The Golden House ...............................................................................................................................................1

Charles Dudley Warner ............................................................................................................................1

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It was near midnight: The company gathered in a famous city studio were under the impression, diligently

diffused in the world, that the end of the century is a time of license if not of decadence. The situation had its

own piquancy, partly in the surprise of some of those assembled at finding themselves in bohemia, partly in a

flutter of expectation of seeing something on the borderline of propriety. The hour, the place, the

anticipation of the lifting of the veil from an Oriental and ancient art, gave them a titillating feeling of

adventure, of a moral hazard bravely incurred in the duty of knowing life, penetrating to its core. Opportunity

for this sort of fruitful experience being rare outside the metropolis, students of good and evil had made the

pilgrimage to this midnight occasion from lessfavored cities. Recondite scholars in the physical beauty of

the Greeks, from Boston, were there; fair women from Washington, whose charms make the reputation of

many a newspaper correspondent; spirited stars of official and diplomatic life, who have moments of longing

to shine in some more languorous material paradise, had made a hasty flitting to be present at the ceremony,

sustained by a slight feeling of bravado in making this exceptional descent. But the favored hundred

spectators were mainly from the citygroups of late diners, who fluttered in under that pleasurable glow

which the red Jacqueminot always gets from contiguity with the pale yellow Clicquot; theatre parties, a little

jaded, and quite ready for something real and stimulating; men from the clubs and men from

studiosrepresentatives of society and of art graciously mingled, since it is discovered that it is easier to

The vast, dimly lighted apartment was itself mysterious, a temple of luxury quite as much as of art. Shadows

lurked in the corners, the ribs of the roof were faintly outlined; on the sombre walls gleams of color, faces of

loveliness and faces of pain, studies all of a mood or a passion, bits of shining brass, reflections from lustred

ware struggling out of obscurity; hangings from Fez or Tetuan, bits of embroidery, costumes in silk and in

velvet, still having the aroma of balls a hundred years ago, the faint perfume of a scented society of ladies and

gallants; a skeleton scarcely less fantastic than the draped wooden model near it; heavy rugs of Daghestan

and Persia, making the footfalls soundless on the floor; a fountain tinkling in a thicket of japonicas and

azaleas; the stems of palmettoes, with their branches waving in the obscurity overhead; points of light here

and there where a shaded lamp shone on a single red rose in a blue Granada vase on a toppling stand, or on a

mass of jonquils in a barbarous pot of ChanakKallessi; tacked here and there on walls and hangings, colored

memoranda of Capri and of the North Woods, the armor of knights, trophies of smallarms, crossed swords

of the Union and the Confederacy, easels, paints, and palettes, and rows of canvases leaning against the

wallthe studied litter, in short, of a successful artist, whose surroundings contribute to the popular

On the wall at one end of the apartment was stretched a white canvas; in front of it was left a small cleared

space, on the edge of which, in the shadow, squatting on the floor, were four swarthy musicians in Oriental

garments, with a mandolin, a guitar, a ney, and a darabooka drum. About this cleared space, in a crescent,

knelt or sat upon the rugs a couple of rows of men in evening dress; behind them, seated in chairs, a group of

ladies, whose white shoulders and arms and animated faces flashed out in the semiobscurity; and in their

rear stood a crowd of spectators beautiful young gentlemen with vacant faces and the elevated Oxford

shoulders, rosy youth already blase to all this world can offer, and grayheaded men young again in the

prospect of a new sensation. So they kneel or stand, worshipers before the shrine, expecting the advent of the

The moment has come. There is a tap on the drum, a tuning of the strings, a flash of light from the rear of the

room inundates the white canvas, and suddenly a figure is poised in the space, her shadow cast upon the

The apparition evokes a flutter of applause. It is a superb figure, clad in a high tight bodice and long skirts

simply draped so as to show every motion of the athletic limbs. She seems, in this pose and light,

supernaturally tall. Through her parted lips white teeth gleam, and she smiles. Is it a smile of anticipated,

triumph, or of contempt? Is it the smile of the daughter of Herodias, or the invitation of a 'ghazeeyeh'? She

pauses. Shall she surprise, or shock, or only please? What shall the art that is older than the pyramids do for

these kneeling Christians? The drum taps, the ney pipes, the mandolin twangs, her arms are extendedthe

castanets clink, a foot is thrust out, the bosom heaves, the waist trembles. What shall it bethe old serpent

dance of the Nile, or the posturing of decorous courtship when the olives are purple in the time of the grape

harvest? Her head, wreathed with coils of black hair, a red rose behind the left ear, is thrown back. The eyes

flash, there is a snakelike movement of the limbs, the music hastens slowly in unison with the quickening

pulse, the body palpitates, seems to flash invitation like the eyes, it turns, it twists, the neck is thrust forward,

it is drawn in, while the limbs move still slowly, tentatively; suddenly the body from the waist up seems to

twist round, with the waist as a pivot, in a flash of athletic vigor, the music quickens, the arms move more

rapidly to the click of the heated castenets, the steps are more pronounced, the whole woman is agitated,

bounding, pulsing with physical excitement. It is a Maenad in an access of gymnastic energy. Yes, it is

gymnastics; it is not grace; it is scarcely alluring. Yet it is a physical triumph. While the spectators are

breathless, the fury ceases, the music dies, and the Spaniard sinks into a chair, panting with triumph, and

inclines her dark head to the clapping of hands and the bravos. The kneelers rise; the spectators break into

chattering groups; the ladies look at the dancer with curious eyes; a young gentleman with the elevated

Oxford shoulders leans upon the arm of her chair and fans her. The pose is correct; it is the somewhat

To be on speaking terms with the phenomenon was for the moment a distinction. The young ladies wondered

"Why not?" said a wit. "The Duke of Donnycastle always shakes hands with the pugilists at a mill."

"It is not so bad"the speaker was a Washington beauty in an evening dress that she would have condemned

"Expected?" asked her companion, a sedate man of thirtyfive, with the cynical air of a student of life.

"As I feared," she added, quickly. "I have always had a curiosity to know what these Oriental dances mean."

"Oh, nothing in particular, now. This was an exhibition dance. Of course its origin, like all dancing, was

religious. The fault I find with it is that it lacks seriousness, like the modern exhibition of the dancing

"Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that the decay of dancing is the reason our religion lacks seriousness? We are in

"Why, yes, to a degree. Anything that keeps you up till three o'clock in the morning has some penitential

"You give me a new view, Mr. Mavick. I confess that I did not expect to assist at what New Englanders call

"That, Mrs. Lamon, is a vulgar error. It is an ancient form of worship. Virtue and beauty are the same

"Dear me, Mr. Mavick, I thought this was a question of levitation. You are upsetting all my ideas. I shall not

Meantime there was heard the popping of corks. Venetian glasses filled with champagne were quaffed under

the blessing of sparkling eyes, young girls, almondeyed for the occasion, in the costume of Tokyo, handed

"Wouldn't," replied Jack Delancy, with a little bow, before he raised his glass. And then added, "Her taste

The girl, already flushed with the wine, blushed a littleJack thought he had never seen her look so

"Bless me, no, I didn't mean that; that is, you know"Jack didn't exactly see his way out of the

"I did not say there was any," she replied, with a smile at his embarrassment. "Only I think there are half a

dozen women in the room who could do it better, with a little practice. It isn't as Oriental as I thought it

"I cannot say as to that. I know Edith thinks I've gone into the depths of the Orient. But, on the whole, I'm

The dialogue was cut short by a clapping of hands. The spectators took their places again, the lights were

lowered, the illumination was turned on the white canvas, and the dancer, warmed with wine and adulation,

took a bolder pose, and, as her limbs began to move, sang a wild Moorish melody in a shrill voice, action and

words flowing together into the passion of the daughter of tents in a desert life. It was all vigorous,

suggestive, more properly religious, Mavick would have said, and the applause was vociferous.

More wine went about. There was another dance, and then another, a slow languid movement, half

melancholy and full of sorrow, if one might say that of a movement, for unrepented sin; a gypsy dance this,

accompanied by the mournful song of Boabdil, "The Last Sigh of the Moor." And suddenly, when the

feelings of the spectators were melted to tender regret, a flash out of all this into a joyous defiance, a wooing

of pleasure with smiling lips and swift feet, with the clash of cymbals and the quickened throb of the drum.

It was not yet dawn, however, for the clocks were only striking three as the assembly, in winter coats and soft

wraps, fluttered out to its carriages, chattering and laughing, with endless goodnights in the languages of

The streets were as nearly deserted as they ever are; here and there a lumbering marketwagon from Jersey,

an occasional streetcar with its tinkling bell, rarer still the rush of a trembling train on the elevated, the voice

of a belated reveler, a flitting female figure at a street corner, the roll of a livery hack over the ragged

pavement. But mainly the noise of the town was hushed, and in the sharp air the stars, far off and

Farther up town it was quite still, and in one of the noble houses in the neighborhood of the Park sat Edith

Delancy, married not quite a year, listening for the roll of wheels and the click of a nightkey.

Everybody liked John Corlear Delancy, and this in spite of himself, for no one ever knew him to make any

effort to incur either love or hate. The handsome boy was a favorite without lifting his eyebrows, and he

sauntered through the university, picking his easy way along an elective course, winning the affectionate

regard of every one with whom he came in contact. And this was not because he lacked quality, or was

merely easy going and negative or effeminate, for the same thing happened to him when he went shooting

in the summer in the Rockies. The cowboys and the severe moralists of the plains, whose sedate business in

life is to get the drop on offensive persons, regarded him as a brother. It isn't a bad test of personal quality,

this power to win the loyalty of men who have few or none of the conventional virtues. These nonmoral

enforcers of justiceas they understood it liked Jack exactly as his friends in the New York clubs liked

himand perhaps the moral standard of approval of the one was as good as the other.

Jack was a very good shot and a fair rider, and in the climate of England he might have taken firstrate rank

in athletics. But he had never taken firstrate rank in anything, except goodfellowship. He had a great many

expensive tastes, which he could not afford to indulge, except in imagination. The luxury of a racingstable,

or a yacht, or a library of scarce books bound by Paris craftsmen was denied him. Those who account for

failures in life by a man's circumstances, and not by a lack in the man himself, which is always the secret of

failure, said that Jack was unfortunate in coming into a certain income of twenty thousand a year. This was

just enough to paralyze effort, and not enough to permit a man to expand in any direction. It is true that he

was related to millions and moved in a millionaire atmosphere, but these millions might never flow into his

bank account. They were not in hand to use, and they also helped to paralyze effortlike black clouds of an

The best thing that Jack Delancy ever did, for himself, was to marry Edith Fletcher. The wedding, which took

place some eight months before the advent of the Spanish dancer, was a surprise to many, for the girl had

even less fortune than Jack, and though in and of his society entirely, was supposed to have ideals. Her

family, indeed, was an old one on the island, and was prominent long before the building of the stone bridge

on Canal Street over the outlet of Collect Pond. Those who knew Edith well detected in her that strain of

moral earnestness which made the old Fletchers such stanch and trusty citizens. The wonder was not that

Jack, with his easy susceptibility to refined beauty, should have been attracted to her, or have responded to a

true instinct of what was best for him, but that Edith should have taken up with such a perfect type of the

aimlessness of the society strata of modern life. The wonder, however, was based upon a shallow conception

of the nature of woman. It would have been more wonderful if the qualities that endeared Jack to college

friends and club men, to the mighty sportsmen who do not hesitate, in the clubs, to devastate Canada and the

United States of big game, and to the border ruffians of Dakota, should not have gone straight to the tender

heart of a woman of ideals. And when in all history was there a woman who did not believe, when her heart

went with respect for certain manly traits, that she could inspire and lift a man into a noble life?

The silver clock in the breakfastroom was striking ten, and Edith was already seated at the coffeeurn, when

Jack appeared. She was as fresh as a rose, and greeted him with a bright smile as he came behind her chair

and bent over for the morning kissa ceremony of affection which, if omitted, would have left a cloud on

the day for both of them, and which Jack always declared was simply a necessity, or the coffee would have

no flavor. But when a man has picked a rose, it is always a sort of climax which is followed by an awkward

moment, and Jack sat down with the air of a man who has another day to get through with.

"So, so," said Jack, sipping his coffee. "It was a stunning place for it, that studio; you'd have liked that. The

Lamons and Mavick and a lot of people from the provinces were there. The company was more fun than the

dance, especially to a fellow who has seen how good it can be and how bad in its home."

"You have a chance to see the Spanish dancer again, under proper auspices," said Edith, without looking up.

"Yesto attend a charity performance for the benefit of the Female Waifs' Refuge. She is to dance."

Edith paid no attention to this impertinence. "They are to make an artificial evening at eleven o'clock in the

"They must have got hold of Mavick's notion that this dance is religious in its origin. Do you, know if the

"Well, draw it mild. But isn't this what I'm accused of doingshirking my duty of personal service by a

"Perhaps. But you didn't have any of that shirking feeling last night, did you?"

Jack laughed, and ran round to give the only reply possible to such a gibe. These breakfast interludes had not

lost piquancy in all these months. "I'm half a mind to go to this thing. I would, if it didn't break up my day

"Well, this morning I have to go up to the ridingschool to see a horse Storm; I want to try him. And then I

have to go down to Twist's and see a lot of Japanese drawings he's got over. Do you know that the birds and

other animals those beggars have been drawing, which we thought were caricatures, are the real thing? They

have eyes sharp enough to see things in motionflying birds and moving horses which we never caught till

we put the camera on them. Awfully curious. Then I shall step into the club a minute, and"

Edith followed him with her eyes, a little wistfully; she heard the outer door close, and still sat at the table,

turning over the pile of notes at her plate, and thinking of many thingsthings that it began to dawn upon

her mind could not be done, and things of immediate urgency that must be done. Life did not seem quite such

a simple problem to her as it had looked a year ago. That there is nothing like experiment to clear the vision is

the general idea, but oftener it is experience that perplexes. Indeed, Edith was thinking that some things

As she sat at the table with a faultless morninggown, with a bunch of English violets in her bosom, an artist

could have desired no better subject. Many people thought her eyes her best feature; they were large brown

eyes, yet not always brown, green at times, liquid, but never uncertain, apt to have a smile in them, yet their

chief appealing characteristic was trustfulness, a pure sort of steadfastness, that always conveyed the

impression of a womanly personal interest in the person upon whom they were fixed. They were eyes that

haunted one like a remembered strain of music. The lips were full, and the mouth was drawn in such

exquisite lines that it needed the clearcut and emphasized chin to give firmness to its beauty. The broad

forehead, with arching eyebrows, gave an intellectual cast to a face the special stamp of which was purity.

The nose, with thin open nostrils, a little too strong for beauty, together with the chin, gave the impression of

firmness and courage; but the wonderful eyes, the inviting mouth, so modified this that the total impression

was that of high spirit and great sweetness of character. It was the sort of face from which one might expect

passionate love or unflinching martyrdom. Her voice had a quality the memory of which lingered longer even

than the expression of her eyes; it was low, and, as one might say, a fruity voice, not quite clear, though

sweet, as if veiled in femineity. This note of royal womanhood was also in her figure, a little more than

medium in height, and full of natural grace. Somehow Edith, with all these good points, had not the

reputation of a belle or a beautyperhaps for want of some artificial splendorbut one could not be long in

her company without feeling that she had great charm, without which beauty becomes insipid and even

Edith's theory of life, if one may so dignify the longings of a young girl, had been very simple, and not at all

such as would be selected by the heroine of a romance. She had no mission, nor was she afflicted by that

modern form of altruism which is a yearning for notoriety by conspicuous devotion to causes and reforms

quite outside her normal sphere of activity. A very sincere person, with strong sympathy for humanity

tempered by a keen perception of the humorous side of things, she had a purpose, perhaps not exactly

formulated, of making the most out of her own life, not in any outward and shining career, but by a

development of herself in the most helpful and harmonious relations to her world. And it seemed to her,

though she had never philosophized it, that a marriage such as she believed she had made was the woman's

way to the greatest happiness and usefulness. In this she followed the dictates of a clear mind and a warm

heart. If she had reasoned about it, considering how brief life is, and how small can be any single contribution

to a better social condition, she might have felt more strongly the struggle against nature, and the false

position involved in the new idea that marriage is only a kind of occupation, instead of an ordinance decreed

in the very constitution of the human race. With the mere instinct of femineity she saw the falseness of the

assumption that the higher life for man or woman lies in separate and solitary paths through the wilderness of

this world. To an intelligent angel, seated on the arch of the heavens, the spectacle of the latterday pseudo

philosophic and economic dribble about the doubtful expediency of having a wife, and the failure of

marriage, must seem as ludicrous as would a convention of birds or of flowers reasoning that the processes of

nature had continued long enough. Edith was simply a natural woman, who felt rather than reasoned that in a

But as she sat here this morning this did not seem to be so simple a matter as it had appeared. It began to be

suspected that in order to make the most of one's self it was necessary to make the most of many other

persons and things. The stream in its own channel flowed along not without vexations, friction and foaming

and dashings from bank to bank; but it became quite another and a more difficult movement when it was

joined to another stream, with its own currents and eddies and impetuosities and sluggishness, constantly

liable to be deflected if not put altogether on another course. Edith was not putting it in this form as she

turned over her notes of invitation and appointments and engagements, but simply wondering where the time

for her life was to come in, and for Jack's life, which occupied a much larger space than it seemed to occupy

in the days before it was joined to hers. Very curious this discovery of what another's life really is. Of course

the society life must go on, that had always gone on, for what purpose no one could tell, only it was the

accepted way of disposing of time; and now there were the dozen ways in which she was solicited to show

her interest in those supposed to be less fortunate in life than herselfthe alleviation of the miseries of her

own city. And with society, and charity, and sympathy with the working classes, and her own reading, and a

little drawing and painting, for which she had some talent, what became of that comradeship with Jack, that

union of interests and affections, which was to make her life altogether so high and sweet?

This reverie, which did not last many minutes, and was interrupted by the abrupt moving away of Edith to the

writingdesk in her own room, was caused by a moment's vivid realization of what Jack's interests in life

were. Could she possibly make them her own? And if she did, what would become of her own ideals?

It was indeed a busy day for Jack. Great injustice would be done him if it were supposed that he did not take

himself and his occupations seriously. His mind was not disturbed by trifles. He knew that he had on the right

sort of fourinhand necktie, with the appropriate pin of pearshaped pearl, and that he carried the cane of

the season. These things come by a sort of social instinct, are in the air, as it were, and do not much tax the

mind. He had to hasten a little to keep his half pasteleven o'clock appointment at Stalker's stables, and

when he arrived several men of his set were already waiting, who were also busy men, and had made a little

effort to come round early and assist Jack in making up his mind about the horse.

When Mr. Stalker brought out Storm, and led him around to show his action, the connoisseurs took on a

critical attitude, an attitude of judgment, exhibited not less in the poise of the head and the serious face than

in the holding of the cane and the planting of legs wide apart. And the attitude had a refined nonchalance

which professional horsemen scarcely ever attain. Storm could not have received more critical and serious

attention if he had been a cooked terrapin. He could afford to stand this scrutiny, and he seemed to move

about with the consciousness that he knew more about being a horse than his judges.

Storm was, in fact, a splendid animal, instinct with life from his thin flaring nostril to his small hoof; black as

a raven, his highly groomed skin took the polish of ebony, and showed the play of his powerful muscles, and,

one might say, almost the nervous currents that thrilled his fine texture. His large, bold eyes, though not

wicked, flamed now and then with an energy and excitement that gave ample notice that he would obey no

master who had not stronger will and nerve than his own. It was a tribute to Jack's manliness that, when he

mounted him for a turn in the ring, Storm seemed to recognize the fine quality of both seat and hand, and

"He's got good points," said Mr. Herbert Albert Flick, "but I'd like a straighter back."

"I'll be hanged, though, Jack," was Mr. Mowbray Russell's comment, "if I'd ride him in the Park before he's

"Moves easy, falls off a little too much to suit me in the quarter," suggested Mr. Pennington Docstater,

"That's just where he is, Mr. Docstater; take him on the road, he's a stayer for all day. Goes like a bird. He'll

take you along at the rate of nine miles in fortyfive minutes as long as you want to sit there."

"Jump?" queried little Bobby Simerton, whose strong suit at the club was talking about meets and hunters.

"Never refused anything I put him at," replied Stalker; "takes every fence as if it was the regular thing."

Storm was in this way entirely taken to pieces, praised and disparaged, in a way to give Stalker, it might be

inferred from his manner, a high opinion of the knowledge of these young gentlemen. "It takes a gentleman,"

in fact, Stalker said, "to judge a hoss, for a good hoss is a gentleman himself." It was much discussed whether

Storm would do better for the Park or for the country, whether it would be better to put him in the field or

keep him for a roadster. It might, indeed, be inferred that Jack had not made up his mind whether he should

buy a horse for use in the Park or for country riding. Even more than this might be inferred from the long

morning's work, and that was that while Jack's occupation was to buy a horse, if he should buy one his

occupation would be gone. He was known at the club to be looking for the right sort of a horse, and that he

knew what he wanted, and was not easily satisfied; and as long as he occupied this position he was an object

Perhaps Mr. Stalker understood this, for when the buyers had gone he remarked to the stableboy, "Mr.

When the inspection of the horse was finished it was time for lunch, and the labors of the morning were felt

to justify this indulgence, though each of the party had other engagements, and was too busy to waste the

The lunch was slight, but its ordering took time and consideration, as it ought, for nothing is so destructive of

health and mental tone as the snatching of a midday meal at a lunch counter from a bill of fare prepared by

God knows whom. Mr. Russell said that if it took time to buy a horse, it ought to take at least equal time and

care to select the fodder that was to make a human being wretched or happy. Indeed, a man who didn't give

his mind to what he ate wouldn't have any mind byandby to give to anything. This sentiment had the

assent of the table, and was illustrated by varied personal experience; and a deep feeling prevailed, a serious

feeling, that in ordering and eating the right sort of lunch a chief duty of a useful day had been discharged.

It must not be imagined from this, however, that the conversation was about trifles. Business men and

operators could have learned something about stocks and investments, and politicians about city politics.

Mademoiselle Vivienne, the new skirt dancer, might have been surprised at the intimate tone in which she

was alluded to, but she could have got some useful hints in effects, for her judges were cosmopolitans who

had seen the most suggestive dancing in all parts of the world. It came out incidentally that every one at table

had been "over" in the course of the season, not for any general purpose, not as a sightseer, but to look at

somebody's stables, or to attend a wedding, or a sale of etchings, or to see his bootmaker, or for a little

shooting in Scotland, just as one might run down to Bar Harbor or Tuxedo. It was only an incident in a busy

season; and one of the fruits of it appeared to be as perfect a knowledge of the comparative merits of all the

ocean racers and captains as of the English and American stables and the trainers. One not informed of the

progress of American life might have been surprised to see that the fad is to be American, with a sort of

patronage of things and ways foreign, especially of things British, a large continental kind of attitude,

begotten of hearing much about Western roughing it, of Alaska, of horsebreeding and fruitraising on the

Pacific, of the Colorado River Canon. As for stuffs, well yes, London. As for style, you can't mistake a man

The wine was a white Riesling from California. Docstater said his attention had been called to it by Tom

Dillingham at the Union, who had a ranch somewhere out there. It was declared to be sound and palatable;

you know what you are drinking. This led to a learned discussion of the future of American wines, and a

patriotic impulse was given to the trade by repeated orders. It was declared that in American wines lay the

solution of the temperance question. Bobby Simerton said that Burgundy was good enough for him, but

Russell put him down, as he saw the light yellow through his glass, by the emphatic affirmation that plenty of

cheap American wellmade wine would knock the bottom out of all the sentimental temperance societies and

shut up the saloons, dry up all those not limited to light wines and beer. It was agreed that the saloons would

This satisfactory conclusion was reached before the coffee came on and the cigarettes, and the sound quality

It is fortunate when the youth of a country have an ideal. No nation is truly great without a common ideal,

capable of evoking enthusiasm and calling out its energies. And where are we to look for this if not in the

youth, and especially in those to whom fortune and leisure give an opportunity of leadership ? It is they who

can inspire by their example, and by their pursuits attract others to a higher conception of the national life. It

may take the form of patriotism, as in this country, pride in the great republic, jealousy of its honor and

credit, eagerness for its commanding position among the nations, patriotism which will show itself, in all the

ardor of believing youth, in the administration of law, in the purity of politics, in honest local government,

and in a noble aspiration for the glory of the country. It may take the form of culture, of a desire that the

republicliable, like all selfmade nations, to worship wealthshould be distinguished not so much by a

vulgar national display as by an advance in the arts, the sciences, the education that adorns life, in the noble

spirit of humanity, and in the nobler spirit of recognition of a higher life, which will be content with no

civilization that does not tend to make the country for every citizen a better place to live in today than it was

yesterday. Happy is the country, happy the metropolis of that country, whose fortunate young men have this

What is the ideal of their country which these young men cherish? There was a momentwas there not for

them? in the late war for the Union, when the republic was visible to them in its beauty, in its peril, and in

a passion of devotion they were eagerwere they not?to follow the flag and to give their brief lives to its

imperishable glory. Nothing is impossible to a nation with an ideal like that. It was this flame that ran over

Europe in the struggle of France against a world in arms. It was this national ideal that was incarnate in

Napoleon, as every great idea that moves the world is sooner or later incarnated. What was it that we saw in

Washington on his knees at Valley Forge, or blazing with wrath at the cowardice on Monmouth? in Lincoln

entering Richmond with bowed head and infinite sorrow and yearning in his heart? An embodiment of a great

In France this ideal burns yet like a flame, and is still evoked by a name. It is the passion of glory, but the

desire of a nation, and Napoleon was the incarnation of passion. They say that he is not dead as others are

dead, but that he may come again and ride at the head of his legions, and strike down the enemies of France;

that his bugle will call the youth from every hamlet, that the roll of his drum will transform France into a

camp, and the grenadiers will live again and ride with him, amid hurrahs, and streaming tears, and shouts of

"My Emperor! Oh, my Emperor!" Is it only a legend? But the spirit is there; not a boy but dreams of it, not a

girl but knots the thought in with her holiday tricolor. That is to have an abiding ideal, and patiently to hold it,

We believedo we not?in other triumphs than those of the drum and the sword. Our aspirations for the

republic are for a nobler example of human society than the world has yet seen. Happy is the country, and the

metropolis of the country, whose youth, gilded only by their virtues, have these aspirations).

When the party broke up, the street lamps were beginning to twinkle here and there, and Jack discovered to

his surprise that the Twiss business would have to go over to another day. It was such a hurrying life in New

York. There was just time for a cup of tea at Mrs. Trafton's. Everybody dropped in there after five o'clock,

when the duties of the day were over, with the latest news, and to catch breath before rushing into the

There were a dozen ladies in the drawingroom when Jack entered, and his first impression was that the

scream of conversation would be harder to talk against than a Wagner opera; but he presently got his cup of

tea, and found a snug seat in the chimneycorner by Miss Tavish; indeed, they moved to it together, and so

got a little out of the babel. Jack thought the girl looked even prettier in her walkingdress than when he saw

her at the studio; she had style, there was no doubt about that; and then, while there was no invitation in her

manner, one felt that she was a woman to whom one could easily say things, and who was liable at any

"Oh no; I've been racing about on errands all day. It is very restful to sit down by a calm person."

"Well, I never shut my eyes till nine o'clock. I kept seeing that Spanish woman whirl around and contort,

anddo you mind my telling you? I couldn't just help it, I" (leaning forward to Jack) "got up and tried it

"Yes, I know. There isn't anything that an American girl cannot do. I've made up my mind to try it. You'll

Miss Tavish laughed. "You are too forward, Mr. Delancy. Perhaps some time, when we have learned, we will

let in a few of you, to look in at the door, fifty dollars a ticket, for some charity. I don't see why dancing isn't

"Nor do I; I'd rather see it. Besides, you've got Scripture warrant for dancing off the heads of people. And

then it is such a sweet way of doing a charity. Dancing for the East Side is the best thing I have heard yet."

"What are you two plotting?" asked Mrs. Trafton, coming across to the fireplace.

"Your wife was here this morning to get me to go and see some of her friends in Hester Street."

"Yes," said Jack, slowly, "she's got the idea that sympathy is better than money; she says she wants to try to

"And were you trying, Mr. Delancy, to persuade Miss Tavish into that sort of charity?"

"Oh dear, no," said Jack; "I was trying to interest the East End in something, for the benefit of Miss Tavish."

"You'll find that's one of the most expensive remarks you ever made," retorted Miss Tavish, rising to go.

"I wish Lily Tavish would marry," said Mrs. Trafton, watching the girl's slender figure as it passed through

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, she'd be a lovely wife for somebody; "and then he added, as if

"That's just a fashion of talking. I never knew a time when so many people afforded to do what they wanted

When Jack reached home it was only a little after six o'clock, and as they were not to go out to dine till eight,

he had a good hour to rest from the fatigues of the day, and run over the evening papers and dip into the

Edith's day had been as busy as Jack's, notwithstanding she had put aside several things that demanded her

attention. She denied herself the morning attendance on the Literature Class that was raking over the

eighteenth century. This week Swift was to be arraigned. The last time when Edith was present it was Steele.

The judgment, on the whole, had been favorable, and there had been a little stir of tenderness among the

bonnets over Thackeray's comments on the Christian soldier. It seemed to bring him near to them. "Poor Dick

Steele!" said the essayist. Edith declared afterwards that the large woman who sat next to her, Mrs. Jerry

Hollowell, whispered to her that she always thought his name was Bessemer; but this was, no doubt, a

pleasantry. It was a beautiful essay, and so stimulating! And then there was bouillon, and time to look about

at the toilets. Poor Steele, it would have cheered his life to know that a century after his death so many

beautiful women, so exquisitely dressed, would have been concerning themselves about him. The function

lasted two hours. Edith made a little calculation. In five minutes she could have got from the encyclopaedia

all the facts in the essay, and while her maid was doing her hair she could have read five times as much of

Steele as the essayist read. And, somehow, she was not stimulated, for the impression seemed to prevail that

now Steele was disposed of. And she had her doubts whether literature would, after all, prove to be a

permanent social distraction. But Edith may have been too severe in her judgment. There was probably not a

woman in the class that day who did not go away with the knowledge that Steele was an author, and that he

lived in the eighteenth century. The hope for the country is in the diffusion of knowledge.

Leaving the class to take care of Swift, Edith went to the managers' meeting at the Women's Hospital, where

there was much to do of very practical work, pitiful cases of women and children suffering through no fault

of their own, and money more difficult to raise than sympathy. The meeting took time and thought.

Dismissing her carriage, and relying on elevated and surface cars, Edith then took a turn on the East Side, in

company with a dispensary physician whose daily duty called her into the worst parts of the town. She had a

habit of these tours before her marriage, and, though they were discouragingly small in direct results, she

gained a knowledge of city life that was of immense service in her general charity work. Jack had suggested

the danger of these excursions, but she had told him that a woman was less liable to insult in the East Side

than in Fifth Avenue, especially at twilight, not because the East Side was a nice quarter of the city, but

because it was accustomed to see women who minded their own business go about unattended, and the

prowlers had not the habit of going there. She could even relate cases of chivalrous protection of "ladies" in

What Edith saw this day, open to be seen, was not so much sin as ignorance of how to live, squalor, filthy

surroundings acquiesced in as the natural order, wonderful patience in suffering and deprivation, incapacity,

illpaid labor, the kindest spirit of sympathy and helpfulness of the poor for each other. Perhaps that which

made the deepest impression on her was the fact that such conditions of living could seem natural to those in

them, and that they could get so much enjoyment of life in situations that would have been simple misery to

The visitors were in a foreign city. The shop signs were in foreign tongues; in some streets all Hebrew. On

chance newsstands were displayed newspapers in Russian, Bohemian, Arabic, Italian, Hebrew, Polish,

Germannone in English. The theatre bills were in Hebrew or other unreadable type. The sidewalks and the

streets swarmed with noisy dealers in every sort of secondhand merchandisevegetables that had seen a

better day, fish in shoals. It was not easy to make one's way through the stands and pushcarts and the noisy

dickering buyers and sellers, who haggled over trifles and chaffed goodnaturedly and were strictly intent on

their own affairs. No part of the town is more crowded or more industrious. If youth is the hope of the

country, the sight was encouraging, for children were in the gutters, on the house steps, at all the windows.

The houses seemed bursting with humanity, and in nearly every room of the packed tenements, whether the

inmates were sick or hungry, some sort of industry was carried on. In the damp basements were junkdealers,

ragpickers, goosepickers. In one noisome cellar, off an alley, among those sorting rags, was an old woman

of eightytwo, who could reply to questions only in a jargon, too proud to beg, clinging to life, earning a few

cents a day in this foul occupation. But life is sweet even with poverty and rheumatism and eighty years. Did

her dull eyes, turning inward, see the Carpathian Hills, a free girlhood in village drudgery and village sports,

then a romance of love, children, hard work, discontent, emigration to a New World of promise? And now a

cellar by day, the occupation of cutting rags for carpets, and at night a corner in a close and crowded room on

Picturesque foreign women going about with shawls over their heads and usually a bit of bright color

somewhere, children at their games, hawkers loudly crying their stale wares, the click of sewingmachines

heard through a broken window, everywhere animation, life, exchange of rough or kindly banter. Was it

altogether so melancholy as it might seem? Not everybody was hopelessly poor, for here were lawyers' signs

and doctors' signsdoctors in whom the inhabitants had confidence because they charged all they could get

for their servicesand thriving pawnbrokers' shops. There were parish schools alsoperhaps others; and off

some dark alley, in a room on the groundfloor, could be heard the strident noise of education going on in

highvoiced study and recitation. Nor were amusements lacking notices of balls, dancing this evening, and

It was a relenting day in March; patches of blue sky overhead, and the sun had some quality in its shining.

The children and the caged birds at the open windows felt itand there were notes of music here and there

above the traffic and the clamor. Turning down a narrow alley, with a gutter in the centre, attracted by festive

sounds, the visitors came into a small stonepaved court with a hydrant in the centre surrounded by tall

tenementhouses, in the windows of which were stuffed the garments that would no longer hold together to

adorn the person. Here an Italian girl and boy, with a guitar and violin, were recalling la bella Napoli, and a

couple of pretty girls from the court were footing it as merrily as if it were the grape harvest. A woman

opened a lower room door and sharply called to one of the dancing girls to come in, when Edith and the

doctor appeared at the bottom of the alley, but her tone changed when she recognized the doctor, and she

said, by way of apology, that she didn't like her daughter to dance before strangers. So the music and the

dance went on, even little dots of girls and boys shuffling about in a stiff legged fashion, with applause from

all the windows, and at last a largesse of penniesas many as five altogetherfor the musicians. And the

But then there were the sweaters' dens, and the private rooms where half a dozen palefaced tailors stitched

and pressed fourteen and sometimes sixteen hours a day, stifling rooms, smelling of the hot goose and

steaming cloth, rooms where they worked, where the cooking was done, where they ate, and late at night,

when overpowered with weariness, lay down to sleep. Struggle for life everywhere, and perhaps no more

discontent and heartburning and certainly less ennui than in the palaces on the avenues.

The residence of Karl Mulhaus, one of the doctor's patients, was typical of the homes of the better class of

poor. The apartment fronted on a small and not too cleanly court, and was in the third story. As Edith

mounted the narrow and dark stairways she saw the plan of the house. Four apartments opened upon each

landing, in which was the common hydrant and sink. The Mulhaus apartment consisted of a room large

enough to contain a bed, a cookstove, a bureau, a rockingchair, and two other chairs, and it had two small

windows, which would have more freely admitted the southern sun if they had been washed, and a room

adjoining, dark, and nearly filled by a big bed. On the walls of the living room were hung highly colored

advertising chromos of steamships and palaces of industry, and on the bureau Edith noticed two illustrated

newspapers of the last year, a patentmedicine almanac, and a volume of Schiller. The bureau also held Mr.

Mulhaus's bottles of medicine, a comb which needed a dentist, and a broken hairbrush. What gave the room,

however, a cheerful aspect were some pots of plants on the windowledges, and half a dozen canarybird

None of the family happened to be at home except Mr. Mulhaus, who occupied the rockingchair, and two

children, a girl of four years and a boy of eight, who were on the floor playing "store" with some blocks of

wood, a few tacks, some lumps of coal, some scraps of paper, and a tangle of twine. In their prattle they

"I feel some better today," said Mr. Mulhaus, brightening up as the visitors entered, "but the cough hangs on.

It's three months since this weather that I haven't been out, but the birds are a good deal of company." He

spoke in German, and with effort. He was very thin and sallow, and his large feverish eyes added to the

pitiful look of his refined face. The doctor explained to Edith that he had been getting fair wages in a

It was rather hard to have to sit there all day, he explained to the doctor, but they were getting along. Mrs.

Mulhaus had got a job of cleaning that day; that would be fifty cents. Allyshe was twelvewas learning

to sew. That was her afternoon to go to the College Settlement. Jimmy, fourteen, had got a place in a store,

"Oh, Vicky," piped up the eightyearold boy. "Vicky's up to the 'stution"the hospital was probably the

institution referred to" ever so long now. I seen her there, me and Jim did. Such a bootifer place! 'Nd

"Yes," said Mulhaus, in reply to a question, "it pays pretty well raising canaries, when they turn out singers. I

made fifteen dollars last year. I hain't sold much lately. Seems 's if people stopped wanting 'em such weather.

"No doubt it will be better for the poor fellow himself before spring," said the doctor as they made their way

They turned into a broader street, one of the busy avenues, and passing under an archway between two tall

buildings, entered a court of back buildings. In the third story back lived Aunt Margaret. The room was

scarcely as big as a ship's cabin, and its one window gave little light, for it opened upon a narrow well of high

brick walls. In the only chair Aunt Margaret was seated close to the window. In front of her was a small

worktable, with a kerosene lamp on it, but the side of the room towards which she looked was quite

occupied by a narrow couch ridiculously narrow, for Aunt Margaret was very stout. There was a thin chest

of drawers on the other side, and the small coal stove that stood in the centre so nearly filled the remaining

"Oh, come in, come in," said the old lady, cheerfully, when the door opened. "I'm glad to see you."

