.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45248
   :PG.Title: The Winepress
   :PG.Released: 2014-03-28
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Christine Beals
   :DC.Title: The Winepress
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE WINEPRESS
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   .. _`EVELYN AT THE WINDOW`:

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      :alt: EVELYN AT THE WINDOW (page 3)

      EVELYN AT THE WINDOW (page `3`_)

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      THE WINEPRESS

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      BY

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      CHRISTINE REALS

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      THE BOOKERY PUBLISHING CO.
      NEW YORK  

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      Copyright, 1912,
      by
      CHRISTINE BEALS

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      TO MY LIFE-LONG FRIEND
      J. S. C.

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `The Church`_
II.  `Margaret`_
III.  `Undercurrents`_
IV.  `Shadows at the Parsonage`_
V.  `Dr. Eldrige, Jr.`_
VI.  `Physician and Friend`_
VII.  `Mrs. Thorpe's Mountains`_
VIII.  `Stranded`_
IX.  `Eastertide`_
X.  `The Discernment of Truth`_
XI.  `A Summer's Vacation`_
XII.  `The Minister's Decline`_
XIII.  `The Pure in Heart`_
XIV.  `A Friend in Need`_
XV.  `Neither Do I Condemn Thee`_
XVI.  `Mrs. Thorpe's Work`_
XVII.  `Every Whit Whole`_
XVIII.  `The Heart's Desire`_
XIX.  `"Where is Your Faith?"`_
XX.  `The Revelation`_
XXI.  `The Law of Life`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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`Evelyn at the Window`_ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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`"He took her in his arms as though she were a little child"`_

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`"Why, permit me to ask, do you not turn some of your
witchcraft on him?"`_

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`"Little Brother, Little Brother, let me tell you a story as I
used to"`_

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.. _`THE CHURCH`:

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   THE WINEPRESS

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE CHURCH

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The church was conspicuously situated on an elevation
which had a dignity of its own; there was nothing
steep nor abrupt about the incline, its long, smooth
slopes extended smoothly and symmetrically.  No
fitter place could be found for a house of worship, and
here those worshipfully inclined had builded this
structure of architectural beauty with many embellishments,
and dedicated it to their God.  Here and there the long
slopes were ornamented by neat dwellings and
prosperous looking homes, while the town of Edgerly lay
on the plain below.  And the church, crowning the
work of God, seemed a thing removed from the busy
mart; a sentinel with a living, throbbing heart keeping
watch, with eyes that slumbered not nor slept.

Was not this temple builded there, stone upon stone,
to stand before the children of men, a living force to
represent all that is best and most worthy, an aid to
truth and purity, the earthly home of the spirit of the
lowly One?  And as its tireless eyes look upon the
busy throng is it not the mission of this church of God
to extend a helping hand to the fallen, to cheer the
downcast and to bind up the broken-hearted?  Are
any of earth's children beyond its love and power?

The parsonage to which the pastor took his bride
had about it an air of prosperity, a touch of exclusiveness
that reflected creditably on this church on the
summit.  The grounds were well kept, the grass was
velvet green, the flowers and shrubs and vines thrifty
and vigorous in their springtime beauty.

The Rev. Maurice Thorpe and his wife established
themselves in this modern, well-ordered home, and
looked with fearless eyes into the future.  A future
that was to be devoted to their fellowmen, dedicated to
the church of God.

The first love of the man's heart was given to his
church; not even the fair and gracious woman whom
he had wooed and wed came before this; and into its
treasury he poured the first vigor and strength of his
earnest manhood.  There had been a time when he had
inclined toward celibacy for the ministry.  Although he
had never doubted the aid and comfort the right sort
of a wife could be to a pastor, there was in his heart
a lurking horror of being yoked to a woman who was
not in very truth, his second self, flesh of his flesh,
soul of his soul, mind of his mind.

But no misgivings came to him as he watched the
girlish figure of his wife at her varied duties, or as she
pored over some volume in his study, or her honest
eyes met his across the table at meal time.  His sense
of satisfaction grew from day to day, as he realized
that his wife that he had won was not only good to
look upon, and a comfort in his home, but that she was
capable of becoming an aid and assistant to him in his
work.

Mrs. Thorpe found much to occupy her time and
thoughts during these first days in her new home.  The
house was in perfect order, and a middle-aged woman
was established in the kitchen; but her ideal of a home
was one where the mistress has every detail of the
work well in hand, and to this end she gave every
branch of the work her personal supervision.  There
was the arranging of the rooms to suit her taste, and
the placing of the articles that she had brought with
her to her new home; all the vivifying touches that
convert a house into a home, and mark it with the
personality of its keeper.

On the side of the house facing the church a room
had been fitted up for Mrs. Thorpe's special use.  Here
in a curtained alcove she hung her bookshelves and
placed her books.  There was a small library table,
some easy chairs, and a desk where she would write
her letters.  From the window there was an excellent
view of the church; there was the smooth incline that
led up to the stately edifice, and the wooded hills and
blue sky in the distance.

.. _`3`:

Mrs. Thorpe stood at her window at the close of
one fair day, and drank in the beauty of earth and sky.
The sun was sinking behind the distant hilltops, and it
bathed the church in a mellow glow, and caused the
narrow taper windows to radiate halos of golden light.
Mrs. Thorpe's eyes lingered upon the scene until the
light faded into shadow, then she slipped into a chair
near the window.  Her mind had a trick of eluding
her vigilance at times, of slipping its leash when she
least expected it, and carrying her into strange,
disquieting realms of thought.  Mysteries hung about her,
and enveloped her as a mist-hung world envelopes a
wanderer who has lost his way.  The mystery of
life--her life--what does it mean?  For what purpose is it
given?  Happiness--what is it?  Contentment and
peace with God--to whom are these vouchsafed?  Or
by what virtues do mortals attain them?  Is it not
through service that these things are attained?  Active,
honest, energetic service, this was to be her magic
wand, her Aaron's rod, by means of which she was to
feed her soul, keep alive the fountains of her love,
and consecrate and glorify her mortal life.  And yet
the vague, elusive mystery of it all--the motives that
actuated her--the ceaseless longing.  She drew her
hand across her brow as though to change her mental
vision, for well she knew the futility of this line of
thought.

The evening wind swayed the curtain at the
window and wafted the perfume from the garden to her.
A bird trilled in a treetop near by, and a blush-rose
nodded just outside the window.  She leaned back in
her cushioned chair and yielded to the quieting
influences about her.

As a child she had been diffident and retiring,
questioning much, but silently.  All things that came into
her small world were carefully weighed and analyzed.
Her surroundings and the conditions of her existence
were sifted and searched in a manner that would have
astonished her elders had they known of it; and the
conclusions that she arrived at were final with her.
She worked out problems of the gravest importance,
accepted her own solutions, and lived according to her
own convictions; which living was a sort of dream life.
A favorite pastime was a conceit of her childish brain
to look upon the life that she was living as a dream,
an unreality, from which she eventually would awaken.

She reasoned in her small way with herself--always
with herself alone, she never mentioned her conceits
and fancies to others--that when troubled dreams
came to her at night she could not know that she was
dreaming.  How, then, she questioned, was she to
know at any time whether she was dreaming or awake?

Especially did she indulge in these fancies when
things in her small world were not to her liking.

"Never mind," she would comfort herself, "this is
only a dream; bye and bye I shall awaken, and
then--ah, then!"

The gladness and ecstasy that awaited her were
never clearly defined in her mind, but that it would be
satisfying and all-sufficient her child mind never
doubted.

Once when she was a small girl she was allowed to
look upon the face of a playmate who had died.  It
was the first time that the question of death had
confronted her; but she had been told that when good
children die they go to live with God in Heaven.  She
looked at the face of the dead child, then, gently,
without the least dread or fear, she laid her warm little
hand on the cold hand of her late playmate.  She said
no word, and showed no agitation.  The act was to
ascertain whether the child was truly robbed of life
and action.  This point settled, she turned and walked
away, and the firm conviction in her little heart was:
"If I had been God, I would not have done it."

She spoke no word in regard to the dead child to
anyone, but while the other children romped and
played, and forgot the absent one, she was quiet and
silent, and she pondered the question for many days.
Every phase of it that her childish mind could grasp
was weighed and considered, and finally the verdict
came.  A God who loves little children would not have
taken her playmate away.  There must be two Gods, a
good one and a bad one.  Then her imagination lived
for days in a conflict between these two Gods.  The
conflict always ended in the restoration of the dead
child to his mother and playmates.

As she grew toward womanhood there was the usual
joyousness and vivacity of girlhood, but she was
thoughtful and reticent, a dreamer still.  When she
was wooed and won by the pastor, Maurice Thorpe,
she was an educated woman, gentle and thoughtful,
but her real nature, and the traits in her character that
were to shape her life, were as the unturned pages of
a book.

Mr. Thorpe entered the room unnoticed and stood
by his wife's side.  He thought she appeared very frail
and girlish in her attitude of abandonment.

"What does the future hold for her and for me?"
he questioned.  Would the hidden fountains of her life
unite with his and flow in an even stream until
Eternity should engulf them in her countless ages?  He
felt no fear, no premonition of evil to come, yet his
heart was strangely stirred.

"My dear one," he whispered, "may truth, purity
and peace be yours."

Yet in the years that came, this petition was granted
in so different a manner from any in which he had
desired it to be, that had it been in his power, he would
not have hesitated to recall it.

Mrs. Thorpe, aroused by the intuition of her husband's
presence, sat upright in her chair, and, catching
a glimpse of her face in a mirror on the wall, she
brushed the fluffy brown hair from her temples.

"I sank down here in this delightful easy chair," she
said, "and its seductive restfulness, together with the
twitter of the birds, the breath of the flowers, and the
hum of insects conspired, I do believe, to beguile me
into the land of dreams."

"I am glad to see you resting," he said.  "You have
been finding a great deal to keep you busy.  I hope
you are not overtaxing your strength."

"I am not tired," she said, but her face grew grave
and the shadow of her troubled thoughts lay in her
eyes.  "I am anxious to get household affairs running
smoothly, so that I may have leisure for other work."

And as though in answer to her restless questioning,
rather than to her spoken thought, he replied: "We
shall find our happiness in our work and our love."  He
laid his hand caressingly against her hair.  "What
a wonderful thing it is," he said, "this service in the
Vineyard, and what a beautiful thing, Evelyn, that we
two can live and love and work together."

The twilight deepened as they sat together, silent
mostly, yet conscious of that understanding and
sympathy that is dearer than words.  The sweet summer
night closed in about them and enfolded them as a
perfume-laden garment; and the sea of life stretched
before them, without a ripple visible on its tranquil
surface.

Later in the evening, as Mrs. Thorpe made her
customary round of the house before retiring, she found
her serving woman still busy in the kitchen.

"Not through with your work yet, Mary?" she said.

The woman was bustling about with flushed face
and somewhat unsettled manner.

"The work being new to me, comes a little awkward
at first," she said.  "But I think I shall get it in hand
before long."

Mrs. Thorpe suspected that the woman had been out
during the afternoon, or for some reason had neglected
her work, else she would not be thus belated.  Before
leaving the kitchen she said:

"I have been making some plans about the work,
Mary; we will talk them over in the morning."

Mary signified her willingness, but her face took on
an even deeper flush, and when her mistress had gone
she sat down and covered her face with her hands.

But it was only for a few moments, then she arose
and resolutely finished her work and went her way,
carrying her own peculiar burdens.

Mrs. Thorpe, as she prepared for her night's repose,
looked again toward the church, now dimly outlined in
the night, and the thought came to her that something
of the sacredness and power that pervaded it might
perhaps in some way reflect upon her life and sanctify
it, and lead her into green pastures, and beside still
waters.  She saw the church spire, tall and spectral in
the moonlight.

"It is like a guardian angel," she thought, "watching
through the day and through the night."





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.. _`MARGARET`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   MARGARET

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Mary McGowan, the serving woman, was a woman
whose life was nearing its meridian.  Her form,
somewhat stooped, spoke of a life of labor; her hair,
combed smoothly back from her face, was well
sprinkled with gray.

When Mrs. Thorpe met her in the dining-room the
next morning, there was something in the woman's
face that for a moment appealed to her.  A careworn
face it was, not beautiful, but stamped unmistakably
with an expression of refinement.  For a moment the
mistress hesitated; should she meet her cordially, gain
her confidence and make a friend of her?  The girlish
impulse lasted but a second, and Mrs. Thorpe had
herself well in hand again, and she covered what she
believed to be her weakness with a somewhat severer
dignity than she had assumed before, and came at once
to business.

After arriving at a satisfactory understanding in
regard to the work, they came to the question of hours.

"You are to have one afternoon each week, and
the service hour on Sunday; the rest of your time I
shall expect you to spend here," Mrs. Thorpe announced.

A sudden flush spread over Mrs. McGowan's face.
She did not reply, but bowed her head in assent, and
Mrs. Thorpe, satisfied with the interview, went at once
to other duties.

In the kitchen a grim-faced woman went steadily
about her work; but there was something in her
countenance that made one believe the world not always
kind to the children of men.

"Yet, after all," she thought, "what does it matter,
if only Margaret gets through the school."  And at the
thought of her girl, her bonny Margaret, her heart
grew warm within her.

The days passed by, and Mrs. Thorpe adhered with
rigid precision to the rules and regulations she had
established in her home, and devoted her leisure time
in a systematic manner to the various societies and
organizations conducted by the church.

Returning home one afternoon earlier than she had
expected, she went to the kitchen on some small errand
and found that Mary was not in.  She waited for her
return, and confronted her with unruffled mien.

"What excuse have you to offer for your absence
this afternoon?" she asked.

"I have no excuse to offer."

"And is this the manner in which you keep your
agreement?"

"Mrs. Thorpe, it is necessary for me to be away
from the house at times, but I shall not fail in my
duties here."

"You say that it is necessary for you to be away,
yet you understood my terms and accepted them.
Mary, this must not happen again."

"Then I must leave your employ, Mrs. Thorpe."

"Very well," replied the mistress, a red spot burning
on either cheek; "I shall find someone else as soon
as possible."

After supper Mrs. McGowan again left the parsonage
and hurried along the street until she came to a
small house a few blocks away.

"Why, mother mine, home so soon?" said a tall,
dark-faced girl, as the mother entered the room.
"What is it, mother?  You look tired and worn.  Is
the work too hard for you?"  The girl drew a stool
to her mother's side and took a worn hand in hers.
"I feel so badly to have you working so hard for me,
mother, but when I finish school, oh, you shall be a
lady then, mother!  I shall take care of you and Jamie
then."

The mother laid her tired head back against the
chair and waited long before she replied.  She felt
faint and sick at heart.  She had seen much in life that
was hard to bear; widowhood and poverty had been
hers for many years.  Her only boy was a helpless
cripple.  Her one joy in life was Margaret, her
blithesome girl.  Her one great aim had been to keep her in
school until she should obtain sufficient education to
place her independently among the world's workers.

When she took her place at the parsonage, it was
with the expectation that Mr. Thorpe, who knew her
circumstances and seemed interested in her family,
would be willing for her to spend what time she could
spare from her duties in her own home.  But now she
saw that this could not be, and there was nothing left
but for Margaret to go into the factory.  It was a bitter
blow, but deeper and keener than her own pain, she
felt what it would mean to the girl.  Margaret, with
her willful, passionate nature, had not learned to be
patient, nor to bow to the inevitable, as she, the
mother, had learned to do.

"What is it, mother?" persisted the girl.  "What
troubles you?"

"Lassie, I cannot work for Mrs. Thorpe any longer."

Margaret sprang to her feet and stood like a young
deer, with head erect and dilated nostrils.

"Mother, what has happened?  Tell me what has
happened."

"It is nothing, lass, nothing at all, only Mrs. Thorpe
must have someone who can spend all her time at the
parsonage.  She does not know how often I have been
away, nor that I have spent the nights here with you
and Jamie.  She was displeased to-day when she found
me gone."

Disappointment keen and sharp, anger wild and
unreasoning, met in the girl's heart.  Passionate,
turbulent Margaret!

"Come, lassie, don't take it so hard; we can find
some other way after a time, perhaps."

"Yes, mother, you can go to the pastor again with
your trouble.  You believed him to be so good a man.
*Good!*--how I hate, *hate* and detest good people!  They
talk of helping the poor and needy--we have been
poor, mother, poor and in need ever since I can
remember--many times we have been hungry, and Jamie has
never had the help that he should have had--else he
might now be strong as other boys; and what have
these good people of the church done for us?  This
man, your pious pastor, came here and offered you
this place, and now his wife, the detestable hypocrite,
has turned you off.  Good people!  Oh, I wish some
great wave would sweep them from the face of the
earth!"

"Margaret, Margaret, girl, this is terrible; you must
not, Margaret!"

"Yes, mother, it is terrible; terrible for me to say
what I think, but you know it is true.  Those people
have been good to your face; they have talked and
sympathized, but what has anyone of them done for
us?  Not one of them would lift a finger or go one
step out of his way to help us."

The girl's face was transformed with passion, and
there was a glitter in her eyes that even the mother
had never seen before.

"There is Amy Mayhew, the deacon's daughter,"
the girl continued, "who spends more for ribbons and
rings and bracelets than my whole wardrobe costs.
To-day at school she was showing a new ring; it cost
only ten dollars, and while she was saying it her eyes
were on my ragged shoes--oh, mother!"  With a flood
of tears the girl buried her face in her mother's lap.
Poor Margaret, she had not yet learned to look with
unthinking, unheeding vision on the wrongs of humanity,
her own included.  Little more than a child, she
had looked at life with a child's vision, and wrong, to
her, had been wrong, and right was right.  The
distribution of property that gives one person more than
enough and another less than sufficient, can never seem
just to a mind unbiased by worldly wisdom.  And
when once the exact balance between right and wrong
is disturbed, the equilibrium lost, a sort of moral chaos
is likely to disturb all questions of righteousness and
honor.

The mother laid her hand on the girl's crown of
dark hair.  She could not know--mercifully could not
know--of the transformation taking place in the heart
of her child.  She well knew that many temptations
lay in the girl's pathway; and Margaret had not always
been tractable and easily controlled.  Exuberant of
spirit and naturally willful, a sort of restlessness
seemed to possess her.  But the mother believed that
a few years more would tide her child over this trying
time, and her one great desire was to get her away
from the town, and engaged in some active, responsible
work.  And while the failure of her plans had
bitterly disappointed the daughter, it had all but
broken the mother's heart.

Had no thoughts come to Margaret other than those
of the disappointment and uncongenial toil, she might
still have retained her crown of womanhood
unsullied--but alas, and alas!  Beside the factory and the
honest toil that her willful heart rebelled against,
there arose in her mind forms and phantoms of many
shapes and colors, tempting, taunting, alluring; and
when her untutored mind endeavored to grasp their
significance, they evaded her, and with seductive wiles
eluded her.  Poor girl! tempted by the sparkle of the
foam on the cup.  And while her heart was sore she
sipped the first draught of the poison wine; and later
she found, as all who taste must find, that the dregs
were more bitter than anything that unsullied
girlhood can conceive.

The next morning Mrs. McGowan was not able to
leave her bed.  A sleepless night, and the care and
perplexities that multiplied ahead of her, left her
nervous and exhausted.  At her earnest request
Margaret went to the parsonage and prepared the morning
meal.

"Good morning, Margaret, I am glad to see you,"
said Mr. Thorpe, pleasantly.  "I am sorry your
mother is ill."

Mrs. Thorpe thought the girl's dark face very
sullen and unattractive, and she wondered how even her
husband could be kind and patient with people who
seemed to care so little for his interest in them.

After Margaret had served the meal, and had left
the room, Mr. Thorpe asked his wife what she knew
about Mary's illness.

"Mary gave me warning yesterday that she must
leave my service, but made no mention of feeling
indisposed," Mrs. Thorpe replied.  "She gave me to
understand that she could not give me all her time.
I was not aware that she has a family."

"Then you do not know about the little cripple boy?"

"No; Mary has never mentioned any member of
her family to me."

"I feel a special interest in this woman and her
children, and I believed that after you learned her
circumstances you could arrange to give her certain
hours away from the house."

"But you never mentioned her circumstances to me,
Maurice."

"No; I have thought several times of inquiring
about her, but I have been very busy.  I hope we may
be able to find someone to take Mary's place soon,
and perhaps after a time she will be able to come
back."

"Perhaps the girl will remain.  If I find her
satisfactory, it will save me further trouble."

"Margaret is in the high school and ought not to
miss a single day.  You had better try to find someone
else, and in the meantime it will be well to look in and
see if there is anything the family needs."

"I will do so.  I regret that I did not know about
the family.  And this girl is in the high school here?"

"Yes; one year after this one takes her through.
Mrs. McGowan has great hopes for the future.  A
relative some place in the country has promised to
secure Margaret a position as a teacher when she
finishes the school here.  For years Mary supported
herself and her family by taking in sewing, but her
eyesight began to fail, and she decided to try a change of
work; so I offered her the position here.  And Jamie,
the cripple, consented to stay alone while Margaret
was at school.  I wish there was someone to take
Margaret's place to-day."

An impulse came to Mrs. Thorpe to do the work
herself that day and let Margaret go, but she
remembered that she was a member of a church committee
that was to meet that afternoon to transact some
business for the church, and she felt that it would be
hardly right for her to fail to meet with them.

So during the day Margaret swept and dusted and
cooked and served, and no one knew of the disastrous
thoughts that surged through her heart and brain.

Mrs. Thorpe called at the little house where Mary
lived, but she found her reticent and little inclined to
talk of family affairs.

"Margaret will go into the factory," she said.
"There is no other way at present."

When Mrs. Thorpe told her husband of this he was
surprised at the mother's decision; she had seemed so
anxious about the school.  But he thought that after
all Margaret might have given up the school of her
own accord.  Perhaps he had overestimated the girl;
some way she had not seemed so bright and winsome
that day as he had believed her to be.

It happened a few days later that Mr. Thorpe was
called to see a poor parishioner who lived on the
outskirts of the town.  In order to reach this house he
was obliged to pass through a neighborhood commonly
known as the Flat.  This was a disreputable district
on the other side of the hill from Edgerly.  When the
town was in its infancy this Flat district was bought
by a man named Bolton, who tried to throw the
balance of power and interest on this side of the hill.
To this end he erected a number of houses for tenants,
built a saloon and hired the right sort of a man to
run it.  He also built a theatre.  The Bolton stamp
never left the Flat, and in time it came to be peopled
by the lowest of the poor class.  The saloon still did
a flourishing business, and the theatre, known as the
Flat theatre, answered for such plays and entertainments
as more cultured and Christian Edgerly would
not tolerate.

As Mr. Thorpe was returning from his call he saw
a man and woman standing in the shadow of the
theatre.  The moon was full, and by its light he
recognized the woman as Margaret.  The man's face was
turned from him, and he could not so readily make
out his identity.  But he knew it boded no good to
Margaret to be there at that hour.  He stopped,
hesitated a moment, and caught the sound of voices.  The
girl spoke rapidly, and he thought she seemed in an
ill-conditioned mood.  The man's voice was more even
and conciliatory.  He drew the girl's arm through his
and together they entered the theatre.  The light from
a lamp at the door fell upon them as they entered, and
Mr. Thorpe recognized the man.

"Max!  Max Morrison!" he exclaimed under his
breath.  He went on his way, thoughtful and troubled.

It must be true that he had overestimated Margaret,
but he would speak to his wife, and see if her woman's
tact could not devise some way to save the girl from
the evil that threatened her.





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.. _`UNDERCURRENTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   UNDERCURRENTS

.. vspace:: 2

The seasons passed as seasons have a way of
passing.  The spring gave place to effulgent, luxurious
summer; the summer slipped into autumn, and winter
followed on, with bluster and storm.  It was spring
again at the parsonage.  There was the song of birds,
the hum of insects, and the rare perfume wafted from
the garden.

One sweet spring evening Mrs. Thorpe stood again
at her open window.  A hush seemed to have fallen
over the earth, and the silent moon and stars looked
benignly down.  A rush of emotion, restful, worshipful,
swept over her.  If only she might escape the
stress and turmoil of life, and become a part of the
quiet and calm that belong to nature!

The year had been one of honest effort, faithful,
loyal service.  Twice every Sabbath, morning and
evening, Mr. Thorpe had stood in the pulpit and
expounded the truths of the Gospel as they had been
revealed to him.  Mrs. Thorpe, capable and willing,
had been drawn into church, charitable and benevolent
work, until her hands were full of work, and her life
full of care; and her thoughts were vastly more
troubled than they had ever been before.  She realized
that where once her thoughts had been vague, half-formed,
that now, full-fledged and forceful, they were
overmastering her.  The mysteries that had once hung
about her, dim and misty, now arose like walls of
blackness, forbidding and awe-inspiring; and the
things that she had once gazed upon with curious eyes
now shocked and terrified her.

When she started in her life's work, her ideas of
religion and the truths of life were but dream-like,
shadowy conceptions; reflections, as it were, from the
theories and dogmas of her elders and so-called
spiritual leaders.  There are many people who never get
beyond these reflections, these traditions of religion,
these second-hand conceptions.  To some natures they
are satisfying; they ease the mind, point a way to
safety for the future, and afford a solace in time of
trouble.

Mrs. Thorpe, however, was one who was destined
to abide but a very short time in the consolation
afforded by this kind of religion.  Yet, when she
attempted to step out from the creeds that cramped
and dwarfed her soul, to thrust from her theories and
premises that depressed and antagonized her, she
found no other ground on which to place her feet,
and felt herself naked and alone, without a garment
of righteousness with which to clothe herself, and
without compass or guiding star.  She doubted, and
in agony condemned herself for her doubts; later she
rebelled, yet with her own hand she would have torn
her rebellious heart from her bosom, had it been in
her power to do so, and cast it from her as an unclean
thing, an enemy to her peace, a treachery to her soul.
She believed it treason to allow her mind to wander
into fields of religious research other than those that
had been carefully explored and marked as safe; and
to her consciousness she pleaded guilty of the charge.

Before her, life stretched barren and desolate, and
not even in her dreams could she find a light to guide
her feet.  She longed for peace, and believed the fault
all hers that she had not found it; she lacked wisdom,
and believed the power to attain it had been denied her.

And as she stood alone in the sweet spring night,
her thoughts and emotions became complex, conflicting
and tumultuous.  Strange, alien thoughts flashed
before her vision, and, like things alive, seemed to
glow and quiver in the darkness.  She covered her
face with her hands.  "God has hidden His face from
me," she whispered, "I have never known Him."

Now before her in a fleeting vision she saw her
Savior, but it was not the man Jesus as she had
thought of him, with his crown of thorns and his
nail-pierced hands beckoning to her, asking for her
adoration and worship; but in this vision he came as a
friend and teacher, one who has solved and proven all
of life's problems, and stood ready to help her with
all that troubled and perplexed her.  He offered her
not redemption through his death, but life through
the understanding of God's love.

But so foreign was this vision of a Christ, to her
orthodox conception of Him, that for a moment she
was overwhelmed by it; then instantly she felt her
strange thoughts to be intruders, vagaries of her
brain, and her first impulse was to refuse them
audience, to resist and destroy them.  She had no
intention of countenancing for a moment a thought that
cast any shade of disapprobation on the work in which
she and her husband were united, or which differed in
any manner from the way in which they were working.

She turned and walked back and forth through the
room.  "This unrest always attacks me when I am
tired and undone," she thought.  "These troublesome
thoughts will leave me when I am rested and myself
again."

She went back to the window and breathed deep of
the sweet night air.  Something deeper than her
consciousness, more potent than her faith, greater than
her understanding, was striving for recognition within
her.  The heart of all things, the force and strength of
the universe, the science of Life itself was unfolding
before her; but she steeled her heart against it.  Her
mind had not yet burst its chrysalis; she was still a
child of earth.

When Mrs. Thorpe found herself beset by the strife
and unrest of her inner life, she turned instinctively
to a strong, true friend that she had found.  This was
a Mrs. Mayhew, the wife of one of the deacons of
the church.  She was a woman older than Mrs. Thorpe
and possessed of rare tact, and the sympathy
that soothes and comforts without conscious effort.

This woman's life was a busy one; heart and hands
were full.  She had wealth at her disposal, and social
duties made their demands upon her; church work
appealed to her, and her family of children knew her
as their counselor and best friend.  If there were past
chapters in this woman's life that caused her to be
especially tender and sympathetic toward the young
wife of her pastor, and yet gave her the wisdom to
know that the trouble lay too deep for mortal hand to
touch, she made no sign and spoke no word, but in
the silence her heart spoke to the troubled heart of
her friend.  And Mrs. Thorpe never named her
trouble, or by the slightest word disclosed the doubts
that came to her.  Whatever help she received she
imbibed from her friend's personality and gleaned
from her quiet, well-balanced life.

Unable to rid herself of her troubled thoughts, the
next day Mrs. Thorpe dropped in upon this friend.
And during the call she discussed the church choir
with Mrs. Mayhew's niece, Geraldine, who was the
church organist.

"I think we should have some new music," Mrs. Thorpe
said.  "Since Max Morrison has consented to
sing in the choir, with his strong tenor voice we can
undertake some things which we could not before.
I am glad that Max has promised to help us.  So much
depends on the choir.  People will go where they can
hear good music."

Geraldine made some suggestions regarding the new
music, and Mrs. Mayhew readily agreed with
Mrs. Thorpe that the choir has much to do with the
success of the modern church.

At the service the next Sunday morning Mr. Thorpe
gave a strong, scholarly address.  But it was not the
sermon, neither was it the strong tenor, nor the new
music that caught Mrs. Thorpe's attention.  She was
coming to regard the service hour on Sunday as the
hardest time of the week.  For strive, struggle and
pray as she would, she could not always bring herself
into a proper frame of mind; could not keep the spirit
of worship.

Sometimes a thought from her husband's sermon
would flash out before her, confront her and torment
her.  At this stage of her life the thought, "I do not
believe," never confronted her boldly and openly; but
always there was the subtle insinuation, "Do you
believe?"  Sometimes her soul's agony was caused by
the attitude of the people, lavishly dressed,
ostentatiously worshipful.  Then instead of worship in her
own heart she would be possessed by scathing scorn.
But this morning it was the songs that caused her
undoing.  Her husband took his place in the pulpit and
the choir sang the opening hymn; and a line, a thought
from the song attacked Mrs. Thorpe:

   |  "Lord Jesus, look down from thy throne in the skies,
   |  And help me to make a complete sacrifice."
   |

Mrs. Thorpe felt herself without rudder or sail, her
bark at the mercy of a stormy sea.  Her mind was
chaotic:

"The Lord Jesus Christ then was sitting comfortably,
contentedly upon His throne in the skies!  What
wonder that His people are straying in many
forbidden paths?  What wonder that they are wandering,
scattered and lost?  Are they not as sheep without a
shepherd?  If He is the Savior of men, why is He not
among His people--oh, his people who so sorely need Him?"

The thought brought the tears to her eyes; but the
next thought choked them abruptly:

"If He had taken Himself to His shining throne in
Heaven, what right had she or this concourse of people
to conjure Him to come down?"

Instead of the submissive attitude of one desiring
to make a "complete sacrifice," a wild, unreasoning
rebellion arose within her; but a stoical calm covered
every emotion.  But she was not yet to be let off the
rack; the worst was to follow.  The sermon was
devoted to the work and needs of missions, and the
pastor made a strong appeal for funds with which to
carry on the Master's work.  After the sermon the
first lines of song rang out with a pleasing melody:

   |  "I have read of a beautiful City,
   |    Far away in the Kingdom of God:
   |  I have read how its walls are of jasper,
   |    How its streets are all golden and broad."
   |

Mrs. Thorpe's sense of humor, which sometimes
leaped suddenly into life and overmastered all her
troubled thoughts and melancholy broodings, now
came near finishing the tragedy of the service hour.
Those "Streets all golden and broad--"  If it was
gold the world needed--and her husband had told
them so emphatically that it was--why just a section
of the street up there--only think what could be
accomplished with a block--"all golden!"

But perhaps her humor was not of a healthy sort
this morning; for her heart was cold as ice, and she
feared that she might shriek aloud in fiendish glee.

During the weeks that followed she found her work
difficult to perform; all her tasks were irksome.  But
with a desperate courage, and a resolution born of
her will, she held herself to the minutest details of
every task that came to her.  As the weeks slipped
by a peculiar strained look grew upon her face.  Her
husband noticed that the bloom was fading from her
cheeks and an unattractive pallor taking its place, and
the thought came to him that perhaps his wife was
burdened with too many cares.

"Are you not so well as usual, Evelyn?" he asked
her one day.

A nervous flush covered, for the time, the tired look
on her face.

"Not so well, perhaps, just of late," she replied.
She raised her eyes to his, and he noticed a strange
expression in their depths.

But with a sort of supreme despair she clung to her
work, and devoted herself to her various duties.  Yet
she found herself little by little obliged to give up
much that she had undertaken, for there were days
when pain and physical weakness overcame her.

One evening after his usual hour of study, Mr. Thorpe
laid aside his books and went in search of his
wife.  She was indisposed and had kept her room
during the day.  He found her noiselessly walking back
and forth through the room, with her hands pressed
close against her temples.  She wore a loose gown,
which fell in long folds about her, and revealed her
tall and ghost-like in the dim light.  Mr. Thorpe stood
for a moment and regarded her in silence.  Her face
was haggard, and her eyes were set in dark circles.
Her movements were slow and mechanical, as though
her body was a thing apart from the spirit which
impelled it.  Her whole attitude and appearance
suggested the embodiment of an overmastering pain.

Mr. Thorpe stepped to her side.  "Evelyn, my
dear," he said, "you are in great pain.  Why did you
not call me?  You should have help; direct me and I
will bring you some remedy."

"I have tried many remedies," she said.  "I do not
believe anything will relieve me.  A headache has to
have its own time."

She assured her husband that there was nothing
that he could do to relieve her, and begged him to
retire and leave her alone.

In the small hours of the night she crept to her bed,
pale and worn, like some wounded thing that has been
engaged in deadly combat with a foe.  The pain had
burned itself out, and the sleep of exhaustion came to
her.

The severity of his wife's attacks alarmed
Mr. Thorpe, and he begged her to lay down still more of
the burden of her work.  But she was not ready to do
this, and continued her self-appointed tasks with all
the strength at her command.  Yet there was
something in look and manner, something indescribable,
unlike her real self, that caused Mr. Thorpe a vague
feeling of apprehension for the future.

It was at this time that Mr. Thorpe's cousin, Pauline,
came to make her home at the parsonage.  She was a
middle-aged woman, strong and vigorous and
possessed of a goodly share of common sense and plain
practicality.  Having missed making a home for
herself, she very sensibly made herself at home wherever
she was.

"I love the Lord with all my heart," she was wont
to say, "and I can work for him quite as well in one
place as in another."

There was something in her strong and wholesome
personality that caused one to trust her instinctively.
And gradually, as Mrs. Thorpe was obliged to lay
them down, she assumed the household cares; and
cheerfully from day to day she took upon herself the
burden of the work, and managed the girl in the
kitchen with more tact and discretion than
Mrs. Thorpe had ever been able to command.

"I do not believe that life holds any problems for
Pauline," was Mrs. Thorpe's mental comment, "or
that she has any doubts or fears with which to contend."

Now Mr. Thorpe pleaded with his wife and tried
to induce her to lay aside all her cares in order that
she might regain her health.  But she insisted that she
was not ill, and that she should not fail in her work;
and she devoted herself with renewed zeal to her
outside duties.  Yet the days came closer together when
she was obliged to keep her room, and not infrequently
her bed for the day.

At such times Mr. Thorpe had fallen into the way
of summoning the family physician, Dr. Eldrige.

The old doctor would shake his head and declare it
to be a case of "nerves."  And one day when
Mrs. Thorpe's suffering was unusually severe, he said to
Mr. Thorpe in his characteristically blunt, brusque
manner:

"If you wish to keep that wife of yours out of the
grave or the lunatic asylum, you will have to put a
stop to this eternal gad and go she persists in."

Mr. Thorpe's face paled.

"I have tried to induce my wife to give up her
work," he said, "but she clings to it persistently."

"Well, she will not cling to anything in this world
much longer unless she changes her course," was his
gruff rejoinder.  He saw the pain in Mr. Thorpe's face,
and noted the look of fear that leaped into his eyes;
but it did not affect him.  Other people's troubles never
caused him a moment's concern.  He often assured
himself that a man who ministered to the ills of the
human family needed a level head and a good hard
heart to go with it.

Pauline, who overheard the conversation, made no
mention of it to Mrs. Thorpe, but said:

"I cannot understand how Dr. Eldrige holds his
popularity.  He seems a rough, unfeeling man."

