The Doctor...........................................................................................................................................................1

Ralph Connor ...........................................................................................................................................1

I. THE OLD STONE MILL .....................................................................................................................1

II. THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE................................................................................................4

III. THE RAISING ...................................................................................................................................9

IV. THE DANCE ...................................................................................................................................14

V. THE NEW TEACHER.....................................................................................................................20

VI. THE YOUNG DOCTOR .................................................................................................................25

VII. THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT ..........................................................................................28

VIII. BEN'S GANG...............................................................................................................................36

IX. LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS ...........................................................................................................44

X. FOR A LADY'S HONOUR ..............................................................................................................48

XI. IOLA'S CHOICE .............................................................................................................................57

XII. HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE.....................................................................................................63

XIII. A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT.................................................................................73

XIV. WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN .........................................................................78

XV. THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS .....................................................................................83

XVI. THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH .................................................................................................90

XVII. THE FIGHT WITH DEATH .......................................................................................................96

XVIII. THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST .........................................105

XIX. THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK ..................................................................................................111

XX. UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN ............................................................................................119

XXI. TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST ...........................................................................................129

XXII. THE HEART'S REST...............................................................................................................136

XXIII. THE LAST CALL ....................................................................................................................146

XXIV. FOR LOVE'S SAKE ................................................................................................................162

There were two ways by which one could get to the Old Stone Mill. One, from the sideroad by a lane which,

edged with grassy, flower decked banks, wound between snake fences, along which straggled irregular

clumps of hazel and blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, and beyond which stretched on one side fields of

grain just heading out this bright June morning, and on the other side a long strip of hay fields of mixed

timothy and red clover, generous of colour and perfume, which ran along the snake fence till it came to a

potato patch which, in turn, led to an orchard where the lane began to drop down to the Mill valley.

At the crest of the hill travellers with even the merest embryonic aesthetic taste were forced to pause. For

there the valley with its sweet loveliness lay in full view before them. Far away to the right, out of an angle in

the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill the pond which brimmed gleaming to the green bank of the dam. Beyond

the pond a sloping grassy sward showed green under an open beech and maple woods. On the hither side of

the pond an orchard ran down hill to the water's edge, and at the nearer corner of the dam, among a clump of

ancient willows, stood the Old Stone Mill, with house attached, and across the mill yard the shed and barn, all

neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left of the mill, with its green turfclad dam and placid gleaming

pond, wandered off green fields of many shading colours, through which ran the Mill Creek, foaming as if

enraged that it should have been even for a brief space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then,

beyond the manyshaded fields, woods again, spruce and tamarack, where the stream entered, and maple and

beech on the higher levels. That was one way to the mill, the way the farmers took with their grist or their

The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession Line, which ran at right angles to the

sideroad. This was a mere foot path, sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or meal when the

barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led through the beech and maple woods to the farther end of

the dam, where it divided, to the right if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across the dam if one wished

to reach the house. From any point of view the Old Stone Mill, with its dam and pond, its surrounding woods

and fields and orchard, made a picture of rare loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of peace. At least,

the woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the willows fell, found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the

scene, rested her; the full sweet harmony of those many voices in which Nature pours forth herself on a

summer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted her. She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and

straight she stood, a figure full of strength; her dark face stamped with features that bespoke her Highland

ancestry, her black hair shot with silver threads, parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes deep set, black

and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in eyes that have for generations peered into the

"Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged face softening as she gazed. "It's a bonny spot, and it would be

As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of the mill there pierced now and then

"Oh, that weary fiddle!" she said with an impatient shake of her head. But in a few moments the impatience

in her face passed into tender pity. "Ah, well, well," she sighed, "poor man, it is the kind heart he has,

She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large livingroom, speckless in its thrifty order,

into a longer room that joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside the door. "Mercy

me!" she cried, "it's time my own work was done. But I'll just step in and see" She opened the door leading

to the mill and stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, cleanshaven, and with a mass of curly

hair tinged with grey hanging about his forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall,

"The mill's aworkin', mother," he cried without stopping his flying fingers, "and I'm keepin' my eye upon

She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. "Ay, the mill is workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill

"Wrong, mother," replied the little man exultant. "Sure you're wrong. Listen to this. What is it now?"

"But listen, Elsie, darlin'," he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue. "Don't you mind" and on he played for

"Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?" she cried, heroically struggling to maintain her

But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly changing expression, took on a softer look.

"Ah, there you are," cried the little man in triumph, "now I know you remember. And it's twentyfour years

tomorrow, Elsie, darlin', since" He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and sprang

"Go away with you." She closed the door quickly behind her. "Whisht now! Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're

"Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's foolish enough I've been often since. And,"

he added with a sigh, "it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do, perhaps, what I've

"Whisht now, lad," said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for a great tenderness flowed over her eloquent

face. "What has come to you today? Go away now to your work," she added in her former tone, "there's the

"And why would you watch the grist, mother?" said a voice from the mill door, as a young man of eighteen

years stepped inside. He was his mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep set, sombre

eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body, of power in every move he made and of

passion in every glance. "Indeed, you will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash down the hay

in no time. And do you know, mother," he continued in a tone of suppressed excitement, "have you heard the

big news?" His mother waited. "He's coming home today. He's coming with the Murrays, and Alec will

A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a voice calm and steady, "Well, you'd

"Listen to her, Barney," cried her husband scornfully. "And she'll not be going to the raising today, either.

Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. "We will have dinner early," he said, "and

She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down the scythe from its peg, removed the

"Here then," replied his father, handing him the violin, "and you're better at this."

"They would not say so tonight, Dad," replied the lad as he took the violin from his father's hands, looking it

over reverently. In a very few minutes his father came back with the scythe ready for work; and Barney,

Two hours later, down from the dusty sideroad, a girl swinging a milk pail in her hand turned into the mill

lane. As she stepped from the glare and dust of the highroad into the lane, it seemed as if Nature had been

waiting to find in her the touch that makes perfect; so truly, in all her fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit of

It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country life to round that supple form into its firm lines of grace, and

to tint those moulded cheeks with the dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the thistle heads that

nodded at her through the snake fence. It had taken sixteen years of purehearted, joyous living to lend those

eyes, azure as the sky above, their brave, clear glance; sixteen years of unsullied maidenhood to endow her

with that divine something of mystery which, with its shy reserve and fearless trust, awakens reverence and

Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, shining golden in the sun, revealed a face strong, brave and

kind, with just a touch of pride. The pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head and the carriage of

her shoulders. But when the mobile lips parted in a smile over the straight rows of white teeth one forgot the

As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep breaths of cloverscented air, and exclaimed aloud, "Oh,

this is good!" She peeped through the snake fence at the luscious rich masses of red clover. "What a bed!" she

cried; "I believe I'll try it." Over the fence she sprang, and in a thorn tree's shade, deep in the fragrant

blossoms, she stretched herself at full length upon her back. For some minutes she lay in the luxury of that

fragrant bed looking up through the spreading thorn tree branches to the blue sky with its floating, fleecy

clouds far overhead. The lazy drone of the bees in the clover beside her, the languorous summer airs swaying

into gentle nodding the timothy stalks just above her head, and all the soothing sounds of a summer morning,

that manyvoiced choir that sings to the great God Nature's glad content that all is so very good, rested and

comforted the girl's heart and body, making her know as she had not known before how very weary she had

"Oh, it's good!" she cried again, stretching her hands at full length above her head. "I wish I could stay for

one whole day, just here in the clover with the bees and the birds and the trees and the clouds and the blue

As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had thrown off for the moment the load she had been carrying for

many months. For a year she had tried to fill in the minister's household her mother's place. Without a day's

warning the burden had been laid upon her shoulders, but with the fine courage that youth and love combine

to give, denying herself even the poor luxury of indulgence of the grief that had fallen upon her young heart,

she had given herself, without thought of anything heroic in her giving, to the caring for the house and the

household, and the comforting as best she could of her father, suddenly bereft of her who had been to him not

wife alone, but comrade and counsellor as well. Without a thought, she had at once surrendered all the bright

plans that she, with her mother, had cherished for the cultivation of her varied talents, and had turned to the

dull, monotonous routine of household duties with never a thought but that she must do it. There was no one

"I believe I am tired," she said again aloud; then letting her heart follow her eyes into and beyond the blue

above her, she cried softly, "O mother, how tired you must have been with it all, and how much you did for

me! For me, great, big lump that I am! Dear little mother. Oh, if I had only known! Oh, we were all so

thoughtless!" She stretched up her hands again to the blue sky with its fleecy clouds. "For your sake, mother

dear," she whispered. Not often had any seen those brave eyes dim with tears. Not often since that day when

they had carried her mother out from the Manse and left her behind with the weeping, clinging children, and

even now she hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself the while. "I never saw HER cry," she said to

herself, "not once, except for some of us. And I will try. I MUST try. It is hard to give up," and again the

tears welled up in the brave blue eyes. "Nonsense," she cried impatiently, sitting up straight, "don't be a big,

selfish baby. They're just the dearest little darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for them."

Her moment of selfpity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation. She locked her hands round her knees

and looked about her. "It is a beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; just over the fence

and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this is great!" Once more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight in

the clover and lay again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing sounds and scents.

She sprang up alert and listening. "That is old Charley, I suppose, or Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe."

She climbed up the conveniently jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field.

"It's Barney," she said, shading her eyes with her hand; "I wonder he does not cut his fingers." She sat herself

"My! what a sweep," she said in admiring tones as the young man swayed to and fro in all the rhythmic grace

of the mower's stride, swinging easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in a cutting sweep,

clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the clattering machineknives have driven off from our

Those were days when men were famous according as they could "cut off the heels of a rival mower." There

are that grieve that, one by one, from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily toil by

which men were wont to prove their might, their skill of hand and eye, their invincible endurance. But there

still offer in life's stern daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood in ways less picturesque perhaps, but no

"Doesn't he do it well!" said the girl, following with admiring eyes every movement of his wellpoised

frame. "How big he is! Why" and her blue eyes widened with startled surprise, "he's almost a man!" The

tint of the thistle bloom deepened in her cheek. She glanced down and made as if to spring to the ground;

then settling herself resolutely back against her fence stake, she exclaimed, "Pshaw! I don't care. He is just a

"Well done!" cried the girl. "You'll be cutting off Long John's heels in a year or so."

"You needn't. They're all talking about you, with your binding and pitching and cradling, and what not."

"And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you look as you go swinging along?"

"Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. Where did you learn the scythe?"

"Where? Right here where we had to, Dick and I. By the way, he's coming home today." He glanced at her

A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, but recovering himself, "Well, I guess I will, myself, a

little. This is the first time he has ever been away. We never slept a night apart from each other as long as I

can mind till he went to college last year. He used to put his arm just round me here," touching his breast. "I'll

tell you the first nights after he went I used to feel for him in the dark and be sick to find the place empty."

"Well," said the girl doubtfully, "I hope he won't be different. College does make a difference, you know."

"Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash the daylights out of him. But he won't be different. Not to us,

"Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down," she replied with a knowing shake of her head.

"Poor Dick! He's in for a hard time," replied Barney. "But nothing can change Dick. And I am awful glad he's

"The raising? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I remember. And," regretfully, "a big supper and a big spree

"I don't know. They want me to go to help, but I don't think I'll go. I don't think father would like me to go,

"Oh, pshaw! Get Old Nancy in. She can take care of the children for once. You would like the raising. It's

"Oh! wouldn't I, though? It's fine to see them racing. They get so wild and yell so."

"Well, come on then. You must come. They'll all be disappointed, if you don't. And Dick is coming that way,

too. Alec Murray is to bring him on his way home from town." Again Barney glanced keenly at her face, but

"Wait," cried Barney, "I'll go with you. We're having dinner early today." He hung up the scythe in the thorn

"Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you are there." The frank, boyish honesty of his tone seemed to

"Well," she said, resuming their conversation, "I don't think I can go, but I'll see. You'll be playing for the

"No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess he'll be there. I may spell him a little perhaps."

"Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy! He's a bird! You ought to see him! I'll make him do the

Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, "Yes. I guess you're right. Everything is pretty much

At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene spread out before them.

"There," said Barney, "if I live to be a hundred years, I can't forget that," and he waved his hand over the

valley. Then he continued, "I tell you what, with the moon just over the pond there making a track of light

across the pond" She glanced shyly at him. The sombre eyes were looking far away.

Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical cadence a call long and clear,

"That's mother," said Barney, answering the call with a quick shout. "You'll be in time for dinner."

"Dinner!" she cried with a gasp. "I'll have to get my buttermilk and other things and hurry home." And she

ran at full speed down the hill and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was too hot to run.

"How are you, Mrs. Boyle?" she panted. "I'm in an awful hurry. I'm after father's buttermilk and that recipe,

"Letting me!" she laughed defiantly. "Indeed, he had all he could do to keep up."

"And that I had," said Barney, "and, mother, tell her she must come to the raising."

"I don't think so. You know fatherwell, he wouldn't care for me to be at the dance."

"Yes, yes, I know," quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, "but you might just come with me and look quietly on. And,

indeed, the change will be doing you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father this afternoon."

Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log milkhouse, built over a little brook

"Ay, it's clean and sweet," said Mrs. Boyle. "And that is what you most need with the milk and butter."

She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the girl's pail with buttermilk.

"Och, yes!" said Mrs. Boyle. "There's no recipe at all. It is just this way" And she elucidated the mysteries

"But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure," cried Margaret, in despair.

"Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner past, and we will call for you on our

"Here, lassie," she cried, "your father will like this. It is only churned th' day." She rolled a pat of butter in a

clean linen cloth, laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket.

"Goodbye," said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. "You're far too kind to me."

"Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good girl you are, and a brave one."

"Not very brave, I fear," replied the girl, as she quickly turned away and ran up the hill and out of sight.

"Poor motherless lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her with loving eyes; "it's a heavy care she has, and

The building of a bankbarn was a watershed in farm chronology. Toward that event or from it the years took

their flight. For many summers the big boulders were gathered from the fields and piled in a long heap at the

bottom of the lane on their way to their ultimate destination, the foundation of the bankbarn. During the

winter, previous the "timber was got out." From the forest trees, maple, beech or elmfor the pine was long

since gonethe main sills, the plates, the posts and crossbeams were squared and hauled to the site of the

new barn. Hither also the sand from the pit at the big hill, and the stone from the heap at the bottom of the

lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite gone the lighter lumberflooring, scantling, sheeting and

shingleswere marshalled to the scene of action. Then with the spring the masons and framers appeared and

began their work of organising from this mass of material the structure that was to be at once the pride of the

From the very first the enterprise was carried on under the acknowledged, but none the less critical,

observation of the immediate neighbourhood. For instance, it had been a matter of free discussion whether

"them timbers of McLeod's new barn wasn't too blamed heavy," and it was Jack McKenzie's openly

expressed opinion that "one of them 'purline plates' was so allfired crooked that it would do for both sides at

onct." But the confidence of the community in Jack Murray, framer, was sufficiently strong to allay serious

forebodings. And by the time the masons had set firm and solid the manycoloured boulders in the

foundation, the community at large had begun to take interest in the undertaking.

The McLeod raising was to be an event of no ordinary importance. It had the distinction of being, in the

words of Jack Murray, framer, "the biggest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts." Indeed, so magnificent

were its dimensions that Ben Fallows, who stood just five feet in his stocking soles, and was, therefore, a man

of considerable importance in his estimation, was overheard to exclaim with an air of finality, "What! two

twentyfoot floors and two thirtyfoot mows! It cawn't be did." Such was, therefore, the magnitude of the

undertaking, and such the farfamed hospitality of the McLeods, that no man within the range of the family

acquaintance who was not sick, or away from home, or prevented by some special act of Providence, failed to

It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were already there when the mill people drove up

in the family democrat. The varied shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their popularity.

"Hello, Barney! Goodday, Mrs. Boyle," said Mr. McLeod, who stood at the gate receiving his guests.

"Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy," shouted Tom Magee, a big, goodnatured son of Erin, the

richness of whose brogue twenty years of life in Canada had failed to impoverish.

"We could hardly leave the baby at home today," replied the miller, as with tender care he handed the green

"No, indeed, Mr. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "The girls yonder would hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's

fiddle were not to the fore. You'll find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. Boyle. The wife

will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in order yonder, eh, Margaret, lassie?"

"Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be kept in order," replied Mrs. Boyle.

"Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "A girl with an eye and a chin like that may

"Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me," said Margaret, springing lightly over the wheel and turning away

with Mrs. Boyle toward the house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether bewitching

medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls overflowing with life can produce.

"All right, Tom," replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. "If you make me the boss, here's my orders, Up

"Aw now," said Tom, "there's better than me here. Take Big Angus there. He's the man fer ye! Or what's the

matter wid me frind, Rory Ross? It's the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil ye!"

There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of Rory's hair and face.

"Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee," said the fieryheaded, fieryhearted little Highlander. "When

There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both famous captains, and more than once

had they led the opposing forces at raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved

"We'll divide the work, boys," he said. "Some men do the liftin' and others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the

A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker was none too brilliant.

"All right then, boys," roared Tom. "Ye'll have to take it. Git togither an' quit yer blowin'." He cast an

experienced eye over the ground where the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the uninitiated would

"Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills. Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All

togitherrrheave! Togitherrrheave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her up! Come on,

Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye! Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!"

Angus was just six feet four. "Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady! Cant her over! How's

that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up on her, ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her!

Togitherrrheave! Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too rambunctious! Ye'll be afther knockin' a

hole in tomorrow mornin'. Back a little now! Whoa! How's that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence? All

right. Now thin, the nixt! Look lively there! The gurls are comin' down to pick the winners, an a small chance

And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the sills were got in place upon the walls,

The "bents" were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which, fastened together with cross ties, formed

the framework of the barn. Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the barn floor, and,

one by one, raised into their places, each one being firmly joined to the one previously erected.

"Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!" admonished Tom. "We don't want no slitherin' timbers round here

In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before the last bent was reached. One by one

they had fitted into their places, but not without some few hitches, each of which was the occasion for an

outburst of exhortations on the part of the boss, more or less sulphurous, although the presence of the ladies

interfered very considerably with Tom's fluency in this regard. He worked his men like galley slaves, and

rowed them unmercifully. But for the most part they took it all with good humour, though some few who had

the misfortune to fall specially under his tongue began to show signs that the lash had bitten into the raw. The

timbers of the last bent were specially heavy, and the men, more or less fagged with their hard driving, didn't

"At it, min!" he roared. "Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd think it was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about

it! Now thin! Togitherrrheave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch that time! Stidy there a

minute! Here you min on that pike, what in the blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av bees

In obedience to the word two pikepoles were withdrawn at the same moment, leaving only a single pike

with Big Angus and two others to sustain the full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent swayed

backward as if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the men sprang back from under the huge bent. It was

"Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!" howled Tom, "or the hull of ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes."

At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw themselves upon the pike. Immediately they

"Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!" cried Tom. But there was a new note in Tom's voice, the note

that is heard when men stand in the presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. The bent was

walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom sprang down from the building, his face white, his voice

shaking. "Give me yer hand, Barney Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the saints an' the Blessid Virgin,

Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping them on the back with varied

exclamations. "You're the lads!" "Good boys!" "You're the stuff!" "Put it there!"

"What are ye doin' to us?" cried Rory at last; "I didn't see anything happen. Did you, Barney?"

For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd chewing hard upon his quid of tobacco,

fighting to recover his nerve. He had seen as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from which the men

"Did any of you hear the cowbell?" he said. "It strikes me it's not quitting time yet. Better get your captains,

"All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the same place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a

splash of blood an' brains I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney there. He's the man, I kin

"Me!" cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. "I have never done anything but carry pins and

There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had Barney's reputation for agility, nerve and

"Carry pins, is it?" said Tom. "Ye can carry yer head level, me boy. So at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me,

"Well then," cried Barney, "I will, if you give me first choice, and I'll take Tom here."

"Hooray!" yelled Tom, "I'm wid ye." So it was agreed, and in a few minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben

"We'll give ye Ben," said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. "We don't want to hog on ye too

"Never you mind, Ben," said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted to his place among Rory's men. "You'll

"If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!" cried Ben, to the huge delight of the crowd.

And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out there was to be a lifeanddeath contest as

to which side should complete each its part of the structure first. The main plates, the "purline" plates, posts

and braces, the rafters and collar beams, must all be set securely in position. The side whose last man was

first down from the building after its work was done claimed the victory. In two opposing lines a hundred

men stood, hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told off to "ride" the plates, boots discarded. A brawny,

sinewy lot they were, quick of eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of foot, men to be depended

upon whether to raise a barn or to build an empire. The choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or

"Niver fret, Barney," cried Tom Magee, who in the near approach of battle was his own man again. "Niver ye

"Aren't they splendid!" said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. Boyle, her cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing

"Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!" answered the girl, with her eyes upon Barney. And more eyes than

hers were upon the young captain, whose rugged face showed pale even at that distance.

"Now then, men," cried the framer. "Mind your pins. Are you ready?" holding his hat high in the air.

"Git then!" he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. Like hounds after a hare in full sight, like racers

springing from the tape, they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men possessed. At

once the admiring female friends broke into rival camps, wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan.

"Well done, Rory! He's up first!" cried a girl whose brilliant complexion and still more brilliant locks

"Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see," cried Margaret. "Oh, Barney, hurry! hurry!"

"Indeed, he will need to hurry," cried Rory's sister, mercilessly exultant. "He's up! He's up!"

Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the bent, had just "broken it down," and in half a

minute, seized by the men detailed for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, three men with

mauls were upon it driving the pins home just as the second half was making its appearance over the bent, to

"They're at the 'purlines'!" shrieked Rory's sister, and her friends, proceeding to scream wildly after the

"My!" sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, suffering unutterable pangs of humiliation.

"Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?" cried Margaret, to whose eager spirit Barney's movements seemed

But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he had been carrying out the policy of

simultaneous preparation, and while part of his men had been getting the plates to their places, others had

been making ready the "purlines" and laying the rafters in order so that, although beaten by Rory in the initial

stages of the struggle, when once his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in more or

less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters moved to their positions as if by magic.

Consequently, though when they arrived at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his rafters

At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had been enduring the poignant pangs of what

looked like humiliating defeat, rose in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss inexpressible, save by a series of

"They're down! They're down!" screamed Margaret, dancing in an ecstasy of joy, while hand over hand down

posts, catching at braces, slipping, sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from incredible

distances to the ground. Suddenly through all the tumultuous shouts of victory a heartrending scream rang

out, followed by a shuddering groan and dead silence. Onehalf of Rory's purlin plate slipped from its

splicing, the pin having been neglected in the furious haste, and swinging free, fell crashing through the

timbers upon the scurrying, scrambling men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who was

madly entreating a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by good fortune against a brace, clung there.

On the plate went in its path of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking at last with

smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little Ben Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the

ground. In a moment two or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning and screaming and carried

to an open grassy spot. After some moments of confusion Barney was seen to emerge from the crowd and

hurry after his horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked together, a mattress and pillow placed thereon, to which

Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled himself together. "Stop a bit, Barney," he said.

He beckoned Rory to his side. "Tell them," he said between his gasps, "not to spoil their supper for me. I

The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke out into admiring expletives, "Good

boy, Benny!" "Benny's the stuff!" till finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, "Three cheers for

Benny!" and the feelings of the crowd, held in check for so many minutes, at length found expression in three

times three, and with the cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his drawn face, poor Ben, forgetting

The dance was well on when Barney and Tom drove up to the McLeods' gate. They were met by Margaret

and Barney's mother, who, with a group of girls and Mr. McLeod, had been waiting for them. As they drove

into the yard they were met at once with eager questions as to the condition and fate of the unhappy Ben.

"Ben, is it?" said Tom. "Indeed, it's a hero we've discovered. He stud it like a brick. An' I'm not sure but there

are two av thim," he said, jerking his thumb toward Barney. "Ye ought to have seen him stand there houldin'

the light an' passin' the doctor sthrings, an' the blood spoutin' like a stuck pig. What happened afther, it's

mesilf can't tell ye at all, for I was restin' quietly by mesilf on the floor on the broad av me back, an' naither

av thim takin' annythin' to do wid me except to drown me wid watther betune times. Indeed, it's himsilf is the

born doctor, an' so he is," continued Tom, warming to his theme, "for wid his hands red wid blood an' his

face as white as yer apron, ma'am, niver a shiver did he give until the last knot was tied an' the last stitch was

There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after many attempts Barney finally gave it up, and began

unhitching his horse. Meantime the sound of the dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the silence

there rose a voice in song to the accompaniment of some stringed instrument. It was an arresting voice. The

group about the horse stood perfectly still as the voice rose and soared and sank and rose again in an old

But his mother shook her head. "Indeed, I know not, but it's likely yon strange girl that came out from town

"I know," cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, with a little toss of her head, "Alec told me. She is the girl who has

come to take the teacher's place for a month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. Her father was a colonel in

the Southern army, California or Virginia or some place, I don't just remember. Oh! I know all about her,

Alec told me," continued Teenie with a knowing shake of her ruddy curls. "And she'll have a string of hearts

dangling to her apron, if she wears one, before the month is out, so you'd better mind out, Barney."

But Barney was not heeding her. "Hush!" he said, holding up his hand, for again the voice was rising up clear

and full into the night silence. Even Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved till the verse was

"She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney," continued Teenie wickedly. "You'll just need to take her with

"Indeed, and there will be no such lassie as yon in my house," said the mother, speaking sharply.

"Yes, that she will," replied Mrs. Boyle, "and I know very well where she will be going, too, and you with

four little ones to do for, not to speak of the minister, the hardest of the lot." Mrs. Boyle was evidently

"Man! What a voice!" breathed Barney, and, making fast the horse to the waggon, he set off for the barn

"Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's nobody knows what's in that lad. But he'll stir the world yit,

When Barney reached the barn floor the Southern girl had just finished her song, and with her guitar still in

her hands was idly strumming its strings. The moonlight fell about her in a flood so bright as to reveal the

ivory pallor of her face and the lustrous depths of her dark eyes. It was a face of rare and romantic beauty

framed in soft, fluffy, dark hair, brushed high off the forehead and gathered in a Greek knot at the back of her

head. But besides the beauty of face and eyes, there was an air of gentle, appealing innocence that awakened

the chivalrous instincts latent in every masculine heart, and a lazy, languorous grace that set her in striking

contrast to the alert, vigorous country maids so perfectly able to care for themselves, asking odds of no man.

When the singing ceased Barney came out of the shadow at his father's side, and, reaching for the violin, said,

At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside the singer, turned quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang for

him, shouting, "Hello! you old whale, you!" The father hastily pulled his precious violin out of danger.

"Let go, Dick! Let go, I tell you!" said Barney, struggling in his brother's embrace; "stop it, now!"

With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him and stood on guard with an embarrassed, halfshamed,

halfindignant laugh. The crowd gathered near in delighted expectation. There was always something sure to

"He won't let me kiss him," cried Dick pitifully, to the huge enjoyment of the crowd.

"So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's a shame!" replied Dick, in a hurt tone. "And me just home, too."

"Look here, Dick," cried Barney impatiently, "just quit your nonsense or I'll throw you on the floor there and

"Well, well, that's so," said Dick. "So on Miss Lane's account I'll forbear, provided, that is, she sings again,

After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into that old plantation song full of mingling

pathos and humour. Barney picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found her key and

then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful

face lighting up as if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness and tenderness she

poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd were entranced with delight. Even those who had been

somewhat impatient for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She turned to Dick, who

had resumed his place beside her. "Who is the man you wanted so badly to kiss?" she asked quietly.

"Who?" he cried, so that everyone heard. "What! don't you know? That's Barney, the one and only Barney,

my brother. Here, Barney, drop your fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it

Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and awkwardly offered his hand. With easy,

"You accompany beautifully," she said in her soft Southern drawl; "it's in you, I can see. No one can ever be

"Oh, pshaw! That's nothing," said Barney, eager to get back again to his shadow, "but if you don't mind I'll

"Certainly," cried Dick, "she'll sing again. What will you give us now, white or black?"

The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. "Do they all obey you here?"

She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then turning to Barney, who was playing softly

Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its dark, romantic beauty touched with the

magic of the moonlight, the voice soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello,

supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless. No voice joined in the chorus. As she

sang, the subtle telepathic waves came back from her audience to the girl, and with everdeepening passion

and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing tide of song. The old air, simple and

timeworn, took on a new richness of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of

unutterable depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the spell. As before, silence followed the

"But you did not do your part," she said, smiling up at him with a very pretty air of embarrassment.

"Sing again," said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and hoarse, and Dick, looking curiously at him,

But Iola ignored him. "Did you ever hear this?" she said to Barney. She strummed a few chords on her guitar.

"Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', Loola, Loola, don' you gib me any sass. Youah mammy's

ol', an' want you to de berry las', So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass.

"Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho! De angels want you,

"Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, Loola, Loola, tight about ma fingahs heah, De dawk come

close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah.

"Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? Loola, Loola, do Massa want you for His fol'? But, baby,

honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'."

A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat quietly looking straight before her,

while Barney played the refrain over and over. The simple pathos of the little song, its tender appeal to the

motherchords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached the deep places in the honest hearts of her

listeners and for some moments they stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that Dick released

the tension by crying out, "Partners for fourhand reel." Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of

"Strike up, Barney," cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before Iola, whom he had chosen for his partner. But

Barney, handing the violin to his father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret were

"Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt," said Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a sharp glance at her son.

But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved away as in a dream to make ready for

the home going of his party, for soon the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken from his dream

mood during the drive home. He could hear Dick chattering gaily to Margaret and his mother of his College

experiences, but except for an occasional word with his father he sat in silence, gazing not upon the fields and

woods that lay in all their moonlit glory about them, but upon that new world, vast, unreal, yet vividly

present, whose horizon lay beyond the line of vision, the world of his imagination, where he must henceforth

live and where his work must lie. For the events of the afternoon had summoned a new self into being, a self

unfamiliar, but real and terribly insistent, demanding recognition. He could not analyse the change that had

come to him, nor could he account for it. He did not try to. He lived again those great moments when, having

been thrust by chance into the command of these fifty mighty men, he had swung them to victory. He

remembered the ease, the perfect harmony with which his faculties had wrought through those few minutes of

fierce struggle. Again he passed through the awful ordeal of the operation, now holding the light, now

assisting with forceps or cord or needle, now sponging away that ghastly red flow that could not be stemmed.

He wondered now at his selfmastery. He could see again his fingers, bloody, but unshaking, handing the old

doctor a needle and silk cord. He remembered his surprise and pity, almost contempt, for big Tom Magee

lying on the floor unable to lift his head; remembered, too, the strange absence of anything like elation at the

doctor's words, "My boy, you have the nerve and the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your Maker

But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the interlude in the dance. Every detail of that

scene stood clearly limned before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, eager, tense

faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre

foreground, the upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all in the mystery of the

moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. That was the final

magic touch that rolled back the screen and set before him the new world which must henceforth be his. He

could not explain that touch. The songs were the old simple airs worn threadbare by long use in the

countryside. It was certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, the girl, her personality,

her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her

presence there as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached from the upturned face illumined

in the soft moonlight and the stream of heartshaking song. She was to him thus far simply a vision and a

voice, to which all the psychic element in him made eager response. As he drove into the quiet Mill yard it

came upon him with a shock of pain that with the old life he had done forever. He felt himself already

detached from it. The new self looking out upon its new world had shaken off his boyhood as the bursting

As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon his ear a deeper pain struck him, for

he vaguely felt that while his brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had

immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, it is true, but there, and

influential. His brother, who with his mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his

boyish devotion, must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon this thought his brother's voice broke

"Yes, but there is. You're not the same." At the anxious appeal in the voice Barney stood for a moment

steadily regarding his brother, for whom he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of change that he

"I don't know, DickI can't tell youI don't think I am the same." A look of startled dismay fell swiftly

"Have I done anything, Barney?" said the younger boy, his dismay showing in his tone.

"No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you." He put his hands on his brother's shoulders, the nearest

thing to an embrace he ever allowed himself. "It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the same." His speech

came now hurriedly and with difficulty: "And whatever comes to me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never

change to youremember that, Dick, to you I shall never change." His breath was coming in quick gasps.

The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck,

crying in a broken voice, "You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to live."

For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his shoulder gently, then, pushing him back,

said impatiently, "Well, I am a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, I don't

know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all the same, Dick," he added in a steady,

matterof fact tone, "we must expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till the

After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother sat together talking over the doings of

"Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals out of your kitchen, mother, and he will

"That was a fine work of yours with the doctor." The indifferent tone did not deceive her son for a moment.

"Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There were things to be done, blood to be

stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I just did what I could." The mother nodded slightly.

"You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be doing something better than lying on

"He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. But, man, it was fine to see the doctor, so

quick and so clever, and never a slip or a stop." He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far away for

some moments. "Yes, fine! Splendid!" he continued as in a dream. "And he said I had the fingers and the

Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning long ago when his mother, putting his

younger brother's hand in his as they set forth to school for the first time, said, "Take care of your brother,

Bernard. I give him into your charge." That very day and many a day after he had stood by his brother, had

fought for him, had pulled him out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery temper and reckless spirit

were frequently plunging him, but never once had he consciously failed in the trust imposed on him. And as

Dick developed exceptional brilliance in his school work, together they planned for him, the mother and the

older brother, the mother painfully making and saving, the brother accepting as his part the life of plodding

obscurity in order that the younger boy might have his full chance of what school and college could do for

him. True to the best traditions of her race, the mother had fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear

from her son's lips the word of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was demanding, she had drawn

into this partnership her elder son. And thus to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of treachery,

amounting to sacrilege, that Barney for a single moment should cherish for himself an ambition whose

realisation might imperil his brother's future. Barney needed, therefore, no explanation of his mother's cry of

"Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course nothing must stop Dick. I can waitbut I

The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in its firm lines, and replied almost grudgingly,

"Ay, I doubt you will." Then she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, "And what for should

Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she stood watching the door through which he

had passed. Then, with a great sigh, she said aloud: "Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. He has the nerve

and the fingers whatever." Then after a pause she added: "And he will not fail the laddie, I warrant."

The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. Her beauty was a type quite unusual

where rosycheeked, deep chested, sturdy womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of

the fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate from every feature of her face, so much so that little

Ruby Ross was heard to say: "And do you know, mother, she smiles with her nose!" The almost timid appeal

in her gentle manner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. Back of her appealing gentleness,

however, there was a reserve of proud command due to the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty,

slaveruling race. But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back upon sheer authority. She had

a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, based upon two fundamental principles: regard for public

opinion, and hope of reward. The daily tasks were prepared and rendered as if in the presence of the great if

somewhat vague public which at times she individualized, as she became familiar with her pupils, in the

person of father or mother or trustee, as the case might be. And with marvellous skill she played this string,

"What would your father think, Lincoln?" she inquired reproachfully of little Link Young. Link's father was a

typical Down Easterner, by name Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, "Maine Jabe," for his

fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. "What would your father think if he saw you act so rudely?"

Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal appeal. He hung his head in blushing

"Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever gentleman if you tried hard." A new idea lodged

itself under Link's red thatch of hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. Here was one visibly

present whose good opinion he valued. At all costs that good opinion he must win.

The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition purposes. The day would surely come when

before the eyes of the public they would parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them to be ready.

But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. This principle was robbed of its more

sordid elements by the nature of the reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful work invariably

closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and musical exercise. To recite before the teacher and to hear the

teacher recite was worth considerable effort. To sing with the teacher was a joy, but to hear the teacher sing

to the accompaniment of her guitar was the supreme of bliss. It was not only an hour of pleasure to the pupils,

but an hour of training as well. She initiated them into the mysteries of deep breathing, chest tones, phrasing,

and expression, and such was their absorbing interest in and devotion to this study, that in a few weeks truly

remarkable results were obtained. The singing lesson invariably concluded with a plantation song from the

teacher; and with her memorygates wide open to the sunny South of her childhood, and with all her soul in

her voice, she gave them her best, holding them breathless, laughterful, or tearchoked, according to her

It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road on his way to the store, was suddenly

arrested and rendered incapable of movement till the song was done. In amazed excitement he burst forth to

old Hector Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee Board, who happened to be in the store:

"Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! I couldn't git my team to move past that

"Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know there'll be a stringateams from here to the

"Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?" inquired old Hector, in anxious surprise.

"Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one 'time to hear a big singer, forgit her name,

but she was 'lowed to be the dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to cinders! she ain't any

more like that there teacher of yours than my old Tom cat's like the angel that leads the choir in Abram's

"That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind paying a little extra school rate now,"

"Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time to the trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a

In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher introduced a subordinate principle which

proved effective when all else failed. The school was made corporately and jointly responsible for the

individual. The offence of one was the offence of all, the merit of one the merit of all. Thus every pupil was

associated with her in the business of securing good lessons and exemplary conduct. As the day went on each

misdemeanour was gravely, and in full view of the school, marked down upon the blackboard. The merits

obtained by any pupil were in like manner recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour

of song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good conduct, persisted in robbing the school of its

hour of delight. In the case of Ab Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took Dugald Robertson, the

minister's son, just half an hour's hard fighting to extract a promise of good behaviour. Dugald was in the

main a thoughtful, peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the entrance class, and a great mathematician.

At first he was inclined to despise the teacher, setting little store by her beautiful face and fascinating smile,

for on the very first day he discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. Arithmetic was her despair. With

algebraic formulae and Euclid's propositions her fine memory saved her. But with quick intuition she threw

herself frankly upon the boy's generosity, and in the evenings together they, with Margaret's assistance,

wrestled with the bewildering intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open confession of helplessness, and

her heroic attempts to overcome her defects, made irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little

But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if atonement there be for such a weakness, by the

ample strength of her endowments in those branches of learning in which imagination and artistic sensibility

play any large part. And a far larger part, and far more important, do these Divine gifts play than many wise

educationists conceive. The lessons in history, in geography, and in reading ceased to be mere memory tasks

and became instinct with life. The whole school would stay its ordinary work to listen while the teacher told

tales of the brave days of old to the history class, or transformed the geography lessons into excursions

among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. But it was in the reading lessons that her artistic

talents had full play. The mere pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents in the way of expression

of thought and emotion. After a whole week of drilling which she would give to a single lesson, she would

arrest the class with the question, "What is the author seeing?" and with the further question, "How does he

try to show it to us?" Reading, to her, consisted in the ability to see what the author saw and the art of telling

In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every blot might become an occasion of humiliation

to teacher and pupils alike. "Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!" she would cry, rubbing out with

infinite care and pains the blot, and rubbing in the horror of such a defilement being paraded before the eyes

Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, neither wide nor far extended, but it was

thoroughly well trodden. As a consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came around both teacher

and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar with the path and so accustomed to the vision of the onlooking

public that they faced the ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth whatever of knowledge or

A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of fall wheat equally impossible, filled the

school with the parents and friends of the children. The minister and the trustees were dutifully present. Of

the mill people Dick and his mother appeared, Dick because his mother insisted that a student should show

interest in the school, his mother because Dick refused to go a step without her. Barney came later, not

because of his interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to himself, conscious of the need of a reason,

because there was nothing much else to do. The presence of "Maine" Jabe might be taken as the high water

mark of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new teacher and her methods.

The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly flawless exhibition. That exception appeared

in the Euclid of the entrance class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. The arithmetic, which

dealt chiefly with problems of barter and sale of the various products of the farm, was lightly and deftly

passed over. The algebra class was equally successful. In the Euclid class it seemed as if the hitherto

unbroken success would come to an unhappy end in the bewilderment and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from

whom the minister had asked a demonstration of the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor Phoebe's

bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, for in placing the figure upon the board with the letters

designating the isosceles triangle he made the fatal blunder of setting the letter B at the right hand side of the

base instead of at its proper place at the left, as in the book. The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring

the figure upon the board and depending entirely upon her memory, soon plunged both the minister and

herself into confusion hopeless and complete. But the quick eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty,

and, going to the board, she erased the unfamiliar figure, saying, as she did so, in her gentle appealing voice,

"Wait, Phoebe. You are quite confused, I know. We shall wipe the board clean and begin all over." She

placed the figure upon the board with the designating letters arranged as in the book. "Now, take your time,"

she said with deliberate emphasis. "Let A, B, C be an isosceles triangle." And thus, with her feet set firmly

upon the familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through that desperate maze of angles and triangles with an ease,

speed, and dexterity that elicited the wonder and admiration of all present, the minister, good man, included.

Upon Barney, however, who understood perfectly what had happened, the incident left a decidedly

unpleasant impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the mathematical exercises as a whole awakened within

When the reading classes were under review the school passed from the atmosphere of the superficial to that

of the real. Never had such reading been heard in that or in any other common school. The familiar singsong

monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in its place a real and vivid picturing of the scenes described or

The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and singing which closed the day. Here the artistic

gifts of the teacher had full scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By some

marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so that for her chiefly, if not entirely, they

recited or sang. In the singing, which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day was complete. A

single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs, hitherto unheard in that community, a rollicking negro

chorus; and, at the last, "for the children and the mothers," the teacher said, one soft lullaby in which for the

first time the teacher's voice was heard, the low, vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their

lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values that cut out the speeches and dismissed

the school in the ordinary way. The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees, parents,

and all crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air of shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant

"Isn't she a wonder?" cried Dick. "What has she done to those little blocks? Why, they don't seem the same

"In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for a while," continued Dick.

"Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered herself cleverly."

"Yes, indeed," said Dick, with a slight laugh. "That was a clever bit of work on the part of the teacher."

"Do you hear the conceit of him?" said his mother indignantly, "and Margaret there can show all of you the

"Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But whatever you say, the reciting and singing were

good. Even little Link Young was quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in his life is

"We will just wait a year," said his mother. "It is a new broom that sweeps clean."

As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently been pondering Dick's words, said, "Well,

Mrs. Boyle, we have had a delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And after all it

is a great matter that the children should be taught to read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor

thing would seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take Dugald over his

mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance." At which remark the painful feeling which the

reciting and singing had caused Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater poignancy.

But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that, at all costs, the teacher's services must be

retained. For once, the trustees realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon the sole

qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment

they chose for the securing of the teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were moved to

immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part to leave the matter of re engagement an open

question. On all hands, however, they were applauded as having done a good stroke of business when, there

and then, they closed their bargain with the teacher, although at a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever

Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a squarecut chin, the jaw and chin doing for

his face what a ridge and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of character, abiding,

firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and

press it. He would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult the only authority

available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney

himself, with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose briefly, almost defiantly, as if

expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an hour

and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when the boy refused it.

"What do I want with money?" cried the doctor. He had lost his only son three years before. "There's only my

wife. And she'll have plenty. Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my boy lived,

God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But" Here the doctor snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting

"No," shouted the doctor again; "he can be a confounded fool and work up by himself, a terrible handicap,

The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like a ledge of granite and the chin like a

cliff. "You can, eh? Hanged if I don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me." The

"Oh, you can!" he cried impulsively, "and I'll be awfully thankful. You can tell me what books to get and

sometimes explain, perhaps, if you have time." His face went suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking

The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first time treated him as an equal. He explained

in detail the course of study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he waved his

"Now, there are my books," he cried; "use them and ask me what you will. It will brush me up. And I'll take

you to see my cases and, by God's help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got the fingers and

the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. The physician can't see further below the skin than

anyone else. He guesses and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing and

experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!" Here the doctor rose and began to pace the floor.

"There's no guess in the knife point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at that boy Kane,

died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy

died. At the postmortem"here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice almost to a whisper while

he bent over the boy"at the postmortem the knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The

discovery was made too late." These were the days before appendicitis became fashionable. "Now, listen to

me," continued the doctor, even more impressively, "I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment

might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long, the removal of the diseased part, a few

stitches, and in a couple of weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great surgeon!

But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these," and he held up a coarse, heavy hand; "I haven't the touch.

And besides, He brought me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which settled the

surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the nerveplenty of men have thatbut you've also

got the fingers, which few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical

ingenuityI've seen your machines, boyyou can be a great surgeon! But you must know your subject.

You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else

aside!" he cried, waving his great hands. "And remember!"here his voice took a solemn tone"let nothing

share your heart with your knife! Leave the women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts

the mind, disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the finances. For you, let there be

one woman, your mother, at least till you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time

at your command." At these words the boy's face, which had caught the light and glow of the old man's

The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced him, almost as if expecting a blow.

For a moment they stood steadfastly regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes

"Now, by the Lord that made you and me!" he said, "we were meant for a team, and a team we'll make. I'll

"We'll change work." The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. "I want fall ploughing done and my cordwood

"I'll do it!" cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded his face. At last he saw his path.

"Here," said the doctor, taking down a book, "here's your Gray." And turning the leaves, "Here's what

happened to Ben Fallows. Read this. And here's the treatment," pulling down another book and turning to a

page, "Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. There's no money in it, anyway, and you can't kill him. He

only needs three things, cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that

Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you, grind you, and you'll go for your first

"Three years!" snorted the doctor, "three fiddlesticks! You can do this first examination by next spring."

The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in its cracks and canyons.

"Becausewell, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's awful clever." Pride mingled with the

tenderness in look and tone. "Mother wants him to be a minister, and," he added after a pause, "I do, too."

The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few minutes, and then came back. He put

his hands on the boy's shoulders. "I understand, boy," he said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender

tones, "I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a minister if you want, but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's

"The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him," he announced. "He is going to show me the dressings, and

he says all he wants is cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get

good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than I can tell."

"Good cheer!" cried Dick. "He'll not lack for company. How many has she now, mother? A couple of dozen,

"Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow the figure to remain at that."

"Indeed, I am thinking it will not," said his mother, speaking with the confidence of intimate knowledge.

"Well," replied Dick, with a judicial air, "it's a question whether it's worse to defy the fate that lurks in that

unlucky number, or to accept the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive tree."

"Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific Mrs. Fallows!"

"Listen to me," cried Dick, "I've got an inspiration. I'll undertake the 'good cheer.' I'll impress the young

ladies into this worthy service. Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, mother, can't

"In that case the 'food department' is secure," said Dick; "already I see Ben Fallows making rapid strides

It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three departments in full operation. With

great tact he succeeded in making Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in

Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger of microbes, the dread of which was

"Insects? Is it bugs you mean?" Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely hostile. "I want to tell yeh, young sir,

ther' hain't no bugs in this 'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. John sez to me, sez 'e,

'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I sez to 'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been

It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes was no impeachment of the most

scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that these mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest

circles, that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated his "good food" department,

soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with the diplomatic information that in surgical cases such as Ben's

Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that furnished by the "good cheer" department.

This was left entirely in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the enthusiasm of a

devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he

could persuade Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other duties, and, besides, she had

associated herself more particularly with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat

unappetising though entirely substantial meals with delicacies more suited to the sickroom. Dick, however,

insisted that with all that Iola and himself in the "good cheer" department and Barney in what he called the

"scavenging" department could achieve, there was still need of Margaret's presence and Margaret's touch.

Hence, before the busy harvest time came upon them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and,

relieving her of the duty of getting to sleep little fiveyearold Tom, with whom he was first favourite, he

would carry her off to the Fallows household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them.

Altogether the "young doctor," as Ben called him, had reason to be proud of the success he was achieving

with his first patient. The amputation healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a few weeks

Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in his praises of the "young doctor." It was the

"young doctor" who, by changing the bandages, had eased him of the intolerable pain which followed the

first dressing. It was the "young doctor" who had changed the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb,

"Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want," was Ben's final conclusion, "but fer me, the young doctor, sez I."

The "good cheer" department, while ostensibly for Ben's benefit, wrought profit and cheer for others besides.

What Dick got of it no one but himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent frankness, kept the

veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed in his new work, with its wealth of new ideas and his

new ambitions, the "good cheer" department was chiefly valued as an important factor in Ben's progress. To

Iola it brought what to her was the breath of life, admiration, gratitude, affection. But Margaret perhaps more

than any, not even excepting Ben himself, gathered from this department what might be called its

byproducts. The daily monotony of her household duties bore hard upon her young heart. Ambitions long

cherished, though cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, could not be quite abandoned without a

sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the work of the department in the monotony of her life, the

companionship of its members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her keen sense of humour

by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irresistibly cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the extra

It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick with Margaret and Iola were making one of

their customary calls at the Fallows cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some weeks, as she was

"I have come to say goodbye," she announced as she shook hands with Mrs. Fallows.

"Goodbye, dear 'eart," said that lady, throwing up her hands aghast; "art goin' to leave us fer good?"

"No, nothing so bad," said Dick; "only for a few weeks, Mrs. Fallows. The section couldn't do without her,

and the trustees have decided that they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a string on her."

"Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' to leave. My little Joe was that

"I don't wonder," said Dick. "Why, if the trustees hadn't engaged her, as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the

"An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!" said Mrs. Fallows, picking up a twin from the doorway to allow Iola and

Dick to pass into the inner room. "Ther' now," she continued to Margaret, who was moving about putting

things to rights, "don't yeh go tirin' of yerself. I know things is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things

piles up terr'ble, an' I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to straighten 'em up. Jest look at that 'ouse! I sez

to John, sez I, 'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! it's all I

kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep the rags on their backs.' But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh

worry, lass, 'bout the rags. Keep 'em full,' sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back,' sez 'e. That's 'is way.

'E's halways acomin' over somethin' cleverlike, is John. Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!" she

continued in an awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich melody from the next room. "An' Ben is

fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! it's a sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, abreakin' of 'is leg an' amutilatin'

of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me som'at more'n my share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear

"Yes. Since the young doctorthat's w'at Benny calls 'imchange 'em. Oh, that's a clever young man!

Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the young doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see," continued Mrs. Fallows confidentially, and again

lowering her voice impressively, "yeh see, 'is leg 'urt most orful at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's in me

toes, mother, it's in me toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, 'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.' 'That's w'ere it 'urts,'

sez 'e, 'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes right up an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right

enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e tells as 'ow 'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg

hamputated, poor soul! an' 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away. Some doctors don't

bury 'em, an' they do say," and here Mrs. Fallows' voice dropped quite to a whisper, "as 'ow that keeps 'em

sore all the longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes the doctor 'isself, an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow

Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is toes. 'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor surprisedlike. 'Tain't yer toes, Ben.'

'Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite sharp, 'an' it's in me toes the feelin' is.' Then father 'e

spoke up. 'E's a terr'ble man fer hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them toes buried, if I might be so

bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' sez

father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is

sister's boy. 'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks

father quite polite. 'It's the feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is toes if 'e hain't got no

toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, ''is feelin's hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. 'W'en I

'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez the doctor

calmlike, 'it hain't in yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez

Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an'

I'd like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, Benny, that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the

doctor, puttin' 'im off. But father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, 'Don't 'is mind know 'e hain't got

no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind feel 'is toes 'urt w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is

toes, I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is

mind?' sez father. 'But 'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind or henywheres else.'

'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin' 'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes

used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to

ketch 'is eye to make 'im stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't 'urt 'em, I don't git no

feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need no toes

to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes akeepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell

yeh it hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt the

nerves sends word up to the brain jest like the telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them nerves,

doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them toes is gone them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.'

'But the nerve feelin' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the feelin's in the nerves, an' if

ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is gone.

'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an' I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it

right now.' 'Well, well. All right, doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble inquirin' mind, an' I jest

wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look

a'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph wire. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an'

'ere's a station we'll call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll say, 'as a call X Y Z,

an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's Bradford aspeakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd know

somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut

up! will yeh?' sez the doctor, 'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line yeh can give that Bradford

call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford call houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an'

'e seemed quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do along the line. Now ther's

Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds up to the brain, "Toes! Toes! Toes!" an' all 'long that toe line yeh

can git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time, then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many

of them nerves?' ''Undreds of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? calves? shins?' 'Yes,

all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, an'

heverythin', all them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not seein' w'ere father was at.

'Then,' sez 'e quicklike, 'w'at makes 'em all shout "Toes?" W'y don't the brain 'ear "Hankle" or "'Eel"?' Then

the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself,

an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I 'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor up an' 'e sez,

'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh

see, Mr. Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very well,' sez 'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it

would 'a' saved a lot of trouble if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im thinkin' 'ard, an'

w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, 'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not

'eels or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits ashoutin' in this little 'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or

me. Ther's thirteen of 'em. An' I suppose w'en them toes gits ashoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of hankle, or

'eel, but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' 'e sez, as 'e druv' away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh

"But," said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, "I do talk. But poor Benny, 'e kep' acryin' with 'is toes till that

ther' blessed young lady come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing, poor Benny 'e

fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to sleep, the first 'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e hain't

ever done talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' a lovely pair they'd make, poor souls."

Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time

"Well, goodbye," said Mrs. Fallows. "Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git back. Goodbye, Miss," she said to

Margaret. "It does seem to give me a fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights."

It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for bed that Margaret had time to analyse

"It can't be that I am jealous," she said. "Of course, she is far more attractive than I am and why shouldn't

everyone like her better?" She shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. "Do you know, you are as mean as

"It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound, "it's no wonder that she could catch

poor Ben and his mother with a voice like that. Yes, andand the rest of them, too."

In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her

"My! you are lovely!" she cried. "No wonder everyone loves you." With a sudden rush of penitent feeling for

"Lovely! Nonsense!" she exclaimed, surprised at this display of affection so unusual for Margaret, "I am not

half so lovely as you. When I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children to care

"Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and mending. Anybody could do it. No one

would ever notice me. Wherever you go the people just fall down and worship you." As she spoke she let

down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, a goldenyellow cloud, about her face and

"You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your hair is lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your face has

something, what is it? I can't tell you. But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,"

she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, "I can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing.

Some day I shall make people listen. But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would

"What nonsense!" said Margaret brusquely. "It is not your voice alone; it is your beauty and something I

cannot describe, something in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft

"But the women don't care for me," said Iola, with the same slow, thoughtful voice. "If I wanted very much I

believe I could make them. But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me."

"Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "You ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this

"Now," continued Iola, ignoring her remark, "the women all like you, and the men, too, in a way."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "When you're around the boys don't look at me."

"And Dick does," continued Iola, "and Barney." Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret

caught the glance, and, though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over her fair

"Pshaw!" she cried angrily, "those boys! Of course, they like me. I've known them ever since I was a baby.

Why, I used to go swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just likewell just like a boy, you

"Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a chance to be anything."

"Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But Barney, what will he be? Just a

"Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough," replied Margaret indignantly.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little place no one will ever hear of him. I

mean he'll never make any stir." To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the "unheard of." "And yet," she

But Margaret could bear this no longer. "What are you talking about? There are plenty of good men who are

"Oh," cried Iola quickly, "I didn't meanof course your father. Well, your father is a gentle man. But

"Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty

"Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And I want you to love me. I think I want

everyone to love me. I can't bear to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you." As she

spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around her neck. Margaret relented.

"Of course I love you," she said. "There," kissing her, "good night. Go to sleep or you'll lose your beauty."

But Iola clung to her. "Goodnight, dear Margaret," she said, her lips trembling pathetically. "You are the

only girl friend I ever had. I couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me."

"I never forget my friends," cried Margaret gravely. "And I never cease to love them."

"Oh, Margaret!" said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, "don't turn from me. No matter what comes,

"You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a child, "of course I will always love you.

"Goodnight," said Iola. "You know this is my last night with you for a long time."

"Not the very last," said Margaret. "We go to the Mill tomorrow night, you remember, and you come back

Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of a new life to Ben in more ways

than one. The old mill became a place of interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in

what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various laboursaving machines for churning, washing,

and appleparing, which, by Barney's invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the

Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a crutch, eager to make himself

useful, and soon he was not only "paying his board," as Barney declared, but "earning good wages as well."

The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It was with great difficulty that

Margaret had been persuaded to leave her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she

regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar pleasure, and among these was a

visit to the Mill and the Mill people. It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting

to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs you," he argued. "And Iola will not

come unless with you. Barney and I, weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment

of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you. You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's

quiet invitation and her anxious entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that

The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old flatbottomed boat seeking water lilies in

the pond, and partly in the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful delight to

Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall in harvest weather when, after the burning heat

of the day, the cool air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their work was done

the boys hurried to join the little group under the big willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the

big armchair, Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, Margaret with a book which

she pretended to read, old Charley smoking in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and

occasionally singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or plantation hymns. Of these

latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she

ever quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be a "foreign" and "feckless" sort of

instrument. But in spite of her there were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre

eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods on the other side while Iola sang some

Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and love songs of the North, to which his

mother had hushed him to sleep through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms of

David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock at first that he heard the Southern girl

with her "foreign instrument" try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him. Listening to

Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They

"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after Dick had been drilling Iola on some of

their finer shadings and cadences, "and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the same a

bit. They make me see different things and feel different things when your mother sings."

"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth, just the difference between eating your

mother's scones with rich creamy milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink."

"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the guitar. They are sweet and beautiful,

wonderful, but they are a different kind altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a

"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward Iola. "You would not be shaming your

"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. Indeed, I did not know you could sing."

"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew

"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he began to play that exquisite Highland

It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle

yield. Something in that tone touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached the

Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had the exquisite lilting note of the

Highland maids at their milking or of the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with a

penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the quaint turns and quavers and cadences that

a tune takes on with age. As she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in her lap, with

eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain and glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the

girl seated at her feet, while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's face, softened to tears.

"Oh, that is too lovely!" cried Iola, when the song was done, clapping her hands. "No, not lovely. That is not

the word. Sad, sad." She hid her face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, "I could never do

that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the song? What is it?" she cried, turning to Barney.

"It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside," said Ben Fallows. "There hain't no words fer it."

"Sing again," entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from her voice. "Sing just one more."

"This one, mother," said Barney, playing the tune, "your mother used to sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'."

"How often haunting the highest hilltop, I scan the ocean thy sail to see; Wilt come tonight, Love? wilt

come tomorrow? Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me? Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,

For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music upon them.

"No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work tomorrow for you. Aye, and for Margaret here."

Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. "Thank you," she said, lifting up her great, dark eyes to the old

"Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a sudden pity for the motherless girl.

For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget that afternoon.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," cried Dick, striking an attitude, "though the 'good cheer' department may

seem to have accomplished the purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived its

usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere of operations from which it cannot be

withdrawn without injury to all its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be

organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my humble self at its head. All who agree

"And you?" turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown about her, "how do you vote?"

"This member needs it too much"with a somewhat uncertain smile "to say anything but 'Aye'."

"Then," said Dick solemnly, "the 'good cheer' department is hereby and henceforth organised as a permanent

institution in the community here represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will continue in their

faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that loyalty to this institution will be its highest reward."

But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up for them all in that same

The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon

the haying, and close upon the fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring grain.

It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle boys. They had a common purse, and out of

that purse the payments on the mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little farm,

with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide a living for the family. Ordinarily the lads

worked for day's wages, the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous binders and

good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind something more ambitious.

"And who might they be?" asked his mother, always on the lookout for some nonsense from her younger son.

"Boyle and Fallowsor Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. Ben's starting with us Monday morning."

"Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I doubt, poor fellow; and, besides, I will be

"Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for us. He can sit on the reaper half a day, you

"If I cawn't keep the two of you ahumpin', though you are some pumpkins at bindin', I hain't worth my

"But, Barney," remonstrated his mother, "is he fit to go about that machine? Something might happen the

"I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be at hand all the time."

"And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? You will only be hurting yourselves."

"You watch us, mother," cried Dick. "We'll be after Ben like a dog after a coon."

"Indeed," said his mother. "I have heard that it takes four good men to keep up to a machine. It was no later

than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to follow up, the whole

"Huh!" grunted Dick scornfully, "I suppose so. Four like Fatty Morrison and that gang of his!"

"Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours," said his mother.

"It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine compliment, mother. Only wish someone could

"Indeed, and you would be the better of it," replied his mother compassionately, "with your bones sticking

It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much elevated, indeed, was he at the

prospect of entering into partnership with the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues which

poor Ben consciously lacked and to which, in the new spirit that was waking in him, he was beginning to

aspire. For the weeks spent under Barney's care and especially in the atmosphere of the Mill household had

quickened in Ben new motives and new ambitions. This Barney had noticed, and it was for Ben's sake more

than for their own that the boys had associated him with them in their venture of taking harvesting contracts.

And as the summer went on they found no reason to regret the new arrangement. But it was at the expense of

long days and hard days for the two boys following the reaper, and often when the day's work was done they

could with difficulty draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed, there were nights when Dick, hardly the equal

of his brother in weight and strength, lay sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while Barney from sympathy kept

anxious vigil with him. Morning, however, found them stiff and sore, it is true, but full of courage and ready

for the renewal of the longdrawn struggle which was winning for them not only very substantial financial

profits, but also high fame as workers. The end of the harvest found them hard, tough, full of nerve and fit for

any call within the limit of their powers. It was Ben who furnished the occasion of such a call being made

upon them. A rainy day found him at the blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting to be shod. The shop

was full of horses and men. A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. All odd jobs allowed to

Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre of a new interest and sympathy. In spite of

the sympathy, however, there was a disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, and whose

tongue took on a keener edge as his temper became more uncertain. Withal, he had a little man's tendency to

brag. Today, however, though conscious of the new interest centring in him, and though visibly swollen

with the importance of his new partnership with the Boyle boys, he was exhibiting a dignity and selfcontrol

quite unusual, and was, for that very reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary.

Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or "Fatty" Morrison, as he was colloquially designated. Sam

was one of four sons of "Old King" Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the district.

On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether

goodnatured father, the "Old King." But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect and

esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy it became ridiculous and at times offensive.

The young man had been entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid descriptions

of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of himself or some of the members of his

distinguished family, the latest and most notable achievement being the "slashing down and tying up" of a

tenacre field of oats by the four of them, the "Old King" himself driving the reaper.

"Yes, sir!" shouted Sammy. "And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off that table! You bet!"

Sam regarded him steadfastly. "And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows, may I ask?" he inquired with fine

"I hain't been talking much for the last hour." In moments of excitement Ben became uncertain of his h's. "I

used to talk more when I wasn't so busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. We hain't had time.

When we're on a job," continued Ben, as the crowd drew near to listen, "we hain't got time fer talkin', and

"You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," said Alec Murray. "There ain't much talkin' when you git

Ben gave a snort. "Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men." He had no love for any of the Morrisons, whose

Suddenly Ben's selfcontrol vanished. "Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!" he cried, facing suddenly upon Sam.

"Them's the two, if yeh want to know. Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to

see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a workin', they do. They don't wait to cool hoff before they drink fer fear

they git foundered, as if they was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there." Ben threw his h's

Ben grew suddenly quiet. "Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess," he growled.

"What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised," said the "Old King," addressing the crowd generally.

"Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said Sam. He stood in no awe of his father.

"Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the matter, Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see

you about, an' more'n that, we're glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' to

"Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled at the "Old King's" kindly tone toward Ben. "He's blowin' round

"Well, that would be a little strong," said the "Old King." "Why, it took my four boys a good day to tie up ten

"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," said Ben, in what could hardly be called a respectful tone.

"Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres in a day, so just quit yer blowin' an' talk sense."

"And I tell you, Ben," replied the "Old King," with emphasis, "your boysand they're good boys, toocan't

tie no ten acres in a day. They've got the chance of tryin' on that ten acres of wheat on my west fifty. If they

"They wouldn't take it," answered Ben regretfully. "They can do it, fast enough."

Then the "Old King" quite lost patience. "Now, Ben, shut up! You're a blowhard! Why, I'd bet any man the

But the "Old King" was too much of a sport to go back upon his offer. "It's big odds," he said. "But I'll stick

"I know the field," said Alec. "But I'm willing to risk it. The winner pays the wages. How long a day?"

"Make it eight, then," said the "Old King." "And we'll bring it off on Monday. We're thrashing that day, but

"There's jest one thing," interposed Ben, "an' that is, the boys mustn't know about this."

"Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney wouldn't let 'im risk it. He's right careful of that boy."

After full discussion next Sabbath morning by those who were loitering, after their custom, in the churchyard

waiting for the service to begin, it was generally agreed that the "Old King" with his usual shrewdness had

"put his money on the winning horse." Even Alec Murray, though he kept a bold face, confided to his bosom

friend, Rory Ross, that he "guessed his cake was dough, though they would make a pretty big stagger at it."

"If Dick only had Barney's weight," said Rory, "they would stand a better chance."

"I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter on the knoll in the centre. If I can only get them goin' their best

clipI'll have to work it some way. I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's such an ambitious little beggar

he'd follow till he bust. The first thing," continued Alec, "is to get them a good early start. I'll have a talk with

As a result of his conversation with Ben it was hardly daylight on Monday morning when Mrs. Boyle,

"You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you have to go to Morrison's today. Here's Ben with the horses

Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with the clock. Barney concluded something must be wrong and

routed Dick up, and with such good purpose did they hasten through breakfast that in an hour from the time

the boys were called they were standing in the field waiting for Ben to begin the day's work.

After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray appeared on the field. "I'm going to shock," he announced.

"They've got men enough up at the thrashing, an' the 'Old King' wants to get this field in shock by tomorrow

afternoon so he can get it thrashed, if you hustlers can get it down by then." Alec was apparently in great

"Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. I guess I'm after you today, remember."

"Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh?" said Ben, who thoroughly understood Alec's game.

"Don't you fret yourself," replied Dick. "If you shock all that's tied today you'll need to hang your shirt on

"Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too far behind. You tie quicker than him, I hear."

"Oh, I don't know," said Dick modestly, though quite convinced in his own mind that he could.

"Did you never have a tussle?" inquired Alec, snatching up a couple of sheaves in each arm and setting them

in their places in the shock with a quick swing, then stepping off briskly for others.

"I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself," he suggested cunningly to Dick. "When a fellow isn't very

strong he's got to be careful." This was Dick's sensitive point. He was not content to do a man's work in the

"Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me," he said, taking Alec's bait. "I've worked with him all harvest and I'm

alive yet." Unconsciously Dick's pace quickened, and for the next few minutes Barney was left several

"He's just foolin' with you, Dick," jeered Alec. "He wouldn't hurt you for the world."

Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his sly suggestion of superiority now to one and again to the

other, he put both boys upon their mettle, and before they were aware they were going at a racing pace,

though neither would acknowledge that to the other. Alec kept following them close, almost running for his

sheaves, flinging a word of encouragement now to one, now to the other, shouting at Ben as he turned the

corners, and by every means possible keeping the excitement at the highest point. But he was careful not to

overdrive his men. By a previous arrangement and without serious difficulty he had persuaded Teenie Ross,

who had come to assist the Morrison girls at the threshing, to bring out a lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For

half an hour they sat in the long grass in the shade of a maple tree eating the lunch which Dick at least was

"I'm going to catch you fellows," he said, "if I've to take off my shirt to do it."

Dick was quick to respond and again set off at full speed. But the grain was heavier than Alec had counted

upon, and when the noon hour had arrived he estimated that the grain was not more than one third down. A

full hour and a half he allowed his men for rest, cunningly drawing them off from the crowd of threshers to a

quiet place in the orchard where they could lie down and sleep, waking them when time was up that there

should be no loss of a single precious moment. As they were going out to the field Alec suggested that

instead of coming back for supper at five, according to the usual custom, they should have it brought to them

"It's a long way up to the house," he explained, "and the days are getting short." And though the boys didn't

But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, when the threshers knocked off work for the day and sauntered

down to the field where the reaping was going on, it looked as if the "Old King" were to win his bet.

"Keep out of this field!" yelled Alec, as the men drew near; "you're interferin' with our work. Come, get out!"

"Get away from here, I tell you!" cried Alec. "You line up along the fence and we'll show you how this thing

Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men retired from the field. The long shadows of the evening were

falling across the field. The boys were both showing weariness at every step they took. Alec was at his wit's

end. The grain was all cut, but there was still a large part of it to bind. He determined to take the boys into his

confidence. He knew all the risk there was in this step. Barney might refuse to risk an injury to his brother. It

was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over to the boys, he told them the issue at stake.

"Boys," he said, "I don't want you to hurt yourselves. I don't care a dern about the money. I'd like to beat 'Old

King' Morrison and I'd like to see you make a record. You've done a big day's work already, and if you want

"Quit!" cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's story. "What time have we left?"

"Come along! I can stand it and I know you can." And off he set again at racing pace and making no attempt

In half an hour there were still left them, taking two swaths apiece, the two long sides and the two short ends.

"Yes, boys," cried the "Old King," who, with the crowd, had drawn near, "you've done a big day's work.

"Not yet," cried Dick. "We'll put in the half hour at any rate. Come on, Barney! Never mind your rake!"

His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were ablaze with light, and but for his pale face there was no sign

of weariness about him. He flung away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the sheaf together, caught it

"We'll show them waltz time, Barney," he called, springing toward the next sheaf. "One"at the word he

snatched up and made the band, "two"he passed the band around the sheaf, kicking it at the same time into

shape, "three"he drew and knotted the band, shoving the end in with his thumb. After him went Barney.

