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lie

WHAT THEY COULDNT

•' ',

A HOME STORY

PA]SrSY

(Mrs. g. R. Aldew)
author of «« ester rien •• «« .>.>■. .

ti'f-V rtiATED nr ( run/./cs .v.^xre

^l?«

"^ I'ORONTO:

William briggs,

WESLEY BUILGINGS

MONTREAL; C W. COATES. \ HAUFAX • c •

1 "AUFAX: S. P. HL'l-oTia

Ei:!!l

F.nt#reH. accortUng W th« Act of th« Partlaflient of Cannrtfl. In fhf .vi.if ««•
tho,.saHd .ight hundred and ninety-ftve. bv WabUM linioos, m th- Ulbci
of the MinittW Of Agriculture, ot Ottawa.

CONTENTS.

CfeAMEtt

L Family PnoBLKMs ....

II. Tryino to '•BtfiiiOifo'* . .

III. BciiNs AND Heart-burns.

IV. O Wi D Some Power . .
V. Is TUB Gloom

VI. "Isn't She a Terror!'* .

VII. A "Peculiar" Man . .

Vlll. A Lesson in Fanaticism .

IX. Home Thrusts

X. " How will It All end ? *'

XI. " Out or His Sphere " . .

XIL A New Dbparvurb . . .

XIII. "A Good Fellow in Every

XIV. A Kew Game

XV. "Katherine Spelled with

XVt. Being Weighed ....

XVII. "Just Once"

XVIII. A Troublesome Promise .

XIX. A Startling Witness . .

XX. The Shadows op Coming Events

XXI. "Don't ask Me any Questions"

XXII. A Persistent Friend ....

XXIII. Borrowed (?) Money ....

Way

tr'»

rxots
1

106

123

137

152

166

179

194

208

222

237

251

262

276

290

304

318

Hi'

!■■ 1

111

iV CONTENTS,

CHAPTER fAOK

XXIV. "Mrs. Willis Kennedy?" 882

XXV. "A Nervous Shock" 846

XXVI. "What's in a Name?" 86P

XXVII. Soul-Searchino 872

XXVIII. Re^jonst RUCTION 884

XXIX. The "Next Scene" 897

XXX. " Sprino Violets, After All " . . . . 410

332
346
35P
372
384
397
410

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town

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

CHAPTER I.

FAMILY PROBLEMS.

THE Camerons were moving. That was their
chronic condition ; at least so the neighbors
thought; and really it did seem as though they
were always either just trying to get settled in
one home, or planning to break up and get ready
for another.

"We move and more," would Lucia say, "and
never get anywhere. I wish father would make
one grand move, out West, or down South, or
anywhere besides just here. I should like to go
a thousand miles away, and begin all over
again. "

"That would take money," the elder sister,
Mary, would reply. "Ever so much money.
When do you suppose father would get enough
together to take a journey, to say nothing of
taking all our belongings along."

"It costs money to move from one end of the
town to the other," would Lucia retort; "a ruin-

' It

• ii

WHAT tim:v ((tri.itx t.

0U8 amount; those funiituri* vans cliiirrre jnst
frightfully. 1 don't womler thiit tulher was pule
this morning, and ('ouldirt out iiiiy hnakt'ust
after settling with them. It' we had all the money
that we have spent in hreakin<,r up, and m()viii<^s
and getting settled again, my! IM fnrnisli this
house anew from attic to cellar, and take a j<nn-
iiey into the liargain. We might go in emigiunt
wagons, and camp out at night; I've read tihont
people doing it, and having great fun. Oh, ilear!
I wonder how it feels to go to places, and have
what one wants, an<l never think or care how
much the whole costs."

The convei-sation, if conversation it can l)o
called, was snre to end w ith some such sentence,
and a sigh; allK.'it the sigh was a light one, for
Lueia was young, and the cares of life sat lightly
on her as yet.

Perhaps she, in common with the entire younger
portion of the family, felt them moje heavily this
morning than ever hefore. Some way this move
had heen the hardest; the last one always \\as,
the Camerons declared; and in their case it was
truer than it may l)e in many, for each time they
moved into a smaller and more inconvenient
house than the hist one was; and each lime the
strain of getting settled, and of learning over
again the lesson of doing without, was in<;reased
by the fact that, as Lucia expresse<l it, there were
more things to do without, each change they
made. The air of the new house was surcharrcil

FAMILY PROBLEMS,

with groans and regrets and queries. How were
they ever to get along with one less sleeping-
room ? Where was Mac to be put when he came
home? Mac and Rod just despised rooming
together. Moreover, the room was so small that
those great tall fellows couldn't be expected to
endure it. And a house without a china-closet
in the dining-room! Who ever heard of such
a thing? Nor did it lessen the gloom of the
occasion to be told grimly by Mary that most of
the china was smashed and did not need a closet.
Truth to tell, some pieces of the smashed china
were so choice and so beloved that the mistress of
this new home sat down in the disorder and cried
over her loss.

"Mother gave me that set when I was mar-
ried," she said, her lip quivering, "and to think
not a whole piece is left to me now I"

Mary Cameron tried to be sympathetic, but
it was hard work. There were so much more
important things than old china. There, for
instance, was the new silk dress which she had
been promised this fall. Didn't she make her
old white dress do all summer, saving for that
pale green silk which she meant to have? She
did not share Lucia's anxieties in the least about
the boys; she even declared with curling lip that
she saw no reason why Mac and Rod should not
share the family straits, as well as to have all
the trouble fall on the girls.

It may be necessary at this point to explain

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

that the Camerons were not poor people in the
sense which they may seem. Mr. Cameron's
salary was two thousand a year, and was paid
in regular quarterly instalments, as sure to
come as the sun was to rise. There are people
to whom such a state of things would mean
wealth. The Camerons were not among them.
Given, a family of grown sons and daughters,
six in number, all of them with expensive tastes
and desires, thre< of them still in expensive
schools, none of them having ever learned even
the initial letters of the art of true economy,
and it will readily be seen that to make ends
meet, even on two thousand a year, may become
a difficult task.

Not that the Camerons did not consider them-
selves economical. It was a worrl they hated, yet
it was continually on their lips ; and there were
undoubtedly ways in which they economized.
The difficulty was that they began at wrong
ends. The very house in which they had just
slept through the first night, and awakened in
the crisp October morning to wrestle with boxes
and bales and bundles, was an illustration. Two
rooms smaller than the last house, and into that
they could barely crowd; a house whose plumbing
was doubtful, whose gas-fixtures leaked, whose
water-pipes were always out of order, whose
kitchen was dingy to the last degree, whose din-
ing-room was narrow and dark, and whose hall
was a miserable little square, from which Lucia

FAMILV PnonLEMS.

said one must retreat to out-doors if one wanted
to change one's mind and turn around. And it
was seventy doUai-s a year more rent than was
the large, roomy, sunny house on Seventh Street,
a house which actually h.ad a cherry-tree all its
own, and a robin that built its nest there every
spring; and o bit of a side yard to put the tree in,
and a dry cellar, and no steps down from the din-
ing-room to the kitchen.

Yes, tho house wa3 for rent, they could have
had it n^ well as not; in fact, tho owner urged
Mr. Camjron to take it, and promised to re-paper
the two front rooms up-stairs ii hj Mould. Why
did they not? Why, because it wai on Seventh
Street and not on Durand Avenue. To be sure
the house they had taken was at the extreme lower
end of the avenue, where none of the people lived
whom they knew, even by sight; but neverthe-
less it was Durand Avenue, and the Camerons,
even without discussing it, had known to a woman
that of course they could not go down on Seventh
Street to live. "Nobody lives there," they said.
Now, Seventh Street was one long row of dwell-
ing-houses on either side; neat, trim -looking
houses, always tenanted, so of course somebody
lived there. You must judge what the Camerons
meant. Because the cherry-tree house was larger,
and was on a corner, and had the dry cellar, and
some other special advantages, it rented for more
than the other houses on the street, and was con-
BC4uently occasionally vacant for a few weeks at

>; f..

'M-

WHAT THEY COULPN'T.

■■'M

a time, looking for the person who could afford to
pay that amount of rent, and yet who would be
wiUing to live on Seventh Street. You think,
perhaps, there was a nuisance of some sort hidden
away around the corner? Or at least that the
place was inconvenient of access. Nothing of the
sort. The lower end of Durand Avenue was but
a block away from a suspicious vacant lot where
nuisances did sometimes congregate, but the cor-
ner house on Seventh Street stood high and dry,
and had only rows of neat and comparatively new
dwelling-houses all about it; and the Centre-street
line of cars which connected with almost every
down-town line in the city, wound around that
very corner. Oh I do not ask for any explanation
as to why some people could not live on Seventh
Street; the Camerons knew, without reasoning,
that it could not be done.

There were other things they knew. This un-
fortunate year it became absolutely necessary to
have a new carpet. There was no dissenting
voice, save from the boys; they declared that
they did not see but the old carpet was good
enough. But the boys were away in college;
only home for vacations, and were having, the
girls said, every earthly thing they wanted, and
didn't care how shabby the folks at home were
so that thei/ had plenty. The boys' opinion was
counted out. Mr. Cameron, accustomed to leaving
all such matters to his wife and daughtei"s, said
only, if they must they must^ he supposed, but he

FAMILY PROBLEMS.

IS un-

.if

iry to

nting

I that

good

liege ;

7, the

1, and

were

n was

aving

, sai4

)ut he

did not see where the money was to come from.
However, Jamison & Burns would wait for their
pay. So the new carpet was bought. Axmin-
ster i't had to be. To be sure it cost more than
a body Brussels; and Mra. Cameron, who remem-
bered the days when body Brussels carpet was
quite the thing to buy, voted in its favor, but she
was tremendously overruled. " Nobody uses body
Brussels in their parlors any more; it is simply
for sitting-rooms and bedrooms." Mrs, Cameron
argued vigorously, but submitted at last.

"It is good economy to get the best while you
are about it, I suppose," Mr. Cameron said with
a troubled face, on being appealed to. Some-
where in the dim recesses of his memory he had
stored away certain aphorisms of that kind which
he brought out on occasion. Nobody explained to
him that good body Brussels had far more endur-
ing qualities than cheap Axminster, so called. It
is not even certain that any of this family knew
the fact.

It was in the midst of the miseries of getting
settled that there came a letter which all the
family, Mr. Cameron excepted, sat down in the
half-regulated sitting-room to discuss. More or
less excitement was evidently felt concerning it.
Mary was the fiist to express herself, her cheeks
unnaturally flushed the while. Mrs. Cameron
was re-reading the letter.

"I must say I think Mac and Rod are two of
the most selfish creatures I ever heard of in my

iHl

lip

»'!■

i' i' If I

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

life. Dress suits indeed 1 Why, they are nothing
but boys!"

Mrs. Cameron glanced up from the letter.
"Don't be absurd, Mary; I believe you think
boys never grow up. Mac is twenty-two, the
time when most boys consider themselves men."

•'It is the time when most boys are thinking
about supporting themselves, and not depending
on their fathers for dress suits and everything
else. I say it is selfish. Sending for more things
just now, when we are moving, and doing without
everything Ave can, to help along. Look at those
curtains — darned in half a dozen places. I have
been ashamed of them for the last six months.
Suppose I say we must have new ones ? I'm sure
they would be as important as dress suits for the
boys, and a great deal more sensible."

"Still, Mary," interposed Lucia's quieter voice,
"they say they cannot attend the president's re-
ception without them."

" Then I should think it would be a good plan
for them to stay at home. The idea that college
boys cannot appear at a reception unless they are
dressed in the extreme of fashion! I cannot go
to Mi's. Peterson's dinner-party next week unless
I have my new silk dress that was promised me.
Suppose I say so? At least three tongues would
begin to tell me how entirely suitable my old
blue dress is that I have worn wherever I've been
for the last year. But because it is the boys who
waiit things, we girls must give up of course."

■#

FAMILY PROBLEMS.

plan

Lucia laughed over this. " There is some truth
in what you are saying. We have been giving up
things for those boys ever since they entered col-
lege. If they appreciated it, I should feel differ-
ently; but they take it so entirely as a matter of
course, that I must say it is discouraging."

"Well," said Mrs. Cameron, "do you want us
then to write to the boys that they cannot have
dress suits, and must stay at home from the
reception ? "

This was putting the matter blankly. Evi-
dently the sisters were astonished; they were not
accustomed to such direct questions from their
mother. Neither of them desired to have such
word sent to the boys. If it were true, as the
boys said, that all the students in their set wore
dress suits, why, certainly their brothers must
have them. It was really a foregone conclusion,
as they expected their mother to understand. It
was hard that they could not have the privilege
of grumbling, since they were to make the sacri-
fice. It was a curious development of this entire
family that they did their giving up with grum-
bling. It was true, as the girls had said, that
much had been sacrificed for their brothers. Mr.
Cameron, who in certain respects was something
of a cipher in his own home, constantly allowing
himself to be overruled, and led whither his better
judgment did not approve, could yet be firm on
occasion. He had, as Mrs. Cameron expressed it,
"set his foot down," that both his boj's should

:^ii

:»Ri

iff

■( ,1

1" :-i
( tl

If'

WHAT THKV COULDN T.

hiive college educations. He was not one of
tiiose who deemed the collegiate education as im-
portant for the girls as the boys, although he had
done his best for his daughters. The two elder
ones had been sent to excellent and expensive
schools; and Emilie, the yv>ungest, was still a
school-girl. The father had had pride in his
daughters' acquirements, but he had had deter-
mination in regard to his sons. They were smart
boys; they made fair records for themselves in
preparatory schools, even excelling in certain
studies; and to college they should go.

It had been, and was still, a hard struggle.
College life proved to be a much more expensive
thing than it had been when Mr. Cameron was a
young man ; and his sons were not of the sort to
carefully curtail their expenses, although they
thought they were models of prudence. The dress
suits which had suddenly appeared before them as
necessities will serve as illustrations of their mode
of thought. Necessities were what other people
in their set had. To have remained quietly away
from dress occasions because to have what they
judged to be suitable attire would burden the
people at home was thought of, but cast aside as
impracticable. It would be a discourteous way of
treating the invitations of the faculty. To join
the few quiet, scholarly students who frequented
such places conspicuous in the suits which they
wore for best, was not even thought of at all
by the Camerons. Their home education had

ii I

FAMILY PROBLEMS.

developed no such heights of self-abnegation as
that It would be worse than living on Seventh
Street.

Neither, strange to say, would Mary Cameron,
>vho grumbled the loudest, have had them do
any such thing. No one understood necessities of
this kind better than she.

"Why, of course notl " she said in answer to
her mother's question. " They will have to have
the suits, I suppose. All the same I think it is
mean in them to send, doing it in such a lordly
way. Why can't they at least show that they
appreciate the sacrifices we shall have to make
to gratify them ? "

"I don't see anything very lordly about the
letter. Mac writes that they cannot go to the
receptions without dressing as others do, and of
course they can't. You are always hard on your
brothers, Mary."

" I hard on them! Who gave up a silk dress
for their sakes I should like to know? Talk
about their having to dress like others when
they appear in society! How do you think I
will look in that horrid silk which I have worn
until people can describe me as the girl in the
old blue dress?"

"O Mary!" said Lucia. "Do give us a rest
about that silk dress. I am sure if you never
mention it again, we shall none of us ever forget
that you were going to have one and didn't !
We have heard so much about it."

■'h

; f

i-i 11

,*(ij'.ii

Urn

WHAT THF.V COULDN T.

ill

Lucia spoke laughingly; she j^enerally did;
nevertheless there was a sting in her words.
Perhaps that phrase will descrilie the Came-
ron habit. They stung one another. From the
mother down to even Emilici who being only
fifteen could still be told on occasion to say no
more.

They lov?d one another, this family — not one
of them thought of doubting it. In times of ill-
ness it would not be possible to conceive of ten-
derness and self-abnegation greater than theirs.
Long nights of weary watching were as nothing;
long days of patient, persistent, gentle care-tak-
ing were matters of roar.;o; yet directly tlu^ in-
valid took on once moro ihj a^ipcarancc a:id habits
of health the stinging proccsj commenced. It
was as if the stock of patience which had seemed
inexhaustible during illness had suddenly frozen,
and left only irritable nerve.; over which to tread.
Not that the Camerons were always in ill-humor;
far from it. They had their merry hours and
Iheir good times together. It was only that the
too excitable nerves lay always near the surface,
jind would not bear so much as a pin prick,
'i'liose dress suits were really more than a pin
prick. Sixty additional dollars when the family
purse was strained already to its utmost, was no
small matter.

"I declare," said Mr. Cameron at the dinner-
table th:it evening, leaning his weary head on his
ha:id. and giving over the attempt to eat t.lie not

All

!•!•

FAMILY PROBLEMS.

too inviting dinner which had to be served in the
kitchen as the only spot avaikble, "I don't know
how to raise the money. The boys did not say
anything about it when they went away, and 1
tried to phm for everything that would be wanted
before Christmas. One would suppose if it were
such an important item t? )y would have remem-
bered, and spoken of it. When I was a young
fellow, if I had a decent suit for Sunday, and a
half-way decent one for every day, I considered
myself well off. The boys had entirely new suits
throughout only six weeks ago."

"It isn't that their clothes are worn out, Ed-
ward," said Mi's. Cameron, her tone showing that
her nerves felt the pin-pricks. " They must wear
what others do if they mingle with them* of
course; don't you understand? Rodney says all
the fellows, except two or three who are being
helped through college, wear evening dress at the
receptions. You wouldn't want your sons to ap-
pear different from the other respectable young
men, I suppose, would you^"

"I don't know," said Mr. Cameron, and he
tried to let a faint smile appear on his face to
lessen the seeming harshness of the words; "I
would like them to appear as honest men if they
could; and I don't know how they are to have
new suits this fall unless I borrow the money,
with no prospect of paying for it so far as I can
see. I don't know but they would better join
the two or three who are being helped through

•■ t

ivi. .•'

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

college. That is what it will amount to in the
end."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Mra. Cameron; and her
voice was unmistakably sharp. " What is the
use in talking such stuff as that? We are not
paupers. A man who gets a two-thousand-dollar
salary ought to be able to furnish his children
with clothes, without having a fuss about it every
time they need a pocket-handkerchief."

"I know it," Mr. Cameron said; and he wore
the perplexed look his face was sure to assume
when any phase of this subject was before them.
" I don't understand how it is. When 1 sit down
with pencil and paper and calculate the year's
expenditures, so much for living, and so much
for extras, it all seems to come out reasonably
well ; but when we get to the end of the quarter,
we we behind every time; and something will
come of it one of these days. I can't see how it
is going to end."

"I'll tell you what, father," said Emilie briskly.
"I'll leave school if you will let me. Then there
will be no bills to pay for all sorts of extras;
music, you know, and books, and everything.
That will make quite a difference in a year's
time,"

It was a fortunate diversion; the entire Cam-
eron family laughed. Emilie was, sometimes
merrily and sometimes a bit sharply, called the
family dunce. She hated study, and cared almost
nothing for music, and would have been onl}'

FAMILY Pltonr.EMS.

too glad to be relieved from the burden of botli.
The intensely personal reasons for her magnan-
imous offer were so entirely apparent that it
needed no other answer than a laugh.

It cleared the atmosphere somewhat, albeit Mr.
Cameron sighed almost immediately; but lie said
as he arose from his barely tasted dinner, "Oh,
well, we shall j)ull through somehow, we always
have. I'll ask Hosmer to let me have a little
advance. The boys have got to be like othei*s,
I suppose. Get the letter written, some of you,
and I will have the money ready for the lii-st
mail to-morrow."

■ p
I

;Ur'

''1r^

i "f

k f ■!■

WHAT TllliV C0ULDI4 T.

CHAPTER II.

TRYING TO "belong."

IT was while they were piecing the dining-room
carpet that the next subject for discussion
and annoyance came before the Camerons. Those
two words, "discussion" and "annoyance," might
almost be called the keynotes of their lives, so
frequent had they become ; the one seeming to be
a sequence of the other. It is very probable that
sewing on the old carpet helped to irritate the
nerves; it is not particularly soothing work, and
Lucia hated sewing. "I wish we had sold this
old thing to the rag man," she said gloomily.
"The last time we patched it I remember we said
it would not hold together for another move."

"Then you would have had bare floor for the
dining-room, I can tell you," said Mrs. Cameron.
"I am not going to ask your father for another
thing this fall that can be done without. He
hasn't slept for two nights, worrying about the
extra money needed for the boys."

"What is the use in father's worrying? That
will not pay any bills. I should think it would
be a good deal more sensible for him to get his
sleep, and save his strength."

TRYixf; TO *• ni':i.f)N(j.*'

"Don't criticiso your f.illier," said Mrs. Cam-
eroii sharply; *' I \\'\\i not hear it." The jxior
wife ci'itici.sed iiiin herself sometimes with j^reat
Hitarpness, and in the presence of his ehildren, hut
she would not permit them tt> follow her example.
Like many other nervous, overstrained women,
her thought of the husband of her youth was
always tenderness, but her words to him were
often tinged with whatever feeling rasped the
hour.

"Why, dear me!'* began Lueia, "what did X
say? I am sure that I pity father as much a^
anybody can, and I think " — Here Mary's en-
trance from the kitchen interrupted the sentence.

"Mother," she began, "Bet*«ey says she cannot
make another pudding until she has a new pud-
ding-dish; the old one leaks."

"Then we will go without pudding," said Mrs.
Cameron with emphasis. " I am not going to get
a new pudding-dish nor a new anything for Bet-
sey. She is careless with the dishes or they
would last longer. She is always wanting some-
thing — asked for a new bread-bowl only this
morning."

"Well, mother, the bread-bowl got broken in
the moving. It wasn't Betsey's fault. I do not
think she should be made to suffer. You packed
the bowl yourself, you remember."

"For pity's sake don't talk about the bread-
bowl I It is quite likely I remember that I packed
it without being told. If you had not hurried me

.':v

w. J

^'iiiii

WHAT TIIKV f'OULDN T.

II IliilllM

liiii ;l

mai

almost to distnictioii over lliat last load, I could
have packed it more securely."'

"I'm sure 1 don't want to talk about bread-
bowls," said Maiv, brinijintr needle and thread
and prei)aring to do lier share of the long seam
which was to be sewed in the mended carjjet. "I
have something of more importance to .-.ay. I saw
Jessie Lee just now when I was sweeping the
leaves from the porch, and she says the Denhams
are going home next Tuesday. What shall we
do about that? "

"Congratulations to Mis. Lee would be in or-
der, I should say," replied Lucia. "I hope we
shall never have any friends who will think it
their duty to make us as long a visit as the Den-
hams have been making."

"Long as they have been here," said Mar}',
"we have not invited them even to lunch witli
us, and we have been everywhere with them.
Three times out to formal dinners, four or five
times to lunches, and to evening gatherings innu-
merable. Mother, we shall certainly be obliged
to have them here, shall we not?"

"Oh, dear me!" said Mrs. Cameron; and she
dropped the patch she was deftly fitting into the
carpet, and looked her utter dismay. "Marv
Cameron, what can you be thinking about, with
all that we have on hand now!"

" I am thinking about the fact that the Denhamsl
are going on Tuesday^ as I said, and that therel
are just four days left in which to show theiu anyi

: ft"

TIIYING TO ''BELONG."

.5*

courtesy; unless, indeed, we have lost all sense of
propriety, and are going to let them leave with-
out having received any attention from us. You
have l)een out to dinner once with them yourself,
mother."

"I know it," said Mrs. Cameron, her face a
stT\dy. "I wish we hadn't accepted one of their
invitations, for t really do not see how we can
entertain them now."

"I don't know why not. We can't give a
party for them, I suppose, as we leally ought to
do. We are under ohligations to so many people
that I am ashamed to meet some of them; but we
are equal to a plain lunch I should ho[)e. Russell
Denham is going back to college as soon a-; he has
taken his mother and sister home; and Mac and
Rod will be with him a good deal this winter I
suppose. They wouldn't like it if they knew we
had not shown their friends any attention."

"Oh, well! I suppose we shall have to do
something; but I declare it worries me dreadfully,
so unsettled as we are, and this little bit of a
house to have company in. I wish we didn't
have anything to do with society."

"We have extremely little," Mary replied
coldly. "I sometimes think with Emilie, that
it would be better if we just said squarely that
we are nobodies, and do not expect to be invited,
or to belong."

• The mother winced: she wanted her children to
"belong;" her ambition for them in society, find
evervwhere else, was limitless.

i t. »!

iffy

WHAT THKY COULDN'T.

'ii!!

"Of course we must do something," she said
briskly. " What shall it be ? We can get up a
lunch, as you say, more economically than a din-
ner or a regular evening gathering. It would be
less burdensome to your father too; for they will
know that he cannot get away irom business for
luncheon, and he is so tired nowadays that he
shrinks from seeing company. But you must be
content with having everything very simple. We
cannot undertake any expense, remember."

Their ideas of simplicity would have bewildered
some people. A lunch without salads was not to
be thought of, of course ; and chicken salads were
the best No matter if chicken was very expensive
just now, it did nol take a great deal for a salad.
Then oysters were just getting nice, and, after the
long summer, seemed so new; raw oysters were
the verj* thing with which to begin a lunch.
Served on the half-shell and properly garnished,
there was no simple dish which looked more in-
viting. As for the creams, they must have them
from Alburgh's of course. Oh, positively, there
were none fit to eat after having had his. No
matter if he did charge seventy-five cents a quart;
it would be much better not to have cream at all
than to have an inferior quality. They could
afford to pay a little extra for creams and ices,
because they would make their own cake. Very
few of the girls did that when they had company.
They just ordered from some first-class caterer.
Lucia sighed, and wished that they could afford to

ilk.

i iii

TRYING TO "BELONG.

»»

said

up a
I din-
ild be
y will
jss for
lat lie
lUst be
. We

ildered
not to
Is were
pensive
I salad,
ter the
8 were
lunch,
inished,
ore in-
e them
, there
s. No
quart ;
at all
could
id ices,
Very
ipany.
caterer,
ford to

do so ; it would be only pleasure to have company
if they could give orders as other people did, and
have trained servants to attend to everything at
home. At the mention of servants, Mrs. Cameron
could not suppress a groan of anxiety. How
could they hope to serve guests properly with
only Betsey to depend upon? She was a new
recruit, and a cheap one, therefore not much
could be expected of her.

"I shall just have to stay in the kitchen and
attend to things myself," she said. "That will
be the only way to avoid distressing failures ; and
as it is, I tremble for the serving. I wish I could
[be in two places at once."

"O mother! " said Lucia, dismayed, "you can-
Jnot be in the kitchen. What a ridiculous way to
^ave company, with the lady of the house invisi-
ble ! Mary, you surely do not think anything of
that kind can be done ? "

" It is like e ^ arything else, " said Mary drearily.
" Of course we cannot have company like other
people ; we never can. We have been invited and
invited, just as I said, until I am ashamed to meet
my acquaintances, and j'^et the very thought of
paying some of our obligations sets us all into
a tremor. If we could hire a professional waiter
for one day to help Betsey out, we cou«ld hope to
lave things decent." Mrs. Cameron caught at
the idea. Perhaps they could do that; it would
lot be such a very heavy expense for one day, a
)art of a day indeed. They would save the prico

'■ii

,1- A
'if i-«l

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

'id

of it in the end, because professional helpers knew
how to manage without spoiling anything.

It was curious what a relief this professional
assistant was, and how many things grew out of
her proposed services. It was Mrs. Cameron her-
self who said that since they were to have help,
she did not know but they would better make it
an occasion for asking a few others; the expense
would not be materially increased, and, as Mary
said, they were indebted to so many people.
There were the Westbrooks, for instance, and the
Overmans, and Mrs. Lorimer. Why not make a
clean sweep of it and ask them all?

"But, mother, think what it will cost to get
ready for so many," objected Lucia. "What will
father say?"

"It would not cost so very much more," Mrs.
Cameron argued, strong for the time being in the
thought of that professional helper. "We shall
not have to pay any more for help than we would
if we had just three or four; and I really do not
see how we can have anybody without inviting
those I have mentioned ; we have been entertained
by them so many times."

It was too true; and there were found to be
others quite as alarming as the ones mentioned,
until Mary, who finally went tor pencil and paper,
and began to consider them numerically and sys-
tematically, declared that it was not possible to
get along without inviting seventeen.

"Then we might as well make it nineteen,"

TRYING TO '* RELONCf.

said Lucia composedly, "and ask thai Miss Landis
and her brother. We shall never have a better
opportunity to return their kindness."

"The idea!" said Mary. "Why in the world
should we ask them? Thev will not know a
person who will be here, and we know them
very little ourselves."

"I can't help it. We can make them acquainted
with the others. They have certainly been very
kind to us. We never had neitjhhors before, in
our lives. They must be fi'om the countiy, they
have such friendly, uncititied ways. I like them
very well indeed; and I think it would be bad
manners, to say the least, to have company and
not invite them, when thev are almost in the same
house, one may say, and when we have all been
in there to have tea with them."

Lucia may or may not have understood what a
troublesome subjecc she had introduced. To Mary
it seemed to be a positively irritatinjr one. She
expressed herself so decidedly, and with such an-
noying sharpness, that Lucia, who at tirst made it
as only a passing suggestion, grew obstinate, de-
claring that she had had nothing to say about the
other guests, and it was strange if she could not
select two. Then Mary re[>lied that of course, if
Lucia had adopted Professor Landis as her partic-
ular friend, nothing more was to be said. She
had not imagined so great a degree of intimacy on
such short acquaintance. Then Lucia, her face
aglow with indignation, appealed to her mother

:.i^il5<

4
■■It-

► I;

tr.

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

; ;i

as to whether it was necessary for Mary, because
she was less than two years the elder, to insult
her in that manner. Mrs. Cameron hastened to
the rescue, assuring both girls that she was
ashamed of them. Why couldn't they talk things
over together without always having some sort of
a fuss? As for the* Landis young p-^ple, she
thought it would be very prop'^r to invite them.
They were not exactly in their set, perhaps; she
thought with Lucia that they were probably from
the country; but they were nice, pleasant persons,
and had been very kind and thoughtful to them.
Two more \vould make very little difference, and
their father would be pleased to have them show
kindness to his neighbors. He had spoken of
them several times. Jt ended by an invitation
being sent to the I^andis brother and sister, and
to several others whom it became imperative to
remember. It is quite safe to say that not a
Cameron among them had any idea whereunto
this thing would grow or they would certainly
not have begun. Mr. Cameron was bewildered.

"I thought you said" — he began to his half-
distracted wife when she -assayed to explain, "that
we would make a special effort to economize, to
help meet the extras for the boys and for the
moving?"

" Well, I wonder if I am not doing it ? " she
replied irritably. "You know very little about
it, Edward, or you would understand that I am
straining every nerve. I ironed all the afternoon

TRYING TO " BELONG.

in order to save extra help. Betsey would never
have gotten the ironing done if I hadn't. She is
a stroke of econo?ny lierself. I never had such
poor lielp. Oh, nobody knows how I twist and
contrive in order to help! It is hard to have to
he blamed when I am doing my best."

"1 am not bl.iming you, Rachel," Mr. Cameron
said, and he tried to speak quietly, *'^l am only
asking questions. I don't understand. We all
felt, 1 supposed, the need for special care this fall,
and here we have a party on our hands! There
has not been a season in ten years when we could
not have afforded it better."

"A party!" repeated Mrs. Cameron in intense
annoyance. "Now, Edward, I call that being
very disagreeable. I have explained to you that
it is only the plainest possible luncheon served to
a few of our most intimate friends; and I told
you the special necessity of it at this time too. I
don't believe even you, careless as you are, would
be willing to have the Denhams leave without
showing them so much attention, when they have
been here for two months, and have been more
intimate with our young people than with any
others. Russell Denham has certainly paid Mary
a great deal of attention. I think she is inter-
ested in him. It is for her sake that I want to be
courteous. I thought you would appreciate that.'*
A little note of injured innocence was added to
the tone.

Mr. Cameron still tried to understand.

»:'!

.,■■!.

iii!.

■I.

I'm

V, 1

■y^

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

"Why not invite the Denhams and the Lees in
to have a comfortable, quiet dinner with us, and
make no fuss about it? If the young people enjoy
one anotlier's society, I sliouhl think that would
be a pleasanter way to secure it, and the expense
would be less, certainly, to say nothing of tlie
work. You are hardly able to take any more care
upon yourself."

"O Edward, you don't understand such things!
One would suppose you were from the country
yourself to hear you go on sometimes. Fancy
Mary singling out tlie Denhams from all her ac-
quaintances, and inviting them to a family gather-
ing! I should not like to have her even know
that such an idea had been mentioned. It would
be the same as asking the young man if he did not
want to belong to the family. There is nothing
special between them, Edward, and, of course, we
do not want to act as though we expected there
would be."

"Well, well!" said Mr. Cameron, "there is no
use in talking about it I suppose. I was brought
up in the country, and I wish sometimes that I
still lived there. I like country ways best. We
had a friend in to take supper with us whenever
we wanted to, and thought nothing of it. What
I want to know is how much this thing is going
to cost. I want it in black and white." He drew
out note-book and pencil, and looked determined.
"Come, now, I'm not going to run into a thing in
the dark; at least, I'll act as though I meant to

■I 1 J

TUYINCl TO '• nKLONG.

l)e honest, just as loii^ as I can. How many
people are there to be?"

Mrs. Cameron hesitated and faltered. "Why,
the girls thought they ought to ask the Porters if
they did the Lees; and I myself suggested the
Overmans, we have been there so much. And
Ijucia thought our next-door neighbors, the girl
and her brother, ought to be asked; you know
they had us in there for tea that first evening we
were in the house, and weie very kind. You
spoke of offerinff them some attention."

"How many does it all make?" asked Mr.
Cameron with the air of a martyr.

"Why, 1 think it counts up twenty-three. I'm
sure I did not imagine when we began, that there
would be half so many. But the girls feel really
embarrassed about accepting invitations and not
making any returns."

"Twenty-three outsiders and four of our own
make twenty -seven ; and cream to be ordered
from Alburgh's I suppose? Yes, I was sure of
it. Seventy-five cents a quart; say two gallons,
that is the least you can get along with; eight
times seventy-five, that makes six dollars just
for cream! What next?"

That inexorable pencil scribbled and figured;
and Mrs. Cameron, growing each moment more
perturbed, made reluctant admissions to searching
questions, and at last in a shamefaced way ad-
mitted that they could hardly hope to get through
with the plainest possible luncheon for less than

III

WHAT thp:y couldn t.

an outlay of thirty dollars, including the extra
help which it was necessary to have.

"I would get along Avithout that if it were
possihle," she explained humbly. *M am willing
to work my fingers to the bone in order to give
the girls half a chance in the world ; but I know
perfectly well that Betsey will blunder in some
way if I leave lier to herself for a moment; and
I ca7i''t be in two places at once."

"Exactly the price of one of the dress suits,'*
said Mr. Cameron, re-adding his hateful figures.
"Now put down ten dollars for the things we
have forgotten, and for the smashes in crockery
and the like that will result, and for the new
things here and there to be added, and we shall
do well if we escape with forty dollai-s. Doesn't
that seem rather hard on our creditoi-s, Rachel?
We are a hundred dollars behind this quarter
already, you know."

But at this point Mrs. Cameron's nerves would
bear no more. She sank in a limp heap on the
chair before which she had been standing, gath-
ered her housekeeper's apron to her eyes, and cried
outright. Mr. Cameron looked appalled and
helpless. His wife rarely cried; almost never in
his presence. He essayed to comfort, bunglingly
yet sincerely. He didn't know much about such
things. Of course she Avas doing the best she
could; he was sure of that. The girls must be
like others, he supposed. She must not think
he meant to blame her; he was harassed about

■'is?

TUYINO TO ** nKI.OXO.

money a good duiil of tlio time, and it made him
less caivt'ul <»f liis words, ijeilmps, than he ouglit
to Ikj. She was not to worry ; and of course she
oouhl not give up the sclieme now; he did not
mean that; in fact, he did not mean anything.
Slie must not think any more ah(mt it, but just
go on as siie had phmned.

He went away k)oking troubled. Something
he must have said to cause his wife's tears. A
man wiis a brute who made a woman cry; and
infinitely more a brute when that woman was his
wife, the mother of his chihlren. But what had
he said to bring the tears to Kachel's eyes? He
had seen them a trifle red on rare occasions, as
though something might have tmubled her; but
he did not remember ever before having seen her
break down in a burst of weeping. He ought to
be cai-eful. Perhaps this eternal fret and worry
about money matters was making him hard. He
did not want to be a man who seemed to think
only of money. When he was young he had
never expected to develop into such a man.
There were many things he had thought in his
youth which had not matured with his years.
And he sighed heavily, and asked himself, as he
had done a hundred times in the last few years,
whether there were not some quick way of mak-
ing money. There were Jones and Osborne who
were making it by speculating. Only the other
day Osborne told him about gaining a thoUiand
dollai-s in a few hours of time. And Osborne had

:'i

I r

4 i

WHAT TriKV roff.DN T.

no family to 8upi)ort. VVliat would not a thou-
sand dollars be to him, with sons and daughteiH
to think abouti If he only had a little money to
start with, there Wiis no reason why he should not
be as successful as OslMinie or Jones. All the
wa}' to the otliee he thought alnjut it, and tried to
c(»nti'ive ways of seeming a few hundreds with
which to try his — "skill. lie hesitated for a
word and Hnally chose skill; he did not like the
sound of luck. It w.as not the fu-st time that the
harassed father h.id thought in these lines. That
man Osborne was always offering to invest for
him in a way that would bring at least twelve
per cent — Oh, twelve per cent was nothing! — in
a way that would l)e sure to double his money
in a few years' time.

BUIINS ANI» IIKAIlT-nrUNS.

CHAPTER ril.

BURNS AND HKAKT-BUIlNS.

THROUGH trials iiuuiifold tlie Cameron family
[)resse(l tlieir way to the <lay of the luncheon-
party. What they endured from incompetency
and accidents and unforeHeen complitjations can-
not be put on paper. Unless you are the mistress
of a home limited as to room and dishes and means,
and are trying to entertain twenty or thirty people
in the space dcsij^ned for ten, you will not be able
to undei*8tand or appreciate the situation. A liun-
dred times l)efore the climax was reached, did Mrs.
Cameron wish she had let the Denhams j^o on their
way unentertained. She even had occasionally
a wild wish that somethinjr very unusual would
occur; if, for instance, one of them could fall ill,
just on that fatal day, and be very ill for a few
hours, so that the imperative necessity for i-ecall-
ing the invitations would be manifest, and then
recover rapidly without .any unpleasant conse-
quences, what a relief it Avould be. She would
be quite willing to be herself the victim, if Provi-
dence would so order. Nay, as she struggled on
with her mighty problem of salads and sauces and
expenses, she grew so weary that it seemed to her

rtrm

1,1

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

I ■ \

a sharp illness wliioh woiikl compel her to lie still
for hours, yes, even for days, was the only com-
fortable thing which could happen to her. No-
body sickened, however, and the fatal day arrived.
Betsey, poor blundering mass of good-natured
stupidity, had been doing her best; but to the
over-strained nerves of the Camerons it seemed as
though she actually tried sometimes to be stupid
and slow and exasperating. They ceased trying
to speak to her in other than a sharp, irritated
way, which of itself, if they had but understood
her, deprived poor Betsey of what wits she had.
It was annoying,* certainly, to have her slam the
oven door quite shut when she was told to leave
it ajar, and thereby ruin one entire mass of cake
on which Mary had spent her strength and en-
durance. It is perhaps not to be wondered at that
she spoke so emphatically to Betsey as to make
that young woman appear before her mistress with
red face and angry eyes, to declare that she would
not be imposed upon another minute, she would
" just quit, so there I " Then a soothing potion
had to be administered, for to lose even Betsey at
such a crisis as this was not to be thought of.

That "professional helper," who was such a
tower of strength in perspective, needs a word
of comment. He came at the appointed hour;
but his importance was something phenomenal.
Mrs. Cameron, who was utterly unused to mascu-
line help in the kitchen, and who, whenever she
had thought of this addition 1o her forces, had

'>'Mi

*>> W <|M f i ^

BURNS AND HEART-BURNS.

produced before her mental vision a smiling-
faced, deft-handed young woman who would
know just what to do without being told, and
who yet would do her bidding on occasion swiftly
and well, felt utterly cowed before the majes-
tic personage in immaculate necktie, who gazed
about him on the diminutive quarters where he
was expected to reign, with something very like
a sneer on his face, and asked where the trays
were, and if they had none larger than that, and
how many sets of spoons were there, and where
were the relays of napkins to be found, and where
were the coffee spoons, and the oyster forks?
Where were., indeed, all those fine, queer-shaped,
costly little extras which he was accustomed to
see ? The Camerons did not possess them. Mary,
as she listened to the professional's abundant
questions, realized perhaps as never before what
poverty meant; and felt for a moment the utter
folly of trying to do what they could not. Never
mind, it must be lived through now; the guests
were almost at the door; it would never do to
flinch. She helped her mother answer the em-
bari-assing questions as best she could ; she put on
an air of superiority, and tried to give the majes-
tic person an order or two; but faltered, and crim-
soned to her very forehead, when he only stared,
and told her he "couldn't do that sort of thing, of
course ; " he had never been in the habit of doing
it; she must call upon some under-servant. After
that, Mary went to receive her guests, leaving

' ' -sX

» \

WHAT THKV cori.nN r.

!i H

her mother to cope with llic iiiiportant stmiig-er.
There proved to be a number of things i'or which
he had been depended upon tlutt w ere entirely out
of his province; and at the hist moment IJetsey
had to be further bewihleied \)y receiving- minute
instructions concerniiij^ matters of whicli she was
as ignorant as a child.

"I shall have to stay out here and direct
things," declared Mrs. Cameron in excited tones
to her two elder daugliters, as they lingered for
a moment in the kitchen for a last word together
before the ordeal commenced ; " there is no use in
trying to plan dift'erently; that honid iV^mw *' —
as she spoke she looked about her nervously to
make sure that he was far enough away at the
moment not to hear her opinion of him, and siink
her voice to a whisper — "that horrid fellow will
do only the things which liave Ik'cu expected of
him before ; and they aie very fc;w indeed appar-
ently; and he asks for some new-fangled dish or
spoon or fork every minute. I wish he wei(^
where he came from, I could get along Ixttter
withotit him. But 1 shall have to sta}' and wii' ii
Betsey; she doesn*t know the ic^e-pitcher ir< iu
the cream-jug to-day; she blunders all the time.

"O mother, don't do that! Let her blunder.
Let them both manage. The fellow will behave
l)etter perhaps when we are all away, 'i'ell liim
to direct Betsey. Whatever you do, don't st.-iy
in the kitchen and leave us to ]ook after llio
guests. That is something I have never seen I

BURNS AND HKAllT-BURNS.

done; and when father isn't here either, it will
look horrid. I think father might have come
home for a little while."

"Well, he couldn't," said Mrs. Cameron
sharply; "and once for all, Lucia, stop criticising
your father. You do altogether too much of that
sort of thing, and I tell you I will not have it."

The voices of coming guests broke up this fam-
ily conclave suddenly. Lucia went to receive
them with a heightened color on her cheeks. Her
mother's reprimand hurt. She was lond of her
father, and knew she had meant only to express a
desire for his presence among their guests. Mi's.
Cameron returned to her arduous duties, resolved
to put everything in as good train as she could,
and then leave the helpei-s to themselves, since
the girls felt so badly about her not being in the
parlor. She would do almost anything rather
than add to their annoyance.

The guests were very gay. They had no anxi-
eties concerning the feast, and were prepared to
enjoy themselves. Most of them were old ac-
quaintances, accustomed to meeting one another
at all sorts of gatherings. Had the Camerons
been at their ease they might have enjoyed the
hour which intervened before lunch was an-
nounced. As it was, visions of Betsey's blun-
dering, or of Selmser's obstinacy, kept constantly
floating before their mental vision. It was a
relief when the summons to the dining-room
came; at least the suspense would soon be over

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

now. But it was not; it seemed to draw itself
out endlessly. Whether his majesty, called Selm-
ser, essayed to teach them the folly of trying to
serve so pretentious a luncheon with their re-
sources, or whether he was so carefully trained to
run in a particular groove that he really could not
step out of it, will not he known. Certain it is,
that the courses were so long in being served as
to lead one almost to forget what had last ap-
peared. Several of the guests had no forks for
their salads until after the others were ready f(M'
the next course. This, Selmser explained after-
wards to the annoyed hostess, was unavoidable
because there were not forks enough for the dif-
ferent sets; some had to be washed and waited
for, a thing unknown before in all his experience
of serving. It seemed also to take an unaccount-
able time to replenish the cream-pitchers and cake
plates; and when the coffee and chocolate began
to come in so slowly that part of the company s.at
with empty cups before the other part had been
leached, it was with difficulty that Mary Cam-
eron restrained herself from rushing out to the
kitchen to express her mind to both Betsey and
his majesty. It is perhaps a pity that she did!
not. For some unknown reason Selmser had at|
that moment rebelled; the ices needed his atten-l
tion, he declared, and Betsey must serve the rest
of the chocolate. In vain she protested that she
could never carry that great awkward tray; itj
would slip out of her hands, she knew it would,!

j '"''J'ilWnMa.

I WJ i OMi't i W» « » i ui i iMu>a wwM^|

BUnS'S AND HliAUT-BUUKS.

He assured her tliat she would have to carry it if
it went; and added that she would better step
lively, for some of them would be getting too old
to drink it bv this time, he should think I What
could they expect, with a houseful and only one
person to do it all ? So Betsey, who had all day
been honestly doing the best she could, seized the
chocolate-pot in both her red, nervous hands, and
made a dash for the dining-room. She might
have done well, l)ut for a miserable mend in the
dining-i'oom carpet, covered for this occasion by
a rng from one of the chambers. Over this rug
Betsey stumbled; lier feet had not grown accus-
tomed to expecting it at that place. A mojnent
more and there was a confused ma^ss of Betsey,
chocolate-pot, rug, and a scalding hot fluid. The
I pain which this latter 0(^casioned rose above eveiy
other consideration, at least for Betsey, and she
howled. There were people present who had
been acquaintances of the Camerons for years,
but someway it was Dorothy Landis who sprang
to Betsey's assistance. It was her brother who
said kindly to Lucia, that alt!iough he was only a
teacher, he had once been a medical student, and
knew exactly what and how to do for a scald;
they might safely leave Betsey's hand to him.
Meantime, Dorothy Landis had with haste and
skill assisted in removing the dSbris^ and had ac-
complished one thing more for which Mrs. Cam-
eron's heart went out in gratitude.

"Let me open this side window and call our

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WHAT THEV COtJLDN T.

Annie; she is really very good at serving table.
I thought of offering to lend her. I wish now we
had yielded to our neighborly feeling." While
she spoke she raised the sash and called. In a
very few minutes Annie came, white-aproned,
low-voiced, swift and silent of movement, the
very perfection of a maid. From that moment
the table service went on smoothly; even his
majesty seeming to discover that in the keen-
eyed, swift-moving Annie he had met his peer.

**If only that Landis girl had offered her be-
fore! " It was Mary Cameron who thought this,
feeling almost indignant the while over such a
breach of neighborliness as the dela}^ suggested.
Nor did she at the moment realize that had the
offer been made before, it would probably have
been declined with stiff dignity, and have been
commented upon as a specimen of country igno-
rancfc.

It was all over at last; the chocolate stain had
been washed out as well as it could be, Emilie
lamenting the while that it covered the only bright
breadth of carpeting in the room. The "picked-
up " dinner had been served by the united efforts
of the weary mother and her equally weary girls,
Betsey being still in the depths of misery with
her scalded wrist and hand. Emilie had vexed
them all, and brought a sharp reprimand on her-
self, by announcing suddenly at tlie dreary dinner,
that the chickens for the salad co.5t two dollars
and forty cents; the grocer called to her and gave

BUllNS AND HKAIIT-IU KNS.

her the bill as she passed ; and that " hired fellow "
threw a whole iiiue bowl full of it away; and did
they know he broke the largest meat-dish ?

"Do for pity's sake let us eat a few mouth-
fuls," Mary had said angrily, "without having
bills and broken dishes thrown at us." •

Then Emilie had told her that she was cross,
and that she was most of the time. She saved
all her pleasant words for other people, a:)d never
had anv for her own folks. Of course the mother
had to interfere then; and because she was over-
tire<l she did it sharply, bidding the fifteen-year-
old girl hold her peace. If she had no better
words than those to speak, they did not want to
hear her speak at all. It cannot be a matter of
surprise under the circumstances that the girl
revenged herself by murmuring, that one who had
such examples to follow as were given her ought
not to be expected to speak pleasant words. Then
the entire family had a diversion. Mr. Cameron,
who had been unusually silent even for him, sud-
denly made a remark, — •

" I had a letter from Aunt Eunice this morn-
ing.

This in itself was a somewhat surprising an-
nouncement. Aunt Eunice, his only sister, a
maiden lady, was not given to letter-writing.
The few letters which her brother had received
from her in the past half-dozen years had been
written for the purpose of giving some family
news. Very brief letters they were. Mary re-

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WHAT THKY COITLDN'T.

membered two of them. One received three years
ago ran thus j —

«• BnoTHEtt EmvAitn, — James rHed last night. I sup-
pose you cannot come to the funeral ; being so far ; and
there is no need. We shall hury him on Thursday.

Your sister, Kun.ck."

Another received later, ran: —

" Brothku Edward, — Johnson has foreclosed. We
shall move, cf course. Hannah did her best, but she is
only a woman and had sharpers to deal with. We shall
manage, 1 dare say. I am letting you know because I said
I would, not because I expect anything."

"Hannah'* was her sister-? n -law, the widow of
the "James." Aunt Eunice's expectations had
been fulfilled. Her brother could do nothing for
her, save to write a 8ympatl»etic letter and bewail
the fact that the hard times and a large family to
support made it impossible foi* him to come to the
rescue. The girls had thought their aunt's let-
ters "queer," not to say heartless. "Only three
lines to tell father about the death of his brother;
and no particulars! " Lucia had said, and added,
"Imagine my writing to one of you announcing
the death of Mac or Rod in any such fashion ! "
S])e had shivered as she spoke the words, and
Mary had said, "Don't! what is the use in ima-
gining anything so horrid?" Yet both of them
had quarrelled with their brother Rodney that
very afternoon, and did not speak to him for
twenty-four liours! But the small knowledge
which they h^^d of Aunt Eunice made them wait

BUIIXS AND HKAUT-IiUUNS.

for tlielr father's news with expeetancy. She and
her Hister-in-hi\v had kept together and "man-
aged" as best they couhl since the death of the
hushand and brother.

"Well," said Mrs. Cameron, after waiting a
moment for the ex[)ected news, "what has moved
her to write a letter? Is there anything special ? "

"Yes, tliere is. liiinnih is dead."

The girls exchanged glances of amnsement, and
Emilie giggled a little. It strnctk lier as amnsing
that this relative was never hetird from except
through the agency of death. "Hannah" waa
only an aunt by marriage, and one whom they
not only had never seen, but had never heard
much about. It was not to be expected that they
would care very deeply ; though their father shot
an annoyed glance at them.

"Poor thing!" said their mother, meaning
Aunt Eunice. "She will miss her sadly I sup-
pose, they have been together for 80 long. She
will have some of Hannah's nieces come to live
with her, will she not?"

"No," said Mr. Cameron, "she cannot live on
there. What Hannah had was an annuity; it
stops at her death. She wants to come here."

Undoubtedly he meant his sister Eunice, and
not the aunt who had changed worlds; but the
Camerons could hardly have looked more startled
had they supposed he meant her.

"Herel" repeated Mrs. Cameron amazed and
dazed. "Why — how could she?"

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WHAT TIIKY CorLDN T.

Thero is souu'iliing iHuniUiirly trying to some
nerves in tlii.s r»^j>titition of the last woi'd they
have spoken. It ulvvays tried Mr. Cameron, he
conhl not iiave tohl wliy. Moreover, tlie qnestion

wa-j inane.

She eonld come on tlie cars of conrse, just as
any otlier person wouhl," lie replicMl, more testily
than lie was in the habit of 8[)eakin<r.

" Well, hut, Kdward, I (h)n't understand. She
doesn't mean to eome here to atnt/^ of course.
Why should she be at the expense of taking so
long a journey when she has but little means?"

Mr. Cameron i)ushed away his phite, with the
remains of the luncheon still remaining as they
had been served to him, and gave his attention
entirely to his wife.

" Why not? " he asked. " Why should she not
come here to stay? I am the only brother she
has, the only near relative living. She is with-
out means of support, and by the death of her sis-
ter-in-law is left desolate. What more natural
than that she should write to me and propose to
come to my home ? "

" For pity's sake ! " said Mary.

"Oh, dear! " said Lucia.

And Mis. Cameron said, "Edward, how can we
do it ? You know we just manage to live, as it is,
and Rachel is coming home in a few weeks. That
will be another one to feed and clothe. How is
it possible for us to take care of your sister?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Cameron doggedly.

BrilNS AND HKAUT-nUUXS.

"I know how it cannot l>c clone. If we are to
frive Innolies, and buy new carpets and china and
oven silver in order to do it. we must let our
relatives go to the poorhouso f suppose."

"O father I " said Lucia; while Mary spoke
rapidly and in excited tones, —

"I must say I don't think that is quite fair.
We haven't had any company before, to speak of,
in two years; and father talks as though we gave
lunches every other day. As for new carpets, we
had to have that one ; the company had nothing
to do with it. Three pieces of china to replace
broken ones, and a half-dozen plated spoons, was
every article that we bought on account of the
company; and we had to manage in a M'ay that
will humiliate us forever, in order to get along
without the things which with other people are
matters of course. I am suie / do not want any
more company. I thought to-day if I lived
through the humiliation of this attempt I should
never ask to make another. Hereafter I am going
to decline all invitations, to be spared the mortifi-
cation of never being able to return courtesies."

*' Mary !" said her mother as soon as her voice
could be heard. " Mary, hush I You forget your-
self."

But Mr. Cameron had already attained to the
self-control which he usually had.

"I am hard on you I suppose," he said wearily;
"I am harassed to the point of despair in many
ways. 1 know you have to do without many

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WHAT Tfli:V roULDN T.

IS;:. IK

things that othei-H have, and it Ininiiliates mo that
it is so. But I <h) not know how to he\[> it. I
do my best. I muHt write to Knnice, I »ui){)o.-;e,
tliat we have no j)lace for Imm*. Jf Hhe cannotttind a
home amonnf any of hcM* ohl a;.'qnaint inecs and wo; k
for lier hoard, she must go — where shall I say?'*

The sudden revulsion ot feeling in his family,
if he liad not been accustomed to it, would have
astonished him.

*•() father I " Lucia tai>l, "you wouldn't do that I"

" Father 1" Riid Em i lie, "that would he per-
fectly dreadful. Why, she iioar own auntiiji "

Anion;; the girls poor Mivy was the r ^y idl^nt
one. She was strufrgling to ki!ep hac "u.di of
tears, and could have fl[)oken no word, v/hatever
had happe;ied. Nor were t!i j t-jirs pushing their
way for her own sake. She wa.4 already utterly
miserable because of the way in which she h id
spoken to her father. She had not meant to cen-
sure him. She was often so grieved for his em-
barrassments as to lie awake at night wondering
what could be done. It was terrible in her to add
to his burden by speaking as she had. Mi's. Cam-
eron glanced at her and was sony for her.

" I don't see, Edward, what is to be gained by
talking in that way. The girls do not menu to
complain. They are generally very patient, I am
sure. Mary has, of her own accord, given up
things which she wa.-j to have, in order to save
expense. As for Eunice going to the poorhouse,
that u nonsense! She will come here, of course.

BITIINS AND HEAUT-nURNS.

if there is no otlier way. We shall manage it
somehow."

"Of course, " said Lucia quickly. ** Mary and
I wouldn't think of having anything else done,
would we, Mary? She can have the room that
Kod and Mac were to have. They won't he home
until tlie holidays, and some way can he planned
for them."

"And I can leave school now certainly,"
chimed in Emilie, triumnh in her voice. "If I
give up my music it will save thirty doUara a
term; I think it is dreadful to spend so much
money just on piano lessons. Thirty dollars is
worth saving, isn't it, father?"

Hut even this offer could not lighten the har-
assed father's burden. Perhaps he realized better
than, in the excitement of the moment, any of
the others did, what a burden he was about to add
to the family through his maiden sister. Still,
what else was to be done ? It was hard on a man
if he could not make room in his home for his
only sister.

After the first exclamations, they had all known
how it would end. Not a Cameron among them
would have had the father do other than write by
the morning's mail to Aunt Eunice to come to
them as soon as she could make aiTangements to do
so. Nevertheless, they left the dinner-table that
evening so overwhelmed with this new calamity
as to almost forget even the trials of the luncheon-
party.

i^"l

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER IV.

O WAD SOME POWER.

" O wad some power the giftie gio us,
To see oursel's as ithers see us! "

THAT last sentence does not apply to Mary.
Aunt Eunice's coming was dreadful enough,
but it could not overshadow the miseries of that
humiliatirg luncheon. When the hated dishes
were fairly out of sight for the night, the girl
threw a light wrap about her, and went out to the
side porch to be alone with her gloomy thoughts.
The evening was crisp even for October ; so much
so that Lucia called after her, that if she was go-
ing to " moon " out there she would better put on
a heavier shawl. She vouchsafed no reply to this,
and felt sure that tlie light wrap which she had
chosen would be all-sufficient. To be sure her
hands were cold; she could feel that they were
like ice, but her head was hot and throbbing, and
to get where it was cool and still and dark had
become her necessity.

Let it not be supposed that Mary Came] on was
so weak a young womar as to have worked her-
self into this state of misery over the annoyances
and embarrassments attendant upon the day's ex-

on was

O WAn rOMK POWER.

perience. It was trying, of couive, to have had a
series of mishaps, and linally an accident— all of
which were the evident result of incompetent help
and insufficient means ; but such possibilities had
been taken into consideration when the lunch was
planned, and the ^irl had strength of character to
rise above such petty trials after the first excite-
ment was over. There was a dee})er cause for her
gloom. There had come to her that day a revela-
tion concerning the character of one of her guests;
one which, though slight in itself, revealed much
to her, and hurt her as she had not before under-
stood that she could be hurt. It was when Hetsey
lay prone upon the floor, "howling," ni Emilie
expressed it, "f(n- all she was worth," and the
distress of the hostess was at its climax, that
Mary's eyes chanced to make a swift journey to
the corner where Russell Denham wjcs enjoying
himself with a charming y<>ii"g hidy at either
side. Of course their atrention was arrested by
the accident, — as whose was not, thanks to Bet-
sey's effective voice? — but it Avas the look on
Russell Deiiham's face which lingered with Mary
and stabbyd her. An unmistakable smile dis-
figured his handsome features. Now, it is sup-
posable that a man may smile, even under j-uch
circumstances, if he have no special interest in
the immediate sufferer, — certainly Betsey's ap-
pearance and tones had their ludicrous side, — -and
it was not probable that she was very seriously
injured; but there are smiles and smiles. This

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

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one had in it a hint of a sneer; an amused sneer
it is true, but still a sneer; not so much at Betsey,
as over the whole miserable attempt at doing
things as other people did, and failing. At least
Mary, though she tried her utmost to do so, could
not translate it otherwise. It was almost as
though she had heard his voice in amused sarcasm
turning the whole thing into ridicule. In vain
she told herself she was unjust, unreasonable, to
so translate a passing glance on the face of a man
who spoke not a word; but in her inmost heart
she felt that the smile was not one which would
have lingered on his face had he been in hearty
sympathy with the people who were trying to
entertain him. The contrast between his manner
and that of Mr. Landis, for instance, was suffi-
ciently marked to impress itself upon her. It was
of no use to tell herself that Mr. Landis was offi-
cious, that it would have been in better taste for
him to have kept his seat, and appeared not to
notice the accident, as the other well-bred persons
did. Marv Cameron knew she was not true to her
own convictions when she did so. Poor Betsey
was at this moment blessing the man for his
prompt and efficient help. Still it was folly to
contrast the two. Not every young man is an
apprentice in a drug-store long enough to know-
how to succor scalded hands. She did not know
anything about it, but she presumed this was
the ease with Mr. ^^andis. Certainly she had not
expected nor desired Mr. Denham to rush to

O WAD SOME POWKK.

Betsey's help. But — yes, there came constantly
l):u'k to her that tantalizing, "but," it stood for
so many things. He had not even said to her the
well-bred nothings with which the others had
made their adieus: "Such a charming time," "So
sorry that poor girl had to hurt herself," "The
only mar to a pleasant occasion." "A unique
lunch-party," Russell Denham had said as he ex-
tended his hand ; and there was still that lurking
smile which she hated, curving his lips. When
Jessie Lee had essayed to express civilly her re-
gret that poor Betsey had suffered, he had said
gayly, "Oh, we cannot afford to regret that; it
added a touch of uniqueness to the whole. I as-
sure you she looked quite picturesque reclining
there; it was after the manner of an Eastern
salaam," and he laughed again; while his sister
added, "There was an Eastern bowl at least.
Wasn't she terrific. Miss Cameron? I knew by
the strength of her lungs that she could not be
fatally injured."

It had all been hateful. It was not so much
the words as the undefined subtle something be-
hind them which Mary Cameron felt; the some-
thing which made her ask herself now, as she
threw back even her small wrap and let the night
wind blow about her throbbing temples, what
Russell Denham had meant by the attentions he
had lavished upon her during the past two
months. Why had he several times in a marked
manner singled her out from others, and given

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exclusive thought apparently to her, since he
could wear that smile and speak tliose indifferent
words when he must have known she was suffer-
ing humiliation ?

Only a night or two ago lie had said to her,
"To think that I have been lingering here for
more than seven weeks when I half expected to
limit my stay to as many days ! 1 am afraid you
do not understand who is to blame for this dere-
liction from duty." And he had looked at her in
such a way that she could not but understand that
he was casting the sweet blame upon her. Then
immediately he liad added, " I confess that they
are the shortest seven weeks of my life ; but per-
haps they have seemed long to you; sometimes I
fear so." She had been on the eve of cvmfessing
that they did not, that she had enjoyed them
more than she was wont to enjoy the society of
her friends; but that irrepressible Emilie, who
was always where she ought not to be, had burst
in upon them at that moment with some gay news
gleaned from "the girls," and they two had chat-
tered together constantly thereafter, so there was
no opportunity for reply. As she thought of it
now, was she glad or sorry that she had not told
him she had enjoyed the weeks? VVhat might he
not have said in reply? But then, if he meant
none of it -^ and could he have meant anything
and have jjmiled aiul sneered as he did to-day?
The blood seemed to roll in waves over her face as
she wondered if he had insulted her by saying soft

O WAD SOME POWER.

■'M i'

nothings to her I He was not a boy to play at
offering special attentions, as some idiotic boys
might do, just to see if they knew how to use the
language of their elders. True, he was on the eve
of a return to college ; but it was for a post-grad-
uate course, and taken because he was fond of
study, and had abundant means and abundant
leisure. He was twenty-six. She had discovered -
it when they were comparing dates in regard to *
certain past experiences. "Why, I was at that
very concert I " he had said, in almost boyish de-
light. "I remember it was my twenty-fourth
birthday, and I indulged myself in a rare musical
treat in order to celebrate the event. To think
that you were in the same row of boxes and I
never knew it! How shall I account for such
unparalleled stupidity on my part?"

Even while she laughed gleefully over his
pretended disgust at not recognizing a person of
whom he had never even heard, she had felt at
her heart a little thrill of satisfaction. Then he
was twenty-six years old now, and she had but
passed her twenty-fourth birthday. An eminently
proper age were they for being intimate friends,
even the most intimate. He had seemed younger
than that; she had thought liini possibly a trifle
younger than herself, and had caught herself won-
dering whether people would discover it some
day, and make unpleasant remarks thereupon.
No, they were neither of them young simpletons
playing at life. It made the pain all the sharper

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WHAT THEY couldn't.

for Mary Cameron to remember this. She had
not been a girl who was especiall} fond of the
society of young men. She had almost no inti-
mate friendships with them. Lucia was in-
clined to have at least half a dozen very good
friends among "the boys;" friends with whom
she corresponded in a happy-go-lucky sort of way,
writing when she felt like it, and wlien she did
not, letting weeks, even months, slip by witli
an occasional statement that she supposed she
ought to answer Charlie's letter, or she was
afraid Dick would think she had forgotten how
to write; but Mary had not interested herself
enough in any of their acquaintances to write to
them, save when business or some courtesy called
for it. She had often wondered whether she were
different from other girls; why they cared, some
of them, so much for the attentions of the young
men of their set, and whether she ever should
care in the least about these things. Perhaps her
very indifference heretofore made the sting deeper
when she discovered that she had grown to have
a feeling which, to say the least, was not indif-
ference for this young man who could smile when
she was troubled, and who was going away to-
morrow, and had left her that day with a genial,
"Well, I suppose this is good-by? You will
hardly allow me to call in the morning, since I
must leave at twelve. The Eastern princess will
demand some of your morning perhaps? I shall
net soon forget mv pleasant visit to your city."

