"That," said Dick, "is the greatest danger, but I believe it would be met in this way: You remember I said that the time of the inmates must be given wholly to the institution. The men could be kept busy at the housework, scrubbing and cleaning when not in the yard. Then too, they could be hired out to do odd jobs of rough work for the citizens; the wages all to go to the institution. Thus, if every man was kept busy eight hours each day, and received only his food and a place to sleep, there would be no temptation to remain longer than necessary. The institution would also act as an employment agency, and when a man was offered work of any kind he would no longer be permitted to remain in the home. Much of this would necessarily be left to the discretion of the managers and directors."

This question seemed to bring the matter to a close as far as Dick was concerned, and after asking if there was anything more, and again calling attention to the fact that the greatest obstacle in the way was a suitable building, he thanked them for their attention and took his seat.

Then followed a warm discussion. Several spoke enthusiastically in favor of the scheme. One or two thought it very good, but feared it would be impossible because of the building needed. A few offered amendments to the plan. Finally a committee was appointed to see if a suitable building could be secured, and the meeting was adjourned.

At once the young people crowded about Dick, shaking his hand, thanking him, asking questions, making suggestions, with now and then a happy laugh or jest. Much to Charlie's delight, Dick, for the time being, forgot himself and talked and laughed and prophesied with the rest about our institution and the things we would do. But in the midst of it all, his manner suddenly changed, and making his way quickly to Charlie's side he whispered, "Good-night, old man, I must go."

"So soon?" asked his friend in a tone of surprise.

"Yes," replied Dick hurriedly, "I must." And Charlie was left wondering at the pain in his face, which a moment before had been so bright, for he did not know that Dick had heard Frank Goodrich saying to his sister, "Come, we must go home. We can't afford to associate with that tramp," and that he had seen Amy leaving the room on her brother's arm, without even acknowledging his presence by so much as a glance.

The next morning bright and early, Deacon Wickham might have been seen knocking at the door of the parsonage. "Why, good morning, Brother," cried Cameron, throwing wide the door and extending his hand. "What good fortune brought you out so early? Come in. Come in."

"No good fortune, sir," replied the deacon, and seating himself very stiffly on the edge of the straightest-backed chair in the room, he glared with stern eyes at the pastor, who threw himself carelessly into an easy rocker. "No good fortune, sir; I came to inquire if it is true that you are encouraging that unscriptural organization in their foolish and world-wise plans."

Cameron put on a puzzled look. "What organization, and what plans?" he asked.

"There," said the good deacon, with a sigh of great relief. "I told Sister Jones that there must be some mistake, for though you and I don't always agree, and lock horns sometimes on certain passages of the Scriptures, I did not believe that you were so far from the teaching of the Word as that."

"As what?" asked Cameron again, but this time with a faint glimmer of understanding in his voice. "Please explain, Brother Wickham."

"Why, Sister Jones came over to my house early this morning and told me that at the meeting of the Young People's Society last night, that young upstart Falkner, laid down plans for doing church work, and that you were there and approved of them. That rattle-headed boy of hers is all carried away."

The preacher nodded, "Well?"

"I could not believe it of course, but she said, as near as I could gather, that you were going to have the church buy a house and keep all the tramps who came to Boyd City. A more unscriptural thing I never heard of. Were you at the meeting last night?"

"Yes, I was there," said Cameron slowly.

The official frowned again as he said sharply: "You'll do more good for the cause, Brother Cameron, if you spend your time calling on the members. There is Deacon Godfrey's wife hasn't been out to services for three months because you haven't been to see her; and you're ruining the church now by your teaching. You've got to build on a Scriptural foundation if you want your work to last. All these people you've been getting in the last two years don't know a thing about first principles."

The minister tried to explain: "The plan suggested last night by Mr. Falkner, who was there at the invitation of the Society, was simply for an institution that would permit a man who was homeless, cold and hungry, to pay for food and lodging until he could do better. In short, to prevent deaths like that of the young man found frozen a few weeks ago."

"You don't know anything about that fellow," said the deacon. "If he had followed the teaching of the Scriptures he wouldn't have been in that fix. The Word says plainly: 'He that provideth not for his own is worse than an infidel.' You don't know whether he was a Christian or not. He may have never been baptized. Indeed, I am ready to prove that he never was, for the Scripture says that the righteous are never forsaken, nor their seed begging for bread. I've lived nearly fifty years now and I never went hungry and never slept out-doors either."

Cameron sat silently biting his lip; then looking his parishioner straight in the eye, said: "Brother Wickham, I cannot harmonize your teaching with Christ's life and character."

"My teaching is the Scripture, sir; I'll give you book, chapter and verse," snapped the deacon.

"Christ taught and lived a doctrine of love and helpfulness toward all men, even enemies," continued Cameron. "When I remember how he pointed out the hungry and naked and homeless, and then said: 'Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did it not unto me,' I cannot help but feel sure in my heart that we are right, and I must tell you that Mr. Falkner's plan for doing just that work is the most practical and common-sense one I have ever heard. The only thing I find to wonder at is the stupidity of the church and myself, that we did not adopt it long ago."

"Then I am to understand that you support and encourage this unscriptural way of doing things?"

"I most certainly have given my support to the young people in this effort; and as far as possible, will encourage and help them in their labor of love."

"Labor of love, fiddlesticks," said the deacon; "Labor of foolishness. You'll find, sir, that it will be better to take my advice and the advice of the sacred writers, instead of going off after the strange teaching of an outcast and begging infidel."

"Stop!" said Cameron, springing to his feet, and speaking in a tone that few people ever heard him use. "I beg of you be careful that you do not go too far. Whatever his religious convictions may be, Mr. Falkner is neither an outcast nor a beggar; and although I am only your pastor, it might be well for you to remember that I am also a gentleman, and will allow no man to speak of my friends in any such language."

"Well, well," whined Wickham hastily, holding out his hand, "The Scriptures say that there must be love between brethren, and I want you to know that I bear you no ill will whatever, no ill will whatever; but I warn you, I wash my hands of the whole matter. I don't want to know anything about it."

Cameron took the proffered hand and replied, "That's the best thing you can do, Brother Wickham. You have discharged your duty faithfully as an officer in the church and are released from all responsibility whatever."

"Yes, yes," said the other, as he stood on the porch; "And don't let them call on me for any money. Remember I wash my hands of the whole thing. How much did you say it would cost?"

"I don't know yet, exactly."

"Well, you know I can't give anyway. I'm already doing more than my share in a scriptural way, and I must wash my hands of this."

"Yes," said Cameron to himself, as he shut the door; "A certain Roman governor washed his hands once upon a time." And then the pastor took himself to task for his uncharitable spirit.

Later in the day, Rev. Cameron had another visitor. Old father Beason, whose hair had grown white in the Master's service. He had been with his congregation over twenty years and they would not give him up; for while his sermons may have lost some of their youthful fire, they were riper for the preacher's long experience, and sweeter for his nearness to the source of love.

The old man met Cameron's outstretched hand of welcome with a smile that, in itself, was a benediction. Though identified with a different denomination, he was a close friend to the pastor of the Jerusalem Church, and always stood ready to draw from his wealth of experience for the benefit of his younger brother. When they were seated in Cameron's cozy den with a basket of fruit between them, Rev. Beason began:

"Brother Jim, what's this about the proposed work of your young people? Suppose you tell me about it, if you don't mind. I've heard a good many things to-day, and I just thought I'd run over and get the straight of it."

Cameron laughed as he carefully selected a rosy-cheeked apple. "You're the second caller I've had to-day who needed straightening out. I've been wishing you would run in, and if you had not, I would have been over to see you this evening. This work is right along lines that you and I have talked over many times." And then he told the whole story.

When Cameron had finished, the older man asked a few questions, and then slowly nodding his head, repeated softly: "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven."

"Brother Cameron, you know that I belong to a church that is noted for its conservative spirit, but I have been preaching more years than you have lived, and have been at it too long to be bound altogether by the particular belief of any particular people, and I want to say to you that if I were a younger man, I would take just your course exactly. There is no use, Brother Jim, of our flinching or dodging the question. The church is not meeting the problems of the day, and it's my candid opinion that ninety-nine out of every hundred preachers know it. But I'm too old to make the fight. I haven't the strength to do it. But my boy, do you go in to win, and may God's richest blessing rest upon you. And you'll stir this city as it never was stirred before. I only wish I were twenty years younger; I'd stand by you. But this needs young blood and I am an old, worn-out man. It is almost time that I was going home, and I dare not take up any work like this that will need years of patient labor to complete." He arose to his feet, and grasping Cameron's hand, said, "Good night, Brother Jim; we older men must turn our work, all unfinished, over to younger, stronger hands to complete. My boy, see that you keep that which is committed unto you, and don't, Oh don't, be sidetracked by the opinions of men. The victory will be yours, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Good-night Jim, I thank God for this day."



