The trial came. In the expectancy with which Chicago looks for a new sensation, Brooks had been almost forgotten by the public. His confession had robbed his trial of that uncertainty which means excitement, and there now remained but a formal ceremony, the appointment of his time to die. The newspapers no longer paid especial attention to him, and such neglect depresses a murderer, for notoriety is his last intoxicant. It seemed that an unwarranted length of time was taken up in the selection of a jury, a deliberation that usually exposes justice to many dangers; and after this the trial proceeded. The deposition of Mrs. Colton was introduced. It was a brief statement, and after leading up to the vital point, thus concluded: "I must have been asleep some time, when my husband awoke me. He said that he thought he heard a noise in the vault-room. I listened for a few moments and replied that I didn't think it was anything. But he got up and took his pistol from under the pillow and went into the vault-room. A moment later I was convinced that I heard something, and I got up, and just as I got near the door the light blazed up and at the same moment there was a loud report as of a pistol; and then I saw my husband fall—saw Mr. Brooks wheel about and run out of the room. This is all I remember until I found myself lying on the bed, unable to move or speak."

Brooks set up a plea for mercy, and his lawyers were strong in the urging of it, but when the judge delivered his charge it was clear that the plea was not entertained by the court. The jury retired, and now the courtroom was thronged. To idle men there is a fascination in the expected verdict, even though it may not admit of the quality of speculation. The jurymen could not be out long—their duty was well defined; but an hour passed, and the crowd began gradually to melt away. Two hours—and word came that the jury could not agree. It was now dark, and the court was adjourned to meet in evening session. But midnight struck, and still there was no verdict. What could be the cause of this indecision? It was a mystery outside, but within the room it was plain. One man had hung the jury. In his community he was so well known as a sectarian that he was called a hypocrite. He was not thought to be strong except in the grasp he held upon bigotry, but he succeeded in either convincing or browbeating eleven men into an agreement not to hang Brooks, but to send him to the penitentiary for life; and this verdict was rendered when the court reassembled at morning.

Witherspoon was sitting in his office at the Colossus when Henry entered. Papers were piled upon the merchant's desk, but he regarded them not. A boy stood near as if waiting for orders, but Witherspoon took no heed of him. He sat in a reverie, and as Henry entered he started as if rudely aroused from sleep.

"Have you heard the verdict?" Henry asked.

"By telephone," Witherspoon answered. "Sit down."

"No, I must get over to the office. What do you think of the verdict?"

"If the law's satisfied I am," Witherspoon answered. "But you wanted him hanged, didn't you?" he added.

"No, but I wanted him punished. The truth is, I hated the fellow almost from the first."

Witherspoon turned to the boy and asked: "What do you want? Oh, did I ring for you? Well, you may go." And then he spoke to Henry: "You hated him."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he is a villain."

"But if you hated him from the first, you hated him before you found out that he was a villain; and that was snap judgment. I try a man before I condemn him."

"And I let a man condemn himself, and some men do this the minute I see them."

"But a quick judgment is nearly always wrong."

"Yes, and yet it's better than a slow judgment that allows itself to be imposed upon."

"Sometimes," Witherspoon agreed; and after a short silence he added: "I was just thinking of how that fellow imposed on me, but I can't quite get at the cause of my worry over him, and I don't understand why I should have been afraid that he could ruin me. I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the exact truth without fear of giving offense: Have you ever thought that at times my mind was unbalanced? Have you?"

"You haven't been well, and a sick man's mind is never sound, you know."

"That's all true enough; but do I remind you very much of your uncle Andrew?"

"Yes, when you worry."

"I thought so. I've got to stop worrying; and I believe that we have more control over ourselves than we exercise. Come back at noon and we'll go out together."

"I'll be here," Henry replied.

Just before he reached the office Henry met John Richmond, and together they stepped into a cigar-store.

"I've been over to your office," said Richmond. "I have important business with you."

"All right, John. Business with you is a pleasure."

"I think this will be. This is the last day of September, and relying on my recollection, I know that black bass are about ready to begin their fall campaign. So I thought we'd better get on a train early to-morrow morning and go out into Lake County. Now don't say you are too busy, for I'm running away from a stack of work as high as my head."

"I'll go."

"Good. We'll have a glorious day in the woods. We'll forget Brother Brooks and the fanatic who saved his life; we'll float on the lake; well pick up nuts; we'll listen to the controversy of the blue jays, and the flicker, flicker of the yellowhammers; we'll study Mr. Woodpecker, whose judgment tells him to go south, but who is held back by the promising sunshine. The train leaves at eight. I'll be on hand, and don't you fail."

"I won't. I'm only too anxious to get out of town."

Shortly after Henry arrived at the office Miss Drury came into his room. "Your sister was here just now," she said.

"Was she?"

"Yes, she came to wait for the verdict."

"That reminds me. I intended to telephone, but forgot it."

"She said she knew you wouldn't think of it."

"Did you quarrel?" Henry asked.

"Did we quarrel? Well, now, I like that question. No, we didn't quarrel. I got along with her quite as well as I do with her brother. She said that she had often wondered who got up my department, but that no one had ever told her."

"She may have wondered, but she never asked. So, you see, I intend to rid myself of blame even at the expense of my sister."

"Oh, I suppose she said it merely to put me in good humor with myself."

"But wouldn't it have been more in harmony with a woman's character if she'd given you a sly cut, a tiny stab, to put you in ill humor with the world?"

"I hope you don't mean that, Mr. Witherspoon."

"Why? Would it make you think less of women?"

"What egotism! No, less of you."

"Oh, if that's the case I'll withdraw it—will say that I didn't mean it."

"That's so kind of you that I'm almost glad you said it."

She went back to her work, but a few moments later she returned, and now she appeared to be embarrassed. "You must pardon me," she said.

"Pardon you? What for?"

"For speaking so rudely just now. You constantly make me forget that I am working for you."

"That's a high compliment. But I didn't notice that you spoke rudely."

"Yes, I said 'what egotism,' and I'm sorry."

"You must not be sorry, for if you meant what you said, I deserved it."

"Oh, then you really did mean what you said about women."

Henry laughed. "Miss Drury, don't worry over anything I say; and remember that I'm pleased whenever you forget that you are working for me. You didn't know that I was instrumental in the arrest of Brooks, did you?"

"Why, no, I never thought of such a thing."

"You must keep it to yourself, but I was, and why? I hated him. Once he suggested to me that he would like to have you take lunch with him. I told him that you didn't go out with any one, and with coldbloodedness he replied, 'Ah, she hasn't been here long.' I hated him from that moment. Don't you see what a narrow-minded fellow I am?"

"Narrow-minded!"

"Yes, to move the law against a man merely because he had spoken lightly of—of my friend."

She was leaning against the door-case and was looking down. She dropped a paper. Henry glanced at the window, which he called his loop-hole of freedom, for through it no Colossus could be seen. He turned slowly and looked toward the door. The girl was gone.



CHAPTER XXIX.

A DAY OF REST.

Early the next morning Henry and Richmond were on a train, speeding away from the roar, the clang, the turmoil, the smoke, the atmospheric streams of stench, the trouble of the city. They saw a funeral procession, and Richmond remarked: "They have killed a drone and are dragging him out of the hive, and as they have set out so early they must be going to pay him the compliment of a long haul." They passed stations where men who had spent a quiet night at home paced up and down impatiently waiting for a train to whirl them back to their daily strife. "They play cards going in and coming out," said Richmond, "but at noon they are eager to cut one another's throats."

They ran through a forest, dense and wild-looking, but in the wildness there was a touch of man's deceiving art. They crossed a small river and caught sight of a barefooted boy trying to steal a boat. They sped over the prairie and flew past an old Dutch windmill. It was an odd sight, an un-American glimpse—a wink at a strange land. They commented on everything that whirled within sight—a bend in the road, a crooked Line, a tumble-down fence. They were boys. They talked about names that they held a prejudice against, and occasionally one of them would say, "No, I don't like a man of that name."