One twothree! and a sheaf was done. Onetwothree! and so from sheaf to sheaf. It took them

fifteen minutes to go down the long side. Dick, who had the inside, finished and sprang to his place at the

"Fifteen minutes left, boys! I believe you're going to do it!" At this Ben gave a yell.

"Double up, Dick!" cried Barney, carrying one sheaf to the next and tying them both together. Dick followed

Barney's example, but here his brother's extra strength told in the race. Close after them came the crowd, Alec

"Two minutes for that end, boys!" cried Alec, as they reached the corner. "You're goin' to do it, my hearties!

You're goin' to do it!" They had thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end.

"They can't do it, Alec," said the "Old King." "They'll hurt themselves. Call them off!"

Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they tied together, Barney gradually gaining by the doubling

"One minute and a half, boys, if you can stand it!" cried Alec, as they reached the last corner. "One minute

There remained five sheaves on the outer of Barney's two swaths, two on the inner of Dick's. In all, nine for

Barney, six for Dick. The sheaves were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, Barney doubled the

first two, the second two, the third two, and putting the last three together swung in upon Dick's swath where

Before he spoke, Dick flung himself on his last two sheaves, crying, "Out of the way there!" snatched his

band, passing it around the sheaf, tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood with his hands on his knees, his

For a few minutes the men went wild. Barney stepped to Dick's side, and patting him on the shoulder, said,

"That's what you were!" cried the "Old King," slapping Dick on the back, "but there's the greatest day's work

ever done in these parts. The wheat's yours," he said, turning to Alec, "but begad! I wish it was goin' to them

"An' that's where it is going," said Alec, "every blamed sheaf of it, to Ben's gang."

"Why, don't you know it was for you I took the bet?" said Alec, angry that he should be balked in his good

"We'll take our wages," repeated Barney in a tone that settled the controversy. "The wheat is not ours."

"Then it ain't mine," said Alec, disgusted, remembering in how great peril his $50 had been.

"Confound the boy!" cried the "Old King." "What'll we do with the wheat? I say, we'll give it to Ben; he's had

"No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" said Ben, stumping over to Barney's side. "I stand with the boss. I take

"Well, doggone you all! Will you take double pay, then? There's two days' good work there. And the rest

we'll give to the church. Good thing the minister ain't here or he'd kick, too!"

"But," added the "Old King," turning to his son Sam, "after this you crawl into your shell when there's any

The mill lane was prinked with all the June flowers. Over the snake fence massed the clover, red and white.

Through the rails peeped the thistle bloom, pink and purple, and higher up above the top rail the white crest

of the dogwood slowly nodded in the breeze this sweet summer day. In the clover the bumblebees, the

crickets, and the grasshoppers boomed, chirped, crackled, shouting their joy to be alive in so good a place and

on so good a day. Above, the sky was blue, pure blue, and all the bluer for the specks of cloud that hung,

stillpoised like whitewinged birds, white against the blue. Last evening's rain had washed the world clean.

The sky, the air, the flowers, the clover, red and white, the kindly grass that ran green everywhere under foot,

the dusty road, all were washed clean. In the elm bunches by the fence, in the maples and thorns, the birds,

their summer preoccupations forgotten at the bidding of this new washed day, recalled their spring songs and

In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, and down this flowerprinked, songfilled, clean washed,

grassy lane stepped Dick this summer morning, stepped with the spring and balance of the welltrained

athlete, stepped with the step of a man whose heart makes him merry music. A cleanlooking man was Dick,

harmonious with the day and with the lane down which he stepped. Against the grey of his suit his hands, his

face, and his neck, where the negligee shirt fell away wide, revealing his strong, full curves spreading to the

shoulders, all showed ruddy brown. He was a man good to look upon, with his springy step, his tan skin, his

clear eye, but chiefly because out of his clear eye a soul looked forth clean and unafraid upon God's good

From his three years of 'varsity life he came back unspoiled to his boyhood's love of the open sky and of all

things under it. He had just come through a great year in college, his third, the greatest in many ways of the

college course. His class had thrust him into a man's place of leadership in that world where only manhood

counts, and he had "made good." In the literary, in the gym, on the campus he had made and held high place,

and on the class lists, in spite of his many distractions, he had ranked a double first. Best of all, it filled him

with warm gratitude to remember that none of his fellows had grudged him any of his good things. What a

decent lot they were! It humbled him to think of their pride in him. He would not disappoint them. Noblesse

At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and here the pain that had been running below his

consciousness, like the minor strain in rich music, came to the top. This was Barney's spot. At this spot

Barney always made him pause to look back upon the old mill in its frame of beauty. Poor Barney! Twice he

had gone down to the exams, and twice he had failed. Of all in the home circle only Dick could understand

the full bitterness of the cup of humiliation that his brother had put silently to his lips and drained. To his

mother, the failure brought no surprise, and she would have been glad enough to have him give up "his notion

of being a doctor and be content with the mill." She had no ambitions for poor Barney, who was "a quiet lad

and welldoing enough," an encomium which stood for all the virtues removed from any touch of genius.

She was not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly understand how deep the shame had gone into his

proud, reserved heart. His father did not talk about it, but carried him off to look at some of the mill

machinery which had gone wrong, and it was only by a gentler tone in his voice that Barney knew that his

father understood. But Dick, with his fuller knowledge of college life, realized as none other of them did the

And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Barney's pain became his anew. The causes of his failure were not

far to seek. "He had no chance!" said Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking with gloomy eyes

upon the scene of beauty before him. Things had changed since old Doctor Ferguson's time. The scientific

basis of medicine was coming to its place in medical study, and the old doctor's contempt for these

newfangled notions had wrought ill for Barney. Dick remembered how he had gone, hot with indignation

for his brother, to the new English professor in chemistry, whose papers were the terror of all pass men and,

indeed, all honour men who stuck too closely to the textbook. He remembered the Englishman's drawling

contempt as, after looking up Barney's name and papers, he dismissed the matter with the words, "He knows

nothing whatever about the subject, couldn't conduct the simplest experiment, don't you know." Poor Barney!

the ancient and elementary chemistry of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the remotest affinity to that

which Professor Fish expected. Dick was glad this morning that he had had sense enough to hold his tongue

in the professor's presence. It comforted him to recall the generous enthusiasm with which Dr. Trent, the most

"Oh! Fish be hanged!" the doctor had answered, with the fine contempt of a specialist in practical work for

the theorist in medicine. He has some idiotic notions in his head that he plucks men for not knowing. I don't

say they are not necessary, but useful chiefly for examination purposes. Send your brother down. Send him

down. For if ever I saw an embryonic surgeon, he's one! When he comes, bring him to me."

"He'll come," Dick had answered, his face hot to think that it was for his sake Barney had remained grinding

"And he's going this fall," said Dick aloud, "or no 'varsity for me." He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was

from his football comrade, young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to Barney and himself positions

in one of the lumber mills far up the Ottawa, where, by working overtime, there was a chance of making $100

a month and all found. "And we'll make it go," said Dick. "There's $300 apiece for us, and that's more than

we want. Poor old chap!" he continued, musing aloud, "he'll get his chance at last. Besides, we'll get him

A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. "That girl" was Iola. The night before, as they were

driving home in the growing dark, with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother a

wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an understanding of their mutual love. Dick

remembered this morning, and he would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken, that

had smitten him as he cried, "Oh, Barney! is it possible?" Then, as Barney had gone on to explain how it had

come about, almost apologizing, as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a gleam of

hope, had cried, "We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help you this summer." And then again the

inevitableness of what had taken place had come over him at Barney's reply: "But, Dick, I don't want to get

out of it." At that moment Dick's world changed. No longer was he first with his brother. Iola had taken his

place. In vain Barney, guessing the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, almost piteous, appeal that

Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick

word of bitter reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now that he had said

nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be

quite fair to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. "It's that confounded voice of hers, and

her eyes, and her whole getup. She's got something diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if he had gone

too far, he continued, still musing aloud, "She's good enough, I guess, but not for Barney." That was one of

the bitter things that had survived the night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal

of high manhood ever since he could think. "But there is no one good enough for Barney," he continued,

"exceptyesthere is oneMargaretshe is good enougheven for Barney." As Barney among men, so

Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his life he had put these two together. Even as

a little fellow, when saying his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always come

Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney in her relentless devotion to duty; she

had Barney's fine sense of honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than anything

else, the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain,

It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him this morning. Even last night, after

the first few moments of pain, the thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness,

and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made him tighten his arm hard about his

brother, had been followed by that feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the thought of

Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret,

rejoiced in her high spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never for himself, always

for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a

timid fluttering of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to Margaret for him stood

open. For himself, now, he might love her. With such marvellous swiftness does love work that, when his

mother bade him go "pay his duty to the minister," his heart responded with so great a leap of joy that he

found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those about him, sure that they must have noticed.

And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make acquaintance of her. He wondered how

she would greet him and he wondered what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? He glanced

at his watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She might come for a little stroll in

the woods at the back of the manse, but he would say nothing to her to day. He would wait and watch to

read her heart. He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go on his way. A gleam of white

through the snake fence against the pink of the clover caught his eye. Under the thorn treehe knew the spot

welland upon the grass, lay a girl. "By Jove!" he whispered, his heart stopping, thumping, then rushing, "it

is Margaret." He would creep up and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He was close to her.

He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm under her head, the other flung wide in an abandonment of

weariness. He stood gazing down upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin and weary. The lines about her

mouth and eyes spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older she was than he had thought! "Poor girl!

she has been having a hard time! It's a shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!" At the thought

of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great pity stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love

that had ever filled his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for his brother's rights, suddenly finding

its new channel, burst forth and swept like a torrent through his being. He lost grip of himself and, before he

knew, he had bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her lips. A long shivering sigh shook her. "Barney," she

murmured, a slight smile playing about her lips. She opened her eyes. A moment she lay looking up into

"You! Dick!" she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling in her voice. "Youyou dare to"

"Yes, Margaret," said Dick, aghast at what he had done, "I couldn't help it. You looked so sweet and so sad,

"You," cried the girl again, as if she could find no other word. "What did you say?"

"I said, Margaret," he replied, gathering his courage together, "that I love you so much."

"Last night?" she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now grown pale, but illuminated with a light she had

"Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret," he hurried to say, "but only last night I found out I might

love you. I never let myself go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney" At the mention of his

brother's name, the face that had been white with a look almost of horror flamed quickly with red. "Last

night," continued Dick, wondering at the change in her, "I found out, and this morning, Margaret, the whole

world is just humming with joy because I know I may love you all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined

a fellow could hold so much love or so much joy. Do you understand me, Margaret? Do you knew what I am

talking about?" Margaret's face had grown pale and haggard, as with pain, and her eyes were wide open with

"Yes, Dick," she said slowly, "I know. I have just been learning." The brave lips quivered, but she kept firm

hold of herself. "I know all the joy andall the pain." She stopped short at the look in Dick's face. The

buoyant, glad light flickered and went out. A look of perplexity, of great fear, and then of desolation, like that

on her own face, spread over his. He knew her too well to misunderstand her meaning. She leaned over to

him, still kneeling in the grass. "Oh, Dick, dear!" she cried, taking his hand in hers with a mothertouch and

tone, "must you suffer, too? Oh, don't say you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!" Her voice

"Do you say I must?" he answered in a hoarse tone. "I love you with all my heart."

"Yes, I will," he said, recovering his voice, "because it's true. And I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last

let myself love you. It was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, you know."

"I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so for Barney. But last night"here a quick

flash of joy came into his face at the memory"I found out, and this morning I could hardly help shouting it

as I came along to you." He paused, and, leaning toward her, he took her hand. "Don't you think, Margaret,

you might perhaps some time." The piteous entreaty in his voice broke down the girl's proud courage.

"Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!" she sobbed, "don't! Don't ask me!" Her sobs came tempestuously.

He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently said, "Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I

can't stand that, andwell, I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think about me. I'll get hold of

myself. There nowhush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that!" He held her close to him, caressing her till she

At length she drew away, saying, "I don't know why I should act like this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I

am tired. It has been a hard winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it was wonderful

music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me horrid," she went on hurriedly. "I wonder I am not

ashamed to tell you. But I never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you that, Dick, no

one knows." She sat up straight, her courage coming back. "I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know

you took me unaware." A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint flush touched her

pale cheek. "But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?"

Dick had been looking at her, wondering at her courage and selfcommand, but in his eyes a look of misery

She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, "Oh, Dick! must we go on and on like this?"

She pressed her hands hard upon her heart. "There's a sore, sore pain right here," she said. "Is there to be no

rest, no relief from it? It's been there for two years." She was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once more

"Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. Godyes, God will help us if He takes

"I know, Dick," she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, "there has been no one else for all these months,

"No, sit down and talk," replied Dick. He looked at his watch. "A quarter after ten," he said, in surprise. "Can

the whole world change in one little quarter of an hour?" he asked, looking up at her, "it was ten when I

"Come, Dick," she said again, "we'll talk another time, I can't trust myself just now. I was going to your

But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him as if he had been in some strange

land remote from this common life, and he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings.

She knew too well where he was. "No, Dick, I will not leave you here. Come, do." She went quickly to him,

kneeled down, put her arms about his neck and kissed him. "Help me, Dick," she whispered.

It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once, and then, as if seized with a frenzy

of passion, he kissed, again and again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse, passionate

tones, "I love you! I love you!" For a few moments she suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and

"Forgive me, Margaret," he cried brokenly, "I'm a great, selfish brute. I think only of myself. Now I'm ready

He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load, gave her his hand, and lifted her up,

and together they set off down the lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near.

They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it was, but suggesting in every detail the

artistic taste of its occupant. Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey corner, the

prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the

surroundings of luxurious art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room stood a piano

with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except

when intimate friends gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing the

mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It

"Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his gold medal."

"Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have seen him a few times in the hospital

"Yes," replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, "he is from the country, where I met him fiveyes, it is

actually fiveyears ago. So you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think you can hardly

call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his

profession as yet"this with a little bow to her visitor"but some day he will be great. And, besides, he is

"Of that I have no doubt," said the doctor, "seeing he is a friend of yours. But how are you going? Some

friends of mine are to be there and will be glad to call for you." The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of

"You are very kind," said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner to make the doctor conscious of his

"Friends?" inquired the doctor. "And who, may I ask?" There was an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but

"Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological

student, and a Miss Robertson. I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital."

"Nurse Robertson?" said Bulling. "Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a saint, isn't she?"

"A saint?" cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her voice. "Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest

"I should hardly have called her jolly," said the doctor, with an air of dismissing her.

"Oh, she is!" cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager enthusiasm. "You ought to have seen

her at home. Why, at sixteen years she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most

"Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country, and, to the surprise of everybody,

"Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, and, on the whole, she felt better to be

independent, and so here she has been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home, which

"It will be the usual thing," said the doctor, "the same circle crowding you, the same impossibility of getting a

"How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak to all one's friends. But, of course, one

can always plan one's time. How ever," she continued, "one can hardly expect to see much of the very

"Oh, rot!" said the doctor. "I say, can't we get off a little together? There are nice quiet nooks about the old

"Oh, doctor, how shocking!" But her eyes belied her voice, and the doctor departed with the lively

The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the students and the usual longsuffering

endurance on the part of the dean and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be the

orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body finding expression, now in college

songs, whose chief characteristic was the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way

of encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had to take part in the public proceedings,

and at intervals in wildly uproarious applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some favourite. At no

point was the fervour greater than when Barney was called to receive his medal. To the little group of friends

at the left of the desk, consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed as if the cheering that greeted

Barney's name was almost worthy of the occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the

difficulties he had to contend with in the early part of his course, of the perseverance and indomitable courage

the young man had shown, and the singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he had manifested in the

special line of study for which this medal was granted, the dead silence that pervaded the room was even

more eloquent than the tumult of cheers that followed Dr. Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney

Then someone called out, "What's the matter with old Carbuncle?" eliciting the usual vociferous reply, "He's

"By Jove," said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, "isn't that great? And the old boy deserves it every bit!"

But Margaret made no reply. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a spot of red in each

cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a moment, and he noticed that the large blue eyes were full of

"It's all right, little girl," he whispered, giving her hand a little pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her

face and the look in her eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat.

On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and joy, and as Barney reached his seat,

turning half around and in the face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full of pride

and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had endured for the last three years were quite worth

After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the little group about Barney.

"Congratulations, Boyle," he said, in the somewhat patronizing manner of a graduate of some years' standing

to one who holds his parchment in his hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new clothes,

Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's tone and his dislike of the man. It

angered Barney to observe the familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it made him

more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed to be pleased with his manner. Just now,

however, she was giving herself to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation of

him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words Dr. Bulling took himself off.

"Why, I am sure he seems very nice," said Iola, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"Nice!" said Barney contemptuously. "If you knew how the men speak of him about town you wouldn't call

"Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!" cried Iola, "for you know he's been a great friend to me. He has been very

kind. I am quite devoted to him." Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the smile which she gave

Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly because of the fact that Iola was soon

surrounded by a circle of her own admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling, who

finally, with bluff, goodnatured but almost rude aggressiveness, carried her off to the tearoom. It took all the

joy out of the day for Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of the afternoon

Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and his little coterie of friends.

And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little

stag dinner by the hospital staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the exertions of

Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into closer touch with each other the members of the

hospital staff, but also to be a kind of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical men in the city.

For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost as his assistant, and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the

formal proposition of an assistantship to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had been invited, and

young Drake also, who owed his parchment that day to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and perhaps

more to his steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and his large social connection

than for his professional standing, had been invited, was present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who

followed him about applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner was purely informal in

character, the menu well chosen, the wines abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result

that as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group about Bulling, became more and more

hilarious. Barney, who was drinking water and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his attention

divided between his conversation with Trent and the talk of Bulling, who, with his friends, sat across the

table. As this group became more boisterous, they absorbed to themselves the attention of the whole

company. Conscious of the prestige his wealth and social position accorded him, and inflamed by the wine he

was drinking, Bulling became increasingly offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories and songs became

more and more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of this kind, and it filled him with

disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no means inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's

tone. Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he was about to propose a breakup of

the party when he was arrested by a look of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend.

But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling. He had his glass in his hand.

"Here's to the Lane!" he was saying, "the sweetest little Lane in all the world!"

"She's divine!" replied Foxmore. "And what a voice! She'll make Canada famous some day. Where did you

"In church," replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of his followers. "That's right," he continued,

"heard her sing, set things in motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. Introduced her to a few

people, and there she is, the finest thing in her line in the city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear,

sweet little lane it is," he continued in a tone of affectionate proprietorship that made Barney grind his teeth in

"Oh," said Foxmore, "there's no lane but has a turning. And trust Bulling," he added coarsely, "for finding it

"Well," said Bulling, with a knowing smile, "this little Lane is straight. Of course there may be a slight

deflection. Nature's lines run in curves, you know." And again his wit provoked applauding laughter. But

"Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!" The words were plainly audible to every man in the room. A dead silence

"You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young lady. I say again you are a mean and

For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and flung glass and contents full in Bulling's

face. In an instant every man was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice.

"No hurry about this, boys," said Bulling quietly; "I'll make him eat his words before he's half an hour older."

Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. "Let me at him. He's a great knocker. Held the 'varsity

championship. You don't know anything about it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up." Dick had been

'varsity champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stern words.

"Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere tonight. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It

may take us an hour or it may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him."

Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease the doctor and to patch up the

"Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen," said Bulling; "it will not take more than two minutes, and then we can

The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to receive a heavy blow which hurled him

backward. It was plain he knew nothing of the game. It was equally plain that the doctor was entirely master

of it. Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, avoiding and sending in killing

blows, till at length bloody, dazed, panting, Barney had to lean against his friends to recover his wind and

"This is easy, boys," he smiled. "Now, you young whippersnapper," he continued, addressing Barney,

"perhaps you've had enough. Let me tell you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the Eternal, I'll send you

"Will you say you're a liar?" said Barney, facing his opponent again, and disregarding Dick's entreaties and

"Ah, quit it!" said the doctor contemptuously, "Come along, you fool, if you must have it!"

Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a heavy lefthander on the face which sent

him reeling backward, quickly following with his right and again with a last terrific blow upon the jaw of his

dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell with a crash upon the floor, and lay quiet. With a cry Dick sprang at

"Let him come," said Bulling, with a laugh, "I've a very fine assortment of the same kind. Families supplied

Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and Drake were trying to revive poor Barney,

"Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, someone," said Dr. Trent. "A more cowardly

But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed signs of reviving. It was some minutes,

however, before he could sit up. Meanwhile Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory.

"Here, Boyle," said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as Barney sat up, "a little more brandy and water."

For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing stupidly about. Then, as full consciousness

returned, cried out, "Where is he? He's not gone?" He seized the glass of brandy and water from Dr. Treat's

hands and drank it off. "Get me another," he said. "Is he gone?" he repeated, making an effort to rise.

At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud laughter, came from the lavatory. At once

Barney stood up, walked to the table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a minute he stood

"Ah, that's better," he said, and started toward the lavatory, but Dick clung to him.

"Barney, listen to me," he entreated, his voice coming in broken sobs. "He'll kill you. Let me take your

"Dick, keep out of it," said Barney. "Don't worry. He'll hurt me no more, but he'll say it before I'm done."

And, throwing off the restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling was arranging his

"Look here," cried Bulling, "haven't you got enough. Be thankful you're not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't

"I say, boys," said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, "keep this fool off. I don't want to kill him."

"Now, Boyle, quit it," said Foxmore. "There's no use, you see." He laid his hand on Barney's arm.

Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, but Foxmore touched nothing till he

"Get back!" cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching him. As he spoke, he seized a small oak

dressing table by one of its legs, swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble floor, and, putting

his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had the leg free in his hand.

Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back to their places, leaving a wide space about

"Good heavens!" said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, "the man is mad! Call a policeman, some of

As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward Bulling, the latter's pallor increased. "I take you

men to witness," he said, appealing to the company, "if murder is done I'm not responsible. I'm defending my

"No, Dr. Bulling," said Barney, handing his club to Drake, "you won't strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll

strike me no more. The boxing exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight no more."

"I'll give you your chance once again," he said. "Will you say you are a cowardly liar?"

Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their faces, hesitated a moment, then, pulling

himself together, said, with an evident effort at bluster, "Not by a sight! Come on! Take your

medicine!" But the lesson of the last half hour had not been lost on Barney. Up and down the long room,

circling about his man, feinting to draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney kept his antagonist in

such rapid motion and so intensely on the alert that his wind began to fail him, and it soon became evident

"You've got him!" cried Dick, in an ecstasy of expectation. "Keep it up, Barney! That's the game! You'll have

"Quite evident," echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the change in the situation.

Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches began to appear on his cheek. The sweat

stood out upon his forehead. His breath came in short gasps. He knew he could not last much longer. His only

hope lay in immediate attack. He must finish off his man within the next minute or accept defeat. Nature was

now taking revenge upon him for his long outraging of her laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised

and battered about the face, was stepping about easily and lightly, without any sign of the terrible punishment

he had suffered. Reading his opponent's face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had arrived, and

waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing for Bulling to do. Edging his opponent toward the

corner and summoning his fast failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard back into the angle of the

Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and leaped at his man, and disregarding two

heavy blows, thrust one long arm forward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's throat. "Ha!" he

cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. "Now! Now! Now!" As he uttered each word

between his clenched teeth he shook the gasping, choking wretch as a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim

struggled to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now clutching and clawing at those terrible gripping

fingers. His face grew purple; his tongue protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands fell to his

side. "Keep your hands so," hissed Barney, loosening his grip to give him air. "Ha! would you? Don't you

move!" gripping him hard again. "There!" loosening once more, "now, are you a liar? Speak quick!" The blue

lips made an attempt at the affirmation of which the head made the sign. "Say it again. Are you a liar?" Once

more the head nodded and the lips attempted to speak. "Yes," said Barney, still through his clenched teeth,

"you are a cowardly liar!" The words came forth with terrible deliberation. "I could kill you with my hands as

you stand. But I won't, you cur! I'll just do this." As he spoke he once more tightened his grip upon the throat

"Yes, it's enough," said Barney, flinging the semiconscious man on the floor, "it's enough for him. Foxmore,

you laughed, I think, when he uttered that lie," he said in a voice smooth, almost sweet, but that chilled the

hearts of the hearers, "you laughed. You were a beastly cad, weren't you? Speak!"

"Quick, quick!" cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on his toes, "say it quick!" His fingers were

"Yes," cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, "you would all of you laugh at that brute ruin the name and

honour of a lonely girl!" He walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the corner in

abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. "You're not fit to live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl

is safe from you!" His voice rose loud and thin and harsh. He was fast losing hold of himself. His ghastly

face, bloody and horribly disfigured, made an appalling setting for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer the

crowd he walked, gnashing and grinding his teeth till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury of his

Highland ancestors was turning him into a wild beast with a wild beast's lust of blood. Further and further

"Barney," said Dick quietly, "come home." He stopped short, with a mighty effort recalling his reason. For a

few moments he stood silent looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let them rest upon the doctor, who

was leaning against the wall, and, without a word, turned and slowly passed out of the room.

"Gad!" said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, "if the devil looks like that I never want to see him."

Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes shining through halfclosed lids, her

whole face glowing with a warm light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her table.

She sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while she gazed dreamily out through the

branches of the big elms that overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the dream should break

and vanish. As she lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving leaves and waving boughs, she allowed

the past to come back to her. How far away seemed the golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her

first recollection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep impression upon her heart, was when the

men carried out her father in a black box and when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared veranda, she

was taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the memory of her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed

and loveless, her soul beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid discipline of her aunt's

wellordered home. Then came the first glad freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her

own bread as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, freedom and love and friendship in the

Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With the memory of the Mill, there rose before her, clear limned and vividly

real, one face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the thought of him brought a warmer light to her eyes and a

stronger beat to her heart. Every feature of the moonlight scene on the night of the barnraising when first

she saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the barn gleaming bony and bare

against the sky, the dusky forms crowding about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of

the barn floor, the darkfaced lad playing his violin and listening while she sang. At that point it was that life

A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music professor with dirty, clawlike

fingers but face alight with rapturous delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria. She

could feel today that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new powers as the old man, with his hands

upon her shoulders, cried in his trembling, broken voice, "My dear young lady, the world will listen to you

some day!" That was the beginning of her great ambition. That day she began to look for the time when the

world would come to listen. Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with

selfdenials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical pupils, for she needed bread; weary with

heartbreaking strivings and failings in the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to heartbreak with the

patronage of the rich and flattering friendshow she loathed itof whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent

and the most objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes for a place in the great

Philharmonic which would at once insure not only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as

well. And now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand was proof of it. She

glanced once more at the written page, her eye falling upon a phrase here and there, "We have succeeded at

lastthe Duff Charringtons have surrenderedyou only want a chancehere it isyou can do the part

well." She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she could do the part. "And now let nothing or nobody prevent you

from accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a beautiful yacht and well found,

and I am confident the great lady will be graciousbring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, I

foresee two golden days in store for me." She allowed a smile slightly sarcastic to curl her lips.

"The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Saturday? That means Sunday spent on board the

yacht. I wish they had it made another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either."

For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent in the Manse. She had never

known the meaning of the day before. The utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the

other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the sense of sacredness that pervaded life

on that day, made the Sabbaths in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since her two

years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the sense of obligation to make the day differ

from the ordinary days of the week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend its

She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address written in bold characters. "This is the

Duff Charrington invitation, I suppose," she said, opening the letter. "Well, she does it nicely, at any rate,

Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down the coming years of triumph. Surely

enough, the big world was drawing near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti, Nilsson,

Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every

land, their country seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only remained for her to

press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned,

and thoroughly well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself the things her luxurious

soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a

little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and do her will.

She glanced at the other letters upon the table. "Barney," she cried, seizing one. An odd compunction struck

into her heart. "Barney, poor old boy!" A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where had

Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had been feasting her soul? Aghast, she

realized that, amid its splendid triumphs, Barney had not appeared. "Of course, he'll be there," she murmured

somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could not quite see. Some prima donnas had

husbands, mere shadowy appendages to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful

as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled a proud little smile. Barney would not

do for any of these discreetly shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be her

husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek. Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for

a time. For some years she must be free to study, andwell, it was better to be free till she had made her

name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney would come to her.

But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great love, and with all her love for

him, she was a little afraid of him. He was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she

had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away from his work to some social

engagement, to her so important, to him so incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her

art had her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her, a means to it. To gain some

further knowledge, to teach his fingers some finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long

tasks and practised her unusual selfdenials with her eye upon the public. Her reward would come when she

had brought the world, listening, to her feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come

what might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. And Iola, while she was provoked by what she called

his stubbornness, was yet secretly proud of that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor break.

No, Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, convenient husband.

What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to discover that her plan had been complete

without him. Complete? Ah, no. Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall. During

these years of study and toil, while Barney could only give her snatches of his time, she had come to feel with

increasing strength that her life was built round about him. When others had been applauding her successes,

she waited for Barney's word; and though beside the clever, brilliant men that moved in the circle into which

her art had brought her he might appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued to be the

standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish, his poverty of small talk, his hopeless

ignorance of the conventions, and his obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine sense

of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a touch of reverence to the love she bore him. But

more than all, it was to Barney her heart turned for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its depth and

strength his heart's love. He would never fail her. She could not exhaust that deep well. But the question

returned, where would Barney be while she was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes along her

triumphal way? "Oh, he will waitwe will wait," she corrected, shrinking from the heartlessness of the

former phrasing. How many years she could not say. But deep in her heart was the determination that nothing

should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long cherished and for which she had so greatly endured.

She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with an approaching delight.

"MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see you last evening, nor can I today, and

perhaps not for a day or two, because my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the dinner, night before

last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him swallow his lie and in the process got rather badly marked,

though not at all hurt. The doctor and his friends will, I think, guard their tongues in future, at least in my

hearing. Dr. Bulling is a man of vile mind and of unclean life. He should not be allowed to appear with

decent people. I have written to forbid him ever approaching you in public. You will know how to treat him if

he attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business to you. I hate to make you suffer, but it had to be done,

and by no one but me. Would I could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage of these people, I mean

Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be necessary to your success. Your great voice needs not their patronage; if

so, failure would be better. When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you. Goodbye. It is hard not to

Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for her castle in Spain. Already it was tottering

"He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling." She recalled a sentence in the doctor's letter. "Let no one or nothing

keep you from accepting this invitation." "He's afraid Barney will keep me back. Nonsense! How stupid of

Barney! He is so terribly particular! He doesn't understand these things. There has been a horrid row of some

kind and now he asks me to cut Dr. Bulling!" She glanced at Barney's letter. "Well, he doesn't ask me, but it's

all the same 'you will know how to treat him.' He's too proud to ask me, but he expects me to. It would be

sheer madness! Wouldn't the Duff Charrington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is preposterous! I must go!

Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth

while to be seriously angry. It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But today there was no avoiding.

She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so heartshaking that after it had passed she was thankful

"What's the matter with me?" she asked herself. She did not know that the whole volume of her ambition,

which had absorbed so great a part of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of Barney's

will. He would never yield, she knew well. "What shall I do?" she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room.

"Margaret will tell me. No, she would be sure to side with Barney. She would think it was wicked to go on

Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will

understand. He has seen more of this life andoh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick to see

Barney." She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that Barney could not come to see her, but she

could write him a note and she could send Dick to him, and in the meantime she would accept the invitation.

"I will accept at once. I wish I had before I read Barney's note. I really had accepted in my mind, and,

besides, the arrangements were all made. I'll write the letters now." She hastened to burn her bridges behind

her so that retreat might be impossible. "There," she cried, as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters,

"I wish they were in the box. I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I cannot let this chance go! I

have worked too long and too hard! Barney should not ask it!" A wave of selfpity swept over her, bringing

her temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not force her to give up her great

opportunity. She sought to prolong this mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was

Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. "I'll just go and post these now," she said. Hastily she put on her hat

and ran down with the letters, fearing lest the passing of her selfpity might leave her to face again the

"There, that's done," she said to herself, as the lid of the post box clicked upon her letters. "Oh, I wonderI

wish I hadn't!" What she had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, and now her selfpity had

evaporated and left her face to face with the inevitable results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's dark,

rugged face with the deepseeing eyes. "He always makes you feel in the wrong," she said impatiently. "You

can never think what to say. He always seems right, and," she added honestly, "he is right generally. Never

mind, Dick will help me." She shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. Foxmore.

"Ah, goodmorning," smiled the doctor, showing a double row of white teeth under his waxed mustache.

It took the whole force of Iola's selfmastery to keep the disgust which was swelling her heart from showing

in her face. Here was one of Dr. Bulling's friends, one of his toadiesand he had a number of themwho

represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort to repress her disgust, however, only

made her smile the sweeter. Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his manner

was irresistible with "the sex." Bulling might hold over him, by reason of his wealth and social position, but

"I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling upon you this morning."

"Oh, indeed. Wellahcome in." Iola was fighting fiercely her loathing of him. It was against this man and

his friends that Barney had defended her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the silly chatter of the

man following her upstairs, and by the time he had fairly got himself seated she was coolly master of herself.

"Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?" Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words.

"Oh, ddash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the Duff Charringtons backing that little

"Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It

"A horse race!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with this! But Bulling pulled the wires and

"But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists were chosen for any other reason than that

"Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things go." Dr. Foxmore was beginning to

feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and

exasperating. "Oh, come, Miss Lane," he continued, making a desperate effort to recover his patronizing tone,

"Why, I thinkwellI know you can do the work infinitely better than Evelyn Redd."

"No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm confident it will suit the part."

"Thank you so much," said Iola sweetly; "I am so sorry that Dr. Bulling should have given so much time, and

"Oh, that's nothing," waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self esteem, "we enjoyed it."

"Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way," replied the doctor, falling into his best professional tone.

"And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked that, too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no

idea what a relief it is to have one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves one the trouble of

making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly needs a mind at all." Iola's face and smile were those of innocent

childhood. Dr. Foxmore shot a suspicious glance at her and hastened to change the subject.

"Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut up, not to speak of Bulling. He had no

"Oh, well," said the doctor, plunging wildly, "I wouldn't put it that way. But the whole question of the

Philharmonic was involved, and this invitation was a flag of truce, as it were."

"Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, Dr. Foxmore; I cannot pretend to follow the workings of

your mind. But seeing that this invitation has been secured at the expense of such effort on the part of Dr.

Bulling and yourself, I rather think I shall decline it." In spite of all she could do, Iola could not keep out of

her voice a slightly haughty tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of superiority was fast deserting him. "And as to the

Philharmonic solos," continued Iola, "if the directors see fit to make me an offer of the part I shall consider

"Consider it!" gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time this young girl with her absurd pretensions were given to

understand the magnitude of the favour that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer upon her. He

became brutal. "Well, all I say is that if you know when you are well off, you'll take this chance."