"He has the reputation of being the best physician
in town," Mrs. Thorpe replied.  "I always feel that
I dare not be ill any longer after I have faced him.
I have heard, too, that he treats his patients most
skillfully when he is partially under the influence of
liquor."

"I do not see how you and Maurice dare trust him,
Evelyn.  The human organism at the mercy of a
half-drunken man!  This, to me, seems like a terrible
thing."

"You lose sight of the main facts, Pauline, and
cavil at minor things.  We of the human family must
have a physician; with our sensitive bodies, our nerves
so finely adjusted to feel the slightest discord, and to
sting and quiver with pain, we must have a physician.
Providence sends our ills, and it takes a skillful
physician to correct them, and so if only he be skillful,
there is nothing else that counts."

This was not the first time that Pauline had detected
a strain of covert bitterness in Mrs. Thorpe's speech,
and the tone in which she spoke more than the words
alone troubled her now.  In her philosophy all that
which she could not understand was "Providence,"
and to yield to the iron Hand of it was the whole duty
of a Christian.  Yet there was a tone of pleading,
rather than anything dictatorial, in her voice as she
replied:

"We can trust the hand of Providence, Evelyn,
whatever of pain and sickness comes to us."

There was a slight uneasiness in Mrs. Thorpe's
manner and her breath fluttered in her throat:

"It is hard to be quiet under the rod, sometimes,
Pauline."

"God knows what is best for us, dear.  You do not
believe that one moment's pain or suffering comes to
you without His knowledge and consent."

At just this time Mrs. Thorpe's mental condition
was such that every word of Pauline's was to her soul
as red hot steel to the quivering flesh.  Her breath
fluttered and caught; there was a haze before her eyes.
She felt herself possessed of two distinct personalities.
She heard her answer to Pauline:

"Yes, I try to trust Him."  But the second personality,
forceful, insistent--what wildness, what frenzy
was this?

"There is no God!  There is no power in Heaven
above, nor in Hell below, nor on this earth, that has a
right to create a man and then by slow degrees to
torture him to death!  To rot the flesh from living
bones, to crush and pollute and deform!  It is not
true!  If this is God--cursed be God!  If this is the
Christ--"

With a strong effort, a quick, nervous movement,
she recovered herself.  She felt a wild impulse to fly
from the room, from the house, but most of all from
herself.

Pauline was by her side, with her cool hand on her
forehead.

"What is it, Evelyn?" she asked.  "Are you ill?"

"Only a spell of giddiness, I think, and my head
feels badly.  I will go to my room and lie down for a
time."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SHADOWS AT THE PARSONAGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   SHADOWS AT THE PARSONAGE

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Thorpe was called to his old home by the death
of his brother.  This brother had gone to California
the year before for his health, had died there and was
brought home for burial.

During their school days and college life, spent
together, the boys had been very near to each other.
There was a bond between them other than the bond
of blood.  A similarity of tastes and ambitions had
brought about a congeniality and comradeship such as
many times fails to develop between the offspring of
the same parents.  Both men had studied for the
ministry and entered into the work at about the same
time.  But when George, the elder, was in the prime
of his manhood a fatal malady had fixed itself upon
him; a malady inherited, it was said, from his mother,
who had laid down her burdens in the prime of her
womanhood.

It was now nearly two years since Maurice Thorpe
with his bride had left the home of his youth.  It was
a sad return.  Among familiar scenes, old memories,
well remembered faces, he bowed his head in grief
and sorrow, and saw the clods close in upon the
narrow earth-bed of this loved one, this gentle man of
God, whose life had been dedicated to humanity.
Something valued, something prized and loved was
gone from life.  Whatever the years might hold
hereafter, this dear one was gone; his God had taken him.
But there were no doubts or sacrilegious questionings
in Mr. Thorpe's mind.  His God was his sovereign,
supreme of will, infallible in justice.  Nor did
the thought ever penetrate the well-kept fabric of his
belief that there could be aught of ignorance in his
conception of God; or that the Infinite in its length
and breadth and depths was not wholly within the
compass of his vision.

When he returned home, the marks of his grief were
upon him, and Pauline believed that she detected a
change in his health.  His somewhat slender figure
seemed more spare, his shoulders a trifle more stooped,
and his chest contracted.  Alarming symptoms, these.
She had seen the first approach of the malady in his
brother's case, and she could not mistake its advances.
She took it upon herself to see that Maurice took
proper care of himself.  He was not allowed to sit in
a draught, nor to go out unless properly protected from
damp and cold.  At the slightest alarm, a cough or
failing appetite, she was ready with remedies and
decoctions calculated to guard against and ward off all
forms of the dread disease that was always pictured
in her mind.

And now a great fear that had long lain dormant in
Mrs. Thorpe's heart sprang into life.  What reason
had she to believe that her husband would be spared
this fatality, this mysterious thing that had transmitted
itself from one generation to another, and was
free to lay its hand on its victims as it chose; sparing
where its fickle fancy dictated, or clutching its death
fingers into the heart, and refusing to relax its hold
until the lifeless body lay before it, if so its ghoulish
will desired?  And no man could say it nay!  Brooking
no restraint, gaunt, mocking, stalking abroad at
noonday, in the land which the Lord God had created!

The hot restlessness of heart which never wholly
left her now flamed up and burned, and caused her to
writhe as one in mortal pain.  Questions of the gravest
importance fraught with meanings she could not
measure nor weigh confronted her wherever she turned.
And the depth of her ignorance--humanity's
ignorance--concerning the most vital things of life, seemed
to her deplorable and reprehensible.

From sheer necessity she dropped the greater
burden of her work.  And always fond of reading, she now
read incessantly and without discrimination whatever
work she could find bearing on that one great problem,
Life, and that other all-absorbing question, Religion.
And over and over, and again and again, she pondered
the meaning of it all.  What does it mean--this life of
man, with all of its pleasures and pain, its stress and
strife, its joy and sorrow, its good and evil--for what
is it given?  She had been taught to believe that it is
a preparatory state, a test or trial to ascertain how
many are deserving of eternal bliss hereafter.  And
although she struggled against it and refused to look
upon it, a picture persisted in painting itself upon her
mental vision.  This was the picture of a father who
placed his children, the weak and the strong together,
in an open field, and compelled them to till the soil
and to dig and delve in the ground.  And at times he
sent punishment upon them, torment and torture and
physical pain; while they, the children, toiled on in
blind and stupid ignorance, never knowing what it was
that had caused the father's wrath to descend upon
them.  And the father sat calmly at a safe distance
and stoically observed their conduct.  At the end of a
certain period he intended to reward those who had
been very good and patient, and very submissive to
his will, with a beautiful home, while the others, those
who had rebelled or complained, or fallen by the
wayside, he would drive into another field and inflict
punishment yet more dire upon them.

She never fully consented to look upon this picture,
and she tried always to blot it from her vision, to erase
and destroy it, and yet as often as she tried to do this
she was horrified to find that by some strange machination
of her mind she was condemning, repudiating the
whole of creation, the scheme of the universe.

Her purpose in life was too honest, too sincere, her
desires too pure to admit of her taking any halfway
ground on these questions that confused and perplexed
her.  Her reading and research led her into many
strange and unfrequented byways--hazardous, she
thought them sometimes, black with peril--destruction,
perhaps.  And yet she had come to the place where she
must know--she for herself must know the truth.
And while with a trembling hand she shattered her old
beliefs--graven images of doctrine--she found nothing
to take their place.  The sincerity of her life was
crowding her off her old footing--but where?  Over a
precipice?  She felt it to be so, and then--what then?
There were days when her mind refused to act, when
her mental faculties were in a state of paralysis.
Sometimes she fell into the old trick of her childhood,
day dreaming.

At the close of one painful, troubled day she sat
before her open fire, her head against a pillow at the
back of her chair.  Her eyes were upon the fire at her
feet.  The flames leaped fitfully from time to time, and
again fluttered among the embers.  Slowly the gulf
of the centuries was bridged and she witnessed the
creation of the first man--no great task it appeared,
for the dust of the earth furnished sufficient material.
In our human wisdom, finite though it is, we do not
permit our children to use edged tools--her eyes were
on the red embers at her feet, and she saw, glowing
there, the thing which infinite wisdom gave to man;
that which was at once his glory and his undoing, a
two-edged sword, deadly keen--good and evil.  It
developed that this keen edged sword was hardly the
thing with which to prune and keep in order the
luxurious garden set apart for man on one corner of the
footstool.

The unselfishness of Woman dates back to the
Garden.  No sooner had Eve broken open the luscious
apple and tasted its flavor than she offered to divide it.
And it was not within the nature of man to refuse so
dainty a morsel from a fair hand.

Then man began to wander over the face of the
earth, footsore and sinstained, and in due course of
time came the great Sacrifice--the spilling of
blood--the Golgotha.

The smouldering fire shot into tiny tongues of
flame and licked the stones on the hearth--and yet
what has the great Sacrifice accomplished?  Wherein
is the efficacy?  Hoping, fearing, faithless--ignorant,
suffering, despairing--this is Life.  Men and women
parade before us and flaunt to the world that they are
saved--saved from what?  Or for what?  The shame
and moral degradation, the pain and the anguish date
back to the Garden.  Christ came to check it, but
wherein are we better?  The poison is in our blood
and the canker in our hearts; the flesh rots from the
bones and the soul reeks in iniquity; the senses long
for the fleshpots of Egypt, and with one accord we
gather about the board, at the feast of Belshazzer!

The flames died down, and the embers burned with
a dull glow.  Now a hush fell over the room and the
stillness of the place folded itself about the woman
motionless in her chair.  The minutes slipped by and
time flowed on without a break or ripple to mark its
passing.  The great calm stillness!  Not only did it
fill the room and lay like a garment about the dreamer,
it filled her heart and entered her soul, and as a
mother broods over her child and stills its restless
wailing, it brooded over her and stilled all her
tumultuous, unholy pain, and the spell of her turbulent,
unwarrantable dream held her no longer.

Now the dull red coals turned to ashes and lay
crumbling in the grate.  And into the waiting stillness,
into the majesty of the silence there breathed something
divine.  It radiated in the soft white light and
filled the room with its presence; and in sweet
devotion before it knelt Humility and Meekness and
Loving-kindness; and all power was in its hands of
shining light, and all wisdom was in its star-pierced crown,
and all truth in the stillness of its utterance.  Into the
soft white stillness, into the holy of holies, breathed
this rarest gift of God--Love.  The mystic glory of it
hung about the dreamer, and quivered in the air, and
throbbed and pulsed through the universe, and all
things fell into place and became part of the endless
plan of the Creator.

Every unholy thought and every vagary of false
belief fell away.  The iniquity of the ages, and all the
crime and passion and suffering of men became a
cloud of vapor, like the misty foam on the ocean
waves; but beneath the foam-flecked waves lies the
mighty volume of the sea, and above them the
limitless reach of the heavens.  Now the mortal dream of
the Dust man and his short-lived Eden and subsequent
suffering receded into a shadowy delusion, and the
reality of Life, and the substance of eternal things
unfolded and encompassed all creation.

Mrs. Thorpe stirred in her chair and felt the yielding
of its cushioned depths and the pressure of the
pillow at her head.  She heard the door open and
Pauline come into the room.  She sat erect in her
chair and drew her hand across her forehead.

"Have you been asleep, dear?" Pauline asked.

"Perhaps, asleep and dreaming--it was a dream--yes,
a dream, it was all a dream."  She brushed the
hair from her temples, and again: "Was it all a
dream?"





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.. _`DR. ELDRIGE, JR.`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   DR. ELDRIGE JR.

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Dr. Eldrige Jr. was a very different man from
Dr. Eldrige his father.  What the elder man lacked in
courtesy and kindness was abundantly present in the
son.  He had studied under his father, practiced and
consulted with him; yet in the finer issues of life, its
amenities and its culture, their lives might be likened
to the branches of a stream: one followed a gorge of
clay between banks of rocks and barren soil; the other
flowed quietly between green banks, over white sand
and shining pebbles.

The elder man had been known to remark that the
rub and wear of life, actual life as he had seen it,
would change the color of his son's views.  If any
man could practice medicine as many years as he had
practiced it, and not pronounce the whole human race
a disgusting sham and a blasted humbug, he pitied
that man, for there must be considerable of the fool
in his make-up.

The son, however, was well content to go his way,
seeing life as it appeared to him, and doing what lay in
his power to make rough places smooth and ease the
sufferings of humanity.  He never undertook to modify
his father's views, and on all occasions when it was
possible for him to do so, he evaded crossing swords
with him.

It was late one night when Dr. Eldrige Jr. left a
poor home where he had been attending a patient.  A
wretched, ill-kept home it was, whose inmates seemed
a thing apart from the divine creation.  He stepped
out into the night, bared his head and breathed deep
of the fresh, sweet air.  Above him was the tent of
night, jeweled with stars, and at his feet the dew-wet
grass, the dwelling place of tiny dumb creatures that
cling to the earth's damp mold, and before him, like
a blemish on Nature's canvas, the home built and
fashioned and kept by man.

He was a reverent man, with no inclination to shift
the responsibility of humanity's ignominious burden
back upon the Maker.  He had no solution to offer for
the problem of human sin and woe, and he did not
undertake to place the iniquity of existing conditions.
His mission was to minister to those who needed his
service, and this he did whether he found his patient
in a palace or in a hovel.

Leaving the poor home where the sufferer lay, he
came to the one pretentious street of the Flat.  There
had been some sort of a performance at the theatre,
and the people were pouring out of the door.  He was
hurrying by, anxious to avoid the crowd, when his
attention was attracted to a man and woman standing
under the light of a lamp.  The man was talking in a
low, rapid manner, and the woman seemed but half
inclined to agree to what he was saying.  The doctor
passed them directly under the lamplight; but neither
of them noticed him or looked his way, he thought it
very likely that they did not care to be seen by him.
But as he went on his way a very tempest of rage
burned within him.

"And that," he ejaculated to himself, "is Max
Morrison, the man who is welcomed in the best homes
in Edgerly!  And Margaret, little Margaret, whom the
children used to call 'Lassie'!"  His mind went back
to his boyhood days, when his father lived in a small
village, and he and Margaret went to the same school.
That was before Margaret's father died; he was the
village blacksmith then, a hearty, whole-souled
Scotchman.  And what a laughing, rosy child the little
Lassie was then.  He remembered her temper, too, as
did all who knew her at that time.  He was a
well-grown boy then and Margaret but a bit of a girl, but
he had never forgotten her bright and winsome ways.
Could this girl with the hard lines on her dark
face ever have been the child that he recalled?  He
walked rapidly, his anger and indignation burning
within him.  He climbed the long hill that led from
the Flat up to the church, and descended on the other
side; past the parsonage with its sleeping inmates, and
on to his own home.  Here he again bared his head
and stood quietly beneath the stars.  The events of
the evening oppressed him.  That Margaret had been
beguiled from her home was, he knew, an open secret
in Edgerly.  His face set in grim, hard lines.

"No one who cared to know," he was sure, "could
be ignorant of the character of the man who had led
her to her downfall."

The next morning the doctor visited his poor
patient again, and found his condition improved.  The
light of reason was again in his eyes, and it was
evident that he clung to life with as much desire as the
most favored prince of earth clings to it.

On his return he passed the Mayhew home.  A party
of young people, with Mrs. Mayhew as chaperon, were
starting for a day's outing among the hills.  A
carriage stood at the curb; he bowed to Max Morrison,
who was holding the spirited horses.  Geraldine Vane,
who was ready to enter the carriage, greeted him
pleasantly.  He lifted his hat to her, and she looked
into his face.

"Is not this a beautiful morning for a drive?" she said.

"It is indeed a beautiful morning," he replied, but
there was a coldness in his voice and his brows were
contracted.  Yet, as he went on his way he was sure
that Geraldine's pure white face was the fairest that
God's sun ever shone upon.  He watched the carriage
as it turned a corner into a street that led to a country
road; and all the heart within him cried out against
the vision of those two, Max and Geraldine, drinking
in the beauty of fields and byways, earth and
sky--those two together!

When he reached his office he found his father in a
fit of ill-temper.  This, however, was quite a chronic
condition with the old doctor.

"You've been practicing among the Flat scrubs
again," he said to his son.  "Strange you cannot let
the miserable curs die and the earth be rid of them."

The son paid little heed to his father's coarse bluster.

"They may be scrubs," he replied in his smooth,
even tones, "and they may be curs, in fact, I think
you are right, father, they are scrubs and curs over on
the Flat, and perhaps the earth would be better off
without them; nevertheless they are men, and my
work lies among men."  And this quiet argument
silenced the old doctor, if it did not stay his wrath.

During the long, hot summer there was much sickness
on the Flat, and Dr. Eldrige Jr. spent much of
his time among the sufferers.  The heat was intense,
and the heavens withheld the rain, the earth became
dry and parched, and the dust lay thick on the meagre
foliage.  The name of Dr. Eldrige Jr. became a magic
word in that suffering district.  Hard faces grew
tender and harsh words died upon the lips when his
name was spoken.  And day by day he went quietly
about his work, relieving pain and caring tenderly for
neglected old age, hardened criminals and suffering
children.  And hardened men and careworn women
felt the stirring of new emotions within them and
knew that the world is not all bad, nor life altogether
bitter.

The summer days slipped by and the frost of
autumn, Nature's tonic, came to aid the doctor in his
efforts; and life, wretched at best, assumed its usual
aspect on the Flat.

On his return from his round of visits one day the
young doctor was met by his father, who was in a
towering rage.

"Spending your time in the Flat filth," he growled.
"Haven't you brains enough to keep out of the cursed
mire?  Here you are, able to minister to the puppets
in high places, who, for want of better employment,
spend their time nursing their aches and pains, and
are proud of the size of their doctors' bills.  You can
dope them and dupe them quite as well as I can.  Now
here's a message from the Reverend Maurice Thorpe.
It came an hour ago.  Mrs. Thorpe has another attack
of headache.  Whatever that woman does to bring on
those cursed spells is more than I know.  If it were
not for the holy fool her husband is, I should think
she quarreled with him.  But whatever the trouble is,
all the reverends and the chosen of the Lord could go
into fits and the earth be rid of them while you are
to your ears in Flat mire.  Now make yourself
presentable and go and give Mrs. Thorpe a dose of
morphine."

Dr. Eldrige Jr. hastened to do his father's bidding;
not because of the old man's wrath and ire, but
because he knew something of the severity of
Mrs. Thorpe's attacks, and felt a very sincere sympathy for
her.  He found her walking to and fro in her room.
She wore a crimson dressing gown, which fell loosely
about her form.  Her hair hung in disorder over her
shoulders and rippled down her back; but she was all
unconscious of her appearance.  Her hands were
clasped against her temples, and there was a frenzied
look in her eyes, and dark blue marks lay beneath
them.  A white line, indicating intense pain, was
drawn about her mouth.

She recognized Dr. Eldrige Jr. when he entered the
room, but the fact that it was his father instead whom
she had expected to see, caused her to suffer a nervous
shock.  She faltered in her walking and swayed
uncertainly.  Pauline, who was with her, sprang to her
assistance.

Dr. Eldrige Jr. laid his hand on her shoulder and
requested her to be seated.  But she paid not the
slightest attention to his request, and with eyes fixed
on the floor, began again her restless walking.

"Perhaps she does not even hear you," said Pauline,
"Sometimes when the pain is so intense we think she
neither sees nor hears."

The doctor laid his hand on her arm and pushed
the loose sleeve up to her shoulder, and in a voice that
she obeyed without conscious volition, he commanded
her to be quiet; then dexterously injected a dose of
morphine into the flesh of her upper arm.

It was not long before her head drooped forward
and her limbs seemed to grow weary, and then it was
not difficult to place her comfortably upon a couch,
where she soon fell into a troubled sleep.  The doctor
remained beside her for some time; then he prepared
a powder to be given when she awoke, and took his
departure.

When he returned to his office he said to his father:
"I see nothing unusual about the nature of
Mrs. Thorpe's headache; the pain seemed more intense than
ordinary, yet it appears very like a common megrim."

"Megrim be blasted!" growled the doctor.  "There's
something more the matter with that woman than you
or I know anything about.  She's a brainy wench, and
I have thought that perhaps she may be trying to find
out the why and wherefore of some of the common-place
things in this old world of ours.  I tell you, my
boy, when the Lord put Adam out of the Garden for
fear he might take on too much knowledge, and set
him working for his living, it showed mighty plain that
there are a lot of things in this old world of ours that
he never intended for man to find out.  Mrs. Thorpe's
mind is at the bottom of this trouble; she has let it
get the upper hand of her.  And I don't know but an
over-dose of morphine would be the best thing for
her now.  It wouldn't sound bad to say that
Mrs. Thorpe, wife of the Reverend Maurice Thorpe, died
of heart failure during one of her nervous attacks."





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.. _`PHYSICIAN AND FRIEND`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   PHYSICIAN AND FRIEND

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The next day a message came for Dr. Eldrige
Jr. which took him past the parsonage.  On his return he
called on Mrs. Thorpe.

Pauline answered his ring.  "Mrs. Thorpe will be
pleased to see you," she said.  "She is feeling better
to-day."

Mrs. Thorpe received him cordially.  "It is kind of
you to call," she said.  "I am quite myself again
to-day.  My headaches are usually of short duration.
You doctors relieve me for the time; but I live in
continual dread of the next attack.  If only I could know
what it is that causes this trouble there is nothing I
would not do to eradicate it; for I believe if this could
be overcome I should have my health again."

Dr. Eldrige recalled what his father had said about
the mental condition of this woman.  Could he probe
her inner life and ferret out the cause of her trouble?
Under the circumstances would it be right for him to
do so, if he could?  With these questions in mind he
engaged her in easy conventional conversation, and
without a suspicion of the fact on her part, he studied
her face and watched her movements with quiet
intensity.  He desired to do all that he could for his
patient's physical welfare; and the heart and mind
have so great an influence over the body, that just how
far a physician has a right to seek and search becomes
a finely balanced question.  He resolved to give her
an opportunity to be frank with him if she cared to do
so, but if there was anything she desired to conceal he
would not intrude upon her secrecy.

"The cause of your trouble, Mrs. Thorpe, may be
beyond the reach of doctors' skill.  There are many
ills that a physician is able to alleviate, but there may
be inducing causes that no physician is able to discover."

She waited some moments before she spoke, and
the doctor's eyes were upon her expectantly.

"The fate of the whole human race lies with you
physicians," she said.  "There is scarcely one on this
earth who is every whit whole.  And those for whom
you cannot prescribe--?"  She stopped short, and her
eyes flashed abruptly into his.

The doctor saw that she had missed the import of
his words, and he believed that she attributed to them
a meaning that could not fail to distress her, and he
hastened to correct his mistake.

"I did not mean to intimate that your trouble is
beyond a physician's reach, Mrs. Thorpe," he said.
"Yours is what my father calls a 'case of nerves.'"

She put out her hands as though to entreat him to
desist.  Always in her intercourse with the old doctor
she had felt a reticence that made it impossible for
her to talk with him, except on strictly professional
topics; but there was something in this man's face, a
plain, clear-cut face it was, and in his manner, kind
and sympathetic, that inspired her confidence.

"I know," she said, "that mine is a nervous trouble,
but must we admit that there is pain in this world for
which there is no remedy?  Maladies for which there
is no physician?  Must we admit the situation to be
true, and stand helpless before it, that certain forms
of suffering, deadly in their nature, have been laid
upon humanity, for which no antidote has been given?
It cannot be--this cannot be true, else what is the
inference?"

"You have misunderstood my meaning, Mrs. Thorpe.
You should have heard me out.  I beg of you
not to believe that I consider your trouble one for
which there is no remedy.  I meant only to call your
attention to the fact that a great variety of causes may
be responsible for nervous troubles.  We look, naturally,
for a physical cause, for a physical ailment; yet
it is a mistake to believe that this must always be the
case.  It sometimes happens that the mind is largely
responsible for the physical condition."

She waited again before she spoke.  Her hands lay
idly in her lap, but the doctor noticed that she was
not in a state of relaxation, but that there was a
restrained energy in attitude and manner.

"I think that you in your turn have misunderstood
me, Dr. Eldrige," she said.  "I deplore my own
condition, certainly, but a menace to human happiness
lies in the fact that the whole race is heir to the
sufferings of the individual.  Mine is not an isolated case.
I am but one of the great world-wide family that is
bound on the altar of human suffering."

Now the doctor saw that Mrs. Thorpe was discussing
a subject broader than her own personal disability,
and the first inkling of the truth came to him; and
with it there came also an illumination of the woman's
character.  He saw her love for humanity and her
compassion for its woes; and with keen perception he
was able to understand something of her futile efforts
toward an adjustment of existing conditions that
might, to her own mind, seem fair and just.  And great
as was his concern for her physical condition, he now
felt this to be of small importance compared to his
desire to help her out of her mental dilemma.  But the
difficulty was as real to him as it was to her, yet there
was this difference: it was a difficulty that he
admitted, accepted, and dismissed from his thoughts, while
with her he saw that it was rending the very fibre of
her life and distorting her mental vision.  But keenly
as he realized the situation, he found no word of help
to offer her, and so he said:

"I fear we shall find our task an arduous one, and
unprofitable as well, if we undertake to account for
humanity's burden."

"Whether we can account for it or not," she
replied, "we, the children of a common Father, are
sordidly indifferent to it.  We go about our affairs
during our waking hours with a sort of a pitiful
gratitude toward the monster Disease, if by good
fortune we have escaped him; we go to our rest at night,
and if we are free from the fell hand, we sleep, while
thousands and thousands of creatures, divinely made,
are wrestling with mortal pain."

The doctor's eyes were upon her; not a movement,
nor an expression of her face escaped him.  He saw
that the pupils of her eyes were dilated, and that a
peculiar light burned within them; and he noticed that
it was necessary for her to make a greater effort in
order to control the nervous energy that possessed her.
There was a ring of reckless protest in her voice as
she continued:

"Is this a haphazard world, Dr. Eldrige, where
men escape by chance, or are overwhelmed by
circumstance?  Is there no overruling power, no fixed
law to which men may conform, and by which they
may be governed and protected, even to the extent
that our man-made laws govern and protect those who
conform to them?  I have been over this ground so
many times; I have questioned and reasoned and
studied, and yet I have learned--nothing at all."

Her hands fell to her sides with a nervous movement,
but her face was averted now, as though she
would not have him see its expression.

The doctor thought of what his father had said
about the limitations the Lord has placed on human
knowledge.  He did not for a moment admit that
there was a grain of truth in the theory, in fact he
believed it to be one of his father's queer jests; yet
the thought came to him that the woman before him
seemed an actual demonstration of such a theory.
But his answer was far from the thought and was
intended to turn her mind to a more practical
consideration of the subject.

"There are many laws of Nature that are intended
to protect mankind.  Our safety lies in obeying them;
if we disobey, a penalty must be paid, and though the
penalty may seem severe, or even, to us, unjust, this
should but teach us to be the more obedient and
circumspect."

"Do you believe that physical disability is always
the result of a broken law of Nature?"  The question
was direct, incisive, and her eyes were upon him,
demanding the truth.

He answered her truthfully, yet because of his own
lack of knowledge, evasively:

"Not a direct result always, perhaps; some maladies
are constitutional, inherited from some ancestor, it
may be."

"Yes, it may be," she replied.  She seemed quieter
now, but there was an unmistakable accent of scorn in
her voice.

"It may be.  I have observed that where it comes
to a question that concerns humanity high and low, the
world over, it is very likely to be all guesswork with
us."

There was a moment's silence, and her ever-varying
mood changed again, and when she spoke her
words came rapidly and there was a gleaming fire in
her eyes.

"And if we do inherit our diseases, to whom are
we indebted for this heritage?  We may say to some
ancestor, and if there is any uncertainty about it we
make him as remote as possible.  But where did he
get it, where did he get this thing that has been fought
and battled through all the years of its existence, yet
has proven itself invulnerable?  Give me the origin
of disease.  Who conceived it?  Who created it?
What is its mission--? this thing that is stronger than
man--stronger than his Maker--"  Her voice had
sunk almost to a whisper.  "If there are two powers
in this world, and this cruel, monstrous thing we call
disease is the stronger of the two, what folly for man
to struggle or resist.  Oh, to know--to *know*--if only
one could *know*!"  Her voice fell and broke in a
gasping sob, and she covered her face with her hands.

Dr. Eldrige did not betray by word or look that
Mrs. Thorpe had disclosed to him the trouble that was
preying on her mind, and he did not forget his
professional duties.  He had gained the knowledge that
he desired to possess, yet the fact that this woman
had allowed her mind to dwell on subjects of a
religious nature until her health suffered and her reason
was threatened was of no particular importance to
him unless he could use his knowledge for her benefit;
and now the question confronted him: had he the
wisdom and tact to do this?

"Mrs. Thorpe," he said, "you have allowed your
mind to dwell too long on this subject.  As your
physician I advise you to put this thing wholly from you."

But he saw her face grow white and her eyes dilate,
and he thought best to change his tactics.  He dropped
his professional manner, or rather it seemed to slip
from him.  Before such need as this he felt that a
mere physician must stand helpless and disarmed; but
the man within him was ready to give in friendship's
name all that could be given.  Yet, the realization of
his own lack of knowledge again arose before him and
seemed almost to jeer and jest at his ignorance.  But
with scarcely a moment's hesitation, although fighting
for the mastery of his own discordant thoughts, he
decided to try once more to give this woman before
him something practical and tangible for her mind to
dwell upon.

"There are some things in this world that we
cannot know," he said.  "Perhaps it was intended that
we should not know them.  This we do know, that a
pursuit of knowledge concerning them cannot benefit
us, cannot fail to do us harm.  And there is consolation,
or at least exculpation, for us in the fact that this
is God's world.  He created it, he is responsible--we
are not.  We have only to take life as we find it, and
make the best we can of it; we have no right to
burden ourselves further."

In thus making it appear as though it is the Infinite
One, and not finite man, who is responsible for the
world's discords, Dr. Eldrige Jr. did not express a
sincere conviction, but he felt that it would be a great
indiscretion to enter into any argument or discussion
with Mrs. Thorpe at this time, and he sincerely hoped
that she might catch some suggestion from his words
that would tend to quiet her troubled mind.  Yet,
despite his good intentions, he was conscious of a
haunting thought that for a deadly malady he was
giving a medicine whose only virtue lay in its being
smooth to the taste.

Mrs. Thorpe saw the flaw in his logic, and to her
distorted vision it seemed like a fault in the Infinite
plan; but she said no more.  She was already sick at
heart over what she considered her indiscretion.  And
she felt guilty of a sort of infidelity to her husband for
having given voice to heresies that she knew would
displease and offend him, and a thousand troubled
thoughts surged through her brain.  The glow had left
her face and it now appeared pale and cold, and her
eyes that had burned with so bright a light seemed
dull as though covered with mist.  Her voice, too, had
lost its life and ring.

"You have been very kind to me, Dr. Eldrige," she
said, "and I thank you."

The doctor arose to take his departure.  "I have
advised you both as a physician and a friend," he
said, "to rid your mind of this unhappy train of
thought, and I will add, find something to take up
your time and attention; let it be amusing, entertaining,
frivolous if you like, but give it your entire attention."

Mrs. Thorpe had arisen and stood confronting him.
She now extended her hand to him, and her unfathomable
eyes looked into his.

"You are my friend, Dr. Eldrige," she said.  There
was the conviction of a statement in the words, yet a
catch in her voice and the intonation made it seem
almost a question.

The doctor was quick of perception; instantly he
understood her unworded request.  He took her hand
in his.

"I am your friend," he said, in a voice of utmost
respect and sincerest sympathy.  "And before God I
will help you in any way that I can."

After the doctor left her, Mrs. Thorpe stood at her
window and looked out at the somber autumn day.  A
gray mist hung in the air and red and yellow leaves
lay in heaps in the corners of the yard.  With her old
habit still strong upon her, Mrs. Thorpe fell into
reverie.

"Nature nursed the tiny leaves into life," she
mused; "gave them form and color and permitted
them to sport in happy freedom through all the days
of summer, and now at the approach of winter she
has bedecked them in gorgeous array."

And then the very subject that the doctor had so
painstakingly warned her against presented itself to
her in every form and shape that it was possible for it
to assume.

"There is no pain nor suffering in this changing
process," she thought; "even when disintegration sets
in there is no reason to believe that a leaf or plant or
flower feels the downward process to which it is
subjected.  This heritage of suffering, the realization of
corruption and pollution, has been reserved for man--man,
who of all the creatures of God's creation has
been made the most susceptible to pain and woe.  The
vine flings its blood-colored leaves to the breeze,
oblivious of time or change.  The great trees reach their
arms to the sky and stand secure in their native
strength.  How complete is the harmony between all
growing things and Nature's laws that govern them."

When thinking deeply Mrs. Thorpe often experienced
the strange phenomenon of having her thoughts
suddenly, and without her conscious will, revert to
some irrelevant circumstance or event apparently
forgotten.  Vividly before her now there flashed the
vision of a little girl, who in her childish mind firmly
believed that there were two Gods, a good one and a
bad one.  She gave a low shriek and covered her face
with her hands.

"I have been worshiping the bad God!" she whispered.

Pauline, who was busy in an adjoining room,
thought she heard a peculiar sound, and came into the
room.  She found Mrs. Thorpe reclining in an easy
chair near the window.

"Are you feeling well, Evelyn?" she asked.

"As well as usual, I think," Mrs. Thorpe replied.
Then she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
It was another bitter drop in her cup, the bitterest one
of all, perhaps, that she could not prevent wild
impulses and strange fancies from flitting through her
brain.  She might be obliged to yield her body to this
unknown power that no man could explain or trace
to its origin, but with all the force of her nature she
fought against yielding her brain and will as well.

There was with her a continual sense of discord
and irritation; small, trivial things upset her mental
balance and rendered her trying and exacting with
those about her.  Secretly, she resented the close
companionship of Pauline; she chaffed over the way many
small tasks were performed, and often felt hurt and
miserable, and all sorts of unhappy fancies dwelt in
her mind.

Those were dark days at the parsonage.  Daily the
pastor knelt in prayer and implored the gracious
Father to restore health and strength to the dear one
suffering under His hand.

Mrs. Thorpe grew more frail and her health
continued to decline during the winter.  She would
sometimes sit for hours thinking or dreaming, her hands
folded idly in her lap, her eyes on the glowing fire.
But no hint of the trend of her thoughts ever escaped
her.  Whatever problems presented themselves to her,
she found their solution alone or not at all; from
whatever premise she reasoned, she reasoned alone, without
a hint or help to guide her, and her conclusions were
always the deductions of her own brain, but flavored
and colored, no doubt, by the writers, ancient and
modern, sacred and secular, whose convictions and
beliefs she had read, measured and weighed.

There were two reasons for her rigid silence.  One
of these was the natural proclivity from the days of
her childhood to keep within her own heart the things
that troubled and puzzled her.  The other reason was
much more complex, and added materially to the burden
that she carried.  Her husband, scholarly, thoughtful,
gentle and reverent, was, she knew, flint and steel
where the doctrines and dogmas of his church were
concerned, and would, she believed, yield up his life
as readily as any martyr of old had ever done, rather
than yield one principle of his faith or compromise
one conviction.

Her domestic relations had been particularly happy;
her husband's faith and confidence in her were
complete.  And dear to her as the breath to her nostrils
was his love and approbation.  And the more surely
she felt the structure of her life, her aims and
purposes, her hopes and aspirations falling in ruins about
her, the more passionately she clung to this, the one
thing that was left her, beautiful and unimpaired.
What was all that she had suffered, or all that she
could suffer while her husband's faith in her remained,
compared to what must follow should he learn that
she had withdrawn from him spiritually, forsaken the
principles that were strong within him as the fibres of
his life, repudiated the sacred tenets of his church?  A
sort of prayer had worded itself in her brain that she
be not spared in bodily pain nor mental suffering, that
no portion of the burden she bore be removed, if
thereby, in life or death, her husband must know that
she had proven faithless to the principles of his faith.





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.. _`MRS. THORPE'S MOUNTAINS`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   MRS. THORPE'S MOUNTAINS

.. vspace:: 2

The ice king reigned.  Ice bound, snow covered, the
world lay white and still in the embrace of winter.
Nature had closed her laboratory and turned the key;
all the wonderful things in her store-rooms were
waiting and resting.  The tiny rootlets were deaf to the
moaning wind; the stern and sturdy trees tossed their
branches to the sky and defied the storms in their rage
to tear from them the life force which they guarded;
the ice-locked lakes and rivers joined in the great
white stillness.