CHAPTER XII

The sun sank into the prairie and tinted the sky all red and green and gold where it shone through the rents in the ragged clouds of purple black. The glowing colors touching dull, weather-beaten steeples and factory stacks, changed them to objects of interest and beauty. The poisonous smoke from smelter and engine, that hung always over the town like a heavy veil, shot through with the brilliant rays, became a sea of color that drifted here and there, tumbled and tossed by the wind, while above, the ball of the newly painted flag-staff on the courthouse tower gleamed like a signal lamp from another world. And through it all, the light reflected from a hundred windows flashed and blazed in wondrous glory, until the city seemed a dream of unearthly splendor and fairy loveliness, in which the people moved in wonder and in awe. Only for a moment it lasted. A heavy cloud curtain was drawn hurriedly across the west as though the scene in its marvelous beauty was too sacred for the gaze of men whose souls were dwarfed by baser visions. For an instant a single star gleamed above the curtain in the soft green of the upper sky; then it too vanished, blotted out by the flying forerunners of the coming storm.

About nine o'clock, when the first wild fury of the gale had passed, a man, muffled in a heavy coat and with a soft hat pulled low over his face, made his way along the deserted streets. In front of the Goodrich hardware and implement store, he stopped and looked carefully about as though in fear of some observer. Then taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and entered. Walking quickly through the room to the office, as though familiar with the place, he knelt before the big safe, his hand upon the knob that worked the combination. A moment later the heavy door yielded to his hand. Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he selected one without hesitation, and upon applying it, the cash box opened, revealing a large sum of money. Catching up a package of bills, he placed it in his side coat pocket, and locking the cash box again, was closing the safe, when he paused as though struck with a sudden thought. The storm without seemed to be renewing its strength. The dashing of sleet and snow against the windows, the howling of the wind, the weird singing of the wires, and the sharp banging of swinging signs and shutters, carried terror to the heart of the man kneeling in the dimly lighted office. Sinking on the floor, he buried his face in his hands and moaned aloud, "My God—What am I doing? What if I should fail?"

Again there came a lull in the storm; everything grew hushed and still, almost as if the very spirit of the night waited breathlessly the result of the battle fought in the breast of the tempted man. Rising slowly to his knees, he swung back the heavy doors and once more unlocking the cash box reached out to replace the package of bills; but with the money before his eyes he paused again. Then with a sudden exclamation, "I won't fail this time; I can't lose always," he quickly closed the safe, and with the money in his pocket, sprang to his feet and hurried out of the building, where the storm met him in all its fury, as though striving to wrest from him that which he had taken from another. But with set face and clenched fists, he pushed into the gale, and a few minutes later knocked at the door of a room on the top floor of a big hotel. He was admitted and greeted cordially by two men who were drinking and smoking.

"Hello Frank," they exclaimed; "We thought you had crawfished this time sure. What makes you so late; it is nearly ten?"

"Oh, the old man had some work for me, of course. What a beastly night. Where's Whitley?" He tried to speak carelessly, but his eyes wavered and his hands trembled as he unbuttoned his heavy coat.

"You're right; this storm's a ripper. Jim will be back in a minute; he just stepped down to the corner drug-store to see a man. Here he is now;" as another low knock sounded on the door, and the fourth man entered, shaking the snow from his fur-trimmed coat.

"Pile out of your duds, boys, and have a drink. Good liquor hits the spot a night like this."

Whitley grasped the proffered glass eagerly and emptied it without a word, but Frank refused.

"You know I don't drink," he said, shortly; "take it yourself if you need it, and let's get to work." He drew a chair to the table in the center of the room.

The others laughed as they took their places, and one said, as he shuffled a deck of cards: "We forgot you were a church member." And the other added, with a sneer, "Maybe you'd like to open the services with a song and prayer."

"You drop that and mind your own business," retorted young Goodrich, angrily. "I'll show you tonight that you can't always have your own way. Did you bring my papers with you?" The others nodded and one said, "Whitley here told us you wanted a chance to win them back before we were obliged to collect. It's to be cash tonight though," added the other; "good cold cash, against the notes we hold."

"For God's sake, shut up and play," growled Frank in reply. "I guess there's cash enough," and he laid the package of bills on the table. Four eyes gleamed in triumph. Whitley looked at the young man keenly and paused with the cards in his hands. Then he dealt and the game began.

Meanwhile Adam Goodrich and his wife were entertaining the whist club, of which they were enthusiastic members, for it was the regular weekly meeting; and though the weather was so rough not a few of the devoted lovers of the game were present.

In the conversation that preceded the play, the Young People's Society, with Dick Falkner's plan of work, was mentioned. Nearly all of the guests being members of different churches, expressed themselves quite freely, with a variety of opinions, until the host, with annoyance plainly expressed on his proud face and in his hard cold voice, said: "You must not think, ladies and gentlemen, that because I and my family are members of the Jerusalem Church, that we agree with Rev. Cameron in his outlandish ideas. We have never been accustomed to associating with such low characters as he delights in forcing us to meet in the congregation; and if he don't change his line of work some, he will drive all the best people to other churches."

The guests all nodded emphatic approval and each silently resolved to send his pastor to interview the Goodrich's without delay.

Adam continued: "As for that tramp printer and his fool plan, I say that it's just such stuff that causes all the discontent among the lower classes and makes them unfit to serve their betters, and that my children shall have nothing to do with it. I have not brought them up to follow the lead of a vagabond and a nobody."

Amy's face flushed painfully and she lifted her head as though to speak, when Mrs. Goodrich silenced her with a look, and skilfully changed the subject by saying: "It's too bad Frank won't be here to-night. He enjoys these evenings so much and plays so well. But he and Mr. Whitley are spending the evening with a sick friend. The dear boy is so thoughtful of others and is always ready to give up his own pleasures. And Mr. Whitley too; he will miss the game so much, and Amy loses a strong partner." The company took the hint and talked of other things until the all-absorbing game began.

And so, while the son played with his friend Whitley, and the two professional gamblers at the hotel, played with fear in his face and a curse in his heart, to save himself from sure disgrace, his fond parents and beautiful sister at home, forgot his absence in their eager efforts to win with the cards the petty prize of the evening, a silver-mounted loving cup.

One, two, three hours passed. The storm had spent its strength; Mr. Goodrich had won the coveted prize, and the guests of the evening had returned to their homes. The last of the pile of ills before Frank was placed in the center of the table. The silence was unbroken save for the sound of the shuffling cards and the click of a whiskey glass as one of the men helped himself to a drink.

Suddenly young Goodrich leaped to his feet with a wild exclamation: "Tom Wharton, you're a liar and a cheat!" As he spoke, a heavy chair whirled above his head and fell with a crashing blow upon the man who sat at his right. Instantly all was confusion; the table was overturned; the cards, money and glasses scattered over the room. Whitley and the other man stood in blank astonishment at the sudden outburst. Frank leaped at his prostrate victim, with a chair again raised to strike, and had the second blow fallen, he would have been a murderer, for the intent to kill shone from his glittering eyes. But Whitley, just in time, caught his arm, while the other drew a knife and stepped between the crazed man and his victim.

"Stop, you fool!" said Whitley. "And you, Jack, put up that knife and look after Tom. This is a nice mess for us to be caught in." The gambler did as he was bid, but Frank struggled in his friend's grasp. "Let me go, Jim. Let me at him. I'm ruined anyway and I'll finish the man that did it before I go myself." But Whitley was the stronger and forced him backward, while the other man was busy with his fallen partner.

"Ruined nothing," said Jim in Frank's ear. "I'll stand by you. You get out of this quick and go to my room. I'll come when I've settled with them." He unlocked the door and pushed Frank into the hall, just as the man on the floor struggled to his feet.

The two gamblers turned on Whitley in a rage when they saw Frank had escaped. Standing with his back to the door, he let them curse a few minutes and then said calmly: "Now if you feel better let's take a drink and talk it over."

When he had them quiet again he continued, in a matter-of-fact tone: "Suppose you fellows raise a row about this, what will you gain?"

"We'll teach that young fool a lesson he won't forget soon," snarled the one who had fallen.

"Yes, and you'll pay big for the lesson," replied Whitley quietly.

"What do yon mean?"

"I mean that if this gets out young Goodrich is ruined and you won't get a cent on the paper you hold."

Wharton's friend nodded, "That's straight, Tom," he said.

"Well," growled the other; "What of it, the old man won't pay it anywray."

"Yes he would," returned Jim quickly, "if you didn't make it public; but I don't happen to want him to know about this little deal."

"What's it to you?"

"Never mind what it is to me. I know what I'm doing, and I don't want this to get out."

"How'll you help it?"

"This way." He took a check-book from his pocket. "Make the notes over to me and I'll add two hundred to the amount. Go after Frank and you get nothing. Go to the old man and you get what the paper calls for. Keep your mouth shut and sell me the notes and you get an extra hundred apiece. What do you say?"

"I say yes," exclaimed Jack, with an oath; "I'm no fool." And the other grumbled a surly "All right. But I'd like to get one crack at that kid's head."

"You'll have to pass that little pleasure this time." said the other with a laugh. "Write your check, Whitley and let's get out of this. I'm sleepy."

When Whitley reached his room after settling with the two gamblers, he found Frank pacing the floor, his face white and haggard.

