Whitley turned pale. "Do you mean that the people here think I'm a revenue agent looking for moonshiners?"

"That's about hit, Mister, an' they'll be fer takin' ye out ter night shor'."

The fellow's meaning was too clear to be mistaken, and for some time Whitley remained silent. He was thinking hard. At last he said: "Jake, I'll tell you something. The boys are mistaken. I'm not here to get anybody into trouble, but because I'm in a hole myself."

"As how?" asked Jake, moving nearer and speaking in a lower tone.

"I won't tell you how unless you'll help me; and if you will, I'll pay you more money than you can make in this business in a thousand years."

The moonshiner's eyes gleamed. "Bill Davis is sure after us an' that thar' means trouble every time," he said slowly. "Ye heard him say as how he'd see me agin, an' I never knowed him ter miss befo'." He looked at the bullet mark on the tree again. "Tell ye what, Mister Whitley, I'll chance her; but we ain't got no time ter talk now. We gotter git away from here, fer some er the boys 'll be along purty quick. We'll just mosey 'round fer a spell an' then go back ter th' corners. I'll send th' boys off on er hot chase en' fix Sim so's ye kin git erway t'-night, an' ye come ter my shack; hit's on th' river below that hill with the lone tree on top, jes' seven mile from th' corners. Ye can't miss hit. I'll be thar an' have things fixed so's we kin light out befo' th' boys git back."

They reached Simpson's in time for dinner and Jake held a long whispered conversation with that worthy, while Jim sat on the porch after the meal.

As Jake passed him on his way to the mule that stood hitched in front of the blacksmith shop as usual, he said, in the hearing of those near: "Hit's all right fer to-morrow, is hit, Mister Whitley? An' we'll go over tother side Sandy Ridge?"

The words "all right" were accompanied by a wink that Whitley understood.

"Yes," he answered carelessly, "I'll be ready. I want to rest this afternoon and get a good sleep tonight. I'll be with you in the morning."

Jake rode off, and all the rest of the day Whitley felt that he was the mark for many scowling glances, while many whispered words were passed between the gaunt natives as they slouched in and out of the post office. Later, when the loafers had seemingly disappeared, Simpson came, and leaning carelessly against the door post within a few feet of Whitley, said, in a low voice: "They's a watchin' ye from th' shop yonder; be keerful an' don't let on. Yer hoss is tied in th' bresh down th' road a piece. Ride easy fer th' first mile."

Jim rose slowly to his feet, and stretching his arms above his head, yawned noisily. "Guess I'll turn in," he said. And then as he passed Simpson, he put a roll of bills into his hand. The landlord stepped out on the porch and took the chair Whitley had just left, while that gentleman slipped quietly out by the back door and crept away to his horse.

An hour later, Whitley knocked at the door of the cabin on the river bank and was admitted by Jake.

"Did ye make hit all right?" the mountaineer asked, as Jim entered.

The other nodded. "Simpson is sitting on the front porch and I'm supposed to be in bed."

Jake chuckled. "Cap an' th' boys air way up th' holler after Bill Davis, an' I'm in the bresh er watchin' you. Now let's git down ter biz right sharp."

Whitley soon told enough of his story, omitting names and places, to let his companion understand the situation.

When he had finished, Jake took a long pull from a bottle, and then said slowly: "An' ye want me ter put that feller what holds th' papers out o' yer' way?"

Whitley nodded. "It'll pay you a lot better than shooting government agents, and not half the risk."

"What'll ye give me?"

"You can name your own price?"

The outlaw's face glittered and he answered in a hoarse whisper, "I'll do hit. What's his name, an' whar'll I find him?"

"Richard Falkner. He lives in Boyd City—"

Slowly the man who had just agreed to commit a murder for money rose to his feet and stepped backward until half the width of the room was between them.

The other, alarmed at the expression in his companion's face, rose also, and for several minutes the silence was only broken by the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace, the shrill chirp of a cricket and the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will from without. Then with a look of superstitious awe and terror upon his thin face, the moonshiner gasped, in a choking voice, "Boyd City—Richard Falkner—Mister, aint yo' mistaken? Say, ar' ye right shor'?"

Whitley replied, with an oath, "What's the matter with you? You look as though you had seen a ghost."

The ignorant villain started and glanced over his shoulder to the dark corner of the cabin; "Thar' might be a ha'nt here, shor' 'nough," he whispered hoarsely. "Do yo' know whar' ye air, Mister?"

Then as Whitley remained silent, he continued: "This here's th' house whar' Dickie Falkner war' borned; an' whar' his mammy died; an'—an' I'm Jake Tompkins; me 'n his daddy war' pards."

Whitley was dazed. He looked around the room as though in a dream; then slowly he realized his situation and a desperate resolve crept into his heart. Carefully his hand moved beneath his coat until he felt the handle of a long knife, while he edged closer to his companion.

The other seemed not to notice, and continued, as though talking to himself: "Little Dickie Falkner. Him what fed me when I war' starvin', an' gimme his last nickel when he war' hungry hisself; an' yo' want me ter kill him."—He drew a long shuddering breath. "Mister, yo' shor' made 'er bad mistake this time."

"I'll fix it though," cried Whitley; and with an awful oath he leaped forward, the knife uplifted.

But the keen eye of the man used to danger, had seen his stealthy preparation, and his wrist was caught in a grasp of iron.

The city-bred villain was no match for his mountain-trained companion and the struggle was short.

Keeping his hold upon Whitley's wrist, Jake threw his long right arm around his antagonist and drew him close, in a crushing embrace. Then, while he looked straight into his victim's fear-lighted eyes, he slowly forced the uplifted hand down and back.

Whitley struggled desperately, but his left arm was pinned to his side and he was held as in a circle of steel. In vain he writhed and twisted; he was helpless in the powerful grasp of the mountaineer. Slowly the hand that held the knife was forced behind him. He screamed in pain. The glittering eyes that looked into his never wavered. Jake's right hand behind his back, touched the knife, and Whitley saw that evil, mirthless grin come on the cruel face, so close to his own. The grip on his wrist tightened. Slowly his arm was twisted until his fingers loosened the hold of the weapon, and the handle of the knife was transferred to the grasp of the man who held him. Then there were two quick, strong thrusts, a shuddering, choking cry, and the arms were loosed as the stricken man fell in a heap on the cabin floor, on the very spot where years before, the dying mother had prayed: "Oh Lord, take ker' o' Dick."

"You—have—killed—me—"

"I reckon that's about hit, Mister."

"Tell—Falkner—I—lied—Amy—is—pure—and tell—"

But the sentence was never finished.



CHAPTER XXIII

After several weeks of careful investigation and study of the conditions and needs of Boyd City, along the lines suggested by Rev. Cameron in his address before the Young People's Union, a plan to meet these conditions was at last fixed upon, the main points of which were as follows: That a society or company be organized and incorporated to furnish places of recreation and education for young men and women; the place to be fitted with gymnasium, library, reading rooms, social parlors, a large auditorium and smaller class-rooms for work along special lines. There should also be a department where men out of employment might earn something to eat and a place to sleep, by working in wood-yards, coal mines, factories, or farms connected with the institution; and a similar place for women. It also provided for a medical dispensary and hospital for the care of the sick. The whole institution was to be under the charge of some Christian man who should deliver an address on the teachings of Christ every Sunday afternoon in the large auditorium.

Besides this, Bible classes could be organized by different workers as they chose, with this restriction, that no teaching of any particular sect or denomination should be allowed, and only the life and laws of Jesus Christ should be studied. Classes in other studies, such as pertain to the welfare or the government of the people, could be organized for those who wished, all educational work being under the supervision of directors elected by the society.

Every department of the institution was to be free to the public at all hours. To make this possible, the funds of the Society would be raised from the sale of shares, for which the holder was to pay annually twenty-five dollars. Members of the Association were entitled to one vote in the society for every four shares. It was expected that the department for the needy would be self-supporting.

The purpose and plans of the society were to be fully set forth in a little pamphlet, and placed in the hands of every citizen. The people were to be urged to co-operate with the institution by refusing absolutely to give any man, able to work, either food, clothing or lodging, on the ground that he could obtain the needed help by paying for it in labor at the institution; and that they further assist the work by contributing clothing, by employing laborers, and using the products of the institution as far as possible.

The office of the Superintendent was to be in direct communication with the police station, and anyone applying for help and refusing to work, when it was offered, would be turned over to the authorities to be dealt with for vagrancy. The hope was expressed that the city would co-operate with the institution by contributing liberally for the building fund, and by using the workers in their street-cleaning department.

When the time came to hear the committee's report, the opera house was crowded as it seldom was for any political speech or theatrical display. The young people from the various societies occupied the front seats on the floor of the house; and back of them, in the dress circles and galleries, were the general public, while on the rostrum were the leading business men, bankers, merchants, and the city officials, together with the committee.

"Look there, Bill," said a saloon keeper, who had come to watch his interest, "look at that. Blast me if there aint Banker Lindsley; and see them reporters. And there's the editor of the Whistler. Say, this aint no bloody church meeting; there aint a preacher on the stage. Them fellers mean business. We've got to watch out if they keep on this tack. And would you look at the people?"

"Come on out of here," growled his companion, a gambler; "we don't want any truck with this outfit."

"I'm going to stay and see what they propose doing," said the other. "Get a grip on yourself and wait."

Just then the assembly was called to order, and the two men dropped into seats near the rear entrance.

The president stated the object of the meeting and reviewed the action of the previous one at the Zion Church, where Cameron had spoken, strongly emphasizing the fact that this was not a meeting of the young people's societies only, but that every one present was to have a share in it, and all should feel free to express themselves either by voice or ballot. "Mr. Richard Falkner, the chairman of the committee, will make the report, and at their request, will speak for a few moments on the subject."