"There," Richmond spoke up, "I never knew a man of that name that wasn't a wolf. But sometimes one good fellow offsets a whole generation of bad names. I never liked the name Witherspoon until I met you."

"How do you like DeGolyer?" Henry asked.

"That's not so had, but it isn't free from political scandal. I rather like it—strikes me that there might be a pretty good fellow of that name. Let me see. We'll get off about three miles this side of Lake Villa and go over to Fourth Lake. The woods over there are beautiful."

"We should have insisted on McGlenn's coming," said Henry.

"No," Richmond replied, "the country is a bore to John. Once he came out with me and found fault with what he termed the loose methods of nature. I pointed out a hill, and he said that it wasn't so graceful as a mound in the park. I waved my hand toward a pastoral stretch of valley, and he said, 'Yes, but it isn't Drexel Boulevard.' Art is the mistress of John's mind. His emotions are never stirred by a simple tune, but the climax of an opera tumbles him over and over in ecstasy. He is one of the truest of friends, and he is as game as a brook trout. He has associated with drunkards, but was never drunk; and during his early days in Chicago he lived with gamblers, but he came out an honorable man."

"I have been reading his novels," said Henry, "and in places he is as sharp as broken glass."

"Yes, but he is too much given to didacticism. Out of mischief I tell him that he sets up a theory, calls it a character, and talks through it. But he is strong, and his technique is fine."

"In Paris he would have been a great man," Henry replied.

They got off at a milk station and strolled along a road. A piece of newspaper fluttered on the ground in front of them.

"There is just enough of a breeze to stir a scandal," said Richmond, treading upon the paper.

"When I find a newspaper in an out-of-the-way place," Henry replied, "I fancy that the world has lost one of its visiting-cards."

They stopped at a farm-house, engaged a boat, and then went down to the lake. Nature wore a thoughtful, contemplative smile, and the lake was a dimple. A flawless day; an Indian summer day, gauzed with a glowing haze. And the smaller trees, in recognition of this grape-juice time of year, had adorned themselves in red. October, the sweetest and mellowest stanza in God Almighty's poem—the dreamy, lulling lines between hot Summer's passion and Winter's cold severity. On the train they had been boys, but now they were men, looking at the tranquil, listening to the immortal.

"Did you speak?" Henry asked.

"No," said Richmond, "it was October."

They floated out on the lake. Mud-hens, in their midsummer fluttering, had woven the rushes into a Gobelin tapestry. The deep notes of the old frog were hushed, but in an out-of-the-way nook the youngster was trying his voice on the water-dog. A dragon-fly lighted on a stake and flashed a sunbeam from his bedazzled wing; and a bright bug, like a streak of blue flame, zigzagged his way across the smooth water.

An hour passed. "They won't bite," said Richmond. "In this pervading dreaminess they have forgotten their materialism."

"Probably they are tired of minnows," Henry replied. "Suppose we try frogs."

"No, I have sworn never to bait with another frog. It's too much like patting a human being on a hook. The last frog I used reached up, took hold of the hook and tried to take it out. No, I can't fish with a frog."

"But you would catch a bass, and you know that it must hurt him—in fact, you know that it's generally fatal."

"Yes, but it's his rapacity that gets him into trouble. I don't believe they're going to bite. Suppose we go over yonder and wallow under that tree."

"All right. I don't care to catch a fish now anyway. It would be a disturbance to pull him out. Our trip has already paid us a large profit. With one exception it has been more than a year since I have seen anything outside of that monstrous town. As long as the spirit of the child remains with the man, he loves the country. All children are fond of the woods—the deep shade holds a mystery."

They lay on the thick grass under an oak. On one side of the tree was an old scar, made with an axe, and Henry, pointing to the scar, said: "To cut down this tree was once the task assigned some lusty young fellow, but just as he had begun his work, a neighbor came along and told him that his strong arm was needed by his country; and he put down his axe and took up a gun."

"That may be," Richmond replied, "Many a hero has sprung from this land; these meadows have many times been mowed by men who went away to reap and who were reaped at Gettysburg."

After a time they went out in the boat again, and were on the water when the sun lost its splendor and, hanging low, fired the distant wood-top. And now there was a hush as if all the universe waited for the dozing day to sink into sounder sleep. The sun went down, a bird screamed, and nature began her evening hum.

In the darkness they lost the path that led through the woods. They made an adventure of this, and pretended that they might not find their way out until morning. They wandered about in a laughing aimlessness, and there was a tone of disappointment in Richmond's voice when he halted and said, "Here's the road."

They went to bed in the farmer's spare room, where the subscription book, flashing without and dull within, lay on the center table. A plaster-of-paris kitten, once the idol of a child whose son now doubtless lay in a national burial-ground, looked down from the mantel-piece. There was the frail rocking-chair that was never intended to be sat in, and on the wall, in an acorn-studded frame, was a faded picture entitled "The Return of the Prodigal."

Richmond was sinking to sleep when Henry called him.

"What is it?"

"I didn't know you were asleep."

"I wasn't. What were you going to say?"

"Oh, nothing in particular—was just going to ask what you think of a man who lives a lie?"

"I should think," Richmond answered, "that he must be a pretty natural sort of a fellow."



CHAPTER XXX.

A MOTHER'S REQUEST.

At dinner, the evening after Henry had returned from the country, Ellen caused her mother to look up by saying that Miss Miller's chance was gone.

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Witherspoon asked. "I wasn't aware that Miss Miller ever had any chance, as you are pleased to term it. But why hasn't she as much chance now as she ever had?"

"Because her opportunity has been killed."

"Was it ever alive?" Henry asked.

"Oh, yes, but it is dead now. Mother, you ought to see the young woman I saw at Henry's office the other day. Look, he's trying to blush. Oh, she's dazzling with her great blue eyes."

Mrs. Witherspoon's look demanded an explanation.

"Mother," said Henry, "she means our book-reviewer."

"I don't like literary women," Mrs. Witherspoon replied, with stress in the movement of her head and with prejudice in the compression of her lips. "They are too—too uppish, I may say."

"But Miss Drury makes no literary pretensions," Henry rejoined.

"I should think not," Ellen spoke up. "I didn't take her to be literary, she was so neatly dressed."

"When you cease so lightly to discuss a noble-minded girl—a friend of mine—you will do me a great favor," Henry replied.

"What's all this?" Witherspoon asked. He had paid no attention to this trifling set-to and had caught merely the last accent of it.

"Oh, nothing, I'm sure," Ellen answered.

"Very well, then, we can easily put it aside. Henry, what was it you said to-day at noon about going away?"

"I said that I was going with a newspaper excursion to Mexico."

"Oh, surely, not so far as that!" Mrs. Witherspoon exclaimed.

"It won't take long, mother."

"No, but it's so far; and I should think that you've had enough of that country."

"I've never been in Mexico."

"Oh, well, all those countries down there are just the same, and I should think that when you have seen one your first impression is that you don't want to see another."

"They are restful at any rate," he replied.

"But can't you rest nearer home?"

"I could, but I have made up my mind to go with this excursion. I'll not be gone long."

"When are you going to start?"

"To-morrow evening."

"So soon as that?"

"Yes; I—I didn't decide until to-day."

"I don't like to have you go so far, but you know best, I suppose. Are you going out this evening?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, I wish to have a talk with you alone. Come to my sitting-room."

"With pleasure," he answered.

He thought that he knew the subject upon which she had chosen to talk; he saw that she was worried over Miss Drury; but when he had gone into her room and taken a seat beside her, he was surprised that she began to speak of Witherspoon's health.

