And with that he left her, more abruptly than was polite. She would have been glad to have him stay longer.

For many minutes she sat there by the piano, thinking not of the gift that seemed to be coming back, but of the queer lame duck who took his lameness so much to heart. She saw no harm in such employment. She wished she were a fairy godmother, so that she could by a wave of her wand make his wings whole once more.

Up in his room David, too, was thinking earnestly. After a long while he rose from his chair, set up the easel and began to work, not on a pretty-pretty picture for Dick Holden, but on an idea of his own that lately had been haunting him.

That became a habit in his spare hours.

Swiftly the new idea took form, as the flower grows in the field, without travail or effort. He worked harder than ever at Jonathan's drawings those days—hot lazy days they were, too—to earn release a half-hour earlier; and he swallowed his dinners more hastily than was wise. Then, when no hack work for Dick Holden was to be done, he sat at his easel sketching until the clock struck an hour—more often two—after midnight. Esther's aunt was a model landlady and had nothing to say about extravagance in gas.

He did not pat himself with the remark, "They will have to come to me yet." He never even thought of that. Neither did he say, "I am doing a big thing," having no opinion at all as to whether the thing was little or big. But he whistled sometimes as he worked, quite softly, and he went to bed always in a warm mellow glow that merged easily into sound restful sleep. In the morning he awoke ready, even eager, for the new day.

He even took some pleasure in his work for Dick Holden. It was Dick who gave him a bit of interesting news. David had called that noon to get data for some plans Dick wanted him to make.

"I could do them myself," the latter explained. "But I'm loafing this summer. I'm in town only because there's talk that St. Mark's is going to build."

David did not wince. "And to pay tribute into your coffers?"

"That's what I'm here for," grinned Dick.

"And what are you going to give them?"

"I don't know." Dick waved a confident hand. "Whatever they want."

"I'm working out an idea," David suggested a little timidly, "that maybe you can use. Drop around to my room some time and I'll show it to you."

"Why, yes, I'll drop around some time," rather too carelessly said Dick, who was no longer so thoughtful in little things. Too much success seemed to be going to his head.

David flushed and dropped the subject. Dick, too, dropped it, both from tongue and mind.

A few evenings later, while David was working on his new idea, violin strains rose from the parlor. But he did not go down or join his fellow roomers on the stairs, though Jonathan and Esther made music until the evening was no longer young. It was a good hour for work; the harmonies from below awoke other harmonies in his heart and clarified his vision. That evening he completed a first sketch of the interior: the picture you get looking toward the altar from a point well back in the nave. It was good even as a sketch, for he had seen very clearly and worked eagerly.

When it was finished he sat back and looked at it for a long time while the music from the parlor flooded up to him. But he saw not a sketch.

He was back in a simpler age when the symbols of faith had power; seeing with a new understanding a picture that had formed in his mind as he worked out this creation—for him it was already created. . . . A narrow crooked street, filled by a gay colorful throng that slackened its pace and lowered its voice before a gray, weathered old church. A beggar crouching on the steps, mouthing his whining song. A constant stream of worshipers passing in and out through the great open door: plumed cavaliers, their arrogant swagger for the nonce put off; gray pilgrims, weary and dusty, with blistered feet and splintered staves; mailed soldiers ready to march for the wars; tired-eyed crusaders home from a futile quest; a haughty lady, a troubled daughter of artisans, a faded wanton, brought into a brief gentle sisterhood by a common need; all seeking the same thing. And perhaps in the doorway a faltering sinner unconfessed, fear of punishment a flaming sword in his path. . . . Ah, well! It was not so absurd, that picture. For those seekers have even unto this day their children who, amid their pleasuring and warring and questing, sometimes grow faint and would rest.

In such company he entered. On the threshold they paused with a quick breath for the chaste beauty of vista and line, the soft play of color and shadow. Then sense of beauty faded before a thing that eye can not see nor tongue express, what the seekers had needed and what they found: peace, passing understanding, unseen but undoubted; hovering above them in the noble nave, kneeling with them in shadowy aisle, winging toward them on the shaft of sunshine streaming from heaven itself upon the altar. Here, for intrigant and ravager, penitent and saint, failure and world-weary, was sanctuary—respite, if only for an hour, from sin and strife, passion and hate and self. It was good to stay there a while, humbled yet uplifted, aspiring anew. For there was a Presence in His own house.

A wonderful thing had happened to David Quentin. His sensitive quivering heart had caught and recorded the great human need, and to him it had been given to build a rest house for many weary and poor in heart. Perhaps if his commonplace little trials had not seemed big and tragic to him, he never could have known the need and so he never would have written in stone and wood the story of sanctuary that has meant so much to the ages.

He did not foresee that. He did not think of it as a possibility. He was thinking only of the great discovery he had made: that a man may find sanctuary, as he may give worship, in a task well loved and well done. Life was a pretty good thing after all, since it could not take from him eyes to perceive or heart to rejoice in the beauty he could create, though none else cared to see. The days of his whimpering, even to himself, were ended.

"I should have been doing this all along."

Nor did he notice that the music had ceased. He did not know even that he was no longer alone, until a voice broke in on his reverie.

"He doesn't look very hospitable, does he?"

"Maybe," said another, "he doesn't feel that way."

David jumped to his feet and peered over the easel at Jonathan and Esther.

"But he does, indeed. Visitors," he announced, "are requested to stay on this side of the door."

They stepped within. "Since you wouldn't come down," Jonathan explained, "of course we had to come up. Though Miss Summers almost lost her courage on the way. She said we were taking a liberty."

"But I didn't," she protested in some confusion. "I only said—"

"That you don't seem to care much for company," Jonathan completed her sentence. "She was mistaken, I trust?"

"Woefully," smiled David. "And I've had company all evening. They played and sang and helped me to work." He waved a hand toward the easel.

"Do you think," Jonathan inquired of Esther, "we may take that as a compliment?"

"I'm not quite sure," she answered.

"She means," chuckled Jonathan, who seemed to be enjoying himself hugely, "she must see the work before she commits herself. Is it allowed—?"

"Of course, if you care to," David said. "And you'll find these chairs comfortable, I think. Over here, where you get the light." When they had sat down, he turned the easel toward them. "Now, ladies and gentlemen," he burlesqued, "if you will look upon my right—"

They looked. And their sudden surprised interest made his heart skip a beat.

"Why, I—I didn't know—" Esther began, in the words he had once stammered to her. She gave him a quick questioning glance, then looked again at the sketch.

Jonathan had become very grave. "You have a gift for drawing."

"Only a knack," said David.

"A very pretty knack then. Is that a copy?"

"Just a sketch of an idea I've been trying to work out lately. This," David placed another drawing on the easel, "is about what it would be like outside."

"It is," said Esther, "like seeing music."

Jonathan studied that drawing for several silent minutes.

"You keep up your professional work as a side issue?" he asked abruptly.

"Oh, no! But sometimes I—waddle for the fun of it. Under advice," David smiled at Esther, "of a very good fairy."

Jonathan did not understand that saying, but he thought from her color he could guess the fairy's name.

"And very good advice, too. Have you done any other ecclesiastical work?"

"Why, that," laughed David, "I used to think was my mission in life."

"Is there anything else you could show us?"

"I have a set of drawings I submitted to St. Christopher's last spring. They're all that escaped a general destruction when I took down my shingle."

David got the plans from a closet, unrolled them and placed the illustrative sketches before his visitors. Jonathan studied these drawings, too, very carefully.

"St. Christopher's, you say?" he said at last. "But I don't understand. I happen to have seen the plans they accepted. I don't know very much about architecture technically, but I should say yours are better—manifestly better. Am I right?"

"They weren't what St. Christopher's wanted."

"But they are better, aren't they?"

"I think they are," said David quietly.

"But I believe I like the new idea even better. Am I right again?"

"I suppose it is better in a way. It's less pretentious and spectacular, but has more warmth—more meaning, I suppose."

David tried to speak casually, but excitement was mounting. He caught up the new sketches and compared them eagerly with the old, forgetting for the moment what St. Christopher's had meant to him. And he saw the new idea as he had not seen it before.

"It is better," he muttered. "I—I hadn't realized."

"David!" It was hard to believe that Jonathan could be so stern. "You are a fraud. You came to me under false pretenses. You gave me to believe that you had been a failure."

"I was."

"You know better than that. Any man who can work out such things—! For a very little I would give you your discharge this moment."

"But I beg of you—Mr. Radbourne, you don't know what my position means to me—"

"I didn't mean that seriously, of course. But you ought to be back in your own work. Why did you ever leave it?"

"Because I couldn't make a good enough living." David flushed as he said it. How pitifully poor, despite all his late philosophizing, that reason sounded! "Mr. Radbourne, let us drop the subject."

But the shining-eyed Jonathan would not drop it.

"I think I can understand," he said gently. "Because it seemed the best thing for others, you gave up the work you wanted to do and were fitted to do. You didn't whine and you did my little drudgeries well and patiently, as though they were the big things you would have done—"

"You don't understand. I did whine—"

"I never heard you. Miss Summers, we owe David an apology. We were sorry for him!"

"Not now," she said.

"No, not now. David, how long will it take you to finish your new plans?"

"But I'm not going to prepare plans. A few sketches for my own amusement—that's all."

"I happen to know that St. Mark's is about to build."

"I am not interested, Mr. Radbourne."

"But I am. As a member of St. Mark's and as your friend, I am deeply interested. How long will it take, David?"

David only shook his head.

"Man," cried Jonathan, "will you let one reverse—"

"Mr. Radbourne, I beg of you, don't urge that. It's all behind me. I'm not fitted for the work as you think—drawing pretty sketches isn't all of it. I—a man told me once, I haven't the punch. I don't know how to meet competition. And it cost me something—it wasn't easy—to get settled in other work. I don't want to get unsettled again, to face another disappointment. I—"

David stopped. And Esther, watching him too closely to be conscious of her own heart's eccentric behavior, saw in his eyes the hurt which disappointment had left, and philosophy, even a very sound philosophy as formulated by a lame duckling, had not yet fully healed. And she saw indecision there, a longing that she understood, and a fear—

Of its own accord her hand went toward him in a quick pleading little gesture. "You must!" she said softly. "Please!" . . .