As Dick arose from his place in the rear of the stage and stepped forward, the saloon keeper turned to his companion, and in a loud whisper said, "Say, aint he that bum printer of Udell's?"

The other nodded and then replied, as his companion began to speak again, "Shut up, let's hear what he is going to say."

As Dick came slowly forward to the front of the rostrum, and stood for a moment as though collecting himself, the audience, to a man almost, echoed the thought that the saloon keeper had so roughly expressed. "Could it be possible that this was the poor tramp who had once gone from door to door seeking a chance to earn a crust of bread?" And then as they looked at the calm, clear-cut, determined features, and the tall, well-built figure, neatly clothed in a business suit of brown, they burst into involuntary applause. A smile crept over Dick's face as he bowed his handsome head in grateful acknowledgment. And then he held up his hand for silence.

Instantly a hush fell over the audience, and in a moment they were listening, with intense interest, to the voice of the once tramp printer.

"Our president has already detailed to you an account of the meeting preceding this. You understand that I am but the mouthpiece of the council appointed at that time, and that I do but speak their will, their thoughts, their aims, as they have voiced them in our meetings."

He then told of the methods adopted by the committee, of the help they had received, and how they had at last decided upon the report which he was about to submit; then carefully detailed the plan, enlarging upon the outlines as he proceeded. Drawing upon the mass of information gathered in the few weeks, he painted the city in its true colors, as shown in the light of their investigation; and then held out the wonderful promises of the plan for the future.

As he talked, Dick forgot himself, and forgot his audience. He saw only the figure of the Christ, and heard Him say, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, my Brethren, ye did it unto me." While his hearers sat lost to the surroundings under the magic spell of his eloquence; an eloquence that even his most intimate friends never dreamed that he possessed.

Charlie Bowen was enraptured. Clara Wilson wept and laughed and wept again. Uncle Bobbie could only say, "I jing," and "To-be-sure," while George Udell sat in wonder. Could this splendid man who, with his flashing eye and glowing face, with burning words and graceful gestures, was holding that immense audience subject to his will, could this be the wretched creature who once fell at his feet fainting with hunger? "Truly," he thought, "the possibilities of life are infinite. The power of the human soul cannot be measured, and no man guesses the real strength of his closest friend."

As Dick finished and turned to resume his seat by the side of Mr. Wicks, a perfect furor of applause came from the people. In vain the chairman rapped for order; they would not stop; while on the rostrum men were crowding about the young orator, standing on chairs and reaching over each other's shoulders to grasp his hand. At last, the president turned to Dick. "Mr. Falkner, can you stop them?"

Dick, with face now as pale as death, and lips trembling with emotion, came back to the front of the stage. "I thank you again and again, for your kindness and the honor you show me, but may I further trespass upon that kindness by reminding you that this matter will never be met by clapping hands or applauding voices. Too long in the past have we applauded when our hearts were touched, and allowed the sentiment to die away with the echo of our enthusiasm. Shall it be so this time? Men and women, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ who died on Calvary, what will you do for the least of these, His Brethren?"

As he again took his seat, the gambler, who with his friend had been sitting drinking in every word of Dick's speech, sprang to his feet and cried, in a loud, clear voice, "Mr. President."

Upon being recognized by the chair, who knew him and called him by name, every head turned, for all knew of Chris Chambers, the most notorious gambler in the city.

Said Chambers, "I came here to-night out of curiosity, to see if this movement in any way threatened my business as a professional gambler. I have, as most of you know, for the last five years, been conducting my place in your city, in open violation of your laws. To-night, for the first time, I see myself in the true light, and as a testimony of my good faith, and as evidence of the truth of my statement, when I say that I will never again take money from my fellow men but in honest business, I wish to make the motion that the report of this committee be accepted, that the plan be approved, and that the committee be discharged with the hearty thanks of the citizens of Boyd City."

The motion was seconded and carried. Then came the critical moment. For a full minute there was a pause. "What is the will of the meeting?" said the chairman, calmly, but with a silent prayer. There was a buzz of conversation all over the house. Every man was asking his neighbor, "What next?"

For a short time it looked as if things were at a standstill, but upon the stage men were putting their heads together, and soon Banker Lindsley shouted: "Mr. Chairman."

Instantly the people became quiet and all turned toward Boyd City's leading financier.

"I am requested to ask all those who wish to become charter members of an association as suggested in the report of the council, to meet here on the stage at once, and I move that we adjourn."

The president, after calling attention of the audience to the importance of answering Mr. Lindsley's request, immediately put the question, and the assembly was dismissed.

Among the first to push his way to the front was the stalwart form of the gambler, Chambers, and the stage was soon crowded with business men and not a few women. Mr. Lindsley looked around. "Where's Falkner?" he said. No one knew. And when Dick could not be found, Mr. Lindsley called the company to order.

The editor of the Whistler was chosen to preside, with Mr. Conklin the express agent, for secretary. Then a committee on constitution and by-laws was appointed, and the company adjourned to meet in the Commercial Club rooms the next Wednesday night.

But where was Dick? Unnoticed by the audience while their attention was diverted toward Mr. Lindsley, he had slipped from the rear of the stage and had made his way by the back stairs to the street. A half hour later, some of the people, on their way home from the meeting, noticed a tall figure, dressed in a business suit of brown, standing in the shadow of the catalpa trees on the avenue, looking upward at a church spire, built in the form of a giant hand, and at the darkened stained-glass window, in which was wrought the figure of the Christ holding a lamb in his arms. Later, they might have seen the same figure walking slowly past a beautiful residence a few blocks farther up the street, and when opposite a corner window, pausing a moment to stand with bared head, while the lips moved softly as though whispering a benediction upon one whose memory filled the place with pleasure and with pain.

About one o'clock on the following Wednesday, Uncle Bobbie Wicks dropped into the printing office. Udell had not returned from dinner. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wicks," said Dick, looking up from his work, "take a seat. You want to see a proof of those letter-heads, I suppose. Jack, take a proof of that stuff of Mr. Wicks'."

Uncle Bobbie sank, puffing, into a chair. "I jing. Wish't I didn't get so fat. Quit smokin' about a month ago. Wife, she wanted me to. To-be-sure, I don't care nothin' fer it nohow. Mighty mean habit too. Where's your pipe?"

Dick smiled. "Oh, I haven't any now."

"Uh! took to smokin' segars, I reckon."

"No," said Dick, "I don't smoke at all."

"Oh." Uncle Bobbie looked long and thoughtfully at his young friend. "To-be-sure, I don't, much.—But I told wife this mornin' I'd have to begin agin if I don't quit gettin' so plaguey fat. D' ye reckon it'd make me sick?"

Dick laughed. "You look rather fleshy," he said, encouragingly.

"Well, you're a good deal fatter yourself, than you were when I first seen you," said Uncle Bobbie, looking him over with a critical eye.

"Yes," admitted Dick, "I guess I am; these are my fat years you know. I'm getting to look at those lean ones as a very bad dream."

Dick's young helper handed them a proof-sheet, and after looking over the work for a few moments, Mr. Wicks said: "That new Association meets t'-night, don't it?" Dick nodded; and the old gentleman continued carelessly, as he arose to go, "Stop fer me when you go by, will you? An' we'll go down t'gether."

"But I'm not going," said Dick, quickly. Uncle Bobbie dropped back in his seat with a jar and grasped the arms of his chair, as though about to be thrown bodily to the ceiling. "Not goin'," he gasped; "Why, what's the matter with you?" And he glared wildly at the young man.

"Nothing particularly new is the matter," said Dick, smiling at the old gentleman's astonishment. "My reason is that I cannot become a member of the Association when it is organized, and so have no right to attend the meeting to-night. I may go in after a time, but I cannot now."

"Why not?" said Mr. Wicks, still glaring.

"Because I haven't the money."

Uncle Bobbie settled back in his chair with a sigh of relief. "Oh, is that all? To-be-sure, I thought mebbe you'd got your back up 'bout somthin'."

"Yes, that's all," said Dick quietly, and did not explain how he had spent everything in his search for the wealthy hardware merchant's daughter. But perhaps Uncle Bobbie needed no explanation.

"Well, let me tell you, you're goin' anyhow; and you're goin' t' have votin' power too. Be a pretty kettle o' fish if after that speech of your'n, you weren't in the company. Be like tryin' to make a cheese 'thout any milk."

"But I haven't the money and that's all there is about it. I will go in as soon as I can."

"Well, ye can borrow it, can't you?"

"Borrow. What security can I give?"

"Aint ye'r Christianity security enough?"

Dick laughed at him. "Is that the way men do business in Boyd City?"

"Well, ye kin laugh if you want to, but that's 'bout th' best security a feller can have in th' long run. Anyhow, it's good 'nough fer me. I'll lend you a hundred fer a year. To-be-sure," he added hastily, as he saw Dick's face, "You'll have to pay me th' same interest I can git from the other fellers. I've got th' money to loan, and its all th' same to me whether I loan it to you or some other man."

"Suppose I die, then what?" asked Dick.

"Well, if Christ goes on yer note I reckon it'll be good sometime," muttered Uncle Bobbie, half to himself, as he took a check-book from his pocket and filled it out. "I'll fix up th' papers this afternoon. Don't forget t' stop fer me."

When Dick and Uncle Bobbie reached the rooms of the Commercial Club that evening, they found them filled with a large company of interested citizens, and when the opportunity was given, over two hundred enrolled as members of the Association.

Mr. Lindsley, the banker, was elected president, with Mr. Wallace, a merchant, for vice president. Then, with great enthusiasm, the unanimous ballot of the Association was cast for Mr. Richard Falkner as secretary, while to Dick's great delight, Uncle Bobbie was given the place of treasurer.