It was the time of year when the Star appeared in
the East and wise men journeyed far to visit the
Child; the time when the shepherds were aroused by
the heavenly visitants, and angels proclaimed that the
world's Redeemer was born and that the good tidings
were for all men.  Nevertheless, at this anniversary
of the Redeemer's birth there were hearts in Edgerly
in which rankled bitterness and envy, and where
burned hatred and despair.  Children, poorly clad, pale
and thin, shivered along the streets of the city, and men
and women faced the biting blast and dreamed of the
return of the season that should warm and comfort them.

But these things were not in Maurice Thorpe's
mind when he prepared his Christmas sermon.  His
purpose was to give to his people at this most blessed
season something that would comfort them and bring
peace, even the peace that had been proclaimed to their
hearts.

The sweet hush of the Sabbath brooded over the
church and lay like a benediction over the parsonage.
The winter sunshine, warm and mellow, sifted through
the windows and added to the warmth and glow of
Mrs. Thorpe's apartment.  In her clinging crimson
gown, which brought into strong relief her white
drawn face and luminous dark eyes, she appeared
almost as though she might be a being from some
other world.

"The morning is fine," said Mr. Thorpe, "and the
air will do you good.  It has been a long time since
you attended church, Evelyn.  Make yourself ready
and go with me to-day."

Mrs. Thorpe avoided her husband's eyes.  Could
she trust herself to go?  Dare she trust herself to
refuse?  Mr. Thorpe overruled her excuse of illness
and insisted that going out would do her good.

Without further protest she yielded to his wishes
and accompanied him.  It was the Sunday before
Christmas.  The air was crisp and keen and brought
a freshness and a bit of color to their faces as they
climbed the incline to the church.

The solemn strains of the organ began in a hushed
minor key and increased in volume and tone until
they rang and vibrated through the farthest corner of
the room.  The melody was now pleading and plaintive,
like a voice filled with passionate longing, and
again solemn and grand as the longing glided into
fulfillment, and at last triumphant, victorious--

   |  "All is well with the world."
   |

Geraldine Vane, a little lower than the angels, her
blue eyes like stars and her yellow hair like a halo of
light, put her own heart-pulse into the music.  In the
anthem that followed, Max Morrison's strong, clear
voice rang out the joyful message:

   |  "Peace on earth, good-will, good-will to men."
   |

The congregation joined in singing a song and the
words burned themselves into Mrs. Thorpe's brain
and caused her heart to quiver and her soul to writhe--

   |  "Not all the blood of beasts on Jewish altars slain,
   |  Could give the guilty conscience peace, nor wash away the stain.
   |  But Christ the heavenly lamb takes all our sins away.
   |  A sacrifice of nobler name and richer blood than they.
   |  My soul looks back to see the burden Thou didst bear
   |  While hanging on the cursed tree, and knows his guilt was there."
   |

The Reverend Maurice Thorpe then stepped
forward and gave the waiting audience his text:

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only
begotten Son, that whoso believeth on Him should not
perish, but have everlasting life."

The pastor's voice was musical and cultured and the
words of the text as he uttered them met with a
magnetic response from the audience.  This silent
applause, this outpouring of the commendation of his
hearers was as manifest to Mr. Thorpe as though it
had been demonstrated by visible signs or audible
words; as manifest and more satisfactory, for the
sense of exultation which it gave him was perceived
by no one save himself.

Sensitive and responsive, he always knew in what
spirit his people received his text.  He read their faces
as an open book, and took his keynote from them.  It
was this intangible method of getting at the hearts of
his people that made it possible for him to comfort
and satisfy them, while preaching the most orthodox
doctrine and restricted creed.

Mrs. Thorpe's battle began with the text.  She kept
her eyes withdrawn from the pastor's face and she
endeavored to keep her mind from dwelling wholly
on what he was saying.  She thought of the long line
of snow-capped homes that led up to the church;
and about her heart there clutched a hardness cold
and unyielding as the frost king's embrace of the
earth.  Each building and frost-hung shrub and
white-branched tree reared itself into a mountain of ice and
snow.  And Mrs. Thorpe felt that just such a range
of ice-bound mountains, relentless, forbidding,
impassable, lay between her and the love of God.

The pastor, with nice discernment, was able to give
his voice just the proper pitch and volume to cause it
to fill the room; every word was carefully articulated,
clear and distinct:

"From the beginning, man, the crowning work of
God's hand, manifested a disposition to disobey, and
this disobedience plunged the world into a chaos of
sin and disorder.  From the earliest record we see
man demonstrating his evil nature, his tendency to sin
and all unrighteousness....  The priests of old
endeavored to cleanse and purify from sin.  Moses was
chosen the deliverer of the Lord's ancient people;
David in his day was called to rule over them;
Solomon was given wisdom with which to direct them;
Jeremiah threatened them with destruction; and
Habakkuk exhorted them to a renewal of righteousness
and prayed the Lord to be merciful to them.  But
the downward tendency was inherent within them and
the record of man is one long record of sin and
unfaithfulness....

"From time to time, owing to the wickedness of
the people, it became necessary to visit punishment
and destruction upon them.  And many sacrifices were
offered to God for the sins of the people.  Lambs
were slain and offered upon consecrated altars; goats
and bullocks were sacrificed and altars ran red with
the blood that was shed to wash away the still more
crimson stain of men's sins.  But there came a time
when a long-suffering God could not thus be appeased;
there came a time my friends, my brothers, *there
came a time* when the blood of goats and bullocks was
not sufficient to wash away the sins of man; was not
sufficient to appease the wrath of Almighty God.
When this time came, the only begotten Son was given
into the hands of men to be crucified....

"A child, a little, helpless child, was cradled in a
manger and ministered to by His Virgin mother.  No
man has trod nor can ever tread the pathway of pain
and suffering that lay before this child, given to die for
the sins of men.  No man can drink the cup that He
drank, or suffer the anguish that He suffered.  He must
die upon a cross, scorned and reviled by the world He
came to save....  In the blood of His own beloved Son
God wiped out the sins of the world, and so great is
the corruption in which the children of men are
steeped, that had one drop in the bitter cup, one sigh
of anguish in the Garden, one nail that pierced the
defenseless hand of the Christ been spared, the God of
righteousness and justice would not have been
appeased.  This, then, this sacrifice sealed in blood, is
the price of your salvation and mine, and there is no
other way under heaven whereby men may be saved.
Our pardon has been bought with the innocent blood
of a crucified Savior."

Mrs. Thorpe felt her breath coming in short, quick
gasps.  Her cheeks were a scarlet flame and a white
line was drawn about her mouth.  How could men
live and praise and exult under this carnage of blood!
Where should she fly--how escape?  Was there no
way out of this--*this*--THIS!  Was it inevitable,
irrevocable, that she must reap the benefit of this awful
carnage, this slaughter of a world's Redeemer?  Who
had at her birth, yea, before she was born, laid upon
her sins for which another was called to suffer--who
had dared to do this?  If a blood sacrifice was
required for her conscious sins, then her blood it should
be--not another's--not innocent blood for culpable sin!

But the acme of her suffering lay in the thought
that the God of the world had decreed this thing, in
His own heart He had conceived it, from the
beginning He had foreseen it--premeditated it.  What
wonder that chaos reigns in His world?  What
wonder that the children of His creation have from the
beginning gone astray?  What wonder that envy and
hatred, strife, bitterness and despair live and flourish?
Can man rise above his conception of his Creator?
Can he consistently worship a God who had planned
and caused to be done a thing from which the
compassionate human heart must shrink and human hand
must stay?  Is not the whole story of the Creation,
the Fall, the Sacrifice, the Redemption, as we have
heard it in all its harrowing details, absurd,
deplorable, culpable?  Can we in sincerity acknowledge
ourselves guilty of a sin for which we are not
responsible, and grateful to a Creator who, possessing
absolute power, fashioned men free in will and action, and
then forced upon them the blood of His own innocent
Son to save them from the consequences of their freedom?

Yet, bewildered and entangled as Mrs. Thorpe felt
herself to be, in this labyrinth of doubt and rebellion,
she was aware that other thoughts than these were
tapping at the door of her consciousness; tapping and
pleading for admission.  Deep in her heart soil a grain
of truth was throwing out its penetrating rootlets and
struggling toward the light.  But so completely would
these thoughts, if admitted and accepted, uproot every
preconceived idea, so entirely would they cast out and
destroy that which all her life she had been taught to
believe, that their pleading for admittance but
increased the confusion of her thoughts and rendered
her mental state more chaotic.

When the service was over Mrs. Thorpe became
aware that many eyes, curious and sympathetic, were
upon her; yet few of her friends spoke to her, for
there was an unwritten law that no one should go out
of the way to speak to another and that little
demonstration should be made inside the church.  All was
orderly and dignified and befitting the house of the
Lord.  Strangers came and went; newcomers felt the
chill of propriety that pervaded the atmosphere, and
the old members felt it, too, and gloried in it.

In her fertile brain Mrs. Thorpe beheld them all,
the old members and the new, and the strangers
among them, as in a vision, and all were trying to
climb the mountains of ice, trying to reach Heaven
over a pathway of cold indifference and fixed and
rigid form.

Mr. Thorpe joined his wife near the church door
and he put his arm protectingly about her as she
descended the church steps.  He felt that the Lord had
been specially kind to give her strength to be present
at this service.

Pauline preceded them and was already in the
kitchen overseeing the dinner when they arrived.
Mrs. Thorpe went directly to her room and, removing her
wraps, sank down in her easy chair.  Her eyes were
dry and bright, but she covered her face with her
hands and her shoulders quivered as if beneath a load.

"Never again," she moaned, "never again can I
trust myself to hear his voice from the pulpit."

The admission wrung her heart and hurt her as
hearts are wrung and hurt when some dear one passes
from view of mortal sight.

Pauline tapped at the door and announced dinner.
Mrs. Thorpe arose and stood for a moment before
her fire.

"If there were a God," she whispered, "if there
were a God, loving and strong and powerful--oh, a
God who cares for His own, how passionately would
I beseech Him to be with me now, to help and uphold
me!"  She walked over and opened her door.  "There
really should be such a God--Friend--Father," she
continued in an undertone, "for we need Him so!"

Mr. Thorpe and Pauline were awaiting her in the
dining-room.  Mr. Thorpe, who was never lacking in
the small courtesies of the home, seated her at the
table and took his place opposite.

"I am glad to see that the exertion of the morning
has not overtried your strength, my dear," he said.
"Your face in the congregation is an inspiration to
me.  I hope you will be able to attend regularly hereafter."

Pauline, whose insight was keener than the pastor's,
divined that all was not well with Mrs. Thorpe,
and broached another subject.

"The church was well filled this morning," she
remarked.

"Yes," said Mr. Thorpe.  "There seems to be
something about the Christmas season that touches all
hearts.  And I think the Savior's birth means more
to the world every year."

"Is this because men's hearts are changing," asked
Mrs. Thorpe, "or do we understand Christ's mission
better?"

"I think the religious world realizes as it never has
before the greatness of the sacrifice that has been
made for humanity," replied Mr. Thorpe.  "We may
call it Christ's mission if we like, but I prefer the term
sacrifice in connection with Him who was born to die
that we might live."

The flow of talk continued, but as it often
happened, Pauline and Mr. Thorpe kept up the
conversation.  Mrs. Thorpe did not venture another remark,
and after the meal went directly to her room.  Her
husband followed her and seated himself before her
open fire.  Neither spoke for a few moments, and the
pastor reached for a book that lay on a stand nearby.
Mrs. Thorpe saw the movement and moved as though
to intercept him; but the book was in his hand.  It
was a small volume bound in white and gold.

Mrs. Thorpe lay back in her chair and her face
framed with her dark hair seemed drawn and white
as it lay against the scarlet cushion.

"What have you here, my dear?  What are you
reading nowadays?" asked Mr. Thorpe in a full,
smooth voice.  And something in the tone caused
Mrs. Thorpe's heart to vibrate as to a well-loved melody.
How she loved this man; bowed to him, reverenced
him.  She did not answer him now, she did not stir
nor turn her head.

Mr. Thorpe opened the little book at random and
his eyes fell upon the following: "God is a spirit and
they who worship Him must worship him in spirit
and in truth.

"It is difficult to understand how the idea of God
as a personal being of power and wrath has taken so
strong a hold upon men's minds.  Not until this idea
is eliminated, totally overcome and cast out, can we
know our God as He is, and understand the divine
mission that Christ came to perform....

"The Son of God became incarnate on the earth--not
to die for men's sins--albeit a cruel and misguided
people crucified Him--but by His life to teach
the Truth of Life.  Not to die the death of a martyr,
not to offer a human sacrifice to a God of love, but to
teach the children of God's creation to live."

Mr. Thorpe closed the book with his forefinger at
the place.  Mrs. Thorpe felt, rather than saw, his eyes
upon her and she turned and looked into his face.

"Evelyn," he said, "what have you here?  Where
did you get this--this absurd book?"

Mrs. Thorpe did not answer him; instead she sank
back into her chair and closed her eyes.

Mr. Thorpe regarded her for a moment, then he
opened the book again and ran his eyes down the page.
He halted at this paragraph:

"It may be true that the reluctance with which men
change their conception of God, their propensity to
cling to the creed and doctrines which have been
handed down to them, serves to keep their hearts reverent
and worshipful; nevertheless that which is false, all
that is erroneous and misleading must die.  The world
to-day is demanding the truth about the deep hidden
things of God.

"No matter how sacred a teaching or belief may
have been to our forefathers, nor how efficacious it
seemed to meet their needs, we must know that while
the immortal Truth changes not, the ideas of men
concerning it have changed with the process of the
ages.  Does anyone believe that while we are progressing
in every line of industry, art and science, that to
be Christian we must continue to stand in our religious
convictions where our forefathers stood?"

Mr. Thorpe glanced at his wife.  She had not
changed her position, but he noticed a twitching of her
eyelids and that the color had rushed into her face,
burning her cheeks to a scarlet flame.  He did not
speak, but continued the next paragraph.

"Let us, then, with all reverence yet unafraid, seek
the saving truth of God, strip it of creed and form,
remove the tattered garment of prejudice and bigotry,
lay low the orthodox beliefs which, while claiming
to house and shelter this divine Truth, have hedged
it about and endeavored to limit it to that which
mortal hands have bound upon church altars."

Mr. Thorpe closed the book sharply, then opened it
again and looked for the writer's name.  It was a new
name to him.  He laid the book back on the stand
and stepped to his wife's side.  He laid his hand gently
on her hair.

"Evelyn," he said, "how came you by that book?"

She looked full into his face and answered directly:
"I found it in a book-store, down town."

"And you bought it, Evelyn?"

"Yes."

Mr. Thorpe went back to the table, and he saw
there another book, one that he had not noticed before.
This one was bound in black leather and stamped in
gilt.  On the cover there was stamped a circle of gilt,
and around the circle were these words: "Heal the
sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out
demons."  Inside the circle was a cross and a crown.
Mr. Thorpe recognized this book, he knew it by sight.
He did not touch it now, however, but pointing to it he
addressed his wife: "And this book, is this one yours,
too, Evelyn?"

"No," she replied, "that is one Mrs. Vane let me take."

Mr. Thorpe resumed his seat by the fire.

"If I believed it necessary to warn you against this
sort of reading," he said, "or to caution you against
these distortions of the Scripture, I hope I should not
hesitate in doing my duty; but I feel that any such
warning or caution would imply a lack of faith in
your honor, and in your fidelity to your church vows.
I have confidence in your judgment, Evelyn, and faith
in your sincerity, but I request you to return
Mrs. Vane's book at your earliest convenience."

"I had intended to do so," she said, "and shall attend
to it to-morrow."  Her voice was not quite steady.

She took the offending volumes and laid them on a
shelf in the curtained alcove.  She felt a sickening
sensation creep over her, a sense of dishonor and of
disloyalty to her husband.





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.. _`STRANDED`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   STRANDED

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Mrs. Thorpe sat in her room one morning, a piece
of needlework in her hands.  It was a beautiful piece
of work and she held it from her and looked at it critically.

"You are my sedative," she said.  "When a
heart cries for God and cannot find Him; when a
sacrilegious questioner tries to solve some of the
problems of this life, or to learn the cause of this great
world's woe--when one is so lacking in judgment as
to try to do this, serious trouble is likely to follow and
then one must have something, really must have
something to distract the mind for a time."  She gave an
odd little laugh and drew her work to her.

A phantasm of her imagination had caused her to
discard her books.  Whenever she opened a book and
prepared to read, a phantom form, sable and somber,
peered over her shoulder and read with her.

Then she resolved to read no more books and to
think as little as possible about those she had read;
and to this end she had taken up needlework.  She
knew what her condition was physically, and realized
that it was only by the exertion of her will power that
her mind, too, was not a wreck.  She had a curious
habit of looking at her mind and brain as something
apart from herself, and as another personality she
studied their condition.

.. _`"HE TOOK HER IN HIS ARMS AS THOUGH SHE WERE A LITTLE CHILD"`:

.. figure:: images/img-079.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "HE TOOK HER IN HIS ARMS AS THOUGH SHE WERE A LITTLE CHILD" (page 97)

   "HE TOOK HER IN HIS ARMS AS THOUGH SHE WERE A LITTLE CHILD" (page `97`_)

When she discarded her books, the phantom
disappeared for a time, and she believed that she had
exorcised it.  But after a time she saw that she was
mistaken in this, for it returned at intervals, more
grim and determined than before.  It never made a
sudden impression on her, and it never startled her;
but always when she became aware of its presence
she felt that it had been with her all the time--always,
only she had not recognized it.  Then silently it would
jeer at her blindness and dullness of perception, and
triumphantly assert that no one on whom it fixed its
choice ever eluded it.

Mrs. Thorpe had begun sorting her silks for her
work when her attention was attracted by a song that
Pauline was singing:

   |  "Is not this the land of Beulah,
   |    Blessed, blessed land of light
   |  Where the flowers bloom forever
   |    And the sun is always bright?"
   |

The words of the song caused her unrest to burn
within her.

"The land of Beulah--blessed land of light," Pauline
could sing of this; while she--why had she failed?
Had she not worked and watched and prayed--yet
the blackness of darkness was about her.

   |  "I am dwelling on the mountains
   |    Where the golden sunlight gleams,
   |  O'er a land whose wondrous beauty
   |    Far exceeds my fondest dreams."
   |

The low, sweet strain continued.  Pauline often
sang at her work, and the song bubbled forth as
though the full heart could not contain it.

   |  "I am drinking at the fountain
   |    Where I ever would abide,
   |  For I've tasted life's pure river
   |    And my soul is satisfied."
   |

Mrs. Thorpe dropped her work and clasped her
hands over her mouth, for she felt that she must
shriek aloud.

"*Satisfied*!  My soul is satisfied!  Was it possible
that this was vouchsafed to some, while every hope of
hers was gone, every longing unfulfilled?"

When she took up her work again she placed stitch
after stitch with careful deliberation.

"I must adhere to my resolutions," she thought.
"I have no quarrel with the world.  I am not responsible
for its woes.  I cannot fight its wrongs.  I will
live simply and contentedly, live for my husband and
my home."  But she refrained from looking over her
shoulder, for the black wings of her phantom
hovered there.

A few moments later Pauline came into the room.
"Mrs. Mayhew is in the parlor and wishes to see
you," she said.

Mrs. Thorpe greeted her friend cordially.  "I am
so glad to see you," she said; "I was feeling a bit
down-hearted this morning and longing for a
congenial friend."

"Then my plan is opportune," said Mrs. Mayhew.
"I came in the carriage to take you home with me
for the day.  Mr. Thorpe will come to tea and spend
the evening, I hope.  My brother, Professor Vane, is
spending a few days with us, and he and Mr. Thorpe
are congenial spirits, you know."

"I am sure that Mr. Thorpe will be pleased to meet
your brother again.  I had a letter from Mrs. Vane a
few days ago.  She mentioned that the Professor
meant to visit you before long."

"I am glad to know that your friendship with
Mrs. Vane ripened into a correspondence."

"We do not correspond regularly.  I had a book
of hers, one which she let me take last summer.  I
returned it not long ago and received a letter from
her saying that it had arrived safely."

Mrs. Thorpe accepted her friend's invitation for
the day and as they drove through the bracing
atmosphere her unhappy fancies seemed to fall away
from her.  There was something in Mrs. Mayhew's
personality, wholesome and practical, yet winsome as
well, that had a tendency to arouse Mrs. Thorpe out
of her troubled dreams and dispel the visions of her
morbid imagination.

Yet when they were seated in Mrs. Mayhew's parlor,
each with her bit of work, the first topic of
conversation plunged her troubled mind again into a sea
of doubt and despair.

Mrs. Mayhew drew her chair a little nearer to the
grate, rested comfortably in its cushioned depths and
let her work lay idle in her hands.

"They tell me," she said, "that there is a great deal
of suffering among the poor people on the Flat this
winter.  The Ladies' Benevolent Society is doing what
it can to help them, but cannot reach them all.
Geraldine went over to the Flat with some of the ladies
yesterday.  She tells me that the condition of some of
the homes they visited is dreadful to behold."

It is needless to say that Mrs. Mayhew did not
know the effect that her words would have upon her
friend.  She knew that Mrs. Thorpe was often
inclined to take other people's burdens sadly to heart,
but she was far from knowing the state of mind that
her words had wrought in her now.

She, too, was often troubled about the state of
affairs on the Flat, but her outlook was very different
from Mrs. Thorpe's.  She saw in these miserable
homes and destitute, unfortunate people, isolated cases
of suffering, and their condition she looked upon as
something that only the effort of the individual
concerned could remedy.  By his own effort and endeavor
he must extricate himself from this class and advance
to one higher.  This always left those who remained
the same privilege as that of the one who had escaped.
Mrs. Mayhew believed this to be the way of the world,
and she had learned never to analyze nor to question
the world's ways.

Mrs. Thorpe did not interrogate the individual nor
consider the class; her mind overreached these and
went directly to the overruling Law--that which has
created, and which does, or should, control.  What
greater folly than for man to endeavor to undo what
the Lord has done?  An overruling, unalterable,
unrelenting Law lay over and made helpless and
absolutely powerless the puny efforts of man.

She would share her porridge with a hungry neighbor,
yes, go hungry herself to relieve a needy one; she
would divide her garments to the last shred with
those who had none.  But while doing so, while
trying to defeat the decree of the Ruler, would she
prostrate herself before him, bow down and worship him?

"It is not only on Bolton Flat that people are
suffering and miserable and destitute and without
a God," she said.  "The world is circled with woe; the
cry of suffering echoes wherever the feet of men have
trod.  In the still watches of the night when all was
quiet and peaceful about me I have heard the moaning
of children.  And on the street when all was bustle
and confusion I have heard the agonized cry of lost
souls; and I knew that those about me heard it, yet
they paid not the slightest attention, and I, too, went
unheeding on my way.  Yet men and women everywhere
are talking of a Christ--proclaiming a message!
Their voices are musical, even as sounding brass and
a tinkling cymbal; their phraseology--long prayers in
the market place; the border of their garments and
the broadness of their phylacteries proclaim their
devotion!"

Her words ceased, but her thoughts, which she had
long held in subjection, were now beyond her control.
The fire of her spirit, that had leaped within her
earlier in the day, now flamed up and consumed her.
Throughout the length and breadth of the land God's
men and women were going to a death more horrible
than even her wildest hallucinations could picture--wailing
and weeping and gnashing of teeth!  Children
were born into an environment that handicapped them
at birth; women and young girls were obliged to sell
their souls in order to keep the pitiful life in their
bodies; men made a legal, licensed business of crazing
their fellow men with drink.  And those who
professed to follow the world's Redeemer, comfortably
housed, with rich garments and sumptuous fare,
wrapped themselves in their righteousness and sang
songs of praise in costly churches and gave thanks
that they were not as other men.

The enormity of the thing was to her a blow straight
from a powerful shoulder, a blow that staggered her
and left her white with passion.  And she felt that in
all this world there was nothing so heartrending as
the injustice of God.  More to herself than to her
friend, she said:

"If God is all powerful He is responsible for the
conditions resulting from His creation; if He is not
all powerful He is not God."

Her limitations were such that she could not know
that these things which were so grievous to her were
but a foul and tattered garment with which human
kind has covered the great heart of God.  Pride,
vain-glory, uncharitableness, ostentation--from these she
shrank in righteous revolt; and without the slightest
realization that she had allowed them to become as a
bandage about her eyes, blinding her to the overruling
Love of the Creator and to the priceless thing in the
hearts of her fellow men.

Something of this Mrs. Mayhew was able to understand.
She felt that her friend's heresy was not so
much a thing of the heart as a distortion of her too
finely wrought sensibilities; and she wondered that a
hand so exquisitely refined and sensitive should reach
out into this bleeding world and touch and handle its
ghastly sin-stained burdens.

"My dear friend," she said; "you say that if God
is God He is responsible for these things, yet He may
be working in a way that you and I know nothing
about.  It has always been a comforting thought to
me that there may be a wideness and a mercy in His
plans that our finite minds are not able to grasp.  But
be this as it may, you have thrown the responsibility
back upon Him, then why do you not let it rest there?
Why do you fret and worry yourself about it?  My
dear, I am afraid you are allowing these things to
weigh upon you and make you unhappy."

"Unhappy!  Mrs. Mayhew I am wretched, tormented,
ill, I fear I shall be--mad!"

"Mrs. Thorpe, what has happened to your life?
What has brought about all this questioning and
unrest?"

"Oh, my friend, if you knew the weary way that I
have gone--alone--alone--I have no God!"

"But why have you cut yourself off from these
things which the world has accepted?  I cannot
understand what has caused you to renounce your faith in
God.  Are you not afraid to stand thus alone?"

"There was a time when I was afraid, when I
believed that I must believe that which I could not
believe.  It was a gruesome part of the way; yet there
was no other part that I was so reluctant to leave.
While living in fear I believed, most surely, that the
first step out of it would be over a precipice; but
this conception of what will follow is all that fear
really is.  Freed from this, my burden became lighter,
but the darkness is none the less black."

"But why do you feel that you must go this
troubled way alone?  The world has accepted a
religion.  Why do you reject it?"

"The world has accepted a cleverly devised plan
whereby men expect to be saved from their sins; they
have woven into it the story of the Cross, the tale of
the Christ.  From the most beautiful life and tragic
death that the world has ever known men have gleaned
the harrowing, sordid details and fashioned them into
form and creed and call it Religion.  This thing I
do reject.  Could a completer foil be devised for
mankind than that the nailing of a Christ to the Cross is
to save them from the consequences of their iniquitous
and selfish living?"

"I believe, have always believed, and my torment
is that I must continue to believe that there is a
God of justice some place--some how, some where--*He
lives*!  I have lain in my bed at night and heard
the voice of the wind and it has whispered to me:
'There is a God;' I have seen the tender grass come
forth in the spring and every tiny blade proclaimed
Him; I have seen the rush of the storm, black,
ominous, fearful, and behind it I have seen His face; and
all the stars at night have broken into a song of praise
to Him.  And after this can I bow down to a
conception, a mere idea of God?  Can I worship simply
because others have worshiped?  Our Bible and our
Christ tell us of a wonderful life; a great Heart
touched with the feeling of our infirmities; One in
whom the great, throbbing heart of the universe, the
secret of all things, is embodied.  Where is this great
Master-Spirit, drawing all men to Him, healing their
infirmities and cleansing them from sin?  Have you
seen Him in the hearts of those who attend our church,
living in comfort and luxury--while over on the
Flat--Mrs. Mayhew--over on the Flat--can you bear to
think of it?  Have you seen aught of His healing
power?  How many can you count among the members
of our church who are suffering from some infirmity?
How many are every whit whole?

"I have longed for the touch, the presence, the
realization of the *God that lives* as I have never longed
for earthly possessions.  I have prayed in my heart
that I might be deprived of every earthly joy, every
pleasure, every comfort, that I might be an outcast on
the face of the earth, that I might know the anguish
in the Garden, that I might feel the nails in my hands,
if by this means I might have in my life and soul a
realization of the Infinite, might feel and know the
Divine presence."

Mrs. Thorpe's face was white and drawn and a
red light was in her eyes.  Mrs. Mayhew was by her
side, her cool hand on her brow.

"Geraldine," she said as her niece passed the door,
"bring me a glass of water, please, Mrs. Thorpe has
become faint."

With the first return of consciousness Mrs. Thorpe
thought of her husband.  Had she not compromised his
honor?  Put to hazard his position, perhaps?  She
looked into Mrs. Mayhew's face:

"I have betrayed my weakness," she said; "I have
shown you my unworthiness.  It was not my intention
to do this; over and over I have promised myself that
no word that might cast dishonor on my husband's
calling or cause him pain should ever pass my lips."

Mrs. Mayhew with quick intuition, understood all
that her friend did not say, quite as well as that
which she uttered.  She read the story of repression
and self-subjugation, and the heroism that hid her
trouble and despair rather than cause another pain.
And she also had a glimpse of the love this woman
bore her husband, and of the fineness of her nature
that even for the sake of this love, could not tamper
with her soul's conception of truth.  Her face was
warm with sympathy:

"Dear troubled soul," she said, "I am your friend,
not to distress and embarrass you, but if I can, to aid
and comfort you."

During the remainder of the day Mrs. Mayhew endeavored
to keep the conversation free from all topics
that might distress her guest, and to limit the flow of
talk to a circle of light and pleasant thought.

Mr. Thorpe came in time for dinner.  Between him
and Professor Vane there was much of common
interest.  Professor Vane was a teacher in a theological
seminary; and the two men discussed the world
of theology, the Church and its mission, the seminary
and its work.

"I cannot account for the diversity of opinion I
find among theological students," Professor Vane said.
"There are scarcely two of them who see the questions
of creed and doctrines in the same light.  What the
outcome of all of these new lines of thought will be
it is difficult to predict."

There was a spirit of resentment, righteous he
believed it to be, in Mr. Thorpe's mind toward these new
lines of religious thought.  He believed that the
Leviathan of doubt, and the subtle Serpent of false belief
had threatened the sanctity of his own home.  And he
was strong in the belief that it was time for men of
integrity and conviction to strike these monsters, to
crush and destroy them.

"It is my opinion that these digressions and
irregularities must prove disastrous," he said.  "We must
have a creed and a doctrine, and I do not hesitate to
say, that men who cannot conform to them have no
call to preach the Gospel."

Professor Vane did not answer at once, and Mrs. Thorpe
who had listened in silence, waited anxiously
for his reply.

Mrs. Mayhew believed she knew what was in her
brother's mind.  She recalled a frail little woman
tortured with pain, whom her brother used to carry
in his arms, and lift from one position to another.
This woman, his wife had been restored to health and
strength, and the joy of living, by a digression from
accepted creeds and doctrines.  A system of Christian
healing had restored her.

"How far we have a right to judge another's conception
of God is a mooted question," Professor Vane
said thoughtfully.  "If I err I hope it may be on the
side of charity."

"On the side of charity, yes," said Mr. Thorpe;
"but I can see little love or justice in allowing doubts
and fallacies to intrench themselves in the consciousness
of another."  He could not quibble over this
question, nor fail to express himself fearlessly, even
though he should strike a blow nearer Professor
Vane's heart then the students under his care.  He
was strong in the belief of his own just purpose.

Mrs. Mayhew with quick perception read his design.
She knew that he had never reconciled Mrs. Vane's
recovery with any grain of spiritual truth.  But she
saw the blood surge into Mrs. Thorpe's face, and she
knew that his well aimed blow had struck where he
had not meant that it should.

She laid her hand on Mrs. Thorpe's shoulder, "Let
us leave the gentlemen to their theology," she said,
"Come with me and watch the children go to bed; it
will do you good to see them."

One by one the little garments came off and little
white slips went on.  Shoes were untied, and stockings
removed, and little pink toes peeped out.

A visitor in the nursery at bedtime was an unusual
occurrence, and unusually good order prevailed; yet
Charley insisted on getting into his gown feet first, as
he considered it unmanly to have it put over his head,
and Mabel refused to be comforted because nurse
unbuttoned Mattie's pinafore first.  The three-year-old
baby insisted on disrobing without assistance from
anyone, and cried lustily because he could not untie
his little red shoes.

But finally all troubles were overcome, the little
hearts were comforted and all was quiet.  Then by
each little white bed a white-robed figure knelt with
clasped hands and lisped a childish prayer.

Mrs. Thorpe kissed each child a happy good-night,
and wished them sweet and pleasant dreams.  But
Mrs. Mayhew noticed that there was a strange
expression on her face, and that the troubled look had
not left her eyes since their talk in the morning.

When they returned to the parlor they found that
Mr. Thorpe had taken his departure.

"A messenger came for him a few minutes after
you left us," explained Professor Vane.  "He was
called to the bedside of a dying woman.  He told me
that he had been expecting the summons for many days."

"Mrs. Ritchie, I presume," said Mrs. Mayhew.
"Poor soul! we cannot regret that the end has come
for her at last.  She has suffered a great deal."

Mrs. Mayhew sent Mrs. Thorpe home in the carriage,
as Mr. Thorpe was not expected until late; he
might be away all night.

Mrs. Thorpe explained his absence to Pauline,
whom she found awaiting her.

"You are looking very tired, Evelyn; are you ill?"
Pauline asked.

"No, Pauline, not ill; only very, very tired.  I will
go to my room at once."

"Very well; I will hear Maurice when he comes
and let him in."

As Mrs. Thorpe arose to go to her room Pauline
noticed that she shuddered as though a cold draught
had struck her.

"What is it, Evelyn, are you cold?"

"I'm so tired, Pauline," she said, and sank down
in her chair again.  "And Maurice's being called
away was something of a shock, you know."

Pauline went over to her.  "Yes, I know," she said.
"And I know you are tired; you look all worn out.
Shall I go to your room with you?"

"Oh, no, thank you; that is not necessary.  I shall
be all right when I am rested again.  Good-night,
Pauline."  And she started again for her room.

"Good-night, Evelyn.  There is a light in your
room.  I hope you sleep well."

As Mrs. Thorpe entered her dimly lighted room a
cold, dizzy sensation again came over her.  She sank
into her easy chair and the events of the day passed
before her.  Suddenly she sat upright and gazed with
horror at the sight which greeted her.  She tried to
shriek, but her tongue was silent; she tried to fly, but
her feet were motionless.  She closed her eyes, but
it was not with her natural vision that she saw the
outline of phantom forms and ghoulish faces that
filled the room.

"She is ours at last!  She will never resist us
again."  It was not a voice that she heard; there was
not a sound in the room; the silence was oppressive.
Over and over, around and about, circling, advancing,
retreating, the forms filled every foot of space, and
yet she was sure that the room was empty save the
furnishings; the chairs, the bed, the table, these stood
out clearly and distinctly.  She felt the rush of bodies,
the bustle and strife among the myriad forms as they
jostled each other in their struggle to be near her;
yet there was not a breath of air stirring in the room;
all was motionless and quiet.  Then a space above her
cleared, the air seemed to open and the somber form
and sable wings that she had seen so often descended
upon her.  She was conscious of wondering how it
could be that she had met this phantom so many
times and denounced and driven it from her.  She felt
so stupid now, so numb and powerless; yet the horror
had never been one half so great.  She felt the
claw-like fingers clutch her shoulder and the blood gushed
forth in a crimson stream, yet there was no sensation
of pain, only the grim and awful horror of it.  She
felt herself borne away, the multitude of forms and
faces following in her wake.  What a ghastly burden
she was!  Blood oozed from every pore and left a
crimson trail behind.  Her phantom carrier went
tirelessly on and on, through space and over distances
until it reached an abyss, wide, deep and black.  Over
this, with fluttering wings, it paused.  And could it
be--broiling, seething, writhing below--oh, could it
be--was it true?  She must be wild--her vision blasted--her
senses gone.  She had heard the wail and moan
of suffering children, the call of lost souls; she had
seen the world circled with the maimed, the bruised
and the broken hearted, but this--oh, this which she
now saw and heard!  How could it be that the abyss
contained that which greeted her vision!  The carrier,
with poised wings, now let go its grasp upon her
shoulder and slowly, yet with deadly certainty, she
slid down into the abyss--to become one of them!

It was past midnight when Mr. Thorpe left the
stricken home where he had been called.  He had
performed the last sacred rites for the dying woman;
he had knelt at her bedside and committed her soul
to the keeping of Him who gave it.  It had been a
painful scene and he was tired and depressed when he
reached home.  He entered his wife's room and found
her in her easy chair in a dead faint.  He hastily
summoned Pauline and sent a message for Dr. Eldrige.
Mrs. Thorpe was ill, very ill.  Dr. Eldrige, fussing
and fuming, declared that her nervous system was a
complete wreck.  There was little that he could do for
her.  Proper nourishment, careful nursing, and, above
all, perfect quiet.  These were the only remedies in a
case of this kind.

