Lida Bowman bringing her little brood sometimes would sit silently watching the children, and look at Laura as if about to speak, but she always went away with her mind unrelieved. Violet Hogan, who brought her beruffled and bedizened eldest, made up for Mrs. Bowman's reticence. Moreover Violet brought other mothers and there was much talk on the topics of the day—talk that revealed to Laura Nesbit a whole philosophy that was new to her—the helpfulness of the poor to the poor.

But if others brought to Laura Van Dorn material strength and spiritual comfort in her enterprise, Grant Adams waved the wand of his steel claw over the kindergarten and made it live. For he was a power in the Wahoo Valley. Her friends knew that his word gave the kindergarten the endorsement of every union there and thus brought to it mothers with children and with problems as well as children, whom Laura Van Dorn otherwise never could have reached. The unions made a small donation monthly to the work which gave them the feeling of proprietorship in the place and the mothers and children came in self-respect. But if Grant gave life to the kindergarten, he got more than he gave. For the restraining hand of Laura Van Dorn always was upon him, and his friends in the Valley came to realize her friendship for them and their cause. They knew that many a venture of Grant's Utopia would have been a wild goose chase but for the wisdom of her counsel. And the two came to rely upon each other unconsciously.

So in the ugly little building near Dooley's saloon in South Harvey the two towns met and worked together; and all to heal a broken heart, a bruised life. From out of the unexplored realm where our dreams are blooming into the fruit of reality one evening came Mr. Left with this message: "Whoever in the joy of service gives part of himself to the vast sum of sacrificial giving that has remained unspent, since man began to walk erect, is adding to humanity's heritage, is building an unseen temple wherein mankind is sheltered from its own inhumanity. This sum of sacrificial giving is the temple not made with hands!"

Now the foundations of that part of the temple not made with hands in South Harvey, may be said to have been laid and the watertable set on the day when Laura Van Dorn first laughed the bell-chime laugh of her girlhood. And that day came well along in the summer. It was twilight and the Doctor was sitting with his wife and daughter on their east veranda when Morty Sands came flitting across the lawn like a striped miller moth in a broad-banded outing suit. He waved gayly to the little company in the veranda and came up the steps at two bounds, though he was a man of thirty-eight and just the least bit weazened.

"Well," he said, with his greetings scarcely off his lips, "I came to tell you I've sold the colt!"

The chorus repeated his announcement as a question.

"Yes, sold the colt," solemnly responded Morty. And then added, "Father just wouldn't! I tried to get that two hundred in various ways—adding it to my cigar bill; slipping it in on my bill for raiment at Wright & Perry's, but father pinned Kyle down, and he stuttered out the truth. I tried to get the horse-doctor to charge the two hundred into his bill and when father uncovered that—I couldn't wait any longer so I've sold the colt!"

"Well, Morty, what for in Heaven's name?" asked Laura. Morty began fumbling in his pockets before he spoke. He did not smile, but as his hand came out of an inside pocket, he said gently: "For two hundred and seventeen dollars and a half! I fought an hour for that half dollar!" He handed it to the Doctor, saying: "It's for the kindergarten. You keep it for her, Doctor Jim!"

When Morty had gone Mrs. Nesbit said: "What queer blood that Sands blood is, Doctor. There is Mary Sands's heart in that boy, and Daniel has bred nothing into him. They must have been a queer breed a generation or two back!"

The Doctor did not answer. He took the money which Morty had given to him, handed it to Laura and said: "And now my dear, accept this token of devotion from Sir Mortimer Sands, of the golden heart and wooden head!" And then Laura laughed, not in derision, not in merriment even, but in sheer joy that life could mean so much. And as she laughed the temple not made with hands began to rise strong and beautiful in her heart and in the hearts of all who touched her.

How they would have sneered at Laura Van Dorn's niche in the temple, those practical folk who helped her because they loved her. How George Brotherton would have laughed; with what suspicion John Kollander would have viewed the kindergarten, if he had been told that it was part of a temple. For he had no sort of an idea of letting the rag-tag and bob-tail of South Harvey into a temple; he knew very well they deserved no temple. They were shiftless and wicked. How Wright & Perry would have sniffed at any one who would have called the dreary little shack, where Laura Van Dorn held forth, a temple. For they all pretended to see only the earthly dimensions of material things. But in their hearts they knew the truth. It is the American way to mask the beauty of our nobler selves, or real selves under a gibing deprecation. So we wear the veneer of materialism, and beneath it we are intense idealists. And woe to him who reckons to the contrary!

Perhaps the town's views on temples in general and Laura's temple in particular, was summed up by Hildy Herdicker, Prop., when she read Mr. Left's reflections in the Tribune. "Temples—eh?—temples not made with hands—is it? Well, Miss Laura can get what comfort she can out of her baby shop; but me? Every man to his trade as Kyle Perry said when he tried to buy a dozen scissors and got a sewing machine—me?—I get my heart balm selling hats, and if others gets theirs coddling brats—'tis the good God's wisdom that makes us different and no business of mine so long as they bring grist to the profit mill! The trouble with their temples is that they don't pay taxes!"

So in the matter of putting up temples—particularly in the matter of erecting temples not made with hands, the town worked blindly. But so far as Laura Van Dorn was concerned, while she was working on her part of the temple, she had the vision of youth still in her heart. Youth indeed is that part of every soul that life has not tarnished, and if we keep our faith, hold ourselves true and bow to no circumstance however arrogant it may be, youth still will abide in our hearts through many years. Now Laura, who was born Nesbit and became Van Dorn, was taking up life with that large charity that comes to every unconquered soul. She held her illusions, she believed in herself, and youth shone like a beacon from her face and glowed in her body.

For Thomas Van Dorn, who had been her husband, she had trained herself to hold no unkind thought. She even taught Lila—when the child asked for him—to harbor no rancor toward him. So the child turned to her father when they met, the natural face of a child; it was a sad little face that he saw—though no one else ever saw it sad; but the child smiled when she spoke and looked gently at him, in the hope that some day he would come back to her.

Now it happened that on the night when Laura's laugh first echoed through her temple another rising temple witnessed a ceremony entirely befitting its use.

That night—late that night when a pale moon was climbing over the valley below the town, Margaret and her lover stood alone in the great unfinished house which they were building.

Through the uncurtained windows the moonlight was streaming, making white splashes upon the floors. Across the plank pathways they wandered locating the halls, the great living-room, the spacious dining-room, the airy, comfortable bedrooms exposed to the south, the library, the kitchen, and the ballroom on the third floor. It was to be a grand house—this house of Van Dorn. And in their fancy the man and the woman called it the temple of love erected as an altar to the love god whom they worshiped. They peopled it with many a merry company. They saw the rich and the great in the dining-room. They pictured in this vision pleasure capering through the ball room. They enshrined wisdom and contentment in the library. In the great living-room they installed elegance and luxury, and hospitality beckoned with ostentatious pride for the coming of such of the nobility as Harvey and its environs and the surrounding state and Nation could produce. A grand, proud temple, a rich, beautiful temple, a strong, masterful temple would be this temple of love.

"And, dearest," said he—the master of the house, as he held her in his arms at the foot of the stairway that swept down into the broad hall like the ghost of some baronial grandeur, "dearest, what do we care what they say! We have built it for ourselves—just for you, I want it—just for you; not friends, not children, not any one but you. This is to be our temple of love."

She kissed him, and whined wordless assent. Then she whispered: "Just you—you, you, and if man, woman or child come to mar our joy or to lessen our love, God pity the intruder." And like a flaming torch she fluttered in his arms.

The summer breeze came caressingly through an unclosed window into the temple. It seemed—the summer breeze which fell upon their cheeks—like the benediction of some pagan god; their god of love perhaps. For the grand house, the rich house, the beautiful, masterful temple of their mad love was made for summer breezes.

But when the rain came, and the storms fell and beat upon that house, they found that it was a house built upon sand. But while it stood and even when it fell there was a temple, a real temple, a temple made with hands—a temple that all Harvey and all the world could understand!



CHAPTER XXVI

DR. NESBIT STARTS ON A LONG UPWARD BUT DEVIOUS JOURNEY

The Van Dorns opened their new house without ostentation the day after their marriage in October. There was no reception; the handsomest hack in town waited for them at the railway station, as they alighted from the Limited from Chicago. They rode down Market Street, up the Avenue to Elm Crest Place, drove to the new house, and that night it was lighted. That was all the ceremony of housewarming which the place had. The Van Dorns knew what the town thought of them. They made it plain what they thought of the town. They allowed no second rate people to crowd into the house as guests while the first rate people smiled, and the third rate people sniffed. The Judge had some difficulty keeping Mrs. Van Dorn to their purpose. She was impatient—having nothing in particular to think about, and being proud of her furniture. Naturally, there were calls—a few. And they were returned with some punctiliousness. But the people whom the Van Dorns were anxious to see did not call. In the winter, the Van Dorns went to Florida for a fortnight, and put up at a hotel where they could meet a number of persons of distinction whom they courted, and whom the Van Dorns pressed to visit them. When she came home from the winter's social excursion, Mrs. Van Dorn went straight to the establishment of Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., and bought a hat; and bragged to Mrs. Herdicker of having met certain New York social dignitaries in Florida whose names were as familiar to the Harvey women as the names of their hired girl's beaux! Then having started this tale of her social prowess on its career, Margaret was more easily restrained by her husband from offering the house to the Plymouth Daughters for an entertainment. It was in that spring that Margaret began—or perhaps they both began to put on what George Brotherton called the "Van Dorn remnant sale." The parade passed down Market Street every morning at eight thirty. It consisted of one handsome rather overdressed man and one beautiful rather conspicuously dressed woman. On fair days they rode in a rakish-looking vehicle known as a trap, and in bad weather they walked through Market Street. At the foot of the stairs leading to the Judge's office they parted with all the voltage of affection permitted by the canons of propriety and at five in the evening, Mrs. Van Dorn reappeared on Market Street, and at the foot of the stairs before the Judge's office, the parade resumed its course.

