THE LIBRARY ' OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES NORKOMA A NOVEL BY GEORGE B. GRIGGS STATE SENATOR HOUSTON, TEXAS. J. V. DEALT COMPANY PUBLISHERS 1906. Cypyright, 1906. by GEORGE B. GRIGGS". A II rights reserved. Published March. 1906. -vj TO MY FRIEND Robert T. Daniel of Griffin, Georgia, the silver-tongued orator of the South -who is as gentle as a -woman; as noble as a lord; as loving as a brother; charitable toivard human frailties; loyal to friend; generous, patriotic, true do I dedicate this my poor effort. The Author. Houston, Texas, March isth, igo6. 751778 ILLUSTRATIONS. THE BIRTH PLACE OP TEXAS Frontispiece THE LITTLE GOLDEN LOCKET 16 "I'LL SUE HIM TO-MORROW FOR THAT MONEY." . . . 128 "THE PEOPLE ARE ALREADY DEMANDING JUSTICE- EQUAL JUSTICE To ALL ALIKE" 160 "OLD AUNT DINAH" 216 "THE ALAMO" . . , 296 "I CAME To TEXAS FOR No OTHER PURPOSE THAN To WIN You, DOROTHY" 304 THE TEXAS COMMISSIONERS 364 NORKOMA NORKOMA CHAPTER I. "LITTLE NORKOMA." "What yo' speck yo' is gwine ter be good fo', 'Koma, when yo' is done growed to be a big man?" "I don't know, mam " "Now, doan call me dat. I'se Aunt Dinah, an' I haint bin nothin' else sens long befo' de wah. 'Cose, I aint yo' Aunt, an' I don speck yo's got an Aunt but its a fack, jes as sho's yo' is bawn, yo's done got some relashuns of some kind what is what is somebody." "Have I, Aunt Dinah and will my mamma come for me?" "Fo' de Lawd sakes, chile! What will yo' be axin next? I doan speck yo's got a mammy, nor a pappy nuther. Yo' clar right out o' heah now go 'long and larn to sell dem papahs, 'case yo' knows dis ole niggah caint spote yo' widout yo' larn to do somethin' to help along." With the delivery of this command, "Aunt Dinah" entered the little cabin she was wont to call her home, her spacious body sorely taxing the doorway as she passed through, leav ing little Norkoma standing on the curbstone, a few stray NORKOMA copies of daily papers grasped tightly 'neath his arm. His childish face, surrounded by a bright cloud of tangled curls from under which peeped deep, intelligent eyes of blue, wore a look of perplexity, as if the weight of a first great trouble was being felt. After a few moments' hesitation the little lad of but five years was calling his papers and endeavoring in the usual newsboy fashion to dispose of them, the expe rience to be gained from the effort being by far the greater consideration. "Evening papers here, sir; papers, evening papers," he called in his childish voice as he ran along, wistfully extend ing a paper to the passerby and greeting each with a be seeching look that meant far more than he was able to convey in words. Success did not crown the child's efforts, heroic as they were, to dispose of his supply of papers, and the drooping eyelids and quivering lips told plainly the disappointment that he keenly felt. But the memory of "Aunt Dinah's" stern command lingered with him, and after a few moments' hesitation he again started slowly up the street, calling his papers even louder than before. "Evening paper, sir?" he queried, and in his childish way scrutinized the faces of those he met, as if among them he hoped to find a friend someone who would share with him the burden which was rapidly becoming too heavy to be longer borne alone and mechanically held out a paper as an inducement to a chance purchaser. "Papers, evening papers," he called, as the pent-up tears forced their way through the barriers which until now had stubbornly held them in check. "Why, hello, little fellow. Aren't you rather youthful "LITTLE NORKOMA" to be in the news business ? And how about your papers not all sold yet, eh?" The kindly voice of the stranger, a tall, handsome young man, of pleasant appearance and irresistible manner, in stantly gained the confidence of the child. "Oh, please buy a paper, mister!" begged the lad, man fully choking down the sobs that threatened to drown his words. "Certainly I'll buy a paper I'll buy all the papers you have. Here's your money, and you may keep the papers. Now, tell me, won't you, where you live?" "In that little house down there," answered the child, pointing toward a diminutive dwelling situated in the next block. "Aunt Dinah and me, we live there." "And who is Aunt Dinah?" "I don't know, sir, who she is, but I live with her." "Have you no home but the one with Aunt Dinah have you no father nor mother?" "I don't know, sir, but I think papa and mamma are dead. Aunt Dinah says I have no papa nor mamma." "What is your name?" "Aunt Dinah calls me Norkoma." This brief conversation was sufficient to convince the stranger that ISTorkoma was exceptionally bright and intelli gent, and he thought of the success the boy might achieve as he grew from boyhood to manhood, should Dame For tune but firmly retain the hold of him that she undoubt edly had during the early days and months of his exist ence. He thought, too, of his own childless home, of the infinite pleasure it would be to watch the growth and de velopment of a child like Norkoma; he wished the boy were NORKOMA his own. From appearances it was evident that the little fellow received scant care; and he thought of what he would be able to do for him how he would educate him and prepare him to successfully fight life's battles. He found himself combating every argument "Aunt Dinah'* might make against his taking Norkoma, and calculating as to the time it would take to prepare him for the journey to his Southern home. During this reverie, Norkoma stood gazing wistfully into the stranger's face as if he partly understood what was passing through his mind. The man gazed into the frank, open eyes of the boy, and asked: "Would you like to go with me, Norkoma, and live in a nice, big house, with a great, green lawn where you could run and play, and have nice clothes to wear and plenty of good things to eat?" "Yes, sir; but Aunt Dinah wouldn't let me go with you; I am sure she wouldn't, because she wants me to sell papers and earn money for her." "I think she will let you go. Anyway, we will ask her," and they passed down the street to where "Aunt Dinah" lived. It took but a short, secret conference to make the necessary arrangements with Aunt Dinah, and a few mo ments later the stranger and the little boy were in one of the largest stores in the city. It required but a brief while to transform this street urchin into a handsome, well groomed lad. During the exchange of clothing, the stranger noticed a fine gold chain about the child's neck, from which wa> suspended a gold locket containing the miniature of a young and beautiful woman, together with a lock of hair. Upon the. locket was engraved the word "Nor ma." "LITTLE NORKOMA" The Limited Express south, that night, dashed with light ning speed through ravines, tunnels and gorges, over cul verts, bridges and broad prairies. The iron horse that pulled it, shrieked and panted like a fiery demon, spitting forth great clouds of sparks that gyrated through the dense black ness of the night like so many fireflies. There was a vivid flash of lightning, a deafening peal of thunder, a sudden burst of rain and hail against the windows and upon the tin- covered coach roof, and a shrill shriek of the locomotive as it pierced the oncoming storm with a power almost incon ceivable. The wind, arising to a mighty gale, rolled up great clouds of dust and smoke in the wake of the train, while it rushed on as if anxious to be free from the noise and din it had encountered, and of which it was itself a part. In one of the Pullman coaches sat a man and a little fair- haired boy. The child crept shyly into the corner of the seat, protecting as best he could his eyes and ears from the scene and noise about him. Trembling as if chilled by the cold rain outside, at every peal of thunder, at every shriek of the locomotive, the little fellow crept closer, if possible, into the corner of the seat, but neither did he cry nor utter a word of fear. "Don't be afraid, Islorkoma, I will take good care of you," said the man in kind, soft tones calculated to inspire con fidence and affection, constantly assuring the child of his love, care and protecting hand, until the storm and noise soon lost their terror, and sweet sleep breathed her anaes thetic breath upon him, bringing rest and repose as soothing as a mother's loving kiss. The stranger leaned tenderly over the sleeping child and arranged him comfortably in the seat. To him there was something pathetic in the faith which the homeless boy had shown by his readiness to leave "Aunt Dinah" and her hovel, the only mother and the only home he knew. The lights burned low, and all was