Jonathan had left, beaming with joy, violin under one arm, a roll of sketches under the other. They stood on the porch in an intimate silence they saw no reason to break. A young half moon was sailing over the city, dodging in and out among lazy white cloudlets. David watched it and wondered if he and his friends had not been more than a little foolish. He shrank from the thought of another defeat. He shrank even from the thought of a victory; for, should it come now, it would not be alone through his gift or any power that dwelt in him.

"I believe you're sorry you promised him."

He turned to the girl. The disappointment in her tone reached him.

"He isn't hard to read, is he? He's planning to—to pull wires for me. He won't trust my work to win out."

"Ah! I was hoping you wouldn't think of that."

"I can't help it. It sticks out—you've thought of it yourself. Do you think it is a foolish pride?"

"Not foolish!" she answered quickly. "And not just pride, I think. It's hard to realize that good work isn't always enough."

"Then you don't think me—temperamental?"

"I think you are—honest. But after all, there's no real dishonesty if you do good work. And I think"—there was a sudden return to her old shyness—"I think, if you win out, your great reward will be the good work you have done."

"How do you know that?"

"If it weren't true you wouldn't have made those sketches."

And he knew a quick stirring of gratitude that he had found this girl who understood so well, who saw the verities as he saw them and had neither laugh nor sneer nor impatience for his finickiness.

"I wish," she went on, "it could come to you as you want it. But I am glad it is coming—even though some one does pull wires to bring it to you."

"But the wires may not work. I've got to remember that others may not see my work as you and he do."

"That is possible," she said. "What of that?"

"I can try again, you mean? I suppose I can do that. I think I will do that, as I can. And probably, if I turn out work that's worth while, some day my chance will come. If I don't—why, there are other things to do, and if you put your heart into them you can get happiness out of them. Do you mind if I plagiarize a bit?"

"I don't mind at all," she smiled.

"And I've got to remember that, win or lose, I owe a lot to you and him. He doesn't understand what a quitter I was when I came to his office. I'd turned sour. I thought, because things hadn't gone the way I wanted, I'd been hardly used."

"I know how that feels," she said.

"The truth was—" Moonlight loosens tongues that by day are tied fast. "The truth was, I'd had the best luck in the world. I'd met him—and you. You went out of your way to make things pleasant for me, a stranger. And by just being yourselves you shamed me into looking at things from your point of view. It's a very good point of view. I'd rather have it now, I think, than build all the churches in Christendom."

The moonlight revealed the friendliness in her eyes. He could not fight down a new thrilling faith in his gift, in himself, in his strength to stand straight though he should fail again.

"You'd have found it by yourself," she said. "If you'd really been a quitter, if it hadn't been in you, you couldn't have found it, even through him. But I know how you feel. I feel the same way toward him. Isn't he the dear, funny little man?"

And that opened a fertile and profitable field. Jonathan's ears must have burned a long while that night.



CHAPTER VIII

CERTAIN PLOTS

Three good fairies had their heads together. One was an astute banker with a mouth delinquent borrowers hated to see, one was a woman who was known to be wise and one was a dinky little man with red whiskers.

"The question before the house," said Jim Blaisdell, "is, are we justified in playing politics to bolster up a young man we're afraid can't stand on his merits? I don't fancy pulling wires—in church matters, that is."

"The question," said Mrs. Jim, "is no such a thing. It is, whether we're to let that insufferable Dick Holden give us another St. Christopher's?"

"Or to help make a strong fruitful life?" amended Jonathan.

"I can't quite see Davy as strong," said Jim, "though he is paying his debts. But Dick certainly is getting to be a conceited duffer. The ayes," he sighed, "seem to have it. The next question is ways and means. Old Bixby's method in St. X looks good to me. A conditional contribution—what do you say?"

"How much?" inquired the practical Mrs. Jim.

Jim took out an envelope, did sums in subtraction and division and held out the result to his wife. She took it from him, did a sum herself—in multiplication—and exhibited that result to him.

"Woman," he cried, "would you rob me? I'm no Standard Oil."

"It's the least I can possibly consider," she answered him firmly. "You can't expect to play good fairy without paying for the privilege. Now, Mr. Radbourne, what will you do?"

Jonathan, too, took out an envelope, wrote slowly a row of figures, scratched it out, wrote another and handed it doubtfully to Mrs. Jim.

"Will that do," he inquired, "for a starter?"

Mrs. Jim gave him a special smile. "That is something like." She waved Jonathan's figures under her husband's nose. "There, Mr. Pinchapenny! Are you blushing for shame?"

"Phew!" whistled Jim. "If that's how he squanders his money, he needn't ever come asking credit of me." He grinned at Jonathan. "Davy must be a mighty poor workman, when you'll pay so high to get rid of him."

"Oh, no," Jonathan protested. "It will be very hard to fill his place—in one way entirely impossible. But, you see, Davy and I have become good friends, and—"

"And of course," Mrs. Jim put in sweetly, "in friendship one forgets one is a shaver of notes."

"Oh, my hands are up," Jim groaned. "I'll match your figures, Radbourne. But, for heaven's sake, don't raise me again!"

"What I'd like to know," said Jim, when Jonathan was gone, "is, why we are going to the poorhouse for Davy Quentin?"

"First," said his wife, "because we know Davy will do work that is worth while and because he is Davy. Second, because it is good for us to give a little out of our much."

"No one helped me when I was poor," growled Jim.

"That," she explained, "was because you were known to have a talent for helping yourself—and because you married me, who am help enough for any man."

"There may be something in that," Jim was forced to concede. "Shirley still at her aunt's?"

"Yes."

"Hmmmm! Mighty long visit. What's she doing there?"

"Having a very good time."

"While Davy—hmmmm! Any trouble there, do you suppose?"

"No-o-o! But Shirley keeps writing about 'poor David, who doesn't seem to have the money-making knack'—with an air that says, 'Poor Shirley!' And when a woman begins to speak sadly of her husband's flaws, it is time they were together again with all flaws repaired. Shirley being Shirley, it had better be in prosperity."

"Who's going to repair Shirley's flaws?"

"That's part of the scheme. We must get her back somehow before she knows Davy's plans are accepted. Then she will seem—"

"I see." said Jim dryly. "That may allow her time for a very long visit—a lifetime, in fact. But isn't there a theory that hard scratching is good for the soul?"

Mrs. Jim eyed her lord with contempt. "My dear Jim, you are old enough to know that no family ever came happily through money troubles unless the wife was patient and wise indeed. Besides, I'm not trying to prove a theory, but to correct a mistake before it's too late."

(But of all this David never was told.) The old witch must have gnashed her teeth in rage as, peeping through his windows, she saw her spell broken. There is a good fairy called Hard Work, and another hight, Hope, and both of these were standing guard. David must have been happy, because he never thought of happiness, its causes or effects. There was a new set to his jaw that meant far more—if you were looking for signs of the future—than the youthful enthusiasm once reflected on his face. So the witch, shrieking grisly maledictions, rode away to vent her spite on colicky babies and gouty old men.

There was one thing the fairies could not guard against, perhaps because they had not been warned. Sometimes the witch perceived that David was not alone. Those occasions were not many: a few minutes now and then when household errands were prolonged a trifle, or lemonade and cookies, sweetened by the aunt's good wishes, were carried to him. And sometimes he went down-stairs to listen to a song and to tell the singer that her high b-flat was unmistakably easier. There was no great harm in that, to be sure. But the witch, baleful creature that she was, took a hint and hatched a wicked plot.

They had a bond, you see. They faced the same adventure. It did them good to compare notes of progress; and an audience was needed if they were to make a jest of setbacks, such as a throat that seemed all burrs or an idea that had for the moment lost its charm. Also he needed some one to remind him that he took too little sleep and never exercised. He would have been wiser if he had listened. Instead, he laughed at her and said, "Work never kills, and in summer I always get thin." But evidence of her concern always left him pleasantly glowing.

In August she took her vacation. But she did not go away. Part of each day she spent in his room, putting it to rights and keeping it sweet and clean. She liked to do that, because he never failed to note the result of her labors or to thank her. When she had finished her sweeping and dusting, she would sit for an hour or more studying the sketches and plans he had left on easel or table. She thought it a marvel that a young man could think out a church so proportioned that its harmonies set one to dreaming and thinking, so devised that it would not fall down though the storms of centuries charged against it. And it was a relief to think of him and his work; it took her mind from an ugly little fear lurking in her heart. Her throat did not always behave as a well-meaning throat should.

Sometimes she studied also a new photograph on his mantel—of a pretty laughing-eyed young woman playing with a sailor-suited cherub. The young woman, she knew must be the wife of whom he never spoke.

"You are very pretty," she would whisper. "Why do you stay away from him? Don't you know he is lonely, with no one to cheer him up but a funny little man—and me? You're the reason he gave up his own work."

She tried not to be prejudiced against Mrs. David Quentin. But she had a burning curiosity, which is a weakness of all women—and men.

She mentioned the picture one evening, very casually.

"This is your family, is it not?"

"Yes," he said in a queer curt tone she had never heard him use.

"She is very pretty, isn't she?"

"Yes. They are—spending the summer at an aunt's."

"What a darling little boy!" she said.

Soon after she left, thinking, "I wonder why she is away from him? It isn't a happy reason, I'm sure. . . . I wouldn't stay away from him."

David was thinking much the same thing. The next day the picture was nowhere in evidence.

When he went down-stairs one evening to tell her the plans were complete, she dissembled her excitement and said, "Now you'll be able to get enough sleep." But when, after a few minutes of gay nonsense, he had left her to take her advice, and she thought what success would mean to him, she became very grave and had her first taste of a suspense that grew heavier with each waiting day. . . .

The blind woman was first to see.

