"Inclosed find an announcement we have made in many papers. The directors of the Bank of England have now received two thirds of the amount stolen April 11, 18—, and hereby announce that the persons who have the remainder of the stolen money, if they return it, will not be prosecuted.

"STEPHEN BONE."



CHAPTER IX

HOME BANKING—A FAILURE

In the upper suburb of Montreal, Canada, stood an unassuming cottage, in the midst of a spacious and well-kept lawn and garden. A young man was seen carrying a rake on his shoulder and with the other hand drawing a lawn mower toward a shed in one corner of the lot, where he was to deposit them for the night.

"Hiram, I never saw the lawn look better." These words were spoken by a venerable-looking old gentleman with cheery voice, as he came around the corner of the garden, smoking a cigar. The speaker was a large and well proportioned man of perhaps fifty-five years of age. He looked through large brown eyes, kindly but resolute. His square jaw and firm mouth denoted will power, his face was ruddy, and his head was crowned with an abundance of curling hair as white as snow. This was Abram McLain, the retired member of the firm of McLain, Shaw & Co., the originators and organizers of the first steamboat line running between Liverpool and Montreal. From this investment and an interest in building the great Victoria bridge across the Saint Lawrence, Mr. McLain had accumulated a large fortune, which, promptly invested in real estate and safe stocks which were continually enhancing in value in this rapidly growing municipality, soon placed him among the accredited millionaires of Canada.

The cottage which he owned and in which he lived was built of gray stone, one tall story in height, and crowned with a French roof. It was beautified by a wide door in front with colonial pillars and porch. The windows were tall, to which iron shutters were attached. The ground on which this building stood had been bought immediately after the conflagration of 1852, when Saint Mary's Ward was almost obliterated. From that date each year had increased the value of all property in this part of the city, so that this property alone, having five acres, would have placed its owner among the well-to-do citizens of the community. But this property was only a small portion of the holdings of Abram McLain. A unique building was this cottage.

Two skilled mechanics had been brought from Quebec, and no one was permitted to see their work nor to learn what they were doing. Their work was to be in the basement, which had been excavated ten feet deep, the massive walls reaching down until they rested upon solid rock. The building was seventy-five feet square. A furnace occupied the center of the basement. Next, in front, was a beautiful office, finished in hardwood, exquisitely polished, and furnished with most modern furniture. In the rear of this office was a smaller room, the walls of which were incased with steel plates, supposed to be both burglar-proof and fire-proof. This room contained a safe having no opening except the door into the office. It would never have been taken for anything but a closet convenient to the main office; but the door was solid iron, the lock of which none but the owner could manipulate. A reception or smoking room, which Mr. McLain called his den, was on the other side of the hallway—a cozy and yet elaborately furnished room, containing tables, sofas, and easy chairs, where the owner could meet his friends for business or pleasure.

Mr. McLain's father, a sturdy and sagacious Scotchman, had landed in Canada when Abram was about ten years of age, and began in earnest to win at least a living, if not a fortune, in this sparsely settled city, which at that time was hardly worthy the name of a city, although its thoroughgoing citizens had procured a city charter. Mr. McLain by earnest long-sightedness and industry succeeded in becoming a well-to-do citizen. Unfortunately, Mr. McLain invested most of his savings in a large banking institution, located on McGill Street—The Montreal National Bank—which a few months later was consumed in the conflagration. This unfortunate event with subsequent obligations, left him both poor and in debt, from which he never recovered, but in two years died, leaving his wife dependent upon their only son. Some years later, when Abram was accumulating money rapidly, he bought stock in gas and water works, and in both instances they collapsed, and the stockholders were left by a dishonest set of officers to meet delinquent obligations. This experience of both father and son not only met with indignant protestations, but drove Abram to a conclusion wise, or foolish, as the case may be; but he concluded that hereafter he would be his own banker, or at least the custodian of his own money. This accounted for the burglar-proof safe in the basement of the new cottage, and where he could keep every valuable paper, securities, deeds, mortgages, or money. This line of business was no secret in the community. He was his own banker, and when he sold property or anything else, the place of the money deposited was his own safe.

Much of Mr. McLain's spare time was spent at the Majestic, then the largest hotel in the city, he being its owner. Ernest Case, the acting landlord, took great pleasure in introducing him to customers, and especially if they were prominent persons or had titles attached to their names, who honored this hostelry with their presence.

One evening Mr. McLain sat in one of the cozy parlors enjoying a cigar with Mayor Dalrymple, he, himself, being an alderman. They had much in common to interest them, and were conversing interestedly, when Mr. Case, accompanied by an imposing-looking stranger, approached and asked permission to introduce Major Bancroft, of Quebec. The major took the liberty of correcting a slight mistake.

"True, from Quebec last," he said, pleasantly, "but from Devonshire, England, first. That is my home, and you know an Englishman never denies his country. I am nephew to the Duke of Devon, and"—hesitatingly—"possibly the next heir to the title. At present I am a major in Her Majesty's Twenty-first Cavalry. I am just taking a run through your grand country, while not much needed at home. Gentlemen, you certainly have the making of a great city here in Montreal."

"We think so," said the mayor.

"Yes," added Mr. McLain, "we think that much of it is already made. We have already the best schools, the best churches, the best hotels and shipping wharves on the continent, and," he added, smiling, "the most beautiful women in Canada."

"I have no inclination to doubt your word in any one of those statements, Mr. McLain, and especially your last proposition, as it accords with my own observation; but my opportunities of looking about as yet have been limited, having arrived only yesterday." Then the major continued: "Is real estate increasing in value very rapidly?"

The mayor replied: "We have been burned out three times, but each fire has enhanced the value of all real estate."

"I am glad to hear that," the major replied, "as I am traveling with an eye open for investments. It is quite different with us. Capital invested in real estate in England usually results in regrets and loss."

This young stranger was a man of sturdy frame, broad shoulders, and medium height, having a military bearing; save his mustache, his face was clean shaven, and he had full lips and large, white teeth. He looked to be possibly twenty-five years of age, and would have been called good-looking anywhere. Both the resident citizens invited the major to call at their places of business before he left the city. This he promised to do.

A few days later, Case, in a joking sort of way, remarked to Mr. McLain: "I think some of your landowners ought to sell Major Bancroft something in the way of real estate. He has plenty of money. I have fifty thousand of his money in my safe, and he seems to be aching to invest it."

"I am quite willing to sell him some city stock, if he will give me my price," remarked McLain.

"But I imagine he wants something bigger," said Case.

"Why," muttered McLain, "I don't want anything better or bigger."

"Yes, I know," replied Case, "but I think he wants something that will grow while he is fighting the Boers, as he is looking every day to be ordered home."

"Well," replied McLain, "I give you authority to sell him the Majestic, if you can. I'll authorize you to act as my agent."

"Thank you," replied Case, "but I'm not anxious to change employers."

"But," answered McLain, "I'm not joking. I will sell anything I have, except my wife and cottage, if I can get my price."

"What's your selling price for the Majestic?" laughingly asked the other.

"O, well, let me see—I suppose forty thousand pounds would buy it."

"All right," said Case, as he turned away, "I guess I'll not change employers this year."