"Sit down. Sit down, old man; and take things easy. You're all right. Look here." And he drew the notes from his pocket.

Frank sank into a chair. "What have you done?" he gasped. "How did you get those?"

Whitley laughed. "Just invested a little of my spare cash, that's all," he said.

"But I tell you I'm ruined. I can't pay a third of that in six years."

"Well, perhaps you won't have to." Frank stared. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Amy," the other replied coolly. "You poor idiot, can't you see. I can't afford to have you disgraced before the world under the circumstances. If I wasn't in it, I'd let you go to thunder and serve you right. But a fine chance I'd have to marry your sister if she knew about this business tonight. If it wasn't for her I'd let you hang your fool self too quick, before I'd spend a dollar on your worthless carcass; but I've said that I would marry that girl and I will, if it costs every cent I've got, and you'll help me too."

Frank was silent for a time, completely cowed by the contempt in the other's voice, too frightened to protest. But at last he managed to say: "There's more than those notes."

"I know that too," quickly returned Whitley, with an oath. "How much did you steal from the old man's safe tonight?"

"What—How—How do you know?" stammered the other.

"Saw you," returned Whitley, shortly; and then added, as Frank rose to his feet and began walking the floor again. "Oh, for Heaven's sake quit your tragedy and sit down. You make me tired. You're not cut out for either a gambler or a robber. You haven't the nerve."

Frank was silent, while the other went to a small cupboard and leisurely helped himself to a glass of whiskey; then lit a fresh cigar.

"What can I do?" ventured Frank at last, in a voice but little above a whisper.

Jim crossed the room, and unlocking a drawer in his desk, returned with a handful of bills. "You can put that money back in the safe before morning and keep your mouth shut." And then when Frank attempted to grasp his hand, while stammering words of gratitude, he said, "No thanks," and put his own hands behind his back in a gesture that there was no mistaking. "Be a good boy, Frankie. Listen with more care to your pastor's sermons; keep your Young People's Society pledge; read your Bible and pray every day, and take part in all the meetings, and when I marry your sister I'll make you a present of these papers. But Oh Lord," he added, with a groan, "you'll make a healthy brother-in-law, you will."

"How much did you say?"

Frank muttered the amount he had stolen.

Jim quickly counted it out and threw the bills on the table. "There you are. And now you better go quickly before you slop over again and I kick you." And turning his back he poured himself another glass of liquor while Frank, with the money in his hand, sneaked from the room like a well-whipped cur. And over his head, as he crept stealthily down the street toward his father's store, the stars shone clear and cold in their pure, calm beauty, while the last of the storm-cloud on the far horizon covered the face of the bright new moon.



CHAPTER XIII

The committee appointed by the Society called on Mr. Wicks at his office, and found him deep in a letter to an old lady, whose small business affairs he was trying to straighten out. He dropped the matter at once when they entered, and, after shaking hands, as though he had not seen them for years, said: "Now tell me all about it. To-be-sure, Charlie here has had some talk with me, but I want to get your ide's."

"Our brightest idea, I think," said the leader, with a smile, "is to get your help."

Uncle Bobbie laughed heartily. "I reckoned you'd be around," he said. "I'm generally kept posted by the young folks when there's anything to do. To-be-sure, I aint got much education, 'cept in money matters an' real estate, but I don't know—I reckon education is only the trimmings anyhow. It's the hoss sense what counts. I've seen some college fellers that was just like the pies a stingy old landlady of mine used t' make; they was all outside—To-be-sure, they looked mighty nice though. Now tell me what ye want."

When the young people had detailed to him Dick's plan, and he had questioned them on some points, the old gentleman leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully stroked his face. Then—"Now I tell ye what ye do. Mebbe I can handle the property end of this a little the best. To-be-sure, folks would talk with me when they might not listen to you; 'cause they'd be watchin' fer a chance to get me into a deal, you see; fer business is a sort of ketch-as-ketch-can anyhow you fix it. So jes' let me work that end an' ye get Charlie here and some more to help, and drum up the store-keepers to find out if they'll let ye have their barrels and boxes. An' then go fer the citizens and see how many will buy kindlin'-wood. Tell 'em about what it will cost—say ten cents a week fer one stove. To-be-sure, some will use more'n others, but give 'em an ide'. Then we'll all come together again and swap reports, an' see what we've got."

For the next few days, the young people went from store to store, and house to house, telling their plan, and asking the citizens to support it by their patronage. Some turned them away with rudeness; some listened and smiled at their childish folly; some said they couldn't afford it; and some gave them encouragement by entering heartily into the scheme. With but few exceptions, the merchants promised the greater part of their boxes and barrels, and one man even gave them the ruins of an old cow shed, which he said he would be glad to have cleared away.

Meanwhile, Uncle Bobbie interviewed the business men, members of the church, and those who were not Christians. He argued, threatened and plead, studied plans, consulted architects and contractors, figured and schemed, and, when besieged by the young people for results, only shook his head. "Jes' hold your hosses and wait till the meetin'. It don't pay to fire a gun before ye load it." And none but Charlie Bowen noticed that the old gentleman's face grew grim whenever the subject was introduced, and the young man guessed that the outlook was not so promising as Uncle Bobbie would like. Then one Wednesday night, the Society met again in the church. The weather was cold and stormy, but, as at the previous meeting, nearly every member was present. When the committee had made their report and it was known that the merchants and citizens would support the movement by their patronage and contributions, a wave of enthusiasm swept over the room while the call for Mr. Wicks was enforced by loud applause.

Uncle Bobbie, who had been sitting by Rev. Cameron's side, arose and came slowly forward. Turning, he faced the little company and his honest old eyes were wet as he said in a trembling voice: "I didn't want to come here tonight, young folks; I jes' tell ye I was ashamed to come; but I knew I ought to; and now I am ashamed that I didn't want to. I might have known better. Fer I can see right now as I look into your faces, that Brother Cameron is right, and that what I have to tell won't make no difference." An ominous hush fell upon the company. "To-be-sure, we may have to wait a bit, but God will show a way, and we'll conquer this old devil of indifference yet." He paused and drew a long breath. "Well, I found a big house that is for sale; jes' the thing we need; and it could be bought and fixed up in first-class shape fer about nine hundred dollars. I sold the property myself to Mr. Udell, fer fifteen hundred, 'bout a year ago; an' I want to tell you young folks, right now, that whether he's a Christian er not, George Udell is the whitest man in this city, and the fellow what says anythin' again him's got me to whip." The old gentleman paused and glared about him, without a thought of how his words sounded; but the young people, who knew him well, only answered with a clapping of hands, which was a tribute to Uncle Bobbie's heart and character, rather than to his unconscious recklessness of speech or love for the man whom he championed. But when he went on to say that of all the men he had interviewed, church members and all, only Udell had met him half way, and had agreed to give the lot if they would raise the money to pay for the house, they applauded with a vim, the generosity of the printer.

"Just think," said Uncle Bobbie, "that among all the church members in this city, I couldn't raise two hundred dollars fer such a cause. One of 'em said no, because he'd jes' bought a new span of carriage hosses. Huh! I told him he might ride to Hell behind fine bosses but he'd not feel any better when he got there. 'Nother said he'd jes' put five hundred dollars into the new lodge temple, and that he couldn't spend any more. I asked him if Jesus was a member of his lodge, and he said he reckoned not. I said, Well, we want to build a home for Christ, and you say you can't. Seems to me if I was you I wouldn't call Christ my redeemer in prayer meeting so much. 'Nother had just fixed his home. 'Nother had just put in a new stock of goods; and so with 'em all. They all had some excuse handy, and I don't know what to do. I'm up a stump this time fer sure. We've got the material to work up; we've got the people to buy the goods; we've got the lot; and there we're stuck, fer we can't get the house. I can't anyway. We're jes' like the feller that went fishin'; had a big basket to carry home his fish; a nice new jointed pole with a reel and fixin's, a good strong linen line, an' a nice bait box full of big fat worms, an' when he got to the river he didn't have no hook, and the fish just swum 'round under his nose an' laughed at him 'cause he couldn't touch 'em—and still I believe that God will show us the way yet, 'though mebbe not. Perhaps taint fer the best fer us to do this; to-be-sure though I thought it was, and so did Brother Cameron; and so did you. But I don't know—" And the old man took his seat.

After a long silence, one or two offered suggestions but could not help matters. Rev. Cameron was called for and tried to speak encouragingly, but it was hard work, and it seemed that the plans were coming to an inglorious end, when Clara Wilson sprang to her feet.

"I'm not a bit surprised at this," she said, while the young people, forgetting the praise they had just bestowed upon George Udell, thought that her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes were caused by her excitement. "I don't wonder that the business men won't go into such a scheme. They haven't any faith in it. It isn't so much that they've not got the money or don't want to help, but it's because they don't trust the church. They have seen so many things started, and have supported so many, and still no real good comes of it, that they're all afraid. They put money into their lodges because they see the results there. I believe there has been more wealth put into the churches than has ever been put into lodges; but all we've got to show for it is fine organs, fine windows, and fine talk, while the lodges do practical work. We can't expect folks to take hold of our plan until we show what we are going to do. We are starting at the wrong end. We haven't done anything ourselves yet. I wish I was a man, I'd show you," with a snap of her black eyes.

