/
 
 CHILDREN OF TO-MORROW
 
 1 Is that true, Rose ? Do you wish me to keep out ? '
 
 CHILDREN OF 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARA E. LAUGHLIN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " FELICITY'" 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 LUCIUS W. HITCHCOCK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK::::::::::::::::::::: 191 1
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY 
 CLARA E. LAUGHLIN 
 
 Published August, 1911
 
 TO 
 
 W. W. L. 
 
 2136859
 
 CONTENTS 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE GOVERNOR'S FAMILY 3 
 
 II. THE WOMAN WHO HELPED .... 19 
 
 III. OLIVIA 36 
 
 IV. "NoR EVER ANY MORE" 50 
 
 V. THE PRICE THAT WAS PAID .... 72 
 
 PART II 
 
 VI. FIFTEEN YEARS LATER 83 
 
 VII. THE MARIONETTES 102 
 
 VIII. EMILY INSISTS ON TEMPTING FATE . 118 
 
 IX. Two DREAMERS MEET 138 
 
 X. CATHERINE AND THE CREHORES ... 158 
 
 XI. THE SWORD FALLS 177 
 
 vii
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XII. "THE OBLIGATION OF THE TRUTH . 196 
 
 XIII. THE WEAK AND THE STRONG . . . 214 
 
 XIV. "JACK THE GIANT-KILLER" .... 234 
 XV. IN THE MORNING 254 
 
 XVI. LOVE'S FOOL 262 
 
 XVII. OLD AND NEW CHIVALRY 282 
 
 XVIII. PENALTY AND PROFIT 298 
 
 XIX. How EMILY WAITED 309 
 
 XX. Lucius HAS A PARTY 319 
 
 XXI. THE NIGHT COURT 334 
 
 XXII. "ANY FOOL CAN DESTROY" .... 351 
 
 XXIII. A WEDDING 364 
 
 XXIV. TELLING THE TRUTH 380 
 
 XXV. "FED TO THE WOLVES" 395 
 
 XXVI. "PRACTICAL POLITICS" ...... 408 
 
 XXVII. "WHAT A BRAVE ADVENTURE LIFE Is" 431
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Is that true, Rose ? Do you wish me to keep 
 out ? " (See page 376) Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 The fiercest pirate might well have envied his 
 
 manner and his vocabulary 106 
 
 " Miss Innes is outside in a cab " he began 
 
 bashfully 328 
 
 As he saw the crowd gathering he kept raising his 
 
 voice. But he never shouted 422
 
 PART I
 
 CHILDREN OF TO-MORROW 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE GOVERNOR'S FAMILY 
 
 "TT'S going to be a hard summer; I doubt if I 
 shall be able to get away for more than a day 
 or two a Saturday and Sunday at a time." 
 
 The Governor and his family had finished dining 
 and were in the library of the old Mansion which 
 had been their home for the past six months. 
 
 It was the end of June, and very hot. School 
 sessions were over; social activities had lapsed; 
 " everybody'* in Mrs. Innes's phrase had gone 
 or was on the eve of going away. It behooved the 
 State's first family, she thought, to consider how 
 the vacation from official cares should be spent. 
 
 She looked up sharply when the Governor said 
 he could not get away. 
 
 "Nonsense!" she said. "You didn't undertake 
 to kill yourself for the State/* 
 
 "I undertook to discharge the duties of the 
 governorship," he answered, quietly; "and I 
 
 3
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 didn't qualify: 'unless they interfere with my 
 pleasure.' ' 
 
 "This isn't your pleasure it's your necessary 
 rest, and your obligation to your family." 
 
 The Governor smiled understandingly. 
 
 "I'm not tired, Julia," he said. "I perhaps 
 it's hard for you to understand, but I'm not on 
 this job for the pay, or even for the honor, but 
 for the opportunity it gives me to do what I want 
 to do more than anything else in the world. I'd 
 rather be here where my chance is than any- 
 where. But I want you to go any place you 
 choose; and I give you my word that a governor's 
 family banks just as strong without him as if 
 they had him along for proof." 
 
 If Mrs. Innes was aware of the irony in her 
 husband's speech, she ignored it; even he could 
 never tell just what she comprehended. 
 
 "And what will people say! The Governor's 
 family at the mountains or sea-shore, enjoying 
 themselves, and the Governor alone in the hot, 
 deserted Capital. / know how people talk!" 
 
 A shadow of impatience clouded the Governor's 
 eyes for a moment, then lifted again. The futil- 
 ity, the wasted energy, of allowing one's self to 
 become irritated with a life companion who 
 "never could understand"! 
 
 "Anybody whose opinion matters or ought to 
 matter," he rejoined, "knows what the situation 
 
 4
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 here is, this summer; knows that I'd be a fool to 
 try to get away from it; and a selfish wretch if I 
 let you and the children stay here because I have 
 to. You've worked pretty hard on this job your- 
 self, Julia" here, again, was a covert sarcasm 
 which the Governor would never know if his 
 wife understood "and a change will do you good. 
 I don't suppose you'll rest you'll carry the job 
 with you wherever you go but the change will 
 help. And the children need it, too. Now, 
 where do you want to go ? " 
 
 The conversation had reached a stage where 
 the boys felt interested. The course of it hitherto 
 had been familiarly dull. Through long acquaint- 
 ance with discussion in their family circle, they 
 had learned that always, at the outset, just about 
 so much time was spent by their father in per- 
 suading their mother to do what he knew she had 
 all along intended, and by their mother in en- 
 deavoring to persuade their father to do what she 
 knew all along there was not the remotest chance 
 of his doing. The boys had cultivated the fac- 
 ulty of withdrawing themselves from the dull 
 preliminaries and, almost by instinct, return- 
 ing to the argument when it was ready really to 
 begin. 
 
 They were instantly alert when their father 
 asked: "Where do you want to go ?" 
 
 "Coney Island!" said Johnny promptly. 
 
 5
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 His father smiled. "For a day, perhaps," he 
 said; "but not for all summer." 
 
 Johnny looked surprised. "Why, Pop!" he 
 cried, starting to explain. 
 
 "Johnny!" 
 
 "Oh, cheese it, Mom I mean, excuse me; but 
 I can't always remember to say pop-pa!" 
 
 "And I can't always remember whom you 
 mean when you do say it," his father chuckled. 
 
 Mrs. Innes looked at her husband reprovingly. 
 "Well, I consider 'Pop' a most undignified and 
 disrespectful way of addressing you," she said, 
 "and I'm sure I don't know what kind of bringing 
 up people must think I give my children. It was 
 bad enough before we came here; but now, in 
 our position " Her voice trailed off into in- 
 definite protest. 
 
 Again the brief shadow of irritation in her 
 husband's eyes, quickly succeeded by the ex- 
 pression: Oh, well! what is the use? 
 
 "Say 'pop-pa,' Johnny, and go ahead," he 
 adjured his son. And so entirely respectful were 
 his tone and manner that again it was impossible 
 to tell if Mrs. Innes knew his acquiescence came 
 from courtesy and not from conviction. 
 
 Johnny continued his plea for a vacation 
 "where you can have some fun." Davy thought 
 they should go where they could see something 
 new and instructive "like the Rocky Moun- 
 
 6
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 tains." Mrs. Innes wanted "good society; not 
 a place where there are just hotels and transients, 
 but a place where there are lovely summer homes. 
 Hotels are so promiscuous.'* 
 
 "They have ice-cream every day," reminded 
 Johnny, who was willing to overlook any degree 
 of promiscuity for his stomach's sake; though, 
 truth to tell, Johnny loved promiscuity next best 
 to ice-cream. 
 
 The Governor's daughter sat on the arm of his 
 chair. 
 
 "Well, Rosie," he said, "how about you?" 
 
 "No use asking that," her mother interposed; 
 "she never has any choice." 
 
 "I resent that, on Rosie's behalf," her father 
 answered. "You have a choice haven't you, 
 sweetest ? " 
 
 Rose hugged her father before she replied. 
 "Not too far away from jyow," she whispered. 
 
 "There! I knew it! Who says our sister-bud 
 hasn't decided notions ?" 
 
 Mrs. Innes's lip curled scornfully. "If she 
 were a boy, you'd talk up to her sharply enough 
 and tell her to have some mind of her own. But 
 as she's a girl, you think she's better without 
 one." 
 
 "Are you without a mind, my Rose? Let me 
 look at you!" His hand beneath her delicate 
 chin, he studied the fair, flower-like little face for 
 
 7
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 a moment, then kissed her softly on each eyelid 
 and drew her closer into his arms. 
 
 Governor Lyman Innes was a slender man, 
 rather under than over medium height, and shaped 
 on aristocratic lines. His dark hair was thinning, 
 and beginning to be frosted with gray. He had 
 flashing dark eyes, and hands noticeably fine and 
 expressive. The mouth his small dark mustache 
 only partly concealed was a little weak, a little 
 sensuous; but one felt that the spirit expressed 
 in the remarkable eyes was the spirit in control. 
 For the rest, one's first impression of him took 
 note of the facts that he was immaculately groomed 
 and that he was a punctiliously neat dresser. 
 
 Lyman Innes was in his forty-ninth year. He 
 was born of excellent family, but left fatherless at 
 an early age and obliged to hew his own way in 
 the world. The business he entered as an errand 
 boy eventually admitted him to partnership and 
 soon thereafter passed into his control. In his 
 veins was the blood of ancestors who had hated 
 the persecution of the Quakers, and the blood of 
 a great-grandfather who had signed the Declara- 
 tion of Independence, and of a grandfather who 
 had been one of the earliest Abolitionists in New 
 England. It was his heritage to hate injustice; 
 and it was the name he had made himself as a 
 considerate and fair employer which went far 
 toward getting him the governorship in this State 
 
 8
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 where labor troubles had for some time threatened 
 to become openly serious. 
 
 Julia Livingston had brought him money. She 
 had been considered a clever girl and most people 
 believed she would make an excellent helpmeet 
 for Lyman Innes, already when he married a 
 well-established and a "rising" man. But their 
 dream of success was not the same dream. She 
 was everywhere spoken of as having been a great 
 aid to her husband, with her energy, her skill in 
 practical affairs, her ambition for him. But he 
 knew if she did not that all she shared in his 
 success was the enjoyment of its emoluments. 
 She was a thin, sharp woman with pale-blue eyes 
 and frizzy light hair. Her speech was quick and 
 nervous, leading her into many bursts of tactless- 
 ness. It was her firm conviction that her methods 
 of housekeeping, of entertaining, of dressing, 
 of bringing up her children and of managing her 
 husband were superior to any other methods 
 conceivable. This gave her a certain unassailable 
 satisfaction, but contributed nothing appreciable 
 to her popularity. 
 
 David Innes was fair, like his mother. He shared 
 others of her characteristics, too. In the main, 
 she approved of Davy. But on those infrequent 
 occasions when their wills clashed, the struggle 
 was bitter indeed because one will was moulded 
 by purposes so like those that moulded the other. 
 
 9
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 The most frequent cause of conflict between 
 Davy and his mother was Johnny. Davy was 
 past fifteen; Johnny was thirteen and a half, a 
 winsome lad, full of flashing charm. His great 
 dark eyes were sometimes all melting tenderness 
 and irresistible appeal, but oftener dancing with 
 unmalicious mischief and the sheer joyousness of 
 being alive. A strikingly white, fine skin had 
 Johnny, and the whitest of white teeth; w r hile his 
 dark hair had, to his intense disgust, a slight ten- 
 dency to curl to conceal which Johnny usually 
 wheedled the barber into cropping his head till 
 it looked almost shaved. Every visit he made to 
 the barber's was the precursor of a maternal 
 storm into which Davy was regularly drawn by 
 his defence of Johnny's attitude toward curly hair. 
 
 That ancestor of Lyman Innes's who had de- 
 fended Quakers was a gay Cavalier; having no 
 particular religion of his own which he considered 
 the only true one, he had a dislike of seeing 
 any man's religion interfered with. His portrait, 
 copied from one in the ancestral Hall overseas, 
 was one of Lyman Innes's most treasured posses- 
 sions. It hung in the library of the Governor's 
 Mansion one of the personal belongings brought 
 hither to create an atmosphere more like home 
 and Johnny was frequently adjured by his father 
 to consider the flowing curls of that gallant gen- 
 tleman whose behavior he so greatly admired. 
 
 10
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 But no! "They're all right if you like 'em," 
 Johnny agreed; "but I don't." Nevertheless, he 
 was very like that curled Cavalier, even with his 
 head most ruthlessly cropped; very like all those 
 among his ancestry who had worn plumed hats 
 and jewelled swords; who had fought heartily, 
 gamed heavily, drunk deeply, sung jovially, loved 
 tempestuously (and often), and been the dear par- 
 ticular comrade of every one except those with 
 whom they had a temperamental quarrel. Not 
 only was life extraordinarily interesting every 
 moment of it to Johnny; but, also, he made it 
 very vivid even to prosaic Davy, because Davy 
 adored him so. 
 
 The annals of the two brothers, as treasured by 
 their wide family circle unto the third and fourth 
 remove of cousinship, were very rich in illuminat- 
 ing anecdote; as, for example: When Johnny was 
 about six, his father, on leaving the house one sum- 
 mer morning, noted the man-of-all-work cutting 
 the grass on their front lawn. "Take that nice 
 sweet grass down to your ' Bossy' in the back lot," 
 he had directed Johnny. "Get a small basket 
 that you can carry comfortably or fill a bigger 
 one and haul it on your wagon." "Yes, sir," 
 said Johnny, dutifully. Johnny always agreed to 
 anything at the time; always meant to do it, in 
 fact, for he was the soul of obligingness. Perhaps 
 it wasn't his fault if the counter-attraction which 
 inevitably presented itself usually had stronger 
 
 II
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 charms. He carried one basketful of grass to 
 Bossy and then became ecstatically diverted. 
 At noon his father saw the little piles of grass still 
 lying on the lawn, and asked for an explanation. 
 "Whyee," began Johnny, smiling up engagingly 
 at his parent and casting about in his mind for 
 something to say, "it was this way: I tooked 
 her one basketful and I and I was just comin* 
 back fer another; and she and she says says: 
 'This will be plenty, thank you, Johnny/ ' It 
 is reported that Davy blushed for the unblush- 
 ing Johnny, and that as soon as they two were 
 alone together he took Johnny solemnly to task. 
 !< Johnny/' he was overheard to say, "you know 
 cows don't talk." "Sure thing, they do!" Johnny 
 rejoined, quickly. " Haven't you ever heard 'em ? " 
 And so convincing was his manner that Davy felt 
 there was nothing more to be said. Always while 
 he was with Johnny he was awed by the magnifi- 
 cent audacity of the stories Johnny dared to tell. 
 But when Johnny was away from him, and his 
 return was overdue which his returns nearly 
 always were Davy was given to the sharpest 
 anxiety as to what might suitably have befallen 
 that precious but graceless young person who held 
 the truth in such slight regard. 
 
 Thus the Governor's sons. His daughter Rose 
 was his youngest-born. One would be glad so 
 glad! to be able to tell just how Rose Innes 
 looked as a child of twelve; but it is impossible 
 
 12
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 just as impossible as it always was, later. Few 
 women have been more written about, and less 
 described; more painted, and less pictured. The 
 reason being, of course, that Rose had no fixed 
 identity. She reflected the best that was around 
 her. She was, as was exquisitely to be said of 
 her, "everybody's sweetest dream come true." 
 When one tried to be specific, to get away from 
 generalities, all that could be said about her as 
 child or maiden or woman was that she was 
 fair in coloring and slight in figure, and that her 
 whole personality might be summed up in another 
 phrase she was to inspire, "that wistfulness to be 
 loved, which was her genius." Broadly generaliz- 
 ing, it might be said that Rose's father loved her 
 because she could understand what she was told 
 he talked to her of his ideals more freely than to 
 any other person; and her mother loved her be- 
 cause she did what she was told and gave promise 
 of being an excellent little domestic body; and 
 Johnny loved her because she believed all she was 
 told and never questioned anything in the splen- 
 did world of romance he lived in and to which 
 he welcomed her; while Davy ah, well! Davy 
 loved her for every reason there is or could be. 
 Some one once said she was "Davy's religion." 
 It was true, if not all of the truth. 
 
 The result of the conference was that they de- 
 cided on a place on the New Jersey shore, near 
 
 13
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 enough so that the Governor could get there often 
 for week-ends; "select" enough in its cottage 
 colony to satisfy Mrs. Innes; and sufficiently close 
 to Atlantic City to fulfil Johnny's dream of Coney 
 Island. 
 
 "I'm sorry about the Rocky Mountains, Dave," 
 the Governor said; "but I'm sure they'll 'keep.' ' 
 
 "Can't swim in the Rocky Mountains," re- 
 minded Johnny, consolingly those of us who get 
 our wish can always think of consolations suitable 
 for our disappointed brothers "and I tell you 
 I'm going to do some great stunts of high diving 
 this summer. Wait till you see me! Gee!" 
 
 Carried away by the joy in prospect, Johnny 
 mounted the chair on which he had been perching, 
 as if it were a spring-board, and poised himself 
 for a dive. 
 
 "Johnny!" 
 
 His mother's horrified tone recalled Johnny to 
 the proprieties; but it was not in Johnny's tem- 
 perament to come down without one spring. He 
 made the leap, doubled up like a jack-knife, and 
 landed in a sitting posture. But the chair springs 
 gave way; there was a sound of ripping burlap 
 underneath; and Johnny found himself tangled in 
 a deep pocket of disorganized upholstery. The 
 opportunity for mirthfulness delighted Johnny; 
 he never minded in the least being made ridicu- 
 lous if he could get a good laugh out of it. But 
 his mother soon checked his mirth.
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 " Such behavior! " she cried, indignantly. " Peo- 
 ple might think you never had any bringing up. 
 I declare! I'm discouraged." 
 
 "Anybody that knows you, Julia," the Gover- 
 nor assured her dryly, "knows that he has had 
 bringing up. But I'm sorry, son," turning to 
 Johnny, "about the chair. It belongs to the 
 State, you know. Of course we'll have it re- 
 paired, but we can't ask the State to pay the bill. 
 The only fair and square thing, that I can see, is 
 for you to pay for it out of your pocket-money." 
 
 "Oh, Pop!" 
 
 "I know; it means complete destitution all 
 summer and Atlantic City so near! But I'll 
 tell you, son this is for Davy's sake as well as 
 yours, because I know he'd lend you all of his 
 if you'll promise not to borrow of Davy once, all 
 summer, I'll pay the repair bill and take it out of 
 your allowance a little at a time; so you'll only 
 have to give up half your pleasures." 
 
 "I think that's all very absurd," Mrs. Innes 
 pronounced, decidedly. "For my part, I think 
 the State ought to clear out all this old rubbishy 
 furniture and fix the house up decently. It's 
 ridiculous to ask people to come here and put up 
 with this, when they have to leave so much better 
 at home." 
 
 "The State didn't ask us to come here," 
 Lyman Innes reminded her. "We nearly broke 
 
 15
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 our necks if you'll pardon the vulgarism tx> 
 get the job. And the Mansion isn't supposed to 
 be the prize it's the power of law and order in 
 a great commonwealth that's supposed to attract 
 a man who's made governor. The Mansion is 
 old, but its memories are fine; and it's comfort- 
 able " 
 
 "You may find it comfortable because / make 
 it so. But you don't have to keep house in it. 
 I'd rather have procelain bath tubs than fine 
 memories. And all this old Civil-War-time furni- 
 ture makes me ashamed. I suppose some people 
 who come here think it's ours or, at least, that 
 I don't know any better!" 
 
 This was possibly the one hundred and eightieth 
 time in six months that this subject had been 
 raised by Julia Innes for discussion. Her first 
 demand, on reaching the Mansion, had been to 
 sweep everything out of it into the discard and 
 refurnish throughout. Failing that, she thought 
 she should at least be allowed to rehabilitate. 
 Lyman Innes pleaded that it was his ideal to have 
 no extravagance personal or departmental 
 charged against his administration. It was Julia 
 Innes's theory that "the more you cost, the more 
 you are appreciated. Look at the European 
 kings!" And to suggest that the appreciation of 
 expensive kings is not universal was only to pro- 
 long the argument. 
 
 16
 
 The Governor's Family 
 
 "This isn't our home, Julia," Lyman Innes 
 always reminded her; "we're camping here while 
 we serve the State. Suppose I should ever have 
 to call out the militia which God forbid! and 
 they were to camp here in the State-House grounds,, 
 as they've been known to do. Would you go into 
 any soldier's tent and judge his ideals of comfort 
 by what the State provides him with while he's on 
 duty?" To this Julia Innes invariably replied: 
 "We're not the militia"; which was so self-evi- 
 dent that there was never anything more to say. 
 
 Perhaps this is as good a place as any to record 
 that the Governor paid out of his own pocket for 
 the repair of the chair springs, and deducted the 
 amount from Johnny's allowance at the rate of 
 fifty cents a week. Also, that his wife regularly 
 made up to Johnny the fifty cents which Johnny's 
 father believed the boy was paying to learn a fine 
 principle. This she was prompted to do by her 
 maternal pride in Johnny's charms to which, as 
 was usual wherever Johnny went, everybody at 
 their sea-side resort fell easily captive. Far oft- 
 ener Mrs. Innes found than she was spoken of 
 as Governor Innes's wife was she referred to as 
 Johnny Innes's mother. Johnny had pretty man- 
 ners company manners born of his desire to 
 please, and not at all, as his mother fondly be- 
 lieved, of her continual admonishing. She felt 
 that he reflected credit upon her method of
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 bringing up; and without exactly meaning to, she 
 let Johnny find out that she felt this. Altogether, 
 as some deploring on-looker once observed: "If 
 all the women in the world had been 'lined up' 
 to discover which one should least of all have 
 been Johnny Innes's mother, the judgment would 
 have fallen unhesitatingly on Lyman Innes's wife." 
 Some few who knew him best, surmised that 
 Lyman Innes was desperately aware of this. 
 But no one had ever heard him intimate as much; 
 and in what he did, hoping to save his son, he 
 never discounted his wife's teachings he only 
 strove to supplement them with others of a better 
 sort. 
 
 And yet ! 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO HELPED 
 
 THE troubles Lyman Innes had feared thick- 
 ened rapidly. Strikes were newer fifteen 
 years ago, and the public was less accustomed to 
 them. Then, as now, the demands of a few hun- 
 dreds, or thousands, of working-men whether 
 right or wrong interested the great body of the 
 public practically not at all, until the cessation 
 of some form of labor made the public suffer in- 
 convenience. Then, instantly, everybody had an 
 opinion, and it was that "a few disgruntled 
 laborers should not be allowed to inconvenience 
 the community." 
 
 This strike that was giving Lyman Innes vast 
 concern was doing more than inconveniencing the 
 community. It was paralyzing an industry on 
 which many communities depended, not for their 
 convenience alone but for their commerce, which, 
 as society was organized in those communities, 
 meant their life. When the wheels of commerce 
 stopped, existence was menaced, for the majority. 
 
 The Governor was appealed to. He was urged 
 to call out the militia, to authorize its officers to 
 
 19
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 set guards over the wheels restored to motion, and 
 to order volleys fired against any show of resist- 
 ance. This he was unwilling to do because, as it 
 happened, he knew the cause of the striking men 
 was just; because, as it happened, his experience 
 gave him understanding, and he could look ahead 
 and see what it would mean to the development 
 of liberty, in this country of boasted freedom, if 
 that perfectly legitimate demand of self-respecting 
 labor were denied at the point of the bayonet. 
 
 It was an agonizing crisis. The country was 
 watching him, demanding of him. All day long, 
 and every day, he was besieged with delegations 
 representing this interest and that. Everybody 
 who came knew exactly what he ought to do had 
 a clear vision of his duty; some claimed to have 
 evolved the solution they offered; some declared 
 they had received theirs of God. To the latter, 
 Innes could only quote Lincoln's reply to the Illi- 
 nois preachers who went to Washington to tell 
 him that it was the will of God that he should free 
 the slaves; whereat Lincoln expressed surprise 
 that "in a matter so clearly involving my duty, 
 God should not have told me." 
 
 Nor were those who could come in person all. 
 Hundreds who could not come wrote letters. 
 And every newspaper in the country pointed out 
 to him what he must do to save the situation and 
 to be himself politically saved. 
 
 20
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 Julia Innes, at the sea-side, "felt the situation," 
 as she wrote him, "deeply. Everybody wonders 
 why you don't act, and I'm sure some of these peo- 
 ple think there's something queer about you 
 maybe about all of us! because you don't. I 
 am mortified almost to death. This horrid strike 
 has spoiled my summer. I don't see what you 
 can be thinking of when one little word from 
 you would fix everything." 
 
 He wanted to go and address the strikers; to 
 tell them that he knew their cause was just, but 
 to ask them, in the interest of the common good, 
 to name a basis whereon, for the present, they 
 would compromise. But his advisers were aghast. 
 "It'd kill you!" they cried with one voice. "Po- 
 litically, you'd be a dead man. You'd lose the 
 labor vote if you suggested compromise, and you'd 
 lose the conservative vote if you announced your 
 sympathy with the strikers." 
 
 "Then let me go to the employers I'm an 
 employer of labor or I was, at least and I 
 understand; they'll listen to me." 
 
 "Listen to you?" he was told. "Of course 
 they will! And take your measure carefully; 
 and the next time you need a new suit of executive 
 clothes you won't get them because there'll be 
 nobody to pay the bill!" 
 
 And when he pleaded in all truthfulness 
 that he would rather be "right once, than gov- 
 
 21
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 ernor twice/' he was sharply adjured to remember 
 that he represented his political party and that 
 he had no right to carry it down with him to that 
 contumely which would entail defeat. 
 
 The heat of that summer was intense, and the 
 suffering was very great not only among the 
 strikers' families, but among the thousands of 
 others who, as always, shared perforce the pen- 
 alties of war. It was the non-combatants' cries 
 of anguish that rent Lyman Innes's heart most 
 distressfully. 
 
 Only two things helped him to stand steadfast 
 through all that storm. One was Lincoln any 
 and every record he could get of Lincoln's su- 
 preme loneness in the early, and even in a measure 
 in the latter, War years; after a long day of 
 severest trial, he would sit, almost until the next 
 day broke, drawing strength and comfort from 
 those heart-breaking records. One help was Lin- 
 coln and the other was a woman. 
 
 One had only to look at Lyman Innes to know 
 that he had more than ordinary susceptibility to 
 women; his mouth betrayed that instantly. But 
 he had, too, a counterbalancing tendency ex- 
 pressed in his flashing eyes; he was an idealist 
 not a sentimental, dreamy, sensuous idealist, 
 but an energetic, determined striver after ideals 
 clearly within his vision and probably within 
 his not-too-ultimate reach. Many men among 
 
 22
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 Lyman Innes's contemporaries had bigger and 
 finer dreams than his; and many of them were 
 greatly ennobled by these splendid dreams, even 
 though no prospect of realization ever stayed 
 more than momentarily to encourage them. On 
 the other hand, though, there is grave danger for 
 any but spiritually strong men whose reach so 
 habitually exceeds their grasp that they never 
 clutch anything more tangible than thin air; 
 sharp reactions come, and the dreamer not super- 
 humanly strong has horrid slumps, sometimes. 
 Lyman Innes was by no means superhumanly 
 strong; and it was an excellent thing for him that 
 the ideals he pursued were not too terribly elusive. 
 He caught up with them rather frequently, and 
 the next beyond were never discouragingly far 
 ahead. Thus he was kept interested and alertly 
 in love with life, and the exasperating mistake of 
 his marriage did not fret him unbearably; women, 
 and the hope of finding happiness with them, 
 plagued him less than they might have done. 
 
 This summer, though, he was in a position to 
 be quite cruelly tempted, if temptation came his 
 way. And it came as it has a cunning way of 
 doing when the forces of resistance are least able 
 to withstand a siege. 
 
 The pressure of extra correspondence, brought 
 on by wide-spread public interest in the strike, 
 made necessary a larger clerical force in the Execu- 
 
 23
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 tive Offices. It would have been impossible for 
 the Governor to read one-tenth of the letters that 
 came to him; although, in his deep anxiety to do 
 right, he was unwilling to neglect any of them, 
 lest somewhere among the many there might be 
 some suggestion he would do well to heed. It 
 was the same with newspaper editorials. He 
 wanted, in addition to a second secretary whose 
 especial care all this extra correspondence should 
 be, some one to take charge of the letters and 
 papers; to read them sympathetically, painstak- 
 ingly, and turn over to him with helpful com- 
 ment those most likely to interest him. He tried 
 a number of persons about the Capitol on this 
 latter; two or three secretaries from other depart- 
 ments, and even a newspaper correspondent 
 not one of those sent there to "cover" the strike, 
 for they were too busy, but a man out of a job who 
 had come to the Capital to see if he could not pick 
 up material for some special articles. He got 
 the opportunity of a lifetime, in the Governor's 
 correspondence; but he wasn't equal to it, either 
 for the special articles or for the Governor's aid. 
 When he failed, some one suggested a woman. 
 "They're more conscientious about some things, 
 and perhaps more sympathetic." The Governor 
 was willing to try. He instructed his private 
 secretary to see if he could find a competent 
 woman who would undertake the job. The pri- 
 
 24
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 vate secretary replied that he could find any num- 
 ber of women who would undertake the job, but 
 that he couldn't presume to judge, beforehand, 
 which among them might be competent. "Per- 
 haps I can," said the Governor. "You get them 
 here and I'll try to make a choice." 
 
 That was a rash undertaking; after he had 
 interviewed the first dozen applicants, the Gov- 
 ernor declared that attempting to decide what 
 was the right thing to do about the strike was as 
 nothing compared with attempting to find that 
 qualified woman letter-reader. 
 
 "Give it up or pick one yourself," he told the 
 private secretary; "but don't send any more of 
 them in here. I never supposed there were so 
 many 'impossible' females alive. My gallantry 
 has had an awful shock." 
 
 Late in the day, Perkins the private secretary 
 came into the Governor's room and said, "Well! 
 I've engaged one for a trial. Will you see her?" 
 
 "No. You tell her what we want give her a 
 batch of letters and ask her to report to me to- 
 morrow. I can tell better then." 
 
 The next morning before ten o'clock, Perkins 
 reported that "the lady letter-reader" was there, 
 but that she had come to resign her job. 
 
 "She seems all cut up about it," he added, 
 "and I'm sorry for I think she was the one you 
 want." 
 
 25
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 After yesterday's experience with all those 
 women he was sure he didn't want but who were 
 so sure he did that they almost insisted on coming 
 anyway the Governor's interest was piqued by 
 the woman, probably qualified, who wouldn't stay. 
 His first impulse was to take none of his over- 
 taxed time for the unattainable. Then some- 
 thing as old as Adam made him want to see that 
 woman; and as unwittingly as most men have 
 done so, he put himself in the hands of his 
 fate. 
 
 "Ask her if she won't step in here for a mo- 
 ment," he said to Perkins. A few seconds later, 
 Perkins ushered her in. 
 
 "Your Excellency, this is Mrs. Bardeen," he 
 said, and withdrew. 
 
 The Governor rose to greet a woman rather 
 above medium height and of a build inclining to 
 plumpness. She had very large, very dark-brown 
 eyes whose gentleness that might at any moment 
 become tenderness of expression was the first 
 thing one noticed about her. The next it was 
 a day of waists made surplice fashion and collar- 
 less was the exquisite beauty and softness of her 
 throat. She was dressed very 'plainly, in a black- 
 and-white checked gingham dress probably of her 
 own making. Her hat was a simple shade hat 
 such as a woman wears not for coquetry but for 
 protection against the sun. All this one took in at 
 
 26
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 a glance, without, however, becoming more than 
 dimly conscious of anything but the changing ex- 
 pressions of those big brown eyes, and the intox- 
 icating loveliness of that satin-soft throat. She 
 was, perhaps, thirty-five years of age; a woman, 
 one would guess, who had matured slowly and 
 was only now entering upon the heyday of her 
 attractiveness. 
 
 Her voice had a beautiful low pitch, and she 
 spoke without haste, though she was obviously 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "I am so sorry," she began, when she had 
 acknowledged his greeting. " I should have loved 
 the work better than anything I ever dreamed of 
 getting to do. But my husband was not willing. 
 I came here yesterday without saying anything 
 to him I was afraid he would feel sensitive. We 
 need the money. He is secretary to one of the 
 big employers whose places are closed down by 
 the strike; there is little to be done in the offices, 
 so most of the clerical force has been laid off, my 
 husband among the rest. 'No money coming in, 
 we must stop money going out/ his employer 
 says. It's the fortune of war, I suppose. We 
 weren't ready for it I suppose that's an average 
 fate, too and I thought I'd see what I could do 
 to to help withstand the siege. But my hus- 
 band was was quite unwilling." 
 
 "What were his obj I beg your pardon! I 
 
 27
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 didn't mean to be impertinent; but I couldn't 
 help wondering " 
 
 "I never find impertinence where I am sure 
 none is felt," she answered, smiling. "It is a 
 little hard for me to tell you, but I dare say 
 after reading a few of these letters and editorials 
 that my little explanation will hardly do more 
 than amuse you. You see, my husband is very 
 anxious to have the strike ended, and he 
 he " 
 
 "He thinks I'm not doing all I might to end 
 it?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "And you? Is this an impertinence? You?" 
 
 She flushed. 
 
 "Don't answer, please I beg you!" he en- 
 treated. "I had no right " 
 
 "Oh yes, you had," she interrupted him. 
 "Every human creature who is trying, in the 
 face of terrible opposition, to do what he believes 
 to be his duty has a right to look among his 
 fellow-creatures for some sign of sympathy." 
 
 "To look, yes; but not to ask." 
 
 "Well, perhaps not," she granted him. "But 
 we'll agree that your question slipped unawares 
 from look to speech. And as everybody tells me 
 my looks are more telltale than my speech, I 
 may as well answer you directly; you'd surmise 
 it from my expression, anyway. I'm in sympa- 
 
 28
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 thy with the strikers, and with you. That's the 
 trouble." 
 
 "Thank you," he said gravely, and somehow 
 just then he couldn't think of anything more to say. 
 
 She, too, was silent for a moment. Then she 
 handed him a little packet of half a dozen letters. 
 
 "I think you will want to read these," she sug- 
 gested. "There are things in all of them you will 
 want to know. This one" untying the packet 
 and indicating a particular letter among the six 
 "from a striker's wife, will uphold you quite 
 wonderfully, I'm sure, when you are urged to 
 call out the militia. I am so sorry, as I said at 
 first, that I cannot do this work, for I know a 
 good deal about conditions among the strikers 
 and I know how little they deserve to be shot." 
 
 What she further said, in making her departure, 
 the Governor did not know. He was not even 
 conscious of replying to her. All he could realize 
 was that she had been there, with her under- 
 standing and her sympathy and that intoxicat- 
 ing white throat and that she was gone gone! 
 He sat staring into space the space where she 
 had been and for the first time in his fight the 
 weakness of self-pity overwhelmed him. 
 
 "God!" he said, speaking not aloud but within 
 his own mind, and calling, instinctively, on a God 
 not distantly enthroned but there close in his 
 soul now above, now below (or so it seemed!) 
 
 29
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 the demon that was in him also "God! What a 
 man might be with a woman like that!" Then, 
 as self-pity mastered him: "It isn't fair!" he 
 cried; "it isn't fair! Why send her here if she 
 couldn't stay?" 
 
 Then, if there are any Furies that conspire 
 against men's souls, they must have laughed; 
 for they know that when a man grows sorry for 
 himself his spiritual defences are down and he is 
 at the mercy of his peace's enemy. 
 
 "Perkins," said the Governor late that after- 
 noon, "I want you to do something for me." 
 
 This was an unusual way of prefacing a direc- 
 tion about work, and Perkins being wise in the 
 ways of confidential service was prepared for a 
 special requisition upon his fidelity and his secre- 
 tiveness. 
 
 "Yes, sir!" he answered, in a tone which he 
 hoped would indicate that he was ready for any- 
 thing. 
 
 "That was a very remarkable woman who called 
 here this morning that Mrs. Bardeen," the Gov- 
 ernor went on. "It is a great regret to me a 
 very great regret that she could not continue 
 with the work. She would have been a big help 
 to me." 
 
 "I'm sorry, sir; I thought so, too," said Per- 
 kins and waited. 
 
 30
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 ** Do you know anything about her ? " 
 
 "Not a thing, sir; but I can find out." Perkins 
 was an assiduous reader of the memoirs of Con- 
 stant, Napoleon's valet, and he flattered himself 
 that he knew a thing or two about the ways of 
 the exalted. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Well, I can ask, sir." 
 
 "Ask what? Ask whom?" 
 
 "Ask around, sir. Somebody's sure to know 
 what you want to find out." 
 
 "And do you think you know what I want to 
 ndout?" 
 
 "I think I do, sir," said Perkins, with a con- 
 scious air. 
 
 The Governor became suddenly aware of what 
 was in Perkins's mind, and it enraged him. 
 
 "I think you do NOT!" he thundered. 
 
 Perkins, self-convicted, stammered an apology. 
 
 "Mrs. Bardeen," said the Governor, when he 
 had accepted the apology, "is a lady every inch 
 a lady one of the finest it has ever been my good 
 fortune to meet. She told me very briefly of 
 their straits " 
 
 "Yes, sir; she told me, the day she came 
 yesterday." 
 
 " and why she was obliged to decline the 
 work we offered her." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 3 1
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 "It seems a great pity that when she needs; 
 the work, and the work needs her, she cannot be 
 allowed to do it." 
 
 "It does, indeed, sir." 
 
 "What I thought you could, perhaps, find out, 
 was something about Mr. Bardeen how strong 
 his antagonism is whether there is any way it 
 might be overcome " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "But be very careful how you go about it. It 
 
 is a delicate undertaking. Mrs. Bardeen would 
 
 not wish to have his pride hurt by letting people 
 
 know that she was seeking employment least of 
 
 "all from me, if his opposition to me is well known." 
 
 "Of course not, sir." 
 
 "I didn't think at the time when she was 
 here to ask her if she thought there was any- 
 thing that might be done to make her husband 
 reconsider. It occurs to me that I hardly even 
 expressed my regret. I was preoccupied. Per- 
 haps if I were to send her a note " 
 
 "Yes, sir. Would you wish to dictate it, sir?" 
 
 "No, certainly not. That is, I suppose a per- 
 sonal note would express my regret much more 
 delicately." 
 
 "I dare say, sir. Would you like me to deliver 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes and without embarrassment to the lady 
 I mean, if her husband should be at home a 
 
 32
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 messenger from the Governor's Mansion you 
 
 understand ? " 
 
 "I understand, sir." 
 
 After the note was despatched, Lyman Innes 
 found himself possessed by a restlessness about 
 which it was difficult to deceive himself. Unable 
 to concentrate his mind upon anything else than 
 the probable outcome of that note, he abandoned > 
 presently, all effort to do otherwise, and spent an 
 hour two hours of the stifling July night pac- 
 ing up and down the library of the Mansion, that 
 gaunt, shabby-genteel old place he had chosen to 
 call his tent while he was on duty. 
 
 As he paced, he was noting half-consciously 
 the things Julia so bitterly disapproved. Then 
 he found himself wondering if She would care! 
 Suppose she sat there, now, in that chair by the 
 table, beneath the drop-light! Would it matter 
 to her that the furniture was unfashionably anti- 
 quated ? Over the fine old mantel of white mar- 
 ble, which was an eyesore to Julia because the 
 moment's fancy was for mantels of wood, hung a 
 noble portrait which so very strong was the 
 tradition about it was never removed from this 
 place. It was a portrait of the War Governor 
 the man who had presided over the destinies of 
 this State during the cruel years of the nation's 
 Civil War. He had been a great governor, mag- 
 
 33
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 nificently steadfast throughout times that tried 
 men's souls. His memory was a precious heri- 
 tage to the sons of his State. How often Lyman 
 Innes reminded himself to-night as he looked up 
 at the grave, benignant face that other governor 
 must have paced in vigil up and down this same 
 old room battling for strength to withstand all 
 that beset him. The memory of his trials, nobly 
 borne, dignified the place yes, exalted it! It 
 was a splendid opportunity that he, Lyman Innes, 
 had; if he proved worthy, how might not his 
 brave fight, remembered, strengthen the sorely 
 tried courage of others coming after him! . . . 
 Somehow, he felt that She would not notice the 
 upholstery; that the portrait, and the memories, 
 would thrill her, too. 
 
 The clock in the Capitol two squares away 
 struck ten. No word would come from her after 
 this hour. He turned toward the door, to go up- 
 stairs; and as he did so, he lifted his bent head 
 suddenly, and found himself looking into the 
 laughing eyes of that ancestral Cavalier. Mock- 
 ing eyes they were, he reflected, as he climbed 
 the dimly lighted stairs. . . . "Wonder what the 
 War Governor would think of him, for company ? 
 . . . And yet! though they laughed and mocked, 
 they were brave those gay gentlemen who loved, 
 and fought, and drank, and sang those satin- 
 clad Cavaliers they could die nobly, too. . . ." 
 
 34
 
 The Woman Who Helped 
 
 Thus ran his drowsing thoughts. And when 
 he was fallen asleep, he dreamed of a lady a 
 Cavalier's lady she was; quite splendid like a 
 Van Dyck portrait but one looked quickly past 
 all that, to the ravishing loveliness of her white, 
 white throat. 
 
 35
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 OLIVIA 
 
 OLIVIA BARDEEN dried the last of her 
 supper dishes and put them away; scrubbed 
 her wooden dish-drain, scalded her dish-rag and 
 towels and hung them up to air, rinsed her sink 
 in the hot suds, wiped her dish-pan dry and put 
 it on its nail beside the sink. 
 
 All these things she did mechanically, as by 
 force of long habit. In the same way, she wound 
 the kitchen clock, put out the tickets and the 
 covered pail for milk she was not taking cream 
 now and securely locked the back door against 
 any possible, but not probable, burglar who might 
 select so unpromising a place to rob. 
 
 She still wore the gingham dress she had worn 
 in the morning when she called on the Governor; 
 only it was fresh then, and now it was wilted by 
 the kitchen's steaming heat. Her brown hair 
 of an almost baby fineness and not very abundant 
 was damp with perspiration, and she pushed 
 it back weariedly from her hot forehead. She 
 wore her hair very simply, pinned in a small 
 knot at the nape of her white neck. But it was 
 
 36
 
 Olivia 
 
 the kind of hair that moisture curls, and there 
 were little ringlets in it to-night as if Nature 
 were determinedly keeping up her charms, in 
 spite of Olivia's busyness and neglect of them. 
 
 In the dining-room, a little girl of nine was 
 brushing the crumbs and setting things to rights. 
 
 "There, honey-lamb; thank you! that will do," 
 her mother said, taking the big broom away from 
 her. "You go out and play a little while before 
 bedtime. It's so hot to-night I'm afraid the 
 chances for sleeping are not very good." 
 
 The child was glad to obey. 
 
 "Where's your father?" Olivia asked. 
 
 "I think he went downtown," little Constance 
 answered. 
 
 When the child was gone to her play the 
 street was full of children, for all of whom, no 
 doubt, bedtime would be considerably deferred 
 on account of the humid heat Olivia sat down 
 in the sitting-room, which was dark. It was too 
 hot to have a light; and besides, she hoped that 
 the dark and quiet would keep the neighbors from 
 "running in." 
 
 She was in no mood for trivial conversation, 
 and this solitude was grateful to her. 
 
 Presently, Constance came in, calling her. 
 "Mamma!" she cried. "Mamma! Where are 
 you?" 
 
 Olivia answered. 
 
 37
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Here's a man to see you." 
 
 Olivia jumped to her feet, her heart beating 
 wildly. "It could not !" And then, ashamed 
 of herself for the mad thought, and for what it 
 revealed to her of where her mind had been stray- 
 ing persistently, she fought down her agitation 
 and went to the door. In the light of the street 
 lamp she recognized the young man who was the 
 Governor's private secretary. 
 
 "Mrs. Bardeen?" he asked; in the darkness 
 he could see only that it was a woman at the 
 door. 
 
 "Yes. Won't you come in? Or perhaps it 
 will be pleasanter out here on the porch." She 
 was trying to speak casually, but felt that in her 
 intense effort to be steady she was overdoing it. 
 
 "Thank you, I'll sit here. I can only stop a 
 moment," he said. 
 
 Constance lingered, curious. "Go and play, 
 Constance!" her mother ordered her, with an un- 
 accustomed sharpness that surprised the child 
 and made the mother blush for herself; the first 
 realizations of deceit are so scorching to the sen- 
 sitive soul. 
 
 When the child was gone, Perkins turned to 
 Olivia. "Mr. Bardeen, your daughter tells me, 
 is not at home ? " 
 
 This, too, hurt for Olivia understood. "No," 
 she answered, in a low tone. 
 
 38
 
 Olivia 
 
 "I you will, perhaps, be surprised. But the 
 Governor wanted me to bring you a note. He 
 was anxious that you should not be put to any 
 er embarrassment by a note from the Governor's 
 Mansion when Mr. Bardeen was present know- 
 ing how Mr. Bardeen feels about the strike situa- 
 tion. I was instructed to be very careful." 
 
 Mr. Perkins paused; but Olivia made no 
 sound. Her hands were tightly locked in her lap, 
 and she was biting her under-lip quite cruelly to 
 keep her self-control. 
 
 "I asked some children," Perkins went on, 
 anxious to tell in full his fine discreetness, "where 
 Mr. Charles Bardeen lived. And they cried, 
 'Constance! somebody wants your house/ I was 
 careful" Olivia felt that she could kill him, he 
 took her interest in his slimy methods so entirely 
 for granted "to ask her for her father, and for 
 you only when she said he had gone downtown." 
 
 "Thank you," Olivia managed to say. "I am 
 sorry if I led the Governor to such an extreme 
 estimate of Mr. Bardeen's antagonism." 
 
 Perkins was not sure how she meant this, so he 
 made no reply. "Any answer there may be to 
 this," he said, handing her the note, "will reach 
 the Governor promptly and safely if you send 
 it through the mail, addressed to me Mr. Clar- 
 ence F. Perkins and put L. I. on the lower left- 
 hand corner." 
 
 39
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 Again Olivia felt that passionate rage. But 
 again she merely said "Thank you." And a 
 moment later Perkins was gone. 
 
 She had a momentary impulse to tear the Gov- 
 ernor's note into pieces without deigning to read it. 
 How dared he ? What sort of a woman did he 
 think she was, to send that slimy creature to her 
 in this insinuating fashion ? 
 
 Then she checked these resentful feelings, with 
 a laugh that she hoped was born out of her 
 "good common-sense." "Heroics, Olivia!" she re- 
 minded herself, teasingly. "The Governor prob- 
 ably wants to ask you some ordinary sort of ques- 
 tion about the letters you read, and remembering 
 what you said about your husband, was considerate 
 enough as that creature said to put you to no 
 embarrassment about it.'* 
 
 She tried to feel very matter-of-fact as she car- 
 ried the note indoors and lit the gas so she could 
 read it. But her ringers shook there was no 
 gainsaying that and there was something in her 
 throat that hurt, and would not down. She 
 dreaded to look. Suppose she had misread him! 
 Or, suppose he had misread her! Olivia felt she 
 could not bear it if there was anything in the note 
 that hurt. "Not that / am so much better than 
 other women who have been hurt," she told her- 
 self; " but because I want to believe! I don't want 
 to hate the world!" 
 
 40
 
 Olivia 
 
 Then, resolutely having convinced herself that 
 if the note had in it anything unwelcome she 
 was not to blame, having invited nothing of the 
 sort she broke the seal and read. 
 
 The note was on letter-paper of the Executive 
 Mansion; but it was sealed in a plain envelope. 
 It read: 
 
 MY DEAR MRS. BARDEEN: 
 
 I wonder if I half-sufficiently expressed to you this morn- 
 ing my very great regret that you find it impossible to go 
 on with the work which you are, I am sure, so pre-eminently 
 fitted to do? I don't remember that I even asked you if 
 there was the slightest chance of your reconsidering. Is 
 there? Pardon me if I seem insistent. But you were 
 good enough to express belief in my earnestness; and it 
 is going to be a great disappointment to me if I see the 
 cause of justice in this sad affair deprived of the service I 
 feel so sure you could render it. 
 
 With the profoundest respect, 
 
 I am, yours very truly, 
 
 LYMAN INNES. 
 
 And when Olivia had read it once, swiftly, to 
 snatch its meaning; and once again, slowly, to 
 see if in her first haste she had passed any hid- 
 den purport by her relief was so great that she 
 burst into tears. Sinking to the floor beside the 
 living-room couch, she buried her head among 
 its cushions and sobbed herself, as a child often 
 does, into quiet and comfort. 
 
 41
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Olivia Bardeen had had a life of struggle. Her 
 people were gentle, but improvident. Her father 
 had been a professor in a small "fresh-water" col- 
 lege. He was thirty years old before he had 
 studied enough at home and abroad, all on bor- 
 rowed capital to get a position where he could 
 earn fifteen hundred dollars a year. He was past 
 forty when he had got his debts paid. And by 
 that time he had six children, of whom Olivia 
 was the eldest. When Olivia was ten years old, 
 her mother was still making over for herself and 
 for Olivia the clothes that had been in her modest 
 trousseau; she had never had a new dress since 
 she was married. And yet, as a professor's wife, 
 she had sometimes to appear at functions in the 
 little town, and quite often to entertain visiting 
 notables in her home. She had been a wonderful 
 woman that mother! Olivia had recollections of 
 her papering the bedrooms it was the utmost 
 they could compass, once when their shabbiness 
 got beyond all gentility, to have the parlor and 
 dining-room "regularly" papered by a man from 
 the paint store; any renovating that was done 
 elsewhere had to be much more cheaply com- 
 passed and, because running up and down lad- 
 ders was so hard to do with skirts on, her mother 
 donned a pair of overalls which the Professor wore 
 when he cleaned out the furnace. She could do 
 this, too that truly wonderful mother! without 
 
 42
 
 Olivia 
 
 sacrifice of dignity in her children's eyes. Later 
 when they had ceased to be children it only 
 lent her the great dignity of resourcefulness, of 
 course. But even at the time, it did not make 
 her in the least ridiculous. They were used to 
 such strange shifts to get along those children 
 that they had learned to overlook the means, 
 often grotesque, by which they must always reach 
 any desired end. And Olivia had other recollec- 
 tions of her mother perhaps on that very day 
 whereon she "papered"; for donning overalls 
 to hang wall-paper was but one of a score of 
 like things which might characterize any of this 
 woman's days recollections of her as she sat 
 at the head of her plain board and dispensed 
 her scant fare with such wealth of welcome and 
 such sauce of piquant conversation that guests 
 went away with no idea of what they had eaten, 
 only of how glad they were to have been 
 there. 
 
 The Professor became paralyzed when he was 
 fifty the result, his doctors said, of the priva- 
 tions he had undergone in his long student years; 
 innutrition for the young, growing body and over- 
 taxation of the young, growing mind bring their 
 inevitable penalty when there should be full- 
 powered prime. Then the struggle which had 
 always seemed to tax every particle of their 
 powers became a hundred-fold more bitter; and 
 
 43
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 yet they found that somehow they were equal to 
 it for they lived on. 
 
 When Charlie Bardeen fell in love with Olivia, 
 he was so enraged at the way she had to work and 
 the sacrifices she had always to be making that 
 he seemed quite in danger of going out of his 
 mind. Olivia's young heart was often bitter, and 
 it was Charlie's impassioned resentment of her 
 lot that won her probably. He had gone to col- 
 lege where her father taught, and their mild little 
 romance had begun in Charlie's junior year. 
 There was nothing to fan it, ever, beyond the 
 mild stage, until Charlie under the influence of 
 some momentarily favorite author, no doubt 
 produced this fine frenzy of protectiveness. It 
 was consoling in a college senior but not vastly 
 promising. 
 
 But Charlie got a private-secretaryship the sec- 
 ond year after he graduated, and at a salary exactly 
 as good as the Professor was able to earn when 
 he had six degrees, including one from Heidel- 
 berg. He wanted Olivia to marry him at once 
 "and get out of all that mess of things." This 
 staggered Olivia a little, but not so much as it 
 should have done. She was shocked at Charlie's 
 irresponsibility, but she allowed herself to excuse 
 it on the ground of his youth and of his eagerness. 
 For eagerness is appealing to the girl-heart, espe- 
 cially to the girl who has known so much struggle 
 
 44
 
 Olivia 
 
 and renunciation. And Olivia didn't know how 
 to question a man's eagerness; how to test it for 
 selfishness, and to be afraid. 
 
 She refused, firmly and finally, to slip out and 
 leave her share of the burden on her mother's 
 shoulders. When Charlie realized that she was 
 immovable about this, he said, "Well, then, let 
 us get married and live with them. I'll pay your 
 way, and mine, and that '11 surely help some. 
 Things '11 be easier then than they are now." 
 
 "But they'll have to move to the city/' she 
 reminded him. 
 
 "Of course. But that's where the boys '11 have 
 to be, anyway, if they're going to work." 
 
 So they were married. . . . Olivia was per- 
 fectly fair about it. She admitted to herself, and 
 to Charlie, that it was more than should have 
 been expected of any young man shouldering 
 the cares of such a household at the outset of his 
 business life. For, of course, that was what it 
 amounted to. 
 
 She couldn't blame him when, after two years, 
 he insisted on a home of his own. He was tired 
 of the air of anxiety; tired of the atmosphere of 
 illness; tired of having his young wife always so 
 tied down with cares that, as he said, he hardly 
 saw more of her than if he were a mere boarder in 
 the house. Tiredest of all was he of living so 
 close to a hundred needs, all of them urgent, that 
 
 45
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 it was impossible to keep within one's "board" 
 limit, putting the rest in bank or into simple in- 
 dulgences, without feeling like a selfish brute. 
 So they moved. It broke Olivia's heart, but she 
 offered no resistance, for by this time she was 
 able to look her married situation clearly in the 
 face and estimate its further prospects. They 
 were not blissful prospects, but she did not feel 
 that that altered her duty in any way. Charlie 
 was not to blame, she felt; he was essentially the 
 same Charlie she had always known, only she 
 had not always known how to estimate him. 
 There was nothing glaringly wrong about him; 
 Olivia could have got on with him much better 
 if there had been some big fault, some pathetic 
 weakness. He was just selfish that was all 
 just ordinarily and quite understandably, but 
 hopelessly, selfish. He wanted to live comforta- 
 bly and to get along creditably. So long as he 
 was neither resisted nor entreated, he was a suf- 
 ficiently amiable man to live with. He worked 
 steadily; he paid his household bills; he never 
 drank. But when Constance was in her dreaded 
 "second summer," ailing and fretful all the time, 
 and Olivia was nursing and tending her, and 
 doing her own housework, and going over to her 
 mother's every day to try to lend a helping hand 
 in the sickroom where her father lay gasping his 
 life away in the torrid heat, Charlie seemed un-
 
 Olivia 
 
 conscious of the burden she was bearing. He 
 never raged against the toilsomeness of her lot. 
 Olivia noted this, grimly. But she made no 
 complaint; there was nothing to be hoped for in 
 complaining to Charlie. He was the sort of man 
 who never took spiritual stock of himself, either 
 on his own initiative or on another's urging; noth- 
 ing was further from his thoughts than whether 
 he was a better or a worse, a meaner or a finer, 
 man to-day than yesterday. He lived in the pres- 
 ent so much so that he had not even an acute 
 dissatisfaction with being, at thirty-seven, a private 
 secretary, just as he had been at twenty-four. 
 
 Olivia was determined that for Constance's sake 
 she would never lose her spirit. It was the efforts 
 her mother-love prompted her to, and the sweet- 
 ness of it swelling in her heart, that made a late 
 springtime burgeon in her soul. She had been 
 feeling, this last year or two, little evidences of 
 the tribute the world pays, in passing, to at- 
 tractiveness. Now and then some one who had 
 known her long would say: "Olivia is growing 
 pretty." Now and then some one who met her, 
 or saw her, for the first time, would show as 
 Lyman Innes had unwittingly shown that morn- 
 ing an instant admiration. Olivia was waking 
 up to a new phase of life. She had felt a flutter- 
 ing consciousness of it momentarily before to-day. 
 But to-day the consciousness had stayed with her; 
 
 47
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 had dominated all her thoughts; had refused to 
 be driven out of her mind. 
 
 When she returned from the Capitol to go 
 about her ordinary task of getting dinner, her 
 heart was hot with rebelliousness. It was true, 
 as the Governor had said, she could have been a 
 help! And what a difference it would have made 
 to her feeling that she was playing a part in a 
 big issue; associating daily, even if for only a 
 few minutes, with a man like the Governor; earn- 
 ing, too, some money to relieve the pinch of their 
 circumstances! But no! Charlie wouldn't have 
 it; she might bring him into some disrepute with 
 his employer, the bitterest of all those who de- 
 nounced the Governor for refusing to call out the 
 State troops. . . . 
 
 She got up, when she had eased her heart with 
 crying, and went into the kitchen to bathe her 
 hot, tear-stained face. She looked at the kitchen 
 clock. It was not nine o'clock too soon to call 
 Constance in and make her go to bed in her low- 
 ceiled, stuffy little room. She would read awhile. 
 But the book she had found interesting night 
 before last palled on her unendurably this even- 
 ing. Last evening she had had the letters. How 
 fascinating they were all those various points of 
 view! And what a fool she had been to try to tell 
 Charlie about them, and about her new under- 
 taking, when he came up at eleven o'clock from 
 
 48
 
 Olivia 
 
 his loitering downtown! She could have read the 
 letters and made her reports, and Charlie need 
 never have been any the wiser! 
 
 With sudden determination, she closed her book, 
 went over to the little oak writing-desk, and wrote 
 a note. Disregarding all forms, she began: 
 
 I am deeply honored with the confidence you express in 
 my ability to be of service. I want to help. I cannot be 
 satisfied not to help. And, as I told you, I need to do 
 something. This seems such a Heaven-sent opportunity 
 that I am going to grasp it. No embarrassment to Mr. 
 Bardeen can ensue if he knows nothing of my reconsider- 
 ing. As no harm to any one can possibly be involved, and 
 we hope that, on the contrary, good may come, I am per- 
 suaded that there can be nothing wrong in a little subter- 
 fuge. These times are times of war industrial war and 
 I am aware that ingenuousness has not always been the 
 best servant of warfare. I will call at the Executive Offices 
 to-morrow morning about eleven. 
 
 This she sealed, addressed to Mr. Clarence F. 
 Perkins, wrote L. I. in the lower left-hand corner, 
 and carried out to the mail-box. 
 
 Then she called Constance in, and beguiled her 
 reluctant going to bed with such pretty playful- 
 ness that Constance was enchanted. 
 
 "You act lovely and glad" said the child 
 gratefully, as her mother kissed her good-night. 
 
 49
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 " NOR EVER ANY MORE " 
 
 THE summer dragged its torrid length along. 
 Starving, but stubborn, the strikers held 
 out. Sullen in their rage, the employers refused 
 compromise. And the public clamored unceas- 
 ingly. Of all the clamor that got into print, or 
 into general circulation in the strata that print 
 influenced, not much was favorable to the starv- 
 ing men. Lyman Innes might well have felt the 
 whole world against him had it not been for 
 those letters that kept pouring in. Many of them 
 were abusive, too; but there were others that 
 made his courage unflinching. That part of the 
 world in sympathy with the strikers soon got to 
 know where his interest lay, and it poured its 
 gratefulness in upon him as openly as, for his 
 sake, it dared. The other part, meanwhile, ex- 
 pressed a contempt or hate for him according to 
 the degree in which its convenience or its profit 
 was involved. 
 
 The times that were hardest for him were those 
 when here and there in the State sundry men 
 among the strikers, less self-disciplined than the 
 
 5
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 rest, let their passions fly to deeds of violence. A 
 broken window in a strike neighborhood, or a 
 head broken in such a saloon row as passed un- 
 noticed at other times, and the clamor for the 
 troops became frenzied. Grimly, then, Lyman 
 Innes was wont to turn to the records of sack 
 and pillage and arson and rape among the 
 armies of the Union fighting for an undivided 
 country in which no man should be a slave. The 
 generals who led those armies acknowledged 
 some of them indifferently, some sadly and in 
 shame their inability to curb these brutal pas- 
 sions in their victorious fighting-men. How much 
 less, then, Lyman Innes urged, could be expected 
 of an army of men who were not winning, and 
 whose wives and children were crying for bread. 
 He considered the self-restraint of the strikers 
 marvellous, on the whole, and he longed with all 
 his heart to tell them so. But every expression 
 that went out from the Executive Offices had to 
 be guarded in the extreme not for the sake of 
 Lyman Innes' s political future, but for the sake 
 of present peace. Impeachment lay in wait for 
 him, he knew holding off only for evidence. A 
 single ill-advised utterance, and he might be put 
 where no steadfast resistance of his would keep 
 State troops from offering armed threats to men 
 whose cause was just. And failure to realize this 
 made some who should have held him most grate- 
 
 51
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 fully in their hearts speak bitterly of him, as of 
 one who would not dare. 
 
 At length, appeal was made to Federal power; 
 the President was besought to take the situation 
 in hand and to send United States troops and 
 establish martial law. Delaying answer to this 
 demand, the President sent for Governor Innes. 
 
 The hurried trip to Washington was made 
 quietly. It was given out, at the Capital, that 
 the Governor had gone to spend a week-end with 
 his family. Instead, he remained a little longer 
 on the train and went to the summer Capital of 
 the nation which, in that administration, was not 
 far from Washington. 
 
 The Governor had been back at his desk but an 
 hour or two, on Monday morning, when Perkins 
 opened the door of his own private office for 
 Olivia. With the briefest possible acknowledg- 
 ment to him, Olivia sat down (as her wont was) 
 at his desk, and Perkins withdrew. He could not 
 help knowing that Olivia disliked him, and as he 
 could not see the slightest reason why she should, 
 he, naturally, disliked her in turn. 
 
 She was as far as those few of the office force 
 who ever saw her were concerned a woman who 
 did some clerical work at home to help Mr. Per- 
 kins through the unusual mass of correspond- 
 ence. She came mornings about ten o'clock, and 
 worked for a while, getting her stuff together, in 
 
 52
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 Mr. Perkins's office while he was busy in the Gov- 
 ernor's private room, with orders not to be dis- 
 turbed. Her name was not on the pay-rolls. 
 Presumably, Mr. Perkins himself paid for her 
 assistance. No one Olivia encountered in her 
 comings and goings seemed to give the slightest 
 curious heed to her. It was only Perkins be- 
 cause of what she knew that he knew whom she 
 hated; yes, and because of what she knew he 
 thought of her that she did not deserve. His 
 inability to comprehend what she had no right 
 to expect that he could comprehend, enraged her. 
 
 When he was gone this morning, she took off 
 her hat and ran her fingers through her damp 
 hair to break up the little ringlets that formed in 
 it when she was overheated. Then she went to 
 the window-embrasure and stood there, listening 
 for a hand upon the inner door, her heart beating 
 nervously. 
 
 The instant that door opened and she saw his 
 face, she should know how his plea to the Presi- 
 dent had been received. She felt that she could 
 not bear it if he had lost. And yet, if he had lost, 
 she must not only bear it, but she must help him 
 to bear it, too. She was nerving herself to what 
 she felt might be the ordeal of her life, when the 
 door opened and he was there. 
 
 Olivia swayed slightly and clutched at a heavy 
 curtain. In an instant he was beside her. 
 
 53
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 "Why, Pardner!" he said it was his own name 
 for her. 
 
 "I'm ashamed of * Pardner/" she answered, 
 trying to laugh but unable to conceal the little, 
 hysterical note in her voice. "But oh! I was 
 so afraid!" 
 
 She knew then, without asking, that her fears 
 had been not groundless, by any means, but 
 unnecessary; it was the sharp reaction of her 
 relief that made her lose her poise. 
 
 " I was so afraid ! " she repeated. " It has seemed 
 weeks since you went I have been so anxious." 
 
 "I would have wired you," he said, "but I did 
 not dare." 
 
 "Of course not." She said nothing to him of 
 what it had been to her, those three days, to con- 
 ceal the anxiousness and go ordinarily about her 
 duties; for, not by art but by instinct, she kept 
 from him, as much as she could, the stress she 
 was constantly under that she might be his 
 "Pardner." 
 
 He held open for her the door into his own 
 private office, and they went in. It was their 
 hour. There was a chair she always sat in; when 
 she was gone, he laid an ever-ready armful of 
 Official Records on it so that no one else could 
 sit there till she came again. He picked up the 
 fat, black volumes now, and she smiled; for he 
 had told her. 
 
 54
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 "Well?" she said, looking up at him. "Tell 
 me every word of it that you can/* 
 
 So he told her now pacing up and down as he 
 talked, now standing for a minute at a time and 
 looking down into her eager face about his inter- 
 view with the President. 
 
 "It was really your interview, Pardner," he 
 began. "Things were all against me at the out- 
 set. When I pleaded the earnestness of the strik- 
 ing men, the President came back at me with the 
 recital of what he called their lawlessness. It 
 was then I got out your data the selected letters 
 the facts and figures you worked so hard to 
 bring together. The President was tremendously 
 impressed. He is a big man, and I am sure he 
 wants to be fair fair to everybody, but if a little 
 more fair to one than to another, then to the man 
 with most against him. He isn't a sentimentalist 
 in any sense; he is not appealed to by the under 
 dog because he is under, but only if he is unfairly 
 bested if his cause is just. I have almost never 
 talked with a man who impressed me as having 
 so unimpassioned a love of justice. Lincoln, you 
 know" he smiled at her "our Lincoln, was not 
 unimpassioned perhaps the biggest men never 
 are. But unless you can have a ruler whose 
 splendid passions run to righteousness as under 
 Divine guidance, I reckon the next best kind is 
 one who has an all-compelling love for right in 
 
 55
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 the abstract. This President of ours is a kind of 
 Solomon in judgment. And you feel that he 
 would make, on the same grounds, the same 
 decision whether all or none of his own interests 
 were at stake." 
 