There was another dinner at Jonathan's house, by way of celebration of the plans' completion, with music, most of which came from his violin. Esther sung only twice, because that was one of the days when the throat behaved ill. "I've been working it a little too hard," she explained.

Between times they were very gay. It seemed to Jonathan that his guests were unusually witty and happy.

Mrs. Radbourne was not asleep, though the lids drooped over the poor sightless eyes. She was listening. But not to the music or jests. And she was seeing, through a sense that only blind people have.

When Jonathan came back from his walk with his guests to the trolley, she was waiting for him.

He began to pace back and forth across the room. She listened closely to the quick staccato tread.

"You seem very happy over something, Jonathan."

"I am." She did not need eyes to know that he was beaming. "Did you notice that they both seemed in better spirits than usual?"

"I noticed."

"They are coming into their own. I can't help feeling that our ventures are coming out well. It will be something to have helped them a little. There are compensations, you see—" He caught himself abruptly.

"Compensations for what?"

"Oh, for all the things," Jonathan said vaguely, "that one would like to do and can not."

"Even for giving your life to the care of a helpless, uninteresting old woman?"

"Hush, mother!" He reached her in a twinkling and patted the fine silver of her hair. "You know better than that."

"I know what you have given up for me. It is only lately that I have begun to understand. Oh, Jonathan—"

"But think what I've gained by staying with you! There have never been any regrets."

"You have been a good son." But her smile was very faint. "Do you like David Quentin as well as ever?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There are no 'whys' in friendship, mother."

"Does he return your friendship in equal degree, do you think?"

His answer was without hesitation. "No."

She was silent.

"That is not to be expected, of course," he said simply. "I think he would if he could. But such matters are not to be forced."

She lifted her face and the poor lifeless eyes seemed to be straining to see him. "I am just beginning to know my son. Ah! if I could see you—only once! I would ask nothing more."

Her hands reached toward his face. But he caught them and held them gently.

"Why do you never let me touch your face?"

He mustered a laugh. "I'm afraid you would be disappointed. You know, your hands have seen David, and—"

"Ah!" she breathed. "Always your David! Jonathan—" She paused sharply.

"Yes?"

"Jonathan, there is a Mrs. David Quentin, is there not?"

"Yes."

"Where is she now?"

"Visiting relatives, I believe."

"It is a strangely long visit, don't you think? In my time husbands and wives lived together."

"It is an arrangement for the sake of economy, Mrs. Blaisdell tells me. It seems David had got into debt."

"I should think," she said slowly, "Mrs. Quentin would find it economical to return."

"Mother!" Jonathan started. "Just what do you mean?"

"Her husband and you find Miss Summers quite agreeable, do you not?"

"Mother," he reproved her gently, "you should not even hint such a thing. David is a man of honor."

"Say he is a man—and stop there. A presentable young man whom people seem to like and whose wife has been long away. And Miss Summers is an attractive young woman who has been thrown much with him. . . . I have seen what I have seen."

"Mother!" Jonathan stood stiffly, as though he had been turned to stone. "Oh, that is impossible. You are unjust. It isn't like you to be so suspicious. There is nothing between them but a friendly attachment."

"A friendly attachment! In words, perhaps. But—oh, my poor blind son! Jonathan, sit here beside me."

He went to her and sat down by her side. She took both his hands. And her voice was very gentle.

"You are in love with her, are you not?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then press your suit quickly, my son."

"But I can't—you must see that. I am her employer. She is dependent on me. It would put her in a distressing position."

"I approve of your delicacy. Not many men display it in these greedy days, I am told. But delicacy can be carried to excess. Women love to be wooed strongly, masterfully. I remember how your father—"

"My father was equipped for masterfulness. I," he smiled sadly, "am not."

"You are small, I know, like me. I had hoped my son would be tall." She sighed. "But many small men have been great and strong."

"You don't understand. Mother, you have been blessed—you have never had to look on your son. That is why I never let you touch my face. I am more than merely small. I am ugly. I am ridiculous. I am almost grotesque. People smile in amusement when they see me and never take me seriously."

"Does she smile in amusement when she sees you?"

"No. She is too big-hearted for that. She is gentle and kind and friendly, because she is a little sorry for me and because she thinks mistakenly that she has reason to be grateful. As a friend, a helper, I am tolerable. As a lover I should only be absurd. See, mother, for yourself—this once!" He lifted her sensitive hands and guided them over his face. "My nose—my ears—my little pig's eyes—this grinning mouth—these silly whiskers that hide a little of my absurdity—"

She drew her hands quickly away.

"You are a gentleman, a fine, great-hearted gentleman—"

"With a face like a comic valentine. Even my mother can't say no to that. What woman wants a comic valentine for her lover? Don't you understand now? I can have her friendship now and be with her a little. And I can do little things to help her. I can't risk losing that to seek something she never could give."

"But she could have given it once. I know it. I knew it then, but I wouldn't tell you because I wanted to keep you for myself. He—your friend David—had not come then. You must take the risk for her sake. And before it is too late."

"But I can't inflict myself on her. It would be no kindness to her or to me." He left her and began to pace back and forth agitatedly, in the pompous, hopping little strut. "You are wrong—you must be wrong. It is impossible. It would be terrible, tragic even though they are both good. And it would be my fault. I brought them together, thinking she would help make things cheerful for him. . . . Mother, I wish you hadn't put this in my mind! I can't believe it. I won't believe it. He is honorable—"

The blind woman smiled sadly. "It is a thing with which honor or duty or law has nothing to do. And I fear—I fear it is already too late—because I kept silent when I should have opened your eyes."

But Jonathan was not listening. He was seeing the faces of his friends as they had been that evening. The scales were falling from his eyes, an evil black fear entering into his heart.

"Oh, Jonathan, my son—my dear son—"

She held out her hands to him and he went to her and knelt at her side. And she mothered him, that dinky, absurd little man, and he bowed his head on her knee.



CHAPTER IX

A NEW HOUSE

Radbourne & Company was in a daze. And no wonder! For a week the "little boss" had not once beamed, the spirited hop had gone out of his walk, a new querulous note had come into his voice. When a matter went wrong—which, it seemed, happened oftener than usual—he reminded the delinquent of the fact, not gently, but sadly, as though deeply aweary of the frailty of men. Miss Brown confided to Esther that she was well on the way to "nervous prostration." Esther was worried, and wondered what grave mischance could have worked out such a change in Jonathan. He seemed to avoid both her and David, and when they did meet his manner was constrained and awkward.

It was like chicken-pox and evil gossip and other contagious diseases. It spread. Gloom hung like a fog over office and shop. No one whistled or hummed at work. Good friends lost their heads and exchanged cutting words. And Hegner, the shop foreman, who had been sober for a year, lost his grip and got drunk. Because he was ashamed and hated himself, his temper was always at half-cock.

And Smith—poor Smith, the ex-convict, to whom Jonathan's kindness had been as water on a lame duck's back—had to bear the brunt of Hegner's distemper. He stood it as long as he could; which was not very long.

One noon hour he presented himself, sullen and whining and bleeding at the nose, with a grievance for Jonathan's ears. The latter looked up frowningly from the pile of letters he was signing; they were sadly misspelled, the agitated Miss Brown having been at her worst.

"Yes, Smith," he said wearily. "What is it? A complaint, I suppose?"

"I wants to know," began Smith in a whine, "why I can't git a square deal here. The shop boss he—"

"Is Hegner mixed up in it? Then go bring him here and say what you have to say before him."

Smith departed, to return a few minutes later, an apprehensive eye cast back at the trailing Hegner.

"Now, Smith," said Jonathan, "what is your complaint?"

"The boss he keeps damnin' me up an' down all the time," Smith explained. "An' this morning he slugs me—right here on the beak." He laid a gentle finger on the corpus delicti.

"Hegner," inquired Jonathan, "why do you keep damning him up and down all the time? And why did you slug him on the beak?"

"Because," Hegner grinned sheepishly, "his beak was the place most convenient."

"This isn't a joking matter," Jonathan reminded him sharply.

"So it ain't." Hegner turned a glance of contempt on Smith. "He's a bum an' a loafer, He won't learn an' he won't try to work. Why, Braun, who'd ought to be in bed instead of at a lathe, turns out half as much again as him. How can I jack the other men up if I let him lag behind? An' this morning I told him I'd had enough of his soldierin' an' what I thought he was good for. He hauled off with a steelson to crack me—but I beat him to it. That's all." Hegner blew tenderly on his knuckles.

"Smith," said the judge, "what have you to say to that?"

"'Tain't so. He's only huntin' an excuse to fire me an' give some one else my lathe."

"So I am," Hegner put in grimly. "Some one who'll work an' who ain't an ex—"

"Hegner, hold your tongue!" Jonathan turned to Smith. "I have to believe Hegner, because I've been watching you, Smith. I took you on here, as I told you at the time, not to do you a favor, but because I thought you were in earnest and would justify it. I was willing to be your friend. And you soldiered. You stole the time I paid you for, which is the same as stealing my money. And you stole something else—my trust—which is worth more to me than my money. But I suppose that is something you can't understand."

"I un'erstan's when I ain't wanted," answered Smith, with an ugly laugh. "I'll git my time an' git out."

Then Jonathan's trouble found voice in a sharp querulous outburst.

"Yes, get your time. I'm tired keeping men who won't help themselves."

Smith vanished, and his surly ugly face was only the reflection of the ugliness just then in his heart.

"You, too, Hegner!" Jonathan turned blazing eyes on his foreman. "You've been drinking again, when you promised me—"

"You ain't more disgusted than me." Big Hegner, ashamed, looked down at his feet. "But I couldn't help it. Honest, I couldn't. Everything's been goin' wrong here for a week."

Jonathan's outburst ended as suddenly as it began. "I know," he said wearily. "I know."

An hour later David, seeking Jonathan on a matter that was only a pretext, found him idle, elbows on the desk and head propped in his hands. Jonathan looked up listlessly. The matter disposed of, David ventured, uncertainly, because he had learned the last week to remember that he was an employee as well as a friend.