The papers of the city gave a full and enthusiastic account of the new movement, and when the citizens saw that the Association was really a fact, with men at its head who were so well qualified to fill their respective positions, they had confidence in the plan, and began straightway to express that confidence by becoming members.

A prospectus setting forth the object of the Association, together with its plans and constitution, was gotten out by the secretary, and sent to the citizens. The papers continued to speak well of the plan, and finally, through the influence of the strong business men interested, the Commercial Club endorsed the movement, and through the influence of that body, the city appropriated five thousand dollars to the building fund, and one thousand a year, for five years.

With such backing as it now had, the Association began preparation for active work. A fine building site was purchased and Dick was sent to study different plans and institutions that were in operation for similar work in several of the large cities.

"Well, good-bye old man," said Udell, when Dick ran into the office on his way to the depot. "I can see right now that I'll lose a mighty good printer one of these days."

Dick shook his head as he grasped his employer's hand, and with hope shining in his eyes, replied: "You know why I am glad for this chance to go east again, George."

And his friend answered, "Right as usual, Dickie; God bless you. If Clara was somewhere way out there in the big world without a friend, I-I reckon I'd go too."



CHAPTER XXIV

Amy was kindly received by Madam when she reached her house after that terrible night on the streets of Cleveland, and under the woman's skillful treatment, rapidly regained her strength and beauty. Never doubting that Whitley had made it impossible for her ever to return to Boyd City, she felt that she was dead to the kindly world she had once known, and looked upon the life she was entering as her only refuge from the cruel world she had learned to know. Several of the girls proved very pleasant and sympathetic companions. Little by little she grew accustomed to her surroundings and learned to look upon the life they led from their point of view; and when the time came for her to join the company in the parlor she accepted her lot with calm resignation.

When she had carefully dressed in a silken evening gown provided by Madam, she made her way alone down to the wine rooms. The scene that met her eye was beautiful and fascinating. The apartment was large and brilliantly lighted; the furniture, appointments and pictures were of the finest, with rare bits of statuary half-hidden in banks of choicest flowers. Upon the floor were carpets and rugs, in which the foot sank as in beds of moss; and luxurious chairs and couches invited the visitor to ease and indolence. From behind silken curtains came soft strains of music, and deft waiters glided here and there, bearing trays of expensive wines and liquors.

Seated at the card tables, drinking, laughing and playing, were the wealthy patrons of the place, and mingling with them, the girls, all of exceptional grace and beauty, dressed in glittering evening costume; but not one eclipsed the radiant creature who stood with flushed cheeks and shining eyes hesitating on the threshold.

Madam, moving here and there among her guests, saw Amy as she stood in the doorway, and went to her at once. Leading the girl to a little alcove at one end of the room, she presented her to a middle-aged man who was seated by himself and seemed to be waiting for someone. Amy did not know that he was waiting for her. As the three stood there chatting, a servant came quietly to Madam's side and whispered in her jeweled ear.

"Certainly," she answered, "Tell them to come in." Then turning, she stepped to a table and rapping with her fan to attract attention, cried, "The Salvation Army people want to hold a prayer meeting here, what do you say?"

There was a babble of voices, shrieks of feminine laughter, and an oath or two from the men. Some shouted, "Let them come." Others protested until Madam stopped the clamor by saying sharply: "Of course they shall come in. You know it is my custom never to refuse these people. I respect and admire them. They believe in their own teaching and live what they preach; and I want it understood that they shall not be insulted in this house. Jake—" A huge ex-prize fighter stepped into the room from a side door. "You all know Jake, gentlemen," continued Madam, with a smile; "and if you are not acquainted with him you can easily obtain an introduction by making some slighting remark, or offering an insult to these Salvation Soldiers. Here they come; remember."

As the little band of men and women filed slowly in, everybody rose at a sign from Madam, and gathered about the soldiers, who took their position in the center of the room; all except the girl in the alcove, who turned her back to the group and stood partly screened by the lace drapery of the archway.

The visitors opened their service with a song, rendered with much good taste and feeling. Not loud and martial as on the street, but soft, low and pleading. Many eyes glistened and many lips trembled when the song came to a close; and as the singers dropped to their knees, not a few heads involuntarily bowed.

One after another, the little band prayed, pleading with God to be kind and merciful to the erring; asking the Father, in the name of Jesus, to pity and forgive. Truly it was a picture of great contrasts—of brightest lights and deepest shadows—almost as when the Son of God prayed for his enemies, and wept because they were his enemies.

Three out of the six had offered their prayers and the fourth began to speak: "Our Father and our God,"—At the first word, uttered in a clear, manly, but subdued tone, the girl behind the curtain started violently; and as the prayer continued slowly, in that voice so full of manly truth and vigor, she raised her head and the rich blood colored neck and cheek. Little by little the hard look in her eyes gave way to mingled wonder, doubt and awe; then the blood fled back to the trembling heart again, leaving her face as white as the marble figure near which she stood; and then, as though compelled by a power superior to her own will, she turned slowly, and stepped from her hiding place into full view. As if stricken dumb, she stood until the prayer was finished. The captain gave the signal and the little company rose to their feet.

"O God!" The young soldier who had prayed last, sprang forward; but he was not quick enough, for before he could cross the room, with a moan of unutterable anguish, the girl sank to the floor.

"God help us, she's dead," cried Dick. And dropping on one knee, he supported the senseless girl in his arms.

All was confusion in an instant. Men and women crowded about their companion, and the Salvationists looked at one another in pity, surprise and wonder. Then Madam spoke: "Girls be quiet. Gentlemen make way. Amy is not dead. Bring her in here." The stalwart prize-fighter touched Dick on the shoulder and the latter, with the lovely form still in his arms, followed as in a dream, to Madam's own private apartments. A doctor came, in answer to a hurried call, and after no little effort the color slowly returned to the cheeks and the long, dark lashes began to tremble.

The physician turned to Dick. "Leave us now; she must not see you at first."

Dick looked at Madam. "May I have a few words privately with you?"

The woman nodded; and with the Army captain, they retired to another room, leaving Amy in charge of the doctor and one of the Salvation lassies.

Then Dick told Madam and the captain the whole story of Amy's life and home, how she had gone away because of her father's mistake, how Whitley had deceived her, and how they had searched for her in vain. Then as he told of the mother's broken health, and the sorrowing friends, though he made no mention of himself, they could not but read as he spoke of others, something of his own trouble.

Tears gathered in Madam's eyes, and when the tale was finished, she said: "Somehow I have always felt that Amy would never remain with us." And then she told of the poor girl's bitter experience alone in the great city, and how as a last resort, she had accepted her present situation. "She is more refined and gentle than the others," continued Madam, "and in my heart, I have always hoped that she would leave here. But what could she do? She had no friends; and we can't afford to have any feelings in this wretched business. Oh sir, this life is a very Hell on earth, and bad as I am, I would never lay a straw in any girl's way who wanted to get out of it. I am glad, glad, that you came in time. You know, captain, that I have never opposed your work; and have seen you take several girls from my place without protest. But I can't be expected to look after them myself."

They discussed the situation for some time, and finally Madam said again, "Mr.—; I don't know your name, and I don't want to; you wear that uniform and that's enough for me—just let Amy remain here for a day or two. One of the Salvation girls will stay with her, and can do more for her than you. She shall have my own room and no one shall see her. Then when she is strong enough, you may come and take her if she will go; and I am sure she will. She will be as safe here as in her father's home."

The captain nodded. "Madam has passed her word, sir," he said. "You come with me and arrange for the future while your friend is getting strong again. Our Sarah will remain with her and keep us posted."

Dick yielded; and after hearing from the doctor that Amy was resting easier, they bade Madam goodnight and passed out into the room where again the music played, jewels sparkled, wine flowed, and the careless laugh and jest were heard.

With a shudder of horror Dick muttered, "My God, Amy in such a place." And yet—another thought flashed through his mind, that brought a flush of shame to his cheek. "But Amy—" And again the strong man trembled, weeping like a child.

Never, though he lived to be an old man, could Dick look back upon that night and the days following, without turning pale. How he lived through it he never knew. Perhaps it was because he had suffered so much in his checkered career that he was enabled to bear that which otherwise would have been impossible. And the consciousness of the great change in his own life led him to hope for Amy, when others would have given up in despair.

On his tour of study and investigation for the Association, he had presented his letters to the Salvation Army people, and had been warmly welcomed by them, as is everyone who manifests a desire to help humanity. Every kindness and courtesy was shown him, and at the invitation of the captain, he had gone with them on one of their regular rescue trips. He had donned the uniform of the Army, for greater convenience and safety; for the blue and red of these soldiers of the cross is received and honored in places where no ordinary church member, whatever be his professed purpose, would be admitted.

While Dick and his friends planned for Amy's future, Sarah, the Salvation girl, remained by her bedside caring for her as a sister. Not one hint of reproach or censure fell from her lips; only words of loving kindness, of hope and courage. At first the poor girl refused to listen, but sobbing wildly, cried that her life was ruined, that she could only go on as she had started, and begged that they leave her alone in her disgrace and sin.

But Sarah herself could say, "I know sister, I have been through it all; and if Jesus could save me he can save you too." So at last love and hope conquered; and as soon as she was strong enough, she left the place and went with Sarah to the latter's humble home. There Dick called to see her.

"Mr. Falkner," she said, sadly, after the pain and embarrassment of the first meeting had passed off a little. "I do not understand; what makes you do these things?"

And Dick answered, "Did I not tell you once that nothing could make me change; that nothing you could do would make me less your friend? You might, for the time being, make it impossible for me to help you, but the desire, the wish, was there just the same, and sought only an opportunity to express itself. And besides this," he added gently, "you know I'm a Christian now."