 There was so much to tell her, and the time 
 was so short imperatively shorter this morning 
 than usual, because of the number of persons who 
 must be seen in conferences. He talked rapidly, 
 seldom taking his eyes from her face with its 
 radiance of eager interest. But he felt that he 
 had hardly begun, when the time of his first ap- 
 pointment was at hand. 
 
 "I'll save comment on these," she said, indi- 
 cating the .letters and newspaper clippings she 
 had selected for him to read, "until to-morrow. 
 There's nothing that cannot wait." 
 
 "And this evening?" he asked, as he held open 
 for her the door into Perkins's room. 
 
 "As always/' she answered, "I do not know. 
 But I'll try." 
 
 When they could, they stole an hour in the 
 evening, sometimes. There was a small park not 
 many squares away either from the Governor's 
 Mansion or from the little, slate-colored, two- 
 story cottage where Olivia had her home. When 
 Charlie was downtown as he nearly always was 
 and Constance was playing about in the neigh- 
 borhood, Olivia could sometimes manage to slip 
 
 56
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 down there for a little while after the supper 
 dishes were done and before it was time to see 
 that Constance got to bed. She never could be 
 sure that she could get away. But almost always 
 he managed to be there waiting for her, on a 
 retired bench, like a grocery-boy swain awaiting 
 his servant-maid sweetheart. 
 
 Only once both of them trembling every min- 
 ute with realization of the risk they were running 
 had he been to her home for just long enough 
 to satisfy himself with a glimpse of the background 
 against which she lived the other hours, and to 
 gratify her with the memory of his presence there. 
 And once shaking guiltily with the same sense 
 of risk he had been able to stand with her for a 
 few brief moments beneath the War Governor's 
 portrait; to see her sit, for a fraction of relentlessly 
 hurrying time, in the chair by the table, where 
 the lamplight shone on her soft white throat. 
 
 For the rest, their snatches of companionship 
 were taken in the little park where it rather 
 grimly amused him that the head of the State 
 should have to go, along with those others who, 
 for one reason or another, had no place else to 
 meet the objects of their affections. 
 
 That evening he waited in vain for her to come. 
 When the Capitol clock pealed out nine strokes, 
 he knew that he need no longer expect her; and, 
 driven by a disappointment so keen that it ought 
 
 57
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 to have alarmed him, he walked across the park, 
 away from the Governor's Mansion and in the 
 direction of the Bardeen cottage. 
 
 There were lights burning downstairs and in 
 more than one room above. He knew this was 
 not ordinary, for he had many times passed this 
 way about this time, after an unrewarded waiting. 
 Olivia was frugal of gas, he knew. 
 
 Immediately, the sick fear seized him that she 
 was ill. Why he jumped to the conclusion of her 
 illness not Charlie's, nor Constance's he could 
 not explain to himself; but we are always most 
 fearful for what we hold most precious, as if we 
 still believed in fates or furies who keep watch to 
 steal our treasure, not because they want it, but 
 because we love it so. 
 
 Lurking in shadows that would hide him from 
 recognition, Lyman Innes hung about the cottage 
 for what seemed to him an eternity of time, watch- 
 ing for her shadow to pass across a lighted, opaque 
 shade, or for some one to enter or leave the 
 house who might give him a clew to what was 
 happening there. But the lights burned on; no 
 shadow reassured him; and no one came or went. 
 Finally, in an agony of apprehension, he went 
 home. 
 
 That night Lyman Innes spent in vigil. Part 
 of the time he was two men, as separate as the 
 War Governor and the Cavalier; and one of the 
 
 58
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 two argued mightily with the other. Then, again, 
 there was but one man present, and he looked up 
 at the laughing Cavalier as at one who could 
 understand. 
 
 Pacing up and down past the chair where She 
 had sat once in reality, but so often, in his fancy 
 it was some time before his preoccupied gaze 
 fell on a letter on the library table. It was from 
 Julia; and he remembered, with a guilty start, 
 that it had been there this morning when he 
 came from the train. Even now, he found his 
 strong impulse was not to open it he dreaded 
 the reiteration of Julia's reproaches but to put 
 it in his pocket so that the servants might not see 
 it lying there unopened. 
 
 And yet in a week Julia herself would be back; 
 would be sitting, doubtless, in that very chair 
 Olivia had sat in. He had not been disloyal to 
 Julia in deed only in thought. But Julia, who 
 believed firmly in the natural depravity of all 
 men and some women, would never, if any inkling 
 of the affair got to her ears, credit him, or Olivia, 
 with less than the blackest infamy. 
 
 It might never get to Julia's ears ? Possibly 
 not. And yet, once the strike was settled, or 
 public interest in it died down, there would be 
 no excuse for Olivia's services at the Capitol; 
 and how else once life took on its normal routine 
 again could he hope to see her ? 
 
 59
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Look at you to-night!" one of the two men 
 he was reminded him. "See the agony of ap- 
 prehensiveness you are in because she did not 
 keep a silly little rendezvous in a public park. 
 Can you go on this way ? All fall and winter 
 long, are you going to let yourself go into a frenzy 
 every time you want to see her and can't compass 
 it? Can you govern a great State and be gov- 
 erned by a weakness like that ? I'll grant you 
 that she's sweet and gentle and good, and has 
 been a great help and comfort to you. And I'll 
 grant you that you don't have much happiness in 
 Julia. But what is there for you to do ? Julia is 
 there, and likely to stay. You couldn't put her 
 away from you in the quaint Bible phrase 
 and, for the children's sake, you know that you 
 wouldn't if you could. What then ? A con- 
 tinued clandestineness ? You know the hideous 
 unwholesomeness of that! Will you make your- 
 self a slave to secrecy and fear ? This is a good 
 time to reckon with yourself, and to look the 
 probable future frankly in the face." 
 
 "But what of her?" urged the other pleader. 
 "Will you withdraw yourself out of her poor little 
 life at the moment your peace of mind demands ? 
 You have made yourself a factor in her hungry 
 days. When you disregard your own heart's 
 emptiness, can you disregard her heart's empti- 
 ness, too ? " 
 
 60
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 Back and forth, back and forth swung the 
 argument. As soon as it seemed established that 
 there was nothing in reason to do but to try to 
 forget, up would come a great surge of mixed 
 tenderness and egotism, and he would cry out 
 that he could not desert her. It was well on 
 toward morning when he left the library to go 
 upstairs; and the pendulum in his mind was still 
 swinging. But it was something that when he 
 passed the Cavalier he did not look up into the 
 mocking eyes. 
 
 In the morning, with a day full of grave busi- 
 ness before him, Lyman Innes found that the up- 
 permost, ever-present question in his mind was: 
 Will she come ? 
 
 She did not come. Instead, Perkins brought 
 him in a letter addressed to Clarence F. Perkins 
 Personal. 
 
 " Evidently for you, sir," said Perkins, indicating 
 the L. I. in the corner and withdrawing discreetly 
 without suggesting that he knew the authorship. 
 
 Lyman Innes's first thought was one of relief 
 at least she was not ill, not very ill, or she could 
 not have written. Then, although he believed he 
 had decided what he must do, he was conscious 
 as he broke the seal of a fear which made him 
 sick at heart. Suppose she wrote to say she could 
 never come again! 
 
 61
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Her note had no formal address. 
 
 "Some time," she said, "I will explain to you 
 I hope! Just now it must be enough to say I 
 cannot come to-day, nor ever any more. I com- 
 fort myself with believing that you know what 
 this means to me! The work I have I will get 
 back to you very soon at the first opportunity/' 
 
 It had come! He sat as one stunned, staring 
 stupidly at the chair piled with Official Records. 
 "Nor ever any more!" . . . All morning, as he 
 went about his difficult work, that phrase lay on 
 his heart like a weight of doom: "Nor ever any 
 more ! " 
 
 Olivia was through her work early on Monday 
 evening. Charlie did not come home to supper, 
 so she saved for next day the meat she had bought 
 principally on his account; and it was a quick 
 and easy matter clearing up after the little bite she 
 and Constance ate. He might come late, though; 
 anything like a regular appearance at meal times 
 even now, when he was unemployed was not 
 among the courtesies he conceded to Olivia. So 
 she sat down on her back door-step to wait; the 
 front of the house was no place to appear if one 
 did not wish to invite calls from the neighbors, 
 all of whom spent the warm evenings in visiting 
 from porch to porch. 
 
 A little gust of breeze slammed the kitchen 
 62
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 door shut behind her. Absorbed in her reveries, 
 and cut off by the closing of the door, she did not 
 hear Charlie come in. He called her. No answer, 
 Hating, man-like, the dark, silent house, he lit 
 the gas in the parlor, then in the dining-room. 
 He looked into the shadowy kitchen. She was 
 not there. He went upstairs, lighting the gas in 
 her room, in Constance's, in his own. Not rind- 
 ing her, he came down again, leaving the lights 
 burning. 
 
 When the Capitol clock struck eight, she got up 
 to go, thinking he would not come now. The 
 kitchen door was self-locking, so she went around 
 the side of the house to close the front door the 
 only precaution that was ever necessary when 
 she left the place for this brief hour while the 
 street was full of neighbors, watching and gos- 
 siping, and of children at play. 
 
 As she went up the porch steps, she met him, 
 coming out the front door. 
 
 "Where have you been ?" he demanded, accus- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Sitting on the back steps waiting for you," 
 she answered, "and the kitchen door blew shut." 
 
 "It's a lie!" he shouted. 
 
 Olivia looked over her shoulder to see if any 
 one's attention had been attracted by his loud 
 tones. Ignoring his insult, she begged pacifi- 
 cally: 
 
 63
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Come in-doors, Charlie, and let me get your 
 supper." 
 
 "I don't want any supper. I want to know 
 where you've been." 
 
 "I told you where I have been/* 
 
 "And I told you it was a lie a damned lie!" 
 
 "If you will come into the house, and talk 
 quietly if you can't talk respectfully I'll dis- 
 cuss it with you; but not out here." 
 
 Sullenly he followed her in. She went to the 
 windows and closed them. He knew what she 
 meant: "In case you forget yourself." When 
 she made a move to turn out the gas in the dining- 
 room, he stopped her. 
 
 "Let it burn," he said. "I want light on a good 
 many things lots of light!" 
 
 His voice was hoarse, and he had about him a 
 kind of ugliness Olivia had never seen in him 
 before; he was often sulky, but this was different 
 this was rage, blind, passionate rage. As well 
 try to argue with a madman, she knew. 
 
 Not knowing how to begin to pacify him, she 
 waited for him. It was useless to offer defense 
 until she knew what his charge was. It would 
 be useless in any case, she reflected before or 
 after accusation but doubly useless before. So 
 .she waited. 
 
 "Well," he said," have you got anything to say ?" 
 
 "About what?"
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 "Don't shift!" he cried menacingly. 
 
 "About where I was after I washed my supper 
 dishes?" 
 
 "About where you have been spending most of 
 your time lately." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean. I have spent 
 most of my time lately, as always, at home doing 
 my housework." 
 
 "You have NOT!" he thundered. 
 
 "Is there any use talking to you at all?" she 
 asked icily. 
 
 "Not much! I'm small fry, after a Governor, 
 I know. But you're married to me and I've got 
 an accounting due. I mean to get it, too. So, 
 begin!" 
 
 His manner filled her with rage. His look, his 
 tone, accused her of the vilest crimes. Already, 
 in his heart, her guilt was proved. He ordered 
 her to plead, only that he might have the mon- 
 strous satisfaction of telling her her plea was vain. 
 
 She would not plead! She turned from him 
 and walked swiftly toward the stairs. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he demanded. 
 
 "To my room anywhere to shut myself away 
 from insult," she answered. 
 
 He seized her roughly and shook her with in- 
 sensate violence. 
 
 "To your room!" he shouted, "but not any- 
 where else! I'll fool him for once and forever!" 
 
 65
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 She thought she read murder in his eyes, and 
 with a mighty effort she wrenched herself free 
 and fled up the stairs. When he reached her 
 door she had it locked. 
 
 He tried the door, then laughed. "That's a 
 flimsy protection for you," he called, "but I 
 guess it '11 do for me. Throw me the key over the 
 transom/* 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "Throw me the key," he repeated, "or I'll 
 crash in the door." He thrust his weight against 
 the door, and it creaked ominously. She drew 
 the key out of th* lock and flung it to him; any- 
 thing for a brief respite from the sight and sound 
 of him. He fumbled for it in the half-lighted 
 hall; and a moment later she heard him going 
 heavily downstairs. 
 
 When the sound of his footsteps had died away, 
 Olivia turned out the gas that was burning in her 
 room and threw herself on her bed. She was 
 too infuriated to cry too full of rage even to 
 think. She could only lie there and feel the hot 
 surges rise in her, and pass burning over her 
 to her very finger-tips where they oozed out 
 impotently. 
 
 His hand, clutching the key, in his pocket,. 
 Charlie Bardeen walked out of his house and 
 across the little park three squares away ta 
 
 66
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 the Executive Mansion, where he rang the bell 
 imperatively and asked for the Governor. 
 
 "The Governor is not at home," the butler 
 said. "Any name or message, sir?" 
 
 Charlie Bardeen hesitated. Then, "No/* he 
 answered; "I'll call again." 
 
 He recrossed the park where the Governor 
 sat, waiting and went back to his own street. 
 He had no intention of going into his house that 
 seemed impossible to him but he wanted to see 
 if anything had happened. 
 
 Noting that the light was out in Olivia's room, 
 he was filled with a horrid suspicion. Not even 
 the key he clutched stilled his questioning. There 
 might be another key! He entered and stole 
 silently up the stairs. At the door, he listened. 
 There was no sound. He tried the knob; the 
 lock was fast. Withdrawing the key from his 
 pocket, he opened the door and strode in. Olivia 
 sat up on her bed fear swallowed up in anger 
 and confronted him as he lighted the gas. Neither 
 of them spoke. His glance about the room was 
 full of insult. Then he turned out the light and 
 went out locking the door after him as ostenta- 
 tiously as a jailer might have done. 
 
 He had been gone but a few minutes when Con- 
 stance came in. Frightened at the emptiness of 
 the lighted house, Constance called, "Mamma!" 
 
 The appealing little cry reached into those 
 
 67
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 black depths where Olivia lay, hating life with 
 passionate resentment of all or nearly all it 
 had dealt her. Ah! but there was something that 
 she cherished! She was on her feet and beside 
 the door in an instant. 
 
 "Here, darling!'* she called reassuringly. 
 
 Constance tried the door. From the other side 
 of it came her mother's laugh. 
 
 "A funny thing has happened!" Olivia told the 
 child. " Mother's locked in ! And she has lost the 
 key." 
 
 It did not occur to Constance to wonder why 
 her mother had locked her door. 
 
 "Where'd you lose it?" she asked meaning 
 the key. 
 
 "That's what I can't tell," Olivia answered, so 
 gayly that the child did not suspect her double 
 meaning. "Is your father downstairs?" 
 
 "No, ma'am; I don't know where he is." 
 
 "Well, then, listen, Constance! Mother wants 
 to write a little letter. You wait there a minute 
 and she'll throw it through the transom to you. 
 Then you run across to the mail-box with it, and 
 come hurrying back." 
 
 When Constance returned her mother said: 
 "Let's play a lovely game. Pretend I'm a most 
 unhappy queen, and some bad men have shut me 
 up in a dungeon cell, and you are the little prin- 
 cess, my daughter; and in the night, when the 
 
 68
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 castle is all still, you come stealing along the dark 
 corridors to find where they have put me. Pre- 
 tend that transom is the only window in my cell, 
 and you are going to climb through it to sleep 
 with me. Suppose you could?" 
 
 "I don't know," Constance answered delight- 
 edly, "but I could try." 
 
 "Be careful and don't fall." 
 
 "No'm I won't." 
 
 There was the sound of a chair being dragged 
 to the other side of the door. Then, when the 
 utter inadequacy of that became apparent at a 
 glance, there were departing foot-falls, and silence 
 for several minutes. Resourceful Constance had 
 remembered the little three-step ladder her mother 
 used when hanging pictures, washing transoms, 
 and doing like things. Fortunately, it was up- 
 stairs, in the back bedroom over the kitchen 
 that a girl would have occupied if they had kept 
 one, but which served as a trunk- and store- and 
 sewing-room instead. 
 
 Running nimbly up its steps, Constance stood 
 high enough to look easily down at her mother. 
 
 Olivia smiled up at her. "Now to get you 
 through!" she said. But that was not difficult, 
 with Olivia standing on a chair to catch her. 
 
 Then it occurred to Olivia that they must try 
 to get the ladder inside, too "lest the jailers see 
 it." To do it, she had to push her bureau side- 
 
 6 9
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 wise to the door and, standing on that, reach over, 
 grasp the ladder, and drag it through. All of 
 which amused Constance delightfully. 
 
 The most unhappy queen and the little princess 
 slept in each other's arms or, at least, the little 
 princess slept, and the queen lay very still, so as 
 not to disturb her. 
 
 "What'll papa think when he comes home?" 
 the princess asked drowsily, as she was drifting 
 off to dreamland. 
 
 " Oh, he may not know. He often comes home 
 after we're asleep, you know." 
 
 At dawn Olivia was up and at the window, 
 measuring with her eye the distance to the ground, 
 and computing what she might be able to do with 
 the little ladder toward breaking it. Carefully 
 she let it down; but the part that was the prop 
 would not perform its duty, and the foolish thing 
 that might have helped her collapsed and lay prone 
 upon the ground. 
 
 Olivia dressed herself, then waked Constance. 
 
 "Get up, little princess," she said, "and don't 
 make any noise. Let's see if we can't get out of 
 here without waking up father. Think how he'd 
 tease us!" 
 
 With the aid of a sheet she easily let the child 
 down into the yard. Then, throwing down her 
 mattress to break her fall in case her own support 
 failed, she gashed a hole in one corner of her stout 
 
 7
 
 "Nor Ever Any More" 
 
 Marseilles spread, put one foot of her bureau 
 still barricading the door, but not too far from 
 the window through the hole, and, thus anchored, 
 let herself down into her side yard and freedom. 
 
 Even in all her haste and agitation she looked 
 back at the flapping spread, sorry she could not 
 hide the evidence of her escape. But she reflected 
 that a bedspread hanging, even diagonally, out 
 of a bedroom window might not proclaim to the 
 neighbors the shame to which she had been put. 
 She hid the mattress in the shed and carried the 
 step-ladder around to the kitchen door where it 
 would look less unusual. Then, seizing Constance 
 by the hand, she hurried down the back yard and 
 out through the alley gate. 
 
 "Why, Mamma! where are we going?" Con- 
 stance cried in astonishment. 
 
 Olivia burst into tears for the first time in all 
 her trouble. "God knows I don't!" she sobbed. 
 And, gripping even tighter the little hand she 
 held, she broke into a speed that was almost a 
 run. 
 
 The new day was but faintly dawned yet, and 
 they met no one as they hurried on.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE PRICE THAT WAS PAID 
 
 AT twelve-thirty an angry-looking man came 
 out of the Governor's office. He was 
 Charlie Bardeen's employer, and he had been 
 having an explosive interview with his State's 
 chief executive. The denial of that plea for Fed- 
 eral interference had cut off his last hope, and he 
 was beside himself with rage which he called 
 indignation. He was a man of large political 
 power, and he was infuriated to find that when he 
 most needed that power to serve him it was over- 
 ruled and set at naught. 
 
 "You'll never hold office of any kind in this 
 State again I can promise you that!" he cried. 
 There are some people whose present impotence 
 never weakens their belief in how strong they are 
 going to be to-morrow; like the sniveling little 
 boys they used to be, they still shake their fists 
 at their retiring victors and cry: "You just wait!" 
 
 Lyman Innes's present feeling was that he 
 never wanted to hold office in this or any other 
 State again, but he did not say so to his irate 
 caller. There was another "Never" that filled 
 
 72
 
 The Price That Was Paid 
 
 his ears so that to-day they were deadened to 
 threats of other loss. "Nor ever any more." 
 
 In the hall outside the Governor's office the 
 angry man, departing, fairly bumped into an- 
 other man who was hovering anxiously about the 
 corridor. 
 
 "What the !" began the angry man. Then 
 he recognized the other. "Ah, Bardeen!" he mut- 
 tered. "Infernal anarchist!" he jerked out, nod- 
 ding his head in the direction of the Governor's 
 door. 
 
 He had not reached the nearest exit when there 
 was a shot a second's awful silence then an- 
 other shot. He turned back. Men were rushing 
 out of the open doorways along every marble cor- 
 ridor. Ten feet outside the entrance to the Gov- 
 ernor's offices, Lyman Innes lay shot through the 
 lungs. Almost across his feet was the body of 
 Bardeen quite dead, although the sound of his 
 self-destroying shot had scarcely ceased echoing, 
 and the smoke from his revolver still hung, 
 wraith-like, in the heavy air. 
 
 As soon as Olivia was able to think at all, she 
 realized that she had very little money and no 
 place to go. Her shabby little purse contained 
 less than four dollars. That was all they had in 
 the world she and Constance except the few 
 clothes on their backs. Her first impulse was to 
 
 73
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 get out of town, to hide herself where she was not 
 known. But when she reflected how little money 
 she had to take them, and to keep them until she 
 could get work to do, she felt that for Con- 
 stance's sake she must not be rash. 
 
 She had a brother in town she was so thank- 
 ful, when she thought of her people, that the dear 
 Mother was gone where this that had happened 
 to Olivia could not hurt her and though he was 
 much younger than she, and probably could not 
 help her much, materially or with counsel, she 
 decided she would better go to him. 
 
 He was a struggling young fellow with a new 
 little wife, and a new little baby, and a new little 
 home. Olivia could not ask him for much; but 
 a shelter until she had time to think he could 
 at least give her. 
 
 "I have had to leave Charlie," she told him, 
 when she had roused him from his early morning 
 slumber. " Please don't ask me why, or anything 
 about it. Only let me come in for a little while, 
 and if he asks for me tell him I'm not here." 
 
 "Why, of course!" he agreed. But Olivia 
 could feel that both he and the new little wife were 
 unable however willing to sympathize at all 
 fully with a woman running away from her hus- 
 band and taking with her their only child. They 
 were thinking she as well as he that if it were 
 Nellie, now, who had taken the baby and gone 
 
 74
 
 The Price That Was Paid 
 
 to Charlie Bardeen, they'd hope that when Walter 
 came looking for her, Charlie would bring him 
 in, and call Nellie, and tell them to kiss and make 
 up. 
 
 Walter promised to do as Olivia asked. But 
 she felt that he was not incapable of promising 
 with mental reservations about doing what he 
 thought was for her good. So she had an uneasy 
 morning. But it wore away, somehow, and Charlie 
 did not come. At one o'clock Walter came home, 
 white and shaking. 
 
 "Charlie Bardeen," he managed to gasp, "has 
 shot the Governor." 
 
 Olivia's senses reeled she swayed and Wal- 
 ter caught her as she fell. 
 
 When she came out of her swoon, she asked: 
 "Is he dead?" 
 
 And thinking she meant Charlie, they said: 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her eyes closed and they thought she had 
 fainted again. But no merciful unconsciousness 
 came to her. Rather, it was as if her senses 
 electrified by the shock refused to spare her a 
 single crucifying memory. 
 
 Her first agony was of loss. The world seemed 
 stark to her, with him gone out of it. Then she 
 thought of the sorrow of others of his children 
 and of the vengeful rage with which those who 
 loved the dead man would turn upon his de- 
 
 75
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 stroyer. What would Charlie say when they ques- 
 tioned him ? In one horrible instant her mind 
 grasped the prospect of publicity of shame. For 
 herself she felt she did not care. But for Con- 
 stance! And for him whose fair fame would go 
 down in scandal to the grave! 
 
 So intense was her agony of suffering that it 
 was hours before Walter dared to ask her what 
 she wanted done about Charlie's body. 
 
 "Charlie's body?" she repeated dazedly. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "They went to the house to 
 notify you and couldn't find you of course. 
 There is much mystery about your disappearance. 
 Don't you think I'd better tell " 
 
 "Is Charlie dead?" she asked. 
 
 Then they were sure Walter and the little 
 new wife that in the shock of her sorrow she 
 had gone quite mad. 
 
 "Yes, dear," they said gently, but as if they did 
 not dare hope that they could make her under- 
 stand, "Charlie is dead. He was crazed, they say, 
 by not having any work and by the President's 
 refusal to end the strike and he shot the poor 
 Governor then killed himself." 
 
 Keyed as she was to the prospect of disgrace 
 compared with which death is a kindly Providence, 
 the relief this brought to Olivia was so great that 
 to those who were on-lookers and who could not 
 understand, she seemed more than ever to have 
 
 76
 
 The Price That Was Paid 
 
 gone mad not raving mad, but stricken, as 
 Ophelia was. 
 
 "Thank God!" she murmured. "Oh, thank 
 God!" 
 
 They gazed at her aghast. 
 
 "And the the Governor ?" she managed at last 
 to ask. 
 
 "He is not dead. But they say he cannot live." 
 
 At that she turned her face to the wall and did 
 not speak again. 
 
 Walter and Nellie poor, frightened children 
 taking counsel together, decided what they must 
 do. They would ignore the little quarrel what- 
 ever it was that had brought Olivia to their 
 house so early in the morning. 
 
 "For," said Nellie, clutching him fearfully, "if 
 it was you and me I couldn't bear to have it 
 known that our last words were unloving ones 
 and I had left you." 
 
 So they agreed that they would give out word 
 simply that Olivia had been crazed by the shock, 
 and that they would take charge for her of their 
 brother-in-law's burial. 
 
 When Olivia realized their conclusion she had 
 just one impulse: to take advantage of it. This 
 would give her the only possible cover under 
 which to shield from unwitting stabs her soul's 
 raw agony. 
 
 77
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 She let them bury Charlie, and they thought 
 they understood when she said she did not want 
 to look at him. 
 
 She heard them talk about the Governor's con- 
 dition; about the intense feeling the assassination 
 had aroused in the State and throughout the 
 country. Unceasing prayers were made for his 
 recovery but there was little hope. 
 
 Finally, after a lapse of time wherein she had 
 lost count of nights and days, she heard the Capitol 
 bell tolled. It was the signal to the people that 
 he had gone. 
 
 There was never such a funeral, people said, 
 except those of the two martyred Presidents. 
 
 The papers that had abused him most were 
 fullest of his eulogy. The powers that had op- 
 posed him were silent appeased, perhaps, by the 
 price he had paid. The President, shocked and 
 incensed, gave tribute to Lyman Innes as one of 
 the truest Americans the nation has produced to 
 do it honor. Hundreds of anecdotes got into 
 print and into conversation about his steadfast- 
 ness in the behalf of liberty, of justice. 
 
 As always, the assassin's hand served but to 
 bring out, to people's softened judgment, all that 
 was good in the victim, and to blur their remem- 
 brance of all in him that might have been weak 
 or unworthy. 
 
 78
 
 The Price That Was Paid 
 
 Thus fell the curtain on the life of Lyman 
 Innes. There was some wild talk of Bardeen's 
 having been hired to remove the Governor; but 
 that soon died. The deed went on record as a 
 madman's deed. And in the shock that followed 
 upon it, certain defenses fell, down; peace came 
 at last, and as he would have wished it. In the 
 sorrow his death caused, the strike was won. 
 
 Olivia never went back to the gray cottage. 
 Walter and Nellie took charge of it for her, sold 
 out all it contained except a few of her personal 
 effects, and Constance's and sent the pittance 
 the sale brought to Olivia in a city where, under 
 another name, she and Constance were trying to 
 face life anew. 
 
 79
 
 PART II
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 FIFTEEN YEARS LATER 
 
 ROSE was smiling whimsically at herself as 
 she stood in the half-lighted hall fumbling 
 in her purse to find her latch-key. 
 
 The moment she had let herself into the apart- 
 ment she heard the clatter of china in the dining- 
 room. 
 
 "Oh, I'm late again!" she cried and went 
 straight in there without waiting even to take off 
 her hat. 
 
 Johnny was at the table eating. 
 
 "No," he said good-humoredly, "it is only I 
 who am early as usual. Have to be!" 
 
 Davy was sitting in the baywindow reading by 
 the fading daylight. 
 
 "It doesn't seem," he said, only half-looking 
 up from his book, "as if this family would ever 
 arrive at the luxury of a dinner hour that every- 
 body can keep." 
 
 Johnny winked one black eye wickedly at Rose. 
 
 "'Do you know," he observed, with mock grav- 
 ity, "that being a literary editor is like to make 
 our Davy a snob? 'Member the hours we used 
 
 83
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 to keep when he was a mere reporter on the 
 Clarion ? " 
 
 Davy smiled over his book, but said nothing. 
 
 "Well," Rose admitted, "I don't suppose it 
 would be possible to have a dinner hour that 
 would suit me. The only time I ever face dinner 
 hour without protest, I believe, is down South, 
 where they dine sensibly at two or three o'clock. 
 There isn't much else than dine that anybody 
 cares to do at two o'clock. But at half-past five 
 or six, or seven! It's just impossible for me to 
 get home then." 
 
 "Cars stuck?" asked Davy. 
 
 Rose laughed. "I wasn't on any car," she 
 said. "I was loitering along on Shanks' mare. 
 If there could only be a prize for loitering," she 
 called out from her room adjoining, where she 
 had gone to remove her hat and coat, "there 
 couldn't any messenger boy or Broadway car beat 
 me to it! Country or city, this 's the time o' day 
 for it, too. Guess what I saw!" she demanded, 
 re-emerging. 
 
 Davy looked up interestedly Johnny was al- 
 ways eager to be interested. 
 
 "What?" they both said. Rose was always 
 coming in with a tale of adventure that they both 
 loved to hear. 
 
 "I was coming through Tenth Street, from 
 Sixth Avenue," she began.
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 Johnny grinned. " Discharged, or out on bail ? " 
 he asked. The Jefferson Market Police Court is 
 at Sixth Avenue and Tenth Street. 
 
 " Bail," Rose answered promptly, and went on. 
 " There was a man going up the avenue leading 
 a small, ornery-looking, real live bear. The bear 
 belonged to your profession, Johnny, and he had 
 a sign on inviting people to come and see him to- 
 night at the Royal Theatre for five cents.'* 
 
 "Idea for you, Johnny," Davy murmured. 
 
 "Don't like to be led," Johnny objected. 
 
 "It's the best thing you do!" Davy remarked. 
 
 "There was a beautiful crowd," Rose hastened 
 to interpose. "Women out on supper-buying 
 errands, and young folks on their way home from 
 sweatshops and factories, and a contingent from 
 the court hangers-on and potential prisoners 
 and millions of children. That old tribal patri- 
 arch who keeps the little clothing store was in his 
 doorway among his flapping bargains, peering 
 intently through his thick glasses; and a dago 
 who was selling cheap oranges from a wagon by 
 the curb flashed his white teeth in delighted 
 grins. I was moving along in the crowd, loving it 
 all, when I happened to look up suddenly and 
 across the street. On the opposite curb, looking 
 more entirely absorbed than anybody else in the 
 crowd, was a shy little man, almost shabby-look- 
 ing; if any one had noticed him which no one 
 
 85
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 did he would have passed for a seedy accountant 
 who had spent his uneventful life hunched over 
 the dreary ledgers of some pelt exporters, or the 
 like. I think he had been going through Tenth 
 Street to Cecchina's, probably, or to call on some 
 one in the Studio Building but he forgot it. 
 For when I lost sight of the crowd, going up the 
 avenue, he was engulfed in it " 
 
 "Getting material for a new story," said Davy, 
 who had easily guessed the little rn^n's identity. 
 
 "No," corrected Rose, "I don't think he was 
 not consciously, I mean. He was just following 
 the bear, and the crowd, because it appealed to 
 the eternal boy-heart in him. He couldn't write 
 the things he does if he went about looking for 
 'copy.' Do you think he could ? He loves life 
 for its own sake quite instinctively and it ex- 
 presses itself through him or so it seems to me." 
 
 "He's a wonder that mah!" pronounced 
 Johnny. 
 
 Rose nodded. "I know it made me feel 'all 
 thrill-y' inside. Nobody guessed who he was 
 nobody there had even heard of him, perhaps. 
 And yet how much they all owe him! I couldn't 
 help thinking: that shambling bear may go down 
 into the tenderest immortality! Maybe, when I'm 
 'an old, old, old, old lady' and write my memoirs, 
 I shall tell about this late October evening, and 
 my homeward walk, and how I happened to see 
 
 86
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 Ansel Rodman when he caught his first sight of 
 Bruin; and everybody who reads will sigh envi- 
 ously and say: 'Dear me! just think of that!" 
 
 The boys laughed, and recalled Rose to this 
 present. 
 
 "A minute more, there/' Johnny teased, "and 
 you'd have been asking for 'my specs, so's I can 
 read my royalty reports. I am so glad I was a 
 thrifty young woman and began early to save up 
 for my memoirs. Banks sometimes fail, my chil- 
 dren, dear but memoirs keep getting richer like 
 brandied peaches every year you have 'em!' " 
 
 Johnny's tonal and facial imitations of the 
 reminiscent old lady were irresistibly comical. 
 Born mimic that he was, he could draw in the 
 corners of his laughing young mouth to simulate 
 old age from whose shrunken gums the plate of 
 false teeth was continually dropping to interfere 
 with speech; could veil the lights dancing in his 
 eyes and take on the peering look of age when 
 hunting spectacles. And the quaver in his voice, 
 the unctuousness of manner he put on, made Rose 
 and Davy laugh until the tears rolled down their 
 cheeks. 
 
 "That's one o* the things," Johnny went on, 
 resuming his own serio-comic character, "that 
 keeps me from saving. I know that when I'm 
 a decrepit gent, Rose '11 take care of me with her 
 memoirs." 
 
 8?
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Oh, but consider!" Rose implored him. 
 "You may have years of decrepitude before I'm 
 old enough to publish memoirs. Or I may die 
 under auto or trolley wheels before I'm old 
 enough to write them. Or, fifty years from now, 
 the people of to-day who interest me so may not 
 be the ones that generation will want to hear 
 about. It's as speculative as frenzied finance 
 collecting memories! You haven't the least way 
 of knowing what'll be precious to other people 
 in fifty years." 
 
 "I've a * trade last' for you!" cried Davy, joy- 
 ously. 
 
 "Give it to me," Rose pleaded. 
 
 "I said a 'trade last,' " Davy reminded her. 
 
 Rose looked appealingly at Johnny. "Tell me 
 something nice about Davy," she begged. 
 
 "Can't truthfully," Johnny teased. 
 
 "When were you ever left speechless before, for 
 lack of truth ? " retaliated Davy. 
 
 Johnny grinned. "But this time, even my usu- 
 ally vivid imagination fails me." 
 
 "Never mind, Davy," Rose consoled, "I re- 
 member one I had, from a more discriminating 
 quarter. Mrs. Bristow said " 
 
 "When did you see Mrs. Bristow?" Johnny 
 interrupted. 
 
 "This afternoon I've just come from there. 
 Mrs. Bristow said she thought Davy was one of 
 
 88
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 the most admirable young men she had ever met. 
 
 Davy winced. "I'm tired of being * admira- 
 ble,' " he said. 
 
 "Why, Davy!" Johnny expostulated; then 
 added virtuously, "I'm not!" 
 
 "You haven't begun!" Davy retorted. 
 
 "Truth! Bitter truth!" Johnny admitted. But 
 he did not seem downcast. 
 
 "Davy," said Rose, "/ think you're the very 
 divil for irresistibleness. Now do I get my trade ? " 
 
 "You do! Oswald Seever and I were talking 
 the other day about the prospects of some people 
 we know, and somehow a little joke suggested 
 itself about your memoirs. 'That's all right,' 
 Oswald said, *I tell you I believe in those mem- 
 oirs with all my heart. Sometimes, when I get 
 to thinking about them, I can just see how all of 
 us in whom Rose has expressed belief, will have 
 to hustle and make good for her sake. I had the 
 doleful dumps a while ago, and was going to burn 
 up a lot of stuff and quit trying (kind of Kip- 
 ling waste-basket Recessional Ode feeling). 
 And then I had a vision of Rose forty years from 
 now sorting over her memories and dropping 
 all those that concerned me in the discard. And 
 I could hear her say to herself: "Queer thing 
 about Oswald! I always thought " And I 
 lighted my pipe instead of my pyre. Conse-
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 quence! I sold two of those things within ten 
 days and to better magazines than any that 'd 
 turned 'em so contumeliously down!" 
 
 "There!" cried Rose delightedly. "Even if 
 nothing more comes of my memoirs, I'm sure 
 they're justified. And I shall never or almost 
 never question the place of a Mere Person among 
 the Olympians henceforth." 
 
 She and Davy had joined Johnny at dinner, 
 but Johnny was what he called "one lap ahead 
 and going like the wind." 
 
 "Tell about the Bristows before I have to 
 leave," he implored, starting on his dessert. 
 
 "Well," Rose began, "I went up there this 
 afternoon. Emily and her mother were both at 
 home, and I had the pleasantest kind of a call. 
 Mrs. Bristow is a charming woman " 
 
 "I thought you'd like her," Johnny said. 
 
 "I asked them to come down Sunday evening 
 and share our bowl of salad," Rose went on. 
 "And at first Mrs. Bristow seemed to hesitate 
 said she almost never went anywhere; but 
 after awhile she said she'd come that they'd be 
 most happy to come." 
 
 "I don't believe they know many people in 
 New York," Davy remarked. 
 
 "They don't," said Johnny. "Emily told me 
 so. Well! I'm off. See you later." 
 
 "Much later?" asked Rose teasingly. 
 90
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 "Never can tell I'm not a prophet," Johnny 
 answered. Then the hall door closed, and they 
 could hear him whistling as he ran down the 
 stairs. 
 
 "I don't suppose," observed Davy a little 
 gravely, after a brief pause, "that there is any one 
 else on earth quite so continuously happy as 
 Johnny is." 
 
 Rose looked up quickly and caught the gleam 
 of wistfulness in Davy's eyes. 
 
 "Oh, yes there is, Davy dear," she corrected 
 gently. "Happiness comes easily instinctively 
 to Johnny. But you ought to know that people 
 don't always enjoy most what comes easiest." 
 
 " I said * continuously happy,' " objected Davy 
 argumentatively. 
 
 "Well even at that! Didn't you once get ter- 
 ribly tired of perpetual sunshine?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "But you doubt if Johnny does ?" 
 
 "Johnny isn't moody." 
 
 "That's the reason he won't go as far as you 
 will." 
 
 "Maybe not. But he'll have a lot better time 
 going a little way." 
 
 "Why, Davy! You've got the sure-enough 
 dumps to-night. Has anything gone wrong ? " 
 
 "Nothing unusual. Only I had a bully good 
 offer to-day and I turned it down." 
 
 9 1
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Well it was an offer a suggestion, rather 
 to write a series of articles later to become a 
 book on the history of labor struggles in Amer- 
 ica." 
 
 "Oh, Davy!" 
 
 "I knew you'd say 'Oh, Davy!' I could hear 
 you, in my mind's ear, when I was saying no." 
 
 "Why did you feel you had to say it?" 
 
 Davy hesitated. "For a good many reasons," 
 he began, as if with effort, "but principally on 
 account of father." 
 
 Rose looked as if she could not understand. 
 "Why on account of father?" 
 
 Davy was gazing out the window, presumably 
 over the little, oblique section of Washington 
 Square they could see from their dining-room, 
 but evidently following the trail of long, long 
 thoughts. 
 
 "It would hardly be possible," he answered, 
 without withdrawing his gaze, "for me; the big- 
 gest struggle of them all, perhaps, was that of 
 which he was the central figure which his death 
 terminated I couldn't in delicacy " 
 
 "I see," she said softly. "I wonder they didn't 
 think of that before offering it to you." 
 
 "I wondered too " he murmured. 
 
 The rest of their meal was eaten in silence 
 preoccupied on his part, sympathetic on hers. 
 
 92
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 "We'll have our coffee in the living-room," she 
 told the servant, thinking that perhaps the change 
 of place would serve to break the train of Davy's 
 sad reflections. 
 
 He recognized her little endeavor and tried to 
 reward it. But she could see that something had 
 rudely touched him to-day in that exquisite sen- 
 sitiveness that was his about his father. And it 
 was characteristic of him, too, to keep silent about 
 it before Johnny. 
 
 After a decent amount of preliminary pretense, 
 so that her request might not seem too obvious, 
 she asked: 
 
 "Davy, don't you want to go out and find the 
 Royal Theatre wherever it is and see if Ansel 
 Rodman isn't there?" 
 
 Davy smiled. " Indefatigable collector of things 
 to remember! Yes of course I want to. Get 
 your hat." 
 
 They retraced her steps of an hour ago, through 
 Tenth Street to Sixth Avenue. 
 
 "Did the bear," asked Davy, when they reached 
 the corner, " look as if he were going or coming 
 to the Royal Theatre or from the Royal Theatre ? " 
 
 Rose reflected. "I think he looked as if he 
 were coming," she said. 
 
 "Very well. Then we'll go south. Query: 
 How far afield from the Royal Theatre would a 
 shrewd bear go in quest of a probable audience ?" 
 
 93
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "I don't know that he was a shrewd bear." 
 
 "If he was connected with a five-cent theatre, 
 he probably was." 
 
 "My notion of a shrewd thing for us to do," 
 Rose ventured, "would be to ask a policeman 
 several policemen!" 
 
 Accordingly they crossed the avenue and went 
 into Jefferson Market Court. The day session of 
 the Municipal Court was over hours ago, and 
 the first session of the Night Court had not be- 
 gun; so the court- room was empty, except for a 
 clerk who was immersed in records behind the 
 railing. 
 
 Davy was familiar with the place; he had put 
 in a good deal of time here in the days of his 
 newspaper apprenticeship. He stepped around to 
 the desk where the patrolmen report. The night 
 shift was just coming on duty. 
 
 "Has anybody here seen the Royal Theatre ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Oh, easy!" they told him, and gave him the 
 directions. 
 
 The Royal was of the ordinary sort of five-cent 
 theatres a converted store with the minimum of 
 ventilation and the maximum of danger if there 
 should be a panic or a fire from exploding cellu- 
 loid film. 
 
 Davy and Rose were early. The first show did 
 not begin till seven-thirty. 
 
 94
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 Ansel Rodman was not there; neither was the 
 bear. At least, the latter was not in such evidence 
 as might have been expected, beside the ticket 
 booth. 
 
 Rose began to feel sympathetic. "I wonder if 
 he's walking yet poor bear! trying to drum up 
 an audience," she said. "He'll be too tired to do 
 justice to his act." 
 
 "And Rodman!" Davy reminded her. "Can 
 it be that he's still walking, too?" 
 
 Rose thought it more likely that Rodman was 
 dining somewhere "in the lower red-ink belt" 
 meaning among the foreign tables d'hote south 
 of Union Square. 
 
 Her surmise was probably correct, for before 
 the show started Rodman came in. He did not 
 see them, but went farther front to a seat. 
 
 The entertainment was of the usual order. 
 There was a film that unrolled the story in 
 pictures, liberally helped out by explanatory print 
 of a jailer's daughter who was rescued by a 
 duke from the robber band that held her captive. 
 When the duke's turn at captivity came he was 
 made prisoner by Louis XI the jailer's daughter 
 helped him to escape, and gave her own life for 
 his in the pursuit that followed. It was a good 
 film as films go and had quite as much veri- 
 similitude as some popular historical novels. 
 Louis XI, and the duke, and the jailer's daughter 
 
 95
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 looked to the hypercritical eye remarkably like 
 New York East-Siders at a masquerade; but 
 here, also, the popular historical fiction or much 
 of it enjoyed no obvious advantage. "You say 
 'methinks' too much," Tommy of the lively sen- 
 timent complained to Corp. "I can't play I'm 
 the Pretender unless I say 'methinks,' ' was 
 Corp's defence. Doubtless Barrie intended us to 
 expect that Corp would evolve naturally into a 
 writer of Jacobean romance. 
 
 After the jailer's daughter had died and, as 
 Davy commented, the enormous risks and fatal 
 outcome of gratitude had been made quite clear, 
 there was a lively popular song sung by a young 
 man with no discoverable excuse for trying to sing 
 except abundant lung power, of which the girl 
 at the piano was probably jealous, for she did her 
 best to drown him out, and almost succeeded. 
 Then came a film of the inevitable sort: some one 
 running away from some one else, and in the 
 course of the mad chase, apple-carts are over- 
 turned, painters' ladders knocked from under 
 them and their cans of paint spilled, sacks of 
 flour are butted into, and so on. There was no 
 grossness in this film, and it had been inimitably 
 acted in France so that the pantomime made 
 it excruciatingly funny. Everybody in the thea- 
 tre which was packed laughed until he cried. 
 It was good to make people laugh that way 
 
 96
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 many kinds of people drifted together in here 
 after many kinds of experiences, and presently 
 to drift out again to meet many workaday de- 
 mands. There was something in the sheer folly 
 of the situations depicted that appealed to all 
 ages and to all grades of understanding. The shrill 
 glee of little children rose as an antiphonal above 
 the bass rumble of men's mirth and the treble 
 laughter of women and girls. Beside Ansel Rod- 
 man sat a hugely fat German of middle age, 
 whose merriment was almost volcanic. Once, in 
 a particularly frenzied burst, he slapped Rodman 
 a mighty slap upon the knee. "Ach, Gott!" he 
 cried, like one imploring a respite. And Ansel 
 Rodman, wiping the tears from his own eyes, 
 loved the splendid democracy of that resounding 
 thwack; the German had not looked to see whom 
 he slapped nor cared to know. For was it not 
 another human being blown by the same gale 
 of laughter ? 
 
 A girl sang a banal sentimental song, mawkish 
 in matter and set to music without merit. She 
 sang it atrociously, and did a few kicking steps 
 between the verses. Most of the audience received 
 her indifferent efforts with stolidity. 
 
 Then came Bruin's turn. There was a film 
 depicting the "Far West" and the adventures of a 
 hunter who went through perils and adventures 
 that would put any arctic explorer to the blush. 
 
 97
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Out of most of these perils he could never have 
 escaped had it not been for the super-intelligent 
 aid of a small black bear. When at last he was 
 able to get back to civilization, the bear refused to 
 be left behind. So the hunter took Bruin back 
 with him, to be a member of his family. But 
 Mrs. Hunter was sub-intelligent and had no sense 
 of bears as household guests. Therefore Mr. 
 Hunter gave her all the gold he had brought with 
 him from the Rocky Mountains, and left home to 
 lead a life rich in affection with Bruin by his side. 
 After the film was finished, the lights flashed up, 
 and there on the stage sat Mr. Hunter or a 
 very fair replica of him and Bruin. And when 
 they were cheered by the audience they rose, and 
 Mr. Hunter handed Bruin a red bandana hand- 
 kerchief in which was bundled all their worldly 
 goods. With this hanging on the end of a stick, 
 over his shoulder, Bruin marched off beside his 
 master, to the soul-stirring accompaniment of vocif- 
 erous applause and one of the piano lady's mus- 
 cular renditions. 
 
 Lingering as much as they dared in the face of 
 the order, "All out, please!" Davy and Rose 
 waited for Mr. Rodman to come up with them. 
 Talking with him as he came was a man with 
 whom he had evidently just fallen into conversa- 
 tion. This man was most striking-looking. He 
 was of medium height and sinewy build. His
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 lean, clean-shaven face was almost lantern-jawed 
 and very colorless. His dark hair was abundant 
 and unkempt. His eyes proclaimed him, at once, 
 the constant companion of the invisible; unmis- 
 takably, he was a fanatic of some sort. What- 
 ever it was that he had said to Ansel Rodman, it 
 had interested him instantly. Before the two 
 men came abreast of Rose and Davy, they looked 
 so mutually absorbed that Rose tugged at Davy's 
 sleeve. 
 
 "Let us go," she said; " don't interrupt them." 
 She had a horror of breaking in upon any con- 
 versation that might be satisfying of scattering 
 with the trivialties of greeting and introductions, 
 thought that was wistful to be expressed. 
 
 Davy would have yielded to her entreaty, but 
 just then there was a commotion behind the 
 scenes. Bruin, feeling "temperamental," proba- 
 bly, had broken from restraint and was returning 
 to the footlights, his absence from which he doubt- 
 less considered too prolonged for the public's 
 pleasure, as for his own. 
 
 He was so comically human in his evident 
 greed for the spotlight and for applause that Rose 
 broke into hearty laughter. Rodman's attention, 
 withdrawn from his chance acquaintance, passed 
 from Bruin to Rose, and he greeted her delightedly. 
 
 He was one of the men of influence and estab- 
 lished reputation to whom Davy had brought 
 
 99
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 letters when he descended a raw young college 
 graduate upon New York with literary aspira- 
 tions. Rodman's helping hand had gone out to 
 him instantly, as it did to every youth who came 
 to him asking the aid of his experience over the 
 road he had travelled. And the little household, 
 that numbered just the three children whose 
 father had been taken from them by murder, and 
 their mother, a few years later, by uncontrollable 
 grief, appealed so strongly to this strangely de- 
 tached man that his friendship with it was one 
 of the most intimate he enjoyed. He had never 
 married; he led what most people called a lonely 
 life. Whereat he always smiled whimsically, 
 for he knew that he had more avenues of escape 
 from self than most people have ever dreamed of. 
 In fact, there was hardly any way Ansel Rodman 
 could turn and not find himself interested. No 
 man had ever been more exquisitely designed for 
 the interpretation of human nature. For his per- 
 sonality was so unobtrusive that he could slip in 
 anywhere, and become absorbed, without making 
 anybody conscious of his presence. 
 
 When he spoke to Rose and Davy, the stranger 
 would have moved on; but Rodman restrained him. 
 
 "Don't go," he said "that is, unless you 
 must. I'd like to hear more of your ideas. Ah ! 
 that is good!" he exclaimed, when the stranger 
 tacitly yielded. "Let us talk as we go along." 
 
 100
 
 Fifteen Years Later 
 
 By his assumption of common willingness he 
 made a little group of four. No introductions 
 seemed to him to be necessary. He was not in- 
 terested to know the stranger's name. What did 
 names matter ? Nor did it ever occur to him 
 that the stranger might be interested to know his. 
 
 So they moved on and out, these four com- 
 monly interested in life, and therefore mutually 
 interested in one another. 
 
 101
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE MARIONETTES 
 
 "fT^HIS gentleman," began Ansel Rodman r 
 
 J_ when they had got outside, "has just made 
 
 some exceedingly interesting observations to me.. 
 
 I am sure you would like him to go on with them." 
 
 "Oh, if he will, please!" said Rose. 
 
 But the stranger seemed embarrassed, made 
 suddenly self-conscious. 
 
 "I why, it is nothing," he murmured. 
 
 Ansel Rodman understood. "Were you going, 
 in any direction particularly?'* he asked. 
 
 "I had thought I would go south," the stranger 
 answered. "But it does not matter " 
 
 "I was about to suggest wandering that way,"" 
 Rodman hastened to assure him. 
 
 Rose began to be sorry about the foolish little 
 episode of Bruin which had evidently broken up 
 what was in a fair way to be a. valuable conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "I believe," she confided to Davy, when they 
 had dropped a pace or two behind, the more 
 easily to thread their way along the narrow and 
 crowded sidewalks, "that they'd be glad, any min- 
 ute, to look back and realize that we were lost." 
 
 102
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 They were about to carry this benevolent plan 
 into execution when they reached Fourth Street. 
 But there they again were frustrated. Rodman 
 and his new acquaintance halted at the corner and 
 turning around to Rose and Davy, his face alight 
 with pleasant purpose, Rodman shouted above 
 the rumble of traffic and the babel of street sounds: 
 
 "We're bound for the Spring Street marion- 
 ettes. Come on!" 
 
 Instead of crossing, he and his companion 
 turned east in Fourth Street and followed it 
 along the southern boundary of Washington 
 Square, over to Broadway, and on, to the Bowery. 
 
 In the quieter stretches of their walk, the 
 Inneses caught fragments of the conversation 
 that had evidently resumed its full strength of 
 interest between Rodman and the stranger. 
 
 "I'm delighted," they heard Rodman say, "that 
 I can put you in the way of becoming acquainted 
 with these people and their show. It seems to 
 me that here are nearly all the elements of your 
 dream." 
 
 "I wonder," the stranger said, "why I never 
 found them in my prowling." 
 
 "You won't wonder," Rodman told him, "when 
 you have seen the place. You might prowl the 
 East Side streets for years, and neither hear of 
 this place nor notice it if you passed it by." 
 
 This proved true enough. On the south side 
 103
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 of Spring Street, a little west of the Bowery, they 
 stopped before an old dwelling house. Ascending 
 three or four front steps, they entered a front 
 room rudely partitioned off with boards. A glass 
 lamp in an iron socket lighted this place, which 
 corresponded to the lobby of a theatre. In a 
 cubby behind the boards, a fat Italian woman 
 sat at the seat of custom. Beside the ticket win- 
 dow was the opening through which those who 
 had paid the price passed into the theatre. 
 
 The old house was a deep one, extending well 
 back toward the limits of its lot. Probably four 
 rooms had been thrown together by the knocking 
 out of walls, giving an auditorium about forty 
 feet in length, but narrow seemingly not more 
 than eighteen feet wide. 
 
 The back of the auditorium had tiers of rude 
 benches, rising to the ceiling, against the wood 
 partition and above the ticket-seller's cubby; five 
 cents admitted one to these seats. Below them, a 
 dozen rows of chairs afforded seats at ten cents 
 each. Nearest the stage were a few rows not 
 more than four or five where the price was 
 fifteen cents. The only seats unsold when Rod- 
 man applied at the box office were in the front 
 rows. 
 
 The air seemed nearly impenetrable at first. 
 It was a dense haze of tobacco smoke in which 
 hung, heavily, an assortment of evil odors includ- 
 
 104
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 ing garlic much garlic and personal unclean- 
 ness and mustiness of incredibly long standing; 
 probably not in years had one good whiff of fresh 
 air blown through this place. Certainly not in 
 years, one would have sworn, had the floor been 
 cleaned; it was foul almost beyond belief. 
 
 Street-cleaners, push-cart pedlers, dock labor- 
 ers, railroad section-hands, newsboys, bootblacks 
 of such as these were the major part of the au- 
 dience. There were a few women and about a 
 dozen children. Most of the children were hang- 
 ing in an ecstasy of enchantment over the foot- 
 lights, which were oil lamps. 
 
 The stage was small. It had a back drop, 
 painted on a scale of about one-half, and a couple 
 of rude "sides" more akin to the "tormentors'* of 
 the ordinary stage than to any parts of a "set." 
 The single fly drop representing sky was 
 shabby and dirty, a poor thing to suggest Italy's 
 cerulean zenith; and between where the back 
 drop left off and this sky drop began, one might 
 have frequent glimpses of four swarthy, dirty 
 hands manipulating the marionettes. 
 
 The manipulators stood on a rude platform 
 about three feet above the stage. Back of them 
 and all around them in a way to make a Broad- 
 way stage-manager desperately envious hung up 
 against the wall, thicker than lodgers in a Chinese 
 rooming-place, yet silent as the figures on cathe- 
 
 105
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 dral tombs, the actors. Two half-grown boys took 
 down the characters as they were required upon 
 the stage, and dragged them to the manipulators' 
 platform, returning with those who had played 
 their parts and were ready to be hung up again 
 in this Valhalla. 
 
 In the right entrance (there was only one) 
 stood the stage-manager, who read all the lines 
 of the male parts and directed the movements of 
 the half-grown boys. His voice was the purest 
 music, and the passion, the tenderness, the de- 
 spair, the vengefulness he could put into it were 
 wonderful to hear. It was not really necessary 
 to understand the words he spoke; his tones 
 made the story intelligible. Not infrequently one 
 could overhear his directions to the stage-hands 
 and the fiercest pirate might well have envied 
 his manner and his vocabulary in malediction 
 then, midway an awful threat to his minions, a 
 cue would come, and without so much as a breath 
 between, the voice of the irascible stage-manager 
 would become the voice of the leading man, 
 pleading like an angel or declaiming like a demi- 
 god. 
 
 But with all the wonder of his voice, it was as 
 nothing compared with the voice of the girl who 
 stood in the left entrance and read the female 
 lines. One recalled Bernhardt's most golden 
 notes, Duse's most unforgettable inflections, and 
 
 1 06
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 the loveliest cadences of Marlowe's spoken music; 
 none of them was more exquisite than this girl's. 
 Listening to her, one forgot time and place. 
 Under the spell of that voice, tears welled, pas- 
 sions throbbed, and blood ran cold, alternately. 
 
 The play was some part of the great chronicles 
 of Rinaldo, whose splendid exploits take a year 
 to tell. 
 
 Every one in the vicinity where Rodman and 
 his friends sat down was anxious to make plain 
 to them the exact point of the story at the moment 
 of their entrance. The courtesy was so cheerful,, 
 so engaging, that it was hard to suggest by the 
 least ungratefulness of manner that one would 
 rather listen undisturbed. 
 
 Hunched over a piano, between the footlights 
 and the first row of chairs on the right, was a 
 strange, pathetic-looking man now peering short- 
 sightedly at the music before him; now throwing 
 back his head and playing proudly, independent 
 of his poor sight and forgetful of his poor self in 
 the remembrance of fine harmonies. 
 
 The auditors knew the play by heart, it seemed. 
 They came to the theatre not to seek a new sensa- 
 tion, but to find an atmosphere they loved and 
 craved, an atmosphere of poetry and drama, of 
 brave deeds and fine chivalry. On any evening 
 when the day had gone hard when the police 
 had seemed to persecute a push-cart pedler, or 
 
 107
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 the boss of the gang had had it in for a White 
 Wing, or work in the trenches had gone unusually 
 hard with some childlike Sicilian who could not 
 understand why an onion and a bit of bread, suf- 
 ficient to sustain life in a vineyard in drowsing 
 Sicily, is insufficient to sustain it in a street-repair- 
 ing gang in New York one could come in here 
 and pick up the thread of the familiar story, 
 whichever epic it was, and be of the immortals for 
 an hour or two. Over on lower Sixth Avenue to 
 say nothing about upper Broadway they had no 
 immortals, and they were trying to satisfy their 
 soul's starvation with the jailer's daughter. 
 
 Strange! how unreal that film had seemed, and 
 how easy it was to abandon one's self to the move- 
 ments of the marionettes as breathlessly as to the 
 most real actors. There were moments when one 
 could hardly believe that the big dolls were not 
 animate so cleverly were they handled and so 
 impassioned was the reading of the lines. 
 
 After the performance was over, Rodman took 
 his little party behind the scenes. They were 
 allowed to "heft" the puppets, and were amazed 
 at the weight of them; some of the armored heroes 
 weighed upward of two hundred pounds. 
 
 When they exclaimed at the strength and dex- 
 terity with which these mannikins were handled 
 to such realistic effect, one of the manipulators 
 smiled proudly. 
 
 108
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 "Sometimes," he said, in explanation, "since 
 Crusades in one family marionette!" 
 
 "Makes the theatrical families we know about 
 seem less than mushrooms, doesn't it?" Davy 
 whispered. 
 
 They met the girl with the golden voice a 
 sweet-mannered, shy young woman, but not pre- 
 possessing to look at. She was heavily built and 
 rather coarse of feature; the so-brief adolescence 
 of the Italian maid was already far behind her, 
 although she was probably not more than twenty; 
 her early maturity was already past its first flush. 
 Her father was the owner of the marionettes, 
 some of which were venerable puppets that had 
 descended to him with a long theatrical history. 
 Her mother sold the tickets. Her father read the 
 men's lines and managed the stage. The manip- 
 ulators were her uncle and her oldest brother; 
 a younger brother and a cousin were the much- 
 imprecated stage-hands. No! the piano player 
 was no relation. This she said with an air of 
 conscious superiority, as if to imply that any one 
 may be a piano player it is a sporadic gift 
 that may develop and die in one generation; not 
 like the immemorial facility of the puppet-show- 
 men. 
 
 Ansel Rodman's chance acquaintance was trans- 
 figured with eager interest. The shy man he had 
 been as they came here was lost now in the 
 
 109
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 zealot. He had forgotten himself. He was con- 
 scious of nothing but his theme. 
 
 "That's the nearest thing to it!" he exclaimed, 
 as they left the house of the marionettes and 
 turned once more toward the Bowery. "They've 
 got the beauty of poetry noble sentiment and 
 haunting rhythm and the appeal to the eye 
 and the musical accompaniment. But I suppose 
 it would be impossible to transplant the puppets. 
 In another environment the appeal to the eye 
 would have to be made otherwise. The love of 
 them is an Italian heritage, like the skill to work 
 them. Irish, or Jews, or Germans, or Scandi- 
 navians, or Slavs would scorn them." 
 
 "I dare say they would," assented Rodman, 
 
 "But I want," the stranger went on, "to see 
 all that's dear to each nation kept zealously alive 
 here the folk dances, the religions and com- 
 memorative festivals, the music, the hero tales; 
 but not their own exclusively only to begin 
 with ! Then the hero tales, and the tender poetry, 
 of other races that brotherhood may spread as 
 understanding widens." 
 
 "It's a magnificent dream," commented Ansel 
 Rodman. 
 
 The Bowery is the place par excellence for 
 cheap lodging-houses where vagrant and unem- 
 ployed and shifting men abide briefly. An army 
 of these men most of whom the present scheme 
 
 no
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 of things seems, somehow, not to assimilate 
 always assails the wonder and the pity of the 
 sentient passer-by. 
 
 "Look at them!" the stranger cried. "Those 
 of them that have money lounging in and out 
 of low saloons the only places where they're 
 welcome, except in missions, and their meetings 
 are over now. Those that haven't money will be 
 heading for the bread line pretty soon. I've been 
 in the bread line on many a night. And I've 
 slept in these lodging-houses. No, I wasn't ' in- 
 vestigating'! I was doing the best I could. And 
 I know what it is to be hungry for food. But 
 that isn't the worst hunger these men suffer! 
 Their worst hunger whether they know it or not 
 is for something not just to sustain life, but to 
 make life seem worth sustaining; something to 
 take them out of their miserable reality and make 
 them feel like men the world needs. That's why 
 they drink most of them! it's the only way they 
 know to get away from themselves and their awful 
 impotence. If you could reach them now! If 
 you could get behind their dull preoccupation and 
 leave a spark there something that would kindle 
 a glow! Books can't do it because they don't 
 read books. And theatres can't do it because 
 no theatre but the noblest has the enkindling 
 spark, and no theatre but the meanest wants these 
 men's patronage. And pulpits can't do it be- 
 
 iii
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 cause these men won't listen to what the pul- 
 piteers say. You've got to get them on elemental 
 principles like story-telling to children and to 
 childlike races of men. Those marionettes came 
 near being the thing!" 
 
 "But the marionettes," reminded Davy, "have 
 an inherited fondness to appeal to. It would be 
 pioneering, over here!" 
 
 "It would be harder even than that," the 
 stranger agreed; "it would be trail-breaking. 
 But I hope to do it before I die." 
 
 "I hope you will!" said Rose earnestly. "And 
 I hope it '11 be before / die, too." 
 
 "You believe in it?" he asked her eagerly. 
 
 "Of course I believe in it!" she cried. "Who 
 wouldn't?" 
 
 He smiled as if he knew many who wouldn't. 
 
 "I think I have some qualifications for the 
 work," he went on. "I was a skilled mechanic 
 once. I know something about men who work. 
 And I was a vagrant a bum drink did it! I've 
 'done time,' too it was there I got my taste for 
 books and I know something about the men 
 society has to lock up for its own safety. When 
 I came out I was queer, I guess. Going back 
 to my trade just to make a living for myself didn't 
 appeal to me. There wasn't any one I had to 
 think about to work for. So I well, while I 
 was looking round, trying to decide what I would 
 
 112
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 do, I had to pick up enough pennies to live on 
 the price of a lodging and one meal a day, with 
 coffee and rolls in the morning. I was crazy 
 about the libraries couldn't keep out of them. 
 Books and ideas got to affect me almost like the 
 drink had I'm that kind, I guess. I found that 
 I could earn fifty cents an evening 'supeing' on 
 the stage I got interested in the theatre and I 
 was an actor before I knew it. But I got tired 
 of it. When I had learned something about de- 
 livering a message, I found that nine times out 
 of ten the message I got to deliver wasn't worth 
 trying to get over the footlights the plays we 
 played might have been written in Mars, they 
 were so remote from this world of men. Some- 
 times I'd see a face in the audience one white 
 face out of hundreds of white faces against the 
 dimness on which my eyes would focus. It was 
 a hungry face. It would haunt me. I'd yearn 
 to reach it with something that might comfort, 
 might satisfy. But I had only the playwright's 
 cheap, remote sentences that I might say. Ego- 
 mania of the actor, I suppose! They say we all 
 have it. At any rate, here I am. I've spent this 
 summer trying to study out this problem. When 
 August came I was too deep in it to haunt the 
 theatrical agencies looking for a job. And no 
 agency put its shutters up and suspended business 
 while it went a-searching for me."
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 They had turned off the noisy Bowery, with 
 its trains thundering overhead, when they saw 
 that he was inclined to talk. The cross streets 
 whereon no cars ran were fairly quiet now. 
 
 They were at the Inneses' door before any of 
 them realized they could have gone half so far. 
 
 "You'll come in and have a bite of supper with 
 us, won't you?" Rose said, addressing both Rod- 
 man and the stranger. 
 
 "Surely," accepted Rodman. 
 
 "I think not," the stranger began, hesitating 
 like a man who feels that he should decline, dearly 
 as he would like to accept. "I you know noth- 
 ing about me except what I've told of myself," 
 he faltered. 
 
 "Then the honors are even," cried Davy, "for 
 you know nothing about us." 
 
 He yielded. "You are very kind," he said. 
 "My name is Ballard Creighton Walter Ballard 
 Creighton-, but I've never been able to feel that 
 'Walter' belonged with me so I try to forget it." 
 
 "And my name's Rodman." 
 