"I know," she said, "that he is getting stronger, but he needs one great stimulus—he needs you. Please don't look at me that way." She took his hand, and it was limp in her warm grasp. "You know that I've always taken your part."

"Yes, mother, God bless you."

"And you know that I wouldn't advise you against your own interest—you know, my son, that I love you."

His hand closed upon hers, and his eyes, which for a moment had been cold and rebellious, now were warm with the light of affection and obedience.

"I will do what you ask," he said.

"God bless you, my son."

She arose, and hastening to the door, called: "George! oh, George!"

Witherspoon answered, and a moment later he came into the room. "George, our son will take his proper place."

Henry got up, and the merchant caught him by the hand. "You don't know how strong this makes me!" He rubbed his eyes and continued: "This is the first time I have seen you in your true light. You are a strong man—you are not easily influenced. Sit down; I want to look at you. Yes, you are a strong man, and you will be stronger. I will buy the Colton interest—the Witherspoons shall be known everywhere. To-morrow we will make the arrangements."

"I start for Mexico to-morrow."

"Yes, but you'll not be gone long. The trip will be good for you. Let me have a chair," he said. "Thank you," he added, when a chair had been placed for him. "I am quite beside myself—I see things in a new light." He sat down, reached over and took Henry's hands; he shoved himself back and looked at the young man. "Age is coming on, but I'll see myself reproduced."

"But not supplanted," Henry said.

"No, not until the time comes. But the time must come. Ah, after this life, what then? To be remembered. But what serves this purpose? A perpetuation of our interests. After you, your son—the man dies, but the name lives. No one of any sensibility can look calmly on the extinction of his name."

He arose with a new ease, and with a vigor that had long been absent from his step, paced up and down the room. "You will not find it a sacrifice, my son; it will become a fascination. It is not the love of money, but the consciousness of force. The lion enjoys his own strength, but the hare is frightened at his own weakness and runs when no danger is near. Small tradesmen may be ignorant, but a large merchant must be wise, for his wisdom has made him large. Trade is the realization of logic, and success is the fruit of philosophy. People wonder at the achievements of a man whom they take to be ignorant; but that man has a secret intelligence somewhere; and if they could discover it they would imitate him. Don't you permit yourself to feel that any mental force is too high for business. The statesman is but a business man. Behind the great general is the nation's backbone, and that backbone is a financier. Let me see, what time is it?" He looked at his watch. "Come, we will all go to the theater."

Witherspoon drove Henry to the railway station the next evening, and during the drive he talked almost ceaselessly. He complimented Henry upon the wise slowness with which he had made up his mind; there was always too much of impulse in a quick decision. He pointed his whip at a house and said: "A lonely old man lives there; he has built up a fortune, but his name will be buried with him." He spoke of his religious views. There must be a hereafter, but in the future state strength must rule; it was the order of the universe, the will of nature, the decree of eternity. He talked of the books that he had read, and then he turned to business. In a commercial transaction there must be no sentiment; financial credit must be guarded as a sacred honor. Every debt must be paid; every cent due must be extracted. It might cause distress, but distress was an inheritance of life.

To this talk the young man listened vaguely; he said neither yes nor no, and his silence was taken for close attention.

When they arrived at the station, Witherspoon got out of the buggy and with Henry walked up and down the concrete floor along the iron fence. It was here that the stranger had wonderingly gazed at the crowd as he held up young Henry's chain.

"Are you going through New Orleans?"

"Yes; will be there one day."

"You are pretty well acquainted in that town, I suppose."

"With the streets," Henry answered.

"I wish I could go with you, but I can't. Next year perhaps I can get away oftener."

"Yes, if you have cause to place confidence in me."

"I have the confidence now; all that remains for you to do is to become acquainted with the details of your new position."

"And there the trouble may lie."

"You underrate yourself. A man who can pick up an education can with a teacher learn to do almost anything."

"But when I was a boy there was a pleasure in a lesson because I felt that I was stealing it."

The merchant laughed and drew Henry closer to him. "If we may believe the envious, the quality of theft may not be lacking in your future work," he said.

After a short silence Henry remarked: "You say that I am to perpetuate your name."

"Yes, surely."

"I suppose, then, that you claim the right to direct me in my selection of a wife."

Again the merchant drew Henry closer to him. "Not to direct, but to advise," he answered.

"A rich girl, I presume."

"A suitable match at least."

"Suitable to you or to me?"

"To both—to us all. But we'll think about that after a while."

"I have thought about it; the girl is penniless."

"What! I hope you haven't committed yourself." They were farther apart now.

"Not by what I have uttered—and she may care nothing for me—but my actions must have said that I love her."

"What do you mean by 'love her'?" the merchant angrily demanded.

"Is it possible that you have forgotten?"

"Of course not," he said, softening. "Who is she?"

"A girl whose life has been a devotion—an angel."

"Bosh! That's all romance. Young man, this is Chicago, and Chicago is the material end—the culmination of the nineteenth century."

"And this girl is the culmination of purity and divine womanhood—of love!" He stopped short, looked at Witherspoon, and said: "If you say a word against her I will not go into the store—I'll set fire to it and burn it down."

They were in a far corner, and now, standing apart, were looking at each other. The young man's eyes snapped with anger.

"Come, don't fly off that way," said the merchant. "You may choose for yourself, of course. Oh, you've got some of the old man's pigheadedness, have you? All right; it will keep men from running over you."

He took Henry's arm, and they walked back toward the gate.

"I won't say anything to your mother about it."

"You may do as you like."

"Well, it's best not to mention it yet a while. Will you sell your newspaper as soon as you return?"

"Yes."

"All right. Then there'll be nothing in the way. Your train's about ready. Take good care of yourself, and come back rested. Telegraph me whenever you can. Good-by."



CHAPTER XXXI.

A MOMENT OF ARROGANCE.

Henry wandered through the old familiar streets. How vividly came back the years, the dreary long ago! Here, on a door-step, he had passed many a nodding hour, kept in half-consciousness by the clank of the printing-press, waiting for the dawn and his bundle of newspapers. No change had come to soften the truth of the picture that a by-gone wretchedness threw upon his memory. The attractive fades, but how eternal is the desolate! Yonder he could see the damp wall where he used to hunt for snails, and farther down the narrow street was the house in which had lived the old Italian woman. "You think I'm a stranger," he mused, as he passed a policeman, "but I know all this. I have been in dens here that you have never seen."

He went to the Foundlings' Home and walked up and down in front of the long, low building. An old woman, dragging a rocking-chair, came out on the veranda and sat down. He halted at the gate, stood for a moment and then rang the bell. A negro opened the gate and politely invited him to enter. The old woman arose as he came up the steps.

"Keep your seat, madam."

"Did you want to see anybody?" she asked.

"No; and don't let me disturb you."

He gave her a closer look and thought that he remembered her as the woman who had taken him on her lap and told him that his father was dead.

"No disturbance at all," she answered. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, I should like to look through this place."

"Very well, but you may find things pretty badly tumbled up. We're cleaning house. Come this way, please."

He saw the corner in which he used to sleep, and there was the same iron bedstead, with a fever-fretted child lying upon it. He thought of the nights when he had cried himself to sleep, and of the mornings when he lay there weaving his fancies while a spider high above the window was spinning his web. There was the same old smell, and he sniffed the sorrow of his childhood.

"How long has this been here?" he asked.

"He was brought here about two weeks ago."

"I mean the bedstead. How long has it been in this corner?"

"Oh, I can't say as to that. I thought you meant the child. I've been here a long time, and I never saw the bedstead anywhere else. It will soon be thirty years since I came here. Do you care to go into any of the other rooms?"

"No, thank you."

They returned to the veranda. "Won't you sit down?" the old woman asked.

