THROUGH STAINED GLASS

A novel by

GEORGE AGNEW CHAMBERLAIN

Author of "Home"

New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers

Copyright, 1915, by

GEORGE AGNEW CHAMBERLAIN

Published March, 1915

CHAPTER I

In 1866 the American minister at Rio de Janeiro turned from the realityof a few incongruous and trouble-breeding Kentucky colonels, slouched-hatted and frock-coated, wandering through the unfamiliarstreets of the great South American capital, and saw a nightmare. Thereis a touch of panic in the despatch which he sent to Mr. Seward at atime when both secretary and public were held too closely in the throesof reconstruction to take alarm at so distant a chimera. Agents of theSouthern States, wrote the minister, claimed that not thousands offamilies, but a hundred thousand families, would come to Brazil. 

As a matter of fact, this exodus, when it took place, was so small thatit failed to raise a ripple on the social pool of the WesternHemisphere. But to the self-chosen few who suffered shipwreck andprivation, financial loss from their already depleted store, disaster totheir Utopian dreams, and a great void in their hearts where once hadbeen love of country, it became a tragedy--the tragedy of existence. 

The ardor that led a small band of irreconcilables to gather theirhouseholds and their household goods about them and flee from a personaloppression, as had their ancestors before them, was destined to be shortlived. From the first, fate frowned upon their enterprise. They lookedfor calm seas and favorable winds, but they found storms and shipwreck. Their scanty resources were calculated to meet the needs of only thecrudest life, but upon the threshold of their goal they fell into thered-tape trammels of a civilization older than their own. Where theylooked for a free country, a wilderness flowing with milk and honey, which in their ignorance they imagined unpeopled, they found thesquatter had been intrenched since the Jesuit fathers and theirfollowing explored the continent four centuries before. Finally, theybelieved themselves to be the vanguard of a horde, but, once in thebreach, they found there was no following host. 

Most of those who had the means reversed their flight. Others, withnothing left but their broken pride, sought aid from the government theyabhorred, and were given a free passage back in returning men-of-war. But when the reflux had waned and died, there was still a residue ofhalf a hundred families, most of whom were so destitute that they couldnot reach the coast. With them stayed a very few who were held by theirpremature investments or by a deeper loyalty or a greater pride. Amongthe latter was the head of the divided house of Leighton. 

The Reverend Orme Leighton was one of those to whom the war had broughta double portion of bitterness, for the Leightons of Leighton, Virginia, had fought not alone against the North, but against the North and theLeightons of Leighton, Massachusetts. 

To the Reverend Orme Leighton, a schism in the church would have meantnothing unless it came to the point of cracking heads; but a schism ingovernmental policy, which placed the right to govern one's self and ownblack chattel in the balance, found him taking sides from the first, thundering out from the pulpit, supported by text and verse, the divineright of personal dominion by purchase, and in superb contradictionvoicing the constitutional right to self-government. When the day ofwords was past, he did not wait for the desperate cry of the South inher later need. Abandoning gown and pulpit for charger and saber, he wasof the first to rally, of the last to muster out. Nor at the end of thelong struggle did he find solace in the knowledge that he had fought agood fight. To him more than the South had fallen. God had withheld hishand from the just cause, and Leighton had fought against Leighton!

It was characteristic of the Reverend Orme Leighton that the rancorwhich came with defeat was not visited upon those members of his clanwho had fought against him. But for that very reason it was all the morepoignantly directed against that vague entity, the North. Never, whilelife lasted, would he bow to the dominion of a tyranny, much more, of atyranny which, by dividing the Leightons, had in a measure forcedneutrality upon the gods. 

Leighton House, Virginia, found a ready and fitting purchaser in one ofthe Leightons of Massachusetts. With the funds thus provided, theReverend Orme Leighton moved, lock, stock, and barrel, six thousandmiles to the south. He settled at San Paulo, where he bought for a songa considerable property on the outskirts of the city. He rented, besides, a large building in the center of the town, and establishedtherein the Leighton Academy. Here he labored single handed until hisworth as an instructor became known; then the sudden prosperity of theventure drove him to engage an ever-increasing staff. The academydeveloped rapidly into a recognized local institution. The firstmaterial revenue from the successful school was applied to building afitting home on the property bought for a song. 

The character of this new Leighton House, which was never known asLeighton House, but acquired the name of Consolation Cottage by analogywith the Street of the Consolation near which it stood, was as differentas could well be both from the prevailing local style of architectureand from the stately colonial type dear to the heart of every Virginian. The building was long and low, with sloping roofs of flat French tiles. A broad veranda bordered it on three sides. The symmetry of the wholewas saved from ugliness by a large central gable the overhanging porchof which cast a deep and friendly shadow over the great front door andover the wide flights of steps that led down to the curving driveway. 

In that luxuriant clime the new house did not long remain bare. Aclambering wistaria, tree-like geraniums, a giant fuchsia and trellisedrose-vines soon embowered the verandas, while, on the south side, English ivy was gradually coaxed up the bare brick wall. This medley ofleaf and bloom gave to the whole house that air of friendliness andhomeliness that marks the shrine of the Anglo-Saxon's household gods theworld over. 

Such was the nest that the Reverend Orme built by the sweat of his browto harbor his little family, which, at the beginning of this history, consisted of himself; Ann Leighton, his wife; and Mammy, black as theace of spades without, white within. 

CHAPTER II

Ann Sutherland Leighton was one of those rare religionists thatoccasionally bloom in a most unaccountable manner on a family treehaving its roots in the turf rather than clinging to Plymouth Rock. Isaac Sutherland, her father, had been knowing in horse-flesh, and wouldhave looked askance on the Reverend Orme Leighton as a suitor had he notalso been knowing in men. The truth was that in Leighton the man wasbigger than the parson, and to the conceded fact that all the worldloves a lover he added the prestige of the less-bandied truth that allthe world loves a fighter. He, also, knew horse-flesh. He finally wonAnn's father over on the day when Ike Sutherland learned to his costthat the Reverend Orme could discern through the back of his head thatdistension of the capsular ligament of the hock commonly termed a bogspavin. 

Ann did not share her husband's extreme views. It was a personal loyaltythat had brought her uncomplaining to a far country, unbuoyed by theReverend Orme's dreams of a new state, but seeking with an inwardfervidness some scene of lasting peace wherewith to blot out the memoryof long years of turmoil and wholesale bereavement. 

To her those first years in Consolation Cottage were long--long with theweight of six thousand miles from home. Then, with the suddeness ofanswered prayer, a light came into her darkness. He was named Shenton. Mammy's broad, homesick face broke into an undying smile. "Sho is mo'lak ole times, Mis' Ann, havin' a young Marster abeout. " And when, twoyears later, on a Christmas day, Natalie was born, Mammy mixed smileswith tears and sobbed, "Oh, Mis' Ann, sho is mo' an' _mo'_ lak oletimes. "

She, too, had her clinging memories of halls, now empty, that echoedonce to the cries and gurgling laughter of a race in full flower. 

As Ann sat one evening on the embowered veranda looking away to thenorth, a child within the circle of each arm, the old aching in herbreast was stilled. The restless Leighton paused in his stride to gazethrough fiery, but gloomy, eyes upon his fair-haired baby daughter andhis son, pale, crowned with dark curls, and cried, with a toss of hisown dark mane: "As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man, so arechildren of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full ofthem!"

This realization of the preciousness of children in adversity paved theway for the reception of one who was to come to them from under theshadow of a family cloud, a certain mysterious personage of tenderyears, Lewis Leighton, by name. 

For weeks the name of Lewis Leighton had been whispered about the house, first by the grown-ups and finally, when the Reverend Orme and his wifehad come to the great decision, by the children. The children knewnothing of the great decision nor did they know the sources of theirsudden joy. Their spirits were reaching out to clasp this new thread inlife at an age when all new threads are golden. 

On the appointed day the Reverend Orme went to the nearest seaport tomeet the youthful voyager and convoy him home. As evening drew near, great was the excitement at Consolation Cottage. To Natalie and toShenton, the sudden arrival of an entirely new brother, not inswaddling-clothes, but handed down ready-made from the shelf, was anevent that loomed to unusual proportions. At last the great gate swungopen, and a cab rattled its leisurely way up the drive. 

In an instant the children were on their feet, jumping up and down andclapping their hands. "Mother, " shouted Shenton, "they're coming!"Little Natalie clambered in stumbling haste up the steps and clutchedMrs. Leighton's skirts. "Muvver, " she cried, in an agony of ecstasy, "they're _coming!_"

"Yes, yes, dear; I see. Oh, look how you've rumpled your dress! Whatwill Lewis say to that? Come, Shenton, give mother your hand. " Slowlyshe led them down the steps, her eyes fixed on the approaching cab. 

The Reverend Orme sprang out and up to meet them. He kissed his wife andchildren. Shenton clung to his arm. 

"O Dad, " he cried, "didn't you bring him?"

"Bring him? I should say I did. Here, step out, young man. "

A chubby face above a blouse, a short kilt and fat legs, appeared fromthe shadows of the cab. Grave eyes passed fearlessly over the group onthe steps until they settled on the broad black face of Mammy. 

"Bad nigger!"

Mrs. Leighton gasped and arrested herself in the very movement ofwelcome. Mammy's genial face assumed a terrible scowl, her white eyesbulged, and her vast arms went suddenly akimbo. 

"Wha' 's that yo' say, yo' young Marster?" she thundered. 

"Go--go--_good_ nigger, " stuttered the chubby face and smiled. With thathe was swept from the cab into Mrs. Leighton's arms, and Mammy, grinningfrom ear to ear, caught him by one fat leg and demanded in soft negrotones:

"Wha' fo' you call yo' mammy 'bad niggah, ' young Marster? Ho! ho!'Go--go--_good_ niggah!' Did yo' hea' him, Mis' Ann?"

Shenton and Natalie jumped up and down, with, cries of "Please, Mother, "and "Muvver, oh, _please!_" Mrs. Leighton set Lewis on his feet betweenthem. Shenton held out his hand. "How d' ye. "

"How do do, " replied Lewis, gravely. Natalie was plucking at his arm. Heturned to her. They were almost of a size, but to Natalie he towered aninch above her. She held up her lips, and he kissed them. Then theystood and stared at each other. Natalie's short forefinger found its wayto her mouth. 

"My dwess is wumpled, " she said. 

"I got a dog at home, " declared Lewis--"a _big_ dog. "

CHAPTER III

To Natalie, Shenton, and Lewis the scant twenty acres that surroundedConsolation Cottage was a vast demesne. Even on a full holiday one couldchoose one's excursions within its limits. From the high-plumed wall ofbamboos that lined Consolation Street, through the orange-grove, acrossthe hollow where were stable and horses, cows and calves, then up againto the wood on the other hillside--ah, that was a journey indeed, neverattempted in a single day. They chose their playground. To-day thebamboos held them, to-morrow the distant grove, where were pungentfruits, birds'-nests, fantastic insects, and elusive butterflies andmoths. 

Then there was the brier-patch, with its secret chamber. By dint of longhours of toil and a purloined kitchen-knife they had tunneled into aclearing in the center of the thicket. Of all their retreats, this onealone had foiled their watchful overseers. Here was held, undetected, many an orgy over stolen fruit. 

Nor did they have to seek far for a realm of terror. Behind thebrier-patch was the priest's wall. Over it was wafted the fragrance ofunknown flowers and of strange fruits--and the barking of a fierce dog. With the same kitchen-knife they pried loose a brick and slipped it out. They took turns at peeking through this tiny window on a strange world. What ecstasy when first they glimpsed the flat-hatted, black-robedfigure strolling in the wondrous garden! Then terror seized them, forthe quick-eyed priest had seen the hole, and before they could flee histoe was in it, and his frowning face, surmounted by the flaring hat, popped above the wall and glared down upon them. 

"Do you hear my dog?" whispered the priest. 

It was Natalie, trembling with fright, who answered, feeling a certainkinship for anything in skirts. 

"Yeth, I do. "

"Well, " whispered the priest, his face twitching in the effort to lookstern, "he eats little children. " With that he dropped from view. 

Lewis and Shenton stared at each other. Natalie began to cry. Lewispicked up the brick and slipped it back into place. Shenton helped himwedge it in with twigs; then all three stole away, to break into gigglesand laughter when distance gave them courage. 

Natalie and Lewis had another terror, unshared by Shenton. Manoel, thePortuguese gardener, who lived in a little two-room house in the hollow, had nothing but scowls for them. They feared him with the instinctivefear of children, but Shenton was his friend. Did any little tiff arise, Shenton was off to see Manoel. He knew the others were afraid to follow. Sometimes Manoel took him to his little house. 

To Lewis this strange friendship was the one cloud in childhood's happysky. He could not have defined what he felt. It was jealousy mixed withhurt pride--jealousy of the hated Manoel, hurt pride at the thought thatShenton went where he could not follow. 

One day Shenton had been gone an hour. Lewis had seen him with Manoel. He knew he was in Manoel's house. What were they doing? Lewis turned toNatalie. 

"I am going to Manoel's house. Stay here. "

Natalie stared at him with wide eyes. 

"O, Lewis, " she cried after him, "aren't you _'fraid_?"

Lewis crawled stealthily to a back window. He stood on tiptoe and triedto look in. His eyes were just below the level of the window-sill. Hedragged a log of wood beneath the window and climbed upon it. For a longtime he kept his face glued against one of the little square panes ofglass. 

He forgot fear. In the room which the window commanded was a broad, rough table, and Manoel was seated on a bench before it, leaningforward, his long arms outstretched along its edge. The table was pushedalmost against the wall, and in its center stood Shenton, laughing tillthe tears ran down his cheeks. His curly hair was damp and clung to hiswhite forehead. His blouse was soiled, his kilt awry. One short stockinghad fallen down over his shoe. Manoel was also laughing, but silently. 

Lewis did not have to wait long to divine the source of mirth, forShenton soon essayed to walk the length of the table. Lifting his arm, he pointed along a crack, and swung one leg around to take a first step. But he seemed unable to place his foot as he wished. He reeled and fellin a giggling ball, which Manoel saved from rolling to the floor. 

Shrieks of laughter, deadened by the closed window, came from the child, and Manoel's broad shoulders shook with enjoyment. He stood Shenton onhis feet, and held him till he got his balance; then the play beganagain. Now Lewis felt fear steal over him, yet he could not go away. There was something inexpressibly comical in the scene, but it was notthis that held him. A strange terror had seized him. Something was thematter with Shenton. Lewis did not know what it was. 

Suddenly Shenton's mood changed to sullen stupor, and Manoel, whose gaitwas also unsteady, picked him up and carried him to a spigot, where hecarefully unbuttoned the child's waist and soaked his head in coldwater. The charm was broken. Lewis fled. 

CHAPTER IV

Routine is the murderer of time. Held by the daily recurring duties ofher household, Ann Leighton awoke with a gasp to the day that Natalie'shair went into pigtails and the boys shed kilts for trousers. At theevening hour she gathered the children to her with an increasedtenderness. Natalie, plump and still rosy, sat in her lap; Shenton, amere wisp of a boy, his face pale with a pallor beyond the pallor of thetropics, pressed his dark, curly head against her heart. Her other armencircled Lewis and held him tight, for he was prone to fidget. 

They sat on the west veranda and watched the sun plunge to the horizonfrom behind a bank of monster clouds. Before them stretched a valley, for Consolation Cottage was set upon a hill. Beyond the valley, and faraway, rose a line of hills. Suddenly that line became a line of night. Black night seized upon all the earth; but beyond there arose into theheavens a light that was more glorious than the light of day. A long seaof gold seemed to slope away ever so gently, up and up, until it lostitself beneath the slumberous mass of clouds that curtained its farthershore. Here and there within the sea hung islets of cloud, as still asrocks in a waveless ocean. 

Natalie stretched out her hand, with chubby fingers outspread, andsquinted between the black bars they made against the light. 

"Mother, what's all that?"

Mrs. Leighton was silent for a moment. The children looked upexpectantly into her face, but she was not looking down at them. Hergaze was fixed upon the afterglow. 

"Why, " she said at last, "it's a painting of heaven and earth. You seethe black plain that stretches away and away? That's our world, so dark, so full of ruts, so ugly; but it is the rough plain we all must travelto reach the shore of light. When life is over, we come to the end ofnight--over there. Then we sail out on the golden sea. "

"Are those islands?" asked Lewis, pointing to the suspended cloudlets. 

"Yes, islands. "

"D'you see that biggest one--the one with a castle and smoke andtrees?" continued Lewis. "That's the one _I'm_ going to sail to. "

"Me, too, " said Natalie. 

"No, Natalie, you can't. Not to that one, because you're littlest. Youmust sail to that littlest one 'way, 'way over there. " Lewis pointed farto the south. 

Natalie shook her head solemnly. 

"No. I'll sail to the big island, too. "

"And you, dear?" said Mrs. Leighton to Shenton, looking down at hismotionless head. Shenton did not answer. He was held by a sudden, still, unhealthy sleep. 

Mrs. Leighton let Lewis go, pushed Natalie gently from her lap, andgathered her first-born in her arms. 

"Run to mammy, children, " she said. 

Holding the sleeping Shenton close to her, she turned a troubled facetoward the afterglow. The golden sea was gone. There was a last glimmerof amber in the heavens, but it faded suddenly, as though somewherebeyond the edge of the world some one had put out the light. Night hadfallen. 

Mrs. Leighton carried her boy into the house. She stopped at herhusband's study door. 

"Orme, are you there?" she called. "Please come. "

There was the sound of a chair scraping back. The door was flung open. Leighton looked from Ann's face to her burden, and his own face paled. 

"Again?" he asked. 

"O, Orme, " cried Ann, "I'm frightened. What is it, Orme? Dr. MacDonaldmust come. Send for him. We _must_ know!"

The Reverend Orme took the boy from her arms and carried him into aspare bedroom. He laid him down. Shenton's head fell limply to one sideupon the pillow. The pillow was white, but not whiter than the boy'sface. 

MacDonald's gruff voice was soon heard in the hall. 

"Not one of the bairns, Mammy? Young Shenton, eh?" He came into the roomand sat down beside the boy. He felt his pulse, undid his waist, listened to his heart and lungs. The doctor shook his head and frowned. "Nothing extra-ordinary--nothing. " Then he brought his face close to theboy's mouth, closer and closer. 

The doctor sank back in his chair. His shrewd eyes darted from boy tofather, then to the mother. 

"Do not be alarmed, " he said to Mrs. Leighton; "the lad is pheesicallysound. He will awake anon. " The doctor arose, and stretched his arms. "Eh, but I've had a hard day. Will ye be sae gude as to give me a glassof wine, Mistress Leighton?"

Ann started as though from a trance. 

"Wine, Doctor?" she stammered. "I'm sorry. We have no wine in thehouse. "

"Not even a drop of whisky?"

Ann shook her head. 

"Nae whisky in the medicine-chest, nae cooking sherry in the pantry?Weel, weel, I must be gaeing. " And without a look at Ann's rising coloror the Reverend Orme's twitching face the doctor was gone. 

The Reverend Orme fixed his eyes upon his wife. 

"When the boy awakes, " he said, "not a word to him. Send him to mystudy. " Ann nodded. As the door closed, she fell upon her knees besidethe bed. 

An hour later the study door opened. Shenton entered. His father wasseated, his nervous hands gripping the arms of his chair. On the deskbeside him lay a thin cane. He motioned to his son to stand before him. 

"My boy, " he said, "tell me each thing you have done to-day. "

There was a slight pause. 

"I have forgotten what I did to-day, " answered Shenton, his eyes fixedon his father's face. 

"That is a falsehood, " breathed Leighton, tensely, "I am going to thrashyou until you remember. "

Leighton saw his boy's frail body shrink, he saw a flush leap to hischeeks and fade, leaving them dead-white again. Then he looked into hisson's eyes, and the hand with which he was groping for the cane stopped, poised in air. In those eyes there was something that no man couldthrash. Scorn, anguish, pride, the knowledge of ages, gazed out from achild's eyes upon Leighton, and struck terror to his soul. His boy'sfrail body was the abiding-place of a power that laughed at the strengthof man's hands. 

"My boy, O, my boy!" groaned Leighton. 

"Father!" cried Shenton, with the cry of a bursting heart, and hurledhimself into his father's arms. 

CHAPTER V

The next day was the first of the long vacation, and with it came anaddition to the Leighton household. Mammy was given a temporary helper, a shrewd little maid, with a head thirty years old on shoulders oftwelve. Lalia was her name. The Reverend Orme had chosen her from amonghis charity pupils. He himself gave her his instructions--never to leaveShenton except to run and report the moment he escaped from her charge. 

Lalia was accepted without suspicion by the children not as a nurse, butas a playmate. Weeks passed. The four played together with a greaterharmony than the three had ever attained. Day after day the ReverendOrme sat waiting in his study and brooding. The dreaded call never came. He began to distrust his messenger. 

Then one stifling afternoon as he sat dozing in his chair a sharp rap onthe study door awakened him with a start. 

"Master! Master!" called Lalia's voice. 

"Yes, yes, " cried Leighton; "come in. "

As he rose from his chair Lalia entered. She was breathless withrunning. 

"Master, " she said, "Shenton did quarrel with us. He has gone toManoel--to his house. "

"Manoel!" cried Leighton, "Manoel!" and strode hatless out into theglaring sun, across the lawn, and down the loquat avenue. 

Lewis, standing with Natalie in the orange-orchard, stared, wondering, at that hurrying figure. Never had he seen the Reverend Orme walk likethat, hatless, head hanging and swinging from side to side, fistsclenched. Where could he he going? Suddenly he knew. The Reverend Ormewas going to Manoel's house. Shenton was there. Lalia came running tothem. "Hold Natalie!" Lewis cried to her, and sped away to warn Shentonof danger. He ran with all the speed of his eight years, but from thefirst he felt he was too late. The low-hanging branches of theorange-trees hindered him. 

When he burst through the last of them, he saw the Reverend Orme's tallfigure, motionless now, standing at the soiled, small-paned window ofManoel's house. As he stared, the tall figure crouched and stole out ofsight, around the corner toward the door. Lewis rushed to the window andlooked in. It seemed to him only a day since he had had to drag a log tostand on to see through this same window. 

Shenton was sitting on the bench beside the table, his black, curly headhanging to one side. Beyond him sat Manoel, leering and jabbering. Between them was a bottle. Lewis's lips were opening for a cry ofwarning when the door was flung wide, and the Reverend Orme stepped intothe room. Lewis could not see Shenton's face, but he saw his slight formsuddenly straighten. 

Then he realized with a great relief that the Reverend Orme was notlooking at Shenton; his gaze was fastened on Manoel. Lewis, too, turnedhis eyes on Manoel. Cold sweat came out over him as he saw the terror inManoel's face. The leer was still there, frozen. Over it and through it, like a double exposure on a single negative, hung the film of terror. The Reverend Orme, his hands half outstretched, walked slowly towardManoel. 

Suddenly the Portuguese crouched as though to spring. As quick as thegleam of a viper's tongue, Leighton's long arms shot out. Straight forthe man's throat went his hands. They closed, the long, white fingersaround a swarthy neck, thumbs doubled in, their knuckles sinking intothe throat. Lewis felt as though it were his own eyes that started fromtheir sockets. With a scream, he turned and ran. 

He cast himself beneath the shelter of the first low-hangingorange-tree. He saw the Reverend Orme stalk by, bearing Shenton in hisarms. For the first time in his life Lewis heard the sobs of a grownman, and instinctively knew himself the possessor of a secret thing--athing that must never be told. 

At the house, alarmed by Natalie's incoherent, excited chatter andLalia's stubborn silence, Mrs. Leighton waited in suspense. Leightonentered with his burden and laid it down. Then he turned. She saw hisface. 

"Orme!" she cried, "_Orme!_" and started toward him, groping as thoughshe had been blinded. 

"Touch me not, Ann, " spoke Leighton, with a strange calmness. "ThankGod! the mark of Cain is on my brow. "

CHAPTER VI

That very night Leighton sought out his friend, the chief of police. Hetold him his story from the first creeping fear for his boy to themoment of terrible vengeance. 

"So you killed him, eh?" said the chief, tossing his cigarette from himand thoughtfully lighting another. "Too bad. You ought to have come tome first, my friend, turned him over to us for a beating. It would havecome to the same thing in the end and saved you a world of trouble. Butwhat's done, is done. Now we must think. What do you suggest?"

Amazement dawned in Leighton's haggard face. 

"What do _I_ suggest?" he answered. "What does the _law_ suggest, sir?Are there no courts and prison-bars In this country for--for----"

"There, there, " interrupted the chief. "As you say, there are courts, ofcourse, gaols, too; but our accommodations for criminals are notsuitable for gentlemen. "

"It is not for me to choose my accommodation, sir. I am here to pay thepenalty of my crime. I have come to be arrested. "

"Arrested?" repeated the chief, staring at Leighton. "Are you not myfriend? Are you not the friend of all of us that count?"

"But--but----" stammered Leighton. 

"Yes, sir, " repeated the chief, "my friend. "

"What do you mean?" cried Leighton. "Do you mean you will leave mypunishment to my conscience--to my God?"

The chief looked at him quizzically. 

"Your punishment? Why, certainly. To your God, if you like. But let usget down to business. You are nervous. Quite natural. When I was anirresponsible student, I killed a servant for waking me on the morningafter a spree. I remember I was nervous for weeks. Now sit still. Calmyourself. Let me think for you. In fact, while we've been chatting, I_have_ thought for you. "

The chief leaned back in his chair and placed his finger-tips together. 

"Listen. When it becomes necessary, I shall block all roads--all exitsfrom the city--by telegraph. There is one highway--the road into theinterior--without telegraph as yet. We should never think of blockingthat. 

"Now, as to time available. Let us be on the safe side. You must getaway to-morrow. You have horses, a wagon, stable-hands. Have you a tent?I will lend you one--a large bell tent. 

"Now, as to affairs--your property in this town. You will sign papersmaking your friend Lawyer Lima. Rodolpho and me joint trustees. He is mybitterest enemy, and I am his. In this way you can rest assured thatneither of us will rob you. "

Leighton made a deprecating gesture. The chief raised his hand andsmiled. 

"Ah, " he said, "do not rob me of that thought. It was a stroke ofgenius. Between us, " he continued, "we will advance you all the moneyyou will need for a year. By that time we can send you more. " He rose, and held out his hand. "Now, my friend, go, and God go with you!"

Leighton took the chief's hand. 

"Good-by. I--I thank you. "

"Not at all, " said the chief, with a hearty grip. "To-morrow, eh? Getaway to-morrow. "

Leighton walked out and home in a daze. The remembrance of the agony inwhich he had resigned himself to the abandonment of his family, tonotoriety, disgrace, and retribution, clung to him. What had seemed anightmare, with an awakening bound to come, now became a waking dream, more terrible, because no dawn could give it end. 

But the chief had been wise. He had left Leighton no time for disastrousintrospection. Action, work, that sovereign antidote for troubled minds, seized upon him. He told Mrs. Leighton in as few words as possible whathad happened. 

She, too, was dazed by the chief's philosophy of friendship. 

"But, Orme----" she began. 

"I know, I know, Ann, " he interrupted. "Only, we haven't time to thinknow, nor time to talk. Call mammy. Remember, we have but the one wagon. Pack carefully. "

He himself hurried off to arouse the stable-hand. The stable-hand hadnot been to Manoel's house. He knew nothing of what had happened. Heworked most of the night cheerfully, preparing for the welcomecamping-trip. 

By noon on the following day, when streets and country roads laydeserted under the tropic sun, the cavalcade was off. The wagon, drawnby two mules in charge of the stable-hand, led the way. It was ladenwith tent, baggage, and the women-folk, Ann, Natalie, and mammy. Behindfollowed Leighton on his favorite horse and Shenton and Lewis on theirponies. By sundown they reached the banks of the Tieté. It took men andboys an hour to set the big bell tent. 

CHAPTER VII

Because the road led north, they traveled north. Week after week, monthafter month, sometimes by hard, long stretches where water was scarce, sometimes lingering where pasturage was good, sometimes halting to let afever run its course, they pushed northward. The farther they went, themore barren became the wilderness. The feudal mansions of the wealthycoffee-planters gave way to the miserable abodes of a land of drought. But houses were never far between, and wherever there were houses, therewas cane rum. It was so cheap it was often given away for a smile. 

Twice in the long months Shenton had eluded his watchful father, once byslipping his saddle-cloth and going back to pick it up, and once byriding ahead on a misty morning. Each time he stole back with hangingand drooping shoulders. The look of utter despondency and gloomy despairin his eyes wrung his parents' hearts, held back his father's hand fromwrath. 

Of them all, Shenton suffered most from fever. There came a time when hecould no longer ride. Natalie, grown pale and thin, but strong withal, took his place on the pony and he hers on the wagon. There he lay longhours in his mother's arms. 

When all the storms of life had swept over her, Ann Leighton looked backupon those days as the abiding-place of her dearest memories. Safewithin the circle of her arms lay her boy. There no evil could reachhim, no gnawing temptation ravage his child's will. Her watchful lovewarded off the gloomy hour. His prattle of childish things warmed herheart until it swelled to an exquisite agony of content. 

One day they awoke to a new presence on the flat horizon. Far, far awayrose a mountain from the plain. It was wonderfully symmetrical, risingto a single peak. All day long they traveled toward it. All day longShenton kept his somber eyes fixed upon it. Toward evening he raised hisface to his mother's. She leaned over him. 

"Mother, " he whispered, "I should like to reach the mountain. "

Tears welled from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She heldShenton's curly head against her face so that he could not see. Shestifled a sob and whispered back:

"My boy, you will reach the mountain. "

The next day a man of the country joined them. He was dressed in a suitand hat of deerskin. On his feet were sandals. Across one shoulder hecarried a stick from which dangled a bundle. His quick, springy stridecarried him easily beside the cavalcade. 

"The blessing of God be upon your Mercies, " was his greeting. "Whence doyou come and whither do you go? Tell him who so rudely asks, I beg you. I am John, the Courier. "

Ann and the Reverend Orme looked vaguely at each other. They had noanswer. But Shenton spoke. 

"Friend, " he said, "we come from the South. We journey to yondermountain. What is it called?

"It is called the Sorcerer. "

"The Sorcerer?" cried Shenton. "That is a strange-name. "

"It is called the Sorcerer, " said the man, "because it deceives. It is alandmark in the wilderness, but it shows no man the way. So equal areits sides, that it points neither east nor west nor south nor north. Upon, its summit is a single tree, planted by no human hands. "

"I see the tree, " said Shenton. "Mother, do you see the tree? It is likethe steeple on a church. " Then he turned to the courier. "Friend, themountain points upward. "

They camped at the foot of the mountain, for fever had laid its finalgrip upon Shenton. He was too weak to stand the jolting of the wagon. One night, while lying in his mother's arms, he slipped away from life. 

Leighton looked upon his boy's face, still alight with content at havingreached the mountain, upon his white, blue-veined body, so pitifullyfrail, and marveled that a frame so weak, so tender, so peaceful, hadbeen only now a mighty battle-field. 

He gathered up the body in his arms, and calling roughly to Lewis tobring an ax, he started up the barren mountainside. 

Ann, dumb and tearless, stood before the tent, and watched him withunseeing eyes. Natalie, crying, clutched her skirt. At her feet satmammy, her face upturned, tears flowing, her body swaying to her sobs. 

Up and up climbed Leighton with Lewis panting behind him. They reachedthe towering summit of the mountain. 

A great rock stood at the foot of the lonely tree. Beneath it Leightondug with ax and hands. He tore branches from the tree and spread themwithin. Upon the fresh, green couch he laid the body of his boy. He fellupon his knees before it and tried to pray, but could not. 

"O, Death, " he groaned, "to this young soul hast thou been kind. " Thenwith many stones they closed the tomb. 

Leighton looked wistfully about him. He was seized by the primitivedesire of man to leave some visible sign of overwhelming grief. His eyesrose above the rock to the lonely tree. Grasping the ax, he climbed thetree. High above the mountain-top he cut its stem. Then limb after limbfell crashing to the earth until only two were left. Out one and thenthe other he clambered and cut them off. The lonely tree was no more; inits place stood a mighty cross. 

From far away across the plain, John, the Courier, looked back. His keeneyes fell upon the mountain. He stopped and stared. 

"Ah, Sorcerer, " he murmured, "hast thou now a heart? What power hascrowned thy brow with the holy cross? Behold! one arm points to therising sun and one to its setting. I shall no longer call thee Sorcerer, for thou art become the Guide. "

At the edge of the plain stretched a line of hills. Within them was alittle valley that looked toward the distant mountain. Leightonpurchased the valley from its owner, Dom Francisco, who prized itlightly beside his vast herds of cattle. 

At the top of the valley, and facing the mountain, Leighton built hisnew abode, four walls and a roof of homemade tiles. When it wasfinished, he looked upon its ugliness and said, "The Lord hath crushedmy heart to infinite depths. Let us call this place Nadir. "

CHAPTER VIII

The Leightons, who settled at Nadir after a long year of pilgrimage, looked, back upon the happy years at Consolation Cottage as the deadmight look back upon existence. They were changed indeed. Ann's skin hadlost the pale pink of transplanted Northern blood. Her sweet face hadalmost lost the dignity of sorrow. It was lined, weather-beaten, attimes almost vacant. The Reverend Orme's black mane had suddenly turnedwhite in streaks. A perpetual scowl knitted his brows. To mammy's broadcountenance, built for vast smiles, had come a look of plaintivedespair. 

Natalie and Lewis were at the weedy age of nine. It was natural thatthey should have changed, but their change had gone beyond nature. Uponthem, as upon their elders, had settled the silences and the vaguelywondering expression of those who live in lands of drought and hardship, who look upon fate daily. 

Both of the children had become thin and hard; but to Lewis had come agreater change. His brown hair and eyes had darkened almost to black, his skin taken on an olive tinge. His face, with its eager eyessometimes shining like the high lights in a deep pool or suddenly grownslumberous with dreams, began to proclaim him a Leighton of theLeightons. So evident became the badge of lineage that Ann and theReverend Orme both noticed it. To Ann it meant nothing, but in theReverend Orme it aroused bitter memories of his own boy. He began toavert his eyes from Lewis. 

It was about this time that Natalie and Lewis cut their names to Lew andNat. The two were inseparable. Each had a pony, and they roved at willuntil the sad day when a school was first opened in that wilderness. 

It happened that Dom Francisco, the cattle king from whom Leighton hadpurchased Nadir, was a widower twice over and the father of twentychildren, many of them still of tender years. When he learned thatLeighton had been a schoolmaster, he did not rest until he had persuadedhim to undertake the instruction of such of his children as were notalready of use on the ranch. The Reverend Orme consented from necessity. His cash from the sale of Leighton Academy was gone; the rents fromConsolation Cottage were small and reached him at long intervals. 

Once more routine fell upon the Leighton household; once more the yearsstole by. 

Lewis's school days were short. The Reverend Orme found that he couldnot stand the constant sight of the boy's face. To save himself from theshame of an outburst, he had bought a flock of goats and put Lewis incharge. Sometimes on his pony, sometimes on foot, Lewis wandered withhis flock over the low hills. When the rains had been kind and thewilderness was a riot of leaf and bloom above long reaches of verdantyoung grass, his journeys were short. But when the grass was dry, theendless thorn-trees leafless, and the whole earth, stripped of Nature'sawnings, weltered under a brazen sky, the hardy goats carried him far intheir search for sustenance. 

When he was near, Natalie joined him as soon as school and householdduties would let her. Those were happy, quiet hours. Sometimes shebrought cookies, hot from mammy's oven, sometimes the richer roly-poly, redolent of cinnamon and spice, a confection prized to this day, openlyby the young, secretly by the old. Nor did Lewis receive her with emptyhands. One day a monster guava, kept cool under moist leaves, greetedher eyes; the next, a brimming hatful of the tart imbu. If fruit failed, there was some wondrous toy of fingered clay or carved wood, or, perhaps, merely a glimpse of some furry little animal drawn to Lewis'sknee by the power of vast stillness. 

Lewis could not have told what it was he felt for Natalie. She was notbeautiful, as children of the world go. Her little nose was saddled withfreckles. Her eyes were brown, with a tinge of gold, but they were toobig for her pale face. She was thin and lanky. Her hair, which matchedthe color of her eyes, might have been beautiful, but hair done in hard, tight braids has no chance to show itself. Lewis only knew that evenwhen most grave Natalie's note was a note of joy--the only note of joyin all Nadir. To hear her cry, panting from her haste, "What is itto-day, Lew? A guava? O, Lew, what a _beauty_!" was ample reward for thelongest search. 

But there were days when Lewis and his goats were too far afield forNatalie to come. On those days Lewis carried with him sometimes a book, but more often a lump of clay, wrapped in a wet cloth. He would capturesome frolicking kid and handle him for an hour, gently, but deeply, seeking out bone and muscle with his thin, nervous fingers. Then hewould mold a tiny and clumsy image of the kid in clay. No sooner was itdone than idleness would pall upon him. Back would go the clay into thewet cloth, to be kneaded into a shapeless mass from which a new creationmight spring forth, a full-grown goat, his pony, any live thing uponwhich he could first lay his hands. 

Even so, those days were long. The books he had read many, many times. Sometimes the clay would turn brittle under the morning sun, sometimeshis fingers forgot what cunning they had, sometimes black thought fellupon him and held him till he felt a vague despair. He stood within thethreshold of manhood. Who was he? What was life? Was this life?

About him men married and begat children, goats begat goats, cattlebegat cattle, one day begat another. Lewis sat with hands locked abouthis knees and stared across the low hills out into the wide plain. "TheBible is wrong, " he breathed to himself. "The world will never, neverend. "

Little do we know when our present world will end. A day came when DomFrancisco, the cattle king, whose herds by popular account were as thesands of the desert, asked in marriage the hand of Natalie. 

As, toward evening, Lewis headed his flock for home, he saw in thedistance a pillar of dust. It came rapidly to him. From it emergedNatalie on her pony. She jumped down, slipped the reins over her arm, and joined him. 

"You have come far and fast, " he said, glancing at the sweating pony. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, " said Natalie, hesitatingly, and then repeated--"no. I've just cometo talk to you. "

For some time they walked in silence behind the great herd of nervousgoats, which occasionally stopped to pasture, but more often scamperedahead till a call from Lewis checked them. Natalie laid her hand on thesleeve of Lewis's leather coat, a gesture with which she was wont toclaim his close attention. 

"Lew, " she said, "what is marriage?"

Lewis turned and looked down at her. They were both seventeen, but hisinch start of her had grown to half a foot. 

"Marriage? Why, marriage----" He stopped. A faint color flared in hischeeks. He looked away from her. Then he said calmly: "Marriage, Nat, isjust mating--like birds mate. First you see them flying about anyhow;then two fly together. They build a nest; they mate; they have littlebirds. The little birds grow up and do the whole thing over again. That's--that's marriage. "

"So?" said Natalie. A little frown came to her brows. Was that marriage, indeed? Then she shook the frown from her. "Lew, " she said gravely, butplacidly, "they tell me I'm to marry Dom Francisco. Isn't it--isn't it_funny_?"

Lewis stopped in his tracks and shook her hand from his arm. His eyesflared. 

"What did you say? They tell you--_who_ told you?"

"Why, Lew!" cried Natalie, tears in her eyes and her lips twitching. 

"There, there, Nat, " said Lewis, softly. He laid his arm across hershoulders in an awkward gesture of affection. "Tell me, Nat. Who was ittold you--told you that?"

"Father, " sobbed Natalie. 

Before she knew what he was doing, Lew had leaped upon her pony and wasoff at a gallop. 

"Lew!" cried Natalie, "Lew! Shall I bring in the goats?"

He did not heed her. 

CHAPTER IX

Lewis stopped at Nadir only long enough to learn that the Reverend Ormehad remained at the school-house as had been his wont of late. He foundhim there, idle, sitting at the rough table that served as his desk, andbrooding. Lewis walked half the length of the room before Leighton sawhim. 

"What are you doing here?"

"What have you been telling Nat?"

The questions were almost simultaneous. 

"What have I been telling Natalie?" repeated the Reverend Orme. "Well, what _have_ I been telling her?"

Lewis fixed his eyes on Leighton's face. 

"Are you really going to marry Nat to that--to that old man?"

The Reverend Orme shifted in his chair. 

"Lewis, " he said, "I don't know that it's any of your business, but itis probable that Natalie will marry Dom Francisco. "

Lewis moved awkwardly from one foot to the other, but his eyes nevershifted. 

"Does Mother--Mrs. Leighton know about this? Does mammy? Do they_agree_?"

"Young man, " answered Leighton, angrily, "they know that, as this worldgoes, Natalie is a lucky girl. Dom Francisco is the wealthiest man inthe province. Look around you, sir. Whom would you have her marry if notDom Francisco? Some pauper, I suppose. Some foundling. "

Lewis's cheeks burned red. 

"You need not go so far as to marry her to a foundling, " he answered, "but you might be kinder to her than to marry her to--to that old man. You might choke her to death. "

The Reverend Orme leaped from his chair. 

"Choke _her_ to death, you--you interloper!" He strode toward Lewis, histrembling hands held before him. 

"Hold on!" cried Lewis, his eyes flaming. "I'm no drunkard--no cowardlyManoel. "

The Reverend Orme stopped in his stride. A ghastly pallor came over hisface. 

"Manoel!" he whispered. "What do _you_ know about Manoel?"

Lewis's heart sank low within him. His unbroken silence of years hadbeen instinctive. Now, when it was too late, he suddenly realized thatit had been the thread that held him to Nadir. He had broken it. Nevermore could he and the Reverend Orme sleep beneath the same roof, eat atthe same table. He saw it in the Reverend Orme's face. 

Leighton had staggered back to his chair and sat staring vacantly at thefloor. Lewis looked at his head, streaked with white, at his brow, terribly lined, and at his vacant, staring eyes. He felt a sudden greatpity for his foster-father, but pity had come too late. 

"Sir, " he said, "I am going away. I shall need some money. " He felt noshame at asking for money. For seven years he had tended Leighton'sgoats--tended them so well that in seven years they had increasedsevenfold. 

Leighton unlocked the drawer of his table and took out a small roll ofbank-notes. He tossed it on the table. Lewis picked out two notes fromthe roll, and pushed the rest back. He started toward the door. Half-wayhe paused and turned to his foster-father. 

"Good-by, sir. I'm sorry I let you know that--that I knew. "

Leighton did not look up. 

"Good-by, Lewis, " he said quietly. 

Lewis hurried to his little room. He took out all his boyish treasuresand laid them on the bed. How silly they looked, how childish! He sweptthem away, and spread a large red handkerchief in their place. He heardNatalie come in and call for him, but he did not answer. In thehandkerchief he packed his scanty wardrobe. As he knotted the cornerstogether he heard Mrs. Leighton and mammy chatting lightly with Natalie, helping her to dress. 

Lewis, heavy-hearted, looked about his ugly little room, so bare, but asfriendly as a plain face endeared by years of kindness. From among hisdiscarded treasures he chose the model in clay of a kid, jumping, thebest he had ever made. He tucked it into his bundle; then he picked upthe bundle, and walked out into the great room, kitchen, sitting anddining room combined. 

Mrs. Leighton and mammy were seated at the table. Beside them stoodNatalie. They turned and looked at Lewis, surprised. Lewis stared atNatalie. She wore a dress he had seen but twice before and then on greatoccasions. It had been a birthday present from her parents. It was ared, pleated dress. Accordion silk, the women called it. 

About Natalie's shoulders was a white, filmy scarf. For the first timein her life her hair was loosely piled upon her head. Through it andover it ran a bright ribbon. The gloss of the satin ribbon was as naughtbeside the gloss of her shining hair. Her neck, and her arms from theelbows, were bare. Her neck was very thin. One could almost see thebones. 

"Where are you going, Lewis?" said Mrs. Leighton, listlessly. 

Lewis felt the tears rise to his eyes. He was ashamed of them. 

"Do not speak to me, " he said roughly. "You are a wicked woman. You havesold Natalie. " Then he turned fiercely on mammy. "And you, " hesaid--"you have dressed her for the market. You are a bad nigger. "

Mrs. Leighton gasped and then began to cry softly. Mammy's eyes staredat Lewis. 

"Bad niggah, young Marster?" she mumbled vaguely. 

Natalie grasped the table and leaned forward. "Lew!" she cried. "Why, _Lew_!"

Lewis struck a tear from his cheek, turned, and fled. He went to therough lean-to that served as a stable and began to saddle his pony. 

In all the heavens there was not a cloud. It was what the natives, toooften scourged by drought, called an ugly night. The full moon rosevisibly into the pale bowl of blue. Above her tropic glare the satellitestars shone wanly and far away. 

As Lewis was about to mount, Natalie came running from the house. Sheheld her new dress above her knees. Her white scarf streamed out liketwo wings behind her. 

