[pg/etext94/beqst10.txt]

The $30,000 Bequest, by Mark Twain
June, 1994 [Etext #142]

This text is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN.


 THE $30,000 BEQUEST
 and Other Stories

 by
 Mark Twain
 (Samuel L. Clemens)

 The $30,000 Bequest
 A Dog's Tale
 Was It Heaven?  Or Hell?
 A Cure for the Blues
 The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant
 The Californian's Tale
 A Helpless Situation
 A Telephonic Conversation
 Edward Mills and George Benton:  A Tale
 The Five Boons of Life
 The First Writing-machines
 Italian without a Master
 Italian with Grammar
 A Burlesque Biography
 How to Tell a Story
 General Washington's Negro Body-servant
 Wit Inspirations of the "Two-year-olds"
 An Entertaining Article
 A Letter to the Secretary of the Treasury
 Amended Obituaries
 A Momument to Adam
 A Humane Word from Satan
 Introduction to "The New Guide of the 
 Conversation in Portuguese and English"
 Advice to Little Girls
 Post-mortem Poetry
 The Danger of Lying in Bed
 Portrait of King William III
 Does the Race of Man Love a Lord?
 Extracts from Adam's Diary
 Eve's Diary


***


THE $30,000 BEQUEST


CHAPTER I


Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants,
and a rather pretty one, too, as towns go in the Far West. 
It had church accommodations for thirty-five thousand, which is
the way of the Far West and the South, where everybody is religious,
and where each of the Protestant sects is represented and has a plant
of its own.  Rank was unknown in Lakeside--unconfessed, anyway;
everybody knew everybody and his dog, and a sociable friendliness
was the prevailing atmosphere.

Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store, and the only
high-salaried man of his profession in Lakeside.  He was thirty-five
years old, now; he had served that store for fourteen years;
he had begun in his marriage-week at four hundred dollars a year,
and had climbed steadily up, a hundred dollars a year, for four years;
from that time forth his wage had remained eight hundred--a handsome
figure indeed, and everybody conceded that he was worth it.

His wife, Electra, was a capable helpmeet, although--like himself--
a dreamer of dreams and a private dabbler in romance.  The first thing
she did, after her marriage--child as she was, aged only nineteen--
was to buy an acre of ground on the edge of the town, and pay
down the cash for it--twenty-five dollars, all her fortune. 
Saladin had less, by fifteen.  She instituted a vegetable garden there,
got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor, and made it pay
her a hundred per cent.  a year.  Out of Saladin's first year's wage
she put thirty dollars in the savings-bank, sixty out of his second,
a hundred out of his third, a hundred and fifty out of his fourth. 
His wage went to eight hundred a year, then, and meantime two children
had arrived and increased the expenses, but she banked two hundred
a year from the salary, nevertheless, thenceforth.  When she had been
married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and comfortable
two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre, paid
half of the money down and moved her family in.  Seven years later
she was out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning
its living.

Earning it by the rise in landed estate; for she had long ago bought
another acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit to pleasant
people who were willing to build, and would be good neighbors and
furnish a general comradeship for herself and her growing family. 
She had an independent income from safe investments of about a hundred
dollars a year; her children were growing in years and grace;
and she was a pleased and happy woman.  Happy in her husband, happy in
her children, and the husband and the children were happy in her. 
It is at this point that this history begins.

The youngest girl, Clytemnestra--called Clytie for short--
was eleven; her sister, Gwendolen--called Gwen for short--
was thirteen; nice girls, and comely.  The names betray the latent
romance-tinge in the parental blood, the parents' names indicate
that the tinge was an inheritance.  It was an affectionate family,
hence all four of its members had pet names, Saladin's was a curious
and unsexing one--Sally; and so was Electra's--Aleck.  All day
long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman;
all day long Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife,
and thoughtful and calculating business woman; but in the cozy
living-room at night they put the plodding world away, and lived in
another and a fairer, reading romances to each other, dreaming dreams,
comrading with kings and princes and stately lords and ladies in the
flash and stir and splendor of noble palaces and grim and ancient castles.



CHAPTER II


Now came great news!  Stunning news--joyous news, in fact. 
It came from a neighboring state, where the family's only surviving
relative lived.  It was Sally's relative--a sort of vague and indefinite
uncle or second or third cousin by the name of Tilbury Foster,
seventy and a bachelor, reputed well off and corresponding sour
and crusty.  Sally had tried to make up to him once, by letter,
in a bygone time, and had not made that mistake again.  Tilbury now
wrote to Sally, saying he should shortly die, and should leave him
thirty thousand dollars, cash; not for love, but because money
had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished
to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its
malignant work.  The bequest would be found in his will, and would
be paid over.  PROVIDED, that Sally should be able to prove to the
executors that he had TAKEN NO NOTICE OF THE GIFT BY SPOKEN WORD OR
BY LETTER, HAD MADE NO INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE MORIBUND'S PROGRESS
TOWARD THE EVERLASTING TROPICS, AND HAD NOT ATTENDED THE FUNERAL.

As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the tremendous
emotions created by the letter, she sent to the relative's habitat
and subscribed for the local paper.

Man and wife entered into a solemn compact, now, to never mention
the great news to any one while the relative lived, lest some
ignorant person carry the fact to the death-bed and distort it
and make it appear that they were disobediently thankful for
the bequest, and just the same as confessing it and publishing it,
right in the face of the prohibition.

For the rest of the day Sally made havoc and confusion with his books,
and Aleck could not keep her mind on her affairs, not even take up
a flower-pot or book or a stick of wood without forgetting what she
had intended to do with it.  For both were dreaming.

"Thir-ty thousand dollars!"

All day long the music of those inspiring words sang through
those people's heads.

From his marriage-day forth, Aleck's grip had been upon the purse,
and Sally had seldom known what it was to be privileged to squander
a dime on non-necessities.

"Thir-ty thousand dollars!" the song went on and on.  A vast sum,
an unthinkable sum!

All day long Aleck was absorbed in planning how to invest it,
Sally in planning how to spend it.

There was no romance-reading that night.  The children took
themselves away early, for their parents were silent, distraught,
and strangely unentertaining.  The good-night kisses might as well
have been impressed upon vacancy, for all the response they got;
the parents were not aware of the kisses, and the children had
been gone an hour before their absence was noticed.  Two pencils
had been busy during that hour--note-making; in the way of plans. 
It was Sally who broke the stillness at last.  He said, with exultation:

"Ah, it'll be grand, Aleck!  Out of the first thousand we'll have
a horse and a buggy for summer, and a cutter and a skin lap-robe
for winter."

Aleck responded with decision and composure--

"Out of the CAPITAL?  Nothing of the kind.  Not if it was a million!"

Sally was deeply disappointed; the glow went out of his face.

"Oh, Aleck!" he said, reproachfully.  "We've always worked so hard
and been so scrimped:  and now that we are rich, it does seem--"

He did not finish, for he saw her eye soften; his supplication
had touched her.  She said, with gentle persuasiveness:

"We must not spend the capital, dear, it would not be wise. 
Out of the income from it--"

"That will answer, that will answer, Aleck!  How dear and good you are! 
There will be a noble income and if we can spend that--"

"Not ALL of it, dear, not all of it, but you can spend a part of it. 
That is, a reasonable part.  But the whole of the capital--
every penny of it--must be put right to work, and kept at it. 
You see the reasonableness of that, don't you?"

"Why, ye-s. Yes, of course.  But we'll have to wait so long. 
Six months before the first interest falls due."

"Yes--maybe longer."

"Longer, Aleck?  Why?  Don't they pay half-yearly?"

"THAT kind of an investment--yes; but I sha'n't invest in that way."

"What way, then?"

"For big returns."

"Big.  That's good.  Go on, Aleck.  What is it?"

"Coal.  The new mines.  Cannel.  I mean to put in ten thousand. 
Ground floor.  When we organize, we'll get three shares for one."

"By George, but it sounds good, Aleck!  Then the shares will be worth--
how much?  And when?"

"About a year.  They'll pay ten per cent.  half yearly, and be
worth thirty thousand.  I know all about it; the advertisement
is in the Cincinnati paper here."

"Land, thirty thousand for ten--in a year!  Let's jam in the whole
capital and pull out ninety!  I'll write and subscribe right now--
tomorrow it maybe too late."

He was flying to the writing-desk, but Aleck stopped him and put
him back in his chair.  She said:

"Don't lose your head so.  WE mustn't subscribe till we've got
the money; don't you know that?"

Sally's excitement went down a degree or two, but he was not
wholly appeased.

"Why, Aleck, we'll HAVE it, you know--and so soon, too.  He's probably
out of his troubles before this; it's a hundred to nothing he's
selecting his brimstone-shovel this very minute.  Now, I think--"

Aleck shuddered, and said:

"How CAN you, Sally!  Don't talk in that way, it is perfectly scandalous."

"Oh, well, make it a halo, if you like, _I_ don't care for his outfit,
I was only just talking.  Can't you let a person talk?"

"But why should you WANT to talk in that dreadful way?  How would
you like to have people talk so about YOU, and you not cold yet?"

"Not likely to be, for ONE while, I reckon, if my last act was
giving away money for the sake of doing somebody a harm with it. 
But never mind about Tilbury, Aleck, let's talk about something worldly. 
It does seem to me that that mine is the place for the whole thirty. 
What's the objection?"

"All the eggs in one basket--that's the objection."

"All right, if you say so.  What about the other twenty? 
What do you mean to do with that?"

"There is no hurry; I am going to look around before I do anything
with it."

"All right, if your mind's made up," signed Sally.  He was deep
in thought awhile, then he said:

"There'll be twenty thousand profit coming from the ten a year
from now.  We can spend that, can we, Aleck?"

Aleck shook her head.

"No, dear," she said, "it won't sell high till we've had the first
semi-annual dividend.  You can spend part of that."

"Shucks, only THAT--and a whole year to wait!  Confound it, I--"

"Oh, do be patient!  It might even be declared in three months--
it's quite within the possibilities."

"Oh, jolly! oh, thanks!" and Sally jumped up and kissed his wife
in gratitude.  "It'll be three thousand--three whole thousand!
how much of it can we spend, Aleck?  Make it liberal!--do, dear,
that's a good fellow."

Aleck was pleased; so pleased that she yielded to the pressure and
conceded a sum which her judgment told her was a foolish extravagance--
a thousand dollars.  Sally kissed her half a dozen times and even
in that way could not express all his joy and thankfulness. 
This new access of gratitude and affection carried Aleck quite
beyond the bounds of prudence, and before she could restrain
herself she had made her darling another grant--a couple
of thousand out of the fifty or sixty which she meant to clear
within a year of the twenty which still remained of the bequest. 
The happy tears sprang to Sally's eyes, and he said:

"Oh, I want to hug you!"  And he did it.  Then he got his
notes and sat down and began to check off, for first purchase,
the luxuries which he should earliest wish to secure. 
"Horse--buggy--cutter--lap-robe--patent-leathers--dog--plug-hat--
church-pew--stem-winder--new teeth--SAY, Aleck!"

"Well?"

"Ciphering away, aren't you?  That's right.  Have you got the twenty
thousand invested yet?"

"No, there's no hurry about that; I must look around first,
and think."

"But you are ciphering; what's it about?"

"Why, I have to find work for the thirty thousand that comes out
of the coal, haven't I?"

"Scott, what a head!  I never thought of that.  How are you
getting along?  Where have you arrived?"

"Not very far--two years or three.  I've turned it over twice;
once in oil and once in wheat."

"Why, Aleck, it's splendid!  How does it aggregate?"

"I think--well, to be on the safe side, about a hundred and eighty
thousand clear, though it will probably be more."

"My! isn't it wonderful?  By gracious! luck has come our way at last,
after all the hard sledding, Aleck!"

"Well?"

"I'm going to cash in a whole three hundred on the missionaries--
what real right have we care for expenses!"

"You couldn't do a nobler thing, dear; and it's just like your
generous nature, you unselfish boy."

The praise made Sally poignantly happy, but he was fair and just
enough to say it was rightfully due to Aleck rather than to himself,
since but for her he should never have had the money.

Then they went up to bed, and in their delirium of bliss they forgot
and left the candle burning in the parlor.  They did not remember
until they were undressed; then Sally was for letting it burn;
he said they could afford it, if it was a thousand.  But Aleck went
down and put it out.

A good job, too; for on her way back she hit on a scheme that would
turn the hundred and eighty thousand into half a million before it
had had time to get cold.



CHAPTER III


The little newspaper which Aleck had subscribed for was a Thursday sheet;
it would make the trip of five hundred miles from Tilbury's village
and arrive on Saturday.  Tilbury's letter had started on Friday,
more than a day too late for the benefactor to die and get into
that week's issue, but in plenty of time to make connection for the
next output.  Thus the Fosters had to wait almost a complete week to
find out whether anything of a satisfactory nature had happened to him
or not.  It was a long, long week, and the strain was a heavy one. 
The pair could hardly have borne it if their minds had not had the
relief of wholesome diversion.  We have seen that they had that. 
The woman was piling up fortunes right along, the man was spending them--
spending all his wife would give him a chance at, at any rate.

At last the Saturday came, and the WEEKLY SAGAMORE arrived. 
Mrs. Eversly Bennett was present.  She was the Presbyterian
parson's wife, and was working the Fosters for a charity. 
Talk now died a sudden death--on the Foster side.  Mrs. Bennett
presently discovered that her hosts were not hearing a word she
was saying; so she got up, wondering and indignant, and went away. 
The moment she was out of the house, Aleck eagerly tore the wrapper
from the paper, and her eyes and Sally's swept the columns for the
death-notices. Disappointment!  Tilbury was not anywhere mentioned. 
Aleck was a Christian from the cradle, and duty and the force of
habit required her to go through the motions.  She pulled herself
together and said, with a pious two-per-cent. trade joyousness:

"Let us be humbly thankful that he has been spared; and--"

"Damn his treacherous hide, I wish--"

"Sally!  For shame!"

"I don't care!" retorted the angry man.  "It's the way YOU feel,
and if you weren't so immorally pious you'd be honest and say so."

Aleck said, with wounded dignity:

"I do not see how you can say such unkind and unjust things. 
There is no such thing as immoral piety."

