6
 
 "JOHN, I AM AFRAID IT'S No USE!"
 
 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 BY 
 
 RUTH UNDERWOOD 
 
 3IIustrate6 by 
 GEORGE GIBBS 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 
 1912
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY 
 THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. A DIFFICULT SITUATION 9 
 
 II. A CHAPTER OF PAST HISTORY WHICH 
 
 BEARS ON FUTURE EVENTS 19 
 
 III. A SACRED TRUST 29 
 
 IV. AN INHERITED FRIENDSHIP 41 
 
 V. THE NATURE OF THE TRUST 57 
 
 VI. THE GULF OF YEARS 61 
 
 VII. IN WHICH CATHARINE HEARS OF KING 
 
 ARTHUR 70 
 
 VIII. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF A TAILOR'S 
 
 GOOSE 76 
 
 IX. A "SPOILED CHILD" 83 
 
 X. JOHN PLANS A TEST 97 
 
 XI. THE TEST SUCCEEDS 104 
 
 XII. WHICH SHOWS THAT A STORK CAN 
 
 MAKE A MISTAKE 112 
 
 XIII. "THE DEEPEST DEPTHS OF A FULL 
 
 HEART" 123 
 
 XIV. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 133 
 
 XV. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE PROVES A 
 
 NEW ADMIRER 148 
 
 XVI. THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 158 
 
 (iii) 
 
 2138521
 
 IV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XVII. "FORM" AND SUBSTANCE 170 
 
 XVIII. A CRICKET MATCH AND A "LUCK- 
 PENNY " 177 
 
 XIX. "IT'S No USE" 189 
 
 XX. MARY FAILS TO KEEP HER RESO- 
 LUTION 202 
 
 XXL A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 214 
 
 XXII. THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 
 
 STINGS DEEPLY 226 
 
 XXIII. MARY WANTS TO BE "LIKE OTHER 
 
 GIRLS" 234 
 
 XXIV. Miss NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY 243 
 
 XXV. MARY FIGHTS THE "LITTLE GREEN 
 
 SNAKE" 251 
 
 XXVI. Miss NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY Almost 
 
 FAILS 265 
 
 XXVII. TELLING HOW JOHN CAME TO BE 
 
 INVITED TO A BIRTHDAY PARTY. 269 
 
 XXVIII. JOHN GETS THE RING 279 
 
 XXIX. SALVE FOR A SORE HEART 292 
 
 XXX. IN WHICH THE HEROINE DRAWS A 
 
 PICTURE OF HER IDEAL HUSBAND 301 
 XXXI. ANOTHER "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 309 
 XXXII. IN WHICH MARY RECEIVES AN 
 EXCITING LETTER, AND HER 
 GUARDIAN GETS ANOTHER RING. 317 
 XXXIII. AN ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT 
 
 CHANCE.. . 327
 
 CONTENTS v 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXXIV. THE DISEASE "Wmr A LATIN 
 
 NAME" 339 
 
 XXXV. "PERILOUSLY ATTRACTIVE" 350 
 
 XXXVI. A MODERN SIEGE AT VALLEY FORGE 359 
 
 XXXVII. A STRANGE PROPOSAL 368 
 
 XXXVIII. MR. CHANDLER READS THE NEWS- 
 PAPER 381 
 
 XXXIX. A QUEST FOR A COUNTRY HOME . . 384 
 XL. "No BIGGER THAN A MAN'S HAND" 391 
 XLI. "A LITTLE SOMETHING To EARN 
 
 HEAVEN" 398 
 
 XLII. THE MORNING AFTER 408 
 
 XLIII. AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 419 
 
 Conclusion. IN WHICH AN OLD FRIEND THINKS 
 ALOUD. . . 430
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 "JOHN, I AM AFRAID IT'S No USE!". .Frontispiece 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "I LOVE You Now," SHE SAID 39 
 
 "By JOVE, WHAT A BEAUTY!" THE OLDER 
 MAN EXCLAIMED 143 
 
 "WILL You LET ME TELL You SOMETHING 
 ABOUT MYSELF?" HE ASKED. . . 340
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A DIFFICULT SITUATION 
 
 " /^ OOD MORNING, John; I see I have a 
 
 V T ki& ma ^ *^ s mornm g-" 
 
 The speaker seated himself at the break- 
 fast table and drew his letters toward him. A thin 
 blue envelope protruded ever so little in the middle 
 of the pile, but his quick eye caught it at once, 
 and he pounced upon it and tore it open with an 
 unsteady hand. John Patterson, the butler (who 
 had never gone by any title but that of "waiter- 
 man" in the long years he had been in Mrs. Brown's 
 service), watched his master with some anxiety for 
 a moment, and then quietly withdrew to the pantry; 
 while John Brown read the short note through two 
 or three times. Finally he rose and went to the 
 window. As he stood in deep thought looking out 
 on his miniature English garden, one saw that he 
 was almost a giant in height, and indeed his very 
 plain face topped a figure six feet six in his stockings, 
 only relieved from painful thinness and angularity 
 by some hundred and fifty pounds of solid brawn. 
 He had been nicknamed "Samson" at college, and 
 the name had clung, though there was little about 
 him to suggest an athlete. He carried himself badly, 
 and the tendency to stoop, and general lack of spring 
 
 (9)
 
 10 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 in his gait, made him look like a man well into mid- 
 dle life; and those who did not know that on this 
 May morning, a quarter of a century ago, he was 
 within a few days of his thirty-fourth birthday, 
 would have reckoned him full ten years older. 
 
 His grave, unseeing gaze was suddenly withdrawn 
 from the window at the sound of his name, and he 
 turned to meet his mother. No one would have 
 thought her his mother, for the one feature they had 
 had in common, the thick, blue-black hair, had 
 changed with her to iron gray; but the accustomed 
 way in which he kissed her cheek, as he abstractedly 
 drew back her chair, bespoke a habit of such long 
 standing that it had become automatic. She noticed 
 the mechanical response to her "good-morning," 
 and looked at him with the same affectionate concern 
 that had clouded John Patterson's broad face a few 
 minutes before. 
 
 "Have you had bad news, John?" She glanced 
 at the open letter in his hand. 
 
 "Dick Farnham is at home, Mother, and I am 
 afraid from this," glancing down at the few unsteady 
 lines, "in a very serious condition. He is at the old 
 house, and of course he wants to see me at once. 
 If I can attend to your business this morning, and get 
 your reservations, I will have a bite of lunch down 
 town and go right out to Germantown. He doesn't 
 say when he arrived, but he is terribly knocked up 
 by the journey, and evidently not fit to write." 
 
 "Why did he come home so unexpectedly? I 
 suppose, now, you won't think of going abroad your- 
 self?" Mrs. Brown's voice was not without a note of
 
 A DIFFICULT SITUATION 11 
 
 satisfaction. The prospect of sparing her son for 
 three months to this invalid wanderer had been a 
 mountain on her horizon, and Dick Farnham, John 's 
 oldest friend, and the dearer of the only two who had 
 ever found their way to his "sanctum sanctorum," 
 had never been a favorite with his mother. 
 
 " Of course not ! " The matter plainly seemed to him 
 self-evident. "But I can't think why he didn't let me 
 know his plan. I could have gone over to be with him 
 on the home journey. The doctor they have had so 
 long came over with them, but he is going right back. 
 I should have been so thankful to go." 
 
