could ask found him unprepared, and he welcomed questions so eagerly and was so thorough in his replies, and led them so constantly into other lines of thought, that while they made comparatively little progress with the textbook, Marjorie realized that she was gaining a very great deal out of the hour. Once or twice she hinted her fears, but he met them graciously, assuring her that he was getting out of those evenings much more than he could explain to her, and that to review some of his former work in this direction was exactly the help which he needed for his book. Of course, after that there was nothing more to be said. From nine until ten they recreated, as Mr. Maxwell called it. Always there was some standard popular book to be taken up, and with these three, to take up a book meant not a hurried reading, getting over the ground for the sake merely of the plot, after the manner of superficial novel readers. They read for the sake of the ideas and the language even more than for the plot. Nay, they read more for the moral lessons, or for the moral power evolved from the characters they studied, than they did for either of these other reasons. The consequence was that they stopped and studied over what they read, comparing views and considering theories of their own which the book suggested. So that, as Mr. Maxwell said gaily one evening, we are making books as well as reading them. Occasionally I have the egotism to think that if we should write out our conversations carefully, we might chance to make a book which the world would like to read and be the better for the reading, which is much more important. It would be very easy to write a book which the world would like to read if one did not care how one influenced that world. The German lessons came on what Mr. Maxwell announced was a leisure hour of his afternoons. On the whole, what with the work in the missionary society she had joined, and looking after the seven girls in her Sunday school class, Marjorie's time was quite fully employed. Of course, though they too lived alone and quite simply, there were more or less duties in the housekeeping line which fell to Marjorie. This had always been the case, and so far was she from disliking such work that she had rather prided herself upon her skill in that direction. The taste grew upon her rather than decreased, and she planned and executed many a dainty dish for Mr. Maxwell to carry to some of his numerous friends. Especially did the old professor and his wife have reason to rejoice in her constantly developing fondness for culinary matters. Not a week passed without some choice concoction of hers finding its way to their little round table, at which Mr. Maxwell confessed that he often made a third. The old gentleman used to be his favorite teacher a way back in his early boyhood, and his love for and faith in him had increased with his increasing years. He admitted that he found a conversation with him now a better stimulus than almost anything else within his reach. So Marjorie planned liberally for three, and often packed with her own careful hands the basket which was to furnish the entire supper for the trio. Of course, she was not without her hours for recreation. They began to take long walks together as the spring opened, she and her mother. And more and more frequently as the days grew sunnier and the roads drier, did Salim appear at the gate, attached to a low, wide-seated carriage, while his owner explained that he had an errand on the foundry road, or the river road, or in the direction of the park, and was very tired of driving alone. Would not Mrs. Edmonds and Mrs. Edmonds keep him company? It was always Mrs. Edmonds whom he asked first, and she always went. They were really constantly together, mother and daughter, during those days, their companionship seeming more like that of an elder and younger sister. If Mrs. Edmonds sometimes sacrificed her own tastes and inclinations, and gave herself to walks and drives when she would rather have stayed quietly at home, she made no sign, but lived in the joy of her daughter's systematic, cheerful energy, for Marjorie was cheerful from morning till night. It is true her face was more often grave than otherwise, and her mother missed something of the merry playfulness which used to sparkle out on the slightest provocation, but there was no lack of cheer. It was a sweet, strong gravity, with not a trace of sullenness in it, and she made her life so busy and so regular that there was little time for brooding. She had been resolute about many things and made her own little sacrifices, too, of which she said nothing. That communicating door was opened early now each night. She wrote no words at all in her diary, and she would not let herself think connectedly about any of that part of her past which she felt did not now belong to her. Was she then forgetting Ralph Bramlett? You who understand young, true hearts, smile over the question. They do not so easily forget. She made no attempt to deceive herself, but owned that she had loved Ralph Bramlett. But she remembered that he had of his own choice given her up and chosen another. It would not only be a weakness, but a sin for her to dally now and sentimentalize over the broken past. If she meant to be true to herself, to her