"Well—say," said George Brotherton, "right smart little line of staple and fancy love that firm is carrying this season. Rather nice titles too; good deal of full calf bindings—well, say—glancing at the illustrations, I should like to read the text. But man—say—hear your Uncle George! With me it's always a sign of low stock when I put it all in the window and the show case! Well, say—" and he laughed like the ripping of an earthquake. "It certainly looks to me as if they were moving the line for a quick turnover at a small profit! Well say!"

But without the complicated ceremony required to show the town that he was pleased with his matrimonial bargain, the handsome Judge was a busy man. Every time he saw Dr. Nesbit toddling up or down Market Street, or through South Harvey, or in the remotenesses of Foley or Magnus, the Judge whipped up his energies. For he knew that the Doctor never lost a fight through overconfidence. So the Judge, alone for the first time in his career, set out to bring about his nomination, where a nomination meant an election. Now a judge who showed the courage of his convictions, as Judge Van Dorn had shown his courage in forcing settlements in the mine accident cases and in similar matters of occasional interest, was rather more immediately needed by the mine owners of Harvey than the political boss, who merely used the mine owner's money to encompass his own ends, and incidentally work out the owner's salvation. Daniel Sands played both sides, which was all that Van Dorn could ask. But when the Doctor saw that Sands was giving secret aid to Van Dorn, the Doctor's heart was hot within him. And Van Dorn continued to rove the district day and night, like a dog, hunting for its buried bone.

It was in the courthouse that Van Dorn made his strongest alliance—in the courthouse, where the Doctor was supposed to be in supreme command. A capricious fate had arranged it so that nearly all the county officers were running for their second terms, and a second term was a time honored courtesy. Van Dorn tied himself up with them by maintaining that his was a second term election also,—and a second regular four year term it was. His appointment, and his election to fill out the remainder of his predecessor's term, he waved aside as immaterial, and staged himself as a candidate for his second term. The Doctor tried to break the combination between the Judge and the second term county candidates by ruthlessly bringing out their deputies against the second termers as candidates. But the scheme provoked popular rebellion. The Doctor tried bringing out one young lawyer after another against the Judge, but all had retainers from the mine owners, and no one in the county would run against Van Dorn, so the Doctor had to pick his candidate from outside of the county, in a judicial convention wherein Greeley County had a majority of the votes. But Van Dorn knew that for all the strategy of the situation, the Doctor might be able to mass the town's disapproval of Van Dorn, socially, into a political majority in the convention against him. So the handsome Judge, with his matrimonial parade to give daily, his political fortunes to consider every hour, and withal, a court to hold, and a judicial serenity to maintain, was a busy young man—a rather more than passing busy young man!

As for the Doctor, he threw himself into the contest against Van Dorn with no mixed motives. "There," quoth the Doctor, to the wide world including his own henchmen, yeomen, heralds, and outriders, "is one hound pup I am going to teach house manners!" And failing to break Van Dorn's alliance in the courthouse, and failing to bulldoze Daniel Sands out of a secret liaison with Van Dorn, failing to punish those of his courthouse friends who permitted Van Dorn to stand with them on their convention tickets in the primary, the Doctor went forth with his own primary ticket, and announced that he proposed to beat Van Dorn in the convention single handed and alone.

And so quiet are the wheels of our government, that few heard them grinding during the spring and early summer—few except the little coterie of citizens who pay attention to the details of party politics. Yet underneath and over the town, and through the very heart of it wherever the web of the spider went, there was a cruel rending. Two men with hate in their hearts were pulling at the web, wrenching its filaments, twisting it out of shape, ripping its texture, in a desperate struggle to control the web, and with that control to govern the people.

Then Dr. Nesbit pushed his way into the very nest of the spider, and bolted into Daniel Sands's office to register a final protest against Sands's covert alliance with the Judge. He plunked angrily into the den of the spider, shut the door, turned the spring lock, and looking around saw not Sands, but Van Dorn himself.

The Doctor burst out: "Well, young man! So you're here, eh!" Van Dorn nodded pleasantly, and replied graciously: "Yes, Doctor, here I am, and I believe we have met here before—at one time or another."

The Doctor sat down and slapping a fat hand on a chair arm, cried angrily: "Thomas, it can't be did—you can't cut 'er."

Judge Van Dorn answered blandly, rather patronizingly: "Yes, Dr. Jim, it can be done. And I shall do it."

"Have you let 'em fool you—the fellows on the street?" asked the Doctor.

Judge Van Dorn tapped on the desk beside him meditatively, then answered slowly: "No—I should say they mostly lied to me—they're not for me—excepting, maybe, Captain Morton, who tried to say he was opposed to me—but couldn't—quite. No—Doctor—no—Market Street didn't fool me."

He was so suave about it, so naive, and yet so cock-sure of his success, that the Doctor was impatient: "Tom," he piped, "I tell you, they're too strong to bluff and too many to buy. You can't make it."

The younger man shut one eye, knocked with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, and then said as he looked insolently into the Doctor's face:

"Well, to begin—what's your price?"

The Doctor flushed; his loose skin twitched around his nostrils, and he gripped his chair arms. He did not answer for nearly a minute, during which the Judge tilted back in his chair beside the desk and looked at the elder man with some show of curiosity, if not of interest.

"My price," sneered the Doctor, "is a little mite low to-day. It's a pelt—a hound pup's pelt and you are going to furnish it, if you'll stop strutting long enough for me to skin you!"

The two men glared at each other. Then Van Dorn, regaining his poise, answered: "Well, sir, I'm going to win—no matter how—I'm going to win. I've sat up with this situation every night for six months—Oh, for a year. I know it backwards and forwards, and you can't trip me any place along the line. I've counted you out." He went on smiling:

"What have I done that is not absolutely legal? This is a government of law, Doctor—not of hysteria. The trouble with you," the Judge settled down to an upright position in his chair, "is that you're an old maid. You're so—so" he drawled the "so" insolently, "damn nice. You're an old maid, and you come from a family of old maids. I warrant your grandmother and her mother before her were old maids. There hasn't been a man in your family for five generations." The Doctor rose, Van Dorn went on arrogantly, "Doctor James Nesbit, I'm not afraid of you. And I'll tell you this: If you make a fight on me in this contest, when I'm elected, we'll see if there isn't one less corrupt boss in this state and if Greeley County can't contribute a pompadour to the rogues' gallery and a tenor voice to the penitentiary choir."

During the harangue of the Judge, the Doctor's full lips had begun to twitch in a smile, and his eyes to twinkle. Then he chirped gaily:

"Heap o' steam for the size of the load and weight of your biler, Tom. Better hoop 'em up!"

And with a laugh, shaking his little round stomach, he toddled out of the room into the corridor, and began whistling the tune that tells what will happen when Johnny comes marching home.

So the Doctor whistled about his afternoon's work and did not realize that the whistling was a form of nervousness.

That evening the Doctor and Laura began to read their Browning where they had left off the night before. They were in the midst of "Paracelsus," when the father looked up and said:

"Laura, you know I'm going to fight Tom Van Dorn for another term as district judge?"

"Why, of course you should, father—I didn't expect he'd ask it again!" said the daughter.

"We had a row this afternoon—a miserable, bickering row. He got on his hind legs and snarled and snapped at me, and made me mad, I guess. So I got to thinking why I should be against him, and it came to me that a man who had violated the decencies as he has and whose decisions for the old spider have been so raw, shouldn't be judge in this district. Lord, what will young fellows think if we stand for him! So I have kind of worked myself up," the Doctor smiled deprecatingly, "to a place where I seem to have a sacred duty in the matter of licking him for the sake of general decency. Anyway," he concluded in his high falsetto, "old Browning's diver, here, fits me. He goes down a pauper and, with his pearl, comes up a prince."

"Festus," cried the Doctor, waving the book, "I plunge."

Thus through the pique of pride, and through the sting of scorn, a force of righteousness came into the world of Harvey. For our miracles of human progress are not always done with prunes and prisms. The truth does not come to men always, nor even, generally, as they are gazing in joyful admiration at the good and the beautiful. Sudden conversions of men to good causes are rare, and often unstable and sometimes worthless. The good Lord would find much of the best work of the world undone if he waited until men guided by purely altruistic motives and inspired by new impulses to righteousness, did it. The world's work is done by ladies and gentlemen who, for the most part, are largely clay, working in the clay, for clay rewards, with just enough of the divine impulse moving them to keep their faces turned forward and not back.

Public opinion in the Amen Corner, voiced by Mr. Brotherton, spoke for Harvey and said: "Well, say—what do you think of Old Linen Pants bucking the whole courthouse just to get the hide of Judge Van Dora? Did you ever see such a thing in your whole life?" emphasizing the word "whole" with fine effect.

Mr. Brotherton sat at his desk in the rear of his store, contemplating the splendor of his possessions. Gradually the rear of the shop had been creeping toward the alley. It was filled with books, stationery, cigars and smoker's supplies. The cigars and smoker's supplies were crowded to a little alcove near the Amen Corner, and the books—school books, pirated editions of the standard authors, fancy editions of the classics, new books copyrighted and gorgeously bound in the fashion of the hour, were displayed prominently. Great posters adorned the vacant spaces on the walls, and posters and enlarged magazine covers adorned the bulletin boards in front of the store. Piles of magazines towered on the front counters—and upon the whole, Mr. Brotherton's place presented a fairly correct imitation of the literary tendencies of the period in America just before the Spanish war.

Amos Adams came in, with his old body bent, his hands behind him, his shapeless coat hanging loosely from his stooped shoulders, his little tri-colored button of the Loyal Legion in his coat lapel, being the only speck of color in his graying figure. He peered at Mr. Brotherton over his spectacles and said: "George—I'd like to look at Emerson's addresses—the Phi Beta Kappa Address particularly." He nosed up to the shelves and went peering along the books in sets. "Help yourself, Dad, help yourself—Glad you like Emerson—elegant piece of goods; wrapped one up last week and took it home myself—elegant piece of goods."