 He helped himself to the bacon and eggs which 
 John Patterson solicitously offered, but seemed to 
 have no mind for eating. His face, in repose, was 
 often a sad one, and bore a frequently noted likeness 
 to the younger, beardless portraits of Lincoln. The 
 long, deep-set eyes generally passed for black; but 
 he who had had leisure and interest to scrutinize 
 would have found them yellowish hazel, overshadowed 
 by the heavy black brows and lashes. They were 
 both keen and kindly, and, together with his large 
 mouth which had a trick of pulling crooked when he 
 smiled, and trembling when he was deeply moved, 
 made his face one that inspired universal confidence. 
 
 "Dick Farnham ought to know that you would do 
 anything in the world for your friends." His mother 
 spoke with a touch of resentment at what she always 
 considered John's tendency to let himself be imposed 
 upon. 
 
 "He knows I would do anything in the world for 
 him" He repeated her words with gentle emphasis.
 
 12 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 This friend, who was not in Mrs. Brown's good books, 
 had been for many years an exile, but the old feeling 
 toward him was still strong within her. She saw that 
 characteristic trembling of John's lips, and knew her- 
 self on dangerous ground, but there was something 
 she was burning to say, which must come out at any 
 cost. She would lead up to it gradually. 
 
 "Didn't Dick know of your plan to spend the sum- 
 mer with him?" 
 
 "No, I didn't want to say anything about it, I 
 might so easily have been prevented," he did not say 
 "as I have been so many times," but Mrs. Brown 
 supplied the omission with a guilty twinge; "and 
 when a man is tied up to such monotonous days as his, 
 he builds on the least thing in an abnormal way, and 
 would be terribly disappointed." 
 
 Mrs. Brown saw that she was not coming to her 
 point on these lines, and thought best to make a short 
 cut. She was always a little afraid of those long, 
 keen eyes that saw through every subterfuge. 
 
 "There is one thing I hope you will never consent 
 to do for him, if he should dream of asking you." 
 She saw danger signals in his face, but seized her 
 courage in both hands: "Has he ever spoken to you 
 about the guardianship of the child?" 
 
 It was out at last, and she breathed more freely. 
 John hesitated, and his color rose slightly; she saw 
 she had hit the mark. 
 
 "Perhaps not in so many words," he said with an 
 evident effort, "but I know he would like to leave her 
 in my care jf anything should happen, and no 
 doubt it is on his mind. That may have been what
 
 A DIFFICULT SITUATION 13 
 
 made him venture the trip home. But, Mother," he 
 looked up and met her j eyes squarely, "if Dick had 
 ten children, and wanted to leave them all in my care, 
 I would willingly accept the trust." 
 
 He spoke almost with passion, but his sense of 
 humor was not proof against the consternation on 
 his mother's comely face. A twinkle appeared in his 
 eye, and one corner of his mouth drew up a little. 
 "And I dare say I should make a mess of it," he added. 
 
 1 ' We should be rather crowded if you saw fit to bring 
 them all here," Mrs. Brown said stiffly. Her sense 
 of humor was hard to touch. 
 
 "Now, Mother, be sensible!" The smile died out 
 and his face took on its former gravity: "You know 
 it would never occur to me to bring a child here to 
 live." 
 
 "I should be very fond of your children," she has- 
 tened to say with some asperity; "but a strange child 
 is a very different thing, and this used to be a dread- 
 fully self-willed, spoiled one. Her grandmother once 
 told me that she had many anxious hours over Mary's 
 future, and you never denied that she refused to go 
 to school. Imagine a child's deciding that she won't 
 go to school, and her father's just giving in to her! It 
 was the greatest piece of weakness I ever heard of, 
 and you could never give any excuse for it that I 
 remember. With such an example in his wife! But 
 there, I've talked it over often enough and I can always 
 see that you think I'm prejudiced, and " John rose 
 quietly from his almost untasted breakfast and went 
 out of the room. His mother seemed to find no appe- 
 tite for hers. She started up as though she would
 
 14 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 follow him, but sat down again, heavily, wiping away 
 some natural tears of vexation and remorse. How 
 many times she had repressed the wish to speak on 
 this subject for fear of being led on to give too ener- 
 getic expression to her feelings! Nothing corrodes 
 like "righteous" indignation that sees no hope of 
 justifying itself in the only quarter where justification 
 matters. Her heart was full to bursting. "Any jury 
 of sensible people" would have pronounced her abso- 
 lutely in the right; but this one Quixotic, loyal nature 
 was as much outside her influence as he was inside 
 the very core of her heart. The door opened behind 
 her, and she felt John's hand on her shoulder. "I am 
 sorry to have been so impatient," he said huskily; 
 "but I was upset by the letter." 
 
 "Oh, John!" The poor lady's tears gushed forth 
 anew; but what John always dreaded as following any 
 apology on his part a reopening of the whole case 
 did not come this time. She felt she had gone too far, 
 and hastened to say, as she dried her eyes and com- 
 posed her face: "I ought not to have spoken so to 
 you of Dick just now." 
 
 John patted her shoulder, and changed the subject 
 by asking whether she had decided to take her section 
 for Wednesday or Thursday. 
 
 "I think I will say Thursday," she said with a final 
 sniff. "Wednesday's meeting is a very important one 
 and I ought not to miss it." Mrs. Brown was an 
 ardent worker on the Women's Auxiliary Board of 
 Missions of Holy Trinity Church, and she was always 
 sorry that she could not awaken her otherwise ex- 
 emplary and philanthropic son to a more active
 
 A DIFFICULT SITUATION 15 
 
 interest in this inspiring subject. He good-humoredly 
 told her that he was in the midst of so much need 
 nearer home, it had a tendency to make him near- 
 sighted, but she was inclined to set his lukewarmness 
 down to Dick Farnhan's influence. She told herself 
 that she could easily have forgiven Dick his apostasy 
 to the Quaker faith of his fathers, if only he had joined 
 himself to some other Evangelical body she was not 
 bigoted enough to require the Episcopal Communion 
 but she had always feared his companionship for 
 John. 
 
 If she had been capable of reading her own heart 
 she would have seen lurking at the bottom of her 
 distrust a long-harbored spark of jealousy dating 
 from the time when she began to discover Dick's 
 power over the younger boy there were some four 
 years between them. She could not mention a single 
 time when he had led John astray in action, but she 
 had felt that he might in "opinions," it had always 
 given her a sharp pang to see John with his arm about 
 the neck of this boy friend who so easily won what 
 she knew herself incapable of winning. 
 
 Did God ever make a purer bond than the friend- 
 ship of the big boy and the little boy, with its pro- 
 tecting chivalry on the one side, and frank hero- 
 worship on the other? Separation had never weakened 
 the tie between these two, though they had seldom 
 been together since Dick left Haverford in his junior 
 year (before John entered) and went to the Boston 
 "Tech." to study civil engineering. 
 
 John's heart was full of a mixture of feelings after 
 he left his mother.
 
 16 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 An only son, he had had one sister whom he loved 
 as he loved no one else, and who had returned his 
 affection in kind; but between himself and both 
 father and mother there had always been a gulf of 
 want of comprehension, in spite of strong mutual 
 affection. His sister had died soon after leaving 
 boarding school, just when she and John were con- 
 fidently counting on each other's society at home in 
 enjoyment as uninterrupted as one could expect with 
 a young girl in constant demand by companions of 
 both sexes, and "coming out" in Society, with a 
 capital S. 
 
 He was the elder by nearly four years, was com- 
 pleting his law-course in the University of Penn- 
 sylvania, which he had chosen that he might remain 
 in the old Philadelphia home; and had promised 
 Margaret that he would overcome his distaste for 
 social "functions," and docilely march his long legs 
 into drawing-rooms and ballrooms in her company; 
 "though no most exacting hostess with a bevy of 
 * wall-flowers' could expect a giraffe to dance." 
 The terpsichorean art would assuredly have suited 
 him ill; and as he was not gifted with small talk, 
 he became in that short time of "going out," the 
 much-appreciated companion of fathers and grand- 
 fathers, with occasional practice on a mother or maiden 
 aunt. 
 