"Yo're a pretty good feller if you ain't a man," chuckled Uncle Bobbie. This raised a laugh and made them all feel better.

"That's all right; you can laugh if you want to," said Clara, "but I tell you we can do it if we have a mind to. Why, there is enough jewelry here tonight to raise more than half the amount. Let's not give up now that we've gone so far. Let's have a big meeting of the Society, and have speeches, and tell what has been done, and see what we can raise. Just make the people believe we are going to have this thing anyway. Mr. President, I move you that we have an open meeting of the Society one week from next Sunday, and that a special committee be appointed to work up a good program."

Cameron jumped to his feet. "With all my heart, I second that motion." And before the president could speak, a storm of Ayes was followed by prolonged applause. Clara was promptly named chairman of the committee, and in a few minutes they were trooping from the building, out into the storm, but with warm hearts and merry voices.

George Udell had not been to call on Miss Wilson since the night he found the man frozen in the streets. Indeed, he had not even spoken to her since the funeral. He had seen her though, once when she had met him on the street with several friends, and several times when he had glanced up from his work by the window as she had passed the office. All this was strange to Clara. What could be the matter? George had never acted so before. She wanted to talk to him about the incident of that stormy night when they had parted so abruptly. She wanted him to know how proud she was that he had proven so kind in the matter of the funeral. "What a warm heart he has beneath all his harsh speeches," she thought; and could not help but contrast him, much to his credit, with many professed Christians she knew. And then, Mr. Wicks had spoken, in the business meeting, of his generosity, and had talked so strongly of his goodness; no wonder her cheeks burned with pride, while her heart whispered strange things.

When the young woman had said Good-night to her companions, after the meeting, and had shut herself in her room, she asked again and again, was she right in always saying No? Was she not unnecessarily cruel to the friend who had shown, and was showing himself, so worthy of her love? Oh why was he not a Christian? And when Mrs. Wilson crept into her daughter's room that night, to get an extra comfort from the closet, to put over the little boy's crib, she was much surprised to see a big tear, that glistened in the light of the lamp, roll from beneath the dark lashes, as her eldest child lay sobbing in her sleep.

The next morning the girl was strangely silent and went about her work without the usual cheery whistle—for Clara would whistle; it was her only musical accomplishment. But toward noon, after arousing from a prolonged spell of silent staring into the fire, during which her mother tried in vain to draw her into conversation, she suddenly became her own bright self again, and went about getting dinner in her usual manner. Then when the dishes were washed, she appeared in her street dress and hat.

"Land sakes alive, child, you aint going out to-day, be you?" said Mrs. Wilson, her hands on her hips, in her usual attitude of amazement or wrath.

"Yes mother, I've got a little business down-town that I can't put off. I won't be gone long. Is there anything that I can do for you?"

"But look how it's snowing; you'll be wet through and catch your death sure. I wish to goodness you'd have more sense and try to take some care of yourself."

"Not the first time I've been wet. The walk will do me good." And soon the determined young lady was pushing her way through the snow and wind toward the business part of the city.

The boy in the printing office had gone out on an errand and George and Dick were both at the composing case, setting up a local politician's speech, which was to be issued in the form of a circular, when Clara walked in, stamping her feet and shaking the snow from her umbrella and skirt. Udell started forward.

"Great shade of the immortal Benjamin F!" he shouted. "What in the name of all that's decent are you doing here?" And he placed a chair near the stove with one hand as he captured the umbrella with the other.

"I'm going to get warm just now," Clara replied, with an odd little laugh, and Dick noticed that the wind, or cold, or something, had made her face very red. "Come here and sit down," she commanded. "I want to talk business to you. Don't stand there as though you had never seen me before."

"Well, it has been ages since I saw you," he declared, seating himself on the edge of the waste-box.

"Yes, all of twenty-four hours. I passed you yesterday and you looked me right in the face, and never even said 'Howdy.' If you were anyone else, George Udell, I'd make you wait awhile before you got another chance to do me that way."

George drummed on the edge of the box and whistled softly. Then looking anxiously toward Dick, said: "How are you getting along with that stuff, old man?"

"Almost through," answered Dick, with a never-to-be-forgotten wink. "But I believe I'll run off those dodgers on the big press, and let you finish the politics."

"All right, I reckon that'll be better," answered Udell; and soon the whir of the motor, and the stamp of the press filled the room.

"We are awfully busy now," said Udell, turning to Clara again. "I ought to be at work this minute."

"Why haven't you been to see me, George?" persisted the girl, a strange light coming into her eyes. "There are so many things I want to talk to you about."

"Thought I'd let you come and see me awhile; turn about is fair play. Besides, I don't think it would be safe in this cold weather. It's chilly enough business even in the summer time."

Clara held out manfully—or—womanly—"George Udell; you knew very well that I would come here if you staid away from my home; and it's real mean of you, when you knew how bad I wanted to see you, to make me come out in all this snow."

George looked troubled. "I'll take my death of cold, and then how'll you feel?—" George looked still more worried—"I've not felt very well lately anyway—" George looked frightened; "and I—came all the way—down here—just to see what was the matter." The printer looked happy. "And now you don't want me to stay, and I'll go home again." She moved toward her umbrella, Udell got it first. Whir—Whir—went the motor, and clank—clank—clank—sounded the press. Dick was feeding the machine and must necessarily keep his eyes on his work, while the noise prevented any stray bits of the conversation from reaching his ears. Besides this, Dick was just now full of sympathy. Clara let go her end of the umbrella, and George, with an exaggerated expression of rapture on his face, kissed the place where her hand had held it. The young lady tried to frown and look disgusted. Then for several moments neither spoke. At last Clara said, "I wanted to tell you how proud and glad I am of the things you have been doing. You are a good man, George, to take care of that poor dead boy the way you did."

"Why, you see I had a sort of fellow-feeling for him," muttered the printer. "I had just been frosted myself."

"And that Young People's Society business, it is just grand," went on Clara. "Only think, you have given more than all the church members even."

Udell grunted, "No danger of me losing on that offer. They'll never raise the rest."

"Oh yes we will. I'm chairman of the committee." And then she told him of the meeting, and how Uncle Bobbie had praised him.

Udell felt his heart thaw rapidly, and the two chatted away as though no chilly blast had ever come between them.

"And yet, Clara, with all your professed love for me, you won't allow me a single privilege of a lover, and I can have no hope of the future. It had better stop now."

"Very well, George; it can stop now if you like; but I never could have lived without talking it out with you and telling you how glad I am for your gift to the Society."

"Look here, don't you go and make any mistakes on that line. I'm giving nothing to the Society or the church. That bit of land goes to the poor, cold, hungry fellows, who are down on their luck, like Dick here was. I tell you what though, Clara, if you'll say yes, I'll add the house and enough to furnish it besides."

The girl hesitated for just a moment. Here was temptation added to temptation. Then she pulled on her rubbers and rose to go. "No, George, No, I cannot. You know you would not need to buy me if I felt it right to say yes."

"But I'm going to keep on asking you just the same," said George. "You won't get angry if I keep it up, will you?"

"I—guess—not. I feel rather badly when you don't. I don't like to say no; but I would feel awful if you didn't give me a chance to say it. Good-bye George."

"Good-bye dearest. You can't forbid me loving you anyway, and some day you'll take me for what I am."

Clara shook her head. "You know," she said.

As the door closed, Dick wheeled around from the press, holding out his ink-stained hand to George.

"What's the matter?" said the other wonderingly, but grasping the outstretched hand of his helper.

"I want to shake hands with a man, that's all," said Dick. "Why don't you join the church and win her?"

"Because if I did that I wouldn't be worthy of her," said George.

"You have strange ideas for this day and age."

"Yes, I know; but I can't help it; wish I could."

"You're a better man than half the church members."

George shook his head. "It won't do, Dickie, and you know it as well as I. That's too big a thing to go into for anything but itself. What is it mother used to say? No other Gods before me, or something like that."

And Dick said to himself as he turned back to the press, "I have indeed, shaken hands with a man."



CHAPTER XIV

The night was at hand when the young people were to hold their special meeting in the interest of the new movement. Clara Wilson had worked incessantly, and when at last the evening arrived, was calm and well satisfied. Whether the effort proved a success or not, she would be content, for she had done her best.

The incident of the man found frozen to death on the steps of the church, still so fresh in the minds of the citizens, the flying rumors about Dick's visit to the Society, and the plans of the young people, all served to arouse public curiosity to such a pitch that the place of meeting was crowded, many even standing in the rear of the room. After the opening services, which were very impressive but short, and the purpose of the Society and the proposed plan of work had been fully explained, Uncle Bobbie told, in his simple way, of the work that had been done; how the young people had called on him; how they had gone from house to house, through the cold and snow; and how he had interviewed the business men, many of whom he saw in the audience. "To-be-sure," he said, "I don't suppose you understood the matter fully or you would have been glad to help; but we'll give ye another chance in a minute." Then he told of the last business meeting; how they were encouraged when the reports came in that the citizens had responded so liberally; and how he had been forced to tell them that he had met with nothing but failure in his attempt to secure a house. "I just tell you, it made my old heart ache to see them young folks tryin' to do some practical work for Christ, come up agin a stump like that. I wish you church members could have seen 'em and heard 'em pray. I tell you it was like Heaven; that's what it was; with the angels weepin' over us poor sinners 'cause we won't do our duty."