"No, I've but a few moments to stay. By the way, some time ago I met a man who said that he had lived here when a child. I was trying to think of his name. Oh, it was a man named Henry DeGolyer, I believe. Do you remember him?"

"Yes, but it was a long time ago. I heard somebody say that he lived in the city here, but he never came out to see us. Oh, yes, I remember him. He was a stupid little thing, but that didn't keep him from being mean. He oughtn't to have been taken in here, for he had a father."

"Did you know his father?"

"Who? John DeGolyer? I reckon I did, and he wa'n't no manner account, nuther. He had sense enough, but he throw himself away with liquor. He painted a picture of my youngest sister, and everybody said that it favored her mightily, but John wa'n't no manner account."

"Do you remember his wife?"

"Not much. He married a young creature down the river and broke her heart, folks said."

"Did you ever see her?"

His voice had suddenly changed, and the old woman looked sharply at him.

"Yes, several times. She was a tall, frail, black-eyed creature, and she might have done well if she hadn't ever met John DeGolyer. But won't you sit down?"

"No, thank you, I'm going now. You are the matron, I presume."

"Yes, sir—have been now for I hardly know how long."

"If I send some presents to the children will you see that they are properly distributed?"

"Yes, but for goodness' sake don't send any drums or horns."

"I won't. How many boys have you?"

"Well, we've got a good many, I can tell you. You see, this isn't a regular foundlings' home. We take up poor children from most, everywhere. We've got ninety-three boys."

And how many girls?"

"We've got a good many of them, too, I can tell you. Seventy-odd—seventy-five, I think."

"All right. Now don't forget your promise. Good day, madam."

He went to a large toy-shop and began to buy in a way that appeared likely to exhaust the stock.

"Where do you live?" asked the proprietor of the shop.

"In Chicago."

"What, you ain't going to ship these toys there and try to make anything on them, are you?"

"No; I want them sent out to the Foundlings' Home. What's your bill?"

The man figured up four hundred and ten dollars. "Come with me to the bank," said Henry.

"Nearly all you Chicago men are rich," remarked the toy merchant as they walked along. "I've had a notion to sell out and move there myself. Chicago's reaching out after everything, and New Orleans is doing more and more trading with her every year. I bought a good many of these toys from a Chicago drummer. He sells everything—represents a concern called the Colossus."

Henry settled for the toys, and then continued his stroll about the city. A strange sadness depressed him. The old woman's words—"and broke her heart, folks said"—rang in his ears. Had he been born as a mere incident of nature, or was it intended that he should achieve something? Was he an accident or was he designed? When he thought of his mother, his heart bled; but to think of his father made it beat with anger. When he became a member of the Witherspoon family, his conscience had constantly plied him with questions until, worn with self-argument, he resolved to accept a part of the advantages that were thrust upon him. Why not all? What sense had he shown in his obstinacy? What honor had he served? Why should he desire to reserve a part of a former self? Fortune had not favored his birth, but accident had thrown him in the way to be rich and therefore powerful. Accident! What could be more of an accident than life itself? Then came the last sting. The woman whom he loved, should she become his wife, would never know her name; his children—but how vain and foolish was such a questioning. Was his name worth preserving? Should he not rejoice in the thought that he had thrown it off? He stopped on a corner and stood in an old doorway, where he had blacked shoes. "George Witherspoon is right, and I have been a fool," he said. "Nature despises the weak. I will be rich—I am rich."

There was no half-heartedness now. His manner changed; there was arrogance in his step. Rich—powerful! The world had been his enemy and he had blacked its shoes. Now it should be his servant, and with a lordly contempt he would tip it for its services.

He turned into a restaurant, and in a masterful and overbearing way ordered his dinner. He looked at a man and mused: "He puts on airs, the fool! I could buy him."

Several men who had been sitting at a table got up to go out. One of them pointed at a ragged fellow who, some distance back, was down on his knees scrubbing the floor. "Zeb, see that man?"

"What man?"

"The one scrubbing the floor."

"That isn't a man—it's a thing. What of it?"

"Nothing, only he used to be one of the brightest newspaper writers in this city."

Henry looked up.

"Yes—used to write some great stuff, they say."

"What's his name?"

"Henry DeGolyer."

Henry sprang to his feet. He put out his hands, for the room began to swim round. He looked toward the door, but the men were gone. A waiter ran to him and caught him by the arm. "Sit down here, sir."

"No; get away."

He steadied himself against the wall. The ragged man looked up, moved his bucket of water, dipped his mop-rag into it and went on with his work. Henry took a stop forward, and then felt for the wall again. A death-like paleness had overspread his face, and he appeared vainly to be trying to shut his staring and expressionless eyes. The waiter took hold of his arm again.

"Never mind. I'm all right."

There were no customers in the room. The scrub-man came nearer. Shudder after shudder, seeming to come in waves, passed over Henry, but suddenly he became calm, and slowly he walked toward the rear end of the room. The scrub-man moved forward and was at Henry's feet. He reached down and took hold of the man's arm—took the rag out of his hand. The man looked up. There could be no mistake. He was Henry Witherspoon.

"Don't you know me?" DeGolyer asked.

The man snatched the rag and began again to scrub the floor.

DeGolyer took hold of his arm. "Get up," he commanded, and the man obeyed as if frightened.

"Don't you know me?"

"No."

"Don't you remember Hank?"

"I'm Hank," the man answered.

"No," said DeGolyer, with a sob, "you are Henry, and I am Hank."

"No, Henry's dead—I'm Hank." He dropped on his knees again and began to scrub the floor.

Just then the proprietor came in. "What's the trouble?" he asked. "Why, mister, don't pay any attention to that poor fellow. There's no harm in him."

"No one knows that better than I," DeGolyer answered. "How long has he been here—where did he come from?"

"He came off a ship. The cap'n said that he couldn't use him and asked me to take him. Been here about five months, I think. They say he used to amount to something, but he's gone up here," he added, tapping his head.

"What's the captain's name—where can I find him?"

"His ship's in now, I think. Go down to the levee and ask for the cap'n of the Creole."

"I will, but first let me tell you that I have come for this man. I know his father. I'll get back as soon as I can."

"All right. And if you can do anything for this poor fellow you are welcome to, for he's not much use round here."

DeGolyer snatched his hat and rushed out into the street. Not a hack was in sight; he could not wait for a car, and he hastened toward the river. He began to run, and a boy cried: "Sick him, Tige." He stopped suddenly and put his hand to his head. "Have I lost my mind?" he asked himself.

"Well, here we are again," some one said. DeGolyer looked round and recognized the railroad man who had charge of the excursion.

"I'm glad I met you," DeGolyer replied. "It saves hunting you up."

"Why, what's the matter? Are you sick?"

"No, I'm all right, but something has occurred that compels me to return at once to Chicago."

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"No, but it demands my immediate return. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. Good-by."

Again he started toward the river. He upset an old woman's basket of fruit. She cried out at him, and be saw that she could scarcely totter after the rolling oranges. He halted and picked them up for her. She mumbled something; she appeared to be a hundred years old. As he was putting the fruit into the basket, she struck a note in her mumbling that caused him to look her full in the face. He dropped the oranges and sprang back. She was the hag that had taken him from the Foundlings' Home. He hurried onward. "Great God!" he inwardly cried, "I am covered with the slime of the past."

Without difficulty he found the captain of the Creole. "I don't know very much about the poor fellow," he said. "I run across him nearly six months ago fit a little place called Dura, on the coast of Costa Rica. He was working about a sort of hotel, scrubbing and taking care of the horses; and I guess I shouldn't have paid any attention to him if I hadn't heard somebody say that he was an American; and it struck me as rather out of place that an American should be scrubbing round for those fellows, and I began to inquire about him. The landlord said that he was brought there sick, a good while ago, and was left for dead, but just as they were about to bury him he came to, and got up again after a few weeks. A priest told me that his name was Henry DeGolyer, and I said that it didn't make any difference what his name might be, I was going to take him back to the United States, so that if he had to clean out stables and scrub he might do it for white folks at least; for I am a down-east Yankee, and I haven't any too much respect for those fellows. Well, I brought him to New Orleans. I couldn't do much for him, being a poor man myself, but I got him a place in a restaurant, where he could get enough to eat, anyhow. I've since heard that he used to be a newspaper man, but this was disputed. Some people said that the newspaper DeGolyer was a black-haired fellow. But that didn't make any difference—I did the best I could."