"Yes," mused the reader, "here is what I want—I had a talk with Emerson last night. He's against the war; not that he is for Spain, of course, but Huxley," added Amos, as he turned the pages of his book, "rather thinks we should fight—believes war lies along the path of greatest resistance, and will lead to our greater destiny sooner." The old man sighed, and continued: "Poor Lincoln—I couldn't get him last night: they say he and Garrison were having a great row about the situation."

The elder stroked his ragged beard meditatively. Finally he said: "George—did you ever hear our Kenyon play?"

The big man nodded and went on with his work. "Well, sir," the elder reflected: "Now, it's queer about Kenyon. He's getting to be a wonder. I don't know—it all puzzles me." He rose, put back the book on its shelf. "Sometimes I believe I'm a fool—and sometimes things like this bother me. They say they are training Kenyon—on the other side! Of course he just has what music Laura and Mrs. Nesbit could give him; yet the other day, he got hold of a piano score of Schubert's Symphony in B flat and while he can't play it, he just sits and cries over it—it means so much to the little fellow."

The gray head wagged and the clear, old, blue eyes looked out through the steel-rimmed glasses and he sighed: "He is going ahead, making up the most wonderful music—it seems to me, and writing it down when he can't play it—writing the whole score for it—and they tell me—" he explained deprecatingly, "my friends on the other side, that the child will make a name for himself." He paused and asked: "George—you're a hardheaded man—what do you think of it? You don't think I'm crazy, do you, George?"

The younger man glanced up, caught the clear, kindly eye of Amos Adams looking questioningly down.

"Dad," said Mr. Brotherton, hammering his fat fist on the desk, "'there's more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio'—well say, man—that's Shakespeare. We sell more Shakespeares than all the other poets combined. Fine business, this Shakespeare. And when a man holds the lead in the trade as this Shakespeare has done ever since I went into the Red Line poets back in the eighties—I'm pretty nearly going to stay by him. And when he says, 'Don't be too damn sure you know it all—' or words to that effect—and holds the trade saying it—well, say, man—your spook friends are all right with me, only say," Mr. Brotherton shuddered, "I'd die if one came gliding up to me and asked for a chew of my eating tobacco—the way they do with you!"

"Well," smiled Amos Adams, "much obliged to you, George—I just wanted your ideas. Laura Van Dorn has sent Kenyon's last piece back to Boston to see if by any chance he couldn't unconsciously have taken it from something or some one. She says it's wonderful—but, of course," the old man scratched his chin, "Laura and Bedelia Nesbit are just as likely to be fooled in music as I am with my controls." Then the subject drifted into politics—the local politics of the town, the Van Dorn-Nesbit contest.

And at the end of their discussion Amos rubbed his bony, lean, hard, old hands, and looked away through the books and the brick wall and the whole row of buildings before him into the future and smiled. "I wonder—I wonder if the country ever will come to see the economic and social and political meaning of this politics that we have now—this politics that the poor man gets through a beer keg the night before election, and that the rich man buys with his 'barl.'"

He shook his head. "You'll see it—you and Grant—but it will be long after my time." Amos lifted up his old face and cried: "I know there is another day coming—a better day. For this one is unworthy of us. We are better than this—at heart! We have in us the blood of the fathers, and their high visions too. And they did not put their lives into this nation for this—for this cruel tangle of injustice that we show the world to-day. Some day—some day," Amos Adams lifted up his face and cried: "I don't know! May be my guides are wrong but my own heart tells me that some day we shall cease feeding with the swine and return to the house of our father! For we are of royal blood, George—of royal blood!"

"Why, hello, Morty," cut in Mr. Brotherton. "Come right in and listen to the seer—genuine Hebrew prophet here—got a familiar spirit, and says Babylon is falling."

"Well, Uncle Amos," said Morty Sands, "let her fall!" Old Amos smiled and after Morty had turned the talk from falling Babylon to Laura Van Dorn's kindergarten, Amos being reminded by Laura of Kenyon and his music, unfolded his theory of the occult source of the child's musical talent, and invited George and Morty to church to hear Kenyon play.

So when Sunday came, with it came full knowledge that most members of the congregation were to hear Kenyon Adams' new composition, which had been rather widely advertised by his friends; and Rev. John Dexter, feeling himself a fifth wheel, discarded his sermon and in humility and contrition submitted some extemporaneous remarks on the passion for humanity of "Christ and him crucified."

A little boy was Kenyon Adams—a slim, great-eyed, serious faced, little boy in an Eton jacket and knickerbockers—not so much larger than his violin that he carried under his arm. His little hand shook, but Grant caught his gaze and with a tender, earnest reassurance put sinews into the small arms, and stilled an unsteady jaw. The organ was playing the prelude, when the little hand with the bow went out in a wide, sure, strong curve, and when the bow touched the strings, they sang from a soul depth that no child's experience could know.

It was the first public rendering of the now famous Adagio in C minor, known sometimes as "The Prairie Wind," or perhaps better as the Intermezzo between the second and third acts of the opera that made Kenyon Adams' fame in Europe before he was twenty. It has been changed but little since that first hearing there in John Dexter's church with the Sands Memorial organ, built in the early eighties for Elizabeth Page Sands, mother of Anne of that tribe. The composition is simplicity itself—save for the mystical questioning that runs through it in the sustained sevenths—a theme which Captain Morton said always reminded him of a meadow lark's evening song, but which repeats itself over and over plaintively and sadly as the stately music swells to its crescendo and dies with that unanswered cry of heartbreak echoing in the last faint notes of the closing bar.

When it was finished, those who had ears heard and understood and those who had not said, "Well," and waited for public opinion, unless they were fools, in which case they said they would have preferred something to whistle. But because the thing impressed itself upon hundreds of hearts that hour, many in the congregation came forward to greet the child.

Among these, was a tall, stately young woman in pure white with a rose upon her hat so deeply red that it seemed guilty of a shame. But her lips were as red as the red of the rose and her eyes glistened and her face was wrought upon by a great storm in her heart. Behind her walked a proud gentleman, a lordly gentleman who elbowed his way through the throng as one who touches the unclean. The pale child stood by Grant Adams as they came. Kenyon did not see the beautiful woman; the child's eyes were upon the man. He knew the man; Lila had poured out her soul to the boy about the man and in his child's heart he feared and abhorred the man for he knew not what. The man and woman kept coming closer. They were abreast as they stepped into the pulpit where the child stood. By his own music, his soul had been stirred and riven and he was nervous and excited. As the woman beside the man stretched out her arms, with her face tense from some inner turmoil, the child saw only the proud man beside her and shrank back with a wild cry and hid in his father's breast. The eyes of Grant and Margaret met, but the child only cuddled into the broad breast before him and wept, crying, "No—no—no—"

Then the proud man turned back, spurned but not knowing it, and the beautiful woman with red shame in her soul followed him with downcast face. In the church porch she lifted up her face as she said with her fair, false mouth: "Tom, isn't it funny how those kind of people sometimes have talent—just like the lower animals seem to have intelligence. Dear me, but that child's music has upset me!"

The man's heart was full of pride and hate and the woman's heart was full of pride and jealousy. Still the air was sweet for them, the birds sang for them, and the sun shone tenderly upon them. They even laughed, as they went their high Jovian way, at the vanities of the world on its lower plane. But their very laughter was the crackling of thorns under a pot wherein their hearts were burning.



CHAPTER XXVII

IN WHICH WE SEE SOMETHING COME INTO THIS STORY OUTSIDE OF THE MATERIAL WORLD

"Life," writes Mr. Left, using the pseudonym of the Peachblow philosopher, "disheartens us because we expect the wrong things of it. We expect material rewards for spiritual virtues, material punishments for spiritual transgressions; when even in the material world, material rewards and punishments do not always follow the acts which seem to require them. Yet the only sure thing in the world is that our spiritual lapses bring spiritual punishments, and our spiritual virtues have their spiritual rewards."

Now these observations of Mr. Left might well be taken for the thesis of this story. Tom Van Dorn's spiritual transgressions had no material punishments and the good that was in Grant Adams had no material reward. Yet the spiritual laws which they obeyed or violated were inexorable in their rewards and punishments.

Once there entered the life of Judge Van Dorn, from the outside, the play of purely spiritual forces, which looped him up and tripped him in another man's game, and Tom, poor fellow, may have thought that it was a special Providence around with a warrant looking after him. Now this statement hangs on one "if,"—if you can call Nate Perry a man! "One generation passeth and another cometh on," saith the Preacher. Perhaps it has occurred to the reader that the love affairs of this book are becoming exceedingly middle aged; some have only the dying glow of early reminiscence. But here comes one that is as young as spring flowers; that is—if Nate Perry is a man, and is entitled to a love affair at all. Let's take a look at him: long legged, lean faced, keen eyed, razor bodied, just back from College where he has studied mining engineering. He is a pick and shovel miner in the Wahoo Fuel Company's mine, getting the practical end of the business. For he is heir apparent of stuttering Kyle Perry, who has holdings in the mines. Young Nate's voice rasps like the whine of a saw and he has no illusions about the stuff the world is made of. For him life is atoms flopping about in the ether in an entirely consistent and satisfactory manner. Things spiritual don't bother him. And yet it was in working out a spiritual equation in Nate Perry's life that Providence tipped over Tom Van Dorn, in his race for Judgeship.

And now let us put Mr. Brotherton on the stand:

"Showers," exclaims Mr. Brotherton, "showers for Nate and Anne,—why, only yesterday I sent him and Grant Adams over to Mrs. Herdicker's to borrow her pile-driver, and spanked him for canning a dog, and it hasn't been more'n a week since I gave Anne a rattle when her father brought her down town the day after the funeral, as he was looking over Wright & Perry's clerks for the fourth Mrs. Sands—and here's showers! Well, say, isn't time that blue streak! Showers! Say, I saw Tom Van Dorn's little Lila in the store this morning—isn't she the beauty—bluest eyes, and the sweetest, saddest, dearest little face—and say, man—I do believe Tom's kind of figuring up what he missed along that line. He tried to talk to her this morning, but she looked at him with those blue eyes and shrank away. Doc Jim bought her a doll and a train of cars. That was just this morning, and well, say—I wouldn't be surprised if when I come down and unlock the store to-morrow morning, some one will be telling me she's having showers. Isn't time that old hot-foot?"