 He was not in the least self-conscious or embittered 
 by his want of social talent, and his sister's death 
 soon swept everything else from his mind. After 
 that he led a rather solitary life, and was rarely 
 thrown with girls or women. With men he was al-
 
 A DIFFICULT SITUATION 17 
 
 ways popular up to a certain point, though few were 
 ever intimate with him, even at the cricket club where 
 he spent most of his leisure time, and his brother 
 lawyers found him a trifle uncomfortable in his 
 standards, however unassuming in his claims. One 
 had nicknamed him "Don Quixote," but all 
 thoroughly respected his integrity and ability, and 
 many would have been glad to be admitted with 
 Dick Farnham, and the much younger George Ray- 
 mond, behind the doors of his ingrained reserve. 
 
 The idea entered John's brooding mind that morn- 
 ing as he tethered one half his thoughts to the busi- 
 ness in hand and let the other half roam at will, that 
 if the little girl in question had been George's, his 
 mother's attitude would have been a quite different 
 one. She had always been heartily fond of George, 
 and he was a constant and very enlivening visitor 
 hi the quiet house, while Dick had hardly once 
 entered its doors for more than twenty years, and had 
 had no chance to efface old impressions, even if it 
 had been possible for him ever to have done so. In 
 his case it is probable that absence was his best advo- 
 cate. Mrs. Brown thought much more tolerantly of 
 him when she did not see him, and the tragic circum- 
 stances of his adult life had measurably softened her 
 old antipathy. 
 
 The crooked trembling lines of Dick's little letter 
 had told John, more than the simple statement, that 
 he felt the end was near; and the joy of this ap- 
 proaching meeting, after nearly seven years, was 
 more than counterbalanced. But through all the 
 pain and apprehension, John's heart would revert 
 
 2 ,
 
 18 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 with eager excitement to the child who was to be, in 
 a manner, his property. He remembered her well 
 as a remarkably pretty, intelligent, little girl of six 
 or seven, who had aroused all the dormant child- 
 hunger in his nature in the one all-too-short year 
 that Dick had spent with his widowed mother 
 in Germantown. 
 
 "She must be a big girl now, though," he thought 
 with sudden damping of his ardor and a new appre- 
 hension. "If only she were a boy that he might 
 bring home and keep!" 
 
 An alluring vision rose in John's mind of studies 
 to be helped, games to be taught, excursions in the 
 woods or on the river. (He always got on famously 
 with boys of all ages.) "Oh, well, there was no use 
 thinking of what might have been. He would do 
 his best for a girl, and maybe she might grow to be 
 like Margaret." But no girl that he saw they were 
 few enough he had to admit ever did seem a bit 
 like Margaret, and recent brushes with a highly 
 sophisticated damsel or two had left him with a 
 reluctant scepticism as to the growing generation.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A CHAPTER OF PAST HISTORY WHICH BEARS ON 
 FUTURE EVENTS 
 
 IF Dick Farnham's face had not been the mascu- 
 line counterpart of his gentle Quaker mother, 
 he would have been unanimously voted a change- 
 ling in the placid, methodical family into which he 
 happened to be born. He was the youngest of four 
 children, and if example be better than precept, the 
 cheerful decorum and unquestioning obedience of 
 the other three should have sufficed to make him a 
 model child. Perhaps there are times when example 
 is too much "rubbed in," and the best rule is said to 
 be proved by an occasional exception. He could 
 hardly have been reproached for disobedience, though, 
 for it never entered the heads of his unimaginative 
 parents to forbid the things he took it into his own to 
 do; and if he continually kicked over the traces, 
 they were generally the traces of an unwritten code. 
 He equaled them all in frankness, and surpassed 
 them in the art of loving, which was no mean attain- 
 ment; and while his mother punished him and prayed 
 over him, redoubling the prayers when he grew too 
 big to punish, her tender conscience accused her of 
 flagrant partiality in the secretest corner of her heart. 
 But how could she help it! Everybody loved him 
 
 (19)
 
 20 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 best, from the man who carted away the ashes of a 
 Saturday morning to the sweet-faced teacher of the 
 Primary class in the Germantown Friends' School, 
 whom he was always posing by his questions, and 
 winning by lover-like offerings of the prettiest pansies, 
 or forget-me-nots, or pinks, presented with never- 
 failing regret that they would droop in his little warm 
 hand. The questions, which covered the whole 
 scheme of the universe with a special tendency to 
 soar above this sublunary sphere were never pert, 
 and the teacher's Orthodox mind was occasionally 
 troubled by a suspicion that they were pertinent. 
 As he grew older, he took to religious discussions as 
 naturally as to love-making, and proved a winner 
 in both departments. His mother and father, who 
 were greatly disturbed by his latitudinarianism, 
 exacted strict attendance at Meeting while he was 
 under their jurisdiction; but they had the pain of 
 seeing him break loose when left to himself, and the 
 still greater pain of seeing him fall headlong into 
 love with a beauty, who was not a Friend, and who 
 was in no way fitted or so they believed to make 
 him happy. She made him ecstatically happy for 
 the space of the honeymoon, and then the disillusion- 
 ment began. In the little western town where he 
 was occupied in bridge-building, he underwent the 
 severest discipline a nature like his could know; and 
 barely two years from his wedding day, his wife eloped 
 with a brother engineer, and left him alone (yet 
 less alone than in her company) with a baby daughter 
 who filled his world. All the thwarted, disappointed 
 love of his heart centered on the child, whom no con-
 
 PAST HISTORY 21 
 
 sideration could have tempted him to give up. He 
 declined the well-meant offer of his wife's sister, 
 Mrs. Gill, with a finality that broke off even the 
 strained relations existing between them before; 
 nor could he be prevailed upon to go back to German- 
 town and live with his parents, whom the years had 
 left childless. His mother knew him too well to sug- 
 gest his resigning the baby to her while he lived in the 
 West; but her yearning anxiety had now an additional 
 object. 
 
 Dick had given up his work entirely the day after 
 his wife's desertion, and, with the warm promise 
 from his chief of a good post when he should be ready 
 to take it, had devoted all his time to his one treasure. 
 He had the good fortune to find a Protestant Irish 
 woman, old enough to have judgment, and young 
 enough to like the care of an active child already 
 beginning to run about; and her qualities of head 
 and heart so won his confidence that he was soon 
 able to go back to his work, leaving little Mary in 
 her charge. Catharine had great love for children, 
 and infinite patience and tact; and she contrived so 
 many ways of letting off steam, that the miniature 
 high-power engine in her charge seldom ran off the 
 very broad-gauge track allowed her. As the child 
 had a quick temper as well as a strong will, it is not 
 surprising that her grandmother was concerned for 
 the future, since it was soon evident that Dick's 
 regime contained no penal code, and included no 
 ex post facto sentences. He was not entirely weak 
 where the child was concerned, nor was he too self- 
 indulgent to have punished her small misdemeanors
 
 22 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 if he had felt it a duty to her character; he simply 
 disbelieved in the efficacy of punishment. "Being 
 spanked or put to bed in the daytime never made me 
 any better," he told himself; "and she is hardly 
 ever naughty." Perhaps some correct people would 
 entirely have disagreed with him on both points, 
 and he soon recognized that Mary was as like him 
 in character as it was possible for a little girl to be. 
 His conscience had uneasy moments after each letter 
 from his mother, who thought he should make up 
 his mind to come East at any professional sacrifice, 
 and that "the child should not be left so much to 
 the care of an ignorant woman, however faithful." 
 She had been horrified once to hear that Mary had 
 badly bitten little Jack Wurts, her constant play- 
 mate, and that, only because he -would kiss her, and 
 Dick refrained from mentioning the tantrums that 
 had surprised and discouraged himself when Cath- 
 arine had been off duty for a couple of weeks in a 
 neighboring hospital. 
 