 "Not Ansel Rodman?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My dear sir!" cried Creighton, gripping Rod- 
 man's hand. He had no need to say anything 
 further. What the name meant to him shone in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "And these are my dear young friends the 
 114
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 Inneses," Rodman went on, "Miss Rose Innes 
 and David Innes. There is a chance that we 
 shall find John upstairs." 
 
 They did. He was prone upon the dining- 
 room floor before a saucer of cream and an infin- 
 itesimal tiger kitten. 
 
 "Miss Goitie Moiphy," said Johnny, sitting up 
 and waving his hand toward the kitten. 
 
 They introduced Creighton or started to. But 
 he and Johnny knew something of each other, it 
 seemed. 
 
 "You're John Livingstone Innes," Creighton 
 said. 
 
 "On the playbills just Johnny everywhere else. 
 And you're Ballard Creighton I've seen you a lot 
 of times." 
 
 Creighton seemed not to have heard what 
 Johnny said. "You're Lyman Innes's son!" He 
 spoke as if he were thinking aloud rather than 
 addressing any one. 
 
 Rodman and the three Inneses turned inquiring 
 looks on him. 
 
 "I was in that strike," he explained briefly as 
 if he dared not trust himself in lengthy explana- 
 tion. " I I'm just one of the thousands of men 
 who who feel that he gave his life for us." His 
 lips twitched and he turned his face away. 
 
 Nobody spoke. But there was abundant elo- 
 quence in the way Davy took his hat as if to
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 say: That makes you one of us and in the way 
 Rose laid a place for him at their table. 
 
 When Rose went to the kitchen Goitie Moiphy 
 frisked after her. 
 
 " Come here, fickle one ! " Johnny cried. " Isn't 
 there a grateful female alive ? Where's your un- 
 dying devotion to your rescuer ? " 
 
 But Goitie paid no heed. 
 
 "I was coming out of the theatre," Johnny 
 began, telling his tale to the two men, "when a 
 young person blocked my way squarely. She 
 had yonder beast in her arms. 'Say, Mister!' 
 she accosted me, 'yeh don't want a kitten do 
 yeh?' 'What's the matter with it?' I sez sus- 
 picious-like. 'Nothin'!' sez she. 'You're one of 
 my admirers, then?' sez I; 'a matinee girl, i* 
 sooth!' 'Aw, quit yer kiddin',' sez me frien'. 
 ' D 'ye want the cat, er don't yeh ? Me step-mudder 
 won' leave me have her in the house an' I'm 
 a-scairt t' turn her loose fer fear a dog '11 git 
 her.' 'That being the sad case, I'll take her,' 
 I sez. 'What is her name ?' 'Her name is Goitie 
 Moiphy out o' the po-um.' I pass hurriedly 
 over the parting which was painful and here 
 we are. But I gave Goitie's ex-parent her new 
 address, and invited her to call, from time to 
 time, and see how Goitie fared. She said she 
 would." 
 
 "What 'po-um' is Goitie Moiphy 'out of?" 
 116
 
 The Marionettes 
 
 asked Rodman, who seemed to tease his own 
 brain in vain for remembrance of it. 
 
 Johnny recited it. He had the curious New 
 York accent which corresponds to London's coster- 
 speech, down to excruciating nicety. 
 
 "Little Goitie Moiphy 
 
 Soitingly wuz a boid. 
 She lived in Toity-second Street 
 
 A block from Toity-toid. 
 She sometimes read de Joinal, 
 
 And likewoise read de Woild. 
 And all de boys loved Goitie, 
 
 When Goitie's hair was cuhled." 
 
 "That's strange!" said Davy musingly. "The 
 child must come of people who well! don't you 
 see ? People who talk that way, wouldn't see 
 anything in the 'po-um/ It can only have been 
 repeated to her by some one who who knew it 
 was a parody, and relished it." 
 
 "Eh, Watson?" said Johnny, as if concluding 
 for him. "Oh, the terrible Sherlock our Davy is 
 getting to be!"
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 EMILY INSISTS ON TEMPTING FATE 
 
 "T CAN'T go, dear. I'm sorry for your sake 
 A but I don't feel as if I could. I don't know 
 what madness made me promise." 
 
 Emily Bristow began to cry. "I might have 
 known!" she sobbed. "It's always the same 
 always will be, I see now!" 
 
 Mrs. Bristow sat down on the edge of the bed, 
 where Emily had flung herself, and laid a caress- 
 ing and an entreating hand on the girl's shaking 
 shoulders. 
 
 "But, Emily, dear think!" she pleaded. 
 "Think what this is that you want to do. I know 
 I've been selfish in my grief and shame. You're 
 young and you're entitled to youth's happiness. 
 You have been cheated of too much of it, I know. 
 I grieve myself sick about it, oftentimes. You've 
 been a devoted daughter too devoted! I'm go- 
 ing to be less selfish to remember your pleasure 
 more. But this ! You know as well as I do, 
 Emily, that this is impossible." 
 
 "I don't see," Emily began, raising her head 
 from the pillow, "why it's so impossible. They 
 
 118
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 don't know who we are! And if they did! 
 They're broad-minded enough to know it wasn't 
 our fault and that we've suffered for it as much 
 as they have." 
 
 Mrs. Bristow was thinking hard. "Are you 
 willing," she asked at length, "to give them the 
 choice to tell them who you are and let them say 
 whether they want to receive you in their home ? " 
 
 Emily flushed. "I don't see any use of that," 
 she answered. 
 
 "It is the only honorable way you can keep 
 their acquaintance." 
 
 "You have met the boys you let her come 
 here and call " 
 
 "You know how I met the boys casually, 
 unavoidably not of my seeking. And as for the 
 call well, I felt a sneak about that, though she 
 came of her own will, not of my asking. I think 
 now that it was wrong all wrong. They might 
 not wish even to shake hands with us if they 
 knew." 
 
 "I don't believe that!" 
 
 "Then test it." 
 
 "I can't, Mother. I'm as anxious to bury the 
 past as you are. I don't feel that I ought to be 
 asked to fight it. I wasn't responsible for it. I 
 refuse to bear the blame." 
 
 " But you said you didn't think they'd wish you 
 to bear the blame." 
 
 119
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "I don't but once we acknowledge it some- 
 body else may find out it may spread. I couldn't 
 bear it the discovery the curiosity- 
 Emily did not see her mother's face. 
 "Shall we slip away again ?" her mother asked. 
 "Shall we begin all over far away?" 
 
 "Oh, Mother! After all we've been through 
 South America Australia the ends of the earth 
 the byways. Haven't I stood enough ? We're 
 as safe here as there, if we keep quiet. And I 
 want to stay among people of my own kind and 
 have a chance." 
 
 " I know," her mother soothed her. " But what 
 fate! Almost the first persons we are thrown into 
 association with in New York are the the chil- 
 dren of the man your father killed." 
 
 "That's it!" cried Emily eagerly, grasping at 
 her mother's admission of fate. "It must be 
 meant why do we try to evade it ? I come here 
 and try to get work. I have nothing to plead for 
 me except the few meagre little notices of what I 
 did in Australia and New Zealand. Yet I get 
 into one of the best companies here playing a 
 New York engagement of months perhaps a 
 year and the first person I meet at rehearsal is 
 John Livingstone Innes. You go downtown and 
 try to get work and they tell you that they don't 
 need any one to 'hack' at the women's page or 
 write about suffrage in New Zealand, but that you 
 
 120
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 might see Mr. Innes and before you can refuse, 
 there is David Innes before you, halted on his 
 way through the office and told you want to see 
 him. You hedge and hesitate, and tell him you 
 have never reviewed books. And he laughs and 
 says that that is the kind of reviewer he is look- 
 ing for. If that isn't fate, I'd like to know what 
 it is ? And if it is fate, what's the use of trying to 
 resist it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bristow looked thoughtful. "Emily," she 
 said, "I've had reason, before now, to think that 
 way to believe I was following out my fate. But 
 I learned to distrust it. I yielded to what I was 
 pleased to call the inevitable. Bitter experience 
 taught me that I should have fought instead." 
 
 Emily loved her mother passionately, and ad- 
 mired her with a reverent awe. But her devoted 
 compliance hitherto had been no real test, for 
 her mother was her all-in-all. Now other loves 
 were stirring in her the love of life, which was 
 pleasanter here than it had ever been before; 
 and the love of Johnny Innes. This latter she 
 did not admit even to herself, much less to her 
 mother. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mother," she said and her voice 
 had a note in it her mother had never heard before 
 "but I can't agree with you. I suppose I must 
 be a fatalist." 
 
 Mrs. Bristow smiled, a sad, wise little ghost of 
 
 J2I
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 a smile. She was resigned, perforce; but she 
 could not help being sorry that her dearly bought 
 wisdom would serve not one whit to save her 
 child. 
 
 "All young persons who are trying to make 
 themselves believe in what they want to do are 
 * fatalists' for a while," she said. 
 
 "Things are as they happen here on Sunday 
 evenings/' Rose explained to the Bristows. She 
 was in her room with them while they laid aside 
 their hats and coats. "It is Johnny's only free 
 evening, and sometimes we're all here; sometimes 
 we all go elsewhere. Any of our friends who dine 
 at midday as we do and can be content with 
 a simple supper which I get myself, feel free to 
 call us up and see if we'll be home, then join us 
 round our salad bowl. Mr. Irving Penhallow is 
 here now. He was a dear friend of my father's, and 
 is a most delightful gentleman. Some time you'll 
 see, I hope, the enchanting place he lives in and 
 hear the story of his life. It is charming. Then 
 there is a new acquaintance of ours a man we 
 met only the other evening Mr. Ballard Creigh- 
 ton- 
 
 "He's an actor," Emily broke in. "I've heard 
 of him." 
 
 Rose nodded. "And that is all," she finished. 
 "Dudley Prichard usually comes in he'll proba- 
 
 122
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 bly be here. You'll be interested in him, Mrs. 
 Bristow. Most people think he's the cleverest 
 man we've got in his line." 
 
 Mrs. Bristow was inconcealably nervous and 
 shy. Emily, too, was far from being at her ease. 
 Rose was accustomed to shy persons. In fact, 
 she herself was shy; but somehow she seemed 
 usually to be so placed that she had to forget her 
 shyness. For her unselfishness and her sympathy 
 were so strong that they carried down her shrink- 
 ing by their greater might. 
 
 "What an interesting apartment you have!" 
 Emily exclaimed as they loitered through the 
 dining-room on their way from Rose's bedroom 
 to the living-room. 
 
 "We have Mr. Penhallow to thank for the beauty 
 of our mahogany," Rose said. "He's a wonder- 
 ful connoisseur in furniture. When my parents 
 bought this he was daft about Colonial styles and 
 he picked out these exquisite things for them. A 
 little later he had abandoned Colonial for Chip- 
 pendale and Sheraton. He went from that to 
 Louis Quinze, I believe then took a jump into 
 some Dutch period that I've forgotten the name of. 
 Just now he's deep in things Florentine." 
 
 "He must have a warehouse to keep them all 
 in," suggested Mrs. Bristow. 
 
 "That's where the charming story about him 
 comes in," Rose answered smiling. "He doesn't 
 
 123
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 keep them. When he gets a collection as nearly 
 perfect as he can, and has remodelled some place 
 to be a setting worthy of it, he sells it all and 
 begins again." 
 
 "Doesn't he hate to ?" asked Emily. 
 
 "Oh, not the least little bit in the world! For 
 by the time he has one place perfected he has got 
 keen on the scent of another and more difficult 
 chase, and he doesn't want anything on earth but 
 to follow it. We tell him he's a lovely benefactor 
 that he goes around leaving beauty behind him, 
 like Johnny Appleseed leaving orchards. But 
 he denies it the benevolence, I mean. In any 
 event, he's a philosopher whether he admits it or 
 not for he keeps himself constantly in a state of 
 zestful expectancy. He is always interested and 
 always happy. Every period he goes into opens 
 up a new world to him. And he's one of those 
 delightful persons who have the gift of sharing 
 their discoveries and making their enthusiasms 
 contagious. I'm so glad he's here this evening." 
 
 Immediately they stood on the threshold of the 
 living-room Mrs. Bristow became aware of Ly- 
 man Innes's portrait. It hung above the mantel, 
 and showed Innes sitting, as she had so often seen 
 him sit, one hand propping his face, his eyes 
 dominant, intent, eagerly questioning. 
 
 She had nerved herself for this; but it was 
 harder even than she had expected it would be. 
 
 124
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 The four men rose. 
 
 "Mrs. Bristow," Rose was saying, "let me 
 introduce Mr. Irving Penhallow and Mr. Bal- 
 lard Creighton. Miss Bristow, Mr. Penhallow 
 Mr. Creighton." 
 
 Davy and Johnny were most hearty in their 
 welcome, Johnny, as was natural, constituting 
 himself Emily's host-in-particular and Davy act- 
 ing the same toward Mrs. Bristow. 
 
 "Show Mrs. Bristow your den, Davy," Rose 
 suggested, as soon as she could do so without 
 seeming to plan their escape. 
 
 Davy's den was a little place of hall-bedroom 
 size, off the living-room. It had nothing partic- 
 ularly to commend it except Davy's collection of 
 autographs signed photographs, authors' copies 
 of books, letters, and bits of cherished manuscript. 
 But if one cared for that sort of thing as Mrs. 
 Bristow did it was a treasure-chamber in a mild 
 way. 
 
 "Oh, there's nothing really valuable here," 
 Davy said, answering her exclamation of wonder 
 " that is, except of sentimental value. I've 
 nothing very rare, or very old nothing that has 
 a market value among collectors. Most of the 
 people represented here are living any one can 
 have their autographs for the asking, with stamp 
 enclosed. But I didn't get mine that way. These 
 are people I know and am proud to know. I'm 
 
 125
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 like Rose: I love people the world's debt to whom 
 I see in a vision instead of reading it in a library. 
 Her faith in her friends is beautiful isn't it?" 
 
 Mrs. Bristow smiled a tender assent which 
 seemed to satisfy Davy, who was seldom satisfied 
 with any one's appreciation of Rose. 
 
 "Books and books!" he went on, indicating 
 with a glance the filled shelves which ran to 
 within a foot and a half of the ceiling and occupied 
 every available bit of wall space. "But you'll 
 be interested in this," he said, laying a hand on 
 the back of a revolving-chair which stood before 
 his working-table. "This was my dear father's 
 chair in his office at the Capitol the State gave 
 it to us he was not a minute out of it, after 
 making his last stand for the striking men, when 
 he was shot." 
 
 Fortunately for Mrs. Bristow, Davy's short- 
 sighted, pale-blue eyes blurred with tears and he 
 had to take off his thick eye-glasses to wipe them. 
 
 In that brief moment she had steadied herself 
 somewhat, so that when Davy resumed his glasses 
 and was able to see her face there was nothing in 
 it to indicate that her clutch on his arm had been 
 for support, not in sympathy. 
 
 "I I don't see how you bear it," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "I love to bear it," Davy answered. "Nobody 
 knows what a help it is to me." 
 
 126
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 "You don't try, then, to forget?" 
 
 "Oh, no! no! no! it is my great honor to re- 
 member." 
 
 "Yes of course. Any one whose honor that 
 was would would not wish to forget because 
 there was pain in the remembrance." 
 
 "There is no pain in the remembrance," he 
 replied. 
 
 "No, but regret, of course that he was tak- 
 en " 
 
 "Mrs. Bristow," Davy began, studying her in- 
 tently through his thick glasses, "I wonder if you 
 will understand me if I say that I have tried to 
 learn not to regret my father's assassination." 
 
 Her startled look seemed to deny the likelihood 
 of her understanding him. "You mean ?" she 
 whispered almost inaudibly. 
 
 "I mean," he went on, "that in my studies 
 and naturally I have taken an intense interest in 
 political economy and social subjects I think I 
 have learned to see how greatly Father served in 
 his death. No man by his life could have done 
 for a great cause what Father did by his death. 
 I don't know whether you realize it, but that out- 
 pouring of sympathy that followed his death was 
 the beginning of a new day for labor in America. 
 The wrongs of the working man got their first 
 great airing, in the revelations which followed on 
 his murder. That was the beginning of any gen- 
 
 127
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 eral sympathy with labor's right to organize. 
 It's a wonderful thing to give your life for a 
 result like that! If Father could have foreseen 
 the outcome, I believe he would have laid his life 
 down gladly. ... I try not to be selfish. I 
 try to be glad for him! . . . and that is why I 
 say I try not to regret " 
 
 She was silent for some time after he ceased 
 speaking, and he made no effort to hasten her reply. 
 
 At length, "I think I understand," she said 
 slowly. "It is a big view you take a noble 
 view. I am so glad so very glad you told me. 
 I I think my mind never got beyond the- the 
 tragedy before. I am so grateful to you for 
 telling me what you did and how you feel." 
 
 When they rejoined the others they found the 
 talk touching, for the moment, Johnny's resem- 
 blance to the Cavalier, whose portrait hung oppo- 
 site that of Lyman Innes. 
 
 "I wore an outfit like that in a play once," 
 Johnny was saying, "and the likeness was start- 
 ling." 
 
 "Never mind that likeness, Johnny," Rose 
 admonished him. "He gets fatalistic about it 
 sometimes," she explained to Mrs. Bristow, "and 
 feels kind of in duty bound to act the part as well 
 as look it. You look like your father, too, Johnny 
 dear. I wish you spent more time trying to act 
 like him." 
 
 128
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 She laughed as she said it, making a light mat- 
 ter, superficially, of what was really a serious con- 
 cern of hers and Davy's. 
 
 "That," said Johnny, "is a stab at my pro- 
 fession. I don't believe Rose has ever really got 
 over her idea that it is demeaning, for an Innes." 
 
 Rose flushed. With two of their guests actor 
 folk, it wasn't nice of Johnny to slip out of a per- 
 sonal charge and leave the burden on his calling. 
 But also, she reflected, it wasn't nice of her to put 
 Johnny on the defensive before strangers. 
 
 "Indeed I have got over that idea!" she re- 
 torted. "I'm sure we're very grateful to you 
 both Davy and I for having gone into a profes- 
 sion where you meet such charming people 
 whose acquaintance we may share. There was a 
 time," she went on to explain to Creighton and 
 to the Bristows, "when we knew almost nothing 
 about stage folk, and had all the weird notions 
 about them that many people have. And the 
 revelations we have had! We've never met any 
 one who corresponded in the least degree with 
 our preconceived ideas. Who originates those 
 prevalent ideas, anyway?" 
 
 "The same class, relatively," answered Ballard 
 Creighton, "which poses for nearly all pictures 
 called 'typical'; the class that is blatantly in 
 evidence wherever superficial observers are likely 
 to be; the same class relatively that started the 
 
 129
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 popular conception of the 'Wild West/ and of 
 the ' Sunny South/ and of that coastless country, 
 the artists' 'Bohemia/ and worst wickedness of 
 all! t hat started the popular conception of the 
 laboring man, especially the laboring man who 
 goes on strike. I tell you, if there's ever any day 
 when men are judged by One who can mete out 
 deserts, I'd rather take chances as the hardest 
 commandment-breaker, than as one of those slan- 
 derers who, because they are too lazy to look for 
 the truth, pass on a lie about their fellows!" 
 
 "Hear, hear!" cried Johnny, breaking the ten- 
 sion that Creighton's passionately earnest speech 
 had drawn. 
 
 "You said 'if there's ever any day/ " said Mrs. 
 Bristow. "Don't you believe there will be?" 
 
 "No," answered Creighton. "I hope it some- 
 times, but I don't believe it! I don't believe in 
 any religion as a revealed religion," he went on, 
 not defiantly, but respectfully and as with deep 
 regret. "I wish I did! I revere all religions, as 
 things men have made out of their deepest need 
 for their uplifting. But I can't make myself be- 
 lieve that any of them has an origin other than in 
 men's wish to think them the truth. I wish this 
 were not so! I wish I believed absolutely in 
 something as the Will of the Divine. But most 
 of all, I wish I believed in the religion of Christ. 
 I'd give anything on earth to believe that! But 
 
 130
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 nobody believes it nobody believes it," he re- 
 peated sadly, "or the world couldn't be what it is." 
 
 "I think," said Rose gently, "that nobody be- 
 lieves it enough or the world couldn't be what it 
 is. But I think also that many people must 
 believe it some or the world wouldn't be what 
 it is." 
 
 "Rose loves humanity," Davy said, as if re- 
 minding Creighton, "and believes in it. She is 
 what you would call an idealist." 
 
 Creighton smiled. "So do I love humanity," 
 he replied, "and believe in it. Though I am 
 what you, perhaps, would call an iconoclast. I 
 love it in spite of what my eyes have seen of its 
 weakness. She loves it because of what her vision 
 perceives of its strength. I would have chosen 
 her way had choice been mine. But with the 
 way I know, I must do my best." 
 
 "And such a splendid 'best' you have to do!" 
 said Rose, her eyes alight. " Davy, have you 
 told Mr. Creighton what we thought of about 
 Lucius McCurdy?" 
 
 "No," answered Davy, "but I will." 
 
 "And as I know, I'll slip out while you're tell- 
 ing, and put the kettle on." 
 
 "McCurdy," Davy began, "was a classmate 
 of mine in college. I think that even then we 
 felt sure Lucius was going to have a unique 
 career of some sort. He's as handsome as a
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 young Greek god and as silver-tongued as as 
 Demosthenes; and he didn't need pebbles for it, 
 either! He's a tremendous swell part of the 
 time: plays polo and leads cotillons to beat the 
 band. And the rest of the time well! I'm going 
 too fast. He studied law and got into the Dis- 
 trict-Attorney's office. There he got the little 
 cases to prosecute the petty criminality of Cherry 
 Hill and such like. He got interested in Cherry 
 Hill and its 'gang' of young ruffians. And, first 
 thing we knew, he had gone down there to live. 
 He couldn't have set himself a more Herculean 
 task. But he was equal to it! Cherry Hill 
 adores him he's a power there and through 
 Cherry Hill he has laid his gloved grip on politics. 
 He's a big henchman now. And there's talk of 
 his being Governor not many years hence. He's 
 a wonderful 'stall' for his party to put up aris- 
 tocratic connections and Cherry Hill constituency! 
 And he's working for it. His slogan is ' Practical 
 Politics!' He thinks that when he gets in power 
 he can use the power for good." 
 
 "Old, old delusion," Creighton muttered. 
 
 "Yes; and no!" said Davy. "That is, it's old, 
 and has usually proved a delusion. But with 
 Lucius, I'm inclined to believe well! he has 
 demonstrated in a small way. I don't take stock, 
 either, in the man who says, ' If I had a whole lot 
 of power, or of money, I could do a whole lot of 
 
 132
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 good,' and is undisturbed by the fact that with 
 the power and money he has got he is doing next 
 to nothing at all. Lucius isn't that sort. For 
 instance, there's a club in the Cherry Hill district. 
 It's called an 'athletic club/ but the kind of ath- 
 letics it favored made it the breeding-place of 
 about a third of the mean criminality in New 
 York. Lucius has made that club over. He has 
 made it a power for decency and order. And 
 the club doesn't realize that it is reformed! That's 
 Lucius for you! I haven't begun to tell about 
 him but he wants you, Creighton, to go down 
 there with Rose and me, and dine with him, and 
 tell him your idea, and what you need to give it 
 a trial." 
 
 Creighton did not look as eager as Davy had 
 hoped he would. "I doubt," he said almost 
 ungraciously, "if he and I could hit it off. We 
 may be working to the same end, but we're work- 
 ing toward it by such different means." 
 
 Davy flushed. "That's it!" he cried. "You 
 dreamers are all so antagonistic to one another. 
 That's how you defeat yourselves. Why can't 
 you agree on the essentials and pass the non- 
 essentials by ?" 
 
 Creighton smiled. "Dreamers have never been 
 good compromisers," he said. "I'm afraid it is 
 not in human nature that a man should be both. 
 Perhaps it is the compromisers who make the 
 
 '33
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 dreamers worth anything to the world. At any 
 rate, I don't want to be the one to balk your pur- 
 pose. And of course I'd be interested to meet 
 Mr. McCurdy." 
 
 "Supper is ready," announced Rose, standing 
 in the doorway with a fetching little apron on. 
 
 "And here's Goitie Moiphy," Johnny cried, as 
 that wee personage emerged from some snug cor- 
 ner, yawning and stretching sleepily. 
 
 "How," asked Emily Bristow, glancing up at 
 the gilt cage where a canary was sleeping, head 
 under wing, "can you keep a cat and a canary- 
 bird separate ? " 
 
 "We don't know that we can," Rose admitted; 
 "but we're trying. We all love little kitties and 
 we love birdies, too. Maybe it's unwise to try 
 to indulge both loves. Maybe it's meant that 
 every one should choose and abide by one. 
 But we're seeing. We'll tell you all what we dis- 
 cover. Davy says we're putting ourselves in the 
 way of much distress. But I try to think we're 
 learning a good deal, too. Birdie is a passive 
 factor. Anxiety centres in Goitie Moiphy. When 
 she looks wickedly at the bird I have to remind 
 myself that Goitie's progenitors have been looking 
 wickedly at birds and mice since the Garden 
 of Eden had an angel with a flaming sword set at 
 its gate. And we mustn't be unfair. We mustn't 
 applaud Goitie for jumping at a paper we dangle 
 
 134
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 for her and pet her if she happens to catch a ma- 
 rauding mouse then whip her if she jumps at 
 the bird. I think that maybe, if Goitie stays here 
 and keeps me in mind of this philosophy, the day 
 may come when I shall see, also, that it isn't fair 
 to expect the laundress to have prowess enough 
 to stand all day, and every day, at tubs and iron- 
 ing-board, and yet delicacy enough to keep from 
 rending all our clothes into ribbons." 
 
 "There's a philosopher for you!" cried Johnny. 
 "And she has to do all the mending." 
 
 " Don't carry your compassion too far," Creigh- 
 ton entreated, "or you'll be pardoning all kinds 
 of rapacity on the plea: 'for 'tis their nature to.' ' 
 
 "To know all is to forgive all," Rose reminded. 
 
 "I don't believe that, either!" Creighton 
 laughed. 
 
 " Inveterate unbeliever ! " 
 
 Her further reply was cut short by the ringing 
 of the door-bell. Davy answered. 
 
 " It's Dudley Mr. Prichard," Rose said, as his 
 voice was heard in the hall. 
 
 And Mrs. Bristow thought her keen eyes told 
 her that there was a look of woman-consciousness 
 in Rose's face which revealed its own unmistaka- 
 ble story. 
 
 Prichard was one of those dominating personal- 
 ities that, immediately they enter upon any scene, 
 seize the situation and make it absolutely their 
 
 '35
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 own. He did so now, though three of the four 
 guests at table were strangers to him. 
 
 "I'm sorry to be late," he began. But Mrs. 
 Bristow thought his sorrow was for their sakes, 
 not for his. "I've been with Emstead all after- 
 noon blocking out work and time's nothing 
 when you're doing that." 
 
 "What is it now, Dudley? What powers that 
 prey will soon be quaking in their hand-sewed 
 boots ?" Turning to Mrs. Bristow, Davy went on : 
 "You doubtless recognize Mr. Prichard's name as 
 that of our most redoubtable Thunderer." 
 
 "Of course," she murmured. 
 
 "Thanks, Davy, for omitting to say * muck- 
 raker,' " Prichard said. "This time I hope it's 
 going to be a bit constructive in effect not merely 
 knocking down. But of course there'll be start- 
 ling disclosures so much has been suppressed. 
 It's to be the history of labor organization in 
 America with special .emphasis on the real, un- 
 written, secret history of some of the biggest bat- 
 tles between labor and capital. It's immense! 
 You must know a little about it, Davy." 
 
 "A little," Davy admitted reluctantly. 
 
 "You have your father's papers haven't you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I told Emstead I thought you had. He's 
 been digging into the subject a bit. And he says 
 that the newspapers of that year the great strike 
 
 136
 
 Emily Insists on Tempting Fate 
 
 refer frequently to the enormous correspond- 
 ence that poured in upon your father.'* 
 
 "That was undoubtedly destroyed," said Davy. 
 
 "Still if you've no objection I'd like to dig 
 among the papers and look," persisted Prichard. 
 
 "Of course " Davy seemed anxious to make 
 an end of the subject. 
 
 "It's going to give me a fine chance to set forth 
 his influence," Prichard went on, looking at Rose. 
 
 But Rose's seldom-failing enthusiasm was not 
 there to meet his expectation. 
 
 "I thought you people would be all up in the 
 air about it," complained Prichard; "and you're 
 less interested than if I were going to write about 
 Uruguay." 
 
 "You must forgive us, Dudley," Rose entreated. 
 "But the great strike as you call it means so 
 much else to us than labor history." 
 
 "Yes!" said Davy shortly. And Mrs. Bris- 
 tow, lifting her eyes and daring to steal a look at 
 him, caught no glint of his manner of an hour 
 ago when he had spoken to her of his father's 
 death. She thought she read, instead, a look of 
 agonized apprehension. 
 
 "Oh, God!" she murmured in her heart. 
 "What does he know?" And, pleading a head- 
 ache, she got away early, Johnny going with them 
 as escort. 
 
 137
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 TWO DREAMERS MEET 
 
 AT a little before six-thirty one evening that 
 week, Rose and Ballard Creighton and 
 Davy got off a Third Avenue "L" train at Chat- 
 ham Square, and stood for a while on the bridge 
 before descending into the street. 
 
 Below them the Bowery: cheap theatres, cheap 
 dance-halls, cheap clothing stores, cheap eating- 
 places, and cheap lodgings. Tawdriness every- 
 where, yet a distinctive sort of tawdriness not in 
 the least like that of other mean streets. That 
 distinctiveness is hard to define but easy to feel. 
 The Bowery is cheap, but it is prosperous oh, 
 very prosperous! It is the Broadway of the great 
 East Side. It sells its commodities cheap, but 
 they are cheap commodities, and the margin of 
 profit runs high. And while individual expendi- 
 tures may, as a rule, be small, they are great in 
 the aggregate on the Bowery. Also, "hot times" 
 are not unknown there; a crook or a beggar 
 
 oo 
 
 or a sailor on shore leave is just as profligate 
 a spender of his means as a crooked financier or 
 a beauty-parlor faker, or a country buyer on 
 
 -38
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 Broadway. Most people agree that Broadway is 
 a unique thoroughfare. But the Bowery is start- 
 lingly like it except that it is on the nickel basis 
 instead of on the basis of the dollar. 
 
 Banks and pawnshops; saloons and gospel 
 missions; lofts where the sweaters toil and "gar- 
 dens" where they dance and drink; vagrant men 
 and playing children; women of the street and 
 blue-bonneted Salvationists; country lads fresh 
 from home and crooks of every degree of infamy 
 the Bowery was at its best and worst here. 
 
 To the right, as they stood facing south, Rose 
 and Creighton and Davy looked off obliquely, 
 through the main highway of Chinatown. Gay- 
 colored lanterns swung on the balconies of Chinese 
 restaurants; soft-shod Celestials flitted through 
 the street in great numbers; lights were bright 
 in the windows of their shops; and by every 
 alluring device known to them the quarter was 
 made gay with a strange, foreign gayety irresisti- 
 ble to round-eyed youth as well as satisfying to 
 hollow-eyed vice when all else had palled. 
 
 Below Chinatown rose the great cliffs of the 
 Canyon City. As if builded against some jagged 
 mountain side, they rose, tier upon tier, culmi- 
 nating in the Singer tower which assailed high 
 heaven more daringly than anything had done 
 since the confusion of tongues fell on Babel's 
 builders. 
 
 139
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "This," said Rose, "is like taking you up into 
 a high mountain and showing you the kingdom 
 that you want to enter." 
 
 "It it's enough to frighten any one," Davy 
 muttered. 
 
 Creighton smiled a smile that was unafraid. 
 "You must never think of men in the aggregate," 
 he said. "Think of them as individuals the most 
 important of whose experiences have been like 
 your own; and where they have done differently 
 from what you have done, they have probably not 
 done differently than you would have done in 
 the same conditions. It's working on men in the 
 aggregate that makes so many missions to man 
 fail. The deadliest thing you can do for any 
 man is to treat him as one of an indistinguishable 
 mass. What we all want is assurance that in us 
 are all the potentialities of conquest. Do you 
 know what are the two most elemental and so, 
 most universal of all stories ? 'Jack-the-Giant- 
 Killer' and 'Cinderella.' Jack's story shows how 
 the littlest bit of a boy can destroy giants which 
 is the most natural desire of any male creature: 
 the desire for prowess. And Cinderella's story 
 shows how the shabbiest little girl may be a daz- 
 zling beauty underneath her rags and able to 
 charm a prince which is the natural desire of 
 any female creature: the desire to charm the 
 'giant-killingest' Jack in sight." 
 
 140
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 Davy's mind was busy at once in the world of 
 books, following those two undying stories through 
 their course in literature. 
 
 "That's a cinch!" he exclaimed presently. And 
 they all laughed. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs they turned east, and 
 within a minute or two they were at McCurdy's 
 door. The street he lived in was hardly a stone's 
 throw from the Bowery, but as remote in effect 
 as if it had been miles away. It was an elegant 
 residence street when George Washington was 
 President. Many of the houses in it dated back 
 to that time, or very nearly to it; one or two were 
 said to be even older. And by some strange 
 chance this street had survived in dignity through 
 all the changing fortunes of its neighbors. Long 
 years after the residents of all the other streets 
 in Cherry Hill had moved up nearer Murray Hill, 
 the residents of this street stuck to their homes 
 with a proud tenacity. When one of them suc- 
 cumbed he usually tried to find for his house a 
 tenant who would take it entire, for private resi- 
 dence use only this out of deference to those 
 remaining in the street. 
 
 The newcomers were the political aristocracy 
 whose policy demanded that they live in the 
 ward, but whose spoils made it possible for them 
 to have the best the ward contained. 
 
 141
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 McCurdy had taken the first two floors of one 
 of these houses. The upper floor was occupied 
 by two maiden sisters of an ex-sheriff elderly 
 women who had spent all their lives in Cherry 
 Hill, although not by any means all in this part 
 of it. 
 
 A Chinaman answered their ring and asked 
 them to walk upstairs. McCurdy was at the top 
 to welcome them. 
 
 "I told Wing we would dine up here," he said, 
 leading them into his sitting-room. "It is so 
 near election that I'm likely to have a good many 
 calls, and there's a restraint about dining with 
 half a dozen political callers sitting within ear- 
 shot beyond a portiere." 
 
 The second-story front room was very large 
 the full width of the house, which was about 
 thirty feet, and a good depth, making it nearly 
 square. 
 
 It had a beautiful old white marble mantel and 
 an old-fashioned grate such as New Yorkers got 
 all their heat from until the comparatively recent 
 introduction of furnaces. In the grate, banked 
 high as only skilled hands can do it, a hard-coal 
 fire burned large-egg furnace coal, evenly glow- 
 ing, and sending out a steady warmth without 
 snap or crackle. 
 
 In the middle of the room the dinner-table was 
 set spread with plain satin damask ironed to 
 
 142
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 full satin gloss. It was distinctively a man's din- 
 ner-table, Rose noted with appreciation. There 
 were no lace doilies there was not even a centre- 
 piece of lace or embroidery under the low silver 
 bowl of short-stemmed roses. There were can- 
 dles, though, in exquisite silver candlesticks of 
 plainest pattern; and red silk shades with a min- 
 imum of fluff or frill threw down upon the snowy 
 cloth and shining silver a deep rosy glow. Lucius 
 was not one of the masculines whose idea of 
 cheerfulness is six gas-jets or light bulbs going 
 full blast, or every window-shade rolled to the 
 top to admit the glare. He liked soft lights, it 
 seemed, but he liked to get them with the least 
 possible fussiness of effect. 
 
 This room was very expressive of Lucius Mc- 
 Curdy. On the walls were some exquisite etch- 
 ings he had brought from abroad a couple of 
 Haig's: Mont St. Michel and the interior of 
 Burgos Cathedral; a Pennell, showing a char- 
 acteristic bit of Paris; a Whistler nocturne; a 
 dry-point by Helleu. In a corner by one of the 
 windows was an ancient desk with many myste- 
 rious-looking drawers and cubby-holes, which 
 Lucius had bought in Seville. On it, among 
 other things, was an inkstand of Edwin Booth's, 
 bid in by Lucius at the sale of Booth's effects. 
 
 Lucius had stopped now and then in his busy 
 life to buy a picture or an antique or to indulge
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 a sentiment in some such way as the Booth ink- 
 pot; but he had never had time to become a col- 
 lector. His possessions represented the brief in- 
 terludes in his life, not in any degree its main 
 business. 
 
 His silver was all new and very bright. He had 
 had no time to collect silver. When he needed 
 some he went to Fifth Avenue's best house and 
 bought what he needed of its plainest pattern. 
 
 The dinner was quite wonderful. Wing was a 
 wizard in cookery. He served a filet of sole that 
 might have made Marguery envious; only it was 
 in a style quite all Wing's own, and not at all like 
 Marguery's. And the capon! 
 
 " I told Wing I wanted you to eat some of his 
 capon," Lucius said, when they exclaimed over 
 it. "That's right! It isn't like mere food it's 
 an experience" 
 
 It was. So was the salad of alligator pear 
 which Wing knew how to dress so that it was 
 ambrosial. 
 
 There was no sweet. But with the coffee ser- 
 vice, which he laid before Rose, and cordials, 
 which he put down by Lucius, Wing brought in 
 a bowl of nuts big, paper-shell pecans from 
 Texas some hot toasted crackers with a Camem- 
 bert just ripe enough to run like thick country 
 cream. Then he withdrew vanishing noise- 
 lessly, like some genie that had evoked this meal 
 
 144
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 from fairyland and was gone thither again as 
 miraculously as he had come. 
 
 "You don't wear your ring, do you ?" said Rose. 
 
 "Ring! What ring?" 
 
 "The Aladdin ring you rub when you want 
 these wonders to happen." 
 
 Lucius smiled. "I keep it in my pocket/' he 
 answered. "Want to see?" 
 
 She nodded, and he put two fingers in a vest 
 pocket. 
 
 "Don't drop it," he begged anxiously. 
 
 "I won't." 
 
 Mysteriously he conveyed it to her: a gold 
 double eagle. 
 
 "That's the Aladdin thing to rub!" he laughed. 
 "All I have to do to command Wing's wizardry 
 is to rub one of those a little larger ever so little 
 larger than any other he can see, and he is 
 mine. Presto! It's easy." 
 
 "I quarrel with you!" cried Davy. "That isn't 
 all. For first you must find Wing. I know peo- 
 ple with more gold than you've got, Lucius, but 
 they haven't got your your perspicacity." 
 
 McCurdy bowed. "Well," he said, "I guess 
 the combination's necessary. That's kind of a 
 credo of mine. Perspicacity to see what you 
 want isn't much use without power to get it. 
 And power's not worth much without perspicacity 
 to see what you want." 
 
 H5
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "But of the alternatives if there must be an 
 alternative," Rose hastened to say "it's better to 
 see and not have than to have and not see; isn't 
 it? 'I'd rather love what I can't have than have 
 what I can't love.' ' 
 
 "Much rather!" Creighton affirmed. "It's the 
 seeing the wanting the loving that makes 
 magic in life." 
 
 "How long do they last without ever overtak- 
 ing?" Lucius asked. 
 
 "That depends. It's a matter of education, 
 I'm beginning to think. Not of book learning 
 though I think that helps a lot but of the general 
 character of ideas a man absorbs from his fel- 
 lows. Where discontent is in the air we breathe 
 where being a man is forever and forever lost 
 sight of in the stress of trying to do something 
 it's hard to keep on dreaming and be satisfied 
 with dreams. We all make it hard or easy for 
 the rest." 
 
 "Davy tells me," began Lucius, "that you have 
 a big idea for this neighborhood." 
 
 "I hadn't thought of it," Creighton answered, 
 "as for this neighborhood in particular. I could 
 name others uptown where ideality is quite as 
 lacking. Only I thought I'd like to try it out 
 here first. Not but that the uptown hearts are 
 just as hungry in their depths but the uptown 
 hungry people are less willing to admit it. Hon- 
 
 146
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 esty's a matter of standard. Downtown they 
 'pinch' pocket-books, and their consciences are 
 callous but their hearts are soft; and if you touch 
 their hearts they let you know that's not against 
 their code. But uptown they manipulate markets, 
 and their consciences are callous though their 
 hearts are soft; but if you touch their hearts they 
 don't let you know for that is against their code. 
 So I thought I'd like to try here first." 
 
 McCurdy was interested. "That's right," he 
 asserted. "Down here you can be pretty sure 
 what they think of you. Up there you never 
 know." 
 
 The downstairs bell had rung a minute ago. 
 Now Wing appeared at the sitting-room door. 
 
 "Man to see," he murmured apologetically. 
 
 "I'll come right down," McCurdy answered. 
 
 "I want Lucius to show you that downstairs 
 region as we go out," Davy said after McCurdy 
 had gone. "It's a curiosity. He has the parlor 
 fitted up with consummate tactfulness. It is nice 
 enough according to Cherry Hill standards of 
 taste to impress any one who is shown into it 
 with Mr. McCurdy's prosperity and his respect 
 for his callers, but not too fine so as to make 
 anybody feel uncomfortably inferior. Then he 
 keeps this room as a sort of sanctum, the intimacy 
 of which is yielded only to the most faithful.
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Sooner or later, practically every one gets up here 
 and Lucius seems to judge unerringly just how 
 soon or late the reward should come in each in- 
 dividual case; then the proud person who has 
 been called 'higher up' goes swaggeringly about 
 Cherry Hill and alludes artfully to the soul-warm- 
 ing hospitality of Mr. McCurdy's 'own settin'- 
 room.' " 
 
 Creighton looked a bit contemptuous of this, 
 but he said nothing. 
 
 Rose, however, was keen to read the look. 
 "We're all children," she pleaded. "We love to 
 think we've been 'especially entreated.' The 
 wisest mothers know a lot about such tender 
 little play. It is magic with children all chil- 
 dren." 
 
 He smiled at her gratefully. "I never had 
 much childhood," he said, "and I forget some- 
 times. But I'm sure you're right." 
 
 "There's a kind of pretty way that I can only 
 call playing with life for lack of a better expres- 
 sion," she went on. "I don't mean evading or 
 belittling its seriousness, but translating it into 
 something that is full of charm. When I was 
 little I think I lived almost altogether in that 
 inner world of 'pretend.' It was related to the 
 actual world only it was so much more delight- 
 ful. I did the things the actual world demanded; 
 but I pretended that I did them, not because I 
 
 148
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 was obliged to as dull tasks but because I 
 chose them to do. Sometimes when I had a par- 
 ticularly hateful thing to do I pretended I was a 
 queen and was doing this thing to show a good 
 example to my subjects. I had a nice sense of 
 noblesse oblige^ it seems. Anyway, I got through 
 life quite charmfully by 'playing pretend/ And 
 I play it yet a good deal/* 
 
 "What do you pretend now?" Davy wanted to 
 know. 
 
 But she blushed and wouldn't tell. To un- 
 cover the pretence while you're playing with it is 
 oh! so fatal. A girl knows! 
 
 McCurdy looked serious when he returned. 
 
 "Trouble?" asked Davy sympathetically. 
 
 Lucius nodded. "It's never very far away in 
 Cherry Hill." 
 
 "How about Murray Hill?" Davy ventured. 
 
 " It's there, too, of course lots of it. But it's 
 easier to fight it or ought to be! It's trouble 
 lots of trouble! when your scapegrace young 
 son, on Murray Hill, runs off with a soubrette. 
 But you can mend it. You can buy off the sou- 
 brette and send the boy around the world on a 
 tour of forgetfulness, and when the boy comes 
 back the nicest girl you know will grab at him 
 just the same. But in Cherry Hill !" 
 
 He broke off suddenly and faced them like one 
 pleading his case. "Look here!" he cried, "you 
 
 149
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 people don't always know just what to think of 
 me because I'm playing the political game. But I 
 tell you I've got my dream just as you have yours 
 and I'm on the level about it. I don't say I'm 
 not ambitious but I do say that I'm ambitious 
 for much more than personal success. I want to 
 help! I want power because I want to throw it 
 into the fight for those who are powerless to help 
 themselves. 
 
 "Take this case that's freshest in my mind: 
 here's a man of fifty the wreck of what was once 
 a magnificent creature who ought now to have 
 been scarcely past his prime. Ten years ago 
 he was horribly maimed crippled for life in an 
 explosion in a stone quarry where he was work- 
 ing. At forty he was done for down and out 
 and he had six children under fourteen years of 
 age. The explosion was no one's fault, so he 
 could collect no damages. Industrial insurance 
 would have helped him but we have no indus- 
 trial insurance! His wife scrubbed offices; his 
 oldest boy went onto the streets selling papers; 
 and this wreck of what had once been a powerful 
 man sat at home and tried to face the future. 
 When he got so he could move around he didn't 
 sit at home. He went out and drank. Do you 
 blame him ? / don't! It has been hell in his 
 life for ten years the ten that ought to have been 
 his best his prime. To-night he comes to me in 
 
 '50
 
 the grip of the awfullest thing that has happened 
 to him yet. His oldest girl has gone to the bad. 
 He's Irish you know what that means to the 
 Irish! No other people take it quite so hard. 
 Yet he says he doesn't blame her! There isn't 
 anything she hasn't had to fight against. And 
 finally she's gone. She doesn't know that the 
 worst is to come is what she's flown to. And 
 he drags the wreck that was once himself over 
 here and sobs out that he'll go through hell for 
 me if I'll help him find his girl." 
 
 . . . "Can you do it?" Rose asked softly, 
 breaking a tense silence that was growing un- 
 bearable. 
 
 "/ can't! But I can set in motion the powers 
 that can. And that's why I say: 'Blessed be 
 power/ If I ever get more power enough more 
 power I'm going to stand for industrial insur- 
 ance for one thing! And for another I'm going 
 to fight the " 
 
 He stopped abruptly as if he realized that he 
 had gone too far. 
 
 They looked at him eagerly, but refrained from 
 questioning. 
 
 "I forget caution sometimes," he said. "With 
 you I don't need it; but if I don't learn the habit 
 I'll forget myself some time when it '11 be fatal to 
 me. What I didn't finish saying" he lowered 
 his voice as if afraid the walls might hear "was
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 this : I'm going to fight the exploitation of girls 
 of Poverty's daughters." 
 
 Creighton smiled bitterly. "That determination 
 would kill you if your party found it out," he said. 
 
 Lucius winced. "I know it," he said. "I 
 know my party's black records. But I know, too, 
 its better side " 
 
 "You're not going to quote clam-bakes and 
 baskets of free coal to widows the glass beads 
 it gives our modern Indians to get control of Man- 
 hattan?" 
 
 Rose was afraid this might soon lead to bitter- 
 ness. 
 
 "After all," she interposed smiling, "we're glad 
 the Indians didn't keep Manhattan!" 
 
 Creighton saw her intention and respected it 
 but took a parting shot as he backed away. 
 
 "I don't know," he grumbled good-humoredly; 
 "sometimes I wish they had kept it!" 
 
 "The thing for you two," reminded Davy, "is 
 not to call names, but to see where you can get 
 together to help Cherry Hill." 
 
 "That's right, Davy," Lucius replied. "I'm 
 for any man who wants to help Cherry Hill." 
 
 Creighton nodded appreciation. "I wonder if 
 we can " he said. 
 
 "Of course we can!" McCurdy assured him. 
 " I don't ask you to work my way. I'll work your 
 way with you." 
 
 152
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 Creighton looked embarrassed. There are few 
 experiences more difficult to go through with than 
 receiving the other man's courteous surrender. 
 
 "I " he began, and stammered. "I don't 
 want to seem to be the dreamer who won't yield," 
 he said "to come down here and ask you for your 
 very potent help, then decline to let you direct. 
 You know a lot about Cherry Hill probably 
 much more than I do. I want your advice. 
 Only, it's this way Do you believe in the Chris- 
 tian religion ?" 
 
 "Why, certainly," answered Lucius. 
 
 "Then you believe that when God wanted to 
 save the world, He knew that it couldn't be done 
 through temporal power that it must be done 
 through a kinship of suffering and an appeal to 
 men's hearts. He knew that the motive power 
 to move the world upward must come from 
 within and not from without " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Creighton smiled. "You don't believe it!" he 
 said, not challengingly, but sadly. "Nobody be- 
 lieves it. And yet the strangeness of it! Here am 
 I, a poor, groping pagan, clinging to a belief in 
 men's awakened ideals as the thing to work for. 
 And here are you, like Archimedes, looking for a 
 place to stand and move the world with your lever." 
 
 Lucius took no offence where it was so very 
 evident none was intended. 
 
 153
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "We must work together," he said warmly. 
 "Come, let's discuss ways and means." 
 
 They fell into earnest talk about where Creigh- 
 ton should begin and how he might shape his 
 course. 
 
 "There's that thing," said Lucius, nodding in 
 the direction of his superb ^Eolian which filled 
 one corner of the room. "That and the Vic- 
 trola. They seem to be sources of a lot of pleas- 
 ure. I've a small fortune in discs and rolls 
 everything from 'My Wife's Gone to the Coun- 
 try' and 'Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?' to 
 Caruso and Sembrich in 'La Boheme' and Miche- 
 lova in 'Ave Maria.' I have informal musicals 
 here sometimes. If you want to try out your 
 ideas very gradually, feeling your way, I could 
 ask a few of my Cherry Hill friends in here some 
 evening and let you consult with them. They'd 
 have suggestions." 
 
 This appealed to Creighton. "By all means!" 
 he said. "I'd love that. They're so ready to 
 help always, in my experience. The man with 
 a job is quick to help the man without a job. 
 The man with a grip on life is ever ready to 'hold 
 on for two' while some poor floundering chap 
 gets on his legs again. We want them! We 
 need them! We can't go far unless they'll help. 
 And helping of course will strengthen them. 
 I saw a street incident one day. It was a glori-
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 ous day about two weeks ago mid-October sun- 
 shine goldenest of the year it got into your veins 
 and made you glad to be alive. I was walking 
 along Fifth Avenue at noon hour. The lofts had 
 emptied their throngs into the street. Everybody 
 seemed greedy for that wine-sap air. I can't 
 describe it but that was it the love of life 
 everywhere. Walking ahead of me, going north, 
 as I got to Twentieth Street was a young man 
 carrying a light cane. He stopped at the curb 
 tapping feeling his way. Then I heard him 
 speak a voice that would break your heart 
 no self-pity, no anything just acceptance. 'Will 
 somebody please help me across?' he said. Be- 
 fore I could take his elbow another had responded. 
 I got a good look at them as they threaded their 
 way across. The young man was well dressed, 
 evidently well-to-do. The man who was helping 
 him was middle-aged, shabby, evidently ill-to-do. 
 His manner was not gracious. The moment they 
 reached the opposite curb he dropped his guiding 
 touch on the blind man's shoulder. If he acknowl- 
 edged the 'Thank you,' I did not hear it. He 
 was sullen that shabby man. Alone in all the 
 streetful he seemed unwarmed by that love of 
 life which the gold sunshine kindled. At Twenty- 
 first Street I watched. He responded again to 
 the pathetic request. When that street was 
 crossed he did not relinquish his hold. The 
 
 '55
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 blocks are short, you know, and Twenty-second 
 is a mean crossing. . . . When I left them at 
 Twenty-third Street they had rounded the corner 
 and were going toward Sixth Avenue chatting 
 pleasantly. The older man's walk had lost its 
 sullen slouch. . . . No one else in all that throng, 
 I reflected, could have done for that discouraged 
 man what the blind man did for him by needing 
 him. That's it! You grip any man in a way 
 that tells him unmistakably you need him and 
 you've you've done about the best for him that 
 you can do." 
 
 Creighton told the little incident most beauti- 
 fully. His fine voice, his actor's art, gave him 
 expression for his deep feeling in a degree that 
 moved his hearers profoundly. 
 
 Lucius laid a hand on Creighton's shoulder. 
 It rested there expressively for a moment before 
 he trusted himself to speak. 
 
 "We need you all right," he said when he 
 could say anything. 
 
 Rose, being a woman, dared to wipe her tears 
 away. 
 
 "The the thing you make me see," she said, 
 " is overwhelming. I love your crusade with my 
 whole soul! I'm so glad I live to-day. I'd rather 
 watch your fight and such as yours than any the 
 world has ever seen." 
 
 "Truly?" asked Lucius.
 
 Two Dreamers Meet 
 
 "Truly! I'd rather know you men than Rich- 
 ard of the Lion Heart and the men like him. 
 They went crusading to recover the Holy Sepul- 
 chre where the body of Christ had lain. You go 
 crusading to recover His Spirit in men." 
 
 "We don't call it that," murmured Creighton. 
 
 "It doesn't matter what you call it!" she cried. 
 "Call it what you will it is the biggest impulse 
 that has moved the men of any age. And I'm 
 glad I'm at the roadside to see you go marching 
 by." 
 
 '57
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 CATHERINE AND THE CREHORES 
 
 WHEN Goitie Moiphy had been about a 
 week in her new home she was visited one 
 afternoon by her erstwhile mistress. 
 
 Rose's maid of all work answered the ring at 
 the front door and confronted a young person 
 who, without preliminaries of any sort, thrust a 
 gentleman's card at her. It was Johnny's card. 
 
 "Does he live here ?" the young person asked. 
 
 "He does; but he's not at home." 
 
 " Have youse got a cat named Goitie Moiphy ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, she uster be mine, an* he tol' me I could 
 come an' see 'er whenever I wanted to." 
 
 The servant hesitated. "Wait a minute," she 
 said, "and I'll ask Miss Rose." 
 
 In less than a minute Miss Rose was at the 
 door. 
 
 "Why, howdy-do, Goitie Moiphy's ma," she 
 said. "Come right in, won't you? I think 
 Goitie's asleep this moment. But she'll be glad 
 enough to wake up and see you."
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 When they had seated themselves in the living- 
 room they regarded each other with frank in- 
 terest. 
 
 "My name's Innes," volunteered Rose, "Miss 
 Rose Innes. What's yours?" 
 
 "Crehore," said the young person who was 
 about ten "Miss Mollie Crehore." 
 
 "That's a pretty name." 
 
 "I think Rose is prettier." 
 
 "Do you ? Well, let's change!" 
 
 Mollie looked at her. You couldn't always 
 tell what people meant until you saw the way 
 they looked. If they was fooling you, you could 
 kind o' tell it from their eyes, or else their mouths 
 would twitch in the corners and you'd know that 
 they was giving you the laugh. 
 
 Rose's eyes betrayed no grown-up condescen- 
 sion and the corners of her mouth behaved straight- 
 forwardly. 
 
 "All right," agreed Mollie; "let's." 
 
 The change of names effected a change of rela- 
 tions. Mollie "put on" a good deal in her effort 
 to act as she thought "Rose" should and Rose 
 found a charming irresponsibility about being 
 "Mollie." 
 
 Goitie Moiphy, sad to relate, evinced no in- 
 terest in being called upon even by her late relative. 
 She yawned prodigiously when waked, stuck her 
 front claws deep in the cushion of the window- 
 
 159
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 seat, stretched herself almost alarmingly, then 
 curled up and went back to sleep. 
 
 The caller, however, was not bitterly disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 "She's got it nice here Goitie has," she ob- 
 served, looking around. And that seemed to 
 satisfy her; whether because her devotion was 
 supremely unselfish or because her maternal in- 
 stincts were less strong than her love of advent- 
 ure, one might guess but not know. 
 
 That the call she was making was giving her 
 extreme pleasure there could be no doubt. 
 
 "Is that," she inquired, gazing intently up at 
 the Cavalier, "the man I gave 'er to?'* 
 
 She seemed regretful to learn that it was not. 
 
 "I thought it was his pitcher from a masquer- 
 ade," she said. "That's a swell cos/oom, all 
 right!" 
 
 " Who else lives here ? " she asked presently. 
 
 " My other brother," Rose told her. 
 
 "Is that him?" She pointed to the portrait of 
 Lyman Innes. 
 
 "No; that is my father. He is dead." 
 
 "And yer ma?" 
 
 " She's dead, too. There are just the three of us." 
 
 "My ma's dead. But I got a step." 
 
 "A step?" 
 
 "Step-mother. They're no good. My pa made 
 a mistake. He says so himself. But he had four 
 
 1 60
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 kids an' didn* know what t' do. An* she was kind 
 o' sore on workin* out so she took him. They're 
 both sore now. It's somethin' fierce!" 
 
 Evidently there were no pretenses where Mollie 
 lived. 
 
 She went into Davy's den. "Gee!" was her 
 comment, "is this a libarary?" 
 
 Rose nodded. 
 
 "There's a girl to our house," Mollie went on, 
 "who's read as many books as this, I bet ye. 
 She's always readin' when she ain't workin'. She 
 gets the books out of a libarary." 
 
 Then Rose understood that Mollie took this for 
 a "loan collection"; that she had never known 
 any one to own for personal purpose more than a 
 stray book or two and could only conclude that 
 so many volumes argued an institution. Rose 
 explained that the books all belonged to her 
 brother. 
 
 That was all that was said about books on the oc- 
 casion of this visit. But Mollie called soon again. 
 
 "Say!" she remarked, "I was tellin* that girl 
 in our house what a lot o' books youse have, an' 
 it made her sore. She says so many people have 
 books an' don't read 'em, an* so many more is 
 crazy fer 'em an' can't git 'em." 
 
 This interested Rose. What Mollie had first 
 said about a girl who was " always readin' " she 
 had given no second thought to, taking for granted 
 
 161
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 an average tenement girl's taste for cheap ro- 
 mance. But this speech that the child repeated 
 was bitter; it smacked of a book hunger not that 
 of a novel-reader who is usually content to devour 
 a story and hurry on to the next, but that of a 
 book-lover who craves to have ever at his elbow 
 the books he has made friends with. 
 
 "What is the girl's name ?" she asked. 
 
 "Cath'rine Krakopfsky. She's a Russian." 
 
 Nothing more deeply mystifies the child mind 
 than the ability of adults to infer nationality from 
 a name. Rose remembered this, and instead of 
 remarking: "Naturally with that name," she 
 said "Oh!" as if the explanation had been quite 
 necessary. 
 
 "She works in a tailor-shop," Mollie went on. 
 "But she's awful smart. Her sister's name is 
 queer it's Sonia. They ain't got no folks. 
 Their ma was killed in Russia; an' their pa killed 
 hisself. It's fierce in Russia!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "You bet!" 
 
 "You know these girls pretty well." 
 
 ''They rent off of us our hall room. But they 
 don't eat by us. Cath'rine's good to me. When 
 my step-mother beats me, she takes my part. 
 Sonia don't care she's all fer clo'es an* a good 
 time. But Cath'rine treats me awful good. She 
 says she's fer any one that's got it hard." 
 
 162
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 Rose's heart had gone out to Catherine. 
 
 "Will you tell her to-night," she asked Mollie, 
 "that we are the kind of people that love books, 
 too ? And will you say that we love them so very 
 much that we are always glad to share them ?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "I don't suppose she'd come up here with you 
 some time on a Sunday, say?" 
 
 Mollie didn't think she would. She didn't 
 know why; but that was her guess. 
 
 " But if I returned your call on a Sunday morn- 
 ing, for instance, perhaps I'd see her?" 
 
 "Yeh. But don't come too early. Because 
 she don't git up till seven, Sundays, an* then she 
 does her washin' an' ironin' by our kitchen stove." 
 
 After Mollie was gone Rose found herself 
 haunted by the thought of that Russian girl whose 
 life had seen so much tragedy; who toiled in a 
 tailor-shop; lay abed till seven on Sundays; did 
 her own laundry work; read many books, hun- 
 grily; was kind to an ill-treated child; and, doubt- 
 less, had her own anguished misgivings over a sis- 
 ter who was "all for clo'es an' a good time." 
 
 How adequately the child had reflected her! 
 Rose felt better acquainted with Catherine Kra- 
 kopfsky than with many a person she had met and 
 talked with a score of times. 
 
 Davy was interested when she told him. He 
 wanted to go with her when she called, but she 
 
 163
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 was afraid that "two might seem like a delega- 
 tion." 
 
 " If she likes me I'll get her to come up here," 
 she said. 
 
 "If she likes you!" cried Davy, who could not 
 conceive any other possibility. 
 
 "She may not," Rose went on. "Things are 
 hard for her. Maybe she'll think I'm too favored 
 of fortune. I'm not sure that if I worked in a 
 tailor-shop a sweat-shop, probably and lived 
 in a tenement hall room, and knew my soul was 
 big in tune with big ideas that I'd like a girl 
 who had nothing to do in the world but enjoy her- 
 self among people of charm and intelligence." 
 
 " Rosie," said Davy seriously, and ignoring what 
 Catherine Krakopfsky might think or feel, "do 
 you ever feel as if you had nothing to do in the 
 world?" 
 
 Rose nodded as if unwilling to trust herself to 
 speech. 
 
 Davy gave her one look as if he were wishing for 
 the eloquence that was not in him. Then he said : 
 
 "Oh, Rosie, dear!" 
 
 Davy was sitting in his father's chair in the little 
 den. Rose perched on the arm of it and laid her 
 soft cheek against his hair. 
 
 "I saw Bruce Norbury to-day," he said. 
 
 Rose thought he was trying to change the pain- 
 ful subject. 
 
 164
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 " Did you ? " she answered. " Where ? " 
 
 "At The Players, at lunch. He asked for you." 
 
 She smiled and tweaked his ear. 
 
 "What would you do, Davy, to any one who 
 met you and did not ask for me ? What deed of 
 violence ?" 
 
 "I don't know," Davy answered. "I've never 
 had to think about it." 
 
 "It's your intimidating manner," she teased. 
 
 Davy ignored this. "Bruce and I sat there 
 talking long after the other fellows had gone," he 
 went on. " He's no end of a fine fellow." 
 
 "I always liked him," she agreed. "Where has 
 he been this long while ? " 
 
 "Abroad; he saw a lot of the people we know 
 over there." 
 
 "Any specially good news of anybody?" 
 
 "Well, not any one thing more startling than 
 all the rest. But he had pleasant news of almost 
 everybody." 
 
 "That's fine! As if favors were divided." 
 
 "He saw Schuyler Monteith's portrait of you 
 in Dresden. It was in the exhibition." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 "People were praising it very highly, he said." 
 
 "I'm so glad for Schuyler." 
 
 "And he met Forquarson in Capri." 
 
 "What was he doing?" 
 
 "Finishing a new novel. He read parts of it
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 to Bruce. Bruce thought it was big stuff much 
 the biggest Forquarson has done." 
 
 "Italian novel ?" 
 
 "Naples and Sorrento and Capri for setting; 
 but chiefly English and American characters. 
 It's kind of laid among the art colony there 
 'The Sojourners' is the title and there's a girl 
 in it the heroine that Bruce told Forquarson 
 reminded him of you. Forquarson said he was 
 glad she did; for you had inspired her." 
 
 "Not really?" ' 
 
 " Bruce told me," Davy went on, as if he had 
 not heard her exclamation, "that there wasn't 
 anybody of his acquaintance who was so often 
 and so eagerly inquired after as you were. He said 
 he had always been proud to know you, but that 
 lately he had been quite puffed up about it." 
 
 "Davy," said Rose chidingly, "you're fabri- 
 cating. You know I won't ask Bruce if it's so 
 and you're taking a long chance to flatter and 
 console me." 
 
 "Rose," reminded Davy, "I'm not a fabricator. 
 My imagination won't let me be whatever my 
 inclinations. I begin to suspect that George 
 Washington may have been like me. He couldn't 
 tell a lie because he couldn't think of anything to 
 say." 
 
 Rose laughed. "I miss the way we used to 
 do when we were children: 'Honest Injun' and 
 
 166
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 'Cross my heart an* hope to die/ It was so con- 
 venient; and as it was quite in the social code, 
 nobody was offended when you asked him to 
 swear he was telling the truth." 
 
 "Children 'romance' so much they don't ex- 
 pect to be taken seriously except on oath," Davy 
 said. 
 
 "I don't believe grown people do either," Rose 
 went on. "And yet you can't ask them 'Honest 
 Injun?' They think you ought to know when 
 they expect to be believed and when they don't. 
 And I'm such a ninny I can't tell half the time." 
 
 "When you call yourself a 'ninny/' Davy 
 questioned, "of course you don't expect any one 
 to think you mean it 'Honest Injun'?" 
 
 "Of course I do!" she protested earnestly. 
 
 "Then, Rose," said Davy solemnly, "there is 
 something the matter with your intelligence!" 
 
 Mollie lived on East Twenty-fourth Street. 
 When Rose reached Madison Square on Sunday 
 morning, the church-going folk were on their way 
 to eleven-o'clock service. The beautiful Byzantine 
 church at the corner of East Twenty-fourth Street 
 Stanford White's last work where Dr. Park- 
 hurst's congregation worships, was filling rapidly. 
 As she passed the corner of Fourth Avenue she 
 encountered numbers of soberly but handsomely 
 clad, sedate persons wending their respectful ways
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 to the several houses of worship on Fourth Avenue 
 in that neighborhood. Church bells tolled; there 
 was almost no traffic on these streets that on 
 week-days see a constant congestion of it. A 
 Sabbath-day peace was over everything. This is 
 an interesting, a suggestive bit of that strange 
 composite we call New York. Here stands the 
 Flatiron Building ten years ago a world's won- 
 der; now dwarfed into insignificance by the awe- 
 inspiring Metropolitan tower. There, where the 
 old Fifth Avenue Hotel used to be centre of 
 New York's transient elegance a monster office 
 building looms. Two sides of Madison Square 
 have yielded entirely to business; the other sides 
 are half-yielded. Of what was once an aristo- 
 cratic residence neighborhood little remains ex- 
 cept a few old dwellings most of which are now 
 converted to semi-business purposes, and a few 
 churches whose congregations are made up partly 
 of transients and partly of old members whose 
 sentiment brings them back on Sundays to wor- 
 ship God in a neighborhood they have long since 
 abandoned to the Captains of Mammon. One 
 gets among the people who go back on Sunday 
 mornings from mid-October to mid-May to wor- 
 ship in neighborhoods where they once had their 
 homes, glimpses of an element that has been enor- 
 mously potent in the history of New York. They 
 do not figure in the newspapers; they are not 
 
 168
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 frequently encountered by the hasty foreigner 
 who comes over here to write "impressions." 
 But they have been sturdy conservators. Save 
 for them and for their like New York would 
 scarcely be an American city in any sense. They 
 are dying off; their children are not held by the 
 same loyalties. . . . There will be conservative 
 New Yorkers forty years hence. But one won- 
 ders where their conservatism will express it- 
 self. 
 