The old gentleman finished, amid a silence that was almost painful, while many were leaning eagerly forward in their seats. The great audience was impressed by the scheme and work so practical and Christ-like. This was no theory, no doctrine of men, no dogma of a denomination.

The pastor of the Jerusalem Church stepped to the front of the rostrum and raised his hand. Without a word the people reverently bowed their heads. After a moment of silent prayer, the minister voiced the unuttered words of all, in a few short sentences: "God help us to help others," and then in clear, earnest tones began to speak. He recalled to their minds the Saviour of men, as he walked and talked in Galilee. He pictured the Christ feeding the hungry and healing the sick. He made them hear again the voice that spake as never man spake before, giving forth that wonderful sermon on the mount, and pronouncing his blessing on the poor and merciful. Again the audience stood with the Master when he wept at the grave of Lazarus, and with him sat at the last supper, when he introduced the simple memorial of his death and love. Then walking with him across the brook Kedron, they entered the shadows of the Olive trees and heard the Saviour pray while his disciples slept. "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done." And then they stood with the Jewish mob, clamoring for his blood; and later with the Roman soldiery, grouped at the foot of the cross, where hung the brother of men, and heard that wonderful testimony of his undying love. "Father forgive them, they know not what they do." Then under the spell of Cameron's speech, they looked into the empty tomb and felt their hearts throb in ecstasy, as the full meaning of that silent vault burst upon them. Looking up they saw their risen Lord seated at the right hand of the Father, glorified with the glory that was his in the beginning; and then, then, they looked where the Master pointed, to the starving, shivering, naked ones of earth, and heard with new understanding, those oft repeated words, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me." "Men and brethren," cried the pastor, stretching out his arms in the earnestness of his appeal, "what shall we do? Shall there be no place in all this city where the least of these may find help in the name of our common Master? Must our brothers perish with cold and hunger because we close the doors of the Saviour's church against them? These young people, led by a deep desire to do God's will, have gone as far as they can alone. Their plan has been carefully studied by good business men and pronounced practical in every way. They have the promised support of the merchants in supplying material. They have the promised patronage of the citizens; and a man, not a professed Christian, but with a heart that feels for suffering humanity has given the land. In the name of Jesus, to help the least of these, won't you buy the house?"

The deacons, with the baskets and paper and pencils, started through the congregation. In a moment Mr. Godfrey went back to Cameron and placed something in his hand. The pastor, after listening a moment to the whispered words of his officer, turned to the audience and said: "At our last meeting, one of the young people made the remark that there were jewels enough on the persons of those present to pay half the amount needed. Brother Godfrey has just handed me this diamond ring, worth I should say, between forty and fifty dollars. It was dropped into the basket by a member of the Young People's Society. Friends, do you need any more proof that these young folks are in earnest?"

At last the offering was taken, and the deacons reported one thousand dollars in cash, and pledges, payable at once. "And perhaps," said the leader, "I ought to say, in jewelry also." And he held up to the gaze of the audience a handful of finger rings, scarf-pins, ear-rings and ornaments, and a gold watch, in the ease of which was set a tiny diamond.

Again for a moment a deep hush fell over the vast congregation as they sat awed by this evidence of earnestness. Then the minister raised his voice in prayer that God would bless the offering and use it in his service, and the audience was dismissed.

Dick did not sleep well that night. Something Cameron had said in his talk, together with the remarkable gifts of the young people, had impressed him. He had gone to the church more from curiosity than anything, and had come away with a feeling of respect for Christians, that was new to him. As he thought of the jewelry, given without the display of name or show of hands, he said to himself, "Surely these people are in earnest." Then, too, under the spell of Cameron's talk, he saw always before him the figure of the Christ as he lived his life of sacrifice and love, and heard him command, "Follow thou me." In the meantime at the church he had seen people doing just that, following Him; doing as He did; and the whole thing impressed him as nothing had ever done before. So, when he went to the office next morning and found Udell strangely silent and apparently in a brown study, he was not at all surprised, and asked, "What's the matter, George? Didn't you sleep well last night either? Or did the thoughts of having been so generous with your property keep you awake?"

"The property hasn't anything to do with it," answered Udell. "It's what that preacher said; and not so much that either, I guess, as what those young folks did. I've been thinking about that handful of jewelry; if I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have believed it. Say, do you know that a few sermons like those gold trinkets would do more to convert the world than all the theological seminaries that ever bewildered the brains of poor preachers?"

"Right you are, George, but is it true?"

"Is what true?" asked the other.

"Why, what Cameron said about Christ being the Saviour of men, and all that."

The printer paused in his work. "What do you say?" he asked as last, without answering Dick's question.

"Well," answered Dick slowly, "I've tried hard for several years, to make an infidel of myself, because I couldn't stand the professions of the church, and their way of doing things. But that meeting last night was different, and I was forced to the conclusion, in spite of myself, that Cameron spoke the truth, and that Christ is what he claimed to be, the Saviour of mankind, in the truest, fullest sense of the word. I'm sure of this. I have always wished that it were true, and have always believed that the Christian life, as Christ taught it, would be the happiest life on earth. But there's the rub. Where can a fellow go to live the life, and why are you and I not living it as well as the people who have their names on the church books? Must I join a company of canting hypocrites in order to get to Heaven?"

"Seems to me that word is a little strong for those who put up their rings and stuff last night," said Udell; "and anyway, I know one in the crowd who was in earnest."

"You are right, George," returned Dick. "I spoke harshly. I know there are earnest ones in the church, but I don't see how they stand it. But you're dodging my question. Do you believe in Christ as the Saviour of men?"

"Folks say that I'm an infidel," answered George.

"I don't care what folks say, I want to know what you think about it."

"I don't know," said George. "Sometimes, when I listen to the preachers, I get so befuddled and mixed up that there's nothing but a big pile of chaff, with now and then a few stray grains of truth, and the parson keeps the air so full of the dust and dirt that you'd rather he wouldn't hunt for the grain of truth at all. Then I'm an infidel. And again I see something like that last night, and I believe it must be true. And then I think of Clara, and am afraid to believe because I fear it's the girl and not the truth I'm after. You see, I want to believe so bad that I'm afraid I'll make myself believe what I don't believe. There, now you can untangle that while you run off that batch of cards. It's half-past eight now and we have not done a blessed thing this morning." He turned resolutely to his task of setting up another speech for the local politician.

"George, what in the world does this mean?" asked Dick, about two hours later, holding up a proof sheet that he had just taken from the form George had placed on the stone, and reading: "When Patrick Henry said, Give me liberty or give me Clara, he voiced a sentiment of every American church member."

George flushed. "Guess you'd better set up the rest of this matter," he said gruffly. "I'll run the press awhile." He laid down his stick and put the composing case between himself and Dick as soon as possible.

"That bloomin' politician must be crazy," said the boy, as he scrubbed wearily at an inky roller, with a dirty rag. "Old Pat. Henry never said no such stuff as that, did he George?"

"You dry up," was all the answer he received.

All that week and the week following, Dick's mind fastened itself upon the proposition: Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and the Saviour of men. At intervals during working hours at the office, he argued the question with Udell, who after his strange rendering of the great statesman's famous speech, had relapsed into infidelity, and with all the strength of his mind, opposed Dick in his growing belief. The evenings were spent with Charlie Bowen, in discussing the same question. And here it was Charlie who assumed the affirmative and Dick as stoutly championed Udell's position. At last, one day when Dick had driven his employer into a corner, the latter ended the debate forever, by saying rather sharply, "Well, if I believed as you do, I'd stand before men and say so. No matter what other folks believed, did or said, if a man was so good as to give me all the things that you say Christ has given to the world, I would stand by him, dead or alive. And I don't see why you can't be as honest with Him as you are with men." And Charlie clinched the matter that evening by saying, "Dick, if I thought you really believed your own arguments, I wouldn't talk with you five minutes, for the doctrine you are teaching is the most hopeless thing on earth. But I can't help feeling that if you would be as honest with yourself as you are with others, you wouldn't take that side of the question. Suppose you preach awhile from your favorite, Shakespeare, taking for your text, 'This above all, To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day. Thou canst not then be false to any man.'"

There were no more arguments after that, but Dick went over in his mind the experience of the past; how he had seen, again and again, professed Christians proving untrue to their Christ. He looked at the church, proud, haughty, cold, standing in the very midst of sin and suffering, and saying only, "I am holier than thou." He remembered his first evening in Boyd City, and his reception after prayer-meeting, at the church on the avenue, and his whole nature revolted at the thought of becoming one of them. Then he remembered that meeting of the Young People and the unmistakable evidence of their love, and the words of Uncle Bobbie Wicks in the printing office that rainy night: "You'll find out, same as I have, that it don't matter how much the other fellow dabbles in the dirt, you've got to keep your hands clean anyway. And it aint the question whether the other fellow is mean or not, but am I living square?"