 It was not long after this that his accusing con- 
 science had been stilled by an event which solved the 
 problem for the time being. His father had died 
 suddenly, and his mother, after the necessary adjust- 
 ment of her affairs, had returned with Dick and Mary 
 to the little Black Run cottage where Dick was fill- 
 ing a contract of his own. Even amid the stress 
 of social and business claims, Mrs. Farnham's mind 
 had found time to dwell anxiously upon her grand- 
 daughter, who "wound them all round her finger." 
 She felt obliged to remonstrate when the child 
 drenched herself with soap and water over her doll's
 
 PAST HISTORY 23 
 
 wash, or returned like a little sweep from the business 
 of blacking the kitchen stove; but Catharine told 
 her with modest deference, that her father never 
 minded if it were only her clothes that suffered. 
 "She hardly ever gets cold," she said propitiatingly, 
 "and she has too much sense to touch the hot parts 
 of the stove when I tell her where they are." 
 
 One acute cause of concern Mrs. Farnham kept 
 to herself till a fitting opportunity should come to 
 broach the subject with Dick. His loving admiring 
 eyes resting upon her as they sat together in the 
 ugly little cottage-parlor the evening after their return 
 to the West might have quieted any fear of giving 
 offence; but her voice was not quite steady as she 
 said hesitatingly: "Dick, I have been wanting to 
 speak to thee about Mary's religious instruction. 
 What is thee teaching her? Surely thee would not 
 impart thy doubts, if thee still has them, to her little 
 mind?" 
 
 (Dick always undressed the child and put her to 
 bed himself, and seeing Catharine tactfully withdraw, 
 after leaving everything ready to his hand, Mrs. 
 Farnham had taken the unintended hint, and re- 
 frained from intrusion on those bed-time rites.) 
 
 His face quivered at her searching question. It 
 was long since he and his mother had spoken on this 
 delicate subject, but he answered with gentle readi- 
 ness: "Mother, I think faith is the greatest thing 
 in the world, for you can't have real love without it, 
 but I should like to give Mary a faith too broad to 
 be easily overturned. I don't want her to depend 
 on broken reeds. My own worst trouble was not
 
 24 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 losing my wife; it was losing faith in her." His 
 voice broke. Mrs. Farnham found no fitting response. 
 
 "But it never shook my faith in human nature," 
 he finally went on; "I saw she hadn't tried to deceive 
 me; I had only insisted on giving her a character 
 that didn't belong to her, and making an idol of it. 
 I'm afraid I'll hurt thee if I say that is what people 
 seem to me to be doing with the Bible in idealizing 
 it in teaching children that it is infallible. Many 
 men I know are losing hold on it altogether, and let- 
 ting it go out of their lives just because they were 
 required to believe something of it as children that 
 they find untenable now. Don't think I under- 
 value it," he interrupted himself, "I shouldn't have 
 made that comparison, perhaps. I have read it a 
 good deal these lonely evenings, and I wouldn't be 
 without it for anything; but I could never look on 
 it as all of equal weight and inspiration." 
 
 "Ah, my dear boy," Mrs. Farnham replied sadly, 
 "if the young people of to-day would trust more to the 
 guidance and enlightenment of the Holy Spirit in 
 reading the Scriptures, and would cultivate that 
 pure humility that seems to be so much less common 
 than it used to be, I think they would get closer to 
 the truth. I know thee has a great love of truth, but 
 it pains me unspeakably to feel that thee has been 
 led to doubt the doctrines of Friends regarding the 
 Atonement, or the Divinity of Our Lord." 
 
 Dick said nothing. His chin rested on his inter- 
 laced fingers; his eyes were on the ground. 
 
 "The day before we left home," Mrs. Farnham 
 went on, "Mary was with me in my room when I
 
 PAST HISTORY 25 
 
 said my morning prayer, so I prayed aloud in words 
 that she could understand. She was quiet for some 
 time after we rose from our knees, and I saw her look- 
 ing out of the window as though she were thinking 
 deeply about something. Finally she turned to me 
 and said with the wise look she has: "Grandma, 
 Father never says 'for Jesus' sake' before 'Amen.' 
 (Mrs. Farnham never tried to repeat Mary's sayings 
 in the vernacular; it would have seemed to her an 
 approach to play-acting.) 
 
 Dick's bright, expectant eyes had been raised to 
 hers as soon as she commenced to speak of the child, 
 and at the quotation of her words, a smile, partly 
 amused and surprised, altogether tender, overspread 
 his face. 
 
 "Mother," he said, replying to the gentle impeach- 
 ment of her grave eyes, "I have told Mary that her 
 Heavenly Father loves her even more than I do, 
 and is even more anxious to give her everything 
 that is right. How could I make her understand 
 why she should ask anything 'for Jesus' sake'?" 
 
 Mrs. Farnham's eyes filled. She hesitated a mo- 
 ment; then she said gravely: "But is it not God's 
 love that 'gave' us His 'only begotten Son' to be a 
 mediator? I accept no mediation of man, and we 
 are all told to believe in the 'Indwelling Christ/ 
 who can 'guide us into all truth'; but the dear Lord 
 himself enjoined upon us to ask in His name, and said 
 'No man cometh unto the Father but by me.'" 
 
 "Ah, but how?" was the quick rejoinder. "It 
 is so hard to say just what I want, but I know thee 
 doesn't hold the theory of the Atonement that some
 
 26 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of our good old Friends preached till I felt I couldn't 
 sit still another minute. I know I oughtn't to have 
 stayed away for that reason; but they stirred up 
 every combative feeling in me whenever I went. 
 They say things are different now, but I haven't 
 been in a Meeting since the old Haverford days 
 until these last weeks, and it seemed pretty much the 
 same old story. I feel more charitable now, and I 
 know they often mean 'life' when they say 'blood.' 
 Forgive me, Mother; I want to be quite reverent; 
 but it seems to me a pity to use a term that reminds 
 us all the time of the original idea of an animal offer- 
 ing to appease an angry God. I suppose thee sides 
 with those who believe that God's love was obliged 
 to sacrifice Jesus to His sense of justice? That 
 makes it possible to believe in a loving Heavenly 
 Father; but it is very subtle and hard to understand. 
 "I am no theologian," he went on, after waiting 
 in vain for her answer; "but I have thought a great 
 deal about these things, and I have really prayed hard 
 to know how to teach Mary the right thing. I don't 
 deny Jesus' divinity; but I believe that we are all 
 'sons of God,' that is, that all the spiritual part of 
 us is like a fire kindled at the great central Divine 
 Fire, and is of the same 'substance,' or 'essence/ 
 or whatever you choose to call it. The difference 
 of our divinity from Christ's can only be a difference 
 in degree. 'In Him dwelt all the fullness of the 
 Godhead bodily.' Surely there cannot be two 
 kinds of divinity. It is theoretically possible for each 
 one of us to be 'perfect even as our Father in Heaven 
 is perfect.' We are commanded to be so."
 
 PAST HISTORY 27 
 
 "But thee is leaving out the supernatural elements 
 in Jesus' life." 
 