O WAD SOME POWER.

Did he really mean that that was good-by ?
She had thouglit that even letter-writing, of
wliich she was not fond, as her brotliers could
testify, would be pleasant, if the letters were
to be addressed to him. But he made no
mention of lettei-s, although when he offered
to mail for her one evening a letter to her
brother, he had glanced at the address and
said, " Has it become natural for you to ad-
dress letters to the university, so that your
friends who beg for them one of these days
will not have to wait for you to get in the
habit of it ? "

She had laughed in reply, and also blushed,
as she remembered that his post-graduate course
was to be taken at the university where her
brothers were.

After that she had expected to be asked to
correspond with him, and had gone over in her
mind the reply she would make. She blushed
under cover of the darkness as she thought of
it now. Aside from the fact that her interest
in this man had been unusual from the first, and
liad steadily increased with acquaintance, it was
Iniiniliating to have it see a as though her friend-
ship had been trifled with. In truth she did not
admit it, after a little. It suggested itself, and
she put it away as unworthy of her and of him.
No opportunity had offered itself for him to say
the words he meant to say. That ridiculous
affair of Betsey and the chocolate had made it im-

'ii

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. ' ■ 1 '

I !

'Ijliijljiji

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

possible to plan for any real conversation after-
wards. Then Em i lie was at hand, of course ;
she always was when she was not desired. Girls
of fifteen ought to be sent to boarding-school
until they could learn common-sense and good
manners. Mr. Denham would call in the morn-
ing, despite his hint to the contrary ; she had not
told him he could not. From nine until twelve
was ample time for a call, provided he wished to
make it. Or, even if lie should be detained from
that, he could write ; she had not told him she
would not address letters to him. It was foolish
for her to condemn him as a trifier merely be-
cause lie had laughed when she did not feel like
it. The quiet and coolness of the front porch
suggested this train of thought. Was it fortu-
nate or otherwise that she could not hear a con-
versation which was taking place at this moment
at the extreme upper end of Durand Aveirae?
Russell Denham was taking his sister home from
an evening visit, and the two were discussing the
luncheon-party.

After a moment's silence the young man broke
forth afresh, prefacing his sentence with a light
laugh. " What a ridiculous tableau that whole
thing made ? The howling girl with chocolate
pouring serenely over her, the faces of the guests,
and above all the faces of our hostess and her two
older daughters. It would have been more hu-
mane not to have laughed, but really I don't see
how a fellow was to prevent it. The whole thing
matched somehow."

O WAD SOME POWER.

" Matched what, Russell ? "

" Why, the effort at style and elegance ; and
the effort to appear at ease when the entire family
were undoubtedly far from ease. One could see
tiiiit affairs were in jeopardy all the while. Miss
Ciitneron conversed with one eye on the kitchen
door, so to speak, even before the luncheon was
juniounced ; and even that rollicking Miss Lucia
was subdued and nervous."

" Y"et the Canierons are used to good society,
and always have been ; we have met them every-
where."

"• Thev are more used to iroinjj than to en-
tertaining evidently," said her brother. " The
question is, why could they not have been con-
tent with an effort which was within their means,
and in correspondence with their surroundings ?
A man would have known better than to place
himself in a position where such embarrassments
as they labored under were possible. Fancy wait-
ing ten minutes by the clock for an extra spoon
for the coffee ! " Whereupon he laughed again.

" Do you know," said his sister, " that you re-
lieve my mind immensely? I really thought, or
feared, until to-day, that you had a very special
interest in Miss Mary Cameron. I am sure you
have shown her more attention than is your
habit, and it seemed to me several times that
I joined you when you were on the verge of a
conversation which might end dangerously."

Mr. Denham did not laugh this time ; instead,

■i!f

I'Mmii

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If':"'

I'M !

WHAT THKV COULDN T.

illiil''

he was silent for several seconds ; then lie said in
a cliaiiged tone, —

" To be entirely frank with you, Miss Cameion
has interested me more than young women gen-
erally do. Possibly, had I not been strangely in-
terrupted more than once, I might have said
something which would need to be repented of.
I have not been entirely sure of my own mind
at any time, but I thought perhaps on a closer
acquaintance I should grow to be. I will con-
fess that the farce we have been through to-day
opened my eyes somewhat to her true character,
and — well, to speak 2)lainly, frightened me. It
is a very little thing, you think, to accomplish
so serious a result ; but look at it. The Camerons
are poor, much poorer even than we are ; and you
know very well that at home we never indulge in
this sort of thing. The father is working on a
salary ; not a very large one either, and just at
this time he is decidedly embarrassed. Young
Holcombe was speaking of it to-day : he told me
that Mr. Cameron has asked the Hosmers twice
lately for an extension of time. He looks har-
assed and worn. Under such circumstances his
daughters might be excused from entertaining
guests one would think. Or, if they considvi'ed
that impossible, wliy not, as I said, have given
us a simple cup of cliocolate and a biscuit, or
cracker, or whatever you call those little things
which people serve ? Their dishes would have
gone around for such an entertainment, which

O WAD SOME POWER.

they manifestly did not for this spread. I
frankly confess I was disgusted with the whole
tiling. I could not help realizing that in my
motiier's house nothinjj like it could ever have
occurred. I hiite to see people undertiike what
they (iannot carry out. I own it is queer that it
slioiild have given Jiie sucli a revulsion of feeling
as it did, but I came away from there telling
myself that I could not afford to be interested in
a girl like that. My income would never justify
it. Any one who tries to make a dollar look to
her friends as though it was ten dollars, and she
had plenty more in reserve, I am afiaid of,"

"Yet you have the name of being very lavish
with your money, Russell. That Mr. Stuart who
sat beside me at table hinted that you were a
subject of envy, on that account, among his gen-
tlemen friends."

'' Oh, that is because I have arrived at the age
when a man is generally in business for himself,
and am still studying. I cannot go around the
country telling every one to whom I am introduced
that what money 1 have is Ijestowed upon me by
the most eccentric of uncles, who made it impossi-
ble for me to use another penny after my educa-
tion is completed; and that I am hard at work
planning ways and means to get a living after I
have secured as good an education its tiie money
will give. Professor Landis wliom we met to-day,
and whom, by the wsiVy I like better than any of
the other fellows, told me I was right in believing

It-

.08

WHAT TMKV ("(UIJLN T.

I I

that it would make a preat difference with my
prospects as a teacher if I took a thorough post-
graduate course. I grant you that, thanks to my
whimsical uncle, I am sailing under what might
be considered false colors ; but I am doing it hon-
estly and mean to tell the exact trutli to whom-
ever is intimate enough witli me to have a right to
it. I thought 1 should have told Miss Cameron
before this, hut I have decided that I probably
never shall."

"•Well, but, Kussell, are you not a little severe?
I am not fond of Mary Cameron, but I ought to
want justice done her. Perhaps she is the crea-
ture of circumstance. Tlie lavish effort at expen-
diture to-day may not have been in accordance
with her ideas or wishes. All motliers are not
like ours ; and altliough she is the eldest daughter,
younger ones sometimes have more weight in the
home than their eldc; ;."

"No," said her brother emphatically. "I have
been all ever that ground. Mary Cameron was
the moving spirit there to-day. The anxious way
in which her mother's eyes constantly sought hers
to see if things were going to her mind, and the
deprecating manner in which she appealed to her
when they went wrong, would have been pitiful
if it had not been exasperating. It told the entire
story. I could fancy Mary getting into a storm
of determination to carry her point, regardless of
results. She is not a meek and quiet spirit; in
fact, I thought she had an independent spirit at

^iii.i.!li

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O WAD SOME POWKB.

first, and admired it ; but instead, she ia one of
tliose who mui*t ape society ways of doing things,
wliether tliey l)e reasonable ways or not, even
tliouj^li she adds to lier father's burdens, as the
sniallest expenditures must at present. To liave
a social hour with her friends and give them
])leasure was not her aim to-day, but to show the
Overmans and Westbrooks, who are wortli hun-
dreds of thousands, tliat slie can make as expen-
siv(5 a spread as they can. And even that failed,
you see ; she could not do it. No, I am quite
decided that I was nnstaken in her character,
and tliat my expectation;;, which at present are
represented by zero, will not admit of my further
cultivating her friendship."

His sister laughed cheerily. "Your tone as
well as words show that you do not care. The
impression which she made has evidently not
been a very serious one. I am glad of it. As
I said, I have not been drawn io her; and it is
a great comfort to think that I need not oblige
myself to like her for your sake. But I hope
the poor girl has not become too much interested
in you for her peace of mind."

" Oh, not at all," her brother said quickly.
"Miss Cameron's weaknesses do not lie in that
direction ; and of course I have not made my
possible thoughts concerning her plain to her.
I think she likes me very well, and might have
learned to like me better perhaps ; but that is

over.

' : I,

'Hi

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

i I

Nevertheless, as he left his sister at the door of
the library with her girl friends, and went on up
to his room, he sighed and said to liimself, —

"Nettie knows very little about it after all.
Mary Cameron came nearer to toucliing my life
than I had supposed any woman could. Heigh-
ho ! ' trifles light as air ' accoraijlish strange i esnlts
sometimes. Who would have supposed tlmt a
luncheon-party, gotten up regardless of expense,
and calculated to impress us with a sense of posi-
tion in life, should have had sucli a peculiar effect
on me ? 1 wish I had gone to Boston yesterday
as I ought, instead of lingering here purely for
the sake of having another visit with her. Then
I might have — or no, of course I don't wish that,
because then i should have — Do I wish it, I
wonder ? Oh, get out of the way ! I don't want
you at least." The very last sentence was ad-
dressed to the cat, who came purring about him
ready to be played with. With regret be it stated
that he kicked her, not seriously, but unmis-
takably. Assuredly Russell Denham was in ill
humor.

IN THE GLOOM.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE GLOOM.

THE twiliglit dee[)ened and the evening grew
more chill. Mrs. Cameron put her head out
of the door once and said, " Mary, I think you are
imprudent ; it is really quite cold." Still the girl
lingered. Slie was not crying; she had no desire
to cry ; but it seemed to her that she could not
go into that well-lighted sitting-room and listen to
Eniilie's chatter about the guests and the luncheon
and Aunt Eunice. Neither could she go to her
own room ; for Lucia would be sure to follow quite
soon, and there would be her tongue to endur*?.
If Lucia said anything about Russell Denham to-
night she did not know what would become of her.
She could not endure the thought of the family
wondering that lit did not come for a farewell
call, or asking if he m<'ant to call in the morning.
A quick, firm step sounded on the pavement —
there had been many since nhe .:^x<od there, but
there is a difference in footsteps. These demanded
attention. They grew slower a« they neared the
little gate which siiut her in fro'<n the street. They
lingered at the gate, and a clear v^^ce said, " Good-
evening." For a moment Mary Cameron's heart

■n.

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:•! -^•

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WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

had seemed to stand still. Could this be he, come
after all to tell her good-by? Then it went on
again in dull thuds. It was only their next-door
neighbor, or, as I^uoia expressed it, the one who
lived almost in tlie same house.

"(xood-evening," he said; and his haiul was on
the little gate, althougli his own gate was just the
olher side of it. '* Are you enjoying the darkness
and stillness ? Isn't there a restful hush over the
world to-night? J think 1 like dark nights almost
better than moonlight ones. At least, they cer-
tainly have th«ir charm." He had come up the
steps as he spoKe, but Mar}'^ had no words for him
about the beauty of tlie iiiglit. She wished he
would go away and leave lier alone.

" I have nrtt mistaken the house," he said, and
she could feel that he was smilinjr ; '' iilthougli
they are so clon^e and so exactly alike that one
might readily dt» so. Do you like twin houses.
Miss Cameron? "'

"'No," she said coldly; "'I don't think I like
*twin. * arythino-. it seems to me that houses and
people would do better not so close." She made
a mental reservation in favor of Lucia and Mc-
Llovd who were twins, thoucj'h she found herself
thinking that even they would be better friends
if they were not in some respects so much alike.

" I think I agree with you in the main, at least
about houses. It is the misfortune of the city th;U
it forces itself upon its neighlxu-s, leaving no gieei'
and quiet spaces between."

IN THK CJLOOM.

The girl had absolutely no words for him. She
did not mean to be ungiacious, or, rather, she did
not mean to show her ungraciousness ; but she had
said too many sharp words to Lucia about this
man, and he was too distinctly associated with
her day's mortifications, to be other than disagree-
able to her now. She had even sneered at his
profession.

*''' I presume he teaches spelling and arithmetic
in one ot the viard schools, and therefore expects
to be dubbed ' Professor ' on all possible occasions.
Those small teachei"s are always jealous of titles."

This she had said, not having any knowledge of
his position or desires, l)Ut simply on general prin-
ciples, and because sht- felt at tiie time like saying
something disao-reeable. Lucia seemed to her to
have taken up those stiangers in an unaccountable
manner. What if they did rush in and have all
the family come over for a cup of tea the evening
they arrived at their new home, belated and damp
from the dreai-y, autumnal rain, and very weary?
It wfis kind, of course. Who denied it? But
the very act showed tht • «'ountry breeding. Peo-
ple in cities did not offer strangers who moved
next door to them cups of tea. Hut people in
cities are suj)posed to know bow to treat their
(;allers, and it was no part (-: Mary CaHBcron's
intention to be rude to the yomng' mam wlu> had
stopped in a friendly Avay to s]>eak to her. She
simply could not think of a ei'vil crnn aonplace to
say. He relieved her embarrassnieuL

' I : - r i

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111' III,

l^'

,i:.

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

•" I liad it ill mind to ask a question or two to-
day had the oi)i)oitunity offered. My sister and
I are comparative strangers in the city, you know,
and I believe you are old residents. Some of tlie
churches near us have been closed since our com-
ing. What can you tell us concernhig tliem ? Is
there one where we are needed ? ''

"I haven't the least idea," said Miss Cameron
promptly, glad of a subject upon which she could
speak glibly. '' We have no more knowledge of
this part of the town than entire strangers have.
Our own church is away up-town at Fountain
Square.

^^ But you do not expect to continue your con-
nection with that churcli now that you have come
to this part of the town, I presume?"

"Why not? We liave not tliought of such a
thing as making a change in that respect.* We
are sufficiently homenick now, without adding to
it unnecessarily."

" I beg pardon ; I had supposed the distance
would be an objection."

**Oh, not at all. The rable takes us quite to
the doors. It conne«'ts with the Central Avenue
one, vou know." 'llien, feelin"" that the occa-
eion demanded so much courtesy from her, she
a-lded with an attenipt at graciousness, "If you
and your sister are fond of good music you will
hear none finer in th» city than at the Fountain-
square C hurch. They spend thousands of dollars
every year ou their choir. They are also quite

"[.11

IN THE GLOOM.

attentive to strangers, — have pews set apart for
their use. You might like to go there evenings
occasionally."

" No, lie said quietly ; *' I think we will find
our corner nearer home. There is a little church
on Smith Street, just out of Durand Avenue, which
interests us. Tlie pastor is absent, in attendance
upon his father who is ill, I understand ; but the
people are very cordial. If it shall prov3 that
we are as much pleased with the pastor as with
his flock, I think we shall decide for that church.
To tell you the truth, we had hoped that you
would join us there. The church evidently needs
lielp, and affords a splendid opportunity for work.
They have a Christian Endeavor Society which
could be made a power in the neighborhood."

Mary Cameron received a fresh accession of
dignity. The man actually wanted to patronize
them, and get them into that little hive on Smith
Street, which already swarmed with people, judg-
ing from the crowds of children who blocked the
streets on Sunday mornings surging out of their
Sunday-school.

" We haven't the slightest idea of making any
change, as I said," she replied coldly ; and she
wished he would go home. It was growing chilly ;
she began to realize it. Did he expect her to in-
vite him in to a family chat? She did not mean
to do it. Certainly she was not going to show
him to the parlor, and undertake to entertain him;
and it would hardly do to call Lucia to the task

:»ii

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Mfi

' i't' FH
I

WHAT TIIEV CorLfJN T.

and then vanish. Wliv could he not see that slie
wanted to be alone, even thougli she came to the
front doorsteps to secure the o{){)ortuinty ?

He seemed to have no idea of goiiig. He leaned
against the railing which separated his home from
theirs, and looked up at the far-away stai-s in si-
lence for a moment, then said sii<Ideniv, —

" Miss Cameron, do you ever feel. — I har<llv
know how to express it, — jierhaps I will say lionie-
sick, for a visit with Jesus (^hrist ? Not for com-
munion with him through i)rayer — of course thai
is always open to us. Isn't it wonderful, by the
way, that it is ? Suppose we had to wait for times
and occasions ? Suppose, for instance, you and I
could not speak to him to-night, no matter how
great our need, but must wait until to-morrow, or
next week, or next mouthy for a certain <late to
arrive ? Why, one would hardly dare to live !
But I am not speaking of that which is already
ours ; I mean a real human* longing for the visible
presence of my friend Jesus. The desire to clas}!
his hand, and hear his voice, and walk with hi in.
perhaps arm-in-arm, down the busy streets, and
converse with him as friend to friend. Do you
ever have such desires, so strong that they seem
to fairly clamor for satisfaction ? "

Miss Cameron was very much startled. Was
her next neighbor a lunatic ? What a stiauL,'*^.
irreverent way to speak of Christ I Certainly
she never had such desires. On tl»e cniitiniy.
the very suggestion of them made her ft v\

IN THE GLOOM.

afraid. It v ould be to her a terrible thing to
meet face to face with Jesus Christ! She did
not think people ought to talk in that way.
Nobody did who was entirely sane, she be-
f lieved.

" I don't think I understand you very well,"
she said hesitatingly, and her hand was on the
door-knob; she had thrown off tlie night-latch
when she came out. The utmost she wanted
now was to get in, out of reach of the voice of
this strange man.

He took his eyes away from the stars and looked
at her. " I beg your pardon," he said, recognizing
the tremor in her voice ; " I was simply thinking
aloud, as I do sometimes with my sister Dorothy.
And I thought, too, to be entirel}' frank, that your
face to-day had a look of unrest, as though you
needed the familiar companionship of wliich I
speak, and longed for it. Do you not think we
keep our infinite Friend too far away, and forget
that he is interested in the veriest trifle that
pleases or disturbs us ? That is why I sometimes
fancy, in my folly, that it would be better if we
could see him for a little, and clasp hands with
him, even though he had to go away again to-
morrow. I am afraid I have alwavs envied the
disciples. I could bear the sight of the cloud, I
think, which received him, if only I could have
had three years — yes, even three days — of visi-
ble presence to remember forever. Which shows,
by the way, what poor, selfish creatures we are.

I '-.

liS'l!!

', P- M

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

|llii:|iifi!:

Hllll

'' ;'!',

While I was enjoying his companionship, what
would my brethren only a few miles away do
without him? And, as he has arranged it, we
have him always, each of us, if only we could
realize it."

Miss Cameron had never been so uncomfortable
in her life. Never, in all the twenty-four years
she had lived, had she heard from mortal lips
such sentences as these. Christians she had met,
of course ; she hoped they were none of them
heathen I But the Christians she knew liad com-
mon-sense, and did not rave in the darkness
about impossible and really terrible ideas.

At any risk she must get away from him. If
he thought her rude she could not help it.

"I think I must go in now,'' she said hurriedly;
" it is growing very chilly. Do you — will you —
come inside ? "

She hesitated and stammered over the simple in-
vitation, in great fear lest he should accept it. He
could not resist a smile in the darkness at her ex-
pense, it was so evident that she wanted to be rid
of him. He made his adieus with all speed after
that, and Mary Cameron returned to the family
room to be stormed with questions. " What was
she doing out there in the darkness so long ? "
" Wasn't she chilled through ? It was the coolest
evening they had had." "To-morrow she would
have a stiff neck and a sore throat, and wonder
where she took cold." " Who was out there with
her? Surely they heard voices."

'^li

IK THK TfLOOM.

*' I know," said Emilie the irrepressible, "it was
Mr. Den ham come back to say good-by. I knew
he would find liis way around here again. It would
have saved him lots of car-fare if he had stayed
wlien lie was here. Why in the world didn't you
come into the parlor? It is lighted and deserted.
I should think it would have been a great deal
plea.santer than out in the dark and cold."

'♦ \Va^ Mr. Denhani there, Mary?" the mother
asked. She spoke gently, yet with an under-
tone of curiousncss in her voice — ves, and of
satisfaction. The poor, sore-hearted girl re-
sented it all. Tliey would he glad to be rid
of her. They were watching to see what pos-
sible chances there might be to that end. They
had discussed her prospects and hopes, proba-
bly, while she was out there in the darkness and
loneliness. She could not bear it.

'' No," she said, her voice high-keyed ; " he
was not. Why should you think he would be?
Is it possible that I cannot be out of the room
a few minutes without having my affairs dis-
cussed and my actions commented upon? I
think Emilie oucfht to be tausfht not to meddle
with matters which do not in the least concern
her."

" My patience I " said Euiilie. " Did any one
ever see a crosser creature ? If Mr. Denham
knew what he was about he would take caie
how he had anything more to do with you. I
think somebody ought to warn him."

w' hi- I

' ! M

WHAT THKY COULDN'T.

" Emilie ! " said tlie mother in great severity,
*' I am ashamed of you. How can you be so
disagreeable? Apologize to your nister at once."

But the sister had fled. She wanted no apol-
ogy. She wanted only to get away out of sight,
where she might pour out her heart's pain undis-
turbed.

It was hard enough to be left in solitude on
this evening which she had thought would be
made biight with the companionship of one
who souglit her company above all others ; it
was horrible to be made the gazing-stock of even
her own family. SI ^ over-rated the state of
things, of course. '1 ne over-sensitive always do.
The merest passing mention had been made of
her fondness for tlie front porch that evening,
then tiie family had returned to the all-absoil)-
ing theme of Aunt Eunice. There was need for
planning if she was to become for any length of
time a member of their family. Mary and Lucia
shared each other's room, not because of any
special fondness upon their part for each other's
society, but because space had been scarce. In
the other house there had been a tiny room, or
what they had called sucli, — in point of fact
it was only a good-sized closet opening out of
Mrs. Cameron's room, — which had been declared
to be just the thing for Emilie. Slie had re-
belled a little ; had said it was nothing but a
clothespress, and she was tired of being tucked
away anywhere, and she was old enough she

' 'i sill

\Vl

IN THK GLOOM.

should think to have a decent room, and wliat
WHS the use of their keepint^ a spare (dianiber al-
ways ill inunaeuhite order, wilh tht- best things
in tiie house in it, lor nobody to use ? Slie was
sure tliey rarely had eonij)any. Hut ai the same
time there had been enough of tin; child about
lier to be secretly glad that mother's room opened
into her " (doset," and that on dark nights when
tiie wind blew, she had only to listen to liear
her father's regular breathing. There were times
when it gave her a delightful sense of security,
and made her even take the closet's part, wlien
Mary occasionally argued the propriety of her
taking the spare room to herself and letting
Lucia and Emilie share the other. That this
had never been done was because that guest-
cliamber, with its well-bretl air of being alwa\'s
ready, was really dear to Maiy's heart. But the
Durand Avenue house had no convenient closet,
and it had distinctly one less room to plan with,
and Rachel was cominsjf home. Tliis yfave to Em-
ilie, for a time at least, the luxury of "a whole
room" to herself, as she delightedly expressed it.
For to Mary the well-understood peculiarities of
Lucia were more endurable than the unknown
}K)ssibilities of IJachel, and she distinctly refused
to share a room with the latter. Now the ques-
tion was, what should be done with Aunt Eunice?
Should they put her with Emilie, thus giving
her tacitly to understand that they had no guest-
chamber and were incommodingf themselves to

liiiii'

WHAT THFA' COULDN T.

receive her? Tliey (liseussefl tliin carefully, the
mother and Lucia giving little heed to Emilie's
groans the while. She was still regarded as a
(!hild who must do as she was told. Rachel was
not coming for at least six weeks yet, and wii(»
knew what might happen in that length of time?
JUit there were objections to the plan. Mrs. Cam-
eron did not quite like to voice tlieni. In her
heart she said, "If anything should happen that
Kachel did not come as soon as she was expected,

— and a girl who Wiis away in California with
cousins might have occasion to change her mind,

— then Aunt Eunice would be settled with them,
and feel that she was not in any one's way. If,
on the contrary, they should give her the boys'
room, always referring to it as such, when the
Christmas holidays began to" draw near, it would
be apparent to any reasonable creature that there
was no place for Aunt Eunice. They could
hardly be expected to turn their own sons out
of the house in order to make room for their
father's sister ! Mrs. Cameron said this over to
her own heart, in order to arouse the proper feel-
ing of indignation ; but she found that she did
not like to present the argument about rooms
aloud, even to Lucia ; so she represented the
great discomfort there would be to a middle-
aged woman in having a young, careless girl
like Eniilie always with her. It would really
be inhospitable.

" And the great discomfort it would be to me ! "

IK TIIK GLOO>f.

Kiiiilic chimed in. "You don't any of you think

ot' tllilt."

Tlifso sentences had been interapersed with
wislies from tlie niotlier that Mjuy would not
Slav out in tiie chilly air ko h)iig, and occa-
sional wondei'ings from Eniilie as to who was
out there with her. Mother and daughter had
hotli hiughed at Emilie's pathetic reference to
lu'iself, which was often the only rei)ly the
girl received ; and then Mary had come in from
the porch and concocted out of nothing, as has
heen shown, lier theory of having been discussed
all the time she had heen away.

Young Landis, not finding his sister Dorothv
visible anywhere, went from liis neighbor's porch
to his room, and sat down to consider what had
been said, lie looked grave and disappointed
over it. " I did her no good," he thought ; " not
the least in the world. The poor creature carries
unrest and dissatisfaction written on her face so
that he * who runs may read.' How very plain it
is that she is not acquainted with Him whom
'to know aright is peace.' And I did not help
lier. Instead of being plain and direct in what
I had to say, I went off on some ideas of my own
which she did not understand any more than if I
had spoken Sansorit. I might have known that
she wouldn't. I actually frightened her. To
think of Jesus Christ as a personal Presence is
terror to her. How few there are who seem to
know him aright I I wonder if he feels it as we

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WHAT THKV COULDN T.

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feel the indifference, the positive sliglit, of those
with whom we woiihl be friends? Tliink of him
stooping to win us by every gentle, tender word
in our language, and we indifferent! Sometimes
it passes belief that lie can endure tliis soi-t of
thing much longer. Sometimes it is the strong-
est mark of divinity which I recogjiize, that he
does so endure, through tlie ages. Fancy a
young woman having so little to occupy her
precious Sabbath time, that slie is willing to
spend two hours, to say the least, in going and
returning from Fountain Square, in company with
ci'owds of Sabbath-breakers bent on reaching a
like locality, for a different reason from hers I
Though, when one thinks of it, her reasons for
going seem not to be very delinite. She does not
impress one as deeply attaclied to her church. It
v/ould almost seem as though she sought it because
it was located at Fountain Square. Now, brother
Landis, that is a charitable conclusion ! No doubt
she does feel at home there, and desolate here.
Apparently I am not the one to help her into a
happier frame of mind ; " and he laughed outright
over the girl's manifest desire to be rid of him.
" I ought to have let my sweet little saint Dorothy
undertake that task. But the girl looked so
utterly miserable to-day. I wonder what it is ?
Certainly the accident, awkward as it was, cannot
account for so much unhappiness. Ah, well ! I
cannot carr) my neighbor's burdens. But I con-
fess to an unusual desire to help this girl; perhaps

riT'i

IN THE GLOOM.

it is because she seems in such dire need of help.
I wonder if the peo[)le who are striving' after a
place and name in this world, and failing to reacli
tlieiu, are not more to be pitied than the people
who are content down where they are? That is
a question in social ethics to consider. To answer
it in the affirmative would upset all the theoiies
of philanthropists the world over. Oh, the world !
when will it learn what it needs ? "

;i!i

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER VT.

1 M

i . 1:

"ISNT SHK A TKIlROR ;

J'NT EUNICE w.is duly watched for and met
at the Htation ; met sevd'ul times, in fact,
by anticipation, and at vaviouj* depots* On two
occasions Mr. Cameron h)st hir^ Inncli entircdv in
order to be in time for a train on which it W:i>4
thono-j't she niiji'ht arrive. And after all thi^* she
came <il \\n liour when i^hc wa:4 not expecte<l ;
rattled n[) to the door near niidnight in a cab, and
made her ^%>ice distinct to all ihe anxious cai;^
which were hovering about upper windows, while
she had a parley with the driver about the utnea-
sonable sum which he wished to charge her. Be-
cause it was characteristic of Aunt Eunice, it shall
be mentioned here that he did not receive the fare
he called for. But this beginning did not pre-
possess the Camerons in her favor.

"• Listen toiler! " exclaimed Emilie with a very
distinct gurgle of laughter, "she is telling him
that he ought to })e published in all the papers,
and that he will find he nas tried to cheat the
wrong woman this time ! "

Emilie was the only one who laughed. Mary
was indignant.

*' ISN T SHE A TERROR

» »'

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" Why doesn't the creature come in and let
father attend to the cahnian ! " she inquired an-
grily of no one in particular. " It wasn't enough
for her to appear at an unearthly hour of the
night, after being waited for at every depot in
town, but s\u', must arous»i the neighborhood with
her tongue."

•'Father I" said Emilie with another giggle, " he
stands at one side, vanquished. She has already
told him to go aw ay and let her alone ; that she
knows how to manage a cabman she guesses ; if
she doesn't, he can't teach her."

'' Do let us go back to bed," said Lucia, shiv-
ering under the light wrapper she had liastily
thrown about her when the bell rang; *' if I had
imagined it was she, ringing so furiously, I would
have stayed there in the first place. I thought of
Mac and Rod, and a telegram. We can survive
until morning without seeing her, I think. Emilie,
come away from the window, and close it ; you
would hiugh if a madman were out there, instead
of a mad woman."

" I am going down," said Emilie, dashing into
her own room to make a rapid toilet ; " mother
may need some help in looking after her, she is
in such a belligerent frame of mind."

Perhaps this, too, was characteristic ; it was
often Emilie who went down to give mother a
little help in emergencies. To be sure, she got
no credit for it with the family. Emilie's curi-
osity, they said, would take her out of bed, into

WHAT THEV COULDX T.

the most disagreeable pUu^es, if there were any-
thing new to be seen. But the mother or Hetsey
often l]ad the benefit of snatches of help from her.

It was a cold morning ; cold enough to make
every one lealize that November had come, and
meant to be severe and surly. The Camerons
were in the sitting-room, variously employed.
Mrs. Cameron was busy with a roll of garments
which had arrived by mail from the boys. They
did not know what was the matter with them,
Mac wrote, except that they seemed to need
mother.

" If they were my bo3'S," said Aunt Eunice,
gazing with severe eyes on yawning rents in the
garment being held up for inspection, '•' they
would know what v/as the matter, and get a lesson
to remember into the bai'gain. Things don't tear
like that unless they ha/e awful jerks getting
them off. Boys ought •( iearn how to take off
their clothes decently before they go away from
home."

•' All boys are careless sometimes, I suppose,"
said Mrs. Cameron coldly. She had been known
to tell her sons that never were there two such
careless creatures born, she verily believed, but
she was not pleased to have such an idea even
hinted at by another.

" Yes," said Aunt Eunice grimly ; " and that is
the way to make them so. From the time they
get on roundabout jackets until they are married

'' ISN T sHi; A Ti:i:iu»i{ ;

I ••

and have families of ilieir own to look afliT, they
lunir it everlastingly said that Mjoys must he h(»ys,'
and 'hoys are horn lieedless,' and all that sort
of thing, until they get a notion that they are of
no account uid(\ss tliey i)ull and haul, and tear
around like wild animals, and destroy more tliinw-s
tlian they use. I haven't any patience with that
kijid of hiinging up."'

"■ Aunt Eunice, how many })oys have you
brought U})?" asked Lucia, looking up from the
cow she was cai-efully daubing into her painting.

Aunt Eunice's sallow face grew slowly red as
she replied, " I haven't brought up any, as I sujj-
pose you know very well without my telling ; but
J was brought U[) to be lespectful to my elders,
which is more, 1 should think, than can be said of

some.

'• Lucia I " said Mrs. Cameron, warning and dis-
tress in her voice ; but Lucia's only reply was,
" Dear me, mother ! 1 only asked a question."

" Mother I " said Emilie, rushing into the loom
from the outside world somewhere, and s[)eak-
ing eao-erly, — in fact Emilie Cameron generally
rushed to and from all places, and always spoke
eagerly, — "mother, the class begins to-night, and
I haven't got my ticket, or shoes, or anything.
Can't I see about them right away?"

••' I must have a talk with your father first,
Emilie," said Mrs. Cameron, looking more di:;
tressed. ••' I haven't had a moment when I could
mention it."

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WHAT THEY COULDN'q .

"But, mother, I tell you they begin to-night.
If I lose the first lesson, I might as well lose the
whole ; they will all be ahead of me."

" Then you would better lose the first lesson,"
said Mary, quickly. " I don't see how father can
afford the inonev for tliat class this fall."

" Now, Mary Cameron, you only say that to be
hateful. You know you told mother you thought
I might better give up my music than my dancing-
lessons."

"Dancing-lessons!" repeated Aunt Eunice in
impressive tones. " A gianddaughter of Daniel
Cameron! Well! well! what next, I wonder?"

" Emilie," said Mrs. Cameron with decision, "I
wish you to let that suijject entirely alone until
I can talk with your father. I thought you had
more sense." She shot an annoyed glance in the
direction of the new-comer as she spoke ; and
Emilie, who had forgotten her in the excitement
of the moment, went slowly from the room mur-
muring something which it is thought was not com-
plimentary to Aunt Eunice. That person knitted
liard and fast on a stern gray sock she was fash-
ioning, and did not speak for several minutes.
Then she addressed Mary, who was sewing braid
in elaborate design on something white and silky.

" What is that you are making ? "

Mary explained thtit it was a new front to wear
witli an old dress, to brighten it up.

" Humph ! I should think it would disfigure
it. Putting beads on in all sorts of shapes, exactly

ftl

'• ISN T SlIK A TKl!i:OIl .

as tlie squaws do. Tliev used to come to our back
door by the dozens, ligj^^ed im) in bead-work: but
I did not know tliat civilized women copied their
fashions. I shouhl think you were too old to
wear such things."

Here Lucia laid down her paint-brush to hiugh
immoderately.

"I'm not seventy yet!" said Mary, bestowing
an indignant glance on Lucia.

"No; but you are twenty-four years and two
months. I kept a record of n.y brother's children
in my Bible, and I know to a day how old each
one is. It seems to me that a young woman who
has reached your age shouldn't wasto her time on
such follies. What do you do with all your
time? Do you teach, or what?"

This last question was evidently addressed to
Lucia, and had reference to her painting.

" ' What,' I guess," she answered, laughing, and
added, " No, ma'am ; I never had the misfortune
to be obliged to teach anybody. I paint for my
own amusement."

" Humph I I hope you find yourself amused.
That cow you are making don't look any more
like a cow to me than it does like a rooster,
and I have been brought up with both of tliem
all my life. Our minister used to say he tliought
people ought not to spend time painting pictures
unless they could make money b}'^ it, or liad a
special genius in that direction. I shouldn't
think you have the genius if I am any judge."

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WHAT THKV ('OrM>N' T.

"People do not usually put on spectacles, and
move as close to oil-paintings as they can get,
in order to judge of their merit," said Luciu,
trying to defend her cow. •• 'I'hcy iiave to he
viewed at a distances."

••' I should think likelv I and tiie crreater the
distance the l)ett(;r the view. VVhv don't vou
two young women go to work and earn some
money for your father? He says lie has haid
times to make en<ls meet, and I don't wonder,
I am sure. Before I was Mary's age, I had
earned two hundred dollars for my fathei',
teachin&f in district schools, and hoardiii'j:
around. 1 worked, I tell you. I hadn't any
time to waste on sewing beads to wear around
my neck. And as for Lucy" —

"•My name is Lucia, Aunt Lunice." inter-
posed tluit young woinaii.

"Oh, well. Lucm, then. I don't see any sense

a'.

in such a name. Plain Lu(!y r.sed to be good
enough for your ancestors. You were named
after your Aunt Lucy Edmonds, weren't yoii'.^
A body would think to read over your names
that you liad lost all the 7/'.v out of the lan-
guage down tiiis way. Spell" ng Emily ^ Emilie' !
1 ended it in a good hon ^st // in the family
Bible ; and so I did yours. What is Rachel
doing ? "

This sudden change of subject was addressed
to Mrs. Cameron, who made liaste to expla i.
"Why, Rachel, you know, went l)ack wit)i liev

t !

*' isn't she a terror!

Aunt Kate, six years ago, and has not been home
since."

" Not in six years ! "

"No; it seems a long time, doesn't it, to give a
cliild? Edward and I have seen lier since, but
the children never have. It was a sacrifice, of
course, but my sister Kate seemed to need her,
and begged for her; she had no daughters of her
own. Then, at that time, they could give her
advantages which we could not. We let her go
only for the winter, we supposed ; but in the
sprijig my sister wanted to take iier to the
mountains, and it seemed an opportunity for
the child. During the next winter Kate lost a
son, and we couldn't deprive her of Rachel tiien.
In the early spring they went to California for
my brother-in-law's liealth; and after he died,
of course Kate needed Kacliel more than ever,
and they were so far awa\', too. For one reason
and another, she kept staying on, until it u now
nearly six years. Hut W(^ are ex[)ecting her home
very soon. My sister Kate died in the spn .»•,
you know. Ra(Oiel would have come then, had
there been a suitable escort for her ; but her
cousins wanted her to stay, dreadfully ; they
missed their mother land felt all broken up.
Yes ; she is with the cousins. There were two
boys ; they are both married and have pleasant
families, and Rachel is naturally attached to
them. But John, the elder, is coming East in
about six v/eeks. they think : and Rachel is to
come home w^ith him."'

WHAT TIIKY CuULDN T.

i|il,

It is a dreadful loiijr time to give up the
cjvre of a cliild," siiid Aunt Eunice. "I don't
understand how von could do it.'*

"We have to do a good many things which
we think we can't," said Mrs. Cameron, sowint;
vigorously on the patch she had set in Mac's
garment. " My sister Kate was lonely ; botii
her boys were away at school, and she took the
greatest fancy to Rachel, and begged for licr ;
and as I had three other daughters and two boys
all at home with me, it did seem selfish."

"It is a wonder she did not want one of the
older girls," said Aunt Eunice. " I should have
thought they would have been of more use to
her."

" Yes," said Lucia ; " I have often wished she
had wanted me ; she lived then where there
was a fine art-school, and 1 might have learned
how to paint a cow."

" She wanted Rachel and nobodv else," said
Mrs. Cameron. " She had lost a little daughter a
year or two before, and she fancied that Rachel
looked like her. I suppose that accounts for
the great affection she had for her from the
first."

"Did she leave her property to her?"

Mrs. Cameron shook her head, and sighed.
" She had no property to leave. They used
to be in good circumstances ; quite wealthy,
indeed ; but my brother-in-law was unfortu-
nate in some way. He speculated, I believe,

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'^ISN T SHE A TKIIUOK

t M

and lost lieavily ; then he was ill for a long
time, and they travelled, and used up a great
deal of money ; so that when he died, tiiere
WHS barely enough to support my -ister and
]{;u;hel durin;^: h^i' lif«« I'he boys are in
(rood business; but they are young, ui-d have
oTowing families, and of course not much to
spare. Kate left Rachel the most of her
clothes, and her watch, and such things, but
no money, or barely enough to bring her
home ; she is saving what she had, for that
purpose. No, we didn't send her away from
home to secure a fortune; if we had, our sac-
rifice would have been in vain. As it is, she
was a great comfort to her aunt all her life,
and we cannot regret having spared her to
her."

Mrs. Cameron meant every word of this.
Nevertheless, it had Ijeen a sore trial to her
when the brother-in-law lost his money. She
could not help commenting severely, at the
time, on his folly in allowing himself to get
entangled with speculations. Also she could
not help admitting to herself that if it had
been Mary or Lucia who had been chosen,
with the advantages which her sister Kate had
offered, they were old enough to have profited
more by it than Rachel had probably done ;
she was only eighteen now. It cannot b*. de-
nied that, much as the mother in her wanted
to see this member of her flock, she had

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IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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UA lU 122
1^ |j£ 12.0

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Hiotograpliic

Scmoes

Corporation

23 WIST MAIN STMiT

WiUTIR,N.Y. MSM

(716)171-4503

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

wakeful hours over the problem of how they
were to properly clothe another young lady.

Aunt Eunice had a way of turning suddenly
from one topic to another, apparently entirely
irrelevant. She took one of those flights now.
" Where do you go to church ? "

The merits of the Fountain Square Church
were carefully pointed out to her.

"How far away is it?"

They really did not know ; it was quite a
distance. Well, couldn't they guess it? Was
it half a mile, or a mile, or two miles ? What
did they mean by "quite a distance"?

Lucia stayed her brush to count the squares.
— " Why, it niust be about four miles."

" For pity's sake ! " They didn't mean that
they walked four miles to church!

Walked ! no, indeed. Who had thought of
such a thing?

Well, then, how did they manage? They
didn't keep a horse, Edward told her. Did
they have to do with those precious cabmen,
like the one who tried to cheat her out of fifty
cents ?

"Why, Aunt Eunice," said Mary, speaking
for the first time since she had been com-
pared to a squaw, "we know you have lived
in the country all your life, but surely you
have heard of horse-cars, and cable-cars, and
such conveniences ! "

Oh, yes," Aunt Eunice said. She had heard

m I

" isn't she a terror ! "

of them, and travelled in them too ; but she
didn't suppose that respectable people went
to meetinor in them. She knew Jaines used to
tliink they were as Sabbath-breaking an insti-
tution as lie knew anything about. Once he
was offered some stock in them, and he wouldn't
taVe it, because he said a man who made his
money by trampling over the Sabbath as they
did, couldn't prosper.

" That is probably the reason that he died
poor,'' said Mary.

Aunt Eunice's sallow face flushed, and her gray
eyes flashed. " No, it Wiisn't any such thing ; it
was because he trusted one of your rich, fashion-
able men too nmcii, and got cheated. James was
always anxious to think that folks were better
than they were ; that was aljout the biggest fault
he had. Oh, we had considerable knowledge of
what was going on in the world, if we did live out
West. You are not very wel* acquainted with
the West, I guess. Tlie electric cai"s passed our
door, but we didn't ride in them on Sundays."

Here Lucia indulgred in anotlier laugh. " Whv,
Aunt Eunice," she said, "that is the queerest
idea I ever heard of! They are necessities in
cities. How would people get to cliurch, or to
Sunday-school, or anywhere, without them?"

"Don't you have any churches within four
miles of you?"

'' Oh, yes, of coui"se ; but they are not the ones
that we want to attend."

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WHAT THEY COULD.. T.

i i

M'i?- i

" Exactly ; then that isn't necessity, it is no-
tion. Not that there is any argument in what
you said, however you fix it. I suppose if we
really couldn't go to church without breaking one
of the commandments to do it, the Lord would
contrive to get along somehow without our being
there. Are you two girls church-members?"

Another startling transition I The girls ex-
changed glances, each wishing that the other
would answer. At last, Lucia, ashamed of the
silence,, admitted that they were not.

" Well, why aren't you ? That seems queer
business. One wouldn't think vou were the
grand-children of Daniel Cameron. Your father
joined the church when he was thirteen years
old; and a nicer, more f.ithful boy in church
and Sunday-school I don't believe there ever was.
Aren't none of you young folks church-members ?
The boys are, I should hope."

Mi's. Cameron felt obliged to answer this.

^'No, McLoyd and Rodney are good boys,
quite as good as some church-members I could
mention; they have never given us cause for
special anxiety ; but none of our children have
felt called upon to unite with any church. That
isn't everything, Eunice.'*

"Of course not. Who ever thought it was?
But it is what one might expect from Daniel
Cameron's grand-children. Edward must have
changed a good deal since he was a boy. I hope
he doesn't often rush off as he did this morning."

r . J

"isn't she a terror!"

Mi's. Cameron could not help a sigh of anxiety
as she replied to this last remark.

"He is nearly always in a hurry; he has to
woik very hard, — too liaid for his strength. But
we were later than usual this morning; we de-
layed breakfast in order to let you rest after your
journey."

" I ! goodness ! I was up and liad my windows
open airing my room a full hour before your bell
rang. Nobody has me for an excuse for laziness,
I can tell you."

Perhaps sufficient illustration has been given
to suggest the general character of the new in-
mate of the Cameron family. A stern, strong-
minded, rigidly upright, liarrow. Christian woman.
One who for yeai-s had carefully repressed any-
thing like tenderness in her disposition, and
judged her neighbor rigidly by tlie rules which
she thought she applied to herself. One conse-
quence of her training was that she failed in the
very things which ybe most desired to accomplish.
Perhaps above all other interests she truly de-
si led the advancement of the Kingdom of Christ
in the world, and perhaps it is not extravagant to
say that she never spoke to a pereon on the sub-
ject withrfJUt antagonizing him or her. It will
readily be seen that her effort with the Cameron
girls was not one calculated to win. She was not
more successful with the father.

" Edward, what time do you have family wor-
ship? You flew off this morning without seeming

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

! 1

to remember tlu t there was such a thing ; but I
presume you do not live like heathen always.
What is the supposed hour ? "

"To tell you the truth," said the much em-
barrassed man, "we have not been Iiaving family
worship of late years. As the children grew up,
they were irregular about getting down to break-
fast, and I was always in a hurry, and so — well,
the fact is, w^ dropped it."

"Dear, dear I " said Aunt Eunice, "what next,
I wonder? And you a son of Daniel Cameron I
What Avould father say, do you suppose ? I must
say, Edward, I am disappointed. I judged from
all I heard about vour family thi,t vou were not
wheat you used to be ; but I did not suppose you
hfid gone back on your early training like that."

" Isn't she a terror? " was Emilie's query, as she
sought her elder sisters' room to relieve her mind.
" Did you ever realize before, what an affliction it
was to have Daniel Cameron for a grandfather?
Poor father was utterly squelched to-night. I
haven't seen him look so miserable since Rod got
into his last scrape. I'm going to write to the
boys, and tell them Aunt Eunice wants to know
if they are church-members ! " Whereupon she
threw back her head and indulged in a merry
laugh.

" If she is a specimen of the average church-
member," said Mary, " I hope I may be kept from
ever joining their ranks. Of all the disagreeable,
meddling old cranks I ever heard of, I think she

U TO

ISN T SHE A TERROR I

» "

is the worst. How we are ever to endure her
until Christmas I cannot imagine."

And at tliat very moment the "disagreeable,
meddling old crank " was on her knees, praying
earnestly and most sincerely for her brother and
his family, that they all might be turned from
the error of their ways.

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER VII.
A "peculiar" man.

PROFESSOR LANDIS was moving about his
room, making ready for the day's duties.
The University where he was engaged during
the day was a long distance from Durand Ave-
nue, making it necessary for liim to take lunch
down-town ; so he must make ready for an all-
day's absence. His sister Dorothy, whose hours
were earlier than his, had departed in tlie eight
o'clock car; so he was practically alone. This
being the case, he indulged himself in his favorite
pastime of singing as loud as his lungs would
permit. As he moved leisurely alx)ut, doing little
last things, he let his splendid bass voice out in
full power, so that it rolled through the quiet
house like a trumpet. He was mistaken in sup-
posing that he had no listeners. Said Aunt Eu-
nice, on the other side of the dividing wall : —

" Do hear that man roar I It is to be hoped that
the rest of the family are deaf and dumb.'*

" There is no family, " said Emilie, to whom
was often left the duty of replying to her Aunt
Eunice's remarks.

" You don't mean to say that he lives in that
big house all alone ? "

A "peculiar' man.

" It isn't very big ; it is us like oui-s Jis two peas
ill a pod. And his sister lives with him; but she
teaches, I guess. Anyway, slie goes off early every
morning, with her arms full of books ; so he is
alone except for the girl in the basement. He
often roars around like th.it. 1 like it; I think
his voice is splendid."

'• And what does he do for a livinjr ? *'

'•Why he teaches too, somewhere. At least we
think so ; tiiey call him Professor Landis."

'''• Hump ! and so he and she live all alone. I
suppose they are orplians ; I should think it would
be cheaper to board, especially as they have to
keep a servant. But I suppose they both get good
salaries and choose to live it all up. That is the
way y^)ung folks do nowadays. When I was a
girl we lived on as little us we could, and saved
the rest, or spent it on some of the family who
needed our help. Mercy ! / don't like his voice ;
it sounds like distant thunder."

Entirely unconscious of criticism. Professor Lan-
dis paused long enough to look thoughtfully at a
bit of paper on which was written a couple of
names, then placed it in his diary, and began on
the last verse of the hymn he loved :

•' If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at his word;
And our lives wouid be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord."

Then, his own preparations completed, came the
la^t thing before leaving the house. This pro-

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WHAT THKY COUU>N T.

feasor of Latin dropped on his knees and prayed.
If people who wondered at some of his ways could
have heard that prayer, it would have given them
a hint of the motive jwiwer of his life. If was
not a lengthy prayer: manifestly the words were
spoken by one wlm was very familiar with the
Friend whom he addressed. There wis no intro-
duction, nothing of the usual formula of prayer.
It would have given a listener the impression,
which would have been a true one, that the man
had prayed before, this same morning, find now
was only claiming a parting word before he went
out into the world. He asked for a special bless-
ing on the scholars who should that day come
under his care ; that his influence in the class
might be such as would some way hint of the
Leader whose colors he wore. He asked for two
or three, individually, referring briefly to the rea-
son why they lay so close to his heart. More than
that, he asked for the right word to say to any
whom he should chance to pass, to and from his
duties that day. He remembered those to whom
he would have no chance to say a word, and
begged that if possible, by look or smile, or cour-
tesy of some sort, he might help to make their
day brighter and better. In short he asked to
be Christ-like that day.

Happy the mother who can send h'^r boy out
from home each morninjj to the care and influence
of such a teacher. He is subject to a thousand
temptations and strains which she does not and

\ m

PKCULIAIt MAN.

cannot understand. She will never know, per-
haps, how much she owes to the influence of the
thorouglily consecrated teacher, or that it is be-
cause of him that the boy bears the strain ; never
mind ; God knows. It was the living up to the
spirit of such prayers as these which made of Pro-
fessor Lan«Ms a man whom some called " peculiar.''
lie had heard the name applied to him ; and, while
certainly he did not seek to win it, yet he was in
no wise disturbed thereby. In truth, he liked the
word. As often as he heard it, there came to his
heart the memory of the strong old words of prom-
ise : " Now therefore if ye will obey my voice
indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall he
a peculiar treasure unto me." This young man
frankly confessed to his own he.irt that lie coveted
for himself that promise. His exalted ambition
was to be a peculiar treasure to the Lord Christ.

It was the spirit born of intimate comi)anionship
with this Friend of his, which led hint, as he stood
on the platform of the crowded street-car beside
the red-faced, gruff-voiced driver, to say pleasantly,
"It is too bad to crowd you so that you cannot
have room for your stool. When we get the cable
on this line you will have it easier, will you not?"

"Humph I" the man said, "more like, I won't
have it at all. A lot of us fellows will jsfet turned
off then, and have to lie idle for a spell, and live
on nothing while we're doing it. That's the way
them new-fangled things always work."

Perhaps a dozen times before, in the course of

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WHAT THKV COULDN T.

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the previous two wiMiks, Iiiid tliis street-car driver
whose lieart was sore over expecjted trouble for
himself aud fauiilv, made a similar comment con-
cerning the new arrangements which were heiiiij
watched for eagerly by the passengt^rs. A dozen
times had he reeeive<l either no reply at all, or u
good-natured " Oh, maylx) not," or a h.alf-sneerini,',
" You fellows alwavs look on the dark side, don't
you ? " and then a dismissal of himself and his
trouble from their minds. But the thirteenth time
he mentioned it Professor Landis was the listener.

*' Is there fear of that ? " he asked. Then fol-
lowed question and answer in rapid succession,
until the young professor, who had never met the
man before — he liaving been temporail}' trans-
ferred to that part of the line — knew more about
Ids affairs, it is quite safe to say, than did any of
the men for whom he had been working for a year
or more. Also the professor had gotten out a
little book, and noted down name and residence,
and an item or two about the man's boy who was
ill, and made, in curious little characters which the
man could not have read had be been given oppor-
tunity, certain suggestions to himself for future
use ; and then had said :

** The next corner is mine, Mr. Styver. I am
coming to see that boy of yours on Saturday if
I can ; my time is full until then. Meantime, here
is my card; and if your fears are realized about
being discharged, bring that card to my address
on any day after five o'clock, and I will see what

A "PECULIAP" MAN.

can lift doiio towards getting you work. Now, will
you give the boy tliis little book from me, and will
you keep this one yourself^, and take a peej) into it
at some odd moment?"

The books were not three inches long, either of
them. The boy's had one or two bright pictures
in it, and some cheery words. The man's was a
collection of very carefully chosen and most strik-
injr Bible verses, which Professor Landis had ar-
ranged for his use. The driver, who was known
to his portion of the outside world as "No. 17,"
looked after the young man curiously as he sprang
from the car and went with rapid strides down the
street. " He's a chip^ he is! " he said to himself,
as he strained his eyes to see what would become
of the strange man. "I never hit on his like
before ; I'm blest if I don't keep the little book,
and take a look into it too, jest for his sake.'*
And he put both of them carefully away with tho
card which had been offered first.

One other incident occurred during the progress
of that car down-town which deserves to be chron-
icled. Aunt Eunice Cameron was also one of the
passengers. She had hailed the car at a crossing
between it and another line, and she left soon
after Professor Landis did. Now, Aunt Eunice
was a tract distributer ; one of the kind who are,
after their fashion, " instant in season and out of
season," and are always rebuking, reproving, and
exhorting the world. As Aunt Eunice brushed
past the driver she said, " Here, sir, is a tract for

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WHAT TIIKV (.'.'irLlJN'T.

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you. If yuu will read it. \vliu;li I don't snpiiose
you will, it will do you good."

" You're right there," said jNIr. Styver. " I
won't read a word of it, nor keep 't neither. 1
know your kind, and I've got no use for yon.'
Thereupon he threw tlie meek little leaflet after
her. Another speeinien was No. 17 of the total
depravity of mankind. What is the use in trviii!:«;
tp do good in the world, if this is the result? if
people could only he induced to undertake tlie
work that they could do, instead of being appar-
ently possessed of Satan to he forever dabbliiif,^
with that which they cannot do ! As for sinceritv,
not Professor Landis himself was more thorou^-hlv
in earliest than was Aunt Eunice.

That gentleman stayed his steps just at the door
of the Public Library, and held ' his hand to a
young fellow of perhaps nineteen — unmistak-
ably a country youth, who had not been in town
long enough to wear away a certain rusticity of
manner. His face this morning wore a «:^!ooniv
expression, and his heavy eyes told a story which
would probably have hiled his country mothei's
heart with anxiety.

The face lighted just a little under Professor
Landis's cordial greeting.

" Ah, Ben, good-morning. I have been hoping
I should meet vou. We miss

you

"Did you?" said Ben; and he smiled grimly,
the look on his face suggesting that he felt tempted
to add, **-! don't believe a word of it ! "

1.1 ■

A "PECULIAR IIAN.

"/certainly did," said Professor Landis, moved
perhaps by the look to drop the plural form, " I
was much disappointed. Were you engaged at
the store ? "
f "No, sir." Ben would have liked to say that
he was. He hesitated ; but the Professor waited,
with those steady, inquiring eyes lixed on him.

" I went somewhere else," he said at last.

" To a better place, Ben ? "

The blood crept slowly into the sun-burned face.
" A place where the most of them were better
pleased to see me," he said with a slow laugh.
Then, after another pause, "It is of no use. Pro-
fessor Landis. I can't feel at home a the places
where you want me to go. The folks wear differ-
ent clothes from mine, and act and talk different.
I don't know how to do it, and I don't want to be
stared at, nor laughed at, nor patronized. There
are places to go to where folks aren't so pa) ticular ;
and where some of them, at least, don't know any
more than I do mvself."

"Good places, Ben? places which you like to
describe in your letters to your mother?'*

Again the red showed plainly on his face, and
the answer came slower than before. " They are
not the worst places in the world, by any means.
Some of the boys are real kind, and often there
isn't much to find fault with."

" In the opinion of mothers do you mean ? "

Ben laughed faintly, "Mothers are very par-
ticular," he said.

■I

100

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

((

Yes ; they are. Good mothers always are ; and
good sons like to honor even their notions. You
and I ought to remember that. I have been sepa-
rated from my mother most of the time for live
years; yet I leave undone to this day certjiiii
things which I would like well enough to do, .ind
in which I see no danger, because I am sure they
would distress my mother. As it is, she feels, I
believe, that she can absolutely tru<t me."

The younger man looked up at him with a
gleam of appreciation in his eyes. Evidently he
admired the character which he made no pretence
of imitating.

Professor Landis changed his position so that
his hand could be rested familiarly on Ben's arm ;
then he said in winning tones, —

" Ben, my boy, I wish you would make up your
mind to be a little more independent."

The boy started, and looked puzzled. Clearly,
if there was anything on which he prided himself,
it was independence. That he was not able, as he
expressed it, " to hold up his head with the best
of them," was the main reason why Professor
Landis found it so hard to win him to places
where he might have been helped.

" I mean it," the professor said, smiling. " If
you were able to rise superior to tne question of
dress, and to the fact that you, being still quite
young, do not yet know all the customs of society,
and determine to mix only with people who could
help you in these directions as well as in some

lii

A "PECULIAR' MA3C.

101

Others, and whose acquaintance it would be an
honor to have, it would make a radical difference
in j'our life."

" Oh ! " said Ben. " Well, now, Professor Lan-
dis, that isn't so easy a thing to do as it sounds.
You folks who have lived in cities all your lives,
and had things, and been to i)laces, and all that,
don't know a thing abont it. If folks were all
like — well, like you," raising his head with a de-
termined air, as tliough resolved that it must be
said, *' it would make a big difftu'ence. But to
feel that you are making mistakes all the while,
and that you dou't know what to <lo wiih your
feet or your hands, and that you haven't got a
thing about you which is up to time anyhow,
and to hear a giggle every now and then behind
your back, and see pretty near a sneer before
your eyes, isn't the pleasantest experience in the
world, I can tell you. Folks who must go some-
where or freeze aren't to be blamed for choosing
decent loafing places instead of suqh gatherings,
I think."

" Didn't I admit that it was not easy ? I said
it required independence of spirit above the aver-
age ; I thoroughly mean it. It is true I do not
think the giggles nor the sneers are by any means
80 numerous as they seem to you ; although I ad-
mit that even in what is called good society, one
comes in contact with some underbred people who
indulge in both ; what I deplore is the fact that
Benjamin Reeder, a young man whose mother and

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102

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

father depend upon and trust, has not indepen-
dence of character sufficient to pass these experi-
ences by with the indifference which they deserve,
and make the most of his opportunities in spite of
them. Last evening, for instance, at the church
social, we had some very choice people present,
whose acquaintance it is decidedly worth one's
while to make ; but the young man of whom I
speak lost the opportunity, and if I am not greatly
mistaken, spent the evening in a way which he
will not describe to his mother when he writes
that long letter for which she waits. One of
these days the young man's heart will ache be-
cause of the places he left blank in those letters.
Be sure she notices tlie evenings about which he
is silent ; I am afraid she even cries over them ; it
is a way mothers have ; and the days will surely
come when he cannot reach her with letters. If
I were he, I would make them wellsprings of joy
to her while I had her."

Evidently he knew his boy. Ben Reeder's eyes
drooped and dimmed. He had not been so long
away from the country home that his heart had
ce.ised to beat the faster at the sound of his
mother's name ; and there were times, at least,
when he wanted nothing in life so much as to
please her. The two men were moving slowly
down the street together now. Professor Landis
had gone as far in this direction as his work led
him ; but no matter, the Master's work seemed to
call him a few steps fartlier. , He saw the impres-

A "peculiar" man.

103

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sion he had made, and waited in silence for a
moment. But liis next sentence was a mistake.
" Did young Myers stop for you hist evening ? "
Ben's face darkened. ""Yes, sir, lie did; and
if you will be kind enough to let him know that
he needn't try to patronize me any more, I'll be
glad. I think likely tliat is the reason why I
tiiially gave up going. I can't stand his airs nor
his advice, lie told me last night that if I'd wear
a different necktie I would look less queer ; he
even offered to lend me one of the right kind. I
came pretty near kicking him down-stairs to pay
for it. My necktie may not be just the right
shape; but it is my own, and was bought with
honest money. I don't want to rig up in any
borrowed finery. Besides that, there isn't a worse
giggler in the crowd tha.> this same Myers. I
don't want to have anything to do with him nor
liis kind. He and that Miss Hudson that he goes
with so much were giggling for all they were
worth, the other night at the concert. I knew it
was about me ; anybody could see that at a glance ;
and I suppose it was my necktie that tickled them,
though what is the matter with it I'm sure I don't
know. It is new and clean ; and there were ten
thousand othei-s like it in the store where I bought
it: so it must be in fashion for somebody."

And then Professor Landis knew, by a bell
which began at the moment to tv/ang, that he
must leave this part of the vineyard and make
haste to other work.

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104

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

" I am sorry," was all he bad time to say to
Ben ; then he went swiftly back over the ground
which he had slowly traversed, tliinking* deeply as
he went. Not only had b? 3 question been a mis-
take, tossing Ben's thoughts suddenly back upon
his own uncomfortable f xperiences, but evidently
his experiment with young Myers had been also.
Myers was one of his students ; a merry-hearted,
good-natured sort of a fellow, who had never so
much as thought of doing or trying to do for
others. Though a young man of means and of
assured position, these seemed of so little conse-
quence to him, that it occurred to his Latin pro-
fessor to send him in search of Reeder, in hopes
that his free-and-easy w;<ys might i)Ut the boy
more at his ease, and that he liimself might get
really interested in the effort, and begin to think
of something besides his own amusement. He
had shown him carefully, he thought, the sort of
boy Reeder was, and the sort of help he needed.
Neckties, though unmentioned, were certainly
among the list of things wherein help was needed ;
but what a disastrous way to undertake it I

"That hardly seems like Myers," he said to
himself, going over Ben's story ; " he seems to care
extremely little about dress and conventionalities
of that sort, and yet to be thoroughly posted,
lint I am distressed that I sent him after Ben. If
I could have gotten the foolish boy to the social
last evening, I could have introduced him, I think,
to one or two persons who might have helped

A "peculiar" man.

105

him. I wonder if Miss Hudson's influence over
Myers is calculated to destroy what little there
may be in him to be used for service? Both of
them among the * gigglers ' ! Poor Ben ! "

And through the disturbed brain of this Chris-
tian worker there ran a phrase somewhat after
this fjishion : *' For neckties and giggles * shall
the weak brother perish for whom Christ died ? ' "

106

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

■J ii. ■ •

CHAPTER VIII.

a I

A LESSON IN FANATICISM. '■

IT was later in the day by several hours when
Professor Landis finally reached the Public
Library, whither his steps had been tending,
when he met young Reeder. In fact, the work-
ing hours of the day were over. It had been an
unusually busy day in the universicy; but the
professor who had gone to his duties from his
knees had not for a moment forgotten Whom
he served, and had kept that part of the ser-
vice uppermost, hi consequence of this, who
sliall be able to estimate the work he had done
that day ? Work of which even he had no
knowledge. In fact, his part was only to di-op
the seed. He had not been able, even with
other crowding cares, to keep young Reeder
out of his thoughts. He wiis troubled for the
frank-faced boy who had a mother in the coun-
try watching hungrily for each mail, in the hope
— oftentimes he feared the vain hope — that
she might hear from her boy. There were ru-
mors, which he trusted did not reach the mother,
that would have given her some definite anx-
iety. Not that Ben Reeder had gone far astray ;

A LESSON IN FANATICISM.

107

many people would not have thought him astray
at all. In fact, among his associates he was
called "the deacon," because there were so many
things he would not do. Hut Professor Landis
had high ideals ; and he believed that mothers
were " very particular^ as Ben put it.

Still thinking of Ben, he almost ran against
Miss Cameron as she stood at one of the tables
turning over a pile of books which had been
brought her.