To his son he said: "The thing I predicted has
happened; the woman's mind is gone.  She is mad as
a March hare, and it is my opinion that much learning
or effort toward learning has made her so."

Dr. Eldrige Jr. recalled his last interview with
Mrs. Thorpe.  Evidently she had not followed his advice.
He was not surprised at this, for he had not really
expected that she would.  He felt, too, that the advice
that he had given her at that time was very much like
giving to a patient in the full flush of fever remedies
intended to prevent fevers generally in their incipient
stages.  He resolved, however, to satisfy himself
whether there was anything that could be done for
her now.  The manner in which he obtained his
father's consent to call upon her was typical of the
method by which he managed to have his own way
when he especially desired it, and yet get along
smoothly with his irascible parent.

"If this woman has brought about her own destruction,
as you believe," he said, "while doing what
we can for her professionally, we can also study her
condition for the benefit of science.  I wouldn't mind
calling on her myself."

"You are a likely limb, my boy.  If you could get
some of the foolishness out of your head you might
make your mark in the world yet.  To-morrow you
can go and tell those pious people at the parsonage
that your old dad is indisposed and sends you in his
place."

When Dr. Eldrige entered the sick room the next
day Mrs. Thorpe fixed her eyes intently upon him.
Never in his experience had he felt the compassion,
the depth of sympathy for a fellow being that her
appearance kindled within him.  Every expression of
her face, every movement, every muscle was blended
in physical pain and mental horror.

Love and compassion, as well as other emotions
strong and deep, are not limited to the mind in which
they have their inception; neither are they bound nor
fettered, and they cannot fail to effect in some degree
the being that has called them forth.  Dr. Eldrige
Jr. advanced to the bedside and quietly regarded the
sufferer.

Mrs. Thorpe, who seemed to have taken no notice
of anyone before, now raised herself to a sitting
posture and, as a child reaches out its hands to a parent,
she extended her hands to him.

"Take me out of this," she said, and there was
fear and pleading, piteous and frenzied in her voice.
Her eyes, in which no light of reason glimmered,
wandered apprehensively about the room and back to the
doctor's face.  "Oh, do help me!" she gasped.
"Take me out of this!"

The doctor's mind was working rapidly; with
quick perception he detected that all reason was not
gone, for it was evident that Mrs. Thorpe recognized
him; yet he could not doubt that her mind was
unbalanced to the extent that she believed herself in
some place or condition the horror of which was
unspeakable.  If a condition, he must find some way to
work upon what remained of her intellect, until, in
her mind this condition was changed; but if it were
a place or surroundings, his task might be less
difficult, but it must be performed quickly.  Without more
than a moment's hesitation he extended his hands to
her in return.

.. _`97`:

"Certainly," he said in a brisk, cheerful voice,
"certainly I will take you out.  That is exactly what
I came for."  He bent over her and took her in his
arms as though she were a little child.  Then to the
nurse he said:

"Show me the nearest bed outside this room."

The nurse opened the door, crossed the hall and
swung open the door of the room opposite.  It was
Pauline's room, and as usual it was in perfect order
and spotless.  The doctor said no word to his patient,
but laid her quietly upon the bed.  She rested her
head on the pillow with her hand under her cheek and
her eyes wandered curiously about the room.  Then
her eyelids fluttered drowsily, fluttered and closed.
The doctor held up his finger commanding quiet and
the nurse remained motionless where she stood.  A
little clock on the mantel ticked off the minutes; there
was no other sound in the room and the sufferer fell
quietly asleep.  It was the first sleep that had come
to her since her illness, and her condition, which the
older doctor had pronounced hopeless, at least so far
as her reason was concerned, dated its improvement
from this time.





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.. _`EASTERTIDE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   EASTERTIDE

.. vspace:: 2

The Reverend Maurice Thorpe had not been so
successful in his work as he had hoped to be; not so
successful as the beginning of his pastorate had
promised.  Of late he felt that his work was falling below
par.  The fine touch, the artistic setting, the
convincing logic that had once been his were slipping from
him.  He could not feel that his ardor had cooled nor
his interest waned, but his faculties seemed to have
lost their keenness and his tongue its cunning.  His
health was not up to the desired standard and his
wife's illness had been a severe strain upon him.
There had been a time when he felt that there was
nothing left in this world for him unless his wife
regained her physical and mental powers.  Now he felt
that perhaps he had not been properly reconciled to the
will of Providence, and he prayed for greater grace
and threw himself heart and soul into his work and
resolved to regain, if possible, that which he had lost.

At his request special preparations were made for
an elaborate Easter service.  He wished this to be a
service that would arouse the people, something that
would interest them and induce them to come again.
The music has so much to do with the success of the
modern church that the pastor planned always to
keep in touch with his choir.  The song service must
be fitted to the sermon, either to emphasize the beauty
of the text, or else to soften and subdue the undressed
truth which must sometimes be spoken.

Geraldine Vane was a capable and willing worker
in the choir.  The plans for the Easter service were
arranged, the parts assigned and the practicing began.

In this work Geraldine and Max Morrison were
thrown much together.  There were some disreputable
stories afloat about the man's character, but no one
seemed to regard them very seriously; and his voice
was so great an attraction that the choir was glad of
his help.

When on his way to choir practice Max had fallen
into the way of calling for Geraldine, and he often
spent an evening in the Mayhew home.  And as time
passed he began to feel more than a casual interest
in this girl with the shell-tinted face and golden hair.
The Mayhew children, too, amused and interested him.
He liked to talk to them, to ask them questions, and
hear their naive answers and innocent speeches.

During the winter his acquaintance with Geraldine
had ripened into a more intimate friendship.  Their love
for music and their proficiency in the art formed a
bond between them.  Geraldine, a veritable St. Cecelia,
her figure swaying with the rhythm of the music as
her fingers flew over the ivory keys, and Max with his
bow calling forth the sweet, weird melody of the
violin, would feel their pulses quicken as the blended
melodies throbbed and sighed and quivered.

It was at this time that Dr. Eldrige Jr. condemned
the woman he had loved from her girlhood and
stepped aside and gave his rival possession of the
field.  Fine and true to the heart's core himself, he
would not seek nor desire the love of a woman who
demanded less than this in manhood.  Nor was it in
his nature to wage a warfare for a woman's love.
This priceless, this sacred thing, must come, if at all,
freely and naturally as the beauty and fragrance of
nature comes to waiting earth.

During the preparation for the Easter service Max
and Geraldine were thrown together even more man
usual.  And it was at this time that Mrs. Mayhew felt
an indefinite fear, a vague alarm concerning their
friendship.  She went to her husband with her
half-formed conjecture.

Mr. Mayhew was a practical man of affairs, shrewd
and sagacious.

"I see no cause for alarm," he said.  "We have
known Max from his boyhood, and although his career
has not been entirely exemplary nor his character
spotless, for a young man of wealth to-day he is not
a bad sort.  And as to his fancying Geraldine, I see
no reason to object if he should.  There's many a girl
gets a worse husband than Max will make.  With a
girl like Geraldine for a wife Max might settle down
and make a model husband."

Mrs. Mayhew rarely opposed her husband.  She
believed that, owing to his position, his contact with
men and his conflict with the world, his judgment
must be better than hers.  She realized in a way that
her judgment was a thing of the heart and lacking in
that worldly wisdom that her husband possessed.  She
remembered many times when she had taken his advice
against her own convictions and afterwards found
that she had not been the loser thereby.  Yet, being
a fair-minded woman, she sometimes came to a place
where another's judgment could not answer for her;
where her impulse and desires prompted her to act
from the dictates of her own heart.

Geraldine's father had died before the girl was
born and her mother had yielded up her life at the
birth of her child.  Mrs. Mayhew had taken the little
one and reared her as her own and loved her as her
own.  But aside from this love and watchful care
there was a feeling of responsibility different from
that which a mother feels for her own children; their
welfare and happiness she is responsible for as for
her own flesh and blood.  She was responsible for
Geraldine as a child of another birth and branch.

The girl had been loving and affectionate, willful
and passionate at times, yet always ready to confess
her faults.  Mrs. Mayhew had seen her through the
unsettled period of adolescence and knew that at the
present time she was a true-hearted woman, looking
into the future, trusting and unafraid.  Had there
ever been a time since she held her in her arms, an
infant of a day, when she had needed a guiding hand
and love and care more than at this present time?

Mrs. Mayhew resolved that, let the consequences
be what they might, Geraldine should have some
enlightenment as to Max Morrison's real character.

It was a few days before Easter.  Outside there
raged a storm of rain and sleet such as the Middle
West often sees in the early spring.  The snow had
disappeared, except here and there a dark-hued bank
by the roadside or in some well-filled corner.  Out in
the country the fields and meadows lay bare and
brown, awaiting the magic touch of spring--Nature's
resurrection.

But within the Mayhew home a warm radiance
covered all.  The interview took place in Geraldine's
room.  The room was typical of the girl.  An air of
purity and daintiness was lent by soft, white
draperies; yet everywhere there was a suggestion of ease
and restfulness.  Conspicuous, but not prominent, a
pair of cherubs were enfolded in a shimmering gauze
of drapery.  A picture of the Virgin with the Christ
Child in her arms hung above the mantel and on the
wall opposite, the tender, loving face of the Savior.
And beneath the Christ face hung the picture of a
sweet, calm-eyed woman and a manly, dark-browed
man--the parents that the girl had never known.

Mrs. Mayhew was perfectly familiar with the room,
but with her mission in mind she was aware that it
impressed her in a different manner from its wont.
A mind less pure than Geraldine's could not have
planned and fashioned it.  This quality of mind and
heart was apparent in all that the girl did.  Suppose
she were robbed of this chastity of thought and the
evil things in the lives of others thrust upon her vision.
Could she ever be just the same girl again?  Mrs. Mayhew
had eased her mind with like sophistry before,
but now she felt that the hand of necessity was
upon her.

Geraldine sat before her fire, a piece of needlework
in her hands.  Mrs. Mayhew drew her chair to the
grate and produced her own bit of work.  She cast
about in her mind for some way to lead up to the
subject upon which she wished to speak, but finding none,
she broached it abruptly.

"Geraldine, do you know you are very unsophisticated
for a girl of your age?  That you know very
little of the evil there is in the world?"

"Do you think I would be better if I knew more,
Aunt Agnes?"

"It is not a question of your being better, Geraldine;
I think the trouble is that you are too good
already.  Do you believe your friends to be as good
as you are?"

"Why, Aunt Agnes!  Am I any better than you
are, or Mrs. Thorpe, or my girl friends?  Why do you
say such things to me?"

"Because I must say them, my dear; you must
know more about your friends.  You are not more
virtuous, perhaps, than the ones whom you have
mentioned; but you are as a creature of another world
compared to Max Morrison, for instance."

The seashell color in Geraldine's face deepened to
flame, but ignoring the display of feeling she had been
too unguarded to suppress, she met her aunt's eyes
full and true.

"Is there anything objectionable about Max that I
should know?" she asked.

Mrs. Mayhew knew that there was no turning back
now.  She wished to be honest with the girl and at
the same time as charitable as possible toward others.
She must show Geraldine that, desirable and praise-worthy
as purity and chastity are, and obligatory as
they are in a woman, she should not expect to find
these qualities in this man, nor hardly in the degree
that a pure-hearted girl possesses them, in any man,
and that it would not be wise nor just, perhaps, to
condemn Max for a lack of them.  She recalled her
husband's attitude on the subject, and although it did
not break her resolution to be frank with the girl, it
tempered it appreciably; and a queer blending of her
conscientiousness and her husband's practicality were
the result.  A distorted vision pictured itself impishly
before her.  Being a woman, she should cleave virtuously
to the good, but be willing to fall on her knees
at the marriage altar and accept the bad!  She felt
that the magnitude of the question was crushing her,
and that its complexity would be her undoing.  The
longer she hesitated for the words in which to express
her meaning, the more helplessly lost she became, and
Geraldine was waiting for the answer to a direct
question.

"To allow you to believe that Max is virtuous as
you understand virtue would not be justice to you,
Geraldine," she said.

"Please be quite frank, Aunt Agnes.  What is it
you wish me to know?"

"None of us are perfect, my dear, and very few of
us are good.  It is a hard world to live in.  Not many
young men go through the trying period of early
manhood unscathed, and it comes to us women sooner or
later to know these things."

Geraldine did not speak, and silence fell between
them.  Mrs. Mayhew noticed the steady, even stroke
of the girl's needle and her quiet composure.

Had her words failed to make an impression, or
was Geraldine too strong and firm to show her
feelings, or was it that she did not care?

But she found no answer to her questions and the
silence continued.  Mrs. Mayhew was relieved when
the children came and tapped at the door.  Geraldine
bade them enter and they flocked in, frolicking and
laughing, and filled the room with their chatter.

When they were all gone and Geraldine was alone
she stood, a white figure among her white draperies,
and looked out at the storm and listened to the sleet
and rain against her window-pane.  The color burned
into her cheeks again and a shadow lay in her eyes.
She was beginning to believe the world a rather
difficult place in which to live, and life not so bright and
joyous as she had thought it to be.

Easter morning dawned gray and cold, but the sun,
seeming to repent its sullen mood, broke through the
clouds and shed a warm radiance over the cold, soaked
earth.

The great church with its arched ceiling and taper
windows seemed impressed with its own solemnity
and its silence was intense and worshipful.  The banks
of lilies, emblems of peace and purity, seemed to
harmonize with the spirit of the place; for their fragrance
and beauty were far removed from all that is plain
and common and their golden hearts were untouched
by humanity's woes.  Above the bank of lilies and
ferns hung a picture of the Christ with a halo about
His head.  The painter's art showed in pose and
expression, in every line and detail.  The eyes were
pathetic and beseeching, as they must have been when
those most heart-rending words the world has ever
known--the prayer in the garden--were uttered.  The
brow was calm with the peace of Heaven and the
mouth, so fine and true, was yet sensitive and pleading.
If this Friend of man could speak, what would be His
message to the worshipers gathered there?  If those
eyes could see the nodding plumage of the forests'
songsters adorning the heads bowed in worship; if
those ears could hear the rustle of costly garments--Easter
outfits--while over on the Flat little children
shivered, bare-footed and garbed in rags; if those
finely penciled nostrils could breathe the incense from
the lilies' golden hearts, while from meagre, unkept
homes vile odors arose--what, in truth, would be the
message from the Christ this Easter day?  If those
hands were alive, those hands that carried healing,
health and blessing in their touch, what would their
mission be?  Would not the crippled boy stand erect
and walk? the tortured shoulders of the rheumatic
straighten? the blind eyes of a parishioner's daughter
open? and the deaf ears of the white-haired sexton
hear, as they had not heard for twenty years, the
Resurrection message?

But the eyes saw not, the ears heard not, the lips
spoke no word and the hands bestowed neither health
nor blessing.  Was it then only a painted Christ that
dwelt in the costly church?  Only a painted Christ
that confronted the Easter worshipers?  Was there
in their midst no heart touched by the feeling of
their infirmities?

The song service was all that those that had
planned and executed it had hoped for.  The house
was crowded; pews that had been dusted and cared
for for months without occupancy were filled.  The
seats in the back of the church were filled also.  Many
of the poor came to feast their eyes on the
lilies--conclusive evidence that, buried in their hearts, hidden
from sight, perhaps, and struggling for existence,
other lilies bloomed.

The song service was artistic, exquisite; not a flaw
or discord marked the time or tone as the perfect
blending of trained voices rose and fell with the pulse
and throb of the music.

The pastor delivered his carefully prepared sermon
with its rhetorical wording and euphonious flow, with
more dignity and enthusiasm than had characterized
him for many months past.

During the service Geraldine Vane, on her raised
seat in the choir, turned and looked into the steel-gray
eyes of Dr. Eldrige, Jr., who occupied a pew in front.
It was but a flash, a passing glance, but the color
deepened in her cheeks regardless of her endeavor to
keep her attention on the pastor's words, and there
came to her again something of the great difficulty of
life's problems.

After the service Max Morrison joined her near
the door and she stood beside him, bewitching in her
Easter gown, and about her the sweet incense of the
lilies she carried.

Then she became aware of another presence and
looked again into the eyes of young Dr. Eldrige.  But
she read no friendly greeting there; the recognition
was cold and formal and he passed on out of the
church.

The warning that Mrs. Mayhew's words contained
had assumed dimensions gigantic in Geraldine's mind,
while their palliative qualities robbed her of all sense
of proportion.  A half-suspicion possessed her, a
harrowing doubt assailed her; many questions besieged
her and she found herself in a state far from conducive
to a peaceful state of mind or a tranquil spirit.
But she walked down the street beside the tall figure
of Max Morrison and she held her head proudly and
endeavored to still the contending voices within her.

Mr. Thorpe felt a keen sense of satisfaction as he
descended the church steps and took his way homeward.
The service had been all that he could desire.
No doubt there would be mention made of it in the
papers during the week and it would give his church
an enviable reputation.  But this elation, gratifying
as it was for the time, was doomed to be short-lived;
before the day was done there was a reaction.  The
spirit of worship had waned and left a sense of chill
and despondency.  Mrs. Thorpe noticed the droop of
her husband's shoulders, the worn look on his face,
and her heart cried out against whatever it might be
that gave him pain.

The Easter sun sank behind the tree-tops and its
last rays lay warm and tender over the church and
parsonage and over the meanest hovel on the Flat.
Great Illuminator which seeks not the place of its
shining and respects not one person above
another--typical of the love of God.





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.. _`THE DISCERNMENT OF TRUTH`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   THE DISCERNMENT OF TRUTH

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Thorpe was sitting one day in the familiar
seat by the window, and her thoughts were centered
on the conditions about her.  Outside the vine was
putting forth new buds and tender leaves; a bird on
a swinging bough was singing his mating song; the
grass was growing green on the incline that led up
to the church.  The winter had not destroyed the
heart and life of that which it had blasted outwardly,
and Nature was emerging into newness of life.

A world of growing things, abundant, forceful,
alive, are springing from the brown, fructuous earth;
spring is pregnant, alive with a power beyond human
conception.  Boundless, limitless, infinite Power!

Now questions that at first seemed to come to her
timid, elusive, quivered before Mrs. Thorpe's mental
vision and insinuated themselves into her consciousness.
Was this material evidence before her eyes the
substance and reality of that which she saw, or was
there something hidden from her mortal vision,
something in this scene before her which her senses could
not recognize?  Here before her was the seed-bed,
the seed and the form of the fruitage; but were these
the reality, or were they but the fleeting forms of
matter, and the divine Idea the only reality?  Which
is real, the plant and the flower, or the life of the
plant and the flower?  These questions that had come
to her haltingly, falteringly, gradually assumed larger
proportions until they included herself, the universe,
and all that the universe contains.  Time, place,
conditions, and all material relations shifted and changed,
and she saw God's world, and God's power controlling
it; a just and majestic God asking only conformity to
the perfect conditions he has created.

Now all of Mrs. Thorpe's preconceived knowledge
vanished and melted away.  Every structure that she
had built had been founded on shifting, undulating
sand, upon her belief of life in matter.  The ideas
and conceits of her childhood, the ardor and energy
of her young womanhood, and all the strain of recent
years all passed before her, and all were empty, vain,
human and finite.  She saw mortals bowed and
broken, guided by finite wisdom and helped by finite
power, trying to do God's work; struggling and agonizing,
trying to aid Infinite strength, and to supplement
Infinite wisdom.

She saw man--upright, holy, divine--yet dominated
by his false beliefs and his conceptions of evil, believing
himself the sinful, unclean thing that his distorted
vision pictures him to be; ignorant, misguided, toiling
in pain and sorrow.  Christ, ah, Christ!  Who would
not be a Christ, a Savior of men; who would not sacrifice
this stage of life, yea, die a thousand deaths, if by
pain and sacrifice he might show this bruised and
broken people the perfection of life, and the harmony
of the condition in which Infinite love has placed them?

Every cord that held her to the moorings of her old
belief gave way, and Mrs. Thorpe found herself alone
on a shoreless, fathomless sea; no sail was in sight, no
hand reached out to her.  Adrift--alone--there was
no measuring of time or space.  But she was not
afraid, for the science of Being had been revealed to
her.  Alone--yet he whose voice stilled the sea, he
whose voice stills human passion, fear, pain and
suffering was with her, and she walked upon the water
with this Man of Galilee.

In their blindness and error men have produced
that which is not beautiful, and which is not good, but
there are no blemishes in God's world, and there are
no iniquities.  The God of love has put beauty, and
grace, and joy, and gladness into everything that He
has created.

Now Mrs. Thorpe saw before her all that has been,
all that is, and all that is to be; and her eyes were not
holden to the emblems and symbols through which the
solution of God's world was hers.  "Neither death
nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor
things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor
depth, nor any other creature," shall be able now to
separate her from the love of God.

The peace that passeth understanding is like a calm
on mighty waters, like the strength of rugged forests,
like the blending of many melodies.  Mrs. Thorpe fell
on her knees and buried her face in her hands.  But
this attitude was not taken to humble herself before
the God that she had found; this Deity that was
revealed to her was the great and perfect Whole, and
herself she recognized as the spiritual image and
likeness of God.

"There is a Spirit in man and the inspiration of the
Almighty giveth him understanding."  "The inspiration
of the Almighty;" there is no other source of
supply, no other way to understand than to let the
Spirit speak to the "Spirit in man."  Mrs. Thorpe's
mind was emptied of worldly wisdom; the tablets of
her heart were renewed clean as an unwritten page.
Freed from the thought of her material selfhood, and
her intellectual beliefs, she was receptive, ready and
waiting in the hands of the Master of men.

The preparation of the clay that is to be molded
into a work of art is of first importance; and when
this preparation is completed the artist begins his
work of bringing beauty and grace out of a pliable,
yielding mass ready to his hand.  When a piece of
ground is to bring forth a harvest of golden grain or
succulent fruit the ground must first be prepared.
There must be an upheaval; the weeds and tares must
be uprooted; the plow-share and the harrow must do
their work; the soil must be torn and broken and
turned up to the mellowing sun, and then the seed is
sown.

Upon her knees Mrs. Thorpe was not denied the
knowledge that her years of suffering were years of
preparation; that the anguish and pain wrought by
her great desire had not been in vain.  When she
arose to her feet she knew that she had found the
Kingdom of Heaven; it was within her.

A flood of sunshine lay over the room; each familiar
object was in its place, yet all was changed.  She
stepped to the window and looked out, and the
transfigured earth, and air, and sky greeted her; yet even
in this first newness of her joy she knew that this
change which glorified all things was in her own
heart.  And that which tongue has never named and
pen has never described descended upon her and
enfolded her like a garment; and henceforth and
forever she was secure from harm; she had come into
her own.  She felt her heart overflowing and exulting;
the vigor of the spring was in her veins, the unseen
growth of the vine was expanding her soul, and the
birds' song filled her with joy.

Then like a flash, like the cut of a knife, the sting
of a lash, a black, evil thought darted into the
radiance.  The phantoms--where were they?  The dark
visage, the black wings, the hissing, shrieking
voice--where were these?  She looked fearfully about her
with dilated eyes; but all was quiet, and there was
neither form nor shape visible.  The room lay bathed
in sunshine, and there was a soft balminess in the air.
Yet for one awful moment she felt that she was losing
this wonderful thing that she had found, she was
afraid--led into the wilderness and tempted.  Then
with a supreme courage she put it to the test; she
stood upright and looked over her shoulder.  The
space behind her was empty!  Trembling, agonized,
yet in ecstasy, she looked again--the space was empty!
Not even in dimmest outline, half-hidden, elusive as
her enemy sometimes appeared, did he now show his
face; not the faintest flutter of wings was discernible;
no whisper came to her.  She turned and walked
across the room and back again to the window.  She
could not yet be satisfied that she was free; the
sickening horror, the awful dread had not left her, and
she turned and looked again over her right shoulder,
where her phantom most often appeared, then over
her left shoulder, where it sometimes surprised her by
lurking.  The space was empty!  Now she felt that
if she longer held her peace the very furnishings of
the room must cry out.  "Father, Spirit, God of
Truth," she cried, "Love has liberated me!"

Had a miracle been wrought for her deliverance?
Mrs. Thorpe had always known that it was her
imagination, her own distorted fancy against which she
battled and fought.  A phantom is not a reality,
however real it may appear.  The truth is always true,
however distorted our view of it may be.  When
Mrs. Thorpe fixed her mind on the central Truth
of creation, and spiritually discerned it, she realized
that all the doubts and fears that had held her were
but distortions of her material sense.  All of her
questionings and perplexities, vain fancies and evil
imaginings were obliterated; her mental conception
was changed, the hallucination dispelled, and she was
free.

Free!  Men have been freed from the dungeon and
from chains; reprieves have come at a moment when
prisoners were to meet at the hands of their fellow
men a violent death; floods and flames have been faced
and deliverance miraculously given.  These are
physical horrors, relieved by physical causes.
Mrs. Thorpe's deliverance was from a mental foe, one who
would destroy not only her physical frame, but who
would twist and warp and dethrone her reason as
well; her deliverer was the royal Truth of life.  Now
indeed she had burst her chrysalis, she was no longer
a worm of earth, but clothed with the spirit of
immortality, she saw God's creation, not as human
weakness has interpreted it, but as a loving Father
designed it.

Pauline, ever watchful and alert, was the first to
notice a change in Mrs. Thorpe.  She noted the
returning vigor and observed the unusual buoyancy of
spirit.  There was also a consideration and thoughtful
kindness in her manner that Pauline had never noticed
before.  A great deal of charity must be manifested
toward one who is ill and in pain, unpleasant manners
and disagreeable ways must be overlooked.  Pauline
had had the tact and patience to do this; she was not
one to judge a sick woman unkindly.  But now there
was a winsomeness about this woman whom she had
long looked upon as her charge, an optimism that she
found it difficult to adjust to Mrs. Thorpe's former
attitude.





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.. _`A SUMMER'S VACATION`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   A SUMMER'S VACATION

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Mr. Thorpe noticed the change in his wife and
rejoiced in her recovery.  Her quiet manner and
uniform cheerfulness brought to his mind the early days
of their wedded life, and he felt that perhaps the many
prayers that he had offered for her recovery had
reached the throne of mercy.

But the pastor's own cares were pressing him
sorely.  All that he had gained by the Easter service
he had lost, and more.  His congregation grew
smaller each succeeding Sabbath, and with bitterness
and despair he admitted that he was not obliged to
look outside of himself for the cause.  He felt his
strength slipping from him, and in some way that he
could not analyze nor comprehend, and his mental
capacity seemed dwarfed and contracted.  Thoughts
of beauty and grandeur flitted through his brain, but
when he tried to fix them there, to put them into words
or on paper they eluded him, mocked and evaded him.

When spring merged into summer a council of his
church convened and voted him a vacation for the
summer months.  This was gratefully accepted; for
he felt that a season's rest, a long vacation in which
to recuperate and regain his lost powers would put
him in condition again for his work in the autumn.

Mrs. Thorpe was to accompany him, and they
planned to spend the summer with an uncle who lived
in a small village in an adjoining state.  This uncle
was a retired minister, who for forty years had
preached the Gospel.  Now with his wife still beside
him, he was spending what was left of his life in
well-earned peace and quiet.  He sent an earnest invitation
to his nephew to come to him and spend his vacation
in this quiet, restful village.

After the vacation was arranged, and the invitation
accepted, Mr. Thorpe threw himself with all of his
remaining strength and energy into the preparation of
a farewell sermon.  He desired this to be of high
excellence, and especially adapted to the occasion; he
wished to say something that would appeal to the
hearts of his people, and cause them to remember him,
and to be ready to welcome him back in the autumn.
For days he worked on this sermon, comparing words
and phrases, seeking just the shade of meaning he
desired, harmonizing sentences, and striving for an
agreeable rise and flow of language.

Mrs. Thorpe, who had attended church for several
Sundays, accompanied her husband on this last
Sunday morning.  She walked beside him now with easy
grace, and mingled with her friends and seemed not
to notice their wondering looks and incredulous
glances; she met them without self-consciousness,
neither shrinking nor boasting.

When the pastor entered the pulpit, and the deep,
sweet tones of the organ sounded, her soul glad and
worshipful, left every care and material thought.
Then she heard her husband's voice in prayer, praying
for his people, and for the great world of humanity.
But she did not follow the prayer closely; her new
conception of God's creation enabled her to know that
the Lord's blessing was already upon these people,
that they needed only to realize and accept it.  She
saw toiling millions begging for a blessing that has
been theirs forever, and that can never in any manner
possibly cease to be theirs.

For his text the pastor had taken, "To him that
overcometh," and he dwelt largely on the reward
ready for those who are able to endure to the end.

As the sermon progressed, Mrs. Thorpe was reminded
of her old troubled conception of the Father
and His children in the field.  She did not wonder
that this idea had once possessed her; for was not
this the very interpretation of life that her husband
was presenting?  But now before her vision she saw
a kind and compassionate Father, and man in His
spiritual likeness.

She had found that the propensity of mortal man
to worship images of belief that he himself has
created, rather than to hold as his own that which God
has created for him, and has bestowed without limit or
stint upon him, is the cause of man's woe, the cause of
all his grief and pain.  God has given man only good;
He could give nothing else, for He has created or
fashioned nothing else.  She heard the sermon through,
however, without inward questioning or discord.
Since the deep, sweet Truth of life had become the
bread and wine of her existence she was not troubled
by another's conception of truth.  All truth, however
small, however great, is a part of the Truth, just as
every drop of the ocean, or rippling wave, or mighty
billow is a part of the sea.

Mrs. Thorpe knew something of the hard toil and
effort this sermon had cost her husband; she knew
that he had builded it word upon word, sentence upon
sentence, and she understood the intensity of his
purpose, the sincerity of his belief; but the thought came
to her forcibly at this time that the laws of God are
not influenced by man's conception of life and truth,
but that, perfect and harmonious, they go undeviatingly
on, regardless of what man believes or teaches.

After the service Mrs. Thorpe noticed that there
was no change in the rigidity of the manner that
marked the worshipers.  All was orderly and formal;
those nearest to her spoke in subdued tones, and
expressed a cold pleasure at seeing her again.  This
concourse of people, each heart carrying its own peculiar
burden, had come to the service, listened to the music,
heard the Scripture read and the sermon delivered;
now each went again his own way without solace or
comfort, his burden not one whit the lighter.

It was a dull, gray morning; lowering clouds hung
threateningly about, and a fine, penetrating mist filled
the air.

"This dampness and mist is as bad as a pouring
rain," said Pauline, on the way from church.  "You
had better fasten your muffler close about your throat,
Maurice, and turn up your coat collar; I fear this will
bring on your cough again."

When they reached the parsonage Pauline saw that
the fires were built and the rooms warmed and dried,
although it was early summer.  The dry, hacking
cough that Mr. Thorpe was subject to was something
to be fought and doctored continually.  And in this
instance Pauline's fears seemed to be well grounded;
soon after dinner Mr. Thorpe was seized with a
paroxysm of coughing, followed by a spell of weakness.
By evening a low fever had developed and it was
thought best to send for Dr. Eldrige.

The old doctor came, examined the patient and gave
minute directions for his care; after this he came
every day for a week.  At the end of this time
Mr. Thorpe's condition was greatly improved, and one day
when alone with him Dr. Eldrige broached a subject
that had been much in his mind since he began calling
at the parsonage.

"Thorpe," he said, in his usual blunt manner, "what
has brought about your wife's recovery?  A few
months ago she was a stricken invalid; now we see
her in the full flush of health.  Some great physician
must have been consulted--or some occult power.  It
might be well for you to get around with your
explanations if you value her reputation or your own."

Had Dr. Eldrige unsheathed a dagger and stabbed
his patient, the blow could scarcely have been keener
felt.  For a time he repented his blunt words, for
Mr. Thorpe's distress and agitation were alarming.  The
doctor mixed a stimulating draught and gave it to
him, and at the same time, in a quiet, smooth manner,
introduced another topic of conversation and soon
after took his departure.  He congratulated himself
on being an adept at dealing crushing blows.

"I have, I think, given our pious pastor something
to think about," he chuckled as he left the parsonage.

At the end of another week the delayed preparations
for their departure were resumed, and a few
days later the family separated, Pauline to spend the
summer in the old home town with a relative and the
pastor and his wife enroute for the little village among
the mountains.

The old couple gave Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe a warm
greeting and a hearty welcome to their simple,
wholesome home.  They acquainted them with the resources
of the place; gave them directions for reaching the
mountain peaks; showed them the mountain stream
where the speckled trout abounded; pointed out to
them the woodland path that led to the lake and the
glades and dells where the wild flowers grew, and
then left them to make their own plans and find their
own amusements.

To Mrs. Thorpe the place seemed like a fairy
bower, a land of enchantment--one of her old
daydreams come true.  Here were the beauties of God's
world, indescribable, luxurious, exquisite.  Why had
He made the hills and mountains so fair?  Why were
the skies so azure blue, the air so rare and sweet with
the breath of flowers?  Why do the waters of the
rippling lake lay smiling in the sun?  And why does
the sun bathe woodland and field, mountain and lake
in golden glory and flaming splendor?  One of the
books that she had read, the work of a popular
scientist, told her that Nature's works are fixed and
fashioned regardless of man; that in the plan of the
universe no account was taken of his needs, and no
cognizance of his desires.  She recalled another book
which told her that man is the central object of the
universe and that all things are created to minister to
his needs and desires.  But deep in her own heart she
believed the realities of life, all beauty, truth and
harmony to be reflections of the one Life.

"It may be that mine was a case of too many
books," she thought.  "I depended too much on the
knowledge that can be derived from the works of
man, and considered too little the wisdom that comes
from God, and can never come in any other way than
by direct revelation--the heart of God speaking to the
heart of man: 'Be still and know that I am God.'"  And
in this stillness, this sanctuary and solemn grandeur,
there opened before her an unwritten book--the
overreaching Law of Love, the compelling goodness of God.

That which has been spoken and that which has
been written pertains to the material sense; but that
which has been heard in the silence, and seen in "the
light that no man can approach unto," and experienced
in the grandeur of the limitless life--this is God--no
tongue has told it, no pen has portrayed it, yet in
letters of glory we all may read it.  From the
mountains and the hills, from the summer skies and the
smiling water, the leaves of this unwritten book
unfolded before Mrs. Thorpe and she read the deep
hidden things of God.

The long golden days came and went like a radiant,
glorified dream, each with its share of pleasure, some
new joy, some added gladness.  There were days
when the summer rain beat upon the roof in mellow
cadence; when the gray, leaden skies emphasized the
cheer and comfort of the plain mountain home.  Then,
Mrs. Thorpe with some light work in hand, would
listen while her hostess, the dear old aunt, related
chapters from the past and told incidents and
anecdotes from her long experience as a pastor's wife.
There were days when the damp earth, warm beneath
the sun, gave forth a blissful fragrance of growing
things and the green, swelling buds burst into showers
of bloom; when the mountain brook, swelled by the
rain, babbled in wild, sweet song and dashed its
turbulent waters into the placid lake.

There were days when the pastor renewed his
boyhood and spent long hours on the shaded banks of
the mountain stream with his fishing tackle, baiting
for speckled trout.  Mrs. Thorpe always accompanied
him and sought to divert his mind from every care;
while he fished, or perhaps tramped through the woods
and sought the homes of the feathered songsters, she
would busy herself with some piece of needlework,
and when he threw himself on the velvet grass beside
her she would read to him from some book, bright,
crisp and care-destroying.  Sometimes the noonday
lunch was carried in a basket and eaten at the foot of
the towering, blue-hung mountain, and then together
they scaled the mountain's height and from its summit
viewed the valleys and woodlands below; saw the lake
like a silver basin and the stream like a white thread;
and all the world below seemed hushed and at rest,
and their individual cares and perplexities seemed to
shrink and fall away, and they breathed the life-giving
ozone and felt that Life is so much greater thing
than its material forms can ever demonstrate.  These
were days that long afterward lay in the memory like
gems, rare, radiant, exquisite.

Mr. Thorpe spent a considerable time with his
venerable kinsman, the old minister, and together they
lived in the past, a past peopled with father and
mother and the sadly lamented brother cut down in
his prime, and other dear ones gone to the far, fair
shore.  When alone Mr. Thorpe's thoughts tended to
carry him back to a time when no shadows clouded
his life, when no fears regarding physical or spiritual
strength assailed him.  With the ready assurance
which is a phase of the disease from which he was
suffering, he felt that he was regaining his health, and
believed that full bodily vigor would be restored to
him.  But where were the hopes and aspirations of
his life, once so strong and indomitable?  Where the
joy and gladness he had once felt in his work?