 Five minutes' walk east in Twenty-fourth 
 Street gives an observant person plenty to. think 
 about. The social down-grade is sharp. Past 
 Stanford White's Byzantine church and the tow- 
 ering bulk of the Metropolitan Life Building, one 
 soon comes upon the region of boarding-houses 
 quite good boarding-houses, pretty good board- 
 ing houses, fairly good boarding-houses then 
 (going eastward all the time) frankly dingy board- 
 ing houses. Then the tenements begin and the 
 squalor deepens as one approaches the river and 
 the region terrorized by what is known in criminal 
 records as "the gas-house gang." Twenty-fourth 
 Street is a little differentiated from some of its 
 neighbors by the presence of many stables and of 
 a huge ice-cream factory. 
 
 All this world that is epitomized on Twenty- 
 fourth Street east of Fourth Avenue is typical 
 New York. But it knows as little as it is known 
 
 169
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 by that other typical New York which comes 
 to worship Sunday mornings in the environs of 
 Madison Square; as little as either of them knows 
 or is known by that other typical New York 
 which begins with a decided Tenderloin flavor 
 where Twenty-fourth Street runs west from the 
 square and proceeds through disreputable taw- 
 driness to shabby respectability, and so on to the 
 other river at the city's western side. 
 
 The riddle of the city was as ever-present to 
 Rose as to the Arab is the riddle of the Sphinx. 
 
 Mollie lived where Twenty-fourth Street ceases 
 to be merely dingy and is just beginning to be- 
 come squalid. She was playing on the sidewalk 
 and watching for Rose; so she saw her from a 
 distance and ran to give her greeting. 
 
 "Howdy-do, Rose!" Miss Innes said. (When 
 Mollie came to her house they still "traded 
 names" and revelled in the "different" feeling 
 the change gave them.) 
 
 "I'm Mollie here" the young hostess answered. 
 "Rose don't ft." 
 
 "Are there no Rosies in your street?" 
 
 "Oh, plenty! But they're Sheenies and it 
 ain't the same. Besides, she'd kid me awful." 
 
 "Who would?" 
 
 "My step " 
 
 "Oh!" said Rose, as if hurt that Mollie could 
 have thought such a thing, "I would never have 
 
 170
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 mentioned it when any one was around but just 
 ourselves." 
 
 Mollie looked reassured. "Some people don't 
 ever understand," she said. " But Catherine does. 
 I told her; and she said she b'leeved she liked 
 you." 
 
 She led the way and Rose followed. The 
 house, like most of its neighbors, had once been 
 a residence of the well-to-do. Perhaps in the 
 heyday of its gentility it had rented for fifty dol- 
 lars a month. Its rent-roll now must be at least 
 a hundred dollars. The Crehores had the second- 
 floor front rooms. What had once been the big 
 bedroom with an alcove "father's and mother's 
 room" in the by-gone days of one-family tenancy 
 was now two rooms. The alcove was rented 
 to the Krakopfskys and the main part was the 
 Crehore's parlor by day and sleeping-apartment 
 of the four children by night. Where there had 
 been a huge press for clothes and linen and what- 
 not, there was now a tiny, unventilated bedroom 
 where Mr. and Mrs. Crehore slept. Back of it 
 was a room where, in other days, the smallest 
 children probably slept, close by their mother so 
 she could hear them call. This was a kitchen 
 now. There were two other rooms on the floor 
 a back hall room and a large back room; each 
 was separately sublet. 
 
 Everything about the Crehores was on the bor- 
 171
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 der-land between shabbiness and squalor. They 
 had, for instance, a "parlor suit." It had been 
 tawdry to begin with, then had grown shabby; 
 it was now past all pleasingness even to the most 
 perverted taste; but it is something a degree this 
 side of squalor to have a parlor suit of any kind. 
 They had a carpet on the parlor floor that kept 
 excellent company with the furniture. Their 
 aesthetic efforts helped to tell the story: they had 
 a gilded plaster horse, with one foot uplifted; a 
 large box covered with small shells and with a 
 mirror in the top of it; a picture of St. Anthony; 
 a pink plate undoubtedly a "premium"; and a 
 celluloid photograph album in a plush and nickel 
 frame. 
 
 Mr. Crehore had some kind of a semi-mysteri- 
 ous job "off the City" the reward, no doubt, of 
 a meagre political influence. From certain things 
 that transpired it seemed that this was not an 
 arduous job and that it would have been a much 
 better job for Mr. Crehore had it entailed a little 
 more labor of another sort than hanging about 
 saloons. He was a rather good-looking man of 
 not more than thirty-five; sandy-complexioned, 
 blue-eyed, solidly built. His wife was not much 
 younger than he. She had been self-supporting 
 since she was a child. In a season of more than 
 ordinary ill-luck she had grown more than ordi- 
 narily tired of self-dependence; Crehore had 
 
 172
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 offered her a home perhaps his need of a 
 housekeeper, fired by his Irish blood, made him 
 an ardent wooer and she had accepted him. In 
 a month she was sorry. In two months she had 
 begun to be, as Mollie put it, "sore." She con- 
 stantly upbraided Crehore for what he had 
 brought her to. And yet, somehow, she did not 
 leave. Crehore was not the kind of man a 
 woman leaves. No one will ever understand the 
 psychology of such things, perhaps. But there are 
 Bill Sykeses in all walks of life whose very blows 
 inspire loyalty. Crehore was a wife-beater; but 
 he was one of the kind of men whom their women 
 do not leave. 
 
 In this atmosphere but not of it Rose found 
 Catherine Krakopfsky. 
 
 Mollie as a go-between had been no less suc- 
 cessful with Catherine than with Rose. She had 
 reflected faithfully the little she knew of her recent 
 acquaintance, and the good deal more that her 
 childish intuitions perceived. 
 
 Catherine was very much on the defensive, 
 fearing patronage. But in Rose's presence no 
 one could feel that way for long. Her quick 
 sympathy put her at once in Catherine's place, 
 and her natural timidity was made even greater 
 by her fear of seeming to intrude. 
 
 The Crehores were not impressed with Rose. 
 After what Mollie had told them, they had ex- 
 
 173
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 pected some one much more consciously and 
 evidently superior. Mrs. Crehore even had en- 
 tertained visions of Mollie being adopted by a 
 rich lady and taken out of her way. 
 
 Rose felt that she had failed to impress them, 
 and she was sorry for Mollie' s sake. But she 
 felt, too, that Catherine liked her, and that was 
 more important. For the Crehores were not peo- 
 ple she could do anything for. No treasure-house 
 to which she held the key contained anything 
 that they would take if they were so privileged. 
 It must be enough to keep open for Mollie the 
 door of another world where she alone of all 
 her kindred seemed to have citizenship. But for 
 Catherine ! 
 
 Rose's heart overflowed with gratefulness when 
 she thought how many doors to delight would 
 open at her knock to admit Catherine. 
 
 Not one to delay, was Rose. She asked the 
 Russian girl to come that afternoon and see her. 
 
 "My brother Davy will be so happy showing 
 you his books," she said. 
 
 "I haven't any clothes to make calls in," Cath- 
 erine replied. 
 
 Rose's face showed pain and disappointment. 
 
 "I hoped you'd know we'd never think of that," 
 she said. 
 
 Then Catherine was ashamed. " I'll come," she 
 promised, and squeezed the little hand she held. 
 
 174
 
 Catherine and the Crehores 
 
 She came early. Only Davy and Rose were 
 there. 
 
 "That's Lyman Innes," she said when she saw 
 his portrait. "Are you related to him?" 
 
 "We are his children," answered Rose. 
 
 "You ought to be proud," said Catherine Kra- 
 kopfsky. 
 
 "You know about him?" asked Davy mean- 
 ing, as was evident, not his governorship but the 
 use he made of it. 
 
 "One does not read American economics and 
 not know," she replied. 
 
 That was all it took to make her at home there. 
 
 And when, later on, Ansel Rodman came in, 
 and Ballard Creighton and Lucius McCurdy, 
 she did not remember that she had ever been 
 strange. There was such community of interests 
 here as made her feel that she had come at last 
 among her own. 
 
 There was much talk of Creighton's expe- 
 riment and what had been said about it at 
 the "smoker" in McCurdy's sitting-room last 
 night. 
 
 "It's hard to keep ideals over there," she said, 
 indicating with a nod the section of the city they 
 had been talking about. "But if one can only 
 learn to do it it makes political economy so simple 
 for then every man's a king. What do you 
 think a sweat-shop will be to me to-morrow or 
 
 175
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 the Crehore's flat hideous with quarrelling to- 
 night ? For I have been where thoughts are 
 patents of nobility and where earnestness to help 
 makes of us all one kin." 
 
 176
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE SWORD FALLS 
 
 ROSE and Davy breakfasted together at eight 
 o'clock each morning; Johnny did not rise 
 till ten. 
 
 The morning after Catherine's visit their talk 
 was all about her for a while. 
 
 "I can't see," said Rose, "why a girl with an 
 intellect like hers should work in a sweat-shop. 
 Why couldn't she teach ? " 
 
 "Teach what?" 
 
 "Teach school." 
 
 Davy smiled grimly. "She's a nihilist," he 
 reminded; "that's one reason. Another is that 
 she speaks perfect English but with a strong 
 accent." 
 
 "Then, couldn't she teach languages ? She's a 
 fine linguist like most Russians of education." 
 
 Davy shook his head. "The woods are full 
 of good linguists, dear; and speaking languages 
 doesn't imply the ability to teach others to speak 
 them. In the labor market, tailoring brings more 
 than translating or any other use of foreign tongues 
 can bring." 
 
 177
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "But there must be other things she could do 
 ways to use her brain!" 
 
 "There probably are some other things, dear; 
 we'll try to help her find one of them. But a 
 girl in Catherine's position may be ever so capable, 
 yet not be able to find the place for her capabili- 
 ties. For one thing, she hasn't had much time 
 to look; she's had to do what she could get to do 
 and to keep hard at it to live. For another 
 thing, she hasn't had any friends. And everybody 
 needs friends. It's all very well to say that merit 
 makes its own way and nobody can keep it down. 
 But that's not even a half-truth. If merit gets a 
 chance it makes a few friends, and the friends be- 
 gin to praise it until they get a dozen people waked 
 up to this particular merit; then that dozen 
 makes a gross; and so on. Most people are 
 sheep; they don't have ideas; they wait around 
 for some bell-wether to show them where they 
 want to go. After you've been working on news- 
 papers for a while you learn a few things about 
 the way reputations are made and 'the right man* 
 is found for a place." 
 
 "I can never be grateful enough," Rose cried, 
 catching up Goitie Moiphy who was sitting always 
 expectant beside her chair, "that we have found 
 Catherine and poor little Mollie. Lucius and 
 Mr. Creighton were interested in Catherine 
 weren't they?"
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 "Yes, indeed; they'll both be worth a lot to 
 her and she to them." 
 
 "Where" Rose tried to speak casually, but 
 the effort was not a good one "is Dudley these 
 days?" 
 
 Davy looked up sharply. His quick ear caught 
 the tone of anxiety in her voice and it made him 
 fearful. But he, too, tried to seem casual in 
 answering. 
 
 " Out of town, I suppose digging up stuff for 
 this new series. Haven't you heard from him?" 
 
 "Only a line to say that he would be out of 
 town for a few days. Davy, do you know, I 
 can't help wishing that you had taken that 
 job." 
 
 " Do you, dear ? Well, I've been wishing, 
 lately, that I had. Dudley '11 do it a hundred 
 times better than I ever could have done it. But 
 it would have given me a chance " 
 
 "Did you let Dudley have father's papers ?" 
 
 "Yes; I got the boxes out of storage and ex- 
 pressed them to him." 
 
 "Have you ever gone through them?" 
 
 "Oh, yes every one of them." 
 
 Rose looked relieved. "Was there anything 
 there that might be of help to him ?" she asked. 
 
 "Certainly pretty nearly everything relating 
 to that strike is on record in the letter-files and 
 newspaper-scrap books." 
 
 179
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "You'd think," said Rose, "that those would 
 naturally have gone into the State archives." 
 
 "The State gave them all to us," Davy an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Wasn't that unusual?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Somebody up at The 
 Players the other day I forget just who it was 
 told me of his effort to locate certain of the old 
 letter-files at the White House. Until very re- 
 cently, he was told, it was the custom of each 
 President to take with him, when he retired into 
 private life, all the interesting records of his 
 Presidency. He inquired around Washington at 
 the same time for a lot of things he fondly sup- 
 posed were preserved there, and found that most 
 of them had been carried off as curios by the 
 officials under whose charge they fell. The whole 
 mass of correspondence concerning the arrange- 
 ments for Lincoln's funeral for instance was 
 considered the private property of the Treasury 
 official who had the details to arrange; his heirs 
 offered the lot at private sale a while ago. Thou- 
 sands of documents which ought to belong to the 
 Government are in private hands throughout the 
 country. There hasn't been much feeling about 
 'archives' in the United States until quite re- 
 cently." 
 
 'Then Dudley won't have to go to the Capital 
 to get anything on that strike?" 
 
 1 80
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 "Well, you see he'd naturally want to go. 
 There might be things there very important 
 things. When you're trailing clews in research 
 work you get so keen on the scent that you can't 
 rest until you've dug in every conceivable place 
 where there might be a particle of the truth. 
 For in history, of course, the truth is hard to 
 come by; everything you find seems to deny or at 
 least to discount everything else; and you go on 
 and on and on hoping to find the last elusive 
 bit of evidence. Then you begin to sift and 
 weigh; to qualify every man's testimony by what 
 you know of his prejudices, and so on gathering, 
 scrutinizing, challenging, eliminating, building up, 
 until you've come to what you hope may be an 
 honest approximation to the truth. I've had 
 tastes of such work. It gets a grip on you no one 
 can appreciate who hasn't felt something of the 
 sort. I can understand! You get on a trail and 
 you'd sell your only other suit of clothes to follow 
 where you think it leads. It's a magnificent 
 madness. I hope I'll be able to indulge myself 
 in it some day." 
 
 "I hope you will, dear." Rose smiled tenderly 
 up at him as he rose from the table. But Davy 
 thought he could tell there was anxiety behind 
 the smile. 
 
 "How is Mrs. Bristow doing?" she asked him 
 as if the other subject had ceased to interest her. 
 
 181
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 "Very well. I haven't seen her since that 
 night she was here. But I send her out a bundle 
 of books each week, and she sends the reviews in 
 promptly. They're good, too. But the five or six 
 dollars she can get from the sale of the books is a 
 pretty poor return for all the work she puts into 
 her reviews. I wish she had something better." 
 
 "Dear Davy," murmured Rose, kissing him; 
 "he's always trying to boost somebody into a 
 better place." 
 
 "Look who he has forever putting him up to 
 it," retorted Davy. 
 
 Davy liked to go up to The Players when he 
 could for lunch. Nor did he feel that the time it 
 took him to go between Park Row and Gramercy 
 Park and the time he spent lingering over his 
 lunch was ill-spent for his paper. For a literary 
 editor gets from the printed pages that pass 
 under his eye only a small part of what makes 
 his columns interesting to readers; the rest he 
 gets from contact with men of the world where 
 books are made. The steady inpouring of scores 
 upon scores of volumes, smelling, all, of fresh ink, 
 tends soon to drown a man's sense of individual 
 values. He doesn't read the books, of course; 
 but he must know what they are all about; he 
 must have some idea of the probable worth of 
 each; he must exercise good judgment in his selec- 
 
 182
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 tion of certain reviewers for certain books. If 
 he is a just man, he does not give the new Henry 
 James novel to a reviewer whose avowed favorite 
 is the creator of Sherlock Holmes; he does not 
 let the work on Spanish cathedrals go out to a 
 man whose sense of art is in subordination to his 
 anti-papacy so that he "foams at the mouth at 
 mention of a priest/* He sticks to his own spe- 
 cialty among the books that come to him for 
 review or as nearly to it as he can, whatever it 
 may be and he prides himself on keeping up a 
 reviewing staff -large enough and capable enough 
 so that a [majority of the books that come in 
 can go out for review to some one who is really 
 interested in them and can [compare them with 
 other books of their class. The ability to keep 
 up a strong staff of reviewers is no mean one 
 because all the reviewer gets for the job is the 
 books he reviews; if he' is trying to make any 
 money out of his reviewing, he sells the books 
 to a dealer for about fifty or sixty per cent of 
 their list price; if he does the job just to get free 
 of cost the new books he is interested in, he proba- 
 bly keeps the books. The chief value of a liter- 
 ary editor is epitomized^ in something like this: 
 "Say, Sam, the Era Company is bringing out 
 that Waterhouse book on Thibet. You're the 
 only man I know of who's been to Thibet. Will 
 you look the book over for me?" If "Sam" 
 
 183
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 likes the literary editor he probably agrees to re- 
 view the book; he knows he'll read it anyway, 
 and he may as well get it for nothing. In a 
 hundred ways like this, the literary editor serves 
 his readers. If his department is well conducted 
 and attracts the interested attention of many book- 
 buyers, it becomes of value to the paper's pub- 
 lishers not only as a popular "feature," but be- 
 cause of the large amounts of advertising book 
 publishers are glad to put in columns that book- 
 buyers are known to scan. Yet no matter what 
 revenue he may bring his paper, the literary editor 
 is supposed to conduct his department at no ex- 
 pense except that of his own salary which is 
 never embarrassingly large. 
 
 Davy's wide acquaintance was one of his main 
 assets as a literary editor. Another asset was 
 his special ability to review books dealing with 
 sociology and political economy. But as valuable 
 an asset as he had was his prodigious memory of 
 the publishing output for a decade past, at least. 
 His mind was a storehouse of "Who's Who and 
 What He's Done." He knew, as Johnny put it, 
 "just how everybody stacks up," and yet he had 
 an ever-keen interest, which he was able to com- 
 municate in a measure even to his doggedest re- 
 viewers, in seeing how each new work measured up 
 to the author's previous standard, or fell behind, 
 or set him forward in a class ahead. 
 
 184
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 He drifted around a good deal, picking up 
 literary information, and was a familiar figure 
 about The Players, the Aldine Club, in those 
 corners of the Brevoort where bookmen fore- 
 gather, and in other places where the talk is of 
 those things of which books are made. His 
 thick thatch of light sandy hair; his near-sighted 
 blue eyes behind their thick glasses; his round 
 shoulders; the way peculiar to stoop-shouldered, 
 near-sighted persons that he carried his head 
 forward as if he were always straining intently 
 to see, to hear, all contributed to make up an 
 appearance that people did not readily forget. 
 No one was ever openly charmed with Davy as 
 with Johnny, so that it was plain to be seen that 
 they were captivated. Davy wasn't captivating; 
 but nearly every one who knew him liked him 
 though they were much more likely to tell 
 their fondness to some one else than to show it 
 to him. He was one of the kind that does not 
 seem to invite manifestations of fondness or 
 friendship; but his readiness at all times to 
 "boost" some one ahead into better recognition 
 of his merits had made him many warm friends 
 as he was presently to discover. 
 
 Dudley Prichard came into The Players at 
 lunch time on that very day when Rose and Davy 
 had been discussing him at breakfast. He was 
 lunching with Sam Hamilton at a table near by
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 where Davy sat with Oswald Seever and Bruce 
 Norbury. When Davy's coffee came Dudley and 
 Hamilton got up from their table. Hamilton 
 stopped only to speak, on his way out, but 
 Dudley lingered. 
 
 " I want to talk to you, Davy," he said. " Can 
 you give me a half-hour this afternoon?" 
 
 "Yes sure," Davy answered. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Anywhere you say." 
 
 "It's about a job I'm on," Prichard explained 
 to Seever and Norbury. " Davy knows a lot about 
 it, and I want him to go over some details with 
 me." 
 
 "Anywhere you say, Dud," Davy said. 
 
 "Going back to the office from here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'll go that way with you. Look for me in 
 the library when you're ready to go." 
 
 "Brilliant fellow, Prichard, all right," mur- 
 mured Seever when Dudley's back was turned. 
 "And a hard worker, too. He gets big prices for 
 his stuff, but there's no end to the labor he puts 
 into it. He really tries to get to the bottom of 
 things. Half the fellows don't, it seems to me; 
 they're satisfied if they can kick up a big dust 
 and make everybody exclaim against it." 
 
 'Yes," said Davy; "Dud's coming on fast 
 turning out strong stuff." He seemed abstracted 
 
 186
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 as he spoke, as if his mind had strayed elsewhere, 
 beyond Prichard's cleverness; and he drank his 
 black coffee quite hastily instead of lingering over 
 it as he liked to do. 
 
 "Well, boys, I'm off," he announced, and went 
 to find Prichard in the library. 
 
 Davy thought Prichard acted as if under some 
 constraint, but nothing out of the ordinary was 
 said until they had reached the street. Naturally, 
 Davy would have taken the Subway at Eight- 
 eenth Street; but any talk is, of course, impos- 
 sible in the ear-splitting racket of the "tube/* 
 
 "Do you mind walking a bit?" Dudley asked. 
 
 "No; I'm glad to." 
 
 So they turned eastward to Irving Place and 
 strolled down that quiet little "backwater" of the 
 traffic currents toward Fourteenth Street. 
 
 "Davy," began Prichard nervously, "I've been 
 digging for dear life into this labor thing." 
 
 He paused as if he thought that perhaps Davy 
 would guess what he was trying to say and would 
 help him out. But Davy did not speak. 
 
 "I've" Prichard went on desperately "I've 
 turned up a lot of stuff that has has surprised 
 me completely." 
 
 Again he waited. But "Yes?" was all that 
 Davy said. 
 
 "I Davy, this is terribly hard for me to say 
 but I some of the revelations concerned your
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 father contradicted the the general impressions 
 about his death/' 
 
 Davy bowed his head. 
 
 "You know?" Prichard asked. 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Have you always known?" 
 
 "I have always known. It it came to me in 
 a way I will tell you presently." 
 
 "Do the others know?" 
 
 "You mean Rose and Johnny?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I don't know. You'll think that strange 
 but I don't know. There have been times when 
 I thought Rose knew. And then, again, I'd be 
 sure that she didn't know. I I hardly think it 
 can be possible that she knows or she'd be be- 
 trayed, some time, into giving a sign she loved 
 him so she is so jealous of his fame " 
 
 "And Johnny?" 
 
 "I can't believe Johnny knows. His is such 
 an open nature he's out with everything. If he 
 had known it all these years I'd surely have found 
 out. He couldn't keep it from me " 
 
 "Have you any idea how generally it is 
 known ? " 
 
 "Naturally, no but not very generally, I be- 
 lieve. Everything that could be done was done 
 to keep it covered." 
 
 "It was I don't know that I have ever been 
 188
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 so shocked," murmured Prichard. "I it puts 
 me in a hard place, Davy." 
 
 Davy lifted his head quickly and looked at 
 Dudley Prichard. 
 
 "A hard place?" he echoed uncomprehend- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Of course! It's hard you know how much I 
 think of Rose of all of you it's hard that this 
 disclosure should fall on me " 
 
 "Disclosure?" 
 
 "Why, yes; I'm on this job I find these facts 
 what can I do?" 
 
 Davy turned and faced him. "You you can't 
 mean that you thought of of publishing that?" 
 he cried furiously. 
 
 Prichard's ire rose under the goad of the angry 
 incredulity in Davy's look and tone. 
 
 "Publish it?" he retorted. "Why, what else 
 can I do ? I undertake to ferret out and set forth 
 the facts in this phase of the history of industry 
 in America. In getting ready to handle the big- 
 gest story in the annals of labor strife, I uncover 
 the most startling example of truth-suppression 
 and misdirected hysteria that this country has 
 ever known, with one exception. What can I do ? 
 Shall I put myself on record in perpetuation of 
 what I know is untrue ? You know what is in- 
 volved, Davy. Say you understand!" 
 
 "Shall / speak untruth?" cried Davy. "I do 
 189
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 not understand! God! May I never understand 
 how there could be a man like you!" 
 
 "You are unjust!" Prichard exclaimed, wincing. 
 
 Davy made no reply. 
 
 "Is this do we part over this?" Prichard 
 asked. 
 
 Davy was silent for a moment. Then: "Dud- 
 ley," he said, "if this blow could fall on me alone, 
 I wouldn't stoop to plead with you. But it 
 can't! Other hearts must break among them 
 the sweetest and tenderest heart that beats under 
 any breast. If you if you stab Rose with this 
 thing if you put out the light in Johnny's laugh- 
 ing eyes I I believe I shall kill you!" 
 
 He spoke in a low tone, but with a quiet despera- 
 tion that was terrifying. He was not threatening; 
 rather, he seemed horrified at his own purpose, yet 
 unalterably sure of it. 
 
 Prichard glanced uneasily about the quiet street. 
 There was that about Davy which made it seem 
 that he was quite capable of doing as he said and 
 of doing it here and now. He quickened his pace 
 so that they might the sooner reach Fourteenth 
 Street. On that noisy thoroughfare this painful 
 talk could not continue. 
 
 "Davy," he begged pacifically, "this has been 
 a terrible shock to you to both of us. Don't be 
 hasty in condemning me. Think it over fairly 
 from my point of view I thought it over from 
 
 190
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 yours. I'm not going to tell anybody. Nothing 
 will be ready for print for weeks and weeks it 
 will be a year, at least, before the series reaches 
 that point where this story comes in. Don't be 
 rash. Give me credit for something for coming 
 to you first of all when I had found this out and 
 telling you how things stood. I could have waited, 
 Davy; I could this has been damned hard to do 
 I could have turned coward. But I couldn't 
 face you with this preying on my mind. And I 
 couldn't face Rose, knowing that I was conceal- 
 ing this from her. I we understand each other, 
 Rose and I I think she loves me but I couldn't 
 let her go on without knowing this. If she, too, 
 hates me, I must bear it. But I shall have 
 done " 
 
 A taxicab drove up to the curb. Davy must 
 have hailed it while Prichard was talking; he 
 bolted forward now and jumped into the cab. 
 
 "Hey, Davy!" Prichard cried. "Where are 
 you going ? " 
 
 But Davy, inside, pointed to the driver to go 
 toward Fifth Avenue, and as the cab shot forward 
 he leaned toward the driver and gave him the 
 address. 
 
 In about five minutes Davy was at home. 
 
 Johnny was not there; he had gone out imme- 
 diately after luncheon. Rose was in her room 
 getting ready for the street. She had decided she 
 
 191
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 would go uptown and call on the Bristows. When 
 she heard a key in the lock she supposed Johnny 
 must have returned for something. 
 
 Davy came into the dining-room and called: 
 
 "Rose!" 
 
 "Why, Davy!" she cried, running out to him. 
 "Are you ill, dear?" 
 
 Davy looked ill mortally ill but he declared 
 he was not. 
 
 "I just had something I wanted to talk to you 
 about," he said, " and I stopped here on my way 
 back from The Players." 
 
 Rose was reassured, although it was a little 
 startling that Davy should have anything to talk 
 to her about that could not wait till dinner time. 
 
 "Nothing has happened, I hope?" she asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, Rose, dear," Davy answered, "some- 
 thing has. Don't be frightened. But I I wanted 
 to talk to you about it before any one else did." 
 
 "Not Johnny ?" 
 
 "No, dear. Not anybody on earth." 
 
 He motioned to her to sit down on the big 
 davenport in the living-room, and he sat beside 
 her. 
 
 "I have just left Dudley Prichard," he began. 
 There was that in the tone of his voice that told 
 Rose the rest. 
 
 She clutched his arm fearfully. 
 192
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 "Not not " she gasped; the words would 
 not come. 
 
 "Rose!" implored Davy. "Rose! What is 
 it?" 
 
 She flung her head upon his breast and broke 
 into a passion of tears. % 
 
 For a few moments Davy soothed her in silence. 
 When it seemed as if she might be able to com- 
 mand herself to answer, he asked her: "Dear 
 you know ? " 
 
 "Yes," she sobbed; "I know." 
 
 "How long?" 
 
 "Oh, very long many lifetimes, it seems to 
 me." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 Rose hesitated. "Mother," she said. The shame 
 her mother had not felt in telling it overwhelmed 
 her now as she admitted to her brother that their 
 mother had done this thing. 
 
 Davy repressed the first exclamation that rose 
 to his lips. After a pregnant pause, "I wonder 
 iuhy ?" he murmured. 
 
 Again Rose hesitated; it seemed impossible to 
 tell this; she couldn't bring herself to frame the 
 words, even to Davy who knew his mother so well 
 that he might know how to understand perhaps 
 even to forgive her jealousy. Rose's silence was 
 telltale; Davy could guess what it was she would 
 not say. 
 
 193
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "How could she?" he whispered under his 
 breath. 
 
 Rose heard him. "It it was an awful thing 
 for her to do," she said, "but she didn't realize 
 that it was. Fm sure she was unsettled in her 
 poor mind by the shock, the grief. And the turn 
 her melancholy took was dwelling on her wrongs, 
 not on her loss. You and Johnny were in school 
 and in college away from her most of the time. 
 I was with her I knew. She said she had to 
 have some one to talk to about her wrongs and 
 so she talked to me. But she didn't want you 
 boys to know. She she said it was better for 
 you to believe that father was a good man. 
 Davy!" Rose went on heart-brokenly, "that was 
 the most dreadful thing of all mother couldn't 
 remember any of his great goodness. She forgot 
 everything but that one thing. She used to say 
 that she had to * pretend' so much before the 
 world that it was too much to ask her to pretend 
 before me, too. And she couldn't understand 
 why I should love him so. She wasn't rational, 
 you see ! " 
 
 Davy was overwhelmed. His mind was trav- 
 elling back over all those years when he and 
 Johnny had been away from home getting their 
 education and living the hale and hearty life of 
 boys among their peers, while this infinitely ten- 
 der little creature with her great love and her great 
 
 194
 
 The Sword Falls 
 
 sensitiveness had spent her days under the hide- 
 ous pall of that jealousy and brooding melancholy; 
 the mother who should have been protecting her 
 with every loving care making, instead, a forced 
 confidante of this poor little child, filling her mind 
 with black wretchedness that she must hide and 
 hide and hide all her life through. ... It was 
 almost beyond belief ! And now, through another 
 to whom her sweet trust had gone out, this blow 
 was to fall on her and there was nothing that 
 could be done to save her. 
 
 Davy groaned. His mind was on the rack, and 
 the torment wrung from him one groan of an- 
 guish unbearable. . . . Murder was in his heart 
 for the first time in his clean young life red lust 
 to kill. 
 
 The doorbell rang. He heard Dudley Prich- 
 ard's voice in the hall. His face went livid. 
 Then, with a cry of terror, he bolted from the 
 room, through the dining-room, and into Rose's 
 bedroom. Slamming the door shut behind him, 
 he locked it and threw the key out the window. 
 
 195
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "THE OBLIGATION OF THE TRUTH" 
 
 THE Inneses' servant had not heard Davy 
 come in. She knew that Dudley Prichard 
 was always welcomed; and thinking that Miss 
 Rose was in her room getting ready to go out, she 
 directed Mr. Prichard to the living-room and went 
 to announce him reaching Rose's door just after 
 Davy had slammed and locked it. 
 
 "I'm here, Nora," Rose called to her from the 
 living-room. 
 
 Discretion was not in Nora; and for the most 
 part the lack of it was no serious drawback in 
 this household where everything was, in her own 
 phrase, "as plain as day." She had seen a man 
 disappear into Miss Rose's room. There could be 
 only one explanation: he was a burglar. 
 
 Nora's eyes spoke terror. "There's a robber 
 in the house," she declared. " He's in your room." 
 
 "It's Mr. David, Nora," Rose answered. "He 
 came home feeling badly, about fifteen minutes 
 ago." 
 
 "Can I do anything for him?" Nora asked. 
 196
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 " I don't think so. He just wants to be quiet." 
 
 Nora had not failed to note the evidences of 
 tears on her dear Miss Rose's face. Her warm 
 Irish heart misgave her about Mr. Davy; but 
 Miss Rose's manner was so reassuring that she 
 went away without asking further questions. 
 
 When they were alone, Dudley began to apol- 
 ogize to Rose for his presence. 
 
 "Nora told me to come in," he explained. "I 
 I know I intruded." 
 
 He looked so acutely wretched that Rose's 
 heart went out to him in tender pity. 
 
 "Sit down, dear," she urged gently. 
 
 He dropped into that corner of the davenport 
 which Davy had just vacated, and leaning forward 
 buried his face in his hands. 
 
 "This is horrible," he groaned "horrible!" 
 
 She laid her hand comfortingly on his bowed 
 shoulders. "Davy has told me," she said. 
 
 He raised his head. "Didn't you know be- 
 fore ?" he asked. 
 
 "About father?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I knew I have known for years." 
 
 "Are you going to hate me, Rose?" 
 
 "For finding out? Why, you couldn't help 
 that!" 
 
 What had Davy told her? Evidently not the 
 one thing that Dudley supposed he had. 
 
 197
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "No," he echoed confusedly, "I couldn't help 
 that/' 
 
 "But you are so horrified? Dudley, don't let 
 yourself judge him too harshly. He had his 
 human weaknesses but he had in many things 
 a more than human strength. I know nothing 
 about this this affair which cost him his life 
 which took him from us and from the world that 
 needed him. But I know that not all that has 
 been said about him has overpraised his goodness 
 his greatness." 
 
 He was silent, not knowing where to begin to 
 make his situation clear to her. 
 
 Misunderstanding his silence, she thought a new 
 light broke upon her. She had supposed him un- 
 happy because he felt he could not now do Ly- 
 man Innes the loving justice he had hoped to do 
 him. Then it flashed over her that perhaps he 
 thought less of her, in the light of this discovery, 
 and did not know how to tell her. 
 
 Her cheeks burned and behind their mist of 
 tears her eyes flashed. 
 
 "Dudley," she demanded, "is it possible that 
 you think less of me and of all of us because of 
 this discovery ? " 
 
 " No ! " he cried ; " no ! I'm not a fool. But it's 
 this: you don't seem to understand. I've under- 
 taken to probe into a phase of history and to try 
 to discover the truth about it. I find that the 
 
 198
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 leading event with which I am to deal is built 
 out of a tissue of lies. I I can't perpetuate the 
 lies." 
 
 "You you mean," she gasped, her eyes fast- 
 ened on him in a stare of mixed horror and in- 
 credulity, "that you want to to publish what 
 you've learned ? " 
 
 "I must," he answered desperately. 
 
 She was on her feet confronting him, blazing 
 with fury. 
 
 "You must? Why must you? What obliga- 
 tion could there be strong enough to force any 
 man to such a thing ? " 
 
 "The obligation of the truth," he returned 
 doggedly. 
 
 "The truth! What is the truth? The prime 
 truth about my father is that he was all he has 
 been represented to be. If this other is true about 
 him, it is not THE truth! The truth as told about 
 him has been an inspiration to tens of thousands. 
 You want to shatter this ideal!" 
 
 "I do not!" he cried. "I want to give him 
 every particle of credit he's entitled to. I have 
 his letters his scrapbooks. They bear witness 
 that no man can question, to his attitude toward 
 labor and its just demands. But I cannot repeat 
 the lies about his death." 
 
 "Why do you need to discuss his death ?" 
 
 "Because it is the pivot of the whole affair. 
 199
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 The sentiment it aroused marked the beginning 
 of a new era in public sentiment. It why, you 
 know as well as I do it started a new school of 
 writing a flood of sentimental literature in which 
 some hero of the classes gives his life for his belief 
 in the masses. A whole world of hysteria has 
 grown out of the lies told about that death.'* 
 
 "Sentiment," she reminded him hotly, "is not 
 always hysteria because it seems such to the 
 cynical/' 
 
 "I am not cynical, Rose nor unsentimental. 
 But I tell you, untruth is unwholesome. All big 
 literature, sacred and profane, tells the truth 
 about men. It doesn't try to sustain David's 
 spirituality by suppressing the truth about Uriah's 
 wife; Ulysses isn't any less a hero because of 
 Calypso; we don't discredit Solomon's wisdom 
 because we know he was a carnal man. This 
 isn't any new attitude of mine; you know I've 
 always written what I believed to be the truth, 
 no matter what it has cost me. I've had some 
 hard fights; but I've won respect for my work. 
 I can't go back on that record now. I can't let 
 my love for you, my affection for the boys, stultify 
 me. I would do the same if it were my own father 
 who was involved. For I know that the truth 
 must prevail; and I hope I am too wise to try to 
 stand against it. I explained to Davy: this isn't 
 going to come out to-morrow, nor next month. I 
 
 200
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 began my investigating with the struggle your 
 father represents because I could get the fullest 
 detail on that most easily, and out of that detail 
 I could pick up the threads that would lead me 
 back into earlier struggles. I have months of 
 research yet to do; it will be a year before this 
 revelation gets to print. But I felt I must tell 
 you about it I could not accept any evidences 
 of regard from you while I was hiding from you 
 a discovery like that. If you feel that I have 
 estranged myself from you, I must bear it. But I 
 shall at least know that I have done what the 
 truth demands." 
 
 Rose made no effort at any time to interrupt 
 him, but let him say his say to the bitter end. ^.j 
 
 "Dudley," she began when he seemed waiting 
 for her to speak, "as you say, this is no matter 
 for haste. I want to be just to everybody. I 
 must think. You will, of course, keep it secret; 
 journalistic prudence, if nothing else, would make 
 you do that. Davy and I will talk it over. I 
 I'm quite sure we'll try not to let Johnny know 
 not yet. There's nothing, it seems, that we can 
 do except to reconcile ourselves. Wait till you 
 hear from me. When we know how we can com- 
 mand ourselves, I'll send you word." 
 
 When he was gone she sat down in a low chair; 
 her small hands were quite cruelly clinched; every 
 muscle was tense with strain. She was telling 
 
 201
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 herself that she must fight this out she must 
 try to think to reason to decide to plan. But 
 her mind refused her mandates. It was inert; 
 she could not force it. 
 
 She got up presently and went to the door of 
 her room. Davy was there he would help her. 
 She tried the knob gently. When she found the 
 door locked she fainted. 
 
 A few minutes later the front doorbell rang 
 and Nora answered it. A gentleman she did not 
 remember ever to have seen asked for Miss Innes. 
 
 Nora heard no sound from the living-room. 
 She had her own intuitions about the status of 
 Dudley Prichard in the household, and she thought 
 she understood why it was so quiet in the living- 
 room. It was quiet in the kitchen for long stretches 
 at a time so quiet you could hear the ticking of 
 the clock on the evenings when Nora's beau 
 came. 
 
 "I I think Miss Innes is out,'* Nora said. 
 Then, being a bad dissembler, "I'll I'll ask her," 
 she stammered, and in defiance of instructions 
 closed the door in the gentleman's face. 
 
 The apartment was one of those with a long, 
 narrow hall out of which most of the rooms opened. 
 The door into the living-room was not more than 
 three or four short paces from the front door. Nora 
 tiptoed along the wall and knocked on the lintel. 
 
 202
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 Receiving no answer, she ventured to speak. 
 "Miss Rose!'* she called in a loud whisper. 
 When there was no response Nora peeked in. 
 Finding the room empty, she called again, and 
 louder. They were in Mr. Davy's den, no doubt. 
 But no answer came from there. 
 
 "I guess I told the truth," laughed Nora to 
 herself; "she did go out." 
 
 She was about to return to the door to tell the 
 caller this, when her eye straying to Miss Rose's 
 door to see if there was any sign of Mr. David 
 caught sight of the limp figure on the floor. 
 
 She screamed; and in the same instant Bruce 
 Norbury burst in from the hall, and Davy bounded 
 to the door and implored to know what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 "Come out, Mr. Davy; come out quick!" 
 Nora shouted. "I think Miss Rose is dead." 
 
 Davy flung himself against the door and it 
 crashed open. Bruce Norbury had Rose in his 
 arms. 
 
 "In here," sobbed Davy; and Bruce laid her 
 on her own bed. 
 
 "She has fainted," he said. "Water, Davy 
 and brandy." 
 
 He unfastened her collar and the top hooks of 
 her dress. Nora fetched ice-water and Davy was 
 there in an instant with brandy. 
 
 As soon as he saw signs of returning conscious- 
 203
 
 Children of To-Moirow 
 
 ness, Bruce stepped out of the room. Something 
 was wrong here, evidently, when Davy was locked 
 in Rose's room and Rose lay in a faint outside the 
 door. He went into the living-room, far out of 
 ear-shot, and debated within himself whether it 
 would be more delicate for him to slip away, or 
 to wait and seem to accept whatever tale Davy 
 offered. 
 
 Putting himself in Davy's place, he decided to 
 remain and reassure Davy. If he went, Davy 
 might suffer distress over what he supposed Bruce 
 must be thinking. 
 
 It was many minutes perhaps twenty before 
 Davy came. Bruce was standing at the front 
 windows looking across Washington Square. 
 
 Davy laid a hand on Norbury's shoulder and 
 Norbury turned. He was startled almost out of 
 his control by the expression of Davy's face. It 
 was not two hours since they had sat together at 
 luncheon; yet in that space of time Davy seemed 
 to have aged as with years of suffering. 
 
 "Don't try to tejl me anything, Dave," Nor- 
 bury entreated. "I don't need to know. I am 
 satisfied. Just forget that I was here, and I'll 
 forget it." 
 
 "Bruce," said Davy, "if you'd let me talk to 
 you I think it might keep me from going mad. 
 I've got to get some other point of view on this 
 than my own. I've got to, for her sake. You're 
 
 204
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 here perhaps you were sent. If you hadn't come 
 I should have been sorely tried to know whom I 
 could talk to. Not that I haven't many friends I 
 trust, but can't we sit down, Bruce?" 
 
 As if his knees suddenly gave way, he sank into 
 a chair. 
 
 Bruce stepped into the dining-room and fetched 
 a glass of brandy from Davy's liqueur cabinet. 
 Davy swallowed it gratefully. Then he plunged 
 bravely in. 
 
 "Bruce," he began, "have you ever heard any- 
 thing about about my father's death that that 
 wasn't quite like the usual account of it?" 
 
 Norbury's face showed that he had. "One 
 hears all sorts of things about any event of great 
 public interest," he replied evasively. 
 
 "Would you mind telling me what you have 
 heard?" 
 
 "Why, that there was some that the assassin, 
 Bardeen, fancied he had a a different sort of a 
 grievance than the the one that has always been 
 ascribed to him." 
 
 "His wife?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do do many people I mean, do you think 
 many persons have heard of this?" 
 
 "I think not it has been mentioned once or 
 twice in my hearing, but I've never given it any 
 credence always set it down to the malice of 
 
 205
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 those who opposed your father's attitude. I fancy 
 most persons would do the same." 
 
 Davy told him about Prichard; about the talk 
 with Rose, and how he had locked himself away 
 when he heard Prichard's voice, fearing what he 
 might do. What had transpired between Rose 
 and Dudley he did not know. But Dudley was 
 gone and Rose was as Bruce saw. 
 
 The passionate anger Bruce felt against Prich- 
 ard he controlled with supreme effort; his ser- 
 vice to Davy must be to calm him and not to add 
 fuel to his rage. 
 
 Bruce Norbury was a man of elegant leisure 
 "and always busy," as he was wont to add. He 
 had an income sufficient for his needs; and as for 
 his wants, not many of them were of a sort money 
 can satisfy. He was born with one great gift, the 
 gift for friendship. And it was his friendships 
 that kept him busy. 
 
 Jim Sansome, for instance, falls ill and is or- 
 dered to Southern California. He doesn't know 
 a soul west of the Mississippi and he is desper- 
 ately afraid he may die out on that far coast. 
 There seems to be no one who can go with him 
 except Bruce. So Bruce goes. In Santa Barbara 
 they meet Phoenix Ordway whose paintings of the 
 missions by moonlight have made him fame and 
 fortune. Before he has been there a fortnight, 
 
 206
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 Bruce is fathoms deep in the fascination of the 
 missions pictorially, historically, architecturally, 
 and every other wise. He has a winter of deep 
 delight, and gets on the trail of so many interesting 
 things that he is not content until he has followed 
 the trails into old Mexico. From there the trails 
 lead to Spain. And on a day when Tom Berwin, 
 at the National Arts Club, says he wants to go 
 to Spain to make some architectural studies, and 
 wishes he knew "an English-speaking white man 
 who'd go along/' Bruce offers himself. Two 
 months of the Alhambra and the cathedrals, of 
 Toledo and Burgos and Salamanca and Seville, 
 and Bruce finds his architectural understanding 
 most enjoyably keen thanks to Tom and whet- 
 ted for a sight of some good classic models with 
 which he may compare the Gothic and see if he 
 can recognize in himself those essentially differ- 
 ent feelings which Tom says the classics induce. 
 And thus and thus, Bruce Norbury. People 
 envy him his ability to indulge himself in for- 
 eign travel people who spend thrice as much 
 every year to live in a hole in one of Manhattan's 
 tall apartment "cliffs." He has a bit of astro- 
 nomical enthusiasm, which gives him pleasure on 
 almost every clear night. He has a simple satis- 
 faction in knowing birds and trees and plants 
 by name, which puts zest into his country excur- 
 sions. His sympathy with many men makes him 
 
 207
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 absorb the best of each, and his desire to give quid 
 pro quo in friendship makes him give liberally 
 out of his assorted interests in return for a share 
 in the specific interest of the friend he is with. 
 
 "Do you know exactly what it is that Prichard 
 has stumbled upon?" he asked Davy. 
 
 "No, he didn't say how he found out merely 
 that he knew." 
 
 "Have you any idea what he may have found ?" 
 
 "No, not the least." 
 
 "Would it be an impertinence if I asked you 
 just what you know, and who told you ? " 
 
 "I overheard it. My father's body was in the 
 library of the Executive Mansion, after it was 
 coffined and before it was taken to the Capitol to 
 lie in state. I was in there, alone, and I heard 
 some men coming. I had been crying passion- 
 ately, and I didn't want to have to talk to any 
 one, so I hid. My father's private secretary, Per- 
 kins, came in, and two or three State officials; I 
 think one was the Secretary of State and one was 
 the Attorney-General. They w r ere discussing the 
 plans for the lying-in-state. 'I hope,' one of 
 them said to Perkins, 'there's no chance of that 
 woman turning up and making a scene over the 
 body.' Perkins answered that he did not think 
 so; that she wasn't that kind of a woman. 'Well/ 
 the other man went on, 'it would be a pretty 
 
 208
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 howdy-do if, after all the trouble we've gone to to 
 keep this thing hushed up, she should turn hyster- 
 ical, or want to advertise herself, and give it all 
 away. I think something ought to be done to 
 guard against any such possibility. Suppose she's 
 one of the many who are crazy for newspaper 
 notoriety or to go on the stage! Suppose she has 
 letters; she ought to be made to give them up. 
 Then if her vanity leads her to say she is the 
 woman on whose account the Governor was mur- 
 dered, she'll have nothing to show in evidence. I 
 tell you, I know that type of woman. Having no 
 reputation to lose, they don't care how they tear 
 down the reputations of others, dead or alive, to 
 feed their abominable vanity.' Then Perkins 
 said something more about her being a different 
 kind of woman. But nothing mattered to me 
 then. It was awful, Bruce! Imagine a boy of 
 fifteen, broken-hearted over his father's tragic 
 death, hearing such a hideous account of that 
 death that it was not martyrdom, but but retri- 
 bution! I was too young to know much of the 
 world, to know how to make any allowances for 
 the human weaknesses of a big, good man. I 
 thought my father, whom I had adored, had been 
 a hypocrite! Imagine me, through all the pane- 
 gyric of the days that followed, keeping my heart- 
 breaking knowledge to myself! Imagine the years 
 of my brooding adolescence, when I fought that 
 
 209
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 thing like a demon and couldn't ask counsel of a 
 soul. By and by, I came to understand; and as I 
 did, I think I loved my father more passionately 
 than than I could have done if I had never 
 known. But until to-day I never knew that Rose 
 knew or that my mother had known; I don't 
 know now if Johnny does." 
 
 " Do you know how Rose found out ? " 
 Davy winced. "Yes," he said; "my mother 
 told her. It was it was a a dreadful thing to 
 do, but mother said she had to have some one to 
 talk to about it. She the shock had quite un- 
 done her. The fact is, Bruce, that my mother, 
 while an excellent, good woman in many ways 
 was not in any way, hardly, the woman to be 
 my father's wife. All the things she could do for 
 a man were not the things he cared about. All 
 the things he wanted from a woman were the 
 things she did not know how to give. I don't 
 know anything about that other woman; but as 
 I've come to realize what the loneliness of his life 
 must have been what agony he must have en- 
 dured that summer of the strike I find myself 
 hoping that he got something that was truly satis- 
 fying from that woman for whom he gave his life. 
 I hope this isn't shockingly wrong in me, or shock- 
 ing disrespectful to my poor mother " 
 
 "I don't think it is either," Bruce reassured 
 him. "Have you any idea how your mother 
 
 210
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 found out about the other woman ? You see, I'm 
 just trying to learn if there is any existing evidence, 
 or if it's all a matter of hearsay. If Prichard has 
 nothing to quote but some vague whisperings, 
 he'll hardly dare offer them against the belief 
 that has been unchallenged for fifteen years." 
 
 Davy's brow knitted; he was thinking intensely. 
 "That's right," he said; "I hadn't realized that. 
 I don't know what Dudley has but I dare say 
 there'll be some way to find out. And Rose 
 didn't say how mother learned what she knew 
 wait a minute! I'll ask her." 
 
 "Maybe" Bruce laid a detaining hand on 
 Davy's arm "maybe we ought not to bother 
 her about this right now." 
 
 Davy shook himself gently free. "What do 
 you suppose she's doing?" he reminded. "Going 
 over and over and over this in her own mind. 
 She knows you are here I told her. And I asked 
 her if she had any objection to my making a con- 
 fidant of you, and she said no." 
 
 He was gone for several minutes, during which, 
 Bruce was sure, he was giving Rose every consol- 
 ing aspect that the case had taken on in talking it 
 over with a friend. 
 
 When Davy came back his face was a study 
 in mingled relief and humiliation. 
 
 "It seems," he began, and the shame he suf- 
 fered made him flush hotly, "that there was no 
 
 211
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 no actual evidence presented to my mother. She 
 she got her intimation of the truth from an 
 anonymous letter." 
 
 Bruce looked away from Davy, and out of the 
 window, trying to think of something that could 
 be said. 
 
 "I I Don't think too hard of her," Davy 
 begged. "But mother was was that kind of a 
 woman. Some of it was in her blood, I know 
 from generations back. And some of it was in 
 her training. In fact, I don't think she had any 
 idea how how heinous it was to believe an 
 anonymous letter that besmirched the memory of 
 her husband. I suppose she made what furtive 
 efforts she could to prove its truth. But what 
 those efforts were, I don't know. My poor mother 
 was not a judicious woman, Bruce. I I don't 
 know what what written evidence she may have 
 put into circulation in her her efforts to learn 
 the truth." 
 
 Bruce repressed an exclamation of dismay. 
 "If you'll allow me, Davy," he offered, "I'll try 
 to find out all I can for you. I can go about it as 
 you direct, but with less embarrassment than you 
 would feel in pursuing the investigation." 
 
 Davy wrung Norbury's hand with a fervor of 
 grateful acceptance he could not otherwise express. 
 
 "Now, first of all," Bruce began, "who is there, 
 that you know, who knew your father some one you 
 
 212
 
 "The Obligation of the Truth" 
 
 could trust me to go to ? We want to learn, if we can, 
 how generally these whisperings have got around." 
 
 Davy thought for a minute. "There's Mr. 
 Penhallow," he suggested. "He knew both my 
 parents intimately. I'd be glad to know what 
 he thinks. And I trust him absolutely. Ansel 
 Rodman didn't know my father, but he knew 
 many of my father's friends. And at the time of 
 father's death, Rodman was in a position to hear 
 anything that was talked over among writing 
 men the superior journalists, editors, and so on 
 you know; the kind of talk you and I hear 
 about public occurrences to-day the under side 
 of the story that doesn't get into print. Then 
 there's Ballard Creighton a man we've just met. 
 He's an actor now; he was a laborer then, and 
 in that strike. He'd know if anything ever got 
 out among the working men who revere my 
 father's memory so. You know Rodman well. 
 Penhallow you have met, I'm sure. Creighton 
 I'll introduce you to. Rodman and Creighton 
 are big men. I'm not afraid of their judgment 
 on any man least of all on my father, whose own 
 bigness they know how to comprehend. And 
 Penhallow is delicate. He knows furniture better 
 than he knows men. But his every instinct is 
 fine, and he's true blue." 
 
 "That's splendid ! Now we'll lay a few counter- 
 mines for Mr. Dudley Prichard." 
 
 213
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE WEAK AND THE STRONG 
 
 WHEN the Bristows came to New York and 
 looked for a place to live, they were as 
 ignorant as most newcomers to the city about 
 neighborhoods and their social values. Some day, 
 one thinks, there will be a Bureau of Social Ser- 
 vice where the newcomers may find such things 
 out; then ladies from up-State, in New York on 
 a shopping tour, will not innocently give their 
 address as one of those Seventh Avenue hotels 
 so abandoned to fast chorus ladies that the hotel 
 name is almost like a brand; and gentlemen from 
 Montana will not bring their families to New 
 York "to get acquainted," and install them in a 
 locality where "nobody" goes or, rather, where 
 only nobodies ever go. The sophisticated New 
 Yorker who knows little or nothing except New 
 York is disinclined to think respectfully of any 
 one to whom his city is new. If you haven't been 
 to New York before you are undeniably a " Rube"; 
 and if you have been there and then have found 
 it possible to live elsewhere, there must be some- 
 thing the matter with your intelligence. So he is 
 
 214
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 patronizingly "difficult" to the newcomer; and, 
 familiarity with New York being his sole standard 
 of intelligence, he judges each man by the neigh- 
 borhood where he lives. Take as an instance 
 Seventh Avenue. You may board at Seventh 
 Avenue and Seventeenth Street and the Manhat- 
 tanite will judge that you are living in a rather 
 nice, genteel house, in a rather nice, respectable 
 neighborhood; perhaps he will infer that you live 
 there because you work somewhere within walk- 
 ing distance; he can pretty nearly "place" you, 
 financially and socially, if you tell him your exact 
 number or, rather, he will think that he can. 
 If you live at Seventh Avenue and Twenty-seventh 
 Street you are almost inevitably a frequent visitor 
 under stress to the Tenderloin Police Court, 
 on a charge of drunk and disorderly or of violating 
 the tenement-house act; if at Seventh Avenue and 
 Thirty-seventh, you belong, presumably, some- 
 where in the social organization of show girls to 
 whom salary is a mere bagatelle; if at Seventh 
 Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, you probably 
 have affiliation with some of the small businesses 
 Long Acre Square supports; if at Seventh Avenue 
 and Fifty-seventh Street, you may be an artist 
 for in them that vicinity abounds. And so on. 
 
 The Bristows wanted to be near the theatres; 
 for there, they knew, Emily must look for work. 
 The house where they found a room within their 
 
 215
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 means and tolerable for living in was in a block 
 as frankly "Tenderloin" as any in the theatre 
 district. But they were unaware of this; and in 
 their particular case it made very little difference. 
 For the house itself was respectably kept, and as 
 the Bristows did not expect to cultivate any calling 
 acquaintance, it served them well enough. 
 
 They had the large back room on the second 
 floor, a south room and sunny. The outlook was 
 across back yards to other back windows; but it 
 was rather more interesting than that which the 
 front of the house afforded: across a narrow, unin- 
 teresting street to other house fronts depressingly 
 alike. At the back, things happened. The house 
 fronts suggested the superficiality of life where 
 everybody was trying to be like everybody else. 
 In the freedom of the rear windows and back 
 yards, individuality ventured to assert itself; and 
 people who watched were free to guess why, in 
 two rooms whose occupants paid, presumably, 
 about the same rent, the undershirt that one hung 
 up in her window to dry was ribbed cotton the 
 two-for-a-quarter kind in cheap stores and the 
 undershirt that the other displayed was of Italian 
 silk, pink, probable price three-fifty. 
 
 Mrs. Bristow was much in the room. When 
 she had read books until her head ached or her 
 eyes were strained unbearably, she could sit 
 at her window and read life oftentimes with a 
 
 216
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 sense of wonder that so little of its vividness got 
 into books. 
 
 The room had no bed only two cots which 
 were covered by day with "tapestry" spreads and 
 made to look like couches. There was a bureau 
 of golden "oak," with varnish that inclined to 
 get sticky, the whole thing frankly redolent of 
 "easy payments." A marble-topped washstand, 
 in a wall-niche, had hot and cold running water. 
 The woodwork of the room was "grained" in 
 imitation of walnut. The paper on the walls was 
 quite dreadful, as paper on walls where the way- 
 farer tarries is almost sure to be; but it was fairly 
 new and clean. The fadedness of the old Brus- 
 sels carpet was its one redeeming quality; Mrs. 
 Bristow had paid out of her own pinched little 
 purse to have a half-peck of dust sucked from 
 the carpet by a vacuum cleaner. 
 
 For the rest, there was a Morris chair with vel- 
 veteen cushions which would have made Morris 
 very, very sad; and a rocking-chair with a seat of 
 stamped leatherette; and a writing-desk, also of 
 the favored "golden oak," whose varnish was no 
 more steadfast than the bureau's, and whose thin 
 legs wobbled wildly when any one so grossly mis- 
 took its purpose as to try to write on it. Lastly, 
 there was a small table on which Mrs. Bristow 
 kept the books sent her for review. She often 
 thought amusedly of that table and its ever-chang- 
 
 217
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 ing occupants. How many kinds they were ! And 
 how inevitable seemed their moving on! There 
 was seldom one that made itself at home in this 
 room. And yet, how many starved lives were lived 
 in rooms like this! 
 
 Since that Sunday evening at the Inneses', 
 Mrs. Bristow had left her room scarcely at all. 
 She was in a state of health far from rugged, and 
 the shocks she had nerved herself to withstand 
 had made a deep drain upon her store of energy. 
 She had seemed to age, in those two weeks, per- 
 ceptibly. 
 
 Olivia was still a pretty woman. At fifty, her 
 skin was still soft and the flesh beneath it firm. 
 Her baby-fine brown hair was not yet touched 
 with gray. Her eyes seemed to grow bigger and 
 more brightly shining with every year of life she 
 lived. But she no longer wore collarless blouses 
 though they were in fashion again and the 
 throat her "boned" lace collars hid had lost its 
 girlish loveliness. Her cheeks still bloomed pink, 
 though, when she was excited; and her zest for 
 life was keen. She no longer wanted to live 
 much life, but she was unwearied in her eager- 
 ness to watch life to see it coil its strange tangles 
 and unfold its inevitable rewards. She hoped 
 that personally she was done with life; she felt 
 that she was, except in so far as she had yet 
 to live through Emily. But her interest in the 
 
 218
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 world was so great that she often said she would 
 like to be a kind of Perpetual Intelligence, so she 
 might never have to go away without knowing 
 the end of the serial stories that were always 
 unfolding themselves about her. 
 
 When she had taken her daughter by the hand 
 and led her away from all they knew, into exile, 
 she made the resolve that, in so far as it was possi- 
 ble for a mother to be everything in the world to 
 a child, she would be that to Constance, who was 
 henceforth to be called by her first given name, 
 Emily. And she had been so unswervingly true 
 to this purpose that she had neglected no possi- 
 ble way by which she might catch all the lights 
 of life and reflect them, prismatically, to Emily. 
 Emily would never know what companionship she 
 had enjoyed until she had tried to find its like in 
 another. 
 
 During these last two weeks, however, Olivia 
 had felt piteously unequal to her struggle. A 
 sense as of something impending was always with 
 her. She was torn between wanting to keep away 
 from the Inneses and wanting to go to them. She 
 felt that she must leave town, and yet she knew 
 it would be unbearable now to go away not to 
 know what was happening among these children 
 whose destiny was so linked with hers. She was 
 fearful of what that man Prichard might uncover. 
 And yet, if she were to flee, what questioning 
 
 219
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 might it not excite! Emily was happy here, and 
 she felt sure that even if Dudley Prichard found 
 out anything, no one could ever connect them 
 with the Bardeens who had vanished so mysteri- 
 ously immediately after the tragedy. 
 
 But in the ceaseless questioning and cross-ques- 
 tioning that went on in her mind, by day and by 
 night, these two weeks, she seemed to be wearing 
 herself out. 
 
 Emily was much absorbed in other things, but 
 not so much so that her mother's evident weari- 
 ness and weakness failed to give her concern. 
 
 "You're sticking too close to those miserable 
 books," Emily declared. "For the pittance you 
 get from them, it isn't worth while." 
 
 But Olivia said she enjoyed reading the books 
 was glad to have something to do. 
 
 "Then you're worrying about that Prichard 
 business." 
 
 In Emily's mind this was a grievance, and her 
 tone said as much made it, in fact, an accusation. 
 She was particularly desirous of forgetting Johnny 
 Innes's paternity, and her own. And she was 
 fretful when anything served to remind her that 
 her mother could not forget. 
 
 Like most children who have been made the 
 centre and circumference of the world by a parent 
 so lavishly able to give love as Olivia was, Emily 
 was appreciably the worse off. It is quite as 
 
 220
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 wholesome to make children earn love as it is 
 to make them earn money and as much more 
 necessary as love is more necessary than money. 
 But the most doting parents seem to overlook this. 
 There is often, no doubt, a touch of divinity in 
 the parental love that goes out most yearningly to 
 the least worthy child; but there is often a deal 
 of human selfishness in it, too. It may be selfish 
 pride and unwillingness to see how sadly they 
 have failed as parents; it may be sloth; or it 
 may be egotism of the kind that prides itself on 
 how much it can give and not on how much it can 
 make a weaker soul worthy to receive. There 
 has been a lot of maudlin sentiment extant about 
 some relationships the simple truth about which 
 is that they are selfish to the core. Most relation- 
 ships in which one person grows steadily stronger 
 and more seemingly unselfish, and the other grows 
 steadily more dependent and less dependable, are 
 proper subjects for inquiry; there's something the 
 matter with the stronger part of the relationship. 
 As has been profoundly observed, "Legs was 
 made to stand on." It is a frustration of destiny 
 when any one pair of legs insists on doing the 
 standing for two pairs. 
 
 Olivia had developed herself magnificently; but 
 she had done so at the expense of her child. She 
 was too keen a woman not to have her flashes of 
 realization in which this fact was plain to her; 
 
 221
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 and she meant to do better. But the habit of 
 abnegation is a hard one to shake off; the process 
 of "unspoiling" is difficult to begin. It was par- 
 ticularly hard for Olivia, because whenever she 
 tried to harden her heart against Emily's selfish- 
 ness, she remembered how much Emily had had 
 to suffer from her selfishness of long ago. Out 
 of a lifetime of self-sacrifice and struggle, Olivia 
 often bitterly reflected, she had one page of self- 
 indulgence and yielding. But from that brief self- 
 ishness what ruin had been wrought! 
 
 Emily did not tell her mother how often she had 
 engagements with Johnny Innes. She said to 
 her accusing other self that every mention of 
 Johnny in any connection with herself caused her 
 mother to "worry"; and she ought not to be 
 worried. 
 
 Making daytime engagements was easy enough. 
 Emily had only to say she was called for rehearsal, 
 or that she was going with one of the girls of the 
 company to luncheon or to shop or to visit a 
 friend. Evenings after the theatre, when Johnny 
 wanted her as he so frequently did to go out 
 with him for a bite of supper, it was more diffi- 
 cult. Now and then it would do to say that some 
 friends of Pauline Bartlett's or of Lucy Truman's 
 had invited several of the girls out, Emily among 
 them. But that would not do duty oftener than 
 semi-occasionally. And Olivia always expected 
 
 222
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 some kind of an explanation. She was not trying 
 to make her girl lead a conventual life, but she 
 was trying to make Emily feel that giving her 
 mother her confidence about what she was doing 
 would be a safeguard to her against doing things 
 she wouldn't like to tell. Emily couldn't bring 
 her acquaintances home for her mother to see. 
 The landlady's rules were strictly against men 
 callers being taken to rooms even when a mother 
 was chaperoning; the Tenderloin was full of 
 mothers whose chaperonage of their daughters' 
 vice was not only complacent but eager. And 
 Emily wouldn't let any of the girls see where she 
 lived; for most of them had homes in New York 
 their parents' homes or some attractive little 
 apartment nook they shared with another bachelor 
 maid and while she had to admit that she was 
 boarding, she did not feel obliged to let any one 
 know just how cheaply she was doing it. Emily 
 was a thorough exponent of the spirit which makes 
 many in her profession, and in others, hope- 
 lessly "cheap," and others as hopelessly reckless. 
 She was ashamed to be known for what she was 
 a girl new-come from the antipodes, who was 
 struggling to get a foothold in the theatre world. 
 She had "talked big" about what she was in 
 New Zealand. She didn't want any one to know 
 how impressed she was with having got into this 
 excellent company. She was playing her small 
 
 223
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 part with an air of condescension, as if she did 
 it merely to accommodate the manager. The 
 atmosphere in which or in despite of which 
 some of the loveliest girls in the land have grown 
 to dignity and sweetness difficult to surpass was 
 a bad atmosphere for Emily. The weak and un- 
 worthy things in her flourished in that Rialto air, 
 and grew like Jonah's gourd; the better things in 
 her languished. It would have been precisely 
 the same had Emily been a "saleslady"; she 
 would have sold gloves or handkerchiefs with the 
 same air of condescension to the public, would 
 have posed among the other girls in the same kind 
 of light not as one who must earn her own bread, 
 make her own place in the world, but as one who 
 was whiling away time for fun and feathers. 
 