Amy hung her head. "Yes," she said slowly, "you are a Christian. These Salvation soldiers are Christians too; and I—I—am—oh, Mr. Falkner, help me now. Be indeed my friend. Tell me what to do. I cannot go back home like this. I do believe in Christ and that He sent you to me. I'm so tired of this world, for I know the awfulness of it now; and these good people have taught me that one can live close to Christ, even in the most unfavorable circumstances."

Dick told her of their plan; how his friend, the captain, had arranged for her to live with his brother on a farm in northern Missouri, and that they only wanted her consent to start at once. Would she go?

"But how can I? I have no money, and I have never been taught to work."

"Miss Goodrich," answered Dick, "can you not trust me?"

Amy was silent.

"You must let me help you in this. Thank God, I can do it now. Prove to me that you are still my friend, by letting me make this investment for Christ. Will you?"

The next day they bade good-bye to the sturdy soldiers of the cross who had been so true to them, and started on their westward journey.

Dick saw Amy safe in her new home, and then with a promise that she would write to him regularly, and an agreement that he would send her letters and papers addressed to the people with whom she lived, he left her; satisfied that she was in kind hands, and that a new life was open before her.

But when Dick was once more aboard the train, alone with his thoughts, without the anxiety for Amy's immediate welfare upon his mind, the struggle of his life began. He loved Amy dearly; had loved her almost from the moment she came into George Udell's printing office three years ago; loved her in spite of the difference in their position, when he was only a tramp and she was the favored daughter of wealth; when he was an unbeliever and she was a worker in the church; loved her when he saw her losing her hold on the higher life and drifting with the current; loved her when she left home, and as he thought, honor behind. And he was forced to confess, in his own heart, that he loved her yet, in spite of the fact that their positions were reversed; that he was an honored gentleman, respected and trusted by all, while she, in the eyes of the world, was a fallen woman with no friend but himself.

But what of the future? Dick's dreams had always been that he would win such a position in the world as would enable him, with confidence, to ask her to share his life. But always there had been the feeling that he never could be worthy. And with the dark picture of his own past before him, he knew he had no right to think of her as his wife. But now there was no question as to his position. But what of hers? Could he think of taking for a wife, one whom he had seen in that house at Cleveland? On the one hand, his love plead for her; on the other, the horror of her life argued against it. Again his sense of justice plead, and his own life came before him like a horrid vision as it had done that morning when he learned of his father's death. He saw his childhood home, smelt the odor of the fragrant pines upon the hills, and heard the murmur of the river running past the cabin. Again he heard his drunken father cursing in his sleep, and caught the whisper of his mother's dying prayer; and again he crept stealthily out of the cabin into the glory of the morning, with a lean hound his only companion.

Slowly and painfully he traced his way along the road of memory, recalling every place where he had advanced; every place where he had fallen; going step by step from the innocence of boyhood to the awful knowledge of the man of the world. He had fought, had fallen, had conquered and risen again; always advancing toward the light, but always bearing on his garment the smell of the fire, and upon his hands the stain of the pitch. And now, because he was safe at last and could look back upon those things, should he condemn another? Would not Amy also conquer, and when she had conquered, by what right could he demand in her that which he had not in himself? Christ would as freely welcome her as He had welcomed him. Christianity held out as many glorious hopes for her as for him. Her past might be past as well as his. Why should he not shut the door upon it forever, and live only in the present and future? And then his mind fell to picturing what that future, with Amy by his side, might be. They were equals now, before God and their own consciences. What should he care for the world?

And so the fight went on in the battle-ground of his inner life, until the whistle blew a long blast for the station, and looking from the window of the car, he saw the smelter smoke and dust of Boyd City.



CHAPTER XXV

John Barton and his wife, Anna, with whom Amy was to make her home for a while, could fully sympathize with the girl in her sad position, though one would never dream that the quiet, reserved John knew more of life than of his pigs and cattle, or that his jolly-faced, motherly companion had ever been beyond the quiet fields that surrounded her simple dwelling. Years before, they had been rescued from the world in which Amy had so nearly perished, by the same kind hand that had been stretched out to her, the Salvation Army; and now well on in middle life, happy and prosperous, they showed scarce a trace of the trouble that had driven them to labor on a farm. As hired help, they had gained their experience, and by ceaseless industry and careful economy, had at last come to own the place where they now lived. With no child of her own, Mrs. Barton took a mother's place in Amy's life from the first, and was very patient with the girl who had never been taught to do the simplest household task. Amy returned the loving kindness full measure, and, determined to be a help to those who so much helped her, advanced rapidly in the knowledge of her homely duties. Dressed in the plain working garb of a farm girl, with arms bare and face flushed by the heat of the kitchen, one would scarcely have recognized in her the beautiful young woman who moved with Boyd City's society leaders, or the brilliant novice who stood hesitating at the entrance to a life of sin in Madam's wine-rooms; and certainly, one would never have classed the bright eyes, plump cheeks, and well-rounded figure, with the frightened, starving, haggard thing that roamed about the streets of Cleveland a few short months before.

But great as was the change in Amy's outward appearance, the change within was even greater. She was no longer the thoughtless, proud, pleasure-loving belle that her parents had trained; nor was she the hard, reckless, hopeless creature that the world had made. But she was a woman now, with a true woman's interest and purpose in life. The shallow brilliance of the society girl had given place to thoughtful earnestness, and the dreary sadness of the outcast had changed to bright hopefulness.

One warm day in June, Mrs. Barton laid the last neatly ironed garment on the big pile of clothes nearby, and noisily pushing her irons to the back of the stove, cried, "Thank goodness, that's the last of that for this week." And "Thank goodness, that's the last of that," exclaimed Amy, mimicking the voice of her friend as she threw out the dishwater and hung the empty pan in its place.

Anna wiped the perspiration from her steaming face. "Come on; let's get out of this Inferno for a while and do our patching in the shade. I shall melt if I stay here a minute longer." And the two were soon seated in their low chairs on the cool porch, with a big basket of mending between them.

"Hello, there's our man back from town already," suddenly exclaimed Anna a few minutes later, as her husband drove into the barnyard; then with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes, she called, "Hurry up, John, Amy wants her letter." John smiled in his quiet way as he came up to the porch and handed the girl an envelope with the Boyd City postmark. Then the old people both laughed at the other's pretty confusion when Anna, rising, said in her teasing voice, "Come on hubby, I'll fix your dinner. We've kept it warm. Can't you see the selfish thing wants to be alone with her treasure?"

But when Mrs. Barton returned to her mending, after a long talk with her husband, her jolly face wore an expression of seriousness that was unusual, and she failed to notice that Amy's hands were idle and her work was lying untouched in her lap as she sat looking wistfully far away across the sunlit meadows and pastures.

Both took up their tasks in silence and plied their needles with energy, while their thoughts were far away; but one thought of a great city in the far-away east; the other of a bustling mining town in the nearer west.

At last Anna spoke with a little sigh: "Amy dear, I suppose you will be leaving us one of these days before long."

The girl answered with a loving smile: "Are you so tired of me that you are going to send me out into the world again?"

"No, no, dear. You have a home with John and me as long as you live. Surely you know that, don't you, Amy dear?" There was a wistful note in the kind voice, and dropping the stocking she was darning, Anna leaned forward and placed her hand on the arm of Amy's chair.

A rush of tears was her answer, as the girl caught the toil-stained hand and carried it passionately to her lips. "Of course I know. Mother forgive me; I was only 'funnin' as little Jimmie Clark says."

"But I am not 'funnin,'" replied the other. "I'm awfully in earnest."

There seemed to be a hidden meaning in her words and Amy looked at her anxiously. "I do not understand why you think that I should leave you," she said earnestly.

"Because—because—I—this life must be so degrading to you. You could live so differently at home. You must feel this keenly."

Amy looked at her steadily. "That is not your reason, Mother," she said gently. "You know that a woman degrades herself when she does nothing useful, and that I count my present place and work, far above my old life at home. Why just think"—with a quiet smile—"John said last night that he couldn't tell my biscuits from yours. And wasn't the dinner all right to-day? And isn't that a beautiful patch?" She held up her work for inspection.

The other shook her head, while she smiled in answer. "I know, dear girl, you do beautifully; but that's not it. There is your father and mother and brother; you know you can't stay away from them always."

Amy's face grew troubled, while her hand nervously sought the letter hidden in her bosom. "You do not understand, mother," she replied slowly; "My people do not want me to come home. My father said I should not, until—until—" she hesitated.

"But your father has surely forgotten his anger by this time, and when he sees you he will be glad to forgive and take you back."

The brown eyes looked at her in startled surprise. "When he sees me?" But the other continued hurriedly, "And there are the letters you know."

Amy's face grew rosy. "Why the letters?" she murmured in a low voice.

"Because he loves you, dear, don't you see?"

"He has never told me so."

"Not in words perhaps."

Amy was silent.

"He will come for you one of these days and then you will go with him."

The girl sadly shook her head, and turning her face, looked away across the fields again, where silent, patient John sturdily followed his team.

The shadow of the big sycamore was stretching across the barn lot almost to the gate, where the cows stood watching for the boy to come and let them in; a troop of droning bees were paying their last visit for the day to the peach-tree, that flung its wealth of passionate blossoms almost within reach of the porch, and over the blue distant woods the last of the feathery banks of mist hung lazily, as though tangled in the budding branches, reluctant to say good-night.

Suddenly leaving her chair, Amy threw herself on the floor and burying her face in the older woman's lap, burst into tears. Anna's own eyes were wet as she softly smoothed the brown hair of the girl she had taken to her mother's heart. "You do love him, don't you dear?"