A dull despair filled him now.  Willingly, gladly,
he had put his all in his work; and what had he
received in return?  He felt his heart "Smitten and
withered like grass."  And the people to whom he had
ministered, to whom he had laid bare his heart and
life, whom he had sought with all the passion and
pleading of his soul, was there anything in their deeds
or actions to indicate that their lives were marked with
the impress of the Master?  And always amid his
introspection, there came the thought of his wife.  The
woman he loved had departed from the beliefs of his
life, from the tenets of his faith, she had not followed
him; her footsteps had taken a strange, new road,
which must lead her ever farther and farther from
him.  Yet this, that she had not followed him, bitter
as it was, was not the bitterest drop in his cup, was
not the worst aspect of the trouble that weighed upon
him.  He had so cultivated the reverence in his nature
for that which appealed to him in religion, and so
stimulated his devotion to that which he worshiped,
that he did not know that any soul-saving righteousness
could exist outside the orbit in which his mind
revolved.  Then it was not only that she had not
followed him--when he had so loved her--but it must
follow that she was a lost soul.

After long deliberation, Mr. Thorpe, feeling the
burden and responsibility of his wife's departure too
great to be borne alone, he laid the case before his
venerable uncle.

The old man, thoughtful and considerate, heard him
through without a word.  Then in his gentle voice,
slightly tremulous, he said:

"I think you made a mistake, Maurice, when you
adopted a lenient attitude toward that which your
judgment condemned.  From your account, the book
you found on your wife's table was rank heresy,
openly opposed to established forms of religion.  I
have thought that perhaps this false conception of the
works of Christ, this spurious growth that we know
is gaining ground in the world to-day, is the very
anti-Christ against which we have been so strenuously
warned.  It certainly is your duty to show your wife
the falsity and error of these attacks on established
creeds and doctrines.  This blasphemy about spiritual
healing is the most egregious error, the most harmful
and misleading thing, the most damned and baneful
thing that the enemies of pure religion have ever
devised.  I cannot understand how any honest person can
adopt a neutral attitude toward it."

Mr. Thorpe was silent for a few moments, and
when he spoke the life and spirit had gone out of his
voice, and the shadow that had darkened his life
brooded over him.

"There is nothing neutral nor conciliatory in my
mind toward this 'wind of doctrine,'" he said.  "In
my opinion there is no greater sacrilege than for man
to claim the power of Christ."  He hesitated a moment
and then continued as one who forces down the last
drop of a bitter draught.  "Evelyn was a Christian
woman when I married her," he said, "orthodox as
you or I; she has been very near to me in all my work,
yet she has departed from me; she has not been able
to feed and live on that which I could give.  And if
this woman, whom I have loved and trusted, has
failed to find spiritual food under my teaching, how
shall I judge my life's work?"

"This is a serious question, Maurice, and far-reaching;
but your outlook is morbid and unfair to
yourself.  Have no scruples about your life's work;
never doubt that the Lord has need of your service;
let nothing turn you from this.  If there is any
condemnation upon you it is because you have allowed
your heart to pervert your judgment."

There was silence again for a few moments, while
a smile flickered across the old man's wrinkled face;
a smile that spoke of many things; demons met and
battles fought and every trace of human affection
subservient to the creed that rules his life.  Nowhere in
the history of paganism do we find such atrocities as
have been committed in the name of Religion.  The
blood of the martyrs had within it the principle that
would condemn another to martyrdom and at the same
time, if put to the test, face, undaunted, an atrocious
death.  And the devotee to the creeds and doctrines
of our orthodox church will, for his faith, flay alive
the quivering soul of a loved one and yield his own
soul to be flayed with equal readiness.  The smile, or
the trace of it, lingered on the old minister's face.

"I have a thought, Maurice," he said, "that it is
the old story, old as the Garden of Eden, of man's
yielding to the witchery of woman.  The curse of
Adam's weakness is in our veins, but there is no
extenuation for us in yielding to it.  Were I in your
place I should either root this obnoxious thing from
Evelyn's mind, or else deal with her exactly as I
should with any other heretic in the church.  Go and
read Mark 9, from 43 to 49."

At the end of the summer when the first frost had
touched the leaves and dressed them in red and yellow
garb; when a blue haze hung over the landscape and
the air was balmy with the summer's departing
fragrance, the pastor and his wife bade an affectionate
farewell to the friends who had been so kindly
hospitable, and returned to Edgerly.

Pauline, capable, willing and always considerate,
preceded them and had the parsonage aired and
renovated when Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe arrived.

Mrs. Thorpe expostulated: "You should have
waited and allowed me to help you," she said.  "I
can never repay you for all your kindness."

"The dust and close air would have been bad for
Maurice," Pauline replied.  "And, my dear," she
said, "you have been with Maurice constantly and
perhaps you cannot see as I can that the summer has
not improved his health.  To me he seems thinner and
more broken than when he went away."

.. _`"WHY, PERMIT ME TO ASK, DO YOU NOT TURN SOME OF YOUR WITCHCRAFT ON HIM?"`:

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   :alt: "WHY, PERMIT ME TO ASK, DO YOU NOT TURN SOME OF YOUR WITCHCRAFT ON HIM?" (page 136)

   "WHY, PERMIT ME TO ASK, DO YOU NOT TURN SOME OF YOUR WITCHCRAFT ON HIM?" (page `136`_)





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.. _`THE MINISTER'S DECLINE`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   THE MINISTER'S DECLINE

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The family had not been home many days before
Mr. Thorpe's cough again became alarming; weakness
and fever followed, and Dr. Eldrige was again
summoned.  The old doctor prescribed and commanded.
The patient must be kept quiet, but nothing to indicate
his condition must be manifested by the family.  He
also advised that Mr. Thorpe resign his position as
pastor.

"He cannot preach this winter," he said, "and it
will be the death of him to try.  Let him resign and
have all care off his mind."

Mr. Thorpe objected to this and wished to obtain
a substitute for a time; Mrs. Thorpe agreed with him
that this would be the better way; and Pauline,
although she said nothing, felt that his resignation would
be a tacit admission that he would never regain his
health.

Dr. Eldrige fumed and stormed, as he always did
when he met with opposition.  He told Mrs. Thorpe
and Pauline to go on and have their way, but to
remember his words when they heard the clods upon
the coffin lid.  And Mr. Thorpe's resignation was duly
sent in.

As was his custom, Dr. Eldrige discussed his
patient with his son.  He made a pretense of scoffing
at his son's methods and manners, yet he was always
ready to lay his cases before him, and counted more
upon the young doctor's opinions and depended more
upon his judgment than he would under any
circumstances admit.

"Our pious pastor is going to die," he said to his
son.  "Pious or devilish, we all come to the same
place at last, and we all go through the same door and
out into the same black hole."

Dr. Eldrige Jr. made no comment, but gave the consent
of silence to his father's statements; he felt that
they needed no corroboration.

After a few moments the elder doctor spoke again:
"Perhaps, though, a man's better off dead than alive
when he has a witch-wife," lie said.

"A witch-wife!" the young man ejaculated, and
there was both incredulity and remonstrance in his
voice; but he said no more; he knew better than to
question his father outright, and he half regretted
that he had allowed the exclamation to escape him.

"Yes," the old man stormed; "a witch-wife, a
distracted, wild-eyed manes who has had seven
devils--seventy for what I know--cast out of her and now
blooms forth in pristine freshness.  When witches
inhabit the earth the doctors can seek another world
in which to practice their vile profession of medicine;
their services will not be required in this one.
However, when our witch friend gets out among people
she may find that she has fewer friends in her health
than she had in her sickness.  She may be able to ride
over chimney tops on a broomstick and hobnob with
black cats in the forest for a time--but it may be a
short time."

Heretofore the young doctor had given little heed
to his father's bluster about Mrs. Thorpe's recovery;
but now he understood that his words contained a
covert threat.  In the course of their relations
together the son had fallen into the way of arbiter
between his father and his father's patients, and many
times he was able to prevent his father's malevolent
designs and to heal the wounds that he inflicted.  Now
he looked up from the book that he was reading; he
did not look full into his father's face, but scanned it
surreptitiously, and he admitted to himself that his
father's malady was working upon him again.  The
harsh grating of his voice and his evil, malicious
words had portrayed it; and the fleeting glance at the
old man's face had revealed the purplish tinge, the
swollen veins, and the murderous gleam of his eyes.

Never could he forget the day that he had discovered
his father's secret--the disease that was ravaging
body and brain.  He had come upon him suddenly,
unexpectedly, and had turned hastily from him, partly
in recoil at what he saw and also to shield his father
from the knowledge that he had discovered his trouble.
And from that time, as he valued his life, he had
given no hint of what he knew, although there was a
silent understanding regarding it between him and
his father.  And this understanding had enabled him
to know his choleric parent as he had never known
him before.  He felt that the anger and malignity and
rancor to which his father gave vent were but the
outflow, the suppuration of the horror which held him
in its grasp; and he dared not put the question to
himself, whether it might not be that this thing of
horror was but his father's evil moods materialized in
the flesh.  And now he read an expression of his
father's virulence in his remarks concerning the
pastor and his wife, and had he read no more than this
he would have made no reply, but he feared that his
father's words contained a menace to the peace of
those to whom he was ministering, and he believed it
was time for him to ascertain the state of affairs at
the parsonage.

"If Mr. Thorpe's decline is, as you say, slow and
gradual," he said, "so long as there are no
complications, you may as well let me take the case."  His
manner was quiet, free from curiosity, and indicated
that he was not interested in the matter of
Mrs. Thorpe's recovery.  "I have calls that will take me
in that part of the town to-morrow," he continued,
"and I will see Mr. Thorpe for you if you like."

Dr. Eldrige Jr. felt that he had scored a victory that
was worth while.  His father would get a new grievance
bye and bye, and then, if he saw no more of the
Thorpes, he would forget this one.

He called at the parsonage the next afternoon and
found Mr. Thorpe resting comfortably.  The cough
was better and the other symptoms less pronounced.
After this he continued his calls at different times for
several days; then a call came that took him out of
town for a few days and the old doctor made the call
on Mr. Thorpe.

After the visit he said to Mrs. Thorpe, who had
accompanied him to the hall: "The present
treatment seems to be working so well that it will not
be necessary for me to call again until Mr. Thorpe
is taken worse; but be sure and let me know at the
first return of the unfavorable symptoms."  He spoke
of this contingency as though it were a foregone
conclusion; that it was only a matter of time.

This was the first real intimation that Mrs. Thorpe
had had that her husband's condition was serious.  For
the first moment she felt as if her heart had ceased to
beat, or was it that she was blind that the daylight
should be so black?  Then she felt that a burden so
heavy that she could not bear it had been suddenly
and rudely thrust upon her.  She felt that she
staggered and was unsteady on her feet.  But she faced
the doctor and spoke as bravely as she could, although
her voice sounded in her ears like a voice that she had
never heard before.  Yet in her consciousness there
mingled with this deadly certainty that the doctor
expressed something of her new-found faith in a higher
power, and so she said:

"If he is taken worse we will let you know at once."

Dr. Eldrige lowered his head and looked at her over
his glasses; he was in a villainous mood, and that
little flame of faith that had shot out in her words had
not escaped him.

"If," he roared; "indeed, Mrs. Thorpe, there is no
'if' about it; he will be taken worse."  Then with
the heart of one who knows he has maimed, but
craves to kill, he said: "Don't you know that your
husband is going to die?"

Mrs. Thorpe paled to the lips.  She looked the man
steadily in the face, but no words came to her.

He saw that she did not shriek nor cry aloud; she
did not faint nor fall; and with all the malevolence
in his nature he made another thrust.

.. _`136`:

"There was a time," he said, "when I believed that
you would leave your husband free in the world, but
the tables have turned.  Why, permit me to ask, do
you not turn some of your witchcraft on him?  What
is fair for one ought to be fair for another.  You
saved yourself by some devilish machination, but you
are little inclined, it seems, to save your husband by
the same process."

The horror and resentment of Mrs. Thorpe's outraged
soul were depicted upon her face and gleamed
from her dilated eyes.  She had trained her mind to
dwell on the divine attributes in man; but alas, how
human, how very human, she felt this passion to be
that possessed her now!  Her blood was like fire in
her veins, a strange noise was in her ears and hot,
scathing words leaped to her lips.

"Dr. Eldrige," she said, and the words came keen
and sharp; all her anguish and passionate anger were
there, but she caught her breath sharply and stopped.
Then again: "Dr. Eldrige--"  Her voice wavered,
fell and broke.  She turned and walked to the window.
The doctor began drawing on his gloves, his hand was
on the door.  Then she walked back to him.  Her face
was white, her eyes fathomless.  "You are my husband's
physician," she said.  "I have no quarrel with
you."  Her voice was even, guardedly calm.

The doctor regarded her curiously.  He had read
her horror and resentment and with the utmost
exactness he read her passion and her anguish; now he as
surely read her victory.  His ill-will toward her did
not soften.  He stood with his cane and medicine case
in his hand, ready to go, and without a word he turned
and left her.

A lightning flash will sometimes cause objects and
outlines to stand out with more distinctness than does
the noonday sun.  The keen flash of her bitter passion
revealed to Mrs. Thorpe what the long summer days
had not disclosed.

Why had she not been free and frank with her
husband and confessed to him the change that had
come into her life?  Why had she shut her blessing in
her own heart and uttered no word to those about her?

The consciousness that had come to her of the
power of Truth over all evil and error never wavered
nor failed.  The actual demonstration of what she had
experienced was manifested in her own life.

God's truth is not a complex thing, difficult to
explain and hard to demonstrate; it is simple and
natural.  Health is the natural condition; sickness is
abnormal.  Righteousness is the simple state of man; sin
is a distortion.  But to live and demonstrate these
truths in this many-sided, complex life requires all the
wisdom that Christ came to earth to teach.

Mrs. Thorpe never doubted that could the saving
power of Truth be revealed to her husband his infirmities
would fall from him; yet with this message warm
in her heart she had not broken the silence that lay
between them.  In this course that she had taken she
had shielded herself behind the conviction that her
husband would not accept this message; and she had
put back with a quieting touch, hushed and kept asleep
that which all the time had been to her so patent--that
she was deceiving her husband--afraid to make known
to him her new conception of the Christ-love and its
transforming power.

Mr. Thorpe was in his study one morning, sorting
and arranging his books.  The disease from which he
was suffering has been known to play with its victims
as a cat delights to play with a mouse, and this was
one of the times when Mr. Thorpe fully believed that
he was to regain his health.  He was finding great
pleasure in his books this morning; he had been away
from them so long that now as he handled them they
seemed to him like dearest friends.  Mrs. Thorpe
tapped at the door of the study and he bade her enter.

"It seems good to find you here, Maurice," she said;
"like old times again."

"Old times!"  How the thought stirred his spirit--the
time when there was no barrier between them.
The sunshine streamed through the window and lay, a
golden bar, on the floor; symbolic, he thought, of the
barrier that had insinuated itself between him and this
fair, smiling woman who stood before him; a barrier
silent, far-reaching, heaven-high.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes also were on the shaft of light.

"See how the sunshine lies like a bridge between
us," she said; "a beautiful golden bridge.  I hope I
may be able to build as fair a one, Maurice, between
your confidence and mine.  I have been keeping
something from you.  I wish to talk to you about it--about
the new belief--the light that has come to me."

Her heart was beating tumultuously.  Her hand
rested on a table beside her husband and he noticed
the firm, white flesh of her arm, where once pitiful
emaciation had marked it.  He looked into her face
and saw the signs of health and vigor there--evidence
that she had cast her lot with some foreign
power--some ungodly fetish!

"Evelyn," he said, "I have not questioned your
belief nor demanded an explanation concerning this new,
strange doctrine which you have embraced."

"No," she said, "you have not questioned nor
demanded.  I feel that you have trusted me, you have
been kind--"

"No, Evelyn!  Not that--I have been weak, culpable,
a coward--fearing to ask lest from your own
lips I get confirmation of the worst."

Mrs. Thorpe felt that her husband had thrust her
suddenly outside the pale of his sympathy.  The hope
in her heart grew cold and all her glad words that she
had been ready to speak deserted her; yet she
answered bravely:

"This is no evil thing that has come into my life,
you need not dread or fear it."  Then, more eagerly:
"Oh, Maurice, can you not see that it has restored my
health, taken away my infirmities, blessed my life and
made me whole?"  The flood-gates were opened and
the fullness of her soul poured forth.  "It is the Truth
that has made me free; there is no real power in the
world save God's power.  There is a better conception
of life than that which admits sickness and disease to
be real and powerful.  Have not we to-day the same
Savior who walked the Galilean shore healing all
forms of sin and sickness?  God is the same yesterday,
to-day and forever.  Is not our Christ just as tender,
as compassionate, as able, now as then?"  She stopped
at the sight of her husband's face.  The light had gone
out of it; it was grim and set.

"That which I feared has come upon me," he said.
"I had hoped that this folly of yours might pass; I
have prayed daily that you might be delivered from
this fallacy, and restored to the fold; but I see that
you have gone from me--gone from me, from my
church and my God."

Mrs. Thorpe had felt sure that her husband would
not approve of her new belief, and in her darkest
moments she had feared that by confessing to him
the change that had come into her life, the perfect
trust and confidence between them might be broken.
But what was this that his words portended?  Gone
from his church--his God--*from him*!  Was there
anything--anything on earth or in Heaven that could
compensate her for this?  Yet with the question still
passionate in her soul she realized that were it
possible, for the sake of the mortal love her soul so
craved, for her to deny her conception of the Infinite,
she could never retrace her steps.  With her own free
hand she had torn down the old relationship between
herself and her husband.  For the moment she felt
that she had plucked from its stem the fairest flower
that ever blossomed; now it must wither and die, no
power on earth could prevent it.

The glistening sunlight radiated sparks of living fire,
then reeled in darkness.  Suddenly she found herself
as one who departs on a strange, new road, and finds
all other paths barred and blocked.  A tremor shook
her form and her breath came with a sob.  Even
though she find that the night awaits her in
Gethsemane and Calvary looms on before, she must go
on--but not alone--she has beside her One whose feet
had passed that way before.

Her husband sat before her with bowed head.

"Maurice," she said gently, yet with the keenness
of her heart's pain in her voice, "the sternest judge
does not condemn without a hearing, much less should
you who have always been kind and just condemn me
before you have investigated the views I hold."

"I have no desire to investigate your views, Evelyn.
This assertion that you have made, that a weak and
sinful human being has power to overcome sickness and
disease, is placing mortals on a level with the Son of
God and is a defamation of the very character of God
Himself.  I would have given my life for you rather
than that you should have embraced so heretical and
blasphemous a doctrine.  Yet even though this cup
prove more bitter than I can bear; even though it
blights my life and destroys my affection, I will not
ask you to spare me now.  I desire to know how far
you have gone--I would like to know how far you
are from me."

Mrs. Thorpe felt herself alone; her isolation closing
in about her.  Never before had her husband thrust
her from him, never before had he been unsympathetic
and unkind.  Then the thought came to her that in all
the years of her married life she had never before
arrayed herself in open opposition to him; and she
realized now, for the first time, that although she had
loved this man she had also feared him with an awful,
shrinking fear.  Now she felt that he had not only
thrust her from him, but that he had aimed deliberately
to pain and wound her, and with this thought a
new element sprang to life within her--a dauntless,
unflinching courage.

"Maurice," she said, "you have thrown down the
gauntlet which, were I to take up in like spirit, would
result in wounding both our hearts even as you have
wounded mine.  Were I to reply to you as you have
spoken to me, I think this power of Christ about which
we disagree would prove singularly lacking in both our
hearts.  I came here to talk to you about the new belief
that has come into my life; but can one talk of the
heart's sacred joy, the deep, hidden things of God
before a stern and unsympathetic judge?  All I ask now
is that you grant me the freedom of religious thought
that you demand as your inalienable right."

Now Mr. Thorpe was aware that a woman he had
never known stood before him, and he also knew that
in purity of thought and in her sense of justice, in
Christ-likeness, she towered above him.  Heretofore
she had bent to his will so readily that he scarcely
knew how thoroughly he dominated her.  Now she
stood before him asking and demanding freedom of
thought, independence in her religious belief--even
that for which their forefathers had fought.  And this
was Evelyn, his wife, not crushed by his scathing
condemnation, but triumphant in her sweet humility, and
mistress of the situation.

There was silence between them for a few moments,
then Mrs. Thorpe laid her hand on her husband's
shoulder.  She knew that her thrust had gone straight
to the mark and her heart ached with the pain she had
inflicted.

"Maurice," she said, "I would not willingly incur
your disfavor, much less cause you pain."

There was a tremor in her voice that threatened
tears; but her husband remained motionless and
irresponsive.

"Can our conceptions of God come between us,
Maurice--alienate us---when we have been so much
to each other?"  Her voice choked and she felt that
her heart was breaking.

"I cannot understand, Evelyn," Mr. Thorpe said, in
a voice that had lost its harshness and was broken and
unsteady, "how anything so visionary, so fallacious,
so palpably false, can have taken so strong a hold upon
you.  What is it that has diverted your allegiance from
the church--the church of Christ?"

"Maurice, there is no command given for the
observance of God's laws but I most humbly reverence
and endeavor to obey.  All that to me seems good and
true in church and creed I hold and keep, but this I
will say, that the conception that I now have of
spiritual things is deeper, stronger, mightier than the old,
as the ocean is mightier than the rivulet.  I do not
condemn the church, but I must have more than it has
ever given me.  I believe that Christ loves sick and
sinful humanity to-day as he loved it when he walked
the earth healing all manner of evil and error."

"Evelyn, it is the heretical books that you have read
that have blinded you and caused you to put a false
interpretation on the works of Christ.  Can you not
see that when Christ came to earth and men were slow
to acknowledge Him that it was necessary for Him to
give to the world some evidence incontrovertible,
irrefutable, that He was of divine origin?  To establish
this fact beyond all doubt and question He chose a
most miraculous expedient: he healed the sick, cast
out devils, raised the dead.  And now, even in this
wicked and degenerate age, these mortals whom He
came to save claim the power to do these works that
He did.  To say nothing of the absurdity of the thing,
I little believed you capable of accepting so
blasphemous a fallacy."

Mrs. Thorpe turned and walked to the window, and
her eyes followed the incline that led up to the church.

"Christ takes the place in the spiritual life," she
thought, "that the church takes in the world;
something exalted, set aside, to be looked up to and
worshiped, but never to aid and comfort.  He came to
glorify Himself; his mission was to prove His own
superior origin, and, the church, following this
conception of Him, holds itself superior to the human
family it stands to bless."  There flashed before her a
vision of the dark-faced girl whose life had been
robbed of its chastity and sent to its ruin, while the
adherents of the stately church before her followed
this conception of Christ.  She thought of the sin and
suffering she had seen on the Bolton Flat; the lives of
anguish and crime that were lived there while the
Savior of men, tender and compassionate, presided
over the beautiful church and blessed and glorified it.

When she turned again to her husband her face was
blanched and her eyes were glowing with a strange
light.

"And all this great gift of Christ's life, His
suffering and sacrifice--what was it for?" she asked.  "If
He healed the sick--not because He had compassion
upon the multitude, not because He was touched with
the feeling of their infirmities; if He cast out evil
spirits--anger, jealousy, malice and all the vagaries
of a sin-sick mortal mind--not because He wished the
children of a loving Father to be pure in heart, clean
of life; if He raised the dead--not because the great
heart of God is merciful and tender--if these things
would have been beneath His notice had they not
served in gaining His end, indisputable evidence that
He is the Great I AM, then He used them to fix the
gulf, to measure the distance between Himself and
humanity--used them, He the Christ, the Savior of
men, for His own aggrandizement!"

Mr. Thorpe held out his hands with a gesture of
horror.  "Evelyn, desist!" he cried.  "What
profanation is this?"

"But answer me this, Maurice: Were Christ's
miracles performed to prove Himself divine or were
they works of mercy to prove His Saviorhood to
humanity?"

"Your question is irreverent, and in the sense in
which you ask it, sacrilegious and unchristian.
Whatever it was that actuated Christ to do those mighty
works it is wildness, mania, for one to claim that this
power is in the world to-day."

"Yet for years, Maurice, you prayed that God
would restore my health and strength, and now it is
sacrilege to affirm that the God to whom you prayed
has answered your prayer?"

"We will not prolong this discussion, Evelyn.  Your
feet have found a strange, new road, while I, as I
hope to see my God, must cleave to the old.  I knew
that the hand of God was hard and grievous upon
you, but I could not believe that you would forsake
the straight and narrow way.  The bitterness of death
sinks before this."

Mrs. Thorpe knelt beside her husband and buried
her face in his hands.  "God is our judge," she said;
"let us leave our differences with Him."

"I have one promise to ask, one demand to make,
Evelyn, and then this subject shall be dropped between
us.  My life is in God's hands; when He calls me I
am ready to go.  Whatever power you possess, or
believe you possess, over the human organism, I ask,
demand, that you forebear to exercise it in any
manner where my welfare is concerned."

Mrs. Thorpe, still upon her knees, saw in the future
pain, suffering, separation--evils which, should she
give her promise, she dare not deny.

Mr. Thorpe put her from him and arose to his feet.
She arose also and looked into his face; it was
haggard and gray.

"Oh, Maurice!" she cried, "that I who love you
should cause you to suffer so!"  She extended her
hands to him, but he ignored her advance.

"I have asked a promise, made a demand," he said,
"and you have not answered me."

Again the living fire glittered in the sunshine; again
the darkness reeled before her.  "Oh, Christ," she
sobbed, inaudibly, "you who suffered and died for the
truth, help and keep me now!"  Her face was drawn
and gray as her husband's, and when she spoke her
voice was sharp and keen with pain.

"I cannot--cannot deny my God," she said.





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.. _`THE PURE IN HEART`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   THE PURE IN HEART

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The term, "A man of the world," is elastic enough
to cover a multitude of sins, and it gives the
impression that however far from exemplary the man may
be to whom the term is applied, and however far from
spotless his character, that having made no avowal of
virtue, he is in some degree excusable for exercising
the prerogatives of a villain.

Max Morrison was a man of the world.  Men knew
him as an all around good fellow; women knew him
as a bright and shining light about which many a
pretty moth had singed its gilded wings, been scorched,
maimed, wounded.  But his popularity increased
rather than diminished because of this, and Edgerly's
best society welcomed him warmly.

But the best society and all that it offers, as well
as the amusements that cannot bear the light of day,
pall on a man in time and that which is fine within
him, silent, yet alive, cries for expression.  When the
flush of youth is over, life begins to look more
profound and sometimes a bit somber, and then the
stirrings of a man's heart are for a home and fireside,
wife, and the voice of children, and he begins to look
about him for a queen to reign in his home.  And
here, in making a choice of a life companion, men
generally show a superiority over women.  A woman,
governed by her emotions and her desires, and taking
a superficial view of the future, will give her heart,
her honor and her life to a man, no matter what his
past has been nor what his present is, if only he makes
her fair promises for the future.  But a man, when
he chooses a wife, must know beyond the shadow of
a doubt that the woman he honors is of spotless character.

Let no woman breathe one word to break down this
high standard that man has set for womankind; but
rather, let women demand of men that which men
require of them.

Max Morrison desired for his wife a woman pure
as the angels in Heaven; and this is what he believed
Geraldine Vane to be.  And after a long and intimate
friendship he decided to win her for his wife.  He
fully realized the importance of the step, and he also
realized that when a man has a past and there are
places in that past where the sun has never shone,
that phantom hands are liable to rise out of these dark
places and lay a blighting finger on the beautiful,
blameless future.  Many times when his thoughts
sought matrimonial byways, a vision of a dark, eager
face with full, voluptuous lips and passion-filled eyes
arose before him.  There were times when he
denounced himself as a fool whose folly had ruined his
life.  There had been good material in Margaret, as
well as the fatal traits that had ruined her.  Suppose
her circumstances had been different, or that someone
had lent her a helping hand; defended and protected
her.  What a woman she would have made!  What a
force in the world!  Was there one in the world who
could equal what she might have been?  The thought
was torture to him and he banished the dark face from
his vision; it had not been pleasant to look upon the
last time he had seen it, and Geraldine was the woman
to be considered now.  He consoled himself as best
he could with the thought that no doubt Geraldine,
with her placid temper and quiet, acquiescent ways,
would lead a man a more comfortable life than would
a passionate, spirited woman such as Margaret would
have made.

Max was not exactly a vain man, but he had known
many women and been repulsed by none.  He had no
serious apprehension that he might not be able to win
the woman that he had decided to honor; but he
desired to make his footing sure as possible, and he
wished also to be honorable and irreproachable in his
conduct toward this woman and her family.  To this
end he approached Mr. Mayhew on the subject.

"My friendship with your niece," he said to that
gentleman, "is, as you know, of long standing.  You
have accorded me the greatest kindness and hospitality;
now I ask your permission to pay my addresses
to Geraldine as a suitor for her hand."

Mr. Mayhew's business instinct, always keen and
shrewd, became at once active and alert.  On general
principles his policy was to conceal an advantage until
he saw its consummation, and he saw no reason to
depart from his usual course in this instance.  And in
his estimation a proposition would have to be questionable
indeed if he could not from here and there bring
in enough that was moral to make it tenable.  However
many dark places there might be in a course he
wished to pursue, he never allowed himself to be too
Puritanical to find some defensible ground on which
to make a stand.  He thought it very probable that
Max did not know that Geraldine was a dowerless
girl, absolutely dependent, and he had no compunctions
that the fact had been well guarded.  If Max
wished to marry the girl, her fortunes ought to make
no difference to him.  And if Geraldine was willing
to accept him for a husband, she could do as
thousands of other women had done--overlook or ignore
the past.  Here, then, was the high tenable ground,
and without any hesitation he took his stand.  Yet in
his heart he knew that if this fair girl beneath his
roof had a fortune of her own he would see that she
got a better man for a husband than this one to whom
he now gave full and free consent to woo her.

Mr. Mayhew would like to have had the co-operation
of his wife in influencing Geraldine to make her
choice.  He understood that Max expected him to use
his influence to predispose the girl in his favor, and
also that he desired him to palliate his past conduct,
if there was need of palliation in Geraldine's mind.
But Mr. Mayhew was too shrewd a man to see only
one side of the question.  His wife he believed to be
one of the most satisfactory women in the world yet
he realized that there were times when she was a
power to be dealt with, and he believed it always
better to circumvent a woman than to oppose her.  He
never attempted to lower her ideals of honor and
morality; but he took it upon himself to see that they
did not interfere with the practical advantages of life.
Now he counted that all he could say in Max's favor
would have less weight with Geraldine than that which
his wife could say against him, if she cared to do so.
And rather than risk having Geraldine consult with
her aunt as to the suitability of Max as a husband, he
decided to let her make the reply to the all-important
question with as little premeditation as possible.  And
as though in response to his unspoken preference,
Max did not delay his purpose long.

It was a stormy night in early winter, Max called
at the Mayhew home and was shown into the library,
where he found Geraldine deep in a volume of old-time
valorous deeds.  She had read of knights and chivalry
and maidens fair and true until her heart throbbed
with the spirit of the olden time, and that which is
brave and fine in human nature lay uppermost in her
mind.

She greeted her caller with a mingling of the fervor
of a Joan of Arc and the sweet dignity of a Lady Jane
Grey.  Her eyes were bright, there was an unusual
glow on her cheeks, and no queen ever wore a crown
of gems and jewels more becoming than was
Geraldine's crown of golden hair.  She drew a chair to
the fire for her caller.

"You were brave to face the storm," she said.

Max settled himself comfortably in the grateful
warmth and glow.

"One could well face a fiercer storm for a moment
of lesser bliss," he said.

The firelight fell on his swarthy face and magnificent
proportions.  How like a veritable knight stepped
out of the book of brave deeds he appeared!

The library door stood open, and Dr. Eldrige Jr.,
who had been called to see one of the Mayhew
children slightly ailing, passed this door on his way to
the nursery and saw the man and woman sitting in
the firelight.  His face grew hard, and involuntarily
his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palms.

"There was a time," he thought, "a time centuries
ago, when true men were knights and challenged to
deadly conflict villains who dared to approach women
of honor.  There would be satisfaction in grappling
with a man of Morrison's stamp; grappling until his
cursed blood flows red--or give my life in the effort.
But in these days, these better, Christian days, we
have done away, if not with honor, with all aggressive
vindication of it; we no longer call our enemy to
halt and demand of him his aims and intentions; we
get out of his way and give him full swing."  The
doctor came to a sudden halt; a new train of thought
had flashed into his mind.  "My God!  I cannot tell
what this man's intentions may be.  He may intend
to marry Geraldine!"

It was the first time this aspect of the affair had
presented itself to him, and while it seemed a thing
too hideous to contemplate, he felt sure that it was
true.  But although his indignation and despair broiled
and seethed in his heart, he ministered to the child
with a touch skilled and tender as a woman's; then he
gave the nurse exact directions for the night and took
his departure.

When he again passed the library the door had
swung to and no sound came to him from behind the
closed portal.  He passed quickly, quietly out of the
house and into the street, out into the dark, moaning
night.  Rain and sleet were falling; the wind buffeted
him and strange sounds from the shivering trees and
their bare, wailing branches came to him.  All the
black face of the night seemed possessed of a wild
and witch-like fierceness.  Voices shrieked and hissed
at him.  The woman--the one woman in the world--the
woman that he loved--what was life to him now
and all that it contained?  Was the future that
stretched before him less black than this tempestuous
night?  Alone in the storm and the darkness he felt
himself a part of the tumultuous elements about him.

In the library the firelight lay warm and red over
the furnishings, and fantastic shadows lurked here
and there about the room.  The wind when it arose
in its fury could be heard like the sobbing of some
unhappy spirit.

Max stood before Geraldine, his soul in his eyes
and a great tenderness in his musical, well-modulated
voice.

"You must have known that I love you, Geraldine,"
he said; "love and adore you."  He extended
his hands to her, pleading, passionate.  "Geraldine!"

But Geraldine, sitting there wrapped in the red
firelight, did not stir nor move.  The color had gone
from her face, her eyes were bright and her eyelids
burned hot and dry.  She saw the dark, dominating
figure beside her, she heard the pleading and she
understood; yet she remained silent and motionless
before him.

He bent over and took her hand in his.  "Geraldine,"
he whispered, close to her white face, "come to me."

Then the blood beat into her face and flushed it
crimson red.  Her tense muscles relaxed and she
arose and stood before him.  The warm firelight
enfolded them, and the wind came to them in wailing
sobs; but silence lay between them, and Geraldine was
alone--alone as it comes to us all to be sometimes--many
times, perhaps.  No word of her aunt's warning
came to her now; no thought of her uncle's
unspoken wish was with her; the world, with its
perplexities, was forgotten; life that had already grieved
and distressed her was lost in oblivion and she was
in the silence, the vastness, the grandeur of
self--alone--and her pure heart, her woman's heart knew
its own.  There are voices that come to us sometimes,
other than those that come over the vibrations of air
waves.  The deep, still voice of truth needs no
material means through which to speak.  A wordless
message came to Geraldine, as she stood silent and alone;
it called to the depth of her soul, and smote upon the
sweet, vibrant chords of her womanhood.

"Max," she said, "I cannot--cannot--"

"Geraldine--oh, Geraldine!"

"I cannot, Max--I do not love you."

He looked at her then as one looks at a rare and
beautiful gem, and a desire to possess her such as
he had not felt before arose within him; and even the
dark-faced girl that at one time he had fancied stood
unseen beside him in the firelight was forgotten.

"Geraldine, it cannot be--you do not understand."  He
seized her hands and his eyes burned upon her
compellingly, as he sought by the superior force of
his will to dominate and control her.  "My love, be
kind; you would not cast me off, ruin my life--"

"I cannot, Max," she said.  Her voice faltered and
her eyes looked compassionately into his.  "I do not
love you."

How many women he had loved, or professed to
love, and not one of them had answered him as he
was answered now.  What sort of woman, then, was
this one, whom persuasion could not influence and
passion could not sway?  By what standard had her
life been fashioned?  What was its center and
controlling power?  With all that he had seen of life,
could it be that he had failed in his judgment of
womankind?  Was there something in the nature of
a woman, a good woman, that he had never known?