"Showers—kitchen showers and linen showers, and silver showers for little Anne—little Anne with the wide, serious eyes, 'the home of silent prayer';—well, say, do you know who said that? It was Tennyson. Nice, tasty piece of goods—that man Tennyson. I've handled him in padded leather covers; fancy gilt cloth, plain boards, deckle-edges, wide margins, hand-made paper, and in thirty-nine cent paper—and he is a neat, nifty piece of goods in all of them—always easy to move and no come backs." After this pean to the poet, Mr. Brotherton turned again to his meditations, "Little Anne—Why, it's just last week or such a matter I wrapped up Mother Goose for her—just the other day she came in when they sent her off to school, and I gave her a diary—and now it's showers—" He shook his great head, "Well, say—I'm getting on."

And while Mr. Brotherton mused the fire burned—the fire of youth that glowed in the heart of Nathan Perry. When he wandered back from college no one in particular had noticed him. But Anne Sands was no one in particular. And as no one in particular was looking after Anne and her affairs, as a girl in her teens she had focused her heart upon the gangling youth, and there grew into life one of those matter-of-fact, unromantic love affairs that encompass the whole heart. For they are as commonplace as light and air and are equally vital. Because their course is smooth, such affairs seem shallow. But let unhappy circumstance break the even surface, and behold, from their depths comes all the beauty of a great force diverted, all the anguish of a great passion curbed and thwarted.

In this democratic age, when deep emotional experiences are not the privilege of the few, but the lot of many, heart break is almost commonplace. We do not notice it as it may have been noted in those chivalric days when only the few had the finer sensibilities that may make great mental suffering possible. So here in the commonplace town of Harvey, in their commonplace homes, amid their commonplace friends and relatives, two commonplace hearts were aching all unsuspected by a commonplace world. And it happened thus:

Anne Sands had opinions about the renomination and reelection of Judge Van Dorn. For Judge Van Dorn's divorce and remarriage had offended Anne Sands.

On the other hand, to Nathan Perry the aspirations of Judge Van Dorn meant nothing but the ambition of a politician in politics. So when Anne and he had fallen into the inevitable discussion of the Van Dorn case, as a part of an afternoon's talk, indignation flashed upon indifference and the girl saw, or thought she saw such a defect in the character of her lover that, being what she was, she had to protest, and he being what he was—he was hurt to the heart. Both lovers spoke plainly. The thing sounded like a quarrel—their first; and coming from the Sands house into the summer afternoon, Nate Perry decided to go to Brotherton's. He reflected as he walked that Mr. Brotherton's remarks on "showers," which had come to Anne and Nate, might possibly be premature. And the reflection was immensely disquieting.

A practical youth was Nathan Perry, with a mechanical instinct that gloried in adjustment. He loved to tinker and potter and patch things up. Now something was wrong with the gearing of his heart action. His theory was that Anne was for the moment crazy. He could see nothing to get excited about over the renomination and election of Judge Van Dorn. The men in the mine where the youth was working as a miner hated Van Dorn, the people seemed to distrust him as a man more or less, but if he controlled the nominating convention that ended it with Nathan Perry. The Judge's family affairs were in no way related to the nomination, as the youth saw the case. Yet they were affecting the cams and cogs and pulleys of young Mr. Perry's love affairs, and he felt the matter must be repaired, and put in running order. For he knew that love affair was the mainspring of his life. And the mechanic in him—the Yankee that talked in his rasping, high-keyed tenor voice, that shone from his thin, lean face, and cadaverous body, the Yankee in him, the dreaming, sentimental Yankee, half poet and half tinker, fell upon the problem with unbending will and open mind.

So it came to pass that there entered into the affairs of Judge Thomas Van Dorn, an element upon which he did not calculate. For he was dealing only with the material elements of a material universe!

When Nathan Perry came to Brotherton's he sat down in the midst of a discussion of the Judgeship that began in rather etherial terms. For Doctor Nesbit was saying:

"Amos, I've got you cornered if you consider the visible universe. She works like a watch; she's as predestined as a corn sheller. But let me tell you something—she isn't all visible. There's something back of matter—there's another side to the shield. I know mighty well there's a time when my medicine won't help sick folks—and yet they get well. I've seen a great love flame up in a man's heart or a woman's heart or a child's in a bed of torture, and when medicine wouldn't take hold I've seen love burn through the wall between the worlds, and I have seen help come just as sure as you see the Harvey Hook and Ladder Company coming rattling down Market Street! Funny old world—funny old world—seventy rides around the sun—and then the fireworks." After puffing away to revive his pipe he said: "I sort of got into this way of thinking recently going over this judgeship fight." He smoked meditatively then broke out, "Lord, Lord, what an iron-clad, hog-tight, rock-ribbed, copper-riveted material proposition it is that Tom is putting up. He's bound self-interest with self-interest everywhere. He and Joe Calvin have roped old man Sands in, and every material interest in this whole district is tied up in the Van Dorn candidacy. I'm a child in a cyclone in this fight. The self-interest of the county candidates, of all the deputies who hope two years from now to be county candidates, and all their friends, every straw boss at the shops, in the smelters, in the mines—and all the men who are near them and want to be straw bosses, every merchant who is caught in the old spider's web with a ninety-day note; every street-car conductor, every employee of the light company, every man at the waterworks plant, every man at the gas plant, the telephone linemen—every human being that dances in the great woof of this little spider's web feels the pull of devilish material power."

Amos Adams threw back his grizzled head in a laugh that failed to vocalize. "Well, Jim, according to your account you're liable to get burned and singed and disfigured until you're as useless in politics as this old Amos Adams—the spook chaser!"

There was no bitterness in Amos Adams's voice. "It's all right, Jim—I have no complaint to make against life. Forty years ago Dan Sands got the first girl I ever loved. I went to war; he paid his bounty and married the girl. That was a long time ago. I often think of the girl—it's no lack of faith to Mary. And I have the memory of the war—of that Day at Peach Tree Creek with all the wonderful exulting joy of that charge and what God gave me to do. This button," he put his thumb under the Loyal Legion emblem in his warped coat lapel, "this button is more fragrant than any flower on earth to my heart. Dan Sands has had five wives; he missed the hardship of the war. He has a son by her. Jim," said Amos Adams as he opened his eyes, "if you knew how it has cut into my heart year by year to see the beautiful soul that Hester Haley gave to Morty decay under the blight of his father—but you can't." He sighed. "Yet there is still her soul in him—gentle, kind, trying to do the right thing—but tied and hobbled by life with his father. Grant may be wrong, Doctor," cried the father, raising his hand excitedly, "he may be crazy, and I know they laugh at him up town here—for a fool and the son of a fool; he certainly doesn't know how he is going to do all the things he dreams of doing—but that is not the point. The important thing is that he is having his dream! For by the Eternal, Jim Nesbit, I'd rather feel that my boy was even a small part of the life force of his planet pushing forward—I'd rather be the father of that boy—I'd rather be old Amos Adams the spook chaser—than Dan Sands with his million. I've been happier, Jim, with the memory of my Mary than he with his five wives. I'd rather be on the point of the drill of life and mangled there, than to have my soul rot in greed."

The Doctor puffed on his pipe. "Well, Amos," he returned quietly, "I suppose if a man wants to get all messed up as one of the points of the drill of life, as you call it—it's easy enough to find a place for the sacrifice. I admire Grant; but someway," his falsetto broke out, "I have thought there was a little something in the bread-and-butter proposition."

"A little, Doctor Jim—but not as much as you'd think!" answered Amos.

"Nevertheless in this fight here in Greeley County, I'm quietly lining up a few county delegates, and picking out a few trusty friends who will show up at the caucuses, and Grant has a handful of crazy Ikes that I am going to use in my business, and if we win it will be a practical proposition—my head against Tom's."

The Doctor rose. Amos Adams stopped him with "Don't be too sure of that, Jim; I got a writing from Mr. Left last night and he says—"

"Hold on, Amos—hold on," squeaked the Doctor's falsetto; "until Mr. Left is registered in the Third Ward—we won't bother with him until after the convention."

The Doctor left the place smiling at Amos and glancing casually at young Mr. Perry. The dissertation had been a hard strain on the practical mind of young Mr. Perry, and while he was fumbling his way through the mazes of what he had heard, Amos Adams left the shop and another practical man very much after Nathan Perry's own heart came in. Daniel Sands had no cosmic problems on his mind with which to befuddle young Perry. Daniel Sands was a seedy little old man of nearly three score years and ten; his dull, fishy eyes framed in red lids looked shiftily at one as though he was forever preoccupied in casting up sums in interest. His skin was splotched and dirty, a kind of scale seemed to be growing over it, and his long, thin nose stuck out of his shaggy, ill-kept whiskers like a sharp snout, attenuated by rooting in money. When he smiled, which was rarely, the false quality of his smile seemed expressed by his false teeth that were forever falling out of place when he loosed his facial muscles. He walked rather stealthily back to the desk where the proprietor of the shop was working; but he spoke loud enough for Nate Perry's practical ear to comprehend the elder man's mission.

"George, I've got to be out of town for the next ten days, and the county convention will meet when I'm gone." He stopped, and cleared his throat. Mr. Brotherton knew what was coming. "I just called to say that we're expecting you to do all you can for Tom." He paused. Mr. Brotherton was about to reply when the old man smiled his false smile and added:

"Of course, we can't afford to let our good Doctor's family affairs interfere with business. And George," he concluded, "just tell the boys to put Morty on in my place. And George, you kind of sit by Morty, and see that he gets his vote in right. Morty's a good boy, George—but he someway doesn't get interested in things as I like to see him. He'll be all right if you'll just fix his ballot in the convention and see that he votes it." He blinked his dull, red eyes at the book seller and dropped his voice.