still save the constant rumbling of the swiftly moving train, and the "click-click, click-click" of the rear trucks as they passed over the joints in the track. The train thundered on with seldom a stop. The first streaks of the early dawn streamed in through the coach windows, announcing the approach of day. The tops of the tall pines waved in the early breeze as if bowing their thanks to the god of light. The feathered songsters, aroused from their morning nap by the passing train, spread out their little wings, chirped, then flitted gayly to another branch. The cattle in the barn yards slowly roused them selves, stretched their limbs and mooed pathetically to one another. The cheery milk-maid, in checked apron and sun- bonnet, with her sleeves rolled high, and a bucket upon her arm, could be heard singing as she tripped lightly along the path to the pasture. The pale smoke, slowly curling up from the kitchen chimneys, told of the preparation of the morning meal. Daylight had at last come; all nature was awake. The train reached the long trestle over Lake Pontchartrain and the mad rush was now moderated as it crept along the bridge that spans this great southern body of water. The clouds of black smoke, ascending into the air from the smokestack of the locomotive, cast fanciful shadows upon the crystal surface of the waters below. At intervals, schools of porpoise were seen frolicking in the placid waters, as if in welcome of the new day. The great golden orb of "LITTLE NORKOMA" light slowly lifted itself above the eastern line where lake and sky seemed to meet, imparting its half transcript upon the bosom of the transparent plane. The broad, peaceful waves seemed like great sheets of silver spreading out to meet the welcome beams of the king of day. The guilded domes of the city in the distance, glittering under the sun's bright rays, were like so many mountains of gold bestudding the far-off southern sky, while the tall church steeples and spires were as index fingers pointing the weary traveler to a haven of rest. The lake crossed, the quiet, peaceful scene changes like magic as the train speeds along through the suburbs of the city. There are stops for crossings, the passing of suburban trains, the shrill whistle of locomotives, the hurrying of passengers, the cry of newsboys, the rumbling of carts upon the cobbled streets, the rasping release of the airbrakes, the deafening din of the breakfast gong, the trainmen's shrill cry of "New Orleans," and the passengers of the Southern Limited Express are soon engulfed in the busy throngs of the great Southern City. NORKOMA CHAPTER II. "THE CEDARS." "The Cedars" is one of the handsomest old homesteads in the city of New Orleans, if not, indeed, in the whole south land. Not that its original' cost was so great, nor because it is so unique in design as compared with modern ideas of architecture, but because nature has endowed it with a magnificent beauty that the skill of the architect and artisan cannot approach. If one were to attempt to describe this old homestead with a view of portraying its beauty, he would stop and ponder over the many things that go to make up the whole, then begin again, and again stop and ponder, and so on indefinitely, or at least until he must needs give up in despair. A slight conception may be had of its character and ap pearance as viewed from the broad, well paved avenue run ning along the front. The place consists of an entire block of ground and is surrounded by, or fringed with a double row of tall, healthy cedar trees. On three sides, leading up from beautifully paved streets toward a central amphi theatre-like plot where stands the building, are walks and drives, which are also bordered with cedar and fir trees that rear their tall heads far toward the sunny skies. The spaces between the walks and drives are filled with shrubbery, 8 flowers, pools and sparkling fountains, with "here and there a cozy nook or rustic glen, where lovers oft are wont to steal and for the while the world forget, and by the world to be forgotten. Rising out of the center of this plot of shrubbery and blooming flowers is the palatial residence, overlooking the placid water of Lake Pontchartrain. Supported by huge, white marble columns, are broad galleries surrounding the building, upon which open numerous large French windows, leading from the various rooms, making a most inviting re treat for the enjoyment of the balmy breezes of both lake and gulf- "The Cedars" was the home of LeBerte Marchand and his young and beautiful wife at the time of the occurrence of the incidents narrated in the foregoing chapter. This beau tiful home came to LeBerte Marchand by inheritance, from his father, LeRoy Marchand, who for many years before the civil war was a wealthy planter. Like many of his fel low countrymen, however, the greater portion of his vast wealth was consumed by the ravages of the cruel conflict between the states. The war also undermined his physical vigor and energy, which condition soon invited disease and hurried him to his grave. His depleted estate, consisting chiefly of "The Cedars," therefore, fell to his only son and heir, LeBerte Marchand. Fortunately, the new owner, a lawyer by profession, was possessed of a splendid law practice at the time of the father's death, and was not only able financially to retain this magnificent property, but with the small fortune that came by his marriage, he was also able to re-establish and maintain its old time hospitable reputation. NORKOMA Not a few were they who were pleased to boast of having shared the lavish hospitality of "The Cedars" in times gone by, nor indeed were these all of the common herd. Keport has it that "The Cedars" was the very center of Southern hospitality, having frequently entertained some of the world's best knflwn diplomats, as well as many foreign and domestic celebrities. Since it had come into the possession of the new owner, "The Cedars" gradually assumed a different, although, per haps, not a more pleasing appearance than that which had marked it during its former period of prosperity. The old and roughly fashioned stone posts which supported a low picket fence that surrounded the grounds are replaced by those of a neat iron design, while the wooden pickets have given way to a fancy net-work of iron and steel. The grav eled walks and drives were beautiful in former days, but the smooth asphalt has rendered them even more beautiful. In fact, the shrubbery, flowers, fountains, rustics and build ings all have felt the artist's skillful touch, giving the appearance of new life, new blood and new vigor, and in Its new attire, under the management of the new master and his estimable wife, "The Cedars" again makes its debut before the societe elite of the Crescent City, regaining all the popularity of its former days. During the first three years of their married life LeBerte Marchand and his devoted wife lived in this veritable para dise, always planning, always adding something to make their home more and more enchanting. In the happy, care less moments of those three years devoted to beautifying their home and arranging for the momentary pleasure of their friends and the constant train of guests, they found 10 "THE CEDARS" no time to trespass upon the future upon the years to come when gay youth has been mellowed by the possible pangs of pain, or ripened into a blessed companionship that forgets the gaudy toys of childhood days, encouraging more sober thoughts and maturer ideas concerning the objects of life. The continual strain upon the constitution of those who court the goddess of society is sufficient to demand a halt in the social career of many who were far stronger than was Mrs. Marchand, and that period had now been reached in the social life of the mistress of "The Cedars." It brought with it the opportunity for more sober reflections upon the things that are not the vanities of life. Sc it was that husband and wife found themselves, as they sat upon the east gallery watching the silver rays of the clear full moon playing upon the crystal waters of a sparkling fountain near by. They had been conversing upon matters more seriously than had been their custom in the past, when the husband said : "Helen, dear, do you realize that we have devoted three of the best years of our lives to the beautifying of our home and to the pleasure and entertainment of our friends ? But at times I cannot get rid of the feeling that the home is still incomplete that there is something lacking to give us the happiness we have both been seeking." "Yes," answered the wife, "the home is