" I beg your pardon," he said, and then
scrutinized the girl's face closely. It always
arrested his thoughts, because there was unrest
written on it so distinctly. His acquaintance
with the Camerons had not progressed rapidly.
Miss Cameron had so manifestly desired to
avoid his company that Professor Landis had
hesitated, since the night when she all but sent
him away from her porch. He told himself
then, that perhaps he would better leave her
entirely to Dorothy; she was evidently not one
whom he could reach. Yet as often as he met
her in street-car or on the street, her face would
always oblige him to leave other thoughts, and
wonder if there were really nothing he could do
for her.

To-day came in force the very impression
which he had had several times before, con-
cerning her. The girl was brooding over her-
self; some trouble, real or fancied, was eating
her strength away. If she could get interested

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108

WHAT THPA' COITLDN T,

in some one else, some one whom she conld
help, would it not lielp her? He thought of
Ben Reeder. Had the two an idea in common
on which one conld seize ? Oh, she could nn-
douhtedly do mncli for I^cmi — tluH ijirl who
luid hrothers, au<l ho understood Injys and
their needs and temptations ; this girl nvIio had
u home to which she conld occasionally invite
tlie homeless bov. lUit would she? While he
decided to sacrifice a little more time in oider
to see whetlier this Litest idea would develop,
he began a desultory conversation Avith her,
watching for tlie right opening for his thought.

** l)o vou couu! here fen' books* Miss ( auieron ?
Comparatively few i)coplc st'cm to have found
this branch of ihe lilirarv. I find it unich
more convenient than tlie one farther up town.
Are you looking for anything special ? Per-
haps I can aid you." This as she pushed the
pile of books impjitiently from her and drew
a catalogue nearer.

** Nothing special. I am looking for some-
thing which I care to read. No, you couldn't
help me. I want an unmitigated novel. I do
not suppose you allow such wickedness on
your lists."

" Are novels wicked ? " he asked with a smile.

" I suppose so ; from the standpoint of par-
ticular people. Everything that is interesting
is more or less wicked is it not?"

" That depends. 1 know some interesting things

: 1 1 H

A LESSON IN FANATICISM.

109

which I would not enter in that list. What sort
of novels do you like, Miss Cameron?"

"The unmitigated ones, as I told you. I like
to read about real people ; not the affected effigies
which they put into the 'goody ' books."

"Howells, for instance ? '*

Miss Cameron made a gesture of disgust. " No,
indeed. I never read Howells if I can find anv-
tiling else to pass the time. He is much too real.
There are troubles enough, in Uie commonplace
line, of one's own, without wading through his
books, which sound as though he had merely
written out what he saw on the street."

" That strikes roe as one of the finest compli-
ments to Howells's genius that I have heard in
some time. But since you evidently do not like
*real* things after all, tell me if jou ever in-
dulge in one of my favorites. Do you read Miss
Warner''"

If her face had shown disgust over Howells's
name, how shall its expression now be described ?
" You cannot mean the old-fashioned jMiss War-
ner, with her interminable * Wide, Wide World '
and ' Queechy ' and * The Hills of ' — something
or other! " she said.

"Ah, but I do! She is the very Miss Warner,
with her * Say and Seal ' and her * Old Helmet, '
and all the other creations of her earnest brain. I
am glad to find you familiar with her."

" I am not. You give me too much credit. It
was a spasm of my childhood, long since passed.

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WHAT THKY COUM)N T.

Professor Landis, it is not possible that you can
intend to seriously commend her writings I"

"Why not?"

** Because she is not worthy of it. From a lit-
erary point of view, which I supposed a teacher
would feel bound to consider, I am sure she is of
no account; and as for her characters — l)ecau8e I
do not like the hopelessly commonplace realism
of Howells, it does not follow tliat I can l)e satis-
fied with the impossible immaculateness of her
everlasting hero or heroine. It is the same pei-son
always, whether in masculine or feminine dress,
and the most improbable one imaginable."

" I have heard that criticism before. It never
strikes me as quite fair. It ignores the possible
design in the author's mind."

"Oh! her design was to make all the money she
could, I suppose; but it really surprises me to
hear you commending her. Gentlemen generally
appreciate the weakness of her characters. "

" Do ^ou think them weak? I frankly affirm
that I do not."

"But, Professor Landis, isn't marked unnat-
uralness an element of weakness? The literary
critics all say so; and Miss Warner will bear off
the palm for that characteristic, I am sure. Did
you ever meet such a being, for instance, as her
wonderful young man ? Never mind whether his
name be John, or Winthrop, or Mr. Rhys, he is
the same person. Do you know him, Professor
Landis?"

M\\\

A LKSSON IN FANATKUHM.

Ill

" I admit at the outset tliiit 1 have never met
him; but may 1 ask you one question? Are the
ciuiracters you have mentioned better than the
Pattern ? "

"The pattern?" slie repeated in genuine be-
wilderment. Til is young woman was so unused
to meeting a religious thought in ordinary con-
versation that her mind did not take in his
meaning.

" Yes, the Lord Jesus Christ. He came among
us for that i)urpoae, among othei^s, you rememljer.
Has Miss Warner succeeded in imagining a hu-
man being superior to him?"

*' Of course not. Hut she has tried to make
a human being like him; and that makes the
whole unnatural. "

" I beg i)ardon, but what is a copy worth unless
one strives to attain to it? Let us suppose an
artist with a perfect model, quarrelling with it,
wishing to clip off a bit of the ear, or the cheek,
or the forehead, because he cannot hope to copy
it in absolute perfection."

" I do not think the cases parallel, Mr. — I
beg your pardon — Professor Landis. The artist
struggles after perfection, but does not expect
to attain; and when occasionally one poses as
having done so, we naturally dislike him."

He made no reference to her marked use of
his title, but passed it by as of too little con-
sequence to notice, and gave himself to her
illustration.

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

"In life, I grant you that such is the case.
But have you not touched upon the special realm
of religious fiction? Should it not be the aim of
the Christian writer to portray, so far as he or
she may be able, characters as they would be if
the Lord Christ had all the power over their
lives which he ought to have? In other words,
must not religious fiction, in order to have the
right to be, deal with humanity, not so much as
it is, but as it might be if it would? Not that
we would have all fictitious characters of that
type. If I remember correctly, some of Miss
Warner's creations are intensely human ; but the
power of her work to me is that she tries in
each book to present one person, at least, who
has reached the place spiritually which we all
believe that those who profess to follow Christ
ought to reach. It is not the impossible, after
all, which she represents, but the unusual."

Miss Cameron made that peculiar gesture of
hers which meant dissent and slight annoyance.

"I am not fond of religious fiction," she said.
"I prefer authors who leave it out of their
thoughts entirely, as not suited to fiction, and
deal with life as they find it."

"Ah, but do not such authors deal with life
as they find it? I grant j-^ou that those who
ignore it are numerous. One may revel in fic-
tion for a lifetime, and not so much as suspect
that there in such a factor as Christianity at
work in the world; but isn*t that, after all, the

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113

most unnatural of all foriMS of fiction? Are not
lliu great facts of human sin and human suffer-
iiig- present everywliere, to Int aeeounted for? Is
:i<)t death a real and fully illustrated power in
our very midst? Isn't this life at its best very
short? Shall we talk about that being natural
writing which ignores these three great elements
that sooner or later enter into call our lives?"

"It is not ignored," said Miss Cameron, speak-
ing indignantly. " What can you mean ? Some
of the finest passages of modern fiction have to
do with sin and suffering; and as for death —
tragedy, I am sure, has a prominent place in all
great novels."

"Granted; but isn't it ignoring a subject to
present only the bare outlines of facts, and dwell
upon the results without an attempt to reach
to the cause or the remedy ? without even a hint,
indeed, that a cause is known or a remedy sug-
gested? Nothing is more bewildering to me in
modern fiction, than the coolness with which men
and women write volume after volume, ignoring
the one great, ever-present, ever-working Factor
ill human history. The reverent student of his-
tory sees nothing plainer in every volume he reads
than God's hand, shaping, controlling, guiding.
The great writers of fiction seem to a great extent
to have forgotten Him. So entirely has it be-
come the custom to ignore Christianity as a
powerful agent in human affairs, that certain
critics have given themselves to criticising the

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WHAT THKY COl'LDN T.

few who remember it. T recall reading but a
few days ago, a book review written in a semi-
commendatory tone, in which the writer, having
found some points whiidi he was kind enough to
approve, added: 'To be sure, her (rharactei'S have
an astonishing way of changing their natures all
of a sudden, and growing surprisingly patient
and forgiving and the like; but this is jiardoii-
able, perhaps, in fiction, and the tone of the whole
is helpful.' I have not quoted literally, but that
is the idea. I remember it distinctly, because it
was reviewing a book with which I liappened to
be familiar, and I realized that in just so flippant
a way as that, the tremendous fact of conversion
had been disposed of. Doesn't that seem very
strange to you. Miss Cameron? We live in a
world which witnesses every day to these mar-
vellous changes; men who have been in the depths
of drunkenness or worse, — if there is a worse
state than that, — men and women who have been
all that is low and vile and terrible, become sud-
denly new creatures, with changed appetites and
desires and motives, and the fiction-writing world
looks on and smiles, and writes its stories of hu-
man lives, and is silent about the greatest event
which can happen to any life."

"Still, some people do not believe in these
things," said Miss Cameron. It was a weak
answer, and she knew it; but he had paused
suddenly in his outburst, and was looking at her
as though he was waiting for a reply.

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A LESSON IN FANATICISM.

115

"That is not true," he said quickly. "I beg
your pardon, I mean that there are facts in the
world which reasonable beings do not deny. No
one in his senses, for instance, who is at all cog-
nizant of events as they are occurring in our large
cities, but must admit that there are men and
women who a year ago were fair representatives
of all that is evil, and who to-day are living
earnest, worthy lives; and if they choose to in-
quire into the facts, they can learn that these
changes were sudden ; not that the lives became in
a day as distinctly changed as they are now, but
that the desires and inclinations were changed,
oftentimes in a moment; and they can learn that
without exception these people who have been so
changed, attribute it all to tiie power of one Jesus
Christ. Also they know, all of them, that they
live in a land which acknowledges in its civil
government, in its schools and colleges, in its
very dates even, the power of this same Factor.
Wh}', in fiction, which professes to represent life
as it is, do they think it natural to utterly ignore
him, or in their reviews of those who do 7iot^
speak of his work almost with a sneer?"

Despite her want of interest in the speaker,
Miss Cameron could not but be interested in his
theme. She was a thoughtful girl, in certain
lines; she was capable of understanding intelli-
gent conversation ; and the humiliating fact was,
that she had belonged all her life in a social
circle where, by common consent, anything seri-

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

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ous or earnest in the way of conversation was
purposely put aside. For a young woman who
was not by nature flippant this was hard. She
gravely considered what had been said to her,
and admitted that there was truth in it.

"Still," she said thoughtfully, recalling the
belief, or rather the unbelief, of some of her
favorite writers of fiction, "if people are not
believers in Jesus Christ, how can they write of
his work?"

"But, my dear Miss Cameron, Jesus Christ is
a fact in history. Sane people cannot ignore
him. He lived and died; nothing that we have
to do with in the past is more certainly attested
than this. He is to be accounted for in sonit
way. It is folly for writers of fiction, above all
others, to ignore him; for whether they like it
or not, he has had more to do with life in the
present and in the past than has any other name
in history. H they are to write of things as they
are, or were, with any show of sincerity, they
must have to do with him. But I ought to beg
your pardon. I did not mean to give a lecture on
fiction. I have had to give two lectures in class
to-day, and seem to have gotten into the mood.
I had it in mind to speak to you on an en-
tirely different subject, one which has occupied
my thoughts much to-day. Miss Cameron, if you
could help a human being who is in need of
help, I am surely right in thinking you would
like to do it, am I not?

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117

She was on her guard in a moment. This
fanatical young man, wlio wanted even novels to
be impossibly good, should not inveigle her into
any philanthropic scheme.

"Perhaps so," she said coldly; "though I con-
sider the ' if ' with which your sentence began tan
important one. I do not believe I can help any-
body. I am not one of those persons of whom you
have been speaking ; and I do not know how to be
of use in the world, even if my tastes lay in that
direction, which they do not."

" Do you mean that you are not personally ac-
quainted with Jesus Christ ? "

The color flamed into her face. She had never
in her life before been spoken to directly on this
subject. The manner in which it was now done
struck her as strange. Certainly she knew a good
deal about Jesus Christ; she had heard of him
since her babyhood; she used to kneel beside her
crib and lisp his name. "And this 1 ask for
Jesus's sake," was as familiar to her as her own
name ; yet she did not feel acquainted with him,
and she was a truthful girl.

"I suppose I am not," she said, trying to smile;
"but that seems a strange way of putting it."

''It is really the only way of putting it. Miss
Cameron. Believe me, one cannot have an actual
pei-sonal acquaintance with him, without having
it color one's life, permeate one's desires and
motives, change one's nature indeed. I wish that
I might be permitted to introduce him to you. I

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

can recommend him as the truest, wisest, most
faithful friend and helper that human being
ever knew."

"1 do not understand you," she said coldly;
"and I will confess that that sounds to me like
fanaticism."

" Yes, I have no doubt it does. That is because
you and he are not friends. He does not force
his friendship, Miss Cameron; but how can you
help desiring it? However, there is a sense in
which that has not to do with the work of which
I was speaking. It is only common human kind-
ness of v/hich 1 am in search. There is a young
friend of mine, a mere boy indeed, scarcely twenty,
who has recently come from a country home. He
has been well brought up, and lias a good mother;
but he is having his first experience of city life.
He finds himself bewildered ; accustomed in the
country to associate with the best people, and to
feel on terms of equality with them, he discovei-s
himself to be quite alone here. He has become
identified with a church, because his mother wished
it ; that is, he has rented a sitting in its gallery,
and is, or was, reasonably regular in attendance;
but he has no at home feeling anywhere. His
clothes are not quite what he finds other young
men wearing; his manners are not the same as
theirs. These things he feels, but does not know
how to correct. What he needs imperatively and
very soon is friends ; women with whom he can
feel at ease, and who in a hundred little inde-

A LESSON IN FANATICISM.

119

scribable ways can help tide him over a danger-
ous period in his life into safe \vatei"s. Do you
get the idea? I have longed for a home which
had a mother in it, and safety and kindliness.
I tind it difficult to express just what I want;
l)ut it is something which trne women can give,
to boys 3^ounger than themselves, and I am not
sure that any other human l)eings can. I have
tried young men. and they are partial failures.
It is a curious fact that boys will take from a
woman whom they respect, the help which they
will not allow one of their own sex to give.
It is very commonplace help for which I am
seeking. If Ben knew how to enter and leave
a room; how to conduct himself in accordance
with the common courtesies of life; v;hat it
would be proper and improper to do at a well-
appointed table — oh, a score of things which
people are supposed to breathe in unconsciously,
and which they do, more or less, in cultured at-
mospheres. It is these common and, in a sense,
unimportant things that are shutting Ben out
from the companionship whic^li he needs, and for-
cing him almost into a companionship in which
he feels at ease, but which will injure him i\nd
hurt his mother."

Why was he telling all this to her ? He act-
ually questioned it himself, even while he talked.
Certainly she had not given him reason to hope
that she could or would do anything for anybody.
Yet there was a sudden softening of her face even

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

\vhile he waited, and the eyes which drooped from
before his gaze were misty. A vague wish she
felt for the moment that she were the sort of
woman which he seemed to fancy her — a woman
who could do kind things in the world, helpful
things. This country boy, for instance, who felt
out of place in the city. She had had something
of the feeling; there had been circles in which
she had felt quite out of place, not because she
did not know how to act, nor what it would he
proper to say under given circumstances, but be-
cause her dress was not such as made her feel at
ease among the other guests. Oh, she could ima-
gine very well what it was to Ben I She would
really like to help him, but how could she ? What
would Lucia think, or her mother for that matter?
And what was there she could do anyway? Rod
and Mac had never felt the need of any help from
her, had never sought her in any way. She knew
no more about boys than did other girls who had
not brothers. It was absurd to think that she
could do anything.

The hour for closing the library had arrived,
and nothing had been accomplished. Professor
Landis could only apologize for monopolizing
her time, and then both had to leave without
the books for which they had come a long dis-
tance. Thoy separated at the door, for Mr. Landis
had an ermnd in another direction. He walked
away with a grave face, telling himself that he
feaied it had been a wasttjd hour. Of what use

A LESSON IN FANATICISM.

121

to talk about poor Ben to a young woman who
did not know any way of peace for her own feet
to tread? If lie could only help this girl who
seemed in such sore need of help! He wondered
wliy it should be so dithcult to say the light word
to iier. He had told her he wished she would
all'nv him to introduce his Master; but he had
not done so. Instead of attempting it, he had
drawn her thought away from her own sore need,
.and talked of Ben ! Well, perhaps he was not
the one to influence her; but in that case, why
was she so often in his mind?

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WHAT THKY COlTLDN T.

CHAPTER IX.

HOMK THRUSTS.

'Mi *

AS for Mary Cameron, her homeward walk was
^ an exceedingly disturbed one. Try as she
would to put some of the sentences which had
been spoken, away from her, they clung. She
liad affected to })e sceptical over certain state-
ments which Professor Landis had made, but in
her heart she knew she Vjelieved them. She had
not lived an utterly blinded life thus far. Lim-
ited as was her practical knowledge of Christian-
ity, she could call to mind remarkable changes of
character in persons known to her; yes, and sud-
den changes. Was not Tim Nolan in the old
days one of the trials of her uncle's life? Did
he not at least three times a month appear at tlie
office with bleared eyes and blackened face, and
humbly confess that he had been ''at it again "?
Was he not discharged regularly once a month,
and hired again because he confessed such peni-
tence and made such strong promises, and because
her uncle was sorry for his wife and children, and
could not help a lurking feeling of interest in
Tim himself? Had there not come a week in
which he lost all patience, and declared that he

HOMK THKUSTS.

123

1 I

liiid now (lischarg^ecl Tim Nolan for the last time;
tliiit lie had heen on a spree for five consecutive
days, and was in worse condition than ever he-
fore; that it was worse than useless to try to do
anything more for him; and demoralizing to the
other men to keep giving him chances? And
then, did not Tim Nolan appear to him one morn-
ing with clean-shaven face, and clothes neatly
mended, and with a look in his eyes such as had
not heen seen there hefore, and beg for one more
trial, promising that if he failed this time he
would not ask again for mercy. Had they not
laughed at their uncle for being too credulous
and tender-hearted, in that he tried him again,
after all? And then, oh, marvel of marvels, Tim
Nolan stayed! He took no more "sjjrees;" he
lost no more time ; he passed directly by the saloon
where his earnings had been regularly spent; he
went to church and to prayer-meeting; yes, more
tlian that, he took part in the prayer-meeting!
They had laughed about it at the time, they
girls, it seemed so absurd to think of Tim Nolan
having anything to say that was worth saying.
But their uncle had unwittingly spoken the
truth ; he never discharged him again. Tim had
been suddenly, mysteriously, completely changed.
The things which he used to love he apparently
began to hate. The companions whom he had
sought buii the week before, as friends, he began
to shun as enemies. And when he was asked, as
some of the curious asked him, to give a reason

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for this strang-o change, ho was wont to say sol-
emnly : "One niglit tli*^ Lord Jesus Christ eanie
to me, and got hold of me scmiehow, and I ain't
the same man I was; nor ain't like to ho.'* Tim
I Nolan was a living witness to her conscience that
the words which had been spoken to her al)out
Jesus (>hrist that afternoon were true. More-
over, she could recall other instances, s(mie of
them quite as marked as this. Ciianges which
had been marvelled over in her circle of friends.
There was young Dr. Powelton ; a cultured,
scholarly sceptic. Sneering in a gentlemanly
way one day about the "sui)erstitions of modern
religion," the next, on his knees in the presence
of some of those before whom he had sneered,
vowing allegiance henceforth to Jesus Christ.
Yes, and keeping faith with him! Being from
that hour so changed a man, that they could
but speak of it for a time, whenever his name
was mentioned. "Without exception people so
changed attribute it to the power of Jesus
Christ." Thio was what Professor Landis had
said, and it was true. Thei'e were witnesses
enough known to her, and always the same Name
to stand for! Yes, it was folly to ignore such
a power in the world as this. It was silly to
write books about life, and pass in silence a
force which was able to pervade all life.

As her judgment made this admission, there
came to Mary (^imeron for the fii-st time a
vague longing to realize that force in her own

HOMK THIM'STS.

125

nature. What a tiling' it would be to be sud-
<l»;iily chiiugtdl 'J'o bcgiu to-uiorrow uu>niiug,
for iusUuu:o, aud show by lier life that she was
iuiother peisoii. It is true the change would uot
he so marked as in Tim Nolan or iii Dr. Powel-
toii; but Mary Cameron, being an honest person,
told herself frankly that there was opportunity
eiiougli for change in her, that would be notice-
able. She knew herself to be growing steadily
in irritability. Each day it became more difK-
cult to keep even a show of patience with Aunt
Eunice; and Lucia had always aggravated her in
<l()zens of petty ways. As for Emilie, every one
knew how utterly unendurable a girl of fifteen
or sixteen could be on occasion. Yet there are
I)eople who manage to live in peace, even with
such provocations. She went swiftly back over
the recent past, and could not recall a morning
for days, hardly for weeks, in which something
i-asping had not come up for conversation ; some-
thing which had led her to say words for which
she was sorr}^ a moment afterwards. "It is all
Aunt Eunice's fault," she told herself bitterly, "a
saint from heaven could not have patience with
her." Yet no sooner had she admitted the thought
than she was obliged to add to it that they had
been far from peaceful before Aunt Eunice's ar-
rival. In short, it was the habit of her life to
differ with Lucia, and discuss the most trivial
things until they came to sharp words, especially
if Emilie were at home to ajjorravate her. She was

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even sharp to her mother, and spoke often to lier
father in a way which she did not herself approve.
Oh, there certainly was opportunity for great im-
provement in her outward life. There were also
other ways in which she admitted that slie would
like to be diffeient. Professor l^audiS' wjis fond
of the word "peace." He had it often on his
lips. lie seemed to think it possible for one to
be always at peace, no matter what the outward
circumstances of life might be. Was it possible
to have such a friendship with this One who
seemed so mysterious to her, and over whose
name Mr. Landis's voice lingered with reverent
love — such a friendship as woidd calm all the
turoulence of life, smooth out the crooked Avays,
atone for sliglits and disappointments and dis-
couragements? She did not believe it; yet
might it not be worth trying for? There was a
power about it all which she did not understand,
which she had never felt. What if she should
decide now and here to give herself to this new
life? She had ceased praying long ago; rather,
she had ceased observing the outward form, save
as she bowed her head in church with the others;
but it is doubtful if her thoughts roved more
freely there than they had in her earlier days,
wh'jn she went down on her kne«is before retiring,
and thought slie prayed. It seems a startling
thing to say of a fairly well-educated young
woman in this <^^hiistian land, of a believer in.
and outward su[)porter of, Christianity; but I

HOMK THKTSTS.

127

suppose it is true that she had never prayed. She
weighed the possibilities now, much as she might
have weighed the question whether she should
or should not go to the lecture that evening.
Should she take a new stand; begin to pray, to
read her Bible, to go to church regularly, and
to prayer-meeting, and honestl)' try to follow
Christ? She had never given it careful consider-
ation before, but Avhv should she not? She was
tired of all her surroundings; nothing in or about
her home or her life was quite as she wished it;
why not have it utterly different? In short, wliy
not tiy Christianity for all it was worth? She
(lid not settle the question; but as she applied the
latch-key to their own door, she almost thought
she would.

Matters inside offered abundant o{)portunity for
the exercise of any new virtues slie could com-
mand. Betsey, whose duty it was to attend to
the furnace during the day, had evidently for-
gotten it, and the sitting-room w^as cold. Aunt
Eunice, wrapped in an ugly shawl, was shivering
over the register and grumbling about trying to
get warmth out of a "black hole in the floor.'*

"There isn't any fire here," she exclaimed, as
Mary opened the door.

"Of course not," said Lneia coolly; the fire
is in the cellar. Aunt Eunice, not in that 'black
hole.'"

"Well, I tell you there isn't a speck of
heat coming up; and it is as cold as a barn here.

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WHAT THPY COULDN T.

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It always is, for tliat matter. I wonder we don't
all get our deaths; and we shall before the winter
is over."

"Why, Aunt Eunice, it was only this morning
that you complained of the room being as hot
as a furnace, and said it was so more than half
the time."

" Well, that is just what I say now; it is always
either too cold or too hot, never a decent, reason-
able fire. What is the use of catching me up
every word I sa}-, like a pert girl :.:; you are?
Who is going to fix the fire? That is what I want
to know. Your father is up-stairs; why don't you
call him, and tell him that the fire has gone out?"

"It is Betsey's business to attend to the fire,"
said Mary with dignity. Already she felt her
half-formed resolution slipping away. She was
cold, and the dimly lighted room looked very
cheerless ; and both Aunt Eunice and Lucia were
evidently in ill-humor. What was the use in try-
ing to be anything but miserable ?

"Oh, Betsey l"*^ echoed Aunt Eunice spit -T llv.
"The things you expect of that girl she couid I't
get through with in a day, if she was as smart
as she is dull and stupid. I don't wonder she
never gets her work done, I am sure. You put
too much on her. If you two girls would stop
your everlasting puttering over paint and em-
broidery, and do something, your mother wouldn't
have such a hard time of it, and Betsey would
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HOME THRUSTS.

129

way done. I never in my life saw such man-
agement as you have here ! How Edward endures
it I don't know. He was brought up very dif-
ferently, I can tell you. The Camerons always
had thinge in systematic order at their house;
and each had his or her work to do."

"I wish our names were Rafferty instead of
Cameron ! " said Lucia, as she went hastily from
the roor 1 ; and she banged the doer a little.

The atmosphere did not brighten as the evening
drew on. They gathered presently at the dinner-
table, but Mr. Cameron was even more silent than
usual. In fact, there was such an utterly miserable
look on his face that the girls hesitated to address
him, and their mother had evidently been crying.

"It is some money matter, of course," said
Mary to herself; and it irritated her to think
that they must always be haunted by that mer-
ciless fiend. Poverty.

Aunt Eunice harped upon the extinct fire, and
upon the folly of expecting a blundering girl like
Betsey to start it again, until Lucia, darting an
angry look at her, asked if she didn't think it
her Christian duty to go down and help Betsey, or
perhaps make the fire in her stead. Somebody
ought to adopt that girl, she affirmed, and send
her to boarding-school. She was evidently out
of her sphere in the kitchen ; overworked and ill-
treated, according to Aunt Eunice's views. It
would be a virtuous act to report her to the society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to — " which. Aunt

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WFfAT THKY ('r)r'I,|iN T.

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Eunice, Animals or Cliildreu? " she linished,
turning toward her with a wicked smile on her
face. '* Betsey is rather old to he called a child;
and it is only four-footed niiimals ihat the other
society attends to, isn't it? 1 confess I don't
know how to manajje it."'

It was mirthless fun. If Lucia hud not been
troubled over the question of what fresh calamity
had disturbed her fatlier and mother, !>he would
not have indulged herself in it. Aunt Eunice
deigned no reply. Even the semblance of con-
versation was dropped after that. Mary, who
had faint memories of her half-formed resolve
hovering about her, fell to wondering what —
suppose she were that changed jKjrson of whom
they had talked that afternoon — would she do
to brighten the gloom of this dinner-table. Sup-
pose she were capable of making gentle, cheer-
ful replies to Aunt Eunice, and of telling some
pleasant bit of news, which would cheer her
father, and of winning Lucia into a more amiable
frame of mind? Something of that kind she felt
sure one of Miss Warner's " goody " characters
which she had criticised would essay to do.
Well, would it not be a lavidable act? Yes, but
the trouble was, it could be done only in books.
That was what she had meant to express to Pro-
fes.sor Landis, the fact that it was only hook
people who succeed in doing these things. Then
her thoughts wandered to Ben Keeder. What uas
it that Mr. Landis wanted her to do for him ? '' A

HOME THRUSTS.

131

girl with a home" indeed! What good would
a visit to such a home as theirs was to-night do
tea lonesome boy? A well-lighted, well-warmed
saloon, where the people were good-natured,
would perhaps be preferable. As for her mother,
— she stole another glance at her downcast face.
What could she have been crying about? What
extra thing had happened, and they not told?
They were treated as children ; things which they
ought to know kept from them. She was grow-
ing irritable again, less sure of her wish, even,
to make that radical change in her character.

Into the midst of the silence and gloom of this
dining-room came Emilie with the whirr and
bustle peculiar to her, letting in a rush of cold
air as she came, which caused Aunt Eunice to
shiver, and draw her shawl closer about her.
Emilie paid not the slightest attention to the
gloom which enveloped the family.

" I've had such a lark ! " she said, tossing school-
books and wraps in a promiscuous heap, and tak-
ing her place at the table. "Nannie Fuller and
I have been away down to the skating-park. Oh,
there are such lots and lots of people there this
afternoon I The first really good skating of the
season, they say. There are some new people,
college boj'^s I guess, splendid-looking fellows,
and they skated exquisitely. I was just dying
to skip in and join them. Father, I really must
have a pair of skates. I would rather go without
shoes than skates."

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

"You may have to do both," replied the father,
with no lighting up of his worn face. But Emilie
had already flitted to another subject.

" Why, Mary Cameron, have you reached home ?
I didn't expect you yet for hours. Did you come
up on the car? What a commonplace way to
finish a special afternoon ! I thought you would
walk. It is quite the fashion now for very par-
ticular friends to take long walks, when they have
important matters to settle."

" What particular folly is uppermost with you
just now ? " asked Mary, in her coldest and most
indifferent tone.

Emilie laughed gleefully. "You should have
heard Nannie take off the scene; she is a perfect
mimic. She told to the life just how Professor
Landis gesticulated in the more exciting parts;
and if you could have seen her draw herself up and
pretend to look at him before she made reply, you
would have thought it was your very self. I never
saw anybody like Nannie for describing scenes."

"What is all that?" asked Lucia, growing in-
terested, while Mary looked bewildered and an-
noyed. What teas that silly girl talking about !

"Why, Nannie had been to the library, the
branch one, you know, over on Duane Street;
and there it seems she saw Professor Landis ; and
who should be his companion but our Mary!
Nannie said it was as good as going to the play
to watch them. Of course she was not near
enough to hear what was said, and she wouldn't

HOME THUUSTS.

133

have listened if she had been ; but she said she did
not need to hear in order to enjoy it. They talked
for houra^ and Avere both just as eager and inter-
ested as they could ))e. li was great fun to hear
her tell about it. She took Mary off to the life.
Tliere tliey were, slie said, surrounded by books,
and neitlier of them looking into one. Slie came
away and left them there; but lier cousin Roberi.
joined us wliile she was telling me about it, Jind
said he could add the last cliapter, lliat the libra-
rian actually had to tell them that it was time
to close that part of the building; and they went
away without a book, after spending the afternoon
there I "

" Really 1 ** said Lucia, joining in the burst of
laughter with which Emilie finished her sentence;
"1 should think that the parlor would have been
a pleasanter place than the Public Library for a
confidential interview. Still, I am thankful to
have something accomplished. Are you to be
congratulated, Mary ? "

What was there in such utter nonsense to make
Mary Cameron's eyes blaze with anger? The
girl was too refined by nature to enjoy this species
of amusement, and to do Lucia justice, she rarely
descended to it; but Emilie was at the age, and
had such intimacies, that her temptations lay in
just this direction. As a rule, her older sisters
bore her attacks with at least outward indifference,
and contented themselves by calling her a simple-
ton; but one glance at Mary's face this evening

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134

"WHAT THF.Y COULDN'T.

would have shown that she was in no mood for
trifling. In truth, the girl's heart was still sore
over the continued absence and silence of Russell
Denham. Six weeks since he had left her with
that gay farewell, and not a word had she heard
from him. For the first few weeks she watched
the mails with an eagerness of hope and a sicken-
ing of suspense such as only those who have been
through like experiences can understand. Not a
small part of her humiliation had grown out of
the fact that her family v/ere more or less disap-
pointed also. Her mother, even, had questioned
her closely, and been betrayed into expressing sur-
prise that she did not hear from Mr. Denham;
and Lucia had not failed to characterize him as a
"flirt," declaring tliat she considered a female flirt
despicable enough, but when a man descended
to it, no words were equal to his description.
She and Mary had had more than one sharp ex-
change of views concerning him; Mary invariably
taking the position that he had shown her no more
attention than was common among ladies and
gentlemen. In her heart she did not believe this,
but not for the world would she have admitted it
in speech.

Emilie's giddy nonsense might not have hurt
lier so, had she not caught that sudden gleam of
interest on her mother's face ; a look which said
as plainly as words could have said, that to know
that one of her daughtei-s had definite plans for
the future would be a relief. Poor Mary resented
this. She knew, it is trnp, thnt it was onlv the

HOME THIIUSTS.

135

grind of poverty and the uneertainty of the pres-
ent which made her mother think nmch of such
possihle i)n>vivsions; she knew that the mother
would not have been dazzled by any prospects
which did not touch the inmost affections of her
children; but, nevertheless, it was bitter to feel
herself watched and commented ui)on ; to feel that
that silly Emilie looked upon her as growing very
old, and wondered among her mates probably, as
she did openly one day at home, whether Mary
really would be an old maid like Aunt Eunice;
to feel that even her father speculated as to the
possibility of having one person less to provide
for in the near future. As has been said before,
there was less of this feeling than Mary imagined.
Siie had grown morbid over it, because there had
l)een more or less speculation as to Russell Den-
liani's intentions, and more or less satisfaction
looked if not expressed wdien his attentions be-
came somewhat pronounced; but there was no
such continuous espionage upon her friendships
and movements as she chose to think. Still,
it was all these things combined which made
Emilie's folly seem like gross and premeditated
insult. Her response was prompt and emphatic.

"Emilie Cameron, what do you mean by mak-
ing such an utter fool of yourself, not only, but
dragging in your family as well? And Lucia,
instead of rebuking, has to help you along. I
must say I think I have borne enough of such
coarseness at the hands of both of you. ]f it has

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186

WHAT THEV COULDN T.

monpljice of ac(iuaintjuices in a public buildin ,'
and exchange a few words of conversation wit'ii
him without being caricatured by idiots, I think
it is time that something hihoukl be done to keep
them from roving the streets. As for Professor
Landis, you may insult him to your heart's con-
tent for all I care; he is nothing to me but an
acquaintance from the country, with whom I try
to be civil when I come in cont.act with liim by
accident. Make all the fun of him that you
choose; but in future I advise you Jind Nannie
Fuller to leave me out, or it will be the worse
for both of you."

Tlien this angry young woman arose abruptly
and left the room. "My patience! " said Emilie,
looking after her with a half-scared, half-amused
face. "Slie is Jis mad as a March hare, and at
what, I should like to know! What do you sup-
pose she will do to Nannie and me? Kill us?
She looked fierce enough to, didn't she?"

Said Aunt Eunice, "You girls do beat all for
quarrelling that I ever heard in my life. The
three of you can't be together for fifteen minutes
without having some sort of a rumpus. I should
think your father would go raving crazy."

He looked at that moment more like fainting.
He had toyed with his knife and fork, but eaten
almost nothing; now he pushed the untasted
coffee from him, and rising with slow step, like
an old man, he, too, left the room.

"HOW WILL IT ALL KND?"

13"

CHAPTER X.

"HOW WILL IT ALL KND?'*

THE tumult of indigiijitiou in which Mary
Cameron went to her room continued fur
into the evening. J^uciji ciime up »oon ufter
dinner, and made ready for a Uicture wliicli was in
the immediate neigiiborhood. Eiirlier in the day
the girls had agreed to go with Emilie, who had
been requested by one of her teachers to attend ;
but Mary, in response to Lucia's reminder, said
shortly that she had changed her mind. Lucia
hesitated, and nervously moved sundry articles
on the dressing-table, while she decided how
to say what she meant to say. At last it came
abruptly : —

"I wish you wouldn't mind Emilie's nonsense
so much, Mary. She doesn't mean anything but
fun; and in what I said, I was just trying to
lighten the gloom a little. Father is awfully
worried about something, and I wanted to divert
his thoughts."

"You took a very strange way to do it," said
Mary in her coldest tone; "but never mind, you
need not offer any ajmlogy; I ought to be quite
used to sucli experiences by this time. Emilie

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WHAT THICY TOULDN T.

rieetU to be rebuked, not encouraged. You need
not wait for nie, as I most decidedly am not
going <uit.*'

Then J^ucia went away, wisliing tliat she had
left Mary Ut indulge her ill-humor without trying
to propitiate her. As for iVlary, her disagreeahlt;
words had hardly passed her lips before she would
have recalled them if she could. She realized
tlie hatefulness of her character, at least to some
extent. In the light of the talk which she had
had with Professor Landis her shortcomings were
more marked than usual ; at the same time, she
co".d not rise to a real desire ^ make herself
better. Instead, she 3'ielded to 'nclination to
brood over her annoyances and Emilie's rudeness
until, as has been said, her indignation rose.
The truth is, she was one of those unfortunate
persons to whom a laugh is worse than a blow.
To feel that Emilie's companions had made her
the subject of their keen wit set her blood
boiling.

Into the midst of her gloomy and angry
thoughts came a sound which suddenly held
them in check. Her room was directly over her
father's; and when the register was open, even
conversation in the room below could be dis-
tinctly heard. What came to Mary at this time
was an unmistakable groan from her father's lips,
and then the words: "I believe I would rather
have heard of his death." Then her mother in
strong, sharp tones, " Edward, I should think you

♦'HOW WILL IT ALL END?"

139

would be afraid to talk in tliat way. I know it
frightens me to hear you. I tell you, you are
hard on the poor boy. If anything will drive
him to desperation, it will be the way in which
you write to him to-night. I wish you would not
write at all; let his mother do it."

It seemed to Mary that her heart suddenly
gave a great throb, then stopped beating. What
had happened? Either Rod or Mac was in
trouble of some sort. Father and mother were
always brooding over something which they did
not explain, and now some terrible thing had
come and she was ignorant of it. She would not
endure it another moment. She would claim her
riffht as the eldest of the familv.

She rose \ip quickly, her limbs trembling so
that they all but refused to support her, and made
what speed she could to the room below. Enter-
ing without the ceremony of a knock she broke
forth, —

" Mother, T want to know what has happened ?
I heard you and father talking, and I know there
is something wrong with the boys. I think it
is unjust and cruel to keep me in ignorance.
What is the matter?"

"Hush I" said Mrs Cameron. "Nothing very
dreadful is the matter, only your father is worn
out, and excited over trifles."

Mr. Cameron interrupted her gravely, — "Ra-
chel, nothing is gained by trying to gloss over
a wrong. This is not a trifle, and we injure

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140

WHAT THFA' COtTLDN T.

our own consciences by tiying to make it ap-
pear 80."

Ve sat at his writing-desk, paper before liini,
pen in hand; but he had writte.i no word on
the page, and his face looked drawn and hag-
gard, quite as though he needed to 1)6 in bud
instead of trvins; to write.

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Cameron, with tlie
sli;irpness of a heart tliat was desperate. "I tell
vou, you are making altogether too much of a
boyish act done on the inipulss of a moment. See
if Muy will not tell yon so."

" Mother, tvhat h it ? " said i\Iary, almost stamp-
ing her foot in her excitement and anxiety to
learn just what had happened. Mrs. Cameron
made haste to answer.

*' Nothing serious at all, I tell you. McLoyd
found himself short of money and in need of
certain things in haste, so instead of delaying
to write home for fnnds, he has sent a»i order
CO the store where he has been in the habit of
shopping, and has had the bill charged to his
f ither, as was natural enough, I am snre. If a
boy cannot depend on his father to that extent it
io hard."

"And has he written about it?" asked Mary
breathlessly.

Before Mi"s. Cameron could reply, her husband,
si ading his face with his hand, spoke in a low,
humiliated tone. —

"No, Mary, he haj not. No good will conn' of

"HOW WILL IT ALL END "^

141

our trying to hide our eyes to the truth of this
matter. The facts are these: It is six weeks
since McLoyd ordered the bill of goods from
Duiilap & Pierson's, a place where I never trade
if I can help it, and never had a penny's worth
charged. No word has come to me in the mean-
time of any such transaction. The first I learn
of it is a bill presented to me to-day."

Mary caught eagerly at the suggestion which
this offered. " Then I should say it was a
wretched forger}-. Somebody has been playing
sharp with the boys. I wonder you would think
that Mac would do such a thing! But it is just
like some unprincipled college boy. I should
send the bill to Mac at once, and get him to
ferret out the mischief."

Slowly, as one convinced against his will,
the father shook his head.

"That will not do, Mary. You may be sure I
did not believe such a story about my boy with-
out proof. I went at once to see Mr. Pierson;
and he showed me two letters from McLoyd,
describing carefuDy the sort of cut there must be
to the vest, and the shade of the neckties. It is
tlie old temptation, you see — clothes. The boys
knew that I could spare them no more funds for
such a purpose, so they have taken matters into
their own hands. Both Rodney and McLoyd
have replenished their wardrobes in this way.
The bill is over sixty dollars, Mary."

While shi listened, Mary's face had alternately

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142

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

flushed and paled. She stared at her father, and
scarcely heard the eager words whicli her mother
poured forth.

" What if it is ? Sixtj'- dollars goes a very
little way toward supplying the necessities of two
young men. And Mac always liked the goods
best at Dunlap & Pierson's; I have heard him
say there was a style about them which could not
be found elsewhere. They have felt it absolutely
necessary to have the tilings at once, and have
taken the libertv to send for them in their father's
name, because they knew the firm would be sure
of him. I must insist that I don't think it is sueli
a very great liberty to take with a father. To
be sure, they ought not to have done it ; but they
are young, and cannot be expected to think ahead
very much."

Then Mary spoke, her voice low, her words
studied.

" Father, I suppose it is as mother says, that
the boys did not stop to think how it would look
to us. They know we liave always raised tlie
money for their needs somehow. Perhaps they
have in mind a way of earning enough to pay the
bill, and only borrowed your name for a little
while. Business men do that sometimes, do they
not, as an accommodation ? "

She hardly knew what she was saying. She
knew very little about business matters, yet enough
to feel that probably her words were weak ; but
there had come to her a great longing to say some-

"HOW \V ILL I T A LT. END?

143

thing soothing to tliiit terribly crushed father, who*
sat with his head bowed on his hand, and with a
strange, gray look on his face that seemed to age
it infinitely.

The mother bestowed a grateful look on her
eldest daugliter, and spoke quickly, —

'• Of course, there is some such explanation
witliout a doubt, as I have been trying to make
you understand. You see how the matter looks
to Marv. You have always said that she had a
clear brain. She does not see anything so very
crushinof in this. I tell vou, vou do verv wronsf
to work yourself up over it in this way, as though
it were a criminal matter. Some real trouble will
come to people who persist in making mountains
out of moleiiills."

"It being dishonorable and dishonest," said Mr.
Cameron, his voice low, but terribly distinct, " I
do not tvant to think of it for a moment as other-
wise. I do not v/ant the temptation of thinking
that it can be considered anything else by honest
people. The boys will not be helped but hindered
if we "loss over a sin."'

" Oh, dear I " said Mrs. Cameron, wiping the
quick tears from her eyes, " you will drive the
boys to desperation if you write to them in that
spirit. What is a father for, but to overlook the
mistakes of his children ? I don't say they did
right ; but I say, as Mary does, that they did not
think there was anything very wrong about it.
Why, an acquaintance might take that amount of

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144

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

liberty if he felt sure of being able to pay in a sliort
time ; and I presume the boys have their plans,
They are probably quit« sure of winning the money
prizes that will be declared in a few days."

After that, Mary, feeling her utter inability to
make any further suggestions, or to administer
comfort in any way, slipped quietly out and went
back to her own room. Once there, she closed
and locked the door, slipping the little bolt, after
she turned the key, as though she would in this
way shut out even the thoughts of others and he
nmre utterly alone than it is possible ever to be.
She was in a tumult of pain, humiliation, indig-
nation, — whicli had the uppermost place in her
heart? It was all very well for her to try to
smooth over this astounding piece of news before
her father — he needed all such helps; but in
her heart she called her brother's action by its
true name. It was bitter to have to admit it. A
Cameron stooping to a dishonorable, nay, to a dis-
honest, act! They had been poor; they had re-
sorted to all sorts of trying devices to make the
3'early income meet the yearly demands; but tlie
name, as far back as any of them knew, had never
been sullied by a breath of dishonesty. Oh, they
M'^ere in debt ; but it was what Mary with flushed
cheek and a curious pain in her heart called
'* honorable debt.' Her father had explained to
each creditor that he was a little behind this
quarter; that he would divide among them what
he had, and that by next quarter he hoped to be

*'nvO\V WILL IT ALL END?

145

nl)lG to pay the entire smn. And tliey had been
kind, and liad assured him tliat tliey had no fears;
his name was sufficient jjuarantv for honorable
dealing. But Dunlap & Pierson had never been
among her father's creditors, and the boys knew
it. They knew, also, that the firm was the most
expensive, not to say extravagant, in their prices,
of any in the city. Oii ! as her father had said,
nothing was to be gained by mincing matters.
Tlie boys had been "dishonorable and dislionest."
Siie winced over the words. She felt sure that
she could have struck an outsider who had dared
to use them, yet to her own heart she would speak
truth. What was to be the end ? Boys who be-
gan in this way went often to utter ruin. She had
read about and heard about a great many. Debt
and dishonesty were the two potent factors in
their ruin, of this she was sure ; but no thought
that any such experience could touch the Cameron
name had ever before occurred to her. At that
moment she thought of the " transformed lives "
about which Professor Landis had talked that
afternoon ; the men who, almost as one might
say, in a moment had changed natures. She re-
membered her own illustrations which had come
to corroborate the truth of his words; and she
found that she actually craved such experiences
for the boys. Suddenly she seemed to awaken to
the thought that the boys were not all what they
might be. They had been selfish and careless of
the comforts of others ; this she had known ; at

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WHAT TIfKY COrLDN T.

.fl

least she had often so accused, them; yet tliese had
seemed very trifles when her hrothers were awav
from home, and she thought ahout them ♦^^enderly.
Now she felt that tliey, like herself, had dwarfed
lives. Ay, and they had temptations which she
had not realized before, and were yielding to them.
How would it all end?

While perplexities and sorrows of this charae-
ter were wearing the hearts of the Cameron fam-
ily, Professor Landis, a self-constituted guardian
of the young man Reeder, was not having a pros-
perous time. In addition to the fact that this
servant of Christ felt himself in a measure re-
sponsible for every soul with whom he came in
contact, he had a slight acquaintance with Ben
Reeder's family. He had seen and talked with
the hard-working, heavily burdened father, and
the meek, anxious-eyed mother who waited, back
in their country home, for news from Ben. 'J1iey
were prematurely old, these two. A wretched
mortgage, which would have been as a mere toy
to a man of capital, was yearly sapping away
their energy and courage. Thej' might almost of
late years be said to live for the purpose of gatli-
ering together and hoarding enough money to
meet the semi-annual payments. No ; they lived
for one other thing, their boy Ben. There were
other children, older and younger than he, but
Ben was the only boy; and someway their hopes
of release from the burdens which had all their
lives oppressed them were centred in hini.

"HOW WILL IT ALL END?

»»

147

" I'll pay off that old mortgage when I am a man,
and be done with it," were the words the boy of
twelve had spoken, drawing himself up proudly,
and looking at his mother 'n such a way that she
took heart, and snatched him to her side, and
kissed him hunffrilv as slie said: "I believe in
my soul that you will ! "

The feeling thus planted grew with the years,
until it became natural for the girls to refer with
fond hopefulness to the time when Ben would be
old enough to help them out. Meanti^ne, two
older sisters married and went away from liome;
not far away, within driving distance, indeed, of
the old homestead. They married poor men,
and simply continued the struggle for existence
'in other homes, instead of the one in which they
were reared. So near were they, and so exactly
were their lives a repetition of the lives of their
parents, that it hardly seemed as though a break
had been made in tlie family; but when Ben went
away, it was another thing. Ben, when barely
nineteen, had an opening for business come to
him from the great city. Professor Land is,
whose father's farm was not far from the Reeder
homestead, had seen Ben occasionally during his .
summer visits home, and had lieard of the family
burdens, and the f.imily hopes as centred in the
boy. It was he wlio had secured the opening;
and great had been the excitement of the Reeder
family when Ben departed cityward. Desolation
is no word for the feeling wliich he left behind

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WHAT THEY (^OULDN T.

him. The married sisters, when they drove over
for an hour's visit with their mother, lamented
his absence as loudly {is did those left at home.

"Boys are missed so much more than girls,"
they said. "They are noisier, and take up more
room somehow." And then they all fell eagerly
to telling one another what a splendid chance
Ben had ; and how lucky he was to get it these
hard times ; and how kind it had been of Professor
Landis to speak a good word for him ; and what a
thing it would be when Ben got into business for
himself, and got ahead enough to pay that dread-
ful mortgage! And they talked loud and laughed
nervously over small nothings to cover up the
quiver in their mother's voice, as she said that
sometimes she felt that if they could only have
Ben home again, just as he was, she would be
willing to go on paying interest on the mortgage
to the end of her days. After all, the city was
a great, ugl}^ dangerous place, and she didn't
know —

They were not afraid for their Ben, they inter-
rupted her to say. But in their hearts they were
■ — these married sisters. Their husbands knew a
little more about city life than they did ; and the
things they told them made them drive over home
oftener, and ask hungrily for letters from Ben.
Then they every one, parents, daughters, and sons-
in-law, took to reading surreptitiously and with
bated breath all the terrible stories of accident
and pain and crime with which the city weekly

"HOW WILL IT ALL END?"

149

paper seemed suddenly to teem. Was the world
wickeder that year than ever before? It certainly
seemed so to the Reeder family.
Something of all this Professor Landis knew,

- and it increased his sense of responsibility for
Ben Reeder. He had been instrumental in bring-
ing Ben to the city. Often he regretted this.
Often he had reason to fear that the city was
going to prove too much for the country-bred boy
whose feet had never been firmly set on a solid
foundation. Viewed as a study, Ben Reeder was
interesting. He had lived his nineteen years
without great temptations of any sort. The
home atmosphere from which he came might be
clouded with anxiety, but it was loving. It
had been a pleasant place to Ben all these years.
There had been saloons in the village, but Ben
lived two miles out and rarely went to the vil-
lage of evenings. On the few occasions when
he was belated, the lights of the saloon did not
look so cheery to him as that which glowed in
the open fireplace at home, where he knew

, mother and father and the girls were waiting to
liear the news. The saloons had not tempted
him. He heard nothing abou them, thought
nothing about them. Neither, alas, did his
father or mother. When Mr. Reeder was asked
to sign a paper protesting against some flagrant
nuisance in the village, he always signed it, and
always remarked complacently: "These things
don't come very close home to me. My boy

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150

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

doesn't belong to the people who find their
level in such places." The consequence was
that Ben went to tlie city with only the force
of habit to hold him in check. And that splen-
did factor, Habit, found itself a mere reed when
it had to be used as a central force. In the city
all things were very different. There was no
wide fireplace with its splendid back-logs; there
was no cosy tea-table with something warm for
Ben because he had been out in the cold. Above
all, there was no mother sitting, mending, and
smiling at the stories he had to tell, and admir-
ing his feats of industry and strength. In the
city there was a cold, dreary, fourth-story back
room shared with an uncongenial fellow-boarder.
There were dismal breakfasts, and greasy, half-
cooked, insufficient dinners, and no companion-
ship. The bright lights of the saloon appealed
to him. The boys who were no better dressed
than he, and knew no more than he, appealed
to him. They were friendly and cheery, and
made him feel at home. And the Smith boys,
the worst of their set, were the most friendly.
More than anything else, Ben Reeder needed the
atmosphere of a home to surround "nd envelop
him; and whatever else there was in the city,
there seemed sometimes to be no homes. Cer-
tainly the boy from the country found none, and
could not help almost laughing at Professor Lan-
dis's earnest attempts to make the tall, dark,
solemn-looking city houses into homes.

"HOW WILL IT ALL END?"

151

Still, though he laughed, the good-iiJituied boy
made occasional efforts to meet his helper lialf
way; not so much for his own sake, be it con-
fessed, as for the helper's. It was a pity to dis-
ivp[)oint Professor I^audis when he really seemed
to care; and for that reason lien went occasion-
ally to a church social or (^'hristian Endeavor
gathering, and tried to mingle with well-dressed
people, and make himself believe he felt at home;
and nearly always went back to his fourth -story
room in a rage, telling himself that he would not
be caught in a scrape like that again. Professor
Landis could not blame him. Matters connected
with those socials did not move according to his
ideas. Even the best-intentioned people did not
seem to know how to make the evening pleasant
and helpful to a certain class. The socials fell
on an evening when Dorothy Landis was unavoid-
ably engaged elsewhere, so that tower of strength
was denied her much-perplexed brother.

152

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER XT.

"OUT OF HIS SPHEHE.

»»

DESPITE Ben's resolve, he had promised, un-
der pressure, to he present at another of
those trying ordeals called socials. Professor
Landis was more eager for this than usual, ho-
cause he knew the Smith boys had other plans
which would not be helpful to Ben. A few days
preceding the social, he learned to his delijj^ht
that the long absent pastor had returned. His
pulpit had been supplied for several months,
while he travelled with an aged and invalid father
who needed his care. The supjdy was an old
gentleman miio was unable to do any pastoral
work, and who had been seen only from the pul-
pit on Sundays. It was therefore with great
satisfaction that Professor Landis was introduced
one evening to "our pastor, the Rev. Mr. Edson,"
and found in him a young, energetic-looking man,
who greeted him with heartiness, and promptly
expressed his pleasure in the fact that the pro-
fessor and his sister had decided to cast in their
lot with them.

"He will be just the man to win Ben," Mr.
Landis reflected, and noted with satisfaction that
he had arrived in time for the social.

**OUT OF MIS SPMEUK.'

153

Oil the afternoon of tlie following day, Pro-
fessor Landis, luiving a leisure hour, resolved to
(mil upon the 2>'^^t,or, and give him a little of
yoimg Ueeder's history, and a hint as to the
inliiuMice of tl»e Smith Ijoys and their set. On
Ills way tliither he fell in with Hen himself, and
conceived the idea of taking him eaptive for the
cull. It was no njw work to the piofessor; he
liiKl heen for years acting in unison with his piis-
tor. The two h.id worked toirether with nmtual
pleasure, and nearly every time ihey met had
exchanged views in regard to the special ways of
reaching and helping certain ones whose names
were on their list. Professor Landis had sorely
missed this friendship in his new home, and had
looked forward eagerly to the return of the pas-
tor. He rejoiced in the thought that the man
was in his early prime, and full of vigor and
enthusiasm. Now here was l\^n^ and across the
street could be seen from the study window the
outline of the pastor's head. There was no time
like the present; he would take lien in, and let
the pastor captivate him ; then, at some other op-
portune moment, he could give him such points
as might be helpful in the study of the boy*s
character.

''Ben, my boy," he said, laying a friendly
hand on that young man's shoulder, "I want
you to turn back with me and make a call. Mr.
Edson has arrived, you know, and I am going to
run in and make his acquaintance. I met him

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154

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

at Dr. Preston's, *so 1 can introduce you ; \v(;
shall both find it pleasanter this evening for hav-
ing had this chat witli hini."'

lien denuirred; he wasn't dressed for calling,
although, trutli to tell, he had on at that moment
his hest suit of ch)lhes; he never made calls, he
shouldn't know how to act. These and a dozen
other trivialities were oveiruled. Tiie jn-ofessor
had a good deal of inHnence over Hen, at least
when he was with him; and they mounted the
ste2)s of the manse together, and were presently
shown into the pastor's reception-room.

"Good-afteinoon," he said, holdiniif out a cor-
dial hand to welcome Professor J^andis. "You
are just the person 1 want to see. There are two
points in which 1 fancy I shall enlist your in-
terest." And then Professor Landis presented
his companion.

A swift, well-hred glance from head to foot,
which was felt, rather than ohserved, and the
keen-eyed pastor had gauged Ben Reeder's posi-
tion in tht? world.

"Ah, indeed," he said carelessly* "a Sundav-
school pupil of yours, Professor? (xlad to meet
him. Be seated. I was looking over the an-
nouncements about the apimmching ball-game
when you rang. Unusual thing, is it not, in
this region, to be able to have a game so late in
the season? This one will be an exciting affair.
The boys are well matched on both sides. I told
my father he must let me get off in time for the

"OUT OF HIS SPHERE

»»

155

game. I had missed two, and it wasn't within
the bounds of reuov/i* to expect me to sacrifice
another."

He hiiighed of course, as Lc spoke; it was
partly mere talk, yet he was evidently excited
over the coming contest, and quite in earnest in
his determination not to miss it.

"You are fond of athletic sports, of course,"
continued the pastor. " All professional men are,
I believe, in these days. A great change, my
fatiier says, since his time. Oh, I do not play
very often, because I have no time for the drill;
pity, too; sometimes I think I will take time
and let some of the work wait; but I attend the
match games as often as they are within reach."

Professor Landis explained that the duties of
his profession kept him occupied quite often dur-
ing the hours of a base-ball contest, and added
frankly, that in the neighborhood from which he
had recently come, the game had become so en-
tarxgled with liquor and gambling that he had
hecn compeih'/l to withdraw all recognition of
it, even as a kx>k<fr-on.

"Oh, no!" 8ai4 the clergyman quickly.
"That is not the way. We do not want to
withdraw from such ^atht^rings, but to hold on
to them, and throw our influence on the side of
good morals."

" True; but when one's influence fails to work
the desired reform, one must take care how he
is counted on the wrong side, you know. When

'. ''

156

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

}

Si'iEiEi

r I;

it reached the point with us, that a booth was
set up on the ball-ground where choice wines
and liquors could be bought, and when the gam-
bling spirit ran so higli that it was considered a
matter of course, some of us felt it necessary to
withdraw."

The clergyman laughed lightly. "Oh, Avell,'*
he said, " it will not do for us to be too straight-
laced. The boys will indulge in some of these
doubtful things ; they mean no harm. They have
a booth on our grounds where all sorts of im-
proper things can be bought. I don't patronize
it, and they know that I don't. But I am on
hand at their games, and they expect me as much
as they do the players. You must go to the con-
test. Professor. You have probably hidden your-
self among your books until you have forgotten
how to be merry. We'll show you how. Well,
never mind; we might not agree on all these
points, though I shall convert you, I am sure.
You are much too sensible a person to hold to
narrow views. We mustn't run away from the
world entirely, you know, because it does some
things we don't happen to fancy. The world is
a jolly good fellow, after all. Here is something
which will interest you," Avhereupon he plunged
eagerly into a description of certain lectures
which were »oon to ])e given by eminent sjitak-
ers; lectures on highly literary topics such as
only schol-irs couhl a ;);)reciate. There had been
bome difficulty ia secmring them for the season,

*'OUT OF Ills SPHKIIE.

loT

and the clergyman dilated upon it, and his im-
ptutiiut and complicated part in accomplishing
it. Under other circumstances Professor Landis
would liave l)een much interested. As it was, he
could oidy reiuemher that poiu" Ben did not even
know what the subjects meant, which rolled
so fflibly from the tongue of the clergyman. He
niiule an effort to express his interest briefly, and
turn to some topic which might have a bit of
common ground. It was all in vain; throughout
the interview the minister as persistently ignored
Ben as though he had been a mere speck on the
wall, and ^^rsisted in bringing forward topic
after topic for c<mversation which it was mani-
festly impossible for him to be interested in, or
even understand.

Professor Landis arose at last, disappointed and
bewildered. What did the man mean? Did he
not understand that Ben was one of his flock?
As tor Ben, it was with difficulty that lie could
restrain his 1l lings while in the minister's pres-
ence. As soon as the door closed after them he
gave vent to what was apparently an uncontrol-
lahle burst of laughter.

"1 hope you'll excuse me," he said, as soon as
he could speak, and he v is still laughing, "but
it was so funny to see you tjying to make that
man know that I was tlhrrc at all ; and you did
fail so entirely, even tbowi^h I did my best to
lielp! I coughed twice, and knock i*d the big
blown btvi>k off the tabK ; but that last was au
;; ;-l-r!t/'

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WHAT THEV COULDN T.

Then seeing that Professor Lanclis did not join
in the laugh, but on the contrary looked grave, and
perhaps slightly disturbed, he essayed to turn
comforter.

''Never mind. Professor; it isn't in a man like
him to care for a fellow like me. If I wee a
book bound in calf, say, or even a great b? 11, it
Avould be another thing; but being nothing but
a blundering boy, what could you exjject? Don't
you see how it is? I don't belong in the same
world, and there is no use of putting me into it.
If you would make up your mind to give a fellow
up, you would be more comfortable; and so would
the fellow."

This last, in undertone, evidently not intended
for liis companion's ear; but he caught the mut-
tered word's and smiled, and lallied himself.

" hen, my dear fellow, that is nonsense. I hope
you do not desire me to give up your friendship
because we have called upon a man who was pre-
occupied, and jH'isisted in continuing the trains of
thouglit wii'i h he had evidently been indulging
when Ave interrupted him. Mr. Edson has just
returned after a long absence, you remember, and
he liasn't gotten into line yet. I presume he is
a good deal worn — constant attendance upon an
invalid is \ery wearing work — and professional
men rest their brains and bodies by these athletic
games, you know. Then lie feels responsible iov
tht com. e of lectures he was describing, and of
course must push it on all possible occasions.

"OUT OF HIS SPHKUK.

»»

159

By evening he will have gotten settled, and will
be ready to interest himself in people. He must
be fond of young people, for he is himself young,
and you know what a large company of them
attend his church. Do you take the south-bound
car? I must go the other way. Well, you will
remember to call for me to-morrow evening, will
you not? "

"Oh, yes," said Ben with a toss of his head
and a half-annoyed laugh. "I've given my word,
and I'll be there; but I'd rather be hanged!
I tell you now, honestly, there woai't be any
pleasure nor comfort for me at that place, and
I don't understand why you want to push me
in. There are lots of young people; but you
know as well as I do that tliey are no more like
me, the most of them, than that minister is;
and I'm thankful to say I can't see any resem-
blance between us."

Professoi* Landis laughed, and lifted his hat
for good-by, being glad as he did so that there
was no time for words. He would not have
liked Ben to know how utterly that minister had
disappointed and dismayed him. It had been
an unusual experience. He had always hereto-
fore found in ministers his heartiest supportere
in his efforts to win young men. And this
man's work had seemed always to lie in the
direction of young men who needed to be won
away from themselves and their companions and
surroundings. As he sat in the corner of the car,

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160

WHAT THEY (OHLDN'T.

being carried down-town, Mr. Landis did what
he seldom allowed himself to do; he \ ent over
the interview with the pastor, step by step, and
worried over it. Whv had a man who had to
do with a churcli made up so largely of young
people, been so unwise, so actually rude, in his
dealings with one of them? True, he miglit
not have realized that Ben attended his own
church, lie asked if he were a pupil of his.
Perhaps he had heard of his scholars at the
Lower Mission, and supposed Ben to be one of
them; but even in that case, the Lower Mission
had no church organization, and Mr. Edson was
as much the pastor of that flock as any man was.
Besides, without regard to church or Sunday-
school, Ben was a boy who either belonged to
the fold of Christ or needed to be drawn thither-
ward. Why had not the heart of the young
man responded to this possible opportunity, and
greeted him as a brother? He had made excuses
for him to Ben. What else was there to be done?
but really — and here this Christian worker pulled
himself up sharply. Was he going to condemn
a man, and a minister at that, because he was
not always ready for work and watchfulness?
Had he not himself been off guard times enough
to be patient with the obtuseness of others? It
was himself who was to blame, for rushing the
young man in, uninvited, without knowing
whether the time was opportune or otherwise.
If he had gone alone to make his call, and

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"OUT OF HIS SPHERE

»»

161

talked of Reeder and his temptations and needs,
it would have been another matter. Whereupon
he resolved that if he could possibly make time
for it, he would look in upon Mr. Edson during
the next day, and explain why he felt especially
anxious that Reeder should enjoy the church
social.

Having settled this, he was the soit of man
who could make time on occasion, and by four
o'clock of the following afternoon he was again
in the pastor's study. Mr. Edson was as glad
to see him as he had been the day before, and
quite as eager to talk. This time it was the
Choral Union which filled his thoughts. The
cantata of Esther was to be rendered, and Mr.
Edson had been appealed to as a tenor.

"It is old music," he said, "that oid ^^avorite
revived, you know, and will not need much re-
hearsing on my part. I think I will help them;
and I promised to look out for a bass voice. Are
you not just the one. Professor?"