Iola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full height. Dr. Foxmore had not thought her so tall. Her face

was a shade paler than usual, her eyes a little wider open, but her voice was as smooth as ever, and with just a

little ring as of steel in it she inquired, "Did you come here this morning to make this threat, Dr. Foxmore?"

"I came," he said bluntly, "to let you know your good fortune and to warn you not to allow any of your

"My friends?" Iola threw her head slightly backward and her tone became frankly haughty.

"Oh, I know your friends, and especiallyI may as well be plain that young medical student, Boyle, don't

Iola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, but she stood without speaking for a few moments till she

"Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle presumed, to interfere once too often for his own good. But

"Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the fullest confidence. He would do what he thought right."

"He will probably correct his judgments before he interferes with Dr. Bulling again." The doctor's tone was

"Chastise! Mr. Boyle!" cried Iola, her anger throwing her off her guard. "That is quite impossible, Dr.

Iola put up her hand imperiously. "Dr. Foxmore," she said, recovering her selfcommand, "there is no need

Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung aside the remaining shreds of decency in speech.

"I would not presume to contradict you, nor to stand in the way of returning wisdom."

The doctor swore a great oath under his breath and without further words strode from the room.

Iola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared through the open door. "Oh!" she breathed, her hands

fiercely clenched, "if I were a man what a joy it would be just now!" She shut the door and sat down to think.

"I wonder what did happen? I must see Dick at once. He'll tell me. Oh, it is all horribly loathsome!" For the

first time she saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If she sang in the Philharmonic it would be by

virtue of his good offices and by the gracious permission of the Duff Charringtons. That she had the voice for

the part and that it was immeasurably better than Evelyn Redd's counted not at all. How mean she felt! And

yet she must go on with it. She would not allow anything to stand in the way of her success. This was the first

firm stepping stone in her climb to fame. Once this was taken, she would be independent of Bulling and his

hateful associates. She would go on this yacht trip. She need not have anything to do with Dr. Bulling, nor

would she, for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and angry. It looked terribly like disloyalty to him to

associate herself on terms of friendship with the man who had beaten him so cruelly. Oh, how she hated

herself! But she could not give up her chance. She would explain to Barney how helpless she was and she

Poor Iola! Without knowing it, she was standing at the cross roads making choice of a path that was to lead

her far from the faith, the ideals, the friends she now held most dear. Through all her years she had been

preparing herself for this hour of choice. With her, to desire greatly was to bend her energies to attain. She

would deeply wound the man who loved her better than his own life; but the moment of choice found her

Mrs. Duff Charrington at close range was not nearly so formidable as when seen at a distance. The huge bulk

of her, the pronouncedly masculine dress and manner, the loud voice, the red face with its dark mustache line

on the upper lip, all of which at a distance were calculated to overawe if not to strike terror to the heart of the

beholder, were very considerably softened by the shrewd, kindly twinkle of the keen grey eyes which a nearer

view revealed. Her welcome of Iola was bluff and hearty, but she was much too busy ordering her forces and

disposing of her impedimenta, for she was her own commodore, to pay particular attention in the meantime to

her guests. The wharf at which the Petrel was tied was crowded this Saturday afternoon with various parties

of excursionists making for the steamers, ferries, yachts, and other craft that lay along the water front.

Already the Petrel had hoisted her mainsail and, under the gentle breeze, was straining upon her shore lines

awaiting the word to cast off. As Iola stood idly gazing at the shifting scene, wondering how Dick had

succeeded on his mission to his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling approaching with his usual smiling

assurance. Just as he was about to speak, however, she noticed him start and gaze fixedly toward the farther

side of the wharf. Iola's eye, following his gaze, fell upon the figure of a man pushing his way through the

crowd. It was Barney. She saw him pause, evidently to make inquiry of a dockhand. With a muttered oath,

"Let go that line, Murdoff!" he shouted to the man at the bow. "Look lively, there!"

As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized the wheel, making it imperative that Murdoff should execute

his command in the liveliest manner. At once the yacht swung out and began to put a space of blue water

between herself and the dock. She was not a moment too soon, for Barney, having received his direction, was

coming at a run, scattering the crowd to right and left. As he arrived at the dock edge he caught sight of Iola

and Dr. Bulling. He took a step backwards and made as if to attempt the spring. Iola's cry, "Don't, Barney!"

"What's up?" she shouted. "How's this? We're off! Bulling, what the deucewho gave orders?"

Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as she would have said herself, completely flabbergasted. At a

single glance she took in the white face of Iola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less white.

"What's up?" she cried again. "Have you seen a ghost, Miss Lane? You, too, Bulling?" She glanced back at

the clock. "There's someone left behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, it's our medallist, isn't it? Do

"Pardon me, Dr. Bulling," said Iola, her voice ringing clear and firm in contrast with Bulling's agitated tone,

"he is a friend of mine, a very dear friend, and, I assure you, very sane." As she spoke she waved her hand to

"Your friend, is he?" said Mrs. Duff Charrington. "Then doubtless very sane. Does he want you, Miss Lane?

"Mrs. Charrington," said Dr. Bulling, "he has a grudge against me because of a fancied insult."

"Ah," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, "I understand. What do you say, Miss Lane? We can easily go back."

"Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington," said Iola hurriedly; "he is gone."

"As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling down to the cabin. I declare he looks as if he needed bracing

"Mrs. Charrington," said Iola in a low voice, as Bulling disappeared down the companionway, "that was Mr.

Boyle, my friend, and I want you to think him a man of the highest honour. But he doesn't like Dr. Bulling.

"My dear, my dear," said Mrs. Charrington brusquely, "don't trouble yourself about him. I haven't lived fifty

years for nothing. Oh! these men, these men! They take themselves too seriously, the dear creatures. But they

are just like ourselves, with a little more conceit and considerably less wit. And they are not really worth all

the trouble we take for them. I must get to know your medallist, my dear. That was a strong face and an

honest face. I have heard John rave about him. John is my young son, first year in medicine. His judgment, I

confess, is not altogether reliable worships brawn, and there are traditions afloat as to that young man's

doings when they were initiating him. But I have no doubt that, however sane on other subjects, he is quite

mad about you, and, hang me! if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my arms round you as soon as

As she chattered along, Iola found her heart warm to Mrs. Duff Charrington, who, with all her sporty

manners and masculine ways, was an honest soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart.

"I'm glad now I came," said Iola gratefully; "I was afraid you weren't" She paused abruptly in confusion.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was afraid of, it was what Dr. Bulling" Again Iola hesitated.

"Don't bother telling me," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, observing her confusion. "No doubt Bulling gave you

to understand that he worked me to invite you. Confess now." There was a shrewd twinkle in her keen grey

eye. "Bulling is a liar, a terrible liar, with large possibilities of selfappreciation. But he had nothing to do

with this invitation, though he flatters himself he had. He's not without ability, but he can't teach his

grandmother to suck eggs. I'll tell you why you are here. I pride myself upon having an eye for a winner, and

I pick you as one, and that's why you are to sing in the Philharmonic. Evelyn Redd has a pretty voice. She is a

niece of a very dear friend, and for a time I thought she might do. But she has no soul, no passion, and music,

like a man, must have passion. Music without passion is a crime against art. So I just told Duff, he's

chairman, you know, of the Board of Directors, that she was impossible and that we must have you. I have

heard you sing, my dear, and I know the singer's face and the singer's throat and eye. You have them all. You

have the voice and the temperament and the passion. You'll be great some day, much greater than I, and, with

Iola murmured some words of thanks, not knowing just what to say, but Mrs. Duff Charrington waved them

"Purely selfish," she said, "purely selfish, my dear. Now don't let Bulling worry you. I pick him for a winner,

too. He has force. He'll be a power in the country. Inclines to politics. He's a kind of brute, of course, but he'll

succeed, for he has wealth and social prestige, neither to be sniffed at, my child. But, especially, he has

Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. She knew nothing of the finesse of diplomacy in the

manipulation of her company. Her method was straightforward dragooning. Observing the persistent attempts

of Dr. Bulling during the early part of the trip to secure Iola for a teteatete, she called out across the deck

in the ears of the whole company, "See here, Bulling, I won't have you trying to monopolise our star. We're

out for a good time and we're going to have it. Miss Lane is not your property. She belongs to us all."

Thenceforth Dr. Bulling, with what grace he could summon, had to content himself with just so much of

It was Iola's first experience of yachting, and it brought her a series of sensations altogether new and

delightful. As the yacht skimmed, like a great whitewinged bird, over the blue waters of Ontario, the

humming breeze, the swift rush through the parting waves, the sense of buoyant life with which the yacht

seemed to be endowed made her blood jump. She abandoned herself to the joys of the hour and became the

life and soul of the whole party. And were it not for Barney's haunting face, the two days' outing would have

been for Iola among the happiest experiences of her life. But Barney's last look across the widening strip of

water pursued her and filled her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more terrible than rage. Iola

shuddered as she recalled it. She read in it the despair of renunciation. She dreaded meeting him again, and as

Nor did Mrs. Duff Charrington, who had become warmly interested in the girl during the short voyage, fail to

observe her uneasiness and to guess the cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them at the dock, Iola

"My dear," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who was at her side, "it is not possible that you are afraid, and of a

man! I would give something to have that feeling. It is many years since a man could inspire me with any

feeling but that of contempt or of kind pity. They are really silly creatures and most helpless. Let me manage

Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her superior powers was more than justified. Through the crowd and

straight for Iola came Barney, his face haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever manoeuvre Mrs. Duff

Charrington swung her massive form fair in his path and, turning suddenly, faced him squarely. Iola seized

the moment to present him. Barney made as if to brush her aside, but Mrs. Duff Charrington was not of the

kind to be lightly brushed aside by anyone, much less by a young man of Barney's inexperience.

"Ah, young man," she exclaimed, "I think I have seen you before." The strong grip of her hand and the loud

tone of her voice at once arrested his progress and commanded his attention. "I saw you get your medal the

other day, and I have heard my young hopeful rave about youJohn Charrington, you know, medical

student, first year. He is something of a fool and a heroworshipper. You, of course, won't have noticed him."

Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong face with the keen grey eyes compelling his attention, then,

"Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very decent chap, too. Don't see much of him."

"No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same spots. The dissecting room wouldn't recognize him, I fancy. He's

straightgoing, however, but he can't pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he changes considerably, the

Lord pity his patients." She became aware of a sudden hardening in Barney's face and a quick flash in his

eye. Without turning her head she knew that Dr. Bulling was approaching Iola from the other side. She put

her hand on Barney's arm. "Mr. Boyle, please take Miss Lane to my carriage there? Bulling," she said,

turning sharply upon the doctor, "will you help Daisy to collect my stuff? I am sure things will be left on the

yacht. There are always some things left. Servants are so stupid." There was that in her voice that made

Bulling stand sharply at attention and promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, he was leading Iola and Mrs.

"So sorry I didn't know you were a friend of Miss Lane's, or we would have had you on our trip, Mr. Boyle,"

"I thank you. But I am very busy, and, besides, I would not fit in with some of your party." There was war in

"Good Heavens, young man!" cried Mrs. Duff Charrington, in no way disturbed, "you don't expect to make

the world fit in with you or you with the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's self. But you will be

"It is for that some of us have lived." Barney's deep voice, thrilling with sad and tender feeling, brought the

quick tears to Iola's eyes. To her, the words had in them the sound of farewell. Even Mrs. Duff Charrington

Barney felt the kindly tone. "Thank you, Mrs. Charrington, it would give none of us pleasure, and I have

Iola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff Charrington glanced at her white face.

"Young man," she said sternly, leaning out toward him and looking Barney in the eyes, "don't be a fool. The

man that would, from pique, willingly hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward."

"Mrs. Charrington," replied Barney in a steady voice, "I have just come from an operation by which a little

girl, an only child, has lost her arm. It was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, but from love. It is

because it is best, that I go tomorrow. Goodbye." Then turning to Iola he said, "I shall see you to night."

"Drive home, Smith," said Mrs. Charrington sharply; "the others will find their way."

"Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Baltimore is not so far and he is only a man." Mrs. Duff Charrington's

tone did not indicate a high opinion of the masculine section of humanity. "You'll just come with me for

"Yes," said Mrs. Charrington, following up the line of her thought, "that's a man for youthinks the whole

world moves round the axis of his own life. But I like him. He has a good face. Still," she mused, "a man isn't

everything, although once Ibut never mind, there is always a way of bringing them to time."

"You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington," said Iola; "nothing can ever change him."

"Pish! You think so, and so, doubtless, does he. But none the less it is sheer nonsense. Can you tell me the

"Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things are the better for words. If ever you wish to come to me I shall

be ready. Now let us dismiss the thing till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts hinder digestion, I have found,

With such resolution did she follow her own suggestion that, during the drive and throughout the dinner hour

and, indeed, until the moment of her departure, Iola was not permitted to indulge her anxious thoughts, but

with Mrs. Duff Charrington's assistance she succeeded in keeping them deep in her heart under guard.

"Don't face any issue tonight. Don't settle anything. Give time a chance. Time is a wonderfully wise old

And Iola, sitting back in the carriage, decided she would act upon the advice which suited so thoroughly her

own habit of mind. That Barney had made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She would set herself to

gain time, and yet she was fearful of the issue of the interview before her. The fear and anxiety which she had

been holding down for the last two hours came over her in floods. As she thought of Barney's last words she

found herself searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with which to brace her strength. If he had only been

angry! But that sad, tender solicitude in his voice unnerved her. He was not thinking of himself, she knew. He

A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not the big drops driving into her face, nor

did she notice that before she reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting for her. As she

"Oh, Barney!" she cried again, her voice quivering, "won't you tell me to come?"

With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms about his neck, and clung sobbing. For some

moments he held her fast, gently caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful hair till she grew quiet.

Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness and put her away from him.

"Say you forgive me, Barney," she whispered, putting her arms again about his neck.

She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If she could only get her arms about his

neck she could win and hold him, and, what was far more important, she could conquer herself, for great as

she knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the hold her ambition had upon her and she dreaded lest that

influence should become dominant in this hour. She knew well their souls would reach each other's secrets,

"I will keep him! I will keep him!" she whispered to herself as she tore off her wet clothing. "What shall I put

on?" She could afford to lose no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose her simplest gown, a soft

creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, and made so as to show the superb modelling of her perfect body,

leaving her arms bare to the elbow and falling away at the neck to reveal the soft, full curves where they

flowed down to the swell of her bosom. She shook down her hair and gathered it loosely in a knot, leaving it

as the wind and rain had tossed it into a bewildering tangle of ringlets about her face. One glance she threw at

her mirror. Never had she appeared more lovely. The dead ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her

cheeks, the lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the nightblack masses of her

hairthis, and that indescribable but allpotent charm that love lends to the face, she saw in her glass.

"Ah, God help me!" she cried, clasping her hands high above her head, and went forth.

These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce struggle to regain the mastery over the surging passion that

was sweeping like a tempest through his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; but as his eyes fell

upon her standing in the soft roseshaded light of the room, her attitude of mute appeal, the rare, rich

loveliness of her face and form again swept away all the barriers of his control. She took one step toward

him. With a swift movement he covered his face with his hands and sank to his chair.

"Why lose me, Barney?" she said, gliding swiftly to him and dropping to her knees beside him. "Why lose

The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his manhood. Not for himself must he think now,

but for her. The touch of self makes weak, the cross makes strong. What matter that he was giving up his life

in that hour if only she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her knees, set her in a chair, and went back to

"No," he said, his voice quiet and steady, "you must stay there. You must not touch me, else I cannot say

"Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These people are nothing to you or to me. Let us

forget them. It matters not at all that you went with them. I am not angry. I was at first insane, I think. But

"What is it, Barney?" she asked in a voice awed by the sadness and despair in the even, quiet tone.

"It is this," he replied; "we have come to the end. I must not hold you any more. For two years I have known.

I had not the courage to face it. But, thank God, the courage has come to me these last two days."

"Yes. Courage to do right. That's it, to do right. That is what a man must do. And I must think for you. Our

"Oh, Barney!" cried Iola, her voice breaking, "let me come to you! How can I listen to you saying such

terrible things without your arms about me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting me!"

The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, made him wince as from a stab. He seemed to hesitate as if

estimating his strength. Dare he trust himself? It would make the task infinitely harder to have her near him,

to feel the touch of her hands, the pressure of her body. But he would save her pain. He would help her

through this hour of agony. How great it was he could guess by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat down beside

her, and took her in his arms. With a long, shuddering sigh, she let herself sink down, with muscles relaxed

"Poor girl! Poor girl!" said Barney, "we have made a great mistake, you and I. I was not made for you nor

"Now we will speak simple truth to each other," said Barney in a tone solemn as if in prayer, "the truth as in

"Ohhh! Yes, I promise." She flung her arms upward about his neck. "I know what you will ask."

"Listen to me, darling," he said again, taking down her arms, "this is what I would say. You have marked out

your life. You will follow your great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and you feel you must go. You

love me and you would be my wife, make my home, mother my children if God should send them to us; but

both these things you cannot do, and meantime you have chosen your great career. Is not this true?"

To neither of them did it occur as an alternative that Barney should give up his life's work to accompany her

in the path she had marked. Equally to both this would have seemed unworthy of him.

"Is not this true, Iola?" Barney's voice, in spite of him, grew a little stern. And though she knew it was at the

"Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor turn you from your great art. So it is better that there should be

no bond between us." He paused a moment as if to gather his strength together for a supreme effort. "Iola,

when you were a girl I bound you to me. Now you are a woman, I set you free. I love you, but you are not

"Yes, tonight. Tomorrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will

never forget me, but your life will be full again of other people and other things." He hurried his words,

seeking to strike the note of her ambition and so turn her mind from her present pain. "Your Philharmonic

will bring you fame. That means engagements, great masters, and then you will belong to the great world."

How clearly he had read her mind and how closely he had followed the path she herself had outlined for her

feet! He paused, as if to take breath, then hurried on again as through a task. "And we will all be proud of you

and rejoice in your success and in youryouryourhappiness." The voice that had gone so bravely and

so relentlessly through the terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke, but only for an instant. He must

think of her. "Dick will he here," he went on, "and Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe

Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, "No, Barney, you are not helping me to my best."

In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had no answer. Eagerly she followed up her

Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard her against the world with its beasts of

prey that batten their lusts upon beauty and innocence? And who would help her against herself? The desire

to hold her for himself and for her sprang up fierce within him. Could he desert her, leave her to fight her

fights, to find her way through the world's treacherous paths alone? That was the part of his renunciation that

had been the heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her danger. Not his loneliness, but hers. For a moment he

forgot everything. All the great love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight behind this desire

"Could you, Iola," he cried hoarsely, "don't you think you could let me care for you? Couldn't you come to

me, give me the right to guard you? I can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you come?"

Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, he poured forth his soul's desire for her. To

work for her, to suffer for her, to live for her, yes, and to give himself to her and to keep her only for himself!

Helpless in the sweeping tide of his mighty passion, he poured forth his words, pleading as for his life. By an

inexplicable psychic law the exhibition of his passion calmed hers. The sight of his weakness brought her

strength. For one fleeting moment she allowed her mind to rest upon the picture his words made of a home,

made rich with the love of a strong man, and sweet with the music of children's voices, where she would be

safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But only for a moment. Swifter than the play of light there

flashed before her another scene, a crowded amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, eager, rapt, listening, and

upon the stage the singer holding, swaying, compelling them to her will. Barney felt her relaxed muscles tone

up into firmness. The force of her ambition was being transmitted along those subtle spiritual nerves that knit

soul and mind and body into one complex whole, into the very sinews and muscles of her frame. She had

An intangible something in her tone pulled him to a sharp stop. What a weak fool he had been and how he

had been thinking of himself! He sat up, straight and strong, his own man again.

"Forgive me, darling," he said, a faint, wan smile flitting across his face. "I was weak and selfish. I allowed

myself to think for a moment that it might be, but now I know we must say goodbye to night."

"Goodbye?" The sting of her pain made her irritable. He was so stubborn. "Surely, Barney, it is

"You have decided. You have already chosen your life's path, and it lies apart from mine. Let me go quietly

away." His voice was toneless, passionless. His fight of two days and two nights had left him exhausted. His

apparent apathy chilled her to the heart. It was a supreme moment in their lives, and yet she could not fan her

soul's fires into flame. He was tearing up the roots of his love out of her life, but there was no acute sense of

laceration. The inevitable had come to pass. A silence, dense and throbbing, fell upon them. Outside the

"If ever you should want me to come to you, Iola, one word will bring me. I shall be waiting, waiting.

Remember that, always waiting." He tightened his arms about her and without passion, but gravely, tenderly

he lifted her face. "Goodbye, my love," he said, and kissed her lips. "My heart's love!" Once more he kissed

She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, lifeless but for the eyes that held his fast and for the lips

"God keep you, darling," he whispered, bending over her and touching her dusky hair with his lips.

He found his hat, walked with unsteady feet as a man walks under a heavy load, her eyes following his every

step, and reached the door. There he paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the door, halted yet an

An hour later Margaret came in and found her sitting where Barney had left her, dazed and tearless.

"Love him! You don't know what love means! Love him! And for your paltry, selfish ambition you send from

"Don't talk to me!" she replied, her lip quivering. "I can't bear to look at you!" and she passed into her room.

It was intolerable to her that this girl should have regarded lightly the love she herself would have died to

gain. But long after Iola had sobbed herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay wakeful for her own pain and

But next day, as Iola was planning to go to the station, Margaret would not have it.

"Why should you go? You have nothing to say but what would give him pain. Do you want him to despise

But Iola was resolved to have her way. It was Mrs. Duff Charrington who fortunately intervened and carried

"Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush up and come away. Bring your guitar with you."

"Tut! Nonsense! The lovelorn damsel reads well in erotic novels, but remember this, the men don't like stale

This bit of worldly wisdom made Iola put on her smartest gown and lay aside the role she had unconsciously

planned to adopt, so that even Mrs. Duff Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling animation of her

But to the three who stood together waiting for the train to pull out that night there was only dreary, voiceless

misery. There was no pretence at anything but misery. To the brothers the moment of parting would be the

end of all that had been so delightful in their old life. The days of their long companionship were over, and to

both the thought brought grief that made words impossible. Only Margaret's presence forced them to

selfcontrol. As to Margaret, Dick alone knew the full measure of her grief, and her quiet, serene courage

filled him with amazed admiration. At length came the call of the bustling, businesslike conductor, "All

"Goodbye, Margaret," said Barney simply, holding out his hand. But the girl quietly put back her veil and

lifted up her face to him, her brave blue eyes looking all their love into his, but her lips only said, "Goodbye,

"Me, too, Barney," said Dick, his tears openly streaming down his face. "I'm a confounded baby! But hanged

At Dick's words all Barney's splendid selfmastery vanished. He threw his arms about his brother's neck,

crying "Goodbye, Dick, old man. We've had a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, it's all come to

"Go, old chap," cried Dick, pushing him away but still clinging to him. And then, as Barney swung on to the

"Yes, Barney, we will," they both cried together. And as they stood gazing through dimming tears after the

train as it sped out through the network of tracks and the maze of green and red lights, they felt that a new

bond drew them closer than before. And it was the tightening of that bond that brought them all the comfort

The college year had come to an end. The results of the examinations had been published. The Juniors were

preparing to depart for their summer work in the mission field. Of the graduating class, some were waiting

with calm confidence the indications of the will of Providence as to their spheres of labour, a confidence

undoubtedly strengthened by certain letters in their possession from leading members of influential

congregations. Others were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to tread the weary and humiliating "trail

of the black bag," while others again, to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant battle,

were making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life and work in the great West, or in the far lands

Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the Presbytery examination, the other, Professor

Macdougall's student party. The annual examination before Presbytery was ever an event of nerveracking

uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely perfunctory performance of the most innocuous kind. On the

other hand, it might develop features of a most sensational and perilous nature. The college barometer this

year was unusually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery examination was to be of the

more serious type. It was a time of searchings of heart for those who had been giving, throughout the session,

undue attention to the social opportunities afforded by college life, and more especially if they had allowed

their contempt for the archaic and oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these latter gentlemen the

day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning devotions, which were marked by unusual sincerity and

earnestness, failed to bring them that calmness of mind which these exercises are supposed to afford. For

their slender ray of hope that their memory of the English text might not fail them in the hour of trial was

very materially clouded by the dread that in their embarrassment they might assign a perfectly correct English

version to the wrong Hebrew text. The result of such mischance they would not allow themselves to

contemplate. On the other hand, however, there was the welcome possibility that they might be so able to

dispose themselves among the orientalists in their class that a word dropped at a critical moment might save

them from this mischance. And there was the further, and not altogether unreal, ground of confidence, that

the examiner himself might be uneasily conscious of the everpresent possibility that some hidden Hebrew

snag might rudely jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare ignotum of oriental literature. Of

course, the examination would also include other departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and

duty of Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the faith of the candidates before them. On this

score, however, few indulged serious anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, both

examiner and examined could disport themselves with a jaunty selfconfidence born of a thorough

acquaintance with the Shorter Catechism received during the plastic years of childhood.

It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for Boyle. On the side of scholarship he was

known to be invulnerable. Boyle was the hero and darling of the college men, more especially of the

"sinners" among them, not simply by reason of his prowess between the goal posts where, times without

number, he had rescued the college from the contempt of its foes; but quite as much for the modesty with

which he carried off his brilliant attainments in the class lists. Throughout the term, in the college halls after

tea, there had been carried on a series of discussions extending over the whole range of the "fundamentals,"

and Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath and awaken the concern of Finlay Finlayson, the champion

of orthodoxy. Finlay was a huge, gaunt, broadshouldered son of Uist, a theologian by birth, a dialectician by

training, and a man of war by the gift of Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, for conscience' sake, have given

his body to the flames, as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the heretical dust of New College,

Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly surrendering at the same time, Scot though he was, a scholarship of

fifty pounds. The hope that he had cherished of being able to find, in a colonial institution of sacred learning,

a safe haven where he might devote himself to the perfecting of the defences of his faith within the citadel of

orthodoxy was rudely shattered by the discovery that the same heresies which had driven him from New

College had found their way across the sea and were being championed by a man of such winning personality

and undoubted scholarship as Richard Boyle. The effect upon Finlayson's mind of these discussions carried

on throughout the term was such that, after much and prayerful deliberation, and after due notice to the

person immediately affected, he discovered it to be his duty to inform the professor in whose department

these subjects lay of the heresies that were threatening the very life of the college, and, indeed, of the

The report of his interview with the professor came back to college through the realistic if somewhat

irreverent medium of the professor's son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course toward a

medical degree. As Tom appeared in the college hall he was immediately surrounded by an eager crowd, the

"To what?" gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment that the foundations of things in heaven

and on earth had indeed been removed. It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of the "sinners" had

subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the spirit only, and not the ipsissima verba, of the devout and

reverent professor, that had been translated in the vigorous vernacular of his son.

Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical tendencies had reached other ears than those of the

sane and liberalminded professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev. Alexander

Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through Finlayson, however, be it understood, did this

report reach him. That staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it his duty to

inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than retail gossip to the hurt of his fellowstudent he

The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which gained for him the cognomen of

"Squeaky Sandy," and a most irritatingly persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and examiners

were disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic Theology, fell poor Dick, to his confusion and

the temporary withholding of his license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in the college

circles of society, this event should become a subject of much heated discussion.

Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student parties. They were never attended from a

sense of duty. This was undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor with his students, as

to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature generally and of student nature particularly,

on the part of that gentle lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with very

beautiful if very old fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole life was one poetic setting forth of the

manners and deportment proper to ladies, both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit and

kindly heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The consequence was that, while she herself sat

erect in fine scorn of the backs of her straightbacked Sheratons, her drawingroom was furnished with an

abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey nooks and corners calculated to gratify the

luxurious tastes and lazy manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered in the care

she took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest, brightest, wickedest of the young girls in the wide

circle of her friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, "There were no last roses in

her bunch." Moreover, the wise little lady took pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the

"You must exert yourselves, my dears," she would explain, "to make the evening pleasant for the young men.

And they require something to distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their studies."

And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw themselves into this particular duty that there

were, even of the saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures in absentia for at least

two days in order that they might recover from the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party.

Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but even more for the sake of her mother,

who had been Mrs. Macdougall's college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme of

conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the sensational feature of the Presbytery

examination. The professor himself was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to both of

them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret extract anything but the most meagre

outline of what had happened. For full details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert Kidd,

second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face and fresh innocence of manner won for

"Tell us just what happened," entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with a glance of such heartpenetrating

"Well, I'll tell you," he said, adopting a low confidential tone. "I could see from the very start that old

Squeaky Sandy was out after Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low till everything

was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks over the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is

supposed to be quite safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly state what you

consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove!

everyone sat up. 'You believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart stopped till he

went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is that, sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do

you believe about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I have no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle

was as gentle as a sucking dove. Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it."

"Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. Premill, too, you know. Well, he chipped in

and got him past that snag. But old Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on every

doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the

Mosaic Authorship, and the whole Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in

"No," said Miss Belle, "I don't know. And you don't, either, so you needn't stop and try to tell us."

"I don't, eh?" said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep himself in a perfectly sane condition under the

bewildering glances of Miss Belle's black eyes. "Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I couldn't make you

"Hear him!" said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. "Go on. We are interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?"

"Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it seemed to me that Boyle's theology was a

tattered remnant. Some of the brethren interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after their

kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, Mr. Moderator!' he sung out. 'This

demands the most searching investigation! We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great

doctrines of our faith are being undermined by socalled scholarship, which is nothing less than blasphemy

and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommyrot. But the

worst was yet to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to take Boyle on the flank.

'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,' stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.'

'Are you a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head go back for the first time.

Before this he had been sitting like a convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around and

facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did

you ever attend the theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at once what the old

inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross

between a howl and a roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery to me how he

got there. There were three pews between him and the desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr.

Moderator, I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a regular sand storm! About the

only thing visible was the lightning from Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he

could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what Mr. Naismith means by this method of

inquisition. But let me tell Mr. Naismith' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for the next

few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus with all the monkeys loose and the band

playing seventeen tunes all at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a pretty full

disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it

seemed that on every doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And I believe the

whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had

fallen. Then Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the result that Boyle was

turned over to a committeeand that's where he is now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism.

"Journalism?" cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the darkfaced old lady up in the country who was

"Yes," said Kiddie. "And there's where he'll shine. See what he's done with the Monthly. He's got great style.

But wasn't there a row at the college!" continued Kiddie. "Old Father Finlayson there," nodding across the

room at the Highlander, who was engaged in what appeared to be an extremely interesting conversation with

his hostess, "orthodox old beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You know he

has been at war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting

below the belt was too much for him. He was raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle came

in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by the hand and working it like a pumphandle

in a fire, 'it was a most iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy whatever with that

sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had Boyle almost in tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his

The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror the Highlander's great feet encased

in a new pair of carpet slippers adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling contrast

with his threeply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for

"You may laugh," continued Bob. "So would I yesterday. But, by Jingo! he can wear magenta socks on his

head if he likes for me! He's all white, and he has the heart of a gentleman!" Little Kidd's voice went shaky

and his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them only in moments of deepest excitement, but if he had

only known it, he had never been so near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She

showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life," as Kiddie himself

remarked. So assiduously, indeed, did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and

good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to inform her incidentally of the

existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was to "come out to him as soon as he was placed." He was surprised,

but entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no difference whatever in Miss Belle's

attentions. At the supper hour, however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded her

place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life." But not a word

could she extract from him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have made a Queen's

Counsel green with envy, he baffled her leading questions with a density of ignorance unparalleled in her

experience, until she let it be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr. Finlayson

poured forth the grief and rage swelling in his big heart at the treatment his enemy had received and his

anxious concern for his future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least, Margaret shared.

And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, during the walk home, regarding the heresies in

Edinburgh from which he had fled and the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's mind, her

heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all

she had held true from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, did she listen to Mr.

Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman carried back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its

burden, but withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the young ladies of Canada.

And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself

devoutly to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the professors might cease giving parties.

The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For if he be young and shallow enough

to enjoy the distinction, it will only increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths more

difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far

from his fellows, and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he light upon a friend

who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him to wholesome living. After all, in matters of faith every

man must blaze his own path through the woods and make his own clearing in which to dwell. And he may

well thank God if his path lead him some whither where there is space enough to work his day's work and

With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend who could understand. But he was not

allowed to feel himself to be quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side Margaret

Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to rightdoing helped him and strengthened

The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and its own variety of inhabitants. There

are its mountain ranges and upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks and horizons

whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands

dwell men among the immortals to whom has come the "vision splendid" and whose are the voices that in the

crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these

men such words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic value worth a man's while to

Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But there these same words often become

mere implements of cultivation, tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of business. Here

dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare

And far down by the waterfronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of politics and business and social

life pour forth their fetid filth. Here the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime

puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, from whose collected stores the editor

selects his daily mess for the delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the masses, and

from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that sticks and stings where it sticks.

The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type that despises neutral tints. By the

Daily Telegraph things were called by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud,

and nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its staff was a criminal lawyer

celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly

established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, in consequence, financially secure, it

began to aspire toward the uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less perilous as well

as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and

mud alluvial deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business of moral scavenging, it

proceeded to devote itself with most vehement energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that

could not successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up

to public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared.

It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man

was peculiarly fitted for the part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and,

therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university training guaranteed his literary sense, and

his connection with the University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse English. He was the

very man, indeed, but he must serve his apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much

slime and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for it in the

golden coin of that finer sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his life, to

himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would stick, do what he could, and with the smells he

must become so familiar that they no longer offended. That delicate discrimination that immediately detects

the presence of decay departed from him, and in its place there developed a coarser sense whose

characteristic was its power to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, came to

consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. On the other hand, consciousness of the brand

of heresy drove him from those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high souls who

"We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret," Mrs. Macdougall would say to her friend, carefully

modulating her tone lest she should betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. "But I doubt not he is very

"Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, striving to guard her voice with equal care, but with less

success. For Margaret was cursed, nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the

"Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear," the little lady would say, with never a quiver or

inflection of voice betraying that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend.

But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for an hour on Sabbath evening in the

quiet, sweet little nook of the professor's diningroom. He was so often held by his work, but more often by

his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that

Margaret regarded with distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she fought to forbid

them harbour in her heart! But how persistently they made entrance and to abide.