incomplete, but, indeed, 'Berte, I do not know the cause. We have books, music, paintings, beautiful surroundings, in fact everything to make it complete, yet I must confess that I share the feeling with you that there is something lacking, although I am at a loss to know what it is. Do you know?" 11 NORKOMA "Yes, I think I do, but I may be mistaken. It may be restlessness on my part, a desire to carry still farther my efforts to beautify 'The Cedars.' " "If I but knew what it is that our home lacks, I would not let another day pass without making an effort to obtain it," answered the wife. Her simple purity of mind, her eagerness to please those whom she loved were characteristics well known to her hus band, but upon this occasion it seemed to him there was something deeper in her bosom not meant to be wholly di vulged. There was, however, a sympathetic chord struck, the music of which they had never before jointly heard. It was music rare and sweet, and they sat in silence and medi tation like those who for the first time are enjoying "love's young dream" until they were aroused by the great clock in the hall striking the midnight hour. In silence, husband and wife arose, and interlocked in each other's arms, entered their rooms through the great French windows. It can only be conjectured that the wife later succeeded in obtaining a knowledge of her husband's unexpressed thoughts upon the question of the one needed thing in their household. About a week after the incident just narrated, Mr. Mar- chand, upon his return home from a distant city, where he had been upon important legal business, brought back with him a great surprise for the mistress of "The Cedars." Re turning by an early train he arrived at "The Cedars" before it had taken on its usual activity and animation. The morn ing was a perfect one clear, bright, cool and invigorating. The early sun had just peeped over the neighboring house tops and sifted its golden light through the foliage of the trees, casting yellow spots upon the velvety green lawn. The 12 "THE CEDARS" birds sang their gleeful songs and chirped in the boughs and branches of the great cedars. The faithful old watch dog came slowly down one of the walks, wagging his tail in friendly fashion, as the iron gates flew open to admit the carriage conveying the welcome traveler. The old colored servant stood in the doorway to welcome home the master of "The Cedars/' to whom she addressed the following : "De missus is not done got up as yit, but I specks she will not be long 'bout makin' her 'pearance now dat de marse has done come." "Well, go tell your mistress, auntie, that two gentlemen have arrived and are awaiting her presence in the morning room. Then make haste with the breakfast, for we are as hungry as wolves, aren't we Nbrkoma?" "Yes, sah; yes, sah, Marse Berte, yo' old auntie will 'tend to dat dis blessed minute," answered the servant, eyeing the boy as she bowed and shambled out of the room in obedience to her master's command. The two gentlemen had not long to wait, for in a few moments Mrs. Marchand appeared, robed in a dainty silk morning gown, tripped lightly across the room to her hus band, with open arms and upturned lips she extended such a greeting and welcome as only true love and devoted affec tion can give. "Now, Helen, dear, let me introduce you to the other gentleman little Norkoma, our own Norkoma, our son. Norkoma, this is your mamma; won't you kiss her?" said the husband. Mrs. Marchand stood at' first amazed, then quickly comprehending the truth, she turned and caught the words of the child as they fell from his innocent lips: "Oh, yes, sir; I love my mamma," and he held out his NORKOMA dimpled little hands and raised his bright face toward Mr?. Marchand as she caught him in her arms and pressed him close to her bosom. "Oh, what a sweet child, our little boy, our Norkoma," she cried, as she held the child's face near her own and rained showers of kisses upon his lips, his bright blue eyes and his golden hair. The husband turned hastily and brushed away a tear that had forced itself upon his cheek. LeBerte Marchand was at heart a good man a good man in all the daily walks of life. This scene was one he had witnessed all the night and all the morning in his mind's eye, and it filled his heart to overflowing. The happy look, the tears of joy that trickled down o'er her cheeks told him more plainly than words could possibly have expressed the happiness that he had brought to the heart of his wife that morning. It was more than he could well bear, and, after several attempts to speak, he quickly left the room, saying in his heart: "God bless my dear wife God bless them both." After calming himself, Mr. Marchand instructed the ser vant to prepare Norkoma for breakfast, which was accord ingly done, although Mrs. Marchand seemed loth to give up possession of the child for even so short a time. As the servant returned and announced that breakfast was waiting, the husband, in a kind and sympathetic voice, asked : "\My darling wife, can you now guess what it was our home lacked to make it perfect?" "Yes," was the soft, sweet answer, and quickly throwing her arms about her husband's neck, and looking into his face with a pair of the happiest, brightest eyes, Helen said: "Yes, my dear husband, our home lacked a child." 14 THE GOLDEN LOCKET CHAPTER III. THE GOLDEN LOCKET. Happy had been the three years just passed to the mis tress of "The Cedars," but not to be compared with the happiness that now filled her heart, her soul, her very being, since Xorkoma had been in their home. Late hours in social circles had been abandoned, and early morning hours hours that bring vigor, and paint roses upon the cheeks had been instituted. Daily walks and drives in the fresh autumn air, with Norkoma for a companion, proved not only ex tremely pleasant, but health-giving and beneficial as well. The husband, engaged with his numerous clients and their "important cases," never allowed his business affairs to so engross his attention as to estrange him from his happy fireside and the tender, loving ties of home. Indeed, he seemed to feel a renewed interest in his business as well as in his home. Oft-times he would undoubtedly have been found guilty of midday dreams dreams in which ho saw in the future, a gentle, refined young man aspiring to the profession of law, and probably arranging for a co-partner ship in his own law office. How natural it is for the affec tionate parent to picture in the mind's eye the hoped-for successes of his child in life's uneven journey. It matters not in what station in life born, possibilities of energetic 15 NORKOMA American boys and girls are unbounded. Tbey cannot be circumscribed nor limited in their attainments to honor, dis tinction, popular favor, or the acquisition of vast wealth and worldly riches. The day dreams and mental visions of doting parents are no less restricted, therefore, in the richness and colorings of those dreams than are the possibilities themselves. It was but natural that LeBerte Marchand should occasionally map out, mentally, the possible future course of his new-found charge, and to paint the pictures thus drawn in the brightest colors. But those dreams were sometimes disturbed by the more sober reflections that the natural parents of Norkoma might, sooner or later, appear to claim the custody and right of possession. Such reflections had disturbed his mind but a few times when he began devising ways and means to avoid the pos sibility of such an event, nor was there any unnecessary delay in taking the steps deemed proper in the premises. Therefore, a few days after the arrival of Norkoma at "The Cedars," and before that fact had become known to many people of the neighborhood, in discussing the matter with his wife, Mr. Marchand said: "I am not altogether certain that I was right in taking the child as I did. Some people might care to cc-ntort the act into one of abduction or kidnapping." "Oh, Bertie, how can you suggest such a thing? Of course, you did right in taking the child. The little fellow was without a home, or the care of a father or mother. Be sides, I love him I cannot tell you how much." "Of course, the last named consideration would be suf ficient warrant for me to take a whole regiment of home- 16 THE LITTLE GOLDEN LOCKET less boys, but I am afraid, my dear, the court would not consider it a sufficiently strong reason for refusing the natural parents the guardianship, custody and possession of ISTorkoma, if the court should be called 'upon to decide the matter, and "Oh, but I think it would go a long way in that direction, for a