And so it was, that when he went to church Sunday evening, his heart was torn with conflicting emotions, and he slipped into a seat in the rear of the building, when the ushers were all busy, so that even Charlie did not know he was there. Cameron's sermon was from the text, "What is that to thee? Follow thou me." And as he went on with his sermon, pointing out the evils of the church, saying the very things that Dick had said to himself again and again, but always calling the mind of his hearers back to the words of Jesus, "What is that to thee? Follow thou me," Dick felt his objections vanish, one by one, and the great truth alone remain. The minister brought his talk to a close, with an earnest appeal for those who recognized the evils that existed in the church, because it was not following Christ as closely as it ought, to come and help right the wrongs, Dick arose, went forward, and in a firm voice, answered the question put by the minister, thus declaring before men his belief in Christ as the Son of God, and accepting Him as his personal Saviour.

As he stood there, the audience was forgotten. The past, with all its mistakes and suffering, its doubt and sin, came before him for an instant, then vanished, and his heart leaped for joy, because he knew that it was gone forever. And the future, made beautiful by the presence of Christ and the conviction that he was right with God, stretched away as a path leading ever upward, until it was lost in the glories of the life to come, while he heard, as in a dream, the words of his confessed Master, "Follow: thou me."



CHAPTER XV

George was busy in the stock room getting out some paper for a lot of circulars that Dick had just finished setting up, when the door opened and Amy Goodrich entered. "Good Morning, Mr. Falkner," as Dick left his work and went forward to greet her. "I must have some new calling cards. Can you get them ready for me by two o'clock this afternoon? Mamma and I had planned to make some calls and I only discovered last night that I was out of cards. You have the plate here in the office, I believe."

"Yes," said Dick, "the plate is here. I guess we can have them ready for you by that time."

"And Mr. Falkner," said the girl, "I want to tell you how glad I was when you took the stand you did Sunday night."

Dick's face flushed and he looked at her keenly. "I have thought for a long time, that you would become a Christian, and have often wondered why you waited. The church needs young men and you can do so much good."

"You are very kind." said Dick, politely. "I am sure that your interest will be a great inspiration to me, and I shall need all the help I can get. In fact, we all do, I guess."

A shadow crossed the lovely face, and a mist dimmed the brightness of the brown eyes for a moment before she replied. "Yes, we do need help; all of us; and I am sure you will aid many. Will you enter the ministry?"

"Enter the ministry," replied Dick, forgetting his studied coolness of manner. "What in the world suggested that? Do I look like a preacher?"

They both laughed heartily.

"Well no, I can't say that you do. At least I wouldn't advise you to go into the pulpit with that apron and that cap on; and the spot of ink on the end of your nose is not very dignified."

Dick hastily applied his handkerchief to the spot, while Amy, like a true woman, stood laughing at his confusion. "But seriously," she added, after a moment, "I was not joking. I do think you could do grand work if you were to enter the field. Somehow, I have always felt that you exerted a powerful influence over all with whom you came in touch. Let me make a prophecy; you will yet be a preacher of the Gospel."

"I'm sure," said Dick, "that if I truly came to believe it to be my work, I would not refuse. But that is a question which time alone can answer. Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Indeed I do," the girl replied, laughing again. "It was right here, and you met with an accident at the same time."

Dick's face grew red again. "I should say I did," he muttered. "I acted like a frightened fool."

"Oh, but you redeemed yourself beautifully though. I have one of those little books yet. I shall always keep it; and when you get to be a famous preacher, I'll exhibit my treasure, and tell how the Rev. Mr. Richard Falkner sat up late one night to design the cover for me, when he was only a poor printer."

"Yes," retorted Dick, "and I'll tell the world how I went to my first church social, and what a charming young lady I met, who told me how much I reminded her of someone she knew."

It was Amy's time to blush now, and she did so very prettily as she hurriedly said, "Let's change the subject. I ought not to be keeping you from your work. Mr. Udell will be asking me to stay away from the office."

"Oh, we're not rushed today," said Dick, hastily, "and I'll make up all lost time."

"So you consider this lost time, do you?" with a quick little bow. "Thank you, then it's surely time for me to go;" and she turned to leave the room, but Dick checked her.

"Oh, Miss Goodrich, you know I did not mean that." Something in his voice made her eyes drop as he added, "You don't know how much I enjoy talking with you; not that I have had many such pleasures though, but just a word helps me more than I can say." He stopped, because he dare not go farther, and wondered at himself that he had said even so much.

"Do you really mean, Mr. Falkner, that you care at all for my friendship?"

"More than the friendship of any one in the world," he replied, earnestly.

"Why?"

Dick was startled and turned away his head lest his eyes reveal too much. "Because," he said slowly, "your friendship is good for me and makes me want to do great things."

"And yet, if I were not a member of the church you would not think that way."

"I would think that way, no matter what you were," said Dick.

"You would still value my friendship if I should do some awful wicked thing?" she asked. "Suppose I should leave the church, or run away, or steal, or kill somebody, or do something real terrible?"

Dick smiled and shook his head. "Nothing you could ever do would make me change. But tell me," he added; "you're not thinking of giving up your church work, are you?"

"Why do you ask?" said she quickly.

"You'll pardon me won't you, if I tell you. I can't help noticing that you are not so much at the meetings of the Society as you were; and that—well—you don't seem—somehow—to take the interest you did. And you have given up your class at the South Broadway Mission."

"How do you know that?"

"I asked Brother Cameron if there was any place for me out there, and he said, yes, that your class was without a teacher now."

"So you are to have my boys at the Mission. Oh, I am so glad." And her eyes filled. "Don't let them forget me altogether, Mr. Falkner."

"But won't you come back and teach them yourself?"

"No, no; you do not understand; I must give it up. But you'll do better than I anyway, because you can get closer to them. You understand that life so well."

"Yes," he said, very soberly. "I do understand that life very well indeed."

"Oh, forgive me, I didn't mean to pain you." She laid her hand timidly on his arm. "I admire you so much for what you have overcome, and that's what makes me say that you can do a great deal, now that you are through with it. You must forget those things that are behind, you know."

"Yes," murmured Dick, "those things are behind, and I can do all things through Him; but may I also have the help of thinking of you as my friend?"

Amy blushed again. "Please notice," said Dick, quietly, "I said of thinking of you as my friend."

The girl put out her hand. "Mr. Falkner, just as long as you wish, you may think of me as your friend. But I want you to pray for me, that I may be worthy your friendship, for I too, have my battles to fight." And she smiled. "Good-bye. You were so funny when you fell off the stool that day, but I like you better as you are now." Then suddenly the room grew dark and close, and as Dick turned again to his work, he heard a voice within whispering, "Only in your thoughts can she be your friend."

Adam Goodrich was just coming out of the express office, which was in the same block as the printing establishment, when he saw his daughter leave the building and cross the street. All that day the incident persisted in forcing itself upon his mind, and that night, after the younger members of the family had retired, and he and Mrs Goodrich were alone, he laid aside his evening paper and asked, "What was Amy doing at Udell's place today?"

"She went to have some calling cards printed. Why, what made you ask?"

"Oh nothing. I saw her coming from the building, and I wondered what she was doing there, that's all." He picked up his paper again, but in a moment laid it down once more. "That fellow Falkner joined the church last Sunday night."

"So Frank told me," answered Mrs. Goodrich. "I do wish Rev. Cameron would be more careful. He gets so many such characters into the church. Why can't he keep them out at the Mission where they belong, and not force us to associate with them?"

Mr. Goodrich spoke again. "I suppose he will be active in the Young People's Society now. Does Amy still take as much interest there as she did?"

"Oh no, not nearly as much as she used to. I have tried to show her that it was not her place to mix in that kind of work, and she's beginning to understand her position, and to see that she can't afford to lower herself and us, by running after such people. I don't understand where she gets such low tastes."

"She don't get them from the Goodrich's, I'm sure," answered Adam. "You know our family was never guilty of anything that could compromise their standing in society."

"Well, she will outgrow it all in time, I am sure. I have been as careful in her training as I could, Mr. Goodrich. It is a hard task to raise girls, and make them understand their position when they're Amy's age; but she's taking up her social duties again now. We are to make some calls tomorrow, and Thursday night, she has accepted an invitation to the card party at Mrs. Lansdown's; and Mr. Whitley has called frequently of late. I have great hopes, for she seems to be quite interested in him."

"Yes," agreed Adam. "Whitley is worth while; he is of a good family, and without doubt, the richest man in Boyd City. It would be a great thing for us. It's time he was thinking about a wife too. He must be well on toward forty."

"Oh dear no; he can't be more than thirty-five; he was quite young when he went abroad, and you remember that was only five years ago."

"Well, well, it's no matter; he's young enough. But does she see much of that printer of Udell's?"

"Why, of course not; what a question. She would have nothing to do with him."