The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming sands, at times fanned by

perfumeladen zephyrs and lapped by shining waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves,

careless of all save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which they build their sand

castles with such concentrated eagerness and such painful industry. At other times there come tempests,

sudden and out of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and castlebuilders alike, and leave

A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic

joy all who can bring some new fancy or trick to their castlebuilding, rejecting all other without remorse. To

this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving freely her great voice and her superb body, now

developed into the full splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about her and gave

her unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the while of the very soulstuff in her. Devoutly they

worshipped at the shrine of that heavenlike and heavengiven instrument wherewith she could tickle their

senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies and hatreds, such among them as were female, and of their

lusts and despairs such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh curves and the draperies withal

wherewith, with consummate art, she revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal,

maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that wrought destruction among men and fury

To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts, Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in

such manner as that her preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of her

devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend, but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy

and girl friendship was established an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those conventions,

unreal and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise old world has proved, man and woman with the

dread potencies of passion slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes, as by

their habits of life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily association. Under Dick's guidance she read and

studied the masters of the English drama. For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and was at present

devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. Together they took full advantage of the theatre

privileges which Dick's connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by which society

amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown together. Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to

the influence Iola had upon him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from her physical

charms affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his

weakness; but once within sound of her voice, within touch of her hand, her power reasserted itself. The

mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this infatuation

of Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's love for her had not changed, except to

grow into a bitter, despairing intensity that made his presence painful to her at times. This very love of his

closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing

to him the wholesome fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life devoted to well doing.

Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something did occur. Almost a year had elapsed

since Barney had gone out of Iola's life in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had waited,

longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her, until suspense became unbearable even for his

strong soul. Hence it was that Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep, so tender, and withal

so humble, that even across the space that these months had put between Barney and herself, Iola was

profoundly stirred and sorely put to it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to Margaret and read her

such parts as she thought necessary. "A year has gone. It seems like ten. I have waited for your word, but

none has come. Looking back upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been severe. If so, my

punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better

than I had hoped a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an assistantship on equal

terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in the grip of a love beyond my power to control. In spite of all

that my work is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book before me, but into your eyesI may be able

to live without you, but I cannot live my best. I don't see how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait

even a few days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me to come."

"How?" exclaimed Margaret. "Tell him to come. Wire him. Go to him. Anything to get him to you."

"Yes," cried Margaret, "ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and babies and Barney! God pity your poor soul!"

"Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in your woman's heart?"

From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the two was growing wider every day. She

resolved to show her letter to Dick. They were to go that evening to the play and after the play there would be

On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, he suddenly remembered that a message

Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and drew forth Barney's letter.

"Listen, Dick. I want your advice." And she read over such portions of Barney's letter as she thought

"You know what he means," said Iola a little impatiently. "He wants me to marry him at once and to settle

"Now, Dick," cried Iola, "do you think I am suited for that kind of life? Can you picture me devoting myself

to the keeping of a house tidy, the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the long, quiet

evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among his patients while I dose and yawn and grow fat and

old and ugly, and the great world forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I love Barney. But I must have

"Forgotten?" cried Dick. "Why should you be forgotten? Barney's wife could not be ignored and the world

could not forget you. And, after all," added Dick, in a musing tone, "to live with Barney ought to be good

"Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!" she cried, making a little moue. "You are quite irresistible!" she added,

"Come, let us go," said Dick painfully, conscious of her physical charm. "We must get away."

"But you haven't helped me, Dick," she cried, drawing nearer to him and laying her hand upon his arm.

The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her face and form intoxicated him.

"Tell me what to say, Dick," she replied, smiling into his face and leaning toward him.

"How can I tell you?" cried Dick desperately, springing up. "I only know you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as

an angel, as a devil! What has come over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? Do you know," he

added roughly, lifting her to her feet, his breath coming hard and fast, "I can hardly keep my hands off you.

"Poor child," mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, "is it afraid it will get hurt?"

Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down upon her mocking face. "Kiss me!" he

Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, drawing him steadily down toward her the

"Kiss me!" he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding him still with her gaze.

"God in heaven!" cried Dick. "Go away!" He made to push her from him. She clasped him about the neck,

allowing herself to sink in his arms with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed her to him, and

Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing through their bodies, oblivious to all

about them, they heard not the opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the room. For a

single moment he stood stricken with horror as if gazing upon death itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught

a chair. Terrorsmitten, the two sprang apart and stood with guilt and shame stamped upon their ghastly

Slowly he came back to them. "Yes, it is I." The words seemed to come from some far distance. "I couldn't

wait. I came for my answer, Iola. I thought I could persuade you better. I have it now. I have lost you!

And"here he turned to Dick"oh, my God! My God! I have lost my brother, too!" he turned to depart

"Barney," cried Dick passionately, "there was no wrong! There was nothing beyond what you saw!"

Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side table, and picked up a Bible lying there. He

turned the leaves rapidly and handed it to his brother with his finger upon a verse.

"Read!" he said. "You know your Bible. Read!" His voice was terrible and compelling in its calmness.

Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that seemed to sear his eyeballs as he read,

"Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart."

"I could kill you now," said the quiet, terrible voice. "But what need? To me you are already dead."

When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he sank into a chair and sat with his face in

his hands. Beside him stood Iola, pale, rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid vision. She was

"Don't touch me!" he cried in vehement frenzy. "You are a devil! And I am in hell! In hell! do you hear?" He

caught her by the arm and shook her. "And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! Fools! no hell?" He turned again to her.

"And for you, for this, and this, and this," touching her hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom with his

finger, "I have lost my brothermy brothermy own brother Barney. Oh, fool that I am! Damned!

She shrank back from him, then whispered with pale lips, "Oh, Dick, spare me! Take me home!"

"Yes, yes," he cried in mad haste, "anywhere, in the devil's name! Come! Come!" He seized her wrap, threw

it upon her shoulders, caught up his hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her out.

"Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be burned?" And out of the embers of his passion there kindled a

The Superintendent was spending the precious hours of one of his rare visits at home in painful plodding

through his correspondence. For it was part of the sacrifice his work demanded, and which he cheerfully

made, that he should forsake home and wife and children for his work's sake. The Assembly's Convener

"How do you do, sir?" The Superintendent's voice had a fine burr about it that gripped the ear, and his hand a

vigour and tenacity of hold that gripped the outstretched hand of the Assembly's Convener and nearly brought

the little man to the floor. "Sit down, sir, and listen to this. Here are some of the compensations that go with

the Superintendent's office. This is rich. It comes from my friend, Henry Fink, of the Columbia Forks in the

Windermere Valley. British Columbia, you understand," noticing the Convener's puzzled expression. "I

visited the valley a year ago and found a truly deplorable condition of things. Men had gone up there many

years ago and settled down remote from civilization. Some of them married Indian wives and others of them

ought to have married them, and they have brought up families in the atmosphere and beliefs of the pagans.

Would you believe it, I fell in with a young man on the trail, twenty years of age, who had never heard the

name of our Saviour except in oaths? He had never heard the story of the Cross. And there are many others

like him. At the Columbia Forks the only institution that stands for things intellectual is a Freethinkers' Club,

the president of which is a retired colonel of the British Army, a man of fine manners, of some degree of

intelligence and reading, but, I have reason to believe, of bad life. His is the dominant influence in the

community if we except my friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known locally, 'Hank Fink.' Hank is a

character, I assure you. A Yankee from the Eastern States, the son of a Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch,

runs a store which supplies the scattered ranchers, prospectors, and miners with the necessaries of life, and

keeps a stopping place. Is postmaster, too. In fact, Hank is pretty much the whole village. He has lived in that

country some fifteen years. Has a good Canadian wife, and a flock of small children. He is a rara avis in that

country from the fact that he hates whiskey. He hates it almost as much as he does Colonel Hicks and his

Freethinking Club. When I visited the village, for some reason or other Hank took me up, the Scotch blood in

him possibly recognising kinship. He gave me his store to preach in, took me all about the country, and in a

week had a mission organized on a sound financial basis. His methods were very simple, very direct, and

very effective. He estimated the amount each man should pay and announced this fact to the man, who

generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply into Hank's motives, but it seemed to give him considerable

satisfaction to learn that Colonel Hicks was filled with indignant and scornful rage at the proposal to establish

a Christian mission in that remote valley. It grieved the Colonel to think that after so many years of immunity

they should at last be called upon to tolerate this particularly offensive appendage to an effete civilization. I

noticed that Hank's English always broke down in referring to the Colonel. Well, we sent in Finlayson a year

ago this spring, you remember. Strong man, good preacher, conscientious fellow. Thought he would do great

work. You know Finlayson? Well, this is the result." Here he picked up Hank's letter. "This would hardly do

for the Home Mission report," continued the Superintendent, with a twinkle in his keen grey eyes:

"DEAR SIR:I take my pen to write you a few lines to let you know how things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to

tell you this station is goin' to the devil. [Judging from what I saw of the place, it hadn't far to go.] Your

preacher ain't worth a cuss. I don't say he ain't good fer some people, but he ain't our style. [Mr. Finlayson

would doubtless agree with that.] He means well, but he ain't eddicated up to the West. You remember how

we got the boys all corralled up nice an' tame when you was here. Well, he's got 'em wild. Couldn't reach 'em

with a shotgun. He throwed hell fire at 'em till they got scart an' took to the hills till you can't get near 'em no

more'n mountain goats. So they have all quit comin'I don't count Scotty Fraser, for he would come,

anywayexcept me an' Monkey Fiddler an' his yeller dog. You can always count on the dog. Now, sir, this

is your show, not mine. But I was born an' raised a Presbyteryn down East, an' though I haven't worked hard

at the business for some years, it riles me some to hear Col. Hicks an' a lot of durned fools that has got

smarter than God Almighty Himself shootin' off against the Bible an' religion an' all that. [We needn't read

too closely between the lines at this point.] Send a man that don't smell so strong of sulphur an' brimstone,

who has got some savey, an' who will know how to handle the boys gentle. They ain't to say bad, but just a

leetle wild. Send him along, an' we will stay with him an' knock the tar out of that bunch of fools.

"P. S. When are you comin' into the valley again? If you could arrange to spend a month or two I'll guarantee

"I don't think you can count much from the support of a man like that," said the assembly's Convener; "I don't

"My dear sir," said the Superintendent, "don't you know he is the Chairman of our Board of Management, a

most regular attendant upon ordinances and contributes most liberally to our support? And while these things

in the East wouldn't necessarily indicate a change of heart, they stand for a good deal west of the Great

Divide. And, at any rate, in these matters we remember gratefully the word that is written, 'He that is not

"Well, well," said the Assembly's Convener, "it may be so. It may be so. But what's to be done with

"We can easily place Finlayson. He is a good man and will do excellent work in other fields. But where to get

"There appears to be no one in sight," said the Superintendent. "I have a number of applications here,"

picking up a goodsized bundle of neatly folded papers, "but they are hardly the kind to suit conditions at

Windermere. Numbers of them feel themselves specially called of God to do mission work in large centres of

population. Others are chiefly anxious about the question of support. One man would like to be in touch with

a daily train service, as he feels it necessary to keep in touch with the world by means of the daily newspaper.

A number are engaged who want to be married. Here's Mr. Brown, too fat. No move in him. Here's

McKaygood man, earnest, but not adaptable, like Finlayson; won't do. Here's Gartonfine fellow, would

do well, but hardly strong enough. So what are you to do? I have gone over the whole list of available men

In this the Assembly's Convener could give him no help. Indeed, from few did the Superintendent receive

Assistance came to him from an unexpected quarter. He was to meet the Assembly's Convener and some

members of the Committee that evening at Professor Macdougall's for tea. The Superintendent's mind could

not be kept long away from the work that was his very life, and at the table the conversation turned to the

question of the chronic difficulty of securing men for frontier work, which had become acute in the case of

Windermere. Margaret, who had been invited to assist Mrs. Macdougall in the dispensing of her hospitality,

was at once on the alert. Why could not Dick be sent? If only that Presbytery difficulty could be got over he

might go. That he would be suited for the work she was well assured, and equally certain was she that it

"It would save him," Margaret said to herself with a sharp sting at her heart, for she had to confess sadly that

Dick had come to the point where he needed saving. She had learned from Iola the whole miserable story of

Barney's visit, of his terrible indictment of his brother and the final break between them, but she had seen

little of him during the past six months. From that terrible night Dick had gone down in physical and in moral

health. Again and again he had written Barney, but there had been no reply. Hungrily he had come to

Margaret for word of his brother, hopeful of reconciliation. But of late he had given up hope and had ceased

to make inquiry, settling down into a state of gloomy, remorseful grief into which Margaret felt she dare not

intrude. He occasionally met Iola at society functions, but there was an end of all intimacy between them. His

only relief seemed to be in his work, and he gave himself to that with such feverish energy that his health

broke down, and under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home with his mother. Thence he had written

once to say that his days were one long agony. She remembered one terrible sentence. "Everything here, the

house, the mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's churn, the woods, the fields, everything, everything shrieks

'Barney' at me till I am like to go mad. I must get away from here to some place where he has never been with

It required some considerable skill to secure the Superintendent that evening for a few minutes alone. In

whatever company he was, he was easily the centre of interest. But Margaret, even in the early days of the

Manse, had been a favourite with him, and he was not a man to forget his friends. He had the rare gift of

gripping them to him with "hooks of steel." Hence, he had kept in touch with her during the latter years,

pitying the girl's loneliness as much as his admiration for her cheery courage and her determined

independence would allow him. When Margaret found her opportunity she wasted no time.

"You have? Where have you got him? Who is he? And are you willing to spare him? Few young ladies are.

"You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year ago?" Her words came hurriedly and there was a slight

flush on her cheek. "There was some trouble about his license at Presbytery. That horrid old Mr. Naismith

was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. Boyle, I meanwe have always been friends," she hastened to add, explaining

her deepening blush, "you know his mother lived at the Mill near us. Well, since that day in Presbytery he has

never been the same. His workhe is on the Daily Telegraph, you knowtakes him away

"And he's got to be very different. He had some trouble, great trouble, the greatest possible to him. Oh, I may

"He went to Europe. Well, the brothers were everything to each other since little fellows together. Oh, it was

beautiful! I never saw anything like it anywhere. They had a misunderstanding, a terrible misunderstanding.

Dick was in the wrong." The Superintendent shot a keen glance at her. "No," she said, answering his glance,

the colour in her face deepening into a vivid scarlet, "it was not about me, not at all. I can't tell you about it,

but that, and his trouble with the Presbytery, and all the rest of it are just killing him. And I know if he got

back to his own work again and away from home it would save him, and his mother, too, for she is breaking

The Superintendent saw how hard a task it had been for her to tell the story, and the sight of her eager face,

the big blue eyes bright, and the lips quivering with the intensity of her feeling, deeply touched him.

"Oh, I know the Presbytery difficulty," cried Margaret, with a desperate note in her voice.

"That could be arranged, I have no doubt," said the Superintendent, brushing aside that difficulty with a wave

"Oh, he would go, I am sure. If you saw him and if you told him those stories about the need there is, I am

sure he would go. Could you see him? There is no use to write. I do wish you could. He is such a fine boy

and his mother is so set upon his being a minister." The blue eyes were bright with tears she was too brave to

"My dear young lady," said the Superintendent, his deep voice growing deeper under the intensity of his

feelings, "I would do much for your sake and for your mother's. I am to visit your home early next month. I

shall make it a point to see Mr. Boyle, and I promise you I shall get him if it is possible."

The sudden lifting of the burden from her heart deprived the girl of speech, but she shyly put out her hand

and touched the long, sinewy fingers that lay within reach of hers in a timid caress. Instantly the fingers

closed upon her hand in a grasp so strong that it seemed to drive the conviction into her heart that somehow

How, or by what arguments, the Superintendent overcame Dick's objections, Margaret never learned. But the

full bitter tale of reasons against his ever taking up his work again, with which Dick had made himself so

familiar during the past dark, dreary months, were one by one removed, and when the Superintendent left the

Old Stone Mill he had secured his missionary for Windermere. It gave the Superintendent acute satisfaction

to remember the flash of his missionary's blue eyes as, in answer to the warning, "You will have a hard fight

Before the year was over it fell that the Windermere valley came to be one of the mission fields that

gladdened the hearts of the Home Mission Committee of the Calgary Presbytery, and especially of its

doughty Convener. In the Convener's study, eight by ten, the report from the Windermere field was discussed

"An extremely gratifying record," said the Superintendent, "especially when one considers its disorganized

"Yes, it's a good report," assented the Convener. "We had practically no support a year ago. Our strongest

"Yes. You know Hank, I see. Well, Hank's enthusiasm and devotion were hardly of what you would call the

purest type. But whatever his motive, he stood by the missionary, and, do you know, it is a splendid

testimony of the power of the Gospel to see the change in that same shrewd old sinner. Yes, sir, give the

Gospel a chance and it will do its work." The Convener, who hated all cant and canting phrases with a perfect

hatred, rarely allowed himself the luxury of an emotional outbreak. But the case of Hank Fink seemed to

"So Boyle has done well?" said the Superintendent. "I am very glad of it. Very glad of it, for his own sake,

"Yes," replied the Convener, "Boyle has done a fine bit of work. He lived all summer on his horse's back and

in his canoe, followed the prospectors up into the gulches and the miners to their mines, if you can call them

mines, left a magazine here, a book there, a New Testament next place. And once he got his grip on a man, he

never let him go. Hank told me how he found a man sick in a camp away up in a gulch and how he stayed

with him for more than a week, then brought him down on his horse's back to the Forks. Yes, it's a good

record. A church built at the north end of the field, another almost completed at the Forks. Really, it was very

fine," continued the Convener, allowing his enthusiasm to rise. "It renews one's faith in the reality of religion

to see a man jump into his work like that. They didn't pay him his salary the first half year, but he omitted to

"No. I mentioned the matter to Fink and explained that if the field failed it was Boyle that would suffer. His

"Yes. I've seen him, I've heard him, and I've read him. But let us hope that his deeds will atone in a measure

for his broken English. But," continued the Superintendent, "you have had Boyle ordained, have you not?"

"Yes. We got him ordained," replied the Convener, beginning to chuckle. A delighted, choking chuckle it

was. Any missionary who had worked in his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the dark by that

chuckle. It began, if one were quick to observe, with a wrinkling about the corners of the sharp blue eyes,

then became audible in a succession of small explosions that seemed to have their origin in the region of the

esophagus and to threaten the larynx with disruption, until relief was found in a widethroated peal that

subsided in a second series of small explosions and gradually rumbled off into silence somewhere in the

region of the diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the corners of the blue eyes as a kind of warning

that the whole process might be repeated upon sufficient provocation. "Yes, we got him ordained," he

repeated when the chuckle had passed. "I was glad of your explanatory note about him. It guided us in our

"What happened?" inquired the Superintendent, leaning forward. He dearly loved a yarn, and he sorely hated

to lose any of the more humorous incidents of missionary life, not only for the joy they brought him, but also

"Well, it was funny," said the Convener, his lips twitching and his eyes wrinkling, "though at one time it

looked like an Assembly case with all seven of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, our latest

importation in the way of ordained men? Somehow he had got wind of Boyle's trouble with the Presbytery in

"Yes," assented the Superintendent, "he's a fine fellow, but his conscience gives him a hard time now and

"Well," continued the Convener, McPherson came to me about the matter in very considerable anxiety. I put

him off, consulted with McTavish and Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good a man to lose, and as

to his heresy, it was not hurting Windermere as far as we could learn. So it happened"here the Convener

pulled himself up short to suppress the chuckle that threatened"it happened that just as the examination

was beginning McPherson was called out, and before he had returned the trials for license and ordination had

been sustained. I think on the whole McPherson was relieved, but there were some funny moments after he

"Heresyhunting doesn't flourish in the West," said the Superintendent. "There's no time for it. Some of the

Eastern Presbyteries have too many men with more time on their hands than sense in their heads."

"Certainly there was no time lost in this case," replied the Convener. "We knew Boyle's scholarship was

right. We knew his heart was sound. We knew he was doing good work for us and we knew we wanted him.

"What we want for the West," said the Superintendent, his voice vibrating in a deeper tone, "is men who have

the spirit of the Gospel with the power to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, with tact to bring it to

bear upon them. A little heresy, more or less, won't hurt them. Orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy the other

"In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his touch of heresy. It gave him a kind of brotherly feeling with

all heretics. It was that more than anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' Club."

"Ah," said the Superintendent, bending eagerly forward, again on the scent, "I didn't hear that."

"Yes," said the Convener, "Fink told me about it. Boyle went to their meetings. He found them revelling in

cheap scepticism of the Ingersollian type. He took the attitude of a man seeking after a working theory of life,

and that attitude he stuck tohis real attitude, mind you. He encouraged them to talk, combated none of their

positions and, as Hank said, 'coaxed them out into deep water and had them froggin' for their lives. He was

the biggest Freethinker in the bunch.' They invited him to give a series of lectures. He did so, and that settled

the Freethinkers' Club. He never blamed them for doubting anything, and I believe that's right." The

Convener was a bit of a heretic himself and, consequently, carried a tender heart toward them. "Let a man

doubt till he finds his faith. And that was Boyle's line. He let them doubt, but he insisted that they should

"Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins trembling with his mirth,' for Boyle got after him with the same

The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride in his missionary. "That's the kind of man we want. He

"Yes," replied the Convener hesitatingly. "You think he ought to go? Windermere will be furious. I wouldn't

"It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere mustn't be selfish. That railroad work is most pressing, and only

a man like Boyle will do. There will be from three to five thousand men in there this winter between Macleod

and Kuskinook. We dare not neglect them. I have had correspondence with Fahey, the General Manager for

the Crow's Nest line, and he is not unfriendly, though he would prefer us to send in medical missionaries. But

"There is a terrible state of things in the eastern division, I fear, from all reports," replied the Convener. "By

the way, there is a young English doctor working on that eastern division from the MaCleod end who is

making a great stir. Bailey is his name, I believe. He began as a navvy, but finding a lot of fellows sick, and

the doctor a poor drunken fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it as long as he could, then finally threw him out of

the camp and installed himself in his place. The contractor backed him up and he has revolutionized the

medical work in that direction. Murray told me the most wonderful tales about him. He must be a remarkable

man. Gambles heavily, but hates whiskey and won't have it near the camp. You ought to look him up when

"I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and the railroad people ought to feel disgraced in employing them.

They draw their fifty cents per man a month, but their practice is shameful. It is a delicate matter, but I shall

take this up with Fahey when I see him. He is a rough diamond, but he is fair and he won't stand any

"Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body of men and must be looked after. A weaker

man would make a mess of things. Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? Cheerful?"

"No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he came to us. He was low in health, I think,

and his face haunted me for weeks. He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life."

The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare gift of silence. Even with his trusted

lieutenants he would break no confidence. But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, and after he had

sealed and stamped them he placed them, with a pile already written, on the table and sat back in his chair

indulging himself in a few moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, wellkept kitchen in the Old Stone Mill

and, bending over his letter a woman, darkfaced and stern, her wavy, black hair heavily streaked with white,

for during the past years the sword had pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her tragic Highland

face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With glad heart she had given him up, and now, with humble

The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawingroom with all its beautiful appointments and the

face of a young girl pleading for her friend. He still could see the quivering lips and hear the words of her

invincible faith, "I know that if he got at his own work again it would save him." He could still feel the

grateful, timid pressure of her fingers as he had pledged her his word that her desire should be fulfilled. He

"Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick himself ye're dodgin'."

Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan camps, admonished his halfbroken

"Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now.

The saints be praised! that's over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be praised! He's

there yit," said Tommy to himself. "We're on the dump now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we

The bronchos after their fifteenmile drive along the unspeakable bush roads, finding the smooth surface of

the railway grade beneath their feet, set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow was driving

bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little Irishman cared nothing for himself. His concern was for the man

lying under the buffalo robes in the sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up their tireless lope,

"Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass monkey. I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste."

He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, took a flask from his pocket, and got down on

"Here, Scotty," he said coaxingly, "take another taste. It'll put life into ye." The sick man tried to swallow

once, twice, choked hard, then shook his head. "Now, God be merciful! an' can't ye swally at all? An' the

good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need it an' we're not far aff now." Once more the

sick man made a desperate effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, then turned away his head. The

tenderhearted little Irishman covered him over carefully and climbed into his seat. "He couldn't swally it,"

he said to himself in an awed voice, putting the flask to his own lips, "Begorra, an' it's near the Kingdom he

must be!" To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign of approaching dissolution that a man should reject the

contents of his flask. He gave himself to the business of getting out of the bronchos all the speed they had.

"Come on, now, me bhoys!" he shouted through the gale, "what are ye lookin' at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier

than yerselves can be seen in the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that, thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're

So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they came out into a clearing at the far end of

which twinkled the lights of the new railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp No. 1.

"Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that thought ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're

here, Scotty, me man. In ten howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life into ye wid a

spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?" But there was no movement in response. "Howly Mary! Give us a little more

speed!" He stood up over his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were going at full gallop. As he

drew near the camp the sound of singing came on the driving wind. "Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey!

It's pay day an' the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at hand!"

Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the various structures of the pioneer town.

First came the camp building, the bunkhouse, grubhouse, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the

glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the "red lights," the curse and shame of

railroad, lumber, and mining camps in British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through

At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first saloon and before they were well stopped

burst open the door, crying out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!" Swipey, the saloonkeeper,

"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, Scotty?" There was no answer. "The

saints be good to us! Are ye alive at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he

Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a

"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in

"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in."

"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry murmur ran through the men about the door.

"Take him up to the bunkhouse," said the saloonkeeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. "What d'ye want

to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man? How do you know what he's got?"

"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep

thief! It's plinty of me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he cried,

Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table

surrounded by six or eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for which he

held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his

swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of

glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to

chip in to the game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of

new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the

railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time to time, he

moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black

eyes, deepset and bloodshot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of men watching the

"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker

"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who had for the greater part of the evening

"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with

"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death."

The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?" He passed his hand over his eyes.

"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in."

"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. "You've got to give

"Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. "Let's stop this tiddledewinks game. You can't have up

more than a hundred apiece. I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a dollar, and

Then they flung themselves upon it. "It's a go!" "Come on!" "Give us your cards!" Quickly the cards were

dealt. One by one the men made up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless

The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their hands. He had won. With an oath

"Mexico" made a grab for the pile, reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the doctor

was first, and before anyone could move or speak "Mexico" was lying in the corner, his toes quivering above

"Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game," said the doctor with cool contempt,

crumpling up the bills and pushing them down into his pocket. "Where's your sick man?"

"This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The doctor passed him on a run.

"That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, "but the bloody haythen wudn't let him in."

"How's this, Swipey?" said the doctor sternly, turning to the saloonkeeper, who still stood in the door.

"I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. "In he goes. Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady,

Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to do, the doctor was leading his

"Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick about it."

Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. "It must be warm, eh? Want a bath in it next, I suppose."

"This will do," said the doctor when they reached the room. "Now, clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll

do, Shorty." Without hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed

between heated blankets. "Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay here,

He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm to his office, returning in a few

"We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full of hot water for me."

"Go quick!" The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs

with the hotwater bottles. With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work.

"Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin. It's hours, days, too late, perhaps,

hardly any use with this mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor chap, he

can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way." Again he filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick

man a second injection. "There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a man in this condition

twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him

in here within an hour." Shorty turned to go. "Wait. Do you know this man's name?"

The doctor turned to his struggle with death. "There is no chance, no chance. The fools! The villains! It's

sheer murder!" he muttered, as he strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get his

After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to breathe more

easily. But by that time he had given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase his rage

to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor

saw that it was simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man opened his eyes and

looked about. The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor

Scotty was making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear. Finally the dying man pointed to

"You want something out of your pocket?" inquired the doctor. The eyes gave assent. One by one the doctor

held up the articles he found in the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had

It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing gratitude for gifts of money from time to

time, pride in his well doing, love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's fortitude to

keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never moved from his face till the reading was finished.

Then the doctor put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble. The fingers closed upon it

and with difficulty carried it to the man's bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but

The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came to a large worn pocketbook.

With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket he drew a little photograph of a

young girl. A light came into the eyes of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in

his hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to question.

"You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes." The eyes remained wide open.

"No? You want me to do something for you? To write?" At once the eyes closed. "I shall write to your

mother and send all your things and tell them about you." A smile spread over the face and the eyes closed as

if content. In a few minutes, however, they opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning.

The lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word "Thank."

"Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you," said the doctor. "Anything else?"

The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon the doctor's face again. Vainly the

doctor sought to gather his meaning, till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, putting

his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, "Motherhome," and again the eyes turned upward

"You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?" And once more a glad smile lit up the distorted

For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through the thin partition, came the sounds

of oaths and laughter and drunken song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the

door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After the spasm had passed the sick man

lay still, his eyes closed, and his breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their

appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening intently, he heard the word, "Pray." The

doctor's pale face flushed quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, "I'm no good at

that." Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and again the doctor caught the words, "Jesus,

tender." It had been the doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had passed his lips. He could not

bring himself to do it. It would be sheer mockery. But the eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting

And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn silence, the doctor's voice, low but very

clear, rose in the verses of that ancient child's prayer, "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me." At the third verse,

"Let my sins be all forgiven, Bless the friends I love so well, Take me when I die to heaven, Happy there with

there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content, and then all was still. Ere the prayer had

been uttered the answer had come, "Happy there with Thee to dwell." Poor Scotty! Out from the sickness and

the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been taken to the place where the blessed dwell and

Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual tears. As he was thus busied he heard a

sniffle behind him and, turning sharply about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, both wiping

"Confound you, Shorty!" burst forth the doctor wrathfully, "what in the mischief are you doing there? Come

in, you fool. Did you ever see a dead man before?" The doctor was clearly in a rage. During the weeks Shorty

had known him in camp he had never seen him show anything but a perfectly cold and selfcomposed face.

"Is this the teamster?" continued the doctor. "Come in here. You see that man? Someone has murdered him.

Who sent him down here through this storm? How long had he been ill? Have you a doctor up there? Are

there any more sick? Why don't you speak up? What's your name?" In an angry flood the questions poured

forth upon the hapless Tommy, who stood speechless. "Why don't you speak?" said the doctor again.

Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to require least thought to answer.

"Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An' sure it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman the man

wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the last twinty miles, an' up an' down the hills like the divil wuz

"Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste that he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky

"Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse than poor Scotty there, God rest his sowl!"

The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, speaking rapidly, "Go and bring to this room the

foreman and Swipey. And say not a word to anyone, mind that. And you," he said, turning to Tommy, "can

"You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. Get something to eat."

"This man," said the doctor, "is dead. Diphtheria. There is no fear, Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have

him buried at once, and you will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall fumigate this room.

All this clothing must be burned and there will be no further danger. You will see about this tomorrow. I am

"Tonight, doctor!" cried the foreman. "It's blowing a regular blizzard. Can't you wait till morning?"

"There are men sick at No. 2," said the doctor. "The chances are it's diphtheria."

"Have you had something to eat, Tommy?" inquired the doctor, stepping out from the saloon.

"Not if I know it, begob!" said Tommy. "I'll stay wid yez. It's mesilf that knows a man whin I see him."

And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor rejoicing to find in the call to a fight with death

At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition. The line ran straight through a

muskeg out of which the bottom seemed to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin,

was almost in despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant a serious reduction in the

The foreman, Craigin, was a man from "across the line," skilled in railroad building, selected chiefly because

of his reputation as a "driver." He was a man of great physical force and indomitable will, and gifted in large

measure with the power of command. He knew his business thoroughly and knew just how to get the most

out of the machinery and men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, and no man on the line

could get a bigger day out of his force than could Craigin. His men he treated as part of his equipment. He

believed in what was called his "scrapheap policy." When any part of the machinery ceased to do firstclass

work it was at once discarded, and, as with the machinery, so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance

in the camp and must be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human nature, and when

a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him of malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in

regard to a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the camp. Hence the men thoroughly

hated their foreman, but as thoroughly they dreaded to fall under his displeasure.

The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce and balsam and tamarack. The site

had been selected after a month of dry weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was

not discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the mountainsides and filled up the

intervening valleys and swamps. After the frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all

"I mean how do youwhat are your arrangements for keeping the camp clean, free from dirt and smells?

You can't have three hundred men living together without some sanitary arrangements."

"Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through the week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes

in soap suds, if ye kin git near the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs."

The doctor gave it up. "Drive on," he said. "But what a beautiful spot for a camp right there on that level."

"Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till

ye can't git round fer mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods," replied Tom.

"Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would be a fine spot for the camp."

As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he dumped down on a heap at the

door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A

huge Swede followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat.

"It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede submitted to the examination.

The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping through the treetops, and looked into

"No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. "Big work today, boss say. He not like men sick."

"You hear me," said the doctor sharply. "You go back to bed. Where's your doctor?"

"De seeck mans?" replied the cook. "She's be hall overe. On de bunkhouse, on de cook shed. Dat is

"Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's

The doctor strode into the cookhouse. By the light of the lantern swinging from the roof he found three men

"Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your throats, men."

A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with each examination.

"Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this cookhouse or you'll poison the whole

"Where can we go, doctor? The bunkhouse would freeze you and the stink of it would make a well man

"Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you something." He opened his bag, took out

his syringe. "Here, Yonie, we'll begin with you. Roll up your sleeve." And in three minutes he had given all

four an antitoxin injection. "Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way what's his name?"

The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, and, getting no response, opened it and

"Be the powers, Narcisse!" cried Tommy, as the cook stood looking after the doctor, "it's little I iver thought

I'd pity that baste, but Hivin save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer him. An' begob, he'll be

But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the punctilious etiquette of the profession demanded.

He found Dr. Haines sleeping heavily in his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was uneasy at the outbreak

of sickness in his camp, and more especially was he seized with an anxious foreboding in regard to the sick

man who had been sent out the day before. Besides this, the foreman had cursed him for a drunken fool in the

presence of the whole camp with such vigour and directness that he had found it necessary to sooth his

ruffled feelings with large and frequent doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly medical

purposes. With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When fully awake he was aware of a young man

with a very pale and very stern face standing over him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began:

"Dr. Bailey?" said Haines, sitting up. "Oh, I've heard of you." His tone indicated a report none too favourable.

In fact, it was his special chum and confrere who had been ejected from his position in the Gap camp through

"You have some very sick men in the camp," repeated Dr. Bailey, his voice sharp and stern.

"Diphtheria be hanged!" replied Haines insolently; "I examined them carefully last night."

"They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty of looking into their throats."

"The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here to interfere with my practice, young man?