mother, and above all to God, she must put away that which was not for her and live for what God had given her. With the utmost of her strong young will she was doing this. She believed that love and marriage and all that was involved in those two sacred words had been taken out of her life, but she must not therefore waste it. Chapter 26 Robby It is almost a pity that at this stage of her career, Marjorie Edmonds could not have gone up and down the world as an apostle of common sense. She fully realized that she had given her young, true heart into the keeping of another, and that that other had been what she called mistaken in himself and deserted her. She had so managed the whole matter in her thoughts that in some way she had succeeded in exonerating him from all blame. People could not love to order, she told herself. If he found that Estelle was the one for his life friend and she was not, no other course had been open to him save the one he had taken, except perhaps that had he understood her better he could have done it in a better way. But the point to be noted is that she did not, because of this experience, conclude that she had a broken heart and must henceforth make herself and all about her miserable. She did not even intend to be unhappy. There is a sense in which she would not allow herself to be. If the holy and blessed experiences of love and marriage were not for her, there was yet a beautiful, helpful life befitting a daughter of the king for her to live. She meant to live it. She assured herself that only sin could make people utterly miserable, and then she instantly corrected even that view and said, I mean only unforgiven sin. And in that she had gotten above the sickly sentimentality which talks about wasted affections and blighted hopes, as if there were nothing else in life but these, and that because of a bitter experience one must go about thereafter a ruined soul. We have a right to be proud of her and to hold her up as a model, not only for people of common sense, but preeminently for people who call themselves Christians to follow. Is it not time for us to remember that upon those who belong to the family of Jesus Christ and are called to be joint heirs with him no real blight can fall? At the same time it is not denied that the experience through which Marjorie had passed had left its mark. Among other ways in which it showed was that one connected with social life. She ceased to be the center of a certain circle as she had undoubtedly been for a year or two. She went very little into society and almost entirely avoided places at which her mother was not expected. Yet, after all, perhaps this last was not so different from what the world had been accustomed to in her. Mrs. Edmonds had often gone to gatherings for Marjorie's sake from which she would much rather have been excused, and both Ralph and Marjorie had often, in the past, been grumbled at for declining invitations with no better reason on the girl's part than that she did not like to leave mother so much alone, Ralph reserving to himself the right to decline all invitations that he chose without any excuse whatever. It was the dull season of the year, however, in the society in which they had heretofore moved, the time when the real victims of society life were trying to rally from the dissipations of the winter and get themselves refreshed in strength and wardrobe for the summer's campaign. There was therefore not so much necessity for breaking in upon their choice home evenings. It perhaps cannot be denied that there was a disposition on Marjorie's part to avoid any place of entertainment where she had reason to suppose that Ralph and Estelle would be. She had considered the question with deliberation and determined that it was not at present her duty to make the sacrifice which this would demand. Had her intimacy with Estelle, which she had planned, developed, and the relations of honest earnest friendship which she intended been evolved, she would have managed this matter of society differently. But as it was, it had not only become painful to her but was evidently disagreeable to Estelle to have any sort of conversation with her, and in the few times which they had met the interviews were so far from being either helpful or agreeable that Marjorie felt justified in deciding that the less they should see of each other for the present, the better it would be. Estelle dislikes me, she told herself gravely, quite as much as I was at one time in danger of disliking her. It is not dislike that I feel now, at least I do not think it is, but I do not enjoy her society, and so long as I do her no good but rather harm apparently every time I meet her, why should we make martyrs of ourselves? So she planned a little. It required very little planning. Spring had brought complications in Ralph's business which held him to long hours and perplexing mental work. At the various church gatherings in which Marjorie and her mother interested themselves to an unusual degree, neither Estelle nor Ralph appeared. As a matter of fact they had not found time to attend even one of those midweek prayer meetings for which Ralph had magnanimously arranged when he decided to unite with the church, so that at places where she had expected to meet them as a matter of