"And you shall he more than paid for your trouble," said DeGolyer.

"Well, we won't argue about that. If you've got any money to spare you'd better give it to him."

"What is your name?"

"Atkins—just Cap'n Atkins."

"Where do you get your mail?"

"Well, I don't get any to speak of. A letter sent in care of the wharfmaster will reach me all right."

DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant. Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen, sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.

"Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm.

"No; not Henry—Hank. Henry's dead."

"Come, my boy."

Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers against them.

"My boy."

"He got up and turned to go with DeGolyer, who held his arm, but perceiving that he had left his bundle, pulled back and made an effort to reach it.

"No, we don't want that," said DeGolyer.

"Yes, clothes."

"No, we'll get better clothes. Come on."

DeGolyer took him to a Turkish bath, to a barbershop, and then to a clothing store. It was now evening and nearly time to take the train for Chicago. They drove to the hotel and then to the railway station.

The homeward journey was begun, and the wheels kept on repeating: "A father and a mother and a sister, too." DeGolyer did not permit himself to think. His mind had a thousand quickenings, but he killed them. Young Witherspoon looked in awe at the luxury of the sleeping-car; he gazed at the floor as if he wondered how it could be scrubbed. At first he refused to sit on the showy plush, and even after DeGolyer's soothing and affectionate words had relieved his fear of giving offense, he jumped to his feet when the porter came through the car, and in a trembling fright begged his companion to protect him against the anger of the head waiter.

"Sit down, my dear boy. He is not a head waiter—he is your servant."

"Is he?"

"Yes, and must wait on you."

At this he doubtfully shook his head, and he continued to watch the porter until assured that he was not offended, and then timidly offered to shake hands with him.

When bed-time came young Witherspoon refused to take off his clothes. He was afraid that some one might steal them, and no argument served to reassure him; and even after he had lain down, with his clothes on, he took off a red neck-tie which he had insisted upon wearing, and for greater security put it into his pocket. DeGolyer lay beside him, and for a time Witherspoon was quiet, but suddenly he rose up and began to mutter.

"What's the matter, Henry?"

"Not Henry—Hank. Henry's dead."

"Well, what's the matter, Hank?"

"Want my hat."

"It's up there. We'll get it in the morning."

"Want it now."

DeGolyer got his hat for him, and he lay with it on his breast. How dragging a night it was! Would the train never run from under the darkness out into the light of day? And sometimes, when the train stopped, DeGolyer fancied that it had run ahead of night and perversely was waiting for the darkness to catch up. The end was coming, and what an end it might be!

The day was dark and rainy; the landscape was a flat dreariness. A buzzard flapped his heavy wings and flew from a dead tree; a yelping dog ran after the train; a horse, turned out to die, stumbled along a stumpy road.

It was evening when the train reached Chicago. DeGolyer and young Witherspoon took a cab and were driven to a hospital. The case was explained to the physician in charge. He said that the mental trouble might not be due to any permanent derangement of the brain; it was evident that he had not been treated properly. The patient's nervous system was badly shattered. The case was by no means hopeless. He could not determine the length of time it might require to restore him to physical health, which meant, he thought, a mental cure as well.

"Three months?" DeGolyer asked.

"That long, at least."

"I will leave him with you, and I urge you not to stop short of the highest medical skill that can be procured in either this country or in Europe. As to who this young man is or may turn out to be, that must be kept as a secret. I will call every day. Henry"—

"Hank."

"All right, Hank. Now, I'm going to leave you here, but I'll be back soon."

"No; they'll steal my clothes!" he cried, in alarm.

"No, they won't; they'll give you more clothes. You stay here, and I will bring you something when I come back."

DeGolyer went to a hotel.



CHAPTER XXXII.

A MOST PECULIAR FELLOW.

Early the next morning George Witherspoon was pacing the sidewalk in front of his house when DeGolyer came up. The merchant was startled.

"Why, where did you come from!" he exclaimed.

"I thought it best to get back as soon as possible," DeGolyer answered, shaking hands with him. "The truth is, I met a man who caused me to change my plans. He wants to buy my paper, and so I came back with him."

"Good enough, my dear boy. We'll go down immediately after breakfast and close with him one way or another. I am delighted, I assure you. Why, I missed you every minute of the time. See how I have already begun to rely on you? I haven't said a word to your mother about that angel. Hah, you'd burn down the Colossus, would you? Why, bless my life, you rascal."

"Who is that?" Ellen cried as they entered the hall; and with an airy, early-morning grace she came running down the stairway. "Oh, nobody can place any confidence in what you say," she declared, kissing him. "Goodness alive, man, you look as if you hadn't slept a wink since you left home." Just then Mrs. Witherspoon came out of the dining-room. "Mother," Ellen called, "here's one of your mother's people, and he's darker than ever."

Mrs. Witherspoon fondly kissed him before she gave Ellen the usual look of gentle reproach. "You must have known how much we missed you, my son, and that is the reason you came home. And you're just in time for breakfast. Ellen, will you please get out of the way? And what do you mean by saying that he's darker than ever?" Here she gave DeGolyer an anxious look. "But you are not ill, are you, my son?"

"Ill!" Witherspoon repeated, with resentment. "Of course he's not ill. What do you mean by ill? Do you expect a man to travel a thousand miles and then look like a rose? Is breakfast ready? Well, come then. We've got business to attend to."

"Now, as to this man who wants to buy my paper," said DeGolyer, when they were seated at the table, "let me tell you that he is a most peculiar fellow, and if he finds that I am anxious to sell, he'll back out. Therefore I don't think you'd better see him, father."

"Nonsense, my dear boy; I can make him buy in three minutes."

"That may be, but you might scare him off in one minute. He's an old-maidish sort of fellow, and is easily frightened. You'd better let me work him."

"All right, but don't haggle. There are transactions in which men are bettered by being beaten, and this is one of them."

"Yes, but it isn't well to let eagerness rush you into a folly."

"Ah, but in this affair folly was at the other end—at the buying."

"Then, with a wise sale, let us correct that folly."

"All right, but without haggling. When are you to meet this man again?"

"At noon."

"And when shall I see you?"

"Immediately after the deal is closed."

On DeGolyer's part the day was spent in the spinning of the threads of excuses. He might explain a week's delay, but how was he to account for a three months' put-off? And if at the end of that time young Witherspoon's case should be pronounced hopeless what course was then to be taken?

He did not see George Witherspoon again until dinner-time. The merchant met him with a quick inquiry. "We will discuss it in the library, father," DeGolyer answered.

"But can't you tell me now whether or not it has come out all right?"

"I think it's all right, but you may not. But let as wait until after dinner."

When they went into the library Witherspoon hastily lighted his cigar, and sat down in his leather-covered chair. "Well, how did it come out?" he asked.

DeGolyer did not sit down. Evidently he expected to remain in the room but a short time.

"I told you that he was a very peculiar fellow."

"Yes, I know that. What did you do with him?"

"Well, the deal isn't closed yet. He wants to go into the office and work three months before he decides."

"Tell him to go to the devil!" Witherspoon exclaimed.

"No, I can't do that."

"Why can't you? Do you belong to him? Have you a consideration for everybody but me?"

"I very nearly belong to him."