Where did you get your professional manners?" Dr. Haines was the older man and resented the intrusion of

this smoothfaced young stranger, who added to the crime of his youth that of being guilty of a serious

"I ought to apologize for looking at your patients," said Dr. Bailey. "I came in thinking I might be of some

assistance in dealing with this outbreak of diphtheria, and I was naturally anxious to see"

"Against your will? Would you let a man in the last stages of diphtheria leave this camp against your will

"Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted to go himself, and the foreman would have him out."

"There are at least four men going about the campthey are now in the cookhouse where the breakfast is

"What do you propose? What can I do in this cursed hole?" said Dr. Haines petulantly. "No appliances, no

means of isolation, no nurses, nothing. Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. What can I do?"

"Do you ask me?" The scorn in the voice was only too apparent. "Isolate the infected at least."

Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trembling hand, he poured out a cupful of whiskey from a bottle

standing on a convenient shelf. "Isolate? How can I isolate? There's no building in which"

"Make one? Young man, do you know what you are talking about? Do you know where you are? Do you

"Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out from this camp last night would result in the verdict of

manslaughter. There was no inquest. There will be on the next man that dies if there is any neglect."

The seriousness of the situation began to dawn upon Haines. "Well," he said, "if you think you can isolate

"Don't know," Haines growled, as with an oath he went out, followed by Dr. Bailey. Just outside the door

"This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin." Craigin growled out a salutation. "Dr. Bailey here says these sick men have

"These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, without a doubt, and they ought to be isolated at once."

"A separate camp!" exclaimed Craigin; "I'll see them blanked first! Look here, Haines, let's have no nonsense

about this. I'm three weeks, yes, a month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank muskeg is knocking the

whole contract endways. We can't spare a single man half a day. And more than that, you go talking

diphtheria in this camp and you can't hold the men here an hour. It's all I can do to hold them as it is." And

Craigin went off into an elaborate course of profanity descriptive of the various characteristics of the men in

"Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in the hospital, anyway. It's fine today. We'll send every man Jack

"These men can't be moved," said Dr. Bailey in a quiet voice. "You sent a man out yesterday and he's dead."

"He was bound to go himself. We didn't send him. Anyway, it's none of YOUR business. Look here, Haines,

you know me. I'm not going to have any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and all that blankety

"Mr. Craigin, it would be murder," said Dr. Bailey, "sure murder. Some of them might get through. Some

would be sure to die. The consequences to those responsibleto Dr. Haines, for instance would be

serious. I am quite sure he will never give orders that these men should be moved."

"He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him do it. Haines will give the orders right enough." Craigin's laugh

was like the growl of a bear. "There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you hear me. Those men are going

Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. "You may call me what you please just now, Mr. Craigin. Before the

day is over you won't have enough names left. For I tell you that these men suffering from diphtheria are

Craigin was white. That this young palefaced stranger should presume to come into his domain, where his

word was wont to run as absolute law, filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were serious issues at

stake, and with a supreme effort he controlled the passionate longing to spring upon this upstart and throttle

Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of the foreman. A moment more he paused and then

"Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so terribly ill. I guess they can go out."

"All right," said Craigin, with a triumphant sneer. He turned to Tommy, who was standing near with half a

dozen men who had just come out from breakfast. "Here you, Tommy, get a couple of teams ready and all the

"Tommy," called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear tone, "you took a man out from this camp yesterday. Tell the

"Sure, they all know it," said Tommy, who had already told the story of poor Scotty's death and of the

doctor's efforts to save him. "An' it's a fine bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan out av him all the way

Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. "Here you blank, blank, blank! Do what I tell you! And the rest of

The men gave back, and some began to move away. Dr. Bailey walked quickly past Craigin into the midst of

"Men, I want to say something to you." His voice commanded their instant attention. "There are half a dozen

of your comrades in this camp sick with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They ought to be isolated to

prevent the spread of the disease, and they ought to be cared for at once. The foreman proposes to send them

out. One went out yesterday. He died last night. If these men go out today some of them will die, and it will

be murder. What do you say? Will you let them go?" A wrathful murmur ran through the crowd, which was

"Get to your work, you fellows, or get your time!" shouted Craigin, pouring out oaths. "And you," turning

"I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines," replied Dr. Bailey. "He has asked my advice, and I am giving it."

"Are you going to work, McLean?" shouted Craigin furiously. "If not, go and get your time."

"We're going to talk this matter over a minute, Mr. Craigin," said McLean quietly. "It's a serious matter. We

"Every man who is not at work in five minutes will get his time," said Craigin, and he turned away and

"What do you propose should be done, Doctor?" said McLean, ignoring the foreman.

"Build a camp where the sick men can be placed by themselves and where they can be kept from infecting the

rest of the camp. Half a day's work of a dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of them will die.

Besides, it is almost certain that some more of you have already been infected."

At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread terror of the disease, were for sending out the sick

immediately, but the majority would not listen to this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean came again to Dr.

"The men want to know if you can guarantee that the disease can be stamped out here if you have a separate

"We can guarantee nothing," replied Dr. Bailey. "But it is altogether the safer way to fight the disease. And I

am of the opinion that we can stamp it out." The doctor's air and tone of quiet confidence, far more than his

words, decided the men's action. In a minute more it was agreed that the sick men should stay and that they

"No, men," said the doctor, "let's not make trouble. I know Mr. Maclennan slightly, and he's a just man, and

he'll do what's fair. Besides, we don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a dozen menone must be able

to cookand in half a day the work will be finished. I will be personally responsible for everything."

At this point Craigin came out. "Here's your time, McLean," he said, thrusting a time check at him.

"I'm wan," said Tommy, running over to the doctor's side. "I seen him shtand by Scotty whin the lad wus

One by one McLean called his men, each taking his place beside the doctor, while the rest of the men moved

For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside all regard for consequences, rushed at him, but half a dozen

"Hold on, Mr. Craigin," said McLean, "we want no violence. We're going to do what we think right in this

"And Mr. Craigin," continued the doctor, "we shall need some things out of your stores."

Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to the office steps. "Your time is waiting you, men. And listen to

me. If any man goes near that there storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've got the law and I'll do it,

so help me God." He went into the office and returned in a moment with a Winchester, which he loaded in

"Never mind him, boys," said the doctor cheerily, "I'm going to have breakfast. Come, Tommy, I want you."

In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of the storehouse in his hand, to find the men still waiting his

"Don't go just yet," said McLean to the doctor in a low voice, "we'll get round him."

For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His men were about him waiting his lead. Craigin with his rifle held

them all in check. A moment's thought and his decision was taken. He stepped toward Craigin and said in a

clear voice, "Mr. Craigin, these stores are necessary to save these men's lives. I want them and I'm going to

"Hear me, men." Craigin's voice was cold and deliberate. "These stores are in my charge. I am an officer of

the law. If any man lays his hand on that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God."

"Hear me, Mr. Craigin," replied Dr. Bailey. "I'm here in consultation with Dr. Haines, who has turned over

this matter to my charge. In a case of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. This whole camp is under his

authority. These stores are necessary, and I am going to get them." He well knew the weak spot in his

position, but he counted on Craigin's nerve breaking down. In that, however, he was mistaken. Without haste,

but without hesitation, he walked toward the storehouse door. When three paces from it Craigin's voice

"Hold on there! Put your hand on that door and, as God lives, you're a dead man!"

Without a word the doctor turned again toward the door. The men with varying cries rushed toward the

foreman. Craigin threw up his rifle. Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to the snow, the smoking

"Begob, I niver played baseball," cried Tommy, rushing in and seizing the rifle, "but many's the time I've had

the divarsion in the streets av Dublin of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick."

A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had saved the doctor's life. They carried Craigin into the office and

laid him on the bed, the blood streaming from a ghastly wound in his scalp. Quickly Dr. Bailey got to work

and before Craigin had regained consciousness the wound was sewed up and dressed. Then giving him over

Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men who were discovered to be in various stages of diphtheria

were comfortably housed in a roomy building rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and tarpaulin, with a

small cookhouse attached and Tommy Tate in charge. And before night had fallen the process of

disinfecting the bedding, clothing, bunkhouse, and cookery was well under way, while all who had been in

immediate contact with the infected men had been treated by the doctor with antitoxin as a precautionary

Thus the first day's campaign against death closed with the issue still undecided, but the chances for winning

were certainly greater than they had been. What the result would be when Craigin was able to take command

again, no one could say. But in the meantime, for the next two days, the work on the dump was prosecuted

with all vigour, the men feeling in honour bound to support the doctor in that part of the fight which fell to

Mr. Maclennan was evidently worried. His broad, goodhumoured face, which usually wore a smile

indicating content with the world and especially with himself, was drawn into a frown. The muskeg was

beating him, and he hated to be beaten. He was bringing in General Manager Fahey to have a look at things.

It was important to awaken the sympathy of the General Manager, if, indeed, this could be accomplished. But

the General Manager had a way of insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and this stretch in Maclennan's

"There's the hole," said Maclennan, as they turned down the hill into the swamp. "Into that hole," he

continued, pointing to where the dump ended abruptly in the swamp, "I can't tell you how many millions of

carloads have been dumped. I used to brag that I was never beaten in my life, but that hole"

"Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, bridged, or trestled, and we can't wait too long, either."

The General Manager's name was a synonym for a relentless sort of energy in railroad construction that

refused to consider obstacles. Nothing could stand in his way. The thing behind which he put the weight of

his determination simply had to move in one direction or other. The contractor that failed expected no mercy,

"We're doing our best," said Maclennan, "and we will continue to do our best. Hello! what's this? What's

A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclennan's countenance. Haines was beginning to enjoy himself.

"What I say. A young fellow calling himself Dr. Bailey came into this camp three days ago, raised the biggest

kind of a row, laid up Craigin with a broken head, and took charge of the camp." Maclennan stood in

"Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? What has he got to do with it? And how did Craigin come to

Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. "Come on, Fahey," he said, "let's go down. Something

extraordinary has happened. You can't believe that fellow Haines. What are you laughing at?"

Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing the humour of any situation. "I can't help it, Maclennan.

I'll bet you a box of cigars that man Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. But it's no laughing

matter," continued the General Manager, sobering up. "This has a very serious aspect. There are a whole lot

of men sick in our camps. You contractors don't pay enough attention to your health."

"Health! When you're driving us like all possessed there's no time to think of health."

"I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of health. The newspapers are beginning to talk.

Why, look at that string of men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of them never should have

come in. Hundreds of men are here who never used either shovel or axe. They cut themselves, get cold,

rheumatism, or something; they're not fit for their work. All the same, we get blamed. But my theory is that

every camp should have an hospital, with three main hospitals along this branch. There's one at Macleod. It is

filled, overflowing. A young missionary fellow, Boyle, has got one running out at Kuskinook supported by

some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, too; but it's overflowing. There's a young lady in charge there, a

Miss Robertson, and she's a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get the fellows to leave, and I don't blame

them. If ever I get sick send me to her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had two or three firstclass men, with

three main hospitals, a branch in every camp, we'd keep the health department in firstclass condition. The

"That's all right," said Maclennan, "but where are you to get your firstclass men? They come to us with

letters from Directors or some big bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that man Haines. He

doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey seems to be different. He certainly knows his

work and he never touches whiskey. I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In two weeks' time he had things in

great shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some sickness or busy he's all right, but when things get

"But this here business is going too far," continued Maclennan. "I didn't hire him to run my camps. Well,

"Goodday, cook," said Maclennan. "Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in a few minutes. I want to see Mr.

Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, "M'sieu Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt

Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on de office you see de docteur."

"Hain!" said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. "Dat's no docteur for one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck,

seeck, he can noting. He know noting. He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, fin' tree,

four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de cookhouse. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie!

Dat new docteur, he's come on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose seeck mans

The smile broadened on Fahey's face. "I say, Maclennan, he's captured your camp. He's got the cook, dead

The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office door and passed into Craigin's private room

at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put up his hand for silence

Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold "How are you," and introduced him to Mr. Fahey.

"He has met with a slight accident," replied the doctor. "He is doing well and will be about in a day or two."

"Accident?" snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for a speech he began in a loud tone, "Dr. Bailey,

"Excuse me," said the doctor, opening the office door and marshalling them outside, "we'd better go

somewhere else if we are going to talk. It is important that my patient should be kept perfectly quiet." The

doctor's air was so entirely respectful and at the same time so masterful that Maclennan found himself

walking meekly toward the grubhouse behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his face broader than

ever, bringing up the rear. Maclennan caught the smile, but in the face of the doctor's quiet, respectful manner

"Upon my word, Dr. Bailey," he burst forth when once they were inside the grubhouse, "it seems to me that

you have carried things on with a high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect stranger, you head a

mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous wound, with absolutely no authority from anyone. What in

the blank, blank do you mean, anyway?" Maclennan was rather pleased to find himself at length taking fire.

"Mr. Maclennan," said the doctor quietly, "it is natural you should be angry. Let me give you the facts before

you pass your final judgment. A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. Diphtheria. I

learned there were others suffering here with the same disease. I came in at once to offer assistance.

Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came to a practical agreement as to what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin

"Dr. Bailey," said the General Manager, "it will save trouble if you will go somewhat fully into the facts. We

want an exact statement of what occurred." The authoritative tone drew Dr. Bailey's attention to the rugged

face of the speaker, with its square forehead and bulldog jaw. He recognized at once that he had to deal with

a man of more than ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him an exact statement of all that had happened,

"That is all, gentlemen," said the doctor, as he concluded his tale; "I did what I considered was right. Prompt

"Mistaken!" cried Fahey, with a great oath. "I tell you, Maclennan, we've had a close shave. We may,

perhaps, explain that one man's death, but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp in the condition in

which the doctor says they were, the results would have been not only deplorable as far as the men are

concerned, but disastrous to us with the public. Why, good heavens above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I

am proud to meet you," continued Fahey, putting out his hand. "You had a most difficult situation to deal

"I quite agree with you," said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly by the hand. "The measures were

somewhat drastic, but something had to be done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet again we'll

"Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would suggest that he keep his place. You can't

"Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be busy just now and will excuse us."

The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. Bailey his theories in regard to camp

sanitation and the care of the sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. Bailey

seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon the theme which, during the last few months,

"These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instanceevery one that I have seen. Almost every law of

sanitation is ignored. In location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the treatment of the

sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The

only thing that prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring you will have a state of

things here that will arrest the attention of Canada. Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with

a magnificent site five hundred yards away," pointing to a little plateau further up the hill, clear of underbrush

and timbered with great pines. "Then look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which the

men can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some of them, are alive with vermin, and the

bunkhouse is reeking with all sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a camp here

pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, good heavens! they might at least have

"Oh, pshaw!" said Fahey, "every camp has to have a few of them fellows. Makes the men feel at home.

"Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean of vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and

keep it so. Why, it would pay," continued the doctor. "You would keep your men in good condition, in good

heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay with you. Besides, it would prevent

"Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down the line they are talking some, and if I am

The General Manager was thinking hard. "Look here, young man," he said, with the air of one who has made

"Oh, well," said Mr. Fahey, "a little poker doesn't hurt a man now and then. I am going to make you an offer

which I hope you will consider favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of this line at a

salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it.

You needn't answer just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I don't care."

For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. "I didn't think I would ever use this. I

Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it again with more care.

"This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood very high in the profession in London."

Dr. Bailey hesitated. "I grew tired of the lifeand, besides wellI wanted to get away from things and

"Pardon my asking," said Fahey hastily. "It was none of my business. But, Doctor" here he glanced at the

"Very well, sir," replied Fahey quickly, "Bailey let it be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We

"Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget. When I saw how things were going

at the east end I couldn't help jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so

much. It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on the distinct understanding that I

"By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine," said Fahey, with a laugh, "so we may as well put it in the

contract. In your department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we

On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room with Maclennan. As they entered they

"It's a blank lie!" roared Craigin. "I have it from Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a

blank good thing for me it was. Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this camp.

Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor?

"Craigin," he said quietly, "let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better."

Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back in his pillow with a groan of content.

Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment.

"There now, that's all right. Tomorrow you'll be sitting up. Now you must be kept quiet." As he said this he

"Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I

might have been a murderer two or three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's

I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor here not to lay it up against me."

"All right, Craigin," said Maclennan, "I'm glad to hear you say so. And I guess the doctor here won't cherish

Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went to the bedside. "Craigin, you are a

That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving Craigin more at peace with

Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode at the Old Stone Mill and very soon

found himself firmly established as a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the

occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital was under consideration. The offer

came through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs.

Macdougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which had come into

existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. "We want as matron," Dick had written, "a strong, sane

woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery in manner and brave in

"Cheery in manner and brave in heart?" Mrs. Macdougall had said to herself, looking at the letter. "The very

one! She is that and she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr. Dick." Here

Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that

point. "No, she'll never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but" Not even to herself, however,

much less to another, did the little lady breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment.

With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret

"It would be a very fine work," said Mrs. Boyle, "but oh, lassie! it is a long, long way. And you would be far

"Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And

The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much during the last six years. The sword had

pierced her heart with Barney's going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite son,

she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed deep upon her face.

"What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?" said Ben, breaking in upon the pause in the

conversation. "There's one of the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I

guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things begin to hum. You remember that

"Och! Ben lad," said Mrs. Boyle, "Margaret will be hearing that story many's the time. But what would you

"Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to

"Aye, that she does," remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that Margaret flushed as she cried, "Not I!

But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and

further, that she could not do better than take Ben along to "look after her," as he put it. Hence, before the

year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew

great, and second only to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. And indeed,

Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff and patients; for by day or by night he was ever

ready to skip off on errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid movements. He

was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of joints and springs so wonderful that he was often

"W'en it comes to legs," Ben would say, "this 'ere's the machine fer me. It never gits rheumatism in the joints,

As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious appreciation of himself, and of his

position in the hospital. The institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an object of

reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood unique among all similar institutions in the

Dominion. While, as for the matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, a love

amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and to serve her and to guard her

became a religion with Ben. In fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a

It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's foreboding regarding Maclennan's

Camp No. 2 had been justified by a serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to which

Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already overflowing, and so the doctor had sent

Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of an assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy

began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in

provoking the soul of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the

tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most

tender of which he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons associated therewith. As

to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben

Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify his insatiable desire for

fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young

preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the institution, Tommy was not so

scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior

It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very specially

"It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be

"I guess they're all right fer simple cases," agreed Ben, "but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come

"Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I done him

wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's a

"Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by

"Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate," said Ben, with studied, politeness, "that no doctor can never compare

with a preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done," displaying his wooden

leg and foot with pride. "But what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'ighclass, fine work, give me the

"Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the same car wid a docthor, an' him the

"I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general," replied Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, "but I'm

talkin' about this 'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle." Ben's attention to the finer courtesies in

conversation always increased with his wrath. "An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain

'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire."

"Well," said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, "I hain't got a day to spend, but, to begin with,

"Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man from, forby givin' the women a place to

"As I was sayin'," continued Ben, "there's two churches up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no

scholar, but I goes by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you"here Ben solemnly

removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his

words, straight at Tommy's face"I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere hinstitution!" And

Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once

Tommy was without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or her opinions was

"An' what's more," continued Ben, "this 'ere hinstitution in which we're asittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but

fer that same preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!" And still Tommy remained

"An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of

fellows about this 'ere preacher, an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They wuz a

blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskeysellers an' the tinhorn gamblers. Now they're straight

an' sendin' their money 'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the same."

"Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the

"Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin," said Tommy enthusiastically. "An' it wud do ye more good than a month's

masses to see him take the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid lights'"

"'Red lights'? interrupted Ben. "Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'."

"Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon." Ben's h's became

more lubricous with his rising indignation. "An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's violent opposition,

agin the business men, agin his own helder akeepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin

the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made

"Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in

five minutes made the iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last year's potaty

"My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!" cried Ben, whose selfcontrol was strained to the

"I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital," replied Ben scornfully, "but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd

"Now, Mr, Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but

w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' jumpin' Jemima

Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!" Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. "I'd 'ave yeh to know that the

"Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd

sthand Howly Moses! here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!"

"Goodmorning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well today," cried the matron, her

brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit.

"Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?" said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat.

"Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on like that. It's a sure sign of

"Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to do that same."

"Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up.

Will you please go and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing

"Report!" cried Ben. "A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks.

And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for herself.

The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there stretched a scene glorious in its

majestic sweep and in its varied loveliness. Down over the tops of secondgrowth jack pine and Douglas fir

one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled with misty light and overhung with an

arching rainbow. Up the other side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to the

sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east

the line of the new railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge

issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of

For some moments Dick stood gazing. "Of all views I see, this is the best," he said. "Day or night I can get it

"Rest and comfort?" echoed Margaret, coming to his side. "Yes, I understand that, especially with the

sunlight upon it. But at night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its light all the

"I understand," replied Dick, slowly. "Barney used to say the same about the moonlight on the view from the

Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each was Barney. It was always Barney.

Resolutely they refused to allow the name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the

thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with every deeper throb.

"I am struggling with my report," said Margaret in a businesslike tone. "What shall I say? How shall I

"Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that will make them sit up. What copy there

would be in it for the Daily Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of maimed

and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and hopeful, and all singing the praises of the

"Hush, Dick," said Margaret softly. "You are forgetting the man who travels the lonely trails to the camps

and up the gulches for the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too,

watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them till they forget their

"Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of this report will be that that is never

written, except on the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook any

"Yes," replied Dick. "But think of what there would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He

has organized the camps upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established hospitals,

"Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems

"Is that so?" replied Dick, laughing. "Well, there are some who have escaped the tinhorn gang and the

whiskey runners. Or rather, they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him."

"Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. But he's down on the whiskey and on the

'red lights.' You remember the big fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The

Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for

our church unless I'd leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British army in India

against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, one of them an elder, thought I should attend to

my own business. These people were their best customers. Why, they actually went so far as to write to the

Presbytery that I was antagonizing the people and ruining the Church. Well, you remember the big meeting

called to protest against this vice? The enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the 'Liberal'

side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow dying up the line. It looked for a complete knockout for

me. In came Dr. Bailey, waited till they were all through their talk, and then went for them. He didn't speak

more than ten minutes, but in those ten minutes he crumpled them up utterly and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers

and the editor of The Pioneer, I understand, went white and red, yellow and green, by turns. The crowd

simply yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with the men. They passed my resolution standing on

the backs of their seats. Quite true, the doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and stayed at it all

night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and all the more because I am told he was after that fellow

'Mexico' and his gang. Oh, it was a fine bit of work. I've often wished to meet him, but he's a hard man to

"To hear Tommy talk," replied Margaret, "you would make up your mind he was a saint. He tells the most

heartmoving stories of his ways and doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on their luck.

Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in regard to the comparative merits of the doctor and

"Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough," said Dick earnestly, "that you brought Ben West with you. It

"Ben will agree with you," replied Margaret, "I assure you. He assumes full care of me and of the whole

"Good boy, Ben," said Dick, heartily. "And he is a kind of link to that old home andwith the past, the

beautiful past, the past I like to think of." The shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, deepening its lines

"A beautiful past it was," replied Margaret gently. "We ought to be thankful that we have it."

"No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after her arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her.

She didn't know where he had gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but there has been no word

"Never mind, Dick, boy," said Margaret, laying her hand upon his head as if he had been a child, "it will all

"I can't stand it, Margaret!" groaned Dick, "I shut it out from me for weeks and then it all comes over me

again. It was my cursed folly that wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, for all I know, and

"What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you would say; but whatever the next life has

"That, too, you must not say, Dick," said Margaret. "God has something yet for us. He always keeps for us

better than He has given. The best is always before us. Besides," she continued eagerly, "He has given you all

The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. "Yes, yes, I must not forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave

me this chance to work. What else should I want? And after all, this is the best. I can't help the hearthunger

now and then, but God forbid I should ever say a word of anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far down

out of sight. He pulled me up. Who am I to complain? But I am not complaining! It is not for myself. If there

were only one word to know he was doing well, was safe!" He turned suddenly to Margaret with an almost

fierce earnestness. "Margaret, do you think God will give me this?" His voice was hoarse with the intensity of

his passion. "Do you know, I sometimes feel that I don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything

else. Wealth, honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are nothing to me if only I knew Barney

was right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for you, Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to my

love of my Lord, I'd give up to know. But three years have gone since that awful night and not a word! It eats

and eats and eats into me here," he smote himself hard over his heart, "till the actual physical pain is at times

more than I can stand. What do you think, Margaret?" he continued, his face quivering piteously. "Every time

I think of God I think of Barney. Every prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is Barney I am

thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it long? Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives,

does He take away the pain? Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this I preach!"

"Hush, Dick!" said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief she understood only too well. "Hush! You must

not doubt God. God forgives and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the pain as soon as He

can. You must believe this and wait and trust. God will give him back to us. I feel it here." She laid her hand

For some moments Dick was silent. "Perhaps so," he said at length. "For your sake He might. Yes, down in

"Come," said Margaret, "let us go out into the open air, into God's sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come,

Dick, let us go and see the Goat cavort." She took him by the arm and lifted him up. At the door she met Ben.

"Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret," replied Ben graciously. "An' the longer yeh stay the better fer the

"That's an extremely doubtful compliment," laughed Margaret, as they passed down the winding path that

made its way through the tall red pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a broad ledge of rock

that jutted out over the boiling water, Margaret seated herself with her back against the big red polished bole

of a pine tree, while at her feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge pine root that threw great

clinging arms here and there about the rocky ledges. It was a sweet May day. All the scents and sounds of

spring filled up the fragrant spaces of the woods. Far up through the great feathering branches gleamed

patches of blue sky. On every side stretched long aisles pillared with the clean red trunks of the pine trees

wrought in network pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, foaming out his futile fury at the unmoved black

rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's edge, bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along ledges,

hanging trembling to ragged edges, boldly climbing up to the forest, were all spring's myriad tender things

wherewith she redeems Nature from winter's ugliness. From the river below came gusts of misty wind, waves

of sound of the water's many voices. It was a spot where Nature's kindly ministries got about the spirit,

With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches wave about him and listening to the

voices that came from the woods around and from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed from

"You don't know how good this is, Margaret," he said, "all this about me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I

could see you oftener I could bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. Oh, Margaret! if

It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like some great jointed reptile through the

She clasped her hands above her heart. "Dick," she cried piteously, "I can't see how it can be. My heart is not

"While Barney lives!" echoed Dick blankly. "Then God grant you may never be mine!" He stood straight for

a moment, then with a shake of his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. "Come, let us

"Yes, Dick dear," said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, "there's always our work, thank God!"

Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which was to them, as to many others, God's

There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, but one among them made Margaret's heart

beat quick. It was from Iola. She caught it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of Barney. She was not

mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's glowing accounts of her season's triumph with Wagner. "It has

been a great, a glorious experience," wrote Iola. "I cannot be far from the top now. The critics actually

classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was glorious. But I am tired out. The doctors say there is something

wrong, but I think it is only that I am tired to death. They say I cannot sing for a year, but I don't want to sing

for a long, long time. I want you, Margaret, and I wantoh, fool that I was!I may as well out with itI

want Barney. I have no shame at all. If I knew where to find him I would ask him to come. But he would not.

He loathes me, I know. If I were only with you at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong.

Sometimes I am afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I think that is it. I am weary for those I love.

Love! Love! Love! That is the best. If you have your chance, Margaret, don't throw away love! There, this

letter has tired me out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is sore. But I must let it go." The tears were

"The date is a month old," said Dick. "I think one of us must go. You must go, Margaret."

"For Barney's sake," said Dick, with a sob in his throat. "Yes, I'll go. I'll go tonight. No, I must go to see a

man dying in the Big Horn Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to him. Oh! if I could only bring

The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough country into the Goat. The trail was bad

and, in places, led over high mountain shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For this reason, all who

knew the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water in going up the canyon. True enough, there were a

number of liftouts and two rather long portages that made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man had skill

with the paddle and knew the water he might avoid these by running the rapids. Men from the Ottawa or from

some other north Canadian river, like all true canoemen, hated to portage and loved to take the risk of the

rapids. Though the current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not so difficult as one might imagine; that is,

if the canoeman happened to know how to take advantage of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet water by

the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe into the swift water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, the keeper

of the stopping place at the Landing, said, "She would walk on de rapide toute suite lak one oiseau."

There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the upper camp on the Big Horn, and Dr. Bailey had been urgently

summoned. The upper camp lay on the other side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles or more from the steel.

The lake itself was six miles long by canoe, but by trail it was at least twice that. Hence, though there would

be some stiff paddling in the trip, the doctor did not hesitate in his choice of route. He knew his canoe and

loved every rib and thwart in her. He had learned also the woodsman's trick of going light. A blanket, a tea

pail which held his grub, consisting of some Hudson Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a little tea and

sugar, and his drinking cup constituted his baggage, so that he could make the portages in a single carry.

Many a mile had he gone, thus equipped, both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings up and down these

valleys, doing his work for the sick and wounded in the railroad, lumber, and tie camps, and more recently in

It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze upstream would help him in his fight with the current and coming

down it would be glorious. The sun was just appearing over the row of pines that topped the low mountain

range to the east when he packed his kit and blankets under the gunwale in the bow and slipped his canoe into

the water. He was about to step in when a voice he had not heard for many days arrested him.

"Hello, Duprez! Did you see the preacher pass this way yesterday? He was By the livin' jumpin' Jemima!

It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two swift steps the doctor was at his side.

"Ben," he said, in a low, stern voice, "not a word. I once did you a good turn?"

"They don't know," interrupted the doctor, "and must not know. Will you promise me this, Ben?"

"Goodbye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old days." The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a

He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just above the falls by which the Big Horn

"Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!" sang out Duprez. "You cache hup de preechere. He pass on de riviere las'

"De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's camp on de Beeg Fall, s'pose."

"Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send for M'sieu Boyle."

It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he should fall in with his brother somewhere

on the trip, and that, at all costs, he was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat holding his canoe,

calculating time and distances. At length he came to a resolve. He must visit the camp on the Big Horn, and

"Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You mak' de portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce

"Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur," answered Duprez, shrugging his shoulders. "Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!"

"Don't worry about me," cried the doctor. "Just watch me take this little riffle."

"Bien!" cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the eddy and, with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent

her up toward the point where the stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which led to the falls

below. It may be that the doctor was putting a little extra weight on his paddle or that he did not exercise that

unsleeping vigilance which the successful handling of the canoe demands, but whatever the cause, when the

swift water struck the canoe, in spite of all his strength and skill, he soon found himself almost in midstream

"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one foot to the other. "A droit! a droit! Non! Don'

The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his

"You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!" cried Duprez, as the doctor paddled slowly up the edge past him.

Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. He had done the thing before and he was not to be beaten

now. As the eddy bore him toward the swift water again he carefully gauged the angle of attack, so that when

the nose of the canoe entered the riffle, with the trick that all canoemen know, he held her up firm against the

water, and, with no very great effort, but by skilful manipulations of the force of the current, he shoved her

gradually across the riffle into the slow water near the farther bank, and with a triumphant wave of the paddle

"He's good man," said Duprez to Ben Fallows, who had taken all this time to recover from the shock of

Barney's sudden appearance. "But de preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau las' night."

"Did, eh?" answered Ben. "Well, he didn't put in three summers on the Mattawa fer nothin'. He's a bird in the

canoe, an' so's his brothat isthe doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him!" Ben was much excited.

Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, swinging stroke, taking advantage of every eddy and cross

current, stealing along the bank under the overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, lifting his canoe over

rocky bits, till near midday he found himself at the portage below the Long Rapid.

"Guess I'll camp on the other side," he said, talking aloud after the manner of men who live much alone. He

adjusted his paddles on the thwarts, hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, and, taking his

"There," he said, setting his canoe carefully on the grass, "my legs are better than my arms. Now we'll grub."

He unpacked his tea pail, cut his bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built a fire, drew a pail of water,

threw in a handful of tea, swung it by a poplar sapling over the fire, and sat down to toast his bacon. In fifteen

minutes his meal was readysuch a meal as can be had only in the mountains under the open sky and at the

end of a ten mile paddle against the stream of the Big Horn. After dinner he lit his pipe and stretched

himself in the warm spring sun for half an hour's quiet think. The old restlessness was coming back upon

him. His work as Medical Superintendent of the railway construction was practically completed. The medical

department was thoroughly organized and the fight with disease and dirt was pretty much over so far as he

was concerned. And with the easing of the strain there came fiercely upon him the soul fever that had for the

last three years driven him from land to land. Had it not been that his professional honour demanded that he

should hold his post and do his work, he had long ago left a district where he was kept constantly in mind of

what he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the exercise of the most assiduous care he had prevented a

meeting with his brother during the last three months. But in this he could not hope to be successful much

longer. Before his second pipe was smoked he had reached his resolve. "I'll pull out of this," he said, "once

He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, the mark of a right woodsman, slipped his canoe into the

water, and set off again. His meeting with Ben Fallows seemed somehow to have brought his brother near

him today. Everything was eloquent of those days they had spent together on the upper reaches of the

Ottawa. The flowing river, the open sky, the wood, the fresh air, and, most of all, the slipping canoe spoke to

him of Dick. The fierce resentment, the bitter sense of loss, that had been as a festering in his heart these

years, seemed somehow today to have lost their stinging pain. With every lift of the paddle, with every deep

breath of the fragrant spring air, with every slip of the canoe, the buoyant gladness of those old canoeing days

came swelling into his heart, and ere he knew he caught himself singing, to the rhythmic swing of paddle and

As often as he found his body swinging to the song, so often did he sternly check himself and resolutely set

another air going in his head, only to find himself in a short space swinging along again to the old song to

which he and his brother had so often made their canoe slip in those great days that now seemed so far away.

sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He could hear Dick's clear tenor from the bow. "Here, confound it!

in a clear strong voice came the old song from around the bend. The doctor almost dropped his paddle into

sang the voice. There was only one who could sing that verse just that way. With two swift heaves of the

paddle he lifted his canoe into the overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and pulled his canoe up the

The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and looked out. Close to the bank came the canoe, the singer sitting

in the stern, his hat off and his face showing brown against the fair hair. How strong he looked and how

handsome! Barney remembered his own boyish pride in his brother's good looks. Yes, he was handsome as

ever, and yet he was different. "He's older, that's it," said the man in the bushes, breathing hard. No, it was not

that altogether. There was a new gravity, a new dignity, upon the face. All at once the song ceased abruptly.