course Marjorie suffered no such embarrassment. In the early spring the gardeners with whom Estelle was becoming intimate gave a large party and invited Marjorie and her mother, but a chance that Mrs. Edmonds was at the time suffering from a slight cold and felt it unwise to expose herself to the evening air so that the invitation with this for an excuse was promptly declined. But if Marjorie's intimacy with Estelle had come to not, her friendship with Glide progressed rapidly. It was a sort of one-sided intercourse which they had. Marjorie went very rarely indeed to the Douglas home, but Glide came constantly to see her. The young girl seemed instinctively to understand why this state of things should be and made no complaint or comment because her almost daily visits were not returned. There were always reasons for her coming. She was by no means an idler in the church. There was a discouraged mission-band which was dragging out a spiritless existence. Glide heard of it almost by accident, so quiet did the young ladies keep even their organization. She had invited herself to become a member and had taken hold of the matter with an energy that foreshadowed success. The girls, astonished and at first almost appalled over the new life which had been infused into their midst, began to rouse themselves and take hold of some plans with energy, and Glide was continually coming to Mrs. Edmonds and Marjorie for suggestions. Nor had she by any means either forgotten or relinquished her desire to work among the poor, friendless little children who were without aprons and pretty things. There could be nothing systematic in this direction while she was so young. Her mother, not always careful what her older daughters did, shielded this youngest one with a very tender care and shrank back with horror from the thought of her taking up any work which looked like district visiting. Yet, little by little, without that name attached or without formality of any kind, Glide had almost a district on her roll. There was a girl in Mrs. Watson's class who had a sixth sister at home, lying day after day on a dreary little bed, and nothing bright or cheery ever came to her, so far as Glide could learn, save what Mrs. Watson, who was poor and crowded with homecares, could accomplish out of her busy life. Such joy and brightness as gathered around that little bed after Glide made its acquaintance, one might fill a volume in describing. There was a boy of whom she heard by accident, living on an entirely safe and respectable street, where she felt sure her mother would be willing to have her visit. The boy was a cripple. He was helped into his chair in the morning and helped out of it at night when his mother came home. All day long he lived his lonely little life, his only company being such picture papers as his mother could occasionally pick up through her friends in the mill. Glide's fingers fairly trembled with joy when she wrote his name on her list. She knew of so many bright things that she could put into his life. Mrs. Edmunds accompanied her on her first visit, to satisfy the girl's mother that no reasonable excuse could be offered for prohibiting her, and after that Glide went twice a week with her packages of books, papers, writing materials, crayons, watercolors, and what not. Such joy came with her into that poor little home where love had been struggling all alone, as the mother had believed was not possible for her boy until he found it through the gateway of the grave. Oh, there were lovely things that Glide could do, though she was still young and fair, and must be shielded from the course and the low and the brutal as much as possible. She had two or three girl acquaintances now of the kind which she had met in New York. Pale-faced, hard-working girls in cotton gloves, or very much-mended kid ones, or quite often no gloves at all. They held aloof from her for a time, even tossed their heads when she tried to bow, looked the other way when she wanted to speak to them. In short, they passed through the various periods of insolence, superciliousness, cold reserve and wondering, doubtful half-concessions, and finally became not only her devoted admirers, but friends, girls who would have been willing to die for her if need be. She told Marjorie a great deal about them, and that young woman and her mother added to their other duties and cares, plans for helping Glide's girls. All things considered, it was by no means a dull or long spring to the little circle which understood one another and worked together. The month of April had retired into the background, and May was bringing the breath of early flowers and the hint of summer in her sunshiny train. When one afternoon Glide Douglas tripped up the steps of the Edmunds' home and pulled the bell in a little more eager and impatient manner than usual. She was in such extreme haste to get inside with her bit of news that if the door had not been locked she would have waited for no ceremony. However, she had to wait, and there came presently a little frown of disappointment on her bright face. The bell was not answered, nobody was at home. How very provoking when she had wanted to see them on such special and important business! Where could they all be so early in the afternoon? They must have gone for a