"Lew!" she called. "Wait! What are you doing?"

Lewis waited for her. She came close to him and laid her hand upon hisarm. Her brown eyes, shot with gold, were bigger than ever. They lookedtheir question into his face. 

"Nat, " he said, "I've quarreled with your dad. There's nothing to talkabout. I must go. "

"Go, Lew? Go where?"

Lewis shrugged his shoulders. 

"I don't know, " he said. "Just go. "

Natalie laid her head against him. Her two hands gripped his shoulders. She sobbed as though her heart would break. Lewis put his arm about her. He felt the twitching bones of her thin, warm body. His face was in herhair. 

"Ah, Natalie, " he murmured, brokenly, "don't cry! don't cry!"

They were children. They did not think to kiss. 

CHAPTER X

Lewis traveled toward the ancient town of Oeiras. He had cast about inhis mind for some means of livelihood and had decided to become agoatskin-buyer. He was hoping to come to an arrangement with somemerchant in Oeiras. 

One morning as he jogged along, his eyes on the ground, his thoughts faraway, he heard the patter of many hoofs on the hard clay trail. Apack-train was coming toward him. At its head rode a guide. The guidestopped upon meeting Lewis, and immediately every mule behind himstopped, too. 

"The blessing of God be upon you, friend!" he drawled. "Whence do youcome and whither do you go?"

"God's blessing be praised, " answered Lewis. "I come from the hills. Igo to Oeiras. "

"To Oeiras? We come thence. It is a long road, Oeiras. "

"I go to seek a merchant who will start me as a goat-skin-buyer. Do youknow of any such?"

"A goatskin-buyer? Friend, for almost every goat there is agoatskin-buyer. My brother is one, my father-in-law another. I myselfshall become one after this trip is over. You would do well to choosesome other occupation. "

Lewis did not smile at the man's guile, though it had not escaped him. He was gazing open-mouthed at a horseman who was forcing his way pastthe laden mules. From some distance the horseman yelled in English:

"What the devil's the matter now? Ye gods and little fishes! what areyou stopping for now?"

The guide shrugged his shoulders and tapped his head. 

"Mad, " he said; "an idiot. Imagine! He thinks those are words!"

The horseman drew up beside them, wrath in his face. 

"Sir, " said Lewis, "your guide stopped to greet me. It is the custom ofthe country. "

Lewis and Natalie spoke English with the precision of the adults fromwhom they had learned it. They had never heard the argot of Americanchildhood, but from mammy and from the tongue of their adopted land theyhad acquired a soft slurring of speech which gave a certain quaintnessto their diction. 

It was the turn of the stranger to stare open-mouthed. Lewis wore theuniform of the local cow-boy: a thick, wide-brimmed leather hat, fastened under the chin with a thong; a loose deerskin jumper anddeerskin breeches that fitted tightly to the leg and ended in a longflap over the instep. On his feet were sandals and grotesque, handwrought spurs. His red bundle was tied to the cantle of his saddle. At hearing precise English from such a source, the stranger felt anastonishment almost equal to Balaam's surprise on hearing his ass speak. 

No less was Lewis's wonder at the stranger's raiment. A pith helmet, Norfolk jacket, moleskin riding-breeches, leather puttees, and stout, pigskin footwear--these were strange apparel. 

The stranger was not old. One would have placed him at forty-five. As amatter of fact, he was only forty. He was the first to recover poise. Hepeered keenly into Lewis's face. 

"May I ask your name?"

"My name is Lewis Leighton. And yours?"

The stranger waved his hand impatiently. 

"Where are you going?"

"I am on my way to Oeiras to seek employment, " said Lewis. 

"To seek employment, eh?" said the stranger, thoughtfully. "Will youtell this misbegotten guide that I wish to return to the water we passeda little while ago? I should like to talk to you, if you don't mind. "

Lewis translated the order. 

"So they are words, after all, " said the guide. He shook his head fromside to side, as one who suspects witchcraft. 

When the pack-train was headed back on the road it had come, Lewisturned to the guide. 

"Whither was your master bound?" he asked. 

"Him?" said the guide, with a shrug of his shoulder. "Who knows? Nosooner does he reach one town than he is off for another. It is hislife, the madman, to bore a hole through this world of Christ. Just nowwe were headed for the ranch of Dom Francisco. After that, who knows?But he pays, friend. Gold oozes from him like matter from a sore. "

They came to a spring. The stranger ordered up the fly of a tent. Fromhis baggage he took two wonderful folding-chairs and a folding-table, opened them, and placed them under the fly. "Sit down, " he said toLewis. 

The stranger took off his helmet and tossed it on the ground. Lewispulled off his hat hurriedly and laid it aside. The stranger looked athim long and earnestly. 

"Are you hungry?"

Lewis shrugged his shoulders. 

"One can always eat, " he said. 

"Good, " said the stranger. "Please tell these loafers to off-load themules and set camp. And call that one here--the black fellow with anecklace of chickens. "

Lewis did as he was bidden. The man with the chickens stood before thestranger and grinned. 

The stranger raised his eyes on high. 

"Ah, God, " he said, "I give Thee thanks that at last I can talk to thislow-browed, brutal son of a degenerate race of cooks. " He turned toLewis. "Tell him, " he continued--"tell him that I never want to seeanything boiled again unless it's his live carcass boiling in oil. Tellhim that I hate the smell, the sight, and the sound of garlic. Tell himthat jerked beef is a fitting sustenance for maggots, but not forhungering man. Tell him there is a place in the culinary art for redpeppers, but not by the handful. Tell him, may he burn hereafter as Ihave burned within and lap up with joy the tears that I have shed inpain. Tell him--tell him that. "

For the first time in the presence of the stranger Lewis smiled. Hissmile was rare and, as is often the case with a rare smile, it heldaccumulated charm. 

"Sir, " he said, "let me cook a meal for you. "

While Lewis cooked, the stranger laid the table for two. In less than anhour the meal was ready. A young fowl, spitchcocked, nestled in a snowybed of rice, each grain of which was a world unto itself. The fowl wasbasted with the sovereign gravy of the South; thick, but beaten smooth, dusted with pepper and salt, breathing an essence of pork. Beside theladen platter was a plate of crisp bread--bread that had been soakedinto freshness in a wet cloth and then toasted lightly. Beside the breadlay a pat of fresh butter on a saucer. It was butter from the tin, butwashed white in the cool water of the spring, and then sprinkled withsalt. 

The stranger nodded approval as he started to eat. 

"A simple meal, my accomplished friend, " he said to Lewis, "but I knowthe mouths of the gods are watering. "

When nothing was left of the food, the stranger, through Lewis, orderedthe table cleared, then he turned to his guest. 

"You have already had occasion to see how useful you would be to me, " hesaid. "I propose that you seek employment no further. Join me not ascook, but as interpreter, companion, friend in very present trouble. Iwill pay you a living wage. "

Lewis's eyes lighted up. What wage should he demand for accompanyingthis strange man, who drew him as Lewis himself drew shy, wild creaturesto his knee? No wage. No wage but service. "I will go with you, " hesaid. 

"Good!" said the stranger. "Now--where shall we go?"

"Where shall we go?" repeated Lewis, puzzled. 

"Yes. Where shall we go?"

"That is for you to say, " said Lewis, gravely, fearing a joke. 

"Not at all, " said the stranger. "To me it is a matter of completeindifference. Of all the spots on the face of the earth, this is thelast; no game, no water, no scenery, no women, no food. And having seenthe last spot on earth, direction no longer interests me. What would_you_ like to see?"

Lewis felt himself inside a book of fairy-tales. 

"I?" he said, smiling shyly. "I should like to see the sea again. "

"Right you are!" said the stranger. "Tell the guide to start for thesea. "

CHAPTER XI

The stranger was accompanied by two muleteers, a cook, a wash-boy, andthe guide. Not one of these was a menial, for menials do not breed inopen country. When the stranger shouted for one of them, they allgathered round him and stood at ease, smiling at his gestures, guessinggenially at what he was trying to say, and in the end calmly doingthings their own way. 

When Lewis called the guide, they all came, as was their custom. 

"Your master, " said Lewis to the guide, "wishes to go to the sea. Hebids you start for the sea. "

The guide stared at Lewis, then at the stranger. 

"The sea! What is the sea?"

"The sea, " said Lewis, gravely, "is the ocean, the great water whereships sail. "

"Bah!" said the guide. "More madness. How shall I guide him to the seaif I know not where it is? Tell him there is no sea. "

One of the muleteers broke in. 

"Indeed, there is a sea, but it is far, far away. It is thirty daysaway. "

"And how do you go?" asked Lewis. 

"I do not know. I only know that one must go to Joazeiro, and from therethey say there is a road of iron that leads one to the sea. "

"Joazeiro!" exclaimed the guide. "Ah, that is some sense. Joazeiro is aplace. It is on the river. Petrolina is on this side, Joazeiro on that. As for this road of iron, hah!" He turned on the muleteer. "Thou, too, art mad. "

The stranger listened to what Lewis had to say, then he drew out a mapfrom his pocket, unfolded it, and spread it on the table. "A road ofiron, eh? Well, let's see. "

The guide grinned at Lewis. 

"It is a picture of the world, " he said. "He stares at it daily. "

"Yes, " said the stranger, "here we are--Joazeiro. "

Lewis leaned over his shoulder. He saw the word "Joazeiro. " From it astraight red line ran eastward to the edge of the map. 

The stranger measured distances with a pencil. "We can make Joazeiro infifteen days, " he said. "Tell the men we will rest to-day and to-night. To-morrow we start. "

The marvels of that camp were a revelation to Lewis. He kept his mouthshut, but his eyes were open. One battered thing after another revealedits mystery to him. He turned to the stranger. 

"You are a great traveler, " he said. 

The stranger started. He had been day-dreaming. 

"A great traveler? Yes. I have been a wanderer on all the faces of theearth. I have lived seven lives. I'll give them to you, if you like. "

Lewis smiled, puzzled, but somehow pleased. 

"Give them to me--your seven lives?"

The stranger did not answer. Gloom had settled on the face that Lewishad seen only alight. Lewis, too, was silent. His life with Ann and theReverend Orme had taught him much. He recognized the dwelling-place ofsorrow. 

Presently the stranger shook his mood from him. 

"Come, " he said, "let us begin. " From one of his bags he took a pack ofcards. He sat at the table and shuffled them. "There are many games ofpatience, " he continued. "They are all founded on averages and thousandsof combinations, so intricate that the law of recurrence can bedetermined only by months of figuring. However, one can learn a patiencewithout bothering with the law of recurrence. I shall now teach you agame called Canfield. "

Time after time the cards were laid out, played, and reshuffled. 

"Now, " said the stranger, "do you think you know the game?"

"Yes, " said Lewis, "I think so. "

He played, with some success. 

"You have got out fourteen cards, " said the stranger. "You have beatenthe game. "

"How can that be?" asked Lewis. 

"It can be, " said the stranger, "because this is one of the few games ofpatience that has been reduced to a scientific gambling basis. The odds, allowing for the usual advantage to the banker, have been determined atfive to one. Say I'm the banker. I sell you the pack for fifty-twopennies, and I pay you five pennies for every card you get out. Five toone. Do you see that?"

Lewis nodded. 

"Well, " said the stranger. "You got out fourteen cards. If you had paida penny a card for the pack, how much would you have gained over whatyou spent?"

"Eighteen pennies, " said Lewis, after a moment. "If I had got them allout, " he added, "it would have been two hundred and eight pennies. "

"Right!" said the stranger. "You have a head for figures. Now, have youany money?"

Lewis colored slightly. 

"Yes, " he said. He fished out his two bank-notes and laid them on thetable. 

The stranger picked them up. 

"All right, " he said. "I'll sell you the pack for one of these. Now, goahead. "

All afternoon Lewis played against the bank with varying fortune. Whenhe was ahead, some instinct made him ashamed to call off; when he wasbehind, a fever seized him--a fever to hold his own, to win. His eyesbegan to ache. Toward evening three successive bad hands suddenly wipedout his store of money. A feeling of despair came over him. 

"Don't worry, " said the stranger. He pushed the two notes and anothertoward Lewis. "I'll give you those for your pony. Now, at it you go. Winhim back. "

Lewis played feverishly. In an hour he had lost the three notes. 

"Never mind, " said the stranger; "I'll give you another chance. " Hepushed one of the notes toward Lewis. "That for your bundle in the redhandkerchief. You may win the whole lot back in one hand. "

Lewis played and lost. Despair seized upon him now with no uncertainhand. His money, his pony, even his little bundle gone! This wascalamity. He suffered as only the young can suffer. His world hadsuddenly become a blank. Through bloodshot eyes he looked upon thestranger and tried to hate him, but could not. 

"Come, " said the stranger, rising and lighting a lantern. "I'm going tomake you a foolish offer of big odds against me. I'll wager all I've wonfrom you against one year's service that you can't beat the game in onehand. Eleven cards out of the fifty-two beats the game. "

What was a year's service? thought Lewis. He had been willing to givethat for nothing. He played and lost. Suddenly shame was added to hisdespair. To give service is noble, but to have it bought from you, wonfrom you! Lewis fought back his tears desperately. What a fool, what afool this man, this stranger, had made of him!

The stranger took out his watch and looked at it. 

"In seven hours and seven minutes, " he remarked, "I have given you oneof my seven lives that it took almost seven years to live. Seven, by theway, is one of the mystic numbers. "

At his first words Lewis felt a wave of relief--the relief of the diverin deep waters who feels himself rising to the surface. Perhaps all wasnot lost. Perhaps this man could restore their imperiled friendship, sosudden, already so dear. 

The stranger went on:

"Ashamed to stop when you're ahead, too keen to stop when you're behind, you've lost all you possessed, jarred your trust in your fellow-man, andbartered freedom for slavery--mortgaged a year of your life. You'veclimbed the cliff of greed, got one whiff of sordid elation at the top, and tumbled down the precipice of despair. In short, you've lived thewhole life of a gambler--all in seven hours. "

He picked up Lewis's two notes and stuffed them into his own well-filledwallet. "They say, " he continued, "that only experience teaches. You maygamble all the rest of your life, but take it from me, my friend, gambling holds no emotion you haven't gone through today. "

Their eyes met. Lewis's gaze was puzzled, but intent. The stranger'seyes were almost twinkling. 

"By the way, " he said, "what's in the bundle? Let's see. "

Lewis brought his sorry little bundle and laid it on the table. Heuntied the knots with trembling fingers. The stranger poked around thecontents with his finger. He picked out the little kid of clay, alreadyminus a leg. 

"Hallo! What's this?"

"A toy, " said Lewis, coloring. 

"Who made it?"

"I did. "

"You did, eh? Well, I'll keep it. " The stranger fingered around until hefound the missing leg. "You can take the rest of your things away. I'lllend 'em to you, and your pony. Now let's eat. "

That night Lewis, too excited to sleep, lay awake for hours smiling atthe moon. He was smiling because he felt that somehow, out of the wreck, friendship had been saved. 

CHAPTER XII

The country through which they traveled was familiar to Lewis, tediousto the stranger. Sand, sparse grass, and thorn-trees; thorn-trees andsand, was their daily portion. The sun beat down and up. They traveledlong hours by night, less and less by day. They talked little, for nighthas a way of sealing the lips of those who journey under her wing. 

Water was scarce. The day before that on which they hoped to make theriver, a forced march brought them to a certain water-hole. Thestranger, Lewis, and the guide arrived at it far ahead of thepack-train. The water-hole was dry. They were thirsty. They pushed on toa little mud house a short way off the trail. The stranger looked up asthey approached it. 

"Do you think it will stand till we get there?" he asked. 

Lewis smiled. The house was leaning in three directions. The weight ofits tiled roof threatened at any moment to crush the long-sufferingwalls to the ground. At one corner stood a great earthen jar, and besidethe jar an old hag. She held a gourd to her lips. On some straw in theshade of the eaves was a setting hen. 

"Auntie, " called Lewis, "we thirst. Give us water. "

The old woman turned and stared at them. Her face, all but her eyes, wasas dilapidated as her house. Her black eyes, brilliant and piercing, shone out of the ruin. 

"I have no water for thee to drink, my pretty son, " she answered. 

"Shameless one!" cried Lewis. "Dost thou drink thyself and deny thetraveler?"

"Eh, eh!" cackled the old woman. "Thou wouldst share my gourd? Thendrink, for thy tongue is not so pretty as thy face. " She held up thegourd to Lewis in both her hands. He took it from her and passed it tothe stranger. 

The stranger made a grimace, but sipped the water. Then he flung gourdand water to the ground with; half an oath. 

"Bah!" he said to Lewis. "It is salt. "

"Salt!" cried Lewis. "But she drank of it. I saw her drink. "

"Yes, " said the stranger; "she's got an alkalified stomach. Let thosewho hanker after immortality look upon this woman. She will never die. "

The old hag laughed. 

"Ah, shameless one, eh?" she mumbled. "'Tis the young one should havetasted, but no matter, for the son is the spit of the father. "

"Auntie, " said Lewis, smiling, "give us of thy shade. "

"Willingly, my pretty son, for thou hast smiled. "

They dismounted. The stranger and Lewis entered the house. 

"Here, " cried the old woman, "sit here; for when the house falls, theweight will go yonder. "

Lewis explained to the stranger. He glanced at the old woman. 

"Old Immortality has brains, " he said. "Might have known it, with thoseeyes. "

They sat on the floor of beaten earth. The old woman went out. Throughthe gaps in the walls Lewis saw her build a fire and put a pot of thebrackish water on to boil. Then he saw her drag the setting hen from hernest and wring its neck. He jumped up and rushed out. 

"What are you doing?" he cried. "Why kill a setting hen?"

"Aye, " said the old woman, "it is a pity, for she is the last chicken inthe world. "

Lewis and the stranger were hungry. Night was falling. There was no signof their belated pack-train. When boiling had done its utmost, they atethe last chicken on earth. Before they had finished, a child, pitifullythin, came in, bearing on her head a small jar of water. 

"Now drink, " said the old woman, "for this water came from the river, twelve miles away. "

They drank, then the stranger set his helmet on the floor for a pillow, laid his head upon it, and slept. Lewis sat beside him. The child hadcurled up in a corner. The guide was snoring outside. In the doorway theold woman crouched and crooned. 

Presently she turned and peered into the house. She beckoned to Lewis. He rose and followed her. She led him around the house, through athicket of thorn-trees, and up the slope of a small sand-dune. Towardthe west sand-dunes rose and fell in monotonous succession. 

At the top of the dune the old woman crouched on her heels and motionedto Lewis to sit. 

"My son, " she said, "thou hast taken my carcass for the common clay ofthese parts. I cannot blame thee, but had I the water to wash thiscursed dust from my face and hands, I would show thee a skin that wasstained at birth with the olive and veins whose blood flows unmixedthrough generations without end. These wrinkled feet have flattened theface of the earth bit by bit. Bear witness those who left me here behindto die! My eyes have looked upon things seen and unseen. I am old. Toyouth is given folly; to the old, wisdom. To-night my wisdom shallsuckle thy folly, for the heavens have shown me a sign. "

Lewis stared at the old woman with wondering eyes. He had never seen aGipsy. What was she? he asked himself. No native. The native's mind waskeen with knowledge of horses, cattle, and goats, but stolid, almoststupid, when it came to words and thoughts. There was an exception--themad. The mad prattled and sometimes said extraordinary things. Perhapsthis woman was mad. He turned half toward her. 

"Look up, " she commanded. "Dost thou see no sign?"

Lewis lay on his back and gazed into the sky. "I see the moon and thestars, Auntie--a young moon and very old stars--but no sign. Not even acloud to remind the world of rain. "

The old woman leaned forward and touched his arm. He started. 

"Look over there!" She pointed to the west and south. "See how the youngmoon is held within the claws of Scorpion. His back is arched across thequarter. His tail points to the south. The Cross that some call Holyhangs like a pendent upon its tip. Look up. Upon his arched back hebears the circlet--the seven worlds of women. "

"I see the Scorpion, Auntie, " said Lewis, humoring her. "I see thecirclet too, but it is far above his back. It is like a crown. Read methe sign of the seven worlds of women. "

Lewis propped his head on one elbow. Before him squatted the old woman. Her hands were locked about her legs. Her chin rested on her knees. Herbeady eyes shone like two black stars. 

"And shall I not read thee a sign?" she continued, swaying from side toside. "Child of love art thou. At thy birth was thy mother rent asunder, for thou wert conceived too near the heart. Thy path through the worldis blazed as one blazes a path in the forest. He who is at thy side isbefore thee and after thee. Thou travelest in darkness, but thou artcursed and blessed with the gift of sight. The worlds of women areseven: spirit, weed, flower, the blind, the visioned, libertine, andsaint. None of these is for thee. For each child of love there is awoman that holds the seven worlds within a single breast. Hold fast tothy birthright, even though thou journey with thy back unto the light. Ihave spoken. "

A long silence fell upon the sand-dune. Lewis felt held, oppressed. Hewas tired. He wished to sleep, but the woman's words rang in his brainlike shouts echoing in an empty hall. 

Presently came sounds from the mud hut beyond the thorn-thicket. Menwere calling. There was the patter and scrape of mules' hoofs, thewhistle of those that urged them on. Lewis and the old hag hurried down. The guide, the muleteers, and the stranger were having a wordy struggle. 

"Hallo, " said the stranger, "where have you been? What are they tryingto say? I need you even in my sleep. "

"They say, " said Lewis, "that there is no help for it; we must push onto the river now. The mules must have water. "

"Right you are, " said the stranger. He pointed to one heavily ladenmule. "We don't need those provisions. Give them to Old Immortality. They'll last her a hundred years. "

CHAPTER XIII

They arrived in Petrolina at dawn. Before them swept the vast river. Beyond it could be seen the dazzling walls and restful, brown-tiledroofs of Joazeiro. The distant whistle of a shunting locomotive jarredon the morning stillness. 

For the first time Lewis saw the stranger in action. Off came the loads. They were sorted rapidly. Tent, outfit, and baggage were piled into oneof the ponderous ferry-canoes that lined the shore. All that was leftwas handed over to the guide for equal division among the men. 

"Now, " cried the stranger, "there's always a marketplace. Tell them totake this worn-out bunch along and find the cattle corner. " He waved atthe ponies and mules. 

The market was in full swing. Rubber, goatskins, hides, and orchids fromthe interior; grain, tobacco, sugar, and rum from the river valley, met, mingled, and passed at this crossways of commerce. The stranger stoodbeside his mules. The dome of his pith helmet rose above the averagelevel of heads. People gazed upon it in mild wonder, and began to crowdaround. 

"Now, " said the stranger, poking Lewis's thin pony in the ribs, "offerthis jack-rabbit for sale, cash and delivery on the minute. "

"Offer my--my pony----" stammered Lewis. 

The stranger eyed him grimly. 

"_Your_ pony?"

Suddenly Lewis remembered. He threw up his head and called out as he wasbidden. People nudged one another, but no man spoke. Then a wag on theoutskirts of the crowd shouted:

"I'll give thee a penny for what's left of that horse, brother. "

There was a ripple of laughter. Lewis colored, and his eyes grew moist. 

"He says he will give a penny, " he said. 

"A penny?" said the stranger, gravely. "Take it. Cash, mind you. Cash ondelivery. "

The sale was made amid general consternation. As the dazed wag led hispurchase away, he trembled as though from a first stroke of paralysis. The marketplace began to buzz, to hum, and then to shout, "A strangersells horses for a penny, cash on delivery!" They laughed and crowdednearer. Merchants forgot their dignity, and came running from thestreets of the town. 

"Now, boy, this one, " said the stranger, poking a mule; "but be careful. Be careful to wait for the highest bid. "

The stranger's warning came just in time. No sooner had Lewis called themule for sale than bids rained on him from every side. One after theother, in rapid succession, the animals were sold; but no more went fora penny. 

His pockets stuffed with notes and silver, the stranger pushed his waythrough the crowd, suddenly grown silent. On the way to the river hepaid off his men. He climbed into the canoe, and Lewis followed. Theboatmen shoved off. 

The wag, leading Lewis's pony, had followed them to the river-bank. 

"Show me thy hoof, partner, " he shouted, laughing, to the stranger. "Thou shouldst deal in souls, not in horses. I would I had shaken thyhand. God go with thee!"

The stranger calmly counted his money. 

"Boy, " he said, "I have just given you a five-year life in five minutes. Write this down in your mind. In high finance he who knows figuresstarves on two dollars a day; success comes to him who knows men. "

During the long hours in the dirty train that jerked them toward thecoat and civilization the stranger began to grow nervous. Lewis lookedup more than once to find himself the object of a troubled gaze. Theywere the only passengers. There were moments when the road-bed permittedsnatches of conversation, but it was during a long stop on a side-trackthat the stranger unburdened himself. 

"Boy, " he said, "the time is coming when I must tell you my name. "

"I know your name, " said Lewis. 

"What!" cried the stranger. 

"I know your name, " repeated Lewis; "it is Leighton. "

"How? How do you know?" The stranger was frowning. 

"No, " said Lewis, quietly; "I haven't been looking through your things. One day my--my foster-father and my foster-mother were talking. They didnot know I was near. I didn't realize they were talking about me untilmammy spoke up. Mammy is--well, you know, she's just a mammy----"

"Yes, " said the stranger. "What did mammy say?"

"She said, " continued Lewis, coloring slightly, "that a Leighton didn'thave to have his name written in a family Bible because God neverforgets to write it in his face. "

"Good for mammy!" said the stranger. "So that's what they were talkingabout. " For a moment he sat silent and thoughtful; then he said: "Boy, don't you worry about any family Bible business. Your name's written inthe family Bible all right. Take it from me; I know. I'm GlendenningLeighton--your father. " His eyes glistened. 

"I'm glad about the name, " said Lewis, his face alight. "I'm glad you'remy dad, too. But I knew that. "

"Knew it? How did you know it?"

"The old woman--Old Immortality. Don't you remember? She said, 'The sonis the spit of the father. '"

"Did she?" said Leighton. "Do you believe everything as easily as that?"

"The heart believes easily, " said Lewis. 

"Eh? Where'd you get that?"

"I suppose I read it somewhere. I think it is true. She told me myfortune. "

"Told you your fortune, did she? I thought I was missing something whenI snored the hours away instead of talking to that bright old lady. Fortunes are silly things. Do you remember what she told you?"

"Yes, " said Lewis, "I think I remember every word. She said, 'Child oflove art thou. At thy birth was thy mother rent asunder, for thou wertconceived too near the heart----'"

"Stop!"

Lewis looked up. His father's face was livid. His breast heaved asthough he gasped for air. Then he clenched his fists. Lewis saw theveins on his forehead swell as he fought for self-mastery. He calmedhimself deliberately; then slowly he dropped his face in his hands. 

"Some day, " he said in a voice so low that Lewis could hardly hear thewords, "I shall tell you of your mother. Not now. "

Gloom, like a tangible presence, filled the car. It pressed down uponLewis. He felt it, but in his heart he knew that for him the day was aglad day. The train started. He leaned far out of a window. The eveningbreeze was blowing from the east. To his keen nostrils came a faintbreath of the sea. When he drew his head in again, the twinkle he hadalready learned to watch for was back in his father's eyes. 

"What do you smell, boy?"

"I smell the sea, " said Lewis. 

"How do you know? How old were you when you made your first voyage?"

"Don't you know?"

Leighton shook his head. 

Lewis, looking at his father with wondering eyes, regretted the spokenquestion. 

"I was three years old. I suppose I remember the smell of the sea, though it seems as if I couldn't possibly. I remember the funnel of thesteamer, though. "

"Seems like looking back on a quite separate life, doesn't it?"

"Yes, " said Lewis, nodding, "it does. "

"Of course it does, and in that fact you've got the germ of anindividual philosophy. Every man who goes through the stress of life hasneed of an individual philosophy. "

"What's yours, sir?"

"I was going to tell you. Life, to me, is like this train, a lot ofsections and a lot of couplings. When you're through with a car, side-track it and--yank out the coupling. Like all philosophies, thisone has its flaw. Once in a while your soul looks out of the window andsees some long-forgotten, side-tracked car beckoning to be coupled onagain. If you try to go back and pick it up, you're done. Never lookback, boy; never look back. Live ahead even if you're only living acompensation. "

"What's a compensation?" asked Lewis. 

"A compensation, " said Leighton thoughtfully, "is a thing that doesn'tquite compensate. "

Above the rattle of the train sounded the deep bellow of a steamer'sthrottle. Lewis turned to the window. Night had fallen. 

"Oh, look, sir!" he cried. "We're almost there!"

Leighton joined him. Before them were spangled, in a great crescent, ahundred thousand lights. Along the water-front the lights clusteredthickly. They climbed a cliff in long zigzags. At the top they clusteredagain. Out on the bay they swayed from halyards, their reflectionsglimmering back from the rippling water like so many agitated moons. 

"Right you are--Bahia, " said Leighton. "We're almost there, and it's nofishing-hamlet, either. "

CHAPTER XIV

The next morning, as they were sitting, after their coffee and rolls, ata little iron table on the esplanade of the Sul Americano, Leightonsaid: "It takes a man five years to learn how to travel in a hurry andfifteen more to learn how not to hurry. You may consider that you'vebeen a traveler for twenty years. " He stretched and yawned. "Let's takea walk, slowly. "

They started down the broad incline which, in long, descending zigzags, cut the cliff that divided lower town from upper. The closely laidcobblestones were slippery with age. 

"It took a thousand slaves a century to pave these streets, " saidLeighton. "Do you know anything about this town, Bahia?"

"It was once the capital of the empire, " said Lewis. 

"Yes, " said Leighton. "Capital of the empire, seat of learning, citadelof the church, last and greatest of the great slave-marts. That's ahistory. Never bother your mind about a man, a woman, or a town thathasn't got a history. They may be happy, but they're stupid. "

The principal street of the lower town was swarming with a strangemixture of humanity. Here and there hurried a foreigner in whites, hisflushed cheeks and nose flying the banner of John Barleycorn. 

Along the sidewalks passed leisurely the doctorated product of theuniversities--doctors of law, doctors of medicine, embryo doctors stillin the making--each swinging a light cane. Their black hats and cutawaycoats, in the fashion of a temperate clime, would have looked exoticwere it not for the serene dignity with which they were worn. With them, merchants lazed along, making a deal as they walked. Clerks, under theirmasters' eyes, hurried hither and thither. 

These were all white or near-white. The middle of the street, which heldthe great throng, was black. Slaves with nothing on but a loin-clothstaggered under two bags of coffee or under a single monster sack ofcocoa. Their sweating torsos gleamed where the slanting sun struck them. Other slaves bore other burdens: a basket of chickens or a bundle ofsugar-cane on the way to market; a case of goods headed for the storesof some importer; now and then a sedan-chair, with curtains drawn; andfinally a piano, unboxed, on a pilgrimage. 

The piano came up the middle of the street borne on the heads of sixsinging negroes. For a hundred yards they would carry it at a shufflingtrot, their bare feet keeping time to their music, then they would setit down and, clapping their hands and still singing, do a shuffle danceabout it. This was the shanty of piano-movers. No other slave dared singit. It was the badge of a guild. 

"D'you hear that?" asked Leighton, nodding his head. "That's a shanty. They're singing to keep step. "

In shady nooks and corners and in the cool, wide doorways sat stillother slaves: porters waiting for a stray job; grayheads, too old forburdens, plaiting baskets; or a fat mammy behind her pot of couscous. 

Three porters sat on little benches on the top step of a church porch. Leighton approached one of them. 

"Brother, " he said, "give me your stool. "

The slave rose, and straightened to a great height. He held up his handsfor a blessing. He grinned when Leighton sat down on his bench. Then helooked keenly at Lewis's face, and promptly dragged the black at hisside to his feet. 

"Give thy bench to the young master, thou toad. "

Leighton nodded his head. 

"No fool, the old boy, eh? The son's the spit of the father. " His eyesswept the swarming street. "What men! What men!" He was looking at theblacks. "Boy, did you ever hear of a general uprising among the slavesat home, in the States?"

"No, " said Lewis; "there never was one. "

"Exactly, " said Leighton. "There never was one because in the early daysour planters found out what not to buy in the way of black meat. Theyweren't looking for the indomitable spirit. They weren't looking formen, but for slaves, and the black-birders soon learned that if theydidn't want to carry their cargo farther than New Orleans they had toload up with members of the gentlest tribes. Now, there have beenterrible uprisings of blacks in the West Indies, in Demerara and here. Ask this old chap of what race he is. "

Lewis turned and asked the question. The tall black straightened, hisface grew stern, his eyes moist. 

"Tito, my name. I am of the tribe of Minas. In the time of thygrandfather I was traded as ransom for a king. "

"Hm--m, I can believe it, " said Leighton. "Now ask the next one, thecopper-colored giant. "

"And thou?" said Lewis. 

"I? I am a Fulah of the Fulahs. Before blacks were, or whites, we werethus, the color of both. "

"You see?" said Leighton. "Pride. He was afraid you'd take him for amulatto. Now the other fellow, there. "

"And thou?" said Lewis. 

The third black had remained seated. He turned his eyes slowly to Lewis. 

"I am no slave, " he began. "I am of the tribe of Houssa. To my master'swealth. I added fifteen of my sons. In the great rebellion they fell, one and all. "

"The great rebellion, " said Leighton. "He means the last Houssauprising. Thirty thousand of 'em, and they fought and fell to a man. TheGovernment was glad of the chance to wipe 'em out. Ask him how heescaped. "

"Escaped?" The black's eyes gleamed. "Child, I did not escape. Mymaster's son was a babe in arms. My master bade me bear him to safety. When I came back, alone I bore my master to the grave. Then it was toolate. They would not kill me. Now the babe is grown. He tells me I am afree man. It is written on paper. "

While Leighton and Lewis watched the crowd, they themselves did notremain unnoticed. A small group of the leisurely class began to blockthe pavement before them. Father and son were a strange pair. Lewis wasstill in his leather cow-boy clothes. Alone, he would not have attractedmore notice than a man with a beard and a carpet-bag on Broadway; butthe juxtaposition of pith helmet, a thing unknown in those parts, andcountryman's flat leather hat, and the fact of their wearers usurpingthe seats of two black carriers was too much for one native son, dressedin the latest Paris fashion. 

"Thou, porter, " he called to Leighton, "an errand for thee. Go fetch myfather. He would not miss this sight. "

"What does he say?" asked Leighton. 

Lewis blushed as people stopped and added their sparkling eyes to thoseof the crowd already gathered. 

"He calls you a porter, and bids you fetch his father to see the sight. "

"Ask him, " said Leighton, calmly, "shall I know him who he thinks is hisfather by his horns?"

Lewis translated innocently enough. The crowd gasped, and then roaredwith laughter. The youth in Paris clothes turned purple with rage, shookhis little cane at Leighton, and burst into abusive language. 

"Why, " cried Lewis--"why, what's the matter with him?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " said Leighton, pensively. "And just now he wasso dignified!"

A private sedan-chair, borne by four splendid blacks, swung by at a run. As it passed, one of its silk curtains was drawn aside and the face of awoman, curious to see the reason of the crowd, looked out. The face wasclear white, blue-veined, red-lipped; under the black eyes were shadows. A slight smile curved the red lips as the shadowy eyes fell uponLeighton and Lewis. 

Leighton went tense, like a hound in leash. 

"Look, boy!" he cried. "A patrician passes!"

The lady heard, understood. The smile, that was half-disdain, deepened. She bowed slightly, but graciously. The curtain fell. 

"Come, boy, " said Leighton, "we can't stand that. Let's go find atailor. "

"Dad, " said Lewis, "do you know her? She bowed. "

"She did, God bless her!" said Leighton. "No, I don't know her; butlet's think kindly of her, for she has added a charming memory to life. "

CHAPTER XV

Four days later Lewis sat beside his bed, piled high with all theparaphernalia that go to make up a gentleman's wardrobe and toilet. Hewas very nervous--so nervous that he had passed an hour striding fromone side of the small bedroom to the other, making up his mind to try tocarry out his father's instructions, which were simply to go to his roomand dress. Lewis had never in his life put on a collar or knotted a tie. 

He answered a knock on the door with a cry of dismay. Leighton strodeinto the room. 

"Well, what's the matter?"

Lewis looked ruefully from his father's face to the things on the bedand back again. He felt himself flushing painfully. He opened his mouthto speak and then closed it. 

Suddenly Leighton's face lit up. He laughed. 

"Well, well, " he cried, "this is splendid! You've given me a newsensation. " He yanked a bath-robe from the bed. "Here, you savage, shedthose leather togs, but don't lose them. You'll want to take them outand look at them some stuffy day. Now put this on and run to your bath. "

When Lewis came back to the room he found most of his things had beenpacked away in the big, new trunk. On the bed certain garments were laidout. They were laid out in correct order. 

Leighton stood beside the bed in a deferential attitude. His face was ablank. "Will you be wearing the white flannels to-night, sir, or thedinner-jacket? If you will allow me, I would suggest the flannels. Sultry evening, and Mr. Leighton will be dining on the terrace. "

"Yes, I'll wear the flannels, " stammered Lewis. 

"Your singlet, sir, " said Leighton, picking up the undershirt from thebed. Article after article he handed to his son in allotted order. Lewisput each thing on as fast as his nervous hands would let him. He triedto keep his eyes from wandering to the head of the line, where laycollar and tie. The collar had been buttoned to the back of the shirt, but when it came to fastening it in front, Lewis's fingers fumbledhopelessly. 

"Allow me, sir, " said Leighton. He fastened the collar deftly. "I seeyou don't like that tie with the flannels, sir. My mistake. "

He threw open the trunk, and took out a brown cravat of soft silk. "Yourbrown scarf, sir. It goes well with the flannels. Will you watch in theglass, sir?" He placed the cravat, measured it carefully, knotted it, and drew it up. 

Lewis did not watch in the mirror. His eyes were fixed on his father'smask of a face. He knew that, inside, his father was bubbling with fun;but no ripple showed in his face, no disrespectful twinkle in his eye. Leighton was playing the game. Suddenly, for no reason that he couldname, Lewis began to adore his father. 

"Will that do, sir?"

"Certainly, " stammered Lewis. "Very nicely, thank you"

"Thank _you_, sir, " said Leighton. He handed Lewis the flannel trousersand then the coat. 

As Lewis finished putting them on, Leighton whirled on his heel. 

"Ready, my boy?" The mask was gone. 

Lewis laughed back into his father's twinkling eyes. 

"Yes, I'm ready, " he said rather breathlessly. He followed his fatherout of the room. The new clothes gripped him in awkward places, but ashe glanced down at the well-pressed flannels, he felt glorified. 

That night, while strolling in a back street of the lower town, theydiscovered a tunnel running into the cliff. At its mouth was aturnstile. 

"Shades of Avernus! What's this?" asked Leighton. 

Lewis inquired of the gateman. 

"It's an elevator to the upper town, " he said. 

They paid their fare and walked into the long tunnel. At its end theyfound a prehistoric elevator and a terrific stench. Leighton clapped hishandkerchief to his nose and dived into the waiting car. Lewis followedhim. An attendant started the car, and slowly they crept up and up, twohundred feet, to the crest of the cliff. As they emerged, Leighton letgo a mighty breath. 

"Holy mackerel!" he said, "and what was that? Ugh! it's here yet!"

The attendant explained. At the bottom of the shaft was a pit into whichsank the great chains of the car. The pit was full of crude castor-oil, cheapest and best of lubricants. 

"My boy, " said Leighton, as he led the way at a rapid stride toward thehotel, "never confuse the picturesque with the ugly. I can stand a bitof local color in the way of smells, but there's such a thing as goingtoo far, and that went it. We'll prepare at once to leave this town. Would you like to go north or south?"

"I don't know, sir, " said Lewis. 

"Well, we'll just climb on board that big double-funnel that came into-day and leave it to her. What do you say?"

They went south. Four days later, in the early morning, Lewis waswakened by a bath-robe hurled at his head. 

"Put that on and come up on deck quick!" commanded his father. 

Lewis gasped when he reached the deck. They were just entering theharbor. On the left, so close that it seemed to threaten them, loomedthe Sugar-Loaf. On the right, the wash of the steamer creamed on therocks of Santa Cruz. Before them opened the mighty bay, dotted with ahundred islands, some crowned with foliage, others with gleaming, whitewalls, and one with an aspiring minaret. Between water and sky stretchedthe city. There was no horizon, for the jagged wall of the OrganMountains towered in a circle into the misty blue. Heaven and earth wereone. 

A white line of surf-foam ran along all the edge of the bay. LanguorousAphrodite of the cities of the world, Rio de Janeiro lay naked beyondthat line, and gloried. Like a dream of fair woman, her feet plunged infoam, her body reclining against the heights, her arms outstretched, green hills for her pillows, her diadem the shining mountain-peaks, queen of the cities of the earth by the gift of Almighty God, shegleamed beneath the kiss of dawn. 

Leighton drew a long, long breath. 

"It will take a lot of bad smells to blot the memory of _that_, " hesaid. 

They came to the bad smells in about an hour and a quarter. An hourlater they left the custom-house. Then, each in a rocketing tilbury, driven by a yelling Jehu, they shot through the narrow and filthystreets of the Rio of that far day and drew up, still trembling withfright, at the doors of the Hotel dos Estrangeiros. 

"You got here, too!" cried Leighton as Lewis tumbled out of his cab. "Wehad both wheels on the ground at once three separate times. How aboutyou?"

"I really don't know anything about what happened, sir, " said Lewis, grinning. "I was holding on. "

"What were they yelling? Did you make anything out of that?" askedLeighton, when they had surveyed their rooms and were washing. 

"They were shouting at the people in the way, " said Lewis. "My driveryelled only two things. When a colored person was in the way, it was, 'Melt chocolate-drop!' and when he shouted at a white man, it was:'Clear the way to hell! a foreigner rides with me. '"

"Boy, " said Leighton, speaking through several folds of towel and theopen connecting-door, "if you ever find your brains running to seed, geta job as a cabman. There's something about a cab, the world over, thatbreeds wit. "

CHAPTER XVI

The Rio of 1888 was seething at the vortex of the wordy battle foremancipation. The Ouvidor, the smart street of the town, so narrow thatcarriages were not allowed upon it, was the center of the maelstrom. Here crowded politician and planter; lawyers, journalists, and students;conservative and emancipationist. 

At each end of the Ouvidor were squares where daily meetings were heldthe emotional surge of which threatened to lap over into revolution atany moment. 

The emotion was real. Youths of twenty blossomed into verse neverequaled before or since in the writings of their prolific race. Anorator, maddened by the limits of verbal expression, shot himselfthrough the heart to add a fitting period to a thundered phrase. Womenforgot their own bondage, and stripped themselves of jewels for thecause. 

Leighton and his son, wandering through these scenes, felt like ghosts. They had the certainty that all this had happened before. Their lonely, calm faces drew upon them hostile, wondering stares. 

"Got a clean tablet in your mind?" asked Leighton one day as theyemerged from an unusually excited scene. "Write this down: Nothing boresone like somebody else's belated emotions. When you've had some womaninsist on kissing you after you're tired of her, you'll understand mebetter. In the meantime, this is bad enough. I can think of only onecure for what we've been through here, and that is a Sunday in London. Let us start. "

"London!" breathed Lewis. "Are we going to London?"

"Yes, we are. It's a peculiar fact, well known and long cursed amongtravelers, that all the steamers in the world arrive in England onSaturday afternoon. We'll get to London for Sunday. "

During the long voyage, for the first time since the day on which he metthe stranger, and which already seemed of long ago, Lewis had time tothink. A sadness settled on him. What were they doing at Nadir on thisstarry night? Were the goats corraled? Who had brought them in? Wasmammy crooning songs of low-swinging chariots and golden stairs? WasMrs. Leighton still patiently sewing? The Reverend Orme, was he stillsitting scowling and staring and staring? And Natalie? Was she there, orwas she gone, married? He drew a great, quivering sigh. 

Leighton looked around. 

"Trying to pick up a side-tracked car?"

Lewis smiled faintly, but understandingly. 

"It's not quite side-tracked--yet, " he said. 

"Ah, boy, never look back, " said Leighton. "But, no; do. Do look back. You're young yet. Tell me about it. "

Then for a long time Lewis talked of Nadir: of the life there, of theReverend Orme, grown morose through unnamed troubles; of Mrs. Leighton, withered away till naught but patience was left; of happy mammy, grownsad; of Natalie, friend, playmate, and sacrifice. 

"So they wanted to marry your little pal into motherhood twenty timesover, ready-made, " said Leighton. "And you fought them, told 'em whatyou thought of it. You were right, boy; you were right. The wildernessmust have turned their heads. But you ought to have stayed with it. Whydidn't you stay with it? You're no quitter. "

"There were things I said to the Reverend Orme, " said Lewis, slowly--"things I knew, that made it impossible for me to stay. "

"Things you knew? What things?"