"But she has met him at the socials and in the Society. He would naturally pose as a sort of hero, for he was the one who suggested that fool plan that Cameron is working on; and now that he has joined the church, she must see more or less of him. I tell you, he's a sharp fellow. Look how he has been quietly worming himself into decent society since he got hold of that reading room. There is no knowing what such a man will do, and Amy naturally would be a good mark for him."

"I'm sure I am doing the best I can," faltered Mrs. Goodrich; "but you'd better talk to her yourself; with Mr. Whitley so interested, we must be careful. I do wish she would be more like Frank. He has never given us a moment's trouble."

"Yes," said the father, with no little pride manifest in his voice and manner. "Frank is a Goodrich through and through. Amy seems to take more after your people."

Mrs. Goodrich sighed. "I'm sorry, but I don't see how I can help it."

The next day, after dinner, Mr. Goodrich found his daughter alone in the library, where she had gone with a bit of fancy work, which girls manage to have always about them. "Frank tells me that Mr. Falkner has united with the church," he remarked, carelessly.

"Yes," said Amy, "I am so glad. The church needs such young men, I think."

"He is quite a shrewd fellow, isn't he?" continued her father."

"He's very intelligent, I'm sure. You know it was he who proposed the plan for our new institution, and Mr. Wicks and Brother Cameron think it is very fine."

"Does he use good language in his conversation?"

"Oh yes sir, indeed. He is a very interesting talker. He has traveled so much, and read almost everything. I tell him I think he ought to preach."

"Hum. And will he, do you think?"

"He said he would if he were convinced it was his work."

"Where did he live before he came here?"

"Oh, he has lived in nearly all the big cities. He was in Kansas City last."

"And what did his father do?"

"His mother died when he was a little boy, and his father drank himself to death, or something. He won't talk about his family much. He did say though, that his father was a mechanic. I believe that he tells Mr. Udell more about his past than anyone."

"And did Udell tell you all this?"

"No," answered Amy, who suddenly saw what was coming.

"How do you know so much about him then?"

"He told me."

"Indeed. You seem to be on very good terms with this hero. How long were you at the printing office yesterday? I saw you leaving the building."

Amy was silent, but her burning cheeks convinced her father that he had cause to be alarmed.

"Did you talk with him when you were there?"

"Yes sir; he waited on me."

"And do you think it is a credit to your family to be so intimate with a tramp who was kicked out of my place of business?"

"Oh father, that is not true—I mean, sir, that you do not understand—Mr. Falkner is not a tramp. He was out of work and applied to you for a place. Surely that is not dishonest. And that he wanted to work for you ought not to be used against him. He has never in any way shown himself anything but a gentleman, and is much more modest and intelligent than many of the young men in Boyd City who have fine homes. I am sure we ought not to blame him because he has to fight his own way in the world, instead of always having things brought to him. If you knew him better, you wouldn't talk so." She spoke rapidly in her excitement.

"You seem to know him very well when you champion him so strongly that you call your own father a liar," replied Adam, harshly.

"Oh papa," said Amy, now in tears. "I did not mean to say that. I only meant that you were mistaken because you did not know. I cannot help talking to Mr. Falkner when I meet him in the Young People's Society. I have not been anywhere in his company, and only just speak a few words when we do meet. You wouldn't have me refuse to recognize him in the church, would you? Surely, father, Christ wants us to be helpful, doesn't he?"

"Christ has nothing to do with this case," said Adam. "I simply will not have my daughter associating with such characters; and another thing, you must give up that Mission business. I believe that's where you get these strange ideas."

"I have already given up my work there," said Amy, sadly. "Mr. Falkner has taken my class."

"Which is just the place for him. But don't you go there again. And if you have any printing that must be done at Udell's, send it by Frank, or someone. You understand, I forbid you to have any conversation whatever with that man. I'll see if such fellows are going to work themselves into my family."

Amy's face grew crimson again. "You must learn," went on the angry parent, "that the church is a place for you to listen to a sermon, and that it's the preacher's business to look after all these other details; that's what we hire him for. Let him get people from the lower classes to do his dirty work; he shan't have my daughter. Christianity is all right, and I trust I'm as good a Christian as anyone; but a man need not make a fool of himself to get to Heaven, and I'm only looking out for my own family's interest. If you wish to please me you will drop this Young People's foolishness altogether, and go more into society. I wish you would follow Frank's example. He is a good church member but he don't let it interfere with his best interests. He has plenty of friends and chooses his associates among the first families in the city. He don't think it necessary to take up with every vagabond Cameron chooses to drag into the church. Remember, it must stop." And the careful father took his hat and left for the place on Broadway, where on the shelves and behind the counters of his hardware store he kept the God he really worshipped.



CHAPTER XVI

The year following Dick's stand for Christianity, an open air theater was established in the park on West Fourth Street, near the outskirts of the city, which was advertised by its enterprising manager as a very respectable place, well looked after by the police. It is true that the shows were but cheap variety and vulgar burlesque, and of course liquor, as well as more harmless drinks, was sold freely; and equally of course, the lowest of the criminal classes were regular attendants. But, with all that, there was something terribly fascinating in the freedom of the place. And all too often, on a Sunday evening, while the pure, fragrant air of summer was polluted by the fumes of tobacco and beer, while low plays were enacted on the stage, and the sound of drunken laugh or shout went out, young men and women mingled, half frightened, in the careless throng.

Among a certain set of Boyd City's gay young society people, to spend an evening at the park was just the thing to do; and often they might be seen grouped about the tables, sipping their refreshments, while laughing at the actors on the stage, or chatting and joking among themselves.

On an evening in August, when our chapter opens, one such party was even gayer than usual, and attracted no little attention from the frequenters of the place, as well as the employes. Waiters winked at each other and made remarks, as they hurried to and fro attending to the wants of their guests, while people with less wealth looked on in envy at the glittering show. The gentlemen were in evening dress, the ladies gowned in the latest fashion, jewels and trinkets flashed, eyes sparkled, cheeks glowed, as story and jest went round, while the ladies sipped their refreshing sodas and the men drank their wine.

One of the younger girls seemed a little frightened for a moment as she caught the eye of a waiter fastened upon her in anything but a respectful glance, and gave the fellow such a look in return that he dropped a napkin in his confusion. "I tell you, Bill," he said to his companion at the bar, where he had gone to get more drinks for the company, "that's a fast lot all right, but there's one in the bunch that can't go the pace."

But the waiter was evidently mistaken, for that same girl, after a glance around which revealed to her that she and her companions were the center of all eyes, tossed her head as though getting rid of some unpleasant thoughts, and turning to her escort, with a reckless laugh, asked him why he kept the best for himself. "I don't think it fair, girls," she declared in a loud voice. "We have as good a right to that nice wine as the boys have. I move that we make them treat us as well as they treat themselves."

"Done," cried one of the men before the others could object, even had they so desired; and in a moment another bottle, with more glasses, was set before them. The girl who had proposed the thing only drank a little. Something seemed to choke her when she lifted the glass to her lips, and she set it down again almost untasted. "Ugh," she said, "I don't like it," and a laugh went around at her expense.

"Take it. Take it. You must. You started it you know."

"I can't," she protested. "Here Jim," to her companion, who had already taken more than was good for him. "You must help me out." And she handed him the glass.

"Glad to help a lady always," he declared. "Notisch please, gen'lemen, I set y' good example. Alwaysh come to the rescue of fair ones in trouble—" He drained the glass. "Anybody else in trouble?" he said, looking around the table with a half tipsy grin. But the other girls had no scruples and drank their wine without a protest.

At last the party discovered that it was time to go home, and indeed the garden was almost deserted. One of the girls proposed that they walk, it was such a beautiful night; and accordingly they set out, two and two; the men reckless with wine; the ladies flushed and excited; all singing and laughing. Not far from the park entrance, the girl who had proposed the wine, and her companion, who was by this time more than half intoxicated, dropped a little behind the others and soon turned down a side street.

"This is not the way, Jim," she said, in a tone of laughing protest.

"Oh yesh 'tis. I know where'm goin'. Come 'long." And he caught her by the arm. "Nicesh place down here where we can stop and resht," and he staggered against her.

"But I want to go home, Jim," her tone of laughing protest changed to one of earnestness. "Father will be looking for me."

"Hang father," said the other. "Old man don't know. Come on I tell you." And he tried to put his arm about her waist.

The girl was frightened now in earnest. "Stop sir," she said.

"Why? Whash ze matter m' dear?" stammered the other. "Whash ze harm—zash all—I'll take care you all right—Ol' man never know." And again he clutched her arm.

This was too much, and giving the drunken wretch a push, which sent him tumbling into the gutter, where cursing fiercely he struggled to regain his feet, the frightened girl, without pausing to see his condition, or listening to his calls and threats, fled down the street. When her companion had at last managed to stagger to the sidewalk and could look around by clinging to the fence, she was out of sight. He called two or three times, and then swearing vilely, started in pursuit, reeling from side to side. The frightened girl ran on and on, paying no heed to her course, as she turned corner after corner her only thought being to escape from her drunken and enraged companion.