"You very nearly belong to him!" Witherspoon cried. "What in the name of God do you mean? Have you lost your senses?"

"My senses are all right, but my situation is peculiar."

"I should think so. Henry, I don't want to fly all to pieces. Lately, and with your help, I have pulled myself strongly together, and now I beg of you not to pull me apart."

"Father, some time ago you said that we have more control over ourselves than we exercise; and now I ask you to exert a little of that control. The sense of obligation has always been strong in me, and I feel that it is largely developed in you. I said that I very nearly belonged to this man, and I will tell you why; and don't be impatient, but listen to me for a few minutes. A number of years ago uncle left me in New Orleans and went on one of his trips to South America. He had not been gone long when yellow fever broke out. It was unusually fatal, and the city, though long accustomed to the disease, was panic-stricken. I was one of the early victims. Every member of the family I boarded with died within a week, and I was left in the house alone. This man, this peculiar fellow, Nat Parker, found me, took charge of me and did not leave me until I was out of danger. Of course, there was no way to reward him—you can merely stammer your gratitude to the man who has saved your life. He told me that the time might come when I could do him a good turn. Well, I met him the other day in New Orleans, and I incidentally spoke of my intention to sell my paper. He said that he would buy it. I told him that I would make him a present of it, but he resentfully replied that he was not a beggar. I came back with him to Chicago, and afraid that any interference might offend him, I told you that you should have nothing to do with the transaction. He has an ambition to become known as a newspaper man, and he foolishly believes that I am a great journalist. So he declares that for three months he must serve under me. What could I say? Could I tell him that I would dispose of the paper to some one else? I was compelled to accept his terms. I insisted that he should live with us during the time, but he objected. He swore that he must not be introduced to any of my people—to be petted like a dog that has saved a child's life. And there's the situation."

Witherspoon's cigar had fallen to the floor. Some time elapsed before he spoke, and when he did speak there was an unnatural softness in his voice. "Strange story," he said. "No wonder you are peculiar when you have been thrown among such peculiar people. If your friend were a sane man, we could deal with him in a sensible manner, but as he is not we must let him have his way. But suppose that at the end of three months he is tired of the paper?"

"I will sell it or give it away. But there'll be no trouble about that. It's a valuable piece of property, and I will swear to you that if at the end of that time Henry Witherspoon does not go into the Colossus with his father, it will be the father who keeps him out. Now promise me that you won't worry."

Witherspoon got up and took Henry's hand. "You have done the best you could, my son. It is peculiar and unbusinesslike, but we can't help that."

"Will you explain to mother?"

"Yes, but the more I look at it the stranger it seems. I don't know, however, that it is so strange after all. He is simply a chivalrous crank of the South, and we must humor him. But I'll be glad when all this nonsense is over."

DeGolyer sat in his room, smoking his pipe. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and said: "Oh, what a liar you are! But your day for truth is coming."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE TIME WAS DRAWING NEAR.

One morning, when DeGolyer called at the hospital, young Witherspoon said to him: "You are Hank, and I'm Henry." And this was the first indication that his mind was regaining its health.

Every day George Witherspoon would ask: "Well, how's your peculiar friend getting along?" And one evening, when he made this inquiry, DeGolyer answered: "He is so much pleased that he doesn't think it will take him quite three months to decide."

"Good enough, but why doesn't he decide now?"

"Because it would hardly be in keeping with his peculiar methods. I haven't questioned him, but occasionally he drops a hint that leads me to believe that he's satisfied."

DeGolyer was once tempted to tell Richmond and McGlenn that he was feeling his way through a part that had been put upon him, but with this impulse came a restraining thought—the play was not yet done. They were at luncheon, and McGlenn had declared that DeGolyer was sometimes strangely inconsistent.

"I admit that I am, John, and with an explanation I could make you stare at me."

"Then let us have the explanation. Man was made to stare as well as to mourn."

"No, not now; but it will come one of these days, though perhaps not directly from me."

"Ah, you have killed a mysterious lion and made a riddle; but where is the honey you found in the carcass? Give us the explanation."

"Not now. But one of these bleak Chicago days you and Richmond will sit in the club, watch the whirling snow and discuss me, and you both will say that you always thought there was something strange about me."

"And we do," McGlenn replied. "Here's a millionaire's son, and he has chosen toil instead of ease. Isn't that an anomaly, and isn't such an anomaly a strange thing? But will the outcome of that vague something cause us to hold you at a cooler length from us—will that 'I told you so' result in your banishment? Shall we send a Roger Williams over the hills?"

"John, what are you trying to get at?" Richmond asked.

McGlenn looked serenely at him. "Have you devoured your usual quota of pickles? If so, writhe in your misery until I have dined."

"I writhe, not with what I have eaten, but at what I see. Is there a more distressing sight than an epicure—or a gourmand, rather—with a ragged purse?"

"Oh, yes; a stuffer, a glutton without a purse."

Richmond laughed. "Hunger may force a man to apparent gluttony," he said, "and a sandbagger may have taken his purse; and all on his part is honesty. But there is pretense—which I hold is not honest—in an effort to be an epicure."

"Ah, which you hold is not honest. A most rare but truthful avowal, since nothing you hold is honest."

"In my willingness to help the weak," Richmond replied, "I have held your overcoat while you put it on."

"And it was not an honest covering until you took your hands off."

"Neither did it cover honesty until some other man put it on by mistake," Richmond rejoined.

DeGolyer went to his office, and Richmond and McGlenn, wrangling as they walked along, betook themselves to the Press Club. "I tell you," said McGlenn, as they were going up the stairs, "that he needs our sympathy. He has suffered, but having suffered, he is great."

Thus the weeks were sprinkled with light incidents, and thus the days dripped into the past—and a designated future was drawing near.

"Well," Witherspoon remarked one Sunday morning, "the time set by your insane friend will soon be up."

"Yes, within a week," DeGolyer replied.

"I should think that he is more in need of apartments in an asylum than of a newspaper; but if he thinks he knows his business, all right; we have nothing to say. What has he agreed to give for the paper?"

"No price has been fixed, but there'll be no trouble about that."

"I hope not."

"Did you understand mother and Ellen to say they were going out shopping to-morrow afternoon?" DeGolyer asked.

"Yes, but what of it?"

"There's this of it: If they decide to go, I want you to meet me here at three o'clock."

"Why can't you meet me at the store?"

"Don't I tell you that my friend is peculiar?"

"Oh, it's to meet him, eh? All right, I'll be here."

His play was nearing the end. To-morrow he must snatch "the make-up" off his face. He felt a sadness that was more than half a joy. He should be free; he should be honest, and being honest, he could summon that most sterling of all strength, a manly self-respect. He had thought himself strong, but had found himself weak. The love of money, which at first had seemed so gross, at last had conquered him. This thought did not sting him now; it softened him, made him look with a more forgiving eye upon tempted human nature. But was it money that had tempted him to turn from a purpose so resolutely formed? Had not Witherspoon's argument and Ellen's persuasion left him determined to reserve one refuge for his mind—one closet wherein he could hang the cast-off garment of real self? Then it was the appeal of that gentle woman whom he called mother; it was not money. But after yielding to the mother he had found himself without a prop, and at last he had felt a contempt for a moderate income and had boasted to himself that he could buy a man. And for this he reproached himself. How grim was that something known as fate, how mockingly did it play with the children of men, and in that mockery how cold a justice! But he should be free, and that thought thrilled him.

In the afternoon he went over to the North Side, and along a modest street he walked, looking at the houses as if hunting for a number. He went up a short flight of wooden steps and rang the bell of the second flat. The hall door was open, and a moment later he saw Miss Drury at the head of the stairs.

"Why, is that you, Mr. Witherspoon?"

"Yes; may I come up?"

"What a question! Of course you may, especially as I am as lonesome as I can be."