Lewis did not answer. 

 * * * * *

It was on a gray Sunday that they entered London. In a four-wheeler, theroof of which groaned under a pyramid of baggage, they started out intothe mighty silence of deserted streets. The _plunk! plunk!_ of thehorse's shod hoofs crashed against the blank walls of the shutteredhouses and reverberated ahead of them until sound dribbled away down thegorge of the all-embracing nothing. Gray, gray; heaven and earth andlife were gray. 

Lewis felt like crying, but Leighton came to the rescue. He was in highspirits. 

"Boy, look out of the window. Is there anywhere in the world a youthspouting verse on a street corner?"

"No, " said Lewis. 

"Or an orator shooting himself to give point to an impassioned speech?"

"No. "

"Or women shaking their bangles into the melting-pot for the cause offreedom?"

"No. "

"I should say not. This is Sunday in London. Take off your hat. You arein the graveyard of all the emotions of the earth. "

Up one flight of stairs, over a tobacconist's shop, Leighton raised anddropped the massive bronze knocker on a deep-set door. He saw Lewis'seyes fix on the ponderous knocker. 

"Strong door to stand it, eh? They don't make 'em that way any more. "

The door swung open. A man-servant in black bowed as Leighton entered. 

"Glad to welcome you back, sir. I hope you are well, sir. "

"Thanks, Nelton, I'm well as well. So is Master Lewis. Got his roomready? Show him the bath. "

Lewis, looking upon Nelton, suddenly remembered a little room in the SulAmericano at Bahia. He felt sure that when Nelton opened his mouth itwould be to say, "Will you be wearing the white flannels to-night, sir, or the dinner-jacket?"

By lunch-time Leighton's high spirits were on the decline, by fouro'clock they had struck bottom. He kept walking to the windows, only toturn his back quickly on what he saw. At last he said:

"D'you know what a 'hundred to one shot' is?"

"No, sir, " said Lewis. 

"Well, " said Leighton, "watch me play one. " He sat down, wrote a hurriednote, and sent it out by Nelton. "The chances, my boy, are one hundredto one that the lady's out of town. "

When Nelton came back with an answer, Leighton scarcely stopped to openit. 

"Come on, boy, " he called, and was off. By the time Lewis reached thestreet, his father was stepping into a cab. Lewis scrambled after him. 

"Doesn't seem proper, Dad, to rush through a graveyard this way. "

"Graveyard? It isn't a graveyard any more. I'll prove it to you in aminute. "

It was more than a minute before they pulled up at a house that seemedto belie Leighton's promise. Its door was under a massive portico thecolumns of which rose above the second story. The portico was flanked bya parapeted balcony, upon which faced, on each side, a row of Frenchwindows, closed and curtained, but not shuttered. 

CHAPTER XVII

Leighton rang. The door was opened by a man in livery. So pompous was hethat Lewis gazed at him open-mouthed. He could hardly tear his eyes fromhim to follow his father, who was being conducted by a second footmanacross the glassy, waxed hall into a vast drawing-room. 

The drawing-room might have been a tomb for kings, but Lewis felt moreawed by it than depressed. It was a room of distances. Upon its statelywalls hung only six paintings and a tapestry. Leighton did not tell hisson that the walls carried seven fortunes, because he happened to be oneof those who saw them only as seven things of joy. 

There were other things in the room besides the pictures: a few chairs, the brocade of which matched the tapestry on the wall; an inlaid spinet;three bronzes. Before one of the bronzes Lewis stopped involuntarily. From its massive, columned base to the tip of the living figure it wasin one piece. Out of the pedestal itself writhed the tortured, reachingfigure--aspiring man held to earth. Lewis stretched out a reverent handas though he would touch it. 

The lackey had thrown open a door and stood waiting. Leighton turned andcalled:

"Come on, boy. "

Lewis followed them through a second drawing-room and into a library. Here they were asked to sit. Never had Lewis dreamed of such a room. Itwas all in oak--in oak to which a century of ripening had given a rareflower. 

There was only one picture, and that was placed over the greatfireplace. It was the portrait of a beautiful woman--waves of gray hairabove a young face and bright black eyes. The face laughed at them andat the rows upon rows of somber books that reached from floor toceiling. 

Before the fireplace were two leather chairs and a great leather couch. At each end of the couch stood lighted lamps, shaded to a deep-amberglow. 

The lackey returned. 

"Her ladyship waits for you in her room, sir. "

Leighton nodded, and led Lewis down a short hall. The library had beendark, the hall was darker. Lewis felt depressed. He heard his fatherknock on a door and then open it. Lewis caught his breath. 

The door had opened on a little realm of light. Fresh blue and whitecretonnes and chintzes met his unaccustomed eyes; straight chairs, easy-chairs, and deep, low comfy chairs; airy tables, the preposterouslyslender legs of which looked frail and were not; books, paper-backed, and gay magazines; a wondrous, limpid cheval-glass. 

Across the farther side of the room was a very wide window. Through itsslender gothic panes one saw a walled lawn and a single elm. Beside thewindow and half turned toward it, so that the light fell across herface, sat the woman of the portrait. 

"How do!" she cried gaily to Leighton, and held out her hand. She didnot rise. 

"H lne, " said Leighton, "your room's so cursedly feminine that it'slike an assault for a man to enter it. "

"I can't give you credit for that, Glen, " said the lady, laughing. "You've had a year to think it up. Where have you been? That's right. Sit down, light up, and talk. "

Leighton nodded over his shoulder at Lewis. 

"Been fetching him. "

"So this is the boy, is it?" The bright eyes stopped smiling. For aninstant they became shrewd. They swept Lewis from head to foot and backagain. Lewis bowed, and then stood very straight. He felt the colormounting in his cheeks. The smile came back to the lady's eyes. 

"Sit down, boy, " she said. 

For an hour Lewis sat on the edge of a chair and listened to a stream ofquestions and chatter. The chatter was Greek to him. It skimmed over thesurface of things like a swift skater over thin ice. It never broke intodeep waters, but somehow you knew the deep waters were there. 

At last Leighton arose. 

"Boy, " he said, "come here. This lady is my pal. There are times when aman has to tell things to a woman. That's what women are for. When youfeel you've got to tell things to a woman, you come and tell them toH lne. Don't be afraid of that peacock of a doorman; push him over. He's so stiff he'll topple easy. "

"Oh, please don't ever!" cried the lady, turning to Lewis. "I'll giveyou money to tip him. " She turned back to Leighton. "They're so hard toget with legs, Glen. "

"Legs be hanged!" said Leighton. "Our age is trading civility for legs. The face that welcomes you to a house should be benign----"

"There you go, " broke in the lady. "If you'd think a minute, you wouldrealize that we don't charter doormen to welcome people, but to keepthem out. " She turned to Lewis. "But not you, boy. You may come any timeexcept between nine and ten. That's when I have my bath. What's yourname? I can't call you boy forever. "

"Lewis. "

"Well, Lew, you may call me H lne, like your father. It'll make me feeleven younger than I am. "

"H lne is a pretty name, " said Lewis. 

"None of that, young man, " said Leighton. "You'll call H lne my Lady. "

"That's a pretty name, too, " said Lewis. 

"Yes, " said the lady, rising and holding out her hand, "call me that--atthe door. "

"Dad, " said Lewis as they walked back to the flat, "does she live allalone in that big house?"

Leighton came out of a reverie. 

"That lady, Lew, is Lady H lne Derl. She is the wife of Lord Derl. Youwon't see much of Lord Derl, because he spends most of his time in asort of home for incurables. His hobby is faunal research. In otherwords, he's a drunkard. Bah! We won't talk any more about _that_. "

CHAPTER XVIII

A few months later, when Lewis had very much modified his ideas ofLondon, he was walking with his father in the park at the hour which thegeneral English fitness of things assigns to the initiated. A verylittle breaking in and a great deal of tailoring had gone a long waywith Lewis. Men looked at father and son as though they thought theyought to recognize them even if they didn't. Women turned kindly eyesupon them. 

The morning after Lady Derl took Lewis into her carriage in the park shereceived three separate notes from female friends demanding that she"divvy up. " Knowing women in general and the three in special, sheprepared to comply. Often Lewis and his father had been summoned by ascribbled note for pot-luck with Lady Derl; but this time it was aformal invitation, engraved. 

Lewis read his card casually. His face lighted up. Leighton read hiswith deeper perception, and frowned. 

"Already!" he grunted. Then he said: "When you've finished breakfast, come to my den. I want to talk to you. "

Lewis found his father sitting like a judge on the bench, behind a greatoak desk he rarely used. An envelope, addressed, lay before him. He rangfor Nelton and sent it out. 

"Sit down, " he said to Lewis. "Where did you get your education? Byeducation I don't mean a knowledge of knives, forks, and fish-eaters. That's from Ann Leighton, of course. Nor do I mean the power of addingtwo to two or reciting A B C D, etc. By education a gentleman meansskill in handling life. "

"And have I got it?" asked Lewis, smiling. 

"You meet life with a calmness and deftness unusual in a boy, " saidLeighton, gravely. 

"I--I don't know, " began Lewis. "I've never been educated. By the time Iwas nine I knew how to read and write and figure a little. Afterthat--you know--I just sat on the hills for years with the goats. I readthe Reverend Orme's books, of course. "

"What were the books?"

"There weren't many, " said Lewis. "There was the Bible, of course. Therewas a little set of Shakspere in awfully fine print and a set of WalterScott. "

Leighton nodded. "The Bible is essential but not educative until youlearn to depolarize it. Shakspere--you'll begin to read Shakspere inabout ten years. Walter Scott. Scott--well--Scott is just a bright axfor the neck of time. What else did you read?"

"I read 'The City of God' but not very often. "

For a second Leighton stared; then he burst into laughter. He checkedhimself suddenly. 

"Boy, " he said, "don't misunderstand. I'm not laughing at the book; I'mlaughing at your reading St. Augustine even 'not very often!'"

"Why shouldn't you laugh?" asked Lewis, simply. "I laughed sometimes. Iremember I always laughed at the heading to the twenty-first book. "

"Did you?" said Leighton, a look of wonder in his face. "What is it? Idon't quite recollect the headings that far. "

"'Of the eternal punishment of the wicked in hell, and of the variousobjections urged against it, '" quoted Lewis, smiling. 

Leighton grinned his appreciation. 

"There is a flavor about unconscious humor, " he said, "that's like thebouquet to a fine wine: only the initiated catch it. I'm afraid you werean educated person even before you read St. Augustine. Did he put up agood case for torment? You see, you've found me out. I've never readhim. "

"His case was weak in spots, " said Lewis. "His examples from nature, forinstance, proving that bodies may remain unconsumed and alive in fire. "

"Yes?" said Leighton. 

"He starts out, 'if, therefore the salamander lives in fire, asnaturalists have recorded----' I looked up salamander in thedictionary. "

Lewis's eyes were laughing, but Leighton's grew suddenly grave. "Poorold chap!" he said. "He didn't know that time rots the sanest argument. 'Oh. . . That mine adversary had written a book, ' cried one who knew. "

Leighton sat thoughtful for a moment, then he threw up his head. 

"Well, " he said, "we'll give up trying to find out how you got educated. Let's change the subject. Has it occurred to you that at any moment youmay be called upon to support yourself?"

"It did once, " said Lewis, "when I started for Oeiras. Then I met you. You haven't given me time or--or cause to think about it since. I'm--I'mnot ungrateful----"

"That's enough, " broke in Leighton. "Let's stick to the point. It's alucky thing for the progress of the world that riches often take to thewing. It may happen to any of us at any time. The amount of stupiditythat sweating humanity applies to the task of making a living iscolossal. In about a million years we'll learn that making a livingconsists in knowing how to do well any necessary thing. It's harder fora gentleman to make a living than for a farm-hand. But--come with me. "

He took Lewis to a certain Mecca of mighty appetites in the Strand. Before choosing a table, he made the round of the roasts, shoulders andfowl. They were in great domed, silver salvers, each on a barrow, eachkept hot over lighted lamps. 

Leighton seated himself and ordered. 

"Now, boy, without staring take a good look at the man that does thecarving. "

One of the barrows was trundled to their table. An attendant lifted thedomed cover with a flourish. With astounding rapidity the carver took aneven cut from the mighty round of beef, then another. The cover wasclapped on again, and the barrow trundled away. 

"You saw him?" asked Leighton. 

Lewis nodded. 

"Well, that chap got through twenty thousand a year, --pounds, notdollars, --capital and income, in just five years. After that he starved. I know a man that lent him half a crown. The borrower said he'd live onit for a week. Then he found out that, despite being a gentleman, therewas one little thing he could do well. He could make a roast duck fallapart as though by magic, and he could handle a full-sized carving-knifewith the ease and the grace of a duchess handling a fan. Wow he'sgetting eight hundred a year--pounds again--and all he can eat. "

From the eating-house Leighton took Lewis to his club. He sought out asmall room that is called the smoking-room to this day, relic of an agewhen smokers were still a race apart. In the corner sat an old manreading. He was neatly dressed in black. Beside him was a decanter ofport. 

Leighton led the way back to the lounge-room. 

"Well, did you see him?"

"The old man?" said Lewis. "Yes, I saw him. "

"That's Old Ivory, " said Leighton. "He's an honorable. He was cursed bythe premature birth--to him--of several brothers. In other words, he'sthat saddest of British institutions, a younger son. His brothers, theother younger sons, are still eating out of the hand of their eldestbrother, Lord Bellim. But not Old Ivory. He bought himself an annuityten years ago. How did he do it? Well, he had enough intelligence torealize that he hadn't much. He decided he could learn to shoot well atfifty yards. He did. Then he went after elephants, and got 'em, in a daywhen they shipped ivory not by the tusk, but by the ton, and sold it atfifteen shillings a pound. " As they walked back to the flat, Leightonsaid: "Now, take your time and think. Is there anything you know how todo well?"

"Nothing, " stammered Lewis--"nothing except goats. "

"Ah, yes, goats, " said Leighton, but his thoughts were not on goats. Back in his den, he took from a drawer in the great oak desk the kidthat Lewis had molded in clay and its broken legs, for another had gone. He looked at the fragments thoughtfully. "To my mind, " he said, "thereis little doubt but that you could become efficient at terra-cottadesigning; you might even become a sculptor. "

"A sculptor!" repeated Lewis, as though he voiced a dream. 

Leighton paid no attention to the interruption. "I hesitate, however, togive you a start toward art because you carry an air of success withyou. One predicts success for you too--too confidently. And success inart is a formidable source of danger. "

"Success a source of danger, Dad?"

"In art, " corrected Leighton. 

"Yesterday, " he continued, "you wanted to stop at a shop window, and Iwouldn't let you. The window contained an inane repetition display ofthirty horrible prints at two and six each of Lalan's 'Triumph. '"Leighton sprang to his feet. "God! Poster lithographs at two and six!Boy, Lalan's 'Triumph' _was_ a triumph once. He turned it into a meresuccess. Before the paint was dry, he let them commercialize hispicture, not in sturdy, faithful prints, but in that--that rubbish. "

Leighton strode up and down the room, his arms behind him, his eyes onthe floor. 

"Taking art into the poor man's home, they call it. Bah! If you multiplythe greatest glory that the genius of man ever imprisoned, and put itall over the walls of your house, --bath, kitchen and under thebed, --you'll find the mean level of that glory is reduced to the termsof the humblest of household utensils. "

A smile nickered in Lewis's eyes, but Leighton did not look up. 

"Art is never a constant, " he continued. "It feeds on spirit, and spiritis evanescent. A truly great picture should be seen by the comparativefew. What every one possesses is necessarily a commonplace. 

"And now, to get back. I have never talked seriously to you before; Imay never do it again. The essence, the distinctive finesse, ofbreeding, lies in a trained gaiety and an implied sincerity. But what Imust say to you is this: Even in this leveling age there are a few of uswho look with terror upon an incipient socialism; who believe money asmoney to be despicable and food and clothing, incidental; who abhorequality, cherish sorrow and suffering and look uponeducation--knowledgeof living before God and man--as the ultimate and only source ofcontent. That's a creed. I'd like to have you think on it. I'd like tohave my boy join the Old Guard. Do you begin to see how success in artmay become a danger?"

"Yes, " said Lewis, "I think I do. I think you mean that--that in sellingart one is apt to sell one's self. "

"H--m--m!" said Leighton, "you are older than I am. I'll take you toParis to-morrow. "

Nelton knocked, and threw open the door without waiting for an answer. 

"Her ladyship, " he announced. 

Lady Derl entered. She was looking very girlish in a close-fitting, tailored walking-suit. The skirt was short--the first short skirt toreach London. Beneath it could be seen her very pretty feet. They walkedexcitedly. 

Lady Derl was angry. She held a large card in her hand. She tore it intobits and tossed it at Leighton's feet. 

"Glen, " she said, "don't you ever dare to send me one of your engraved'regrets' again. Why--why you've been rude to me!"

Leighton hung his head. For one second Lewis had the delightfulsensation of taking his father for a brother and in trouble. 

"H lne, " said Leighton. "I apologize humbly and abjectly. I thought itwould amuse you. "

"Apologies are hateful, " said Lady Derl. "They're so final. To see afine young quarrel, in the prime of life, die by lightning--sad! sad!"She started drawing off her gloves. "Let's have tea. " As she poured teafor them she asked, "And what's the real reason you two aren't coming tomy dinner?"

Leighton picked up the maimed kid and laid it on the tea-tray. He noddedtoward Lewis. 

"He made it, I'm going to gamble a bit on him. "

"Poor little thing!" said Lady Derl, poking the two-legged kid with herfinger. 

"I'm going to put him under Le Brux, --Saint Anthony, --if he'll takehim, " continued Leighton. "We leave for Paris to-morrow. "

"Under Saint Anthony?" repeated Lady Derl. "H--m--m! Perhaps you areright. But Blanche, Berthe, and Vi will hold it against me. "

When Lewis was alone with his father, he asked: "Does Lady Derl belongto the Old Guard?"

"You wouldn't think it, but she does, " said Leighton, --"inside. "

CHAPTER XIX

"My boy, " said Leighton to Lewis two days later, as they were threadinga narrow street in the shadow of Montmartre, "you will meet in a fewmoments Le Brux, the only living sculptor. You will call him _Maître_from the start. If he cuffs you or swears at you, call him _Mon Matre_. That's all the French you will need for some months. "

Leighton dodged by a sleepy concierge with a grunted greeting andclimbed a broad stone stairway, then a narrower flight. He knocked on adoor and opened it. They passed into an enormous room, cluttered, ifsuch space could be said to be cluttered, with casts, molding-boards, clay, dry and wet, a throne, a couch, a workman's bench, and somedilapidated chairs. A man in a smock stood in the midst of the litter. 

When Lewis's eye fell upon him as he turned toward them, the roomsuddenly became dwarfed. The man was a giant. A tremendous head, crownedwith a mass of grayish hair, surmounted a monster body. The voice, whenit came, did justice to such a frame. "My old one, my friend, Létonne!Thou art well come. Thou art the saving grace to an idle hour. "

Once more Lewis sat for a long time listening to chatter that was quiteunintelligible. But he scarcely listened, for his eyes had robbed hisbrain of action. They roamed and feasted upon one bit of sculpture afteranother. Casts, discarded in corners, gleamed through layers of dustthat could not hide their wondrous contour. Others hung upon the wall. Some were fragments. A monster group, half finished, held the center ofthe floor. A ladder was beside it. 

Leighton got up and strolled around. "What's new?" he asked. His eyesfell on the cast of an arm, a fragment. The arm was outstretched. It wasthe arm of a woman. So lightly had it been molded that it seemed tofloat. It seemed pillowed on invisible clouds. 

"_Matre"_, said Leighton, "I want that. How much?"

Le Brux moved over beside the cast. As he approached it, Lewis stared athis bulk, at his hairy chest, showing at the open neck of his smock, athis great, nervous hands, and wondered if this could be the creator ofso soft a dream in clay. 

"Bah! That?" said Le Brux. "It is only a trifle. Take it. It is thine. "

"I'll tell you what we'll do, " said Leighton. "You lend me the arm, andI'll lend you a thousand francs. "

"Done!" cried Le Brux, with a laugh that shook heaven and earth. "Ah, rascal, thou knowest that I never pay. "

As they went the rounds of the atelier, Lewis saw that his father wasgrowing nervous. Finally, Leighton drew from his pocket the little kidand its two broken legs. He held the lot out to Le Brux. The fragmentsseemed to dwindle to pin-points in Le Brux's vast hand. 

"Well, " he asked, "what's this?"

Leighton nodded toward Lewis, "My boy made that. "

Le Brux glanced down at his hand. A glint of interest lighted his eyesand passed. Then a tremendous frown darkened his brow. 

"A pupil, eh? Bah!" With his thumb and forefinger he crushed the kid topowder. "I'll take no pupil. "

Lewis gulped in dismay at seeing his kid demolished, but not soLeighton. He had noted the glint of interest. He turned on Le Brux. 

"You'll take no pupil, eh? All right, don't. But you'll take my son. Youshall and you will. "

"I will not, " growled Le Brux. 

"_Maître"_ began Leighton--"but whom am I calling _Matre_? What areyou? D'you know what you are?" He shook his finger in Le Brux's face. "You think you're a creator, but you're not. You're nothing but apalimpsest, the record of a single age. What are your works but oneman's thumb-print on the face of time? Here I am giving you a chance to_be_ a creator, to breed a live human that will carry on the torch--thatwill--"

Le Brux had seated himself heavily on the couch. He held his massivehead between his hands and groaned. 

"Ah, Létonne, " he interrupted, "our old friendship is dead--dead byviolence. Friends have said things to me before, --called me names, --andI have stood it. But none of them ever dared call me a palimpsest. Thouhast called me a palimpsest!"

Leighton seemed not to hear. 

"Somebody, " he continued, "that will carry on the mighty tradition of LeBrux. I could take a pupil to any one of a lot of whipper-snappers thatfondle clay, but _my son_ I bring to you. Why? Because you are thegreatest living sculptor? No. No great sculptor ever made another. If myboy's to be a sculptor, the only way you could stop him would be tochoke him to death. "

"I hadn't thought of that, " broke in Le Brux, with a look of relief. "Ifhe bothers me, eh? It would be easy. "

In a flash Leighton was all smiles. 

"So, " he said, "it is settled. Lewis you stay here. If he throws youout, come back again. "

"Eh! eh!" cried Le Brux, "not so fast. Listen. This is the most I cando. I'll let him stay here. I'll give him the room down the hall that Irent to keep any one else out, and--and--I'll use him for a model. "

Leighton shrugged his shoulders. 

"So, let it be so, " he said. "The boy will make his own way into yourbig, hollow heart, and use it for a playroom. But just remember, _Matre_, that he is a boy--_my_ boy. If he is to go in for allthis, "--Leighton waved his hand at the casts, --"I want him to start inwith a man who sees art and art only, a man who didn't turn beast thefirst time he realized God didn't create woman with petticoats. "

Le Brux's eyes bulged with comprehension. He thumped his resoundingchest. 

"Me!" he cried--"me, a wet nurse!" He yanked open another button of hissmock. "Behold me! Have I the attributes?"

Leighton turned his back on him. 

"Now you are ranting, " he said. He picked up an old newspaper from thefloor and started to wrap up the cast he had bought. "Now listen, _Maître_. Go and dress yourself for a change. The boy and I will spend afew hours looking for a fiacre that will stand the weight. Then we'llcome back, and I'll take you out for a drive to a place where you canremind yourself what a tree looks like. I'll also give you a dinner thatyou couldn't order in an hour with Carême holding your hand. "

"Ah, _mon enfant_, " sighed Le Brux, folding his hands across hisstomach, "thou hast struck me below the belt. Thou knowest that mymemory is not so short but what I will dine with thee. "

When at seven o'clock the three sat down at a table which, likeeverything else that came in contact with Le Brux, seemed a size toosmall, Leighton said to his guest:

"_Maître_, it has been my endeavor to provide to-night a single essencefrom each of the five great epochs of modern cookery. "

"Yes, my child?" said Le Brux, gravely, but with an expectant gleam inhis eye. 

"In no branch of science, " continued Leighton, "have progress andinnovation been so constantly associated as in gastronomy, and we shallconsequently abandon the rule of the savants of the last generation andproceed from the light to the less light and then to the rich. "

"I agree, " said Le Brux. 

Leighton nodded to the attendant. Soup was served. 

"_Crême d'asperges à la reine_, " murmured Le Brux. "Friend, is it not asource of regret that with the exception of the swallows'-nestextravaganza and your American essence of turtle, no soup has yet beeninvented the price of which is not within the reach of the common herd?I predict that even this dream of a master will become a commonplacewithin a generation. "

"I am sorry, " said Leighton, "that the boy can't understand you. Yourremark caps an argument I had with him the other day on the evanescentspirit in art. "

The fish arrived. 

"The only fish, " remarked Leighton, "that can properly be served withouta sauce. "

"And why?" said Le Brux, helping himself to the young trout fried inolive oil and simply garnished with lemon. "I will tell thee. BecauseGod himself hath half prepared the dish, giving to this dainty creaturea fragrance which assails the senses of man and adds to eating a visionof purling brooks and overhanging boughs. " Suddenly, with his forkhalf-way to his mouth, he paused, and glared at Lewis, who was on thepoint of helping himself. "_Sacrilège_!"

Leighton looked up. 

"My old one, you are perhaps right. " He turned to Lewis. "Better skipthe fish. " At the next dish he remarked, "Following the theory that adinner should progress as a child learning to walk, _Maître_, I have atthis point dared to introduce an entremets--_cèpes francs à la têtenoire_----"

"_À la bordelaise_, " completed Le Brux, his nose above the dish. Hehelped Leighton to half of its contents and himself to the rest. 

"Have patience, my old one, " cried Leighton, "the boy may have anuneducated palate, but he is none the less possessed of a sublobularvoid that demands filling at stated intervals. "

"Bah!" cried Le Brux, "order him a dish of tripe with onions--and _vinordinaire_. But he'll have to sit at another table. "

"No, " said Leighton, "that won't do. We'll let him sit here and watch usand when they come, we'll give him all the sweets and we'll watch him. "

"Agreed, " said Le Brux. 

CHAPTER XX

If events had been moving rapidly with Lewis, they had by no means beenat a standstill at Nadir since that troubled day on which he hadrebelled, quarreled, and fled, leaving behind him wrath and tears andawakened hearts where all had been apathy and somnolence. 

Many happenings at Nadir were dated from the day that Lewis went away. Late that night mammy and Mrs. Leighton, aided by trembling Natalie, hadhad to carry the Reverend Orme from his chair in the school-room to hisbed. The left side of his face was drawn grotesquely out of line, butdespite the disfigurement, there was a look of peace in his ravagedcountenance, as of one who welcomes night joyfully and calmly after along battle. 

Perhaps it was this look of peace that made Ann Leighton regard thislatest as the lightest of all the calamities that had fallen upon herfrail shoulders. She felt that in a measure the catastrophe had broughtthe Reverend Orme back--nearer to her heart. Her heart, which had seemedto atrophy and shrivel from disuse since the poignant fullness of thelast days of Shenton, was suddenly revivified. Love, pity, tendercare, --all the discarded emotions, --returned to light up her witheredface and give it beauty. Night and day she stayed beside the ReverendOrme, reading aright his slightest movement. 

To Natalie one need stood out above all others--the need for Lewis. Atfirst she waited for news of him, but none came; then she sought out DomFrancisco. Word was passed to the cattlemen. They said Lewis had beenbound for Oeiras. A messenger was sent to Oeiras. He came back with thenews that Lewis had never arrived there. He had been traced half-way. After that no one on the long straight trail had seen the boy. Thewilderness had swallowed him. 

Dom Francisco came almost daily to see the Reverend Orme. "Behold him!"he cried at his first visit, aghast at the havoc the stroke had playedwith the tall frame. "He is but a boy, he has fathered but twochildren--and yet--behold him! He is broken!" The sight of the ReverendOrme, suddenly grown pitifully old, seemed to work on the white-haired, but sturdy, cattle-king by reflection. He, too, grew old suddenly. 

Natalie was the first to notice it. She began to nurse the old man asshe nursed her father, --to treat him as she would a child. When one dayhe spoke almost tremulously of the marriage that was to be, she did noteven answer him, contenting herself with the smile with which one humorsextreme youth clamoring for the moon. Gradually, without any discussionor open refusal on the part of Natalie, it became understood not only toDom Francisco, but to all the circle at Nadir, that she would nevermarry the old cattle-king. 

The sudden departure of Lewis, the Reverend Orme's breakdown, with itsintimate worry displacing all lesser cares, the absorption of AnnLeighton as her husband's constant attendant--these things made ofNatalie a woman in a night. She assumed direction of the house, andcalmly ordered mammy around in a way that warmed that old soul, born tocheerful servitude. She hired a goatherd and rigidly oversaw hishandiwork. Then she approached Dom Francisco one evening as he sat ather father's bedside and told him that he must find a purchaser for thegoats--all of them. 

The Reverend Orme, although he heard, took no interest in any temporalaffair. Mrs. Leighton looked up and asked mildly:

"Why, dear?"

"Because we need money, " said Natalie. "No doctor would come here. Wemust take father away. "

No one recoiled from the idea; but it was new to them all exceptNatalie. It took days and days for it to sink in. It was on DomFrancisco that Natalie most exerted herself. He had aged, and age hadmade him weak. He fell a slow, but easy, prey to her youth, grownsweetly dominant. He himself would arrange to buy the enormous herd ofgoats, the greatest in the country-side. And, finally, with a greatshrinking from the definite implication, he agreed to buy back Nadir aswell. 

No mere argument could have led the old man to such a concession. It waslove--love for these strangers that he had cherished within his gates, love for the gloomy man whom he had seen young and then old, love forAnn and Natalie and mammy, with their quiet ways, love for the very wayof life of all of them--a way distantly above anything he had everdreamed before their coming, that drove him, almost against his will, tospeed their parting. He sent for money. He himself spent long, wistfulhours preparing the ox-wagon, the litter, and the horses that were tobear them away. 

Then one night the Reverend Orme slept and awoke no more. In the morningNatalie went into the room and found her mother sitting very stillbeside the bed, one of the Reverend Orme's hands in both of hers. Tearsfollowed each other slowly down her cheeks. She did not brush them away. 

"Mother!" cried Natalie, in the first grip of premonition. 

"Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Leighton. "He is gone. "

They buried him at the very top of the valley, where the eye, guided bythe parallel hills, sought ever and again the great mountain thirtymiles away. In that clear air the distant mountain seemed very near. There were those who said they could see the holy cross upon its brow. 

That night Mrs. Leighton and mammy sat idle and staring in the house. Suddenly they had realized that for them the years of tears had passed. They looked at each other and wondered by what long road calm had cometo them. Not so Natalie. Natalie was out in the night, out upon thehills. 

She climbed the highest of them all. As she stumbled up the rise, shelifted her eyes to the stars. The stars were very high, very far, verycold. They struck at her sight like needles. 

Natalie covered her eyes. She stood on the crest of the hill. Herglorious hair had fallen and wrapped her with its still mantle. Herslight breast was heaving. She could hear her struggling heart poundingat its cage. She drew a long breath. With all the strength: of her younglungs she called: "Lew, where are you? O, Lew, you _must_ come! O, Lew, I _need_ you!"

The low hills gave back no echo. It was not silence that swallowed herdesperate cry, but distance, overwhelming distance. She stared wide-eyedacross the plain. Suddenly faith left her. She knew that Lewis, couldnot hear. She knew that she was alone. She crumpled into a little heapon the top of the highest hill, buried her face in her soft hair, andsobbed. 

The conviction that their wilderness held Lewis no longer brought acertain strength to Natalie's sudden womanhood. It was as though Fatehad cried to her, "The burden is all thine; take it up, " and with thesame breath had given her the sure courage that comes with renunciation. She answered Dom Francisco's wistful questioning before it could takeshape in words. 

"We cannot stay, " she said. "We must go. You will still help us to go. "

Nature's long silences breed silence in man. Dom Francisco ceased toquestion even with his eyes. He made all ready, delivered them into thehands of trusted henchmen, and bade them God's speed. They struck outfor the sea, but not by the long road that Lewis and the stranger hadfollowed. There was a nearer Northern port. Toward it they set theirfaces, Consolation Cottage their goal. 

CHAPTER XXI

Three weeks to a day from the time he had left Lewis in Paris, as Neltonwas serving him with breakfast, Leighton received a telegram that gavehim no inconsiderable shock. The telegram was from Le Brux. 

"Come at once, " it said; "your son has killed me. "

Leighton steadied himself with the thought that Le Brux was still aliveenough to wire before he said:

"Nelton, I'm off for Paris at once. You have half an hour to pack andget me to Charing Cross. "

Nine hours later he was taking the stairs at Le Brux's two steps at atime. As he approached the atelier, he heard sighing groans. He threwopen the door without knocking. Stretched on the couch was the giantframe, wallowing feebly like a harpooned whale at the last gasp. 

"_Matre!_" cried Leighton. 

The sculptor half raised himself, turned a worn face on Leighton, andthen burst into a tremendous laugh--one of those laughs that is soviolent as to be painful. 

"Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!" he roared, and fell back upon his side. 

Leighton felt somebody pecking at his arm. He turned, to find the oldconcierge beside him. 

"Oh, sir, " she almost wept, "can't you do something? He has been likethat all day. "

"Go, " he said, "bring me a pail of water. " He stood watching Le Bruxuntil she returned. "Now, " he said, "go out and close the door afteryou. "

"Don't be rough with him, " sighed the fat concierge as she waddledtoward the door, drying her hands on her apron. 

"Le Brux, " said Leighton, "Le Brux!"

"Yes, I hear, " gasped the sculptor, his eyes tight shut. 

"Le Brux, where is your wound?"

"My wound? Ha! my wound! He would know where is my wound! Here, here, myold one, here!" He passed his two hands over his shaking ribs. 

"Well, then, " said Leighton, "take that!" and he dashed the pail ofwater over the prostrate giant. 

Le Brux gasped, gulped, and then sat up on the couch. He suddenly becamevery grave. Water trickled off his chin upon his hairy chest. The soakedsmock clung to his arms and legs, accentuating the tremendous muscles. "M'sieu' Létonne, " he said, with alarming calm, "you have committed anunpardonable impertinence. At the same time you have unwittingly savedmy life. You have heard of men, strong men, laughing themselves todeath?"

Leighton, who had seated himself, bowed. 

"Well, " continued Le Brux, "I can assure you that you and your pail ofslops arrived only in time to avert a tragedy. That fact entitles itselfto recognition, and I am consequently going to tell you all that hashappened before we part--definitely. "

Leighton bowed again. 

"As you prophesied, your boy won his way into my foolish heart. I usedhim as a model frequently, and let him hang around me in my idlemoments. I even gave him clay to play with, and he played with it tosome effect, his great fault--and it is a very great one--being atendency to do things in miniature. I reproved him good-naturedly--forme, and he so far improved as to model a horse--the size of the palm ofyour hand. "

Leighton bowed once more in recognition of the pause. 

"One day, " continued Le Brux, "the boy rushed in here without knocking. He had something to show me. I did not have the hardihood to rebuke him, but, remembering myself in the quality of wet nurse, I was dismayed, foron this very couch lay Cellette--Cellette _simple_, without garnishings, you understand. She was lying on her front, her chin in her hand, andreading a book. I let her read a book, when I can, for my own peace. 

"Well, the boy showed me what he had to show, and that gave me time tocollect my wits. I saw him look at Cellette without a tremor, and justas I was deciding to take the moment by the horns, he did it for me. 'Oh, ' he said, 'are you working on her? _Mon matre_, please let mewatch!' A vile tongue, English, to understand, but it was easy to readhis eyes. I said, 'Watch away, my child, ' and I continued to transmitCellette to the cloud up there in my big group. The boy stood around. When I glanced at the model, his eyes followed. When I worked, he workedwith me. 

"My old one, you may believe it or not, but I felt that boy's fingersitching all the time. Finally, I chucked a great lump of clay upon thebench yonder, and I said, 'Here, go ahead; you model her, too. 'Then--then--he--he said----" Le Brux showed signs of choking. Hecontrolled himself, and continued--"he said, 'I can't model anything, _Maître_, unless I feel it first'"

"Létonne, I give you my word of honor that I kept my face. I not onlykept my face, but I said to Cellette--she hadn't so much as looked upfrom her book--I said to her, 'Cellette, this young sculptor would liketo model you, but he says he must feel you first. ' Cellette lookedaround at that. You know those gamine eyes of hers that are always surethey'll never see anything new in the world? But you don't. In yearsCellette is very young--long after your time. Well, she turned thoseeyes around, looked the boy over, and said" 'Let the babe feel. ' Thenshe went back to her book. 

"I waved the boy to her, gravely, with a working of my fingers that wasas plain as French. It said, 'The lady says you may feel. ' The boy stepsforward, and I pretend to go on with my work. "

Le Brux stopped. "Excuse me, my friend, " he said nervously. "Will youkindly send for another pail of water?"

Leighton glanced into the pail. 

"There's enough left, " he said impatiently. "Go on. "

"Ah, yes, " sighed Le Brux, "go on. Just like that, go on. Well, your boywent on. He felt her head, her arms, her shoulders; you could see hisfingers seeking things out. Cellette is a model born--and trained. Shestood it wonderfully until he came to the muscles of her back. You knowhow we all like to have our backs scratched, just like dogs and cats?Well, I don't suppose Cellette had ever happened on just that feelingbefore. It touched the cat chord. She began to gurgle and--and wriggle. 'Keep still, please, ' says the boy, very grave and earnest. And a minutelater, 'Keep still, will you?' Then he came to her ribs. "

Le Brux's cheeks puffed out, and he showed other signs of distress, buthe controlled himself. 

"After that, " he continued, "things happened more or less at one and thesame time. Cellette giggled and squirmed. Then the boy got angry andcried, 'Will you keep still? and grabbed her by the shoulders and shookher! Shook Cellette till her little head went zig-zag-zigzag. It tookher the sixteenth part of a second to get to her feet, and when sheslapped him I myself saw stars. At the same time I saw her face, and Iyelled, 'Run, boy! Run!' For a second he stood paralyzed withwonder, --just long enough for her to get in another slap, --and then, just as she was curving her fingers, he--he ran. Her nails only took astrip out of his jacket! Oh! oh!"

"_Maître, "_ cried Leighton, tears crawling down his cheeks, "don't youdare stop! Go on! Go _on_ Finish now while you have the strength. "

"Here they passed and there, " groaned Le Brux, pointing at bits of ruin, "then I yelled, 'Boy, don't go out of the door, whatever you do. She'llfollow sure, and we'll never hear the last of it. ' Then the thought cameto me that he was the son of my friend. I lifted up the end of thethrone. He shot under it. I let it down quickly. I sat upon it. Ilaughed--I----"

Le Brux stopped and stared. Leighton, his feet outstretched, his headthrown back, his arms hanging limp, was laughing as he had never laughedbefore. As quick as a cat, Le Brux reached out for the pail and dashedits remaining contents in Leighton's face. 

"I cannot bear an obligation, " he said grimly as Leighton spluttered andchoked. "Thou savedst my life; I save thine. How is it you say inEnglish? 'One good turn deserves another!'"

"_Matre, "_ said Leighton, drying his face and then his eyes, "where isthe boy now? He's--he's not still under the throne?"

"I don't know where he is, " said Le Brux. "He's not under the throne. Iremember, vaguely, it is true, but I remember letting him out. That wasthis morning. Then I wired to you. Since then I have been laughingmyself to death. "

Leighton continued to wipe his eyes, but Le Brux had sobered down. 

"Talk about my mighty impersonality before the nude?" he cried. "Impersonality! Bah! Mine? Let me tell you that for your boy the nude inthe human form doesn't _exist_ any more than a nude snake, fish, dog, cat, or canary exists for you or me. He's the most natural, practical, educated human being I ever came across, and there are several thousandmothers in France that would do well to send their _jeunes filles_ tothe school that turned him out. In other words, my friend, your boy isso fresh that I have no mind to be the one to watch him wither or wakeup or do any of the things that Paris leads to. I wired for you to takehim away. "

"We'll have to find him first, " said Leighton. "Let's look in his room. "

Together they walked down the hall. Leighton opened the door withoutknocking. He stood transfixed. Le Brux stared over his shoulder. Lewis, with his back to them, was working feverishly at the wet clay piled on aboard laid across the backs of two chairs. On Lewis's little bed layCellette, front down, her chin in her hand, and reading a book. 

"Holy name of ten thousand pigs!" murmured Le Brux. 

Lewis turned. 

"Why, Dad!" he cried, "I _am_ glad to see you!"

Leighton's heart was in the grip he gave the boy's hand so frankly heldout. 

"_Maître_, " remarked Cellette from the bed, "believe me if you can: heis still a babe. "

"A babe!" cried Le Brux, catching Lewis with finger and thumb andlifting him away from the board. "I should say he is. Here!" He caughtup chunks of wet clay and hurled them at Lewis's dainty model ofCellette. He started molding with sweeps of his thumb. A gigantic, butgraceful, leg began to take form. He turned and caught Lewis again andshook him till his head rolled. "Big!" he roared, thumping his chest. "Make it big--like me!"

Leighton returned to London alone. 

CHAPTER XXII

Lewis's life in Paris fell into unusual, but not unhappy, lines. It wastrue that when others were around, Le Brux treated him as though he werea scullion or at least a poor relative living on his bounty, for thegreat sculptor was in dread lest it be noised about that he had at lasttaken a pupil. But when they were alone, he made up for all hisbrutality by a certain tenderness which he was at great pains todissemble. He had but one phrase of commendation, and it harped back andreminded them both of Leighton. When Le Brux was well pleased withLewis, he would say, "My son, I shall yet create thee. "

It could not be said that master and pupil lived together. Lewis had aroom down the hall and the freedom of the great atelier, but he neverate with Le Brux and never accompanied him on his rare outings. From thevery first day he had learned that he must fend for himself. 

Curiosity in all that was new about him sustained the boy for a fewdays, but as the fear of getting lost restricted him to the immediateneighborhood of his abode, --a neighborhood where the sign "On parleanglais" never appeared in the shop windows, and where a restaurateurwould not deign to speak English even if he knew it, --he graduallybecame a prey to the most terrible of all lonelinesses--the lonelinessof an outsider in a vast, gay city. 

At first he did not dare go into a restaurant. When hunger forced him, he would enter a _pâtisserie_, point at one thing and another, takewithout question the change that was handed him, and return to his roomto eat. The neighborhood, however, was blessed with a series ofsecond-hand book-shops. One day his eyes fell on an English-Frenchphrase-book. He bought it. He learned the meaning of the cabalisticsign, "Table d'hôte. Dîner, 2f. " He began to dine out. 

In those lonely initiative weeks Lewis's mind sought out Nadir and dwelton it. He counted the months he had been away, and was astounded bytheir number. Never had time seemed so long and so short. He longed totalk to Natalie, to tell her the dream that had seized upon him andgradually become real. At the little book-shop he bought ink, paper, andpen, and began to write. 

It was an enormous letter, for one talked easily to Natalie, even onpaper. At the end he begged her to write to him, to tell him all thathad happened at Nadir, if, indeed, anything beyond her marriage hadoccurred to mark the passing months. What about the goats? A wholestring of questions about the goats followed, and then, again, was shereally married? Was she happy?

The intricacies of getting that letter weighed, properly stamped, andposted were too much for Lewis. He sought aid not from Le Brux, but fromCellette. It took him a long time to explain what he wanted. Cellettestared at him. She seemed so stupid about it that Lewis felt likeshaking her again, an impulse that, assisted by memory, he easilycurbed. 

"But, " cried Cellette at last, "it is so easy--so simple! You go to thepost, you say, 'Kindly weigh this letter, ' you ask how much to put onit, you buy the stamps, you affix them, you drop the letter in the slot. _Voilà_!" She smiled and started off. 

Lewis reached out one arm and barred her way. 

"Yes, yes, " he stammered, "_voilà_, of course. " A vague recollection ofhis father taming Le Brux with a dinner came to his aid. He explained toCellette that if she would post the letter for him, he would be pleasedto take her to dinner. 

Then Cellette understood in her own way. 

"Ah, " she cried brightly, "you make excuses to ask me to dine, eh? Thatis delicate. It is gallant. I am charmed. Let us go. "

She hung on his arm. She chatted. She never waited for an answer. Together they went to the post. People glanced at them and smiled, somenodded; but Cellette's face was upturned toward Lewis's. She saw no oneelse. It was his evening. 

Gradually it dawned upon her that Lewis was really helpless and terriblyalone. In that moment she took charge of him as a duck takes charge ofan orphaned chick. On succeeding evenings she led him to the water, butshe did not try to make him swim. 