 "Mother, I have told thee that I am very ignorant 
 of what learned people think on these subjects, but 
 I don't understand them myself. Most of the little 
 theology I have read was 'Greek' to me. The reason- 
 ing is too subtle. The Bible, and the copy of Whit- 
 tier's poems thee gave me when I went to college, 
 have been my stand-bys. I am sure most of my 
 ideas must have been held by thousands of other 
 people, for they seem just what would come naturally 
 to any unbiased mind trying to reason things out. 
 If I ever have time I'm going to study up a little on 
 'criticism.' 
 
 "But thee hasn't answered my question, dear. 
 What value does thee put upon the accounts of the 
 Nativity in Matthew and Luke?" 
 
 "That's just what I'm not prepared to say," he 
 returned with a quick smile, acknowledging that she 
 scored a point. "I teach Mary the beautiful Christmas 
 gospels as anyone would teach them to a child. What 
 does it matter if truth and legend have got a little 
 mixed up! But later I shall teach her what I think 
 is the truth in regard to the 'Immaculate Birth.' 
 I cannot believe in it as thee does. I don't deny that 
 it may be possible, but it ought not to be necessary 
 to Christ's divinity. That seems to me to belittle 
 ordinary motherhood, and I can't believe God ever 
 breaks His own laws." 
 
 "But does thee think we fully understand what 
 His laws are?" 
 
 "No, I am sure we don't. We are beginning to
 
 28 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 understand some things that used to be called super- 
 natural. I really don't believe there is any such 
 thing as ' supernatural. " : 
 
 He sighed deeply as he saw his mother's half- 
 puzzled, half-pained expression. Suddenly he rose 
 and kissed her. 
 
 "I have never spoken to anyone about all this 
 before, but I want us to understand each other, and 
 I want thee to see that I shall try to teach Mary not 
 to love Christ less, only differently. If I were to die 
 I would leave her to thy teaching with perfect con- 
 fidence; but while I live I can never give up this 
 part of her education, and I couldn't possibly teach 
 her anything I didn't believe myself. I will try to 
 make her teaching as evangelical as I conscientiously 
 can. Will that satisfy thee?" He kissed her again 
 in the old-time boyish way that had always made it 
 so hard to resist him. 
 
 "My precious child, I can only ask that the Holy 
 Spirit may 'guide thee into all truth.' I cannot 
 think thy reasoning right, but I know thy heart is 
 right, and we all have much need of guidance."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 A SACRED TRUST 
 
 THAT had been a happy time for Dick; and his 
 mother, in spite of her recent sorrow and the 
 great change in her life, found a deep joy in the 
 companionship of this son, of whom she had seen so 
 little since his boyhood, and she learned to love 
 Mary as only grandmothers can. 
 
 In the spring Dick completed his work, and they 
 went back to Germantown for that year in which 
 John's acquaintance with his future ward began and 
 ended. The following spring Mrs. Farnham followed 
 her husband to that other world which had been so 
 much with her in this, and the happy household was 
 broken up. 
 
 Some months previously an event had occurred 
 which was to mean much to little Mary and to big 
 John Brown. Dick had had a fall from a bridge pier, 
 which caused great anxiety to his mother and John; 
 but after two or three days of lameness, he seemed 
 entirely recovered, and the doctor could find no 
 permanent injury. It was not till after his mother's 
 death that he began to suffer from headache and 
 lassitude, both unprecedented with him. They 
 were attributed, partly at least, to nervous strain 
 and all the consequences of his bereavement; for 
 
 (29)
 
 30 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the loss of his mother was a heavy blow, the more 
 so that little Mary missed her grandmother sorely. 
 
 The doctor recommended a sea voyage, and Dick 
 had gone abroad, with the child and Catharine. He 
 meant to spend the summer in easy traveling to the 
 great engineering wonders of Germany and Switzer- 
 land, combining pleasure with physical and mental 
 profit. Mary was old enough to be interested in 
 many things, and her father was an inexhaustible 
 mine of amusement. It was a summer of delight, 
 in spite of stubborn recurrences of the headache, 
 which turned, in the autumn, to backache, and 
 induced Dick to plan a speedy return home. But 
 just as they were setting out from the little town of 
 Spiess on Lake Thun, he was stricken with entire 
 paralysis of the lower limbs, which made a journey 
 of any considerable length impossible. 
 
 It was long before he would give up hope. His 
 rebellious spirit fought against the fearful fate that 
 confronted him of a life of helpless invalidism and 
 suffering; but as the hope grew less, week by week, 
 and month by month, he gained strength to conquer 
 despair, to overcome pain and weakness, and be almost 
 his old bright self for the sake of the child. He must 
 make his couch an attractive place ' for her, or his 
 life would be desolate indeed ! How well he succeeded 
 was evident to all who saw them together; what it 
 cost him only God knew God, and, as he often told 
 himself, John Brown. 
 
 Yet in all his years of exile he had seen John only 
 once. He had never left Switzerland, and it was in a 
 villa that he rented for many years on Lake Geneva,
 
 A SACRED TRUST 31 
 
 near the town of Lausanne, that the happy meeting 
 took place. John had induced his mother to spend 
 a summer abroad, and had stolen a month of it for a 
 visit to his friend. He had not seen Mary, for the 
 night before his arrival she had developed scarlet- 
 fever, and was strictly quarantined on the top floor, 
 with Catharine and her father's capable nurse in 
 attendance. John did not dare to see her for fear of 
 carrying the contagion to Dick, who was forbidden 
 the slightest risk, and whom only the companionship 
 and influence of his friend kept from open rebellion. 
 He had said that any attendant would do for him; 
 but John set aside all suggestions of strange nursing 
 and gave his time to the invalid day and night. 
 The fever proved light, and reassuring messages 
 constantly reached them from above; so the visit 
 had been an almost unclouded joy even to Dick. 
 John delayed his parting till the little patient was 
 declared nearly out of quarantine, and his mother's 
 endurance her patience had gone long before was 
 practically exhausted. He knew his going would 
 mean desolation to poor Dick, but he counted on the 
 child's return to heal the ache. 
 
 When the nurse had half-jokingly said, on renewing 
 her duties, that "she was afraid she was but a poor 
 substitute for Mr. Brown," Dick had turned his 
 face to the wall, and even his never-failing courtesy 
 had proved unequal to the occasion. 
 
 It was with these and other memories of the past, 
 that John's mind was filled as he made the short 
 journey from the city. 
 
 He and Dick had been good correspondents for
 
 32 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 men but, latterly, the letters had grown shorter, and, 
 on Dick's part, less frequent. How full they used to 
 be of the life in Switzerland, and how brave and uncom- 
 plaining! John knew the details of the school episode 
 which had so aroused his mother's indignation (it had 
 occurred just before his visit to Lausanne), and, 
 though he could not find it in his heart to blame Dick, 
 he had felt hopeless of bringing Mrs. Brown to his way 
 of looking at the matter, and had made no attempt to 
 tell her about it. 
 
 He knew how Dick had made the sacrifice, and was 
 resting in the peace and loneliness of duty done, 
 when the passionate, headstrong child had rushed 
 back from school, and told him she would not stay; 
 and then had cut short his attempts at sternness and 
 reasoning by kissing him over and over again and cry- 
 ing on his pillow and begging him to let her stay with 
 him and be taught there. 
 
 He had known it wrong to keep her from the com- 
 panionship of other children, but he had not had 
 strength of purpose equal to hers, and she had won the 
 day. He had taught her much, himself, and had 
 studied languages with her from native teachers, both 
 gaming an excellent knowledge of French and German. 
 In history, and study of the Bible, she covered ground 
 rarely gained by school girls, and Dick talked to her of 
 her own nature, and the meaning of life, as a wise 
 mother might have spoken; and taught her, by means 
 of the world's great love-stories and poems, to feed 
 her budding emotions on what was noblest and purest 
 in the history of passion. 
 