mother who does not love and protect her child is not a proper person to have its custody and care. Besides, we are able to provide him a good home, to rear, protect and educate him, and give him such advantages as will make him a more useful member of society in general/' "Hello, my little wife, who taught you so much about the working of the law? I propose right now to take you into partnership with me, and "Oh, you forget that you married a lawyer's daughter,''' cheerfully interrupted the wife. "I know, dear 'Berte, that the parent is the natural guardian of a child, and, all things being equal, that the parent has the preference in law to that right, but the state and the public also have an interest in seeing that children shall have such safeguards thrown around them as will conduce to their best interests, and such as will make them more useful to the state and to the public." "But how can we say that we are better able than his natural parents to give ISTorkoma those advantages?" "Certainly we should never have allowed the child to be found an outcast in the streets of a large city, and under such circumstances as you found him. These facts are evi dence of either the parents' inability to properly care for him, or their lack of affection for their offspring." "But, my dear, suppose the child had been stolen from his 17 NORKOMA parents and held for ransom. Perhaps you had not thought of that." "True, I had not. Were that the case, however, the news papers of the country would have heen filled with sensa tional reports of 'A Stolen Child/ and many people would have heard of it. Besides, there seems to have been 'no at tempt at secreting the boy from the public, or keeping hi.-- identity hidden, for the little golden locket containing the miniature photograph, evidently that of his mother, would have readily led to his identity." "By the way," interrupted the husband, having led the conversation up to this point intentionally, ''speaking of the little locket and the picture the thought has occurred to me several times that with the memento always present to remind him of other days, will the little fellow not be likely to propound some perplexing questions regarding it?" "Yes, it would be but natural, according to the law of association of ideas, that the ever-present memento should result in bringing about that unpleasant state of affairs. It was but yesterday that the same thought occurred to me and I resolved to remove the little locket when a good opportunity presented, but when I made the attempt my heart failed me. "Norkoma was sleeping at the time," continued the wife. "We had been out in the grounds for an airing, the child giving himself up to a vigorous romp, and when we re turned, he was much fatigued. Taking him in my arms, I hummed over an old nursery tune, and he was soon asleep. He lay in my arms, the picture of sweetness, innocence and purity. Oh, how I loved the little fellow mother never loved her own son more. I must have fallen into a 'day dream/ for I saw him growing into young manhood, the 18 THE GOLDEN LOCKET noblest, brightest, best in all the world. Presently I was aroused by a servant passing through the room. My arms had grown tired and I laid him upon the couch, drawing up a chair that I might be near him and continue to feast my eyes on his innocent face. "Again I found myself drifting into dreamland, and I did not try to prevent it. The picture of the child returned. Again I saw him growing into young manhood as before. How proud I felt, for I was his mother and he loved me as such. One day he came to me in great haste; his face was flushed, and he appeared greatly agitated. I was miserable and felt that some great calamity or misfortune was about to break upon me. In his hand Norkoma held that golden chain and locket. When I saw him my heart sank within me and my blood chilled, for I then seemed to realize that they were connected in some manner with the pending dis aster. I was to lose my baby, my darling boy, my beautiful son. The door stood slightly ajar and uninvited there swept into the room a tall, beautiful woman, spiritually serene and calm. She seemed to float across the room until she stood between ISTorkoma and me, and after a long, lingering look into his face she interlocked her arms in his, then turn ing to me with a sweet smile she said in a gentle voice but the one word, 'XORMA,' and both turning, passed out of the room. "I remember no more, but at the first returning conscious ness my earliest thought was for my child. He was brought to me, and the knowledge that I had not lost him at once soothed me, and a turn in the fresh air revived me and drove away the overwhelming ennui that had seemed to almost crush my life from me but a few moments before. I felt 19 NORKOMA aroused a blazing fire seemed to burn within me. I felt indignant at the specter form that had seemed to sweep majestically through my room and lead away my son. Al though I knew it was but a fancy, a sort of 'day dream.' I could not free myself from the vision of the locket. To me it was the connecting link between the dream visitor and Norkoma. "I resolved to destroy the locket upon the first opportunity. The opportunity came toda} r as the child again lay sleeping. I could resist no longer for I feared the phantom might return in reality, and finding the proofs take my baby from me. I knelt quietly beside the couch where he was sleeping and reached out to unclasp the locket from its fastenings. My fingers grew cold and numb, and a doubt crossed my mind. I prayed that God would give me light and guidance, but my prayers seemed to fall from my lips to the floor, cold and cruel. I tried to harden my heart and convince myself that I was doing right. Selfishness sat upon her throne in my heart and ruled with all the pomp of a wicked queen, assuring me that my prayers had been heard and an swered. Encouraged by this assurance, I again put out my hands to remove the locket. The child smiled in his sleep, his lips moved and faintly uttered the word 'mother.' He raised his little, dimpled hand, and then languidly it fell to his breast and innocently clasped the treasure as if di rected by spirit influence. I started from my knees, and a shudder passed over my bcdy. A breath of air swayed the curtain at the window, and I glanced quickly around, half expecting to see the specter form hovering nearby. "The shadows of evening fell around me. The house cat wandered into the room, as if looking for his playfellow, 20 THE GOLDEN LOCKET affectionately smoothed himself against my dress and purred softly. The mournful, whining bark of old Tige reached my ears and sent a chill throughout my body. I arose quickly and left the room, half fearful that I should come in contact with the phantom form as I we'nt. I went out in the grounds and was relieved only when I met you upon your return from the city. I could not then, and know I shall never again make another attempt to take my baby's locket from him." Mr. and Mrs. Marchand sat for some time in silence, the husband mentally reviewing the question as to whether he had brought to "The Cedars" the happiness he had first sup posed. He realized that Mrs. Marchand had passed through a mental and physical ordeal not common, and that it must leave a telling trace upon her health. He at last broke the silence by saying: "I am under the impression that henceforward we should abandon the name Norkoma. The child does not seem averse to the name of Walter, and in fact I believe that is his cor rect name. Do you approve of the change?" "Yes, I would be glad to have the name changed, for the experience of this afternoon seems to cling closely to the name, Norkoma/' "Then after today the little golden locket and the name Norkoma shall be things of the past, and in their stead we will have only our own dear son, Walter Marchand." NORKOMA CHAPTER IV. A FIRST GREAT SORROW. Five years have elapsed since the occurrence of the inci dents narrated in the preceding chapter the happiest years in the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Marchand. Xot a shadow, save a few visionary ones, in all those years crossed their paths. Returning health had brought back to the mistress of "The Cedars" a glow to the cheek and a sparkle to the eye akin to her more youthful days. Walter, for by that name only has the son been known during this time, is now a bright, intelligent lad of ten years. Apt in his studies, he outranks his classmates, and is the peer of them all in deportment. In manner always refined, obedient to authority, earnest in his application to his work, he suffers in no way when com pared with youths of his age. To Walter, Mr. and Mrs. Marchand are father and mother he knows no other and he is to them their son indeed. Different from many children whose parents are blessed with wealth and abundant means, as well as afflicted with great social position, Walter has not been left entirely to the doleful care of the nursery. He has been more nearly the com panion of his mother, who at the same time played the part of preceptor and instructor. This sort of program had, for some time, been interrupted. 