And Amy answered, between her sobs, "Because I love him so, I must never see him again. He—he—is so strong and good and true —he must not care for one who would only bring reproach upon his name."

"I know, dear girl, and that is why you must go home; take your own place in the world again and then the way is clear."

Amy lifted her head. "Oh, if I only could—but you do not know—my going home would only widen the distance between us. My father—" She paused again, her quivering lips could not form the words.

"Amy, I am sure you are mistaken; you must be. When you meet your father it will all come right, I know."

Again there seemed to be a hidden meaning in her words. "When I meet my father?" Amy repeated slowly.

Anna grew confused. "Yes—I—we—you know John has been trying to sell for a long time; we want to go back to Cleveland; and to-day he learned that a buyer was coming from Boyd City to—"

Amy's face grew white as she rose, trembling, to her feet. "My father," she gasped—"coming here?"

Anna took the frightened girl in her arms—"There, there, dear, don't be afraid. All will be for the best, I am sure. John and I will stand by you and you shall go with us if you wish. But I am sure your father will be glad to take you home with him; and you ought to go; you know you ought; not for your family's sake alone, but for his, you know."

And so they talked as the shadows grew, until in the twilight John came from the field with his tired team, when they went into the house to prepare the evening meal.

* * * * *

Adam Goodrich had by no means forgiven his beautiful daughter for the blow dealt his pride, though one would not easily detect from his manner that there was anything but supreme self-satisfaction in the life of this worthy member of the Jerusalem Church. Mrs. Goodrich's health was broken, but she still remained the same society-loving, fashion-worshipping woman, who by her influence and teaching had ruined her child. It never occurred to the mother that Amy's conduct was the legitimate outcome of her training or associates, but she looked at it always as a weakness in the girl; and Frank, true son of his father, never mentioned his sister but with a curl of his lip, and lived his life as though she had never existed. The family still attended church once each week, still contributed the same amount to the cause, and still found fault with Cameron for his low tastes and new-fangled methods; while they laughed at the new Association as a dream of fools and misguided enthusiasts.

Adam had long wanted to add a good farm to his possessions, and after some correspondence with the agent who had advertised the Barton property, he boarded the train one bright day, to pay a visit of inspection to his contemplated purchase. Reaching the little city of Zanesville in the evening, he spent the night at a hotel. In the morning he called upon the agent, and the two were soon whirling along the road behind a pair of wiry little ponies.

The drive of eight or ten miles passed very pleasantly between the real estate man and his prospective customer in such conversation as gentlemen whose lives are spent in the whirl of the money world indulge in between moments of activity.

At last they neared the farm, and bringing the ponies to a walk, the agent began pointing out the most desirable features of the property: the big barn, the fine timber land in the distance, the rich soil of a field near by, the magnificent crop of corn, the stream of water where cattle stood knee-deep lazily fighting the flies, and the fine young orchard just across the road from the house.

"Yes, the building is old"—as they drove up in front of the big gate; "but it is good yet, and with just a little expense, can be converted into a model of modern convenience and beauty."

As they drove into the yard and got out to hitch the ponies, Mrs. Barton came to the door.

"Just come right in, Mr. Richards, John is over in the north field; I'll go for him."

"Oh No, Mrs. Barton, I'll go. This is Mr. Goodrich, who wishes to look at the farm. Mr. Goodrich, just wait here in the shade and I'll go after Mr. Barton."

"I believe," said Adam, "if you don't mind, I'll walk through the orchard until you return."

"Certainly, certainly," said both the agent and the farmer's wife; and the woman added, nervously, "just make yourself at home, Mr. Goodrich; you'll find the girl out there somewhere. Dinner will be ready in about an hour."

Leisurely crossing the road, Adam paused at the orchard gate, to watch some fine young shoats that were running about with their mother nearby. From the pigs, his gaze wandered about the farm buildings, the fields, and the garden. Turning at last to enter the orchard, he saw a young woman, clad in the homely every-day dress of a country girl; her face hidden beneath a large sun-bonnet of blue gingham. She was gathering apple blossoms. Something in her manner or figure struck him as being familiar, and with his hand on the gate, he paused again. As he stood watching her all unconscious of his presence, she sprang lightly from the ground in an effort to reach a tempting spray of blossoms, and at her violent movement the sun-bonnet dropped from her head, while a wealth of brown hair fell in a rippling mass to her waist. Then as she half turned, he saw her face distinctly, and with a start of surprise and astonishment, knew her as his daughter.

Under the first impulse of a father's love at seeing his child again, Adam stepped forward; but with the gate half open, he checked himself and then drew back, while the old haughty pride, that dominant key in his character, hardened his heart again; and when he at last pushed open the gate once more, his love was fairly hidden.

When Amy first caught sight of her father advancing slowly toward her beneath the blossom-laden trees she forgot everything and started quickly toward him, her face lighted with eager welcome, ready to throw herself in his arms and there pour out her whole tearful story and beg his love and forgiveness. But when she saw his face, she dared not, and stood with downcast eyes, trembling and afraid.

"So this is where you hide yourself, while your family faces your shame at home," began Adam, coldly. "Tell me who brought you here and who pays these people to keep you."

The girl lifted her head proudly. "No one pays them sir; I am supporting myself."

The man looked at her in amazement. "Do you mean that your position here is that of a common servant?"

"There are worse positions," she replied sadly. "The people here are very kind to me."

"But think of your family; you are a disgrace to us all. What can I tell them when I go back and say that I have seen you?"

"Tell them that I am well, and as happy as I ever expect to be." She pressed her hand to her bosom where a letter was hidden.

"But what will people say when they know that my daughter is working on a farm for a living?"

"They need never know unless you tell them."

Then the man lost all control of himself; that this girl who had always yielded to his every wish, without so much as daring to have a thought of her own, should so calmly, but firmly, face him in this manner, enraged him beyond measure. He could not understand. He knew nothing of her life since that night he had refused to listen to her explanation, and in his anger taunted her with being the plaything of Dick Falkner, and then, because her face flushed, thought that he had hit on the truth and grew almost abusive in his language.

But Amy only answered, "Sir, you are mistaken now, as you were when you drove me from home; Mr. Falkner had nothing to do with my leaving Boyd City."

"You are my daughter still," stormed Adam, "and I will force you to leave this low position and come home to us. You cannot deceive me with your clever lie about supporting yourself. What do you know about a servant's work? That cursed tramp printer is at the bottom of all this, and I'll make him suffer for it as I live. I will force you to come home."

Amy's face grew pale, but she replied quietly, "Oh no, father, you will not do that, because that would make public my position you know. I have no fear of your proclaiming from the housetops that your daughter is a hired girl on a farm."

"But father," she said, in softer voice, as Adam stood speechless with rage; "Father, forgive me for this, for I know that I am right. Let me stay here and prove that I am not useless to the world, and then perhaps I will go to you. In the meantime, keep my secret and no one shall know that your claim on society has teen lessened because your daughter is learning to do a woman's work."

Just a shade of bitter sarcasm crept into her voice, but Adam did not notice, for he saw the agent and the farmer coming. "Very well," he said hurriedly, "you have chosen your path and must walk in it. But you cannot expect me to acknowledge a servant as my daughter." And turning his back, he went to meet the men, while Amy slipped off to the house with her blossoms.

Mrs. Barton needed no word to tell her of the result of the interview from which she had expected so much, and with a kiss and a loving word, permitted the girl to go upstairs, where she remained until Mr. Goodrich had left the place.

After completing the purchase of the farm, Adam wrote his daughter from the office of the agent in Zanesville: "The place where you are living now belongs to me, and the Bartons must give possession at once. If you will promise never to speak to that man Falkner again, you may come home and be received into your old place, but on no other terms will I acknowledge you as my daughter. Refuse and you are thrown on the charity of the world, for you cannot remain where you are."

Amy carried the letter to her friends, together with her reply, and they, by every argument of love, tried to induce her to go with them back to Cleveland; but she refused in tears. And when she would not be persuaded, they were compelled to leave her. With many expressions of love, they said good-bye, and departed for their old home in the eastern city; but before going, they arranged with a kind neighbor to give her a place in their already crowded home until she could find means of support.

Upon Dick's return from his Cleveland trip, he had thrown himself into his work with feverish energy, while in his heart the struggle between love and prejudice continued. But as the weeks went by and Amy's letters had come, telling of her life on the farm, and how she was learning to be of use in the world; and as he had read between the lines, of her new ideas and changed views of life, his love had grown stronger and had almost won the fight. Then a letter came, bidding him good-bye, and telling him that she was going away again, and that for her sake, he must not try to find her; that she was deeply grateful for all that he had done, but it was best that he forget that he had ever known her.

Dick was hurt and dismayed. It seemed to him that she had given up, and the devil, Doubt, ever ready to place a wrong construction upon the words and deeds of mortals, sent him into the black depths of despair again.

"I never saw such a man," declared George Udell to Clara Wilson, one evening, as they caught a glimpse of him bending over a desk in Mr. Wicks' office, "he works like a fiend."

"Like an angel, you'd better say," replied Clara. "Didn't I tell you that he was no common tramp?"

"Yes, dear, of course; and you never made a mistake in your life; that is, never but once."

"When was that?" asked Clara curiously.

"When you said 'No' to me night before last. Won't you reconsider it, and—"

"Where do you suppose Amy Goodrich is now?" interrupted the young lady. "Do you know, I have fancied at times, that Mr. Falkner learned something on his trip last fall, that he has not told us?"

George opened his eyes. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, because; somehow he seems so different since he returned."

But George shook his head. "I thought so too for a while," he replied; "but I talked with him just the other day, and I'm afraid he's given up all hope. He works to hide the hurt. But I'll tell you one thing, girlie, if anything could make a Christian of me, it would be Dick's life. There's something more than human in the way he stands up against this thing."