"I noticed your paper as I passed the note counter just now; some of it will be due while I'm gone; I'll tell 'em to renew it if you want it." He smiled again, and Mr. Brotherton answered, "Very well—I'll see that Morty votes right, Mr. Sands," and solemnly went back to his ledger. And thus the practical mind of Nathan Perry had its first practical lesson in practical politics—a lesson which soon afterwards produced highly practical results.

Up and down Market Street tiptoed Daniel Sands that day, tightening his web of business and politics. Busily he fluttered over the web, his water pipes, his gas pipes, his electric wires. The pathway to the trade of the miners and the men in the shops and smelters lay through his door. Material prosperity for every merchant and every clerk in Market Street lay in the paunch of the old spider, and he could spin it out or draw it in as he chose. It was not usual for him to appear on Market Street. Dr. Nesbit had always been his vicegerent. And often it had pleased the Doctor to pretend that he was seeking their aid as friends and getting it solely upon the high grounds of friendship.

But as the Doctor stood by his office window that day and saw the old spider dancing up and down the web, Dr. Nesbit knew the truth—and the truth was wormwood in his mouth—that he had been only an errand boy between greed in the bank and self-interest in the stores. In a flash, a merciless, cynical flash, he looked into his life in the capital, and there he saw with sickening distinctness that with all his power as a boss, with his control over Senators and Governors and courts and legislatures, he was still the errand boy—that he reigned as boss only because he could be trusted by those who controlled the great aggregations of capital in the state—the railroads, the insurance companies, the brewers, the public service corporations. In the street below walked a flashy youth who went in and out of the saloons in obvious pride of being. His complacent smile, his evident glory in himself, made Dr. Nesbit turn away and shut his eyes in shame. He had loathed the youth as a person unspeakable. Yet the youth also was a messenger—the errand boy of vice in South Harvey who doubtless thought himself a person of great power and consequence. And the difference between an errand boy of greed and the errand boy of vice was not sufficient to revive the Doctor's spirits. So the Doctor, sadly sobered, left the window. The gay enthusiasm of the diver plunging for the pearl was gone from the depressed little white clad figure. He was finding his pearl a burden rather than a joy.

That evening Morty Sands, resplendent in purple and fine linen—the purple being a gorgeous necktie, and the fine linen a most sumptuous tailor-made shirt waist above a pair of white broadcloth trousers and silk hose, and under a fifty dollar Panama hat, tripped into the Brotherton store for his weekly armload of reading and tobacco.

"Morty," said Mr. Brotherton, after the young man had picked out the latest word in literature and nicotine, "your father was in here to-day with instructions for me to chaperone you through the county convention Saturday,—you'll be on the delegation."

The young man blinked good naturedly. "I haven't got the intellect to go through with it, George."

"Oh, yes, you have, Morty," returned Mr. Brotherton, expansively. "The Governor wants me to be sure you vote for Van Dorn—that's about all there is in the convention. Old Linen Pants is to name the delegates to the State and congressional conventions—they're trying to let the old man down easy—not to beat him out of his State and congressional leadership."

The young man thought for a moment then smiled up into the big moon-face of Brotherton—"All right, Georgie, I suppose I'll have to cast my unfettered vote for Van Dorn, though as a sporting proposition my sympathies are with the other side."

"Well, say—you orter 'a' heard a talk I heard Doc Nesbit give this afternoon. That old sinner will be shouting on the mourner's bench soon—if he doesn't check up."

Morty looked up from his magazine to say: "George—it's Laura. A man couldn't go with her through all she's gone through without being more of a man for it. When I took a turn in the mining business last spring I found that the people down in South Harvey just naturally love her to death. They'll do more or less for Grant Adams. He's getting the men organized and they look up to him in a way. But they get right down on their marrow bones and love Laura."

Morty smiled reflectively: "I kind of got the habit myself once—and I seem someway never to have got over it—much! But, she won't even look my way. She takes my money—for her kindergarten. But that is all. She won't let me take her home in my trap, nor let me buy her lunch—why she pays more attention to Grant Adams with his steel claw than to my strong right arm! About all she lets me do is distribute flower seeds. George," he concluded ruefully, "I've toted around enough touch-me-nots and coxcomb seeds this spring for that girl to paint South Harvey ringed, streaked and striped."

There the conversation switched to Captain Morton's stock company, and the endeavor to get the Household Horse on the market. The young man listened and smiled, was interested, as George Brotherton intended he should be. But Morty went out saying that he had no money but his allowance—which was six months overdrawn—and there the matter rested.

In a few days, a free people arose and nominated their delegates to the Greeley County convention and the night before the event excitement in Harvey was intense. There could be no doubt as to the state of public sentiment. It was against Tom Van Dorn. But on the other hand, no one seriously expected to defeat him. For every one knew that he controlled the organization—even against the boss. Yet vaguely the people hoped that their institutions would in some way fail those who controlled, and would thus register public sentiment. But the night the delegates were elected, it seemed apparent that Van Dorn had won. Yet both sides claimed the victory. And among others of the free people elected to the Convention to cast a free vote for Judge Van Dorn, was Nathan Perry. He was put on the delegation to look after his father's interests. Van Dorn was a practical man, Kyle Perry was a practical man and they knew Nate Perry was a practical youth. But while Tom Van Dorn slept upon the assurance of victory, Nate Perry was perturbed.



CHAPTER XXVIII

WHEREIN MORTY SANDS MAKES A FEW SENSIBLE REMARKS IN PUBLIC

When Mortimer Sands came down town Saturday morning, two hours before the convention met, he found the courthouse yard black with prospective delegates and also he found that the Judge's friends were in a majority in the crowd. So evident was their ascendancy that the Nesbit forces had conceded to the Judge the right to organize the convention. At eleven o'clock the crowd, merchants, clerks, professional men, working men in their Sunday clothes, delegates from the surrounding country towns, and farmers—a throng of three hundred men, began to crowd into the hot "Opera House." So young Mr. Sands, with his finger in a book to keep his place, followed the crowd to the hall, and took his seat with the Fourth Ward delegation. Having done this he considered that his full duty to God and man had been performed. He found Nathan Perry sitting beside him and said:

"Well, Nate, here's where Anne's great heart breaks—I suppose?"

Nathan nodded and asked: "I presume it's all over but the shouting."

"All over," answered the elder young man as he dived into his book. As he read he realized that the convention had chosen Captain Morton—a partisan of the Judge—for chairman. The hot, stifling air of the room was thick with the smoke of cheap tobacco. Morty Sands grew nervous and irritated during the preliminary motions of the organization. Even as a sporting event the odds on Van Dorn were too heavy to promote excitement. He went out for a breath of air. When he reentered Judge Van Dorn was making the opening speech of the convention. It was a fervid effort; the Spanish war was then in progress so the speech was full of allusions to what the Judge was pleased to call "libertah" and "our common countrah" and our sacred "dutah" to "humanitah." Naturally the delegates who were for the Judge's renomination displayed much enthusiasm, and it was a noisy moment. When the Judge closed his remarks—tearfully of course—and took his seat as chairman of the Fourth Ward delegation, which was supposed to be for him unanimously as it was his home ward, Morty noticed that while the Judge sat grand and austere in the aisle seat with his eyes partly closed as one who is recovering from a great mental effort, his half-closed eyes were following Mr. Joseph Calvin, who was buzzing about the room distributing among the delegates meal tickets and saloon checks good for food for man and beast at the various establishments of public entertainment.

Morty learned from George Brotherton that as the county officers were to be renominated without opposition, and as the platform had been agreed to the day before, and as the county central committeemen had been chosen the night before at the caucuses, the convention was to be a short horse soon curried. Of course, Captain Morton as permanent chairman made a speech—with suitable eulogies to the boys who wore the blue. It was the speech the convention had heard many times before, but always enjoyed—and as he closed he asked rather grandly, "and now what is the further pleasure of the convention?"

It was Mr. Calvin's pleasure, as expressed in a motion, that the secretary be instructed to cast the vote of the convention for the renomination of the entire county ticket, and further that Senator James Nesbit, in view of his leadership of the party in the State, be requested to name the delegates to the State and congressional conventions and that Judge Thomas Van Dorn—cheers led by Dick Bowman—Thomas Van Dorn be requested to name the delegates to the judicial district convention. Cheers and many cries of no, no, no, greeted the Calvin motion. It was seconded and stated by the chair and again cheered and roared at. Dr. Nesbit rose, and in his mild, treble voice protested against the naming of the delegates to the State and congressional and judicial conventions. He said that while it had been the practice in the past, he was of the opinion that the time had come to let the Convention itself choose by wards and precincts and townships its delegates to these conventions. He said further that as for the State and congressional delegates, they couldn't pick a delegation of twenty men in the room if they tried, that would not contain a majority which he could work with. At which there was cheering from the anti-Van Dorn crowd—but it was clear that they were in the minority. No further discussion seemed to be expected and the Captain was about to put the motion, when from among the delegates from South Harvey there arose the red poll of Grant Adams. From the Harvey delegates he met the glare of distrust due from any crowd of merchants and clerks to any labor agitator. Morty could see from the face of Dr. Nesbit that he was surprised. Judge Van Dorn, who sat near young Sands, looked mildly interested. After he was recognized, Grant in an impassioned voice began to talk of the inherent right of the Nesbit motion, providing that each precinct or ward delegation could name its own delegates to the State, congressional and judicial conventions.

If the motion prevailed, Judge Van Dorn would have a divided delegation from Greeley county to the judicial convention, as some of the precincts and wards were against him, though a majority of the united convention was for him. Grant Adams, swinging his iron claw, was explaining this to the convention. He was appealing passionately for the right of proportional representation; holding that the minority had rights of representation that the majority should not deny.