22 A FIRST GREAT SORROW A little sister had made her appearance at "The Cedars." and no one is more delighted over the presence of the new comer than is Walter. Uo one is more tenderly fond of the helpless little thing, as it lay sleeping upon its mother's bosom than the son, and as the months and years go by no one is more considerate of the desires, pleasures and well- being of the child than is the brother. Walter and Edith grew to be almost constant companions, and as time rolled on an attachment and affection, each for the other, sprang up, that in later years proved to be of greater depth than they had ever thought possible. Walter has nearly completed his high school course, and is anxiously looking forward to his collegiate career. Edith was now in her teens, and, being exceptionally bright, has kept well in the wake of her brother's onward, intellectual march. But the approaching separation, when Walter should enter col lege,, casts a gloom over the young hearts of the brother and sister, and they are often found discussing future arrange ments with the apparent wisdom of older people. But a deeper shadow threatens to cast a gloom over the entire household of "The Cedars." The long winter, which is now budding into spring, has been a severe one, and Mrs. Marchand was the victim of a succession of colds that quickly developed into a malady, the nature of which could not be mistaken. "Is there no hope, doctor?" asked the husband as he accompanied the physician into an adjoining room, safe from the hearing of the members of the family. "I am afraid there is but little hope, Mr. Marchand. I wish to be perfectly frank with you in this matter and must say that I see no reason why I should encourage you to 23 NORKOMA build hope upon such an insecure foundation. It would only be a castle to be destroyed by the winds of fate, any moment. It grieves me deeply to tell you this, but I believe it is best that I should do so." Mr. Marchand sank limply upon a chair with an abject look of pain and despair upon his countenance, murmuring to himself, "Oh, God, can it be true ?" "LeBerte," said the doctor, for they had been long-time friends and associates, "this is to be your first great sorrow. Let me counsel you to bear it with fortitude and courage. Through my own experience I know the full meaning of it, and it is one of the greatest sorrows that can possibly come to man. But remember, the great giant oaks of the forest have been made strong and sturdy by the biting frosts, the hail and chilling rains, and by the sweeping winds that almost uprooted them. The strong and noble soul is made so by first passing through the fiery furnace of trial and tribulation, coming out relieved of the dross and impurities. Come, my" dear friend, be brave, and God will help you through," and taking him by the arm the doctor led his friend out into the cool, starry night. It was refreshing, in deed, after his long watch in the sick room, and the two men walked and talked for some time. In bidding his friend good night, Mr. Marchand said : "I thank you, doctor, for your kind and valuable words of advice. I will, as far as is within my power, be guided by them. But our poor, dear children ! How will they be able to bear so great a trouble?" "For a time their grief will be intense," replied the doc tor, "but, unlike older persons, they more quickly form new A FIRST GREAT SORROW associations and adjust themselves to new situations which wear away the keen edge of their sorrow." This was LeBerte Marchand's first great sorrow, but the shadow fell, fortunately for him, long in advance of the blow itself, thus preparing him, in a measure, to withstand its mighty onslaught. He fully realized that it would re quire all the courage and fortitude within him to bear up under the burden that was to cast its full weight upon him. Walter and Edith, not yet realizing the serious condition of their mother, were, as usual, in the library engaged in their studies, when the father entered. The pained expression of countenance, despite heroic efforts to hide his sorrow, was readily discerned by Edith, who at once put aside her books and drawing near to her father affectionately said: "Now, what is wrong with my dear papa that he looks so sad and weary?" Then resting her face closely against his and softly stroking his hair, she pleaded: "Won't you tell your own little girl what troubles you? If you will tell her, she will do anything she can to drive away the pain and trouble." "Oh, it is nothing, my dear little daughter I am not feel ing well that is. all. Go back to your books, dear one, for I must go to your mamma," answered the father, and quickly kissing the child, he arose to go. It had cost him all his strength to hide his emotion and keep back the tears that were forcing themselves upon his cheeks. He dared not tarry for he could compose himself no longer. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he passed quickly into the hallway where he waited, why or how long, he did not know. Always obedient to her father's command, Edith returned to her study, but the picture of her father's pained and 25 troubled face remained before her. No longer able to con centrate her thoughts upon the studies, she closed her books with a sigh, and saidf "Brother, what makes papa so sad tonight? I never saw him look so troubled, and it makes me feel so badly I cannot study." "I don't know, little sister," returned the brother without looking up from his book. But Edith was not to be put off in this fashion, and, going around the table where Walter sat, she placed her hands over the open book in a playful way, with a serious air said: "You shall not read another word until you answer my question now there, Mr. Bookworm, do you hear?" "Certainly I hear," said Walter, "and as I was just fin ishing I will put aside my books and devote the remainder of the evening to answering all sorts of questions that a naughty little girl I know may please to ask." "Who is the naughty little girl? Now, tell just who you mean," said Edith, shaking her finger threateningly at her brother as if to command the truth. "Oh, she is not far away, and I know her well. Could you guess who she is?" "No, I cannot," answered Edith, with an innocent air, then drawing her chair near to her brother, in a confiding way she continued : "I would like to know what is troubling papa. I know he is awfully worried." W T alter immediately surmised that the mother's condition was, perhaps, more serious than he had theretofore believed, and a deep flush stole over his face as the thought entered his mind. The change in Walter's expression was noticed by Edith, and before he had time to formulate an answer her 26 A FIRST GREAT SORROW arms were around his neck and tears were streaming down her cheeks. "That is why they forbade our going into the room this evening," sobbed Edith. Walter was not the only listener, for the manner of Edith's speech had aroused the father from his reverie, and from his position in the hallway he could not only hear but could see the occupants of the library. In a sort of stupor he re mained as if fixed to the spot, while the brother and sister continued : "Of course, little sister, we know that serious illness, and sometimes death, must be expected, but I trust mamma will soon be well again/' said Walter trying to fortify the child against the possibilities he knew existed. "Oh, Walter, do not talk of death. Mamma is to live and we are all to be happy together again. Without mamma what would our home be, and what would papa do without her?" The listener in the hallway was nearly overcome upon hearing Edith's words of loving sympathy and affection, yet they brought inspiration, hope and courage, as well as heav- ings of the breast, sighs and tears. "Yes, Edith, dear," said Walter, "mamma's death would be a great loss for you and me to bear, but ours would be nothing in comparison with the loss our father would feel. It has been truly said that a man may lose his wealth, position, all he has in the world, but the greatest the loss that over shadows all