 If he checked her impulses very little and almost
 
 A SACRED TRUST 33 
 
 ignored conventions, he trained her soul, and watched 
 it find its wings. He tried to make it as beautiful as 
 her body, and only prayed, in Heine's exquisite words, 
 that God would keep her 
 
 So rein, und schon, und hold. 
 
 It was one of those perfect days when the freshness 
 of spring was beginning to merge in the luxuriance of 
 summer; when the last lilacs still lingered and the 
 earliest rose-buds were showing color. Soft sprays 
 of bridal-wreath and mock-orange scented the air from 
 the many well-kept little lawns and dooryards, as 
 John trod the familiar streets toward the old Farnham 
 house. 
 
 It had been occupied for years by an elderly cousin 
 in reduced circumstances, who used only a part but 
 kept the whole in spotless order, in return for a rent- 
 free lodging. She had modestly insisted on retiring 
 when the news of Dick's home-coming reached her, 
 and had only waited to see that all was in readiness 
 for the pathetic little party, urging a long-desired 
 visit to a relative as a reason for leaving next day. 
 As John entered the old, well-remembered hall, and 
 mounted the stairs to Mrs. Farnham's room, in which 
 he was told he would find the invalid, the past was so 
 crowding his mind that it seemed as if Dick's lithe, 
 active figure would come swinging down to meet him 
 half way. 
 
 So strong was the illusion, that the white form of the 
 nurse, passing him with the injunction to "go in at 
 once," was like a cold hand at his heart. The cheery 
 greeting, which he was preparing, died on his lips, and 
 
 3
 
 34 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the sight of the changed, emaciated face turned towards 
 him from the old four-poster, the eager, welcoming 
 eyes so unnaturally large, and the eager "Oh, John!" 
 such a ghost of his old voice, made the hand clutch 
 more fiercely and the constriction in his throat forbid 
 one word of answering greeting. He could only hold 
 the thin hand in his strong one, trying in vain to keep 
 back the burning tears. He was ashamed of his want 
 of self-control and afraid of its effect on Dick, but the 
 quiet voice reassured him: "Don't fret, old man, it's 
 all right now that you are here." 
 
 John met the clear eyes, which seemed already to 
 reflect the peace of another world. "I am so sorry 
 to behave like this," he said huskily; "but it has been 
 seven years, Dick, and 
 
 "I know," the other interrupted him, "and I am 
 more changed than you expected." His face did not 
 cloud. 
 
 John made no attempt to utter one of those affec- 
 tionate fibs with which the recording angel has filled 
 so many pages. They had always understood each 
 other. 
 
 "Dick, why did you not let me know? You should 
 have sent for me to come home with you. Why, I 
 had my passage taken to go out to you next week, for 
 all summer." 
 
 A quick flush rose in Dick's face. "Really! Ah, if 
 I had only known! I did write you, but Mary found 
 the letter yesterday in the pocket of her winter coat. 
 The poor child was terribly cut up about it, she so 
 rarely forgets anything that concerns me. Oh, I 
 have so much to talk to you about, and it is better
 
 A SACRED TRUST 35 
 
 that I am here, only we might have had more time 
 together over there. The voyage has taken a good 
 deal out of me." The long speech was taxing him 
 severely now. 
 
 "Hand me the little glass there, will you, John? 
 Miss Patton left it in case of need, and I think I will 
 forestall the need." John rose and held it to his lips. 
 He feared that the need was scarcely forestalled. 
 
 They were silent for some time; then Dick said, 
 "John, will you sit here," indicating the space beside 
 him, "and put your arm around me as you used to do 
 when you were a boy?" 
 
 John complied with a swelling heart, and at Dick's 
 request to lift him up a little, raised the thin shoul- 
 ders in the hollow of his encircling arm as easily as 
 he might have lifted a baby. 
 
 "What a touch you have, John! You are a natural 
 nurse. I never seemed to get over missing you after 
 you left me in Lausanne. But I must not let you hold 
 me so for long. There is a limit even to your 
 strength." 
 
 "You will never reach its limit in this way. I 
 could hold you so all day. But don't try to talk. 
 I know what is uppermost in your mind, and we need 
 no vows between us. You know that so long as I live" 
 he gave each word a solemn emphasis "Mary shall 
 be to me all that my little girl would be to you if our 
 cases were reversed." 
 
 Dick answered him only by a look. 
 
 "I wish she were a boy," John resumed, with his 
 little quizzical smile to lighten the solemnity of the 
 promise he was making. "I feel so inexperienced with
 
 36 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 girls, and she is getting older all the time. She must 
 be over twelve?" 
 
 "She will be sixteen next week," Dick said, smiling 
 brightly at the consternation his statement brought 
 to his friend's face. "But, John, dear old fellow, she 
 is the veriest child! Oh, I would like to talk to you 
 about her for hours, but I must condense. I feel so 
 comfortable, and so happy, it seems as though my 
 strength were coming back!" 
 
 "You have been over- tired, "John answered quickly. 
 " Surely you will rally in a day or two." It seemed to 
 him that Dick's face had already altered for the 
 better. 
 
 "Do you know, John, " how he loved to repeat the 
 name "there is some power in you that I can't de- 
 scribe. It is like health itself. It will be a great thing 
 to be strong and well again, as I have faith I shall ; but 
 many men would be willing to bear more than I have 
 for the sake of the companionship they love best. 
 I know I have been selfish, but I cannot make her 
 leave me for long. She went out for some fruit for me 
 just before you came, and I begged her to take a long 
 walk in this delicious air; but all I can ever do is beg." 
 He paused a moment out of breath. "Miss Newlin 
 has promised to take charge of her education, and give 
 her a permanent home" John saw the pain the 
 thought caused him "but all authority over her per- 
 son and property is to be left unreservedly to you. 
 Catharine is living at Fern wood, you know, and Mary 
 would be happiest with her till school time comes. 
 It is close to the city, so you could look in on her some- 
 times." His voice _broke utterly, and the first tears
 
 A SACRED TRUST 37 
 
 he had shed brimmed over and stole down his hollow 
 cheeks. 
 
 John's answer was mute at first; then he said husk- 
 ily: "I was to have had three uninterrupted months 
 with you in Switzerland. Please God I shall have them 
 here; but," he choked a little at the difficult words 
 "if it is not to be with you it shall be with 
 Mary." 
 
 "Oh, John, what can I ever say, except that it is 
 like you! It makes my going such a different thing. 
 You say you don't understand girls, but you will 
 understand her." 
 
 "I suspect she won't stay many years in my care 
 if she is sixteen; but" (seeing a shadow pass over the 
 invalid's face) "married or single it will be all the 
 same to me. As long as I live," he emphasized the 
 words again, "I shall always be right on hand if she 
 wants me." 
 
 Words were impossible to Dick for some minutes; 
 then he asked John to lay him down again. "She 
 must be here soon, now," he said. "I will shut my 
 eyes and try to rest a little first. Sit there by the 
 window. You don't know what it is to feel you near!" 
 
 There was complete silence in the room for a while ; 
 a pioneer fly buzzed in and out of the open window, 
 and the fresh spring breeze stirred the muslin curtains. 
 John's eyes roved around the simple, old-fashioned 
 room that he remembered so well, and rested on the 
 peaceful face on the bed. He felt the comfort he had 
 given, and rejoiced; but he was surprised at his own 
 excitement, and at the bound his heart gave when a 
 young girl turned in at the gate and came quickly up
 
 38 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the path, carrying a bunch of mock-orange in her hand. 
 A broad hat hid her face from his height. 
 