Then Dick received another letter, from a post office in Texas.

"Dere Dikkie: I take my pen in hand to let u no that Ime wel an hoape u ar the same. Jim Whitly is ded he don tried to nife me an i fixed him. he wanted to hire me to kil u fer some papers an we was in you ol caben kross the river from the still. He said ter tel u thet he lied to u an that Amy is pure. I don't no what he means but thot u ort ter no. I skipped—burn this. your daddys pard.

"JAKE THOMPSON."

The Association building was finished at last, and the pastor of the Jerusalem Church sat in his little den looking over the morning mail. There were the usual number of magazines, papers, and sample copies of religious periodicals, with catalogues and circulars from publishing houses; an appeal to help a poor church in Nebraska whose place of worship had been struck by lightning; a letter from a sister in Missouri, asking for advice about a divorce case; one from a tinware man in Arkansas, who inquired about the town with a view of locating; and one that bore the mark of the Association, which informed him, over the signature of the Secretary, that he had been unanimously called to take charge of the new work. Cameron carried the letter, in triumph, to the kitchen.

"Well," said the little woman; "didn't I tell you that one preacher would have a hand in whatever work was started here? Of course you'll accept?"

"I don't know," Cameron answered. "We must think about it."

A day later he called for a consultation with Elder Wicks, and Uncle Bobbie said:

"To-be-sure, it's mighty hard for me to advise you in a thing like this; for as a member of the church, I'm bound to say stay; and as a member of the Association, I say, accept. I jing! I don't know what to do." And for a few moments, the old gentleman thoughtfully stroked his face; then suddenly grasping the arms of the chair fiercely, he shouted: "As a Christian, I say, accept, an' I reckon that settles it."

And so Cameron became the manager of the new work; and his first recommendation to the directors was that they send their Secretary away for a vacation. And indeed Dick, poor fellow, needed it, though at first he flatly refused to go. But Dr. Jordan came down on him with the cheerful information that he would die if he didn't, and Uncle Bobbie finished matters by declaring that he had no more right to kill himself by over work, than he had to take Rough on Eats, or blow his head off with a gun; "and besides," added the old gentleman, "you aint paid me that hundred dollars yet. To-be-sure, the note aint due for sometime; but a fellow has got to look after his own interest, aint he?"

The first address delivered by Cameron in the auditorium of the Association building, was from the text, "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." The audience room was crowded, and the young minister had never appeared to better advantage, or declared the teaching of his Master with greater freedom, earnestness and vigor; and to the astonishment of the people, who should come forward at the close of the service, to declare his belief in, and acceptance of Christ as the Son of God, but the so-called infidel printer, George Udell.



CHAPTER XXVI

In Southwestern Missouri, in the White Oak district, there are many beautiful glens and sheltered valleys, where a sturdy people have tamed the wildness of nature and made it obedient to their will. The fields lie fertile and fruitful on either bank of murmuring streams, clear to the foot of the hills where the timber grows. Always a road winds down the valley, generally skirting the forest, and the farmhouses are nearly all built of logs, though more modern and finished dwellings are fast taking the place of the primitive mansions. Every few miles, one may see little school-houses, most often made of good lumber and painted white, with heavy shutters and a high platform in front. For the Ozark settler takes great pride in his school-house, which is also a church and a political rallying point, and meeting-place for the backwoods "Literary;" and though he may live in a rude log hovel himself, his hall of education must be made of boards and carefully painted.

To this romantic region Dick Falkner went to spend his vacation, during the latter part of October, the loveliest season of the year in that section of the country. Mr. Cushman, who was a successful farmer living in the White Oak district, and an old friend of Uncle Bobbie's, gladly welcomed the young man, of whom his old partner, Wicks, had written so highly. When Dick left the train at Armourdale, a little village in the lead and zinc field, he was greeted at once by his host, a bluff, pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman, whom he liked at first sight, and who was completely captivated by his guest before they had been together half an hour.

Oak Springs Farm, which was to be Dick's home for the next month, took in the whole of a beautiful little glen, and many acres of timber-land on either side. Crane Creek had its source, or rather one of its sources, within a hundred feet of the house, where a big spring bubbled from beneath the roots of a giant oak, and the water went chattering and laughing away to the south and east.

Three-quarters of a mile from Oak Springs, just over the ridge in another hollow, another stream gushed bright and clear, from beneath another ancient oak and went rushing away to join its fellow brook a mile distant, where the little glens broadened into a large valley, through which the creek hurried onward to the great river, miles away in the heart of the wilderness.

It was all very beautiful and restful to the young man, wearied and worn by the rush and whirl of the city, and stifled with the dust and smoke from factory and furnace. The low hills, clothed with foliage, richly stained by October's brush; the little valley lying warm in the sunlight, was a welcome change to the dead monotony of the prairie, where the sky shut down close to the dull brown earth, with no support of leafy pillars. And the mother quail, with her full-grown family scurrying to cover in the corner of the fence; the squirrel scolding to his mate in the tree-tops, or leaping over the rustling leaves, and all the rest of the forest life, was full of interest when compared to the life of busy men or chattering sparrows in the bustling mining town.

Though Mr. Cushman and his wife had raised a large family of boys and girls, only one, a daughter, remained with them on the farm. The others had, one by one, taken their flight from the home nest, to build home nests of their own in different parts of the great world wilderness.

Kate was a hearty, robust, rosy-cheeked country lass of eighteen, the youngest of the flock; her father's chum, with all his frank, open ways; and her mother's companion, with all her loving thoughtfulness. And, best of all, she possessed the charming freshness, innocence and purity of one who had never come in touch with those who, taught by the world she had never known, were content to sham her virtues as they tried to imitate the color of her cheek.

Dick sank to rest that night with a long sigh of relief, after meeting the mother and daughter and enjoying such a supper as one only finds on a prosperous farm. And strangely enough, the last picture on his mind before he fell asleep, was of a little school-house which he had seen just at sunset, scarcely a quarter of a mile up the valley; and he drowsily wondered who taught the children there; while a great owl, perched in an old apple-tree back of the chicken house, echoed his sleepy thoughts with its "Whoo! Whoo!"

With a whoop and hallo and whistle, the noisy troop of boys and girls came tumbling out of the doorway of the White Oak School, their dinner pails and baskets on their arms, homeward bound from the irksome duties of the day. The young teacher, after standing a few moments in the doorway, watching her charges down the road and out of sight in the timber across the valley, turned wearily back, and seating herself at a rude desk in the rear of the room, began her task of looking over the copybooks left by the rollicking youngsters. Had she remained a moment longer in the door-way she would have seen a tall, well-dressed gentleman coming leisurely up the hill. It was Dick. He had been roaming all the afternoon over the fields and through the brown woods.

He came slowly up the road, and crossing the yard, stood hesitating at the threshold of the building. The teacher, bending low, did not see him for a moment; but when she raised her head, she looked straight into his eyes.

Dick would have been dull indeed had he failed to interpret that look; and Amy would have been more than dull had she failed to see the love that shone in his glance of astonishment and pleasure.

For an instant, neither spoke; then, "I have found you again," said Dick, simply. "I hope you will forgive me, Miss Goodrich; I assure you the meeting is entirely by accident. I stopped for a drink of water."

"Please help yourself, Mr. Falkner," said the girl, with a little choke in her voice. "There it is." And she pointed to a wooden pail and tin dipper near the door.

"I am spending my vacation in the Ozarks; or rather, I came here to rest." He paused awkwardly. "I—I did not dream of your being here, or of course I should not have come, after your letter. Forgive me and I will go away again."

He turned to leave the room, but with his foot on the threshold, paused, and then walked back to the desk where the girl sat, leaning forward with her face buried in her arms.

"There's just one thing though, that I must say before I go. Are you in need of any help? If so, let me be of use to you; I am still your friend."

The brown head was raised and two glistening eyes proudly pleading looked at Dick.

Through a mist in his own eyes he saw two hands outstretched and heard a voice say, "I do need your help. Don't go. That is—I mean—leave me here now and to-morrow call, and I will tell you all. Only trust me this once."

Dick took the outstretched hands in his and stood for a moment with bowed head; then whispered softly, "Of course I will stay. Shall I come at this hour to-morrow?" Amy nodded, and he passed out of the building.

Had Dick looked back as he strode swiftly toward the timber, he would have seen a girlish form in the door holding out her hands; and had he listened as he climbed the fence, he might have heard a sweet voice falter, "Oh Dick, I love you. I love you." And just as he vanished at the edge of the woods, the girl who was more than all the world to him, fell for the second time in her life, fainting on the floor.

All the forenoon of the next day, Dick wandered aimlessly about the farm, but somehow he never got beyond sight of the little white school-house. He spent an hour watching the colts that frolicked in the upper pasture, beyond which lay the children's playground; then going through the field, he climbed the little hill beyond and saw the white building through the screen of leaves and branches. Once Amy came to the door, but only for a moment, when she called the shouting youngsters from their short recess. Then recrossing the valley half a mile above, he walked slowly home to dinner along the road leading past the building. How he envied the boys and girls whose droning voices reached his ears through the open windows.

While Dick was chatting with his kind host after dinner, as they sat on the porch facing the great oak, the latter talked about the spring and the history of the place; how it used to be a favorite camping ground for the Indians in winter; and pointed out the field below the barn, where they had found arrowheads by the hundreds. Then he told of the other spring just over the ridge, and how the two streams came together and flowed on, larger and larger, to the river. And then with a farmer's fondness for a harmless jest, he suggested that Dick might find it worth his while to visit the other spring; "for," said he "the school-marm lives there; and she's a right pretty girl. Sensible too, I reckon, though she aint been here only since the first of September."