Meanwhile, Dick Falkner was making his way home after a delightful evening at the parsonage, where he had talked with Cameron on the veranda until a late hour. As he was walking leisurely along through the quiet streets, past the dark houses, enjoying the coolness of the evening and thinking of the things that he and Cameron had been discussing, his ear caught a strange sound, that seemed to come from within a half finished house on North Catalpa Street, near the railroad. He paused a moment and listened. Surely he was not mistaken. There it was again. The sound of someone sobbing. Stepping closer and peering into the shadow, he saw a figure crouching behind a pile of lumber. It was a woman.

"I beg your pardon, madam, but can I be of any help to you?"

She started to her feet with a little cry. "Don't be frightened," said Dick, in a calm voice. "I am a gentleman. Come, let me help you." And stepping into the shadow, he gently led her to the light, where she stood trembling before him. "Tell me what—My God! Amy—I beg your pardon—Miss Goodrich."

"Oh Mr. Falkner," sobbed the poor girl, almost beside herself with fear. "Don't let that man come near me. I want to go home. Oh, please take me home?"

"There, there," said Dick, controlling himself and speaking in a steady, matter-of-fact tone. "Of course I'll see you home. Take my arm, please. You need have no fear. You know I'll protect you."

Calmed by his voice and manner, the girl ceased her sobbing and walked quietly down the street by his side.

Dick's mind was in a whirl. "Was he dreaming? How came she here at such an hour. Who was she afraid of? By her dress, she had been to a social party of some kind; what did it all mean? But he spoke no word as they walked on together.

"Oh look," exclaimed Amy, a few moments later, as they turned east on Sixth Street; "there he is again. Oh Mr. Falkner, what shall I do? Let me go." And she turned to run once more.

Dick laid his hand on her arm. "Miss Goodrich, don't you know that you are safe with me? Be calm and tell me what you fear." Something in his touch brought Amy to herself again and she whispered: "Don't you see that man standing there by the light?" She pointed to a figure leaning against a telephone pole.

"Well, what of it?" said Dick. "He won't hurt you."

"Oh, but you don't understand. I ran away from him. He is drunk and threatened me."

Dick's form straightened and his face grew hard and cold. "Ran away from him. Do you mean that that fellow insulted you, Miss Goodrich?"

"I—I—was with him—and—he frightened me—" gasped Amy. "Let's go the other way."

But they were too late. Amy's former escort had seen them, and with uncertain steps approached. "Oh, here you are," he said. "Thought I'd find you, my beauty."

Dick whispered to Amy in a tone she dared not disobey. "Stand right where you are. Don't move. And you might watch that star over there. Isn't it a beautiful one?" He deftly turned her so that she faced away from the drunkard. Then with three long steps, he placed himself in the way of the half-crazed man.

"Who are you?" asked the fellow, with an oath.

"None of your business," replied Dick, curtly. "I'm that girl's friend. Go to the other side of the street."

"Ho, I know you now," cried the other. "You're that bum printer of Udell's. Get out of my way. That girl's a lady and I'm a gentleman. She don't go with tramps. I'll see her home myself."

Dick spoke again. "You may be a gentleman, but you are in no condition to see anybody home. I'll tell you just once more; cross to the other side of the street."

The fellow's only answer was another string of vile oaths, which however was never finished.

In spite of herself, Amy turned just in time to see a revolver glisten in the light of the electric lamp; then the owner of the revolver rolled senseless in the gutter.

"Miss Goodrich, I told you to watch that star. Don't you find it beautiful?" Dick's voice was calm, with just a suggestion of mild reproach.

"Oh Mr. Falkner, have you killed him?"

"Killed nothing. Come." And he led her quickly past the place where the self-styled gentleman lay. "Just a moment," he said; and turning back, he examined the fallen man. "Only stunned," he reported cheerfully. "He'll have a sore head for a few days; that's all. I'll send a cab to pick him up when we get down town."

"Mr. Falkner," said Amy, when they had walked some distance in silence. "I don't know what you think of finding me here at this hour, but I don't want you to think me worse than I am." And then she told him the whole story; how she had gone to the park with her friends to spend the evening; and how they had a few refreshments. Dick ground his teeth; he knew what those refreshments were. Then she told how her companion had frightened her and she had run until she was exhausted and had stopped to hide in the unfinished house. "Oh, what must you think of me?" she said, at the point of breaking down again.

"I think just as I always have," said Dick simply. "Please calm yourself, you're safe now." Then to occupy her mind, he told her of the work the Young People's Society was doing, and how they missed her there and at the Mission.

"But don't you find such things rather tiresome, you know?" she asked. "There's not much life in those meetings seems to me; I wonder now how I ever stood them."

"You are very busy then?" asked Dick, hiding the pain her words caused him.

"Oh yes; with our whist club, box parties, dances and dinners, I'm so tired out when Sunday comes I just want to sleep all day. But one must look after one's social duties, you know, or be a nobody; and our set is such a jolly crowd that there's always something going."

"And you have forgotten your class at the Mission altogether?" Dick asked.

"Oh no, I saw one of the little beggars on the street this summer. It was down near the Mission building, and don't you know, we were out driving, a whole party of us, and the little rascal shouted: 'Howdy, Miss Goodrich.' I thought I would faint. Just fancy. And the folks did guy me good. The gentlemen wanted to know if he was one of my flames, and the girls all begged to be introduced; and don't you know, I got out of it by telling them that it was the child of a woman who scrubs for us."

Dick said nothing. "Could it be possible?" he asked himself, "that this was the girl who had been such a worker in the church." And then he thought of the change in his own life in the same period of time; a change fully as great, though in another direction. "It don't take long to go either way if one only has help enough," he said, half aloud.

"What are you saying, Mr. Falkner?" asked Amy.

"It's not far home now," answered Dick, and they fell into silence again.

As they neared the Goodrich mansion, Amy clasped Dick's arm with both her little hands: "Mr. Falkner, promise me that you will never speak to a living soul about this evening."

Dick looked her straight in the eyes. "I am a gentleman, Miss Goodrich," was all he said.

Then as they reached the steps of the house, she held out her hand. "I thank you for your kindness—and please don't think of me too harshly. I know I am not just the girl I was a year ago, but I—do you remember our talk at the printing office?"

"Every word," said Dick.

"Well, has my prophecy come true?"

"About my preaching? No; not yet."

"Oh, I don't mean that," with a shrug of her shoulders. "I mean about the other. Do you still value my friendship?"

Dick hesitated. "The truth, please," she said. "I want to know."

"Miss Goodrich, I cannot make you understand; you know my whole life has changed the last year."

"Yes."

"But my feelings toward you can never change. I do value your friendship, for I know that your present life does not satisfy you, and that you are untrue to your best self in living it."

The girl drew herself up haughtily. "Indeed, you are fast becoming a very proficient preacher," she said, coldly.

"Wait a moment, please," interrupted Dick. "You urged me to tell the truth. I desire your friendship, because I know the beautiful life you could live, and because you—you—could help me to live it," his voice broke.

Amy held out her hand again. "Forgive me please," she said. "You are a true friend, and I shall never, never, forget you. Oh, Mr. Falkner, if you are a Christian pray for me before it is too late. Good-night." And she was gone; just as her brother Frank came up the walk.

Young Goodrich stopped short when he saw Dick, and then sprang up the steps and into the house, just in time to see his sister going up the stairway to her room.



CHAPTER XVII

The day following Amy's adventure with her drunken escort, and her rescue by Dick Falkner, Frank Goodrich had a long interview with his father, which resulted in Adam's calling his daughter into his library that evening. Without any preface whatever, he began, in an angry tone: "I understand, Miss, that you have disobeyed my express commands in regard to that tramp printer, and that you have been with him again; and that too, late at night. Now I have simply to tell you that you must choose between him and your home. I will not have a child of mine keeping such company. You must either give him up or go."

"But father, you do not know the circumstances or you would not talk so."

"No circumstances can excuse your conduct; I know you were with him and that is enough."

"Indeed I have not disobeyed you; father, you do not understand; I was in Mr. Falkner's company only by accident, and—"

"Stop. Don't add a falsehood to your conduct. I understand quite enough. Your own brother saw you bidding him an affectionate good-night at one o'clock, on my doorstep. Such things do not happen by accident. I wonder that you dare look me in the face after roaming the streets at that time of night with such a disreputable character."

"Father, I tell you you are mistaken. Won't you please let me explain?" said Amy, almost in tears.

But the angry man only replied, "No explanation can be made. Frank saw you himself and that's enough; no excuse can justify such conduct. I have only to repeat that I will not own you as my daughter if you persist in keeping such company."

Amy tried again to speak, but he interrupted her. "Silence, I don't want to hear a word from you. Go to your room."

Then the woman asserted herself and there were no tears this time, as she said respectfully, but firmly, "Father, you shall hear me. I am not guilty of that of which you accuse me. I was in other company, company of your own choosing, and to save myself from insult I was forced to appeal to Mr. Falkner, who brought me safely home. He is far more a gentleman than the men I was with, even though they are welcome at this home; and he is not. I—"