" It would be quite out of the question for me, "
said Professor Landis quickly. Then he plunged
headlong into the subject which had brought
him to the study. There was no use in wait-
ing for favorable openings. "By the way, Mr.
Edson, the young man I brought in with me
yesterday is a particular friend of mine; and 1
am looking for friends of the right stamp for
him." Then he described as briefly as he could
Ben's environments ; making much of the mother

t '

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1(52

WHAT THKV COVUtS T.

and father whose hopes reiitieil in liim. Tlie
minister listened somewhat absently; he even
turned the U'avcs of a new majjfazine while he <li(l
so. Once he intennpted to ask, —

"Why didn't the fellow stay at home and help
his father and mother where he was? These
country chaps are always runniufj^ away to the citv
and ruining themselves, when they might at least
help support the family at home."

"That is true, on general principles," said
his caller; " but in Ben's case it would Imrdly
apply. His father is a cari)enter of the ordinary
sort, and there is not woik enough in tlie t<nvii
where he lives to employ him. He has a little
place, with an acre or two of land ; but there is a
mortgage on it which is sapping the energies of
the family. Ben has ambitions, or had, contern-
ing that mortgage. The best thing for him to do.
seemed to be to get employment which would
bring in a little ready money for the family, and
with the hope of laying up something for the
debt. I secured the situation which the youiiif
man now holds, and so feel an added responsihility
for him."

" Ah ! " said the minister, " they are great bores.
aren't they, these responsibilities? J^ook heie,
this is a clever sketch, is it not? One can a 1 most
see that ridiculous old fellow trying to pose as
an orator! " and he held up the magazine at wliiili
he had been surreptitiously looking.

Professor Landis gave it a passing

<rlaiice.

"OUT OF HIS SPHERE."

163

** Fairly well done," he said. " Now about the
church social. I have got Reeder to promise to
accompany me there. I had a special reason for
desiring it this evening, above others, because " —
here he bent forward and gave a rapid, vivid
picture of the peculiar temptations which were
likely to coil about Ben on this evening, unless
his friends were on the alert; and his earnest
desire that influences might be brought to bear
upon him, through the people he should meet,
which would tell for his future.

Mr. Edson put down his magazine and lis-
tened at last; but on his face was a disturbed,
not to say annoyed, expression.

"My dear friend," he said, as his cr-ller reached
a period, " it is evident that I must make a
confession to you. I am not the sort of hand-
to-hand workman which you suppose. There
are clergymen who can do that kind of thing,
but I am not one of them. There is a sense
in which I am out of my sphere in this church,
though of course I do not say that aloud. I
do not expect to be here long. It is a good place
to study in, because the demands of society are
not what they would be in an up-town church;
and I expect, of course, to do my duty as long as
I am here ; but my forte lies in preaching. The
church is very full, as you see. I have crowded it
ever since I have been here. You have noticed,
perhaps, that since mj' coming a different class of
people, those more like yourself, have been drawn

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104

WHAT THI'A' COULDN T.

in; I feel that my influence is among all snob.
The perpetual rush after had boys and rough hoys,
and uncoutli, hoydenish girls, which some pastors
keep up, is not in me; and I honestly wish I could
say that my church was not the })laco for such.
I said I did not expect to remain here long; tliat.
of course, is entirely between us, and it iniiy
depend upon what I am able to acconij)lisli \vitli
the church. If I can gradually gather about nie
those whom I feel I can benefit, wlio aje sutli-
ciently intellectual, for instance, to be lit'ljicd
by my sty1 ■ of preaching, and those whose pocket-
books are sufficient to afford me a decent sal-
ary, why I shall remain. I am not such a stickler
for location that I care a great deal about its
being farther down-town than some otiier churches.
The streets nearest us are being peopled by a
very fine class; and there is no reason in life
why they should waste their time in riding up-
town to church, if a church to their mind can
be found and sustained nearer by. But in order
to get them in and make them comfortable, we
must not give too much attention to the other
class, who are at present quite too numerous. The
plain truth is, Professor, that we ought not tn
expect boys like your young prot4()S^ and men
like yourself, for instance, to be fed from the
same pulpit. • The boy is right: there ^ught to
be some church where both pulpit and pew would
be more entirely on a level with fellows of his
stamp, and where they could feel at home. I

"Ot7T OF HIS SPHKHE.'*

165

helieve in misHion churcheH most heartily, but
I am not calculated to luu one. I have spoken
very frankly to you, confidentially indeed; tor I
know you to bo in a sense an outsider, with no life-
long associations here to run against, and I feel the
imiiortance of explaining to you that I actually
do not know how to reach young fellows like
tlie one you brought to see me yesterday, f
would like to do it if I knew how, but I do
not. It is abuird to suppose that the seiinon
1 urn now at work u[)on, for instance, can interest
him. I am sure it cannot; and it is my nus-
fortune that there will be (h)Z('ns, almost hun-
dreds, in the audience, of whom the same might be
said. But I preach for the few, you understand,
with the hope and belief that the character of
the food offered will draw others of like tastes.
I am sure you get my meaning. Professor."

"Yes," said Professor Landis, rising, "I think
I do. Still, I hope you will remember my boy
to-night, and give him a greeting."

Then he went away; walked the whole length
of the square before he remembered that he had in-
tended to take a car at the other corner, and as he
roused himself to the present, said with a long-
drawn sigh, "The man is right; he is out of
his sphere."

166

WHAT THF.Y COULDN'T.

CHAPTER XII.

A NEW DEPARTURE.

THE institution known as a church social is ca-
pable of a variety of forms. The one which
Professor Land is had with infinite pains persUcTrded
Ben Reeder to attend was different from any of
his former experiences. Evidently it was held at
one of the homes which Mr. Edson believed he
had drawn to his church. Tliere were a number
of invited guests who did not know his churcli,
and who believed, apparently, that they had been
invited to a full-dress party. Moreover, the
original members of the flock, in anticipation of
such an experience, had done what they could to
make their attire festive, and to give a general
air of society life to the entire gathering. The
result was, that in a more marked sense than Pro-
fessor Landis had supposed it possible, his pro-
Ug6 felt out of place and miserable. In sore
disappointment and dismay, this Christian worker
looked about him for an ally. The pastor, on
whom he had hoped to lean, was absorbed with
the younger members of a new family who lived,
he had informed the Professor in hurried under-
tone, in "one of those handsome houses away up

A NKW DKPARTURE.

167

the AveinuN and had been t\vi(!e to church."
Tht'V wore wealtliv and cultivated; by all means
they must be held for the church around the cor-
ner. "Coine and Im; introduced."

I^rolcssor Landis had excused himself on the
plea that a friend was waitincf for him in the
hall, and promised attendamie later; then he had
gone in haste to wheie lien was standing, leaning
drearily against the wall, listlessly watching the
still coming guests, although the hour was al-
ready late enough for him to wonder if he could
not be allowed to slip away. He had done what
he could to make himself smart; there was even a
rose in his button-hole; but his face was uncom-
fortably red, and his very hands looked self-con-
scious. Mr. Edson, who had hurriedly passed that
way but a moment before, had not even recognized
him by a nod; to do the man justice, his igno-
rance was not feigned; he did not remember some
faces well, and no thought of Professor Landis's
frotSuS had entered his mind as he passed the
uncomfortable boy.

"C'ome with mc to the library," said the Pro-
fessor, slipping his hand through Ben's arm; "I
want to sliow you a famous picture which hangs
there. It has a history, and I know you will like
it. I fancy you are fond of stories, are you not ? "

"Pm fond of anything that will take me away
from that corner where I have been leaning until
I have bored a hole in my best coat, I guess. I
say. Professor, haven't T done penance longf

168

WHAT THEY CorLDN T.

-itt

»9

enough? I can be good for some time, perhaps,
if you'll only let me get away from here."

"Ben, I am looking for the coming of some
friends whom I would like to have you meet. I
think they must be here very soon."

"If they aren't," said Ben significantly, "and I
have to wait for tliem, I guess I'll make my plans
to stay to breakfast ; because it's a good deal later
than it was! "

"O Mr. Landis!" called a lady at that moment;
" come here, please ; we need your assistance very
much."

"Go on," said Ben, letting his arm drop. "Til
wait for you in the library. Ko, thank you, I'm
not going into that crowd of women. I'd rather
wait three hours for 3"ou."

Very reluctantly his companion turned from
him. One of the ladies held an open book over
which two others were leaning, and an eager dis-
cussion was evidently being carried on. It did
not seem courteous to ask tliem to wait, and Ben
had already slipped away. The library was ap-
parently deserted, and the lonesome boy dropped
into a chair with a sigh of relief. At least he
was not in the way here ; and there was a chance
for him to get his troublesome feet tucked under
the window drapery; at that moment some one
spoke to l)im, —

" I wonder if this is Mr. Reeder, Professor
Landis's friend?"

"That is my name," he said, springing to his

A NKW m^VAUTVUK

109

feet in astonishment; "and I know Professor
Lai id is."

"Then let us consider ourselves introduced.
I am Miss Cameron, and there is scarcely a per-
son in this house whom I have met l^efoie. I
licanl Professor Laiidis mention you once as a
yoinig friend of Ids, and saw him with you just
now, so I determined to claim acquaintunce."

^huy Cameron's intimate friends would have
been amazed at her "fracious tone and winning
smile. What new departure was this, as unlike
her as possible? Truth to tell, she was some-
what surprised at herself. She had declined the
iiivitatior to the social when first given, hut
after consideration had suddenly resolved to go.
If they must live in this part of this city, it
would certainly be well to have some speaking
acquaintances. She had exchanged calls with
the daughters of the hostess and knew them to be
unexceptionable; she had not been out in com-
pany for several weeks, and was bored with the
common-places and wearinesses of her life. Lucia
was housed at home with toothache, and felt
unamiable and sellish; and Aunt Eunice was
always in the sitting-room evenings. To escai)e
anywhere would be a relief. With no better
nioti'^es than these, she had come to the church
social. Her dress was severely plain, and sim-
l>licitv itself. She had hv no means chosen her
hest attire. Her idea of the congregation on
Smith Street was, that *it was crowded with

170

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

fl^

common peoj)le; and altliougli the Kinkaids had
opened their lionse for tlie evening to entertain
them, of eonrse the people wonhl remain com-
mon. It was embarrassing, and in a sense dis-
ap})ointing, to find lierself mistaken.

Mr. Edson was apparently right abont the elass
of people whom he was drawing to his church.
These were eeitainly well-bred, and, if they had
not been too nuuh drc^ssed for a church gather-
ing, would liave commended themselves to Mary
Cameron as cultured. They had not, however,
tlie best culture. They seemed to be well ac-
quainted, to enjoy one another's society, and to
give exceedingly small attention to strangers.
The lesult had been that Miss Can\eron felt
more alone than she had ever been before. She
had not even met Professor Landis yet. It was
perhaps the feeling of loneliness which gave her
a sudden sense of sym})atliy with Ben Reeder.

Moreover, she had not forgotten Professor Laii-
dis's appeal to her for help, lieing a new experi-
ence, it made a deep impression. Help of that
sort, at least, had never before been asked of her.
During the time which had intervened since her
conversation vith Professor Landis, Mary Cam-
eron had done much thinking. Tlie shadow of
disgrace which she could not help feeling had
fallen upon them, through the action of her
brothers, liad maile her shrink from the company
of her acquaintances, and spend most of her time
alone. She was haunted by the fear that people,

A NEW DRPAnTtlRE.

171

old acquaintances of Rod and Mac, had heard.
of their act. Such stories, she believed, always
leaked out somehow, and weie always exagger-
ated. What if they were discussing lier brothers
and blaming them, and commiserating the family,
and wondering whether the bill conld be paid by
tlie already overburdened father, and wondeiing
if there would be more bills of a like nature in
the future? In these and a dozen oilier ways she
liad tormented herself.

Her father and mother, after the first outburst
of misery, seemed to have settled down to face
the inevitable. What had been written to the
boys, Mary did not know; nor did she understand
how her father had managed the .bill.

It was paid, he assured her; Imt he had not
chosen to be more explicit, and had looked so
worn and burdened that she had not liked to ques-
thiiu Thereafter, by common consent the subject
luul been dropped. Lucia knew nothing of what
had occurred, nor, of course, did Emilie. Mary
rejoiced over this fai't, but all the more felt the
necessity of doing her brooding in secret. It was
all these things which helped her to remember
Hen Reedei". Professor Landis was looking out
for him, trying in all ways to help him. If a
good and true man, such as the professor evidently
was, liad interested himself for her brothers, would
tliey have been different young men from what
they now were ? Not that they were in any sense
•^n a level with Ren Reeder; she could not help

:|M:

172

WHAT THKV rori.DN T.

lllpifliij

nil

nlV

■'•fit

iin

iimiii

:Ji

curling her lip even in the privrtj^y of her own
room over such an idea — tiie hoys were splendid
fellows; hut then, there nrj-e young men \\\\o
wouhl not have done wliat they had, who Mcie
superior in many ways to them. Slie admiited it
to herself"; slie wouhl not lia\e home a hint of
it from another. Professcn* I^andis iiad said that
hoys could he liel[)ed hy women older tlian tiitMii-
selves. SIk! east ahout tlieir cinde of acquaint-
ances to see if theie was one woman uho li;td
possihly heen lielpful to lier hrotliers, and .smiKd
in a sarcastic way at tlie tliouglit. Tliere wcic
nund)erless vonno- women, some of them oldt r
than tlie l)oyK, who liad heen g];id, aj)])aiently. to
receive tlieir i»..ttcntions, to ]iid[) tliem spend money
for concert and h^cture tickets, Jiml creams ;ii d
caramels, and wliat not — hut as for helping tlu ml
Well, why ^. »uld she hlame them? She Imd
never helped anyl)ody either; and she had attended
many lectures and panics with young men. Still,
she had never been among those women wlio
sought friendships with persons younger than
themselves. Perhaps if she had, she might hnve
accomplished a little good in the world. Sonie-
w\\At to this young woman's bewilderment she
found herself at times yearning to accomplish
good. When had she ever thought of such thiiiti'^
bcfoie? Possihly you understand the subtle niix-
ture of motives v.hich m;ide her suddenly icsolve
to inti'odiice lu>rs(di to yoUie Kfed'M ? !t w;is a
sndilcn jcsnlvc, Nothi:!;' ii id hbc:\ iiuthcr frniii

A NKW DKI'AinrilE.

173

lier thoughts until she saw him dropping into the
library chair in a hewihlered attitude, having l)een
aji|)arently deserted by his one friend.

Her friendly way of introducing hei'self had
been different from Ben's former experience with
city ladies, and made him feel on familiar terms.
He resolved to be entirely frank with her.

"I want to get out of this awfully," he said.
"It is nothing hut a horiid bore. If you are
a friend of Professor Landis, I wish you could
coax him to let me alone. I mean about such
places. He does it for my good, you know; but
upon my word it will be bid for me. li I have
to go to many more of them to please him, I
think I shall go hang myself, to be rid of it all."

She laughed amusedly. She had never heard
a society young man go on in this wry. "Don't
you like church socials?" she asked.

"I hate 'em!" said Ben with energy, feeling
an immense sense of relief in being able to give
vent to his feelinjrs. '"" I hate this one the worst
of all. They haven't liad eating in the others,
but they have even added that horror to this one."

Miss Cameron laughed again, in genuine mer-
riment. "What is your objection to eating?"
she asked. "I thought young men were always
ready for refreshment of that sort."

He shook his head with a serio-comic air.
"Not in such places. If they had some of
mother's doughnuts give a fellow, and her
and the girls to wait on him, why then" — his

:il

174

WHAT THEY COULDX T.

voice choked in spite of himself, and he came
to a sudden halt, while a mist gathered in liis
eyes. A moment hefore he would have scoffed
at the idea of his being homesick, but the
mention of his mother's doughnuts had been
too much. Miss Cameron was interested and
touched. She had not known that boys away
from home felt like that.

"There is nothing here half so good as your
mother's doughnuts, of course," she said gently,
more gentry than some people knew she could
speak; "but the coffee is very nice, and there are
some dainty little cakes which fairly melt in
one's moutli. You must be sure to try them
before you go."

He shook his head. "It isn't the tliirujii^'''
he said, speaking disdainfully as one who re-
sented both his own weakness and the idea that
this woman should suppose that he cared only
for doughnuts, "it's the everlasting style they
put on ; the not knowing whether it is the ))ig
spoon or the little spoon you must use, or whether
you ought to let them both alone and take the
coffee with your fork! and whether you must
swallow things when you hate 'em, because every-
body else is doing it ; and whether you lake
two kinds of things or only one. You see, the
whole jumble is what bothers me."

It was partly fun now ; he saw that he was amus-
ing her, but that it was sympathetic amusement.
In truth, she was very sympathetic. She knew

I • :
I

A NEW I)i:i»ai:tl'iik.

1 ^ *

all about spoo^is and forks, and the small conven-
tionalities of society life; but could slie foig-ot
how great had been her embarrassment over the
absence of many of these society extras on the
day that hateful luncheon was served?

"The array must be bewildering," she said
cheerily, "to one who has lived a pleasant home
life heretofore, and is just beginning to belong
to the big world; but, after all, it is very easily
managed after a little experience. Suppose you
take me out to the refreshment room, and let
me pilot you through its mysterie:^. I want you
to try those little cakf s, and I promise to explain
just how many may be eaten at once." Her eyes
were dancing with amusement; but all the time
there was that note of cordial friendliness in her
voice, born of an honest desire in her heart to
he useful to this country youth.

Ben Reeder was quick to feel the difference
between her manner and the cold and formal civil-
ities he had heretofore received from the women
who belonged to this new world. Professor Lan-
(lis's words about having independence enongh to
take help where help was offered, also came to aid
him, and he surprised himself by frankly accept-
ing the suggestion. Fifteen minutes later, Pro-
fessor Landis, having escaped fioni the young
ladies with inquiring minds, was seeking every-
where for his protSijS^ in distress lest he had
escaped and sought tlie Sniitli boys after all. Ife
came upon him at last, to his utter astonishment.

IL j if ". ■

170

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

ill the loom vvliere refreshments were being
infornuilly served. He was hohling a cup of
cliocohite, but giving amused attention to liis
companion, who was apparently describing some-
thing in an animated way; and the i)rofessoi"s
astonishment was no whit abated to discover tlmt
the speaker was Miss Cameron.

"1 cannot tell you how much I thank you," lie
said to her nearly an hour later, when Ben had at
last been permitted to take his departure. His
eyes had been bright with interest when he ciiiiuj
to say good-night, and his words had been hearty.
"Upon my woid and honor, Professor, I've ac-
tually had a good time. That I should live to
confess it! That woman is tip-top. She puts me
awfully in mind of my sister Sarah ; that is, I
think she is some like what Sarah would have
been if she had had clianees, you know; church
socials and that sort o'' thing." His gray eyes
twinkled with fun. *'You know what I mean,
don't you ? It seems as though she was like (»iir
kind of folks that had been with the other kind
long enough to lea^'ii all they knew, and yet
hadn't forgott^iii h •!' conmion sense. The way
she put me through out there at the supper-room
was a cnution! I knov/ which fork is which, Pro-
fessor, and spoons too. They can't stump nic
with them again. "

"When did you meet forks and spoons under
formidable circinnstances? " asked Professor Lan-
dis, with a laugli almost as hearty as Ben's own.

A NEW DEPAIITUIIE.

177

"Why, thiit littlo DarliujTtou fellow that you
introduced ine to tried to take me up and
couhhi't. He had nie go home with liim to din-
ner one night. It was raining cats and dogs; and
I had to wait for a package to take back to tlie
office, or I wouldn't liave done it; and I got all
tangled up among the forks and spoons and things,
and ids face got red as a beet because I used the
wrong ones, and his little sister laughed outright.
I've been afraid of 'em ever since--the forks and
spoons, I mean ; and six or eight different kinds
of Ma[)kins; but she straightened them out. I say,
Professor, why haven't you given me a chance
witli her kind of folks before?"

No wonder the Professor was grateful. And to
think tliat it should liave been Miss Cameron!
lie was a good deal bewildered. Had his entire
estimate of the girl been at fault, or was slie phiy-
ing a part? If she was, it liad certainly been tk
very kind, friendly pint, and had put Ben more
at his ease than he had ever Heen him. He won-
dered whether it would do to tell lier about the
"sister Sarah," and "our kind of folks," and de-
cided that it would not. But the voice was very
pleasant in which he said, "I cannot tell you how
much I thank you. You have given my boy a
pleasant iiour to-night; and it was just when I was
at my wits' end how to liold him longer, though
there were special reasons why he ought to be
held. You have done a very kind thing to-night,
Miss Cameron.'*

178

WHAT TIIKV <(U LI»N T.

He could not l>e nmn* siir[>!i,siMl tluiii «Iit' was
with herself. WJiy liad Hcii inteiesled her so
much? He was a new ('X{>eiienc(? in every way.
A bright, merry lK)y, who liad evidently looked
up to her with admiration as to a superior heiiiir,
and been ready to follow her lead, yet he had Ikcii
as original and entertaining as any one she had
ever met. If that was the way to '^do good,** she
was sure she did not objei^t to doing it.

There Avas nothing t(» thank h<'r for, she l(d(l
Professor I..andis. The hour sh(» ha<l spent with
his protege had heeti the pleasantest one of the
evening. His efM'entricitics had amused her.

"He is a good-hearted hoy," vs'lje said, her face
softening at thought of some of liis half-iiieriy,
half-serious, and wholly tender words about his
mother. 'Mt is only the exterior that needs pol-
ish. He is coming to call upon me, Professor
Landis. I have promised to ])hiv some jjieees for
him which he used to sing for his mother, and a
new one that he is learning t(j surprise her when
he goes home. '*

And Professor Landis, who had really taken
this boy to his heart, and troubled over liini m^ne
than he himself realized, felt such a sudden sense
of relief at the thought of this home opening to
him, that he could not help putting intense feel-
ing into his words, as he said, "God bless you.
Miss Cameron."

It was certainly pleasant to discover one's self
to be of use.

**A G001> FELLOW IN EVKItV WAV.'

179

CHAPTER Xlir.

"a good fellow in evkky way."

THERE were otlier experiences connected
with that eventful social which need to be
clm»iiicled. It was after Ren Reeder had de-
departed, and Mr. Landis was wondering wliether
he could be spared to do likewise, that he was
wiulaid in the hall by a new acquaintance.

*'I say, Landis," said Mr. Kennedy, seizing his
arm familiarly, ^*I want an introduction to the
lady with whom you were just speaking. I have
noticed her several times this evening, and asked
two others to oblige me, but they were not ac-
quainted with her."

Mr. Landis hesitated, and there was a slight
trace of embarrassment in his manner. *'^I will
ask if I may do so," he replied at last. "She
is not an intimate acquaintance, and I am not
privileged to take liberties." Then he passed
on quickly, unable to overcome a feeling of an-
noyance. He had met Mr. Kennedy but once
before, and had not been prepossessed by his
manner. Why, it would perhaps have been
difficult to explain. He was not accustomed to

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180

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

i'i

people who addressed him as "Landis," or who
seized hold of him in that off-hand manner ; but
these were certainly not reasons on which to
base any opinion of character. Still, he tried to
be conscientiously careful of his introductions.
There were responsibilities enough without as-
suming such as these; but when one was asked
— he sought his host {ind questioned.

"Kennedy? Oh, he is a fine fellow, a nephew
of Dr. Eustis Kennedy on Boulevard Avenue.
He is on here from New York on business for
his firm. A good fellow in every way, I pre-
sume."

Mr. Landis came slowly back in search of Miss
Cameron. "\ou will remember I do not vouch
for him, Miss Cameron. He is an entire stranger
to me, but he asked for an introduction."

Mary Cameron smiled coldly. He seemed to
her unnecessarily particular. She did not be-
lieve in treating people as suspicious characters
until they could prove the contrary.

Mr. Kennedy was evidently pleased with liis
acquaintance. He devoted himself to her during
the remainder of the evening, up to the moment
when she disappeared within the dressing-room
to make ready for her waiting father. During
this time he had asked and received gracious
permission to call at the Cameron home. Miss
Cameron being more suave than usual, in order
to mark to herself her disapproval of Professor
Landis 's evident coldness of manner. " He wants

"A GOOD FELLOW IN EVEUV WAY." 181

his boy Ben patronized in every possible way,"
she told herself; "but when one comes wlio is on
the same level in society with ourselves, he must
needs explain who is his grandfather, and how
far back the family can be traced before one
may be friendly with him I" Nor did it atone
for his cautiou, to realize what her conscience told
her, that it was cliaracter and not position which
Professor Landis required in liis friends. Of
wliat use to be painfully particular, even about
that? VVliy inquire into one's exact past, root
out every little fault and failing, a-id make them
an excuse for withliolding one's friendshii)? She
felt sure that Professor Landis would be just
that sort of man, and she resented it. Poor Mary
Cameron was sore-hearted about character in these
days. It was something new to have to wince
over the possible staijis in the Cameron name.

The Christmas holidays had come and gone,
and her brothers had spent them away from home
for the first time in their lives. No one but the
father knew just what sort of a letter was sent
them, but, whatever it was, they had resented it;
had written loftily, that is, McLoyd had; the
younger brother did not write at all. He had
assured his father that he was not aware that
he had committed so heinous an oflFence. Other
boys, his classmates in college, shopped on their
father's name whenever they chose, and their
accounts were always honored, and no questions
asked. They had been very careful, he and

!• 1

\in

i v t

182

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

Rod, had gone without many things which to
othere in their set were considered necessities,
in order to save their father fror. unnecessary
expense, but they certainly had not understood
that they were expected to go without clothes I
Perhaps they would better both leave college
without more ado, and get positions as day labor-
ers or something of the sort, if their father really
could not afford to let them appear like others.
As for coming home for the vacation, since they
had apparently so disgraced themselves and the
entire family, it was not probable that anybody
would want to see them. They both had invi-
tations to spend the holidays with classmates,
and had decided, in view of the last letter they
had received, to accept them.

Over this letter Mi-s. Cameron had shed bitter
teara. Her boys were her idols. To live through
Christmas and New Year without them seemed
more than her much-enduring heart could bear.
She blamed her husband with bitterness. She
told him it was no wonder the boys felt as they
did, after the letter he had probably written.
She gave no heed, or at least apparently no
credence, to his earnest attempt at explanation.
He had not written bitterly, lie assured her.
He had spoken of their act as it deserved, spoken
truthfully; he did not dare do otherwise; but
he had told them that he did not believe thev
would have done it had they stopped to think,
and that he forgave them, and would pay the

"A GOOD FELLOW IN EVERY WAY." 183

i :

bill, and never, of course, let any outsider know
it was contracted without his consent.

"Oh, yes! " she had replied, *'you spoke 'truth-
fully, ' no doubt I You made them angry with
vour cold, hard truths, and vou have driven them
from you and from their mother. If they go
wrong now, you will have youi-self to thank."

Some of this talk had been in Mary's presence.
Mi's. Cameron having so far forgotten herself
as to ignore it. The result had been curious.
Mary, tlie only one of the girls who had been
made acquainted with the real reason for the
boys' absence during the holidays, had found
her sympathies being drawn in two opposite di-
rections. There were times when she felt that
her father had done just right. Who would
speak plainly to the boys if he did not? Of
course they ought to be reproved, and sharply,
for taking mattei*s into their own hands in that
way. It was absurd to say that they had done
it thoughtlessly. Whatever thoughtlessness any
of the Cameron family might be guilty of, surely
tliere was no excuse for their spending money
without due consideration! It had never been
plentiful enough, at least since they children
were grown, to warrant any such proceeding.
This she said very distinctly to her mother,
calling forth a buret of tears, and the statement
that the boys never had any help or comfort in
their sisters. She did not know how it was,
some brothers leaned nnon their elder j^istors

\ I

if}'""'

EM ,

ii ? i

!'"'

184

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

and were guided by them, but ber girls were
more interested in other people's brothers. Tliis
was hard, and she did not mean it. She was sure
that the brothers were tenderly loverl, and slie did
not understand enough of what their sistei*s miglit
have dong to intelligently reproach them ; yet tlje
accusation stung. Mary was beginning to real-
ize that there was truth in it. She did not admit
it, however, to her mother, but replied with cold
dignity; after which each went to her own room
and was miserable. But there were other times
when, in the bitterness of lier disappointment at
not having the boys at home for the holidays as
usual, Mary blamed her father and let him know
that she did.

"You are mistaken, Mary," he said to her one
day, "in supposing that I was severe with the
boys — tas I see you do. I could not tell tliem
other than the truth. You would hardly liave had
me commend them for their act, I suppose; but
I assured them that if the thing never occurred
again, it should be forgiven and forgotten, and
that I would pa}-- the bill just as soon as I could."

"I scarcely see how you could have said more,"
was her hard reply. " Fathers forgive and forget
even grave crimes, do they not? At least, we
Ti'nd in books about the infinite patience and for-
iliveness of good fathei*s, and to use the same
language to the boys as you would had they
been guilty of forgery, or something equally
dreadful, must have been hard to bear."

"A GOOD FELLOW IN EVERY WAY.

»i

185

Then the father had sighed and turned away,
feeling that tliere was no sympathy for him any-
where; and he questioned with himself as to
whether his standard of morals was too high for
this present world. Then Mary, in her efforts to
make amends to her mother for the lack of sym-
pathy she had shown^ and the words which ought
not to have been sjoken, essayed, the next time
they met, to comfort her by regretting in unspar-
ing terms the letter which had kept the boys
away. If father had let one of them write, in-
stead, all would have been well. Men do not
know how to deal with such things. She won-
dered at father for not knowing that the boys
would have been much better managed by their
mother. Whereupon Mary, in her turn, was dis-
mayed and vexed to be answered coldly to the ef-
fect that her father probably knew what was best
to he done without asking advice from hi° chil-
dren. He had always been a good and self-sac-
rificing father, she was sure. There could be no
reason why his children should suppose that he
had suddenly failed them. As to writing a
hai-sh letter to the boys, she had never believed
that he did. Harshness was foreign to his na-
ture, and Mary would oblige her by not adding
to her burdens at this time by censuring him.

Perhaps it is not to be wondered at, in the
midst of all these conflicting views that Mary
was bewildered and sore-hearted, and at times
more unreasonable than ever before. It was

ill

;:f ;

I t

t i If '^

i 1

; I

186

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

the restlessness which had grown out of this
state of things which helped to send her to the
ehurch social; and it was a curious desire to
experiment arrd learn whether cheie was really
anything which she could do to lielp a boy,
tiiat liad led her to introduce herself to Ben
Reeder. Perhaps there was never a girl more
ready to he. influenced, either for good or ill,
than was Mary Cameron just at this time. But
for Lucia's and Emilie's unfortunate teasing
in connection with Professor Lnndis, she would
have allowed herseK to enjoy his society and be
influenced by his words; but the feeling that
Emilie at least was on the alert, and would be
likely to watch for ways to amuse her young
friends at their expense, held this self-conscious
woman from the help of which she was in such
need. If thoughtless girls could only in some
way be made to realize the mischief which their
tongues may do in the name of "mere fun,"
what a blessing it would be to the world.

Mr. Kennedy was a different type of man from
any who had heretofore crossed Miss Cameron's
path. Lucia had more than one gentleman ac-
quaintance who pleased themselves while with
her by little special attentions, and sudden
graceful turns in their sentences calculated to
impress her with the fact that she was more
interesting to them than was any other human
being; and Lucia accepted these gayly, for what
they were worth, and knew too little about the

Ill

"A GOOD FELLOW IN EVEPvY WAY.'

187

truest refinement to understand that she there-
by brushed some of the bloom from her life's
fruitage. But Mary's innate sense of honesty
had instinctively repelled all such friendships.
Most people were apt, when with her, to ex-
press only what they meant. Either Mr. Ken-
r^dy was an exception, or he meant a great deal
for a new acquaintance. Mary Cameron, who
was, as has been said, sore-hearted, and half afraid
of her friends, welcomed this new peculiarl}''
deferential manner as something unusually pleas-
ant. When Mr. Kennedy called, which he did as
solU as propriety allowed, the good impression
which he had made was deepened. He was
certainly very agreeable, and more gentlemanly,
Emilie declared, than any man she had ever
seen, except Professor Landis. Mr. Cameron, who
mrely commented upon the guests it his house,
said that the young man had a head on his shoul-
ders, and probably knew how to use it; he was
connected with a leading business firm in New
York.

" Dear me ! " said Emilie, " I wish he would fall
desperately in love with me, and ask me to elope
with him. It would be so nice to get a little
money into this family. I shouldn't much care
how it came, so that we got it."

"Why need you elope?" asked Lucia. "If
you could only bring the first mentioned wish
to pass, couldn't the rest be carried out in a re-
spectable manner, befitting the Cameron grand"

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WHAT THKV OorLDN T.

"Oh, I don't know! " lan^lifd Emilie. "I.siip-
pose there would be some hotliersoiiie hindinm'e
about my l)eing too voung to know my own mind,
and all that sort of thing. Hut I'm not, I cmii
assure you. My mind is to have money, nil I
want for myself, and plenty to wjuire for all ihe
rust of you; and as I said befoie, I am not oai-
ticulnr how I get it. 1 would even allow a lnis-
baiid to be thrown in, if theie were no other May,"

"In my day," said Aunt Kunice sevtMvly,
"gills hardly into their teens ditl not jest about
love and marriage and matters of that kind.
They had too nuich self-respect."

Emilie giggle<l. "I did not say a word abcmt
love," she declared; "it was rnone// and marriage,
Aunt Eunice. And you may <le[)end upon it
that if I find, upon diligent inquiry, that Mr.
Kennedy has plenty of money, I'll do my best
to coax Inm to decide for one of us. I don't
particularly care whicli one, so that it is in the
family."

It seemed not worth while to anybody but Aunt
^ Eunice to make any reply to such bare-faced non-
sense; but she coitinued the argument, if r,rgu-
ment it could be called, provoking by her very
gravity more daring nonsense still from the gi<1dy
girl, who finally verged so near the impudent that
her mother had to silence her. Mary, however,
remembered and thought seriously over one or two
of her sister's sentences. Montn' was what llie
familv sorelv needed. Her father's air of settled

"A GOOD FELLOW IN EVERY WAY.'

189

anxiety, and her mother's alternate fit« of mehui-
clu>ly and nervous unrest, emphasized this thouglit
daily. Retrenchment was, more than ever before,
the order of the household. Emilie's expensive
inusicj lessons had at last been given up, to her
great delight; and even the dancing lessons were
threatened, but the child was so miserable over
yielding those that her mother had not the heart
to insist. Slie economized in whatever ways she
could, or thought she did; but to a student of
even ordinary economy the number of daily leaks
which were allowed by these people, who did
not know how to economize, would have been
amusing if it had not been pitiful. Mary, as
she went over in her weary mind the condition
of things, admitted with Emilie that a wealthy
marriage to a good, careless man, who would
be v.^illing to lavish much money on his wife,
and care little as to what became of it, would
be a great blessing to the family. And if this
Mr. Kennedy was — she broke off there to say
to herself indignantly that of course no respec-
table girl would marry for money; but then, he
was very pleasant, all the family liked him,
and if he really cared for one, what would prevent
one's learning to be quite fond of him?

As the days passed, there grew to be more
occasion for thought of this character; for it
began to be increasingly apparent that Mr. Ken-
nedy earedf and for Mary Cameron herself. His
attentions, which were at first distributed with

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190

WHAT THKV (-'OL'LDN T.

great cordiality among the entire family circle,
not excepting Aunt Eunice, gradually centred
80 much, that Emilie began to 8ay with an air
of great apparent relief, —

"I do believe it is to be a rich brother-in-law
instead of a husband! How nice! I shall like it
ever so much better. They always give candies
and things to young sisters-in-law. I've read
that in books ever so many times; and those he
gave me last night were delicious, Huyler's very
own. I was the envy of half the girla in school
to-day on account of them."

For some reason not understood by hei-self,
Mary was not disturbed by all this. She made
no attempt to check Emilie's exuberant satis-
faction; and to her frequent reference to Mr.
Kennedy's propensity for bringing her candies,
made ^*o other comment than that, if she ever
should be in a position to bestow gifts, she should
remember how easily Emilie's tastes were satis-
fied.

Nor did she, amid all these pressing possibilities
of her life, forget the boy whose gratitude she
had won at the social. At last Ben Reeder sum-
moned courage to make the call which, somewhat
to his astonishment, he had promised. He found
Mary at home, in the family sitting-room, which
was in fact the back parlor; and because the
piano was there she determined to entertain her
caller in the presence of the entire family. Ben
was at first much dismayed at meeting not one,

A 'JOOD FKM.ONV IN KVEUY WAY

191

I I

but five ladies; and Mary exerted herself to the
utmost to make liiiii feel at ease. Lucia, at an
utter loss as to why he had come, was interested
ill his frank, boyish face, and seconded Mary's
efforts. The result wivs that Ben laid aside his
enibarrassment, and before the evening was over
showed his bright, fun-loving spirit and his
genial good sense to such advantage that one
and all declared after he had gone that he was
really very pleasant and bright, if he was a coun-
try boy.

" He reminds me of a boy I used to know, ever
80 far back, when I wtvs a boy myself," said Mr.
Cameron, with a pathetic little sigh which was
apt to accompany any reference to his early life.
"Where did you pick him up, Mary?"

"He was at the church social which was held
at the Kinkaids', you remember. The piistor of
the church is interested in him, I believe, and
wanted to help him through the dangers of city
life. I promised to play his songs for him if
he would call. He has a pleasf*nt voice, has he
not? He would really' make an excellent singer
if his voice could be cultivated."

She hurried over the explanation. There was
in her mind an unaccountable aversion to men-
tioning Professor Landis in connection with Ben.
Of course it was the pastor of the church who
was mainly interested, she told herself; pastors
always were. It was probably he who had set Pro-
fessor Landis on the boy's track. How else would

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WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

a teacher come in contact with a boy who was a
clerk in a store, and had never been to anything
but a district school ? At all events, she was not
going to set F2milie off with some of hor non;L>^nse
by admitting that Professor Landis had asked her
to be kind to Ben. No comment was made on
her explanation, save by Emilie.

"I think l)etter of that Mr. Edson if he has
really taken time to think of a boy from the
country," she said complacently. "I didn't
suppose he ever brought his lofty mind down
to such trifles."

"Why, Emilie," said her father, a little amused,
as he always was by this youngest daughter's
comments, " what do you know of Mr. Edson ? "

"Not much, father; and I can't say that*I want
to. He seems ; well — »tuek up — there ^.o no
other words that will express it. I was in Har-
tenburg's the other; night when he came in with
Miss Kinkaid. They stopped at the notion
counter, where I stood talking with Nellie Evans.
He chattered away to Miss Kinkaid like a magpie,
and never even noticed Nellie, though she is a
member of his church. After they had gone out
I asked her if that wasn't her pastor, and if slie
hadn't been introduced to him. Oh, yes, she
said, she had been introduced five or six times.
Somebody was always introducing them; but he
never remembered her for all that, unless he hap-
pened to see her in the Bible-class. I shouldn't
like such a minister, father. Nellie Evans is as

«t

A GOOD FELLOW IX EVEIlY WAY.

193

good as Miss Kinkaid, if she does have to sell
crimpers and things to her behind Haitenburg's
counter.""

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Cameron, feeling that
she ought to apologize for a minister, "a young
man like him cannot be expected to remember all
that swarm of young people, without years of
practice. "

But Emilie nodded her head sagely as she said,
"I'll venture this yard of crochet that he remem-
bers Miss Kinkaid wherever he sees her."

And Mary, a heightened color on her cheeks,
wondered if he really was interested in Ben
Reeder, and whether she had been quite as oruth-
ful as usual.

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WHAT THKV CtULDN T.

CHAPTER XIV.

A NEW GAME.

m 4i

NOT only Mr. Kennedy, but Ben Reeder, came
again. They met one evening in the Cam-
eron back parlor. Ben had arrived first, and was
domiciled with the family, having a good time,
when Mr. Kennedy was announced.

" May I not join the circle ? " he asked, as the
parted curtains revealed Emilie in the act of ini-
tiating Ben into the mysteries of Halma. "It
looks very homelike in that room."

They made a place for him around the centre
table. Ideas of economy had drawn tliis family
closer tosfether than had been their habit of late
years. The winter was a cold one; and the fur-
nace, after the manner of those eccentric crea-
tures, frequently chose the back parlor as the
room into which it delighted to pour its heat;
therefore the back parlor was by common consent
chosen for the family room. Then, one drop-light
could be made to do for several things, and Mre.
Cameron fell into the habit of bringing her work
10 it. It was Mr. Cameron's custom to give his
evenings to the daily papere. Often, of late, he
brought pencil and paper instead, and figured

A NEW GAME.

195

over weury lines of figures, apparently in a hope-
less effort to make their sum less. The girls
chose the room because their own was cold ; and,
having nothing in particular to do, they toyed with
bits of fancy work, and lejoiced when the bell an-
nounced a possible relief. Even Ben Reeder had
been welcomed with smiles. He was bright and
good-natured, and brought news sometimes from
a part of the world about which they knew little,
and over which Emilie, at least, was curious.

On the evening in question, the entire family
was present; Aunt Eunice with her intermin-
able knitting, Lucia trifling over her crochet, and
Emilie, whose books had been dropped that she
might instruct Ben in the game. Mr. Cameron
had his columns of figures, but put them aside
when Mr. Kennedy was announced, and wel-
comed him with a look of relief.

With a heightened color on Mary's part, but a
resolute air, Ben was introduced. Of course Mr.
Kennedy would wonder how a boy like him came
to be at home in their circle, but it could not be
' helped. She would not copy what she despised
in others, and ignore him. Apparently there was
no need to worry over the result. Mr. Kennedy
aiJcepted Ben without a questioning glance, and
included him in the conversation. A little later,
when Mary wiis at the piano, and Mr. Kennedy
had been turning the music, she took occasion to
give the explanation which she thought Avas due.

''Our young guest is new to city life and ways.

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WHAT THEY COULDN T.

Mr. Kennedy, as I suppose you have observed.
The truth is, he is a homeeick boy who has few
friends worthy of the name, and some enemies in
tlie guise of friends.''

"And you are trying to supply him with tlie
one, and hold him from the other? I under-
stand," said Mr. Kennedy, with a lighting up of
his handsome face. " That is certainly kind, and
is the sort of thoughtfulness which I should ex-
pect, especially from you. I appreciate it more
than you think, perhaps. I was a homeless boy
mysv^lf once."

Then Miss Cameron's truthfulness came to her
aid. At least she could not listen to commenda-
tions which were not her due.

"You give me too much credit, Mr. Kennedy.
I am quite new at any such attempt, and should
never have thought of it had it not been sug-
gested to me by another person."

He lauglied lightly. " You have not a very true
estimate of yourself, I think. I have observed it
before. However, it is a failing so rare that one
is tempted to admire rather than quarrel with it.
I like your boy's face. It will give me pleasure
to second your efforts in any way that I can."

Evidently this was not mere words. They
went back, presently, to the circle around the
table; and Mr. Kennedy drew his chair near to
the players, and supplemented Emilie's careless
teaching, devoting himself to the side of the
learner with such skill that Ben was the winner.

ill

A NEW GAME.

197

" If you are fond of games," he said, while Ben
was rejoicing over his victory, "come and see me
some evening, and I will put you in the way of
having one which is even more interesting than
Halraa."

" What is it? '* Emilie asked, jealous for her
favorite ; but Mr. Kennedy's attention had already
been called elsewhere, and he did not hear the
question.

After that evening the friendship between Mr.
Kennedy and Mary Cameron made rapid progress.
On some pretext or other he managed to be with
her a part at least of every evening. He took her
to choice concerts and lectures. He took her, one
moonlight evening, on a wonderful sleighride, be-
hind two swift-flying ponies; he took her to the
Art Gallery to examine a certain rare picture
which they forgot to examine, so absorbed did
they become in each other's society. It was but
the evening before Mr. Kennedy must return to
New York, and he did not know when it would
be his privilege to visit her city again, he told her.
In fact, it depended upon her entirely whether he
should ever care to come again. After that, how
could thfey remember the picture ? They were late
ill fretting home, and Mrs. Cameron herself opened
the door to them.

'^0 mother! are you still up?" asked Mary,
and something in the tone of her voice made her
mother turn and look closely Jit her.

"Is Mr. Cameron up also?" asked Mr. Ken*

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198

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

riedy eagerly. " Is he in the back parlor ? Then
may I not go in at once and have a few minutes
with him? Consider, Mary, how little time there
will be to-morrow."

He gave himself consent, being apparently too
eager to wait for a demur; and Mrs. Cameron
wondering, yet understanding, followed Mary into
the dining-room, whither she had escaped.

"O mother!" she said, her cheeks aglow, "he
does rush things so^ What made you let him
talk to father to-night?"

" He did not wait for my permission. What is
it that he wants, daughter?"

"O mother! don't you know? And yet it is
all so sudden I do not wonder at your question."

"I understand," said Mrs. Cameron, all the
mother in her heart coming into eyes and voice.
" Oh, it is not so sudden to me. T have seen for
days that he meant to get my girl away from mv,
if he could. I am only half glad, Mary. I do not
know that a mother could be expected to be more.
It is in the nature of things, of course; but you
are the oldest, you know — it will be the first
break. Mary, you are sure you are doing what
is the best for your happiness?"

"O mother! I am not sure of anything. It
is sudden to me. He took me by surprise. I
thought he liked me, a little ; but one can never
tell. I have thought" — she came to a sudden
pause, the color flaming over her face. She had
almost said, "I have thought so before of one

A NEW GAME.

199

other person, and it meant nothing." Why sliould
she think of Russell Denham now ? Assuredly
she did not want to call him to the remembrance
of lier mother. She went U[)-stairs in a fever of
excitement; refusing to wait and see Mr. Ken-
nedy again as Mrs. Cameron suggested ; refus-
ing to give her motlier any more words.

" Tell liim I had to go to my room," she said,
pausing half way up the stiiirs in answer to the
appeal for a message, at least, for Mr. Kennedy.
" I will see him in the morning at whatever hour
he can come. I could not wait to-night, it is
so late. Mother I can't ; I don" t want to see him
again ; 1 want to think."

" Think ! " repeated Mrs. Cameron with a trou-
bled look. "It seems to me that the thinking
should have come before." But she spoke to her-
self ; Mary had fled.

Tlie next day the entire Cameron family were
in a state of subdued excitement. Indeed, on
Emilie's part, the word *' subdued " does not ap-
ply. She was wild with delight. " The very
brother-in-law I would have selected from the
whole United States, I do believe," she declared.
" I used to think I liked Professor Landis bet-
ter than any other gentleman, and 1 think I do
yet; but I am saving him for myself, and Mr.-
Kennedy comes next. Such jolly times as he
will give me when he is once married and set-
tled down I I do hope, Mary, you are not go-
ing to keep him waiting long. You can't. Long

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200

WHAT THEY COULDN*T.

engagements are gone entirely out. It is the
style now to be married within a very few montlis
after the formal announcement is made. When
will it be, Mary?"

"I haven't the least idea," said Mary with
composure. ' vVhat a ridiculous child you are,
Emilie ! I don't believe you will ever grow
up.

"Oh, yes I shall. I shall blossom into young
ladyhood now in a night. I shall have to, to
keep Lucia company. What is the good of being
a young lady when there is no chance for fun?
Now 1 shall have a rich sister to visit; and slie
can make parties and things for me, and dress
me to fit the occasions. Won't it be jolly ? "

Amid the laughter that the girl's manner more
than her words called fortli, Lucia said : *' I think
that the prospective brother-in-law ought to be
warned. If he were a millionaire he would hardly
be equal to the demand which you could make.
How do you know you are to have a rich sister? "

"Why, of course I am. Mr. Kennedy is a
nephew of the Kennedy tribe, and they are all
as rich as Jews. He is a member of their firm,
and so of couree he has lots of money. That is
the only drawback to Professor Landis. Pro-
• fessors are always poor, aren't they? They are
in lK)oks — ' poor but leained ' you know. I don't
know how I'll manage that, for I always thouglit
I should never marry a poor man. Mary, you
will have a carriage right away, won't you? and

A NEW GAME.

201

ponies, and a coachman? I always thought a
coacliman belonging to a family would be the
heiglit of bliss. And make him wear livery too.
You might use mother's coat-of-arms. Wouldn't
thivtbe fine?"

For almost the first time in her grown-up life,
Emilie's nonsense did not jar on her sister's nerves.
On tlie contrary, she enjoyed it. The girl was
absurd, of course ; but there was an underlying
truth in her fun which soothed Mary Cameron's
heart. She had come to the rescue of her family.
This genial, merry-hearted young man, wlm had
lavished money on her so freely during their short
acquaintance, would be almost sure to let her
do as she would with large sums. What would
she not do for the girls whose lives had l)een so
cram[)ed for the lack of a few dollai-s ; for the
overburdened father, whose constantly increasing
anxieties had eaten like a canker into her heart;
for the mother who had sacrificed in many ways
for her, as Mary knew well, though she had never
acted as though she did ; above all, for the boys,
who were held away from their home because
of poverty. She felt sure she could manage it
so that the remainder of their college course need
not be crippled in such petty ways as it had been
heretofore. Oh, it was blissful to think of all
the joy she could pour into this home life. She
who had in her secret heart longed to do some-
thing for them all, and had felt so impotent that it
had kept her irritable and unlovely — they should

,f<

202

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

all see now how mucli slie loved tliem, and how
royally she could show it. During this entire
first day of her engagement, this thought re-
mained uppermost.

At three o'clock Mr. Kennedy hurried away
to catcli a New York irain. There were no tcius
to mar the closing minutes of his stay. He was
coming hack so soon, and was sucit a short dis-
tance away at any time, that it did not seem wortli
while to l>e gloomv over his absence. Besides,
there was no time. While they stood at the win-
dow watching him run for his car. having waited
with an assurance chaiacteristic of him until the
very last moment, a messenger-hoy arrived with
a despatch from the long-delayed Rachel, an-
nouncing her coming on the four-tifty train.
Whereupon the famil}' excitement was turned
into a new channel. The daughter and sister
who had been absent for so many years as to seem
almost a stranger to the younger ones, and whose
probable coming had been heialded and defened
so many times as to give them almost the feeling
that she would never come at all, was now un-
expectedly at the very door.

" The idea I " said Mrs. Cameron. " On the four-
fifty train ! Why, there will barely be time to
meet it. Your father will have to be telephoned
at once. Run, Emilie, and attend to it; and tell
him to be sure to go himself, for I cannot, and
none of you girls would know her."

" Not know our own sister ! " Emilie exclaim-

A NEW GAME.

203

ed. ** How absurd that seems ! I believe I
should know her by instinct. Why, we would
know her from lier photograph, of coui-se."

This probability was discussed; and it was
finally agreed that since Rachel had not even sent
them a photograph in two years, and was at the
age wlien two years make great changes, it was
hardly to be supposed that she would be recog-
nized. Emilie finally gave up the desire she hud
to meet her at the train ; doing it, however, in
a characteristic manner.

"After all, I don't believe I want to meet her.
It is awfully poky standing around a railway
station with a stranger. One never knows what
to say; and if you have thought of something
and shouted it out, it isn't heard in the din,
and by the time it is repeated it sounds so silly
you are vexed with yourself for having said it
at all. I'll wi it and welcome my lady at home.
It is queer to be half afraid of my own sister;
but that is exactly my state of mind."

It was the unexpressed state of mind of every
one of them, the mother not excepted. Six years
make such differences, even with one's own
children.

At eight o'clock of that same evening, the new-
comer was alone in the back parlor, which had been
lighted brilliantly in honor of her home-coming.
The family had been together there since dinner,
and but a moment before had scattered. Mr.
Cameron had reported that he must go out to

204

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

a Botird meeting, much against his will ; Mrs.
Cameron liad Inien summoned to the kitchen wiili
a view to the morning meal ; Lucia had Intcn
obliged to accompany Emilie to the hitter's dan-
cing-class ; and Mary had excused herself for a fesv
minutes on the plea that some last arrangements
for the new sister's comfort were necessary. They
had all, despite their best intentions, treated iier
as though she were a guest ; a loved and honored
guest, indeed, but still it was not an ideal home-
coming. The truth is, it hjid not heeu passible
to be quite natural. Even Aunt Eunice seemed
to have been stirred out of her usual grim calm.
" Poor child ! " she had said, when she greeted
Rachel, and then her eyes had grown suddenly
dim. After dinner she went directly to her
room, no one knew wherefore. So Rachel was
for the moment alone. She arose from hei* eivsy
chair, and wandered into the shadows of the long
front parlor where a single gas jet burned faintly.
She found her way to the low, wide mantel, leaned
her arm on it, bowed her young head upon her arm,
and thought. It would be very strange to let the
tears come, now that she was really at home, but
they were very near the surface. She had parted
only that day with cousin John, and cousin John
had been her brotiier for six years.

Just at that moment came Mr. Kennedy from
the car at tJje corner, an<l sprang up the steps of
the Cameron home. The curtains had not been
drawn; and he saw, or thought he saw, Mary

A KKW r.AMK

206

Camemn leaning in a dejected attitude against
the mantel, her face hidden on her arm. It was
reasonable to suppose that she was being desolate
l)ecausc she missed him. He would give her a
surprise, if it could be managed skilfully.

" I will announce myself," he said to the as-
tonished Hetsey, when she answered his ring;
for Betsey, with the rest of the family, believed
this man to be well on his way to New York.
"Your mistress is in the front parlor, I notice;
and you need not mention my coming to the
others — that is a good girl." He emphasized his
direction by something hard and shining which he
8li{)ped into the girl's hand, and she went smiling
away. If he wanted to see Miss Mary without
being bothered by the otliers, why shouldn't he?

He went swiftly and silently toward the bowed
figure robed in black, as he had seen Mary that
day, and as, in the dimly lighted room, he be-
lieved he saw her still, bent over her, and kissed
lightly the fair outline of cheek which was all of
her face that was visible. Then there was a
sudden uplifting of a haughty head, and a pair
of cheeks that blazed, turned toward him, while
a strange voice said: "What does this" — and
stopped, and began again on the instant:

" Can this be — you cannot be — one of my
brothers. Rod, or Mac?"

Mr. Kennedy, who was at first dumbfounded,
was a quick-witted man, and took in the prob-
able situation.

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WHAT THEV COULDN T.

" I beg ten thousand pardons,'* he said, " and I
hardly know how to explain myself unless you
have heard of me. You are Rachel Cameron, I
am sure ; and 1 thought you were your sister
Mary. Have you been at home long enough to
have heard of Willis Kennedy? No? Then I
must explain further. I am neither Rod nor Mac,
but I am, nevertheless, entitled to a brother's con-
sideration. Your sister Mary is my promised wife ;
but I assure you I did not intend to claim relation-
ship h\ such wild fashion. I thought to take iier
by surprise."

The color slowly faded from the fair face, and
Rachel gave him the l)enefit of a very frank,
bright smile. It would be absuid to be dignified
with even a stranger under such circumstances.

"I understand," slie said, in a voice which was
singularly pure. '* 1 have been at home for a few
hours only, not long enough for confidences, unless
th«y are surprised out of one. But I am very glad
to extend a sisterly greeting, if I may," and she
held out her hand, "and then to call my sister."

"She is not expecting me," he explained. "I
am supposed to be nearing New York at this mo-
ment ; but I missed my train — lucky fellow tliat
1 nearly always am ! — and cannot get away now
until midnight. There wei-e some tii-esome com-
plications connected with the delay, telegrams to
send, and replies to wait ftw:, or I should have
been here sooner, in time to welcome you per-
haps. I have the advantage of you. Miss Rachel,

''[!■

A NEW GAME.

207

having heard you mentioned frequently, but I
was not aware that you were expected to-day."

"Upon my word," muttered this young man as
Rachel Cameron, having lingered to respond to
his explanations, went finally in search of her
sister. "Upon my word, she is as uelicious a
specimen as I ever struck ; has the air of a
queen, and can be as gracious as one, and as in-
dignant ! How her beautiful eyes blazed over my
greeting ! A lively beginning for a prosp<;ctive
brother-in-law I will admit, but I can't say I re-
gret it. If a fellow had only met her sooner,
ell, and she were the uncles favorite, what then ?
Nonsense ! of course I do not mean anything of
the kind. I wonder if Mary will appreciate my
breathless dash up here to give her an hour or
two of my precious time? And 1 wonder if her
sister will tell her of my mistake? I certainly
shall not."

s f ■;.:; ■

208

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER XV.

" KATHERINE SPELLED WITH A K."

SOME of tliose last sentences need explana-
tion. In order to give it, it will be neces-
sary to return to the evening in which Mr.
Kennedy was introduced to Miss Cameron. Ar-
rived at his boarding-house after the social, he
found his cousin Eustis Kennedy waiting for him.
Eustis Kennedy was the son of a leading phy-
sician in the city, and was himself a lawyer
of fair promise. Dr. Kennedy's up-town house
was supposed to be too far away from business
centres for his nephew's convenience; at least
the young man was very willing to make that
an excuse for finding other quarters during his
stay in the city. The stately mansion where
every-day life was managed in a dignified and
methodical way was not at all to this young man's
taste. He knew very little of his preoccupied
uncle, and was not especially fond of him, and
there were no young people except the afore-
said cousin. The two men did not assimilate
very well, and by mutual consent saw extremely
little of each other, though they were friendly
enough when they chanced to meet. In view

"KATHEUINE SrELLKD WITH A K.

209

i I

of this state of thiiip^s, it was a surprise to Willis
Kennedv to find himself waited for on the even-
ing ill question. It appeared that his cousin had
just returned from a trip to a neighboring city,
and had brouglit liim a message of importance
from his business firm.

" Still, it would have kept until to morrow,"
lauglied Willis Kennedy; "you need not liave
hunted me out away down here to-night for
it."

" I should not have had time to-morrow to
deliver it," replied his cousin, thereby showing
in a single sentence the contrast between him-
self and his relative. Then he asked : —

"How do you pass your time after business
horn's ? What do you do with yourself evenings,
for instance ? "

" Blunder around anywhere. This evening,
'for instance,' I have been to a church social."

" Indeed I " Whereupon both gentlemen laughed.

"I have, on my honor," continued Willis Ken-
nedy. " Got caught with a young fellow who runs
that sort of thing, and couldn't civilly refuse.
However, I am glad I Went. I had a reasonably
pleasant time, and made the acquaintance of an
extremely interesting young woman."

" In this end of the town ! Who is she ? "

"A Miss Cameron, who seemed to be almost
as much of a stranger as I am myself ; although
I believe she lives not very far from the scene
of action to-night.'

»»

■■■y

210

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

" Miss Cameron ! " echoed liis cousin. "What
sort of a person ? Tall and fair, with unusual
eyes and a great deal of hair, and more than her
share of stateliness ? "

" That describes her very well ; though she was
friendly enough to me, I am sure she could be
stately on occasion. In fact, I saw a little of
it this evening, when one or two jiersons she did
not fancy tried to talk with her."

"You are in luck, my boy. If she was gra-
cious to you I would suggest that you follow
up the acquaintance. I know Miss Cameron by
sight and by reputation. She can be decidedly
stately, as you say. She is an heiress, or is to
be as soon as a certain uncle resident in California
dies. The interesting thing about it is, that slie
does not know it herself, nor do any of her family.
It is a law secret which I am giving away. They
live quite plainly, I believe, and liave not too
much of this world's goods. It is rather inter-
esting to know that the oldest daughter will
come into possession of something over a mil-
lion before long. Romantic, isn't it? The uncle
is quite old and feeble now, we hear. The reve-
lation will probably come in a few months at
the latest. It is quite a second-rate novel plot.
He has kept his eye on these relatives, it seems,
through all the intervening yeai-s, hardening his
heart apparently to the amount of good his money
might be doing while he is here, and waiting to
astonish them at the end.'*

"KATHERINE SPELLED WITH A K.

<»

211

" What an extraordinary story ! " said his cousin,
deeply interested. "Are you sure she is sole
heiress ? and do you say that none of the fam-
ily know of it? "

"Not one. There is an old familv feud, I be-
lieve, which has kept them apart ; and this uncle
cannot make up his mind to be reconciled while
he lives, but proposes to smooth everything over
after he is gone. Oh, yes, I am as sure as a
member of one of the firm having his business
in charge ougiit to be. But it is a grave se-
cret, remember. I do not know vhy I gave it
away. I am not in the liabit of gossiping about
business matters, as you are aware. You took
ine by surprise mentioning the lady's name. I
hope you will understand that it would make
serious trouble for me if the story should leak
out?"

"Of course," said the other cheerilv. "I can
be .as mum as an oyster when I choose. I
wouldn't mention it for a share in the Bank of
England; it might jeopardize the millions. But,
i i you say, it is a very romantic story. What is
the fortunate lady's first name ? "

"Katherine, spelled with a K; there is another
name, I believe, but I do not recall it. I remem-
ber thinkinjr that Katherine Cameron had a eu-
phonic sound."

"And she is the only daughter, do you say?"

" Oh, no ! There are other daughtei"s, half a
dozen for air.ght I know ; but she is the elect one.

■ i

i);

Ill

ill

212

WHAT THEV COULDN T.

She bears tlie magic name which connects lier
with a memory dating seventy years back ; so our
chief says. Romantic to the end, you see ; or
rather to the beginning. Well, don't lose your
heart for all that, if you can help it ; for, there's
many a slip,' you know. Goou-night to you.
Come up when you can."

Now Mr. Willis Kennedy's soliloquy after his
meeting with Rachel Cameron will be understood.
At the same time I hope it is very plain to the
reader that this young man was not that favorite
character in a certain class of novels, a fortune
hunter. Had he not become decidedly interested
in Mary Cameron before his cousin Eustis gave
that interesting secret into his keeping, it is by no
means certain that he would have put himself out
in any way to seek her acquaintance. But it oc-
curred to him as a very romantic thing that he
should have been spending an hour with the lady,
and should have felt more interested in her than
in any other lady of his acquaintance. He had
asked and obtained permission to call upon her,
and had fully meant to do so, before he heard
of her prospective millions. The day came when
he liked to emphasize this fact. As the acquain-
tance progressed, he tried to put the nnllions
out of his thoughts entirely. He told himself
angrily one day that he wished he had never
heard of them. It would be an extremely awk-
ward thing for him if Mary should ever learn that
he had kaown about her fortune long before she

ket

"KATHEUINE SPELLED WITH A K.'

213

did. He avoided liis cousin, wishing to hear no
more, and being scrupulously anxious that he
should not know how well the hint given in jest
had been acted upon. He carefully avoided all
reference to the Cameron relatives, and tried to
look utterly indifferent when Rachel Cameron
was mentioned, and it was announced that she
had been witli relatives in California. He could
not help a gleam of satisfaction as Mary explained
to him one day, when he was marking handker-
chiefs for her, that the K stood for an old-fash-
ioned family name which had a history. *"• All
our names have histories," she said, smiling.
"Father and mother keep up the family tradi-
tions." He tried to appear interested only in
the corner of the hankerchief which should have
the initials ; but as he carefully fashioned the K
it was impossible to put away the sound of his
cousin's voice, " Katherine spelled with a K." He
did not believe, not even in his inmost soul, that
the consciousness of what was to be had hurried
his intentions towards Mary Cameron save as,
of course — as he told himself — any sane man
would know that he could not in his present
circumstances support a wife. There were days
wlieu he went over these things carefully, and
explained to himself with alnlost painful reitera-
tion that he cared more for Mary Cameron, a
great deal more, than for anyone else in the world ;
and at such times he was almost sure to add that
that little witch of an Emilia Cameron would

■•: ■■■^'^'■

V It •

214

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

drive away the blues from any house ; and that
the Cameron girls were all charming. He and
Mary would, one of these days, give them the
surroundings they deserved.

Much of this soliloquizing went on after he had
returned to New York and taken up again his reg-
ular round of duties and pleasures. He was not
a young man who devoted himself exclusively to
business. The claims of society were always loy-
ally acknowledged by him, and it was not to be
supposed that because he was engaged to be mar-
ried he should therefore become a hermit. Instead
of that, he must think of his future wife, and hold
for her a place among his friends. He reflected
with no little satisfaction that he claimed as his
acquaintances some of the fii-st people, and that
as a married man he would, before a great while,
be able to "hold his own " with the best of them.

Meantime, Rachel Cameron was trying to find
her place in her father's house and settle into it.
To leave home as a little girl with all the plans
and memories of girlhood, and to return to it a
young woman with every plan in life changed and
every memory dimmed, is a "bewildering experi-
ence. • Nothing was quite as she ht". I thought it.
She roomed with Emilie, and that exceedingly
bright and exceedingly giddy girl bewildered her
quite as much as did her elder sisters. How
strangely the child was bringing herself up ! For
nobody seemed to be trying to bring her up. This
was the mental comment of the sister not quite

[ (

"kathekinp: spellkd with a k.

215

I I

three years her elder. One subject, which since
Aunt Eunice liad become a member of the family
was often a bone of contention, was brought up
one evening when they were gathered in tlie back
parlor. This was no other than Emilie's extrava-
gant fondness for dancing. She was urging the
impoi-tance of being allowed to attend a dancing-
party which was to be given by one of her school
friends ; and her mother and Mary were both op-
posing it, each on different grounds.