Sally felt a pang, but tried to conceal it under a shuffling attempt
to save his case by changing the form of it--as if changing the form
while retaining the juice could deceive the expert he was trying
to placate.  He said:

"I didn't mean so bad as that, Aleck; I didn't really mean
immoral piety, I only meant--meant--well, conventional piety,
you know; er--shop piety; the--the--why, YOU know what I mean. 
Aleck--the--well, where you put up that plated article and play
it for solid, you know, without intending anything improper,
but just out of trade habit, ancient policy, petrified custom,
loyalty to--to--hang it, I can't find the right words, but YOU
know what I mean, Aleck, and that there isn't any harm in it. 
I'll try again.  You see, it's this way.  If a person--"

"You have said quite enough," said Aleck, coldly; "let the subject
be dropped."

"I'M willing," fervently responded Sally, wiping the sweat from
his forehead and looking the thankfulness he had no words for. 
Then, musingly, he apologized to himself.  "I certainly held threes--
I KNOW it--but I drew and didn't fill.  That's where I'm so often
weak in the game.  If I had stood pat--but I didn't. I never do. 
I don't know enough."

Confessedly defeated, he was properly tame now and subdued. 
Aleck forgave him with her eyes.

The grand interest, the supreme interest, came instantly to the
front again; nothing could keep it in the background many minutes
on a stretch.  The couple took up the puzzle of the absence
of Tilbury's death-notice. They discussed it every which way,
more or less hopefully, but they had to finish where they began,
and concede that the only really sane explanation of the absence
of the notice must be--and without doubt was--that Tilbury was
not dead.  There was something sad about it, something even a
little unfair, maybe, but there it was, and had to be put up with. 
They were agreed as to that.  To Sally it seemed a strangely
inscrutable dispensation; more inscrutable than usual, he thought;
one of the most unnecessary inscrutable he could call to mind,
in fact--and said so, with some feeling; but if he was hoping
to draw Aleck he failed; she reserved her opinion, if she had one;
she had not the habit of taking injudicious risks in any market,
worldly or other.

The pair must wait for next week's paper--Tilbury had
evidently postponed.  That was their thought and their decision. 
So they put the subject away and went about their affairs
again with as good heart as they could.


Now, if they had but known it, they had been wronging Tilbury
all the time.  Tilbury had kept faith, kept it to the letter;
he was dead, he had died to schedule.  He was dead more than four
days now and used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead
as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in abundant time to get
into that week's SAGAMORE, too, and only shut out by an accident;
an accident which could not happen to a metropolitan journal,
but which happens easily to a poor little village rag like the SAGAMORE. 
On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being locked up,
a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter's
Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the stickful of rather
chilly regret over Tilbury's translation got crowded out to make
room for the editor's frantic gratitude.

On its way to the standing-galley Tilbury's notice got pied. 
Otherwise it would have gone into some future edition, for WEEKLY
SAGAMORES do not waste "live" matter, and in their galleys "live"
matter is immortal, unless a pi accident intervenes.  But a thing
that gets pied is dead, and for such there is no resurrection;
its chance of seeing print is gone, forever and ever.  And so,
let Tilbury like it or not, let him rave in his grave to his fill,
no matter--no mention of his death would ever see the light in the
WEEKLY SAGAMORE.



CHAPTER IV


Five weeks drifted tediously along.  The SAGAMORE arrived regularly on
the Saturdays, but never once contained a mention of Tilbury Foster. 
Sally's patience broke down at this point, and he said, resentfully:

"Damn his livers, he's immortal!"

Aleck give him a very severe rebuke, and added with icy solemnity:

"How would you feel if you were suddenly cut out just after such
an awful remark had escaped out of you?"

Without sufficient reflection Sally responded:

"I'd feel I was lucky I hadn't got caught with it IN me."

Pride had forced him to say something, and as he could not think
of any rational thing to say he flung that out.  Then he stole a base--
as he called it--that is, slipped from the presence, to keep from
being brayed in his wife's discussion-mortar.

Six months came and went.  The SAGAMORE was still silent about Tilbury. 
Meantime, Sally had several times thrown out a feeler--that is,
a hint that he would like to know.  Aleck had ignored the hints. 
Sally now resolved to brace up and risk a frontal attack. 
So he squarely proposed to disguise himself and go to Tilbury's
village and surreptitiously find out as to the prospects. 
Aleck put her foot on the dangerous project with energy and decision. 
She said:

"What can you be thinking of?  You do keep my hands full! 
You have to be watched all the time, like a little child, to keep
you from walking into the fire.  You'll stay right where you are!"

"Why, Aleck, I could do it and not be found out--I'm certain of it."

"Sally Foster, don't you know you would have to inquire around?"

"Of course, but what of it?  Nobody would suspect who I was."

"Oh, listen to the man!  Some day you've got to prove to the
executors that you never inquired.  What then?"

He had forgotten that detail.  He didn't reply; there wasn't
anything to say.  Aleck added:

"Now then, drop that notion out of your mind, and don't ever meddle
with it again.  Tilbury set that trap for you.  Don't you know it's
a trap?  He is on the watch, and fully expecting you to blunder
into it.  Well, he is going to be disappointed--at least while I
am on deck.  Sally!"

"Well?"

"As long as you live, if it's a hundred years, don't you ever make
an inquiry.  Promise!"

"All right," with a sigh and reluctantly.

Then Aleck softened and said:

"Don't be impatient.  We are prospering; we can wait; there is
no hurry.  Our small dead-certain income increases all the time;
and as to futures, I have not made a mistake yet--they are piling
up by the thousands and tens of thousands.  There is not another
family in the state with such prospects as ours.  Already we are
beginning to roll in eventual wealth.  You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Aleck, it's certainly so."

"Then be grateful for what God is doing for us and stop worrying. 
You do not believe we could have achieved these prodigious results
without His special help and guidance, do you?"

Hesitatingly, "N-no, I suppose not."  Then, with feeling
and admiration, "And yet, when it comes to judiciousness
in watering a stock or putting up a hand to skin Wall Street
I don't give in that YOU need any outside amateur help, if I do wish I--"

"Oh, DO shut up!  I know you do not mean any harm or any irreverence,
poor boy, but you can't seem to open your mouth without letting out
things to make a person shudder.  You keep me in constant dread. 
For you and for all of us.  Once I had no fear of the thunder,
but now when I hear it I--"

Her voice broke, and she began to cry, and could not finish. 
The sight of this smote Sally to the heart and he took her in his
arms and petted her and comforted her and promised better conduct,
and upbraided himself and remorsefully pleaded for forgiveness. 
And he was in earnest, and sorry for what he had done and ready for any
sacrifice that could make up for it.

And so, in privacy, he thought long and deeply over the matter,
resolving to do what should seem best.  It was easy to PROMISE reform;
indeed he had already promised it.  But would that do any real good,
any permanent good?  No, it would be but temporary--he knew
his weakness, and confessed it to himself with sorrow--he could
not keep the promise.  Something surer and better must be devised;
and he devised it.  At cost of precious money which he had long
been saving up, shilling by shilling, he put a lightning-rod on
the house.

At a subsequent time he relapsed.

What miracles habit can do! and how quickly and how easily habits
are acquired--both trifling habits and habits which profoundly change us. 
If by accident we wake at two in the morning a couple of nights
in succession, we have need to be uneasy, for another repetition can
turn the accident into a habit; and a month's dallying with whiskey--
but we all know these commonplace facts.

The castle-building habit, the day-dreaming habit--how it grows!
what a luxury it becomes; how we fly to its enchantments at every
idle moment, how we revel in them, steep our souls in them,
intoxicate ourselves with their beguiling fantasies--oh yes,
and how soon and how easily our dram life and our material life
become so intermingled and so fused together that we can't quite
tell which is which, any more.

By and by Aleck subscribed to a Chicago daily and for the WALL
STREET POINTER.  With an eye single to finance she studied these
as diligently all the week as she studied her Bible Sundays. 
Sally was lost in admiration, to note with what swift and sure strides
her genius and judgment developed and expanded in the forecasting and
handling of the securities of both the material and spiritual markets. 
He was proud of her nerve and daring in exploiting worldly stocks,
and just as proud of her conservative caution in working her
spiritual deals.  He noted that she never lost her head in either case;
that with a splendid courage she often went short on worldly futures,
but heedfully drew the line there--she was always long on the others. 
Her policy was quite sane and simple, as she explained it to him: 
what she put into earthly futures was for speculation, what she put
into spiritual futures was for investment; she was willing to go into
the one on a margin, and take chances, but in the case of the other,
"margin her no margins"--she wanted to cash in a hundred cents per
dollar's worth, and have the stock transferred on the books.

It took but a very few months to educate Aleck's imagination
and Sally's. Each day's training added something to the spread
and effectiveness of the two machines.  As a consequence, Aleck made
imaginary money much faster than at first she had dreamed of making it,
and Sally's competency in spending the overflow of it kept pace with
the strain put upon it, right along.  In the beginning, Aleck had
given the coal speculation a twelvemonth in which to materialize,
and had been loath to grant that this term might possibly be shortened
by nine months.  But that was the feeble work, the nursery work,
of a financial fancy that had had no teaching, no experience,
no practice.  These aids soon came, then that nine months vanished,
and the imaginary ten-thousand-dollar investment came marching
home with three hundred per cent.  profit on its back!

It was a great day for the pair of Fosters.  They were speechless
for joy.  Also speechless for another reason:  after much watching
of the market, Aleck had lately, with fear and trembling, made her
first flyer on a "margin," using the remaining twenty thousand of
the bequest in this risk.  In her mind's eye she had seen it climb,
point by point--always with a chance that the market would break--
until at last her anxieties were too great for further endurance--
she being new to the margin business and unhardened, as yet--and she
gave her imaginary broker an imaginary order by imaginary telegraph
to sell.  She said forty thousand dollars' profit was enough. 
The sale was made on the very day that the coal venture had returned
with its rich freight.  As I have said, the couple were speechless. 
they sat dazed and blissful that night, trying to realize that they were
actually worth a hundred thousand dollars in clean, imaginary cash. 
Yet so it was.

It was the last time that ever Aleck was afraid of a margin;
at least afraid enough to let it break her sleep and pale her cheek
to the extent that this first experience in that line had done.

Indeed it was a memorable night.  Gradually the realization that they
were rich sank securely home into the souls of the pair, then they
began to place the money.  If we could have looked out through
the eyes of these dreamers, we should have seen their tidy little
wooden house disappear, and two-story brick with a cast-iron fence
in front of it take its place; we should have seen a three-globed
gas-chandelier grow down from the parlor ceiling; we should have seen
the homely rag carpet turn to noble Brussels, a dollar and a half
a yard; we should have seen the plebeian fireplace vanish away and
a recherch'e, big base-burner with isinglass windows take position
and spread awe around.  And we should have seen other things,
too; among them the buggy, the lap-robe, the stove-pipe hat, and so on.

From that time forth, although the daughters and the neighbors
saw only the same old wooden house there, it was a two-story
brick to Aleck and Sally and not a night went by that Aleck did
not worry about the imaginary gas-bills, and get for all comfort
Sally's reckless retort:  "What of it?  We can afford it."

Before the couple went to bed, that first night that they were rich,
they had decided that they must celebrate.  They must give a party--
that was the idea.  But how to explain it--to the daughters and
the neighbors?  They could not expose the fact that they were rich. 
Sally was willing, even anxious, to do it; but Aleck kept her head
and would not allow it.  She said that although the money was as
good as in, it would be as well to wait until it was actually in. 
On that policy she took her stand, and would not budge. 
The great secret must be kept, she said--kept from the daughters and
everybody else.

The pair were puzzled.  They must celebrate, they were determined
to celebrate, but since the secret must be kept, what could
they celebrate?  No birthdays were due for three months. 
Tilbury wasn't available, evidently he was going to live forever;
what the nation COULD they celebrate?  That was Sally's way
of putting it; and he was getting impatient, too, and harassed. 
But at last he hit it--just by sheer inspiration, as it seemed to him--
and all their troubles were gone in a moment; they would celebrate
the Discovery of America.  A splendid idea!

Aleck was almost too proud of Sally for words--she said SHE never would
have thought of it.  But Sally, although he was bursting with delight
in the compliment and with wonder at himself, tried not to let on,
and said it wasn't really anything, anybody could have done it. 
Whereat Aleck, with a prideful toss of her happy head, said:

"Oh, certainly!  Anybody could--oh, anybody!  Hosannah Dilkins,
for instance!  Or maybe Adelbert Peanut--oh, DEAR--yes!  Well, I'd like
to see them try it, that's all.  Dear-me-suz, if they could think
of the discovery of a forty-acre island it's more than _I_ believe
they could; and as for the whole continent, why, Sally Foster,
you know perfectly well it would strain the livers and lights
out of them and THEN they couldn't!"

The dear woman, she knew he had talent; and if affection made
her over-estimate the size of it a little, surely it was a sweet
and gentle crime, and forgivable for its source's sake.



CHAPTER V


The celebration went off well.  The friends were all present,
both the young and the old.  Among the young were Flossie and
Gracie Peanut and their brother Adelbert, who was a rising young
journeyman tinner, also Hosannah Dilkins, Jr., journeyman plasterer,
just out of his apprenticeship.  For many months Adelbert and Hosannah
had been showing interest in Gwendolen and Clytemnestra Foster,
and the parents of the girls had noticed this with private satisfaction. 
But they suddenly realized now that that feeling had passed. 
They recognized that the changed financial conditions had raised
up a social bar between their daughters and the young mechanics. 
The daughters could now look higher--and must.  Yes, must.  They need
marry nothing below the grade of lawyer or merchant; poppa and momma
would take care of this; there must be no m'esalliances.

However, these thinkings and projects of their were private,
and did not show on the surface, and therefore threw no shadow
upon the celebration.  What showed upon the surface was a serene
and lofty contentment and a dignity of carriage and gravity of
deportment which compelled the admiration and likewise the wonder
of the company.  All noticed it and all commented upon it, but none
was able to divine the secret of it.  It was a marvel and a mystery. 
Three several persons remarked, without suspecting what clever
shots they were making:

"It's as if they'd come into property."

That was just it, indeed.

Most mothers would have taken hold of the matrimonial matter in the
old regulation way; they would have given the girls a talking to,
of a solemn sort and untactful--a lecture calculated to defeat its
own purpose, by producing tears and secret rebellion; and the said
mothers would have further damaged the business by requesting
the young mechanics to discontinue their attentions.  But this
mother was different.  She was practical.  She said nothing to any
of the young people concerned, nor to any one else except Sally. 
He listened to her and understood; understood and admired. 
He said:

"I get the idea.  Instead of finding fault with the samples on view,
thus hurting feelings and obstructing trade without occasion,
you merely offer a higher class of goods for the money, and leave
nature to take her course.  It's wisdom, Aleck, solid wisdom,
and sound as a nut.  Who's your fish?  Have you nominated him yet?"

No, she hadn't. They must look the market over--which they did. 
To start with, they considered and discussed Brandish, rising young
lawyer, and Fulton, rising young dentist.  Sally must invite them
to dinner.  But not right away; there was no hurry, Aleck said. 
Keep an eye on the pair, and wait; nothing would be lost by going
slowly in so important a matter.

It turned out that this was wisdom, too; for inside of three
weeks Aleck made a wonderful strike which swelled her imaginary
hundred thousand to four hundred thousand of the same quality. 
She and Sally were in the clouds that evening.  For the first
time they introduced champagne at dinner.  Not real champagne,
but plenty real enough for the amount of imagination expended on it. 
It was Sally that did it, and Aleck weakly submitted.  At bottom both
were troubled and ashamed, for he was a high-up Son of Temperance,
and at funerals wore an apron which no dog could look upon and retain
his reason and his opinion; and she was a W. C. T. U., with all that
that implies of boiler-iron virtue and unendurable holiness.  But there
is was; the pride of riches was beginning its disintegrating work. 
They had lived to prove, once more, a sad truth which had been proven
many times before in the world:  that whereas principle is a great
and noble protection against showy and degrading vanities and vices,
poverty is worth six of it.  More than four hundred thousand
dollars to the good.  They took up the matrimonial matter again. 
Neither the dentist nor the lawyer was mentioned; there was no occasion,
they were out of the running.  Disqualified.  They discussed the son
of the pork-packer and the son of the village banker.  But finally,
as in the previous case, they concluded to wait and think, and go
cautiously and sure.

Luck came their way again.  Aleck, ever watchful saw a great
and risky chance, and took a daring flyer.  A time of trembling,
of doubt, of awful uneasiness followed, for non-success meant absolute
ruin and nothing short of it.  Then came the result, and Aleck,
faint with joy, could hardly control her voice when she said:

"The suspense is over, Sally--and we are worth a cold million!"

Sally wept for gratitude, and said:

"Oh, Electra, jewel of women, darling of my heart, we are free
at last, we roll in wealth, we need never scrimp again.  it's a
case for Veuve Cliquot!" and he got out a pint of spruce-beer
and made sacrifice, he saying "Damn the expense," and she rebuking
him gently with reproachful but humid and happy eyes.

They shelved the pork-packer's son and the banker's son, and sat
down to consider the Governor's son and the son of the Congressman.



CHAPTER VI


It were a weariness to follow in detail the leaps and bounds the Foster
fictitious finances took from this time forth.  It was marvelous,
it was dizzying, it was dazzling.  Everything Aleck touched turned
to fairy gold, and heaped itself glittering toward the firmament. 
Millions upon millions poured in, and still the mighty stream flowed
thundering along, still its vast volume increased.  Five millions--
ten millions--twenty--thirty--was there never to be an end?

Two years swept by in a splendid delirium, the intoxicated Fosters
scarcely noticing the flight of time.  They were now worth three hundred
million dollars; they were in every board of directors of every
prodigious combine in the country; and still as time drifted along,
the millions went on piling up, five at a time, ten at a time,
as fast as they could tally them off, almost.  The three hundred
double itself--then doubled again--and yet again--and yet once more.

Twenty-four hundred millions!

The business was getting a little confused.  It was necessary
to take an account of stock, and straighten it out.  The Fosters
knew it, they felt it, they realized that it was imperative;
but they also knew that to do it properly and perfectly the task
must be carried to a finish without a break when once it was begun. 
A ten-hours' job; and where could THEY find ten leisure hours
in a bunch?  Sally was selling pins and sugar and calico all day
and every day; Aleck was cooking and washing dishes and sweeping
and making beds all day and every day, with none to help,
for the daughters were being saved up for high society.  The Fosters
knew there was one way to get the ten hours, and only one. 
Both were ashamed to name it; each waited for the other to do it. 
Finally Sally said:

"Somebody's got to give in.  It's up to me.  Consider that I've
named it--never mind pronouncing it out aloud."

Aleck colored, but was grateful.  Without further remark, they fell. 
Fell, and--broke the Sabbath.  For that was their only free
ten-hour stretch.  It was but another step in the downward path. 
Others would follow.  Vast wealth has temptations which fatally
and surely undermine the moral structure of persons not habituated
to its possession.

They pulled down the shades and broke the Sabbath.  With hard
and patient labor they overhauled their holdings and listed them. 
And a long-drawn procession of formidable names it was! 
Starting with the Railway Systems, Steamer Lines, Standard Oil,
Ocean Cables, Diluted Telegraph, and all the rest, and winding
up with Klondike, De Beers, Tammany Graft, and Shady Privileges
in the Post-office Department.

Twenty-four hundred millions, and all safely planted in Good Things,
gilt-edged and interest-bearing. Income, $120,000,000 a year. 
Aleck fetched a long purr of soft delight, and said:

"Is it enough?"

"It is, Aleck."

"What shall we do?"

"Stand pat."

"Retire from business?"

"That's it."

"I am agreed.  The good work is finished; we will take a long rest
and enjoy the money."

"Good!  Aleck!"

"Yes, dear?"

"How much of the income can we spend?"

"The whole of it."

It seemed to her husband that a ton of chains fell from his limbs. 
He did not say a word; he was happy beyond the power of speech.

After that, they broke the Sabbaths right along as fast as they
turned up.  It is the first wrong step that counts.  Every Sunday
they put in the whole day, after morning service, on inventions--
inventions of ways to spend the money.  They got to continuing this
delicious dissipation until past midnight; and at every s'eance Aleck
lavished millions upon great charities and religious enterprises,
and Sally lavished like sums upon matters to which (at first)
he gave definite names.  Only at first.  Later the names gradually
lost sharpness of outline, and eventually faded into "sundries,"
thus becoming entirely--but safely--undescriptive.  For Sally
was crumbling.  The placing of these millions added seriously
and most uncomfortably to the family expenses--in tallow candles. 
For a while Aleck was worried.  Then, after a little, she ceased
to worry, for the occasion of it was gone.  She was pained,
she was grieved, she was ashamed; but she said nothing, and so became
an accessory.  Sally was taking candles; he was robbing the store. 
It is ever thus.  Vast wealth, to the person unaccustomed to it,
is a bane; it eats into the flesh and bone of his morals. 
When the Fosters were poor, they could have been trusted with
untold candles.  But now they--but let us not dwell upon it. 
From candles to apples is but a step:  Sally got to taking apples;
then soap; then maple-sugar; then canned goods; then crockery. 
How easy it is to go from bad to worse, when once we have started upon a
downward course!

Meantime, other effects had been milestoning the course of the Fosters'
splendid financial march.  The fictitious brick dwelling had
given place to an imaginary granite one with a checker-board
mansard roof; in time this one disappeared and gave place to a
still grander home--and so on and so on.  Mansion after mansion,
made of air, rose, higher, broader, finer, and each in its turn
vanished away; until now in these latter great days, our dreamers
were in fancy housed, in a distant region, in a sumptuous vast
palace which looked out from a leafy summit upon a noble prospect
of vale and river and receding hills steeped in tinted mists--
and all private, all the property of the dreamers; a palace swarming
with liveried servants, and populous with guests of fame and power,
hailing from all the world's capitals, foreign and domestic.

This palace was far, far away toward the rising sun, immeasurably remote,
astronomically remote, in Newport, Rhode Island, Holy Land
of High Society, ineffable Domain of the American Aristocracy. 
As a rule they spent a part of every Sabbath--after morning service--
in this sumptuous home, the rest of it they spent in Europe,
or in dawdling around in their private yacht.  Six days of sordid
and plodding fact life at home on the ragged edge of Lakeside
and straitened means, the seventh in Fairlyand--such had been
their program and their habit.

In their sternly restricted fact life they remained as of old--
plodding, diligent, careful, practical, economical.  They stuck
loyally to the little Presbyterian Church, and labored faithfully
in its interests and stood by its high and tough doctrines with all
their mental and spiritual energies.  But in their dream life they
obeyed the invitations of their fancies, whatever they might be,
and howsoever the fancies might change.  Aleck's fancies were not
very capricious, and not frequent, but Sally's scattered a good deal. 
Aleck, in her dream life, went over to the Episcopal camp, on account
of its large official titles; next she became High-church on account
of the candles and shows; and next she naturally changed to Rome,
where there were cardinals and more candles.  But these excursions
were a nothing to Sally's. His dream life was a glowing and continuous
and persistent excitement, and he kept every part of it fresh and
sparkling by frequent changes, the religious part along with the rest. 
He worked his religions hard, and changed them with his shirt.

The liberal spendings of the Fosters upon their fancies began
early in their prosperities, and grew in prodigality step by step
with their advancing fortunes.  In time they became truly enormous. 
Aleck built a university or two per Sunday; also a hospital or two;
also a Rowton hotel or so; also a batch of churches; now and then
a cathedral; and once, with untimely and ill-chosen playfulness,
Sally said, "It was a cold day when she didn't ship a cargo of
missionaries to persuade unreflecting Chinamen to trade off twenty-four
carat Confucianism for counterfeit Christianity."

This rude and unfeeling language hurt Aleck to the heart, and she
went from the presence crying.  That spectacle went to his own heart,
and in his pain and shame he would have given worlds to have
those unkind words back.  She had uttered no syllable of reproach--
and that cut him.  Not one suggestion that he look at his own record--
and she could have made, oh, so many, and such blistering ones! 
Her generous silence brought a swift revenge, for it turned his
thoughts upon himself, it summoned before him a spectral procession,
a moving vision of his life as he had been leading it these past
few years of limitless prosperity, and as he sat there reviewing
it his cheeks burned and his soul was steeped in humiliation. 
Look at her life--how fair it was, and tending ever upward; and look
at his own--how frivolous, how charged with mean vanities, how selfish,
how empty, how ignoble!  And its trend--never upward, but downward,
ever downward!

He instituted comparisons between her record and his own.  He had found
fault with her--so he mused--HE!  And what could he say for himself? 
When she built her first church what was he doing?  Gathering other
blas'e multimillionaires into a Poker Club; defiling his own palace
with it; losing hundreds of thousands to it at every sitting,
and sillily vain of the admiring notoriety it made for him. 
When she was building her first university, what was he doing? 
Polluting himself with a gay and dissipated secret life in the
company of other fast bloods, multimillionaires in money and paupers
in character.  When she was building her first foundling asylum,
what was he doing?  Alas!  When she was projecting her noble Society
for the Purifying of the Sex, what was he doing?  Ah, what, indeed! 
When she and the W. C. T. U. and the Woman with the Hatchet,
moving with resistless march, were sweeping the fatal bottle from
the land, what was he doing?  Getting drunk three times a day. 
When she, builder of a hundred cathedrals, was being gratefully
welcomed and blest in papal Rome and decorated with the Golden Rose
which she had so honorably earned, what was he doing?  Breaking the
bank at Monte Carlo.

He stopped.  He could go no farther; he could not bear the rest. 
He rose up, with a great resolution upon his lips:  this secret
life should be revealing, and confessed; no longer would he live
it clandestinely, he would go and tell her All.

And that is what he did.  He told her All; and wept upon
her bosom; wept, and moaned, and begged for her forgiveness. 
It was a profound shock, and she staggered under the blow, but he
was her own, the core of her heart, the blessing of her eyes,
her all in all, she could deny him nothing, and she forgave him. 
She felt that he could never again be quite to her what he had
been before; she knew that he could only repent, and not reform;
yet all morally defaced and decayed as he was, was he not her own,
her very own, the idol of her deathless worship?  She said she
was his serf, his slave, and she opened her yearning heart and took
him in.



CHAPTER VII


One Sunday afternoon some time after this they were sailing the
summer seas in their dream yacht, and reclining in lazy luxury under
the awning of the after-deck. There was silence, for each was busy
with his own thoughts.  These seasons of silence had insensibly
been growing more and more frequent of late; the old nearness and
cordiality were waning.  Sally's terrible revelation had done its work;
Aleck had tried hard to drive the memory of it out of her mind,
but it would not go, and the shame and bitterness of it were
poisoning her gracious dream life.  She could see now (on Sundays)
that her husband was becoming a bloated and repulsive Thing. 
She could not close her eyes to this, and in these days she
no longer looked at him, Sundays, when she could help it.

But she--was she herself without blemish?  Alas, she knew she was not. 
She was keeping a secret from him, she was acting dishonorably
toward him, and many a pang it was costing her.  SHE WAS BREAKING
THE COMPACT, AND CONCEALING IT FROM HIM.  Under strong temptation
she had gone into business again; she had risked their whole
fortune in a purchase of all the railway systems and coal and steel
companies in the country on a margin, and she was now trembling,
every Sabbath hour, lest through some chance word of hers he find
it out.  In her misery and remorse for this treachery she could
not keep her heart from going out to him in pity; she was filled
with compunctions to see him lying there, drunk and contented,
and ever suspecting.  Never suspecting--trusting her with a perfect
and pathetic trust, and she holding over him by a thread a possible
calamity of so devastating a--

"SAY--Aleck?"

The interrupting words brought her suddenly to herself.  She was
grateful to have that persecuting subject from her thoughts,
and she answered, with much of the old-time tenderness in her tone:

"Yes, dear."

"Do you know, Aleck, I think we are making a mistake--that is,
you are.  I mean about the marriage business."  He sat up, fat and
froggy and benevolent, like a bronze Buddha, and grew earnest. 
"Consider--it's more than five years.  You've continued the same
policy from the start:  with every rise, always holding on for five
points higher.  Always when I think we are going to have some weddings,
you see a bigger thing ahead, and I undergo another disappointment. 
_I_ think you are too hard to please.  Some day we'll get left. 
First, we turned down the dentist and the lawyer.  That was all right--
it was sound.  Next, we turned down the banker's son and the
pork-butcher's heir--right again, and sound.  Next, we turned
down the Congressman's son and the Governor's--right as a trivet,
I confess it.  Next the Senator's son and the son of the Vice-President
of the United States--perfectly right, there's no permanency about
those little distinctions.  Then you went for the aristocracy;
and I thought we had struck oil at last--yes.  We would make
a plunge at the Four Hundred, and pull in some ancient lineage,
venerable, holy, ineffable, mellow with the antiquity of a hundred
and fifty years, disinfected of the ancestral odors of salt-cod
and pelts all of a century ago, and unsmirched by a day's work since,
and then! why, then the marriages, of course.  But no, along comes
a pair a real aristocrats from Europe, and straightway you throw over
the half-breeds. It was awfully discouraging, Aleck!  Since then,
what a procession!  You turned down the baronets for a pair
of barons; you turned down the barons for a pair of viscounts;
the viscounts for a pair of earls; the earls for a pair of marquises;
the marquises for a brace of dukes.  NOW, Aleck, cash in!--
you've played the limit.  You've got a job lot of four dukes
under the hammer; of four nationalities; all sound in the wind
and limb and pedigree, all bankrupt and in debt up to the ears. 
They come high, but we can afford it.  Come, Aleck, don't delay
any longer, don't keep up the suspense:  take the whole lay-out,
and leave the girls to choose!"

Aleck had been smiling blandly and contentedly all through this
arraignment of her marriage policy, a pleasant light, as of triumph
with perhaps a nice surprise peeping out through it, rose in her eyes,
and she said, as calmly as she could:

"Sally, what would you say to--ROYALTY?"

Prodigious!  Poor man, it knocked him silly, and he fell over the
garboard-strake and barked his shin on the cat-heads. He was dizzy
for a moment, then he gathered himself up and limped over and sat
down by his wife and beamed his old-time admiration and affection
upon her in floods, out of his bleary eyes.

"By George!" he said, fervently, "Aleck, you ARE great--the greatest
woman in the whole earth!  I can't ever learn the whole size of you. 
I can't ever learn the immeasurable deeps of you.  Here I've been
considering myself qualified to criticize your game.  _I!_ Why,
if I had stopped to think, I'd have known you had a lone hand up
your sleeve.  Now, dear heart, I'm all red-hot impatience--tell me
about it!"

The flattered and happy woman put her lips to his ear and whispered
a princely name.  It made him catch his breath, it lit his face
with exultation.

"Land!" he said, "it's a stunning catch!  He's got a gambling-hall,
and a graveyard, and a bishop, and a cathedral--all his very own. 
And all gilt-edged five-hundred-per-cent. stock, every detail of it;
the tidiest little property in Europe.  and that graveyard--
it's the selectest in the world:  none but suicides admitted;
YES, sir, and the free-list suspended, too, ALL the time. 
There isn't much land in the principality, but there's enough: 
eight hundred acres in the graveyard and forty-two outside. 
It's a SOVEREIGNTY--that's the main thing; LAND'S nothing. 
There's plenty land, Sahara's drugged with it."

Aleck glowed; she was profoundly happy.  She said:

"Think of it, Sally--it is a family that has never married outside
the Royal and Imperial Houses of Europe:  our grandchildren will
sit upon thrones!"

"True as you live, Aleck--and bear scepters, too; and handle
them as naturally and nonchantly as I handle a yardstick. 
it's a grand catch, Aleck.  He's corralled, is he?  Can't get away? 
You didn't take him on a margin?"

"No. Trust me for that.  He's not a liability, he's an asset. 
So is the other one."

"Who is it, Aleck?"

"His Royal Highness
Sigismund-Siegfriend-Lauenfeld-Dinkelspiel-Schwartzenberg
Blutwurst, Hereditary Grant Duke of Katzenyammer."

"No!  You can't mean it!"

"It's as true as I'm sitting here, I give you my word," she answered.

His cup was full, and he hugged her to his heart with rapture, saying:

"How wonderful it all seems, and how beautiful!  It's one of the
oldest and noblest of the three hundred and sixty-four ancient
German principalities, and one of the few that was allowed to
retain its royal estate when Bismarck got done trimming them. 
I know that farm, I've been there.  It's got a rope-walk and a
candle-factory and an army.  Standing army.  Infantry and cavalry. 
Three soldier and a horse.  Aleck, it's been a long wait, and full
of heartbreak and hope deferred, but God knows I am happy now. 
Happy, and grateful to you, my own, who have done it all. 
When is it to be?"

"Next Sunday."

"Good.  And we'll want to do these weddings up in the very regalest
style that's going.  It's properly due to the royal quality of the
parties of the first part.  Now as I understand it, there is only one
kind of marriage that is sacred to royalty, exclusive to royalty: 
it's the morganatic."

"What do they call it that for, Sally?"

"I don't know; but anyway it's royal, and royal only."

"Then we will insist upon it.  More--I will compel it. 
It is morganatic marriage or none."

"That settles it!" said Sally, rubbing his hands with delight. 
"And it will be the very first in America.  Aleck, it will make
Newport sick."

Then they fell silent, and drifted away upon their dream wings
to the far regions of the earth to invite all the crowned heads
and their families and provide gratis transportation to them.



CHAPTER VIII


During three days the couple walked upon air, with their heads in
the clouds.  They were but vaguely conscious of their surroundings;
they saw all things dimly, as through a veil; they were steeped
in dreams, often they did not hear when they were spoken to;
they often did not understand when they heard; they answered confusedly
or at random; Sally sold molasses by weight, sugar by the yard,
and furnished soap when asked for candles, and Aleck put the cat
in the wash and fed milk to the soiled linen.  Everybody was stunned
and amazed, and went about muttering, "What CAN be the matter
with the Fosters?"

Three days.  Then came events!  Things had taken a happy turn,
and for forty-eight hours Aleck's imaginary corner had been booming. 
Up--up--still up!  Cost point was passed.  Still up--and up--
and up!  Cost point was passed.  STill up--and up--and up! 
Five points above cost--then ten--fifteen--twenty!  Twenty points
cold profit on the vast venture, now, and Aleck's imaginary brokers
were shouting frantically by imaginary long-distance, "Sell! sell!
for Heaven's sake SELL!"

She broke the splendid news to Sally, and he, too, said,
"Sell! sell--oh, don't make a blunder, now, you own the earth!--
sell, sell!"  But she set her iron will and lashed it amidships,
and said she would hold on for five points more if she died for it.

It was a fatal resolve.  The very next day came the historic crash,
the record crash, the devastating crash, when the bottom fell out
of Wall Street, and the whole body of gilt-edged stocks dropped
ninety-five points in five hours, and the multimillionaire was seen
begging his bread in the Bowery.  Aleck sternly held her grip
and "put up" ass long as she could, but at last there came a call
which she was powerless to meet, and her imaginary brokers sold
her out.  Then, and not till then, the man in her was vanished,
and the woman in her resumed sway.  She put her arms about her
husband's neck and wept, saying:

"I am to blame, do not forgive me, I cannot bear it.  We are paupers! 
Paupers, and I am so miserable.  The weddings will never come off;
all that is past; we could not even buy the dentist, now."

A bitter reproach was on Sally's tongue:  "I BEGGED you to sell,
but you--" He did not say it; he had not the heart to add a hurt
to that broken and repentant spirit.  A nobler thought came to him
and he said:

"Bear up, my Aleck, all is not lost!  You really never invested
a penny of my uncle's bequest, but only its unmaterialized future;
what we have lost was only the incremented harvest from that future
by your incomparable financial judgment and sagacity.  Cheer up,
banish these griefs; we still have the thirty thousand untouched;
and with the experience which you have acquired, think what you will
be able to do with it in a couple years!  The marriages are not off,
they are only postponed."

These are blessed words.  Aleck saw how true they were, and their
influence was electric; her tears ceased to flow, and her great spirit
rose to its full stature again.  With flashing eye and grateful heart,
and with hand uplifted in pledge and prophecy, she said:

"Now and here I proclaim--"

But she was interrupted by a visitor.  It was the editor and proprietor
of the SAGAMORE.  He had happened into Lakeside to pay a duty-call upon
an obscure grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her pilgrimage,
and with the idea of combining business with grief he had looked up
the Fosters, who had been so absorbed in other things for the past
four years that they neglected to pay up their subscription. 
Six dollars due.  No visitor could have been more welcome.  He would
know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances might be getting
to be, cemeterywards.  They could, of course, ask no questions,
for that would squelch the bequest, but they could nibble around on
the edge of the subject and hope for results.  The scheme did not work. 
The obtuse editor did not know he was being nibbled at; but at last,
chance accomplished what art had failed in.  In illustration of something
under discussion which required the help of metaphor, the editor said:

"Land, it's a tough as Tilbury Foster!--as WE say."

It was sudden, and it made the Fosters jump.  The editor noticed,
and said, apologetically:

"No harm intended, I assure you.  It's just a saying; just a joke,
you know--nothing of it.  Relation of yours?"

Sally crowded his burning eagerness down, and answered with all
the indifference he could assume:

"I--well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him."  The editor
was thankful, and resumed his composure.  Sally added:  "Is he--
is he--well?"

"Is he WELL?  Why, bless you he's in Sheol these five years!"

The Fosters were trembling with grief, though it felt like joy. 
Sally said, non-committally--and tentatively:

"Ah, well, such is life, and none can escape--not even the rich
are spared."

The editor laughed.

"If you are including Tilbury," said he, "it don't apply. 
HE hadn't a cent; the town had to bury him."

The Fosters sat petrified for two minutes; petrified and cold. 
Then, white-faced and weak-voiced, Sally asked:

"Is it true?  Do you KNOW it to be true?"

"Well, I should say!  I was one of the executors.  He hadn't
anything to leave but a wheelbarrow, and he left that to me. 
It hadn't any wheel, and wasn't any good.  Still, it was something,
and so, to square up, I scribbled off a sort of a little obituarial
send-off for him, but it got crowded out."

The Fosters were not listening--their cup was full, it could
contain no more.  They sat with bowed heads, dead to all things
but the ache at their hearts.

An hour later.  Still they sat there, bowed, motionless, silent,
the visitor long ago gone, they unaware.

Then they stirred, and lifted their heads wearily, and gazed at each
other wistfully, dreamily, dazed; then presently began to twaddle
to each other in a wandering and childish way.  At intervals they
lapsed into silences, leaving a sentence unfinished, seemingly either
unaware of it or losing their way.  Sometimes, when they woke
out of these silences they had a dim and transient consciousness
that something had happened to their minds; then with a dumb
and yearning solicitude they would softly caress each other's
hands in mutual compassion and support, as if they would say: 
"I am near you, I will not forsake you, we will bear it together;
somewhere there is release and forgetfulness, somewhere there
is a grave and peace; be patient, it will not be long."

They lived yet two years, in mental night, always brooding,
steeped in vague regrets and melancholy dreams, never speaking;
then release came to both on the same day.

Toward the end the darkness lifted from Sally's ruined mind
for a moment, and he said:

"Vast wealth, acquired by sudden and unwholesome means, is a snare. 
It did us no good, transient were its feverish pleasures;
yet for its sake we threw away our sweet and simple and happy life--
let others take warning by us."

He lay silent awhile, with closed eyes; then as the chill of death
crept upward toward his heart, and consciousness was fading from
his brain, he muttered:

"Money had brought him misery, and he took his revenge upon us,
who had done him no harm.  He had his desire:  with base and cunning
calculation he left us but thirty thousand, knowing we would try
to increase it, and ruin our life and break our hearts.  Without added
expense he could have left us far above desire of increase, far above
the temptation to speculate, and a kinder soul would have done it;
but in him was no generous spirit, no pity, no--"

***



A DOG'S TALE



CHAPTER I


My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am
a Presbyterian.  This is what my mother told me, I do not know
these nice distinctions myself.  To me they are only fine large
words meaning nothing.  My mother had a fondness for such;
she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious,
as wondering how she got so much education.  But, indeed, it was not
real education; it was only show:  she got the words by listening
in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company,
and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there;
and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself
many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic
gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off,
and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff,
which rewarded her for all her trouble.  If there was a stranger
he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath
again he would ask her what it meant.  And she always told him. 
He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her;
so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed,
whereas he had thought it was going to be she.  The others were
always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they
knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. 
When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up
with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it
was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing,
she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking,
and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right
or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was.  By and by,
when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time,
and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings,
making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time
that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning
at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition
every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind
than culture, though I said nothing, of course.  She had one word
which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver,
a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get
washed overboard in a sudden way--that was the word Synonymous. 
When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day
weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile,
if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for
a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she
would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything;
so when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on
the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment--
but only just a moment--then it would belly out taut and full,
and she would say, as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous
with supererogation," or some godless long reptile of a word
like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack,
perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking
profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor
with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a
holy joy.

And it was the same with phrases.  She would drag home a whole phrase,
if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees,
and explain it a new way every time--which she had to, for all she
cared for was the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant,
and knew those dogs hadn't wit enough to catch her, anyway. 
Yes, she was a daisy!  She got so she wasn't afraid of anything,
she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. 
She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the
dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub
of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course,
it didn't fit and hadn't any point; and when she delivered the nub
she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked
in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering
to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first
heard it.  But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too,
privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never
suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn't any
to see.

You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and
frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up,
I think.  She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored
resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her
mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way,
and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger,
and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend
or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think
what the cost might be to us.  And she taught us not by words only,
but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the
most lasting.  Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she
was just a soldier; and so modest about it--well, you couldn't help
admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King
Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. 
So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.



CHAPTER II


When I was well grown, at last, I was sold and taken away,
and I never saw her again.  She was broken-hearted, and so was I,
and we cried; but she comforted me as well as she could, and said
we were sent into this world for a wise and good purpose, and must
do our duties without repining, take our life as we might find it,
live it for the best good of others, and never mind about the results;
they were not our affair.  She said men who did like this would have
a noble and beautiful reward by and by in another world, and although
we animals would not go there, to do well and right without reward
would give to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity which in
itself would be a reward.  She had gathered these things from time
to time when she had gone to the Sunday-school with the children,
and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had done
with those other words and phrases; and she had studied them deeply,
for her good and ours.  One may see by this that she had a wise
and thoughtful head, for all there was so much lightness and vanity
in it.

So we said our farewells, and looked our last upon each other through
our tears; and the last thing she said--keeping it for the last
to make me remember it the better, I think--was, "In memory of me,
when there is a time of danger to another do not think of yourself,
think of your mother, and do as she would do."

Do you think I could forget that?  No.



CHAPTER III


It was such a charming home!--my new one; a fine great house,
with pictures, and delicate decorations, and rich furniture,
and no gloom anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up
with flooding sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it, and the
great garden--oh, greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end! 
And I was the same as a member of the family; and they loved me,
and petted me, and did not give me a new name, but called me by my
old one that was dear to me because my mother had given it me--
Aileen Mavoureen.  She got it out of a song; and the Grays knew
that song, and said it was a beautiful name.

Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot
imagine it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a
darling slender little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back,
and short frocks; and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled,
and fond of me, and never could get enough of hauling on my tail,
and hugging me, and laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray
was thirty-eight, and tall and slender and handsome, a little bald
in front, alert, quick in his movements, business-like, prompt,
decided, unsentimental, and with that kind of trim-chiseled face
that just seems to glint and sparkle with frosty intellectuality! 
He was a renowned scientist.  I do not know what the word means,
but my mother would know how to use it and get effects.  She would
know how to depress a rat-terrier with it and make a lap-dog
look sorry he came.  But that is not the best one; the best one
was Laboratory.  My mother could organize a Trust on that one that
would skin the tax-collars off the whole herd.  The laboratory
was not a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in,
as the college president's dog said--no, that is the lavatory;
the laboratory is quite different, and is filled with jars,
and bottles, and electrics, and wires, and strange machines;
and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place,
and used the machines, and discussed, and made what they called
experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood
around and listened, and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother,
and in loving memory of her, although it was a pain to me, as realizing
what she was losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all;
for try as I might, I was never able to make anything out of it
at all.

Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's work-room and slept,
she gently using me for a foot-stool, knowing it pleased me,
for it was a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery,
and got well tousled and made happy; other times I watched by the
crib there, when the baby was asleep and the nurse out for a few
minutes on the baby's affairs; other times I romped and raced
through the grounds and the garden with Sadie till we were tired out,
then slumbered on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read
her book; other times I went visiting among the neighbor dogs--
for there were some most pleasant ones not far away, and one very
handsome and courteous and graceful one, a curly-haired Irish
setter by the name of Robin Adair, who was a Presbyterian like me,
and belonged to the Scotch minister.

The servants in our house were all kind to me and were fond of me,
and so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life.  There could not be
a happier dog that I was, nor a gratefuler one.  I will say this
for myself, for it is only the truth:  I tried in all ways to do
well and right, and honor my mother's memory and her teachings,
and earn the happiness that had come to me, as best I could.

By and by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full, my happiness
was perfect.  It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth
and soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws,
and such affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face;
and it made me so proud to see how the children and their mother
adored it, and fondled it, and exclaimed over every little wonderful
thing it did.  It did seem to me that life was just too lovely to--

Then came the winter.  One day I was standing a watch in the nursery. 
That is to say, I was asleep on the bed.  The baby was asleep in
the crib, which was alongside the bed, on the side next the fireplace. 
It was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy
stuff that you can see through.  The nurse was out, and we two
sleepers were alone.  A spark from the wood-fire was shot out, and it
lit on the slope of the tent.  I suppose a quiet interval followed,
then a scream from the baby awoke me, and there was that tent
flaming up toward the ceiling!  Before I could think, I sprang
to the floor in my fright, and in a second was half-way to the door;
but in the next half-second my mother's farewell was sounding
in my ears, and I was back on the bed again., I reached my head
through the flames and dragged the baby out by the waist-band,
and tugged it along, and we fell to the floor together in a cloud
of smoke; I snatched a new hold, and dragged the screaming little
creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall,
and was still tugging away, all excited and happy and proud,
when the master's voice shouted:

"Begone you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he
was furiously quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me
with his cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a
strong blow fell upon my left foreleg, which made me shriek and fall,
for the moment, helpless; the came went up for another blow,
but never descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out,
"The nursery's on fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction,
and my other bones were saved.

The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time;
he might come back at any moment; so I limped on three legs to the
other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading
up into a garret where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had
heard say, and where people seldom went.  I managed to climb up there,
then I searched my way through the dark among the piles of things,
and hid in the secretest place I could find.  It was foolish to be
afraid there, yet still I was; so afraid that I held in and hardly
even whimpered, though it would have been such a comfort to whimper,
because that eases the pain, you know.  But I could lick my leg,
and that did some good.

For half an hour there was a commotion downstairs, and shoutings,
and rushing footsteps, and then there was quiet again.  Quiet for
some minutes, and that was grateful to my spirit, for then my fears
began to go down; and fears are worse than pains--oh, much worse. 
Then came a sound that froze me.  They were calling me--calling me
by name--hunting for me!

It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it,
and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard. 
It went all about, everywhere, down there:  along the halls, through all
the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar;
then outside, and farther and farther away--then back, and all
about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. 
But at last it did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of
the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness.

Then in that blessed stillness my terrors fell little by little away,
and I was at peace and slept.  It was a good rest I had, but I woke
before the twilight had come again.  I was feeling fairly comfortable,
and I could think out a plan now.  I made a very good one;
which was, to creep down, all the way down the back stairs,
and hide behind the cellar door, and slip out and escape when the
iceman came at dawn, while he was inside filling the refrigerator;
then I would hide all day, and start on my journey when night came;
my journey to--well, anywhere where they would not know me and betray
me to the master.  I was feeling almost cheerful now; then suddenly
I thought:  Why, what would life be without my puppy!

That was despair.  There was no plan for me; I saw that;
I must say where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come--
it was not my affair; that was what life is--my mother had said it. 
Then--well, then the calling began again!  All my sorrows came back. 
I said to myself, the master will never forgive.  I did not know
what I had done to make him so bitter and so unforgiving, yet I
judged it was something a dog could not understand, but which was
clear to a man and dreadful.

They called and called--days and nights, it seemed to me. 
So long that the hunger and thirst near drove me mad, and I
recognized that I was getting very weak.  When you are this way you
sleep a great deal, and I did.  Once I woke in an awful fright--
it seemed to me that the calling was right there in the garret! 
And so it was:  it was Sadie's voice, and she was crying; my name
was falling from her lips all broken, poor thing, and I could not
believe my ears for the joy of it when I heard her say:

"Come back to us--oh, come back to us, and forgive--it is all so sad
without our--"

I broke in with SUCH a grateful little yelp, and the next moment
Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber
and shouting for the family to hear, "She's found, she's found!"


The days that followed--well, they were wonderful.  The mother
and Sadie and the servants--why, they just seemed to worship me. 
They couldn't seem to make me a bed that was fine enough;
and as for food, they couldn't be satisfied with anything but game
and delicacies that were out of season; and every day the friends
and neighbors flocked in to hear about my heroism--that was the
name they called it by, and it means agriculture.  I remember my
mother pulling it on a kennel once, and explaining it in that way,
but didn't say what agriculture was, except that it was synonymous
with intramural incandescence; and a dozen times a day Mrs. Gray
and Sadie would tell the tale to new-comers, and say I risked my life
to say the baby's, and both of us had burns to prove it, and then
the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about me,
and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother;
and when the people wanted to know what made me limp, they looked
ashamed and changed the subject, and sometimes when people hunted
them this way and that way with questions about it, it looked to me
as if they were going to cry.

And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came,
a whole twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in
the laboratory, and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery;
and some of them said it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest
exhibition of instinct they could call to mind; but the master said,
with vehemence, "It's far above instinct; it's REASON, and many a man,
privileged to be saved and go with you and me to a better world
by right of its possession, has less of it that this poor silly
quadruped that's foreordained to perish"; and then he laughed,
and said:  "Why, look at me--I'm a sarcasm! bless you, with all
my grand intelligence, the only think I inferred was that the dog
had gone mad and was destroying the child, whereas but for the
beast's intelligence--it's REASON, I tell you!--the child would
have perished!"

They disputed and disputed, and _I_ was the very center of subject
of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor
had come to me; it would have made her proud.

Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain
injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could
not agree about it, and said they must test it by experiment by and by;
and next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in
the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds--I helped her dig the holes,
you know--and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came
up there, and it was a wonder how that could happen; but it did,
and I wished I could talk--I would have told those people about it
and shown then how much I knew, and been all alive with the subject;
but I didn't care for the optics; it was dull, and when the came back
to it again it bored me, and I went to sleep.

Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely,
and the sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy
good-by, and went away on a journey and a visit to their kin,
and the master wasn't any company for us, but we played together
and had good times, and the servants were kind and friendly,
so we got along quite happily and counted the days and waited
for the family.

And one day those men came again, and said, now for the test,
and they took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped
three-leggedly along, too, feeling proud, for any attention shown
to the puppy was a pleasure to me, of course.  They discussed
and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy shrieked,
and they set him on the floor, and he went staggering around,
with his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:

"There, I've won--confess it!  He's a blind as a bat!"

And they all said:

"It's so--you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes
you a great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him,
and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him.

But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my
little darling, and snuggled close to it where it lay, and licked
the blood, and it put its head against mine, whimpering softly,
and I knew in my heart it was a comfort to it in its pain and
trouble to feel its mother's touch, though it could not see me. 
Then it dropped down, presently, and its little velvet nose rested
upon the floor, and it was still, and did not move any more.

Soon the master stopped discussing a moment, and rang in the footman,
and said, "Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went
on with the discussion, and I trotted after the footman, very happy
and grateful, for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now, because it
was asleep.  We went far down the garden to the farthest end,
where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play
in the summer in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug
a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad,
because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair,
and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home;
so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff,
you know, and you have to have two, or it is no use.  When the
footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head,
and there were tears in his eyes, and he said:  "Poor little doggie,
you saved HIS child!"

I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up!  This last week
a fright has been stealing upon me.  I think there is something terrible
about this.  I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick,
and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food;
and they pet me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say,
"Poor doggie--do give it up and come home; DON't break our hearts!"
and all this terrifies me the more, and makes me sure something
has happened.  And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my
feet anymore.  And within this hour the servants, looking toward the
sun where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on,
said things I could not understand, but they carried something cold
to my heart.

"Those poor creatures!  They do not suspect.  They will come home
in the morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did
the brave deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth
to them:  'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts
that perish.'"


***




WAS IT HEAVEN?  OR HELL?



CHAPTER I


"You told a LIE?"

"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"



CHAPTER II


The family consisted of four persons:  Margaret Lester, widow,
aged thirty six; Helen Lester, her daughter, aged sixteen;
Mrs. Lester's maiden aunts, Hannah and Hester Gray, twins, aged
sixty-seven. Waking and sleeping, the three women spent their days
and night in adoring the young girl; in watching the movements
of her sweet spirit in the mirror of her face; in refreshing their
souls with the vision of her bloom and beauty; in listening to the
music of her voice; in gratefully recognizing how rich and fair
for them was the world with this presence in it; in shuddering
to think how desolate it would be with this light gone out of it.

By nature--and inside--the aged aunts were utterly dear and lovable
and good, but in the matter of morals and conduct their training
had been so uncompromisingly strict that it had made them
exteriorly austere, not to say stern.  Their influence was effective
in the house; so effective that the mother and the daughter
conformed to its moral and religious requirements cheerfully,
contentedly, happily, unquestionably.  To do this was become
second nature to them.  And so in this peaceful heaven there
were no clashings, no irritations, no fault-finding, no heart-burnings.

In it a lie had no place.  In it a lie was unthinkable. 
In it speech was restricted to absolute truth, iron-bound truth,
implacable and uncompromising truth, let the resulting consequences
be what they might.  At last, one day, under stress of circumstances,
the darling of the house sullied her lips with a lie--and confessed it,
with tears and self-upbraidings. There are not any words that can paint
the consternation of the aunts.  It was as if the sky had crumpled
up and collapsed and the earth had tumbled to ruin with a crash. 
They sat side by side, white and stern, gazing speechless upon
the culprit, who was on her knees before them with her face
buried first in one lap and then the other, moaning and sobbing,
and appealing for sympathy and forgiveness and getting no response,
humbly kissing the hand of the one, then of the other, only to see
it withdrawn as suffering defilement by those soiled lips.

Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hester said, in frozen amazement:

"You told a LIE?"

Twice, at intervals, Aunt Hannah followed with the muttered
and amazed ejaculation:

"You confess it--you actually confess it--you told a lie!"

It was all they could say.  The situation was new, unheard of,
incredible; they could not understand it, they did not know
how to take hold of it, it approximately paralyzed speech.

At length it was decided that the erring child must be taken to
her mother, who was ill, and who ought to know what had happened. 
Helen begged, besought, implored that she might be spared this
further disgrace, and that her mother might be spared the grief
and pain of it; but this could not be:  duty required this sacrifice,
duty takes precedence of all things, nothing can absolve one from
a duty, with a duty no compromise is possible.

Helen still begged, and said the sin was her own, her mother had
had no hand in it--why must she be made to suffer for it?

But the aunts were obdurate in their righteousness, and said the
law that visited the sins of the parent upon the child was by all
right and reason reversible; and therefore it was but just that the
innocent mother of a sinning child should suffer her rightful share
of the grief and pain and shame which were the allotted wages of the sin.

The three moved toward the sick-room.


At this time the doctor was approaching the house.  He was still
a good distance away, however.  He was a good doctor and a good man,
and he had a good heart, but one had to know him a year to get
over hating him, two years to learn to endure him, three to learn
to like him, and four and five to learn to live him.  It was a slow
and trying education, but it paid.  He was of great stature; he had
a leonine head, a leonine face, a rough voice, and an eye which was
sometimes a pirate's and sometimes a woman's, according to the mood. 
He knew nothing about etiquette, and cared nothing about it; in speech,
manner, carriage, and conduct he was the reverse of conventional. 
He was frank, to the limit; he had opinions on all subjects; they were
always on tap and ready for delivery, and he cared not a farthing
whether his listener liked them or didn't. Whom he loved he loved,
and manifested it; whom he didn't live he hated, and published
it from the housetops.  In his young days he had been a sailor,
and the salt-airs of all the seas blew from him yet.  He was a sturdy
and loyal Christian, and believed he was the best one in the land,
and the only one whose Christianity was perfectly sound, healthy,
full-charged with common sense, and had no decayed places in it. 
People who had an ax to grind, or people who for any reason wanted
wanted to get on the soft side of him, called him The Christian--
a phrase whose delicate flattery was music to his ears, and whose
capital T was such an enchanting and vivid object to him that he
could SEE it when it fell out of a person's mouth even in the dark. 
Many who were fond of him stood on their consciences with both feet
and brazenly called him by that large title habitually, because it
was a pleasure to them to do anything that would please him;
and with eager and cordial malice his extensive and diligently
cultivated crop of enemies gilded it, beflowered it, expanded it
to "The ONLY Christian."  Of these two titles, the latter had
the wider currency; the enemy, being greatly in the majority,
attended to that.  Whatever the doctor believed, he believed with
all his heart, and would fight for it whenever he got the chance;
and if the intervals between chances grew to be irksomely wide,
he would invent ways of shortening them himself.  He was
severely conscientious, according to his rather independent lights,
and whatever he took to be a duty he performed, no matter whether
the judgment of the professional moralists agreed with his own
or not.  At sea, in his young days, he had used profanity freely,
but as soon as he was converted he made a rule, which he rigidly stuck
to ever afterward, never to use it except on the rarest occasions,
and then only when duty commanded.  He had been a hard drinker at sea,
but after his conversion he became a firm and outspoken teetotaler,
in order to be an example to the young, and from that time forth he
seldom drank; never, indeed, except when it seemed to him to be a duty--
a condition which sometimes occurred a couple of times a year, but never
as many as five times.

Necessarily, such a man is impressionable, impulsive, emotional. 
This one was, and had no gift at hiding his feelings; or if he
had it he took no trouble to exercise it.  He carried his soul's
prevailing weather in his face, and when he entered a room
the parasols or the umbrellas went up--figuratively speaking--
according to the indications.  When the soft light was in his eye
it meant approval, and delivered a benediction; when he came with a
frown he lowered the temperature ten degrees.  He was a well-beloved
man in the house of his friends, but sometimes a dreaded one.

He had a deep affection for the Lester household and its several
members returned this feeling with interest.  They mourned over
his kind of Christianity, and he frankly scoffed at theirs;
but both parties went on loving each other just the same.

He was approaching the house--out of the distance; the aunts
and the culprit were moving toward the sick-chamber.



CHAPTER III


The three last named stood by the bed; the aunts austere,
the transgressor softly sobbing.  The mother turned her head
on the pillow; her tired eyes flamed up instantly with sympathy
and passionate mother-love when they fell upon her child,
and she opened the refuge and shelter of her arms.

"Wait!" said Aunt Hannah, and put out her hand and stayed the girl
from leaping into them.

"Helen," said the other aunt, impressively, "tell your mother all. 
Purge your soul; leave nothing unconfessed."

Standing stricken and forlorn before her judges, the young girl
mourned her sorrowful tale through the end, then in a passion
of appeal cried out:

"Oh, mother, can't you forgive me? won't you forgive me?--I am
so desolate!"

"Forgive you, my darling?  Oh, come to my arms!--there, lay your head
upon my breast, and be at peace.  If you had told a thousand lies--"

There was a sound--a warning--the clearing of a throat.  The aunts
glanced up, and withered in their clothes--there stood the doctor,
his face a thunder-cloud. Mother and child knew nothing of
his presence; they lay locked together, heart to heart, steeped in
immeasurable content, dead to all things else.  The physician
stood many moments glaring and glooming upon the scene before him;
studying it, analyzing it, searching out its genesis; then he put
up his hand and beckoned to the aunts.  They came trembling to him,
and stood humbly before him and waited.  He bent down and whispered:

"Didn't I tell you this patient must be protected from all excitement? 
What the hell have you been doing?  Clear out of the place?"

They obeyed.  Half an hour later he appeared in the parlor,
serene, cheery, clothed in sunshine, conducting Helen, with his
arm about her waist, petting her, and saying gentle and playful
things to her; and she also was her sunny and happy self again.

"Now, then;" he said, "good-by, dear.  Go to your room, and keep
away from your mother, and behave yourself.  But wait--put out
your tongue.  There, that will do--you're as sound as a nut!" 
He patted her cheek and added, "Run along now; I want to talk
to these aunts."

She went from the presence.  His face clouded over again at once;
and as he sat down he said:

"You too have been doing a lot of damage--and maybe some good. 
Some good, yes--such as it is.  That woman's disease is typhoid! 
You've brought it to a show-up, I think, with your insanities,
and that's a service--such as it is.  I hadn't been able to determine
what it was before."

With one impulse the old ladies sprang to their feet, quaking with terror.

"Sit down!  What are you proposing to do?"

"Do?  We must fly to her.  We--"

"You'll do nothing of the kind; you've done enough harm for one day. 
Do you want to squander all your capital of crimes and follies on a
single deal?  Sit down, I tell you.  I have arranged for her to sleep;
she needs it; if you disturb her without my orders, I'll brain you--
if you've got the materials for it.

They sat down, distressed and indignant, but obedient, under compulsion. 
He proceeded:

"Now, then, I want this case explained.  THEY wanted to explain it
to me--as if there hadn't been emotion or excitement enough already. 
You knew my orders; how did you dare to go in there and get up
that riot?"

Hester looked appealing at Hannah; Hannah returned a beseeching look
at Hester--neither wanted to dance to this unsympathetic orchestra. 
The doctor came to their help.  He said:

"Begin, Hester."

Fingering at the fringes of her shawl, and with lowered eyes,
Hester said, timidly:

"We should not have disobeyed for any ordinary cause, but this
was vital.  This was a duty.  With a duty one has no choice;
one must put all lighter considerations aside and perform it. 
We were obliged to arraign her before her mother.  She had told
a lie."

The doctor glowered upon the woman a moment, and seemed
to be trying to work up in his mind an understand of a wholly
incomprehensible proposition; then he stormed out:

"She told a lie!  DID she?  God bless my soul!  I tell a million a day! 
And so does every doctor.  And so does everybody--including you--
for that matter.  And THAT was the important thing that authorized
you to venture to disobey my orders and imperil that woman's life! 
Look here, Hester Gray, this is pure lunacy; that girl COULDN'T tell
a lie that was intended to injure a person.  The thing is impossible--
absolutely impossible.  You know it yourselves--both of you;
you know it perfectly well."

Hannah came to her sister's rescue:

"Hester didn't mean that it was that kind of a lie, and it wasn't.
But it was a lie."

"Well, upon my word, I never heard such nonsense!  Haven't you
got sense enough to discriminate between lies!  Don't you know
the difference between a lie that helps and a lie that hurts?"

"ALL lies are sinful," said Hannah, setting her lips together
like a vise; "all lies are forbidden."

The Only Christian fidgeted impatiently in his chair.  He went to attack
this proposition, but he did not quite know how or where to begin. 
Finally he made a venture:

"Hester, wouldn't you tell a lie to shield a person from an undeserved
injury or shame?"

"No."

"Not even a friend?"

"No."

"Not even your dearest friend?"

"No. I would not."

The doctor struggled in silence awhile with this situation;
then he asked:

"Not even to save him from bitter pain and misery and grief?"

"No. Not even to save his life."

Another pause.  Then:

"Nor his soul?"

There was a hush--a silence which endured a measurable interval--
then Hester answered, in a low voice, but with decision:

"Nor his soul?"

No one spoke for a while; then the doctor said:

"Is it with you the same, Hannah?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I ask you both--why?"

"Because to tell such a lie, or any lie, is a sin, and could cost
us the loss of our own souls--WOULD, indeed, if we died without
time to repent."

"Strange . . . strange . . . it is past belief."  Then he
asked, roughly:  "Is such a soul as that WORTH saving?" 
He rose up, mumbling and grumbling, and started for the door,
stumping vigorously along.  At the threshold he turned and rasped
out an admonition:  "Reform!  Drop this mean and sordid and selfish
devotion to the saving of your shabby little souls, and hunt up
something to do that's got some dignity to it!  RISK your souls! risk
them in good causes; then if you lose them, why should you care?  Reform!"

The good old gentlewomen sat paralyzed, pulverized, outraged, insulted,
and brooded in bitterness and indignation over these blasphemies. 
They were hurt to the heart, poor old ladies, and said they could
never forgive these injuries.

"Reform!"

They kept repeating that word resentfully.  "Reform--and learn
to tell lies!"

Time slipped along, and in due course a change came over their spirits. 
They had completed the human being's first duty--which is to think
about himself until he has exhausted the subject, then he is in a
condition to take up minor interests and think of other people. 
This changes the complexion of his spirits--generally wholesomely. 
The minds of the two old ladies reverted to their beloved niece
and the fearful disease which had smitten her; instantly they forgot
the hurts their self-love had received, and a passionate desire
rose in their hearts to go to the help of the sufferer and comfort
her with their love, and minister to her, and labor for her the best
they could with their weak hands, and joyfully and affectionately
wear out their poor old bodies in her dear service if only they might
have the privilege.

"And we shall have it!" said Hester, with the tears running
down her face.  "There are no nurses comparable to us, for there
are no others that will stand their watch by that bed till they
drop and die, and God knows we would do that."

"Amen," said Hannah, smiling approval and endorsement through the
mist of moisture that blurred her glasses.  "The doctor knows us,
and knows we will not disobey again; and he will call no others. 
He will not dare!"

"Dare?" said Hester, with temper, and dashing the water from her eyes;
"he will dare anything--that Christian devil!  But it will do no
good for him to try it this time--but, laws!  Hannah! after all's
said and done, he is gifted and wise and good, and he would not
think of such a thing.  . . . It is surely time for one of us to go
to that room.  What is keeping him?  Why doesn't he come and say so?"

They caught the sound of his approaching step.  He entered, sat down,
and began to talk.

"Margaret is a sick woman," he said.  "She is still sleeping,
but she will wake presently; then one of you must go to her. 
She will be worse before she is better.  Pretty soon a night-and-day
watch must be set.  How much of it can you two undertake?"

"All of it!" burst from both ladies at once.

The doctor's eyes flashed, and he said, with energy:

"You DO ring true, you brave old relics!  And you SHALL do all of
the nursing you can, for there's none to match you in that divine
office in this town; but you can't do all of it, and it would
be a crime to let you."  It was grand praise, golden praise,
coming from such a source, and it took nearly all the resentment
out of the aged twin's hearts.  "Your Tilly and my old Nancy shall
do the rest--good nurses both, white souls with black skins,
watchful, loving, tender--just perfect nurses!--and competent liars
from the cradle.  . . . Look you! keep a little watch on Helen;
she is sick, and is going to be sicker."

The ladies looked a little surprised, and not credulous; and Hester said:

"How is that?  It isn't an hour since you said she was as sound
as a nut."

The doctor answered, tranquilly:

"It was a lie."

The ladies turned upon him indignantly, and Hannah said:

"How can you make an odious confession like that, in so indifferent
a tone, when you know how we feel about all forms of--"

"Hush!  You are as ignorant as cats, both of you, and you don't know
what you are talking about.  You are like all the rest of the moral moles;
you lie from morning till night, but because you don't do it with
your mouths, but only with your lying eyes, your lying inflections,
your deceptively misplaced emphasis, and your misleading gestures,
you turn up your complacent noses and parade before God and
the world as saintly and unsmirched Truth-Speakers, in whose
cold-storage souls a lie would freeze to death if it got there! 
Why will you humbug yourselves with that foolish notion that no
lie is a lie except a spoken one?  What is the difference between
lying with your eyes and lying with your mouth?  There is none;
and if you would reflect a moment you would see that it is so. 
There isn't a human being that doesn't tell a gross of lies every day
of his life; and you--why, between you, you tell thirty thousand;
yet you flare up here in a lurid hypocritical horror because I
tell that child a benevolent and sinless lie to protect her from
her imagination, which would get to work and warm up her blood to a
fever in an hour, if I were disloyal enough to my duty to let it. 
Which I should probably do if I were interested in saving my soul
by such disreputable means.

"Come, let us reason together.  Let us examine details.  When you
two were in the sick-room raising that riot, what would you have
done if you had known I was coming?"

"Well, what?"

"You would have slipped out and carried Helen with you--wouldn't you?"

The ladies were silent.

"What would be your object and intention?"

"Well, what?"

"To keep me from finding out your guilt; to beguile me to infer that
Margaret's excitement proceeded from some cause not known to you. 
In a word, to tell me a lie--a silent lie.  Moreover, a possibly
harmful one."

The twins colored, but did not speak.

"You not only tell myriads of silent lies, but you tell lies
with your mouths--you two."

"THAT is not so!"

"It is so.  But only harmless ones.  You never dream of uttering
a harmful one.  Do you know that that is a concession--and a confession?"

"How do you mean?"

"It is an unconscious concession that harmless lies are not criminal;
it is a confession that you constantly MAKE that discrimination. 
For instance, you declined old Mrs. Foster's invitation last week
to meet those odious Higbies at supper--in a polite note in which you
expressed regret and said you were very sorry you could not go. 
It was a lie.  It was as unmitigated a lie as was ever uttered. 
Deny it, Hester--with another lie."

Hester replied with a toss of her head.

"That will not do.  Answer.  Was it a lie, or wasn't it?"

The color stole into the cheeks of both women, and with a struggle
and an effort they got out their confession:

"It was a lie."

"Good--the reform is beginning; there is hope for you yet;
you will not tell a lie to save your dearest friend's soul, but you
will spew out one without a scruple to save yourself the discomfort
of telling an unpleasant truth."

He rose.  Hester, speaking for both, said; coldly:

"We have lied; we perceive it; it will occur no more.  To lie is
a sin.  We shall never tell another one of any kind whatsoever,
even lies of courtesy or benevolence, to save any one a pang
or a sorrow decreed for him by God."

"Ah, how soon you will fall!  In fact, you have fallen already;
for what you have just uttered is a lie.  Good-by. Reform! 
One of you go to the sick-room now."



CHAPTER IV


Twelve days later.

Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease. 
Of hope for either there was little.  The aged sisters looked white
and worn, but they would not give up their posts.  Their hearts
were breaking, poor old things, but their grit was steadfast
and indestructible.  All the twelve days the mother had pined for
the child, and the child for the mother, but both knew that the prayer
of these longings could not be granted.  When the mother was told--
on the first day--that her disease was typhoid, she was frightened,
and asked if there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the
day before, when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit. 
Hester told her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea.  It troubled
Hester to say it, although it was true, for she had not believed
the doctor; but when she saw the mother's joy in the news, the pain
in her conscience lost something of its force--a result which made
her ashamed of the constructive deception which she had practiced,
though not ashamed enough to make her distinctly and definitely
wish she had refrained from it.  From that moment the sick woman
understood that her daughter must remain away, and she said she would
reconcile herself to the separation the best she could, for she
would rather suffer death than have her child's health imperiled. 
That afternoon Helen had to take to her bed, ill.  She grew worse
during the night.  In the morning her mother asked after her:

"Is she well?"

Hester turned cold; she opened her lips, but the words refused to come. 
The mother lay languidly looking, musing, waiting; suddenly she
turned white and gasped out:

"Oh, my God! what is it? is she sick?"

Then the poor aunt's tortured heart rose in rebellion, and words came:

"No--be comforted; she is well."

The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:

"Thank God for those dear words!  Kiss me.  How I worship you
for saying them!"

Hester told this incident to Hannah, who received it with
a rebuking look, and said, coldly:

"Sister, it was a lie."

Hester's lips trembled piteously; she choked down a sob, and said:

"Oh, Hannah, it was a sin, but I could not help it.  I could not
endure the fright and the misery that were in her face."

"No matter.  It was a lie.  God will hold you to account for it."

"Oh, I know it, I know it," cried Hester, wringing her hands,
"but even if it were now, I could not help it.  I know I should do
it again."

"Then take my place with Helen in the morning.  I will make
the report myself."

Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.

"Don't, Hannah, oh, don't--you will kill her."

"I will at least speak the truth."

In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother,
and she braced herself for the trial.  When she returned from
her mission, Hester was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall. 
She whispered:

"Oh, how did she take it--that poor, desolate mother?"

Hannah's eyes were swimming in tears.  She said:

"God forgive me, I told her the child was well!"

Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful "God bless you, Hannah!"
and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises.

After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted
their fate.  They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the
hard requirements of the situation.  Daily they told the morning lie,
and confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not
being worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they
realized their wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.

Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower,
the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young
beauty to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies
of joy and gratitude gave them.

In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil,
she wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed
her illness; and these the mother read and reread through happy
eyes wet with thankful tears, and kissed them over and over again,
and treasured them as precious things under her pillow.

Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand, and the
mind wandered, and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences. 
this was a sore dilemma for the poor aunts.  There were no love-notes
for the mother.  They did not know what to do.  Hester began a
carefully studied and plausible explanation, but lost the track of it
and grew confused; suspicion began to show in the mother's face,
then alarm.  Hester saw it, recognized the imminence of the danger,
and descended to the emergency, pulling herself resolutely together
and plucking victor from the open jaws of defeat.  In a placid
and convincing voice she said:

"I thought it might distress you to know it, but Helen spent the night
at the Sloanes'. There was a little party there, and, although she
did not want to go, and you so sick, we persuaded her, she being
young and needing the innocent pastimes of youth, and we believing
you would approve.  Be sure she will write the moment she comes."

"How good you are, and how dear and thoughtful for us both! 
Approve?  Why, I thank you with all my heart.  My poor little exile! 
Tell her I want her to have every pleasure she can--I would not rob
her of one.  Only let her keep her health, that is all I ask. 
Don't let that suffer; I could not bear it.  How thankful I am that she
escaped this infection--and what a narrow risk she ran, Aunt Hester! 
Think of that lovely face all dulled and burned with fever. 
I can't bear the thought of it.  Keep her health.  Keep her bloom! 
I can see her now, the dainty creature--with the big, blue, earnest eyes;
and sweet, oh, so sweet and gentle and winning!  Is she as beautiful
as ever, dear Aunt Hester?"

"Oh, more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before,
if such a thing can be"--and Hester turned away and fumbled with
the medicine-bottles, to hide her shame and grief.



CHAPTER V


After a little, both aunts were laboring upon a difficult and baffling
work in Helen's chamber.  Patiently and earnestly, with their stiff
old fingers, they were trying to forge the required note.  They made
failure after failure, but they improved little by little all the time. 
The pity of it all, the pathetic humor of it, there was none to see;
they themselves were unconscious of it.  Often their tears fell
upon the notes and spoiled them; sometimes a single misformed word
made a note risky which could have been ventured but for that;
but at last Hannah produced one whose script was a good enough
imitation of Helen's to pass any but a suspicious eye, and bountifully
enriched it with the petting phrases and loving nicknames that
had been familiar on the child's lips from her nursery days. 
She carried it to the mother, who took it with avidity, and kissed it,
and fondled it, reading its precious words over and over again,
and dwelling with deep contentment upon its closing paragraph:

"Mousie darling, if I could only see you, and kiss your eyes,
and feel your arms about me!  I am so glad my practicing does not
disturb you.  Get well soon.  Everybody is good to me, but I am
so lonesome without you, dear mamma."

"The poor child, I know just how she feels.  She cannot be quite
happy without me; and I--oh, I live in the light of her eyes! 
Tell her she must practice all she pleases; and, Aunt Hannah--
tell her I can't hear the piano this far, nor hear dear voice
when she sings:  God knows I wish I could.  No one knows how sweet
that voice is to me; and to think--some day it will be silent! 
What are you crying for?

"Only because--because--it was just a memory.  When I came away she
was singing, 'Loch Lomond.'  The pathos of it!  It always moves
me so when she sings that."

"And me, too.  How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful
sorrow is brooding in her breast and she sings it for the mystic
healing it brings.  . . . Aunt Hannah?"

"Dear Margaret?"

"I am very ill.  Sometimes it comes over me that I shall never hear
that dear voice again."

"Oh, don't--don't, Margaret!  I can't bear it!"

Margaret was moved and distressed, and said, gently:

"There--there--let me put my arms around you. 
Don't cry.  There--put your cheek to mine.  Be comforted. 
I wish to live.  I will live if I can.  Ah, what could she
do without me! . . . Does she often speak of me?--but I know she does."

"Oh, all the time--all the time!"

"My sweet child!  She wrote the note the moment she came home?"

"Yes--the first moment.  She would not wait to take off her things."

"I knew it.  It is her dear, impulsive, affectionate way.  I knew it
without asking, but I wanted to hear you say it.  The petted wife
knows she is loved, but she makes her husband tell her so every day,
just for the joy of hearing it.  . . . She used the pen this time. 
That is better; the pencil-marks could rub out, and I should grieve
for that.  Did you suggest that she use the pen?"

"Y--no--she--it was her own idea.

The mother looked her pleasure, and said:

"I was hoping you would say that.  There was never such a dear
and thoughtful child! . . . Aunt Hannah?"

"Dear Margaret?"

"Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her. 
Why--you are crying again.  Don't be so worried about me, dear;
I think there is nothing to fear, yet."

The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered
it to unheeding ears.  The girl babbled on unaware; looking up
at her with wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever,
eyes in which was no light of recognition:

"Are you--no, you are not my mother.  I want her--oh, I want her! 
She was here a minute ago--I did not see her go.  Will she come? will
she come quickly? will she come now? . . . There are so many houses
. . . and they oppress me so . . . and everything whirls and turns
and whirls . . . oh, my head, my head!"--and so she wandered on
and on, in her pain, flitting from one torturing fancy to another,
and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution
of unrest.

Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the
hot brow, murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking
the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.



CHAPTER VI


Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave,
and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her
radiant health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage
was also now nearing its end.  And daily they forged loving and cheery
notes in the child's hand, and stood by with remorseful consciences
and bleeding hearts, and wept to see the grateful mother devour
them and adore them and treasure them away as things beyond price,
because of their sweet source, and sacred because her child's hand
had touched them.

At last came that kindly friend who brings healing and peace to all. 
The lights were burning low.  In the solemn hush which precedes the
dawn vague figures flitted soundless along the dim hall and gathered
silent and awed in Helen's chamber, and grouped themselves about
her bed, for a warning had gone forth, and they knew.  The dying
girl lay with closed lids, and unconscious, the drapery upon her
breast faintly rising and falling as her wasting life ebbed away. 
At intervals a sigh or a muffled sob broke upon the stillness. 
The same haunting thought was in all minds there:  the pity of
this death, the going out into the great darkness, and the mother
not here to help and hearten and bless.

Helen stirred; her hands began to grope wistfully about as if they
sought something--she had been blind some hours.  The end was come;
all knew it.  With a great sob Hester gathered her to her breast,
crying, "Oh, my child, my darling!"  A rapturous light broke in the
dying girl's face, for it was mercifully vouchsafed her to mistake
those sheltering arms for another's; and she went to her rest murmuring,
"Oh, mamma, I am so happy--I longed for you--now I can die."


Two hours later Hester made her report.  The mother asked:

"How is it with the child?"

"She is well."



CHAPTER VII


A sheaf of white crape and black was hung upon the door of the house,
and there it swayed and rustled in the wind and whispered its tidings. 
At noon the preparation of the dead was finished, and in the
coffin lay the fair young form, beautiful, and in the sweet face
a great peace.  Two mourners sat by it, grieving and worshipping--
Hannah and the black woman Tilly.  Hester came, and she was trembling,
for a great trouble was upon her spirit.  She said:

"She asks for a note."

Hannah's face blanched.  She had not thought of this; it had seemed
that that pathetic service was ended.  But she realized now that
that could not be.  For a little while the two women stood looking
into each other's face, with vacant eyes; then Hannah said:

"There is no way out of it--she must have it; she will suspect, else."

"And she would find out."

"Yes.  It would break her heart."  She looked at the dead face,
and her eyes filled.  "I will write it," she said.

Hester carried it.  The closing line said:

"Darling Mousie, dear sweet mother, we shall soon be together again. 
Is not that good news?  And it is true; they all say it is true."

The mother mourned, saying:

"Poor child, how will she bear it when she knows?  I shall never see
her again in life.  It is hard, so hard.  She does not suspect? 
You guard her from that?"

"She thinks you will soon be well."

"How good you are, and careful, dear Aunt Hester!  None goes near
herr who could carry the infection?"

"It would be a crime."

"But you SEE her?"

"With a distance between--yes."

"That is so good.  Others one could not trust; but you two guardian
angels--steel is not so true as you.  Others would be unfaithful;
and many would deceive, and lie."

Hester's eyes fell, and her poor old lips trembled.

"Let me kiss you for her, Aunt Hester; and when I am gone,
and the danger is past, place the kiss upon her dear lips some day,
and say her mother sent it, and all her mother's broken heart is
in it."

Within the hour, Hester, raining tears upon the dead face,
performed her pathetic mission.



CHAPTER VIII


Another day dawned, and grew, and spread its sunshine in the earth. 
Aunt Hannah brought comforting news to the failing mother, and a
happy note, which said again, "We have but a little time to wait,
darling mother, then se shall be together."

The deep note of a bell came moaning down the wind.

"Aunt Hannah, it is tolling.  Some poor soul is at rest. 
As I shall be soon.  You will not let her forget me?"

"Oh, God knows she never will!"

"Do not you hear strange noises, Aunt Hannah?  It sounds like
the shuffling of many feet."

"We hoped you would not hear it, dear.  It is a little company
gathering, for--for Helen's sake, poor little prisoner.  There will
be music--and she loves it so.  We thought you would not mind."

"Mind?  Oh no, no--oh, give her everything her dear heart can desire. 
How good you two are to her, and how good to me!  God bless you
both always!"

After a listening pause:

"How lovely!  It is her organ.  Is she playing it herself, do you think?" 
Faint and rich and inspiring the chords floating to her ears on
the still air.  "Yes, it is her touch, dear heart, I recognize it. 
They are singing.  Why--it is a hymn! and the sacredest of all,
the most touching, the most consoling.  . . . It seems to open
the gates of paradise to me.  . . . If I could die now.  . . ."

Faint and far the words rose out of the stillness:


Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee,

E'en though it be a cross

That raiseth me.


With the closing of the hymn another soul passed to its rest,
and they that had been one in life were not sundered in death. 
The sisters, mourning and rejoicing, said:

"How blessed it was that she never knew!"



CHAPTER IX


At midnight they sat together, grieving, and the angel of the Lord
appeared in the midst transfigured with a radiance not of earth;
and speaking, said:

"For liars a place is appointed.  There they burn in the fires
of hell from everlasting unto everlasting.  Repent!"

The bereaved fell upon their knees before him and clasped their
hands and bowed their gray heads, adoring.  But their tongues
clove to the roof of their mouths, and they were dumb.

"Speak! that I may bear the message to the chancery of heaven
and bring again the decree from which there is no appeal."

Then they bowed their heads yet lower, and one said:

"Our sin is great, and we suffer shame; but only perfect and final
repentance can make us whole; and we are poor creatures who have learned
our human weakness, and we know that if we were in those hard straits
again our hearts would fail again, and we should sin as before. 
The strong could prevail, and so be saved, but we are lost."

They lifted their heads in supplication.  The angel was gone. 
While they marveled and wept he came again; and bending low,
he whispered the decree.



CHAPTER X


Was it Heaven?  Or Hell?


***



A CURE FOR THE BLUES



By courtesy of Mr. Cable I came into possession of a singular book
eight or ten years ago.  It is likely that mine is now the only copy
in existence.  Its title-page, unabbreviated, reads as follows:

"The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant.  By G. Ragsdale McClintock,
[1] author of 'An Address,' etc., delivered at Sunflower Hill,
South Carolina, and member of the Yale Law School.  New Haven: 
published by T. H. Pease, 83 Chapel Street, 1845."

No one can take up this book and lay it down again unread. 
Whoever reads one line of it is caught, is chained; he has become
the contented slave of its fascinations; and he will read and read,
devour and devour, and will not let it go out of his hand till it
is finished to the last line, though the house be on fire over
his head.  And after a first reading he will not throw it aside,
but will keep it by him, with his Shakespeare and his Homer,
and will take it up many and many a time, when the world is dark
and his spirits are low, and be straightway cheered and refreshed. 
Yet this work has been allowed to lie wholly neglected, unmentioned,
and apparently unregretted, for nearly half a century.

The reader must not imagine that he is to find in it wisdom,
brilliancy, fertility of invention, ingenuity of construction,
excellence of form, purity of style, perfection of imagery,
truth to nature, clearness of statement, humanly possible situations,
humanly possible people, fluent narrative, connected sequence of events--
or philosophy, or logic, or sense.  No; the rich, deep, beguiling charm
of the book lies in the total and miraculous ABSENCE from it of all
these qualities--a charm which is completed and perfected by the
evident fact that the author, whose naive innocence easily and surely
wins our regard, and almost our worship, does not know that they
are absent, does not even suspect that they are absent.  When read
by the light of these helps to an understanding of the situation,
the book is delicious--profoundly and satisfyingly delicious.

I call it a book because the author calls it a book, I call it a work
because he calls it a work; but, in truth, it is merely a duodecimo
pamphlet of thirty-one pages.  It was written for fame and money,
as the author very frankly--yes, and very hopefully, too, poor fellow--
says in his preface.  The money never came--no penny of it ever came;
and how long, how pathetically long, the fame has been deferred--
forty-seven years!  He was young then, it would have been so much to
him then; but will he care for it now?

As time is measured in America, McClintock's epoch is antiquity. 
In his long-vanished day the Southern author had a passion for
"eloquence"; it was his pet, his darling.  He would be eloquent,
or perish.  And he recognized only one kind of eloquence--the lurid,
the tempestuous, the volcanic.  He liked words--big words,
fine words, grand words, rumbling, thundering, reverberating words;
with sense attaching if it could be got in without marring the sound,
but not otherwise.  He loved to stand up before a dazed world,
and pour forth flame and smoke and lava and pumice-stone into
the skies, and work his subterranean thunders, and shake himself
with earthquakes, and stench himself with sulphur fumes.  If he
consumed his own fields and vineyards, that was a pity, yes; but he
would have his eruption at any cost.  Mr. McClintock's eloquence--
and he is always eloquent, his crater is always spouting--is of the
pattern common to his day, but he departs from the custom of the time
in one respect:  his brethren allowed sense to intrude when it did
not mar the sound, but he does not allow it to intrude at all. 
For example, consider this figure, which he used in the village
"Address" referred to with such candid complacency in the title-page
above quoted--"like the topmost topaz of an ancient tower." 
Please read it again; contemplate it; measure it; walk around it;
climb up it; try to get at an approximate realization of the size of it. 
Is the fellow to that to be found in literature, ancient or modern,
foreign or domestic, living or dead, drunk or sober?  One notices
how fine and grand it sounds.  We know that if it was loftily uttered,
it got a noble burst of applause from the villagers; yet there isn't
a ray of sense in it, or meaning to it.

McClintock finished his education at Yale in 1843, and came to
Hartford on a visit that same year.  I have talked with men who at
that time talked with him, and felt of him, and knew he was real. 
One needs to remember that fact and to keep fast hold of it;
it is the only way to keep McClintock's book from undermining one's
faith in McClintock's actuality.

As to the book.  The first four pages are devoted to an inflamed eulogy
of Woman--simply woman in general, or perhaps as an institution--
wherein, among other compliments to her details, he pays a unique
one to her voice.  He says it "fills the breast with fond alarms,
echoed by every rill."  It sounds well enough, but it is not true. 
After the eulogy he takes up his real work and the novel begins. 
It begins in the woods, near the village of Sunflower Hill.


Brightening clouds seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee,
to spread their beauty over the thick forest, to guide the hero whose
bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish
his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.


It seems a general remark, but it is not general; the hero mentioned
is the to-be hero of the book; and in this abrupt fashion,
and without name or description, he is shoveled into the tale. 
"With aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish his name"
is merely a phrase flung in for the sake of the sound--let it
not mislead the reader.  No one is trying to tarnish this person;
no one has thought of it.  The rest of the sentence is also merely
a phrase; the man has no friend as yet, and of course has had no
chance to try him, or win back his admiration, or disturb him in any
other way.

The hero climbs up over "Sawney's Mountain," and down the other side,
making for an old Indian "castle"--which becomes "the red man's hut"
in the next sentence; and when he gets there at last, he "surveys
with wonder and astonishment" the invisible structure, "which time
has buried in the dust, and thought to himself his happiness was
not yet complete."  One doesn't know why it wasn't, nor how near it
came to being complete, nor what was still wanting to round it up
and make it so.  Maybe it was the Indian; but the book does not say. 
At this point we have an episode:


Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,
who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably
noble countenance--eyes which betrayed more than a common mind. 
This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him
friends in whatever condition of his life he might be placed. 
The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure which showed
strength and grace in every movement.  He accordingly addressed
him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way
to the village.  After he had received the desired information,
and was about taking his leave, the youth said, "Are you not
Major Elfonzo, the great musician [2]--the champion of a noble cause--
the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?" 
"I bear that name," said the Major, "and those titles,
trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry
me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,"
continued the Major, "you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,
I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address." 
The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,
and began:  "My name is Roswell.  I have been recently admitted
to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success
in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle, I shall
look down from the lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall
ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,
and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be
called from its buried GREATNESS."  The Major grasped him by the hand,
and exclaimed:  "O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration--thou flame
of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare
of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede
your progress!"


There is a strange sort of originality about McClintock;
he imitates other people's styles, but nobody can imitate his,
not even an idiot.  Other people can be windy, but McClintock blows
a gale; other people can blubber sentiment, but McClintock spews it;
other people can mishandle metaphors, but only McClintock knows
how to make a business of it.  McClintock is always McClintock,
he is always consistent, his style is always his own style.  He does
not make the mistake of being relevant on one page and irrelevant
on another; he is irrelevant on all of them.  He does not make
the mistake of being lucid in one place and obscure in another;
he is obscure all the time.  He does not make the mistake of slipping
in a name here and there that is out of character with his work;
he always uses names that exactly and fantastically fit his lunatics. 
In the matter of undeviating consistency he stands alone in authorship. 
It is this that makes his style unique, and entitles it to a name
of its own--McClintockian.  It is this that protects it from being
mistaken for anybody else's. Uncredited quotations from other writers
often leave a reader in doubt as to their authorship, but McClintock
is safe from that accident; an uncredited quotation from him would
always be recognizable.  When a boy nineteen years old, who had
just been admitted to the bar, says, "I trust, sir, like the Eagle,
I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man,"
we know who is speaking through that boy; we should recognize
that note anywhere.  There be myriads of instruments in this
world's literary orchestra, and a multitudinous confusion of sounds
that they make, wherein fiddles are drowned, and guitars smothered,
and one sort of drum mistaken for another sort; but whensoever the
brazen note of the McClintockian trombone breaks through that fog
of music, that note is recognizable, and about it there can be no blur
of doubt.

The novel now arrives at the point where the Major goes home to see
his father.  When McClintock wrote this interview he probably
believed it was pathetic.


The road which led to the town presented many attractions Elfonzo
had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was now wending
his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness.  The south winds
whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed against the banks,
as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.  This brought him to
remember while alone, that he quietly left behind the hospitality
of a father's house, and gladly entered the world, with higher hopes
than are often realized.  But as he journeyed onward, he was mindful
of the advice of his father, who had often looked sadly on the ground,
when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened his eyes.  Elfonzo had
been somewhat a dutiful son; yet fond of the amusements of life--
had been in distant lands--had enjoyed the pleasure of the world,
and had frequently returned to the scenes of his boyhood,
almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.  In this condition,
he would frequently say to his father, "Have I offended you,
that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon me with
stinging looks?  Will you not favor me with the sound of your voice? 
If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread a humid veil
of darkness around your expectations, send me back into the world,
where no heart beats for me--where the foot of man had never yet trod;
but give me at least one kind word--allow me to come into the presence
sometimes of thy winter-worn locks."  "Forbid it, Heaven, that I
should be angry with thee," answered the father, "my son, and yet
I send thee back to the children of the world--to the cold charity
of the combat, and to a land of victory.  I read another destiny
in thy countenance--I learn thy inclinations from the flame that has
already kindled in my soul a strange sensation.  It will seek thee,
my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee--thou canst not escape that
lighted torch, which shall blot out from the remembrance of men
a long train of prophecies which they have foretold against thee. 
I once thought not so.  Once, I was blind; but now the path of life
is plain before me, and my sight is clear; yet, Elfonzo, return to thy
worldly occupation--take again in thy hand that chord of sweet sounds--
struggle with the civilized world and with your own heart;
fly swiftly to the enchanted ground--let the night-OWL send forth
its screams from the stubborn oak--let the sea sport upon the beach,
and the stars sing together; but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom,
and thy hiding-place. Our most innocent as well as our most lawful
DESIRES must often be denied us, that we may learn to sacrifice them
to a Higher will."

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately
urged by the recollection of his father's family to keep moving.


McClintock has a fine gift in the matter of surprises; but as a
rule they are not pleasant ones, they jar upon the feelings. 
His closing sentence in the last quotation is of that sort. 
It brings one down out of the tinted clouds in too sudden and collapsed
a fashion.  It incenses one against the author for a moment. 
It makes the reader want to take him by this winter-worn locks,
and trample on his veneration, and deliver him over to the cold
charity of combat, and blot him out with his own lighted torch. 
But the feeling does not last.  The master takes again in his hand that
concord of sweet sounds of his, and one is reconciled, pacified.


His steps became quicker and quicker--he hastened through the PINY woods,
dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little
village of repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry. 
His close attention to every important object--his modest questions
about whatever was new to him--his reverence for wise old age,
and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought
him into respectable notice.

One mild winter day, as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,
which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth--
some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous--
all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as
well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades. 
He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of southern manners.


The artfulness of this man!  None knows so well as he how to pique
the curiosity of the reader--and how to disappoint it.  He raises
the hope, here, that he is going to tell all about how one enters
a classic wall in the usual mode of Southern manners; but does he? 
No; he smiles in his sleeve, and turns aside to other matters.


The principal of the Institution begged him to be seated and listen
to the recitations that were going on.  He accordingly obeyed
the request, and seemed to be much pleased.  After the school
was dismissed, and the young hearts regained their freedom,
with the songs of the evening, laughing at the anticipated pleasures
of a happy home, while others tittered at the actions of the past day,
he addressed the teacher in a tone that indicated a resolution--
with an undaunted mind.  He said he had determined to become
a student, if he could meet with his approbation.  "Sir," said he,
"I have spent much time in the world.  I have traveled among
the uncivilized inhabitants of America.  I have met with friends,
and combated with foes; but none of these gratify my ambition,
or decide what is to be my destiny.  I see the learned world
have an influence with the voice of the people themselves. 
The despoilers of the remotest kingdoms of the earth refer their
differences to this class of persons.  This the illiterate and
inexperienced little dream of; and now if you will receive me as I am,
with these deficiencies--with all my misguided opinions, I will give
you my honor, sir, that I will never disgrace the Institution,
or those who have placed you in this honorable station." 
The instructor, who had met with many disappointments, knew how to
feel for a stranger who had been thus turned upon the charities
of an unfeeling community.  He looked at him earnestly, and said: 
"Be of good cheer--look forward, sir, to the high destination you
may attain.  Remember, the more elevated the mark at which you aim,
the more sure, the more glorious, the more magnificent the prize." 
From wonder to wonder, his encouragement led the impatient listener. 
A strange nature bloomed before him--giant streams promised
him success--gardens of hidden treasures opened to his view. 
All this, so vividly described, seemed to gain a new witchery from his
glowing fancy.


It seems to me that this situation is new in romance.  I feel
sure it has not been attempted before.  Military celebrities have
been disguised and set at lowly occupations for dramatic effect,
but I think McClintock is the first to send one of them to school. 
Thus, in this book, you pass from wonder to wonder, through gardens
of hidden treasure, where giant streams bloom before you,
and behind you, and all around, and you feel as happy, and groggy,
and satisfied with your quart of mixed metaphor aboard as you would
if it had been mixed in a sample-room and delivered from a jug.

Now we come upon some more McClintockian surprise--a sweetheart
who is sprung upon us without any preparation, along with a name
for her which is even a little more of a surprise than she herself is.


In 1842 he entered the class, and made rapid progress in the English
and Latin departments.  Indeed, he continued advancing with such
rapidity that he was like to become the first in his class,
and made such unexpected progress, and was so studious, that he had
almost forgotten the pictured saint of his affections.  The fresh
wreaths of the pine and cypress had waited anxiously to drop once
more the dews of Heaven upon the heads of those who had so often
poured forth the tender emotions of their souls under its boughs. 
He was aware of the pleasure that he had seen there.  So one evening ,as
he was returning from his reading, he concluded he would pay a visit
to this enchanting spot.  Little did he think of witnessing a shadow
of his former happiness, though no doubt he wished it might be so. 
He continued sauntering by the roadside, meditating on the past. 
The nearer he approached the spot, the more anxious he became. 
At that moment a tall female figure flitted across his path, with a
bunch of roses in her hand; her countenance showed uncommon vivacity,
with a resolute spirit; her ivory teeth already appeared as she
smiled beautifully, promenading--while her ringlets of hair dangled
unconsciously around her snowy neck.  Nothing was wanting to complete
her beauty.  The tinge of the rose was in full bloom upon her cheek;
the charms of sensibility and tenderness were always her associates. 
In Ambulinia's bosom dwelt a noble soul--one that never faded--
one that never was conquered.


Ambulinia!  It can hardly be matched in fiction.  The full name
is Ambulinia Valeer.  Marriage will presently round it out and
perfect it.  Then it will be Mrs. Ambulinia Valeer Elfonzo. 
It takes the chromo.


Her heart yielded to no feeling but the love of Elfonzo, on whom
she gazed with intense delight, and to whom she felt herself
more closely bound, because he sought the hand of no other. 
Elfonzo was roused from his apparent reverie.  His books no longer
were his inseparable companions--his thoughts arrayed themselves
to encourage him to the field of victory.  He endeavored to speak
to his supposed Ambulinia, but his speech appeared not in words. 
No, his effort was a stream of fire, that kindled his soul into
a flame of admiration, and carried his senses away captive. 
Ambulinia had disappeared, to make him more mindful of his duty. 
As she walked speedily away through the piny woods, she calmly echoed: 
"O!  Elfonzo, thou wilt now look from thy sunbeams.  Thou shalt
now walk in a new path--perhaps thy way leads through darkness;
but fear not, the stars foretell happiness."


To McClintock that jingling jumble of fine words meant something,
no doubt, or seemed to mean something; but it is useless for us to try
to divine what it was.  Ambulinia comes--we don't know whence nor why;
she mysteriously intimates--we don't know what; and then she goes
echoing away--we don't know whither; and down comes the curtain. 
McClintock's art is subtle; McClintock's art is deep.


Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat
one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered
notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched
on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor. 
The bells were tolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild
wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music--
his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed
to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters
that hopped from branch to branch.  Nothing could be more striking
than the difference between the two.  Nature seemed to have given
the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous
to Ambulinia.  A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo--
such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed
as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with
sincerity of heart.  He was a few years older than Ambulinia: 
she had turned a little into her seventeenth.  He had almost grown
up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one
of the natives.  But little intimacy had existed between them until
the year forty-one--because the youth felt that the character of such
a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than
that of quiet reverence.  But as lovers will not always be insulted,
at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold
looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity
upon those around, and treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate
with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance. 
All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character,
and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its
rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off
his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.


At last we begin to get the Major's measure.  We are able to put
this and that casual fact together, and build the man up before
our eyes, and look at him.  And after we have got him built, we find
him worth the trouble.  By the above comparison between his age
and Ambulinia's, we guess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two;
and the other facts stand thus:  he had grown up in the Cheroke