"Mr. Radbourne, are you ill?"

"No."

"I'm afraid something's wrong."

"Something's wrong, David."

"I hope it is something that can be easily mended."

"I'm afraid it can't." Jonathan looked at him queerly. "I'm afraid the damage has been done. Will you please go to the shop and see if Smith is anywhere around?"

David departed, to return with the word that Smith was gone.

"Ah! I'm sorry. I owe him an apology and some amends. A little while ago I lost my temper and did him an injustice, when he needed to be helped. I had no excuse. But it hurts to be disappointed in a man." Jonathan looked queerly at David again. "In any one, David."

"I have found that out," answered David.

Jonathan picked up some papers. "If you will excuse me now—I have some work—"

David took the hint promptly, with the feeling that somehow he had been the one to disappoint his friend. That hurt as deeply as it puzzled.

That afternoon Jonathan went out for two hours. When he returned he summoned Esther to his office.

"Miss Summers," he began abruptly, "how is the voice?"

"I'm afraid—"

"You must be afraid of nothing," he interrupted.

"I'm afraid," she repeated quietly, "I have come to a standstill. Some days I feel as if I could sing forever, then the very next day one easy little song will seem too much. And if I am in a draft for a minute or get caught in a shower, my throat gets sore and hoarse at once. It doesn't seem to get any stronger."

"Probably it won't until you do the right thing. I took the liberty of talking to Doctor Jenkins. He says the trouble is all with your general health. You'll have to build it up. So—so you must get away from this office, that takes up your time and strength, and live as much as possible outdoors and grow strong."

"But I can't do that. I can't afford it and I can't impose on my aunt."

"Could you afford it if you had a good church position?"

"Yes. But I'm not ready for that. I couldn't fill it. No church would want me, with a voice so uncertain—"

"The Second Presbyterian is looking for a new contralto. I have asked them to give you a trial. Will you sing for them?"

"When?"

"At the vespers service next Sunday afternoon."

"But I can't do that. It's too soon. It wouldn't be fair to them, even if I should sing well at the trial. I—I'm afraid I've been letting you expect too much—" Her face had grown whiter than usual.

"But you can." Jonathan was very earnest. "You must believe—you must believe you can. You must make up your mind to sing your very best next Sunday. If they hear you at your best, they'll be glad to have you, even if your voice is a little uncertain at first. And you must get away from this office."

"You mean my work here isn't good enough—that you want to get rid of me?"

"Not that!" Jonathan almost gasped. He looked down at his desk and nervously ruffled his whiskers. "Oh, not that! I shall—miss you very much. And if you ever want to come back, there's a place waiting for you. But I want you to have your career—everything that is best for you. And"—he raised his eyes to her again and they joined his tongue in the plea—"won't you try it for—for my sake?"

She looked away quickly, a sudden catch in her throat. And though her heart was filled with dread for herself, it was aching, too, for the little man—not so absurd to her just then—part of whose secret she had seen.

"I will try it," she said. . . .

Of course she told David that evening. (How easily and naturally, now that his work on the plans was done, they had drifted into those little evening chats!) He had a moment of grave doubt. His face showed it.

"Do you think I can't make it?"

Doubt vanished on swift wings. "I think nothing of the sort. And you mustn't think of it, either. You must believe you can. It is half the battle. Hear me preach!" he laughed.

"That's what he—Mr. Radbourne—said."

"He was right, as always. This is very exciting. Do you know, I've a feeling you're going to knock 'em galley-west. And that," he nodded gaily down at her, "and that would be the finest thing that could happen."

"You forget your church," she smiled back.

"So I did! But now I remember it, I have nothing whatever to take back."

The witch chuckled as only witches can and sent her broomstick steed prancing madly across the sky. . . .

He saw Esther and her aunt away that Sabbath afternoon with a jest—an extravagant salute and an "Up, lass, an' at 'em!" to which she made answer with a determined smile. When they had been perhaps five minutes gone, he put on his hat and followed.

He found a seat in the rear of the church and waited, nerves strung taut as if the ordeal were his, wishing the services would begin and yet dreading it. His eyes swept the gathering worshipers idly until they happened upon a familiar face across the church, a homely face set sternly rigid toward the choir loft.

"He would be here, of course," David mused. "In a way, if ever she makes good, her success will be his. It will be because he has given it to her."

A nameless little regret followed that. But before he could give it a name the organ burst into the prelude and the choir filed into the loft.

In the first anthem her voice was heard only with the others. The second was a trio in which she did not sing. The offertory solo was hers.

So, while the organ softly played the theme, she rose and faced her ordeal. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the tall west window. One amber shaft reached out and enfolded her caressingly, vivifying the white girlish face: a picture he has to this day.

"By the waters of Babylon. . . ."

For a breath fear clutched at his heart. In those first few notes was a weak quaver, a huskiness that ought not to have been there. His whole body grew tense with effort as mind and heart sent winging to her a silent message. "You must not fear! You must believe!" Another was sending her the same word. But David had forgotten him.

One of those messages must have reached its mark, for of a sudden her voice grew true and steady and clear, shaken only by the poignant grief of her song. Then there was no more ordeal, only a frail wisp of a girl singing as he had never heard it the exile's plaint. David did not quite know her. Up there in the loft, bathed in the mellow radiance that had singled her out as if in prophecy, letting out to the full, as she could not in the little parlor, a voice of power and passion to thrill multitudes, she did not seem the girl who had made music for him, who had offered him friendship in his loneliness. She had grown as the occasion of her song had grown; she had become one of the custodians of great talents, set apart to keep alive and reveal the harmonies that men through centuries had been hearing and recording. Quivering with joy in her triumph, he was abashed as well. He had too easily accepted the friendship, so naively tendered. He had not appraised it justly. . . . And then there was only the song. He was a captive in a strange land and the ache of the exiled was in his heart.

". . . By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."

He realized at last that she had ended. The ordeal was over; she had passed through unscathed. He leaned back and smiled at the imprints of nails in his palms. His eyes grew wet, but not with the exile's tears. . . . When they had cleared, without his bidding they turned to where Jonathan sat, whiskers crushed upon his breast.

It was a wonderful world through which David walked homeward that Sabbath evening. He went by a roundabout way, that he might miss none of it. He thrilled with a sense of victory, a song of thanksgiving was in his heart. And from that he should have known what had happened to him. But he was to have that hour perfect.

She was sitting on the porch when he came in sight of the house. She may have been waiting for him. He quickened his pace.

He stood before her, smiling down into her shining eyes.

"A question of identity is disturbing me. I'm still hearing a certain song—I think I can never forget it. Are you by any chance the singer?"

"As it happens, I sang a little this afternoon."

"Then the finest thing in the world has happened."

"Did I do pretty well?"

"Pretty well? Hmmm!" he considered the matter judicially. "Yes, I think I may safely say that."

She laughed as though he had been very witty, then quickly became grave.

"Were you thinking hard for me at the first, when I almost fizzled?"

"The hardest I knew how. I was afraid you were losing your nerve."

"I was. I never was so scared in my life. It came over me all at once that the next few minutes would probably decide everything for me, and I could see only strangers—critical strangers who wouldn't care. Then I saw you sitting back there and—and then I could sing. Thank you for coming."

"You're quite welcome, I'm sure." He laughed at her thanks. "Did you think for a minute that I could stay away? And are you aware that we have never shaken hands? It is really high time. Would you mind?"

Her smile was sunshine itself. "With all my heart." She put out her hand. He took it and held it.

And he dropped it and stood looking strangely at his own hand. For it was tingling deliciously. And at her touch and the look that went with it his heart had burst into a sudden mad singing—a song not of exile or thanksgiving, but of a longing to which he might never give tongue.

The hand fell slowly to his side. With an effort he lifted his glance to her questioning, startled eyes. He tried to make his voice easy and natural, but it was heavy and stiff.

"I—I congratulate you. I hope—I know—to-day is only the beginning of many fine things for you."

Then he turned quickly and left her.

In his room, when the first daze had cleared a little, he set himself sternly to face this new thing. For he knew now why the old sense of loss—of the dream woman shrunk to a wife to whom love was only a bauble to be worn in fair weather—and why the failure of love had ceased to trouble, why Shirley had drifted so quickly, so easily into the shadowy background of his life. He saw what had helped him to win his new brave philosophy, had builded the walls of his sanctuary. His poor sanctuary! What refuge could it offer now? Another house of his building lay about him, a grim hopeless ruin.

"Oh, Esther!" he whispered to the girl he might not have. "Oh, Esther!"

He sat there, trying to see what he must do. Darkness fell. But he wanted no light. He did not stir until late in the evening chords from the piano reached him.

He rose and opened the door and a voice, athrob with pain, floated up to him.

"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept. . . ."



CHAPTER X

AT THE DOOR

But Shirley was a fact. By morning—no sleep came to him that night—he had decided what he must do about that fact. It was then not a very complex problem.

He took a lightly packed bag with him to the office and at the first opportunity presented himself to Jonathan.

"May I take to-morrow off? There is a matter I must attend to at once. I can be back by day after to-morrow."

"Certainly," said Jonathan, without looking up.

"Thank you." David hesitated. "Mr. Radbourne, do you know anything definite of the situation at St. Mark's?"

"Nothing definite."

"Do you think there's any chance for me at all?"

"The committee will decide this week. There's a man named Holden—"

"I know him."

"He seems to have influence—and not much else. But Mr. Blaisdell is trying to see that you get fair play."

"Is it necessary for Mr. Blaisdell to use his influence very actively in my favor?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"I'm sorry. I knew, of course, that you and he would do all you could—if it was needed. But I thought perhaps my plans would justify the committee—"

"They do. And they justify any work that has been done for you. There is no obligation that need weigh heavily on you."

"It isn't that. I appreciate my—my friends' willingness to help. But I'd hoped to be able to win solely on my merits in this thing."

"Do you wish us—Mr. Blaisdell to refrain?"