combined, is light compared with the loss of his life companion, his friend, his wife. So it is not in our power to even know how to sympathize with father in his great sorrow, if our dear mother is taken from us, but we can 27 do a great deal to help and strengthen him in his hour of trouble. We know how to be kind and cheerful so as to drive away his cares and heart-aches, and we can help to lighten his load/' continued Walter in a fatherly way. The silent listener was deeply affected by the words of wisdom, love and affection, and could remain no longer without disclosing his presence, for his orwn heart-beats seemed so violent as to lead to detection. With tearful eyes he made his way out into the grounds hoping to be again refreshed by the cool night air. Walking back and forth in one of the paths that led down through the shrubbery, brooding upon his sorrow, he at length spoke aloud as if talking to a friend: "Why should I bow down like a broken reed in a gale while my children courageously talk of being my staff and sup port? Is it not my place, rather, to help them through the dark valley of sorrow? God helping me, I will be brave and strong, as the doctor advised, even thjough it kill me to do so." LeBerte Marchand had done hard battle with his sor row. It had come to him in the bright, cheerful summer when the harvest fields of his happy life were yet in their bloom. Its presence was ever upon his soul, a heavy, blight ing weight. Always at his side like a ghastly shadow, whis pering in his ear the torturing words: "Your wife, your companion, is slowly fading out of life." It made him feel at times as if there were no mercy, no sympathy, no justice in the ways of Providence; but fortunately, unlike many others, he harbored not such feeling in his breast. Fate was cruel to him, it is true, if we axe to pass judgment upon the inevitable laws of nature and nature's God. But., on the 28 A FIRST GREAT SORROW i other hand, fate had also been kind to him and his. Had not he and his loving wife enjoyed a long season of supreme happiness, while millions of the less favored had suffered untold misery, misfortune, and even death? What right had LeBerte Marchand to complain of this, his first great sorrow, when his lot was compared with the usual lot of com mon humanity? Within a few weeks after it became apparent that the mistress of "The Cedars" could not survive, the fair, hand some face of the husband had grown pale and haggard; the kindly eyes wore a wild, troubled expression; a deep furrow extended across his brow ; the buoyancy of his step was gone. Observing the changed condition of his friend, the physi cian, knowing that Mrs. Marchand's life was nearing its close, said : "LeBerte, we have always been the best of friends, and I want to talk frankly with you, as a father would talk to a son, regarding the cloud of sorrow that is hovering over you. It is a new experience for you, while I can speak of it as one who knows. "There are many ways in which men treat a great sor row, but the majority of them follow one of three courses. One class of sorrowers, and, by the way, they are the weaker ones, resort to drink, thinking to drown their trouble in dissipation and excesses. You, I know, have better judg ment than to take that road. Another class withdraw them selves from the world of friends about them, hardening their hearts against all love and sympathy, become cynical, lose interest in themselves and all around them, growing colder day by day, until finally they disbelieve in the mercy and goodness of God himself, and are virtually nonentities in 29 NORKOMA the end. You have too good a heart and too deep a nature to take that road. The other class are those who look kind ly, calmly upon their misfortunes and sorrows, taking them as a sort of life discipline, bearing up under them with a courage that is exemplary and praiseworthy. These are the noble, generous, sympathetic souls that you will always find plodding along life's highway, extending a helping hand here, speaking a word of encouragement and cheer there, to help the weary along. They are God's own beacon lights that shine upon the rough, uneven pathway of life, mak ing it possible for many struggling, fainting, weary souls to reach a haven of rest. "Our sorrows, my dear friend, should make us nobler, better and purer, and they will if we but accept them from God's hand as the lessons of life. They will prepare and qualify us for that enjoyment of the pure, the good, the royal things of this life that others cannot enjoy. They will bring us to that altitude in life's journey where we may look down the decline and over the valley covered with fields of the richest, ripest harvest that mortal eyes can be hold. To which class do you belong?" Before Mr. Marchand had time to formulate an answer, they were summoned to the sick room. The end was indeed drawing nigh, and ere another day had dawned upon "The Cedars" the soul of the affectionate wife and loving mother had taken its flight to the spirit land. 30 A LONELY MAN CHAPTER V. A LONELY MAN. It was all over. The family vault in the cemetery was closed and sealed. The wide halls and spacious rooms at "The Cedars" resounded no more with the happy voices of love and the music of cheerful companionship. The family was gone, and the dear old home was in the hands of serv ants. The members of the once happy family could not bear the idea of remaining at "The Cedars" after the wife and mother had left them, so it was decided that the father, son and daughter should spend some months traveling, and after the keen edge of their sorrow had been worn away Walter should enter college, and Edith be placed in a board ing school nearby, that brother and sister might not be wholly separated. As soon, therefore, as the various arrangements could be perfected, the Marchands bade farewell to "The Cedars" and their immediate friends, and set out upon their jour ney. After devoting the summer months to sight seeing at the places of note and importance in European countries, the little family returned to the United States much benefited, feeling that life still had charms for each of them. To Edith and Walter, the journey had been like a panorama of beau- 31 NQRKOMA tiful sights and scenes., while the activity of travel occupied their attention so they had little time or opportunity to brood over their sorrow. They were not only willing and ready, but really anxious to resume their studies. Mr. Marchand himself began to note that sense of longing, that inexpressible feeling natural to one long separated from the familiar ob jects of home. He knew that his return to "The Cedars" without the company of his son and daughter would not be pleasant, nor indeed would it be pleasant to remain at home without their presence there. However, his duty to his children must not be subverted to his own pleasures or whims, so according to prearranged plans, Walter entered upon his collegiate course at W , while Edith was comfortably situated nearby. After having arranged matters so that brother and sister should not be entirely separated, and having said many good byes, the father departed for his home to take up the battles of life again but alone. Mr. Marchand arrived in the city in the evening. The streets were ablaze with light, and thronged with merry, laughing crowds of people. The pale, full moon but added luster and brilliancy to the scene, as the lone traveler stood upon the curb, undecided which way to turn or where to go. He had a home and friends, and there were many place? where he had been accustomed to retreat for pastime and amusement, but he did not feel disposed toward them now. He felt as a stranger in a strange city, although every street, every building and many faces were familiar to him as he stood there in the pale moonlight gazing abstractedly upon the merrymaking throng. After a short wait he involuntarily started towards the 32 A LONELY MAN Lawyers' Club, unconsciously selecting the side of the street less frequented by the crowds of people. Going a short dis tance he paused he had changed his mind, deciding that the club would be but a bore to him. Across the street crowds were Hurrying to the theatre. Should he go there to spend the evening? No, he cared nothing for the opera tonight. "The Cedars," his home? No, he would not go home to night. He thought of numerous places of amusement, and several times started to go to some one of them, always de ciding before reaching the place upon some other course. So he wandered disconsolately about his native city, selecting the more secluded streets, his mind swayed with doubt