The Montreal Daily Gazette lay upon Mr. McLain's breakfast table a few days later. Mrs. McLain called his attention to it, stating that while awaiting his coming to breakfast she had noticed that the Albermarle was about to be sold to an English capitalist, who proposed to increase its capacity, and make it the largest hotel in the colony.

"Indeed!" said Mr. McLain, sipping his coffee, and he took up the paper to read for himself.

Glancing first at the money market, his eyes next sought for local items, and he read the following article: "Changes in real estate. Rumor says that the Albermarle is to change owners. An English nobleman who is looking for profitable investments is said to be the prospective purchaser. The capacity of this excellent hostelry, according to the report, is to be greatly increased by the purchase of the two adjoining properties."

About noon the same day Mr. McLain received a call from Major Bancroft.

"This is a delightful office," remarked the major, as he lighted a cigar that had been handed him.

"Yes, Major, I had an eye to comfort as well as to business when I built it," adding in a sort of casual way, "I see by this morning's paper that you think of becoming a property owner in our city; allow me to congratulate you."

"Well," replied the major, "your newspapers are a little too rapid. I notice that they sometimes get ahead of the hounds. I'm glad you mentioned the matter. Might I ask you how much the Albermarle is worth in your opinion?"

"O!" replied Mr. McLain, "it would not be right for me to appraise it, as I own the same kind of property."

"I see," replied the major. "Of course. What, then, would be a fair selling price for the Majestic? It seems superior in both locality and capacity."

"Well," observed Mr. McLain, "the Majestic has never been put on the market, nor is it today for sale; consequently, I should ask its full value, if I mentioned any price at all. I would not look at anything less than forty thousand pounds for it."

"Would you not sell for thirty-five thousand pounds cash?"

Mr. McLain dropped his head slightly, and then suddenly replied: "No, sir, but I would sell for forty thousand pounds cash, English money."

"Very well, Mr. McLain, make out the necessary papers, and on one week from today I will pay you forty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes."

"All right, Major, I will meet you at the Montreal National Bank one week from today, at 12 o'clock. I will bring the papers."

"All right," said the Major, and departed.



CHAPTER X

ALMOST A TRAGEDY

A day or two after the sale of the Majestic, while the preparation of the transfer papers was going on, Mr. McLain's young man, who was acting as his secretary and clerk, asked his employer to be relieved of his present duties.

"Why, what is the matter, Hiram?" asked Mr. McLain. "Don't you like your job?"

"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply, "but I have got a place that suits me better, and, besides, I shall make more money."

"Where are you going?"

"Major Bancroft has given me the chief clerkship at the hotel."

"Ah, I didn't know that you had met the major. What will he do with Case?"

"I do not know."

"Well, it will be several days before he gets possession. When do you want to leave me?"

The reply was: "I should like to be released tonight, as Mr. Case is going to show me how to do the work."

"Very well," replied Mr. McLain, "come to me tomorrow morning and I will settle with you."

* * * * *

"Nick Hanson, Genesee House, Buffalo, N.Y., U.S.A: Come quick. Your man is here. Risis—Montreal."

Hanson received this telegram at seven o'clock in the morning, while eating his breakfast in the old Genesee House, Buffalo. In thirty minutes he was on the Niagara Express. That night about ten o'clock two men walked into the public room of the Majestic. Just outside the office door, in a lounging chair, sat the prospective landlord, as everybody called him. One of the newcomers was Ben Loring, a well-known detective of the Montreal department; the other our old friend Nick Hanson.

"Hello, Blair!" exclaimed Nick, in his usual jovial tones, as if greeting an old friend, as he confidently held out his hand.

At that instant, instead of receiving a handshake, he received a tremendous blow on the neck, just the place which pugilists aim for. Nick staggered and almost fell. This blow was not struck by the major, but by his new clerk, who had not been observed by either of the newcomers.

"Two can play at that game," muttered Ben Loring, as he felled Hiram to the floor with a sweeping blow, and in half a minute Ben had his nippers on the young man's wrists. "I'll teach you to interfere with an officer in the line of duty," he added.

In the meantime, as Nick staggered up, and the major saw him gaining his equilibrium, he succeeded in drawing a revolver, but as he raised it to about the level of Hanson's breast that athlete kicked the hand that held it, and the gun flew upward, struck the ceiling, was discharged, and fell harmlessly to the floor, while the dislocated hand of the major dropped helplessly to his side. The other wrist was instantly handcuffed, and within a few minutes both landlord and clerk were helpless prisoners on their way to the police station. Arriving at that place, they were duly searched by an officer and their pockets emptied. From the major was taken a receipt signed by Case for a package of money said to contain fifty thousand pounds. Then a doctor was found to examine his crippled hand. There was a compound fracture in addition to the dislocation.

It was now nearly midnight. After the injured hand had been properly treated and dressed the prisoners were locked up, and the officers returned to the hotel, where Case handed over to them the package of money. The two officers examined the notes and, finding them to be as the major had represented, departed with them in their possession, pending the proper disposition of the case. When they were gone the two detectives sat discussing the event that had just occurred.

"But who is the fellow that gave you the lick which so nearly put you to sleep?" asked Ben.

"O, that is Thurston, who is at the bottom of this whole Montreal scheme. He came here and learned that McLain had a safe of his own, and was the custodian of his own money, and knowing that no bank would receive one of these notes, since they have all the numbers, and that McLain would in all probability give no particular thought to the matter of the numbered notes, they both determined to risk buying and paying with this marked money, hold the property a while, sell out, if necessary for less than they gave, and, by selling, get hold of money that they could use."

"Nothing plainer," said Ben, when Nick had finished, "and tomorrow was the day set for closing the deal and turning the property over to the new owner."

"This Thurston," said Nick, "is the fellow that slipped away from Job Worth, taking Job's watch and one hundred pounds of his money."

Just as they were about to go to bed Mr. McLain arrived, and in the conversation which ensued made it clear that while deploring the unfortunate developments in the case, he really entertained no regret in having failed to dispose of the Majestic.

The next day a consultation was held at the Montreal Police Headquarters. There were present Nick Hanson, Ben Loring, the chief of police, the mayor of the city, two attorneys, Mr. Cross, cashier of the First National Bank, and Mr. McLain. The money was produced, together with the announcement issued by the Bank of England, and the cashier showed the list of numbers of the missing notes. The next point considered was the official assurance of the Bank of England that should the money be returned, prosecution would cease. All the money had been captured, or returned, and yet they had two of the men prisoners. What should they do with them? It was finally agreed to set them free. Before this was done, however, Hanson cabled his chief in London identifying Thurston as the man who had robbed Worth in Evansville, Indiana, but received the answer that Thurston would not be prosecuted. Upon receipt of this order both men were allowed to go free, and Nick in a few days sailed for Liverpool.

The major was taken to the hospital, but despite the most careful treatment two of his fingers were lost. He went from bad to worse, and was finally reduced to the state of a wretched pauper, but ever bearing the derisive title of "Major Bancroft." They all remembered him as the thief who bought the Majestic. Such was the end of a young man whose future had been full of promise, the brightest student of his class in Burrough Road Institute—a poor pauper, unpitied by all who learned the history of his life. Thurston secured a place to drive an omnibus to and from the railroad depot to the Majestic Hotel. He is now an old man, white headed, unknown, forgotten, unloved, and alone.