Judge Van Dorn, without rising, had sneered across the room in a snarling voice: "Ah, you socialist!" Once he had growled: "None of your red mouthed ranting here!" Finally, as it was evident that Grant's remarks were interesting the workmen on the delegations, Van Dorn, still seated, called out:

"Here, you—what right have you to address this convention?"

"I am a regularly accredited delegate from South Harvey, holding the proxy—"

He got no further.

The Van Dorn delegates roared, "Put him out. No proxies go," and began hooting and jeering. It was obvious that Van Dorn had the crowd with him. He let them roar at Grant, who stood quietly, demanding from time to time that the chair should restore order. Captain Morton hammered the table with his gavel, but the Van Dorn crowd continued to hoot and howl. Finally Judge Van Dorn rose and with great elaborateness of parliamentary form addressed the chair asking to be permitted to ask his friend with a proxy one question.

The two men faced each other savagely, like characters symbolizing forces in a play; complaisance and discontent. Behind Grant was the unrest and upheaval of a class coming into consciousness and tremendously dynamic, while Van Dorn stood for those who had won their fight and were static and self-satisfied. He twirled his mustache. Grant raised his steel claw as if to strike; Van Dorn spoke, and in a barking, vicious, raucous tone intended to annihilate his adversary, asked:

"Will you tell this convention in the interest of fairness, what, if any, personal and private motives you have in helping Dr. Nesbit inject a family quarrel into public matters in this county?"

A moment's silence greeted the lawyer's insolently framed question. Mortimer Sands saw Dr. Nesbit go white, start to rise, and sit down, and saw dawning on the face of Grant Adams the realization of what the question meant. But before he could speak the mob broke loose; hisses, cheers and the roar of partisan and opposition filled the room. Grant Adams tried to speak; but no one would hear him. He started down the aisle toward Van Dorn, his red hair flashing like a banner of wrath, menacing the Judge with the steel claw upraised. Dr. Nesbit stopped Grant. The insult had been so covert, so cowardly, that only in resenting its implication would there be scandal.

Mortimer Sands closed his book. He saw Judge Van Dorn laugh, and heard him say to George Brotherton who sat beside young Sands:

"I plugged that damn pie-face!"

Nathan Perry, the practical young man sitting in the Fourth ward delegation, heard the Judge and nudged Morty Sands. Morty Sands's sporting blood rose in him. "The pup," he whispered to Nate. "He's taking a shot at Laura."

The crowd gradually grew calm. There being no further discussion, Captain Morton put the motion of Joseph Calvin to let the majority of the convention name all delegates to the superior conventions. The roar of ayes overwhelmed the blat of noes. It was clear that the Calvin motion had carried. The Doctor was defeated. But before the chair announced the vote the pompadour of the little man rose quickly as he stood in the middle aisle and asked in his piping treble for a vote by wards and precincts.

In the moment of silence that followed the Doctor's suggestion, Nathan Perry's face, which gradually had been growing stony and hard, cracked in a mean smile as he leaned over to Morty and whispered:

"Morty, can you stand for that—that damned hound's snap at Laura Van? By grabby I can't—I won't!"

"Well, let's raise hell, Nate—I'm with you. I owe him nothing," said the guileless and amiable Morty.

Judge Van Dorn rose grandly and with great elegance of diction agreed with the Doctor's "excellent suggestion." So tickets were passed about containing the words yes and no, and hats were passed down delegation lines and the delegates put the ballots in the hats and the chairmen of delegations appointed tellers and so the ballots were counted. When the Fourth ward balloting was finished, Judge Van Dorn looked puzzled. He was three votes short of unanimity. His vanity was pricked. He believed he had a solid delegation and proposed to have it. When in the roll call the Fourth ward delegation was reached (it was the fourth precinct on the secretary's roll) the Judge, as chairman of the Fourth warders, rose, blandly and complacently, and announced: "Ward Four casts twenty-five votes 'yes' and three votes 'no.' I demand a poll of the delegation."

George Brotherton rose when the clerk of the convention called the roll and voted a weak, husky 'no' and sat down sheepishly under the Judge's glare.

Down the list came the clerk reading the names of delegates. Finally he called "Mortimer Sands," and the young man rose, smiling and calm, and looking the Judge fairly in the eye cried, "I vote no!"

Then pandemonium broke loose. The convention was bedlam. The friends of the Judge were confounded. They did not know what it meant.

The clerk called Nathan Perry.

"No," he cried as he looked maliciously into the Judge's beady eyes.

Then there was no doubt. For the relations of Wright & Perry were so close to Daniel Sands that no one could mistake the meaning of young Perry's vote, and then had not the whole town read of the "showers" for Anne Sands? Those who opposed the Judge were whispering that the old spider had turned against the Judge. Men who were under obligations to the Traders' Bank were puzzled but not in doubt. There was a general buzzing among the delegations. The desertion of Mortimer Sands and Nathan Perry was one of those wholly unexpected events that sometimes make panics in politics. The Judge could see that in one or two cases delegations were balloting again. "Fifth ward," called the clerk.

"Fifth ward not ready," replied the chairman.

"Hancock township, Soldier precinct," called the clerk.

"Soldier precinct not ready," answered the chairman.

The next precinct cast its vote No, and the next precinct cast its vote 7 yes and 10 no and a poll was demanded and the vote was a tie. The power of the name of Sands in Greeley county was working like a yeast.

"Well, boys," whispered Mr. Brotherton to Morty as two townships were passed while they were reballoting, "Well, boys—you sure have played hell." He was mopping his red brow, and to a look of inquiry from Morty Mr. Brotherton explained: "You've beaten the Judge. They all think that it's your father's idea to knife him, and the foremen of the mines who are running these county delegations and the South Harvey contingent are changing their votes—that's how!"

In another instant Morty Sands was on his feet. He stood on a seat above the crowd, a slim, keen-faced, oldish figure. When he called upon the chairman a hush fell over the crowd. When he began to speak he could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into him. "I wish to state," he said hesitatingly, then his courage came, "that my vote against this resolution, was due entirely to the inferential endorsement of Judge Thomas Van Dorn," this time the anti-Van Dorn roar was overwhelming, deafening, "that the resolution contained."

Another roar, it seemed to the Judge as from a pit of beasts, greeted this period. "But I also wish to make it clear," continued the young man, "that in this position I am representing only my own views. I have not been instructed by my father how to cast this ballot. For you know as well as I how he would vote." The roar from the anti-Van Dorn crowd came back again, stronger than ever. The convention had put its own interpretation upon his words. They knew he was merely making it plainer that the old spider had caught Judge Van Dorn in the web, and for some reason was sucking out his vitals. Morty sat down with the sense of duty well done, and again Mr. Brotherton leaned over and whispered, "Well, you did a good job—you put the trimmings on right—hello, we're going to vote again." Again the young man jumped to his feet and cried amid the noise, which sank almost instantly as they saw who was trying to speak: "I tell you, gentlemen, that so far as I know my father is for Judge Van Dorn," but the crowd only laughed, and it was evident that they thought Morty was playing with them. As Morty Sands sat down Nathan Perry rose and in his high, strong, wire-edged tenor cried: "Men, I'm voting only myself. But when a man shows doghair as Judge Van Dorn showed it to this convention in that question to Grant Adams—all hell can't hold me to—" But the roar of the crowd drowned the close of the sentence. The mob knew nothing of the light that had dawned in Nathan Perry's heart. The crowd knew only that the son and the future son-in-law of the old spider had turned on Van Dorn, and that he was marked for slaughter so it proceeded with the butchering which gave it great personal felicity. Men howled their real convictions and Tom Van Dorn's universe tottered. He tried to speak, but was howled down.

"Vote—vote, vote," they cried. The Fourth ward balloted again and the vote stood "Yes, fifteen, no, twelve," and the proud face of the suave Judge Van Dorn turned white with rage, and the red scar flickered like lightning across his forehead. The voting could not proceed. For men were running about the room, and Joseph Calvin was hovering over the South Harvey delegation like a buzzard. Morty Sands suspected Calvin's mission. The young man rose and ran to Dr. Nesbit and whispered: "Doctor, Nate's got seven hundred dollars in the bank—see what Calvin is doing? I can get it up here in three minutes. Can you use it to help?"

The Doctor ran his hand over his graying pompadour and smiled and shook his head. In the din he leaned over and piped. "Touch not, taste not, handle not, Morty—I've sworn off. Teetotler," he laughed excitedly. Young Sands saw a bill flash in Mr. Calvin's hands and disappear in Dick Bowman's pockets.

"No law against it," chirped the Doctor, "except God Almighty's, and He has no jurisdiction in Judge Tom's district."

As they stood watching Calvin peddle his bills the convention saw what he was doing. A fear seized the decent men in the convention that all who voted for Van Dorn would be suspected of receiving bribes. The balloting proceeded. In five minutes the roll call was finished. Then before the result was announced George Brotherton was on his feet saying, "The Fourth ward desires to change her vote," and while Brotherton was announcing the complete desertion of the Fourth ward delegation, Judge Van Dorn left the hall. Men in mob are cruel and mad, and the pack howled at the vain man as he slunk through the crowd to the door.

After that, delegation after delegation changed its vote and before the result was announced Mr. Calvin withdrew his motion, and the spent convention only grunted its approval. Then it was that Mugs Bowman crowded into the room and handed Nathan Perry this note scrawled on brown butcher's paper in a hand he knew. "I have this moment learned that you are a delegate and must take a public stand. Don't let a word I have said influence you. I stand by you whatever you do. Use your own judgment; follow your conscience and 'with God be the rest.'" "A. S."

Nathan Perry folded the note, and as he put it in his vest pocket he felt the proud beat of his heart. Fifteen minutes later when the convention adjourned for noon, Nathan and Morty Sands ran plumb into Thomas Van Dorn, sitting in the back room of the bank, wet eyed and blubbering. The Judge was slumped over the big, shining table, his jaws trembling, his hands fumbling the ink stands and paper weights. His eyes were staring and nervous, and beside him a whiskey bottle and glass told their story. The man rose, holding the table, and shrieked:

"You damned little fice dog, you—" this to Morty, "you—you—" Morty dashed around the table toward the Judge, but before he could reach the man to strike, the Judge was moving his jaws impotently, and grasping the thin air. His mouth foamed as he fell and he lay, a shivering, white-eyed horror, upon the floor. The bank clerks lifted the figure to a leather couch, and some one summoned Doctor Nesbit.