His thoughts had found a new channel and he was
at their mercy.  Was there something in human nature,
in life, deeper, truer, stronger than he had ever
known?  He turned from the firelight and the
trembling girl on the hearth and walked across the room.
The bare branches of a sweet-brier outside tapped
against the window-pane.  The blinds were drawn,
but he could hear the tapping, and in fancy see the
bare, brown branches at the mercy of the wind.  He
sat down by the window and bowed his head and
covered his eyes with his hand.

Had he all this time been dealing with the outer
sham of life, deluded in the belief that he was living
in the very heart of it?  Had he been surfeiting
himself with the husks, believing that he was feasting on
the rare, sweet-flavored kernel?

For a time Geraldine remained by the hearth, then
she crossed the room and stood beside him and laid
her hand gently on his arm.

"Max," she said, "we have been friends, good
friends--in our friendship we have been true to each
other, we must be true to each other still, and true
to ourselves--to the best that is in us.  I cannot give
you what you ask.  Shall I be false and give you less?
You desire a woman's heart, her life and love--shall
I defraud you of this?  Some day, perhaps, you will
be glad that I have been true to myself--and to you, Max."

When Max stepped out into the night the wind
had grown less boisterous; now and then a fitful gust
went by like a wanderer in the night.  The cold had
become keener; overhead the clouds had rifted and
a few stars kept watch with the night.

Geraldine lay awake long after she had sought her
rest.  The low moaning of the wind came to her in her
upper room, and from her window she could see the
rifted clouds and scattered stars.  From a child she
had looked from this same window at the face of the
night, and the feeling had grown up with her that the
great enfolding darkness was guarding and protecting
her.  Her trust and her simple faith had been as
natural as her breathing or her existence.  All her life
before Faith and Trust had pillowed her head at night,
and gently touched her eyelids, and whispered sweet
dreams to her; but to-night dark, foreboding Doubt
became her companion, and she tossed restlessly on
her bed and looked down the long vista of years and
saw herself alone, forgotten and unloved.  With
maidenly reserve and a woman's pride she had
endeavored to shut out and debar from her thoughts
one whom she believed had ceased to care for her,
even as a friend; but when she had stood alone in
the presence of her conscious self, the pleading of
the man beside her had not seemed so real, so vital to
her as did the vibrations of the wordless, evanescent
message that came to her above the sobbing wind and
the spirit of the tumultuous night.

Mrs. Mayhew noticed her heavy eyes and swelled
lids the next morning, and Geraldine told her of
Max's proposal and her rejection of him.  Mrs. Mayhew
had felt sure that Geraldine was to face this
question, and in her heart she was glad of the girl's
decision; yet her happiness came first, and it was
evident that she was not happy, and she felt sure that
there was something that Geraldine had not disclosed;
yet she understood the fineness of the girl's nature
too well to desire to force her confidence.  And
Geraldine could not speak of that about which she felt
no woman has a right to speak.  And so a barrier,
subtle, thin as gauze, yet impenetrable, hung like a
curtain between them.  And Mrs. Mayhew, with rare
wisdom, realizing that her girl had grown into a
woman, was content to let her alone with her woman's
secrets.

When Mr. Mayhew came home from his office that
day his mood was not exactly a happy one.  He had
seen Max and knew the outcome of his proposal.
He was both surprised and displeased; but he
concealed the fact from Max and hinted that a woman's
"no" often means "yes," and he determined to see
Geraldine and speak plainly to her.  When Max first
spoke to him about Geraldine he had begun to look
upon her as he might upon a commodity that had
lain for years almost forgotten, but which had
suddenly become of great value.  Now, with her own
hand she had shattered his plans for her, and refused
one of the best fortunes in Edgerly.

After dinner he asked Geraldine to come to him in
the library.  He was seated near the fire reading when
she entered the room.  She did not disturb him, but
went over and stood by the window and watched the
sweet-brier as it tapped gently now against the
window-pane.

Mr. Mayhew lowered his paper and looked at her,
and his mind became reminiscent.  He was impressed
anew with Geraldine's likeness to her father; and
this man seemed to come out of the shadowy past
and confront him.  Noble he had been, high-minded,
conscientious and--poor.  A musician, his artist's soul
pure as the divine strains of his melodies, he seemed
like one whom chance had placed in a wrong world,
or a wrong age.  Then his mind ran over the different
members of the Vane family; scholars, musicians,
professional men, high-minded and noble, but could
anything excuse their poverty?

Geraldine turned and met his gaze.  He arose and
placed a chair for her.

"I wished to speak to you," he said direct, "I wish
to speak about Max."

"Yes," she said, and her manner was gentle and
womanly.

He was conscious of thinking that she had good
blood in her veins; her voice and manner proclaimed
it; and all she lacked was a fortune such as Max
could give her.

"You understand, Geraldine, that Max has all the
comforts of life to give the woman he marries."

"Yes, I know."

"The truth sometimes sounds harsh when spoken
plainly, Geraldine; but you are aware, that however
loved and welcome you have been beneath my roof,
that you are a dowerless girl.  It was my desire that
you be given every advantage that a girl of wealth
receives, and your aunt has seen that my wishes were
carried out.  Now you are offered a home and fortune
that will give you the comforts and luxuries of
life to which you have been accustomed.  Can you
afford to lose this opportunity?"

"I cannot marry Max Morrison."

He met her eyes; they had been dark and sweet
like pansies; now they were wide and blue.  He felt
the hopelessness of argument.  He knew the Vanes;
they appeared yielding and docile, but he knew them
to be flint and steel where a principle was concerned.
He arose, impatient to be away.

A few days later it was known that Max Morrison
had enlisted with a company of volunteers, and was
going to the Philippines.





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.. _`A FRIEND IN NEED`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


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   A FRIEND IN NEED

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Thorpe went to Colorado for his health.  A
cousin of his, a brother of Pauline's, lived there, and
Mr. Thorpe had a standing invitation to come and
try the effect of the climate on his health.  Pauline
accompanied him; she had become so used to caring
for him and watching over him as a mother watches
over an ailing child, that she could not bring herself to
part with him now, when she believed his condition
to be more critical than it had ever been before.
Then, too, she knew that all was not well between
him and his wife, and, knowing this, she had no
desire to remain with Mrs. Thorpe.

The pastor who was called in Mr. Thorpe's place
was an unmarried man, and had no use for the
parsonage, and Mr. Thorpe, by courtesy of the church
committee, had been permitted to retain the use of it.
But now, left alone, Mrs. Thorpe felt the necessity
of finding a home for herself.

Some years previous she had, by the death of an
uncle, come into possession of a small legacy.  This
her husband had insisted that she keep intact against
a day of need.

On the Flat side of the church-crowned incline
there was a small cottage set in a bit of ground,
somewhat back from the rambling street.  On either side
of it were smaller houses, with ill-kept yards in which
neglected children played and where untidy women
talked across broken down fences and quarreled over
petty grievances.  Mrs. Thorpe had often noticed this
cottage on her way to and from the Flat.  The fact
that it stood a little back from the street had given
her the impression that the builder of it had desired
more privacy, was more retiring, perhaps, than were
those who had built their houses against the street;
and she had planned in her mind how flowers and
shrubs might be grown in the yard and vines trained
over the windows and the place made to take on a
homelike appearance, if the owner desired it.  Now,
confronted with the problem of finding a home for
herself, her thoughts went directly to this cottage.

Alone in the world, broken-hearted, strong in spirit,
yet all at sea as to the future, the thought of a
cottage on the Flat was not distasteful to her.  Perhaps
her work lay there; she meant to work, and it made
little difference to her what the work should be or
where it took her.  She knew that the place was for
sale, and when she found that the price was within
the limit of her possessions she hesitated no longer,
and the cottage became hers.  Deep within her heart
she knew that she was influenced by the fact that from
its location she could see the church--might almost
feel that she lived within the shadow of it--the church
that her husband had loved.  In the morning she
would see it, as she had so often seen it from the
parsonage, with the sun rising over the hills and mantling
it with roseate splendor; and in the evening she could
see the long shadow of the church spire; and on the
Sabbath she could hear the bell as it called the
worshipers to its altars.  Full well she knew that she
loved the church, knew that she must always love it
and reverence that for which it stands.  The fact that
it is profaned by the hollow-hearted and ungodly
does not change its sacred character nor destroy its
spiritual significance, any more than the making "my
Father's house a place of merchandise" destroyed the
spiritual significance of the Temple.

Sometimes in her ever-vivid imagination she saw the
whole Christianity-professing world as an Edgerly,
and the poor, the ignorant and the unfortunate in the
world as this great Edgerly's Flat; and always the
church-crowned prominence with its prosperous,
complacent money-changers between.  And always she
was glad that henceforth her home was to be on the
Flat side, with those who needed her.  Had her
Master ever chosen to walk in the high places with
the great ones of earth?

It was a day in early winter when Mrs. Thorpe had
her possessions moved from the parsonage to the
cottage on the Flat.  She engaged the services of a
strong woman to assist her with her work and in
putting her new home in order.  When this was done
she paid the woman her hire and allowed her to go;
her income would not warrant her keeping a servant
nor a companion; she would live alone, and frugally.

When sorrow, or pain, or disappointment knocks
at our door we struggle and strive, sometimes we
faint and fail, yet always the knowledge comes to us
that we may be strong if we will.  There is no time
nor place nor circumstance in life stronger than the
central force within us.

Since her husband's departure Mrs. Thorpe's time
had been taken up with work that pressed upon her;
many cares and real labor claimed her time and
strength.  But now all was done, her house was in
order and she was alone, sitting with empty
hands--alone--beside her silent hearth.  The wind blustered
noisily outside, foretelling the ravages of winter, and
sleet and rain came spasmodically against her
window-panes.  And here in the solitude of her new home old
memories crowded round her and ghosts of her
former self trooped through the silent rooms.  She
recalled how she had tried in the early days of her
married life to penetrate the future, the sealed and
silent future.  Merciful love of the Infinite One, who
turns the pages of life's book one at a time!

A sudden gust of wind came furiously against her
window.  She arose and walked about the room and
pressed her face against the window-pane and looked
out into the darkness.  A white, transparent face it
was, with eyes too large and dark for their setting.
Then she came back and stood before her fire, a
slender, girlish figure with clasped hands and bowed head.
A sigh arose to her lips and ended in a quivering sob.
She sank upon her knees beside her chair and buried
her face in her hands.

"Maurice!" she cried, "Maurice--it is all false
and untrue--this trouble that parts us.  There is no
evil, no pain, no sickness in God's world--Maurice--God's
power is absolute; there is no other.  God is
supreme--love will conquer."

It was not the heart of the mortal woman, loyal
and loving though it was with human affection; but
the soul of her diviner self that was crying in the
silence for its own.  And never yet has the soul called
in vain.  Yet, is it not true that the Mount of Calvary
is the mount of answered prayer?  It was here
that the great love-born prayer for humanity was
consummated; a consummation attained by the
adorable surrender of the finite to the Infinite.

Mrs. Thorpe had prayed; back in those haunted,
troubled days she had dared to pray that all forms of
suffering might be heaped upon her, that she might
become an outcast in the world, if by this means she
might know God.  Now she felt the living presence
of the Infinite enfolding her, and her life merged into
the great Life.  Had she not been all the way to
Calvary?

When she arose from her knees she sat quietly,
bravely before her open fire, and listened to the wind
and rain without.  After a time she experienced a
feeling, vague, indefinite at first, that something was
required of her, someone needed her.  She could not
tell who it was, nor where, but the feeling grew upon
her that she was needed by someone in trouble.  After
a time this unvoiced conviction become so persistent
that she arose and took her hood and rain-coat from
the closet.

"It may be Mrs. Boyd," she thought.  "Her baby
is sick; I will call over and see."

At the door the wind caught her and the rain
dashed into her face; but she pulled her garments
more firmly about her and faced the storm.  At her
gate she paused for a moment in the face of the gale.
"What is it," she questioned, "that is drawing me
out into the night and the tempest?"

No one had sent for her, she had spoken no word
to anyone, yet the feeling was so strong within her
that she persisted, and made her way to her
neighbor's door.

Mrs. Boyd met her garrulously: "And are you out
in the storm, Mrs. Thorpe?  Lonesome?  Well, no
doubt, no doubt; it's hard living alone for a woman,
and a bad night to keep one's own company."

"I came to inquire about the baby," Mrs. Thorpe
said.  "How is he to-night?"

"The baby's better, thank you, Mrs. Thorpe.  He's
sleepin' natural to-night."

"I am glad to know it," Mrs. Thorpe replied.  "I
had a feeling of uneasiness about the little fellow;
but if I am not needed I will go back at once, for I
think the storm increases."

Again out in the dark, windy night, she questioned
her purpose.  What was it that had impelled her to
go out into the night and the storm?

The part of the street that lay between this house
and her cottage was scarcely more than a foot-path,
and she was following it somewhat uncertainly when
she stopped short and drew back in sudden fright.

There was something directly in front of her,
flapping in the wind, like the dark wing of some great
bird or evil spirit.  For a moment she wavered,
trembling and irresolute, then her unflinching spirit
asserted itself and she approached the object.  Now she
could discern that it was a garment that was flying in
the wind, and as she drew near to the object it moved,
partly arose, and fell back again.

"Who is this?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, now close to
the prostrate form.  "Are you hurt or ill?"  She
stooped and laid her hand upon the object.  "Are
you ill?" she repeated.  "Can I assist you?  Why
are you here?"  She was down beside the creature
now, and a moan and a bitter cry greeted her.

"Why am I here--why--why am I here--"  It
was a woman's voice.

Mrs. Thorpe took hold of her.

"Do what you can to help yourself," she said,
"and I will assist you."  But she soon saw that the
burden was too great for her strength, and the
unfortunate creature was down on the ground again.
She was about to go back and ask Mrs. Boyd to assist
her when she saw the figure of a man approaching.
As he drew near she spoke to him.

"Would you be so kind as to lend me your assistance?"
she said.  "I found this unfortunate creature
here in the street.  I fear she is ill."

The man stood close beside her in the darkness.

"Mrs. Thorpe!" he said, "Mrs. Thorpe, what are
you doing here in the night and the storm?"

With a glad cry she held out her hands to him.

"Dr. Eldrige!  How fortunate that you happened
this way.  I found this poor creature here; she must
be ill, I think.  Help me now and we will take her
into my house."

The doctor took the woman in his arms and helped
her, half carrying her to the cottage door.
Mrs. Thorpe turned the key in the lock, pushed open the
door, and the light from the room streamed out and
fell upon the woman's face.  And then Mrs. Thorpe's
questions were answered.  She knew why old
memories had crowded upon her; she knew why she had
gone to the source of Power for strength, and why
she had gone out into the wild night storm.  The face
was the dark, passion-stamped face of Margaret McGowan.

The doctor crossed the room and laid his burden
on the couch as Mrs. Thorpe directed him.  Then he
straightened himself and looked into Mrs. Thorpe's
face.

Never in her life had she seen a face so haggard,
so deadly white and set.  The time may come to a
human heart when sympathy is as keenly craved as
is food and drink to a man stranded in the desert.
For one long minute the doctor held Mrs. Thorpe's
eyes with his, and she read in their awful depths the
tragedy of his life.  Ah, these heart tragedies!  Faith,
hope, love--faithless, hopeless, forsaken!  Not a word
was spoken; the man turned to be alone, and the
vibrating silence lay between them.  But who can
know what message may have gone out from the man's
tortured soul?  Dr. Eldrige's thought held to the
wronged woman suffering and cold on the cot, but the
soul of his manhood went out to that other woman
shielded in the warm firelight.  What, after all, are
our material concepts of life where the realities of
being are concerned?  Who places our limitations upon
us and makes our communication with a loved one
dependent on time and space?

Both the doctor and Mrs. Thorpe turned to the
prostrate form on the couch.  "We must attend to
her without delay," the doctor said; and they drew
off her rain-soaked shoes, and warmed her aching feet,
and removed her wet garments, and wrapped her in
warm flannels.  And Mrs. Thorpe brewed her a
steaming cup of tea; and after the girl had drank
this they assisted her to a bed and made her as
comfortable as possible for the night.  Then the doctor
prepared to take his departure.

"I will send you someone to stay with you through
the night, if you like," he said to Mrs. Thorpe.

"Not unless you think it necessary," she replied.
"I am not afraid; believe me, I am not afraid."  And
so he left her alone with her patient.

The girl fell into an uneasy sleep and Mrs. Thorpe
drew a chair to her bedside and sat beside her.  And
watching by this erring girl who had been so often in
her thoughts, Mrs. Thorpe realized how small had
been the measure of her faith; for she had not dared
to believe that the opportunity to repay Margaret for
the wrong she had done her would ever come to her.

After a time Margaret fell into a deep slumber,
and Mrs. Thorpe left her and sought her rest.  The
next morning she found her tossing restlessly on her
pillows.  Her eyes, wide open now, were staring and
bloodshot; the blood was leaping wildly through her
veins and fever burned in her face.  She laid her
hand on the girl's forehead.

"Margaret," she said, "my poor Margaret."

A wild laugh greeted her, then a moan and a cry
of pain.  Mrs. Thorpe talked to her and soothed her
as best she could, and when she grew quieter she
prepared a plate of tempting food for her and brewed a
cup of coffee to a deep, rich brown and flavored it
with the cream she had reserved for her own morning
beverage.

During the day Dr. Eldrige called in and inquired
about her.

"You are doing all there is to be done for her," he
said to Mrs. Thorpe.  "Stimulating food and good care
are all that she needs.  If you could keep her with
you--if she could be kept away from her temptations--there
is good in the girl, Mrs. Thorpe, or at least
there once was good in her."

Mrs. Thorpe looked at him with her eyes misty,
unfathomable.

"No one understands the truth of what you say
better than I do, Dr. Eldrige; I shall keep her with
me--always, perhaps."

As the day wore away and evening came on, Margaret
began to realize her condition and she recognized
Mrs. Thorpe.

"I thought it was a dream," she said, "all a dream,
and I dreaded to awake; and now I do not
understand.  Where am I?  And why are you here,
Mrs. Thorpe?  How came we beneath the same roof--you
who are good--and I who--thank God--if there
is a God--I who am bad?"

Mrs. Thorpe looked into the girl's face.  What
should she say to her?  What could she tell her?  How
could she win her?

"You have been ill for a time, Margaret, and I
have been caring for you," she said.

"Where am I?  Who brought me here, and why
have you been caring for me?"

"This is my home.  I found you in need and
brought you here.  I am very glad to have you,
Margaret; and you were ill, you know."  But Mrs. Thorpe
noticed that there was a hard and sullen look on the
girl's face.  She did not speak for some time, and
then she said:

"I do not know why you brought me here,
Mrs. Thorpe.  Perhaps you expect me to thank you for
what you have done for me.  You have saved my life,
no doubt.  There was a time when I was worth
saving--and you could have saved me--but now I had
rather have died in the street than to have taken one
favor from your hand."

Mrs. Thorpe stepped to the girl's side and slipped
an arm about her.

"Margaret," she said, "you have an old grievance
against me, and justly, too.  But girl, girl, do you
think that I, too, have not suffered for that day's
ignorance and folly?  Do you think that the
condemnation that the past has brought is more bitter
upon you than it is upon me?  Do you think that the
stain of your sin is upon you alone?  Margaret,
Margaret, hear me.  As we stand before God, I do
believe I am the guiltier woman of the two."  Mrs. Thorpe's
voice choked with sobs and her face was
wet with tears.  "I sent you, passionate and
misguided, to your sin; you but did the thing I drove you
to.  In the sight of our fellow men the condemnation
is upon you; but how blind and ignorant is the
judgment of men!  Yet this I will say: I never meant to
harm you, Margaret.  I had no slightest thought of
what it meant to you and your mother.  I was
ignorant, and oh, I, too, was passionate and misguided!
But now that I have found you again, now that I have
you here in my home while you need me and I need
you--and I do need you, Margaret--stay with me,
stay here with me."

"Stay with you?  Stay here with you?  Little you
know what it is you ask, Mrs. Thorpe--little you
know!  I must get back--yes, back."

"I will not let you go, Margaret.  I will never let
you go."

The girl's anger and passion flamed into her face.

"You don't know what it is you ask," she said.  "I
tell you, you don't know--I'm not a woman that you
want here."

"Margaret, I do want you.  I want you to feel
that this is your home; and oh, my child, I want you
to know that I am your friend--always and always
your friend."

The girl's eyes were furious, yet piteous, like the
eyes of an animal at bay; her passion had burned
almost to frenzy.

"Know, then," she hissed, close to Mrs. Thorpe's
face, "know, then, what it is that I must have!  I tell
you, I am a ruined woman--I must have--"

But Mrs. Thorpe put out her hand.

"Hush, Margaret," she said.  "Do you think that
I do not know?  I do know, and, believe me, I know
what you suffer!  But oh, my child!  How many,
many who were dire distressed pressed close to the
Healer's side--and never one was turned away."

Margaret scanned Mrs. Thorpe's face with a look
that was terrible--keen as a lightning flash.  For a
moment the transfiguration of hope, desire, faith, lay
in the dark depth of her eyes.  Her face relaxed; the
frenzy and passion died out of it and left it
quivering with a new-born anguish.  She threw herself
prostrate on a couch and burst into a paroxysm of tears.

A woman's tears--a fallen woman's tears!  The
sacred pages that are so few, yet hold the record of
all that guides the human family from the beginning
to the end, had space for this, a fallen woman's tears.
The sins, blood-red, that have been made like wool;
as scarlet, that have become white as snow, washed
in the fountain of penitent tears!  And beating in
divine cadence, sounding forever through the
centuries, are the words of the great Forgiver of men:

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   "Go thy way and sin no more."





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.. _`NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE

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Mrs. Thorpe beguiled Margaret into leading a quiet
life.  She prevailed upon her to go out but little, and
never allowed her to go alone.  There were days when
the old rebellion arose within the girl and her
abnormal craving grew all but intolerable, when bodily pain
and mental anguish rendered her less woman than
monster.

But into the work of helping to readjust this
unfortunate girl's life Mrs. Thorpe brought her
dauntless courage, her understanding of the Truth and her
faith in the supreme Power.  There were no halfway
places in this woman's character; there were no
doubts in her creed, no cringing fears in her belief.
The power of God is a power to save once, every
time and forever.  To doubt once, to admit one fear,
to let go for one instant the everlasting principle of
Truth, is to hurl oneself from the mountain peak, to
cast oneself from the pinnacle of the Temple.

The winter was a severe one.  The great banks of
snow piled higher and higher during the short winter
days; and when the days began to lengthen the cold
grew more keen and cutting.  There was suffering on
the Flat as there had been winters before.
Mrs. Thorpe went among the people with words of cheer,
and such material aid as she could render.  The ladies
of the church and the Edgerly Benevolent Society
soon found her out, and her little home became a
distributing point between Christian Edgerly and
the suffering Flat.  The Society soon learned that
Mrs. Thorpe knew where the need was greatest, and
what the needs of the individual were; she knew
which shivering child the little scarlet coat that some
mother's darling had outgrown would fit; she knew
where the shoes that had become too shabby for a
child of fortune to wear would be most welcome, and
which pair of cold, pinched hands should have the
half-worn, fur-topped mittens; she knew where there
was sickness and where the larder was empty; she
knew also where the needy ones could be trusted with
funds and where they could not.

And the Benevolent Society, finding that she knew
all these things, found it a great relief to leave their
offerings with her.  It saved the painful harrowing
of their feelings that personal contact with these
people brought, and also gave them a comfortable sense
of the works being well done.  And in simple truth,
was not this, to gain the feeling of conscious comfort
that comes from the doing of a good deed, the
primary object of their charity?

Mrs. Thorpe willingly took this work upon herself.
It was a joy to her that she was able in any degree to
lighten the burdens of these people, and her zest and
interest in the work grew from day to day; yet from
the depths of her heart she grieved over it.

"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but
weep for yourselves and your children."  Were these
Christian women of Edgerly the daughters and the
children of the daughters that the prophetic vision saw
down the stretch of the centuries?

Margaret became interested in the work of distribution.
It may be that it was the interest and spirit
with which she entered into this work that saved her.
Mrs. Thorpe saw that little by little the girl's thoughts
were turning from self, away from the dark record
with its paralyzing effect, to another's need, another's
suffering, another's pleasure.  Sometimes among the
garments that were sent to them there would be one
that must be altered in some way, or buttons be
replaced, or stitches taken.  With forethought and tact
Mrs. Thorpe kept Margaret employed; kept her hands
at works of kindness and her mind filled with thoughts
of others.

Among the members of the Benevolent Society
there was one who took an active interest in the relief
work, one who cared to go among the people and
know them.  This was Geraldine Vane, who had
become a frequent visitor in Mrs. Thorpe's home.  The
trouble that had come to Geraldine had turned her
thoughts from her own favored life and made her
more thoughtful of others, and in Mrs. Thorpe she
had found a friend such as many a girl craves, a
woman older and more mature than herself.

And there was something in Margaret, this passionate
girl with her turbulent, troubled past, that
appealed to the favored child of chastity and gave her
a broader, more sympathetic outlook; gave her that
peculiar knowledge the lack of which Mrs. Mayhew
had once deplored.  The two girls were of about the
same age; they had grown to womanhood in the same
town, but circumstances had forced their paths far
apart.  Now the threads of their lives, so different in
form and color, were weaving together the pattern of
a unique friendship.

Together these two visited a poor home one day,
where death had entered.  A little child lay dead, and
they performed the last services for the little sleeper
and prepared her for her rest.  Together they stood
by the poor little grave and heard the minister's words
and saw the earth heaped above the little form.
Mrs. Thorpe remained in the home, where another child
lay ill.  When they returned from the grave they
found Dr. Eldrige Jr. ministering to the sick child.
Mrs. Thorpe saw the doctor's face grow cold and
grave as he greeted Geraldine, and she noted the
reserve that the girl drew about herself.  Yet, after the
greeting was over she saw in the man's eyes a look
such as a thirsty traveler might direct toward a stream
of water which was beyond his reach.  And on
Geraldine's face there was a shadow which she had
noticed there before, the shadow of a long endurance.

Some days later Mrs. Thorpe met the doctor again.
He had finished his round of calls and was on his
homeward way when he overtook her near her gate.

"Come in with me and rest a bit before the long
climb up the hill," she said.

"Always a long, hard climb to the top of the hill,"
he replied.  And Mrs. Thorpe, seeing that he
hesitated to accept her invitation, said:

"Margaret and Geraldine have gone across the Flat
to see a sick child; they will not be back for some
time, I think."

Then, without further words, he opened the gate
for her and accompanied her to the house.  She gave
him a chair by the fire and stirred up the coals in the
grate, then she removed her wraps and seated herself
by the fire.  There was no uncertainty in her mind as
to why she had asked him to come in; she knew
exactly what it was she wished to say to him; but she
felt that kind Providence must aid her in finding a
way to say it.  Since that night, when in the tragic
silence a bond of sympathy had sprung up between
them, she had learned a fact which she was desirous
of communicating to him.

She had a personal liking for this man, and a great
admiration for the manner in which he was devoting
his time and skill to the relief of the unfortunate.
Then, too, she had not forgotten that he had been her
friend in the days of her sorest perplexity; and she
knew as well as did he that his judgment and prompt
action had once saved her reason.  And then, when
all her skies were black, at that time in her affairs
when she knew not whether in all this world she had
more than one thing left her, when of all she had
believed she had, she was sure of just this one
thing--the love of God--at this time she knew that
Dr. Eldrige had by his actions, rather than by words or
arguments, defended her against the malevolence of
his father, and with his quiet scorn had removed the
venom from the wild, improbable reports that the
older man had circulated, and had maintained before
her friends and acquaintances that these unreasonable
tales were a disgrace, not to the one lone woman, but
to the community which countenanced and repeated them.

When her friends came back to her and life began
to flow again on the old level, a word dropped by one
or another, a statement or a half confession from
friend or casual acquaintance, revealed to Mrs. Thorpe
the sincerity of this man's quiet, unostentatious
friendship.  Now the knowledge came to her that his life
had been robbed of its happiness and all its sweetest
harmonies had given place to discord.  And she
longed to tell him that which she knew to be a fact,
that it was his own unskilled touch that was
producing the discords.

"You are finding plenty of work here this winter,
Mrs. Thorpe," he said.  "The good you are doing is
inestimable."

"An appreciation which might easily be returned,
Dr. Eldrige.  I know whose name is a household word
over all this Flat."

"Yet the lives of these people are hard," he said;
"hard and pitiable, for all your efforts and mine."

"But not so hard as they might otherwise be; and
as for that, many lives are hard--every life that lives
and labors under false impressions is hard."

He glanced at her as though to catch the import of
her words, and then he knew that there was something
in her thought more than her words signified;
but he waited for her to continue.

"A mistaken idea is quite as capable of causing
unhappiness as the sternest reality," she said.

"There is something you wish to say to me,
Mrs. Thorpe.  Why do you disguise your meaning?  Can
we not be frank with each other?"

"Thank you, Dr. Eldrige; I hope that our friendship
is not so poor a thing that it cannot stand a
straightforward word.  This, then, is what I wish to
say: I believe your standards to be excellent and
your sense of justice fine and true, yet in your
estimate of another you have allowed yourself to be
influenced by outside appearances; and while I can see
your point of view, yet I know you are condemning
as good and true a woman as ever lived, for
something she did not know existed."

Mrs. Thorpe saw the man's face harden, his brows
contract, and pain, keen and sharp, flash in his eyes;
and when he spoke there was severity in his voice.

"She knew the man's character," he said.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes, level, unflinching, met his.

"What is your authority for your statement?" she
asked.

The doctor arose and came over to Mrs. Thorpe's
side.

"Mrs. Thorpe," he said, "can it be--can it be
possible that she did not know?"

"She did not know, Dr. Eldrige; she has told me
that she did not know."

"She has told you--Geraldine has told you?"

"Geraldine has told me that she did not know the
man's character; that she never dreamed of the thing
that you and I know.  Mrs. Mayhew has told me that
at one time she tried to enlighten the girl, but she
confesses that she did not handle the subject fearlessly
as she should.  I, myself, told Geraldine the truth as
I know it; but it was not until after Max had gone."

The doctor resumed his seat; he rested his elbow
on the arm of his chair and covered his face with his
hand.

Mrs. Thorpe arose and left the fireside and went
over to the window; her eyes wandered far across the
frost-covered Flat, but her heart was with the man
sitting in silence before her fire--her whole heart was
with him--his happiness--his future--his life.  Had
she made possible for him that condition of life which
she knew to be so perfect, so near to Heaven?--knew
because it had once been hers.  Then she felt his
presence near her and turned and faced him.  He
took her hands in his.

"You are the best friend I have ever known," he
said; "a better friend than I deserve.  Your loving
kindness has made you dear to me--dear as friend
can be to friend."

She looked into his face, strong, steadfast beneath
the flush of happiness that illumined it.

"If I have been able to help you to your happiness
this will make me glad all my life," she said.  Then a
gleam of humor lighted up her face.  "I do not know
whether you can ever make your peace with Geraldine
or not," she said, "but I thought it right that you
should know the truth."

He flushed with the confusion of a schoolboy.

"But to know the truth," he said; "just to know
what you have told me, this has changed the face of
all the earth for me.  I can never thank you."

"We are even, then," she said, "for I have never
tried to thank you for your many kindnesses to me."

Dr. Eldrige left the house as Margaret and Geraldine
were seen coming up the street.  He lifted his
hat to Margaret as he passed her at the gate, and
spoke to Geraldine, who was passing on.

"Miss Vane, permit me to join you," he said, and
together they ascended the long hill.  The setting sun
blazed redly upon the church and its lingering rays
shed a glory over the man and woman toiling up the
long incline.  When the summit was reached they
paused for a few moments before the glorified church;
then they passed on and down on the other side.
When they parted at the door of Geraldine's home
Dr. Eldrige had received permission to call later in
the evening.

When he called again he found Geraldine in the
library beside the fire, very much as he had seen her
that other night, and his heart smote him for the
injustice he had done her.  She arose to meet him; he
came over to her, and the love of his life, so long held
in subjection, now ruled supreme.  He held out his
arms to her and she came straight into them.

"Geraldine, I have wanted you so--longed so for you."

"And I have loved you always, Allen Eldrige," she said.

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The walk home in the winter sunshine brought a
glow to Margaret's cheeks, but there was a look of
pathos in her dark eyes; the slumbering fire of her
spirit was burning there.  She assisted Mrs. Thorpe
with the evening meal, and in the fruitful silence that
often means more than words, they sat together over
their biscuit and tea.  After supper Margaret drew
her chair before the fire and remained silent with her
thoughts.  Mrs. Thorpe busied herself with her
ever-ready work, but she spoke no word to intrude upon
the girl's thoughts.  When Margaret spoke at last, her
voice was quiet and even.

"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I cannot allow this to
go on.  This restful life has meant much to me; it is
hard for me to leave it, but I have been idle too long.
I must get to work again."

Mrs. Thorpe understood the import of the words,
and more; for there was more in tone and manner, in
pause and silence, than the words conveyed.

There was little doubt that Margaret was done with
the old life.  The fierce, consuming struggle was over.
The battle against her seeming foes, ever alive, alert,
ever ready for open attack or covert sting, had been
fought.  There is much that one person can do for
another in the struggle toward righteousness; there is
the handclasp of comradeship, the countenance of
faith, and, more potent than these, there is the force
of thought held supreme and infallible.  Yet when
the test comes, when the enemy, grown strong, or
snarling and impatient of delay, or crawling, insidious,
in the dim shadows, makes a stand and demands its
victim, then forever anew, and always alone, the old
battle with the Serpent must be fought.  Then the
kingdoms of the world and all that they contain must
be perceived, measured, weighed, balanced and judged
for exactly what they are.  The delusions of mortal
sense have not lost their subtle deception since the
days of the talking snake; and with undeviating
certainty comes the time, even as it came to the first man
and woman, when choose we must.  Yet saving power
of the Infinite, though we have lost our Eden, even as
our first parents lost theirs, the Kingdom of Heaven is
neither visionary nor transitory, but forever remains.

Margaret's Eden was gone; she had stepped out of
her purity into darkness and evil, and the Angel with
the flaming sword stood forbidding on one hand, and
on the other the Beasts that had sought to destroy her.
But into her life had come the understanding that
there is but one real power--the Power of Eternal Good.

"What is it you have in mind to do, Margaret?"
asked Mrs. Thorpe.

"I have not decided upon anything, but I must
work; I cannot remain idle."

"You have not been idle, Margaret; and there is
work, quantities of it, not remunerative but humane,
for both of us here on the Flat."

The firelight rose and fell and fitful shadows
lingered about the room, and again there was silence.
Margaret was again the first to speak.

"I am not fit for the work here, Mrs. Thorpe, even
if I were at liberty to devote myself to it.  My past
stands between me and the Master's work."

It was the first mention that had been made of the
past since that day, months before, when the anguish
of her remorse had swept over her like the devouring
billows of the sea; when her tears had flowed sufficient,
if tears have efficacy, to wash away every crimson
stain.

"If he who is without sin casts the first stone,
Margaret, you need have no fear of the condemnation of
men.  Tune up the fine, invisible instrument of your
better nature and let the words of the Divine Man
ever sound there: 'Neither do I condemn thee.'"

Margaret slipped from her chair, and on her knees
buried her face in Mrs. Thorpe's lap; and her form
shook and quivered with the passion of her sobs.

"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I want my mother--my
poor, broken-hearted, forsaken
mother--mother--mother--and little, suffering Jamie!"

Mrs. Thorpe laid her hand caressingly on the girl's
dark hair, and her own face was wet with tears.

"Tell me about your mother, Margaret.  Where is
she now, and what is she doing?"

"I have not seen her for over a year.  I knew then
that she never wished to see my face again--oh, poor
mother!  But a longing to hear from her came over
me, and I asked Geraldine to-day if she had seen her.
She told me that mother has given up sewing again,
and that she goes out to service wherever she can get
a day's work, and be with Jamie at night."

"We will go and see her, Margaret, you and I.  It
will gladden her heart to see her Lassie again, and it
will do you good, too.  We will go to-morrow, and I
am sure we shall find some way to assist her."

"Now go to your rest, my child, and never doubt
that all good belongs to you and yours."





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.. _`MRS. THORPE'S WORK`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   MRS. THORPE'S WORK

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"The work of men--and what is that?  Well we
may, any of us, know very quickly, on the condition
of being wholly ready to do it.

"But many of us are for the most part thinking,
not of what we are to do, but of what we are to get;
and the best of us are sunk into the sin of Ananias,
and it is a mortal one--we want to keep back part of
the price; and we continually talk of taking up our
cross, as if the only harm in a cross were the weight
of it--as if it were only a thing to be carried instead
of to be crucified upon.