 Dick heard the opening of the hall door and the 
 nurse's voice speaking below. His eyes were wide 
 and bright in a moment. There was a quick step 
 on the stair and the object of so much solicitude and 
 apprehension entered like an embodiment of the May 
 day outside. Childlike, curious eyes met John's 
 from what seemed to him the loveliest face his own 
 had ever looked upon. She checked her hurried pace, 
 and on a question from the bed as to whether she 
 did not "remember John Brown," came to him at 
 once, transferring her flowers to her left hand, and 
 holding her right to him with the ease of a finished 
 hostess or the unconsciousness of a little child. Noth- 
 ing here of the missishness of sixteen that he always 
 dreaded. She smiled as he took her hand and held 
 it a moment in his strong clasp, but said nothing, 
 and turned at once to her father. 
 
 "Miss Carter sent you these, Father. Why, you 
 look better already!" Dick smiled up in her scruti- 
 nizing face, and took possession of both hand and 
 flowers without paying any attention to the 
 latter. 
 
 "I want to speak to you, Mary, of something that 
 is very important to you. My dearest, John Brown 
 (he did not say 'Mr. Brown') has promised that 
 when I can be with you no longer he will take 
 care of you. It makes me very happy, and you 
 you loved him when you were a little girl. I know 
 you will grow to love him again as much as I 
 do."
 
 "I LOVE You Now," SHE SAID.
 
 A SACRED TRUST 39 
 
 When he began to speak Mary turned full around, 
 and her grave, unwavering gaze never left John's 
 face. His eyes met hers without flinching. Each 
 was too deeply in earnest for self-consciousness. At 
 her father's last word her lips softened and trembled. 
 She went straight to where John stood motionless, 
 and lifted her face to his with complete simplicity; 
 and as he bent his tall head to meet her, she pressed 
 her fresh lips frankly and warmly to his thin cheek. 
 
 "I love you now," she said. 
 
 The color mounted in a crimson flood to the roots 
 of John's hair, but there was no awkwardness nor 
 embarrassment in the 'quick gesture with which he 
 drew her to his side, and answered as simply: 
 
 "And I love you now." 
 
 In his early manhood John had learned to treat 
 the sea of his emotions and passions in hardy Dutch 
 fashion, and had half unconsciously built up a 
 formidable dyke of strong moral and religious pur- 
 pose, altruism, and intellectuality, which had thus 
 far protected his quiet, active life most effectually 
 from devastating inroads. When some unforeseen 
 wind of sentiment or passion made a moderate roar- 
 ing outside he patiently strengthened his ramparts, 
 but usually he thought little about them and was 
 happy. With the warm pressure of two innocent 
 lips a sudden tidal-wave swept clear over his barriers, 
 and he had not even time to consider whether it 
 might mean future desolation to his peaceful preserve. 
 He only knew that life seemed suddenly full of vital, 
 personal interest. 
 
 As he went home to dinner he pictured the ordered
 
 40 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 perfection of the scene that awaited him, and recalled 
 the comfortable monotony of the long years of decor- 
 ous homeliness that stretched away into the past. 
 How silver gray it all looked since this rising sun had 
 begun to throw its rosy darts across his horizon. 
 
 Even the newly-made promise to Dick made with 
 a straight facing of all it might entail seemed, like 
 the courageous bounty of St. Elizabeth, to have 
 turned to roses in his hands; and how should he 
 remember that roses have thorns!
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 AN INHERITED FRIENDSHIP 
 
 " A NOTHER telegram." With this laconic 
 announcement the elderly, one-armed clerk 
 laid a little yellow envelope on John's desk, 
 and went out. Its kind were no strangers in this 
 quiet office on Fourth Street where John carried on 
 an altruistic law practice. It was a large if not 
 profitable practice (giving the word profitable its 
 usually accepted meaning), for when, at sixteen, his 
 father died leaving him a hundred thousand of his 
 own, and the prospect of his mother's two-third share 
 and the house, some day, he had decided to use his 
 faculties (after he had sufficiently trained them) to 
 help the "under dog" in the fight. His fortune 
 was not large enough to suggest one kind of philan- 
 thropy, and he never thought of himself as a philan- 
 thropist; but in spite of an innate dislike for red tape 
 and musty precedent, he determined to study law, 
 and to make it synonymous with justice so far as he 
 was concerned, using his quick grasp of a situation, 
 and marvelously retentive memory in the service of 
 those whose wrongs needed righting, but who had 
 not money to pay for the best quality of justice. 
 He could at least give them the best quality of inten- 
 
 (41)
 
 42 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 tion, for even as a boy, a "square deal" had been a 
 passion with him. 
 
 This was the third message that morning, and the 
 clock hands pointed only to 10.15. John drew a 
 slim letter-opener toward him, and, cutting it without 
 haste, quietly spread it out. The sight of the few 
 words made him start violently with a pain he gave 
 himself no time to entertain. He gave a glance 
 toward the clock, another at the upper one of a neat 
 pile of time-tables conveniently pigeon-holed, and 
 folded back in a special manner; then he made one 
 step to his hat, and in another moment was passing 
 through his outer office. 
 
 "I'll not be in again to-day. Please send word 
 to my mother that she need not expect me home for 
 lunch." The last words were uttered half-way down 
 the passage. "I shall make it if I have luck!" he 
 added to himself as he reached the street; and the 
 combination of luck and long legs enabled him to 
 "make it." 
 
 Only three days had elapsed since the visit recorded 
 in the last chapter. The following afternoon had been 
 spent again with the invalid, who had seemed 
 decidedly stronger, and able to enter upon questions of 
 vital importance to them both. Mary had been in the 
 room when John got there, but had gone away almost 
 immediately, and he had not had another glimpse 
 of her. His parting words to Dick had been of regret 
 that the next day must be given to his mother's 
 business; "but I will be down as early as I can on 
 Saturday, and next week ." The words had been 
 full of expectation, now never to be fulfilled.
 
 AN INHERITED FRIENDSHIP 43 
 
 The kindly old lady on the opposite seat wondered 
 what great trouble was bowing the shoulders and 
 lining the rigid face of the big man who looked so 
 like Lincoln. 
 
 In less than half an hour he was striding up the 
 path he had watched so anxiously three days before, 
 for the first glimpse of the child who was to be his 
 one of these days. Who could have foreseen that the 
 day would come so soon! How could he bear to 
 look on that bright face with the great change upon it! 
 
 Miss Patton, the nurse, saw him coming, and 
 opened the door before he rang. Her kindly face 
 showed traces of distress. "It was quite sudden, 
 and very peaceful," she said in an intentionally 
 lowered voice, pointing to the door of the room at 
 the head of the stairs, next Dick's. "She was with 
 him when the end came and I couldn't make her 
 leave him till I had to fairly drive her out. She is 
 much too quiet; she hasn't cried at all, and she wrote 
 the telegram to you herself. But she will hear me!" 
 she interrupted herself in a still lower voice. 
 
 John mounted the stairway softly, his mind full 
 of his last visit; but all sense of his own irreparable 
 loss was wiped out by the sight of the pathetic figure 
 that had risen from the sofa-cushions at the sound of 
 his step, and met him just within the open door. 
 An expression of relief that was almost joy welcomed 
 him, and, with one mutual impulse, she was in his 
 arms, her face buried on his breast, and he held her 
 in a close embrace more eloquent than words of that 
 tenderness and protection to be exerted for her 
 henceforth.
 