The Doctor saw the whiskey bottle half emptied and saw the white faced, prostrate figure. The Doctor sent the clerks from the room as he worked with the unconscious man, and piped to Morty as he worked, "Nothing serious—heat—temper, whiskey—and vanity and vexation of spirit; 'vanity of vanities—all is vanity—saith the preacher.'" Morty and Nathan left the room as the man's eyes opened and the Doctor with a woman's tenderness brought the wretched, broken, shattered bundle of pride back to consciousness.

For years this became George Brotherton's favorite story. He first told it to Henry Fenn thus:

"Say, Henry, lemme tell you about old man Sands. He come in here the day after he got back from Chicago to wrestle with me for letting Morty vote against Tom. Well—say—I'm right here to tell you that was some do—all right, all right! You know he thought I got Morty and Nate to vote that way and the old spider came hopping in here like a granddaddy long-legs and the way he let out on your humble—well, say—say! Holler—you'd orto heard him holler! Just spat pizen—wow! and as for me who'd got the lad into the trouble—as for me," Mr. Brotherton paused, folded his hand over his expansive abdomen and sighed deeply, as one who recalls an experience too deep for language. "Well, say—I tried to tell him I didn't have anything to do with it, but he was wound up with an eight-day spring! I knew it was no use to talk sense to him while he was batting his lights at me like a drunk switchman on a dark night, but when he was clean run down I leans over the counter and says as polite as a pollywog, 'Most kind and noble duke,' says I, 'you touch me deeply by your humptious words!' says I, 'let me assure you, your kind and generous sentiments will never be erased from the tablets of my most grateful memory'—just that way.

"Well, say—" and here Mr. Brotherton let out his laugh that came down like the cataract at Ladore, "pretty soon Morty sails in fresh as a daisy and asks:

"'Father been in here?'

"'Check one father,' says I.

"'Raising hell?' he asks.

"'Check one hell,' says I.

"'Well, sir,' says he, 'I'm exceedingly sorry.'

"'One sorrow check,' says I.

"'Sincerely and truly sorry, George,' he repeats and 'Two sorrows check,' I repeats and he goes on: 'Look here, George, I know father, and until I can get the truth into him, which won't be for a week or two, I suppose he may try to ruin you!'

"'Check one interesting ruin,' says I.

"But he brought down his hand on the new case till I shuddered for the glass, and well, say—what do you think that boy done? He pulls out a roll of money big enough to choke a cow and puts it on the case and says: 'I sold my launch and drew every dollar I had out of the bank before father got home. Here, take it; you may need it in your business until father calms down.'

"Wasn't that white! I couldn't get him to put the roll back and along comes Cap Morton, and when I wouldn't take it the old man glued on to him, and I'm a goat if Morty didn't lend it to the Captain, with the understanding I could have it any time inside of six months, and the Captain could use it afterward. That's where the Captain got his money to build his shop."

It cost Daniel Sands five thousand dollars in hard earned money, not that he earned the money, but it was hard-earned nevertheless, to undo the work of that convention, and nominate and elect Thomas Van Dorn district Judge upon an independent ticket. And even when the work was done, the emptiness of the honor did not convince the Judge that this is not a material world. He hugged the empty honor to his heart and made a vast pretense that it was real.



CHAPTER XXIX

BEING NOT A CHAPTER BUT AN INTERLUDE

Here and now this story must pause for a moment. It has come far from the sunshine and prairie grass where it started. Tall elm trees have grown from the saplings that were stuck in the sod thirty years before, and they limit the vision. No longer can one see over the town across the roofs of Market Street into the prairie. No longer even can one see from Harvey the painted sky at night that marks South Harvey and the industrial towns of the Wahoo Valley. Harvey is shut in; we all are sometimes by our comforts. The dreams of the pioneers that haloed the heads of those who came to Harvey in those first days—those dreams are gone. Here and there one is trapped in brick or wood or stone or iron; and another glows in a child or walks the weary ways of man as a custom or an institution or as a law that brought only a part of the blessings which it promised.

And the equality of opportunity for which these pioneers crossed the Mississippi and came into the prairie uplands of the West—where is that evanescent spirit? Certainly it touched Daniel Sands's shoulder and he followed it; it beckoned Dr. Nesbit and he followed it a part of the journey. Surely Kyle Perry saw it for years, and Captain Morton was destined to find it, gorgeous and iridescent. Amos Adams might have had it for the asking, but he sought it only for others. It never came to Dooley and Hogan, and Williams and Bowman and those who went into the Valley. Did it die, one may ask; or did it vanish like a prairie stream under the sand to flow on subterranean and appear again strong, purified and refreshed, a powerful current to carry mankind forward? The world that was in the flux of dreams that day when Harvey began, had hardened to reality thirty years after. Men were going their appointed ways working out in circumstances the equation of their life's philosophy.

And now while the story waits, we may well look at three pictures. They do not speed the narrative; they hardly point morals to adorn this tale. But they may show us how living a creed consistently colors one's life. For after all the realities of life are from within. Events, environment, fortune good or bad do not color life, or give it richness and form and value. But in living a creed one makes his picture. So let us look at Thomas Van Dorn, who boasted that he could beat God at his own game, and did. For all that he wanted came to him, wealth and fame and power, and the women he desired.

Judge and Mrs. Van Dorn and her dog are riding by in their smart rubber tired trap, behind a highly checked horse and with the dog between them. They are not talking. The man is looking at his gloved hands, at the horse, at the street,—where occasionally he bows and smiles and never by any chance misses bowing and smiling to any woman who might be passing. His wife, dressed stiffly and smartly, is looking straight ahead, with as weary a face as that of the Hungarian Spitz beside her. Time, in the Temple of Love on the hill has not worn her bloom off; it is all there—and more; but the additional bloom, the artificial bloom, is visible. When she smiles, as she sometimes smiles at the men friends of the Judge who greet the pair, it is an elaborately mechanical smile, with a distinct beginning, climax, and ending. Some way it fails to convince one that she has any pleasure in it. The smile still is beautiful, exceedingly beautiful—but only as a picture. When the smile is garnished with words the voice is low and musical—but too low and too obviously musical. It does not reveal the soul of Margaret Van Dorn—the soul that glowed in the girl who came to Prospect Township fifteen years before, with banners flying to lay siege to Harvey. The soul that glowed through those wonderful eyes upon Henry Fenn—where is it? She has not been crossed in any desire of her life. She has enjoyed every form of pleasure that money could buy for her; she is delving into books that make the wrinkles come between her eyebrows, and is rubbing the wrinkles out and the ideas from the books as fast as they come. She is droning a formula for happiness, learned of the books that make her head ache, and is repeating over and over, "God is good, and I am God," as one who would plaster truth upon his consciousness by the mere repetition of it. But the truth does not help her. So she sits beside her husband, a wax work figure of a woman, and he seems to treat her as a wax figure. For he is clearly occupied with his own affairs.

When he is not bowing and smiling, a sneer is on his face. And when he speaks to the horse his voice is harsh and mean. He holds an unlighted cigar in his mouth as a terrier might hold a loathed rat; working the muscles of his lips at times viciously but saying nothing. The soft, black hat of his youthful days is replaced by a high, stiff, squarely sawed felt hat which he imagines gives him great dignity. His clothes have become so painfully scrupulous in their exact conformation to the mode that he looks wooden. He has given so much thought to the subject of "wherewithal shall ye be clothed," that the thought in some queer spiritual curdling has appeared in the unyielding texture of his artificial tailored skin, that seems to be a part of another consciousness than his own.

Moreover, those first days he spent after the convention have chipped the suavity from his countenance, and have written upon the bland, complacent face all the cynicism of his nature. Triumph makes cynicism arrogant, so the man is losing his mask. His nature is leering out of his eyes, snarling out of his mouth, and where the little, lean lines have pared away the flesh from his nose, a greedy, self-seeking pride is peering from behind a great masterful nose. Thomas Van Dorn should be in the adolescence of maturity; but he is in the old age of adolescence. His skin has no longer the soft olive texture of youth; it is brown and mottled and leathery. His lips—his lips once full and red, are pursing and leadening.

Thus the pair go through the May twilight; and when the electric lights begin to flash out at the corners, thus the Van Dorns ride before the big black mass of the temple of love that looms among the young trees upon the lawn. The woman alights from the trap. She pauses a moment upon the stone block at the curbing. The man makes no sign of moving. She takes the dog from the seat, and puts it on the ground. The man gathers the reins tightly in his hands, then drops them again, lights his cigar, and says behind his hands: "I'm going back downtown."

"Oh, you are?" echoes the woman.

"Yes, I am," replies the man sharply.

The woman is walking up the wide parking, with the dog. She makes no reply. The man looks at her a second or two, and drives away, cutting the horse to a mad speed as he rounds the corner.

Through the wide doors into the broad hall, up the grand staircase, through the luxurious rooms goes the high Priestess of the Temple of Love. It is a lonely house. For it is still in a state of social siege. So far as Harvey is concerned, no one has entered it. So they live rather quiet lives.

On that May evening the mistress of the great house sits in her bed room by the mild electric, trying book after book, and putting each down in disgust. Philosophy fails to hold her attention—poetry annoys her; fiction—the book of the moment, which happened to be "The Damnation of Theron Ware," makes her wince, and so she reaches under the reading stand, and brings out from the bottom of a pile of magazines a salacious novel filled with stories of illicit amours. This she reads until her cheeks burn and her lips grow dry and she hears the roll of a buggy down the street, and knows that it must be nearly midnight and that her mate is coming. She slips the book back into its place of concealment, picks up "The Harmonious Universe," and walks with some show of grandeur in her trailing garments down the stairs to greet her lord.