The paddle was laid down and the canoe allowed to drift. The current carried her still nearer the shore. Every

line in the face could now be seen. The man peering out through the bushes was conscious of a sharp thrust of

pain. The lines in that grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some sharp instrument of grief. The

change was not that of years, it was more. Not simply the gravity of responsible manhood, it was that, and

something else. This was the change, the old careless gaiety was gone out of the face and in its place sadness,

almost gloom. Straight down the river the grave, sad face was turned, but the eyes were fixed with unseeing

gaze upon the flowing water. The canoe was now almost abreast the hiding place in the bushes and still

drifting. Suddenly the man in the canoe, lifting up his face toward the sky, cried out, "I'll bring her back,

please God, and I'll find him, too!" The watcher drew back quickly. A stick snapped under his hand. He threw

himself face down and gripped his hands hard into the moss as if to hold himself there. "A deer, I guess, but I

must get on," he heard a voice say, then a flip of the paddle and, looking out through the bushes, he saw the

swaying figure of the man he most longed and most dreaded to see of all men in the world fast disappearing

from his view. Twice he raised his hands to his lips to call after him, but even as he did so a vision held his

voice, the vision of a room in a city far away, the girl he loved, and this man pressing hot kisses on her face.

"No," he said at length, grinding his foot hard into the moss, "let him go." But still with straining eyes he

gazed after the swaying figure till the bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he sank down on the deep

The rest of the journey upstream was to him a weary drag. The brightness had gone out of the light, the

sweetness out of the air. A burning pain filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The old sore, which his

work for the sick and wounded had helped to heal over, had been torn open afresh, and the first agony of it

was upon him again. He arrived at the upper camp late at night and weary. But, weary as he was, he toiled on

in his fight with the typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the day, then, snatching an hour's sleep, he set

off down the Big Horn, resolved that ere a week had passed he would seek in some far land the forgetting

Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, but without awakening any rhythmic song in his heart. It was

a heavy grind to be got through with as soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of the canoe failed to

quicken his heart a single beat. It was still early in the forenoon when he reached the Long Rapid. It was a

dangerous bit of water, but without a moment's considering he stood upright in his canoe and, casting a quick

glance down the boiling slope, he made his choice of passage. Then getting on his knees he braced them

firmly against the sides of his canoe and before he was well ready found himself in the smooth, steep pitch at

the crest of that seething incline of plunging water. Two long swallowlike swoops, then a mad plunging

through a succession of buffeting, curling waves that slapped viciously at him as he dashed through, a great

heave or two over the humping billows at the foot, then the swirl of the eddy caught him, and lifted him clear

over into the quiet water. One minute of wild thrills and the Long Rapid was left behind.

"Didn't take that quite right," he grumbled. "Ought to have lifted her sooner. Next time I'll get through dry.

Next time?" he repeated. "God knows if there'll ever be any next time of that water for me." He paddled

round the eddy toward the shore, intending to dump the water out of his canoe. "Hello! What in thunder is

that?" Up against the driftwood, where it had been carried by the eddy, a canoe was floating bottom upwards.

"God help us!" he groaned. "It's his canoe! My God! My God! Dick, boy, you're not lost! He'd run these

rapids. That's his style. Oh, why didn't I call him? We could have done it together safe enough!" He stood up

in his canoe and searched eagerly among the driftwood. "Dick! Dick!" he called over and over again in the

wild cry of a wounded man. He paddled over to the canoe and examined it. "Ah, that's where he hit the rocks,

just at the foot. But he shouldn't drown here," he continued, "unless they hit him. Let's see, where would that

eddy take him?" For another anxious minute he stood observing the run of the water. "If he could keep up

three minutes," he said, "he ought to strike that bar." With a few sweeps of his paddle he was on the sand bar.

"Ha!" he cried. A paddle lay on the sand just above the water mark. "That never floated there." He leaped out

and drew up his canoe, then, dropping on his knees, he examined the marks upon the bar. There on the sand

was stamped the print of an open hand. "Now, God be thanked!" he cried, lifting his hands toward the sky,

"he's reached this spot. He's somewhere on shore here." Like a dog on scent he followed up the marks to the

edge of the forest where the bank rose steeply over rough rocks. Eagerly he clambered up, his eyes on the

alert for any sign. He reached the top. A quick glance he threw around him, then with a low cry he rushed

forward. There, stretched prone on the moss, a little pile of brushwood near him, with his match case in his

hand, lay his brother. "Oh, Dick, boy!" he cried aloud, "not too late, surely!" He dropped beside the still form,

turned him gently over and laid his hand upon his heart. "Too late! Too late!" he groaned. Like a madman he

rushed out of the woods, flung himself down the rocky bank and toward his canoe, seized his bag and

scrambled back again. Again, and more carefully, he felt for the heartbeat. He thought he could detect a

feeble flutter. Hurriedly he seized his flask and, forcing open the closed teeth, poured a few drops of the

whiskey down the throat. But there was no attempt to swallow. "We'll try it this way." With swift fingers he

filled his syringe with the whiskey and injected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited with his hand upon the

feebly fluttering heart. "My God! it's coming, I do believe!" he cried. "Now a little strychnine," he whispered.

Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his cooking kit and blanket. In five minutes he had a fire going

and his tea pail swung over it with a little more than a cupful of water in it. In five minutes more he had half a

cup of hot tea ready. By this time the heartbeat could be detected every moment growing stronger. Into the

tea he poured a little of the stimulant. "If I can only get this down," he muttered, chafing at the limp hands.

Once more he lifted the head, pried open the shut jaws, and tried to pour a few drops of the liquid down.

After repeated attempts he succeeded. Then for the first time he observed that his hands were covered with

blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining the back of it, detected a great jagged wound. "Looks bad,

bad." He felt the bone carefully and shook his head. "Fracture, I fear." Heating some more water he cleansed

and dressed the wound. Half an hour more he spent in his anxious struggle, with intense activity utilizing

every precious moment, when to his infinite joy and relief the life began to come slowly back. "Now I must

There were still five miles to paddle, but it was down stream and there were no portages. With swift despatch

he cut a large armful of balsam boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed in his canoe, cutting out

the bow thwart, then lifting the wounded man and picking his steps with great care, he carried him to the

canoe and laid him upon the balsam boughs on his right side. The moment the weight came upon that side a

groan burst from the pallid lips. "Something wrong there," muttered the doctor, turning him slightly over.

"Ah, shoulder out. I'll just settle this right now." By dexterous manipulation the dislocation was reduced, and

at once the patient sank down upon the bed of boughs and lay quite still. A little further stimulation brought

back the heart to a steadier beat. "Now, my boy," he said to himself, as he took his place kneeling in the stern

of the canoe, "give her every ounce you have." For half an hour without pause, except twice to give his

patient stimulant, the sweeping paddle and the swaying body kept their rhythmic swing, till down the last

"Duprez! Here, quick!" The doctor stood in the door of the stopping place, wet as if he had come from the

The doctor swept a glance about the room. "Sick man," he said briefly. "I want this bed. Get your buckboard,

quick." He seized the bed and carried it out before the eyes of the astonished Duprez.

Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, and by the time the bed had been arranged on the

"No," said the doctor, glancing sharply into the haggard face while he placed his fingers upon the pulse. "No.

In a few minutes they reached the road that led to the hospital, which was well graded and smooth. Duprez

sent along his pony at a lope and in a short space of time they reached the door of the hospital, where they

But the doctor cut him short. "Ben, get the Matron, quick, and get a bed ready with warm blankets and hot

Still gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in through the hall and up the stair as fast as his wooden leg would

allow him. He reached the office door. "Miss Margaret," he gasped, "Barney's at the door with a sick man.

The look upon the matron's face interrupted the flow of his words. "Barney?" she said, rising slowly to her

feet. "Barney?" she said again, her hand clutching the desk and holding hard. "What do you mean, Ben?" The

Margaret took a step toward him. "Ben," she said, in breathless haste, "get my room ready. But first tell Nurse

The orderly hurried away, leaving her alone. With trembling hands she shut the door, turned toward her desk,

and there stood, both hands pressed hard to her heart, fighting hard to control the tumultuous tides that surged

through her heart and thundered in her ears. "Barney! Barney!" she whispered. "Oh, Barney, at last!" The

blue eyes were wide open and all aglow with the tender light of her great love. "Barney," she said over and

over, "my love, my love, myah, not mine" A sob caught her voice. Over her desk hung a copy of

Hoffman's great picture, the Christ kneeling in Gethsemane. She went close to the picture. "O Christ!" she

cried brokenly, "I, too! Help me!" A knock came to the door, Nurse Crane entered. Margaret quickly turned

"Dr. Bailey?" echoed Margaret, not daring to look up, her trembling hands fluttering among the papers on the

desk. "Go to him, Nurse, and get what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in a moment."

Once more she was alone. Again she stood before the picture of the Christ, the words of the great submission

ringing through the chambers of her soul. "Not my will but Thine be done." She pressed nearer the picture,

gazing into that strong, patient, suffering face through the rain of welcome tears. "O Christ!" she whispered,

"dear blessed Christ! I understandnow. Help me! Help me!" Then, after a pause, "Not my will! Not my

The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lavatory that stood in the corner of her office, bathed her eyes,

smoothed away the signs of struggle from her face, and went forth serene to her duty and her cross. In the hall

she met Barney. With a quick, light step she was at his side, both hands stretched out. "Barney!" "Margaret!"

was all they said. For a moment or two Barney stood holding her hands, gazing without a word into the sweet

face, so pale, so beautiful, so serenely strong. Twice he essayed to speak, but the words choked in his throat.

Turning abruptly away he pointed to the figure under the grey blanket on the camp bed.

At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way to the immediate demands of their common duty. They

had work to do, and they had trained themselves to obey without thought of self that Divine call to serve the

suffering. Together they toiled at their work, Margaret noting with delighted wonder the quick fingers and the

finished skill that cleansed and probed and dressed the wound in the head and made thorough examination for

other injury or ill, Barney keenly conscious of the efficiency of the silent, steady helper at his side whose

quick eye and hand anticipated his every want. At length their work was done and they stood looking down

"He is resting now," said Barney, in a low voice. "The fracture is not serious, I think."

At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened his eyes. Barney quickly stepped back out of sight. For a

moment or two the eyes wandered about the room, then rested on Margaret's face in a troubled, inquiring

For answer his hand began to move feebly toward his breast as if seeking something.

"I know. The letter, Dick?" A look of intelligence lighted the eye. "That's all right, Dick. I shall get it to

A hand grasped her arm. "Hush!" said Barney in stern command. "Say nothing about me." But she heeded

him not. For a moment longer the sick man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of content overspread

the drawn features, then the look of intelligence faded and the eyes closed wearily.

"Where did you find him?" asked Margaret as she gave Barney a seat. Then Barney told her the story of how

he had chanced upon the canoe and had discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods.

"It was God's leading, Barney," said Margaret gently, when the story was done; but to this he made no reply.

"He will recover," replied Barney. "All he requires is careful nursing, and that you can give him. I shall wait

"Surely there is much yet to do, and you have just begun to do such great things. Why should you leave

Barney waited a few moments in silence as if pondering an answer. "Margaret, I must go," he finally burst

"Barney," replied Margaret earnestly, "this is unworthy of you, and in the face of God's mercy today how

"How can I? God knows, or the Devil. For three years I have fought it, but it is there. It is there!" He struck

his hand hard upon his breast. "I can't forget that he ruined my life! But for him I believe in my soul I should

"No, you must listen to me. Sit down." Barney obeyed her word and sat down. "Now, hear me, and hear me

fairly. I am not going to say that Dick was free from blame, nor was Iola either. Whose was the greater I can't

tell. They were both young and, to a certain extent, inexperienced in the ways of life. Circumstances threw

them much together and on terms of almost brotherly and sisterly intimacy. That was a mistake. They ignored

conventions that can never be safely ignored. Just at that time Dick's life was made hard for him. His Church

"Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by the Presbytery, was branded as a heretic and outcast from

work." Margaret's voice grew bitter. "Do you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could not help itI

can't saybut he grew hard. Yes, and worse than that, grew away from his faith, from his friends, and from

those things that keep men straight and strong. He grew weak. The hour of temptation came upon him. You

and I have seen enough of that side of life to know what that means. He broke faith with youno, not with

you. He was loyal to you, but he broke faith with himself and with her. For a single moment, that moment at

which you appeared, he yielded to passion, and bitterly, terribly, has he suffered since that moment. How

terribly no one knows. He has tried to find you, but you would not be found. He wronged you, Barney, but

you have made him and all of us suffer much." The voice that had gone on so bravely and so firmly here

"Made you suffer!" cried Barney, with bitter scorn. "How can you speak of suffering? You have everything! I

"Everything?" echoed Margaret faintly. "Ah, Barney, how little you know! But, no matter, God has brought

you together and you must not do this wicked thing. You must not continue to break our hearts."

"Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use of words? I had a heart, too, and a brother whom I loved and

trusted as myself, yes, more than myself, andI hadIola. All I have lost. My work satisfies me for a few

months, but try as I can this awful thing hunts me down and drives me mad. There is nothing in life left for

"Stop, Barney!" cried Margaret impulsively. "There is much still left for you. God is good. How much better

than we. You can't forgive a fellowsinner. Oh, shame! But He forgives and forgets, and surely you ought to

"Try! Try! Heavens above, Margaret! Try! Do you think I haven't tried? That thing is there! there!" smiting

"Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's great goodness will do this for you. Listen," she said, putting up

her hand to stay his words, "God is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to soften you. Here, read

this." She handed him Iola's letter, went to the window, and stood with her back to him, looking out upon the

"Margaret!" The hoarse voice called her back to him. His hard, proud, sullen reserve was shattered, gone. His

lips were quivering, his hands trembling. The girl was touched to the heart. "Margaret," he cried brokenly,

"It means that she wants you, that she needs you. Dick was going tomorrow to bring her back to you,

"To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? Dick? Dear old boy! and I Oh, Margaret!" He put his

trembling hands out to her. "Forgive me! God forgive me! Poor Dick! I'll see him!" He started toward the

door. "No, not how," he cried, striving in vain to control himself. "I am mad! mad! For three long years I

have carried this cursed thing in my heart! It's gone! It's gone, Margaret! Do you hear? It's gone!" He was

"Hush, Barney dear," said the girl, tears running down her face, "you will wake him."

"Yes, yes," he cried, in an eager whisper, "I'll be careful. Poor old boy, he has suffered, too. Dear old Dick!

And she wants me! I'll go tonight! Yes, tonight! What's the date?" He tore at the envelope with trembling

hands. The letter dropped to the floor. Margaret caught it up and opened it for him. "A month ago and more!

Yes, I'll go tonight. Oh, Margaret, what a blasted fool I am! I can't get myself in hand." Suddenly he threw

himself into his chair. "Here!" he ground out between his teeth, "get quiet!" He sat for a few moments

absolutely still, gathering strength to command himself. At length he got himself in hand. "No," he said in a

quiet voice, "I shall not go tonight. I shall wait till Dick is better. Just now he must be kept quiet. In the

Through the night they waited, Barney struggling mightily to hold himself in perfect control, Margaret

quietly doing what was to be done, her whole spirit breathing of that selfforgetting love which finds its

highest joy in the joy of another. At the break of day the nurse came to the door and found them still waiting.

"Let me go to him," cried Barney. "Don't fear." His voice was still vibrating, but his manner was calm and

"Yes," said Margaret, "go to him." Then as the door closed she stood once more before the Gethsemane

For half an hour she waited and then went up to the sickroom. She opened the door softly, went in and stood

gazing till her eyes grew dim. On the pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to Dick's, whose arm was

thrown about his brother's neck, and on Dick's face shone a look of rapturous peace. As Margaret moved to

"Margaret," he said, a smile breaking like light through a dark cloud, "my head was broken, but I'd have all

the bones in my body broken, just to have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy?"

Slowly Barney raised his face, tearmarked, worn, but radiant with a peace it had not known for many a day.

"Yes, old chap," he said in a voice still tremulous in spite of all his selfcommand, "we're right again, and,

For three days Dick made steady progress toward health, but his progress was slow. Any mental effort

produced severe pain in his head and sufficed to raise his temperature several points. As he gained in strength

and became more and more clear in his thinking his anxiety in regard to his work began to increase. His

congregations would be waiting him on Sunday, and he could not bear to think of their being disappointed.

With no small effort had he gathered them together, and a single failure on his part he knew would have

disastrous effect upon the attendance. He was especially concerned about the service at Bull Crossing, which

was at once the point where the work was the most difficult, and, at the present juncture, most encouraging.

Under his instructions Barney sought to secure a substitute for the service at Bull Crossing, but without

result. Preachers were scarce in that country and every preacher had more work in sight than he could

overtake. And so Dick fretted and wrought himself into a fever, until the doctor took him sternly to task.

"I don't see that it's your business to worry, Dick," he said. "I suppose you consider yourself as working under

orders, and it is your belief, isn't it, that the One who gives the orders is the One who has laid you down

"That's true," said Dick wearily, "but there's the people. A lot of them come a long way. It's been hard to get

"Well, we'll get someone," replied Barney. "We're a pretty hard combination to beat, aren't we, Margaret?

There will be a man to take the service at Bull Crossing if I have to take it myselfa desperate resort,

"What? Did you ever hear me talk? I can talk a little with my fingers, but my tongue is unconscionably slow."

"There was a man once slow of speech," replied Dick quietly, "but he was given a message and he led a

"I believe they happen," replied his brother, "where God finds a man who will take his life in his hand and

"Well, I don't know about that," replied Barney, "but I do know that you must quit talking and sleep. Now,

But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort on Barney's part, he found no one for the service at Bull

Crossing next day. There was still a slight hope that one of the officials of the congregation would consent to

"I guess I'll have to take that service myself, Margaret," said Barney laughingly. "Wouldn't the crowd stare?

"It would be a good sermon, Barney," replied Margaret quietly. "And why should you not say something to

"Nonsense, Margaret!" cried Barney impatiently. "You know the thing is utterly absurd. What sort of man am

"They know only a part of you, Barney," said Margaret gently. "God knows all of you, and whatever you

"No," replied Barney slowly, "I am no gambler, nor will I ever be again. But I have been a hard, bad man. For

three years I carried hate in my heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be forgiven. And that, I believe,

was the cause of all my badness. ButsomehowI don't deserve itbut I've been awfully well treated. I

deserved hell, but I've got a promise of heaven. And I'd be glad to do something for" He paused abruptly.

"It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, but it's not for me to preach. The thing is preposterous. I'll

"I'm not anxious, Barney," he said, "but who's going to take the meeting tomorrow night at Bull Crossing?"

"Now, look here," said Barney, "Monday morning you'll hear all about it. Meantime, don't ask questions.

Margaret and I are responsible, and that ought to be enough. You never knew her to fail."

"No, nor you, Barney," said Dick, sinking back with a sigh of satisfaction. "I know it will be all right. Are

"Of course you are going. It will do you a lot of good," said Barney. "You may have to preach yourself or

A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red upon the cheek, and the quick following pallor told Dick the

"Yes," said Dick gravely, "you will go down, too, Margaret. It will do you good, and I don't need you here."

Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, but never had he found himself so utterly blocked by

unmanageable circumstances and uncompromising facts as he found facing him that Sunday morning. He

confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, whom he had found in "Mexico's" saloon toning up his system after

"Bedad, it's yersilf that c'd do that same, an' divil a wan av the bhoys will 'Mexico' git this night, wance the

"Don't talk rot, Tommy," said Barney angrily, for the chance of his being forced to take his brother's place,

which all along had seemed to be extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. With the energy of

desperation he spent the hours of the afternoon visiting, explaining, urging, cajoling, threatening anyone of

the members or adherents of the congregation at Bull Crossing in whom might be supposed to dwell the

faintest echo of the spirit of the preacher. One after another, however, those upon whom he had built his

hopes failed him. One was out of town, another he found sick in bed, and a third refused point blank to

consider the request, so that within a few minutes of the hour of service he found himself without a preacher

and wholly desperate, and for the first time he seriously faced the possibility of having to take the service

himself. He returned to the shack of one of his brother's parishioners, where Margaret was staying, and

"Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, Margaret. You know, I can't," he repeated, in answer to the look

upon her face. "Why, it was only last week I fleeced 'Mexico' out of a couple of hundred. He would give a

good deal more to get even. The crowd would hoot me out of the building. Not that I care for that"the long

"It isn't so very terrible, Barney," said Margaret, her voice and eyes uniting in earnest persuasion. "You are

not the man you were last week. You know you are not. You are quite different, and you will be different all

your life. A great change has come to you. What made the change? You know it was God's great mercy that

took the bitterness out of your heart and that changed everything. Can't you tell them this?"

"Tell them that, Margaret? Great Heavens! Could I tell them that? What would they say?"

"Barney," asked Margaret, "you are not afraid of them? You are not ashamed to tell what you owe to God?"

Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swallow. No, he was not afraid, but his native diffidence,

intensified by these recent years of selfrepression and selfabsorption, had made all speech difficult to him,

"No, Margaret, I'm not afraid," he said slowly. "But I'd rather have them take the flesh off that arm bit by bit

than get up and speak to them. I'd have to tell them the truth, don't you see, Margaret? How can I do that?"

"All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of course," she replied. "But you will tell them just what you

With these words she turned away, leaving him silent and fighting a desperate fight. His word passed to his

brother must be kept. But soon a deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was involved. His sense of loyalty

was touched. He knew himself to be a different man from the man who, last week, in "Mexico's" saloon, had

beaten his old antagonist at the old game. His consciousness of himself, of his life purposes, of his outlook, of

his deepest emotions, was altogether a different consciousness. And more than all, that haunting, pursuing

restlessness was gone and, in its place, a deep peace possessed him. The process by which this had been

achieved he could not explain, but the result was undeniable, and it was due, he knew, to an influence the

source of which he frankly acknowledged to be external to himself. The words of the beaten and confounded

pagan magicworkers came to him, "This is the finger of God." He could not deny it. Why should he wish to

hide it? It became clear to him, in these few minutes of intense soul activity, that there was a demand being

made upon him as a man of truth and honour, and as the struggle deepened in his soul and the possibility of

his refusing the demand presented itself to his mind, there flashed in upon him the picture of a man standing

in the midst of enemies, the flickering firelight showing his face vacillating, terrorstricken, hunted. From the

trembling lips of the man he heard the words of base denial, "I know not the man," and in his heart there rose

a cry, "O Christ! shall I do this?" "No," came the answer, strong and clear, from his lips, "I will not do this

Margaret turned quickly around and looked at him in dismay. "You won't?" she said faintly.

"I'll take the service," he replied, setting the long jaws firmly together. And with that they went forth to the

They found the place crowded far beyond its capacity, for through Tommy Tate it had been noised abroad

that Dr. Bailey was to preach. There were wild rumors, too, that the doctor had "got religion," although

"He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve," was "Mexico's" verdict, given with a full accompaniment of

Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough to create a profound impression and to awaken an

expectation that rose to fever pitch when Barney and Margaret made their way through the crowds and took

their places, Margaret at the organ, which Dick usually played himself, and Barney at the table upon which

were the Bible and the Hymnbook. His face wore the impenetrable, deathlike mark which had so often

baffled "Mexico" and his gang over the poker table. It fascinated "Mexico" now. All the years of his wicked

manhood "Mexico" had, on principle, avoided anything in the shape of a religious meeting, but today the

attraction of a poker player preaching proved irresistible. It was with no small surprise that the crowd saw

"Mexico," with two or three of his gang, make their way toward the front to the only seats left vacant.

When it became evident beyond dispute that his oldtime enemy was to take the preacher's place, "Mexico"

leaned over to his pal, "Peachy" Bud, who sat between him and Tommy Tate, and muttered in an undertone

audible to those in his immediate neighbourhood, "It's his old game. He's runnin' a blank bluff. He ain't got

But painful experience shook "Peachy's" confidence in his friend's judgment on this particular point, and he

only ventured to reply, "He's got the lead." "Peachy" preferred to await developments.

The opening hymn was sung with the hearty fervour that marks the musical part of any religious service in

the West. But there was in the voices that curious thrill that is at once the indication and the quickening of

"This here'll show what's in his hand," said "Peachy," when the moment for prayer arrived. "Peachy" was not

unfamiliar with religious services, and had, with unusual keenness of observation, noted that when a man

"Mexico" grunted a dubious affirmative. But "Peachy" was disappointed, for in a voice reverent, but

unimpassioned, the preacher for the day led the people's devotions, using the great words taught those men

"Blanked if he ain't bluffed again! We've got to wait till he begins to shoot, I guess," said "Peachy," mixing

The lesson was the parable of the unforgiving debtor and the parallel passage containing the matchless story

of the sinful woman and the proud Pharisee. In the reading of these lessons the voice, which had hitherto

carried the strident note of nervousness, mellowed into rich and subduing fulness. The men listened with that

hushed attention that they give when words are getting to the heart. The utter simplicity of the reader's

manner, the dignity of his bearing, the quiet strength that showed itself in every tone, and the undercurrent of

emotion that made the voice vibrate like a stringed instrument, all these, with the marvellous authoritative

tenderness of the great utterance on a theme so closely touching their daily experience, gripped these men and

When the reading was done the doctor stood for some moments looking his audience quietly in the face. He

knew them all, men from the camps and the line, men from the hills and mining claims, men from the saloons

and the gambling hells. Many he had treated professionally, some he had himself nursed back to health,

others he had rescued from those desperate moods that end in death. Others againand these not a fewhe

had "cleaned out" at poker or "Black Jack." But to all of them he was "white." Not so to himself. It was a very

humble man and a very penitent, that stood looking them in the face. His first words were a confession.

"I am not worthy to stand here before you," he began, in a low, clear tone, "God knows, you know, and I

know. I am here for two reasons: one is that I promised my brother, the Reverend Richard Boyle"here a

gasp of surprise was audible from one and another in the audience"a man you know to be a good man,

"An' that's thrue fer ye," answered Tommy. But "Mexico" paid no heed to these remarks. He was staring at

"And the other reason is," continued, the doctor, "that I have something which I think it fair to tell you men.

Like a lot of you, I have carried a name that is not my own." Here significant looks were gravely exchanged.

"They gave it to me by mistake when I reached the Pass. I didn't care much at that time about names or

anything else, so I let it go. There are times in a fellow's life when he's not unwilling to forget his name. My

name is Boyle." And then, in sentences simple, cleancut, and terse, he told of his boyhood days, the Old

Mill, the two boys growing up together, their love for and their loyalty to each other, their struggles and their

success. Then came a pause. The speaker had obviously come to a difficult spot in his story. The men waited

in earnest, grave, and deeply moved expectation. "At that time a great calamity came to meno matter

whatand it threw me clear off my balance. I lost my head and lost my nerve, and just then" again the

speaker paused, as if to gather strength to continue"and just then my brother did me a wrong. Not being in

a condition to judge fairly, I magnified the wrong a thousandfold and I tried to tear my brother out of my

heart. I could not and I would not forgive him, and I couldn't cease to love him. I lived a life of misery,

misery so great that it drove me from everything in earth that I held dear, and for three years I went steadily

down from bad to worse. I came to the Crow's Nest a year and a half ago. My life since then most of you

"Bedad we do! An' Hivin bliss ye!" burst forth Tommy Tate, who had found the greatest difficulty in

controlling his emotions of indignation and grief during the doctor's selfcondemnatory tale. At Tommy's

words a quiet thrill ran through the crowd, for few men of those present but held the doctor in affectionate

esteem. The sins of which he was conscious and which humiliated him before them were, in their estimation,

For a moment the speaker was thrown off his track by Tommy's outburst, but, recovering himself, he went

on. "It would be wrong to say that my life here has been all bad. I have been able to serve many of you, but

my work has done far more for me than it has for you. But for it I should have long ago gone down out of

sight. I confess that it has been a hard fight for me, an awful fight, to stay at my work, but the day that I heard

that my brother was your missionary brought me the hardest fight I had had for many a day. I wanted to get

away from the past. For nearly four years I had been carrying round a heart with hell in it. I had begun to

forget a little, but that day it all came back. This week I met my brother. I found him dying, almost dead, up

in the Big Horn Valley. That morning my heart carried hell in it. Today it is like what I think heaven must

be." As he spoke these words a light broke over his face, and again he stood silent, striving to regain control

"Blanked if he don't hold the cards!" said "Mexico" in a thick voice to "Peachy" Budd.

"Mexico" was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his untutored nature. His swarthy face was twisted

like the face of a man in torture. His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under his shaggy

"How it came about," continued the doctor, in a quiet, even tone, "I am not going to tell. But this I am going

to say, I know it was God's great mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out of my heart. I forgave

my brother that dayandGod forgave me. That's all there is to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever come

to me. I have got my brother back just as when we were little chaps at the Old Mill." A sudden choke caught

the speaker's voice. The firm lips quivered and the strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort to

Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. "Peachy" Budd was swearing audibly his emotions,

but, most of all, "Mexico's" swarthy face betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had grasped the back of the

seat before him and was leaning toward the speaker as if held under an hypnotic spell.

Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. "I have just a word more to say. I would like to give

credit for this that happened to me to the One we have been reading about this afternoon, and I do so with all

my heart. I came near being coward enough and mean enough to go away without owning this up before you.

How He did it, I do not pretend to know. I'm not a preacher. But He did it, and that's what chiefly concerns

me. And what He did for me I guess He can do for any of you. And now I've got to square up some things.

'Mexico'" At the sound of his name "Mexico" started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went, with a

quick motion, toward his hip"I've taken a lot from you. I'd like to pay it back." The voice was humble,

"Mexico," taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other side of his mouth, stood up and drawled out,

"Then go to hell!" "Mexico's" tone was not at all unfriendly, but his vocabulary was limited, and he was

evidently deeply stirred. "We're squar' an'an' blanked if I don't believe ye're white! Put it thar!" With a

single stride "Mexico" was over the seat that separated him from the platform and reached out his hand. The

"Look here, men," he said, when "Mexico" had resumed his seat, "I've got to do something with this money.

"Men," continued the doctor, "I'm starting out on a new track. I want to straighten out the past all I can. I can't

But such an ethical code was beyond the men, and one and all protested to each other, in tones that were quite

audible over the hall and with anathemas of more or less terrible import, that the money was not theirs and

that they would not touch it. The doctor listened for a minute or more and then, with the manner of one

closing a discussion, he said, "All right. If you won't help me I'll have to find some way, myself, of

straightening this up. This is all I have to say. I'm no preacher and I'm not any better than the rest of you, but

I'd like to be a great deal better man than I am, and, with God's help, I'm going to try. That's my religion."

And with these words he sat down, leaving the people still staring at him and waiting for something in the

way of closing exercises to what must have been the most extraordinary religious service in all their

experience. Softly, Margaret began to play the old hymn, "Nearer, My God, to Thee!" The men, accepting it

as a signal, rose to their feet and began to sing, and with these great words of aspiration ringing through their

Among the many who lingered to speak to the doctor were "Mexico," "Peachy," and, of course, his faithful

"Say, pard," he began, "you've done me up many a time before, but blanked if yeh haven't hit me this time the

worst yet! When you was talkin' about them two little chaps" here "Mexico's" hard face began to work and

his voice to quiver"you put the knife right in here. I had a brother once," he continued in a husky voice. "I

wish to God someone had choked the blank nonsense out of me, for I done him a wrong an' I wasn't man

enough to own up. An' that's what started me in all this hell business I've been chasin' ever since."

The doctor took him by the arm and walked him out of the room. "Take Miss Robertson home," he said to

An hour later he appeared, pale and as nearly exhausted as his iron nerve and muscle would allow him to be.

"I say, Margaret, this thing is wonderful! There's no explaining it by any physical or mental law that I know."

Then, after a pause, he added, with an odd thrill of tenderness in his voice, "I believe we shall hear good

There is no sweeter spot in all the west Highlands of Scotland than the valley that runs back from that far

penetrating arm of the sea, Loch Fyne, to Craigraven. There, after a succession of wild and gloomy glens, one

comes upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from the east and north winds and open to the warm western sea

and to the long sunny days of summer. It is a valley full of balmy airs, fragrant with the scents of sea and

heather, and shut in from the roar and rush of the great world, just over the ragged rim of the craggy hills that

guard it. A veritable heaven on earth for the nerveracked and brainwearied, for the heartsick and soul

burdened; for it was the pleasure of the lady of Ruthven Hall, a kindly, homely mansion house that stood at

the valley's head, to bring hither such of her friends or her friends' friends as needed the healing that soft airs

and sunny days, with long quiet hours filled with love that understands, can give.

To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been brought, a girl fresh from the shelter of her English home, the

bride of Sir Hector Ruthven; and here for five happy summers they had come from the strenuous life of

Diplomatic Service to find rest. Here, too, came Sir Hector, when his work was done, still a young man, to

rest under the yews in the little churchyard near the Hall, leaving his lady with her little daughter and her

infant son to administer his vast estates. After the first sharp grief had passed, Lady Ruthven took up her

burden and, with patient courage, bore it for the sake of the dead first, and then for the sake of the living.

Round her son, growing into sturdy young manhood, her heart's roots wound themselves, striking deep into

his life, till one day he, too, was laid beneath the yew trees in the churchyard. From that deep shadow she

came forth, bearing her cross of service to her kind, to live a life fragrant with the airs of Heaven, in

It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist and poet, pure of heart and clean of life, that Jack

Charrington came to know Ruthven Hall and its dwellers. The young men first met in London, and later in

Edinburgh, where both were pursuing their professions with a devotion that did not forbid attention to sundry

social duties, or prevent them from taking long walks over the Lammermuirs on Saturday afternoons. To

Ruthven Hall, Alan was permitted to bring his young Canadian friend, who, he was secretly convinced, stood

sorely in need of just such benediction as his saintly aunt could bestow. The day of Jack Charrington's

coming to Ruthven Hall was the birthday of his better life, when he had a vision of his profession in the light

of that great ministry to the world's sick and wounded and weary by Him who came to the world "to heal." In

another sense, too, it was for him the beginning of days, for it was the day on which his eyes first fell upon

sunny, saucy Maisie Ruthven. Thenceforth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven Hall, and thus it fell

that when, on one of his visits to the great metropolis, he found Iola exhausted after her season's triumphs and

forbidden to sing again for a year, and so wellnigh heartbroken, he bethought him of the little valley of rest

in the far western Highlands. Straightway he confided to Lady Ruthven his concern for his copatriot and

friend, giving as much of her story as he thought it well that both Lady Ruthven and her daughter should

know. Hence, when they went north to their Highland valley again, they carried with them Iola, to be rested

and nursed, and to be healed in heart, too, if that could be. For Lady Ruthven, with her eyes made keen by

grief and love, had not been long in discovering that, with Iola, the deeper sickness was that which no

Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health to their guest, but neither the most

watchful care nor the most tender nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning.

"She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this terrible restlessness," said Alan Ruthven to his

"Partly," replied Charrington gloomily, "but not altogether, I fear. This restlessness is symptomatic. We must

have Bruce Fraser out again. But if we only could get track of Boyle it would greatly help. She wrote

yesterday to her great friend, Miss Robertson, who, more than anyone, has kept in touch with him."