O, the pity of it! Two young men of good parentage and of more than ordinary ability, with gracious opportunities, wrecked in early manhood by mad and reckless ambition. Haste to become rich. And after the sacrifice of honor and self-respect and the securing that which they had coveted—could not use it for any commercial purpose. Thinking that its possession would make them rich they became poor indeed. They now drop out of our story, followed by our deepest pity and commiseration.



CHAPTER XI

AN HYPOTHETICAL CASE

There seemed to come to Carl some improvement in his physical condition; but there still came over him hours of great depression and despondency, when even Tom could do little to cheer him.

Dr. Marmion in his correspondence with Bishop Albertson had hitherto made no revelation of Carl's case. But the conviction came upon him that he, himself, was guilty of what he condemned in others and especially in Carl, in allowing the bishop to retain in his service a man who, in the eyes of the law, was a criminal, the perpetrator of a great crime. He concluded to write the bishop an hypothetical letter, describing this case, asking his judgment; and in this way find out what course the bishop would pursue if such a case should come into his life, and he wrote the following:

"MY DEAR BISHOP ALBERTSON: To whom but you can I go for advice in an important matter, which at this time is causing me much perplexity? I feel sure that your conscientious judgment will help me to arrive at an equitable conclusion. To you this may be hypothetical, but to me it is much worse.

"Suppose, then, a young man, well born, and so far well trained, at twenty years of age, away from home, falls into bad company, and, yielding to temptation, commits a great crime, but, escaping by a bit of sagacious stratagem, succeeds in causing his parents to believe that he is dead and mourn him as such, wholly unsuspicious in their minds that he has committed a crime. In the meantime he, in a distant land, lives a useful and honorable life, deeply repenting the sad mishap of his life, and fully redeeming his crime, so that no one but himself and the unhappy parents suffer by his unfortunate act. Furthermore, he occupies a most honorable and useful position, his employer, of course, knowing nothing of his previous misdeeds. Now, as already has been inferred, this young man is living a pure and honorable life, loved by all who know him; but he claims that to reveal to his parents the fact that he is alive would entail more and deeper sorrow upon them than to allow them to continue to believe him dead. He declares that they would suffer less in believing him dead than to know him to be a living criminal.

"Now, my dear Bishop, I write this note to you, calling it hypothetical; but to me, it is more than hypothetical—it is a real case. This young man is one of my patients, and I love him as dearly as if he were my own son for his noble qualities and his sincere penitence, as well as for the pure life he lives. His physical condition is indeed precarious, and I feel sure that his life will be shortened unless he receives relief. Kindly give me your righteous judgment of this case. I have his confidence, and cannot betray it; hence the secrecy of this inquiry.

"Sincerely yours,

"MARMION."

A few days later the doctor received the following:

"MY DEAR DOCTOR MARMION: Your hypothetical (?) note is here. I have read it several times, with increasing interest, and with a prayerful desire to be able to assist you to arrive at a righteous decision in what seems to be a very important matter.

"First. You say (if I understand correctly) that restitution has been made to the parties against whom the crime was perpetrated. That is well and so far satisfactory.

"But, second. The crime was a double one. When that wrong was righted to the first parties, then the second parties, in the deception practiced upon them, suffered more and longer than the parties of the first part, so that really the crime is only partially expiated until the wronged parents are undeceived, and he has made his peace with them. I feel safe in saying that this young man will never be happy, nor his physical condition improved, until he pays the full price of his sin. All who have been wronged must be righted. Depend upon it, his life will be chaotic, unreliable, and unhappy until he makes a clean breast of it to his parents. When he does this, if I were his father, I would take him to my heart, and give him a father's love and forgiveness. If I were his employer, and he came to me honestly confessing his sin, I should not dare to withhold either my confidence or my love. I should pity as a father pities, and I should say: "Go, sin no more."

"Now, my dear Doctor, in conclusion, this son (not you) should be the one to undeceive the parents. I can and do understand the delicate reason which actuates him in fearing to undeceive his parents in regard to his being alive, while they have and do believe him dead. If you can remove this deep impression from his mind, all will soon be right. But he must do this himself, not by letter either, he must go to his father; yes, he must arise and go to his father.

"Affectionately yours,

"ALBERTSON."

The bishop sat in his office six feet away from his secretary, while writing this letter of reply, and when he had concluded it he did as was his custom in his correspondence—passed both letters over to his secretary to read aloud.

In a few moments Carl picked up Marmion's letter. After reading a few sentences he halted, saying: "Bishop, this seems to be a confidential letter. Shall I continue?"

"O, yes," replied the bishop, "there are no names mentioned; read on. I want to know if my answer sounds right, and I can learn that best by hearing it read."

Carl had grasped the spirit and meaning, and he already knew what was coming. But he proceeded and somewhat hesitatingly read it through. Having done this, he was in the act of handing both letters back, when the good bishop, with a wave of his hand, said: "Now read my reply, please, that is the most important thing—read slowly, please."

The dismayed secretary felt that this was indeed crucifixion. Why had not the doctor spared him this? Did he not know that the letter would come under his eye? His first thought was to decline under the plea of nervousness; then, he thought this would be cowardly and unmanly. No, he would read, and at the close would decide. The bishop was a poor scribe, and his writing was always difficult to decipher; so taking this as an excuse, he plodded along slowly, and thereby gave himself a chance to hide his real feelings. But still he found this a difficult task, for his voice trembled perceptibly, and when he came to the latter part, where the father said he would welcome his son back to his home and heart, he stopped, his head dropped upon his hand on the table, and the paper fell from his grasp to the floor. The bishop arose quickly, and caught him in his arms, or he too would have fallen. In a few moments, with the assistance of Alice, Carl was laid upon two chairs. The bishop with the assistance of the registrar, who was hastily summoned from the next room, bore the unconscious secretary into another room and laid him upon the bed.

The terrible strain had been too much for the young man's weak condition. It was not long, however, before he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, he saw Alice gazing at him with anxious solicitude, while with her soft hand she was bathing his temples and brow.

Then all the circumstances came back to him, and he heard the gentle voice of the young girl bending over him. "Carl, dear," she was saying, "you are better now, and will soon be all right again."

"Alice," said the young man, faintly, "I shall never be all right again. It is too late."

"No, it is not too late, Carl," was the smiling reply, "you have many happy years before you. You are not strong. You must have a rest, and then your strength will return and so will your courage."

Mrs. Albertson came in at this point, bringing a cup of tea and a wafer, and succeeded in getting the patient to drink the tea. Then the bishop returned quietly and took a chair by the bedside, and soon both ladies retired.

This incident had been a revelation to the slowly acting powers of the bishop's mind; a quicker perception would have grasped the whole case much sooner, and might have obviated much trouble. But now the revelation had forced itself upon the unsuspecting mind of the prelate. Now he fully understood Dr. Marmion's letter, and, also, the cause of Carl's fainting. All his fatherly instincts were aroused, and taking the hand of the revived youth, he said, very tenderly: "My poor boy."