"I do not undei-staiid why you want to accept
Nettie Baker's invitations," Mary said. "The
family are not in our list of acquaintances at all,
and the yonng j)eople do not go with our set.'*

Then Emilie, "Oh, *our set!' I hate those
words. We haven't any *set, ' so far as I can see.
We have dropped out of our old one since we
came down here to live, and for my part I am
glad of it. I don't believe in *sets.* When peo-
ple are nice, and you like them, why is not that
enou"h ?"

"Emilie," interposed Lucia, "I am surprised
at you ; you should remember the honor of the
family now. Are we not at last about to have an
alliance witii money as well as family? Think of
Mary, ^nd choose your associates with care."

Thii reference drew from Mary only a good-
natured laugh. She liked to remember always
that she was sqon to be in a position to give advice
to those youJ^ger sistei-s,. as an autocrat, and to
lighten her father's burdens. Let it always be

'! •

1 k

216

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

remembered that she was sure to put this thouglit
in the fore-front. Still, she felt it sometimes
necessary to moderate their expectations.

" You should not be too sure," she said to Lu(;ia.
"Because Willis is a Kennedy, and belongs to tlie
great firm of Kennedy & Kennedy, is no reason
why lie should have a great deal of money at
present. Remember he is a young man."

Emiiie nodded her head in that sage way she
had as she said, "I'll risk the money part; he has
enough of it. Doesn't he waste it awfully all the
time ?" And she glanced effectively at the dia-
mond ring which gleamed on Mary's finger, and
flashed its brilliancy in a thousand reflected
sparkles. "That's the largest diamond I ever
saw a lady wear. He might just as well have
chosen a smaller one, and saved his money if it
was scarce. And then think of that box of Huy-
ler's very best — a great big box ! " This wiis
mixing the grand with the ridiculous to such an
extent that theie seemed nothing but laughter for
the whole family.

"Emiiie would rather have the candy than the
diamond ring, I believe," said Lucia; and Emiiie
nodded instant assent. "Of course I would; I
can divide that with my friends, and I couldn't
the ring. But never mind either of them just
now ; let us settle about this party. Mother, why
do you say I can't go ?"

"It is a question of dress, child. You say you
have nothing suitable to wear, and I am tired of

8 I

"KATHEKINE SPKLLKD WITH A K.

»♦

21'

telling you that wo cunnot afford to spend a cent
for dress this quarter. We have even less than
usual to depend on."

''Of course," said Emilie, with another of her
nods. "It is always Mess than usual;* and there
are always "unusual expenses, ' aren't there ? I
know that story by heart. But I can furbish up
my old diess, 1 suppose, and wear it if 1 have to.
All I shall want will be some gloves and slippers
and a few flowers."

" But even those are out of the question, Emi-
lie. I cannot consent to your asking your father
for a single penny this quarter for anything but
absolute necessities. You must see how harassed
he is." Then Mary sighed, and could not help
wishing that she had in her pocket-book the hun-
dred dollars which herring must have cost; and
she could not help thinking of the time when she
could with great delight supply Emilie's small
needs. It would certainly be pleasant to look
after her in this way. While she was thinking
these thoughts Aunt Eunice was talking.

"I don't see what you mean by letting her go
on in this way. If she had a hundred paiis of
slippei-s and gloves, and was my girl, she wouldn't
go to any dances. I can't, for the life of me,
think what her father is about. He wasn't
brought up to be so careless. It's a disgrace to
the family name. None of the girls of his moth-
er's family went to a dance, any more than they
would to a smallpox hospital.'*

'^[i;

» .';

: !

218

WHAT t:iky couldn t.

Emilie was never other than amused over her
aunt's tirades. She responded to liiis one in the
utmost good humor.

"Aunt Eunice, what harm is tliere in a dancing-
party ? "

" What liarm I A girl of } our age is old
enougli to Icnow the Ir.irm without asking. VV list-
ing your time and strength in skipping over the
floor and simpering witli the men. Supposing
you wore to die at a party, just wliile you were
lK)pi)ing around in that silly way ?"

The girl replied only by a merry laugh.

"Emilie ! '* said Mrs. Cameron reprovingly.

"Well, I ean't help it, mother; it is too funny.
What has dying got to do with it ? Suppose i
should die while I am washing up the lunch
dishes for Betsey? It would be an equally inap-
propriate time, I am sure."

"Oh, you can make fun of even a death-bed,"
said Aunt Eunice angrily. "I am perfectly
aware of that; but I ^'new of one girl who died on
the floor of a ball-room. She went against her
father's will, and she was brought home a corpse;
now, that is the truth ! "

Emilie liad much ado not to laugh again. She
could not see what that incident, solemn as it
was, had to do with the subject.

"But, Aunt Eunice," she began again, "if we
had to choose all our occupations and amusements
with a view to possibly dying in them, a great
many things would look inappropriate. Don't
.you think so ?"

KATHEUINE SPELLED WITH A K.

219

"I think in a world like this we have no time
for simply amusinjr ourselves. It's a siek and
dyinjT world; full of trouhle and suffering of every
kind, and isn't going to last long for the young-
est. We ought to Iwi busy about other things;
and dancing is just one of Satan's devices for lead-
ing souls to ruin. No respectable girl ought to
have anything to do with it; and if I were your
mother, my lady, you wouldn't, if I had to tie
you up at home."

"Aunt Eunice, how glad you and I ought to be
that you are not my mother ! " This was as far as
tiie argument had extended, when the door-bell
interrupted them, and Professor Landis was an-
nounced.

They made room for him in the family circle,
apologizing that the wind blew in just the wrong
direction and the furnace declined to have any-
thing to do with the front parlor. He had hardly
time to express his i)leasure at being welcomed to
tlie cosier room, before Emilie pitched her ques-
tion at him. "Professor Landis, do you think it
is wicked to dance ?"

"Oh not at all !" said the professor, regard-
ing the bright-faced girl with amused eyes.
"Why should there be anything wicked in that?'*

" I don't know, I am sure. Aunt Eunice, you
hear what Professor Landis says ; and he is as re-
ligious as — oh, a great deal more religious than
the minister — some ministei-s, anyway."

" Well," said Aunt Eunice, with firmly set lips,

'•il^

220

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

" I have seen a great many different kinds of
religious people. I'm glad I'm not that kind
myselfy

Professor Landis, with his mirth-beaming eyes
still fixed on Emilie, continued : **• There is a
charming little dancer at the University. If
you will call upon me some morning I will get
him to perform if he is present. He is not a
regular student, you understand, and cannot be
depended upon as to hours.'*

"A student at the University! That is a queer
place for dancing. What does he do it for ?'*

" For his living. He earns it regulfirly in
that way ; at least most of his extras ; mince-pie,
and matters of that kind, you understand. Some-
body whistles, and he dances in perfect time ; then
we throw him a bit of pie, or a bone possibly,
from our luncheon, to show our appreciation. He
can dance on two legs, and hold out the other two
for tlie aforesaid pie. He is accomplished.'*

" Oh ! '* said Emilie, pouting a little while the
others laughed ; " you are talking about a dog.
I was in earnest. Aunt Eunice thinks we ought
not to dance, for fear we might die while we are
at a dancing-party. What harm would it do
if v/e did? I mean," she added, in response to
her motler's reproving look, and Aunt Eunice's
exclamation, " it wouldn't l)e the place one would
choose, of course; but why does that prove it
wrong, an}'' more than it would prove it wrong
to go on a journey because one might die on the
way; and one certainly would not want to?'*

44 K'

KATHI'UUNE SPELLED WITH A K.

, "

221

*• It does not,"' said Professor Laiidis, perfectly
grave now. ** In my judgment it proves noth-
ing of the sort."

••Tiiat is what I think," said Emilie, waxing
more earnest; "and all those things they say
uijainst it — that it takes time, and is frivolous
and unfits one for study — so do croquet par-
ties, and tennis parties, and niusicales, and all
sorts of things, if people attend them too often,
or stay too late ; and yet people who are good
Christians go to them and frown on dancing.
I don't see any sense in it. A Hie Fen wood's
mother won't Jet her even leant to dance; and
she lets her play at niusicales, and stay later
than I do when I go to a dancing-part3^ I think
it is inconsistent and silly."

Professor Landis regarded the pretty girl with
kindly eyes, and said gently, " May there not
be a reason back of all these, of which you have
not thought, that emphasizes the disapproval of
some persons for this form of amusement?"

"I am sure I do not knov; what it can be,"
said Emilie with energy. And then the guest
looked at the mother. The thought in his heart
wa > : " What can tliat mother have been about
while her beautiful young daughter was bud-
ding into girlhood?"

222

WHAT THKV COijLDN T.

CHAPTER XVr.

BEING WEIGHED.

"iy yfR. Laiidis/' ssiid Maiy, who decided that
iVX about this time a change of subject would
be wise, ''how is our friend Hen prospeiiiig? I
have not seen him for several weeks."

It was surprising, to those wlio did not un-
derstand it, how entirely Mary Cameron's man-
ner had changed toward tiieir neiglibor. The
certainty that there would be no further occa-
sion for teasing lier at his expense seemed to
have sweetened all lier thought of him, and no
one of the family welcomed him more cordially
than did she. Lucia and Eniilie were out»])oken
as to their pleasure in his society, and even A urn
Eunice had adaiitted that he was *' well enough."
It cannot be sivid that the two families were
intimate, for the sister, Dojpotby* seemed the busi-
est of mortals, and had little time lor society ;
lior had the young ladies of the Cameron house-
hold met her friendliness with such abundant
cordiality as to lead her to earnestly desire their
companionship. But thei-e were occasional even-
ings when she way at \\^K interminable classes.
in which Professor Landi.^ se«iii«d lo have lei-

BEING WKKJHKP.

i>28

sure for his friends; and at such times it began
to be njituial for him to '•'• drop in " next door.

The family were not yet intimate enough to
ask questions. Even Emilie had to content lier-
self with surmises; but she commented on them
as freely as though they were known facts ; for
instance, after this fashion : —

*' I should think Professor Landis would hate
awfully to have his sister teach in ihe evenings
as well as daytimes. I suppose she wouldn't
have to do it if she didn't take time to keep
house for him. Why don't they board, I won-
der? Shouldn't you think it would be cheaper
for them ? Anyhow, I'd find something to do,
if I were he, that would make money enough
for her to rest in tlie eveninsf. Almost all men
are selfish, I believe. Marv, t'on't you hope that
Mr. Kenliedy will be a delightful exce[)tion ?"

Over Alary 's question concerning Ben, the Pro-
fessor looked grave, even disturbed.

*• I am afraid I crnnot give you an encoura-
(r'lurr account of him. Miss Cameron ; I feel more
disheartened and troubled over him now than
I have since his first entry into city life. He
has develo[)ed some dangerous tastes of late, es-
pecially for a boy of his temperament. I do
not know how it will end.*'

Immediately Emilie was cuiious, also sympa-
thetic. " Oh, dear me ! " she said, " how sorry
I am! I like that boy, and we had real fun
together, playing Halma. He is just as bright!

*:*:j

224

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

t I

i !

I ;

Mr. Kennedy gave him some hints one even,
ing, skilful hints, such as I do not know enough
to give, and after that I had to watch with the
greatest care or he wouhl beat me every time."

Professor Landis did not smile ; instead, his
gravity deepened. " He has natural tastes in
those directions I fear," he said, "possibly in-
herited tastes, I do not know."

"What, for Ilalnia? How queer! I did not
know that jJeople inherited such things. Win-
do you fear it, Professor? There is surely no
harm in playing Halma, if there is in dancing."

"Eniilie," said Mrs. Cameron, "one would
think that you were a * Professor,' and our guest
your pupil. Why will you ask so many ques-
tions ? "

"I .am only in pursuit of knowledge, mother.
What is the harm in Halma, please ?"

Thus pressed, he admitted that he was not
thinking of Halma, but of other games less inno-
cent. " What games ? " Emilie immediately asked.
She was fond of games, she declared. Was
there a new one, and was it really wicked, or only
a trifle dangerous? She believed she liked things
that were just a little bit dangerous ; it gave them
a sort of spice, didn't he think? What was
this new one?

He was speaking of nothing new, he told her.
Ben had learned to play cards, he was sorry to
say; and they fascinated him, as they had many
another stronger than he.

<■

BEING WEIGHED.

225

"Cards I " exclaimed Aunt Eunice, dropping her
knitting to lift up her hands in a gesture of dis-
may. "Then he is lost! He is just the kind of
boy to go to ruin fast. I could see it when he
was here, playing with Emilie. 1 don't believe in
any kind of games, myself; they are all luck and
chance, and they lead folks down to ruin. I've
seen it time and again. I shouldn't wonder if
your Halma was the beginning of it, Emilie."

"No," said Professor Landis quickly; "or at
least Miss Emilie is in no sense of the word to
blame. It was very kind of her to give up her
evening to Ben's amusement. No one could have
foreseen that he would make the jump from the
quiet home game of skill to the public card-table."

" He was very fond of Halma, " said Emilie, a
little touch of apprehension in her voice. The
Cameron family had been brought up to have a
horror of cards. Their father, who had had a bit-
ter lesson in his youth, had been pronounced on
this subject, if no other. "I noticed how eager
he was to win. Did he go directly from that to
cards. Professor Landis ? "

"He was invited to do so. Miss Emilie, and
was carefully taught the first steps. It was done
in kindness, I fully believe ; without so much as a
thought of the possibility of evil consequences.
But Ben is already weary of a game in which
there is nothing to win but success, and plays for
a cigar, or a ticket to the theatre, or any trifle,
just to give spice to the game, he says."

^■

.isilfe

■i, ■

y > 1 5

22G

WHAT TlIl.V (.'OII.DN T.

"Who could have been so menu as U> luive
started him?" said Em i lie, in sharp indigiijition.
"Almost everybody with sense knows how ])ovs
away from home are ruined in this way. Tluio
is a girl in school who cries half the time becausi;
her brother keeps losing at cards, and gettinjr
them into frightful trouble. Now 1 suppose Heii
will go and make his father lose his house, after
all. I think it is horrid ! "

Mary Cameron bent over her work as if aii-
sorbed in it, and said not a word, while the otliei-s
talked on about Ben Heeder, his prospects and his
dangers; and Emilie questioned, but received no
light as to who had started the boy on his down-
ward way; but Mary knew. Her cheeks glowed
as she recalled the fact that Mr. Kennedy had
been :xceedingly kind to the boy, and had taken
pains to put him in away to make his evenings
less dull. " I had him come into the club-house
with some of the young men Avhom I know pretty
well, and taught him a game we are lond of, just to
help keep him out of mischief, lie is really a very
bright boy, worth looking after. My friends were
good to him, and he had a 'real jolly time,' as lie
expressed it, and was surprisingly grateful, lie
hasn't happened to strike a great deal of kindness
in this world, I fear." This was the way Mr.
Kennedy had put it to her; and she had adniiied
him for his kindness, and said within herself tiiat
he had been more practical in his efforts tliaii
Professor Landis, who seemed to have nolliii £:

BEING WEIGHED.

221

better to offer for the boy's entertainment than
church socials ! She had thanked him for the in-
terest he took in Ben, and had felt that he did it
to show her how entirely he was ready to further
f. any efforts of hers. But he had spoken only of a
"game they were fond of." Why had he not said
"a game of cards"? Was it accident or design
that he had not? Moreover, was he a card-player
himself, a habitual one? If so, and her father
knew it, what would he say? What had she to
say herself ? It seemed strange, seemed almost
like design, that neither he nor Ben should have
mentioned the word in her hearing; although Ben
had told her of the "jolly" evening which Mr.
Kennedy gave him, and had said he was what he
called a "brick." If this were really an attempt
to deceive her so early in their acquaintance!
— her eyes glowed at the thought. But she
rallied instantly, and began to upbraid herself.
What nonsense it all was I Why should he have
mentioned cards? He probably merely happened
not to do so. Everybody played cards, she pre-
sumed, except ministers and men with old-fash-
ioned ideas like her father, and occasionally a
fanatic like Professor Landis. She scarcely knew
any young persons besides themselves who did not
play at home for amusement. That was different
from going to saloons and gambling-houses to
play, of course. Mr. Kennedy ought to have been
more careful, and to have remembered that Ben
Reeder was away from home and friends. But

"11

228

WHAT THF.Y COULDN T.

because her father's young brother had been al-
most ruined with cards years ago, and he there-
fore had had a horror of them ever since, it was
not necessary to pounce upon the world and try
to bring it to that level. People had been ruined
by fast horses before now, but that did not make
it a crime to drive the best one could afford.

So, while the talk flowed on about her, she
heard it but dimly, and patched up a peace with
her heart and conscience, and was glad her father
was not there. He might question even more
closely than Emilie, and he had troubles enough
now.

When she gave attention to the talk again, it
was still about Ben Reeder and cards. Emilie
was saying: —

" But, Professor Landis, that is shocking ! Mary,
do you hear that? He says Ben played all night
last night, and went to the store without any
breakfast or any sleep. At that rate he will get
sent home in disgrace. Perhaps it would be a
good thing for him if he were. I wonder if they
would be good to him? I wonder if fathers and
mothers out of books are ever real good to their
children who come home bad? Do you suppose
they are, mother? How would we all treat Rod
or Mac if we were ashamed of them?'*

"Emilie! " said her mother with such sharpness
and yet such pain in her voice that the thought-
less girl paused, looked at her wonderingly, and
said: — *

BEING WEIGHED.

229

irii'

"Why, mother, I am only supposing a case.
But, Professor Landis, really, can't anything be
done to get Ben away from that place? I'll help;
I'll play Halma with him every evening for a
month if that will do any good. I don't want him
to go back to liis mother, spoiled. He told me
some nice things about her."

"Can he not be persuaded to take the Lord
Jesus Christ for an intimate friend ? Then he
will be safe from temptations of every sort." It
was Rachel Cameron's clear voice which asked this
question ; asked it simply, natuially, as though it
were the most reasonable possible solution of a
difficulty. Professor Landis turned eager, almost
hungry eyes upon her, and spoke quiiikly, while
the others Stared as though she had used a laii=
guage unknown to them.

" Miss Cameron, you ha^^e struck the only force
which I believe will do my poor Ben any good. I
know something of the power of that disease called
gambling, when it gets hold of a boy like Ben ;
and he has seized upon it as though it were the
thing his life had been waiting for. If he would
but allow himself to be introduced to Christ and
accept his friendship, all would be well. Is it
not the marvel of marvels that a young fellow
of fair sense otherwise, should reject such a
friendship ? "

" Nothing is so strange to me in life as the fact
that men and women everv where are doinor the
same thing," said Rachel Cameron, with a note of

280

WHAT THEY COtTLDN T.

'i\

pathos in her voice, which made it very expres-
eive. Emilie looked from one to the other curi-
ously, and could not resist the temptation to ask
another question.

"What do people mean when they talk like
that? How could joining the church, and going
to prayer-meeting, and things of that sort, help
Ben Reeder, for instance? — ^keep him from want-
ing to play cards, or do anything else that some
people thought he ought not?"

** Miss Emilie, htive you never met, intimately,
people who found in Jesus Christ such an ab-
sorbing fellowship that they desired above all
things to frequent the places where he could be
met, and do the things in which he could join
them? Who, in short, found him satisfying?"'

"No, honestly, I don't believe I ever have.
I know ever so many church membei's, of coui-se ;
lots of the girls in school are, and they do not
seem to me to have nice times at all. That is,
I mean their nice times have notliing to do with
their religion. Sometimes they say: 'Oli, dear!
I suppose I ought to go to prayer-meeting to-
night, I haven't been in three weeks ; ' and they
speak as though it was an ought and not a com-
fort. No, " — meditatively — "I don't believe I
know one person whom it makes happy. Father
is a church member, has been for ever so many
years, but he is as unhappy as he can be. All
sorts of things worry him. And Aunt Eunice
is a church member; but you aren't happy, are

HEINO WEKJHED.

231

you, Aunt Eunice? You know you said only
this morning tliat it was u cv' s-gniined world,
and you were siek and tired of it. I don't think
there aie any sucli people as you are talking
about. Professor Landis ; and I don't understand
how that kind of thing can do a boy like Jien
Keeder any good."

Tiie slow color mounted to Aunt Eunice's very
forehead ; but, contrary to the habit of her life,
she answered not a word. Professor Landis looked
at Rachel Cameron, and smiled a slight, grave
smile.

" We are being weighed in the balances of
a keen oV)server," he said. " Is it possible that
we shall all be found wanting ? "

The color went and came on the girl's fair
face. She felt like a stranger in her own home;
more of a stranger than was this next-door neigh-
bor. Yet ought she to let such a challenge as
that pass i>j silence? There was a mom*^nt of
intense stillness, no one seeming to know what
to say next, even Emilie tlie irrepressible being
apparently subdued ; then Rachel spoke again : —

''Emilie, dear, though we are sisters, I am al-
most a stranger to you. I hardly know how to
say it, because my life may not match my words ;
will not, indeed, because, though I love Jesus
Clirist and try to copy him, I know only too
well what an imperfect copy it is, after all ; but
I do want to tell you that he satisfies me. I
do not reach out after anvthinsr that this world

232

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

can give, if it must be had at the expense of
an liour's separation from his approving smile ;
and I do know tliat if that young man should
give his life up to Christ's keeping, he would
keep it for liim, and make it a joy and, in the
truest sense of the wo:d, a success."

"Amen," said Professor Landis. "Let nie
bear the same testimony throughout. I do not
wonder that you find it hard to understand, be-
cause of the many poor imitations which we make ;
but in your fancy work you do not quarrel witii
the perfecj pattern, do you, because of the mis-
take yoi* make in working by it?"

And then Mr. Cameron's nioht-kev heard

in the door; and some of tliein at least were
glad that this conference, which liad taken such
an unexpected and embarrassing form, was over.

But Emilie began it again, when she and Ra-
chel were in their own room.

"I liked what you said," she announced, as
she .stood at the dressing bureau, twisting lier
hair out of shape for the night. " It sounded
interesting, somehow, and you looked as though
you meant it; but I don't understand it. If things
are as you and Professor Landis think, why don't
we see more results? Why isn't poor father,
for instance, helped and rested, instead of being
tormented half out of his life, with the struggle
to live? I'll own that sometimes I feel as though
I would Hteal a little money, in a sort of re-
sjiectidjle way, you know, just to help him out.

UKINO WKIGHED.

283

Yoli have no irlea how he U hiimsaed month
after month with bills and things. He is doing
his very best; wliy doesn't liis religion come in
Hiid help him ? "

"Are you sure it does not?" asked Rachel
gently. '* Perhaps liis weigia of care would he
too much for him but foy tliat help. Unt, Eniilie,
I cannot speak for tlie expeiience of others, only
my own. I know I have Iwen helped to live
and to endure some things that else would have
been too hard, because I was sure that my dear
Lord Jesus sent them to mv and knew all about
it."

"What hard thinnfs can vou have had to bear?'*
asked Emilie, turning and bestowing a curious,
searching look upon her. But finding that there
was no reply to this wonderment, her mind
promptly travelled to another subject.

" Well, I know I don't understand such things.
What is the use of talking about them ? There
is one thing I do undei-stand, however, and that
is dancing. Can't you contrive some way for
me to get to that party? You are quick-witted,
I fancy ; and I am just dying to go. It will be
the event of the season for us * young things,'
as Aunt Eunice calls us. Don't you dance, Ra-
chel? Well, now, why not?" as Rachel with
a quiet smile shook her head. ** You don't be-
lieve all that lubbish that Aunt Eunice gets
off, I know you don't ; you have too much sense.
Even Professor Landis doesn't believe it, and I

,1 ■ if

•3^;:

■ f ' i •. ■

T:'

234

WHAT THKY COULDN'T.

doift know a more particular person than he.
What did he mean to-night b}^ a * reason back of
all tl;nt,' looking as wise as an owl when he
said it?"

*• Enitlie, dear," said the sister, drawing closer
to lier and resting a hand on; her plump 'shoulder,
**niaj i ask a few questions whicli may sound
strange to you ? "

*' Of course," said Eniilie, brushing her frizzes
vigorously, ^'ask anything you wish; and I can be
solemn, too, if tliere is occasion."

" Tlien, don't you think that tliere may come
a time in your life when you will liave a friend
whom you will love more than any other person
on earth; love enough to marry, I meiui, and go
away from home and everybody, if necessary, with
him ? "

*' Why — I don't know," said Emilie, laughing
now. "Perliaps I sliall be an old maid. I would
rather like to bo, only I should want to represent
a different species from Aunt Eunice. Still, of
course I may possibly marry; what of that?"

*' Then do vou not believe that when that time
shall come you will feel humiliated to remember
that you ever allowed passing acquaint -nces,
perhaps almost strangers, liberties which should
belong only to that one cliofen from all the
world ? "

En^.ilie's cheeks flamed. " What do you mean? "
she asked abruptly, even sharply. " I may be a
very c^icldy person, as Aunt Eunice declares fifty

BEING WEIGHED.

235

times in a single day that I am ; but I allow no one
to take any liberties with me. I cannot imagine
what you are talking about."

" My dear little sister, have you not in the
dance allowed privileges that if offered outside
the dance, under any other circumstance^ than tjiat
of engagement to marry, would have been consid-
ered insulting?"

"I do not waltz," the child said almost sullenly;
"father won't let me."

"No, and I presume that is your only reason.
You are young, and have not thought of these mat-
ters yet. You ought not to be expected to, per-
haps. Others who have had experience of life
should think for you."

This called forth a burst of laughter. *'Such
as you," said Emilie, *' yru are so aged and experi-
enced — almost nineteen 1 "

Rachel laughed and blushed. ''' I know, Emilie ;
but 1 have had an unusual exf^rience. Aunt
Katherine was ,\ wonderful woman ; and she had
some wonderful children. Emilie, if I should tell
you some things which my Aunt Katharine told
me once, when I had great need of help, you would
be shocked bevond measure."

" Tell me, then," said Emilie, *' I like to be
shocked. I should think it would be a delicious
sensation."

Was there any use in trying to talk seriously
with such a volatile creature ? Rachel dropped
her hand frnm the white shoulder, and turning

-r:'

236

WHAT THF.V COULDN T.

away began to make preparations for rest ; adding,
after a moment, tliis sentence : —

*' I will tell you only this, Emilie, and I am
sure of it. If any pure-minded girl could liear
how men, had men, t;ilk almut the dunce, and even
the most innocent and child-like amonsj the dun-
cers, nhe Avpuld never allow her Jianie to he men-
tioned in connection with this amusement again/'

"JUST ONCE."

287

CHAPTER XVII.

"JUST ONCE.

YET, despite all that had been said to her,
Emilie went to tlie party. When she lay
down that night beside Rachel, she supposed
that she would not. She was vexed with Ra-
chel, angry indeed, and only half believed what
had been said to her. How should Rachel know
so much? She was only a little older than her-
self. Mother did not think dancing was such
a dreadful thing, nor did father, or they never
would have allowed her to learn to dance. Of
course one must choose one's companions with
care; didn't she always? Wasn't their set just
made up of girls and boys whom she knew al-
most as intimately as she did her brothers and
sisters? Some of the girls went to dances that
slie did not care to attend, and chose companions
whom she wouldn't; but what of that? Was
she to give up her fun because somebody else
did something wrong? What a charming world
that would make ! It was hateful in Rachel to
say such things to her. If the world was as ugly
as that, she did not want to know it. Rachel
must have met some strange people out in that

238

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

lionid California where she had spent so much
of her life ; she had always thought of the people
there as only Ijalf civilized, and this proved it.
^till, if Rachel felt so, perhaps others did. Per-
' haps Professor Landis thouglit — Siie did not
finish the sentence, but even in the night and
the darkness her cheeks glowed with slianie.
Did Professor Landis really think that it Avas
indelicate to dance, the kind of dancingr that
she did? How could lie! She did not want to
do anything indelicate, this young, gay girl ; she
did not want people to think she did ; especially
people whom she admired and respected.

She dropped asleep saying to hers'^lf that she
would not go to this party; it was larger than
any to which she had ever been invited, and
there were to be some strangers present. Bertha
Foster's cousin Richard among the number. She
had been quite anxious to meet Bertha's couyin,
because everybody said he was so handsome, and
such a splendid dancer. She was the best dancer
among the girls, they all knew it; but perhaps
it was just as well that she could not go. By
morning she did uot tliink it was well ; and by
the time she had returned from school, she was
sure that her sister Rachel was a Western-bred
.prude, and Professor Landis a narrow-minded
crank, and that it was "just too dreadful" that
she could not have " fresh gloves and slippers
and things," when she was willing to wear her
old dress. Mary had thought so much, of late,

"JUST ONCK.

239

al)0ut the time when she eoukl bestow trifles of
this kind, that she could not resist tlie tempta-
tion to experiment, just to see how it would seem*
There was a certain five-dollar gold piece in her
possession, which she liad Jilmost spent a hun-
dred times, and tlien liad drawn back, resolving
to liold it a little longer. Why? Tiie answer to
tliat question would liave been very liard for Mary
Cameron to have i)ut into words. Tiiere was no
sentiment connected with the giver, a stern-faced
uncle who had felt compelled to bestow, because
of many disagreeable duties whicli she had done
for liim.

At first she had kept it because she liked the
gleam of gold in iier pocket-book. Then, us
wants grew more numerous, she could not be sure
vviiich of many needed tilings to bestow it on. It
was a sort of extra, and had a right to be treated
as such. Then there had come an evening when,
as Russell Denham and she sat together in the
parlor, she had occasion to hunt through her
pocket-book for a certain card, and lie liad seen
the gold piece and asked about and handled it.
Was it a treasure piece ? Was it charmed ? Did
she know there was an old legend about pocket
pieces that were charmed by the giver, to the ever-
lasting happiness of the receiver? Did she sup-
pose he could charm that for her, so that whenever
she looked at it his image would appear? There
had been much nonsense and laughter, but Mary
had admitted to herself when he was gone that

■f

240

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

he had charmed the gold piece. She could never
see its gleam afterwards without seeming to see
his liandsome fjice reflected in it. After that, noth-
ing which could be bonght with money was to be
exchanged for that gold piece. Now, however, tlie
time h \d come when all this ouqht to be clianwd
— was changed forever, Mary Cameron assured
herself with a firm set of lips. Russell Denhiun
was nothing to her, she did not wish to remember
him. Nevertheless, she had no desire to spend tliat
particular piece of money about anything con-
nected with her wedding outfit. It might be
folly; probably it was, but the feeling was there.
She wanted to be rid of the gold piece. The
thought which came to her at last in its con-
nection she believed was an inspiration. It slioukl
buy slippers and gloves and a bit of fresh lace for
Emilie, and the child should go to the party on
which her heart was set.

£n)ilie waj radiant. Certainly there was pleas-
ure in the bestowal of the gift. She danced
about Mary in a perfect abandonment of delight,
and assured her that she was a " blessed old dar-
ling," that she should never forget it of her, fiever.
Then, growing serious, at least as serious as Em-
ilie Cameron ever allowed herself to be, she as-
sured her sister that she had never seen anybody
in her life improve so much as she had since her
engagement. She had never imagined that it
could have sucli an effect upon character as it evi-
dently had; and now if Aunt Eunice could only

"JUST ONCK.

•»

241

get engaged too, tliey \voul<l be a comparatively
hap[>y family.

She came home from the party in tlie gayest
spirits. Everything had been "perfectly lovely."
The company was large, the refreshments more
elegant, the toilets more exquisite, the dancing
more superb, than at any previous time in her long
experience. She had much to say about the
greatly admired " cousin Richard." " He is mag-
nificent, Mary ; handsomer even than Mr. Ken-
nedy, I do believe, and a gentleman like him. He
says little nice things all the time that he does not
mean. Well, don't you all know what I mean?"
as a shout of laughter greeted this statement.
"Just pleasant nothings which make you feel as
though you were a little nicer and prettier and
more interesting than anybody else ; and yet that
you know he will repeat to the next girl he dances
with, and you don't care if he does. Though he
didn't repeat them very often last night. He con-
fined his attentions chiefly to me ; that is because
I am the best dancer among them. It is queer,
too, when I don't practise half as much as the
others. Some of those girls go to a party or a
rehearsal or something of the sort neaily every
evening. Mary, Mr. Forbes knows your Ben.
He says he saw him at the Club Rooms ; and he
says he is a little country simpleton, and is losing
all his earnings, playing games that he does not
understand ; besides, he thinks some of the fellows
cheat him just for amusement, because he is so

ill

W-

242

WHAT TMKV COlTiDX T.

much in earnest and gets so excited. I told him
what I thought of it all, and he agreed with me.
He says boys who have their living to earn, and
who are excitable and ignorant, ought not to med-
dle with cards at all."

There were reasons why nil this talk troubled
Mary especially. Was it possible that her first
effort to help in the world was to result disas-
trously ? Jf Ben Reeder had not been noticed by
Mr. Kennedy he might have escaped cards ; and
but for her sake Mr. Kennedy, she felt instinct-
ively, was not one to trouble himself about a boy
like Ben. Then, too, Eniilie was so excited, so —
almost reckless. Were these late evening parties
just the thing for her? It is true she had not op-
portunity to go very often; but was she not, like
poor Ben, too excitable to indulge in such things
at all? If she had looked worn and jaded, and
been irritable, Mary thought it would be almost
better, because then she could see for herself the
evil effects. But she was, on the contrary, more
wide awake than ever. She talked and laughed
incessantly, was in royal humor with the world in
general, and perfectly sure of one thing, that she
would go to another dancing-party as soon as she
could.

^'I danced seven times with Mr. Forbes," she
confessed to the girls in the privacy of their own
room, " and he begged for another ; but I was as firm
as a rock. Then he said if I would not dance with
him I must promise not to with anybody, and I

"JUST ONCE.

»»

?43

promised willingly, because I was tired by that
time and there was nobody there worth dancing
with after him. That was one of the nice little
nothings I told you of. He didn't care two straws,
of course, whom I danced with ; but it was fun to
hear him pretend that he did."

Over this confidence all the sisters looked
troubled.

" I thought," said Lucia, " that it was not con-
sidered good form to dance so frequently with the
same person."

"Well, it isn't," Emilie admitted frankly; "that
was why I refused him for that hist dance; though,
of course, we young girls do not follow excessive
etiquette about such things as the people do who
are really in society ; besides, he is Bertha Foster's
cousin. That made some difference. I am quite
intimate with Bertha. She coaxed me to waltz
with him ; she said he was the most delightful
waltzer ! "

Then Mary spoke indignantly. "Emilie Cam-
eron, you don't mean that you waltzed, and with a
perfect stranger, after all that father has said about
that ! "

" Yes, I did ; just once," said Emilie, pouting a
little, yet evidently relieved that she had confessed
the truth. " What is the harm ? The girls all do
it with their special friends, and I feel really pecu-
liar in always refusing. It looks as though I was
afraid of myself in some way. It was Bertha,
though, who coaxed me into it. She said she

ft. ^^^^Nil

\¥

ill'

244

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

wanted her cousin Richard to see that the girls
here were equal to the New York girls that he
had been raving about. You needn't look so dis-
gusted, Mary. I don't mean to earn my living by
waltzing, nor to do it again — perliaps. I forj^ot
all about what father had said, for the minute.
The music made me wild I They were playing
just the loveliest waltz; I couldn't keep my feet
still, and Mr. Forbes stood waiting, and all I
thought of was how lovely it would be to be flying
around keeping time to that music ; so I just went.
I shouldn't think there was any harm in it, if it
weren't for father's notions; or — well, yes; I
should too ; " she colored and corrected herself.
Emilie Cameron was, like her sister, honest by na-
ture. " I don't think it nice for girls to do it with
everybody, nor very often with anybody, perhaps ;
but, — oh, dear ! I don't know what I think ; I just
couldn't help doing it last night. But I don't
mean to again, ever ; and if you girls go and be
cross and hateful I shall be sorry I told you."
Then the excited child lost all self-control and
cried bitterly. And Mary Cameron wished she
had used her five-dollar gold piece in some other
way, and wondered what sort of a person tins
" Cousin Richard " was.

Also, the more she thought about it, the more
did her heart grow sore and anxious for Ben
Reeder. Perhaps her pride was somewhat piqued.
Professor Landis had been so grateful for her
lundness to him, and now he had probably diseov-

"JUST ONCE.'

245

I I

ered that indirectly she was to blame for this sud-
den descent of the country hoy into the pitfalls of
city life. Was there nothing that she could do to
lu'lp Ben? At this point in her thoughts she re-
flected abnost indignantly upon Mr. Landis and
her sister Rachel. If these two believed there was
a power which could tjike hold of Ben sind save
him from himself, why did they not do their
utmost to bring it to bear upon him? Well, did
not she herself believe in this power ? Certainly
she did; but — and then she put her thoughts as
far away from that subject as she could. Since
she had not settled it that she was going to do,
herself, what she believed to be a reasonable thing,
and eminently important for Ben, the less she con-
sidered it, the more comfortable she would be.
But she would not forget Ben.

She met him on the street a few days afterward,
and took special pains to stop and talk with
him. Where had he been this long time? Em-
ilie was anxious to annihilate him in a game of
Halma; and she had a song, a new one, which
would fit his voice, luid his mother would be sure
to like it. When could he come and try it?
Would he have a leisure hour this evening? Cer-
tainly Mary Cameron could be gracious and
ciiai ming when she chose. But Ben was non-com-
mittal ; he didn't know ; didn't believe he could
come this evening; no, he couldn't come to-morrow
any better than to-night; and he laughed, a half
shame-faced, half sullen laugh, over this admission

i :

246

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

hV'j

Ilk,,,'

that he was simply making excuses. What was
the use ? he asked ; he was no singer, never would
be ; never would be much of anything ; and —
here he turned his face away that Mary might not
see the feeling in it — he didn't believe he should
try it any moi'e.

*' Oh, yes, you will ! " said Mary cheerily. " You
will try this new piece, and like it better than any
you have seen. It was sent to me on purpose for
you. Why, Mr. Reeder, when I tell you that you
have a good voice you ought to be polite enough to
believe me ; for I am a veiy fair judge of voices it
is said, and I always speak the truth. Will you
come this evening? I want you to promise, be-
cause Professor Landis says you are sure to keep
your word."

" He is mistaken." Ben's voice was husky now.
" He thinks a ko of things of me that are not
true. I'm not to be depended on for my word, or
anything."

" Prove the falseness of that by promising to
come to us at eight o'clock this evening," she
said gayly, " and being there at the stroke of the
clock."

He would not promise, and she had very faint
hope of seeing him ; but he came, promptly to
the moment. Not in genial mood, however. He
looked sullen and miserable, and was evidently
going to be hard to entertain. He declined almost
roughly Emilie's gay challenge to win a game
from him ; told her there would be no great honor

"JUKT ONCK.

M^ '»

247

in that ; he was easy to l)eat, and used to being
beaten ; he wished he had never played a game
of any kind in his life ; and Kmilie for once
was silenced, and looked timid and distressed.
The song did not fure much l)etter at his hands.
He was persuaded to try ; it but his voice broke
utterly in the middle of a line, and he refused to
make any further effort, declaring it to be the

'* meanest air" he had ever ^* struck.'

Rachel

Cameron made earnest attempts to second her sis-
ter's efforts, but did not get on at all with Ben.
He would not be interested in anything she pro-
posed, and was altogether so sullen and rude in
liis manner that, but for the fact that it was all the
evident result of some inward misery, Mary would
have lost patience with him. As it was, she had a
yearning to help him which she could not have
explained even to herself.

To the relief of those concerned, he made his
stay very stiort; muttering something about hav-
ing to get back, and going out so hastily as almost
to omit the usual leave-takings. Her father was
not present ; and Mary accompanied him to the
hall, wondering, as she went, whether Professor
Landis would have let him go away so evidently
wretched, or would have been able to do some-
thing to help him. While she was considering,
he turned suddenly, and held out his hand, his
lips quivering as he spoke.

" I hope you will forgive me ; X hope they all
will. I've acted like a fool, but I couldn't help it.

! I i-

I !« 1

ti^

■'1 , i-

248

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

I oughtn't to have come, but you seemed to tliiuk
I would, anti you Jiave been " —

There he stopped, aware, fipparently, that liis
voice would ca'-ry him no fui'tlier.

" What is it, Ben ? " Mary asked, holding tlie
boyish hand in hers, and speaking as few knew
she could speak. "• You are in trouble of some
kind, and away from your mother and all your
home friends. (Jannot I help you in any way ? I
should like to."

Then Ben snatched away his hand, and sat down
suddenly in one of the hall chairs, and hid his face,
and let the tears come. For a moment she was
too distressed to speak. She had never seen her
brothers cry ; she had not realized that boys had
tears t^ shed. Just then she heard her father's
step on the walk. What would he think to lind
Ben Reeder in his hall, weeping bitterly, and slie
standing near him dumb ! She pushed open the
dining-room door. " Come in here a minute, Ben,"
she said, " and tell me, won't you, what is the
matter ? Cannot I be one of your sisters for tlie
time ? I have brothers, you know." But no per-
sons would have been more asto.iished than her
own brothers to have heard such words from her.

Ben struggled with his tears and gained the
master3^ But he followed her into the dining-
room, and dropped into the chair she indicated.
" I hope you will forgive me," lie said again ; " I
don't know what is the matter that I act so like a
baby. I'm rot used to giving myself away in that

"JUST ONCE.

»♦

249

fashion. It all seemed to come over me, some-
how : it was that song made it worse. The fault
isn't in the air, Miss Cameron. Those words
struck at me ; tliey made me think how much I
had meant when I came liero, and what mother
was expecting — and father, and what had come of
it, and it broke me down. Miss Cameron, that
friend of jouis wlio was kind to me — he meant it
all for kindness, and I am a great baby to have let
it get hold of me as it has ; but I vish I had never
seen him. Maybe I wouldn't have got hold of my
ruin so soon, if i Iiadn't ; but I don't know ; it
would have come anyhow, I suppose, if it is in
me."

Mary stood like one paralyzed, looking down at
him. But the unutterable misery, even despera-
tion, in his voice, reached her very soul. She
roused herself to speak.

"You mean about cards, Ben? He taught you
to play ? I. too, am sorry. I wish he had not done
it. Still, as you say, it was in kindness. He
does not think abcjut these things in the way that
some do. But, surelv, vou a.e not jjoinfr to let
that one circumstanc«i ruin you ! If you find tliat
the game you have learned U) play is an injury
instead of being, as Mr. Keniiedy intended it, a
rest and amusement, why no*t give it up at once
and forever? People do that who are much older
and much more fixed in their hr.bits tluMi you. I
had an uncle who played cards incessantly for
months, even veurs, until he was almost ruined;

250

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

but there came a day when he resolved never to
touch anotlier card, and althoug-h he was a famous
player, and was sought after, he never did."

Ben lieeder shook liis head. " 1 can't do it,
Miss Canieron ; tli«ie is a difference in folks, I
suppose. I used to tliink 1 could do what I had a
mind to, but it is a mistake. I haven't been play-
ing with cards a meat while, and I haven't liad
such good luck as ought to make me hanker after
them; but 1 can't let theuj alone — I've found that
out. I promised myself, and I even promised
Professor Landis last night, that I wouldn't touch
them again : and lie tliinks I lcee[> my promises I I
used to think I did ; but I went straigiit from him
and played the worst game I ever had, and got
myi^lf in s»cli a place ihat now 1 must keep on.
And tiien I had a letter from mother, and " —

Here the poor fellow broke off again, and bowed
his face in liis hands. He made no outward sound,
but his strong young frame shook ; and Mary's
heart was wrung with sympathy.

A TK<JUBLESOME PROMISE.

251

CHAPTER XVIII.

A TROUBLESOME PROMISE.

WHAT should she say first? There came to
her an almost overwhelininsr sense of the
importance of her words just now. She could but
realize that this ^vas ji eiitical moment for Ben
Reeder, and she was not used to dealing with souls
in danger. She took time to mentally rebuke Mr.
Kennedy, and tliat with a degree of sharpness
which would have greatly startled that gentleman,
for his share in this misery. Why had he not let
the boy alone ? People who did not know how to
help others wisely should not attempt it. Well,
then, why was she '«^mpting it? Surely no one
knew less tlian she about such matters, but the
boy was manifestly leaning upon her; she must
sav somethino-. Marv Cameron had never asked
for the help of the promised Spirit ; but does He
not sometimes help those who art in dire need,
and are too ignorant to ask? Her first word was
a question, gently put. " What did your mother
say, Ben?"

For answer he fumbled in his pocket for a half
sheet of common note-paf>er. and handed it to her
without raising his head. It held only a few

h !

( f^-i

14."

li;^

252

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

lines, written in the cramped hand of one not
mijch accustomed to writing: —

Mother's dear Boy, — You know I wrote you a long let^
ter only a few days ago ; this is just a line because I cannot
go to sleep without saying it. Joshua Knowles has been
here this evening. He just came from the city ; and lie
thought he ought to tell us that the report was that our
Ben hail got to playing cards, and was friendly with a set
of sharpers, and was getting into trouble. I smiled on him
and thanked him for the pains he had taken ; but says I,
" We hear from our Ben every week, and know all ahout
him. " Ben, dear. Mother doesix't believe one word of it ;
you know that, don't you? Mother trusts her boy through
and through; so does father; but we are getting old, you
know, and fidgety. You write a line as soon as you get this,
to say that it is some other Ben in trouble, not ours, and
I'm sorry for the boy, and for his poor mother; but, oh, .vo
glad it isn't our boy ! Just say so, won't you, for mother's
sake. God bless my dear, dear boy.

Mary read the lines slowly, with a great swell-
ing in her throat the while. Siie could almost see
that old mother, sitting up to write her words of
trust, with the pa^aful doubt creeping in between
the lines in spite of her. No wonder that Ben's
heart had broken 'ver it.

"•Ben," she said, '*■ if I were you I wouldn't dis-
appoint such a mother. I wouldn't indeed ! I
would sliow her tliat I was the boy she thought
me. and that I would be tlie man she dreams of.
Mothers think i<o muoh of their boys, Ben."

"■You don't .seem to uiidei'stand," said Ben in a
broken voice. '* 1 tjU you I have disappointed her.

m-:>

A TROUBLESOME PIIOMISE.

253

Th'^y lever said much about playing cards at
home, but i know they didn't think I would do it.
Tliey woukl as soon have thought of telling the
minister not to. And I've disappointed them."

'• But, Ben, begin again. Why, dear me I Vou
are so young, and liave just begun life away from
liome, you cau't have gotten very far wrong in so
short a time. Even if you had, what is to hinder
your turning squarely around and being the man
your mother and father expect to see, and that you
planned to be ? "

Ben slowly shook his head. " I don't know
what's in the way," he said ; '* the devil, I s'pose.
They say he is after every one, and I guess he is.
I know he is after me. Something has got hold of
me. I've always been a good, steady boy, and
always meant to be ; but, down there at the club-
room stylish fellows go, you know, and I thought
it was a fine thing to have them notice me. They
were good-natured and kind, I thought ; but I
guess they are shaiptrs. They like to get hold of
a green fellow like me, and lead him along by
inches. Some of them don't mean anything, but
the others do. They like the fun of seeing folks
tumble, I guess. And I'm in for it now. I owe
two of them, and unless my luck changes I can't
pay them ; and I can't get away until I do. Don't
you see how it is ? I'm caught."

Poor Mary's heart stood still. Her father's hor-
ror of cards made her wiser about their dangers
than she was concerning many other thiugs. Ben

I-

IMS

•5

N-; V

P i

2o4

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

had evidently been playing for more than a
" cigar."

" How much money do you owe them ? " she
asked abiu[)tly. Ben shuddered. " It is only a
matter of twenty dollars," he said, " not worth no-
ticing or thinking about, they say ; but of course I
have to think about it ; and unless my luck changes
it will soon be more. I don't know how it is ; I
used to have good luck at first, but it seems to
have deserted me. There's a stylish chap named
Forbes, who lent me five dollars last night, and
I lost it in five minutes."

Mary drew her breath hard. Forbes was the
" Cousin Richard " with whom her young sister had
danced seven times, to say nothing of the waltz.
'" Only twenty dollars ! " but it might as well be a
hundred so ffir as her ability to help liim was con-
cerned. If she had but kept that five-dollar gold
piece ! Might it not much better have been spent
in this way, both for Ben's sake and Emilie's?
The thought crossed her mind that Mr. Kennedy,
who had been instrumental in this result, might
appropriate some of the money which he tossed
about so freely, to helping poor Ben out of the
net. But she shrank utterly from asking his help,
although she felt sure of receiving it. How could
she explain the situation so that he would under-
stand? Slie was not vet sufficiently familiar with
him, by letter, to write freely It was not to be
thought of. But Professor Landis — why did not
the distressed boy go to him ? It is true he was

A TUOriJ^KSOMK PIJOMISE.

probably poor, his sulary could not be very large,
and he had a house to support and a sister to help-
Still, perhaps he could manage so small a sum.
Why, she felt certain that he would manage it in
some way; and she did not stop to analyze the
feeling which made it quite possible for lier to ask
his help when she could not ask it of the man
whom she had promised to marry.

'• Ben," she said, '' if I will secure the twenty
dollars for you, lend them to you, you understand,
until such time as you are quite able to pay, will you
promise on your honor that you will give up this
amusement and go no more to the Club House, or
to any other house where they play ca.rds? "

The slow crimson rolled over Ben's face and
neck as he raised his eves for the first time. " I
could not think of taking money from you, Miss
Cameron ; I never dreamed of sucli a thing."

" It will not be my money," she interrupted
him. "I have none of my o\v?i. If I had, I would
lend to you in a moment ; but 1 liave a friend
who, I am sure, will let me have it. Will you
promise, Ben ? "

"I told you that I couldn't," he said, almost
with impatience. "Haven't I promised myself a
dozen times already ? It seems silly to you, I
know, to say that I can't keep my word. It sounds
silly to me. Only a few weeks ago I would have
called a fellow a muff for saying it, but I've
proved the truth of it. I used to believe I could
do what I liked, and I've found I can't."

' } .■•

s ■

\ ■

K|'

; "

[ '

256

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

rl: *.

Nothing more utterly hopeless than Ben's tone
can be imag'iied. It was very different from the
careless way in whieii that word " cannot " is often
on the lips of youth when it means " I will not,"
or at tlie most, " I do not care to try." This was
the cry of a heart which had lost faith in itself
and was near despair. Mary Cameron stood ap-
palled before it. The boy was in danger. Her
Aunt Eunice had been a prophet when she said,
" Tlien he is lost ! " If ever soul needed tlie inter-
posing Hand, surely he did at this moment. Oli
for the sound of lier neighbor's voice just now !
Was not this the very moment to point the despair-
ing one to the Power who could f But Professor
Landis was not even at home, if she had had any
way to summon him. She thought of Rachel, but
Ben had repelled her kindly advances so rudely it
was rot probable tliat she could influence him.
Then who was there ? A curious longing to be
able to do it herself, to be the instrument for sav-
ing this soul in peril, came surging into the girl's
heart; but of what use was it? Could she, who
did not know the way, attempt to point it out to
another ? Yet something must be said.

" Ben," she began, trembling, hesitating between
each word, " there is a — there are people —
Ben! don't you knoio that God is ready to help
people who cannot? He could keep you from
falling into this dreadful way and breaking your
mother's heart."

" Why doesn't he, then ? " asked Ben, almost

A TROUBLESOME PROMISE.

257

fiercely, from behind the hands in which his face
was again hidden.

There was no help for it ; she who had her-
self turned her back upon Him must explain the
strength and sweetness of His way to this flounder-
ing soul.

" O Ben ! you cannot really mean that question.
Would you have been made like a lump of earth
which must be turned over whenever the spade
pleases, and must grow whatever some one else
drops into the soil, whether it be seeds of flowers,
or weeds ? Would you not much rather be the
one to choo.^e, to decide, as God has planned that
you may be ? "

Why had she used just that figure ? She could
not have told had she been asked, save that she
had stood that morning and watched a florist at his
work among his plants, and something of the kind
had floated idly through her mind. But Ben's
early life had been spent much among the clods of
earth, overturning them with his spade. It made
some things plainer to him than they had ever
heeii before. Presently he dropped his hands and
looked at her.

"You mean," he said, "that while I honestly
cannot keep myself from going to the bad, I can
choose Him for a leader aiid He will keep me ? "

Mary bowed her head. She trembled in every
limb, and could not have spoken. Here she was
in the darkness, yet guiding a soul. Suppose she
should start it in the wrong path ?

,.',;!■■■ ' , y,'

m
I'll

2o8

WHAT Tni:V <'nL.[,I»N T.

Ben Rv^eder kept liis eves lixed on ilic floor,
after that, for so long tluit it seemed to Iier he
would never speak sigain, and !>lie dare not. At
last he said : —

" Miss Cameron, I believe I begin to undeistjuwl
what Professor Landis is always driving at. I
never got the hang of it liefore, but you niakc
things plain to a fellow. I'm going home to think
ahout it. If I can settle it to-niglit, I will : and I
want to know if you will pray for me. Motiur
prays for me every day, I know ; but 1 cant tell
her about this, it would scare her so, and she lias
trouble enough. 've (jfot to have help from some-
where right away. ] feel that. I've always known
about such things a good deal. Mother doesn't
say much, it isn't her way ; but she lives tilings.
I knew she was different from other folks, but I
never felt the need of it myself. I always thoiiglit
I could take care of myself and make out first rate.
Then when I found I couldn't, I felt kind of mad
against God because he didn't do it for me, as I
thought he ought to ; but I begin to understand
that I've got a part. Now, if I can see daylight
about that part, why, I'll do it ; but you'll pray
it out for me to-night, just as mother would.
Will you ?"

Was ever one in a stranger dilemma? Wliat
was she to say? She opened her li[^ to confess
that she never prayed, did not know how to pray :
but no, this would not do; it might be a fatal
injury to a soul in peril. And the boy stood wait-
ing for liis answer.

A THUUBLKSOME PROMISK.

259

"I will try," she faltered at lust, he being too
busy with his own thoughts to note the strange-
ness of her manner. Then he went away at once,
and Mary returned to the back parlor like one in a
dream.

''Where have you been?" Emilie questioned
curiously. " What did you say to that cross boy ?
Wasn't he horrid to-night? I hope the next time
he feels as ugly as he did this evening he will stay
away. He gave me the blues." Then the family
proceeded to discussing poor Ben and his pros-
pects for making a wreck of life ; Aunt Eunice
and Emilie together essaying to answer Mr. Cam-
eron's questions concerning the boy. Mr. Cam-
eron looked even more troubled than the others
over his story.

"1 am sorry cards have gotten hold of him," he
said gloomily. " He hasn't enough moral power
to withstand their influence, I am afraid."

" And he began them in your own house," said
Aunt Eunice severely, " I hope that is a comfort
to you ! "

In the somewhat excited debate which followed
this disagreeable statement, Marv Cameron took
110 part. In fact, she heard very little of it. Her
mind was in a whirl of excitement of its own.
What had she promised to do! The poor foolish
boy to suppose that her prayers, even if she
could bring herself to try to offer them, would do
hill any good! But she must pray; she had
promised. " A Cameron always keeps his word,"

260

WHAT THKY COULDX T.

was one of the proud sayings of this family, which
had come down to them from a famous old grrut-
uncle who kept his word under trying circum-
stances. Assui'cdly, if she never prayed aj^iiiii,
Mary must tiy to-night to pray for Ben Kccdi r.
How should it be accomplished ? Lucia would ha
in the room all the time, and would be talking
probably. She generally chose that hour to cluittur
about anything which had interested her during
the (Xrv. Could she say to her that she desired
to be quiet because she wanted to pray? The vlmv
idea of such a thing sent the blood flowing swiftly
through her veins. She might go now to lier
room while Lucia was helping Emilie to prove tliiit
there was not the remotest connection between
Halma and poor Ben's gambling propensities, hut
she shrank inconceivably from doing so. Slie
would put off the strange duty as long as possible.
She set herself to try to plan what she would say ;
words of prayer were such strangers to her lips.
Visions of her childhood floated before her, and she
could seem to hear herself repeating in grave
voice the old formula: —

" Now 1 lay me down to sleep,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep ; "

but there was nothing in that to help Ben. She
knew " Our Father," of course ; and she let her
mind run swiftly through with its various peti-
tions, to make sure that there was nothing there
exactly adapted to Ben's case. Then she grew

A TRorBLESoME rtlOMlSE.

261

almost irritable. Wliat a ridiculous idea! Why
should he need i)raying for, to help him decide so
simple a question? If he could not Htjind alone,
and wanted to stand, and l)elieved there was One
who could help him, why, then, wasn't the way
plain? Ah, Mary ('anieron I haven't yon resolved
at least a dozen times durini^ the last few weeks
that you will curb your impatient tongue, and say
only words which the members of yonr own family
can remember with pleasure and comfort after you
are gone out from the home forever? And have
you succeeded for even a sinpfle day in stand-
ing by that resolve? And do you care to iJtand?
Well, then, isn't the way plain? But of thi t side
of the question she refused to think. Life Aas
too busy just now for her to take up any new line
of work.

The end of it all was that she compromised with
her conscience in a miserable way. Lucia lingered
over her preparations for bed in an exasperating
way, replying to Mary's impatient attempts to
hasten her that she need not wait; there was
the bed before her, and tbe road to it was cer-
tainly plain. At last Mary went to bed, and
covering even her face from view, murmured her
shamefaced prayer, " Oh Lord, help Ben Reeder
to-night! " She had not an idea that such praying
Would be heard — deserved to be heard ; but when
one had made a wretched promise, what was one
to do?

! :

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262

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

CHAPTER XIX.

A STARTLING WITNESS.

RACHEL CAMERON had been several weeks
at home before she succeeded in getting to
the mid-week prayer-meeting. Surrounded by
people who were not in the habit of attending,
it was surprising how many obstacles they heed-
lessly threw in the way of one's doing so. At
last it was Aunt Eunice who, as she expressed it,
"set her foot down."

"I'm going round on Smith Street to the prayer-
meeting to-night whatever happens, and you
needn't any of you plan to hinder me. I never
lived so much like a heathen as I have since I
came here."

" Why should she think we "woulu want to hin-
der her?" asked Lucia with surprise. But she
was equally surprised at being invited to accom-
pany her, and promptly declined; so Aunt Eunice
and Rachel went away together.

The prayer room was fairly well filled, and a
notable feature of the audience was the larore num-
ber of young people. Rachel looked about lier
with kindlinsr eyes. She had felt almost alone
since her home-coming, but this gathering for

A 8TAllTLrXG WITNESS.

263

prayer betokened that there were many kindred
hearts right arouiul lier. Yet she was disappointed
in the meetinji:. Tiie sinsfinsf was heartv and en-
joyable, and the minister's address was certainly
very fine, and in a sense helpful ; ))ut it was an ad-
dress^ not an inforjnal social talk, like tlie family
talks to wliich she had been accustomed in her
aunt's church. Nor was there much praying. Two
g-eutlemen being called upon, offered long, formal,
entirely proper piayers ; and Professor Landis
pr;iyed without being called upon, and this was
all. Not a youthful voice was heard during the
ho'ii- — that 16 not distinctly. They whispered a
good deal, especially those seated in the back j)art
of the house ; not in a defiant or daring way, but
as though their interest in something was too
great to allow of longer silence ; and their interest
was evidently not in the ])ast()r's address. Nor
could Ilacliel wonder at that. For the most part
they were young people who, while intelligent,
even keen in their natures, had not been trained to
think closely, [>erhaps, on any subject ; certainly
not oh the fine, scholarly theme which was engross-
ing Mr. Edson. Certain of his auditors, however,
listened and appreciated ; occasionally they nodded
their heads in approval, and they said one to
another when the service was over: —

'* Wasn't that a fine thing he gave us to-night ?
So intellectual ; such a command of language.
That will do to print. He is destined to make a
stir in the city. I don't know a D.D. among

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264

WHAT THEY COULDIn T.

them who could give a more polished address nor
one involving more scholarship."

Mr. Edson was prom[)t in shaking hands with
those very people, and, to judge by the sparkle in
his eyes, was getting his needful mental stimulus
from them. Meantime the young people were
shaking hands with one another, talking almost
too loud for the cluirch, and exclianging bits of
social life eagerl3^ They seemed not to look in
Mr. Edson's direction, nor lie in theirs. However,
he saw one person who interested him. He caught
Mr. Landis by the arm as he was passing with a
bow and smile.

" Professor, do vou know who those two ladies
are who stand near the soutli door, back of Deacon
Watson ? "

Mr. Landis looked and explained.

" The young lady is Miss Cameron, one of a
family living on Durand Avenue. I gave you the
name a few weeks ago, you remember. The other
is her aunt, whose name I do not recall ; a guest,
T believe."

" That is not the ]\Iiss Cameron who was at the
social at Kinkaid's ? "

" No ; a younger sister who has but recently
returned home after a long absence."

'' Ah ! I was sure I had not seen that face
before. Introduce me, Professor."

Emilie would have had no cause to criticise his
erecting. Nothing could have been more cordial.
He walked down the aisle with the strangers, talk-

■i ?..

A STAUTLIKG WITNESS.

265

ing eagerly. He wan very glad to see them in
prayer-meeting. Perliapa they could come often,
the church was so near tlieir home. Would Miss
Cameron permit liini ? Tlie streets were really
almost dangerous just now ; sucli treacherous hits
of ice here and there.

It was not Rachel's hand which he drew deftly
through his arm as he spoke, hut the nnich-
suhdued and hewildered Aunt Eunice's. EmiHe's
chatter liad not prepared lier for receiving such
kindness and courtesv from this minister.

She was emphatic in her opinion of him, ex-
pressed as soon as they were at home. Such a
pleasant-spoken nian, and so friendly and thought-
ful ! It wasn't every 3'oung man who would liave
thouorht of offerincr his arm to an old woman like
her to keep l»er from slipping. Emilie listened in
surprise.

"I think hetter of him," she announced. " He
is the sort of man whom I shouldn't have expected
to know that there were any old people in the
world, nor young people either, except a certain
few which fit his pattern."

Mrs. Cameron called her to account. Wliy had
she of late adopted such a strange way of speaking
of ministers ? It was not refined ; people should
respect the profession more than that.

"Why, I do," said Emilie. '-That is what is
the matter with me. I respect it so much tliat I
do not like to see him ill-treating it. Keally,
mother, what is the harm? He is only a man, and

^|V:

268

WHAT THKV (OrLDNT.

a young man at that. Besides, I'm not saying any-
thing very dreadful ahout him. Perhaps lie will
grow better as he grows older. 'Inhere is room for
improvement, I am sure." Then, as she felt that
she was every moment making matters worse, the
child stopped, laughing, and blushing, not at her
mother's reproving look, but at the giavity on her
father's faee. Did it trouble her father to have
lier speak so of Mr. Edson? He had old-fashioned
ideas about ministers.

*' I don't mean anything in the world but talk,"
she began again. *' I don't know Mr. Edson, of
course ; but I will say that he acts as though he
thought more of rich people and cultured people
than he does of common-jdace ones. I don't know-
why he shouldn't, to be sure ; I do. But one
resents it in mir ' :!rs, someway. Don't let's
talk about him. Tell us about the meetincr.
What is the use in people going to prayer-meet-
ing if they canuot help the folks at home to do
good ? ''

But Aunt Eunice had become strangely silent.
She took her knitting as usual; but neither about
the meeting nor tlie various other topics which
came before them did she advance an opinion. It
was not until the family had separated for the
night that she came across the hall to the room
occupied by Rachel and Emilie, and so astonished
the latter, that, as she confessed to the girls in the
morning, she "might have h<^eji k;i »;r*^ix down
with a feather."

A RTAUTTJNr, WITNKM*

267

"Let nie cf)ine in a minute," Aunt Eunine said,
tapping at the door, tlien opening it lier.self; "f
want to talk to you both. I guess what you said
tiie other night, Ehiilie, hasn't been out of my
mind more tlian a minute at a time, since ; and it's
true enough, I may as well own it, but I want to
talk about it."

"Dear me I " said Emilie, much startled. '; What
in the world did I say? Wliatever it was, you
mustn't mind it, Aunt Eunice. Nobody ever pays
any attention to what I say, least of all, I myself.
I know it is not worth it."

Her aunt made no reply to this, but dropped
into the low rocker which Racliel ])ushed forward,
and motioned her niece to another. " Sit down,
both of you, can't you ? I've got something to
say. I tell you it is quite true tliat my religion
doesn't make me happy. It isn't the fault of re-
ligion, I know that ; for I've had lots of trouble in
my day — not much besides trouble yn\i may say —
and I know I should have gone crazy a hundred
times over, if it hadn't been for what religion I
had. Many a time I have prayed my way out of
dreadful scares of one kind and another, and lived
through things that I thought I couldn't, and I
know as well as I want to, that the Lord heard me :;
but that is neither here nor there. I li.iven't been
made sweet-tempered and patient and all that,
by my religion. It is good what there is of it;
but there doesn't seem to wc 3nough of it to reach,
somehow. I've felt it more ov less for vears; but

268

WHAT THKY COULIiN T.