and uncertainty, selfish in his grief and sorrow, vain in his weak ness, until tired nature asserted herself. Then the lonely man entered a hotel and retired to his dismal room. The sun was peeping over the tops of the neighboring houses as LeBerte Marchand walked slowly up one of the paths leading to his home. He remembered the time in years gone by when he had returned in the early morning with little Norkoma. The faithful old watch dog did not now come down the path to meet him as he had done on the former occasion. The old colored servant was not at the door to welcome "de marse" home. The place seemed shroud ed in gloom. He entered the parlor, where the housekeeper soon had a comfortable fire blazing in the grate to dispel the dampness from the room. He sat down and gazed vacantly into the fire. Another chair stood on the opposite side of the fireplace vacant. In the adjoining room, the door of which stood open, the wife, companion and mother had passed her last days. New draperies surrounded the bed and new curtains were at the windows. The toilet articles and brie- NORKOMA a-brac that betoken an air of occupancy had all been removed, and despite the plain, rich furnishings, the room had a desolate and deserted look. Brushing away the tears that dimmed his eyes, he uttered a half audible prayer. The closed secretarie stood in its accustomed place near the win dow. He opened it. In one of the numerous receptacles was a package of old letters neatly tied with a narrow pink rib bon, slightly soiled by frequent handling. On the envelopes he recognized his own handwriting. The letters had been written in the happy days of long ago, and had been safely kept and treasured by her whose presence he missed so sadly on his home-coming. With tear dimmed eyes he left the room, murmuring "God bless her dear memory." The servant announced breakfast, but was unheard by Mr. Marchand. "Oh, that I could recall the days gone by happy days yes, the happiest of my life," murmured he as he sat with bowed head, while memories of the past crowded over him. There was the first home-coming, when the wife, a bride, had turned to him as they entered the spacious old room and said, "This shall be indeed a home to us, LeBerte, if I can make it so." Then there was the second home-com ing when little Norkoma had lifted his bright face to theirs and said, "I love my mamma, and my papa, too." Then later the baby Edith had made them happy beyond expression then came death, and the home had been robbed of its full glory. The servant again announced that breakfast was wait ing. Marchand started from his reverie and passed into the breakfast room. He halted as he approached his accustomed place the seat opposite was vacant. The repast, though daintily served, was unrelished and almost untouched. The 34 A LONELY MAN largo Maltese cat gently stroked its fur and purred about his feet. He shared his breakfast with it, contrary to for mer custom but it was hers, she had loved it. From the house he passed down through the grounds to the stables. Ere he entered, Felix, the old family horse so much driven and petted by Mrs. 'Marchand, began neighing impatiently and pawing the ground viciously, seeming to know that his master was near at hand. As the door opened and the master entered, the noble animal stretched his shapely neck across the manger, shaking his head and whinnying joy fully, extending the only welcome he knew. Going around into the stall he patted the horse's neck, while the intelligent animal contented himself with resting his head upon his master's shoulder. The horse soon became restless and neighed several times, throwing his alert ears forward and gazing persistently out of the open door. The sorrowful man did not at first comprehend, but when the reason for the horse's restlessness dawned upon him he burst into a flood of tears, and, throwing his arms about the horse's neck, he sobbed: "Poor Felix! Do you miss her?" Then, passing around into the barn, he threw himself upon a pile of new mown hay, and wept as man seldom weeps. It was late in the day when LeBerte Marchand emerged from the buildings, for, worn and weary, he had wept him self to sleep. The sleep had not only refreshed him, but it had also revived him both mentally and spiritually, so that he felt altogether like a new man. In time, he learned to look upon his sorrow as a black cloud of destiny and fate which sometimes drops down before the vision of our hap piest dreams. In this, his great sorrow, LeBerte Marchand's soul became cleansed of its dross. His patient suffering 35 became distilled into a holy incense which arose to drive away the vain expectancies, the unholy hopes, the unhappy fears, that burdened his soul. From it all he emerged with a clear head, a lighter heart. Then, toward the eternal, ap proaching future, he stretched out his prayerful hands of hope, with a fixed belief that in the great beyond there is something brighter and better. A FAMILIAR FACE CHAPTER Vil. A FAMILIAR FACE. Walter's college days are now over, and he is a full-fledged practitioner of the law in the city of New Orleans. The office sign that adorns the entrance to the office building reads: "Marchand & Marchand, Attorneys and Counsellors at Law." Edith has not finished her college education. Having added music and fine art to her course of study, she is re quired to remain a while longer. The loving brother and sister saw little of each other during the last year or two of Walters college life. So industrious with his books was he, that whatever visiting between them there was, fell to the lot of Edith. As expressed by Walter upon occasions when Edith pleaded with him for a visit to her : "Now, sis ter, you see I'm a man with great burdens to bear, or at least I expect to bear them when I launch out into the busy world, and I must learn here to economize my time in preparing for the battle. With you girls it is different. Your battles are all fought out in your colleges. When you leave your Alma Mater you go out the victor, with no more battles to fight. You depend upon us men to fight life's battles, and that is why you need not be so anxious about a mere trifle 37 NORKOMA of time. Besides, I appreciate your visits to me more than ever I could my visiting you," etc. However, a regular system of tri-weekly correspondence was kept up between Walter and Edith, thereby keeping in close touch with each other in feeling, sentiment and mutual interest. It had been well agreed upon that at the close of Walter's course he would make up for the seeming inat tention by an extended visit with Edith at her college home, and of which contemplated visit both brother and sister lived in glorious anticipation. Edith's later correspondence became filled with glowing accounts of her wonderful music teacher, whom the pupil appeared to love very dearly. This apparent affection seemed to leave a twang of pain in Walter's bosom, though he could assign no reason therefor. He would, however, readily manu facture excuses satisfactory to his own mind for the time being. Indeed, he was almost wholly engrossed with his college work, affording little time for other matters. The teacher, according to Edith's description, was almost a divinity. Using the pupil's language, the teacher was: "The most lovely, angelic person I have ever met. She is a woman of quiet, motherly, sympathetic nature, and a charming personality. The word beautiful does not fully express her face, her eyes, her very soul; but what word can I find to use as a substitute? The few gray hairs give the appearance of interwoven strands of silver, decorating her head with a crown triumphant a victor over the perplexing shadows of life." No wonder that the brother occasionally felt a strange pang perhaps of jealousy at this wonderful affection for the 38 A FAMILIAR FACE teacher. Edith and Walter had always been lovers, as well as brother and sister. But disappointments come when least expected. The date of the Commencement, Walter was taken sick with symp toms of protracted fever, so it was thought best that he should hasten to his Southern, sunny home, where, after a few weeks of rest and recreation, he became anxious to begin his "bat tles of life" with the business world, and which he did by entering into partnership with his father in the practice of law. The miscarriage of the contemplated visit was a great disappointment to Edith, and upon learning of her brother's illness, but a few days elapsed until the family circle that is, what remained of it was again complete around the hearth-stone of "The Cedars." It was a glorious reunion. The sharp edge of the former great sorrow had been worn off by the flight of time and the cares of life. The bright and glittering star of hope and of youth's ambition was high in its ascendency. Mirth, laughter and song again filled the old home except an aching, gaping void in the bosom of the father, who, however, jealously guarded the secret by his every word and act. Edith's cheerful nature and matronly care soon mastered her brother's illness. They were constant companions, as in their childhood days. Their mutual love and affection were more than that common between brother and sister, but they were not aware of the fact. It was a pleasure to the father to witness this wonderful love and affection between his children. He loved them as father never loved, so Mr. Mar- chand thought, and he was in turn equally loved by Walter and Edith. 