"No. I need to get back into my profession. It means so much to me—in a new way—that I'll be glad to have it on any terms. That doesn't mean that I'm not grateful for the kindness I've had here.— But I'm interrupting." And David went back to his drawing.

All that day he avoided Esther, sticking close to his table. Not until she was leaving at the end of the afternoon did he seek her.

"Miss Summers, I forgot to tell your aunt that I shan't be back until day after to-morrow. Will you please tell her for me?"

"You are going away?"

"Yes." He made no explanation.

"I will tell her."

"Thank you." And because he was holding himself sternly rigid, lest eyes or tone cry out what must not be said, he spoke almost curtly.

She moved quietly away from him and did not once look back, though she knew he was watching her. But when a door was between them she stopped for a moment, quivering lips pressed hard, both hands tightly clenched. Then she, too, sought Jonathan.

"Mr. Radbourne, the church people telephoned to-day that I can have the position."

"I am very glad. When shall you be leaving the office?"

"At the end of the week, if you can get some one for my place."

"So soon! I—"

"I will stay as long as I'm needed, of course."

"Oh, no! You're quite right to go at once. I can get some one to do your work. But not to take your place. I shall—" Jonathan seemed deeply interested in the crystal paperweight on his desk. "We shall miss you very much."

"I haven't thanked you—"

"Please don't thank me for anything. I have done nothing any one could not have done. It is," he said huskily, "it is to my happiness, my great happiness, if I have been able to help you a very little."

Then he looked up and saw her face.

"Miss Summers! You look overtired—and I have kept you standing. You must sit down, and let me get you—"

"It is nothing at all." She forced a smile to her lips. "It is only the reaction from yesterday. The ride home in the car is all I need. Good night, Mr. Radbourne."

"You are quite sure—"

"Oh, yes. Quite all right, Mr. Radbourne."

"Good night, Miss Summers."

And when she was gone, he sat down and took a small mirror from a drawer and looked long and sadly at what it recorded. Suddenly he dropped the mirror and bowed his head on the desk.

"Esther!" It was almost a sob. "If only I could help you now!" . . .

David walked the next morning from the station to Aunt Clara's house. He walked slowly, because Aunt Clara lived on a hill and because he dreaded facing Shirley. But he did not have to face her at once. As he neared the house he saw an automobile, filled almost to overflowing, roll down the driveway and turn up the street; and Shirley was one of the party. She did not notice her unexpected visitor.

But as he turned into the grounds he met a little sailor-suited cherub in tow of a nurse who did not know David. He dropped his bag and squatted before the child.

"Hello, old man! Aren't you going to shake hands?"

Davy Junior clung tightly to the nurse's skirt, put one chubby finger into his rosebud mouth and stared, round-eyed, at the big man.

"He's always that way with strangers," the nurse explained.

"Oh!" David winced and stood up. "He's forgotten me, then. When he has had his walk please bring him to the house. I'd like to get acquainted with him again. I'm his father, you know." He picked up his bag and went on to the house.

A few minutes later he was shown into Aunt Clara's sitting-room. She greeted him in astonishment and offered her cheek for a kiss.

"This is a surprise. Shirley's out, too. They're gone for a picnic and won't be back until dark."

"Yes. I saw them start out. How is she?"

"Shirley's quite well. And seemingly enjoying herself."

"I suppose so," he said.

"And the boy, too."

"Yes. I just saw him. He—" David cleared his throat. "He didn't know me."

"That's to be expected. Children forget easily. You're not looking well yourself."

"I've been working pretty hard of late."

"Are you on your vacation?" Aunt Clara was studying him curiously.

"No. I have just to-day. I came to get Shirley to come back."

"Are you out of debt then?"

"Not quite."

"You've had a raise? Or has something better turned up?"

"I've had one little raise. Nothing else has happened—that I can count on. But we can get along nicely now, thanks to your help."

"For which you're not thankful at all," she smiled grimly.

"It was a mistake."

"Humph!" she sniffed. "Have you lived with Shirley four years without learning that she can't stand—"

"Suppose," he interrupted quietly, "suppose we don't criticize Shirley. I shan't criticize you, either. I blame myself for letting her come here. Now we're going to correct that mistake."

Aunt Clara sniffed again. "What has got into you? You used to have no more spirit than a mouse. Now you remind me of your late Uncle John in some of his moods. Suppose Shirley thinks it better—sniff—to stay here a while longer? If you're not out of debt you'll still have to pinch pennies and—"

He interrupted again, still quietly. "You must help to convince her it is best. She must come—before it is too late."

"What do you mean by that—'before it is too late'?"

"I mean—while I still want her to come."

"Eh?" Aunt Clara stared sharply at him. She put on her spectacles, that she might stare more effectively.

Then a light broke in on her, a light too incredible, too dazing even for Aunt Clara's confident mind. "Eh? David Quentin! Do you mean to tell me—do you mean—there is another woman? Who is she?"

He made no answer, but though his tired face went even whiter, steadily withstood her gaze.

"Such a thing never happened in our family before," Aunt Clara gasped weakly, "that I ever heard of. I don't know what to do about it."

"There is only one thing," he said steadily. "Shirley must come back at once."

Aunt Clara took off her spectacles, rubbed them mechanically and donned them again. Her hands fell nerveless to her lap.

"I don't know what to do," she repeated. "For the first time in all my existence. I—I have no precedents. You must leave me for a while until I can think this out."

He rose. "You can't think it out. I have tried."

"You'd better lie down and get some sleep. You're looking quite badly."

"No. I'll go out and find David Junior."

"Perhaps that would be better."

He went. For an hour Aunt Clara sat alone, trying to work out the hardest problem of life, how to raise a love from the dead. And all she achieved was a bitter self-reproach. For the first time in all her existence.

A ripple of childish laughter came to her through an opened window. She rose and looked out. She saw the Davids, little and big, sitting chummily on the lawn. Then Aunt Clara thanked God that David and Shirley had been given a son.

"We have that much to start with—though it seems little enough just now."

She sniffed, as a matter of necessity, and hastily reached for her handkerchief.

When it was time for Davy Junior's dinner and nap she summoned David to her sitting-room again.

"David," she began, very meekly for Aunt Clara, "I've been thinking it over. I ought to blame you. But I can't. I've had all I could do blaming myself. Are you thinking I am a selfish, meddlesome old fool?"

David shook his head wearily.

"But I am. I was lonesome alone here in this big old house and I really thought— But never mind that now. Does she—that other woman know?"

"I think not."

"Is she—is she in love with you?"

"Oh, no! That is impossible. Oh, no!" he repeated. "That couldn't be. It would be too terrible."

"It's terrible enough as it is. Are you going to tell Shirley?"

"That wouldn't help matters, would it?"

"I suppose not," she sighed. "David, you must be very gentle with her. It isn't her fault she wanted to run away from hard times. All her life we have spoiled her, her father and mother and Maizie and I. I did it worst of all, as I never spoiled my own child. David, come over here."

He went to the chair beside her and she reached for his hand very awkwardly.

"Oh, David, it's going to be very hard for you—all because an old fool—" Aunt Clara was crying now, noisily and unbeautifully because she had had little practise. "And I'm afraid that when you see Shirley you'll find it even harder than you thought." . . .

Shirley came only a little before it was time for him to start for his train. He was playing on the library floor with Davy Junior when an automobile came to a panting stop before the house. A minute later came Shirley's voice from the hall, "Da-vy!" The little fellow scrambled to his feet and ran to meet her at the door. She caught him and swung him strongly in her arms, hugging and kissing him. And David saw that the months had been kind to Shirley. The marks of worry and discontent had been erased, her eyes danced and her cheeks glowed with health and pleasure. Oh, a very fair picture was Shirley, in the full flower of her loveliness.

But his heart went not one beat faster for her.

Then she saw him and set the child down. "David!" And she ran to him and kissed him—very prettily, as a loving wife should.

"And now," said Aunt Clara, "I will say good-by to David and leave you alone to the last minute. The car will be waiting for you when you're ready." She held up her cheek to David and left them.

Shirley gasped. "You're not going to-night?"

"In a few minutes. I must."

"But—but this is ridiculous. Surely you can stay overnight at least."

"No. I promised to be back to-morrow morning. My time isn't my own." Which was not quite fair to Jonathan in its implication.

"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"I didn't think of it until this morning when I got here and saw you going out. I supposed I should find you."

"Surely you're not piqued because I— David, what is it?" A look of dread came into the dancing eyes. "You're looking wretchedly. You're not going to tell me we've had some more bad luck?"

"I hope," he said quietly, "you won't call it that I came to ask you to go back—home."

"Why, I—"

It was no glad eager light that took the place of dread. It was consternation, a manifest, involuntary shrinking from what he asked. . . . Then she was in like case with him. He had not counted on that.

He felt his heart turning hard and cold; and that was not the way of the gentleness he had planned. He, too, had shrunk from what he asked; yet he had not hesitated to ask it, thinking to save her from some hurt. She, without the key, thought only of the loss of her good times. He could tell her the whole truth and she would not care—if it led to good times. Couldn't she see, couldn't she feel, the tragedy in this end of their once pretty romance? Since she could not, why try to save her from a hurt she would never really know?

Yet he went on, though not just as he had planned.

"So you do think it bad luck? Don't you ever want to go back, Shirley?"

"That's foolish. Of course I do. But—but the debts aren't paid yet."

"Pretty nearly. If we're careful we can clean them up quickly now."

"But it seems so foolish—and so unnecessary. We could wait a little longer. The salary is so small at best. How—how should we live?"

"Very simply, I fear. But," he added, in the same even, repressed tone, "always within our means, I'm sure. We'll go to a boarding-house first and then look around for an apartment we can afford. We'll be starting over again, Shirley."

"But—" She was still stammering. "But it's been so good for Davy here. And the weather's still warm—"

"That's only an excuse, I think. And it's a risk he'll have to take. It's better than—than some other risks."

"What other risks? Since we've waited so long, what difference would a few weeks more make?"