"First rate. I'm coming on, doctor. Work's been pretty slack for two weeks now, but yesterday I got work for

The work was finishing pantaloons. It used to be a good business before there was so much cutting in.

"I used to get fifteen cents a pair, then ten; now they don't pay but five. Yes, the shop furnishes the thread."

"Threethree pairs, to do 'em niceand they are very particularif I work from six in the morning till

twelve at night. I could do more, but my sight ain't what it used to be, and I've broken my specs."

"When I've the luck to get work, my lady. Sometimes there isn't any. And things cost so much. The rent is the

It appeared that the rent was two dollars and a half a month. That must be paid, at any rate. Edith made a little

calculation that on a flush average of ninety cents a week earned, and allowing so many cents for coal and so

many cents for oil, the margin for bread and tea must be small for the month. She usually bought three cents'

"It is kinder close," said the old lady, with a smile. "The worst is, my feet hurt me so I can't stir out. But the

neighbors is real kind. The little boy next room goes over to the shop and fetches my pantaloons and takes

Sitting all day by that dim window, half the night stitching by a kerosene lamp; lying for six hours on that

narrow couch! How to account for this old soul's Christian resignation and cheerfulness! "For," said the

doctor, "she has seen better days; she has moved in high society; her husband, who died twenty years ago,

was a policeman. What the old lady is doing is fighting for her independence. She has only one fearthe

It was with such scenes as these in her eyes that Edith went to her dressingroom to make her toilet for the

It was the first time they had dined with the Hendersons. It was Jack's doings. "Certainly, if you wish it,"

Edith had said when the invitation came. The unmentioned fact was that Jack had taken a little flier in

Oshkosh, and a hint from Henderson one evening at the Union, when the venture looked squally, had let him

"I wonder how Henderson came to do it?" Jack was querying, as he and old Fairfax sipped their fiveo'clock

"Oh, Henderson likes to do a goodnatured thing still, now and then. Do you know his wife?"

"Why, old Eschelle's daughter, Carmen; of course you wouldn't know; that was ten years ago. There was a

"No, but she was an easy second. She's a social climber; bound to get there from the start."

"Devilish. She's a little thing. I saw her once at Homburg, on the promenade with her mother.

"The kind of sweet blonde, I said to myself, that would mix a man up in a duel before he knew where he

"She was always clever, and she knows enough to play a straight game and when to propitiate. I'll bet a five

"My dear sir, she gets what she wants, and Henderson is going to the . . . well, look at the lines in his face.

I've known Henderson since he came fresh into the Street. He'd rarely knife a friend when his first wife was

It was halfpast eight when Mr. Henderson with Mrs. Delancy on his arm led the way to the diningroom. The

procession was closed by Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Delancy. The Van Dams were there, and Mrs. Chesney

and the Chesney girls, and Miss Tavish, who sat on Jack's right, but the rest of the guests were unknown to

Jack, except by name. There was a strong dash of the Street in the mixture, and although the Street was

tabooed in the talk, there was such an emanation of aggressive prosperity at the table that Jack said afterwards

If Jack had known the house ten years ago, he would have noticed certain subtle changes in it, rather in the

atmosphere than in many alterations. The newness and the glitter of cost had worn off. It might still be called

a palace, but the city had now a dozen handsomer houses, and Carmen's idea, as she expressed it, was to

make this more like a home. She had made it like herself. There were pictures on the walls that would not

have hung there in the late Mrs. Henderson's time; and the prevailing air was that of refined sensuousness.

Life, she said, was her idea, life in its utmost expression, untrammeled, and yes, a little Greek. Freedom was

perhaps the word, and yet her latest notion was simplicity. The dinner was simple. Her dress was exceedingly

simple, save that it had in it somewhere a touch of audacity, revealing in a flash of invitation the hidden

nature of the woman. She knew herself better than any one knew her, except Henderson, and even he was

forced to laugh when she travestied Browning in saying that she had one soulside to face the world with,

one to show the man she loved, and she declared he was downright coarse when on going out of the door he

muttered, "But it needn't be the seamy side." The reported remark of some one who had seen her at church

that she looked like a nun made her smile, but she broke into a silvery laugh when she head Van Dam's

The library was as cozy as ever, but did not appear to be used much as a library. Henderson, indeed, had no

time to add to his collection or enjoy it. Most of the books strewn on the tables were French novels or such

American tales as had the cachet of social riskiness. But Carmen liked the room above all others. She enjoyed

her cigarette there, and had a fancy for pouring her fiveo'clock tea in its shelter. Books which had all sorts of

things in them gave somehow an unconventional atmosphere to the place, and one could say things there that

Henderson himself, it must be confessed, had grown stout in the ten years, and puffy under the eyes. There

were lines of irritation in his face and lines of weariness. He had not kept the freshness of youth so well as

Carmen, perhaps because of his New England conscience. To his guest he was courteous, seemed to be

making an effort to be so, and listened with wellassumed interest to the story of her day's pilgrimage. At

Henderson looked amused. "You know in the city the gospel is that everybody is to be done."

"Well," said Edith, not to be diverted, "but, Mr. Henderson, what is it all forthis ,conflict? Perhaps,

"Yes, that's it; the devil is usually the other fellow. But, Mrs. Delancy," added Henderson, with an accent of

"The world is generally wrong. Do you understand poker, Mrs. Delancy? No! Of course you do not. But the

"Perhaps so. But you want to win for the sake of winning. If I gambled it would be a question of nerve. I

"And not for the sake of doing anythingjust winning? Don't you get tired of that?" asked Edith, quite

There was something in Edith's sincerity, in her fresh enthusiasm about life, that appeared to strike a

reminiscent note in Henderson. Perhaps he remembered another face as sweet as hers, and ideals, faint and

long ago, that were once mixed with his ideas of success. At any rate, it was with an accent of increased

"People get tired of everything. I'm not sure but it would interest me to see for a minute how the world looks

through your eyes." And then he added, in a different tone, "As to your East Side, Mrs. Henderson tried that

"Oh, very much. For a time. But she said there was too much of it." And Edith could detect no tone of

Down at the other end of the table, matters were going very smoothly. Jack was charmed with his hostess.

That clever woman had felt her way along from the heresy trial, through Tuxedo and the Independent Theatre

and the Horse Show, until they were launched in a perfectly free conversation, and Carmen knew that she

"Were you thinking of going on to the Conventional Club tonight, Mr. Delancy?" she was saying.

"Yes, it does seem to fill a want. Why, what do you do with your evenings, Mr. Delancy?"

"Yes, 'there's always that. But you want some place to go to after the theatres and the dinners; after the other

"Yes," said Jack, falling in, "it is a fact that there are not many places of amusement for the rich; I understand.

"I tell you what it is. It's a sort of Midnight Mission for the rich. They never have had anything of the kind in

The performers are selected. You can see things there that you want to see at other places to which you can't

"Oh, I see," said Jack. "It's what the Independent Theatre is trying to do, and what all the theatrical people say

needs to be done, to elevate the character of the audiences, and then the managers can give better plays."

"But," continued Jack, "it seems to me that now the audience is select and elevated, it wants to see the same

"You may laugh, Mr. Delancy," replied Carmen, throwing an earnest simplicity into her eyes, "but why

"And why," Miss Tavish asked, "will the serpentine dances and the London topical songs do any more harm

"And besides, Mr. Delancy," Carmen said, chiming in, "isn't it just as proper that women should see women

dance and throw somersaults on the stage as that men should see them? And then, you know, women are such

"I hadn't thought of that," said Jack. "I thought the Conventional was for the benefit of the audience, not for

"It's both. It's life. Don't you think women ought to know life? How are they to take their place in the world

"I'm sure I don't know whose place they are to take, the serpentine dancer's or mine," said Jack, as if he were

"Oh, I haven't any experiment," said Miss Tavish, shaking her head. "It's just Mr. Delancy's nonsense."

"I wish I had an experiment. There is so little for women to do. I wish I knew what was right." And Carmen

Carmen shot at him a quick sympathetic glance, tempered by a grateful smile. "There are so many points of

Jack felt the force of the remark as he did the revealing glance. And he had a swift vision of Miss Tavish

leading him a serpentine dance, and of Carmen sweetly beckoning him to a pleasant point of view. After all it

After dinner and cigars and cigarettes in the library, the talk dragged a little in duets. The dinner had been

charming, the house was lovely, the company was most agreeable. All said that. It had been so somewhere

else the night before that, and would be the next night. And the ennui of it all! No one expressed it, but

Henderson could not help looking it, and Carmen saw it. That charming hostess had been devoting herself to

Edith since dinner. She was so full of sympathy with the EastSide work, asked a hundred questions about it,

and declared that she must take it up again. She would order a cage of canaries from that poor German for her

kitchen. It was such a beautiful idea. But Edith did not believe in her one bit. She told Jack afterwards that

"Oh, I don't know anything about that. Henderson has only one ideato get the better of everybody, and be

the money king of New York. But I should not wonder if he had once a soft spot in his heart. He is better than

It was still early, lacked half an hour of midnight, and the night was before them. Some one proposed the

Conventional. "Yes," said Carmen; "all come to our box." The Van Dams would go, Miss Tavish, the

Chesneys; the suggestion was a relief to everybody. Only Mr. Henderson pleaded important papers that must

have his attention that night. Edith said that she was too tired, but that her desertion must not break up the

"Then you will excuse me also," said Jack, a little shade of disappointment in his face.

"No, no," said Edith, quickly; "you can drop me on the way. Go, by all means, Jack."

And Jack recalled the loving look that accompanied these words, later on, as he sat in the Henderson box at

the Conventional, between Carmen and Miss Tavish, and saw, through the slight haze of smoke, beyond the

orchestra, the praiseworthy efforts of the Montana Kicker, who had just returned with the imprimatur of

The complex affair we call the world requires a great variety of people to keep it going. At one o'clock in the

morning Carmen and our friend Mr. Delancy and Miss Tavish were doing their part. Edith lay awake

listening for Jack's return. And in an alley off Rivington Street a young girl, pretty once, unknown to fortune

but not to fame, was about to render the last service she could to the world by leaving it.

The impartial historian scarcely knows how to distribute his pathos. By the electric light (and that is the

modern light) gayety is almost as pathetic as suffering. Before the Montana girl hit upon the happy device

that gave her notoriety, her feet, whose every twinkle now was worth a gold eagle, had trod a thorny path.

There was a fortune now in the whirl of her illusory robes, but any daysuch are the whims of fashionshe

might be wandering again, sick at heart, about the great city, knocking at the side doors of variety shows for

any engagement that would give her a pittance of a few dollars a week. How long had Carmen waited on the

social outskirts; and now she had come into her kingdom, was she anything but a tinsel queen? Even

Henderson, the great Henderson, did the friends of his youth respect him? had he public esteem? Carmen

used to cut out the newspaper paragraphs that extolled Henderson's domestic virtue and his generosity to his

family, and show them to her lord, with a queer smile on her face. Miss Tavish, in the nervous consciousness

of fleeting years, was she not still waiting, dashing here and there like a bird in a net for the sort of freedom,

audacious as she was, that seemed denied her? She was still beautiful, everybody said, and she was sought

and flattered, because she was always merry and goodnatured. Why should Van Dam, speaking of women,

say that there were horses that had been set up, and checked up and trained, that held their heads in an

aristocratic fashion, moved elegantly, and showed style, long after the spirit had gone out of them? And Jack

himself, happily married, with a comfortable income, why was life getting flat to him? What sort of career

was it that needed the aid of Carmen and the serpentine dancer? And why not, since it is absolutely necessary

We are in no other world when we enter the mean tenement in the alley off Rivington Street. Here also is the

life of the town. The room is small, but it contains a cookstove, a chest of drawers, a small table, a couple of

chairs, and two narrow beds. On the top of the chest are a looking glass, some toilet articles, and bottles of

medicine. The cracked walls are bare and not clean. In one of the beds are two children, sleeping soundly,

and on the foot of it is a middleaged woman, in a soiled woolen gown with a thin figured shawl drawn about

her shoulders, a dirty cap half concealing her frowzy hair; she looks tired and worn and sleepy. On the other

bed lies a girl of twenty years, a woman in experience. The kerosene lamp on the stand at the head of the bed

casts a spectral light on her flushed face, and the thin arms that are restlessly thrown outside the cover. By the

bedside sits the doctor, patient, silent, and watchful. The doctor puts her hand caressingly on that of the girl.

It is hot and dry. The girl opens her eyes with a startled look, and says, feebly:

The girl closed her eyes again, and there was silence. The dim rays of the lamp, falling upon the doctor,

revealed the figure of a woman of less than medium size, perhaps of the age of thirty or more, a plain little

body, you would have said, who paid the slightest possible attention to her dress, and when she went about

the city was not to be distinguished from a workingwoman. Her friends, indeed, said that she had not the

least care for her personal appearance, and unless she was watched, she was sure to go out in her shabbiest

gown and most battered hat. She wore tonight a brown ulster and a nondescript black bonnet drawn close

down on her head and tied with black strings. In her lap lay her leathern bag, which she usually carried under

her arm, that contained medicines, lint, bandages, smellingsalts, a vial of ammonia, and so on; to her

patients it was a sort of conjurer's bag, out of which she could produce anything that an emergency called for.

Dr. Leigh was not in the least nervous or excited. Indeed, an artist would not have painted her as a rapt

angelic visitant to this abode of poverty. This contact with poverty and coming death was quite in her

ordinary experience. It would never have occurred to her that she was doing anything unusual, any more than

it would have occurred to the objects of her ministrations to overwhelm her with thanks. They trusted her,

that was all. They met her always with a pleasant recognition. She belonged perhaps to their world. Perhaps

they would have said that "Dr. Leigh don't handsome much," but their idea was that her face was good. That

was what anybody would have said who saw her tonight, "She has such a good face;" the face of a woman

who knew the world, and perhaps was not very sanguine about it, had few illusions and few antipathies, but

accepted it, and tried in her humble way to alleviate its hardships, without any consciousness of having a

Dr. LeighMiss Ruth Leighwas Edith's friend. She had not come from the country with an exalted notion

of being a worker among the poor about whom so much was written; she had not even descended from some

high circle in the city into this world, moved by a restless enthusiasm for humanity. She was a woman of the

people, to adopt a popular phrase. From her childhood she had known them, their wants, their sympathies,

their discouragements; and in her heartthough you would not discover this till you had known her long and

wellthere was a burning sympathy with them, a sympathy born in her, and not assumed for the sake of

having a career. It was this that had impelled her to get a medical education, which she obtained by hard labor

and selfdenial. To her this was not a means of livelihood, but simply that she might be of service to those all

about her who needed help more than she did. She didn't believe in charity, this stouthearted, clearheaded

little woman; she meant to make everybody pay for her medical services who could pay; but somehow her

practice was not lucrative, and the little salary she got as a dispensary doctor melted away with scarcely any

perceptible improvement in her own wardrobe. Why, she needed nothing, going about as she did.

She satnow waiting for the end; and the good face, so full of sympathy for the living, had no hope in it.

Just another human being had come to the end of her paththe end literally. It was so everyday. Somebody

came to the end, and there was nothing beyond. Only it was the end, and that was peace. One

o'clockhalfpast one. The door opened softly. The old woman rose from the foot of the bed with a start

and a low "Herr! gross Gott." It was Father Damon. The girl opened her eyes with a frightened look at first,

and then an eager appeal. Dr. Leigh rose to make room for him at the bedside. They bowed as he came

forward, and their eyes met. She shook her head. In her eyes was no expectation, no hope. In his was the

glow of faith. But the eyes of the girl rested upon his face with a rapt expression. It was as if an angel had

Father Damon was a young man, not yet past thirty, slender, erect. He had removed as he came in his

broadbrimmed soft hat. The hair was closecut, but not tonsured. He wore a brown cassock, falling in

straight lines, and confined at the waist with a white cord. From his neck depended from a gold chain a large

gold cross. His face was smooth shaven, thin, intellectual, or rather spiritual; the nose long, the mouth

straight, the eyes deep gray, sometimes dreamy and puzzling, again glowing with an inner fervor. A face of

long vigils and the schooled calmness of repressed energy. You would say a fanatic of God, with a dash of

selfconsciousness. Dr. Leigh knew him well. They met often on their diverse errands, and she liked, when

she could, to go to vespers in the little mission chapel of St. Anselm, where he ministered. It was not the

confessional that attracted her, that was sure; perhaps not altogether the service, though that was soothing in

certain moods; but it was the noble personality of Father Damon. He was devoted to the people as she was, he

understood them; and for the moment their passion of humanity assumed the same aspect, though she knew

Father Damon was an Englishman, a member of a London Anglican order, who had taken the three vows of

poverty, chastity, and obedience, who had been for some years in New York, and had finally come to live on

the East Side, where his work was. In a way he had identified himself with the people; he attended their

clubs; he was a Christian socialist; he spoke on the inequalities of taxation; the strikers were pretty sure of his

sympathy; he argued the injustice of the present ownership of land. Some said that he had joined a lodge of

the Knights of Labor. Perhaps it was these things, quite as much as his singleness of purpose and his spiritual

fervor, that drew Dr. Leigh to him with a feeling that verged on devotion. The ladies uptown, at whose

tables Father Damon was an infrequent guest, were as fully in sympathy with this handsome and aristocratic

young priest, and thought it beautiful that he should devote himself to the poor and the sinful; but they did not

It was at the mission that Father Damon had first seen the girl. She had ventured in not long ago at twilight,

with her cough and her pale face, in a silk gown and flowergarden of a hat, and crept into one of the

"Do you think, Father," said the girl, looking up wistfully, "that I can can be forgiven?"

Father Damon looked down sadly, pitifully. "Yes, my daughter, if you repent. It is all with our Father. He

He knelt down, with his cross in his hand, and in a low voice repeated the prayer for the dying. As the sweet,

thrilling voice went on in supplication the girl's eyes closed again, and a sweet smile played about her mouth;

it was the innocent smile of the little girl long ago, when she might have awakened in the morning and heard

When Father Damon arose she seemed to be sleeping. They all stood in silence for a moment.

"Yes," she said, with the faintest wan smile on her face. "It is I, you know, who have care of the body."

Father Damon came dangerously near to being popular. The austerity of his life and his known

selfchastening vigils contributed to this effect. His severely formal, simple ecclesiastical dress, coarse in

material but perfect in its saintly lines, separated him from the world in which he moved so unostentatiously

and humbly, and marked him as one who went about doing good. His life was that of selfabsorption and

hardship, mortification of the body, denial of the solicitation of the senses, struggling of the spirit for more

holiness of purposea life of supplication for the perishing souls about him. And yet he was so informed

with the modern spirit that he was not content, as a zealot formerly might have been, to snatch souls out of

the evil that is in the world, but he strove to lessen the evil. He was a reformer. It was probably this feature of

his activity, and not his spiritual mission, that attracted to him the little group of positivists on the East Side,

the demagogues of the labor lodges, the practical workers of the working girls' clubs, and the humanitarian

agnostics like Dr. Leigh, who were literally giving their lives without the least expectation of reward. Even

the refined ethicalculture groups had no sneer for Father Damon. The little chapel of St. Anselm was well

known. It was always open. It was plain, but its plainness was not the barrenness of a non conformist

chapel. There were two confessionals; a great bronze lamp attached to one of the pillars scarcely dispelled the

obscurity, but cast an unnatural light upon the gigantic crucifix that hung from a beam in front of the chancel.

There were half a dozen rows of backless benches in the centre of the chapel. The bronze lamp, and the

candles always burning upon the altar, rather accented than dissipated the heavy shadows in the vaulted roof.

At no hour was it empty, but at morning prayer and at vespers the benches were apt to be filled, and groups of

penitents or spectators were kneeling or standing on the floor. At vespers there were sure to be carriages in

front of the door, and among the kneeling figures were ladies who brought into these simple services for the

poor something of the refinement of grace as it is in the higher circles. Indeed, at the hour set apart for

confession, there were in the boxes saints from uptown as well as sinners from the slums. Sometimes the

When the organ sounded, and through a low door in the chancel the priest entered, preceded by a couple of

acolytes, and advanced swiftly to the readingdesk, there was an awed hush in the congregation. One would

not dare to say that there was a sentimental feeling for the pale face and rapt expression of the devotee. It was

more than that. He had just come from some scene of suffering, from the bed of one dying; he was weary

with watching. He was faint with lonely vigils; he was visibly carrying the load of the poor and the despised.

Even Ruth Leigh, who had dropped in for half an hour in one of her daily roundseven Ruth Leigh, who

had in her stanch, practical mind a contempt for forms and rituals, and no faith in anything that she could not

touch, and who at times was indignant at the efforts wasted over the future of souls concerning which no one

knew anything, when there were so many bodies, which had inherited disease and poverty and shame, going

to worldly wreck before socalled Christian eyeseven she could scarcely keep herself from adoring this

selfsacrificing spirit. The woes of humanity grieved him as they grieved her, and she used to say she did not

It was when he advanced to the altarrail to speak that the man best appeared. His voice, which was usually

low and full of melody, could be something terrible when it rose in denunciation of sin. Those who had

traveled said that he had the manner of a preaching friarthe simple language, so refined and yet so homely

and direct, the real, the inspired word, the occasional hastening torrent of words. When he had occasion to

address one of the societies of ladies for the promotion of something among the poor, his style and manner

were simplicity itself. One might have said there was a shade of contempt in his familiar and not seldom

slightly humorous remarks upon society and its aims and aspirations, about which he spoke plainly and

vigorously. And this was what the ladies liked. Especially when he referred to the pitifulness of class

distinctions, in the light of the example of our Lord, in our short pilgrimage in this world. This unveiling and

denunciation made them somehow feel nearer to their work, and, indeed, while they sat there, coworkers

Perhaps there was something in the priestly dress that affected not only the congregation in the chapel, but all

the neighborhood in which Father Damon lived. There was in the long robe, with its feminine lines, an

assurance to the women that he was set apart and not as others were; and, on the other hand, the

semifeminine suggestion of the straightfalling garment may have had for the men a sort of appeal for

defense and even protection. It is certain, at any rate, that Father Damon had the confidence of high and low,

rich and poor. The forsaken sought him out, the hungry went to him, the dying sent for him, the criminal

knocked at the door of his little room, even the rich reprobate would have opened his bad heart to him sooner

than to any one else. It is evident, therefore, that Father Damon was dangerously near to being popular.

Human vanity will feed on anything within its reach, and there has been discovered yet no situation that will

not minister to its growth. Suffering perhaps it prefers, and contumely and persecution. Are not opposition,

despiteful anger, slander even, rejection of men, stripes even, if such there could be in these days, manna to

the devout soul consciously set apart for a mission? But success, obsequiousness, applause, the love of

women, the concurrent good opinion of all humanitarians, are these not almost as dangerous as persecution?

Father Damon, though exalted in his calling, and filled with a burning zeal, was a sincere man, and even his

eccentricities of saintly conduct expressed to his mind only the high purpose of selfsacrifice. Yet he saw, he

could not but see, the spiritual danger in this rising tide of adulation. He fought against its influence, he

prayed against it, he tried to humiliate himself, and his very humiliations increased the adulation. He was

perplexed, almost ashamed, and examined himself to see how it was that he himself seemed to be thwarting

his own work. Sometimes he withdrew from it for a week together, and buried himself in a retreat in the

upper part of the island. Alas! did ever a man escape himself in a retreat? It made him calm for the moment.

But why was it, he asked himself, that he had so many followers, his religion so few? Why was it, he said,

that all the humanitarians, the reformers, the guilds, the ethical groups, the agnostics, the male and female

knights, sustained him, and only a few of the poor and friendless knocked, by his solicitation, at the

supernatural door of life? How was it that a woman whom he encountered so often, a very angel of mercy,

could do the things he was doing, tramping about in the misery and squalor of the great city day and night,

Perhaps he had been remiss in his duty. Perhaps he was letting a vague philanthropy take the place of a

personal solicitude for individual souls. The elevation of the race! What had the land question to do with the

salvation of man? Suppose everybody on the East Side should become as industrious, as selfdenying, as

unselfish as Ruth Leigh, and yet without belief, without hope! He had accepted the humanitarian situation

with her, and never had spoken to her of the eternal life. What unfaithfulness to his mission and to her! It

It was after one of his weeks of retreat, at the close of vesper service, that Dr. Leigh came to him. He had

been saying in his little talk that poverty is no excuse for irreligion, and that all aid in the hardship of this

world was vain and worthless unless the sinner laid hold on eternal life. Dr. Leigh, who was laboring with a

serious practical problem, heard this coldly, and with a certain contempt for what seemed to her a vague sort

"Well," he said, when she came to him in the vestry, with a drop from the rather austere manner in which he

"For me, nothing, Father Damon. I thought perhaps you would go round with me to see a pretty bad case. It is

"First the natural, then the spiritual," she replied, with a slight tone of sarcasm in her voice. "That's just like a

priest," she was thinking. "I do not know what to do, and something must be done."

"Yes. But there's a hitch somewhere. The machine doesn't take hold. The man says he doesn't want any

charity, any association, treating him like a pauper. He's off peddling; but trade is bad, and he's been away a

"The mother is sick in bed. I found her trying to do some fine stitching, but she was too weak to hold up the

Father Damon put on his hat, and they went out together, and for some time picked their way along the

"I didn't ask," she replied shortly. "I found her crying because the children were hungry."

Father Damon, still under the impression of his neglect of duty, did not heed her warning tone, but persisted,

"About what?" she asked, refusing to understand, and hardened at the slightest sign of what she called cant.

"About the necessity of repentance and preparation for another life," he answered, softly but firmly. "You

surely do not think human beings are created just for this miserable little experience here?"

"I don't know. I have too much to do with the want and suffering I see to raise anxieties about a world of

"Pardon me," he persisted, "have you no sense of incompleteness in this life, in your own life? no inward

The doctor was angry for a moment at this intrusion. It had seemed natural enough for Father Damon to

address his exhortations to the poor and sinful of his mission. She admired his spirit, she had a certain

sympathy with him; for who could say that ministering to minds diseased might not have a physical influence

to lift these people into a more decent and prosperous way of living? She had thought of herself as working

with him to a common end. But for him now to turn upon her, absolutely ignoring the solid, rational, and

scientific ground on which he knew, or should know, she stood, and to speak to her as one of the "lost,"

startled her, and filled her with indignation. She had on her lips a sarcastic reply to the effect that even if she

had a soul, she had not taken up her work in the city as a means of saving it; but she was not given to

sarcasm, and before she spoke she looked at her companion, and saw in the eyes a look of such genuine

humble feeling, contradicting the otherwise austere expression of his face, that her momentary bitterness

"I think, Father Damon," she said, gently, "we had better not talk of that. I don't have much time for

The priest saw that for the present he could make no progress, and after a little silence the conversation went

They found the woman betterat least, more cheerful. Father Damon noticed that there were medicines

upon the stand, and that there were the remains of a meal which the children had been eating. He turned to the

"Oh, the eldest boy had already been out and begged a piece of bread when I came. Of course they had to

He sat down by the bed, and talked with the mother, getting her story, while the doctor tidied up the room a

bit, and then, taking the youngest child in her lap and drawing the others about her, began to tell a story in a

low voice. Presently she was aware that the priest was on his knees and saying a prayer. She stopped in her

"I don't know," she said, and a sort of chill came over her heart. It all seemed a mockery, in these

When he rose he said to the woman, "We will see that you do not want till your husband comes back."

When they were in the street, Father Damon thanked her for calling his attention to the case, thanked her a

little formally, and said that he would make inquiries and have it properly attended to. And then he asked: "Is

"Oh, no; I have several visits to make. I'm not tired. I rather think it is good for me, being outofdoors so

For a moment he stood and watched the plain, resolute little woman threading her way through the crowded

and unclean street, and then slowly walked away to his apartment, filled with sadness and perplexity.

The apartment which he occupied was not far from the mission chapel, and it was the one clean spot among

the illkept tenements; but as to comfort, it was not much better than the cell of an anchorite. Of this,

however, he was not thinking as he stretched himself out on his pallet to rest a little from the exhausting

labors of the day. Probably it did not occur to him that his selfimposed privations lessened his strength for

He was thinking of Ruth Leigh. What a rare soul! And yet apparently she did not think or care whether she

had a soul. What could be the spring of her incessant devotion? If ever woman went about doing good in an

unselfish spirit it was she. Yet she confessed her work hopeless. She had no faith, no belief in immortality, no

expectation of any reward, nothing to offer to anybody beyond this poor life. Was this the enthusiasm of

humanity, of which he heard so much? But she did not seem to have any illusions, or to be burned up by

enthusiasm. She just kept on. Ah, he thought, what a woman she would be if she were touched by the fire of

Meantime, Ruth Leigh went on her round. One day was like another, except that every day the kaleidoscope

of misery showed new combinations, new phases of suffering and incompetence, and there was always a

fresh interest in that. For years now this had been her life, in the chill of winter and the heat of summer,

without rest or vacation. The amusements, the social duties, the allurements of dress and society, that so

much occupied the thoughts of other women, did not seem to come into her life. For books she had little time,

except the books of her specialty. The most exciting novels were pale compared with her daily experiences of

real life. Almost her only recreation was a meeting of the working girls, a session of her labor lodge, or an

assembly at the Cooper Union, where some fiery orator, perhaps a priest, or a clever agitator, a workingman

glib of speech, who had a mass of statistics at the end of his tongue, who read and discussed, in some private

club of zealots of humanity, metaphysics, psychology, and was familiar with the whole literature of labor and

socialism, awoke the enthusiasm of the discontented or the unemployed, and where men and women, in clear

but homely speech, told their individual experiences of wrong and injustice. There was evidence in all these

demonstrations and organizations that the world was moving, and that the old order must change.

Years and years the little woman had gone on with her work, and she frankly confessed to Edith, one day

when they were together going her rounds, that she could see no result from it all. The problem of poverty

and helplessness and incapacity seemed to her more hopeless than when she began. There might be a little

enlightenment here and there, but there was certainly not less misery. The state of things was worse than she

thought at first; but one thing cheered her: the people were better than she thought. They might be dull and

suspicious in the mass, but she found so much patience, unselfishness, so many people of good hearts and

"They are the people," she said, "I should choose for friends. They are natural, unsophisticated. And do you

know," she went on, "that what most surprises me is the number of reading, thoughtful people among those

who do manual labor. I doubt if on your side of town the, best books, the real fundamental and abstruse

books, are so read and discussed, or the philosophy of life is so seriously considered, as in certain little circles

"Perhaps," replied the doctor, dryly. "But they have no more fads than other people. Their theories seem to

them not only practical, but they try to apply them to actual legislation; at any rate, they discriminate in

vagaries. You would have been amused the other night in a small circle at the lamentations over a

memberhe was a cardriverwho was the authoritative expositor of Schopenhauer, because he had gone

"The club has not that name, but probably the members would not care to repudiate the title, or deny that they

were Nihilists theoreticallythat is, if Nihilism means an absolute social and political overturning in order

that something better may be built up. And, indeed, if you see what a hopeless tangle our present situation is,

"It is pitiful enough," Edith admitted. "But all this movement you speak of seems to me a vague agitation."

"I don't think," the doctor said, after a moment, "that you appreciate the intellectual force that is in it all, or

allow for the fermenting power in the great discontented mass of these radical theories on the problem of

This was a specimen of the sort of talk that Edith and the doctor often drifted into in their mission work. As

Ruth Leigh tramped along late this afternoon in the slush of the streets, from one house of sickness and

poverty to another, a sense of her puny efforts in this great mass of suffering and injustice came over her

anew. Her indignation rose against the state of things. And Father Damon, who was trying to save souls, was

he accomplishing anything more than she? Why had he been so curt with her when she went to him for help

this afternoon? Was he just a narrow minded, bigoted priest? A few nights before she had heard him speak

on the single tax at a labor meeting. She recalled his eloquence, his profound sympathy with the cause of the

people, the thrilling, pathetic voice, the illumination of his countenance, the authority, the consecration in his

attitude and dress; and he was transfigured to her then, as he was now in her thought, into an apostle of

humanity. Alas! she thought, what a leader he would be if he would break loose from his superstitious

The acquaintance between the house of Henderson and the house of Delancy was not permitted to languish.

Jack had his reasons for it, which may have been financial, and Carmen had her reasons, which were

probably purely social. What was the good of money if it did not bring social position? and what, on the other

In his recent association with the newly rich, Jack's twenty thousand a year began to seem small. In fact, in

the lowering of the rate of interest and the shrinkage of securities, it was no longer twenty thousand a year.

This would have been a matter of little consequence in the old order. His lot was not cast among the poor;

most of his relations had solid fortunes, and many of them were millionaires, or what was equivalent to that,

before the term was invented. But they made little display; none at all merely for the purpose of exhibition, or

to gain or keep social place. In this atmosphere in which he was born Jack floated along without effort, with

no demand upon him to keep up with a rising standard of living. Even impecuniosity, though inconvenient,

All this was changing now. Since the introduction of a new element even the conservative old millions had

begun to feel the stir of uneasiness, and to launch out into extravagance in rivalry with the new millions. Even

with his relations Jack began to feel that he was poor. It did not spur him to do anything, to follow the

example, for instance, of the young fellows from the country, who were throwing themselves into Wall Street

with the single purpose of becoming suddenly rich, but it made him uneasy. And when he was with the

Hendersons, or Miss Tavish, whose father, though not newly rich, was one of the most aggressive of

speculators, and saw how easily every luxurious desire glided into fulfillment, he felt for the first time in his

life the emotion of envy. It seemed then that only unlimited money could make the world attractive. Why,

even to keep up with the unthinking whims of Miss Tavish would bankrupt him in six months. That little

spread at Wherry's for the theatre party the other night, though he made light of it to Edith, was almost the

price he couldn't afford to pay for Storm. He had a grim thought that midwinter flowers made dining as

expensive as dying. Carmen, whom nothing escaped, complimented him on his taste, quite aware that he

couldn't afford it, and, apropos, told him of a lady in Chicago who, hearing that the fashion had changed,

wrote on her dinner cards, "No flowers." It was only a matter of course for these people to build a new

countryhouse in any spot that fashion for the moment indicated, to equip their yachts for a Mediterranean

voyage or for loitering down the Southern coast, to give a ball that was the talk of the town, to make up a

special train of luxurious private cars for Mexico or California. Even at the clubs the talk was about these

There was a rumor about town that Henderson was a good deal extended. It alarmed a hundred people, not on

Henderson's account, but their own. When one of them consulted Uncle Jerry, that veteran smiled.

"Oh, I guess Henderson's all right. But I wouldn't wonder if it meant a squeeze. Of course if he's extended, it's

an excuse for settling up, and the shorts will squeal. I've seen Henderson extended a good many times," and

This opinion, when reported, did not seem to quiet Jack's fears, who saw his own little venture at the mercy

of a sweeping Street game. It occurred to him that he possibly might get a little light on the matter by

He found her in the library. Outdoors winter was slouching into spring with a cold drizzle, with a coating of

ice on the pavementsanimating weather for the medical profession. Within, there was the glow of warmth

and color that Carmen liked to create for herself. In an entrancing tea gown, she sat by a hickory fire, with a

fresh magazine in one hand and a big papercutter in the other. She rose at Jack's entrance, and, extending

her hand, greeted him with a most cordial smile. It was so good of him! She was so lonesome! He could

himself see that the lonesomeness was dissipated, as she seated him in a comfortable chair by the fire, and

then stood a moment looking at him, as if studying his comfort. She was such a domestic woman!

"You look tired, monsieur," she said, as she passed behind his chair and rested the tip of her forefinger for a

"I know," she replied; "it's a bothering world." She was still behind him, and spoke low, but with sympathy.

He could feel her presence, so womanly and friendly. "I don't care what people say," he was thinking, "she's a

goodhearted little thing, and understands men." He felt that he could tell her anything, almost anything that

She made a cup for herself, handed him the cigarettes, lit one for herself, and sat on a low stool not far from

"Rumor?" she repeated, with a little start. And then, leaning forward, "Do you mean that about Mr.

Carmen, relieved, gave a liquid little laugh, and then said, with a change to earnestness: "I'm going to trust

you, my friend. Henderson put it in himself! He told me so this morning when I asked him about it. This is

Jack said, "Of course," but he did not look relieved. The clever creature divined the situation without another

word, for there was no turn in the Street that she was not familiar with. But there was no apparent recognition

of it, except in her sympathetic tone, when she said: " Well, the world is full of annoyances. I'm bothered

"Oh nothing, not even a rumor. You cannot do anything about it. I don't know why I should tell you. But I

will." And she paused a moment, looking down in an innocent perplexity. "It's just this: I am on the

Foundlings' Board with Mrs. Schuyler Blunt, and I don't know her, and you can't think how awkward it is

having to meet her every week in that stiff kind of way." She did not go on to confide to Jack how she had

intrigued to get on the board, and how Mrs. Schuyler Blunt, in the most wellbred manner, had practically

"Yes. We were great cronies when she was Sadie Mack. She isn't a genius, but she is goodhearted. I suppose

she is on all the charity boards in the city. She patronizes everything," Jack continued, with a smile.

"I'm sure she is," said Carmen, thinking that however goodhearted she might be she was very "snubby."

"And it makes it all the more awkward, for I am interested in so many things myself."

"I can arrange all that," Jack said, in an offhand way. Carmen's look of gratitude could hardly be

distinguished from affection. "That's easy enough. We are just as good friends as ever, though I fancy she

doesn't altogether approve of me lately. It's rather nice for a fellow, Mrs. Henderson, to have a lot of women

"Yes. Between us all we will make a model of you. I am so glad now that I told you."

Jack protested that it was nothing. Why shouldn't friends help each other? Why not, indeed, said Carmen, and

the talk went on a good deal about friendship, and the possibility of it between a man and a woman. This sort

of talk is considered serious and even deep, not to say philosophic. Carmen was a great philosopher in it. She

didn't know, but she believed, it seemed natural, that every woman should have one man friend. Jack rose to

"So soon?" And it did seem pathetically soon. She gave him her hand, and then by an impulse she put her left

"Mr. Delancy, don't you be troubled about that rumor we were speaking of. It will be all right. Trust me."