"You up?" he asks. He glances at the book and continues: "Reading that damn trash? Why don't you read Browning or Thackeray or—if you want philosophy Emerson or Carlyle? That's rot."

He puts what scorn he can into the word rot, and in her sweetest, falsest, baby voice the woman answers:

"My soul craves communion with the infinite and would seek the deeper harmonies. I just love to wander the wide wastes between the worlds like I've been doing to-night."

The man grabs the book from her, and finding her finger in a place far beyond the end of the cut leaves, he looks at her, and sneers a profane sneer and passes up the stairs. She stares after him as he slowly mounts, without joy in his tread, and she follows him lightly as he goes to his room. She pauses before the closed door for a lonely moment and then sighs and goes her way. She mumbles, "God is good and I am God," many times to herself, but she lies down to sleep wondering whimperingly in a half-doze if Pelleas and Melisande found things so dreadfully disillusioning after all they suffered for love and for each other. As a footnote to this picture may we not ask:

Is the thing called love worth having at the cost of character? The trouble with the poets is that they take their ladies and gentlemen of pliable virtue and uncertain rectitude, only to the altar. One may ask with some degree of propriety if the duplicity they practiced, the lying they did and justified by the sacredness of their passion, the crimes they committed and the meannesses they went through to attain their ends were after all worth while. Also one may ask if the characters they made—or perhaps only revealed, were not such as to make them wholly miserable when they began to "live happily ever after"? A symposium entitled "Is Love Really Worth It?" by such distinguished characters as Helen of Troy, Mrs. Potiphar and Cleopatra, might be improving reading, if the ladies were capable of telling the truth after lives of dissimulation and deceit.

But let us leave philosophy and look at another picture. This time we have the Morton family.

The Captain's feet are upon the shining fender. There is no fire in the stove. It is May. But it is the Captain's habit to warm his feet there when he is in the house at night, and he never fails to put them upon the fender and go through his evening routine. First it is his paper; then it is his feet; then it is his apple, and finally a formal discussion of what they will have for breakfast, with the Captain always voting for hash, and declaring that there are potatoes enough left over and meat enough unused to make hash enough for a regiment. But before he gets to the hash question, the Captain this evening leads off with this:

"Curious thing about spring." The world of education, reading its examination papers, concurs in silence. The worlds of fashion and of the fine arts also assenting, the Captain goes on: "Down in South Harvey to-day; kind o' dirty down there; looks kind of smoky and tin cannery, and woe-begone, like that class of people always looks, but 'y gory, girls, it's just as much spring down there as it is up here, only more so! eh? I says to Laura, looking like a full bloom peach tree herself in her kindergarten, says I, 'Laura, it's terrible pretty down here when you get under the smoke and the dirt. Every one just a lovin',' says I, 'and going galloping into life kind of regardless. There's Nate and Anne, and there's Violet and Hogan, and there's a whole mess of fresh married couples in Little Italy, and the Huns and Belgians are all broke out with the blamedest dose of love y' ever see! And they's whole rafts of 'em to be married before June!' Well, Laura, she laughed and if it wasn't like pouring spring itself out of a jug. Spring," he mused, "ain't it curious about spring!"

Champing his apple the Captain gesticulates slowly with his open pocket knife, "Love"—he reflects; then backs away from his discussion and begins anew: "Less take—say Anne and Nate, a happy couple—him a lean, eagle-beaked New England kind of a man; her—a little quick-gaited, big-eyed woman and sping! out of the Providence of Goddlemighty comes a streak of some kind of creepy, fuzzy lightning and they're struck dumb and blind and plumb crazy—eh?"

He champs for a time on the apple, "Eighteen sixty-one—May, sixty-one—me a tidy looking young buck—girl—beautiful girl with reddish brown hair and bluest eyes in the world. Sping! comes the lightning, and melts us together and the whole universe goes pink and rose-colored. No sense—neither of us—no more'n Anne and Nate, just one idea. I can't think of nothing but her—war isn't much; shackles on four millions slaves—no consequence; the Colonel caught us kissing in his tent the day I left for the army; union forever—mere circumstance in the lives of two crazy people—in a world mostly eyes and lips and soft hands and whispers and flowers, eh—and—" The Captain does not finish his sentence.

He rises, puts his apple core on the table, and says after a great sigh: "And so we bloomed and blossomed and come to fruit and dried up and blowed away, and here they are—all the rest of 'em—ready to bloom—and may God help 'em and keep 'em." He pauses, "Help 'em and keep 'em and when they have dried up and blowed away—let 'em remember the perfume clean to the end!" He turns away from the girls, wipes his eyes with his gnarled fingers, and after clearing his throat says: "Well, girls, how about hash for breakfast—what say?"

The wheels of the Judge's buggy grate upon the curbing nearby and the Captain remarks: "Judge Tom gets in a little later every night now. I heard him dump her in at eight, and here it is nearly eleven—pretty careless,—pretty careless; he oughtn't to be getting in this late for four or five years yet—what say?" Public opinion again is divided. Fashion and the fine arts hold that it is Margaret's fault and that she is growing to be too much of a poseur; but the schools, which are the bulwarks of our liberties, maintain that he is just as bad as she. And what is more to the point—such is the contention of the eldest Miss Morton of the fourth grade in the Lincoln school, he has driven around to the school twice this spring to take little Lila out riding, and even though her mother has told the teachers to let the child go if she cared to, the little girl would not go and he was mean to the principal and insolent, though Heaven knows it is not the principal's fault, and if the janitor hadn't been standing right there—but it really makes little difference what would have happened; for the janitor in every school building, as every one knows, is a fierce and awesome creature who keeps more dreadful things from happening that never would have happened than any other single agency in the world.

The point which the eldest Miss Morton was accenting was this, that he should have thought of Lila before he got his divorce.

Now the worlds of fashion and the fine arts and the schools themselves, bulwarks that they are, do not realize how keenly a proud man's heart must be touched if day by day he meets the little girl upon the street, sees her growing out of babyhood into childhood, a sweet, bright, lovable child, and he yearns for something sincere, something that has no poses, something that will love him for himself. So he swallows a lump of pride as large as his handsome head, and drives to the school house to see his child—and is denied. In the Captain's household they do not know what that means. For in the Captain's household which includes a six room house—not counting the new white painted bathroom, the joint product of the toil of the handsome Miss Morton and the eldest Miss Morton, and not counting the basket for the kitten christened Epaminondas, and maintained by the youngest Miss Morton over family protests—in the Captain's household there is peace and joy, if one excepts the numbing fear of a "step" that sometimes prostrates the eldest Miss Morton and her handsome sister; a fear that shelters their father against the wily designs of their sex upon a meek and defenseless and rather obliging gentleman. So they cannot put themselves in the place of the rich and powerful neighbors next door. The Mortons hear the thorns crackling under the pot, but they cannot appreciate the heat.

And now we come to the last picture.

It is still an evening in May!

"Well, how is the missionary to South Harvey," chirrups the Doctor as he mounts the steps, and sees his daughter, waiting for him on the veranda. She looks cool and fresh and beautiful. Her eyes and her skin glow with health and her face beams upon him out of a soul at peace.

"She's all right," returns the daughter, smiling. "How's the khedive of Greeley county?"

As the Doctor mounts the steps she continues: "Sit down, father—I've something on my mind." To her father's inquiring face she replied, "It's Lila. Her father has been after her again. She just came home crying as though her little heart would break. It's so pitiful—she loves him; that is left over from her babyhood; but she is learning someway—perhaps from the children, perhaps from life—what he has done—and when he tries to attract her—she shrinks away from him."

"And he knows why—he knows why, Laura." The Doctor taps the floor softly with his cane. "It isn't all gone—Tom's heart, I mean. Somewhere deep in his consciousness he is hungering for affection—for respect—for understanding. You haven't seen Tom's eyes recently?" The daughter makes no reply. "I have," he continues. "They're burned out—kind of glassy—scummed over with the searing of the hell he carries in his heart—like the girls' eyes down in the Row. For he is dying at the heart—burning out with everything he has asked for in his hands, yet turning to Lila!"

"Father," she says with her eyes brimming, "I'm not angry with Tom—only sorry. He hasn't hurt me—much—when it's all figured out. I still have my faith—my faith in folks—and in God! Really to take away one's faith is the only wrong one can do to another!"

The father says, "The chief wrong he did you was when he married you. It was nobody's fault; I might have stopped it—but no man can be sure of those things. It was just one of the inevitable mistakes of youth, my dear, that come into our lives, one way or another. They fall upon the just and the unjust—without any reference to deserts."

She nods her assent and they sit listening to the sounds of the closing day—to the vesper bell in the Valley, to the hum of the trolley bringing its homecomers up from the town; to the drone of the five o'clock whistles in South Harvey, to the rattle of homebound buggies. Twice the daughter starts to speak. The second time she stops the Doctor pipes up, "Let it come—out with it—tell your daddy if anything is on your mind." She smiles up into his mobile face, to find only sympathy there. So she speaks, but she speaks hesitatingly.

"I believe that I am going to be happy—really and truly happy!" She does not smile but looks seriously at her father as she presses his hand and pats it. "I am finding my place—doing my work—creating something—not the home that I once hoped for—not the home that I would have now, but it is something good and worth while. It is self respect in me and self respect in those wives and mothers and children in South Harvey. All over the place I find its roots—the shrivelled parching roots of self-respect, and the aspiration that grows with self respect. Sometimes I see it in a geranium flowering in a tomato can, set in a window; oftentimes in a cheap lace curtain; occasionally in a struggling, stunted yellow rose bush in the hard-beaten earth of a dooryard; or in a second hand wheezy cabinet organ in some front bedroom—in a thousand little signs of aspiration, I find America asserting itself among these poor people, and as I cherish these things I find happiness asserting itself in my life. So it's my job, my consecrated job in this earth—to water the geranium, to prune the rose, to mulch the roots of self-respect among these people, and I am happy, father, happier every day that I walk that way."