When the farmer had gone to his work, Dick walked down to the spring-house, and sitting on the twisted roots of the old oak, looked into the crystal water.

"And so Amy lives by a spring just like this," he thought, "and often sits beneath that other oak, perhaps, looking into the water as I am looking now."

A blue-jay, perched on a bough above, screamed in mocking laughter at the dreamer beneath; an old drake, leading his family in a waddling row to the open stream below the little house, solemnly quacked his protest against such a willful waste of time; and a spotted calf thrust its head through the barn-yard fence to gaze at him in mild reproach.

In his revery, Dick compared the little stream of water to his life, running fretted and troubled, from the very edge of its birthplace; and he followed it with his eye down through the pasture lot, until it was lost in the distance; then looking into the blue vista of the hills, he followed on, in his mind, where the stream grew deeper and broader. Suddenly, he sprang to his feet and walked hastily away along the bank of the creek. In a little while, he stood at the point of land where the two valleys became one, and the two streams were united, and with a long breath of relief, found that the course of the larger stream, as far as he could see, was smooth and untroubled, while the valley through which it flowed was broad and beautiful.

At the appointed time, Dick went to the school-house, and with Amy, walked through the woods toward the farm where she lived, while she told him of her life since last they met; of her father's visit and his threats, and of her fear that he would force her to go home. The farm had been sold the day after Adam was there, and how through her friends, she had obtained her present position in the school. She told of her pride and desire to wipe out alone, the disgrace, as alone she had fallen. She longed to be of use in the world.

As she talked, Dick's face grew bright. "This is good news indeed," he said. "I'm so glad for your sake." Then, with a smile, "I see you do not need my help now that you can be of so much help to others."

"But won't you help me plan for the future?" said Amy, trying to hide the slight tremble in her voice. "Won't you tell me what is best to do? I have thought and thought, but can get no farther than I am now."

"Let us say nothing about that for a time," replied Dick. "We will talk that over later."

And so it came about that the farmer's advice, spoken in jest, was received in earnest; and for four happy weeks the two lived, unrestrained by false pride or foolish prejudice; walking home together through the woods, or wandering beside the little brooks, talking of the beauties they saw on every hand, or silently listening to the voices of nature, But at last the time came when they must part, and Dick gave his answer to her question.

"You must go home," he said.

"But you know what that means," answered Amy. "I will be forced to give up my church work and be a useless butterfly again; and besides, the conditions father insists upon—." She blushed and hesitated.

"Yes," said Dick, "I know what it means for me, your going home. But you need not again be a useless butterfly as you say. Write your father and tell him of your desire; that you cannot be content as a useless woman of society. He will ask you to come home, I am sure. And when your present term of school is finished, you can take your old place in the world again. You will find many ways to be of use to others, and I know that your father will learn to give you more liberty."

"And the past?" asked Amy, with a blush of shame.

"Is past," said Dick, emphatically. "No one in Boyd City knows your story, nor need they ever know."

"One man there can tell them," answered the girl, with averted face.

"You are mistaken," said Dick, quietly. And then, as gently as he could, he told her of Whitley's death. But of his connection with him and the real cause of the fight in the cabin, he said nothing.

It was hard for Dick to advise Amy to go home, for as she was then, they were equals. If she went back to Boyd City, all would be changed. But he had fought over the question in his own mind and the right had conquered.

Amy agreed with him that it was best, and added, "I have felt all along that I ought to do this after a while, but I wished to see you again first, and had you not happened to find me, I should have written to you later."

And so it was settled. No word of love was spoken between them. Dick would not permit himself to speak then, because he felt that she ought not to be influenced by her present surroundings; and even had he spoken, Amy would not have listened, because she felt her work could only be complete when she had returned to her old position and had proved herself by her life there.

And so they parted, with only a silent clasping of hands, as they stood beside the brook that chattered on its way to join the other; though there was a world of love in both the gray eyes and the brown; a love none the less strong because unspoken.

Upon Dick's return to the city, he took up his work again with so light a heart that his many friends declared that he had entirely recovered his health, and their congratulations were numerous and hearty.

During the holidays, there was some gossip among the citizens when it was announced in the Daily Whistler, that Miss Goodrich would soon return to her home. The article stated that she had been living with some friends in the east, finishing her education, and the public accepted the polite lie with a nod and a wink.

Mrs. Goodrich, though her mother heart was glad at the return of her child, received the girl with many tearful reproaches; and while Amy was hungering for a parent's loving sympathy and encouragement, she could not open her heart to the woman who mourned only the blow dealt her family pride and social ambition.

Adam was formal, cold and uncompromising, while Frank paid no more attention to his sister than if she were a hired servant in the house. Only the girl's firm determination, awakened womanhood, patience and Christian fortitude enabled her to accept her lot. But in spite of the daily reproaches, stern coldness and studied contempt, she went steadily forward in her purpose to regain the place she had lost; and somehow, as the weeks went by, all noticed a change in Amy. Her father dared not check her in her work, for something in the clear eyes, that looked at him so sadly, but withal so fearlessly, made him hesitate. It was as though she had spoken, "I have been through the fire and have come out pure gold. It is not for you to question me." And though she attended to her social duties, her influence was always for the good, and no one dared to speak slightingly of religious things in her presence; while the poor people at the Mission learned to love the beautiful young woman who visited their homes and talked to them of a better life, and never failed to greet them with a kindly word when they met her on the street.

Of course Dick could not call at her home. He knew well that it would only provoke a storm; nor did Amy ask him to. They met only at church or at the Mission; and nothing but the common greetings passed between them. No one ever dreamed that they were more than mere acquaintances. But they each felt that the other understood, and so were happy; content to wait until God, in his own way, should unite the streams of their lives.



CHAPTER XXVII

It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and Dick was in his office at the Association building, writing some letters pertaining to the work, when the door opened, and to his great astonishment, Amy entered hurriedly, out of breath and very much excited.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr. Falkner," she began, as soon as she could speak; "but I must tell you." And then she broke down, sinking into a chair and crying bitterly.

Dick's face was very grave, and stepping to the window he drew the curtain, then turned the key in the door.

"Now what is it, Miss Goodrich? Please be calm. You know you have nothing to fear from me."

Amy brushed away her tears, and looking up into his face, "I'm not afraid of you," she said. "But—but—, our secret is out."

Dick nodded that he understood, and she continued: "You know that Frank has been at Armourdale the last few weeks, looking after papa's interests in the mines there, and—and he came home this afternoon?"

"Yes, I know," said Dick calmly.

"I was in the sitting-room and he and father were in the library. I—I did not mean to listen, but the door was open and I heard them speak your name."

"Yes," said Dick again.

"Frank met Mr. Cushman and spent several days at the farm where they are prospecting, and—and of course learned that we were together there. Father believes the awfullest things and threatens to kill you; he is so angry. I—I'm afraid for you—and—and I slipped away because I—I thought you ought to know." The poor girl finished with a sob and buried her face in her hands.

Dick thought rapidly for a few moments. He remembered that he had never told Amy how her father had accused him of taking her away at first, and he saw now how that belief would be strengthened by her brother's story. Then as his heart bitterly rebelled at the thought of such a misunderstanding, and of the danger to Amy, his mind was made up instantly.

"Miss Goodrich," he said; "can you let me talk to you plainly?"

She nodded and grew quiet.

"I have known all along that these things would come out sooner or later. I have foreseen that the whole story must be told, and have prayed that the time might be put off until your life could give the lie to the thought that the past was not passed forever, and now I thank God that my prayers have been answered. No harm can come to you now for your Christianity is no vain trifle, but a living power that will help you to bear the reproach that must come. Had this happened before you were strong, it would have driven you back again. But now you can bear it. But Miss Goodrich —Amy—I don't want you to bear this alone. Won't you let me help you? You know that I love you. I have told you so a thousand times, though no word has been spoken. And I know that you return my love. I have seen it in your eyes, and I have waited and waited until the time should come for me to speak. That time is here now. Amy, dearest, tell me that you love me and will be my wife. Give me the right to protect you. Let us go to your father together and tell him all. He dare not refuse us then."

The beautiful girl trembled with emotion. "You must not. Oh, you must not," she said. "Don't, don't tempt me." She buried her face in her hands again. "You—you cannot take for your wife one who has been what I have."

"Amy dear, listen," said Dick. "You and I are Christians. We each have fallen; but Christ has forgiven and accepted both. God has only one love for each, one Saviour for each, one forgiveness for each. There is only one promise, one help, one Heaven for us both. Darling, don't you see that we are equal? I cannot reproach you for your past, because I too, have been guilty. You, in your heart of hearts, must recognize this great truth. Won't you forget it all with me?"

The girl lifted her face and looked into his eyes long and searchingly, as though reading his very soul.

Had there been anything but love in Dick Falkner's heart then, he would have argued in vain. But he returned the look unflinchingly, then—

"Amy listen. On the soul that has been pardoned in the name of Jesus Christ, there is no spot. Won't you put your past beneath your feet as I put mine in the dust, and come to me upon the common ground of Christ's love and forgiveness? Come, because we love each other, and for the good we can do."

The brown eyes filled with tears again; the sweet lips trembled, as holding out her hand she replied, "Oh Dick, I do love you. Help me to be strong and true and worthy of your love. I—I—have no one in all the world but you."

A few minutes later, Dick said, "I must take you home now."

"No, no," she answered, hurriedly; "the folks will think that I am calling on some of the neighbors, even if they miss me at all. I often run out of an evening that way. It is not late and I'm not afraid."