"O, Bishop," sobbed the young man, "Let me go! Turn me out! I have been a living lie to you and yours."

In his rapidly returning strength he arose as he thus spoke. "Forgive me," he continued, disconsolately, "and let me get away out of your sight. I will disgrace you no longer." He had secured his hat and moved toward the door, but the bishop gently detained him, saying: "Wait, Carl. Do nothing in haste. If you are sufficiently strong let us walk out into the park. The fresh air will help you."

It was a beautiful autumn day. All around them the scene was bright and peaceful. The trees were beginning to cast off their leaves. In the exercise grounds the laughter of the students in their games was heard, emphasizing the happiness of life and the joy of living. They sat down on one of the rustic seats. After a few moments of silence, and when Carl seemed to have become more calm, the bishop in a subdued tone said: "My dear boy, I am glad this hour has come. You have my sincere forgiveness, as well as my unbroken confidence. Let that suffice between you and me; I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven, and I love you more than ever. But, Carl, there is yet another duty which you must perform. It has been left too long undone already. It should have had the first place, but it is not too late."

"I know, I know," interrupted the youth, desperately, "but it is impossible. How can I tell my father and mother that their son lives, and that he is a criminal and a liar? Can I inflict this upon them? They have by this time passed through the bitterest pang in believing me to be dead. Why now bring a deeper sorrow to their hearts?"

"Listen, my son; let me talk a moment without interruption. You are not now responsible for consequences. You owe this debt and it must be paid. It is just as much a part of the debt you owe—yes, just as much as the money that you returned. You cannot repudiate it and retain your self-respect. No man can respect himself any more than he can respect another who is able and yet refuses to pay a just debt. Now, you have paid your debt to the bank, and they have forgiven you. You have confessed your fault to me, and I gladly pardon you, and this confession and repentance enhances my love for you. Now, think you that your father and mother will do less? You are both unjust and unkind to him whom I have known and loved from my earliest manhood; and I must, also, add, that if you still refuse to pay this part of your debt, my confidence in your repentance will be lessened."

"Bishop," said the youth, slowly, as if weighing well his words, "I see it all now. But how can I do this? Can you not, will you not, write to my father?"

"No, Carl," was the reply, "you must, in response to your honest heart, do this yourself, nor must it be done through a letter."

Carl was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he arose. "Bishop," said he, "I will follow your advice. I will leave at once for England."

"This, my boy," said the bishop, also rising, "is what you must do. I was sure you would see it in this light. It is the only course."

At midnight Carl caught the New York boat, landing in that city in time for early breakfast.

Carl could not pass through the city without calling upon his kind friend Marmion. The Doctor was delighted to see him, and especially when he learned the young man's errand—that he was on his way to pay the last installment of his debt.

He prevailed upon Carl to stay with him until the following Saturday, and then accompanied him to the steamer Europa, on which Carl sailed for Liverpool.



CHAPTER XII

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

The Right Reverend Leonidas McLaren, Bishop of Durham, paced his room with nervous tread that was uncommon with him. He was thinking, and every few moments he turned to look at his wife, who had been engaged with a piece of embroidery upon her lap. The day was closing, and a soft melody from the piano, at which the young daughter sat, was the only sound which broke the stillness of the twilight hour. Frequently at this hour the little family found themselves indulging in thoughts of the sad experience which had come to them. More than a year and a half had passed since had been enacted the tragedy which brought to them their great trouble, and yet resignation had hardly been perfected—a sad lingering hope still clung to them even in the midst of their apparent despair.

"Tomorrow would have been his anniversary day," murmured the mother, sadly, "who knows, but that, after all, he may come back."

"My dear," said the bishop, pausing in front of her, and laying his hand gently upon her shoulder, "I think we mistake in trying to deceive ourselves. It is better to cultivate the spirit of resignation."

At this moment, Joseph, the house man, entered and quietly approaching the bishop, handed him a card. Glancing at the card, the bishop said: "Conduct him to the reception room. I will be there presently." Written with pencil on the card were the words: "A stranger desires to see you." That was all.

The bishop laid the card upon the stand by his wife's side and left the room.

The visitor's back was toward the bishop as he entered. He wore a long duster, and held his hat in his hand. The bishop's quiet salutation caused the man to turn partially around, and at the sight of his face the bishop started slightly and asked: "Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"

"Father! Don't you know me?" burst from the visitor's lips, and then his eyes fell, as if he were overwhelmed with a sense of shame and remorse.

The bishop raised his hand in a gesture of blank amazement. Surely this mature man could not possibly be his son!

But at this moment his wife pushed past him exclaiming: "It is Edward, it is Edward!" She threw her arms around Carl's neck, and the next moment he was supporting her unconscious form, for she had fainted. The bishop recovering from his astonishment assisted Carl in placing her upon a sofa, and an instant later Eleen, the daughter, was at her side. The bishop embraced the trembling, tearful prodigal, but could only inarticulately murmur: "My boy—my boy—you have come back—you have come back! Can it really be you—Edward?"

"Yes, father," sobbed the young man, "I am, indeed, Edward, your son; but I am no more worthy to be thus called. I have sinned, father, against you and in heaven's sight."

"Sinned," said his father, still embracing him. "What of that? Are you not my son, and are you not living? O, how is this? We had so nearly given you up."

Nor was his sister's welcome less affectionate. "You are my brother Eddie," she exclaimed, kissing him fondly, "and you are alive! You were not drowned. O, we hardly dared to hope for this!"

The mother's eyes at last opened, and she motioned for her son to come and sit by her side on the sofa. Then, with mother's arms around him, and father and sister near, he told the sad story of his fall, with all the consequences that had followed—the return of the money, and his confession to Bishop Albertson. "The Lord has forgiven me," he said, "the bank has lost nothing and forgiven my crime. Bishop Albertson has blotted it all out and loves me more dearly than ever, and gives me, as before, his full confidence. But all this was not sufficient to give me peace, and I have crossed the sea to confess to you my sin against you, and ask your pardon." The mother's arms were around his neck, the father's hands were upon his head, and Eleen held his hands in her own. All wept in silence a moment or two, but the tears were tears of joy.

Then the father spoke with trembling voice: "My son was dead and is alive again," he said. "He was lost and is found. Pardoned? Yes, joyously pardoned! Forgiven by heaven, forgiven on earth. My heart gratefully pardons all your errors toward me and mine. And now, my son, consecrate yourself this day to God's service, and may your future life be so loyal and noble that he who has been so loving and forbearing to us all and restored you to his favor, may at last crown you with 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'"

It was past midnight before they became aware of it. Joseph came in to escort Mr. Edward, as he familiarly called him, to his room, but the young man excused himself, since he had engaged a room at the hotel and his baggage was there; but tomorrow he would come to them.

He returned to his lodging, where he slept as he had not slept during one and a half years.

The next day was a great occasion at the episcopal residence. The early morning service conveyed the strange, but glad, news to all who were present that the good bishop's long absent son had returned, and they in turn transmitted it to their friends. He was supposed to have been drowned more than a year ago, and this day was the twentieth anniversary of his birth. The house was filled with callers from early morning until late at night. And thus it was for many days.

If anyone associated the reported drowning with the event of the bank robbery, they never so expressed themselves, nor was his whereabouts during his absence discussed in other than a friendly way. Nevertheless, the returned wanderer was not wholly at ease. He suspected that the kindly and refined nature of these friends silenced many questions which doubtless were in their minds, and often a lull in the conversation filled him with fear and dread of an inadvertent inquiry.



CHAPTER XIII

THE NEW LIFE

The chief regret now in this young man's mind was the loss of two college years. Bishop Albertson greatly desired his return to the Monastery to take up and finish his collegiate course, and receive his diploma from that institution. But the father seriously objected, because this would necessitate his absence again from home. After much discussion and correspondence, the two bishops concluded to leave its decision to the young man himself. As soon as Eleen learned this her woman's sagacity told her what the decision would be. She had her brother's confidence, young as she was, and he had shown her Alice's photograph. She was correct in her conclusions. It was not many days before he made known his determination to return to the Monastery and finish his studies. This would only take two years.

Edward McLaren now felt how irksome this change of name would be among his friends at the Monastery, for there he was known only as "Carl." But this must be met honestly, so he returned at once to his true name in all his correspondence. Edward's expected return to the Monastery was hailed with delight by all. Two great loves welcomed him: first, Alice, of course, knowing how much she had done in his decision to return to America, and that but for his love for her he probably would not have returned, gave to him her implicit confidence and all the wealth of affection contained in her womanly heart. Then Tom, who had been bereaved sorely for four months, was in rapture; he, however, could not tolerate any name but the old one, "Carl." Nor was Bishop Albertson far behind these two in his expressions of affection and confidence. All matters of business, of a secular character, were placed in Edward's hands and his judgment was seldom overruled. But, finally, on account of his studies, Edward had to give these up. So with great reluctance he resigned his office as secretary. This was greatly regretted by the bishop, but he could not conscientiously oppose it. But at the suggestion of the retiring secretary Alice was appointed to fill the vacant place, with the promise that Edward, when possible, would render her his assistance. And thus the collegiate year commenced. The number of students matriculated was larger than ever before.

Edward again assumed charge of the organ and was recognized as music director of Monastery University and church. Tom, too, was entered in the last year of the preparatory department. Edward and he still occupied the room at the farm known as Carl and Tom's room. This was a great help to the boy, as they had set apart three hours each evening for their respective studies, and the elder student rendered Tom much assistance.

At the close of the year Tom passed out of the preparatory department and was admitted into the classical course, and Edward McLaren entered upon his senior year. Edward was likewise recommended as a licentiate for the ministry. But the committee ordered that before this should be fully granted the old custom should be observed and he should preach a "trial sermon," and the date was set for that occasion. If possible, this occasion was of more importance to Tom than to Edward. He was continually referring to it and hoping that it might be a great success. The committee had appointed Sunday afternoon as the time, and the service was announced throughout a wide territory.

The day for the sermon was clear and beautiful. The bishop and faculty were surprised at the amount of interest shown. Many persons remained after the morning service, having brought their luncheons with them, and, as the appointed hour, three o'clock, approached, it was seen that the college chapel would not contain the great crowd, and it was concluded that the service must be held in the auditorium of the church. The large audience room was filled to its utmost capacity. It was truly an ordeal for the young man to pass through. Tom was the most nervous person in the twelve hundred present. "Will my Carl stand the test?" asked Tom of himself. But of course he would. Two young clergymen had charge of the opening exercises. Alice presided at the organ, and a full choir rendered the music, doing justice to the hour and the service.

The young preacher was pale and somewhat nervous when he arose to announce his text. At first he could scarce be heard ten yards away; but he quickly corrected the fault and went on with fuller confidence and courage.

He spoke from Psalm 119. 59: "I thought on my ways, and turned my feet unto thy testimonies."

"Thinking is royal," he said. "Thought is king. Everything of beauty or usefulness is the child of thought. Here is the distinction between man and the brute. Here is the cause of difference between the savant and the savage. And here is the difference between men. Some think; others do not. And what fields for thought are spread out before the human mind! For instance, nations and cities once great and influential are now blotted out. Babylon, Rome, Palmyra, Jerusalem. What destroyed them? They refused to acknowledge God, and he left them to perish. Ah! They forsook God and he left them.

"Again. Notice the nations that have come up out of barbaric obscurity to become the world power today—England, Germany, the United States. What has thus lifted them to their peerless position? They acknowledge God to be their God and King of all kings and all nations. Surely, then, this is a nation's palladium, just as it is the individual standard of character. Emmanuel—God with us.

"And to think of ourselves is truly ennobling. I do not mean as the egotist thinks. But to think of our individual capacity and obligations. The Greeks had a motto over their temple at Delphi, it was 'Know Thyself.' To know ourselves is the beginning of wisdom. Young men, learn to know yourselves and your responsibility; but none of these is the subject of David's thought.

"'I thought on my ways.' Our ways toward God. We have not treated anyone as we have treated God. We have shut him out of our homes, lives, hearts, while he stood at the door knocking; while he cried, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Men live through years without thinking of God, until illness or affliction comes, then they call upon him for help. Ah! It is indeed humiliating to think of our ways toward our dearest Friend, who loves us and gave himself for us. It is wise and should, also, be profitable to think of our ways toward our fellow-men. We have not always treated them as directed by God's Word. How selfishness has inspired our conduct toward them in many instances! Who of us today can look back and see ourselves ever doing to others as we would have them do unto us? Who of us can say, 'I have always loved my neighbor as myself'?

"Well might this be the cry of David's repentant heart. He thought of a brave and honest soldier, whose wife he coveted, and in order to possess her he ordered the soldier to be placed in the most dangerous place in the battle, where he was slain. First, murder; next, adultery. Well might David's soul cry out, 'I thought on my ways.' It is not likely that I am at this time speaking to anyone who would be guilty of such gross sins as here cited, but you, citizens of this fair commonwealth, nevertheless, can well afford to consider your ways toward your fellow-men, remembering that no man has come to the full stature of Christian manhood who does not love his neighbor as himself.

"Now, in conclusion. Your thinking brings results: David turned his feet unto the testimonies of the Lord. Thought, if worthy of the name, prompts a man to do something or to leave off doing something." With strength and effectiveness the young preacher dwelt upon the latter part of the text, and closed with a warning against procrastination, declaring it senseless, dangerous, and, in many cases, cruel.

The doxology was sung and the people began to disperse, though many of those present pressed toward the chancel to congratulate the young preacher. The bishop, too, was generous in his words of praise, "The Lord thinks kindly of you, my son," he said, warmly, "or you could not have preached that good sermon. God bless you."

That evening and for several days afterward Tom was exultant. In his estimation no man had ever preached such a sermon in the Monastery church at the opening service, not even Bishop McLaren himself.

"Mother," cried the lad, as he returned to the farmhouse, "don't you think that my Carl preached better than his father?"

"I don't know about that, my boy," was her reply, "but I know that he preached a noble and practical sermon today. Yes," she added, "I think it was remarkable as a first attempt."



CHAPTER XIV

AN UNDREAMED OF PROMOTION

Three years have passed since Edward McLaren preached his trial sermon. One year later he graduated, and then came a surprise.