She did not guess what a temptation she was putting before him. It would be so easy to make this a fork in the road from which he and she should take different ways forever, in the end leaving him free, and at little cost to her! But he fought that thought sternly.

"Shirley, can't you see what has happened to us? We've been drifting apart. We're very far apart now. You don't really want to come back at all. And I—I could easily say, 'Then don't come.' I'm capable of that just now. And you wouldn't really care."

"How can you say such a thing? Of course, I would care. I don't understand—"

"You wouldn't care or you would have come of your own accord. Shirley, I came here to coax you. I can't, now I see how little it all means to you. But— You've mentioned Davy. We've got to think of him." He looked down at the child playing between them. "I want the boy, Shirley—and I want you with him."

There was an edge to his voice that she had never heard.

"But I wouldn't think of leaving him. I—I was going back— When?"

"As soon as I can find temporary quarters for us."

"You say—I must?"

"I don't say that. I say only, if you are coming at all, come while I want you."

They faced each other in silence, the pretty, pleasure-loving young woman to whom life had been only a house of toys, and the rather seedy young man who had been one of the toys. The bond that held them was a slight one; a little more strain and it would have snapped. But the toy man had grown—somehow—into a real man whom she did not want to let go, and she knew that, as he had said, he had got far away from her. She could not understand; still she had not the key. And she was afraid.

"David! What is it I feel about you? You don't think—oh, you can't think—I don't love you?"

"I suppose you think you do. But it's not much of a love." A clock struck. He had forgotten his train. "Let me know if you want to come. I've got to go now."

He caught up the boy and held him close, then kissed her hastily. And before she quite realized it, he was gone.

Aunt Clara found her standing where he had left her, staring blankly at the door, unmindful of the little David tugging at her dress.

"Aunt Clara! What is it? What has happened? David has been talking about—about my never going back—"

Aunt Clara made a good guess as to what had been said. And she had been doing some more thinking of her own.

"Between us we've nearly lost you a husband. That's what has happened. And you're going to pack up and pack off to win him back, for his sake if not your own. That's what is going to happen."

"Win him back!" Shirley's world was fast sinking from under her feet. "Is—is that what Mrs. Jim has been hinting in her letters? Do you mean—you think David has stopped—loving me?"

"You think it incredible?"

"But he's my husband."

"What's that got to do with it? Oh," cried Aunt Clara, "can't you get it into your silly, selfish little head that you can't keep a love without earning it? You've been a fool. And I've been another. I never was so foolish in my life. I wonder your late Uncle John doesn't turn over in his grave. Come, Davy, it's most nine o'clock. To bed with you and leave your mother to think for once in her life."



CHAPTER XI

THE WITCH LAUGHS

David was at his desk early the next day, working closely in the effort to shut out his own problems; it was not a very successful effort. All morning he avoided Esther strictly; that was much easier. She was avoiding him, too, but he did not guess that.

During the noon hour he had a caller; Dick Holden, if you please, a Dick who was plainly perturbed.

"Davy," quoth he, "have I done you some favors?"

"You have," said David.

"One good turn deserves another. It has to do with St. Mark's. Something queer's stirring there. My wires won't work. You're pretty thick with Jim Blaisdell. Get him to put in a word, a good strong word, for me, will you?"

"I'm afraid I can't, Dick," said David, "very consistently."

"Why not?"

"The fact is, I think Jim is putting in his best words for me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I have plans in there myself."

"The devil!" Dick stared. "I thought you were out of the game."

"I'm back in to this extent."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't suppose you would be interested."

"Are your plans any good?"

"I think so," said David.

"Then I bet you're the one that's blocking me there." Dick shook his head reproachfully. "Davy, I'm disappointed in you. I call it playing it low down on me. You might at least have told me, so I could know what to meet. It isn't fair. It isn't friendly. And after all I've done for you! I didn't think you could do it." Dick sighed sorrowfully, his faith in human nature evidently shattered.

"I'm sorry, Dick," said David. "I supposed you put all your faith in your wires."

Dick thought a few minutes.

"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do," he offered at last. "When friends find themselves competing, they should meet half-way. We'll pool on your plans—I'll take a chance on them, sight unseen. I'll throw my pull over to you. Then we'll split the spoils, two and one. The two to me, of course."

"Why the two to you—of course?"

"The prestige of my name," said Dick with dignity, "is worth something, I think. We'll have to get busy at once, because the committee meets this afternoon."

"I'm afraid, Dick, I'll have to say no. You had a chance at my plans before I thought of putting them in. You could have had them for almost nothing, but you didn't think them worth looking over. I think I'll stand or fall with them."

"That's final? After all I've—"

"Yes, Dick, final. But it doesn't mean I'm not grateful—"

With a gesture Dick waived that. "Very well," he said sadly, rising. "I thought there was such a thing as friendship in business. I see I was mistaken."

David wondered if Dick were losing his punch.

That afternoon came a wire.

"Am packing up now. Love. Shirley."

He tore the yellow paper slowly to bits. "Poor Shirley!" he muttered.

Poor Shirley, with her house of toys! Frightened now, no doubt, into thinking that she wanted what she did not really want, as he had been driven, by resentment at her blindness, into saying what he did not really mean. She at least would never miss what he could no longer give. She would be content with the hollow pretense their life together would be, missing only her good times. But he must have her beside him, to remind him that he was not free and never should be free to go browsing in the green fields of love.

She would never know. Still, poor Shirley—none the less!

He set wearily to work once more.

The afternoon came to an end somehow. The clamor of machinery from the shop was stilled. The other offices became silent. He supposed the others had gone. A janitor made the rounds, closing the windows. Doggedly David stuck to his table until he had completed the design he was working on. Then he put the table in order for the night, donned his hat and coat and started to leave.

But the corridor door of the adjoining office was open. He looked in—and saw Esther, hatted, but still on her high stool by the desk, looking out into the street. She heard him, started and turned, then said:

"Oh, I thought every one was gone."

"Yes, I thought so, too."

They fell silent, awkwardly silent. The easy comradeship was no more.

Then she smiled; no one but David could have told that the smile was forced.

"I was just thinking—isn't it funny?—that I'll be sorry to say good-by to that dingy, rackety street. I'll hate to leave this office. I've been here two years and—"

"You are leaving, then? I didn't know."

"Yes. At the end of the week."

He commanded his feet to go on. And they went—toward her. He rested his folded arms heavily on the tall desk.

"I'll miss you," he said. "I'll miss you very much. It won't seem the same here without you."

"But maybe you'll be leaving, too. If your plans are taken, you know."

"I'd forgotten them. I don't seem to care so much about them as I ought—now they're out of my hands. And I can't count on them. I suppose we'll not see each other very often after you leave here. I'll be leaving your aunt's in a few days. My—my people are coming home."

"Oh! You'll be glad of that."

"Yes." And again, "Yes."

He let his eyes dwell hungrily on her, as though this were indeed their farewell, drinking in every detail of her—the dark curling wisps straying from under her hat, the slate-gray eyes, a little sad just then, the slender girlish figure that seemed so frail. For that moment there were no Shirley, no law, no honor.

"I'll miss you," he said again and fumbled at his collar. "One way and another I owe you a great deal. I shan't forget that. I shan't forget you. I'll remember that I came here—to prison, I thought—and found some good friends. One very good friend who—"

"Don't!" The little hand lying on the desk clenched tightly. "Don't talk about it. I—" She got slowly down from the stool. "I must be going now."

But her eyes did not leave his. They went suddenly dark. And in them he read the same hurt that was in his own heart. He saw with a fierce blinding joy—then with horror—and then with joy again.

"Esther! You, too! Oh, I never wanted that. I hoped you— Oh, Esther!"

She gave him no answer but stood looking at him piteously. No one, seeing them, could have failed to understand. The man who had come to the door saw and understood.

It was Jonathan.

They saw him. No word passed then; there was nothing to say. She moved slowly out of the room by another door, the men, both as if in a daze, following her with their eyes. When her footsteps had died away, they looked at each other helplessly.

"David!" Jonathan's voice broke like a boy's. "David! What have you done?"

After a little that cry reached David's understanding. "I never knew—" He turned away from the stricken accusing face.

He heard Jonathan start away at last, then turn and come toward him. A letter was laid on the desk.

"I was bringing this to you," said Jonathan's choking voice. And again, "David! David!"

That time Jonathan did not return.

Mechanically David took up and opened the letter. He had to read it twice before he grasped its import.

"The committee of St. Mark's has selected your plans. . . . We shall want you to supervise the work . . . usual terms . . . congratulations."

The letter fluttered from his hands to the floor, St. Mark's from his mind.

So he was not to have even the consolation of knowing that no one but himself had been hurt. It would be on his soul that he had hurt her, too—cruelly, hopelessly hurt her. And he could not help her, only run away and leave her to face it alone. And Jonathan, his kind friend—the meaning of the grief on that homely face was plain.

The cup of David's misery ran over. He fell forward on the desk, her desk, pillowing his head on his arms.

"Esther!"

As if summoned by the cry, another little imp took stand by David's ear. And his tongue was specious and honeyed, and he had the trick of making black seem white and gray a golden splendor.

Why run away and leave her to face it alone? . . .

He was there a long time. It grew dark. The street, deserted by its daylight toilers, grew quiet except for the tramping of an occasional heavy-footed watchman or policeman. David did not stir. He was slowly draining his bitter cup—and listening to the eloquent imp. Once to nearly every man comes an hour when he stands on a high mount and is shown the kingdom of his desire, to be his if he will—at a price. There David stood that evening. And he fell. He listened and looked too long. He did not haggle with his tempter over the price but agreed to pay, if only he might have his beautiful kingdom.

He did not hear stealthy footsteps along the corridor, nor the rustling of cautiously drawn shades in Jonathan's office.