 Olivia knew comparatively little of this. The 
 exigencies which made it impossible for her to 
 share Emily's social life made it inevitable that 
 she should be almost profoundly ignorant of the 
 real Emily. The parent who habitually sees a 
 child among his superiors, sees very little of the 
 child. It is what the child shows among his peers 
 and his inferiors that tells the tale. 
 
 If Olivia had known that the clandestine habit 
 was getting its grip upon Emily, she would have 
 been spurred to superhuman effort to break it. 
 But she did not know. 
 
 Late in the week that had begun with the dis- 
 224
 
 covery of Catherine and gone on to the distressful 
 revelations of Prichard, Rose went up to see the 
 Bristows. 
 
 "I was afraid you hadn't been well," she said. 
 Unmistakably Olivia had not been. 
 
 Mrs. Bristow protested that her indisposition 
 was nothing to be taken account of. "I don't go 
 out enough," she admitted. "I must mend my 
 slothful ways." 
 
 "Begin now," Rose entreated. "Come out 
 with me. It takes real moral energy to make 
 one's self go out alone just for exercise. I know 
 because I don't do it! But let's go somewhere 
 together you take me and I'll take you. We 
 both need it." 
 
 Mrs. Bristow smiled gratefully at her. " I think 
 * let's' is one of the delightfullest words in the 
 language," she declared. " ' Let's' ! I love 
 it!" 
 
 "So do I," Rose agreed. "Now, 'let's* see. 
 I want to take you somewhere that you haven't 
 been." 
 
 "That will be easy. I have been hardly any- 
 where at all." 
 
 The eagerness of her was pathetic to Rose; it 
 bespoke a hungriness she thought that she could 
 understand. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon, a brilliant Indian- 
 summer day, more characteristic of the Novem- 
 
 225
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 bers we know than are "the melancholy days" 
 which the poet calls "the saddest of the year." 
 
 Rose thought intently for a few moments. "I 
 wonder what you would like best to do," she 
 speculated. "Would you like to go up, on top of 
 a Fifth Avenue motor bus, to Central Park, and 
 go into the Metropolitan Museum for a while and 
 look at some pictures, then come out and browse 
 around in the park ? Or would you like to go, 
 say up to Fordham, and see the Poe cottage and 
 something of the tremendous work of bringing the 
 new water supply into New York ? There's a 
 dear, quaint old church there and a churchyard 
 where the low, unkempt graves will be strewn 
 with russet fallen leaves. Or would you like to 
 go to call on some artist friends of ours who have 
 charming studios ? They have log fires and ingle- 
 nooks, and they'll brew us some excellent tea, 
 with the aid of a samovar. Perhaps that is nicer 
 to leave for a wintry afternoon when there's no 
 pleasure to be had out-of-doors. Maybe you'd 
 like to 'prowl,' as I call it, on the lower East Side! 
 Maybe you'd like to go down to the Battery and 
 among some of the old Revolutionary haunts, and 
 take a long ferry ride there's a beautiful long one 
 that goes to Staten Island ! New York of to-day 
 doesn't half appreciate the Battery. And we could 
 go to Fraunce's Tavern Washington's head-quar- 
 ters to dine. Or " 
 
 226
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 "Oh, please!" Olivia begged, "don't suggest 
 another thing. I'm bewildered now to know how 
 to choose. Indeed, I decline to try." 
 
 "When must you be back?" Rose asked. "I 
 mean : how early do you dine ? And do you 
 ever leave Miss Emily to dine alone ? " 
 
 "Emily is dining out to-night/' Mrs. Bristow 
 answered. "A girl in the company Lucy Tru- 
 man has asked her to dine at her apartment. 
 She and a girl who is a clever fashion artist live 
 together, Emily says, and have a fascinating little 
 place." 
 
 "That's fine," cried Rose meaning not Lucy's 
 domestic arrangement, but the fact that Mrs. 
 Bristow was free. "Johnny is dining out, and 
 I'll call up Davy and ask him to meet us some- 
 where for dinner. Maybe he can bring some one 
 with him whom you'd like to meet Mr. Rod- 
 man, perhaps." 
 
 She 'phoned to Davy from the first drug store 
 they came to. 
 
 "Where shall I meet you?" Davy asked. 
 
 "Wherever you say. Mrs. Bristow can't choose, 
 because all the places are strange to her. And 
 I don't care, because they are all familiar to 
 me." 
 
 Davy pondered. "I wish I knew Lafayette, 
 Cecchina's, Roversi's, Guffanti's, Moquin's, Beaux- 
 Arts. Do you suppose she'd care for Martin's ?" 
 
 227
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "No, not so much as some of the others. Let's 
 say Guffanti's." 
 
 "All right. Make it as near six as you can. 
 After six-thirty there's never anything we'd have 
 to wait and wait." 
 
 "We'll be there." 
 
 They went to Fordham; and the hours out- 
 doors, in the warm sunshine, did both of them a 
 world of good physical good and spiritual good, 
 for in the open they discovered their points of kin- 
 ship rapidly. They found that they had both 
 heard the same bird sing, albeit not in the same 
 wood. 
 
 The early dusk was upon them when they 
 turned their faces cityward. They returned by 
 the Third Avenue "L" rather than go into the 
 noisy Subway. There is much to be seen on a 
 ride in from Fordham on a Third Avenue "L"; 
 there is nothing to be seen in the Subway. 
 
 At Twenty-eighth Street they got off and took 
 the little antiquated horse-car that jingles across 
 town, east on Twenty-eighth Street and west on 
 Twenty-ninth. This they did partly because they 
 were tired after their hours of tramping and partly 
 for the novelty of the experience which was not 
 quite so rich in contrasts, however, as when one 
 comes up out of the roar of the "tube," where 
 steel express trains flash through space almost 
 
 228
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 like projectiles from a gun, and continues his 
 journey in one of these bobbing little cars left 
 over from a transportation regime now almost as 
 ancient as that of the palanquin. 
 
 Their destination was Seventh Avenue near 
 Twenty-sixth Street. They debarked from their 
 vehicle at Twenty-ninth Street and walked down 
 the avenue. 
 
 An old woman, white-headed, sat on the curb- 
 stone and wept dejectedly; she was maudlin 
 drunk. A young woman, hardly out of her early 
 girlhood, but frightfully debauched and not far 
 from Potter's Field, was being roughly handled 
 by a policeman; she was resisting arrest for solic- 
 iting on the street. Evil-looking loafers lounged 
 about the doorways of cheap groggeries. Un- 
 kempt women and children came and went, in and 
 out of dingy shops and dark entrances to tene- 
 ments. 
 
 Just below Twenty-sixth Street several taxicabs 
 and private motors stood, waiting. Two or three 
 others, within a minute, drew up at a door, were 
 emptied of well-dressed people, and hurried away. 
 
 In this wilderness of squalor and vice an Italian 
 kept a little hotel. He had once been a saloon- 
 keeper who served a few kinds of food at Kis saloon 
 tables: soup, whose fragrant memory persisted; 
 spaghetti that was like no other spaghetti any- 
 where; chicken oh! quite indescribable, that 
 
 229
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 chicken. A few of the newspaper boys patron- 
 ized the saloon; they are good advertisers. From 
 lip to lip passed the word of that food which 
 was so cheap, so excellent. Business grew. The 
 little low barroom was extended; the store next 
 door was rented, and a wide doorway broken 
 through; the back yards were encroached upon. 
 To pay for all this the prices of food were doubled, 
 but still they were cheap enough. The bar con- 
 tinued, but a wholesale liquor business evolved. 
 The overflow of diners went upstairs, and a hotel 
 eventuated. 
 
 All classes went there; the young clerk allow- 
 ing himself a weekly "spread"; working women, 
 in pairs or trios or quartettes, out for a little jolli- 
 fication; married folk celebrating an anniversary; 
 newspaper people and their friends; foreigners in 
 great numbers and of many sorts; jurists and 
 sporting gentry; musicians and feather importers; 
 salesmen showing their country customers the 
 town, and women whom the town had nothing to 
 show. 
 
 Davy was waiting for them in the narrow hall- 
 way inside the entrance; Ansel Rodman was with 
 him. They had engaged a table, placed advan- 
 tageously for seeing. 
 
 Mrs. Bristow was as excited as a child; her 
 cheeks were flushed a charming pink and her 
 eyes were as bright as stars. 
 
 230
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 She was entranced with looking. The busy, 
 busy bar was close by, and she could watch the 
 deft haste of the bartenders as they mixed cock- 
 tails and gin rickeys and other American drinks. 
 The Italian orchestra was in excellent view; and 
 when the tenor got up to sing " Ciribirribino" he 
 seemed to be singing right at her. She could see 
 the people coming in, too. The rooms filled 
 rapidly, and soon the late comers had either to 
 turn disappointedly away or to wait until a table 
 was vacated. 
 
 They led Ansel Rodman into speculation about 
 persons sitting near them. His perceptions were 
 so keen, his synthetic powers were so great, that 
 he could evolve the most minutely particularized 
 probabilities about individuals or couples. 
 
 When, fearing to weary him, they had ceased 
 inciting him to do this, and the talk had flowed 
 into other channels than those suggested by their 
 neighbors, some one asked him a question to 
 answer which he had to recall himself sharply 
 from an obvious wandering. 
 
 "I beg pardon/' he said. "I was watching a 
 girl in the next room. I think none of you can 
 see her but I can. I can't see who she's with, 
 and I was trying to guess. That's fun, too, when 
 you can see one party only of what is evidently a 
 duo. It's a man who's with her. And he isn't 
 her father or her brother or her husband or her 
 
 231
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 cousin or her uncle or her father-confessor. 
 He's young the expression in her face is not the 
 expression girls wear when trying to make old 
 men believe they like them. She's in love with 
 the man across the table from her. And she 
 yes, she knows that he's in love with her. Ah, 
 wait! she's getting up; here they come!" 
 
 They came. The girl was Emily Bristow and 
 the man with her was Johnny Innes. 
 
 Only Rose was aware of any embarrassment in 
 the situation for Emily and Mrs. Bristow. But 
 Rodman was distressed. He could see that such 
 a relationship as he had surmised between the 
 girl and the young man was by no means an ac- 
 cepted fact in the family of either of them; and 
 he was grieved to have forced a revelation. 
 
 Johnny and Emily could not linger long; they 
 had just a comfortable margin of time in which 
 to get to the theatre. When they were gone, 
 nothing was said which showed any remembrance 
 of Rodman's speculations about them. But he 
 knew the remembrance persisted, and he cursed 
 himself inwardly for a clumsy old fool. 
 
 The remainder of their dinner was eaten under 
 a constraint each of them strove to break and 
 each of them made worse by his striving. 
 
 Rodman suggested taking Mrs. Bristow on a 
 tour of some of the foreigners' theatres in New 
 
 232
 
 The Weak and the Strong 
 
 York, but she said she was afraid to undertake 
 any more sight-seeing then. 
 
 "This is the first time I have been out of the 
 house in nearly two weeks/* she explained, "and 
 I know I must not be greedy. But oh! I hope 
 you'll give me that opportunity some other time. 
 You don't know what Spartan resolution is re- 
 quired to say no." 
 
 "There is no occasion for Spartan suffering," 
 he answered her. " I am always doddering around 
 such places more or less and it is my happiness 
 when I can find some one who cares to go with 
 me. So you have only to say one little word 
 whenever you want to go." 
 
 They left her at her door, and Rose's thoughts 
 went with her up to the cheerless back room. 
 
 233
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 " JACK THE GIANT-KILLER " 
 
 IMMEDIATELY that she and Johnny had got 
 outside, Emily began to cry. 
 
 Johnny was dumfounded. He knew that Emily 
 did not always tell her mother about their engage- 
 ments, but she had explained to him that that was 
 because her mother would wonder, naturally, why 
 they did not ask her, too. "We have been all in 
 all to each other for so long," she said, "that 
 mother can't get used to any other way. And of 
 course it's hard for her when I go out to have a 
 good time, because she is left all alone. If some 
 one asks me whom she doesn't know, she's just 
 as lonely, but she doesn't feel 'left out.' But if 
 she thought I was leaving her so much to be with 
 you she wouldn't understand why she wasn't 
 asked, too." 
 
 "Good gracious!" Johnny had cried when this 
 was unfolded to him; "mothers must be reason- 
 able. They had their day; they should be willing 
 to let their daughters have a day, too." 
 
 "Mother didn't have much of a 'day,' " Emily 
 had rejoined. "Her girlhood was anxious and 
 
 234
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 hard-working. She says the only youth she ever 
 had is what she's had with me." 
 
 Johnny was sorry. He liked Mrs. Bristow; 
 but three-cornered parties are no parties at all. 
 He didn't care by what evasions of the truth Emily 
 salved her mother's feelings just so she got there. 
 
 But he couldn't understand whj- she should be 
 so agitated now. 
 
 "Your mother was having a good time," he 
 reminded Emily when they had got a taxi and 
 were speeding north. "She won't care if you 
 were having a good time, too." 
 
 " But I had told her a lie," Emily sobbed, " and 
 she she won't believe what I tell her any more." 
 
 "Oh, well!" Johnny expostulated. "Tell the 
 truth, then. Why shouldn't you go out to dine 
 with me ? What's there about me to make an 
 offense of it ? " 
 
 Emily was silent in her corner of the cab. She 
 was thinking hard trying to weigh the probabili- 
 ties if she told the truth. But she was afraid to 
 venture. It might mean that Johnny would never 
 speak to her again. 
 
 "Of course," said Johnny haughtily, from his 
 corner of the cab, "if you are ashamed to " 
 
 "I'm not!" she cried, clutching his sleeve en- 
 treatingly. 
 
 Johnny looked out the window. They were at 
 Thirty-fourth Street. In a minute or two they 
 
 235
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 would have reached the corner of Seventh Avenue 
 and Fortieth Street, where he had told the driver 
 to stop to avoid gossip he never drove up to the 
 stage door in a cab with Emily, but got out a 
 block away and strolled in on foot several minutes 
 after she had disappeared into her dressing-room. 
 He would have time for no more than a sentence 
 or two now. 
 
 "Wait for me to-night/* he said. 
 
 "I can't be late going home." 
 
 Johnny made no reply. As he admitted, when 
 taxed with using his silence to coerce, " My pauses 
 are the best thing I do." 
 
 The cab stopped and Johnny sprang out. He 
 thrust a dollar into the driver's hand and started 
 away. 
 
 "I'll be there!" Emily cried imploringly. 
 
 But if he had heard her, he gave no sign. 
 
 The stage door was on Forty-first Street. Emily 
 halted the cab as it turned the corner westward 
 from Seventh Avenue. 
 
 "I'll get out here," she said. 
 
 The driver understood. 
 
 She loitered, thinking Johnny would come along; 
 but he didn't. She stood before the mail rack 
 much longer than was necessary to see that there 
 was nothing in " B." Then she climbed the steep 
 spiral stairs to her dressing-room. 
 
 The cast was large and Emily was an unimpor- 
 236
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 tant member of it; so she had three flights of the 
 iron steps to climb. 
 
 The girl who shared the room with her was 
 there. Emily hated this girl to-night. She was 
 Lucy Truman. 
 
 Lucy was reading a letter when Emily came in. 
 She looked up from it just long enough to say 
 " Good-evening." 
 
 Emily murmured a return courtesy. She wished 
 Lucy had a dozen letters anything to keep her 
 absorbed so Emily would not have to talk to her. 
 
 But Lucy had only the one. 
 
 "This's from that friend I've told you about, who 
 is playing in London," she announced presently. 
 
 "Is it?'* said Emily uninterestedly. 
 
 "She says," Lucy went on, "that she doesn't 
 see how she can ever bear to come back here, even 
 though the salaries are so much better. Over 
 there the professional people have such a grand 
 time socially." 
 
 "Do they?" 
 
 Lucy looked over her shoulder at Emily, whose 
 face she could see in the mirror above her make- 
 up shelf. 
 
 "Why, you've told me how it is in Australia 
 and New Zealand," she reminded. "You said 
 that English people " 
 
 Emily was fumbling petulantly among the arti- 
 cles on her shelf. 
 
 237
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "I wish I knew who touches my things after I 
 cover them up!" she mumbled. 
 
 Lucy knew the signs of irritation. She was a 
 gentle girl, with the strongest kind of aversion to 
 anything that savored of a dressing-room row. So 
 she went back to the reading of her letter as if she 
 had not heard Emily's exclamation. 
 
 When she had finished reading it she put it in 
 her hand-bag and went quietly about her business. 
 She could see that Emily was feeling bad about 
 something; the only sympathy she could offer 
 was to be as "nonexistent" as possible, and to 
 seem to be keeping quiet not because she noticed 
 anything unusual in Emily, but because she was 
 herself preoccupied. 
 
 Emily was really suffering. She thought Johnny 
 Innes was disgusted 'with her for her cowardice 
 about admitting their engagements. That a man 
 truly in love with her would continue to love her 
 in spite of faults far greater than this, she knew 
 as well as a girl in love can be said to know any- 
 thing. But she was not sure that Johnny loved 
 her only that she wanted him to, and that she 
 was in a passion of pain lest something like this 
 intervene to separate them before she had won 
 his love. 
 
 And Johnny was one of the men who can make 
 women sue. Perhaps all men can; but if they 
 can, some don't. Johnny did. He got his own 
 238
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 way in the world largely, with men; altogether, 
 with women. He knew exactly how to go about it. 
 
 Emily was in feverish haste to get downstairs 
 where she might encounter him. And she was 
 praying that she and Lucy might be spared any 
 calls from the occupants of near-by dressing-rooms. 
 
 But no! Marie Harmon must needs come in 
 to show the proofs of her new photographs and 
 have them each discussed in minute detail. And 
 Anna Leighton must tell Lucy how grateful she 
 was for sending her to that scalp specialist 
 "She said it was something awful, the condition 
 my hair had got into from the wrong kind of treat- 
 ment; that naturally I ought to have perfectly 
 beautiful hair, and " 
 
 Emily couldn't flaunt her "grouch" to the whole 
 company. She had to make some sort of a pre- 
 tense about caring whether Marie's pictures did 
 her justice and whether Anna's hair was bad or 
 good. But as soon as her dress was hooked she 
 made her escape. "I must take something down 
 to Miss Everz," she said, excusing herself. 
 
 Miss Everz was an elderly woman of the com- 
 pany. Her dressing-room was down nearer stage- 
 level. Emily had never been known to do more 
 than exchange greetings with Miss Everz. 
 
 "What's up?" Marie asked Lucy when Emily 
 was gone. 
 
 "Nothing," Lucy answered. "Emily seems a 
 
 239
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 little worried about something. I guess we all are, 
 some of the time." 
 
 "I saw her get out of a taxi up the street 
 to-night," Anna remarked. "I can't afford cabs 
 on my salary and I get more than she does. 
 But if I could afford them I wouldn't get out up 
 the street." 
 
 The other girls both turned on her sharply. 
 
 "Anna!" cried Marie Harmon. "For Heaven's 
 sake, don't talk like a chorus girl." 
 
 Lucy looked her protest, but said nothing. 
 
 "Well, pardon me! " Anna sneered, and took 
 herself off in a rage against the girl who was the 
 unwitting cause of her discomfiture. 
 
 Emily was "on" in the first scene; so was 
 Johnny. It was not unlikely that he would be 
 ready a minute or two before the act was called; 
 if he were repentant or anxious he would almost 
 certainly be where he could snatch a word with 
 her before they went on. Emily felt that she 
 could not bear her agony of suspense "through 
 a whole act." She devoutly hoped that Johnny 
 felt the same way. But Johnny didn't. He knew 
 Emily, and he knew his little game. 
 
 He knew Emily was looking for him. He 
 could have guessed it, but he didn't need to 
 he could see her. His dressing-room was on the 
 opposite side of the stage and one flight up. He 
 had it alone, being the "juvenile lead." As soon 
 
 240
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 as he was dressed he opened the door. Emily, if 
 she looked up, could see him sitting there reading 
 his letters. He, if he looked down, could see her 
 standing on the stage, back of the "set," waiting 
 to be seen. 
 
 Johnny had hoped she wouldn't be there. 
 They always came! There wasn't a girl in the 
 world, he was beginning to believe, who could 
 make the game of love interesting except to a 
 dull man! The girls were willing enough to 
 plague some fellows. Davy was the kind of man 
 a girl teases and enjoys teasing. But Johnny 
 could never find one that wasn't " dead easy." He 
 was getting bored. Emily had fought interest- 
 ingly shy of him at first. Then, when he had 
 broken that shyness down, it was often a little 
 difficult to persuade her to dine or sup with him, 
 because of her reluctance to tell her mother. To- 
 night he actually had hopes of something to "buck 
 against." But no! 
 
 He waited until the act was called, then ran 
 hurriedly down at the last moment. Emily was 
 standing in her entrance waiting to go on a mo- 
 ment after the curtain rose. He made the same 
 entrance almost immediately after her. 
 
 She gave him an imploring look which he pre- 
 tended not to see. He nodded a polite "good- 
 evening" to the three ladies Miss Everz, Lucy, 
 and Emily who were standing there together. 
 
 241
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 The curtain was up; nothing but nods and smiles 
 and the most suppressed whispers was possible. 
 
 When Johnny made his first exit he was "off" 
 for a matter of five minutes. Emily's exit was 
 earlier and she did not go on again except for the 
 first curtain call. But as her dressing-room was 
 so high up, she usually stood on the stage until the 
 act was over. She was there to-night as usual 
 when Johnny came off. To ignore her would be 
 too pointed. There were a dozen stage-hands 
 electric-light men and scene-shifters who had 
 seen Johnny, night after night, talking with Emily 
 through that wait. He was too thoroughly a gen- 
 tleman to give them reason to suppose that he and 
 Miss Bristow were quarrelling; he wouldn't allow 
 a stage-hand to infer that degree of intimacy 
 where a quarrel was possible. He nodded to 
 Emily when he came off and beckoned to Lucy 
 Truman. 
 
 "I must tell you something," he whispered to 
 them both, and went on to repeat some little bit 
 of behind-the-scenes news which might be sup- 
 posed to interest them. He kept Lucy there until 
 his cue came. 
 
 Emily was near crying. She thought she un- 
 derstood : it was to be like this henceforth ! 
 
 In the second act she was not "on" at all; 
 there was no possible excuse for her being on the 
 stage, because even the part she under-studied 
 
 242
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 was not in the second act. Neither was Lucy on; 
 and Emily dreaded the "wait." But Lucy had a 
 letter to write this was an opportunity frequently 
 embraced for correspondence. Emily wrote, too. 
 She wrote a long letter and a short one. They 
 were both to John Innes. The short one was for 
 personal delivery to him during the performance, 
 if she got a chance. The long one was to be sent 
 to him by messenger immediately after the per- 
 formance if she found it impossible to have a talk 
 with him before. She could be pretty sure he 
 had no engagement or he would not have asked 
 her to wait. He would probably not go home 
 because he did not know whether "the folks" 
 would be there or not. He would go to The 
 Lambs, she felt almost sure. 
 
 She put the long letter, in a sealed envelope, in 
 her hand-bag. The short note she stuck in her 
 dress. She was "on" at the beginning of the 
 third act which was the last. Johnny did not 
 come on until the act was about five minutes under 
 way. He was not in sight before the curtain 
 rose. Emily was sure now that it was to be "like 
 this" ever after. She couldn't bear it, she knew. 
 There was one little moment on which she pinned 
 her hope of getting that note to him: it was in 
 the very brief time between his entrance upon the 
 scene and her exit. He was supposed to say 
 something to her on the side while the principals 
 
 243
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 were talking. There were, however, other people 
 who were in the scene but not actively of it. They 
 were supposed to be listening to what was being 
 said in the scene; but some of them were not so 
 intently listening that Emily could be sure they 
 would not see her slip Johnny a note or hear 
 what she might whisper to him. 
 
 As the moment approached she became ner- 
 vous. She was afraid to try the note for fear she 
 might drop it. The cue came; Johnny crossed 
 to her. She was desperate. Her pantomime re- 
 quired that she wait for him to speak or to act 
 as if speaking. She waited. When he spoke it 
 was the little meaningless line used at rehearsal to 
 "cover" the pantomime. He had not used it in 
 several weeks. It was one of his pleasures to 
 think up a different line to say to her at each per- 
 formance sometimes a charming line, sometimes, 
 when he was in teasing mood, a line most difficult 
 for her to reply to with the required pantomime. 
 Her tears all but started when he repeated the 
 "stock" line. But she held them back. Her 
 demeanor was supposed to be coyly coquettish. 
 She had to suggest that she had said: "Oh, Mr. 
 Beckwith!" in a kind of diffident, "dare-you-to" 
 way. Instead, she whispered imploringly: "I 
 must see you!" Then she laughed and was gone. 
 
 She waited on the stage for the act to end. 
 Johnny was on until almost the final scene. He 
 
 244
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 came off with the ingenue whom he did not like 
 but who was supposed to be much in love with 
 him, chatting gayly, if in whispers. 
 
 "That was immense the way you brought in 
 that bit of business to-night," Emily heard him 
 say. They were discussing the scene they had 
 just played. 
 
 "That 'cross' always bothered me," the ingenue 
 answered, looking very pleased. "I've felt there 
 was something wrong about it, but I couldn't tell 
 what it made me feel self-conscious every time 
 I did it. And I thought it bothered you." 
 
 "It did," Johnny assented. "That was an in- 
 spiration that bit of business." 
 
 She beamed. "I am so glad. I asked Mr. 
 Power if I might try it, and he said 'Go ahead.' ' 
 (Mr. Power was the stage-manager.) 
 
 Emily stood waiting for a sign from Johnny 
 that he had heard her plea. 
 
 He nodded at her; his expression said "Yes." 
 She hurried up the steep stairs to make her change 
 into street clothes. Johnny was a quick dresser. 
 
 She was in obviously better spirits as she dressed. 
 Lucy noted the change, but was too tactful to ap- 
 pear to notice it. 
 
 "Anna Leighton glared at me just now as if 
 she'd like to bite me," Emily declared, rubbing 
 vigorously at her cream-smeared face with a rough 
 towel. "I wonder what I've done to her ?" 
 
 245
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Nothing, I dare say," Lucy answered. "She 
 probably felt grouchy at Mr. Power or somebody, 
 and you were the first person who came in her 
 way so you got it. Things often happen that 
 way. I try to remember it, when I'm inclined to 
 think somebody is out of sorts with me.'* 
 
 "Oh, well!" returned Emily, dabbing powder 
 on her face and neck with gay abandon. "Not 
 that it matters to me who she has a grouch on!" 
 
 She hurried into her clothes and away. The 
 stage was cleared when she got downstairs, and 
 dark. She could see across it to Johnny's dress- 
 ing-room, where the light was still burning. She 
 passed briskly through the little group of stage- 
 hands lingering about the stage door, and went 
 along Forty-first Street toward Seventh Avenue. 
 
 Times Square was a jam of people and vehicles. 
 Broadway cars and Seventh Avenue cars and 
 Forty-second Street cross-town cars jerked along 
 a few feet at a time as the policemen whistled 
 signals to stop or to go ahead. Motors whizzed 
 around the many corners at perilous speed. The 
 human streams flowed in six directions. Two- 
 score theatres had emptied into this square within 
 ten or fifteen minutes. A score or more of res- 
 taurants were receiving hundreds of these people; 
 others were making for Subway entrances, for 
 street cars, or were dashing away in swift cabs. 
 Lights blazed everywhere. Women in filmy 
 
 246
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 gowns, lifted high to display gauzy silk stockings 
 and high-heeled slippers with glittering buckles, 
 picked their way across wind-swept streets. Shim- 
 mering satin capes, fluttering ostrich plumes and 
 paradise feathers, flashing pins and ornaments in 
 elaborately coifed hair, breath of orchids and 
 violets and lilies of the valley all these are of the 
 scene in Times Square between ten-forty-five and 
 eleven o'clock any night when the theatres are 
 open. The thousands of soberly attired folk 
 women in tailored suits and Sunday hats; men 
 in business clothes hastening to distant homes 
 that there may be a sufficient night's rest before 
 to-morrow's work, play little part in the comedy 
 of Times Square except with the traffic squad. 
 It doesn't matter where they go, or what they may 
 have thought of the play. Presumably their chief 
 interest in coming is to see the gay birds of para- 
 dise whom, inevitably, they envy desperately. Or 
 thus in effect Times Square thinks of them. 
 Only now and then a man moves among them 
 with the touchstone of understanding a man like 
 Ansel Rodman and knows which of the dull- 
 plumaged ones are envious and which are tempted 
 and which are glad to be of a world where labor 
 is joy and where pleasure comes without having 
 to be pursued. 
 
 Emily was envious, but not actually tempted. 
 Her ideals lay within the zone of Irish lace and 
 
 247
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 willow plumes and supper at the Knickerbocker. 
 Her mother's wistfulness had never been of that 
 sort, but Emily's was distinctively. She was 
 temporarily safeguarded, however, by her fond- 
 ness for Johnny. Even now, as she crossed the 
 square, she was telling herself how empty the 
 world would be to her if she were the belle of one 
 of those flashing, shimmering groups, but there 
 were no Johnny in the world. She would rather 
 oh! infinitely rather be going in her blue 
 serge suit to keep an appointment with Johnny 
 than be going swathed in Irish lace to sup with 
 kings. Kings, indeed ! She thought of Johnny's 
 laughing black eyes; of his beautiful white teeth 
 that showed to such attractiveness when he smiled; 
 of the sweetness of expression round his mouth; 
 of the clean-cut, high-bred look of him in every 
 detail; and of the charm of his gayety and his 
 tenderness. Tears blinded poor little Emily when 
 she tried to think of the world her world with- 
 out Johnny. Kings, indeed! Kings could only 
 interest a girl who had never known Johnny. 
 
 They had a place of rendezvous she and 
 Johnny. It was in a drug store on Seventh Ave- 
 nue just north of the square. She had been there 
 only a few minutes to-night when she saw him 
 crossing the street. She went out to meet him. 
 
 "Have you been waiting long?" he asked po- 
 litely. "I tried to hurry." 
 
 248
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 "Not long," she answered; "but it seemed 
 long. Oh, Johnny! How miserable you have 
 made me!" 
 
 Johnny had been sure she would say just this. 
 He wished he couldn't be sure but he was. 
 
 "Nonsense!" he exclaimed almost crossly. 
 
 Emily laid her hand on his arm appealingly. 
 "You don't understand," she entreated. "I if 
 I could only tell you! But I can't." 
 
 This sounded interesting. "Tell me? tell me 
 what ?" 
 
 "Why I have to be so so secret about our 
 engagements." 
 
 Johnny stood still, assaulted by direful visions 
 of Emily's Australian husband, or the like. 
 
 "I think you ought to explain," he began. 
 "You never told me there was any reason why I 
 shouldn't take you out." 
 
 "There isn't!" she assured him promptly. 
 Johnny was relieved and disappointed both. 
 "But " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "That's what I can't tell. It's nothing that I 
 ever had anything to do with. But it it has spoiled 
 all my life and I can never get away from it." 
 
 Johnny was beginning to grow mystified. He 
 loved to be "scared" just as Goitie Moiphy did 
 when she hid around corners and waited for him 
 to come creeping by and hiss "Scat!" 
 
 249
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 "Spoiled your life?" he echoed. 
 
 She nodded, looking away from him, her face 
 full of wretchedness. 
 
 "Come," he said, "this is absurd. Your life 
 isn't spoiled, you poor baby. You've had a bad 
 dream. You tell me about it, and when you 
 start to tell you'll see it can't be true." 
 
 He started east in Forty-fifth Street. It was 
 quiet through there, and if Emily decided she 
 wanted something to eat they could go to Burns's. 
 
 "Now, what is it?" he demanded when they 
 had got out of earshot of Times Square. 
 
 Emily began to cry. "I can't tell you," she 
 sobbed. "You'll never speak to me again. It's 
 awful. It's been hanging over me like like that 
 sword you know. I knew it would happen. 
 But I tried to be happy while I could." 
 
 Johnny's first fear returned. 
 
 "Emily," he asked, "are you married?" 
 
 Emily gasped. "No; oh, no!" she cried. "Nor 
 engaged nor anything like that. I never was." 
 
 Johnny's relief was really great. 
 
 "Then what can you mean ? You didn't hap- 
 pen to to kill anybody out there in the bush 
 did you?" 
 
 She shook her head. "No," she murmured; 
 " nothing like that. I told you it wasn't anything 
 that I had done." 
 
 "Nor that any one had had done to you ?" 
 250
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 "No not directly to me. But I suffer for it." 
 
 Johnny thought he understood. 
 
 "Is it is it because you don't know because 
 you haven't any father?" he persisted. 
 
 She clutched his arm at the mention of her 
 father. "It is something about my father that I 
 can't tell you," she replied. 
 
 Again Johnny stopped. There was no one in 
 sight, and he took both her hands in his. 
 
 "Emily!" he pleaded. "Do you think I care 
 anything about your father ? Do you think I care 
 whether you ever had a father or not?" 
 
 Emily raised her eyes and looked into his. 
 There was light enough in the street so that he 
 could see the pain in them, and the love, and the 
 look of terror that she could not overcome. There 
 was something there that his tender assurances 
 could not put to flight. 
 
 "Darling!" he cried. "What is it? Don't 
 torture me!" 
 
 But Emily put out her hands with a gesture as 
 if to thrust him away from tempting her, and with 
 a sob she turned and ran away from him as fast as 
 she could go. 
 
 He caught up with her in a moment. 
 
 "Don't!" she implored. "Let me go. You 
 wouldn't touch me if you knew." 
 
 "Touch you?" he echoed. "I'd touch you if 
 you were a leper! I'd hold you close and never 
 
 25 i
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 let you go. I'd hold you if your hands were red 
 with blood if the hounds of hell were after you. 
 I love you, Emily do you hear me ? I love you! 
 And I'll never let you go!" 
 
 Emily stared at him with frightened eyes. 
 
 "Oh!" she gasped. "You don't know what 
 you're saying!" 
 
 "I do know what I'm saying. You may tell 
 me your dark secret, or you may keep it. But I'm 
 going to marry you." 
 
 Ecstasy and terror contended within poor little 
 Emily. She shook like a leaf in the wind. 
 
 "You won't," she sobbed "you won't when 
 you know that my father was your father's assas- 
 sin." 
 
 "Assassin?" he echoed dazedly. 
 
 "Bardeen," she whispered the name had not 
 passed her lips nor assaulted her ears since she 
 was a child. "My name is Emily Constance Bar- 
 deen." 
 
 "Good God!" Johnny murmured weakly, and 
 sat down on some steps they were passing. 
 
 Emily regarded him tragically. "I knew how 
 it would be," she said; "I told you how it would 
 be." 
 
 Johnny passed his hand across his eyes as if 
 trying to brush away a film. He grasped the rail- 
 ing and rose weakly to his feet. 
 
 "Bardeen!" he groaned. "Oh, Emily!" 
 252
 
 "Jack the Giant-Killer" 
 
 "I told you," she reiterated. 
 
 The exasperation brought him to his senses like 
 a good irritant. "Told me what ?" he demanded. 
 " Do you suppose I hold that against you ? Do 
 you think that is the kind of a man I am ? Don't 
 you know I love you better for what you have 
 suffered instead of less ?" 
 
 Emily was exultant but not comforted. 
 
 "Mother," she faltered "mother will nev- 
 er " 
 
 He took her firmly by the arm. 
 
 "You come right home now," he commanded, 
 " and tell your mother that you are going to marry 
 me. Don't ask anything about it. Just tell her 
 it is settled between you and me, and nothing can 
 unsettle it." 
 
 Johnny had never been so happy in his life. He 
 had walked right up to a great big ogre in his 
 path and had said "Pooh!" and it had vanished. 
 As Ballard Creighton said, every male creature 
 yearns to believe himself a Jack-the-Giant-Killer. 
 
 253
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN THE MORNING 
 
 OLIVIA was in bed when Emily came in, but 
 not asleep. Her mind had been pitilessly 
 alert since dinner time. She expected the an- 
 nouncement Emily was to make, and she had 
 been preparing herself to meet it. 
 
 In all the world Olivia had nothing to make her 
 selfish nothing but Emily. So far as she herself 
 was concerned, it could make little or no differ- 
 ence to her what was known about her. She had 
 no friends; she had no name; she had no position; 
 she had nothing to lose. But even if she saw 
 suffering ahead for herself she would not have 
 flinched; for she was no coward, and she knew 
 how many things there are that are worse than 
 pain. With all her heart she desired Emily's 
 happiness; no other consideration obtruded itself 
 upon her at any time. It was to know wherein 
 that happiness might be expected to lie, and to 
 decide how far she might justifiably go in pre- 
 suming to advise or to interfere, that kept her 
 pondering. 
 
 Emily opened the door gently. The light was 
 
 254
 
 In the Morning 
 
 turned low, but not so low that Emily needed to 
 say a word; her face told her happiness. 
 
 Olivia had deep reverence for that happiness. 
 It was something to compel awe. She felt, in the 
 presence of it, as a sun-worshipper does before an 
 altar warmed with sacred fire. She sat up in bed 
 and held out her arms to her daughter. 
 
 Emily ran to her, dropped on her knees, and 
 buried her head in her mother's breast. 
 
 For a while neither spoke. Then Olivia relaxed 
 the straining intensity of the clasp with which she 
 had held Emily against her heart and drew back 
 her head so she could look down into the girl's 
 face. 
 
 "Are you very happy?" she whispered. 
 
 "Oh, mother! If you only knew." 
 
 It was no time for argument, for discussion. 
 Olivia said not a single word of questioning. She 
 said few words of any sort. And Emily was in an 
 ecstasy that transcended speech. But when she 
 had undressed she laid herself down, not on her 
 own cot, but beside her mother. And close-locked 
 in her mother's arms she lay until, drowned in her 
 full flood of happiness, she fell asleep. 
 
 "In the morning," Olivia thought, "we can 
 talk about it. To-night ! Oh, God! I remem- 
 ber nights like this a few the night I sat in the 
 library of the Mansion, beneath the portrait of 
 the War Governor a night or two in the little 
 
 255
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 park under the light of the friendly stars I have 
 paid dear for them! But if I could have foreseen 
 all I should hardly have had strength to deny my- 
 self those moments. I lived thirty-five years hop- 
 ing for them waiting. If I live other thirty- 
 five years, I shall still be on fire with the memory 
 of them. That's what it means to love: Immor- 
 tal Youth!" 
 
 In the morning Emily opened her eyes upon a 
 "world made new." Olivia remembered such 
 mornings, too! Remembered coming up out of a 
 sea of dreams and opening her eyes on a workaday 
 sphere, but a sphere glorified because he was in 
 it. She remembered listening to the strokes of 
 the Capitol clock and thinking that he, too, heard 
 them that they counted oflf time for him as for 
 her, and that he, too, reckoned each hour till their 
 next meeting. ... It was impossible to hurt Love 
 in the morning! 
 
 They had breakfast in their room a little lux- 
 ury they always allowed themselves by arrange- 
 ment with the landlady. 
 
 Olivia took the tray from the servant and set 
 their tiny table, from which the books were tem- 
 porarily deposed. She looked wistfully at it when 
 it was spread. 
 
 "Nobody knows," she said, smiling tenderly, 
 "how I want a rose a wonderful, perfect rose 
 to put on our table for you, dear." 
 
 256
 
 In the Morning 
 
 Emily came over to her mother and kissed her 
 with grateful fervor. 
 
 "I didn't know," she murmured, "that you 
 would would take it like this." 
 
 "You didn't know that I would love your hap- 
 piness ?" 
 
 "I mean I was afraid " 
 
 Olivia's face was telltale; she had never learned 
 to command its expressions. 
 
 "I told Johnny," said Emily proudly, "and he 
 said it didn't make a bit of difference to him 
 that he only loved me more for what I had suf- 
 fered." 
 
 "You told him ?" 
 
 "Who I am yes. He said: 'Do you think I 
 care anything about your father ? Do you think 
 I care whether you ever had a father or not?' 
 He said he'd love me if I were a leper; that he'd 
 love me if my hands were red with blood and if 
 the hounds of hell were after me." 
 
 Emily was exultant; but Olivia was thoughtful. 
 They sat down in their accustomed places on 
 either side of the little table. Emily looked across 
 at her mother, waiting for her to speak. 
 
 "Nobody else need ever know," Emily vent- 
 ured at length, when she was tired of waiting 
 for her mother to break the silence. 
 
 "I wonder " Olivia murmured. 
 
 "Why should they?" the girl pursued eagerly. 
 
 257
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Who will tell? Not Johnny, certainly! And 
 not I! And not you!" 
 
 "Wasn't he going to did he think it best not 
 to tell the others his brother and Rose?" 
 
 " He said it was none of their business that it 
 was nobody's business but his and mine." 
 
 "That isn't so!" Olivia cried. "Don't ever 
 cheat yourselves that way. Your love is other 
 people's business as well as yours. You can't 
 make it otherwise. I know, dear I know /" 
 
 "I don't see " Emily began. Her shadowy 
 recollections of her father and mother when to- 
 gether were not such as to foster the belief that 
 her mother had ever known much about love. 
 Certainly she could never have known anything 
 like this love that was Emily's and Johnny's. 
 
 Olivia read her daughter's mind it was no 
 extraordinary feat, for all young minds in like 
 situation are very much the same. 
 
 "You think I do not understand," she chided 
 gently; "but I do, darling I do. If Johnny 
 Innes marries you without telling the others, you 
 will both live in perpetual fear of discovery " 
 
 "No, we sha'n't!" Emily protested. "But sup- 
 pose we were 'discovered,' as you call it. What's 
 the harm ? / can't help what father did!" 
 
 "You can't help it no! But you know how 
 David and Rose Innes and everybody who loves 
 them regard the murderer of their idolized father. 
 
 258
 
 In the Morning 
 
 Suppose they suddenly find out that the girl 
 Johnny has married and brought to them as a 
 sister is the child of that man by whom their 
 father was laid low! They will resent having 
 been deceived " 
 
 "Well!" Emily replied impatiently; "suppose 
 they do! They are not essential to our happiness. 
 We can go where they need never see us any 
 more." 
 
 " But their happiness ? What of that ? How 
 can they be happy if Johnny is where they never 
 see him any more ?" 
 
 "That is not our lookout," Emily declared. "A 
 man shall leave father and mother and every one 
 and cleave to his wife. Everybody does it! When 
 Rose, and Davy, marry we will not interfere." 
 
 Olivia's mind was made up. Love was sacred 
 in her eyes, but she knew it was not meant that 
 any should worship it. It was a fire lent to warm 
 life, but not to rule it. When any one allows 
 Love to become ruthless he is like the prostrate 
 pagan who will not put fire out though it destroy 
 him and all he holds most dear. 
 
 "Emily," she began, "I must tell you some- 
 thing. You are to tell it to Johnny Innes if you 
 don't, I will. And he is to tell it to Davy and 
 Rose " 
 
 She stopped, overcome by a staggering thought. 
 How could it be told to them! What could possi- 
 
 259
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 bly justify the telling ? She had been so full of 
 self-immolation, she had not realized how she 
 was purposing to immolate them also. 
 
 Emily stared at her. 
 
 "It can't be done!" Olivia went on. 
 
 "What can't be done ?" 
 
 Olivia nerved herself for the disclosure; but 
 her courage failed her not on her own account, 
 but on Emily's. 
 
 "I I'll tell you some other time," she faltered. 
 
 "I want to know now," Emily insisted. "Let's 
 get this thing settled. I don't want to face Johnny 
 again with any uncertainty in my mind." 
 
 Suspense was cruel, Olivia knew. So she mus- 
 tered all her strength and went on. 
 
 "Johnny Innes all the Inneses," she began, 
 "think all the world thinks that Lyman Innes 
 was murdered by a man whose cause of hatred 
 was the strike. It is not true. He was killed by 
 a man who was jealous of a woman of his 
 wife " 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Lyman Innes did not die a martyr to the 
 strike. He died because he was my friend." 
 
 "Your friend?" 
 
 "My lover your father thought. He did love 
 me but not in the base way your father believed. 
 You remember the last night we were at home 
 how I was locked in my room and you climbed 
 
 260
 
 In the Morning 
 
 over the transom how we escaped in the morn- 
 ing, out of the window how we hid at your 
 Uncle Walter's and were there when we heard 
 what your father had done. Nobody knew the 
 truth or, if anybody knew, it was not told. He 
 deserved all the good that was said of him and 
 more, much more. He did not deserve that any 
 ill should be said of him. Providence took care 
 of his good name it is almost a hallowed name 
 to-day. You couldn't tell his children the truth 
 they would never understand the blow would 
 kill them or kill the best in them their faith." 
 
 Emily was crying bitterly. She left the table 
 and went over to her cot and threw herself upon 
 it, shaking with sobs. 
 
 "Don't touch me!'* she moaned when her 
 mother sought to comfort her. "Don't come near 
 me. I can't bear it!" 
 
 261
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 LOVE'S FOOL 
 
 BOTH McCurdy and Creighton found in 
 Catherine Krakopfsky a well-spring of in- 
 terest at which it seemed they could not drink 
 deep enough. 
 
 She had worked in sweat-shops in New York 
 for five years, and every minute of the time her 
 eyes and ears were open to all that was going on 
 around her. She knew conditions among the 
 workers; knew their opinions, their aspirations. 
 She had read widely; she was familiar with Rus- 
 sian literature, with German, and with English; 
 she knew a very little about the literature of the 
 French and that chiefly the Flemish French of the 
 Belgian Socialists and more about the Scandina- 
 vian propaganda of individualism. These latter, 
 however, were available to her only in translations. 
 The German and the English she read as freely 
 as she read Russian. 
 
 Her reading, as might have been expected of a 
 girl already well imbued before she left Russia 
 with the spirit of the Revolutionists, was largely 
 
 262
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 along economic lines. But it was the way her 
 experience vivified her reading that made her so 
 intensely interesting to men like Creighton and 
 McCurdy. She could tell each of them a world 
 of things he never could find out for himself. 
 
 " For no matter how close you try to come," she 
 said, "you are not of us even you, Mr. Creighton. 
 You were of us once, but you put yourself away. 
 When you found that the education you gave 
 yourself was not only joy, but capital that it 
 enabled you to make forty, sixty, a hundred dol- 
 lars a week then you became as 'class-conscious* 
 as Mr. McCurdy here who was never poor. You 
 cannot quite feel us as we feel ourselves." 
 
 "But you are better educated," he objected, 
 "than I ever dreamed of being." 
 
 She smiled. "In ideas, maybe, but not in 
 skill. And even in ideas, I only appreciate; I do 
 not create. Who pays for appreciation ? No one 
 in this country, certainly. Here you must do 
 something. What you do is least matter; but 
 that you do is imperative. I cannot do I have 
 no skill or shrewdness. I can only feel!" 
 
 There was that about her more potent than 
 any skill but she was unaware of it. She had 
 the power to make men thrill with desire to do as 
 she directed. She could have led an army. Strat- 
 egy to plan a campaign or to direct a battle, she 
 might have lacked. But she could have carried 
 
 263
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 a standard and drawn men after it into the very 
 jaws of hell. She was unawakened to this power 
 in herself. The awakening was to come. 
 
 She was twenty-three slight in build, but 
 sinewy, with the pallor of close confinement in- 
 doors. Her eyes were blue and of an extraor- 
 dinary keenness. Her hair was brown and un- 
 curly, and she made no effort to arrange it in any 
 but the simplest and most expeditious way in a 
 flat coil at the crown of her head. She had no 
 features that were prominent for any reason, 
 either of size or shape or beauty or ugliness. Her 
 charm, her distinction, was all in her expression. 
 When she talked she was attractive. When she 
 was intensely in earnest she was irresistible. 
 
 Catherine earned about nine dollars a week 
 when she was working. The slack seasons in 
 the clothing industry come twice a year and last 
 sometimes as long as six weeks or two months. 
 This brought the average of Catherine's earn- 
 ings down to six dollars a week out of which she 
 obliged herself always to save a little in case of 
 calamity strikes, shut-downs, accident, illness, 
 death. There were so many things that might hap- 
 pen to an unprotected girl, or to her sister. Sonia 
 gave Catherine more concern than all the rest of 
 life together. 
 
 Sonia was young only eighteen. She was 
 pretty, in a soft, sensuous way that appealed in- 
 
 264
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 stantly to the masculine eye. She was pleasure- 
 loving. She was mad about clothes. Sonia 
 wouldn't work at tailoring among a lot of frowsy, 
 half-dressed men and shabby, ill-dressed girls. 
 She was a "saleslady," and her ultimate ambition 
 was the chorus. She was the cause of Catherine's 
 liberal education in the dangers that beset the 
 working girl. 
 
 Both Creighton and McCurdy were intensely 
 interested in what Catherine knew of this latter 
 subject. It lay close to the big purposes of both 
 of them. They had studied it as best they could 
 from the outside. Catherine knew it from the 
 inside. 
 
 She nodded appreciatively when Creighton's 
 hope was unfolded to her. She was less inclined 
 to regard McCurdy's with favor. 
 
 "You Russians are too terribly uncompromis- 
 ing," McCurdy charged. "It is one reason, per- 
 haps, why you get nowhere with your Revolution.'* 
 
 Catherine smiled grimly. "There is no possi- 
 ble compromise with some predatory things," she 
 retorted. "As well talk of compromise with a 
 tiger of Bengal." 
 
 "There is no man," contended Lucius, "who 
 is wholly evil. There is none that cannot be made 
 to do good." 
 
 She shook her head. "There is no man who is 
 wholly evil no. In prisons there are murderers 
 
 265
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 who love a little canary-bird, and wreckers of 
 other people's honor who weep when they read a 
 poem about a child. But we dare not compro- 
 mise with them and give them liberty, because 
 when they have liberty the good in them is not 
 strong enough to restrain the bad. Many a mur- 
 derer did not know he could cherish a canary 
 until he was locked up for taking life human 
 life, with all its loves, its destinies, unfulfilled. I 
 say to you that your Powers that Prey ought not 
 to be compromised with. A wolf got loose in the 
 park a well-fed wolf, with his belly full and 
 there was panic till he was caught. Yet you say 
 wolves can be made to serve the lambs by com- 
 promise! Oh, dreamer!" 
 
 Lucius was nettled but not repulsed. 
 
 "I'll convert you yet," he declared. "You also 
 dream. But I need your dreams," he went on. 
 "If you will help me if you will give me a chance 
 I think I can prove to you that there is a place 
 for me. Perhaps only as a middleman; but that's 
 something. You who will not compromise need 
 not hope for power. If I attain power it will be 
 something, surely, that the dreamers have my ear. 
 I talked the other day with a man of brain, of wide 
 influence, who says that ideality of any sort can 
 never again enter into government that com- 
 merce rules the world, and the principles of com- 
 merce must underlie all government. Government 
 
 266
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 is a form of business, he says: the conservation 
 of many businesses. I don't believe that. I be- 
 lieve that when ideality goes out of government 
 the life goes out of it; that when it grapples only 
 with things as they are and ceases to struggle 
 after things as they should be, it will be a soulless, 
 perfunctory institution, ready for overthrow. I 
 believe in government with one ear to the ground, 
 to determine what is practicable. But with all 
 my soul I believe that the other ear should be 
 strained to listen to the choir invisible, to learn 
 what is desirable." 
 
 Catherine was not convinced, but she was im- 
 pressed. 
 
 "I am willing to learn," she told him. 
 
 She agreed to go with them on Saturday even- 
 ing on a round of places where the girls of Sonia's 
 sort, released from toil and seeking to satisfy them- 
 selves as to the beauty and pleasantness of life, 
 its romance and its high adventure, went for rec- 
 reation. 
 
 "They are young," she said, "and they must 
 laugh. They are women, and they must try to 
 charm. They are souls, and they must spread 
 their wings in venture. They work in a too-real 
 world. They are impelled when they play into 
 an unreal world to feed their fancy, to keep 
 romance alive in them, so that when they mate 
 there may be ecstasy in it. It is nature struggling 
 
 267
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 in them to perpetuate itself; in a passionate desire 
 to approve life, to be glad, to look forward hope- 
 fully. And they need it so!" 
 
 Creighton was enchanted with her understand- 
 ing. He had read far more widely along some lines 
 than she had, especially with regard to the history 
 of Play and its psychology. But she was able, 
 out of her observation and experience, to illumine 
 what he had read and to suggest its adaptability 
 to complex New-World conditions. 
 
 Much that was potent in the Middle Ages to 
 entertain and instruct a people unified in religious 
 beliefs, racial traditions, and close communal ex- 
 perience, would be valueless in the modern city 
 of a hundred tongues, a hundred creeds, a hun- 
 dred racial insularities and prejudices. 
 
 Not much is elemental, universal. Music, dan- 
 cing these are the appeal of rhythm, an appeal 
 nearly every human creature feels. There are 
 some occasions for humor that are nearly uni- 
 versal. There are some aspirations almost every- 
 body shares. 
 
 Creighton was groping among these realizations, 
 seeking the foundation for his scheme. The 
 "smoker" conference in McCurdy's sitting-room 
 had been vastly interesting, but not immensely 
 productive of suggestions. It was agreed that 
 the hunger for ideas and ideals was there. But 
 it was by no means determined how any one 
 
 268
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 was to get past surface prejudices and reach it, 
 or what one might reasonably hope to reach it 
 with. 
 
 "I am coming," Creighton told Catherine, "to 
 believe that our saddest lack is a lack of heroes. 
 I know what Browning prayed : * Make no more 
 giants, God; but elevate the race.* But if I 
 prayed, I should pray otherwise. Rinaldo is all 
 right for the Italians, The Cid is splendid for the 
 Spaniards. But they don't seem to come near 
 enough to life as it is to-day. Rinaldo doesn't seem 
 to suggest to our Little Italy what qualities of a 
 crusading hero are needed in New York to-day. 
 The Cid who drove Moors from Spain doesn't 
 seem to suggest how marauding powers may be 
 driven from Manhattan Island. We need heroes 
 in civic life. Even military heroes are only half- 
 sufficient, because the average man's duty to his 
 country is far less likely now to be in bearing 
 arms than in forbearing to be bribed or bought or 
 browbeaten. We need more men whose idealism 
 and whose righteousness have been found potent 
 against the temptations that assail men to-day. 
 And when I see persons using their little power 
 to minimize the big, to belittle the great, to search 
 out the flaws where other men of better faith have 
 found only that which commands reverence 
 then I can only wonder at our moral code 
 which avenges the destruction of life, although it 
 
 269
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 holds death but the entrance upon Immortality; 
 while the destruction of belief it avenges not at 
 all." 
 
 Creighton had been in conference that day with 
 Bruce Norbury and Ansel Rodman. 
 
 They had taken a Third Avenue surface car 
 at Catherine's corner and ridden to Grand Street. 
 Here, instead of getting on the cross-town car, they 
 started to walk. 
 
 Third Avenue is presumed by those who seldom 
 see it to be somewhere near the limits of New 
 York's East Side. Second Avenue is occasionally 
 heard of "uptown"; First Avenue, only semi- 
 occasionally. What, if anything, may lie beyond 
 First Avenue, upper Fifth Avenue has never troub- 
 led itself to wonder. A city lies east of First 
 Avenue! a big city in extent and in population. 
 It has very little conscious relation to other cities 
 lying north of Astor Place and west of the Bowery 
 even less conscious relationship than those other 
 cities-within-a-city have to it. 
 
 Grand Street was not unfamiliar to Catherine 
 or to either of the two men; but it had its unfail- 
 ing fascination for each of them. 
 
 The push-cart gentry were in full swing to- 
 night. It seemed as if the curb could not have 
 accommodated another merchant, not only along 
 both sides of Grand Street, much farther than the 
 eye could reach, but rounding all of the many 
 
 270
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 corners and stretching down for forty or fifty feet 
 into every side street. 
 
 Great numbers of the carts this November 
 night displayed furs near-mink and almost-lynx 
 and even "erminette" made up into neck-pieces 
 and muffs that kept pace with, if not Fifth Avenue 
 styles, at least with those of Sixth Avenue. 
 
 Of other articles the push-carts offered many 
 were of an intimate nature: corsets, garters, under- 
 wear, stockings. Some catered to the vanities and 
 sold millinery, veilings, cheap jewelry; numbers 
 of them dealt briskly in false hair jute and the 
 tresses of executed Chinese. Others were pur- 
 veyors to the housewife: foodstuffs and kitchen- 
 ware and calico wrappers and gingham aprons. 
 Her lord was tempted with gilt collar buttons and 
 leatherette purses and ready-made neckties and 
 with shoestrings as well as with underwear and 
 jean trousers arid yarn socks and cowhide shoes. 
 
 In addition to the curbstone merchants, Grand 
 Street presented two lines of shops as long and as 
 little varied in general character as the shopping 
 length of Broadway. 
 
 One might marvel where purchasers could come 
 from sufficient to support the trade of this one 
 street did not one thread one's way amongst them 
 with such difficulty. They are there to answer 
 the question before it can be raised. 
 
 They were of both sexes, with the women 
 271
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 slightly predominating, and of all ages. But one 
 noticed no class among them so much as one no- 
 ticed the girls. The girls were there to be noticed, 
 and they spared no effort to accomplish their de- 
 sire. It is the marketplace to which maidens 
 from time immemorial have brought their charms 
 for display as Nature directs them to. 
 
 The majority of the girls were hatless, and every 
 head was built out of all semblance to a human 
 head with masses of jute and bunches of puffs. 
 Rhinestones glittered in every coiffure. And that 
 girl was not discoverable who was not chewing 
 gum. "Suits" were less universal than ordina- 
 rily, owing to the season's preference for military 
 capes; at least half of the younger women in evi- 
 dence wore these capes of dark-blue shoddy cloth 
 trimmed with red facings and brass buttons. 
 The others were obliged to make what showing 
 they could with a suit and the ubiquitous white 
 waist much inset with medallions and cheap lace. 
 There was as little attempt at individuality of 
 dressing as there is on Broadway, each woman 
 following the others as closely as she can in a panic 
 of fearfulness lest she be discovered a step behind 
 "the latest." 
 
 They were of a dozen nationalities, those girls 
 Russian and Polish and German Jews, Italians, 
 Bohemians, Lithuanians, a sprinkling of the Irish 
 always to be found where Jews abound, Hunga- 
 
 272
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 rians, Czechs, and Slovaks (not to enumerate the 
 others). A majority of them were foreign-born. 
 Probably not one of them had a parent born in 
 this country. All of them were wage-earners. 
 Many of them lived at home with their people. 
 A minority, but still a great number, were what 
 our government in its commerce and labor re- 
 ports calls "the girl adrift" meaning the work- 
 ing girls in cities who live among strangers. 
 
 Too frequently the strangers the girls live among 
 are their own kith and kin their un-Americanized 
 parents clinging to the social customs of the home- 
 land and daily receding further and further in es- 
 trangement behind their eagerly advancing young 
 sons and daughters. 
 
 Catherine knew all this not superficially, as an 
 observer knows, but intensively and from within. 
 
 " Because I want you to feel as I feel these girls' 
 needs," she said to the two men, "I open my 
 heart to you about my little Sonia. I am helpless 
 to protect her not so helpless as the parents of 
 these girls we see, because I know more of con- 
 ditions here and can warn Sonia, but helpless 
 enough to drive me nearly mad. I would love to 
 go with her wherever she goes, to share in her 
 pastimes as is the good old-country way. But 
 she resents it. That is not the American way. 
 Her friends do not want me. I am not clever as 
 I should be, or not so big as I should be, and they 
 
 273
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 realize that I go along, not because I am attracted 
 by what they do, but because I want to be with 
 Sonia to * watch/ they say; and they set her 
 against my doing it. ... So I can do little. I 
 must not make her chafe until she leaves me and 
 I cannot find her any more. I must take her word 
 for where she goes and what she does. I cannot 
 know her acquaintances, because there is no 
 place she can ask them to where I can meet them. 
 She does not like to read, to study, to observe. 
 There is nothing for her in our little room noth- 
 ing in books nothing in going to a class where 
 she may learn something, even to make a hat. 
 She is young; she is pretty; she is mad for pleas- 
 ure. Nature made her for one thing even more 
 specifically than some other women are made to 
 mate. With all her eager young heart she is pining 
 for her other half, without which she does not 
 know how to conceive life to be worth while. I 
 am beyond her ken because I find myself interests 
 of other sorts. She is right, I dare say, and I am 
 wrong. . . . This street is full of Sonias not so 
 pretty as my child and not so sweet, but with like 
 passions and like circumstance. They were de- 
 signed in the plan of the world to be appealing 
 in their tender youth; were designed to look 
 out on the world with eyes easily dazzled by 
 romance. In a way it's cruel! Nature tricks 
 them to serve her. It is well, I suppose, that 
 
 274
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 they should submit. If only they could discrimi- 
 nate a little !" 
 
 They had turned north from Grand Street and 
 were going to a dance hall Catherine knew. Part 
 of her confidence about Sonia came in snatches 
 in the quieter street; part of it she did not have 
 opportunity to say until they sat in the gallery 
 looking down on the dancers. 
 
 It was an orderly dance. Many young married 
 couples were there with their small children. 
 Youngsters of two and upward mingled with the 
 dancers on the floor, sliding or dancing as their 
 accomplishments allowed. Babies were plentiful. 
 Fathers would hold their infants while the mothers 
 danced. Then mothers would relieve the fathers 
 and take their own turn with the babies. Sweet- 
 hearting among the younger couples was vigorous 
 and unabashed. In the gallery where Catherine 
 and the two men sat there was constant coming 
 and going of couples who left the dance floor for 
 a season of "spooning." The gallery was dotted 
 with them, each fondly embracing couple in full 
 sight of all the others, but none of them the least 
 self-conscious or embarrassed. Nature teaches all 
 her creatures to adapt themselves to their environ- 
 ment. And where conditions are such that pri- 
 vate courting is impossible, she easily overcomes 
 any scruples there may be against pursuing court- 
 ship wherever it may be done. 
 
 275
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "There are people," Catherine went on, nod- 
 ding her head in the direction of these couples, 
 "who come down here and laugh at this. Insen- 
 sate fools! If they had any more vision than a 
 bat they would see what it all means; and the 
 weak ones would weep, but the strong ones would 
 do something!" 
 
 The dance was orderly; but disorder lurked 
 upon its heels. There was a saloon below the 
 dance hall and it was apparently against the code 
 of none of the girls to go down between dances 
 for beer. Creighton went below and watched 
 through several intermissions. 
 
 " I scarcely saw a girl touch anything but beer," 
 he reported. "And of course, bred as they were, 
 that's no more than ice-cream soda is to an 
 American girl. But it's the saloon influence. 
 If there could be a * straight* saloon! run for the 
 legitimate profit in legitimate drinks. But I never 
 saw one. A saloon-keeper who isn't a pander and 
 a prey for blackmail is as rare as a white black- 
 bird." 
 
 Catherine nodded. "That's it!" she said. "It's 
 the traps that are laid for the girls that make your 
 blood boil." 
 
 "It's too bad," McCurdy mused, "that eco- 
 nomic conditions ever had to evolve to the point 
 where women were literally thrust out of the 
 home." 
 
 276
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 "Ah!" cried Catherine, "haven't you progressed 
 beyond that ? The changes which have thrust 
 women forth have been bad for some but they 
 have given life life! to many." 
 
 "What makes the difference?" he persisted. 
 
 "Partly what is in the girl when she is forced 
 out and partly what she finds there. Her educa- 
 tion helps that is, her ability and her resources. 
 And conditions help. Inability to earn enough 
 for comfort makes some girls easy prey. And 
 inability to find entertainment puts some others 
 in the spoilers' way. The only things there are 
 for girls to do, that they care to do, are like this: 
 they are full of traps that only the wariest girls 
 know how to avoid." 
 
 "When my dream unfolds to include the girls," 
 Creighton mused, "what I offer them must not 
 be too passive. Their youth demands something 
 they can do like dancing and the 'rides' at 
 Coney Island. Would that there were some ex- 
 tension of the kindergarten plan to fit maiden- 
 hood!" 
 
 "Yes," Catherine answered; "yes! that is what 
 makes me think sometimes that I would be glad 
 if Sonia could get into a chorus." 
 
 McCurdy gasped. "You don't know what 
 you're saying!" he protested. 
 
 Creighton came quickly to Catherine's defense. 
 "I think she does," he contended. "Sonia's 
 
 277
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 temptations there could not be stronger or more 
 frequent than they are in a shop. And it is some- 
 thing to be a part of the production of gayety. 
 The chorus isn't as gay a place as it looks to be; 
 but it is exciting. Sonia could have some of her 
 love of excitement gratified there, and might not 
 have to go such lengths to seek what her nature 
 craves. Dancing maidens! They have always 
 been. They ought always to be. I'm glad the 
 revival of dancing is on in such earnest. Think 
 of the day," he cried, "when girls like these shall 
 dance for love of the grace and beauty of it, as 
 they now dance for mere love of the rhythm! 
 When they shall consciously express in it poetry 
 and all that inspires!" 
 
 He was rapt in his vision and made transcend- 
 ently happy by it. 
 
 When they rose to go, he said that if they would 
 excuse him he would linger. They understood, 
 and went on without him. 
 
 As they approached Catherine's door, still deep 
 in their discussions that, instead of coming to an 
 end, were always opening up long, new vistas, 
 McCurdy said: 
 
 "I must talk with you about that. When shall 
 I see you again ?" 
 
 Catherine smiled. "Any evening," she an- 
 swered wistfully, "when you want to walk the 
 streets or to sit in some Bowery resort like the 
 
 278
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 Atlantic Garden. I have no place that I can ask 
 you to." 
 
 "And I," he muttered, "have the place but I 
 can't ask you there." 
 
 "No," she agreed; "that's not to be thought 
 of for your sake, not mine." 
 
 "Won't you let me come sometimes and take 
 you out to dine ? There's always that possibility!" 
 
 "Not to me," she answered, "unless it were a 
 very shabby kind of place where my working 
 clothes wouldn't shame you." 
 