He was shown into a neat sitting-room, where a canary bird "fluttered" his hanging cage up and down. A rose was pinned on one of the white curtains. The room was warmed by a stove, and through the isinglass the playful flame could be seen. She brought a "tidied" rocking-chair, and smiling in her welcome, said that as this was his first visit, she must make him comfortable. "Don't you see," she added, "that you constantly make me forget that I am working for you?"

"And don't you know," he answered, "that you are most pleasing when you do forget it? But I am to infer that you wouldn't give me the rocking-chair if you didn't forget that you were working for me?"

"You must infer nothing," she said. "But am I most pleasing when I forget? Then I will not remember again. It is a woman's duty to be pleasing; and her advantage, too, for when she ceases to please she loses many of her privileges."

DeGolyer went to the window, took the rose, brought it to her and said: "Put this in your hair."

She looked up as she took the rose; their eyes met and for a moment they lived in the promise of a delirious bliss. She looked down as she was putting the flower in her hair. He spoke an idle word that meant more than old Wisdom's speech, and she answered with a laugh that was nearly a sob. He thirsted to take her in his arms, to tell her of his love, but his time was not yet come—he was still Henry Witherspoon.

"How have you spent the day?" she asked.

"I'm thinking of to-morrow."

"And will to-morrow be so important?"

"Yes, the most important day of my life."

"Oh, tell me about it."

"I will to-morrow."

"Well, I suppose I shall have to wait, but I wish you would tell me just a little bit of it."

"To tell a little would be to tell all. The story is not yet complete."

"Oh, is it a story? And is it one that you are writing?"

"No, one that I am living. It is a strange tale."

"I know it must be interesting, but what has to-morrow to do with it?"

"It will be completed then."

"I don't understand you; I never did. I've often thought you the saddest man I have ever seen, and I've wondered why. You ought not to be sad—fortune is surely a friend of yours. You live in a grand house, and your father is a power in this great community. All the advantages of this life are within your reach; and if you can find cause to be sad, what must be the condition of people who have to struggle in order to live!"

"The summing-up of what you say means that I ought to be thankful."

"Yes, you were stolen, it is true, but you were restored, and therefore, by contrast and out of gratitude, you should be happier than if you had never been taken away."

"All that is true so far as it is true," he replied. "And let me say that I'm not so sad as you suppose. Do you care if I smoke here?"

"Not at all."

He lighted a cigar and sat smoking in silence. A boy shouted in the hall, a dog barked, and a cat sprang up from a doze under a table, looked toward the door, gave himself a humping stretch, and then lay down again.

Whenever DeGolyer looked at the girl, a new expression, the rosy tinge of a strange confusion, flew to her countenance. His talk evoked a self-possessed reply, but over his silence an embarrassment was brooding. She seemed to be in fear of something that sweetly she expected.

"I may not be at the office to-morrow until evening, but will you wait for me?"

"Yes."

"And when I come, I'll be myself."

"Be yourself? Who are you now?"

"Another man."

"Oh, then I shall be glad to see you."

"I don't know as to that. You may have strong objections to my real self."

"You are so mysterious."

"To-day, yes; to-morrow, no."

He was leaning back, blowing rings of smoke, and was looking up at them.

"Perhaps I shouldn't say it," she said, "but during the last three months you have appeared stranger than ever."

"Yes," he drawlingly replied, "for during the last three months it was natural that I should be stranger than ever."

"I do wish I knew what you mean."

"And when you have been told you may wish you had never known."

"Is it so bad as that?"

"Worse."

"Worse than what?"

"Than anything you imagine."

"Oh, you are simply trying to tease me, Mr. Witherspoon."

"Do you think so? Then we'll say no more about it."

"Oh, but that's worse than ever. Well, I don't care; I can wait."

They talked on subjects in which neither of them was interested, but sympathy was in their voices. Gradually—yes, now it seemed for months—they had been floating toward that fern-covered island in the river of life where a thoughtless word comes back with an echo of love; where the tongue may be silly, but where the eye holds a redeemed soul, returned from God to gaze upon the only remembered rapture of this earth.

She went with him to the head of the stairway. "Don't leave the office before I come," he called, looking back at her.

"You know I won't," she answered.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

TOLD HIM A STORY.

At the appointed time, the next day, George Witherspoon was waiting in his library. DeGolyer came in a cab, and when he got out, he told the driver to wait.

"Where is your friend?" Witherspoon asked as DeGolyer entered the room.

"He'll be here within a few minutes."

"Confound him, I'm getting sick of his peculiarities."

The merchant sat down; DeGolyer stood on the hearth-rug. The time was come, and he had been strong, but now a shiver crept over him.

"My friend told me a singular story to-day."

"I don't doubt it; and if his stories are as singular as he is, they must he marvelous."

"This story is marvelous, and I think it would interest you. I will give it to you briefly. There were two young men in a foreign country"—

"I wish he was in a foreign country. I can't wait here all day."

"He'll be here soon. These two friends were on their way to the sea coast, and here's where it will strike you. One of them had been stolen when he was a child, and was now going back to his parents. But before they reached the coast, the rich man's son—as we'll call the one who had been stolen—was stricken with a fever. No ship was in port, and his friend took him to a hotel and got a doctor for him."

"Wish you'd hand me a match," said Witherspoon. "My cigar's out. Thank you."

"Got a doctor for him, but he grew worse. Sometimes he was delirious, but at times his mind was strangely clear; and once, when he was rational, he told his friend that he was going to die. He didn't appear to care very much so far as it concerned himself, but the thought of the grief that his death would cause his parents seemed to lie as a cold weight upon his mind. And it was then that he made a most peculiar request. He compelled his friend to promise to take his name; to go to his home; to be a son to his father and mother. His friend begged, but had to yield. Well, the rich man's son died, we'll suppose, and the poor fellow took his name on the spot. He had to leave hurriedly, for a father and a mother and a sister were waiting in a distant home. A ship that had just come was ready to sail, and a month might pass before the landing of another vessel. He went to these people as their son"—

"Oh, yes," said Witherspoon, "and fell in love with the sister, and then had to tell his story."

"No, he didn't. He loved the girl, but only as a brother should. He was not wholly acceptable to his father, but"—

"Ah, that's all very well," said Witherspoon, "but what proof had he?"

DeGolyer met Witherspoon's careless look and held it with a firm gaze. And slowly raising his hand, he said: "He held up a gold chain."

Witherspoon sprang to his feet and exclaimed: "My God, he's crazy!"

"Wait!"

The merchant had turned toward the door. He halted and looked back.

"George Witherspoon"—

"I thought so—crazy. Merciful God, he's mad!"

"Will you listen to me for a moment—just a moment—and I will prove to you that I'm not crazy. I am not your son—my name is Henry DeGolyer. Wait, I tell you!" Witherspoon had staggered against the door-case. "I am not your son, but your son is not dead. I took his place; I thought it a promise made to a dying man."

"What!" he whispered. His voice was gone. "You—you"—

DeGolyer ran to him and eased him into his chair. "Your son is here, and the man who has brought nothing but ill luck will leave you. I tried to soften this, but couldn't," Witherspoon's head shook as he looked up at him. "Wait a moment, and I will call him. No, don't get up."

DeGolyer hastened to the front door, and standing on the steps, he called: "Henry! oh, Henry!"

"All right, Hank."

Young Witherspoon got out of the cab and came up the steps.

"He is waiting for you, Henry." And speaking to the footman, DeGolyer added: "There's nothing the matter. Send those girls about their business."

Young Witherspoon followed DeGolyer into the library. The merchant was standing with his shaky hands on the back of a chair. He stepped forward and tried to speak, but failed.

"I'm your son. Hank did as I told him. It's all right. I've had a fever—he's going to fall, Hank!"

They eased him down into his leather-covered chair.