"Charrington," inquired Alan hesitatingly, "would you advise that he should be looked up? Of course, you

credit me with being perfectly disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you know."

"You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think of a girl like that having anything to do with a

"Unworthy!" cried Jack. "Did I ever call him unworthy? It depends upon what you mean. He gambles. He has

terrific passions; but he's a man through and through, and he's clean and honourable."

"Ah," said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, "then would to Heaven she could find him! For this fretting is

And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the other in providing interest and amusement for

the weary, restless, fevered girl. Often, at the first, the old impatience would break out, mostly in her talk with

Charrington, at rare times to her hostess, too, but at such times followed by quick penitence.

"Dear Lady Ruthven," she said one day after one of her little outbreaks, "I wish I were like you. You are so

sweetly good and so perfectly selfcontrolled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. You must have been

For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her mind going back swiftly to long gone years. "No, dear," she

said gently; "I have much to be thankful for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, but He was patient and

"Tell me how you learned," asked Iola timidly, and then Lady Ruthven told her life story, without tears,

without repinings, while Iola wondered. That story Iola never forgot, and the influence of it never departed

from her. Never were the days quite so bad again, but every day while she struggled to subdue her impatience

even in thought, she kept looking for word from across the sea with a longing so intense that all in the house

"Oh! if we only knew where to get him!" groaned Jack Charrington to her one day, for to Jack, who was the

only link with her happy past, she had opened her heart. "Why does he keep away?" he added bitterly.

"It is my fault, Jack," she replied. "He is not to blame. No one is to blame but me. But he will come some

day. I feel sure he will come, I only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve if"

"Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You are getting better. Why, you walked out

"Some days I am so well," she replied, unwilling to grieve him. "I would like him to see me first on one of

They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger wearing the uniform of the Telegraph

"Come, Iola," said Jack, almost sternly, "come in and sit down." So saying, he brought her into the library

and made her recline upon the couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of her waking hours

It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the library. "Shall I open it?" he asked, with an

Lady Ruthven came to her side. "Iola, darling," she said, taking both her hands in hers, "it is good to feel that

"Yes, dear Lady Ruthven," replied the girl, regaining her composure; "I'm learning. I'm not afraid."

Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She read the slip, handed it to Jack, closed her

eyes, and, smiling, lay back upon her couch. "God is good," she whispered, as Lady Ruthven bent over her.

"Then hooray!" cried Jack, starting up. "Let's see, 'Coming Silurian seventh. Barney.'" he read aloud. "The

seventh was yesterday. Six days. She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be here by Monday at latest."

"Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed. Meantime, you're not to fret." And he

"Fret?" she cried, looking up brightly. "Never more, Jack. I shall never fret again in all my life. I'm going to

build up for these five days, every hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me well."

It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her word. Every hour, every minute, she appeared to gain

strength. She ate with relish and slept like a child. The old feverish restlessness left her, and she laid aside

"You are going down to Glasgow tomorrow, I suppose, Charrington?" said Alan on Thursday, after the

"I've just been thinking," replied Jack, with careful deliberation, "that it would be almost better you should

go, Ruthven. You see you're the man of the house, and it would be easier for a stranger to tell him."

"Come, Charrington," replied his friend, "you don't often play the coward. You've simply got to go. But why

"Tell? He'll see it in my face. That last report of Bruce Fraser's he would read in my eyes. I see the ghastly

words yet, 'Quite hopeless. Heart seriously involved. Cannot be long delayed.' I say, old man, I suppose I

ought to go, but you've got to come along and make talk. I'll simply blubber right out when I see him. You

Jack gasped. "By Jove! The very thing! It's rough on her, but she's the saintly kind that delights to bear other

And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady Ruthven should meet the boat and bring Barney, with all speed, to

At the Silurian's gangway Jack received his friend with outstretched hands, crying, "Barney, old boy, we're

glad to see you! Here, let me present you to Lady Ruthven, at whose house Iola is staying." With feverish

haste he hurried Barney through the crowds, bustling hither and thither about his luggage and giving himself

not a moment for conversation till they were seated in the firstclass apartment carriage that was to carry

them to Craigraven. But they had hardly got settled in their places when the conversation, in spite of all Jack's

"You have bad news for me," said Barney, looking Lady Ruthven steadily in the face. "Has anything

"No, Dr. Boyle," replied Lady Ruthven, a little more quickly than was her wont, "but" and here she

paused, shrinking from delivering the mortal stab, "but we are anxious about our dear Iola."

"That is all. We are very anxious. It is her lungs chiefly and her heart. But she is very bright and very hopeful.

Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes looking out of their deep sockets with the piteous, mute

appeal of an animal stricken to death. He moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, failing, kept his eyes

fixed on Lady Ruthven's face as if seeking relief. Charrington turned his head away.

"We feel thankful for her great courage," said Lady Ruthven, in her sweet, calm voice, "and for her peace of

"I think she must, but she has said nothing. She has been eager all summer to get back to her hometo

Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands with a low, long moan. Jack looked out upon the fleeting

landscape dimmed by the tears he dared not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop by drop, Barney

"There is the bright side," she continued, "the side of the immortal hope. We like to think of the better

country. That is our real home. There, only, are our treasures safe." She was giving him time to get hold of

himself after the first deadly stab. But Barney made no reply except to gravely bow. "It is, indeed, a better

country," she added softly as if to herself, "the only place we immortals can call home." Then she rose.

"Come, Jack," she said, "I think Dr. Boyle would like to be alone." Before she turned away to another section

Barney bowed reverently over her hand. "I am grateful to you," he said brokenly, "believe me." His face was

contorted with the agony that filled his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her speechless and in silence they

turned away from him, and for the long hour that followed they left him with his grief.

When they came back they found him with face grave and steady, carrying the air of one who has fought his

fight and has not been altogether beaten. And with that same steady face he reached the great door of

"Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room," said Lady Ruthven; "I shall see Iola and send for him." But just

then her daughter came down the stairs. "Mamma," she said in a low, quick tone, "she wants him at once."

But there was a light cry, "Barney!" and, looking up, they all saw, standing at the head of the great staircase,

"Come, children." Swiftly Lady Ruthven motioned them into the library that opened off the hall, where they

"Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. This is more than I can well stand."

"It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. Charrington," said Lady Ruthven, with a quiet dignity that

subdued all emotion and recalled them to selfcontrol. "You will see that Dr. Boyle gets to his room?"

"I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little later," replied Jack. "Yes, I confess," he continued, answering

Miss Ruthven's look, "I am a coward. I am afraid to see him. He takes things tremendously. He was quite

mad about her years ago, fiercely mad about her, and when the break came it almost ruined him. How he will

"This will be a terrible strain for her, Lady Ruthven," said Alan. "It should not be prolonged, do you think?"

"It is well that they should be alone for a time," she replied, her own experience making her wise in the ways

When with that quick rush Barney reached the head of the stairs Iola moved toward him with arms upraised.

A single, searching glance into her face told him the dread truth. He took her gently into his arms and,

restraining his passionate longing to crush her to him, lifted her and held her carefully, tenderly, gazing into

He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and laid her upon a couch he found there. Then, without a word,

he put his cheek close to hers upon the pillow, murmuring over and over, "IolaIolamy lovemy love!"

"Why, Barney," she cried, with a little happy laugh, "don't tremble so. Let me look at you. See, you silly boy,

I am quite strong and calm. Look at me, Barney," she pleaded, "I am hungry to look at your face. I've only

seen it in my dreams for so long." She raised herself on her arm and lifted his face from the pillow. "Now let

me sit up. I shall never see enough of you. Never! Never! Oh, how wicked and how foolish I was!"

"It was I who was wicked," said Barney bitterly, "wicked and selfish and cruel to you and to others."

"Hush!" She laid her hand on his lips. "Sit here beside me. Now, Barney, don't spoil this one hour. Not one

word of the past. You were a little hard, you know, dear, but you were right, and I knew you were right. I was

wrong. But I thought there would be more in that other life. Even at its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. The

"I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? Didn't I sing? It was for you, Barney. My soul, my heart, my

"Yes," said Iola, with a proud little laugh, "I think the dear old Spectator was right when it said it was a truly

great performance, but I waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't come I found that all the

rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, how I wanted you, Barney, thenand ever since!"

"Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy out of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you

will not blame yourself now or everpromise me, promise me!" she cried, eagerly insistent.

"Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will you, Barney?" The pleading in her voice

"Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling." She wreathed her arms about his neck and laid her head upon

his breast. "Oh!" she said with a deep sigh, "I shall rest nowrestrest. That's what I've been longing for. I

Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that fateful restlessness, but he only held her closer

"There is no one like you, Barney, after all," she murmured, nestling down with a delicious sigh of content.

"You are so strong. You will make me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger than for months."

Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic of the treacherous disease.

"Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You haven't said a word except just 'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you

anything else to say, sir? After your long silence you might" She raised her head and looked into his eyes

"There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold you like this? But you must not talk too

"Tell me something about yourself," she cried. "What? Where? How? Why? No, not why. I don't want that,

"Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. All the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does

one want more Heaven than this? Tell me about Margaret andyesand Dick," she shyly added. "Are they

"Now, darling," said Barney, stroking her hair; "just rest there and I'll tell you everything. But you must not

"Go on then, Barney," she replied with a sigh of ineffable bliss, nestling down again. "Oh, lovely rest!"

Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few days together, making light of Dick's injury

and making much of the new joy that had come to them all. "And it was your letter that did it all, Iola," he

"No," she replied gently, "it was our Father's goodness. I see things so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has

A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady Ruthven, with Jack in the background,

"Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. Boyle would like to go to his room. You can

"Is it wise, do you think?" said Lady Ruthven gravely. "You must save your strength now, you know."

"Oh, but I am strong. Just for tonight," she pleaded. "I'm not going to be an invalid tonight. I'm going to

forget all about it. I am going to eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, tell them I can go down.

Barney, you will take me down. You may carry me, if you like. I am going, Jack," she continued with

Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his fingers upon her wrist. She was growing excited.

"Well, I think she might go down for a little. What do you think, Charrington? You know best."

"If she is good she might," said Jack doubtfully. "But she must promise to be quiet."

"Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be goodas good as I can." With which extremely doubtful

At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or strain her wit and gaiety bubbled over, till

Barney, watching her in wonder, asked himself whether in his first impression of her he had not been

mistaken. As he still watched and listened his wonder grew. How brilliantly clever she was! How quick her

wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind, glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle by mere contact

the minds about her, till the whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with imagination's divine flame.

Through it all Barney became conscious of a change in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her

conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But it was not these that made the change.

There was a new quality of soul in her. Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite

aroma of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the earth, earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing

To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change in Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It

seemed as if he had met her in a new and better country where neither had seen the other before. And yet it

filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing its claim in her, as if her earthward

affinities were refining into the heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in spite

of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, before he was aware, Barney was in the full

tide of the thrilling tale of his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western Canada. As

Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations, the discouragements and defeats, the toils and

triumphs of missionary life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the beautiful face, its

ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that

"Oh, what splendid work!" she cried. "How good to be a man! But it's better," she added, with a quick glance

It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's attention and made her bring the dinner

"Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?" cried Iola, as her hostess made a move to rise. "What a delightful dinner

we have had! Now you are not going to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' you know, and I

"My dear, my dear," said Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should exert yourself any more? You have had an

"Barney, indeed!" echoed Jack indignantly. "Oh, the ingratitude of the female heart! Here for all these weeks

"Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hardhearted enough to banish me."

"An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in an atmosphere of restful quiet, listening

"Oh, my dear Iola," cried Miss Ruthven, "hasten to bed, I beg of you, and save us all. And yet, do you know,

I rather like to hear Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the Highlands last

"How do you feel now, Iola?" said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon her pulse.

"Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen." And she ran up her chromatics in a voice rich and strong and clear.

"Well, this is most wonderful!" exclaimed Jack. "Her pulse is strong, even, steady. Her respiration is normal."

"I told you!" cried Iola triumphantly. "Now you will let me sing not a big song, but just that wee Scotch

"My dear Iola," entreated Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should venture? Do you think she should, Dr.

"But it isn't anyone else," persisted Iola, "and my doctor says yes. I'll only hum, Jack."

"Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, doublestoppings, and such frills."

She took her guitar. "I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother," she said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of

melody, and with perfect reproduction of the quaint oldfashioned cadences and quavers, she sang the

"O'er the moor I wander lonely, Ochonarie, my heart is sore; Where are all the joys I cherished? With my

"I loved thee first, I loved thee only, Ochonarie, my heart is sore; I loved thee from the day I met thee.

And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, "You never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll

sing it for you." And in a low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little song that

"I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, When the

"Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till The Master's

"Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. And the stars went out, and the day was gone, Then the

A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out of the sea, the sweet night air,

breathing its fragrance of mignonette and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it

"I feel as if I could sleep now," said Iola. "Barney, carry me." Like a tired child she nestled down in Barney's

strong arms. "Goodnight, dear friends, all," she said. "What a happy evening it has been." Then, with a little

cry, "Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping," she locked her arms tight about his neck, lifting her face to his.

"Goodnight, Barney, my love, my own love," she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. "How good you are

to me how good to have you. Now kiss mequickdon't waitagain, dear goodnight." Her arms

"Iola!" he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down into her face. He carried her to the

But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, and the singing voice was forever still

from words or songs that mortal ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested upon the

lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on

the couch, where she lay as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes full of

dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned and left him alone with his dead.

For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the midst of a solemn and mysterious

peace. The light of life for him had not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not

At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and lay her in the churchyard there. But

"We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here," she said. "You know we love her

"It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven," Barney replied, his heart responding with glad

acceptance to the suggestion. "She loved this valley, and it was here she first found rest."

"Yes, she loves this valley," replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept Barney's tense. To her, death made no

A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself

was present. He had taken such pride in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with

him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she had made her London debut in

"Lohengrin." There in the sunny valley they laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with

their tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears, only a look of wonder, and of

Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his discouragement. In the war against the

At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then

entered. A newspaper office was familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches to the

horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion was the organ of the political Outs as The

Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of development

wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs

"Well," said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, "how did the meeting go last night?"

"Yes," replied Daggett, "your men are all right in their opinions, but they never allow their opinions to

interfere with business. I could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't

stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay

cash; therefore, quit your nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes to the 'red

lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying

with politics. Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their husbands' business."

Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was not yet completely out. Only too

"Oh, come now," interrupted Daggett, "you know better than that. This town and this country is run by the

whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey and

the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint.

Hickey is told to mind his own business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor Hickey is

sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever since. The safe thing is to do nothing."

"You seem to know all about it," said Dick. "What's the good of your paper? Why don't you get after these

"My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite true that The Clarion is the champion of

liberty, the great moulder of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being an

endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these

Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. "It's true. It's terribly true," he said. "The people don't want anything

better than they have. The saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time. But you hear

me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the

wise thing, jump into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand this long? This is a

Daggett smiled a superior smile. "Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The Pioneer spells Church with a small

"I tell you, Daggett," said Dick hotly, "The Pioneer's day is past. I see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm

"Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat

distant. I, too, see signs, but the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?"

"I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick and running this library and

"Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, "I hear of him often. The railroad men and the lumbermen grovel to him.

Dick laughed at him. "Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy him. Oh, I know the game."

"Hello!" said Daggett, looking out of the window, "here is our coming Member." He opened the door. "Mr.

Hull, let me introduce you to the Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. BoyleMr.

"I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent," said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little

respect for either of the political parties or their representatives. "I must get along. But, Daggett, for goodness'

sake do something with this beastly gamblinghell business." With this he closed the door.

"Yes," agreed Daggett, "he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think he is on the right track."

"I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this country was getting civilized. That fool

editor of The Pioneer thinks that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can keep

back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a

"Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held responsible for their men, their health, and

their morals. 'Mexico,' too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's brother is taking a

Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable wealth. He was an old timer and

"All right," said Daggett, "you may sniff. I've watched him and I've discovered this, that what he wants to do

he does. He's an old poker player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit poker now,

"Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here at a big meeting last spring, quite

dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there. Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen

"By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico' think of it?"

"Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of

"Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit, divides the spoil and collects the

Hull was at once on the alert. "That's interesting. You are sure of your facts? It might be all right to corral

those chaps. The virtue campaign is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to be

But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political machinery of both parties was too

completely under the control of the saloon and "red light" influence to be easily emancipated. The business

interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent upon the support of the saloon and the

patronage of vice that few had the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for reform.

And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the railroad and in the lumber camps, though

they were subject to periodic lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the saloon

and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, unreliable. It was at this point that the machine

in each party began to cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr. Boyle. Bitter enemies

though they were, they united their forces in an endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily

effective were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an unexpected obstacle in

General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of the combined influences available was turned, but to no

purpose. He was too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man "who knew his work

and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of

"He stays while I stay," was Fahey's last word in reply to an influential director, labouring in the interests of

Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. "Mexico" and the organization of which he

was the head were instructed to "run him out." Receiving his orders, "Mexico" called his agents together and

invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately developed, one party led by "Peachy" being strongly in

favour of obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly opposed. Discussion waxed

bitter. "Mexico" sat silent, watchful, impassive. At length, "Peachy," in full swing of an impassioned and

sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was called abruptly to order by a peremptory

"Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do something."

"Do somethin'?" snarled "Peachy," stung to fury, "I'll do somethin' one of these days. I've stood you all I

"Peachy's" oaths were crude in comparison with "Mexico's," but his fury lent them force. "Mexico" turned his

"Git!" "Mexico" pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of doom, and they all knew it, for it meant

not simply dismissal from that meeting, but banishment from the company of which "Mexico" was head, and

that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. "Peachy" was startled.

"You needn't be so blanked swift," he growled apologetically. "I didn't mean for to"

"You git!" repeated "Mexico," turning the pointing finger from the door to the face of the startled wretch.

With a fierce oath "Peachy" reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw. "Mexico" moved not a line of his face,

not a muscle of his body, except that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat over the

"You dog!" he ground out through his clenched teeth, "you know you can't bring out your gun. I know you.

You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!"

The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while "Mexico's" hand dropped swiftly to his side.

Instantly "Peachy" rose and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage beast. At

"Mexico" kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man backing out of the door.

Like a flash, "Mexico" threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as one. A slight smile curled "Mexico's"

"Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight." The bartender and some others came running in with anxious

faces. "Never mind, boys," said "Mexico." "'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him some."

"Now, boys, listen to me," said "Mexico" impressively, leaning over the table. "Right here I want to say that

the doctor is a friend of mine, and the man that touches him touches me." There was an ominous silence.

"Just as you say, 'Mexico,'" said one of the men, "but I see the finish of our game in these parts. The doctor's

"You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of this country yet. His game's the

winnin' game. Any fool can see that. But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay."

"Pshaw! 'Peachy'!" said "Mexico" contemptuously. "He couldn't hold his gun steady at me."

But "Mexico "only spat out his contempt for anything that "Peachy" could do, and went calmly on his way,

"keeping the boys in line." But he began to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which

he could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness on the part of the boys to "line up" at

the word, but there was no corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the "same old party." There

was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part of the men who formerly, especially after the lining

up process had been several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm for all "Mexico"

The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the attitude of the men he had always

counted upon to do his bidding at the polls. "It's that cursed doctor!" he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member

for the district. "He's been working a deep game. Of course, his brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but

we expect that and we know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm afraid of him."

"Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without grease." McKenty spoke out of

"That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of another kind. This library and clubroom

"I've heard about it," said McKenty. "I guess the Government could take a hand in libraries and institutes and

"That's all right," replied the editor. "Might do some good. But you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his

libraries and his clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one doctor, and night

and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a

McKenty thought deeply for some moments. "Well," he said, finally, "something has got to be done. We can't

"'Mexico'!" exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. "There's the weakest spot in the whole

combination, just where it used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be

after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite

"Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of loosening up people."

"But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work here. This combination is something

"I tell you I mean it," said the editor, testily. "The doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at

that meeting last springI waswhen he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair curl."

"Well," said McKenty, "I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid.

This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, looking out through the dusty windows of

The Pioneer office, he perceived "Mexico" sauntering down the other side of the street.

"There he is now," he cried, going toward the door. "Hi! 'Mexico'!" he called, and "Mexico" came slouching

across. "Ugly looking beggar, ain't he?" said the editor. "Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!"

"Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be ready, though."

"Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion," with a glance at the schapps which the editor delighted

"Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's got the boys rather away from you, that

"And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to the mourners' bench."

"Look here, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone, "you're not going to let the blank

"No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm working for myself in this game. If any

combination wants to shove my way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess. Me

"Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You don't really think he has your interest at

"Can't quite tell." "Mexico" wore a vexed and thoughtful air. "Wish I could. If I thought so I'd"

"Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!" There was a sudden gleam from under "Mexico's" heavy

brows and a ring in his usually drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. "There ain't too many

"What do you think of that?" inquired the editor, as "Mexico" sauntered out of the door.

"Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it ought to be enforced."

"Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd give a thousand dollars down to see him out

But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the country, and all who knew him were quite

certain that until he should so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his work with

a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical

Superintendent of the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines opening up here and

there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the

most primitive ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of miners' quarters.

Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The

directors were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so urgently reported by their

doctor. The managers on the ground were concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation.

The miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched conditions under which they

How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor, a constant subject of thought. It was

also the theme of conversation on the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where it had

become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his return from Scotland.

"We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before," grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret.

"It's the universal law," replied Dick. "Some men must die for their nation. It's been the way from the first."

"But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work yourself to death as you are doing?" said

Margaret, anxiously. "You know you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came

Barney only smiled. "That would be no great matter," he said, lightly. "But there is no fear of me," he added.

There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave in the little churchyard across the sea.

Ever since Barney's return, and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and speak

freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At

first Dick and Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's mind from thoughts so

full of pain. But Barney would not have it so. Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly

and tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her

"It would be easier for me not to speak of her," he had said on his return, "but I've lost too much to risk the

And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till at length the habit grew, so that

whenever they came together it only deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory

of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of each of them. And this was good for them

all, but especially for Barney. It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of his loss. The

memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's story of the purifying of her spirit, during those

last few months, combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even in the most radiant

"There is only place for gratitude," he said, one evening, to them. "Why should I allow any mean or selfish

thought to spoil my memory of her or to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from

It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps to his work among the sick and

wounded in body and in heart. And as he went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new

spirit in him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, but while the old reserve still

held his lips from overflowing, the words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender.

The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. He was always ready

for the ultimate demand, prepared to give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical

wellbeing of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, and hence the system of

libraries and clubrooms he had initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not to

him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element and the secret hostility of those who

depended upon that element for the success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as

ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, they silently and observantly waited for

the real motive to emerge. As "Mexico" said, they "couldn't get onto his game." And none of them was more

completely puzzled than was "Mexico" himself, but none more fully acknowledged, and more frankly yielded

to the fascination of the new spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same time,

however, "Mexico" could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and then, that the real game was being kept

dark. The day was to come when "Mexico" would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself up

to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who lived not for his own things. But that day

was not yet, and "Mexico" was kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious to his

temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil and unvarying self sacrifice, the very

magnitude of which made it difficult for "Mexico" to accept it as being sincere.

"What's his game?" he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery deepened. "What's in it for him? Is

One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve miles up the valley, wearied and

soaked with the wet snow that had been falling heavily all day. "Mexico" received him with a wrathful

"What theahwhat makes you go out a night like this?" "Mexico" asked him with indignation, struggling

to check his profanity, which he had come to notice the doctor disliked. "I can't get onto you. It's all just d,

"Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll tell you. Now listen," said the doctor, when he

sat warm and dry before "Mexico's" fire. "I've been wanting to tell you this for some time." He opened his

black bag and took out a New Testament which now always formed a part of his equipment, and finding the

place, read the story of the two debtors. "Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last spring?"

"Mexico" nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. "I had a big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a

lot for me that time, and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long enough to pay back

what I owe." Then he told "Mexico" in a low, reverent tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of

Iola's going. "That's why," he said, when he concluded his tale. "That was a great thing He did for her and for

me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a

Then "Mexico" turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the sulphurous emotion that had been

collecting during the doctor's tale. After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis:

"'Mexico,'" replied the doctor, "you know I don't preach at you. I haven't, have I?"

"Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my friend." He put out his hand, which

"Mexico" gripped and held fast. "But," continued the doctor, "I want to say that He wants you more than I do,

"Say, Doc," said "Mexico," drawing back a little from him, "I guess not. That there debt goes back for twenty

years, and it's piled out of sight. It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It would

be a blankthat is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off. But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be

"The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'" said the doctor, quietly. "He is great enough to wipe out

anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,' it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!"

"You're right there," said "Mexico," emphatically. Then, as if a sudden suspicion flashed in upon him, "Say,

"Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a good thing and I want my friend to

When the doctor was departing next morning "Mexico" stopped him at the door. "I say, Doc, would you mind

The doctor took it out of his bag. "It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can bank on it."

The book proved of absorbing interest to "Mexico." He read it openly in the saloon without any sense of

incongruity, at first, between the book and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable

comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read became the subject of frequent

discussions with his friend, the doctor. The book did its work with "Mexico," as it does with all who give it

place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling in "Mexico's" mind in regard to his

business and his habits of life. His discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of

poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. For the first time in his life his

winnings brought him no satisfaction. The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued

that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss without whining. The disturbing thoughts

would not down. He determined that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his friend,

and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that week the doctor failed to appear, and "Mexico"

grew increasingly uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness not a little when the

report reached him that the doctor was confined to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news

"If he's took to bed," he said, "there ain't much hope, I guess, for they'd never get him there unless he was too

But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the doctor's illness. He was run down

with the fall and winter's work. He had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and that

was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he would be on his feet again.

"If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month," groaned Dick to his nurse as they stood beside

"There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him," replied Margaret, "but we'll keep him ill as long as we

can. Dr. Cotton," and here she smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, "you will help, I am sure."

But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he would be fit again.

"It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway,"

said Dr. Cotton, "and I think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen."

"Ah," replied Margaret, "that is because you haven't known your patient long, Doctor. When he speaks the

And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, when both the doctor and Dick had gone

off to their work and Barney had apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the flat was

"It's fer the doctor," said Ben, "an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico' had got shot and"

Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's voice, though not loud, was of a

peculiarly penetrating quality. Two words had caught Barney's ear, "Mexico" and "shot."

"I intended to give it to you, Barney," she replied as quietly. "You will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you

Barney opened the telegram and read, "'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found. Wants doctor to come if possible."

Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew that the other was ready to do the best,

"Take my temperature, Margaret." It was ninenine and onefifth. "That's not bad," said Barney. Margaret, I

Margaret turned slightly pale. "You know best, Barney," she said, "but it may be your life, you know."

"Yes," he replied gravely. "I take that chance. But I think I ought to take it, don't you?" But Margaret refused

"Oh, Barney!" she cried, with passionate protest, "why should you give your life for him?"

"Why?" he repeated slowly. "There was One who gave His life for me. Besides," he added, after a pause,

She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. "No, Barney, there's almost no chance, you know and I know,

and I can't let you go now!" The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, earnestly,

his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face

and neck. She buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For

some moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and

act, he said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, "You expect me to do right, Margaret."

A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To

the last drop she drained it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes looked into his

Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. "Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you

come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'" A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently reached

"Mexico," and he would not have his friend risk his life for him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was

hours late, but a light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down.

When he entered the sick man's room "Mexico" glanced into his face. "Good Lord, Doctor!" he cried, "you

"All right, 'Mexico,'" replied the doctor cheerfully. "I had to come, you know. We can't go back on our

"Mexico" kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began to tremble. He put out his hand and

clutched the doctor's hard. "I know now," he said hoarsely, "why He let 'em kill Him."

The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty wound and dangerous, but in half an

hour "Mexico" was resting quietly. Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till morning,

conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well knew indicated a very serious condition.

"You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep quiet and obey orders."

"Mexico's" hand grasped him. "Doc," he said anxiously, "you look awful bad. Can't you get to bed quick?

"I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I came. I couldn't have stayed away, could I?

"Mexico's" fierce black eyes softened. "Doc, I'm sorry and I'm glad. I had a lot of things to ask, but I don't

need to. I know now. And I want to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right out." He waved his hand

"'Mexico,'" said Barney earnestly, "that's great! That's the best news I've had all summer. Now I must get

back quick." He took the gambler's hand in his. "Goodbye, 'Mexico.'" His voice was earnest, almost solemn.

"You've done me a lot of good. Goodbye, old boy. Play the game. He'll never go back on a friend."

"Mexico" reached out and held him with both hands. "Git out," he said to the attendant. "Doc," his voice

dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew the doctor down to him, "there ain't nobody here, is there?" he asked,

"Doc," he began again, his strong frame shaking, "I can't say it. It's all in here till it hurts. You'reyou're like

Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about his friend, and held him for a few

moments in a tight embrace. "God bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word," he said. "Goodbye, my friend."

They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's eyes as if taking a last farewell.

Then Barney took his journey through the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every

moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave welcoming smile.

"Dr. Cotton has returned," she announced. "And Dr. Neeley of Nelson is here, Barney."

He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. "That was right, Margaret. And Dick?"

"You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except yourself," said Barney, as he made his way

"Let me help you, Barney," she said, putting her arms about him. "You're the one who will not think of

"We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best lesson, after all."

The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble and the treatment necessary. It was

"We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?" Barney asked, a little anxiously. "An hour can't make

Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent message, to find his brother

dangerously ill and preparing for a serious operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration

of emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand. The issues were so grave that there

was no room for any expenditure of strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his

"Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right," he said, with cheerful courage.

The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for a message of remembrance for the

"Oh, Barney," cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, "I don't think I can."

"Wait a minute, Barney. I will," said Dick, instantly regaining hold of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the

bed, took his brother's hand in both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his prayer,

closing with the words, "And O, my Father, keep my brother safe." "And mine," added Barney. "Amen."

"Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready." And with a smile he met the doctor at the door.

In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse told Dick all he dared not ask.

"It will be an hour at least," replied the surgeon, kindly, "before he can talk much."

Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door upon his lonely fight and came forth

when the hour was gone, ready to help his brother if he should chance to need help for "the last weariness, the

"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting till he should waken. "We must

But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night they watched him grow weaker,

watched not in growing gloom, but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with

strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word would call him back to

"This is not too bad, Dick," he said. "How much worse it might have been. He brought us two together

"And then," continued his brother, "He let me do a little work for the boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But

Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was at peace. The mountains and the wide

valleys lay beautiful in their unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a rosy sheen. As

Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened

Bending over him his brother caught the words, "Night no more." The great day was dawning for him. With a

long, lingering look upon the mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest upon his

brother's face. "It is near now, DickI think and it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out thereunder the

"Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother." Dick's voice was steady and clear.

"Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An odd little smile played over his face.

"I wasn't worth it, Margaretbut I thank youI like to think of it nowI would like youto kiss me." She

kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered in his

"Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice carried full conviction to his mind.

"I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing

growing more rapid. Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. "Dick, my boy," he

cried, in a clear, strong voice, "my brothermy brother." He lifted up both his arms and wound them round

Dick's neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited,

"He's gone, Margaret!" cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, lifting up a white appealing face to her.

She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. "We have only each other now, Dick," she said, and

took him in her arms. And so, in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found

Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through the Pass, the General Manager

placing his private car at their disposal. It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a

king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrowstricken. It was their friend who was being

carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street behind

were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down the line. One of their

number came up, bearing a large wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the

bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, hesitatingly, "The men would like to see him again,

"Tell them to come," replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover the face. For almost an hour they filed

past, solemn, silent for the most part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked

upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph subdued their sobbing, and they

passed out awed and somewhat comforted. The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the

By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. "Ochone!" he sobbed, "when I think of mesilf me heart is

bruck entirely, but when I luk at him I feel no pain at all." It was the feeling in the hearts of all. For

At length, all had gone. "Could you say a word to them, Dick?" said Margaret. "I think he would like it." And

Dick, drawing a deep breath, went forth to them. His words were few and simple. "We must not speak words

of grief today. He was glad to help you and he grew to love you as his friends. In his last hours he thought

of you. I know you will not forget him. But were he giving me my words today, he would not ask me to

speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved and served with his life. For His

As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh dashed up, two men got out, helping

a third, before whom the crowd quickly made way. It was "Mexico," pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon his

"Come in," said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting him on to the platform, while a great sob swept

over the crowd. They all knew by this time that it was to save "Mexico" the doctor had given his life. With

heads bared they waited till "Mexico" came out again. As he appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's

arm supporting him, the men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly face with its fierce, gleaming eyes

held them as with a spell. For a moment "Mexico" stood leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly he drew

"Boys," he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly audible over the crowd, "he died because he

wouldn't go back on his friend. He gave me this." He took from his breast the New Testament, held it up and

Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and then to the old churchyard, where he

sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, even by many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but

remembered by the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of that strong love that gave the best

and freely for their sakes, and for His Whom it was his pride and joy to call Master and Friend.

Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle had been wrought. The trees by the snake

fences stood in the full pride of their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing grains. As of old, the

Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake fences, sweetscented, cool, and shaded. Between

the rails peeped the clover, red and white. Over the top rail nodded the rich berries of the dogwood, while the

sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard green clusters waiting the sun's warm passion. The singing voices

of summer were all athrob, filling the air with great antiphonies of praise, till this good June day was fairly

At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. "I'll wait here," she said to herself, a faint

flush lighting up the chaste beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her with his fierce rays. "I

must get into the shade," she said, climbed the fence, and, on the fragrant masses of red clover, threw herself

down in the shade of the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly the past came to her. How well she

remembered the heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would never quite be gone, but with it mingled

now a sweetness that only love knows how to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem.

A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work, remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts

of the Old Mill such help and comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's words, "Take care of

Dick for me," had moved her to offer with shy courage to go back with him. But Dick was far too generous to

But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and wondering at its throbs, as from time to

time the story of Dick's heroic service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last night he had

returned. Today he would come to her. She would meet him here. Ah, there he was now. On the crest of the

As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, "Margaret!" and came running toward her.

She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet the throbbing that threatened to choke her,

Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood there waiting. "Margaret!" he cried again,

with a note of anxiety in his voice that trembled under the intensity of his feeling.

But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed her. "Oh, I am so glad," she whispered to

herself. Dick came toward her slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands down from her

breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to read the meaning in the blue eyes lifted so bravely to his.

"For pity's sake, Margaret?" he asked, the note of anxiety deepening in his voice.

For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. "Yes," she said, shyly dropping her eyes before

And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world full from earth to heaven above.