long drive. It was too early for their usual walk. Well, there was nothing for it but to wait. She must call upon Robbie first then, and keep from telling him the beautiful piece of news if she could, though she felt very much as though she must tell somebody. Still feeling in the hurry of excitement, though the special need for haste was over, she made all speed for the corner, signaled a passing car, and rode out to the quiet, dull part of the town where the houses were poor and small and respectable. Leaving the car at the corner, she walked down a street which was still narrower, and where there was still smaller and poorer respectability, stopping at last before a tiny cottage with one front window. This was her crippled boy's home. He was sitting by the window, and the air was so mild that it was open a little way. He clapped his small, blue-veined hands at sight of his collar. Goodie! he said gleefully, I was afraid you couldn't come. He was nearly fourteen years old, but his four years of helplessness and frailness had made him look and appear much younger. I've been watching for you this hour. I've got something nice to tell you, he added, as Glide let herself in and came to his side. So have I, thought Glide. Only I must not tell you, not yet. It would be even harder for you to wait than it is for me. Have you, she said aloud, placing a lovely white lilac in his hand as she spoke. I like nice things. I wonder what it is. Can I guess? You have found another word in your puzzle, one that you and I couldn't make out. No, he said, laughing gleefully. It isn't that. Then you have made with your paints just the right shade for that queer flower which we were trying to copy, and that I was to ask Miss Edmunds about the next time I saw her. Oh, did you ask her? said Robbie. Because I haven't found it, Miss Glide. I've tried every paint in my box, and it doesn't make it. Good, she said. Yes, I asked her, and I have the right box of paints in my bag this minute, with the one marked that will make exactly the shade we are after. So Miss Edmunds says, and she knows. They are lovely colors, Robbie. We can make ever so many pretty things with them that we couldn't with your others. I suspect they cost a good deal more than the others did. Mr. Maxwell sent them to you. Oh, goody, goody! said Robbie, his small hands clasped in ecstasy. I'm just as glad. Now I can finish coloring that card for mother's birthday, can't I? To think of my being able to make a present for mother! Isn't everybody good to me? But you haven't guessed my news, Miss Glide. She was bending over him, pinning a spray of bloom to his buttonhole, and smiling at his eager, upturned face. What a lovely boy Robbie was, and how bright and glad he was over the little bits of brightness which she could put into his life. It seemed very strange to her that he should have been forgotten and neglected so long. No, she said. I'm afraid I cannot guess after all. When I was a school girl, they used always to have to tell me the answers to conundrums and things of that kind that others puzzled over. I liked to puzzle other people, but I was never good at guessing things for myself. What is it, Robbie? Tell me about it. As she spoke, she drew the little rocker which Mr. Maxwell had sent for the mother to rest in when her long day's work was done, and placed it in just the position that Robbie liked so he could look at her. Why, said Robbie, I've got another friend, a splendid young man. He came to see me yesterday and the day before, and he is coming again today. Nothing more delightful than the boy's pure, eager face and great brown eyes can be imagined, as he told off this wonderful bit of news. Oh, said Glide, in gleeful sympathy. What a splendid thing! I never could have guessed so grand a secret as that. She thought at once of Mr. Maxwell. He had promised to come during some leisure hour and call upon Robbie, but up to this time, having many protégés of his own and feeling that the boy was in good hands, he had not, so far as Glide had known, redeemed the promise. Although Robbie felt well acquainted with him, and had received flowers and fruits, as well as books by his kindness, Glide being the medium through which they were bestowed. Of course Robbie's new friend must be Mr. Maxwell. He must have chosen not to tell his name, since Robbie did not mention it. If this were the case, of course she must not betray his secret, so she asked no questions in that line. Yes, said Robbie, it is a great thing. The way he came to get acquainted with me, Miss Glide, I was sitting here by the window, and Mother said I might have it open just a little bit to get a smell of spring. She fixed it so I could push it down if the wind began to blow. That is, I mean, she thought she did, but she wedged the block in a little bit too much, or got it a little too far from me. All of a sudden the wind began to blow real hard, and I tried to shut the window. I worked and worked, and couldn't seem to get strength enough in my hand to push that block out. And just as I said aloud, Oh, dear me, I don't know what to do, Mother won't like to have the wind blow on me. That young man came along, and don't you think he heard what I said? What's up, my boy, he asked me, and then I told him about the window, and my not being able to move, you know, and all that. I told it real quick, because the wind was blowing, and before I got it quite told, he sprang up the steps and opened the door. Walk in, he said, just as if I had told him to. And Robbie stopped to laugh. And then he rushed over to this window, and with one touch of his little finger he got the block out of the way, and the window shut. Then he sat down in that chair, right where you are sitting, and said he, Now I guess we are acquainted, aren't we, young man, and can have a visit. Wasn't he splendid? And we had, oh, such a nice visit. He asked me if he could come again, and he said he had a pocket about him somewhere, he guessed, that would hold something. The next time he would see what he could do with it. And the next time he came, that was yesterday, he had an orange in one pocket, and a great big apple in another, and the loveliest card in a little pocket. Here it is, Miss Glide. See, it has a picture of Christ on it, healing people. If Christ were walking along the streets today, as he was then, and I should call out to him, he would stop and heal me right away, wouldn't he, Miss Glide? Glide could scarcely keep the tears from her voice, as she answered. He is in the world now, Robbie, just the same you know. He would heal you now if it were the best thing for you. Perhaps he will some day. Robbie shook his head. No, the doctors told Mother that I couldn't ever be well, but then maybe they didn't know this doctor. A sudden light of interest shining in his eyes. There wasn't any couldn't to him, was there, Miss Glide? Only the couldn't, which was made by its not being best for people, said Glide with confidence. He knows everything, remember? Perhaps he knows that it is best for you not to be well here. There might be a best that we didn't understand at all. Yes, said Robbie gravely. That so. If I could walk, I might grow up and be a bad man. There is a woman works at the mill near Mother. She had a little boy once who was hurt just in the same way I was, only it wasn't his back. He was sick a long time, and he got well. But now he drinks and gets drunk and knocks her when he comes home at night. Knocks his mother, Miss Glide, just think of it. I'd rather have to sit here a hundred years and never take a step than to get to be such a man that I'd knock my mother. Miss Glide, with a sudden eager change of voice, here comes my new friend. I see him hurrying along on the other side of the street. He always walks fast. He has so many nice things to do for people that he has to save his time, I guess. Would you mind brushing my hair back just a little so it would look nice with the flower, you know? Glide laughed and brought the white-handled brush that Mrs. Edmonds had brought him, and brushed back the thick brown curls from the pale white forehead, and readjusted the cushions at his back, just in time. There came a business-like knock at the door. Come in, said Robbie's eager voice, and Glide stood waiting with smiling eyes. What fun it would be to meet Mr. Maxwell there and show off her boy about whom she had talked so much. Still, she could not help wondering where Mrs. Edmonds and Marjorie were, and why he did not bring them. She had felt so sure that they were out driving with him. The door had opened promptly in response to Robbie's invitation, and there had entered, not Mr. Maxwell, but a stranger. In the act of making a respectful bow to the lady in attendance, the stranger stopped and stared, then spoke quickly. I beg your pardon, but surely this is Miss Douglas. Yes, said Glide, the pink on her cheeks flushing up into her hair. I am Glide Douglas. And you, I remember you perfectly. It is Mr. Burwell, is it not? That is my name. He said, in the tone of one who was very glad of it, then he held out his hand. We may shake hands, surely. We are old acquaintances, are we not, Miss Douglas? It is a great surprise, as well as a great pleasure, to meet you again. I have often wondered how—I mean, I was not aware that you lived in this part of the country. I thought you were from the West. My uncle said something about Denver. Oh, that is where my uncle Anthony lives, whose guest I was in New York, but this is my home. Mr. Burwell, you have made the acquaintance of my friend Robbie, he says. Thus reminded, the astonished young man turned toward the waiting Robbie, and for the next fifteen minutes the boy had no occasion to be jealous of Miss Glide as a rival. The pockets, of which there seemed to be many, were filled with treasures. Not eatables this time, except that there was one great juicy apple, but little, thoughtful things, chosen evidently with a view to relieving the weariness of the long hours which the prisoned boy must have to pass alone. Glide, looking on, all in a flutter of pleasure, for Robbie's sake, saw how tender had been the thought of this strong man for the frail boy. Then, too, she could not help noticing how wise and cheery and helpful were the words he spoke. Did you learn that verse, my boy? he asked. Oh, yes, said Robbie, his great brown eyes seeming to grow larger and gentler. I learned it right away, that afternoon, as soon as you had gone. It is a beautiful verse. Miss Glide, I didn't tell it to you. I'll say it now. As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you. Isn't that nice, Miss Glide? Just for me, you know. Mother is such a comfort to me. There couldn't anything tell it to a boy like me better than that. Glide and Mr. Burwell exchanged glances of significant sympathy and tenderness for the boy. Then Mr. Burwell said, That's it, my boy. It is a beautiful verse for us fellows who have good mothers. It was the first one that made me acquainted with the Lord Jesus, and the comfort he was willing to be to people. My mother, you see, had gone to heaven, and I missed her, oh, more than I can tell. It seemed to me sometimes that I could not live without her. Then one day I came upon this verse, and it astonished me so much. I had not thought that anybody could comfort a boy like his mother, and to find that there was a great powerful one who could do anything that was right, who had actually planned to be such a comfort to me as my mother was, and promised it. Why, I can't tell you what a splendid discovery it was. Yes, said Robbie, I can think it out. But you needed it awfully, didn't you? It doesn't seem to me as though I could live without my mother. There was more talk, some of it gay and frolicsome, some of it sweet and strong, all of it cheery. In the midst of it Glide looked at her watch and made a reluctant admission. Robbie, I am ever so sorry, but I shall have to go now. I promised my father to do an errand for him downtown at five o'clock, and I shall just have time to get there. Mr. Burwell arose at once. Then we must both go, Robbie. I have to be in a gentleman's office away down on Burke Street at five. I had just this hour for you between times this afternoon. Miss Douglas, may I walk with you to your car, or whatever route you take? When they were on the street together she told him what she knew about Robbie and his unfortunate accident, and the sad outlook for his future, and also of how glad she was that he had found him and put such brightness into a few hours of his life. He listened to the story with such hearty sympathy, and had ready so many suggestions calculated to add to the boy's comfort that Glide felt sure here was one who could enjoy her precious secret. She unfolded it at once. Uncle Anthony, that same dear uncle who had taken her to New York, did he remember him? She had been writing long letters to him this winter, about all her affairs, but especially had she a good deal to tell him about Robbie. Among other things she had told him that she was thinking and praying about a great-wield chair for the boy, such as he could himself roll along the streets. She had sent for circulars and inquired as to kinds and prices. She did not know whether she could ever raise money enough, she was not acquainted with many people who seemed to have money to give, but she was going to try. She had asked God to help her think of the right ones to call upon. I never thought of such a thing as asking Uncle Anthony to help, Glide explained, because he is not at all wealthy, and of course there are people where he lives who need to be thought about. My plan was to raise the money if I could in our own church, and don't you think he answered the letter on the very evening of the day in which he had received it? And he said, in his own quaint way, which is unlike any other persons, that he supposed by this time, the one of whom I asked direction, had reminded me that I ought to use my common sense as well as my prayers, and my common sense ought to have told me that he had a special corner of his heart set apart for the robbies of the world. Didn't I remember that Aunt Estelle's little brother who died was named Robbie? Aunt Estelle is my uncle's young wife. He had her with him only a month after their marriage, but he has loved her memory all his life. And what do you think he put in his letter? A check which will cover the entire cost of the chair. The letter only came to-day, and I've been in such a bubble of delight over it. I just longed to tell somebody. I went to call upon a friend to explain it all to her. I wanted to ask a friend of hers to manage the correspondence about it for me. But she wasn't at home. And you are the first one I have been able to tell. I had to keep quiet before Robbie, of course. I thought it would be too much strain upon him to be expecting the chair for weeks, perhaps. Those things are delayed so often, so he doesn't know anything about it. Mr. Burwell was exactly the person for a confidence of this sort. He entered into the scheme with the deepest interest, not only, but with refreshing energy. He knew the spot of all others in New York where the best possible style of wheeled carriage could be bought for the lowest possible price. He was on a hurried business trip, looking up some details of a law case for his chiefs. He would be back in New York in three days' time, and nothing would give him greater pleasure than to serve her. His uncle knew one member of the firm who had to do with these carriages, and could very possibly secure a reduction from the regular price. If Miss Douglas would be at leisure that evening and would allow him, he would call upon her and they could then arrange the entire matter. One would have supposed that it might have troubled an honest young man to define what matters there were which needed any arrangement. There seemed nothing left to be done but to transfer Glide's check to him. But the young lady accepted his proposition with gratitude. It did not even occur to the innocent creature that they had no known business which could occupy the evening. But there is such a thing as manufacturing business, that which these two evolved lasted for that entire evening and the next. Moreover, on the afternoon of the second day they both made a somewhat extended call upon Robbie. On the third day Mr. Burwell went back to New York to purchase the wonderful chair. But he left interests of infinite importance to himself behind him. He had secured from Glide permission to write to her, not only concerning the chair, but about the meetings at the mission where he was now a regular worker. Also, he was to tell her of his New York boys, who, though not in the least like Robbie, were yet in sore need of help, such help as she could give them if she would. And girls too, Miss Douglas, he said earnestly, why I know some poor girls in our mission who would feel that they had been introduced to the Society of Angels if they could have such an one as you for a friend. He said nothing about a young man who might possibly have like views, and Glide was far too much in earnest to even think of such an interpretation of his words. She assured him that she would be only too glad to help his boys or his girls in any way that he thought she could, and added that it was the work to which she wanted to give her life, especially to help the class of girls of which he had just spoken. Robbie had taken many rides in his wonderful wheeled chair, and more letters had passed between Glide and Mr. Burwell than Mrs. Douglas seemed to consider necessary when there occurred an event in the social world which placed all party lovers on the caveve of expectation. It will be remembered that the Skyler Farm House was large and roomy, and most hospitably inclined. Also that there were gay young people there who knew how to entertain their friends and kept open house at all seasons of the year. But perhaps once a year it might be in mid-winter or at the opening of summer, they varied as to seasons. The family were in the habit of throwing open every room in their delightful old house and thronging the place with their friends. Not an ordinary party, but a joyous old-fashioned time. They had chosen for this year's festival the month of May. Mrs. Edmonds and Marjorie had received invitations and were considering them, among other matters of importance. One of these was connected with their lodger. In June Mr. Maxwell's long holiday would be over. He was going abroad for the summer months on business connected with his college, and in the following October his work as a professor would commence again in earnest. The question was, should they try to let the room which he would so soon vacate? There was no special need for this, so far as the pecuniary side was concerned. Mrs. Edmonds, though by no means a wealthy woman, had enough, prudently managed, for herself and Marjorie to live comfortably upon. The room had been rented in the first place because they often felt lonely, especially on winter nights, and liked the thought of there being someone in the house to whom they could appeal, if occasion offered. Now, however, they found that they shrank from having a stranger come into their home. It would be a very different matter if we could keep Mr. Maxwell, said the mother, thoughtfully. We know him. She seemed to forget that she had taken him as an utter stranger. What do you think, Marjorie, dear? Shall we go back to our old ways and get along alone, or shall we let our friends know that we have a vacant room? I don't know, said Marjorie a little wearily. It is difficult to imagine just us two alone. We have had a lodger so long. At least it seems a very long time since Mr. Maxwell came. Yes, said Mrs. Edmonds, we shall miss him very much. She was looking closely at her daughter with the keen vision of an anxious mother, but the girl answered in a quiet, unresponsive tone. Yes, of course we shall, but then I suppose we could take another stranger and get acquainted with him and plan to miss him. She laughed a little drearily. For the moment life looked to her like a long stretch of meeting and missing people. Suddenly she turned and looked steadily at her mother with a new light in her heart and shadowing her face. They were like girls together, people said, she and her mother, but of course they were not girls together, and the mother's hair was turning gray. She was a frail, pale mother. What if she should go away someday and leave Marjorie alone? The girl's heart seemed fairly to cease beating for a single moment, then start afresh in unnatural thoughts. She was like Robbie, it seemed to her that she could not live without her mother. Make it the way which seems easiest for you, mother, she said earnestly, I do not care which it is, truly I don't, so that you are comfortable. If you feel lonely at the thought of our being the only ones in the house at night, take another lodger by all means. He may prove to be a second, Mr. Maxwell. I suppose, dear, you would not feel like closing the house and going away anywhere else for the winter? asked Mrs. Edmunds hesitatingly. For the moment Marjorie forgot her desire that the mother should have exactly her way. Oh no! she said hurriedly. Nor for the summer either if we can help it. Do let us stay at home. I would rather be here than anywhere. There is my class to be thought of, and glides girls, and our women who depend so much upon us. Besides, this is our home mother, yours and mine. If we went away for a time we should only have to come back, and that would make us feel more lonely than ever. We ought to stay here oughtn't we? We shall never have any other home, you and I. She had evidently given up all idea of any change of relations, and had no dreams of a possible, rich future such as most happy, free-hearted girls indulge occasionally. It hurt her mother to think that this one lamb of hers was growing old and dignified before her time. Hurt her so much that sometimes she could not keep the bitterness out of her heart when she thought of Ralph Bramlett. Why should such as he be permitted to shadow the life of a girl like her Marjorie? Why did not Marjorie see his worthlessness? If she could but by some means be made to see him with her mother's eyes. Into the midst of this family council came Mr. Maxwell with a note of invitation in his hand. The Skylers have kindly remembered me also. He said, I have been too much engaged during the winter for enjoyments of this kind, but I have met Mr. Skyler and was pleasantly impressed by him. If I knew any intimate friends of mine who were going to spend an evening at his house soon, so as to ensure a pleasant time for myself, I think I might be induced to accept this invitation. Mrs. Edmonds met this with an appreciative laugh. I shall be glad to secure you for an ally, she said. I have been trying to persuade Marjorie to go. The Skylers are very old friends of ours, and it does not seem quite the courteous thing to decline an invitation of this character with no better excuse than we have. Marjorie is disposed to think that it will be too hard an evening for me, to go so far and to be out of necessity quite late. But I have assured her that I am entirely equal to an occasional dissipation of that sort. If you can induce her to think well of it, I shall be glad. She would be more glad than she cared to express to Mr. Maxwell. Being watchful and anxious, she could not help knowing that, while her daughter's face was uniformly sweet and quiet, and her interest in the new duties and cares which she had taken upon herself, sincere and pronounced, yet she was by no means her old bright self. This matter of steadily declining all invitations of a general character disturbed the mother. She understood the subtle reason for it, and knew there was danger that Marjorie might grow morbidly sensitive in this direction as the years passed, unless something occurred to change the current of her feelings. She wondered if Mr. Maxwell had a suspicion of her anxiety, and was breaking through his usual habits for a purpose. He had a curious way of seeming to know how people felt and thought without explanations of any sort. It would not be the first time, she reflected, that he had come quietly to her aid unsuspected by Marjorie. It was fully determined that the invitation should be accepted, and that the three should go in company, Marjorie having steadily, and with a determined air, negative any suggestions looking to the release of her mother. I do not care to go, mother, she said quietly, and do not feel, as you seem to, that courtesy demands our presence, but since you feel so, I am willing to go with you, not without you. Nevertheless, it came to pass that such was not to be the arrangement. On the afternoon of the gathering, a near neighbor of theirs, who was ill, sent to know if Mrs. Edmonds would be willing to spend the evening with her in her husband's enforced absence. And as she had been quite ill and was nervous, and had evidently set her heart upon having Mrs. Edmonds and no one else for company, that lady did not consider it right to offer a mere social engagement as an excuse for disappointing her. It is not as though I really belonged to that part of the world, she said, smiling to Marjorie. You know, my dear, that it is only your fondness for having me with you that makes it important. I shall not be missed, nor thought about twice this evening, except by your dear self. And as Mrs. Stewart really seems to cling to me, I feel that I ought to stay. Don't you think so, dear? You have left nothing else for me to think, said Marjorie, trying to smile. She shrank to a degree that she did not herself understand from going to the Skylors without her mother. Yet as the idea seemed only absurd, she felt compelled to do as she would not, and in due course of time found herself journeying in Mr. Maxwell's company over the road which was so familiar to her, but which she had not traversed since that memorable November evening. If Mr. Maxwell remembered the same evening, which was probable, he made no sign, but kept his companion's thoughts on the book which they had just read, questioning and cross-questioning, as to her knowledge of it, so skillfully that Marjorie was compelled to put aside memories and nervousness altogether, and give undivided attention to the subject in hand, if she would not disgrace her reputation as a listener.