"I see it now," the old man muttered. "Yes, I can see it. Come here."

The young man leaned over and put his arms about his father's neck. "I will go into the store with you when I get just a little stronger—I will do anything you want me to. I've had an awful time—awful—but it's all right now. Hank found me in New Orleans, scrubbing a floor; but it's all right now."

"I'll get him some brandy," said DeGolyer.

"No," Witherspoon objected, "I'll be myself in a minute. Never was so shocked in my life. Who ever heard of such a thing? Of course you couldn't soften it. Let me look at you, my son. How do I know what to believe? No, there's no mistake now."

He got up, and holding the young man's hands, stood looking at him. "Who's that?" he asked.

They heard voices. Mrs. Witherspoon and Ellen were coming down the hall. DeGolyer stepped hastily to the door.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" Ellen cried. "I saw somebody—Miss Miller. She didn't say so, but I know that she wants me to kiss you for her, and I will."

"Ellen!" Witherspoon exclaimed, and just then she saw that a stranger was present.

"Excuse me," she said.

DeGolyer took her by the hand, and as Mrs. Witherspoon came up he held out his other hand to her. He led them both to the threshold of the library, gently drew them into the room, and quickly stepping out, closed the door and hastened upstairs.

As he entered his room he thought that he heard a cry, and he listened, but naught save a throbbing silence came from below. He sat down, put his arms on the table, and his head lay an aching weight upon his arms. After a time he got up, and taking his traveling-bag from a closet, began to pack it. There was his old pipe, still with a ribbon tied about the stem. He waited a long time and then went down-stairs. The library door was closed, and gently he rapped upon it. Witherspoon's voice bade him enter.

Mrs. Witherspoon was sitting on a sofa; young Henry was on his knees, and his head was in her lap. Witherspoon and Ellen were standing near.

"He is like my father's people," the mother said, fondly stroking his hair. "All the Springers were light." She looked at DeGolyer, and her eyes were soft, but for him they no longer held the glow of a mother's love. DeGolyer put down his bag near the door.

"Mr. Witherspoon, I hardly know what to say. I came to this house as a lie, but I shall leave it as a truth. I"—

"Hank!" young Henry cried, getting up, "you ain't going away. You are going to stay here."

He ran to DeGolyer, seized his hand, and leading him to Ellen, said: "I have caught you a prince. Take him." And DeGolyer, smiling sadly, replied, "I love her as a brother." She held out her hands to him. "I could never think of you as anything else," she said.

"But you must not leave us," Mrs. Witherspoon declared, coming forward.

"Yes, my mission here is ended."

"You shan't go, Hank," young Witherspoon cried.

"Henry," said DeGolyer, "I did as you requested. Now it is your time to obey. Keep quiet!" He stood erect; he had the bearing of a master. He turned to Witherspoon. "Here is a check for the amount of money you advanced me, with interest added."

Witherspoon stepped back. "I refuse to take it," he said.

"But you shall take it. I have sold the paper at a profit, and it has made money almost from the first. Do as I tell you. Take this check."

The merchant took the check, and it shook in his hand. DeGolyer now addressed Mrs. Witherspoon. "You have indeed been a mother to me. No gentler being ever lived, and till the day of my death I shall remember you with affection."

"Oh, this is all so strange!" she cried, weeping.

"Yes, but everything is strange, when we come to think of it. God bless you. Sister,"—Ellen gave him her hands,—"good-by."

He kissed the girl, and then kissed Mrs. Witherspoon. Henry came toward him, but DeGolyer stopped him with a wave of his hand. "My dear boy, I'm not going out of the world. No, you mustn't grab hold of me. Stand where you are. You shall hear from me. Mr. Witherspoon, this time you must get up a statement without my help—I mean for the newspapers. I know that I have caused you a great deal of worry, but it is a pretty hard matter to live a lie even when it is imposed as a duty. By the way, a poor sea captain, Atkins is his name, brought Henry from Dura. I wish you would send him a check, care Wharfmaster, New Orleans."

"I will."

"Good-by, Mr. Witherspoon."

"Henry DeGolyer," said Witherspoon, grasping his hand, "you are the most honorable man I ever met."

"There, now!" DeGolyer cried, holding up his hand—they all were coming toward him—"do as I tell you and remain where you are."

He caught up his bag and hastened out. "To the Star office," he said to the cabman.



CHAPTER XXXV.

CONCLUSION.

"I'd began to think that you'd forgotten to come," said Miss Drury, as DeGolyer entered the room. She was sitting at her desk, and hits of torn paper were scattered about her.

"I'm sorry that I kept you waiting so long," he replied. He did not sit down, but stood near her.

"Oh, it hasn't been so very long," she rejoined. "Why, how you have changed since yesterday," she added, looking at him.

"For the worse?" he asked.

"For the better; you look more like the heir to a great fortune."

He smiled. "I am an heir to freedom, and that is the greatest of fortune."

"Oh, now you are trying to mystify me again; and you said that to-day you would make everything clear."

"And I shall. Laura"—she looked up quickly—he repeated, "this is my last day in this office. I have sold the paper, and the new owner will take charge to-morrow."

"I'm sorry," she said, and then added: "But on my part that is selfishness. Of course you know what is best for yourself."

"I told you yesterday that my story would be completed to-day. It is, and I will tell it."

The latest edition had left the press, and there was scarcely a sound in the building. The sharp cry of the newsboy came from the street.

In telling her his story be did not begin with his early life, but with the time when first he met young Witherspoon. It was a swift recital; and he sought not to surprise her; he strove to tone down her amazement.

"And to-day I took his son to him. I saw the quick transfer of a mother's love and of a father's interest—I saw a girl half-frightened at the thought that upon a stranger she had bestowed the intimacies of a sister's affection. I had made so strong an effort to be honorable with myself, at least; to persuade myself that I was fulfilling an honest mission, but had failed, for at last I had fallen to the level of an ordinary hypocrite; I had found myself to be a purse-proud fool. When I went into that restaurant my sympathies were dead, and when that man pointed at the poor menial and said that his name was Henry DeGolyer"—

"No, no," she said, hiding her face, "your sympathies were not dead. You—you were a hero."

"I was simply a frozen-blooded fool," he replied. "And now I must tell you something, but I know that it will make you despise me. My father was a beast—he broke my mother's heart. The first thing I remember, her dead arms were about me and a chill was upon me—I knew not the meaning of death, but I was terrorized by its cold mystery. I cried out, but no one came, and there in the dark, with that icy problem, I remained alone"—

"Oh, don't," she cried, and her hands seemed to flutter in her lap. She got up, and putting her arms on the top of the desk, leaned her head upon them.

"How could I despise you for that?" she sobbed.

"Not for that," he bitterly answered, "but for this I was taken to the Foundlings' Home—was taken from that place to become the disgraceful property of an Italian hag. She taught me, compelled me to be a thief. Once she and some ruffians robbed a store and forced me to help them. I ought to have died before that. She demanded that I should steal something every day, and if I didn't she beat me. I got up early one morning and robbed her. I took a handful of money out of her drawer and ran away. But in the street a horror seized me, and I threw the money in the gutter and fled from it. Don't you see that I was born a thief? But I have striven so hard since then to be an honorable man. But don't try not to pity, to despise me. You can't help it. But, my God, I do love you!"

She turned toward him with a glory in her eyes, and he caught her in his arms.

The old building was silent, and the shout of the newsboy was far away.

"Angel of sweet mercy," he said, still holding her in his arms, "let us leave this struggling place. I know of an old house in Virginia—it is near the sea, and rest lies in the woods about it. Let us live there, not to dream idly, but to work, to be a devoted man and his happy wife. Come."

He took her hand, and they went out into the hall. The place was deserted, the elevator was not running, and down the dark stairway he led her—out into the light of the street.

THE END.

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