I don't know as it ever came liome to me so sliarp
as it did the other night whtMi Emilie was <;oiiig
on, and Mr. Landis said that about being wciolnd
in tlie balances. I'm not true weight, and 1 fcL'l
it. Your kind, Racliel, seems lo he dii'fcieiit.
How did you get it? and wluit is the mallei- \\\{\i
me ;

Rachel opened her troubled Ji[)S to enter a pro-
test, but Aunt Euni(;e waved it off.

" Oil, there's noihing for you to deny I I don't
mean that you are forward, or eoiieeited, or any-
thing like that. i'here isn't a Innt about you lliat
would lead anybody to suspect that you knew voii
had a different religion from some; but it is plain
all the same. I saw it the very night you eaiiie ;
saw it i)laiiier than 1 have on any olher face in
years. There was a face oiiee that carried it
around just as you do all the time, and 1 envied
it then, and felt half mad about it; but that cue
has been buried a good many years, and my con-
science hasn't been troubled by the same sight
often. I've thought of it more or less since the
, night you came ; and to-night when that man
prayed I saw the same thing in his face, and felt it
in his voice."

'• Who?" asked Emilie, unable to restrain curi-
osity even now, "the minister?" Aunt Eunice
made an expressive gesture of negation with her
hand.

" Xo. child, no ! 'I'he minister's i-eliyion is
about like mine. He's got it; but there isiu

BM,

A STAIlTLlNfJ WITNESS.

269

enough of it to shine through on his face, and
color all he says. I mean that Mr. Landis. His
prayer just seemed to give me a heartache. I'd
give anything in this world if I could speak to
God in the way he did, and mean it."

" Aunt Kunice," said Rachel, letting fall the
hair-hrush, a!id dro[)ping herself in a little white
heap in front of her aunt's chair, '' if I were to try
to explain the difference hetween your experience
of life and mijie, I sho ild say that you were ener-
jjetic and brave and stroncf, and had shouldered a
great many burdens and borne them yourself, and
taken only the hard ones, which you did not know
how to manage, to the Lord ; whih? I am young
and weak, and feel mv iixnorance, and am afraid to
go a step alone, or do the least little thing without
tlie direction and lielp of Jesus Christ ; so that
I walk as with him beside me, and look for his
approval of each word I speak."

Aunt Eunice was watching her face, listening
with the keenest interest to every word ; but her
eyes had a perplexed look as of one who did not
understand.

"I don't know how you could," she said slowly.
' Every word ! ' Why, our words are not of con-
sequence enough for him to listen. They have to
be about such homely, e very-day things, most of
the time."

"Ah, but, Aunt Eunice, that is just what I
mean. Haven't you kepf the extra words for l.'im,
and planned the homely, e very-day ones yourself?

270

WHAT THEV COULDN T.

ill

I cannot do tliis ; I am sure to go astray if I at-
tempt it. I liave to take him at his word, and
remember that the very hairs of my liead are num-
bered by him; therefore nothing is too trivial for
him. Besides, when we remember that the simplest
words may do good or harm to a soul, they become
important enough for even him to have their or-
dering."

Still that look of perplexity. " I don't suppose
I can make you understand," Aunt Eunice said at
last with a weary sigh. " You are young, as you
say, and have had a quiet life, and not much to
fret you ; and I have been tossed about in a way
which you could not even imagine, and my tongue
has got so sharp that it cuts wlien I don't want it
to; while you, I suppose, never had a temptation
to say anything but nice, pleasant words. My
tongue has always been the worst of me ; and
yours is, maybe, the very best of you."

The rich color flowed into Rachel's cheeks, and
she bowed her head a moment on her aunt's knee,
asking guidance ; then she said : '' Aunt Eunice,
as a witness of His I must toll you how mistaken
you are. So far from m^ tongue having never
been tempted, I will confe js to you that it was my
bitterest enem3\ Mother viU tell you that as a
little child I was inclined to be rude in speech,
and, when excited or 'angry, impudent. The only
time my father ever punished me was for s-^ying
very angry and improper words to mother when
he was present. After I went away from home I

A STAKTMN'C WITNESS.

271

did not outgrow this sin. I tbink sins are rarely
outgrown; mine gained in strengtli, I know, with
every day. My Aunt Katlierine enduied, oh, so
much from me ! Sometimes it ahnost frightens me,
even now, to tliink liow I used to s[)eak to lier, not
as you wonhl imagine it possible a self-respecting
girl could speak to any i)erson, to say nothing of
its being one whom I loved, and who had shown
her love to me in so manv wavs. After I became,
as I now believe, a (christian, to my disijay this
habit of quick and saucy speech did not leave me.
I could control it for a time ; but the moment some-
thing enraged me, all my good resolutions were
forgotten, and my tongue was steadily increasing
ill its power for evil. One night matten; reached a
climax. My aunt had been talking with me for
being in the society of a person whom sl.'e did not
approve, and I was trying to justify myself and
him. I grew, oh, fearfully aiigr}' ! God only
knows the wicked words I said — he hiiis mercifully
let me forget many of them — and then, losing
every paiticle of self-con*!')!, I seized a jjeat glass
pitcher which stood near tilled with water, and
Hung it at my aunt's head."

" Oh, my patience ! '' exclaimed that part of her
audience which was curled on the foot of the bed.

''Mercy, child ! " said Aunt Eunice, ''you might
have killed her.*'

"1 might; and I almost did. The glass shiv-
ered in a thousand pieces: and some oi them struck
her on the temple, and cut ; and one struck her

272

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

eye. Slie suffered agony untold, and it was
thought for a time that she wouhl be blind; but
God was good to nie, and spared her sight. Oh
Aunt Eunice, if I could describe to you the hor-
rors of that night which I spent alone in my room,
with my aunt in the next room groaning at
every breath, and they bending over her in an
agony of fear! At first I could not pray; could
not think ; I could only cry out, ' O God, let me
die! kill nie! kill me right away! I am too
wicked to live any longer.' After a little I knew
I rmiat pray or lose my reason. And I — I don't
know how to tell you about it — but I cried to
God as I never had before. I told him all of my
resolutions made and broken hundreds of times,
and then I just gave myself to him in a way whicli
I had not before; gave my tongue into his keei)ing
to be used by him, to speak his words and only
his."

"Well," said Aunt Eunice, after a silence; sho
spoke almost sharply in her keen desire to hear
the rest.

"Well," llachel repeated, with a little trenni-
lous smile. " he took me at my word."

" And you didn't get mad after that, and say
thing's vou didn't mean?"

" I never did. My aunt lived two precious
years after that; and I never once, to her nor to
my cousins nor to the servants nor to anybody,
spoke words which I could wish afterwards to have
recalled. In truth, Aunt Eunice, I was another

A STAiniJN(r WITNhSS.

273

person from ihiit li(»ui'; jumI 1 could truly say a.s
Paul (li"l, 'Vet lioi (, but Clii i.'.t dwellctli iu
me.' He kept uie ; keeps me. What 1 have ulicii
thought about since, and what i want tu say nuw,
is, that of course it was not nect \.iy for me to
disgrace him so utterly with my besetting sin, be-
fore he would give me grace tn overcome it. What
if I had gone to him with my temptation at the
very lirst, being sure that I could not rule my '
tongue, and depended on him to do it for me ;
would he not have been quite as willing? The
mistake I made was in feeling that I could man-
age myself, and resolving to do so ; and when I
fiiiled, consoling myself with the thought that
I must not expect to oveicome great faults all
at once, but that by degi-ees I should get the mas-
tery. It was all 'T instead of all ' Christ' "

They would have formed a group for an artist,
sitting there: Euiilie on the foot of the bed, with
her white robes tucked around her, too interested
a listener to remember to go to bed ; Aunt Eunice
with her worn, anxious face, about which the gray
hair hung loosely, as she had suddenly left it
after having begun her preparations for the night ;
Rachel with her long brown hair sweeping the
floor, as she knelt and talked. After Emilie's one
dismayed exclamation, she had been awed into si-
lence. Watching her sister, she recalled the words
of a schoolmate to the effect that her artist brother
thought Rachel Cameron ought to sit for her
portrait as an angel, because there was nothiug in

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(716) •72-4903

!•;

274

WHAT THEV COULDN T.

hiftr face that suggested euithliiiess. It was a
strangely pure face ; yes, and a calm one. " I can-
not imagine her as being angry," thought Emilie.
"Fancy her throwing a pitciier of water at any-
body's head I She must be dreaming, and yet of
course it is true. How stranjje ! 1 wonder if
there is really such power in religion? I wonder
if it would make a great differeiute in me? If it
would in Aunt Eunice, I might have some hope
for myself. Poor old Aunt Eunice I She means
it, I do believe. It is queer for her to come in
here and talk to us as she lias. Oh, dear I what
ought I to do now, I wonder?*" For now the two
whom her fascinated eyes were watching had knelt
together; and Kach«^^l with one soft white hand
was clasping the wrinkled, bony hand of her aunt,
and was praying aloud. It would perhap>- be diffi-
cult to convey an idea of the impression which
this made upon Emilie. She had never before
heard a woman's voice in prayer. At first she was
mainly occupied in deciding what she ought to d(».
Would it be proper to kneel as they had done?
" But I don't know how to pray," said this honest
young soul ; " and I won't make believe." At last
she slipped softly into bed, deciding that that
would, on the whole, be the most proper thing to
do. At first she covered even her head with the
bed-clothes, resolved upon giving them all the
privacy she could. Then slie decided that she
would listen ; there was no harm surely in listen-
ing to prayers. But before that simple, tender,

A STARTLING WITNESS.

275

strangely earnest prayer was concluded, she had
covered her face again, to hide her tears. "If
that is the way to pray," said this gay young girl
to herself, *' I almost wish 1 knew how."

iff; f

■ 1

276

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER XX.

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

THERE was a breath of spring in the air.
Emille on lier return from school reported
the first robin of the season. She also complained
of her heavy flannels, and wondered if her last
j^ear's gingham dresses could be worn this summer.
Mrs. Cameron noted that the curtains at the sit-
ting-room windows began to lool: dusty and win-
ter-worn, and siglied as she thought of the spring
house-cleaning and the endless needs it would
bring to light.

House-cleaning and all other work would be
heavier this spring than usual ; for in early June
would come the day set for Mary's marriage, a
time looked forward to by father and mother with
mingled feelings. Both realized how man}' expen-
ditures such an event involved, and none knew
better than they how empt}'^ was the family purse.
Moreover, the firet real break in the family Mas
coming in this way. So great was the grind of
what they unhesitatingly called poverty, that this
thought was somewhat swallowed up by it; still
there were times when they realized that their
eldest born was soon to cease to look upon their

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

277

home as hers. After the spring fairly opened,
tlie sixth of June would come swiftly. Of one
tiling they assured themselves ; when the wedding
was over and Mary gone, tliey would begin those
long-thought-of retrenchments which were every
day becoming more necessary. " We cannot do
anything until after Mary goes," became a sen-
tence much in their thoughts and confidential
words ; and so great was the need for doing some-
tiling^ that there were times when it was inevitable
that this going away of tlie daugliter to a lux-
urious home of her own must be felt as a relief.
Meantime tlie household settled into busy quiet.
Eniilie, for reasons of her own, watched Aunt
Eunice curiously for a few days, half expecting a
wondrous change to come to her, like unto that
which she had heard reported in Rachel's sym-
pathetic voice on that never-to-be-forgotten even-
ing. But no such marked experience came to
Aunt Eunice. Her tongue was still quick and
keen ; and though a close observer could certainly
detect a change in her — could discover times,
many of them, in which she opened her lips to
speak, then closed them resolutely and knitted
liiird and fast, with the color rising on her face —
still the change was not great enough to satisfy
Emilie.

"There is a difference," she told herself
frankly. " The poor old thing is trying real hard
to be good. It isn't natural to her ; and she would
often rather box my ears than try not to ; but it i^

278

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

ISi

honest effort, and one cannot help respecting her
for it. I suppose it is unusual at her age, and
she will never be like Saint Rachel. How I
should have enjoyed that scene with Rachel and
the water-pitcher I I wonder if she ever told
mother about it?"

Wiiether she had or not, Emilie never knev;.
She kept her own counsel regarding the episode
of the night visit, answering Mary's and Lucia's
questions concerning it with only the vaguest
generalities.

By this time the Cameron household were be-
coming accustomed to Aunt Eunice's presence,
and beginning to feel it less of a cross go have her
with them. There was much sewing to be done in
view of the coming wedding, and Aunt Eunice
could sew as well as knit ; also she could contrive,
and get a respectable gaiment out of an appar-
ently impossible quantity of goods. There was
a bare possibility that in these busy days she
might become invaluable.

One experience in the hurried life which Mary
Cameron lived during these days must not be
forgotten. One morning Ben Reeder met her on
the street. He crossed the street, indeed, for the
purpose of meeting her, his face radiant the while.

" I've been wanting to see you ever since," he
said, not considering it necessary to be more ex-
plicit than that; evidently their last interview
stood out vividly in his memory, as indeed it did
in Mary's. ** I've been trying to come around to

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

070

your house, but have been too busy ; we are keep-
ing open nights this spring, you know. Well,
Miss Cameron, 1 did it! "

The triumph in his voice must l)e imagined ;
it is beyond description. He waited for an an-
swer, but receiving none wont on eagerly : —

"I followed your directions just as well as I
knew how, that very night; but nothing came of it,
because I didn't know how, very well, after all.
I can see now that I was savinjj, ' If the Lord will
give me strength to get out of tliese scrapes and
keep out of t)iem, why. then, I'll belong to him.'
That isn't the way, I take it; bui- I thought it was.
I went to the store the next morning feeling
awful. I knew the boys expected me to go that
very evening to a place where I was sure I would
be tempted to play, and would want to do it ; and
I knew I had no money to play with, and was
in debt, and couldn't see anything but ruin before
me. I hadn't slept much tlie night before; and
I got up late, and didn't have a chance for break-
fast, and about noon I began to feel downright
sick. Just as I was wondering if I could get
away for some lunch, the foreman of our depart-
ment came to me and said he, ' Reeder, you are
wanted in the little back room where the car-
penters have been at work.' I went down there,
and they told me Mr. Rhys, one of the firm, had
dropped a piece of money, a gold piece, and knew
it must be among the shavings, and I was to hunt
for it while the men were gone to their dinner. I

280

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

felt so dizzy and faint and horrid that it didn't
seem to me as thoui,di I could do it, but of course I
must. While I stood there steadying myself, iiud
making up my mind to begin, H 'ly Wilcox cunii}
along. Hilly is a good-natured fellow, and lie
boards at home, and his mother j)Uts him u^) a
prime lunch every day to bring to the store. Said
he, ' Why, Hen, what's up ? You look as thougli
you couldn't stiind on your feet. Here, take a
di'ink of this ; it will give you some strength.'
He had a mug of good, home-made coffee in his
hand — he brings it in a bottle, and heats it on the
gas. Well, I don't know why it should come to
me as it did, but like a flash I thought of it. Sup-
pose I should say to Billy, 'If the coffee will
give me strength enough to go and find that gold
piece so I can get out of here into the air for
awhile, why, then, I'll drink it.' And he should
say, *Well, it will, for my mother made it her-
self, and it's prime coffee. Drink it down, old
fellow.* And I should say, * No ; I want the
strength first. Let it give me the strength I need,
and then I'll promise to drink it! ' Hilly would
tliink I was a fool, said I to myself; and I guess I
I am ; that is the way I'm trying to manage about
the help she said was sure if I would take it. I
don't know why it was, but everything got Jis
plain as day to me. I swallowed the coffee, and
thanked Billy ; and then I shut and locked that
office door, and got down on my knees — lo hunt
for the gold piece, you know ; but before I began

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

281

to hunt, I just leaned on the shelf the carpenters
liad been building, and says I : ' O Lord, here is
Ben Reeder; lie gives liimself up. He has made a
failure of living, and disappointed his mother, and
got into scrapes, and isn't worth a »haviw/ ; but
here he is.' I said a little more, you know ; but
tliiit is the gist of it. Well, I suppose you know
wliat happened? "

He stopped in the street and looked at her, a
great yearning in his big brown eyes; but Mary
Cameron had no response ready. After a moment
he went on in a more subdued tone : —

"It isn't easy to tell that part, is it? I don't
suppose anything hapj)ened that a body could see ;
in fact, I know there didn't ; but I felt exactly as
though a great, strong arm swooped down and got
hold of me and s.iid, *'Ben Reeder, my boy, lean
on me forever.' And I said out loud and with as
much meaning as there is in me, '•ItvilL* And
He did the rest ! I found that gold piece twink-
ling at my feet the fii-st time I looked down.
That was queer, wasn't it? They said they had
been hunting" it for half un hour. There are a
good many more things to be told, but I mustn't
hinder you now. Perhaps I ought not to liave
told you this on the street ; but I felt in a kind of
hurry, and I thought you would be glad."

She tried to look and appear glad, this bewil-
dered girl ; but she knew no more what to say to
him than as if he had been talking in another
tongue. She would doubtless have been interested

282

W H AT T H KY (< )IT LDN T.

^rf

fi '

could she have; heard a convei'sation which was
hehl not h>iij:f afterwards : —

'* 81»e didn't seem quite so ghid as I tliouglit slie
would," Hen Keeder said, leaninj^ over his counter
to talk contidentially, while Professor Landis se-
lected handkerchiefs. '• I stopped her right on
the street to talk, an<l periiaps that wasn't tlie
thing. Do you suppose it coidd have offended
her?"

'•Oh, no!" said the Professor quickly ; then he
considered, while Hen turned to answer the qiies-
tion of another customer. When the handkerchiefs
were selected and paid for, their purchaser hatl de-
cided what to say.

" Hen, you were wishing yesterday that you
knew some person well enougii to he very deeply
interested in praying for his conversion. Wiiy
not take Miss Cameron? She is not a Christian."

" Not a Christian ! " repeated Ben, utter aston-
ishment, not to say dismay, in his voice. " Why,
Professor Landis, how can that be? She promised
to pray for wc."

" I trust she kept her word ; nevertheless, she
does not profess to belong to Christ. I believe
she is thiidving about the matter ; at times she
thinks seriously, but no decision has as yet been
reached."

Ben stood, change in hand, too bewildered for
the moment to deliver it. Then a sudden, settled
purpose showed itself on his changelul face and he
said : —

THK SHADOWS OF COMINO EVENTS.

283

"TU do it. Why, I'm sure I can pray for her,
different from anybody else. Next to mother and
the girls she is the Ixjst friend I've got. I thought
she was — why, everything ! I thought that was
what made her so good to me. You are quite
siue, Professor? Then I'll never leave off praying
for her until she belongs.''

Mr. Landis went away with his heart more at
rest about these two friends. It was good for Ben
to have a soul in which he was deeply interested
to centre his energies upon, and it was good for
Mary Cameron to have a boy like Ben praying
for her. Making a Christian of him Imd not de-
tracted one whit from his natural energy. Ben
did with all his heart whatever he undertook ; and
he had entered the Christian life with an idea that
its work was as important as any in which he
could engage.

Among many other pressing interests of life
during these days was one which Emilie Cameron
at least did not ignore. That was the growing in-
timacy of Mr. Edson with the entire Cameron
family. Not two days after the prayer-meeting
which Aunt Eunice and Rachel had attended, he
called, and made himself so entirely agreeable that
Lucia said she could not imagine what Emilie
meant by her reports concerning him. A company
of chattering school-girls, she supposed, had be-
come offended with hira because he was not always
thinking only of them. Certainly nothing could
be more gracious and deferential than his manner

i 'M

284

WHAT THEY COUI.DN T.

to Aunt Eunice, and slie was neitlier rich nor
learned. Eniilie admitted that lie was very iniuli
"nicer" than she had supposed, and lier respect
for him increased with greater knowledj^e. Ho
had evidently determined that the family should
have every opportunity for knowing him well.
After the first formal call, whieii in itself was too
friendly and genial to he described as such, lie
dropped at once into the friendly stage — rutniing
in with a paper containing an article altout which
he had been talking with Mr. Cameron, with a
book of which Lucia had spoken, with some very
early straw iKjrries to tempt Aunt Eunice's appetite
that he had heard her say w.is poor, with a daiuty
spray of orange bloom to remind Rachel of her
California home — there was really no end to his
ingenious devices for stopping in a moment on his
way I ^) or down town. By degrees it was becom-
ing apparent, at least to Emilie, that the omnge
blooms had been his choicest gift, and that he had
selected their owner carefully.

" People can't cheat me, " she remarked sagely.
" I've read too many books, and watched too many
couples when they didn't know I was watching.
That young man wants to add a minister to cm*
family. He did not choose orange blossoms from
all the other flowei-s that grow in California, for
nothing. Well. I don't thiidv I object; he is really
very nice indeed. I had not imajjined that I could
like him so well. And Rachel is exactly calcu-
lated for a minister's wife. She is a great deal

THE SHADOWS OK rOMlNO KVKNT8. 285

better than he; but women neiirlv iihviivs are —
tliat is, when they are good at all. Dear me I we
aie really j^etting famous, with two weddings in
prospect."

But UaiOiel showed such decided and painful
dislike to being good-naturedly rallied by her gay
young sister that Mrs. Cameron i»eremptorily for-
bade such amusement in the future.

" Rachel says there is absolutely no truth in
your surmise, and that if you persist in talking
about it she will have to make herself conspic-
uous by refusing ordinary courtesies at his hands,
such as he offers her in common with Lucia and
M:iry. Under such circumstances it is very rude
and disagreeable in you to kee[) noticing his at-
tentions. Remember, I will have no more of it."

Emilie nodded that very wise head of hers, and
spoke with decision : —

" ril keep still, mother; but that won't prevent
me from using my eyes and my common sense. I
just want you to remember, when it comes, that
I warned you. It isn't Aunt Eunice that attracts
the minister, nor you and father, though he is so
thoughtful of you all. He gave even me a great
bunch of spring violets yesterday, .and said 1 was
to divide. That was because I told him one day
that Rachel couldn't pass the window where they
were. But I'll be as silent as an owl — and as
wise ! I think we would better begin to go there
to church regularly. It will be less embarrassing
to do it now than later."

286

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

4' V

Into the quiet bustle of preparation which ncv
began to fill the house, there came, one day, a
distraction. Mr. Cameron, contrary to his liabit,
came home at luncheon time ; but instead ul ap-
jiearing at the table where the family were gulli-
ered, went directly to 1 's room.

" Your father cannot be well," Mrs. Cameron
said with concern in her voice, and she went to
him almost immediately. L.iter, Emilie was de-
spatched to the business house where he was em-
ployed to say that a severe hejidache wliieh had
almost blinded him would prevent his return that
day, but he hoped to report as usual r.i the morn-
ing. Numerous were the questions with which
Mrs. Cameron was plied as she went back and
forth, carrying tea and toast which were untasted,
and getting poinided ice to apply to the aching
head. Her replies were unsatisfactory.

"Yes; his head was very bad, but easier now
than at first." '* He is not ill otherwise." " He
will not have the doctor called ; he has been posi-
tive about that from the first." •' Emilie can by no
means go up to see him; he needs to be quiet."
**■ No ; I do not consider it necessary to send for the
doctor. I think he will be better soon." In all
these responses there was a sense of reserve knowl-
edge which to Mary's anxious ears was apparent.
Something had happened to induce such a severe
headache ; she felt sure of it. Perhaps because
her mother naturally leaned somewhat more upon
this eldest daughter than up(>n t\t« Qthers, and per-

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

281

haps because she already knew what the others
(lid not, Mrs. Cameron's leservi gave way when
the girl followed her up-staii's with a l)eseeching,
'• Do, iTiotlier, tell me the wliole truth." She laid
lier head on Mary's shoulder and cried. Only for
a moment, then she brushed away the tears hur-
riedly. " I don't want him to see that I have
been crying. Oil, it is nothing so very terrible,
only he will worry so ! Yes ; it is the boys again.
He has a letter from President Force — really a
very kind letter — notliing to be so distressed
about. I tell vour father so ; but he will not
listen to reason. His head is so bad that he can-
not. These headaches trouble me tlie most (►f
anything. They are increasing on him, I tliink.
Why, yes, you may as well go up, ii you can keep
the others from wanting to go also. Your know-
ing about the other matter makes it seem different
to tell you. Perhaps your father would be quieted
by talking it all over with you."

So Mary went up to the darkened room where
lier father sat holding his tlirobbiiig temples with
both trembling hands, and thinking his troubled
thoughts. He seemed relieved rather tlian other-
wise to see Mary ; gave her the President's letter
to read, a?id tried to discuss the situation with her.
Tiie letter was, as Mrs. Cameron had said, most
kind. The President had taken the tiouble to
write in pei*son, because he was peculiarly in-
terested in these young men. They v»ere tal-
ented young fellows, both of them, in some lines

!■■;■

288

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

even brilliant. They had gotten into some little
financial difficulties, which, noised abroad, would
create unpleasantness not only for them but for
their friends. A mere trifle as those things went.
Probably a hundred dollars would make eveiy-
thing straight and avoid publicity, which last wus
of all things to be desired. He would not enter
into particulars, as he judged that the sons them-
selves would prefer to acquaint their father wiili
details. They had, however, been glaa that he
was willing to write, seeming to consider that
their parents might be inclined to be too severe
in their estimate of the deeds of young men. He
would not deny that the boys had been foolish —
boys were quite apt to be. We must not expect
too great wisdom, especially in money matters,
from these young heads. But he thought lie
might venture to hint that the difficulty in which
the two found themselves would be a lesson for
the future. He v/ould suggest that the money,
say a hundred dollars at this time, be sent them as
promptly as possible. In fact, it might be well to
send it to him, and he would undertake to see
that none of the class of boys, who liked to make
much out of little, sometimes, got hold of dettiils.
Of course, it was due to him, the father, to have
dt tails, and undoubtedly his sons would so under-
s^lnd. Meantime there was really nothing which
need cause him very serious anxiety ; all would
come out well in the end, he hoped and believed.
Such wa» the tenor of the letter, carefully guarded,

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.

289

80 that oiie could not read distinctly between the
lilies. Mr. Cameron pushed aside the wet com-
press to see what his daughter thought of it.

He frankly confessed to her tliat, so far as his
present ability was concerned, a thousand dollars
might as well have been called for as a hundred.
He not only had not half that sum, but knew no
way to raise it. He was in debt now, as she
knew ; and his next quarter's salary, although not
due yet for nearly two months, had been antici-
pated almost to its full sum. He confessed that
it was brooding over the existing state of things
which had brought on one of his headaches, even
before this letter was received.

Poor Mary found it hard to keep her voice low
and soothing. She was angry with President
Force. Why need he write at all if he had noth-
ing but smooln hints to give them? What did
the boys mean by going to a stranger, instead
of writing home for themselves, if they had gotten
into trouble? What was the use in saying that
the money could not be raised ? Of course it must
be raised. They ought to see to it this very day !
On the whole, she succeeded so well in bringing
on another paroxysm, that she was presently ban-
iished, while her mother wrestled with pain.

1 '

!■

290

WHAT THKV i'dlLhS T.

CHAPTER XXI.
"don't ask mk any questions.'*

THE headache yielded at last, and by midniglit
the Cameron household uas as quiet as
usual ; though Emilie aiinouiieed the next morn-
ing that there must have been ghosts haunting-
the house ; she certainly heard one in Marv's
room, and nobody seemed to have slept well. Mr.
Cameron came to the breakfast table lookino; old
and worn,

" These fearful hea<laches are sap[)ing his
strength," his wife said, looking after him with
a heavy sigh, as he moved feebly away towanls
a car.

^^ What is the cause of t)iem, mother ? " Emilie
asked. "* Don't you think he ought to have ii
doctor?"

"He ought to have rest!" said the mother;
and she sighod again. It was not until the uumii-
ing was well advanced that Mary had an oppor-
tunity to ask her mother privately what fatlier
had decided to do.

*' I am sure I don't know," she said wearily.
"He did not sleep until toward niorning. tlioii^h
the pain was subdued before midniglit. He hiy

"don't ask me any questions.'

291

perfectly still and I did not speak, in the hope
that he was resting; but every once in a wliile
he would draw a sigh so heavy and hopeless that
it went to my heart. At last he said aloud, * It
r must be managed somehow.' Tlien I said of course
it must. We could not afford to ruin the pros-
pects of our boys for the sake of a hundred dol-
lars ; and I added that I should tliink a man as
well known as he, might borrow a hundred dollars
of somebody. I am sorry I said that; he has
such a horror of borrowing. This morning he
had nothing to tell me beyond the fact that he had
decided to raise the money in some way.

It was a long day to mother and daughter.
The necessity which they felt laid upon them
not to talk about their trouble, or to betray un-
usual anxiety, made the strain greater. Both of
them were watching all day for — they hardly
knew what. At every sound of the door-bell they
started nervously and their eyes sought each other,
each mutely asking, " Is that a message from or
about the boys? and what does it reveal?"

"'I believe you two have some dark designs
or expectations," said the observing Emilie, late
ill the afternoon. "Every time the bell rings your
faces get red and then pale ; and you look as
though you expected a policeman to pounce in
upon you. Mother, you haven*t been aiding and
abetting Mary to steal white silk enough for a
wedding-dress, have you?"

They laughed off the charge as best they could,

M -/^

■

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tJBKI

IP''

r^yHi

H*''-

Sfi 1''

itM

l';.'

if'

■5-

292

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

and tried to be more careful, and did not know
wliether to be relieved or fearful when at last Mr.
Cameron came slowly from tlie car at the usual
time. Both met him in the lull; Mrs. Cameron
saying eagerly that she must see how *' fatlier "
had borne the day, and Mary coming swiftly from
her room whither she had retired to watch for
him.

" It is settled," he said quickly. " I secured the
money, and telegraphed President Force a money
order. He has it by this time. Now, don't ask
me any questions, nor let me hear any more about
it;" and he passed them and went to his room,
where he locked himself in. But he came to
dinner as usual, and looked no paler than might
have been expected in a man who had borne such
pain but the day before. Wife and daughter
breathed more freely, feeling that the mysterious
cyclone which had threatened to break over tliir
heads had passed, after all, leaving them un-
harmed. Had they spent the day Avith Mr. Cam-
eron their hearts would have been less light.
When he left home in the morning, he had no
definite plan of action, and had arrived at only
that one decision: somehow or other he must
raise a hundred dollars before the dav was done.
His excited imagination had brooded over the
letter from the President until it seemed to him
that the very lives of his boys were in some way
in peril. Their father must rescue them. How ?
Of course he had thought of, and rejected, a

"don't ask me any QUESTroNs/

293

hundred different ways. His wife had been silent
to her eldest duugliter with regard to one bit
of conversation. '• I suppose if I should ask Ken-
nedy to lend me a hundred dollars for a few days,
he could do it without the slightest inconven-
ience," Mr. Cameron had said ; and Ins wife had
replied quickly: ''O Edward I do not think of it.
Any way rather than that. It would humiliate
Mary to the dust. She is very sensitive now
about her poverty ; and then think what a pre-
cedent it would sucTffest. He would conceive of
you as a man wh;) wouhl bj always b.jrrowin^ hii
money."

And then Mr. Cameron had shuddered, and evi-
dently turned at once from that possibility. So lie
had from any other which suggested itselt ; and
was sittinsf at his desk trvinsf to add a column of
figures, and feelinjj like one on the eve of some
desperate act, when young Clinton, the son of a
member of his firm, stopped before him.

" By the way, Mr. Cameron, accounts are in
your line, I believe. Here is one not connected
with the firm, but I wish you would attend to it
for me. I promised to meet Mr. Louis Stevenson
here this morning at twelve, and let him have a
little money which he wants to use. He is not
here on time, and I must go. When he calls, will
you hand him this, and take a receipt? Just
count it before I go, that we may be sure we agree.
There should be a bundled dollars."

A curious photograph of himself counting that

294

WHAT THEY CO^LDN'T.

money had beer present in Mr. Cameron's mind
all day. He knew his hand had trembled so visi-
bly, that young Clinton had asked kindly if he
was not well ; and on hearing of his day of suffer-
ing had added that he ought to liave rest. Then
he had gone away with a word of thanks for the
accommodation, and left that hundred dollars
with a man who felt that it was able to save his
sons from public disgrace and ruin. He locked
it away out of sight, and watched eagerly for Mr.
Stevenson ; he longed to get the bills into his
hands. He would not go out for luncheon lest he
migl t miss the man. Besides, he wanted nc lunch ;
the thought of eating was offensive to him.
Meantime he made desperate efforts on his own
behalf. He asked a fellow-clerk who had occa-
sionally accommodated him, and whom he now
owed fifty dollars, to lend him a hundred. The
man replied coldly that he was himself embar-
rassed, and had no money to lend to anybody ; the
tone said, "Least of all to you." He wrote a
note to a well-known money-lender, offering pay-
ment in three months at twelve per cent, but he
had not the required security ; and the day waned,
and he had not raised the one hundred dollars.
He looked up at the clock. In another hour it
would be too late to have it delivered as a money-
order that day. What might not happen to the
boys? By this time he had worked himself into
the belief that a few houi-s more of delay would be
fatiil. And Mr. Stevenson had not come; and as

DON T ASK ME ANY QUESTIONS.

295

often as he luicl need to open his desk, that roll of
bills stared him in the face. At last two men
waited at the desk while he ran over their account
and veritied it. While they waited they talked.

"Did you see Stevenson th? morning?"

**No; dill he UwK.'h at the Club?"

"Oil, no; he was off before lunch time; took
the eleven-ten. He's a lucky fellow; I wouldn't
mind being a relative just now."

Mr. Cameron passed over the account, and
asked this question : " Were you s[>eaking of Mr.
Louis Stevenson just now? Has he left town?"

'• Yes, sir ; went this morning, to be absent sev-
eral weeks.''

'• I expected him to call on a matter of busi-
ness." explained Mr. Cameron; "that is why I
asked the question."

" Well, he went unexpectedly ; that is, he did
not mean to leave until midnight; but he had
a telegram which hastened him. I presume that
is why you have not seen him."

Then Mr. Cameron looked at the clock again,
and put on his street coat, and explained to the
proper one that he had had no lunch, and went
out quickly with the roll of bills belonging to Mr.
Stevenson in his hand. By the time he returned,
President Force bad probably received his tele-
gram. Mr. Cameron had borrowed the money ;
that was all ! He explained it carefully to himself
a hundred times during the next two hours. H
had borrowed monev before, but never in ^

■, I

I: I

296

WHAT THKY COITLDN T,

way. He would say nothing' to anybody about
the way. The young man wlio had left the bills in
his care was not in the store twice a month. Even
if he came, all that he needed was a receipt.
Meantime, of course, loni^ before Mi". Stevenson's
return, the hundred dollars would be ready for
him. It should be raised somehow. This was tlie
history of Mr. Cameron's day, about wliieh he did
not want to be questioned. His wife worried
much because he ate almost no dinner, and slept
but little iL.it 'iiight, and restlessly. How could
he hope to endure the strain of tlie spiing work
and care if he went on in this way?

"I wish I knew how he raised tlie money," said
Mary anxiously.

*'So that it is raised, what does it matter?
You can trust your father, I hope ! " Tiie moth-
er's tone was severe.

"• Why, of conrse I " said Mary, opening her eyes
wide ; "but I mean I am afraid he has had to do it
in a way which adds to his anxieties." Yes, he
had I but nobody suspected the way, A Cameron
could not do anything dishonorable!

What life was to Mr. Cameron during the
weeks which' followed, it is well that one has not
to describe. Has anybody ever succeeded in de-
scribing the condition of a man who has lived half
a century of honor, and then suddenly fallen in
his own sight? As for the boys, this last prompt
action on the part of a father whom they had dis-
honored, brought them to their %enses. They

** don't ASIC ME ANY Qtn:sTioNs/' 297

both wrote very grateful letters. Father Hhoiihl
see that liis kiiidiieHH wan not undeserved. They
liad gotten into unexpected trouble, but had
learned their lesson ; he need never fear a repe-
tition of it. Tln-y had learned some things now
tliat they had not known liefore. They were go-
ing to work liard, and cany off all the honors.
When thev came home there were many details
connected with the affair which their father should
know ; but they wouhl not take his time nor try
his patience by writing them. In fact, their letter,
in its way, was as nnich a success at not telling,
as was tliat of President Force. Father, mother,
and eldest daughter studied it, and tried to be c(m-
tent. The father, indeed, told himself bitterly
that he was not one to inquire too closely into
what had been done; but Mary was, for a time,
indignant. The mother was so glad to see the
handwriting ol her boys that she cried over it,
and after that was happier than she had been for
months; foi the boys took to writing regularly
again, letters which she read and re-read, and wore
next her heart. Meantime, the young man from
whom the hundred dollars had been borrowed,
kept away from the store, and the borrower tried
by every means in his power to raise the money.
Despite the many duties and cares connected
with her approaching marriage, Mary Cameron
found time to be harassed by nameless fears in
still another direction. These were connected
with her gay young sister, Emilie. The pre ten-

208

WHAT THKV CorhDN T.

tious party wliicli Mary liad Iu'IjkmI hvv to attrnd
.'US a rare treat was by no means tlie last jfatherin^
of tlie kind iit wliich Hlie found licrstdf. Iud<M'il,
this one glimpse of the hriglit worhl wliich had
heretofore lain hevoiid her reach seemed to have
hewitehed the «;irl. She sulci no more alndil
clothes, lieing willinjif, apparently, t() appear in
her old ones, if only she mijrht apprar; and, on
one pretext or another, su(uu;eded in jtfetting per-
niissio'i oftener than she herself had imagined
to he possible. At tirst Maiy had laughed, and
counselled that she he allowetl to go. •• The child
will soon liave enough of it," she said, "with no
pretty finery to show off. (J iris of that .age go
to parties chiefly for the jjake of showing how-
sweet they look in their new dresses. Besides, it
is innocent amusement enough ; just girls and
boys of their own set. What harm ? "

But there was haim comings and Mary was the
first to rouse to anxiety. No: Rachel was the
first; but she had discountenanced the parties from
the beginning, and Emilie had bitterly resented
what she called her "interference." It was bad
enougli, she declared, to be managed by her eldest
sister; but to have Rachel, her next in age, at-
tempt it, was insufferable. So Rachel could do
nothing ; but she asked Mary if she did not see
how the bloom was wearing from Emilie's life,
and pointed out certain subtle changes which even
the preoccupied mother had not noticed. More-
over, the o))jectionable "Cousin Richaid " who was

** don't ask MK any QiriCSTlONS.'

299

thouj^ht to hsive returned to New York, was ilis-
covered to l)e a pernon of distinction at t\u' parties.
Mary, beinjr interrojrattMl, said that HJie <\U\ not
know anytliing positively liannful eoncerninir liim,
except tliat he played cards; Imt so did all the
young men of that class; and he drank wine, at
weddings at least; but so did many othei-s — esti-
mable young men. At the same time, she did not
like to have Kmilie associated with him. He was
a great dejil older than the company he affected ;
and the child was too young anyway t) think
of such things. Hut Ilaiihel remembered her own
bitter and dangerous experience, and knew that
"children " did "think of such things." Finally
it was Ben Tleeder who sounded the note of alarm
— Ben Reeder, who belonged to the class that
must give peculiar satisfaction to the Lord Jesus
Christ. It is of such persons one instinctively
thinks when one reads the verse; ''He shall see
of the travail of his soul and be satisfied." Ben
Reeder had been made over by grace. To him
the Lord Jesus was everything; he did his daily
work at the store with a view to honoring him;
he spent his evenings where he could be Rure
Jesus Christ would accompany him and make no
inconsiderable part of the enjoyment. He spent
his money exactly in the line in which he believed
Jesus Christ would have done had he walked the
streets in person.

" In short," said Mr. Landis, trying to describe
the change to the Camerons, " the boy makes one

300

WHAT THKV CorLDX T.

Kit

think of the ohl life whose liistorv i.s einhodiod in
a single sentence: 'This one thing.' I have
rarely seen grace do so nincli in so short d time
as it has done for our hoy Hen. I like to think
of his father ajid mother when he gets h.uk to
them."

Hen Reeder caine to Mr. Landis one day nilji a
tronhled face. '• Professoi-," lie began, for ;il-
tlKHio-h that ofentlenian earnestly' desired to he
called plain "Mister," and was griidiially so im-
pres, ing his friends, Ik':i clung to the title. —
'• Professoi-, do vou know anvthinir aliout the \'iine-
street Theatre ? "

"Quite as much as 1 care to know. Hen. I am
Cflad that neither that theatre nor anv other inter-
ests you."

" Well, but we have to thiidc about such things
sometimes. There is a difference in theaties. I
suppose; and you wouldn't choose the Vane-street
one to have 3()ur sister attend, even if she would
go to some of them, would you? "

Mr. Landis dropped the essay he was glancing
over, and gave full attention to his companion.

'• Hen, my boy, what are you getting at ? "

'* Why, Professor, I suppose they woidd think it
wasn't any of my business; but they have hc^n
awfully good to me, and that little girl especially
did her best to help me; and I wondeied if — tliey
cant know wluit kind of a place it is or tliey
wouldn't have her gr» there: aiul they csiiTt know
what kind of a man he is, or thev wouhbi't let liini

DON T ASK ME ANY QUESTIONS.

301

take lier — there, or anywhere. Couldn't you do
somethiuj;?"

" Bevi, you are not given to such bewildering
stfiteinents. What 'little' girl and what 'man'
are interesting you?"

Tiius called to account, Ben explai*\ed, not
without an earnest parenthesis to the effect tliat he

d not want to seem to he intruding or interfer-
ing, tliat little Kmilie Cameron was occasionally
seen entering the doors of the Vane-street
Theatre, in company with Mr. Richard Forbes.
Mr. Landis was dumfounded. Not a friend to
theatres of any type, because he had carefully
studied them from tl»e standpoint of a thoughtful,
well-informed man, it had not occurred to liim that
respectable people would venture inside the Vane-
street house ; and it made his blood boil to think
of the gay, sweet child being carried thither by a
moral wolf whose sheep's clothing was of the flim-
siest character. Of course none of the family
knew of these visits; but how were they managed?
He thanked Ben, gave him a caution which he did
not need, and began that very evening to "do
something."

His relations with the Camerons were now those
of a trusted friend. His sister Dorothy had gone
home for a vacation, which gave him somewhat
more leisure ; and he chose to devote many pleas-
ant half-hours to the Cameron home circle. Every
one welcomed him ; but with Mary, especially, his
relations seamed to be more that of a brother in

302

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

U (it

s4'

ii
ft

whom she trusted. She frankly asked his advice
on all sorts of subjects, and followed it often ; al-
ways carefully, however, holding back from ilie
subject of momentous importance which he tried
to press upon her for decision. Sometime, slie as-
sured him, she Avas going- to give serious attention
to this matter, and really meant, when she had i<et-
tled down, to order her life by the principles of tlie
Bible. He knew that she meant after she Mas
married, .and he longed exceedingly to have her
settle the whole matter before that time. When
he thought of Mr. Kennedy's influence upon a soul
who still held the claims of Jesus Christ in abey-
ance, he trembled for th o result. But on all other
subjects Mary Cameron was frank with him ; so lie
had no hesitancy in asking at once where Emilie
Ayas this evening. He asked it in low tones, as lie
was awanging the music on the piano for Mary to
play for him.

She had gone to spend the night with her par-
ticular friend, Bertha Foster, Mary explained.
Why did he ask? Had he any special message
for her? Instead of replying, he asked if she often
spent the night with Miss Foster; something in
his tons making Mary look up at him anxiously.

Why» UQt very often. Father had old-fashioned
ideas about such things, and liked to have tlie
children at home at night. Still, Emilie went
oftenei than the older ones used to be allowed to.
Being the youngest, it had seemed natural not to
be so strict with her; and, now that she thought

DON T ASK MK ANY giKSTlONS.

303

of it, perhaps slie luul been quite frequently of late
to the Fosters's. Hertlia was a silly sort of girl
too. Thev wondered at Emilie for beinij so fond
of her. Why did he ask the question?

He asked still another : Would she pardon
him for incjuiring if Emilie had been given per-
mission to attend the theatre with her friends?

Oh, no, indeed I Father had never approved
of their attending; thy theatre. The older ones
had gone but rarely; and Emilie had never been
allowed to go, save with her brothers once or
twice to very exce[)tional plays. Wouldn't he
please tell her right away why he asked? Was
anything wrong?

Mr. Land is looked behind liim at the family
group gathered around the drop light, then bent
his head and spoke lower stili.

304

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

% .

CHAPTER XXII.

A PEHSISTENT FRIEND.

ARY was at first inclined to be indignant
with poor Ben. The idea of their Eniilie
being seen going into the Vane-street Tlieatrel
it was absurd. Some other girl who resembled
her had doubtless misled him ; but he should be
more particular than that. Why, it was almost as
mucli as a girl's chaiacter was worth to have such
things said about lier ! Mr. Landis was not re-
lieved of his anxiety by all this. He had ques-
tioned Ben carefully, and knew liim well ; lie was
the last bov to be mistaken about such a thinfj.
Gradually Mary's indignation changed to anx-
iety. She stopi)ed the song in the middle of a
verse to cross-question Mr. Landis ; thereby call-
ing from Lucia the remark that interludes oc-
curred in very unusual place*^ appareiitly. Did
he not think it possible that Ben might have
mistaken some otlier girl for Emilie? Or the
child might have been standing near the entrance
for a moment, speaking with some one. Surely
the F'osters would not allow Bertha to attend such
places. Then Mr. Landis frightened her still
further by asking if the Fosters were not some-

A pi:KsrsTi:NT kuiknik

305

what careless as to where the cousin took Bertlia
and her friends.

** Not tliat I shoukl suppose tliey would be care-
less," he added witli a gravity that was almost
stern ; " I cannot think of another person, found
sometimes in respectable society, whom I would
not rather choose for companionship than him ;
but people are often unpardonably careless where
there is relationship."

"Is he so bad as that?" Mary asked, her face
paling. What if Emilie were in his company
at this moment! She had not tiioujjht of his
being always with his cousin. The song ceased
altogether, and the two conversed in low tones for
some time. Then Mr. Landis came forward to
bid good-evening to the family group, explaining
that an important matter of business had occurred
to him, which would take him away at once.

"Somebody ought to write to Mr. Kennedy,"
said Lucia, after he was gone. "If he had seen
those two so absorbed in themselves as to forget
all about the music they were pretending to learn,
r am sure he would have been jealous, if he has
any of that article in his composition. Mary
Cameron, whatever other faults you may have
had, I never thought you would develop into
a airt ! "

She meant the merest nonsense, such as Mary
had, of late, been able to laugh over; but this
evening she was too nervous.

"Oh, dcv't!" she said, with something of the

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WHAT THKV (HULDN T.

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sharpness wliich used to greet such teasings ; and
Lucia was silent, and filled vvitli wonder.

Mr. Landis's "• business" was none of the pleas-
ahtest. lie had ]»roniised to learn, if he could.
just who Krnilie's (companions were this *^vening.
and to bring Marv word again, il" tliere should he
ground for anxiety. Slie had assnred him that
these anxieties must be kept from her father if
possible; for he had had a very serious strain of
late, and was so far from well, that they were in
daily fear of the consequen(;es. Mr. Landis went
awav in some doubt as to how he should fulfil his
commission. He had not even a calling acquaint-
ance with the Fosters ; but there was a matter of
business which he might transact with the mother.
although he would have preferred to choose an-
other time.

He made his call much briefer than he wonld
otherwise have done ; having learned incidentally
on his first arrival that Bertha and a friend who
was visiting her had gone out with the former's
coiisin. He tried to shape his inquiries in a way
to learn where they had gone, but failed in this :
it would not do to excite wonderment over his
curiosity. He took a down-towif car while trying
to decide what step to take next, and was busy
studying the problem* when Ben Reeder touclied
his arm.

"Excuse me, Piofessoi-, for interrupting your
thinking; but I'm awfnlly anxious about some-
thing." Mr. Landis made room for him, and the

A PERSISTENT FKIEND.

301

boy went on. " You know what I was talking
to you abotit this morning? "

"Well, they are going there to-niglit; and it is
one of the worst plays in the lot, that conies on
to-night. I (ioH''t think he can know wnere he is
takinof her. He has been drinking."

" How did vou learn of this, Ben? "

" I found it out by what folks call accident. I
had to stay after time to-night, and had no dinner;
so when I got a chance, I sli[)ped into that restau-
rant around the corner from us ; and at the table
in front of me sat Mr. Forbes and another man.
They had a bottle of wine ; and while they drank
it, they made their plans and talked pretty loud,
and I listened. Mr. Forbes was to bring his
cousin and Emilie Cameron down to the square ;
and there the other rnan was to meet them, and
take the cousin somewhere, I didn't find out
where ; but Emilie Cameron was to go to the Vane-
street play with Mr. Forbes; and afterwards they
were to meet again at the square at half-past
eleven, so that Mr. Forbes could take charge of
both ladies. I thought maybe you would know
something that could be done, and I've been hunt-
inor about for vou here and there. I stood at the
corner thinking what to do next when I caught
sight of you in this car."

"What is this we are passing?" asked Mr.
Landis ; "the St. James? then I will stop here.
And, Ben, thank you very much ; be entirely silent
about what vou have told me ; I will attend to it."

308

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

Drawn up near the St, James were rows of car-
riages, into one of which Mr. Landis stepped and
gave his order: —

"To the Vane-street Theatre."

Arrived there, he directed the driver to wait,
adding that lie should not be long gone. Then he
stepped boldly to the office and secured a ticket,
the first he had ever bought at that place. It was
early yet; the play could hardly have commenced;
but he must know whether the ones he soucfht
were in the audience. Comparative stranger
though he was, he recognized some faces tliat he
had not expected to meet, and there were elbows
nudged and whispers of astonishment exchanged
over his entrance. He remained long enough to
be sure that Emilie Cameron was not in the house,
then went back to his carrifige with a direction.

"Drive a little out of the line, to that side, and
wait. I shall not be detained long." Then he
took his station near the main entrance. He had
not long to wait. Tripping airily from the car,
with her pretty gloved hand resting on Mr.
Forbes's arm, was Emilie, her bright face aglow
with excitement and anticipation ; too ignorant
of the world to understand how low a world she
was beinjj taken to.

As they reached the sidewalk, Mr. Landis
stepped forward and addiessed Mr. Forbes.

"Excuse me, sir; I have a message for this
young lady from her home. She is wanted there
immediately."

A PERSISTENT FRIEND.

309

Emilie gave .a faint little scream of apprehen-
sion. "O Mr. Landis, is my father ill? Please
tell me, quick ! "

''It is not illness, Miss Emilie ; I will explain as
we (hive ; come witli me to my carriage."

" I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Forbes loft-
ily ; " the lady is in my charge, and I cannot en-
gage to release her on such short notice. If no
one is ill, what in thunder is the matter that you
are acting the part of policeman?"

" One thing that is the matter," said Mr. Landis
coldly, " is that you are partially intoxicated, and
not fit to have the charge of a iady. Will you let
her go quietly, or must I call a policeman ? "

" Oh, let me go ! " said Emilie ; " I want to go
with him, Mr. Forbes ; I do, indeed ; he is an old
friend." As she spoke, she snatched her hand
from her companion's arm ; and Mr. Landis without
more ado huriied her to the waiting carriage, gave
the Camerons' street and number, and took a seat
beside his charge — almost the worst part of his
duty being yet to come. By this time Emilie was
sobbing bitterly.

''Something dreadful has happened at home," she
iiDirmured, "and you will not tell me what it is."

"Nothing has happened to them, Miss Emilie,'*
h(i said; "the 'dreadful' part all rests with your-
self. Do you know what sort of a place you were
being taken to this evening? Can it be possible
that you have ever been there before?"

Emilie 's tears were stayed, and her eyes begaa

310

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

1*4

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tii

to flash. " Is there really nothing the matter at
home ? Then, what right had you to interfere witii
me? Who sent you?"

"I had the right of a man who would protect a
lady from insult. Did you not know that the j)er-
son with whom you were had been drinking so
freely that he hardly realized what he was doing ?
And, when I tell your father where I found you,
will he hlame or thank me for my interference ? "

Then Emilie began to cry again, and to exclaim
between the sobs, **0 Mr. Landis, don't tell my
father ! he is so worried now over other things that
he is almost ill. We are afraid, all the time, that
he will break down ; and I did not mean anything
bad. I went to stay with Bertha ; I did not know
at all that Mr. Forbes was to be there ; he asked
us to take a ride down-town ; then he said we
would go in there just a little while to see some of
tlie fun. It is nothing very dreadful ; other people
go there; nice people. Father does not approve of
theatres, I know, and I would not go often; but
just for a little while."

"Have you not been to that place before?"
The questioner could not keep his voice from
being stern ; he was ashamed of the silly girl.
She winced visibly, yet was angry.

"You need not speak to me as though I was
a child and you my guardian ; I am not under
your care. I have only been there once before, —
or twice, — for a little while."
: " And you saw and heard nothing of which you

A PEUSISTENT FRIEND.

311

did not approve?" The girl hesitated; it was her
nature to be trutliful. ''They do tilings at all
theatres that are sillv," she said at hist, " and that
people don't like ; yet they attend thenj. I have
lieard the girls talk. Some of my schoolmates, no
older than I, go twice a week regularly, and a few
of them oftener. Why, their father* take them."

" Your father did not take y»)u. Would he be
willing to have vou there? Would vou like to
explain to him just how often you have been,
and just what you saw and heard ? "

Hut he could do nothing with her. She cried
again, and begged him not to excite her father;
and almost in the same breath accused him of
being cruel and hateful, and interfering. What
business of his was it where she went, or how
often ? In the midst of this, her eye caught some
familiar object outside, and she started up with
a new excitement. " Where are you taking me ?
1 wont go home ; they don't exjiect me ; I am
to spend the night with Hertha Foster. I want
you to tell the driver to take me diiectly there."

" You are going home," he said sternly. *• It
is much the safest place for vou ; and unless you
have womanliness enough to protect yourself, I
shall consider it my duty to warn your parents
acfainst allowini; vou to have such i)ersons for
friends. Mrs. Foster either does not or cannot
protect her own daughter. How can she l)e ex-
pected to care for others ? Miss Emilie, I am
sorry to appear harsh, or to persist in an unwei-

ffS

812

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

come service, hut it is clearly my duty to see
you sjifc to-iiight under your rulhers roof. I
believe you are too young and innot'cnt lo know
wluit you have escaped. There are degrees even
in theatres. That play to-niglit was one whidi
no person of respectahility ought to want to see
and hear. I know of no man so low, that he
would take his sister to it. I do not believe even
the person with whom you were, would have in-
sulted you by doing so, if he had not been too
much under the influence of liquor to realize what
he was doing. Miss Emilie, you force me to ask
if your father knows that you go anywhere in that
man's company?"

And at last he succeeded in thoroughly fright-
ening poor Emilie. With all her keenness, and
lier boasted knowledge of the world, she was
really as ignorant as a child. There was a grave
.sense in which she had come up, instead of being
brought up, thus far. Her mother, busy with
the we.iry proble^^ of life, trying, ever since her
children had been old enough to suggest it, to
do for them what she could not do, — namely, give
them all the advantages of dress and surround-
ings which people of wealth and leisure can com-
mand, — had been too busy and too harassed to
give careful attention to those sacred lessons which
onlv mothers can teach. The result was that Em-
ilie, being of a different temperament from her
sisters, was more keenly susceptible to all the
witching influences of worldliness, and knew only

A PKIlSlSTliNT FlUKND.

313

in the vaguest way wluit harm might come to lier,
and why slie sliould liold herself in elieck. Mr.
Forhhs had lu-en interesting to lier eluetly Ihn
canse he flattered l«er, treated her in >vl»at she
called a '•' grown-up" way, and oiTeretl lii'r the iit-
tcMitions wincli she supposed helonged only to
those older than herself. In truth, some of them
l)elonged only to those who liad little self re-
spect; but Emilie honestly Indieved that Mr.
Forbes was simply showing lier the ways of the gay
and cultured circles in which he moved. When
he told her that some girls were prudes, and were
not noticed by i)eople in r.ociety, because they had
queer "country" ways of looking at things, she
believed him. When he offered to show her a
charming bit of comedy, and she demurred, and
was afraid her father would not like it, he replied
that of course her father would not want her to
go frequently, nor with all sorts of persons ; but
he was old enough he presumed to be trusted,
and he had looked after sisters and cousins in-
mimerable. Also, he told her that of couixe
there were portions of the plays which were " not
(piite the thing;" but that sensible people must
learn to discriminate between the good and the
bad, and enjoy the good ; just as they had to
do in books. It sounded reasonable to this silly,
ignorant girl ; and she let him take her whither
he would. She would not^ ask her father's per-
mission, because he was so worried nowadays,
and so unlike himself that he would be almost

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814

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

sure to refuse her anything, and he ought not
to be *•• botliered/' She would not mention at
home her fine times ; because Rachel, if she was
an angel, was a vei v ij»n(>rant one so far as this
world was concerned, and wouhl be sure to think
that eveiy thing done away |[rom home was wrorg.
Of course she wouhl not go often anywliere with
Mr. Forbes ; lie was not to be liere h)ng. Sucli
in general was tlie reasoning, so far as it can
be said to be reasoning, witii whidi tlie girl had
comforted he/ conscience. None of her acts had
looked very startling to her, until seen in the light
of Mr. l^andis's stern eyes, and until she found
heiself in a carriage with him lieinc- whirled to-
ward home as a culprit.

There were some nrmiites of painful silence,
during which Emilie cried quietly, and Mr. Landis
considered. Presently he spoke again : —

*' Miss Emilie, I have no wish to make things
harder for you than is necessary. I shall certainly
take you home, for I feel sure that is the place for
you to-night. Moreover, your sister Maiy expects
some word from you. There are reasons why she
grew verv anxious about vou. Providentiallv she
learned somethinjj of vour late associations. 1
shall make what explanation ought to be made to
her, and she and you can plan as to how much or
little of all this should be revealed to vour father
\\\ his present state of healtli. It may be that if
you decide, after careful thought, to be the wise
and prudent young woman whom I am sure you

A PEIISISTKNT FItlEND.

315

can be if you choose, it will not be deemed neces-
sary to trouble your father with the matter. I
need hardly tell you, however, after the very plain
way in which I have spoken this evening, that it
rests with yourself to decide how much or how lit-
tle I shall interfere in the future. You were good
enough to speak of me to-night as an old friend ;
be sure I shall not stand quietly by and see any
friend of mine led toward ruin."

Then the carriage stopped, and Emilie wa^ at
home. She had stopped crying, but her pale,
frightened face was pitiful. She appealed to him
as a child niicrhi.

" Mr. Landis, will you not see mother and the
others for me? Tell them — tell them anything
you please, only let me go up-stairs away from it
all." Saying which, she ran away at full speed,
leaving her compsinion no alternative but to make
what excuse he could for his second appearance.
Betsey had retired the moment she had admitted
them, naturally supposing that Emilie would wait
on the guest. The situation was certainly embar-
rassing. But for his promise to Mary, Mr. Landis
would have felt like letting himself out and going
his way, leaving that foolish girl up-stairs to ex-
plain her presence as best she could. He hesitated
a moment, trying to plan as to his best, course,
then quietly opened the door and advanced to the
family circle. " I am becoming very unceremoni-
ous, you observe," he said ; •' at the same time I
beg pardon for the intrusion; Betsey evidently

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316

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

thought I knew the way. I have brought Miss
Emilie back with me, Mrs. Cameron ; I hivd occa-
sion to call at the Fosters', and she decided not to
remain there to-night. She went up to lier room.'*

It sounded like a very feeble explanation ; Mr.
Landis did not wonder that tlie mothei- half arose
in alarm. " What could liave hai)pened to Emi-
lie?" He wished he could say something which
would give the girl up-stairs a few minutes alone.
He glanced at Mary, but the hopeless anxiety on
her ffice warned him that he must expect no help
from her. Then Lucia unconsciously came to the
rescue. " She and Bertha Foster must have quar-
relled at last ! I have been expecting it ; it isn't in
human nature that those two should remain excel-
lent friends for very long. Confess, Mr. Landis,
Emilie cried most of the way home, and deserted
you in the hall, like the child that she is, because
her eyes were red."

Mr. Landis smiled, much relieved. ""I will not
deny that there were some tears shed," he sak- -
" and I fancy that Miss Emilie desires of all tinny .
to be alone for awhile."

" I was sure of it ! " said Lucia in triumph.
" And I must say I am not sorry ; I only hope the
rupture will last. I don't think an intimacy with
Bertha Foster is a tiling to be desired."

Mr. Landis had alieady turned to Mr. Cameron
with an item of news which he liad gathered on
the street. Meant line, he was asking himself,
" What next ? " M:iry was still very pale and

A pi:usisti:nt tuiend.

317

seemed unable to ask questions, or give him a
hint of help ; yet she must know about Emilie ; and
perhaps tliat father, wlio looked ill enough to be
under the doctor's care, ought not to know, for that
night at least. He resolved upon a bold move.

" Miss Cameron, mav 1 have five minutes of
your time? I would like to explain that matter
of which we were talking, and make myself under-
stood."

Without a word, Mary led the way to the far-
thest corner of the front parlor. Presently the
murmur of his voice could be heard in the other
room.

He told Emilie's story without reserve. Mary
Cameron was the eldest sister; it was presumable
that she would know what ought to done. If the
father was as ill as he looked, it would certainly
not be wise to rob him of his night's rest ; but for
to-morrow she must decide. At all hazards Emilie
must be kept from having anything to do with the
person named Forbes.

"The man is rotten to the core," he said ear-
nestly. " You must stand between him and your
sister."

Poor Mary ! she did not know how to do it.

In the back parlor, Lucia was saying : " Things
are really getting very serious ! Don't you think
so, Aunt Eunice?"

But they supposed that Mr. Landis was talking
to Mary about the matter of personal religion.

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WHAT THEV COULDN T.

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CHAPTER XXIII.

BORROWED (?) MONEY.

^1 nXH the first days of May, Mr. Kennedy
VV fluttered down upon the Cameron family,
br''iging a flurry of good cheer. It was impos-
sible to withstand his genial, free-hearted ways.
A nameless anxiety, whicli had been hovering over
the household for weeks, lifted insensibly with
his coming. He came unexpectedly, unheralded
by so much as a line ; Mr. Kennedy was the sort
of man who always did unexpected things. Busi-
ness called him within twenty miles ; and he hur-
ried it, and stole ^ day, and here he was. He had
an errand also; this was to try to hasten the
wedding by a week or two. He pleaded his cause
skilfully, but Mary was inexorable ; it would not
be possible for her to get ready before the day
appointed, and which was now so near at hand.
Even now she felt hurried, almost appalled at
times, at its nearness. She did not tell Mr. Ken-
nedy what was the main reason, perhaps, for re-
fusing to be hurried; which was that her fatber
was not to have one straw added to his anxiety.
She knew he was striving in every possible way
to raise monev. (^f couise, it was in view of

BOKIIOWLID ( ? ) MONEV.

i^l9

the coming wedding ; lie had actually grown pale
but yesterday, when lier mother had reminded liirn
that it was time to see about the fruit-cakes
and other articles for which they must depend
upon Aiburgh. '• So soon ! " he had murmured, and
she was sure he was thinking of the money which
must be raised ; it was hard enough at the best ;
lie should not \)e hurried moie than was necessarv.
Let it be taken note of, in passing, that this young
woman who had an honest desire to help her
father in his difficulties, who spent many an anx-
ious hour in his beluilf, liad not so much as
thought of one way of helping ; namely, by hav-
iiicr no winldinij fruit-cake, from Albnrq-h's or
elsewhere; and by dispensing with a hundred
elegant and expensive trifles whicli were necessnry
accompaniments of a wedding-feast that Aiburgh,
or any of his tribe, managed. Tliat is, the thing
which the Camerons could not in honor do, —
prepare an elegant collation and bid their friends
to it, on the occasion of their daugl iter's marriage, —
tliey were as steadily preparing to do as though
it were a part of the marriage ceremony itself.
How could tiiey help it? Peo[)le in their set
always made weddings for their cliildren.. Of
course, they could not do anything grenc or ex-
pensive ; but a few friends they nruM have in,
and thei-e must be a collation. Tliese matters
really did not need to be talked about ; they were
foregone conclusions. But Mary felt the bitter-
ness of it, and began to long foi- the time when

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320

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

she could write letters home, and slip in a bank-
note for a birthday, or holiday, or anniversary
token. Slie carefully counted up the days which
on some pretext or otlier could be marked in this
way, and rejoiced in them ; but these were mat-
tei*s wliich she could not explain to Mr. Kennedy.
He, on h;s part, had thoughts which were carefully
kept in the background. It would not have done,
for instance, to liave told his bride-elect that
the uncle who liad made her liis heiress was very
feeble indeed, and might be called upon any day
to exchange worlds ; and that for this reason it
would be wise to hasten the marriage, that he
might have all proper authority when very im-
poitant business matters came to her for settle-
ment. It was a perfectly reasonable and proper
feeling, he told himself ; his object was, of course,
to watch over her interests. Still, it had to do
with a matter which could not be mentioned.
Why, as to that, it was a legal secret ; and the
remembrance of that fact relieved him immensely.
He chafed under Mary's decision, and felt that
some day he would explain to her how utterly
unreasonable she had been, and what an amount
of uimecessary trouble she had made. But out-
wardly he was genial, and lavished money even
more freely than usual ; taking Lucia and Eniilie
with them for a long drive in the most delightful
portions of the city, and with as elegant a turnout
as the best livery could furnish. Emilie, espe-
cially, appreciated it, and was I'oyally happy. She

BORROW ED (?) MONEY.

321

liad not been so happy as usual of late, poor child.
Her experience with Mr. Landis, and the inter-
views which followed it, had served to thoroughly
sober her for a time. On the ,»hole, Mary had
assumed the responsibility laid upon her, and man-
aged it fairly well. Following Mr. . Landis's
advice, she had been quiet, even gentle, in her
dealings with the youthful sinner; and as a con-
saquence, Emilie had told her in detail all that
tliere was to tell. It was by no means so bad
that it might not have been much worse ; but
still, to Mary's lately awakened eyes, it was bad
enough. Then they took counsel together as to
what should be done. Emilie begged and prayed
that father might not be troubled with her* He
looked so dreadfully pale and worn, and had such
wretched sleepless nights, that if he had her too
to worrv about she was afraid it would kill him ;
and if mother knew it, father would have to,
for she ahvays told liim everything. What was
the need for anyone being told ? She knew now
how silly and wicked she had been, and she would
never, never give cause for further anxiety. That
hateful Mr. Forbes who had made all the trouble
had gone bacjk to New York ; when he came again
she would not even recognize him on the street.
Bertha was vexed with her, anyway, because she
went home that night, instead of coming back
to their house, and so got her into trouble ; so
she need not have anything more to do with her;
and indeed if Mary would just be quiet about

322

WHAT Tirr.v COir.MN t.

it all, she, Emilie, wouhl be ;iMj,'elic lor tlie future.
This seemed, on the wliole, ilie \vise>t iliiun to
be done; especially us Kinilie uas unexpeetedlv
meek, and showed lierself Avilliuj*- to he advised
by Mary to a greater degree t iiau sl»e ever had heeu
before. There was no dithijulty in kee|)ii!g mat-
ters quiet, because of Lucia's tlieoiy about ilic
break with Bertha Foster; <*onfiiiued when a mes-
senger from the Fosters brouglit Kmilie. the morn-
ing after the trouble, a veiy cold and formal note.
It was so carefully worded that Emilie could even
show it to her mother; and tliat unsuspecting
lady read, and said : "• So she went out in the
evening with company and left you ! I do iioi
wonder that you pieferred to return home. I
would not be in haste to renew the friendship,
daughter; Mary and Lucia do not seem to have
a very high opinion of the Fosters."

Emilie blushed over this ; slie must keep silence,
and allow her mother to think that Bertha had
treated her rudely. This was one of the penalties
which came of her wrong doing ; but to speak
would be to have Bertha blamed far more, and
justly ; so she kept silence. Matters were in this
state when Mr. Kennedy came to the rescue, and
none were more glad to see him than Emilie. !Slie
had naturally avoided Mr. Landis since tlieir even-
ing ride together; and Mary kept such careful
hold upon her that she felt hei*self almost a pris-
oner, and chafed under it, even while her face
crimsoned over the thought that she had bruiigiiL

BORUOWED ( ? ) MONEY

S:2S

it upon herself, and perliaps needed just such re-
straint. On the whole, the girl liad sense enough
to realize that she had made a very narrow escape,
and had reason to be grateful to Mr. Landis for
the prompt and quiet way in which lie had rescued
her. Of Ben lleeder's very important part in the
rescue, she knew notliing ; Mr. I^andis wisely
judging that such knowledge would unnecessarily
humiliate her, and could be of no use.

Perhaps the only one whose face was not
brighter because of Mr. Kennedy's visit was his
host. He gave him cordial greeting; but almost
immediately the look of weariness and unrest,
which were becoming habitual, settled back into
his face, so that Mr. Kennedy noticed it, and asked
Mary if h^^r father had been ill. "He has aged
since I was here," he said, with true solicitude in
his voice ; and when Mary explained that he was
harassed by business mattei-s, and added frankly
that it was very wearing to be poor, he made her
heart thrill with gratitude by saying tenderly, " I
hope you and I can soon do something toward
making life brighter for your father." He smiled
over her manifest delight, and assured himself
that he would advise the most liberal policy
toward the family. With so large a fortune as he
had taken pains to inform himself there would be
to plan with, nothing less than liberality could be
thought of. But he felt generous all the evening
over the fact that he meant to advise it. At the
dinner table, Mr. Cameron roused once or twice,

Pit.

! f

S24

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

and exerted himself painfully to help entertain his
guest; until Mrs. Cameron said anxiously, "Ed-
ward, why do you try to talk ? You are really too
weary to do so ; Mr. Kennedy will excuse you, I
am sure."

Then he murmured something ahout feeliuL^-
more exhausted than usual, and sent his cup to ho
refilled with coffee, directing that it be made
strong, as he had work yet to do to-night; he must
go back down-town. The family exclaimed over
this; Mrs. Cameron begging him not to do so; and
Mary seeming so anxious and ill at ease that Mr.
Kennedy at last asked kindly if it were not some
errand which could be entrusted to him,

Mr. Cameron's negative was so quick, that he
felt the immediate necessity for explanation. '' It
is a very troublesome matter of business with Mr.

" he hesitated as if the name had escaped

him for the moment, and then added quickly,
*'Mr. John Welborne."

*' Ah, indeed ! " said Mr. Kennedy, " then, if I
really cannot serve you, I consider it a very for-
tunate circumstance that you have business with
that particular gentleman, because I shall ask you
to serve me. I have a couple of hundred dollars
in my pocket that are to be given into his hands
to-night. I neglected to bring my check-book
with me, so must depend on the bills ; I leave too
early in the morning to attend to the matter, and
besides it is due to-day, and I like to be prompt
about money matters, so I intended to tear myself

BORtjmVRn(?) MOKKY.

825

away early enough this evening to do the errand;
but if you must go, could you kindly liand this
package to him? It will not ke your time with
explanations; the note enclosed explains itself."

Mr. Cameron look the package like one in a
dream; he neglected to say that he would he glad
to do the errand, or that it wouhl not trouble
him, or any of the commonplaces which belong to
polite life; instead, he stared into vacancy and
was utterly silent. Mrs. Cameron felt compelled
to apologize for him.

"Your father is too tired to think, to-night, "
she said, glancing in a distressed way at Mary}
and then Mr. Cameron arose, and said he must go
at once; he ought not to have delayed so long.

Once on the stieet, he walked the length of two
blocks before it occurred to him to signal a car.
Never before was his brain, which had borne a great
deal, in such a whirl of bewilderment as it was to-
night. He had had a great deal to think about
that day. Nearly four weeks now since a hun-
dred dollars had been given him for Mr. Steven-
son; and in that time, scarcely a day had passed
but he had made some effort to raise that amount
of money. And the efforts had been fruitless.
There was absolutely not a man who was willing
to lend him a hundred dollai-s without security;
knowing, as all men did who had dealings with
him, that his bills at stores and groceries remained
unpaid, and that hi« family were preparing for
a wedding. "A sad case," one acquaintiince of a

826

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

lifetime had said, Hhaking his head gravely as the
door closed after Mr. Cameron bearing away a re-
fusal. *'A truly sad case; a man of integrity
weighted down with a family who are trying,
every one of them, to do what they cannot; live
and dress and act as though their father was a
millionaire, instead of a salaried clerk. I hear
that they are planning now for a fashionable wed-
ding; I wonder if Alburgh will serve them on
credit?"

And to-day Mr. Cameron had had a shock.
Among the sea of faces that surged by his desk
that mor ling, he had recognized Lou^s Steven-
son's. Before the day was done, he ' Id jjrob-
ably learn that a hundred dollars weic supposed
to be waiting for him, and come for them. What
should be said to him? In point of fact, it was
not Mr. Stevenson, but the man who had given
the trust, who called him to account.

" By the way, Mr. Cameron, that hundred dol-
lars I left with you one morning ; Stevenson
tells me he did not call for it; went out of town
that day and has just returned. You have had
it in trust ever since, I suppose? Sorry to have
bothered you so long, but I have been away
myself. I'll take it now, if you please; he is
to dine with me, and 1 can give it to him my-
self." Mr. Cameron wrote his name carefully
on the voucher for which the cash-boy was wait-
ing, before he made rei)ly. Then he raised his
head, and said slowly, "1 haven't the money with

HOi:i{<)\VKl) ( ? ) MONKY.

327

me, Mr. Cliutoii; I never Ifnive money in my
desk over ni<rht."

"Oil, is lliiit s«> ? Then liow sluiU we manage
it? Stevenson ninst have it to-nigl»t; he goes
awav a«^ain in tiie niDrninir."

** I will call U[nm yon this evening," said Mr.
Cameron; anil wheeled on his stool to attend
to an imperative demand. Mi'. Clinton, finding
him nnusually hnsy and absorbed, st;ii!)bled his
address and the time at which he could be seen,
on a card, and handed it in to him. "Call as
near that hour as you can, Mr. C'ameron; I may
be out later; sorry to give y )U so much trouble."
And then Mi-. Cameron had gotten through that
day as besi lie could; not without sundry feeble
efforts to raise the hundred dollars; not with-
out a hundred plans as to what he would do
before night. He would go to the senior partner
and beg a loan, and lose tine situation which
he had held for nineteen years I It had been
sternly hinted at, the last time he iisked to an-
ticipate his salary. Me would tell young Clinton
that he had been compelled, yes, actually com-
pelleJ^ to borrow that money, and would pay it
just as soon as he could. And lose his situation !
Young Clinton's father wiis the member of the
tirm least disposed to show mercy. He would
telegraph his boys that they must laise him a
liundred dollars, or disgrace awaited them. No;
whatever happened, he must shield his boys and
his girls as long as possible. He went home to

828

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

■'I

.1'

dinner, uncertain still what he was to do. He
had promised to call upon young Clinton that
evening, and "a Cameron always kept his prom-
ises;'' but what should he say? Visitms of an
interview with Mr. John Welborne, the well-
known broker, floated through his brain. He
might give his watch as security, and raise a
little; but it was an old one; he doubted whether
he would be allowed more than twenty-live dol-
lars on it. When he announced at the dinner-
table that he must go down-town again, he had
not been sure of any one thing, save that he
meant to get into the street and the darkness
as soon as he could. He had mentioned Mr.
John Welborne 's name, because it was the one
which occurred to him, next to the name of
Clinton; and he shrank in a curious wav from
mentioning that, as though the mere repeatal
of it might give the listeners an idea of his
trouble. He would call at Welborne's, he told
himself quickly, as soon as the name had left
his lips; It could do no harm to ask for money;
and he would make good his word. The poor
half-crazed man clung pitifully to that notion
about a Cameron's word and a Cameron's honor,
and shut his eyes to the idea that the hundred
dollars had been other than borrowed. Did not
l)eoi>le boirow, every day? Why should the
tho.i^iit of it distress him so? Why had he been
careful not to mention it to any of his family?
At li;t he bethought himself, and signalled a

BOKUOWED (?) MONEY.

329

car. One .and another acquaintance came in and
sat near liim, and chatted for a minute or two,
and passed out; and one of them waid: "Cameron
is breaking, isn't he? Ages fast; seems to me
I have never seen such a change in a few months'
time as there has been in Ijim. Pity* he couUhi't
get away somewhere and have a rest; but I sup-
pose he is hard pressed. He has an expensive
family, it is said."

"Living beyond their means," said the other,
"trying to accomplish tlie impossible; lialf the
people in this world are trying to do what they
can't." Then they dismissed Mr. Cameron and
his affairs from their minds, and the car brought
him to Mr. John Welborne's door. He walked
up to it with steps that tottered, and rang the
bell. He said to himself that he was going to
give that money into Mr. Welbovne's hands; of
covu'se he was; whv else should he call? Then
he felt for his watch, and rememb'^red that there
was a seal on the chain which must have cost
quite a sum; his grandfather's seal. Did they
lend money on such things? Then his ring was
answered. Mr. John Welborne was not at home ;
would not be for two days. His son was at home,
and could be seen at the office in the morning.
Mr. Cameron went down the steps again, and
signalled a Grand Avenue car. He took the
package out of his pocket and looked at it. It
was sealed, but Mr. Kennedy had told him the
amount enclosed; what if there should be a mis-

'\- .;

■ i

330

WHAT THEY COCLPN T.

take ? Did he care to pass over money that might
not be just what it purported ? That was not busi-
ness-like; he wouhl count it. What if it was
sealed; wjis not Mr. Kennedy the same as his
own iamilv? There were two hundred dollars.
There wjis also a note addressed to Mr. John
Welborne; he put that in his pocket; it could
not be delivered; Mr. Welborne was not at
home.

In young Clinton's room two gentlemen chat-
ted. Clinton looked at his watch. "It is just
j>ast the hour I gave Mr. Cameron," he said; "we
must not wait long for him."

"Wasn't it a trifle strange in him to keep
that money all this time and say nothing?"

"No; I think not," Clinton said thoughtfully.
"He is a machine; he held the money in trust
for Mr. Stevenson to call for it; Mr. Stevenson
did not call, so he held it. Clock-work you
see. Oh, lie will be here this evening. He is
the soul of honor; he came into my father's firm
the year I was born. Perhaps that is his ring
now."

In five minutes from that time, Mr. Stevenson
had received and cared for his hundred dollars;
and Mr. Cameron was on his way home. He
did not go immediately home; he took a car
which ran out away beyond the park, almost
into the country. It did not make prompt con-
nection at the junetiou and he Walked along
the river bank and took off his hat, and even

BORROWED (?) MONEY.

331

tried to loosen his necktie a little; it seemed
hard work to breathe. When at last he reached
home, Mrs. Cameron was waiting for him^ alarmed
at his lateness. " I was afraid something had
happened," she said. He felt like telling her
that something had I

It was not until seven o'clock the next morn-
ing that she told him Mr. Kennedy had been
obliged to take the six-fifty train. "He made
me promise not to let you know," she said, "for
fear you should think courtesy demanded your
getting up to see him off; and he said he would
not have you for the world; that you needed
rest, and your worn face would haunt him, he
was afraid. He is very kind and considerate."

! i. '

#■;.;

332

WHAT THEV COULDXT.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"MRS. WILLIS KENNEDY?"

MR. KENNEDY coniiuued to be **kinf1 and
considerate." His prospective father-in-law
told himself that nigiit when he walked up-siairs,
too ill in body and mind for any further effoit,
that the first tiling in the moriiinq' he would have
a talk with Kennedy, W(juld tell him V'wt liow vni-
barrassed he was, and just how h..' had dis[)o;e<l of
one hundred dolUrs, and a:3k liim to lend the
money for a few weeks — only a few weeks; lie
would soon be in a way to str;i,ighten everything
out, and to plan against such e^cperiences lor
the future. He even meant to humiliate him-
self by pressing that point, that he did not
mean to be in any sense of tire word a drag
» upon his son-in-law. But before morning he
learned that by Mr. Kennedy's considerateness he
was to be spared from having to see him. This
was better;* he would write, instead of talk;
and he would wait a day or two to give him-
self time to get rested and strengthened for the
ordeal. There were times when he confessed to
himself that it wonl<i h;'( a ten ible ordeal to own
that he liad actually st(de i the money and appro-

"MUS. WILLIS KENNEDY?"

333

priated it to his own needs! That was an ugly-
word, and he only on rare occasions allowed him-
self its use. He waited two days, then four, then
a week. It seemed impossible to get nerve
enough to write that letter. Then he told him-
self that it was too late; that Mr. Kennedy
undoubtedly knew by this time that something
strange luul happened; he would wait to be writ-
ten to, and by the tone of the letter he could
judge how to reply. Meantime, he worked stead-
ily every day, and ate little, and slept less; and
frightened himself occasionally, of nights, by
thinking that he- had perhaps perilled his daugh-
ter's happiness for life. What if Mr. Kennedy,
in a fit of righteous horror at being allied with
dishonor, should break with her !

What Mr. Kennedy did, when he received a
letter from Mr. Welborne to the effect that he had
not kept his word, was to whistle softly for sev-
eral seconds, then address the wall.

"So that is your little game, is it? rv^y beloved
father-in-law that is to be! If you do much of it,
I do not wonder at your haggard face. Poor old
fellow! I feel sorry for you; I know what it is
to be in debt; and I have the advantage of you;
for you don't see your way out and I do. If that
ridiculous girl hadn't been so obstinate, I could
probably help you sooner. Well, I'll write to
old Welborne that * pressure of business,' etc.,
prevented, send him the interest, and renew the
loan for a mouth or so; that is easily managed.

334

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

! i

After we get affairs settled, I think I will just
quietly give the money to father-in-law, and say
nothing; unless he bothers me about settlements;
in which case I can give him a little wholesome
advice. On the whole, I think I am rather glad
that it has happened."

Because of this, no letter came to Mr. Cameron,
and he went on expecting it by day and by night;
living in a sort of nightmare of horrors; and the
wedding - day drew on apace. With the first
breath of June, the boys came home. Handsome,
well-developed fellows; full of life, and bubbling
over with kindliness, and much shocked at tho
change in their father. What was the matter?
they questioned. What had happened to age
him so? Had they had medical advice? What
did everybody mean by standing quietly by and
letting him die before their eyes? Mary tried to
explain; father was not really ill, only tired and
worried. This constant pressure of money diffi-
culties, she believed, was at the root of all his
troubles. But that was absurd, the boys said.
He had a good salary; other men lived on less
than that amount; they did not understand it;
there must be mismanagement somewhere. And
that very afternoon they hired a handsome car-
riage, and took Lucia and Emilie for a drive;
coaxing the latter to invite that pretty little Pur-
itan maiden, Dorothy Landis, to accompany
them. They had met her but the eveaing before,
and Mac, especially, was struck with her beauty.

"MRS. WILLIS KKNNEDY?"

335

That evening he said- gayly, " Father, liave you
any money about you? I am dead broke, I find.
Your liveries charge enormously here ; I can get a
two-hoi'se rig at college for much less than I had
to pay this- afternoon. Give me a ten, father, if
vou can as well as not."

Mr. Cameron's fingers trembled as he singled
out the bill; it was the only ten he had, and there
were few fives to keep it company ; but the boys
had been gore so long, and they were such hand-
some fellows, and their mother was so glad and
proud over them; what was he to do? It was rea-
sonable that they should need a little money.
Really they were not reckless boys, only thought-
less. They had been brought" up to ask for money
when they needed it, to think little about spend-
ing it, to fancy that more could be had somehow
when that was gone. They knew their father was
not wealthy; oh dear! they believed that none
knew it better or deplored it more than they.
No large expenditures could be allowed them ; and
in all such directions they believed themselves
economists; it was in the ten thousand little
things that their mo'\ey went; and in all little
things, they spent as freely as though millions
stood behind them. Thev had been three davs
at home, yet that promised explanation of their
financial trouble had not been given to their father.
Truth to tell, with them it had retired into the
background. It had never at any time been so
vivid a pain to them as it was to their parents,

I'illi":

336

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

IP-

Sr^

living as they did among young men who thought
nothing of such escapades. To have taken, on a
certain evening, a little more wine than was good
for them, and because of it to have been indiffer-
ent as to the amount of plate-glass they shivered,
or the furniture they injured, was so commonplace
a thing among a certain set, as to be worthy only
of a passing laugh. There were times when they
really felt quite virtuous because they had taken
the trouble to secure President Force's kindly aid,
and so saved their father from much that would
have been disagreeable. Moreover, they had
kept themselves remarkably free from college
"scrapes "of every sort since that time, and, be-
sides carrying off the leading prizes, had stood sc
high in their other classes as to be excused from
examinations; so they were home in triumph, a
week earlier than they would otherwise have beei .
On the whole, they felt that their father could
afford to wait for those "details," especially s'lnci
he really looked too ill to be bothered with them.
He, on his part, showed no disposition to question
them; they could not have undei-stood how pain-
fully he shrank from confessions of any sort.
What was he that his boys should confess any-
thing f

Those last few day swent on swift wings j and
on the evening before the wedding, Mi"s. Cam-
eron heaved a sigh of relief as she toiled up
the stairs for perhaps the hundredth time that
day.. She was tired, but victorious. Through

"MRS. WILLIS KLNNKDV?

337

trials and perplexities such as none but those
wlio have borne tlieni understand, she believed
she had arrived at last at the point where tlie
most fastidious would have nothing to criticize.
The embarrassments of that well-remembered lun-
cheon party had not been without fruit. She had
carefully shunned the rocks on which they were
injured that day. No blundering Betsey, with
a second-rate helper hired at the last minute,
should have to do with this experience. From
the first, Mrs. Cameron had been resolute; it
might be more expensive, but it was necessary.
They would not try to do great things; they
would have only a few of their most intimate
acquaintances, and they would have the simplest
of refreshments; but what they had must be of
the best, and faultlessly served. Thus much was
due Mr. Kennedy. Because they were them-
selves poor, they must not forget tliat Mary was
about to marry into a wealthy family; he must
see that his wife's people were refined, and knew
how to entertain their friends. The matter of
the collation must be put entirely into Alburgb's
hands, only stipulating that it was to be of the
simplest character. She would undertake to see
that the house was in order, and to see to every-
thing, in fact, up to the hour when the collation
should be arranged, but with that the family
must have nothing to do. Alburgh must be
responsible for extra forks, and spoons, and
glasses, and whatever other extra was necessary

1 :.j:.

3a8

WHAT TIIKV COULhNT.

"■•Ml

to the proper serving of liis order. Tliis was
the only way to ensure Mary against embarrass-
ments. The prohahle estimate of expense had
appalled them, even after Alimrgh himself had
eondescended to go «»ver the estimate w itii them,
and, with an injured air, had obliged himselt'
to eiase entirely certain things whieh he deemed
indispensable. Mr. Cameron had roused to more
strength than he had seemed for some time to
possess, and had walked the Hoor declaring that
they could not <lo it; but Mrs. Cameron had
answered gentl\% that she was sure he would
regret it after Mary was gone, if he did not
make everything as comfortable for her as lie
eould; moreover, what would Mr. Kennedy thiidc
if they <lid not? After this was fairly over,
she knew ways of retrenchment whi(th would soon
make mattei-s straight; she had been talking
things over with Rachel, who had a very clear
head, if she was young; he would be surprised
at her suggestions, and Hud relief in them. As
for Alhurgh, he had promised to wait for three
months; she had told him, laughingly of course,
that if his bill was not jn'omptly settled then,
she would give him leave to carry off the piano;
and, as it was a very fine one, he was certainly
safe. The mention of Mr. Kennedy's name
seemed to have a subduing effect upon her hus-
l)and; a fact wdiich Mw. Cameron noted and
made use of during these later days of preparation.
Now, as I said, she was ascending the stairs,

*'MUS. WILLIS KENNEDY?

339

weary but triumphant. An all but endless task
it had been to get the rooms in order. No one
would have believed that slie and Aunt Eunice
and Rachel could have worked such marvels as
they had. What with careful laundering, and
turning, and darning, curtains and carpets, and
the very upholstery of chairs and lounges, looked
fresh and inviting. Nobody could darn more
skilfully than Aunt Eunice; no one had been
more persistent early and late with her needle
and her skill. Aunt Eunice might believe that
a great deal of it was utter folly, as assuredly
she did ; but she had taken a vow to hold her
tongue, and she held it and worked away. There
was no harm in having things look as well as
soap and water and skill could make them, and
it didn't cost anything for her to sit and sew.
Emilie said the rooms looked really beautiful,
even without the flowers; and when she and
Dorothy Landis got them arranged, it would be
a display fit for the bridal of a queen. She added
that Dorothy Landis seemed able to fairly be-
witch flowers; she had never known any one
who could arrange them so exquisitely; but that
Mac was developing astonishing talent in that
line, under Dorothy's tuition. This young
woman's keen eyes had already discovered that
her brother Mao was ready to take any sort of
tuition at the hands of their neighbor Dorothy.
And so, through experiences manifold, Mary
Cameron reached the evening of the sixth of

340

^VHAT THKY COULDN T.

5t '

June, and sat alone in her room taking leave
of herself. To-morrow at this time she would
have been for several hours Mrs. Willis Kennedy.
She said the name over aloud, looking grav(3.
It had a very strange sound; a pretty enouj^li
name, but it seemed not to be hers. Some otlitr
girl in her shape was going to wear it; and she,
Mary Cameron, would surely be there as usual,
after that other girl, whose bridal dress lay at
this moment on the bed, was gone. A strange
mood was hers for a bride. Siie wondered if
all women about to be married felt so. There
had been hours during that busy day when she
had stopped over her packing, and stood quite
still when some one called her to ask if she would
take "that old cashmere" with her, and did she
■want "the long brown box packed in the trunk
which was to go with them;" and, instead of
answering, had said to her inmost self, "Going
away with Willis Kennedy! going, not to come
back here, to my home, any more! How absurd
that is! How can they believe it possible?" She
had been left to the privacy of her own room
for several days now; Lucia, with many serio-
comic sighs and groans and hints of martyrdom,
having betaken herself to Aunt Eunice's quar-
ters; that good lady still had peaceable possession
of the room which had been known as the boys',
and they had settled themselves in an attic cham-
ber which had heretofore been used as a store-
room. So Mary could sit with folded bands

'*MK8. WILLIS KENNEDY?"

341

without fear of intrusion, and gaze at her past
and her future. She had had several calls this
evening which had somewliat unnerved her.
Lucia, who rarely showed to any person her in-
most feelings, had broken down for a few minutes
and cried outright, and declared that it was cruel
and unnatural to separate families in this way;
and she had not imagined that she should feel
it 80. Emilie had hovered about her eldest sister
and kissed and patted her, and whispered, with
her bright eyes dimmed the while with tears,
that she should never forget how awfully good
she had been to her, and she, Emilie, would really
and truly be a comfort to father and mother, and
do nothing to worry them. Mrs. Cameron had
folded her in her arms and laid her head on
her shoulder, and said not a word, but Mary had
felt hot tears against her cheek. Even her father
had helped to increase her bewilderment and pain.
"Well, Mary," he had said, meeting her on the
stairs, and he had held out his hand, and tried
twice to speak some other word, and then had
turned away abruptly and walked down-stairs,
holding heavily to the balusters as he went.
That experience made Mary feel in a hurry to
be married. Why had she not allowed Willis
to have his way? Then it would have been all
over by this time, and she in condition to help
her father; and he was failing so rapidly! It
would have been a matter of interest to a curious
student of human nature, to have known that

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...

-'- '•-'fmm

wBS^^^m

.^ m

- .:'il

:,|:a:E

^illl

'•1 '

f«f

842

WKAT THEY COULDN'T.

Mary Cameron invariably thought of her married
life as something which would be "over" when
the ceremony was concluded, and she was fairly
recognized as Mrs. Kennedy.

But one call she had had that evening which
had shaken her nerves more than all the others
combined. That was when Rachel, who had
been at her side nearly all day, doing little last
things which required taste and skill, doing them
rapidly and deftly, turning from one to another
with a thoughtfulness which she could never for-
get, tapped at the door with a " May I come in a
moment?" and then had dropped in a little heap
at her feet, and said, "Do you know, it seems to
me as though I had just found my sister, after
doing without and missing her all these years,
and now I am losing her I "

Mary had been touched by this ; she greatly ad-
mired, while at the same time she stood a trifle in
awe of, her beautiful sister. She had been a new
type of girl ; firm in her convictions, unswerving
in regard to Avhat she considered right, and in-
tense almost to narrowness, Mary thought, in her
ideas of right and wrong ; yet, at the same time,
gentle and sweet and unselfish. They had grown
to know each other better during the past two
weeks, because Rachel found so many things
which she could do to help, and discovered to her
admiring sister many touches of skill and taste
which it had not been known she possessed. It
wa-s hard to think that they, who had been apart

"MRS. WILLIS KENNEDY?

343

so long, must separate again, and never belong to
tlie same household :«n\' more. Slie expressed her
sense of regret, and several little love words were
exchanged, drawing tlie sisters closer to each
otlicr tlian ever before. Then Rachel had said
suddenly, —

"() Mary, it is a foolish thing to ask, but are
you sure tiiat Mr. Kennedy is tlie one who, next to
(lod, can be all in all to you? Of course you are,
but I want to hear you sav it. Miirriaare is such a
solenni, such an irrevocable thing, and one should
be so seA.tled. Vou are suie it is all right?"

Mary had laugiied at her wistful, almost plead-
ing tone, and told lier that she was a sentimental
creature, nuich inoie so <\Ka\ she shouhl have sup-
jKised. Then, finding that Uachel pressed the
(piestion, not in sentiment but in strange earnest-
ness, she had said. "Of course it is all rijjht, vou
foolish chihl; if it were not, what good would it
do to talk al)out it now? It is quite too late."

"Oil, nol iju!"' Rachel had said, and begged
her not to speak hucIi words. If ahe should find,
even while standing a\ the nnrriage altar, if she
should have the least fie^'Jing tnat she might possi-
bly be making a mistak<'. >ihe should draw back
even then. Sucii solemn j)n>n»iscs as those given
in marriage muHt itot be tviken oji uncertain lips.

Mary had laughed again, a little, and told her
she must never marry, she was Uto nervous; and
then had abniptly changed the Hu!)j^^t. But now
that she was gone, the mlde-elect went over the

344

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

«;,;,

conversation carefully, remembering with singu-
lar distinctness Rachel's every word. Marriage
meant more to Rachel, evidently, than it did to
her. Mr. Kennedy was, of course, of more inter-
est to her than Avas any other person, else she
would not have promised to marry him; but she
admitted that, after marriage, she thought with
satisfaction of being left to carry out her own
plans and schemes, leaving him at the same time
at liberty to carry out his ; always being the Ijest
of friends, and having pleasant hours together
when they met, and being able to have pleasant
hours apart. Was not this as it should be? Was
not the intense feeling which Rachel seemed to
think necessary, the sentimentalism which be-
longed to extreme youth? At that moment she
thought of Russell Deiiham and the flutter of
heart which his very footstep used to arouse ; but
she curled her lip disdainfully over the thought,
and told hemelf that here was a proof that siich
feelings were mere sentiment. Now she did not
even respect Russell Denham; he had trifled with
her. As for Mr. Kennedy, he had sought her out
from all the world, and been kind and considerate
not only of her, but hers. Of course she loved
him. And when she was once his wife, she could
begin to do all those things of which she had
lately thought. She would make a safe, sweet,
helpful home for t»'mj)ted boys like Ben Reeder.
She would have her »>wn brothers with her mutll^
and do for them i.n a hundred ways which had

I I

"MRS. WILLIS KENNEDY?

345

been suggested to her by hearing Mr. Landis talk.
And Emilie — she could guard her young life,
and at the same time enrich and brighten it.
Then there was father — oh, there were so many
things to be done! She had wasted her life; now
she must redeem the lost years. Mr. Kennedy
was a very busy man, but he would heartily sec-
ond all lur efforts. Hadn't he told her he would
be delighted to see her at work? And didn't he
most cordially indorse all that she had said about
havincf Emilie much with her?

346

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

i !-;

CHAPTER XXV.

"a nervous shock."

ESPITE the fact that Mrs. Cameron had con-
gratulated herself the evening before on
everything being done, the nioining found them
verv l)usv; it was not until nearlv ten o'clock that
even Eniilie hnd time to wonder "why in the
w -rid " Mr. Kennedy did not appear. It liad been
'[jlanned. in view of the crowded state of the
house, liiat he should stop over night with his up-
town friends; and he had explained by letter that
some "vexatious business matters" would prevent
his reac'hin<T the city until late on the evening of
the fiftli. But it was presumable that he would
make liis appearance early in the morning.

"I thought h' would come to breakfast."
said Emilie; "1 hope he will not be later than
twelve o'clock; we t'-^mhint go on without him,
could we? and for a marriajje service to be even
five minutes behind time is considered very coun-
trified nowadays."

They laughed at Emilie's nonsense, as usual,
and liurried their preparations; for the ceremony
was to be performed at high noon, and, if they
must not be even live minutes late, there was need
for haste.

"A NERVOUS SHOCK.

347

One person was looking nervously for Mr. Ken-
neu^ 15 arvival; this was Mary's father; he had
resolved to take his future son-in-law into confi-
dence that very morning. He was to be told
briefly about the temporary embarrassments, and
to be duly apologized to for "carelessness " in not
acquainting him promptly with Mr. Welborne's
absence, and in the subsequent temporary use of
the money. Mr. Cameron liked the sound of that
word, "temporary." He opened the door of his
small private room at the end of the hall several
times in the course of the next hour, to ask if Mr.
Kennedy had not come yet, and to repeat the di-
rection that he was to be shown in there the
moment he arrived.

" What can father be going to do to him when
he does come?" asked Emilie. "Somebody ought
to be preparing to give him a lecture on tardiness.
The idea! it is after eleven o'clock. Mary won't
do it; brides have to smile and be pleased at
everything until u few days after the ceremony."
Then she darted forwa,rd to answer a ring; she
would be the first to receive the belated bride-
groom. It was the postman's ring, and she took
from his hand a single letter addressed to Mary.
"How curious!" she said, studying it. "It is
Mr. Kennedy's writing."

"A belated letter," said her mother, coming for-
ward to glance at it; "Mary did not get one
yesterday, you rememl^er. Take it up to her; it
will amuse her while she is waiting; and do,

348

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

child, put the finishing touches to your toilet be-
fore you come down again. It is almost time for
the guests to arrive."

A little later it was Mary who came down the
stairs with an open letter in her hand.

"Mother," she said, stopping half-way down, as
she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Cameron's draperies
by the back parlor door. That lady rushed out to
her. "Why, my dear! don't come down yet.
What is it? Come back, dear, do I " in a hurried
whisper. "Some of the guests have come, and of
course you do not want them to see you yet."

"No," said Mary, aloud and calmly, "nor .at
all; I want them sent away; there is to be no
wedding."

"Hush! child, hush!''' said the mother, in an
imperative whisper, drawing her daughter in ner-
vous haste up the stairs, "you do not know what
you are saying. What is it, dear child? What
has happened?"

She had drawn Mary within her own room now,
and closed the door.

" Has he been taken ill, dear, or is there an ac-
cident? Sit down, my darling, and let mother
have the letter."

"There it is," said Mary, pushing away the
seat into which her mother tried to draw her.
"You can read it; it is not long; nothing has hap-
pened, only he has changed his mind. I wish he
had let us know before " — She did not com-
plete her sentence.

"A NERVOUS SHOCK.'

349

And Mrs. Cameron, scarce knowing what she
did, read : —

Dear Marii, — Not that I have any right to call you so
after this ; yet you are dear to me, vso dear that 1 must
shield you. Mary, I am a poor man ! Prospects that 1 be-
lieved were sure, are utteily ruined. I have not a penny.
In view of these ex[»ev.tations 1 have lived freely ; now
I have nothing with which to pay wedding expenses, even
if it were right to condemn you to beggary. 1 have no
home to bring you to, and no money with which to pay
our board ; in short, I am utterly ruined The only honor-
able way for me is to tell you the truth, and release you
from all pledges to me, and to promise never to insult you
by line or word again. What this blow is to me, I must
leave you to imagine. I have but one gleam of comfort ;
that is, that you never seemed to care for me as 1 do for
you. Good-by. prom a miserable failure,

Willis Kennedy.

Three times the poor mother read these lines
with brain so bewildered that she could not seem
to take in their meaning. Then she lifted her
frightened eyes to her daughter's stern ones.

"He must be insane," she faltered.

"No, he is only business-like. He has failed in
some desperate business venture which he thought
was sure, and has decided that he must marry a
rich wife instead of me. I wish he had dis-
covered it before we had had so much trouble
and expense."

But her mother interrupted her, weeping bit-
terly. "Oh, my darling, don't, don't! you are
insane yourself; you will be, if you stand there

3oO

WHAT THE^' couldn't.

'.if>,i

SO quiet and cold, and talk like that. You might
better scream, or faint. O Mary, my poor girll
what shall we dof^

"1 don't tliiiik this is any time for fainting,
mother. VVe iiave too much that must l)e done.
All those people who keep coming must be sent
away; or shall we let them stay and eat the
wedding dainties? They might have their part,
even though ours is spoiled; and my father must
be told, and — and comforted.'''' Her face changed
a little with this word. *' Mother, stop moaning,
and let us think and plan. Where are the boys?
No, they could not <lo anything, it would break
their liearts; and father must l)e spared." She
had walked to the window while she talked,
and had been watching the coming of guests.
** There is Mr. Landis," siie said, ^'he will do.
He knows just how to manage everybody. Send
for him to come up here, mother, and tell him
the whole story. 1 will tell him myself. Then
he will get rid of the people for us. It will
be better than trying to depend on the boys."

The poor dazed mother! She looked at her
daughter as one frightened; she believed her to
be stricken with insanity. She felt Jis though
she was herself insane. Mary turned at last from
her pathetic bewilderment, and, stepping into the
hall, sent Emilie to tell Mr. Landis she wished
to see him immediately.

He came })i'oniptly, not surprised at the sum-
mons; he had been doing duty as intimate frit'iul

*'A NKKVors SHOCK.

351

of the family for the last two days. Quietly,
in a matter-of-fact way, Mary handed him the
letter, saying simply, "Kead that, and tell me
how to act."

He read more rapidly than the poor mother

»e

had, and reached his conclusion sooner,
consummate villain I" he muttered, Ijetween lips
that he seemed to want to keej) closed.

"Oh, no," said Mary again; "I told mother
tiiat he was only business-like. I think I un-
dei"stand him. Money, or the want of it, has
held us all, always, from doing what we wanted
to. Mr. Landis, will vou send the guests awav,
and tell my father and the l)oys, and kee[> the
boys from doing anything rash? That will be
their Hrst thouglit; to rush away and tind him;
as if that would do miij good ! "

Was ever friend called upon to perform
stranger service! How he got through with
the next hour, Mr. Landis himself could not
liave told. He knew that in some way he made
known to the guests that circumstances had so
changed as to make their very presence an
offence ; and that he was closeted, afterwards,
first with the father, then with the sons, and
that he found the latter harder to manige; for
while the father's utterly stunned condition had
not yet passed, they were burning for revenge,
and could think only of rushing away by the
fii'st train to shoot the villain who had deliber-
ately planned disgrace for the household.

852

WHAT TIIKV COl'MJN T.

si ^^
if'

St.: 1

It was perhaps a providential thing for all
parties that tlieir attention was soon and sharply
called to another ma'tter. It came to pass that
the poor mother, whose; body and l)rain had been
undergoing dnring all these months, even years,
heavier strains than any of them realized, reached
the end of her powers of endurance that morning.
When Mary returned from iier confeicrice witii
Mr. Landis she found her mother in a dead faint
Being entirely composed herself, she was not
alarmed; but did for her what she was sure were
the proper things, only to find that she lallied
but for a moment then sank away again, her
condition becoming each time more alarming. In
point of fact, Mr. Landis's conference with the
sons was interrupted by a sharp summons to them
to go for the doctor without delay; and there-
after, for several houi-s, the bewildered family had
need to centre tlieir thoughts on what had been
suddenly transformed into a sick-room. It was
Mary who received and made explanation to the
doctor. "She has had a sudden nervous shock,
coming after unusual fatigue. It was on hearing
the news which shocked her that she went into one
of these faints, or spasms, or whatever they are."

The doctor, who had known the family profes-
sionally for years, and who had already heard what
the "nervous shock" was, looked at his informi»i->t
curiously. Had no "shock" of any sort come to
her? She had certainly never been more entirely
herself than at that moment. Not only then, but

"A NKllVOUS SHOCK.

»»

353

afterwards, througliout the trying ordeals of that
day, she maintained the same quiet self-poise.
Slie gave carefUi attention to the doetor's orders,
and took measures to have them ( arricd out with
promptness and skill. She direeted the thor-
oughly frightened lietsey; listened to, and agreed
witli. Aunt Eunice's plans for her mother's com-
fort; and interrupted Emilie's tearful attempt at
expressing sympathy for herself, with a composed,
"There is no time to think about that now, child;
mother is very ill, and we must all think of her,
and do everything we can to help."

Such a miserable family as it was which gath-
ered, sometime toward the close of the day, to
make an attempt at that belated feast which was
to have been served so royally! The caterere had
disappeared long since, carrying their extra
"spoons and forks " and all manner of parapherna-
lia with them, and Rachel had struggled bravely
with the problem of how to rid the rooms of all
traces of festivity; but there remained tlie extra
dishes which poor Betsey felt ought to be eaten,
yet which, by their very unusualness, empha-
sized the situation. Even Mr. Willis Kennedy,
taking his dinner gloomily and in silence in
a strange restaurant, might have pitied the con-
dition of the home whose comfort he had
despoiled. Mary Cameron stayed with her
mother; and Mr. Cameron, after swallowing
his coffee, and shaking his head at everything
which Lucia and Emilie eagerly offered him.

354

WHAT Tlir.V CnfJ.DN T.

IB:^

!f-i'

staggered away to l»is jxist Ik's'kIc iii; wil'i-'.;
bed. All other anxieties were lor iln; {»r('sti,i,
swallowed up in an aj^oiiy of j)ity and renioisi' im-
the wife of his youth, lie was not acenstonuMl i.»
seeing her ill. The thou^hl tliat ylie nnj^lit die
was terrible to him; not onlv in the sense ol' ilic
desolation whi<^h would result, but in llie iImmiil;! :
that he had failed in most of tlic? things lie liiul
meant to do for lun* wiu?n they lu-i^'-au life to-
gether. Sueh a hapj)y liome us they jiitd meant to
have! and it seemed to him now tiiat an imp in
the form of Poverty came early, and sat grinning-
on their hearth-stone all throuufli the vears. \v[
when he had married, on a salarv of ei^ht liiin-
dred dollars, he felt ric;h, he remembered. It wa .
a strange and bewildering experienee eonnecleil
with this dreadful day, that those i)ictures of liic
past, and of what he had meant and had failed i;i.
kept haunting his brain; so unnerving him, Liiat
the doctor said in a warning tone to Lueia as he
left the house, "You want to look after youi-
father, and shield him as mueh as y(m can; Im' ix
in some respects in a worse condition than your
mother."

The hall clock was striking ten when Mary
Cameron entered once more the door of her nwii
room, and dropped into the nearest chair t(> thi::k.
Aunt Eunice had asserted her authority : ilu;
mother was quiet now, sleeping under the in-
fluence of opiates; and she. Aunt Eunice, kni-'v.-
as much about illness "as the next one ; "^ ami ilii:>

"A NEKVors SHtU'Iv

♦»

35.1

was the time for Miiry to get a little rest. '* You
have been on your feet all day, and haven't eaten
a bite. Go down now and get a cup of tea and a
bit of toast; Kaehel has some, ready for you; and
then do you go to your room and rest awhile."
Such had been her dismissal. Mary had smiled
over the idea of the tea and toast, she did not feel
the need of either; but she was willing to get
away to her own room. She sat down in the chair
which had held her but the night before. Was
it the night before, or was it five, ten, twenty
yeara ago when she was a girl and was going to
be married? She felt like an old woman now;
one on whom the cares and responsibilities of life
had dropped suddenly years ago, and which she
had met and borne. She glanced around the
room curiously. It had been hurriedly recon-
structed; Rachel and Emilie, between them, hav-
ing gotten rid of bridal robes and belongings as
much as possible; yet the great trunks, two .6f
them, still stood there; one locked and strapped,
the other waiting for those List things which were
to have been put in after the ceremony. In the
hurry and confusion, the girls had not been able
to get rid of these ; and the bride, that was to have
been, looked at them as something which belonged
to that long-ago past. This evening she had ex-
pected to spend in Albany, and to be introduced
to certain friends as " Mrs. Kennedy." She had
said over the name several times in the privacy of
her room, trying to get accustomed to its sound.

356

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

f
1

',1

,Jf'

It'.
I'M

She said it over now with a curling lip, and won-
dered where Mr. Kennedy was, and whether ho
had carried out his part of the programme and
gone to Alhany; and was he at that moment
entertaining thf)se charming young cousins of
whom he had told her? Then she pulled herself
up shar^jly from this hewilderment of re very, and
tried to look her present and future in the face,
and decide what to do with them. In the first
place, was she a fit subject for the unutter-
able sympathy which had flowed about her
all day, and been so prominent a part of
her father's woe that he could not meet her
eye, nor speak her name? She had felt al-
most like a hypocrite when poor Mac, in an
agony of pity and pain, had held her in his arms
for a moment that evening, and begged her to let
!um and Rod go together and rid the earth of
such a scoundrel. She had put from her Lucia's
J)itiful attempt at sympathy, with a word about
their mother and her needs. She knew they all
felt that she had turned from their efforts because
the wound was still too fresh and sore to endure
their touch ; she knew they felt anxious for her,
and expected a sudden and perhaps terrible de-
scent from this unnatural calm. So anxious were
they, that there had been earnest expostulation
with Aunt Eunice about sending her away, and
an assurance that she might better be allowed to
stay and busy h^^rself with her mother; and Aunt
Eunice had stoutly held to her convictions: "I

"A KKIlVors SMnOK.

<tr "

35:

tell you she will be better to get away by herself
and cry. This kind of quiet ain't natuial. I
know all about it." Mary had overheard tiiese
things, and faintly smiled at them. Siie did not
mean to cry; she had no desire to do so. Back in
the dim recesses of lier heart, somewhere, l)ehind
all the shame and indifrnation and sense of having
been wronged and made a pul)lic sj)ectaL'le of,
there lurkeil a dull feeling of relief. Siie w.is
not married, after all I She was Mary Cameron
still; free to remnin so; and it was ihrougli no
fault of hers. She had been willing to d.) her
part in relieving her father of the burden of lier
support; and to relieve him in a hundred other
ways which siie had plainied; and tlie oppor-
tunity had failed her. She could not feel that
she was in any sense to blame ; and the
thought was a relief. Had she, then, not loved
the man she had promised to marry? Why,
of course she had; at least vshe had supposed
that she did. She had respected him always,
and been grateful to him; he had chosen her de-
liberately before all others, though he was at
home in high circles, and a man of wealth —
or had posed as such ; and she had been grateful
to him. It had all been somewhat sudden, she
remembered; but she had not meant in any way
to deceive either herself or him. Afterwards,
quite lately indeed, there had come to her a
question as to whether it was all just as it should
be; whether, for instance, siie could live that en-

' f

,r.-lt fi''"i

If-'!'

358

WHAT THEV OOULDN'T.

tirely different life which she was resolved upon
living, — the life which people like Rachel and Mr.
Landis thought alone was worthy, — with Mr.
Kennedy for lier constant companion? She knew
intuitively that he did not care for that sort of
life, althougli he had been entirely respectful witli
regard to matters of religion ; but he would at
least be out of sympathy with it; could she be
what she desired to be, with him indifferent?
But she had told herself, as she told Rachel, that
there was no use in thinking about such matters
now; it was too late; everything was settled.
Slie had decided that she cotdd and would live
her own right, separate life; be what she had dis-
covered every woman ought to be ; and win Mr.
Kennedy to her way of thinkino' if she could: if
not, — well, people had to go their oWu ways in
this world. And she knew so little about God's
real plan for married life as to actually suppose
that this was probably as true a marriage as any!

She was surprised and ashamed at this under-
tone of relief which had oppressed her all day.
A woman on the eve of marriage ought not to feel
relief tliat jiiircumstances entirely beyond her con-
trol had prevented it! She was sure of so much.
]5ut what was that feeling which lurked behind
the sense of sliame and indignation, if it could
not be called })y such name?

"I have lost my respect for him," she said
aloud; and (piietly, "It must be that which 1ms
clianged my feelings."

*• what's in a NAiME?

♦1 '>

359

CHAPTKIi XXVI

''what's in A NAMK?"

IT is perhaj)s tinu' iliat Mi'. Willis Kennedy
should receive some slight attention. Mr.
Landis in his ex(;itement had called liim a "con-
summate villain;" hut that is too strong a term.
Mr. Kennedy was a victim of a weak will, a
determination to please himsell", and an education
which had no firm moral foundation. Up to the
eveninj^ of the third day of June, he had no more
idea of failing in his appointment with Mary
("iirnernii lluiu he ha<l of ceasing to live. On
tlie (M)ntrary, hv, was anxious for the day to arrive,
and shaped all his engagements and plans with
a view to it. On the evening of the third of
.lune, his Cousin iMistis drop])ed down upon him
suddenly. It will he remembered that this young
man was a lawyer; was, in fact, the junior part-
ner of a very impoitant law Hrm in the neigh-
horinsr citv. He had been absent for months
in the far West on an extended business trip,
and had not met his cousin since a short time
after he confided to him that interesting bit of
news about the Cameron umde.

"So you are goiufr to desert bachelorhood,"

:\m

WHAT THEV CnrLDN T.

II '

lie Staid, after he liiul been. <lnly weleomed and
refreshed by his cousin, "I was astoiiislied to
re(;eive your caids; I liad set you down as a
coulirnuMl bachcdor. And 1o marry a Miss Cam-
eron, at that I no wonder you \V('r(! so mucli in-
terested in my hit of news about Miss Katiierine
Cameron I you tlioug-ht {)Ossibly tliey were rela-
tives? I eouhl liave told you differently. Our
firm has had to traee relationship to the third
and fourth ^'•eneration. It is a curious coinci-
dence, 'Mary K. Cameron.' Does the K stand
for Katiierine, so as to com[)lete the strangeness
of it?"

Mr. Willis Kennedy stared; no other word
will describe his gaze. " What aie you talking
about?" he asked at last.

"Why, man aliv ' Tm talking about the ro-
mance; I spread be-L.<re you the last time I saw
you. Are you so nuich mariied already as to
have forgotten it? You told me then of being
introduced to a Miss Cameron, and I supposed
it was the one our firm is managing."

"Oh," said Mr. Keuniedy at last. "And when
did you find out your mistake? "

"Never thought about it again until T re-
ceived your cards and saw the magic name. Why
didn't you go in for the heiress, Willis? It
v.ould have been more convenient for you. She
has been here nuich of the season, and is here
now. '

"Here! in New York?"

"wiiat'b in a namk?

3<n

"Yes, sir, in Nuw York; witliiii five sqnarcn
of your (;lni) Iioumc!. Aio yoii (liinkin^ how imicli
|)()8lJi^«) you iiiiglit liiivc Hiivcd if you hud t;ijost'ii
licr ? Hut yoii are too latf, old fellow; no use
in brciikiufT- your engiio(!ttk'nt now. My Miss
Cameron is r'liqaf^L'd to a doctor lii-rt' ; he is poor,
too, and strn^^nrliuo', hut onluijjrising. lie in
fightinj^ the teni'inent-house qu(!stion down near
the College Settlement; wants a row of shell-j
liauled down, and some choice pakices put up;
and he spends (!Verv cent of his hard-earned moneV
in caring for his po(U' patients. They are to
be married in the course of a few weeks, I ])e-
lieve; think how that foitune will he squandered!
She is of like mind with himself, I am t(dd;
and neither of th(!in knows the fiist thing ahout
the money. Hut it will all he out soon; the
poor old uncle is done with life at last. A tele-
gram from my chief is what brought me down
this way, instead of going home. I am to (rail
*n the morning, and break the news as gently
as I can, and escort my lady home, if she pleases,
to meet her lawyers and her fortune, ^^'dy I
presume the doctor will prefer to do that for
her. Romantic, isn't it?"

"Very," said Mr. Willis Kennedy. After a
few minutes of silence he began to ask questions,
probing his cousin's knowledge to the utmost;
showing such keen interest, indeed, that he was
liuighingl\ rallie<l about li,tv :ng srt i.nany (]ues-
tions to ask concerning anothei- than THE Miss
Cameron.

'< !l

I. ii

31)2

WHAT THKV (TOULON T.

l'^*

,*';i-

*. •'»

lie said at last, rising

**■ What's in a nanitj
with a yawn.

"So you don't know what the K. stands for
in your lady's name? Prohahly it is Ketuiah,
or Keziah; to have it Katherin<? would he too
stranj]^o a eoineidenee. Vou must tiike her to
call upon the other one; they are so enam-
oured of tenement-house people they won't he
lofty in their ideas. Well, ^ood-night to you,
my boy. No, thank you ; I have promised to
spend the night with my friend Tremaine.
When are you going down? Not until Tuesday
night! You don't give yourself much holiday be-
forehand, do you? Hut, as a married man in pros-
j)ective, I suppose you have to be industrious."

He was gone at last, and Mi'. Willis Kennedy
had time to think. What a bewildering problem
was before him. Instead of millions, nothing!
and on the eve of marriage with a young woman
who had been brought up with expensive tastes
and habits, and nothing with which to gratify
them. Moreover, she had a father who was in
such financial end)arrassments that he had to re-
sort to dishonesty to keep himself, probably, from
exposure. Also, to come back sharply to him-
self, on the strength of his prospects he had been
jnore than usually careless of money matters,
even reckless. Only the day before, he had bor-
rowed five hundred dollars to meet the expenses
of his wedding-tri[), and had promised to pay
a startling rate of interest for the private ar-

*' what's IX A NAME?

363

commodation. What did a millionaire oare for
the amount of interest to be paid on a paltry five
hundred dollars! His tliougl»ts did not s]ia[>e
themselves logically iu the young man's brain;
they merely floated before* him in a sort of vision.
In truth, he was stunned by the magnitude of
his disappointment. lie had taken such pains
to learn just the amount of the fortune to be
inherited, and just tlu condition of the uncle
whose feeble breath of life had endured so long.
The only flaw in his work had been the taking
it for granted that the Katherine Cameron whom
his cousin described, and the Mary K. Cameron
whom he knew were the same.

When at last he sought his room late that
night, and made preparations for rest, wearily,
like an old man, instead of one in his prime, he
had not, even yet, so much as thought of proving
false to his promised wife. He was to be married,
of course ; but what afterwards ? How were they
to live? He was not a member of any Arm; only
a salaried clerk. Tlirough some heedless words
of his, somebody had gotten the impression that
he belonged to the firm ; and he had not cared
to deny it, even to Mary Cameron herself. What
harm for her to think so? But his salary had
never proved sufficient for his wants as a single
man; the number and amount of his debts stared
at him now as they never had before, and fright-
ened him. He arose the next morning unre-
freshed, and went about his duties like one in

364

WHAT THKV i'ovuys'r.

.t>

a dreiim. He Htill pliiiiiicd for to-tnori'ow ni^Hit,
when he must stiirt on his journey; hut lie hogaii
to shudder at the tliought. Just Avlicn or liow
there crept into his lieart a sense of i)ity for AI ii y
Cameron and the life to which he was hiiiigiiig
her, he couhl not liave tohl ; hut once evolved,
he nursed it witii care, untiVhy ni^ht he liad
mude liimself inK» a monster for aHowinj^ litr
to sacrHi(;e lierself to sueli a poveity-stritken
wretch as he. It was in one of tliose moo(U
that he wrote the h'tter which you liave read.
Not tliat he intended to send it; lie tf>ld liimseU'
tiiat he shonhl do notiiiiij^'* of tlie kind; it w;i;
too late. Still, he carefully adthessed, scmKmI,
and stam[H'd the letter from force of hd»it; hr.t
he did not post it, nor leave ordiMs to have it
attended to. He went to th(? store the next morn-
ing as usual, and leceived the sallies and congrat-
ulations of his fellow-clerks, and laughed wiih
them over his 'Mast day of freedom," and was
unusually attentive to his work, and much slower
about leaving than usual, until at last somehody
1 asked if he did not intend to take the six-ten
train? Wouldn't he be late? He looked at
his watch then, and told himself that he was
startled over the lateness vi the hour. He left
the store at once, and was surely not to hlame
because there was an accident and a blockade.
Arrived at last at his room, he dadied hui iedly
up the stairs, and co isulted w itch and time-tal.le,
onlv to find whit he had feared ('0. that fhe six-

"what's in a name?"

305

ten was gone I There was not another train which
would accommodate idm until early morning; lie
could barely reach the city hy noon; it would
be an hour later before he could leach Durand
Avenue. What a state of things I Then he took
time to glance about his room. The chaudjcr-
maid had dene her duty; everything was in order.
He crossed to the table, and looked it ov(;r care-
fully. His letter wjis not there! He rang the
bell furicusly, and angrily questioned the bell-
boy, and sent for the cliambermaid, and fiercely
questioned her. 81 le had seen the letter; yes,
indeed; and had gone lierself and mailed it,
stealing time from her work to gut it into the
first delivery Hadn't Mr. Kennedy thanked her
twice before for doing that same th'.ng, when
he had forgotten his letters? How was she to
know that it was not to go, when it was sealed
and stamped, and everything?

As soon as he cjnild, Mr. Kennedy Hiit down
and considered. He called himself lie victim
of circumstance^; he said it was all a wretched
piece of business. Piobably to-night, certainly
by the first delivery to-morrow morning, Mary
would have that letter. What was the use of
trying to follow it? How could he explain?
She would never forgive him for writing it, even
though he had never intended to send it. She
would not believe him, would not marry him.
The least he could do now was to keep away
from her. He had a holiday before him, and

'IMF

.1, ^i'.:

ill

aoo

WHAT THKV COLLDN T.

could pliin his future iu it. lie need not waste
money by leaving town; New York was large
enoagli to take a holiday in, and meet no ac-
quaintances. Will you not understand, and have
a grain of pity mingle with your contempt for
this despicable "victim of circumstances"?

hov the two weeks following the shock which
they had received, the Cameron family, especially
the father, were kept mercifully anxious and fear-
ful over the condition of the wife and mother.
Long years of anxiety and care, during which Mrs.
Cameron had lived more entirely for her husband
and children than any of them realized until now,
had called for their revenge at last. The peculiar
fainting-turns, which were more like spasms than
faints, were the beginning of a desperate illness,
and for fourteen long days the battle between
life and death raged fiercely. Even the boys put
away all thought except that terrible one, that
their mother might be going to die, and waited,
taking their turns as watchers, and being in-
valuable in their help in other ways. And at
last the day came when the doctor, iu answer
to their mute inquiries, said, —

"I am really hopeful this morning that the
worst is past. Given the most persistent and
faithful oare, I think she will rally; but it will
require time and patience; and meantime, boys,
you must look after your father. I am afraid for
him."

He had left him but a moment before, in his

" WHAT >; IN A namk;

8«37

own little room at tlie end of tlie liiill, wlici'' lie
was weeping like; a eliild. I)iiv and niglit lu; had
hung over liis wife, the in<«>t jtitifnl icniorse
niingling with liis love and feur. He had h( n so
husy, ,so Inmi/ with tho hnrdens of life, that lie iiad
not heen to lier wiiat he liad ii.rant lo I'.'; and
he had prejjared for her norsc; hurdei/s to iu'ar
in the future! Turn whic ii way he would, his
thoughts were a.-; daggers stahhing him. Mer.n-
time, they had had tiieir hh^ssings ; Mr. Cameron's
employers had heen most kind. Mr. Clinton, the
member of the firm who was supposed to have no
heart, had ealled in person, and had assured Mr.
Cameron that he was at liberty to stay witii his
wife until she was better. His phice should be
temporarily supplied, and his salary, of course,
continued. Others had been kind; friends who
lived so far away that tliey had not b<!en seen for
months, and who they thought had dropped them,
directly they heard of illness, rallied around them
with offers of help and sympathy so free and
hearty that they could not be ignored. As for
their next-door neighbors, Kmilie voiced the feel-
ing of the family when she declared that no
brother and sister could have been more constant
and self-forgetful in t^ieir helpfulness than Mr.
Landis and his sister Dorothy.

On the whole, perhaps nothing could have
helped the Cameron family so successfully tiirough
the embarrassments of this period as had illness.
Anxiety for the mother was so sharp and so long-

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Vim$TIR,N.Y. 14SM

(71«)t7a-4S03

368

WHAT THEY COIJLDN T.

continued, that it seemed natural and reasonable,
when people called, to think only of her. Among
themselves j^eople talked and wondered. They
supposed, they said, that some accident had de-
tained the bridegroom, — probably he was ill him-
self; and now, of course, the wedding would ha
deferred until the mother was well, perhaps until
fall. Very soon the incident dropped into the
background; two weeks is too long a time for peo-
ple in cities to be interested in the affairs of
othei-s. Those who knew about matters, kept
their own counsel, and those who only thought
they did, began to say, on inquiry, that they be-
lieved Mr. Kennedy was ill; and Mrs. Cameron
being taken ill at the same time, they understood
that the marriage was now to be deferred until
fall. Somebody had said so ; they did not remem-
ber who.

The doctor's advice to Mr. Cameron's sons to
look after their father was evidentlv needed. No
sooner was the strain of hourly fear for his wife's
life relieved than his face told what that strain
had been. It was apparent that if he did not get
rest, bodily and mental, soon, he must sink un-
der it. Yet the severest sti-ain of all, he kept to
himself, until one afternoon nearly a week after
his wife began to mend. Mr. Landis had come to
his little room to speak to him about an errand
which had been done for him down town, and was
shocked with the haggard look on his face.

"My dear sir," he began, "you certainly are

** what's IX A NAME?"

r.r,9

not able to return to your desk lo-inorrow. I am
sure the tirm would have continued the substitute
a Wek or two longer, and will yet. If you will
allow me to interfere, 1 will see them personally.
I am acquainted with Mr. Clinton."

Mr. Cameron shook his head in earnest protest.
Oh, no; no, indeed! He was quite well; and it
was very important that he get to work as soon as
possible. It was not work which was biii'dening
him ; there were reasons — here Mr. Cameron
came to a full stop, and, leaning his head on the
table in front of him, let his whole frame shake
with some overpowering emotion.

"If there is any way in which I can help you,"
began Mr. Landis, his voice made tender by sym-
pathy, "I cannot express how glad 1 should be to
do so."

"Nobody can help me," said the poor man,
raising his bloodshot eyes, and looking at his
caller. " I am a miserable man ; I have ruined my
daughter's happiness for life."

And then Mr. Landis was thoroughly alarmed ;
surely this was a fancy of a distorted brain. He
drew a chair beside the excited man, and tried to
speak in low, soothing tones, without much regard
to what he was saying, simply with the desire to
quiet excitement. But Mr. Cameron interrupted
him. He was not talking wildly, he explained;
he knew exactly what he was saying, and had
meant to say it. He had borfie the burden alone
as long as he could. He ineant now to tell the

370

WHAT THKV COULD^^ T.

whole story, and ask if there was anything which
could yet be done. He began at tlie beginning of
his troubles, when th^} lM)ys first went to coMege;
up to that time, l)y dint of per;)etual straining and
contriving, he had managed to keep almost even
with the world, but tliat added strain had been
too mucli. He talked rapidly, shielding the lx)ys,
shielding everybody but himself, whom he spiued
nothing, even down to that terrible evening when
he appropriated Mr. Kennedy's two hundred dol-
larw. Rut this time he used no smooth-soundinir
words.

"1 stole the money, and used it for my own
needs," he said lirmly; "I have called it by
other names, but I won't any more. It was
stealing. And now, sir, ;ou see why that man
did not keep faith with my daughter. He would
not ally himself with one of my dishonored name.
I have ruined not only myself, but my family,
and especially Mary."

It was an inexpressibly painfnl interview. In
vain did Mr. Landis try to set before him the
folly of a man deserting the woman he had chosen,
because her father had done wrong, he might as
well not have si)oken. The father had gotten
where he could see only his own sin. All other
wrong-doing was as nothing l)eside that. Still,
by the time the talk was over, Mr. Landis felt
that something had been accomplished. He had
succeeded in convimnng the almost insane man
that his fii-st step nuist be to get the two hundred

"what's in a name?

•i M

371

dollars into Mr. Welborne's hands without fur-
ther delay. It was at least possible that Mr.
Kennedy did not yet know it had failed to reach
his debtor, in which case matters might be so
arranged that the story need go no farther. He
had a couple of hundred dollars which he could
spare as well as not, and there need not be
haste about returning it. He was going past
Mr. Welborne's office that afternoon, and if Mr.
Cameron would empower him, he would leave
the money, make all necessary explanations, and
secure the proper receipt.