The visitor, too, supposed that he had the building to himself. But he worked by the light of a dark-lantern and tiptoed instinctively. Very carefully, as his former cell-mate had taught him, he made his preparations, substituting a sixty- for a six-ampere fuse—which would give him, the old cracksman had said, "juice" enough to cut through the ribs of a war-ship—and clamping one strand of his extension wire to the safe door. This done, he unscrewed all the light bulbs from their sockets lest, when he turned the switch, a sudden glow through the shades arouse some prowling watchman's curiosity. Then he took up the other strand of his wire, to which was attached a carbon electrode, knelt on the floor and—gingerly, for so much juice suggested many possibilities to a novice—touched the carbon to the safe door.

He drew back hastily, almost unnerved. The old cracksman had not warned him of that blinding flash or that sputtering, loud enough, so it seemed, to be heard a block away. But he remembered that Jonathan often kept money overnight in the safe. He forced himself to make the contact again.

David heard a shuffling sound from a near-by office. He straightened stiffly, wondering dully who the newcomer was. The watchman probably, on a round of inspection. Or perhaps Jonathan, who came to his office sometimes of nights to work off odds and ends that his lack of system allowed to pile up on him. Jonathan, his friend, who had been hurt, whose stricken, accusing, contemptuous face danced before him. David's heart gave a sharp twinge at that. He hoped it was not Jonathan. He did not want to face Jonathan just then.

He started at a sudden crackling report that resounded through the lonely building, followed by a strange continued sputtering. He went slowly into the corridor and to Jonathan's office. At the door he stopped, staring in stupid surprise at the intent kneeling figure dimly outlined in the glow of hot metal and the bluish crackling flame. Then, with a vague notion that it was the wrong thing to do but his overwrought brain not quite grasping the situation, he took two steps into the room.

"Get out of here—whoever you are."

With a muttered ejaculation the intruder turned his head to look, then sprang back from the safe, breaking the contact. Instantly the room became black. David stared, still stupidly, at the dull red spot on the safe until it faded into blackness. Then he realized. He stood very still, muscles tense, senses sharply alert. He heard a faint rustling but he could not make out from what part of the room it came.

Smith crouched, rigid and breathless, waiting for a shot. It did not come. Slowly, as silently as possible, he reached for the sheath knife he carried and drew it. He had a gun, but a knife, the old cracksman had said, was much better for a fight in the dark and it had the superlative virtue of noiselessness. He became motionless again, his eyes vainly straining to pierce the darkness, waiting for the other to make a move. The silence and inaction became unbearable. He gathered his nerve and muscles for a rush to where the door ought to be and leaped forward. At the third step a fist struck out and caught him on the neck. He recoiled a little, then lashed out blindly with the knife. He heard a sharp gasp and a body crumpling to the floor. But Smith waited no longer. Groping his way to the door, he sped along the corridor and through the shop to the rear window where he had entered.

A quarter of an hour later a watchman espied the open window. He whistled a policeman to his aid and together, after a period of timorous deliberation, they entered and with many discreet pauses tiptoed over the building. They found David in the corridor, where he had given up crawling, weakly trying to stanch the flowing blood.

The policeman was young and new to his job. He mopped his brow nervously at sight of so much blood.

"Are yez much hurted, d'yez think?" he inquired anxiously.

"More scared than hurt, probably." David smiled wanly. "But, just the same, I think you'd better call up a doctor."



CHAPTER XII

WHICH HOUSE?

The doctor did not share David's opinion. He shook his head gravely, looked important and said, "It's lucky I got here so soon." Then he brightened a little. "But it's a lovely clean cut and we'll do what we can."

So, he stopped the flow of blood, washed out the wound with an antiseptic solution and took several stitches; which hurt much worse than Smith's knife had. Then he ordered David to the hospital. But by that time some one had got Jonathan by telephone and he said, "No, bring him here." And David protesting in vain, an ambulance took him to Jonathan's house and gentle hands laid him on the bed of the special guest-room. A nurse was installed and in time David fell asleep.

Through the night Jonathan watched, stealing every few minutes to David's bedside. It was not at all necessary; the nurse slept, no fears disturbing her slumbers. But Jonathan wanted to watch. He kept thinking that David might have died. He shuddered and went pale at the thought. For Jonathan had loved David; he loved him even now.

The bitterness of that day was gone; so much could a little letting of blood accomplish. But the thought of one tragedy, so narrowly escaped, did not help Jonathan to forget another impending—if it was to be tragedy. His heart ached for his friends; it was only of them he thought now. They faced each other across a chasm too wide to be leaped or bridged; only by a descent into chill dark depths could their outstretched hands meet. He did not blame them for having strayed to that brink; not in the impulses of the heart do we sin, only in the yielding.

But such chasms need not be tragic. There grow the sweetest flowers for those having the will to see and gather. All his life Jonathan had been schooled in that lesson, and he had learned to pluck happiness as he turned his back on desire. He had even been happy in an unrequited love, he had not sought to cast it out of his heart, he had loved his love—at least until it had seemed helpless to save her from a hurt. He could be happy in it still, if instead of tragedy they could find strength and courage and the greater triumph growing on the brink of their chasm.

It seemed very simple and easy, what he wanted them to learn. He did not understand that only the Greathearts find it simple and easy. He never suspected that he was a Greatheart. An odd fish, this Jonathan!

But it was a knowledge that he could not give them. They must win it, if at all, for themselves.

In the morning the doctor came again, inspected the wound, discovered no evidence of infection and was mightily pleased with himself.

"Don't look so sad," he adjured David. "You got off lucky. If that knife—"

"I suppose so," David said querulously. "If you've finished, would you mind going? I'd like to sleep some more."

The doctor nodded comprehendingly. "Pretty weak yet," he confided to the nurse in a whisper. "Lost quite a bit of blood before I could get to him. Must humor him."

David closed his eyes. Not, however, to sleep. Rather to listen to his tempter, who had returned to stand guard, to keep the victory it had won. But the imp's words were less plausible this morning, a certain sly malice had crept into his voice. David remembered shrinkingly the resolve he had taken.

"It's because I am weak." He tried to stiffen himself. "I have a right to be happy. Why should two be made to suffer for one who wouldn't care?" He repeated that over and over to himself and almost achieved belief.

The nurse came to his bedside. "I'm going out for my walk now. Ring this bell if you want anything, and one of the maids will come."

He nodded and she left. A minute later he heard other steps coming into the room.

"David—David!" said a voice over him. A compassionate voice that was near to breaking.

He opened his eyes and, not easily, met Jonathan's. "I'm making a good deal of trouble. You should have let them take me to the hospital."

"Hush, David! I wanted you to come here. Is the wound very painful?"

"I've had toothaches that were worse."

"It's like you to make light of it."

"It isn't like me to make light of it. You've seen me and ought to know that. It's more like me to whine."

"But it's serious." Jonathan shook his head gravely. "The doctor says, if the knife had gone an eighth of an inch deeper—"

"They always say that, don't they? It didn't go an eighth of an inch deeper."

"But it might have," Jonathan insisted. "David, why did you do it? Did you think a little money was worth such a risk?"

David frowned petulantly. "I'm no hero. I didn't mean to take any risks. I just blundered in and was too stupid to get out. So I got hurt. It's a habit of mine."

"Ah!" Jonathan understood the allusion. "David, can you forgive me? Yesterday I was thinking you—what you are not. I was bitter, not quite myself. I was blaming you for what you couldn't help and thinking you were going—"

"Don't! Don't talk about that! I—" David turned his face to the wall. "I wish to God Smith's knife had gone deeper!"

Jonathan started. "Smith! You say it was Smith? Then this happened because of me. I let myself get at odds with all the world and in that temper sent him from the shop. You have much to forgive me for, David."

"That's pretty far-fetched, isn't it? If it's any consolation, I couldn't swear it was Smith. I only had a glimpse of him."

"It is a consolation. Because now, if any one questions you about what happened, you needn't identify Smith. I hate to think of any man having to go to jail. Sin is its own punishment—and heavy enough. God knows! We must find Smith, David, and try to help him. You could help him most. When he knows that you, whom he hurt, are ready—"

"Do whatever you want with him. I have no wish to send him to jail."

David stirred restlessly; his wound began to throb. Why couldn't the manikin go away and take his silly exaggerated—and disturbing—sentimentalities with him? Didn't he know that his very presence there was a reminder of something David wanted to forget—that the kingdom of desire was not to be entered without payment?

But Jonathan did not leave, though he saw what the patient wished. He went without further detours to the thing that lay between them.

"David, what are you going to do?"

David made no answer but stared unwinkingly at the wall.

"What are you going to do, David?"

David had not guessed how hard it would be to give tongue to his desire.

"I don't know that you have any right to ask. But if it will do you any good to know, I'm going to get free and—"

He turned and looked defiantly into Jonathan's eyes. He saw the suffering there. But Jonathan's voice was still gentle.

"You would do that?"

"I would do that."

"You mean," Jonathan persisted, "you will get a divorce? And then go to her?"

How ugly, how sordid, that seemed, spoken aloud in the clear light of morning!

But David said, "I mean that."

"Have you thought of—your wife?"

"She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't really care."

"And you have a boy. A beautiful boy, I am told."

"That—that is part of the—price."

"Ah! the price! You have thought of the price then. And you are ready to pay it. Other people have paid it, I know. I have wondered if they didn't pay too much. David—" Jonathan looked away. "Have you thought of—her?"

"Can't you understand I am thinking of her? I can't let her be hurt. And I want her—you can't know—"

He flung an arm over his face. And he was glad of the sharp pain that shot through his side.

"I know," said Jonathan. "I know."

They were silent for a while. The silence became almost unbearable to one of them. He let his arm fall slowly to his side.

"Well, say it! If you have anything against it, say it."

"No." Jonathan turned to him once more, sadly. "I have nothing to say against it. I know it would do no good, if I had. I say only, do it, if you think she will not be hurt—if you think you can. . . . I must go now."

He left. Soon the nurse returned. She looked closely at her patient and took a thermometer from the table.

"No!" he said sharply. "I'm all right. Just go away and leave me alone."

Being a wise nurse, she obeyed. . . .

When Jonathan reached his office a trembling white-faced girl was awaiting him.

"How is he?"