He understood perfectly, and expressed both his understanding and his gratitude by bending over and kissing

When he had gone, Carmen sat a long time by the fire reflecting. It would be sweet to humiliate the Delancy

and Schuyler Blunt set, as Henderson could. But what would she gain by that? It would be sweeter still to put

them under obligations, and profit by that. She had endured a good many social rebuffs in her day, this

tolerant little woman, and the sting of their memory could only be removed when the people who had ignored

her had to seek social favors she could give. If Henderson only cared as much for such things as she did! But

he was at times actually brutal about it. He seemed to have only one passion. She herself liked money, but

only for what it would bring. Henderson was like an old Pharaoh, who was bound to build the biggest

pyramid ever built to his memory; he hated to waste a block. But what was the good of that when one had

Revolving these deep things in her mind, she went to her dressingroom and made an elaborate toilet for

dinner. Yet it was elaborately simple. That sort needed more study than the other. She would like to be the

Her lord came home late, and did not dress for dinner. It was often so, and the omission was usually not

allowed to pass by Carmen without notice, to which Henderson was sure to growl that he didn't care to be

always on dress parade. Tonight Carmen was all graciousness and warmth. Henderson did not seem to notice

it. He ate his dinner abstractedly, and responded only in monosyllables to her sweet attempts at conversation.

The fact was that the day had been a perplexing one; he was engaged in one of his big fights, a scheme that

aroused all his pugnacity and taxed all his resources. He would winof course; he would smash everybody,

but he would win. When he was in this mood Carmen felt that she was like a daisy in the path of a cyclone. In

the first year of their marriage he used to consult her about all his schemes, and value her keen understanding.

She wondered why he did not now. Did he distrust even her, as he did everybody else? Tonight she asked no

questions. She was unruffled by his short responses to her conversational attempts; by her subtle, wifely

In the library she brought him his cigar, and lighted it. She saw that his coffee was just as he liked it. As she

moved about, making things homelike, Henderson noticed that she was more Carmenish than he had seen her

in a long time. The sweet ways and the simple toilet must be by intention. And he knew her so well. He

began to be amused and softened. At length he said, in his ordinary tone, "Well, what is it?"

Carmen looked perplexed and sweetly surprised. There is nothing so pitiful about habitual hypocrisy as that it

never deceives anybody. It was not the less painful now that Carmen knew that Henderson knew her to the

least fibre of her selfseeking soul, and that she felt that there were currents in his life that she could not

calculate. A man is so much more difficult to understand than a woman, she reflected. And yet he is so

susceptible that he can be managed even when he knows he is being managed. Carmen was not disconcerted

"And before I know it either," he responded, with a grim smile. "Well, what is the news today?"

"Not much," said Carmen, frankly. "I'm interested in those that find them. I told you how hateful that Mrs.

"I can't find out," she said, with a laugh, dropping into the language of the Street, "anything she is short in, or

"And you want me to get a twist on old Blunt?" and Henderson roared with laughter at the idea.

"No, indeed. Dear, you are just a goose, socially. It is nothing to you, but you don't understand what we

"Nothing. That's just it. What do you say in the Streetfreeze? Well, she is trying to freeze me out."

"I was going to tell you. Mr. Delancy dropped in this afternoon for a cup of tea"

"Yes, and he knows Mrs. Schuyler Blunt well; they are old friends, and he is going to arrange it."

"Why, smooth everything out, don't you know. But, Rodney, I do want you to do something for me; not for

"Seems to me you are a good deal interested in Jack Delancy," said Henderson, in a sneering tone. The

remark was a mistake, for it gave Carmen the advantage, and he did not believe it was just. He knew that

Carmen was as passionless as a diamond, whatever even she might pretend for a purpose.

"Aren't you ashamed!" she cried, with indignation, and her eyes flared for an instant and then filled with

"He isn't a duck," said Carmen, using her handkerchief; "I'd hate him for a duck. It's just to help me, when

Did Henderson believe? After all, what did it matter? Perhaps, after all, the woman had a right to her game,

"Oh, well," he said, "don't take on about it. I'll fix it. I'll make a memorandum this minute. Only don't you

Carmen dried her eyes. She did not look triumphant; she just looked sweet and grateful, like a person who

had been helped. She went over and kissed her lord on the forehead, and sat on the arm of his chair, not too

long, and then patted him on the shoulder, and said he was a good fellow, and she was a little bother, and so

And Henderson sat looking into the fire and musing, with the feeling that he had been at the theatre, and that

His part of the play was carried out next day in good faith. One of the secrets of Henderson's success was that

he always did what he said he would do. This attracted men to him personally, and besides he found, as

Bismarck did, that it was more serviceable to him than lying, for the crafty world usually banks upon

insincerity and indirectness. But while he kept his word he also kept his schemes to himself, and executed

them with a single regard to his own interest and a Napoleonic selfishness. He did not lie to enemy or friend,

but he did not spare either when either was in his way. He knew how to appeal to the selfinterest of his

fellows, and in time those who had most to do with him trusted him least when he seemed most generous in

When, the next day, his secretary reported to him briefly that Delancy was greatly elated with the turn things

had taken for him, and was going in again, Henderson smiled sardonically, and said, "It was the worst thing I

Jack, who did not understand the irony of his temporary rescue, and had little experience of commercial

integrity, so called, was intent on fulfilling his part of the understanding with Carmen. This could best be

effected by a return dinner to the Hendersons. The subject was broached at breakfast in an offhand manner

It was not an agreeable subject to Edith, that was evident; but it was not easy for her to raise objections to the

dinner. She had gone to the Hendersons' to please Jack, in her policy of yielding in order to influence him;

but having accepted the hospitality, she could not object to returning it. The trouble was in making the list.

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Ask our friends. If we are going to do a thing to please them, no use in doing it

"Yes; he'll give a kind of flavor to it. I shouldn't wonder if he would like to meet such a man as Henderson."

"And then the Van Dams and Miss Tavish; they were at Henderson's, and would help to make it easy."

"Oh, they wouldn't do at all. They wouldn't come. She wouldn't think of going to the Hendersons'."

"I don't want them particularly; but it would no doubt please the Hendersons more than any other thing we

could doand, well, I don't want to offend Henderson just now. It's a little thing, anyway. What's the use of

all this social nonsense? We are not responsible for either the Hendersons or the Blunts being in the world.

No harm done if they don't come. You invite them, and I'll take the responsibility."

So it was settled, against Edith's instinct of propriety, and the dinner was made up by the addition of the elder

Miss Chesney. And Jack did persuade Mrs. Blunt to accept. In fact, she had a little curiosity to see the man

It was a bright thought to secure Mr. Mavick. Mr. Thomas Mavick was socially one of the most desirable

young men of the day. Matrimonially he was not a prize, for he was without fortune and without powerful

connections. He had a position in the State Department. Originally he came from somewhere in the West, it

was said, but he had early obtained one or two minor diplomatic places; he had lived a good deal abroad; he

had traveled a littlea good deal, it would seem, from his occasional Oriental allusions. He threw over his

past a slight mystery, not too much; and he always took himself seriously. His salary was sufficient to set up

a bachelor very comfortably who always dined out; he dressed in the severity of the fashion; he belonged

only to the best clubs, where he unbent more than anywhere else; he was credited with knowing a good deal

more than he would tell. It was believed, in fact, that he had a great deal of influence. The President had been

known to send for him on delicate personal business with regard to appointments, and there were certain

ticklish diplomatic transactions that he was known to have managed most cleverly. His friends could see his

hand in state papers. This he disclaimed, but he never denied that he knew the inside of whatever was going

on in Washington. Even those who thought him a snob said he was clever. He had perfectly the diplomatic

manner, and the reserve of one charged with grave secrets. Whatever he disclosed was always in confidence,

so that he had the reputation of being as discreet as he was knowing. With women he was of course a

favorite, for he knew how to be confidential without disclosing anything, and the hints he dropped about

persons in power simply showed that he was secretly manoeuvring important affairs, and could make the

most interesting revelations if he chose. His smile and the shake of his head at the club when talk was

personal conveyed a world of meaning. Tom Mavick was, in short, a most accomplished fellow. It was

evident that he carried on the State Department, and the wonder to many was that he was not in a position to

do it openly. His social prestige was as mysterious as his diplomatic, but it was now unquestioned, and he

might be considered as one of the first of a class who are to reconcile social and political life in this country.

Looking back upon this dinner of the Delancys, the student of human affairs can see how Providence uses

small means for the accomplishment of its purposes. Of all our social contrivances, the formal dinner is

probably the cause of more anxiety in the arrangement, of more weariness in the performance, and usually of

less satisfaction in the retrospect than any other social function. However carefully the guests are selected, it

lacks the spontaneity that gives intellectual zest to the chance dining together of friends. This Delancy party

was made up for reasons which are well understood, and it seemed to have been admirably well selected; and

yet the moment it assembled it was evident that it could not be very brilliant or very enjoyable. Doubtless

you, madam, would have arranged it differently, and not made it up of such incongruous elements.

As a matter of fact, scarcely one of those present would not have had more enjoyment somewhere else.

Father Damon, whose theory was that the rich needed saving quite as much as the poor, would nevertheless

have been in better spirits sitting down to a collation with the workingwomen in Clinton Place. It was a

good occasion for the cynical observation of Mr. Mavick, but it was not a company that he could take in hand

and impress with his mysterious influence in public affairs. Henderson was not in the mood, and would have

had much more ease over a chop and a bottle of halfandhalf with Uncle Jerry. Carmen, socially

triumphant, would have been much more in her element at a petit souper of a not too fastidious four. Mrs.

Schuyler Blunt was in the unaccustomed position of having to maintain a not too familiar and not too distant

line of deportment. Edith and Jack felt the responsibility of having put an incongruous company on thin

conventional ice. It was only the easygoing Miss Tavish and two or three others who carried along their

own animal spirits and love of amusement who enjoyed the chance of a possible contretemps.

And yet the dinner was providentially arranged. If these people had not met socially, this history would have

been different from what it must be. The lives of several of them were appreciably modified by this meeting.

It is too much to say that Father Damon's notion of the means by which such men as Henderson succeed was

changed, but personal contact with the man may have modified his utterances about him, and he may have

turned his mind to the uses to which his wealth might be applied rather than to the means by which he

obtained it. Carmen's ingenuous interest in his work may have encouraged the hope that at least a portion of

this fortune might be rescued to charitable uses. For Carmen, dining with Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was a distinct

gain, and indirectly opened many other hitherto exclusive doors. That lady may not have changed her opinion

about Carmen, but she was goodnatured and infected by the incoming social tolerance; and as to Henderson,

she declared that he was an exceedingly wellbred man, and she did not believe half the stories about him.

Henderson himself at once appreciated the talents of Mavick, gauged him perfectly, and saw what services he

might be capable of rendering at Washington. Mr. Mavick appreciated the advantage of a connection with

such a capitalist, and of having open to him another luxurious house in New York. At the dinnertable

Carmen and Mr. Mavick had not exchanged a dozen remarks before these clever people felt that they were

congenial spirits. It was in the smokingroom that Henderson and Mavick fell into an interesting

conversation, which resulted in an invitation for Mavick to drop in at Henderson's office in the morning. The

dinner had not been a brilliant one. Henderson found it not easy to select topics equally interesting to Mrs.

Delancy and Mrs. Blunt, and finally fell into geographical information to the latter about Mexico and

Honduras. For Edith, the sole relief of the evening was an exchange of sympathy with Father Damon, and she

was too much preoccupied to enjoy that. As for Carmen, placed between Jack and Mr. Mavick, and conscious

that the eyes of Mrs. Blunt were on her, she was taking a subdued role, which Jack found much less attractive

than her common mood. But this was not her only selfsacrifice of the evening. She went without her usual

To Edith the dinner was a revelation of new difficulties in the life she proposed for herself, though they were

rather felt than distinctly reasoned about. The social atmosphere was distasteful; its elements were out of

harmony with her ideals. Not that this society was new to her, but that she saw it in a new light. Before her

marriage all these things had been indifferent to this highspirited girl. They were merely incidents of the

social state into which she was born, and she pursued her way among them, having a tolerably clear

conception of what her own life should be, with little recognition of their tendencies. Were only her own life

concerned, they would still be indifferent to her. But something had happened. That which is counted the best

thing in life had come to her, that best thing which is the touchstone of character as it is of all conditions, and

which so often introduces inextricable complications. She had fallen in love with Jack Delancy and married

The first effect of this was to awake and enlarge what philosophers would call her enthusiasm of humanity.

The second effect was to show herand this was what this little dinner emphasizedthat she had put

limitations upon herself and taken on unthoughtof responsibilities. To put this sort of life one side, or make

it secondary to her own idea of a useful and happy life, would have been easy but for one thingshe loved

Jack. This philosophic reasoning about it does her injustice. It did not occur to her that she could go her way

and let him go his way. Nor must it be supposed that the problem seemed as grave to her as it really

wasthe danger of frittering away her own higher nature in faithfulness to one of the noblest impulses of

that nature. Yet this is the way that so many trials of life come, and it is the greatest test of character. She

felt as many women do feelthat if she retained her husband's love all would be well, and the danger

But what did cross her mind was that these associations meant only evil for Jack, and that to be absorbed in

the sort of life that seemed to please him was for her to drift away from all her ideals.

A confused notion of all this was in her thoughts when she talked with Father Damon, while the gentlemen

"The interest continues," he replied; "but your East Side, Mrs. Delancy, is a puzzling place."

Edith did laugh, and then said: " Then you'd better move your mission over to this side. Here is a field of

"Well, the attempt of science to solve the problem of sin and wretchedness. What can you expect when the

"So I am," he said, frankly, "when I see the present injustice, the iniquitous laws and combinations that leave

these people so little chance. They are ignorant, and expect the impossible; but they are right in many things,

and I go with them. But my motive is not theirs. I hope not. There is no hope except in a spiritual life.

Materialism down at the bottom of society is no better than materialism at the top. Do you know," he went

on, with increased warmth, "that pessimism is rather the rule over that side, and that many of those who labor

most among the poor have the least hope of ever making things substantially better?"

"But such unselfish people as Dr. Leigh do a great deal of good," Edith suggested.

"Yes," he said reflecting"yes, I have no doubt. I don't understand it. She is not hopeful. She sees nothing

"I wish the phrase had never been invented. Religion of humanity! The work is to save the souls of those

"But," said Edith, with a flush of earnestness "but, Father Damon, isn't human love the greatest power to

The priest looked at the girl. His face softened, and he said, more gently, "I don't know. Of the soul, yes. But

In her soul Edith resented this as an ascetic and priestly view; but she knew his devotion to that humanity

which he in vain tried to eliminate from his austere life, and she turned the talk lightly by saying, "Ah, that is

your theory. But I am coming over soon, and shall expect you and Dr. Leigh to take me about."

The next morning Mr. Mavick's card gave him instant admission to the inner office of Mr. Henderson, the

approach to whom was more carefully guarded than that to the President of the United States. This was not

merely necessary to save him from the importunities of cranks who might carry concealed dynamite

arguments, but as well to protect him from hundreds of business men with whom he was indirectly dealing,

and with whom he wished to evade explanations. He thoroughly understood the advantages of delay. He also

understood the value of the mystery that attends inaccessibility. Even Mr. Mavick himself was impressed by

the show of ceremony, by the army of clerks, and by the signs of complete organization. He knew that the

visitor was specially favored who penetrated these precincts so far as to get an interview, usually fruitless,

with Henderson's confidential man. This confidential man was a very grave and confidencebegetting person,

who dealt out dubious hints and promises, and did not at all mind when Henderson found it necessary to

repudiate as unauthorized anything that had been apparently said in his name. To be sure, this gave a general

impression that Henderson was an inscrutable man to deal with, but at the same time it was confessed that his

spoken word could be depended on. Anything written might, it is true, lead to litigation, and this gave rise to

Henderson was not a politician, but he was a friend of politicians. It was said that he contributed about

equally to both sides in a political campaign, and that this showed patriotism more than partisanship. It was

for his interest to have friends on both sides in Congress, and friends in the Cabinet, and it was even hinted

that he was concerned to have men whose economic and financial theories accorded with his own on the

Supreme Bench. He had unlimited confidence in the power of money. His visitor of the morning was not

unlike him in many respects. He also was not a politician. He would have described himself as a

governmental man, and had a theory of running the government with as little popular interference as possible.

Between these two men, who each had his own interests in view, there was naturally an apparent putting

"I was very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mavick," said Henderson, cordially. " I have known of you

"Oh, extravagantly," Mavick rejoined, in the same spirit. "You just about get your board and clothes out of

government. Your washing is another thing. You are expected, you know, to have your washing done where

"Yes, till you are turned out. You know the theory at Washington is that virtue is its own reward. Tom

"Observation, probably. Tom startled a dinner table the other day with the remark that when a man once gives

himself up to the full enjoyment of a virtuous life, it seems strange to him that more people do not follow his

"The trouble with the virtue of Washington is that it always wants to interfere with other people's business.

Fellows like Tom are always hunting up mares' nests in order to be paid for breaking them up."

"I suppose so. And that goes along with another propositionthat the successful have no rights which the

unsuccessful are bound to respect. As soon as a man gets ahead," Henderson continued, with a tone of

bitterness, "the whole pack are trying to pull him down. A capitalist is a public enemy. Why, look at that

Hodge bill! Strikes directly at the ability of the railways to develop the country. Have you seen it?"

"Yes," Mavick admitted; "the drawer of it was good enough to consult me on its constitutionality. It's a

"It can't get through the Senate," said Henderson; "but it's a bother. Such schemes are coming up all the time,

"Exactly. I can't be in Washington all the time. And I need to know what is going on every twentyfour hours

"Well," said Mr. Mavick, in his easiest manner, "that's easy enough. You want a disinterested friend."

Henderson nodded, but did not even smile, and the talk went on about other measures, and confidentially

about certain men in Washington, until, after twenty minutes' conversation, the two men came to a perfect

understanding. When Mavick arose to go they shook hands even more cordially than at first, and Henderson

"Well, I expect to hear from you, and remember that our house will always be your home in the city."

It seemed very fortunate to Jack Delancy that he should have such a clever woman as Carmen for his

confidante, a man so powerful as Henderson as his backer, and a person so omniscient as Mavick for his

friend. No combination could be more desirable for a young man who proposed to himself a career of getting

money by adroit management and spending it in pure and simple selfindulgence. There are plenty of men

who have taken advantage of like conditions to climb from one position to another, and have then kicked

down the ladders behind them as fast as they attained a new footing. It was Jack's fault that he was not one of

these. You could scarcely dignify his character by saying that he had an aim, except to saunter through life

with as little personal inconvenience as possible. His selfishness was boneless. It was not by any means

negative, for no part of his amiable nature was better developed than regard for his own care and comfort; but

it was not strong enough to give him Henderson's capacity for hard work and even selfdenial, nor Mavick's

cool, persevering skill in making a way for himself in the world. Why was not Edith his confidante? His

respect for her was undoubted; his love for her was unquestioned; his trust in her was absolute. And yet with

either Carmen or Miss Tavish he fell into confidential revelations of himself which instinctively he did not

make to Edith. The explanation of this is on the surface, and it is the key to half the unhappiness in domestic

life. He felt that Edith was not in sympathy with the associations and the life he was leading. The pitiful and

hopeless part of it is that if she had been in sympathy with them, Jack would have gone on in his frivolous

career at an accelerated pace. It was not absence of love, it was not unfaithfulness, that made Jack enjoy the

hours he spent with Carmen, or with the pleasing and not too fastidious Miss Tavish, with a zest that was

wanting to his hours at home. If he had been upon a sinking steamboat with the three women, and could have

saved only one of them, he would not have had a moment's hesitation in rescuing Edith and letting the other

two sink out of his life. The character is not unusual, nor the situation uncommon. What is a woman to do?

Her very virtues are enemies of her peace; if she appears as a constant check and monitor, she repels; if she

weakly acquiesces, the stream will flow over both of them. The dilemma seems hopeless.

It would be a mistake to suppose that either Edith or Jack put their relations in any such definite shape as this.

He was unthinking. She was too highspirited, too confident of her position, to be assailed by such fears. And

it must be said, since she was a woman, that she had the consciousness of power which goes along with the

possession of loveliness and keen wit. Those who knew her best knew that under her serenity was a gay

temperament, inherited from the original settlers of Manhattan, an abounding enjoyment of life, and capacity

for passion. It was early discovered in her childhood that little Edith had a will of her own.

Lent was over. It was the time of the twittering of sparrows, of the opening of windows, of putting in order

the little sentimental spots called "squares," where the poor children get their idea of forests, and the rich

renew their faint recollections of innocence and country life; when the hawkers go about the streets, and the

handorgans celebrate the return of spring and the possibility of love. Even the idle felt that it was a time for

"Have you answered Miss Tavish's invitation?" asked Jack one morning at the breakfasttable.

"And why not? You go to a good many places you don't take methe clubs, brokers' offices, Stalker's, the

"My dear Jack," said Edith, "I haven't objected the least in the world;" and her animated face sparkled with a

"I don't see why you set yourself up. I'll bet Miss Tavish will raise more money for the Baxter Street Guild,

yes, and do more good, than you and the priest and that woman doctor slopping about on the East Side in six

"Very likely," replied Edith, still with the same goodhumored smile. "But, Jack, it's delightful to see your

philanthropic spirit stirred up in this way. You ought to be encouraged. Why don't you join Miss Tavish in

this charity? I have no doubt that if it was advertised that Miss Tavish and Mr. Jack Delancy would dance for

the benefit of an East Side guild in the biggest hall in the city, there wouldn't be standing room."

"Oh, bosh!" said Jack, getting up from his chair and striding about the room, with more irritation than he had

Edith's eyes flashed and her face flushed, but her smile came back in a moment, and she was serene again.

"Come here, Jack. Now, old fellow, look me straight in the eyes, and tell me if you would like to have me

dance the serpentine dance before a drawingroom full of gossiping women, with, as you say, just a few men

Jack did look, and the serene eyes, yet dancing with amusement at the incongruous picture, seemed to take a

"I'm glad you know it's different," she said, with a laugh that had not a trace of mockery in it; "and since you

do, you'd better go along and do your charity, and I'll stay at home, and try to bedifferent when you come

And Jack went; with a little feeling of sheepishness that he would not have acknowledged at the time, and he

found himself in a company where he was entirely at his ease. He admired the dancing of the blithe, graceful

girl, he applauded her as the rest did with handclapping and bravas, and said it was ravishing. It all suited

him perfectly. And somehow, in the midst of it all, in the sensuous abandon of this electriclight eccentricity

at midday, he had a fleeting vision of something very different, of a womanhood of another sort, and a flush

came to his face for a moment as he imagined Edith in a skirt dance under the gaze of this sensationloving

society. But this was only for a moment. When he congratulated Miss Tavish his admiration was entirely

sincere; and the girl, excited with her physical triumph, seemed to him as one emancipated out of acquired

prudishness into the Greek enjoyment of life. Miss Tavish, who would not for the world have violated one of

the social conventions of her set, longed, as many women do, for the sort of freedom and the sort of applause

which belongs to women who succeed upon the stage. Not that she would have forfeited her position by

dancing at a theatre for money; but; within limits, she craved the excitement, the abandon, the admiration,

that her grace and passion could win. This was not at all the ambition which led the Egyptian queen

Hatshepsu to assume the dress of a man, but rather that more famous aspiration which led the daughter of

Herodias, in a pleasureloving court, to imitate and excel the professional dancinggirls. If in this inclination

of the women of the day, which is not new, but has characterized all societies to which wealth has brought

idleness, there was a note of demoralization, it did not seem so to Jack, who found the world day by day more

As the months went by, everything prospered with him on his drifting voyage. Of all voyages, that is the

easiest to make which has no port in view, that depends upon the varying winds, if the winds happen to be

soft and the chance harbors agreeable. Jack was envied, thanks to Henderson. He was lucky in whatever he

touched. Without any change in his idle habits, and with no more attention to business than formerly, money

came to him so freely that he not only had a complacent notion that he was a favorite of fortune, but the idea

of his own importance in the financial world increased enormously, much to the amusement of Mavick, when

he was occasionally in the city, to whom he talked somewhat largely of his operations, and who knew that he

had no more comprehension of the sweep of Henderson's schemes than a baby has of the stock exchange

His prosperity was visible. It showed in the increase of his accounts at the Union, in his indifference to limits

in the game of poker, in a handsome pair of horses which he insisted on Edith's accepting for her own use, in

an increased scale of living at home, in the hundred ways that a man of fashion can squander money in a

luxurious city. If he did not haunt the secondhand bookshops or the stalls of dealers in engravings, or bring

home as much bricabrac as he once had done, it was because his mind was otherwise engaged; his tailor's

bills were longer, and there were more expensive lunches at the clubs, at which there was a great deal of sage

talk about stocks and combinations, and much wisdom exhibited in regard to wines; and then there were the

little suppers at Wherry's after the theatres, which a bird could have eaten and a fish have drunken, and only a

"It is absurd," Edith had said one night after their return. "It makes us ridiculous in the eyes of anybody but

fools." And Jack had flared up about it, and declared that he knew what he could afford, and she had retorted

that as for her she would not countenance it. And Jack had attempted to pass it off lightly, at last, by saying,

"Very well then, dear, if you won't back me, I shall have to rely upon my bankers." At any rate, neither

Carmen nor Miss Tavish took him to task. They complimented him on his taste, and Carmen made him feel

that she appreciated his independence and his courage in living the life that suited him. She knew, indeed,

how much he made in his speculations, how much he lost at cards; she knew through him the gossip of the

clubs, and venturing herself not too far at sea, liked to watch the undertow of fashionable life. And she liked

Jack, and was not incapable of throwing him a rope when the hour came that he was likely to be swept away

It was remarked at the Union, and by the men in the Street who knew him, that Jack was getting rapid. But no

one thought the less of him for his pacethat is, no one appeared to, for this sort of estimate of a man is only

tested by his misfortunes, when the day comes that he must seek financial backing. In these days he was

generally in an expansive mood, and his free hand and goodhumor increased his popularity. There were

those who said that there were millions of family money back of Jack, and that he had recently come in for

But this story did not deceive Major Fairfax, whose business it was to know to a dot the standing of

everybody in society, in which he was a sort of oracle and privileged favorite. No one could tell exactly how

the Major lived; no one knew the rigid economy that he practiced; no one had ever seen his small dingy

chamber in a cheap lodginghouse. The name of Fairfax was as good as a letter of introduction in the

metropolis, and the Major had lived on it for years, on that and a carefully nursed little incomean habitue

of the club, and a methodical cultivator of the art of dining out. A most agreeable man, and perhaps the wisest

man in his generation in those things about which it would be as well not to know anything.

Seated one afternoon in his favorite corner for street observation, by the open window, with the evening

paper in his hand, in the attitude of one expecting the usual five o'clock cocktail, he hailed Jack, who was just

"About what?" said Jack, sauntering along to a seat opposite the Major, and touching a bell on the little table

as he sat down. Jack's face was flushed, but he talked with unusual slowness and distinctness. "What have

"No, I haven't; but I was turning the thing over in my mind," Jack replied, with the air of a man declining an

"My dear boy, there is no such thing as a cheap yacht, any more than there is a cheap elephant."

"It's better to buy than build," Jack insisted. "A man's got to have some recreation."

"Recreation! Why don't you charter a Fifth Avenue stage and take your friends on a voyage to the Battery?

That'll make 'em sick enough." It was a misery of the Major's life that, in order to keep in with necessary

friends, he had to accept invitations for cruises on yachts, and pretend he liked it. Though he had the gout, he

vowed he would rather walk to Newport than go round Point Judith in one of those tipping tubs. He had tried

it, and, as he said afterwards, "The devil of it was that Mrs. Henderson and Miss Tavish sympathized with

The Major sipped his bitters, and then added: "Or I'll tell you what; if you must do something, start a

newspaperthe drama, society, and letters, that sort of thing, with pictures. I heard Miss Tavish say she

"I didn't suppose you were. Devilish fine girl, though. I don't care who you buy it for if you don't buy it for

"There!" exclaimed the Major, sinking back in his chair, with a softened expression in his society beaten face.

"It's no use of nonsense, Jack. I'm an average old sinner, and I'm not old enough yet to like a milksop. But

I've known you since you were so high, and I knew your father; he used to stay weeks on my plantation when

we were both younger. And your motherthat was a woman!did me a kindness once when I was in a

dd tight place, and I never forgot it. See here, Jack, if I had money enough I'd buy a yacht and put

Carmen and Miss Tavish on it, and send them off on the longest voyage there is."

"The town, Jack. Don't mind the talk. People always talk. I suppose people talk about me: At your age I

should have been angry too at a hint even from an old friend. But I've learned. It doesn't pay. I don't get angry

"Nothing. He is a very good fellow, for that sort of man. But, Lord! Henderson is a big machine. You might

as well try to stand in with a combination of gangsaws, or to make friends with the Department of the

Interior. Look at the men who have gone in with Henderson from time to time. The ground is strewn with

"I beg your pardon, Jack; it's none of my business. Only I do not put my investments"Jack smiled faintly,

as if the conversation were taking a humorous turn"at the mercy of Henderson's schemes. If I did, I

wouldn't try to run a yacht at the same time. I should be afraid that some day when I got to sea I should find

myself out of coal. You know, my boy, that the good book says you cannot serve two masters."

"Nobody ever accused you of that, Major," retorted Jack, with a laugh. "But what two have you in mind?"

"Oh, I don't mean anything personal. I just use names as typical. Say Henderson and Carmen." And the Major

leaned back and tapped his fingers together, as if he were putting a general proposition.

Jack flushed, and then thought a momentit would be ridiculous to get angry with old Fairfaxand then

said: "Major, if I were you, I wouldn't have anything to do with either of them. You'll spoil your digestion."

"Umph!" the Major grunted, as he rose from his chair. "This is an age of impudence. There's no more respect

for gray hair than if it were dyed. I cannot waste any more time on you. I've got an early dinner. Devilish

uphill work trying to encourage people who dine at seven. But, my boy, think on these things, as the saint

And the old fellow limped away. There was one good thing about the Major. He stood up in church every

Jack, sobered by the talk, walked home in a very irritated mood, blaming everybody except himself. For old

Fairfax's opinion he didn't care, but evidently the old fellow represented a lot of gossip. He wished people

would mind their own business. His irritation was a little appeased by Edith's gay and loving greeting; but

"No; not specially. I've had an hour of old Fairfax, who hasn't any business of his own to attend to."

"Oh, nobody minds the Major," Edith said, as she gave him a shake and another kiss; but a sharp pang went

through her heart, for she guessed what had happened, since she had had a visit that afternoon from another

They were staying late in town. Edith, who did not care to travel far, was going presently to a little cottage by

the sea, and Mrs. Schuyler Blunt had looked in for a moment to say goodby before she went up to her

"It's only an old farmhouse made over," Mrs. Blunt was saying; "hardly smart enough to ask anybody to, but

"Yes, it is, and about as difficult to get into as the kingdom of heaven. It's being spoiled for moderate people.

The Hendersons and the Van Dams and that sort are in a race to see who shall build houses with the biggest

rooms, and give the most expensive entertainments. It's all show. The old flavor has gone."

"My child, they are the scenery. You can't see anything else. It doesn't bother me, but some of my old

neighbors are just ruining themselves trying to keep the pace. I do think the Americans are the biggest fools

"Yes, that's the English of it. But it's a pity that fashion has got hold of the country, and is turning our

summers into a worry and a burden. I thought years ago when we went to Lenox that it was a good thing the

country was getting to be the fashion; but now it's fashionable, and before we know it every desirable spot

will be what they call syndicated. Miss Tavish says she is coming to visit the Hendersons there."

"But she is coming down for part of the season. These people don't stay anywhere. Just long enough in one

place to upset everything with their extravagance. That's the reason I didn't ask you and Jack up this

"Thank you, we couldn't go, you know," said Edith, simply, and then, with curiosity in her eyes, asked; "but I

"Well," said Mrs. Blunt, as if nerving herself up to say what must be said, "I thought perhaps you wouldn't

"Don't turn on me, Edith dear. I oughtn't to have said anything. But I thought it was my duty. Of course it is

"It is false!" cried Edith, starting up, with tears now in her eyes; "it's a cruel lie if it means anything wrong in

Jack. So am I with those women; so are you. It's a shame. If you hear any one say such things, you can tell

"I said it was a shame, all such talk. I said it was nonsense. But, dear, as a friend, oughtn't I to tell you?" And

the kindhearted gossip put her arm round Edith, and kept saying that she perfectly understood it, and that

nobody really meant anything. But Edith was crying now, with a heart both hurt and indignant.

"It's a most hateful world, I know," Mrs, Blunt answered; "but it's the best we have, and it's no use to fret

When the visitor had gone, Edith sat a long time in misery. It was the first real shock of her married life. And

in her heart she prayed. For Jack? Oh no. The dear girl prayed for herself, that suspicions might not enter her

heart. She could not endure that the world should talk thus of him. That was all. And when she had thought it

all over and grown calm, she went to her desk and wrote a note to Carmen. It asked Mrs. Henderson, as they

were so soon to leave town, to do her the favor to come round informally and lunch with her the next day,

Jack was grateful for Edith's intervention. He comprehended that she had stepped forward as a shield to him

in the gossip about Carmen. He showed his appreciation in certain loverlike attentions and in a gayety of

manner, but it was not in his nature to feel the sacrifice she had made or its full magnanimity; he was

relieved, and in a manner absolved. Another sort of woman might have made him very uncomfortable.

"Not one woman in a thousand would have done it," was the comment of Major Fairfax when he heard of the

drive in the Park. "Gad! most of 'em would have cut Carmen dead and put Jack in Coventry, and then there

would have been the devil to pay. It takes quality, though; she's such a woman as Jack's mother. If there were

not one of them now and then society would deliquesce." And the Major knew, for his principal experience

Whether Carmen admired Mrs. Delancy or thought her weak it is impossible to say, but she understood the

advances made and responded to them, for they fell in perfectly with her social plans. She even had the face

to eulogize Mrs. Delancy to Jack, her breadth of view, her lack of prejudice, and she had even dared to say,

"My dear friend, she is too good for us," and Jack had not protested, but with a laugh had accepted the

implication of his position on a lower moral level. Perhaps he did not see exactly what it meant, this being on

confidential terms about his wife with another woman; all he cared for at the moment was that the

comradeship of Miss Tavish and Carmen was agreeable to him. They were no restraint upon him. So long as

they remained in town the exchange of civilities was kept up. Carmen and Miss Tavish were often at his

house, and there was something reassuring to Jack in the openness with which affairs went on.

Early in June Edith went down to their rented cottage on the south Long Island shore. In her delicate health

the doctor had recommended the seaside, and this locality as quiet and restful, and not too far from the whirl

of the city. The place had a charm of its own, the charm, namely, of a wide sky, illimitable, flashing,

changing sea, rolling in from the far tropical South with its message of romance to the barren Northern shore,

and the pure sand dunes, the product of the whippings of tempests and wild weather. The cottage was in fact

an old farmhouse, not an impertinent, gay, painted piece of architecture set on the sand like a tent for a

month, but a solid, ugly, fascinating habitation, with barns and outhouses, and shrubs, and an old gardena

place with a salty air friendly to delicate spring blossoms and summer fruits and foliage. If it was a

farmhouse, the sea was an important part of the farm, and the lowceiled rooms suggested cabins; it required

little imagination to fancy that an EastIndian ship had some time come ashore and settled in the sand, that it

had been remodeled and roofed over, and its sides pierced with casement windows, over which roses had

climbed in order to bind the wanderer to the soil. It had been painted by the sun and the wind and the salt air,

so that its color depended upon the day, and it was sometimes dull and almost black, or blueblack, under a

lowering sky, and again a golden brown, especially at sunset, and Edith, feeling its character rather than its

appearance to ordinary eyes, had named it the Golden House. Nature is such a beautiful painter of wood.

With Edith went one of her Baltimore cousins, a young kindergarten teacher of fine intelligence and

sympathetic manner, who brought to her work a long tradition of gentle breeding and gayety and

simplicity qualities which all children are sure to recognize. What a hopeful thing it is, bytheway, in the

world, that all conditions of people know a lady at sight! Jack found the place delightful. He liked its

quaintness, the primitiveness of the farmerfisherman neighbors, he liked the sea. And then he could run up

to the city any morning and back at night. He spent the summer with Edith at the Golden House. This was his

theory. When he went to town in the morning he expected to return at night. But often he telegraphed in the

afternoon that he was detained by business; he had to see Henderson, or Mavick was over from Washington.

Occasionally, but not often, he missed the train. He had too keen a sense of the ridiculous to miss the train

often. When he was detained over for two or three days, or the better part of the week, he wrote Edith

dashing, hurried letters, speaking of ever so many places he had been to and ever so many people he had

seenyes, Carmen and Miss Tavish and everybody who was in town, and he did not say too much about the

Henderson's affairs kept him in town, Miss Tavish still postponed Bar Harbor, and Carmen willingly

remained. She knew the comfort of a big New York house when the season is over, when no social duties are

required, and one is at leisure to lounge about in cool costumes, to read or dream, to open the windows at

night for the salt breeze from the bay, to take little excursions by boat or rail, to dine al fresco in the garden of

some semiforeign hotel, to taste the unconventional pleasures of the town, as if one were in some foreign

city. She used to say that New York in matting and hollands was almost as nice as BudaPesth. These were

really summer nights, operatic sorts of nights, with music floating in the air, gay groups in the streets, a stage

imitation of nature in the squares with the thick foliage and the heavy shadows cast on the asphalt by the

electric lights, the brilliant shops, the nonsense of the summer theatres, where no one expected anything, and

no one was disappointed, the general air of enjoyment, and the suggestion of intrigue. Sometimes, when

Mavick was over, a party was made up for the East Side, to see the foreign costumes, the picturesque street

markets, the dime museums, and the serious, tragical theatres of the people. The East Side was left pretty

much to itself, now that the winter philanthropists had gone away, and was enjoying its summer nights and its

They even looked in at Father Damon's chapel, the dimly lighted fragrant refuge from the world and from sin.