At the annual meeting of the board of trustees, the Rev. Peregrine Worth, D.D., Professor of Greek and Greek Literature, submitted his resignation. He had occupied his present chair eighteen years, but the infirmities of age were reminding him of the need of rest, and he felt that a younger man might be able to do better work. This was an unexpected action to the board, and it was thought at first that the retirement of Dr. Worth should be postponed, pending their effort to secure a suitable successor to fill the vacant place. But Dr. Worth remarked that he could not see any need for delay, as he was fully prepared to make a nomination in the matter of a successor. This, at first, startled them, and he was requested to state to whom he referred. But the venerable doctor preferred to do one thing at a time. "You must first declare the chair vacant," he said. "When you accept my resignation I shall, if you desire, nominate a suitable man to succeed me, one who will, I feel certain, receive the unanimous vote of this Board."

After some discussion it was moved and seconded that Dr. Worth's resignation be accepted with regret. The motion carried and the chair was declared vacant. Then it was that Mr. J.M. Quintin arose and moved that they at once proceed to elect a man to fill the vacant chair. After some debate, this motion prevailed. Dr. Worth then arose and said: "It now becomes my privilege, as well as pleasure, to put in nomination the name of a man whom I deem fully competent to fill the vacant chair. One who has just graduated with honor and esteem. He is a conscientious student, a thorough scholar, and an able preacher. It gives me pleasure to present the name of Edward McLaren for the chair of Greek in this Institution."

The fact that he had but just graduated had shut him out of their minds as a probable candidate. While there was nothing objectionable in the man named save his youth and inexperience, still the nomination was productive of no little surprise. The bishop, although secretly indorsing the nomination, feared for its success because of its being sprung upon them so suddenly, so he suggested its postponement until next day. But Mr. Quintin arose and expressed his belief that they were as well prepared to decide the matter then as they would be tomorrow. As for himself, he was glad he had the privilege of seconding the nomination of this young man, whom he had known for some time and most favorably. His remarks created a good impression, and after due deliberation the vote was taken and Edward McLaren was declared unanimously elected to occupy the chair of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University.

That evening the president's banquet was a season of universal rejoicing. The president, the retiring professor, Dr. Worth, and the new professor welcomed the many guests.

The courtship of Edward McLaren and Alice Albertson was not of the usual character. In this instance love did run smoothly. It was such a union of souls as needed no rapturous expressions. It was made up of esteem, appreciation, and confidence, resulting in simple, sincere affection that was unselfish and unflinching.

A formal betrothal had seemed scarcely necessary. From their first meeting their love had been mutual. Every glance of the eye, every word of the lip, was a pledge of loyalty and affection. There was no fearful ordeal of gaining her father's consent. They simply loved each other unfalteringly, strongly, devotedly, and the bishop and his wife were wise enough to see and heed.

And their marriage was of a similar unique character. No great announcements were sent out. Bishop Albertson simply invited his many friends to witness the ceremony, and the University Chapel, in which the ceremony was performed, was filled to its utmost capacity. No presents were accepted. Bishop McLaren and Eleen crossed the ocean for the occasion, and a warm welcome was given them by the great circle of friends. Tom was Edward's best man, and Eleen was Alice's bridesmaid. The great choir sang the grand old "Marriage Jubilate," and the two bishops made them one.

Edward and Alice accompanied the Bishop and Eleen to Durham, making this their bridal trip, returning by way of London, being absent two months.

Upon their return there was no choice left them but to live with Alice's parents, at the Bishop's residence, which was a joy to the parental hearts as well as a great pleasure to the newly-married couple.



CHAPTER XV

TEN YEARS LATER

The Monastery Church has assumed the size and somewhat the character of a cathedral and the good bishop has begun to feel the irksomeness of his accumulating labors. True, he is able to attend to his episcopal duties, but even they have in many instances been laid upon his gifted son-in-law. This has been almost entirely true of the University superintendency, so much so, in fact, that McLaren has acquired the title of Dean and is now seldom, addressed by, or spoken of, by any other official title than Dean.

Alice has become quite matronly, and her two boys, Leonidas and Tom, make cheerful the episcopal residence, and enliven the episcopal heart. The students in the preparatory department speak of her as Mother McLaren, because of her sweet and loving guardianship; and the older students bring their trouble and confidences to her for comfort and advice. Tom Sparrow, after he graduated, spent three years at Heidelberg and won the degree of Ph.D. But while these honors came to Tom, and still greater honors had come to McLaren, they were still the same to each other. To Tom, McLaren, although addressed as "Doctor" by others, was still "my Carl," and in return the younger man to McLaren was simply "Tom." Nothing seemed able to change these relations; nor did the parties most deeply interested desire to change them.

Tom in his travels had been to Durham. Yes, it turned out that he had spent much of his spare time in that ancient city, and that his home at those visits was usually at the episcopal residence.

Tom and Eleen had met at McLaren's wedding, and it did not take long for the old, old story to find a place in their lives. Of course anyone from America who was acquainted with their son was welcomed by the bishop and his wife. But knowing the intimate relations existing between these two, Tom was made doubly welcome. Besides this, Tom had developed into a splendid man in both body and mind. He was six feet high and well proportioned. He had inherited a healthy constitution, lived a clean and natural life, and was in the best sense a handsome man, one whom in passing you would incline to glance at a second time. He soon became quite popular at Heidelberg with both lecturers and students, so when he visited Barnard's Castle, the family of Grandpa Sparrow, received Billy's son with open arms and hearts. The unsophisticated old people just sat and looked at him and listened to his words about his father and mother, and the great farm which he was operating so successfully. Cliff Farm was a little more than a mile from Barnard's Castle, and as Elder Sparrow was very popular with the people, many of them came to see Billy's son, both young men and maidens, and many a delightful time they had together. Though gifted with personal grace of person, Tom's real attractiveness was his naturalness. He was just as simple and natural as when, years ago, he went to the warehouse and talked to God about Carl. And so, now at twenty-one, he had a pleasant greeting and a happy word for everyone. The young girls were charmed and the young men listened admiringly. He talked to the young farmers about farming. Horses, breeds of cows, sheep hogs, fertilizers, until the young men went away feeling that they knew but little about real farming.

The aged rector of Ascension Church, who had known Billy when a child, came to Cliff Farm to see Billy's son. He likewise knew something of the Monastery, and more about Bishop Albertson, with whom he had been associated in his collegiate days at Oxford. The aged clergyman was much interested in the curriculum at Monastery University, and perhaps no one was better able to satisfy his quest than Tom. Tom might safely have written, if such had been his ambition, "Veni, vidi vici," but nothing of this spirit inspired this young man of nature; and perhaps while he would not have been adjudged a remarkable scholar, yet he was an encyclopedia of general information, and out of the fullness of a healthy heart and memory his mouth spoke to the edification and enjoyment of all who heard him.

We have said that Tom was not a remarkable scholar; yet he was a scholar, he was cyclopaedic. He had a general knowledge, and never forgot anything. He was an unconscious student all the time.

But his attractiveness was not in his scholarship, but in his heart and character. He possessed and was actuated by an unselfish and clean heart and a pure conscience. He did not need to write upon his hat, I am a Christian. The Golden Rule was the standard of his life and he was hardly conscious of it.



CHAPTER XVI

THE FAREWELL COMMENCEMENT

Commencement exercises this year were very interesting; more than ordinarily so. There were twenty-two graduates in the classical course, and twenty-seven seniors in the theological class. There were four hundred and sixty students in all. This was a much larger number than in any preceding year. Nothing had occurred during the year to mar the peace of the institution. Sixteen professors, clothed in their official garments, with the president, occupied the platform, which was profusely decorated with plants and cut flowers, while an immense American flag floated over the president's table. But, somehow, there was a feeling of sadness pervading the whole program; probably no one could have told what caused it.

The four addresses, delivered by as many graduates, were of a high order—vivacious, brilliant, and one or two of them quite exhilarating and fine. Yet there was prevalent something like the feeling of a funeral occasion—a feeling which follows the loss of a friend. But no one was dead. Even the applause at the end of any well-given number was gentle and subdued. The president and Professor McLaren presented the diplomas. After the graduating classes were again seated the president arose to deliver his annual address.

This was Bishop Albertson's thirtieth time during his presidential career. How changed since he delivered the first address to seventeen students, and with only three professors by his side! Now four hundred and sixty students in his audience; sixteen professors sat by his side and he had just delivered forty-nine diplomas to as many graduates. Usually the annual address was mainly to the graduates. This address took a wider scope. It was intended and did touch everyone who had an interest in this great institution. It was full of affectionate counsel and expressions of honest gratitude. The atmosphere which had been unconsciously affecting the people throughout the program was beginning to be analyzed. Farewell words were of course expected at this time; such were customary at such a time. But these were no common words. There was more than a common "Good-by" in them. This president had spoken similar words twenty-nine times, but never just such words. His eyes were growing misty when at the end he said: "My dear friends, this is not simply a 'Good-by' that I speak, but a sincere, heartfelt 'Farewell.'" A few minutes later seven hundred persons stood with eyes suffused with tears, and with bowed heads to receive the apostolic benediction.

Next day at ten o'clock the joint board met in the board room, in its annual meeting. The attendance was large—trustees, faculty, and visiting brethren. The word had gone out that important changes would likely take place, but none knew just what they would be.

J. M. Quintin, chairman of the board, presided. Reports from each officer were made. The secretary of the board read his report; it was a model of perspicuity and encouragement. Each member of the faculty presented an account of his work. A glowing report was made by Quintin of Sparrow's work on the farm, and a resolution of appreciation was sent to the farmer. Indeed, the board had never received such reports of the prosperous condition of the Monastery. Then came the president's annual report. This was his thirtieth annual report; nor was it very different from the twenty-nine that had preceded it. It was permeated with hopefulness for the future and gratitude for the past. Then came that which seemed to be the great burden of his heart. This was to be his last official message. He said, in substance, that the wise man's description of old age was fast coming into his experience. The keepers of the house begin to tremble, the grinders were ceasing because they were few. He was beginning to be afraid of that which was high. The almond was flourishing; the grasshopper was becoming a burden; desire was beginning to fail. In a word, three score and ten years reminded him that he must be relieved of some of his official burdens. He did not dare to interfere with his episcopal duties, feeling that possibly for a year or two more he might be able to meet and discharge them. But that from the arduous duties of the University he must be relieved and a younger man asked to become its president. And he wished that these remarks be considered as his positive resignation as president of Monastery University.

It was now four o'clock. They had been in session since ten o'clock. So, by motion, they, without remarks, adjourned to meet at seven o'clock in the evening.

In reality the president's resignation was a surprise to many. "What now?" was the question. As the hour approached the men were seen in groups, engaged in earnest discussion. But when they came together it was soon manifest that there was no concert of thought, much less readiness for concert of action. The prevailing thought seemed to be to postpone any attempt to elect a president, it being the feeling that it was too precipitous. But a majority of the board insisted on at once proceeding to fill the vacant presidency, their chief argument being that the new incumbent might have time to prepare for the fall term, and, further, that no outside parties might be formed and no politics should be allowed to interfere.

Bishop Albertson was asked to preside, and when the board was called to order, Mr. Quintin arose and modestly asked permission to address them. All were glad to hear this faithful servant of the institution.

He begged them not to construe his remarks into self-praise, but to understand them as intending to simply show his unselfish interest in the prosperity of the Monastery. Only this and nothing more. Thirty-one years ago he had been made a trustee. He was then nineteen years of age, and at their first meeting he was elected treasurer of said board. From, that date every dollar received or paid out in the interest of this institution had passed through his hands. He had planned every building and paid for its erection; laid off the Monastery Park, superintended the farm, stocked it with all its live stock, purchased and paid for all the agricultural implements. He had planned, built and paid for the erection of the new church building. He had charge of Mr. Thorndyke's endowment fund, to which had been added fifty thousand dollars, making now one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which was safely invested at six per cent interest per annum. All this had been simply a labor of love, he never having received a dollar for his services. This was not boasting, but simply to show them his love for the interests of Monastery University and church. And this love alone inspired him to nominate a man for the vacant presidency. And to still further gain their confidence in his unselfish judgment and love, he continued: "Seventeen years ago, when Mr. Rixey died, I engaged a young man twenty-six years of age to work our farm. Surely I made no mistake. There is no better man than William Sparrow, and no better farm in the county. Ten years ago, I made bold to nominate a man for the place made vacant by the resignation of Dr. Worth. Did I make any mistake in that nomination? Did you make any mistake in confirming that nomination? And now our beloved president is retiring, full of honors and esteem, and that great and responsible place is vacant, and I confess that my past successes make me confident as I pronounce the name of a successor. I have consulted no man, not even the man whose name I shall speak. I do not know but he may decline the nomination, but my best judgment and unbiased conscience unite and prompt me to nominate Edward McLaren, LL.D., for presidency of Monastery University."

This nomination did not seem to surprise anyone except the man nominated. The thought of such an occurrence had not so much as come to him. Several weeks before the bishop had in an incidental way intimated that he was seriously contemplating shaking off some of his responsibilities, but nothing more had been said, and Edward had forgotten the remark. And when the bishop had presented his resignation, and it was accepted, McLaren simply concluded that this would entail extra work upon him for a month or two, until the trustees found a suitable man to fill the vacancy. But now as he heard his name spoken, it came like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: "O, no! This must not be. It cannot be!" He then moved a postponement of the election. He said: "It is only thirteen years since I stood in front of that old farmhouse, tired and hungry, a timid wandering youth, seeking work and bread, but more, seeking rest of soul and conscience. The farmer and his precious wife took me in and have been to me more than brother and sister." Then, turning round and facing the bishop, he continued: "And this man has been more than a father; but for him and the wife he gave me, I should not be here today. No! no! You have honored me too much already, and I move a postponement of this election until a future meeting of the board of trustees."

There was not a man but what was affected by these unselfish and grateful words; but they affected the auditors in just the opposite direction from that intended—really they insured his election.

A moment of silence followed. Then Mr. Quintin arose and said. "Mr. President, I hear no second to Dr. McLaren's motion to postpone. His words have indeed touched my heart, and in their modesty and unselfishness I see only a confirmation that I am making a wise nomination. I am thoroughly convinced that I am commending the right man, and with all due respect to the opinion of Dr. McLaren, I now renew my nomination."

The chairman, with his usual dignity, put the question, and Edward McLaren, LL.D., was unanimously elected president of Monastery University.

Such election of course created another vacancy in the faculty of the Monastery. The chairman proceeded at once to state this fact. Again there was silence.

"Cannot the work of this chair be divided among the other professors for a time?" asked Professor Ware, the Professor of Belles-Lettres.

Mr. Smithson, one of the trustees, moved to adjourn, but the motion was defeated by a large majority.

"What now is the pleasure of the board?" asked the chairman. Then someone moved to proceed at once to the election of a professor to fill the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature.

This motion prevailed, and the chair announced its readiness to hear nominations for the vacant chair.

Abram Smithson, Jr., son of one of the trustees, who graduated the day before, was nominated. But this nomination met with no second.

There were some indications of surprise, which brought Professor Cummins to his feet, and with some asperity to say that he saw no reasons for expressions of surprise. It was certainly not the first time that this chair had been filled by a man who had recently graduated. This made several men smile, among them McLaren, who had been elected to fill that chair the day after his graduation.

Then the bishop stated that during the thirty years in the past he had never made a nomination, but that he now felt inclined to do so; and he would nominate Thomas Sparrow, Ph.D., for the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature. Sparrow was one of their own graduates. First, in their preparatory course; then in classics, and afterward three years in Heidelberg, where he had won the Philosophy Doctorate.

At this moment the newly-elected president who had been sitting with drooping head, as if he had been rebuked instead of having received their highest honor, arose and stated that he would be greatly pleased if Dr. Sparrow could be elected to fill the vacant chair, but he feared they were too late. Forty-eight hours ago the joint board of Burrough Road Institute, a noted school in London, had elected him to fill the chair of Belles-Lettres and History, and he feared that Sparrow had before now telegraphed his acceptance.

"Then," said Quintin, "I move that we elect him anyhow—even if I have to cross the sea to give Burrough Road satisfaction."

The inspiration was complete; every man was ready to vote, and did vote for the man who was wanted in London—and Tom Sparrow became Dr. Sparrow, Professor of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University, a result which none ever regretted.

An earnest throng clustered around the newly-elected president, with hearty congratulations. Not only the trustees, but more than two hundred students, graduates included, who had been nervously waiting outside to hear the news—rushed impetuously as far as they could into the board room, and seizing McLaren, hoisted him to the shoulders of four sturdy men, and then marched out from the chapel into the park singing boisterously their latest college song:

Rah! Rah! Monastery, Biggest Lion of them all, Albertson and Mack and Quintin, Rah! Rah! Rah!

A full moon made it almost as light as day, and even dignified Albertson joined in the jovial song, while Billy Sparrow, dressed in his best blue broadcloth with its bright brass buttons, joined lustily in the chorus: "Rah! Rah! Rah! Albertson, Mack, and Jerry Quintin."

Quintin's team stood at the gate, and its owner told the driver to drive to the farmhouse and wait there. Quintin himself was somewhat nervous, knowing that he had something more to accomplish before he slept.

The leader in this carnival of pleasure and song was Joe Elliot, a next year's senior. He was a stalwart man, the largest in the crowd, six feet four inches in height, broad-shouldered and clear-eyed—a leader in everything he undertook. He stalked in front, bearing a United States flag, setting the pace in both step and song.

Quintin after some effort succeeded in reaching Joe's side, and said to the leader: "Joe, get to the farm as soon as you can and set him down, I want to speak to him as soon as possible. Stop with three cheers for Mack." Joe took the hint, and with march and song, he halted his men in front of the farmhouse, and setting McLaren down, took off his cap, an example which was immediately followed, and they gave three tremendous cheers for the new president of the Monastery and dispersed.

Immediately, grasping McLaren's arm, Quintin said: "We must find Tom and learn whether he has cabled to London." They entered the house and found Nancy at once, as if she had been awaiting their coming, who, without being asked, remarked: "Tom waited until the president was elected, and then started to Centerville, taking Leon with him to cable to London his acceptance. It is about half an hour since they started."

"How did he go?" asked Quintin.

"On foot; he took the boy with him for company. It is such a beautiful night, and the lad wanted to go."

"That is enough," exclaimed Quintin. "Jump in, we may catch him yet. Now, Cyrus, let them go," and they did go. In ten minutes they were in front of the telegraph office at the wharf at Centerville Landing. Just as they began to ascend the stairs a man and a boy came out of the office—Tom and Leonidas.

"Tom, what have you done?" exclaimed McLaren.

"I have just sent my acceptance to London," and, thinking that perhaps he had done wrong in bringing the boy, added, "and it was such a beautiful night, I brought Leon for company."

"But, Tom, why were you so hasty in the matter? Why did you not consult your friends?"

In the meantime Quintin pushed past them into the office, where Reid, the operator, sat.

"Reid," asked Quintin, "have you sent Dr. Sparrow's message?"

"No, sir," was the prompt reply, "but two minutes more and it would have been on the wires; here it is," holding up the yellow paper.

"Hold on, then. It must not go in its present shape."

Reid at once laid the message down on his desk, and turned to other work, feeling assured that it was all right if Quintin and McLaren were interrupting its transit. In the meanwhile McLaren had pushed Tom into a small private room adjoining, and the younger man heard for the first time that he had been elected to the chair of Greek at the Monastery. Then heavy steps were heard and Billy Sparrow rushed into the room exclaiming: "Tom, what have you done?"

"Father," said the young man, "I did what I thought was best. They kindly offered me an honorable place at Burrough Road, and I had no expectation of anything of the kind here, and really did not think that anyone would object, so I accepted; that is all there is to it. I am truly sorry if you don't like what I have done. Had I known it, I might not have been so quick in replying. But it is now too late, and we must make the best of it. But you must remember my future wife is in England."

"No! No!" interrupted Quintin, "It is not too late," and he held up the unsent message. "It has not been sent. Here it is, and your acceptance would be the most unnatural and ungrateful thing you could do. Here is your father and mother. Here is one, who has been to you more than a brother, and here is the fostermother that has fitted you for your great career, and now offers you one of her most important professorships. We are all aware that the girl who is to be your future wife is in England, but think you that Eleen would urge you because of that to make the sacrifice that your acceptance of the Burrough Road professorship demands? No. She would say: 'We are young. We can wait. Stay with your father and mother a while—it will be best.'"

Tom was visibly affected, and after a moment's silence he turned to McLaren. "Carl," he said, "take the blank and fill it out as you think best. You can sign my name," and taking Leon by the hand, together they went out, descended the stairs, and started homeward.

Without a word, McLaren took the blank and wrote: "Honor appreciated, but cannot accept. T. Sparrow, Professor of Greek, Monastery University."

Thus ended a most eventful day at the Monastery.

Quintin was not to be seen. His work for the day was ended when Tom told McLaren to fill out the cablegram; he had slipped away and by this time was in his bed, but not before he had told Cyrus to take the party back to the farm.

THE END