 "There are scores of nice places," he assured 
 her, "where clothes do not matter." 
 
 "All I ask of them," she declared, "is that the 
 opportunity for talking be good. You cannot 
 know how starved I am for talk!" 
 
 "We'll take care of that starvation," he prom- 
 ised; and there was a note of tenderness in his 
 voice that Catherine's keen ear did not miss. 
 She was starved for tenderness, too; and the tears 
 rushed to her eyes as she glimpsed happiness 
 ahead. 
 
 She laid her hand, trembling with excitement, on 
 his arm, "And when you can," she pleaded, 
 "you will think of the tens of thousands of other 
 girls who have no place to ask a friend to no 
 place to go ? I'm not in danger as they are. I 
 have my world of books I can go in and shut 
 the door and be a queen. That is my good for- 
 
 279
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 tune. Other girls don't have it. You'll remem- 
 ber the girls when you come into your kingdom 
 won't you ?" 
 
 "I will," he promised, "and they shall thank 
 you." 
 
 Catherine's pulses were throbbing madly as she 
 climbed the stairs to her room. She had never 
 felt like this before. 
 
 Mollie, tear-stained and dishevelled, was sleep- 
 ing on her bed. 
 
 "She beat me," Mollie sobbed when Catherine 
 roused her, "and I run away. And after I thought 
 she wouldn't be lookin' fer me no more I came 
 back an' came in here. I didn't know where to 
 go or I wouldn't have never come back!" she 
 cried. 
 
 Catherine snatched the child to her breast with 
 a passionate protectiveness. 
 
 "No, Mollie!" she entreated. "You mustn't 
 think of things like that. I know it's bad here 
 but it would be worse if you ran away. I'll try to 
 find some place that you can go and be safe. 
 I'll ask I know some one I can ask; some one 
 who's strong and good and who wants to help, 
 and knows how." 
 
 "Your fella?" Mollie inquired interestedly. 
 
 Catherine flushed. "I haven't any 'fellow,*' 
 she said. "What made you think of such a 
 thing?" 
 
 280
 
 Love's Fool 
 
 "The way you looked when you was talkin' 
 about him," observed Mollie shrewdly. 
 
 Catherine denied indignantly to herself that she 
 had any such thoughts as Mollie gave her credit 
 for. "I'm not a fool!" she told herself. 
 
 But she was Love's fool. 
 
 281
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 OLD AND NEW CHIVALRY 
 
 FTER Lucius and Catherine had gone, 
 Creighton sat watching the dancers for a 
 while, then went down again to the bar, where he 
 ordered a succession of soft drinks lemon and 
 seltzer, varied with ginger ale and Angostura bit- 
 ters. Like most men who have once been slaves 
 to drink, Creighton could never dally with it after 
 he had renounced his slavery. 
 
 The bartender who served him was interested. 
 Himself an abstemious person, he knew the signs 
 of the reclaimed drunkard. 
 
 " I don't touch it either," he confided to Creigh- 
 ton. 
 
 Creighton was watching a group at a near-by 
 table where the girls were growing maudlin in 
 their merriment. 
 
 "I wish they wouldn't touch it!" he murmured, 
 his gaze on the girls. 
 
 The bartender approved. "Not for my girl, I 
 can tell you! And say! it's something to be in 
 the business; then anything you tell your girl 
 against it has got to go. She can't come back at 
 
 282
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 you with talk about you not knowin*. I got one 
 that's sixteen. And she's wise to a few things 
 that I know, you bet." 
 
 Creighton nodded. "That's the stuff!" he said. 
 "I wonder where these girls' fathers think their 
 daughters are." 
 
 "Some of 'em don't think," replied the bar- 
 tender. "An' some of 'em can't think they don't 
 know how. That's the trouble with these girls 
 they ain't never had nothin' that you could call 
 bringin' up." 
 
 The moral reflections continued as the exigencies 
 of business allowed. Then 
 
 "Your face is mighty familiar to me," the bar- 
 tender remarked. 
 
 Creighton was accustomed to the type of waiter 
 and barber and other much-wandering servitor 
 whose chief point of pride it is to recall faces and 
 identify them with places, thus entering upon a 
 long account of movements from pillar to post. 
 
 "Yes?" he answered abstractedly. 
 
 "Let me think!" The bartender was search- 
 ing his memory, hoping to give an exhibition of 
 his powers. "I I place you vaguely," he went 
 on, "in connection with trouble with with labor 
 troubles with a strike with the big strike of 
 '94. I was 'tending bar in a place that was in the 
 thick of it. I'll tell you " 
 
 He was quite excited now. And Creighton 
 283
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 couldn't help being interested as the man went 
 on to locate the place which Creighton had indeed 
 frequented and to describe it. 
 
 "A good many of the strike leaders used to 
 come in there," he continued. "And of course, it 
 bein' such a great strike, an' everybody interested, 
 I took particular notice. I don't know's I ever 
 heard your name; but you used to be with the 
 men that was pretty high up in the strike. Bein' 
 in sympathy with the men that was out, I was 
 keen on keepin' track of the way things was goin'. 
 Funny thing! before the strike was over I found 
 myself in quite a dif'rent camp. Somethin' hap- 
 pened 'tween me 'n' the boss, an' I hiked. You 
 know how 'tis: when you hike you want a good 
 change. So I thought I'd hike as far's the Capital. 
 There was promise of excitement there. They got 
 it, too though not the kind they was lookin' for." 
 
 Creighton was instantly alert. "You mean the 
 Governor's death ?" 
 
 "Yes. I was almost, you might say, mixed up 
 in that, too." 
 
 "Mixed up in it?" 
 
 "Well," laughing, "not so's you could arrest 
 me for an accomplice. But I happened to know 
 something about the assassin Bardeen. He used 
 to hang around our place where I was workin' 
 about every night. And say! there's things about 
 that killin' that ain't ever got into print." 
 
 284
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 "What kind of things ?" Creighton was trying 
 to keep down his excitement. 
 
 "Durn nasty things. Tell you how I know. 
 Bardeen, as I say, used to be around our place a 
 lot. It was quite a hangin'-out place for men like 
 him who had been shut out o' work by the strike 
 and was all against it." 
 
 Here the narrative had to stop while some 
 dancers were served with drinks. Creighton could 
 hardly restrain his impatience. 
 
 But the narrator was enjoying his recital too 
 much to stay longer away from it than was abso- 
 lutely necessary. It was not every day he found 
 a listener who cared to know how he was identi- 
 fied with history. 
 
 "Of course," he resumed, "I used to overhear 
 a lot that was said there, too. And one night it 
 was the night after the Governor had got back 
 from seein' the President and persuadin' him not 
 to interfere I got the drift of some talk about a 
 woman. Seems the employers that was so sore 
 on the Governor had been havin' him watched 
 awful close, hopin' for a case for impeachment. 
 There was somethin' said about a woman goin' 
 to the Capitol every day, and that she had the in- 
 side o* things with the Governor. Seemed he was 
 pretty dippy about her and used to meet her even- 
 ings in the park. Somebody said he heard it was 
 Bardeen's wife. They called it a darn clever 
 
 285
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 game. Bardeen come in while they was talkin', 
 and they braced him about it. He acted kind o' 
 crazy at first. 'That's all right,' they told him; 
 'ain't nobody here goin' to give you away. It's 
 a pretty old game, but it nearly always works/ 
 He calmed down some after that; but he hardly 
 stayed at all. . . . Next thing any of us knew he'd 
 shot the Governor. There was something queer 
 about it that nobody could make out. He practi- 
 cally admitted that the men he worked for had 
 used his wife as a tool. Question is: why would 
 he want to kill the Governor ? There's a side to 
 that story that ain't never got out." 
 "Have you told it to many people?" 
 "No. I used to talk about it some when the 
 murder was fresh in everybody's mind, and it was 
 thought by some that Bardeen had been hired to 
 do the job. But of late years I ain't scarcely 
 thought of it till tryin' to place you got me think- 
 in' of the big strike." 
 
 "So that was it was it?" Creighton mused as 
 he went home, deeply thoughtful. "The old, old 
 Delilah game! Poor human flesh!" 
 
 The first meeting of "the conspirators," as Rod- 
 man called them, was not a long one chiefly for 
 lack of a proper place in which to talk. Bruce 
 Norbury inclined little to Lares and Penates; 
 they were an encumbrance. He had just now a 
 
 286
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 room somewhere in the neighborhood of Gram- 
 ercy Park, and took his meals at The Players, 
 where he spent also a great deal of his time. He 
 asked Rodman and Creighton and Penhallow to 
 meet him at the club Saturday for luncheon. 
 They talked the thing over as well as they could 
 in such a place, with dozens of men they all knew 
 going and coming constantly. Then, when it be- 
 came evident that not much could be accomplished 
 there, Irving Penhallow asked the three others to 
 come to his rooms on Tenth Street on Sunday 
 afternoon, any time after four. 
 
 Irving Penhallow was a dapper little gentleman 
 of close on sixty-five. He was small and delicately 
 made, and his movements were quick, almost 
 bird-like. His hair what he had and his side- 
 whiskers were quite snowy white; his complexion 
 was pink not rubicund, but flushed with a 
 healthy glow under a fine, thin skin; and his eyes 
 were very, very blue. He was wholesomeness and 
 happiness personified. 
 
 He came from New Hampshire, which he still 
 considered the garden spot of the universe 
 though it was observable that he picked with 
 some nicety his seasons of returning thither, and 
 they were never earlier than May nor later than 
 November. 
 
 He had never married. "Couldn't risk it!" he 
 always declared cheerily, when there was occa- 
 
 287
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 sion to say anything about it. "How could I ex- 
 pect any lady to set her house in order and then, 
 as soon as it was in order, tire of it and want to 
 begin all over again?" 
 
 Regarding income, Penhallow was one of those 
 peculiarly fortunate men who have enough to en- 
 able them to get a fair measure of what they want, 
 but not enough to make pursuit too easy. Some- 
 where up among the granite hills of his native 
 State there was a stone quarry which yielded him 
 a few thousands annually. And also, it was re- 
 puted, he realized a rather handsome profit each 
 time he sold out his collection. When he went 
 about buying, he acted not only in his own interest 
 but as a roving commissioner of a big decorative 
 concern in New York; and there were numerous 
 private collectors for whom he made purchases. 
 The stone quarry had been a great help to him in 
 years gone by. But if it were to fail now he would 
 not need to suffer diminution of income. There 
 were always people in abundance who desired his 
 taste and his time. 
 
 He used to shake his head over the futility of 
 persons who wanted their antiques discovered for 
 them. He could as easily understand a man who 
 would pay some one to go to the opera for him and 
 bring him home a report of it. And when he was 
 offered round sums for his place whatever it was, 
 Colonial or Chippendale or Flemish he was wont 
 
 288
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 to say that it seemed "like taking candy from 
 children. Here I've had all the fun and they want 
 to pay me good money for a thing that's no more, 
 now, than mere furniture. Using things isn't liv- 
 ing. It's getting them!" 
 
 Creighton was the first to arrive on Sunday 
 afternoon. The house on Tenth Street was a few 
 doors west of Fifth Avenue. It is always com- 
 paratively quiet in that neighborhood, which is 
 one of the most charming in New York; but on 
 a Sunday afternoon there is almost a cloistral 
 hush, broken only by the occasional rumble of a 
 motor 'bus or the chugging of an automobile 
 not many of which, however, go down that far on 
 Sunday. 
 
 When Creighton rounded the corner of Tenth 
 Street the sun was not far above the roof-tops of 
 Sixth Avenue. The vesper song of the myriad 
 birds who nest in the vines that mantle the church 
 on the corner was the dominant sound here. At 
 the end of the long block which stretched away 
 toward Sixth Avenue was the Jefferson Market 
 Police Court, the roaring Elevated overhead, the 
 clanging trolleys in the street, and all around cheap 
 dinginess and the .natural environs of a police 
 court. But here ! what order and what seemliness ! 
 
 Penhallow had the parlor floor of an old resi- 
 dence that had long been a sort of improvised 
 apartment house. There was a basement, level 
 
 289
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 with the street or not more than a step below, and 
 a high stoop of brown stone with an iron railing. 
 A couple of "bachelor girls" had transformed the 
 basement into a very cozy home, which began 
 with "anything to escape from boarding-houses/* 
 and was slowly emerging from chaos into come- 
 liness, under Irving Penhallow's direction. 
 
 A colored man with a grizzled head answered 
 Creighton's ring. In passing through the front 
 hall, he had a brief impression of uncompromising 
 commonplaceness which Irving Penhallow had 
 evidently tried to mitigate but could not overcome. 
 Then Uncle Benjamin opened the drawing-room 
 door, and Creighton stepped into a world thou- 
 sands of miles removed from New York and hun- 
 dreds of years removed from this present. 
 
 The politest books on etiquette doubtless bid 
 the guest to ignore surroundings, whether grand 
 or poor, and to seem to be aware of but one thing, 
 and that his host or hostess. But Irving Pen- 
 hallow would have been distinctly hurt if any 
 newcomer to his rooms had followed those polite 
 directions. He loved above all possible other trib- 
 utes to him the involuntary gasp of surprise with 
 which persons first made this transition. 
 
 "It it's like a fairy tale!" declared Creighton 
 when he could say anything at all. 
 
 It was. One had a sense of the unreality of it 
 all as if it must be a dream. 
 
 290
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 Creighton was anything but a connoisseur. He 
 did not know even the names of the things he 
 saw. He was aware only of the effect. Not many 
 who came to wonder and to admire, could carry 
 away any kind of a coherent or intelligible story 
 of what they had seen. In general one realized a 
 salon-like effect, for the two big parlors with their 
 old-fashioned high ceilings made a room of pro- 
 portions at least sufficiently ample to suggest not 
 too mockingly the spacious apartments where these 
 furnishings had once belonged. 
 
 Further than this, one got an impression of walls 
 hung in something that gave the tone of old gilt 
 and was a most marvellous background or frame 
 for the whole picture. The ceiling was truly 
 "filched," and was very like Penhallow said 
 some ceilings in the smaller apartments of the 
 Pitti Palace. 
 
 The other prevailing tint other than the old 
 gilt was rose, an exquisite semi-faded rose. One 
 was dimly conscious of chairs upholstered in this 
 color. For the rest, one took in no more than a 
 vague notion of candles burning in sconces that 
 looked as if they might have held lights for Michel- 
 angelo; of Fra Angelica angels, and della Robbia 
 cherubs, and busts in painted wood of Florentine 
 ladies with meekly parted hair. Near the rear of 
 the apartment was a table with a velvet "runner" 
 and a dish of fruit that looked like a Veronese 
 
 291
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 picture minus the gayly gowned people. Even the 
 fruit suggested "an Old Master." 
 
 The thing that held Penhallow to this nearly 
 perfect apartment was the lack of a truly suitable 
 fireplace. He had "overcome" the New York 
 grate and mantel in a quite wonderful degree. 
 But he would never be satisfied until he had done 
 much better than this. 
 
 The glow from his fire was grateful, however, 
 on this November afternoon. And after Creigh- 
 ton had expressed as well as he could his wonder 
 and admiration, Mr. Penhallow took him in to 
 see the infinitely quaint little bedroom he had 
 made out of what used to be known as "the ex- 
 tension" of the drawing-room floor. 
 
 "And here," he laughed, opening a door into a 
 perfectly appointed bathroom in the most modern 
 style, "is where I have an advantage over Lorenzo 
 the Magnificent. He beat me on ceilings; but I've 
 got him skinned in facilities for keeping clean." 
 
 "And who keeps this wonderful place in such 
 impeccable order if I may venture to inquire ?" 
 
 "Uncle Benjamin. Lorenzo never had the beat 
 of him, either. He's not only an ample household 
 staff, but a first gentleman of the bedchamber and 
 a court jester all in one. He lives on Sixth Ave- 
 nue; and it is the most ardent desire I have 
 next to that fireplace to know what Uncle Ben- 
 jamin is like in his own environment." 
 
 292
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, he worked once upon a time for some 
 people I know, here in New York, who were Aboli- 
 tionists and haven't got over it yet. They don't 
 seem to know that the war is over and the slaves 
 are free. And Uncle Benjamin used to harrow 
 their souls with what he told them of the cruelty 
 to negroes before the war. 
 
 "The next I knew of him, he was 'buttle-ing* 
 for Southern folks, to whom he had represented 
 himself as a ' Jeff Davis nigger* of the most 'un- 
 reconstructible' type. When I had a chance to 
 get him I was filled with wonder as to how he 
 would commend himself to me. I was prepared 
 to hear that he had been Dante's cook or Lorenzo's 
 body-servant. But he didn't go into personalities. 
 He contented himself with saying that this place 
 made him feel like he'd struck 'own folks' at last. 
 'Dar's heaps o' trash livin' in dis yere town,' he 
 says, 'an' a nigger what was fotch up aris'kratic 
 cain't git in sohts wid 'em nohow.' I am allowed 
 to infer that I suggest to Benjamin some sort of 
 an aristocracy to which he is accustomed. If he 
 worked for you I'll guarantee he'd claim to have 
 been a 'dresser* for Booth!" 
 
 Creighton laughed. " I don't wonder you 
 want to know what he is on Sixth Avenue," he 
 said. 
 
 When Rodman and Norbury had arrived, 
 
 293
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Creighton told his experience of the night before 
 or, rather, of the early morning. 
 
 "I think," said Penhallow, speaking first after 
 Creighton had finished, "that perhaps I can un- 
 derstand how how Lyman Innes might be found 
 susceptible to such a such a snare. He Mrs. 
 Innes was an admirable lady a very admirable 
 lady but she she did not quite fill his life 
 their tastes were not similar." 
 
 He looked distressed; one could feel sure that 
 nothing less than loyalty to a dear dead friend 
 whose honor was assailed could have induced 
 Irving Penhallow to admit that any lady "did not 
 quite fill" her husband's life. 
 
 Bruce Norbury was a little less reluctant to 
 lay charges against a dead woman's name. He 
 was still hot with resentment against her on Rose's 
 behalf. 
 
 "I I don't want to be lacking in courtesy," 
 he began. "I feel the delicacy of imputing ill to 
 any woman, and least of all to one who cannot 
 defend herself against the imputation. But if 
 Mrs. Innes was capable of believing an anonymous 
 letter, and, much more, if she was willing on no 
 better evidence than that to destroy her child's 
 faith or try to destroy it in her idolized father, 
 I cannot see that she deserved any finicking treat- 
 ment from any one." 
 
 "Except," interposed Penhallow, "that she was 
 294
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 a lady; and one likes to consider the deserts of 
 her sex." 
 
 Bruce flushed. "I'm in a bad place," he de- 
 clared. "For you are an older man, and you are 
 such a perfect argument for the school of courtesy 
 you represent. I'm a young man, and I'm not 
 very hopeful that I'm any kind of an argument for 
 the school of courtesy I try to represent. But 
 what I want to say with all respect, Mr. Pen- 
 hallow is that well, to-day we don't have consid- 
 eration for a woman because of her sex, but because 
 of herself. Perhaps the old way was better. But 
 the new way is here. If a woman was mean and 
 petty and unworthy, why must we try to handle 
 her with gloves simply because she never broke 
 the Seventh Commandment ? You won't hesi- 
 tate to call 'the other woman* a vampire and a 
 wanton. Why should you hesitate to admit that 
 the wife was at least potentially despicable ? We 
 know it from what she did to her child! I we 
 can't get anywhere in an effort to understand this 
 case, or any other case of human nature, if we've 
 got to proceed on the premise that a woman is 
 without fault because she belongs to a sex that 
 gives us nearly all our angels. We get the heights 
 of human nature in women; but we get the depths, 
 too. And there're more ways to the depths than 
 adultery. I can't believe that the angels should 
 have to provide whitewash or immunity for the 
 
 295
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 mean and unworthy. That's an unwholesome 
 sentimentalism as unwholesome as the mediaeval 
 life that gave it birth. They shut their women up 
 in musty castles, and when the righting fetched a 
 lull they made madrigals to the ladies' eyebrows. 
 Then every lady was a paragon. To-day we wel- 
 come women to share the best thing we have 
 which is life and we reverence them some of 
 them ! because we realize how richly they deserve 
 it. And the best we are is far too poor to give a 
 woman who is good." 
 
 Bruce was unconscious of the length of his plea. 
 He was standing with his back to the fire, and 
 Rodman watched him with an appreciative eye 
 thinking how fine a figure of the modern knight 
 he was, in his lean length which was far from be- 
 ing lank; measuring his equipment for the pres- 
 ent battlefield, which is a battlefield of ideas. It 
 stirred Rodman's sense of whimsicality to think 
 of Norbury delivering that impassioned plea for 
 he was really impassioned about it in Penhal- 
 low's Florentine drawing-room. Rodman was not 
 without his exquisite appreciation of Penhallow 
 and of the charm of these surroundings. But his 
 pulses leaped with delight in what Norbury rep- 
 resented, and in him in the full figure of fine 
 lusty young manhood that he was. 
 
 He nodded approvingly at Bruce. Creighton's 
 eyes glowed with his approbation. 
 
 296
 
 Old and New Chivalry 
 
 Then that there might be no feeling of argu- 
 ment Rodman plunged at once into reminiscence 
 about the Delilah game and some of the known 
 parts it has played in America's politics. 
 
 297
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PENALTY AND PROFIT 
 
 AFTER leaving Mrs. Bristow at her door on 
 Friday evening, Rose and Ansel Rodman 
 and Davy faced southward for a leisurely stroll 
 back to Washington Square. 
 
 "I think," declared, Rose "Mrs. Bristow is one 
 of the most charming women I have ever met. 
 We had a memorable afternoon together." 
 
 "I wonder what she thinks of me?" Rodman 
 groaned. "I've no words to describe the way I 
 feel!" 
 
 It was difficult to find the thing to say that might 
 appease him. 
 
 "Oh, come, now!" Rose besought him. 
 "Where's the great harm ? Most girls fall in love 
 with Johnny, and perhaps many men fall in love 
 with Emily. Mrs. Bristow has a lot of ripe, sweet 
 wisdom. She probably knows that falling in love 
 and falling out again is a considerable part of 'the 
 profession' to members of it like Johnny and 
 Emily. They're not deep enough in the art of 
 it to be seriously absorbed by that; and unless 
 they've got an engrossing pursuit 'on the side' 
 as so many of the lesser players have there isn't 
 
 298 J
 
 Penalty and Profit 
 
 really much else for them to do but engage in little 
 romances. They play at it prettily and forget 
 before the next season begins. You know that 
 and we know it and why should we think Mrs. 
 Bristow doesn't know it?'* 
 
 "You're a dear, comforting little person as you 
 doubtless know also!" Rodman replied. "But I 
 can't help remembering the way Mrs. Bristow 
 looked when she saw her daughter." 
 
 "I'll tell you why that was," Rose broke in 
 eagerly. " It isn't just nice of me to tell tales on 
 Emily; but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if she 
 knew it was for your consoling. I don't know 
 why she didn't tell her mother she was going to 
 dine with Johnny; but she didn't. She said she 
 was going to dinner with one of the girls in the 
 company. Mrs. Bristow had told me that. She 
 was a little embarrassed for Emily, I suppose. 
 Or it might even be that she imagined I would 
 think she had fabricated the story about the girl 
 in the company! But I hope she would know me 
 better than that!" 
 
 This sounded plausible and Rodman tried to 
 salve his remorse with it. But somehow he was 
 not convinced. 
 
 "And even if they are serious!" Rose went on. 
 "I don't know much about Emily; but I don't 
 know where Johnny could go to look for a lovelier 
 mother-in-law. And it is not unreasonable to 
 
 299
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 suppose Emily may be a good deal like her. And 
 Johnny ! Well, I don't say Johnny's anything 
 like the Rock of Gibraltar or the Laws of the 
 Medes and Persians. But he's certainly a most 
 adorable person; and I don't see how Mrs. Bris- 
 tow could object to him very strongly.'* 
 
 "Unless she doesn't want Emily to marry an 
 actor," suggested Davy. 
 
 "That might be!" Rose admitted. "But the 
 impression I have of Mrs. Bristow is that she 
 wouldn't presume to interfere too far in trying 
 to decide what kind of a man could make her 
 daughter happiest." 
 
 Davy thought the talk was getting on ground 
 dangerous for Rose; he imagined he could de- 
 tect a tremor in her voice. She had not mentioned 
 Dudley Prichard's name since Monday afternoon. 
 Davy was consumed with tender concern to know 
 how she felt about Dudley; but he did not feel as 
 if he had a right to ask. Her manner was reassur- 
 ing. But after the completeness with which, for 
 fifteen years, she had concealed from him her 
 anguish of mind about their father, Davy did not 
 flatter himself that his ability to read behind Rose's 
 manner, or to judge by it her real feelings, was 
 worth very much. 
 
 Crossing Herald Square, they continued down 
 Broadway, which was thronged just then with the 
 theatre crowds hastening to the performances. 
 
 300
 
 Penalty and Profit 
 
 None of them ever tired of this sight; but to- 
 night they cared less about it than usual. 
 
 "Let's stop a minute," Davy said when he 
 thought he heard that tremor in Rose's voice. 
 "I want to buy some flowers." 
 
 They were in front of one of the many florists' 
 shops that line Broadway, vying in number with 
 the candy shops and the rhinestone emporiums. 
 Inside the shop, which presented a gorgeous array 
 of autumn foliage, varicolored chrysanthemums 
 of giant size, American Beauties, violets in thou- 
 sands, orchids, lilies of the valley, gardenias, and 
 other fashionable favorites, Davy bought a bunch 
 of violets with an orchid of exquisite fragility and 
 loveliness tucked into the heart of the bunch. 
 
 "For the sweetest girl I know," he whispered 
 to Rose while the attendant was making change. 
 "Will you wear them ?" 
 
 Rose's eyes filled. She thought she could un- 
 derstand. 
 
 "Davy," she murmured, looking far more than 
 she dared to say, "you're a Shining Preciousness." 
 The appellation was one he had encountered in 
 an Oriental romance and had told her about, 
 knowing she would enjoy it. 
 
 Ansel Rodman, too, knew why Davy wanted 
 to express to Rose a special tenderness; and his 
 own eyes were very "shiny" as he stood near 
 the front of the shop apparently absorbed in the 
 
 301
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 brilliant display in the window. His mind was 
 busy with "the eternal values," and he was won- 
 dering if life, which had dealt tragically with these 
 dear children in many respects, had not compen- 
 sated them more than handsomely in the quality 
 of devotion to one another which it had developed 
 in them. But there it had also, he had to reflect, 
 entailed its inevitable penalties. Witness the suf- 
 fering* which this present wretchedness was bring- 
 ing each of them on the other's account, and both 
 of them on Johnny's. And blithe, adorablejohnny, 
 who needed sobering development as these two 
 did not! was going his bonny way, care-free. 
 Rodman wished he knew if that were right. 
 
 He beamed approvingly on Rose and Davy as 
 they rejoined him. 
 
 "That's the value of critical acumen," he de- 
 clared. "Davy knows he couldn't find a sweeter 
 girl to give violets to." 
 
 "That isn't acumen, in Davy," Rose objected, 
 shaking her head. "That's something bigger 
 it's where his sense of values fails; it's love. 
 Our Davy is one of those blessed persons who 
 love, not according to our deserts at all, but ac- 
 cording to his capacity." 
 
 Davy's glasses dimmed. He had to take them 
 off and polish them. 
 
 On the way to dinner Rodman had an oppor- 
 tunity to tell Davy that he had seen Bruce Nor- 
 
 302
 
 Penalty and Profit 
 
 bury; that he was to see him again to-morrow at 
 the club. 
 
 "Had you " stammered Davy "were you 
 terribly shocked ?" 
 
 Rodman smiled a tender, sad, wise little smile. 
 "No, Davy," he answered, "I was not." 
 
 "Had you heard it before?" 
 
 "I had heard it hinted at at the time." 
 
 "You didn't believe it?" 
 
 "I didn't think much about it. I felt thor- 
 oughly well assured what kind of a man Lyman 
 Innes had been in his best self and I knew his 
 best must be his biggest, else he could not have 
 done what he did. I took for granted that he 
 had a weaker self he was a human being we 
 all have. The meaner and weaker that other self 
 was, the more credit was due him for his triumphs 
 over it they must have been many. If he died 
 in penalty for his greatest weakness and not for 
 his finest strength, I could not see that he was 
 less a benefactor. What he had done that was 
 excellent remained done. What was weak in 
 him was interred with his bones. That was how 
 I felt, then. If I could have foreseen how things 
 were to work out, perhaps I should have felt dif- 
 ferently and perhaps I should not it's hard to 
 say, Davy. I find judgment difficult oh, terri- 
 bly difficult! One must be fair about benefits 
 you've had them from his fame. Perhaps it is 
 
 33
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 not right that one should have those only and no 
 blame. I tell you, Davy, I don't know! One 
 moment I resent, on your behalf, his weakness 
 think perhaps he might have fought a little harder, 
 for your sakes. Then I find myself wondering! 
 If nobody's to sin, how shall we get our saints ? 
 I can't tell, Davy! I used to feel that there were 
 some things I knew. But now I'm never sure. 
 This is a terrible defect it blights everything I 
 try to do I don't know how it came about I've 
 always tried to understand. But here I'm sixty, 
 Davy, and I can't interpret life not after all my 
 trying I can only feel it, and and love it but 
 I can't understand." 
 
 Davy was touched, then amazed. There could 
 be no doubt of the sincerity of Rodman's esti- 
 mate of himself. He thought he was futile. He! 
 Davy had read many an outpouring like this, or 
 comparable to it, in the letters and journals of 
 those who have put the world most profoundly in 
 their debt; he had heard a good many accents of 
 despair from men among his own contemporaries 
 but he had also heard the reaffirmations of 
 hopefulness which invariably succeeded to them. 
 He had taken for granted that the feeling of futil- 
 ity was always a mood evanescent. He had felt 
 sure that in the main a man must have some sort 
 of fair realization of his worth to the world. 
 Doubts might assail him briefly. But surely he 
 
 34
 
 Penalty and Profit 
 
 must have his seasons of more than counterbal- 
 ancing assurance! . . .Thus Davy in his youth 
 had ventured to believe. He had never glimpsed 
 Ansel Rodman so intimately before. It was one 
 of the resultants in the interplay of penalty and 
 profit which so profoundly mystified Rodman, that 
 Davy's sad perplexity was bringing him closer to 
 a big soul's bigness than he had ever been able to 
 approach hitherto. 
 
 Rodman walked as far as Tenth Street with 
 them and there left them, saying he wanted to call 
 on one of his artist friends in the Studio Building. 
 In reality, of course, he slipped away because he 
 felt sure that Davy and Rose had much to say to 
 each other and were in the mood for saying it. 
 
 Davy told Rose about his talk with Rodman. 
 It had impressed him profoundly. Again he 
 wished he dared ask her something about Prichard 
 but felt he couldn't. 
 
 When they got into the house they found several 
 letters which had come in the afternoon mail. 
 There was one for Rose, on which Davy recog- 
 nized Prichard's handwriting it was on the famil- 
 iar letter-paper of The Players, with the masks of 
 comedy and of tragedy stamped on the envelope's 
 flap. Davy handed it to her, and she took it 
 without a word and carried it into her room where 
 she went ostensibly to remove her hat and coat. 
 
 35
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 When she came out she busied herself about 
 putting her precious violets in water, handling 
 them most carefully so as not to let a drop of water 
 fall on the orchid's fragile petals. But Davy 
 thought he could tell that she had been crying. 
 
 Rose understood. Davy was not a subtle per- 
 son, and she could not help being aware of the 
 anxiousness with which he watched her every 
 movement. It did not seem as if she could bear 
 to mention her letter. But she knew how it felt 
 to be in Davy's present state of mind. It wasn't 
 fair to keep him so anxious. 
 
 "I had a letter from Dudley," she said falter- 
 ingly. 
 
 Davy didn't know how to reply. "Did you?" 
 he echoed, feeling the foolishness of the question. 
 
 She handed it to him to read. It began: 
 
 Rose, dear, I am unutterably and intolerably wretched. 
 I have waited four days for word from you. I can't wait 
 any longer. I must see you. Monday was awful. I made 
 a mess of everything. I'm sure I can make myself right 
 with you if you will only give me the chance. Don't be 
 hard on me, dear. You know I can't live without you. 
 'Phone me this evening at the club. Don't make me spend 
 another sleepless night. 
 
 Davy read the letter and handed ir back to her. 
 His look was ominous. 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 306
 
 Penalty and Profit 
 
 "He is suffering, too," she faltered. 
 
 "Suffering! Do you believe that, Rose?" 
 
 "Why don't you?" 
 
 "I believe he's suffering for you to call him 
 down here and tell him to go ahead and do what- 
 ever he likes that how you feel about anything 
 is immaterial. That's what he's suffering for! 
 Does he even hint at abandoning what he's about ? 
 Not a bit of it! Does he say that his anguish is 
 for what he has made you suffer ? I should say 
 not! He's reproaching you for disturbing his self- 
 satisfaction and peace of mind. He says he can't 
 live without you! I can't see that it ought to 
 matter to you whether he does or not. But if he 
 can't, and it does matter to you, what has he got 
 to do but deny himself one little chance to 'put 
 it over* as an investigator ? What he means is 
 that he won't live, if he can help it, without mak- 
 ing you agree to him and to anything he wants to 
 do. Why, he doesn't have to write those arti- 
 cles " 
 
 "If he dropped them some one else would take 
 them up." 
 
 "Well, let some one else do it! He can't help 
 that. If he has got any evidence let him destroy 
 it and make revelations at least that much harder 
 for another man!" 
 
 Rose wavered. Her heart had been touched by 
 the note's protestations. She had not read it as 
 
 37
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Davy had. She wanted to believe in Dudley; 
 and her tenderness for suffering in any one was 
 very great. But Davy's charges were unanswer- 
 able. 
 
 "Davy," she sobbed, laying her head against 
 his shoulder, "I'm a fool a weak fool. But I 
 don't want to be! I know you're right. Don't 
 you let me go near that telephone will you ?" 
 
 308
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HOW EMILY WAITED 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Bristow was able to talk to 
 Emily, after her disclosure which was 
 not until Emily had sobbed herself into a state of 
 exhaustion she told her, as graphically as she 
 could, the whole story. Olivia was pleading for 
 something dearer to her than life, and her plea 
 was a magnificently impassioned one. She told of 
 her penurious girlhood; of her father's "stroke" 
 and what it entailed upon her; of the frequent 
 bitterness of her heart, because she was so desir- 
 ous to know life; of Charlie Bardeen's courtship 
 and his ire at the burdens she had to bear; of 
 their marriage, and of how his ire against her 
 burden-bearing died. She told of the sense of 
 desolation that was hers when she realized what 
 Charlie was and would always be, and of how she 
 relinquished any hope of life for herself and put 
 all her fervor of hopefulness into life for her child. 
 She described their situation when Charlie was 
 laid off on account of the strike. She told how 
 she had gone to the Capitol and been given the 
 letters, how she had carried them home and, when 
 her cooking and dish-washing were done, had 
 
 309
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 read them, eagerly, interestedly; how Charlie had 
 objected; how she had carried the letters back; 
 and how she had seen Lyman Innes. 
 
 Emily was sitting upon the bed now listening 
 intently. Her mother was still crouching beside 
 the cot. She buried her head when she spoke 
 of Lyman Innes and could not raise it for some 
 seconds. Then she went on, commanding her- 
 self with difficulty but driven by a desperate ne- 
 cessity. She described those morning hours in 
 the Governor's office. She told of the occasional 
 evenings in the little park. She spoke of the one 
 time when he had been in their home and of the 
 one time when she had been in his. 
 
 "He needed me, Emily! Oh, the glory of it! 
 I needed him immeasurably; but he needed me, 
 too. We never complained to each other. He 
 never told me of the poverty of his life, and I never 
 told him of the poverty of mine we understood!" 
 
 She went on, tremblingly, to recall the last day, 
 the last evening. She rehearsed the humiliation 
 of that scene with Charlie. 
 
 "What he had heard, or where he had heard it, 
 I have never known shall never know." 
 
 Emily's sympathies were entirely withdrawn 
 from herself now and centered upon her mother. 
 She was swept by a great passion of pity. 
 
 "You poor darling!" she wept. "You poor 
 darling!" 
 
 310
 
 How Emily Waited 
 
 The tender compassion of her child was sweet 
 to Olivia after all those years of lonely, wistful 
 repression. She yearned to revel in it and to for- 
 get, for a while, everything else. But she dared 
 not. What she must do instead was try to make 
 Emily understand the penalty of the love clan- 
 destine. 
 
 This, though, Emily was unwilling to be made 
 to see. 
 
 "I think you know now," Olivia went on, "that 
 love is very sacred to me; that I would rather be 
 ruthless with life which is mortal than with love 
 which is immortal. If I could have paid in 
 my own anguish all the penalty for my love, I 
 should count it as nothing against the ecstasy. 
 But I couldn't pay the price alone, you see. No 
 one can ever assume all the penalty. It imposes 
 itself where it will. We did no actual wrong, 
 Lyman Innes and I, either to ourselves or to any 
 other creature. But because we could not prove 
 that to all the world, we had to be clandestine. 
 And because we were clandestine, the worst was 
 suspected by your father, and would be suspected 
 indeed, taken for granted! by any one else who 
 might happen to know of our meetings. Johnny 
 Innes will never believe that our worst crime was 
 concealment! He couldn't believe it! He isn't 
 that kind of a man. If you marry him without 
 telling the truth, and the truth ever comes to light, 
 
 3 11
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 think of the situation you will be in! Johnny may 
 forgive you, but the world won't. If it thinks 
 Johnny married you knowing all, it will despise 
 you both. If it thinks you tricked him, it will 
 visit all its scorn on you. And Johnny, knowing 
 that you did trick him, will have no right to re- 
 sent its attitude, no ground on which to defend 
 you from it." 
 
 Emily was growing dogged again. "It hasn't 
 come out in fifteen years," she said, " and I don't see 
 why we need suppose that it will ever come out." 
 
 Her mother looked at her. "Emily," she im- 
 plored, "believe me, who have suffered so much 
 and who have no desire left except for your happi- 
 ness. If you marry Johnny with that secret in 
 your heart, you will never know a minute's peace. 
 Every time his mood changes, you will fear that 
 he has found out. Every time any one looks 
 strangely at you, you will be in a panic of appre- 
 hension. You think your life, so far, has been 
 hard because of your father's crime. I tell you, 
 if you marry Johnny it will be ten thousand times 
 harder. Your closest relation has always been 
 with me, and you never had need to fear what I 
 might think of you. But when your closest rela- 
 tion in life is with him, and you have always to 
 fear what he would think of you if he knew the 
 truth, what refuge from the world will you have, 
 anywhere?" 
 
 312
 
 How Emily Waited 
 
 "I could tell him," Emily answered, "and he 
 needn't tell any one else. If he hates me for what 
 I couldn't help; if it's not true what he said to 
 me about loving me if I were a leper or the hounds 
 of hell were after me, then then " 
 
 She broke off, unable to finish, to put into words 
 that heart-breaking possibility. 
 
 "That would be infinitely better than not tell- 
 ing," Olivia agreed. "But there's this, Emily; 
 you remember the Mr. Dudley Prichard who was 
 at Johnny's house the evening we went there?" 
 
 Emily nodded. 
 
 "And you remember that he said he was going 
 to write a history of labor struggles in America ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, as he said, the biggest and most signifi- 
 cant of all .those struggles was the one of which 
 Lyman Innes was the central figure. He asked 
 Davy for his father's papers, you'll recall. Now, 
 for one thing, that man Prichard is the type of 
 man who ferrets things out. He has a reputation 
 for getting to the bottom of things." 
 
 " But he's in love with Rose ! He wouldn't write 
 anything about her father that wasn't nice." 
 
 Olivia smiled bitterly. " Perhaps he wouldn't," 
 she assented, "but perhaps he would. However, 
 I thought that when he was talking of what he 
 meant to do, both Rose and Davy showed signs 
 of apprehension. Maybe I imagined it. But
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 I believe they know something about the reason 
 for their father's death. I don't believe Johnny 
 knows. What he does know now is the other 
 link the link that connects us with it. ... Now 
 do you see ?" 
 
 "See?" cried Emily desperately. "I see that 
 my life, my love, were spoiled for me ! That I am 
 helpless! My happiness was jeopardized before 
 I had even learned to know it. And there is noth- 
 ing I can do to save it! We can't stay here. 
 There'll never be any place where we can stay. 
 What a life to look forward to!" 
 
 Olivia waited patiently until Emily's outburst 
 was over. Then, "I have only this to suggest," 
 she said. "Wait! If Dudley Prichard makes any 
 disclosures, they will come before very long; and 
 his making them will take the responsibility out 
 of my hands. For though I think Rose and Davy 
 know, I would hardly dare to take it on myself to 
 tell them, lest I am mistaken about their knowl- 
 ledge. When Johnny learns the truth he can 
 choose. All I ask of you is to wait. I don't ask 
 you to stop loving him or even to stop going with 
 him. You can go freely now. I don't want you 
 to be restrained by any thought of me. I shall 
 be happy knowing that you are together. Only, 
 don't make any pledge, I beg you. Tell Johnny 
 you want to wait. If he really loves you, he'll 
 wait. If he says he can't wait, it's because he
 
 How Emily Waited 
 
 doesn't know what love means but misreads an 
 uglier word for it. Believe me, Emily! I know!'* 
 To this proposition Emily agreed. 
 
 It being matinee day, Emily had not a great 
 while to wait before seeing Johnny, 
 
 She always enjoyed her Saturday afternoons. 
 "Half-hour" was not called in the theatre until 
 1.45, and between noon and that time Broadway 
 was intensely interesting. Most of the people on 
 it seemed to have the half-holiday spirit. Thou- 
 sands of them were making a little festivity of 
 luncheon, after which they were going, some to the 
 matinees, some to football games, some to golf 
 courses and country clubs, and some to auto rides 
 in the country. Particularly it was a gala time for 
 youth. Hundreds of girls from the boarding-schools 
 and from their homes were abroad in their jauntiest 
 street attire; nearly every one of them wore a bunch 
 of violets or a gardenia or a chrysanthemum. 
 They vied pleasantly with one another in the smart- 
 ness of their tailored suits, the depth of Irish lace 
 on their jabots, the intensity of somebody's devo- 
 tion which might, they hoped, be inferred from 
 their corsage bouquets. A girl whose violets had 
 an orchid among them looked pityingly on a girl 
 whose violets had not; and when occasionally a 
 girl flashed by with a large bunch of orchids tied 
 with flowing ribbons of orchid hue, only the Spar- 
 
 3*5
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 tan code of the others enabled them to repress 
 their gasps of envy. 
 
 Tons of sweets were sold. Scores of soda foun- 
 tains purveyed their nectar to celebrants whose 
 pocket-money did not encompass matinee tickets 
 and much besides. 
 
 Youths were everywhere in evidence collegi- 
 ans in town for a lark; young apprentices to the 
 business world set free for their weekly half-holi- 
 day. The former were joys to behold and they 
 gave the joy freely, nor allowed any to get by 
 without sharing in it. Their excesses of attire 
 shamed the chorus girls, and their exuberance 
 of manner was enough to make a soubrette feel 
 downcast. 
 
 Mingled in the throng of shoppers, holiday- 
 makers, and workers out for their nooning were 
 hundreds of theatrical folk on their sauntering way 
 to work. They had breakfasted late; they must 
 dine early. This was their time for sunning them- 
 selves before they entered stuffy dressing-rooms in 
 the musty-smelling theatres. It was the delight 
 of the matinee crowds to identify favorites among 
 the Thespians. It was the delight of the Thes- 
 pians to be identified. 
 
 Emily dearly loved this Saturday gayety. Even 
 to-day she could not be callous to it. In the room 
 they called home she and her mother with the 
 beds unmade, the untasted breakfast cluttering 
 
 316
 
 How Emily Waited 
 
 the little table one resigned one's self easily to 
 tragedy as to the grim fate that waits for all. Out 
 here, in the brilliant autumn sunshine, with laugh- 
 ter and the love of life on every side, one denied 
 the right of tragedy to rule young hearts! es- 
 pecially old tragedy covered with the ashes of 
 fifteen dead years. 
 
 Johnny was at their rendezvous at twelve o'clock. 
 He was radiant. Emily could not tell him then. 
 
 "Come on shopping!" he cried. 
 
 "Shopping?" 
 
 "Sure! We're going to buy an engagement 
 ring." 
 
 Johnny had borrowed fifty dollars that morning, 
 from Davy. After the matinee the " ghost walked" 
 meaning the business manager of the company 
 would knock at Johnny's dressing-room door and 
 leave an envelope containing a hundred and fifty 
 dollars. Johnny had figured that "some ring" 
 could be bought for two hundred. 
 
 Emily hung back. "We don't want to an- 
 nounce it yet," she murmured. "And if I wear 
 a ring " 
 
 "Why don't we want to announce it?" 
 
 "Well mother asked us not to not to be en- 
 gaged until we had taken more time to consider." 
 
 "Consider? I have considered! I'm through 
 considering. I know what I want. And I want 
 what I want when I want it." 
 
 3 1 /
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "I promised " began Emily faintly. 
 
 "You promised me last night that you'd marry 
 me. I supposed you meant it." 
 
 "I did I do but mother said " 
 
 Johnny turned away. He said nothing. 
 
 "She asked us not to be engaged just yet," 
 Emily went on desperately. "She doesn't mind 
 our being together all we want to, but she thinks 
 we ought not to be hasty that if we truly love 
 each other we will not mind waiting " 
 
 Johnny made no reply. At the corner of Forty- 
 fourth Street he stopped and lifted his hat. Two 
 girls who were passing recognized him and gave 
 a little gasp of delight. Standing in the noon sun- 
 shine, with his head bared, Johnny was undenia- 
 bly beautiful to behold. 
 
 "Whe where are you going?" Emily faltered. 
 
 " I think that, if you'll excuse me, I'll go to The 
 Lambs and see if I have any mail." (Johnny had 
 just come from The Lambs and his mail was in 
 his pocket.) 
 
 Emily clutched at him entreatingly. 
 
 "And not buy the ring?" 
 
 Johnny understood capitulation when he saw 
 it. He yielded forgivingly. 
 
 Emily told herself she could manage some way 
 to conceal or to explain the ring. 
 
 318
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LUCIUS HAS A PARTY 
 
 WHEN Sunday evening came, Lucius won- 
 dered whether Catherine would think he 
 was crazy if he asked her out to dine. He had 
 been thinking of her all day and it seemed a long 
 time since he had parted from her before mid- 
 night last night. 
 
 He wished that he had asked her where she was 
 in the habit of dining. He might have "happened 
 in" and joined her. 
 
 Savory odors were coming up from Wing's 
 kitchen. If only when Wing spread the dinner 
 table, up here by the hard-coal fire, it might be 
 spread for two! Somewhere, in a wretched little 
 "joint" where only the dispirited go, Catherine 
 would be sitting down to a meal that neither 
 nourished the body nor cheered the soul. He 
 made some mental computations. Davy, in ask- 
 ing Lucius if something could not be done to 
 give Catherine a better chance, had said that it 
 was doubtful if she earned more than six dollars 
 a week. Six dollars ! Lucius wondered how much 
 one may spend for dinner when one makes six
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 dollars a week. Fifteen cents ? Not more, cer- 
 tainly. Even that would be unwarranted extrav- 
 agance. Ten cents ? Was it possible that a girl 
 like Catherine ate ten-cent dinners ? Men did, 
 of course thousands of them every day. But 
 girls ? Girls with a mind like hers ! With a soul 
 on fire for humanity's help! 
 
 Lucius got up out of his Morris chair and strode 
 up and down the room a dozen times. Then he 
 went downstairs and into the kitchen a place he 
 seldom visited. 
 
 Whatever surprise Wing may have felt, he con- 
 cealed as a Celestial does. 
 
 "What you got for dinner, Wing?" Lucius 
 asked, lifting the lid of a pot and peering in. 
 
 "Sloup guma-bo. Fine stleak. O'Bri' pota*. 
 Chillyflo' make Hollandlais sala' " 
 
 McCurdy checked the enumeration. He under- 
 stood Wing's curtailed speech: gumbo soup (and 
 oh! how Wing could make it!) a thick tenderloin 
 steak potatoes O'Brien (never a sliver too much 
 or too little of chopped peppers in them, nor a 
 shade of false proportion between the fresh green 
 pepper and the pimento) cauliflower with sauce 
 Hollandaise a salad; probably French endive, 
 with Wing's unapproachable French dressing, for 
 which he used five kinds of pepper, two kinds of 
 vinegar (for flavoring merely), abundance of oil, 
 and a haunting suspicion of garlic. Then there 
 
 320
 
 Lucius Has a Party 
 
 would be the coffee percolator, bubbling and send- 
 ing forth a perfume that would tempt an anchor- 
 ite. Lucius drank little almost none at all when 
 alone; but after he had had his coffee, and had 
 lighted his cigar, he would probably pour himself 
 a tiny cordial glassful of cognac or Benedictine 
 or Chartreuse, appreciating, as he did so, the liquid 
 gold of it in the brilliant rock crystal glass. Then, 
 with the glow of it sensible all through him, he 
 would sit and smoke and blow out fairy rings 
 
 No! he would not! Not with that ten-cent din- 
 ner haunting him. 
 
 "How long?" he asked Wing meaning how 
 long till dinner would be ready. 
 
 "Hlaf-hour?" answered the Celestial with a 
 rising inflection intended to denote that he hoped 
 that time would be satisfactory. 
 
 "Could you make it an hour?" 
 
 He could. Nothing was under way except the 
 soup. 
 
 "Is there enough for three?" 
 
 Wing nodded. He knew his master's impulsive- 
 ness too well ever to make close calculations. And 
 if there were much left, one had never to look far 
 for hungry mouths that would welcome it and 
 gratefully remember. 
 
 "Wait! I'll tell you in a minute." 
 
 With the impetuosity of a boy, Lucius dashed 
 upstairs to the telephone. 
 
 321
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Rose answered. 
 
 "Who's there ?" Lucius asked her when he had 
 made sure she knew to whom she was talking. 
 
 "Oswald Seever and Sam Hamilton and Davy 
 and I." 
 
 "Do you want to do me the biggest favor that 
 anybody ever did ?" 
 
 "Why, of course I do if I can." 
 
 "Will you come down here to dinner to- 
 night?" 
 
 "Is that the biggest favor ?" 
 
 "It is, Rose! I can't tell you over the 'phone, 
 but I will when I see you. I want to ask Miss 
 Krakopfsky here, and I know she wouldn't come 
 alone. I'm frank, you see! But I'm sure you'll 
 forgive me when I tell you why I ask. Those 
 three fellows can eat their salad without you!" 
 
 "Hold the wire a minute and I'll see," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 When she explained to the three men they urged 
 her to go. 
 
 "I'll come," she told Lucius. "Does Cather- 
 ine know?" 
 
 "That's the deuce of it," he admitted. "I just 
 thought of this, and got Wing to put off dinner 
 for an hour. And it's such a beastly distance up 
 to Twenty-fourth Street. I'll 'phone a taxi to be 
 at your house in twenty minutes, and I'll be there 
 by that time. Good-by!" 
 
 322
 
 Lucius Has a Party 
 
 Rose dressed the salad and laid out the accom- 
 paniments for their simple supper so the men 
 could serve themselves without difficulty. Then 
 she got herself ready and when Lucius rang she 
 called down to him: 
 
 "Don't come up I'll be there in a jiffy." 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry I can't ask you all," he 
 apologized. "Ask Davy to come down after a 
 while, if he can." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 She whispered his message to Davy when she 
 kissed him good-by. 
 
 Lucius was in a fever of impatience which he 
 tried to explain to her as best he could while they 
 were whirling over to Third Avenue and Twenty- 
 fourth Street. 
 
 Rose was intensely sympathetic, as he had 
 known she would be. 
 
 "I I felt a beast to sit down to that dinner 
 alone," Lucius explained. "I've done it often, 
 of course, but it was different. I knew there 
 were men who were hungry; and I cared, of course. 
 But a girl! I never thought before about the 
 girls. She told me so many things last night 
 we were down around Grand Street Creighton 
 was with us I hadn't even realized how it is for 
 a girl a girl such as she is! I I got to thinking 
 of her eating a ten-cent dinner, and I well, I 
 felt sure you'd understand." 
 
 323
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "I do!" Rose assured him meaning more 
 than he supposed she meant. "And I'm glad 
 you thought of me. If Catherine isn't home, I 
 shall be so disappointed!" 
 
 She was not at home. Lucius had begged 
 Rose to go up alone and ask. He knew Cather- 
 ine had no place to ask him into, and he hated to 
 embarrass her. "Just say you were were com- 
 ing down to dine with me," he suggested, "and 
 you you thought you'd like to pick her up for a 
 a chaperone." 
 
 Under cover of the cab's friendly dusk, Rose 
 dared to smile. 
 
 "All right," she answered. 
 
 But Catherine was not there. 
 
 Mollie was, however, and she was overjoyed to 
 see Rose. 
 
 "I came to see Catherine this time," Rose ex- 
 plained. "But I'm always glad to see you, you 
 know. Have you any idea where Catherine is?" 
 
 " I s'pose she's gone to 'er dinner," Mollie opined. 
 
 "Was Sonia with her?" 
 
 "No'm she had a date." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A date a bid off'n a fella a swell fella, she 
 tol' me. But she don't want Cath'rine to know. 
 Don't yeh tell 'er, will yeh ? Cath'rine says no 
 swell fella could mean good t' the likes o' them. 
 They're jest amusin' theirselves, she says." 
 
 3 2 4
 
 Lucius Has a Party 
 
 "When did she tell you that?" 
 
 "She told it to me this very day." 
 
 "Do you know where she goes to eat?" 
 
 "I know some places where she goes." 
 
 "Will you show me?" 
 
 "Sure I will." 
 
 Mollie was ecstatic when she got downstairs and 
 saw the taxi. "Oh, gee!" she cried. 
 
 At least a score of children were there to see her 
 get in. 
 
 "Look at Mollie!" they shrilled. "Ain't she 
 puttin' on lugs? Who's yer Vanderbilt frien's?" 
 
 Mollie loved the mild sensation so much, that it 
 was not in Rose or Lucius to regret it. 
 
 "Tell 'im to go 'round on Secon' Avena," she 
 directed, "an' w'en we come to the place, I'll holler 
 out. She eats here more'n any place." 
 
 In a moment after they had turned into Second 
 Avenue, Mollie "hollered," and they drew up in 
 front of what Mollie called "a eat shop." 
 
 The front of it had once been painted white 
 but that was long ago. Outside stood signs the 
 size that "sandwich men" carry, the long legends 
 on them reading: 
 
 Pork Chops, ice 
 Small Steak toe 
 Ham and Eggs 150; etc. 
 
 Potatoes, bread, butter, and coffee, tea or milk, included. 
 Coffee and 3 rolls or doughnuts, 5C. 
 
 3 2 5
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 The windows were multitudinously fly-specked 
 memorials of last summer's flies but the food 
 they displayed had doubtless grown inured to 
 specks before it got there. There was a mound of 
 pork chops in one of the windows, and a few 
 heads of exceedingly limp leaf-lettuce, a half-dozen 
 tomatoes, several cans of "sugar corn," and an 
 altitudinous pile of doughnuts, flanked by a row 
 of pies and two bottles of yellow salad dressing. 
 
 Within, there was a long counter on one side 
 of the room and a row of tables, each seating four, 
 on the other side. A dozen men and boys were 
 perched upon stools before the counter, eating 
 hungrily. At the tables, which were spread with 
 villainously dirty cloths and set with the thickest 
 white stoneware, were more than a score of per- 
 sons: girls, alone and in couples; middle-aged men 
 and women, invariably alone and looking as if 
 they never knew what it was to eat a social meal 
 even for ten cents; and one young fellow with a 
 girl, evidently his "friend" both of them hard- 
 working youngsters, doubtless, and denizens of a 
 cheap lodging somewhere in the vicinity; each of 
 them had been intolerably alone, no doubt, and 
 they had crept together for a bit of companion- 
 ship of a sort unhallowed, but surely not unpar- 
 donable where all is understood. 
 
 Lucius would not allow Rose to go in alone, and 
 he thought that one person entering on a quest 
 
 326
 
 Lucius Has a Party 
 
 would create less stir than two or three, so he went, 
 leaving Rose and Mollie in the cab. 
 
 "He's a swell guy, ain't he?" Mollie com- 
 mented when his back was turned. "Does he 
 know Cath'rine?" 
 
 "He met her at my house a week ago," Rose 
 answered. "And he isn't a swell. He's a hard- 
 working young lawyer, and he lives on the East 
 Side, 'way down near Chinatown." 
 
 "He don't look it!" Mollie observed shrewdly. 
 "No more'n your brother does the one I give 
 Goitie Moiphy to." 
 
 "Who taught you the poem about Goitie?" 
 
 "A fella Sonia knows. He's awful funny. He 
 knows all kin' o' things like that. Cath'rine says 
 he reads 'em in the Joinal an' hears 'em in the 
 cheap shows. She don't like him much. But 
 Sonia does. Cath'rine's all for books but Sonia's 
 pretty." 
 
 Rose was impressed by Mollie's "but"; it ex- 
 pressed unmistakably what she thought of books 
 and beauty. Catherine tried to find consolation, 
 entertainment, life in books " but Sonia's pretty." 
 Life was hers by divine right. 
 
 Lucius was diffident about entering. He could 
 not help being aware that he looked sufficiently 
 unlike its patrons to be an object of curiosity 
 there. 
 
 He glanced quickly down the line of tables. 
 
 3 2 7
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Catherine saw him, and half rose from her seat, 
 her cheeks burning. 
 
 There was a vacant seat across from her, and 
 he motioned her that he would take it. 
 
 "Miss Innes is outside in a cab " he began 
 bashfully. "She said she would come down and 
 dine with me if I could get you to come, too. We 
 went to your house, and Mollie brought us here/* 
 
 "I I have just ordered my dinner," she fal- 
 tered. 
 
 "Couldn't you donate it to some one?" he 
 ventured. 
 
 An elderly woman had sat down beside Cather- 
 ine, but her order was not yet taken. She could 
 not help overhearing the conversation. 
 
 "I'll take your order," she offered. "I guess 
 there ain't so much variety in 'em here but what 
 I can make out with one's well's with another." 
 
 She seemed to understand and to sympathize. 
 Her manner said: "Jest you go 'long an' have your 
 little treat mebbe the day '11 come all too soon 
 when you'll be like me, an' nothin' '11 ever happen 
 to you." 
 
 Catherine thanked her heartily and went. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad we found you!" Rose cried 
 delightedly, when Lucius and Catherine appeared 
 at the cab door. Now that Catherine was found, 
 though, Rose was thinking of Mollie. She knew 
 how Mollie would feel, being "dropped" in a min- 
 
 328
 
 Miss Innes is outside in a cab " he began bashfully
 
 A 
 
 nobi-
 
 Lucius Has a Party * 
 
 ute, and thanked, and dismissed to the compa 
 of the "step-" and the gilded horse. 
 
 "Lucius," she said, leaning forward in the cr 
 "I've got to do a dreadfully rude thing I *- 
 whisper to you. I know the others will pa. 
 me." 
 
 Lucius inclined an ear and Rose whispere : 
 " If Mollie could go, she could eat my share." 
 
 He patted the hand she had laid on his knee to 
 steady herself while the taxi lurched. 
 
 "Mollie," he said, "if you would honor us, 
 we'd be delighted to have you go along." 
 
 "The honor's mine," declared Mollie promptly. 
 
 They all laughed. 
 
 "Ain't it right?" she inquired anxiously. 
 "They say it in the theayter." 
 
 Lucius had misgivings as to his dinner from 
 Mollie's point of view. He told the driver to go 
 over to Fourth Avenue and stop at Horton's, 
 where he got out and acquired ice-cream and cake. 
 
 Catherine could not say much. Her heart was 
 beating tumultuously, and she was painfully self- 
 conscious. Lucius was thrilled with the sense of 
 a delicious adventure. Rose had never seen him 
 in so gay a mood. More than once, in the kindly 
 dark, her own eyes filled; but she winked the tears 
 resolutely away. The shallowness and selfish- 
 ness of Dudley's affection had hurt her much 
 more deeply than any one she knew was able to 
 
 329
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 understand. Most people think that the discov- 
 ery of a man's unworthiness ought to make it 
 easy for a woman who has loved him to put him 
 out of her heart. It ought to, but it doesn't 
 always. 
 
 Wing's dinner was perfection, and Mollie's ap- 
 proval of the ^Eolian and the Victrola was with- 
 out stint. 
 
 While the impromptu concert was in progress, 
 Wing announced a caller. 
 
 Lucius was annoyed. "Who is it?" he asked, 
 frowning. 
 
 "Ol' mlan glirl gone," Wing answered. 
 
 "All right I'll see him," he told the Celestial. 
 "It's the man who was here the night you and 
 Davy and Creighton dined here," he went on, 
 addressing Rose. "He haunts me poor soul! 
 Seems to think there is something I could do. 
 But I've done all I can." 
 
 When he was gone, Rose explained to Cather- 
 ine about the caller. Mollie was absorbed in the 
 Victrola and could hear nothing else not, how- 
 ever, that any one need have been shy about dis- 
 cussing harlotry before Mollie; she was used to it. 
 
 In a few minutes Lucius reappeared. "I won- 
 der," he said, looking at Catherine, "if this isn't 
 a case for you ? He knows now where his girl 
 is, but he can't get her to come home. Would 
 you talk to him ? I told him I had a party of 
 
 33
 
 Lucius Has a Party 
 
 guests upstairs, and among them one who who 
 could help him far more than I could." 
 
 "At least I can try," Catherine responded. 
 
 Rose and Mollie continued to make music. 
 After fifteen minutes or thereabouts, Rose heard 
 the street door close. But Lucius and Catherine 
 did not come upstairs. 
 
 It was an hour later when Davy rang, and they 
 came up bringing him with them. 
 
 "That poor old man, who was here the other 
 night when you were, came again," Lucius was 
 explaining to Davy, "and Miss Krakopfsky was 
 good enough to go down and talk to him. He's 
 just gone." 
 
 "Just"! Oh, telltale little word! Rose knew 
 what it meant when an hour sped by on wings as 
 of the wind. 
 
 She looked at Lucius and at Catherine. They 
 were both illumined as with some inner shining. 
 Did * Catherine believe now that swell fellows 
 "only amuse theirselves" with poor girls? And 
 could it be possible that Lucius was, even thought- 
 lessly, capable of such cruelty ? 
 
 Davy was glad to see Catherine. He had some- 
 thing that he was eager to tell her. 
 
 "I was talking about you to Mary Todd," he 
 said. "You know? She's one of the cleverest 
 women in the country writer, editor, social in- 
 vestigator. She says she doesn't see why you 
 
 33 i
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 couldn't learn proof-reading. It would pay you 
 well twenty dollars a week, anyway and would 
 bring you in contact with people who would ap- 
 preciate you and whom you would find companion- 
 able; that is, if we could find for you as Miss 
 Todd thinks we could a place in one of the smaller 
 editorial offices. It's an excellent way to work into 
 something else like manuscript reading or the 
 like of that. Stenography and proof-reading are 
 the two best 'wedges' for entering editorial work." 
 
 "How could I learn to read proof?" 
 
 Davy flushed. "I if you would allow me, I 
 should be so glad to show you evenings," he 
 offered shyly. 
 
 Catherine looked her gratitude. She dared not 
 try to speak it. 
 
 "Do you think I can learn ?" she murmured. 
 
 "Why, there's almost nothing to learn for 
 you," he declared. 
 
 And then he went on to quote the time-honored 
 joke about the qualifications of a proof-reader, 
 who must be "an individual of wide culture, fa- 
 miliar with French, German, Italian, Latin, and 
 Greek; educated in the sciences; expert in geog- 
 raphy; facile in classical allusions; versed in my- 
 thology; keen to detect the smallest error in quo- 
 tations from the standard authors; infallible in 
 spelling; inexorable in matters of English prose 
 style; thoroughly posted on contemporaneous per- 
 
 332
 
 Lucius Has a Party 
 
 sonages and problems"; and so on and so on, ad 
 infiniium. This, he explained, is what a really 
 good proof-reader should be. But the difficulty 
 of commanding all those gifts and graces at 
 "twenty per" made the really good ones evolve 
 all too rapidly out of proof-reading and into col- 
 lege presidencies, "where, I doubt not," he con- 
 cluded gallantly, "you will presently be found." 
 
 Catherine looked a little dazed, as if unable to 
 make up her mind whether this were real or some 
 kind of jest. But Davy's manner was completely 
 reassuring. 
 
 "When do you want to begin?" he asked. 
 
 "To-morrow," she answered quietly. 
 
 Lucius was abundantly satisfied with the success 
 of his party. 
 
 333
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE NIGHT COURT 
 
 WING got a " night off" on Monday. Lucius 
 had an engagement in the Cherry Hill dis- 
 trict, but he couldn't bear the thought of dining 
 alone at home. It was even less endurable after he 
 had seen that place where Catherine ate than it had 
 been before. He dined at Hahn's, and went about 
 his business his mind up at Washington Square 
 where a first lesson in proof-reading was scheduled 
 to be going on. Tuesday evening he had a ban- 
 quet to attend. Catherine had said that she 
 would dine with him on Wednesday, so Wing 
 got another night off. 
 
 Lucius came home before going up to Twenty- 
 fourth Street, and while he was "brushing up a 
 bit," as he called a rather prolonged uncertainty 
 over neckties, word came to him that his most 
 persistent caller was downstairs. 
 
 The old man had heard from his girl. She was 
 under arrest. 
 
 "She got some wan t' tilliphone me," he sobbed. 
 "She was tuk up this afternoon, in Fifteent' Strate 
 about four o'clock." 
 
 334
 
 The Night Court 
 
 "She'll be at the night court," Lucius said. 
 " I'll be there. Now, don't worry. This is prob- 
 ably the very best thing that could have happened 
 to her. I'll see the Judge and tell him about her. 
 You be there Jefferson Market Sixth Avenue 
 and Tenth Street at nine o'clock." 
 