39 NORKOMA But the family reunion must end for a period Edith is to return to the college. The business cares of the office had engaged Mr. Marchand's whole attention since the time he returned to his desolate home and took up the battle of life, alone. With the exception of a few short visits to Edith and Walter, he had enjoyed no recreation or rest from his daily routine of toil. Xow that Walter had blossomed into manhood,, and had prepared himself to carry a part of the burden, Mr. Marchand looked forward upon a brighter scene. He could now devote more time to the comforts and pleas ures of life. Therefore, leaving Walter in charge of the office, with certain plain, but simple instructions, Mr. Marchand, with a lighter heart than he had for a long time en joyed, accompanied Edith on her return to college. Since the death of Mrs. Marchand, the only beam of joy he had known was in the anticipation of his own Walter and Edith growing into a beautiful man and womanhood that would crown his declining days with satisfaction. But now that his hopes were partly realized, the darker clouds seemed to clear away, and there was promise of a brighter future than he had thought. No two persons could have been sweeter companions upon that journey than were Edith and her father. Passengers upon the train wondered for a spell if they were lovers, or bride and groom on their honeymoon. And, when they were discovered to be father and daughter, they at once became the envied of all about them. The novelty of visiting class reci tations with Edith brought back the old spirit of his college days, and Mr. Marchand grew perceptibly younger day by day. He talked with the teachers and faculty, visited the 40 A FAMILIAR FACE literary societies, and enjoyed the exercises. What a change these associations and surroundings brought about in Mr. Marchand, no one knew better than himself. He found Editlrs music teacher even more charming and beautiful than she had been pictured. He felt glad that Edith had found so good and true a friend and associate. As teacher and pupil were almost inseparable after school hours, the father was necessarily made the third one of the party, and this companionship was a pleasure to him. But the pleasurable visit could not be indefinitely ex tended. The call to duty by his son's side now began ringing in Mr. Marchand's ears, and he made preparations to leave. On the evening of his departure, while in the parlor await ing the preparations of Edith and her teacher, who were to accompany him to the train, Mr. Marchand was mechnic- ally glancing through an album of old photographs. The faces were all strange to him, and elicited little or no inter est. As he was about to close the book, by chance his eyes fell upon a photograph that at first attracted, then startled him. It was an old photograph, but the face of the original stood out in clear cut lines. The brows of Marchand be came drawn, and he drew his hand across his face as if to brush away a shadow that clouded the memory of the past. Again glancing at the photograph, he exclaimed to himself : "I have seen that face before." His reverie was broken by the. sudden approach of his escorts. The album dropped from his hands and was closed, but the incident was one against which memory would not close. With many happy good-byes and numerous messages for Walter, Mr. Marchand departed for his home with a light heart and buoyant spirits, but with a tinge of pain, or a 41 NORKOMA mysterious unforgetfulness of the photograph of a face he somewhere, at some time in the dim past, had seen before, the recollection of which was beclouded and shadowed. On the sleeper, as the train plunged homeward, when he closed his eyes the photograph continually presented itself before his mental vision, however hard he tried to drive it away and out of his mind. In his half sleeping moments, he would find himself repeating the words, "I have seen that face before." 42 THE YOUNG LAWYER CHAPTEE VII. THE YOUNG LAWYER. When Walter Marchand entered his father's law office as partner in the business, he realized that he was but beginning the study of law; that from Kent, Blackstone and other text writers he had only obtained principles, axioms and max ims. But, here, in the office and in the court, he found the law as it was actually practiced, by "precedent" rather than by the principles laid down by the ancient writers. New and ever changing conditions in the affairs of mankind required modification of many of these ancient principles, and our new lawyer soon learned to adjust them to harmonize with the present conditions. The pleasure of being free, his own master, independent, afforded him a pleasurable sensation he had not before known. His cordial reception by the members of the bar was, indeed, a great satisfaction to the new lawyer, and tended in a great measure to remove the feeling of uncertainty and embarrassment that is usually ex perienced by the beginner in the practice of the law. Being a student, an earnest, industrious man, Walter soon found his equilibrium, and readily took high rank among the younger practitioners. Young Marchand had not practiced law a great length of time when, upon a certain occasion, he was appointed by 43 NORKOMA r the Criminal Judge to defend a person indicted for theft, but who, by reason of poverty, was unable to procure coun sel. After consultation with the defendant, wherein that per son had freely and frankly admitted his guilt, Walter returned to the Court and modestly declined to defend the criminal. "State your reasons for declining to defend this man," roughly demanded the Judge. "I could not do so, sir, lest I become guilty of a breach of professional confidence," replied the lawyer. "Then, sir, unless you can assign some good reason for your conduct in this matter, you will stand subject to a fine, and perhaps be disbarred from the practice of the law," returned the Court. "I appreciate the gravity of this seeming offense against the Court, and I also realize that my lips are sealed against making' known the conditions which give rise to my rebel lion against defending the accused. I must say, however, that it is a matter of conscientious scruple, a religious and moral principle that must have been born in me at my birth, and grown with my growth, and which, I hope, will cling to me until I die. This dilemma is not of my own making. I am indeed sorry that it has occurred, and without desiring to be insubordinate, I cannot do otherwise than maintain my position though I be fined, or even disbarred from the prac tice of my chosen profession." The dignity of the Court had been offended. The Judge had always been a staunch friend of LeBerte Marchand, and had taken a sort of pride in the son upon his admission to the bar. Personal friendship, however, could not be al lowed to interfere with the "dignity of the Court." To ad- 44 THE YOUNG LAWYER judge a fine or a jail sentence against the young lawyer would, perhaps, break down his high-strung nature and lead to unaccountable results, yet, whatever the result, the author ity of the law must be maintained. The Judge turned to the clerk and said : "The clerk of the Court will enter up a fine of one hun dred dollars against Mr. Marchand, and a judgment of com mitment to jail. The Sheriff will take charge of the gen tleman and keep him in confinement until he purges him self of the offense against the court." Walter gazed unflinchingly into the eyes of the Court as the judgment was being passed. His face flushed and paled a? the thoughts passed through his mind of the great mortifica tion his confinement in jail would bring to his old father and his sister. His heart and soul rebelled against this unjust decree of the Court. Fired with indignation, he appealed to the Court: