THE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO DALLASATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO. , LIMITEDLONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTAMELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO

HIS FAMILY

BYERNEST POOLEAUTHOR OF "THE HARBOR"

New YorkTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 1917

_All rights reserved_

COPYRIGHT, 1916 AND 1917BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1917BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1917. 

TO M. A. 

HIS FAMILY

HIS FAMILY

CHAPTER I

He was thinking of the town he had known. Not of _old_ New York--he hadheard of that from old, old men when he himself had still been young andhad smiled at their garrulity. He was thinking of a _young_ New York, themighty throbbing city to which he had come long ago as a lad from the NewHampshire mountains. A place of turbulent thoroughfares, of shoutingdrivers, hurrying crowds, the crack of whips and the clatter of wheels; anuproarious, thrilling town of enterprise, adventure, youth; a city ofpulsing energies, the center of a boundless land; a port of commerce withall the world, of stately ships with snowy sails; a fascinating pleasuretown, with throngs of eager travellers hurrying from the ferry boats androlling off in hansom cabs to the huge hotels on Madison Square. A citywhere American faces were still to be seen upon all its streets, a cleanerand a kindlier town, with more courtesy in its life, less of the vulgarscramble. A city of houses, separate homes, of quiet streets with rustlingtrees, with people on the doorsteps upon warm summer evenings and groups ofyoungsters singing as they came trooping by in the dark. A place of musicand romance. At the old opera house downtown, on those dazzling eveningswhen as a boy he had ushered there for the sake of hearing the music, howthe rich joy of being alive, of being young, of being loved, had shone outof women's eyes. Shimmering satins, dainty gloves and little jewelledslippers, shapely arms and shoulders, vivacious movements, nods and smiles, swift glances, ripples, bursts of laughter, an exciting hum of voices. Then silence, sudden darkness--and music, and the curtain. The great widecurtain slowly rising. .. . 

But all that had passed away. 

Roger Gale was a rugged heavy man not quite sixty years of age. His broad, massive features were already deeply furrowed, and there were two bigflecks of white in his close-curling, grayish hair. He lived in a narrowred brick house down on the lower west side of the town, in a neighborhoodswiftly changing. His wife was dead. He had no sons, but three growndaughters, of whom the oldest, Edith, had been married many years. Lauraand Deborah lived at home, but they were both out this evening. It wasFriday, Edith's evening, and as was her habit she had come from herapartment uptown to dine with her father and play chess. In the livingroom, a cheerful place, with its lamp light and its shadows, itsold-fashioned high-back chairs, its sofa, its book cases, its low marblemantel with the gilt mirror overhead, they sat at a small oval table infront of a quiet fire of coals. And through the smoke of his cigar Rogerwatched his daughter. 

Edith had four children, and was soon to have another. A small demure womanof thirty-five, with light soft hair and clear blue eyes and limbs softlyrounded, the contour of her features was full with approaching maternity, but there was a decided firmness in the lines about her little mouth. As hewatched her now, her father's eyes, deep set and gray and with signs oflong years of suffering in them, displayed a grave whimsical wistfulness. For by the way she was playing the game he saw how old she thought him. Herplay was slow and absent-minded, and there came long periods when she didnot make a move. Then she would recall herself and look up with a littleaffectionate smile that showed she looked upon him as too heavy with hisage to have noticed her small lapses. 

He was grimly amused at her attitude, for he did not feel old at all. Withthat whimsical hint of a smile which had grown to be a part of him, hetried various moves on the board to see how far he could go withoutinterrupting her reveries. He checkmated her, re-lit his cigar and waiteduntil she should notice it. And when she did not notice, gravely he movedback his queen and let the game continue. How many hundreds of games, hethought, Edith must have played with him in the long years when his spiritwas dead, for her now to take such chances. Nearly every Friday evening fornearly sixteen years. 

Before that, Judith his wife had been here. It was then that the city hadbeen young, for to Roger it had always seemed as though he were justbeginning life. Into its joys and sorrows too he had groped his way as mostof us do, and had never penetrated deep. But he had meant to, later on. When in his busy city days distractions had arisen, always he had promisedhimself that sooner or later he would return to this interest or passion, for the world still lay before him with its enthralling interests, itsbeauties and its pleasures, its tasks and all its puzzles, intricate andbaffling, all some day to be explored. 

This deep zest in Roger Gale had been bred in his boyhood on a farm up inthe New Hampshire mountains. There his family had lived for manygenerations. And from the old house, the huge shadowy barn and the crudelittle sawmill down the road; from animals, grown people and still morefrom other boys, from the meadows and the mountain above with its cliffsand caves and forests of pine, young Roger had discovered, even in thoseearly years, that life was fresh, abundant, new, with countless gladbeginnings. 

At seventeen he had come to New York. There had followed hard struggles inlean years, but his rugged health had buoyed him up. And there had beengenial friendships and dreams and explorations, a search for romance, thestrange glory of love, a few furtive ventures that left him dismayed. Butthough love had seemed sordid at such times it had brought him crudeexultations. And if his existence had grown more obscure, it had beensomber only in patches, the main picture dazzling still. And still he hadbeen just making starts. 

He had ventured into the business world, clerking now at this, now at that, and always looking about him for some big opportunity. It had come and hehad seized it, despite the warnings of his friends. What a wild adventureit had been a bureau of news clippings, a business new and unheard of buthe had been sure that here was growth, he had worked at it day and night, and the business widening fast had revealed long ramifications which wentwinding and stretching away into every phase of American life. And thislife was like a forest, boundless and impenetrable, up-springing, intertwining. How much could _he_ ever know of it all?

Then had come his marriage. Judith's family had lived long in New York, butsome had died and others had scattered until only she was left. This househad been hers, but she had been poor, so she had leased it to some friends. It was through them he had met her here, and within a few weeks he hadfallen in love. He had felt profound disgust for the few wild oats he hadsown, and in his swift reaction he had overworshipped the girl, her beautyand her purity, until in a delicate way of her own she had hinted that hewas going too far, that she, too, was human and a passionate lover ofliving, in spite of her low quiet voice and her demure and sober eyes. 

And what beginnings for Roger now, what a piling up of intimate joys, surprises, shocks of happiness. There had come disappointments, too, suddensevere little checks from his wife which had brought him occasionalquestionings. This love had not been quite _all_ he had dreamed, this womannot so ardent. He had glimpsed couples here and there that set him toimagining more consuming passions. Here again he had not explored verydeep. But he had dismissed regrets like these with only a slightreluctance. For if they had settled down a bit with the coming of theirchildren, their love had grown rich in sympathies and silentunderstandings, in humorous enjoyment of their funny little daughters'chattering like magpies in the genial old house. And they had lookedhappily far ahead. What a woman she had been for plans. It had not been allsmooth sailing. There had come reverses in business, and at home one baby, a boy, had died. But on they had gone and the years had swept by until hehad reached his forties. Absorbed in his growing business and in histhriving family, it had seemed to Roger still as though he were juststarting out. 

But one day, quite suddenly, the house had become a strange place to himwith a strange remote figure in it, his wife. For he had learned that shemust die. There had followed terrible weeks. Then Judith had faced theirdisaster. Little by little she had won back the old intimacy with herhusband; and through the slow but inexorable progress of her ailment, againthey had come together in long talks and plans for their children. At thissame chessboard, in this room, repeatedly she would stop the game andsmiling she would look into the future. At one such time she had said tohim, "I wonder if it won't be the same with the children as it has been with us. No matter how long each one of them lives, won't their lives feel to themunfinished like ours, only just beginning? I wonder how far they will go. And then their children will grow up and it will be the same with them. Unfinished lives. Oh, dearie, what children all of us are. "

He had put his arm around her then and had held her very tight. And feelingthe violent trembling of her husband's fierce revolt, slowly bending backher head and looking up into his eyes she had continued steadily:

"And when you come after me, my dear, oh, how hungry I shall be for all youwill tell me. For you will live on in our children's lives. "

And she had asked him to promise her that. 

But he had not kept his promise. For after Judith's dying he had felthimself terribly alone, with eternity around him, his wife slipping faraway. And the universe had grown stark and hard, impersonal, relentless, cold. A storm of doubts had attacked his faith. And though he had resistedlong, for his faith in God had been rooted deep in the mountains of NewEngland, in the end it had been wrenched away, and with it he had lost allhope that either for Judith or himself was there any existence beyond thegrave. So death had come to Roger's soul. He had been deaf and blind to hischildren. Nights by the thousand spent alone. Like a gray level road in hismemory now was the story of his family. 

When had his spirit begun to awaken? He could not tell, it had been soslow. His second daughter, Deborah, who had stayed at home with her fatherwhen Laura had gone away to school, had done little things continually torouse his interest in life. Edith's winsome babies had attracted him whenthey came to the house. Laura had returned from school, a joyous creature, tall and slender, with snapping black eyes, and had soon made her presencefelt. One day in the early afternoon, as he entered the house there hadburst on his ears a perfect gale of laughter; and peering through theportières he had seen the dining-room full of young girls, a crew as wildas Laura herself. Hastily he had retreated upstairs. But he had enjoyedsuch glimpses. He had liked to see her fresh pretty gowns and to have hercome in and kiss him good-night. 

Then had come a sharp heavy jolt. His business had suffered from longneglect, and suddenly for two anxious weeks he had found himself facingbankruptcy. Edith's husband, a lawyer, had come to his aid and togetherthey had pulled out of the hole. But he had been forced to mortgage thehouse. And this had brought to a climax all the feelings of guiltinesswhich had so long been stirring within him over his failure to live up tothe promise he had made his wife. 

And so Roger had looked at his children. 

And at first to his profound surprise he had had it forced upon him thatthese were three grown women, each equipped with her own peculiar femininetraits and desires, the swift accumulations of lives which had expanded ina city that had reared to the skies in the many years of his long sleep. But very slowly, month by month, he had gained a second impression whichseemed to him deeper and more real. To the eye they were grown women all, but inwardly they were children still, each groping for her happiness andeach held back as he had been, either by checks within herself or by thegay distractions of the absorbing city. He saw each of his daughters, partsof himself. And he remembered what Judith had said: "You will live on inour children's lives. " And he began to get glimmerings of a newimmortality, made up of generations, an endless succession of other livesextending into the future. 

Some of all this he remembered now, in scattered fragments here and there. Then from somewhere far away a great bell began booming the hour, and itroused him from his revery. He had often heard the bell of late. A calmdeep-toned intruder, it had first struck in upon his attention somethingover two years ago. Vaguely he had wondered about it. Soon he had found itwas on the top of a tower a little to the north, one of the highestpinnacles of this tumultuous modern town. But the bell was not tumultuous. And as he listened it seemed to say, "There is still time, but you have notlong. "

Edith, sitting opposite him, looked up at the sound with a stir of relief. Ten o'clock. It was time to go home. 

"I wonder what's keeping Bruce, " she said. Bruce was still in his officedowntown. As a rule on Friday evenings he came with his wife to supperhere, but this week he had some new business on hand. Edith was vague aboutit. As she tried to explain she knitted her brows and said that Bruce wasworking too hard. And her father grunted assent. 

"Bruce ought to knock off every summer, " he said, "for a good solid month, or better two. Can't you bring him up to the mountains this year?" Hereferred to the old New Hampshire home which he had kept as a summer place. But Edith smiled at the idea. 

"Yes, I could bring him, " she replied, "and in a week he'd be perfectlycrazy to get back to his office again. " She compressed her lips. "I knowwhat he needs--and we'll do it some day, in spite of him. "

"A suburb, eh, " her father said, and his face took on a look of dislike. They had often talked of suburbs. 

"Yes, " his daughter answered, "I've picked out the very house. " He threw ather a glance of impatience. He knew what had started her on this line. Edith's friend, Madge Deering, was living out in Morristown. All very well, he reflected, but her case was not at all the same. He had known Madgepretty well. Although the death of her husband had left her a widow attwenty-nine, with four small daughters to bring up, she had gone ondeterminedly. Naturally smart and able, Madge was always running to town, keeping up with all her friends and with every new fad and movement there, although she made fun of most of them. Twice she had taken her girlsabroad. But Edith was quite different. In a suburb she would draw into herhouse and never grow another inch. And Bruce, poor devil, would commute andtake work home from the office. But Roger couldn't tell her that. 

"I'd be sorry to see you do it, " he said. "I'd miss you up in themountains. "

"Oh, we'd come up in the summer, " she answered. "I wouldn't miss themountains for worlds!"

Then they talked of summer plans. And soon again Edith's smooth prettybrows were wrinkling absorbedly. It was hard in her planning not to be surewhether her new baby would come in May or early June. It was only the firstof April now. While she talked her father watched her. He liked her quietfearlessness in facing the ordeal ahead. Into the bewildering city he felther searching anxiously to find good things for her small brood, to makeevery dollar count, to keep their little bodies strong, to guard theirhungry little souls from many things she thought were bad. Of all hisdaughters, he told himself, she was the one most like his wife. 

While she was talking Bruce came in. Of medium height and a wiry build, hisquick kindly smile of greeting did not conceal the fine tight lines abouthis mouth and between his eyes. His small trim moustache was black, but hishair already showed streaks of gray although he was not quite thirty-eight, and as he lit a cigarette his right hand twitched perceptibly. 

Bruce Cunningham had married just after he left law school. He had workedin a law office which took receiverships by the score, and through managingbankrupt concerns by slow degrees he had made himself a financial surgeon. He had set up an office of his own and was doing splendidly. But he workedunder fearful tension. Bruce had to deal with bankrupts who had barelyclosed their eyes for weeks, men half out of their minds from the strain, the struggle to keep up their heads in those angry waters of finance whichRoger vaguely pictured as a giant whirlpool. Though honest enough in hisown affairs, Bruce showed a genial relish for all the tricks of the savageworld which was as the breath to his nostrils. And at times he appeared sowise and keen he made Roger feel like a child. But again it was Bruce whoseemed the child. He seemed to be so naïve at times, and Edith had him sounder her thumb. Roger liked to hear Bruce's stories of business, whenEdith would let her husband talk. But this she would not often do, for shesaid Bruce needed rest at night. She reproved him now for staying so late, she wrung from him the fact that he'd had no supper. 

"Well, Bruce, " she exclaimed impatiently, "now isn't that just like you?You're going straight home--that's where you're going--"

"To be fed up and put to bed, " her husband grumbled good-naturedly. Andwhile she made ready to bundle him off he turned to his father-in-law. 

"What do you think's my latest?" he asked, and he gave a low chuckle whichRoger liked. "Last week I was a brewer, to-day I'm an engineer, " he said. "Can you beat it? A building contractor. Me. " And as he smoked hiscigarette, in laconic phrases he explained how a huge steel constructionconcern had gone to the wall, through building skyscrapers "on spec" andoutstripping even the growth of New York. "They got into court last week, "he said, "and the judge handed me the receivership. The judge and I havebeen chums for years. He has hay fever--so do I. "

"Come, Bruce, I'm ready, " said his wife. 

"I've been in their office all day, " he went on. "Their general manager wasstark mad. He hadn't been out of the office since last Sunday night, hesaid. You had to ask him a question and wait--while he looked at you andheld onto his chair. He broke down and blubbered--the poor damn fool--he'llbe in Matteawan in a week--"

"You'll be there yourself if you don't come home, " broke in Edith's voiceimpatiently. 

"And out of that poor devil, and out of the mess his books are in, I'vebeen learning engineering!"

He had followed his wife out on the steps. He turned back with a quickappealing smile:

"Well, good-night--see you soon--"

"Good-night, my boy, " said Roger. "Good luck to the engineering. "

"Oh, father dear, " cried Edith, from the taxi down below. "Remember supperSunday night--"

"I won't forget, " said Roger. 

 * * * * *

He watched them start off up the street. The night was soft, refreshing, and the place was quiet and personal. The house was one of a dozen others, some of red brick and some of brown stone, that stood in an uneven row on astreet but a few rods in length, one side of a little triangular parkenclosed by a low iron fence, inside of which were a few gnarled trees andthree or four park benches. On one of these benches his eye was caught bythe figure of an old woman there, and he stood a moment watching her, somememory stirring in his mind. 

Occasionally somebody passed. Otherwise it was silent here. But even in thesilence could be felt the throes of change; the very atmosphere seemedcharged with drastic things impending. Already the opposite house line hadbeen broken near the center by a high apartment building, and another stillhigher rose like a cliff just back of the house in which Roger lived. Stillothers, and many factory lofts, reared shadowy bulks on every hand. Fromthe top of one an enormous sign, a corset pictured forth in lights, flashedout at regular intervals; and from farther off, high up in the misty hazeof the night, could be seen the gleaming pinnacle where hour by hour thatgreat bell slowly boomed the time away. Yes, here the old was passing. Already the tiny parklet was like the dark bottom of a pit, with the hardsparkling modern town towering on every side, slowly pressing, pressing inand glaring down with yellow eyes. 

But Roger noticed none of these things. He watched the old woman on thebench and groped for the memory she had stirred. Ah, now at last he had it. An April night long, long ago, when he had sat where she was now, whilehere in the house his wife's first baby, Edith, had begun her life. .. . 

Slowly he turned and went inside. 

CHAPTER II

Roger's hearing was extremely acute. Though the room where he was sitting, his study, was at the back of the house, he heard Deborah's key at thestreet door and he heard the door softly open and close. 

"Are you there, dearie?" Her voice from the hallway was low; and hisanswer, "Yes, child, " was in the same tone, as though she were with him inthe room. This keen sense of hearing had long been a peculiar bond betweenthem. To her father, Deborah's voice was the most distinctive part of her, for often as he listened the memory came of her voice as a girl, unpleasant, hurried and stammering. But she had overcome all that. "Nogrown woman, " she had declared, when she was eighteen, "has any excuse fora voice like mine. " That was eleven years ago; and the voice she hadacquired since, with its sweet magnetic quality, its clear and easyarticulation, was to him an expression of Deborah's growth. As she took offher coat and hat in the hall she said, in the same low tone as before, "Edith has been here, I suppose--"

"Yes--"

"I'm so sorry I missed her. I tried to get home early, but it has been abusy night. "

Her voice sounded tired, comfortably so, and she looked that way as shecame in. Though only a little taller than Edith, she was of a sturdierbuild and more decided features. Her mouth was large with a humorous droopand her face rather broad with high cheekbones. As she put her soft blackhair up over her high forehead, her father noticed her birthmark, a faintcurving line of red running up from between her eyes. Imperceptible as arule, it showed when she was tired. In the big school in the tenementswhere she had taught for many years, she gave herself hard without stint toher work, but she had such a good time through it all. She had a way, too, he reflected, of always putting things in their place. As now she came inand kissed him and sank back on his leather lounge with a tranquil breathof relief, she seemed to be dropping school out of her life. 

Roger picked up his paper and continued his reading. Presently they wouldhave a talk, but first he knew that she wanted to lie quite still for alittle while. Vaguely he pictured her work that night, her class-roompacked to bursting with small Jews and Italians, and Deborah at theblackboard with a long pointer in her hand. The fact that for the last twoyears she had been the principal of her school had made little impressionupon him. 

And meanwhile, as she lay back with eyes closed, her mind still taut fromthe evening called up no simple class-room but far different places--a massmeeting in Carnegie Hall where she had just been speaking, some schoolswhich she had visited out in Indiana, a block of tenements far downtown andthe private office of the mayor. For her school had long curious arms thesedays. 

"Was Bruce here too this evening?" she asked her father presently. Rogerfinished what he was reading, then looked over to the lounge, which was ina shadowy corner. 

"Yes, he came in late. " And he went on to tell her of Bruce's"engineering. " At once she was interested. Rising on one elbow shequestioned him good-humoredly, for Deborah was fond of Bruce. 

"Has he bought that automobile he wanted?"

"No, " replied her father. "Edith said they couldn't afford it. "

"Why not?"

"This time it's the dentist's bills. Young Betsy's teeth aren'tstraightened yet--and as soon as she's been beautified they're going to putthe clamps on George. "

"Poor Georgie, " Deborah murmured. At the look of pain and disapproval onher father's heavy face, she smiled quietly to herself. George, who wasEdith's oldest and the worry of her days, was Roger's favorite grandson. "Has he been bringing home any more sick dogs?"

"No, this time it was a rat--a white one, " Roger answered. A glint of dryrelish appeared in his eyes. "George brought it home the other night. Hehad on a pair of ragged old pants. "

"What on earth--"

"He had traded his own breeches for the rat, " said Roger placidly. 

"No! Oh, father! Really!" And she sank back laughing on the lounge. 

"His school report, " said Roger, "was quite as bad as ever. "

"Of course it was, " said Deborah. And she spoke so sharply that her fatherglanced at her in surprise. She was up again on one elbow, and there was aneager expression on her bright attractive face. "Do you know what we'regoing to do some day? We're going to put the rat in the school, " Deborahsaid impatiently. "We're going to take a boy like George and study him tillwe think we know just what interests him most. And if in his case it'sanimals, we'll have a regular zoo in school. And for other boys we'll haveother things they really want to know about. And we'll keep them until fiveo'clock--when their mothers will have to drag them away. " Her father lookedbewildered. 

"But arithmetic, my dear. "

"You'll find they'll have learned their arithmetic without knowing it, "Deborah answered. 

"Sounds a bit wild, " murmured Roger. Again to his mind came the picture ofhordes of little Italians and Jews. "My dear, if I had _your children_ toteach, I don't think I'd add a zoo, " he said. And with a breath ofdiscomfort he turned back to his reading. He knew that he ought to questionher, to show an interest in her work. But he had a deep aversion for thosemillions of foreign tenement people, always shoving, shoving upward throughthe filth of their surroundings. They had already spoiled his neighborhood, they had flowed up like an ocean tide. And so he read his paper, frowningguiltily down at the page. He glanced up in a little while and saw Deborahsmiling across at him, reading his dislike of such talk. The smile which hesent back at her was half apologetic, half an appeal for mercy. And Deborahseemed to understand. She went into the living room, and there at the pianoshe was soon playing softly. Listening from his study, again the feelingcame to him of her fresh and abundant vitality. He mused a little enviouslyon how it must feel to be strong like that, never really tired. 

And while her father thought in this wise, Deborah at the piano, leaningback with eyes half closed, could feel her tortured nerves relax, couldfeel her pulse stop throbbing so and the dull aching at her temples littleby little pass away. She played like this so many nights. Soon she would beready for sleep. 

 * * * * *

After she had gone to bed, Roger rose heavily from his chair. By long habithe went about the house trying the windows and turning out lights. Last hecame to the front door. There were double outer doors with a ponderoussystem of locks and bolts and a heavy chain. Mechanically he fastened themall; and putting out the light in the hall, in the darkness he went up thestairs. He could so easily feel his way. He put his hand lightly, first onthe foot of the banister, then on a curve in it halfway up, again on thesharper curve at the top and last on the knob of his bedroom door. And itwas as though these guiding objects came out to meet him like old friends. 

In his bedroom, while he slowly undressed, his glance was caught by thepicture upon the wall opposite his bed, a little landscape poster done inrestful tones of blue, of two herdsmen and their cattle far up on amountainside in the hour just before the dawn, tiny clear-cut silhouettesagainst the awakening eastern sky. So immense and still, this birth of theday--the picture always gave him the feeling of life everlasting. Judithhis wife had placed it there. 

From his bed through the window close beside him he looked up at thecliff-like wall of the new apartment building, with tier upon tier ofwindows from which murmurous voices dropped out of the dark: now soft, nowsuddenly angry, loud; now droning, sullen, bitter, hard; now gay withlittle screams of mirth; now low and amorous, drowsy sounds. Tier upon tierof modern homes, all overhanging Roger's house as though presently to crushit down. 

But Roger was not thinking of that. He was thinking of his children--ofEdith's approaching confinement and all her anxious hunting about to findwhat was best for her family, of Bruce and the way he was driving himselfin the unnatural world downtown where men were at each other's throats, ofDeborah and that school of hers in the heart of a vast foul region oftenement buildings swarming with strange, dirty little urchins. And last hethought of Laura, his youngest daughter, wild as a hawk, gadding about theLord knew where. She even danced in restaurants! Through his children hefelt flowing into his house the seething life of this new town. Anddrowsily he told himself he must make a real effort, and make it soon, toknow his family better. For in spite of the storm of long ago which hadswept away his faith in God, the feeling had come to him of late thatsomewhere, in some manner, he was to meet his wife again. He rarely triedto think this out, for as soon as he did it became a mere wish, a hungrylonging, nothing more. So he had learned to let it lie, deep down inside ofhim. Sometimes he vividly saw her face. After all, who could tell? And shewould want to hear of her children. Yes, he must know them better. Some daysoon he must begin. 

Suddenly he remembered that Laura had not yet come home. With a sigh ofdiscomfort he got out of bed and went downstairs, re-lit the gas in thehallway, unfastened the locks and the chain at the door. He came back andwas soon asleep. He must have dozed for an hour or two. He was roused byhearing the front door close and a big motor thundering. And then like aflash of light in the dark came Laura's rippling laughter. 

CHAPTER III

On the next evening, Saturday, while Roger ate his dinner, Laura came tosit with him. She herself was dining out. That she should have dressed soearly in order to keep him company had caused her father some surprise, anda faint suspicion entered his mind that she had overdrawn at the bank, asshe had the last time she sat with him like this. Her manner certainly wasa bit strange. 

But Roger put the thought aside. Whatever she wanted, Laura was worth it. In a tingling fashion he felt what a glorious time she was having, what agorgeous town she knew. It was difficult to realize she was his owndaughter, this dashing stranger sitting here, playing idly with a knife andcaressing him with her voice and her eyes. The blue evening gown she waswearing to-night (doubtless not yet paid for) made her figure even moresupple and lithe, set off her splendid bosom, her slender neck, her creamyskin. Her hair, worn low over her temples, was brown with just a tinge ofred. Her eyes were black, with gleaming lights; her lips were warm andrich, alive. He did not approve of her lips. Once when she had kissed himRoger had started slightly back. For his daughter's lips were rouged, andthey had reminded him of his youth. He had asked her sister to speak toher. But Deborah had told him she did not care to speak to people in thatway--"especially women--especially sisters, " she had said, with a quietsmile. All very well, he reflected, but somebody ought to take Laura inhand. 

She had been his favorite as a child, his pet, his tiny daughter. Heremembered her on his lap like a kitten. How she had liked to cuddle there. And she had liked to bite his hand, a curious habit in a child. "I hurtdaddy!" He could still recollect the gay little laugh with which she saidthat, looking up brightly into his face. 

And here she was already grown, and like a light in the sober old house, fascinating while she disturbed him. He liked to hear her high pitchedvoice, gossiping in Deborah's room or in her own dainty chamber chattingwith the adoring maid who was dressing her to go out. He loved her joyousthrilling laugh. And he would have missed her from the house as he wouldhave missed Fifth Avenue if it had been dropped from the city. For thepicture Roger had formed of this daughter was more of a symbol than of agirl, a symbol of the ardent town, spending, wasting, dancing mad. It wasLaura who had kept him living right up to his income. 

"Where are you dining to-night?" he asked. 

"With the Raymonds. " He wondered who they were. "Oh, Sarah, " she added tothe maid. "Call up Mrs. Raymond's apartment and ask what time is dinnerto-night. "

"Are you going to dance later on?" he inquired. 

"Oh, I guess so, " she replied. "On the Astor Roof, I think they said--"

Her father went on with his dinner. These hotel dances, he had heard, ranwell into Sunday morning. How Judith would have disapproved. He hesitateduneasily. 

"I don't especially care for this dancing into Sunday, " he said. For amoment he did not look up from his plate. When he did he saw Lauraregarding him. 

"Oh, do you mind? I'm sorry. I won't, after this, " she answered. And Rogercolored angrily, for the glint of amusement in Laura's mischievous blackeyes revealed quite unmistakably that she regarded both her father and hisfeeling for the Sabbath as very dear and quaint and old. Old? Of course heseemed old to _her_, Roger thought indignantly. For what was Laura but achild? Did she ever think of anything except having a good time? Had sheever stopped to think out her own morals, let alone anyone else's? Was sheany judge of what was old--or of _who_ was old? And he determined then andthere to show her he was in his prime. Impatiently he strove to rememberthe names of her friends and ask her about them, to show a keen livelyinterest in this giddy gaddy life she led. And when that was rather afailure he tried his daughter next on books, books of the most modern kind. Stoutly he lied and said he was reading a certain Russian novel of which hehad heard Deborah speak. But this valiant falsehood made no impressionwhatever, for Laura had never heard of the book. 

"I get so little time for reading, " she murmured. And meanwhile she wasthinking, "As soon as he finishes talking, poor dear, I'll break the news. "

Then Roger had an audacious thought. He would take her to a play, byGeorge! Mustering his courage he led up to it by speaking of a play Deborahhad seen, a full-fledged modern drama all centered upon the right of awoman "to lead her own life. " And as he outlined the story, he saw he hadcaught his daughter's attention. With her pretty chin resting on one hand, watching him and listening, she appeared much older, and she seemedsuddenly close to him. 

"How would you like to go with me and see it some evening?" he inquired. 

"See what, my love?" she asked him, her thoughts plainly far away; and helooked at her in astonishment:

"That play I've just been speaking of!"

"Why, daddy, I'd love to!" she exclaimed. 

"When?" he asked. And he fixed a night. He was proud of himself. Eagerly hebegan to talk of opening nights at Wallack's. Roger and Judith, when theywere young, had been great first nighters there. And now it was Laura whodrew him out, and as he talked on she seemed to him to be smilingly tryingto picture it all. .. . "Now I'd better tell him, " she thought. 

"Do you remember Harold Sloane?" she asked a little strangely. 

"No, " replied her father, a bit annoyed at the interruption. 

"Why--you've met him two or three times--"

"Have I?" The queer note in her voice made him look up. Laura had risenfrom her chair. 

"I want you to know him--very soon. " There was a moment's silence. "I'mgoing to marry him, dad, " she said. And Roger looked at her blankly. Hefelt his limbs beginning to tremble. "I've been waiting to tell you when wewere alone, " she added in an awkward tone. And still staring up at her hefelt a rush of tenderness and a pang of deep remorse. Laura in love andsettled for life! And what did he know of the affair? What had he ever donefor her? Too late! He had begun too late! And this rush of emotion was sooverpowering that while he still looked at her blindly she was the first torecover her poise. She came around the table and kissed him softly on thecheek. And now more than ever Roger felt how old his daughter thought him. 

"Who is he?" he asked hoarsely. And she answered smiling, "A perfectly nice young man named Sloane. "

"Don't, Laura--tell me! What does he do?"

"He's in a broker's office--junior member of the firm, Oh, you needn'tworry, dear, he can even afford to marry _me_. "

They heard a ring at the front door. 

"There he is now, I think, " she said. "Will you see him? Would you mind?"

"See him? No!" her father cried. 

"But just to shake hands, " she insisted. "You needn't talk or say a word. We've only a moment, anyway. " And she went swiftly out of the room. 

Roger rose in a panic and strode up and down. Before he could recoverhimself she was back with her man, or rather her boy--for the fellow, toher father's eyes, looked ridiculously young. Straight as an arrow, slender, his dress suit irreproachable, the chap nevertheless was more thana dandy. He looked hard, as though he trained, and his smooth and ruddyface had a look of shrewd self-reliance. So much of him Roger fathomed inthe indignant cornered glance with which he welcomed him into the room. 

"Why, good evening, Mr. Gale--glad to see you again, sir!" Young Sloanenervously held out his hand. Roger took it and muttered something. Forseveral moments, his mind in a whirl, he heard their talk and laughter andhis own voice joining in. Laura seemed enjoying herself, her eyes brimmingwith amusement over both her victims. But at last she had compassion, kissed her father gaily and took her suitor out of the room. 

Soon Roger heard them leave the house. He went into his study, savagely bitoff a cigar and gripped his evening paper as though he meant to choke it. The maid came in with coffee. "Coffee? No!" he snapped at her. A fewmoments later he came to his senses and found himself smoking fast andhard. He heartily damned this fellow Sloane for breaking into the familyand asking poor Laura to risk her whole life--just for his own selfishpleasure, his whim! Yes, "whim" was the very word for it! Laura's attitude, too! Did she look at it seriously? Not at all! Quite plainly she saw hercareer as one long Highland fling and dance, with this Harry boy as herpartner! Who had he danced with in his past? The fellow's past must be goneinto, and at once, without delay!

Here indeed was a jolt for Roger Gale, a pretty shabby trick of fate. Thiswas not what he had planned, this was a little way life had of jabbing aman with surprises. For months he had been slowly and comfortably feelinghis way into the lives of his children, patiently, conscientiously. Butnow without a word of warning in popped this young whipper-snapper, turningthe whole house upside down! Another young person to be known, another lifeto be dug into, and with pick and shovel too! The job was far frompleasant. Would Deborah help him? Not at all. She believed in lettingpeople alone--a devilish easy philosophy! Still, he wanted to tell her atonce, if only to stir her up a bit. He did not propose to bear this alone!But Deborah was out to-night. Why must she always be out, he asked, in thatinfernal zoo school? But no, it was not school to-night. She was dining outin some café with a tall lank doctor friend of hers. Probably she was tomarry him!

"I'll have that news for breakfast!" Roger smote his paper savagely. Whycouldn't Laura have waited a little? Restlessly he walked the room. Then hewent into the hall, took his hat and a heavy stick which he used for hisnight rambles, and walked off through the neighborhood. It was the firstSaturday evening of Spring, and on those quiet downtown streets he metcouples strolling by. A tall thin lad and a buxom girl went into a cheapapartment building laughing gaily to themselves, and Roger thought ofLaura. A group of young Italians passed, humming "Trovatore, " and it puthim in mind of the time when he had ushered at the opera. Would Laura'syoung man be willing to usher? More like him to _tango_ down the aisle!

He reached Washington Square feeling tired but even more restless thanbefore. He climbed to the top of a motor 'bus, and on the lurching rideuptown he darkly reflected that times had changed. He thought of the Avenuehe had known, with its long lines of hansom cabs, its dashing broughams andcoupés with jingling harness, livened footmen, everything sprucelyup-to-date. How the horses had added to the town. But they were gone, andin their place were these great cats, these purring motors, sliding softlyby the 'bus. Roger had swift glimpses down into lighted limousines. In onea big rich looking chap with a beard had a dressy young woman in his arms. Lord, how he was hugging her! Laura would have a motor like that, kisseslike that, a life like that! She was the kind to go it hard! Ahead as faras he could see was a dark rolling torrent of cars, lights gleaming by thethousand. A hubbub of gay voices, cries and little shrieks of laughtermingled with the blare of horns. He looked at huge shop windows softlylighted with displays of bedrooms richly furnished, of gorgeous women'sapparel, silks and lacy filmy stuffs. And to Roger, in his mood of anxiouspremonition, these bedroom scenes said plainly, "O come, all ye faithful wives! Come let us adore him, and deck ourselvesto please his eye, to catch his eye, to hold his eye! For marriage is agame these days!"

Yes, Laura would be a spender, a spender and a speeder too! How much moneyhad he, that chap? And damn him, what had he in his past? How Roger hatedthe very thought of poking into another man's life! Poking where nobodywanted him! He felt desperately alone. To-night they were dancing, herecalled, not at a party in somebody's home, but in some flashy publicplace where girls of her kind and fancy women gaily mixed together! Howmixed the whole city was getting, he thought, how mad and strange, gone outof its mind, this city of his children's lives crowding in upon him!

CHAPTER IV

He breakfasted with Deborah late on Sunday morning. He had come down at theusual hour despite his long tramp of the previous night, for he wanted totell her the news and talk it all out before Laura came down--becauseDeborah, he hadn't a doubt, with her woman's curiosity had probed deep intoLaura's affairs in the many long talks they had had in her room. He hadoften heard them there. And so, as he waited and waited and still hisdaughter did not come, Roger grew distinctly annoyed; and when at last shedid appear, his greeting was perfunctory:

"What kept you out so late last night?"

"Oh, I was having a very good time, " said Deborah contentedly. She pouredherself some coffee. "I've always wanted, " she went on, "to see Laurareally puzzled--downright flabbergasted. And I saw her just like that lastnight. "

Roger looked up with a jerk of his head:

"You and Laura--together last night?"

"Exactly--on the Astor Roof. " At her father's glare of astonishment a lookof quiet relish came over her mobile features. Her wide lips twitched alittle. "Well, why not?" she asked him. "I'm quite a dancer down at school. And last night with Allan Baird--we were dining together, you know--heproposed we go somewhere and dance. He's a perfectly awful dancer, and so Iheld out as long as I could. But he insisted and I gave in, though I muchprefer the theater. "

"Well!" breathed Roger softly. "So you hoof it with the rest!" Hisexpression was startled and intent. Would he ever get to know these girls?"Well, " he added with a sigh, "I suppose you know what you're about. "

"Oh no, I don't, " she answered. "I never know what I'm about. If you alwaysdo, you miss so much--you get into a solemn habit of trying nothing tillyou're sure. But to return to Laura. As we came gaily down the room we ranright into her, you see. That's how Allan dances. And when we collided, Ismiled at her sweetly and said, 'Why, hello, dearie--you here too?" AndDeborah sipped her coffee. "I have never believed that the lower jaw of awell-bred girl could actually drop open. But Laura's did. With a goodstrong light, Allan told me, he could have examined her tonsils for her. Rather a disgusting thought. You see until she saw me there, poor Laura hadme so thoroughly placed--my school-marm job, my tastes and habits, everything, all cut and dried. She has never once come to my school, and inevery talk we've ever had there has always been some perfectly good andabsorbing reason why we should talk about Laura alone. "

"There is now, " said her father. He was in no mood for tomfoolery. Hisdaughter saw it and smiled a little. 

"What is it?" she inquired. And then he let her have it!

"Laura wants to get married, " he snapped. 

Deborah caught her breath at that, and an eager excited expression sweptover her attractive face. She had leaned forward suddenly. 

"Father! No! Which one?" she asked. "Tell me! Is it Harold Sloane?"

"It is. "

"Oh, dad. " She sank back in her chair. "Oh, dad, " she repeated. 

"What's the matter with Sloane?" he demanded. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing--it's all right--"

"It is, eh? How do you know it is?" His anxious eyes were still upon hers, and he saw she was thinking fast and hard and shutting him completely out. And it irritated him. "What do you know of this fellow Sloane?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing--"

"Nothing! Humph! Then why do you sit here and say it's all right? Don'ttalk like a fool!" he exclaimed. He waited, but she said no more, andRoger's exasperation increased. "He has money enough apparently--andthey'll spend it like March hares!"

Deborah looked up at him:

"What did Laura tell you, dear?"

"Not very much. I'm only her father. She had a dinner and dance on hermind. "

But Deborah pressed her questions and he gave her brief replies. 

"Well, what shall we do about it?" he asked. 

"Nothing--until we know something more. " Roger regarded her fiercely. 

"Why don't you go up and talk to her, then?"

"She's asleep yet--"

"Never mind if she is! If she's going to marry a chap like that and ruinher life it's high time she was up for her breakfast!"

While he scanned his Sunday paper he heard Deborah in the pantry. Sheemerged with a breakfast tray and he saw her start up to Laura's room. Shewas there for over an hour. And when she returned to his study, he saw hereyes were shining. How women's eyes will shine at such times, he toldhimself in annoyance. 

"Well?" he demanded. 

"Better leave her alone to-day, " she advised. "Harold is coming some nightsoon. "

"What for?"

"To have a talk with you. "

Her father smote his paper. "What did she tell you about him?" he asked. 

"Not much more than she told you. His parents are dead--but he has a richwidowed aunt in Bridgeport who adores him. They mean to be married the endof May. She wants a church wedding, bridesmaids, ushers--the weddingreception here, of course--"

"Oh, Lord, " breathed Roger dismally. 

"We won't bother you much, father dear--"

"You _will_ bother me much, " he retorted. "I propose to bebothered--bothered a lot! I'm going to look up this fellow Sloane--"

"But let's leave him alone for to-day. " She bent over her fathercompassionately. "What a night you must have had, poor dear. " Roger lookedup in grim reproach. 

"You like all this, " he grunted. "You, a grown woman, a teacher too. "

"I wonder if I do, " she said. "I guess I'm a queer person, dad, a curiousfamily mixture--of Laura and Edith and mother and you, with a good deal ofmyself thrown in. But it feels rather good to be mixed, don't you think?Let's stay mixed as long as we can--and keep together the family. "

 * * * * *

That afternoon, to distract him, Deborah took her father to a concert inCarnegie Hall. She had often urged him to go of late, but despite hisliking for music Roger had refused before, simply because it was a change. But why balk at going anywhere now, when Laura was up to such antics athome?

"Do you mind climbing up to the gallery?" Deborah asked as they entered thehall. 

"Not at all, " he curtly answered. He did mind it very much!

"Then we'll go to the very top, " she said. "It's a long climb but I wantyou to see it. It's so different up there. "

"I don't doubt it, " he replied. And as they made the slow ascent, pettishlyhe wondered why Deborah must always be so eager for queer places. Galleries, zoo schools, tenement slums--why not take a two dollar seat inlife?

Deborah seated him far down in the front of the great gallery, over at theextreme right, and from here they could look back and up at a huge dimarena of faces. 

"Now watch them close, " she whispered. "See what the music does to them. "

As the symphony began below the faces all grew motionless. And as the musiccast its spell, the anxious ruffled feelings which had been with Roger allthat day little by little were dispelled, and soon his imagination began towork upon this scene. He saw many familiar American types. He felt he knewwhat they had been doing on Sundays only a few years before. After churchthey had eaten large Sunday dinners. Then some had napped and some hadwalked and some had gone to Sunday school. At night they had had coldsuppers, and afterwards some had gone back to church; while others, as inRoger's house in the days when Judith was alive, had gathered around thepiano for hymns. Young men callers, friends of their daughters, had joinedin the family singing. Yes, some of these people had been like that. Tothem, a few short years ago, a concert on the Sabbath would have seemed asacrilege. He could almost hear from somewhere the echo of "Abide With Me. "

But over this memory of a song rose now the surging music of Tschaikovsky's"Pathetique. " And the yearnings and fierce hungers in this tumultuous musicswept all the hymns from Roger's mind. Once more he watched the gallery, and this time he became aware that more than half were foreigners. Out ofthe mass from every side individual faces emerged, swarthy, weird, andstaring hungrily into space. And to Roger the whole shadowy place, the veryair, grew pregnant, charged with all these inner lives bound together inthis mood, this mystery that had swept over them all, immense andformless, baffling, this furious demanding and this blind wistful gropingwhich he himself had known so well, ever since his wife had died and he hadlost his faith in God. What was the meaning of it all if life were nothingbut a start, and there were nothing but the grave?

"You will live on in our children's lives. "

He glanced around at Deborah. Was _she_ so certain, so serene? "What do Iknow of her?" he asked. "Little or nothing, " he sadly replied. And he triedto piece together from things she had told him her life as it had passedhim by. Had there been no questionings, no sharp disillusionments? Theremust have been. He recalled irritabilities, small acts and exclamations ofimpatience, boredom, "blues. " And as he watched her he grew sure that hisdaughter's existence had been like his own. Despite its different setting, its other aims and visions, it had been a mere beginning, a feeling for afoothold, a search for light and happiness. And Deborah seemed to him stilla child. "How far will _you_ go?" he wondered. 

Although he was still watching her even after the music had ceased, she didnot notice him for a time. Then she turned to him slowly with a smile. 

"Well? What did you see?" she asked. 

"I wasn't looking, " he replied. 

"Why, dearie, " she retorted. "Where's that imagination of yours?"

"It was with you, " he answered. "Tell me what you were thinking. "

And still under the spell of the music, Deborah said to her father, "I was thinking of hungry people--millions of them, now, this minute--notonly here but in so many places--concerts, movies, libraries. Hungry, oh, for everything--life, its beauty, all it means. And I was thinking this isyouth--no matter how old they happen to be--and that to feed it we haveschools. I was thinking how little we've done as yet, and of all thatwe're so sure to do in the many, many years ahead. Do you see what I mean?"she squeezed his hand. 

"Welcome back to school, " she said, "back into the hungry army of youth!. .. Sh-h-h!"

Again the music had begun. And sitting by her side he wondered whether itwas because she knew that Laura's affair had made him feel old that Deborahhad brought him here. 

 * * * * *

They went to Edith's for supper. 

The Cunninghams' apartment was on the west side, well uptown. It was notthe neighborhood which Edith would have chosen, for nearly all the nicepeople she knew lived east of the park. But rents were somewhat lower hereand there was at least an abundance of fresh air for her family. Edith hadfound that her days were full of these perplexing decisions. It was allvery simple to resolve that her children be old-fashioned, normal, wholesome, nice. But then she looked into the city--into schools andkindergartens, clothes and friends and children's parties, books and plays. And through them all to her dismay she felt conflicting currents, clashesbetween old and new. She felt New York. And anxiously she asked herself, "What is old-fashioned? What is normal? What is wholesome? What is nice?"Cautiously she made her way, testing and comparing, trying smallexperiments. Often sharply she would draw in her horns. She had strucksomething "common!" And she knew all this was nothing compared to thepuzzles that lay ahead. For from her friend, Madge Deering, whose girlswere well along in their 'teens, she heard of deeper problems. The girlswere so inquisitive. Dauntlessly Madge was facing each month the mostdisturbing questions. Thank Heaven, Edith had only one daughter. Sons werenot quite so baffling. 

So she had groped her way along. 

When her father and Deborah arrived, placidly she asked them what they hadbeen doing. And when she heard that they had been at a concert on theSabbath, though this was far from old-fashioned and something she would nothave done herself, it did not bother her half so much as the fact thatHannah, the Irish nurse, had slapped little Tad that afternoon. She hadnever known Hannah to do it before. Could it be that the girl was tired orsick? Perhaps she needed a few days off. "I must have a talk with her, "Edith thought, "as soon as father and Deborah go. "

Roger always liked to come here. Say what you would about Edith's habit ofkeeping too closely to her home, the children to whom she had devotedherself were a fine, clean, happy lot. Here were new lives in his family, glorious fresh beginnings. He sat on the floor with her three boys, watching the patient efforts of George to harness his perturbed white ratto Tad's small fire engine. George was a lank sprawling lad of fourteen, all legs and arms and elbows, with rumpled hair and freckled face, a quickbright smile and nice brown eyes--frank, simple, understandable eyes. Allbut one of Edith's children were boys, and boys were a blessed relief to aman who had three grown-up daughters. 

And while Roger watched them, with a gentle glow of anticipation he waitedfor what should follow, when as had been already arranged Deborah shouldbreak to her sister the news of Laura's engagement. And he was notdisappointed. The change in Edith was something tremendous. Until now soquietly self-absorbed, at the news that Laura was to be married instantlyshe was all alert. Sitting there in the midst of her children and facing atime of agony only a few weeks ahead which would add one more to herfamily, Edith's pretty florid face grew flushed and radiant as sheexclaimed, "What a perfectly wonderful thing for Laura! Now if only she can have achild!"

Her questions followed thick and fast, and with them her thoughts of whatshould be done. Bruce must look up this suitor at once. Bruce demurredstoutly but without avail. She eagerly questioned her sister as to Laura'splans for the wedding, but plainly she considered that Deborah was no womanto give her the full information she wanted. She must see Laura herself atonce. For though she had thoroughly disapproved of the gay helter-skelterexistence of her youngest sister, still Laura was now to be married, andthis made all the difference. 

Just before Roger and Deborah left, Edith drew her father aside, and with acurious concern and pity in her voice, she said, "I'm so sorry I shan't be able to help you with the wedding, dear, and makeit the sweet old-fashioned kind that mother would have wanted. Of coursethere's Deborah, she'll be there. But her head is so full of new ideas. I'mafraid she may find the house rather a burden after Laura has gone away. "Edith gave a worried little sigh. "I'll be so glad, " she added, "when weget that place in Morristown. We'll want you out there often, and for goodlong visits too. You may even find you'll care to try staying there with usfor a while. "

Roger scowled and thanked her. She had given him a shock of alarm. 

"So she thinks that Deborah will find the housekeeping too hard, " hereflected anxiously. And as he walked home with his daughter, he keptglancing at her face, which for all its look of quiet had so much tensitybeneath. She had packed her life so full of school. What if she wanted togive up their home? "She'll try, of course, she'll try her best--but she'llfind it too much of an added strain. " And again he felt that sickeningdread. Deborah said nothing. He felt as though they had drifted apart. 

And at night in his bed, as Roger stared up at the beetling cliff ofapartment windows just outside, drearily he asked himself how it would feelto live like that. 

CHAPTER V

One afternoon a few days later Roger was riding in the park. He rode"William, " a large lazy cob who as he advanced in age had so subtly andinsidiously slackened his pace from a trot to a jog that Roger barelynoticed how slowly he was riding. As he rode along he liked to watch thebroad winding bridle path with its bobbing procession of riders that keptappearing before him under the tall spreading trees. Though he knewscarcely anyone by name, he was a familiar figure here and he recognizedscores of faces. To many men he nodded at passing, and to not a fewalluring young dames, ardent creatures with bright eyes who gave him smilesof greeting, Roger gravely raised his hat. One was "The Silver Lady" in aBroadway musical show, but he thought she was "one of the Newport crowd. "He liked to make shrewd guesses like that. There were so many kinds ofpeople here. There were stout anxious ladies riding for figures and leanmorose gentlemen riding for health. There were joyous care-free girls, chatting and laughing merrily. There were some gallant foreigners, andthere were riding masters, and Roger could not tell them apart. There weremad boys from the Squadron who rode at a furious canter, and there weregroups of children, eager and flushed, excited and gay, with stolid groomsbehind them. The path in several places ran close beside the main road ofthe park, and with the coming of the dusk this road took on deep purplehues and glistened with reflections from countless yellow motor eyes. Andfrom the polished limousines, sumptuous young women smiled out upon theriders. 

At least so Roger saw this life. And after those bleak lonely yearsconfronted by eternity, it was good to come here and forget, to feelhimself for the moment a part of the thoughtless gaiety, the ease andluxury of the town. Here he was just on the edge of it all. Often as acouple passed he would wonder what they were doing that night. In theriding school where he kept his horse, it was a lazy pleasure to have theEnglish "valet" there pull off his boots and breeches--though if anyone hadtold him so, Roger would have denied it with indignation and surprise. Forwas he not an American?

It had been a wonderful tonic, a great idea of Laura's, this forcing him uphere to ride. In one of her affectionate moods, just after a sick spell hehad been through, his gay capricious daughter had insisted that he have hishorse brought down from the mountains. She had promised to ride with himherself, and she had done so--for a week. Since then he had often met herhere with one of her many smart young men. What a smile of greeting wouldflash on her face--when Laura happened to notice him. 

He was thinking of Laura now, and there was an anxious gleam in his eyes. For young Sloane was coming to dinner to-night. What was he going to say tothe fellow? Bruce had learned that Sloane played polo, owned and drove aracing car and was well liked in his several clubs. But what about womenand his past? Edith had urged her father to go through the lad's life witha fine tooth comb, and if he should find anything there to kick up no endof a row for the honor of the family. All of which was nothing but words, reflected Roger pettishly. It all came to this, that he had a most ticklishevening ahead! On the path as a rider greeted him, his reply was a dismalfrown. 

 * * * * *

Laura's suitor arrived at six o'clock. In his study Roger heard the bell, listened a moment with beating heart, then raised himself heavily from hischair and went into the hallway. 

"Ah, yes! It's you!" he exclaimed, with a nervous cordiality. "Come in, myboy, come right in! Here, let me help you with your coat. I don't know justwhere Laura is. Ahem!" He violently cleared his throat. "Suppose whilewe're waiting we have a smoke. " He kept it up back into his den. There thesuitor refused a cigar and carefully lit a cigarette. Roger noticed againhow young the chap was, and marriage seemed so ridiculous! All thisfeverish trouble was for something so unreal!

"Well, sir, " the candidate blurted forth, "I guess I'd better come right tothe point. Mr. Gale, I want to marry your daughter. "

"Laura?"

"Yes. " Roger cursed himself. Why had he asked, "Laura?" Of course it wasLaura! Would this cub be wanting Deborah?

"Well, my boy, " he said thickly. "I--I wish I knew you better. "

"So do I, sir. Suppose we begin. " The youth took a quick pull at hiscigarette. He waited, stirred nervously in his seat. "You'll have somequestions to ask, I suppose--"

"Yes, there are questions. " Roger had risen mechanically and was slowlywalking the room. He threw out short gruff phrases. "I'm not interested inyour past--I don't care about digging into a man--I never have and I neverwill--except as it might affect my daughter. That's the main question, Isuppose. Can you make her happy?"

"I think so, " said Sloane, decidedly. Roger gave him a glance ofdispleasure. 

"That's a large order, young man, " he rejoined. 

"Then let's take it in sections, " the youngster replied. Confound hisboyish assurance! "To begin with, " he was saying, "I rather think I havemoney enough. We'd better go into that, hadn't we?"

"Yes, " said Roger indifferently. "We might as well go into it. " Of coursethe chap had money enough. He was a money maker. You could hear it in hisvoice; you could see it in his jaw, in his small aggressive blondemoustache. Now he was telling briefly of his rich aunt in Bridgeport, ofthe generous start she had given him, his work downtown, his income. 

"Twenty-two thousand this year, " he said. "We can live on that all right, Iguess. "

"You won't starve, " was the dry response. Roger walked for a moment insilence, then turned abruptly on young Sloane. 

"Look here, young man, I don't want to dig, " he continued very huskily. "But I know little or nothing of what may be behind you. I don't care toask you about it now--unless it can make trouble. "

"It can't make trouble. " At this answer, low but sharp, Roger wheeled andshot a glance into those clear and twinkling eyes. And his own eyes gleamedwith pain. Laura had been such a little thing in the days when she had beenhis pet, the days when he had known her well. What could he do about it?This was only the usual thing. But he felt suddenly sick of life. 

"How soon do you want to get married?" he demanded harshly. 

"Next month, if we can. "

"Where are you going?"

"Abroad, " said Sloane. Roger caught at this topic as at a straw. Soon theywere talking of the trip, and the tension slackened rapidly. He had neverbeen abroad himself but had always dreamed of going there. With maps andbooks of travel Judith and he had planned it out. In imagination they hadlived in London and Paris, Munich and Rome, always in queer old lodgingslooking on quaint crooked streets. He had dreamed of long deliciousrambles, glimpses into queer old shops, vast, silent, dark cathedrals. ForLaura how different it would be. This boy of hers knew Europe as a groupof gorgeous new hotels. 

The moment Laura joined them, her father's eye was caught and held by thering upon her finger. Roger knew rings, they were his hobby, and this hugeyellow solitaire in its new and brilliant setting at once awakened hisdislike. It just fitted the life they were to lead! What life? As helistened to his daughter he kept wondering if she were so sure. Had shefelt no uneasiness? She must have, he decided, for all her gay excitement. One Laura in that smiling face; another Laura deep inside, doubting anduncertain, reaching for her happiness, now elated, now dismayed, exclaiming, "Now at last I'm starting!" Oh, what an ignorant child she was. He wanted to cry out to her, "You'll _always_ be just starting! You'llnever be sure, you'll never be happy, you'll always be just beginning tobe! And the happier you are, the more you will feel it is only a start!. .. And then-"

More and more his spirit withdrew from these two heedless children. Lateron, when Deborah came, he barely noticed her meeting with Sloane. Andthrough dinner, while they talked of plans for the wedding, the tripabroad, still Roger took no part at all. He felt dull and heavy. Deborahtoo, he noticed, after her first efforts to be welcoming and friendly, hadgradually grown silent. He saw her watching Laura with a mingled look ofaffection and of whimsical dismay. Soon after dinner she left them, andRoger smoked with the boy for a while and learned that he was twenty-nine. Both had grown uneasy and rather dull with each other. It was a relief whenagain Laura joined them, dressed to go out. She and her lover left thehouse. 

Roger sat motionless for some time. His cigar grew cold unheeded. One ofthe sorrows of his life had been that his only son had died. Bruce had beenalmost like a son. But this young man of Laura's? No. 

Later he went for his evening walk. And as though drawn by invisiblechains he strayed far down into the ghetto. Soon he was elbowing his waythrough a maze of uproarious tenement streets as one who had been theremany times. But he noticed little around him. He went on, as he had alwaysgone, seeing and hearing this seething life only as a background to his ownadventure. He reached his destination. Pushing his way through a swarm ofurchins playing in front of a pawnshop, he entered and was a long timeinside, and when he came out again at last the whole expression of his facehad undergone a striking change. As one who had found the solace he neededfor the moment, his pace unconsciously quickened and he looked about himwith brighter eyes. 

Around the corner from his home, he went into a small jewelry shop, aremnant of the town of the past. There were no customers in the place, andthe old Galician jeweler sat at the back playing solitaire. At sight ofRoger he arose; and presently in a small back room, beneath the glare of apowerful lamp, the two were studying the ring which Roger had found in theghetto that night. It was plain, just a thin worn band of gold with anemerald by no means large; but the setting was old and curious, andpersonal, distinctive. Somebody over in Europe had worked on it long andlovingly. Now as the Galician gently rubbed and polished and turned thering this way and that, the light revealed crude tiny figures, a man and awoman under a tree. And was that a vine or a serpent? They studied it longand absorbedly. 

At home, up in his bedroom, Roger opened a safe which stood in one corner, took out a large shallow tray and sat down with it by his lamp. A strangearray of rings was there, small and delicate, huge, bizarre; great signetrings and poison rings, love tokens, charms and amulets, rings which hadbeen worn by wives, by mistresses, by favorite slaves and by young girls inconvents; rings with the Madonna and rings with many other saints gravenon large heavy stones; rings French and Russian, Polish, Italian, Spanish, Syrian. Some were many centuries old. In nine shallow metal trays theyfilled the safe in Roger's room. Although its money value was small, theGale collection was well known to a scattered public of connoisseurs, andRoger took pride in showing it. But what had always appealed to him mostwas the romance, the mystery, stored up in these old talismans that hadlived so many ages, travelled through so many lands, decked so manyfingers. Roger had found every one of them in the pawnshops of New York. What new recruits to America had brought them here and pawned them? Fromwhat old cities had they come? What passions of love and jealousy, ofhatred, faith, devotion were in this glittering array? Roger's own loveaffair had been deep, but quiet and even and happy. All the wildadventures, the might-have-beens in his sex life, were gathered in thesedusky trays with their richly colored glints of light. 

Of his daughters, Laura had been the one most interested in his rings, andso he thought of Laura now as he placed in the tray the new ring he hadbought, the one he would have liked for her. But a vague uneasiness filledhis mind, for he knew she had the same craving as he for what gleamed outof these somber trays. The old Galician jeweler had long been quite afriend of hers, she had often dropped in at his shop to ask him curiousquestions about his women patrons. And it was just this side of him thatRoger did not care for. So many of those women were from a dubiousglittering world, and the old Galician took a weird vicarious joy in manyof the gay careers into which he sent his beloved rings, his brooches, earrings, necklaces, his clasps and diamond garters. And Laura loved tomake him talk. .. . Yes, she was her father's child, a part of himself. He, too, had had his yearnings, his burning curiosities, his youthful venturesinto the town. "You will live on in our children's lives. " With herinheritance what would she do? Would she stop halfway as he had done, orwould she throw all caution aside and let the flames within her rise?

He heard a step in the doorway, and Deborah stood there smiling. 

"A new one?" she inquired. He nodded, and she bent over the tray. "Poorfather, " Deborah murmured. "I saw you eyeing Laura's engagement ring atdinner to-night. It wasn't like this one, was it?" He scowled:

"I don't like what I see ahead of her. Nor do you, " he said. "Be honest. "She looked at him perplexedly. 

"We can't stop it, can we? And even if we could, " she said, "I'm not quitesure I'd want to. It's her love affair, not yours or mine--grown out of alife she made for herself--curious, eager, thrilled by it all--and in thecenter of her soul the deep glad growing certainty, 'I'm going to be abeautiful woman--I myself, I, Laura Gale!' Oh, you don't know--nor do I. And so she felt her way along--eagerly, hungrily, making mistakes--and youand I left her to do it alone. I'm afraid we both rather neglected her, dad, " Deborah ended sadly. "And all we can do now, I think, is to give herthe kind of wedding she wants. "

Roger started to speak but hesitated. 

"What is it?" she inquired. 

"Queer, " he answered gruffly, "how a man can neglect his children--as Ihave done, as I do still--when the one thing he wants most in life is tosee each one of 'em happy. "

CHAPTER VI

Roger soon grew accustomed to seeing young Sloane about the house. Theycould talk together more easily, and he began to call him Harold. Haroldasked him with Laura to lunch at the Ritz to meet the aunt from Bridgeport, a lady excessively stout and profound. But that ended the formalities. Ithad all been so much easier than Roger had expected. So, in its calm soberfashion, the old house took into its life this new member, these new plans, and the old seemed stronger for the new--for Laura and Edith and Deborahdrew together closer than they had been in many years. But only becausethey felt themselves on the eve of a still deeper and more lastingseparation, as the family of Roger Gale divided and went different ways. Attimes he noticed it sadly. Laura, who had scarcely ever been home fordinner, now spent many evenings here. She needed her home for her wedding, he thought. Each daughter needed it now and then. But as the years woreslowly on, the seasons when they needed it grew steadily wider and widerapart. .. . 

Early in May, when Roger came home from his office one night he foundEdith's children in the house. From the hallway he could hear their gayexcited voices, and going into the dining room he found them at theirsupper. Deborah was with them, and at once her father noticed how muchyounger she appeared--as she always did with these children who allidolized her so. She rose and followed him into the hall, and her quietvoice had a note of compassion. 

"Edith's baby is coming, " she said. 

"Good Lord. Is anything wrong?" he asked. 

"No, no, it's all right--"

"But I thought the child wasn't due for three weeks. "

"I know, and poor Edith is fearfully worried. It has upset all her plans. I'd go up and see her if I were you. Your supper is ready; and if you likeyou can have it with the children. "

There followed a happy boisterous meal, with much expectant chatter aboutthe long summer so soon to begin at the farm up in the mountains. George, whose hair was down over his eyes, rumpled it back absorbedly as he told ofa letter he had received from his friend Dave Royce, Roger's farmer, withwhom George corresponded. One of the cows was to have a calf, and Georgewas anxious to get there in time. 

"I've never seen a real new calf, new absolutely, " he explained. "And Iwant a look at this one the very minute that he's born. Gee, I hope we canget there in time--"

"Gee! So do I!" cried Bobby aged nine. And then Tad, the chubbythree-year-old who had been intently watching his brothers, slowly took thespoon from his mouth and in his grave sweet baby voice said very softly, "Gee. " At her end of the table, Elizabeth, blonde and short and ratherplump, frowned and colored slightly. For she was eleven and she knew therewas something dark and shameful about the way calves appear in barns. Andso, with a quick conscious cough, she sweetly interrupted:

"Oh, Aunt Deborah! Won't you please tell us about--about--"

"About--about, " jeered the ironical George. "About what, you little ninny?"Poor Elizabeth blushed desperately. She was neither quick nor resourceful. 

"Now, George, " said his aunt warningly. 

"Wasn't I talking?" the boy rejoined. "And didn't Betsy butt rightin--without even a thing to butt in about? About--about, " he jeered again. 

"About Paris!" cried his sister, successful at last in her frantic searchfor a proper topic of conversation. "Aunt Deborah's trip to Paris!"

"How many times has she told it already?" her brother replied withwithering scorn. "And anyhow, I was talking of cows!"

"Very well, " said his aunt, "we'll talk about cows, some cows I saw on alovely old farm in a little village over in France. "

"There!" cried his young sister. "Did she ever tell of _that_ part of hertrip?" And she made a little face at her brother. 

"I don't care, " he answered doggedly. "She has told about Paris lots oftimes--and that was what _you_ wanted. Yes, you did. You said, 'AboutParis. ' Didn't she, Bob?"

"You bet she did, " young Bob agreed. 

"Now, children, children, what does it matter?"

"All right, go ahead with your barn in France, " said George with patienttolerance. "Did they have any Holsteins?"

Soon the questions were popping from every side, while little Tad beamedfrom one to the other. To Tad it was all so wonderful, to be having supperaway from home, to be here, to go to bed upstairs, to take part perhaps ina pillow fight. .. . And glancing at the glowing face and the parted lips ofhis small grandson Roger felt a current of warm new life pour into hissoul. 

Early in the evening he went up to Edith's apartment. He found his daughterin her room, looking flushed and very tense. He took her arm and theywalked for a time. A trained nurse was soaping the windows. Roger asked thereason for this and was told that in case the baby did not come tillmorning the doctor wanted to pull up the shades in order to work bydaylight. "And neighbors in New York are such cats! You've no idea!" saidEdith. She looked out at the numberless windows crowding close about herhome, and she fairly bristled with scorn. "Oh, how I loathe apartments!"

"They seem to have come to stay, my dear. In a few years more New York willbe a city without a house, " he said. "Only a palace here and there. " Thethought flashed in his mind, "But I shall be gone. "

"Then we'll move out to the country!" she cried. Still walking the floorwith her father, she talked of the perplexities which in her feverish stateof mind had loomed suddenly enormous. She had planned everything so nicelyfor the baby to come the first of June, but now her plans were all upset. She did not want the children here, it would make too much confusion. Theyhad much better go up to the mountains, even though George and Elizabethlost their last few weeks at school. But who could she find to take them?Bruce was simply rushed to death with his new receivership. Laura wasgetting her trousseau. Deborah, said Edith, had time for nothing on earthbut school. 

"Suppose I take them, " Roger ventured. But she only smiled at this. "Mydear, " he urged, "your nurse will be with me, and when we arrive there'sthe farmer's wife. " But Edith impatiently shook her head. Her warm brighteyes seemed to picture it all, hour by hour, day and night, her childrenthere without her. 

"You poor dear, " she told him, "you haven't the slightest idea what itmeans. The summer train is not on yet, and you have to change three timeson the way--with all the children--luggage, too. And there are their naps, and all their meals. You don't arrive till late at night. No, " she decidedfirmly, "Bruce will simply have to go. " She drew a breath of discomfort. "You go and talk to him, " she said. 

"I will, my dear. " Roger looked at his daughter in deep concern. Awkwardlyhis heavy hand touched her small plump shoulder, and he felt the constantquivering there. "Now, now, " he muttered, uneasily, "it's going to be allright, you know--" And at that she gave him a rapid glance out of thosewarm hunted eyes, as though to ask, "What do you know of this?" And Rogerflinched and turned to the door. 

Bruce was working at his desk, with an old briar pipe in his teeth. Helooked up with a quick nervous smile which showed his dread of the comingordeal, but his voice had a carefully casual tone. 

"Does she want me now?" he asked. 

"No, " said Roger. And he told of her plan for the children. "I volunteeredmyself, " he added, "but she wouldn't hear to it. "

"Oh, my God, man, you wouldn't do, " said Bruce, in droll disparagement. "You with forty-nine bottles of pasteurized milk? Suppose you smashed one?Where'd you be? Moving our family isn't a job; it's a science, and I've gotmy degree. " He rose and his face softened. "Poor girl, she mustn't worrylike that. I'll run in and tell her I'll do it myself--just to get it offher mind. "

He went to his wife. And when he came back his dark features appeared alittle more drawn. 

"Poor devil, " thought Roger, "he's scared to death--just as I used to bemyself. "

"Pretty tough on a woman, isn't it?" Bruce muttered, smiling constrainedly. 

"Did Baird say everything's going well?" Baird was Edith's physician. 

"Yes. He was here this afternoon, and he said he'd be back this evening. "Bruce stopped with a queer little scowl of suspense. "I told her I'd see tothe trip with the kiddies, and it seemed to relieve her a lot. " His eyewent to a pile of documents that lay on the desk before him. "It'll playthe very devil with business, taking three days off just now. But I guess Ican manage it somehow--"

A muscle began to twitch on his face. He re-lit his pipe with elaboratecare and looked over at Roger confidingly:

"Do you know what's the matter with kids these days? It's the twentiethcentury, " he said. "It's a disease. It starts in their teeth. No moderngirl can get married unless she has had her teeth straightened for years. Our dentist's bill, this year alone, was over eight hundred dollars. Butthat isn't all. It gets into their young intestines, God bless 'em, andmakes you pasteurize all they eat. It gets into their nerves and tears 'emup, and your only chance to save 'em is school--not a common school but a'simple' school, tuition four hundred dollars a year. And you hire adancing teacher besides--I mean a rhythm teacher--and let 'em shake it outof their feet. And after that you buy 'em clothes--not fluffy clothes, but'simple' clothes, the kind which always cost the most. And then you build asimple home, in a simple place like Morristown. The whole idea issimplicity. If you can't make enough to buy it, you're lost. If you canmake enough, just barely enough, you get so excited you lose your head--anddo what I did Monday. "

The two men smiled at each other. Roger was very fond of Bruce. 

"What did you do Monday?" he asked. 

"I bought that car I told you about. "

"Splendid! Best thing in the world for you! Tell me all about it!"

And while Bruce rapidly grew engrossed in telling of the car's fine points, Roger pictured his son-in-law upon hot summer evenings (for Bruce spent hissummers in town) forgetting his business for a time and speeding out intothe country. Then he thought of Edith and the tyranny of her motherhood, always draining her husband's purse and keeping Edith so wrapt up in herchildren and their daily needs that she had lost all interest in anythingoutside her home. What was there wrong about it? He knew that Edith pridedherself on being like her mother. But Judith had always found time for herfriends. He himself had been more as Edith was now. How quickly afterJudith died he had dropped all friends, all interests. "That's it, " heruefully told himself, "Edith takes after her father. " And the same curiousfeeling which he had had with Laura, came back to him with her sister. Thisdaughter, too, was a part of himself. His deep instinctive craving to keepto himself and his family was living on in Edith, was already dominatingher home. What a queer mysterious business it was, this tie between a manand his child. 

He was thinking of this when Baird arrived. Allan Baird was not only thedoctor who had brought Edith's children into the world, he was besides anintimate friend, he had been Bruce's room-mate at college. As he camestrolling into the room with his easy greeting of "Well, folks--" his lowgruff voice, his muscular frame, over six feet two, and the kindly calmassurance in his lean strong visage, gave to Bruce and Roger the feeling ofsafety they needed. For this kind of work was his life. He had specializedon women, and after over fifteen years of toilsome uphill labor he hadbecome at thirty-seven one of the big gynecologists. He was taking hissuccess with the quiet relish of a man who had had to work for it hard. Andyet he had not been spoiled by success. He worked even harder thanbefore--so hard, in fact, that Deborah, with whom through Bruce and Edithhe had long ago struck up an easy bantering friendship, had sturdily setherself the task of prying open his eyes a bit. She had taken him to herschool at night and to queer little foreign cafés. And Baird, with a humorof his own, had retaliated by dragging her to the Astor Roof and to musicalplays. 

"If my eyes are to be opened, " he had doggedly declared, "I propose to havesome diamonds in the scenery, and a little cheery ragtime, too. You've gota good heart, Deborah Gale, but your head is full of tenements. "

To-night to divert Bruce's thoughts from his wife, Baird started himtalking of his work. In six weeks Bruce had crammed his mind with thedetails of skyscraper building, and his talk was bewildering now, bristlingwith technical terms, permeated through and through with the feeling ofstrain and fierce competition. As Roger listened he had again that sharpand oppressive sensation of a savage modern town unrelentingly pressing, pressing in. Restlessly he glanced at Baird who sat listening quietly. AndRoger thought of the likeness between their two professions. For Bruce, too, was a surgeon. His patients were the husbands in their distractingoffices. Baird's were the wives and mothers in their equally distractinghomes. Which were more tense, the husbands or wives? And, good Lord, whatwas it all about, this feverish strain of getting and spending? What werethey spending? Their very life's blood. And what were they getting?Happiness? What did most of them know of real happiness? How little theyknew, how blind they were, and yet how they laughed and chattered along, how engrossed in their little games. What children, oh, what children!

"And am I any better than the rest? Do I know what I'm after--what I'mabout?"

He left them soon, for he felt very tired. He went to his daughter to saygood-night. And in her room the talk he had heard became to him suddenlyremote, that restless world of small account. For in Edith, in the onebrief hour since her father had seen her last, there had come a greattransformation, into her face an eager light. She was slipping down into aweird small world which for a brief but fearful season was to be utterlyher own, with agony and bloody sweat, and joy and a deep mystery. Clumsilyhe took her hand. It was moist and he felt it clutch his own. He heard herbreathing rapidly. 

"Good-night, " he said in a husky tone. "I'll be so glad, my dear, soglad. "

For answer she gave him a hurried smile, a glance from her bright restlesseyes. Then he went heavily from the room. 

 * * * * *

At home he found Deborah sitting alone, with a pile of school papers in herlap. As he entered she slowly turned her head. 

"How is Edith?" she asked him. Roger told of his visit uptown, and spoke ofEdith's anxiety over getting the children up to the farm. 

"I'll take them myself, " said Deborah. 

"But how can you get away from school?"

"Oh, I think I can manage it. We'll leave on Friday morning and I can beback by Sunday night. I'll love it, " Deborah answered. 

"It'll be a great relief to her, " said Roger, lighting a cigar. Deborahresumed her work, and there was silence for a time. 

"I let George sit up with me till an hour after his bedtime, " she told herfather presently. "We started talking about white rats--you see it's stillwhite rats with George--and that started us wondering about God. Georgewonders if God really knows about rats. 'Has he ever stuck his face rightdown and had a good close look at one? Has God ever watched a rat stand upand brush his whiskers with both paws? Has he ever really laughed at rats?And that's another thing, Aunt Deborah--does God ever laugh at all? Does heknow how to take a joke? If he don't, we might as well quit right now!'"

Roger laughed with relish, and his daughter smiled at him:

"Then the talk turned from rats and God to a big dam out in the Rockies. George has been reading about it, he's thinking of being an engineer. Andthere was so much he wanted to know that he was soon upon the verge ofdiscovering my ignorance--when all of a sudden a dreamy look, oh, a verydreamy look, came into his eyes--and he asked me this. " And over her brightexpressive face came a scowl of boyish intensity: "Suppose I _was_ anengineer--and I was working on a dam, or may be a bridge, in the Rockies. And say it was pretty far down south--say around the Grand Canyon. I shouldthink they'd need a dam down there, or anyhow a bridge, ' said George. Andhe eyed me in a cautious way which said as plain as the nose on your face, 'Good Lord, she's only a woman, and she won't understand. ' But I showed himI was serious, and he asked me huskily, 'Suppose it was winter, AuntDeborah, and the Giants were in Texas. Do you think I could get a few daysoff?' And then before he could tell me the Giants were a baseball nine, Isaid I was sure he could manage it. You should have seen his face light up. And he added very fervently, 'Gee, it must be wonderful to be an engineerout there!'"

Roger chuckled delightedly and Deborah went on with her work. "How good sheis with young uns, " he thought. "What a knack she has of drawing 'em out. What a pity she hasn't some of her own. "

He slept until late the next morning, and awoke to find Deborah by his bed. 

"It's another boy, " she told him. Roger sat up excitedly. "Bruce has justtelephoned the news. The children and I have breakfasted, and they're goingout with their nurse. Suppose you and I go up and see Bruce and settle thistrip to the mountains. "

About an hour later, arriving at Edith's apartment, they found Brucedownstairs with Allan Baird who was just taking his departure. Bruce's darkeyes shone with relief, but his hand was hot and nervous. Allan, on thecontrary, held out to Edith's father a hand as steady and relaxed as wasthe bantering tone of his voice. 

"Bruce, " he said, "has for once in his life decided to do somethingsensible. He's going to drop his wretched job and take a week off with hischildren. "

"And worry every minute he's gone, " Deborah retorted, "and come back andwork day and night to catch up. But he isn't going to do it. I've decidedto take the children myself. "

"You have?" cried Bruce delightedly. 

"You'll do no such thing, " said Allan, indignant. 

"Oh, you go to thunder, " Bruce put in. "Haven't you any delicacy? Can't yousee this is no business of yours?"

"It isn't, eh, " Allan sternly rejoined. And of Deborah he demanded, "Didn'tyou say you'd go with me to 'Pinafore' this Saturday night?"

"Ah, " sneered Bruce. "So that's your game. And for one little night of yourpleasure you'd do me out of a week of my life!"

"Like that, " said Baird, with a snap of his fingers. 

"I'm going, though, " said Deborah. 

"Quite right, little woman, " Bruce admonished her earnestly. "Don't let himrob you of your happiness. "

"Come here, " growled Baird to Deborah. She followed him into the livingroom, and Roger went upstairs with Bruce. 

"If he ever hopes to marry that girl, " said Bruce, with an anxious backwardglance, "he's got to learn to treat her with a little consideration. "

"Quit your quarreling, " Roger said. "What's a week in the mountains to you?Hasn't your wife just risked her life?"

"Sure she has, " said Bruce feelingly. "And I propose to stick by her, too. "

"Can I see her?"

"No, you can't--another of Baird's fool notions. "

"Then where's the baby?"

"Right in here. "

Silently in front of the cradle Bruce and Roger stood looking down with thecontent which comes to men on such occasions when there is no woman bytheir side expecting them to say things. 

"I made it a rule in my family, " Roger spoke up presently, "to have myfirst look at each child alone. "

"Same here, " said Bruce. And they continued their silent communion. A fewmoments later, as they were leaving, Deborah came into the room and wentsoftly to the cradle. Downstairs they found that Allan had gone, and whenDeborah rejoined them she said she was going to stick to her plan. It wassoon arranged that she and the youngsters should start on their journey thefollowing day. 

Back at home she threw herself into the packing and was busy till late thatnight. At daybreak she was up again, for they were to make an early start. Bruce came with his new automobile, the children were all bundled in, together with Deborah and their nurse, and a half hour later at the trainBruce and Roger left them--Deborah flushed and happy, surrounded byluggage, wraps, small boys, an ice box, toys and picture books. The smallred hat upon her head had already been jerked in a scrimmage, far down overone of her ears. 

"Don't worry about us, Bruce, " she said. "We're going to have the time ofour lives!" Bruce fairly beamed his gratitude. 

"If she don't marry, " he declared, as he watched the train move slowly out, "there'll be a great mother wasted. "

CHAPTER VII

In the weeks which followed, Roger found the peace of his home sointerrupted and disturbed by wedding preparations that often retreatinginto his den he earnestly told himself he was through, that a man withthree grown daughters was a fool to show any sympathy with the utter follyof their lives. Yield an inch and they took a mile! It began one night whenDeborah said, "Now, dearie, I think you had better make up your mind to give Laura justthe kind of wedding she likes. "

And Roger weakly agreed to this, but as time wore on he discovered that thekind of wedding Laura liked was a thing that made his blood run cold. Thereseemed to be no end whatever to the young bride's blithe demands. Thetrousseau part of it he didn't mind. To the gowns and hats and gloves andshoes and trunks and jaunty travelling bags which came pouring into thehouse, he made no objection. All that, he considered, was fair play. Butwhat got on Roger's nerves was this frantic fuss and change! The faded hallcarpet had to come up, his favorite lounge was whisked away, the piano wasre-tuned while he was trying to take a nap, rugs were beaten, crates andbarrels filled the halls, and one whole bedroom stripped and bare wastransformed into a shop where the wedding presents were displayed. In theshuffle his box of cigars disappeared. In short, there was the devil topay!

And Deborah, was as bad as the bride. At times it appeared to Roger asthough her fingers fairly itched to jab and tug at his poor old house, which wore an air of mute reproach. She revealed a part of her nature thathe viewed with dark amazement. Every hour she could spare from school, shewas changing something or other at home--with an eager glitter in her eyes. Doing it all for Laura, she said. Fiddlesticks and rubbish! She did itbecause she liked it!

In gloomy wrath one afternoon he went up to see Edith and quiet down. Shewas well on the way to recovery, but instead of receiving solace here heonly found fresh troubles. For sitting up in her old-fashioned bed, with anold-fashioned cap of lace upon her shapely little head, Edith made herfather feel she had washed her hands of the whole affair. 

"I'm sorry, " she said in an injured tone, "that Laura doesn't care enoughabout her oldest sister to put off the wedding two or three weeks so Icould be there. It seems rather undignified, I think, for a girl to hurryher wedding so. I should have loved to make it the dear simple kind ofwedding which mother would have wanted. But so long as she doesn't care forthat--and in fact has only found ten minutes--once--to run in and see thebaby--"

In dismay her father found himself defending the very daughter of whom hehad come to complain. It was not such a short engagement, he said, he hadlearned they had been engaged some time before they told him. 

"Do you approve of that?" she rejoined. "When I was engaged, I made Brucego to you before I even let him--" here Edith broke off primly. "Of coursethat was some time ago. An engagement, Laura tells me, is 'a mereexperiment' nowadays. They 'experiment' till they feel quite sure--thennotify their parents and get married in a week. "

"She is rushing it, I admit, " Roger soothingly replied. "But she has hermind set on Paris in June. "

"Paris in June, " said Edith, "sums up in three words Laura's wholeconception of marriage. You really ought to talk to her, father. It's yourduty, it seems to me. "

"What do you mean?"

"I'd rather not tell you. " Edith's glance went sternly to the cradle by herbed. "Laura pities me, " she said, "for having had five children. "

"Oh, now, my dear girl!"

"She does, though--she said as much. When she dropped in the other day andI tried to be sympathetic and give her a little sound advice, she said Ihad had the wedding I liked and the kind of married life I liked, and shewas going to have hers. And she made it quite plain that her kind is toinclude no children. It's to be simply an effort to find by 'experiment'whether or not she loves Hal Sloane. If she doesn't--" Edith gave a slightbut emphatic wave of dismissal. 

"Do you mean to say Laura told you that?" her father asked with an angryfrown. 

"I mean she made me feel it--as plainly as I'm telling it! What I can'tunderstand, " his daughter went on, "is Deborah's attitude in the affair. "

"What's the matter with Deborah?" inquired Roger dismally. 

"Oh, nothing's the matter with Deborah. She's quite self-sufficient. She atleast can play with modern ideas and keep her head while she's doing it. But when poor Laura--a mere child with the mind of a chicken--catchesvaguely at such ideas, applies them to her own little self and risks herwhole future happiness, it seems to me perfectly criminal for Deborah notto interfere! Not even a word of warning!"

"Deborah believes, " said her father, "in everyone's leading his own life. "

"That's rot, " was Edith's curt reply. "Do I lead my own life? Does Bruce?Do you?"

"No, " growled Roger feelingly. 

"Do my children?" Edith demanded. "I know Deborah would like them to. That's her latest and most modern fad, to run a school where every childshall sit with a rat in its lap or a goat, and do just what hepleases--follow his natural bent, she says. I hope she won't come up to themountains and practice on my children. I should hate to break withDeborah, " Edith ended thoughtfully. 

Roger rose and walked the room. The comforting idea entered his mind thatwhen the wedding was over he would take out his collection of rings andcarefully polish every one. But even this hope did not stay with him long. 

"With Laura at home, " he heard Edith continue, "you at least had a daughterto run your house. If Deborah tries to move you out--"

"She won't!" cried Roger in alarm. 

"If she does, " persisted Edith, "or if she begins any talk of the kind--youcome to me and _I'll_ talk to her!"

Her father walked in silence, his head down, frowning at the floor. 

"It seems funny, " Edith continued, "that women like me who give childrentheir lives, and men like Bruce who are building New York--actually doingit all the time--have so little to say in these modern ideas. I supposeit's because we're a little too real. "

"To come back to the wedding, " Roger suggested. 

"To come back to the wedding, father dear, " his daughter saidcompassionately. "I'm afraid it's going to be a 'mere form' which will makeyou rather wretched. When you get so you can't endure it, come in and seeme and the baby. "

As he started for home, her words of warning recurred to his mind. Yes, here was the thing that disturbed him most, the ghost lurking under allthis confusion, the part which had to do with himself. It was bad enough toknow that his daughter, his own flesh and blood, was about to settle herfate at one throw. But to be moved out of his house bag and baggage! Rogerstrode wrathfully up the street. 

"It's your duty to talk to her, " Edith had said. And he meditated darkly onthis: "Maybe I will and maybe I won't. I know my duties without being told. How does Edith know what her mother liked? We had our own likings, hermother and I, and our own ideas, long after she was tucked into bed. Andyet she's always harping on 'what mother would have wanted. ' What I shouldlike to know--right now--is what Judith would want if she were here!"

With a pang of utter loneliness amid these vexing problems, Roger felt itcrowding in, this city of his children's lives. As he strode on downBroadway, an old hag selling papers thrust one in his face and he caught aglimpse of a headline. Some bigwig woman re-divorced. How about Laura's"experiment"? A mob of street urchins nearly upset him. How about Deborah?How about children? How about schools, education, the country? How aboutGod? Was anyone thinking? Had anyone time? What a racket it made, slam-banging along. The taxis and motor trucks thundered and brayed, darkmasses of people swept endlessly by, as though their very souls depended ontheir dinners or their jobs, their movies, roaring farces, thrills, theirharum scarum dances, clothes. A plump little fool of a woman, her skirt sotight she could barely walk, tripped by on high-heeled slippers. That wasit, he told himself, the whole city was high-heeled! No solid footinganywhere! And, good Lord, how they chattered!

He turned into a less noisy street. What would Judith want if she werehere? It became disturbingly clear to him that she would undoubtedly wishhim to have a talk with Laura now, find out if she'd really made up hermind not to have any children, and if so to tell her plainly that she wasnot only going against her God but risking her own happiness. For thoughJudith had been liberal about any number of smaller things, she had beendecidedly clear on this. Yes, he must talk to Laura. 

"And she'll tell me, " he reflected, "that Edith put me up to it!"

If only his oldest daughter would leave the other girls alone! Here she wasplanning a row with Deborah over whether poor young George should beallowed to play with rats! It was all so silly!. .. Yes, his three childrenwere drifting apart, each one of them going her separate way. And he rathertook comfort in the thought, for at least it would stop their wrangling. But again he pulled himself up with a jerk. No, certainly Judith would nothave liked this. If she'd ever stood for anything, it was for keeping thefamily together. It had been the heart and center of their last talksbefore she died. 

His face relaxed as he walked on, but in his eyes was a deeper pain. Ifonly Judith could be here. Before he reached home he had made up his mindto talk with Laura that very night. He drew out his latchkey, opened hisdoor, shut it firmly and strode into his house. In the hall they wereputting down the new carpet. Cautiously picking his way upstairs, heinquired for Laura and was told she was dressing for dinner. He knocked ather door. 

"Yes?" came her voice. 

"It's I, " he said, "your father. "

"Oh, hello, dad, " came the answer gaily, in that high sweet voice of hers. "I'm frightfully rushed. It's a dinner dance to-night for the bridesmaidsand the ushers. " Roger felt a glow of relief. "Come in a moment, won'tyou?"

What a resplendent young creature she was, seated at her dresser. Behindher the maid with needle and thread was swiftly mending a little tear inthe fluffy blue tulle she was wearing. The shaded light just over her headbrought a shimmer of red in her sleek brown hair. What lips she had, what abosom. She drew a deep breath and smiled at him. 

"What are you doing to-morrow night?" her father asked her. 

"Oh, dad, my love, we have every evening filled and crammed right up to thewedding, " she replied. "No--the last evening I'll be here. Hal's giving hisushers a dinner that night. "

"Good. I want to talk to you, my dear. " He felt his voice solemn, a greatmistake. He saw the quick glance from her luminous eyes. 

"All right, father--whenever you like. "

Much embarrassed Roger left the room. 

The few days which remained were a crowding confusion of dressmakers, gownsand chattering friends and gifts arriving at all hours. As a part of hisresolve to do what he could for his daughter, Roger stayed home from hisoffice that week. But all he could do was to unpack boxes, take outpresents and keep the cards, and say, "Yes, my dear, it's very nice. Whereshall I put this one?" As the array of presents grew, from time to timeunconsciously he glanced at the engagement ring upon Laura's finger. Andall the presents seemed like that. They would suit her apartmentbeautifully. He'd be glad when they were out of the house. 

The only gift that appealed to his fancy was a brooch, neither rich nornew, a genuine bit of old jewelry. But rather to his annoyance he learnedthat it had been sent to Laura by the old Galician Jew in the shop aroundthe corner. It recalled to his mind the curious friendship which hadexisted for so long between the old man and his daughter. And as she turnedthe brooch to the light Roger thought he saw in her eyes anticipationswhich made him uneasy. Yes, she was a child of his. "June in Paris--"other Junes--"experiments"--no children. Again he felt he must have thattalk. But, good Lord, how he dreaded it. 

The house was almost ready now, dismantled and made new and strange. It wasthe night before the wedding. Laura was taking her supper in bed. What washe going to say to her? He ate his dinner silently. At last he rose withgrim resolution. 

"I think I'll go up and see her, " he said. Deborah quickly glanced at him. 

"What for?" she asked. 

"Oh, I just want to talk to her--"

"Don't stay long, " she admonished him. "I've a masseuse coming at nineo'clock to get the child in condition to rest. Her nerves are rather tense, you know. "

"How about mine?" he said to himself as he started upstairs. "Never mind, I've got to tackle it. "

Laura saw what he meant to say the moment that he entered the room, and thetightening of her features made it all the harder for Roger to thinkclearly, to remember the grave, kind, fatherly things which he had intendedto tell her. 

"I don't want to talk of the wedding, child, but of what's coming afterthat--between you and this man--all your life. " He stopped short, with hisheart in his mouth, for although he did not look at her he had a quicksensation as though he had struck her in the face. 

"Isn't this rather late to speak about that? Just now? When I'm nervousenough as it is?"

"I know, I know. " He spoke hurriedly, humbly. "I should have talked to youlong ago, I should have known you better, child. I've been slack andselfish. But it's better late than never. "

"But you needn't!" the girl exclaimed. "You needn't tell me anything! Iknow more than you think--I know enough!" Roger looked at her, then at thewall. She went on in a voice rather breathless: "I know what I'mdoing--exactly--just what I'm getting into. It's not as it was when youwere young--it's different--we talk of these things. Harold and I havetalked it all out. " In the brief and dangerous pause which followed Rogerkept looking at the wall. 

"Have you talked--about having children?"

"Yes, " came the answer sharply, and then he felt the hot clutch of herhand. "Hadn't you better go now, dad?" He hesitated. 

"No, " he said. His voice was low. "Do you mean to have children, Laura?"

"I don't know. "

"I think you do know. Do you mean to have children?" Her big black eyes, dilating, were fixed defiantly on his own. 

"Well then, no, I don't!" she replied. He made a desperate effort to thinkwhat he could say to her. Good God, how he was bungling! Where were all hisarguments?

"How about your religion?" he blurted out. 

"I haven't any--which makes me do that--I've a right to be happy!"

"You haven't!" His voice had suddenly changed. In accent and in quality itwas like a voice from the heart of New England where he had been born andbred. "I mean you won't be happy--not unless you have a child! It's whatyou need--it'll fill your life! It'll settle you--deepen you--tone youdown!"

"Suppose I don't want to be toned down!" The girl was almost hysterical. "I'm no Puritan--I want to live! I tell you we are different now! We're notall like Edith--and we're not like our mothers! We want to live! And wehave a right to! Why don't you go? Can't you see I'm nearly crazy? It's mylast night, my very last! I don't want to talk to you--I don't even knowwhat I'm saying! And you come and try to frighten me!" Her voice caughtand broke into sobs. "You know nothing about me! You never did! Leave mealone, can't you--leave me alone!"

"Father?" He heard Deborah's voice, abrupt and stern, outside the door. 

"I'm sorry, " he said hoarsely. He went in blind fashion out of the room anddown to his study. He lit a cigar and smoked wretchedly there. Whenpresently Deborah appeared he saw that her face was set and hard; but asshe caught the baffled look, the angry tortured light in his eyes, her ownexpression softened. 

"Poor father, " she said, in a pitying way. "If Edith had only let youalone. "

"I certainly didn't do much good. "

"Of course you didn't--you did harm--oh, so much more harm than you know. "Into the quiet voice of his daughter crept a note of keen regret. "I wantedto make her last days in this house a time she could look back on, so thatshe'd want to come home for help if ever she's in trouble. She has solittle--don't you see?--of what a woman needs these days. She has grown upso badly. Oh, if you'd only let her alone. It was such a bad, bad time tochoose. " She went to her father and kissed him. "Well, it's over now, " shesaid, "and we'll make the best we can of it. I'll tell her you're sorry andquiet her down. And to-morrow we'll try to forget it has happened. "

 * * * * *

For Roger the morrow went by in a whirl. The wedding, a large churchaffair, was to take place at twelve o'clock. He arose early, put on hisPrince Albert, went down and ate his breakfast alone. The waitress wasflustered, the coffee was burnt. He finished and anxiously wandered about. The maids were bustling in and out, with Deborah giving orders pellmell. The caterers came trooping in. The bridesmaids were arriving and hurryingup to Roger's room. That place was soon a chaos of voices, giggles, pealsof laughter. Laura's trunks were brought downstairs, and Roger tagged themfor the ship, one for the cabin and three for the hold, and saw them intothe wagon. Then he strode distractedly everywhere, till at last he washustled by Deborah into a taxi waiting outside. 

"It's all going so smoothly, " Deborah said, and a faint sardonic glimmercame into her father's hunted eyes. Deborah was funny!

Soon he found himself in the church. He heard whispers, eager voices, heardone usher say to another, "God, what a terrible head I've got!" And Rogerglared at him for that. Plainly these youngsters, all mere boys, had beenup with the groom a good part of the night. .. . But here was Laura, pale andtense. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. There was silence, then theorgan, and now he was taking her up the aisle. Strange faces stared. Hisjaw set hard. At last they reached the altar. An usher quickly touched hisarm and he stepped back where he belonged. He listened but understoodnothing. Just words, words and motions. 

"If any man can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joinedtogether, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace. "

"No, " thought Roger, "I won't speak. "

Just then he caught sight of Deborah's face, and at the look in her steadygray eyes all at once he could feel the hot tears in his own. 

At the wedding breakfast he was gay to a boisterous degree. He talked tostrange women and brought them food, took punch with men he had never laideyes on, went off on a feverish hunt for cigars, came back distractedly, joked with young girls and even started some of them dancing. The wholeaffair was over in no time. The bride and the groom came rushingdownstairs; and as they escaped from the shower of rice, Roger ran afterthem down the steps. He gripped Sloane's hand. 

"Remember, boy, it's her whole life!" entreated Roger hoarsely. 

"Yes, sir! I'll look out! No fear!"

"Good-bye, daddy!"

"God bless you, dear!"

They were speeding away. And with the best man, who looked weary and spent, Roger went slowly back up the steps. It was an effort now to talk. ThankHeaven these people soon were gone. Last of all went the ponderous aunt ofthe groom. How the taxi groaned as he helped her inside and started her offto Bridgeport. Back in his study he found his cigars and smoked onedismally with Bruce. Bruce was a decent sort of chap. He knew when to besilent. 

"Well, " he spoke finally, rising, "I guess I'll have to get back to theoffice. " He smiled a little and put his hand on Roger's weary shoulder. "We're glad it's over--eh?" he asked. 

"Bruce, " said Roger heavily, "you've got a girl of your own growing up. Don't let her grow to feel you're old. Live on with her. She'll need you. "His massive blunt face darkened. "The world's so damnably new, " hemuttered, "so choked up with fool ideas. " Bruce still smiledaffectionately. 

"Go up and see Edith, " he said, "and forget 'em. She never lets one intothe flat. She said you were to be sure to come and tell her about thewedding. "

"All right, I'll go, " said Roger. He hunted about for his hat and coat. What a devilish mess they had made of the house. A half hour later he waswith Edith; but there, despite his efforts to answer all her questions, hegrew heavier and heavier, till at last he barely spoke. He sat watchingEdith's baby. 

"Did you talk to Laura?" he heard her ask. 

"Yes, " he replied. "It did no good. " He knew that Edith was waiting formore, but he kept doggedly silent. 

"Well, dear, " she said presently, "at least you did what you could forher. "

"I've never done what I could, " he rejoined. "Not with any one of you. " Heglanced at her with a twinge of pain. "I don't know as it would have helpedmuch if I had. This town is running away with itself. I want a rest now, Edith, I want things quiet for a while. " He felt her anxious, pitying look. 

"Where's Deborah?" she asked him. "Gone back to school already?"

"I don't know where she is, " he replied. And then he rose forlornly. "Iguess I'll be going back home, " he said. 

On his way, as his thoughts slowly cleared, the old uneasiness rose in hismind. Would Deborah want to keep the house? Suppose she suggested moving tosome titty-tatty little flat. No, he would not stand in her way. But, Lord, what an end to make of his life. 

His home was almost dark inside, but he noticed rather to his surprise thatthe rooms had already been put in order. He sank down on the living roomsofa and lay motionless for a while. How tired he was. From time to time hedrearily sighed. Yes, Deborah would find him old and life here dull andlonely. Where was she to-night, he wondered. Couldn't she quit her zooschool for one single afternoon? At last, when the room had grown pitchdark, he heard the maid lighting the gas in the hall. Roger loudly clearedhis throat, and at the sound the startled girl ejaculated, "Oh, my Gawd!"

"It's I, " said Roger sternly. "Did Miss Deborah say when she'd be back?"

"She didn't go out, sir. She's up in her room. "

Roger went up and found her there. All afternoon with both the maids shehad been setting the house to rights, and now she ached in every limb. Shewas lying on her bed, and she looked as though she had been crying. 

"Where have you been?" she inquired. 

"At Edith's, " her father answered. She reached up and took his hand, andheld it slowly tighter. 

"You aren't going to find it too lonely here, with Laura gone?" she askedhim. And the wistfulness in her deep sweet voice made something thrill inRoger. 

"Why should I?" he retorted. Deborah gave a queer little laugh. 

"Oh, I'm just silly, that's all, " she said. "I've been having a fit ofblues. I've been feeling so old this afternoon--a regular old woman. Iwanted you, dearie, and I was afraid that you--" she broke off. 

"Look here, " said Roger sharply. "Do you really want to keep this house?"

"Keep this house? Why, father!"

"You think you can stand it here alone, just the two of us?" he demanded. 

"I can, " cried Deborah happily. Her father walked to the window. There ashe looked blindly out, his eyes were assaulted by the lights of all thosetitty-tatty flats. And a look of vicious triumph appeared for a moment onhis face. 

"Very well, " he said quietly, turning back. "Then we're both suited. " Hewent to the door. "I'll go and wash up for supper, " he said. 

CHAPTER VIII

It was a relief to him to find how smoothly he and Deborah dropped backinto their old relations. It was good to get home those evenings; for inthis new stage of its existence, with its family of two, the house appearedto have filled itself with a deep reposeful feeling. Laura had gone out ofits life. He glanced into her room one night, and it looked like a guestroom now. The sight of it brought him a pang of regret. But the big shipwhich was bearing her swiftly away to "Paris in June" seemed bearing offRoger's uneasiness too. He could smile at his former fears, for Laura wassafely married and wildly in love with her husband. Time, he thought, wouldtake care of the rest. Occasionally he missed her here--her voice, high-pitched but musical, chatting and laughing at the 'phone, her bustleof dressing to go out, glimpses of her extravagances, of her smart suitsand evening gowns, of all the joyous color and dash that she had given tohis home. But these regrets soon died away. The old house shed them easily, as though glad to enter this long rest. 

For the story of his family, from Roger's point of view at least, was along uneven narrative, with prolonged periods of peace and again withevents piling one on the other. And now there came one of those peacefultimes, and Roger liked the quiet. The old routine was re-established--hisdinner, his paper, his cigar and then his book for the evening, some goodold-fashioned novel or some pleasant book of travel which he and Judith hadread aloud when they were planning out their lives. They had meant to goabroad so often when the children had grown up. And he liked to read aboutit still. Life was so quiet over the sea, things were so old and mellowthere. He resumed, too, his horseback rides, and on the way home he wouldstop in for a visit with Edith and her baby. The wee boy grew funnier everyday, with his sudden kicks and sneezes, his waving fists and mighty yawns. And Roger felt drawn to his daughter here, for in these grateful seasons ofrest that followed the birth of each of her children, Edith loved to lievery still and make new plans for her small brood. 

Only once she spoke of Laura, and then it was to suggest to him that hegather together all the bills his daughter had doubtless left behind. 

"If you don't settle them, " Edith said, "they'll go to her husband. And youwouldn't like that, would you?"

Roger said he would see to it, and one evening after dinner he started inon Laura's bills. It was rather an appalling time. He looked into his bankaccount and found that Laura's wedding would take about all his surplus. But this did not dismay him much, for money matters never did. It simplymeant more work in the office. 

The next day he rose early and was in his office by nine o'clock. He hadnot been so prompt in months, and many of his employees came in late thatmorning. But nobody seemed very much perturbed, for Roger was an easyemployer. Still, he sternly told himself, he had been letting things getaltogether too slack. He had been neglecting his business again. The workhad become so cut and dried, there was nothing creative left to do. It hadnot been so in years gone by. Those years had fairly bristled with ideasand hopes and schemes. But even those old memories were no longer here tohearten him. They had all been swept away when Bruce had made him move outof his office in a dark creaky edifice down close under Brooklyn Bridge, and come up to this new building, this steel-ribbed caravansary for allkinds of business ventures, this place of varnished woodwork, floods ofdaylight, concrete floors, this building fireproof throughout. Thatexpressed it exactly, Roger thought. Nothing could take fire here, not evena man's imagination, even though he did not feel old. Now and then in theelevator, as some youngster with eager eyes pushed nervously against him, Roger would frown and wonder, "What are you so excited about?"

But again the business was running down, and this time he must jerk it backbefore it got beyond him. He set himself doggedly to the task, calling inhis assistants one by one, going through the work in those outer rooms, where at tables long rows of busy young girls, with colored pencils, scissors and paste, were demolishing enormous piles of newspapers andmagazines. And vaguely, little by little, he came to a realization of howwhile he had slumbered the life of the country had swept on. For as hestudied the lists and the letters of his patrons, Roger felt confusedlythat a new America was here. 

Clippings, clippings, clippings. Business men and business firms, giganticcorporations, kept sending here for clippings, news of themselves or theirrivals, keeping keen watch on each other's affairs for signs of strength orweakness. How savage was the fight these days. Here was news of mines andmills and factories all over the land, clippings sent each morning byspecial messengers downtown to reach the brokers' offices before the marketopened. One broker wrote, "Please quote your terms for the following. Fromnine to two o'clock each day our messenger will call at your office everyhour for clippings giving information of the companies named below. "

The long list appended carried Roger's fancy out all over the continent. And then came this injunction: "Remember that our messenger must leave youroffice every hour. In information of this kind every minute counts. "

Clippings, clippings, clippings. As Roger turned over his morning mail, inspite of himself he grew absorbed. What a change in the world ofliterature. What a host of names of scribblers, not authors but justwriters, not only men but women too, novelists and dramatists, poets andmuckrakers all jumbled in together, each one of them straining for a place. And the actors and the actresses, the musicians and the lecturers, eachwith his press agent and avid for publicity, "fame!" And here were societywomen, from New York and other cities, all eager for press notices ofsocial affairs they had given or managed, charity work they had conducted, suffrage speeches they had made. Half the women in the land were fairlytalking their heads off, it seemed. Some had been on his lists for years. They married and wanted to hear what was said in the papers about theirweddings, they quarreled and got divorces and still sent here forclippings, they died and still their relatives wrote in for the funeralnotices. And even death was commercialized. A maker of monuments wantednews "of all people of large means, dead or dangerously ill, in the Stateof Pennsylvania. " Here were demands from charity bodies, hospitals andcolleges, from clergymen with an anxious eye on the Monday morning papers. And here was an anarchist millionaire! And here was an insane asylumwanting to see itself in print!

With a grim smile on his heavy visage, Roger stared out of his window. Slowly the smile faded, a wistful look came on his face. 

"Who'll take my business when I'm gone?"

If his small son had only lived, with what new zest and vigor it might havebeen made to grow and expand. If only his son had been here by his side. .. . 

CHAPTER IX

DEBORAH needed rest, he thought, for the bright attractive face of hisdaughter was looking rather pale of late, and the birthmark on her foreheadshowed a faint thin line of red. One night at dinner, watching her, hewondered what was on her mind. She had come in late, and though severaltimes she had made an effort to keep up the conversation, her cheeks werealmost colorless and more than once in her deepset eyes came a flash ofpain that startled him. 

"Look here. What's the matter with you?" he asked. Deborah looked upquickly. 

"I'd rather not talk about it, dad--"

"Very well, " he answered. And with a slight hesitation, "But I think I knowthe trouble, " he said. "And perhaps some other time--when you do feel liketalking--" He stopped, for on her wide sensitive lips he saw a twitch ofamusement. 

"What do you think is the trouble?" she asked. And Roger looked at hersquarely. 

"Loneliness, " he answered. 

"Why?" she asked him. 

"Well, there's Edith's baby--and Laura getting married--"

"I see--and so I'm lonely for a family of my own. But you're forgetting myschool, " she said. 

"Yes, yes, I know, " he retorted. "But that's not at all the same. Interesting work, no doubt, but--well, it isn't personal. "

"Oh, isn't it?" she answered, and she drew a quivering breath. Rising fromthe table she went into the living room, and there a few moments later hefound her walking up and down. "I think I will tell you now, " she said. "I'm afraid of being alone to-night, of keeping this matter to myself. " Helooked at her apprehensively. 

"Very well, my dear, " he said. 

"This is the trouble, " she began. "Down in my school we've a family ofabout three thousand children. A few I get to know so well I try to followthem when they leave. And one of these, an Italian boy--his name is JoeBolini--was one of the best I ever had, and one of the most appealing. ButJoe took to drinking and got in with a gang of boys who blackmailed smallshopkeepers. He used to come to me at times in occasional moods ofrepentance. He was a splendid physical type and he'd been a leader in ourathletics, so I took him back into the school to manage our teams inbasket-ball. He left the gang and stopped drinking, and we had long talkstogether about his great ambition. He wanted to enter the Fire Departmentas soon as he was twenty-one. And I promised to use my influence. " Shestopped, still frowning slightly. 

"What happened?" Roger asked her. 

"His girl took up with another man, and Joe has hot Italian blood. He gotdrunk one night and--shot them both. " There was another silence. "I didwhat I could, " she said harshly, "but he had a bad record behind him, andthe young assistant district attorney had his own record to think of, too. So Joe got a death sentence. We appealed the case but it did no good. Hewas sent up the river and is in the death house now--and he sent for me tocome to-day. His letter hinted he was scared, he wrote that his priest wasno good to him. So I went up this afternoon. Joe goes to the chairto-morrow at six. "

Deborah went to the sofa and sat down inertly. Roger remained motionless, and a dull chill crept over him. 

"So you see my work is personal, " he heard her mutter presently. All atonce she seemed so far away, such a stranger to him in this life of hers. 

"By George, it's horrible!" he said. "I'm sorry you went to see the boy!"

"I'm glad, " was his daughter's quick retort. "I've been getting much toosure of myself--of my school, I mean, and what it can do. I needed this tobring me back to the kind of world we live in!"

"What do you mean?" he roughly asked. 

"I mean there are schools and prisons! And gallows and electric chairs! AndI'm for schools! They've tried their jails and gallows for whole blackhideous centuries! What good have they done? If they'd given Joe back tothe school and me, I'd have had him a fireman in a year! I know, because Istudied him hard! He'd have _grown_ fighting fires, he would have _saved_lives!"

Again she stopped, with a catch of her breath. In suspense he watched herangry struggle to regain control of herself. She sat bolt upright, rigid;her birthmark showed a fiery red. In a few moments he saw her relax. 

"But of course, " she added wearily, "it's much more complex than that. Aschool is nothing nowadays--just by itself alone, I mean--it's only a partof a city's life--which for most tenement children is either very dull andhard, or cheap and false and overexciting. And behind all that lie thereasons for that. And there are so many reasons. " She stared straight pasther father as though at something far away. Then she seemed to recallherself: "But I'm talking too much of my family. "

Roger carefully lit a cigar:

"I don't think you are, my dear. I'd like to hear more about it. " Shesmiled:

"To keep my mind off Joe, you mean. "

"And mine, too, " he answered. 

They had a long talk that evening about her hope of making her school whatRoger visaged confusedly as a kind of mammoth home, the center of aneighborhood, of one prodigious family. At times when the clock on themantle struck the hour loud and clear, there would fall a sudden silence, as both thought of what was to happen at dawn. But quickly Roger wouldquestion again and Deborah would talk steadily on. It was after midnightwhen she stopped. 

"You've been good to me to-night, dearie, " she said. "Let's go to bed now, shall we?"

"Very well, " he answered. He looked at his daughter anxiously. She nolonger seemed to him mature. He could feel what heavy discouragements, whatproblems she was facing in the dark mysterious tenement world which she hadchosen to make her own. And compared to these she seemed a mere girl, achild groping its way, just making a start. And so he added wistfully, "Iwish I could be of more help to you. " She looked up at him for a moment. 

"Do you know why you are such a help?" she said. "It's because you havenever grown old--because you've never allowed yourself to grow absolutelycertain about anything in life. " A smile half sad and half perplexed cameon her father's heavy face. 

"You consider that a strong point?" he asked. 

"I do, " she replied, "compared to being a bundle of creeds and prejudices. "

"Oh, I've got prejudices enough. "

"Yes, " she said. "And so have I. But we're not even sure of _them_, thesedays. "

"The world has a habit of crowding in, " her father muttered vaguely. 

 * * * * *

Roger did not sleep that night. He could not keep his thoughts away fromwhat was going to happen at dawn. Yes, the city was crowding in upon thisquiet house of his. Dimly he could recollect, in the genial years of longago, just glancing casually now and then at some small and unobtrusivenotice in his evening paper: "Execution at Sing Sing. " It had been soremote to him. But here it was smashing into his house, through the lifehis own daughter was leading day and night among the poor! Each time hethought of that lad in a cell, again a chill crept over him! But savagelyhe shook it off, and by a strong effort of his will he turned his thoughtsto the things she had told him about her school. Yes, in her main idea shewas right. He had no use for wild reforms, but here was something solid, agood education for every child. More than once, while she had talked, something very deep in Roger had leaped up in swift response. 

For Deborah, too, was a part of himself. He, too, had had his feeling forhumanity in the large. For years he had run a boys' club at a littlemission school in which his wife had been interested, and on Christmas Evehe had formed the habit of gathering up a dozen small urchins right off thestreet and taking them 'round and fitting them out with good warm winterclothing, after which he had gone home to help Judith trim the Christmastree and fill their children's stockings. And later, when she had gone tobed, invariably he had taken "The Christmas Carol" from its shelf and hadsettled down with a glow of almost luxurious brotherhood. There wassentiment in Roger Gale, and as he read of "Tiny Tim" his deepset eyeswould glisten with tears. 

And now here was Deborah fulfilling a part of him in herself. "You willlive on in our children's lives. " But this was going much too far! She wasletting herself be swallowed up completely by this work of hers! It was allvery well for the past ten years, but she was getting on in age! High timeto marry and settle down!

Again angrily he shook off the thought of that boy Joe alone in a cell, eyes fixed in animal terror upon the steel door which would open so soon. 

The day was slowly breaking. It was the early part of June. How fresh andlovely it must be up there in the big mountains with Edith's happy littlelads. Here it was raw and garish, weird. Some sparrows began quarrelingjust outside his window. Roger rose and walked the room. Restlessly he wentinto the hall. The old house appeared so strange in this light--as thoughstripped bare--there was something gone. Softly he came to Deborah's door. It was open wide, for the night had been warm, and she lay awake upon herbed with her gaze fixed on the ceiling. She turned her head and saw himthere. He came in and sat down by her window. For a long time neither madea sound. Then the great clock on the distant tower, which had been silentthrough the night, resumed its deep and measured boom. It struck six times. There was silence again. More and more taut grew his muscles, and suddenlyit felt to him as though Deborah's fierce agony were pounding into his verysoul. The slow, slow minutes throbbed away. At last he rose and left her. There was a cold sweat on his brow. 

"I'll go down and make her some coffee, " he thought. 

Down in the kitchen it was a relief to bang about hunting for the utensils. On picnics up in the mountains his coffee had been famous. He made some nowand boiled some eggs, and they breakfasted in Deborah's room. She seemedalmost herself again. Later, while he was dressing, he saw her in thedoorway. She was looking at her father with bright and grateful, affectionate eyes. 

"Will you come to school with me to-day? I'd like you to see it, " Deborahsaid. 

"Very well, " he answered gruffly. 

CHAPTER X

Out of the subway they emerged into a noisy tenement street. Roger hadknown such streets as this, but only in the night-time, as picturesque andadventurous ways in an underground world he had explored in search ofstrange old glittering rings. It was different now. Gone were the Rembrandtshadows, the leaping flare of torches, the dark surging masses of weirduncouth humanity. Here in garish daylight were poverty and ugliness, herewere heaps of refuse and heavy smells and clamor. It disgusted and repelledhim, and he was tempted to turn back. But glancing at Deborah by his sidehe thought of the night she had been through. No, he decided, he would goon and see what she was up to here. 

They turned into a narrower street between tall dirty tenements, and in atwinkling all was changed. For the street, as far as he could see, was gaywith flaunting colors, torrents of bobbing hats and ribbons, frocks andblouses, shirts and breeches, vivid reds and yellows and blues. It wasdeafening with joyous cries, a shrill incessant chatter, chatter, piercingyells and shrieks of laughter. Children, swarms of children, children ofall sizes passed him, clean and dirty, smiling, scowling, hurrying, running, pummeling, grabbing, whirling each other 'round and 'round--tillthe very air seemed quivering with wild spirits and new life!

He heard Deborah laughing. Five hilarious small boys had hold of her handsand were marching in triumph waving their caps. "Heigh there--heigh there!Heigh--heigh--heigh!"

The school was close in front of them. An enormous building of brick andtile wedged into a disordered mass of tenements, shops and factories, ithad been built around a court shut out from the street by a high steelfence. They squeezed into the gateway, through which a shouting punchingmob of urchins were now pushing in; and soon from a balcony above Rogerlooked down into the court, where out of a wild chaos order was appearing. Boys to the right and girls to the left were forming in long sinuous lines, and three thousand faces were turned toward the building. In front appearedthe Stars and Stripes. Then suddenly he heard a crash from underneath thebalcony, and looking down he saw a band made up of some thirty or fortyboys. Their leader, a dark Italian lad, made a flourish, a pass with hisbaton, and the band broke into a blaring storm, an uproarious, boomingmarch. The mob below fell into step, and line after line in single file thechildren marched into their school. 

"Look up! Look all around you!" He heard Deborah's eager voice in his ear. And as he looked up from the court below he gave a low cry of amazement. Inhundreds of windows all around, of sweatshops, tenements, factories, ontier upon tier of fire escapes and even upon the roofs above, silentwatchers had appeared. For this one moment in the day the whole congestedneighborhood had stopped its feverish labor and become an amphitheater withall eyes upon the school. And the thought flashed into Roger's mind:"Deborah's big family!"

He had a strange confusing time. In her office, in a daze, he sat and heardhis daughter with her two assistant principals, her clerk and herstenographer, plunge into the routine work of the day. What kind of schoolteacher was this? She seemed more like the manager of some buzzing factory. Messages kept coming constantly from class-rooms, children came forpunishment, and on each small human problem she was passing judgmentquickly. Meanwhile a score of mothers, most of them Italians with coloredshawls upon their heads, had straggled in and taken seats, and one by onethey came to her desk. For these women who had been children in peasanthuts in Italy now had children of their own in the great city of New York, and they found it very baffling. How to keep them in at night? How to makethem go to the priest? How to feed and clothe them? How to live in thesetenement homes, in this wild din and chaos? They wanted help and theywanted advice. Deborah spoke in Italian, but turning to her father shewould translate from time to time. 

A tired scowling woman said, "My boy won't obey me. His father is dead. When I slap him he only jumps away. I lock him in and he steals the key, hekeeps it in his pocket. He steals the money that I earn. He says I'm fromthe country. " And a flabby anxious woman said, "My girl runs out to dancehalls. Sometimes she comes back at two in the morning. She is fifteen andshe ought to get married. But what can I do? A nice steady man who neverdances comes sometimes to see her--but she makes faces and calls him afatty, she dances before him and pushes him out and slams the door. Whatcan I do?"

"Please come and see our janitor and make him fix our kitchen sink!" anangry little woman cried. "When I try to wash the dishes the water spoutsall over me!" And then a plump rosy mother said in a soft coaxing voice, "Ihave eight little children, all nice and clean. When you tell them to doanything they always do it quickly. They smile at you, they are likesaints. So could the kind beautiful teacher fix it up with a newspaper tosend them to the country--this summer when it is so hot? The newspapercould send a man and he could take our pictures. "

"Most of us girls used to be in this school, " said a bright looking Jewessof eighteen. "And you taught us how we should live nice. But how can welive nice when our shop is so rotten? Our boss is trying to kiss thegirls, he is trying to hug them on the stairs. And what he pays us is ajoke, and we must work till nine o'clock. So will you help us, teacher, andgive us a room for our meetings here? We want to have a union. "

A truant officer brought in two ragged, frightened little chaps. Found onthe street during school hours, they had to give an account of themselves. Sullenly one of them gave an address far up in the Bronx, ten miles away. They had not been home for a week, he said. Was he lying? What was to bedone? Somewhere in the city their homes must be discovered. And the talk ofthe truant officer made Roger feel ramifications here which wound outthrough the police and the courts to reformatories, distant cells. Hethought of that electric chair, and suddenly he felt oppressed by the heavycomplexity of it all. 

And this was part and parcel of his daughter's daily work in school! Stilldazed, disturbed but curious, he sat and watched and listened, while thebewildering demands of Deborah's big family kept crowding in upon her. Hewent to a few of the class-rooms and found that reading and writing, arithmetic and spelling were being taught in ways which he had neverdreamed of. He found a kindergarten class, a carpenter shop and a printingshop, a sewing class and a cooking class in a large model kitchen. Hewatched the nurse in her hospital room, he went into the dental clinicwhere a squad of fifty urchins were having their teeth examined, and outupon a small side roof he found a score of small invalids in steamerchairs, all fast asleep. It was a strange astounding school! He heardDeborah speak of a mothers' club and a neighborhood association; and helearned of other ventures here, the school doctor, the nurse and thevisitor endlessly making experiments, delving into the neighborhood forways to meet its problems. And by the way Deborah talked to them he feltshe had gone before, that years ago by day and night she had been over theground alone. And she'd done all this while she lived in his house!

Scattered memories out of the past, mere fragments she had told him, hereflashed back into his mind: humorous little incidents of daily battles shehad waged in rotten old tenement buildings with rags and filth and garbage, with vermin, darkness and disease. Mingled with these had been accounts ofdances, weddings and christenings and of curious funeral rites. Andstruggling with such dim memories of Deborah in her twenties, called forthin his mind by the picture of the woman of thirty here, Roger grew stillmore confused. What was to be the end of it? She was still but a pioneer ina jungle, endlessly groping and trying new things. 

"How many children are there in the public schools?" he asked. 

"About eight hundred thousand, " Deborah said. 

"Good Lord!" he groaned, and he felt within him a glow of indignation riseagainst these immigrant women for breeding so inconsiderately. With the madcity growing so fast, and the people of the tenements breeding, breeding, breeding, and packing the schools to bursting, what could any teacher bebut a mere cog in a machine, ponderous, impersonal, blind, grinding outfuture New Yorkers?

He reached home limp and battered from the storm of new impressions comingon top of his sleepless night. He had thought of a school as a simpleplace, filled with little children, mischievous at times perhaps and somewith dirty faces, but still with minds and spirits clean, unsoiled as yetby contact with the grim spirit of the town. He had thought of childhood assomething intimate and pure, inside his home, his family. Instead of that, in Deborah's school he had been disturbed and thrilled by the presence allaround him of something wild, barbaric, dark, compounded of the citystreets, of surging crowds, of rushing feet, of turmoil, filth, disease anddeath, of poverty and vice and crime. But Roger could still hear that band. And behind its blaring crash and din he had felt the vital throbbing of atremendous joyousness, of gaiety, fresh hopes and dreams, of leaping youngemotions like deep buried bubbling springs bursting up resistlessly torenew the fevered life of the town! Deborah's big family! Everybody'schildren!

"You will live on in our children's lives. " The vision hidden in thosewords now opened wide before his eyes. 

CHAPTER XI

She told him the next morning her night school closed for the summer thatweek. 

"I think I should like to see it, " her father said determinedly. She gavehim an affectionate smile:

"Oh, dearie. Haven't you had enough?"

"I guess I can stand it if you can, " was his gruff rejoinder, "though if Iran a school like yours I think by night I'd have schooled enough. Do mostprincipals run night schools too?"

"A good many of them do. "

"Isn't it taxing your strength?" he asked. 

"Don't you have to tax your strength, " his daughter replied good humoredly, "to really accomplish anything? Don't you have to risk yourself in order toreally live these days? Suppose you come down to-morrow night. We won't goto the school, for I doubt if the clubs and classes would interest you verymuch. I'll take you through the neighborhood. "

 * * * * *

They went down the following evening. The night was warm and humid, andthrough the narrow tenement streets there poured a teeming mass of life. People by the thousands passed, bareheaded, men in shirt sleeves, theirfaces glistening with sweat. Animal odors filled the air. The torches onthe pushcarts threw flaring lights and shadows, the peddlers shoutedhoarsely, the tradesmen in the booths and stalls joined in with cries, shrill peals of mirth. The mass swept onward, talking, talking, and itsvoice was a guttural roar. Small boys and girls with piercing yells keptdarting under elbows, old women dozed on doorsteps, babies screamed onevery side. Mothers leaned out of windows, and by their faces you could seethat they were screaming angrily for children to come up to bed. But youcould not hear their cries. Here around a hurdy gurdy gravely danced somelittle girls. A tense young Jew, dark faced and thin, was shouting from awagon that all men and women must be free and own the factories and mills. A mob of small boys, clustered 'round a "camp fire" they had made on thestreet, were leaping wildly through the flames. It was a mammoth cauldronhere, seething, bubbling over with a million foreign lives. Deborah's bigfamily. 

She turned into a doorway, went down a long dark passage and came into acourt-yard enclosed by greasy tenement walls that reared to a spot of darkblue sky where a few quiet stars were twinkling down. With a feeling ofrepugnance Roger followed his daughter into a tall rear building and up arickety flight of stairs. On the fourth landing she knocked at a door, andpresently it was opened by a stout young Irish woman with flushed haggardfeatures and disheveled hair. 

"Oh. Good evening, Mrs. Berry. "

"Good evening. Come in, " was the curt reply. They entered a small stiflingroom where were a stove, two kitchen chairs and three frowzled beds incorners. On one of the beds lay a baby asleep, on another two smallrestless boys sat up and watched the visitors. A sick man lay upon thethird. And a cripple boy, a boarder here, stood on his crutches watchingthem. Roger was struck at once by his face. Over the broad cheek bones thesallow skin was tightly drawn, but there was a determined set to the jawsthat matched the boy's shrewd grayish eyes, and his face lit up in awonderful smile. 

"Hello, Miss Deborah, " he said. His voice had a cheery quality. 

"Hello, Johnny. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. "

"That's good. I've brought my father with me. "

"Howdado, sir, glad to meet you. "

"It's some time since you've been to see me, John, " Deborah continued. 

"I know it is, " he answered. And then with a quick jerk of his head, "He'sbeen pretty bad, " he said. Roger looked at the man on the bed. With histhin waxen features drawn, the man was gasping for each breath. 

"What's the matter?" Roger whispered. 

"Lungs, " said the young woman harshly. "You needn't bother to speak so low. He can't hear you anyhow. He's dying. He's been dying weeks. "

"Why didn't you let me know of this?" Deborah asked gently. 

"Because I knew what you'd want to do--take him off to a hospital! And Iain't going to have it! I promised him he could die at home!"

"I'm sorry, " Deborah answered. There was a moment's silence, and the babywhimpered in its sleep. One child had gone to his father's bed and wasfrowning at his agony as though it were a tiresome sight. 

"Are any of them coughing?" Deborah inquired. 

"No, " said the woman sharply. 

"Yes, they are, two of 'em, " John cheerfully corrected her. 

"You shut up!" she said to him, and she turned back to Deborah. "It's myhome, I guess, and my family, too. So what do you think that _you_ can do?"Deborah looked at her steadily. 

"Yes, it's your family, " she agreed. "And it's none of my business, Iknow--except that John is one of my boys--and if things are to go on likethis I can't let him board here any more. If he had let me know before I'dhave taken him from you sooner. You'll miss the four dollars a week hepays. "

The woman swallowed fiercely. The flush on her face had deepened. Shescowled to keep back the tears. 

"We can all die for all I care! I've about got to the end of my rope!"

"I see you have. " Deborah's voice was low. "You've made a hard pluckyfight, Mrs. Berry. Are there any empty rooms left in this building?"

"Yes, two upstairs. What do you want to know for?"

"I'm going to rent them for you. I'll arrange it to-night with the janitor, on condition that you promise to move your children to-morrow upstairs andkeep them there until this is over. Will you?"

"Yes. "

"That's sensible. And I'll have one of the visiting nurses here within anhour. "

"Thanks. "

"And later on we'll have a talk. "

"All right--"

"Good-night, Mrs. Berry. "

"Good-night, Miss Gale, I'm much obliged. .. . Say, wait a minute! Will you?"The wife had followed them out on the landing and she was clutchingDeborah's arm. "Why can't the nurse give him something, " she whispered, "toput him to sleep for good and all? It ain't right to let a man suffer likethat! I can't stand it! I'm--I'm--" she broke off with a sob. Deborah putone arm around her and held her steadily for a moment. 

"The nurse will see that he sleeps, " she said. "Now, John, " she added, presently, when the woman had gone into the room, "I want you to get yourthings together. I'll have the janitor move them upstairs. You sleep thereto-night, and to-morrow morning come to see me at the school. "

"All right, Miss Deborah, much obliged. I'll be all right. Good-night, sir--"

"Good-night, my boy, " said Roger, and suddenly he cleared his throat. Hefollowed his daughter down the stairs. A few minutes she talked with thejanitor, then joined her father in the court. 

"I'm sorry I took you up there, " she said. "I didn't know the man wassick. "

"Who are they?" he asked. 

"Poor people, " she said. And Roger flinched. 

"Who is this boy?"

"A neighbor of theirs. His mother, who was a widow, died about two yearsago. He was left alone and scared to death lest he should be 'put away' insome big institution. He got Mrs. Berry to take him in, and to earn hisboard he began selling papers instead of coming to our school. So ourschool visitor looked him up. Since then I have been paying his board froma fund I have from friends uptown, and so he has finished his schooling. He's to graduate next week. He means to be a stenographer. "

"How old is he?"

"Seventeen, " she replied. 

"How was he crippled? Born that way?"

"No. When he was a baby his mother dropped him one Saturday night when shewas drunk. He has never been able to sit down. He can lie down or he canstand. He's always in pain, it never stops. I learned that from the doctorI took him to see. But whenever you ask him how he feels you get the sameanswer always: 'Fine, thank you. ' He's a fighter, is John. "

"He looks it. I'd like to help that boy--"

"All right--you can help him, " Deborah said. "You'll find him quite atonic. "

"A what?"

"A tonic, " she repeated. And with a sudden tightening of her wide andsensitive mouth, Deborah added slowly, "Because, though I've known manyhungry boys, Johnny Geer is the hungriest of them all--hungry to get on inlife, to grow and learn and get good things, get friends, love, happiness, everything!" As she spoke of this child in her family, over her strongquiet face there swept a fierce, intent expression which struck Rogerrather cold. What a fight she was making, this daughter of his, againstwhat overwhelming odds. But all he said to her was this:

"Now let's look at something more cheerful, my dear. "

"Very well, " she answered with a smile. "We'll go and see Isadore Freedom. "

"Who's he?"

"Isadore Freedom, " said Deborah, "is the beginning of something tremendous. He came from Russian Poland--and the first American word he learned overthere was 'freedom. ' So in New York he changed his name to that--verysolemnly, by due process of law. It cost him seven dollars. He had ninedollars at the time. Isadore is a flame, a kind of a torch in thewilderness. "

"How does the flame earn his living?"

"At first in a sweatshop, " she replied. "But he came to my school fivenights a week, and at ten o'clock when school was out he went to a littlebasement café, where he sat at a corner table, drank one glass of Russiantea and studied till they closed at one. Then he went to his room, he toldme, and used to read himself to sleep. He slept as a rule four hours. Hesaid he felt he needed it. Now he's a librarian earning fifteen dollars aweek, and having all the money he needs he has put the thought of it out ofhis life and is living for education--education in freedom. For Isadore hasstudied his name until he thinks he knows what it means. "

They found him in a small public library on an ill-smelling ghetto street. The place had been packed with people, but the clock had just struck tenand the readers were leaving reluctantly, many with books under their arms. At sight of Deborah and her father, Isadore leaped up from his desk andcame quickly to meet them with outstretched hands. 

"Oh, this is splendid! Good evening!" he cried. Hardly more than a boy, perhaps twenty-one, he was short of frame but large of limb. He had widestooping shoulders and reddish hollows in his dark cheeks. Yet there was aspringiness in his step, vigor and warmth in the grip of his hand, in thevery curl of his thick black hair, in his voice, in his enormous smile. 

"Come, " he said to Roger, when the greetings were over. "You shall see mylibrary, sir. But I want that you shall not see it alone. While you lookyou must close for me your eyes and see other libraries, many, many, allover the world. You must see them in big cities and in very little townsto-night. You must see people, millions there, hungry, hungry people. Now Ishall show you their food and their drink. " As he spoke he was leading themproudly around. In the stacks along the walls he pointed out fiction, poetry, history, books of all the sciences. 

"They read all, all!" cried Isadore. "Look at this Darwin on my desk. In ayear so many have read this book it is a case for the board of health. Andlook at this shelf of economics. I place it next to astronomy. And I say tothese people, 'Yes, read about jobs and your hours and wages. Yes, you muststrike, you must have better lives. But you must read also about thestars--and about the big spaces--silent--not one single little sound formany, many million years. To be free you must grow as big as that--insideof your head, inside of your soul. It is not enough to be free of a czar, akaiser or a sweatshop boss. What will you do when they are gone? My finepeople, how will you run the world? You are deaf and blind, you must befree to open your own ears and eyes, to look into the books and see what isthere--great thoughts and feelings, great ideas! And when you have seen, then you must think--you must think it all out every time! That isfreedom!'" He stopped abruptly. Again on his dark features came a huge andwinning smile, and with an apologetic shrug, "But I talk too much of mybooks, " he said. "Come. Shall we go to my café?"

On a neighboring street, a few minutes later, down a flight of steep woodenstairs they descended into a little café, shaped like a tunnel, the ceilinglow, the bare walls soiled by rubbing elbows, dirty hands, the air blue andhot with smoke. Young men and girls packed in at small tables bent overtall glasses of Russian tea, and gesturing with their cigarettes declaimedand argued excitedly. Quick joyous cries of greeting met Isadore from everyside. 

"You see?" he said gaily. "This is my club. Here we are like a family. " Heordered tea of a waiter who seemed more like a bosom friend. And leaningeagerly forward, he began to speak in glowing terms of the men and girlsfrom sweatshops who spent their nights in these feasts of the soul, talking, listening, grappling, "for the power to think with minds as clearas the sun when it rises, " he ardently cried. "There is not a night in thiscity, not one, when hundreds do not talk like this until the breaking ofthe day! And then they sleep! A little joke! For at six o'clock they mustrise to their work! And that is a force, " he added, "not only for thosepeople but a force for you and me. Do you see? When you feel tired, whenall your hopes are sinking low, you think of those people and you say, 'Iwill go to their places. ' And you go. You listen and you watch their faces, and such fire makes you burn! You go home, you are happy, you have a newlife!

"And perhaps at last you will have a religion, " he continued, in ferventtones. "You see, with us Jews--and with Christians, too--the old religion, it is gone. And in its place there is nothing strong. And so the youngpeople go all to pieces. They dance and they drink. If you go to thosedance halls you say, 'They are crazy!' For dancing alone is not enough. Andyou say, 'These people must have a religion. ' You ask, 'Where can I find anew God?' And you reply, 'There is no God. ' And then you must be very sad. You know how it is? You feel too free. And you feel scared and lonely. Youlook up at the stars. There are millions. You are only a speck of dust--onone. 

"But then you come to my library. And you see those hungry people--morehungry than men have ever been. And you see those books upon the shelves. And you know when they come together at last, when that power to think asclear as the sun comes into the souls of those people so hungry, then weshall have a new god for the world. For there is no end to what they shalldo, " Isadore ended huskily. 

Roger felt a lump in his throat. He glanced into his daughter's eyes andsaw a suspicious brightness there. Isadore looked at her happily. 

"You see?" he said to Roger. "When she came here to-night she was tired, half sick. But now she is all filled with life!"

 * * * * *

Later, on the street outside when Isadore had left them, Deborah turned toher father:

"Before we go home, there's one place more. "

And they went to a building not far away, a new structure twelve floorshigh which rose out of the neighboring tenements. It had been built, shetold him, by a socialist daily paper. A dull night watchman half asleeptook them in the elevator up to the top floor of the building, where in abustling, clanking loft the paper was just going to press. Deborah seemedto know one of the foremen. He smiled and nodded and led the way throughthe noise and bustle to a large glass door at one end. This she opened andstepped out upon a fire escape so broad it was more like a balcony. Andwith the noise of the presses subdued, from their high perch they lookedsilently down. 

All around them for miles, it seemed, stretched dark uneven fields ofroofs, with the narrow East River winding its way through the midst of themto the harbor below, silvery, dim and cool and serene, opening to thedistant sea. From the bridges rearing high over the river, lights bythousands sparkled down. But directly below the spot where they stood wasonly a dull hazy glow, rising out of dark tenement streets where dimly theycould just make out numberless moving shadowy forms, restless crowds toohot to sleep. The roofs were covered everywhere with men and women andchildren--families, families, families, all merged together in the dark. And from them rose into the night a ceaseless murmur of voices, laughingand joking, quarreling, loving and hating, demanding, complaining, andfighting and slaving and scheming for bread and the means of starkexistence. But among these struggling multitudes confusedly did Roger feelthe brighter presence here and there of more aspiring figures, small groupsin glaring, stilling rooms down there beneath the murky dark, young peoplefiercely arguing, groping blindly for new gods. And all these voices, tohis ears, merged into one deep thrilling hum, these lights into onequivering glow, that went up toward the silent stars. 

And there came to him a feeling which he had often had before in manydifferent places--that he himself was a part of all this, the great, blind, wistful soul of mankind, which had been here before he was born and wouldbe here when he was dead--still groping, yearning, struggling upward, onand on--to something distant as the sun. And still would he be a part of itall, through the eager lives of his children. He turned and looked atDeborah and caught the light that was in her eyes. 

CHAPTER XII

Roger awoke the next morning feeling sore and weary, and later in hisoffice it was hard to keep his mind on his work. He thought of youngIsadore Freedom. He was glad he had met that boy, and so he felt towardDeborah's whole terrific family. Confused and deafening as it was, therewas something inspiring in it all. But God save him from many suchevenings! For half his life Roger had been a collector, not only of ringsbut of people, too, of curious personalities. These human bits, thesememories, he had picked up as he lived along and had taken them with himand made them his own, had trimmed and polished every one until its roughunpleasant edges were all nicely smoothed away and it glittered and shonelike the gem that it was. For Roger was an idealist. And so he would haveliked to do here. What a gem could be made of Isadore with a little carefulpolishing. 

But Deborah's way was different. She stayed in life, lived in it close, with its sharp edges bristling. In this there was something splendid, butthere was something tragic, too. It was all very well for that young Jew toburn himself up with his talk about freedom, his feverish searching for newgods. "In five years, " Roger told himself, "Mr. Isadore Freedom will eithertone down or go stark mad. "

But quite probably he would tone down, for he was only a youngster, thesewere Isadore's wild oats. But this was no longer Deborah's youth, she hadbeen at this job ten years. And she hadn't gone mad, she had kept herselfsane, she had many sides her father knew. He knew her in the mountains, orbustling about at home getting ready for Laura's wedding, or packingEdith's children off for their summer up at the farm. But did that make itany easier? No. To let yourself go was easy, but to keep hold of yourselfwas hard. It meant wear and tear on a woman, this constant straining effortto keep her balance and see life whole. 

"Well, it will break her down, that's all, and I don't propose to allowit, " he thought. "She's got to rest this summer and go easier next fall. "

But how could he accomplish it? As he thought about her school, with itslong and generous arms reaching upon every side out into the tenements, theprospect was bewildering. He searched for something definite. What could hedo to prove to his daughter his real interest in her work? Presently heremembered Johnny Geer, the cripple boy whom he had liked, and at once hebegan to feel himself back again upon known ground. Instead of millionshere was one, one plucky lad who needed help. All right, by George, heshould have it! And Roger told his daughter he would be glad to pay theexpense of sending John away for the summer, and that in the autumn perhapshe would take the lad into his office. 

"That's good of you, dearie, " Deborah said. It was her only comment, butfrom the look she gave him Roger felt he was getting on. 

 * * * * *

One evening not long afterwards, as they sat together at dinner, she roseunsteadily to her feet and said in a breathless voice, "It's rather close in here, isn't it? I think I'll go outside for a while. "Roger jumped up. 

"Look here, my child, you're faint!" he cried. 

"No, no, it's nothing! Just the heat!" She swayed and reeled, pitchedsuddenly forward. "Father! Quick!" And Roger caught her in his arms. Hecalled to the maid, and with her help he carried Deborah up to her bed. There she shuddered violently and beads of sweat broke out on her brow. Her breath came hard through chattering teeth. 

"It's so silly!" she said fiercely. 

But as moments passed the chill grew worse. Her whole body seemed to beshaking, and as Roger was rubbing one of her arms she said something to himsharply, in a voice so thick he could not understand. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"I can't feel anything. "

"What do you mean?"

"In my arm where you're rubbing--I can't feel your hand. "

"You'd better have a doctor!"

"Telephone Allan--Allan Baird. He knows about this, " she muttered. AndRoger ran down to the telephone. He was thoroughly frightened. 

"All right, Mr. Gale, " came Baird's gruff bass, steady and slow, "I think Iknow what the trouble is--and I wouldn't worry if I were you. I'll be therein about ten minutes. " And it was hardly more than that when he came intoDeborah's room. A moment he looked down at her. 

"Again?" he said. She glanced up at him and nodded, and smiled quicklythrough set teeth. Baird carefully examined her and then turned to Roger:"Now I guess you'd better go out. You stay, " he added to Sarah, the maid. "I may need you here awhile. "

About an hour later he came down to Roger's study. 

"She's safe enough now, I guess, " he said. "I've telephoned for a nurse forher, and she'll have to stay in bed a few days. "

"What's the trouble?"

"Acute indigestion. "

"You don't say!" exclaimed Roger brightly, with a rush of deep relief. Baird gave him a dry quizzical smile. 

"People have died of that, " he remarked, "in less than an hour. We caughtyour daughter just in time. May I stay a few moments?"

"Glad to have you! Smoke a cigar!"

"Thanks--I will. " As Baird reached out for the proffered cigar, Rogersuddenly noticed his hand. Long and muscular, finely shaped, it seemed tospeak of strength and skill and an immense vitality. Baird settled himselfin his chair. "I want to talk about her, " he said. "This little attack isonly a symptom--it comes from nerves. She's just about ready for a smash. She's had slighter attacks of this kind before. "

"I never knew it, " Roger said. 

"No--I don't suppose you did. Your daughter has a habit of keeping thingslike this to herself. She came to me and I warned her, but she wanted tofinish out her year. Do you know anything about her school work?"

"Yes, I was with her there this week. "

"What did she show you?" Baird inquired. Roger tried to tell him. "No, that's not what I'm after, " he said. "That's just one of her usualevenings. " For a moment he smoked in silence. "I'm hunting now forsomething else, for some unusual nervous shock which she appears to me tohave had. "

"She has!" And Roger told him of her visit up to Sing Sing. Baird's leanmuscular right hand slowly tightened on his chair. 

"That's a tough family of hers, " he remarked. 

"Yes, " said Roger determinedly, "and she's got to give it up. "

"You mean she ought to. But she won't. "

"She's got to be made to, " Roger growled. "This summer at least. " Bairdshook his head. 

"You forget her fresh air work, " he replied. "She has three thousandchildren on her mind. The city will be like a furnace, of course, and thechildren must be sent to camps. If you don't see the necessity, go and talkto her, and then you will. "

"But you can forbid it, can't you?"

"No. Can you?"

"I can try, " snapped Roger. 

"Let's try what's possible, " said Baird. "Let's try to keep her in bedthree days. "

"Sounds modest, " Roger grunted. And a glimmer of amusement came intoBaird's impassive eyes. 

"Try it, " he drawled. "By to-morrow night she'll ask for her stenographer. She'll make you think she is out of the woods. But she won't be, pleaseremember that. A few years more, " he added, "and she'll have used up hervitality. She'll be an old woman at thirty-five. "

"It's got to be stopped!" cried Roger. 

"But how?" came the low sharp retort. "You've got to know her troublefirst. And her trouble is deep, it's motherhood--on a scale which has neverbeen tried before--for thousands of children, all of whom are living in akind of hell. I know your daughter pretty well. Don't make the mistake ofmixing her up with the old-fashioned teacher. It isn't what those childrenlearn, it's how they live that interests her, and how they are all growingup. I say she's a mother--in spirit--but her body has never borne a child. And that makes it worse--because it makes her more intense. It isn'tnatural, you see. "

A little later he rose to go. 

"By the way, " he said, at the door, "there's something I meant to tell herupstairs--about a poor devil she has on her mind. A chap namedBerry--dying--lungs. She asked me to go and see him. "

"Yes?"

"I found it was only a matter of days. " The tragic pity in Baird's quietvoice was so deep as barely to be heard. 

"So I shot him full of morphine. He won't wake up. Please tell her that. "

Tall, ungainly, motionless, he loomed there in the doorway. With a littleshrug and a smile he turned and went slowly out of the house. 

CHAPTER XIII

Deborah's recovery was rapid and determined. The next night she was sittingup and making light of her illness. On the third day she dismissed hernurse, and when her father came home from his office he found gatheredabout her bed not only her stenographer but both her assistant principals. He frowned severely and went to his room, and a few minutes later he heardthem leave. Presently she called to him, and he came to her bedside. Shewas lying back on the pillow with rather a guilty expression. 

"Up to your old antics, eh?" he remarked. 

"Exactly. It couldn't be helped, you see. It's the last week of our schoolyear, and there are so many little things that have to be attended to. It'ssimply now or never. "

"Humph!" was Roger's comment. "It's now or never with you, " he thought. Hewent down to his dinner, and when he came back he found her exhausted. Inthe dim soft light of her room her face looked flushed and feverish, andvaguely he felt she was in a mood where she might listen to reason. He felther hot dry hand on his. Her eyes were closed, she was smiling. 

"Tell me the news from the mountains, " she said. And he gave her the gossipof the farm in a letter he had had from George. It told of a picnic supper, the first one of the season. They had had it in the usual place, down bythe dam on the river, "with a bonfire--a perfect peach--down by the bigyellow rock--the one you call the Elephant. " As Roger read the letter hecould feel his daughter listening, vividly picturing to herself the greatdark boulders by the creek, the shadowy firs, the stars above and the coolfresh tang of the mountain night. 

"After this little sickness of yours--and that harum scarum wedding, " hesaid, "I feel we're both entitled to a good long rest in mountain air. "

"We'll have it, too, " she murmured. 

"With Edith's little youngsters. They're all the medicine you need. " Hepaused for a moment, hesitating. But it was now or never. "The only troublewith you, " he said, "is that you've let yourself be caught by the samedisease which has its grip upon this whole infernal town. You're likeeveryone else, you're tackling about forty times what you can do. You'reactually trying not only to teach but to bring 'em all up as your own, three thousand tenement children. And this is where it gets you. "

Again he halted, frowning. What next?

"Go on, dear, please, " said Deborah, in demure and even tones. "This isvery interesting. "

"Now then, " he continued, "in this matter of your school. I wouldn't askyou to give it up, I've already seen too much of it. But so long as you'vegot it nicely started, why not give somebody else a chance? One of thoseassistants of yours, for example--capable young women, both. You couldstand right behind 'em with help and advice--"

"Not yet, " was Deborah's soft reply. She had turned her head on her pillowand was looking at him affectionately. "Why not?" he demanded. 

"Because it's not nicely started at all. There's nothing brilliant aboutme, dear--I'm a plodder, feeling my way along. And what I have done in thelast ten years is just coming to a stage at last where I can really see achance to make it count for something. When I feel I've done that, say infive years more--"

"Those five years, " said her father, "may cost you a very heavy price. " AsDeborah faced his troubled regard, her own grew quickly serious. 

"I'd be willing to pay the price, " she replied. 

"But why?" he asked with impatience. "Why pay when you don't have to? Whynot by taking one year off get strength for twenty years' work later on?You'd be a different woman!"

"Yes, I think I should be. I'd never be the same again. You don't quiteunderstand, you see. This work of mine with children--well, it's likeEdith's having a baby. You have to do it while you're young. "

"That works both ways, " her father growled. 

"What do you mean?" He hesitated:

"Don't you want any children of your own?"

Again she turned her eyes toward his, then closed them and lay perfectlystill. "Now I've done it, " he thought anxiously. She reached over and tookhis hand. 

"Let's talk of our summer's vacation, " she said. 

A little while later she fell asleep. 

Downstairs he soon grew restless and after a time he went out for a walk. But he felt tired and oppressed, and as he had often done of late heentered a little "movie" nearby, where gradually the pictures, continuallyflashing out of the dark, drove the worries from his mind. For a half anhour they held his gaze. Then he fell into a doze. He was roused by a roarof laughter, and straightening up in his seat with a jerk he looked angrilyaround. Something broadly comic had been flashed upon the screen; and menand women and children, Italians, Jews and Irish, jammed in close abouthim, a dirty and perspiring mass, had burst into a terrific guffaw. Nowthey were suddenly tense again and watching the screen in absorbedsuspense, while the crude passions within themselves were played upon inthe glamorous dark. And Roger scanned their faces--one moment smiling, alltogether, as though some god had pulled a string; then mawkish, sentimental, soft; then suddenly scowling, twitching, with long rows ofanimal eyes. But eager--eager all the time! Hungry people--yes, indeed!Hungry for all the good things in the town, and for as many bad things, too! On one who tried to feed this mob there was no end to their demands!What was one woman's life to them? Deborah's big family!

 * * * * *

Edith came to the house one afternoon, and she was in Deborah's room whenher father returned from his office. Her convalescence over at last, shewas leaving for the mountains. 

"Do learn your lesson, Deborah dear, " she urged upon her sister. "Let Sarahpack your trunk at once and come up with me on Saturday night. "

"I can't get off for two weeks yet. "

"Why can't you?" Edith demanded. And when Deborah spoke of fresh air campsand baby farms and other work, Edith's impatience only grew. "You'll haveto leave it to somebody else! You're simply in no condition!" she cried. 

"Impossible, " said Deborah. Edith gave a quick sigh of exasperation. 

"Isn't it enough, " she asked, "to have worked your nerves to a frazzlealready? Why can't you be sensible? You've got to think of yourself alittle!"

"You'd like me to marry, wouldn't you, dear?" her sister put in wearily. 

"Yes, I should, while there is still time! Just now you look far from it!It's exactly as Allan was saying! If you keep on as you're going you'll bean old woman at thirty-five!"

"Thank you!" said Deborah sharply. Two spots of color leaped in her checks. "You'd better leave me, Edith! I'll come up to the mountains as soon as Ican! And I'll try not to look any more like a hag than I have to!Good-night!"

Roger followed Edith out of the room. 

"That last shot of mine struck home, " she declared to him in triumph. 

"I wouldn't have done it, " her father said. "I gave you that remark ofBaird's in strict confidence, Edith--"

"Now father, " was her good-humored retort, "suppose you leave this matterto me. I know just what I'm doing. "

"Well, " he reflected uneasily, after she had left him, "here's more troublein the family. If Edith isn't careful she'll make a fine mess of this wholeaffair. "

After dinner he went up to Deborah's room, but through the open doorway hecaught a glimpse of his daughter which made him instinctively draw back. Sitting bolt upright in her bed, sternly she was eyeing herself in a smallmirror in her hand. Her father chuckled noiselessly. A moment later, whenhe went in, the glass had disappeared from view. Soon afterwards Bairdhimself arrived, and as they heard him coming upstairs Roger saw hisdaughter frown, but she continued talking. 

"Hello, Allan, " she said with indifference. "I'm feeling much better thisevening. "

"Are you? Good, " he answered, and he started to pull up an easy chair. "Iwas hoping I could stay awhile--I've been having one of those long meandays--"

"I'd a little rather you wouldn't, " Deborah put in softly. Allan turned toher in surprise. "I didn't sleep last night, " she murmured, "and I feel sodrowsy. " There was a little silence. "And I really don't think there's anyneed of your dropping in to-morrow, " she added. "I'm so muchbetter--honestly. "

Baird looked at her a moment. 

"Right--O, " he answered slowly. "I'll call up to-morrow night. "

Roger followed him downstairs. 

"Come into my den and smoke a cigar!" he proposed in hearty ringing tones. Allan thanked him and came in, but the puzzled expression was still on hisface, and through the first moments of their talk he was veryabsent-minded. Roger's feeling of guilt increased, and he cursed himselffor a meddlesome fool. 

"Look here, Baird, " he blurted out, "there's something I think you ought toknow. " Allan slightly turned his head, and Roger reddened a little. "Theworst thing about living in a house chock full of meddling women is thatyou get to be one yourself, " he growled. "And the fact is--" he cleared histhroat--"I've put my foot in it, Baird, " he said. "I was fool enough theother day to quote you to Edith. "

"To what effect?"

"That if Deborah keeps on like this she'll be an old woman at thirty-five. "

Allan sat up in his chair:

"Was Edith here this afternoon?"

"She was, " said Roger. 

"Say no more. "

Baird had a wide, likable, generous mouth which wrinkled easily into asmile. He leaned back now and enjoyed himself. He puffed a little cloud ofsmoke, looked over at Roger and chuckled aloud. And Roger chuckled withrelief. "What a decent chap he is, " he thought. 

"I'm sorry, of course, " he said to Baird. "I thought of trying toexplain--"

"Don't, " said Allan. "Leave it alone. It won't do Deborah any harm--mayeven do her a little good. After all, I'm her physician--"

"Are you?" Roger asked with a twinkle. "I thought upstairs you weredismissed. "

"Oh no, I'm not, " was the calm reply. And the two men went on smoking. Roger's liking for Baird was growing fast. They had had several littletalks during Deborah's illness, and Roger was learning more of the man. Raised on a big cattle ranch that his father had owned in New Mexico, riding broncos on the plains had given him his abounding health of body, nerve and spirit, his steadiness and sanity in all this feverish city life. 

"Are you riding these days?" he inquired. 

"No, " said Roger, "the park is too hot--and they don't sprinkle the path asthey should. I've had my cob sent up to the mountains. By the way, " headded cordially, "you must come up there and ride with me. "

"Thanks, I'd like to, " Allan said, and with a little inner smile he addeddryly to himself, "He's getting ready to meddle again. " But whateveramusement Baird had in this thought was concealed behind his sober grayeyes. Soon after that he took his leave. 

"Now then, " Roger reflected, with a little glow of expectancy, "if Edithwill only leave me alone, she may find I'm smarter then she thinks!"

 * * * * *

One evening in the following week, after Edith had left town, Roger hadBruce to dine at his club, a pleasant old building on Madison Square, wherecomfortably all by themselves they could discuss Baird's chances. 

"A. Baird and I have been chums, " said Bruce, "ever since we were incollege. Take it from me I know his brand. And he isn't the kind to bepushed. "

"Who wants to push him?" Roger demanded, with a sudden guilty twinge. 

"Edith does, " Bruce answered. "And I tell you that won't do with A. Baird. He has his mind set on Deborah sure. He's been setting it harder and harderfor months--and he knows it--and so does she. But they're both the kind ofpeople who don't like interference, they've got to get to it by themselves. Edith must keep out of the way. She mustn't take it on herself to ask himup to the mountains. " Roger gave a little start. "If she does, there'll betrouble with Deborah. "

Roger smoked for a moment in silence and then sagely nodded his head. 

"That's so, " he murmured thoughtfully. "Yes, my boy, I guess you're right. "

Bruce lifted his mint julep:

"God, but it's hot in here to-night. How about taking a spin up the river?"

"Delighted, " replied his father-in-law. 

And a half hour later in Bruce's new car, which was the pride and joy ofhis life, they were far up the river. On a long level stretch of road Bruce"let her out to show what she could do. " And Roger with his heart in hismouth and his eye upon the speedometer, saw it creep to sixty-three. 

"Almost as good as a horse, " remarked Bruce, when the car had slowed alittle. 

"Almost, " said Roger, "but not quite. It's--well, it's dissipation. "

"And a horse?"

"Is life, " was the grave reply. "You'll have a crash some day, my boy, ifyou go on at your present speed. It gets me worried sometimes. You seeyou're a family man. "

"I am and I'm glad of it. Edith and the kiddies suit me right down to theground. I'm crazy about 'em--you know that. But a chap with a job likemine, " Bruce continued pleadingly, as he drove his car rushing around acurve, "needs a little dissipation, too. I can't tell you what it means tome, when I'm kept late at the office, to have this car for the run up home. Lower Broadway's empty then, and I know the cops. I swing around throughWashington Square, and the Avenue looks clear for miles, nothing but twolong rows of lights to the big hump at Murray Hill. It's the time betweencrowds--say about ten. And I know the cops. "

"That's all right, " said Roger. "No one was more delighted than I when yougot this car. You deserve it. It's the _work_ that I was speaking of. You've got it going at such a speed--"

"Only way on earth to get on--to get what I want for my family--"

"Yes, yes, I know, " muttered Roger vaguely. Bruce began talking of his workfor the steel construction concern downtown. 

"Take it from me, " he declared at the end, "this town has only just begun!"

"Has, eh, " Roger grunted. "Aren't the buildings high enough?"

"My God, I wish they were twenty times higher, " Bruce rejoinedgood-humoredly. "But they won't be--we've stopped going up. We've donepretty well in the air, and now we're going underground. And when we getthrough, this old rock of Manhattan will be such a network of tunnelsthere'll be a hole waiting at every corner to take you wherever you want togo. Speed? We don't even know what it means!"

And again Bruce "let her out" a bit. It was _quite_ a bit. Roger grabbedhis hat with one hand and the side of the car with the other. 

"They'll look back on a mile a minute, " said Bruce, "as we look back onstage coach days! And in the rush hour there'll be a rush that'll make youthink of pneumatic tubes! Not a sound nor a quiver--_just pure speed!_Shooting people home at night at a couple of hundred miles an hour! Thecity will be as big as that! And there won't be any accidents and therewon't be any smoke. Instead of coal they'll use the sun! And, my God, man, the boulevards--and parks and places for the kids! The way they'll use theRiver--and the ocean and the Sound! The Catskills will be Central Park!Sounds funny, don't it--but it's true. I've studied it out from A to Z. This town is choking itself to death simply because we're so damn slow! Wedon't know how to spread ourselves! All this city needs is speed!"

"Bruce, " said Roger anxiously, "just go a bit easy on that gas. The factis, it was a great mistake for me to eat those crabs to-night. "

Bruce slowed down compassionately, and soon they turned and started home. And as they drew near the glow of the town, other streets and boulevardspoured more motors into the line, until at last they were rushing alongamid a perfect bedlam made up of honks and shrieks of horns. The air grewhot and acrid, and looking back through the bluish haze of smoke and dustbehind him Roger could see hundreds of huge angry motor eyes. Crowding andjamming closer, pell mell, at a pace which barely slackened, they sped on, a wild uproarious crew, and swept into the city. 

Roger barely slept that night. He felt the city clamoring down into hisvery soul. "Speed!" he muttered viciously. "Speed--speed! We need morespeed!" The words beat in like a savage refrain. At last with a sigh ofimpatience he got up in his nightshirt and walked about. It was good tofeel his way in the dark in this cool silent house which he knew so well. Soon his nerves felt quieter. He went back to his bed and lay there inert. How good it would be to get up to the farm. 

 * * * * *

The next Saturday evening, with Deborah, he started for the mountains. AndBruce came down to see them off. 

"Remember, son, " said Roger, as the two walked on the platform. "Come upthis year for a month, my boy. You need it. " The train was about to start. 

"Oh, I'll be all right, " was the answer. "My friend the Judge, who has hayfever, tells me he has found a cure. "

"Damn his cure! You come to us!"

"Hold on a minute, live and learn. The Judge is quite excited about it. You drink little bugs, he says, a billion after every meal. They come intall blue bottles. We're going to dine together next week and drink 'emtill we're all lit up. Oh, we're going to have a hell of a time. _His_ wifeleft town on Tuesday. "

"Bruce, " said Roger sternly, as the train began to move, "leave bugs aloneand come up and breathe! And quit smoking so many cigarettes!" He steppedon the car. 

"Remember, son, a solid month!" Bruce nodded as the train moved out. 

"Good luck--good-bye--fine summer--my love to the wife and the kiddies--"and Bruce's dark, tense, smiling face was left behind. Roger went back intothe smoker. 

"Now for the mountains, " he thought. "Thank God!"

CHAPTER XIV

A few hours later Roger awakened. His lower berth was still pitch dark. Thetrain had stopped, and he had been roused by a voice outside his window. Rough and slow and nasal, the leisurely drawl of a mountaineer, it camelike balm to Roger's ears. He raised the curtain and looked out. A trainhand with a lantern was listening to a dairy man, a tall young giant in topboots. High overhead loomed a shadowy mountain and over its rim came theglow of the dawn. With a violent lurch the train moved on. And Roger, lyingback on his pillow, looked up at the misty mountain sides all mottled inthe strange blue light with patches of firs and birches and pines. In thenarrow valley up which the train was thundering, were small herds ofgrazing cattle, a lonely farmhouse here and there. From one a light wastwinkling. And the city with its heat and noise, its nervous throb, itsbedlam nights, all dropped like a fever from his soul. 

Now, close by the railroad track, through a shallow rocky gorge a smallriver roared and foamed. Its cool breath came up to his nostrils andgratefully he breathed it in. For this was the Gale River, named after oneof his forefathers, and in his mind's eye he followed the stream back upits course to the little station where he and Deborah were to get off. There the narrowing river bed turned and wound up through a cleft in thehills to the homestead several miles away. On the dark forest road besideit he pictured George, his grandson, at this moment driving down to meetthem in a mountain wagon with one of the two hired men, a lantern swingingunder the wheels. What an adventure for young George. 

Presently he heard Deborah stirring in the berth next to his own. 

At the station George was there, and from a thermos bottle which Edith hadfilled the night before he poured coffee piping hot, which steamed in thekeen, frosty air. 

"Oh, how good!" cried Deborah. "How thoughtful of your mother, George. Howis she, dear?"

"Oh, she's all right, Aunt Deborah. " His blunt freckled features flushedfrom his drive, George stood beaming on them both. He appeared, ifanything, tougher and scrawnier than before. "Everything's all right, " hesaid. "There ain't a sick animal on the whole farm. "

As Roger sipped his coffee he was having a look at the horses. One of themwas William, his cob. 

"Do you see it?" inquired his grandson. 

"What?"

"The boil, " George answered proudly, "on William's rump. There it is--onthe nigh side. Gee, but you ought to have seen it last week. It was a whaleof a boil, " said George, "but we poulticed him, me and Dave did--and nowthe swelling's nearly gone. You can ride him to-morrow if you like. "

Luxuriously Roger lit a cigar and climbed to the front seat with George. Upthe steep and crooked road the stout horses tugged their way, and the wagoncreaked, and the Gale River, here only a brook, came gurgling, dashing tomeet them--down from the mountains, from the farm, from Roger's youth towelcome him home. And the sun was flashing through the pines. As they drewnear the farmhouse through a grove of sugar maples, he heard shrill criesof, "There they come!" And he glimpsed the flying figures of George'sbrothers, Bob and Tad. George whipped up the horses, the wagon gained uponthe boys and reached the house but a few rods behind the little runners. Edith was waiting by the door, fresh and smiling, blooming with health. How well this suited her, Roger thought. Amid a gay chorus of greetings heclimbed down heavily out of the wagon, looked about him and drew a deepbreath. The long lazy days on the farm had begun. 

From the mountain side the farm looked down on a wide sweeping valley ofwoods and fields. The old house straggled along the road, with additionafter addition built on through generations by many men and women. Here laythe history, unread, of the family of Roger Gale. Inside there were stepsup and down from one part to another, queer crooks in narrow passageways. The lower end was attached to the woodshed, and the woodshed to the barn. Above the house a pasture dotted with gray boulders extended up to a woodof firs, and out of this wood the small river which bore the name of thefamily came rushing down the field in a gully, went under the road, sweptaround to the right and along the edge of a birch copse just below thehouse. The little stream grew quieter there and widened into a mill pond. At the lower end was a broken dam and beside it a dismantled mill. Here waspeace for Roger's soul. The next day at dawn he awakened, and through thewindow close by his bed he saw no tall confining walls; his eye was carriedas on wings out over a billowy blanket of mist, soft and white and cool andstill, reaching over the valley. From underneath to his sensitive ears camethe numberless voices of the awakening sleepers there, cheeps and tremulouswarbles from the birch copse just below, cocks crowing in the valley, andducks and geese, dogs, sheep and cattle faintly heard from distant farms. Just so it had been when he was a boy. How unchanged and yet how new werethese fresh hungry cries of life. From the other end of the house he heardEdith's tiny son lustily demanding his breakfast, as other wee boys beforehim had done for over a hundred years, as other babies still unborn woulddo in the many years to come. Soon the cry of the child was hushed. Quietfell upon the house. And Roger sank again into deep happy slumber. 

Here was nothing new and disturbing. Edith's children? Yes, they were new, but they were not disturbing. Their growth each summer was a joy, a renewalof life in the battered old house. Here was no huge tenement familycrowding in with dirty faces, clamorous demands for aid, but only fivedelightful youngsters, clean and fresh, of his own blood. He loved thesmall excitements, the plans and plots and discoveries, the many adventuresthat filled their days. He spent hours with their mother, listening whileshe talked of them. Edith did so love this place and she ran the house sobeautifully. It was so cool and fragrant, so clean and so old-fashioned. 

Deborah, too, came under the spell. She grew as lazy as a cat and day byday renewed her strength from the hills and from Edith's little brood. Roger had feared trouble there, for he knew how Edith disapproved of hersister's new ideas. But although much with the children, Deborah apparentlyhad no new ideas at all. She seemed to be only listening. One balmy day atsunset, Roger saw her lying on the grass with George sprawled by her side. Her head upon one arm, she appeared to be watching the cattle in thesloping pasture above. Slowly, as though each one of them was drawn bymysterious unseen chains, they were drifting down toward the barn where itwas almost milking time. George was talking earnestly. She threw a glanceat him from time to time, and Roger could see how intent were her eyes. Yes, Deborah knew how to study a boy. 

Only once during the summer did she talk about her work. On a walk with herfather one day she took him into a small forlorn building, a mere cabin ofone room. The white paint had long been worn away, the windows were allbroken, half the old shingles had dropped from the roof and on theflagpole was no flag. It was the district schoolhouse where for nearly halfhis life Deborah's grandfather had taught a score of pupils. Inside were ablackboard, a rusty stove, a teacher's desk and a dozen forms, grown mouldyand worm-eaten now. A torn and faded picture of Lincoln was upon one wall, half hidden by a spider's web and by a few old dangling rags which once hadbeen red, white and blue. Below, still clinging to the wall, was an oldscrap of paper, on which in a large rugged hand there had been written longago a speech, but it had been worn away until but three words werelegible--"conceived and dedicated--"

"Tell me about your school, " she said. "All you can remember. " Seated ather grandfather's desk she asked Roger many questions. And hisrecollections, at first dim and hazy, began to clear a little. 

"By George!" he exclaimed. "Here are my initials!"

He stooped over one of the benches. 

"Oh, dearie! Where?" He pointed them out, and then while he sat on the rudeold bench for some time more she questioned him. 

"But your school was not all here, " she said musingly at last, "it was upon the farm, besides, where you learned to plough and sow and reap and takecare of the animals in the barn, and mend things that were broken, and--oh, turn your hand to anything. But millions of children nowadays are growingup in cities, you see. "

Half frowning and half smiling she began to talk of her work in town. "Whatis there about her, " Roger asked, "that reminds me so of my mother?" Hismind strayed back into the past while the low quiet voice of his daughterwent on, and a wistful expression crept over his face. What would she dowith the family name? What life would she lead in those many years?. .. "What a mother she would make. " The words rose from within him, but in avoice which was not his own. It was Deborah's grandmother speaking, soclearly and distinctly that he gave a start almost of alarm. 