Parents still comfort themselves with the illusion that they can choosesafe guardians for their young. As a matter of fact, guardians ofinnocence are allotted by Fate. When Fate is kind, she allots theextremes, a guardian who has never felt a sensation or one who has tiredof all sensations. The latter adds wisdom to innocence, subtracts itfrom bliss, and--becomes an ideal. 

Fate was kind to Lewis in handing him over to Cellette at the tragicage. Nature had shown him much; Cellette showed him the rest. She tookhim as a passenger through all the side-shows of life. She was tired ofpayments in flesh and blood. She found her recompense in teaching himhow to talk, walk, eat, take pleasure in a penny ride on a river boat oron top of a bus, and in spending his entire allowance to their bestjoint profit. 

In return Lewis received many a boon. He was no longer alone. He wasintroduced as an equal to the haunts of the gay world of embryonicart--the only world that has ever solved the problem of being gaywithout money. From the first he was assumed to belong to Cellette. Howmuch of the assault, the jeers, the buffoonery, the downright evil ofinitiation, he was saved by this assumption he never knew. Celletteknew, but her tongue was held by shame. All her training had taught herto be ashamed of "being good. " If ever the secret of their astoundinginnocence had got out, professional pride would have forced her to ruinLewis, body and soul, without a moment's hesitation. 

Lewis also learned French--a French that rippled along mostly overshallows, but that had deep pools of art technic, and occasionally flewup and slapped you in the face with a fleck of well-aimed argot. 

Weeks, months, passed before Leighton appeared on the scene, summoned bya scribbled note from Le Brux. When greetings were over, Leighton asked:

"Well, what is it this time? How is the boy getting along? Is he goingto be a sculptor?"

"You are wise to ask all your questions at once, " said Le Brux. "Youknow I shall talk just as I please. Your boy, just as you said he would, has attacked me in the heart. He is a most entertaining babe. I am nolonger wet nurse. Somebody with the attributes has supplantedme--Cellette. "

"H--m--m!" said Leighton. 

Le Brux held up a ponderous hand. 

"Not too fast, " he said. "The lady assures me the babe is still on thebottle. Such being the case, I sent for you. They are inseparable. Theyhave put off falling in love so long that, when they do, it will prove acatastrophe for one of them. Take him away for a while. Distort hisconcentrated point of view. "

"That's a good idea, " said Leighton. "Perhaps I will. "

"As for his work--" Le Brux stepped to the door and locked it. "Iwouldn't have him catch us looking at it for anything. " He lifted thedamp cloth from Lewis's latest bit of modeling, two tense hands, longfingers curved like talons, thumbs bent in. They flashed to the eye theimpression of terrific action. 

Leighton gazed long at the hands. 

"So, " he said, "somewhere the boy has seen a murder. "

"Ha!" cried Le Brux. "You see it? You see it? He has not troubled to putthe throat within that grip but it's there. Ah, it's there! I could seeit. You see it. Presto! everybody will see it. " He replaced the cloth. 

"In a couple of years, " he went on, "my work will be done. Let him shownothing, know nothing, till, then. "

CHAPTER XXIII

"If it's a fine day to-morrow, " said Leighton that evening to Lewis, "we'll spend it in the country. Ever been in the country around here?"

Lewis shook his head. 

"I don't believe Cellette knows anything about the country. It would bea great thing, Dad, if we could take her with us. She's shown me arounda lot. I'd--I'd like to. "

Leighton suppressed a grimace. 

"Why not?" he replied cheerfully. 

The next day was fine and hot. Leighton decided to take a chance oninnovation, and revisit a quiet stretch on the Marne. It was rather ajourney to get there, but from the moment the three were settled intheir third-class carriage time took to wing. As he listened to Lewis'sand Cellette's chatter, the years rolled back for Leighton. He becamesuddenly young. Lewis felt it. For the second time he had the delightfulsensation of stumbling across a brother in his father. 

Cellette felt it, too. When they left the station and started down thecool, damp road to the river, she linked a hand in the arm of each ofher laughing companions, urged them to a run, and then picked up herlittle feet for mighty leaps of twenty yards at a time. "_Ah, _" shecried, "_c'est joli, d'etre trois enfants!_"

How strange the earth smelt! She insisted on stopping and snuffling atevery odor. New-mown grass; freshly turned loam; a stack of straw, packed too wet and left to ruin; dry leaves burning under the hot suninto a sort of dull incense--all had their message for her. Even of thecountry Cellette had a dim memory tucked away in her store ofexperience. 

They came to the river. From a farmer they hired a boat. Cellette wantedto drift down with the stream, but Leighton shook his head. "No, mydear, a day on the river is like life: one should leave the quiet, lazydrifting till the end. "

Leighton rowed, and then Lewis. They held Cellette's hands on the oarsand she tried to row, but not for long. She said that by her faith itwas harder than washing somebody else's clothes. 

They chose the shade of a great beech for their picnic-ground. Celletteordered them to one side, and started to unpack the lunch-basket thathad come with Leighton from his hotel. As each item was revealed shecast a sidelong glance at Leighton. 

"My old one, " she said to him when all was properly laid out, "do notplay at youth and innocence any longer. It takes an old sinner to ordersuch a breakfast. "

It was a gay meal and a good one, and, like all good meals, led todrowsiness. Cellette made a pillow of Lewis's coat and slept. Theafternoon was very hot. Leighton finished his second cigar, and thentapped Lewis on the shoulder. They slipped beyond the screen of thelow-limbed beech, stripped, and stole into the river. 

At the first thoughtless splash Cellette sprang to her feet. 

"Ah!" she cried, her eyes lighting, "you bathe, _hein_?" She startedundoing her bodice. 

Leighton stared at her from the water. "What do you do?" he cried inrapid French. "You cannot bathe. I won't allow it. "

Cellette paused in sheer amazement that any one should think there wasanything she could not do. Then deliberately she continued undoinghooks. 

"Why can't I bathe?" she asked out of courtesy or merely because sheknew the value of keeping up a conversation. 

"You can't bathe, " said Leighton, desperately, "because you are tootender, too delicate. These waters are--miasmic. They are full ofsnakes, too. It was just now that I stepped on one. "

"Snakes, eh?" said Cellette, pausing again. "I don't believe you. But--snakes!" She shuddered, and then looked as though she were going tocry with disappointment. 

"Don't you mind just this once, Cellette, " cried Lewis, blowing like awalrus as he held his place against the current. "We'll come alone sometime. "

Cellette dried the perspiration from her short upper lip with a littlecotton handkerchief. 

"_Mon dieu_, but men are selfish!" she remarked. 

Once they were in the boat again, drifting slowly down the shadowyriver, she forgot her pet, turned suddenly gay, and began to sing songsthat were as foreign to that still sunset scene as was Cellette herselfto a dairy. Lewis had heard them before. He looked upon them merely asone of Cellette's moods, but they brought a twisted smile to Leighton'slips. He glanced at the pompous, indignant setting sun and winked. Thesun did not wink back; he was surly. 

In the train, Cellette, tired and happy, went to sleep. Her head fell onLeighton's shoulder. With dexterous fingers he took off her hat and laidit aside, then he looked at Lewis shrewdly. But Lewis showed no signs, of jealousy. He merely laughed silently and whispered, "Isn't she a_funny?_"

They began to talk. Leighton told Lewis he was glad that he had workedsteadily all these months, that Le Brux spoke well of his work, butthought a rest would help it and him. 

"What do you say, " he went on, "to a little trip all by ourselvesagain?"

"It would be splendid, " said Lewis, eagerly. Then, after a pause: "Itwould be fun if we could take Cellette along, too. She'd like it a lot, I know. "

"Yes, " said Leighton, dryly, "I don't doubt she would. " He seemed toponder over the point. "No, " he said finally, "it wouldn't do. What Ipropose is a man's trip--good stiff walking. We could strike off throughMetz and Kaiserslautern, hit the Rhine valley somewhere about Dürkheim, pass through Mannheim with our eyes shut, and get to Heidelberg and theNeckar. Then we could float down the Rhine into Holland. That's thetoy-country of the world. Great place to make you smile. "

Lewis's eyes watered. 

"When--when shall we start?"

"We'll start to start to-morrow, " said Leighton. "We've got to outfit, you know. "

Two days later they were ready. Cellette kissed them both good-by. Leighton gave her a pretty trinket, a heavy gold locket on a chain. Sheglanced up sidewise at him through half-closed eyes. 

"What's this?" she asked in the tone of the woman who knows she mustalways pay. 

"Just a little nothing from Lewis, " said Leighton. "Something toremember him by. "

"So, " said Cellette, gravely. "I understand. He will not come back. Itis well. "

Leighton patted her shoulder. 

"You are shrewd, " he said. Then he added, with a smile: "Too shrewd. Hewill be back in two months. "

A fiacre carried them beyond the fortifications. The cabman smiled atthe generous drink-money Leighton gave him, spit on it, and then sat andwatched father and son as they stepped lightly off up the broad highway. "Eh!" he called, choking down the curses with which he usually partedfrom his fares, "good luck! Follow the sun around the earth. It willbring you back. "

Leighton half turned, and waved his arm. Then they settled down to thebusiness of walking. They dropped into their place as a familiar part ofthe open road of only a very few years ago, for they were dressed in theorthodox style: knickerbockers; woolen stockings; heavy footwear; shortjackets; packs, such as once the schoolboy used for books; anddouble-peaked caps. 

Shades of a bygone day, where do you skulk? Have you been driven, Up, up, the stony causeway to the mists above the glare, Where the smell of browsing cattle drowns the petrol in the air?

CHAPTER XXIV

Just before they left Paris a letter had come for Lewis--a big, officialenvelop, unstamped. He tore it open, full of curiosity and wonder. Outfell a fat inclosure. Lewis picked it up and stared. It is always ashock to see your own handwriting months after you have sent it off on along journey. Here was his own handwriting on a very soiled envelop, plastered over with postmarks. How quaint was the superscription, howeloquent the distant dates of the postmarks! "For Natalie. At the Ranchof Dom Francisco, on the Road to Oeiras, in the Province of Ceara, Brazil. "

The envelop had been cut open. Lewis took out the many sheets andsearched them for a sign. None was there. He looked again at theenvelop. Across it was stamped a notice of non-delivery on account ofdeficient address. Then his eyes fell on faint writing in pencil under apostmark. He recognized the halting handwriting of Dom Francisco'seldest girl. "She is gone, " she had written. Nothing more. 

"Gone?" questioned Lewis. "Gone where? Where could Natalie go?" He readparts of his letter over, and blushed at his enthusiasms of almost ayear ago. Almost a year! Leighton called him. He tore up the letter andthrew it away. It was time to start. Then had come the good-by toCellette, and after that the wonders of the road had held his mind in aconstantly renewing grip. They still held it. 

Leighton was beyond being a guide. He was a companion. When he could, heavoided big cities and monuments. He loved to stop for the night atwayside inns where the accommodations were meager, but ample opportunitywas given for a friendly chat with the hostess cook. And if the inn wasone of those homely evening meeting-places for old folks, he would say:

"Lew, no country wears its heart on its sleeve, but 'way inside. Let uslive here a little while and feel the pulse of France. "

When they crossed the border, he sat down under the first shade tree andmade Lewis sit facing him. 

"This, " he said gravely, "is an eventful moment. You have just entered astrange country where cooks have been known to fry a steak and live. There are people that eat the steaks and live. It is a wonderfulcountry. Their cooks are also generally ignorant of the axiomaticmission of a dripping-pan, as soggy fowls will prove to you. But what welose in pleasing alimentation, we make up in scenery and food forthought. Collectively, this is the greatest people on earth;individually, the smallest. Their national life is the most communal, the best regulated, the nearest socialistic of any in the world, and--they live it by the inch. "

One afternoon, after a long climb through an odorous forest ofred-stemmed pines, with green-black tops stretching for miles and milesin an unbroken canopy, they came out upon a broad view that entrancedwith its sense of illusion. Cities, like bunched cattle, dotted the vastplain. Space and the wide, unhindered sweep of the eye reduced theirgreatness to the dimensions of toy-land. 

Leighton and Lewis stood long in silence, then they started down theroad that clung to the steep incline. On the left it was overhung by theforest; on the right, earth fell suddenly away in a wooded precipice. Asthe highway clung to the mountain-side, so did quaint villages cling tothe highway. They came to an old _Gasthaus_, the hinder end of which wasbuttressed over the brink of the valley. 

Here they stopped. Their big, square room, the only guest-chamber of thelittle inn, hung in air high above the jumbled roofs of Dürkheim. To theright, the valley split to form a niche for a beetling, ruined castle. Far out on the plain the lights of Darmstadt and Mannheim began toblink. Beyond and above them Heidelberg signaled faintly from theopposing hills. 

The room shared its aery with a broad, square veranda, trellised andvine-covered. Here were tables and chairs, and here Leighton and Lewisdined. Before they had finished their meal, two groups had formed aboutseparate tables. One was of old men, white-haired, white-bearded, eachwith his pipe and a long mug of beer. The other was of women. They, too, were old, white-haired. Their faces were not hard, like the men's, butfilled with a withered motherliness. The men eyed the two foreignersdistrustfully as though they hung like a cloud over the accustomed peaceof that informal village gathering. 

"All old, eh?" said Leighton to Lewis with a nod. "And sour. Want to seethem wake up?"

"Yes, " said Lewis. 

The woman who served them was young by comparison with the rest. Leighton had discovered that she was an Alsatian, and had profitedthereby in the ordering of his dinner. She was the daughter-in-law ofthe old couple that owned the inn. He turned to her and said in French, so that Lewis could understand:

"Smile but once, dear lady. You serve us as though we were Britishers. "

The woman turned quickly. 

"And are you not Britishers?"

"No, " said Leighton; "Americans. "

"So!" cried the woman, her face brightening. She turned to the twolistening groups. "They are not English, after all, " she called gaily. "They are Americans--Americans of New York!"

There was an instant change of the social atmosphere, a buzz of eagertalk. The old men and the old women drew near. Then came shy, but eager, questions. Hans, Fritz, Anna were in New York. Could Leighton give anynews of them? Each had his little pathetically confident cry for news ofson or daughter, and Leighton's personal acquaintance, as an American, was taken to range from Toronto to Buenos Aires. 

Leighton treated them like children; laughed at them, and then describedgravely in simple words the distances of the New World, the size and theturmoil of its cities. 

"Your children are young and strong, " he added, noting their wistfuleyes; "they can stand it. But you--you old folks--are much better offhere. "

"And yet, " said an old woman, with longing in her pale eyes, "I havestood many things. "

Leighton turned to Lewis. 

"All old, eh?" he repeated. "Young ones all gone. Do you remember what Isaid about this being the best-regulated state on earth?"

Lewis nodded. 

"Well, " continued Leighton, "a perfectly regulated state is a finething, a great thing for humanity. It has only one fault: nobody wantsto live in it. "

Two days later they reached Heidelberg and, on the day following, climbed the mountain to the Königstuhl. They stood on the top of thetower and gazed on such a sight as Lewis had never seen. Here were noendless sands and thorn-trees, no lonely reaches, no tropic glare. Allwas river and wooded glade, harvest and harvesters, spires above knottedgroups of houses, castle, and hovel. Here and there and everywhere, still spirals of smoke hung above the abodes of men. It was like avision of peace and plenty from the Bible. 

Lewis was surprised to find that his father was not looking at thescene. Leighton was bending over such a dial as no other spot on earthcould boast. Its radiating spokes of varying lengths pointed to ahundred places, almost within the range of sight--names famous in songand story, in peace and in war. Leighton read them out, name after name. He glanced at Lewis's puzzled face. 

"They mean nothing to you?" he asked. 

Lewis shook his head. 

"So you're not quite educated, after all, " said Leighton. 

They descended almost at a run to the gardens behind the Schloss. Asthey reached them a long string of carriages drove up from the town. They were full of tourists, many of whom wore the enameled flag of theUnited States in their buttonholes. Some of the women carried littlered, white, and blue silk flags. 

Lewis saw his father wince. 

"Dad, " he asked, "are they Americans?"

"Yes, boy, " said Leighton. "Do you remember what I told you about theevanescent spirit in art?"

Lewis nodded. 

"Well, " said Leighton, "a beloved flag has an evanescent spirit, too. One shouldn't finger carelessly the image one would adore. That's why Iwinced just now. Collectively, we Americans have never lowered the Starsand Stripes, but individually we do it pretty often. " Then he threw uphis head and smiled. "After all, there's a bright side even to blatantpatriotism. A nation can put up with every form of devotion so long asit gets it from all. "

"But, Dad, " said Lewis, "I thought all American women were beautiful. "

"So they are, " said Leighton, with a laugh. "When you stop believingthat, you stop being an American. All American women are beautiful--someoutside, and the rest inside. "

"Why don't you take me to the States?" asked Lewis. 

Leighton turned around. 

"How old are you?"

"Twenty, " said Lewis. 

"I'll take you, " said Leighton, "when you are old enough to see theStates. It takes a certain amount of philosophy nowadays to understandyour country--and mine. Of all the nations in the world, we Americanssee ourselves least as others see us. We have a national vanity thatkeeps us from studying a looking-glass. That's a paradox, " saidLeighton, smiling at Lewis's puzzled look. "A paradox, " he continued, "is a verity the unpleasant truth of which is veiled. "

"Anyway, I should like to go to the States, " said Lewis. 

"Just now, " said Leighton, "our country is traveling the universal roadof commercialism, but it's traveling fast. When it gets to the end ofthe road, it will be an interesting country. "

CHAPTER XXV

Three years later, with the approval of Le Brux, Lewis exhibited the"Startled Woman. " He did not name it. It named itself. There was nosingle remarkable trait in the handling of the life-size nude figurebeyond its triumph as a whole--its sure impression of alarm. 

Leighton came to Paris for his son's début. When he saw the statue, hesaid:

"It is not great. You are not old enough for that. But it will be asuccess, probably a sensation. What else have you done?"

All the modeling that Lewis had accumulated in the three years of hisapprenticeship was passed in review. Leighton scarcely looked at thecasts. He kept his eyes on Le Brux's face and measured his changingexpression. 

"Is that all?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Lewis. 

"Well, " said Leighton, "I suggest we destroy the lot. What do you say, Le Brux?"

Le Brux raised his bushy eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and threw outhis hands. 

"Eh, " he grunted, "it is for the boy to say. Has he the courage? Theyare his offspring. "

The two men stood and looked at Lewis. His eyes passed from them to hiswork and back again to Leighton's face. 

"You are my father, " he said. 

"Come on, " cried Leighton, without a moment's hesitation, "let us alljoin in the slaughter. Just remember, boy, that it's no more cruel tokill your young than to sell them into slavery. "

Three days later all of Paris that counts was talking of the "StartledWoman. " The name of Leighton _fils_ was in many mouths and in almost asmany printed paragraphs. 

"Leighton _fils_!" cried Lewis. Why _fils_?"

"Paris has a long memory for art, my boy, " said Leighton. "Before Ilearned that I could never reach the heights, I raised a small monumenton a foot-hill. They haven't forgotten it, these critics who never die. "

Lewis was assailed by dealers. They offered him prices that seemed tohim fabulous. But Leighton listened calmly and said, "Wait. " The longerthey waited, the higher climbed the rival dealers. At last came anofficial envelop. "Ah, " said Leighton, before Lewis had opened it, "ithas come. "

It was an offer from the state. It was lower than the least of thedealers' bids. "That's the prize offer, boy, " said Leighton. "Take it. "

They went back to London together. Leighton helped Lewis search for astudio. They examined many places, pleasant and unpleasant. FinallyLewis settled on a great, bare, loft-like room within a few minutes'walk of the flat. "This will do, " he said. 

"Why?" asked Leighton. 

"Space, " said Lewis. "Le Brux taught me that. One must have space to seebig. "

While they were still busy fitting up the atelier a note came to Lewisfrom Lady Derl. She told him to come and see her at once, to bring allhis clippings on the "Startled Woman, " and a photograph that would dothe lady more justice than had the newspaper prints. 

When Lewis entered Lady Derl's room of light, it seemed to him that hehad not been away from London for a day. The room was unchanged. LadyDerl was unchanged. She did not rise. She held out her hand, and Lewisraised her fingers to his lips. 

"How well you do it, Lew!" she said. "Sit down. "

He sat down and showed her a photograph of his work. She looked at itlong. For an instant her worldliness dropped from her. She glancedshrewdly at Lewis's face. He met her eyes frankly. Then she tossed thepicture aside. 

"You are a nice boy, " she said lightly. "I think I'll give a littledinner for you. This time your dad won't object. "

"I hope not, " said Lewis, smiling. "I'm bigger than he is now. "

Both laughed, and then chatted until Leighton came in to join them attea. Lady Derl told him of the dinner. He shrugged his shoulders andasked when it was to be. 

"Don't look so bored, " said Lady Derl. "I'll get Old Ivory to come, ifyou 're coming. You two always create an atmosphere within an atmospherewhere you can breathe the kind of air you like. "

Leighton smiled. 

"It's a funny thing, " he said. "When Ivory and I meet casually, wesimply nod as though we'd never shared each other's tents; but when weare both caught out in society, we fly together and hobnob likelong-lost brothers. We've made three trips together. Every one of 'emwas planned at some ultra dinner incrusted with hothouse flowers andhothouse women. "

"Thanks, " said Lady Derl. 

Lewis might have been bored by that first formal dinner if he had knownthe difference between women grown under glass and women grown in theopen. But he didn't. With the exception of Ann Leighton, mammy, andNatalie, who were not women at all so much as part and parcel of his ownfiber, women were just women. He treated them all alike, and with agallant nonchalance that astounded his two neighbors, Lady BlancheTrevoy and the Hon. Violet Materlin, accustomed as they were to findyouths of his age stupidly callow or at best, in their innocence, mildlyexciting. Leighton, seated at H lne's left, watched Lewis curiously. 

"They've taken to him, " said H lne. 

"Yes, " said Leighton. "Nothing wins a woman of the world so quickly asthe unexpected. The unexpected adds to the ancient lure of curiosity thetouch of tartness that gives life to a jaded palate. Satiated women arethe most grateful for such a fillip, and once a woman's grateful, she'sgenerous. A generous man will give a beggar a copper, but a generouswoman will give away all her coppers, and throw in herself for goodmeasure. "

"When you have to try to be clever, Glen, you're a bore, " remarkedH lne. 

"I'm not trying to be clever, " said Leighton. "There's a battle going onover there, and I was merely throwing light on it. "

The battle was worth watching. The two young women were as dissimilar asbeauty can be. Both had all the charms of well-nurtured andwell-cared-for flesh. Splendid necks and shoulders, plenty of their ownhair, lovely contour of face, practice in the use of the lot, weretheirs in common. But Vi was dark, still, and long of limb. Blanche wasblonde, vivacious, and compact without being in the least heavy. 

Vi spoke slowly. Even for an English woman she had a low voice. It was avoice of peculiar power. One always waited for it to finish. Vi knew itspower. She tormented her opponents by drawling. Blanche also spokesoftly, but at will she could make her words scratch like the sharpclaws of a kitten. 

"And how did you ever get the model to take that startled pose?" Blanchewas asking Lewis. 

"That's where the luck came in, " said Lewis, smiling; "and the luck iswhat keeps the work from being great. "

"What do you mean?"

"Well, " said Lewis, "Le Brux says that luck often leads to success, never to greatness. "

"And how did luck come in?" drawled Vi. 

Lewis smiled again. 

"I'll tell you, " he said. "The model is an old pal of mine. One day wewere bathing in the Marne, --at least I was bathing, and she was justgoing to, --when a farmer appeared on the scene and yelled at her. Shewas startled and turning to make a run for it when I shouted, 'Hold thatpose, Cellette! She's a mighty well-trained model. For a second she heldthe pose. That was enough. She remembered it ever after. 

"Does it take a lot of training to be a model?" asked Blanche. "Howwould I do?" She turned her bare shoulders frankly to him. 

Lewis glanced at her. "Yours is not a beauty that can be held in stone, "he said. "You are too respectable for a bacchante, too vivacious foranything else. " He turned to Vi. "You would do better, " he said asthough she too had asked. 

Vi said nothing, but her large, dark eyes suddenly looked away andbeyond the room. A flush rose slowly into her smooth, dusky cheek. Blanche bit her under lip. 

"Vi has won out, " said H lne to Leighton. 

CHAPTER XXVI

Natalie and her mother were sitting on the west veranda of ConsolationCottage at the evening hour. Just within the open door of thedining-room mammy swayed to and fro in a vast rocking-chair that lookedtoo big for her. 

The years had not dealt kindly with the three. Years in the tropicsnever do deal kindly with women. Mammy had grown old and thin. Herclothes, frayed, but clean, hung loosely upon her. Her hair was turninggray. She wore steel-rimmed glasses. Mrs. Leighton's face, while it hadnot returned to the apathy of the years of sorrow at Nadir, was stilldeeply lined and of the color and texture of old parchment. The blue ofher eyes had paled and paled until light seemed to have almost gone fromthem. To Natalie had come age with youth. She gave the impression of afreshly cut flower suddenly wilted by the sun. 

In Mrs. Leighton's lap lay two letters. One had brought the news thatNatalie had inherited from a Northern Leighton aunt an old property on aNew England hillside. The other contained the third offer from adevelopment company that had long coveted the grounds about ConsolationCottage. 

"It's a great deal of money, dear, " said Mrs. Leighton to Natalie. "Whatshall we do?"

For a moment Natalie did not reply, and when she spoke, it was not inanswer. She said:

"Mother, where is Lew? I want him. " Her low voice quivered with desire. 

Mrs. Leighton put her fingers into Natalie's soft hair and drew thegirl's head against her breast. A lump rose in her throat. She longed tomurmur comfort, but she had long since lost the habit of words. What waslife worth if she could not buy with it happiness for this her onlyremaining love?

"Darling, " she whispered at last, "whatever you wish, whatever you say, we'll do. Do you think--would you like to go back to--to Nadir--and lookfor Lewis?"

Natalie divined the sacrifice in those halting words. Her thin arms wentup around Ann Leighton's neck. She pressed her face hard against hermother's shoulder. She wanted to cry, but could not. Without raising herface, she shook her head and said:

"No, no. I don't want ever to go back to Nadir. Lew is not there. Thatnight--that night after we buried father I went out on the hills andcalled for Lew. He did not answer. Suddenly I just knew he wasn't there. I knew that he was far, far away. "

Ann Leighton did not try to reason against instinct. She softly rockedNatalie to and fro, her pale eyes fixed on the setting sun. Graduallythe sunset awoke in her mind a stabbing memory. Here on this bench shehad sat, Natalie, a baby, in her lap, and in the shelter of her armslittle Lewis and--and Shenton, her boy. By yonder rail she had stoodwith her unconscious boy in her arms, and day had suddenly ceased asthough beyond the edge of the world somebody had put out the lightforever. Her pale eyes grew luminous. The unaccustomed tears welled upin them and trickled down the cheeks that had known so long a drought. They rained on Natalie's head. 

"Mother!" cried Natalie, looking up--"Mother!" Then she buried her faceagain in Ann's bosom, and together they sobbed out all the oppressingpain and grief of life's heavy moment. Not by strength alone, but alsoby frailty, do mothers hold the hearts of their children. Natalie, hearing and feeling her mother sob, passed beyond the bourn ofgenerations and knew Ann and herself as one in an indivisible, quiveringhumanity. 

Mammy's chair stopped rocking. She listened; then she got up and cameout on the veranda. Her eyes fell upon mother and daughter huddledtogether in the dusk. She hovered over them. Her loose clothes made herseem ample, almost stolid. 

"Wha' fo' you chilun's crying?" she demanded. 

"We're _not_ crying, " sobbed Natalie. 

"Huh!" snorted mammy. "Yo' jes come along outen this night air, bof ofyo', an' have yo' suppah. Come on along, Miss Ann. Come on along, yo'young Miss Natalie. "

"Just a minute, mammy; in just a minute, " gasped Natalie. "You go putsupper on the table. " Then she rose to her feet, and drew her mother upto her. "Kiss me, " she said and smiled. She was suddenly strong againwith the strength of youth. 

Ann kissed her and she, too, almost smiled. 

"Well, dear?" she said. 

"We're going away, " said Natalie, holding protecting arms around hermother. "We're going to sell this place, and then we're just going awayinto another world. This one's too rough for just women. We'll go seethat old house Aunt Jed left to me. I want to live just once in a housethat has had more than one life. "

Day after day the ship moved steadily northward on an even keel. Uponmammy, Natalie, and Mrs. Leighton a miracle began to descend. Years fellfrom their straightening shoulders. At the end of a week, Ann Leighton, kneeling alone in her cabin, began her nightly devotions with a paeanthat sounded strangely in her own ears: "Oh, Thou Who hast redeemed mylife from destruction, crowned me with loving-kindness and tendermercies, Who hast satisfied my mouth with good things so that my youthis renewed like the eagle's!"

CHAPTER XXVII

Among Leighton's many pet theories was one that he called the axiom ofthe propitious moment. Any tyro at life could tell that a thing neededsaying; skill came in knowing how to wait to say it. At Lady Derl'sdinner Leighton had decided to go away for several months. He hadsomething to say to Lewis before he went, but he passed nervous dayswaiting to say it. Then came the propitious moment. They were sittingalone over a cheerful small fire that played a sort of joyfulaccompaniment to the outdoor struggle of spring against the cold. 

"In every society, " said Leighton, breaking a long silence, "where womenhave been numerically predominant, the popular conception of moralityhas been lowered. Your historical limitations are such that you'll haveto take my say-so for the truth of that generality. "

"Yes, sir, " said Lewis. 

"Man's greatest illusion in regard to woman, " continued Leighton, "isthat she's fastidious. Men are fastidious and vulgar; women are neitherfastidious nor vulgar. There's a reason. Women have been too intimatelyconnected through the ages with the slops of life to be fastidious. That's driven them to look upon natural things with natural eyes. Theyknow that vulgarity isn't necessary, and they revolt from it. These areall generalities, of course. "

"Yes, sir, " said Lewis. 

"Women are very wonderful. They are an unconscious incarnation ofknowledge. Knowledge bears the same relation to the wise that liquordoes to the man who decided the world would be better without alcoholand started to drink it all up. Man's premier temptation is to drink upwomen. Lots of men start to do it, but that's as far as they get. Onewoman can absorb a dozen men; a dozen men can't absorb one woman. Women--any one woman--is without end. Am I boring you?"

"No, sir, " said Lewis. "You are giving me a perspective. "

"You've struck the exact word. Since we met, I've given you several ofmy seven lives, but there's one life a man can't pass on to his son--hislife with relation to women. He can only give, as you said, aperspective. "

Leighton chose a cigar carefully and lit it. 

"Formerly woman had but one mission, " he went on. "She arrived at itwhen she arrived at womanhood. The fashionable age for marriage wasfifteen. Civilization has pushed it along to twenty-five. Those tencumulative years have put a terrific strain on woman. On the whole, shehas stood it remarkably well. But as modernity has reduced ouranimalism, it has increased our fundamental immorality and put asubstantial blot on woman's mission as a mission. Woman has had to learnto dissemble charmingly, but in the bottom of her heart she has neverbelieved that her mission is intrinsically shameful. That's why everywoman feels her special case of sinning is right--until she gets caught. Do you follow me?"

"I think so, " said Lewis. 

"Well, if you've followed me, you begin to realize why a superfluity ofwomen threatens conventional life. There are an awful lot of women inthis town, Lew. "

Leighton rose to his feet and started walking up and down, his handsclasped behind him, his head dropped. 

"I haven't been feeding you on all these generalities just to kill time. A generality would be worth nothing if it weren't for its exceptions. Women are remarkable for the number of their exceptions. You arecrossing a threshold into a peculiarly lax section and age of woman. Iwant you to believe and to remember that the world still breeds nobleand innocent women. "

Leighton stopped, threw up his head, and fixed Lewis with his eyes. 

"Do you know what innocence is? Ask the average clergyman to describeinnocence to you, and when he gets through, think a bit, take off thetinsel words with which he has decked out his graven image, and you'llfind what? Ignorance enshrined. Every clergy the world has seen hasenshrined ignorance, and ignorance has no single virtue that a soundturnip does not share. "

Leighton stopped and faced his son. 

"Now, my boy, " he said, "here comes the end of the sermon. Beware of thesecond-best in women. Many a man trades his soul not for the wholeworld, but for a bed-fellow. " He paused. "I believe, " he continued, flushing, "I still believe that for every man there is an all-embracingwoman to whom he is all-embracing. Thank God! I'm childish enough tobelieve in her still, though I speak through soiled lips--theall-embracing woman who alone can hold you and that you alone can hold. "

Lewis stared absently into the fire. 

"'The worlds of women are seven, '" he repeated, half to himself:"'spirit, weed, flower, the blind, the visioned, libertine, and saint. None of these is for thee. For each child of love there is a woman thatholds the seven worlds within a single breast. Hold fast to thybirthright, even though thou journey with thy back unto the light. '"

"What--where--what's that?" stammered Leighton, staring at his son. 

Lewis looked up and smiled. 

"Only Old Immortality. Do you remember her? The old woman who told myfortune. She said that. D'you know, I think she must have been adiscarded Gipsy. I never thought of it before. I didn't know then what aGipsy was. "

"Gipsy or saint, take it from me, she was, and probably is, a wisewoman, " said Leighton. "Somehow I'm still sure she can never die. Do youremember all she said when she told you your fortune?"

"Yes, " said Lewis; "I think I do. Every once in a while I've said itover to myself. "

"I wish you'd write down what she said and--and leave it on my table forme. You'll have to do it tonight, for I'm off to-morrow. Old Ivory and Ihave shot so much game we've grown squeamish about it, but it seemsthere's a terrific drought and famine on in the game country of the EastCoast, and all the reserves have been thrown open. The idea is meat forthe natives and a thinning out of game in the overstocked country. Weare going out this time not as murderers, but as philanthropists. "

"I'd like to go, too, " said Lewis, his eyes lighting. "Won't you letme?"

"Not this trip, my boy, " said Leighton. "I hate to refuse you anything, but don't think I'm robbing you. I'm not. I merely don't wish you to eatlife too fast. Times will come when you'll _need_ to go away. Just nowyou've got things enough to hunt right here. One of them is art. You maythink you've arrived, but you haven't--not yet. "

"I know I haven't, " said Lewis. 

Leighton nodded. 

"Ever heard this sort of thing? 'Art is giving something for nothing. Art is the ensnaring of beauty in an invisible mesh. Art is the ideal ofcommon things. Art is a mirage stolen from the heavens and trapped on abit of canvas or on a sheet of paper or in a lump of clay. ' And so onand so on. "

Lewis smiled. 

"As a matter of fact, " continued Leighton, "those things are merely theprogeny of art. Art itself is work, and its chief end is expression withrepression. Remember that--with repression. Many an artist has missedgreatness by mistaking license for originality and producing debauch. Idon't want you to do that. I want you to stay here by yourself for awhile and work; not with your hands, necessarily, but with your mind. Get your perspective of life now. Most of the pathetic'what-might-have-beens' in the lives of men and women are due tomisplaced proportions that made them struggle greatly for littlethings. "

Lewis looked up and nodded. 

"Dad, you've got a knack of saying things that are true in a way thatmakes them visible. When you talk, you make me feel as though some onehad drawn back the screen from the skylight. "

Leighton shrugged his shoulders. For a long moment he was silent; thenhe said:

"A life like mine has no justification if it can't let in light, eventhough it be through stained glass. "

Lewis caught a wistful look in his father's eyes. He felt a sudden surgeof love such as had come to him long years before when he had firstsounded the depths of his father's tenderness. "There's no light in allthe world like cathedral light, Dad, " he said with a slight tremble inhis voice, "and it shines through stained glass. "

"Thanks, boy, thanks, " said Leighton; then he smiled, and threw up hishead. Lewis had learned to know well that gesture of dismissal to amood. 

"Just one more word, " continued his father. "When you do get down toworking with your hands, don't forget repression. Classicism bears therelation to art that religion does to the world's progress. It's adrag-anchor--a sound measure of safety--despised when seas are calm, buttreasured against the hour of stress. Let's go and eat. "

Lewis rose and put his hand on his father's arm. 

"I'll not forget this talk, Dad, " he said. 

"I hope you won't, boy, " said Leighton. "It's harder for me to talk toyou than you think. I'm driven and held by the knowledge that there areonly two ways in which a father can lose his son. One is by talking toomuch, the other's by not talking enough. The old trouble of the deviland the deep, blue sea; the frying-pan and the fire. Come, we've beenbandying the sublime; let's get down to the level of stomachs and smile. The greatest thing about man is the range of his octaves. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

For a week Lewis missed his father very much. Every time he came intothe flat its emptiness struck him, robbed him of gaiety, and made himfeel as though he walked in a dead man's shoes. He was very lonely. 

"Helton, " he said one night, "I wish things could talk--these old chairsand the table and that big worn-out couch, for instance. "

"Lucky thing they can't, sir, " mumbled Helton, holding the seam of thetable-cloth in his teeth while he folded it. 

"Why?" said Lewis. "Why should it be lucky they can't? Don't you supposeif they had the power of talk, they'd have the power of discretion aswell, just as we have?"

"I don't know about that, sir, " said Helton. "Things is servants justlike us serving-men is. The more wooden a serving-man is in the matterof talk, the easier it is for 'im to get a plice. If you ask me, sir, Iwould s'y as chairs is wooden and walls stone an' brick for the comfortof their betters, an' that they 'aven't any too much discretion as itis, let alone talking. "

"Nelton, " said Lewis, "I've been waiting to ask you something. I wonderif you could tell me. "

"Can't s'y in the dark, " said Nelton. 

"It's this, " said Lewis. "Everybody here--all dad's friends except LadyDerl--call him Grapes Leighton. Why? I've started to ask him two orthree times, but somehow something else seems to crop up in his mind, and he doesn't give me a chance to finish. "

Nelton's lowered eyes flashed a shrewd look at Lewis's face. 

"The exercise of discretion ennobles the profession, " he said, andstopped, a dazed, pleased look in his face at hearing his own rhyme. Helaid the table-cloth down, took from his pocket the stub of a pencil, and wrote the words on his cuff. Then he picked up the cloth, laid itover his arm, and opened the door. As he went out he paused and saidover his shoulder: "Master Lewis, it would hurt the governor's feelin'sif you asked him or anybody else how he got the nime of Gripes. "

Let a man but feel lonely, and his mind immediately harks along the backtrail of the past. In his lonely week Lewis frequently found himselfthinking back. It was only by thinking back that he could stay in theflat at all. Now for the first time he realized that he had beenstepping through life with seven-league boots. The future could notpossibly hold for him the tremendous distances of his past. How far hehad come since that first dim day at Consolation Cottage!

To every grown-up there is a dim day that marks the beginning of things, the first remembered day of childhood. Lewis could not fasten on anymemory older than the memory of a rickety cab, a tall, gloomy man, andthen a white-clad group on the steps of Consolation Cottage. Blackmammy, motherly Mrs. Leighton, curly-headed Shenton, and little Natalie, with her 'wumpled' skirt, who had stood on tiptoe to put her lips tohis, appeared before him now as part of the dawn of life. 

As he looked back, he saw that the sun had risen hot on his day of life. It had struck down Shenton, blasted the Reverend Orme, withered AnnLeighton, and had turned plump little Natalie's body into a thin, wiryhome for hope. Natalie had always demanded joy even of little things. Did she still demand it? Where was Natalie? Lewis asked himself thequestion and felt a twinge of self-reproach. Life had been so full forhim that he had not stopped to think how empty it might be for Natalie, his friend. 

How little he had done to trace her! Only the one letter. He decided towrite again, this time to Dom Francisco. If only he could talk toNatalie, what long tours it would take to tell and to hear all! A faintflush of anticipation was rising to his cheeks when a rap on the doorstartled him. Before he could look around Nelton announced, "A lady tosee you, sir. "

Lewis leaped to his feet and stepped forward. Had one of the miracles hehad been taught to believe in come to pass? Had prayer been answered?The lady raised her arms and started to take off her veil. Then sheturned her back to Lewis. 

"Do untie it for me, " she drawled in the slow voice of Lady VioletManerlin. 

Lewis felt his face fall, and was glad she had her back to him. He undidher veil with steady, leisurely fingers. 

"This is awfully good of you, " he said. "How did you know I was alone?"

"Telephoned Nelton, and told him not to say anything. "

Vi took off her hat and jacket as well as her veil, and tossed the lotinto a chair. Then she sat down in a corner of the big couch before thefire, doubled one foot under her, tapped the floor with the other, andyawned. Lewis offered her a cigarette, took one himself, and then shareda match with her. 

"It's good of you to take it so calmly, " said Vi. "Are you one of thefools that must always have an explanation? I'll give you one, if youlike. "

"Don't bother, " said Lewis, smiling. "You've been bored--horribly bored. You looked out of the window, and saw the green things in the park, andremembered that there was only one bit in your list of humanity as greenand fresh as they, and you headed straight for it. "

"Yes, " drawled Vi, "like a cow making for the freshest tuft of grass inthe pasture. Thanks; but I'm almost sorry you told me why I came. That'sthe disappointing thing to us women. When we think we're doing somethingoriginal, somebody with a brain comes along and reduces it to firstelements, and we find we've only been natural. "

Lewis straddled a chair, folded his arms on the back of it, and lookedVi over with a professional eye. She was posed for a painter, not for asculptor, but even so he found her worth looking at. A woman can't siton one foot, tap the floor with the other, and lean back, withoutshowing the lines of her body. 

"Mere length, " said Lewis, "is a great handicap to a woman, but addproportion to length, and you have the essentials of beauty. Short andpretty; long and beautiful. D'you get that? A short woman may bebeautiful as a table decoration, but let her stand up or lie down and, presto! she's just pretty. "

Vi reached out one long arm toward the fire, and nicked off the ash fromher cigarette. She tried to hide the tremor that Lewis's words broughtto her limbs and the color that his frankly admiring eyes brought to thepallor of her cheeks. She was a woman that quivered under admiration. 

"Have you never--don't you ever kiss women?" she asked, looking at himwith slanted eyes. 

Lewis shrugged his shoulders. 

"Oh, I suppose so. That is--well, to tell you the truth, I don'tremember. "

For a second Vi stared at him; then she laughed, and he laughed withher. 

"Oh! oh!" she cried, "I believe you're telling the truth!"

They sat and talked. Nelton brought in tea; then they sat and talkedsome more. A distant bell boomed seven o'clock. Vi started, rose slowlyto her feet, and stretched. 

"Have you got your invitation for the Ruttle-Marter fancy-dress ballnext week?" she asked, stifling a yawn. 

"No, " said Lewis; "don't know 'em. "

"That doesn't matter, " said Vi. "I'll see that you get a card to-morrow. I'd like you to come. Nobody is supposed to know it, but I'm going todance. Will you come?"

"Oh, yes, " said Lewis, rising; "I'll come. I've been a bit lonely sincedad went away. " Then he smiled. "So I was wrong, after all. "

"Wrong?" said Vi, staring at him, "When, how?"

"This is what you really came for--to ask me to see you dance, " he said, laughing. 

"Oh, was it?" said Vi. "I'm always wondering why I do things. Well, Isuppose I'd better go, but I hate to. I've been so comfy here. If you'donly press me, I might stay for dinner. "

Lewis shook his head. 

"Better not. "

"Why?"

"Well, you're married, aren't you?"

"Yes, " said Vi, grimly, her eyes narrowing. 

"Well, " said Lewis, "you've heard dad talk. He says marriage is just aninsurance policy to the mind of woman. "

"Yes, " said Vi, "and that the best place to keep it is away from thefire. Your dad's insight is simply weird. But if you think you're goingto start on life where he left off, let me tell you you'll be chewing aworn-out cud. "

Lewis laughed. 

"You would be right if I were to live life over on his lines. But Iwon't. He doesn't want me to. He never said so, but I just know. "

Vi shrugged her shoulders. 

"You have a lot of sense, " she said. "There's nothing women dislikemore. Good-by. " She held out her hand and stepped toward him. She seemedto misjudge the distance and half lose her balance. The full length ofher quivering body came up against Lewis. He felt her hot, sweet breathalmost on his mouth. He flushed. His arms started up from his sides andthen dropped again. 

"Touch and go!" he gasped. 

"Which?" drawled Vi, her mouth almost on his, her wide, gray eyes sonear that he closed his to save himself from blindness. 

"Better make it 'go, '" said Lewis, and grinned. 

"You've saved yourself, " said Vi, with a laugh. "If you hadn't grinned, I'd have kissed you. "

CHAPTER XXIX

Lewis went to the Ruttle-Marter ball determined to be gay. He searchedfor Vi, but did not find her. By twelve o'clock he had to admit that hewas more than bored, and said so to a neighbor. 

"That's impossible, " said the neighbor, yawning. "Boredom is anultimate. There's nothing beyond it; consequently, you can't be morethan bored. "

"You're wrong, " said Lady Derl from behind them. "For a man there'salways something beyond boredom: there's going home. "

"_Touché_, " cried Lewis and then suddenly straightened. While they hadbeen chatting, the curtain of the improvised stage at one end of theball-room had gone up. In the center of the stage stood a figure thatLewis would have recognized at once even if he had not been aparticipant in the secret. 

The figure was that of a tall woman. Her dark hair--and there was plentyof it--was done in the Greek style. So were her clothes, if such filmydraperies could be justly termed clothes. They were caught up under herbreasts, and hung in airy loops to a little below her knees. They wereworn so skilfully that art did not appear. They fluttered about hersoftly moving limbs, but never flew. The woman was apparentlyblindfolded--with chiffon. The foamy bandage proved an efficient mask. Chiffon and draperies were of that color known to connoisseurs as_cuisse de nymphe_. 

A buzz of interested questioning swept over the company. Mrs. Ruttle-Marter, who had been quite abandoned for over an hour, suddenlyfound herself the center of a curious and eager group. 

"Who is she?" "What is she?" "Where did you get her?"

The trembling hostess, flushed by the first successful moment in manydreary seasons, was almost too gulpy to speak. But words came at last. 

"Really, my dear Duchess, I don't know who she is. I don't know whereshe comes from or what she is. I only know her price and the name of herdance. If I told the price, well, there wouldn't be any rush in thiscrowd to engage her. " So early did power lead the long-suffering Mrs. Ruttle-Marter to lap at revenge!

"Well, tell us the name of her dance, anyway, " said a tall, soldierlygray-head that was feeling something for the first time in twenty years. "Do hurry! She's going to begin. "

"I can do that, " said Mrs. Ruttle-Marter. "Her dance is called 'Love isblind. '"

"Love is blind, " repeated Lewis to Lady Derl. "Let's see what she makesof it. "

People did not note just when the music began. They suddenly realizedit. It was so with Vi's dance. So gradually did her body sway intomotion that somebody who had been staring at her from the moment sheappeared whispered, "Why, she's dancing!" only when the first movementwas nearing its close. 

The music was doubly masked. It was masked behind the wings and behindthe dance. It did not seem interwoven with movement, but appeared moreas a soft background of sound to motion. So it remained through all thefirst part of the dance which followed unerringly all the traditions ofGreek classicism, depending for expression entirely on swaying arms andbody. 

"Who would have thought it!" whispered Lewis. "To do something well at arange of two thousand years! That's more than art; it's genius. "

"It's not genius, " whispered back Lady Derl; "it's just body. What'smore, I think I recognize the body. "

"Well, " said Lewis, "what if you do? Play the game. "

"So I'm right, eh? Oh, I'll play the game, and hate her less into thebargain. "

So suddenly that it startled, came a crashing chord. The dancer quiveredfrom head to foot, became very still, as though she listened to a call, and then swirled into the rhythm of the music. The watchers caught theirbreath and held it. The new movement was alien to anything the marbledhalls of Greece are supposed to have seen; yet it held a hauntingreminder, as though classicism had suddenly given birth to youth. 

The music swelled and mounted. So did the dance. Wave followed onripple, sea on wave, and on the sea the foaming, far-flung billow. Limbafter limb, the whole supple body of the blind dancer came into play;yet there was no visible tension. Never dead, never hard, but limp, --aslimp as flowing, rushing water, --she whirled and swayed through all theemotions until, at the highest pitch of the mounting music, she fellprone, riven by a single, throbbing sob. Down came the curtain. Themusic faded away in a long, descending sweep. 

Men shouted hoarsely, unaware of what they were crying out, and womenfor once clapped to make a noise, and split their gloves. A youth, hishair disordered and a hectic flush in his cheeks, rushed straight forthe stage, crying, "Who is she?"

Lewis stuck out his foot and tripped him. Great was his fall, and thecommotion thereof switched the emotions of the throng back to sanity. Conventional, dogged clapping and shouts of "_Bis! Bis_!" were relied onto bring the curtain up again, and relied on in vain. Once more Mrs. Ruttle-Marter was surrounded and beseeched to use her best efforts. Asshe acceded, a servant handed Lewis a scribbled note. "Come and take meout of this. Vi, " he read. He slipped out behind the servant. 

In the cab they were silent for a long time. Lewis's eyes kept wanderingover Vi, conventional once more, and lazing in her corner. 

"Well, " she drawled at last, "what did you think of it?"

"Think of it?" said Lewis. "There were three times when I wanted toshout, 'Hold that pose!' After that--well, after that my brain stoppedworking. "

"Do you mean it?" asked Vi. 

"Mean what?"

"About wanting me to hold a pose. "

"Yes, " said Lewis; "of course. What of it?"

"What of it? Why, I will. When?"

"Do _you_ mean it?" asked Lewis. 

Vi nodded. 

"Name your own time. "

"To-morrow, " said Vi, "at ten. "

The following morning Lewis was up early, putting his great, bare studioin fitting order, and trying to amplify and secure the screened-incorner which previous models had frequently damned as a purely tentativedressing-room. Promptly at ten Vi appeared. 

"Where's your maid?" asked Lewis. "You've simply got to have a maidalong for this sort of thing. "

"You're wrong, " said Vi. "It's just the sort of thing one doesn't have amaid for. It's easier to trust two to keep quiet than to keep a maidfrom vain imaginings. And--it's a lot less expensive. "

"Well, " said Lewis, "where's your costume?"

"Here, " said Vi, "in my recticule. "

They laughed. Ten minutes later Vi appeared in her filmy costume. Lewis's face no longer smiled. He was sitting on a bench at the fartherend of the room, solemnly smoking a pipe. He did not seem to notice thatVi's whole body was suffused, nervous. 

"Dance, " said Lewis. 

Vi hesitated a moment and then danced, at first a little stiffly. Buther mind gradually concentrated on her movements; she began to catch theimpersonal working atmosphere of a model. 

"Hold that!" cried Lewis, and, a second later: "No, that will never do. You've stiffened. Try again. "

Over and over Vi tried to catch the pose and keep it until, without aword, she crossed the room, threw herself on a couch, and began to cryfrom pure exhaustion. When she had partly recovered, she suddenly awoketo the fact that Lewis had not come to comfort her. She looked up. Lewiswas still sitting on the bench. He was filling a fresh pipe. 

"Blown over?" he asked casually. "Come on. At it again. "

At the end of another half-hour Vi gave up the struggle. She had caughtthe pose twice, but she had been unable to hold it. 

"I give it up, " she wailed. "I'll simply never be able to _stay_ thatway. "

"If you were a professional dancer, " said Lewis, "I'd say 'nonsense' tothat. But you're not. I'm afraid it would take you weeks, perhapsmonths, to get the stamina. Take it easy now while I make some tea. "

"Tea in the morning!" said Vi. "I can't stand it. I'd rather have aglass of port or something like that. "

"I've no doubt you would, but you're not going to get it, " said Lewis, calmly, as he went about the business of brewing tea. 

Vi finished her first cup, and asked for a second. 

"It's quite a bracer, after all, " she said. "I feel a lot better. " Sherose and went to the model's throne at one side of the room. "Is thiswhere they stand?" she asked. 

Lewis nodded. 

Vi climbed the throne, and took a pose. Her face was turned from Lewis, her right arm half outstretched, her left at her side. She was in theact of stepping. Her long left thigh was salient, yet withdrawing. Itwas the pose of one who leads the way. 

"This is the pose you will do me in, " she said. 

For a moment Lewis was silent, then he said gravely:

"No, you don't really want me to do you that way. "

"I do, and you will, " said Vi, without looking around. 

For another long moment Lewis was silent. 

"All right, " he said at last. "Come down. Dress yourself. You've hadenough for to-day. "

CHAPTER XXX

Weeks passed. Lewis worked steadily at his figure of Vi. From the timethe wires had been set and the rough clay slapped on them, he had neverallowed her to see the figure. 

"It's no use asking, " he said. "You're no master at this art. Theworkman who shows unfinished stuff to anybody but a master is a fool. "

"Well, when, then?" asked Vi, impatiently, after weeks had lengthened tomonths. 

"Almost any day now, " said Lewis; but before 'any day' came around, something happened that materially delayed the satisfaction of Vi'scuriosity. 

Lady Derl had frequently drafted Lewis into dinners that she thoughtwould be stupid for her without him. As a result, the inevitable inLondon happened. It became a habit to invite Lewis when Lady Derl wascoming. He never took her in, --her rank and position made thatimpossible, --but he was there, somewhere at the lower end of the table, where she could watch him when she felt bored and occasionally read inthe astonished faces of his neighbors the devastation he had caused bysome remark; for Lewis, like his father, had a way of saying things. Thedifference was that Leighton's _mots_ were natural and malicious, whileLewis's were only natural. On the whole, Lewis created the greatersensation. 

The night after Lewis had said "Almost any day now" to Vi, he foundhimself at a semi-diplomatic dinner next to a young person who, likehimself, seemed to find the affair a bit heavy. 

"What did they invite you for?" asked Lewis. 

"They couldn't help it, " replied the young person, stifling a yawn. "I'mthe wife of the charge of the Brazilian legation. And you?"

"Oh, I'm here just to take Lady Derl home. "

The young person's eyes showed a gleam of interest as they glanced upthe table to where Lady Derl sat and reigned an easy queen in thatassembly. 

"Oh, " she said, "are you? Why you?"

"Well, " said Lewis, "I suppose it's because I'm the only man in townthat always remembers Lady Derl's beauty and gray hair at the sametime. "

The young person smiled. 

"I believe I've heard of you. Leighton is your name, isn't it?"

"It's only five minutes since I was introduced, " said Lewis, smiling, "and you made me say it over three times. "

"Ah, yes, " said the lady, unperturbed, "but five minutes is a longtime--sometimes. Is Leighton a common name?"

"Not as common as some, " said Lewis. "Why?"

"Nothing, only I know some Leightons in Brazil. "

Lady Derl saw Lewis start, and quickly lay down his fork. She watched invain through the rest of that dinner for a conversational sensation athis end of the table. When they were in the carriage and on the way homeshe asked:

"Well, what was it?"

"What was what?" said Lewis, out of a reverie. 

"What did that Senhora What's-her-name have to tell you that made youforget to eat?"

"She was telling me about an old pal of mine, " said Lewis. "Did dad evertell you where he found me?"

"Yes, " said Lady Derl; "he said he found you in the geometrical centerof nowhere, surrounded by equal parts of wilderness. "

"That's what he thought, " said Lewis; "but there was a home tucked intothe wilderness. It had been my home for a great many years. People hadbeen kind to me there--Mrs. Leighton; Natalie, my pal; an old darkynamed just mammy; and, in a way, the Reverend Orme. After I'd been awaya year, I wrote back. They had gone. I've just found out where they are, all but the Reverend Orme. I reckon he must be dead. "

"And you're going to write?"

"Write?" said Lewis. "No, I'm not going to write. I'm just going. " For amoment they were silent, then he said, "There's something about hearingof people what were kind to you that makes you feel awfully lonely. "

Lady Derl reached out and took his hand. Their hands lay together on hisknee. The drive came to an end, and they had said nothing more. As theystood under the light of the outer hall Hélène turned to Lewis. 

"When are you going?"

"To-morrow. "

She held up her lips to him. 

"Kiss me good-by, Boy. "

He kissed her, and for a moment gripped her wrists. 

"Hélène, " he said, "you've been awfully good to me, too. I--I don'tforget. "

"You don't forget, " repeated Lady Derl. "That's why I kissed you. Don'tbe hard on your little pal when you find her. Remember, you've gone along way alone. "

As Lewis strode away rapidly toward the flat, the fragrance of Hélèneclung to him. It clung to him so long that he forgot Vi--forgot even toleave a note for her explaining his sudden departure. When he reachedSantos, three weeks later, it didn't seem worth while to cable. 

As Lewis stepped out of the station at San Paulo, he felt himself in adream. He crossed the street into the public gardens and looked back. Hehad never seen a station like that. It was beautiful. It had the spiritof a cathedral raised by some pagan as a shrine to the commercial age. Had the railroad bred a dreamer?

Several motor-cars for hire lined the curb. Lewis stepped up to one ofthe drivers. 

"How did they come to build that?" he asked in Portuguese, with a nodtoward the station. 

The driver shrugged his shoulders. 

"Too much money, " he said. "The charter limits them to twenty-five percent, profits. They had such a surplus, they told the architect he couldgo as high as he liked. He went pretty high. " The driver winked at hisown joke, but did not smile. 

"I want you by the hour, " said Lewis. "Do you know Mrs. Leighton'shouse--Street of the Consolation?"

The driver shook his head. 

"There's no such house, " he said. 

"Well, you know the Street of the Consolation? Drive there. Driveslowly. "

On the way Lewis stared, unbelieving, at the things he saw. Gone werethe low, thick-walled buildings that memory had prepared him for; gonethe funny little street-cars drawn by galloping, jack-rabbit mules. Intheir stead were high, imposing fronts, with shallow doorways and heavyAmerican electric trams. 

The car shot out upon a mighty viaduct. Lewis leaned out and lookeddown. Here was something that he could remember--the valley that splitthe city in two, and up and down the sides of which he had often toiledas a boy. Suddenly they were across, and a monster building blotted allelse from his sight. He looked up at the massive pile. "What is it?" heasked. 

"Theater built by the state, " answered the driver, without lookingaround. "Cost millions. "

"Reis?" asked Lewis, smiling. 

"Reis? Bah!" grunted the driver. "Pounds. "

The street left the level and started to climb. Lewis looked anxiouslyto right and left. He saw a placard that read, "Street of theConsolation. "

"Stop!" he cried. 

The driver drew up at the curb. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. 

"This isn't the Street of the Consolation, " said Lewis, dismayed. "Where's the big cotton-tree and the priest's house, and--and thebamboos? Where are the bamboos?"

The driver looked around curiously. 

"I remember them, the bamboos, " he said, nodding. "They're gone. "

"Wait here, " said Lewis. 

He stepped out of the car and started to walk slowly up the hill. Hefelt a strange sinking of the heart. In his day there had been nosidewalk, only a clay path, beaten hard by the feet of three children ontheir way to school. In his day the blank row of houses had been a mud_taipa_ wall, broken just here by the little gate of the priest's house. In his day there had been that long, high-plumed bank of bamboos, forever swaying and creaking, behind the screen of which had lain thewonder realm of childhood. 

He came to the spot where the gate to Consolation Cottage had been. Theold wooden gate and the two friendly, square brick pillars on which ithad swung were gone; but in their stead rose a wondrous structure ofscrolled wrought iron between two splendid granite shafts. 

Lewis stood on tiptoe and gazed through the gate, up the driveway, towhere Consolation Cottage had once stood. Through the tepid haze of abeautiful tropical garden he saw a high villa. It did not look back athim. It seemed to be watching steadily from its hilltop the spread ofthe mighty city in the valley below. 

Lewis was brought to himself with a start. Somebody behind him criedout, "O-la!" He turned to find two impatient horses almost on top ofhim. A footman was springing from his place beside the coachman to openthe gate. 

Lewis stepped aside. In the smart victoria sat a lady alone. She wasdressed in white, and wore a great, black picture-hat. Lewis glanced ather face. He recognized the Anglo-Saxon pallor. Out of the dead-whiteshone two dark eyes, unnaturally bright. He raised his hat. 

"I beg your pardon, " he began in English. 

The gate had swung open. The horses were plunging on the taut reins. Thelady drew her skirts in at her side and nodded. Lewis stepped into thecarriage. The horses shot forward and up the drive. 

CHAPTER XXXI

"It was the only way, " said the lady as Lewis handed her out of thecarriage. "The horses wouldn't wait, once the gates were open. What didyou wish to say?"

"I--I wanted to ask you about the Leightons, " stammered Lewis. "Theyused to live here. That is--"

"I know, " said the lady. "Come up on the veranda. "

That veranda made Consolation Cottage seem farther away than ever toLewis. Its floor was tiled. Its roof was cleverly arranged to give apergola effect. It was quite vine-covered. The vines hid the glass thatmade it rain-proof. In one corner rugs were placed, wicker chairs, aswinging book-rack, and a tea-table. The lady motioned to Lewis to sitdown. She sat down herself and started drawing off her long gloves. Shelooked curiously at Lewis's face. 

"You're a Leighton yourself, aren't you? Some relative to Mrs. Leightonand Natalie?"

Lewis nodded. 

"A cousin in some Scotch degree to Natalie, " he said; "I don't know justwhat. " Then he turned his eyes frankly on her. 

"Where are they--Mrs. Leighton and--and Natalie?"

"They are gone, " said the lady. "They sold out here almost a year agoand went back to the States. I have the address somewhere. I'll get itfor you. " She went, but was back in a moment. 

"Thanks, " said Lewis. He did not look at her any more or around him. Hiseyes fixed vaguely on distance, as one's eyes do when the mind tellsthem they are not wanted. 

The lady sat perfectly still and silent. The silence grew and grew untilby its own weight it suddenly brought Lewis back to the present andconfusion. He colored. His lips were opening in apology when the ladyspoke. 

"Where have you been?" she asked. 

Lewis gave her a grateful look. 

"I've been playing about the old place, " he said, smiling. "Not alone. Natalie, Shenton, and I. We've been racing through the pineapple-patch, lying on our backs under an orange-tree, visiting the stables, and--andManoel's little house, hiding in the bramble-patch, and peeking over thepriest's wall. " Lewis waved his hand at the scene that made his words soincongruous. "Sounds to you like rank nonsense, I suppose. "

The lady shook her head. 

"No, " she said--"no, it doesn't sound like nonsense. "

Then he asked her about Natalie. She told him many little things. At theend she said:

"I feel that I've told you nothing. Natalie is one of those persons thatwe generally call a 'queer girl' because we haven't the intelligence orthe expression to define them. Our local wit said that she was a girlwhom every man considered himself good enough for, but that consideredherself too good for any man. That was unjust, but it sounded truebecause sooner or later all the eligibles lined up before Natalie--andin vain. " The lady frowned. "But she wasn't selfish or hard. She used tolet them hang on till they just dropped off. She was one of those womenthat nothing surprises. Her train was made up of the ugly and thehandsome--bore, prude, wit, and libertine. She gave them all something;you could feel it. I think she got tired of giving and never taking. "

"Is she so beautiful?" asked Lewis. 

"Beautiful? Oh, no, " said the lady, and then suddenly stopped andstraightened. She laughed. "Now I look back on it all, it seems she mustbe beautiful, but--but I know she isn't. Now _I'm_ talking nonsense. "

"No, you 're not, " said Lewis. "There are women like that. " He reachedout for his hat and stick. 

"You're not going?" said the lady. "You'll stay to tea?"

Lewis shook his head. 

"You've been very kind, " he said, "but I must be going. "

Without rising, she took the hand that he held out and then sat andwatched his erect figure swing down the drive to the gate. Suddenly sheremembered him. They had been together in school. She did not call himback. Bores are people that misjudge the values of impressions. The ladywas not a bore; she was a wise woman. 

By traveling overland to Rio, Lewis caught the newest and finest of thebig steam-packets plying between Buenos Aires and Southampton. This oldworld of his had been moving apace in more ways than one. The yearssince, with his father, he had made this same trip were comparativelyfew, but during them progress had more than taken a long stride; it hadcrossed a line. 

He dressed for dinner at eight. As he stepped into the dining-room, hepaused and stared. It was like walking into some smart London restaurantafter the theater. Gone were the long ship-boards at which forgenerations human beings had been lined up like cattle at a trough. Intheir place were scattered small tables, round and square, of a capacityvarying from two to eight. 

Around the tables wealth rioted. There were wealthy coffee-planters, whospent a yearly fortune on their annual trip to Paris, surrounded bytheir wives and such of their offspring as were old enough to escape thenursery table; planters, sheep- and cattle-men from the Argentine, someof them married, all accompanied; and women. Lewis had never before seenso many beautiful women at one time. It was _the_ boat of the season. Over all hung an atmosphere of vintage wines. 

Lewis was shown to a seat at a table for two. His _vis-à-vis_ was arare, lonely little man. The black studs in his shirt seemed to explainhim. He was sour and morose till he found Lewis could speak French, thenhe bubbled over with information. It transpired that the room was alivewith situations. 

"This is a crowded boat, but see the lady over there?"

Lewis's eyes followed the speaker's backward nod. He saw a remarkablybeautiful blonde in evening dress sitting alone at a table for four. Shekept her eyes steadily on her plate. 

"We call her the Duchess, " continued the little man. "She belongs to Dela Valla, the sugar king. He's got his daughters with him, so she had tosit at another table, and he paid four passages for her so she'd be keptalone. "

Lewis nodded politely. 

"Now slant your eyes over my left shoulder, " continued the little man. 

To Lewis's surprise, he saw another beautiful woman, a bright-eyedbrunette, sitting alone at a table for four. He turned, interested, tohis table companion for the explanation. 

"Ah-ha!" said the little man, "you begin to wake up. That, my friend, isMlle. Folly Delaires. She's been playing in Buenos Aires. When she sawpeople staring at the Duchess, she stepped up to the purser's office andlaid down the cash for a table for four. At first we thought it was justvanity and a challenge, but we know her better now. She's just the devilof mischief and several other things in the flesh. We ought all to begrateful for her. "

Lewis looked curiously at Mlle. Delaires. He watched to see her get up. She passed close to him. She did not have the height that his traininghad taught him was essential to beauty, but she had certain attributesthat made one suddenly class height with other bloodless statistics. From her crown of brown hair to her tiny slippers she was alive. Vitality did not radiate from her, but it seemed to lurk, like aconstant, in her whole body and in her every supple movement. Lewis didnot see it, but she was of the type that forever takes and never gives. 

As she passed close by him he felt an utterly new sensation, as thoughhe were standing in a garden of narcotics, and lassitude were stealingthrough his limbs. When she had gone, a single memory clung to him--thememory of the wonderful texture of her skin. He had read in a child'sbook of physiology that our skin breathes. The affirmation had meantnothing to him beyond mechanics; now, suddenly, it meant much. He hadseen, felt, this woman's skin breathe, and its breath had been like thefragrance of a flower. 

For the first time in his life Lewis looked on woman with blind eyes. During almost three weeks the years that he had lived in familiarcontact with women stood him in good stead. He never spoke to thebright-eyed rival to the Duchess, but he watched her from afar. Menswarmed about her. She stood them as long as they amused her, and thenwould suddenly shake them all off. There were days when she would let noone come near her. There was no day when any man could say he had beenfavored above another. 

Then came an evening when Lewis had dressed unusually early and slippedup to the boat-deck to cool off before dinner. He sat down on a benchand half closed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw a woman--thewoman, Folly Delaires--standing with her back to him at the rail. He hadnot heard or seen her come. Almost without volition he arose and steppedto the rail. He leaned on it beside her. She did not move away. 

"I want to kiss you, " said Lewis, and trembled as he heard his ownwords. 

The woman did not start. She turned her face slowly toward his. 

"And I want you to, " she said. 

CHAPTER XXXII

Within two weeks of Lewis's departure for South America, Leightonreturned from his shooting-trip. Despite the fact that he had notwritten telling Lewis he was coming, he felt a great chagrin at findingthe flat deserted except for the ever-faithful Nelton. 

"Where's the boy?" was Leighton's first question. Even as he steppedacross the threshold he felt that he stepped into an empty house. 

"South America, " said Nelton, relieving his master of hat, stick, andgloves. 

"South America!" cried Leighton, dismayed, and then smiled. "Well, he'sgetting his dad's tricks early. What for?"

"Don't know, sir. Mr. Lewis said as you'd get it from her ladyship. "

Lady Derl was out of town. Leighton followed her, stayed two days, decided her momentary entourage was not to his taste, and returned toLondon. He reached the flat in the afternoon, just in time to receive acaller. The caller was Vi. 

"Hallo!" said Leighton as Nelton showed her in, "this is fortune. Takeoff your things and stay. "

"I will--some of them, " drawled Vi; "but not just yet. " She sat down. 

"What on earth are you doing in town?" asked Leighton. 

"Well, " said Vi, "up to three weeks ago I was here at the beck and callof your son. Then he suddenly took French leave. " She turned and facedLeighton. "Where has he gone? It isn't like one of you to be rude inlittle things. "

"I don't think Lew meant to be rude, " said Leighton. "He's gone to SouthAmerica. He heard about some cousins he 'd lost track of, and he justbolted the next morning. "

"Cousins!" said Vi. "I didn't know any one still went in for family tiesto the extent of South America, short of a fat death. "

"No, " said Leighton, smiling; there's no money in this trip. Why wereyou at his beck and call?"

"Model, " said Vi, coolly. "He's been doing me. "

"Doing _you_!" said Leighton, looking at her curiously. 

"There, there, " said Vi, "don't let your imagination run away with you. Not in the nude. By the way, can you let me have the key? I leftsomething in the studio, and I didn't like to go to Nelton. "

"Certainly, " said Leighton. "I'll walk by there with you. "

Vi gave a shrug of protest, but Leighton's back was already turned. Hefetched the key, and together they walked over to Lewis's atelier. Whenthey had climbed the stairs and were at the door, Vi said a littlebreathlessly and without a drawl:

"Do you mind very much not coming in? I won't be but a minute. "

Leighton glanced at her, surprised. "Not at all, " he said, and handedher the key. He took out a cigarette and lit it as she opened the doorand closed it behind her. He started pacing up and down the bare hall. Presently he grew impatient, and glanced at his watch; then he stoppedshort in his tracks. From behind the closed door came unmistakably thesound of a woman sobbing. 

Leighton did not hesitate. He threw open the door and walked in. Exceptfor Vi, curled up in a little heap on the couch, the atelier was verystill, vast, somber. In its center shone a patch of light. In the patchof light, on a low working pedestal, stood a statue. On the floor were atumbled cloth and a fallen screen. Leighton stood stock-still andstared. 

The sculptured figure was that of a woman veiled in draperies that weremerely suggested. Her face, from where Leighton stood, was turned away. Her right arm was half outstretched, her left hung at her side, but itwas peculiarly turned, as though to draw the watcher on. Then there wasthe left thigh. Once the eye fell on that, all else was forgotten. Intothis sinking sweep had gone all the artist's terrific force ofexpression and suggestion. No live man would have thought of the figureas "Woman Leading the Way, " once his eyes had fallen on that thigh. Tosuch a one the statue named itself with a single flash to the brain, andthe name it spoke was "Invitation. "

Leighton's first impulse was one of unbounded admiration--the admirationwe give to unbounded power. Then realization and a frown began to comeslowly to his face. Vi, crumpled up on the couch, and sobbing hard, drysobs, --the sobs that bring age, ---helped him to realization. Lewis, hisboy, had done a base thing. 

Without moving, Leighton glanced about the room till his eyes fell onthe mallet. Then he stepped quickly to it, picked it up, and crossed tothe statue. Beneath his quick blows the brittle clay fell from theskeleton wires in great, jagged chunks. With his foot he crushed a fewof them to powder. He tossed the mallet aside, and glanced at Vi. Shewas still crying, but she had half risen at the sound of his blows, andwas staring at him through wet eyes. 

Leighton started walking up and down, the frown still on his brow. Finally he came to a stop before the couch. 

"Vi, " he said--"Vi, listen! You must tell me something. It isn't a fairquestion, but never mind that. "

She lifted a tear-stained face. 

"Vi, " said Leighton, tensely, "did he follow?"

Vi raised herself on her arms and stared at him for a moment before shegasped:

"You fool, do you suppose I would have cared if he had followed?" Thenshame gripped her, and she threw herself full-length again, face down. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound. 

Leighton waited half an hour. He spent the time walking up and down andsmoking cigarettes. He was no longer frowning. At the end of thehalf-hour he caught Vi by the arms and lifted her to her feet. 

"Come on, " he said. 

Vi stared at him as one half-awakened. 

"I don't want to go anywhere, " she said. "I'm very well here. "

"Nonsense!" said Leighton, "you don't realize what you're doing toyourself. On my word, you look positively puttyish. "

"Puttyish!" cried Vi, a flush of anger rising to her face. "Grapes, you're brutal! Since when have you learned to trample on a woman?"

"That's better, " said Leighton, coolly. "I thought it would rouse you abit. "

Vi almost smiled at herself. She laid her hand on Leighton's arm andturned him toward the door. 

"And they still say that no man knows women, " she said. She paused andlooked back at the fragments of the statue. Her lips twisted. "Evenboys, " she added, "pick out our naked souls and slap them in our faces. "

As they walked slowly toward the flat, Vi said:

"I know why you had to ask that question. I'm glad you did. You weremisjudging Lew. But you can be sure of one thing: no one but us threeever saw that statue; I know now that no one but just Lew and myselfwere ever meant to see it. He didn't want to model me that way. When Iasked for it, he hesitated, then suddenly he gave in. " She paused for amoment, then she added, "I believe it's part of a man's job to know whento trample on women. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

It was night at the flat. There was just chill enough in the air tojustify a cozy little fire. Through the open windows came the low hum ofLondon, subdued by walls and distance to the pitch of a friendlyaccompaniment to talk. In two great leathern chairs, half facing eachother, Vi and Leighton sat down, the fire between them. 

They had been silent for a long time. Vi had been twisting her fingers, staring at them. Her lips were half open and mobile. She was evenflushed. Suddenly she locked her hands and leaned forward. 

"Grapes, " she said without a drawl, "I have seen myself. It is terrible. Nothing is left. "

Leighton rose and stepped into his den. He came back slowly with twopictures in his hands. 

"Look at these, " he said. "If you were ten years older, you'd only haveto glance at them, and they'd open a door to memory. "

Vi gazed at the pictures, small paintings of two famous Spanish dancers. One was beautiful, languorous, carnal; the other was neither languorousnor carnal despite her wonderful body, and she was certainly notbeautiful. Vi laid the second picture down and held the first. Thenalmost unconsciously she reached out her hand for the discarded picture. Gradually the face that was not beautiful drew her until attention grewinto absorption. The portrait of the languorous beauty fell to her lapand then slipped to the floor, face down. Leighton laughed. 

Vi glanced up. 

"Why?" she asked. 

"Oh, nothing, " said Leighton, "except that the effect those pictures hadon you is an exact parallel to the way the two originals influenced men. For that----" Leighton waved a hand at the picture on the floor--"mengave all they possessed in the way of worldly goods, and then Wonderedwhy they'd done it. But for her--the one you 're looking at----"

He broke off. "You never heard of De Larade? De Larade spent all of hisshort life looking for animate beauty, and worshiping it when he foundit. But he died leaning too far over a balcony to pick a flower for theWoman you're staring at. "

"Why?" asked Vi again. "You knew her, of course. Tell me about her. "

"I'm going to, " said Leighton. "The first time I saw her on the stageshe seemed to me merely an extra-graceful and extra-sensuous Spanishdancer. Nothing to rave over, nothing to stimulate a jaded palate. Icould have met her; I decided I didn't want to. Later on I did meet her, not in her dressing-room, but at a house where she was the last person Iexpected to see. "

Leighton picked up a cigarette, lighted it, and sat down. 

"The place ought to have protected her, " he continued, "but when you'veseen two thirds of a woman's body, it takes a lot of atmosphere to makeyou forget it. We were in a corner by ourselves. I can't remember justwhat I did. Probably laid my hand on her arm with intent. Well, Vi, shedidn't thrill the way your blood and mine has thrilled an occasion. Shejust shrank. Then she frowned, and the frown made her look really ugly. 'Don't forget, ' she whispered to me, 'that I'm a married woman. I neverforget it--not for one minute. '"

Leighton blew a cloud of smoke at the fire. It twisted into wreaths andwhirled up the chimney. 

"Quite a facer, eh?" he went on. "But it didn't down me. It only woke meup. 'Have you ever had a man sit down with you beside him and hold youso, ' I asked her, 'with your back to his knees, your head in his handsand his eyes and his mouth close to yours--a man that wasn't trying toget to a single goal, but was content to linger with you in the land ofdreams?'

"Believe me, Vi, the soul of a pure woman that every man thinks he has aright to make love to is the shyest of all souls. Such a woman shedsinnuendo and actions with the proverbial ease of a duck disposing of ashower. But just words--the right words--will bring tears to her eyes. Well, I'd stumbled on the right words. "

"'No, ' she said, with a far-away look, 'I've never had a man hold melike that. Why?'"

"'Why?' I said, 'Because I will--some day. '"

"'You!'"

"I can't give you all the derision she put into that 'you!' Then herface and her eyes went as hard as flint. 'Money?' she asked, and Ianswered, 'No; love. '"

Leighton looked at his cigarette end and flipped it into the fire. 

"She laughed, of course, and when she laughed she became to me the mostunattainable and consequently the most desirable of women. I was at thatage. 

"Well, to cut the story short, I went mad over her, but it wasn't themadness that loses its head. It was just cunning--the cunning with atouch of fanaticism that always reaches its goal. I laid seige to her byday and by night, and at last, one day, she sent for me. She was alone;I could see that she meant us to be alone. She made me sit down. Shestood in front of me. To my eyes she had become beautiful. I wanted her, really wanted her. 

"What she said was this: 'I've sent for you because, if you keep on, you're going to win. No, don't get up. Before you keep on, I want totell you something about myself--about what I believe with all my soul. I don't have to tell you that I'm a good woman; you know it. The firsttime you saw me dance you were rather disgusted, weren't you? I nodded. 'What do you think of my dancing now?"

"I remember my answer to that. It was: 'You possess people gradually, you hold them forever. It's more than personality with you, it's power. '

"Her eyes were fastened on me. They drew mine. 'That's right, ' she said;'look at me. I want you to look at me. You see I'm an ugly woman. ' Icried out in protest, and I meant it. Her face went suddenly hard. 'Youfool, ' she said, 'say that I'm pretty--say it now!' And I cried out ather, 'Not when you look like that. But you can assume beauty. You knowit. '

"She seemed to pause in her thoughts at that and smiled. 'Can I--foryou?' she asked in a way that made her divine. Then she jerked herselfback. 'I'm an ugly woman. My body is wonderful. Look!' She raised herlong arms, which were bare, gave a half-turn, and glanced at me over hershoulder. An apparently simple movement, but it was consummate in graceand display. 'You see?' she said, with a flashing smile. Then she turnedand stood stolidly. 'I didn't have a body worth speaking of once. WhatI've got I made--every bit of it. '

"She sat down sidewise on a chair, folded her arms on the back of it, and looked at me over them. 'I have that power you were speaking of. Doyou know just in what consists a woman's power over a man? I'll tellyou: in keeping eternally just one thing that he wants. '

"She paused a long time on that, then she went on: 'Some women holdtheir own in the world and their men by beauty, others by wit, others byculture, breeding, and occasionally there's a woman clever enough tohold her place and her man by wealth. I've got none of these things. I've got only one great gift of God by which I hold my power. Whenthat's gone, all is gone. Wise people have told me so. I know it istrue. ' She rose slowly, came and stood close beside me. 'It's--it'sthis--that I'm still my own. Do you want to--to rob me?"

Leighton paused, staring into the fire. 

"That was the time, " he said, "I went off on my longest shooting-trip. Inever saw her again. " He looked up. Vi was very pale. 

"You have been cruel--cruel to me, " she said. 

Leighton sprang to his feet and started walking up and down. 

"I have not, " he said. "The trouble with you women is you're foreverwanting to have your cake and eat it, too. If you thought I was going tocomfort you with sophist assurances that there's a way out of paying theprice for the kind of life you've led, you were just wrong. What I'mtrying to do is to give you a prescription for an individual sick soul, not a well one. "

He stopped and pointed at the picture lying on Vi's lap. 

"Don't you see where her philosophy helps you? You've got all theelements of power that she lacked--beauty, wit, breeding, wealth, and--yes--and mind. She had that, too, but she didn't know it. With allthat of your cargo left, can't you trade honestly with life? Can't youmake life worth while, not only just to yourself? You'll be trading incompensations, it's true. "

Leighton started walking up and down again. 

"In one of my many brilliant moments, " he went on, "I defined acompensation to Lewis as something that doesn't quite compensate. Thereyou have the root of most of the sadness in life. But believe me, mydear girl, almost all the live people you and I know are trading incompensations, and this is what I want you to fasten on. Some of them doit nobly. "

Leighton stood with folded arms, frowning at the floor. Vi looked up athim but could not catch his eye. She rose, picked up her wraps, and thencame and stood before him. She laid her fingers on his arms. 

"Grapes, " she said, still without a drawl, "you _have_ helped me--a lot. Good night. " She held up her lips. 

"No, Vi, " said Leighton, gravely. "Just give up paying even for kindnesswith a kiss. "

Vi nodded her head. 

"You're right; only--that kiss wouldn't have been as old as I. " Sheturned from him. "I don't think I'll call you 'Grapes' any more. "

"Yes, you will, " said Leighton. "We're born into one name; we earnanother. We've got a right to the one we earn. You see, even a man can'thave his cake----"

But, with a wave of her hand, Vi was gone. Leighton heard Nelton runningdown the stairs to call a cab for her. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

Mlle. Folly Delaires was not born within a stone's throw of the Parisfortifications, as her manager would have liked you to believe, but inan indefinite street in Cockneydom, so like its mates that, in the wordsof Folly herself, she had to have the homing instinct of a pigeon tofind it at all. Folly's original name had been--but why give it away?She was one of those women who are above and beyond a name--of a class, or, rather, of a type that a relatively merciful world producessparingly. She was all body and no soul. 

From the moment that Lewis kissed Folly, and then kissed her severaltimes more, discovering with each essay depths in the art which even hisfree and easy life had never given him occasion to dream of, he becameinfatuated--so infatuated that the following dialogue passed over himand did not wake him. 

"Why are you crying?" asked Lewis, whom tears had never before madecurious. 

"I'm crying, " gasped Folly, stamping her little foot, "because it'staken so _long_!"

Lewis looked down at her brown head, buried against his shoulder, andasked dreamily:

"Are you spirit and flower, libertine and saint?"

To which Folly replied: "Well, I was the flower-girl once in a greathit, and I played 'The Nun' last season, you remember. As for spirits, Ihad the refusal of one of the spirit parts in the first "Blue Bird"show, but there were too many of them, so I turned it down. I'd havefelt as though I'd gone back to the chorus. Libertine, " she musedfinally--"what _is_ a libertine?"

Lewis's father could have looked at Folly from across the street andgiven her a very complete and charming definition for a libertine in oneword. But Lewis had not yet reached that wisdom which tells us that manlearns to know himself last of all. He did not realize that yourtrue-born libertine never knows it. Whatever Folly's life may have been, and he thought he had no illusions on that score, he seized upon herquestion as proving that she still held the potential bloom of youth anda measure of innocence. 

To do her justice, Folly was young, and also she had asked her questionin good faith. As to innocence--well, what has never consciouslyexisted, causes no lack. Folly's little world was exceedingly broad inone way and as narrow in another, but, like few human worlds, itcontained a miracle. The miracle was that it absolutely satisfied her. She dated happiness, content, and birth itself from the day she wentwrong. 

She had the appearance of being frank, open, and lovable, just as shehad that appearance of culture which every woman of her type gets fromthe cultivated class of men they prey upon. Pet her, and she murmuredsoftly in the king's best English: scratch her, and, like the rock thatMoses struck, she burst forth in a surprising torrent. Without makingothers merry, she was eternally merry. Without ever feeling the agony ofthirst, she instilled thirst. A thousand broken-hearted women might havelooked on her as an avenging sword, if the sword hadn't been two-edged. She had a motto, a creed, a philosophy, packed into four words: "Beloved; never love. "

If both parts of this creed had not been equally imperative, Lewis mighthave escaped. His aloofness was what doomed him. Like all big-gamehunters, Folly loved the rare trophy, the thing that's hard to get. Bykeeping his distance, Lewis pressed the spring that threw her intoaction. Almost instinctively she concentrated on him all her forces ofattraction, and Folly's forces of attraction, once you pressed thespring, were simply dynamic. Beneath that soft, breathing skin of herswas such store of vitality, intensity, and singleness of purpose as onlythe vividly monochromatic ever bring to bear on life. 

Lewis, unconsciously in very deep waters indeed, reached London in astate of ineffable happiness. Not so Folly. Lewis had awakened in herdesire. With her, desire was merely the prelude to a naturalconsummation. Folly was worried because one of the first and last thingsLewis had said to her was, "Darling, when will you marry me?" To whichshe had replied, but without avail, "Let's think about that afterward. "

When Lewis reached the flat on a Saturday night, he did not have to tellhis father that something wonderful had happened. Leighton saw it in hisface--a face suddenly become more boyish than it had ever been before. They rushed feverishly through dinner, for Lewis's mood was contagious. Then they went into the living-room, and straight for the two bigleather chairs which, had they lacked that necessary measure ofdiscretion which Nelton had assigned to them, might have told of many abattle of the mind with the things that are. 

"Well, Boy, " said Leighton, "what is it?"

"Dad, " cried Lewis, with beaming face, "I've found the woman--theall-embracing woman. "

Leighton's mind wandered back to the tales of Lewis's little palNatalie. 

"Tell me about her--again, " he said genially. 

"Again!" cried Lewis. "But you've never heard of her--not from me, anyway. "

"What's her name?" asked Leighton, half aroused. 

"Her name, " said Lewis, smiling absently into the fire, "is Folly--FollyDelaires. "

Leighton was a trained stalker of dangerous game. Surprise neverstartled him into movement. It stilled him. Old Ivory had once said ofhim that he could make his heart stop beating at the smell of elephant;which is quite a different thing from having your heart stop beating onits own hook. When Lewis said, "Folly--Folly Delaires, " Leightonsuddenly became intensely still. He remained still for so long thatLewis looked up. 

"Well, Dad, what Is it?" he asked, still smiling. "Have you heard ofher?"

"Yes, " said Leighton, quietly, "I've heard of her. I've even seen her. She's a beautiful--she has a beautiful body. Tell me just how ithappened. "

Then Lewis talked, and Leighton appeared to listen. He knew all thestages of that _via dolorosa_ too well to have to pay close attention toLewis's description, of the first emotional step of man toward man'ssurest tribulation. 

There was no outburst from Leighton when Lewis finished. On thecontrary, he made an effort to hide his thoughts, and succeeded so wellthat, had it not been for a touch of bitterness in his smile, Lewismight have been led to think that with this active calm his father wouldhave received the announcement of his son's choice of any woman. 

"Dad, " said Lewis, troubled, "why do you smile like that?"

"I am smiling, " said Leighton, "at the tragedy of philanthropy. Any mancan get; it takes a genius to give. There are things I've got that I'dlike to give you now--on the eve of your greatest trouble. " Lewis threwup his head in amazement. He would have protested but, with ahalf-raised hand, Leighton stilled him. "No, " he went on, "I don'texpect you to acquire prescience all in a moment, nor do I expect myselfto acquire the genius of giving to a sudden need in half an hour. Let'slet things stand this way. You love Folly Delaires; I don't. I don'twant to be converted, and you don't. But one of us has simply got to be, because--well--because I like to think we've lived too long together inspirit to take to two sides of a fence now. "

Lewis felt a sudden depression fall on him, all the more terible for theexaltation that had preceded it. 

"Two sides of a fence, Dad?" he said. "That can never be. I--I've justgot to convert you. When you know her, she'll help me. "

The two rose to their feet on a common impulse. Leighton laid his handon Lewis's shoulder. 

"Boy, " he said, "forgive me for making your very words my own. I have noillusions as to the power of woman. She is at once the supreme source ofhappiness and of poignant suffering. You think your woman will help you;I think she'll help me. That neutralizes her a bit, doesn't it? Itreduces our battle to the terms of single combat--unless one of us isright about Folly. "

"But, Dad, " stammered Lewis, "I don't _want_ a battle. "

Leighton pressed his hand down. Unconsciously Lewis straightened underthe pressure. 

"Listen to this, " said Leighton. "The battles of life aren't served uplike the courses at a dinner that you can skip at will. In life we haveto fight. Mostly we have to fight people we love for things we lovebetter. Sometimes we fight them for the very love we bear them. You andI are going to fight each other because we can't help it. Let's fightlike gentlemen--to the finish--and smile. My boy, you don't know Folly. "

"It's you who don't know Folly, Dad, " said Lewis, He tried to smile, buthis lips twitched treacherously. Not since Leighton had gambled withhim, and won all he possessed, had such a blow been dealt to his faith. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Both Lewis and his father passed a miserable night, but not even Neltoncould have guessed it when the two met in the morning for a late Sundaybreakfast. Leighton felt a touch of pride in the bearing of his son. Hewondered if Lewis had taken to heart a saying of his: "To feel sullen ishuman nature; to show it is ill breeding. " He decided that he hadn't, onthe grounds that no single saying is ever more than a straw tossed onthe current of life. 

When they had finished breakfast in their accustomed cheerful silence, Leighton settled down to a long cigar and his paper. 