On the wliole, the poor man was, almost in
spite of himself, comforted. It was something
to have told the whole painful story plainly;
it was a great deal to have been met as the lis-
tener had met the tale. H he had only known
what a friend this man could and would be,
how much might have been saved! Not once,
in all his struggle for help, had he thought of
the poor professor next door. How good he had
been I He had not spoken a reproachful word;
. neither had he tried to gloze over the sin which
had been committed. In the state of mind he
then was, Mr. Cameron felt that he could not
have borne that. As it was, he watched Mr.
Landis move i-apidly down the walk toward a
coming car, realized the errand on which he
was going, and felt that whatever came now,
he had a friend; one who understood the whole.

372

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER XXVII.

SOUL-SEARCHING.

SEVERAL hours later Mr. Landis, disap-
pointed in his search for Mr. John Wel-
borne's son, who proved to be the one with
whom business must be transacted, was trying
to determine just how to pass the time until
he might call at the Welborne of ice again. He
felt almost as excited as Mr. Cameron; but from
a different cause. He had no idea that the man
whom he still called a "consummate villain " had
broken his solemn troth because his prospective
father-in-law had been guilty of a dishonorable
and dishonest act. He had more fear that, di-
rectly the truth should become known, the man
would take steps to publicly disgrace the family
still further. Why not? A man who could do
as he had done was capable of anything. He
had chafed under the announcement that Mr.
John Welborne was out of town, and had caught
at the suggestion that all business could be tran-
sacted through his son, and had raged inwardly
when the son was not to be found in his office
nor his home, and none knew his whereabouts.
In his excitement it seemed as though another
ho;.;i\i djLiv niif~!it h?. dan^?r2*..:";.

SOUL-SEARCHING.

873

At the street corner he came face to face with
Mary Cameron. It was the first time she had
been down-town, since her mother's illness; but
to-day some fancy of the mother's, which only she
could satisfy, had sent her out. She was looking
pale and worn, and Mr. Landis felt shocked to
observe the ravages which a few weeks of trouble
had made; they showed so plainly, now that he
saw her again in street dress.

"Miss Cameron," he said, instinctively reach-
ing out his hand as though she needed support,
"how very weary you look! Have you been
walking far?"

" Not very far, " she explained ; but she had over-
estimated her strength; it was so long since she
had done any walking. Moreover, she had not
felt like taking lunch before she left home, and
had been detained longer than she had expected,
and was somewhat faint she supposed.

He was all solicitude; she ought not to go so
long without food; in her fatigued state it was
really dangerous. He had just been considering
the wisdom of lunching down-town, while he
waited to do an errand later; and they were very
near Schuyler's ; she mus I come in with him and
have something to strengtiien her.

It was after lunching-hours, and Schuyler's was
comparatively deserted. A waiter motioned them
to a table near which sat two gentlemen, one of
whom Mr. Landis recognized, as he glanced back
after being seated, as the younger Welborne,

374

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

whom he knew only by sight. He resolved to
send him his card with a request for a business
interview as soon as possible, then gave his un-
divided attention to cariii >; for Miss Cameron's
needs. She was very pale, and the hand which
raised the cup of chocolate to her lips, trembled.
Although she had met this man many times a
day during the past weeks, she had never been
for a moment alone with him since that morning
when she had summoned him to read her letter
and tell them what to do. It was not possible
that either of them could help thinking of that
morning; though Mr. Landis showed no sign, and
talked the kindest of commonplaces, not obliging
her to talk at all. Suddenly the attention of both
was arrested by the gentlemen behind them.

"We've got a curious case bn hand now," Mr.
Welborne was saying. "A neat little scandal
in quiet circles, where scandal seldom touches.
That precious scapegrace of a Kennedy, from
New York you know, has owed my father a
couple of hundred dollars for some time, and
promised as many times as there are days in the
month to pay it without fail on such a date.
Now he writes that he gave it to a Mr. Cameron '
— father of the girl he was supposed to be going
to marry — six weeks or more ago; has the date
down, you know; and declares that all the
Cameron family are witnesses, it having been
handed the father at the dining-talle, for that
purpose. Of course the money has never reached

SOUL-SEA KCHINO.

876

my father, and it is not likely that it was ever
sent to him; V)ut it will work up into a pretty
little case, you see. Probably Mr. Camemn will
deny ever having heard of such a thing, and there
will have to be suit brought, and no end of inter-
esting particulars will come to light; and the
fellow himself will have to be unearthed as a
witness. Do you suppose he thinks of that?"

If Mary Cameron's face wsvs pale before this
flow of words l)egan, how shall it be described
now? At the first mention of her father's name,
the blood had rolled in waves to her very fore-
head, and then receded, leaving her wax-like in
her pallor. She looke<l at Mr. Landis with wide,
frightened eyes, that had in them an appeal hard
to resist. He took his resolution on the instant.
Pushing back his chair, regaiclless of Mary's hand
which had suddenly been vi iched out as if to
detain him, he turned to Mr. VV^elborne and said,
as he laid down his card:

"I beg your pardt>n, sir, — that is my name and
address, — but since it has been impossible not
to hear your words, you will pardon me for at-
tending to business matters out of business lioure.
You are mistaken in some i»f vour conclusions.
Mr. Cameron did receive the two hundred dollar
of Mr. Kennedv ; and vour father would doubtless
have received the same that evening, had he been
in town. But you may not be aware that since
that time there has come very serious illness to
the Cameron home, and all minor matters have

^•■1

376

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

been held in alieyance. I was, however, com-
missioned by Mr. Cameron, this afternoon, to
bring you the two hundred dollars, and called
at your office for the purpose, at the hour wheji
you advertise that you will be in; biit not finding
you, I was obliged to postpone my errand, and
have been unwittingly a listener to your ' little
scandal.' Here is the money, sir; you will oblige
me by writing a receipt in full which I can have
forwarded to the proper person."

Just how they got through with that lunch
which had suddenly become formidable, and got
themselves away from Schuyler's, neither Mr.
Landis nor Mary Cameron could have explained
afterwards; they knew it was a relief to both
when they found themselves on the street again.

"You are too weary for street-car riding to-
night," said Mr. Landis; "I am going to call
a carriage." And having placed her in one, he
took a seat opposite, bidding her lean bjick and
rest, and be as quiet as she pleased. Presently
she dropped the hand which had shielded her
face, and spoke earnestly. "Mr. Landis, it is
strange how you seem to be of necessity mixed
up with all cur pain and danger. You were
so thoughtful for Emilie and for me; and now
this; — I cannot think how my father could have
forgotten the money ; but how terrible it was to
be thought" — "Do not think about it," he in-
terrupted hurriedly; "there is no need. Your
father explained the matter to me; I understand
it perfectly.'

»»

80UL-SKAUCHIN0.

377

"You understand everything," she said quickly;
"and you are the one wlio comes to the rescue.
I have never thanked you for helping me in my —
rescue." She seemed to hesitate for the right
word, and then to deliberately clioose that one.
Her companion noted it all carefully.

"There is no need," he said again, more ear-
nestly than Ixjfore. "I shall not even attempt
to tell you how glad I sim to serve any of you."
Then he asked her to look out at the sunset,
and said they would have another Ixjautiful day,
he thought, to-morrow; and, had she noticed how
rapidly her mother was beginning now to im-
prove? He could see changes each day. In this
way he held her steadily to safe, pleasant common-
places until thpy were at home.

"A carriage! " said liimilie, with wide-opening
eyes, and a gleam of her old spirit, which had been
wonderfully subdued of late; "that man is really
getting extravagant I "

It proved to be an eventful day. In the Cam-
eron parlor that evening a scene was enacted
which had to do with vital interests. The. caller
was Mr. Edson, and the only one at leisure to
receive him was Rachel Cameron. This had been
quite as it should be in the minister's estimation.
It was by no means the first time that he had
so planned his visits or his wtilks that Rachel
was of necessity his sole companion. On this
evening, however, matters were certainly not
going to his mind. He stood leaning against

378

WHAT THKY CorLDN T.

the mantel in the attitutlf of one who had re-
ceivetl a shock, and felt the need for a moment,
at least, of Home outward support, and on his
fa(!e was a look not only of pain, but bewilder-
ment; while Hachel sat apart, <leep distress ap-
parent in fa<;e and manner. 'Die actual fact was,
tliat tliis man had just asked tiiis wcmian to ))o
his wife, and she had quietly but positively de-
clined. He was bewildered. In all his imagin-
ings such a thought had not occurred. He had
been from the tii*st of liis acquaintance with her
entirely sure of the degree of interest which he
felt, and he had thought that she undei-stood.
Perhaps his distress was not greater than Ra-
chel's; she could not help asking herself whether
in her anxiety 1o show him that she received
no such impression from his kindly attentions
as '^milie absurdly hinted at, she had been care-
less, and so misled him. But it was nothing
of that kind which had misled him; he had set-
tled it almost from his first acquaintiince that this
young woman was the one designed by Provi-
dence for him, and the only one he wanted. It is
true he had thought of othei-s; it had crossed his
mind, for instance, that the wealthy Miss Manning
was not averse to his society, and that probably —
but it had only been to smile over the folly of a
man choosing her, when he knew Rachel Cameron.
He spoke at last in a low, constrained tone,
"I do not suppose I have any right to ask, and
3'et I someway think you will allow it, — are you
— is there some one else ? "

SOUL-SEA nCM I NO.

879

"No," said Rachel quickly. "It is nothing of
that kind, Mr. Edson;and I wish I could make
you undcrstaud how much I have esteemed your
friendship, and been grateful for your kindness."

He made a deprecatory gesture with his hand.
" Oh, dotit, please ! I beg your pardon, but how
can a man bear that? I do not understand it.
If you have enjoyed my society, — and you ad-
mit that, — and there is no other person, why then
— I know I have been precipitate, have sprung
this thing upon you at a time when you were
just rallying from a severe nervous strain ; I ought
to have known better, and did. When I came
here this evening I had not the remotest inten-
tion of saying what I have, — not yet; if you
can forget my words, and let me go back to where
we were at the l>eginning of this interview, I
will not take advantage of you again; I will
give you ample time; I will wait as long as
you may desire."

She tried to interrupt the eager flow of words.
"Indeed, Mr. Edson, you do not understand!
It is not that; I do not need time — I mean that
time would not change my decision. It is not
right that this thing should be; and therefore
it must not be."

"Miss Rachel, you have not said once this even-
ing that you did not care for me."

The ready blood mounted to her very temples
at the words; and he was quick to see and take
advantage of her evident embarrassment.

380

WHAT THEY COULDN T,

" I cannot but feel that I have a right to know
more plainly than you have told me, why my
cherished hopes must be dashed from me. Why
is it not right?"

"Because," said Rachel, her face paliii^^ again,
" it ia — oh, I wuh you would not ask me ! We
are not alike in 01^^ views and plans; we could
not work together as people should ; we would not
help each other in the best and highest ways."

The look of bewilderment deepened on Mr.
Edson's face.

"I am farther from understanding than ever,"
he said. "I have thought that our fitness for
each other must be marked even to outsidei's.
Your deepest interests seem to me to lie among
those things to which I have given my life ; and
I believe that we could help each other to a degree
that is very unusual. Will you not explain to
me by what line of thought you have arrived at
so strange a conclusion?''

She looked at him almost pitifully. "You
force me, Mr. Edson, to say that which I have .io
right to say."

"On the contrar3% you have every right; not
only that, but I think I am justified in almost
demanding it. Tliis is very serious business to
me, Miss Rachel." He left the mantel, and drew
a chair, not near her, but in front of her, where
he could study every line of her changeful face,
and waited. He h id to wait for some minutes;
it was evidently haul for Rachel to speak.

SOUL-SKA IKMFIN'a.

381

" I do not know that I can make myself under-
stood," she began at last; ""but you oblige me to
try. I have not denied that I am — interested
in you — I do not wish to deny it; but with
us it should be the interest of friends, no more.
I did not think it was more, with vou. We are

ft/

not alike, Mr. Edsoji; we think and feel differ-
ently on the most important of all subjects. You
have ambitions. You are a servant of Christ;
but you are one who seeks distinction. You are
scholarly and eloquent, and you know it, and
pride yourself on it; you mean to fill high places
in the church some day. You like, and you mean
to cultivate, the wealthy and the cul^^ured, rather
than the poor and forgotten. In short, you seem
to me to put Christ on a level with other inter-
ests, and to choose — sometimes — between them.
If we were — if we tried to be very int'mate
friends, we should trammel each other. I want
firet and always to do Christ's work in the world,
— the work he did when he was on earth, the
work I believe he would do if he were here again;
and it is different in many ways from that which
you mean to do. I should irritate you in a hun-
dred ways, and do, every day of my life, things
which would hinder your progress on the road
you laean to travel ; and you, in turn, would hinder
me, come between me and my conscience perhaps,
and — I am afraid! O Mr. Edson, I can never
explain it I Why will 3 ou make me say things
that sound cruel and hateful ? "

382

,t.

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

He looked at her every moment with keen,
piercing eyes. When she stopped he suddenly
leaned forward and buried his face in his hands,
speaking no word, making no sound. He sat
thus for what seemed to Rachel ('ameron houis
of misery, though in reality it was but a fe"' min-
utes. At last he rose.

"Thank you," he said. "Do not feel badly
about what you have told me; you ^'ould not
help it. I forced you to it. Be sure I shall
not forget it.^ Good-by."

He let himself quietly out at the front door,
and Rachel sat still in her chair. It was thus
that Emilie found her an hour afterwards.

" Alone ? " she asked in surprise, as she pushed
open the door. " Betsey thought Mr. Edson was
here. Why, you have been crying! " She studied
her face for a moment, then stooped and kissed it.
" Don't you go to crying, and being unhappy over
anything, Rachel Cameron," she said earnestly,
"or I believe, I really believe^ I bhall run away.
What a dreadful family we are getting to be I "

Who shall undertake to describe the tumult of
pain and shame in which the young minister went
homeward? It seemed to him that he had been
struck blow after blow that reached his very soul.
He made all speed toward his study, and closed and
locked the door; the gas was burning low, and he
left it low. Daikness fitted his present mood.
He began to walk up and down the room, almost
clenching his hands in his effoitis at self-control.

SOUL-SEARCHING.

883

What had she said to him — that one who was so
dear, so dear? Thjit he would trammel her in her
work for Christ; hinder her from being such a fol-
lower as she ought to be, and wanted to be. That
he put other things first, and Christ second ! Was
not that the meaning of it all? That his ambi-
tion and his scholarship and his love of culture
had come between him and his Master. Was it
true! oh, was it TRUE! I call vou to witness that
here was a true soul, mis-shapen, dwarfed, almost
smothered at times luider pride of intellect and
the triumphs of success; yet the thought which
stung most, probed deepest, even at this mcnient,
was that one, that it might, in a degree, be true.
Though he should live beyond even his four score
and ten years. Mr. Edson will never forget that
night. Until })ast midnight he continued the
soul searching which Rachel Cameron's words had
begun. Sometimes walking up and down his
room, sometimes sitting quite still with face
shaded by his hand. It was such a different
evening from that which he had expected to
spend! It was such an experience as he had hardly
known was possible for a soul. Just as the clock
in his own church tower struck one solemn stroke.
Pastor Edson gathered himself up, and dropped
upon his knees.

What passed between that soul and his Maker
during the next hours, only they two will ever
fully understand.

II ■

384

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

RECONSTIiUCTION.

NOT many days after Mrs. Cameron had so far
recovered as to be able to join the family at
meals, there was a family council in the Cameron
dining-room.

Aunt Eunice was for a time the chief speaker.

" The girls Jind I have talked it over, and looked
it over on every side, and we are all agreed that it
is the best thing that can be done ; that is, if you
will go into it like folks, and not grumble, nor
sigh, nor anything." This was her concluding
sentence, after a careful explanation which had
followed a very bomb-shell of an announcement.
The proposition, which had almost taken Mrs.
Cameron's breath away, was simply that the Cam-
eron home should resolve itself into a boarding-
house on a reasonable scale, with Aunt Eunice as
housekeeper, and each daughter in charge of a
distinct department. Many and earnest had been
the conferences held, before the subject was brought
to the notice of the heads of the house; so each
daughter knew what she was saying, and stood
ready to aid and abet the chief schemer, Aunt
Eunice. She had a way of going directly to the

RECr)NSTIlUCTION.

88")

point, and had made her statement short. It was
not difficult to prove two facts. First, that some-
thing must be done to clear them of the debt; and
secondly, that Mrs. Cameron was not, and would
not for a long time be, able to resume her duties
as housekeeper. Aunt Eunice reminded them that
she had been a housekeeper for thirty years, and
served a careful apprenticeship at "making ends
meet when there wasn't much besides odds and
ends to do it with.'* She declared that she knew
how to make good bread, which was more than
could be said of Betsej*^ ; she refrained, from mo-
tives of kindness, from making her statement any
broader than that, — and she affirmed that having
first-rate bread always on hand was " pretty near
half the battle." She reminded them that the
lodging-house around the cjrner was said to be
always filled with a very nice class of people, all
of whom were thrown out of routine by the clos-
ing of a boarding-house on the next square, where
they had taken their meals. It was entirely prob-
able that as many of these as were wanted could
be secured at once. She affirmed that Betsey was
as good a girl as she cared to have for the heavy
work, that she was capable of doing as she was told,
and " that was two-thirds of it ; " and that »he her-
self could cook, they would find, if they chose to
try her, " as well as the next one ; " and that, with
the help of the girls, each in charge of a depart-
ment, Betsey would be all the hired help they
would need. That made the plan as plain as day-

886

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

light ; they liad to eat, tliree times a day, now ;
and had to have a fire in the range all day, and go
through just ahout so much work ; it was only
buying and cooking a littH more of everything,
and making a comfortable place for people to eat
in, in return for wliicli tley would pay enough to
support the table ; and there would be no more
house-rent, nor fuel, nor liired help than l)efore :
and when those three things were counted out,
every housekeeper knew that the three great leaks
in keeping boarders were stopped. Mary came to
the front as soon as her aunt stopped for breath,
and announced that she was entirely willing to try
the experiment, more than that, she was anxious :
they all were. Aunt Eun ce had suggested their
several lines of work, and they were things which
they could do.

"Yes," said Luoia, with energy, "and therein
lies a great advantage. I've been daubing at
pictures all my life; and one little scrap that
Dorothy Landis dashed off for me in a half-hour's
time showed me that I had been struggling at
something I couldn't do, and wasn't intended to
do probably. Now, I can sweep, and dust, and
arrange rooms, and keep things in order; and it
will be a real relief to know that it is my business
to do it."

Mi's. Cameron looked timidly toward Rachel,
this new comer of whom she was yet almost
afraid; she had lived a life of luxury with her
Aunt Katharine, what must she think of this de-

RECONSTUUCTION.

887

scent into the commonest of prose ? Aunt Eunice
saw the glance and understood its meaning.

"You needn't look at Rachel,*' she said briskly,
"she is at the bottom of the whole thing; planned
it out, and arranged wliat each one should do;
and she is tingling with energy to her fingers'
ends. She told me not to say anything about her,
but I didn't promise to mind. All I said to start
her was that 1 was sick and tired of sitting
around doing nothing; that I had been used to
working, all my life, and that if I had the means
to rent a house and get started, I'd go to keeping
boarders; that 1 had done it before, and could
again."

Theie was opposition, of couree; chiefly on the
part of Mr. Cameron and the boys. The father,
it is true, admitted that any scheme which would
give his wife a year of rest was worthy of consid-
eration. He had made a failure at supporting the
family himself, and perhaps — here he stopped,
unable to continue, and the boys took up the
word vigorously. They did not believe in setting
the girls at work to which they had never been ac-
customed. They had a different plan. Let them
both give up all idea of college, and get situations
at once, somewhere, and help take care of the
family, as they* had always meant to do, just as
soon as they could.

"And throw away three years of work! "said
Aunt Eunice, with a toss of her head; "that
would be economy with a vengeance! You don't

388

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

do it, if my advice has any weight. I've seen
one man upset all his life, because he couldn't
get the education he ought to have had, and hjid
to do things that he wasn't fitted for; and I don't
want to see any more. You go back for your last
year, and work hard at it, and then support as
many families afterwards as you please; that's
my notion."

She looked resolutely away from her brother as
she spoke, and not a child of the six who listened
knew it was their father who had been disap-
pointed in his education; but the wife of his
youth knew, and sighed. She could not have the
boys sacrificed; even a boarding-house would be
better than that. She could not help, however,
one faint protest in the form of a reminder. " I
don't know what our acquaintances will say."
This brought Mary to the front again. "I don't
think I care," she said, with cheeks aglow. "All
our lives we have been trying to do what we
couldn't; keep up appearances with acquaintances
and so-called friends who were much better off
than ourselves, and who thought by the way we
acted that we were their equals in wealth ; I am
tired of it. Anything honorable I am not only
willing, but shall be glad, to do to help father.
He has had too heavy a burden to carry ; and we
girls are largely to blame for it." *

This was generous; the boys said nothing, but
they knew they were the greater sinners. Such
resolves as they each made that hour are certainly

RECONSTRUCTION.

389

worthy of being carried out. As for the father,
every word of tenderness, and especially every
word about honor, were stabs. He could not get
away from the thought that he had dishonored the
Cameron name. What if his children knew all!
It may seem strange to have relief come to a
debt-burdened family through the medium of a
boarding-house, that weak resort of inefficient,
worn-out, and discouraged females the world over.
Let it be remembered that those adjectives explain
in great measure the reason for the failures ; but
none of them could be applied to Aunt Eunice.
Inefficient she had never been; and so far from
discouraged was she, that she sprang to the work
as a horse goes to battle. Before the summer was
over, it had become entirely certain that she knew
how to keep house. The heretofore much-blun-
dering Betsey, who had been frightened almost
to the extent of giving warning when she heard
of the new order of things, discovered that Aunt
Eunice could not only be alert and vigilant, but
she could be patient with honest effort, and she
knew how to teach the best and quickest ways of
doing things. In less than three weeks after the
ne# r^t/ime was inaugurated, Betsey's face was
wreathed in smiles over it. To Mrs. Cameron, as
soon as she was able to do it, was delegated the
duty of buying the supplies. "It will give her
the daily outing she needs," explained Aunt Eu-
nice ; " and she knows how to choose good things*
We want the best of what we do have, and plenl^

390

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

of it ; if there is one mean thing in this world that
is meaner than another, it is starving folks who
are paying a decent price for their hoard." So it
came to pass that Mrs. Cameron went every morn-
ing on a pilgrimage throngh the great down-town
market, stopping here and there to enjoy choico
blooms or rare disphiys, and selecting with care
and skill such articles as were on her prepared
list. Some lessons she also was learning. Aunt
Eunice had said that she was a good buyer; and
so she was, after being told what to buy. But she
had never been trained in certain lines of econ-
omy ; and in the old days had been in the liabit of
buying spring chickens, for instance, when she saw
some that she wanted, without giving so much as
a tliought to the fact that spring chickens were as
yet fabulous in price ; and the illustration will
apply to many other eatables, and to all seasons.
Aunt EUiiice carefully guarded against such mis-
takes. " Not yet a while," she would say grimly,
in response to some delicate suggestion. " We'll
give them good, honest food, and plenty of it ; but
we can't afford to feed 'em on gold-dust." Mrs.
Cameron took the hint; she had sometimes fed
her family on gold-dust unawares. But the board-
ers in this reconstructed house thought that they
were being fed, if not on gold-dust, certainly on
something far better; such a change was it from
the boarding-house around the corner, which had
closed its doors because it could not make a living.
They were for the most part quiet, busy young

RErONSTRrCTION.

301

men, — students, teachers, lawyers, just beginning
life, and obliged to seek e(M)nomical quarters; it is
safe to say that never had they been so carefully,
even daintily served. Rachel had charge of the
dininjj-room, and saw no reason whv evervthincr
ahouUl not be as carefully arranged a« though
they were expecting guests ; even the flowei*s
were not forgfotten, but dailv adorned the tables.
*'They like them, too," Emilie announced. "That
shy little cleik from the drug-store fairly devoum
them with his eyes, and I caught him in the act of
slipping a sweet-pea into his buttonhole tli« other
day ; he said his mother was foiMl of them. I
think we keep a very le.sthetic boarding-house,
anyway."

Meantime, some other things were very quietly
happening, — so quietly that only those immedi-
ately concerned, knew about them; yet the}"^ had
to do w'th interests that reached into eternity.

The diory of some of tliem the Cameron boj's
could have told. With them it began through
Dorothy Landis, before she went home for the
summer vacation. Both Rod and Mac admired
her exceedingly, and during their mother's illness
wjere so constantly coming in contact with her
that they felt after a little like old friends. As
soon as anxiety with regard to their mother was
relieved, they began to contrive ways and means
for seeing more of their next neighbor; they
planned gay little trips which she and Emilie
were to enjoy together under their escort, which

392

\VH\T THEY COULDNT.

trips she always spoiled by deoitledly, though
most courteously, declining tl>e invitations. When
this had occurred several times, an<l under suih
circumstances that it hinted at design, McLoyd,
who was by nature outspoken, boldly accused
Dorothy of not intending to accept tjjeir courte-
sies, and demanded the reason. Was he sure he
wanted to know? she asked, witli some hesitanev:
but when he said, "Why, of coui-se!" she pro-
ceeded, without further urging, to amaze him. It
was true that she had declined his* and his bro-
ther's invitations from design. She was sorry to
appear rude; but she had resolved long ago —
taken a mental pledge to that effect, indeed —
that she would not ride, or walk, or visit more
than was necessary, with young men who used
liquor ever so mildly, as a beverage, or tobacco in
any form. What the world needed to-day, she
believed, more than any other thing, wjis young
people of principle and moral force enough to
stand up squarely, even fanatically, — if he chose
to put it so, — for the unpopular side of these great
evils; and so far as she Avas concerned, she would
throw every shred of influence which she might
possess, on that side. She did not care to argue
the question, — not now at least, — when he tried
somewhat excitedly to draw her into argument;
she was very far from desiring to force others to
adopt her views, — when he hinted that such was
the case, — she only reserved the right to choose
her friends among those who stood for the princi-

RECONSTRUCTION.

393

plea which she believed were vital. Something of
this sort, McLoyd surmised had l)een said also to
his brother. Tiiey were both angry, very angry,
and from tliat time until Miss Dorotliy went home,
wore seveiely polite to her from a haughty dis-
tance. Nevertlieless, the thoughts she had aroused
rankled. Slu v^as the most cultured and graceful
and charming young lady that they had ever met.
Was it possible that she represented others of her
grade in society? People who were less outspoken,
but who nevertheless were half ashamed of the
young men of their time? They wanted nobody
to be ashamed of them. They both intended to be
leaders; and they began to consider more care-
fully than ever before, in what lines they intended
to lead, and what people it would be safe to have
follow them. About this time, too, came up
another interest which had much to do toward
shaping their awakened thought.

The Smith-street Church wiis having an un-
usual experience. People, talking about it, said
they did not know as they had ever before heard
of a revival in mid-summer, especially in a city;
but they certainly were having wonderful meet-
ings at that church ; and " dear Mr. Edson " was
working himself to a shadow. How could he ex-
pect to endure it? poor man! meetings every
evening, — and he was here, and there, and every-
where, all day. What a remarkable young man
he was ! Had thej'^ heard how the interest began ?
The speaker said it was told to her in strict coufi-

304

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

dence by one wlio knew; that "one evening, away
ba(^k in July, Mr. Ecl.son had called tlie officers of
his church tc>gethor in liis study, and told them
tliat he felt himself to be such a sinnei', he wanted
tliem to pray for liim. He liadn't done his dutj''
in the cluncli, or out of it; lie liad been ambi-
tious and cold, and oli, slie didn't know what ail.
Just think! the dear man! when he had been
almost a saint, always, she had lieard. The
church people were amazed, and distressed, and
didn't know wliat to say or do; but they had met
■\v5th him in his study, niglit after night, and
prayed as he wanted them to, and, well — tliat
was the beginning of tiie meetings, and really
they were wonderful." Tlie Cameron family
would have agreed with this decision; they were
very regular in attendance even during some
sweltering August nights. Mi's. Cameron voiced
the feeling of all concerned when she said she did
not know as it was any warmer there than it was
at home. And when, on a breathless August
night, she had actually heard the voice of her boy,
Mac, praying., then indeed she would have gone,
if the thermometer had been among the hun-
dreds, instead of well up into the nineties! Yes,
McLoyd Cameron had done that thing which he
had never supposed he would do, risen for prayer
in a crowded down-town church, surrounded by a
great many "common people;" and afterwards
prayed for himself with audible voice, pledging
himself from that time forth to take the Lord

RECONSTIIUCTION.

395

Jesus Christ as his guide. Ben Reeder's face was
scarcely less radiant than was Mary Cameron's,
that night. It ought to be said in passing, that
she had, some weeks before, settled the question
which had been pressing its claims upon her for
80 long. Before the revival commenced, as soon
indeed as her mother's health v»ould permit her
attendance .at church, Mary had explained to father
and mother that she was going to unite with
Mr. Edson's church on the following Sabbath, if
they had no objection. She preferred that to the
up-town church ; it was much nearer home, and
she wanted to work in the Sunday-school. Be-
sides, some of the boarders whom she would like
to influence were more inclined to go there than
elsewhere. Father and mother had no objections
to offer. The father said he was glad ; it was what
he used to hope for. And the mother kissed her,
and wondered if Mr. Kennedy's desertion had any-
thing to do with the strange sweet change in
Mary, and whether Professor Landis, before he
went away, had urged her to take this step. None
of them knew how Ben Reeder fell on his knees
that Sabbath day, and actually cried for joy, be-
cause his prayer was answered; and then chose
McLoyd Cameron as the next one for whom he
would "never leave otf praying until he belonged.^''

Oh, there were wonderful things taking place
in the Smith-street Church!

That young man, Ben Reeder, is worthy of a
chapter by himself, if there were but room for it.

396

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

There are so many young men who might be like
him, and are not. Having only a very ordinary
education, almost without that mysterious force
which we call culture, he was yet learning to
have such an influence over certain whom he
called "the boys," that there were mothers and
sisters and Sunday-school teachers who were be-
ginning to plan ways and means of bringing
Wir and Charlie and Fred into frequent contact
with Ben Reeder, and not for Ben's sake. It
was being discovered that the boys who associated
much with him, came home with new ideas about
certain matters, with new subjects for thought,
occasionally, even, with new plans and inten-
tions. Nor does that sentence about culture do
him justice. It would not have been named
that, just yet; but it was a fact that Ben was
growing cultured. He was associating much with
an absolutely perfect gentleman, even one, Jesus
Christ. He was trying dail}' to shape his actions,
his words, even his t^ioughts, in line with that
One whom he so admired; and the law of our
being held good here, as elsewhere, — he began
to grow, slowly, indeed, yet steadily, like the
Object on which his thoughts and hopes were
centred ; and people Ixjgan to feel the charm, as
they always do, even though they may not always
be well enough acquainted with the Original to
recognize the likeness.

..■ .-. . ..i

THE ''NEXT SCENE.

897

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE "NEXT SCENE."

^TOT Aunt Eunice herself was more constant
\ in attendance at the meetings than was
Rachel Cameron; and her influence, especially
among the young girls, was kindred to Ben
Reeder's over the boys. Much that she did was
recognized and felt; and there may have been
much accomplished through her influence which
received no human recognition. During those
days only her Father in heaven knew of the time
which she spent on her knees, praying for the
pastor of the Smith-street Church.

It was one evening early in September that
Mr. Cameron walked away from the church ser-
vice in company with the pastor, to whom he was
talking earnestly. When they reached his study,
Mr. Cameron followed him in, leaving his wife
to go on with the othei*s.

The moment the dl)or was closed, the gray-
haired man began telling to the young minister
the terrible and pitiful story of his moral down-
fall. He told it fully, with almost painful exact'
ness and detail.

It is true, everything had now been righted so

398

WHAT THKV COULDN'T.

far as was in his power; he exphiined that the
only persons he owed were Professor Landis, who
had insisted on lending his hard-earned savings,
,nd taking Mr. Cameron's unindorsed note for
he same, and his sister Eunice, who had lent the
)nly fifty dollars she had in tlie world to help the
hoys in some college expense. He was careful to
add that the boys did not know anything of this;
it happened last winter, soon alter she came to
live with them, and he had never been able to
pay her. He had much also to say about the
unparalleled kindness of Mr. Landis, who had
fairly forced upon him a loan sufficient to meet
all his debts, and had probably trammelled him-
self in so doing.

"He shall be paid," sai<l the poor man huskily;
"I feel that every farthing of it will l)e paid.
We have fallen upon better days lately, thanks
to the sacrifices and the wisdom of my family,
and I am sure we can do it. But the question
which haunts me is, have I any right to go on in
this way, posing as an honorable man, when I have
so terribly fallen ? You urge me to take my place
in the church as I used to be, and take up again
my outward duties; but ought I not fii-st to make
a full confession of just what I have done? There
was a time when I felt that I could not do this
and live. I am a Cameron, son of an honored
father and grandfather; the name has always been
above reproach; and it seeme!<l iis if it would kill
me; but even if it should, 1 believe I am ready

THI-: " N'KXT SCENIC.

399

now to do it. If I know my own heart, I want
at last to do only what is right, without regard to
myself at all. Still, there are other people to he
considered. I have prayed over this thing a great
deal, but my brain is in such a whiil that I can-
not be sure for anv lenfjth of time wliat duty is;
and I determined to tell you the whole, and be
guided by your advice. You seem to me to live
very near to God; I think he will tell you what
to say."

Mr. Edson's young, handsome face was eloquent
in its sympathy. He spoki quickly and with as-
surance, grasping his caller's hand as he did so.
"God bless you, brother; I liave \jeen praying
all the while you were talking. I am sure his
word to you is, keep silence. You will wrong
no man or woman by doing so; and by speak-
ing, you will bring needless pain to many. It
is a matter which you have a right to settle
with the one who knows the secrets of all hearts.
I am sure brother Landis would agree with me
if he were here to counsel with us. Come into
the work, brother, with all your soul; and leave
the foigiven past with God. We all make mis-
takes; some of us graver ones than you have."

All things considered, before tlie winter fairly
set in, perhaps the Camerons migiit Ihj looked
upon as a reconstiucted family. To outsiders,
indeed, the only marked change was the presence
of boarders. Of course there were comments con-
cerning these: "The Camerons have gone down in

400

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

the world since they lived at Clark Place, haven't
they? I hear they are keeping boarders! And
the oldest daughter has been deserted, it is said.
You knew about that affair last spring, didn't
you? For a time they gave out that an accident
or something of the sort had disablea the man,
and that the marriage would be postponed until
fall, but there really wasn't any truth in it.
Nellie Anderson knows him; and she says he
is flourishing around New York as usual, going
with all the stylis'ii ladies who will allow it; he
is getting rather fast for some of them. It is
very sad, isn't it?"

The sentence is mixed, but the ladies seemed
to understand themselves. Certainly they under-
stood little about the matters of which they were
talking. In point of fact, despite the boarders,
every Cameron in the list believed that they had
" come up " in the world. As for the statement
about the "accident" and postponement of mar-
riage, of course this was made out of the surmises
of those who did not knov/ the facts, and had
nothing to do with the family. Those who were
intimate saw other changes ; for instance, the old-
time family worship had been resumed, and re-
markable indeed must be the circumstances which
would cause them to omit it for a single morn-
ing. Sunday, too, had become a different day.
There was no late sleeping any more; for both
Mary and Rachel were teachers in the nine
o'clock Sunday-school, and the oth^r members of

THE *'NEXT SCENE.

>»

401

the household went to church as reguhirly as the
bell rang. Even the boarders, several of them at
least, dropped into the habit of lingering after
supper, and walking to church with the family.
To some it seemed homelike to do so; and othei-s
thought that the Camerons were such church-
going people it was only respectable to fall in
with their ways occasionally. These belonged to
the class who had known them only since they
became their boarders.

When the Univei-sity opened, in October, and
Professor Land is returned, he astonished the
family by applying for board. His sister Dor-
othy had decided to remain at home during the
winter; and he meant to sub-let his house, if
his next-door neighbors would receive him as a
boarder. Every member of the household was
glad; no one more so, perhaps, than the mother.
This man's unobtrusive yet persistent thought-
fulness of her during the long period of her con-
valescence had made a place for him in her heart.
"He seems almost like a son," she told herself
half mournfully. "Mac and Rod could not be
more thoughtful of my comfort." In point of
fact, he thought of a hundred little things that
Mac and Rod had never trained themselves to
notice. Sometimes Mrs. Cameron found hei*self
looking regretfully at Mary, when her thoughts
were on this man who was like a son. If only
Mary had been interested in him, instead of in
that man who had wriecked her life I But it was

402

WHAT THKV mi'LUN T.

too late now. Nothing was iiioiv evident than
that they had no such idea. They were like
brother and sister together.

The boys had gone haek to college ; and as the
year waned, there came only good reports of them.
They stood higher than ever in tlieir classes,
were almost sure of takiMO" at least one of the
choice prizes at the close, and had kept their
expenditures well inside the limit which their
father had mentioned.

And keeping boardei-s paid ! Mrs. Cameron
was meekly astonished over this, but it was un-
deniable.

" It is a great mystery," she said one day, look-
ing upon Aunt Eunice with respect and admira-
tion, as she turned from the account book kept by
Rachel's careful hand, and announced that they
were " thirty-nine dollars ahead tliis month ; it
is a great mystery — I don't know how you do
it. I have known so many who attempted to get
out of straits in that way, or to support them-
selves, and made only disastrous failures. I al-
ways sliuddered over the thought of attempting
such a thing."

"There is no mystery about it,'* said Aunt
Eunice in grim satisfaction; "we don't have to
count out house-rent, nor coal, nor gas, nor help.
And we have four young women who know how
to handle their end of the ropes, and do it with
a will ; to say nothing of a first-class buyer al-
wa3'8 watching the market."

THE "NEXT SCENE.'

403

"Let us say everything we can about a faith-
ful, efficient, responsible head wlio knows how to
manage us all," returned Mrs. Cameron, half
laughing, but wholly in earnest. She hsid come
to look upon Aunt Eunice as the wizard who had
helped in no small degree to give her bach the
husband of their early years, with his firm step
and quiet face, and his days commenced and
closed with prayer. " That is the secret, after
all; as for the buying, I thoroughly enjoy it,
now that I have a well-filled pocket-book, and am
sure that no horrid bill which I cannot pay will
be thrust in my face. The fact is, Eunice, you
know how to do it, tand I never did."

" Well," said Aunt Eunice, " I won't deny but
that I think there is a knack in keeping house,
and I believe I do know how. And you've got
more than one daughter, let me tell you, who will
know how too. I must say I never saw Lucia's
equal in the way of puddings and cakes and
things. She fairly seems to bewitch them."

" You see, I've discovered something that I can
do," said Lucia, looking up with a laugh from
the dish of white foam which she was at that
moment skilfully manipulating. " I wonder if
everybody has something, little or big, in which
they couid excel? I wish mine had been painting
— perhaps it might have been if I had had the
opportunity ; but since I hadn't, I'm glad I can
make cake. Do you remember when you criticised
my cows, Aunt Eunice? '*.

404

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

Your time may come for daubing yet," said
Aunt Eunice composedly; "you are not so very
old."

The busy, quiet winter hasted away. The boys
came home for Christmas, and pointed the con-
trast between that and the last year's holidays.
Mr. Cameron, at the close of the first quarter's
truat^ put a sum of money into Mr. Landis's hands,
larger than he had even hoped might be possible,
and seemed to take on fresh strength and courage
from that hour. At this rate he would soon be
out of debt ; and once out, it should go hard with
him, if he ever got in again.

"If ever I should get behind," he said to his
wife, speaking with what seemed unnecessary en-
ergy, " I'll sell my watch and books and pictures,
even my very clothes; I wovi't get into debt."

"It seems almost strange to me," said his wife
serenely, "that you have such a horror of debt.
You have never had any very disagieeable experi-
ences of that kind. To borrow of Mr. Landis
seems almost like borrowing of our own boys. But
I suppose it is in the Cameron blood. Eunice feels
very much the same, and I am sure it is a good
trait to have. I don't think there is danger of our
running behind again."

Mr. Cameron drew his breath in hard, and
looked at his wife in a way that, if she had been
observing him, she would have thought peculiar.
He had had no very disagreeable experiences con-
nected with debt I then who had ? Sometimes he

THE "NEXT SCENE.

405

t," said
so very

he boys

:Vie con-

lolidays.

j^uaitei's

s hands,

possible,
courage
soon be

lard with

id to his
ssary en-
pictures,
bt."

his wife
of debt,
e experi-
, Landis
vs. But
nice feels
s a good
er of our

lard, and

Ihad been

peculiar.

Inces con-

itimes he

felt like a hypocrite — -felt as though he must
tell her the whole terrible story. But »lie had
never been quite well since that serious illness,
and the doctor hail assured him that lie must be
careful that siie iiad no anxieties and no shoclts.
There were no shocl<s of any kind in tliese diiys.
Einilie's one sharp lesson of a dangerous woild
seemed to have been suflicient; tliat, and the
Strang-^ experiences which followed, especially tlie
shadow of separation from her motlier. liad toned
her down. There were constant gleams of the
old Emilie ; but they were followed by such airs of
quiet digjiit}', that Mr. Cameron, looking wonder-
ingly at her one evening, said to his wife in a tone
of utmost surprise, "Tliat child is giowing upl"

The unusual calm which had come to them as
a family was occasionally the subject of conversa-
tion among the girls.

" I positively dread what is to come after this
lull," said Lucia one morning when she and Mary
were in the dining-room, putting finishing touches
to the dainty breakfast-table. " This springlike
morninsr makes one think of it. What a whirl we
were in last spring at this time ! and what a whirl
we had been in all winter for that matter ! What
change do you suppose will come? We don't
seem to be made for long stretches of quiet.
Don't you rather dread the next scene? We
haven't moved in a long time — for us. I hope
it won't be that, though I did hear that this house
was to be sold. If there was ever any safety in

406

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

predicting anything, I should say that Rachel
would make the first breiih. She and Mr. Edson
seem exactly suited to each other, I think; but
nothing that any member of this family plans ever
comes to pass. *• It is the unexpected that hap'
pens .' Mary, don't you wish we had some spring
violets for this table ? Peihaps we might venture
to get some, now tliat Aunt Eunice is resolved
upon dividing the surplus of each month between
us girls. Dear old soul I Doesn't it seem strange
that she should have been such a trial to us at
first?"

'*Aunt Eunice is very much changed/* said
Mary gravely.

'* Dear me I " said Lucia, " that, of course. So
are we all. I don't think, next to Aunt Eunice
herself, that I ever saw a greater change in any-
body than there has been in you. But I wish we
had some violets. Horrid little things I I wonder
I care for them. They were the very last flowere
I tried to ppnit, and they stood up, every one of
them, cus though they were wired. I mean to ask
Mr. Landis to bring some up to-night from that
florist's on Park Avenue ; they always have the
nicest ones there, and he j)asses tlie door."

She ran after him from the break fast- table, to
give him this commission. Mary had already
asked him to return a book for her at the li-
brary, and to bring that one of which he was
speaking the other day. She came with the book,
while Lucia was explaining about the violets.

THK *^NKXT SCENE.

»»

407

** We trouble you with our errnn<ls, little and
big, exactly as thougli you were our brother," said
Lucia; "half the time we forget, I believe, that
you are not."

He suiiled gravely on her. ** Forget it alto-
gether," he sail. *' I miss Dorothy very much,
and would like to Ihj adopted."

It was in the afternoon of that same day, as he
was going for hi» violets, that he saw Mary Came-
ron in the near distance. He quickened hU steps
and joined her, very near the Park entmnce.

" I have been thinking all day of what LuciiL
said this morning," he began quietly, — "I find
that while I am verv anxious to be her brother, I
have no such feeling in my heart for you — and
cannot have ; and yet, without your help, I cannot
have Lucia for a sistex. Is there any hope for
me ? "

The carnations he held in his hand were rivalled
by the glow in Mary's cheeks. He looked at her
carefully, and waited for his answer, which did not
come.

"Am I not to have even a word?" he asked at
last.

" I do not understand — " she stammered —
** you cannot think — I mean — you cannot mean
— " but the sentence would not finish.

" I have meant it, I think, ever since I first knew
you," he said simply. "Let us go through the
Park, while you let me tell you about it."

So the first break in the lull which had come lx>

408

WHAT THEY COULDN'T.

them was on its way Avliile Lucia was dreading it.
" So strange," she said when she heard what the
"next scene" was to be, "that I never thought
of it. But he and Mary seemed so very friendly ;
so — just as they were wliile Mary was engaged t6
that wretch, that it never so mucli as entered my
mind."

Actually they planned again for the sixth of
June I That queer couple would have it so, Lucia
said — they were unlike any other people who
ever lived, she fully believed. One would think
they would be almost superstitious about that date.

" No," Mr. Landis said, when she ventured some-
thing of the sort to him, — " Mary and I feel alike
about it, I find. There will always be some unpleas-
ant memories connected with tlie date, unless we
banish them forever by giving it a new setting."

"Oh, of course you think alike," said Lucia
coolly — " You did as far back {is before that date.
I might have known."

It was very different planning from the last. No
" Alburgh " was required this time. In fact, they
would have no guests at all. Of Mr. Landis's
fiiends, only Dorothy and a younger brother and
sister could be present ; as his mother had been ill
and was unable to travel, and his father would not
leave her. So it had been planned that the newly
manied couple should go at once to the old Landis
lioniestead, where Mary would meet her new father
and mother for the first time. There were many
points requiring discussion, but it was finally agreed

THE "NEXT SCENE.

»»

409

that a quiet home breakfast togetlier would be a
unique and pleasant proceeding.

''The fact is," said Emilie, 'Mve are evidently
resolved upon doing everything just as different
from the way other people do it, as we possibly
can. Ihat is Mary's disease now; slie .osed to
want to do just as ' they ' did."

410

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

CHAPTER XXX.

"spring VIOLETS, AFTER ALL.

»»

HOWEVER, It came to pass that some of
tlieir arrangements had to be changed. It
was Mr. Edson who proposed amendnr. ats. He
called one evening on Professor Landis, to inquire
whether he and Mary had serious objections to
church weddings, and explained that there were
so many young people in his church who would
like to be present at their marriage, that he and
Rachel had determined to gratify them by having
the ceremony there. Moreover, although Rachel
had insisted on talking a good deal about Sep-
tember, he had finally convinced her that June
was the only reasonable month in which to be
married. And didn't tlie professor thiiik ifc
would be pleasant for the sisters to choose sh ^
same morning, and stand side by side in the
church? And such was the final arrangement.

"Two poor brothers, after all!" was Emilie's
comment as she one morning gravely reviewed
the situation. In view of my manoeuvring to
secure a rich one, it is rather humiliating. A
minister and a professor! Eminently respectable,
both of them. The very names give entrance to

"SPRING VIOLETS, AFTER ALL.

411

the best society; but think of the struggle for
bread and butter and clothes which will have
to continue in three families instead of one! And
they can't keep boarders. Rachel will be too busy
running the parish, and Mary never would be
able to do it without Aunt Eunice, unless Doro-
thy will come and live with them; she could run
a house, I believe."

"Dorothy is going to be an artist," said Lucia,
to whom these half-serious, half-comic sentences
were addressed. "Her people will manage after
a while to send her abroad; I know, from some
things she has said to me, that that is her hope,
and she will become famous."

"Well," said Emilie with a pretended sigh,
"there is some relief in that thought. Pamou«
artists get rich, generally, don't they? We shall
at least have a little reflected glory.

" The trouble with me is, I planned to be taken
journeys, and be given fine presents, by my
brother-in-law. I had no hope of Rachel, but
I really thought Mary would secure him for
me ; and so it is quite a disappointment, though
Mary seems to be entirely satisfied. Isn't it
queer, when one stops to think of it, that she
should marry Mr. Landis after all? Here he
was all the time, during the going on of that
other farce. Why couldn't she have known her
own mind in the first place, and saved oceans
of trouble? I knew his mind ages ago. Why
do you suppose she ever thought she cared for

412

WHAT THEY COULnK T.

that Mr. Kennedy? He is bo utterly different
from the one she has finally chosen. Do you
know, it used to worry Rachel. She felt all
the time that Mary didn't think enough of him
to marry him. I used to laugh at her„ and lell
her she wanted people to worship each other,
instead of showing they had connnou-sense, ai*
Mary did. Hut I suppose she Avas right all the
time. Certainly Mary cannot by complimented
on having much common-sense now I"

"The trouble with Mary wai, that she a\ anted
to help father," said Lucia gravely. **bhe
thought Mr. Kennedy wa'4 rich, and that hy
marrying him she ccMild <!'> a greit many tilings
for the family, and so relieve father's anxieties.
Of course she did not delilxrrately plan to marry
him because he wa:* rich, and I don't suppose
she knew at the time that such an idea )iad
weight with her; but she has realized it since.
She told me only the other day that it frightened
her to think how nearly she had made a wreck
of her life, through a false idea of helpfulness.
And here we had the means for helping in our
own hands all the while! We have all been
idiots."

*' And behold that creature wasn't rich after all,
— the wretch ! What a trying disappointment /
should have had, as well as Mary, wouldn't I?
ril tell you what it is, T^ucia, my hopes centre
in you now. Keeping boiinlers is all very well ;
but it won't pay for journeys, and things, will it?

"SPRING VIOLETS, AFTER ALL

'»

413

all,
Int /
It I?

In tie

Ml ;
it?

And I am dying to go somewhere. Don't you
dare to choose a professor or a minister. And the
average artist is worse. I don't know what I
shall do with you ! " She sighed heavily, as one
weighed down by responsibility ; yet before Lucia
was done laughing at her folly, had turned to an-
other subject.

'* I'll tell you something that I worried over
really and truly. You don't think I am serious
enough to ever worry about anything, do you ? I
am sometimes. Do you remember that Mr. Den-
ham who used to pay so much attention to Mary?
Well, he worried me. I used to think she cared
a great deal for him; and I didn't know but —
never mind — yesterday I heard that he was mar-
ried. Since he gave up that post-graduate plan,
we have lost sight of him, you know ; but it seems
he married a cousin of one of the girls, and she
told me about it only yesterday, and I was afraid
to tell Mary. But I thought she ought to know,
because she might hear it some day when it would
take her by surprise. Don't you know that sort of
thing often happens in books ? I spent hours
planning how to tell her carelessly, as if it was
of no consequence, and yet do it when we were
alone. At last I arranged it beautifully, while
we were out on the back porch fussing over those
flowers. What do j^ou think she said ? "

" I haven't an idea,' said Lucia, much amused
by this bit of confidence.

Why, she said ' O Emilie ! don't put any pe-

414

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

tunias among them ; Cleveland doesn't like petu-
nias. A queer fancy, isn't it? But he told me
once they were the only flowers he did not ad-
mire, and they were really almost disagreeable
to him. I don't want one of them. Excuse me,
dear, you were speaking about some one being
married. Who was it, did you say ? '

" I meekly repeated the name, and she said, ' Is
he? Did. he marry any one we know? O Emilie
dear! I hear Cleveland in the hall talking with
father, and I want to see him a minute ; could you
run and ask him to come out here ? '

"So I carried all the petunias up to my room,
wher© his lordship could not be disturbed by
them, and I felt wiser than I had. People who
are going to be married are past finding out !
Mary wasn't silly the other time, but she is now."

'^hey laughed gleefully over her evidence of
"silliness," these two sisters, and privately re-
joiced in it ; surely this was as it should be. " If
I were going to live in the same house with a
mu^IX all my days, and meet him three times a day
the year around, and be at his call at any time,
and make use of his name, and all that, I'm sure
I should want to think more of him than of all of
the rest of the world put togetlier," was Emilie's
way of closing the convei-sation.

Moreover, one of the " lost " journeys over which
she pretended to sigh in her whimsical fashion
was being plunne^ for her, and presently burst
upon her, a delicious secret.

** SPUING VIOLKTS. AFTKli ALL.*

415

[•oom,
d by
I wlio

out!

ow.
ce of

y I'e-
-I£

ith a

a day

time,

sure

all of

ilie's

kvliich

ishion

burst

Rod and Mac were to be graduated two weeks
after the marriage, and it liad been joyously
planned by the young people that father and
mother should witness their triumph in person.
It was a genuine triumph; not only jnizes, but
places of honor on the Commencement programme,
liad been awarded them. Aunt Eunice, with
Lucia and Emilie, were to "}u>ld the fort" at
home, while Mr. and Mrs. (\ameron went on this
rare pleasure-trip, to be joined on Commencement
Day by their married children. This was Emilie's
understanding of the matter ; and it was not until
the day before the wedding that the full progranmie
was explained to her. Behold, she was actually
to be of the bridal party I At least, she and
Dorothy and the younger brother and sister were
to journey together to the Landis homestead,
starting three days later than the bride and groom,
but reaching there by the same train which they
were planning for, and afterwards she was to
be taken to see her brothers graduate.

The new brother had planned it all, and insisted
on paying the expenses of her trip. He had also
invited Lucia, who had promptly declined for her-
self, urging that Aunt Eunice could not possibly
do without ner ; but she had been eagrer for Emi-
lie's outing, declaring that "the child," as they
still called her, was longing to take a journey, and
had never been a hundred miles on the cars in her
life. It was all arranged at last ; and Emilie, on
the day before the marriage, found herself in a

416

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

greater tremor of delight and expectation, out-
wardly at least, than were eitlier of the prospec-
tive brides.

Albeit the child had her little anxious thoughts
about it all, which she co-ifided to Lucia, after this
fashion.

" lie ought not to afford it. T don't see why he
does; wasting the money he has saved; but he
really insists, so that mother says it would be rude
to refuse ; for which I am thankful. You ought
to be the one to go, you ble ssed unselfish girl ! I
don*t believe I ever could be unselfish ; but I'll
stay at home in a minute and help Aunt Eunice
all I can, if you'll only go in my place.'*

This magnanimous offer being declined, Emilie
continued: "One thing worries me. I'm afraid I
shall not know how to be real nice to them all.
You see, I don't know anything about farmers,
only what I have read in books. I suppose they
are just plain country people, and work in the
fields, and have dinners together ; the haymakers,
3'ou know, and all ; that is the way it is in stories.
And I shall want to do just the nice, kind thing,
and act as if I were used to all tlieir ways; and
perhaps I shall make some miserable blunder that
will hurt somebody's feelings."

Lucia laughed. "I wouldn't borrow trouble,"
she said. "Decide to be your own merry little
self, and have a good time on your first outing.
The people with whom Dorothy and Professor
Landis have spent their lives cannot be very pe-

"SPRING VIOLETS, AFTER ALL."

417

out-
spec-

ights
r this

iiy he
at he
I rude
ought
il! I
Lit I'll
iiunice

Emilie
fiaid I
m all.
rmers,
they
in the
lakers,
toiies.
thing,
and
that

mble,"

little

)uting.

){essor

jry pe-

culiar. Besides, these young people, Cora and
Earle, are perfectly well bred in every way."

" Oh, yes ; but they have been away at school ;
it is the father and mother, and the house, and all
that sort of thing, of which I am thinking. Still,
I shall do my best. . I've read a great many books
about the country, that is one comfort."

And so the evening of the fifth of June came
to them once more, — an anniversary which to Mr.
Willis Kenrfedy had its horrors. He had lived
to realize the bitterness of some of his mistakes.
Too late the man had learned that what heart he
had possessed had actually been given to Mary
Cameron I If only his honor had gone with it,
all might have been different. In the Cameron
home there was little time for retrospect , they
gave a thought, indeed, to the past, but that was
all. Everything was so different. The boys were
at home ; but they had only come that afternoon,
and must rush back to-morrow. The responsibili-
ities and honoi-s of the coming Commencement
filled their thoughts. The break in the family
was coming ; but Mary, though married, would be
a very near neighbor, and Rachel would be the
mistress of the manse around the corner. And
father was well, and looked so rested, and at
peace ; and he and mother were going on a jour-
ney together. It was true that mother had to be
watched, lest she should overdo, and she would
never be very strong again ; but there was always
a smile on her face now-a-days. " I do not feel as

418

WHAT THKY COULDN T.

though I were losing two iIuiighttMs, but t,'-{iiiiiMg
two more sons/' slie liud siiid wlien u ciiller ti-ieil
to sympathize witli lier. She had liUed Mr. Ken-
nedy in the old days ; hut ("IcveUiiul I.;unli.s was a
son to love.

But, oh, tlie contrast tliat il was to Ahirv ! Slie
could not help reualling her i)ast as she stood at
her open trunk, laying in some liust tiling, and the
hall clock struck ten. The same room, tlie same
trunks, the same young wonuvn, wifh lier hridal
dress lying on the ))ed; hut tlie intinite difference!

"Going away with Willis Kennedy I" She re-
membered how she had said over tlie Avords, and
had not undei*stood the thrill of \ya'in which ran
through her at that thought; but had sui)posed
it to b« a girl's natural feeling on leaving her
childhood's home.

"Going away with Cleveland Landis?" ques-
tioned her heart to-night, and received instant
response. " Yes, anywhere ! to the ends of the
earth if he will, and forever! Oh, thank God!
thank God ! " At the eleventh hour he had inter-
posed and saved her from heiself.

At twelve o'clock next dav tlie Smith-street
Church was packed to the very dooi ways, while
before the altar gathere<i the bri<lal group. A
ministerial friend and classmate of Mr. Edson
stood beside Rachel, Avhile the j)astor pronounced
Cleveland Landis and Mary Cameron husband and
wife. Then there was a quick and quiet change
of places, the attendant becoming the officiating

** SPRING VIOLKT8, AFTER ALL.'

419

tiietl
Kt'U-

NVUS Si

She

>otl s»t

i\i\ the

tj same

bridal

iM'eiiiic !
She re-
ds, Jind
lich ran
iipposed
iug l»er

ques-

instant

()£ the

i God!

u\ intev-

tli-street
•s, while
>up. A
. Edson
noUHced
Diind aud
change
ticiating

clergyman; and Rachel Cameron and Robert Ed-
son became one.

Will Emilie Cameron ever forget that perfect
afternoon in June wlien the carriage w}»ich had
met them at the station, wound aronnd a broad
avenue lined on eitlier side with gmnd old trees,
and drew up at last before an old stone mansion,
whose wide piazzas luxuriated in easy-chairs and
hammocks and genuine Persian rugs? Standing
amid the luxuries, as one with them, was a beauti-
ful woman who, but for the threads of gray in
her abundant hair, and tlie matronly dress she
wore, might still have been called young. But
she held her arms close about the tall and dig-
nified "professor," and called him "My dear
bov!"

A " common farm-house ! " Emilie thought of
the forebodings which she had confessed to Lucia,
and laughed. Her ideas of farm-houses, gathered
onlv from books, had been very crude ; but she
had also ideas concerning palaces, and this great
stone mansion, vvilh its wide halls and long, wide,
old-fashioned staircjvses, and its lavish display of
beauty everywhere, might have passed with her
for a palace.

The room into which she was presently shown
as hers was more luxurious by far than any she
had ever occupied ; and a glimpse of Mary's bridal
surroundings just across the hall almost took the
young enthusiast's breath away.

Nor did the wonderment lessen when she went

420

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

down a little later to the dining-room for the
festive dinner.

Such splendid old heirlooms in silver as greeted
her I And how the china, yes, and the napery,
must delight Mary's heauty-loving eyes I And Iier
husband accepted it all as a matter of course, only
saying as he seated his bride, and took his place
beside her, " Mother, can you think how good it is
to be at home ? "

Once Emilie thought of Ben Ileeder, and the
story she had heard of his bewildeiinent over forks
and sroons. What would poor Ben do with all
the appointments here? Yet he ^ d told her,
once, that he had " always felt at I , somehow,
with Professor Landis."

She was glad that she understood the mysteries
of forks and spoons, and all the belongings of cul-
tured life; and then she remembered that she had
wondered if they would use two-tined steel forks !
and had much ado to keep from laughing.

Truth to tell, Mary, as well as her bewildered
young sister, moved through the rooms like one in
a dream.

Turn whatever way they would, from the large
parlor and its companion, the sitting-room on the
other side of the hall, and the library just back of
it, which was lined from floor to ceiling with treas-
ures, to the conservatory, where the choicest flowers
vied with their humbler sisters in wealth of bloom,
or to the wide-spreading velvet lawns, with their
rustic seats and their fountains and their overflow-

"arniNo vroLETs, aptru all.

»»

421

the

sted
ery,

ber
only
)lace

itia

I the
forks
bh all
L her,
lehovv,

steries
){ cul-

e had

forks I

tldered
one in

|e large
Ion the
)ack of
treas-
I flowers
bloom,
th their
^erflow-

ing rose-bushes, — everywhere evidences of highly
cultured taste, not only, but abundant means to
gratify the same, met their eyes.

They stopped at last under one of the magnifi-
cent old trees near the fountain, — Mr. Landis and
his wife, and Dorothy with her arm about Emilie.
The father and mother, who had been showing
their new daughter througli her husband's old
home, had been summoned away to receive a call ;
80 for the moment they were alone.

" I am glad you like it," Mr. Landis was s.aying,
in response to a murmured word of his wife, just
as Emilie and Dorothy came up to them, " I have
alv ays loved every tree and flower about the old
place. I was born here, you know. I have been
away from it for nmny winters, but no summer
hjis passed as yet that I have not been able to give
a good deal of time to the dear old home. It has
been one of my dreams that we might spend our
summers here together. By the way, what is the
look, larger than admiration, which I see especi-
ally in Einilie's eyes?" His own twinkled with
amusement as he asked the question.

" Speechless amazement," said Emilie promptly.
" Why have you always palmed yourself off as
a poor man ? "

" My youngest sister, is that a fair statement of
the case ? Did you not rather, very early in our
intimate acquaintance, decide all these matters for
yourself? Because I was a teacher, did you not
infer that only for the sake of earning a living

422

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

could one possibly indulge in such work ? I dis-
covered some time ago that not only you but your
sister had the impression that I lived up to the
limit of my means. I did not mean to convey
tliat impression, in fact, I thought nothing about
it until some woi-ds of yours, Emille, enlightened
me ; it did not seem at the time an important
enough matter to discuss. Later, I will confess,
that I was afraid to state the truth, lest I should
lose ground entirely with this lady.'* He looked
at his wife as he spoke, with eyes that though
brimming Avith amusement, had nevertheless a
world of tenderness in them. She understood his
meaning.

"I am glad you are poor," she had said to
him one day, speaking almost passionately ; " if
you were not, I should distrust and hate myself.
Poverty has been such a trial, such a snare to
me ; and now I want to conquer and enjoy it."

She remembered the words, and her face was
aflame as he added, —

"I meant to confess sometime, perhaps this is
as good an opportunity as any. And do you
know I cannot be sorry that the Lord has made
me steward over a large portion of his money?
I look to you to plan with me as to how he would
have us use it."

The sentence commenced half in sport was
ended so seriously, and with such inflection of
voice, that the two girls moved away, instinctivelj'
feeling that here was a spot where they were not
needed.

"SPRING ViOlPTe *,,

viUl.tTS, AFTER ALL "

423

confidences. ' ^ ^"'""'^ pou.ed out her

>vay, and young men- a„,i t J "'*''' *^y^'>' that

-eh loveiystoi atUwhH:i,;r' ' """ *^" ^•-

He ,s good." She «nok»7>. *' ""complfahed.

-vered all g-^.d "^ T en f ""'"^ ^ '^ ^^^
«-e«d the other queS' .T/ """"«"'• ■■"'-
"ever taught anyth.W ' ''''■^•' "hild, I

The onlylood th " f^ ,? "'" .'"^ '">■ ■"""'-••
I'ke father, a„d n.ott.er ,, T. '" "'''/ """' ^ ">«
Emilie's o.,.„»f I Cleveland.-

times when you ZZ ^1.^/7 <^'' ■^" «'- «
Wer? We thought you tt T' '"'' '""^ "^

««e; being 'tau^hrTlff V''''"""»"' "" t^e
pass my lessons "on' to T^ '" '"""etime, to
'''"•ed. O Emilie 7 hlv^ '"'"'■' ''"t I never

^o"^ ^-'evelantli'Cir^f '^ '"^-^'^ ^ '«"
to study _ this very ,^r ' ^ T ?"'"& "b-oad

going to send you^Lr,""' ^'^^«'«nd «

424

WHAT THEY COULDN T.

my brother made him promise that he would not
tell even your mother until after the ceremony.
He said your sister — our sister Mary — was almost
morbid about marrying wealth. Won't it be lovely
for Lucia? I know she will succeed. She has
done wondei-s, all alone ; and she doesn't know
that she has talent. She gave it all up so bravely.
You can't think how we honored her for it."

Said Lucia, when, weeks afterwards, it was all
explained to her, and slie liad had time to take in
its greatness, —

" Perhaps, oh perhaps^ I shall learn how to paint
spring violets, after all ! And cows ! " she added
after a moment's silence.

Then she cried.

THE END.

ould not
eremony.
as almost
be lovely

She has
I't know

bravely,
t."

was all
) take in

to paint
le added

■■H