"And if you don't believe they'll do it, " Deborah was saying, "you don'tknow what's in children. Only we've got to help bring it out. " What had shebeen talking about? He remembered the words "a new nation"--no more. "We'vegot to grope around in the dark and hunt for new ways and learn as we go. And when you've once got into the work and really felt the thrill of itall--well, then it seems rather foolish and small to bother about your ownlittle life. "

 * * * * *

Roger spent much of his time alone. He took long rides on William alongcrooked, hilly roads. As the afternoon drew to its end, the shadows wouldcreep up the mountain sides to their summits where glowed the last rays ofthe sun, painting the slate and granite crags in lovely pink and purplehues. And sometimes mighty banks of clouds would rear themselves highoverhead, gigantic mountains of the air with billowy, misty caverns, cliffsand jagged peaks, all shifting there before his eyes. And he would think ofJudith his wife. And the old haunting certainty, that her soul had diedwith her body, was gone. There came to him the feeling that he and his wifewould meet again. Why did this hope come back to him? Was it all from theglory of the sun? Or was it from the presence, silent and invisible, ofthose many other mortals, folk of his own flesh and blood, who at theirdeaths had gone to their graves to put on immortality? Or was thisdeepening faith in Roger simply a sign of his growing old age?

He frowned at the thought and shook it off, and again stared up at thelight on the hills. "You will live on in our children's lives. " Was thereno other immortality?

He often thought of his boyhood here. On a ride one day he stopped for adrink at a spring in a grove of maples surrounding a desolate farmhouse notmore than a mile away from his own. And through the trees as he turned togo he saw the stark figure of a woman, poorly clad and gaunt and gray. Shestood motionless watching him with a look of sullen bitterness. She was thelast of "the Elkinses, " a mountain family run to seed. As he rode away hesaw in the field a boy with a pitchfork in his hands, a meager raggedlittle chap. He was staring into the valley at a wriggling, blue smokeserpent made by the night express to New York. And something leaped inRoger, for he had once felt just like that! But the woman's harsh voice cutin on his dream, as she shouted to her son below, "Hey! Why the hell youstandin' thar?" And the boy with a jump of alarm turned back quickly to hiswork. At home a few days later, George with a mysterious air took hisgrandfather into the barn, and after a pledge of secrecy he said in swiftand thrilling tones, "You know young Bill Elkins? Yes, you do--the boy upon the Elkins place who lives alone with his mother. Well, look here!"George swallowed hard. "Bill has cleared out--he's run away! I was up atfive this morning and he came hiking down the road! He had a bundle on hisback and he told me he was off for good! And was he scared? You bet he wasscared! And I told him so and it made him mad! 'Aw, you're scared!' I said. 'I ain't neither!' he said. He could barely talk, but the kid had hisnerve! 'Where you going?' I asked. 'To New York, ' he said. 'Aw, what do youknow of New York?' I said. And then, by golly, he busted right down. 'Gee!'he said, 'Gee! Can't you lemme alone?' And then he beat it down the road!You could hear the kid breathe, he was hustling so! He's way off now, he'scaught the train! He wants to be a cabin boy on a big ocean liner!" For amoment there was silence. "Well?" the boy demanded, "What do you think ofhis chances?"

"I don't know, " said Roger huskily. He felt a tightening at his throat. Abruptly he turned to his grandson. 

"George, " he asked, "what do _you_ want to be?" The boy flushed under hisfreckles. 

"I don't know as I know. I'm thinking, " he answered very slowly. 

"Talk it over with your mother, son. "

"Yes, sir, " came the prompt reply. "But he won't, " reflected Roger. 

"Or if you ever feel you want to, have a good long talk with me. "

"Yes, sir, " was the answer. Roger stood there waiting, then turned andwalked slowly out of the barn. How these children grew up inside ofthemselves. Had boys always grown like that? Well, perhaps, but how strangeit was. Always new lives, lives of their own, the old families scatteringover the land. So the great life of the nation swept on. He kept noticinghere deserted farms, and one afternoon in the deepening dusk he rode by agraveyard high up on a bare hillside. A horse and buggy were outside, andwithin he spied a lean young woman neatly dressed in a plain dark suit. With a lawn mower brought from home she was cutting the grass on her familylot. And she seemed to fit into the landscape. New England had grown veryold. 

 * * * * *

Late one night toward the end of July, there came a loud honk from down thehill, then another and another. And as George in his pajamas came rushingfrom his bedroom shouting radiantly, "Gee! It's dad!"--they heard the carthundering outside. Bruce had left New York at dawn and had made the run ina single day, three hundred and eleven miles. He was gray with dust allover and he was worn and hollow eyed, but his dark visage wore a look ofsolid satisfaction. 

"I needed the trip to shake me down, " he pleaded, when Edith scolded himwell for this terrific manner of starting his vacation. "I had to have itto cut me off from the job I left behind me. Now watch me settle down onthis farm. "

But it appeared he could not settle down. For the first few days, in hismotor, he was busy exploring the mountains. "We'll make 'em look foolish. Eh, son?" he said. And with George, who mutely adored him, he ran all aboutthem in a day. Genially he gave everyone rides. When he'd finished with thefamily, he took Dave Royce the farmer and his wife and children, and evenboth the hired men, for Bruce was an hospitable soul. But more than anyoneelse he took George. They spent hours working on the car, and at times whenthey came into the house begreased and blackened from their work, Edithreproved them like bad boys--but Deborah smiled contentedly. 

But at the end of another week Bruce grew plainly restless, and despite hiswife's remonstrances made ready to return to town. When she spoke of hishay fever he bragged to her complacently of his newly discovered cure. 

"Oh, bother your little blue bugs!" she cried. 

"The bugs aren't blue, " he explained to her, in a mild and patient voicethat drove Edith nearly wild. "They're so little they have no color at all. Poor friendly little devils--"

"Bruce!" his wife exploded. 

"They've been almighty good to me. You ought to have heard my friend theJudge, the last night I was with him. He patted his bottle and said to me, 'Bruce, my boy, with all these simple animals right here as our companionswhy be a damn fool and run off to the cows?' And there's a good deal inwhat he says. You ought to be mighty thankful, too, that my summerpleasures are so mild. If you could see what some chaps do--"

And Bruce started back for the city. George rode with him the first fewmiles, then left him and came trudging home. His spirits were exceedinglylow. 

As August drew toward a close, Deborah, too, showed signs of unrest. Withever growing frequency Roger felt her eagerness to return to her work inNew York. 

"You're as bad as Bruce, " he growled at her. "You don't have to be back, "he argued. "School doesn't begin for nearly three weeks. "

"There's the suffrage campaign, " she answered. He gave her a look ofexasperation. 

"Now what the devil has suffrage to do with your schools?" he demanded. 

"When the women get the vote, we'll spend more money on the children. "

"Suppose the money isn't there, " was Roger's grim rejoinder. 

"Then we'll act like old-fashioned wives, I suppose, " his daughter answeredcheerfully, "and keep nagging till it is there. We'll keep up such anagging, " she added, in sweet even tones, "that you'll get the money byhook or crook, to save yourselves from going insane. "

After this he caught her reading in the New York papers the list ofcampaign meetings each night, meetings in hot stifling halls or out upondeafening corners. And as she read there came over her face a look likethat of a man who has given up tobacco and suddenly sniffs it among hisfriends. She went down the last night of August. 

 * * * * *

Roger stayed on for another two weeks, on into the best time of the year. For now came the nights of the first snapping frosts when the dome of theheavens was steely blue, and clear sparkling mornings, the woods aflamewith scarlet and gold. And across the small field below the house, atsunset Roger would go down to the copse of birches there and find it filledwith glints of light that took his glance far in among the slender, creamystems of the trees, all slowly swaying to and fro, the leafage rich withautumn hues, warm orange, yellow and pale green. Lovely and silent andserene. So it had been when he was a boy and so it would be when he wasdead. Countless trees had been cut down but others had risen in theirstead. Now and then he could hear a bird warbling. 

Long ago this spot had been his mother's favorite refuge from her busy dayin the house. She had almost always come alone, but sometimes Rogerstealing down would watch her sitting motionless and staring in among thetrees. Years later in his reading he had come upon the phrase, "sacredgrove, " and at once he had thought of the birches. And sitting here whereshe had been, he felt again that boundless faith in life resplendent, conquering death, and serenely sweeping him on--into what he did not fear. For this had been his mother's faith. Sometimes in the deepening dusk hecould almost see her sitting here. 

"This faith in you has come from me. This is my memory living on in you, myson, though you do not know. How many times have I held you back, how manytimes have I urged you on, roused you up or soothed you, made you hope orfear or dream, through memories of long ago. For you were once a part ofme. I moulded you, my little son. And as I have been to you, so you will beto your children. In their lives, too, we shall be there--silent andinvisible, the dim strong figures of the past. For this is the power offamilies, this is the mystery of birth. "

Suddenly he started. What was it that had thrilled him so? Only a tall darkfir in the birches. But looming in there like a shadowy phantom it hadrecalled a memory of a dusk far back in his boyhood, when seeing a shadowjust like this he had thought it a ghost in very truth and had run for thehouse like a rabbit! How terribly real that fright had been! Therecollection suddenly became so vivid in his mind, that as though a veilhad been lifted he felt the living presence here, close by his side, of asmall barefoot mountain lad, clothed in sober homespun gray, but filledwith warm desires, dreams and curiosities, exploring upon every hand, nowmarching boldly forward, now stealing up so cautiously, now galloping awaylike mad! "I was once a child. " To most of us these are mere words. To fewis it ever given to attain so much as even a glimpse into the warm andquivering soul of that little stranger of long ago. We do not know how wewere made. 

"I moulded you, my little son. And as I have been to you, so you will be toyour children. In their lives, too, we shall be there. "

Darker, darker grew the copse and the chill of the night descended. But toRoger's eyes there was no gloom. For he had seen a vision. 

CHAPTER XV

On his return to the city, Roger found that Deborah's school had apparentlyswept all other interests out of her mind. Baird hardly ever came to thehouse, and she herself was seldom there except for a hasty dinner at night. The house had to run itself more or less; and though Annie the cook wasdoing her best, things did not run so smoothly. Roger missed littlecomforts, attentions, and he missed Deborah most of all. When he came downto his breakfast she had already left the house, and often she did notreturn until long after he was in bed. She felt the difference herself, andthough she did not put it in words her manner at times seemed to beg hisforbearance. But there were many evenings when her father found itdifficult to hold to the resolve he had made, to go slowly with hisdaughter until he could be more sure of his ground. She was growing sointense again. From the school authorities she had secured a still widerrange and freedom for her new experiment, and she was working day and nightto put her ideas into effect. 

"It's only too easy, " she remarked, "to launch an idea in this town. Thetown will put it in headlines at once, and with it a picture of yourself inyour best bib and tucker, looking as though you loved the whole world. Andyou can make a wonderful splurge, until they go on to the next new thing. The real trouble comes in working it out. "

And this she had set out to do. Many nights in the autumn Roger went downto the school, to try to get some clear idea of this vision of hers forchildren, which in a vague way he could feel was so much larger than hisown, for he had seen its driving force in the grip it had upon her life. Atfirst he could make nothing of it at all; everywhere chaos met his eyes. But he found something formless, huge, that made to him a strong appeal. 

The big building fairly hummed at night with numberless activities. Fathers, mothers and children came pouring in together and went skurryingoff to their places. They learned to speak English, to read and write;grown men and women scowled and toiled over their arithmetic. They workedat trades in the various shops; they hammered and sawed and set up type;they cooked and sewed and gossiped. "The Young Galician Socialist Girls"debated on the question: "Resolved that woman suffrage has worked inColorado. " "The Caruso Pleasure Club" gave a dance to "The GaribaldiWhirlwinds. " An orchestra rehearsed like mad. They searched their memoriesfor the songs and all the folk tales they had heard in peasant huts inItaly, in hamlets along rocky coasts, in the dark old ghettos of crowdedtowns in Poland and in Russia. And some of these songs were sung in school, and some of these tales were dramatized here. Children and parents all tookpart. And speakers emerged from the neighborhood. It was at timesappalling, the number of young Italians and Jews who had ideas to giveforth to their friends on socialism, poverty, marriage and religion, andall the other questions that rose among these immigrants jammed into thistenement hive. But when there were too many of these self-appointed guides, the neighborhood shut down on them. 

"We don't want, " declared one indignant old woman, "that every young loafershould shout in our face!"

Roger was slowly attracted into this enormous family life, and yielding toan impulse he took charge of a boys' club which met on Thursday eveningsthere. He knew well this job of fathering a small jovial group of lads; hehad done it before, many years ago, in the mission school, to please hiswife; he felt himself back on familiar ground. And from this point ofvantage, with something definite he could do, he watched with an interestmore clear the school form steadily closer ties with the tenements thathedged it 'round, gathering its big family. And this family by slow degreesbegan to make itself a part of the daily life of Roger's house. Committeesheld their meetings here, teachers dropped in frequently, and Roger invitedthe boys in his club to come up and see him whenever they liked. 

His most frequent visitor was Johnny Geer, the cripple. He was working inRoger's office now and the two had soon become close friends. John kepthimself so neat and clean, he displayed such a keen interest in all thedetails of office work, and he showed such a beaming appreciation ofanything that was done for him. 

"That boy is getting a hold on me lately almost like a boy of my own, "Roger said one evening when Allan Baird was at the house. "He's thepluckiest young un I ever met. I've put him to work in my private office, where he can use the sofa to rest, and I've made him my ownstenographer--partly because he's so quick at dictation and partly to tryto make him slow down. He has the mind of a race horse. He runs at night tolibraries until I should think he'd go insane. And his body can't stand it, he's breaking down--though whenever I ask him how he feels, he always says, 'Fine, thank you. '" Here Roger turned to Allan. "I wish you'd take theboy, " he said, "to the finest specialist in town, and see what can be donefor his spine. I'll pay any price. "

"There won't be any price, " said Allan, "but I'll see to it at once. "

He had John examined the same week. 

"Well?" asked Roger when next they met. 

"Well, " said Baird, "it isn't good news. "

"You mean he's hopeless?" Allan nodded:

"It's Pott's disease, and it's gone too far. John is eighteen. He may liveto be thirty. "

"But I tell you, Baird, I'll do anything!"

"There's almost nothing you can do. If he had been taken when he was ababy, he might have been cured and given a chance. But the same mother whodropped him then, when she was full of liquor, just went to the druggist onher block, and after listening to his advice she bought some patentmedicine, a steel jacket and some crutches, and thought she'd done herduty. "

"But there must be something we can do!" retorted Roger angrily. 

"Yes, " said Baird, "we can make him a little more comfortable. Andmeanwhile we can help Deborah here to get hold of other boys like John andgive 'em a chance before it's too late--keep them from being crippled forlife because their mothers were too blind and ignorant to act in time. "Baird's voice had a ring of bitterness. 

"Most of 'em love their children, " Roger said uneasily. Baird turned on hima steady look. 

"Love isn't enough, " he retorted. "The time is coming very soon when we'llhave the right to guard the child not only when it's a baby but even beforeit has been born. "

Roger drew closer to John after this. Often behind the beaming smile hewould feel the pain and loneliness, and the angry grit which was fightingit down. And so he would ask John home to supper on nights when nobody elsewas there. One day late in the afternoon they were walking home togetheralong the west side of Madison Square. The big open space was studded withlights sparkling up at the frosty stars, in a city, a world, a universethat seemed filled with the zest and the vigor of life. Out of these lightsa mighty tower loomed high up into the sky. And stopping on his crutches, agrim small crooked figure in all this rushing turmoil, John set his jaws, and with his shrewd and twinkling eyes fixed on the top of the tower, hesaid, "I meant to tell you, Mr. Gale. You was asking me once what I wanted to be. And I want to be an architect. "

"Do, eh, " grunted Roger. He, too, looked up at that thing in the stars, andthere was a tightening at his throat. "All right, " he added, presently, "why not start in and be one?"

"How?" asked John alertly. 

"Well, my boy, " said Roger, "I'd hate to lose you in the office--"

"Yes, sir, and I'd hate to go. " Just then the big clock in the tower beganto boom the hour, and a chill struck into Roger. 

"You'd have to, " he said gruffly. "You haven't any time to lose! I mean, "he hastily added, "that for a job as big as that you'd need a lot oftraining. But if it's what you want to be, go right ahead. I'll back you. My son-in-law is a builder at present. I'll talk to him and get his advice. We may be able to arrange to have you go right into his office, begin atthe bottom and work straight up. " In silence for a moment John hobbled onby Roger's side. 

"I'd hate to leave your place, " he said. 

"I know, " was Roger's brusque reply, "and I'd hate to lose you. We'll haveto think it over. "

A few days later he talked with Bruce, who said he'd be glad to take theboy. And at dinner that night with Deborah, Roger asked abruptly, "Why not let Johnny come here for a while and use one of our emptybedrooms?"

With a quick flush of pleased surprise, Deborah gave her father a look thatembarrassed him tremendously. 

"Well, why not?" he snapped at her. "Sensible, isn't it?"

"Perfectly. "

And sensible it turned out to be. When John first heard about it, he wasapparently quite overcome, and there followed a brief awkward pause whilehe rapidly blinked the joy from his eyes. But then he said, "Fine, thankyou. That's mighty good of you, Mr. Gale, " in as matter of fact a tone asyou please. And he entered the household in much the same way, for John hada sense of the fitness of things. He had always kept himself neat andclean, but he became immaculate now. He dined with Roger the first night, but early the next morning he went down to the kitchen and breakfastedthere; and from this time on, unless he were especially urged to come up tothe dining room, John took all his meals downstairs. The maids wereIrish--so was John. They were good Catholics--so was John. They loved themovies--so did John. In short, it worked out wonderfully. In less than amonth John had made himself an unobtrusive and natural part of the life ofRoger's sober old house. It had had to stretch just a little, no more. 

CHAPTER XVI

But that winter there was more in the house than Deborah's big family. Though at times Roger felt it surging in with its crude, immense vitality, there were other times when it was not so, and the lives of his other twodaughters attracted his attention, for both were back again in town. 

Laura and her husband had returned from abroad in October, and in a smallbut expensive apartment in a huge new building facing on Park Avenue theyhad gaily started the career of their own little family, or "ménage, " asLaura called it. This word had stuck in Roger's mind, for he had asuspicion that a "ménage" was no place for babies. Grimly, when he wentthere first to be shown the new home by its mistress, he looked about himfor a room which might be made a nursery. But no such room was in evidence. "We decided to have no guest room, " he heard Laura say to Deborah. Andglancing at his daughter then, sleek and smiling and demure, in hertea-gown fresh from Paris, Roger darkly told himself that a child would bean unwelcome guest. The whole place was as compact and sparkling as a jewelbox. The bed chamber was luxurious, with a gorgeous bath adjoining and adressing-room for Harold. 

"And look at this love of a closet!" said Laura to Deborah eagerly. "Isn'tit simply enormous?" As Deborah looked, her father did, too, and his eyewas met by an array of shimmering apparel which made him draw back almostwith a start. 

They found Harold in the pantry. Their Jap, it appeared, was a marvellouscook and did the catering as well, so that Laura rarely troubled herselfto order so much as a single meal. But her husband had for many years beenfamous for his cocktails, and although the Jap did everything else Hal hadkept this in his own hands. 

"I thought this much of the house-keeping ought to remain in the family, "he said. 

Roger did not like this joke. But later, when he had imbibed the deliciousconcoction Harold had made, and had eaten the dinner created by thatJapanese artist of theirs, his irritation subsided. 

"They barely know we're here, " he thought. "They're both in love up totheir ears. "

Despite their genial attempts to be hospitable and friendly, time and againhe saw their glances meet in an intimate gleaming manner which made himrather uncomfortable. But where was the harm, he asked himself. They weremarried all right, weren't they? Still somehow--somehow--no, by George, hedidn't like it, he didn't approve! The whole affair was decidedly mixing. Roger went away vaguely uneasy, and he felt that Deborah was even moredisturbed than himself. 

"Those two, " she remarked to her father, "are so fearfully wrapt up in eachother it makes me afraid. Oh, it's all right, I suppose, and I wouldn't forworlds try to interfere. But I can't help feeling somehow that no twopeople with such an abundance of youth and money and happiness have theright to be so amazingly--selfish!"

"They ought to have children, " Roger said. 

"But look at Edith, " his daughter rejoined. "She hasn't a single interestthat I can find outside her home. It seems to have swallowed her, body andsoul. " A frowning look of perplexity swept over Deborah's mobile face, andwith a whimsical sigh she exclaimed, "Oh, this queer business of families!"

In December there came a little crash. Late one evening Laura came burstingin upon them in a perfect tantrum, every nerve in her lithe body tense, her full lips visibly quivering, her voice unsteady, and her big black eyesaflame with rage. She was jealous of her husband and "that nasty littlecat!" Roger learned no more about it, for Deborah motioned him out of theroom. He heard their two voices talk on and on, until Laura's slowlyquieted down. Soon afterwards she left the house, and Deborah came in tohim. 

"She's gone home, eh?" asked Roger. 

"Yes, she has, poor silly child--she said at first she had come here tostay. "

"By George, " he said. "As bad as that?"

"Of course it isn't as bad as that!" Deborah cried impatiently. "She justbuilt and built on silly suspicions and let herself get all worked up! Idon't see what they're coming to!" For a few moments nothing was said. "It's so unnatural!" she exclaimed. "Men and women weren't _made_ to livelike that!" Roger scowled into his paper. 

"Better leave 'em alone, " he admonished her. "You can't help--they're notyour kind. Don't you mix into this affair. "

But Deborah did. She remembered that her sister had once shown quite atalent for amateur theatricals; and to give Laura something to do, Deborahpersuaded her to take a dramatic club in her school. And Laura, rather toRoger's surprise, became an enthusiast down there. She worked like a slaveat rehearsals, and upon the costumes she spent money with a lavish hand. Moreover, instead of being annoyed, as Edith was, at Deborah's prominencein the press, Laura gloried in it, as though this "radical" sister of herswere a distinct social asset among her giddy friends uptown. For evenLaura's friends, her father learned with astonishment, had acquired quitean appetite for men and women with ideas--the more "radical, " the better. But the way Laura used this word at times made Roger's blood run cold. Shewas vivid in her approval of her sister's whole idea, as a scheme ofwholesale motherhood which would give "a perfectly glorious jolt" to theold-fashioned home with its overworked mothers who let their childrenabsorb their days. 

"As though having children and bringing them up, " she disdainfullydeclared, "were something every woman must do, whether she happens to likeit or not, at the cost of any real growth of her own!"

And smilingly she hinted at impending radical changes in the whole relationof marriage, of which she was hearing in detail at a series of lectures toyoung wives, delivered on Thursday mornings in a hotel ball-room. 

What the devil was getting into the town? Roger frowned his deep dislike. Here was Laura with her chicken's mind blithely taking her sister'sthoughts and turning them topsy-turvy, to make for herself a view of lifewhich fitted like a white kid glove her small and elegant "ménage. " Andalthough her father had only inklings of it all, he had quite enough tomake him irate at this uncanny interplay of influences in his family. Whycouldn't the girls leave each other alone?

 * * * * *

Early in the winter, Edith, too, had entered in. It had taken Edith justone glance into the bride's apartment to grasp Laura's whole scheme ofexistence. 

"Selfish, indulgent and abnormal, " was the way she described it. She andBruce were dining with Roger that night. "I wash my hands of the wholeaffair, " continued Edith curtly. "So long as she doesn't want my help, asshe has plainly made me feel, I certainly shan't stand in her way. "

"You're absolutely right, " said her father. 

"Stick to it, " said Bruce approvingly. 

But Edith did not stick to it. In her case too, as the weeks wore on, thosesubtle family ties took hold and made her feel the least she could do was"to keep up appearances. " So she and Bruce dined with the bride and groom, and in turn had them to dinner. And these dinners, as Bruce confided toRoger, were occasions no man could forget. 

"They come only about once a month, " he said in a tone of pathos, "but itseems as though barely a week had gone by when Edith says to me again, 'We're dining with Laura and Hal to-night. ' Well, and we dine. Young Sloaneis not a bad sort of a chap--works hard downtown and worships his wife. Theway he lives--well, it isn't mine--and mine isn't his--and we both let itgo at that. But the women can't, they haven't it in 'em. Each sits with herway of life in her lap. You can't see it over the tablecloth, but, my God, how you feel it! The worst of it is, " he ended, "that after one of theseterrible meals each woman is more set than before in her own way of living. Not that I don't like Edith's way, " her husband added hastily. 

Edith also disapproved of the fast increasing publicity which Deborah wasgetting. 

"I may be very old-fashioned, " she remarked to her father, "but I can't getused to this idea that a woman's place is in headlines. And I think it'srather hard on you--the use she's making of your house. "

One Friday night when she came to play chess, she found her father in themidst of a boisterous special meeting of his club of Italian boys. It hadbeen postponed from the evening before. And though Roger, overcome withdismay at having forgotten Edith's night, apologized profusely, thetime-honored weekly game took place no more from that day on. 

"Edith's pretty sore, " said Bruce, who dropped in soon afterwards. "Shesays Deborah has made your house into an annex to her school. "

Roger smoked in silence. His whole family was about his ears. 

"My boy, " he muttered earnestly, "you and I must stick together. "

"We sure must, " agreed his son-in-law. "And what's more, if we're to keepthe peace, we've got to try to put some punch into Deborah's so-called loveaffair. She ought to get married and settle down. "

"Yes, " said Roger, dubiously. "Only let's keep it to ourselves. "

"No chance of that, " was the cheerful reply. "You can't keep Edith out ofit. It would only make trouble in _my_ family. " Roger gave him a pityinglook and said, "Then, for the Lord's sake, let her in!"

So they took Edith into their councils, and she gave them an indulgentsmile. 

"Suppose you leave this to me, " she commanded. "Don't you think I've beenusing my eyes? There's no earthly use in stepping in now, for Deborah haslost her head. She sees herself a great new woman with a career. But waittill the present flare-up subsides, till the newspapers all drop her andshe is thoroughly tired out. Until then, remember, we keep our hands off. "

"Do you think you can?" asked Roger, with a little glimmer of hope. 

"I?" she retorted. "Most certainly! I mean to leave her aloneabsolutely--until she comes to me herself. When she does, we'll know it'stime to begin. "

 * * * * *

"I'm afraid Edith is hurt about something, " said Deborah to her father, about a month after this little talk. "She hasn't been near us for overthree weeks. "

"Let her be!" said Roger, in alarm. "I mean, " he hastily added, "why can'tyou let Edith come when she likes? There's nothing the matter. It's simplyher children--they take up her time. "

"No, " said Deborah calmly, "it's I. She as good as told me so last month. She thinks I've become a perfect fanatic--without a spare moment orthought for my family. "

"Oh, my family!" Roger groaned. "I tell you, Deborah, you're wrong! Edith'schildren are probably sick in bed!"

"Then I'll go and see, " she answered. 

 * * * * *

"Something has happened to Deborah, " Edith informed him blithely, over thetelephone the next night. 

"Has, eh, " grunted Roger. 

"Yes, she was here to see me to-day. And something has happened--she'schanging fast. I felt it in all kinds of ways. She was just as dear as shecould be--and lonely, as though she were feeling her age. I really think wecan do something now. "

"All right, let's do something, " Roger growled. 

And Edith began to do something. Her hostility to her sister had completelydisappeared. In its place was a friendly affection, an evident desire toplease. She even drew Laura into the secret, and there was a gathering ofthe clan. There were consultations in Roger's den. "Deborah is to getmarried. " The feeling of it crept through the house. Nothing was said toher, of course, but Deborah was made to feel that her two sisters had drawnclose. And their influence upon her choice was more deep and subtle thanshe knew. For although Roger's family had split so wide apart, between histhree daughters there were still mysterious bonds reaching far back intonursery days. And Deborah in deciding whether to marry Allan Baird wasaffected more than she was aware by the married lives of her sisters. Allshe had seen in Laura's ménage, all that she had ever observed in Edith'sgrowing family, kept rising from time to time in her thoughts, as shevaguely tried to picture herself a wife and the mother of children. 

So the family, with those subtle bonds from the past, began to presssteadily closer and closer around this one unmarried daughter, and help herto make up her mind. 

CHAPTER XVII

But she did not appear to care to be helped. Nor did Allan--he rarely cameto the house, and he went to Edith's not at all. He was even absent fromher Christmas tree for the children, a jolly little festivity which neitherhe nor Deborah had missed in years. 

"What has got into him?" Roger asked. And shortly after Christmas he calledthe fellow up on the 'phone. "Drop in for dinner to-night, " he urged. Andhe added distinctly, "I'm alone. "

"Are you? I'll be glad to. "

"Thank you, Baird, I want your advice. " And as he hung up the receiver hesaid, "Now then!" to himself, in a tone of firm decision. But later, as theday wore on, he cursed himself for what he had done. "Don't it beat thedevil, " he thought, "how I'm always putting my foot in it?" And when Bairdcame into the room that night he loomed, to Roger's anxious eye, ifanything taller than before. But his manner was so easy, his gruff voice sonatural, and he seemed to take this little party of two so quietly as amatter of course, that Roger was soon reassured, and at table he and Allangot on even better than before. Baird talked of his life as a student, inVienna, Bonn and Edinburgh, and of his first struggles in New York. Histalk was full of human bits, some tragic, more amusing. And Roger's likingfor the man increased with every story told. 

"I asked you here, " he bluntly began, when they had gone to the study tosmoke, "to talk to you about Deborah. " Baird gave him a friendly look. 

"All right. Let's talk about her. "

"It strikes me you were right last year, " said Roger, speaking slowly. "She's already showing the strain of her work. She don't look to me asstrong as she was. "

"She looks to me stronger, " Allan replied. "You know, people fool doctorsnow and then--and she seems to have taken a fresh start. I feel she may goon for years. " Roger was silent a moment, chagrined and disappointed. 

"Have you had a good chance to watch her?" he asked. 

"Yes, and I'm watching her still, " said Baird. "I see her down there at theschool. She tells me you've been there yourself. "

"Yes, " said Roger, determinedly, "and I mean to keep on going. I'm tryingnot to lose hold of her, " he added with harsh emphasis. Baird turned andfrankly smiled at him. 

"Then you have probably seen, " he replied, "that to keep any hold at all onher, you must make up your mind as I have done that, strength or nostrength, this job of hers is going to be a life career. When a woman whohas held a job without a break for eleven years can feel such a flame ofenthusiasm, you can be pretty sure, I think, it is the deepest part of her. At least I feel that way, " he said. "And I believe the only way to keepnear her--for the present, anyhow--is to help her in her work. "

When Baird had gone, Roger found himself angry. 

"I'm not in the habit, young man, " he thought, "of throwing my daughter atgentlemen's heads. If you feel as calm and contented as that you can go tothe devil! Far be it from me to lift a hand! In fact, as I come to think ofit, you would probably make her a mighty poor husband!" He worked himselfinto quite a rage. But an hour later, when he had subsided, "Hold on, " hethought. "Am I right about this? Is the man as contented as he talks? No, sir, not for a minute he isn't! But what can he do? If he tried making loveto Deborah he'd simply be killing his chances. Not the slightest doubt inthe world. She can't think of anything but her career. Yes, sir, when all'ssaid and done, to marry a modern woman is no child's play, it means thoughtand care. And A. Baird has made up his mind to it. He has made up his mindto marry her by playing a long waiting game. He's just slowly and quietlynosing his way into her school, because it's her life. And a mighty shrewdway of going about it. You don't need any help from me, my friend; all youneed is to be let alone. "

In talks at home with Deborah, and in what he himself observed at school, Roger began to get inklings of "A. Baird's long waiting game. " He foundthat several months before Allan had offered to start a free clinic formothers and children in connection with the school, and that he alone hadput it through, with only the most reluctant aid and gratitude fromDeborah--as though she dreaded something. Baird took countless hours fromhis busy uptown practice; he hurt himself more than once, in fact, byneglecting rich patients to do this work. Where a sick or pregnant motherwas too poor to carry out his advice, he followed her into her tenementhome, sent one of his nurses to visit her, and even gave money when it wasneeded to ease the strain of her poverty until she should be well andstrong. Soon scores of the mothers of Deborah's children were singing thepraises of Doctor Baird. 

Then he began coming to the house. 

"I was right, " thought Roger complacently. 

He laid in a stock of fine cigars and some good port and claret, too; andon evenings when Baird came to dine, Roger by a genial glow and occasionaljocular ironies would endeavor to drag the talk away from clinics, adenoids, children's teeth, epidemics and the new education. But no jokewas so good that Deborah could not promptly match it with some amusinglittle thing which one of her children had said or done. For she had amother's instinct for bragging fondly of her brood. It was deep, it wasuncanny, this queer community motherhood. 

"This poor devil, " Roger thought, with a pitying glance at Baird, "mightjust as well be marrying a widow with three thousand brats. "

But Baird did not seem in the least dismayed. On the contrary, hisassurance appeared to be deepening every week, and with it Deborah's air ofalarm. For his clinic, as it swiftly grew, he secured financial backingfrom his rich women patients uptown, many of them childless and only tooready to respond to the appeals he made to them. And one Saturday eveningat the house, while dining with Roger and Deborah, he told of an offer hehad had from a wealthy banker's widow to build a maternity hospital. Hetalked hungrily of all it could do in co-operation with the school. He saidnothing of the obvious fact that it would require his whole time, but Rogerthought of that at once, and by the expression on Deborah's face he saw shewas thinking, too. 

He felt they wanted to be alone, so presently he left them. From his studyhe could hear their voices growing steadily more intense. Was it all aboutwork? He could not tell. "They've got working and living so mixed up, a mancan't possibly tell 'em apart. "

Then his daughter was called to the telephone, and Allan came in to bidRoger good-night. And his eyes showed an impatience he did not seem to careto hide. 

"Well?" inquired Roger. "Did you get Deborah's consent?"

"To what?" asked Allan sharply. 

"To your acceptance, " Roger answered, "of the widow's mite. " Baird grinned. 

"She couldn't help herself, " he said. 

"But she didn't seem to like it, eh--"

"No, " said Baird, "she didn't. " Roger had a dark suspicion. 

"By the way, " he asked in a casual tone, "what's this philanthropic widowlike?"

"She's sixty-nine, " Baird answered. 

"Oh, " said Roger. He smoked for a time, and sagely added, "My daughter's aqueer woman, Baird--she's modern, very modern. But she's still a woman, youunderstand--and so she's jealous--of her job. " But A. Baird was in nojoking mood. 

"She's narrow, " he said sternly. "That's what's the matter with Deborah. She's so centered on her job she can't see anyone else's. She thinks I'mdoing all this work solely in order to help her school--when if she'd usesome imagination and try to put herself in my shoes, she'd see the chanceit's giving _me_!"

"How do you mean?" asked Roger, looking a bit bewildered. 

"Why, " said Baird with an impatient fling of his hand, "there are men in myline all over the country who'd leave home, wives and children for thechance I've blundered onto here! A hospital fully equipped for research, afree hand, an opportunity which comes to one man in a million! But can shesee it? Not at all! It's only an annex to her school!"

"Yes, " said Roger gravely, "she's in a pretty unnatural state. I think sheought to get married, Baird--" To his friendly and disarming twinkle Bairdreplied with a rueful smile. 

"You do, eh, " he growled. "Then tell her to plan her wedding to come beforeher funeral. " As he rose to go, Roger took his hand. 

"I'll tell her, " he said. "It's sound advice. Good-night, my boy, I wishyou luck. "

A few moments later he heard in the hall their brief good-nights to eachother, and presently Deborah came in. She was not looking quite herself. 

"Why are you eyeing me like that?" his daughter asked abruptly. 

"Aren't you letting him do a good deal for you?"

Deborah flushed a little:

"Yes, I am. I can't make him stop. "

Her father hesitated. 

"You could, " he said, "if you wanted to. If you were sure, " he addedslowly, "that you didn't love him--and told him so. " He felt a littlepanic, for he thought he had gone too far. But his daughter only turnedaway and restlessly moved about the room. At last she came to her father'schair:

"Hadn't you better leave this to me?"

"I had, my dear, I most certainly had. I was all wrong to mention it, " heanswered very humbly. 

 * * * * *

From this night on, Baird changed his tack. Although soon busy with theplans for the hospital, to be built at once, he said little about it toDeborah. Instead, he insisted on taking her off on little evening spreesuptown. 

"Do you know what's the matter with both of us?" he said to her oneevening. "We've been getting too durned devoted to our jobs and our ideals. You're becoming a regular school marm and I'm getting to be a regular slaveto every wretched little babe who takes it into his head to be born. Wehaven't one redeeming vice. "

And again he took up dancing. The first effort which he made, down atDeborah's school one evening, was a failure quite as dismal as his attemptsof the previous year. But he did not appear in the least discouraged. Hecame to the house one Friday night. 

"I knew I could learn to dance, " he said, "in spite of all your taunts andjibes. That little fiasco last Saturday night--"

"Was perfectly awful, " Deborah said. 

"Did not discourage me in the least, " he continued severely. "I decided theonly trouble with me was that I'm tall and I've got to bend--to learn tobend. "

"Tremendously!"

"So I went to a lady professor, and she saw the point at once. Since thenI've had five lessons, and I can fox-trot in my sleep. To-morrow isSaturday. Where shall we go?"

"To the theater. "

"Good. We'll start with that. But the minute the play is over we'll gallopoff to the Plaza Grill--just as the music is in full swing--"

"And we'll dance, " she groaned, "for hours. And when I get home, I'll creepinto bed so tired and sore in every limb--"

"That you'll sleep late Sunday morning. And a mighty good thing for you, too--if you ask my advice--"

"I don't ask your advice!"

"You're getting it, though, " he said doggedly. "If you're still to be afriend of mine we'll dance at the Plaza to-morrow night--and well into theSabbath. "

"The principal of a public school--dancing on the Sabbath. Suppose one ofmy friends should see us there. "

"Your friends, " he replied with a fine contempt, "do not dance in the PlazaGrill. I'm the only roisterer you know. "

"All right, " she conceded grudgingly, "I'll roister. Come and get me. ButI'd much prefer when the play is done to come home and have milk andcrackers here. "

"Deborah, " he said cheerfully, "for a radical school reformer you're themost conservative woman I know. "

CHAPTER XVIII

In Deborah's school, in the meantime, affairs had drawn to a climax. Themoment had come for the city to say whether her new experiment should bedropped the following year or allowed to go on and develop. There came aday of sharp suspense when Deborah's friends and enemies on the Board ofEducation sat down to discuss and settle her fate. They were at it forseveral hours, but late in the afternoon they decided not only to let hergo on the next year but to try her idea in four other schools and place herin charge with ample funds. The long strain came to an end at last in atriumph beyond her wildest hopes; when the news arrived she relaxed, grewlimp, and laughed and cried a little. And her father felt her tremble as heheld her a moment in his arms. 

"Now, Baird, " he thought, "your chance has come. For God's sake, take itwhile it's here!"

But in place of Baird that afternoon came men and women from the press, andfriends and fellow workers. The door-bell and the telephone kept ringingalmost incessantly. Why couldn't they leave her a moment's peace? Rogerburied himself in his study. Later, when he was called to dinner, he foundthat Allan was there, too, but at first the conversation was all uponDeborah's victory. Flushed with success, for the moment engrossed in thewider field she saw ahead, she had not a thought for anything else. Butafter dinner the atmosphere changed. 

"To hear me talk, " she told them, "you'd think the whole world depended onme, and on my school and my ideas. Me, me, me! And it has been me allwinter long! What a time I've given both of you!"

She grew repentant and grateful, first to her father and then to Allan, andthen more and more to Allan, with her happy eyes on his. And with a keenworried look at them both, Roger rose and left the room. 

 * * * * *

Baird was leaning forward. He had both her hands in his own. 

"Well?" he asked. "Will you marry me now?"

Her eyes were looking straight into his. They kept moving slightly, searching his. Her wide, sensitive lips were tightly compressed, but didnot quite hide their quivering. When she spoke her voice was low and alittle queer and breathless:

"Do you want any children, Allan?"

"Yes. "

"So do I. And with children, what of my work?"

"I don't want to stop your work. If you marry me we'll go right on. You seeI know you, Deborah, I know you've always grown like that--by risking whatyou've got to-day for something more to-morrow. "

"I've never taken a risk like this!"

"I tell you this time it's no risk! Because you're a grown woman--formed!I'm not making a saint of you. You're no angel down among the poor becauseyou feel it's your duty in life--it's your happiness, your passion! Youcouldn't neglect them if you tried!"

"But the time, " she asked him quickly. "Where shall I find the time for itall?"

"A man finds time enough, " he answered, "even when he's married. "

"But I'm not a man, I'm a woman, " she said. And in a low voice whichthrilled him, "A woman who wants a child of her own!" His lean muscularright hand contracted sharply upon hers. She winced, drew back a little. 

"Oh--I'm sorry!" he whispered. Then he asked her again, "Will you marry me now?" She looked suddenly up:

"Let's wait awhile, please! It won't be long--I'm in love with you, Allan, I'm sure of that now! And I'm not drawing back, I'm not afraid! Oh, I wantyou to feel I'm not running away! What I want to do is to face this square!It may be silly and foolish but--you see, I'm made like that. I want alittle longer--I want to think it out by myself. "

 * * * * *

When Allan had gone she came in to her father. And her radiant expressionmade him bounce up from his chair. 

"By George, " he cried, "he asked you!"

"Yes!"

"And you've taken him!"

"No!"

Roger gasped. 

"Look here!" he demanded, angrily. "What's the matter? Are you mad?" Shethrew back her head and laughed at him. 

"No, I'm not--I'm happy!"

"What the devil about?" he snapped. 

"We're going to wait a bit, that's all, till we're sure of everything!" shecried. 

"Then, " said Roger disgustedly, "you're smarter than your father is. I'msure of nothing--nothing! I have never been sure in all my days! If I'dwaited, you'd never have been born!"

"Oh, dearie, " she begged him smilingly. "Please don't be so unhappy justnow--"

"I've a right to be!" said Roger. "I see my house agog with this--in aturmoil--in a turmoil!"

 * * * * *

But again he was mistaken. It was in fact astonishing how the old housequieted down. There came again one of those peaceful times, when his hometo Roger's senses seemed to settle deep, grow still, and gather itselftogether. Day by day he felt more sure that Deborah was succeeding inmaking her work fit into her swiftly deepening passion for a full happywoman's life. And why shouldn't they live here, Allan and she? The thoughtof this dispelled the cloud which hung over the years he saw ahead. Howsmoothly things were working out. The monstrous new buildings around hishouse seemed to him to draw back as though balked of their prey. 

On the mantle in Roger's study, for many years a bronze figure there, "TheThinker, " huge and naked, forbidding in its crouching pose, the heavy chinon one clenched fist, had brooded down upon him. And in the years that hadbeen so dark, it had been a figure of despair. Often he had looked up fromhis chair and grimly met its frowning gaze. But Roger seldom looked at itnow, and even when it caught his eye it had little effect upon him. Itappeared to brood less darkly. For though he did not think it out, therewas this feeling in his mind:

"There is to be nothing startling in this quiet home of mine, no crashingdeep calamity here. "

Only the steadily deepening love between a grown man and a woman mature, both sensible, strong people with a firm control of their destinies. Hefelt so sure of this affair. For now, her tension once relaxed with thesuccess which had come to her after so many long hard years, a new Deborahwas revealed, more human in her yieldings. She let Allan take her off onthe wildest little sprees uptown and out into the country. To Roger sheseemed younger, more warm and joyous and more free. He loved to hear herlaugh these nights, to catch the glad new tones in her voice. 

"There is to be no tragedy here. "

So, certain of this union and wistful for all he felt it would bring, Rogerwatched its swift approach. And when the news came, he was sure he'd beenright. Because it came so quietly. 

"It's settled, dear, at last it's sure. Allan and I are to be married. " Shewas standing by his chair. Roger reached up and took her hand:

"I'm glad. You'll be very happy, my child. "

She bent over and kissed him, and putting his arm around her he drew herdown on the side of his chair. 

"Now tell me all your plans, " he said. And her answer brought him a deeppeace. 

"We're going abroad for the summer--and then if you'll have us we want tocome here. " Roger abruptly shut his eyes. 

"By George, Deborah, " he said, "you do have a way of getting right into theheart of things!" His arm closed about her with new strength and he feltall his troubles flying away. 

"What a time we'll have, what a rich new life. " Her deep sweet voice was alittle unsteady. "Listen, dearie, how quiet it is. " And for some momentsnothing was heard but the sober tick-tick of the clock on the mantle. "Iwonder what we're going to hear. "

And they thought of new voices in the house. 

CHAPTER XIX

Edith was radiant at the news. 

"I do hope they're not going to grudge themselves a good long weddingtrip!" she exclaimed. 

"They're going abroad, " said Roger. 

"Oh, splendid! And the wedding! Church or home?"

"Home, " said Roger blissfully, "and short and simple, not a frill. Just thefamily. "

"Oh, that's so nice, " sighed Edith. "I was afraid she'd want to drag in herschool. "

"School will be out by then, " he said. 

"Well, I hope it stays out--for the remainder of her days. She can't doboth, and she'll soon see. Wait till she has a child of her own. "

"Well, she wants one bad enough. "

"Yes, but can she?" Edith asked, with the engrossed expression which cameon her pretty florid face whenever she neared such a topic. She spoke withevident awkwardness. "That's the trouble. Is it too late? Deborah'sthirty-one, you know, and she has lived her life so hard. The sooner shegives up her school the better for her chances. "

The face of her father clouded. 

"Look here, " he said uneasily, "I wouldn't go talking to her--quite alongthose lines, my dear. "

"I'm not such an idiot, " she replied. "She thinks me homely enough as itis. And she's not altogether wrong. Bruce and I were talking it over lastnight. We want to be closer, after this, to Deborah and Allan. Bruce saysit will do us _all_ good, and for once I think he's right. I _have_ giventoo much time to my children, and Bruce to his office--I see it now. Notthat I regret it, but--well, we're going to blossom out. "

 * * * * *

She struck the same note with Deborah. And so did Bruce. 

"Oh, Deborah dear, " he said smiling, when he found a chance to see heralone, "if you knew how long I've waited for this big fine thing to happen. A. Baird is my best chum in the world. Don't yank him gently away from usnow. We'll keep close--eh?--all four of us. "

"Very, " said Deborah softly. 

"And you mustn't get too solemn, you know. You won't pull too much of thehighbrow stuff. "

"Heaven forbid!"

"That's the right idea. We'll have some fine little parties together. Youand A. Baird will give us a hand and get us out in the evenings. We needit, God knows, we've been getting old. " Deborah threw him a glance ofaffection. 

"Why, Brucie, " she said, in admiring tones, "I knew you had it in you. "

"So has Edith, " he sturdily declared. "She only needs a little shove. We'llshow you two that we're regular fellows. Don't you be all school and wewon't be all home. We'll jump out of our skins and be young again. "

 * * * * *

In pursuance of this gay resolve, Bruce planned frequent parties totheaters and musical shows, and to Edith's consternation he even began tolook about for a teacher from whom he could learn to dance. "A. Baird, " hetold her firmly, "isn't going to be the only soubrette in this family. "

One of the most hilarious of these small celebrations came early in June, when they dined all four together and went to the summer's opening of "TheFollies of 1914. " The show rather dragged a bit at first, but when BertWilliams took the stage Bruce's laugh became so contagious that people inseats on every hand turned to look at him and join in his glee. Only onething happened to mar the evening's pleasure. When they came outside thetheater Bruce found in his car something wrong with the engine. He tinkeredbut it would not go. Allan hailed a taxi. 

"Why not come with us?" asked Deborah. 

"No, thanks, " said Bruce. "I've got this car to look after. "

"Oh, let it wait, " urged Allan. 

"It does look a little like rain, " put in Edith. Bruce glanced up at thecloudy sky and hesitated a moment. 

"Rain, piffle, " he said good-humoredly. "Come on, wifey, stick by me. Iwon't be long. " And he and Edith went back to his car. 

"What a dear he is, " said Deborah. Allan put his arm around her, and theylooked at each other and smiled. It was only nine days to the wedding. 

Out of the street's commotion came a sharp cry of warning. It was followedby a shriek and a crash. Allan looked out of the window, and then with alow exclamation he jumped from the taxi and slammed the door. 

CHAPTER XX

Roger had been spending a long quiet evening at home. He had asked John todine with him and they had chatted for a time. Then John had started up tohis room. And listening to the slow shuffling step of the cripple goingupstairs, Roger had thought of the quick eager feet and the sudden scampersthat would be heard as the silent old house renewed its life. Later he hadgone to bed. 

He awakened with a start. The telephone bell was ringing. 

"Nice time to be calling folks out of bed, " he grumbled, as he went intothe hall. The next moment he heard Deborah's voice. It was clear and sharpwith a note of alarm. 

"Father--it's I! You must come to Edith's apartment at once! Bruce is hurtbadly! Come at once!"

When Roger reached the apartment, it was Deborah who opened the door. Herface had changed, it was drawn and gray. She took him into the living room. 

"Tell me, " he said harshly. 

"It was just outside the theater. Bruce and Edith were out in the streetand got caught by some idiot of a chauffeur. Bruce threw Edith out of theway, but just as he did it he himself got struck in the back and went undera wheel. Allan brought him here at once, while I telephoned for a friend ofhis--a surgeon. They're with Bruce now. "

"Where's Edith?"

"She's trying to quiet the children. They all woke up--" Deborahfrowned--"when he was brought in, " she added. 

"Well!" breathed Roger. "I declare!" Dazed and stunned, he sank into achair. Soon the door opened and Allan came in. 

"He's gone, " he said. And Deborah jumped. "No, no, I meant the doctor. "

"What does he say?"

"Bruce can't live, " said Allan gently. In the tense silence there came achill. "And he knows it, " Allan added. "He made me tell him--he said hemust know--for business reasons. He wants to see you both at once, beforeEdith gets that child asleep. "

As they entered the room they saw Bruce on his bed. He was breathingquickly through his narrow tight-set jaws and staring up at the ceilingwith a straining fixed intensity. As they entered he turned his head. Hiseyes met theirs and lighted up in a hard and terrible manner. 

"I'm not leaving them a dollar!" he cried. 

"We'll see to them, boy, " said Roger, hoarsely, but Bruce had alreadyturned to Baird. 

"I make you my executor, Allan--don't need it in writing--there isn'ttime. " He drew a sudden quivering breath. "I have no will, " he muttered on. "Never made one--never thought of this. Business life juststarting--booming!--and I put in every cent!" There broke from him a low, bitter groan. "Made my money settling other men's muddles! Never thought ofmaking this mess of my own! But even in mine--I could save somethingstill--if I could be there--if I could be there--"

The sweat broke out on his temples, and Deborah laid her hand on his head. "Sh-h-h, " she breathed. He shut his eyes. 

"Hard to think of anything any more. I can't keep clear. " He shuddered withpain. "Fix me for _them_, " he muttered to Baird. "George and his mother. Fix me up--give me a couple of minutes clear. And Deborah--when you bring'em in--don't let 'em know. You understand? No infernal last good-byes!"Deborah sharply set her teeth. 

"No, dear, no, " she whispered. She followed her father out of the room, leaving Allan bending over the bed with a hypodermic in his hand. And when, a few moments later, George came in with his mother, they found Brucesoothed and quieted. He even smiled as he reached up his hand. 

"They say I've got to sleep, old girl--just sleep and sleep--it'll do megood. So you mustn't stay in the room to-night. Stay with the kiddies andget 'em to sleep. " He was still smiling up at her. "They say it'll be along time, little wife--and I'm so sorry--I was to blame. If I'd done asyou wanted and gone in their taxi. Remember? You said it might rain. " Heturned to George: "Look here, my boy, I'm counting on you. I'll be sick, you know--no good at all. You must stand by your mother. "

George gulped awkwardly:

"Sure I will, dad. " His father sharply pressed his hand:

"That's right, old fellow, I know what you are. Now good-night, son. Good-night, Edith dear. " He looked at her steadily just for a moment, thenclosed his eyes. "Oh, but I'm sleepy, " he murmured. "Good-night. "

And they left him. Alone with Allan, Bruce looked up with a savage glare. 

"Look here!" he snarled, between his teeth. "If you think I'm going to liehere and die you're mistaken! I won't! I won't let go! I'll show you chapsyou can be wrong! Been wrong before, haven't you, thousands of times! Whybe so damnably sure about _me_?" He fell back suddenly, limp and weak. "Sodamnably sure, " he panted. 

"We're never sure, my dear old boy, " said Allan very tenderly. Again hewas bending close over the bed. "We're not sure yet--by any means. You'reso strong, old chap, so amazingly strong. You've given me hope--"

"What are you sticking into my arm?" But Allan kept talking steadily on:

"You've given me hope you'll pull through still. But not like this. You'vegot to rest. Let go, and try to go to sleep. "

"I'm afraid to, " came the whisper. But soon, as again the drug took hold, he mumbled in a drowsy tone, "Afraid to go to sleep in the dark. .. . Say, Allan--get Deborah in here, will you--just for a minute. One thing more. "

When she came, he did not open his eyes. 

"That you, Deborah? Where's your hand?. .. Oh--there it is. Just one morepoint. You--you--" Again his mind wandered, but with an effort he broughtit back. "You and Edith, " he said in a whisper. "So--so--so different. Not--not like each other at all. But you'll stick together--eh?Always--always. Don't let go--I mean of my hand. "

"No, dear, no. "

And with her hand holding his, she sat for a long time perfectly still. Then the baby was heard crying, and Deborah went to the nursery. 

"Now, Edith, I'll see to the children, " she said. "Allan says you can go toBruce if you like. "

Edith looked up at Deborah quickly, and as quickly turned away. She went into her husband. And there, hour by hour through the night, while he layinert with his hand in hers, little by little she understood. But she askedno question of anyone. 

At last Bruce stirred a little and began breathing deep and fast. 

And so death came into the family. 

CHAPTER XXI

Roger went through the next two days in a kind of a stupor. He rememberedholding Edith and feeling her shudder as though from a chill. He rememberedbeing stopped in the hall by George who had dressed himself with care inhis first suit with long trousers. "I just wanted you to remember, " the boywhispered solemnly, "that I'm nearly sixteen and I'll be here. He said tostand by her and I will. " The rest of that ghastly time was a blank, punctuated by small quiet orders which Roger obeyed. Thank God, Deborah wasthere, and she was attending to everything. 

But when at last it was over, and Roger had spent the next day in hisoffice, had found it impossible to work and so had gone home early, Deborahcame to him in his room. 

"Now we must have a talk, " she said. "Allan has gone through Bruce'saffairs, and there are still debts to be settled, it seems. "

"How much do they come to, Deborah?"

"About five thousand dollars, " she said. And for a moment neither spoke. "Iwish I could help you out, " she went on, "but I have nothing saved andneither has Allan. We've both kept using our money downtown--except justenough for the trip abroad--and we'll need almost all of that to settle forthe funeral. "

"I can manage, " Roger said, and again there was a silence. 

"Edith will have to come here to live, " Deborah said presently. Herfather's heavy face grew stern. 

"I'd thought of that, " he answered. "But it will be hard on her, Deborah--"

"I know it will--but I don't see anything else to be done. " The deep quietvoice of his daughter grew sweet with pity as she spoke. "At least we cantry to make it a little easier for her. You can take her up to themountains and I can close her apartment. But of course she won't agree toit unless she knows how matters stand. " Deborah waited a little. "Don't youthink you're the best one to tell her?"

"Yes, " said Roger, after a pause. 

"Then suppose we go to her. I'm sleeping up there for the next few nights. "

 * * * * *

They found Edith in her living room. She had sent the nurse out, put thechildren to bed, and left alone with nothing to do she had sat facing herfirst night. Her light soft hair was disheveled, her pretty features paleand set. But the moment Roger entered he saw that she had herself in hand. 

"Well, father, " she said steadily. "You'd better tell me about our affairs. _My_ affairs, " she corrected herself. When he had explained, she was silenta moment, and then in a voice harsh, bitter, abrupt, "That will be hard onthe children, " she said. On an impulse he started to take her hand, but shedrew a little away from him. 

"The children, my dear, " he said huskily, "will be taken care of always. "

"Yes. " And again she was silent. "I've been thinking I'd like to go up tothe mountains--right away, " she continued. 

"Just our idea, " he told her. "Deborah will arrange it at once. "

"That's good of Deborah, " she replied. And after another pause: "But takeher home with you--will you? I'd rather not have her here to-night. "

"I think she'd better stay, my dear. "

"All right. " In a tone of weariness. "Madge Deering called me up to-night. She's coming in town to-morrow, and she means to stay till I go. "

"I'm glad, " he said approvingly. Madge had been a widow for years. Livingout in Morristown with four daughters to bring up, she had determinedlyfought her way and had not only regained her hold but had even grown instrength and breadth since the death of her husband long ago. "I'm glad, "he said. "You and Madge--" he paused. 

"Yes, we'll have a good deal in common, " Edith finished out his thought. "You look tired, dad. Hadn't you better go home now?" she suggested after amoment. 

"Yes, " said Roger, rising. "Good-night, my child. Remember. "

In the outer hallway he found Deborah with Laura. Laura had been hereseveral times. She was getting Edith's mourning. 

"There's a love of a hat at Thurn's, " she was saying softly, "if only wecan get her to wear it. It's just her type. " And Laura drew an anxiousbreath. "Anything, " she added, "to escape that hideous heavy crepe. "

Roger slightly raised his brows. He noticed a faint delicious perfume thatirritated him suddenly. But glancing again at his daughter, trim, fresh andso immaculate, the joy of life barely concealed in her eyes, he stopped andtalked and smiled at her, as Deborah was doing, enjoying her beauty and heryouth, her love and all her happiness. And though they spoke of her sister, she knew they were thinking of herself, and that it was quite right theyshould, for it gave them a little relief from their gloom. She was honestlysorry for Edith, but she was sorrier still for Bruce, who she knew hadalways liked her more than he would have cared to say. She was sorrier forBruce because, while Edith had lost only her husband, Bruce had lost hisvery life. And life meant so much to Laura, these days, the glowing, coursing, vibrant life of her warm beautiful body. She was thinking of thatas she stood in the hall. 

 * * * * *

In the evening, at home in his study, Roger heard a slight knock at thedoor. He looked up and saw John. 

"May I come in, Mr. Gale, for a minute?"

"Yes, my boy. " John hobbled in. 

"Only a minute. " His voice was embarrassed. "Just two or three things Ithought of, " he said. "The first was about your son-in-law. You see, I washis stenographer--and while I was in his office--this morning helpingDoctor Baird--I found a good deal I can do there still--about things no oneremembers but me. So I'll stay there awhile, if it's all right. Only--" hepaused--"without any pay. See what I mean?"

"Yes, I see, " said Roger. "And you'd better stay--in that way if you like. "

"Thanks, " said John. "Then about his wife and family. You're to take themup to the mountains, I hear--and--well, before this happened you asked _me_up this summer. But I guess I'd better not. "

"I don't think you'd be in the way, my boy. "

"I'd rather stay here, if you don't mind. When I'm through in yourson-in-law's office I thought I might go back to yours. I could send youyour mail every two or three days. "

"I'd like that, John--it will be a great help. "

"All right, Mr. Gale. " John stopped at the door. "And Miss Deborah, " heventured. "Is she to get married just the same?"

"Oh, yes, I think so--later on. "

"Good-night, sir. "

And John went out of the room. 

When _would_ Deborah be married? It came over Roger, when he was alone, howhis family had shifted its center. Deborah would have come here to live, to love and be happy, a mother perhaps, but now she must find a home of herown. In her place would come Edith with her children. All would center onher in her grief. 

And for no cause! Just a trick of chance, a street accident! And Roger grewbitter and rebelled. Bruce was not the one of the family to die. Bruce, soshrewd and vigorous, so vital, the practical man of affairs. Bruce had beengoing the pace that kills--yes, Roger had often thought of it. But that hadnothing to do with this! If Bruce had died at fifty, say, as a result ofthe life he had chosen, the fierce exhausting city which he had loved as aman will love drink, then at least there would have been some sense offairness in it all! If the town had let him alone till his time! But to beknocked down by an automobile! The devilish irony of it! Noreason--nothing! Just hideous luck!

Well, life was like that. As for Edith and her children, he would be gladto have them here. Only, it would be different, the house would have tochange again. He was sorry, too, for Deborah. No wedding trip as she hadplanned, no home awaiting her return. 

So his mind went over his family. 

But suddenly such thoughts fell away as trivial and of small account. Forthese people would still be alive. And Bruce was dead, and Roger was old. So he thought about Bruce and about himself, and all his children grewremote. "You will live on in our children's lives. " Was there no otherimmortality? The clock ticked on the mantle and beside it "The Thinker"brooded down. And Roger looked up unafraid, but grim and gravely wondering. 

CHAPTER XXII

But there was a rugged practical side to the character of Roger Gale, andthe next morning he was ashamed of the brooding thoughts which had come inthe night. He shook them off as morbid, and resolutely set himself to whatlay close before him. There was work to be done on Bruce's affairs, and thework was a decided relief. Madge Deering, in the meantime, had offered togo with Edith and the children to the mountains and see them all wellsettled there. And a little talk he had with Madge relieved his mind stillfurther. What a recovery _she_ had made from the tragedy of years ago. Howalert and wide-awake she seemed. If Edith could only grow like that. 

Soon after their departure, one night when he was dining alone, he had acurious consciousness of the mingled presence of Edith and of Judith hiswife. And this feeling grew so strong that several times he looked about ina startled, questioning manner. All at once his eye was caught by an oldmahogany sideboard. It was Edith's. It had been her mother's. Edith, whenshe married, had wanted something from her old home. Well, now it was backin the family. 

The rest of Edith's furniture, he learned from Deborah that night, had beenstored in the top of the house. 

"Most of it, " she told him, "Edith will probably want to use in fitting upthe children's rooms. " With a twinge of foreboding, Roger felt theapproaching change in his home. 

"When do you plan to be married?" he asked. 

"About the end of August. We couldn't very well till then, without hurtingpoor Edith a little, you see. You know how she feels about such things--"

"Yes, I guess you're right, " he agreed. 

How everything centered 'round Edith, he thought. To pay the debts whichBruce had left would take all Roger had on hand; and from this time on hisexpenses, with five growing children here, would be a fast increasingdrain. He would have to be careful and husband his strength, a thing he hadalways hated to do. 

In the next few weeks, he worked hard in his office. He cut down hissmoking, stayed home every evening and went to bed at ten o'clock. He triedto shut Deborah out of his mind. As for Laura, he barely gave her athought. She dropped in one evening to bid him good-bye, for this summeragain she was going abroad. She and her husband, she told him, were tomotor through the Balkans and down into Italy. Her father gruffly answeredthat he hoped she would enjoy herself. It seemed infernally unfair that itshould not be Deborah who was sailing the next morning. But when he felthimself growing annoyed, abruptly he put a check on himself. It was Edithhe must think of now. 

But curiously it happened, in this narrowing of his attention, that whilehe shut out two of his daughters, a mere outsider edged closer in. 

Johnny Geer was a great help. He was back in Roger's office, and with thesharp wits he had gained in his eighteen years of fighting for a chance tostay alive, now at Roger's elbow John was watching like a hawk for all thelittle ways and means of pushing up the business. What a will the lad hadto down bodily ills, what vim in the way he tackled each job. His shrewdand cheery companionship was a distraction and relief. John was so funnysometimes. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Gale, " he said, as Roger came into the office one day. 

"Hello, Johnny. How are you?" Roger replied. 

"Fine, thank you. " And John went on with his work of opening the morning'smail. But a few minutes later he gave a cackling little laugh. 

"What's so funny?" Roger asked. 

"Fellers, " was the answer. "Fellers. Human nature. Here's a letter fromShifty Sam. "

"Who the devil is he? A friend of yours?"

"No, " said John, "he's a 'con man. ' He works about as mean a graft as anyyou ever heard of. He reads the 'ads' in the papers--see?--of servant girlswho're looking for work. He makes a specialty of cooks. Then he goes towhere they live and talks of some nice family that wants a servant rightaway. He claims to be the butler, and he's dressed to look the part. 'Thereain't a minute to lose, ' he says. 'If you want a chawnce, my girl, comequick. ' He says 'chawnce' like a butler--see? 'Pack your things, ' he tellsher, 'and come right along with me. ' So she packs and hustles off withhim--Sam carrying her suit case. He puts her on a trolley and says, 'Iguess I'll stay on the platform. I've got a bit of a headache and the airwill do me good. ' So he stays out there with her suit case--and as soon asthe car gets into a crowd, Sam jumps and beats it with her clothes. "

"I see, " said Roger dryly. "But what's he writing _you_ about?"

"Oh, it ain't me he's writing to--it's you, " was John's serene reply. Rogerstarted. 

"What?" he asked. 

"Well, " said the boy in a cautious tone, vigilantly eyeing his chief, "yousee, a lot of these fellers like Sam have been in the papers lately. They're being called a crime wave. "

"Well?"

"Sam is up for trial this week--and half the Irish cooks in town arewaiting 'round to testify. And Shifty seems to enjoy himself. Hispicture's in the papers--see? And he wants all the clippings. So heencloses a five dollar bill. "

"He does, eh--well, you write to Sam and send his money back to him!" Therewas a little silence. 

"But look here, " said John with keen regret. "We've had quite a lot ofthese letters this week. "

Roger wheeled and looked at him. 

"John, " he demanded severely, "what game have you been up to here?"

"No game at all, " was the prompt retort. "Just getting a little business. "

"How?"

"Well, there's a club downtown, " said John, "where a lot of these pettycrooks hang out. I used to deliver papers there. And I went around onenight this month--"

"_To drum up business?_"

"Yes, sir. " Roger looked at him aghast. 

"John, " he asked, in deep reproach, "do you expect this office to feed thevanity of thieves?"

"Where's the vanity, " John rejoined, "in being called a crime wave?" Andseeing the sudden tremor of mirth which had appeared on Roger's face, "Lookhere, Mr. Gale, " he went eagerly on. "When every paper in the town istelling these fellers where they belong--calling 'em crooks, degenerates, and preaching regular sermons right into their faces--why shouldn't we help'em to read the stuff? How do we know it won't do 'em good? It's church to'em, that's what it is--and business for this office. Nine of these guyshave sent in their money just in the last week or so--"

"Look out, my boy, " said Roger, with slow and solemn emphasis. "If youaren't extremely careful you'll find yourself a millionaire. "

"But wait a minute, Mr. Gale--"

"Not in this office, " Roger said. "Send 'em back, every one of 'em!Understand?"

"Yes, sir, " was the meek reply. And with a little sigh of regret Johnturned his wits to other kinds and conditions of New Yorkers who might careto see themselves in print. 

As they worked together day by day, Roger had occasional qualms overleaving John here in the hot town while he himself went up to themountains. He even thought of writing to Edith that he was planning tobring John, too. But no, she wouldn't like it. So he did something elseinstead. 

"John, " he said, one morning, "I'm going to raise your salary to a hundreddollars a month. " Instantly from the lad's bright eyes there shot a look oftriumph. 

"Thanks, Mr. Gale, " was his hearty response. 

"And in the meantime, Johnny, I want you to take a good solid month off. "

"All right, sir, thank you, " John replied. "But I guess it won't be quite amonth. I don't feel as if I needed it. "

The next day at the office he appeared resplendent in a brand-new suit ofclothes, a summer homespun of light gray set off by a tie of flaming red. There was nothing soft about that boy. No, Johnny knew how to look out forhimself. 

And Roger went up to the farm. 

CHAPTER XXIII

George met him at the station, as he had done a year before. But at onceRoger noticed a difference. In the short time since his father's deathcertain lines had come in the boy's freckled face, and they gave him athoughtful, resolute look. George's voice was changing. One moment it washigh and boyish, again a deep and manly bass. As he kept his eyes on thehorses and talked about his mother, his grandfather from time to time threwcurious side glances. 

"Oh, yes, " George was saying, "mother's all right, she's doing fine. It waspretty bad at first, though. She wouldn't let me sit up with her any--shetreated me like a regular kid. But any fellow with any sense could see howshe was feeling. She'd get thinking of the accident. " George stopped shortand clamped his jaws. "You know, my dad did a wonderful thing, " hecontinued presently. "Even when he was dying, and mother and I were thereby his bed, he remembered how she'd get thinking alone--all about theaccident. You see he knew mother pretty darned well. So he told her toremember that he was the one to blame for it. If it hadn't been for him, hesaid, they would have gone home in the taxi. That's a pretty good point tokeep in her mind. Don't you think so?" he inquired. And Roger glancedaffectionately into the anxious face by his side. 

"Yes, " he said, "it's a mighty good point. Did you think of it?"

"Yes, sir, " George replied. "I've told it to her a good many times--thatand two other points I thought of. "

"What are they, son?" asked Roger. 

"First, " the boy said awkwardly, "about how good she was to him. Andsecond, that she let him buy the new car before he died. He had such a lotof fun out of that car--"

On the last words the lad's changing voice went from an impressive bass toa most undignified treble. He savagely scowled. 

"Those three points, " he continued, in more careful measured tones, "wereabout all I could think of. I had to use 'em over and over--on mother whenthings got bad, I mean. " A flush of embarrassment came on his face. "Andhold her and kiss her, " he muttered. Then he whipped his horses. "We've hadsome pretty bad times this month, " he continued, loud and manfully. "Yousee, mother isn't so young as she was. She's well on in her thirties. " Aglimmer of amusement appeared in Roger's heavy eyes. "But she don't cryoften any more, and with you here we'll pull her through. " He shot a quicklook at his grandfather. "Gee, but I'm glad you're here!" he said. 

"So am I, " said Roger. And with a little pressure of his hand on George'sshoulder, "I guess you've had about your share. Now tell me the news. Howare things on the farm?"

With a breath of evident relief, the lad launched into the animal world. And soon he was talking eagerly. 

 * * * * *

In the next few days with his daughter Roger found that George was right. She had been through the worst of it. But she still had her reactions, herspells of emptiness, bleak despair, her moods of fierce rebellion or ofsudden self-reproach for not having given Bruce more while he lived. And insuch hours her father tried to comfort her with poor success. 

"Remember, child, I'm with you, and I know how it feels, " he said. "I wentthrough it all myself: When your mother died--"

"But mother was so much older!" He looked at his daughter compassionately. 

"How old are you?" he inquired. 

"Thirty-six. "

"Your mother was thirty-nine, " he replied. And at that Edith turned andstared at him, bewildered, shocked, brought face to face with a new andmomentous fact in her life. 

"Mother only my age when she died?"

"Yes, " said Roger gently, "only three years older. " With a twinge of painhe noticed two quite visible streaks of gray in his daughter's soft blondehair. "And she felt as you do now--as though she were just starting out. And I felt the same way, my dear. If I'm not mistaken, everyone does. Youstill feel young--but the new generation is already growing up--and you canfeel yourself being pushed on. And it is hard--it is very hard. " Clumsilyhe took her hand. "Don't let yourself drop out, " he said. "Be as yourmother would have been if she had been left instead of me. Go straight onwith your children. "

To this note he could feel her respond. And at first, as he felt what afight she was making, Roger glorified her pluck. As he watched her with herchildren at table, smiling at their talk with an evident effort to enterin, and again with her baby snug in her lap while she read bedtime storiesto Bob and little Tad at her side, he kept noticing the resemblance betweenhis daughter and his wife. How close were these two members of his familydrawing together now, one of them living, the other dead. 

But later, as the weeks wore on, she began to plan for her children. Sheplanned precisely how to fit them all into the house in town, she plannedthe hours for their meals, for their going alone or with the nurse or amaid to their different private schools, to music lessons, to dancingschool and uptown to the park to play. She planned their fall clothes andshe planned their friends. And there came to her father occasional moods ofanxiety. He remembered Bruce's grim remarks about those "simple" schoolsand clothes, the kind that always cost the most. And he began to realizewhat Bruce's existence must have been. For scarcely ever in their talks didEdith speak of anything outside of her family. Night after night, with atensity born of her struggle with her grief, she talked about her children. And Roger was in Bruce's place, he was the one she planned with. At momentswith a vague dismay he glimpsed the life ahead in his home. 

George was hard at work each day down by the broken dam at the mill. He hadan idea he could patch it up, put the old water-wheel back into place andmake it run a dynamo, by which he could light the house and barn and runthe machines in the dairy. In his new rôle as the man of his family, Georgewas planning out his career. He was wrestling with a book entitled "Our NewMother Earth" and a journal called "The Modern Farm. " And to Roger heconfided that he meant to be a farmer. He wanted to go in the autumn to theState Agricultural College. But when one day, very cautiously, Roger spoketo Edith of this, with a hard and jealous smile which quite transformed herfeatures, she said, "Oh, I know all about that, father dear. It's just a stage he's goingthrough. And it's the same way with Elizabeth, too, and her crazy idea ofbecoming a doctor. She took that from Allan Baird, and George took his fromDeborah! They'll get over it soon enough--"

"They won't get over it!" Roger cried. "Their dreams are parts of somethingnew! Something I'm quite vague about--but some of it has come to stay!You're losing all your chances--just as I did years ago! You'll never knowyour children!"

But he uttered this cry to himself alone. Outwardly he only frowned. AndEdith had gone on to say, "I do hope that Deborah won't come up this summer. She's been very good andkind, of course, and if she comes she'll be doing it entirely on myaccount. But I don't want her here--I want her to marry, the sooner thebetter, and come to her senses--be happy, I mean. And I wish you would tellher so. "

Within a few days after this Deborah wrote to her father that she wascoming the next week. He said nothing to Edith about it at first, he hadWilliam saddled and went for a ride to try to determine what he should do. But it was a ticklish business. For women were queer and touchy, and oncemore he felt the working of those uncanny family ties. 

"Deborah, " he reflected, "is coming up here because she feels it's selfishof her to stay away. If she marries at once, as she told me herself, shethinks Edith will be hurt. Edith won't be hurt--and if Deborah comes, there'll be trouble every minute she stays. But can I tell her so? Not atall. I can't say, 'You're not wanted here. ' If I do, _she'll_ be hurt. OhLord, these girls! And Deborah knows very well that if she does get marriedthis month, with Laura abroad and Edith up here and only me at the wedding, Edith will smile to herself and say, 'Now isn't that just like Deborah?'"

As Roger slowly rode along a steep and winding mountain road, gloomily hereflected to what petty little troubles a family of women could descend, sosoon after death itself. And he lifted his eyes up to the hills and decidedto leave this matter alone. If women would be women, let them settle theirown affairs. Deborah was due to arrive on the following Friday evening. Allright, let her come, he thought. She would soon see she was in the way, andthen in a little affectionate talk he would suggest that she marry rightoff and have a decent honeymoon before the school year opened. 

So he dismissed it from his mind. And as he listened in the dusk to thenumberless murmuring voices of living creatures large and small which roseout of the valley, and as from high above him the serenity of the mountainsthere towering over thousands of years stole into his spirit, Roger had alarge quieting sense of something high and powerful looking down upon theearth, a sense of all humanity honeycombed with millions upon millions ofsmall sorrows, absorbing joys and hopes and fears, and in spite of them allthe Great Life sweeping on, with no Great Death to check its course, noimmense catastrophe, all these little troubles like mere tiny specks offoam upon the surface of the tide. 

Deborah's visit, the following week, was as he had expected. Within an hourafter her coming he could feel the tension grow. Deborah herself was tense, both from the work she had left in New York where she was soon to have fiveschools, and from the thought of her marriage, only a few weeks ahead. Shesaid nothing about it, however, until as a sisterly duty Edith tried todraw her out by showing an interest in her plans. But the cloud of Bruce'sdeath was there, and Deborah shunned the topic. She tried to talk of thechildren instead. But Edith at once was on the defensive, vigilant fortrouble, and as she unfolded her winter plans she grew distinctly brief andcurt. 

"If Deborah doesn't see it now, she's a fool, " her father told himself. "I'll just wait a few days more, and then we'll have that little talk. "

CHAPTER XXIV

It had rained so hard for the past two days that no one had gone to thevillage, which was nearly three miles from the farm. But when the storm wasover at last, George and Elizabeth tramped down and came back at dusk witha bag full of mail. Their clothes were mud-bespattered and they hurriedupstairs to change before supper, while Roger settled back in his chair andspread open his New York paper. It was July 30, 1914. 

From a habit grown out of thirty odd years of business life, Roger read hispaper in a fashion of his own. By instinct his eye swept the page for newsdealing with individual men, for it was upon people's names in print thathe had made his living. And so when he looked at this strange front page itgave him a swift twinge of alarm. For the news was not of men but ofnations. Austria was massing her troops along the Serbian frontier, andGermany, Italy, Russia, France and even England, all were in a turmoil, with panics in their capitals, money markets going wild. 

Edith came down, in her neat black dress with its narrow white collar, ready for supper. She glanced at her father. 

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Look at this. " And he tossed her a paper. 

"Oh-h-h, " she murmured softly. "Oh, how frightful that would be. " And sheread on with lips compressed. But soon there came from a room upstairs thesudden cry of one of her children, followed by a shrill wail of distress. And dropping the paper, she hurried away. 

Roger continued his reading. 

Deborah came. She saw the paper Edith had dropped, picked it up and satdown to read, and there were a few moments of absolute silence. Then Rogerheard a quivering breath, and glancing up he saw Deborah's eyes, intent andstartled, moving down the columns of print in a swift, uncomprehending way. 

"Pretty serious business, " he growled. 

"It can't happen!" she exclaimed. 

And they resumed their reading. 

In the next three days, as they read the news, they felt war like awhirlpool sucking in all their powers to think or feel, felt their ownsmall personal plans whirled about like leaves in a storm. And while theirminds--at first dazed and stunned by the thought of such appalling armies, battles, death and desolation--slowly cleared and they strove to think, andRoger thought of business shivered to atoms in every land, and Deborahthought of schools by thousands all over Europe closing down, in cities andin villages, in valleys and on mountain sides, of homes in paniceverywhere, of all ideals of brotherhood shaken, bending, tottering--warbroke out in Europe. 

"What is this going to mean to me?"

Millions of people were asking that. And so did Roger and Deborah. The samenight they left for New York, while Edith with a sigh of relief settledback into her family. 

 * * * * *

The next morning at his office Roger found John waiting with misery stampedon his face. John had paid small heed to war. Barely stopping for sleep inthe last two days he had gone through scores and hundreds of papers, angrily skipping all those names of kings and emperors and czars, andsearching instead for American names, names of patrons--business! Gone!Each hour he had been opening mail and piling up letters cancellingcontracts, ordering service discontinued. 

Roger sat down at his desk. As he worked and figured and dictated letters, glancing into the outer rooms he saw the long rows of girls at tablesobviously trying to pretend that there was work for them to do. He feltthem anxiously watching him--as in other offices everywhere millions ofother employees kept furtively glancing at their chiefs. 

"War, " he thought. "Shall I close _down?_" He shrank from what it wouldmean to those girls. "Business will pick up again soon. A fewdays--weeks--that's all I need. "

And he went to his bank. No credit there. He tried other sources, all hecould think of, racking his brains as he went about town, but still hecould not raise a loan. Finally he went to the firm which had once held amortgage on his house. The chief partner had been close to Bruce, an oldcollege friend. And when even this friend refused him aid, "It's a questionof Bruce's children, " Roger muttered, reddening. He felt like a beggar, buthe was getting desperate. The younger man had looked away and was nervouslytapping his desk with his pen. 

"Bad as that, eh, " he answered. "Then I guess it's got to be done. " Helooked anxiously up at Roger, who just at that moment appeared very old. "Don't worry, Mr. Gale, " he said. "Somehow or other we'll carry youthrough. "

"Thank you, sir. " Roger rose heavily, feeling weak, and took his departure. "This is war, " he told himself, "and I've got to look after my own. "

But he had a sensation almost of guilt, as upon his return to his office hesaw those suddenly watchful faces. He walked past them and went into hisroom, and again he searched for ways and means. He tried to see hisbusiness as it would be that autumn, to see the city, the nation, the worldas it would be in the months ahead. Repeatedly he fought off his fears. But slowly and inexorably the sense of his helplessness grew clear. 

"No, I must shut down, " he thought. 

 * * * * *

On his way home that evening, in a crush at a turbulent corner he saw a bigtruck jam into a taxi, and with a throb of rebellion he thought of hisson-in-law who was dead. Just the turn of a hair and Bruce might have livedand been here to look after the children! At the prospect of the crisis, the strain he saw before him, Roger again felt weak and old. He shook offhis dread and strode angrily on. 

In his house, the rooms downstairs were still dismantled for the summer. There was emptiness and silence but no serenity in them now, only the quietbefore the storm which he could feel from far and near was gathering abouthis home. He heard Deborah on the floor above, and went up and found hermaking his bed, for the chambermaid had not yet come. Her voice was alittle unnatural. 

"It has been a hard day, hasn't it. I've got your bath-room ready, " shesaid. "Don't you want a nice cool bath? Supper will be ready soon. "

When, a half hour later, somewhat refreshed, Roger came down to the table, he noticed it was set for two. 

"Isn't Allan coming?" he asked. Her mobile features tightened. 

"Not till later, " she replied. 

They talked little and the meal was short. But afterwards, on the woodenporch, Deborah turned to her father, "Now tell me about your office, " she said. 

"There's not enough business to pay the rent. "

"That won't last--"

"I'm not so sure. "

"I am, " she said determinedly. Her father slowly turned his head. 

"Are you, with this war?" he asked. Her eyes met his and moved away in abaffled, searching manner. "She has troubles of her own, " he thought. 

"How much can we run the house on, Deborah?" he asked her. At first she didnot answer. "What was it--about six thousand last year?"

"I think so, " she said restlessly. "We can cut down on that, of course--"

"With Edith and the children here?"

"Edith will have to manage it! There are others to be thought of!"

"The children in your schools, you mean. "

"Yes, " she answered with a frown. "It will be a bad year for the tenements. But please go on and tell me. What have you thought of doing?"

"Mortgage the house again, " he replied. "It hasn't been easy, for money istight, but I think I'll be able to get enough to just about carry usthrough the year. At home, I mean, " he added. 

"And the office?"

"Shut down, " he said. She turned on him fiercely. 

"You won't do that!"

"What else can I do?"

"Turn all those girls away?" she cried. At her tone his look grew troubled. 

"How can I help myself, Deborah? If I kept open it would cost me over fivehundred a week to run. Have I five hundred dollars a week to lose?"

"But I tell you it won't last!" she cried, and again the baffled, drivenexpression swept over her expressive face. "Can't you see this is only apanic--and keep going somehow? Can't you see what it means to thetenements? Hundreds of thousands are out of work! They're being turned offevery day, every hour--employers all over are losing their heads! And CityHall is as mad as the rest! They've decided already down there toretrench!"

He turned with a quick jerk of his head:

"Are they cutting you down?" She set her teeth:

"Yes, they are. But the work in my schools is going on--every bit of itis--for every child! I'm going to find a way, " she said. And he felt athrill of compassion. 

"I'm sorry to hear it, " he muttered. 

"You needn't be. " She paused a moment, smiled and went on in a quietervoice: "Don't think I'm blind--I'm sensible--I see you can't lose fivehundred a week. But why not try what other employers, quite a few, havedecided to do? Call your people together, explain how it is, and ask themto choose a committee to help you find which ones need jobs the most. Keepall you can--on part time, of course--but at least pay them something, carry them through. You'll lose money by it, I haven't a doubt. But you'vealready found you can mortgage the house, and remember besides that I shallbe here. I'm not going to marry now"--her father looked at herquickly--"and of course I'll expect to do my share toward meeting theexpenses. Moreover, I know we can cut down. "

"Retrench, " said Roger grimly. "Turn off the servants instead of theclerks. "

"No, only one of them, Martha upstairs--and she is to be married. We'llkeep the cook and the waitress. Edith will have to give up her nurse--andit will be hard on her, of course--but she'll have to realize this is war, "Deborah said sharply. "Besides, " she urged, "it's not going to last. Business everywhere will pick up--in a few weeks or months at most. The war_can't_ go on--it's too horribly big!" She broke off and anxiously lookedat him. Her father was still frowning. 

"I'm asking you to risk a good deal, " she continued, her voice intense andlow. "But somehow, dearie, I always feel that this old house of ours isstrong. It can _stand_ a good deal. We can all of us stand so much, as soonas we know we have to. " The lines of her wide sensitive mouth tightenedfirmly once again. "It's all so vague and uncertain, I know. But one thingat least is sure. This is no time for people with money--no matter howlittle--to shut themselves up in their own little houses and let the reststarve or beg or steal. This is the time to do our share. "

And she waited. But he made no reply. 

"Every nation at war is doing it, dad--become like one big family--witheveryone helping, doing his share. Must a nation be at war to do that?Can't we be brothers without the guns? Can't you see that we're all of usstunned, and trying to see what war will mean to all the children in theworld? And while we're groping, groping, can't we give each other a hand?"

Still he sat motionless there in the dark. At last he stirred heavily inhis chair. 

"I guess you're right, " he told her. "At least I'll think it over--and tryto work out something along the lines you spoke of. "

Again there was a silence. Then his daughter turned to him with a littledeprecating smile. 

"You'll forgive my--preaching to you, dad?"

"No preaching, " he said gruffly. "Just ordinary common sense. "

 * * * * *

A little later Allan came in, and Roger soon left them and went to bed. Alone with Baird she was silent a moment. 

"Well? Have you thought it over?" she asked. "Wasn't I right in what Isaid?" At the anxious ring in her low clear voice, leaning over he took herhand; and he felt it hot and trembling as it quickly closed on his. Hestroked it slowly, soothingly. In the semi-darkness he seemed doubly talland powerful. 

"Yes, I'm sure you were right, " he said. 

"Spring at the latest--I'll marry you then--"

Her eyes were intently fixed on his. 

"Come here!" she whispered sharply, and Baird bent over and held hertight. "Tighter!" she whispered. "Tighter!. .. There!. .. I said, spring atthe latest! I can't lose you, Allan--now--"

She suddenly quivered as though from fatigue. 

"I'm going to watch you close down there, " he said in a moment, huskily. 

CHAPTER XXV

Roger saw little of Deborah in the weeks that followed. She was gatheringher forces for the long struggle she saw ahead. And his own worries filledhis mind. On his house he succeeded in borrowing five thousand dollars atten per cent, and in his office he worked out a scheme along the lines ofDeborah's plan. At first it was only a struggle to save the remnants ofwhat was left. Later the tide began to turn, new business came into theoffice again. But only a little, and then it stopped. Hard times were herefor the winter. 

Soon Edith would come with the children. He wondered how sensible she wouldbe. It was going to mean a daily fight to make ends meet, he told himself, and guiltily he decided not to let his daughter know how matters stood inhis office. Take care of your own flesh and blood, and then be generous asyou please--that had always been his way. And now Deborah had upset it byher emotional appeal. "How dramatic she is at times!" he reflected inannoyance. "Just lets herself out and enjoys herself!" He grew angry at herinterference, and more than once he resolved to shut down. But back in theoffice, before those watchful faces, still again he would put it off. 

"Wait a little. We'll see, " he thought. 

 * * * * *

In the meantime, in this interplay, these shifting lights and shadows whichplayed upon the history of the life of Roger's home, there came to him adiversion from an unexpected source. Laura and Harold returned from abroad. Soon after landing they came to the house, and talking fast and eagerlythey told how they had eluded the war. 

For them it had been a glorious game. In Venice in early August, Haroldhad seen a chance for a big stroke of business. He had a friend who livedin Rome, an Italian close to his government. At once they had joinedforces, worked day and night, pulled wires, used money judiciously here andthere, and so had secured large orders for munitions from the U. S. A. Thento get back to God's country! There came the hitch, they were too late. Naples, Genoa, and Milan, all were filled with tourist mobs. They took atrain for Paris, and reaching the city just a week before the end of theGerman drive they found it worse than Italy. But there Hal had a specialpull--and by the use of those wits of his, not to be downed by refusals, hegot passage at last for Laura, himself and his new Italian partner. Atmidnight, making their way across the panic-stricken city, and at thestation struggling through a wild and half crazed multitude of men andwomen and children, they boarded a train and went rushing westward rightalong the edge of the storm. To the north the Germans were so close thatLaura was sure she could hear the big guns. The train kept stopping to takeon troops. At dawn some twenty wounded men came crowding into their verycar, bloody and dirty, pale and worn, but gaily smiling at the pain, andsaying, "Ça n'fait rien, madame. " Later Harold opened his flask for somesplendid Breton soldier boys just going into action. And they stood up withflashing eyes and shouted out the Marseillaise, while Laura shivered andthrilled with delight. 

"I nearly kissed them all!" she cried. 

Roger greatly enjoyed the evening. He had heard so much of the horrors ofwar. Here was something different, something bright and vibrant with youthand adventure! Here at last was the thrill of war, the part he had alwaysread about!

He glanced now and then at Deborah and was annoyed by what he saw. Foralthough she said nothing and forced a smile, he could easily tell by theset of her lips that Deborah thoroughly disapproved. All right, that washer way, he thought. But this was Laura's way, shedding the gloom and thetragic side as a duck will shed water off its back, a duck with bright newplumage fresh from the shops of the Rue de la Paix and taking some pleasureout of life! What an ardent gleaming beauty she was, he thought as hewatched this daughter of his. And underneath his enjoyment, too, thoughRoger would not have admitted it, was a sense of relief in the news that atleast one man in the family was growing rich instead of poor. Already Haland his partner--a fascinating creature according to Laura'sdescription--were fast equipping shrapnel mills. Plainly they expected atremendous rush of business. And no matter how you felt about war, the word"profits" at least had a pleasant sound. 

"How has the war hit you, sir?" Harold asked his father-in-law. 

"Oh, so-so, I'll get on, my boy, " was Roger's quiet answer. For Harold wasnot quite the kind he would ever like to ask for aid. Still, if the worstcame to the worst, he would have someone to turn to. 

 * * * * *

Long after they had left the house, he kept thinking over all they hadsaid. What an amazing time they had had, the two young scalawags. 

Deborah was still in the room. As she sat working at her desk, her back wasturned and she did not speak. But little by little her father's moodchanged. Of course she was right, he admitted. For now they were gone, thespell they had cast was losing a part of its glamor. Yes, their talk hadbeen pretty raw. Sheer unthinking selfishness, a bold rush for plunder anda dash to get away, trampling over people half crazed, women and childrenin panicky crowds, and leaving behind them, so to speak, Laura's joyousrippling laugh over their own success in the game. Yes, there was nodenying the fact that Hal was rushing headlong into a savage dangerousgame, a scramble and a gamble, with adventurers from all over Europegathering here and making a little world of their own. He would work andlive at a feverish pitch, and Laura would go it as hard as he. Rogerthought he could see their winter ahead. How they would pile up money andspend!

All at once, as though some figure silent and invisible were standing closebeside him, from far back in his childhood a memory flashed into his mindof a keen and clear October night, when Roger, a little shaver of nine, hadstood with his mother in front of the farmhouse and listened to the faintsharp roll of a single drum far down in the valley. And his mother's griphad hurt his hand, and a lump had risen in his throat--as Dan, his oldestbrother, had marched away with his company of New Hampshire mountain boys. "We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more. " Dan had beenkilled at Shiloh. 

And it must be like that now in France. No, he did not like the look whichhe had seen on Laura's face as she had talked about the war and the fatprofits to be made. Was this all we Yankees had to say to the people overin Europe?

Frowning and glancing at Deborah's back, he saw that she was tired. It wasnearly midnight, but still she kept working doggedly on, moving hershoulder muscles at times as though to shake off aches and pains, thenbending again to her labor, her fight against such heavy odds in the winterjust beginning for those children in the tenements. He recalled a fragmentof the appeal she had made to him only the month before:

"Can't you see that we're all of us stunned, and trying to see what warwill mean to all the children in the world? And while we're groping, groping, can't we give each other a hand?"

And as he looked at his daughter, she made him think of her grandmother, as she had so often done before. For Deborah, too, was a pioneer. She, too, had lived in the wilderness. Clearing roads through jungles? Yes. Andfreeing slaves of ignorance and building a nation of new men. And now shewas doggedly fighting to save what she had builded--not from the raids ofthe Indians but from the ravages of this war which was sweepingcivilization aside. With her school behind her, so to speak, she stoodfacing this great enemy with stern and angry, steady eyes. Her pioneergrandmother come to life. 

So, with the deep craving which was a part of his inmost self, Roger triedto bind together what was old and what was new. But his thoughts grew vagueand drifting. He realized how weary he was, and said good-night and went tobed. There, just before he fell asleep, again he had a feeling of relief atthe knowledge that one at least in the family was to be rich this year. With a guilty sensation he shook off the thought, and within a few momentsafter that his harsh regular breathing was heard in the room. 

CHAPTER XXVI

It was only a few days later that Edith arrived with her children. 

Roger met her at the train at eight o'clock in the evening. The fastmountain express of the summer had been taken off some time before, soEdith had had to be up at dawn and to change cars several times on thetrip. "She'll be worn out, " he thought as he waited. The train was late. Ashe walked about the new station, that monstrous sparkling hive of travelwith its huge halls and passageways, its little village of shopsunderground and its bewildering levels for trains, he remembered theinterest Bruce had shown in watching this immense puzzle worked out, theday and night labor year after year without the stopping of a train, thismighty symbol of the times, of all the glorious power and speed in an agethat had been as the breath to his nostrils. How Bruce had loved the city!As Roger paced slowly back and forth with his hands clasped behind hisback, there came over his heavy visage a look of affection and regret whichmade even New Yorkers glance at him as they went nervously bustling by. From time to time he smiled to himself. "The Catskills will be CentralPark! All this city needs is speed!"

But suddenly he remembered that Bruce had always been here before to meethis wife and children, and that Edith on her approaching train must bedreading her arrival. And when at last the train rolled in, and he spiedher shapely little head in the on-coming throng of travellers, Roger saw byher set steady smile and the strained expression on her face that he hadguessed right. With a quick surge of compassion he pressed forward, kissedher awkwardly, squeezed her arm, then hastily greeted the children andhurried away to see to the trunks. That much of it was over. And to hisrelief, when they reached the house, Edith busied herself at once inhelping the nurse put the children to bed. Later he came up and told herthat he had had a light supper prepared. 

"Thank you, dear, " she answered, "it was so thoughtful in you. But I'm tootired to eat anything. " And then with a little assuring smile, "I'll be allright--I'm going to bed. "

"Good-night, child, get a fine long sleep. "

And Roger went down to his study, feeling they had made a good start. 

 * * * * *

"What has become of Martha?" Edith asked her father at breakfast the nextmorning. 

"She left last month to be married, " he said. 

"And Deborah hasn't replaced her yet?" In her voice was such a readinessfor hostility toward her sister, that Roger shot an uneasy glance fromunder his thick grayish brows. 

"Has Deborah left the house?" he asked, to gain time for his answer. Edith's small lip slightly curled. 

"Oh, yes, long ago, " she replied. "She had just a moment to see thechildren and then she had to be off to school--to her office, I mean. Withso many schools on her hands these days, I don't wonder she hasn't had timefor the servants. "

"No, no, you're mistaken, " he said. "That isn't the trouble, it's not herfault. In fact it was all my idea. "

"_Your_ idea, " she retorted, in an amused affectionate tone. And Rogergrimly gathered himself. It would he extremely difficult breaking hisunpleasant news. 

"Yes, " he answered. "You see this damnable war abroad has hit me in mybusiness. "

"Oh, father! How?" she asked him. In an instant she was all alert. "Youdon't mean seriously?" she said. 

"Yes, I do, " he answered, and he began to tell her why. But she soon grewimpatient. Business details meant nothing to Edith. "I see, " she keptsaying, "yes, yes, I see. " She wanted him to come to the point. 

"So I've had to mortgage the house, " he concluded. "And for very littlemoney, my dear. And a good deal of that--" he cleared his throat--"had togo back into the business. "

"I see, " said Edith mechanically. Her mind was already far away, rovingover her plans for the children. For in Roger's look of suspense sheplainly read that other plans had been made for them in her absence. "Deborah's in this!" flashed through her mind. "Tell me what it will mean, "she said. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to try to do without your nurse for a while. "

"Let Hannah go? Oh, father!" And Edith flushed with quick dismay. "How canI, dad? Five children--five! And two of them so little they can't evendress themselves alone! And there are all their meals--their baths--and theolder ones going uptown to school! I can't let them go way uptown on the'bus or the trolley without a maid--"

"But, Edith!" he interrupted, his face contracting with distress. "Don'tyou see that they can't go to school?" She turned on him. "Uptown, I mean, to those expensive private schools. "

"Father!" she demanded. "Do you mean you want my children to go to commonpublic schools?" There was rage and amazement upon her pretty countenance, and with it an instant certainty too. Yes, this was Deborah's planning! ButRoger thought that Edith's look was all directed at himself. And for thefirst time in his life he felt the shame and humility of the male providerno longer able to provide. He reddened and looked down at his plate. 

"You don't understand, " he said. "I'm strapped, my child--I can't helpit--I'm poor. "

"Oh. Oh, dad. I'm sorry. " He glanced up at his daughter and saw tearswelling in her eyes. How utterly miserable both of them were. 

"It's the war, " he said harshly and proudly. This made a difference to hispride, but not to his daughter's anxiety. She was not interested in thewar, or in any other cause of the abyss she was facing. She strove to thinkclearly what to do. But no, she must do her thinking alone. With a suddenquiet she rose from the table, went around to her father's chair and kissedhim very gently. 

"All right, dear--I see it all now--and I promise I'll try my best, " shesaid. 

"You're a brave little woman, " he replied. 

But after she had gone, he reflected. Why had he called her a brave littlewoman? Why had it all been so intense, the talk upon so heroic a plane? Itwould be hard on Edith, of course; but others were doing it, weren't they?Think of the women in Europe these days! After all, she'd be verycomfortable here, and perhaps by Christmas times would change. 

He shook off these petty troubles and went to his office for the day. 

 * * * * *

As she busied herself unpacking the trunks, Edith strove to readjust herplans. By noon her head was throbbing, but she took little notice of that. She had a talk with Hannah, the devoted Irish girl who had been with herever since George was born. It was difficult, it was brutal. It was almostas though in Edith's family there had been two mothers, and one was sendingthe other away. 

"There, there, poor child, " Edith comforted her, "I'll find you anothernice family soon where you can stay till I take you back. Don't you see itwill not be for long?" And Hannah brightened a little. 

"But how in the wide wurrld, " she asked, "will you ever do for thechildren, me gone?"

"Oh, I'll manage, " said Edith cheerfully. And that afternoon she began atonce to rearrange her whole intricate schedule, with Hannah and school bothomitted, to fit her children into the house. But instead of this, as thedays wore on, nerve-racking days of worry and toil, sternly and quiteunconsciously she fitted the house to her children. And nobody made heraware of the fact. All summer long in the mountains, everyone by tacitconsent had made way for her, had deferred to her grief in the littlethings that make up the everyday life in a home. And to this precedent onceestablished Edith now clung unawares. 

Her new day gave her small time to think. It began at five in the morning, when Roger was awakened by the gleeful cries of the two wee boys who sleptwith their mother in the next room, the room which had been Deborah's. AndEdith was busy from that time on. First came the washing and dressing andbreakfast, which was a merry, boisterous meal. Then the baby was taken outto his carriage on the porch at the back of the house. And after that, inher father's study from which he had fled with his morning cigar, for twohours Edith held school for her children, trying her best to be patient andclear, with text-books she had purchased from their former schools uptown. For two severe hours, shutting the world all out of her head, she tried toteach them about it. At eleven, their nerves on edge like her own, she sentthem outdoors "to play, " intrusting the small ones to Betsy and George, whotook them to Washington Square nearby with strict injunctions to keep themaway from all other children. No doubt there were "nice" children there, but she herself could not be along to distinguish the "nice" from the"common"--for until one o'clock she was busy at home, bathing the baby andmaking the beds, and then hurrying to the kitchen to pasteurize the baby'smilk and keep a vigilant oversight on the cooking of the midday meal. Andthe old cook's growing resentment made it far from easy. 

After luncheon, thank heaven, came their naps. And all afternoon, whileagain they went out, Edith would look over their wardrobes, mend and alterand patch and contrive how to make last winter's clothes look new. At timesshe would drop her work in her lap and stare wretchedly before her. Thiswas what she had never known; this was what made life around her grim andhard, relentless, frightening; this was what it was to be poor. How itchanged the whole city of New York. Behind it, the sinister cause of itall, she thought confusedly now and then of the Great Death across the sea, of the armies, smoking battle-fields, the shrieks of the dying, thevillages blazing, the women and children flying away. But never for morethan a moment. The war was so remote and dim. And soon she would turn backagain to her own beloved children, whose lives, so full of happiness, sorich in promise hitherto, were now so cramped and thwarted. Each day washarder than the last. It was becoming unbearable!

No, they must go back to school. But how to manage it? How? How? It wouldcost eight hundred dollars, and this would take nearly all the money shewould be able to secure by the sale of her few possessions. And then what?What of sickness, and the other contingencies which still lay ahead of her?How old her father seemed, these days! In his heavy shock of hair theflecks of white had doubled in size, were merging one into the other, andhis tall, stooping, massive frame had lost its look of ruggedness. Suppose, suppose. .. . Her breath came fast. Was his life insured, she wondered. 

On such afternoons, in the upstairs room as the dusk crept in anddeepened, she would bend close to her sewing--planning, planning, planning. At last she would hear the children trooping merrily into the house. Andmaking a very real effort, which at times was in truth heroic, to smile, she would rise and light the gas, would welcome them gaily and join intheir chatter and bustle about on the countless tasks of washing them, getting their suppers, undressing the small ones and hearing their prayers. With smiling good-night kisses she would tuck her two babies into theircribs. Afterward, just for a moment or two, she would linger under the gasjet, her face still smiling, for a last look. A last good-night. Thendarkness. 

Darkness settling over her spirit, together with loneliness and fatigue. She would go into Betsy's room and throw herself dressed on her daughter'sbed, and a dull complete indifference to everything under the moon and thestars would creep from her body up into her mind. At times she would try tofight it off. To-night at dinner she must not be what she knew she had beenthe night before, a wet blanket upon all the talk. But if they only knewhow hard it was--what a perfect--hell it was! Her breath coming faster, shewould dig her nails into the palms of her hands. One night she noticed andlooked at her hand, and saw the skin was actually cut and a little bloodwas appearing. She had read of women doing this, but she had never done itbefore--not even when her babies were born. She had gripped Bruce's handinstead. 

CHAPTER XXVII

Roger found her like that one evening. He heard what he thought was a sobfrom the room, for she had forgotten to close the door. He came into thedoorway but drew back, and closed the door with barely a sound. Frowningand irresolute, he stood for a moment in the hall, then turned and wentinto his room. Soon he heard Deborah enter the house and come slowly up thestairs. She too had had a hard day, he recalled, a day all filled withturbulence, with problems and with vexing toil, in her enormous family. Andhe felt he could not blame her for not being of more help at home. Still, he had been disappointed of late in her manner toward her sister. He hadhoped she would draw closer to Edith, now that again they were livingtogether in their old home where they had been born. But no, it had workedjust the opposite way. They were getting upon each other's nerves. Whycouldn't she make overtures, small kindly proffers of help and advice andsympathy, the womanly things?

From his room he heard her knock softly at the same door he had closed. Andhe heard her low clear voice:

"Are you there, Edith dear?" He listened a moment intently, but he couldnot hear the reply. Then Deborah said, "Oh, you poor thing. I'm awfullysorry. Edith--don't bother to come downstairs--let me bring you up yoursupper. " A pause. "I wish you would. I'd love to. "

He heard Deborah come by his door and go up the second flight of stairs tothe room she had taken on the third floor. 

"I was wrong, " he reflected, "she has been trying--but it doesn't do anygood. Women simply haven't it in 'em to see each other's point of view. Deborah doesn't admire Edith--she can't, she only pities her and puts herdown as out of date. And Edith feels that, and it gets her riled, and shesets herself like an angry old hen against all Deborah's new ideas. Why thedevil can't they live and let live?"

And he hesitated savagely between a pearl gray _and_ a black cravat. Thenhe heard another step on the stairs. It was much slower than Deborah's, andcautious and dogged, one foot lifted carefully after the other. It wasJohn, who had finished his kitchen supper and was silently making his wayup through the house to his room at the top, there to keep out of sight forthe evening. And it came into Roger's mind that John had been acting injust this fashion ever since Edith had been in the house. 

"We'll have trouble there, too!" he told himself, as he jerked the blacksatin cravat into place, a tie he thoroughly disliked. Yes, black, byGeorge, he felt like it to-night! These women! These evenings! This worry!This war! This world gone raving, driveling mad!

And frowning with annoyance, Roger went down to his dinner. 

As he waited he grew impatient. He had eaten no lunch, he was hungry; andhe was very tired, too, for he had had his own hard day. Pshaw! He got upangrily. _Somebody_ must be genial here. He went into the dining room andpoured himself a good stiff drink. Roger had never been much of a drinker. Ever since his marriage, cigars had been his only vice. But of late he hadbeen having curious little sinking spells. They worried him, and he toldhimself he could not afford to get either too tired or too faint. 

Nevertheless, he reflected, it was setting a bad example for George. Butglancing into his study he saw that the lad was completely absorbed. Withknees drawn up, his long lank form all hunched and huddled on the lounge, hair rumpled, George was reading a book which had a cover of tough graycloth. At the sight of it his grandfather smiled, for he had seen it oncebefore. Where George had obtained it, the Lord only knew. Its title was"Bulls and Breeding. " A thoroughly practical little book, but nothing forGeorge's mother to see. As his grandfather entered behind him, the boylooked up with a guilty start, and resumed with a short breath of relief. 

Young Elizabeth, too, had a furtive air, for instead of preparing herhistory lesson she was deep in the evening paper reading about the warabroad. Stout and florid, rather plain, but with a frank, attractive faceand honest, clear, appealing eyes, this curious creature of thirteen wassitting firmly in her chair with her feet planted wide apart, eagerlyscanning an account of the work of American surgeons in France. And againRoger smiled to himself. (He was feeling so much better now. ) So Betsy wasstill thinking of becoming a surgeon. He wondered what she would take upnext. In the past two years in swift succession she had made up her mind tobe a novelist, an actress and a women's college president. And Roger likedthis tremendously. 

He loved to watch these two in the house. Here again his family waswidening out before him, with new figures arising to draw his attentionthis way and that. But these were bright distractions. He took a deep, amused delight in watching these two youngsters caught between two fires, on the one side their mother and upon the other their aunt; both obviouslydrawn toward Deborah, a figure who stood in their regard for all thatthrilling outside world, that heaving sparkling ocean on which they toowould soon embark; both sternly repressing their eagerness as an insult totheir mother, whom they loved and pitied so, regarding her as a brave anddear but rapidly ageing creature "well on in her thirties, " whom they mustcherish and preserve. They both had such solemn thoughts as they looked atEdith in her chair. But as Roger watched them, with their love and theirsolemnity, their guilt and their perplexity, with quiet enjoyment he wouldwait to see the change he knew would come. And it always did. The suddenpicking up of a book, the vanishing of an anxious frown, and in an instanttheir young minds had turned happily back into themselves, into their ownengrossing lives, their plans, their intimate dreams and ambitions, all socuriously bound up with memories of small happenings which had struck themas funny that day and at which they would suddenly chuckle aloud. 

And this was only one stage in their growth. What would be the next, heasked, and all the others after that? What kind of world would they livein? Please heaven, there would be no wars. Many old things, no doubt, wouldbe changed, by the work of Deborah and her kind--but not too many, Rogerhoped. And these young people, meanwhile, would be bringing up children intheir turn. So the family would go on, and multiply and scatter wide, neverto unite again. And he thought he could catch glimpses, very small and faraway but bright as patches of sunlight upon distant mountain tops, into thewidening vista of those many lives ahead. A wistful look crept over hisface. 

"In their lives too we shall be there, the dim strong figures of the past. "

 * * * * *

Deborah came into the room, and at once the whole atmosphere changed. Herniece sprang up delightedly. 

"Why, Auntie, how lovely you look!" she exclaimed. And Roger eyed Deborahin surprise. Though she did not believe in mourning, she had been wearingdark gowns of late to avoid hurting Edith's feelings. But to-night she haddonned bright colors instead; her dress was as near décolleté as anythingthat Deborah wore, and there was a band of dull blue velvet bound abouther hair. 

"Thanks, dearie, " she said, smiling. "Shall we go in to dinner now?" sheadded to her father. "Edith said not to wait for her--and I'll have to beoff rather early this evening. "

"What is it to-night?" he inquired. 

"A big meeting at Cooper Union. "

And at dinner she went on to say that in her five schools the neighborhoodclubs had combined to hold this meeting, and she herself was to preside. Atonce her young niece was all animation. 

"Oh, I wish I could go and hear you!" she sighed. 

"Afraid you can't, Betsy, " her aunt replied. And at this, with aninstinctive glance toward the door where her mother would soon come in tostop by her mere presence all such conversation, Elizabeth eagerly threwout one inquiry after the other, pell mell. 

"How on earth do you do it?" she wanted to know. "How do you get a speechready, Aunt Deborah--how much of it do you write out ahead? Aren't you justthe least bit nervous--now, I mean--this minute? And how will you feel onthe platform? _What on earth do you do with your feet?_"

As the girl bent forward there with her gaze fixed ardently on her aunt, her grandfather thought in half comic dismay, "Lord, now she'll want to bea great speaker--like her aunt. And she will tell her mother so!"

"What's the meeting all about?" he inquired. And Deborah began to explain. 

In her five schools the poverty was rapidly becoming worse. Each week morechildren stayed away or came to school ragged and unkempt, some without anyovercoats, small pitiful mites wearing shoes so old as barely to stick ontheir feet. And when the teachers and visitors followed these children intotheir homes they found bare, dirty, chilly rooms where the little folkshivered and wailed for food and the mothers looked distracted, gaunt andsullen and half crazed. Over three hundred thousand workers were idle inthe city. Meanwhile, to make matters worse, half the money from uptownwhich had gone in former years into work for the tenements was going overto Belgium instead. And the same relentless drain of war was felt by thetenement people themselves; for all of them were foreigners, and from theirrelatives abroad, in those wide zones of Europe already blackened and laidwaste, in endless torrents through the mails came wild appeals for money. 

In such homes her children lived. And Deborah had set her mind on vigorousmeasures of relief. Landlords must be made to wait and the city bepersuaded to give work to the most needy, food and fuel must be secured. Asshe spoke of the task before her, with a flush of animation upon her brightexpressive face at the thought that in less than an hour she would befacing thousands of people, the gloom of the picture she painted wasdispelled in the spirit she showed. 

"These things always work out, " she declared, with an impatient shrug ofher shoulders. And watching her admiringly, young Betsy thought, "Howstrong she is! What a wonderful grown-up woman!" And Roger watchingthought, "How young. "

 * * * * *

"What things?" It was Edith's voice at the door, and among those at thetable there was a little stir of alarm. She had entered unnoticed and nowtook her seat. She was looking pale and tired. "What things work out sofinely?" she asked, and with a glance at Deborah's gown, "Where are you going?" she added. 

"To a meeting, " Deborah answered. 

"Oh. " And Edith began her soup. In the awkward pause that followed, twiceDeborah started to speak to her sister, but checked herself, for at otherdinners just like this she had made such dismal failures. 

"By the way, Edith, " she said, at last, "I've been thinking of all thatfurniture of yours which is lying in storage. " Her sister looked up at her, startled. 

"What about it?" she asked. 

"There's so much of it you don't care for, " Deborah answered quietly. "Whydon't you let a part of it go? I mean the few pieces you've alwaysdisliked. "

"For what purpose?"

"Why, it seems such a pity not to have Hannah back in the house. She wouldmake things so much easier. " Roger felt a glow of relief. 

"A capital plan!" he declared at once. 

"It would be, " Edith corrected him, "if I hadn't already made _other_plans. " And then in a brisk, breathless tone, "You see I've made up mymind, " she said, "to sell not only part but _all_ my furniture--verysoon--and a few other belongings as well--and use the money to put Georgeand Elizabeth and little Bob back in the schools where they belong. "

"Mother!" gasped Elizabeth, and with a prolonged "Oh-h" of delight she ranaround to her mother's chair. 

"But look here, " George blurted worriedly, "I don't like it, mother, darnedif I do! You're selling everything--just for school!"

"School is rather important, George, " was Edith's tart rejoinder. "If youdon't think so, ask your aunt. " "What do you think of it, Auntie?" heasked. The cloud which had come on Deborah's face was lifted in an instant. 

"I think, George, " she answered gently, "that you'd better let your motherdo what she thinks best for you. It _will_ make things easier here in thehouse, " she added, to her sister, "but I wish you could have Hannah, too. "

"Oh, I'll manage nicely now, " said Edith. And with a slight smile oftriumph she resumed her dinner. 

"The war won't last forever, " muttered Roger uneasily. And to himself: "Butsuppose it _should_ last--a year or more. " He did not approve of Edith'sscheme. "It's burning her bridges all at once, for something that isn'tessential, " he thought. But he would not tell her so. 

Meanwhile Deborah glanced at the clock. 

"Oh! It's nearly eight o'clock! I must hurry or I'll be late, " she said. "Good-night, all--"

And she left them. 

Roger followed her into the hall. 

"What do you think of this?" he demanded. Her reply was a tolerant shrug. 

"It's her own money, father--"

"All her money!" he rejoined. "Every dollar she has in the world!"

"But I don't just see how it can be helped. "

"Can't you talk to her, show her what folly it is?"

"Hardly, " said Deborah, smiling. Already she had on her coat and hat andwas turning to go. And her father scowled with annoyance. She was alwaysgoing, he told himself, leaving him to handle her sister alone. He wouldlike to go out himself in the evenings--yes, by George, this very night--itwould act like a tonic on his mind. Just for a moment, standing there, hesaw Cooper Union packed to the doors, he heard the ringing speeches, thecheers. But no, it was not to be thought of. With this silent war going onin his house he knew he must stay neutral. Watchful waiting was his course. If he went out with Deborah, Edith would be distinctly hurt, and sittingall evening here alone she would draw still deeper into herself. And so itwould be night after night, as it had been for many weeks. He would becooped up at home while Deborah did the running about. .. . In half the timeit takes to tell it, Roger had worked himself into a state where he feltlike a mighty badly used man. 

"I wish you _would_ speak to her, " he said. "I wish you could manage tofind time to be here more in the evenings. Edith worries so much and she'strying so hard. A little sympathy now and then--"

"But she doesn't seem to want any from me, " said his daughter, a bitimpatiently. "I know it's hard--of course it is. But what can I do? Shewon't let me help. And besides--there are other families, youknow--thousands--really suffering--for the lack of all that we have here. "She smiled and kissed him quickly. "Good-night, dad dear, I've got to run. "

And the door closed behind her. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

After dinner that night, in the living room the two older children studiedtheir lessons and Edith sat mending a pair of rompers for little Tad. Presently Roger came out from his den with the evening paper in his handand sat down close beside her. He did this conscientiously almost everyevening. With a sigh he opened his paper to read, again there was silencein the room, and in this silence Roger's mind roamed far away across thesea. 

For the front page of his paper was filled with the usual headlines, tidings which a year before would have made a man's heart jump into histhroat, but which were getting commonplace now. Dead and wounded by thethousands, famine, bombs and shrapnel, hideous atrocities, submarines andfloating mines, words once remote but now familiar, always there on thefront page and penetrating into his soul, becoming a part of Roger Gale, sothat never again when the war was done would he be the same man he wasbefore. For he had forever lost his faith in the sanity and steadiness ofthe great mind of humanity. Roger had thought of mankind as mature, butthere had come to him of late the same feeling he had had before in thebosom of his family. Mankind had suddenly unmasked and shown itself forwhat it was--still only a precocious child, with a terrible precocity. Forits growth had been one sided. Its strength was growing at a speedbreathless and astounding. But its vision and its poise, its sense of humanjustice, of kindliness and tolerance and of generous brotherly love, thesehad been neglected and were being left behind. Vaguely he thought of itsships of steel, its railroads and its flaming mills, its miracles, itsprodigies. And the picture rose in his mind of a child, standing there ofgiant's size with dangerous playthings in its hands, and boastfullydeclaring, "I can thunder over the earth, dive in the ocean, soar on the clouds! I canshiver to atoms a mountain, I can drench whole lands with blood! I can lookup and laugh at God!"

And Roger frowned as he read the news. What strange new century lay ahead?What convulsing throes of change? What was in store for his children?Tighter set his heavy jaw. 

"It shall be good, " he told himself with a grim determination. "For themthere shall be better things. Something great and splendid shall come outof it at last. They will look back upon this time as I look on the FrenchRevolution. "

He tried to peer into that world ahead, dazzling, distant as the sun. Butthen with a sigh he returned to the news, and little by little his mindagain was gripped and held by the most compelling of all appeals so farrevealed in humanity's growth, the appeal of war to the mind of a man. Hefrowned as he read, but he read on. Why didn't England send over more men?

The clock struck nine. 

"Now, George. Now, Elizabeth, " Edith said. With the usual delay andreluctance the children brought their work to an end, kissed their motherand went up to bed. And Edith continued sewing. Presently she smiled toherself. Little Tad had been so droll that day. 

On the third page of his paper, Roger's glance was arrested by a fullcolumn story concerning Deborah's meeting that night. And as in a longinterview he read here in the public print the same things she had told himat supper, he felt a little glow of pride. Yes, this daughter of his was awonderful woman, living a big useful life, taking a leading part in workwhich would certainly brighten the lives of millions of children stillunborn. Again he felt the tonic of it. Here was a glimmer of hope in theworld, here was an antidote to war. He finished the column and glanced up. 

Edith was still sewing. He thought of her plan to sell all she possessed inorder to put her children back in their expensive schools uptown. 

"Why can't she save her money?" he thought. "God knows there's littleenough of it left. But I can't tell her that. If I do she'll selleverything, hand me the cash and tell me she's sorry to be such a burden. She'll sit like a thundercloud in my house. "

No, he could say nothing to stop her. And over the top of his paper herfather shot a look at her of keen exasperation. Why risk everything she hadto get these needless frills and fads? Why must she cram her life so fullof petty plans and worries and titty-tatty little jobs? For the Lord'ssake, leave their clothes alone! And why these careful little rules forevery minute of their day, for their washing, their dressing, their eating, their napping, their play and the very air they breathed! He crumpled hispaper impatiently. She was always talking of being old-fashioned. Wellthen, why not be that way? Let her live as her grandmother had, up there inthe mountain farmhouse. _She_ had not been so particular. With one hiredgirl she had thought herself lucky. And not only had she cooked and sewed, but she had spun and woven too, had churned and made cheese and pickles andjam and quilts and even mattresses. Once in two months she had cut Roger'shair, and the rest of the time she had let him alone, except for somethingreally worth while--a broken arm, for example, or church. She had stuck tothe essentials!. .. But Edith was not old-fashioned, nor was she alive tothis modern age. In short, she was neither here nor there!

Then from the nursery above, her smallest boy was heard to cry. With alittle sigh of weariness, quickly she rose and went upstairs, and a fewmoments later to Roger's ears came a low, sweet, soothing lullaby. Yearsago Edith had asked him to teach her some of his mother's cradle songs. Andthe one which she was singing to-night was a song he had heard when he wassmall, when the mountain storms had shrieked and beat upon the rattling oldhouse and he had been frightened and had cried out and his mother had cometo his bed in the dark. He felt as though she were near him now. And as helistened to the song, from the deep well of sentiment which was a part ofRoger Gale rose memories that changed his mood, and with it his sense ofproportions. 

Here was motherhood of the genuine kind, not orating in Cooper Union in thename of every child in New York, but crooning low and tenderly, soothingone little child to sleep, one of the five she herself had borne, in agony, without complaint. How Edith had slaved and sacrificed, how bravely she hadrallied after the death of her husband. He remembered her a few hours agoon the bed upstairs, spent and in anguish, sobbing, alone. And remorse cameover him. Deborah's talk at dinner had twisted his thinking, he toldhimself. Well, that was Deborah's way of life. She had her enormous familyand Edith had her small one, and in this hell of misery which war wasspreading over the earth each mother was up in arms for her brood. And, byGeorge, of the two he didn't know but that he preferred his own flesh andblood. All very noble, Miss Deborah, and very dramatic, to open your armsto all the children under the moon and get your name in the papers. Butthere was something pretty fine in just sitting at home and singing to one. 

"All right, little mother, you go straight ahead. This is war and panic andhard times. You're perfectly right to look after your own. "

He would show Edith he did not begrudge her this use of her smallproperty. And more than that, he would do what he could to take her out ofher loneliness. How about reading aloud to her? He had been a capitalreader, during Judith's lifetime, for he had always enjoyed it so. Rogerrose and went to his shelves and began to look over the volumes there. Perhaps a book of travel. .. . Stoddard's "Lectures on Japan. "

Meanwhile Edith came into the room, sat down and took up her sewing. As shedid so he turned and glanced at her, and she smiled brightly back at him. Yes, he thought with a genial glow, from this night on he would do hispart. He came back to his chair with a book in his hand, prepared to starton his new course. 

"Father, " she said quietly. Her eyes were on the work in her lap. 

"Yes, my child, what is it?"

"It's about John, " she answered. And with a movement of alarm he looked athis daughter intently. 

"What's the matter with John?" he inquired. 

"He has tuberculosis, " she said. 

"He has no such thing!" her father retorted. "John has Pott's Disease ofthe spine!"

"Yes, I know he has, " she replied. "And I'm sorry for him, poor lad. But inthe last year, " she added, "certain complications have come. And now he'stubercular as well. "

"How do you know? He doesn't cough--his lungs are sound as yours or mine!"

"No, it's--" Edith pursed her lips. "It's different, " she said softly. 

"Who told you?" he demanded. 

"Not Deborah, " was the quick response. "She knew it, I'm certain, for Ifind that she's been having Mrs. Neale, the woman who comes in to wash, doJohn's things in a separate tub. I found her doing it yesterday, and shetold me what Deborah had said. "

"It's the first I'd heard of it, " Roger put in. 

"I know it is, " she answered. "For if you'd heard of it before, I don'tbelieve you'd have been as ready as Deborah was, apparently, to riskinfecting the children here. " Edith's voice was gentle, slow andrelentless. There was still a reflection in her eyes of the tendernesswhich had been there as she had soothed her child to sleep. "As time goeson, John is bound to get worse. The risk will be greater every week. "

"Oh, pshaw!" cried her father. "No such thing! You're just scaring yourselfover nothing at all!"

"Doctor Lake didn't think I was. " Lake was the big child specialist inwhose care Edith's children had been for years. "I talked to him to-day onthe telephone, and he said we should get John out of the house. "

Roger heartily damned Doctor Lake!

"It's easy to find a good home for the boy, " Edith went on quietly, "closeby, if you like--in some respectable family that will be only too thankfulto take in a boarder. "

"How about the danger to that family's children?" Roger asked malignantly. 

"Very well, father, do as you please. Take any risk you want to. "

"I'm taking no risk, " he retorted. "If there were any risk they would havetold me--Allan and Deborah would, I mean. "

"They wouldn't!" burst from Edith with a vehemence which startled him. "They'd take the same risk for my children they would for any street urchinin town! All children are the same in their eyes--and if you feel as theydo--"

"I don't feel as they do!"

"Don't you? Then I'm telling you that Doctor Lake said there was veryserious risk--every day this boy remains in the house!" Roger rose angrilyfrom his chair:

"So you want me to turn him out! To-night!"

"No, I want you to wait a few days--until we can find him a decent home. "

"All right, I won't do it!"

"Very well, father--it's your house, not mine. "

For a few moments longer she sat at her sewing, while her father walked thefloor. Then abruptly she rose, her eyes brimming with tears, and left theroom. And he heard a sob as she went upstairs. 

"Now she'll shut herself up with her children, " he reflected savagely, "andhold the fort till I come to terms!" Rather than risk a hair on theirheads, Edith would turn the whole world out of doors! He thought of Deborahand he groaned. She would have to be told of this; and when she was, what arow there would be! For Johnny was one of _her_ family. He glanced at theclock. She'd be coming home soon. Should he tell her? Not to-night! Justfor one evening he'd had enough!

He picked up the book he had meant to read--Stoddard's "Lectures on Japan. "And Roger snorted wrathfully. By George, how _he'd_ like to go to Japan--orto darkest Africa! Anywhere!

CHAPTER XXIX

But later in the evening, when Allan and Deborah came in, Roger, who in themeantime had had a good hour in Japan and was somewhat relaxed and soothed, decided at once this was the time to tell her and have done with it. ForDeborah was flushed with triumph, the meeting had been a huge success. Cooper Union had been packed to the walls, with an overflow meeting out onthe street; thousands of dollars had been pledged and some big politicianshad promised support; and men and women, rich and poor, had volunteeredtheir services. She started to tell him about it, but noticed his troubledexpression and asked him what was on his mind. 

"Oh, nothing tremendous, " Roger said. "I hate to be any damper to-night. Ihadn't meant to tell you to-night--but I think I will now, for you look asthough you could find a solution for anything. "

"Then I must look like an idiot, " his daughter said good-humoredly. "Whatis it?" she demanded. 

"It's about John. " Her countenance changed. 

"Oh. Is he worse?"

"Edith thinks he is--and she says it's not safe. "

"I see--she wants him out of the house. Tell me what she said to you. " Ashe did so she listened intently, and turning to Allan at the end, "What doyou say to this, Allan?" she asked. "Is there any real risk to thechildren?"

"A little, " he responded. "As much as they take every day in the trolleygoing to school. "

"They never go in the trolley, " Deborah answered dryly. "They always go onthe top of the 'bus. " She was silent for a moment. "Well, there's no usediscussing it. If Edith feels that way, John must go. The house won't belivable till he does. "

Roger looked at her in surprise. He felt both relieved and disappointed. "John's only one of thousands to her, " he told himself aggrievedly. "Heisn't close to her, she hasn't room, she has a whole mass meeting in herhead. But I haven't, by George, I like the boy--and I'm the one who willhave to tell him to pack up and leave the house! Isn't it the very devil, how things all come back on me?"

"Look here, father, " Deborah said, "suppose you let me manage this. " AndRoger's heavy visage cleared. 

"You mean you'll tell him?"

"Yes, " she replied, "and he'll understand it perfectly. I think he has beenexpecting it. I have, for a good many weeks, " she added, with somebitterness. "And I know some people who will be glad enough to take him in. I'll see that he's made comfortable. Only--" her face clouded. 

"It has meant a lot to him, being here, " her father put in gruffly. 

"Oh, John's used to getting knocks in this world. " Her quiet voice grewhard and stern. "I wasn't thinking of John just now. What frightens me attimes like this is Edith, " she said slowly. "No, not justEdith--motherhood. I see it in so many mothers these days--in the womendowntown, in their fight for their children against all other children onearth. It's the hardest thing we have to do--to try to make them see andfeel outside of their own small tenement homes--and help each other--pulltogether. They can't see it's their only chance! And all because of thismother love! It's so blind sometimes, like an animal!" She broke off, andfor a moment she seemed to be looking deep into herself. "And I supposewe're all like that, we women are, " she muttered, "when we marry and havechildren. If the pinch is ever hard enough--"

"_You_ wouldn't be, " said Allan. And a sudden sharp uneasiness came intoRoger's mind. 

"When are you two to be married?" he asked, without stopping to think. Andat once he regretted his question. With a quick impatient look at him, Allan bent over a book on the table. 

"I don't know, " Deborah answered. "Next spring, I hope. " The frown wasstill on her face. 

"Don't make it too long, " said her father brusquely. He left them and wentup to bed. 

 * * * * *

Deborah sat motionless. She wished Allan would go, for she guessed what wascoming and did not feel equal to it to-night. All at once she felt tiredand unnerved from her long exciting evening. If only she could let go ofherself and have a good cry. She locked her hands together and looked up athim with impatience. He was still at the table, his back was turned. 

"Don't you _know_ I love you?" she was thinking fiercely. "Can't you seeit--haven't you seen it--growing, growing--day after day? But I don't wantyou here to-night! Why can't you see you must leave me alone? Now! Thisminute!"

He turned and came over in front of her, and stood looking steadily down. 

"I wonder, " he said slowly, "how well you understand yourself. "

"I think I do, " she muttered. With a sudden twitching of her lip she lookedquickly up at him. "Go on, Allan--let's talk it all over now if you must!"

"Not if you feel like that, " he said. At his tone of displeasure she caughthis hand. 

"Yes, yes, I want to! Please!" she cried. "It's better--really! Believe me, it is--"

He hesitated a moment, his wide generous mouth set hard, and then in a toneas sharp as hers he demanded, "Are you sure you'll marry me next spring?Are you sure you _hope_ you will next spring? Are you sure this sister ofyours in the house, on your nerves day and night, with this blind narrowmotherhood, this motherhood which frightens you--isn't frightening you toomuch?"

"No--a little--but not too much. " Her deep sweet voice was trembling. "You're the one who frightens me. If you only knew! When you come likethis--with all you've done for me back of you--"

"Deborah! Don't be a fool!"

"Oh, I know you say you've done nothing, except what you've been glad todo! You love me like that! But it's just that love! Giving up all yourpractice little by little, and your reputation uptown--all for the sake ofme, Allan, me!"

"You're wrong, " he replied. "Compared to what I'm getting, I've given upnothing! Can't you see? You're just as narrow in your school as Edith isright here in her home! You look upon my hospital as a mere annex to yourschools, when the truth of it is that the work down there is a chance I'vewanted all my life! Can't you understand, " he cried, "that instead of yourbeing in debt to me it's I who am in debt to you? You're a suffragist, eh, a feminist--whatever you want to call it! All right! So you want to beequal with man! Then, for God's sake, why not begin? _Feel_ equal! I'm noannex to you, nor you to me! It has happened, thank God, that our work fitsin--each with the other!"

He stopped and stared, seemed to shake himself; he walked the floor. Andwhen he turned back his expression had changed. 

"Look here, Deborah, " he asked, with an appealing humorous smile, "will youtell me what I'm driving at?"

Deborah threw back her head and laughed, and her laughter thrilled withrelief. "How sure I feel now that I love him, " she thought. 

"You've proved I owe you nothing!" she cried. "And that men and women ofour kind can work on splendidly side by side, and never bother our poorlittle heads about anything else--even marriage!"

"We will, though!" he retorted. The next moment she was in his arms. "Now, Deborah, listen to reason, child. Why can't you marry me right away?"

"Because, " she said, "when I marry you I'm going to have you all tomyself--for weeks and weeks as we planned before! And afterwards, with awonderful start--and with the war over, work less hard and the world lessdark and gloomy--we're going to find that at last we can live! But thiswinter it couldn't be like that. This winter we've got to go on with ourwork--and without any more silly worries or talk about whether or not we'rein love. _For we are_!" Her upturned face was close to his, and for somemoments nothing was said, "Well?" she asked. "Are you satisfied?"

"No--I want to get married. But it is now a quarter past one. And I'm yourphysician. Go straight to bed. "

She stopped him a minute at the front door:

"Are you sure, absolutely, you understand?"

He told her he did. But as he walked home he reflected. How tense she hadbeen in the way she had talked. Yes, the long strain was telling. "Why wasshe so anxious to get me out of the house, " he asked, "when we were alonefor the first time in days? And why, if she's really sure of her love, doesshe hate the idea that she's in my debt?"

He walked faster, for the night was cold. And there was a chill, too, inthis long waiting game. 

 * * * * *

Roger heard Deborah come up to bed, and he wondered what they had beentalking about. Of the topic he himself had broached--each other, love andmarriage?

"Possibly--for a minute or two--but no more, " he grumbled. "For don'tforget there's work to discuss, there's that mass meeting still on hermind. And God knows a woman's mind is never any child's play. But when youload a mass meeting on top--"

Here he yawned long and noisily. His head ached, he felt sore andweak--"from the evening's entertainment my other daughter gave me. " No, hewas through, he had had enough. They could settle things to suitthemselves. Let Edith squander her money on frills, the more expensive thebetter. Let her turn poor Johnny out of the house, let her give full playto her motherhood. And if that scared Deborah out of marrying, let her staysingle and die an old maid. He had worried enough for his family. He wanteda little peace in his house. 

Drowsily he closed his eyes, and a picture came into his mind of the cityas he had seen it only a few nights before. It had been so cool, so calmand still. At dusk he had been in the building of the great tower onMadison Square; and when he had finished his business there, on an impulsehe had gone up to the top, and through a wide low window had stood a fewmoments looking down. A soft light snow was falling; and from high up inthe storm, through the silent whirling flakes, he had looked far down uponlights below, in groups and clusters, dancing lines, between tall phantombuildings, blurred and ghostly, faint, unreal. From all that bustle andfever of life there had risen to him barely a sound. And the town hadseemed small and lonely, a little glow in the infinite dark, fulfilling itsallotted place for its moment in eternity. Suddenly from close over hishead like a brazen voice out of the sky, hard and deafening and clear, thegreat bell had boomed the hour. Then again had come the silence, and thecool, soft, whirling snow. 

Like a dream it faded all away, and with a curious smile on his facepresently Roger fell asleep. 

CHAPTER XXX

And now he felt the approach at last of another season of quiet, one ofthose uneventful times which come in family histories. As he washed anddressed for dinner, one night a little later, he thought with satisfaction, "How nicely things are smoothing out. " His dressing for dinner, as a rule, consisted in changing his low wing collar and his large round detachablecuffs; but to-night he changed his cravat as well, from a black to a pearlgray one. He hoped the whole winter would be pearl gray. 

The little storm which Edith had raised over John's presence in the househad been allayed. Deborah had talked to John, and had moved him with hisbelongings to a comfortable sunny room in the small but neat apartment of aScotch family nearby. And John had been so sensible. "Oh, I'm fine, thankyou, " he had answered simply, when in the office Roger had asked him abouthis new home. So that incident was closed. Already Edith was disinfectingJohn's old room to her heart's content, for George was to occupy it now. She was having the woodwork repainted and a new paper put on the walls. Shehad already purchased a small new rug, and a bed and a bureau and one easychair, and was making a pair of fresh pretty curtains. All right, let herdo it--if only there could be peace in the house. 

With his cravat adjusted and his thick-curling silver hair trim from havingjust been cut by "Louis" over at the Brevoort, Roger went comfortably downto his dinner. Edith greeted him with a smile. 

"Deborah's dining out, " she said. 

"Very well, " he replied, "so much the better. We'll go right in--I'mhungry. And we'll have the evening to ourselves. No big ideas nor problems. Eh, daughter?" He slipped his hand in hers, and she gave it a littleaffectionate squeeze. With John safely out of the way, and not only thehealth of her children but their proper schooling assured, Edith washerself again, placid, sweet and kindly. And dinner that night was acheerful meal. Later, in the living room, as Roger contentedly lit hiscigar, Edith gave an appreciative sniff. 

"You do smoke such good cigars, father, " she said, smiling over her needle. And glancing up at her daughter, "Betsy, dear, " she added, "go and get yourgrandfather's evening paper. "

In quiet perusal of the news he spent the first part of his evening. Thewar did not bother him to-night, for there had come a lull in the fighting, as though even war could know its place. And times were better over here. As, skipping all news from abroad his eye roved over the pages for what hisbusiness depended upon, Roger began to find it now. The old familiarheadliness were reappearing side by side--high finance exposures, graft, the antics and didos cut up by the sons and daughters of big millionaires;and after them in cheery succession the Yale-Harvard game, a new man forthe Giants, a new college building for Cornell, a new city plan forSeattle, a woman senator in Arizona and in Chicago a "sporting mayor. " Inbrief, all over the U. S. A. , men and women old and new had risen up, topower, fame, notoriety, whatever you chose to call it. Men and women?Hardly. "Children" was the better word. But the thought did not troubleRoger to-night. He had instead a heartening sense of the youth, the wildexuberance, the boundless vigor in his native land. He could feel it risingonce again. Life was soon to go on as before; people were growing hungry tosee the names of their countrymen back in the headlines where theybelonged. And Roger's business was picking up. He was not sure of thefigure of his deficit last week--he had always been vague on thebook-keeping side--but he knew it was down considerably. 

When Betsy and George had gone to bed, Roger put down his paper. 

"Look here, Edith, " he proposed, "how'd you like me to read aloud while yousew?" She looked up with a smile of pleased surprise. 

"Why, father dear, I'd love it. " At once, she bent over her needle again, so that if there were any awkwardness attending this small change in theirlives it did not reveal itself in her pretty countenance. "What shall weread?" she affably asked. 

"I've got a capital book, " he replied. "It's about travel in Japan. "

"I'd like nothing better, " Edith replied. And with a slight glow of pridein himself Roger took his book in hand. The experiment was a decidedsuccess. He read again the next night and the next, while Edith sat at hersewing. And so this hour's companionship, from nine to ten in the evening, became a regular custom--just one hour and no more, which Roger spent withhis daughter, intimately and pleasantly. Yes, life was certainly smoothingout. 

Edith's three older children had been reinstated in school. And although atfirst, when deprived of their aid, she had found it nearly impossible tokeep her two small boys amused and give them besides the four hours a dayof fresh air they required, she had soon met this trouble by the samesimple process as before. Of her few possessions still unsold, she haddisposed of nearly all, and with a small fund thus secured she had sent forHannah to return. The house was running beautifully. 

Christmas, too, was drawing near. And though Roger knew that in Edith'sheart was a cold dread of this season, she bravely kept it to herself; andshe set about so determinedly to make a merry holiday, that her fatheradmiring her pluck drew closer still to his daughter. He entered into herChristmas plans and into all the conspiracies which were whispered aboutthe house. Great secrets, anxious consultations, found in him a readylistener. 

So passed three blessed quiet weeks, and he had high hopes for the winter. 

CHAPTER XXXI

If there were any cloud upon his horizon, it was the thought of Laura. Shehad barely been to the house since Edith had come back to town; and attimes, especially in the days when things had looked dark for Roger, he hadcaught himself reproaching this giddy-gaddy youngest child, so engrossed inher small "ménage" that apparently she could not spare a thought for herwidowed sister. Laura on her return from abroad had brought as a gift forEdith a mourning gown from Paris, a most alluring creation--so much so, infact, that Edith had felt it simply indecent, insulting, and had returnedit to her sister with a stilted note of thanks. But Roger did not know ofthis. There were so many ways, he thought, in which Laura might have beennice to Edith. She had a gorgeous limousine in which she might so easilyhave come and taken her sister off on little trips uptown. But no, she kepther car to herself. And from her small apartment, where a maid whom she hadbrought from Rome dressed her several times each day, that limousine rushedher noiselessly forth, gay and wild as ever, immaculate and elegant, radiant and very rich. To what places did she go? What new friends was shemaking? What was Laura up to?

He did not like her manner, one evening when she came to the house. As hehelped her off with her cloak, a sleek supple leopard skin which fitted herfigure like a glove, he asked, "Where's Hal this evening?" And she answered lightly, "Oh, don't ask _me_ what he does with himself. "

"You mean, I suppose, " said Edith, with quiet disapproval, "that he isrushed to death this year with all this business from the war. "

"Yes, it's business, " Laura replied, as she deftly smoothed and patted hersoft, abundant, reddish hair. "And it's war, too, " she added. 

"What do you mean?" her father asked. He knew what she meant, war with herhusband. But before Laura could answer him, Edith cut in hastily, for twoof her children were present. At dinner she turned the talk to the war. Buteven on this topic, Laura's remarks were disturbing. She did not considerthe war wholly bad--by no means, it had many good points. It was clearingaway a lot of old rubbish, customs, superstitions and institutions out ofdate. "Musty old relics, " she called them. She spoke as though repeatingwhat someone else had told her. Laura with her chicken's mind could neverhave thought it all out by herself. When asked what she meant, she wassmilingly vague, with a glance at Edith's youngsters. But she threw outhints about the church and even Christianity, as though it were falling topieces. She spoke of a second Renaissance, "a glorious pagan era" coming. And then she exploded a little bomb by inquiring of Edith. 

"What do you think the girls over there are going to do for husbands, withhalf the marriageable men either killed or hopelessly damaged? They're notgoing to be nuns all their lives!"

Again her sister cut her off, and the rest of the brief evening wasdecidedly awkward. Yes, she was changing, growing fast. And Roger did notlike it. Here she was spending money like water, absorbed in her pleasures, having no baby, apparently at loose ends with her husband, and through itall so cocksure of herself and her outrageous views about war, and smilingabout them with such an air, and in her whole manner, such a tone of amusedsuperiority. She talked about a world for the strong, bits of gabble fromNietzsche and that sort of rot; she spoke blithely of a Rome reborn, the"Wings of the Eagles" heard again. This part of it she had taken, no doubt, from her new Italian friend, her husband's shrapnel partner. 

Pshaw! What was Laura up to?

But that was only one evening. It was not repeated, another month wentquickly by, and Roger had soon shaken it from him, for he had troublesenough at home. One daughter at a time, he had thought. And as the darkclouds close above him had cleared, the other cloud too had drifted away, until it was small, just on the horizon, far away from Roger's house. Whatwas Laura up to? He barely ever thought of that now. 

 * * * * *

But one night when he came home, Edith, who sat in the living room readingaloud to her smaller boys, gave him a significant look which warned himsomething had happened. And turning to take off his overcoat, in the hallhe almost stumbled upon a pile of hand luggage, two smart patent leatherbags, a hat trunk and a sable cloak. 

"Hello, " he exclaimed. "What's this? Who's here?"

"Laura, " Edith answered. "She's up in Deborah's room, I think--they've beenup there for over an hour. " Roger looked indignantly in at his daughter. 

"What has happened?" he asked. 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, " Edith replied. "They didn't seem to need me. They made it rather plain, in fact. Another quarrel, I presume. She cameinto the house like a whirlwind, asked at once for Deborah and flew up toDeborah's room. "

"Pshaw!" Roger heavily mounted the stairs. He at least did not feel likeflying. A whirlwind, eh--a nice evening ahead!

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, in her room upstairs Deborah sat motionless, sternly holding herfeelings down, while in a tone now kindly but more often full of a sharpdismay, she threw out question after question to Laura who was walking thefloor in a quick, feverish sort of way, with gestures half hysterical, hervoice bursting with emotions of mingled fright and rage. 

"No, this time it's divorce!" she declared, at the end of her firstoutburst, in which she had told in fragments of her husband's double life. "I've stood it long enough! I'm through!"

"You mean you don't care for him, " Deborah said. She was fighting for timeto think it out. "You want a divorce. Very well, Laura dear--but how do youthink you are going to get it? The laws are rather strict in this state. They allow but one cause. Have you any proofs?"

"No, I haven't--but I don't need any proofs! He wants it as badly as I do!Wait--I'll give you his very words!" Laura's face grew white with fury. "'It's entirely up to you, Sweetie'--the beast!--'You can have any kind ofdivorce you like. You can let me bring suit on the quiet or you can try tofight me in court, climb up into the witness chair in front of thereporters and tell them all about yourself!'"

"_Your husband is to bring suit against you_?" Deborah's voice was loud andharsh. "For God's sake, Laura, what do you mean?"

"Mean? I mean that _he has proofs_! He has used a detective, the meanlittle cur, and he's treating me like the dirt under his feet! Just asthough it were one thing for a man, and another--quite--for a woman! Heeven had the nerve to be mad, to get on a high horse, call me names! Turnme!--turn me out on the street!" Deborah winced as though from a blow. "Oh, it was funny, funny!" Laura was almost sobbing now. 

"Stop, this minute!" Deborah said. "You say that you've been doing--what hehas?" she demanded. 

"Why shouldn't I? What do you know about it? Are you going to turn againstme, too?"

"I am--pretty nearly--"

"Oh, good God!" Laura tossed up her hands and went on with her walking. 

"Quiet! Please try to be clear and explain. "

"Explain--to you? How can I? _You_ don't understand--you know nothing aboutit--all you know about is schools! You're simply a nun when it comes tothis. I see it now--I didn't before--I thought you a modern woman--withyour mind open to new ideas. But it isn't, it seems, when it comes to apinch--it's shut as tight as Edith's is--"

"Yes, tight!"

"Thank you very much! Then for the love of Heaven will you kindly leave mealone! I'll have a talk with father!"

"You will _not_ have a talk with father--"

"I most certainly will--and he'll understand! He's a man, at least--and heled a man's life before he was married!"

"Laura!"

"_You_ can't see it in him--_but I can_!"

"You'll say not a word to him, not one word! He has had enough this year asit is!"

"Has he? Then I'm sorry! If _you_ were any help to me--instead of actinglike a nun--"

"Will you please stop talking like a fool?"

"I'm not! I'm speaking the truth and you know it! You know no more aboutlove like mine than a nun of the middle ages! You needn't tell me aboutAllan Baird. You think you're in love with him, don't you? Well then, I'lltell you that you're not--your love is the kind that can wait foryears--because it's cold, it's cold, it's cold--it's all in your mind andyour reason! And so I say you're no help to me now! Here--look at yourselfin the glass over there! You're just plain angry--frightened!"

"Yes--I am--I'm frightened. " While she strove to think clearly, to formsome plan, she let her young sister talk rapidly on:

"I know you are! And you can't be fair! You're like nearly all Americanwomen--married or single, young or old--you're all of you scared to deathabout sex--just as your Puritan mothers were! And you leave it alone--youkeep it down--you never give it a chance--you're afraid! But I'm notafraid--and I'm living my life! And let me tell you I'm not alone! Thereare hundreds and thousands doing the same--right here in New York Cityto-night! It's been so abroad for years and years--in Rome and Berlin, inParis and London--and now, thank God, it has come over here! If ourhusbands can do it, why can't we? And we are--we're starting--it's comewith the war! You think war is hell and nothing else, don't you--but you'rewrong! It's not only killing men--it's killing a lot of hypocrisiestoo--it's giving a jolt to marriage! You'll see what the women will do soonenough--when there aren't enough men any longer--"

"Suppose you stop this tirade and tell me exactly what you've done, "Deborah interrupted. A simple course of action had just flashed into hermind. 

"All right, I will. I'm not ashamed. I've given you this 'tirade' to showyou exactly how I feel--that it's not any question of sin or guilt or anymusty old rubbish like that! I know I'm right! I know just what I'm doing!"

"Who's the man? That Italian?"

"Yes. "

"Where is he?"

"Right here in New York. "

"Does he mean to stand by you?"

"Of course he does. "

"Will he marry you, Laura?"

"Yes, he will--the minute I'm free from my beast of a husband!"

"And your husband will keep his suit quiet, you said, if you agree not tofight him. "

"Yes. "

Deborah rose abruptly. 

"Then will you stay right here to-night, and leave this matter to me?" sheasked. 

"What do _you_ mean to do?"

"See your husband. "

"What for? When?"

"To-night, if I can. I want to be sure. "

Laura looked for the moment nonplussed. 

"And what of my wishes?" she inquired. 

"_Your_ wishes, " said Deborah steadily. "You want a divorce, don't you--sodo I. And you want it quiet--and so do I. I want it so hard that I want tomake sure. " Deborah's tone was kinder now, and she came over close to hersister. "Look here, Laura, if I've been hard, forgive me--please--and letme help. I'm not so narrow as you think. I've been through a good deal ofthis before--downtown, I mean, with girls in my school. They come to me, wehave long talks. Maybe I _am_ a nun--as you say--but I'm one with aconfessional. Not for sins, " she added, as Laura looked up angrily. "Sinsdon't interest me very much. But troubles do. And heaven knows thatmarriage is one, " she said with a curious bitterness. "And when it hasfailed and there's no love left--as in your case--I'm for divorce. Only--"her wide sensitive lips quivered just a little, "I'm sorry it had to comelike this. But I love you, dear, and I want to help, I want to see yousafely through. And while I'm doing it, if we can, I want to keep dad outof it--at least until it's settled. " She paused a moment. "So if you agree, I'll go to your husband. I want to be sure, absolutely, just what we cancount on. And until I come back, stay here in my room. You don't want totalk to father and Edith--"

"Most certainly not!" Laura muttered. 

"Good. Then stay here until I return. I'll send you up some supper. "

"I don't want any, thank you. "

Laura went and threw herself on the bed, while her sister finisheddressing. 

"It's decent of you, Deborah. " Her voice was muffled and relaxed. "I wasn'tfair, " she added. "I'm sorry for some of the things I said. "

"About me and marriage?" Deborah looked at herself in the glass in apeculiar searching way. A slight spasm crossed her features. "I'm not surebut that you were right. At times I feel far from certain, " she said. Lauralifted her head from the pillow, watched her sister a moment, dropped back. 

"Don't let this affect _you_, Deborah. "

"Oh, don't worry, dearie. " And Deborah moved toward the door. "My affair isjust mine, you see, and this won't make any difference. "

But in her heart she knew it would. What an utter loathing she had to-nightfor all that people meant by sex! Suddenly she was quivering, her limbs andher whole body hot. 

"You say I'm cold, " she was thinking. "Cold toward Allan, calm and cool, nothing but mind and reason! You say it means little to me, all that! Butif I had had trouble with Allan, would I have come running home to talk?Wouldn't I have hugged it tight? And isn't that love? What do _you_ know ofme and the life I've led? Do you know how it feels to want to work, to besomething yourself, without any man? And can't _that_ be a passion? Haveyou had to live with Edith here and see what motherhood can be, what it cando to a woman? And now you come with _another_ side, just as narrow ashers, devouring everything else in sight! And because I'm a little afraidof that, for myself and all I want to do, you say I don't know what loveis! But I do! And my love's worth more than yours! It's deeper, richer, itwill last!. .. Then why do I loathe it _all_ to-night?. .. But I don't, Ionly loathe _your_ side!. .. But yours is the very heart of it!. .. Allright, then what am I going to do?"

She was going slowly down the stairs. She stopped for a moment, frowning. 

CHAPTER XXXII

On the floor below she met her father, who was coming out of his room. Helooked at her keenly:

"What's the trouble?"

"Laura's here, " she answered. "Trouble again with her husband. Better leaveher alone for the present--she's going to stay in my room for a while. "

"Very well, " her father grunted, and they went down to dinner. ThereDeborah was silent, and Edith did most of the talking. Edith, quite awareof the fact that Laura and all Laura's ways were in disgrace for themoment, and that she and her ways with her children shone by thecomparison, was bright and sweet and tactful. Roger glanced at her morethan once, with approval and with gratitude for the effort she was makingto smooth over the situation. Deborah rose before they had finished. 

"Where are you off to?" Roger asked. 

"Oh, there's something I have to attend to--"

"School again this evening, dear?" inquired Edith cheerfully, but hersister was already out of the room. She looked at her father with quietconcern. "I'm sorry she has to be out to-night--to-night of all nights, "she murmured. 

"Humph!" ejaculated her father. This _eternal_ school business of Deborah'swas beginning to get on his nerves. Yes, just a little on his nerves! Whycouldn't she give up one evening, just one, and get Laura out of this snarlshe was in? He heard her at the telephone, and presently she came back tothem. 

"Oh, Edith, " she said casually, "don't send any supper up to Laura. Shesays she doesn't want any to-night. And ask Hannah to put a cot in my room. Will you?"

"Yes, dear, I'll attend to it. "

"Thanks. " And again she left them. In silence, when the front door closed, Edith looked at her father. This must be rather serious, Roger thoughtexcitedly. So Laura was to stay all night, while Deborah gallivanted off tothose infernal schools of hers! He had little joy in his paper that night. The news of the world had such a trick of suddenly receding a million milesaway from a man the minute he was in trouble. And Roger was in trouble. With each slow tick of the clock in the hall he grew more certain and moredisturbed. An hour passed. The clock struck nine. With a snort he tossedhis paper aside. 

"Well, Edith, " he said glumly, "how about some chess this evening?" Inanswer she gave him a quick smile of understanding and sympathy. 

"All right, father dear. " And she fetched the board. But they had playedonly a short time when Deborah's latchkey was heard in the door. Roger gavean angry hitch to his chair. Soon she appeared in the doorway. 

"May I talk to you, father?" she asked. 

"I suppose so. " Roger scowled. 

"You'll excuse us, Edith?" she added. 

"Oh, assuredly, dear. " And Edith rose, looking very much hurt. "Of course, if I'm not needed--"

At this her father scowled again. Why couldn't Deborah show her sister alittle consideration?

"What is it?" he demanded. 

"Suppose we go into the study, " she said. 

He followed her there and shut the door. 

 * * * * *

"Well?" he asked, from his big leather chair. Deborah had remainedstanding. 

"I've got some bad news, " she began. 

"What is it?" he snapped. "School burnt down?" Savagely he bit off acigar. 

"I've just had a talk with Harold, " she told him. He shot a glance ofsurprise and dismay. 

"Have, eh--what's it all about?"

"It's about a divorce, " she answered. 

The lighted match dropped from Roger's hand. He snatched it up before itwas out and lit his cigar, and puffing smoke in a vigilant way again heeyed his daughter. 

"I've done what I could, " she said painfully, "but they seem to have madeup their minds. "

"Then they'll unmake 'em, " he replied, and he leaned forward heavily. "They'll unmake 'em, " he repeated, in a thick unnatural tone. "I'm nota'goin' to hear to it!" In a curious manner his voice had changed. Itsounded like that of a man in the mountains, where he had been born andraised. This thought flashed into Deborah's mind and her wide resolutemouth set hard. It would be very difficult. 

"I'm afraid this won't do, father dear. Whether you give your consent ornot--"

"Wun't, wun't it! You wait and see if it wun't!" Deborah came close to him. 

"Suppose you wait till you understand, " she admonished sternly. 

"All right, I'm waiting, " he replied. She felt herself trembling deepinside. She did not want him to understand, any more than she must toinduce him to keep out of this affair. 

"To begin with, " she said steadily, "you will soon see yourself, I think, that they fairly loathe the sight of each other--that there is no realmarriage left. "

"That's fiddlesticks!" snapped Roger. "Just modern talk and newideas--ideas you're to blame for! Yes, you are--you put 'em in herhead--you and your gabble about woman's rights!" He was angry now. He wasglad he was angry. He'd just begun!

"If you want me to leave her alone, " his daughter cut in sharply, "just sayso! I'll leave it all to you!" And she saw him flinch a little. "What wouldbe _your_ idea?" she asked. 

"My idea? She's to go straight home and make up with him!"

She hesitated. Then she said:

"Suppose there's another woman. "

"Then he's a beast, " growled Roger. 

"And yet you want her to live with him?"

He scowled, he felt baffled, his mind in a whirl. And a wave ofexasperation suddenly swept over him. 

"Well, why shouldn't she?" he cried. "Other wives have done it--millions!Made a devilish good success of it, too--made new men of their husbands!Let her show him she's ready to forgive! That's only Christian, ain't it?Hard? Of course it's hard on her! But can you tell me one hard thing shehas ever had to do in her life? Hasn't it been pleasure, pleasure from theword go? Can't she stand something hard? Don't we all of us have to? Ido--God knows--with all of you!" And he puffed his cigar in a fury. Hisdaughter smiled. She saw her chance. 

"Father, " she said, in a low clear voice, "You've had so _many_ troubles. Why not leave this one to me? You can't help--no matter how hard youtry--you'll only make it worse and worse. And you've been through so muchthis year--you've earned the right to be quiet. And that's what _they_want, both of them--they both want it quiet, without any scandal. " Herfather glared, for he knew about scandal, he handled it in his office eachday. "Let me manage this--please, " she said. And her offer tempted him. Hestruggled for a moment. 

"No, I won't!" he burst out in reply. "I want quiet right enough, but notat the price of her peace with her God!" This sounded foolish, he feltthat it did, and he flushed and grew the angrier. "No, I won't, " he saidstubbornly. "She'll go back to him if I take her myself. And what's more, "he added, rising, "she's to go straight back to-night!"

"She is not going back to-night, my dear. " And Deborah caught her father'sarm. "Sit down, please--"

"I've heard enough!"

"I'm afraid you haven't, " she replied. 

"Very well. " His smile was caustic. "Give me some more of it, " he said. 

"Her husband won't have her, " said Deborah bluntly. "He told me sohimself--to-night. "

"Did, eh--then _I'll_ talk to him!"

"He thinks, " she went on in a desperate tone, "that Laura has beenleading--'her own little life'--as he put it to me. "

"_Eh_?"

"He is bringing suit himself. "

"_Oh! He is_!" cried Roger hoarsely. "Then I _will_ talk to this youngman!" But she put out a restraining hand:

"Father! Don't try to fight this suit!"

"You watch me!" he snarled. Tears showed in her eyes:

"Think! Oh, please! Think what you're doing! Have you ever seen adivorce-court--here, in New York? Do you know what it's like? What it _can_be like?"

"Yes, " Roger panted. He did know, and the picture came vividly into hismind--a mass of eager devouring eyes fixed on a girl in a witness chair. "To-morrow I see a lawyer!" he said. 

"No--you won't do that, my dear, " Deborah told him sadly. "Laura's husbandhas got proofs. "

Her father looked up slowly and glared into his daughter's face. 

"I've seen them myself, " she added. "And Laura has admitted it, too. "

Still for a moment he stared at her. Then slowly he settled back in hischair, his eyes dropped in their sockets, and very carefully, with a handwhich was trembling visibly, he lifted his cigar to his lips. It had gonenearly out, but he drew on it hard until it began to glow again. 

"Well, " he asked simply, "what shall we do?"

Sharply Deborah turned away. To be quiet, to be matter of fact, to act asthough nothing had happened at all--she knew this was what he wanted now, what he was silently begging her to be for his sake, for the family's sake. For he had been raised in New England. And so, when she turned back to him, her voice was flat and commonplace. 

"Keep her here, " she said. "Let him do what he likes. There'll be nothingnoisy, he promised me that. But keep her here till it's over. "

Roger smoked for a moment, and said, "There's Edith and her children. "

"The children needn't know anything--and Edith only part of it. "

"The less, the better, " he grunted. 

"Of course. " She looked at him anxiously. This tractable mood of his mightnot last. "Why not go up and see her now--and get it all over--so you cansleep. "

Over Roger's set heavy visage flitted a smile of grim relish at that. Sleep! Deborah was funny. Resolutely he rose from his chair. 

"You'll be careful, of course, " she admonished him, and he nodded in reply. At the door he turned back:

"Where's the other chap?"

"I don't know, " she answered. "Surely you don't want to see _him_--. " Herfather snorted his contempt:

"See him? No. Nor she neither. _She's_ not to see him. Understand?"

"I wouldn't tell her that to-night. "

"Look here. " Roger eyed his daughter a moment. 

"You've done well. I've no complaint. But don't try to manage everything. "

He went out and slowly climbed the stairs. Outside the bedroom door hepaused. When had he stood like this before? In a moment he remembered. Oneevening some two years ago, the night before Laura's wedding, when they hadhad that other talk. And so it had come to this, had it. Well, there was nouse making a scene. Again, with a sigh of weariness, Laura's father knockedat her door. 

"Come in, Deborah, " she said. 

"It isn't Deborah, it's I. " There was a little silence. 

"Very well, father, come in, please. " Her voice sounded tired and lifeless. He opened the door and found the room dark. "I'm over on the bed, " shesaid. "I've had a headache this evening. "

He came over to the bedside and he could just see her there, a long shadowupon the white. She had not taken off her clothes. He stood a momenthelplessly. 

"Please don't _you_ talk to me!" His daughter fiercely whispered. "I can'tstand any more to-night!"

"I won't, " he answered. "It's too late. " Again there was a pause. 

"What time is it?" she asked him. But he did not answer. 

"Well, Laura, " he said presently, "your sister has told me everything. Shehas seen your husband--it's all arranged--and you're to stay here till it'sover . .. You want to stay here, don't you?"

"Yes. "

"Then it's settled, " he went on. "There's only one thing--the other man. Idon't know who he is and I don't want to know. And I don't want you to knowhim again. You're not to see him. Understand?" For a moment Laura wassilent. 

"I'm going to marry him, father, " she said. And standing in the darkenedroom Roger stiffened sharply. 

"Well, " he answered, after a pause, "that's your affair. You're no longer achild. I wish you were, " he added. 

Suddenly in the darkness Laura's hand came out clutching for his. But hehad already turned to the door. 

"Good-night, " he said, and left her. 

In the hallway below he met Deborah, and to her questioning look hereplied, "All right, I guess. Now I'm going to bed. " He went into his roomand closed the door. 

As soon as Roger was alone, he knew this was the hardest part--to be hereby himself in this intimate room, with this worn blue rug, these picturesand this old mahogany bed. For he had promised Judith his wife to keepclose to the children. What would she think of him if she knew?

Judith had been a broad-minded woman, sensible, big-hearted. But she neverwould have stood for this. Once, he recollected, she had helped a girlfriend to divorce her husband, a drunkard who ran after chorus girls. Butthat had been quite different. There the wife had been innocent and haddone it for her children. Laura was guilty, she hadn't a child, she wasalready planning to marry again. And then what, he asked himself. "From badto worse, very likely. A woman can't stop when she's started downhill. " Hiseye was caught by the picture directly before him on the wall--the one hiswife had given him--two herdsmen with their cattle high up on a shoulder ofa sweeping mountain side, tiny blue figures against the dawn. It had beenlike a symbol of their lives, always beginning clean glorious days. Whatwas Laura beginning?

"Well, " he demanded angrily, as he began to jerk off his clothes, "what canI do about it? Try to keep her from re-marrying, eh? And suppose Isucceeded, how long would it last? She wouldn't stay here and I couldn'tkeep her. She'll be independent now--her looks will be her bank account. There'd be some other chap in no time, and he might not even marry her!" Hetugged ferociously at his boots. "No, let well enough alone!"

He finished undressing, opened the window, turned out the gas and got intobed. Wearily he closed his eyes. But after a time he opened them and staredlong through the window up at the beetling cliff of a building close by, with its tier upon tier of lighted apartments, a huge garish hive of homes. Yes, the town was crowding down on him to-night, on his house and on hisfamily. He realized it had never stopped, and that his three grownchildren, each one of them a part of himself, had been struggling with itall the time. Laura--wasn't she part of himself? Hadn't he, too, had hislittle fling, back in his early twenties? "You will live on in ourchildren's lives. " She was a part of him gone wild. She gave it free rein, took chances. God, what a chance she had taken this time! The picture ofthat court he had seen, with the girl in the witness chair and those manyrows of eyes avidly fixed upon her, came back to his mind so vividly theyseemed for a moment right here in the room, these eyes of the town boringinto his house. Angrily he shut out the scene. And alone in the darkness, Roger said to his daughter all the ugly furious things he had not said toher upstairs--until at last he was weary of it. 

"Why am I working myself all up? I've got to take this. It's my medicine. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

But as he watched Laura in the house, Roger's first emotions werecomplicated more and more by a feeling of bewilderment. At dinner the nextevening he noticed with astonishment that she appeared like her naturalself. "She's acting, " he decided. But this explanation he soon dismissed. No, it was something deeper. She was actually unashamed, unafraid. Thatfirst display of feelings, the night of her arrival, had been only thescare of an hour. Within a few days she was back on her feet; and her curefor her trouble, if trouble she felt, was not less but more pleasure, asalways. She went out nearly every evening now; and when she had spent whatmoney she had, she sold a part of her jewelry to the little old GalicianJew in the shop around the corner. Yes, she was her natural self. And shewas as before to her father. Her attitude said plainly, "It isn't fair to you, poor dear, to expect you to fully understand howright I am in this affair. And considering your point of view, you'reacting very nicely. "

Often as she talked to him a note of good-humored forgiveness crept intohis daughter's voice. And looking at her grimly out of the corner of hiseye, he saw that she looked down on him, far, far down from heights above. 

"Yes, " he thought, "this is modern. " Then he grew angry all at once. "No, "he added, "this is wrong! You can't fool me, young woman, you know it aswell as I do myself! You're not going to carry this off with an air--notwith your father! No, by George!"

And he would grow abrupt and stern. But days would pass and in spite ofhimself into their talks would creep a natural friendly tone. Again hefound himself friends with her--friends as though nothing whatever hadhappened! Could it be that a woman who had so sinned could go right on?Here was Laura, serenely unconscious of guilt, and smiling into her future, dreaming still of happiness, quite plainly sure of it, in fact! With acurious dismayed relief Roger would scowl at this daughter of his--aradiant enigma in his quiet sober house. 

But Edith was not at all perplexed. When she learned from Deborah thatthere was soon to be a divorce, she came at once to her father. Her facewas like a thundercloud. 

"A nice example for my children!" she indignantly exclaimed. 

"I'm sorry, my dear. But what can I do?"

"You can make her go back to her husband, can't you?"

"No, I can't, " he flatly replied. 

"Then I'd better try it myself!"

"You'll do no such thing!" he retorted. "I've gone clear to the bottom ofthis--and I say you're to leave her alone!"

"Very well, " she answered. And she did leave her sister alone, so severelythat Laura soon avoided being home for lunch or dinner. She had taken theroom which George had occupied ever since John had been turned out, andthere she breakfasted late in bed, until Edith put a stop to it. Theybarely spoke to each other now. Laura still smiled defiance. 

Days passed. Christmas came at last, and despite Edith's glum resolution tomake it a happy time for the children, the happiness soon petered out. After the tree in the morning, the day hung heavy on the house. Rogerburied himself in his study. Laura had motored off into the country with agay party of her friends. Or was this just a ruse, he wondered, and wasshe spending the day with her lover? Well, what if she was? Could he lockher in?

About twilight he thought he heard her return, and later from his bedroomhe heard her voice and Edith's. Both voices sounded angry, but he would notinterfere. 

At the Christmas dinner that evening Laura did not put in an appearance, but Edith sat stiff and silent there; and despite the obvious efforts whichDeborah and Allan made to be genial with the children, the very air in theroom was charged with the feeling of trouble close ahead. Again Rogerretreated into his den, and presently Laura came to him. 

"Good-night--I'm going out, " she said, and she pressed her cheek lightly tohis own. "What a dear you've been to me, dad, " she murmured. And then shewas gone. 

A few minutes later Edith came in. She held a small note in her hand, whichRoger saw was addressed to himself. 

"Well, father, I learned this afternoon what you've been keeping from me, "she said. Roger gave her a steady look. 

"You did, eh--Laura told you?"

"Yes, she did!" his daughter exclaimed. "And I can't help wondering, father--"

"Why did she tell you? Have you been at her again to-day?"

"Again? Not at all, " she answered. "I've done as you asked me to, let heralone. But to-day--mother's day--I got thinking of _her_. "

"Leave your mother out of it, please. What did you say to Laura?"

"I tried to make her go back, of course--"

"And she told you--"

"He wouldn't have her! And then in a perfect tantrum she went on to tell mewhy!" Edith's eyes were cold with disgust. "And I'm wondering why you lether stay here--in the same house with my children!"

Roger reached out his hand. 

"Give me that note, " he commanded. He read it quickly and handed it back. The note was from Laura, a hasty good-bye. 

"Edith will explain, " she wrote, "and you will see I cannot stay anylonger. It is simply too impossible. I am going to the man I love--and in afew days we shall sail for Naples. I know you will not interfere. It willmake the divorce even simpler and everything easier all round. Please don'tworry about me. We shall soon be married over there. You have been so dearand sensible and I do so love you for it. " Then came her name scrawledhastily. And at the bottom of the page: "I have paid every bill I can thinkof. "

Edith read it in silence, her color slowly mounting. 

"All right, " said her father, "your children are safe. " She gave him aquick angry look, burst into tears and ran out of the room. 

Roger sat without moving, his heavy face impassive. And so he remained fora long time. Well, _Laura_ was gone--no mistake about that--and this timeshe was gone for good. She was going to live in Rome. Try to stop her? No. What good would it do? Wings of the Eagles, Rome reborn. That was it, shehad hit it, struck the keynote of this new age. Rome reborn, all clean, old-fashioned Christian living swept away by millions of men at eachothers' throats like so many wolves. And at last quite openly to himselfRoger admitted that he felt old. Old and beaten, out of date. Momentspassed, and hours--he took little note of time. Nor did he see on themantle the dark visage of "The Thinker" there, resting on the huge clinchedfist and brooding down upon him. Lower, imperceptibly, he sank into hisleather chair. 

Quiet had returned to his house. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

But the quiet was dark to Roger now. Each night he spent in his studyalone, for instinctively he felt the need of being by himself for a while, of keeping away from his children--out of whose lives he divined that otherevents would soon come forth to use up the last of the strength that was inhim. 

And Roger grew angry with the world. Why couldn't it let a man alone, anold man in a silent house alive for him with memories? Repeatedly in suchhours his mind would go groping backward into the years behind him. What along and winding road, half buried in the jungle, dim, almost impenetrable, made up of millions of small events, small worries, plans and dazzlingdreams, with which his days had all been filled. But the more he recalledthe more certain he grew that he was right. Life had never been like this:the world had never come smashing into his house, his very family, with itsdirty teeming tenements, its schools, its prisons, electric chairs, itsfeverish rush for money, its luxuries, its scandals. These things hadexisted in the world, but remote and never real, mere things which he hadread about. War? Did he not remember wars that had come and gone in Europe?But they hadn't come into his home like this, first making him poor when heneeded money for Edith and her children, then plunging Deborah into astruggle which might very probably ruin her life, and now taking Laura andfilling her mind with thoughts of pagan living. Why was every man, womanand child, these days, bound up in the whole life of the world? What wouldcome of it all? A new day out of this deafening night? Maybe so. But forhim it would come too late. 

"What have I left to live for?"

One night with a sigh he went to his desk, lit a cigar and laid his handupon a pile of letters which had been mounting steadily. It was made up ofLaura's bills, the ones she had not remembered. Send them after her to Romefor that Italian fellow to pay? No, it could not be thought of. Rogerturned to his dwindling bank account. He was not yet making money, he wasstill losing a little each week. But he would not cut expenses. To the fewwho were left in his employ, to be turned away would mean dire need. Andangrily he determined that they should not starve to pay Laura's bills. "The world for the strong, eh? Not in my office!" In Rome or Berlin orVienna, all right! But not over here!

Grimly, when he had made out the checks, Roger eyed his balance. By springhe would be penniless. And he had no one to turn to now, no rich youngson-in-law who could aid. 

He set himself doggedly to the task of forcing up his business, andmeanwhile in the evenings he tried with Edith to get back upon their formerfooting. To do this was not easy at first, for his bitterness still rankleddeep: "When you were in trouble I took you in, but when she was in troubleyou turned her out, as you turned out John before her. " In the room againvacated, young George had been reinstalled. One night Edith found herfather there looking in through the open doorway, and the look on hismassive face was hard. 

"Better have the room disinfected again, " he muttered when he saw her. Heturned and went slowly down the stairs. And she was late for dinner thatnight. 

But Edith had her children. And as he watched her night by night hearingtheir lessons patiently, reading them fairy stories and holding themsmilingly in her arms, the old appeal of her motherhood regained its holdupon him. One evening when the clock struck nine, putting down his paper hesuggested gruffly, "Well, daughter, how about some chess?"

Edith flushed a little:

"Why, yes, dear, I'd be glad to. "

She rose and went to get the board. So the games were resumed, and part atleast of their old affection came to life. But only a part. It could neverbe quite the same again. 

And though he saw little of Deborah, slowly, almost unawares to them both, she assumed the old place she had had in his home--as the one who had beenright here in the house through all the years since her mother had died, the one who had helped and never asked help, keeping her own troubles toherself. He fell back into his habit of going before dinner to hisdaughter's bedroom door to ask whether she would be home that night. At onesuch time, getting no response and thinking Deborah was not there, heopened the door part way to make sure. And he saw her at her dresser, staring at herself in the glass, rigid as though in a trance. Later in thedining room he heard her step upon the stairs. She came in quietly and satdown; and as soon as dinner was over, she said her good-nights and left thehouse. But when she came home at midnight, he was waiting up for her. Hehad foraged in the kitchen, and on his study table he had set out somesupper. While she sat there eating, her father watched her from his chair. 

"Things going badly in school?" he inquired. 

"Yes, " she replied. There was silence. 

"What's wrong?"

"To-night we had a line of mothers reaching out into the street. They hadcome for food and coal--but we had to send most of them home empty-handed. Some of them cried--and one of them fainted. She's to have a baby soon. "

"Can't you get any money uptown?" he asked. 

"I have, " she answered grimly. "I've been a beggar--heaven knows--on everyfriend I can think of. And I've kept a press agent hard at work trying tomake the public see that Belgium is right here in New York. " She stoppedand went on with her supper. "But it's a bad time for work like mine, " shecontinued presently. "If we're to keep it going we must above all keep itcheap. That's the keynote these days, keep everything cheap--at anycost--so that men can expensively kill one another. " Her voice had a bitterring to it. "You try to talk peace and they bowl you over, with facts onthe need of preparedness--for the defence of your country. And that doesn'tappeal to me very much. I want a bigger preparedness--for the defence ofthe whole world--for democracy, and human rights, no matter who the peopleare! I'd like to train every child to that!"

"What do you mean?" her father asked. 

"To teach him what his life can be!" she replied in a hard quivering tone. "A fight? Oh yes! So long as he lives--and even with guns if it must be so!But a fight for all the people on earth!--and a world so full of happylives that men will think hard--before ever again letting themselves be ledby the nose--into war and death--for a place in the sun!" She rose from herchair, with a weary smile: "Here I am making a speech again. I've made somany lately it's become a habit. I'm tired out, dad, I'm going to bed. " Herfather looked at her anxiously. 

"You're seeing things out of proportion, " he said. "You've worked so hardyou're getting stale. You ought to get out of it for a while. "

"I can't!" she answered sharply. "You don't know--you don't even guess--howit takes every hour--all the demands!"

"Where's Allan these days?"

"Working, " was her harsh reply. "Trying to keep his hospital going withhalf its staff. The woman who was backing him is giving her money toBelgium instead. "

"Do you see much of him?"

"Every day. Let's drop it. Shall we?"

"All right, my dear--"

And they said good-night . .. 

 * * * * *

In the meantime, in the house, Edith had tried to scrimp and save, but itwas very difficult. Her children had so many needs, they were all growingup so fast. Each month brought fresh demands on her purse, and the fundfrom the sale of her belongings had been used up long ago. Her soleresource was the modest allowance her father gave her for running thehouse, and she had not asked him for more. She had put off trouble frommonth to month. But one evening early in March, when he gave her theregular monthly check, she said hesitatingly:

"I'm very sorry, father dear, but I'm afraid we'll need more money thismonth. " He glanced up from his paper:

"What's the matter?" She gave him a forced little smile, and her fathernoticed the gray in her hair. 

"Oh, nothing in particular. Goodness knows I've tried to keep downexpenses, but--well, we're a pretty large household, you know--"

"Yes, " said Roger kindly, "I know. Are the month's bills in?"

"Yes. "

"Let me see them. " She brought him the bills and he looked relieved. "Notso many, " he ventured. 

"No, but they're large. "

"Why, look here, Edith, " he said abruptly, "these are bills for twomonths--some for three, even four!"

"I know--that's just the trouble. I couldn't meet them at the time. "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Laura was here--and I didn't want to bother you--you had enough on yourmind as it was. I've done the best I could, father dear--I've soldeverything, you know--but I've about come to the end of my rope. " And hermanner said clearly, "I've done my part. I'm only a woman. I'll have toleave the rest to you. "

"I see--I see. " And Roger knitted his heavy brows. "I presume I can get itsomehow. " This would play the very devil with things!

"Father. " Edith's voice was low. "Why don't you let Deborah help you? Shedoes very little, it seems to me--compared to the size of her salary. "

"She can't do any more than she's doing now, " was his decisive answer. Edith looked at him, her color high. She hesitated, then burst out:

"I saw her check book the other day, she had left it on the table! She'sspending thousands--every month!"

"That's not her own money, " Roger said. 

"No--it's money she gets for her fads--her work for those tenementchildren! She can get money enough for _them!_" He flung out his hand:

"Leave her out of this, please!"

"Very well, father, just as you say. " And she sat there hurt and silentwhile again he looked slowly through the bills. He jotted down figures andadded them up. They came to a bit over nine hundred dollars. Soon Deborah'skey was heard in the door, and Roger scowled the deeper. She came into theroom, but he did not look up. He heard her voice:

"What's the matter, Edith?"

"Bills for the house. "

"Oh. " And Deborah came to her father. "May I see what's the trouble, dear?"

"I'd rather you wouldn't. It's nothing, " he growled. He wanted her to keepout of this. 

"Why shouldn't she see?" Edith tartly inquired. "Deborah is livinghere--and before I came she ran the house. In her place I should certainlywant to know. "

Deborah was already glancing rapidly over the bills. 

"Why, Edith, " she exclaimed, "most of these bills go back for months. Whydidn't you pay them when they were due?"

"Simply because I hadn't the money!"

"You've had the regular monthly amount. "

"That didn't last long--"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Laura was here. "

Deborah gave a shrug of impatience, and Roger saw how tired she was, hernerves on edge from her long day. 

"Never mind about it now, " he put in. 

"What a pity, " Deborah muttered. "If we had been told, we could have cutdown. "

"I don't agree with you!" Edith rejoined. "I have already done that myself!I've done nothing else!"

"Have the servants been paid?" her sister asked. 

"No, they haven't-"

"Since when?"

"Three months!"

Roger got up and walked the room. Deborah tried to speak quietly:

"I can't quite see where the money has gone. "

"Can't you? Then look at my check book. " And Edith produced it with aglare. Her sister turned over a few of the stubs. 

"What's this item?"

"Where?"

"Here. A hundred and twenty-two dollars. "

"The dentist, " Edith answered. "Not extravagant, is it--for five children?"

"I see, " said Deborah. "And this?"

"Bedding, " was Edith's sharp response. "A mattress and more blankets. Ifound there weren't half enough in the house. "

"You burned John's, didn't you?"

"Naturally!"

All at once both grew ashamed. 

"Let's be sensible, " Deborah said. "We must do something, Edith--and wecan't till we're certain where we stand. "

"Very well--"

They went on more calmly and took up the items one by one. Deborah finishedand was silent. 

"Well, father, what's to be done?" she asked. 

"I don't know, " he answered shortly. 

"Somehow or other, " Deborah said, "we've got to cut our expenses down. "

"I'm afraid that's impossible, " Edith rejoined. "I've already cut as muchas I can. "

"So did I, in my school, " said her sister. "And when I thought I hadreached the end, I called in an expert. And he showed me ways of saving Ihad never dreamed of. "

"What kind of expert would you advise here?" Edith's small lip curled inscorn. 

"Domestic science, naturally--I have a woman who does nothing else. Sheshows women in their homes just how to make money count the most. "

"What women? And what homes? Tenements?"

"Yes. She's one of my teachers. "

"Thank you!" said Edith indignantly. "But I don't care to have my childrenbrought down to tenement standards!"

"I didn't mean to _have_ them! But I know she could show you a great manythings you can buy for less!"

"I'm afraid I shouldn't agree with her!"

"Why not, Edith?"

"Because she knows only tenement children--nothing of children bred likemine!"

Deborah drew a quick short breath, her brows drew tight and she lookedaway. She bit her lip, controlled herself:

"Very well, I'll try again. This house is plenty large enough so that by alittle crowding we could make room for somebody else. And I know a teacherin one of my schools who'd be only too glad--"

"Take a boarder, you mean?"

"Yes, I do! We've got to do something!"

"No!"

Deborah threw up her hands:

"All right, Edith, I'm through, " she said. "Now what do you propose?"

"I can try to do without Hannah again--"

"That will be hard--on all of us. But I guess you'll have to. "

"So it seems. "

"But unfortunately that won't he enough. "

Edith's face grew tenser:

"I'm afraid it will have to be--just now--I've had about all I can standfor one night!"

"I'm sorry, " Deborah answered. For a moment they confronted each other. AndEdith's look said to Deborah plainly, "You're spending thousands, thousands, on those tenement children! You can get money enough for them, but you won't raise a hand to help with mine!" And as plainly Deborahanswered, "My children are starving, shivering, freezing! What do yoursknow about being poor?" Two mothers, each with a family, and each onebaffled, brought to bay. There was something so insatiable in each angrymother's eyes. 

"I think you'd better leave this to me, " said Roger very huskily. And bothhis daughters turned with a start, as though in their bitter absorptionthey had forgotten his presence there. Both flushed, and now the glances ofall three in that room avoided each other. For they felt how sordid it hadbeen. Deborah turned to her sister. 

"I'm sorry, Edith, " she said again, and this time there were tears in hereyes. 

"So am I, " said Edith unsteadily, and in a moment she left the room. Deborah stood watching her father. 

"I'm ashamed of myself, " she said. "Well? Shall we talk it over?"

"No, " he replied. "I can manage it somehow, Deborah, and I prefer that youleave it to me. "

Roger went into his study and sank grimly into his chair. Yes, it had beenpretty bad; it had been ugly, ominous. He took paper and pencil and set towork. How he had come to hate this job of wrestling with figures. Of thefive thousand dollars borrowed in August he had barely a thousand left. Thefirst semi-annual interest was due next week and must be paid. The balancewould carry them through March and on well into April. By that time hehoped to be making money, for business was better every week. But what ofthis nine hundred dollars in debts? Half at least must be paid at once. Lower and lower he sank in his chair. But a few moments later, his bluntheavy visage cleared, and with a little sigh of relief he put away hispapers, turned out the lights and went upstairs. The dark house feltfriendly and comforting now. 

In his room he opened the safe in the corner where his collection ofcurious rings had lain unnoticed for many months. He drew out a tray, satdown by the light and began to look them over. At first only smallinanimate objects, gradually as from tray after tray they glittered duskilyup at him, they began to yield their riches as they had so often donebefore. Spanish, French, Italian, Bohemian, Hungarian, Russian and Arabian, rings small and rings enormous, religious rings and magic rings, poisonrings, some black with age for all his careful polishing--again theystole deep into Roger's imagination with suggestions of the many hands thathad worn them through the centuries, of women kneeling in old churches, couples in dark crooked streets, adventures, love, hate, jealousy. Youthand fire, dreams and passion. .. . 

At last he remembered why he was here. He thought of possible purchasers. He knew so many dealers, but he knew, too, that the war had played thedevil with them as with everyone else. Still, he thought of several whowould find it hard to resist the temptation. He would see them to-morrow, one by one, and get them bidding, haggling. Roger frowned disgustedly. 

No help for it, though, and it was a relief. It would bring a truce in hishouse for a time. 

 * * * * *

But the truce was brief. 

On the afternoon when he sold his collection Roger came home all out ofsorts. He had been forced to haggle long; it had been a mean ingloriousday; one of the brightest paths in his life had ended in a pigstie. But atleast he had bought some peace in his home! Women, women, women! He shutthe front door with a slam and went up to his room for a little rest, alittle of what he had paid for! On the stairs he passed young Betsy, and hestartled the girl by the sudden glare of reproach he bestowed upon her. Savagely he told himself he was no "feminist" that night!

The brief talk he had with Edith was far from reassuring. With no Deborahthere to wound her pride, Edith quickly showed herself friendly to herfather; but when he advised her to keep her nurse, she at once refused toconsider it. 

"I want you to, " he persisted, with an anxious note in his voice. He hadtried life without Hannah here and he did not care to try it again. 

"It is already settled, father, I sent her away this morning. "

"Then you get her right back!" he exclaimed. But Edith's face grewobstinate. 

"I don't care to give Deborah, " she replied, "another chance to talk as shedid. "

Roger looked at her gloomily. "You will, though, " he was thinking. "You twohave only just begun. Let any little point arise, which a couple of menwould settle offhand, and you two will get together and go it! There'll beno living in the house!"

With deepening displeasure he watched the struggle between them go on. Sometimes it seemed to Roger there was not a topic he could bring up whichwould not in some way bring on a clash. One night in desperation heproposed the theatre. 

"I'm afraid we can't afford it, " said Edith, glancing at Deborah. And shehad the same answer, again and again, for the requests her children made, if they involved but the smallest expense. "No, dear, I'm afraid we can'tafford that, " she would say gently, with a sigh. And under this constantpressure, these nightly little thrusts and jabs, Deborah would grow rigidwith annoyance and impatience. 

"For Heaven's sake, Edith, " she burst out, one night when the children hadgone to their lessons, "can you think of nothing on earth, except your ownlittle family?"

"Here it comes again, " thought Roger, scowling into his paper. He heardEdith's curt reply:

"No, I can't, not nowadays. Nobody _else_ seems to think of them. "

"You mean that I don't!"

"Do you?"

"Yes! I'm thinking of George! Do you want him killed in the trenches--in awar with Germany or Japan?"

"Are you utterly mad?" demanded Edith. 

"No, I'm awake--my eyes are open! But yours are shut so tight, my dear, youcan't see what has happened! You know this war has made us poor and yourown life harder, but that's all. The big thing it has done you know nothingabout!"

"Suppose you teach me, " Edith said, with a prim provoking little smile. Deborah turned on her angrily:

"It has shown that all such mothers as you are out of date and have got tochange! That we're bound together--all over the world--whether we like itor whether we don't! And that if we want to keep out of war, we've got todo it by coming right out of our own little homes--_and thinking, Edith, thinking!_"

"Votes for women, " Edith said. Deborah looked at her, rose with a shrug. 

"All right, Edith, I give up. "

"Thank you. I'm not worth it. You'd better go back to your office now andgo on with your work of saving the world. And use every hour of your timeand every dollar you possess. I'll stay here and look after my children. "

Deborah had gone into the hall. Roger, buried deep in his paper, heard theheavy street door close. He looked up with a feverish sigh--and saw at theopen door of his study George and Betsy standing, curious, solemn and wideeyed. How long had they been listening?

CHAPTER XXXV

There came a season of sleet and rain when the smaller children were shutindoors and it was hard to keep them amused. They did not look well, andEdith was worried. She had always dreaded the spring, and to carry herfamily safely through she had taken them, in former years, to Atlantic Cityfor two weeks. That of course was impossible now. Trouble was bound tocome, she thought. And it was not long in coming. Bobby, who was ten yearsold and went to school with his brother George, caught a wretched cold oneday. Edith popped him into bed, but despite her many precautions he gavehis cold to Bruce and Tad. 

"Suppose I ask Allan Baird to come, " Deborah suggested. "He's wonderfulwith children, you know. "

Edith curtly accepted his services. She felt he had been sent for toprevent her getting Doctor Lake. But she said nothing. She would wait. Through long hard days and longer nights she slaved upstairs. All Deborah'sproffers of aid she declined. She kept Elizabeth home from school to helpher with the many meals, the medicines and the endless task of keeping herlively patients in bed. She herself played with them by the hour, while theache in her head was a torment. At night she was up at the slightest sound. Heavy circles came under her eyes. Within a few days her baby, Bruce, haddeveloped pneumonia. 

That evening after dinner, while Deborah was sitting with Roger in theliving room, she heard her sister coming downstairs. She listened acutely, and glancing around she saw that Roger was listening, too. Edith passed thedoorway and went on down the hall, where they heard her voice at thetelephone. She came back and looked in at the door. 

"I've called Doctor Lake, " she said. "I've just taken Bruce's temperature. It's a hundred and five and two fifths. " Deborah glanced up with a start. 

"Oh, Edith!" she said softly. Her sister turned and looked at her. 

"I ought to have had him before, " she said. "When he comes, please bringhim right up to the room. " And she hurried upstairs. 

"Pshaw!" breathed Roger anxiously. He had seen Bruce an hour ago; and thesight of the tiny boy, so exhausted and so still, had given him a suddenscare. Could it be that _this_ would happen? Roger rose and walked thefloor. Edith was right, he told himself, they should have had Lake longbefore. And they would have, by George, if it had not been for Deborah'sinterference! He glanced at her indignantly. Bringing in Baird to savemoney, eh? Well, it was just about time they stopped saving money on theirown flesh and blood! What had Bruce to do with tenement babies? But he hadhad tenement treatment, just that! Deborah had had her way at last withEdith's children, and one of them might have to pay with its life! AgainRoger glared at his silent daughter. And now, even in his excited state, henoticed how still and rigid she was, how unnatural the look she bent on thebook held tightly in her hands. 

Still Deborah said nothing. She could feel her father's anger. Both he andEdith held her to blame. She felt herself in a position where she could notmove a hand. She was stunned, and could not think clearly. A vivid picturewas in her mind, vivid as a burning flame which left everything else indarkness. It was of Bruce, one adorable baby, fighting for breath. "Whatwould I do if he were mine?"

When the doctor arrived she took him upstairs and then came down to herfather. 

"Well?" he demanded. 

"I don't know. We'll have to wait. " And they both sat silent. At last theyheard a door open and close, and presently steps coming down the stairs. Roger went out into the hall:

"Come right in here, doctor, won't you? I want to hear about this myself. "

"Very well, sir. " And Lake entered the room, with Edith close behind him. He took no notice of anyone else. "Write this down, " he said to her. "Andgive it to the nurse when she comes. " A heavy man of middle age, withcurious dark impassive eyes that at times showed an ironic light, Lake wasa despot in a world of mothers to whom his word was law. He was busyto-night, with no time to waste, and his low harsh voice now rattled outorders which Edith wrote down in feverish haste--an hourly schedule, nightand day. He named a long list of things needed at once. "Night nurse willbe here in an hour, " he ended. "Day nurse, to-morrow, eight a. M. Get sleepyourself and plenty of it. As it is you're not fit to take care of a cat. "Abruptly he turned and left the room. Edith followed. The street doorclosed, and in a moment after that his motor was off with a muffled roar. Edith came back, picked up her directions and turned to her sister:

"Will you go up and sit with Bruce? I'll telephone the druggist, " she said. 

Deborah went to the sick room. Bruce's small face, peaked and gray in thesoft dim light, turned as she entered and came to the bed. 

"Well, dear?" she whispered. The small boy's eyes, large and heavy withfever, looked straight into hers. 

"Sick, " said the baby hoarsely. The next instant he tossed up his hands andwent through a spasm, trying to breathe. It passed, he relaxed a little, and again stared solemnly at his aunt. "Sick, " he repeated. "Wery sick. "

Deborah sat silent. The child had another fight for his breath; and thistime as he did so, Deborah's body contracted, too. A few moments laterEdith came in. Deborah returned downstairs, and for over an hour she sat byherself. Roger was in his study, Betsy and George had gone to bed. Thenight nurse arrived and was taken upstairs. Still Deborah's mind felt numband cold. Instinctively again and again it kept groping toward one point:"If I had a baby as sick as that, what would I do? What would I do?"

When the doorbell rang again, she frowned, rose quickly and went to thedoor. It was Allan. 

"Allan--come in here, will you?" she said, and he followed her into theliving room. 

"What is it?" he inquired. 

"Bruce is worse. "

"Oh--I'm sorry. Why didn't Edith let me know?"

"She had Lake to-night, " said Deborah. He knitted his brows in annoyance, then smiled. 

"Well, I don't mind that, " he replied. "I'm rather glad. She'll feel easiernow. What did he tell her?"

"He seemed to consider it serious--by the number of things he ordered. "

"Two nurses, of course--"

"Yes, day and night. " Deborah was silent a moment. 

"I may be wrong, " she continued, "but I still feel sure the child willlive. But I know it means a long hard fight. The expense of it all will beheavy. "

"Well?"

"Whatever it is, I'll meet it, " she said. "Father can't, he has reached theend. But even if he could help still, it wouldn't make much difference inwhat I've been deciding. Because when I was with Bruce to-night, I saw asclear as I see you now that if I had a child like that--as sick asthat--I'd sacrifice anything--everything--schools, tenement children, thousands! I'd use the money which should have been theirs, and the timeand the attention! I'd shut them all out, they could starve if they liked!I'd be like Edith--exactly! I'd center on this one child of mine!"

Deborah turned her eyes to his, stern and gleaming with her pain. And shecontinued sharply:

"But I don't mean to shut those children out! And so it's clear as day tome that I can't ever marry you! That baby to-night was the finishingstroke!"

She made a quick restless movement. Baird leaned slowly forward. Her handsin her lap were clenched together. He took them both and held them hard. 

"No, this isn't clear, " he said. "I can feel it in your hands. This isnerves. This is the child upstairs. This is Edith in the house. This isschool, the end of the long winter's strain. "

"No, it's what I've decided!"

"But this is the wrong decision, " Allan answered steadily. 

"It's made!"

"Not yet, it isn't, not to-night. We won't talk of it now, you're in nocondition. " Deborah's wide sensitive lips began to quiver suddenly:

"We _will_ talk of it now, or never at all! I want it settled--done with!I've had enough--it's killing me!"

"No, " was Allan's firm reply, "in a few days things will change. Edith'schild will be out of danger, your other troubles will clear away!"

"But what of next winter, and the next? What of Edith's children? Can't yousee what a load they are on my father? Can't you see he's ageing fast?"

"Suppose he dies, " Baird answered. "It will leave them on your hands. You'll have _these_ children, won't you, whether you marry or whether youdon't! And so will I! I'm their guardian!"

"That won't be the same, " she cried, "as having children of our own--"

"Look into my eyes. "

"I'm looking--" Her own eyes were bright with tears. 

"Why are you always so afraid of becoming a mother?" Allan asked. In hisgruff low voice was a fierce appeal. "It's this obsession in your mind thatyou'll be a mother like Edith. And that's absurd! You never will! You sayyou're afraid of not keeping school the first thing in your life! But youalways do and you always will! You're putting it ahead of me now!"

"Yes, I can put it ahead of _you_! But I couldn't put it ahead of _mychild_!" He winced at this and she noticed it. "Because you are strong, andthe child would be weak! The child would be like Bruce to-night!"

"Are you sure if you marry you must have a child?"

"Yes, " she answered huskily, "if I married you I'd want a child. And thatwant in me would grow and grow until it made both of us wretched. I'm thatkind of a woman. That's why my work has succeeded so far--because I've apassion for children! They're not my work, they're my very life!" She bowedher head, her mouth set hard. "But so are you, " she whispered. "And sincethis is settled, Allan, what do you think? Shall we try to go on--workingtogether side by side--seeing each other every day as we have been doingall these months? Rather hard on both of us, don't you think? I do, I feelthat way, " she said. Again her features quivered. "The kind of feeling Ihave--for you--would make that rather--difficult!"

His grip tightened on her hands. 

"I won't give you up, " he said. "Later you will change your mind. "

He left the room and went out of the house. Deborah sat rigid. Shetrembled and the tears came. She brushed them angrily away. Struggling tocontrol herself, presently she grew quieter. Frowning, with her clear grayeyes intently staring before her, she did not see her father come into thedoorway. He stopped with a jerk at sight of her face. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. She started. 

"Nothing's the matter! How is Bruce?"

"I don't know. Who went out a few minutes ago?"

"Allan Baird, " she answered. 

"Oh. You explained to him, of course, about Lake--"

"Yes, he understands, " she said. "He won't come here after this--"

Roger looked at her sharply, wondering just what she meant. He hesitated. No, he would wait. 

"Good-night, " he said, and went upstairs. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

On the morrow Bruce did not grow better. If anything, the child grew worse. But by the next morning the crisis had passed. In the house the tensionrelaxed, and Roger suddenly felt so weak that he went to see his ownphysician. They had a long and serious talk. Later he went to his office, but he gave little heed to his work. Sitting there at his desk, he staredthrough the window far out over the city. A plan was forming in his mind. 

At home that night, at dinner, he kept watching Deborah, who looked tiredand pale and rather relaxed. And as soon as she was out of the house hetelephoned Allan to come at once. 

"It's something which can't wait, " he urged. 

"Very well, I'll come right up. "

When Baird arrived a little later, Roger opened the door himself, and theywent back into his study. 

"Sit down, " he said. "Smoke, Allan?"

"No, thanks. " Baird looked doubly tall and lean, his face had a gauntappearance; and as he sat down, his lithe supple right hand slowly closedon the arm of his chair. 

"Now then, " began Roger, "there are two things we want to get clear on. Thefirst is about yourself and Deborah. There has been trouble, hasn't there?"

"Yes. "

"She has made up her mind not to marry you. "

"Yes. "

"I guessed as much. " And Roger paused. "Do you mind my asking questions?

"No--"

"Are you still in love with her, Allan?"

"I am. "

"And she with you?"

"I think so. "

"Then it's the same old trouble. "

"Yes. " And he told a part of what she had said. As he talked in clear, terse, even tones, Baird's steady eyes had a tortured light, the look of aman who has almost reached the end of his endurance. Roger smoked insilence. 

"What do you propose to do?"

"Wait, " said Allan, "a few days more. Then try again. If I fail I'mthrough. " Roger shot a quick look at him. 

"I don't think you'll fail, my boy--and what's more I think I can help you. This is a large house, Allan--there's more in it than you know. My secondpoint concerns myself. I'm going to die within a year. "

As Baird turned on him suddenly, Roger grimly smiled and said, "We won't gointo the details, but I've been examined lately and I have quite positiveknowledge of what I've suspected for some time. So far, I have told no onebut you. And I'm telling you only because of the bearing it has onDeborah. " Roger leaned forward heavily. "She's the one of my daughters whomeans the most, now that I'm so near the end. When I die next year that maybe all--I may simply end--a blank, a grave--I am not sure. But I've made upmy mind above everything else to see Deborah happy before I go. And I meanto do it by setting her free--so free I think it will frighten her. "

Roger went on to explain his plan, and they talked together for some time. 

 * * * * *

Another week had soon gone by. Bruce still recovered rapidly, and the othersick children were up and about. Deborah, in the meantime, had barely beenin the house at all. But late on Saturday evening Roger found her in herroom. She was working. He came behind her. 

"What is it, dad?"

"Busy, eh?" He hesitated, and laid his hand on her shoulder with a littleaffectionate pressure. "You've kept so busy lately, " he said, "I haven'thad time to see anything of you. How's your work going?"

"Much better, thanks--now that the winter is over. "

He questioned her about her schools. And then after a brief pause, "Well, daughter, " he said, "it has been a great fight, and I'm proud of youfor it. And if I've got anything to say--" his hand was still on hershoulder, and he felt her tighten suddenly--"it isn't by way ofcriticism--please be sure of that ahead. In this damnable war my faith inmen has been badly shaken up. Humanity seems to me still a child--a childwho needs to go to school. God knows we need men and women like you--andI'm proud of all you've accomplished, I'd be the last man to hold you back. I only want to help you go on--by seeing to it that you are free--fromanything which can hinder you. " He stopped again for a moment. 

"To begin with, " he said, "I understand you're not going to marry AllanBaird. " She stirred slightly:

"Did he tell you so?"

"Yes--I asked him, " Roger replied. "I had Allan here a few nights ago, andhe told me you had decided to give up your happiness for the sake of allthose children in that big family of yours. You felt you must keep yourselffree for them. Very well, if that is your decision I propose to clear theway. " She looked intently up at his face. "You're not free now, " hecontinued. "We have Edith and her children here. And I'm growing old--thathas got to be thought of--I don't want to leave them on your hands. So assoon as the baby is well enough, I'm going to move them up to themountains--not only for the summer--they are to stay the whole year'round. From this time on they're to make it their home. "

"Father! But they can't do that! Think of the winters!" Deborah cried. 

"It's already settled, " he answered. "I've talked to Edith and she hasagreed. She has always loved the farm, and it will be good for herchildren. In the meantime I've been talking to George. 'George, ' I toldhim, 'I'm going to talk to you, man to man, about a man's job I want you totackle. '"

"The farm? But, dearie! He's only a boy!"

"He's nearly seventeen, " said Roger, "and a young moose for his age. Andold Dave Royce will still be there. It's the work George has been dreamingabout ever since he was a child. You should have seen how he was thrilledby the scheme. I told him we'd spend the summer together up there layingall our plans, investing our money carefully to make every dollar count. "

"What money?" Deborah sharply asked. But her father was talking steadilyon:

"We already have a fine lot of cattle. We'll add to it and enlarge the barnand put in some new equipment. In short, we'll put it in fine shape, makeit a first class dairy farm. 'And then, George, ' I said to him, 'I'm goingto turn it over to you. I shall give the farm to your mother, and the restof the money I have I mean to invest in her name down here, so that she'llhave a small income until you can make your dairy pay. '"

"What money are you speaking of?" Deborah's voice was thick and hard, hersensitive lips were parted and she was breathing quickly. 

"I've sold the house, " he told her. Convulsively she gripped his arms:

"Then tell me where _you_ mean to live!"

"I'm not going to live--I'm going to die--very soon--I have definiteknowledge. "

Without speaking Deborah rose; her face went white. Her father kept tighthold of her hands, and he felt them trembling, growing cold. 

"You're soon to be free of everyone, " he continued painfully. "I know thisis hurting you, but I see so plain, so plain, my child, just what it isI've got to do. I'm trying to clear the way for you to make a simpledefinite choice--a choice which is going to settle your life one way or theother. I want to make sure you see what you're doing. Because you mean somuch to me. We're flesh and blood--eh, my daughter?--and in this family ofours we've been the closest ones of all!" She seemed to sway a little. 

"_You're not going to die_!" she whispered. 

"So it hurts you to lose me, " he replied. "It will be hard to be so free. Would you rather not have had me at all? I've been quite a load on yourback, you know. A fearful job you had of it, dragging me up when I wasdown. And since then Edith and Bruce and the rest, what burdens they havebeen at times. What sharp worries, heavy sorrows, days and nights you and Ihave gone through, when we should have been quietly resting--free--to keepup our strength for our next day's work. Suppose you had missed them, livedalone, would you have worked better? You don't know. But you will knowsoon, you're to give it a trial. For I've cleared the way--so that if youthrow over Baird to be free you shall get the freedom you feel you need!"

"Father! Please! Is this fair? Is this kind?" She asked in a harshfrightened tone. Her eyes were wet with angry tears. 

"This isn't a time to be kind, my dear. " His voice was quivering like herown. "I'm bungling it--I'm bungling it--but you must let me stumble alongand try to show you what I mean. You will have your work, your crowdedschools, to which you'll be able to give your life. But I look ahead, Iwho know you--and I don't see you happy, I don't even see you whole. Foryou there will be no family. None of the intimate sorrows and joys thathave been in this house will come to you. I look back and I see themall--for a man who has come so near the end gets a larger vision. " He shuthis eyes, his jaw set tight. "I look into my family back and back, and Isee how it has been made of many generations. Certain figures stand out inmy mind--they cover over a hundred years. And I see how much they've meantto me. I see that I've been one of them--a link in a long chain oflives--all inter-bound and reaching on. In my life they have all beenhere--as I shall be in lives to come. 

"And this is what I want for you. " He held her close a moment. The tearswere rolling down her cheeks. "Until now you have been one of us, too. Youhave never once been free. You have been the one in this house to step inand take hold and try to decide what's best to be done. I'm not putting youup on a pedestal, I don't say you've made no mistakes--but I say you're thekind of a woman who craves what's in a family. You're the one of mydaughters who has loved this house the most!"

"Yes, " she said, "I've loved this house--"

"But now for you all this will stop--quite suddenly, " he told her. "Thishouse of ours will soon be sold. And within a few months I shall be dead, and your family will have dropped out of your life. "

"Stop! Can't you? Stop! It's brutal! It isn't true about you!" she cried. "I won't believe it!" Her voice broke. 

"Go and see my physician, " he said. 

"How long have you known it? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because we had troubles enough as it was, other things to think of. Butthere's only one thing now, this freedom you are facing. "

"Please! Please!" she cried imploringly. "I don't want to talk of myselfbut of you! This physician--"

"No, " he answered with stern pain, "you'll have to hear me out, my child. We're talking of you--of you alone when I am gone. How will it be? Are youquite sure? You will have your work, that vision of yours, and I know howclose it has been to you, vivid and warm, almost like a friend. But so wasmy business once like that, when I was as young as you. And the businessgrew and it got cold--impersonal, a mere machine. Thank God I had a family. Isn't your work growing too? Are you sure it won't become a machine? Andwon't you lose touch with the children then, unless you have a child ofyour own? Friends won't be enough, you'll find, they're not bound up intoyourself. The world may reach a stage at last where we shall live on in thelives of all--we may all be one big family. But that time is still faroff--we hold to our own flesh and blood. And so I'm sure it will be withyou. You see you have been young, my dear, and your spirit has been freshand new. But how are you going to keep it so, without the ties you'vealways had?" He felt the violent clutch of her hand. 

"_You won't die_!" she whispered. But he went on relentlessly:

"And what will you do without Allan Baird? For you see you have not evenworked alone. You have had this man who has loved you there. I've seen howmuch he has helped you--how you have grown and he has grown since you twogot together. And if you throw him over now, it seems to me you are notonly losing what has done the most for your work, but you're running awayfrom life as well. You've never won by doing that, you've always won bymeeting life, never evading it, taking it all, living it full, takingchances! If you marry Baird, I see you both go on together in your work, while in your home you struggle through the troubles, tangles, joys andgriefs which most of us mortals know so well! I see you in a world ofchildren, but with children, too, of your own--to keep your spirit alwaysyoung! Living on in your children's lives!"

Roger stopped abruptly. He groped for something more to say. 

"On the one side, all that, " he muttered, "and on the other, a lonely lifewhich will soon grow old. "

There fell a dangerous silence. And sharply without warning, the influence, deep and invisible, of many generations of stolid folk in New England madeitself felt in each of them. Father and daughter grew awkward, both. Thetalk had been too emotional. Each made, as by an instinct, a quick strongeffort at self-control, and felt about for some way to get back upon theirold easy footing. Roger turned to his daughter. Her head was still bent, her hands clasped tight, but she was frowning down at them now, althoughher face was still wet with tears. She drew a deep unsteady breath. 

"Well, Deborah, " he said simply, "here I've gone stumbling on like a fool. I don't know what I've said or how you have listened. "

"I've listened, " she said thickly. 

"I have tried, " he went on in a steadier tone, "to give you some feeling ofwhat is ahead--and to speak for your mother as well as myself. And morethan that--much more than that--for the world has changed since she washere. God knows I've tried to be modern. " A humorous glint came into hiseyes, "Downright modern, " he declared. "Have I asked you to give up yourcareer? Not at all, I've asked you to marry Baird, and go right on with himin your work. And if you can't marry Allan Baird, after what he has donefor you, how in God's name can you modern women ever marry anyone? Now whatdo you say? Will you marry him? Don't laugh at me! I'm serious! Talk!"

But Deborah was laughing--although her father felt her hands still coldand trembling in his. Her gray eyes, bright and luminous, were shining upinto his own. 

"What a time you've been having, haven't you, dear!" his daughter criedunsteadily. "Fairly lying awake at night and racking your brains foreverything modern I've ever said--to turn it and twist it and use itagainst me!"

"Well?" he demanded. "How does it twist?"

"It twists hard, thank you, " she declared. "You've turned and twisted meabout till I barely see how I can live at all!"

"You can, though! Marry Allan Baird!"

"I'll think it over--later on. "

"What is there left to think about? Can you point to one hole in all I'vesaid?"

"Yes, a good many--and one right off. "

"Out with it!"

"You're not dying, " Deborah told him calmly, "I feel quite certain you'lllive for years. "

"Oh, you do, eh--then see my physician!"

"I will, I'll see him to-morrow. How long did you give yourself? Just a fewmonths?"

"No, he said it might be more, " admitted Roger grudgingly. "If I had noworries to wear me out--"

"Me, you mean. "

"Exactly. "

"Well, you've worried quite enough. You're going to leave it to me todecide. "

"Very well, " he agreed. He looked at her. "You have listened--hard?" hegruffly asked. 

"Yes, dear. " Her hands slowly tightened on his. "But don't speak of thisagain. You're to leave it to me. You promise?"

"Yes. "

And Roger left her. 

He went to bed but he could not sleep. With a sudden sag in his spirits hefelt what a bungler he had been. He was not used to these solemn talks, hetold himself irately. What a fool to try it! And how had Deborah taken itall? He did not mind her laughter, nor that lighter tone of hers. It wasonly her way of ending the talk, an easy way out for both of them. But whathad she thought underneath? Had his points gone home? He tried to rememberthem. Pshaw! He had been too excited, and he could recall scarcelyanything. He had not meant to speak of Baird--he had meant to leave himout! Yes, how he must have bungled it! Doubtless she was smiling still. Even the news about himself she had not taken seriously. 

But as he thought about that news, Roger's mood completely changed. Thetalk of the evening grew remote, his family no longer real, mere littlefigures, shadowy, receding swiftly far away. .. . Much quieter now, he lay along time listening to the life of the house, the occasional sounds fromthe various rooms. From the nursery adjoining came little Bruce's pipinglaugh, and Roger could hear the nurse moving about. Afterwards for a longtime he could hear only creaks and breathings. Never had the old houseseemed so like a living creature. For nearly forty years it had held allthat he had loved and known, all he had been sure of. Outside of it was thestrange, the new, the uncertain, the vast unknown, stretching away toinfinity. .. . 

Again he heard Bruce's gay little laugh. What did it remind him of? Hepuzzled. Then he had it. Edith had been a baby here. Her cradle had been inthis very room, close by the bed. And how she had laughed! What gurgles andripples of bursting glee! The first child in his family. .. . 

CHAPTER XXXVII

On the next day, which was Sunday, Deborah made an appointment with herfather's physician, and had a long talk with him at his house. Upon herreturn she went to her room and stayed there until evening, but when shecame down to supper her manner was as usual. At the table she joined in thetalk of Edith and the children, already deep in their preparations for themove up to the farm. George could hardly wait to start. That life would bea change indeed in Edith's plans for her family, and as they talked aboutit now the tension of hostility which had so long existed between the twosisters passed away. Each knew the clash had come to an end, that theywould live together no more; and as though in remorse they drew close, Deborah with her suggestions, Edith in her friendly way of taking anddiscussing each one. Then Deborah went again to her room. Her room was justover Roger's, and waking several times in the night he heard his daughterwalking the floor. 

The next day she was up early and off to her school before he came down. Itwas a fine spring morning, Roger had had a good night's sleep, and as hewalked to his office he was buoyed up by a feeling both of hope for hisdaughter and of solid satisfaction in himself as he remembered all that hehad said to her. Curiously enough he could recall every word of it now. Every point which he had made rose up before him vividly. How clear he hadbeen, how simple and true, and yet with what a tremendous effect he hadpiled the points one on the other. "By George, " he thought with a littleglow, "for a fellow who's never been in a pulpit I put up a devilish strongappeal. " And he added sagely, "Let it work on the girl, give it a chance. She'll come out of this all right. This idea some fellows have, that everywoman is born a fool, isn't fair, it isn't true. Just let a line ofargument be presented to her strong and clear--straight from theshoulder--by some man--"

And again with a tingle of pleasure his mind recurred to his sermon. Hispleasures had been few of late, so he dwelt on this little glow of prideand made the most of it while it was here. 

At the office, as he entered his room, he stopped with a slight shock ofsurprise. John, standing on his crutches in front of a large table, hadbeen going through the morning's mail, sorting out the routine lettersRoger did not need to see. To-day he had just finished and was staring atthe window. The light fell full on his sallow face and showed an amazinghappiness. At Roger's step he started. 

"Well, Johnny, how goes it this morning?"

"Fine, thank you, " was the prompt reply. And John hobbled briskly over tohis typewriter in the corner. Roger sat down at his desk. As he did so heglanced again at the cripple and felt a little pang of regret. "What willbecome of him, " he asked, "when I close out my business?" He still thoughtof him as a mere boy, for looking at the small crooked form it wasdifficult to remember that John was twenty years of age. The lad had workedlike a Trojan of late. Even Roger, engrossed as he had been in familyanxieties, had noticed it in the last few weeks. He would have to make someprovision for John. Deborah would see to it. .. . Roger went slowly throughhis mail. One letter was from the real estate firm through whom he was tosell the house. The deal had not been closed as yet, there were certainpoints still to be settled. So Roger called John to his desk and dictated areply. When he finished there was a brief pause. 

"That's all, " said Roger gruffly. 

"So you're sellin' the house, " John ventured. 

"Yes. "

The lad limped back to his corner and went to work at his machine. Butpresently he came over again and stood waiting awkwardly. 

"What is it, Johnny?" Roger inquired, without looking up. 

"Say, Mr. Gale, " the boy began, in a carefully casual tone, "would you mindtalking business a minute or two?"

"No. Fire ahead. "

"Well, sir, you've had your own troubles lately, you haven't had much timefor things here. The last time you went over the books was nearly a coupleof weeks ago. "

John paused and his look was portentous. 

"Well, " asked Roger, "what about it? Business been picking up any sincethen?"

"Yes, sir!" was the answer. "We didn't lose a cent last week! We mademoney! Fifteen dollars!"

"Good Lord, Johnny, we're getting rich. "

"But that's nothing, " John continued. "The fact of the matter is, Mr. Gale, I have been working lately on a new line I thought of. And now it's gotagoing so fast it's getting clean away from me!" Again he stopped, andswallowed hard. 

"Out with it, then, " said Roger. 

"I got it from the war, " said John. "The papers are still half full of warnews, and that's what's keeping our business down--because we ain'tadopting ourselves to the new war conditions. So I figured it like this. Say there are a million people over here in America who've got eitherfriends or relations in the armies over there. Say that all of 'em want toget news--not just this stuff about battles, but real live news of what'shappened to Bill. Has Bill still got his legs and arms? Can he hold down ajob when he gets home? News which counts for something! See? A big newmarket! Business for us! So I tried to see what I could do!" Johnexcitedly shifted his crutches. Roger was watching intently. 

"Go on, Johnny. "

"Sure, I'll go on! One night I went to a library where they have Englishpapers. I went over their files for about a month. I took one Canadianregiment--see?--and traced it through, and I got quite a story. Then I usedsome of the money I've saved and bought a whole bunch of papers. I piled'em up in the room where I sleep and went through 'em nights. I hired twokids to help me. Well, Mr. Gale, the thing worked fine! In less than a weekI had any amount of little bunches of clippings. See how I mean? Each bunchwas the story of one regiment for a month. So I knew we could deliver thegoods!

"Well, this was about ten days ago. And then I went after the market. Iwent to a man I met last year in an advertising office, and for fiftydollars we put an 'ad' in the Sunday Times. After that there was nothing todo but wait. The next day--nothing doing! I was here at seven-thirty and Iwent through every mail. Not a single answer to my 'ad'--and I thought Iwas busted! But Tuesday morning there were three, with five dollar checksinside of 'em! In the afternoon there were two more and the next dayeleven! By the end of last week we'd had forty-six! Friday I put in another'ad' and there've been over seventy more since then! That makes a hundredand twenty in all--six hundred dollars! And I'm swamped! I ain't donenothing yet--I've just kept 'em all for you to see!"

He went quickly to the table, gathered a pile of letters there and broughtthem over to Roger's desk. Roger glanced over a few of them, dazed. Helooked around into John's shrewd face, where mingled devotion and triumphand business zeal were shining. 

"Johnny, " he said huskily, "you've adopted my business and no mistake. "John swallowed again and scowled with joy. 

"Let's figure it out!" he proposed. 

"We will!"

They were at it all day, laying their plans, "adopting" the work of theoffice to the new conditions. They found they would need a larger force, including a French and a German translator. They placed other "ads" in thepapers. They forgot to have lunch and worked steadily on, till the outerrooms were empty and still. At last they were through. Roger wearily put onhis cuffs, and went and got his coat and hat. 

"Say, Mr. Gale, " John asked him, "how about this letter--the one youdictated this morning to that firm about your house?" Roger turned andlooked at him. 

"Throw it into the basket, " he said. "We'll write 'em another to-morrow andtell 'em we have changed our minds. " He paused for just a moment, and thenhe added brusquely, "If this goes through as I hope it will, I guess you'dbetter come into the firm. "

And he left the room abruptly. Behind him there was not a sound. 

 * * * * *

At home in his study, that evening, he made some more calculations. In afew weeks he would have money enough to start Edith and her family in theirnew life on the farm. For the present at least, the house was safe. 

"Why, father. " Edith came into the room. "I didn't know you had come home. What kept you so long at the office?"

"Oh, business, my dear--"

"Have you had any supper?"

"No, and I'd like some, " he replied. 

"I'll see to it myself, " she said. Edith was good at this sort of thing, and the supper she brought was delicious. He ate it with keen relish. Thenhe went back to his study and picked up a book, an old favorite. Hestarted to read, but presently dozed. The book dropped from his hands andhe fell asleep. 

He awakened with a start, and saw Deborah looking down at him. For a momenthe stared up, as he came to his senses, and in his daughter's clear grayeyes he thought he saw a happiness which set his heart to beating fast. 

"Well?" he questioned huskily. 

"We're to be married right away. "

He stared a moment longer; "Oh, I'm so glad, so glad, my dear. I was afraidyou--" he stopped short. Deborah bent close to him, and he felt her squeezehis arm:

"I've been over and over all you said, " she told him, in a low sweet voice. "I had a good many ups and downs. But I'm all through now--I'm sure youwere right. " And she pressed her cheek to his. "Oh, dad, dad--it's such arelief! And I'm so happy!. .. Thank you, dear. "

"Where is Allan?" he asked presently. 

"I'll get him, " she said. She left the room, and in a moment Allan's tallungainly form appeared in the doorway. 

"Well, Allan, my boy, " Roger cried. 

"Oh, Roger Gale, " said Allan softly. He was wringing Roger's hand. 

"So she decided to risk you, eh, " Roger said unsteadily. "Well, Baird, youlook like a devilish risk for a woman like her--who has the whole world onher back as it is--"

"I know--I know--and how rash she has been! Only two years and her mind wasmade up!"

"But that's like her--that's our Deborah--always acting like a flash--"

"Stop acting like children!" Deborah cried. "And be sensible and listen tome! We're to be married to-morrow morning--"

"Why to-morrow?" Roger asked. 

"Because, " she said decidedly, "there has been enough fuss over thisaffair. So we'll just be married and have it done. And when Edith and thechildren go up next week to the mountains, we want to move right into thishouse. "

"This house?" exclaimed her father. 

"I know--it's sold, " she answered. "But we're going to get a lease. We'llsee the new owner and talk him around. "

"Then you'll have to talk _your father_ around--"

"_You_ around?" And Deborah stared. "You mean to say you're not going tosell?"

"I do, " said Roger blithely. He told them the story of John's new scheme. "And if things turn out in the office as I hope they will, " he ended, "we'll clear the mortgage on the house and then make it your weddinggift--from the new firm to the new family. "

Deborah choked a little:

"Allan! What do you think of us now?"

"I think, " he answered, in a drawl, "that we'd better try to persuade thenew firm to live with the new family. "

"We will, and the sooner the better!" she said. 

"I'm going up to the mountains, " said Roger. 

"Yes, but you're coming back in the fall, and when you do you're cominghere! And you're going to live here years and years!"

"You're forgetting my doctor. "

"Not at all. I had a long talk with him Sunday and I know just what I'msaying. "

"You don't look it, my dear, " said Roger, "but of course you may be right. If you take the proper care of me here--and John keeps booming things forthe firm--"

"And George makes a huge success of the farm, " Deborah added quickly. 

"And Deborah of teaching the world--"

"Oh, Allan, hush up!"

"Look here, " he said. "You go upstairs and tell Edith all this. Your fatherand I want to be alone. "

And when the two men were left alone, they smoked and said nothing. Theysmiled at each other. 

"It's hard to decide, " grunted Roger at last. "Which did it--my wonderfulsermon or your own long waiting game? I'm inclined to think it was thegame. For any other man but you--with all you've done, without anytalk--no, sir, there wouldn't have been a chance. For she's modern, Baird, she's modern. And I'm going to live just as long as I can. I want to seewhat happens here. "

 * * * * *

The next night in his study, how quiet it was. Edith was busy packingupstairs, Deborah and Allan were gone. Thoughts drifted slowly across hismind. Well, she was married, the last of his daughters, the one whom hecared most for, the one who had taken the heaviest risks. And this was thegreatest risk of all. For although she had put it happily out of herthoughts for the moment, Roger knew the old troublesome question was stillthere in Deborah's mind. The tenement children or her own, the big familyor the small? He felt there would still be struggles ahead. And with a kindof a wistfulness he tried to see into the future here. 

He gave a sudden start in his chair. 

"By George!" he thought. "They forgot the ring!" Scowling, he tried toremember. Yes, in the brief simple service that day, in which so much hadbeen omitted--music, flowers, wedding gown--even the ring had been leftout. Why? Not from any principle, he knew that they were not such fools. No, they had simply forgotten it, in the haste of getting married at once. Well, by thunder, for a girl whose father had been a collector of rings forthe best part of his natural life, it was pretty shabby to say the least!Then he recollected that he, too, had forgotten it. And this quieted himimmediately. 

"I'll get one, though, " he promised himself. "And no plain wedding ringeither. I'll make A. Baird attend to that. No, I'll get her a ring worthwhile. "

He sank deep in his chair and took peace to his soul by thinking of thering he would choose. And this carried his thoughts back over the years. For there had been so many rings. .. . 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

It was a clear beautiful afternoon toward the end of May. And as the trainpuffing up the grade wound along the Connecticut River, Roger sat lookingout of the window. The orchards were pink and white on the hills. Slowlythe day wore away. The river narrowed, the hills reared high, and in thesloping meadows gray ribs and shoulders of granite appeared. The air had atang of the mountains. Everywhere were signs of spring, of new vigor andfresh life. But the voices at each station sounded drowsier than at thelast, the eyes appeared more stolid, and to Roger it felt like a journeyfar back into old ways of living, old beliefs and old ideals. He had alwayshad this feeling, and always he had relished it, this dive into hisboyhood. But it was different to-day, for this was more than a journey, itwas a migration, too. Close about him in the car were Edith and herchildren, bound for a new home up there in the very heart and stronghold ofall old things in America. 

Old things dear to Edith's heart. As she sat by the window staring out, hewatched her shapely little head; he noted the hardening lines on herforehead and the gray which had come in her hair. It had been no easy movefor her, this, she'd shown pluck to take it so quietly. He saw her smile alittle, then frown and go on with her thinking. What was she thinkingabout, he wondered--all she had left behind in New York, or the rest of herlife which lay ahead? She had always longed for things simple and old. Well, she would have them now with a vengeance, summer and winter, the year'round, in the battered frame house on the mountain side, the birthplace ofher family. A recollection came to him of a summer's dusk two years agoand a woman with a lawn mower cutting the grass on the family graves. WouldEdith ever be like that, a mere custodian of the past? If she did, hethought, she would be false to the very traditions she tried to preserve. For her forefathers had never been mere guardians of things gone by. Alwaysthey had been pioneers. That house had not been old to them, but athrilling new adventure. Their old homes they had left behind, far down inthe valleys to the east. And even those valley homes had been new to therugged men come over the sea. Would Edith ever understand? Would she seethat for herself the new must emerge from her children, from the ideas, desires and plans already teeming in their minds? Would she show keeninterest, sympathy? Would she be able to keep her hold?

In the seat behind her mother, Betsy was sitting with Bruce in her lap, looking over a picture book. Quietly Roger watched the girl. 

"What are you going to be?" he asked. "A woman's college president, asurgeon or a senator? And what will your mother think of you then?"

They changed cars, and on a train made up of antiquated coaches they woundthrough a side valley, down which rushing and tumbling came the river thatbore Roger's name. He went into the smoking car, and presently Georgejoined him there. George did not yet smoke, (with his elders), but he hadbought a package of gum and he was chewing absorbedly. Plainly the lad wasexcited over the great existence which he saw opening close ahead. Rogerglanced at the boy's broad shoulders, noticed the eager lines of his jaw, looked down at his enormous hands, unformed as yet, ungainly; but in themwas a hungriness that caused a glow in Roger's breast. One more of thefamily starting out. 

"It's all going to depend on you, " Roger gravely counseled. "Your wholelife will depend on the start you make. Either you're going to settle down, like so many of your neighbors up there, or you're going to hustle, planout your day, keep on with your studies and go to college--the StateAgricultural College, I mean. In short, keep up to date, my boy, and becomein time a big figure in farming. "

"I'm going to do it, " George replied. His grandfather glanced again at hisface, so scowling, so determined. And a gleam of compassion and yearningcame for a moment in Roger's eyes. His heavy hand lay on George's knee. 

"That's right, son, " he grunted. "Make the family proud of you. I'll do allI can to help you start. My business is picking up, thank God, and I'll beable to back you now. I'll stay up here a good part of the summer. We'veboth of us got a lot to learn--and not only from books--we want to rememberwe've plenty to learn from the neighbors, too. Take old Dave Royce, forinstance, who when all is said and done has worked our farm for twenty oddyears and never once run me into debt. "

"But, Gee!" demurred George. "He's so 'way out of date!"

"I know he is, son, but we've got to go slow. " And Roger's look passedfurtively along the faces in the car. "We don't want to forget, " he warned, "that this is still New England. Every new idea we have we want to go easywith, snake it in. "

"I've got an awful lot of 'em, " the boy muttered hungrily. 

 * * * * *

At the farm, the next morning at daybreak, Roger was awakened by the soundof George's voice. It was just beneath his window:

"But cattle are only part of it, Dave, " the boy declared, in earnest tones, "just part of what we can have up here. Think what we've got--over threehundred acres! And we want to make every acre count! We want to get in awhole lot more of hogs--Belted Hampshires, if we can afford 'em--and acouple of hundred hens. White Leghorns ought to fill the bill. Of coursethat's just a starter. I've got a scheme for some incubators--electric--runby the dynamo which we'll put in down by the dam. And we can do wonderswith bees, too, Dave--I've got a book on 'em I'd like you to read. Andbesides, there's big money in squab these days. Rich women in New Yorkhotels eat thousands of 'em every night. And ducks, of course, and turkeys. I'd like a white gobbler right at the start, if we knew where we could getone cheap. " The voice broke off and there was a pause. "We can do an awfullot with this place. "

Then Dave's deep drawl:

"That's so, George--yes, I guess that's so. Only we don't want to foolourselves. That ain't Noah's Ark over thar--it's a barn. And just for astarter, if I was you--" Here Dave deliberated. "Of course it's none of mybusiness, " he said, "it's for you and your grandfather to decide--and Idon't propose to interfere in what ain't any of my affair--"

"Yes, yes, Dave, sure! That's all right! But go on! _What_, just for astarter?"

"Cows, " came the tranquil answer. "I've been hunting around since you wrutme last month. And I know of three good milkers--"

"Three? Why, Dave, I wrote we want thirty or forty!"

"Yes--you wrut, " Dave answered. "But I've druv all around these parts--andthere ain't but three that I can find. And I ain't so sure of that thirdone. She looks like she might--" George cut in. 

"But you only had a buggy, Dave! Gee! I'm going to have a Ford!"

"That so, George?"

"You bet it's so! And we'll go on a cow hunt all over the State!"

"Well--I dunno but what you're right, " Dave responded cautiously. "Youmight get more cows if you had a Ford--an' got so you could run it. Yes, Iguess it's a pretty good scheme. I believe in being conservative, George--but I dunno now but what a Ford--"

Their voices passed from under the window, and Roger relaxed and smiled tohimself. It was a good beginning, he thought. 

They bought a Ford soon afterwards and in the next few weeks of June theysearched the farms for miles around, slowly adding to their herd. ToRoger's surprise he found many signs of a new life stirring there--thefarmers buying "autos" and improved machinery, thinking of new processes;and down in the lower valleys they found several big stock farms which weredecidedly modern affairs. At one such place, the man in charge took a fancyto George and asked him to drop over often. 

"You bet I'll drop over often!" George replied, as he climbed excitedlyinto his Ford. "I want to see more of those milking machines! We're goingto have 'em some day ourselves! A dynamo too!"

And at home, down by the ruined mill he again set about rebuilding the dam. 

Roger felt himself growing stronger. His sleeps were sound, and hisappetite had come back to a surprising degree. The mountain air had gotinto his blood and George's warm vigor into his soul. One afternoon, watching the herd come home, some thirty huge animals swinging along with aslow heavy power in their limbs, he breathed the strong sweet scent of themon the mountain breeze. George came running by them and stopped a moment byRoger's side, watching closely and eagerly every animal as it passed. AndRoger glanced at George's face. The herd passed on and George followedbehind, his collie dog leaping and barking beside him. And Roger looked upat a billowy cloud resting on a mountain top and wondered whether after allthat New York doctor had been right. 

He followed the herd into the barn. In two long rows, the great heads ofthe cattle turned hungrily, lowing and sniffing deep, breathing harshly, stamping, as the fodder cart came down the lines. What a splendidlywholesome work for a lad, growing up with his roots in the soil, in thesemassive simple forces of life. What of Edith's other children? Would theybe willing to stay here long? Each morning Roger breakfasted with Bruce thebaby by his side. "What a thing for you, little lad, " he thought, "if youcould live here all your days. But will you? Will you want to stay? Won'tyou, too, get the fever, as I did, for the city?" In the joyous, shining, mysterious eyes of the baby he found no reply. He had many long talks withBetsy, who was eager to go away to school, and with Bob and little Tad whowere going to school in the village that fall. And the feeling came toRoger that surely he would see these lives, at least for many years ahead. They were so familiar and so real, so fresh and filled with hopes anddreams. And he felt himself so a part of them all. 

But one morning, climbing the steep upper field to a spring George wantedto show him, Roger suddenly swayed, turned faint. He caught hold of aboulder on the wall and held himself rigid, breathing hard. It passed, andhe looked at his grandson. But George had noticed nothing. The boy hadturned and his brown eyes were fixed on a fallow field below. WistfullyRoger watched his face. They both stood motionless for a long time. 

As the summer drew slowly to a close, Roger spent many quiet hours alone bythe copse of birches, where the glory of autumn was already stealing in andout among the tall slender stems of the trees. And he thought of the silentwinter there, and of the spring which would come again, and the longfragrant summer. And he watched the glow on the mountains above and therolling splendors of the clouds. At dusk he heard the voices of animals, birds and insects, murmuring up from all the broad valley, then graduallysinking to deep repose, many never to wake again. And the span of his life, from the boyhood which he could recall so vividly here among thesechildren, seemed brief to him as a summer's day, only a part of a mightywhole made up of the innumerable lives, the many generations, of hisfamily, his own flesh and blood, come out of a past he could never know, and going on without him now, branching, dividing, widening out to what hiseyes would never see. 

Vaguely he pictured them groping their way, just as he himself had done. Itseemed to Roger that all his days he had been only entering life, as somerich bewildering thicket like this copse of birches here, never gettingvery deep, never seeing very clearly, never understanding all. And so ithad been with his children, and so it was with these children of Edith's, and so it would be with those many others--always groping, blundering, starting--children, only children all. And yet what lives they were tolead, what joys and revelations and disasters would be theirs, in thestrange remote world they would live in--"my flesh and blood that I nevershall know. "

But the stars were quiet and serene. The meadows and the forests on thebroad sweep of the mountain side took on still brighter, warmer hues. Andthere was no gloom in these long good-byes. 

 * * * * *

On a frosty night in September, he left the farm to go to the city. Fromhis seat in the small automobile Roger looked back at the pleasant oldhouse with its brightly lighted windows, and then he turned to George byhis side:

"We're in good shape for the winter, son. "

But George did not get his full meaning. 

At the little station, there were no other passengers. They walked theplatform for some time. Then the train with a scream came around the curve. A quick grip on George's hand, and Roger climbed into the car. Inside, amoment later, he looked out through the window. By a trainman with alantern, George stood watching, smiling up, and he waved his hand as thetrain pulled out. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

The next morning on his arrival in town, Roger went to his office. He hadlittle cause for uneasiness there, for twice in the summer he had come downto keep an eye on the business, while John had taken brief vacations at aseaside place nearby. The boy had no color now in his cheeks; as always, they were a sallow gray with the skin drawn tight over high cheek bones;his vigor was all in his eyes. But here was a new John, nevertheless, asuccessful man of affairs. He had on a spruce new suit of brown, no cheapready-made affair but one carefully fitted to conceal and soften hisdeformity. He was wearing a bright blue tie and a cornflower in hisbuttonhole, and his sandy hair was sleekly brushed. He showed Roger intohis private room, a small place he had partitioned off, where over his deskwas a motto in gold: "This is no place for your troubles or mine. "

"Lord, but you've got yourself fixed up fine in here, " said Roger. Johnsmiled broadly. "And you're looking like a new man, Johnny. "

"I had a great time at the seashore. Learned to sail a boat alone. What doyou think of this chair of mine?" And John complacently displayed theingenious contrivance in front of his desk, somewhat like a bicycle seat. It was made of steel and leather pads. 

"Wonderful, " said Roger. "Where'd you ever pick it up?"

"I had it made, " was the grave reply. "When a fellow has got up in lifeenough to have a stenographer, it's high time he was sitting down. "

"Let's see you do it. " John sat down. "Now how is business?" Roger asked. 

"Great. Since the little slump we had in August it has taken a newstart--and not only war business, at that--the old people are sending inorders again. I tell you what it is, Mr. Gale, this country is right on theedge of a boom!"

And the junior member of the firm tilted triumphantly back in his chair. 

With the solid comfort which comes to a man when he returns to find hisaffairs all going well, Roger worked on until five o'clock, and then hestarted for his home. 

Deborah had not yet come in, and a deep silence reigned in the house. Helooked through the rooms downstairs, and with content he noticed how littlehad been altered. His beloved study had not been touched. On the thirdfloor, in the large back room, he found John comfortably installed. Therewere gay prints upon the walls, fresh curtains at the windows, a mandolinlying on a chair. And Roger, glancing down at the keen glad face of hispartner, told himself that the doctor who had said this lad would die was afool. 

"These doctors fool themselves often, " he thought. 

Deborah and Allan had the front room on the floor below. Roger went in, andfor a moment he stood looking about him. How restful and how radiant wasthis large old-fashioned chamber, so softly lighted, waiting. Through apassageway lined with cupboards he went into his room at the back. Deborahhad repapered it, but with a pattern so similar that Roger did not noticethe change. He only felt a vague freshness here, as though even this oldchamber, too, were making a new start in life. And he felt as though hewere to live here for years. Slowly he unpacked his trunk and took a bathand dressed at his leisure. Then he heard Deborah's voice at the door. 

"Come in, come in!" he answered. 

"Why, father! Dearie!" Deborah cried "Oh, how well you're looking, dad!"And she kissed him happily. "Oh, but I'm glad to have you back--"

"That's good, " he said, and he squeezed her hand "Here, come to the light, let me look at you. " He saw her cheeks a little flushed, the gladness inher steady eyes. "Happy? Everything just right?" His daughter nodded, smiling, and he gave a whimsical frown. "No ups and down at all? That'sbad. "

"Oh, yes, plenty--but all so small. "

"Good fellow to live with. "

"Very. "

"And your work?

"It's going splendidly. I'll tell you about it this evening, after you giveme the news from the farm. "

They chatted on for a short while, but he saw she was barely listening. 

"Can't you guess what it means, " she asked him softly, "to a woman of myage--after she has been so afraid she was too old, that she'd married toolate--to know at last--to be sure at last--that she's to have a baby, dad?"He drew back a little, and a lump rose in his throat. 

"By George!" he huskily exclaimed. "Oh, my dear, my dear!" And he held herclose in his arms for some time, till both of them grew sensible. 

Soon after she had gone to her room, he heard Allan coming upstairs. Heheard her low sweet cry of welcome, a silence, then their voices. He heardthem laughing together and later Deborah humming a song. And still thinkingof what she had told him, he felt himself so close to it all. And again thefeeling came to him that surely he would live here for years. 

Allan came in and they had a talk. 

"Deborah says she has told you the news. "

"Yes. Everything's all right, I suppose--her condition, I mean, " saidRoger. 

"Couldn't be better. "

"Just as I thought. "

"Those six weeks we had up in Maine--"

"Yes, you both show it. Working hard?"

"Yes--"

"And Deborah?" Roger asked. 

"You'll have to help me hold her in. "

They talked a few moments longer and went down to the living room. John wasthere with Deborah. All four went in to dinner. And through theconversation, from time to time Roger noticed the looks that went back andforth between husband and wife; and again he caught Deborah smiling asthough oblivious of them all. After dinner she went with him into his den. 

"Well! Do you like the house?" she inquired. 

"Better than ever, " he replied. 

"I wonder if you'll mind it. There'll be people coming to dinner, youknow--"

"That won't bother me any, " he said. 

"And committee meetings now and then. But you're safe in here, it's a goodthick door. "

"Let 'em talk, " he retorted, "as hard as they please. You're marriednow--they can't scare me a bit. Only at ten o'clock, by George, you've gotto knock off and go to bed. "

"Oh, I'll take care of myself, " she said. 

"If you don't, Allan will. We've had a talk. "

"Scheming already. "

"Yes. When will it be?"

"In April, I think. "

"You'll quit work in your schools?"

"A month before. "

"And in the meantime, not too hard. "

"No, and not too easy. I'm so sure now that I can do both. " And Deborahkissed him gently. "I'm so happy, dearie--and oh, so very glad you'rehere!"

There followed for Roger, after that, many quiet evenings at home, untroubled days in his office. Seldom did he notice the progress of hisailment. His attention was upon his house, as this woman who motheredthousands of children worked on for her great family, putting all in order, making ready for the crisis ahead when she would become the mother of one. 

Now even more than ever before, her work came crowding into his home. Thehouse was old, but the house was new. For from schools and libraries, cafésand tenements and streets, the mighty formless hunger which had once sothrilled her father poured into the house itself and soon became a part ofit. He felt the presence of the school. He heard the daily gossip of thatbewildering system of which his daughter was a part: a world in itself, with its politics, its many jarring factions, its jealousies, dissensions, its varied personalities, ambitions and conspiracies; but in spite of theseconfusions its more progressive elements downing all distrusts and fearsand drawing steadily closer to life, fearlessly rousing everywhere thehunger in people to live and learn and to take from this amazing world allthe riches that it holds: the school with its great challenge steadilyincreasing its demands in the name of its children, demands which went deepdown into conditions in the tenements and ramified through politics to theCity Hall, to Albany, and even away to Washington--while day by day andweek by week, from cities, towns and villages came the vast prophetic storyof the free public schools of the land. 

And meanwhile, in the tenements, still groping and testing, feeling herway, keeping close watch on her great brood, their wakening desires, theirwidening curiosities, Deborah was bringing them, children, mothers andfathers too, together through the one big hope of brighter and more amplelives for everybody's children. Step by step this hope was spread out intothe surrounding swamps and jungles of blind driven lives, to findsurprising treasures there deep buried under dirt and din, locked in thecommon heart of mankind--old songs and fables, hopes and dreams and visionsof immortal light, handed down from father to son, nurtured, guarded, breathed upon and clothed anew by countless generations, innumerablemillions of simple men and women blindly struggling toward the sun. Overthe door of one of the schools, were these words carved in the stone:

"Humanity is still a child. Our parents are all people who have lived uponthe earth--our children, all who are to come. And the dawn at last isbreaking. The great day has just begun. "

This spirit of triumphal life poured deep into Roger's house. It was asthough his daughter, in these last months which she had left for undividedservice, were strengthening her faith in it all and pledging herdevotion--as communing with herself she felt the crisis drawing near. 

CHAPTER XL

There came an interruption. One night when Deborah was out and Roger sat inhis study alone, the maid came in highly flustered and said, "Mr. Gale! It's Miss Laura to see you!"

He turned with a startled jerk of his head and his face slowly reddened. But when he saw the maid's eager expression and saw that she was expectinga scene, with a frown of displeasure he rose from his chair. 

"Very well, " he said, and he went to his daughter. He found her in theliving room. No repentant Magdalene, but quite unabashed and at her ease, she came to her father quickly. 

"Oh, dad, I'm so glad to see you, dear!" And she gave him a swift impetuouskiss, her rich lips for an instant pressing warmly to his cheek. 

"Laura!" he said thickly. "Come into my study, will you? I'm alone thisevening. "

"I'm so glad you are!" she replied. She followed him in and he closed thedoor. He glanced at her confusedly. In her warmth, her elegance, anindefinable change in the tone and accent of her high magnetic voice, andin her ardent smiling eyes, she seemed to him more the foreigner now. AndRoger's thoughts were in a whirl. What had happened? Had she married again?

"Is Edith here still?" she was asking. 

"No, she's up in the mountains. She's living there, " he answered. 

"Edith? In the mountains?" demanded Laura, in surprise. And she askedinnumerable questions. He replied to each one of them carefully, slowly, meanwhile getting control of himself. 

"And Deborah married--married at last! How has it worked? Is she happy, dad?"

"Very, " he said. 

"And is she still keeping up her schools?"

"Yes, for the present. She'll have to stop soon. " Laura leaned forward, curious:

"Tell me, dad--a baby?"

"Yes. " She stared a moment. 

"Deborah!" she softly exclaimed; and in a moment, "I wonder. "

"What do you mean?" her father asked, but Laura evaded his question. Sheplied him with her inquiries for a few minutes longer, then turned to himwith a challenging smile:

"Well, father, don't you think you had better ask me now about myself?" Helooked away a moment, but turned resolutely back:

"I suppose so. When did you land?"

"This morning, dear, from Italy--with my husband, " she replied. And Rogerstarted slightly. "I want you to meet him soon, " she said. 

"Very well, " he answered. At his disturbed, almost guilty expression Lauralaughed a little and rose and came over and hugged him tight. 

"Oh, but, father dearest--it's working out so splendidly! I want you toknow him and see for yourself! We've come to live in New York for awhile--he has more to do here about war supplies. "

"More shrapnel, eh, machine guns. More wholesale death, " her fathergrowled. But Laura smiled good-naturedly. 

"Yes, love, from America. Aren't you all ashamed of yourselves--scramblingso, to get rich quick--out of this war you disapprove of. "

"_You_ look a bit rich, " her father retorted. 

"Rather--for the moment, " was her cheerful answer. 

"And you still like living in Italy?"

"Tremendously! Rome is wonderful now!"

"Reborn, eh. Wings of the Eagles. "

"Yes, and we're doing rather well. "

"I haven't noticed it, " Roger said. "Why don't you send a few of yourtroops to help those plucky Frenchmen?"

"Because, " she replied, "we have a feeling that this is a war where we hadmuch better help ourselves. "

"High ideals, " he snorted. 

"Rome reborn, " she remarked, unabashed. And her father scowled at herwhimsically. 

"You're a heathen. I give you up, " he declared. Laura had risen, smiling. 

"Oh, no, don't give me up, " she said. "For you see, " she added softly, "I'ma heathen with a great deal of love in her heart for thee, my dearest dad. May I bring him down, my husband?"

"Yes--"

"I'll telephone to Deborah to-morrow and arrange it. "

When she had gone he returned to his chair and sat for a long time in adaze. He was still disturbed and bewildered. What a daughter of his! Andwhat did it mean? Could she really go on being happy like this? Sinning?Yes, she was sinning! Laura had broken her marriage vows, she had "run offwith another fellah. " Those were the plain ugly facts. And now, divorcedand re-married, she was careering gayly on! And her views of the war wereplain heathenish! And yet there was something about her--yes, he thought, he loved her still! What for? For being so happy! And yet she was wrong tobe happy, all wrong! His thoughts went 'round in circles. 

And his confusion and dismay grew even deeper the next night when Laurabrought her new husband to dine. For in place of the dark polishedscoundrel whom Roger had expected, here was a spruce and affable youth withthick light hair and ruddy cheeks, a brisk pleasant manner of talking and adecidedly forcible way of putting the case of his country at war. They keptthe conversation to that. For despite Deborah's friendly air, she showedplainly that she wanted to keep the talk impersonal. And Laura, ratheramused at this, replied by treating Deborah and Allan and her father, too, with a bantering forbearance for their old-fashioned, narrow views andDeborah's religion of brotherhood, democracy. All that to Laura was passé. 

From time to time Roger glanced at her face, into her clear and luminouseyes so warm with the joy of living with this new man, her second. How hisfamily had split apart. He wrote Edith the news of her sister, and hereceived but a brief reply. Nor did Deborah speak of it often. She seemedto want to forget Laura's life as the crisis in her own drew near. 

CHAPTER XLI

Deborah had not yet stopped work. Again and again she put it off. For inher busy office so many demands both old and new kept pressing in upon her, such unexpected questions and vexing little problems kept cropping up asDeborah tried to arrange her work for the colleague who was to take herplace in the spring, that day after day she lingered there--until oneafternoon in March her husband went to her office, gave her an hour tofinish up, and then brought her home with him. She had a fit of the bluesthat night. Allan was called out on a case, and a little while later Rogerfound his daughter alone in the living room, a book unopened in her lap, her gray eyes glistening with tears. She smiled when she caught sight ofhim. 

"It's so silly!" she muttered unsteadily. "Just my condition, I suppose. Ifeel as though I had done with school for the remainder of my days!. .. Better leave me now, dearie, " she added. "I'm not very proud of myselfto-night--but I'll be all right in the morning. "

The next day she was herself again, and went quietly on with herpreparations for the coming of her child. But still the ceaseless interestsof those hordes of other children followed her into the house. Not only hersuccessor but principals and teachers came for counsel or assistance. Andlater, when reluctantly she refused to see such visitors, still thetelephone kept ringing and letters poured in by every mail. For in herlarger family there were weddings, births and deaths, and the endlesssavage struggle for life; and there were many climaxes of dreams andaspirations, of loves and bitter jealousies. And out of all this strainingand this fever of humanity, came messages to Deborah: last appeals for aidand advice, and gifts for the child who was to be born; tiny garmentsquaintly made by women and girls from Italy, from Russia and from Poland;baby blankets, wraps and toys and curious charms and amulets. There were somany of these gifts. 

"There's enough for forty babies, " Deborah told her father. "What on eartham I to do, to avoid hurting anyone's feelings? And isn't it rather awful, the way these inequalities will crop up in spite of you? I know of eighttenement babies born down there in this one week. How much fuss andfeathers is made over them, and their coming into the world, poor mites?"Roger smiled at his daughter. 

"You remind me of Jekyll and Hyde, " he said. 

"Father! What a horrible thought! What have Jekyll and Hyde to do with me?"

"Nothing, my dear, " he answered. "Only it's queer and a little uncanny, something I've never seen before, this double mother life of yours. "

 * * * * *

It was only a few days later when coming home one evening he found thatDeborah's doctor had put her to bed and installed a nurse. There followed aweek of keen suspense when Roger stayed home from the office. She liked tohave him with her, and sitting at her bedside he saw how changed hisdaughter was, how far in these few hours she had drawn into herself. He hadsuspected for some time that all was not well with Deborah, and Allanconfirmed his suspicions. There was to be grave danger both for the motherand the child. It would come out all right, of course, he strove toreassure himself. Nothing else could happen now, with her life sosplendidly settled at last. That Fate could be so pitiless--no, it wasunthinkable!

"This is what comes of your modern woman!" Roger exclaimed to Allan onenight. "This is the price she's paying for those nerve-racking years ofwork!"

The crisis came toward the end of the week. And while for one entire nightand through the day that followed and far into the next night the doctorsand nurses fought for life in the room upstairs, Roger waited, left tohimself, sitting in his study or restlessly moving through the house. Andstill that thought was with him--the price! It was kept in his mind by theanxious demands which her big family made for news. The telephone keptringing. Women in motors from uptown and humbler visitors young and oldkept coming to make inquiries. More gifts were brought and flowers. AndRoger saw these people, and as he answered their questions he fairlyscowled in their faces--unconsciously, for his mind was not clear. Reporters came. Barely an hour passed without bringing a man or a womanfrom some one of the papers. He gave them only brief replies. Why couldn'tthey leave his house alone? He saw her name in headlines: "Deborah Gale atPoint of Death. " And he turned angrily away. Vividly, on the second night, there came to him a picture of Deborah's birth so long ago in this samehouse. How safe it had been, how different, how secluded and shut in. Noworld had clamored _then_ for news. And so vivid did this picture grow, that when at last there came to his ears the shrill clear cry of a newlife, it was some time before he could be sure whether this were not stillhis dream of that other night so long ago. 

But now a nurse had led him upstairs, and he stood by a cradle looking downat a small wrinkled face almost wholly concealed by a soft woolly blanket. And presently Allan behind him said, "It's a boy, and he's to be named after you. " Roger looked up. 

"How's the mother?" he asked. 

"Almost out of danger, " was the reply. Then Roger glanced at Allan's faceand saw how drawn and gray it was. He drew a long breath and turned back tothe child. Allan had gone and so had the nurse, and he was alone by thecradle. Relief and peace and happiness stole into his spirit. He felt thedeep remoteness of this strange new little creature from all the clamoringworld without--which he himself was soon to leave. The thought grewclearer, clearer, as with a curious steady smile Roger stood there lookingdown. 

"Well, little brother, you're here, thank God. And nobody knows how closewe'll be--for a little while, " he thought. "For we're almost out of theworld, you and I. "

 * * * * *

Days passed, Deborah's strength increased, and soon they let Roger comeinto the room. She, too, was remote from the world for a time. That greatfamily outside was anxious no longer, it left her alone. But soon it woulddemand her. Never again, he told himself, would she be so close, sointimate, as here in her bed with this child of hers to whom she had givenher father's name. "These hours are my real good-byes. "

Two long quiet weeks of this happiness, and then in a twinkling it wasgone. The child fell sick, within a few hours its small existence hung by athread--and to Roger's startled eyes a new Deborah was revealed! Tense andsilent on her bed, her sensitive lips compressed with pain, her birthmarkshowing a jagged line of fiery red upon her brow as her ears kept strainingto catch every sound from the nursery adjoining, through hours of sternanguish she became the kind of mother that she had once sodreaded--shutting out everything else in the world: people, schools, allother children, rich or poor, well, sick or dying! Here was the crisis ofDeborah's life!

One night as she lay listening, with her hand gripping Roger's tight, frowning abruptly she said to him, in a harsh, unnatural voice:

"They don't care any longer, none of them care! _I'm_ safe and they'vestopped worrying, for they know they'll soon have me back at work! Thework, " she added fiercely, "that made my body what it is, not fit to bear ababy!" She threw a quick and tortured look toward the door of the otherroom. "My work for those others, all those years, will be to blame if thisone dies! And if it doesn't live I'm through! I won't go on! I couldn't!I'd be too bitter after this--toward all of them--_those children_!"

These last two words were whispers so bitter they made Roger cold. 

"But this child is going to live, " he responded hoarsely. Its mother staredup with a quivering frown. The next moment her limbs contracted as from anelectric shock. There had come a faint wail from the other room. 

And this went on for three days and nights. Again Roger lived as in adream. He saw haggard faces from time to time of doctors, nurses, servants. He saw Allan now and then, his tall ungainly figure stooped, his featuresgaunt, his strong wide jaw set like a vise, but his eyes kind and steadystill, his low voice reassuring. And Roger noticed John at times hobblingquickly down a hall and stopping on his crutches before a closed door, listening. Then these figures would recede, and it was as though he werealone in the dark. 

At last the nightmare ended. One afternoon as he sat in his study, Allancame in slowly and dropped exhausted into a chair. He turned to Roger witha smile. 

"Safe now, I think, " he said quietly. 

Roger went to Deborah and found her asleep, her face at peace. He went tohis room and fell himself into a long dreamless slumber. 

In the days which followed, again he sat at her bedside and together theywatched the child in her arms. So feeble still the small creature appearedthat they both spoke in whispers. But as little by little its strengthreturned, Deborah too became herself. And though still jealously watchfulof its every movement, she had time for other thinking. She had talks withher husband, not only about their baby but about his work and hers. Slowlyher old interest in all they had had in common returned, and to themessages from outside she gave again a kindlier ear. 

"Allan tells me, " she said one day, when she was alone with her father, "that I can have no more children. And I'm glad of that. But at least Ihave one, " she added, "and he has already made me feel like a differentwoman than before. I feel sometimes as though I'd come a million milesalong in life. And yet again it feels so close, all that I left back therein school. Because I'm so much closer now--to every mother and every child. At last I'm one of the family. "

CHAPTER XLII

Of that greater family, one member had been in the house all through themonth which had just gone by. But he had been so quiet, so carefullyunobtrusive, that he had been scarcely noticed. Very early each morning, day after day, John had gone outside for his breakfast and thence to theoffice where he himself had handled the business as well as he could, onlycoming to Roger at night now and then with some matter he could not settlealone, but always stoutly declaring that he needed no other assistance. 

"Don't come, Mr. Gale, " he had urged. "You look worn out. You'll be sickyourself if you ain't careful. And anyhow, if you hang around you'll behere whenever she wants you. "

Early in Deborah's illness, John had offered to give up his room for theuse of one of the nurses. 

"That's mighty thoughtful of you, Johnny, " Allan had responded. "But we'vegot plenty of room as it is. Just you stick around. We want you here. "

"All right, Doc. If there's any little thing, you know--answering the'phone at night or anything else that I can do--"

"Thank you, so; I'll let you know. But in the meantime go to bed. "

From that day on, John had taken not only his breakfast but his supper, too, outside, and no one had noticed his absence. Coming in late, he hadhobbled silently up to his room, stopping to listen at Deborah's door. Hehad kept so completely out of the way, it was not till the baby was threeweeks old, and past its second crisis, that Deborah thought to ask forJohn. When he came to her bed, she smiled up at him with the baby in herarms. 

"I thought we'd see him together, " she said. John stood on his crutchesstaring down. And as Deborah watched him, all at once her look grew intent. "Johnny, " she said softly, "go over there, will you, and turn up the light, so we can see him better. "

And when this was done, though she still talked smilingly of the child, again and again she glanced up at John's face, at the strange self-absorbedexpression, stern and sad and wistful, there. When he had gone the tearscame in her eyes. And Deborah sent for her husband. 

 * * * * *

The next day, at the office, John came into Roger's room. Roger had been atwork several days and they had already cleared up their affairs. 

"Here's something, " said John gruffly, "that I wish you'd put awaysomewhere. "

And he handed to his partner a small blue leather album, filled with thenewspaper clippings dealing with Deborah's illness. On the front page wasone with her picture and a long record of her service to the children ofNew York. 

"She wouldn't want to see it now, " John continued awkwardly. "But I thoughtmaybe later on the boy would like to have it. What do you think?" heinquired. Roger gave him a kindly glance. 

"I think he will. It's a fine thing to keep. " And he handed it back. "But Iguess you'd better put it away, and give it to her later yourself. "

John shifted his weight on his crutches, so quickly that Roger looked up inalarm:

"Look here! You're not well!" He saw now that the face of the cripple waswhite and the sweat was glistening on his brow. John gave a harsh littlenervous laugh. 

"Oh, it's nothing much, partner, " he replied. "That's another thing Iwanted to tell you. I've had some queer pains lately--new ones!" He caughthis breath. 

"Why didn't you tell me, you young fool?"

"You had your own troubles, didn't you?" John spoke with difficulty. "ButI'll be all right, I guess! All I need is a few days off!"

Roger had pressed a button, and his stenographer came in. 

"Call a taxi, " he said sharply. "And, John, you go right over there and liedown. I'm going to take you home at once!"

"I've got a better scheme, " said John, setting his determined jaws. Thesweat was pouring down his cheeks. "It may be a week--but there's just achance it--may be a little worse than that! So I've got a room in ahospital! See? Be better all round!" He swayed forward. 

"Johnny!" Roger caught him just in time, and the boy lay senseless in hisarms. 

 * * * * *

At home, a few hours later, Allan came with another physician down fromJohn's small bedroom. He saw his colleague to the door and then came in toRoger. 

"I'm afraid Johnny has come to the end. "

For a moment Roger stared at him. 

"Has, eh, " he answered huskily. "You're absolutely sure he has? There'snothing--nothing on earth we can do?"

"Nothing more than we're doing now. "

"He has fooled you fellows before, you know--"

"Not this time. "

"How long will it be?"

"Days or hours--I don't know. "

"He mustn't suffer!"

"I'll see to that. " Roger rose and walked the floor. 

"It was the last month did it, of course--"

"Yes--"

"I blame myself for that. "

"I wouldn't, " said Allan gently. "You've done a good deal for Johnny Geer. "

"He has done a good deal for this family! Can Deborah see him?"

"I wish she could. "

"Better stretch a point for her, hadn't you? She's been a kind of a motherto John. "

"I know. But she can't leave her bed. "

"Then you won't tell her?"

"I think she knows. She talked to me about him last night. "

"That's it, a mother!" Roger cried. "She was watching! We were blind!" Hecame back to his chair and dropped into it. 

"Does John know this himself?" he asked. 

"He suspects it, I think, " said Allan. 

"Then go and tell him, will you, that he's going to get well. And afteryou've done it I'll see him myself. I've got something in mind I want tothink out. "

After Allan had left the room, Roger sat thinking about John. He thought ofJohn's birth and his drunken mother, the accident and his struggle forlife, through babyhood and childhood, through ignorance and filth and pain, through din and clamor and hunger, fear; of the long fierce fight whichJohn had made not to be "put away" in some big institution, of his battleto keep up his head, to be somebody, make a career for himself. He thoughtof John's becoming one of Deborah's big family, only one of thousands, butit seemed now to Roger that John had stood out from them all, as the figurebest embodying that great fierce hunger for a full life, and as the linkconnecting, the one who slowly year by year had emerged from her greaterfamily and come into her small one. And last of all he thought of John ashis own companion, his only one, in the immense adventure on which he wasso soon to embark. 

A few moments later he stood by John's bed. 

"Pretty hard, Johnny?" he gently asked. 

"Oh, not so bad as it might be, I guess--"

"You'll soon feel better, they tell me, boy. " John shut his eyes. 

"Yes, " he muttered. 

"Can you stand my talking, just a minute?"

"Sure I can, " John whispered. "I'm not suffering any now. He's given mesomething to put me to sleep. What is it you want to talk about? Business?"

"Not exactly, partner. It's about the family. You've got so you're almostone of us. I guess you know us pretty well. "

"I guess I do. It's meant a lot to me, Mr. Gale--"

"But I'll tell you what you don't know, John, " Roger went on slowly. "I hada son in the family once, and he died when he was three months old. Thatwas a long time ago--and I never had another, you see--to take hisplace--till you came along. " There fell a breathless silence. "And I'vebeen thinking lately, " Roger added steadily. "I haven't long to live, youknow. And I've been wondering whether--you'd like to come into thefamily--take my name. Do you understand?"

John said nothing. His eyes were still closed. But presently, groping overthe bed, he found Roger's hand and clutched it tight. After this, from timeto time his throat contracted sharply. Tears welled from under his eyelids. Then gradually, as the merciful drug which Allan had given did its work, his clutch relaxed and he began breathing deep and hard. But still for sometime longer Roger sat quietly by his side. 

The next night he was there again. Death had come to the huddled form onthe bed, but there had been no relaxing. With the head thrown rigidly farback and all the features tense and hard, it was a fighting figure still, a figure of stern protest against the world's injustice. But Roger was notthinking of this, but of the discovery he had made, that in their talk ofthe night before John had understood him--completely. For upon a piece ofpaper which Allan had given the lad that day, these words had beenpainfully inscribed:

"This is my last will and testament. I am in my right mind--I know what Iam doing--though nobody else does--nobody is here. To my partner Roger GaleI leave my share in our business. And to my teacher Deborah Baird I leavemy crutches for her school. "

CHAPTER XLIII

After John had gone away the house was very quiet. Only from the roomupstairs there could be heard occasionally the faint clear cry of Deborah'schild. And once again to Roger came a season of repose. He was far fromunhappy. His disease, although progressing fast, gave him barely any pain;it rather made its presence felt by the manner in which it affected hismind. His inner life grew uneven. At times his thoughts were as in a fog, again they were amazingly clear and vistas opened far ahead. He could notcontrol his thinking. 

This bothered him at the office, in the work he still had to do. For somemonths he had been considering an offer from one of his rivals, a modernconcern which wished to buy out his business together with that of threeother firms and consolidate them all into one corporation. And Roger wasselling, and it was hard; for the whole idea of bargaining was moredistasteful than ever now. He had to keep reminding himself of Edith andher children. 

At last it was over, his books were closed, and there was nothing left tobe done. Nor did he care to linger. These rooms had meant but little tohim; they had been but a place of transition from the old office fardowntown, so full of memories of his youth, to the big corporation loomingahead, the huge impersonal clipping mill into which his business was tomerge. And it came to his mind that New York was like that--no settled calmabiding place cherishing its memories, but only a town of transition, agreat turbulent city of change, restlessly shaking off its past, tearingdown and building anew, building higher, higher, higher, rearing to thevery stars, and shouting, "Can you see me now?" What was the goal of thismad career? What dazzling city would be here? For a time he stared out ofhis window as into a promised land. Slowly at last he rose from his desk. Clippings, clippings, clippings. He looked at those long rows of girlsgleaning in items large and small the public reputations of all kinds ofmen and women, new kinds in a new nation seething with activities, sweepingon like some wide river swollen at flood season to a new America, a worldwhich Roger would not know. And yet it would be his world still, for in ithe would play a part. 

"In their lives, too, we shall be there--the dim strong figures of thepast. "

From his desk he gathered a few belongings. Then he looked into John'ssmall room, with the big gold motto over the desk: "This is no place foryour troubles or mine. " On the desk lay that small album, John's partinggift to Deborah's boy. Roger picked it up and walked out of the office. Hehad never liked good-byes. 

In the elevator he noticed that his shoes needed shining, and when hereached the street below he stopped at the stand on the corner. The stockyGreek with bushy black hair, who had run the stand for many years, gave hima cheery greeting; for Roger had stopped there frequently--not that hecared about his shoes, but he had always liked to watch the crowds ofpeople passing. 

"No hurry, boss?"

"None, " said Roger. 

"Then I give a fine shine! Polish, too?"

"Yes, polish, too. " And Roger settled back to watch. 

"And put in new shoe strings, " he added, with a whimsical smile. 

Men and women, girls and boys by thousands passed him, pushing, hurrying, shuffling by. Girls tittering and nudging and darting quick side glances. Bobbing heads and figures, vigorous steps and dancing eyes. Life bubblingover everywhere, in laughter, in sharp angry tones, in glad expectantchatter. Deborah's big family. Across the street was a movie between twolurid posters, and there was a dance hall overhead. The windows were allopen, and faintly above the roar of the street he could hear the piano, drum, fiddle and horn. The thoroughfare each moment grew more tumultuous tohis ears, with trolley cars and taxis, motor busses, trucks and drays. Asmall red motor dashed uptown with piles of evening papers; a great blackmotor hearse rushed by. In a taxi which had stopped in a jam, a man waskissing a girl in his arms, and both of them were laughing. The smartlittle toque of blue satin she wore was crushed to one side. How red wereher lips as she threw back her head. .. . 

"Silk or cotton, boss? Which you like?" Roger glanced at the shoe stringsand pondered. 

"Silk, " he grunted in reply. Idly for a moment he watched this busy littleman. From whence had he come in far away Greece? What existence had hehere, and what kind of life would he still have through those many years tocome? A feeling half of sadness crept into Roger's heavy eyes as he lookedat the man, at his smiling face and then at other faces in the multitudessweeping past. The moment he tried to single them out, how doubly chaoticit became. What an ocean of warm desires, passions, vivid hopes andworries. Vaguely he could feel them pass. Often in the midst of his life, his active and self-centered life, Roger had looked at these crowds on thestreet and had thought these faces commonplace. But now at the end it wasnot so. 

A woman with a baby carriage stopped directly in front of him and stoodthere anxiously watching for a chance to cross the street. And Rogerthought of Deborah. Heavily he climbed down from his seat, paid the man andbade him good-night, and went home to see Deborah's baby. 

For a long time he sat by the cradle. Presently Deborah joined him, andsoon they were laughing heartily at the astonishing jerks and kicks andgrimaces of the tiny boy. He was having his bath and he hated it. But safeat last on his mother's lap, wrapped to his ears in a big soft towel, hegrew very gay and contented and looked waggishly about. 

There followed long lazy days of spring, as April drifted into May. Earlyin the morning Roger could hear through his window the cries of the vendorsof flowers and fruits. And he listened drowsily. He rose late and spentmost of the day in the house; but occasionally he went out for a stroll. And one balmy evening when groups of youths came trooping by, singing inclose harmony, Roger called a taxi and went far down through the tenementstreets to a favorite haunt of his, a little Syrian pawnshop, where afterlong delving he purchased a ring to put in the new collection that he hadbeen making lately. He had nearly a dozen now. 

Days passed. The house was still so quiet, Deborah was still upstairs. Atlast, one night upon leaving his study, he stopped uncertainly in the hall. He took more time than was his wont in closing up the house for the night, in trying all the windows, in turning out the various lights. Room afterroom he left in the dark. Then he went slowly up the stairs, his handgratefully feeling those guiding points grown so familiar to his touchthrough many thousand evenings. His hand lingered on the banister and hestopped again to listen there. 

He did not come downstairs again. 

He was able to sleep but little at night. Turning restlessly on his bed, hewould glance out of the window up at the beetling wall close by, tier ontier of apartments from which faint voices dropped out of the dark. Gradually as the night wore on, these voices would all die away into longmysterious silences--for to him at least such silences had grown to bevery mysterious. Alone in the hours that followed, even these modernneighbors and this strange new eager town pressing down upon his houseseemed no longer strange to him nor so appallingly immense, seemed evenfamiliar and small to him, as the eyes of his mind looked out ahead. 

From his bed he could see on the opposite wall the picture Judith had givenhim, always so fresh and cool and dim with its deep restful tones of blue, of the herdsmen and the cattle on the dark mountain rim at dawn. Andvaguely he wondered whether it was because he saw more clearly, or whetherhis mind in this curious haze could no longer see so well, that as helooked before him he felt no fear nor any more uncertainty. All his doubtshad lifted, he was so sure of Judith now. As though she were coming to meethim, her image grew more vivid, with memories emerging out of all the yearsgone by. What memories, what vivid scenes! What intimate conversations theyhad, her voice so natural, close in his ear, as together they planned fortheir children. .. . Wistfully he would search the years for what he shouldsoon tell his wife--until the drowsiness returned, and then again camevisions. 

But by day it was not so, for the life of the house would rouse him and atintervals hold his attention. 

One evening a slight rustle, a faint fragrance in the room, made Rogersuddenly open his eyes. And he saw Laura by his bed, her slender figureclad in blue silk, something white at her full bosom. He noticed hershapely shoulders, her glossy hair and moist red lips. She was smiling downat him. 

"See what I've brought you, dear, " she said. And she turned to a chairwhere, one on the other, tray after tray, was piled his whole collection ofrings. At sight of them his eyes grew fixed; he could feel his pulse beatfaster. 

"How did you ever find them?" he asked his daughter huskily. 

"Oh, I had a long hunt all by myself. But I found them at last and I'vebrought them home. Shall we look them over a little while?"

"Yes, " he said. She turned up the light, and came and sat down at thebedside with a tray of rings in her lap. One by one she held them up to hisgaze, still smiling and talking softly on in that rich melodious voice ofhers, of which he heard but snatches. How good it felt to be so gay. Nosolemn thoughts nor questionings, just these dusky glittering beautieshere, deep soft gleams of color, each with its suggestion of memories forRoger, a procession of adventures reaching back into his life. He smiledand lay in silence watching, until at last she bent over him, kissed himsoftly, breathed a good-night and went out of the room. Roger followed herwith his glance. He knew he would never see her again. How graceful of herto go like that. 

He lay there thinking about her. In her large blue limousine he saw his gayyoung daughter speeding up the Avenue, the purple gleaming pavementreflecting studded lines of lights. And he thought he could see her smilingstill. He recalled scattered fragments of her life--the first luxuriouslittle ménage, and the second. How many more would there be? She was onlyin her twenties still. Uneasily he tried to see into the years ahead forher, and he thought he saw a lonely old age, childless, loveless, cynical, hard. But this fear soon fell from his mind. No, whatever happened, shewould do it gracefully, an artist always, to the end. He sighed and gave upthe effort. For he could not think of Laura as old, nor could he think ofher any more as being a part of his family. 

Edith came to him several times, and there was something in her face whichgave him sharp forebodings. Making a great effort he tried to talk to herclearly. 

"It's hard to keep up with your children, " he said. "It means keeping upwith everything new. And you stay in your rut and then it's too late. Before you know it you are old. "

But his words subsided in mutterings, and Roger wearily closed his eyes. For a glance up into Edith's face had shown him only pity there and no heedto his warning. He saw that she looked upon him as old and still uponherself as young, though he noticed the threads of gray in her hair. .. . Then he realized she had gone and that his chamber had grown dark. He musthave been dreaming. Of what, he asked. He tried to remember. And suddenlyout of the darkness, so harsh and clear it startled him, a picture rose inRoger's mind of a stark lonely figure, a woman in a graveyard cutting thegrass on family graves. Where had he seen it? He could not recall. What hadit to do with Edith? Was she not living in New York?. .. What had sostartled him just now? Some thought, some vivid picture, some nightmare hecould not recall. 

His last talks were with Deborah. All through those days and the longnights, too, he kept fancying she was in the room, and it brought deep balmto his restless soul. He asked her to tell him about the schools, andDeborah talked to him quietly. She was going back to her work in the fall. She felt very humble about it--she told him she felt older now and she sawthat her work was barely begun. But she was even happier than before. Herhand lay in his, and it tightened there. He opened his eyes and looked upinto hers. 

"All so strange, " he muttered, "life. " There was a sharp contracting of herwide and sensitive mouth. 

"Yes, dear, strange!" she whispered. 

"But I'm so glad you're going on. " He frowned as he tried to be simple andclear, and make her feel he understood what she had set herself to do. "Allpeople, " he said slowly, "never counted so much as now. And never sohungry--all--as now--for all of life--like children--children who should goto school. Your work will grow--I can see ahead. Never a time when everyman and woman and child could grow so much--and hand it on--and hand iton--as you will do to your small son. "

He felt her hand on his forehead, and for some moments nothing was said. Vaguely in glimpses Roger saw his small grandson growing up; and hepictured other children here, not her own but of her greater family, as thetwo merged into one. He felt that she would not grow old. Children, livesof children; work, dreams and aspirations. How bright it seemed as hestared ahead. Then he heard the cry of her baby. 

"Shall I nurse him here?" he heard her ask. He pressed her hand in answer. And when again he opened his eyes she was by his side with the child at herbreast. Its large round eyes, so pure and clear, gazed into his own for along, long time. 

"Now he's so sleepy, " she whispered. "Would you like him beside you amoment?"

"Please. "

He felt the faint scent of the tiny boy, and still those eyes looked intohis. He forgot his daughter standing there; and as he watched, a sweetfresh sense of the mystery of this life so new stole deep into his spirit. All at once the baby fell asleep. 

"Good-night, little brother, " he whispered. "God grant the world be verykind. " He could feel the mother lift it up, and he heard the door closesoftly. 

Smiling he, too, fell asleep. And after that there were only dreams. 

CHAPTER XLIV

And his dreams were of children. Their faces passed before him. Now theywere young again in the house. They were eating their suppers, three smallgirls, chattering like magpies. From her end of the table their mothersmiled quietly across at him. "Come children, " she was saying, "that willdo for a little while. " But Roger said, "Oh, let them talk. ". .. Then he sawnew-comers. Bruce came in with Edith, and George and young Elizabeth, andAllan came with Deborah who had a baby in her arms, and Laura stood besidethem. Here were his three daughters, grown, but still in some uncanny waythey looked to him like children still; and behind them he detected figureslong forgotten, of boys and girls whom he had known far back in his ownchildhood. John, too, had come into the house. Strangely now the walls weregone, had lifted, and a clamorous throng, laughing, shouting, pummeling, hedged him in on every hand--Deborah's big family!

Soon the uproar wearied him, and Roger tried to shut them out, to bringback again the walls to his house. And sometimes he succeeded, and he wasleft for a while in peace with Judith and his three small girls. Butdespite his efforts to keep them there, new faces kept intruding. Swiftlyhis small family grew, split into other families, and these were mergedwith other figures pressing in from every side. Again he felt the presenceof countless families all around, dividing, reuniting, with ceaselesschanges and fresh life--a never ending multitude. Here they were singingand dancing, and Laura gaily waved to him. At another place were only men, and they were struggling savagely to clutch things from each other'shands. A sea of scowling visages, angry shouts, fists clinched in air. Andhe thought he saw Bruce for an instant. Behind them lay wide valleysobscured by heavy clouds of smoke, and he could hear the roar of guns. Butthey vanished suddenly, and he saw women mourning now, and Edith with herchildren turned to him her anxious eyes. He tried to reach and help her, but already she had gone. And behind her came huge bending forms, menheaving at great burdens, jaws set in scowls of fierce revolt. And John wasthere on his crutches, and near him was a figure bound into a chair ofsteel, with terror in the straining limbs, while in desperation Deborahtried to wrench him free. Abruptly Roger turned away. 

And in a twinkling all was gone, the tumult and the clamor, and he was in asilent place high up on a mountain side. It was dusk. A herd of cattlepassed, and George came close behind them. And around him Roger saw, emerging from the semi-dark, faces turning like his own to the summits ofthe mountains and the billowy splendors there. It grew so dark he could seeno more. There fell a deep silence, not a sound but the occasional chirp ofa bird or the faint whirr of an insect. Even the glow on the peaks wasgone. Darkness, only darkness. 

"Surely this is death, " he thought. After that he was alone. And presentlyfrom far away he heard the booming of a bell, deep and slow, sepulchral, asit measured off his life. Another silence followed, and this time it wasmore profound; and with a breathless awe he knew that all the people whohad ever lived on earth were before him in the void to which he himself wasdrifting: people of all nations, of countless generations reaching back andback and back to the beginnings of mankind: the mightiest family of all, that had stumbled up through the ages, had slaved and starved and dreamedand died, had blindly hated, blindly killed, had raised up gods and idolsand yearned for everlasting life, had laughed and played and danced along, had loved and mated, given birth, had endlessly renewed itself and handedon its heritage, had striven hungrily to learn, had groped its way indarkness, and after all its struggles had come now barely to the dawn. Andthen a voice within him cried, "What is humanity but a child? In the name of the dead I salute theunborn!"

Slowly a glow appeared in his dream, and once again the scene had changed. The light was coming from long rows of houses rising tall and steep out ofa teeming city street. And from these lighted houses children now camepouring forth. They filled the street from wall to wall with a torrent ofwarm vivid hues, they joined in mad tempestuous games, they shouted andthey danced with glee, they whirled each other 'round and 'round. The veryair seemed quivering. Then was heard the crash of a band, and he saw themmarching into school. In and in and in they pressed, till the school seemedfairly bursting. Out they came by another way, and went off marching downthe street with the big flag waving at their head. He followed and saw thestreet divide into narrower streets and bye-ways, into roads and countrylanes. And all were filled with children. In endless multitudes theycame--marching, marching, spreading, spreading, like wide bobbing fields offlowers rolling out across the land, toward a great round flashing sunabove a distant rim of hills. 

The sun rose strangely dazzling. It filled the heavens with blinding light. He felt himself drawn up and up--while from somewhere far behind he heardthe cry of Deborah's child. A clear sweet thrill of happiness came. Andafter that--we do not know. 

For he had left his family. 

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