"Listen to me, dearest," he answered. "You must not see your father alone until I have told him everything. I will go up to the house with you now, and we will settle this matter once for—" A loud knock at the door interrupted him. Amy trembled in alarm. "Don't be frightened dear. No harm can come to you from this visit now. Thank God you have given me the right to speak for you."

The knock was repeated. "Step in here," he said, leading her to a chair in the next room, "and be a brave girl now. It's just some fellow on business. He'll be gone in a moment." And leaving her with the door partly closed, he stepped across the room just as the knock came the third time.

Dick threw open the door, and without waiting for an invitation, Adam Goodrich stepped across the threshold. To say that Dick was astonished but faintly expressed his feelings, though not a muscle of his face quivered, as he said:

"Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?"

"You can do a good deal," said Adam. "But first lock that door; we want no visitors here to-night."

Without a word, Dick turned the key again.

"Now sir, I want to know first, is it true that you were with my daughter in the Ozark Mountains this summer? Don't try to lie to me this time. I'll have the truth or kill you."

"I have never lied to you, sir," answered Dick; "and have no desire to do so now. It is perfectly true I did meet you daughter last summer while on my vacation."

"I knew I was right," raved Adam. "I knew you led her away from home. Oh, why did you ever come to this city? Why did I ever see you? Here." And he frantically tore a check-book from his pocket. "Fill this out for any amount you choose and go away again. Oh, I could kill you if I dared. You have ruined me forever—you—"

"Stop sir," said Dick; and when Adam looked into his face, he saw again that nameless something which compelled him to obey.

"You have said quite enough," continued Dick, calmly, "and you are going to listen to me now. But first, I want to beg your pardon for the language I used when you called on me before."—He heard a slight rustle in the next room—"when you accused me of taking your daughter from her home; I told you that you were a liar. I beg your pardon now. I was excited. I know that you were only mistaken. You would not have listened to me then, nor believed me, had I told you what I knew. But the time has come when you shall listen, and be forced to know that I speak the truth."

Adam sat as though fascinated. Once he attempted to answer, but a quick "Silence, sir, you shall hear me," kept him still, while Dick detailed the whole story, omitting nothing from the evening when he had rescued Amy from her drunken escort, to the day he had said good-bye in the Ozark Mountains. When he had finished, the old gentleman sat silent for a moment.

"Can it be possible," thought Dick, "that I have misjudged this man, and that he is grateful for the help that I have given Amy?"

But no; Dick had not misjudged him. There was not a thought of gratitude in Adam Goodrich's heart. Thankfulness for his daughter's salvation from a life of sin had no part in his feelings; only blind rage, that his pride should be so humbled. Leaping to his feet, he shouted, "The proof, you miserable scoundrel; the proof, or I'll have your life for this."

Dick remained perfectly calm. "You shall have the proof," he said, quietly, and turning, stepped to the next room, coming back an instant later with his arm encircling Amy's waist.

Adam sprang forward. "You here at this hour alone? Go home at once. Drop her, you ruffian," turning to Dick.

The latter stood without moving a muscle, and Goodrich started toward him.

"Stop," said Dick, still without moving; and again the older man was forced to obey that stronger will.

"Father," said Amy. "I am going to marry Mr. Falkner. I heard you and Frank talking in the library, and when you said that you would kill him I came to warn him, and—and—his story is every word true. Oh papa, don't you see what a friend he has been to me? You forced me to the society that ruined me, and he saved me from an awful life. I love him and will be his wife, but I can't be happy as I ought, without your forgiveness. Won't you forgive us papa?"

Never in his life had it been Dick's lot to see a face express so much, or so many conflicting emotions, love, hate, pride, passion, remorse, gratitude, all followed each other in quick succession. But finally, pride and anger triumphed and the answer came; but in the expression of the man's face rather than in his words, Dick found the clue to his course.

"You are no longer a daughter of mine," said Adam. "I disown you. If you marry that man who came to this town a common tramp, I will never recognize you again. You have disgraced me. You have dragged my honor in the dust." He turned toward the door. But again Dick's voice, clear and cold, forced him to stop. "Sir," he said; "Before God, you and not this poor child, are to blame. By your teaching, you crippled her character and made it too weak to stand temptation, and then drove her from home by your brutal unbelief."

Adam hung his head for a moment, then raised it haughtily. "Are you through?" he said with a sneer.

"Not quite," answered Dick. "Listen; you value most of all in this world, pride and your family position. Can't you see that by the course you are taking, you yourself proclaim your disgrace, and forfeit your place in society. No one now but we three, knows the story I have just related to you; but if you persist in this course the whole world will know it."

He paused, and Adam's face changed; for while his nature could not forgive, pity, or feel gratitude, such reasoning as this forced its way upon his mind, a mind ever ready to cheat the opinions of men. "What would you suggest?" he asked coldly.

"Simply this," answered Dick. "Do you and Amy go home together. No one shall ever know of this incident. Live your life as usual, except that you shall permit me to call at the house occasionally. Gradually the people will become accustomed to my visits, and when the time comes, the marriage will not be thought so strange. But remember, this woman is to be my wife, and you shall answer to me if you make her life hard."

"Very well," answered Adam, after a moment's pause; "I can only submit. I will do anything rather than have this awful disgrace made public. But understand me sir; while you may come to the house occasionally, and while you force me to consent to this marriage by the story of my daughter's disgrace, I do not accept you as my son, or receive the girl as my daughter; for my honor's sake, I will appear to do both, but I shall not forget; and now come home."

"Good-night, dearest, be brave," whispered Dick. And then as he unlocked and opened the door, he could not forbear smiling at Adam and wishing him a good-night, with pleasant dreams.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Mother Gray and her husband were sitting before a cheery fire in their little parlor, at the Institution for Helping the Unemployed. The cold November rain without came beating against the window panes in heavy gusts, and the wind sighed and moaned about the corners of the house and down the chimney.

"Winter's coming, wife," said Mr. Gray, as he aroused himself and stirred the fire. "We'll not be having such an easy time as we did this summer. When cold weather gets here in earnest the poor will begin calling on us."

"Yes, but that's the time people need kindling wood the worst, so there will be enough to feed them," answered the good wife brightly, as she too aroused and began knitting with great vigor.

"I fear we are going to have a hard winter this year, mother; my old bones begin to complain a little now; but thank God, we're sure of a comfortable home and enough to eat. What we'd a done without this place is more than I know, with Joe away and me not able to do heavy work in the mines. If Maggie were only with us." And the old man wiped a tear from his eyes.

"Yes, father, but Maggie is better off than we. It's Joe that hurts my heart. To think that he may be hungry and cold like some of the poor fellows we fed here last spring. Hark. Isn't that someone knocking at the door?" She dropped her knitting to listen.

The old man arose and stepped into the next apartment, which was used as a kind of reception hall and office. A faint rapping sounded more clearly from there; and crossing the room, he opened the door, and in the light streaming out, saw a woman. "Come in," he cried, reaching forth and taking her by the arm. "Come in out of the rain. Why, you're soaked through."

"Oh please sir, can I stay here all night? They told me this was a place for people to stop. I'm so hungry and tired."

And indeed she looked it, poor thing. Her dress, though of good material and nicely made, was soiled with mud and rain. Beneath the sailor hat, from which the water ran in sparkling drops, her hair hung wet and disheveled; her eyes were wild and pleading; her cheeks sunken and ashy pale; while the delicately turned nostrils and finely curved, trembling lips, were blue with cold. Beyond all doubt, she had once been beautiful.

Mr. Gray, old in experience, noted more than all this, as he said, "We are not allowed to keep women here, but it's a little different in your case, and I'll see my wife. Sit down and wait a minute."

He gave her a chair and went back to the sitting-room, returning a moment later with Mother Gray at his heels.

"My poor dear," said the good woman, "of course you must stay here. I know, I know," as the girl looked at her in a questioning manner. "Anyone can see your condition; but bless your heart, our Master befriended a poor woman, and why should not we?"

And soon the girl was in the other room and Mrs. Gray was removing her hat and loosening her clothing.

"Father," whispered the old lady, "I think you had better go for Dr. Jordan. He'll be needed here before morning."

When the doctor returned with Mr. Gray, the patient, dry and clean, was wrapped in the soft blankets of Mother Gray's own bed, with one of Maggie's old night-dresses on, and hot bricks at her tired feet. But warmth and kindness had come too late. The long, weary tramp about the streets of the city, in the rain; the friendless shutting of doors in her face; the consciousness that she was a mark for all eyes; and the horror of what was to come, with the cold and hunger, had done their work. When the morning sun, which has chased away the storm clouds, peeped in at the little chamber window, Dr. Jordan straightened up with a long breath, "She will suffer no more pain now, mother, until the end."

"And when will that be, Doctor?"

"In a few hours, at most; I cannot tell exactly."

"And there is no hope?" asked Mrs. Gray, smoothing the marble brow on the pillow, as she would have touched her Maggie.

"Absolutely no hope, Mother," said the physician, who knew her well.

"Ah well, tis better so," murmured the old lady. "This world is not the place for such as she. Christ may forgive, but men won't. The man alone can go free. And the little one too—surely God is good to take them both together. Will she come to, do you think, Doctor, before she goes?"

"Yes, it is probable that she will rally for a little while, and you may find out her name perhaps. There was no mark on her clothing, you say?"

"Not the sign of a mark, and she would tell me nothing; and see, there is no wedding ring."

They were silent for some time, and then: "She is awakening," said the doctor.

The blue eyes opened slowly and looked wonderingly about the room. "Mother," she said, in a weak voice, "Mother—who are you?—" looking at the doctor and Mrs. Gray. "Where am I?" and she tried to raise her head.

"There, there, dear; lie still now and rest. You have been sick you know. We are your friends and this is the doctor. Your mother shall come when you tell us where to send for her."