He told her. "It needn't be serious. But he had a narrow escape."

"Why didn't you let me know last night?"

"It would have done no good." He looked at her searchingly. But neither shrinking nor shame was in her eyes. "Will you go to him now?"

"Go to him? I— Why do you ask that?"

"He needs you," he said. "There is no one else who can help him now. Will you go?"

"Yes." She understood the help that was needed.

"Then come."

Together they went out to the street. He hailed a taxicab and they entered and drove away. Neither spoke during that ride. When they reached the house he led her to the parlor.

"If you will wait here," he said, "I will get the nurse away."

In a few minutes he returned.

"You may go up now."

He watched her ascend, heard her quick light tread along the hall above and the closing of a door.

"Esther!" he whispered. "My poor Esther! Who will help you?"



CHAPTER XIII

THE HAPPY ENDING

She halted just within the closed door. At first he could not believe it was she. For a little he went blind, a black streaming mist hiding her from him. But when it cleared away she was still there. Their eyes met and clung across the room.

"Esther! You came! I didn't believe—"

"He asked me to come."

"He asked you! I don't understand—"

"Would you rather I had stayed away?"

For answer he held out hungry arms toward her. He would have sat upright; pain and weakness were forgotten. But she was at his side in a breath.

"You must not."

She put her hands on his shoulders to restrain him. He caught them and held them close to him. She let him for a moment, then gently freed them from his clasp.

"It is no worse than he says—your hurt?"

"It isn't bad at all."

"You're sure? You see, I didn't know until I got to the office. And they made it out very bad there. They even said you mightn't live. And I had to wait until he came with definite word. It was terrible. When I thought—oh, David!"

The steadiness she had had to keep up before others gave way. Suddenly she sat on the bed, pressing both hands tightly against her face.

"Don't, Esther!" Her weakness hurt him. "Don't! There's nothing to cry for."

"Let me. I'll be all right—in a minute."

He let her then. And he wished that the hot iron in his own heart could be cooled a little in tears. But his eyes were dry and aching and the iron burned deeper. There was something to cry for.

"Now!" It was the tempter whispering. "Now is the time to tell her."

But a strange paralysis was on his tongue and will.

She waited until she could achieve the smile she wanted him to see. Then she let her hands fall to her lap. And in the brightness of that smile the tears on her lashes were dewdrops that had caught the morning sunlight.

"Speak up! Now!" It was the imp again.

"Why do you falter?" Now was the time to tell her of that beautiful kingdom and how he proposed to win it for them, to ask her to wait until he could lead her through its gates. And still he could not. . . . And suddenly he knew that he never could. . . .

"There!" The smile was perfect. "That is over. I didn't mean to be so foolish. It's only because I had been thinking it was so much worse. Now I can take time to be glad. About this, I mean."

From the pocket of her jacket she drew forth a folded sheet of paper and held it out to him. It was the letter from St. Mark's.

"It seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it?—though we ought never to say that. I found it on the floor by my desk this morning. I thought it was some of the office correspondence and opened it and—do you mind?—when I saw what it was I read it through. I hardly knew what I was doing. It didn't seem important then. But now— Oh, I am glad—glad!" She nodded brightly. "The finest thing in the world has happened."

He looked dully at the letter which ought to have meant so much to him.

"I had forgotten that."

"It means you can go back to your own profession, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so. Yes, it means that."

"It has been like a story, hasn't it? This summer, I mean. A beautiful story! In the beginning you came to the office—to prison, you said. And I was plodding along, trying to make myself believe that I liked bookkeeping. A pair of lame ducks we were, with broken wings. I'm a little sorry for us yet—aren't you? But now we— Do you think it would hurt you if I raised the shades? It's such a glorious morning and I love sunshine."

"It wouldn't hurt, of course."

She went to the windows and raised the shades and the morning radiance, the light in which all hues are seen as they are, flooded the room. Then she went back to her seat beside him.

"That is much better, isn't it? . . . A beautiful story! Now our wings are strong again. . . ."

And so she went on, painting in the brightest colors she knew how to mix what she supposed the future held for them. She tried to make it splendid. St. Mark's was to be but a beginning. He was to go very far, building many beautiful churches, striving to make each a little finer than the one before, until he was famous throughout the land—"Which is worth something, of course, but not half so much as knowing that you have done good work. You remember, I said once that would be your great reward." She was to live outdoors, careful not to overdo her voice practise at first. After a while, when she had grown stronger, she would study hard to make up for the years she had lost, perhaps go abroad to work under the great voice builders and coaches there. And "some day," perhaps, rumor would tell him of a new contralto whom people loved to hear sing. . . . It was a little childish, no doubt, and rather overdone.

But he did not think of that. He was not listening. He was seeing, not the picture she painted but that which she made, there in the sunshine. She was whiter than ever. Deep shadows were under her eyes. But the eyes themselves were very steady, her voice never quavered, nor did the smile flicker. Where did she get her spirit, this slender fragile girl who seemed so in need of another's strength for support?

And upon the bright brave soul of her he had wanted to put a stain. He could not do that! He no longer wanted to do that.

For the questions Jonathan had left burning in David's heart had answered themselves. As he watched her, he saw what on the high mount he had refused to see. He had hurt her enough. Not through another hurt could he find healing for her. And it would hurt her, what he had planned. It would take from her all that he loved; and it would add shame, the shame of cowardice, if not of cruelty to others. He could not do that; even if she were willing he could not. Yielding was not the simple thing it had seemed. Something he lacked—or something he had—which forever shut the gates of that kingdom upon him. It had been but an evil impossible dream. But a beautiful dream! There was yet no joy in renunciation.

David went down from the mount into the valley where shadows were deep and unbroken.

"And so the story ends happily, as it should. Everything has come out right."

"No! Everything has not come out right!"

"You mustn't say that. You mustn't think—"

"Esther!" It was hard to meet her eyes then. "I've got to say it—to let you see the sort of man I am. Last night I was thinking of—of what has happened to us and what we would do. There seemed only one way out that I could bear. I made up my mind. I was going to you to tell you that I would get free—I would have managed that somehow—and then come to you. I could have done it—last night."

The smile faded. She waited for him to continue.

"But Smith stopped me. I am glad he stopped me. For now—" He could not go on.

"Now you can't. Is that it?"

"I can't."

"I am glad you can't."

She said it very quietly. Her eyes left his and turned to the sunny window. But the light that shone on the thin tired face came not from without.

The ugly tempter lifted its wings and flew swiftly away.

"Are you," he began again at last, "revising your opinion of me? I hope you are."

A hand fell lightly on his lips. "I don't want to revise my opinion of you. I couldn't. And I understand—what you wanted and why it is impossible for us. Because—last night— I could have let you do it."

"Oh, Esther, I never meant to hurt you. Can you believe that?"

"I know. But you haven't hurt me—even though for a while I was shameless as I never thought I could be. I said the story has ended happily. And it has—with the happiest ending possible, the only happy ending it could have. Because there is nothing to regret."

"Nothing to regret!" Unbelief was in his gaze.

"Ah! We mustn't talk about it—but can't you see—can't you understand?"

She leaned over him, giving him her eyes, letting him look to the very depths he had once wanted to explore. He saw love there, and joy in love, but as well the will to renounce gladly—and no lurking shadow to say that she had bravely lied.

"Do you believe—that I am not unhappy and will not be?"

"I can't understand. But I have to believe. I am glad to believe."

He closed his eyes and relaxed his tired body, to learn that the wound was throbbing sharply. But that was a little thing.

She sat beside him, her face turned again to the sunlight. Once she reached out and touched his hand caressingly; he caught hers and clung to it as though he could not let it go. It was not a long silence.

But it was long enough. In those few minutes he went up out of the valley again and stood with her on another mount. And to him, too, came the free will to renounce; and understanding. Sorrow abode with him still, an exquisite pang that was to leave a lasting scar. But in his heart glowed a strange fire—as if for some splendid victory—lighted only for that hour, it may be, but revealing to him what he had found; a love that had not failed, that asked nothing, able to triumph over all things, even itself. It was so he had dreamed love might be. He was glad he had found it. He was glad of the cup it had put to his lips. He was the richer for her. He would be the richer for seeing her go. He hoped that the sorrow would never quite pass out of his heart, that the love would never shrink to a mere memory.

He lifted shining eyes to hers.

"Now I understand! Some things aren't worth all they cost. What I wanted last night is one of them. But this—I would not be without it, even though—"

"Nor would I."

Tears were gemming her eyes once more. But they were not sorrowful tears and they did not fall.

It was time for her to go. The hands that had not ceased to cling fell apart. She went slowly across the room.

At the door she lingered a moment, looking back. Through the streaming mist he saw her face, bright in the white glory of renunciation. She smiled . . . and was gone. . . .

The same brightness was upon him. But he did not know that. He stood on the mount to which she had led him, still seeing her. And still there were no regrets. To him was coming the strength he was to need, a faith in himself that was to tide him over many gray morrows. It was a very high place, the peak of his life. Ever afterward he was to look up to that hour.

* * * * * *

That evening came Shirley, summoned by Mrs. Jim. But the nurse turned her back at David's door. He had fever and the dreaded infection had set in. There must be no excitement. So Shirley must wait. Two days more she had to wait, anxious days during which she learned fast. On the third the nurse raised the embargo for a few minutes, and Shirley, breathless and afraid, went to the door through which the other had gone.

He was ready for her coming. His only dread was that she might see what he must never let her know. He had a deep pitying tenderness for her, to whom love had appeared only as a pretty toy.

She halted uncertainly at the door. He saw that she doubted her welcome.

"David, do you still want me to come?"

"Come, Shirley."

She went quickly to him and knelt by his side, and kissed him.

"Dear, I wanted to come. I couldn't stay away. And it wasn't because you gave me a choice. Won't you believe that, David?"

"I believe that, Shirley."

"You only said, 'Come.' Don't you really want me? Do you think that after a while, when I've learned all I have to learn—and proved what I have to prove—you will be glad that I came?"

THE END