"'They that are His have crucified the flesh with
the affections and lusts.'

"Does that mean, think you, that in times of national
distress, of religious trial, of crises for every
interest and hope of humanity--none of you will
cease jesting, none will cease idling, none put
themselves to any wholesome work, none take so much as a
tag of lace off their footmen's coats to save the world?
Or does it rather mean that they are ready to leave
houses and lands and kindred--yes, and life if need
be?  Life!  Some of us are ready enough to throw
that away, joyless as we have made it.  But station in
life--how many are ready to quit that?  Is it not
always the great objection when there is a question of
finding something useful to do--we cannot leave our
stations in life?"--(John Ruskin.)

.. _`"LITTLE BROTHER, LITTLE BROTHER, LET ME TELL YOU A STORY AS I USED TO"`:

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   :alt: "LITTLE BROTHER, LITTLE BROTHER, LET ME TELL YOU A STORY AS I USED TO" (Page 195)

   "LITTLE BROTHER, LITTLE BROTHER, LET ME TELL YOU A STORY AS I USED TO" (Page `195`_)

Margaret found her mother ill.  She had been
working beyond her strength, and the exposure and
hardship of the work had worn her out; and her eyes,
tried beyond their strength, had almost failed her.
Dr. Eldrige Jr. had told her that the only hope of
saving them lay in rest and quiet.  But how impossible
was this; she had no means, for years she had worked
beyond her strength to keep herself from beggary.
Jamie, the cripple, was not able to leave his couch
without help.  Day after day, while his mother worked
for the pittance that kept them alive, he lay on his
little cot, alone; often in pain, always lonely, counting
the hours until his mother's return.

"We will take your mother and Jamie home with
us, Margaret," Mrs. Thorpe said.  "We can all live
together until your mother is well again, and Jamie
need not be alone."

Margaret consented to the plan.  She understood
the power that ruled Mrs. Thorpe's life and prompted
her actions.  She had looked into her face and found
it warm with kindness, and with keener vision she had
looked into her heart and found it touched with the
feeling of another's infirmities.  She knew that this
thing that she proposed to do was not an act of
charity prompted by the desire to save the harrowing of
her own feelings, but because of her loving kindness
she desired to do it.

Mrs. McGowan was too much overcome by the
restoration of her girl to protest, and Jamie was
radiant at the prospect.  Mrs. Thorpe called on
Mrs. Mayhew and left Margaret alone with her mother for a
time.  And afterwards Mrs. Mayhew sent her
carriage to take Mrs. McGowan and Jamie to
Mrs. Thorpe's cottage.  Before parting, Mrs. Mayhew
pressed a banknote into Mrs. Thorpe's hand.

"You shall not have all the merit there is in the
case, you loving soul, you good Samaritan," she said.
"Let me share your good deed with you."

The day passed quietly at the cottage.  It was mild
and clear and the first indications of spring were
visible.  The great banks of snow were beginning to
show reefs along their sides and the atmosphere
contained a suggestion of the change of seasons.

Margaret was more like the winsome lass of former
years than she had been for many months, and her
mother's eyes followed her lovingly.  Faith and Hope,
immortal sisters, what magic in the tones they cause
to vibrate upon the human heart-strings!  All the
world and all the glory of it is ours when Faith and
Hope sing for us their seraphic song.

Margaret took Jamie to her room at bedtime.

"You shall have a little cot near me, my boy," she
said.  "I am going to be your nurse, and whatever
your wants may be it shall be my pleasure to supply
them."

The boy smiled happily.

"It is a good world, after all, Margy," he said,
when they were alone for the night.  "I have always
tried to make mother believe it is a good world.
Mother's eyes will get better now, wont they, sister?"

"There is a great Physician who heals all kinds of
infirmities, Jamie.  He used always to be especially
kind to the blind."

"Did He pity them more because it is so very bad
not to see?"

"Perhaps that was the reason.  He was always
very, very kind."

"Have you seen Him, this great man, Margy?"

"I have felt His healing power, little brother."

"Do you suppose--sister--could He make me walk
like other boys, and run--oh, Margy, do you suppose
I ever can run?"

"There is nothing the great Physician cannot do,
Jamie."

Margaret reached for her Bible, one that Mrs. Thorpe
had given her.  She turned the leaves until
she found the place that she desired.

"I am going to read you something that I have
read many times, Jamie, and always with thoughts of
you in mind:

"'And a certain man, lame from his mother's womb,
was carried, whom they laid daily at the gate of the
temple which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them
that entered into the temple.

"'Who, seeing Peter and John about to go into the
temple, asked an alms.

"'And Peter, fastening his eyes upon him with John,
said: "Look on us."

"'And he gave heed unto them, expecting to receive
something of them.

"'Then Peter said: "Silver and gold have I none;
but such as I have I give to thee.  In the name of
Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk."  And
he took him by the right hand and lifted him up, and
immediately his feet and ankle bones received their
strength.

"'And he, leaping up, stood and walked and entered
with them into the temple, walking and leaping and
praising God.'"

When the boy saw his sister take up a familiar-looking
black book and begin turning the pages, his
heart fell within him.  He listened while she read of
the compassionate act of love, then he covered his face
with his hands and burst into tears.

"Oh, Margy, I didn't think you would--that's the
Bible, Margy, the book mother used to read out of--the
one Mr. Thorpe used to preach from--only the
Bible, and I thought you meant it really, about the
great doctor!"

"Only the Bible!"  Margaret looked at the child
and saw the disappointment in his face; and through
him she seemed to see a great world of suffering people.
This frail child, crippled, distorted, disappointed
and faithless, seemed to her a symbol of the great
suffering overwhelming the world, and his piteous cry
an echo of the voice of the world: "Only the Bible!"

The whole world calling for power and turning
dully from the great fountain-head of Power; crying
for strength and ignoring that which constitutes all
strength; desiring health and clasping close in their
embrace the image of disease; pleading for light and
joy and peace and turning their eyes resolutely away
from the waiting angels standing ready to minister to
them.  "Only the Bible!"

Margaret knelt by the child's couch and put her
arms about him.

.. _`195`:

"Little brother," she said, "little brother, let me
tell you a story, as I used to do, Jamie.

"Once there was a great mine of gold, beautiful,
shining gold, layer upon layer of it; and many men
mined for it, and some dug in the ground, and a great
many people worked day after day, some in one way
and some in another, to find it.  And many of the
people disagreed about the best way to get at it.  Some
dug about the outer edges of the mine, and when they
found a very few grains of gold they went away and
told all the people that they had found all the gold there
was; that they had explored the whole mine and knew
all about it.  Others did not dig deep enough to find
the great golden layers, but they found a few glittering
nuggets of the precious gold, and they went away
and told all the people that they had gone to the
bottom of the mine and had found all the gold there was
there.

"Thousands and thousands of people went to the
mine.  Some found gold enough to satisfy them,
others found only a few shining grains, and many
went away disappointed.  But the strange part of it
was that all those who found any gold at all, even if
it was only a tiny spark, believed they had found all
there was.

"There were so many different opinions about it,
and so many theories and beliefs, that after a time
the people began to wonder whether there was really
any gold in the mine at all.  Some doubted and
disbelieved, and a great many walked all about over the
mine and had not faith enough to dig beneath the
surface.

"Yet the gold was there, Jamie--it is there--a
great mine of beautiful, shining gold.  There is enough
for everyone; yet few have obtained a supply sufficient
for their own needs."

The story was finished and there was silence in the
room.  Then the thin little hand crept into Margaret's.

"Is that the way you think about the Bible, Margy?"

"Yes, Jamie.  The Bible is a great mine of Truth;
few, if any, have found the whole of it, and many,
many have not found sufficient for their needs."

The boy's eyes were grave and serious; a grain of
truth had been sown in fertile soil.  Then after a time
the blue-veined lids fluttered and closed and the boy
fell asleep.

The spring opened early; the great drifts of snow
yielded beneath the sun's warm rays and miniature
rivulets and rills rushed and babbled down the
hillside.  Bare brown patches of earth showed here and
there over the Flat, and unsightly piles of rubbish and
debris were again laid bare; the mantle that had
covered them melted and slipped away as though glad to
be free.

The children of the Flat, long housed in close,
cramped quarters, were hilarious at sight of the brown
Mother Earth; and this great-hearted Mother to whom
they turned instinctively never fails and never
disappoints, but remains always heart to heart with the best
in human nature.  Poor waifs of children they were,
unkept and ill-clad in spite of the efforts that had been
made in their behalf.

There was no school on the Flat; the children who
went to school climbed the long hill and went over into
Edgerly and entered the ranks with the Edgerly
fledglings.  But many of these children never climbed the
long hill, never saw the Christian city and never
entered a schoolhouse.

Mrs. Thorpe had long felt that these children should
be gathered together and instructed; now the
conviction came to her that it must be done.

The fathers of these children wasted their substance
in gambling houses and dens of vice, and their mothers
eked out a wretched existence as best they could.
Young men and women were walking in the footsteps
of those who were lost in this wilderness, and the
children were following on.  Their scrawny limbs must
reach out and grow to adult stature and their minds,
already befogged by the uncleanliness that had been
their portion from birth, were twining about the mean,
demoralizing things that lead to destruction.

On the outskirts of the Flat where the Flat proper
began to rise in undulations and low hills, from which
could be seen stretches of field and upland, there stood
an old, weather-beaten house.  It was large and square
and porches had once run the length of its sides.  This
old building had once been a summer hotel, or resort,
as it was called.  Vines that had been planted about it
in those days now clambered about the partly fallen
columns and endeavored, as Nature often endeavors,
to hide from view unsightly blots and blemishes.
There may be people who would cavil at using this
building because of the various uses to which it had
been put since the days of its freshness and popularity.

When the balance of interest became established on
the Edgerly side, and the Resort fell off in the
patronage of the better class of people, an unsavory fame
came to attach itself to the place.  We sometimes hear
old tales of disembodied spirits who walk through halls
and corridors and flit about apartments that they were
wont to inhabit in the days of their flesh.  But if the
crime and suffering, the shame and woe that had
existed beneath the roof of this crumbling old Resort had
massed itself in one monster shape and walked the
streets of the city over the hill, men and women would
have cried out for a place to hide themselves, as did
the Canaanites when the walls of Jericho fell down.

When gruesome stories regarding the place began
to float about, when the scurry of rats and the rattling
of blinds and the whistling of the wind through the
crevices came to be known as the wailing and moaning
of lost spirits, the place was deserted; and so it had
stood for years, ruined and forsaken.  But whoever
might cavil at the building because of its infamous
notoriety of the past, Mrs. Thorpe had no compunctions
and no fears.  She saw in the deserted rooms
beneath the crumbling roof a place for the children,
the neglected, untaught children of the Flat.  Bit by
bit a plan formed in her mind and grew from day to
day until, full-fledged, but lacking yet in detail, she
laid it before Margaret.  And as though while she
had been pondering the main plan, Margaret had been
arranging the minor parts; now all the way seemed
open before them.

The first step was to see the owner of the building
and get his consent to use it for a school and
kindergarten.  The greater part of the Flat district was
owned by a descendant of the first Bolton.  This man
in his younger days had cherished the old hope that
the Flat would yet make a prosperous town.  There is
more money to be made from ownership of a prosperous,
respectable town than from a disreputable Flat;
but if he could not own a respectable town and make
his money in a creditable manner there was but one
thing left for him to do, and he put his foot squarely
on his honor and did it.  He saw that saloons and
places of vice were erected to lure the sort of
population that must people a wretched Flat.

Mrs. Thorpe called on this man at his business office
in Edgerly.  He regarded her keenly as she explained
to him the use she wished to make of the old Resort.

"So you wish to open a school on the Flat?" he
said.  The expression on his face was inscrutable and
his small eyes were so far sunk into the folds of flesh
which surrounded them that it was difficult to know
just where his gaze was directed.

"It is a long walk to the Edgerly school for the
little children," she said, "and if they do not go when
they are small it is difficult to get them started later."

"Exactly.  I think I understand, Mrs. Thorpe."  The
small eyes, sunken in their folds of flesh, were
looking for the future recruits for the saloons and
places of vice, and the man's mind was busy with a
fine calculation as to where they were coming from if
these children were to be so taught as to make
self-respecting citizens of them.

Sometimes we feel the atmosphere about us to be
keen and rare, sometimes fragrant with the breath of
flowers and the incense of morning dew; again we are
aware that it is charged with a coming storm, or dark
with impurities, or heavy with moisture.  There are
those who are as keenly sensitive to the mental
atmosphere about them.  Mrs. Thorpe felt strongly that
unless her faith in the integrity of her purpose
sustained her, her undertaking must fail before it had
drawn the first full breath of life.  She had stated her
purpose and asked the favor and she felt little inclined
to beg or plead for its fulfillment.  Yet a battle was
fought, keen and sharp.  There was no flashing of
swords nor pomp nor parade, neither were there words
nor argument.  It was the play of mind upon mind;
penetrating, forceful.  It was thought pitted against
thought; right demanding its own.  The small eyes
shifted about uneasily and the man moved ponderously
in his chair.  When he spoke again his voice
expressed his irritability.

"It is not my policy to let my buildings free of
charge, Mrs. Thorpe.  What consideration can you
offer me for the use of this building?"

Mrs. Thorpe realized that she had not fallen into
the hands of a philanthropist; she was fully aware
that the man was not in sympathy with her plans.
Without a moment's hesitation or a word of protest
she drew from her purse the banknote that Mrs. Mayhew
had pressed upon her, and handed it to him.

"How long may I have the use of the place for
that amount?" she asked.

He held the money in his fingers as though testing
its quality, and his eyes were fixed upon it, but the
struggling soul within him was making him very
uncomfortable.  How merciless are the voices that
contend in the soul of a man!  These children of the
Flat--was he in any way responsible for them?  They were
no better than so many rats in their holes--the houses
that he provided were miserable holes--the wretched
children--but why should he charge this woman rent
for an old, deserted building set in a thicket of briars
and brambles?

"You may have the building for the summer, if
you like," he said aloud.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes were upon him curiously.  She
could not tell how it happened, nor when, nor why,
but she became aware that this pompous man of
wealth had lost his air of condescension and
self-conscious superiority.

"And now as I am paying you rent for this property,"
she said, "you will, I hope, make some needed
repairs on the building and perhaps put the ground in
a little better shape?"

The small eyes seemed to stand out from the enfolding
flesh to look her full in the face.  And that which
they saw there aroused a smouldering spark of
manhood.  He turned to his desk and wrote rapidly for a
few minutes.  He handed her the paper.  It was an
order for whatever improvements she wished for
both building and grounds.

"Present this to my business manager," he said,
"and your bills will be paid."

Mrs. Thorpe arose at once and thanked him very
sincerely.

"You are very kind," she said, "and I believe that
you will never regret this day's work, liberal though
it has been."





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.. _`EVERY WHIT WHOLE`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   EVERY WHIT WHOLE

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Poverty, poverty, the curse of the Flat--the curse
of all on whom its blighting influence falls!  We have
been told that the love of money is the root of all evil.
The misuse of money is the most atrocious thing in
our civilization; but poverty is a devastating monster
that crushes out the better nature of men as relentlessly
as any monster of the jungle crushes its victim
between its giant jaws.

Nature is prolific, lavish, luxurious; there is neither
limit nor measure to her bounty and generosity.  The
ever-faithful Friend of man withered the fig tree
because it failed to bring forth fruit.  Everywhere over
the wide earth we see provision made for the needs
of men.  Food, shelter and clothing the world does
not lack.  Nature's storehouses circle the globe, and
they are never empty.  Vast, measureless seedbeds,
watered and warmed from Heaven, impelled by an
unseen Power, are growing and producing the seasons
through.  Forests of fruit trees yielding their succulent,
sweet-flavored fruit; oceans of grain fields, whose
length and breadth the eye cannot measure--to feed
the human race.  Cotton, wool and hemp and the
patient spinning of the silk-worm--to clothe the
children of men; quarries of stone and forests of wood
to provide shelter from sun and storm.  Let us never,
even in our weakest, most irreverent moments, voice a
protest against the great and generous Giver of this
boundless, countless wealth because of the disposition
men have made of it.

Some day, that bright, blessed day that even now is
dawning, men will not keep and hoard that for which
they have no need, and for the lack of which a fellow
man perishes and dies.  When this day dawns no man
will desire more of this world's goods than he can
use and enjoy.  Men will not seat themselves at a
feast and stuff and feed until their bodies distend and
their eyes start from their sockets while the wail of
hungry children echoes in the land.

The monster, cruel, relentless, immovable, that
Mrs. Thorpe found everywhere on the Flat was Poverty.
This monster may spring from a gentle mother, more
sinned against than sinning, but it is sired by
Ignorance and the stamp upon its forehead is Vice.

Mrs. Thorpe visited in these poor, barren homes;
she became acquainted with the people and was a
friend to all, and with tact and patience she presented
to them the desirability of the school that she was
about to open.

The boys, profane, reared in immorality, knew her
and in their boyish hearts admired her.  When she
called upon them and solicited their aid they
responded readily, and devastating war was waged upon the
briers and brambles that cumbered the soil around
the old Resort.  And while the ground that she
planned for flower beds and vegetable gardens yielded
up its unprofitable growth and was made ready for
the plowman's steel the boys were receiving Nature's
best discipline, the tug and sweat of honest work.

A workman skilled with tools, but who had abandoned
his trade for the gambler's fortunes, was called
upon and pressed into service to mend the broken roof
and place again the crumbling columns.  And when
this work was finished the man, feeling again the
spirit of manhood revived by honest work, went over
into Edgerly and obtained steady employment; and
his wife and children awoke to a new appreciation of
life.  The wife took a lot of the ground that lay back
of the old Resort and vied with her neighbors in
raising her beds of vegetables--tender lettuce, green peas
and cucumbers.

As the summer wore on, the old Resort, robbed
of its superstitions and the evil hold its uncanny tales
had had upon the minds of the people, stood forth
erect in the midst of cultivated grounds.  The babble
and chatter of children's voices echoed through it
and exorcised the last remaining trace of evil that
may have lingered there.

It had been somewhat difficult to induce the women
whose children attended the school to plant and care
for the garden lots, and their somewhat reluctant
consent to do this was given more as a favor to
Mrs. Thorpe than from any interest in the work.  But he
who cultivates Nature becomes interested in spite of
himself.  And as the brown seeds quickened and sent
forth their little flame of life and developed into
vigorous plants, each after its kind, the flame of Truth
and Immortality in the hearts of the workers revived
and grew and expanded.

The goddess Ceres vied with the Bacchus of the
Flat and in a measure was the winner.  In the cool of
the summer evenings, when the day was slipping
away and the earth prepared her bath of cooling dew,
men, vicious-faced and with bloodshot eyes and
unkept hair and beards, had been wont to take
themselves to the dens of vice and quaff the cup in which
the hissing serpent lurks; but now there was another
attraction on the Flat.  The owners of the garden lots
would gather around the old Resort in the evenings to
dig and weed and hoe, and the men fell into the way
of strolling over to view the work of their wives'
hands, and before the summer was over there was not
a place on the Flat more popular than this.  And
sometimes a man whose heart was not all bad would
take the rake and hoe and assist in the work.  And
then there were some whose memories took them back
to boyhood days on the old farm, before the Evil One
came with his false promises of pleasure.

Sometimes Mrs. Thorpe would induce the parents
to come into the schoolroom and she would show
them the work that their children were doing; and
sometimes she would talk to the mothers about the
care and management of their children and of their
homes, and other subjects of interest; and then
sometimes in passing their houses she would see that a
window had been cleaned and a curtain, or perhaps a
clean newspaper answering the place of a curtain, had
been put up; or perhaps she would observe that some
rubbish pile had been removed, or that a walk had
been cleaned, and as she noticed these small improvements
she felt that she had received her reward, and
went on her way with strengthened purpose.

Mrs. McGowan so far recovered her health and her
eyesight that she was able to take the greater share
of the household cares upon herself, thus leaving
Mrs. Thorpe and Margaret free to devote their time to the
school.  A strange school it was; there were no hard
and fast rules; no one was compelled or commanded,
but he who denies that love has power to rule denies
because he has not love in his heart and is a stranger
to its transfiguring power.  It was, perhaps, more of
a community of interest than a well-regulated school,
but its influence was unmistakable.

Little children were amused and instructed and
taught to be kind to each other.  There were classes
at regular hours that were given instruction from the
standard text-books.  Boys and girls who had never
been to school and who were ashamed to go to Edgerly
now, came here to learn to read and write.  Girls
brought their sewing and were given instruction in the
art of cutting and making garments.  Housewives were
encouraged to come in and learn to cook.  Daily it
was impressed upon Mrs. Thorpe's mind that the
harvest was ripe but the laborers were few.  She did each
day all that the limit of her strength allowed, but she
carried no burdens and permitted herself no load of
care.  The work was hers, her heart and soul were in
it; it strengthened her and put heart and zest into her
life.

In the evening after her day's work was done she
often spent an hour with Jamie, teaching and amusing
him.  She felt strangely drawn to the unfortunate
child, and often talked to him about her work and
related to him any pleasing incident that occurred
during the day.

The boy had never attempted to walk, had never
stood upon his feet.  Dr. Eldrige Jr. had taken a
special interest in him and had done much toward
removing his physical deformity and freeing him from pain.
He still had hopes that continued treatment would
enable him to walk, but all his efforts to get him on
his feet had so far proved futile.

Mrs. Thorpe was sitting in the gloaming one evening
talking to the boy.  He sat in his invalid's chair
facing a flaming, fire-like cloud, the trailing garment
of the setting sun.

"Please sing for me to-night, Mrs. Thorpe," he
said.  "I love to hear you sing while I sit here and
watch the glory cloud fade out of the sky."

Mrs. Thorpe went to the piano that had been hers
from the days of her girlhood and let her hands
wander over the keys, recalling snatches of song and old,
half-forgotten melodies.

Mrs. McGowan came into the room and seated herself
in the easy chair that had been set apart for her.
She leaned her head back against the cushion and
closed her eyes, and a sense of peace and blessing
welled up in her heart.  She had seen many hard
places in life and their influence had lingered with her.
But to-night she had a peculiar feeling as of all her
cares rolling from her and only that which was glad
and good remained, and her spirit seemed light and
free as in the days of her young womanhood, before
care and trouble called her.

Mrs. Thorpe ceased the desultory snatches of song
and melody and, turning the leaves of her song-book,
she came to a song especially dear to her.  Her voice
was sweet and low, and when she sang her soul poured
forth the joy of her spirit, and all that stood between
her and her heart's happiness seemed to recede and
slip away from her.

The low, sweet strains of the instrument rose and
fell in pleasing cadence, and the tender, pleading voice
floated out on the soft evening air.

   |  Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh,
   |    When the tired waketh, and the shadows flee,
   |  Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight,
   |    Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with Thee.
   |

The words came to Mrs. McGowan like a confirmation
of that which her heart had felt, and she seemed
to feel the ever presence of infinite Love.  An intensity
of feeling swept over her, an ecstasy of peace and joy
that seemed almost pain, so sure and keen it was.  She
did not move nor stir; she felt that she scarcely
breathed.

Margaret, looking at her mother, saw the glory of
the sunset reflected on her quiet face.  How peaceful
and quiet it was; how strangely still, as though it was
the glory divine that rested there.

With an indescribable feeling in her heart, half
worship, half wonder, she turned instinctively to
Jamie and saw that his eyes had left the flaming west
and were fixed upon Mrs. Thorpe's face.  His lips
were parted, his eyes aglow, his thin, white face eager
with unspoken desire, and--was it the sunset that
touched his yellow curls, transforming them into a
crown of light?


   |  Alone with Thee, amid the seeming shadows,
   |    The solemn hush of being newly born,
   |  Alone with Thee, in breathless adoration,
   |    In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.
   |

Margaret, watching the boy, felt her awe and
wonder growing upon her.  His slight body inclined
forward as though in waiting expectation.  A warm glow
had come to his cheeks and there was a strange light
in his eyes.

And still the low, sweet words flowed on.


   |  So shall it ever be in that bright morning,
   |    When Divine sense bids ev'ry shadow flee,
   |  And in that hour fairer than daylight dawning,
   |    Remains the glorious thought I am with Thee.
   |

Quietly, without seeming effort, the boy slid from
his chair and, steadily, erect, he crossed the room and
stood by Mrs. Thorpe's side.  The red glory encircled
him and the pleading melody seemed to fold him
about, hold and sustain him.

Margaret, as though fearful that she was looking
upon something too sacred for mortal vision, covered
her face with her hands and a quivering sob fell from
her lips.

Mrs. McGowan sat erect, and instantly her eyes
sought the boy's chair; she arose in consternation.
Then in the waning red light she saw him standing by
Mrs. Thorpe's side.  A great trembling seized her;
but amid her confusion of thought, before words
came to her, she was conscious that a prescience of
this thing that had happened had been with her since
she first came into the room.

"Jamie!" she cried, "oh, Jamie, Jamie!" She
was by his side, her arms about him.  "My child, my
child!  That I have lived to see the goodness of the
Lord!  That I have lived to see this blessed day!"

The song had ended, and with a quivering note the
music ceased.  Mrs. Thorpe turned and confronted
the mother and child and at once comprehended the
meaning of what she saw.

"Christ is the Healer Divine!" she cried, and she
kissed the boy's white brow and clustering curls.

Margaret knelt beside them, and her tears flowed
unrestrained.  "Little brother, little brother!" she
said, "cured by the great Physician!"

The boy threw his arms about her neck.  "I can
walk, Margy, I can walk!  But why do you cry,
Margy?--mother, Mrs. Thorpe--you are not
surprised--you believed--the Lord has promised--don't
you know?  And I believed--I truly did believe!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HEART'S DESIRE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HEART'S DESIRE

.. vspace:: 2

At the approach of cold weather Mrs. Thorpe was
obliged to close the school, but she and Margaret
worked among the people during the winter and were
rewarded by the fact that there was less suffering and
sickness than there had been the year before.

Some of the older boys and girls came to Mrs. Thorpe's
cottage for instruction, and prepared to enter
the Edgerly school in the spring.  The classes in
sewing and cooking were also continued, although
necessarily on a reduced scale.

In the spring when the school was again opened
there was no difficulty in arousing interest and
enthusiasm.  The garden lots were in great demand, and
the children begged for a corner for flowers.  The
vines that had been cared for and trained the year
before now climbed about the posts and columns and
transformed the old Resort into a mass of greenery
and rioting bloom.

The sweet summer days drew on with golden sunshine
and lavish promise, and the Flat received
something of Nature's benediction.  Throughout the
summer Mrs. Thorpe and Margaret continued their work.
Day by day they bound the sheaves; day by day they
saw dear smiles break on childish faces and light dawn
where darkness had reigned before.

Yet there were times when the magnitude of the
work arose before Mrs. Thorpe and appeared to her
like a Red sea in her path.  The ignorance and
immorality, the poverty and the want, the small, poorly
built homes and lack of order and law massed
themselves into a rolling sea which she could see no way
around and no way through unless the Lord of Hosts
should cleave the waters for her.  But with
characteristic faith she resolved that should the command
ever come to her "To lift up thy rod and stretch out
thine hand over the sea and divide it," she would be
ready to obey.  And for her there was consolation in
the thought that her work had come to her with no
uncertain appeal; she had sought it and it had found
her.  She loved it with her heart and soul, this work
of hers, and stripped of its gruesome exterior,
beneath the sackcloth of poverty and misfortune, the
loving, throbbing heart of it responded to her.

The long summer days slipped by and the frost of
autumn was again in the air.  Red and yellow leaves
fluttered down from the trees, sported with the winds,
and lay in garlands along the streets and pathways.
Mrs. Thorpe and Margaret left the school together at
the close of one blue, balmy day; but at the gate they
parted.

"I shall not go directly home," Margaret said.  "I
am going for a walk, over to Cedar Brook, perhaps;
I shall be back before dark."

"Very well, my dear," Mrs. Thorpe replied.  "The
walk will do you good, no doubt."  She stood for a
minute at the gate and watched the retreating figure.
Many times of late she had seen the fire of the girl's
spirit leap into the dark eyes; and all that day her
heart had ached at the sight of the restless pain in
the thin, dark face.  Was the turbulent nature warring
again?--the restlessness of her spirit not yet subdued?

"Keep my girl, dear God, keep my girl," she murmured,
as she turned in at the gate.  "Keep my dear,
dear girl."

.. vspace:: 2

A man, gaunt and worn, with signs of recent illness
upon his face, stepped out of one of the prosperous-looking,
well-kept homes of Edgerly.  His step was
not so elastic as it once had been, but the face had lost
none of its alertness, nor the eyes their keenness.  He
passed the Mayhew house; how familiar it looked.  Not
a tree or shrub seemed changed; he noticed the sweet-brier
by the library window, and in fancy he could hear
it tapping against the window-pane.  Farther out he
passed the home of Dr. Eldrige and saw the old
doctor in an invalid's chair on the porch.  He had heard
the harrowing story of the old man's affliction, also
some gruesome reports concerning it.  That blood and
froth oozed from his nostrils and mouth during his
attacks, which contained a virus that poisoned all flesh
that came in contact with it was supposed to be a fact;
but that this poison exuded continually from his body
was believed by most people to be an exaggeration of
the case.

The next house was the home of Dr. Eldrige Jr.
This was a cottage less pretentious than the house
where the old doctor lived; but there were shrubs and
flowers in the yard; the grass was well kept and vines
grew over the door.  A woman, partly screened by
the greenery, was sitting on the porch rocking back
and forth in a wicker chair, a woman with golden
hair coiled about her head and soft, clustering curls
about her face.  And tenderly in her arms she was
cradling a wee bit of a rosy child.  Perhaps she was
crooning a lullaby; the little one put out his hand, a
little roseleaf hand, and the mother bent her head and
laid her lips upon it.

The man, in passing, saw the mother and child, and
his face lighted with a smile.  During his absence his
friends had kept him informed about the happenings
at home.  He knew that the woman with the crown
of golden hair was married; his sister had written
him about it at the time, and he remembered now that
the news had brought him no sadness and no regret,
but that in his heart he had been glad that it was so.
And as he went on his way his thoughts went back to
that far-away foreign land, to an island of the sea
where he had been when this letter of his sister's
reached him.  For weeks he, with his regiment, had
been in the deep heart of a forest and sometimes
there were marshes to cross and streams to ford and
their beds at night was the damp, black ground.  In
fancy it all came back to him now: the dusky natives
with their scant raiment; the towering forests with
their weird majesty, and the call and cry of the wild
creatures that inhabited them; the smell of the reeking
mould, where year after year the decaying mass of
vegetation had not been disturbed; the reedy marshes
where all through the lonesome nights the wind sighed
and moaned in the long marsh grass.

And there in that sun-kissed, tropical land, where
the stars came out at night, calm and familiar as in
his native land, as he stretched his weary limbs on his
blanket for his night's repose, sometimes a cool hand
would be laid on his brow and a sense of peace and
rest would steal over him, and then, sometimes, in the
mist and clinging darkness a face would appear before
his vision, and it was not the fair face of the woman
with the shining golden hair, but a dark, slender face
with great, dark eyes burning into his soul; pain and
pleading and the anguish of a woman's heart were
written there.  And once on a misty night, when the
darkness was thick and heavy with moisture and all
the moaning forest was dripping wet, a white circle
was outlined in the blackness and a slight, supple form
glided close to him and knelt beside him in the mist
and dripping rain; the thin fingers that he
remembered so well were clasped in anguish and the face
was wet as the dripping foliage about him--wet with
a woman's tears.  All the heart within him rose in
anguish to meet her, and he would have given his life
and soul to take her in his arms and soothe the
remorse and despair from her anguished face; but when
he put out his hand to touch her, a great fear came
over her and she recoiled from him and shrank and
shuddered in the darkness and was gone.

"Margaret!" he cried, and his heart broke within
him--"Margaret!"  The cry sounded dully through
the heavy silence and a comrade partly awoke and
asked him why he was moaning and calling in the
night.

The man, with his thoughts still partly in the past
and partly on the familiar objects about him, passed
on through the streets of Edgerly and slowly, as one
who toils, he climbed the incline up to the church.
He seated himself on the church steps to rest for a
time, and then perhaps he would go back--or
perhaps--but his thoughts again became reminiscent; the
spirit of the past was with him.  His mind went over
the long weeks spent in the hospital, where the
doctors had pronounced his case hopeless and the nurses
believed that he must die.  Long, weary days he had
lain on his bed of pain, and in his heart waged open
rebellion against the power that held him there; then
for many, many days he lay, too weak to struggle, too
helpless to care.  Down into the dark valley where
the air was damp and dank, where gruesome things,
weird and fantastic, glided noiselessly among the
shadows--shadows ever growing deeper, darker,
closer--down in the dark valley he left the last
remnant of his vaunted power and felt himself a
child--just a child--with the Everlasting Arms, the abiding,
sustaining force of the universe, about him.  And like
a gnarled and cankered plant that the gardener cuts
to the root that it may put forth a more vigorous and
healthful growth, little by little he came again into the
sunshine, and a new heaven and a new earth opened
before him.

The great purpose of God is absolute in the universe;
it reaches out, covers and enfolds the purposes
of man as the shades of night cover and enfold the
earth at eventide.  All the struggling, sin-tossed
creatures of earth are folded tenderly close to the great
heart of God; yet our vain imaginings and foolish
desires often take us a long and weary way, over
mountains and vale and sea, before we lift up our
eyes and know that God is love.  When passion has
burned itself out, when lust is dead, when the human
is crucified and laid in the grave to rise again divine;
when all the mocking demons of false belief and evil
thought are rebuked and sent cowering from before
our consciousness, then the soul comes into its own
and the Kingdom of Heaven is ours.

.. vspace:: 2

Margaret was seated on a ledge of rock by the
brook.  Her eyes were strained far off to the dim blue
hills in the distance; her heart was torn with restless
pain, and her life's hunger was in her face, but her
soul was anchored safe and secure.

"Expiation!" she murmured.  "Dear God, only
keep me from day to day--keep me--keep your
child."  Softly over her memory floated a fragment of the
words that Mrs. Thorpe had read that morning: "He
that keeps thee will not slumber."

The brook babbled at her feet and the curious
droning voices of the woodland came to her.  Every sense
was alive; the wild seclusion of the place appealed to
the turbulent passion within her, its peace and beauty
enthralled her.

"Give unto me the strength of the towering forest
pines," she whispered, "the humility of the woodland
flowers, the steadfastness of the mist-hung hills."

A squirrel, intent upon his winter's store, was making
little journeys from an acorn-filled treetop to his
home at the tree's gnarled root; from the woods came
the muffled drumming of a partridge.  The call of a
bird-note, faint in the distance, the nearby chirp of a
cricket and the whispering of the wind in the treetops
mingled with the low, vague sounds of the forest and
blended into a symphony soft and sweet, then weird
and haunting, as the falling of a leaf or the snapping
of a twig broke the harmony.

The girl, with her eyes on the far-away hills, was
bound by the spell of it all; yet to her finer sense there
was wafted from the soft, thrilling melody and the
fluttering breath of the forest a knowledge, vague,
evanescent, yet so quickening and compelling that the
past, the future, the present--life itself--trembled
before it.  A shower of leaves scattered by the
provident squirrel fell at her feet; a twig snapped sharply
and there was a rustling sound in the path beside her.
But she did not move nor stir, and her eyes did not
leave the hilltops--but she knew--she could not fail
to know his presence, and when he came to her side,
and stood close beside her, she shrank and shuddered,
and yet her heart cried out with the exquisite pain of it.

"Margaret," he said, "Margaret, I have come over
land and across seas.  Have you no welcome for me?
No word nor look?"

He had left the church and passed through the
crooked, unkept street of the Flat and on past the old
Resort out to Cedar Brook.  Exhausted with his long
walk, he seated himself on the ledge of rock.
Margaret sank down on the soft, clinging moss beside the
rock and buried her face in her hands.

"Have you no word for me, Margaret?  After all
this time, not one word for me?"  But he did not
touch her; he dared not lay his hand on her.  And she
made no reply nor raised her face to his until she
had gained complete control of herself; then she arose
and stood before him.

He had heard of her reformation; he expected to
find her changed, but he was not prepared for that
which had had its birth and growth since he last saw
her; and in this first moment of their meeting no other
characteristic seemed so patent to him.  He regarded
her in silence.  Here was the girl that he had known,
the passionate, turbulent Margaret, but blended with
her, permeating her personality, guarding and protecting
her, was this other self--the ideal enshrined in his
heart.  Whence had she obtained this unnamable
quality which, unvoiced and without conscious effort,
aroused the reverence in his manhood?  Always before
he had controlled her, dominated her, often against
her will by his superior force; now her personality,
her selfhood stood out before him, silent yet indomitable,
subtle, intangible, yet absolute.  Reverently he
extended his hand to her, and his voice was deep with
pleading.

"Margaret, speak to me, all unworthy though I
am to hear your voice--trust me, though I did so
abuse your girlish trust--forgive me, forgive me and
let me prove myself to you."

She took his proffered hand and looked unfalteringly
into his eyes.

"You should not take all the blame," she said.  "I,
too, need to be forgiven."

He held her hand between his palms, then raised it
to his lips.

"Margaret," he said, "you are the only woman I
have ever loved."

"Max!"  The word fell from her lips like a sob.  "Max!"

He drew her to him and kissed the dark hair where
it lay smooth against her forehead.

"Will you be my wife, Margaret, my loved and
honored wife?"

Her eyes scanned his face; not a line of pain, not
a mark of suffering escaped her.  All his struggles,
his rebellion, his victories, and all the soul within him
lay bare before her deep-seeing eyes.  She laid her
hand on his face, that dear face so intense and strong,
and wondered keenly in how many ages, how many
worlds, how many lives, she had known him.

The squirrel, disturbed by their presence, stopped
midway on the tree trunk and chattered noisily; again
the drumming of the partridge and the woodland
voices blended, now rich and full in a glad song of
triumph, praise, victory.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"WHERE IS YOUR FAITH?"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   "WHERE IS YOUR FAITH?"

.. vspace:: 2

Max and Margaret were quietly married in
Mrs. Thorpe's little parlor.  They made their home in a
comfortable, roomy cottage which Max erected on the
outskirts of the Flat not far from the old Resort.

Now, as never before, Max devoted himself to his
business affairs and took stock of the amount of his
wealth.  He was part owner of a manufacturing plant
in Edgerly, and before the year was out he had sold
his interest and announced his intention of building a
factory on the Flat.  From the man Bolton he
obtained possession of the Flat district.  To tear down
the old, decaying buildings, to clear the ground of
rubbish and lay off straight, square lots and build
comfortable cottages was no small task; but all this
was accomplished while the new factory was building.
In planning and executing this great amount of work
Max found Mrs. Thorpe's counsel and advice
invaluable.  There were many interests to be considered
and some obstacles to be overcome, and her knowledge
of the work and acquaintance with the people helped
him to plan wisely and to use judgment and discretion
in his work.

He called at the school for Margaret one evening
at the close of her day's work, and lingered for a talk
with Mrs. Thorpe.

"I think we shall be able to have a regular school
here another year," he said.

"I am sure all good things will come to the people
here in time," she said.  "What a world ours would
be if every such place as this Flat had such a friend
as you, Max."

"The work is yours, Mrs. Thorpe; you must know
that it is all yours," he replied; and then after a
moment's silence he continued: "There are emotions
that words seem to degrade, this is why I have never
attempted to put into words my admiration for what
you have done for the people on this Flat, nor my
gratitude for what you have done for me.  But, after
all, it is not protestations, desires nor words, but the
way he lives his life that proves a man.  My work
among these people, my life devoted to the alleviation
of needy humanity, these must be my spokesmen, to
you first, Mrs. Thorpe, and to my fellow men; these
must testify to the transformation of the man, and
stand as a monument to his faith, a thank-offering to
his God."

Mrs. Thorpe checked the sudden tears that sprang
to her eyes.  Years before she had believed that it was
service that was demanded of her, and she had
besought the Lord that she might see the fruit of her
endeavor, the harvest of her labor; that a visible sign
might be given her.  Dare she doubt that her prayer
was answered, or hesitate to recognize the answer?
Dare she turn her eyes from this Infinite love, or
escape this deluge of blessing, even though it
overwhelmed and overpowered her?  She thought of the
children of Israel, how they had besought Moses to
veil his face after he had talked with God.  Was she,
too, unable to bear the brightness of the light?  Must
she beseech the Lord to again draw the veil between
her and His kingdom that the ecstasy of answered
prayer might not become too great for her soul to
bear?

Margaret, who had been assisting a girl who had
lingered over her task, now crossed the room and
joined them.

"Come with us to tea, Mrs. Thorpe," she urged.
"We love to have you with us.  Mother and Jamie
will expect you to-night, I am sure."

"Yes, come with us, sister," added Max.  "We are
always wishing for your presence in our home."

"Very well," Mrs. Thorpe replied, "your hospitality
is sweet to me."

After the evening meal was over they sat out on the
broad cottage porch and discussed various aspects of
their work.  From adjoining cottages could be heard
the chatter and laughter of children's voices.  The
air was sweet with the scent of flowers; the sun was
nearing the horizon and its radiance lay over the Flat,
no longer the unlovely Flat, but a collection of
comfortable homes whose inmates, sure of employment
and, more than this, sure of justice and equity, had in
a measure fallen into harmony with the forces that
make for righteousness.

The air of peace and quiet that had fallen over the
little group on the porch was broken by the arrival of
a carriage at the gate.  Dr. Eldrige assisted his wife
to alight, and Margaret and Max went down the walk
to meet them.  There was cordial frankness in their
greeting, sincere and whole-hearted.  As they neared
the steps Mrs. Thorpe came forward, and after
greeting Geraldine, stooped and put her arms about the
child; he put his chubby arms close about her neck
and laid his soft, pink cheek against her face.  How
dear to her heart was the love of this child!

The two men walked leisurely up to the house;
Geraldine, in a simple white gown that caused her
face with the golden hair above it to appear like the
petals of some rare-tinted flower, stood against the
dark outline of vines that screened the porch.  All that
her girlhood promised had blossomed into womanhood;
maternity had developed all that was best and
noblest in her.

From a nearby cottage a ripple of childish laughter
floated out on the evening air.  Geraldine turned to
her companions.

"Does earth contain sweeter music than the laugh
of a child?" she said.  "I often think that the
transformation of this Flat is more wonderful than any
of the fairy tales that enchanted our childhood."

"It is a demonstration of the brotherhood of man,
almost beyond belief," Dr. Eldrige replied.

"To do what lies before us, just that which comes
to our hand to do, to be true to the best within us, is
not so remarkable a thing to do," Max replied, and
his eyes met Geraldine's honestly.  "It is in the results
that the wonder lies."

After a time the two men fell into a discussion of
ways and means concerning both the health and morals
of the laborers on the Flat, and Margaret took
Geraldine to see her garden.  Mrs. Thorpe accompanied
them, and Mrs. McGowan and Jamie joined them.
The child, with Jamie for an escort, played about the
garden paths and filled his hands with flowers, and
Margaret and her companions made themselves
comfortable on a rustic garden seat.

Margaret had a gift of understanding that made it
possible for her to read her husband's wishes and to
know his needs; now she knew that he would join
them, unless for some reason he wished to be alone
with his friend.  The loyal friendship of Dr. Eldrige
Jr., freely given, had, she knew, been meat and drink
to Max, and had been invaluable to him in his work.

After the matter concerning the work on the Flat
was disposed of, the two men continued their talk.

"Old Edgerly is still in throes of incredulity over
your operations on this side of the hill, Max," the
doctor said.

"Yes, I have heard her groanings from afar; queer
why the old town should suffer so!"

"Yes, it is strange; father has been roaring like a
lion, but he has taken to silence, absolute silence!"

Max smiled at thought of the stormy old man reduced
to silence.

"I had not supposed it was so bad as that," he said.

There was the best of comradeship between the
two men, although little had been said concerning the
past.  Events had run their course in such a manner
that Dr. Eldrige Jr. felt that he had no grievance to
cherish; and however slow one might be to accept the
reformation in Max Morrison's character, the
transformation in his life and work was patent to all.

Max leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands
back of his head.

"It's a queer world we live in, doctor," he said, "a
queer old world."

Dr. Eldrige Jr. regarded him in silence; he was not
quite sure of Max's attitude toward conditions, as he
had found them since his return to his native land,
and he had no desire to probe an old wound nor to
inflict a new one.  And, at best, Dr. Eldrige was a man
of few words.

"I used to live over in Edgerly," Max continued,
ignoring the doctor's silence, "over in Christian
Edgerly.  I had, I think, the heart of a man in me, yet I
was a villain--you know what I was--I ought to have
been shot, shot like a cur--yet Edgerly favored me,
sought and pampered me.  But now that I have put
my hand to an honest work--to help the needy, to
feed and clothe the poor--the good old town has at
least every other day a new motive, each more sinister
than the other, to impute to my actions."  He sprang
to his feet and walked the length of the porch and
back.  "Eldrige," he said, "I had thought never to
impose on your friendship by bringing up the past;
but I feel to-night as though I may break my good
resolutions."

"Do not be afraid of imposing on my friendship,
Max; speak of the past as freely as you like.  You
know me--we know each other."

"You know my temperament, Eldrige; I have
always been a devil of a fellow when aroused; and
the attitude of those good people over there beyond
the hill arouses me a bit.  There is a little woman here
on the Flat that chides me for this attitude, and tells
me that I am wasting good strength fighting windmills.
But I have not arrived at a place where I can
view other people's unaccountable conduct and
shortcomings in the calm, unruffled manner in which
Mrs. Thorpe views them."

"I find no difficulty in seeing Mrs. Thorpe's
viewpoint, Max.  She proves by her daily life and work
that she is a follower of the one perfect Man; she
heals the sick and reforms the sinner through her
understanding of the Divine Law.  This, to me, seems
simple and natural, and she allows nothing to fret or
trouble her.  But I am going to be perfectly frank
with you, and tell you that I cannot so readily
understand your attitude.  I think I have never deluded
myself into believing that I understand you, Max; a
man who has it in him to do the work that you are
doing here on this Flat, aroused by adverse
criticism--why man--"

"There, Eldrige, stop, please!  I thought you
understood me better than that.  Why, man, criticism
tones me up--puts me in good working order; antagonism
exhilarates me, persecution inspires me.  But
what of those who criticise, antagonize and persecute?
There's the rub--that's what arouses me.  Why should
professing Christian people hold up their hands and
shout themselves hoarse because some fellow does an
act of kindness to his fellow men?  It's not criticism
that I care for, but it does arouse the very devil in
me to see Christian people stand in wide-eyed,
open-mouthed astonishment before a Christian deed.  You
see, I have not the religion that Mrs. Thorpe has; in
fact, I am not at all sure that I have any religion
whatever.  I think it possible, and I may say that I really
hope it possible that I may some day come into the
scientific understanding of life that Mrs. Thorpe has
attained; but at present I am trying only to do the
square thing by my fellow men."

The doctor looked him over deliberately.

"If ever I am able to understand the man you are,
Max, I think it will be when I am a better man
myself than I am now.  You may not call yourself a
religious man, but there is a force back of your life,
a force of some kind that I did not know that the
universe contained; there is some secret here that I
have not been able to find out."

"I don't agree with you there, Eldrige; there's no
secret about it, there's nothing hidden nor concealed;
all is open and clear as the sun in mid-heaven.  The
trouble is our eyes are holden, we are blind and dumb
and dead--I wish I could make you see things from
my viewpoint--there are a thousand things I would
tell you if I could."

Max was not looking at the doctor now; his eyes
were far away upon the distant horizon.  "I would
tell you something of the influence of my early
bringing up," he said, "a pampered child of wealth;
something of the force of Christianity, as it was taught
and lived in my home; something of the time when I
passed from boyhood to manhood, idle, with more
money than I could spend--honestly; something of
the day when I first looked into the eyes of the woman
I love--innocent, beseeching--"

He arose again and walked back and forth across
the porch.

"I can't do it, Eldrige--I've no words to make you
understand," he said, "you who have lived a clean
life, you who have always worked--"  He drew his
chair up near to the doctor and sat down again.  "I
really think," he said, in a quieter tone, "that during
that period of my life I was not so much bad as blind
and dead--the man in me had never been born; I was
a clod, a lump of clay, with the instincts of the beast.
Our civilization!  Our Christianity!--Damn!--I'll
try not to be profane, doctor.  But this is why I say
I am not a religious man; I tell you I had as soon
trust the chances of the brownest skinned, dumb beast
of a man that I knew on those far islands of the sea
as the chances of the son of the average wealthy
Christian parents in this Christian land.

"I am not going to be profane, not if I can help it,
and I am not going to allow myself to become unduly
excited, but the rashest language that our vocabulary
contains could not portray the fires of hell that burned
within me when I left my native land, beaten and
broken.  I was furious--furious because I had missed
the heart and center of life--why should I have
missed it?  I desired the beautiful, satisfying things
of life; I had the base and unclean; and I was furious
with myself, my family, society--the whole world."

There was silence for a few moments.  The doctor
said nothing; then Max spoke again: "I know,
Eldrige, and you know, that the truth and purity in
your wife's heart was the whip and scourge that
drove me to my manhood."

The doctor extended his hand, and met Max's hand
in a firm, keen clasp.

"When I found that truth and purity, uprightness
and a clean soul are the real gems of life, the
beautiful things, the lasting and abiding and satisfying
things, I wanted them for myself," Max continued,
"and no fires of hell can ever burn and sear as did
the belief that I had lost them irrevocably; that
through the conduct that my family had ignored and
society had condoned I had with my own hand shut
myself off from them forever.  I think my indignation
was directed not so much at myself as at the
civilized world, the society, church, and family that had
offered no resistance and put no check on my journey
to perdition.  But when I came back to my native
land I had had some experiences that made another
man of me.  When a man goes down into the valley
and stands on the border he sees things with a clearer
vision.  I had no desire then to shift the responsibility
of my misspent life upon either people or institutions.
I think I saw more clearly, perhaps, than I had before
the faults and weaknesses in our institutions, and the
lack of moral stamina in those who take upon
themselves the training of the young; but these were not
the things that counted with me then, not the things
I cared about.  No, I tell you I was face to face with
my own soul then, and nothing else counted!  The
inexorability of it!  There was no way to escape, no
way to shift or turn, no excuses, no deceits, no
subterfuges.  Absolute, immovable Justice is the most
grim-faced thing that a man can meet.  It was not
until after I had met this grim fellow, and laid my
black life bare before him, asking nothing, deserving
nothing, that any peace came to me.  But after this I
knew--I cannot tell you how I knew--but the knowledge
came to me that over this sinning and suffering
life there lies the great Life, tender, compassionate
Love.

"When I came back to this Flat and found Margaret,
and looked into her face, and saw the transformation
there, then I knew that there is a God, and
to know this, that there is a God, is to know that the
whole duty, pleasure and profit of man is to serve
Him by serving his fellow men, and this, without any
meeting-house religion whatever, is what I have been
trying to do.

"My mother and sister go every Sunday and worship
in the beautiful church yonder on the hill.  They
have never recognized my wife, although my mother
knows, as God knows, that the guilt was mine more
than it was Margaret's.  My mother is a Christian
woman, according to accepted standards, and far be
it from me to reproach or judge her, but the son that
she reared had a long way to go and a hard battle to
fight before he could see and know the purity of an
honest love, the dignity of a human soul, whether it
be in a high place or a lowly one.  I have come to the
conclusion that what we call the Christian world has
in its social code and accepted standards of
respectability a law of its own, the spirit of which never
sprang from inspiration; a law that binds and holds
absolutely, as the letter of the old Jewish law held the
priests and scribes who cried 'Crucify, crucify the
Truth unless it comes in the style and manner that we
have marked out for its coming.'  The simple,
undressed truth is ignored, put aside and kept in the
background; the so-called church of Christ keeps it
there.

"You know, Eldrige, and I know, and every man
in the world to-day knows, that there is something
wrong, radically wrong, deep-seated and to the heart's
core, with our church, society and home training when
a man and woman, reared you might say, in the very
shadow of the church, and having its precepts hurled
at them from their infancy, yet can mistake passion,
immorality and shame for the joy and pleasure of life;
when to their young lives the hell-brewed poison of
destruction appears like the rich, red wine of
satisfaction.

"For what does the church over there on the hill
stand?  What is its mission? its object? its meaning?
If there is anything in the power of the Son of Man
there is everything--everything or nothing; and this
attitude of people who call themselves Christians,
standing between suffering, sin-sick mortals and the
sinner's God is enough to make the angels weep--and
mortals howl!"

"Well, well, Max, I believe you are aroused a bit;
but I am afraid, my man, that you are probing to
the heart and center of conditions that will never be
righted in this world.  Eternity alone, I think, will
reveal the why and wherefore of some of the things
that are troubling you."

"No, Eldrige, it will not require the revelations of
eternity to convince me why the Church is cankered,
worm-eaten and corrupt.  I verily believe I can give
you the reason this minute: it is because its advocates
are *hearers* of the Truth, but not followers of it.
Over there in Christian Edgerly men and women
profess to follow Christ, and in their hearts they know
that they stop with the professing.  Not one man in
ten will read the words of Christ and admit that they
can be taken as a rule of life and conduct.

"'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto
you do ye even so to them.'

"Where is the man who does this?  The poor, the
needy, the suffering, the down-trodden, the unfortunate,
they circle the globe, they are in every land,
every clime, every city, town and hamlet; the voice
of their cries by day and their groanings by night is
never still; naked, they are not clothed; hungry, they
are not fed; thirsty, they are not given drink; and
these are 'the others.'  Where is the man who does
unto them as he would be done by?  Do you?  Do I?

"And where is the man who loves his neighbor as
himself?  Where would be the stress and strife of
life, the wear and tear, the wrangle and scramble, the
heartache and crime, the murder and suicide, if this
precept were followed?  Where would be all this
agitation about labor and capital, the piling up of wealth
on one hand and biting poverty on the other, if
men--Christian men--loved their neighbors as themselves?
Wise men of our generation are trying to devise ways
and formulate plans to regulate the differences and
disagreements among men; but even the reformers
disagree among themselves and dissensions grow
greater from year to year.  Do men think that they are
wiser than God?  Do they think that if there is a
better way Christ would have failed to tell us about it?
Yet we are deaf to the simple words of the divine
Teacher, the grandest precept ever given, the one and
only panacea for the world's discord, 'Love thy
neighbor as thyself.'"

"If only the world had such a religion as that,
Max, Christianity would be Christian."

"And Christianity never will be Christian until
men believe what they profess to believe.  I am not
much of a Bible scholar, I was brought up to reverence
the Bible, not to read it, but I know that we are
told that faith without works is dead.  There is faith
enough in the world, if it were alive, to save the
world--but it is dead, dead and buried, and the devil
is dancing to his hornpipes over its burial place--the
opaque hearts of men.  A general may fight a battle
with an army of men, if they are alive--but if they
are dead, dead in the trenches, they will not put up
much of a fight.  Yet the absurdity of fighting a battle
with dead men is not greater than the inconsistency
of a religion with a dead faith.

"I have not yet learned to understand the scientific
principle back of the kind of religion that has been at
work on this Flat; but I know that the faith of a grain
of mustard seed would remove mountains of sin and
crime and unholy desire from our land.  A grain of
mustard seed is alive, pregnant; given favorable
conditions it will expand and increase, and flower and
produce again, demonstrating the power of the
Invisible.  This work here on this Flat started from a
grain of mustard seed; a grain sown and tended and
watered and tilled by a woman's hand.  And the
Christian city and the stately church marvel that God
has given the increase.  You and I have special cause
to honor this woman and her work, Eldrige, and we
both owe her an endless debt of gratitude."

Again their hands met in silent companionship.
Then Max arose.  "I am afraid we have forgotten
the ladies," he said.  "Let us go and join them in
the garden."

The doctor followed his friend, and he no longer
felt that he failed to understand him; he was just an
honest man, nothing more--nothing less.





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.. _`THE REVELATION`:

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   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE REVELATION

.. vspace:: 2

In a small village at the foot of a Colorado mountain,
the Reverend Maurice Thorpe pitched his tent--literally
pitched his tent--for he resolved to try the
open air treatment for his malady.

He had tried the remedies that men have compounded
and the devices that their skill have fashioned
until the last one was tested and tried and found
wanting; and when his faith in these was gone he
resorted to the Nature cure--he resolved to let Nature
have her way with him.  So he set up his tent, lived
in the open, bathed in the sunshine, breathed the
mountain air; and he felt his strength returning.  If
there was something beside these things that helped
his recovery he did not know of it at the time.

The good Book tells us that "The prayer of faith
shall save the sick, and the Lord will raise him up,"
and there are yet some people in God's world who
believe it.

The tent was pitched near the bank of a mountain
stream.  From far up the mountains it came, at times
a turbulent, rushing stream and again narrowing to a
silver rill.  Part way down its course it came to a
rocky formation which obstructed its flow and forced
it into two different channels.  During the summer
months the larger of these two streams diminished in
size and the other became dry.  Following the dry
course over stones and sand one was led through a
region of wild and rugged grandeur.  The circuitous
course led through deep gorges and past great ledges
of rock, and here and there huge stones stood out
alone, like silent sentinels.

Mr. Thorpe, in his long walks over the mountains,
often followed this course until he reached the chasm,
or cave-like opening, where it ended.  The rocks were
dry and bleached now, except for here and there a
patch of moss or bit of grass which grew among the
crevices.  Some birds had chosen the cave for their
nesting place, and their cries echoed shrilly among the
rocks.  This wild, isolated spot was far removed from
the usual haunts of men, but it held a peculiar charm
for Mr. Thorpe, and he fell into the way of taking
his books and reading there.  Some goat-skins spread
on the rocks served for a couch and a ledge of rock
answered for a table; and here, one by one, his
favorite books and magazines found a place.  Here, alone
with his silent friends, he became a recluse.  The
world that had so bitterly disappointed him, the life
that had so grieved and vexed him, the love that had
bowed and broken him, all were left behind.

The brook babbled noisily by the tent one rare
morning in June; the birds called shrilly from the
rocky ledges, and the sky was azure above the
mountains.  Mr. Thorpe looked over his letters and papers
and laid aside those that he cared to take with him
for the day.  The canvas bag in which he carried his
luncheon was packed and his water-bottle filled.  He
picked up his selection of papers, and as he did so
his eyes fell on one that he had not noticed before.
He examined it and saw that it was a copy of the
Edgerly Times.  Some headlines at the top of the
page caught his eye: "The Transformation of the
Flat.  Once a Place of Vice and Want, Now a
Thriving Factory Settlement."  He glanced down the page
and caught sentences that contained familiar names:
"Mrs. Thorpe, former pastor's wife--Max Morrison,
returned soldier--Dr. Eldrige Jr. and his young
wife--"

Mr. Thorpe's face set in grim lines and the blue
veins stood out prominently on his forehead.  He
folded the paper and thrust it in his pocket, picked
up the canvas bag and water-bottle and made his way
down the rocky course to the rock-walled cavern.  His
attitude was that of a man bowed, broken, vanquished.

When he reached the cavern he threw himself upon
his goat-skins, drew the paper from his pocket and
read the article carefully through to the finish.  It
dwelt at length on the factors that had brought about
the change on the Flat.

When he finished the article he folded the paper
slowly, methodically, as one whose mind is far away.
His eyes were upon the stones at his feet, and slowly
the doors of memory swung open, and before him
were the hopes and aspirations of his life, its trials
and disappointments--the questioning anguish of
failure.

He had been so sure of his standards, so certain of
the infallibility of his ideals.  He felt that if the voice
of the Lord had spoken to him, as it spoke to Moses
from the burning bush it could not have brought to
him more conviction than the ideals of his early
manhood had afforded him--yet he had failed, his life
was a wreck, a derelict stranded on the shore of time.

His mind had been so filled with the convictions
that had come to him with the stamp and seal of his
forefathers upon them that he had not grasped the
possibilities, nor realized the demands of the vital,
ever-present and progressive forces about him.  And
as one who starts upon a race bound and handicapped
from the start, the inevitable had come upon him.
But these underlying causes that had made shipwreck
of his hopes and a tragedy of his existence had been
to him as an unwritten book, unseen and unknown.
And always when his mind had gone back over the
past he had seen only the strewn and broken
wreckage of his hopes, and the future was black with a
dumb agony that he had no heart to face.

But one of the facts of this creation of ours and of
the eternal verities that govern it is that sincerity
never seeks in vain; when the sincerity of the soul
asks, divine Love does not, could not, fail to respond.
We must understand that there are many phases of
mortal thought that parade under the mantle of sincerity
which have little or no relation to that which is
truly sincere.  Sometimes we, as untutored children,
ask for that which we would instantly cast from us
were our requests granted; many times we beg and
plead for that from which our very souls would shrink
and cower; and very many times our motives are so
obscure and our desires so warped and misshapen that
we have no logical conception of that for which we
ask.  But the eternal fact remains: Man never yet
asked for bread and was given a stone, never yet
asked for an egg and was given a scorpion.

Now the man's life, bare to the quivering quick,
stripped of every hypothesis, analysis and subterfuge
of philosophy, was asking, sincerely asking, why he
had failed.  His self-righteousness slipped from him
and lay like a cast-off garment at his feet; prejudice,
which had held him in so firm a grip, retreated and
slunk back into the dim, illusory creation where its
multiform delusions have their inception; pride,
humbled and forsaken, trailed its glittering pageant out of
the range of his vision.

The branches of a tree outside the cave swayed in
the wind and brushed against the rocks with a soft,
rustling sound, and the birds called across the
cavern and circled about the man's motionless figure.
But outward conditions, location, surroundings and
lapse of time were for the time no part of
Mr. Thorpe's experience.  The sun crept up in the
heavens until it reached the meridian.  The dog, the
man's only companion in his rambles, came to his side
and thrust his nose against the canvas bag, but
receiving no attention, stretched himself again patiently
beside his master.

When Mr. Thorpe raised his eyes from the stones
at his feet he was not surprised at that which he saw.
That which he beheld was exactly that which he raised
his eyes expecting to see.  On one side of the cavern
there stood a grim, relentless form, heavy-browed and
strongly built.  There were iron bands about the waist
and thighs and iron circles on the ankles, arms and
wrists.  One hand held an iron sword, the other an
iron pen.  And branded deep into the forehead in
letters of red-hot iron was the word INTOLERANCE.
On the opposite side of the cavern stood a figure of
less massive proportions, of easy grace and supple
bearing, clothed in a simple, clinging garment of
white.  In one outstretched hand was held a burning
torch, and in the other a pen of light, tipped with a
diamond point.  Glittering gems upon the forehead
fashioned the word FREEDOM.  From out of the
past they came, years, centuries, ages were upon them.

Now on the stones of the cavern walls each figure
began to write, carefully, silently, remorselessly, until
slab after slab stretching away into the dim recesses
of the cave was filled with the history of the past.
Every word that the iron pen recorded stood out
clearly and distinctly, and there was no choice but to
read.  The silent spectator felt his senses shrink and
quiver and his heart grow sick as the record passed
before him, but he was not spared.  His body grew
rigid and every sense was in revolt, but the iron-bound
hand did not waver nor relent.  So vivid was the
record that all the awful carnage and bloodshed,
torture and persecution were as though actually
transpiring before his tortured gaze, and the air was filled
with the shrieks of the dying and groans and
invectives of the tortured and tormented.  But the physical
horror of it did not compare with the agony of noble
minds and fearless souls whose mental anguish the
iron-bound hand did not hesitate to record.

The silent man, alone with these strange creations
of his brain, fell to tracing the work of this
iron-bound monster back to its birth or beginning.  And
as he pondered and questioned, it came to him with a
distinct shock that the first intolerance was that which
opposed itself to God's creation in the Garden of
Eden.  Its first form was that of a sinuous serpent;
its voice that of the subtle testimony of the senses!
He found also that this monster had assumed a form,
and found a voice in every age in which mortal man
had lived.  And it came to him straight as an arrow
and as keen to his highly-wrought senses that the
relentless iron pen was writing, along with the other
records, the history of the Church, the Church which
had seemed to him to be infallible, which had come
to him fraught with the faith of his ancestors, steeped
in the blood of martyrs, and which held within its
sacred teachings the only possible redemption for
mankind, the Church for which he had labored.  But
he was not yet spared; remorse and contrition were
having their way with him, and the sweat of agony
was on his brow.  For the first time in his life he
entertained a doubt as to a literal hell; for what could
a quenchless fire do to the physical body, compared to
this which the bigotry and intolerance of his life were
uncovering before him?

It was a relief to turn from this mental gloom, this
verge of madness, from all this record of pain and
woe, the history of the world's wrongs, to turn and
behold the supple figure in white, writing with the
diamond's flashing point.  Here was a record of God's
creation, untouched by mortal sense; a story of man
untempted and woman unbeguiled; all things the
image and reflection of the one God.  Only that which
is good and true and pure, that which is noble and
righteous, was recorded by the flashing pen; the
freedom which God gives to man can write no other
record.

The events of the ages passed as a panorama before
the solitary observer.  From the bookshelves of the
world were selected volumes written by a master
hand, books that had stood the test of time and lived
through the years.  And the fact stood out with
distinctness that the souls of the men who wrote them
were not shackled, they were not slaves to another's
will, nor bound by another's power, but that the minds
that conceived them stood in absolute freedom before
God.  He was made to feel the throb and pulse of
freedom, unbound and unfettered, that surged through
the life of the artists that have painted the world's
famous pictures and fashioned its works of art.  He
saw man expanding beneath the touch of the Infinite,
answerable to the Infinite only.

Then the world's greatest singers stood before him,
those to whom had been given the gracious gift of
melody.  And he knew that the possessor of this gift
had arisen over difficulties, through trials and
endeavor, until he reached the height where for him there
sounded the supreme harmonies of the universe, and
that he stood alone, exultant in the freedom of his
power.

The flashing pen went back over the past and noted
the world's reformers, men of staunch and steadfast
character, who have stood for righteousness, for
purity and truth, men who resisted despotism, put
down superstition, stamped out ignorance and made
possible the progress of science, even though their
footsteps were stained with blood and led to the
dungeon and the guillotine.

And this record of light, traced with the diamond's
point, made it clear beyond question that in the small
things as well as the great, only that which has been
done in the freedom of the soul has made the world
better.  It is soul-freedom that has uplifted,
transformed and glorified life.  Every act of charity, of
love, of Christian kindness, the cup of water given in
the Master's name, the garment to the naked, the
bread to the hungry, the visit to the prison if of any
worth, of any efficacy or power, have been done in the
freedom of the soul, prompted by the heart-spirit, the
desire of the individual unhampered by another's will.

Now before the smitten man there rolled the long
years, uncompromising and relentless as he believed
the Judgment-day to be, the years in which he had
held a fair, frail woman, soul and body in subjection
to his wishes, dominated and controlled her by the
superior force of his will.  He had held to the belief
that he had chosen to live apart from this woman that
he loved because of her infidelity to the Church; now
he was face to face with the conviction that he had
deserted her because she had not subscribed
unconditionally to scholastic theology.

Mr. Thorpe was aroused from his trance-like
condition by the whimpering of his dog.  The animal
thrust his nose against the canvas bag and looked
pleadingly into his master's face.  Mr. Thorpe put out
his hand and patted the dog's head; he gave him a
biscuit from the bag and poured some water from the
bottle for him to drink.  Then he arose, stretched his
stiffened limbs and walked to the entrance of the cave.
The sun was nearing the horizon; the day had passed.
He gathered his papers together, took up the untasted
food and made his way back to the tent.

Pauline, who lived with her brother, and who still
exercised a watchful care over her cousin, had been
watching for him, and saw him when he came into
sight.  She was surprised at his appearance; his
shoulders were squared to meet the bracing wind, and
he swung along with the stride of a strong man,
physically and mentally vigorous.





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.. _`THE LAW OF LIFE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE LAW OF LIFE

.. vspace:: 2

June was drawing to a close.  The sun rode high
in the heaven, and at evening seemed loath to leave
the verdant earth in darkness.  From the rows of
neat cottages on the Flat came the scent of perfume-laden
flowers.  The garden beds, bathed in the glowing
sun and watered from heaven, grew and throve;
and the vines and shrubs lately planted vied with each
other in growth and beauty.

Mrs. Thorpe had spent the day as usual in the
school.  All day she labored among the children, and
at evening sent them glad and happy to their homes.
There was something about her patience and loving
kindness that touched the hearts of those about her;
her presence was an inspiration, as well as a help and
comfort.

At the close of school this June day Margaret asked
Mrs. Thorpe to go with her to tea.

"You refused last night and the night before," she
said.

"And I think it better for me not to go to-night,
dear.  I have some exercises to look over and some
work to prepare for to-morrow.  Another time,
perhaps, but not to-night."  And so Margaret left her
and went her way alone.

The work that required her attention was examined
and preparations for the morrow completed, and
still Mrs. Thorpe lingered in the empty room.  She
walked back and forth through the room where all
was silent save the sound of her footsteps; but she
was not lonely; she loved the quiet of the deserted
room and the memories that lingered about it.  She
loved the children among whom she worked, and she
was hopeful and ambitious for them.  She longed to
see them in the way of honor and virtue, in the way
of self-respect and independence; and she believed
that this way lay before them.  Her life was full of
hopes and plans for their future, and she worked
willingly, gladly, whole-heartedly, for the fulfillment of
these plans.

Yet this woman had never tried to deceive herself.
She knew that there was a room in her heart silent
and empty, where memories, sad and silent, lingered
among the shadows.  She was not unhappy because
of this; her happiness lay in accepting it and
fashioning her life superior to it.

There had been a time when she believed that, like
the chords of a harp, the sweetest strains of her
life had been broken.  She recognized the generally
accepted view that if the union between a man and a
woman be broken, the lives affected by the dissolution
must necessarily be crippled and their usefulness
impaired.  But this view of life had gradually changed
as she came into a larger, more scientific view of life.
Now she believed that nothing but a violation of the
life Principle could mar a life or rob it of its
legitimate rights.  She had come to understand that there
is a Law back of Life, a Law to which all the children
of creation must conform, and that nothing but an
infringement of God's law can hurt or destroy in all
His holy mountain.  And the natural deduction
followed that all relationships between individuals must
be honest, sincere and pure.  And that any law, written
or unwritten, that fosters or favors the domination
or control of one person over another is a mortal law,
and invariably an immoral one.  Man in the image
and likeness of God is governed by righteousness
and not by his fellow men.

Mrs. Thorpe was no longer a frail woman; her
physical development had come about gradually and
naturally.  Her form that had remained slender and
girlish long after her girlhood days had passed, was
now rounded out into full contour of womanhood.
Her eyes that had been too large and bright for her
colorless face, now blended harmoniously with her
soft, warm color.  No stimulants nor artificial means
had been employed to bring about this change; it had
come naturally with her changed attitude toward life,
her scientific understanding of life harmonious, as
the reflection of the Infinite.  Where once she had
been irrational, ignorant and ill, now she was sensible,
wise and well; the one following the other in natural
sequence in the physical as well as in the mental
condition.

Yet she was always frank with herself; she missed
the love and companionship that had once been
hers.  She walked over to one of the windows and
seated herself on the window-seat.  The wind came
in softly and touched the tendrils of brown hair about
her face.  She looked far off to the distant blue hills.
"Maurice," she called, softly; "Maurice."  Deep in
her heart she knew that the old relationship could
never exist between them again.  They were both
children of the one God, answerable to Him only.
It was a violation of this law of life, a conception
derived from tradition, and tainted with paganism
that had brought about their downfall.  "But oh,
Maurice," she whispered, "I love you, love you!"

The flowers outside the window nodded and
swayed in the gentle wind, and a bird whose happy
secret lay concealed within reach of her hand,
twittered, unafraid, on a swaying bough; and the twilight
settled down about her.

When Mrs. Thorpe arose she shook herself free
from the memories that had clung about her, and
walked out into the semi-darkness.  Wholesome and
whole-souled, she was little given to retrospection or
introspection, but chose to live her life in the fruitful
present.

As she neared her home she saw that a light was
burning inside.

"It is Jamie," she thought.  Dear little Jamie;
how many times he had remembered her, and lighted
her home and laid her fire.

With a light heart she ascended the steps and
entered the house.  She glanced through the rooms to
the little kitchen, where she expected to see the boy
fixing the fire, or laying the table, perhaps.

"Jamie," she called, gently.  "Jamie."

There was no response from the room beyond, but
from a seat near her a man arose and confronted
her--a man bronzed and bearded, who showed the
impress of mountain life and contact with nature.

The light in the room was dim, but the recognition
was instantaneous.

"Evelyn!  Evelyn, my wife!"  His arms were
about her, and she lifted her face to his, as she had
done on their bridal morn.

"Evelyn," he whispered, "can you forgive--forgive
the wrong--the cruel years?"

She put out her hand and laid it against his face.

"There is nothing to forgive, Maurice--nothing to
forgive--love is everything."

"And I have loved you, Evelyn; you have been
near me, with me always."

"Always, Maurice."

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