 Lucius took Catherine to a place on East 
 Twenty-first Street, where they had an Italian 
 table-d'hote of the usual inexpensive sort, and 
 where Catherine's shabbiness was not likely to be 
 in uncomfortable contrast to the gowning of the 
 other women present. 
 
 Lucius was not addicted to the table-d'hote. 
 There was not one in all New York to which he 
 would have gone as a matter of personal prefer- 
 ence. But to-night he was more than pleased with 
 his dining. What he ate mattered little to him. 
 What made the occasion memorable was that for 
 the first time he was sitting across a table from 
 Catherine just they two together out of all the 
 world. 
 
 Catherine wore a clean white shirt-waist; it was 
 cheap and coarse and ill-fitting, but it was freshly 
 laundered (by herself on Sunday), and she looked 
 attractive because she was happy. Her shabby 
 suit was not poor enough to obtrude itself; one 
 overlooked it, naturally, and saw her radiant face 
 instead. She was too instinctively a lady to wear 
 a distressful hat she had, in fact, no fall hat yet, 
 
 335
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 but her black straw sailor was genteel and becom- 
 ing. She was unhappily conscious at times of 
 her work-roughened hands; but her absorption in 
 the conversation left her few intervals for self- 
 consciousness. 
 
 They lingered as long as they could over their 
 meal, then went down the stoop and turned west 
 in Twenty-first Street. 
 
 It was not quite eight o'clock. 
 
 "If we walk along slowly," he said, "we'll just 
 about get there at 8.30 or so in time to have a 
 little talk with the Judge and with our Aggie 
 Donahue, if she's there." 
 
 "Won't she surely be there?" 
 
 "Almost surely, if she was arrested for the rea- 
 son we suppose. But it's impossible to know ex- 
 actly when she'd be brought in there. They send 
 the prisoners along when they get a load. She 
 may have been taken there direct. Donahue 
 didn't say what part of Fifteenth Street she was 
 arrested in." 
 
 Aggie was there in the women's pen. (Sep- 
 arate court for women was not yet instituted.) 
 
 There were perhaps a dozen women and girls 
 sitting in the pen when Lucius and Catherine went 
 up to the bars. 
 
 The pen was about fourteen feet square, and 
 a narrow wooden bench ran around three sides of 
 it. The walls were of whitewashed stone, and the 
 
 336
 
 The Night Court 
 
 pen was well lighted with electricity. Next to it 
 was the receiving pen for male prisoners. 
 
 One of the women in the cell with Aggie was 
 dead drunk. Several times her fellow-prisoners 
 had picked her up off the stone floor and laid her 
 on the bench; but she always rolled off again. She 
 was a middle-aged white woman in a calico wrap- 
 per hatless and coatless. The probability was 
 that she was an otherwise respectable woman, a 
 tenement-house mother with "the failing." Per- 
 haps her children were frenziedly seeking her; 
 perhaps they were not too particular whether she 
 came home or not. 
 
 There was a big negress, exhilarated from re- 
 cent snuffing of "coke" (cocaine); she would be 
 morose and terribly troublesome before morning. 
 A woman arrested for shoplifting was weeping 
 hysterically. An emaciated creature charged with 
 violation of the tenement-house act was giving 
 vent, spasmodically, to bursts of shrill despair. 
 "I got a sick kid at home!" she wailed. "What 
 if I done it? Who wouldn't have with a sick 
 kid, and not a cent, and only one way to get it 
 only one way!" 
 
 The other prisoners were girls black and white, 
 Jew and Gentile, new to prison and hardened to the 
 brief inconvenience of arrest. They were all there 
 on one of two charges. Some were defiant; some 
 were indifferent. Aggie was frightened. 
 
 337
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 An officer stepped with Lucius and Catherine 
 to the grating. 
 
 "Agnes Donahue," he called. 
 
 Aggie came, trembling, to the bars. 
 
 Lucius told her who he was, introduced Cather- 
 ine, and told why they had come. 
 
 "If I plead with the Judge to let you off, Aggie, 
 what are you going to do ?" 
 
 "I ain't goin' t' do it again!" she sobbed, lean- 
 ing against the steel bars and weeping bitterly. 
 
 "Ain't going to do what?" he echoed. 
 
 "What I what I done that I got pinched fer ? 
 I didn' know ye could git pinched fer it." 
 
 "You mean you're not going to solicit on the 
 streets again ?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "But will you go back home and try to be a 
 good girl ?" he went on. 
 
 Aggie lifted her head defiantly. "No, I won't!" 
 she replied. "I've had enough of it there." 
 
 "Then why did you telephone your poor old 
 father?" 
 
 "My por ol' !" 
 
 "That's all right!" he interrupted her. "I 
 know what you mean. He's done wrong but he 
 had some cause; and there's good in him. He's 
 been like a madman since you went. You've 
 done wrong, but you had some cause, too not so 
 much as he had, though, because you had youth, 
 
 338
 
 The Night Court 
 
 and health, and hope; and he had nothing. 
 You've got good in you, too yet; but you won't 
 have any left soon, if you keep on this way. If 
 you won't go home, will you try to live decent if 
 I get you a place to work?" 
 
 " I can get myself a place to work," she replied 
 ungraciously. " But what's the use ? There ain't 
 no place where I could get more'n five or six dol- 
 lars because I ain't worth no more'n five or six 
 dollars, and I know it as well as any one. And 
 when you try to live on that, what d'ye get ? Star- 
 vation no clo'es no fun no place to ast a fella 
 to no place to enjoy yourself. What's the use ?" 
 
 "I work for six a week," returned Catherine. 
 
 Aggie regarded her uninterestedly. "Yer wel- 
 come to it!" she answered curtly. 
 
 They left her and went back to the court-room 
 to see if the Judge had come. While waiting for 
 him, they talked about Aggie to the probation 
 officer, a kindly intelligent woman of middle-age 
 and wide experience, who investigated the cases of 
 girls and women brought into court and did what 
 she could to further the administration of justice 
 by reporting on the environment of erring women, 
 so that the court might judge with more under- 
 standing their deficiencies and know which of 
 them should be committed to reformatory institu- 
 tions and which released on probation to have 
 another chance. 
 
 339
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 The work was a step in the right direction and 
 undoubtedly did great good. It would have done 
 more good if it could have been done more thor- 
 oughly if the apportionment for it had been ten 
 times as great as it was. 
 
 The probation officer was only too sadly familiar 
 with Aggie's type and Aggie's attitude toward life. 
 
 "There isn't, really, anything that can be done 
 for her," she said. "She's convinced that this is 
 the only way for her to have fun and a willow 
 plume and there can't any one do anything to 
 stop her. They're seldom sent up for a first 
 offense. If she gets a good scare now, it may keep 
 her off the streets. But when they're in that frame 
 of mind there can't anybody keep them out of 
 the life. Cases like hers are beyond the reach of 
 courts, except to punish." 
 
 "And yet," cried Catherine hotly, "who can 
 blame her?" 
 
 "No one who knows," the older woman an- 
 swered. 
 
 " I was reading, the other day," Catherine went 
 on, "a little book containing John Ruskin's letters 
 to Mary Gladstone. In the introduction to the 
 volume there was an anecdote of the first visit of 
 Ruskin to Hawarden Castle. A man had just 
 been hanged thereabouts for some dreadful crime, 
 and Ruskin said that if laws were as they should 
 be it would have been the best man of the com- 
 
 340
 
 The Night Court 
 
 munity who paid the penalty for the worst man's 
 crime. Gladstone could not agree to this. He 
 was too practical a politician." She glanced mis- 
 chievously at Lucius. 
 
 "We need our best men alive," he demurred. 
 "But I sympathize with what Ruskin said in a 
 measure, at least." 
 
 The probation officer nodded approvingly. 
 "There are many who should answer when Aggie's 
 case is called," she opined. "She is the victim of 
 many people's selfishness and neglect. It is not 
 fair that she should bear the consequences alone." 
 
 "I hate to face Donahue," Lucius confessed. 
 
 He was there when they re-entered the court- 
 room a twisted and bent wreck of a man, heart- 
 rendingly repentant, anxious. 
 
 "And ye can't do a thing?" he cried in an- 
 guish. "My God! Not a thing?" 
 
 Lucius tried to explain. "There's nothing 
 there to get hold of," he said; "nothing to appeal 
 to but a love of fun. And I don't know how we 
 can promise her that. She admits that she can't 
 hope to earn it for herself except in one way." 
 
 "Fun," sobbed Donahue. "No, she never had 
 much. An* she ain't got the eddication to earn 
 more'n what'll kape 'er alive. The thing that 
 maimed me, maimed her, too!" 
 
 Lucius and Catherine turned away, unable to 
 bear the sight of his distress. 
 
 341
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Creighton ought to be here," Lucius mur- 
 mured. "This would be another text for him to 
 plead from." 
 
 The Judge told Aggie she might go free if she 
 would go home with her father. It was only a 
 well-meant ruse; if she went home, perhaps she 
 could be persuaded to stay. If she didn't stay, 
 the court could not rearrest her for leaving nor 
 compel her to go back. 
 
 Aggie consented in a way that inspired no 
 one with hopefulness. 
 
 She and her father, Lucius and Catherine, left 
 the court-room together and walked east through 
 Tenth Street. 
 
 Tearfully, Catherine pleaded with Aggie. 
 
 "If I help you," she entreated, "won't you try 
 it for a month a fortnight ? I'll ask my friends 
 to help we'll all do all we can for you. We know 
 you've had a hard time we'll try to make it 
 pleasanter." 
 
 "Who are you?" demanded Aggie, "that you 
 should care ?" 
 
 "Who am I," returned Catherine, " that I should 
 not care ? Many people care, Aggie everybody 
 ought to care. You can't live unto yourself alone. 
 Nobody can." 
 
 Yielding to much persuasion, Aggie promised 
 to try the decent life again. 
 
 At Broadway, Lucius and Catherine turned 
 
 342
 
 The Night Court 
 
 their faces uptown, and said good-by to Donahue 
 and his daughter. 
 
 The moon, nearing its full, was riding high over 
 the white Gothic spires of Grace Church. On 
 the corner where for so many years the Bread 
 Line had stood was the beautiful new outdoor 
 pulpit built for the preaching of the Word to the 
 masses who would not come within the church. 
 
 The stillness of lower Broadway at night lay 
 over everything. The St. Denis Hotel was across 
 the street, but it contributed no more liveliness 
 to the scene than did Grace Church and its 
 rectory. 
 
 A block uptown, where McCreery's old down- 
 town store used to be, Fleischmann's successor 
 now had his Vienna bakery. It was too early yet 
 for the Bread Line. But an hour hence they 
 would begin to come. At midnight there would 
 be a long, sinuous line of them, stretching from 
 the side door to Broadway, and up the west side 
 of Broadway for nearly or quite a block. It 
 would be late when the last ones got their bread 
 and coffee; but they would get it. Some persons 
 decry this charity. But the fame of Fleischmann's 
 Bread Line has travelled far much farther than 
 the name of the magnificent Gothic pile under 
 whose shadow the hungry used to huddle and wait 
 for alms for bread broken by a Jew and offered 
 to the needy without a question. It was a pity 
 
 343
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 when the Bread Line moved even to make way 
 for other preaching of the Word. 
 
 Lucius and Catherine walked on, commenting 
 on these things and revelling in the beauty of the 
 night. 
 
 At Union Square they cut across diagonally to 
 Fourth Avenue, and followed its quiet reaches 
 until they came to Twenty-fourth Street. The 
 benches of Union Square were well filled with 
 homeless men and a few women mostly well on 
 in years, and homeless, too. Some of them would 
 sit there all night. 
 
 "I wonder," Lucius mused, "if you and I will 
 live to see the millennium when these things shall 
 have ceased to be?" 
 
 "Not all of them but some, perhaps," she an- 
 swered. "And oh! to have a part in bringing it 
 about! How can there be any one who does not 
 long to work for it?" 
 
 "If only they could know you!" he whispered. 
 "You would inspire anyone." 
 
 Lucius was perfectly well aware of the objec- 
 tions with which his avowal of interest in Catherine 
 would meet. He knew in about which quarters 
 the objection would be active opposition and in 
 which it would be passive neglect. He had re- 
 viewed the prospect thoroughly, and had prom- 
 ised himself very solemnly that he would not be 
 rash; that he would take plenty of time and 
 
 344
 
 The Night Court 
 
 make sure he knew what he was doing before 
 j & 
 
 doing it. 
 
 But here was a woman who had power to thrill 
 him as no woman else had ever had and Lucius 
 was sufficiently susceptible to feminine charm. 
 The girls of his own world wooed him assidu- 
 ously; he was a present prize and potentially a 
 magnificent "risk" prescient papas said there 
 was practically no limit to what Lucius might 
 attain, politically. But Lucius was mindful of 
 those girls' training. They might be very charm- 
 ing, gracious mistresses of an Executive Mansion 
 if he should be elected to one some fifteen years 
 hence. In the meantime, though, what could he 
 hope for from them ? They would not approve 
 of Cherry Hill; they would not understand his 
 absorbing interest there; they would grudge the 
 amount of time he had to give to "ways and 
 means" that touched the world of their concerns 
 not at all. There would be a polite marriage which 
 was in effect no marriage at all, and he would go 
 his way as he was going now; only it would be 
 harder, because there would be a continual nag- 
 ging of feminine opposition. 
 
 Lucius was impetuous in little things, but he 
 was shrewd about major affairs. He loved wom- 
 en, and often felt the need of a woman's cheer and 
 the inspiration of her belief in him. But he sur- 
 mised quite accurately, no doubt just about 
 
 345
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 how long after marriage the gushing enthusiasm 
 of those butterfly girls for his life as he had mapped 
 it out would last. 
 
 Then Catherine came. He could scarcely real- 
 ize how recent her coming had been, she had filled 
 his thoughts so much, these ten days past. 
 
 Here was a woman who would love Cherry 
 Hill; who would not only sympathize with his 
 interest in it, but would continually be opening up 
 to him new phases of its life, its needs. She would 
 have intense, vital concern in every step of his 
 way down here. But a part of his way lay quite 
 elsewhere. The strength of his position depended 
 on the hold he maintained on two important ele- 
 ments: the popular vote and the sinews of war. 
 His uptown affiliations were as important as his 
 downtown associations. And uptown, how would 
 Catherine fare ? Against this, though, there were 
 two things to be considered: one was that, if 
 Catherine could not go with him into those up- 
 town experiences, she was not the girl to hold him 
 back from them nor to grudge his going; and the 
 other was that a good part of his relations with 
 uptown could safely be, from now on, with men 
 exclusively. He had got past the stage where 
 country houses and cotillons were useful to him. 
 The men who held the purse-strings knew about 
 him now, and were as likely to seek him out as he 
 was to seek them. They had their eyes on him. 
 
 346
 
 The Night Court 
 
 Banquets were a large factor in the career that 
 Lucius had embarked upon. Clever but not too 
 clever! after-dinner speaking was one of his big 
 assets as much as clever platform speaking was. 
 A man who looked ahead along the way Lucius 
 meant to travel did not see many fireside evenings 
 in prospect; had not much to offer any woman 
 unless she were of a kind to be absorbed in the 
 daily steps of his progress. 
 
 All this Lucius kept well in mind. And yet as 
 he and Catherine sauntered up Fourth Avenue and, 
 with all their lingering, approached her street with 
 what seemed to them both an unseemly haste, he 
 found that he had but one idea, and that was to 
 get from her some definite promise about when 
 he might see her again. 
 
 The first lesson in proof-reading, she told him, 
 had gone excellently. Davy had made an ar- 
 rangement with the boy who struck off on the 
 hand-press proofs for the proof-room to run off 
 an extra proof of certain galleys. These he would 
 save until the copy from which they were printed 
 was thrown aside, and then edited copy and un- 
 corrected proofs were to go daily through Davy 
 to Catherine. Davy had explained linotype setting 
 to her, so she might understand "the exigencies of 
 cast lead," he told her. But some night soon he 
 was going to take her to the composing-room of 
 one of the morning papers (Davy's paper was 
 
 347
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 published in the afternoon) and let her see type 
 set and read for correction, and stereotyped and 
 put on the great rotary presses. To this expedi- 
 tion she was looking forward eagerly. Also, she 
 was to be introduced to Miss Todd next Sunday 
 evening, if Miss Todd could come to the Inneses' 
 then. 
 
 Lucius felt a pang of envy of all the Inneses 
 were able to do for Catherine. And he could do 
 nothing! neither for her present comfort nor for 
 her advancement in the future. 
 
 "With all this in prospect, when am I to 
 see you again?" he asked rather crossly like 
 a man who feels that his rights are being in- 
 vaded. 
 
 Catherine's mouth trembled. "When?" As 
 if there could be anything in all the world that 
 could keep her elsewhere if she knew he wanted 
 her! She was afraid to answer lest this that was 
 in her mind get into her voice also and betray 
 her. And she, too, had done her thinking! If 
 Lucius McCurdy ever spoke word of love to her, 
 it should not be through pity because he realized 
 that she loved him. 
 
 Her silence nettled Lucius. 
 
 "Catherine!" he cried, "I want you! I need 
 you! I want you for my own!" 
 
 Catherine put her hand out as if to steady her- 
 self, and gripped his arm. 
 
 348
 
 The Night Court 
 
 "Not ?" She lifted her eyes and looked into 
 his. 
 
 He read her anguished questioning and it hurt. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think you'd 
 misunderstand." 
 
 "Forgive me," she entreated. "I it seemed 
 too wonderful." 
 
 In the dark hallway of her tenement, she let 
 him hold her for an instant in his arms. Her 
 heart was beating so wildly he could feel it against 
 his own. 
 
 "You flutter like a frightened bird," he whis- 
 pered; "but you've come home my Catherine." 
 
 A door in the upper hall opened and steps 
 were heard approaching the stairs. 
 
 Catherine lifted her face to his for one more 
 kiss, then sped away from him up to her little 
 room whose walls seemed too frail to-night to 
 contain this great flood of happiness she was 
 bringing with her. 
 
 Lucius did not fall asleep until well on toward 
 dawn. At seven o'clock he was awakened by the 
 telephone bell. 
 
 Imprecating the disturber, he took down the 
 receiver. 
 
 "Who is it?" some one asked. 
 
 "Catherine!" he cried. 
 
 349
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Yes. I am crazy, Lucius mad. Sonia did 
 not come home. I have been up all night and 
 she hasn't come.'* 
 
 "I'll be with you in half an hour," he answered. 
 "Try not to worry, dearest. Thank God, I've 
 got some power in this town." 
 
 35
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 "ANY FOOL CAN DESTROY" 
 
 EMSTEAD was a hard man to catch. For one 
 thing, he did a deal of flying about the 
 country, getting in touch with national interests; 
 and for another thing, when he was in town, his 
 office was continually under siege by a multitude 
 of persons who wanted to get his ear. 
 
 He had been to Seattle to see some men who 
 knew things about the Alaska frauds that he could 
 not find out in the East. He left New York the 
 afternoon after his talk with Dudley Prichard 
 about the labor series. At 8.30 the next morning 
 Emstead was in Chicago, where he saw a dozen 
 persons before leaving, at 6.30, for St. Paul. In 
 St. Paul he ferreted around and satisfied himself 
 on certain points concerning Great Northern and 
 the freight tariffs on wheat. Sunday he was in 
 Seattle. Tuesday night he left there for 'Frisco. 
 Thursday and Friday he spent in 'Frisco, talking 
 over the city's fight to free itself from gang rule; 
 Tuesday he was back in Chicago. There he found 
 a night message from Ansel Rodman "Wire on 
 
 351
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 what train you're leaving. I'm coming up road 
 to meet you. Business conference." 
 
 Emstead replied that he was going to Pittsburg 
 on the eigh teen-hour limited; would leave there 
 Wednesday night. This would bring him into 
 New York early on Thursday morning so early 
 that Rodman, getting on at Philadelphia, could 
 not hope to find Emstead awake. So Rodman 
 went to Pittsburg; and in the drawing-room of 
 the sleeper he and Emstead sat up all the way to 
 Harrisburg talking. 
 
 Emstead's office was a busy place on Thursday. 
 Every one who had been waiting two weeks and a 
 half to see him wanted to get to him at once. 
 
 Emstead believed in the good-will of as many 
 people as he could conciliate without unworthy 
 compromise; so he didn't keep an office boy. No 
 flippant youth or disinterested girl received callers 
 at the offices of Emstead's Magazine. It was 
 strictly against instructions that any one who came 
 there should be made to feel unimportant to the 
 magazine. Magazines need all the good-will they 
 can get and keep. The competition among them 
 is keen. There are never enough writers or ar- 
 tists of tjie first class to go 'round among the edi- 
 tors who must have first-class stuff. There is 
 never any way of telling from what futile-seeming 
 caller one may get the suggestion for a big "fea- 
 ture." Emstead had once listened patiently to a 
 
 352
 
 "Any Fool Can Destroy " 
 
 woman who wanted to write for him a series of 
 articles on "Eminent Women of Modern Times." 
 Somewhere in her maunderings he caught some- 
 thing that gave him an idea for one of the most 
 sensationally successful features his magazine had 
 ever had. It was a theory of his that writers, as 
 they wax proficient in the technique of their craft, 
 have a tendency to seek surroundings that are 
 pleasant rather than purposeful; that is, as they 
 get the better able to say things, they incline to 
 have fewer things to say. He believed that it is a 
 large part of an editor's business to associate with 
 people and know what's in the minds of many 
 men; then, from among the little group of per- 
 sons who know how to write, to choose the likeli- 
 est one for the handling of any particular theme. 
 "I have," Emstead would say illustratively, "an 
 idea that the public or a large part of it would 
 welcome some articles on the preparations Ger- 
 many is indubitably making for war. I have some 
 startling intimations, from reliable sources, about 
 those preparations and the imminence of that war. 
 In my mind, I rapidly run over the list of men 
 who could conceivably do anything with such a 
 commission as I purpose giving. When I have 
 concluded which of them is likeliest, I tell some 
 one about the office to locate him for me and get 
 him on the 'phone. 'What have you got to do 
 this afternoon ?' I ask him. Well, he was going to 
 
 353
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 play squash probably. (I never knew anything 
 like the propensity of these successful knights of 
 the pen for playing squash. What is squash, any- 
 way ?) But he will come to see me if I want him 
 to. He comes. I lay before him the outline of 
 the German scheme. In half an hour he's as 
 crazy as a loon, and can't wait for the first Ger- 
 man ship to sail. He'll do great work. But if I 
 hadn't dug up the idea, he would have gone on 
 playing squash till he ran out of money. That's 
 editing " 
 
 In consequence of his belief in the possible value 
 to his magazine of any one who might come 
 along, Emstead kept in his reception-room a dig- 
 nified messenger, white-haired and courtly, who 
 knew "Who's Who" by heart and everybody in it 
 by sight; and who had a pride in following those 
 instructions which bade him make even messenger 
 boys glad to come to the Emstead offices with an 
 electro to be used in advertising. 
 
 This man had a busy day on Thursday after 
 Mr. Emstead's absence of more than two weeks. 
 Obviously, all these people could not see Mr. 
 Emstead on a single day, even if the Chief had not 
 that great accumulation of mail and of office mat- 
 ters to attend to. Yet Allison handled the claims 
 with supreme diplomacy, making firm but flatter- 
 ingly regretful denials to some, temporizing with 
 others, and so on. 
 
 354
 
 "Any Fool Can Destroy" 
 
 When Dudley Prichard came in, Allison told 
 him that he knew Mr. Emstead was hoping to see 
 him, but that unfortunately, at that moment, 
 there was a French scientist in Mr. Emstead's 
 office. If Mr. Prichard would be good enough to 
 wait, he would find some gentlemen whom he knew 
 in the reception-room. 
 
 Prichard nodded agreeably and passed into 
 the inner room, hung with paintings by notable 
 American illustrators and with framed frag- 
 ments of manuscript by celebrated American wri- 
 ters. The furniture of this room was mahog- 
 any, in a choice Chippendale design. The floor 
 was hard-wood, highly polished, and on it was 
 a handsome Oriental rug. The library table con- 
 tained recent copies of Emstead' 's and some of the 
 New York morning papers. A handsome "art 
 glass" dome hung above it, and cast a softened 
 light. A grandfather clock in one corner ticked 
 sonorously. 
 
 Prichard found here two men he knew: Sam 
 Hamilton and Will Crowninshield. Like himself, 
 they had both been newspaper men. Hamilton 
 was truly famous that seemed hardly too big a 
 word as a war correspondent; considering his 
 youth he was just forty and these piping times 
 of peace, he had seen no inconsiderable amount of 
 warfare and of the earth's surface. He was a 
 vastly entertaining chap; there was none in New 
 
 355
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 York who could spin a prettier yarn about a 
 greater variety of experiences. 
 
 Will Crowninshield was press agent to a multi- 
 millionaire and to the trust with which this mil- 
 lionaire was most prominently identified. 
 
 "Hello, Will!" Dudley greeted him. "What's 
 new ? Getting ready for a new ten-million-dollar 
 conservation fund ?" 
 
 Crowninshield took the jibes of his confreres 
 with smiling equanimity. He felt that he could 
 afford to. He wasn't getting any glory out of his 
 job, but he was getting a fairly excellent "where- 
 withal," and he was also getting valuable tips 
 about investing what he didn't spend. He meant 
 to work for glory by and by. 
 
 He was the first of the three in line to see Em- 
 stead. After he had gone, Prichard and Hamil- 
 ton discussed his job with humorous appreciation. 
 
 "Poor old Will!" mused Dudley, reminiscently. 
 "He has his ups and downs, like the elevator boy. 
 I remember the time his boss was getting ready to 
 announce that enormous donation he made to en- 
 dow a foundation for something or other. Will 
 selected the time for the announcement with in- 
 finite care picked out a dull season in the news- 
 paper world just after Christmas when the 
 most exciting thing in the papers was the adver- 
 tising of pre-inventory clearance sales. He had it 
 doped out that his story was good for at least two 
 
 356
 
 "Any Fool Can Destroy" 
 
 columns on the front page of every daily in the 
 land. And he had the stuff landed with the As- 
 sociated Press, when along comes Messina with 
 a pretty little earthquake and puts the donation 
 story into a stickful of type somewhere in the 
 mazes of page three. Talk about the fortunes of 
 war!" 
 
 Hamilton laughed. "I'll bet Will's Crcesus 
 blamed him for the earthquake!" he said. "I 
 wonder if Will will ever have the nerve to write 
 his memoirs. Gee! What a chance! But I 
 don't think he's got the humor for it. Seever and 
 I were up to the Inneses' Sunday night " Prichard 
 winced, but Hamilton did not notice it "and 
 Os was telling about his paper. He says that 
 practically every millionaire in the country has 
 some kind of protection there except two 
 brothers. It's 'hands off* for everybody else. 
 But if you come down to the office with a spleen 
 that you have just got to vent on some plutocrat, 
 you may vent it on either of these brothers. He 
 says they have no end of fun about it in the office. 
 Davy told us about a side-show he saw at Coney 
 Island this summer. There were two wire cages. 
 In each was a water-tank perhaps eight feet deep. 
 About three feet above each tank was a bar of 
 wood on which a coal-black, grinning nigger was 
 perched. One end of the bar stuck out a foot be- 
 yond the cage, at the side, and on it was hung a 
 
 357
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 black Derby hat. For five cents you could take 
 six shots at the hat, with tennis balls. If you 
 hit the hat, the bar collapsed over the middle of 
 the tank and dropped the darky in. After each 
 ducking he would reappear, cheerful and drip- 
 ping, reset his perch, and climb back on it, to 
 await another onslaught. Davy said the inspira- 
 tion of it must have been what he calls 'the Goat 
 Brothers/ " 
 
 Sam's errand with the Chief was soon de- 
 spatched and it was Prichard's turn. He found 
 Emstead in a veritable sea of newspaper exchanges 
 and heaped-up correspondence. 
 
 "Well,Prichard," Emstead greeted him,"how're 
 you getting on ?" 
 
 "I don't know how I'm getting 'on,' " Prichard 
 answered, "but I'm getting 'in' all right enough.'* 
 
 He laid his disclosures before Emstead. 
 
 "How do you know it ?" Emstead demanded in 
 his quick searching way. 
 
 "Well, first of all, a man to whom I happened 
 to talk about my undertaking told me he had 
 heard it hinted. Then, among the mass of clip- 
 pings and correspondence Davy let me look over, 
 I occasionally found a word of comment written 
 in a feminine hand as if some one had read these 
 things for Lyman Innes and passed them on to 
 him. The man who started me on this hunt said 
 it was whispe r ed at the time of Innes's death that 
 
 358
 
 "Any Fool Can Destroy" 
 
 there had been a Delilah game that Bardeen's 
 wife had been used by Bardeen's employers to 
 get grounds for impeachment. The feminine an- 
 notations promised to lead to something. Natu- 
 rally, I tried to find the man who had been Gov- 
 ernor Innes's private secretary Clarence Perkins 
 was his name." 
 
 "You found him?" 
 
 "Oh, easily. But he wouldn't talk. I told 
 him what I had heard and asked him if he was 
 willing to say that there was absolutely no truth 
 in it. He said he was perfectly willing to say this 
 that nothing could be more absurd. 
 
 " I said : ' Do you deny that there was a woman 
 who read letters and newspapers for the Governor 
 and marked them for him ?' 
 
 "He said: 'I do.' 
 
 " 'Then how,' I asked him, 'do you explain 
 these?' and I showed him some that I had with 
 me. 
 
 " * There was a woman employed by me to do 
 that work during the pressure of correspondence 
 entailed by the strike,' he answered. ' She was 
 my employee I hired her to help me/ 
 
 " 'Do you deny that this woman was the wife 
 of Bardeen, the assassin?' I persisted. 
 
 " 'I I do not deny it,' he faltered. 'It was a 
 coincidence; that was all. I hired her without 
 the Governor's seeing her. I gave her the work 
 
 359
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 to do. The very next day she came back and 
 resigned saying her husband objected to her 
 doing any work for Governor Innes. She had not 
 seen the Governor, nor had he seen her/ 
 
 " 'And you say,' I went on, 'that she worked 
 for you only one day?' 
 
 " 'I gave her the letters one morning/ he re- 
 plied, 'and she brought them back the next, 
 and resigned/ 
 
 " 'That was when ?' I asked. 
 " 'That was in July, I think/ he said, 'early 
 in July/ 
 
 " 'Yet there are annotations in the same hand/ 
 I reminded him, 'on letters and papers dated as 
 late as the end of August/ 
 
 "He flushed. He could see that he was caught. 
 'I succeeded in getting her to reconsider/ he ad- 
 mitted, 'and she did some work for me under 
 promise of secrecy/ 
 
 "'And the Governor didn't know about it?* 
 I went on. 
 
 " ' I probably told him but he was much pre- 
 occupied that summer/ Perkins said. 
 
 " 'What became of this Mrs. Bardeen?' I in- 
 quired. 
 
 'I haven't the remotest idea/ he answered. 
 
 "He said he had heard that she went to South 
 America. I inquired around the Capital, but 
 nobody knew. She had a brother living there at 
 
 360
 
 "Any Fool Can Destroy" 
 
 the time, but he has since moved away and I 
 couldn't get trace of him. She was never seen 
 after the murder. She and her little girl nine 
 years old got away under complete cover 
 spirited away by State officials, I suppose. It was 
 pretty slick business the way the whole thing 
 was handled." 
 
 " But you haven't any proof," Emstead declared. 
 "You can't print suspicions and allegations not 
 in Emstead 's Magazine, at least. Better drop all 
 that." 
 
 "And go on perpetuating the lie that Innes died 
 a martyr?" 
 
 "You don't know that it is a lie." 
 
 "But I have strong reason to suppose that 
 it is." 
 
 "It may be true," Emstead answered, "and 
 yet not be THE truth." 
 
 "Do you want me to ignore it?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "I thought you wanted me to uncover the 
 truth." 
 
 "I do. But I expect you to exercise some judg- 
 ment about it. Lyman Innes put up a big, strong 
 fight. You have every evidence to prove that 
 none to disprove it. Suppose it actually hap- 
 pened that his death was not martyrdom but retri- 
 bution : what good are you going to do to any one 
 alive by disclosing the fact? What harm may 
 
 361
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 you not do not only to the memory of the dead 
 and to the feelings of the living, but to the faith of 
 thousands who need faith in a fellow-man more 
 than they need any other one thing." 
 
 "Is this a hierarchy?'* sneered Prichard "or 
 a republic ? Are we priests, presuming to decide 
 what it is expedient for people to know ? Or are 
 we men who believe in other men and in their right 
 to know what we know?" 
 
 "This is a free country," Emstead replied, "and 
 there is at least this liberty of the press: if you look 
 long enough you can almost always find some editor 
 who will print anything you want to say. But 
 you can't print vague allegations against any man 
 in EmsteacTs Magazine if I know it. Now, I 
 don't mind telling you that I had heard all these 
 rumors long ago. I knew what I thought about 
 them. I knew that the time was getting ripe for 
 a big series of articles on the history of labor agi- 
 tation in this country. I knew that one of the 
 first things an investigator would be likely to fall 
 foul of would be this Innes story. That's why I 
 offered the job to Dave Innes first. I knew he 
 had the qualifications to write it I knew his name 
 would give it weight. I did not know whether he 
 had ever heard anything alleged against his fa- 
 ther or not. But I thought that it would be better 
 for him to discover whatever allegation there was 
 and keep it to himself, than for some one else to 
 
 362
 
 "Any Fool Can Destroy" 
 
 discover it and blat it out. When he wouldn't 
 undertake the series I was pretty sure it was be- 
 cause he had heard something of this yarn. So 
 then I gave it to you, because I thought you had 
 some reason to be loyal to the Innes name." 
 
 "I see," muttered Prichard; "you gave the job 
 to me, not because you thought I would be a fear- 
 less investigator, but because you thought my 
 notions of suppression would coincide with yours. 
 I flattered myself Oh, well! I was wrong, I 
 see." 
 
 "Yes," humored Emstead, "you were wrong. 
 Now, get to work, sonny, and ferret out any crook- 
 edness that publicity may be good for to keep 
 history from repeating itself. But keep your 
 work constructive. Any fool can destroy." 
 
 "Then history isn't the statement of facts?" 
 urged Prichard, rising to go. 
 
 Emstead laughed, as at a schoolboy's question. 
 
 "Not at all!" he declared. "Not at all. His- 
 tory is the shrewd interpretation of many men's 
 testimony many men, each of whom may or 
 may not believe his testimony to embody the 
 facts. An investigator is not necessarily an his- 
 torian he may be a mere collator of evidence. It 
 is the ability to sift evidence, and to read into 
 the residue out of a rich understanding, that makes 
 a historian. Go to, my boy, and think about it!" 
 
 3 6 3
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A WEDDING 
 
 P RICHARD went direct from Emstead's office 
 down to see Davy. It was almost noon, and 
 there was an excellent chance that Davy would 
 soon be coming up to The Players to lunch. But 
 Dudley didn't want to meet Davy at the club. 
 He had, on Davy's account, been avoiding the 
 club these ten days past. He had not seen Davy 
 since they parted so unceremoniously at Four- 
 teenth Street and Irving Place; and he did not 
 want their next meeting to occur in the presence of 
 others. 
 
 It was just twelve when he reached the City 
 Hall, and as he was crossing in front of it he saw 
 Johnny Innes handing a girl into a taxi. The 
 girl was Emily Bristow. 
 
 "I wonder what they're doing here," Dudley 
 mused, looking after the cab as it rolled away. 
 "By Jove! I believe they were getting a mar- 
 riage license." 
 
 He went in to see. His investigations brought 
 him down here frequently, and he had acquaint- 
 ances in every office. It was true Johnny and 
 
 3 6 4
 
 A Wedding 
 
 Emily had taken out a license to wed. What was 
 more, they had just been married in the Mayor's 
 office. 
 
 Evidently none of their kindred was in their 
 confidence. Dudley wondered what it all meant. 
 
 He crossed the square to the tall building where 
 Davy's paper had its offices. 
 
 Mr. Innes was not in, the boy said. He had 
 gone out half an hour ago with Mr. Rodman and 
 another gentleman. 
 
 Dudley asked if he might leave a note for Mr. 
 Innes, and was directed to Davy's little cubby-hole 
 to write it. 
 
 On top of Davy's desk was an envelope ad- 
 dressed to him in a handwriting that made Dud- 
 ley's senses reel. In all his life he had never 
 wanted to do anything so much as he wanted to 
 break that seal and learn who wrote that letter. 
 Fearful to trust himself, he had to flee without 
 taking time to write any note to Davy. 
 
 Dudley breathed freely when he found himself 
 outside. Talk about temptation! He had never 
 known before what it really meant. 
 
 He recrossed City Hall Park, threading his way 
 through the noon-time crowds. Venders of "hot 
 dog" were doing a thriving business from their 
 push-carts; fruit was melting from the laden 
 stands; purveyors of dust-swept sweets choco- 
 lates and gum-drops were making a multitude of 
 
 3 6 5
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 penny sales. To and fro across the park hungry 
 folk of more prosperous grades were hurrying on 
 luncheon bent. Staring white bulletins of recent 
 events were out in front of all the newspaper 
 offices. Shrill street cries pierced the air above 
 the roar of Broadway traffic. 
 
 Prichard noted these familiar things not at all. 
 He got on a north-bound Broadway car and rode 
 to Fourth Street. By that time his abstraction 
 seemed to have dissolved sufficiently to permit him 
 a controlling purpose. He walked west rapidly 
 till he reached the Inneses' apartment-house. 
 And he concealed from Nora the trepidation with 
 which he asked for Miss Rose. 
 
 Rose was about to sit down to her solitary lun- 
 cheon. She heard his voice at the door, and went 
 hurriedly into the living-room to receive him. 
 
 "It's Mr. Prichard," announced Nora, usher- 
 ing him in. 
 
 She retired by way of the dining-room, carrying 
 thence with her the little casserole of hot stew she 
 had just served for Miss Rose's luncheon. 
 
 Rose and Dudley confronted each other in deep 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "Am I unwelcome?" he asked humbly. 
 
 Rose shook her head not in eager denial but as 
 if in doubt. 
 
 "Would you rather I went away without try- 
 ing to explain ?" 
 
 366
 
 A Wedding 
 
 There he touched her in a sensitive place the 
 love of justice. 
 
 "No," she answered, but speaking with difficulty. 
 "No of course not! Won't you sit down ?" 
 
 Dudley winced at the formality of the invitation, 
 but he accepted it. Rose faced him, her hands 
 tight-locked in her lap waiting. She was not 
 going to make it easy for him; he had miscalcu- 
 lated her tender yieldingness. 
 
 "Rose," he began, "I that was all a mistake 
 all that occurred on my last visit. I see it now. 
 I have reconsidered. I ask you to forgive me 
 and to forget." 
 
 She stared at him wonderingly. " I don't think 
 I understand," she said. 
 
 He got up and went over to her, and bending 
 down laid an arm across the back of her chair. 
 
 "I can't talk to you like this," he pleaded. 
 "Don't sit in front of me and listen like a judge. 
 Sit beside me, dear, and listen like like the angel 
 you are! Rose please!" 
 
 She went over to the davenport, and he came 
 and sat beside her and held her hand while he 
 talked. 
 
 "I was mad to do what I did," he went on. 
 "Can't you forget it, Rose dear? I don't know 
 how I could have thought of doing such a thing. 
 When I realized what it meant how you were 
 hurt by it I gave it up." 
 
 3 6 7
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Gave up the series?" 
 
 "No gave up writing anything different than 
 has always been written about that one episode. 
 I have just had a talk with Emstead. He knew 
 about that that other version but he was willing 
 to have me ignore it." 
 
 "Did he know why you wish to ignore it?" 
 
 "You mean ?" 
 
 "Did he know that you are anxious to ignore it 
 for our sakes for my sake ?" 
 
 "I think he knows that I am in love with you 
 he intimated as much." 
 
 "Did he was he much disappointed in you?" 
 
 "For being in love with you ?" 
 
 She ignored the raillery. "No, for being willing 
 to manipulate the facts, I suppose you'd call it." 
 
 "Not at all or, that is to say, not after I had 
 talked with him about it." 
 
 "He doesn't think it is going to hurt your repu- 
 tation to to write about it in the usual way ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I'm glad," she said, looking steadily ahead of 
 her, an inscrutable expression in her face, "that 
 things have worked out so satisfactorily for you 
 without any sacrifice on your part." 
 
 Dudley was not at all sure what she meant. 
 He thought for a moment before he replied. It 
 couldn't be a sarcasm, of course; Rose was never 
 sarcastic. 
 
 368
 
 A Wedding 
 
 "Yes," he declared; "it all came out right. 
 And I'm glad, too so glad!" 
 
 She got up and walked to the window and stood 
 looking out. An organ-grinder with a monkey was 
 playing in the square. 
 
 He looked after her; but somehow he dared not 
 follow. What was the matter with Rose? She 
 wasn't like herself at all! 
 
 "I've seen people," he remarked, "act gladder 
 than you do." 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 "Are you going to hold it over me?" he went 
 on. 
 
 "Hold what over you ?" 
 
 "That I was temporarily in error about what 
 I ought to do." 
 
 She faced him, her eyes flashing. 
 
 " You know how little likely I am to do anything 
 of the sort," she reminded him. 
 
 "Then what is it, Rose ? You haven't forgiven 
 me for something. What is it?" 
 
 She turned away from him again and continued 
 her gazing into the square. 
 
 He came and stood beside her, and would have 
 drawn her to him, but she denied him by the least 
 little gesture. 
 
 He dropped into a chair that stood near the 
 window, and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Rose maintained her distance for a moment; 
 
 3 6 9
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 then she laid a hand on his bowed shoulder and 
 murmured: "Dudley don't!" 
 
 He gave no sign that he had heard. 
 
 Then, to his intense surprise, she withdrew her 
 hand and walked away. 
 
 He had to lift his face to see where she had gone. 
 "Is this the end ?" he whispered hoarsely. 
 
 "The end of what?" 
 
 "Of our relations, of your love for me." 
 
 She gathered all her courage. 
 
 "Dudley," she began, standing over him and 
 holding him with her two hands on his shoulders 
 so he must look at her and could not drop his 
 head again, " I hoped I shouldn't have to say this. 
 But perhaps it was cowardly to try to make you 
 infer it. I've had a shock I have suffered. I 
 don't blame you a bit for anything you have done 
 only I don't feel the same toward you as I 
 used to feel. I can't help this. I've tried to 
 and I can't. In a shock, I guess things come 
 crashing down sometimes that no human power 
 can set up again. It's like that. Perhaps you 
 think it hasn't hurt me! But I tell you, I'd rather 
 lose anything in all the world than lose belief!" 
 
 "And you've lost belief in me ?" 
 
 She nodded. Her eyes were brimming, and she 
 lifted a hand from his shoulder^to brush the tears 
 away. 
 
 "Why, Rose? Why?" 
 
 37
 
 A Wedding 
 
 "You don't understand?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 'That's it! It's because you can't understand 
 and I realize now that you can't, and probably 
 never will. You don't know what love means, 
 Dudley." 
 
 "I don't?" he cried. "That shows how little 
 you know me! I tell you I've been pretty nearly 
 crazed by this thing. I haven't slept. I've hardly 
 eaten. I haven't been near the club. I couldn't 
 face anybody " 
 
 "I shouldn't think any series of articles that 
 ever was conceived was worth all that!" 
 
 " Rose ! Is it possible from you ? Do you 
 think it was a matter of articles of pay of the 
 little talk they create? It was principle, Rose! 
 It was this: 'You have given yourself, Dudley 
 Prichard, to the career of an investigator and re- 
 corder of facts facts of public interest those 
 things which the public for its own good and guid- 
 ance ought to know, and which have been kept 
 from it by those who thrive on the public's igno- 
 rance. In the old days it was the priests the hi- 
 erarchy who determined what the people ought to 
 know; and precious little knowledge they allowed 
 them ! Nowadays it is an oligarchy of greed that 
 controls truth, and feeds out to the people such 
 sifted and altered bits of truth as are least likely to 
 make them rise up and destroy the oligarchy's rule. 
 
 371
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 You have given yourself to oppose this as Martin 
 Luther opposed it and as Galileo opposed it, and 
 as men in every age have opposed the suppression 
 of truth. Your worth to your generation to all 
 succeeding generations lies in your steadfastness 
 to what you believe to be the truth. The disciples 
 of evil like to believe that every man has his price, 
 or, if not that, his limit, beyond which he will not 
 go for any cause. It is not so! The world's 
 progress every painful step of it has been forced 
 by men who knew no limit to what they were will- 
 ing to suffer for the right.' This was the way I 
 argued, Rose! I told myself that if I could be 
 deflected from what seemed to me to be the truth, 
 by any consideration whatsoever even you! I 
 should be a poor apostle. That was where the 
 struggle lay!" 
 
 Rose looked bewildered. A few minutes ago she 
 had understood Dudley to say that he had com- 
 promised, for her sake, with what he believed to 
 be the truth. And now ! 
 
 "I don't understand!" she murmured. 
 
 "You don't understand a man's fight to be true 
 to the thing he is pledged to do?" 
 
 "I don't understand how you have reconciled 
 yourself to disregard the truth for me." 
 
 "I haven't. Don't you see? I couldn't do 
 that but by and by it came to me that I needn't 
 that I wasn't called upon to make this partic- 
 
 372
 
 A Wedding 
 
 ular disclosure in fact, that it were better not 
 made." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "I talked it over with Emstead, and he agreed 
 that in this case the facts might not be the same as 
 the truth; that it would be a pity to place the facts 
 before persons who might mistake them for the 
 truth ; and so, in the interests of progress, it seemed 
 wise not to disturb the prevailing faith." 
 
 "You came, then, to feel that the prevailing 
 faith is justified ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 Her eyes shone. "I am so glad!" she cried. 
 
 "It was like this: There was a woman. But, 
 as nearly as I can make out, she was a Delilah 
 whom the Philistines sent. The discredit should 
 go rather to them who hatched the plot than to 
 him who was its victim. They laid him low, you 
 see though not in exactly the way that is generally 
 understood." 
 
 "Was that it?" Rose's cheeks were blazing. 
 
 "That was it. He was all alone he was quite 
 cruelly beset by his foes and even by his friends, 
 who could not understand everything was op- 
 portune so they sent her to him to sympathize 
 and to destroy him." 
 
 "Dudley!" 
 
 "So you see at first I learned the facts; and 
 then I learned the truth." 
 
 373
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 She held out both her hands to him. 
 
 "Forgive me!" she implored. Her relief about 
 her father was so overwhelmingly great that it 
 melted her to the utmost tenderness; it was so 
 great that, compared with it, her relief to find 
 Dudley justified was very secondary. But she 
 was not measuring emotions and comparing them. 
 She only knew that she felt as if a millstone had 
 been lifted from about her neck, and that she 
 wanted to be at peace with all the world. A 
 Delilah ? Sent to snare him in his loneliness and 
 need! She looked up at his portrait and she 
 thought it smiled at her as if to say: "Dear little 
 girl! I'm so glad you understand. You have 
 forgiven, always, I know. But now you realize 
 that, while I was weak, I wasn't low." 
 
 Dudley held out his arms to her, and she 
 dropped to her knees and hid her face against his 
 breast. 
 
 " It has been a dreadful nightmare," she sobbed, 
 "all of it! I am so glad it's over." 
 
 He stroked her head caressingly. 
 
 There was the sound of a key in the front door. 
 Rose scrambled to her feet, and an instant later 
 Davy came in, calling her. 
 
 "Rose!" 
 
 "I'm here," she answered. 
 
 He stood in the doorway and looked at Prichard. 
 It was the first time either man had seen the other 
 
 374
 
 A Wedding 
 
 since Davy sprang into that taxi on Fourteenth 
 Street. 
 
 Rose stepped quickly into the breach. " Davy ! " 
 she cried. "I am so glad you've come, dear. 
 Dudley has just been telling me the most welcome 
 news in all the world." 
 
 Still Davy did not look conciliated. 
 
 "He seems to have made you cry with his wel- 
 come news," was his defiant answer. 
 
 "I cried for joy. You must hear it, Davy 
 you'll want to cry, too." 
 
 "I think I know," Davy returned. 
 
 Prichard looked up questioningly. 
 
 Davy replied to him: "Emstead 'phoned Mr. 
 Rodman at the club, where we were lunching." 
 
 " 'Phoned Rodman?" 
 
 "Yes. He knew Rodman was interested." 
 
 "Interested in what?" 
 
 "In your intended disclosures. Mr. Rodman 
 went to Pittsburg to meet Emstead and came on 
 with him this morning. Didn't Emstead tell 
 you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What reason did he give for refusing to print 
 any disclosures about my father's death?" 
 
 "He didn't give any reason. I gave the 
 reason!" 
 
 "Davy," Rose interposed, "we have misjudged 
 Dudley. He has explained it all to me." 
 
 375
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 "Well, Pll bet there are things he can't explain 
 to me or won't explain." 
 
 "I don't know," retorted Dudley, "that I feel 
 called upon to try. I made everything clear to 
 Rose she understands it is our own matter and 
 we have settled it." 
 
 Davy looked at his sister. 
 
 " Is that true, Rose ? Do you wish me to keep 
 out?" 
 
 "Why, Davy! how you talk! Keep out of 
 what ? How could you keep out of my happiness, 
 or why should I wish you to?" 
 
 " I don't know, dear," faltered Davy miserably. 
 " If it's your happiness to try to love Prichard and 
 you've found a way to do it, perhaps I oughtn't to 
 interfere." 
 
 Prichard's gorge was rising. "I call on you to 
 explain!" he cried. "What do you mean ? You 
 make insulting hints and insinuations. Explain 
 yourself!" 
 
 Davy turned to Rose. 
 
 "Certainly," she declared. "I've known your 
 love longer than I've known Dudley's, and had 
 more proof of it. If you have any reason for be- 
 lieving I shouldn't trust him, I want to know what 
 it is. And I want him to know what it is, so he 
 can answer it." 
 
 "Well, it's this: Ever since the day Dudley de- 
 clared his intention of publishing what he had dis- 
 
 376
 
 A Wedding 
 
 covered, a little group of our friends have been 
 working quietly to see what could be done to cir- 
 cumvent him. Bruce got them together, and gave 
 himself up completely to the work. Ansel Rod- 
 man helped him and Creighton and Mr. Pen- 
 hallow. They have tried to discover what evidence 
 there was in existence of my father's weakness. 
 And I think they must have at least as good a 
 case as Prichard's. As I told you, Mr. Rodman 
 went to Pittsburg to meet Emstead, and laid the 
 whole thing before him, and Emstead agreed 
 that such disclosures would cloud the truth rather 
 than clear it. He said he would take this stand 
 when Pri chard submitted his facts. Half an hour 
 ago he called up the club and got Mr. Rodman on 
 the wire. He said that Prichard had been there 
 and that they had had it out." 
 
 Davy paused. 
 
 . "I told Rose about the interview," Prichard de- 
 clared, "and she was satisfied that I had acted 
 from the best motives. Weren't you, dear?" 
 
 "Why yes." 
 
 "Satisfied ? Then you didn't tell her the truth! 
 I know Rose " 
 
 Prichard's eyes blazed with fury. 
 
 " Didn't tell her the truth ? In other words, I 
 lied ! You take advantage of her presence to tell 
 me that. I can't hit you. But I wonder if I am 
 the only one who lies to Rose ?" 
 
 377
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I mean that if she thinks she gets a square deal 
 from you, I can tell her that she doesn't! I was 
 able to tell her something about her father that 
 was a great relief to her that lifted the misunder- 
 standing of many wretched years. Have you ever 
 told her what you know about that woman who 
 caused your father's death ?" 
 
 "I know nothing about her." 
 
 " You do! I was in your office an hour ago, and 
 there was a letter from her lying on your desk." 
 
 "How do you know it was from her?" 
 
 " Because I know her handwriting. I have sam- 
 ples of it in my pocket." 
 
 He pulled out a wallet and extracted from it 
 several letters addressed to Governor Innes. On 
 the margins were annotations in a feminine 
 hand. 
 
 "Have you never seen the handwriting else- 
 where ?" Prichard sneered. It was an unusual 
 hand distinctive not easy to forget. 
 
 Davy scrutinized it through his thick glasses. 
 
 "It's it's like Mrs. Bristow's," he murmured 
 wonderingly. 
 
 Prichard stared. Until that moment so com- 
 plete was his absorption in his own affairs he 
 had forgotten the episode of Johnny. Then, at 
 mention of Mrs. Bristow's name, a flood of recol- 
 lections suddenly co-ordinated. 
 
 378
 
 A Wedding 
 
 "Yes!" he shouted excitedly. "Mrs. Bristow! 
 And your Johnny married her daughter Emily 
 this morning in the Mayor's office." 
 
 He looked at Rose. She motioned him to go, 
 and he went. 
 
 379
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 TELLING THE TRUTH 
 
 WHEN Dudley was gone Rose lifted her head 
 from the pillow, where she had buried it 
 on telling him to go, and looked at Davy. She 
 was frightened. Davy seemed like one stricken. 
 
 She went over to him and drew his head against 
 her breast. 
 
 "Davy!" she whispered. 
 
 Davy made a mighty effort to collect his senses 
 that had been scattered by the blow. He put his 
 arm around her and leaned hard, as if for sup- 
 port. 
 
 "What shall we do ?" he groaned. 
 
 Rose thought hard. "There's so much," she 
 murmured. "One doesn't know where to begin. 
 Somebody '11 have to think for us, dear. We're 
 both too dazed." 
 
 "Yes," he assented, "we're dazed." 
 
 "When you left the club, was Mr. Rodman still 
 there?" 
 
 "Yes. I had lunch with him and Bruce; and 
 I left them there, to come and tell you." 
 
 380
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 "See if you can't get them now." 
 
 He went to the telephone, which was in the 
 hall. Rose sat with her hands clenched, trying to 
 think: Mrs. Bristow the Delilah Johnny 
 Emily the papers Dudley what would Dudley 
 tell! 
 
 "They'll be here in ten minutes," said Davy, 
 returning. 
 
 "Did you know anything about Johnny?" 
 she asked. "I mean had you any idea it had 
 gone this far?" 
 
 "None in the world." 
 
 "She" Rose was racking her memory trying 
 to piece things together and make an illuminating 
 picture out of scattered bits "she knew who we 
 were of course. She knew all the time. And 
 she let us be good to her. She let you give her 
 work to do. She came here where his picture 
 is she brought her girl to beguile our Johnny 
 she wasn't satisfied with luring our father to his 
 death she must set her snare for Johnny, too. 
 And she's got him! Got him! Davy, this is the 
 most hideous thing that ever happened." 
 
 "It's hellish!" Davy cried. "I didn't know 
 there could be such fiendishness. I didn't know 
 that human nature ever got so so wicked, and so 
 low. I've always thought that the things we call 
 wickedness are weaknesses. I never thought there 
 could be a soul so black so devilish." 
 
 38-
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "And she seemed so sweet and good!" 
 
 Davy lifted his arm and buried his face in the 
 crook of his elbow. 
 
 "That's why I hate her so!" he sobbed. "She 
 gave no warning. It was such an unfair game!" 
 
 He lifted his head and gazed up at the portrait 
 of his father. 
 
 "No wonder she brought you to your death !" he 
 murmured. "How could you know what her 
 wiles were?" 
 
 Rodman and Norbury were there almost im- 
 mediately thanks to having caught a taxi without 
 delay. 
 
 They also were so paralyzed when they had 
 heard the news that for a few moments it seemed 
 as if neither would they be able to think what must 
 be done. 
 
 Bruce was the first to recover himself. 
 
 "What time was the marriage?" he asked. 
 
 "Prichard didn't say." 
 
 "Didn't he tell you how he found out about it ?" 
 
 "No. He said he had been to my office 
 after we left and he may have been to the City 
 Hall about that time." 
 
 "We left there just before twelve." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And he must have been there shortly after. 
 Would news of the marriage get into the afternoon 
 papers f" 
 
 382
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 " Hardly. If it were a sensation yes. But not 
 ordinarily." 
 
 "Well, we want to stop publication of it. If 
 word of a secret marriage gets out, somebody may 
 set himself to discover why it was secret." 
 
 " I don't believe it will be considered much of a 
 news item," Davy interposed. 
 
 "Not unless they fail to show up to-night at the 
 theatre. If they do that, it's all off; nothing can 
 stop the sensation. The whole thing will come 
 out then!" 
 
 That was indisputable! They looked at one 
 another aghast. 
 
 Johnny and Emily must be found before seven 
 o'clock. Or, if they were not found, some ar- 
 rangement must be made with the management to 
 keep the thing quiet. 
 
 "I wonder," Rose faltered "I suppose she 
 knows where they are?" 
 
 "The mother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You think she knew about it?" 
 
 Rose turned to Ansel Rodman. "You remem- 
 ber Friday evening?" she asked. "You recall 
 how confused Mrs. Bristow was when we saw 
 Johnny and Emily together? She had told me 
 that Emily was dining with one of the girls in the 
 company." 
 
 "It doesn't seem humanly possible," Rodman 
 
 383
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 murmured, "that she the mother could have 
 known approved." 
 
 "Of course she knew! She could never be in 
 any doubt as to who we were. And yet look how 
 she " 
 
 "That's so/' he admitted. "I didn't sup- 
 pose " 
 
 "No one could be expected to suppose such a 
 thing," Rose interrupted. 
 
 "Mr. Rodman," Bruce suggested, "will you go 
 to the 'phone and see if you can get Mrs. Bristow ? 
 I suppose there's a 'phone in the house where she 
 lives. She needn't know where you are. Be as 
 casual as you can. See what you can find out." 
 
 But if any one had ever heard the name of the 
 Bristows' landlady which was improbable no 
 one could remember it. Bruce tried to get "In- 
 formation" to tell him if there was a 'phone at 
 that number. "Information Operator" was in- 
 clined to think it was against the rules for her to 
 tell. There was a 'phone, but the name and num- 
 ber were not in the book and therefore could not 
 be disclosed. Bruce appealed to the manager of 
 the exchange, but without avail. He tried to get 
 the manager to call the number and say that some- 
 body wanted Mrs. Bristow to call Oh, no! 
 That wouldn't do! Mrs. Bristow would not be 
 likely to call a number which she would doubtless 
 recognize as the Inneses*. 
 
 384
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 "I'll go up there," Rodman said. "We kept 
 the taxi, thinking we might need it. I can get 
 there in fifteen minutes." 
 
 When he was gone they tried to plan what they 
 could do if he found no trace of Johnny through 
 Mrs. Bristow. 
 
 "If he doesn't," declared Bruce, "we've got to 
 get help on this, and get it at once. There's no 
 guessing what those two Johnny and the girl 
 have in mind. We don't know what Johnny 
 knows, or what he has been made to believe. 
 The fact that he hasn't announced his marriage 
 to his family suggests that he knew reasons why 
 he shouldn't. And that's why I am afraid they've 
 run away." 
 
 "But why, then, did they get married here?" 
 objected Rose. "Why not wait until they got to 
 Providence or Hartford or wherever they were 
 running to?" 
 
 Bruce beamed at her, approving her reasoning. 
 "That's right!" he admitted. "Certainly! they 
 must not have intended to run away." 
 
 "I don't believe he could have run very far," 
 Davy interposed. "He asked me for a loan this 
 morning, and I hadn't anything to give him. 
 I loaned him fifty dollars last Saturday and he 
 didn't pay it back. He said he was 'broke.' 
 But he may have made a 'touch* somewhere 
 else." 
 
 385
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 Rose went into Johnny's room and looked 
 around. 
 
 "Nothing is gone nothing that I can notice," 
 she said when she returned. "Of course, he 
 always has a few things at the theatre " 
 
 "And Johnny," Davy added, smiling wanly, 
 "never frets himself about small economies. He 
 has been known to borrow money to go out of 
 town for a week-end in summer, and to buy a 
 new travelling bag and fit it out because it was a 
 'bother* to come home and get one ready." 
 
 "So the fact that he took nothing wouldn't 
 prove that he meant to come home this afternoon 
 and break the news to you would it?" Bruce 
 mused. 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "Well, if he's in town we must find him. He 
 must know what the situation is and he must face 
 it for the good of every one not just for himself. 
 I don't suppose anybody would presume to guess 
 where he might have gone after his marriage ? I 
 mean, if he intends to tell about it, and only slipped 
 off this way to get it over with before any one could 
 object." 
 
 No; that would be hard to say. 
 
 "And we don't want to turn in a general alarm to 
 have him hunted out. Wait, though! Couldn't 
 McCurdy do it?" 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 386
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 " Pass the word to the police department that he 
 wants Johnny located quickly and quietly?" 
 
 "I don't know," Davy answered. "But he 
 might be able to." 
 
 "Where does he lunch ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Probably the Lawyers Club 
 or at the Hardware a good many of the city 
 people go there." 
 
 "We'll get his office first. If he isn't there, 
 maybe they'll know where he is." 
 
 Bruce got McCurdy's office. Lucius was there. 
 
 "Good God!" he answered when Bruce had 
 made his request. "I've got the whole force out 
 now looking for a girl for Sonia Krakopfsky 
 who didn't come home last night. If I get after 
 them again, to find another missing party of my 
 acquaintance, they'll begin to think it's a joke!" 
 
 "This is something very unusual, Lucius," 
 urged Bruce; they had been college mates, and 
 he felt that he dared be urgent. "We may not 
 have to call on you. But if we do, don't you care 
 what the police force thinks you just tell them 
 you want Johnny Innes, and you want him before 
 seven o'clock." 
 
 "Well, I'll do what I^can, of course. And I'm 
 glad you got me. I was just about to call up 
 Rose and ask her to go to Catherine. But with 
 this worry of her own, it is out of the question, of 
 course." 
 
 387
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "I'll 'phone your office within an hour, if we 
 need your help," Bruce told him. "Do you know 
 where Creighton is?" 
 
 " Yes. He's helping me in this other case. He's 
 going around with Catherine to some of the places 
 where she thinks she may get trace of Sonia." 
 
 In an hour Ansel Rodman was back. He was 
 greatly agitated when he came in. 
 
 "She knew nothing whatever about it," he de- 
 clared, answering their looks of questioning. " She 
 was paralyzed. I have told her everything." 
 
 They glanced, one at another, despairingly. An- 
 sel Rodman's simplicity was beyond belief! 
 
 "I know what you think," he cried. "You 
 think she has duped me, too. Well, maybe she 
 has. I don't know. I never know! But I 
 brought her along so you could see." 
 
 "Brought her?" 
 
 "Yes; she's sitting on the stairs outside. I 
 said I'd come in first and break it to you." 
 
 "She sha'n't come in here again ever!" cried 
 Davy. "The serpent!" 
 
 But Rose intervened. "Wait!" she entreated. 
 "There is nothing she can do to harm us any 
 more. She has done her worst has done it 
 twice. We know her now for what she is. The 
 only thing we need fear now is that this will get 
 into the papers the cheap, sensation-mongering 
 
 388
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 papers ten thousand times worse than any dis- 
 closure Dudley might have made in Emstead's 
 Magazine. We're fighting that ! We don't know 
 what we have to fight in her. I say, let's bring 
 her in here in front of father's picture in his 
 accusing presence, as it were and measure her 
 for the fight!" 
 
 They all stared, speechless, at little Rose. Her 
 slender figure was updrawn to its fullest height. 
 Her head was proudly erect. Her eyes flashed 
 fire. She was like most gentle creatures when 
 driven to bay for those they love, a fury. 
 
 Rodman opened the front door and asked Mrs, 
 Bristow to come in. 
 
 Bruce thought he had never lived through such 
 a tense moment. 
 
 Davy stood gripping the back of a chair. Rose, 
 her small hands unmercifully clinched together 
 against her palpitating breast, faced the door. 
 
 Then Ansel Rodman appeared, supporting a 
 tottering figure larger than his own. 
 
 Olivia seemed scarcely to come in of her own 
 volition. It was by no means evident that she 
 knew where she was or how she had come. 
 But one glance at her revealed, past all ques- 
 tion, the all but unendurable agony she was suf- 
 fering. 
 
 Bruce hastened to take her other arm and to 
 lead her to the davenport. 
 
 389
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "Brandy, Davy!*' he said. 
 
 And Davy complied. 
 
 She swallowed the cognac, and almost as soon 
 as it was down her self-control seemed to come 
 surging back to her. 
 
 "The stairs," she murmured. "I thought I 
 should never get up my heart the shock." 
 
 Bruce slipped into Davy's den, out of sight. He 
 was a stranger to her, and the ordeal she had to 
 face might be an infinitesimal bit less terrible if he 
 were not present. 
 
 The strain of the situation was intense. It 
 seemed to Bruce, listening, an eternity before 
 any one relieved it by an utterance. Then it was 
 Rodman's voice, gentle but vibrant with feeling, 
 that broke the strain. 
 
 "Perhaps," he suggested, "you are not able 
 in a little while " 
 
 "No," she said. Then there was a moment's 
 pause. "No! There has been too much delay." 
 
 Her tone was a confession of fault without 
 plea for mercy. She sat forward, facing her young 
 judges. Ansel Rodman was beside her; him she 
 could not see. 
 
 "I ask for no forgiveness," she began. "If 
 there could be a penalty of law for my sin, I should 
 welcome it. But there isn't. I am not granted 
 the relief of making any expiation except in 
 suffering. Reparation no one can ever make for 
 
 39
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 sin. I want you to know this though the fault 
 was all mine. He did no wrong!" 
 
 She looked up at the portrait, and seemed to 
 gather strength from so looking. 
 
 "He was guilty," she went on, "of the same fault 
 I was the same weakness but he expiated. It 
 was given to him to expiate. I went on in the 
 same weakness it was concealment. That was 
 all we did that was wrong. We loved. We 
 couldn't help that. But we harmed no one or, 
 not as you think we did. We have harmed every 
 one we loved in ways we could not have dreamed. 
 What we did to conceal our relations was done on 
 my account not on his. He had nothing to fear. 
 I had. Mr. Rodman has told me what you have 
 heard about me. It is false absolutely. I was 
 not sent to him ! I went and went clandestinely 
 because my husband disapproved. Let me tell 
 you the story exactly as I know it." 
 
 They signed to her to go on; and she began 
 began, not with any account of herself, pleading 
 the extenuation for what followed, but with the 
 simple statement: 
 
 "Mr. Bardeen was out of work on account of 
 the strike. We were in straits. I heard that the 
 Governor needed some one to read letters and 
 newspapers for him. I applied for the work." 
 And so on, as briefly as she could. But indeed it 
 was a brief story. "Until an hour ago," she told 
 
 39 l
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 them, "I did not know what it was that Mr. Bar- 
 deen had heard that that dreadful night, nor 
 where he had heard it." 
 
 She spoke shudderingly of the murder. " In a 
 way," she said, "there was really nothing I could 
 do but go on concealing what I knew what I 
 knew to be without sin, but what I could not ex- 
 pect the world to believe was pure. My great 
 wickedness was not then I had no choice then, 
 after he was dead, but to keep silent but now 
 in not fleeing this place when I learned that you 
 were here in compromising, ever so little, with 
 Emily when I knew that she loved your brother. 
 I deserve no quarter for such wicked weakness. 
 I ask none. The question is, what can we do 
 now ? I do not want to fail in this crisis. In 
 every other crisis I have failed. It will surely be 
 granted to me that I may do something. And I 
 mean to do it. I must do it, whatever it is!" 
 
 She told them of her talk with Emily on Sat- 
 urday. "She promised me that there should be 
 no engagement for a while. Then, yesterday, I 
 learned that she had a diamond ring. . . . We 
 had a distressful night. This morning she went 
 out about half-past ten. She did not tell me 
 where she was going. I was sitting there, trying 
 to gather courage to come down here and tell you 
 the whole story when Mr. Rodman came." 
 
 Bruce came out from the den. 
 
 392
 
 Telling the Truth 
 
 "We've got to find them before seven o'clock!" 
 he declared. "After we've found them, there'll be 
 time to talk over what can be done. If we can't 
 get them, somebody has got to be thought of who 
 can put pressure on the theatre management to 
 keep their delinquency dark for a day or two 
 give out some story to the company (though any 
 pressure that could make the company believe it is 
 not easy to conceive!). And in either case, Davy, 
 something has got to be done about the newspapers 
 and done in short order." 
 
 Olivia covered her face with her hands. What 
 an endless chain of suppression was entailed by 
 those few stolen hours, long ago! Would there 
 never be an end to their penalty? 
 
 It was not necessary to find Johnny and Emily. 
 They discovered themselves before any steps could 
 be taken to discover them. 
 
 After lunching quite gayly at Martin's, they had 
 got into a taxi and gone up to break the news to 
 Mrs. Bristow. Failing to find her, they came 
 down to Johnny's house to see if they could find 
 Rose. 
 
 They were in irrepressible good spirits, feeling 
 that they had burned their bridges behind them. 
 
 It was Ansel Rodman in whom was that dual 
 sense of sympathy and detachment which is the 
 foundation of the novelist's genius who realized 
 
 393
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 the "values" in the entrance upon this tragic situa- 
 tion of these two children who had been nurtured 
 in irresponsibility by the too tender unselfishness 
 of the three acutely suffering persons they now 
 confronted. 
 
 They had got married, Johnny explained, be- 
 cause Emily told him her mother's objections all 
 of them. Yes, he realized that they were rather 
 grave; but he didn't believe any "inherited feud" 
 ought to break young hearts that were innocent 
 of wrong. (Johnny had often been told he would 
 "make a fine Romeo." He doubtless felt like 
 one now.) 
 
 He refused to give Emily up. He refused to 
 keep his marriage secret, even for a while. 
 
 "After all," thought Ansel Rodman, "perhaps 
 his is the better wisdom! But if it be so, how 
 strangely are things ordered in this world!" 
 
 394
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 " FED TO THE WOLVES " 
 
 THE search for Sonia was not soon ended. 
 Lucius bent every energy to it for several 
 days, and then, on a never-to-be-forgotten even- 
 ing, he tried to break it to Catherine that further 
 search was hopeless. 
 
 Wing had a prolonged surcease from dinner- 
 getting. When Lucius was not imperatively en- 
 gaged, he dined with Catherine and discussed the 
 progress of the hunt. 
 
 After the first day, she went back to her work. 
 Her determination on this point was such that 
 Lucius forbore to argue with her. And, after all, 
 this was one of the things about her that most 
 compelled his admiration. Her work was not an 
 important work; it was not even interesting to her; 
 but it was her work it was to be done and she 
 had none of that weak and wobbly fibre so many 
 women of the softer sort had, which made her 
 regard work as something to be done when private 
 griefs or private distractions allowed. She was a 
 proper-spirited mate for a man with work in the 
 world to do was Catherine! Lucius had seen 
 
 395
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 more marriages shipwreck because of women's in- 
 ability to conceive the obligations of work under- 
 taken by their husbands than for any other one 
 reason. They were on wrong foundations those 
 marriages where one was all for work and one 
 was all for play! He wanted to share his com- 
 forts with Catherine; he welcomed the right to 
 fight for her where she could not fight for herself. 
 But he thanked God that he had a better ideal of 
 love than to wish to take Catherine and make her 
 into something like an inmate of a seraglio a 
 wife, but an Oriental wife; a captive bird in a 
 cage of gilt. 
 
 His interest in finding Sonia was, of course, ex- 
 clusively on Catherine's account. He had never 
 seen Sonia, and his secret opinion of her was that 
 she was probably best left alone. The chances 
 were that she wanted to be where she was, and 
 that if rescued she would go more or less promptly 
 back. 
 
 At any rate, he tried to believe that she would. 
 And he tried to suggest as much to Catherine. 
 
 Catherine turned on him, blazing with fury. 
 "You believe that?" she demanded. "You?" 
 
 "I don't say that I believe it," he retorted. "I 
 say it may be so." 
 
 "And suppose it is now! It isn't going to 
 last you know! There's a hideous awakening." 
 
 "But you can't force that awakening." 
 396
 
 "Fed to the Wolves" 
 
 "No, I can't force it. But at least I can find 
 her my poor, pretty little lamb that's led away 
 and tell her that when she escapes the wolves if 
 she ever does I shall be waiting for her, with my 
 arms wide open and my heart ah, God!" 
 
 "Would you rest content or at least make 
 yourself acquiescent if you -could get such a mes- 
 sage to her?" 
 
 " If I could take such a message to her; if I could 
 see her and entreat her as I entreated Aggie; if 
 then she refused me, I could do nothing for her 
 for a while. But I'd try harder in behalf of other 
 girls other little sisters of the poor!" 
 
 "It might be," he ventured, "that a message 
 could be got to her " 
 
 " Lucius ! " The terrible accusation in her voice 
 almost made his heart stand still. "Lucius! you 
 know where she is!" 
 
 They were in the street, on their way to dinner. 
 Her hand gripped his forearm with an intensity 
 that seemed like to crush it. 
 
 " I do not know where she is," he denied. " But 
 I I think I know how I could get a message to 
 her." 
 
 Catherine's clutch relaxed; he thought she was 
 going to fall. But he misread her. She backed 
 away from him, quivering with rage. 
 
 "Listen, Catherine," he entreated. "Don't 
 jump at conclusions. Be just. I've done every- 
 
 397
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 thing on earth I can. I don't know where she is. 
 But I have a trace of her only a trace, mind you 
 not a clew to her whereabouts. I tell you, 
 she's gone. There's nothing to do but to resign 
 yourself. But I'll do my utmost to get your mes- 
 sage to her." 
 
 "How can you get it to her?" 
 
 " I don't know. I don't even know that I can. 
 I can try." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " I tell you, I don't know. But if a way opens, 
 I will follow it." 
 
 He took a step toward her, but she backed away 
 from him defiantly. 
 
 "I understand!" she said, her voice break- 
 ing into a sob. "It was too wonderful to be 
 true!" 
 
 And turning from him, she ran back toward 
 Third Avenue. 
 
 Lucius followed her for a few paces, imploring 
 her to listen to him. Then, fearful of making a 
 scene in the street, he gave up pursuit. 
 
 When Catherine got back to her so-lonely little 
 room, she threw herself on the dingy bed and 
 wept tumultuously. "Oh, fool!" she cried in 
 her heart. "Fool! fool! to think it could be 
 true. What could he want of you but to amuse 
 himself, and then to mock you?" 
 
 She got up, after a while, and took down a dress 
 
 398
 
 "Fed to the Wolves" 
 
 of Sonia's that was hanging on a wall-peg, and 
 hugging it to her bosom, she lay down again. 
 
 And she had believed him when he said he had 
 a tender zeal for girls for the little laughter-lov- 
 ing daughters of the crowded tenements! She had 
 believed him when he told her he was trying to 
 have Sonia found! "If some one has led Sonia 
 away, deceiving her with lying words of love, how 
 can I blame her because she believed ? / who 
 believed him!" 
 
 It was Mollie who heard her sobbing. She 
 opened the door and crept in. The sounds and 
 signs of grief were familiar to Mollie. 
 
 Catherine raised her head to see who had en- 
 tered. She did not speak when she saw it was 
 Mollie, but buried her head again in the pillows. 
 Mollie cuddled in beside her and waited. Wise 
 little Mollie! She knew that comfort must not 
 obtrude that it must bide its time must be 
 loving enough to wait. 
 
 By and by Catherine stretched out an arm and 
 drew Mollie close oh, very close! 
 
 The Crehores knew, of course, that Sonia was 
 gone. They knew, too, that a friend of Catherine's 
 on .whose friendship they put their own inter- 
 pretation was helping in the search for her. 
 Crehore was a humble politician, but he was part 
 of a close-knit organization; he knew something 
 of its methods, and even to his obscure place in it 
 
 399
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 a certain amount of "inside information" perco- 
 lated. He knew, as he said, "all about" Lucius 
 McCurdy; he thought he knew about what kind 
 of interest Mr. McCurdy could take in Catherine 
 and even at that, there was no accounting for 
 tastes. 
 
 After an hour or so of silent comforting, Mollie 
 grew alarmed because there was no abatement of 
 Catherine's grief. Mollie could feel the rigidity of 
 Catherine's body; the unrelaxing strain with which 
 she held the child to her. 
 
 "Cath'rine," she whispered, in a frightened 
 tone, "what is it? Is Sonia dead?" 
 
 Catherine released Mollie and sat up in bed, 
 pressing one hand against her forehead as if to 
 quiet an intolerable throbbing. 
 
 "No," she answered; "no! Sonia is not dead 
 not dead poor little Sonia!" 
 
 "What makes her 'poor,' Cath'rine ?" 
 
 Catherine gripped the child's shoulders and 
 shook her fiercely. 
 
 " Because the wolves have got her!" she moaned. 
 "The wolves his friends " 
 
 Mollie was terrified. She ran into her own 
 house. Her father was just going out. 
 
 "Something's the matter with Cath'rine!" she 
 sobbed. "She acks terrible, an' says the wolves 
 has eat up Sonia." 
 
 Crehore looked at his wife significantly. Then 
 he stepped to Catherine's door and knocked. 
 
 400
 
 "Fed to the Wolves" 
 
 Catherine opened the door a few inches and 
 peered out. 
 
 "It's me," he announced. "Did yer frien' tell 
 
 ye?" 
 
 "Tell me what?" 
 
 "About Sonia. That he knows where she is." 
 
 "He told me he didn't know." 
 
 Crehore laughed harshly. "He's a four-flush- 
 er, all right. He hates to admit there's anythin' 
 he can't do." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean this: lemme pass ye the tip, Cath'rine; 
 ye'll not git Sonia back, an' ye may as well stop 
 iookin'." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because I know who's got 'er. It's a man 
 higher up than yer frien', an' he darsent say a 
 word." 
 
 Catherine was on her feet confronting him as he 
 stood in the half-open door. 
 
 "Does Mr. McCurdy know that?" 
 
 "Sure he knows it!" 
 
 "And how do you know it?" 
 
 Crehore's manner changed. From having been 
 free and self-important, it began to show signs of 
 hedging. 
 
 "Things git around," he said. "I thought I'd 
 tip ye off, so ye wouldn' waste no more hopes on 
 it." 
 
 Catherine's first impulse was to blaze out at 
 401
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 him as one of a vile gang. But she bethought 
 herself that a little restraint, a little craft, might 
 serve her much better. 
 
 "Do you know where she is?" she asked him 
 persuasively. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Do you know who has her?" 
 
 "How'd I know? I on'y heard it whispered 
 aroun' that it was a man high up wid a pull so 
 strong no one kin pull agin 'im." 
 
 "How did she come to meet such a man ?" 
 
 Crehore looked at her. He had thought Cath- 
 erine knew more about such things. 
 
 "I don' suppose she ever heard of *im," he 
 laughed. 
 
 "You mean that some one some one got her 
 for him?" 
 
 "Sure!" 
 
 Catherine clutched at the door for support. 
 
 "So that was it!" she gasped. "The 
 wolves! And he knew!" 
 
 Crehore had compassion, according to his kind, 
 for the agony he read in her face. 
 
 "Don 5 take it so hard!" he consoled. "Sonia's 
 prob'ly got it swell where she is." 
 
 Again Catherine restrained her ruling impulse 
 and resorted to guileful entreaty. 
 
 "Maybe she has," she assented. "Poor little 
 Sonia! I wish I knew. I wouldn't ask anything 
 more if I could just know that she was satisfied. 
 
 402
 
 "Fed to the Wolves" 
 
 Don't you suppose I could see her, if I promised 
 not to ask her to come away?" 
 
 Crehore shifted about uneasily. "Why," he 
 answered, "she could surely send ye word if she 
 wanted t' see ye. Ye don' believe in this 'white 
 slave' foolishness, do ye?" 
 
 "Believe in it ?" cried Catherine, throwing pru- 
 dence to the winds; "of course I believe in it! 
 Even if she's not in slavery behind locks and bars, 
 she's in slavery to the idea that because she's been 
 trapped there's nothing for her but to stay trapped. 
 That's slavery enough! I want to tell her that 
 it doesn't matter what she has done; I want her 
 back and I'll love her better than I ever knew how 
 to love her before!" 
 
 Crehore shrugged. "I don* make out that 
 Sonia's very strong for sisterly affection," he de- 
 clared. "I'll bet she'd rather have what she's 
 got now than all ye could ever give 'er to yer dy- 
 ing day." 
 
 Lucius went home when he saw that he could 
 not make Catherine hear him. He got on a 
 Third Avenue car and went back to his rooms. 
 There, at least, he could be alone with his thoughts. 
 He dared not be otherwise; for he felt that if any 
 one were to speak to him, he was likely to become 
 guilty of homicide. 
 
 He let himself in and went up to the sitting- 
 
 403
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 room. Wing had left a cheery fire banked high 
 in the hard-coal grate. Lucius turned on no 
 light partly because he wanted the consolation 
 of the dark, and partly because he did not want 
 callers. 
 
 He dropped into his Morris chair before the fire 
 and sat staring. 
 
 An hour ago, when he came home, he had found 
 Crehore waiting for him. 
 
 Crehore introduced himself. Lucius recognized 
 the name as that of Catherine's landlord, and in- 
 stantly he was a prey to sick fear; something had 
 befallen Catherine! 
 
 "Did did Miss Krakopfsky send you?" he 
 faltered. 
 
 Crehore laughed. "No," he answered. 
 
 Lucius felt in the man's manner that which was 
 sinister. 
 
 "Well?" he demanded sharply. His tone was 
 that of command, but his feeling was one of anxiety 
 to have the worst quickly over. 
 
 Crehore did not cringe. He knew the ground 
 on which he stood. 
 
 "Ye're lookin' fer the girl Sonia," he began. 
 
 Lucius nodded brusquely. 
 
 " Ye'd better keep off," Crehore advised, leering. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I'm here to tell ye it'll be damn onwholesome 
 fer ye t' go any furder wid this." 
 
 404
 
 "Fed to the Wolves" 
 
 "You you * Lucius could not frame his 
 accusing question. 
 
 " Steady ! " cautioned Crehore. " There's power 
 bigger'n yours, my frien', takin' care o' me on this 
 job." 
 
 "Then it's your job, is it?" 
 
 "It's my job, all right though Sonia don' know 
 it, even." 
 
 "You mean that you've trapped her got some 
 one to trap her for you and handed her over to 
 curry favor for yourself with some brute in power ?" 
 
 "Steady! It wouldn' be good fer yer future 
 if he knew ye'd called 'im a brute." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "I wasn't to mention no names. On'y, if ye 
 didn' believe me, I was t' tell ye t' take notice how 
 busy th' p'lice could git an' do nothin'!" 
 
 When he was gone, Lucius did some hard 
 thinking for a few minutes, during which the reason 
 for the futile efforts of three days became unmis- 
 takably plain to him. Then he pulled himself 
 together with a mighty effort and went to meet 
 Catherine. 
 
 In the dark sitting-room by the fire he was re- 
 viewing many things. This was "Practical Pol- 
 itics" indeed! 
 
 He must have been there a matter of two hours, 
 now pacing up and down like a caged beast in 
 
 405
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 sullen rage because he could not destroy his bars, 
 and now returning to his Morris chair to sit for a 
 while with his shoulders bowed, his head buried 
 in his hands when he heard his door-bell ring. 
 
 He did not answer, but he stepped to the window 
 to look down. By the light of the street lamp he 
 could see who his caller was when he went away. 
 
 There were three rings. Then he heard the im- 
 portunate one going away. It was Catherine! 
 
 He raised the window and called to her to come 
 back, and in a minute he was downstairs and at the 
 open door. 
 
 "My dear!" he cried. "I am so glad you've 
 come!" 
 
 He held out both hands to her in welcome, and 
 would have drawn her in, but she declined to 
 come. 
 
 "I'll say my say here!" she declared, her voice 
 shaking with passion. 
 
 "Not on the doorstep!" he pleaded. 
 
 "Yes, on the doorstep! Do you suppose I'd go 
 across your threshold you you vile ensnarer?" 
 
 "Catherine!" 
 
 "Don't insult me further! I've stood enough 
 from you. I have no hope that you'll tell me where 
 she is my little lamb that you've fed to your 
 wolves I'll not waste breath by asking you I'll 
 save it to denounce you with you and all your 
 rotten kind who live on the shame of girls. And 
 
 406
 
 "Fed to the Wolves" 
 
 how you lied to me about protecting them YOU ! 
 Why, the deliberate destruction of them is part 
 of your system of spoils! I know! He's got her 
 now that beast whose lair you dare not invade! 
 And what will he do with her, presently ? He'll 
 turn her loose to become a thing that can be levied 
 on for blackmail, to gorge him and you with lux- 
 ury. Those girls that walk the streets are part of 
 the Practical Politics you champion. You trade 
 in their shame for revenue. I'll cry your vile 
 traffic from every house-top until you set your 
 wolves on me to silence me. And I left Russia so 
 I could keep Sonia's honor safe!" 
 
 Lucius reached forward suddenly and caught 
 her. She must listen to him! She should not 
 think such things of him! 
 
 But she wrenched herself free and was gone, 
 stumbling in tear-blindness toward the garish 
 lights of the Bowery and of Chinatown. 
 
 407
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 " PRACTICAL POLITICS " 
 
 "TT remains to be seen what Prichard may do," 
 JL said Creighton, to whom Norbury had related 
 the developments of that eventful Thursday. 
 
 Bruce's face darkened. "I wish it remained 
 to be seen what some of us could do to him," he 
 muttered. "But there's nothing we can do with- 
 out stirring up the very comment we want to avoid. 
 I don't think he'll do much, though. The fangs 
 of the situation are drawn, now that Mrs. Bardeen 
 has been found. He has no evidence. And there's 
 a pretty good case against him if he intimates any- 
 thing; because her word ought to be at least as 
 good at his, and the fact that one of the Inneses 
 has married her daughter is proof pretty positive 
 or they can make it seem so that the children 
 hold her blameless." 
 
 "Do they?" 
 
 " I think they do. They had good reason, there 
 for awhile on Thursday before she came, to feel 
 terribly bitter against her. But I think she has 
 won them." 
 
 "Do you believe her?" 
 408
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 "Yes; I do. So does Rodman. She told him 
 about herself quite freely, it seems, and he was 
 thoroughly impressed. And Rose and Davy are 
 so essentially just that they were not hard to plead 
 to. In any case, though, they couldn't help seeing 
 that all the common sense of the case lay in try- 
 ing to believe her, in accepting Johnny's marriage, 
 and in letting things drift. Of course they're not 
 saying anything about Mrs. Bristow being the 
 wife and Emily being the daughter of their father's 
 assassin. That's unnecessary. But if it ever 
 comes out, it'll be less a bogey than it would be if 
 they were estranged from her." 
 
 " Yes naturally." 
 
 "They're not trying to strain things Mrs. Bris- 
 tow remains in the boarding-house alone. Johnny 
 and Emily have got a couple of rooms in a moder- 
 ate-priced hotel. Rose and Davy are to stay as 
 they are; they won't make any effort to avoid 
 Mrs. Bristow. And you know them! They'll 
 be trying to find a way for her to be happy, and to 
 boost her into it, before a fortnight's passed." 
 
 Creighton nodded. "They're dear people," he 
 declared. "I never met dearer." 
 
 "Nobody ever did," said Bruce. "I'll guarantee 
 that if that house they're living in stands up for 
 fifty more years, there'll be a tablet on it to tell 
 the passers-by that 'Here were encouraged more 
 dreams to which the world is in debt, than in any 
 
 409
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 other one place in Manhattan.' And Rose! I'll 
 venture to say there isn't a woman in New York to- 
 day who'll figure oftener in the intimate literature 
 of fifty years hence than she will." 
 
 Again Creighton nodded acquiescence. "If 
 ever," he suggested, "anything were to be said that 
 seemed to to assail her happiness, she would not 
 lack able defenders." 
 
 "I should say not! There are too many persons 
 in her debt. And it's the kind of debt that makes 
 no enemies. You loan money to a man, and the 
 chances are that you lose a friend. But give him 
 belief encouragement when he most needs it, 
 and, unless he's a dog, he doesn't forget." 
 
 The two men were breakfasting together a late 
 breakfast in a quiet corner of The Players dining- 
 room, and as their talk ran on, it touched upon 
 the number of persons who had heard something 
 of the whispered stories about the Innes shooting, 
 and how still, notwithstanding, the matter had 
 been kept. 
 
 "People are pretty decent most of them," 
 Bruce observed; "especially where their affec- 
 tionate loyalty is appealed to. Take this club, for 
 instance. I was too young to belong to it while 
 Edwin Booth was alive; but I've heard the older 
 men talk as you have about the lengths to which 
 any of them would go to keep even the most round- 
 about mention of John Wilkes or of Lincoln from 
 
 410
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 being made. Everybody had to know about that 
 tragedy, of course. But it was the constant effort 
 of Edwin Booth's friends to make it appear that 
 they had forgotten how Lincoln died. 
 
 "I remember," he went on, "another instance 
 of that feeling in people. The first time I was in 
 Salem, Mass., I had not been long out of college. 
 I was moderately interested in Salem witchcraft 
 and immoderately interested in Hawthorne. I 
 poked around found the Union Street house 
 where he was born, and the Manning house on 
 Herbert Street where he lived so long, and the 
 Peabody house on Charter Street where he courted 
 Sophia. I went down to the Custom House. 
 And then I had a fancy for trying to retrace his 
 steps to Mall Street whither he had gone to tell 
 Sophia he had lost his job only to be met by her 
 brave reply : * Good ! Now you can write your 
 novel!' which novel was 'The Scarlet Letter. 1 
 I think it was in the Charter Street Burying 
 Ground, where Judge Hathorne, who condemned 
 the witches, lies, that I suddenly remembered it 
 was in Salem that the famous White murder oc- 
 curred. You remember?" 
 
 "Yes. Webster and the 'murder will out* 
 speech we used to read in school." 
 
 "The same. There were two elderly ladies 
 browsing about among the gravestones. One of 
 them looked to be a Salemite, showing a friend 
 the sights. I asked her if the White mansion was 
 
 411
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 still standing. She had never heard of any such 
 mansion. I must have asked a dozen persons. 
 No one knew. I gathered from their manner that 
 even Daniel Webster's name was strange to them. 
 So I went into the Essex Institute where there is 
 a museum of Salem antiquities and bought a 
 guide book to Salem. It was a bulky book and it 
 seemed to mention every personage who had ever 
 ridden through Salem on a fast train. But no 
 Webster! No one named White! I approached 
 the young lady from whom I had bought the book 
 and asked her if I could be mistaken about Salem 
 being the place. She drew me aside and whispered 
 to me, reproachfully, that in Salem no one ever 
 mentions the White murder out of respect to the 
 eminent and universally beloved family, two of 
 whose members were convicted of the crime. 
 One of these two was hanged if I remember 
 rightly and the other hanged himself in Salem 
 jail. The mansion of the murdered Mr. White 
 is next door to the Institute and, on my promise 
 to be very discreet, she accompanied me out into 
 the yard where I went to see the first Protestant 
 Church in America, and showed me the window 
 by which the murderer entered. I thought that 
 was pretty fine of Salem ! I thought this nice con- 
 sideration lent the old town as rich a flavor as 
 anything Hawthorne ever wrote about it." 
 
 "I agree with you/' 
 
 "And once," Bruce continued, "some newspa- 
 412
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 per man I know told me of another interesting 
 case. He said that in a certain Virginia town 
 there is just such a tradition of loyal silence. 
 One of the Randolphs of Roanoke was charged 
 with a pretty heinous crime. Whether his towns- 
 folk did or did not believe him innocent, they be- 
 lieved in and gloried in the Randolphs as a family. 
 Patrick Henry defended him. This man told me 
 that a hundred years or so after the affair, one of 
 the sensational papers here in New York got wind 
 of it and wanted to play it up for a Sunday feature. 
 It was reported that an elderly lady who was a 
 descendant of Patrick Henry was in possession of 
 the documents detailing the case. The paper sent 
 a representative to her. She was found to be in 
 circumstances of great need, but she declined 
 with scorn and indignation the offer of a large sum 
 for her ' evidence.' It does a body good to hear 
 of things like that." 
 
 "Telephone call for you, Mr. Creighton," an- 
 nounced an attendant of the club. 
 
 Creighton excused himself and went to the 
 
 O 
 
 'phone. When he came back his face was full 
 of trouble. 
 
 "It was McCurdy," he said. "He's in a bad 
 way. He wanted me to come down town and see 
 him. Something about the Krakopfskys." 
 
 "He's much interested there?" 
 
 "In Catherine yes." 
 
 413
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 "If anything very happy eventuates there, it'll 
 be another page in the golden records of Rose 
 Innes." 
 
 "That's a fact it will." 
 
 Creighton found Lucius in his office, trying to get 
 through with his work but pitiably wretched. 
 
 It cost McCurdy's pride something to admit the 
 truth to Creighton, but he went through with the 
 ordeal unflinchingly. 
 
 Creighton forbore to suggest by word or look 
 or tone: "I told you so." When Lucius was 
 through he asked: 
 
 "How can I help you ?" 
 
 "You can do this," Lucius suggested, "if you 
 will; you can see Catherine. She will listen to 
 you. She would not listen to me." 
 
 Creighton's eyes had an inscrutable expression. 
 There was pain in it intense pain but there was 
 something besides, something not easy to read. 
 
 "Yes," he agreed. "I'll see her of course." 
 
 "And you'll make it plain to her that I knew 
 nothing of it absolutely nothing until last 
 night?" 
 
 " I'll tell her. But you know what her first ques- 
 tion will be!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "It will be: 'What is he going to do about it?' 3 
 
 Lucius groaned. "There's the rub," he faltered. 
 414
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 "Still? In spite of all this?" 
 
 McCurdy got up and began to pace up and 
 down his office excitedly. 
 
 "Why, Creighton!" he exclaimed. "You know 
 as well as I do that this isn't politics it's human 
 nature. The beast has always existed. Every 
 political economy since the Garden of Eden has 
 depended upon him and contended against him 
 some contending more, some less. This par- 
 ticular individual beast belongs to the same 
 political organization that I belong to. But if 
 there is any political organization which has not 
 its quota of beasts, and does not have to accept 
 them, I've never heard of it. Vice and blackmail 
 are part and parcel of the history of all power. A 
 man must wade through their mire to get any- 
 where " 
 
 "Then what am I to tell Catherine?" 
 
 "Tell her ? Why, tell her I had no more to do 
 with Sonia's going than you had. And that I 
 have no more power than you have to get her 
 back." 
 
 Again that inscrutable look in Ballard Creigh- 
 ton's eyes. 
 
 "I'll tell her," he said. 
 
 He waited at the corner of Third Avenue and 
 Twenty-fourth Street, around six o'clock, for 
 Catherine to come by. He was afraid to go to 
 
 415
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 the Crehores' afraid he might meet Crehore 
 afraid of what he might do. 
 
 Catherine came up the avenue wearily and 
 turned the corner with dragging steps. Creigh- 
 ton's heart ached for her almost intolerably. 
 
 She was pathetically glad to see him. 
 
 "Don't go back there," he entreated, nodding 
 irefully toward the Crehores' house. "Come 
 somewhere with me where we can talk and eat. 
 I You look to me like a girl who hadn't eaten 
 or slept in many hours. It won't do, you know! 
 If we're going to find Sonia, we've got to have 
 strength." 
 
 " But we're not going to find her. She's gone 
 fed to the wolves." 
 
 "We are going to find her!" he declared. 
 
 His tone rang with confidence that thrilled her 
 and rekindled her hope. 
 
 "Are we?" she murmured tremulously. "How?" 
 
 "I must tell you other things before I tell you 
 that," he answered; and then he told her about 
 Lucius. 
 
 When he came to the part implicating Crehore, 
 he thought she would crush the bones in his fore- 
 arm, she clutched it so wildly. It was her vent: 
 instead of screaming or sobbing or crying or faint- 
 ing, just that clutch, like that of any creature who 
 endures mortal agony in silence. 
 
 When she could speak she said: "I mustn't 
 416
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 ever go back there! If I should kill him, the law 
 would put me away; and who would help Sonia 
 then? The law! It won't give me any justice, 
 nor let me take vengeance for myself. It might 
 fall to Lucius McCurdy to send me to the electric 
 chair!" 
 
 She spoke with the bitterness of gall, as if she 
 had no reason to suppose he would not prosecute 
 her if his party interests demanded. 
 
 Creighton pleaded McCurdy's anguish of mind 
 and, as he had expected, Catherine immediately 
 demanded: 
 
 "What is he going to do?" 
 "He says there is nothing he can do." 
 "And yet he thinks he suffers thinks he loves!" 
 "He's bound. A bound man cannot love. I'm 
 free, nothing holds me no ties of any sort. I'll 
 show him!" 
 
 Then he told her of his plan. 
 "We could ask some of our friends to take this 
 matter to the papers," he began; "to papers of 
 the opposing party. But we don't know that 
 they'd take it up perhaps they're not eager for 
 retaliation and if we asked a magazine to tell 
 our wrongs, they'd be months in getting into print. 
 There's nothing for us but to tell them ourselves 
 you and I. I'm ready to tell Sonia's story from 
 every curbstone in Manhattan if you'll let me. 
 I've nothing to enlist for your aid but an actor's 
 
 417
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 voice, an actor's training in putting things * across.' 
 But if you'll give me permission, I'll appeal to 
 every man whose ears I can reach, to go to Mul- 
 berry Street, or to City Hall, or wherever need be, 
 and demand the return of Sonia. It wouldn't take 
 all the voters in Manhattan to move the Powers 
 that Be. What do you say ?" 
 
 "Say?" she echoed. "I say when can we 
 begin?" 
 
 " In about thirty minutes if you'll eat enough 
 to give you strength." 
 
 Catherine ate obediently all that he urged her 
 to. The relief to her in the prospect of being able 
 to do something actually herself to do it was 
 tremendous. Creighton reflected as he watched 
 her that the passivity to which most of us in these 
 highly civilized days are consigned at times of 
 great stress, is one of society's cruelties that ought 
 somehow to be offset since it cannot be done 
 away with. We have agreed to delegate to others 
 the avenging of our wrongs, the recovery of our 
 lost, the power to demand for us better laws. 
 Society is better managed so. But individually 
 we suffer. We sit by and wait for some one who 
 ought to bear our interests in his heart but proba- 
 bly does not, and we suffer the agony of inaction 
 and also the deprivation of all that might develop 
 in us with the experience of standing personally up 
 to a crucial situation and wrestling with it until 
 
 418
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 we triumph or until we cannot wrestle any more. 
 Catherine had been paying the penalty of civiliza- 
 tion. To-night she was going to have done with 
 waiting on a politically controlled police and do 
 something of her own power to get Sonia back. 
 
 The first thing he did when they were through 
 their dinner was to telephone Rose Innes and 
 ask her if Catherine might come there for the 
 night. 
 
 "I can't explain much over the 'phone," he 
 said; "but it's this: Mollie's father was re- 
 sponsible for Sonia's going away. You under- 
 stand ? And Catherine has just found it out. 
 She mustn't go back there." 
 
 "Of course not!" Rose agreed readily. "Ask 
 her to come right to us." 
 
 " She We are going somewhere first. It may 
 be rather late when she gets to you. Will that 
 matter?" 
 
 "Not a bit. We're usually up pretty late any- 
 way. And if you're delayed beyond our usual bed- 
 time, I'll wait up for you till you come." 
 
 "We'll try not to keep you waiting. Thank 
 you, and good-by." 
 
 Then they started out just they two against 
 the great unheeding city to try to get Sonia back. 
 
 Creighton had been busy throughout dinner 
 thinking where he should go to launch his plea. 
 He wanted to talk to men who had sweethearts 
 
 419
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 and daughters. Fortunately the night was mild, 
 and open-air audiences were not impossible. 
 
 "Let's try Tompkins Square," he suggested. 
 
 Catherine agreed. 
 
 There were more children in the square than 
 adults, and, of the latter, more women than men. 
 But Creighton was willing to begin with a small 
 audience. Indeed, he was glad so to begin, for 
 he was frightened. Like nearly all actors, he was 
 miserably afraid of the thing impromptu. With all 
 his heart he desired to be able to do that thing, 
 but when it came to the test he was panic-stricken. 
 
 He stopped before a bench on either end of 
 which sat an absorbed couple courting. 
 
 "I wonder," he began in a low voice, "if you 
 two men would do something to help a young girl 
 who is in very great distress ? Not give anything, 
 but do something! The same unhappiness may 
 come at any time to the young lady with you. If 
 it ever does, I'll be glad to do for her what I ask 
 you to do now. We men don't have to fight to 
 protect our women as much as men used to, but 
 we're just as ready to do it when the need comes, 
 I know." 
 
 The word "fight" was magic; evidently Creigh- 
 ton was not wrong when he said that "Jack the 
 Giant Killer " is a universal story. 
 
 It doesn't take long to get an audience in Tomp- 
 kins Square, and once Creighton got started, and 
 
 420
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 found that he was being listened to with interest, 
 he forgot himself and let his theme have sway. 
 
 He talked about the lack of opportunities for 
 girls like Sonia. They could understand that, here. 
 He told how pretty she was, and how young, 
 and how, naturally, she was looking for romance. 
 All the passionate desire that was in him to reach 
 the hungry hearts of people with an enkindling 
 idealism; all the special earnestness of appeal for 
 girls that Catherine had taught him; these fired 
 his message, which his actor's art enabled him to 
 deliver with a simple charm that held his hearers 
 spellbound. 
 
 As he saw the crowd gathering he kept raising 
 his voice. But he never shouted. And it was of 
 extraordinary encouragement to him to see per- 
 sons on the outskirts straining to hear. He was 
 adept in placing his voice. He managed so that 
 every one who wanted to hear could hear. But 
 he let the newcomers begin with making an effort. 
 He knew the value of curiosity. 
 
 When the crowd was large enough and intent 
 enough for his purpose, he made an end of all 
 generalizing and told Sonia's story briefly but with 
 a tragic power that was enormously compelling. 
 He omitted reference of any sort to Lucius or to 
 any influential friends of Catherine's who might 
 have helped her. He let her stand forth simply as 
 the daughter of the tenements she was, unaided 
 
 421
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 in her fight to save her sister. He told of the 
 inactivity of the police. They knew something 
 about that, here in the neighborhood of Tompkins 
 Square. Then he explained why the police dared 
 not find Sonia. 
 
 "Perhaps just for this one girl's rescue, I might 
 not dare to come to you," he said. "But I think 
 I should dare even for that. Men real men 
 will fight for one girl's wrongs as hard as they'll 
 fight the wrongs of many. This is for the wrongs 
 of many, though! There isn't a day that some- 
 body's daughter and somebody's sister and some- 
 body's sweetheart isn't fed to the wolves. 
 
 "We haven't much power alone any of us. 
 I'm only a man out of work. I'm nothing at 
 Police Headquarters or at City Hall. But I have 
 a vote one little vote. Each of you men has a 
 vote. All I could do to help get Sonia back was 
 to say that I'd register my protest at Headquarters 
 and that I'd get every other man I could to do the 
 same. That's what I ask of you; just a word, 
 to say that you're not supporting this traffic in 
 girlhood. One protest doesn't count. Maybe a 
 hundred protests won't count. But a thousand 
 will especially if each of us makes it plain that he 
 is trying to get others many others. Maybe you 
 can't go to make complaint. A penny post-card 
 will do just as well. There isn't a man here who 
 will refuse to write a penny post-card to Police 
 
 422
 
 As he saw the crowd gatnering he kept raising his voice. But he 
 never shouted
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 Headquarters, Mulberry Street, and say 'Find 
 Sonia.' That's all you need to say. I'll make 
 plain to them what that means. Just write 'Find 
 Sonia' and sign your name and address." 
 
 Catherine was tugging at his sleeve. "I want 
 to speak," she said. 
 
 "Sonia's sister wants to plead with you," he 
 announced to the crowd. 
 
 He helped her to stand upon a bench. Every 
 eye was strained to see her. 
 
 It was drama; not acted drama, but the real 
 drama of life. And here was appeal to the be- 
 holders to take a part in it; not merely to sit pas- 
 sive and hear of brave deeds, but to become actors 
 in a drama of chivalry. Memories of things read 
 of great mediaeval scenes thronged Creighton's 
 brain as he listened to Catherine; as he looked 
 out upon the sea of faces lighted by the arc-lamps 
 of the square. 
 
 Catherine had no thought of self. He was 
 amazed at the eloquent power of her. 
 
 Her strong foreign accent; her poor clothes; 
 her plain pale face illumined with her burning 
 purpose; the toil-worn hands she held out in plead- 
 ing; all these things helped her to move her au- 
 dience profoundly. 
 
 "I come from Russia," she said. "In Russia 
 these things happen the beast who has official 
 power gets our little sisters and we have no re- 
 
 423
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 dress we cannot appeal. Here in our new coun- 
 try they happen also beasts are still beasts though 
 they live here but we can appeal. Justice is tied 
 here as there. But not so strongly tied. Here, 
 if one set of men will not give justice to the people, 
 another set can be put to replace them. There, we 
 must remove cruelty with a bomb. Here, you 
 may do it with a vote. There, we must make 
 tyrants afraid with dynamite. Here, you can do 
 it with a penny card on which you write * Find 
 Sonia.' It is a country in which every man is free 
 to be kind to other men. I ask you men to help 
 me. To help me it is not necessary, as once it 
 would have been to rescue a maiden whom the 
 robber barons held, to take up arms; to leave your 
 work and your dear ones; to risk your lives storm- 
 ing castles that bristled with archers or. with guns. 
 Maybe you will not do as I beg you to do, because 
 it is so easy. Maybe you will turn away and go 
 back to your homes where your own little sisters 
 are safe and forget." 
 
 "No! no!" they cried. 
 
 Her tears of gratefulness overflowed. She held 
 out her hands to them with a gesture as of thanks 
 she could not utter. 
 
 "We will go on our way then," Creighton said, 
 addressing the crowd briefly in farewell. "Per- 
 haps some of you, too, will go on and repeat the 
 story. Perhaps the first snowfall will come to- 
 
 424
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 morrow white cards, drifting in and piling up in 
 heaps at Mulberry Street white cards that say 
 < Find Sonia.' " 
 
 They made way respectfully for Creighton and 
 Catherine to pass, and not a few grasped Cath- 
 erine's hand and wrung it as she went by. 
 
 "There is a square further down town that I 
 want to try," Creighton said when they were be- 
 yond the dispersing crowd. "I don't know the 
 name of it, but it's below Grand Street, a block or 
 two, and I think further east than this is. I've 
 crossed it going to the children's theatre in the 
 Educational Alliance Building." 
 
 "I know," she answered. "There are always 
 many people about there and many people to 
 whom one can appeal." 
 
 They were vastly encouraged by the reception 
 with which their first effort had met. Ballard 
 Creighton was quite carried away. Notwithstand- 
 ing his sympathy for Catherine and it was deep 
 sympathy, for he loved her as he had never before 
 loved woman he was happy as he had not been 
 happy in his whole life before. He saw, in a vision 
 of promise, the beginning of his dream come true. 
 
 He began his second appeal with confidence. 
 He pleaded with an eloquence that was far less 
 conscious than inspired. Some men muttered. 
 Many women wept. 
 
 "The hearts of men have always been tender in 
 
 425
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 response to the cry of 'Child lost!"* he said. "Be- 
 cause they have always known that dangers lie in 
 wait for innocence and helplessness. Most of the 
 stories which have inspired the poets and the ar- 
 tists and the dramatists, have been stories of 
 brave men going to the rescue of the distressed. 
 Take, for instance, the story of the picture that is 
 said to be the most truly priceless painting in the 
 world, the canvas that is the glory of Holland. 
 Most people call it 'The Night Watch/ But 
 that isn't its name. Its name is 'The Sortie of 
 Banning Cock's Company/ In those days, when 
 Rembrandt painted it, Holland was harassed by 
 the Spaniards. One of the things the Spaniards 
 did those fierce and cruel Spanish soldiers far 
 away from their own womenkind was to snatch 
 the girls of Holland and bear them off to their 
 own camps for prey. Banning Cock was captain 
 of a militia or citizens' volunteer company which 
 answered at any time a call of distress and went 
 to the rescue. ... I wonder if any of you lived, 
 when you were younger, in a small town just a 
 few little houses, maybe, huddling together; and 
 all around and about, the wide prairie or the deep 
 forest. And on a night when you were a little 
 boy and were sitting down to your good hot sup- 
 per in the snug kitchen, where the lamplight shone 
 on all the dear faces about the family table, did 
 ever a white-faced man, with frightened, troubled 
 
 426
 
 "Practical Politics" 
 
 eyes, come to the door and tell in a voice hoarse 
 with anxiousness that his little girl hadn't come 
 home ? And did your father your big, brave 
 father without waiting to eat a bite or to do a 
 chore or anything; did he go out to the barn and 
 light his lantern and join the search ? And did 
 your mother and you and the other children,stand 
 at the windows for hours and watch the many, 
 many lanterns of the searchers shining and dim- 
 ming in the forest or on the plain like fireflies on a 
 summer evening ? And did some one come to your 
 house, as the night wore on, and summon your 
 dear tender mother, with all her power to comfort 
 and to sustain, to come to the frantic mother of 
 the little girl who was lost ? Did mother hug you 
 tight oh, very, very tight! for a second when she 
 kissed you and told you to be a good boy while she 
 was gone ? And after she had left you, did you 
 children talk in terrified whispers of the bears and 
 wolves the Indians the gypsies ? Did you shiver 
 with dread lest they get your dear brave father 
 too? ... Men, I am that neighbor who comes 
 and says a little girl is lost. Is there a man here 
 who won't help to find Sonia?" 
 
 When he spoke of the tied hands of the police, 
 he mentioned no party names,- referred to no in- 
 dividuals, but every one knew whom he meant. 
 A municipal election that had racked the borough 
 was just over. 
 
 427
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 ''We do things otherwise than as our fathers did," 
 he said. "We no longer take our lanterns down 
 and go out all night to look. We hire such things 
 done for us. We elect men to see that they are 
 done. Sometimes the results are about the same 
 as if our fathers had stayed at home and supped 
 comfortably and said, 'Let the wolves find her!' 
 Nothing made of human flesh could have done 
 that, you think. Can you, then, go to your homes 
 and say, 'Let the wolves find Sonia'?" 
 
 As he and Catherine walked away to plead else- 
 where, a missile thrown with unerring aim flew out 
 of the dispersing crowd and struck Creighton in 
 the back of the head, just about the base of the 
 brain; it was a jagged piece of granite paving 
 block and the gash it cut was horrible. 
 
 "Who threw it?" a hundred voices demanded. 
 But if any knew he did not tell. 
 
 Some pensioner of the wolves had struck for 
 them and they would give him cover and reward. 
 
 At ten o'clock Catherine telephoned from the 
 hospital to Rose and Davy. They answered that 
 they would come at once. When they got there, 
 Davy was surprised not to find Lucius. 
 
 "Couldn't you get him?" he asked Catherine. 
 
 " I didn't try," she said. 
 
 Before she could object he was away to find a 
 'phone. 
 
 428
 
 ' Practical Politics" 
 
 Lucius came about eleven o'clock. In the sad 
 necessity of explaining to him how Creighton had 
 been laid low, it was several minutes before they 
 but not before he noticed that Catherine had 
 effaced herself. 
 
 When Davy went for her she came quietly. 
 This was no time or place for personal grievances. 
 
 The doctors said there was no chance that 
 Creighton would recover consciousness. The won- 
 der was that he had not died instantly. 
 
 When Lucius had come to stay with the two 
 girls and be near Creighton while the spark of life 
 lingered, Davy hastened down town. 
 
 "There is one thing I can do," he told them. 
 "I can't do a thing to keep him with us but I 
 can do something thank God! to make his go- 
 ing tell" 
 
 About midnight the nurse signed to Rose and 
 Catherine. Involuntarily they dropped upon 
 their knees and bowed their heads. A soul a 
 big soul, strong with love was passing. Eternity 
 was close. Another world lay near so near. A 
 fluttering breath, and he was gone. The room 
 was strangely sacred. Something had gone out 
 of it but not to die! 
 
 Lucius stood at the window looking out. The 
 girls could not be sure if he knew Creighton was 
 gone. Catherine touched his elbow and he turned 
 
 429
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 to her. She took his hand and led him to the bed. 
 Rose was closing the brown eyes that had seen so 
 many visions, and that had opened wonderingly 
 after that last breath as if to emit one flash of the 
 new radiance. 
 
 "He thought he didn't believe the Gospel of 
 Love," she sobbed, her tears falling on the still 
 white face. " But 'greater love hath no man than 
 this'- 
 
 "I'll try to finish what he laid down," Lucius 
 McCurdy murmured. "But God knows I am 
 not worthy to!" 
 
 43
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 "WHAT A BRAVE ADVENTURE LIFE is" 
 
 DAVY was able, as he had said, to make 
 Creighton's death tell. He ignored all news- 
 paper traditions of "scoop" and gave it as he 
 alone knew it, freely to all. He could hope for 
 only a colorless handling from some of the papers; 
 he knew that from some he must expect a cruel 
 distortion of the truth. But he aroused interest 
 enough so that the " Find Sonia" story got to many 
 scores of thousands of readers the next morning, 
 and by late afternoon the cards were piled in 
 drifts at Mulberry Street. 
 
 Also, in due time, the dream that Creighton had 
 dreamed was eloquently told in print; and of the 
 many persons who responded with enthusiasm to 
 its appeal, there were a few whose interest lasted 
 longer than a momentary burst. 
 
 Sonia came home. And it was her exceeding 
 good fortune to come home to a sister who realized 
 that her return was not an end, but a beginning. 
 
 Catherine was far too wise to imagine for a mo- 
 ment that the problem of Sonia's future was solved 
 when Sonia was found. She knew Sonia's mind, 
 its processes of thought, its limitations; and she 
 
 431
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 knew that if this experience had in some ways 
 frightened and revolted Sonia, in other ways it 
 had opened her eyes to certain possibilities. If she 
 went back, now, to a dull routine of work, she 
 would inevitably compare what she had to give, 
 there, for meagre living and few pleasures, with 
 what she could earn in another pursuit. Even 
 granting that both ways were distasteful to her, 
 she would probably choose that one in which the 
 rewards were larger. Nor was she of a type to be 
 appealed to by any proof, however positive, of the 
 brevity of folly's day and the squalor of its finish. 
 She was determined to have her fling while youth 
 pulsed in her veins and her desires were strong. 
 As well preach thoughtful consideration of the 
 morning to the moth that hovers round the flame, 
 as preach any outlook upon the day after to-mor- 
 row to Sonia mad with ardor for to-day. 
 
 Something must be found for Sonia to do which 
 would entertain her even to the point of being 
 exciting. And the only possible combination of 
 work and interest that Catherine could think of 
 for Sonia was the chorus. 
 
 She appealed to Rose. Rose said that her ac- 
 quaintance in musical comedy circles was exceed- 
 ingly limited; in fact, she knew only one person 
 who had any connection therewith. That per- 
 son, however, was an excellent one for their pur- 
 pose. She was a girl who had gone into light 
 
 432
 
 "What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 opera deliberately, as a career a college-bred girl, 
 with no talent for many of the things her class- 
 mates were qualifying in, and a decided talent for 
 entertainment. From having been the star per- 
 former in all the lighter college plays and the 
 "preferred jester" at all college sprees, she had 
 gone in a most matter-of-fact way about the busi- 
 ness of making her comedy gifts and her musical 
 education productive of bread and butter. She 
 wasn't a star at least, as she herself put it, "if I 
 am, I'm so far off that I'm in the Milky Way: in- 
 distinguishable from the others of like sort around 
 me" but she had progressed beyond the chorus 
 and her prospects were good. 
 
 She was playing in Chicago just then. Rose 
 wrote to her about Sonia. 
 
 "Hurrah!" she replied. " I am so interested in 
 that sister who looks upon the chorus as a safe re- 
 treat, that there's hardly anything I can do that I 
 won't do for Sonia. I never expected to meet with 
 such sagacity in a ' rank outsider.' Understand me ! 
 I'm not saying that the chorus is anything like 
 Eden before the apple episode. But I do say 
 that that girl Catherine has got a right idea. A 
 girl in the chorus of a decent 'show* has at least as 
 good a chance to size up 'the foolishness of folly* 
 as any one ever gets; and the opportunities to side- 
 step the narrow path don't get to her a bit easier 
 or oftener than they do to the stenographer or the 
 
 433
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 girl who sells hats or the trained nurse or hush! 
 but this is the bitter truth than to the girl who 
 sings in church quartettes. . . . Tell Sonia to 
 take a lesson or two in carrying a tune, and about 
 three lessons in prancing she may call it dancing, 
 if she prefers; I don't, since I've seen Genee. 
 After that, if she's pretty and her figure's good, the 
 rest ought to be easy. There's a famine in chorus 
 ladies, especially in those who will go on the road. 
 When we leave here, we'll have probably a dozen 
 defections. I'll speak to the manager and see if 
 Sonia could be examined by the New York office 
 and sent on here. If she comes, I'll do my best 
 to make Catherine glad she reposed faith in the 
 maligned chorus." 
 
 The lessons were promptly begun. And Johnny 
 was besought to search among his wide acquaint- 
 ance for some one who could bring pressure to 
 bear on that "New York Office." 
 
 In two weeks Sonia was ready to start West. 
 She was radiantly happy and, apparently, without 
 either a regret or a misgiving. 
 
 Lucius and Catherine saw her aboard her train. 
 When it had pulled out Catherine stood looking 
 after it with wistful straining eyes. 
 
 Lucius did not urge her to come away, but waited 
 until she turned to him and signified her willing- 
 ness. Then they went back to the ferry-house and 
 waited for the first Twenty-third Street boat. 
 
 434
 
 'What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 There had been practically no intimate talk be- 
 tween them since Creighton died. On that night, 
 while yet they were at the hospital, Catherine had 
 said: "I misjudged you. Forgive me, please." 
 And he had replied to her with a look, a pressure of 
 her hand. 
 
 Then came many things to think about besides 
 themselves: Creighton's burial; Sonia's return; 
 talk with persons interested in the account of what 
 Creighton had wanted to do, and anxious to know 
 how it might be carried into effect; preparations 
 for Sonia's immediate future; Catherine's re- 
 moval to new quarters which were Sonia's also for 
 a while; some effort as opportunity allowed to 
 go on with the proof-reading; and lastly, it was 
 being urged upon Catherine by some who had 
 heard her plea in Tompkins Square, that she might 
 easily qualify herself to do a much-needed work 
 for and among "the little daughters of the tene- 
 ments" by speaking to them of their dangers and 
 for them to those who should hold their welfare 
 at heart. 
 
 Lucius was aware of her problems, but she was 
 unaware of his. Beyond his grief-stricken pledge 
 at Creighton's bedside, there had been no word 
 from him touching the future. 
 
 To-night, as they faced homeward after seeing 
 Sonia off, was the first real opportunity they had 
 had to come to an understanding of each other. 
 
 435
 
 Children of ToMorrow 
 
 When the boat came in (the Jersey tunnels were 
 open, but they preferred the ferry) they walked 
 quickly through the cabins and out to the forward 
 deck. The night was clear and crisp. The magic 
 of the scene outspread before them was such 
 as, to fine, apperceiving souls, can never become 
 common. The dark river was jewelled with the 
 lights of many moving craft. On its farther shore 
 the great Cliff City blazed, a miracle of man's dar- 
 ing and enduring. In docks they passed on their 
 lumbering way across the river, lay vessels of 
 enormous bulk which maintained commerce with 
 all the world. Electric signs flashed in a com- 
 petition for greatest brilliance that threatened to 
 go on unendingly until there should be no more 
 night. Tower soared above tower into the sky; 
 and above them all, as above the crumbled majesty 
 of Tyre and Babylon and Corinth and Thebes: 
 the Pleiades and Taurus, Capella and the Twins, 
 Andromeda and Perseus, Polaris and the Great 
 and Little Bears; friends of the nomad camel 
 men, guides of the men that rove the seas, " sheep 
 shepherded beyond all change or chance, moving 
 orderly from a dawn a million years far off to a 
 quiet fold a million years away." 
 
 For a few minutes Lucius and Catherine were silent 
 companionably silent hanging together over the 
 boat's rail and watching the scene outspread. 
 
 Then Lucius spoke. "Catherine," he asked, 
 
 43 6
 
 "What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 "how is it with us? Are you ever going to give 
 me your faith again ?" 
 
 She did not answer him immediately. "I 
 think," she said at length, " that before I tell you 
 that, I must know what there will be for me to 
 found my faith upon. But if," she went on ten- 
 derly, "you had asked me a different question I 
 could have given you a different answer for I 
 have loved you all the time." 
 
 Encouraged by this assurance, Lucius went on 
 to tell her of his hopes, his plans. What he was 
 fearful of was that she would consider no future 
 with him unless he consented to abandon his po- 
 litical ambition, but to his surprise she made no 
 reference to this. 
 
 Finally he himself broached the subject. 
 
 "I shall surprise you," she admitted. "For I 
 have come to the conclusion that I must not in- 
 terfere. In many ideals I think we are one. If 
 there are some that we shall never share, perhaps 
 in that we shall be the better for each other. You 
 must show me why I should believe in some of 
 your ideas not ideals, but ideas of how to make 
 the ideals come true and I must show you why 
 I believe in mine. So long as I am persuaded 
 that you mean right, I shall not presume to say 
 how you must do it. When I no longer can be- 
 lieve you are doing the best you can, then I then 
 I mustn't love you any more." 
 
 437
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 "But you just said," he reminded her with a 
 happy lover's daring, "that you loved me even 
 when you when you didn't believe." 
 
 She smiled up at him. "I know I did," she 
 answered softly; "and that's just how it is with 
 me. I have my fine philosophy of how I ought 
 to do; that's in my head. But in my heart's a love 
 that will love you till I die." 
 
 New Year's Eve was a time especially dear to 
 the Inneses. Rose in particular had for the 
 year's close a strong and tender sentiment; the 
 boys used to declare, teasingly, that it was because 
 of her Memoirs. 
 
 "Rose takes inventory every December thirty- 
 first," Johnny said, "and gloats over the accom- 
 plishments of her friends as a merchant might 
 gloat over his year's sales." 
 
 Rose admitted the gloating. "I love the * re- 
 membering,' " she assented ; " and the casting of 
 accounts. I love the looking forward and the 
 high hopes. And I am proud to brew my claret 
 punch on New Year's Eve for so many persons 
 whose ledgers for the year past show the world 
 in debt to them, and whose hopes for the year 
 to come are such splendid hopes that it's like hav- 
 ing wings to share them." 
 
 There was an inspiration in beginning the New 
 Year with Rose's faith and her claret punch. 
 
 438
 
 "What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 Every one who loved her wanted to be with her 
 at that time. 
 
 This year they were to be there as usual: Ansel 
 Rodman and little Mr. Penhallow; Oswald Seever 
 and Sam Hamilton; Mary Todd and Georgie 
 Wadsworth (Georgie was editorial adviser for one 
 of the big publishing houses, and was said to have 
 discovered and developed more geniuses than any- 
 body else in the publishing world. She was a great 
 souled woman whose touchstone for the discovery 
 of a precious presence was: "Merit consists not 
 in the absence of faults, but in the presence of vir- 
 tues"); Nat Thayer, painter, and Ward Lam- 
 son, sculptor, whose imagination took the loftiest 
 flights of any man in this present whose expression 
 is in clay. Thayer and Lamson were married 
 and would bring their wives; Sam Hamilton was 
 glad to act as escort for Miss Todd not for senti- 
 mental reasons, because she was fully ten years his 
 senior, but because he admired her tremendously 
 and enjoyed her company better than any other he 
 knew; "Os" Seever was happy to call for Miss 
 Wadsworth; Johnny would be down about eleven, 
 bringing Emily; Lucius and Catherine, who had 
 been married Christmas Day, were back from 
 their brief tour and were coming up; Ansel Rod- 
 man had volunteered to call for Mrs. Bristow. 
 
 But Rose thought it would make Mrs. Bristow 
 feel better if Davy went after her. So Davy went. 
 
 439
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 About ten o'clock Bruce Norbury arrived. 
 
 Rose had finished her housewifely preparations 
 and was sitting by the living-room fire. 
 
 She got up from the depths of the English 
 "wing" chair when Bruce entered, and he thought 
 he had never seen anything richer in charm than 
 the picture that met his eye. 
 
 There had been an exquisite snowfall, and the 
 square was blanketed in white; through the win- 
 dow back of Rose one got glimpses of trees plumed 
 in downy softness, of roofs rimmed with unsullied 
 snow. At her feet the firelight played, throwing 
 enchanting shadows into the room. Candles in 
 wall sconces flamed under soft yellow shades; but 
 on the mantel two tall altar lights burned and were 
 reflected in the mirror back of them. Goitie Moi- 
 phy, wearing a pink bow, was on the hearth-rug. 
 
 The setting was perfect: the high-backed chairs; 
 the richness of old mahogany; the soft lights; 
 the shadows where fancy played; the dining table 
 beyond, with its burden of good cheer; the atmos- 
 phere of fine thought and tender affection; the 
 fragrance of flowers; the fruity flavor of Rose's 
 brew of punch. But no setting, Bruce thought, 
 could enhance the loveliness of the jewel. 
 
 Rose was very beautiful to-night. She had on 
 a gown that just touched the floor all round and 
 set off delicately the girlishness of her slight figure. 
 The gown was fashioned of soft satin the shade of 
 
 440
 
 "What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 a rich Killarney rose; but this deep pink was 
 veiled in chiffon the color of London smoke. 
 Against this her fair skin and pale brown hair 
 showed enchantingly. The gown was not decol- 
 lete, but collarless, and about her neck Rose wore 
 a quaint-looking necklace of old silver and pink 
 abalone pearl. 
 
 A keenly critical feminine eye could have seen 
 that the little gown was only a rather humble 
 copy of some French "masterpiece"; but to the 
 eye that loved beauty, and loved Rose, the gown 
 was exquisite. . . . And in her hair she wore a 
 Killarney rose, half-blown. 
 
 Bruce was unconscious of adding to the picture; 
 but he did. His long lean figure looked admirable 
 in evening clothes and he was, with all his in- 
 tensely masculine virility, his love of the open, his 
 zest for things strange and new, the sort of man 
 who belonged part of his time, at least in a set- 
 ting of this sort quite as much as Rose herself did ; 
 for he was of that type, not common in America, 
 which has learned how to balance a love of the 
 graces of living with a love of things that are strong 
 and not beautiful; and the result was that he was 
 neither a dilettante nor a boor. And he looked 
 just this that he was. He seemed at home in Rose's 
 candle-lighted drawing-room and in his perfectly 
 cut evening clothes. But it was easy to imagine him 
 in khaki and helmet, pressing eagerly on toward 
 
 44 i
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 some prize of discovery or of conquest, fighting a 
 good fight for the things worth while in peace or 
 in war. 
 
 "Who's coming?" he asked Rose when they 
 had exchanged greetings. 
 
 She began to enumerate: "The close and par- 
 ticular few, of course like Ansel Rodman and 
 Sam Hamilton and Mary Todd, and Lucius and 
 Catherine. (Catherine is going to have Mollie, 
 did you know?) Then there'll be Johnny and 
 Emily; and Mrs. Bristow Davy's gone after her 
 now " 
 
 Bruce looked down at her understandingly, but 
 made no comment. 
 
 "Francis Hoag is coming," she went on. Hoag 
 was a playwright with a remarkable "punch," and 
 was doing as much as any man in his vigorous 
 and fearless set, to use the drama as a vehicle for 
 the interpretation of modern life. " He's going to 
 bring Miss Brewer." Miss Brewer was the star 
 who was acting in Hoag's most recently produced 
 play. "Georgie Wadsworth said she'd like to 
 bring Edith Talbot. I don't know Miss Talbot 
 well have met her only once or twice, and cas- 
 ually at that; but I admire tremendously what 
 she's doing. It was Georgie who kind of brought 
 her out you know revealed her to herself, and 
 turned her from doing fair work with strong possi- 
 bilities, to doing strong work which realized the 
 
 442
 
 "What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 possibilities. And Georgie is the proudest person ! 
 There can never be any discussion as to which 
 Georgie would rather do accomplish something 
 for herself or help some one else to do his best. 
 I'm going to have a lovely time with her in my 
 Memoirs." 
 
 " I'm beginning to feel about your Memoirs as I 
 do about Mr. Howells's," Bruce declared. "I'm 
 always so sorry the people they are about couldn't 
 have read them. Of course, he puts the same 
 quality of exquisite appreciation into his friend- 
 ships day by day as you do! but there's always 
 something about his tender summing up in retro- 
 spect that makes me sorry for the subject because 
 he can't read it. I can't help thinking how many 
 hours of deep discouragement there must have been 
 in the life of that man whichever one he may be 
 hours in which the inspiration of Mr. Howells's 
 presence and faith were not possible. Wouldn't 
 it have been great if, when those times came, he 
 could have had the 'Recollections' to read? I 
 tell you what, Rose ! If I were you, Pd write my 
 Memoirs now; add a little to 'em every year 
 have 'em kind of serial, you know; and I'd give 
 or send a copy on each New Year's Eve to every 
 one I'd written about. Then, all the year through, 
 when any one got terribly discouraged as we 
 know that all achieving persons do he could get 
 out his little book and read about himself, and 
 
 443
 
 Children of To-Morrow 
 
 take new courage to go on and make a record for 
 you to put in the next year's volume ! Honest In- 
 jun! as you like to say there's a real idea for 
 you." 
 
 He was in earnest. Rose smiled up at him, but 
 not mockingly. "It would be a real idea if I 
 could write," she agreed. "But I can't." 
 
 "You don't know whether you can or not," 
 Bruce cried. "Ellen Terry thought she couldn't. 
 But who would wish to read anything more de- 
 lightful than her Memoirs?" 
 
 "Not I," Rose answered. "Maybe I'll try." 
 
 In the square the revellers were blowing horns 
 and making other noises of acclaim to the New 
 Year. Most of these revellers were on their way 
 up town to join the throngs that jam Broadway 
 after the theatres are out. 
 
 "I wonder," Rose mused, "if they're really eager 
 for the new year all fresh and untarnished and 
 full of promise or if they blow horns just be- 
 cause they like the noise?" 
 
 "Some of each, I reckon," he replied. "It's 
 human nature to welcome the new, the untried. 
 I suppose that's as it should be. Life is an ad- 
 venture for each one of us. With all that the 
 others have done who have gone ahead of us, 
 breaking the trail, the whole journey is pretty near 
 pioneering for every one. Some people think the 
 world gets old. It doesn't. It's new every day. 
 
 444
 
 "What a Brave Adventure Life Is" 
 
 I wish I knew how to make folks believe it! I 
 tell you, I envy the men and women who can." 
 
 "I think you do make folks believe it," Rose 
 declared. "Not a great many folks, perhaps, be- 
 cause you don't express yourself in a medium that 
 reaches multitudes. But you attest to every one 
 who knows you what a brave adventure life is, and 
 how full of treasures to be sought for. . . . And I 
 don't know what any one can do more than that." 
 
 "And you think I do it?" he murmured, bend- 
 ing over her. 
 
 " I think you do," she answered softly. 
 
 " Rose," he entreated, " before the others come, 
 let me tell you my dream for the year we shall wel- 
 come in. There'll be brave dreams in the hearts 
 here to-night as the bells peal and the whistles 
 blow. But I think there won't be any dream so 
 sweet as mine there couldn't be! For my 
 dream's all of you dear 'Rose-of-all-the-world.'" 
 
 Rose's mouth was tremulous; she could not 
 speak. But she looked up at him with shining 
 eyes whose light was unmistakable. . . . 
 
 There was the sound of a key in the frontdoor 
 lock and Davy came in; Davy and Mrs. Bristow. 
 
 445
 
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