"I suppose you're off to see your lady, " he said casually. 

Lewis laughed. 

"Not yet. She isn't up until twelve ever. "

"Doesn't get up until twelve?" said Leighton. "You've found that out, eh?"

"I didn't say 'doesn't get up'; I said 'isn't. ' She gets up earlyenough, but it takes her hours. I've never even heard of a woman thattakes such care of herself. "

Leighton laid his paper aside. 

"By the way, " he said, "I've a confession to make to you, one that hasworried me for some days. Your little affair drove it out of my mindlast night. "

"Well, Dad, go ahead, " said Lewis. "I won't be hard on you. "

"Have you any recollection of what you were working on before you wentaway?"

For a moment Lewis's face looked blank, then suddenly it flushed. Heturned sharp eyes on his father. 

"I left the studio locked, " he said. 

Leighton colored in his turn. 

"I forgive you that, " he said quietly. "Just after I came back to townVi called and told me she had been posing for you. She said she had leftsomething in the studio that she wanted to fetch herself. She asked mefor the key. "

Lewis's hands were clenched. 

"Well?" he asked. 

"I went with her--to the door. She asked me to wait outside. She wasgone a long time. I heard her sobbing----"

"Sobbing? Vi?"

Leighton nodded. 

"So--so I went in. "

Father and son looked steadily at each other for a moment. Then Lewissaid:

"You've forgiven me for my thought, Dad; now I beg your pardon for it. Isuppose you saw that that bit of modeling was never intended for theSalon? It was meant for Vi--because--well, because I liked her enoughto----"

"I know, " interrupted Leighton. "Well, it worked. It worked as suchcures seldom do. While Vi was sobbing her heart out on the couch, Ismashed up the statue with a mallet. That's my confession. "

Lewis did not move. 

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Leighton. "I smashed up your model ofVi. "

"I heard you, Dad, " said Lewis. "But you mustn't expect me to getexcited over it, because it's what I should have done myself, once shehad seen it. "

"When I did it, " continued Leighton, "I had no doubts; but since thenI've thought a lot. I want you to know that if that cast had gone intomarble or bronze, it would have had the eternal life of art itself. "

Lewis flushed with pleasure. He knew that such praise from his fathermust have been weighed a thousand times before it gained utterance. Onlyfrom one other man on earth could commendation bring such a thrill. Asthe name of Le Brux came to his mind, it fell from his father's lips. 

"Le Brux has been giving me an awful talking to. "

"Le Brux!" cried Lewis. "Has he been here?"

"Only in spirit, " said Leighton, smiling. "And this is what he said inhis voice of thunder: 'If I had been here, I would have stood by thatfigure with a mallet and smashed the head of any man that raised afinger against it. What is the world coming to when a mere life weighsmore in the balance than the most trifling material expression ofeternity?

"'But, Master, ' I said, 'a gentleman must always remember the woman. '

"To which he replied, 'What business has an artist to be anything sosmall as a mere gentleman? It is not alone for fame and repute that wegreat have our being. If by the loss of my single soul I can touch athousand other souls to life, bring sight to the blind and hearing toears that would not hear, what, then, is my soul? Nothing. '"

Leighton stopped and leaned forward. 

"Then he said this, and the thunder was gone from his voice: 'When allthe trappings of the world's religions have rotted away, the vicariousintention and example of Christ will still stand and bring a surge tothe hearts of unforgetful men. Thou child, believe me, what humanity hasgained of the best is founded solidly on sacrifice--on the individualruin of many men and women and little children. '"

Leighton paused. Lewis was sitting with locked hands. He was trying todetach his mind from personalities. 

"That's a great sophistry, isn't it?" he said. 

"Do you know the difference between a sophistry and a great sophistry?"asked Leighton. "A sophistry is a lie; a great sophistry is merelysuper-truth. "

"I can see, " he went on, "that it's difficult for you to put yourselfoutside sculpture. Let's switch off to literature, because literature, next to music, is the supreme expression in art. I heard one of thekeenest men in London say the other day, 'The man who writes a book thateverybody agrees with is one of two things: a mere grocer of amusementor a mental pander to cash. '

"You've read Irving's tales of the Catskills and of the Alhambra. Vignettes. I think I remember seeing you read Hawthorne's "ScarletLetter. " I pick out two Americans because to-day our country supportsmore literary grocers and panders than the rest of the world puttogether. It isn't the writers' fault altogether. You can't turn anation from pap in a day any more than you can wean a baby on lobster _àla_ Newburg. 

"But to get back. You might say that Irving gives the lie to my keenfriend unless you admit, as I do, that Irving was not a writer of booksso much as a painter of landscapes. He painted the scenes that were dearto his heart, and in his still blue skies he hung the soft mists offable, of legend, and of the pageant of a passing race. Hawthorne washis antithesis--a painter of portraits of the souls of men and women. That's the highest achievement known to any branch of art. " Leightonpaused. "Do you know why those two men wrote as they did?"

Lewis shook his head. 

"Because, to put it in unmistakable English, they had something on theirchest, and they had to get it off. Irving wrote to get away from life. Hawthorne never wrote to get away from life, --he wrote himself into itforever and forever. "

Leighton paused to get his cigar well alight. 

"And now, " he went on, "we come to the eternal crux. Which is beauty?Irving's placid pictures of light, or Hawthorne's dark portrayals of thevarying soul of man?" He turned to Lewis. "What's your idea of a prude?"

"A prude, " stammered Lewis--"why a prude's a person with an exaggeratedidea of modesty, isn't it?"

"Bah!" said Leighton, "you are as flat as a dictionary. A prude is a farmore active evil than that. A prude, my boy, is one who has but a singleeye, and that in the back of his head, and who keeps his blind face settoward nature. If he would be content to walk backward, the world wouldget along more easily, and would like him better the farther he walked. The reason the live world has always hated prudes is that it's foreverbeing stumbled on by them. Your prude clutches Irving to the small ofhis back and cries, 'This alone is beauty!' But any man with two eyeslooks and answers, 'You are wrong; this is beauty alone. '

"And now do you see where we've come out? To make a thing of beautyalone is to bring a flash of joy to a hard-pressed world. But joy isnever a force, not even an achievement. It's merely an acquisition. Itisn't alive. The man who writes on paper or in stone one throbbing cryof the soul has lifted the world by the power of his single arm. Healone lives. And it is written that you shall know life above all thecreatures that are in sea and land and in the heavens above the earth bythis sign: sole among the things that are, life is its own source andits own end. "

Leighton stopped. 

"You see now, " he added, "why half of me is sorry that it let the otherhalf smash up that cast. What claim has a puny person against oneflicker of eternal truth?"

"Yes, " said Lewis, slowly, "I see. I can follow your logic to the veryend. I can't answer it. All I know is that I myself--I couldn't havepaid the price, nor--nor let Vi pay it. "

"And to tell you the truth, " said Leighton with a smile, "I don't knowthat I'm sorry. " Lewis rose to his feet. 

"Well, Dad, " he said, "it's about twelve o'clock. "

"Go ahead, my boy, " said Leighton. "Bring the lady to lunch to-day orany other day--if she'll come. Just telephone Nelton. "

CHAPTER XXXVI

DURING the next few days Leighton saw little of his son and nothing ofFolly, but he learned quite casually that the lady was occupying anapartment overlooking Hyde Park. From that it was easy for him to guessher address, and one morning, without saying anything to Lewis of hisplans, he presented himself at Folly's door. A trim maid opened to hisring. 

"Is Mlle. Delaires in, my dear?" asked Leighton. 

The maid stiffened, and peered intently at Leighton, who stood at easein the half-dusk of the hall. When she had quite made out his trim, well-dressed figure, she decided not to be as haughty as she had atfirst intended. 

"Miss Delaires, " she said, without quite unbending, however, "is not into callers at half after ten; she's in her bath. "

"I am fortunate, " remarked Leighton, coolly. "Will you take her mycard?" He weighted it with a sovereign. 

"Oh, sir, " said the maid, "it's not fair for me to take it. She won't beseeing you. I can promise. "

"Where shall I wait?" asked Leighton, stepping past her. 

"This way, sir. "

He was shown into a small, but dainty, sitting-room. The door beyond wasajar, and before the maid closed it he caught a glimpse of a largebedroom still in disarray. In the better light the maid glanced at hisface and then at his card. 

"What kin are you to Mr. Lewis Leighton, please, sir?" she asked. 

"I have every reason to believe that I'm his father, " said Leighton, smiling. 

"I should say you had, sir, " answered the maid, with a laugh, "if looksis a guaranty. But even so she won't see you, I'm afraid. "

"I don't mind much if she doesn't, " said Leighton. "Just to have hadthis chat with you makes it a charming morning. "

In saying that Miss Delaires was in her bath, the maid had committed ananachronism. Folly was not in her bath. She had been in her bath over anhour ago; now she was in her bandages. 

Folly's bath-room was not as large as her bedroom, but it was largerthan anything since Rome. To the casual glance, its tiled floor andwalls and its numerous immaculate fittings, nickel-trimmed andglass-covered, gave the impression of a luxurious private-clinictheater. Standing well away from one wall was, in fact, a glassoperating-table of the latest and choicest design. A more leisurelyinspection of the room, however, showed this operating-table to be theonly item--if a large-boned Swedish masseuse be omitted--directlyreminiscent of a surgery. All the other glittering appliances, includingan enormous porcelain tub, were subtly allied to the cult of healthyflesh. 

At the moment when the maid entered with Leighton's card, Folly wasvirtually indistinguishable. She could only be guessed at in themummy-like form extended, but not stretched, if you please, on theoperating-table. Her face, all but a central oval, was held in a thinmask of kidskin, and her whole body, from neck to peeping pink toes, waswrapped closely in bandages soaked with cold cream. The bath-tub wasstill half-full of tepid water, from which rose faint exhalations of thelatest attar, so delicate that they attained deception, and made onelook around instinctively for flowers. 

Folly's big brown eyes seemed to be closed, but in reality they werefixed on a little clock in plain, white porcelain, to match the room, which stood on a glass shelf high on the wall in front of her. "I'm surethat old clock has stopped, " she cried petulantly to the masseuse. "Tellme if it's ticking. "

"Ut's ticking, " said the _masseuse_, patiently. Then she added, asthough she were reciting: "Be mindful. Youth is a fund that can be savedup like pennies. The tenure of youth and beauty is determined by theamount and the quality--"

"Of relaxation, " chanted Folly, breaking in. "It is not enough that thebody be relaxed; wrinkles come from the mind. Relax your mind even asyou relax your fingers and your toes. Tra-la-la, la-la!" Folly wriggledthe free tips of her pink toes. She felt the maid come in. "What do youwant, Marie?"

"Nothing, Miss, " said the maid; "only I think something must ofhappened. "

"Nothing, only something's happened, " mimicked Folly. "Well, what'shappened?"

"It's Mr. Lewis's governor, Miss, please. He's here, and he says he justmust see you. "

"So you let him in, did you? At half-past ten in the morning? How muchdid he give you?"

"Oh, nothing at all, Miss. " Marie paused. "He's that charming he didn'thave to give me anything. "

"H--m--m!" said Folly. "Well, go ask him what he wants. "

"He won't say, Miss. He's that troubled he just keeps his eyes on thefloor, an' says as he has something private he must tell you. PerhapsMr. Lewis has broke his leg. I'm sure I don't know. "

"Come on, Buggins, " said Miss Delaires to the masseuse. "Don't you hear?There's a gentleman waiting to see me. "

Buggins shook her head. 

"The hour ut is not finish, " she said calmly. "Five minutes yet. " Andfor five long minutes Folly had to wait. Then the _masseuse_ wentswiftly into action. Off came the mask and the long, moist bandages. Asthe bandages uncoiled, Marie rolled them up tightly and placed them, oneafter the other, on the glass shelves of a metal sterilizer. Bugginsrolled up her white sleeves, and entered forthwith on the major rite. 

First she massaged Folly's full, round neck; then her swift, deepfingers, passed down one arm and felt out every muscle, every joint, tothe tips of Folly's fingers. Back up the arm again, across the bosom, and down the other arm. Back to the neck once more, and then down andaround the body to the very last joint of Folly's very last and verylittle toe. 

Folly let go a great sigh, sprang from the table, and stood erect, youngand alive in every fiber, in the center of the blue and white bath-rug. The film of cold cream was quite gone. But the _masseuse_ was not yetcontent. She caught up a soft, scented towel and passed it deftly overarms, body, and legs, not forgetting the last little toe. When shefinished, she was on her knees. She looked up and nodded to Folly'sinquiring glance. 

Folly gave a little laugh of pure delight, and stretched. She held herdoubled fists high above her head. Her whole body glowed in an even, unblemished pink. Verily, it seemed to breathe; it breathed with thebreath of flowers. And no wonder!

When she had finished stretching, Marie was holding ready a gown ofsilk, --dark blue, with a foam of lace at the throat and on the broadhalf-sleeves, --and Buggins had placed lamb's-wool slippers just beforeher feet. But Folly was too full of animal to be even so softlyimprisoned just yet. With a chuckle of mischief, she gave them each aquick push and darted across the room and out by the door. 

Maid and masseuse followed her into the bedroom with protesting cries. The bedroom had been put in order. Only the bed itself, dressed merelyin a fresh white sheet and pillows, looked a little naked, for thebedclothes proper had been carried out to air. In the center of the bedwas Folly, curled up like a kitten. Her hair had tumbled down into twothick, loose braids. She submitted now to the gown, and wrapped herselfcarefully in it. Propped high against the pillows, a braid of brown hairfalling forward over each shoulder, and her bare arms lying still at hersides, she looked very demure indeed and very sweet. 

"Bring tea, Marie, " she said softly, "and show in Daddy Leighton. "

CHAPTER XXXVII

LEIGHTON'S first feeling on entering Folly's bedroom was one of despair. All his knowledge of the highways and byways of the feminine mind wasonly enough to make him recognize, as he glanced about the room, that hewas about to encounter more! than a personality, that he was face toface with a force. 

The most illuminating thing that can be said about Folly's bedroom isthat Leighton saw the bedroom--the whole of it--before he consciouslysaw Folly. The first impression that the room gave was one of freshair--the weighted air of a garden in bloom, however, rather than that ofsome wind-swept plain. The next, was one of an even and almost stolidtone, neither feminine nor masculine, in the furnishings. They weremasterfully impersonal. 

To Leighton, who had had the run of every grade of greasy, professionaldressing-room, chaotic and slovenly beyond description, and of boudoirs, professional and otherwise, each in its appropriate measure a mirror ofthe character of its occupant, the detachment of this big room came as ashock. There were only eight pieces of furniture, of which four werechairs, yet there was no sense of emptiness. The proportions of theremaining objects would have dwarfed a far larger space. 

Along the whole length of one wall stood an enormous press in mahogany, with sliding-doors. Two of the doors were slightly open, for Folly knewthat clothes, like people and flowers, need a lot of air. Leightoncaught a glimpse of filmy nothings hanging on racks; of other nothings, mostly white, stacked on deep shelves; of a cluster of hats clinginglike orchids to invisible bumps; and last and least, of tiny slippersall in a row. 

At right angles to the press, but well away from it, stood adressing-table surmounted by a wide, low swivel-mirror. The table wascovered with tapestry under glass. The dull gleam of the tapestry seemedto tone down and control the glittering array of toilet articles inmonogrammed gold. Facing the press, stood a large trinity cheval-glass, with swinging wings. In the center of the room was the bed. Behind thebed and on each side of it were two high windows. They carried nohangings, but were fitted with three shades, differing in weight andcolor, and with adjustable porcelain Venetian blinds which could be madeto exclude light without excluding air. 

Folly's bed was a mighty structure. Like the rest of the furniture, itwas of mahogany. It was a four-poster, but posts would be a misleadingterm applied to the four fluted pillars that carried the high canopy. The canopy itself was trimmed with no tassels or hangings except for asingle band of thick tapestry brought just low enough to leave thecasual observer in doubt as to whether there really was a canopy at all. 

Having taken in all the surroundings at a glance, Leighton's eyesfinally fell upon Folly. She lay in a puzzling, soft glow of light. Resting high on the pillows, she reached scarcely half-way down thelength of the great bed. For a second they looked at each othersolemnly. Then Leighton's glance passed from her face to the two braidsof hair, down the braids to her bare arms demurely still at her sides, down her carefully wrapped figure, down, down to her pink toes. Follywas watching that glance. As it reached her toes, she gave them a quickwriggle. Leighton jumped as if some one had shot at him, and solemnitymade a bolt through the open windows, hotly pursued by a ripple and arumble of laughter. 

When Leighton had finished laughing, he sat down in a chair and sighed. He was trying to figure out just what horse-power it would have taken todrag him away from Folly at Lewis's age. Where was he going to find thepower? For the first time in many years he trembled before a situation. He began to talk casually, trying to lead up to the object of his call. Two things, however, distracted him. One was the puzzling glow of lightthat bathed Folly and the bed, the other was Folly herself. 

Folly was very polite indeed as far as occasional friendly interjectionswent, but as to genuine attention she was distinctly at fault. She didnot look at Leighton while he talked, but held her gaze dreamily on whatwould have been the sky above her had not three floors of apartments, aroof, and several other things intervened. 

Finally Leighton exclaimed in exasperation:

"_What_ are you staring at?"

Folly started as though she had just wakened, and turned her eyes onhim. 

"You're too far away, " she said. "If you really want to talk to me, comeover here. " She patted the bed at her side. 

Leighton crossed over, and sat on the edge of the bed. Something madehim look up. His jaw dropped. There was a canopy to Folly's bed. Itconsisted of one solid sweep of French mirror so limpid that reflectionbecame reality. It was fringed with tiny veiled lights. 

Once more Folly's gay ripple of laughter rang out, but it wasunaccompanied this time. Leighton's fighting blood was up. He stared ather stolidly. 

"Look here, " he said, "I _do_ want to talk to you. Put out those cursedlittle lights!"

"Oh, dear!" gasped Folly as she switched off the lights, "you're such afunny man! You make me laugh. Please don't do it any more. "

"I won't try any harder than I have so far, " said Leighton, grimly. "This is what I came to say to you. My boy wants to marry you. I don'twant him to. I might as well confess that during the last ten minutesI've given up any ideas I had of buying you off. I'm not worth amillion. "

"You poor dear, " said Folly, "don't worry any longer. I don't want tomarry Lew. Ask me something else. "

"I will, " said Leighton. "It's just this. Chuck Lew over. Get rid ofhim. It will hurt him, I know. I can understand that better now than Idid before. But I'd rather hurt him a bit that way than see him on therack. "

"Thanks, " said Folly; "but, you see, I can't get rid of him. You can'tget rid of something you haven't got. " She smiled. "Don't you see? I'llhave to get him before I can oblige you. "

"Don't bother, " said Leighton. "A clever woman like you often gets ridof something she hasn't got. Look here, you don't want to marry Lew, and, what's more, you don't love him. You couldn't marry him if youwanted to. You know it isn't in you to marry any man. But I tell you, Folly, if it really was in you truly to marry Lew, I'd give in and blessyou. I wouldn't have yesterday, but I would to-day; because, my dear, you are simply made up of charms. The only thing missing is a soul. "

"You talk better than Lew--not so silly, " remarked Folly. "But what'sthe use of all this palaver about marrying? I've told you I don't wantto marry him. "

"Well, what do you want, then?"

"I want Lew, " said Folly, smiling. She sat up, and drew her knees intothe circle of her arms. "He's an awfully nice boy. So like you, Mariesays. I just want him to have. _You_ know. "

"Yes, " said Leighton, dryly. "Well, you can't have him. "

"Can't have him?" repeated Folly, straightening. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want you to. "

"But why?"

"Well, " said Leighton, "I don't believe in that sort of thing. "

"Oh, oh!" cried Folly, "now you're trying to make me laugh again! By theway, _are_ you Mr. Grapes Leighton?"

"I am, " said Leighton, flushing. 

Folly called the maid. 

"Marie, " she said, "bring me my scrap-book--the oldest one. "

Leighton moved back to the chair and sat down with a resigned air. Mariebrought in a huge scrap-book, and placed it on a bracket tea-tray thatswung in over the bed. Folly opened the book and turned the leavesslowly. "Here we are, " she said at last, and read, mimicking eachspeaker to a turn:

"'Counsel:' 'Please, Mrs. Bing, just answer yes or no; did you or didyou not meet Mr. Leighton in the corridor at three o'clock in themorning?

"'Mrs. Bing:' 'Well, sir, yes; sir, that is, please your Honor [turningto the judge], I _did_ meet Mr. Leighton in the collidoor, but 'e waseating of a bunch of grapes that innercent you'd ha' knowed at once as'_ee_ 'adn't been up to no mischief. ' [Laughter. ]

"Order! Order!" boomed Folly, as she slammed the book. 

Leighton shrugged his shoulders. 

"That's neither here nor there. You'll find before you get through withlife what people with brains have known for several centuries. The sonthat's worth anything at all is never like his father. Sons grow. "

"I don't care anything about that, " said Folly, calmly. "I'm going tohave Lew because--well, just because I want him. "

"And I say you 're not. "

"So?" said Folly, her eyes narrowing. Then she smiled and added, "There's only one way you can stop me"

"How's that?" said Leighton. 

"By making me want somebody else more. "

Leighton looked at her keenly for a moment. 

"I shall never do that, " he said. 

"Somehow, " said Folly, still smiling, "you've made a fair start. Itisn't you exactly. It's that you are just Lew--the whole of Lew and alot of things added. "

"You are blind, " said Leighton; "you don't know the difference betweenaddition and subtraction. Anyway, even if I could do it, I wouldn't. Iwant to fight fair--fair with Lew, fair with you, if you're fair withme, and fair with myself. But I want to fight, not play. Will you lunchat our place to-morrow?"

"Let's see. To-morrow, " said Folly, tapping her lips to hide a tinyyawn. "Well, we can't fight unless we get together, can we? Yes, I'llcome. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Immediately upon leaving Folly, Leighton called on Lady Derl, byappointment. He had already been to Hélène with his trouble over Lewis. It was she that had told him to see Folly. "In a case of even thesimplest subtraction, " Hélène had said, "you've got to know what you'retrying to subtract from. "

As usual, Leighton was shown into Hélène's intimate room. He closed thedoor after him quickly. 

"Hélène, " he said, "where's the key?"

"The key? What key?"

"The key to this door. I want to lock myself in here. "

"Poor frightened thing!" laughed Hélène. "Turn around and let me look atyou. Is your face scratched?"

Leighton pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He stared ateach familiar object in the room as though he were trying to recall atruant mind. Finally his eyes came around to Hélène, and with a quicksmile and the old toss of the head with which he was wont to throw off amood, he brought himself back to the present. 

"With time and patience, " he said, as he sat down, "anybody can get agrip on a personality, but a mighty impersonality is like the Delugeor--or a steam-roller. Do I look flattened out?"

"You do, rather, for you, " said Hélène. "Tell me about it from thebeginning. " And Leighton did. It took him half an hour. When he gotthrough, she said, still smiling, "I'd like to meet this Folly person. "

"I see I've talked for nothing, " said Leighton. "It isn't the Follyperson that flattened me out. It's what's around her, outside of her. "

"That's what you think, " said Hélène. "But, still, it's she I'd like tosee. "

"That's lucky, " said Leighton, "because you 're going to. "

"When?"

"To-morrow. Lunch. "

"What's the idea?"

"The idea is this. I've been looking her up, viewing her cradle and hermother's cradle and that sort of thing. I'd have liked to have viewedher father's as well, but it's a case of _cherchez l'homme_. "

"Well?"

"Well, the young lady's an emanation from sub-Cockneydom. My idea isthat that kind can't stand the table and _grande-dame_ test. I'll supplythe table, with fixtures, and you're going to be the _grande-dame_. "Leighton's face suddenly became boyishly pleading. "Will you, Hélène?It's more than an imposition to ask; it's an impertinence. "

For a moment Hélène was serious and looked it. 

"Glen, " she said, "you and I don't have to ask that sort of thing--notwith each other. We take it. Of course I'll come. I'll enjoy it. But--doyou think she's really raw enough to give herself away?"

"I don't know, " said Leighton, gloomily. "I couldn't think of anythingelse. Lunch begins to look a bit thin for the job. At first I'd thoughtof one of those green-eyed Barbadian cocktails, followed by thatpale-eyed Swiss wine of mine that Ivory calls the Amber Witch with thehidden punch. But I've given them up. You see, I told her I'd play fairif she did. "

"Yes, I see, " said Hélène. 

A psychologist would have liked an hour to study the lightning changethat came over Folly when, on the following day, she suddenly realizedLady Derl. Folly had blown into the flat like a bit of gay thistledown. For her, to lunch with one man was the stop this side of boredom; but tolunch with two was a delight. If she was allowed to pick the otherwoman, she could just put up with a _partie carrée_. But she hadn'tpicked out Lady Derl. Lady Derl was something that had never touched herworld except from a box across the footlights on an occasional première. 

One flash of Folly's eyes took in Lady Derl, and then her long lashesdrooped before Lady Derl had time to take in Folly. Folly's whole selfdrooped. She was still a bit of thistle-down, but its pal, the breeze, was gone. She crossed the room, barely touched Hélène's hand, and thenfluttered down to stillness on the edge of a big chair. 

At lunch Leighton made desperate efforts to start a breeze and failed. Folly said "Yes" and Folly said "No, "--very softly, too, --and that wasall. Leighton stepped on Hélène's foot several times, but to no avail. Lady Derl was watching Folly. "Could she keep it up? Yes, she could. "Lady Derl couldn't talk; she wanted to laugh. 

Throughout that interminable lunch, Hélène, Leighton, and Lewis sawnothing, thought nothing, but Folly, and, for all any one of them couldsee, Folly didn't know it. "Oh, you adorable _cat!_" thought Lady Derl. "Oh, you _adorable!_" sighed Lewis to himself, and, inwardly, Leightongroaned, "Oh, you _you!_"

Within twenty minutes of leaving the table, Folly rose from the edge ofher chair and crossed to Lady Derl. 

"Good-by, " she breathed shyly, holding out her hand. "I must go now. "Lewis sprang up to accompany her. They could see he was aching to getaway somewhere where he could put his arms around her. Leighton crossedto the door and held it open. "Good-by, " said Folly to him, holding outher hand. "I've had _such_ a good time. "

At the word "such, " Leighton winced and flushed. Then he grinned. 

"Good-by, Folly, " he said. "I hope you'll come again when you're feelingmore like yourself. "

He closed the door and then rang for Nelton. Nelton came. 

"Bring me the iodine, " said Leighton, as with his handkerchief hestanched the blood from a bad scratch on his right wrist. 

"Heavens! Glen, " cried Hélène, "how did you get that?

"Didn't you see me jump when she said '_such_'?" asked Leighton. Thenthey sat down, and Hélène laughed for a long time, while Leighton triednot to. "Oh, " he said at last, "I wish we didn't have to think of Lew!"

"You may ask for my advice now, " said Hélène, a little breathlessly. "I've got it ready. "

"Thank God!" said Leighton. "What is it?"

"It's only a plan to gain time, after all, " said Hélène; "but that'swhat you want--time for Lew to get his puppy eyes opened. You canelaborate the idea. I'll just give you the skeleton. "

She did, and, soon after, Leighton saw her into a cab. He went back tothe flat and waited. He knew that Lewis would not be gone long. He wouldbe too keen to hear his father's and Lady Derl's verdict. 

Leighton had just settled down to a book and a second cigar when Lewiscame into the room like a breeze that had only a moment to stay. 

"Well, Dad, " he cried, "what have you got to say now? What has Lady Derlgot to say?"

Lewis flung himself into a chair, crossed his arms, and stretched hislegs straight out before him. His head hung to one side, and he was soconfident of his father's verdict that he was laughing at him out ofbright eyes. 

Leighton laid his book aside and took his cigar from his mouth. Heleaned toward his son, his elbows on his knees. 

"Every time I see Miss Delaires, " he said slowly, "my opinion of hercharms and her accomplishments goes up with a leap. "

Lewis nodded, and scarcely refrained from saying, "I told you so. "

Leighton's face remained impassive. "She has a much larger repertoirethan I thought, " he continued; "but there's one rôle she can't play. "

"What's that?" asked Lewis. 

"Marriage. "

"Why?" asked Lewis, his face setting. Then he blurted out: "I might asWell tell you, she says she doesn't believe in marriage. She's tooadvanced. "

"Too advanced!" exclaimed Leighton. "Why, my dear boy, she hasn'tadvanced an inch from the time the strongest man with the biggest clubhad a God-given right to the fairest woman in the tribe and exercisedit. That was the time for Folly to marry. "

"Go easy, Dad, " warned Lewis. 

"I'm going to, Boy, " said Leighton. "You hear a lot of talk to-day onthe shortcomings of marriage as an institution. The socialists and thesuffragists and a lot of other near-sighted people have got it intotheir heads that we've outgrown marriage. " Leighton puffed at his cigar. "Once I was invited out to dinner, and had to eat cabbage because therewas nothing else. That night I had the most terrible dream of my life. Idreamed that instead of growing up, I was growing down, and that bymorning I had grown down so far that, when I tried to put them on, Ionly reached to the crotch of my trousers. I'll never forget thoseflapping, empty legs. "

Lewis smiled. 

"You can smile, " went on Leighton. "I can't, even now. That's what'shappened to this age. We've outgrown marriage downward. Yournear-sighted people talk of contractual agreements, parity of the sexes, and of a lot of other drugged panaceas, with the enthusiasm of a hawkerselling tainted bloaters. They don't see that marriage is founded on arock set deeper than the laws of man. It's a rock upon which theirjerry-rigged ships of the married state are bound to strike as long asthere's any Old Guard left standing above the surge of leveledhumanity. "

"And what's the rock?" asked Lewis. 

"A woman's devotion, " said Leighton, and paused. "Devotion, " he went on, "is an act of worship, and of prayer as well as of consecration, only, with a woman, it isn't an act at all. Sometime perhaps H lne will talkto you. If she does, you'll see in her eyes what I'm trying to tell youin words. "

"And--Folly?" said Lewis. His own pause astounded him. 

"Yes, Folly, " said Leighton. "Well, that's what Folly lacks--the key, the rock, the foundation. The only person Folly has a right to marry isherself, and she knows it. "

Lewis sighed with disappointment. He had been so sure. Leighton spokeagain. 

"One thing more. Don't forget that to-day you and I--and H lne, received Folly here as one of us. "

Lewis looked up. Leighton rose, and laid one hand on his shoulder. 

"Boy, " he said, "don't make a mistress out of anything that has touchedH lne. You owe that to me. "

"I won't, Dad, " gulped Lewis. He snatched up his hat and stick andhurried out into the open. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

LEIGHTON'S heart ached for his boy as he watched him go, and during thenext few weeks Iris pity changed into an active anxiety. In setting thattrap--he could call it nothing else--for Lew, he and H lne had putforces into conflict that were not amenable to any light control. Lewishad passed his word. Leighton knew he would never go back on it. On theother hand, for the first time in all her life Folly's primal instinctwas being balked by a denial she could comprehend only as having itssource in Leighton rather than in Lew. 

Folly was being eaten away by desire. She was growing desperate. So wereMarie and the _masseuse. _ When a morning came that found Folly withpurple shadows under her eyes their despair became terror. 

"Madame, " cried Marie, "why don't you marry him? You've got to stop it. You've got to stop it. Anyway, all ways, you've got to stop it. It'sa-eating of you up. If you're a loving of him that much, why don'tcher?"

"Loving of him!" sneered Folly. "I--I hate him. No, no, that's not true. I don't hate Lew, poor dear. It's _them_ I hate. And I _won't_ bebeaten. " She pounded her doubled knee with her fist. "I don't _want_ tomarry him; but if they push me, if they keep on pushing me----"

It can be seen from the above that Lew was beginning to get on Folly'snerves. She had long since begun to get on his. When they were withothers it was all right; Folly was her old self. But whenever they werealone, the same wordy battle began and never ended. Lew grew morose, heavy. He avoided his father, but he could do no work; so time hung onhis hands, and began to rot away his fiber as only too much time can. 

One day H lne sent for Leighton. 

"Glen, " she said, "we've been playing with something bigger than merelyFolly. I saw her to-day, just a flash in Bond Street. I saw her face. IfLew holds out another week, she's going to marry him, and yet, somehow, I don't believe she loves him. Something tells me you weren't wrong whenyou said she could love nothing but just herself. "

Leighton sighed. 

"I know I wasn't wrong, " he said. "But you are right: she's going tomarry him. And I'll have to stand by and see him through. Watch herbreak him up and throw him off. And I'll have to pick up the pieces andstick them together. One doesn't like to have to do that sort of thingtwice. I did it with my own life. I don't want to do it with Lew's. There are such a lot of patched lives. I wanted him--I wanted him--"

H lne crossed the room quickly, and put her arms around Leighton, onehand pressing his head to her. 

"Glen, " she said softly, "why, Glen!"

Leighton was not sobbing. He was simply quivering from head totoe--quivering so that he could not speak. His teeth chattered. H lnesmoothed his brow and his crisp hair, shot with gray. She soothed him. 

"H lne, " he said at last, "he's my boy. "

"Glen, " said H lne, "if you love him--love him like that, she can'tbreak him up. Don't be frightened. Go and find him. Send him to me. "

Leighton did not have to look for Lew. He had scarcely reached the flatwhen Lew came rushing in, a transformed Lew, radiant, throbbing withhappiness. 

"Dad, " he cried, "she's said 'Yes. ' She's going to marry me. Do youhear, Dad?"

"Yes, I hear, " said Leighton, dully. Then he tossed back his head. Hewould not blur Lew's happy hour. He held out his hand. "I hear, " herepeated, "and I'll--I'll see you through. "

Lewis gripped the extended hand with all his strength, then he sat downand chatted eagerly for half an hour. He did not see that his father wastired. 

"Go and tell H lne, " he said when Lewis at last paused. "Telephone herthat you want to talk to her. "

H lne was on the point of going out. She told Lewis to come and see herat ten the next morning. He went, and as he was standing just off thehall, waiting to be announced, the knocker on the great front door wasraised, and fell with a resounding clang. Before the doorman could open, it fell again. 

Lewis, startled, looked around. The door opened. A large man in eveningdress staggered in. His clothes were in disorder. His high hat had beenrubbed the wrong way in spots. But Lewis hardly noticed the clothes. Hiseyes were fastened on the man's face. It was bloated, pouched, andmottled with purple spots and veins. Fear filled it. Not a sudden fear, but fear that was ingrown, that proclaimed that face its habitualhabitation. The man's eyes bulged and stared, yet saw nothing that was. He blundered past the doorman. 

Lewis caught a glimpse of a tawdry woman peering out from a hansom atthe disappearing man. "Thank Gawd!" he heard her say as the cab droveoff. 

With one hand on the wall the man guided himself toward the stairs atthe end of the hall. On the first step he stumbled and would have fallenhad it not been for a quick footman. The man recovered his balance andstruck viciously at the servant. Then he clutched the baluster, andstumbled his way up the stairs. 

Lewis was frightened. He turned and hurried through the great, silentdrawing-rooms, through the somber library, to the little passage toH lne's room. He met the footman who had gone to announce him. He didnot stop to hear what he said. He pushed by him and knocked at H lne'sdoor. 

"Come in, " she cried. 

Lewis stood before her. He was excited. 

"H lne, " he said, "there's a man come in--a horrible man. He pushed bythe servants. He's gone upstairs. I think--well, I think he's nothimself. Do you want me to do anything?"

H lne was standing. At Lewis's first words she had flushed; then sheturned pale, deathly pale, and steadied herself with one hand on theback of a chair. She put the other hand to the side of her head andpressed it there. 

"That's it, " she said; "he's--he's not himself. " Then she faced Lewis. "Lew, that's my--that's Lord Derl that you saw. "

"H lne!" cried Lew, putting out quick hands toward her. "Oh, I'msorry--I'm sorry I said that!"

His contrition was so deep, so true, that H lne smiled, to put him athis ease. 

"It's all right, Lew; it's all right that you saw, " she said evenly. "Come here. Sit down here. Now, what have you got to tell me?"

Lewis was still frowning. 

"It seemed, " he said, "such a big thing. Now, somehow, it doesn't seemso big. I just wanted to tell you that Folly has come around at last. We're going to be married. "

For a long moment there was silence, then H lne said: "You love her, Lew? You're sure you love her?"

Lewis nodded his head vehemently. 

"And you're sure she loves you?" asked H lne. 

"Yes, " said Lewis, not so positively. "In her way she does. She saysshe's wanted me from the first day she saw me. "

H lne sat down. She held one knee in her locked hands. Her face washalf turned from Lewis. She was staring out through the narrow, Gothicpanes of the broad window. Her face was still pale and set. Lewis's eyesswept over her. Her beauty struck him as never before. Something hadbeen added to it. H lne seemed to him a girl, a frail girl. How couldhe ever have thought this Woman worldly! Her fragrance reached him. Itwas a fragrance that had no weight, but it bound him--bound him hand andfoot in its gossamer web. He felt that he ought to struggle, but that hedid not wish to. He waited for H lne to speak. 

"Love, " she said at last, "is a terrible thing. Young people don't knowwhat a terrible thing it is. We talk about the word 'love' being soabused. We think we abuse it, but it's love that abuses itself. Thereare so many kinds of love, and every big family is bound to include acertain number of rotters. Love isn't terrible through the things we doto it; it's terrible for the things it does to us. "

H lne paused. 

"I'm glad you saw what you did to-day because it will make it easier foryou to understand. Tour father loves me, and I love him. It's not thelove of youth. It's the love of sanity. The love of sanity is a fine, stalwart love, but it hasn't the unnamable sweetness or the ineffaceablebitterness of the love of youth. Years ago your father wanted to take meaway from--from what you saw. There did not seem to be any reason why weshould not go. He and I--we're not wedded to any place or to any time. We have a World that's ours alone. We could take it with us wherever wewent. "

"H lne, " whispered Lewis, "why didn't you go?"

"H lne unlocked her hands, put them on the lounge at her sides, andstayed herself on them. She stared at the floor. 

"We didn't go, " she said, "because of the terrible things thatlove--bitter love--had done to us. "

She turned luminous eyes toward Lewis. 

"You say you love Folly; you think she loves you. Lew, perhaps, she _is_your pal to-day. Will she be your pal always? You know what a pal is. You've told me about that little girl Natalie. A pal is one who can't dowrong, who can't go wrong, who can't grow wrong. Your pal is you--yourblood, your body, your soul. Is Folly your blood, your body, your soul?If she is, she'll grow finer and finer and you will, too, and years andtime and place will fade away before the greatest battle-cry the worldhas ever known--'We're partners. '"

H lne turned her eyes away. 

"But if you're not really pals for always, the one that doesn't carewill grow coarse. If it's Folly, her past will seize upon her. She'llrun from your condemning eyes, but you--you can't run from your ownsoul. 

"Lew, I know. I'm awake. Every woman has a right to an awakening, butmost of them by good fortune miss it. There's one in ten that doesn't. Ididn't. The tenth woman--that's what I'm coming to, and whether it's thetenth woman or the tenth man, it's all the same in bitter love. "

H lne's eyes took on the far-away look that blots out the presentworld, and clothes a distant vision in flesh and blood. 

"You saw what you saw to-day, " she went on in a voice so low that Lewisleaned forward to catch her words. "Remember that, and then listen. Thelove that comes to youth is like the dawn of day. There is noresplendent dawn without a sun, nor does the flower of a woman's soulopen to a lesser light. The tenth woman, " she repeated, "the one woman. To her awakening comes with a man, not through him. He is part of thedawn of life, and though clouds may later hide his shining face, herheart remembers forever the glory of the morning. "

The tears welled from her eyes unheeded. Lewis leaped forward with acry. 

"H lne! H lne!"

She held him off. 

"Don't touch me!" she gasped. "I only wanted you to see the whole burdenof love. Now go, dear. Please go. I'm--I'm very tired. "

CHAPTER XL

Lewis, walking rapidly toward the flat, was thinking over all that LadyDerl had said and was trying to bring Folly into line with his thoughts. He had never pictured Folly old. He tried now and failed. Folly andyouth were inseparable; Folly _was_ youth. Then he gave up thinking ofFolly. That moment did not belong to her. As once before, the fragranceand the memory of H lne clung to him, held him. 

He passed slowly into the room where Leighton sat. He felt a dread lesthis father ask him what it was H lne had said. But he wronged hisfather. Leighton merely glanced up, flashed a look into the eyes of hisson. He saw and knew the light that was there for the light that lingersin the eyes of him who comes from looking upon holy inner places. 

For an hour neither spoke, then Leighton said:

"Going out to lunch to-day?"

"No, " said Lewis; "I've told Nelton I'd be in. "

"About this marriage, " said Leighton, smiling. "Let's look on it as asettled thing that there's going to be a marriage. Have you thoughtabout the date and ways and means?"

Lewis flushed. 

"Don't misunderstand me, " said Leighton. "I might as well tell you thatI've decided to divide my income equally between us, marriage or nomarriage. "

"Dad!" cried Lewis, half protesting. 

"There, there, " said Leighton, "you're not getting from me what youthink. What I mean is that I'm not making any sacrifice. I've lived onhalf my income for some time. You'll need a lump-sum of money besides. Your grandmother left you a big house in Albany. It won't bring much, but I think you'd better sell it. It's on the wrong side of the townnow. "

"I'll do whatever you say, Dad, " said Lewis. 

"I suggest that you fix your marriage for six months from now, " went onLeighton. "That will give us time to go over and untangle certainaffairs, including the house, on the other side. It isn't altogether onaccount of the house I want to take you over. "

Lewis had winced at six months. Now he looked questioningly at hisfather. 

"Keep your eyes open as you go through life, " continued Leighton, "andyou'll see that marriage is a great divisor. All the sums of friendshipand relation are cut in two by marriage. You and I, we've been friends, and before I surrender you I think it's only just that I should take youover and introduce you to your inheritance. "

"My inheritance?" asked Lewis. 

"Yes, " said Leighton, "your country. "

"You might think, " continued Leighton, "that I'm an expatriate. Externally I have been, but never in the heart. I've beenwaiting--waiting for our country to catch up to me. Under certainconditions a man has the right to pick out the stage of civilizationbest adapted to his needs. There are two ways of doing that: either goto it or make it come to you. If you're not tied, it's easier to go toit, because sometimes it takes more than a generation to make it come toyou. "

"So you've gone to it, " said Lewis. 

Leighton nodded. 

"Nations and individuals travel like the hands of a clock. You can'talways live in the midday of your life, but you can in the midday of anation. When you get an educated taste, you prefer pheasants, bananas, Stilton, and nations when they're at one o'clock. The best flavor--I'mnot talking about emotions--the best flavor of anything, including life, comes with one o'clock. "

"What time is it over there now?" asked Leighton. 

"About eleven, " said Leighton, "top wave of success. Now, these are theearmarks of success: a meticulous morality in trifles, ingrowing eyes, crudity, enthusiasm, and a majority. "

"Heavens!" cried Lewis, "you told me once you were afraid I was going tobe successful. Am I earmarked like that?"

"You will be, " said Leighton, "the minute you're driven to sculpturingfor the populace--for what it will bring. That's why I'm giving you yourown income now, because, when you're married, you're going to be prettyhard pressed. I don't want you to be able to justify the sale of yoursoul. 

"I had an uncle once--he's dead now--that had an only son named Will. Uncle Jim was a hard worker. He had a paper-mill, and he was worth a lotof money. His son Will wasn't a worker. He didn't own the paper-mill, but he never let you forget he was going to. He failed his way throughschool, but he couldn't quite fail through college. Every time he failedat anything, he used to say: 'It doesn't matter. Dad will give me astart in life, won't you, Dad?' And his father would say, 'I certainlywill. '

"Well, one morning a little after Will had been flunked out of college, he was standing on the lawn whittling. I happened to be looking out ofthe window. I saw Uncle Jim crawling across the grass under cover of arhododendron bush to a position just behind Will. He was carrying underone arm an enormous fire-cracker, with the fuse lit. He rolled it out onthe grass behind Will, and when it went off, Will went, too. He landedseventeen feet from the hole the cracker made. 

"When he'd turned around, but before he could get his jaw up, my unclesaid: 'Will, I've always promised I'd give you a start in life. Well, I've given it to you--a damn good start, too, judging by the length ofthat jump. Now you git! Not a word. You just git!'

"Will didn't go very far away. He went to the rival town across theriver. He hadn't learned anything about making paper, but a New EnglandLeighton is just naturally born knowing how to make paper. In fifteenyears Will didn't have much soul left, but he had enough money to buyhis father out and make him sign an agreement to retire. They were bothas pleased as Punch. To the day of his death the old man would say, 'Icertainly gave you a start in life, Will, ' and Will would answer with agrin, 'Dad, you certainly did. '

"The moral of that yarn is that we Leightons have proved over and overthat we could play the game of success when we thought it was worthwhile. Will's generation and mine, generally speaking, thought it wasworth while. But your generation--the best of it--isn't going to thinkso. That's why I'm giving you enough money so that you won't have tothink about it all the time. "

"I'm grateful, Dad, " said Lewis. "It's easier to breathe that way. "

Leighton nodded. "Sometimes, " He continued, "I feel guilty, as though itwere cowardly not to have lived where I was put. But--have you ever seena straw, caught on a snag, try to stop a river? To your sentimentalistthat straw looks heroic; to anybody that knows the difference betweenbathos and pathos it simply looks silly. The river of life is biggerthan that of any nation. We can't stop it, but we can swell it by goingwith it. Did you ever see a mule drink against the current?"

"No, " said Lewis, his eyes lighting with memory of a thing that he knew. 

"Did you ever see free cattle face a gale?"

"No, " said Lewis again. 

"Out of the mouths of the dumb come words of wisdom, " said Leighton. "Gowith life, Boy. Don't get stranded on a snag. You'll only look silly. I'm glad you've traveled around a bit, because the wider the range ofyour legs the wider your range of vision, and, let me tell you, you'llneed a mighty broad field of sight to take in America and the Americans. 

"Your country and mine is a national paradox. It's the only countrywhere you can't buy little things for money. For instance, you can't buyfour seats that somebody else has a right to from a railway conductorfor sixty-two and a half cents. There isn't any price at which you canget an American to say, 'Yes, sir, thank you, sir, ' every time he doesanything for you. "

"Lunch is served, sir, thank you, sir, " announced the impassive Neltonfrom the doorway. 

Lewis smiled, and then laughed at his father's face. 

"Nelton, " said Leighton, "did you hear what I was saying?"

"I did, sir, thank----"

"Yes, yes, " broke in Leighton, "we know. Well, Nelton, your pay israised. Ten per cent. "

"Yes, sir, " said Nelton, unmoved. "Thank _you, _ sir. "

"As I was saying, " continued Leighton to Lewis, "a country where moneycan't buy little things. A leveled country where there's less under dogthan anywhere else on the face of the earth. A people that's morecommunal and less socialistic than any other commonwealth. A happynation, my boy--a happy nation of discontented units. Do you get that?Of discontented units. "

"Yes, I think I do, " said Lewis. 

"You don't, but you will in time, " said Leighton. 

CHAPTER XLI

WHEN Lewis burst upon Folly with the news that his father had given notonly consent to the marriage, but half his income to smooth the way toit, Folly frowned. What was the game? she wondered. But the first thingshe asked was:

"And how much is that?"

Lewis stammered, and said really he didn't know, which made Folly laugh. Then he told her about the six months and the trip to America. WhereuponFolly nodded her head and said:

"Oh, that's it, is it? Well, your governor is willing to pay prettythick for six months of you. All I want to know is, Will you come backto me?"

"Come back to you, Folly?" cried Lewis, "Of course I'll come back toyou. Why, that's just what I'm going for. To sell the house and fixthings so I _can_ come back to you. "

At the same hour Leighton was saying good-by to H lne. He had notreally come to say good-by. He had come to thank her for her sacrifice, for the things he knew she had said to Lew. He did not try to thank herin words. A boyish glance, an awkward movement, a laugh thatbroke--these things said more to H lne than words. 

"So you've got six months' grace, " said H lne, when Leighton had toldher how things stood. "Glen, do you remember this: 'All erotic love is aprogression. There is no amatory affection that can stand the strain ofa separation of six months in conjunction with six thousand miles. Allthe standard tales of _grande passion_ and absence are--'"

"'Legendary hypotheses based on a neurotic foundation, '" finishedLeighton. "Yes, I remember that theory of mine. I'm building on it. "

"I thought you were, " said H lne. "Don't build too confidently. Lew hasa strain of constancy in him. It's quite unconscious, but it's there. Just add my theory to yours. "

"What's your theory?" asked Leighton. 

"My theory, " said H lne, "is that little girl Natalie. I don't supposeshe's little now. "

Leighton frowned. 

"Do you know where Natalie is living? She's _there_. " His brow cloudedwith thoughts of the scene of his bitter love. 

H lne understood. 

"I know. I thought so, " she said. 

"I'll send Lewis to her. "

"No, Glen, " said H lne softly, "you'll take him to her. "

When all was ready for the start, Nelton appeared before Leighton. 

"Please, sir, " he said, "I've taken the liberty of packing my bags, too, thank, you, sir. I thought, sir, since you're both going, the flat mightbe locked up. "

"Well, " said Leighton, "I suppose it might for once. Where are you offto?"

"Why, with you, sir. If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to see thisAmerica. "

Leighton smiled. 

"Come along, by all means, Nelton, " he said. "Go ahead with the baggage, and see that Master Lewis and I get a compartment to ourselves. Here'shalf a crown. "

Leighton and Lewis were not traveling with the rush of the traffic. Itwas too early in the year. While the boat was not crowded, it was by nomeans deserted. It had just that number of passengers on board which anold traveler would like to stipulate for on buying his ticket; enough tokeep the saloons from hollow echoes, and not enough to block even asingle deck. 

"Are these all Americans?" asked Lewis on their third day out. 

Leighton glanced rapidly up and down the deck. 

"No, " he said, "there's hardly a typical American in the lot. Wrong timeof year. You see there are more men than women. That's a sure sign thisisn't an American pleasure-boat. There are a good many English on board, the traveling kind. They're going over to 'do' America before the heatcomes on. What Americans you see are tainted. "

"What's a tainted American?" asked Lewis. 

"I'm a tainted American, and you are, " said Leighton. "A taintedAmerican is one who has lived so long abroad that he goes to America onbusiness. "

CHAPTER XLII

The house that Aunt Jed had left to Natalie stood on the lip of a vastbasin. From its veranda one looked down into a peaceful cup of life. Thevariegated green of the valley proclaimed to the wandering eye, "All sorts are here that all the earth yields! Variety without end. "

There was a patchwork of fields bordered with gray stone walls, of straybits of pasture, of fallow meadow and glint of running water, ofwoodland, orchard, and the habitations of man made still by distance. 

Aunt Jed's house was not on the highway. The highway was miles off, andcut the far side of the basin in a long, straight slant. On that gash ofwhite one could see occasional tiny motor-cars hurrying up and down liketoys on a taut string. Only one motor, a pioneer car, had struggled upthe road that led past Natalie's door, and immediately after, thatdetour had been marked as impassable on all the best maps. 

In fact, the road up to Aunt Jed's looked more like a river-bed than aroad. It had a gully and many "thank-you-ma'ams. " It was plentifullysown with pebbles as big as your head and hard as flint, which gave titfor tat to every wheel that struck them. Every time Mrs. Leightonventured in Natalie's cart--and it was seldom indeed except to go tochurch--she would say, "We really must have this road fixed. "

But Natalie would only laugh and say, "Not a bit of it. I like it that way. "

Natalie had bought for a song a little mare named Gipsy. Nobody, man orwoman, could drive Gip; she just went. Whoever rode, held on and prayedfor her to stop. Gip hated that road down into the valley. If she couldhave gone from top to bottom in one jump, she would have done it. As itwas, she did the next best thing. What made you love Gip was that shecame up the hill almost as fast as she went down. 

Soon after Gip became Natalie's, she awoke to find herself famous froman attempt to pass over and through a stalled motor-car. After that thefarmers used to keep an eye out for her, especially on Sundays, and giveher the whole road when they saw her coming. Ann Leighton said it wasundignified to go to church like that, to which Natalie replied:

"Think what it's doing for your color, Mother. Besides, think of church. You must admit that church here has gone a bit tough. I really couldn'tstand it except sandwiched between two slices of Gip. "

Aunt Jed's house--nobody ever called it anything else--was typical ofthe old New England style, except that a broad veranda had been added tothe length of the front by the generation that had outraged custom andreduced the best parlor and the front door to everyday uses. This musthave happened many years before Natalie's advent, for a monster climbingrose of hardy disposition had more than half covered the veranda beforeshe came. 

The house itself was of clapboards painted white, and stood four square;its small-paned windows, flanked with green shutters, blinking towardthe west. It had a very prim air, said to have been absorbed from AuntJed, and seemed to be eternally trying to draw back its skirts fromcontact with the interloping veranda and the rose-tree, which, towardthe end of the flowering season, certainly gave it a mussed appearance. At such times, if the great front door was left open on a warm day, thehouse took on a look of open-mouthed horror, which immediately relapsedto primness once the door was closed. 

Natalie was the discoverer of this evidence of personality. Sittingunder the two giant elms that were the sole ornament of the soft oldlawn, she suddenly caught the look on the face of the house, and calledout:

"Mother, come here! Come quickly!" as though the look couldn't possiblylast through Mrs. Leighton's leisurely approach. 

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Leighton. 

"Why, the house!" said Natalie. "Look at it. It's horrified atsomething. I think it must be the mess the roses have made. Can't yousee what it's saying? It's saying, 'Well, I never!'"

Mrs. Leighton laughed. 

"It does look sort of funny, " she said. 

Just then old mammy put her gray head out of the door to hear what thetalk was about. She wore glasses, as becoming to her age, but peeredover them when she wanted to see anything. 

"What youans larffin' abeout?" she demanded. 

"We're laughing at the house, " cried Natalie. "It's got its mouth openand the funniest look on its face. Come and see. "

"Mo' nonsense, " grunted mammy and slammed the door. 

Then it was that the house seemed to withdraw suddenly into the primnessof virginal white paint. 

"That's what it wanted, " cried Natalie, excitedly--"just to get itsmouth shut. O Mother, isn't it an old _dear_?"

Stub Hollow had looked upon the new arrivals at Aunt Jed's as summerpeople until they began to frequent Stub Hollow's first and onlyPresbyterian church. Natalie, who like all people of charm, was manyyears younger inside than she was out, immediately perceived that theintroduction of mammy in her best Sunday turban into that congregationwould do a great deal toward destroying its comatose atmosphere. Likemany another New England village church, Stub Hollow's needed a jar andneeded it badly. But it wasn't the church that got the jar. 

Upon the introduction of Gip into the family circle, it was concededthat there was no longer any reason why mammy should resign the benefitsof communal worship. Consequently, with many a grunt, --for good food andbetter air had well nigh doubled her proportions, --mammy climbed fromthe veranda to the back seat of the cart and filled it. For a moment itseemed doubtful whether mammy or Gip would hold the ground, but Gipfinally won out by clawing rapidly at the pebbly road and getting theadvantage of the down grade. 

Neither Natalie nor Mrs. Leighton ever knew just where it was they lostmammy, but it couldn't have been far from the gate; for just as theywere dipping into the wood half-way down the hill, Mrs. Leightonhappened to glance back, missed mammy, and saw her stocky form waddlingacross the lawn toward the back of the house. Mrs. Leighton was alsoyoung inside. She said nothing. 

When finally they drew up, with the assistance of three broad-shoulderedswains, at the church, Natalie looked back and gasped, "Mammy! Mother, where's mammy?"

"You don't suppose she could have got off to pick flowers, do you?"asked Mrs. Leighton, softly. 

"Why, _Mother_!" cried Natalie. "Do you know that mammy may be _killed_?We'll have to go straight back. "

"No, we won't, " said Mrs. Leighton, flushing at her levity before thevery portals of the church. "She's all right. I looked back, and saw hercrossing the lawn. "

"Even so, " said Natalie, severely, "I'm surprised at _you_. " Then shelaughed. 

Church seemed very long that day, but at last they were out in thesunshine again and Gip was given her full head. No sooner had Zeke, thehired man, seized the bit than Natalie sprang from the cart and rushedto the kitchen. She found mammy going placidly about her business. 

"Doan' yo' talk to me, chile, " she burst out at sight of Natalie. "Doan'yo' dast talk to me!"

Natalie threw her arms about her. 

"You poor mammy, " she murmured. "Aren't you hurt?"

"Hurt!" snorted mammy. "Yo' mammy mought 'a' been killed ef she didn'carry her cushions along wif 'er pu'sson. "

CHAPTER XLIII

Six miles away from Aunt Jed's, on the top of a hill overlooking theHousatonic Valley, stood the Leighton homestead, a fine old-fashionedhouse, now unoccupied save for a care-taking farmer and his wife, whofarmed the Leighton acres on shares. The homestead belonged to Lewis'sfather, and in the natural course of events was destined to becomeLewis's property. 

Great was the excitement at Homestead Farm when a telegram arrivedannouncing the imminent arrival of owner and son. 

"Land sakes! William, " gasped Mrs. Tuck, "in two days! You'll hev tosend 'em a telegram tellin' 'em it can't be done nohow. I told you myconscience was a-prickin' me over the spring cleanin'. Seems likeProvidence was a-jostlin' my elbow all these days, and I was jest tooornery to pay heed. "

"In two days, it says, " repeated William; "and we can't send no telegrambecause there ain't no address. "

Tuck and his wife had no children. They occupied the kitchen for aliving-room and the big bedroom over it at night. The main part of thehouse was shut up. The hired hands occupied rooms in the barn that hadonce been the quarters of a numerous stable force, for the Leightons hadalways gone in for horses, as two or three long-standing trottingrecords at neighboring county fairs gave evidence. 

Mrs. Tuck was not long in facing the inevitable. First of all shecommandeered all the labor on the farm; then she sent a call for aid toa couple of neighbors. Within an hour all the green shutters had swungwide on their creaking hinges, and the window-sashes were up. Out of theopen windows poured some dust and a great deal of commotion. Beforenight the big house was spick and span from garret to cellar. 

"Does seem to me, " said Mrs. Tuck, as she placed a very scrappy supperbefore William, "like dust is as human as guinea pigs. Where you say itcan't get in, it jest breeds. "

"Now you sit down and take it easy, Mrs. Tuck, " said William, who hadmarried late in life and never got on familiar terms with his wife. "Ireckon them men-folks ain't so took with reddin' up as you think theybe. "

"Oh, I know, " said the tired, but by no means exhausted, Mrs. Tuck, "Iain't forgettin' their innards, ef thet's what you're thinkin' of. Youjust tell Silas to kill four broilers, an' I'll clean 'em to-night. Thet'll give me a start, and to-morow I c'n do a few dozen pies. I _hev_got some mince-meat, thank goodness! an' you c'n get me in some of themearly apples in the morning. Seems like I'm not going to sleep a winkfor thinkin'. "

Lewis and Leighton did not motor from New York to the Homestead Farm, asten years later they might have done. Motors, while common, were stillin that stage of development which made them a frequent source ofrevenue to the farmer with a stout team of horses. Consequently it wasby train that they arrived at Leighton's home station--a station thathad grown out of all recognition since last he had seen it. 

However, he himself had not grown out of recognition. A lank figure of aman, red-cheeked, white-bearded, slouch-hatted, and in hisshirt-sleeves, stepped forward and held out a horny hand. 

"Well, Glen, how be ye? Sure am glad to see ye back. "

"Me, too, " said Leighton, grinning and flushing with pleasure. "Comehere, Lew. Shake hands with Mr. Tuck. "

"Well, I swan!" chuckled William as he crushed Lewis's knuckles. "Guessyou don't recollec' ridin' on my knee, young feller?"

"No, I don't, " said Lewis, and smiled into the old man's moist blueeyes. 

"And who he this?" asked William, turning toward Nelton. 

"That? Oh, that's Nelton, " said Lewis. 

"Glad to meet ye, Mr. Nelton. Put it thar!" said William, holding out avast hand. 

For an instant Nelton paused, then, with set teeth and the air of onewho comes to grips with an electric battery, he laid his fingers in Mr. Tuck's grasp. "Huh!" remarked William, "ye ain't got much grip. Waittell we've stuffed ye with buttermilk 'n' pies 'n' victuals 'n' things. "

Nelton said not a word, but cast an agonized look at Leighton, who cameto his aid. 

"Now, William, what have you brought down?"

"Well, Glen, there's me an' the kerryall for the folks, an' Silas herewith the spring-wagon for the trunks. "

"Good, " said Leighton. "Here, Silas, take these checks and look afterMr. Nelton. Lew and I will go in the carryall. "

"Fancy your governor a-pullin' of my leg!" murmured Nelton, presumablyto Lewis, but apparently to space. "Why don't 'e tell this old josser asI'm a menial, and be done with it. "

Old William started, stared at Nelton, then at Leighton. He walked offtoward the carryall, scratching his head. 

"What is it?" he asked Lewis, in a loud whisper. 

"That's dad's valet, " said Lewis, grinning. 

"Valley, is it?" said William, glancing over one shoulder. "Nice, lushbit o' green, to look at him. What does he do?"

"Looks after dad. Waits on him, helps him dress, and packs his bags forhim. "

William stopped in his tracks and turned on Leighton. 

"Glen, " he said, "I don't know ez you c'n stand to ride in the oldkerryall. I ain't brought no sofy pillows, ner even a fire-screen tokeep the sun from sp'ilin' yer complexion. "

Leighton smiled, but said nothing. They had reached the carryall, an oldhickory structure sadly in need of paint. Hitched to it were two rangybays. The harness was a piece of ingenious patchwork, fitted with hamesinstead of collars. Leighton stepped into the back seat, and Lewisfollowed. William unhitched the horses and climbed into the crampedfront seat. When he had settled down, his knees seemed to be peeringover the dash-board. "Gid ap!" he cried, and the bays started off slowlyacross the bridge. 

The road to the homestead followed down the river for three miles beforeit took to the hills. No sooner had the carryall made the turn into theRiver Road than the bays sprang forward so suddenly that Lewis's hatflew off backward, and for a moment he thought his head had followed. 

"Heh!" he called, "I've lost my hat!"

"Never mind your hat, Son, " shouted William. "Silas'll pick it up. "

The bays evidently thought he was shouting at them. They let theirenormous stride out another link. The carryall plowed through the dust, rattled over pebbles, and, where the road ran damp under overhangingtrees, shot four streams of mud from its flying wheels. Old Williamchewed steadily at the cud of tobacco he had kept tucked in his cheekduring the interview at the station. His long arms were stretched fulllength along the taut reins. If he had only had hand-holds on them, hewould have been quite content. As it was, he was grinning. 

"Gee, Dad!" gasped Lewis, "d'you know those horses are still_trotting_!"

Leighton leaned forward. 

"Got a match, William?" he shouted above the creak and rattle of thecarryall. 

"Heh?" yelled William. 

The bays let out another link. 

"Got a match?" repeated Leighton. "I want to smoke. "

William waved his beard at his left-hand pocket. 

As they struck a bit of quiet, soft road, Leighton called:

"Why don't you let 'em out? You've gone and left your whip at home. Howare we going to get up the hill?"

The grin faded from Old William's face. "_Gid ap!_" he roared, and thenthe bays showed what they could really do in the way of hurrying forthe doctor. The old carryall leaped a thank-you-ma'am clean. When itstruck, the hickory wheels bent to the storm, but did not break. Instead, they shot their load into the air. A low-hanging branch swoopeddown and swept the canopy, supports and all, off the carryall. Williamnever looked back. 

Lewis clung to the back of the front seat. 

"D-d-dad, " he stuttered, "p-please don't say anything more to him! D-d'youknow they're _still_ trotting?"

At last the bays swung off upon the steep Hill Road, and slowed down toa fast, pulling walk. Old William dropped the reins on the dash-board, made a telling shot with tobacco juice at a sunflower three yards off, and turned to have a chat. 

"Glen, " he said, "I reckon, after all, there's times when you c'n dowithout sofy pillows. "

"Why, William, " said Leighton, still pale with fright, "If I'd had apillow, I'd have gone fast asleep. " Then he smiled. "Some of the oldstock?"

William nodded. 

"I don't mind tellin' you I ain't drove like thet sence the day me'nyou--"

"Never mind since when, William, " broke in Leighton, sharply. "How'sMrs. Tuck?"

CHAPTER XLIV

"Is that the house?" asked Lewis, as they mounted the brow of the hill. 

Leighton nodded. 

Across a wide expanse of green that was hardly smooth enough to becalled a lawn gleamed the stately homestead. It was of deep-red brick, trimmed with white. It stood amid a grove of giant sugar-maples. Themaples blended with the green shutters of the house, and made it seempart and parcel of the grove. Upon its front no veranda had daredencroach, but at one side could be seen a vine-covered stoop that mighthave been called a veranda had it not been dwarfed to insignificance bythe size of the house. The front door, which alone in that country-sideboasted two leaves, was wide open, and on the steps leading up to it, resplendent in fresh gingham, stood Mrs. Tuck. 

With some difficulty William persuaded the bays to turn into thelong-unused drive that swept up to the front door. Leighton sprang out. 

"Hallo, Mrs. Tuck!" he cried. "How are you?"

"How do you do? I'm very pleased to see you back, Mr. Leighton, " saidMrs. Tuck, who read the best ten-cent literature and could talk "realperlite" for five minutes at a stretch. "Come right along in. You'llfind all the rooms redded up--I mean--"

"Yes, yes, " laughed Leighton, "I know what you mean all right. I haven'teven forgotten the smell of hot mince pies. Lew, don't you notice a sortof culinary incense----'

"Land sakes! them pies is a-_burnin'_!" shrieked Mrs. Tuck as she turnedand ran. 

William offered to show the way to the bedrooms, but Leighton refused. 

"No, " he said, "we'll come around and help you put up the team. No usewashing up till we get our things. "

Silas, with the spring-wagon, duly appeared. On top of the baggage, legsin air, was the discarded canopy of the carryall. Beside Silas satNelton. He was trembling all over. In his lap he held Lewis's hat. Hisbulging eyes were fastened on it. 

"There they be, " grunted Silas. "Told you they was all right. William bea keerful driver. "

Nelton raised his eyes slowly. They lit, with wonder. 

"Mr. Leighton, " he cried, "Master Lewis, are you safe?'

"Quite safe, Nelton, " said Leighton. "Why?"

Nelton mutely held out Lew's hat and jerked his head back at the wreckedcanopy. 

"Oh, yes, " said Leighton, nodding; "we dropped those. Thank you forpicking them up. Take the bags up-stairs. "

"Lew, " said Leighton, as they were washing, "did you use to have dinnerat night at Nadir or supper?"

"Supper, " said Lewis. 

"Well, " said Leighton, "that's what you'll get today--at six o'clock, and don't you be frightened when you see it. It has been said of theScotch that the most wonderful thing about them is that they can live onoats. The mystery of the brawn and muscle of New England is no lesswrapped up in pies. But don't hesitate. Pitch in. There's somethingabout this air that turns a nightly mixture of mince-pies, pumpkin-pies, custard-pies, lemon-pies, and apple-pies, with cheese, into a substanceas heavenly light as fresh-fallen manna. It is a tradition, wiselyfostered by the farmers, that the only thing that can bring nightmareand the colic to a stomach in New England are green apples and stolenmelons. "

Lewis was in good appetite, as was Leighton. They ate heartily of manythings besides pies, went to bed at nine, and would have slept the roundof the clock had not a great gong--a bit of steel rail hung on awire--and all the multitudinous noises of farm headquarters broken outin one simultaneous chorus at half-past five in a glorious morning. 

Noisy geese and noisier cocks, whinnying horses and lowing cattle, therattle of milk-tins, the squeak of the well-boom, the clank ofmowing-machines, the swish of a passing brush-harrow, and, finally, theclamoring gong, were too much for Nelton. Lewis, on his way to look fora bath, caught him stuffing what he called "cotton an' wool" into hisears. 

"Tork about the streets of Lunnon, Master Lewis, " he said. "I calls thiscountry life _deafenin'_. "

Lewis had wanted to telegraph to Natalie, but Leighton had stopped him. 

"You've waited too long for that, " he had said. "You have apparentlyneglected Natalie and Mrs. Leighton. When people think they've beenneglected, never give them a chance to think up what they're going tosay to you. Just fall on them. "

As soon as they had breakfasted, Leighton took Lewis to the top of thehill at the back of the homestead. It was a high hill. It commanded along stretch of the Housatonic Valley to the east, and toward the westand north it overlooked two ridges, with the dips between, before theeye came up against the barrier of the Berkshire range. 

Lewis drew a long breath of the cold, morning air. 

"It's beautiful, Dad, " he said. 

"Beautiful!" repeated Leighton, his eyes sweeping slowly and wistfullyacross the scene. "Boy, God has made no lovelier land. "

Then he turned to the west and pointed across to the second ridge. "Doyou see that gleam of white that stands quite alone?"

"Yes, I think I see what you mean, " said Lewis. "'Way down, just belowit, you can see the tip of a church steeple. "

"So you can, " said Leighton. "Well, that gleam of white is Aunt Jed's. Make for it. That's where you'll find Natalie. "

"Is it?" said Lewis, straightening, and with a flush of excitement inhis cheeks. "Aren't you coming, too?"

"No, " said Leighton; "not to-day. We won't expect you back beforesupper. Tell Mrs. Leighton that I'll be over soon to see her and thankher. "

Lewis started off with an eager stride, only to learn that Aunt Jed'swas farther away than it looked. He found a road and followed it throughthe valley and up the first ridge, then seeing that the road meanderedoff to the right into a village, he struck off across the fieldsstraight for the distant house. 

He had passed through the moist bottoms and come upon a tract ofrock-strewn pasture land when he saw before him the figure of a girl. Her back was to him. A great, rough straw hat hid her head. She wore awhite blouse and a close-fitting blue skirt. She was tall and supple, but she walked slowly, with her eyes on the ground. In one hand shecarried a little tin pail. 

Lewis came up behind her. 

"What are you looking for?" he asked. 

The girl started and turned. Lewis stepped forward. They stood andstared at each other. The little tin pail slipped from the girl's hand. 

"Strawberries, " she stammered. "I was looking for strawberries. " Thenshe added so low that he scarcely heard her, "Lew?"

"Nat!" cried Lewis. "It _is_ Nat!"

Natalie swayed toward him. He caught her by the arms. She looked at himand tried to smile, but instead she crumpled into a heap on a rock andcried--cried as though her heart would break. 

Lewis sat down beside her and put one arm around her. 

"Why, Nat, aren't you glad to see me? Nat, don't cry! Aren't you gladI've come?"

Natalie nodded her head hard, but did not try to speak. Not till she hadquite finished crying did she look up. Then her tear-stained face brokeinto a radiant smile. 

"That's--that's why I'm crying, " she gasped; "because I'm so glad. "

So there they sat together and talked about what? About strawberries. Lewis said that he had walked miles across the fields, and seen heaps ofblossoms but no berries. He didn't think the wild ones had berries. Which, Natalie said, was nonsense. Of course they had berries, only itwas too early. She had found three that were pinkish. She pointed tothem where they had rolled from the little tin pail. Lewis picked one upand examined it. 

"You're right, " he said gravely, "it's a strawberry. "

Then silence fell upon them--a long silence, and at the end Lewis said:

"Nat, do you remember at Nadir the guavas--when, you'd come out to whereI was with the goats?"

Natalie nodded, a starry look in her far-away eyes. 

"Nat, " said Lew, "tell me about it--about Nadir--about--abouteverything. About how you went back to Consolation Cottage. "

Natalie flashed a look at him. 

"How did you know we had been back to Consolation Cottage?"

"Why, I went there, " said Lewis. "It isn't three months since I wentthere. "

"Did you, Lew?" said Natalie, her face brightening. "Did you go just tolook for us?"

"Of course, " said Lewis. "Now tell me. "

"No, " said Natalie, with a shake of her head, "you first. "

CHAPTER XLV

In the innocence of that first hour Lewis told Natalie all. He even toldher of Folly, as though Folly, like all else, was something they couldshare between them. Natalie did not wince. There are blows that juststing--the sharp, quick blows that make us cry out, and then wonder whywe cried, so quickly does the pain pass. They are nothing beside theblows that slowly fall and crush and keep their pain back till theoverwhelming last. 

People wonder at the cruel punishment a battered man can take and nevercry out, at the calm that fills the moment of life after the mortalwound, and at the steady, quiet gaze of big game stricken unto death. They do not know that when the blood of man or beast is up, when theheart thunders fast in conflict or in the chase, there is no pain. A mancan get so excited over some trifle that a bullet will plow through hisflesh without his noticing it. Pain comes afterward. Pain is always anawakening. 

Natalie was excited at the sudden presence of Lew and at the wonder ofhis tale. In that galaxy of words that painted to her a climbing fairymovement of growth and achievement the single fact of Folly shot throughher and away, but the wound stayed. For the moment she did not know thatshe was stricken, nor did Lewis guess. And so it happened that thatwhole day passed like a flash of happy light. 

Natalie, in her wisdom, had gone ahead to warn Mrs. Leighton and mammyof Lewis's coming. Even so, when the two women took him into their longembrace, he knew by the throbbing of their hearts how deeply joy canshake foundations that have stood firm against the heaviest shocks ofgrief. 

Gip and the cart, with Natalie at the helm, whisked Lewis back to thehomestead. What memories of galloping ponies and a far, wide world thatride awakened they did not speak in words, but the light that was intheir faces when at the homestead gate they said good night was thelight that shines for children walking hand in hand in the morning landof faith. 

Natalie could not eat that night. She slipped away early to bed--to thelittle, old-fashioned bed that had been Aunt Jed's. It, too, was afour-poster; but so pompous a name overweighted its daintiness. So lightwere its trimmings in white, so snowy the mounds of its pillows and thenarrow reach of its counterpane, that it seemed more like anesting-place for untainted dreams than the sensible, stocky little bedit was. 

Natalie went to bed and to sleep, but scarcely had the last gleam fadedfrom the western sky when she awoke. A sudden terror seized her. Thepillow beneath her cheek was wet. Upon her heart a great weight presseddown and down. For a moment she rebelled. She had gone to sleep in thelap of her happiest day. How could she wake to grief? A single wordtapped at her brain: Folly, Folly. And then she knew--she knew the woundher happy day had left; and wide-eyed, fighting for breath, her armsoutstretched, she felt the slow birth of the pain that lives and livesand grows with life. 

Natalie cried easily for happiness, and so the tears that she couldspare to grief were few. Not for nothing had she been born to the noteof joy. Through all her life, so troubled, so thinly spread withpleasures, she had clung to her inheritance. Often had her mindquestioned her heart: "What is there in this empty day? Why do youlaugh? Why do you sing?" And ever her heart had answered, "I laugh andsing because, if not to-day, then to-morrow, the full day cometh. "

But to-night her inheritance seemed a little and a cruel thing. Wide-eyed she prayed for the tears that would not come. Dry were hereyes, dry was her throat, and dry the pressing weight upon her heart. Hours passed, and then she put forth her strength. She slipped from thebed and walked with groping hands toward the open window. In thesemi-darkness she moved like a tall, pale light. Down her back andacross her bosom her hair fell like a caressing shadow. Her white feetmade no sound. 

She reached the window and knelt, her arms folded upon the low sill. Shetossed the hair from before her face and looked out upon the stillnight. How far were the stars to-night--as cold and far as on that nightof long ago when she had stood on the top of the highest hill and calledto the desert for Lew!

She stayed at the window for a long time, and found meager comfort atlast in the thought that Lewis could not have guessed. How could he haveguessed what she herself had not known? She arose and went back to bed. Then she lay thinking and planning a course that should keep not onlyLewis but also Mrs. Leighton and mammy blind to the wound she bore. Andwhile she was in the midst of planning, sleep came and made good itsancient right to lock hands with tired youth. 

Leighton was crestfallen to see in what high spirits Lew had come backfrom his first day with Natalie. He lost faith at once in H lne's cure. Then, as they went to bed, he clutched at a straw. 

"Lew, " he asked, "did you tell your pal everything?"

"Everything I could think of in the time, " said Lewis, smiling. "One dayisn't much when you've got half of two lives to go over. Of course therewere things we forgot. We'll have them to tell to-morrow. "

"Was Folly one of the things you forgot?"

"No, " answered Lewis and paused, a puzzled look on his brow. He waswondering why he had remembered Folly. To-night she seemed very faraway. Then he threw back his head and looked at his father. "Why did youask that?"

Leighton did not answer for a moment. Finally he said:

"Because it's the one thing you hadn't a right to keep to yourself. I'mglad you saw that. Always start square with a woman. If youdo, --afterward, --she'll forgive you anything. "

Lewis went to bed with the puzzled look still on his face. It was notbecause he had _seen_ anything that he had told of Folly. He had told ofher simply as a part of chronology--something that couldn't be skippedwithout leaving a gap. Now he wondered, if he had had time to think, would he have told? He had scarcely put the question to himself whensleep blotted out thought. 

On the next day Leighton had the bays hitched to what was left of thecarryall, and with Silas and Lewis drove over to Aunt Jed's to pay hisrespects to Mrs. Leighton. Natalie and Lew went off for a ramble in thehills. Mammy bustled about her kitchen dreaming out a dream of an earlydinner for the company, and murmuring instructions to Ephy, a palelittle slip of a woman whom the household, seeking to help, hadinstalled as helper. Mrs. Leighton stayed with Leighton out under theelms. They talked little, but they said much. 

It was still early in the day when Leighton said:

"I shall call you Ann. You must call me Glen. "

"Of course, " answered Mrs. Leighton, and then wondered why it was "ofcourse. " "I suppose, " she said aloud, "it's 'of course' because of Lew. I feel as though I were sitting here years ahead, talking to Lew whenhis head will be turning gray. "

"Don't!" cried Leighton. "Don't say that! Lew travels a different road. "

Mrs. Leighton looked up, surprised at his tone. 

"Perhaps you don't see what we can see. Perhaps you don't know what youhave done for Lew. "

"I have done nothing for Lew, " said Leighton, quickly. "If anything hasbeen done for Lew, it was done in the years when I was far from him inbody, in mind, and in spirit. Lew would have been himself without me. Itis doubtful whether he would have been himself without you. I--I don'tforget that. "

CHAPTER XLVI

At four o'clock Leighton sent for Silas. 

"Take the team home, Silas, " he said. "We're going to walk. Come along, Lew. "

"It's awfully early, Dad, " said Lew, with a protesting glance at thehigh sun. 

"The next to the last thing a man learns in social finesse, " saidLeighton, "and the very last rule that reaches the brain of woman, is tosay good-by while it's still a shock to one's hosts. "

"And it's still a shock to-day, " said Mrs. Leighton, smiling. "But youmustn't quarrel with what your father's said, Lew, " she added. "He'sgiven you the key to the heart of 'Come again!'"

"As if Lew would ever need that!" cried Natalie. 

Soon after leaving the house, Leighton struck off to the right and up. His step was not springy. His head hung low on his breast, and hisfingers gripped nervously at the light stick he carried. He did notspeak, and Lewis knew enough not to break that silence. They crossed afield, Leighton walking slightly ahead. He did not have to look up tolead the way. 

Presently they came into a lane. It dipped off to the left, into thevalley. It was bordered by low, gray stone walls. On its right hung athick wood of second-growth trees--a New England wood, various beyondthe variety of any other forest on earth. It breathed a mingled essenceof faint odors. The fronds of the trees reached over and embowered thelane. 

On the left the view was open to the valley by reason of a pasture. Thelow stone wall was topped by a snaky fence of split rails. They were soold, so gray, that they, too, seemed of stone. Beyond them sloped themeager pasture-land; brown, almost barren even in the youth of the year. It was strewn with flat, outcropping rocks. Here and there rose a mightyoak. A splotch of green marked a spring. Below the spring one saw thepale blush of laurel in early June. 

Leighton stopped and prodded the road with his stick. Lewis looked down. He saw that his father's hand was trembling. His eyes wandered to a bigstone that peeped from the loam in the very track of any passing wheel. The stone was covered with moss--old moss. It was a long time sincewheels had passed that way. 

Leighton walked on a few steps, and then paused again, his eyes fixed ona spot at the right of the lane where the old wall had tumbled andbrought with it a tangled mass of fox-grape vine. He left the roadwayand sat on the lower wall, his back against a rail. He motioned to Lewisto sit down too. 

"I have brought you here, " said Leighton and stopped. His voice had beenso low that Lewis had understood not a word. "I have brought you here, "said Leighton again, and this time clearly, "to tell you about yourmother. "

Lewis restrained himself from looking at his father's face. 

"Your mother's name, " went on Leighton, "was Jeanette O'Reilly. She wasa milk-maid. That is, she didn't have to milk the cows, but she tookcharge of the milk when it came into the creamery and did to and with itall the things that women do with milk. I only knew your mother when shewas seventeen. No one seemed to know where Jeanette came from. PerhapsAunt Jed knew. I think she did, but she never told. I never asked. To meJeanette came straight from the hand of God. 

"I have known many beautiful women, but since Jeanette, the beauty ofwomen has not spoken to the soul of me. There is a beauty--and it washers--that cries out, just as a still and glorious morning cries out, tothe open windows of the soul. To me Jeanette was all sighing, sobbingbeauty. Beauty did not rest upon her; it glowed through her. She alonewas the prism through which my eyes could look upon the Promised Land. Iknew it, and so--I told my father. 

"I was only a boy, not yet of age. My father never hesitated. All thepower that law and tradition allowed he brought to bear. He forbade meto visit Aunt Jed's or to see Jeanette again. He gave me to understandthat the years held no hope for me--that on the day I broke his commandI would cut myself off from him and home. To clinch things, he sent meaway to college a month early, and put me under a tutor. 

"There is a love that forgets all else--that forgets honor. I forged aletter to the authorities and signed my father's name to it. It toldthem to send me back at once--that my mother was ill. I came back tothese hills, but not home. Far back in the woods here William Tuck had ahut. He was a wood-cutter. He lived alone. He owed nothing to any man. Many a time we had shot and fished together. I came back to William. 

"This lane doesn't lead to Aunt Jed's. This land never belonged to her. Here we used to meet, Jeanette and I. You see the mass of fox-grape overyonder? In that day the wall hadn't tumbled. It stood straight and firm. The fox-grape sprang from it and climbed in a great veil over the youngtrees. Behind that wall, in the cool dusk of the grapevine, we used tosit and laugh inside when a rare buggy or a wagon went by. "

Leighton drew a long breath. 

"I used to lie with my head in Jeanette's lap because it was the onlyway I could see her eyes. Her lashes were so long that when she raisedthem it was like the slow flutter of the wings of a butterfly at rest. She did not raise them often. She kept them down--almost against thesoft round of her cheek--because--because, she said, she could dreambetter that way. 

"How shall I tell you about her hair? I used to reach up and pull at ituntil it tumbled. And then, because Jeanette's hair never laughed exceptwhen it was the playmate of light, I used to drag her to her feet, across the wall, across the lane, down there to the flat rock just abovethe spring. 

"There we would sit, side by side, and every once in a while lookfearfully around, so public seemed that open space. But all we ever sawfor our pains was a squirrel or perhaps a woodchuck looking aroundfearfully, too. Jeanette would sit with her hands braced behind her, hertumbled hair splashing down over her shoulders and down her back. Thesetting sun would come skipping over the hills and play in her hair, andJeanette's hair would laugh--laugh out loud. And I--I would bury my facein it, as you bury your face in flowers, and wonder at the unshed tearsthat smarted in my eyes. "

Leighton stopped to sigh. It was a quivering sigh that made Lewis wantto put out his hand and touch his father, but he was afraid to move. Leighton went on. 

"Look well about you, boy. No wheel has jarred this silence for many ayear--not since I bought the land you see and closed the road. Manseldom comes here now, --only children in the fall of the year when thechestnuts are ripe. Jeanette liked children. She was never anything buta child herself. Look well about you, I say, for these still woods andfields, with God's free air blowing over them, --they were your cradle, the cradle of your being. 

"It was Jeanette that made me go back to college when college opened, but months later it was William that sent for me when Jeanette was tooweak to stop him. The term was almost over. Through all the winter I hadnever mentioned Jeanette to the folks at home, hoping that my fatherwould let me come home for the summer and wander these hills unwatched. Now William wrote. I couldn't make out each individual word, but the sumof what he tried to tell flew to my heart. 

"Jeanette had disappeared from Aunt Jed's three months before. They hadnot found her, for they had watched for her only where I was. She hadgone to William's little house. She had been hidden away there. Whileshe was well enough, she had not let him send for me. There was panic inWilliam's letter, for he wrote that he would meet the first train bywhich I could come, and every other train thereafter. 

"You heard William say the other day that he had never driven like thatsince--and there I stopped him. It was since the day I came back toJeanette he was going to say. We didn't mind the horses breaking thatday. Where the going was good, they ran because they felt like it; whereit was bad, they ran because I made them. I asked William if he had adoctor, and he said he had. He had done more than that: he had marriedMrs. Tuck to look after Jeanette. 

"We stopped in the village for the parson. I was going to blurt out thetruth to him, but William was wiser. He told him that some one wasdying. So we got the old man between us, and I drove while William heldhim. He would have jumped out. He thought we were mad. "

CHAPTER XLVII

Leighton paused as he thought grimly over that ride. Then he went on:

"The last thing my father paid for out of his own pocket on my accountwas that team of horses from the livery stable. They got to William'sall right, but they were broken--broken past repair. Poor beasts! Evenso we were only just in time. The old parson married me to Jeanette. Iwould have killed him if he had hesitated. I didn't have to tell him so;he saw it. 

"For one blessed moment Jeanette forgot pain and locked her arms aboutmy neck. Then they pushed me out, and William and the parson with me. Mrs. Tuck and the doctor stayed in there. You were born. " Leightongripped his hands hard on his stick. "What--what was it the oldWoman--the fortune-teller--said?"

"'Child of love art thou, '" repeated Lewis, in a voice lower than hisfather's. "'At thy birth was thy mother rent asunder, for thou wertconceived too near the heart. '"

Leighton trembled as though with the ague. He nodded his head, alreadylow sunk upon his breast. 

"It was that--just that, " he whispered. "They called us in, the oldpreacher and me. Jeanette stayed just for a moment, her hand in mine, her eyes in mine, and then--she was gone. The old parson cried like achild. I wondered why he cried. Suddenly I knew, and my curses roseabove his prayers. I sprang for William's rifle in the corner, andbefore they could stop me, I shot you. 

"Boy, I shot to kill; but the best shot at a hundred yards will missevery time at a hundred inches. The bullet just grazed your shoulder, and at the sting of it you began to gasp and presently to cry. Tearsafterward the doctor told me you would never have lived to draw a singlebreath if it hadn't been for that shot. The shock of it was what startedyour heart, your lungs. They had tried slapping, and it hadn't done anygood. "

Leighton paused again, before he went on in a dull voice. 

"After that I can tell you what happened only from hearsay. Aunt Jedcame and took you and what was left of Jeanette, your mother. Sometimeyou must stop in the churchyard down yonder under the steeple and lookfor a little slab that tells nothing--nothing except that Jeanette dieda wife before the law and--and much beloved before God. 

"They kept me at William's for days until I was in my right mind. Theday they took me home was the day father paid for the horses--the day hedied. I don't know if he would have forgiven me if he had lived. I neversaw him again alive, after he knew. I've often wondered. I would give alot to know, even to-day, that he would have forgiven. But life is likethat. Death strikes and leaves us blind--blind to some vital spring oflove, could we but find it and touch it. "

Lewis was young. Just to hear the burden that had lain so long upon hisfather's heart was too much for him. Not for nothing had Leighton livedbeside his boy. There, under the still trees, their souls reached outand touched. Lewis dropped his head and arms upon his father's knees andsobbed. He felt as though his whole heart was welling up in tears. 

Leighton's hand fell caressingly upon him. He did not speak until hisboy had finished crying, then he said:

"I've told you all this because you alone in all the world have a rightto know, a right to know your full inheritance--the inheritance of achild of love. "

Leighton paused. 

"I never saw you again, " he went on, "until that day when we met downthere at the ends of the earth. Aunt Jed had sent you down there to hideyou from me. Before she died she told me where you were and sent me toyou. She needn't have told me to go after you. 

"As you go on and meet a wider world, you will hear strange things ofyour father. Believe them all, and then, if you can, still remember. Don't waste love. That's a prayer and a charge. I've wasted a lot oflife and self, but never a jot of love. Now go, boy. Tell them I'vestayed behind for supper. "

Lewis did not hurry. When he reached the homestead, it was already late. Mrs. Tuck had kept their supper hot for them. When she saw Lewis come inalone, she rushed up to him with eager questions of his father. Lewislooked with new eyes upon her kindly anxious face. 

"It's all right, " he said. "Dad stayed behind. He doesn't want anysupper. "

Mrs. Tuck looked shrewdly at him, and then turned away. 

"It ain't never all right, " she said half to herself, "when a manfull-grown don't want his supper. "

Lewis saw nothing more of his father that night. He tried to keep awake, but it was long after sleep had conquered him that Leighton came in. Andduring the days that followed he saw less and less of his father. Earlyin the morning Leighton would be up. He would eat, and then wander aboutthe place listlessly with his cigar. His head hanging, he would wanderfarther and farther from the house until, almost without volition, hewould suddenly strike off in a straight line across the hills. 

Lewis would have noticed the desertion more had it not been for Natalie. Natalie claimed and held all his days. Together they walked and drovetill Lewis had learned all the highways and byways that Natalie had longsince discovered. She liked the byways best, and twice she drove throughcrowding brush to the foot of the lane that was barred. 

"I've often come here, " she said, "and I've even tried to pull thosebars down, but they're solider than they look. I'm not strong enough. Will you help me some day? I want to follow that dear old mossy lane toits end, if it has one. It looks as if it led straight into the land ofdreams. "

"It probably does, " said Lewis. "I'll never help you pull down thosebars, because, if you've got any heart, you can look at them and seethat whoever put them up owns that land of dreams, and there's no landof dreams with room for more than two people, and they must be holdinghands. "

"You've made me not want to go in there, " said Natalie as she turned Giparound. "How could you see it like that? You're not a woman. "

Lewis did not answer, but when, two days later, they were out afterstrawberries, and Natalie led him through a wood in the valley to thefoot of the pasture with the oaks and the spring, Lewis stopped her. 

"Don't let's go up there, Nan, " he said. "That's part of somebody else'sland of dreams. Dad's tip there somewhere, I'm sure. "

Natalie looked at him, and he saw in her eyes that she knew all that hehad not told in words. 

CHAPTER XLVIII

Leighton and Lewis made two business trips away from the homestead, andon both occasions, as soon as affairs permitted, hurried back with equaleagerness. Leighton tried to read significance into the fact that Lewiswas not chafing at his absence from Folly, but he could not becauseLewis wrote to Folly every week, and seemed to revel in telling hereverything. Folly's answers were few and far between. 

Leighton would have given much to see one of Folly's letters. Hewondered if her maid wrote them for her. He used to watch Lewis readingthem. They were invariably short--mere notes. Lewis would read each oneseveral times to make it seem like a letter. He seemed to feel that hisfather would like to see one of the letters, and one day, to keephimself from calling himself coward, he impulsively handed one over. 

Leighton read the scant three pages slowly. It was as though Folly hadreached across the sea to scratch him again, for the note was wellwritten in a bold, round hand. It was short because Folly combined thewisdom of the serpent with the voice of a dove. She knew the limits ofher shibboleth of culture, and never passed them. She said only thethings she had learned to write correctly. They were few. 

The few weeks at the homestead had changed Leighton. A single mood heldhim--a mood that he never threw off with a toss of his head. He seemedto have lost his philosophy of cheerfulness at the word of command. Lewis was too absorbed in his long days with Natalie to notice it, butNelton took it upon himself to open his eyes. 

"Larst month, " he said, "you and the governor was brothers. Now personsdon't have to ask me is he your father. It's written in his fyce. It'sthis country life as has done it. Noisy, I calls it. No rest. "

Lewis felt penitent. He suggested to Leighton a day together, a trampand a picnic, but Leighton shook his head. 

"I don't want to have to talk, " he said bluntly. 

"Dad, " said Lewis, "let's go away. "

Leighton started as though the words were something he had too longwaited for. 

"Go away?" he repeated. How often had he said, "To go away is thesovereign cure. " "Yes, " he went on, "I believe you are right. I thinkit's high time--past time--for me to clear. Will you come or stay?"

"I'll come if it's London, " said Lewis, smiling. 

"London first, of course, " said Leighton, gravely. "To-day is Tuesday. Say we start on Thursday. That gives us a day to go over and saygood-by. "

"One day isn't enough, " said Lewis. "Make it two. "

"All right, " agreed Leighton. 

For that afternoon Lewis and Natalie had planned a long tramp, butbefore they had gone a mile from Aunt Jed's a purling brook in thedepths of a still wood raised before them an impassable barrier ofbeauty. By a common, unspoken consent they sat down beside the gurglingwater. They talked much and were silent much. 

For the first time Lewis had something in mind which he was afraid totell to Natalie. He was not afraid for her. It was a selfish fear. Hewas afraid for himself--afraid to tell her that two short days wouldclose the door for them on childhood. He wondered that mere years hadbeen powerless to close that door. He looked on Natalie, and knew thatrenunciation would be hard. 

Natalie had tossed aside her hat. She sat leaning against the crisptrunk of a silver birch. Her hands were in her lap. Her dress wascrumpled up, displaying her crossed feet and the tantalizing line of herslim ankles. Against the copper green of the tree trunk the mass of herhair was pressed, gold upon the shadow of gold. Her moist lips were halfopen. Her eyes were away, playing with memory. 

"Bet you can't tell me the first thing you ever said to me, " said Lewis. 

"My dwess is wumpled, " said Natalie, promptly, a single dimple comingand going with her sudden smile. Then she looked down and blushed. Shestraightened out her skirt, and patted it in place. They looked at eachother and laughed. 

"Do you remember what came after that?" said Lewis, teasingly. "Wekissed each other. "

Natalie nodded. 

"Nat, " said Lewis, "do you remember any kiss after that one?"

"No, " said Natalie. 

"Funny, " said Lewis. "I don't either. Do you want me to kiss you when itcomes to saying good-by?"

Natalie turned a wide and questioning look on him. 

"No, " she said in a tone he had never heard from her before, Lewis sank back upon one elbow. He had been on the point of telling herthat good-by was only two days off. Her tone stopped him. "Do youremember the night of the sunset?" he asked, instead. 

Natalie nodded. 

"I said I was going to sail to the biggest island. You said you were, too, and I said you couldn't because you were littlest. Do youremember?"

Natalie sank her head slowly in assent. Her lower lip trembled. Suddenlyshe laughed and sprang to her feet. 

"Come on, " she cried, "or we'll be late for supper. I'll beat you to thefence. " She was off with a rush, but Lewis got to the fence first. Hehelped her over with mock ceremony. When they came to a wall farther onhe helped her over again. This helping Natalie over obstacles wassomething new. It gave him faint twinges of pleasure. 

They came to the foot of the pasture at the back of the house and to thelast wall of all. "Come on, " said Lewis, smiling and holding out hishand. 

"Not this time, silly, " said Natalie. "Don't you see the bars are down?"

"Yes, I see, " said Lewis, springing into the open gap in the wall, "butyou're not coming through here. You're going over. "

"Am I?" said Natalie, and rushed at him. With one arm he caught heraround the waist and threw her back. She landed on all fours, like acat. Then, laughing, she sprang up and came at him again, only to behurled back once more. Lewis was laughing, too, laughing at this lastromp in the name of childhood. Natalie was so strong, so stipple, thathe handled her roughly without fear of hurting her. They both felt thejoy of strength and battle and exulted. Four times Natalie stormed thebreach, and four times was she hurled back. Then she stood, panting, andholding her sides, the blood rioting in her cheeks, and fire in hereyes. 

"Give up?" asked Lewis. 

Natalie shook her head. 

"We'll be late for supper. "

"I don't care, " said Natalie. "I'll never give up; only I'm cold. " Sheshivered. 

"Cold, Nat?" cried Lewis. "Here. " He started to take off his thick tweedcoat. At the exact moment when his arms were imprisoned in the sleeves, Natalie shot by him. She held her skirts above her knees and ran. 

Long was the chase before Lewis caught her. He threw his arms around herand held her. Natalie did not struggle. 

"You can't carry me back, " she gasped. "It's too far. " Then suddenlyfrom her eyes a woman looked out--a woman Lewis did not know. His armsdropped to his sides. He felt the blood pumping in his heart--his heartthat had been pressed but now against the breast of this strangeunknown. By one impulse they turned from each other and walked silentlyto the house. They were strangers, CHAPTER XLIX

That evening when Natalie was driving him home Lewis told her thatto-morrow was good-by. Gip, as usual, was holding Natalie's attention sothat she could scarcely pay heed to what Lewis was saying. But thecentral fact that he and Leighton were going hung in her mind and sankin slowly, so that when they got to the homestead she could say quiteevenly:

"Shall we see you again?"

"Of course, " said Lewis, "Dad and I will come over to say good-by. "

"Come for supper, " said Natalie. "I won't be home in the morning. Goodnight. "

Lewis walked slowly to the house, Natalie had not given him time to askwhy she would not be at home in the morning. He grudged giving thatmorning to any foreign interest. He wondered what he could do to killall that time alone. 

The next afternoon he and Leighton drove over to Aunt Jed's in state. Leighton was still held by his mood--a mood that was not morose so muchas distant. Lewis himself was in no good humor. The morning had palledon him even more than he had feared. Now he felt himself chilled when helonged to be warmed. Where his spirit cried out for sunshine, hisfather's mood threw only shadow. How tangible and real a thing was thatshadow he never realized until they reached Aunt Jed's and found that ithad got there before them. 

Despite mammy's art, the supper was a sad affair. It was not the sadnessof close-knitted hearts about to part that seized upon the company. Lovecan thrive on the bitter-sweet of that pain. It was a deepersadness--the sadness that in evil hours seizes upon the individual souland says: "You stand alone. From this desert place of the mind you canflee by the road of any trifling distraction, but into it no companionever enters. You stand alone. " "I myself, " cries the soul of man, andrecoils from that brink of infinite distance. Such was the mood thatLeighton had imposed on those he touched that day, for, while he couldtake no company into his desert place, by simply going there he coulddrive the rest each to his far wilderness. 

After supper they sat long in a silence without communion. It becameunbearable. In such an hour bodily nearness becomes a repulsion. Lewisrebelled. He looked indignantly at Natalie. She too was young. Why didnot her youth revolt? But Natalie wasn't feeling young that night. Shedid not answer his look. 

"Dad, " said Lewis, "I think we'd better go. We have to make an earlystart. "

"All right, " said Leighton, listlessly. "Tell Silas. "

Lewis rose and turned to Natalie. 

"Aren't you coming?" he asked. 

Natalie got up slowly, and drew a filmy white scarf--a cloud, she calledit--about her shoulders. There seemed an alien chill in the air. 

As they walked toward the barn, a memory that had been playinghide-and-seek with Lewis's mind throughout the evening suddenly met himfull in the face of thought. He stopped and stared at Natalie. She wasdressed in red. What was it they had called that birthday dress of longago? Accordion silk. The breeze caught Natalie's skirt and played withit, opening out the soft pleats and closing them again. The breezeseized upon the ends of the cloud and lifted them fitfully as thoughthey were wings too tired for full flight. 

"Nat, " whispered Lewis, "You remember the night I left Nadir. Is it thesame dress?"

"Silly, " said Natalie, smiling faintly. "I've grown ten inches sincethen. "

Lewis reached out slowly and took her hands. How he remembered thatgood-by, every bit of it! Natalie's hands gripping his shoulders, hisarms about her twitching, warm body, his face buried in her fragranthair! But to-night her hands were cold and trembling to withdrawal. Hefelt withdrawal in her whole body, so close to him, so far away. Why wasshe so far away? Suddenly he remembered yesterday--the moment when thestranger woman had looked out at him from Natalie's eyes. She was faraway because they two had traveled far from childhood. 

His own hands were hot. They were eager to seize Natalie, to draghimself back, and her with him, into childhood's land of faith. But heknew he had not the strength for that. He had only the strength to dropher cold hands and to turn and shout for Silas. 

On the way home Lewis plunged rebelliously against his father's mood. 

"Dad, " he said, "do you think Natalie belongs to the Old Guard?"

"The Old Guard?" repeated Leighton, vacantly. Then a gleam of-lightdawned in his eyes. "Your little pal--the Old Guard. No, she doesn'tbelong in the way of a recruit; she hasn't joined the ranks. Do you wantto know why? Because, boy, your little pal and women like her are thefoundation, the life's blood, of the Old Guard. She doesn't have tojoin. She is, was, and always will be the Old Guard itself. In hersingle heart she holds the seven worlds of women. "

"But, Dad, " said Lewis, half turning in his seat, "you don't knowNatalie. You've never once talked to her. "

Leighton shrugged his shoulders. 

"I've met lots of men that know God; I've never seen one that couldprove him. I know Natalie better--better----" Then suddenly his mindtrailed off to its desert place. He would speak no more that night. 

The next day they were off. Action and movement brought a measure ofrelief from the very start. Leighton glanced almost eagerly from thewindows of the hurrying train, watching for the sudden turn and the newview. There remained in his eyes, however, a desperate question. Was"going away" still the sovereign cure?

At New York a cable awaited him. He opened it, read it, and turnedbruskly to Lewis. 

"I'm not going to London, " he said. "I'm going to Naples direct. OldIvory will wait for me there. You'll be going to London, I suppose. "

For the first time Lewis felt far away from his father. He flushed. Hefelt like crying, because it came upon him suddenly that he was far awayfrom his father, that they had been traveling different roads for manydays. Pride came to his aid. 

"Yes, " he said, steadily, "I shall go to London. "

Leighton nodded and turned to Nelton. He gave him a string of rapidorders, to which Nelton answered with his frequent and unfailing: "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. "

"Wait here, " said Leighton. "I'm going to answer this. "

He hurried away, and Lewis, feeling unaccountably tired, sat down on adivan. Nelton remained on guard beside the bags, repulsing the attacksof too anxious bell-boys. To him came a large, heavy-faced person, pensively plying a toothpick. 

"Say, young feller, " he said, "how much do you get?"

Nelton stared, dumfounded, at the stranger. 

"How much do I get?" he stammered. 

"Yep, just that, " said the stranger. "What's your pay?"

Helton's face turned a brick red. He glared steadily into the stranger'seyes, but said nothing. 

"Well, well, never mind the figure if you're ashamed of it, " said thestranger, calmly. "This is my offer. If you'll shake your boss and cometo me, I'll double your pay every year so long as you stick to that'Yes, sir, thank you, sir, ' talk and manner. What do you say? Is it adeal?"

"What do I s'y?" repeated Nelton, licking his lips. Lewis, grinning onthe lounge, was eavesdropping with all his ears. 

"H--m--m, " said the stranger, "double your pay every year _if you keepit up_. "

"I s'y this, " said Nelton, a slight tremble in his voice, "I've beenserving gentlemen so long that I don't think we'd hit it off together, thank you. "

The stranger's shrewd eyes twinkled, but he was otherwise unmoved. 

"Perhaps you're right, " he mumbled, still plying his toothpick. "Anyway, I'm glad you're not a worm. " He drew a large business card from hispocket and held it out. "Come to me if you ever want a man's job. "

Nelton took the card and held it out as though he had been petrified inthe act. His bulging eyes watched the stranger as he sauntered leisurelyback to his seat, then they turned to Lewis. 

"What do you think of that?" they asked. 

Lewis held out his hand for the card and glanced at the name. 

"Nelton, " he said, "you've made a mistake. Better go over and tell theold boy you've reconsidered his proposition. I'll fix it up with dad. You'll be able to retire in three years. "

"Master Lewis, " said Nelton, gravely, "there's lots of people besidesyou and the governor that thinks we serving-men says 'Yes, sir, thankyou, sir, ' to any one for the syke of a guinea a week and keep. Now youand the stout party eating the toothpick over yonder knows better. "

CHAPTER L

On the following day, while Leighton and Lewis were sorting out theirthings and Nelton was packing, Leighton said:

"Nelton, you'd better go back to London with Mr. Lewis. "

"Beg your pardon, sir, " said Nelton from the depths of a trunk, "but I'dlike to go with you, sir. "

"Where to?" asked Leighton, surprised. "Africa?"

"Yes, sir, Africa, sir. "

Leighton paused for a moment before he said:

"Nelton, you can't go to Africa, not as a serving-man. You wouldn't beuseful and you wouldn't be comfortable. Africa's a queer place, thecradle of slavery and the land of the free. A place, " he continued, halfto himself, "where masters become men. They are freed from theirservants by the law that says white shall not serve white while theblack looks on lest he be amazed that the gods should wait upon eachother. "

He turned back to Nelton and added with a smile that was kindly:

"What would you do in a land where just to be white spells kingship--akingship held by the power to stand up to your thirty miles a day, tobear hunger and thirst without whimpering, to stand steady in danger, and to shoot straight and keep clean always? It's a land where all thewhites sit down to the same table, but it isn't every white that can getto the table. You mustn't think I'm picking on you, Nelton. The manthat's going with me is always hard up, but I heard him refuse an offerof Lord Dubbley's of all expenses and a thousand pounds down to take himon a trip. "

"Lord Dubbley!" repeated Nelton, impressed. "Is there anything w'at alord can't 'ave?"

"Yes, " said Leighton. "There are still tables you can't sit down at forjust money or name, but they are getting further and further away. "

"Mr. Lewis Leighton and servant" attracted considerable attention on the_Laurentia_, but let it be said to Lewis's credit, or, rather, to thecredit of his abstraction, that he did not notice it. Never before hadLewis had so much to think about. His parting with his father ought tohave been more than a formality. Why had it been a mere incident--anincident scarcely salient among the happenings of a busy day? As helooked back, Lewis began to see that it was not yesterday or the daybefore that he had parted from his father. When was it, then? Suddenlyit came upon him that their real farewell had been said in that still, deserted lane overlooking his father's land of dreams. 

The realization depressed him. He did not know why. He did not know thatthe physical partings in this world are as nothing compared with thosedivisions of the spirit that come to us unawares, that are never seen inanticipation, but are known all too poignantly when, missing from besideus some long familiar soul, we look back and see the parting of theways. 

Then there was another matter that had come to puzzle his inexperience. He knew nothing of his father's theory that there is no erotic affectionthat can stand a separation of six months in conjunction with sixthousand miles. To youth erotic affection is nonexistent; all emotionalimpulse is love. Along this road the race would have come to uttermarital disaster long ago were it not for the fact that youth takes in anew impulse with every breath. 

In certain aspects Lewis had the maturity of his age. People who lookedat him saw a man, not a boy. But there was a shy and hidden side of himthat was very young indeed. He was one of those men in whom youth isinherent, a legion that cling long to dreams and are ever ready to standand fall by some chosen illusion. Reason can not rob them of God, norwomen rob them of woman. 

To Lewis's youth had come a new impulse so entangled with contact withH lne, with Leighton, and with Natalie that he could not quite defineit. He only knew that it had pushed Folly back in his vision--so farback that his mind could not fasten upon and hold her in the place towhich he had given her a right. The realization troubled him. He worriedover it, but comforted himself with the thought that once his eyes couldfeast again upon her living self, she would blot out, as before, allelse in life. 

He should have arrived in London on Saturday night, but a heavy fog heldthe steamer to the open sea over night, and it was only late on Sundaymorning that he disembarked at Plymouth. Well on in the afternoon hereached town and rushed to the flat for a wash and a change beforeseeking Folly. 

Eager to taste the pleasures of surprising the lady of his choice, hehad sent her no word of his coming, and as a consequence he found herapartment empty--empty for him, for Folly was not in. Marie opened thedoor, and after a few gasping words of welcome told him that Folly hadjust gone out, that she was driving in the park; but wouldn't he come inand wait?

At first he said "Yes, " but his impatience did not let him even crossthe threshold. It drove him out to the park with the assurance that itwas better to hunt for a needle in a haystack than to sit down and waitfor the needle to crawl out to him. For a while he stood at a point ofvantage and watched the long procession of private motor-cars andcarriages, but he watched in vain. Depressed, he started to walk, andhis mood carried him away from the throng. 

He was walking head down when a lonely carriage standing by the curbdrew his eye. At first he thought desire had deceived his senses. Theequipage looked very like Folly's smart little victoria, but it wasempty, and the man on the box was a stranger. Lewis approached himdoubtfully. "Is this Miss Delaires's carriage?" he asked. 

The man looked him over before he answered:

"Yes, sir. "

"Where is Miss Delaires?" asked Lewis, his face brightening. 

"Doin' 'er mile, " replied the coachman. 

Lewis waved his hand toward a path to the right questioningly. The mannodded. Feeling suddenly young again, Lewis hurried along the path witha long and eager stride. He had not gone far when he saw a daintyfigure, grotesquely accompanied by a ragamuffin, coming toward him. Hedid not have to ask himself twice if the dainty figure was Folly's. Ifhe had been blind, the singing of the blood in his veins would havespelled her name. 

He stepped behind a screening bush and waited to spring out at her. Hiseyes fastened curiously upon the ragamuffin. He could see that he wasspeaking to Folly, and that she was paying no regard to him. PresentlyLewis could hear what he was saying:

"Aw, naow, lydy, give us a penny, won't cher?"

"I won't, " replied Folly, sharply. "I said I wouldn't, and I won't. I'llgive you up to the first officer we come to, though, if you don'tclear. "

"Ah, ga-am!" said the youth, whose head scarcely reached to Folly'swaist. "Course you won't give me no penny. _You_ ain't no lydy. "

Folly stopped in her tracks. Her face went suddenly livid with rage. 

"No lydy!" she cried in the most directly expressive of all idioms. "IfI wasn't a _perfect_ lydy, I'd slap your blankety blank little blank. "

At each word of the virile repartee of Cockneydom coming soincongruously from those soft lips, Lewis's heart went down and down inbig, jolting bumps. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he stepped outinto the path. Folly looked up and saw him. The look of amazement in hisface, eyes staring and mouth open and gulping, struck and held her for asecond before she realized who it was that stood before her. 

For just the fraction of a moment longer she was frightened and puzzledby Lewis's dumfounded mien; then her mind harked back for the clue andgot it. No one had to tell her that the game was up so far as Lewis wasconcerned. She knew it. Her face suddenly crinkled up with mirth. With apeal of laughter, she dodged him and ran improperly for her very properlittle turnout. He did not follow except with his eyes. 

"Larfin' at _us_, governor, " jibed the diminutive cockney, putting arail between himself and Lewis. "The 'uzzy! The minute I lays my heye onthat marm, I says, 'Blime yer, _you_ ain't no lydy'! I say, governor, give us a penny. "

Lewis turned away and took a few steps gropingly, head down, as thoughhe walked in a trance. Presently he stopped and came back, feeling withfinger and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. He drew out a gold coin, looked at it gravely, and flipped it across the rail at the ragamuffin. Then he turned and walked off with a rapid stride. 

The little cockney snatched at the coin, and popped it into his mouth. Too overwhelmed to speak his gratitude, he stood on his head until Lewiswas out of sight. It was the first time in his life that he had handled, much less possessed, a "thick un. "

CHAPTER LI

The expert surgeon, operating for blindness on the membranes of the eye, is denied the bulwark of an anesthetic. Such a one will tell you thatthe moment of success is the moment most pregnant with disaster. To thepatient who has known only the fraction of life that lies in darkness, the sudden coming of light is a miracle beyond mere resurrection fromthe dead. But he is warned he must avoid any spasm of joy. Should he cryout and start at the coming of the dawn, in that moment he bids farewellforever to the light of day. 

Something of this shock of sudden sight had come to Lewis, but it cameto him with no spasm of joy. A man who has been drugged does not awaketo joy, but to pain. Liberation and suffering too often walk hand inhand. Lewis had felt no bondage; consequently his freedom was asterrible as it was sudden. It plunged him into depths of depression hehad never before sounded. 

From the park he went mechanically to the flat, and sat for hours by thewindow looking out upon the dead Sunday gray of London. Darkness came, and with it Nelton and lights. Nelton remarked that there was nothing toeat in the house. 

"I know, " said Lewis, and sat on, too abject to dress and go out fordinner. In his depression his thoughts turned naturally to his father. He thought of joining him, and searched time-tables and sailings, onlyto find that he could not catch up with the expedition. Besides, as helooked back on their last days in America, he doubted whether his fatherwould have welcomed his coming. 

The next few days were terrible indeed, for Lady Derl, as he had feared, was out of town. He wrote to her, begging her to let him know where shewas and when she would come to London. For three days he waited for ananswer, and then the emptiness of the whole world, the despair ofisolation, drove him to his studio and to work. 

He had had an impulse to write to Natalie, even to go to her; but therewas a fineness in his nature that stopped him, a shame born of therealization of his blindness and of the pity in which H lne andLeighton and perhaps even Natalie must have held him. 

Suddenly the full import of H lne's intimate sacrifice in the disrobingof the palpitating sorrow of her life and of his father's immolation ofhis land of dreams struck him. They had done these things to make himsee, and he had remained blind. They had struck the golden chords of thepaean of mighty love, and he had clung, smiling and unhearing, to hispenny whistle. 

For the first time, and with Folly farther away than ever before, he sawher as she was. Once he had thought that she and youth were inseparable, that Folly _was_ youth. Now, in the power of sudden vision, he saw ashis father had seen all along, that Folly was as old as woman, that shehad never been young. 

These things did not come to Lewis in a single day, but in long hours ofwork spread over many weeks. He was laboring at a frieze, a commissionthat had come to him through Le Brux, and upon which he had doneconsiderable work before going to America. What he had done had not beenaltogether pleasing to his father. Lewis had felt it, though Leightonhad said little beyond damning it to success. 

Now Lewis saw the beginning he had made through his father's eyes. Hesaw the facile riot and exaggerations of youth, and contrasted theirquick appeal to a hurried age with the modesty of the art that hidesbehind the vision and reveals itself not to an age or to ages, but inthe long, slow measure of life everlasting. He undid all but theskeleton of what he had done, and on the bare frame built theprogression of repressed beauty which was to escape the glancing eyeonly to find a long abiding-place in the hearts of those who worshipseldom, but worship long. 

At last he got word from H lne. Has letter had followed her to theContinent and from there to Egypt. She wrote that she was tired oftravel, and was coming home. In a postscript she mentioned a glimpse ofLeighton at Port Said. Lewis was impatient to see her. He had begun toknow his liberation. 

The revelation that had come to him in the park was not destined tostand alone. Between such women as Folly and their victims exists analmost invariable camaraderie that forbids the spoiling of sport. Theinculcation of this questionable loyalty is considered by some the lastattribute of the finished adventuress, and by others it is said to bedue to the fact that such women draw and are drawn by men whose majorrule is to "play fair. " Both conclusions are erroneous, as any victimcan testify. 

The news that Lewis no longer followed in Folly's train permeated hisworld with a rapidity that has no parallel outside of London except inthe mental telegraphy of aboriginal Africa. Men soon began to talk tohim, to tell him things. He turned upon the first with an indignantquestion, "Why didn't you tell me this before?" and the informer staredat him and smiled until Lewis found the answer for himself and flushed. Ten thousand pointing fingers cannot show the sunrise to the blind. 

By the time H lne came back, Lewis not only knew his liberation, buthad begun to bless Folly as we bless the stroke of lightning thatstrikes at us and just misses. He complied with H lne's summonspromptly, but with a deliberation that surprised him, for it was notuntil he was on the way to her house that he realized that he had notroubles to pour out to her ear. 

Nevertheless, a sense of peace fell upon him as he entered the familiarroom of cheerful blue chintzes and light. H lne was as he had everknown her. She gave him a slow, measuring welcome, and then sat back andlet him talk. Woman's judgment may err in clinging to the last word, butnever is her finesse at fault in ceding the first. 

H lne heard Lewis's tale from start to finish with only oneinterruption. It took her five minutes to find out just what it wasFolly had said in her own tongue to the little cockney in his, and evenat that there were one or two words she had to guess. When she thoughtshe had them all, she sat up straight and laughed. 

Lewis stared at her. 

"Do you think it's funny?" he demanded. 

"Oh, no, of course not, " gasped Lady Derl, trying to gulp down hermirth. "Not at all. " And then she laughed again. 

Lewis waited solemnly for her to finish, then he told her of some of thethings he had heard at the club. 

"H lne, " he finished, "I want you to know that I don't only see what afool I was. I see more than that. I see what you and dad sacrificed tomy blindness. I want you to know that you didn't do it in vain. Sixmonths ago, if I had found Folly out, I would have gone to the dogs, taken her on her own terms, and said good-by to honor and my word todad. It's--it's from that that you have saved me. "

H lne waved her hand deprecatingly. 

"I did little enough for you, Lew. Not half what I would willingly havedone. But--but your dad--I wrote you I'd seen him just for an hour atPort Said. Your dad, Lew, he's given you all he had. "

"What do you mean?" asked Lewis, troubled. 

"Nothing, " said H lne, her thoughts wandering; "nothing that tellingwill show you. " She turned back to him and smiled. "Let's talk aboutyour pal Natalie. We're great friends. "

"Friends?" said Lewis. "Have you been writing to her?"

"Oh, no, " said H lne. "Women don't have to know each other to befriends. "

"Why, there's nothing more to tell about Natalie, " said Lewis. 

H lne looked him squarely in the eyes. 

"Tell me honestly, " she said; "haven't you wanted to go back toNatalie?"

Lewis flushed. He rose and picked up his hat and stick. 

"'You can give a new hat to a king, but it isn't everybody that willtake your cast-off clothes, ' That's one of dad's, of course. "

CHAPTER LII

Through that winter Lewis worked steadily forward to a goal that he knewhis father could not cavil at. He knew it instinctively. His graspsteadied to expression with repression, or, as one of his envious, buthonest, competitors put it, genius had bowed to sanity. 

It is usual to credit these rebirths in individual art to some greatgrief, but no great grief had come to Lewis. His work fulfilled itspromise in just such measure as he had fulfilled himself. In as much ashe had matured, in so much had his art. Man is not ripened by a shock, but by those elements that develop him to the point of feeling andknowing the shock when it comes to him. In a drab world, drab would havebeen Lewis's end; but, little as he realized it, his world had not beendrab. 

Three steady, but varying, lights had shone upon him. The influence ofNatalie, as soft and still as reflected light; of H lne, worldly beforethe world, but big of heart; and of Leighton, who had been judged in allthings that he might judge, had drawn Lewis up above his self-chosenlevel, given sight to his eyes, and reduced Folly to the proportions ofa little final period to the paragraph of irresponsible youth. 

To maturity Lewis had added a gravity that had come to him with therealization that in distancing himself from youth he had alsounwittingly drawn away from the hearts that had done most towardbringing him emancipation. He had no psychological turn of mind. Hecould not penetrate the sudden reserve that had fallen upon his fatheror the apparent increasing distraction with which H lne met his visits. He did not know that it is in youth and in age that hearts attain theirclosest contact and that the soul that finds itself, generally does soin solitude. 

He was hurt by the long silence of his father--a silence unbroken now inmonths, and by H lne's withdrawal, which was marked enough to make himprolong the intervals between his visits to her, and baffled him onthose rare occasions when they met. 

His life became somber and, as lightning comes only to clouds, so to hisclouded skies came the flash and the blow of a letter from Africa. Itwas not from his father, but from Old Ivory. He found it on thebreakfast table and started to open it, but some premonition arrestedhim. He laid it aside, tried to finish his meal, and failed. A thicknessin his throat would not let him eat. He left the table and went into theliving-room, closing the door behind him. 

He opened the letter and read the first few words, then he sat andstared for many a long minute into the fire, the half-crumpled sheetsheld tightly in his hand. 

Nelton opened the door. 

"Excuse me, sir, " he said; "you have an engagement at ten. "

"Break it by telephone, " said Lewis. "Don't come in again unless I ring. I'm out if anybody calls. "

When Nelton had closed the door, Lewis spread the letter on his knee andread:

 Dear Lew:

 All is well with your dad at last. I'm a poor hand to talk and a poorer to write, for my finger is crooked to hold a trigger, not a pen. But he gave me it to do. Don't take it too hard that a man with only plain words is blunt. Your father is gone. 

 I don't have to tell you that in the last few weeks before he left you your dad grew old. He's grown old before, but never as old as that. The other times, the mere sight and smell of Africa started his blood again. But this time he stayed old--until to-day. 

 To-day we were out after elephant, and your dad had won the toss for first shot. We hadn't gone a mile from camp when a lone bull buffalo crossed the trail, and your dad tried for him--a long, quick shot. The bullet only plowed his rump. The bull charged up the wind straight for us, and before the thunder of him got near enough to drown a shout, your dad yelled out "He's mine, Ive! He's mine!" I held my fire, God help me; so did your dad--held it till the bull had passed the death-line. You know with charging buffalo there's more to stop than just life. There's weight and momentum and there's a rage that no other, man or beast, can equal. 

 Your dad got him--got him with the perfect shot, --but not before the bull had passed the death-line. And so, dear boy, they broke even, a life for a life. And your dad was glad. With the bones of his body crushed to a pulp, he could smile as I've never seen him smile before. He pulled me down close to him and he said: "Bury me here--right here, Ive, and tell my boy I stopped to take on a side-tracked car. That's a part of our language. He'll understand. "

Lewis's eyes went blind over his father's words, his father's message. "Tell my boy I stopped to take on a side-tracked car. " Half across theworld those words carried him back and back over half of life to arattling train, a boy, and the wondrous stranger, speaking: "Every manwho goes through the stress of life has need of an individualphilosophy. . . Life to me is like this train; a lot of sections and a lotof couplings. . . Once in a while your soul looks out of the window andsees some long-forgotten, side-tracked car beckoning to be coupled onagain. If you try to go back and pick it up, you're done. "

Not in Africa had his father stopped to take on a side-tracked car, buton a day that was already months ago when, standing in a still, desertedlane, he turned to face forever that moment of his life that had nearesttouched divinity. 

Lewis sat pondering for hours. It was not grief he was feeling so muchas an immeasurable loss. One grieves at death when it seems futile, whenit robs youth or racks old age, when it devastates hopes or wrecks avision. But death had not come so to his father. It had come as afulfilment. Lewis knew instinctively that thus and thus only would hisfather have wished to strike into the royal road. 

But the loss seized upon his heart and made it ache. He thoughtdespondently, as which one of us has not, face to face with the fact ofdeath, of things undone and of words unsaid. How cruel seemed their lasthurried farewell, how hard that his father could not have known that hissacrifice had told for his boy's liberty, that his wisdom had rightlyseen the path his art must follow to its land of promise! "Hard foryou--only for you, " whispered the voice of his new-found maturity. 

It was natural that with reaction should come to Lewis a desire to talk, to seek comfort and sympathy, and it was natural that he should turn toH lne. He walked slowly to her house. The doorman turned from him topick up a note from the hall table. He handed it to Lewis. 

"Her ladyship is not in, sir, to-day. Her ladyship told me to give youthe note when you called. "

Lewis took the note and walked out. He opened it absently and read:

 Lew darling, I have heard. They will tell you that I am out. I'm not out, but I am broken. I cannot let you see me. Dear, I have given you all that I had to give. 

He stood stock-still and read the words again, then he raised his eyesand looked slowly about him. Street, faces, trees, walls, and towersfaded from his view. He stood in the midst of an illimitable void. Aterror of loneliness fell upon him. He felt as though his full heartmust speak or break, but in all his present world there was no ear tohear. Suddenly the impulse of a lifetime, often felt, seldom answered, came to him with an insistence that would not be denied. Go to Natalie. Tell Natalie. 

CHAPTER LIII

Spring was in the very act of birth when Lewis found himself once morein the old carryall threading the River Road. This time he sat besideOld William, and the horses plodded along slowly, tamed by the slackreins lying neglected on their backs. Old William was not driving. Hishands, loosely holding the lines, lay on his knees. Down his pink cheeksand into his white beard crawled tears from his wide blue eyes. 

"Glen dead! Little Glen Leighton dead!" he said aloud from time to time, and Lewis knew himself forgotten. He forgave the old man for the sake ofthe picture he conjured--a picture of that other boyhood when "littleGlen Leighton" and the wood-cutter had hunted and fished and roamedthese crowding hills together. 

The next day was one of pouring showers. Twice Lewis left the house, only to be turned back by the rain. He was not afraid of getting wet, but he was afraid of having to talk to Natalie indoors. He could notremember ever having talked to her hemmed in by four walls. 

But on the morrow he awoke to clean-washed skies and a fuzzy pale-greencarpet that spread across the fields and rose in bumps and mounds overtrees and budding shrubs. He left the homestead early, and struck outfor Aunt Jed's. As he approached the house, a strange diffidence fellupon him. He was afraid to go in. For an hour he sat on the top rail ofa fence and watched. 

At last Natalie came out. She started to walk toward him, but presentlyturned to the right. Lewis followed her. At first she walked fast, butsoon she began to pause beside some burst of green or tempting downymass of pussy-willow, as though she were in two minds whether to fillher arms and rush back, carrying spring into the house or to go on. Shewent on slowly until she reached the barrier of rails that closed theentrance to Leighton's land of dreams. Here Lewis came up with her. 

"Nat, " he said, "shall I help you over?"

Natalie whirled round at the sound of his voice. Just for a second therewas fright in her eyes; then color mounted swiftly into her pale cheeks, and her lips opened to speak, but she said nothing. There was somethingin Lewis's face that stopped her--a look of age and of hunger. Shewanted to ask him why he had come back, but her heart was beating sofast that she dared not trust her voice. 

Lewis was frightened, too. He was frightened lest he should find thestrange woman when he needed just the oldest pal he had in the world. 

"Nat, " he blurted out, "dad is dead. "

When a man thinks he is being clumsy and tactless with a woman, he isgenerally making a master stroke. At Lewis's words, so simple, sochild-like, the conscious flush died from Natalie's cheeks, her heartsteadied down, and her eyes filled with the sudden tears of sympathy. 

"Dead, Lew? Your dad dead?"

She put her arms around him and kissed him softly; then she drew him toa low rock. They sat down side by side. 

"Tell Natalie, " she said. 

Lewis could never remember that hour with Natalie except as a whole. Between the bursting of a dam and the moment when the pent-up watersstretch to their utmost level and peace there is no division of time. Heknew only that it was like that with him. He had come in oppression, hehad found peace. 

Then he looked up into Natalie's speaking face and knew that he hadfound more. He had found again his old pal. "A pal is one who can't dowrong who can't go wrong, who can't grow wrong. " Who had said that?H lne--H lne, who, never having seen Natalie save with the innervision, knew her for a friend. To Folly his body had cried, "Let us stayyoung together!" To Natalie his blood, his body, and his soul were readyto cry out, "Let us grow old together!"

Natalie had not followed the turn of his emotion. She broke in upon histhought and brought him back. 

"I never talked to your dad, but--we knew each other, we liked eachother. "

Lewis started. 

"That's funny, " he said. 

"Is it?" said Natalie. "I suppose it sounds odd, but--"

"No, " interrupted Lewis, "that's not what I mean. It's odd becauseH lne said just the same thing about you. She said you were greatfriends--that women didn't have to know each other to be friends. "

"They don't have to know men to be friends, either, " said Natalie, "unless--"

"Unless what?"

"Unless they love them. If they love them, they've got to know themthrough and through to be friends. Love twists a woman's vision. Lots ofwomen are ruined because they can't wait to see through and through. "

"Why, Nat, " said Lewis, "you're talking like dad. Dad nevertalks--talked--without turning on the light. "

"Doesn't he?" said Natalie. 

Lewis nodded. 

"There are people that think of dad as a bad man. He has told me so. Buthe wasn't bad to me or to H lne or Nelton or Old William, and we're theones that knew him best. "

For a time they were silent, then Natalie said: "Lew, you're older thanyou ever were before. Is it just losing your dad?"

Lewis shook his head. 

"No, " he said, "it wasn't that. I finished growing up just after I gotback to London. I'm not the only thing that has grown. My work--sometimeI'll show you my work before and after. I wish I could have shown it todad, --I wish I could have told him that I've said good-by to Folly. "

"Good-by to Folly?" cried Natalie, with a leap of the heart. Then herheart sank back. "You mean you've said good-by to foolishness, tochildish things?"

"Both, " said Lewis. "Folly Delaires and childish things. "

"Why?" asked Natalie, shortly. 

"Because, " said Lewis, "it was given me to see her through and through. "

"And now?" breathed Natalie, drawing slightly away from him lest he hearthe thumping of her heart. 

Lewis turned his head and looked at her. The flush was back in hercheeks, her eyes were wide and staring far away, her moist lips werehalf open, and her bosom rose and fell in the long, halting swell oftremulous breath. 

There is a beauty that transcends the fixed bounds of flesh, that leapsto the eye of love when all the world is blind. The flower that opensslowly, the face grown dear through half of life, needs no tenure inmemory. It lives. Tears can not dim its beauty nor age destroy itsgrace, for the vision is part of him who sees. 

The vision came to Lewis. His arms trembled to grip Natalie, to outrageher trust, and seize too lightly the promise of the years. 

"Now, Nat?" he said hoarsely. He raised his hands slowly, took off herhat, and tossed it aside. Then with trembling fingers he let down herhair. It tumbled about her shoulders in a gold and copper glory of lightand shade. Natalie did not stir. Lewis caught up a handful of her hairand held it against his cheek. "Now, " he said, "I stay here. Since longbefore the day you said that you and I would sail together to thebiggest island you've held my hand, and I've held yours. Sometimes I'veforgotten, but--but I've never really let go. I'll not let go now. I'llcling to you, walk beside you, live with you, hand in hand, until theday you know me through and through. 

"And then?" whispered Natalie. 

"Then I'll love you, " said Lewis, gravely. "For me you hold all theseven worlds of women. I've--I've been walking with my back to thelight. "

Natalie laughed--the soft laughter with which women choke back tears. She put up her hands and drew Lewis's head against her breast. 

THE END

JOHN FOX, JR'S. 

STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

+May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. +

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THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

[Illustration]

The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall treethat stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pinelured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when hefinally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the_footprints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, andthe trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madderchase than "the trail of the lonesome pine. "

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come. " Itis a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which oftensprings the flower of civilization. 

"Chad. " the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence hecame--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered andmothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in themountains. 

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair ofmoonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and theheroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight. " Twoimpetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's"charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in thelove making of the mountaineers. 

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some ofMr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. 

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THE NOVELS OF WINSTON CHURCHILL

THE INSIDE OF THE CUP. Illustrated by Howard Giles. 

The Reverend John Hodder is called to a fashionable church in amiddle-western city. He knows little of modern problems and in histheology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church coulddesire. But the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakeningfollows and in the end he works out a solution. 

A FAR COUNTRY. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This novel is concerned with big problems of the day. As _The Inside ofthe Cup_ gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so_A Far Country_ deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, withother vital issues confronting the twentieth century. 

A MODERN CHRONICLE. Illustrated by J. H. Gardner Soper. 

This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. Itis frankly a modern love story. 

MR. CREWE'S CAREER. Illus. By A. I. Keller and Kinneys. 

A new England state is under the political domination of a railway andMr, Crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the peopleis being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his owninterest in a political way. The daughter of the railway president playsno small part in the situation. 

THE CROSSING. Illustrated by S. Adamson and L. Baylis. 

Describing the battle of Fort Moultrie, the blazing of the Kentuckywilderness, the expedition of Clark and his handful of followers inIllinois, the beginning of civilization along the Ohio and Mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against Washington. 

CONISTON. Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn. 

A deft blending of love and politics. A New Englander is the hero, acrude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and thensurrendered all for the love of a woman. 

THE CELEBRITY. An episode. 

An inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalitiesbetween a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. It is the purest, keenest fun--and is American to the core. 

THE CRISIS. Illustrated with scenes from the Photo-Play. 

A book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendidpower and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that areinspiring. 

RICHARD CARVEL. Illustrated by Malcolm Frazer. 

An historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of Colonialtimes, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases andinteresting throughout. 

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ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

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THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton. 

Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexicanborder of the present day. A New York society girl buys a ranch whichbecomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal cowboys defend herproperty from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she iscaptured by them. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightfulclose. 

DESERT GOLD Illustrated by Douglas Duer. 

Another fascinating story of the Mexican border. Two men, lost in thedesert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go nofarther. The rest of the story describes the recent uprising along theborder, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectorshad willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE Illustrated by Douglas Duer. 

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormonauthority ruled. In the persecution of Jane Withersteen, a rich ranchowner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisiblehand of the Mormon Church to break her will. 

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN Illustrated with photograph reproductions. 

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desertand of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canonsand giant pines. " It is a fascinating story. 

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT Jacket in color. Frontispiece. 

This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely girl, whohas been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. TheMormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the secondwife of one of the Mormons--Well, that's the problem of thissensational, big selling story. 

BETTY ZANE Illustrated by Louis F. Grant. 

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautifulyoung sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. Lifealong the frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty's heroic defense of thebeleaguered garrison at Wheeling, the burning of the Fort, and Betty'sfinal race for life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story. 

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JACK LONDON'S NOVELS

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JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn. 

This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazingexperiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted withalcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is astring of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetableidea and makes a typical Jack London book. 

THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper. 

The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster andex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love andmarry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in theValley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. 

BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations. 

The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundationsof his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes tothe States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, andrecovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as amerciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking andbecomes a picture of degeneration. About this time he falls in love withhis stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but readthe story!

A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley. 

David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth Who came fromEngland to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a nativeand as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The lifeappealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. 

THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and CharlesLivingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper. 

A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color totransport the reader to primitive scenes. 

THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward. 

Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life intothe power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel ofadventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hailwith delight. 

WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. 

"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozennorth; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, andsurrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he isman's loving slave. 

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