Why not? They were interested in the morals of the region. Had not Miss Tavish danced for one of the guilds;

and had not Carmen given Father Damon a handsome check in support of his mission? It was so satisfactory

to go into such a place and see the penitents kneeling here and there, the little group of very plainly dressed

sinners attracted by Father Damon's spiritual face and unselfish enthusiasm. Carmen said she felt like

kneeling at one of the little boxes and confessingthe sins of her neighbors. And then the four Carmen,

Miss Tavish, Mavick, and Jackhad a little supper at Wherry's, which they enjoyed all the more for the

good action of visiting the East Sidea little supper which lasted very late, and was more and more enjoyed

as it went on, and was, in fact, so gay that when the ladies were set down at their houses, Jack insisted on

dragging Mavick off to the Beefsteak Club and having something manly to drink; and while they drank he

analyzed the comparative attractions of Carmen and Miss Tavish; he liked that kind of women, no nonsense

in them; and presently he wandered a little and lost the cue of his analysis, and, seizing Mavick by the arm,

and regarding him earnestly, in a burst of confidence declared that, notwithstanding all appearances, Edith

It was at this supper that the famous society was formed, which the newspapers ridiculed, and which deceived

so many excellent people in New York because it seemed to be in harmony with the philanthropic endeavor

of the time, but which was only an expression of the Mephistophelian spirit of Carmenthe Society for

By the end of June there was no more doubt about the heat of the town than about its odors. The fashionable

residence part was dismantled and deserted. At least miles and miles of houses seemed to be closed. Few

carriages were seen in this quarter, the throngs of fashion had disappeared, comparatively few women were

about, and those that appeared in the Sunday promenade were evidently sightseers and idlers from other

quarters; the throng of devotees was gone from the churches, and indeed in many of them services were

suspended till a more convenient season. The hotels, to be sure, were full of travelers, and the clubhouses

had more habitues than usual, and were more needed by the members whose families had gone into the

Notwithstanding the silence and vacation aspect of uptown, the public conveyances were still thronged, and

a census would have shown no such diminution of population as seemed. Indeed, while nobody was in town,

except accidentally, the greater portion of it presented a more animated appearance than usual, especially at

night, on account of the open windows, the groups on doorsteps and curbstones, and the restless throng in

the streetsbuyers and sellers and idlers. To most this outdoor life was a great enjoyment, and to them the

unclean streets with the odors and exhalations of decay were homelike and congenial. Nor did they seem

surprised that a new country should so completely reproduce the evil smells and nastiness of the old

civilization. It was all familiar and picturesque. Work still went on in the crowded tenementhouses, and

sickness simply changed its character, death showing an increased friendliness to young children. Some

impression was of course made by the agents of various charities, the guilds and settlements bravely strove at

their posts, some of the churches kept their flags flying on the borders of the industrial districts, the Good

Samaritans of the Freshair Fund were active, the public dispensaries did a thriving business, and the little

band of selfsacrificing doctors, most of them women, went their rounds among the poor, the sick, and the

Among them Ruth Leigh was one who never took a vacation. There was no time for it. The greater the heat,

the more noisome the town, the more people became ill from decaying food and bad air and bad habits, the

more people were hungry from improvidence or lack of work, the more were her daily visits a necessity; and

though she was weary of her monotonous work, and heartsick at its small result in such a mass, there never

came a day when she could quit it. She made no reputation in her profession by this course; perhaps she

awoke little gratitude from those she served, and certainly had not so much of their confidence as the quacks

who imposed upon them and took their money; and she was not heartened much by hope of anything better in

this world or any other; and as for pay, if there was enough of that to clothe her decently, she apparently did

It was, in short, wholly inexplicable that this little woman should simply go about doing good, without any

ulterior purpose whatever, not even notoriety. Did she love these people? She did not ever say anything about

that. In the Knights of Labor circle, and in the little clubs for the study of social questions, which she could

only get leisure to attend infrequently, she was not at all demonstrative about any religion of humanity.

Perhaps she simply felt that she was a part of these people, and that whether they rejected her or received her,

there was nothing for her to do but to give herself to them. She would probably have been surprised if Father

Damon had told her that she was in this following a great example, and there might have been a tang of

agnostic bitterness in her reply. When she thought of it the condition seemed to her hopeless, and the attitude

of what was called civilization towards it so remorseless and indifferent, and that of Christianity so

pharisaical. If she ever lost her temper, it was when she let her mind run in this nihilistic channel, in bitterness

against the whole social organization, and the total outcome of civilization so far as the mass of humanity is

One day Father Damon climbed up to the top of a wretched tenement in Baxter Street in search of a German

girl, an impulsive and pretty girl of fifteen, whom he had missed for several days at the chapel services. He

had been in the room before. It was not one of the worst, for though small and containing a cookstove, a

large bed, and a chest of drawers, there was an attempt to make it tidy. In a dark closet opening out from it

was another large bed. As he knocked and opened the door, he saw that Gretchen was not at home. Her father

sat in a rockingchair by an open window, on the sill of which stood a pot of carnations, the Easter gift of St.

George's, a waxfaced, holloweyed man of gentle manners, who looked round wearily at the priest. The

mother was washing clothes in a tub in one corner; in another corner was a halffinished garment from a

slopshop. The woman alternated the needle at night and the tub in the daytime. Seated on the bed, with a

thin, sick child in her arms, was Dr. Leigh. As she looked up a perfectly radiant smile illuminated her usually

plain face, an unworldly expression of such purity and happiness that she seemed actually beautiful to the

"Oh, you needn't be afraid to come in, Father Damon," she cried out; "it isn't contagiousonly rash."

Father Damon, who would as readily have walked through a pestilence as in a flowergarden, only smiled at

this banter, and replied, after speaking to the sick man, and returning in German the greeting of the woman,

who had turned from the tub, "I've no doubt you are disappointed that it isn't contagious!" And then, to the

"Nein," replied the woman, in a mixture of German and English, "it don't come any more in dot place; it be in

"Yaas, by six o'clock, and abends so spate. Not much it get, but my man can't earn nothing any more." And

"Vell, it be so tired, and goed up by de Park with Dick Loosing and dem oder girls."

"Don't you think it better, Father Damon," Dr. Leigh interposed, "that Gretchen should have fresh air and

"Perhaps," said he, with something like a frown on his face, and then changed the subject to the sick child. He

did not care to argue the matter when Dr. Leigh was present, but he resolved to come again and explain to the

mother that her daughter needed some restraining power other than her own impulse, and that without

religious guidance she was pretty certain to drift into frivolous and vulgar if not positively bad ways. The

father was a freethinker; but Father Damon thought he had some hold on the mother, who was of the

Lutheran communion, but had followed her husband so far as to become indifferent to anything but their

daily struggle for life. Yet she had a mother's instinct about the danger to her daughter, and had been pleased

And, besides, he could not bring himself in that presence to seem to rebuke Ruth Leigh. Was she not

practically doing what his Lord did going about healing the sick, sympathizing with the poor and the

discouraged, taking upon herself the burden of the disconsolate, literally, without thought of self, sharing, as

it were, the misery and sin of this awful city? And today, for the first time, he seemed to have seen the

woman in heror was it the saint? and he recalled that wonderful illumination of her plain face that made

her actually beautiful as she looked up from the little waif of humanity she held in her arms. It had startled

him, and struck a new chord in his heart, and planted a new pang there that she had no belief in a future life.

It did not occur to him that the sudden joy in her face might have been evoked by seeing him, for it was a

long time since she had seen him. Nor did he think that the pang at his heart had another cause than religious

anxiety. Ah, priest and worldly saint, how subtle and enduring are the primal instincts of human nature!

"Yes," he said, as they walked away, in reply to her inquiry as to his absence, "I have been in retreat a couple

"I suppose," she said, softly, "you needed the rest; though," and she looked at him professionally, "if you will

"I needed strength"and it was the priest that spoke" in meditation and prayer to draw upon resources not

"Pardon me," she said; "I don't pretend to know what you need. I need to eat, though Heaven knows it's hard

enough to keep up an appetite down here. But it is physical endurance you need for the work here. Do you

"I know I couldn't do it on my own strength." And Dr. Leigh recalled times when she had seen him

officiating in the chapel apparently sustained by nothing but zeal and pure spirit, and wondered that he did

not faint and fall. And faint and fall he did, she was sure, when the service was over.

"Well, it may be necessary to you, but not as an example to these people. I see enough involuntary fasting."

"We look at these people from different points of view, I fear." And after a moment he said: "But, doctor, I

"Occasionally. She works too many hours, but she seems to be getting on very well, and brings her mother all

Dr. Leigh winced a little at this searching question, for no one knew better than she the vulgarizing influence

of street life and chance associations upon a young girl, and the temptations. She was even forced to admit

the value in the way of restraint, as a sort of police force, of the church and priestly influence, especially upon

girls at the susceptible age. But she knew that Father Damon meant something more than this, and so she

"Yes, I know. She is in the way of temptation, but so long as she works industriously, and loves her mother,

and feels the obligation, which the poor very easily feel, of doing her share for the family, she is not in so

much moral danger as other girls of her age who lead idle and self indulgent lives. The workinggirls of the

"And you think this is enough, without any sort of religionthat this East Side can go on without any

Ruth Leigh made a gesture of impatience. In view of the actual struggle for existence she saw around her, this

"I don't know that anything can go on. Let me ask you a question, Father Damon. Do you think there is any

more spirituality, any more of the essentials of what you call Christianity, in the society of the other side than

"It is a deep question, this of spirituality," replied Father Damon, who was in the depths of his proselyting

action a democrat and in sympathy with the people, and rated quite at its full value the conventional fashion

in religion. "I shouldn't like to judge, but there is a great body of Christian men and women in this city who

"Yes," replied the little doctor, bitterly, "trying to save themselves. How many are trying to save

"You surely cannot ignore," replied the father, still speaking mildly, "the immense amount of charitable work

"Yes, I know; charity, charity, the condescension of the rich to the poor. What we want are understanding,

fellowship, and we get alms! If there is so much spirituality as you say, and Christianity is what you say it is

today, how happens it that this side is left in filth and misery and physical wretchedness? You know what it

is, and you know the luxury elsewhere. And you think to bridge over the chasm between classes with flowers,

in pots, yes, and Biblereaders and fashionable visitors and little aid societieslittle palliatives for an awful

state of things. Why, look at it! Last winter the city authorities hauled off the snow and the refuse from the

fashionable avenues, and dumped it down in the already blockaded and filthy side streets, and left us to

struggle with the increased pneumonia and diphtheria, and general unsanitary conditions. And you wonder

that the little nihilist groups and labor organizations and associations of agnostics, as you call them, meeting

to study political economy and philosophy, say that the existing state of things has got to be overturned

"I do not wonder," replied Father Damon, sadly. "The world is evil, and I should be as despairing as you are

if I did not know there was another life and another world. I couldn't bear it. Nobody could."

"And all you've got to offer, then, to this mass of wretchedness, poverty, ignorance, at close quarters with

hunger and disease, is to grin and bear it, in hope of a reward somewhere else!"

"Oh," she hastened to say, almost as impetuously as she had spoken before, "I don't mean youI don't mean

you. I know what you do. Pardon me for speaking so. I get so discouraged sometimes." They stood still a

moment, looking up and down the hot, crowded, odorful street they were in, with its flaunting rags of poverty

and inefficiency. "I see so little result of what I can do, and there is so little help."

"I know," said the father, as they moved along. " I don't see how you can bear it alone."

This touched a sore spot, and aroused Ruth Leigh's combativeness. It seemed to her to approach the verge of

cant again. But she knew the father's absolute sincerity; she felt she had already said too much; and she only

murmured, as if to herself, "If we could only know." And then, after a moment, she asked, "Do you, Father

"Yes, today." And he spoke very slowly and hesitatingly. "If you will excuse the personality of it. When I

entered that room today, and saw you with that sick child in your arms, and comprehended what it all meant,

I had a great wave of hope, and I knew, just then, that there is coming virtue enough in the world to redeem

Ruth was confounded. Her heart seemed to stand still, and then the hot blood flowed into her face in a

crimson flood. "Ah," escaped from her lips, and she walked on more swiftly, not daring to look up. This from

him! This recognition from the ascetic father! If one of her dispensary comrades had said it, would she have

And afterwards, when she had parted from him, and gone to her little room, the hot flush again came to her

neck and brow, and she saw his pale, spiritual face, and could hear the unwonted tenderness of his voice. Yes,

The question has been very much discussed whether the devil, in temperate latitudes, is busier in the summer

or in the winter. When Congress and the various State legislatures are in session, and the stock and grain

exchanges are most active, and society is gayest, and the churches and benevolent and reformatory

associations are most aggressiveat this season, which is the cool season, he seems to be most animated and

But is not this because he is then most opposed? The stream may not flow any faster because it is dammed,

but it exhibits at the obstructed points greater appearance of agitation. Many people are under the impression

that when they stop fighting there is a general truce: There is reason to believe that the arch enemy is pleased

with this impression, that he likes a truce, and that it is his best opportunity, just as the weeds in the garden,

after a tempest, welcome the sun and the placidity of the elements. It is well known that in summer virtue

suffers from inertia, and that it is difficult to assemble the members of any vigilant organization, especially in

cities, where the flag of the enemy is never lowered. But wherever the devil is there is always a quorum

present for business. It is not his plan to seek an open fight, and many observers say that he gains more

ground in summer than in any other season, and this notwithstanding people are more apt to lose their

tempers, and even become profane, in the aggravations of what is known as spring than at any other time.

The subject cannot be pursued here, but there is ground for supposing that the devil prefers a country where

At any rate, it is true that the development of character is not arrested by any geniality or languor of nature.

By midsummer the Hendersons were settled in Lenox, where the Blunts had long been, and Miss Tavish and

her party of friends were at Bar Harbor. Henderson was compelled to be in the city most of the time, and Jack

Delancy fancied that business required his presence there also; but he had bought a yacht, and contemplated a

voyage, with several of the club men, up the Maine coast. "No, I thank you," Major Fairfax had said; "I know

Jack was irritable and restless, to be sure, in the absence of the sort of female society he had become

accustomed to; but there were many compensations in his freeandeasy bachelor life, in his pretense of

business, which consisted in watching the ticker, as it is called, in an occasional interview with Henderson,

and in the floating summer amusements of the relaxed city. There was nothing unusual in this life except that

he needed a little more stimulation, but this was not strange in the summer, and that he devoted more time to

pokerbut everybody knows that a person comes out about even in the game of poker if he keeps at it long

enoughthere was nothing unusual in this, only it was giving Jack a distaste for the quiet and it seemed to

him the restraint of the Golden House down by the sea. And he was more irritable there than elsewhere. It is

so difficult to estimate an interior deterioration of this sort, for Jack was just as popular with his comrades as

It is true that Jack had had other ideas when he was courting Edith Fletcher, and at moments, at any rate,

different aspirations from any he had now. With her at that time there had been nobler aspirations about life.

But now she was his wife. That was settled. And not only that, but she was the best woman he knew; and if

she were not his wife, he would spare no effort to win her. He felt sure of that. He did not put it to himself in

the way an Oriental would do, "That is finished"; but it was an act donea good actand here was his

world again, with a hundred interests, and there were people besides Edith to be thought of, other women and

men, and affairs. Because a man was married, was he to be shut up to one little narrow career, that of

husband? Probably it did not occur to him that women take a different view of this in the singleness of their

purpose and faith. Edith, for instance, knew or guessed that Jack had no purpose in life that was twentyfour

hours old; but she had faithand no amount of observation destroys this faith in womenthat marriage

With most men marriage is un fait accompli. Jack had been lucky, but there was, no doubt, truth in an

observation of Mavick's. One night as they sat at the club Jack had asked him a leading question, apropos of

Henderson's successful career: " Mavick, why don't you get married?" "I have never," he replied, with his

usual cynical deliberation, "been obliged to. The fact is, marriage is a curbbit. Some horses show off better

with it, and some are enraged and kick over the traces. I cannot decide which I would be."

"That's true enough," said Jack, "from a bachelor's point of view of independence, but it's really a question of

"The most difficult thing in the worldin horses. Just about impossible in temperament and movement, let

"I see," said Jack, who knew something about the Henderson household, "your idea of a pair is that they

Mavick laughed, and said something about the ideas of women changing so much lately that nobody could

tell what the relation of marriage would become, and Jack, who began to feel that he was disloyal, changed

the subject. To do him justice, he would have been ashamed for Edith to hear this sort of flippant and shallow

"Nobody is safe. Henderson is as safe as anybody. You can rely on what he says. But there's a good deal he

"Not that I know. I've been pretty lucky. But the fact is, I've gone in rather deep."

"Well, it's a game. Henderson plays it, as everybody does, for himself. I like Henderson. He plays to win, and

generally does. But, you know, if one man wins, somebody else has got to lose in this kind of industry."

"Yeswhen it doesn't cost too much. Times may come when a man has to look out for himself. Wealth isn't

made out of nothing. There must be streams into the reservoir. These great accumulations of oneyou can

see thatmust be made up of countless other men's small savings. There's Uncle Jerry. He operates a good

deal with Henderson, and they'd incline to help each other out. But Uncle Jerry says he's got a small pond of

"What do I think of the Milky Way? It doesn't much matter to me what becomes of Missouri, unless

Henderson should happen to get smashed in it, and that isn't what he is there for. But when you look at the

combinations, and the droppingoff of roads that have been drained, and the scaling down in refunding, and

the rearranging, and the strikes, how much chance do you think the small fry stand? I don't doubt that

Henderson will make a big thing out of it, and there will be lots of howling by those who were not so smart,

and the newspapers will say that Henderson was too strong for them. What we respect nowadays are

"It's an exciting game," Mavick continued, after a moment's pause. "Let me know if you get uneasy. But I'll

tell you what it is, Jack; if I had a comfortable income, I wouldn't risk it in any speculation. There is a good

deal that is interesting going on in this world, and I like to be in it; but the best plan for a man who has

The fact was that Mavick's connection with Henderson was an appreciable addition to his income, and it was

not a bad thing for Henderson. Mavick's reputation for knowing the inside of everything and being close

mouthed actually brought him confidences; that which at first was a clever assumption became a reality, and

his reputation was so established for being behind the scenes that he was not believed when he honestly

professed ignorance of anything. His modest disclaimer merely increased the impression that he was deep.

Henderson himself had something of the Bismarck trait of brutal, contemptuous frankness. Mavick was never

brutal and never contemptuous, but he had a cynical sort of frankness, which is a good deal more effectual in

a business way than the oily, plausible manner which on 'Change, as well as in politics, is distrusted as

hypocrisy. Now Uncle Jerry Hollowell was neither oily nor frank; he was longheaded and cautious, and had

a reputation for shrewdness and just enough of plasticity of conscience to remove him out of the list of the

impracticable and overscrupulous. This reputation that business men and politicians acquire would be a very

curious study. The world is very complacent, and apparently worships success and votes for smartness, but it

would surprise some of our most successful men to know what a real respect there is in the community, after

Even Jack, who fell into the current notion of his generation of young men that the Henderson sort of

morality was best adapted to quick success, evinced a consciousness of want of nobility in the course he was

pursuing by not making Edith his confidante. He would have said, of course, that she knew nothing about

business, but what he meant was that she had a very clear conception of what was honest. All the evidences

of his prosperity, shown in his greater freedom of living, were sore trials to her. She belonged to that old class

of NewYorkers who made trade honorable, like the merchants of Holland and Venice, and she knew also

that Jack's little fortune had come out of honest toil and strict business integrity. Could there be any happiness

It seemed cruel to put such a problem as this upon a young woman hardly yet out of girlhood, in the first

flush of a new life, which she had dreamed should be so noble and high and so happy, in the period which is

consecrated by the sweetest and loveliest visions and hopes that ever come into a woman's life.

As the summer wore on to its maximum of heat and discomfort in the city, Edith, who never forgot to

measure the hardships of others by her own more fortunate circumstances, urged Dr. Leigh to come away

from her labors and rest a few days by the sea. The reply was a refusal, but there was no complaint in the

brief businesslike note. One might have supposed that it was the harvesttime of the doctor, if he had not

known that she gathered nothing for herself. There had never been so much sickness, she wrote, and such an

opportunity for her. She was learning a great deal, especially about some disputed contagious diseases. She

would like to see Mrs. Delancy, and she wouldn't mind a breath of air that was more easily to be analyzed

than that she existed in, but nothing could induce her to give up her cases. All that appeared in her letter was

Father Damon, who had been persuaded by Edith's urgency to go down with Jack for a few days to the

Golden House, seemed uncommonly interested in the reasons of Dr. Leigh's refusal to come.

"I never saw her," he said, "so cheerful. The more sickness there is, the more radiant she is. I don't mean," he

added, laughing, "in apparel. Apparently she never thinks of herself, and positively she seems to take no time

to eat or sleep. I encounter her everywhere. I doubt if she ever sits down, except when she drops in at the

mission chapel now and then, and sits quite unmoved on a bench by the door during vespers."

"That is a queer thing. She would promptly repudiate any religious interest. But I tell her she is a bit of a

humbug. When I speak about her philanthropic zeal, she says her interest is purely scientific."

"Anyway, I believe," Jack put in, "that women doctors are less mercenary than men. I dare say they will get

"That is possible," said Father Damon; "but that which drives women into professions now is the desire to do

something rather than the desire to make something. Besides, it is seldom, in their minds, a finality; marriage

"Yes," replied Edith, "and the probability of having to support a husband and family; then they may be as

"Still, the enthusiasm of women," Father Damon insisted, "in hospital and outdoor practice, the singleness of

their devotion to it, is in contrast to that of the young mendoctors. And I notice another thing in the city:

they take more interest in philanthropic movements, in the condition of the poor, in the labor questions; they

dive eagerly into philosophic speculations, and they are more aggressively agnostics. And they are not afraid

of any social theories. I have one friend, a skillful practitioner they tell me, a linguist, and a metaphysician, a

most agreeable and accomplished woman, who is in theory an extreme nihilist, and looks to see the present

"I don't see," Jack remarked, "what women especially are to gain by such a revolution."

"Perhaps independence, Jack," replied Edith. "You should hear my club of workinggirls, who read and think

"Yes," said Father Damon, "you toss these topics about, and discuss them in the magazines, and fancy you

are interested in socialistic movements. But you have no idea how real and vital they are, and how the dumb

discontent of the working classes is being formulated into ideas. It is time we tried to understand each other."

Not all the talk was of this sort at the Golden House. There were three worlds herethat of Jack, to which

Edith belonged by birth and tradition and habit; that of which we have spoken, to which she belonged by

profound sympathy; and that of Father Damon, to which she belonged by undefined aspiration. In him was

the spiritual element asserting itself in a mediaeval form, in a struggle to mortify and deny the flesh and yet

take part in modern life. Imagine a celibate and ascetic of the fifteenth century, who knew that Paradise must

be gained through poverty and privation and suffering, interesting himself in the tenementhouse question, in

Yet, hour after hour, in those idle summer days, when nature was in a mood that suggested grace and peace,

when the waves lapsed along the shore and the cicada sang in the hedge, did Father Damon unfold to Edith

his ideas of the spiritualization of modern life through a conviction of its pettiness and transitoriness. How

much more content there would be if the poor could only believe that it matters little what happens here if the

"Oh, Father Damon," replied Edith, with a grave smile, "I think your mission ought to be to the rich."

"Yes," he replied, for he also knew his world, "if I wanted to make my ideas fashionable; but I want to make

them operative. Byandby," he added, also with a smile, "we will organize some fishermen and carpenters

Father Damon's visit was necessarily short, for his work called him back to town, and perhaps his conscience

smote him a little for indulging in this sort of retreat. By the middle of August Jack's yacht was ready, and he

went with Mavick and the Van Dams and some other men of the club on a cruise up the coast. Edith was left

And yet not alone. As she lay in her hammock in those dreamy days a new world opened to her. It was not

described in the chance romance she took up, nor in the volume of poems she sometimes held in her hand,

with a finger inserted in the leaves. Of this world she felt herself the centre and the creator, and as she mused

upon its mysteries, life took a new, strange meaning to her. It was apt to be a little hazy off there in the

watery horizon, and out of the mist would glide occasionally a boat, and the sun would silver its sails, and it

would dip and toss for half an hour in the blue, laughing sea, and then disappear through the mysterious

curtain. Whence did it come? Whither had it gone? Was life like that? Was she on the shore of such a sea,

and was this new world into which she was drifting only a dream? By her smile, by the momentary

illumination that her sweet thoughts made in her lovely, hopeful face, you knew that it was not. Who can

guess the thoughts of a woman at such a time? Are the trees glad in the spring, when the sap leaps in their

trunks, and the buds begin to swell, and the leaves unfold in soft response to the creative impulse? The

miracle is never old nor commonplace to them, nor to any of the human family. The anticipation of life is

eternal. The singing of the birds, the blowing of the south wind, the sparkle of the waves, all found a response

in Edith's heart, which leaped with joy. And yet there was a touch of melancholy in it all, the horizon was so

vast, and the mist of uncertainty lay along it. Literature, society, charities, all that she had read and

experienced and thought, was nothing to this, this great unknown anxiety and bliss, this saddest and sweetest

of all human experiences. She prayed that she might be worthy of this great distinction, this responsibility

Although Father Damon had been absent from his charge only ten days, it was time for him to return. If he

had not a large personal following, he had a wide influence. If comparatively few found their way to his

chapel, he found his way to many homes; his figure was a familiar one in the streets, and his absence was felt

by hundreds who had no personal relations with him, but who had be come accustomed to seeing him go

about on his errands of encouragement, and probably had never realized how much the daily sight of him had

touched them. The priestly dress, which may once have provoked a sneer at his effeminacy, had now a

suggestion of refinement, of unselfish devotion, of consecration to the service of the unfortunate, his spiritual

face appealed to their better natures, and the visible heroism that carried his frail figure through labors that

would have worn out the stoutest physique stirred in the hearts of the rudest some comprehension of the

It may not have occurred to them that he was of finer clay than they perhaps he was notbut his presence

was in their minds a subtle connection and not a condescending one, rather a confession of brotherhood, with

another world and another view of life. They may not have known that their hearts were stirred because he

And was it an unmanly trait that he evoked in men that sentiment of chivalry which is never wanting in the

roughest community for a pure woman? Wherever Father Damon went there was respect for his purity and

his unselfishness, even among those who would have been shamefaced if surprised in any exhibition of

And many loved him, and many depended on him. Perhaps those who most depended on him were the least

worthy, and those who loved him most were least inclined to sacrifice their own reasonable view of life to his

own sublimated spiritual conception. It was the spirit of the man they loved, and not the creed of the priest.

The little chapel in its subdued lights and shadows, with confessionals and crosses and candles and incense,

was as restful a refuge as ever to the tired and the dependent; but wanting his inspiring face and voice, it was

not the same thing, and the attendance always fell away when he was absent. There was needed there more

He was missed, and the little world that missed him was astray. The first day of his return his heart was

smitten by the thinness of the congregation. Had he, then, accomplished nothing; had he made no impression,

established in his shifting flock no habit of continuance in welldoing that could survive even his temporary

withdrawal? The fault must be his. He had not sufficiently humiliated and consecrated himself, and put under

all strength of the flesh and trust in worldly instrumentalities. There must be more prayer, more vigils, more

fasting, before the power would come back to him to draw these wandering minds to the light. And so in the

heat of this exhausting August, at the time when his body most needed reenforcement for the toil he

Ruth Leigh was not dependent upon Father Damon, but she also learned how long ten days could be without

a sight of him. When she looked into his chapel occasionally she realized, as never before, how much in the

air his ceremonies and his creed were. There was nothing there for her except his memory. And she knew

when she stepped in there, for her cool, reasoning mind was honest, that it was the thought of him that drew

her to the place, and that going there was a sentimental indulgence. What she would have said was that she

admired, loved Father Damon on account of his love for humanity. It was a common saying of all the

professional women in her set, and of the workinggirls, that they loved Father Damon. It is a comfort to

women to be able to give their affection freely where conventionalities and circumstances make the return of

At the close of a debilitating day Dr. Leigh found herself in the neighborhood of the mission chapel. She was

tired and needed to rest somewhere. She knew that Father Damon had returned, but she had not seen him, and

a double motive drew her steps. The attendance was larger than it had been recently, and she found a stool in

a dark corner, and listened, with a weary sort of consciousness of the prayers and the singing, but not without

a deeper feeling of peace in the tones of a voice every inflection of which she knew so well. It seemed to her

that the reading cost him an effort, and there was a note of pathos in the voice that thrilled her. Presently he

advanced towards the altar rail he was accustomed to do this with his little flockand placing one hand

At first, and this was not usual, he spoke about himself in a strain of sincere humility, taking blame upon

himself for his inability to do effectively the great service his Master had set him to do. He meant to have

given himself more entirely to the dear people among whom he labored; he hoped to show himself more

worthy of the trust they had given him; he was grateful for the success of his mission, but no one knew so

well as he how far short it came of being what he ought to have made it. He knew indeed how weak he was,

and he asked the aid of their sympathy and encouragement. It seemed to be with difficulty that he said this,

and to Ruth's sympathetic ear there was an evidence of physical exhaustion in his tone. There was in it, also,

for her, a confession of failure, the cry of the preacher, in sorrow and entreaty, that says, "I have called so

As he went on, still with an effort and feebly, there came over the little group a feeling of awe and

wonderment, and the silence was profound. Still steadying himself by the readingdesk, he went on to speak

of other things, of those of his followers who listened, of the great mass swirling about them in the streets

who did not listen and did not care; of the little life that now is so full of pain and hardship and

disappointment, of good intentions frustrated, of hopes that deceive, and of fair prospects that turn to ashes,

of good lives that go wrong, of sweet natures turned to bitterness in the unaided struggle. His voice grew

stronger and clearer, as his body responded to the kindling theme in his soul. He stepped away from the desk

nearer the rail, the bowed head was raised. "What does it matter?" he said. "It is only for a little while, my

children." Those who heard him that day say that his face shone like that of an angel, and that his voice was

like a victorious clarion, so clear, so sweet, so inspiring, as he spoke of the life that is to come, and the fair

As he closed, some were kneeling, many were crying; all, profoundly moved, watched him as, with the

benediction and the sign of the cross, he turned and walked swiftly to the door of the sacristy. It opened, and

then Ruth Leigh heard a cry, "Father Damon! Father Damon!" and there was a rush into the chancel.

Hastening through the throng, which promptly made way for the doctor, she found Father Damon lying

across the threshold, as he had fallen, colorless and unconscious. She at once took command of the situation.

The body was lifted to the plain couch in the room, a hasty examination was made of pulse and heart, a vial

of brandy was produced from her satchel, and messengers were despatched for things needed, and especially

The room was cleared of all except a couple of stout lads and a friendly German woman whom the doctor

knew. The news of the father's sudden illness had spread rapidly, with the report that he had fallen dead while

standing at the altar; and the church was thronged, and the street rapidly blocked up with a hushed crowd,

eager for news and eager to give aid. So great was the press that the police had to interfere, and push back the

throng from the door. It was useless to attempt to disperse it with the assurance that Father Damon was better;

it patiently waited to see for itself. The sympathy of the neighborhood was most impressive, and perhaps the

thing that the public best remembers about this incident is the pathetic solicitude of the people among whom

Father Damon labored at the rumor of his illness, a matter which was greatly elaborated by the reporters from

With the application of restoratives the patient revived. When he opened his eyes he saw figures in the room

as in a dream, and his mind struggled to remember where he was and what had happened; but one thing was

not a dream: Dr. Leigh stood by his bedside, with her left hand on his brow and the right grasping his own

right hand, as if to pull him back to life. He saw her face, and then he lost it again in sheer weariness at the

effort. After a few moments, in a recurring wave of strength, he looked up again, still bewildered, and said,

"With friends," said the doctor. "You were a little faint, that is all; you will be all right presently."

She quickly prepared some nourishment, which was what he most needed, and fed him from time to time, as

he was able to receive it. Gradually he could feel a little vigor coming into his frame; and regaining control of

himself, he was able to hear what had happened. Very gently the doctor told him, making light of his

"The fact is, Father Damon," she said, "you've got a disease common in this neighborhoodhunger."

The father smiled, but did not reply. It might be so. For the time he felt his dependence, and he did not argue

the point. This dependence upon a womana sort of Sister of Charity, was she not?was not altogether

unpleasant. When he attempted to rise, but found that he was too weak, and she said "Not yet," he submitted,

with the feeling that to be commanded with such gentleness was a sort of luxury.

But in an hour's time he declared that he was almost himself again, and it was decided that he was well

enough to be removed to his own apartments in the neighborhood. A carriage was sent for, and the transfer

was made, and made through a crowd in the streets, which stood silent and uncovered as his carriage passed

through it. Dr. Leigh remained with him for an hour longer, and then left him in charge of a young gentleman

Ruth walked slowly home, weary now that the excitement was over, and revolving many things in her mind,

as is the custom of women. She heard again that voice, she saw again that inspired face; but the impression

most indelible with her was the prostrate form, the pallid countenance, the helplessness of this man whose

will had before been strong enough to compel the obedience of his despised body. She had admired his

strength; but it was his weakness that drew upon her woman's heart, and evolved a tenderness dangerous to

her peace of mind. Yet it was the doctor and not the woman that replied to the inquiries at the dispensary.

"Yes, it was fasting and overwork. Men are so stupid; they think they can defy all the laws of nature,

And Father Damon, lying weary in his bed, before he fell asleep, saw the faces in the dim chapel turned to

him in strained eagerness the moment before he lost consciousness; but the most vivid image was that of a

woman bending over him, with eyes of tenderness and pity, and the smile with which she greeted his

When Dr. Leigh called next day, on her morning rounds, she found a brother of the celibate order, Father

Monies, in charge. He was sitting by the window reading, and when the doctor came up the steps he told her

in a low voice to enter without knocking. Father Damon was better, much better; but he had advised him not

to leave his bed, and the patient had been dozing all the morning. The doctor asked if he had eaten anything,

and how much. The apartment was small and scantily furnisheda sort of anchorite cell. Through the drawn

doors of the next room the bed was in sight. As they were talking in low voices there came from this room a

"I hope you ate a good breakfast," she said, as she arose and went to his bedside.

"I suppose you mean better than usual," he replied, with a faint attempt at a smile. "No doubt you and Father

"If you do, without other change in your intentions, I am going to report you to the Organized Charity as a

She had brought a bunch of violets, and as they talked she had filled a glass with water and put them on a

stand by the head of the bed. Then oh, quite professionallyshe smoothed out his pillows and

straightened the bedclothes, and, talking all the time, and as if quite unconscious of what she was doing,

moved about the room, putting things to rights, and saying, in answer to his protest, that perhaps she should

lose her reputation as a physician in his eyes by appearing to be a professional nurse.

There was a timid knock at the door, and a forlorn little figure, clad in a rumpled calico, with an old shawl

over her head, half concealing an eager and pretty face, stood in the doorway, and hesitatingly came in.

"Meine Mutter sent me to see how Father Damon is," she explained; "she could not come, because she

She had a bunch of flowers in her hand, and encouraged by the greeting of the invalid, she came to the

bedside and placed them in his outstretched handa faded blossom of scarlet geranium, a bachelor's button,

and a sprig of parsley, probably begged of a street dealer as she came along. "Some blooms," she said.

"Dey smells nice," the child exclaimed, her eyes dancing with pleasure at the reception of her gift. She stood

staring at him, and then, her eye catching the violets, she added, "Dose is pooty, too."

"If you can stay half an hour or so, I should like to step round to the chapel," Father Monies said to the doctor

The doctor could stay. The little girl had moved a chair up to the bedside, and sat quite silent, her grimy little

hand grasped in the father's. Ruth, saying that she hoped the father wouldn't mind, began to put in order the

front room, which the incidents of the night had somewhat disturbed. Father Damon, holding fast by that little

hand to the world of poverty to which he had devoted his life, could not refrain from watching her, as she

moved about with the quick, noiseless way that a woman has when she is putting things to rights. This was

indeed a novel invasion of his life. He was still too weak to reason about it much. How good she was, how

womanly! And what a sense of peace and repose she brought into his apartment! The presence of Brother

Monies was peaceful also, but hers was somehow different. His eyes had not cared to follow the brother

about the room. He knew that she was unselfish, but he had not noticed before that her ways were so graceful.

As she turned her face towards him from time to time he thought its expression beautiful. Ruth Leigh would

have smiled grimly if any one had called her beautiful, but then she did not know how she looked sometimes

when her feelings were touched. It is said that the lamp of love can illumine into beauty any features of clay

through which it shines. As he gazed, letting himself drift as in a dream, suddenly a thought shot through his

mind that made him close his eyes, and such a severe priestly look came upon his face that the little girl, who

But when the doctor, finishing her work, drew a chair into the doorway, and sat by the foot of his bed, the

stern look still remained on his pale face. And the doctor, she also was the doctor again, as matter of fact as in

There was a shade of impatience on her face as she replied, "But you must be a little kind to yourself."

"But it does matter. You defeat the very work you want to do. I'm going to report you to your order." And

"You don't understand," he replied. "There is more than one kind of suicide; you don't believe in the suicide

She was quick to see this. "I beg your pardon, Father Damon. It is none of my business, but we are all so

Just then Father Monies returned, and the doctor rose to go. She took the little girl by the hand and said,

"Come, I was just going round to see your father. Goodby. I shall look in again tomorrow."

"Thank youthank you a thousand times. But you have so much to do that you must not bother about me."

Whether he said this to quiet his own conscience, secretly hoping that he might see her again on the morrow,

Late the next afternoon, after an unusually weary round of visits, made in the extreme heat and in a sort of

hopeless faithfulness, Dr. Leigh reached the tenement in which Father Damon lodged: In all the miserable

scenes of the day it had been in her mind, giving to her work a pleasure that she did not openly acknowledge

The curtains were down, and there was no response to her knock, except from a door in the passage opposite.

A woman opened the door wide enough to show her head and to make it evident that she was not sufficiently

dressed to come out, and said that Father Damon had gone. He was very much better, and his friend had taken

She was so glad that, as she walked away, scarcely heeding her steps or conscious of the chaffing, chattering

It is well that there is pleasure somewhere in the world. It is possible for those who have a freshair fund of

their own to steam away in a yacht, out of the midsummer ennui and the weary gayety of the land. It is a

costly pleasure, and probably all the more enjoyed on that account, for if everybody had a yacht there would

be no more feeling of distinction in sailing one than in going to any of the secondrate resorts on the coast.

There is, to be sure, some ennui in yachting on a rainy coast, and it might be dull but for the sensation created

If there was any dullness on the Delancy yacht, means were taken to dispel it. While still in the Sound a

society was formed for the suppression of total abstinence, and so successful was this that Point Judith was

passed, in a rain and a high and chopping sea, with a kind of hilarious enjoyment of the commotion, which is

one of the things desired at sea. When the party came round to Newport it declared that it had had a lovely

voyage, and inquiry brought out the great general principle, applicable to most coast navigation for pleasure,

that the enjoyable way to pass Point Judith is not to know you are passing Point Judith.

Except when you land, and even after you have got your sealegs on, there is a certain monotony in yachting,

unless the weather is very bad, and unless there are women aboard. A party of lively women make even the

sea fresh and entertaining. Otherwise, the game of poker is much what it is on land, and the constant

consulting of charts and reckoning of speed evince the general desire to get somewherethat is, to arrive at a

harbor. In the recollections of this voyage, even in Jack's recollections of it after he had paid the bills, it

seemed that it had been simply glorious, free from care, generally a physical settingup performance, and a

Mavick actually did enjoy it, for he had that brooding sort of nature, that selfsatisfied attitude, that is able to

appropriate to its own uses whatever comes. And being an unemotional and very tolerable sailor, he was able

to be as cynical at sea as on land, and as much of an oracle, in his wholly unobtrusive way. The perfect

personal poise of Mavick, which gave him an air of patronizing the ocean, and his lightly held skeptical view

of life, made his company as full of flavor on ship as it was on shore. He didn't know anything more about the

weather than the Weather Bureau knows, yet the helmsman of the yacht used to consult him about the

appearances of the sky and a change of wind with a confidence in his opinion that he gave to no one else on

board. And Mavick never forfeited this respect by being too positive. It was so with everything; he evidently

knew a great deal more than he cared to tell. It is pleasing to notice how much credit such men as Mavick

obtain in the world by circumspect reticence and a knowing manner. Jack, blundering along in his

freehearted, emotional way, and never concealing his opinion, was really right twice where Mavick was

It was late in August that the Delancy yacht steamed into the splendid Bar Harbor, making its way slowly

through one of the rare fogs which are sometimes seen by people who do not own real estate there. Even

before they could see an island those on board felt the combination of mountain and sea air that makes this

The party were expected at Bar Harbor. It had been announced that the yacht was on its way, and some of the

projected gayeties were awaiting its coming, for the society reenforcement of the halfdozen men on board

was not to be despised. The news went speedily round that Captain Delancy's flag was flying at the

Among the first to welcome them as they landed and strolled up to the hotel was Major Fairfax.

"Oh yes," he said; " we are all herethat is, all who know where they ought to be at the right moment."

To the newcomers the scene was animated. The exotic shops sparkled with cheap specialties; landaus,

ponyphaetons, and elaborate buckboards dashed through the streets; aquatic and lawtennis costumes

abounded. If there was not much rowing and lawntennis, there was a great deal of becoming morning

dressing for these sports, and in all the rather aimless idleness there was an air of determined enjoyment.

Even here it was evident that there was a surplus of women. These lovers of nature, in the summer season,

who had retired to this wild place to be free from the importunities of society, betrayed, Mavick thought, the

common instinct of curiosity over the new arrival, and he was glad to take it as an evidence that they loved

not nature less but man more. Jack tripped up this ungallant speech by remarking that if Mavick was in this

mood he did not know why he came ashore. And Van Dam said that sooner or later all men went ashore. This

thin sort of talk was perhaps pardonable after the weariness of a sea voyage, but the Major promptly said it

"No epigrams are permitted. We are here to enjoy ourselves. I'm ordered to bring the whole crew of you to

"Well, it's the most curious coincidence, but Mrs. Henderson arrived last night; Henderson has gone to

"It is very curious," the Major explained, "how fashionable intelligence runs along this coast, apparently

The Tavish cottage was a summer palace of the present fashion, but there was one good thing about it: it had

no tower, nor any makebelieve balconies hung on the outside like birdcages. The rooms were spacious,

and had big fireplaces, and ample piazzas all round, so that the sun could be courted or the wind be avoided at

all hours of the day. It was, in short, not a house for retirement and privacy, but for entertainment. It was

furnished luxuriously but gayly, and with its rugs and portieres and divans it reminded Mavick of an Oriental

marquee. Miss Tavish called it her tepee, an evolution of the aboriginal dwelling. She liked to entertain, and

she never appeared to better advantage than when her house was full, and something was going on

continuallylively breakfasts and dinners, dances, theatricals, or the usual flowing in and out of callers and

guests, chattering groups, and flirtatious couples. It was her idea of repose from the winter's gayety, and in it

she sustained the role of the nonfatigueable society girl. It is a performance that many working girls regard

There was quite a flutter in the cottage, as there always is when those who know each other well meet under

"We are very glad to see you," Miss Tavish said, cordially; "we have been awfully dull."

"You can judge the depths we have been in when even the Major couldn't pull us out," she retorted. "Without

Carmen was not effusive in her greeting; she left that role to Miss Tavish, taking for herself that of

confidential friend. She was almost retiring in her manner, but she made Jack feel that she had a strong

personal interest in his welfare, and she asked a hundred questions about the voyage and about town and

"I'm going to chaperon you up here," she said, "for Miss Tavish will lead you into all sorts of wild

There was that in the manner of the demure little woman when she made this proposal that convinced Jack

After cigarettes were lighted she contrived to draw Mavick away to the piazza. She was very anxious to know

what Henderson's latest moves were. Mavick was very communicative, and told her nothing that he knew she

did not already know. And she was clever enough to see, without any apparent distrust, that whatever she got

from him must be in what he did not say. As to Jack's speculations, she made little more progress. Jack gave

Mavick himself was puzzled to know whether Carmen really cared for Jack, or whether she was only

interested as in a game, one of the things that amused her life to play, to see how far he would go, and to

watch his ascension or his tumble. Mavick would have been surprised if he had known that as a result of this

wholly agreeable and confidential talk, Carmen wrote that night in a letter to her husband:

"Your friend Mavick is here. What a very clever man he is! If I were you I would keep an eye on him."

A dozen plans were started at the tea for relieving the tedium of the daily drives and the regulation teas and

receptions. For one thing, weather permitting, they would all breakfast at twelve on the yacht, and then sail

The day was indeed charming, so stimulating as to raise the value of real estate, and incite everybody to go

off in search of adventure, in wagons, in walking parties, in boats. There is no happiness like the anticipation

of pleasure begot by such a morning. Those who live there said it was regular Bar Harbor weather.

Captain Delancy was on deck to receive his guests, who came out in small boats, chattering and fluttering and

"shipahoying," as gay in spirits as in apparel. Anything but high spirits and nonsense would be

unpardonable on such a morning. Breakfast was served on deck, under an awning, in sight of the mountains,

the green islands, the fringe of breaking sea in the distant opening, the shimmer and sparkle of the harbor, the

white sails of pleasureboats, the painted canoes, the schooners and coalboats and steamers swinging at

anchor just enough to make all the scene alive. "This is my idea," said the Major, "of going to sea in a yacht;

"No," Jack exclaimed; " it is against the law to throw anything into the harbor."

"With all my heart," the Major said; "my life is passed in returning good for evil."

"I never knew before," and Miss Tavish bowed her acknowledgments, "the secret of the Major's attractions."

"No; my friends are all foulweather friends; come a bright day, they are all off like butterflies. That comes

"That's no distinction," Carmen exclaimed; "all men are that till they get what they want."

"Alas! that women also in these days here become cynical! It was not so when I was young. Here's to the ever

"He's the dearest man living, except a few," echoed Carmen. "The Major's health."

The yellow wine sparkled in the glasses like the sparkling sea, the wind blew softly from the south, the sails

in the bay darkened and flashed, and the breakfast, it seemed to go along of itself, and erelong the convives

were eating ambrosia and sipping nectar. Van Dam told a shark story. Mavick demonstrated its innate

improbability. The Major sang a songa song of the forties, with a touch of sentiment. Jack, whose cheerful

voice was a little of the cidercellar order, and who never sang when he was sad, struck up the latest

"I like the sea," the Major declared. They all liked it. The breakfast lasted a long time, and when they rose

from the table Jack said that presently they would take a course round the harbor. The Major remarked that

While they were preparing to start, Carmen and Jack strolled away to the bow, where she perched herself,

holding on by the rigging. He thought he had never seen her look so pretty as at that moment, in her trim

nautical costume, sitting up there, swinging her feet like a girl, and regarding him with halfmocking,

What were they saying? Heaven only knows. What nonsense do people so situated usually talk? Perhaps she

was warning him against Miss Tavish. Perhaps she was protesting that Julia Tavish was a very, very old

friend. To an observer this admirable woman seemed to be on the defensiveher most alluring attitude. It

was not, one could hear, exactly sober talk; there was laughter and raillery and earnestness mingled. It might

be said that they were good comrades. Carmen professed to like good comradeship and no nonsense. But she

Till late in the afternoon they cruised about among the islands, getting different points of view of the coast,

and especially different points of view of each other, in the freedom of talk and repartee permitted on an

excursion. Before sunset they were out in the open, and could feel the long ocean swell. The wind had risen a

little, and there was a low band of clouds in the south. The skipper told Mr. Delancy that it would be much

fresher with the sinking of the sun, but Jack replied that it wouldn't amount to anything; the glass was all

Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play,

Miss Tavish was in the wheelhouse, and had taken the wheel. This clever girl knew her right hand from her

left, instantly, without having to stop and think and look at her rings, and she knew what port and starboard

"I say, Captain Delancy," she cried out, "the steamer is about due. Let's go down and meet her, and race in."

"All right," replied Jack. "We can run round her three times and then beat her in."

The steamer's smoke was seen at that instant, and the yacht was headed for it. The wind was a little fresher,

but the tight little craft took the waves like a duck, and all on board enjoyed the excitement of the change,

except the Major, who said he didn't mind, but he didn't believe the steamer needed any escort.

By the time the steamer was reached the sun was going down in a band of clouds. There was no gale, but the

wind increased in occasional puffs of spite, and the waves were getting up. The skipper took the wheel to turn

the yacht in a circle to her homeward course. As this operation created strange motions, and did not interest

In turning, the yacht came round on the seaward side of the steamer, but far behind. But the little craft

speedily showed her breeding and overhauled her big rival, and began to forge ahead. The little group on the

yacht waved their handkerchiefs as if in goodby, and the passengers on the steamer cheered. As the wind

was every moment increasing, the skipper sheered away to allow plenty of searoom between the boats. The

The yacht was well ahead, but the change in the direction brought the vessels nearer together. But there was

no danger. The speed they were going would easily bring her round away ahead of the steamer.

But just then something happened. The yacht would not answer to her helm. The wheel flew around without

resistance. The wind, hauled now into the east, struck her with violence and drove her sideways. The little

thing was like a chip on the sea. The rudderchain had broken. The yacht seemed to fly towards the long,

hulking steamer. The danger was seen there, and her helm was put hard down, and her nose began to turn

towards the shore. But it was too late. It seemed all over in an instant. The yacht dashed bow on to the side of

the steamer, quivered an instant, and then dropped away. At the same moment the steamer slowed down and

The skipper of the yacht and a couple of hands rushed below. A part of the bow had been carried away and a

small hole made just above the waterline, through which the water spurted whenever she encountered a large

wave. It was enough to waterlog her and sink her in such a sea. The two seamen grasped whatever bedding

was in reach below, rammed it into the opening, and held it there. The skipper ran on deck, and by the aid of

the men hauled out a couple of sails and dropped them over the bow. These would aid in keeping out the

water. They could float now, but where were they going? "Going ashore," said Mavick, grimly. And so they

"Was there a panic on board?" it was asked afterwards. Not exactly. Among wellbred people a panic is

never good form. But there were white faces and trembling knees and anxious looks. The steamer was

coming towards them, and all eyes were fixed on that rather than on the rocks of the still distant shore.

The most striking incident of the momentit seemed so to some of those who looked back upon itwas a

singular test of character, or rather of woman's divination of character. Carmen instinctively flew to Jack and

grasped and held his arm. She knew, without stopping to reason about it, that he would unhesitatingly imperil

his life to save that of any woman. Whatever judgment is passed upon Jack, this should not be forgotten. And

Miss Tavish; to whom did she fly in this peril? To the gallant Major? No. To the cool and imperturbable

Mavick, who was as strong and sinewy as he was cool? No. She ran without hesitation to Van Dam, and

clung to him, recognizing instinctively, with the woman's feeling, the same quality that Jack had. There are

such men, who may have no great gifts, but who will always fight rather than run under fire, and who will

Mavick saw all this, and understood it perfectly, and didn't object to it at the timebut he did not forget it.

The task of rescue was not easy in that sea and wind, but it was dexterously done. The steamer approached

and kept at a certain distance on the windward side. A boat was lowered, and a line was brought to the yacht,

which was soon in tow with a stout cable hitched to the steamer's anchor windlass.

It was all done with much less excitement than appeared from the telegraphic accounts, and while the party

were being towed home the peril seemed to have been exaggerated, and the affair to look like an ordinary sea

The captain of the steamer raised his hat gravely in reply to the little cheer from the yacht, when Carmen and

Miss Tavish fluttered their handkerchiefs towards him. The only chaff from the steamer was roared out by a

fat Boston man, who made a funnel of his hands and shouted, "The race is not always to the swift."

As soon as Jack stepped ashore he telegraphed to Edith that the yacht had had an accident in the harbor, but

that no one was hurt. When he reached the hotel he found a letter from Edith of such a tenor that he sent

another despatch, saying that she might expect him at once, leaving the yacht behind. There was a buzz of

excitement in the town, and there were a hundred rumors, which the sight of the yacht and its passengers

When Jack called at the Tavish cottage to say goodby, both the ladies were too upset to see him. He took a

night train, and as he was whirled away in the darkness the events of the preceding fortyeight hours seemed

like a dream. Even the voyage up the coast was a little unrealan insubstantial episode in life. And the

summer city by the sea, with its gayety and gossip and busy idleness, sank out of sight like a phantom. He

drew his cap over his eyes, and was impatient that the rattling train did not go faster, for Edith, waiting there

in the Golden House, seemed to stretch out her arms for him to come. Still behind him rose a picture of that

bacchanalian breakfastthe Major and Carmen and Mavick and Miss Tavish dancing a reel on the sloping

deck, then the rising wind, the reckless daring of the race, and a vision of sudden death. He shuddered for the

first time in a quick realization of how nearly it came to being all over with life and its pleasures.

Edith had made no appeal to Jack to come home. His going, therefore, had the merit m his eyes of being a

voluntary response to the promptings of his better nature. Perhaps but for the accident at Mount Desert he

might have felt that his summer pleasure was needlessly interfered with, but the little shock of that was a real,

if still temporary, moral turning point for him. For the moment his inclination seemed to run with his duty,

and he had his reward in Edith's happiness at his coming, the loving hunger in her eyes, the sweet trust that

animated her face, the delightful appropriation of him that could scarcely brook a moment's absence from her

"Yes, Jack dear, it was a little lonesome." She was swinging in her hammock on the veranda in sight of the

sea, and Jack sat by her with his cigar. "I don't mind telling you now that there were times when I longed for

you dreadfully, but I was glad, all the same, that you were enjoying yourself, for it is tiresome down here for

"You dear thing!," said Jack, with his hand on her head, smoothing her glossy hair and pushing it back from

her forehead, to make her look more intellectuala thing which she hated. "Yes, dear, I was a brute to go off

"Indeed I did," he answered, fervently, as he leaned over the hammock to kiss the sweet eyes into content;

and he was quite honest in the expression of a desire that was nearly fortyeight hours old, and by a singular

"Of course I knew the account would be greatly exaggerated;" and he made light of the whole affair, knowing

that the facts would still be capable of shocking her, giving a comic picture of the Major's seafaring qualities,

Even with this light sketching of the event she could not avoid a retrospective pang of apprehension, and the

tightened grasp of his hand was as if she were holding him fast from that and all other peril.

The days went by in content, on the whole, shaded a little by anxiety and made grave by a new interest. It

could not well be but that the prospect of the near future, with its increase of responsibility, should create a

little uneasiness in Jack's mind as to his own career. Of this future they talked much, and in Jack's attitude

towards her Edith saw, for the first time since her marriage, a lever of suggestion, and it came naturally in the

contemplation of their future life that she should encourage his discontent at having no occupation. Facing, in

this waitingtime of quiet, certain responsibilities, it was impressed upon him that the collecting of

bricabrac was scarcely an occupation, and that idling in clubs and studios and dangling about at the beck

of society women was scarcely a career that could save him from ultimate ennui. To be sure, he had plenty of

comrades, young fellows of fortune, who never intended to do anything except to use it for their personal

satisfaction; but they did not seem to be of much account except in the little circle that they ornamented.

Speaking of one of them one day, Father Damon had said that it seemed a pity a fellow of such family and

capacity and fortune should go to the devil merely for the lack of an object in life. In this closer communion

with Edith, whose ideas he began to comprehend, Jack dimly apprehended this view, and for the moment

"I'm half sorry," he said one day, "that I didn't go in for a profession. But it is late now. Law, medicine,

"But it looks sort of silly for a fellow who has a wife to go to school, unless," said Jack, with a laugh, "he

goes to school to his wife. Then there's politics. You wouldn't like to see me in that."

"I rather think, Jack"she spoke musingly" if I were a man I should go into politics."

"But it's the noblest careergovernment, legislation, trying to do something to make the world better. Jack, I

don't see how the men of New York can stand it to be governed by the very worst elements."

"I've an idea what I'd make it. What is the good of young men of leisure if they don't do anything for the

country? Too fine to do what Hamilton did and Jay did! I wish you could have heard my father talk about it.

"Well, I don't see why a man cannot own a yacht and still care something about the decent management of his

"Not exactly. Mavick is in office for what he can make. No, I will not say that. No doubt he is a good civil

servant, and we can't expect everybody to be unselfish. At any rate, he is intelligent. Do you remember what

Mr. Morgan said last winter?" And Edith lifted herself up on her elbow, as if to add the weight of her attitude

"Mr. Morgan said that the trouble with the governing and legislation now in the United States is that

everybody is superficially educated, and that the people are putting their superficial knowledge into laws, and

that we are going to have a nice time with all these wild theories and crudities on the statutebook. And then

educated people say that politics is so corrupt and absurd that they cannot have anything to do with it."

"I don't know that you would get anywhere. Yet I should think the young men of New York could organize

its intelligence and do something. But you think I'm nothing but a woman." And Edith sank back, as if

"I had thought that; but it is hard to tell, these days. Never mind, when we go back to town I'll stir round;

This was an unusual sort of talk. Jack had never heard Edith break out in this direction before, and he

wondered if many women were beginning to think of men in this way, as cowardly about their public duties.

Not many in his set, he was sure. If Edith had urged him to go into Neighborhood Guild work, he could have

understood that. Women and ethical cranks were interested in that. And women were getting queerer every

day, beginning, as Mavick said, to take notice. However, it was odd, when you thought over it, that the city

It was easy to talk about these things; in fact, Jack talked a great deal about them in the clubs, and

occasionally with a knot of men after dinner in a knowing, pessimistic sort of way. Sometimes the

discussions were very animated and even noisy between these young citizens. It seemed, sometimes, about

midnight, that something might be done; but the resolution vanished next morning when another day, to be

lived through, confronted them. They illustrated the great philosophic observation that it is practically

To do Jack justice, this enforced detention in the country he did not find dull exactly. To be sure it was

vacationtime, and his whole life was a vacation, and summer was rather more difficult to dispose of than

winter, for one had to make more of an effort to amuse himself. But Edith was never more charming than in

this new dependence, and all his love and loyalty were evoked in caring for her. This was occupation enough,

even if he had been the busiest man in the worldto watch over her, to read to her, to anticipate her fancies, to

live with her in that dream of the future which made life seem almost ideal. There came a time when he

The talk about an occupation was not again referred to. Edith seemed entirely happy to have Jack with her,

more entirely her own than he had ever been, and to have him just as he was. And yet he knew, by a sure

instinct, that she saw him as she thought he would be, with some aim and purpose in life. And he made many

That which was nearest him attracted him most, and very feeble now were the allurements of the life and the

company he had just left. Not that he would break with it exactly; it was not necessary to do that; but he

would find something to do, something worth a man's doing, or, at any rate, some occupation that should tax

his time and his energies. That, he knew, would make Edith happy, and to make her happy seemed now very

much like a worthy object in life. She was so magnanimous, so unsuspicious, so full of all nobility. He knew

she would stand by him whatever happened. Down here her attitude to life was no longer a rebuke to him nor

a restraint upon him. Everything seemed natural and wholesome. Perhaps his vanity was touched, for there

must be something in, him if such a woman could love him. And probably there was, though he himself had

never yet had a chance to find it out. Brought up in the expectation of a fortune, bred to idleness as others are

to industry, his highest ambition having been to amuse himself creditably and to take life easily, what was to

hinder his being one of the multitude of "goodfor nothings" in our modern life? If there had been war, he

had spirit enough to carry him into it, and it would have surprised no one to hear that Jack had joined an

exploring expedition to the North Pole or the highlands of Central Asia. Something uncommon he might do if

About his operations with Henderson he had never told Edith, and he did not tell her now. Perhaps she

divined it, and he rather wondered that she had never asked him about his increased expenditures, his yacht,

and all that. He used to look at her steadily at times, as if he were trying to read the secrets of her heart.

Jack and most men have little idea that they are windows through which their wives see the world; and how

much more of the world they know in that way than men usually suspect or wives ever tell!

He did not tell her about Henderson, but he almost resolved that when his present venture was over he would

let stocks alone as speculations, and go into something that he could talk about to his wife as he talked about

From the stranded mariners at Bar Harbor Captain Jack had many and facetious letters. They wanted to know

if his idea was that they should stick by the yacht until he got leisure to resume the voyage, or if he expected

them to walk home. He had already given orders to the skipper to patch it up and bring it to New York if

possible, and he advised his correspondents to stay by the yacht as long as there was anything in the larder,

but if they were impatient, he offered them transportation on any vessel that would take ablebodied seamen.

He must be excused from commanding, because he had been assigned to shore duty. Carmen and Miss

Tavish wrote that it was unfair to leave them to sustain all the popularity and notoriety of the shipwreck, and

that he owed it to the public to publish a statement, in reply to the insinuations of the newspapers, in regard to

the seaworthiness of the yacht and the object of this voyage. Jack replied that the only object of the voyage

was to relieve the tedium of Bar Harbor, and, having accomplished this, he would present the vessel to Miss

The golden autumn days by the sea were little disturbed by these echoes of another life, which seemed at the

moment to be a very shallow one. Yet the time was not without its undertone of anxieties, of grave perils that

seemed to sanctify it and heighten its pleasures of hope. Jack saw and comprehended for the first time in his

life the real nature of a pure woman, the depths of tenderness and selfabnegation, the heroism and calm trust

and the nobility of an unworldly life. No wonder that he stood a little in awe of it, and days when he

wandered down on the beach, with only the waves for company, or sat smoking in the arbor, with an unread

book in his hand, his own career seemed petty and empty. Such moods, however, are not uncommon in any

life, and are not of necessity fruitful. It need not be supposed that Jack took it too seriously, on the one hand,

or, on the other, that a vision of such a woman's soul is ever without influence.

By the end of October they returned to town, Jack, and Edith with a new and delicate attractiveness, and

young Fletcher Delancy the most wonderful and important personage probably who came to town that

season. It seemed to Edith that his advent would be universally remarked, and Jack felt relieved when the boy

was safely housed out of the public gaze. Yes, to Edith's inexpressible joy it was a boy, and while Jack

gallantly said that a girl would have suited him just as well, he was conscious of an increased pride when he

announced the sex to his friends. This undervaluation of women at the start is one of the mysteries of life.

And until women themselves change their point of view, it is to be feared that legislation will not accomplish

"So it is a boy. I congratulate you," was the exclamation of Major Fairfax the first time Jack went down to the

"Oh, it's what is expected, that's all. For my part, I prefer girls. The announcement of boys is more

Jack understood, and it turned out in all the clubs that he had hit upon the most expensive sex in the view of

"It used to seem to me," said the Major, "that I must have a male heir to my estates. But, somehow, as the

years go on, I feel more like being an heir myself. If I had married and had a boy, he would have crowded me

out by this time; whereas, if it had been a girl, I should no doubt have been staying at her place in Lenox this

summer instead of being shipwrecked on that desert island. There is nothing, my dear boy, like a girl well

"I speak, sir, from observation. I look at society as it is, not as it would be if we had primogeniture and a

landed aristocracy. A daughter under our arrangements is more likely to be a comfort to her parent in his

"Circumstancesthank you, just a drop morewe are the creatures of circumstances. It is a long story.

There were misrepresentation and misunderstanding. It is true, sir, that at that time my property was

encumbered, but it was not unproductive. She died long ago. I have reason to believe that her married life

was not happy. I was hotblooded in those days, and my honor was touched, but I never blamed her. She

was, at twenty, the most beautiful woman in Virginia. I have never seen her equal."

This was more than the Major had ever revealed about his private life before. He had created an illusion

about himself which society accepted, and in which he lived in apparent enjoyment of metropolitan existence.

This was due to a sanguine temperament and a large imagination. And he had one quality that made him a

favoritea hearty enjoyment of the prosperity of others. With regard to himself, his imagination was

creative, and Jack could not now tell whether this "most beautiful woman of Virginia " was not evoked by the

third glass, about which the Major remarked, as he emptied it, that only this extraordinary occasion could

The courtly old gentleman had inquired about madamindeed, the second glass had been dedicated to

"mother and child"and he exhibited a friendly and almost paternal interest, as he always did, in Jack.

"There's been a good deal of uneasiness in the Street as to what he is doing. I hope you haven't got anything

"I've got something in his stocks, if that is what you mean; but I don't mind telling you I have made

"Well, it's none of my business, only the Henderson stocks have gone off a little, as you know."

Jack knew, and he asked the Major a little nervously if he knew anything further. The Major knew nothing

except Street rumors. Jack was uneasy, for the Major was a sort of weathercock, and before he left the club he

He carried home with him a certain disquiet, to which he had been for months a stranger. Even the sight of

Edith, who met him with a happy face, and dragged him away at once to see how lovely the baby looked

asleep, could not remove this. It seemed strange that such a little thing should make a change, introduce an

alien element into this domestic peace. Jack was like some other men who lose heart not when they are doing

a doubtful thing, but when they have to face the consequences cases of misplaced conscience. The peace

and content that he had left in the house in the morning seemed to have gone out of it when he returned at

Henderson was going on as usual. It was only a little bear movement, which wouldn't amount to anything.

Still, day after day, the bears kept clawing down, and Jack watched the stocklist with increasing eagerness.

In this state of mind it was impossible to consider any of the plans he had talked over with Edith before the

baby was born. Inquiries he did make about some sort of position or regular occupation, and these he reported

As the days went by there was a little improvement in his stocks, and his spirits rose. But this mood was no

more favorable than the other for beginning a new life, nor did there seem to be, as he went along, any need

of it. He had an appearance of being busy every day; he rose late and went late to bed. It was the old life.

Stocks down, there was a necessity of bracing up with whomever he met at any of the three or four clubs in

which he lounged in the afternoon; and stocks up, there was reason for celebrating that fact in the same way.

It was odd how soon he became accustomed to consider himself and to be regarded as the father of a family.

That, also, like his marriage, seemed something done, and in a manner behind him. There was a

commonplaceness about the situation. To Edith it was a great event. To Jack it was a milestone in life. He

was proud of the boy; he was proud of Edith. "I tell you, fellows," he would say at the club, "it's a great

thing," and so on, in a burst of confidence, and he was quite sincere in this. But he preferred to be at the club

and say these things rather than pass the same hours with his adorable family. He liked to think what he

would do for that familywhat luxuries he could procure for them, how they should travel and see the

world. There wasn't a better father anywhere than Jack at this period. And why shouldn't a man of family

amuse himself? Because he was happy in his family he needn't change all the habits of his life.

Presently he intended to look about him for something to do that would satisfy Edith and fill up his time; but

meantime he drifted on, alternately anxious and elated, until the season opened. The Blunts and the Van

Dams and the Chesneys and the Tavishes and Mrs. Henderson had called, invitations had poured in,

subscriptions were asked, studies and gayeties were projected, and the real business of life was under way.

To the nurse of the Delancy boy and to his mother he was by no means an old story or merely an incident of

the year. He was an increasing wondernew every morning, and exciting every evening. He was the centre

of a world of solicitude and adoration. It would be scarcely too much to say that his coming into the world

promised a new era, and his traits, his likes and dislikes, set a new standard in his court. If he had

apprehended his position his vanity would have outgrown his curiosity about the world, but he displayed no

more consciousness of his royalty than a kicking Infanta of Spain. This was greatly to his credit in the

opinion of the nurse, who devoted herself to the baby with that enthusiasm of women for infants which

fortunately never fails, and won the heart of Edith by her worship. And how much they found to say about

this marvel! To hear from the nurse, over and over again, what the baby had done and had not done, in a

And the boy's biographer is inclined to think that he had rare powers of discrimination, for one day when

Carmen had called and begged to be permitted to go up into the nursery, and had asked to take him in her

arms just for a moment, notwithstanding her soft dress and her caressing manner, Fletcher had made a wry

face and set up a howl. "How much he looks like his father" (he didn't look like anything), Carmen said,

handing him over to the nurse. What she thought was that in manner and disposition he was totally unlike

When they came downstairs, Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was in the drawingroom. "I've had such a privilege, Mrs.

Carmen, who hated to be seen through, of all things, did not know whether to resent this or not. But Edith

"And you know, Mrs. Blunt," said Carmen, recovering herself and smiling, "that I must have some

"I see," said Mrs. Blunt, with no relaxation of her manner; "we are all grateful to Mrs. Delancy."

"Mrs. Henderson does herself injustice," Edith again interposed. "I can assure you she has a great talent for

Carmen did not much fancy this apology for her, but she rejoined: "Yes, indeed. I'm going to cultivate it."

"You shall see," said Edith. "I am glad you came, for I wanted very much to consult you. I was going to send

"Well, here I am. But I didn't come about the baby. I wanted to consult you. We miss you, dear, every day."

And then Mrs. Blunt began to speak about some social and charitable arrangements, but stopped suddenly."

Carmen felt as much left out socially as about the baby, and she also rose to go.

"Perfectly. He is away now. Husbands, you know, haven't so much talent for domesticity as we have."

"That depends," Edith replied, simply, but with that spirit and air of breeding before which Carmen always

Naturally, with this absorption in the baby, Edith was slow to resume her old interests. Of course she knew of

the illness of Father Damon, and the nurse, who was from the trainingschool in which Dr. Leigh was an

instructor, and had been selected for this important distinction by the doctor, told her from time to time of

affairs on the East Side. Over there the season had opened quite as usual; indeed, it was always open; work

must go on every day, because every day food must be obtained and rentmoney earned, and the change from

summer to winter was only a climatic increase of hardships. Even an epidemic scare does not essentially vary

There had been no vacation for Ruth Leigh, and she jokingly said, when at length she got a halfhour for a

"We have got through very well," she added. "We always dread the summer, and we always dread the winter.

Science has not yet decided which is the more fatal, decayed vegetables or unventilated rooms. City residence

"Well, Father Damon has come to see that nothing can be done without organization. The masses"and

there was an accent of bitterness in her use of the phrase"must organize and fight for anything they want."

"Oh, he has always been a member of the Labor League. Now he has been at work with the Episcopal

churches of the city, and got them to agree, when they want workmen for any purpose, to employ only union

"Isn't that," Edith exclaimed, "a surrender of individual rights and a great injustice to men not in the unions?"

"You would see it differently if you were in the struggle. If the workingmen do not stand by each other,

where are they to look for help? What have the Christians of this city done?" and the little doctor got up and

began to pace the room. "Charities? Yes, little condescending charities. And look at the East Side! Is its

condition any better? I tell you, Mrs. Delancy, I don't believe in charitiesin any charities."

"It seems to me," said Edith, with a smile calculated to mollify this vehemence, "that you are a standing

"Me? No, indeed. I'm paid by the dispensary. And I make my patients paywhen they are able."

"So I have heard," Edith retorted. "Your bills must be a terror to the neighborhood."

"You may laugh. But I'm establishing a reputation over there as a workingwoman, and if I have any

influence, or do any little good, it's owing to that fact. Do you think they care anything about Father Damon's

"Well, very little they care. They like the man because they think he shares their feelings, and does not

sympathize with them because they are different from him. That is the only kind of gospel that is good for

"Of course he would not. He's as mediaeval as any monk. But then he is not blind. He sees that it is never

anything but personal influence that counts. Poor fellow," and the doctor's voice softened, "he'll kill himself

with his ascetic notions. He is trying to take up the burden of this life while struggling under the terror of

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing seems to do much good. But his presence is a great comfort. That is something.

And I'm glad he is going about now rousing opposition to what is, rather than all the time preaching

submission to the lot of this life for the sake of a reward somewhere else. That's a gospel for the rich."

Edith was accustomed to hear Ruth Leigh talk in this bitter strain when this subject was introduced, and she

contrived to turn the conversation upon what she called practical work, and then to ask some particulars of

"He did rest," the doctor said, "for a little, in his way. But he will not spare himself, and he cannot stand it. I

wish you could induce him to come here oftento do anything for diversion. He looks so worn."

There was in the appeal to Edith a note of personal interest which her quick heart did not fail to notice. And

the thought came to her with a painful apprehension. Poor thing! Poor Father Damon!

"His vows, and her absolute materialism! Both of them would go to the stake for what they believe, or don't

"But," said Jack, "it's interesting. It's what they call a situation. There. I didn't mean to make light of it. I don't

believe there is anything in it. But it would be comical, right here in New York."

"Comedy usually is. I suppose it's the human nature in it. That is so difficult to get rid of. But I thought the

missionary business was safe. Though, do you know, Edith, I should think better of both of them for having

"He has given Father Damon ten thousand dollars. It's in strict secrecy, but Father Damon said I might tell

"Yes, he's got a reputation for freezeouts. If the Street knew this it would say it was insurance money. And

"I don't think so. She was speaking of Father Damon this morning in the Loan Exhibition. I don't believe she

knows anything about it. Henderson is a good deal shut up in himself. They say at the Union that years ago

he used to do a good many generous thingsthat he is a great deal harder than he used to be."

This talk was before dinner. She did not ask anything now about Carmen, though she knew that Jack had

fallen into his old habit of seeing much of her. He was less and less at home, except at dinnertime, and he

was often restless, and, she saw, often annoyed. When he was at home he tried to make up for his absence by

extra tenderness and consideration for Edith and the boy. And this effort, and its evidence of a double if not

divided life, wounded her more than the neglect. One night, when he came home late, he had been so

demonstrative about the baby that Edith had sent the nurse out of the room until she could coax Jack to go

into his own apartment. His fits of alternate goodhumor and depression she tried to attribute to his business,

The next morning Father Damon came in about luncheontime. He apologized for not coming before since

her return, but he had been a little upset, and his work was more and more interesting. His eyes were bright

and his manner had quite the usual calm, but he looked pale and thinner, and so exhausted that Edith ran

immediately for a glass of wine, and began to upbraid him for not taking better care of himself.

"I take too much care of myself. We all do. The only thing I've got to give is myself."

"That is of little moment; long or short, a man can only give himself. Our Lord was not here very long." And

then Father Damon smiled, and said "My dear friend, I'm really doing very well. Of course I get tired. Then I

come up again. And every now and then I get a lift. Did Jack tell you about Henderson?"

"I never was more surprised. He sent for me to come to his office. Without any circumlocution, he asked me

how I was getting on, and, before I could answer, he said, in the driest business way, that he had been

thinking over a little plan, and perhaps I could help him. He had a little money he wanted to invest

'No,' he said, without moving a muscle. 'Not that. I don't know much about chapels, Father Damon. But I've

been hearing what you are doing, and it occurred to me that you must come across a good many cases not in

the regular charities that you could help judiciously, get them over hard spots, without encouraging

dependence. I'm going to put ten thousand dollars into your hands, if you'll be bothered with it, to use at your

"I was taken aback, and I suppose I showed it, and I said that was a great deal of money to intrust to one man.

"Henderson showed a little impatience. It depended upon the man. That was his lookout. The money would

be deposited, he said, in bank to my order, and he asked me for my signature that he could send with the

"Of course I thanked him warmly, and said I hoped I could do some good with it. He did not seem to pay

much attention to what I was saying. He was looking out of the window to the bare trees in the court back of

"' I shall know,' he said, 'when you have drawn this out. I've got a fancy for keeping a little fund of this sort

there.' And then he added, still not looking at me, but at the dead branches, 'You might call it the Margaret

"Yes, I remember. I said I would, and began to thank him again as I rose from my chair. He was still looking

away, and saying, as if to himself, 'I think she would like that.' And then he turned, and, in his usual abrupt

office manner, said: 'Goodmorning, goodmorning. I am very much obliged to you.'"

"Wasn't it all very strange!" Edith spoke, after a moment. "I didn't suppose he cared. Do you think it was just

"I shouldn't wonder. Men like Henderson do queer things. In the hearts of such hardened men there are

sometimes roots of sentiment that you wouldn't suspect. But I don't know. The Lord somehow looks out for

Notwithstanding this windfall of charity, Father Damon seemed somewhat depressed. "I wish," he said, after

a pause, "he had given it to the mission. We are so poor, and modern philanthropy all runs in other directions.

"But Dr. Leigh said that you were interesting the churches in the labor unions."

"Yes. It is an effort to do something. The church must put herself into sympathetic relations with these

people, or she will accomplish nothing. To get them into the church we must take up their burdens. But it is a

"And yet," Edith insisted, "you must admit that such people as Dr. Leigh are doing a good work."

Father Damon did not reply immediately. Presently he asked: "Do you think, Mrs. Delancy, that Dr. Leigh

has any sympathy with the higher life, with spiritual things? I wish I could think so."

"Ah, that is too vague. I sometimes feel that she and those like her are the worst opponents to our work. They

"Yet I know of no one who works more than Ruth Leigh in the self sacrificing spirit of the Master."

"Whom she denies!" The quick reply came with a flush in his pale face, and he instantly arose and walked

away to the window and stood for some moments in silence. When he turned there was another expression in

his eyes and a note of tenderness in his voice that contradicted the severity of the priest. It was the man that

spoke. "Yes, she is the best woman I ever knew. God help me! I fear I am not fit for my work."

This outburst of Father Damon to her, so unlike his calm and trained manner, surprised Edith, although she

had already some suspicion of his state of mind. But it would not have surprised her if she had known more

of men, the necessity of the repressed and tortured soul for sympathy, and that it is more surely to be found in

But there was nothing that she could say, as she took his hand to bid him goodby, except the commonplace

that Dr. Leigh had expressed anxiety that he was overworking, and that for the sake of his work he must be

Father Damon understood this, and he went away profoundly grateful for her forbearance of verbal

expression as much as for her sympathy. But he did not suspect that she needed sympathy quite as much as he

did, and consequently he did not guess the extent of her selfcontrol. It would have been an immense relief to

have opened her heart to himand to whom could she more safely do this than to a priest set apart from all

human entanglements? and to have asked his advice. But Edith's peculiar strengthor was it the highest

womanly instinct?lay in her discernment of the truth that in one relation of life no confidences are possible

outside of that relation except to its injury, and that to ask interference is pretty sure to seal its failure. As its

highest joys cannot be participated in, so its estrangements cannot be healed by any influence outside of its

sacred compact. To give confidence outside is to destroy the mutual confidence upon which the relation rests,

and though interference may patch up livable compromises, the bloom of love and the joy of life are not in

them. Edith knew that if she could not win her own battle, no human aid could win it for her.

And it was all the more difficult because it was vague and indefinite, as the greater part of domestic tragedies

are. For the most part life goes on with external smoothness, and the public always professes surprise when

some accident, a suit at law, a sudden death, a contested will, a slip from apparent integrity, or family greed

or feminine revenge, turns the light of publicity upon a household, to find how hollow the life has been; in the

light of forgotten letters, revealing checkbooks, servants' gossip, and longestablished habits of aversion or

Was not everything going on as usual in the Delancy house and in the little world of which it was a part? If

there had been any open neglect or jealousy, any quarrel or rupture, or any scene, these could be described.

These would have an interest to the biographer and perhaps to the public. But at this period there was nothing

of this sort to tell. There were no scenes. There were no protests or remonstrances or accusations, nor to the

It was more pitiful even than that. Here was a woman who had set her heart in all the passionate love of a

pure ideal, and day by day she felt that the world, the frivolous world, with its low and selfish aims, was too

strong for her, and that the stream was wrecking her life because it was bearing Jack away from her. What

could one woman do against the accepted demoralizations of her social life? To go with them, not to care, to

accept Jack's idle, goodnatured, easy philosophy of life and conduct, would not that have insured a peaceful

To be sure, a wise woman, who has been blessed or cursed with a long experience of life, would have known

that such a course could not forever, or for long, secure happiness, and that a man's love ultimately must rest

upon a profound respect for his wife and a belief in her nobility. Perhaps Edith did not reason in this way.

Probably it was her instinct for what was pure and trueshowing, indeed, the quality of her lovethat guided

To Jack's friends he was much the same as usual. He simply went on in his antemarriage ways. Perhaps he

drank a little more, perhaps he was a little more reckless at cards, and it was certain that his taste for amusing

himself in secondhand bookshops and antiquity collections had weakened. His talkedof project for some

regular occupation seemed to have been postponed, although he said to himself that it was only postponed

until his speculations, which kept him in a perpetual fever, should put him in a position to command a

Meantime he did not neglect social lifethat is, the easy, tolerant company which lived as he liked to live.

There was at first some pretense of declining invitations which Edith could not accept, but he soon fell into

the habit of a man whose family has temporarily gone abroad, with the privileges of a married man, without

the responsibilities of a bachelor. Edith could see that he took great credit to himself for any evenings he

spent at home, and perhaps he had a sort of support in the idea that he was sacrificing himself to his family.

Major Fairfax, whom Edith distrusted as a misleader of youth, did not venture to interfere with Jack again,

but he said to himself that it was a blank shame that with such a wife he should go dangling about with

women like Carmen and Miss Tavish, not that the Major himself had any objection to their society, but, hang

In midwinter Jack went to Washington on business. It was necessary to see Mavick, and Mr. Henderson, who

was also there. To spend a few weeks at the capital, in preparation for Lent, has become a part of the program

of fashion. There can be met people likeminded from all parts of the Union, and there is gayety, and the

entertainment to be had in new acquaintances, without incurring any of the responsibilities of social

continuance. They meet there on neutral ground. Half Jack's set had gone over or were going. Young Van

Dam would go with him. It will be only for a few days, Jack had said, gayly, when he bade Edith goodby,

It was quite by accident, apparently, that in the same train were the Chesneys, Miss Tavish, and Carmen

going over to join her husband. This gave the business expedition the air of an excursion. And indeed at the

hotel where they stayed this New York contingent made something of an impression, promising an addition

to the gayety of the season, and contributing to the importance of the house as a centre of fashion.

Henderson's least movements were always chronicled and speculated on, and for years he had been one of the

stock subjects, out of which even the dullest interviewers, who watch the hotel registers in all parts of the

country, felt sure that they could make an acceptable paragraph. The arrival of his wife, therefore, was a

They said in Washington at the time that Mrs. Henderson was one of the most fascinating of women, amiable,

desirous to please, approachable, and devoted to the interests of her husband. If some of the women, residents

in established society, were a little shy of her, if some, indeed, thought her dangerouswomen are always

thinking this of each other, and surely they ought to knownothing of this appeared in the reports. The men

liked her. She had so much vivacity, such esprit, she understood men so well, and the world, and could make

allowances, and was always an entertaining companion. More than one Senator paid marked court to her,

more than one brilliant young fellow of the House thought himself fortunate if he sat next her at dinner, and

even cabinet officers waited on her at supper. It could not be doubted that a smile and a confidential or a

witty remark from Mrs. Henderson brightened many an evening. Wherever she went her charming toilets

were fully described, and the public knew as well as her jewelers the number and cost of her diamonds, her

necklaces, her tiaras. But this was for the world and for state occasions. At home she liked simplicity. And

this was what impressed the reporters when, in the line of their public duty, they were admitted to her

presence. With them she was very affable, and she made them feel that they could almost be classed with her

friends, and that they were her guardians against the vulgar publicity, which she disliked and shrank from.

There went abroad, therefore, an impression of her amiability, her fabulous wealth in jewels and apparel, her

graciousness and her cleverness and her domesticity. Her manners seemed to the reporters those of a "lady,"

and of this both her wit and freedom from prudishness and her courteous treatment of them convinced them.

And the best of all this was that while it was said that Henderson was one of the boldest and shrewdest of

operators, and a man to be feared in the Street, he was in his family relations one of the most generous and

Henderson himself had not much time for the frivolities of the season, and he evaded all but the more

conspicuous social occasions, at which Carmen, sometimes with a little temper, insisted that he should

accompany her. "You would come here," he once said, "when you knew I was immersed in most perplexing

"And now I am here," she had replied, in a tone equally wanting in softness, "you have got to make the best

Was Jack happy in the whirl he was in? Some days exceedingly so. Some days he sulked, and some days he

threw himself with recklessness born of artificial stimulants into the always gay and rattling moods of Miss

Tavish. Somehow he could get no nearer to Henderson or to Mavick than when he was in New York. Not that

he could accuse Mavick of trying to conceal anything; Mavick bore to him always the open, "all right"

And then Carmen? Was she a little less dependent on him, in this wide horizon, than in New York? And had

he noticed a little disposition to patronize on two or three occasions? It was absurd. He laughed at himself for

such an idea. Old Eschelle's daughter patronize him! And yet there was something. She was very confidential

with Mavick. They seemed to have a great deal in common. It so happened that even in the little expeditions

of sightseeing these two were thrown much together, and at times when the former relations of Jack and

Carmen should have made them comrades. They had a good deal to say to each other, and momentarily

evidently serious things, and at receptions Jack had interrupted their glances of intelligence. But what stuff

this was! He jealous of the attentions of his friend to another man's wife! If she was a coquette, what did it

One day after a round of receptions, in which Jack had been specially disgruntled, and when he was alone in

the drawingroom of the hotel with Carmen, his manner was so positively rude to her that she could not but

notice it. There was this trait of boyishness in Jack, and it was one of the weaknesses that made him loved,

Did Carmen resent this? Did she upbraid him for his manner? Did she apologize, as if she had done anything

"No. You don't understand. And now you want to make me more miserable. See here, Mr. Delancy," and she

started up in her seat and turned to him, "you are a man of honor. Would you advise me to make an enemy of

"I don't see what that has got to do with it," said Jack, wavering. "Lately your manner"

"Nonsense!" cried Carmen, springing up and approaching Jack with a smile of animation and trust, and

laying her hand on his shoulder. " We are old, old friends. And I have just confided to you what I wouldn't to

any other living being. There!" And looking around at the door, she tapped him lightly on the cheek and ran

Whatever you might say of Carmen, she had this quality of a wise person, that she never cut herself loose

For one reason or another Jack's absence was prolonged. He wrote often, he made bright comments on the

characters and peculiarities of the capital, and he said that he was tired to death of the everlasting whirl and

scuffle. People plunged in the social whirlpool always say they are weary of it, and they complain bitterly of

its exactions and its tax on their time and strength. Edith judged, especially from the complaints, that her

husband was enjoying himself. She felt also that his letters were in a sense perfunctory, and gave her only the

surface of his life. She sought in vain in them for those evidences of spontaneous love, of delight in writing to

her of all persons in the world, the eagerness of the lover that she recalled in letters written in other days.

However affectionate in expression, these were duty letters. Edith was not alone. She had no lack of friends,

who came and went in the common round of social exchange, and for many of them she had a sincere

affection. And there were plenty of relatives on the father's and on the mother's side. But for the most part

they were oldfashioned, homekeeping New Yorkers, who were sufficient to themselves, and cared little

for the set into which Edith's marriage had more definitely placed her. In any real trouble she would not have

lacked support. She was deemed fortunate in her marriage, and in her apparent serene prosperity it was

believed that she was happy. If she had had mother or sister or brother, it is doubtful if she would have made

either a confidant of her anxieties, but highspirited and selfreliant as she was, there were days when she

longed with intolerable heartache for the silent sympathy of a mother's presence.

It is singular how lonely a woman of this nature can be in a gay and friendly world. She had her interests, to

be sure. As she regained her strength she took up her social duties, and she tried to resume her studies, her

music, her reading, and she occupied herself more and more with the charities and the fortunes of her friends

who were giving their lives to altruistic work. But there was a sense of unreality in all this. The real thing was

the soul within, the longing, loving woman whose heart was heavy and unsatisfied. Jack was so lovable, he

had in his nature so much nobility, if the world did not kill it, her life might be so sweet, and so completely

fulfill her girlish dreams. All these schemes of a helpful, altruistic life had been in her dream, but how empty

it was without the mutual confidence, the repose in the one human love for which she cared.

Though she was not alone, she had no confidant. She could have none. What was there to confide? There was

nothing to be done. There was no flagrant wrong or open injustice. Some women in like circumstances

become bitter and cynical. Others take their revenge in a career reckless, but within social conventions, going

their own way in a sort of matrimonial truce. These are not noticeable tragedies. They are things borne with a

dumb ache of the heart. There are lives into which the show of spring comes, but without the song of birds or

the scent of flowers. They are endured bravely, with a heroism for which the world does not often give them

credit. Heaven only knows how many noble womennoble in this if in nothing elsecarry through life this

But Edith had one confidantthe boy. And he was perfectly safe; he would reveal nothing. There were times

when he seemed to understand, and whether he did or not she poured out her heart to him. Often in the

twilight she sat by him in this silent communion. If he were asleepand he was not troubled with

insomniahe was still company. And when he was awake, his efforts to communicate the dawning ideas of

the queer world into which he had come were a neverfailing delight. He wanted so many more things than

he could ask for, which it was his mother's pleasure to divine; later on he would ask for so many things he

These were happy hours, imagining what the boy would be, planning what she would make his life, hours

enjoyed as a traveler enjoys wayside flowers, snatched before an approaching storm. It is a pity, the nurse

would say, that his father cannot see him now. And at the thought Edith could only see the child through

When Father Damon parted from Edith he seemed to himself strengthened in his spirit. His momentary

outburst had shown him where he stoodthe strength of his fearful temptation. To see it was to be able to

conquer it. He would humiliate himself; he would scourge himself; he would fast and pray; he would throw

himself more unreservedly into the service of his Master. He had been too compromising with sin and

The priest walked swiftly through the wintry streets, welcoming as a sort of penance the biting frost which

burned his face and penetrated his garments. He little heeded the passers in the streets, those who hurried or

those who loitered, only, if he met or passed a woman or a group of girls, he instinctively drew himself away

and walked more rapidly. He strode on uncompromisingly, and his cleanshaved face was set in rigid lines.

Those who saw him pass would have said that there went an ascetic bent on judgment. Many who did know

him, and who ordinarily would have saluted him, sure of a friendly greeting, were repelled by his stern face

As he turned into Rivington Street there approached him from the opposite direction a girl, walking slowly

and undecidedly. When he came near her she looked up, with an appealing recognition. In a flash of the quick

passing he thought he knew hera girl who had attended his mission and whom he had not seen for several

He turned about short at the sound of the weak, pleading voice, but with no relaxation of his severe,

It was the girl he remembered. She wore a dress of silk that had once been fine, and over it an ample cloak

that had quite lost its freshness, and a hat still gay with cheap flowers. Her face, which had a sweet and

almost innocent expression, was drawn and anxious. The eyes were those of a troubled and hunted animal.

She did not answer immediately. She looked away, and, still avoiding his gaze, said, timidly: "I thought I

would tell you, Father Damon, that I'm that I'm in trouble. I don't know what to do."

"Have you repented of your sin?" asked he, with a little softening of his tone. "Did you want to come to me

"He's deserted me," said the girl, looking down, absorbed in her own misery, and not heeding his question.

"Ah, so that is what you are sorry for?" The severe, reproving tone had come back to his voice.

The priest hesitated. Was he always to preach against sin, to strive to extirpate it, and yet always to make it

easy for the sinner? This girl must realize her guilt before he could do her any good. "Are you sorry for what

"Yes, I'm sorry," she replied. Wasn't to be in deep trouble to be sorry? And then she looked up, and continued

"Well, my child, if you are sorry, and want to lead a different life, come to me at the mission and I will try to

The priest, with a not unkindly goodby, passed on. The girl stood a moment irresolute, and then went on her

Three days later Dr. Leigh was waiting at the mission chapel to speak with the rector after the vesper service.

He came out pale and weary, and the doctor hesitated to make known her errand when she saw how

"If you feel able. There is a girl at the Woman's Hospital who wants to see you."

"It is the girl you saw on the street the other afternoon; she said she had spoken to you."

"She couldn't. I met the poor thing the same afternoon. She looked so aimless and forlorn that, though I did

not remember her at first, I thought she might be ill, and spoke to her, and asked her what was the matter. At

first she said nothing except that she was out of work and felt miserable; but the next moment she broke

"There was nothing to do but to take her to the hospital, and there she has been."

Little more was said as they walked along, and when they reached the hospital, Father Damon was shown

without delay into the ward where the sick girl lay. Dr. Leigh turned back from the door, and the nurse took

him to the bedside. She lay quite still in her cot, wan and feeble, with every sign of having encountered a

She turned her head on the low pillow as Father Damon spoke, saying he was very glad he could come to her,

"I knew you would come," she said, feebly. "The nurse says I'm better. But I wanted to tell you"And she

"Yes, I know," he said. "The Lord is very good. He will forgive all your sins now, if you repent and trust

"Only if I never see him again, if you see him, you will tell him that I was always true to him. He said such

"I promise," said the father, much moved. "But now, my child, you ought to think of yourself, of your"

The nurse approached with a warning gesture that the interview was too prolonged.

Father Damon knelt for a moment by the bedside, uttering a hardly articulate prayer. The girl's eyes were

closed. When he rose she opened them with a look of gratitude, and with the sign of blessing he turned away.

He intended to hasten from the house. He wanted to be alone. His trouble seemed to him greater than that of

the suffering girl. What had he done? What was he in thought better than she? Was this intruding human

As he was passing through the wide hallway the door of the receptionroom was open, and he saw Dr. Leigh

seated at the table, with a piece of work in her hands. She looked up, and stopped him with an unspoken

inquiry in her face. It was only civil to pause a moment and tell her about the patient, and as he stepped

Yielding weakly, as he knew, he took the offered chair. But he raised his hand in refusal of the glass of wine

She did not look like a doctor. She had laid aside the dusty walking dress, the businessjacket, the ugly little

hat of felt, the battered reticule. In her simple house costume she was the woman, homelike, sympathetic,

gentle, with the everlasting appeal of the strong feminine nature. It was not a temptress who stood before him,

but a helpful woman, in whose kind eyeshow beautiful they were in this moment of sympathythere was

"So," she said, when he had taken the muchneeded draught; "in the hospital you must obey the rules, one of

She had taken her seat now, and resumed her work. Father Damon was looking at her, seeing the woman,

perhaps, as he never had seen her before, a certain charm in her quiet figure and modest selfpossession,

while the thought of her life, of her labors, as he had seen her now for months and months of entire sacrifice

of self, surged through his brain in a whirl of emotion that seemed sweeping him away. But when he spoke it

"I was sorry to let her go that day. Friendless, I should have known. I did know. I should have felt. You"

"No," she said, gently, interrupting him; "that was my business. You should not accuse yourself. It was a

"Yes, a physicianthe great Physician. The Master never let the sin hinder his compassion for the sinner."

To this she could make no reply. Presently she looked up and said: "But I am sure your visit was a great

His air was still abstracted. He was hardly thinking of the girl, after all, but of himself, of the woman who sat

before him. It seemed to him that he would have given the world to escapeto fly from her, to fly from

himself. Some invisible force held hima strong, new, and yet not new, emotion, a power that seemed to

clutch his very life. He could not think clearly about it. In all his discipline, in his consecration, in his vows of

separation from the world, there seemed to have been no shield prepared for this. The human asserted itself,

and came in, overwhelming his guards and his barriers like a strong flood in the springtime of the year,

breaking down all artificial contrivances. "They reckon ill who leave me out," is the everlasting cry of the

human heart, the great passion of life, incarnate in the first man and the first woman.

With a supreme effort of his iron willis the Will, after all, stronger than Love?Father Damona rose. He

stretched out his hand to say farewell. She also stood, and she felt the hand tremble that held hers.

He was going. He took her other hand, and was looking down upon her face. She looked up, and their eyes

met. It was for an instant, a flash, glance for glance, as swift as the stab of daggers.

All the power of heaven and earth could not recall that glance nor undo its revelations. The man and the

He bent down towards her face. Affrighted by his passion, scarcely able to stand in her sudden emotion, she

started back. The action, the instant of time, recalled him to himself. He dropped her hands, and was gone.

And the woman, her knees refusing any longer to support her, sank into a chair, helpless, and saw him go,

and knew in that moment the height of a woman's joy, the depth of a woman's despair.

It had come to her! Steeled by her science, shielded by her philanthropy, schooled in indifference to love, it

had come to her! And it was hopeless. Hopeless? It was absurd. Her life was determined. In no event could it

be in harmony with his opinions, with his religion, which was dearer to him than life. There was a great gulf

between them which she could not pass unless she ceased to be herself. And he? A severe priest! Vowed and

consecrated against human passion! What a government of the worldif there were any governmentthat

And yet she was loved! That sang in her heart with all the pain, with all the despair. And with it all was a

great pity for him, alone, gone into the wilderness, as it would seem to him, to struggle with his fierce

It had come on darker as she sat there. The lamps were lighted, and she was reminded of some visits she must

make. She went, mechanically, to her room to prepare for going. The old jacket, which she took up, did look

rather rusty. She went to the pressit was not much of a wardrobe and put on the one that was reserved

for holidays. And the hat? Her friends had often joked her about the hat, but now for the first time she seemed

to see it as it might appear to others. As she held it in her hand, and then put it on before the mirror, she

smiled a little, faintly, at its appearance. And then she laid it aside for her better hat. She never had been so

long in dressing before. And in the evening, too, when it could make no difference! It might, after all, be a

little more cheerful for her forlorn patients. Perhaps she was not conscious that she was making selections,

that she was paying a little more attention to her toilet than usual. Perhaps it was only the woman who was

It would be difficult to say what emotion was uppermost in the mind of Father Damon as he left the

housemortification, contempt of himself, or horror. But there was a sense of escape, of physical escape,

and the imperative need of it, that quickened his steps almost into a run. In the increasing dark, at this hour, in

this quarter of the town, there were comparatively few whose observation of him would recall him to himself.

He thought only of escape, and of escape from that quarter of the city that was the witness of his labors and

his failure. For the moment to get away from this was the one necessity, and without reasoning in the matter,

only feeling, he was hurrying, stumbling in his haste, northward. Before he went to the hospital he had been

tired, physically weary. He was scarcely conscious of it now; indeed, his body, his hated body, seemed

lighter, and the dominant spirit now awakened to contempt of it had a certain pleasure in testing it, in drawing

upon its vitality, to the point of exhaustion if possible. It should be seen which was master. His rapid pace

presently brought him into one of the great avenues leading to Harlem. That was the direction he wished to

go. That was where he knew, without making any decision, he must go, to the haven of the house of his

order, on the heights beyond Harlem. A train was just clattering along on the elevated road above him. He

could see the faces at the windows, the black masses crowding the platforms. It went pounding by as if it

were freight from another world. He was in haste, but haste to escape from himself. That way, bearing him

along with other people, and in the moving world, was to bring him in touch with humanity again, and so

with what was most hateful in himself. He must be alone. But there was a deeper psychological reason than

that for walking, instead of availing himself of the swiftest method of escape. He was not fleeing from justice

or pursuit. When the mind is in torture and the spirit is torn, the instinctive effort is to bodily activity, to force

physical exertion, as if there must be compensation for the mental strain in the weariness of nature. The priest

obeyed this instinct, as if it were possible to walk away from himself, and went on, at first with almost no

And the shame! He could not bear to be observed. It seemed to him that every one would see in his face that

he was a recreant priest, perjured and forsworn. And so great had been his spiritual pride! So removed he had

deemed himself from the weakness of humanity! And he had yielded at the first temptation, and the

commonest of all temptations! Thank God, he had not quite yielded. He had fled. And yet, how would it have

been if Ruth Leigh had not had a moment of reserve, of prudent repulsion! He groaned in anguish. The sin

was in the intention. It was no merit of his that he had not with a kiss of passion broken his word to his Lord

It was remorse that was driving him along the avenue; no room for any other thought yet, or feeling. Perhaps

it is true in these days that the oldfashioned torture known as remorse is rarely experienced except under the

name of detection. But it was a reality with this highly sensitive nature, with this conscience educated to the

finest edge of feeling. The world need never know his moment's weakness; Ruth Leigh he could trust as he

would have trusted his own sister to guard his honorthat was all overnever, he was sure, would she even

by a look recall the past; but he knew how he had fallen, and the awful measure of his lapse from loyalty to

his Master. And how could he ever again stand before erring, sinful men and women and speak about that

purity which he had violated? Could repentance, confession, penitence, wipe away this stain?

As he went on, his mind in a whirl of humiliation, selfaccusation, and contempt, at length he began to be

conscious of physical weariness. Except the biscuit and the glass of wine at the hospital, he had taken nothing

since his light luncheon. When he came to the Harlem Bridge he was compelled to rest. Leaning against one

of the timbers and half seated, with the softened roar of the city in his ears, the lights gleaming on the heights,

the river flowing dark and silent, he began to be conscious of his situation. Yes, he was very tired. It seemed

difficult to go on without help of some sort. At length he crossed the bridge. Lights were gleaming from the

saloons along the street. He paused in front of one, irresolute. Food he could not taste, but something he must

have to carry him on. But no, that would not do; he could not enter that in his priest's garb. He dragged

himself along until he came to a drugshop, the modern saloon of the respectably virtuous. That he entered,

and sat down on a stool by the sodawater counter. The expectant clerk stared at him while waiting the order,

"I feel a little feverish," said the father. "You may give me five grains of quinine in whisky."

"That'll put you all right," said the boy as he handed him the mixture. "It's all the go now."

It seemed to revive him, and he went out and walked on towards the heights. Somehow, seeing this boy,

coming back to common life, perhaps the strong and unaccustomed stimulant, gave a new shade to his

thoughts. He was safe. Presently he would be at the Retreat. He would rest, and then gird up his loins and

face life again. The mood lasted for some time. And when the sense of physical weariness came back, that

seemed to dull the acuteness of his spiritual torment. It was late when he reached the house and rang the

nightbell. No one of the brothers was up except Father Monies, and it was he who came to the door.

"I needed to come," the father said, simply, and he grasped the door post, steadying himself as he came in.

"But you must have something at once." And Father Monies hurried away, heated some bouillon by a

Father Damon slept the sleep of exhaustion. In this for a time the mind joined in the lethargy of the body. But

presently, as the vital currents were aroused, the mind began to play its fantastic tricks. He was a seminary

student, he was ordained, he was taking his vows before the bishop, he was a robust and consecrated priest

performing his first service, shining, it seemed to him, before the congregation in the purity of his separation

from the world. How strong he felt. And then came perplexities, difficulties, interests, and conflicting

passions in life that he had not suspected, good that looked like evil, and evil that had an alloy of virtue, and

the way was confused. And then there was a vision of a sort of sister of charity working with him in the evil

and the good, drawing near to him, and yet repelling him with a cold, scientific skepticism that chilled him

like blasphemy; but so patient was she, so unconscious of self, that gradually he lost this feeling of repulsion

and saw only the woman, that wonderful creation, tender, pitiful comrade, the other self. And then there was

darkness and blindness, and he stood once more before his congregation, speaking words that sounded

hollow, hearing responses that mocked him, stared at by accusing eyes that knew him for a hypocrite. And he

rushed away and left them, hearing their laughter as he went, and so into the streetplainly it was Rivington

Streetand faces that he knew had a smile and a sneer, and he heard comments as he passed "Hulloa, Father

Damon, come in and have a drink." "I say, Father Damon, I seen her going round into Grand Street."

When Father Monies looked in, just before daylight, Father Damon was still sleeping, but tossing restlessly

It was very late when he awoke, and opened his eyes to a confused sense of some great calamity. Father

"You have had a good sleep. Now take this, and then you may get up. The breakfast will wait for you."

"Oh, Bendes has gone down long ago. You must take it easy; rest today. You'll be all right. You haven't a bit

"But," still declining the coffee, "before I break my fast, I have something to say to you. I"

"Get some strength first. Besides, I have an engagement. I cannot wait. Pull yourself together; I may not be

So it was fated that he should be left still with himself. After his coffee he dressed slowly, as if it were not he,

but some one else going through this familiar duty, as if it were scarcely worth while to do anything any

more. And then, before attempting his breakfast, he went into the little oratory, and remained long in the

attitude of prayer, trying to realize what he was and what he had done. He prayed for himself, for help, for

humility, and he prayed for her; he had been used of late to pray for her guidance, now he prayed that she

When he came forth it was in a calmer frame of mind. It was all clear now. When Father Monies returned he

would confess, and take his penance, and resolutely resume his life. He understood life better now. Perhaps

It was a mild winter day, bright, and with a touch of summer, such as sometimes gets shuffled into our winter

calendar. The book that he took up did not interest him; he was in no mood for the quiet meditation that it

usually suggested to him, and he put it down and strolled out, directing his steps farther up the height, and

away from the suburban stir. As he went on there was something consonant with his feelings in the bare

wintry landscape, and when he passed the ridge and walked along the top of the river slope, he saw, as it

seemed to him he had not seen it before, that lovely reach of river, the opposite wooded heights, the noble

pass above, the peacefulness and invitation of nature. Had he a new sense to see all this? There was a softness

in the distant outline, villas peeped out here and there, carriages were passing in the road below, there was a

cheerful life in the streamthere was a harmony in the aspect of nature and humanity from this height. Was

not the world beautiful? and human emotion, affection, love, were they alien to the Divine intention?

She loved beauty; she was fond of flowers; often she had spoken to him of her childish delight in her little

excursions, rarely made, into the country. He could see her now standing just there and feasting her eyes on

this noble panorama, and he could see her face all aglow, as she might turn to him and say, "Isn't it beautiful,

Father Damon?" And she was down in those reeking streets, climbing about in the foul tenement houses,

taking a sick child in her arms, speaking a word of cheera good physician going about doing good!

And it might have been! Why was it that this peace of nature should bring up her image, and that they should

seem in harmony? Was not the love of beauty and of goodness the same thing? Did God require in His

service the atrophy of the affections? As long as he was in the world was it right that he should isolate

himself from any of its sympathies and trials? Why was it not a higher life to enter into the common lot, and

suffer, if need be, in the struggle to purify and ennoble all? He remembered the days he had once passed in

the Trappist monastery of Gethsemane. The perfect peace of mind of the monks was purchased at the expense

of the extirpation of every want, all will, every human interest. Were these men anything but specimens in a

Museum of Failures? And yet, for the time being, it had seemed attractive to him, this simple vegetable

existence, whose only object was preparation for death by the extinction of all passion and desire. No, these

were not soldiers of the Lord, but the fainthearted, who had slunk into the hospital.

All this afternoon he was drifting in thought, arraigning his past life, excusing it, condemning it, and trying to

forecast its future. Was this a trial of his constancy and faith, or had he made a mistake, entered upon a

slavish career, from which he ought to extricate himself at any cost of the world's opinion? But presently he

was aware that in all these debates with himself her image appeared. He was trying to fit his life to the

thought of her. And when this became clearer in his tortured mind, the woman appeared as a temptation. It

was not, then, the love of beauty, not even the love of humanity, and very far from being the service of his

Master, that he was discussing, but only his desire for one person. It was that, then, that made him, for that

fatal instant, forget his vow, and yield to the impulse of human passion. The thought of that moment stung

him with confusion and shame. There had been moments in this afternoon wanderingwhen it had seemed

possible for him to ask for release, and to take up a human, sympathetic life with her, in mutual consecration

in the service of the Lord's poor. Yes, and by love to lead her into a higher conception of the Divine love. But

this breaking a solemn vow at the dictates of passion was a mortal sinthere was no other name for ita sin

As he at last turned homeward, facing the great city and his life there, this became more clear to him. He

walked rapidly. The lines of his face became set in a hard judgment of himself. He thought no more of

escaping from himself, but of subduing himself, stamping out the appeals of his lower nature. It was in this

Father Monies was awaiting him, and welcomed him with that look of affection, of more than brotherly love,

"Perhaps," Father Damon replied, without any leniency in his face; "but that does not matter. I must tell you

They went together into the oratory. Father Damon did not spare himself. He kept nothing back that could

And Father Monies did not attempt to lessen the impression upon himself of the seriousness of the scandal.

He was shocked. He was exceedingly grave, but he was even more pitiful. His experience of life had been

longer than that of the penitent. He better knew its temptations. His own peace had only been won by long

"I have nothing to say as to your own discipline. That you know. But there is one thing. You must face this

"No; I am well enough." He hesitated. "I thought perhaps some other field, for a time?"

"There is no other field for you. It is not for the moment the question of where you can do most good. You

are to reinstate yourself. You are a soldier of the Lord Jesus, and you are to go where the battle is most

That was the substance of it all. There was much affectionate counsel and loving sympathy mingled with all

the inflexible orders of obedience, but the sin must be faced and extirpated in presence of the enemy.

On the morrow Father Damon went back to his solitary rooms, to his chapel, to the round of visitations, to his

work with the poor, the sinful, the hopeless. He did not seek her; he tried not to seem to avoid her, or to seem

to shun the streets where he was most likely to meet her, and the neighborhoods she frequented. Perhaps he

did avoid them a little, and he despised himself for doing it. Almost involuntarily he looked to the bench by

the chapel door which she occasionally occupied at vespers. She was never there, and he condemned himself

for thinking that she might be; but yet wherever he walked there was always the expectation that he might

encounter her. As the days went by and she did not appear, his expectation became a kind of torture. Was she

And then he began to examine himself with a morbid introspection. Had the hope that he should see her

occasionally influenced him at all in his obedience to Father Monies? Had he, in fact, a longing to be in the

streets where she had walked, among the scenes that had witnessed her beautiful devotion? Had his

willingness to take up this work again been because it brought him nearer to her in spirit?

No, she could not be ill. He heard her spoken of, here and there, in his calls and ministrations to the sick and

dying. Evidently she was going about her work as usual. Perhaps she was avoiding him. Or perhaps she did

not care, after all, and had lost her respect for him when he discovered to her his weakness. And he had put

There was no conscious wavering in his purpose. But from much dwelling upon the thought, from much

effort rather to put it away, his desire only to see her grew stronger day by day. He had no fear. He longed to

test himself. He was sure that he would be impassive, and be all the stronger for the test. He was more

devoted than ever in his Work. He was more severe with himself, more charitable to others, and he could not

doubt that he was gaining a holdyes, a real holdupon the lives of many about him. The attendance was

better at the chapel; more of the penitent and forlorn came to him for help. And how alone he was! My God,

In fact, Ruth Leigh was avoiding him. It was partly from a womanly reservecalled into expression in this

form for the first timeand partly from a wish to spare him pain. She had been under no illusion from the

first about the hopelessness of the attachment. She comprehended his character so thoroughly that she knew

that for him any fall from his ideal would mean his ruin. He was one of the rare spirits of faith astray in a

skeptical age. For a time she had studied curiously his efforts to adapt himself to his surroundings. One of

these was joining a Knights of Labor lodge. Another was his approach to the ethicalculture movement of

some of the leaders in the Neighborhood Guild. Another was his interest in the philanthropic work of

agnostics like herself. She could see that he, burning with zeal to save the souls of men, and believing that

there was no hope for the world except in the renunciation of the world, instinctively shrank from these

contacts, which, nevertheless, he sought in the spirit of a Jesuit missionary to a barbarous tribe.

It was possible for such a man to be for a time overmastered by human passion; it was possible even that he

might reason himself temporarily into conduct that this natural passion seemed to justify; yet she never

doubted that there would follow an awakening from that state of mind as from a horrible delusion. It was

simply because Ruth Leigh was guided by the exercise of reason, and had built up her scheme of life upon

facts that she believed she could demonstrate, that she saw so clearly their relations, and felt that the faith,

which was to her only a vagary of the material brain, was to him an integral part of his life.

Love, to be sure, was as unexpected in her scheme of life as it was in his; but there was on her part no reason

why she should not yield to it. There was every reason in her nature and in her theory why she should, for,

bounded as her vision of life was by this existence, love was the highest conceivable good in life. It had been

with a great shout of joy that the consciousness had come to her that she loved and was loved. Though she

might never see him again, this supreme experience for man or woman, this unsealing of the sacred fountain

of life, would be for her an enduring sweetness in her lonely and laborious pilgrimage. How strong love is

And why, so far as she was concerned, should she deny it? An ordinary woman probably would not. Love is

reason enough. Why should artificial conventions defeat it? Why should she sacrifice herself, if he were

willing to brave the opinion of the world for her sake? Was it any new thing for good men to do this? But

Ruth Leigh was not an ordinary woman. Perhaps if her intellect had not been so long dominant over her heart

it would have been different. But the habit of being guided by reason was second nature. She knew that not

only his vow, but the habit of life engendered by the vow, was an insuperable barrier. And besides, and this

was the touchstone of her conception of life and duty, she felt that if he were to break his vow, though she

It was a singular phenomenonvery much remarked at the timethat the women who did not in the least

share Father Damon's spiritual faith, and would have called themselves in contradistinction materialists, were

those who admired him most, were in a way his followers, loved to attend his services, were inspired by his

personality, and drawn to him in a loving loyalty. The attraction to these very women was his unworldliness,

his separateness, his devotion to an ideal which in their reason seemed a delusion. And no women would

It was easy with a little contrivance to avoid meeting him. She did not go to the chapel or in its neighborhood

when he was likely to be going to or from service. She let others send for him when in her calls his

ministration was required, and she was careful not to linger where he was likely to come. A little change in

the time of her rounds was made without neglecting her work, for that she would not do, and she trusted that

if accident threw him in her way, circumstances would make it natural and not embarrassing. And yet his

image was never long absent from her thoughts; she wondered if he were dejected, if he were ill, if he were

lonely, and mostly there was for him a great pity in her heart, a pity born, alas! of her own sense of

How much she was repressing her own emotions she knew one evening when she returned from her visits

and found a letter in his handwriting. The sight of it was a momentary rapture, and then the expectation of

what it might contain gave her a feeling of faintness. The letter was long. Its coming needs a word of

Father Damon had begun to use the Margaret Fund. He found that its judicious use was more perplexing than

he had supposed. He needed advice, the advice of those who had more knowledge than he had of the merits

of relief cases. And then there might be many sufferers whom he in his limited field neglected. It occurred to

him that Dr. Leigh would be a most helpful coalmoner. No sooner did this idea come to him than he was

spurred to put it into effect. This common labor would be a sort of bond between them, a bond of charity

purified from all personal alloy. He went at once to Mr. Henderson's office and told him his difficulties, and

about Dr. Leigh's work, and the opportunities she would have. Would it not be possible for Dr. Leigh to draw

from the fund on her own checks independent of him? Mr. Henderson thought not. Dr. Leigh was no doubt a

good woman, but he didn't know much about woman visitors and that sort; their sympathies were apt to run

away with them, and he should prefer at present to have the fund wholly under Father Damon's control. Some

time, he intimated, he might make more lasting provisions with trustees. It would be better for Father Damon

The letter recited this at length; it had a check endorsed, and the writer asked the doctor to be his almoner. He

dwelt very much upon the relief this would be to him, and the opportunity it would give her in many

emergencies, and the absolute confidence he had in her discretion, as well as in her quick sympathy with the

suffering about them. And also it would be a great satisfaction to him to feel that he was associated with her

In its length, in its tone of kindliness, of personal confidence, especially in its length, it was evident that the

writing of it had been a pleasure, if not a relief, to the sender. Ruth read it and reread it. It was as if Father

Damon were there speaking to her. She could hear the tones of his voice. And the glance of lovethat last

But in the letter there was no love; to any third person it would have read like an ordinary friendly

philanthropic request. And her reply, accepting gratefully his trust, was almost formal, only the writer felt

The Roman poet Martial reckons among the elements of a happy life "an income left, not earned by toil," and

also "a wife discreet, yet blythe and bright." Felicity in the possession of these, the epigrammatist might have

Jack Delancy returned from Washington more discontented than when he went. His speculation hung fire in a

most tantalizing way; more than that, it had absorbed nearly all the "income not earned by toil," which was at

the hazard of operations he could neither control nor comprehend. And besides, this little fortune had come to

seem contemptibly inadequate. In his associations of the past year his spendthrift habits had increased, and he

had been humiliated by his inability to keep pace with the prodigality of those with whom he was most

intimate. Miss Tavish was an heiress in her own right, who never seemed to give a thought to the cost of

anything she desired; the Hendersons, for any whim, drew upon a reservoir of unknown capacity; and even

To be sure, it was pleasant coming home into an atmosphere of sincerity, of worshipwas it not? It was very

flattering to his selfesteem. The master had come! The house was in commotion. Edith flew to meet him,

hugged him, shook him, criticised his appearance, rallied him for a recreant father. How well she

lookedbuoyant, full of vivacity, running over with joy, asking a dozen questions before he could answer

one, testifying her delight, her affection, in a hundred ways. And the boy! He was so eager to see his papa. He

could converse nowthat is, in his way. And that prodigy, when Jack was dragged into his presence, and

also fell down with Edith and worshiped him in his crib, did actually smile, and appear to know that this man

"Do you know," said Edith, looking at the boy critically, "I think of making Fletcher a present, if you

"He'll want some place to go to in the summer. I want to buy that old place where he was born and give it to

"Not in the least. It's next to an ancestral feeling to be the father of a landowner."

They were standing close to the crib, his arm resting lightly across her shoulders. He drew her closer to him,

and kissed her tenderly. "The little chap has a goldenhearted mother. I don't know why he should not have a

Her eyes filled with sudden tears. She could not speak. But both arms were clasped round his neck now. She

was too happy for words. And the baby, looking on with large eyes, seemed to find nothing unusual in the

It was a happy evening. In truth, after the first surprise, Jack was pleased with this contemplated purchase. It

was something removed beyond temptation. Edith's property was secure to her, and it was his honorable

purpose never to draw it into his risks. But he knew her generosity, and he could not answer for himself if she

There was all the news to tell, the harmless gossip of daily life, which Edith had a rare faculty of making

dramatically entertaining, with her insight and her feeling for comedy. There had been a musicale at the

Blunts'oh, strictly amateurand Edith ran to the piano and imitated the singers and took off the players,

until Jack declared that it beat the Conventional Club out of sight. And she had been to a parlor mind cure

lecture, and to a Theosophic conversation, and to a Reading Club for the Cultivation of a Feeling for Nature

through Poetry. It was all immensely solemn and earnest. And Jack wondered that the managers did not get

hold of these things and put them on the stage. Nothing could draw like them. Not burlesques, though, said

Edith; not in the least. If only these circles would perform in public as they did in private, how they would

And then Father Damon had been to consult her about his fund. He had been ill, and would not stay, and

seemed more severe and ascetic than ever. She was sure something was wrong. For Dr. Leigh, whom she had

sought out several times, was reserved, and did not voluntarily speak of Father Damon; she had heard that he

was throwing himself with more than his usual fervor into his work. There was plenty to talk about. The

purchase of the farm by the sea had better not be delayed; Jack might have to go down and see the owner.

Yes, he would make it his first business in the morning. Perhaps it would be best to get some Long Islander

By the time it was ten o'clock, Jack said he thought he would step down to the Union a moment. Edith's

countenance fell. There might be letters, he explained, and he had a little matter of business; he wouldn't be

It was very agreeable, home was, and Edith was charming. He could distinctly feel that she was charming.

But Jack was restless. He felt the need of talking with somebody about what was on his mind. If only with

Major Fairfax. He would not consult the Major, but the latter was in the way of picking up all sorts of gossip,

And the Major was willing to unpack his budget. It was not very reassuring, what he had to tell; in fact, it was

somewhat depressing, the general tightness and the panicky uncertainty, until, after a couple of glasses of

"The Hendersons are going to build," Jack said at length, after a remark of the Major's about that famous

"Carmen says it's for an objectlesson. To show New York millionaires how to adorn their city."

"He appears to be willing. I can't get the hang of Henderson. He doesn't seem to care what his wife does. He's

a cynical cuss. The other night, at dinner, in Washington, when the thing was talked over, he said: 'My dear, I

don't know why you shouldn't do that as well as anything. Let's build a house of gold, as Nero did; we are in

the Roman age.' Carmen looked dubious for a moment, but she said, 'You know, Rodney, that you always

used to say that some time you would show New York what a house ought to be in this climate.' 'Well, go on,'

and he laughed. 'I suppose lightning will not strike that sooner than anything else.'" "Seems to me," said the

Major, reflectively, reaching out his hand for the brown mug, "the way he gives that woman her head, and

"I wish somebody had that sort of contempt for me," said Jack, filling up his glass also.

"But, I tell you," he continued, "Mrs. Henderson has caught on to the new notions. Her idea is the union of all

the arts. She has already got the refusal of a square 'way uptown, on the rise opposite the Park, and has been

consulting architects about it. It is to be surrounded with the building, with a garden in the interior, a tropical

garden, under glass in the winter. The facades are to be gorgeous and monumental. Artists and sculptors are

to decorate it, inside and out. Why shouldn't there be color on the exterior, gold and painting, like the Fugger

palaces in Augsburg, only on a great scale? The artists don't see any reason why there should not. It will

make the city brilliant, that sort of thing, in place of our monotonous stone lanes. And it's using her wealth for

the public benefitthe architects and artists all say that. Gad, I don't know but the little woman is beginning to

"And do you know," continued Jack, confidentially, "I think she's got the right idea. If I have any luckof

course I sha'n't do thatbut if I have any luck, I mean to build a house that's got some life in itcolor, old

"So you will," cried the Major, enthusiastically, and, raising his glass, "Here's to the house that Jack built!"

It was later than he thought it would be when he went home, but Jack was attended all the way by a vision of

a Golden Houseall gold wouldn't be too good, and he will build it, damme, for Edith and the boy. The next

morning not even the foundations of this structure were visible. The master of the house came down to a late

breakfast, out of sorts with life, almost surly. Not even Edith's bright face and fresh toilet and radiant

welcome appealed to him. No one would have thought from her appearance that she had waited for him last

night hour after hour, and had at last gone to bed with a heavy heart, and not to sleepto toss, and listen, and

suffer a thousand tortures of suspense. How many tragedies of this sort are there nightly in the metropolis,

none the less tragic because they are subjects of jest in the comic papers and on the stage! What would be the

condition of social life if women ceased to be anxious in this regard, and let loose the reins in an easygoing

indifference? What, in fact, is the condition in those households where the wives do not care? One can even

perceive a tender sort of loyalty to women in the ejaculation of that battered old veteran, the Major, "Thank

Jack was not consciously rude. He even asked about the baby. And he sipped his coffee and glanced over the

morning journal, and he referred to the conversation of the night before, and said that he would look after the

purchase at once. If Edith had put on an aspect of injury, and had intimated that she had hoped that his first

evening at home might have been devoted to her and the boy, there might have been a scene, for Jack needed

only an occasion to vent his discontent. And for the chronicler of social life a scene is so much easier to deal

with, an outburst of temper and sharp language, of accusation and recrimination, than the wellbred

And yet estrangement is almost too strong a word to use in Jack's case. He would have been the first to resent

it. But the truth was that Edith, in the life he was leading, was a rebuke to him; her very purity and

unworldliness were out of accord with his associations, with his ventures, with his dissipations in that smart

and glittering circle where he was more welcome the more he lowered his moral standards. Could he help it if

after the first hours of his return he felt the restraint of his home, and that the life seemed a little flat? Almost

Edith, with the divination of a woman, felt this. Last night her love alone seemed strong enough to hold him,

to bring him back to the purposes and the aspirations that only last summer had appeared to transform him.

Now he was slipping away again. How pitiful it is, this contest of a woman who has only her own love, her

own virtue, with the world and its allurements and seductions, for the possession of her husband's heart! How

powerless she is against these subtle invitations, these unknown and allencompassing temptations! At times

the whole drift of life, of the easy morality of the time, is against her. The current is so strong that no wonder

she is often swept away in it. And what could an impartial observer of things as they are say otherwise than

that John Delancy was leading the common life of his kind and his time, and that Edith was only bringing

He might not be in at luncheon, he said, when he was prepared to go down town. He seldom was. He called

at his broker's. Still suspense. He wrote to the Long Island farmer. At the Union he found a scented note from

Carmen. They had all returned from the capital. How rejoiced she was to be at home! And she was dying to

see him; no, not dying, but very much living; and it was very important. She should expect him at the usual

And Jack went. What hold had this woman on him? Undoubtedly she had fascinations, but he knewknew

well enough by this timethat her friendship was based wholly on calculation. And yet what a sympathetic

comrade she could be! How freely he could talk with her; there was no subject she did not adapt herself to.

No doubt it was this adaptability that made her such a favorite. She did not demand too much virtue or

require too much conventionality. The hours he was with her he was wholly at his ease. She made him

"I think," said Jackhe was holding both her hands with a swinging motionwhen she came forward to

greet him, and looking at her critically"I think I like you better in New York than in Washington."

"But that was my public manner. I have to live up to Mr. Henderson's reputation."

"I can live for my friends," she replied, with an air of candor, giving a very perceptible pressure with her little

Jack kissed each little hand before he let it drop, and looked as if he believed.

"Famously. The lot is bought. Mr. Van Brunt was here all the morning. It's going to be something Oriental,

mediaeval, nineteenthcentury, gorgeous, and domestic. Van Brunt says he wants it to represent me."

"With an interior unityall the styles brought to express an individual taste, don't you know. A different

"It appears to me," said Jack, still bantering, "that it will look like an apartmenthouse."

"That is just what it will notthat is, outside unity, and inside a menagerie. This won't look gregarious. It is

to have not more than three stories, perhaps only two. And then exterior color, decoration, statuary."

"Not too muchnot to give it a cheap gilded look. Oh, I asked him about Nero's house. As I remember it,

that was mostly caverns. Mr. Van Brunt laughed, and said they were not going to excavate this house. The

Roman notion was barbarous grandeur. But in point of beauty and luxury, this would be as much superior to

"Why, all that's good in classic form, with the modern spirit. You ought to hear Mr. Van Brunt talk. This

"I think he rather likes it. He told Mr. Van Brunt to consult me and go ahead with his plans. But he talks

queerly. He said he thought he would have money enough at least for the foundation. Do you think, Jack,"

asked Carmen, with a sudden change of manner, "that Mr. Henderson is really the richest man in the United

"Some people say so. Really, I don't know how any one can tell. If he let go his hand from his affairs, I don't

Carmen looked thoughtful. "He said to me once that he wasn't afraid of the Street any more. I told him this

"He was just going out. He looked at me a moment with that speculative sort of lookno, it isn't cynical, as

you say; I know it so welland then said: 'Oh, go ahead. I guess it will be all right. If anything happens, you

can turn it into a boardinghouse. It will be an excellent sanitarium.' That was all. Anyway, it's something to

do. Come, let's go and see the place." And she started up and touched the bell for the carriage. It was more

than something to do. In those days before her marriage, when her mother was living, and when they

wandered about Europe, dangerously near to the reputation of adventuresses, the girl had her dream of

chateaux and castles and splendor. Her chance did not come in Europe, but, as she would have said,

The next day Jack went to Long Island, and the farm was bought, and the deed brought to Edith, who, with

much formality, presented it to the boy, and that young gentleman showed his appreciation of it by trying to

eat it. It would have seemed a pretty incident to Jack, if he had not been absorbed in more important things.

But he was very much absorbed, and apparently more idle than ever. As the days went on, and the weeks, he

was less and less at home, and in a worse humorthat is, at home. Carmen did not find him illhumored, nor

was there any change towards the fellows at the Union, except that it was noticed that he had his cross days.

There was nothing specially to distinguish him from a dozen others, who led the same life of vacuity, of mild

dissipation, of enforced pleasure. A wager now and then on an "event"; a fictitious interest in elections; lively

partisanship in society scandals: Not much else. The theatres were stale, and only endurable on account of the

little suppers afterwards; and really there wasn't much in life except the women who made it agreeable.

Major Fairfax was not a model; there had not much survived out of his checkered chances and experiences,

except a certain instinct of being a gentleman, sir; the close of his life was not exactly a desirable goal; but

The one fact in which men universally agree is that we come into the world alone and we go out of the world

alone; and although we travel in company, make our pilgrimage to Canterbury or to Vanity Fair in a great

show of fellowship, and of bearing one another's burdens, we carry our deepest troubles alone. When we

think of it, it is an awful lonesomeness in this animated and moving crowd. Each one either must or will carry

his own burden, which he commonly cannot, or by pride or shame will not, ask help in carrying.

Henderson drew more and more apart from confidences, and was alone in building up the colossal structure

of his wealth. Father Damon was carrying his renewed temptation alone, after all his brave confession and

attempt at renunciation. Ruth Leigh plodded along alone, with her secret which was the joy and the despair of

her lifethe opening of a gate into the paradise which she could never enter. Jack Delancy, the confiding,

openhearted good fellow, had come to a stage in his journey where he also was alone. Not even to Carmen

could he confess the extent of his embarrassments, nor even in her company, nor in the distraction of his

increasingly dissipated life, could he forget them. Not only had his investments been all transferred to his

speculations, but his home had been mortgaged, and he did not dare tell Edith of the lowering cloud that hung

over it; and that his sole dependence was the confidence of the Street, which any rumor might shatter, in that

one of Henderson's schemes to which he had committed himself. Edith, the one person who could have

comforted him, was the last person to whom he could have told this, for he had the most elementary, and the

But Edith's lot was the most pitiful of all. She was not only alone, but compelled to inaction. She saw the fair

fabric of her life dissolving, and neither by cries nor tears, by appeals nor protest, by show of anger nor by

show of suffering, could she hinder the dissolution. Strong in herself and full of courage, day by day and

week by week she felt her powerlessness. Heaven knows what it cost herwhat it costs all women in like

circumstancesto be always cheerful, never to show distrust. If her love were not enough, if her attractions

And what, pray, was there to appeal? There was no visible neglect, no sufficient alienation for gossip to take

hold of. If there was a little talk about Jack's intimacy elsewhere, was there anything uncommon in that?

Affairs went on as usual. Was it reasonable to suppose that society should notice that one woman's heart was

full of foreboding, heavy with a sense of loss and defeat, and with the ruin of two lives? Could simple misery

like this rise to the dignity of tragedy in a world that has its share of tragedies, shocking and violent, but is on

The season wore on. It was the latter part of May. Jack had taken Edith and the boy down to the Long Island

house, and had returned to the city and was living at his club, feverishly waiting for some change in his

affairs. It was a sufficient explanation of his anxiety that money was "tight," that failures were daily

announced, and that there was a general fear of worse times. It was fortunate for Jack and other speculators

that they could attribute their illluck to the general financial condition. There were reasons enough for this

condition. Some attributed it to want of confidence, others to the tariff, others to the action of this or that

political party, others to overproduction, others to silver, others to the action of English capitalists in

withdrawing. their investments. It could all be accounted for without referring to the fact that most of the

Henderson was much of the time absentat the West and at the South. His every move was watched, his

least sayings were reported as significant, and the Street was hopeful or depressed as he seemed to be

cheerful or unusually taciturn. Uncle Jerry was the calmest man in town, and his observation that Henderson

knew what he was about was reassuring. His serenity was well founded. The fact was that he had been

pulling in and lowering canvas for months. Or, as he put it, he hadn't much hay out. . . "It's never a good

It seems absurd to speak of the East Side in connection with the financial situation. But that was where the

pinch was felt, and felt first. Work was slack, and that meant actual hunger for many families. The monetary

solidarity of the town is remarkable. No one flies a kite in Wall Street that somebody in Rivington Street does

not in consequence have to go without his dinner. As Dr. Leigh went her daily rounds she encountered

painful evidence of the financial disturbance. Increased number of cases for the doctor followed want of

sufficient food and the eating of cheap, unwholesome food. She was often obliged to draw upon the Margaret

Fund, and to invoke the aid of Father Damon when the responsibility was too great for her. And Father

Damon found that his ministry was daily diverted from the cure of souls to the care of bodies. Among all

those who came to the mission as a place of refuge and rest, and to whom the priest sought to offer the

consolations of religion and of his personal sympathy, there were few who did not have a tale of suffering to

tell that wrung his heart. Some of them were actually ill, or had at home a sick husband or a sick daughter.

It became necessary, therefore, that these two, who had shunned each other for months, should meet as often

as they had done formerly. This was very hard for both, for it meant only the renewal of heartbreak, regret,

and despair. And yet it had been almost worse when they did not see each other. They met; they talked of

nothing but their work; they tried to forget themselves in their devotion to humanity. But the human heart

will not be thus disposed of. It was impossible that some show of personal interest, some tenderness, should

not appear. They were walking towards Fourth Avenue one eveningthe priest could not resist the impulse

to accompany her a little way towards her homeafter a day of unusual labor and anxiety.

"Oh no," she replied, looking up cheerfully; "I'm a regular machine. I get run down, and then I wind up. I get

tired, and then I get rested. It isn't the work," she added, after a moment, "if only I could see any good of it. It

"From your point of view, my dear doctor," he answered, but without any shade of reproof in his tone. "But

no good deed is lost. There is nothing else in the worldnothing for me." The close of the sentence seemed

wholly accidental, and he stopped speaking as if he could not trust himself to go on.

Ruth Leigh looked up quickly. "But, Father Damon, it is you who ought to be rebuked for overwork. You are

The father looked paler and thinner than usual, but his mouth was set in firm lines, and he said: "It cannot be.

No need to explain that simple word. No need to interpret the swift glance that their eyes exchangedthe

eager, the pitiful glance. They both knew. It was not the work. It was not the suffering of the world. It was the

pain in their own hearts, and the awful chasm that his holy vows had put between them. They stood so only

an instant. He was trembling in the extort to master himself, and in a second she felt the hot blood rising to

her face. Her woman's wit was the first to break the hopeless situation. She turned, and hailed a passing car.

The priest stood as if a sudden blow had struck him, following the retreating car till it was out of sight, and

then turned homeward, dazed, and with feeble steps. What was this that had come to him to so shake his life?

What devil was tempting him to break his vows and forsake his faith? Should he fly from the city and from

his work, or should he face what seemed to him, in the light of his consecration, a monstrous temptation, and

try to conquer himself? He began to doubt his power to do this. He had always believed that it was easy to

conquer nature. And now a little brown woman had taught him that he reckons ill who leaves out the

strongest human passion. And yet suppose he should break his solemn vows and throw away his ideal, and

marry Ruth Leigh, would he ever be happy? Here was a mediaeval survival confronted by a nineteenth

century skepticism. The situation was plainly insoluble. It was as plainly so to the clear mind of the unselfish

little woman without faith as it was to him. Perhaps she could not have respected him if he had yielded.

Strangely enough, the attraction of the priest for her and for other women who called themselves servants of

humanity was in his consecration, in his attitude of separation from the vanities and passions of this world.

They believed in him, though they did not share his faith. To Ruth Leigh this experience of love was as

unexpected as it was to the priest. Perhaps because her life was lived on a less exalted plane she could bear it

with more equanimity. But who knows? The habit of her life was endurance, the sturdy meeting of the duty

of every day, with at least only a calm regard of the future. And she would go on. But who can measure the

inner change in her life? She must certainly be changed by this deep experience, and, terrible as it was,

perhaps ennobled by it. Is there not something supernatural in such a love itself? It has a wonderful

transforming power. It is certain that a new light, a tender light, was cast upon her world. And who can say

that some time, in the waiting and working future, this new light might not change life altogether for this

There was one person upon whom the tragedy of life thus far sat lightly. Even her enemies, if she had any,

would not deny that Carmen had an admirable temperament. If she had been a Moslem, it might be predicted

that she would walk the wire 'El Serat' without a tremor. In these days she was busy with the plans of her new

house. The project suited her ambition and her taste. The structure grew in her mind into barbaric splendor,

but a barbaric splendor refined, which reveled in the exquisite adornment of the Alhambra itself. She was in

daily conferences with her architect and her artists, she constantly consulted Jack about it, and Mavick

whenever he was in town, and occasionally she awakened the interest of Henderson himself, who put no

check upon her proceedings, although his mind was concerned with a vaster structure of his own. She talked

of little else, until in her small world there grew up a vast expectation of magnificence, of which hints

appeared from time to time in the newspapers, mysterious allusions to Roman luxury, to Nero and his Golden

House. Henderson read these paragraphs, as he read the paragraphs about his own fortune, with a grim smile.

"Your house is getting a lot of free advertising," he said to Carmen one evening after dinner in the library,

"They all seem to like the idea," replied Carmen. "Did you see what one of the papers said about the use of

"I suppose," said Henderson, with a smile, "that you put that notion into the reporter's head."

"Let's look over the last drawing." Henderson half rose from his chair to pull the sheet towards him, but

instantly sank back, and put his hand to his heart. Carmen saw that he was very pale, and ran round to his

"Nothing," he said, taking a long breath. "Just a stitch. Indigestion. It must have been the coffee."

He drank it. "Yes, that's better. I'm all right now." And he sat still, slowly recovering color and control of

"No, no; nonsense. It has all passed," and he stretched out his arms and threw them back vigorously. "It was

He rose from his chair and took a turn or two about the room. Yes, he was quite himself, and he patted

Carmen's head as he passed and took his seat again. For a moment or two there was silence. Then he said,

"Isn't it queer? In that moment of faintness all my life flashed through my mind."

"If I were a man, I should enjoy the power you have, the ability to do what you will."

"I suppose I do. That is all there is. I like to conquer obstacles, and I like to command. And money; I never

did care for money in itself. But there is a fascination in building up a great fortune. It is like conducting a

political or a military campaign. Now, I haven't much interest in anything else."

As he spoke he looked round upon the crowded shelves of his library, and, getting up, went to the corner

"Do you remember when I got this, Carmen? It was when I was a bachelor. It was rare then. I saw it quoted

He replaced it carefully, and walked along the shelves looking at the familiar titles.

"Not those books," she replied, with a laugh. "Those belong to the last generation."

"That is where I belong," he said, smiling also. "I don't think I have read a book, not really read it, in ten

years. This modern stuff that pretends to give life is so much less exciting than my own daily experience that

"Yes, they pass the time when I am thinking. And they are full of suggestions. I suppose they are as accurate

about other things as about me. I used to think I would make this library the choicest in the city. It is good as

far as it goes. Perhaps I will take it up some dayif I live." And he turned away from the shelves and sat

down. Carmen had never seen him exactly in this humor and was almost subdued by it.

He began to talk again, philosophizing about life generally and his own life. He seemed to like to recall his

career, and finally said: "Uncle Jerry is successful too, and he never did care for anything elseexcept his

family. There is a clerk in my office on five thousand a year who is never without a book when he comes to

the office and when I see him on the train. He has a wife and a nice little family in Jersey. I ask him

sometimes about his reading. He is collecting a library, but not of rare books; says he cannot afford that. I

think he is successful too, or will be if he never gets more than five thousand a year, and is content with his

books and his little daily life, coming and going to his family. Ah, well! Everybody must live his life. I

"No, not at all. Nothing to interfere with the house of gold." He spoke quite gently and sincerely. "I don't

The next dayit was the first of Junein consultation with the architect, a project was broached that

involved such an addition of cost that Carmen hesitated. She declared that it was a question of ways and

means, and that she must consult the chairman. Accordingly she called her carriage and drove down to

It was a beautiful day, a little warm in the narrow streets of the lower city, but when she had ascended by the

elevator to the high story that Henderson occupied in one of the big buildings that rise high enough to give a

view of New York Harbor, and looked from the broad windows upon one of the most sparkling and animated

scenes in the world, it seemed to her appreciative eyes a day let down out of Paradise.

The clerks all knew Mrs. Henderson, and they rose and bowed as she tripped along smiling towards her

husband's rooms. It did not seem to be a very busy day, and she found no one waiting in the anteroom, and

"Probably busy," replied the secretary, with a smile, "but he is alone. No one has disturbed him for over half

She tapped lightly at the door. There was no response. She turned the knob softly and looked in, and then,

glancing back at the secretary, with a finger uplifted, "I think he is asleep," opened the door, stepped in, and

The large room was full of light, and through the halfdozen windows burst upon her the enchanting scene of

the Bay, Henderson sat at his table, which was covered with neatly arranged legal documents, but bowed over

She touched his hand. It moved heavily away from her hand. The left arm, released, dropped at his side.

Instantly the secretary was at her side, and supported her, fainting, to a seat. Other clerks rushed in at the

alarm. Henderson was lifted from his chair and laid upon a lounge. When the doctor who had been called

arrived, Carmen was in a heap by the low couch, one arm thrown across the body, and her head buried in the

The doctor instantly applied restoratives; he sent for an electric battery; everything was done that science

could suggest. But all was of no avail. There was no sign of life. He must have been dead half an hour, said

Before the doctor had pronounced his verdict there was a whisper in the Stock Exchange.

"I was in his office this morning," said a third. "I never saw him looking in better health."

The whisper was confirmed. There was no doubt of it. Henderson's private secretary had admitted it. Yet it

seemed incredible. No provision had been made for it. Speculation had not discounted it. A panic set in. No

one knew what to do, for no one knew well the state of Henderson's affairs. In the first thirty minutes there

was a tremendous drop in Henderson stocks. Then some of them rallied, but before the partial recovery

hundreds of men had been ruined. It was a wild hour in the Exchange. Certain stocks were hopelessly

smashed for the time, and some combinations were destroyed; among them was one that Uncle Jerry had kept

The event was flashed over the wires of the continent; it was bulletined; it was cried in the streets; it was the

allabsorbing talk of the town. Already, before the dead man was removed to his own house, people were

beginning to moralize about him and his career. Perhaps the truest thing was said by the old broker in the

board whose reputation for piety was only equaled by his reputation of always having money to loan at

exorbitant rates in a time of distress. He said to a group of downcast operators, "In the midst of life we are in

The place that Rodney Henderson occupied in the mind of the public was shown by the attention the

newspapers paid to his death. All the great newspapers in all the cities of importance published long and

minute biographies of him, with pictorial illustrations, and day after day characteristic anecdotes of his

remarkable career. Nor was there, it is believed, a newspaper in the United States, secular, religious, or

special, that did not comment upon his life. This was the more remarkable in that he was not a public man in

the common use of the word: he had never interested himself in politics, or in public affairs, municipal or

State or national; he had devoted himself entirely to building up his private fortune. If this is the duty of a

citizen, he had discharged it with singleness of purpose; but no other duty of the citizen had he undertaken, if

we except his private charities. And yet no public man of his day excited more popular interest or was the

And these comments were nearly all respectful, and most of them kindly. There was some justice in this, for

Henderson had been doing what everybody else was trying to do, usually without his goodfortune. If he was

more successful than others in trying to get rich, surely a great deal of admiration was mingled with the envy

of his career. To be sure, some journals were very severe upon his methods, and some revived the old stories

of his unscrupulousness in transactions which had laid him open to criminal prosecution, from the effects of

which he was only saved by uncommon adroitness and, some said, by legal technicalities. His career also was

denounced by some as wholly vicious in its effect upon the youth of the republic, and as lowering the tone of

public morals. And yet it was remembered that he had been a frank, openhearted friend, kind to his family,

and generous in contrast with some of his closefisted contemporaries. There was nothing mean about him;

even his rascalities, if you chose to call his transactions by that name, were on a grand scale. To be sure, he

would let nothing stand between him and the consummation of his schemeshe was like Napoleon in

thatbut those who knew him personally liked him. The building up of his colossal fortunewhich the

newspapers were saying was the largest that had been accumulated in one lifetime in Americahad ruined

thousands of people, and carried disaster into many peaceful houses, and his sudden death had been a cyclone

of destruction for an hour. But it was hardly fair, one journal pointed out, to hold Henderson responsible for

Even Jack Delancy, when the crushing news was brought him at the club, where he sat talking with Major

Fairfax, although he saw his own ruin in a flash, said, "It wouldn't have happened if Henderson had lived."

"Do you mean to say that Henderson and Mavick and Mrs. Henderson would have thrown me over?"

"Why, no, not exactly; but a big machine grinds on regardless, and when the crash comes everybody looks

"That wouldn't do any good now. He couldn't have stopped the panic. I tell you what, you'd better go down to

And the two went down to Wall Street. It was after hours, but the brokers' office was full of excitement. No

one knew what was left from the storm, nor what to expect. It was some time before Jack could get speech

"Oh, his estate is all right, so far as we know. He was well out of the Missouris."

"Wiped out, I am sorry to say. Might come up byandby, if you've got a lot of money to put up, and wait."

"Then it's all up," said Jack, turning to the Major. He was very pale. He knew now that his fortune was gone

Few words were exchanged as they made their way back to the club. And here the Major did a most unusual

thing for him. He ordered the drinks. But he did this delicately, apologetically.

"I don't know as you care for anything, but Wall Street has made me thirsty. Eh?"

The conversation was not cheerful; it was mainly ejaculatory. After a second glass, Jack said, "I don't

suppose it would do any good, but I should like to see Mavick." And then, showing the drift of his thoughts,

"She hasn't any, Jack. Not the least bit of a heart. And I believe Henderson found it out. I shall be surprised if

A servant came to the corner where they were sitting and handed Jack a telegram.

"What's this? Mavick? "He tore it open. "No; Edith." He read it with something like a groan, and passed it

What he read was this: "Don't be cast down, Jack. The boy and I are well. Come. Edith."

"That is splendid; that is just like her," cried the Major. "I'd be out of this by the first train."

"It is no use," replied Jack gloomily. "I couldn't 'face Edith now. I couldn't do it. I wonder how she knew?"

He called back the servant, and penned as reassuring a message as he could, but said that it was impossible to

leave town. She must not worry about him. This despatched, they fell again into a talk about the situation.

After another glass Jack was firm in his resolution to stay and watch things. It seemed not impossible that

On the third day after, both the Major and Jack attended the funeral at the house. Carmen was not visible. The

interment was private. The day following, Jack left his card of condolence at the door; but one day passed,

and another and another, and no word of acknowledgment came from the stricken widow. Jack said to

himself that it was not natural to expect it. But he did expect it, and without reason, for he should have known

that Carmen was not only overwhelmed with the sudden shock of her calamity, but that she would necessarily

be busy with affairs that even grief would not permit her to neglect. Jack heard that Mavick had been in the

city, and that he went to the Henderson house, but he had not called at the club, and the visit must have been

A week passed, and Jack received no message from Carmen. His note offering his services if she needed the

Carmen was indeed occupied. It could not be otherwise. The state of Henderson's affairs could not wait upon

conventionalities. The day after the funeral Mr. Henderson's private secretary came to the house, and had a

long interview with Mrs. Henderson. He explained to her that the affairs should be immediately investigated,

the will proved, and the estate put into the hands of the executors. It would be best for Mrs. Henderson herself

to bring his keys down to the office, and to see the opening of his desk and boxes. Meantime it would be well

for her to see if there were any papers of importance in the house; probably everything was in the office safe.

The next morning Carmen nerved herself to the task. With his keys in hand she went alone into the library

and opened his writingdesk. Everything was in perfect order; letters and papers filed and labeled, and neatly

arranged in drawers and pigeonholes. There lay his letter book as he had last used it, and there lay fresh

memoranda of his projects and engagements. She found in one of the drawers some letters of her own, mostly

notes, and most of them written before her marriage. In another drawer were some bundles of letters, a little

yellow with age, endorsed with the name of "Margaret." She shut the drawer without looking at them. She

continued to draw papers from the pigeonholes and glance at them. Most of them related to closed

transactions. At length she drew out one that instantly fixed her attention. It was endorsed, "Last Will and

Testament." She looked first at the date at the endit was quite recentand then leaned back in her chair

The document was long and full of repetitions and technicalities, but the purport of it was plain. As she read

on she was at first astonished, then she was excited to trembling, and felt herself pale and faint; but when she

had finished and fully comprehended it her pretty face was distorted with rage. The great bulk of the property

was not for her. She sprang up and paced the floor. She came back and took up the document with a motion

of tearing it in pieces. Noit would be better to burn it. Of course there must be another will deposited in the

safe. Henderson had told her so. It was drawn up shortly after their marriage. It could not be worse for her

than this. She lighted the gasjet by the fireplace, and held the paper in her hand. Then a thought struck her.

What if somebody knew of this will, and its execution could be proved! She looked again at the end. It was

signed and sealed. There were the names of two witnesses. One was the name of their late butler, who had

been long in Henderson's service, and who had died less than a month ago. The other name was Thomas

Mavick. Evidently the will had been signed recently, on some occasion when Mavick was in the house. And

She folded the document carefully, put it back in the pigeonhole, locked the desk, and rang the bell for her

carriage. She was ready when the carriage came to the door, and told the coachman to drive to the office of

Mr. Sage in Nassau Street. Mr. Sage had been for many years Henderson's most confidential lawyer.

He received Carmen in his private office, with the subdued respect due to her grief and the sudden tragedy

that had overtaken her. He was a man well along in years, a small man, neat in his dress, a little formal and

precise in his manner, with a smoothly shaven face and gray eyes, keen, but not unkindly in expression. He

had the reputation, which he deserved, for great ability and integrity. After the first salutations and words of

condolence were spoken, Carmen said, "I have come to consult you, Mr. Sage, about my husband's affairs."

Carmen hesitated a moment, and then said, in an inquiring tone, "I suppose the first thing is the will. He told

me long ago that his will was made. I suppose it is in the safe. Didn't you draw it, Mr. Sage?"

"Oh yes," the lawyer replied, leaning back in his chair, "I drew that; a long time ago; shortly after your

"No," Carmen replied, with a steady voice, but trembling inwardly at her narrow escape.

"I wonder," continued Mr. Sage, "if it was ever executed? He took it, and said he would think it over."

"Oh, no; signed and witnessed. It is very simple. The law requires two witnesses; the testator and the

witnesses must declare that they sign in the presence of each other. The witnesses prove the will, or, if they

are dead, their signatures can be proved. I was one of the witnesses of the first will, and a clerk of

"Probably," the lawyer assented. "If not, you'd better look for it in the house."

"Of course. Whether it exists or not, I want to carry out my husband's intention," Carmen said, sweetly.

"I think so, somewhere, but the leading provisions are in my mind. It would astonish the public."

"Well, the property was greater than any of us supposed, andperhaps I ought not to speak to you of this

"I think I have a right to know what my husband's last wishes were," Carmen answered, firmly.

"Well, he had a great scheme. The greater part of his property after the large legacies" The lawyer saw that

Carmen looked pale, and he hesitated a moment, and then said, in a cheery manner: "Oh, I assure you,

madam, that this will gave you a great fortune; all the establishment, and a very great fortune. But the residue

was in trust for the building and endowment of an Industrial School on the East Side, with a great library and

a readingroom, all to be free. It was a great scheme, and carefully worked out."

"Only some legacies." And Mr. Sage went on, trying to recall details that his attentive listener already knew.

There were legacies to some of his relatives in New Hampshire, and there was a fund, quite a handsome fund,

for the poor of the city, called the "Margaret Fund." And there was something also for a relative of the late

Carmen again expressed her desire to carry out her husband's wishes in everything, and Mr. Sage was much

impressed by her sweet manner. When she had found out all that he knew or remembered of the new will,

and arose to go, Mr. Sage said he would accompany her to the office. And Carmen gratefully accepted his

escort, saying that she had wished to ask him to go with her, but that she feared to take up so much of his

At the office the first will was found, but no other. The lawyer glanced through it, and then handed it to Mrs.

Henderson, with the remark, "It leaves you, madam, pretty much everything of which he died possessed."

Carmen put it aside. She did not care to read it now. She would go home and search for the other one.

"If no other is found," said Mr. Sage, in bidding her goodmorning," this one ought to be proved tomorrow. I

On her way home Carmen stopped at a telegraph station, and sent a message to Mavick, in Washington, to

When Carmen reached home she was in a serious but perfectly clear frame of mind. The revelation in the last

will of Henderson's change of mind towards her was mortifying to a certain extent. It was true that his fortune

was much increased since the first will was made, and that it justified his benevolent scheme. But he might

have consulted her about it. If she had argued the matter with her conscience, she would have told her

conscience that she would carry out this new plan in her own way and time. She was master of the situation,

and saw before her a future of almost unlimited opportunity and splendor, except for one little obstacle. That

obstacle was Mr. Mavick. She believed that she understood him thoroughly, but she could not take the next

step until she had seen him. It was true that no one except herself positively knew that a second will now

She was very impatient to see Mr. Mavick. She wandered about the house, restless and feverish. Presently it

occurred to her that it would be best to take the will wholly into her own keeping. She unlocked the desk,

took it out with a trembling hand, but did not open it again. It was not necessary. A first reading had burned

every item of it into her brain. It seemed to be a sort of living thing. She despised herself for being so

agitated, and for the furtive feeling that overcame her as she glanced about to be sure that she was alone, and

then she ran up stairs to her room and locked the document in her own writingdesk.

What was that? Oh, it was only the doorbell. But who could it be? Some one from the office, from her

lawyer? She could see nobody. In two minutes there was a rap at her door. It was only the servant with a

"Very well, Dobson; no answer. I expect Mr. Mavick on business at ten. I am at home to no one else."

At ten o'clock Mr. Mavick came, and was shown into the library, where Carmen awaited him.

"It was very good of you to come," she said, as she advanced to meet him and gave him her hand in the

"I am sorry to inconvenience you so," she said, after they were seated, "but you know so much of Mr.

Henderson's affairs that your advice will be needed. His will is to be proved tomorrow."

"I went to seeMr. Sage today, and he went with me to the office. The will was in the safe. I did not read it,

"That is what he did not know. He had drawn a new will about a year ago, but he doubted if it had ever been

executed. Mr. Henderson was considering it. He thought he had a memorandum of it somewhere, but he

"Yes, considerable. In fact, the greater part of his property, as far as I could make out, was to go to endow a

vast trainingschool, library, and readingroom on the East Side. Of course that would be a fine thing."

"I've looked everywhere," replied Carmen, simply; "all over the house. It should be in that desk if anywhere.

She took in her hand the bunch of keys that lay on the table, as if she were about to rise and unlock the desk.

For a moment they looked steadily at each other, and then he said, deliberately, their eyes squarely meeting,

"I do not think it was." And in a moment he added, "He never said anything to me about such a disposition of

Two things were evident to Carmen from this reply. He saw her interests as she saw them, and it was pretty

certain that the contents of the will were not made known to him when he witnessed it. She experienced an

immense feeling of relief as she arose and unlocked the desk. They sat down before it together, and went over

its contents. Mavick made a note of the fresh business memoranda that might be of service next day, since

Mrs. Henderson had requested him to attend the proving of the will, and to continue for the present the

It was late when he left the house, but he took with him a note to Mr. Sage to drop into the box for morning

delivery. The note said that she had searched the house, that no second will existed there, and that she had

telegraphed to Mr. Mavick, who had much knowledge of Mr. Henderson's affairs, to meet him in the

Before the note could have been dropped into the box, Carmen was in her room, and the note was literally

The will was proved, and on the second day its contents were in all the newspapers. But with it went a very

exciting story. This was the rumor of another will, and of Henderson's vast scheme of benevolence. Mr. Sage

had been interviewed and Carmen had been interviewed. The memorandum (which was only rough and not

wholly legible notes) had been found and sent to Carmen. There was no concealment about it. She gave the

reporters all the details, and to every one she said that it was her intention to carry out her husband's wishes,

so far as they could be ascertained from this memorandum, when his affairs had been settled. The thirst of the

reporters for information amused even Carmen, who had seen much of this industrious tribe. One of them, to

whom she had partially explained the situation, ended by asking her, "Are you going to contest the will?"

"I didn't know," said the young man, whose usual occupation was reporting sports, and who had a dim idea

Necessarily the affair made a great deal of talk. The newspapers discussed it for days, and turned over the

scheme in every light, the most saying that it was a noble gift to the city that had been intended, while only

one or two doubted if charity institutions of this sort really helped the poor. Regret, of course, was expressed

that the second will had never been executed, but with this regret was the confidence that the widow would

This revelation modified the opinion in regard to Henderson. He came to be regarded as a public benefactor,

Waiting for something to turn up, Jack found a weary business. He had written to Mavick after the newspaper

report that that government officer had been in the city on Henderson's affairs, and had received a very civil

and unsatisfactory reply. In the note Mavick had asked him to come to Washington and spend a little time, if

he had nothing better on hand, as his guest. Perhaps no offense was intended, but the reply enraged Jack.

There was in the tone of the letter and in the manner of the invitation a note of patronage that was

"Confound the fellow's impudence!" said Jack to himself; and he did not answer the invitation.

Personally his situation was desperate enough, but he was not inclined to face it. In a sort of stupor he let the

law take its course. There was nothing left of his fortune, and his creditors were in possession of his house

and all it contained. "Do not try to keep anything back that legally belongs to them," Edith had written when

he informed her of this last humiliation. Of course decency was observed. Jack's and Edith's wardrobes, and

some pieces of ancestral furniture that he pointed out as belonging to his wife, were removed before the

auction flag was hung out. When this was over he still temporized. Edith's affectionate entreaties to him to

leave the dreadful city and come home were evaded on one plea or another. He had wild schemes of going off

West or South of disappearing. Perhaps he would have luck somewhere. He couldn't ask aid or seek

occupation of his friends, but some place where he was not known he felt that he might do something to

regain his position, get some situation, or make some moneylots of men had done it in a new country and

But he did not go, and days and weeks went by in irresolution. No word came from Carmen, and this

humiliated Jack more than anything elsenot the loss of her friendship, but the remembrance that he had

ever danced attendance on her and trusted her. He was getting a good many wholesome lessons in these days.

One afternoon he called upon Miss Tavish. There was no change in her. She received him with her usual gay

"Yes, I know. It's been an awful time, what with Henderson's death and everything else. Almost everybody

has been hit. But," and she looked at him cheerfully, "they will come up again; up and down; it is always so.

Why, even I got a little twist in that panic." The girl was doing what she could in her way to cheer him up.

"I think of going off somewhere to seek my fortune," said Jack, with a rueful smile.

"Oh, I hope not; your friends wouldn't like that. There is no place like New York, I'm sure." And there was a

real note of friendliness and encouragement in her tone. "Only," and she gave him another bright smile, "I

think of running away from it myself, for a time. It's a secret yet. Carmen wants me to go abroad with her."

"Oh, she bears up wonderfully. But then she has so much to do, poor thing. And then the letters she gets, the

begging letters. You've no idea. I don't wonder she wants to go abroad. Don't stay away so long again," she

said as Jack rose to go. "And, oh, can't you come in to dinner tomorrow nightjust CarmenI think I can

This call did Jack temporarily a world of good. It helped his self esteem. But it was only temporary. The

black fact stared him in the face every morning that he was ruined. And it came over him gradually that he

was a useless member of society. He never had done anything; he was not trained or fitted to do anything.

And this was impressed upon him in the occasional attempts he made to get employment. He avoided as

much as possible contact with those who knew him. Shame prevented him from applying to them for

occupation, and besides he very well knew that to those who knew him his idle career was no

recommendation. Yet he formed a habit of going downtown every day and looking for work. His

appearance commanded civility, but everywhere he met with refusal, and he began to feel like a wellbred

tramp. There had been in his mind before no excuse for tramps. He could see now how they were made.

It was not that he lacked capacity. He knew a great deal, in an amateurish way, about pictures, books,

bricabrac, and about society. Why shouldn't he write? He visited the Loan Exhibition, and wrote a careful

criticism on the pictures and sent it to a wellknown journal. It was returned with thanks: the journal had its

own art critic. He prepared other articles about curious books, and one about porcelain and pottery. They

were all returned, except one which gave the history of a rare bit of majolica, which had been picked up forty

cents and then sold for five hundred dollars, and was now owned by a collector who had paid four thousand

dollars for it. For that the newspaper sent him five dollars. That was not encouraging, and his next effort for

the same journal was returned. Either he hadn't the newspaper knack, or the competition was too great.

He had ceased going to his club. It was too painful to meet his acquaintances in his altered circumstances, and

it was too expensive. It even annoyed him to meet Major Fairfax. That philosopher had not changed towards

him any more than Miss Tavish had, but it was a melancholy business to talk of his affairs, and to listen to the

repeated advice to go down to the country to Edith, and wait for some good opening. That was just what he

could not do. His whole frivolous life he began now to see as she must have seen it. And it seemed to him

that he could only retain a remnant of his selfrespect by doing something that would reinstate him in her

"Very well," said the Major, at the close of the last of their talks at the club; "what are you going to do?"

"The last people I should apply to. No. I'm going to look around. Major, do you happen to know a cheap

"I don't know any that is not respectable," the Major replied, in a huffy manner.

The Major did know of a place in the neighborhood where he lived. He gave Jack the address, and thereafter

As the days went by and nothing happened to break the monotony of his waiting and his fruitless search, he

became despondent. Day after day he tramped about the city, among the business portions, and often on the

East Side, to see misery worse than his own. He had saved out of the wreck his ample wardrobe, his watch,

and some jewelry, and upon these he raised money for his cheap lodgings and his cheap food. He grew

careless of his personal appearance. Every morning he rose and went about the city, always with less hope,

One day he read the announcement that Mrs. Rodney Henderson and Miss Tavish had sailed for Europe. That

ended that chapter. What exactly he had expected he could not say. Help from Carmen? Certainly not. But

there had never been a sign from her, nor any word from Mavick lately. There evidently was nothing. He had

been thrown over. Carmen evidently had no more use for him. She had other plans. The thought that he had

In afterdays Jack looked back upon this time with a feeling akin to thankfulness for Carmen's utter

heartlessness in regard to his affairs. He trembled to think what might have happened to him if she had sent

for him and consulted him and drawn him again into the fatal embrace of her schemes and her fascinations.

These were dark days, days to which he looked back with a shudder. He wrote to Edith frequentlya brief

note. He was straightening out his affairs; he was busy. But he did not give her his address, and he only got

her letters when the Major forwarded them from the club, which was irregularly. A stranger, who met him at

his lodgings or elsewhere, would have said that he was an idle and rather dissipatedlooking man. He was

idle, except in his feeble efforts to get work; he was worn and discouraged, but he was not doing anything

very bad. In his way of looking at it, he was carrying out his notion of honor. He was only breaking a

He was conscious of little except his own misfortunes and misery. He did not yet apprehend his own

selfishness nor her nobility. He did not yet comprehend the unselfishness of a good woman's love.

On the East Side one day, as he was sauntering along Grand Street, he encountered Dr. Leigh, his wife's

friend, whom he had seen once at his house. She did not at first recognize him until he stopped and spoke his

"Oh," she said, with surprise at seeing him, and at his appearance, "I didn't expect to see you here. I thought

everybody had gone from the city. Perhaps you are going to the Neighborhood Guild?"

"No," and Jack forced a little laugh, "I'm not so good as that. I'm kept in town on business. I strolled over

"It doesn't improve. It is one of the worst summers I ever saw. Since Mr. Henderson's death"

"Why, he had deposited a little fund for Father Damon to draw on, and the day after his death the bank

returned a small check with the notice that there was no deposit to draw on. It had been such a help in

"Yes. Father Damon dropped a note to Mrs. Henderson explaining about it. No reply came."

"As he might have expected." Dr. Leigh looked up quickly as if for an explanation, but Jack ignored the

"I don't suppose he will ever quit his work while he lives, but he is much broken down. The mission chapel is

"I think not. He is in retreat now, and I heard that he might go to Baltimore. I thought of your wife. She was

"Yes, thank you," said Jack, and they parted. But as she went on her way his altered appearance struck her

This meeting with Mr. Delancy recalled most forcibly Edith, her interest in the East Side work, her sympathy

with Father Damon and the mission, the first flush of those days of enthusiasm. When Father Damon began

his work the ladies used to come in their carriages to the little chapel with flowers and money and hearts full

of sympathy with the devoted priest. Alone of all these Edith had been faithful in her visits, always, when she

was in town. And now the whole glittering show of charity had vanished for the time, and Father Damon

The little doctor stopped, consulted a memorandum in her handbag, looked up at the tenementhouse she

Yes, Father Damon had gone, and Ruth Leigh simply went on with her work as before. Perhaps in all the city

that summer there was no other person whose daily life was so little changed as hers. Others were driven

away by the heat, by temporary weariness, by the need of a vacation and change of scene. Some charities and

some clubs and schools were temporarily suspended; other charities, befitting the name, were more active,

the very young children were most looked after, and the Good Samaritans of the FreshAir Funds went about

everywhere full of this new enthusiasm of humanity. But the occupation of Ruth Leigh remained always the

same, in a faithful pertinacity that nothing could wholly discourage, in a routine that no projects could kindle

into much enthusiasm. Day after day she went about among the sick and the poor, relieving and counseling

individuals, and tiring herself out in that personal service, and more and more conscious, when she had time,

at night, for instance, to think, of the monstrous injustice somewhere, and at times in a mood of fierce revolt

Yet a great change had come into her lifethe greatest that can come to any man or woman in the natural

order. She loved and she was loved. An ideal light had been cast upon her commonplace existence, the depths

of her own nature had been revealed to herself. In this illuminating light she walked about in the misery of

this world. This love must be denied, this longing of the heart for companionship could never be gratified, yet

after all it was a sweet selfsacrifice, and the love itself brought its own consolation. She had not to think of

herself as weak, and neither was her lover's image dimmed to her by any surrender of his own principle or his

own ideal. She saw him, as she had first seen him, a person consecrated and set apart, however much she

might disagree with his supernatural vagariesset apart to the service of humanity. She had bitter thoughts

sometimes of the world, and bitter thoughts of the false system that controlled his conduct, but never of him.

It was unavoidable that she should recall her last interview with him, and that the image of his noble, spiritual

face should be ever distinct in her mind. And there was even a certain comfort in this recollection.

Father Damon had indeed striven, under the counsel of his own courage and of Brother Monies, to conquer

himself on the field of his temptation. But with his frail physique it was asking too much. This at last was so

evident that the good brother advised him, and the advice was in the nature of a command in his order, to

When this was determined on, his desire was nearly irresistible to see Ruth Leigh; he thought it would be

cowardly to disappear and not say goodby. Indeed, it was necessary to see her and explain the stoppage of

help from the Margaret Fund. The check that he had drawn, which was returned, had been for one of Dr.

Leigh's cases. With his failure to elicit any response from Mrs. Henderson, the hope, raised by the newspaper

In the interview which Father Damon sought with Dr. Leigh at the Women's Hospital all this was explained,

"I wanted to talk this over with you," said Father Damon, "because I am going away to take a rest."

"Andand," he continued, with some hesitation, "probably I shall not return to this mission."

"Perhaps that will be best," she said, simply, but looking up at him now, with a face full of tender sympathy.

"I am sure of it," he replied, turning away from her gaze. "The fact is, doctor, I am a little

hippedoverworked, and all that. I shall pull myself together with a little rest. But I wanted to tell you how

much I appreciate your work, andand what a comfort you have been to me in my poor labors. I used to

"Yes, I know," she interrupted, hastily, "I cannot think as you do, but" And she could not go on for a great

lump in her throat. Involuntarily she rose from her seat. The interview was too trying. Father Damon rose

also. There was a moment's painful silence as they looked in each other's faces. Neither could trust the voice

for speech. He took her hand and pressed it, and said "God bless you!" and went out, closing the door softly.

A moment after he opened it again and stood on the threshold. She was in her chair, her head bowed upon her

arms on the table. As he spoke she looked up, and she never forgot the expression of his face.

"I want to say, Ruth"he had never before called her by her first name, and his accent thrilled her "that I

shall pray for you as I pray for myself, and though I may never see you again in this world, the greatest

happiness that can come to me in this life will be to hear that you have learned to say Our Father which art in

As she looked he was gone, and his last words remained a refrain in her mind that evening and

afterwards"Our Father which art in heaven" a refrain recurring again and again in all her life,

Along the Long Island coast lay the haze of early autumn. It was the time of lassitude. In the season of

ripening and decay Nature seemed to have lost her spring, and lay in a sort of delicious languor. Sea and

shore were in a kind of truce, and the ocean south wind brought cool refreshment but no incentive.

From the sea the old brown farmhouse seemed a snug haven of refuge; from the inland road it appeared, with

its spreading, sloping roofs, like an ancient seacraft come ashore, which had been covered in and then

embowered by kindly Nature with foliage. In those days its goldenbrown color was in harmony with the

Surely, if anywhere in the world, peace was here. But to its owner this very peace and quietness was

becoming intolerable. The waiting days were so long, the sleepless nights of uncertainty were so weary.

When her work was done, and Edith sat with a book or some sewing under the arbor where the grape clusters

hung, growing dark and transparent, and the boy played about near her, she had a view of the blue sea, and

about her were the twitter of birds and the hum of the cicada. The very beauty made her heart ache. Seaward

there was nothingnothing but the leaping little waves and the sky. From the land side help might come at

any hour, and at every roll of wheels along the road her heart beat faster and hope sprang up anew. But day

Perhaps there is no greater bravery than this sort of waiting, doing the daily duty and waiting. Endurance is

woman's bravery, and Edith was enduring, with an almost broken but still with a courageous heart. It was all

so strange. Was it simply shame that kept him away, or had he ceased to love her? If the latter, there was no

help for her. She had begged him to come, she had offered to leave the boy with her cousin companion and

go to him. Perhaps it was pride only. In one of his short letters he had said, "Thank God, your little fortune is

untouched." If it were pride only, how could she overcome it? Of this she thought night and day. She thought,

It was true that her own fortune was safe and in her control. But with the usual instinct of women who know

they have an income not likely to be ever increased, she began to be economical. She thought not of herself;

but of the boy. It was the boy's fortune now. She began to look sharply after expenses; she reduced her

household; she took upon herself the care of the boy, and other household duties. This was all well for her,

So the summer passeda summer of anxiety, longing, and dull pain for Edith. The time came when the

uncertainty of it could no longer be endured. If Jack had deserted her, even if he should die, she could order

her life and try to adjust her heavy burden. But this uncertainty was quite beyond her power to sustain.

She made up her mind that she would go to the city and seek him. It was what he had written that she must

not on any account do, but nothing that could happen to her there could be so bad as this suspense. Perhaps

she could bring him back. If he refused, and was angry at her interference, that even would be something

definite. And then she had carefully thought out another plan. It might fail, but some action had now become

Early one morningit was in Septembershe prepared for a journey to the city. This little trip, which

thousands of people made daily, took on for her the air of an adventure. She had been immured so long that it

seemed a great undertaking. And when she bade goodby to the boy for the day she hugged him and kissed

him again and again, as if it were to be an eternal farewell. To her cousin were given the most explicit

directions for his care, and after she had started for the train she returned to give further injunctions. So she

But on the whole there was a certain exhilaration in the preparation and the going, and her spirits rose as they

had not done in months before. Arrived in the city, she drove at once to the club Jack most frequented. "He is

Major Fairfax was in, and he came out immediately to her carriage. From him she learned Jack's address, and

drove to his lodginghouse. The Major was more than civil; he was disposed to be sympathetic, but he had

Edith hesitated whether she should leave a card or a note, but she decided not to do either, and ordered the

Mr. Fletcher, the senior partner, was her cousin, the son of her father's elder brother, and a man now past

sixty years. Circumstances had carried the families apart socially since the death of her father and his brother,

but they were on the most friendly terms, and the ties of blood were not in any way weakened. Indeed,

although Edith had seen Gilbert Fletcher only a few times since her marriage, she felt that she could go to

him any time if she were in trouble, with the certainty of sympathy and help. He had the reputation of the

oldfashioned New York merchants, to whom her father belonged, for integrity and conservatism.

It was to him that she went now. The great shop, or wholesale warehouse rather, into which she entered from

the narrow and cartencumbered street, showed her at once the nature of the business of Fletcher Co. It was

something in the twine and cordage way. There were everywhere great coils of ropes and bales of twine, and

the dark rooms had a tarry smell. Mr. Fletcher was in his office, a little space partitioned off in the rear, with

half a dozen clerks working by gaslight, and a little sanctum where the senior partner was commonly found at

Mr. Fletcher was a little, roundheaded man, with a shrewd face, vigorous and cheerful, thoroughly a man of

business, never speculating, and who had been slowly gaining wealth by careful industry and cautious

extension of his trade. Certain hours of the dayfrom ten to threehe gave to his business. It was a habit,

and it was a habit that he enjoyed. He had now come back, as he told Edith, from a little holiday at the sea,

Edith was closeted with him for a full hour. When she came out her eyes were brighter and her step more

elastic. At sundown she reached home, almost in high spirits. And when she snatched up the boy and hugged

One night when Jack returned from his now almost aimless tramping about the city he found a letter on his

table. It seemed from the printing on the envelope to be a business letter; and business, in the condition he

was inand it was the condition in which he usually came homedid not interest him. He was about to toss

It was a brief note, written on an office memorandum, which simply asked Mr. Delancy to call at the office as

soon as it was convenient, as the writer wished to talk with him on a matter of business, and it was signed

"Why don't he say what his business is?" said Jack, throwing the letter down impatiently. "I am not going to

be hauled over the coals by any of the Fletchers." And he tumbled into bed in an injured and yet independent

But the next morning he reread the formal little letter in a new light. To be sure, it was from Edith's cousin.

He knew him very well; he was not a person to go out of his way to interfere with anybody, and more than

likely it was in relation to Edith's affairs that he was asked to call. That thought put a new aspect on the

matter. Of course if it concerned her interests he ought to go. He dressed with unusual care for him in these

days, breakfasted at the cheap restaurant which he frequented, and before noon was in the Fletcher warehouse

He had never been there before, and he was somewhat curious to see what sort of a place it was where Gilbert

carried on the string business, as he used to call it when speaking to Edith of her cousin's occupation. It was a

much more dingy and smelly place than he expected, but the carts about the doors, and the bustle of loading

and unloading, of workmen hauling and pulling, and of clerks calling out names and numbers to be registered

Mr. Fletcher received him in the little dim back office with a cordial shake of the hand, gave him a chair, and

reseated himself, pushing back the papers in front of him with the air of a very busy man who was dropping

"Our fall trade is just starting up," he said, "and it keeps us all pretty busy."

"No, no," interrupted Mr. Fletcher; "it is just because I am busy that I wanted to see you. Are you engaged in

"Nothing in particular," replied Jack, hesitating. "I'd thought of going into some business." And then, after a

pause: "It's no use to mince matters. You knoweverybody knows, I supposethat I got hit in that

"So did lots of others," replied Mr. Fletcher, cheerfully. "Yes, I know about it. And I'm not sure but it was a

lucky thing for me." He spoke still more cheerfully, and Jack looked at him inquiringly.

"Well," and Mr. Fletcher settled back in his chair, "I can give you the situation in five minutes. I've been in

this business over thirty years yes; over thirtyfive years. It has grown, little by little, until it's a pretty big

business. I've a partner, a firstrate manhe is in Europe nowwho attends to most of the buying. And the

business keeps spreading out, and needs more care. I'm not as young as I was I shall be sixtyfour in

Octoberand I can't work right along as I used to. I find that I come later and go away earlier. It isn't the

'work exactly, but the oversight, the details; and the fact is that I want somebody near me whom I can trust,

whether I'm here or whether I'm away. I've got good, honest, faithful clerksif there was one I did not trust,

I wouldn't have him about. But do you know, Jack," it was the first time in the interview that he had used this

"Me?" he asked. He was thinking rapidly while Mr. Fletcher had been speaking; something like a revolution

was taking place in his mind, and when he asked this, the suggestion took on a humorous aspecta

"I can be confidential," Jack rejoined, with the old smile on his face that had been long a stranger to it, "but I

"That's all right. It isn't much of a position. We can make the salary twentyfive hundred dollars for a starter.

Jack got up and went to the area window, and looked out a moment upon the boxes in the dim court. Then he

"That's good. No time like now. Wait a bit, and I'll show you about the place before we go to lunch. You'll

At three o'clock Mr. Fletcher closed his desk. It was time to take his train. "Tomorrow, then," he said, "we

"Oh, I am usually here from ten to three, but the business hours are from nine till the business is done.

Bytheway, why not run out with me and spend the night, and we can talk the thing over?"

There was no reason why he should not go, and he went. And that was the way John Corlear Delancy was

Few battles are decisive, and perhaps least of all those that are won by a sudden charge or an accident, and

not as the result of longmaturing causes. Doubtless the direction of a character or a career is often turned by

a sudden act of the will or a momentary impotence of the will. But the battle is not over then, nor without

long and arduous fighting, often a dreary, dragging struggle without the excitement of novelty.

It was comparatively easy for Jack Delancy in Mr. Fletcher's office to face about suddenly and say yes to the

proposal made him. There was on him the pressure of necessity, of his own better nature acting under a sense

of his wife's approval; and besides, there was a novelty that attracted him in trying something absolutely new

But it was one thing to begin, and another, with a man of his temperament, to continue. To have regular

hours, to attend to the details of a traffic that was to the last degree prosaic, in short, to settle down to hard

work, was a very different thing from the "business" about which Jack and his fellows at the club used to talk

so much, and to fancy they were engaged in. When the news came to the Union that Delancy had gone into

the house of Fletcher Co. as a clerk, there was a general smile, and a languid curiosity expressed as to how

In the first day or two Jack was sustained not only by the original impulse, but by a real instinct in learning

about business ways and details that were new to him. To talk about the business and about the markets, to

hear plans unfolded for extension and for taking advantage of fluctuations in prices, was all very well; but the

drudgery of details copying, comparing invoices, and settling into the routine of a clerk's life, even the life

of a confidential clerkwas contrary to the habits of his whole life. It was not to be expected that these

The little matter of being at his office desk at nine o'clock in the morning began to seem a hardship after the

first three or four days. For Mr. Fletcher not to walk into his shop on the stroke of ten would have been such a

reversal of his habits as to cause him as much annoyance as it caused Jack to be bound to a fixed hour. It was

Besides, while the details of his work, the more he got settled in them, were not to his taste, he was daily

mortified to find himself ignorant of matters which the stupidest clerk in the office seemed to know by

instinct. This acted, however, as a sort of stimulus, and touched his pride. He determined that he would not be

humiliated in this way, and during office hours he worked as diligently as Mr. Fletcher could have desired.

He had pledged himself to the trial, and he summoned all his intelligence to back his effort.

And it is true that the satisfaction of having a situation, of doing something, the relief to the previous daily

anxiety and almost despair, raised his spirits. It was only when he thought of the public opinion of his little

world, of some other occupation more befitting his education, of the vast change from his late life of ease and

luxury to this of daily labor with a clerk's pay, that he had hours of revolt and cursed his luck.

No, Jack's battle was not won in a day, or a week, or a year. And before it was won he needed more help than

his own somewhat irresolute will could give. It is the impression of his biographer that he would have failed

Mr. Fletcher was known as a very strict man of business, and as little else. But he was a good judge of

character, and under his notions of discipline and of industry he was a kindly man, as his clerks, who feared

his sharp oversight, knew. And besides, he had made a compact with Edith, for whom he had something more

than family affection, and he watched Jack's efforts to adjust himself to the new life with sympathy. If it was

an experiment for Jack, it was also an experiment for him, the result of which gave him some anxiety. The

situation was not a very heroic one, but a life is often decided for good or ill by as insignificant a matter as

Jack's ability to persevere in learning about the twine and cordage trade. This was a day of trial, and the

element of uncertainty in it kept both Mr. Fletcher and Jack from writing of the new arrangement to Edith, for

fear that only disappointment to her would be the ultimate result. Jack's brief notes to her were therefore, as

usual, indefinite, but with the hint that he was beginning to see a way out of his embarrassment.

After the passage of a couple of weeks, during which Mr. Fletcher had been quietly studying his new clerk,

he suddenly said to him, one Saturday morning, after they had looked over and estimated the orders by the

day's mail, "Jack, I think you'd better let up a little, and run down and see Edith."

"Oh!" said Jack, a little startled by the proposal, but recovering himself; " I didn't suppose the business could

"I didn't mean a vacation, but run down for over Sunday. It must be lovely there, and the change will make

you as keen as a brier for business. It always does me. Stay over Monday if the weather is good. I have to be

away myself the week after." As Jack hesitated and did not reply, Mr. Fletcher continued:

"I really think you'd better go, Jack. You have hardly had a breath of fresh air this summer. There's plenty of

Jack was still silent. The thought of seeing Edith created a tumult in his mind. It seemed as if he were not

quite ready, not exactly settled. He had been procrastinating so long, putting off going, on one pretext or

another, that he had fallen into a sort of fear of going. At first, absorbed in his speculations, enthralled by the

company of Carmen and the luxurious, easygoing view of life that her society created for him; he had felt

Edith and his house as an irritating restraint. Later, when the smash came, he had been still more relieved that

she was out of town. And finally he had fallen into a reckless apathy, and had made himself believe that he

never would see her again until some stroke of fortune should set him on his feet and restore his selfrespect.

But since he had been with Fletcher Co. his feelings had gradually undergone a change. With a regular

occupation and regular hours, and in contact with the sensible mind and business routine of Mr. Fletcher, he

began to have saner views of life, and to realize that Edith would approve what he was now attempting to do

As soon as he felt himself a little more firmly established, a little more sure of himself, he would go to Edith,

and confess everything, and begin life anew. This had been his mood, but he was still irresolute, and it needed

some outside suggestion to push him forward to overcome his lingering reluctance to go home.

But this had come suddenly. It seemed to him at first thought that he needed time to prepare for it. Mr.

Fletcher pulled out his watch. "There is a later train at four. Take that, and we will get some lunch first."

An hour of postponement was such a relief! Why, of course he could go at four. And instantly his heart

"All right," he said, as he rose and closed his desk. "But I think I'd better not stay for lunch. I want to get

As Jack came down the stairway from the elevated road at Twentythird Street he ran against a man who was

hurrying upa man in a pronounced travelingsuit, gripsack and umbrella in hand, and in haste. It was

Mavick. Recognition was instantaneous, and it was impossible for either to avoid the meeting if he had

"No, not really. I'm just going to catch the steamer. Short leave. We have all been kept by that confounded

"No, not publicly. Of course shall confer with our minister in London. Any news here?"

"Ah!" And Mavick smiled faintly, and then said, gravely: "It was an awful business. So sudden, you know,

that I couldn't do anything." He made a movement to pass on. "I suppose there has been nono"

"Ah!" And Mr. Mavick didn't wait for further news, but hurried up, with a "Goodby."

So Mavick was following Carmen to Europe. Well, why not? What an unreal world it all was, that of a few

months ago! The gigantic Henderson; Jack's own vision of a great fortune; Carmen and her house of Nero;

the astute and diplomatic Mavick, with his patronizing airs! It was like a scene in a play.

He stepped into a shop and selected a toy for the boy. It was a real toy, and it was for a real boy. Jack

experienced a genuine pleasure at the thought of pleasing him. Perhaps the little fellow would not know him.

And then he thought of Edithnot of Edith the mother, but of Edith the girl in the days of his wooing. And

he went into Maillard's. The pretty girl at the counter knew him. He was an old customer, and she had often

filled orders for him. She had despatched many a costly box to addresses he had given her. It was in the

recollection of those transactions that he said: "A box of marrons glaces, please. My wife prefers that."

And this girl also seemed a part of the old life, with her little affectation of familiarity with its ways.

He went to his roomit seemed a very mean little room nowpacked his bag, told the janitor he should be

absent a few days, and hurried to the ferry and the train as if he feared that some accident would delay him.

When he was seated and the train moved off, his thoughts took another turn. He was in for it now.

He began to regret that he had not delayed, to think it all out more thoroughly; perhaps it would have been

He bought an evening journal, but he could not read it. What he read between the lines was his own life.

What a miserable failure! What a mess he had made of his own affairs, and how unworthy of such a woman

as Edith he had been! How indifferent he had been to her happiness in the pursuit of his own pleasure! How

would she receive him? He could hardly doubt that; but she must know, she must have felt cruelly his

estrangement. What if she met him with a royal forgiveness, as if he were a returned prodigal? He couldn't

stand that. If now he were only going back with his fortune recovered, with brilliant prospects to spread

before her, and could come into the house in his old playful manner, with the assumed deference of the

master, and say: "Well, Edith dear, the storm is over. It's all right now. I am awfully glad to get home.

Instead of that, he was going with nothing, humiliated, a clerk in a twinestore. And not much of a clerk at

And yet he was for the first time in his life earning his living. Edith would like that. He had known all along

that his idle life had been a constant grief to her. No, she would not reproach him; she never did reproach

him. No doubt she would be glad that he was at work. But, oh, the humiliation of the whole thing! At one

moment he was eager to see her, and the next the rattling train seemed to move too fast, and he welcomed

every wayside stop that delayed his arrival. But even the Long Island trains arrive some time, and all too soon

"Quite a stranger in these parts, Mr. Delancy," was the easy salutation of the stationkeeper.

"Right as a trivet. Hot summer, though. Calculate it's goin' to be a warm fallgenerally is."

It was near sunset. When the train had moved on, and its pounding on the rails became a distant roar and then

was lost altogether, the country silence so impressed Jack, as he walked along the road towards the sea, that

he became distinctly conscious of the sound of his own footsteps. He stopped and listened. Yes, there were

other soundsthe twitter of birds in the bushes by the roadside, the hum of insects, and the faint rhythmical

And now the house came in viewfirst the big roof, and then the latticed windows, the balconies, where

there were pots of flowers, and then the long veranda with its hammocks and climbing vines. There was a

pink tone in the distant water answering to the flush in the sky, and away to the west the sanddune that made

But the house! Jack's steps were again arrested. The level last rays of the disappearing sun flashed upon the

windowpanes so that they glowed like painted windows illuminated from within, with a reddish lustre, and

the roofs and the brown sides of the building, painted by those great masters in color, the sun and the

He made his way through the little fore yard. No one was about. The veranda was deserted. There was Edith's

workbasket; there were the baby's playthings. The door stood open, and as he approached it he heard

singingnot singing, either, but a fitful sort of recitation, with the occasional notes of an accompaniment

struck as if in absence of mind. The tune he knew, and as he passed through the first room towards the

It was an old English ballad, the ballad of the "Cockleshells," that Edith used to sing often in the old days,

when its note of melancholy seemed best to express her happiness. It was only that line, and the voice seemed

He stole along and looked in. There was Edith, seated, her head bowed on her hands, at the piano.

In an instant, before she could turn to the sound of his quick footsteps, he was at her side, kneeling, his head

She turned, slid from her seat, and was kneeling also, with her arms thrown about his neck.

And presently they stood, and his arms were still around her, and she was looking up into his face, with her

The whole landscape was golden, the sea was silver, on that October morning. It was the brilliant decline of

the year. Edith stood with Jack on the veranda. He had his gripsack in hand and was equipped for town.

The birds, twittering in the fruittrees and over the vines, had the air of an orchestra, the concerts of the

season over, gathering their instruments and about to depart. One could detect in the lapse of the waves along

the shore the note of weariness preceding the change into the fretfulness and the tumult of tempests. In the

soft ripening of the season there was peace and hope, but it was the hope of another day. The curtain was

Was life beginning, then, or ending? If life only could change and renew itself like the seasons, with the

perpetually recurring springs! But youth comes only once, and thereafter the man gathers the fruit of it, sweet

Jack was not given to moralizing, but perhaps a subtle suggestion of this came to him in the thought that an

enterprise, a new enterprise, might have seemed easier in May, when the forces of nature were with him, than

in October. There was something, at least, that fell in with his mood, a mood of acquiescence in failure, in

"Edith," he said, as they paced down the walk which was flaming with scarlet and crimson borders, and

"But you are not going," said Edith, brightly. "I feel all the time as if you were just coming back. Jack, do you

know," and she put her hand on his shoulder, "this is the sweetest home in the world now!"

"It is the only one, dear;" and Jack made the statement with a humorous sense of its truth. "Well, there's the

"Clerk, indeed!" cried Edith, putting up her face to his; "you are going to be a Merchant Prince, Jack, that is

On the train there was an atmosphere of business. Jack felt that he was not going to the New York that he

knewnot to his New York, but to a city of traffic; down into the streets of commercial enterprise, not at all

to the metropolis of leisure, of pleasure, to the world of clubs and drawingrooms and elegant loiterings and

the rivalries of society life. That was all ended. Jack was hurrying to catch the downtown car for the dingy

It was ended, to be sure, but the struggle with Jack in his new life was not ended, his biographer knows, for

It was long before he could pass his club windows without a pang of humiliation, or lift his hat to a lady of

his acquaintance in her passing carriage without a vivid feeling of separateness from his old life. For the old

lifehe could see that any day in the Avenue, any evening by the flaming lightswent by in its gilded

chariots and entrancing toilets, the fascinating whirl of Vanity Fair crowned with roses and with ennui. Did

he regret it? No doubt. Not to regret would have been to change his nature, and that were a feat impossible for

his biographer to accomplish. In a way his life was gone, and to build up a new life, serene and enduring, was

One thing he did not regret in the shock he had received, and that was the absence of Carmen and her world.

When he thought of her he had a sense of escape. She was still abroad, and he heard from time to time that

Mavick was philandering about from capital to capital in her train. Certainly he would have envied neither of

them if he had been aware, as the reader is aware, of the guilty secret that drew them together and must be

But this glittering world, to attain a place in which is the object of most of the struggles and hungry

competition of modern life, seemed not so real nor so desirable when he was at home with Edith, and in his

gradually growing interest in nobler pursuits. They had decided to take a modest apartment in town for the

winter, and almost before the lease was signed, Edith, in her mind, had transformed it into a charming home.

Jack used to rally her on her enthusiasm in its simple furnishing; it reminded him, he said, of Carmen's

interest in her projected house of Nero. It was a great contrast, to be sure, to their stately house by the Park,

but it was to them both what that had never been. To one who knows how life goes astray in the solicitations

of the great world, there was something pathetic in Edith's pleasure. Even to Jack it might some day come

with the force of keen regret for years wasted, that it is enough to break a body's heart to see how little a thing

It was another summer. Major Fairfax had come down with Jack to spend Sunday at the Golden House. Edith

was showing the Major the view from the end of the veranda. Jack was running through the evening paper.

"Hi!" he cried; "here's news. Mavick is to have the mission to Rome, and it is rumored that the rich and

accomplished Mrs. Henderson, as the wife of the minister, will make the Roman season very gay."

"Nothing." "Poor Henderson!" was the Major's comment. "It was for this that he drudged and schemed and