 44 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "I didn't think you could get here so soon!" she 
 said brokenly. Her breath came in short sobs which 
 she made a brave effort to control. 
 
 The sudden, unexpected, loosening of the tension 
 of waiting, loosened with it her unnatural self-control. 
 John's own breath came pantingly. 
 
 "No, no, dear child, cry it out!" he said huskily, 
 as he bent and softly kissed the parting of the di- 
 sheveled brown hair. His words and caress opened 
 the flood-gates, and Miss Patton moved away from 
 the foot of the stairs, where she had almost involun- 
 tarily waited, and went with a satisfied smile and 
 wet eyes to unburden herself to Susan in the kitchen, 
 though that honest maid-of-all-work was but a new 
 acquaintance. 
 
 How long John held the sobbing child he had no 
 idea. His dyke was down now to the last stone, but 
 he did not know it; nor did he think of another 
 dyke whose necessity he would soon begin to foresee 
 and whose maintenance was to be at the cost of years 
 of "eternal vigilance." Long after the painful sobs 
 had ceased, little by little, and the swollen, tear- 
 stained face was lying quietly just over his quick- 
 beating heart, he still held her close in the pregnant 
 silence which had thus far been the main factor in 
 their extraordinary friendship. Then she drew him 
 into the next room, and together they stood beside 
 the still form on the bed. 
 
 How young he looked, and how noble the lines 
 of lip and brow! The ravages of disease, the very 
 emaciation that had so shocked John a few days ago, 
 were smoothed away by that transforming finger
 
 AN INHERITED FRIENDSHIP 45 
 
 of death. Even the slight paraphernalia of the grim 
 visitant could not detract from the majesty of the 
 picture. 
 
 Mary loosed her hand from his clasp, and fell on 
 her knees beside the bed. She did not cry now, but 
 the droop of the whole figure, the abandonment to 
 a crushing weight beyond her power of realization, 
 seemed to John's mind less like a desolate child than 
 a young mother whose one treasure has been snatched 
 from her. He recalled Dick's words regarding the 
 weight of responsibility this child-woman had been 
 carrying. He remembered that telegram indeed 
 it had never been absent from his consciousness for 
 a moment on the short journey: "Father has gone. 
 Can you come?" All his great body yearned to shoul- 
 der her burdens, to insert his strength between her 
 and all that was still to come; to make the rest of 
 her girlhood care-free and happy. Yet what availed 
 his strength or purpose in the face of a separation 
 such as this the rending of such a tie as this ! 
 
 The tears were running down his face, but he made 
 no attempt to comfort her now. He felt that she 
 was far from him, on the path that each must tread 
 alone. Gradually a strong sense of Dick's spiritual 
 presence beside him recalled him to his new responsi- 
 bility, and the keeping of his promise. He hesitated 
 a moment, but the sound of wheels that stopped out- 
 side made him hesitate no longer. Without a word 
 he stooped and lifted Mary to her feet and held her 
 as before. She showed no surprise, and made no 
 protest. Her strong spirit was acknowledging a 
 stronger one; and if he had but known it, the display
 
 46 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of unusual physical force went home to her heart as 
 perhaps nothing else could have at the moment. 
 
 John told himself not in words, for he rarely 
 thought in words that he had lived more in the past 
 four days than in all the four and thirty years of his 
 previous existence. Not since he had looked on Mar- 
 garet lying thus, cold and quiet, had his heart been 
 so wrung with pain; and never, he knew, at any 
 time, had he known the sweetness of this His eyes 
 came back from the face on the pillow to the face 
 half -buried against his arm. "Mary," he said very 
 low, "no one can ever take anything of his place with 
 you, but I should like to fill as big a place of my own 
 as you will let me." She tried to speak, but no words 
 came, and he went on: "All that you tell me will 
 be safe with me, and you can never ask me anything 
 that I shall not want to do." 
 
 For all answer she lifted his hand and pressed her 
 cheek to the palm. No words could have told more 
 clearly of gratitude, and trust, and awakened affec- 
 tion. What feelings the little gesture, so well-known 
 to her father, awakened now the rugged face bent 
 over her did not show. At least they were not too 
 strong to prevent John's quick ear from detecting 
 voices on the stair. Still holding her close, he opened 
 wide the door to the hall and drew her into the adjoin- 
 ing room. As the door closed behind them he seated 
 her beside him on the enormous old sofa which he had 
 always loved as a boy; then he took one cold hand 
 in his warm one, and said with the assurance of ac- 
 knowledged authority, or long intimacy: "Now tell 
 me." And she did. The sad little recital was given
 
 AN INHERITED FRIENDSHIP 47 
 
 in few and simple words, her tear-stained face lifted 
 to his; but his part was to come. There was business 
 that he must speak of; arrangements that he could 
 not make without consulting her. She wanted to 
 leave everything to him. "He knew so well what 
 her father liked, and still more what he disliked." 
 But there was another matter that John found it 
 harder to enter upon. 
 
 "I must go up to town this afternoon to attend 
 to things," he said, "but not for long. I will be here 
 for the night. This sofa is a good old friend and just 
 my size. But there are some things that I am 
 afraid to undertake for you, and it is Saturday. I 
 will send a telegram at once for Catharine, and when 
 she comes you could send Miss Patton in to do any 
 shopping for you, or, I will try to do my best." 
 He spoke almost shyly. 
 
 Mary clasped her free fingers around those that 
 held her other hand. It was all the expression her 
 gratitude found; but after a short pause she said 
 very low: "Mr. Brown, do you think I ought to 
 wear mourning for Father? I would so much rather 
 not." 
 
 Surprise took away, for the moment, all John's 
 power of speech. The child who had just cried her 
 heart out in his arms was transformed to a dignified 
 woman with views of her own, and those, exceptional 
 ones. Before he found his voice she went on quickly: 
 "Father didn't approve of it, and I mustn't mourn 
 for him. He is well now, and happy; only I can't 
 think of his being quite happy anywhere without 
 me."
 
 48 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Her face was indistinct to John. He turned away 
 his own. The muscles of his chest and throat ached 
 fiercely. Then he braced himself for his first paternal 
 homily. 
 
 "My dear Mary," he said, "I think your father 
 was quite right, and I should be the last to ask you 
 to disregard his wishes, but, there are some things 
 that are accepted customs, and where no principle 
 is involved I think a young girl is happier The 
 wondering eyes (were they gray, or green, or hazel?) 
 fixed so intently on his, made John stumble hopelessly, 
 and lose the thread of his discourse. 
 
 "But it seems to me there is a principle," she ven- 
 tured hesitatingly. 
 
 "And I would be true to it," he said quickly, 
 undoing his previous advice in a flash. "Your 
 father's daughter ought to have courage to stand by 
 her principles but you will find life harder." 
 
 He put his arm impulsively round her as though 
 he would shield her from unsympathetic comment. 
 His thoughts flew to his mother. He knew how she 
 would regard this "freak," and he began to see break- 
 ers ahead. He had come to that parting of the ways 
 where a man must take sides, and what were his 
 mother's chances against that head, full, no doubt, 
 of Dick's eccentric ideas, which seemed to find its 
 blue serge pillow so comfort-giving a resting place? 
 Another long silence. They were making rapid 
 strides along the road to mutual understanding. 
 Miss Patton's call to lunch startled them to their 
 feet. 
 
 What a man this was ! The nurse felt that a weight
 
 AN INHERITED FRIENDSHIP 49 
 
 had been lifted from her shoulders, and things were 
 not so tragic after all. She hardly marveled at Mary's 
 attitude to him now, though she knew how short 
 their acquaintance was, and she had always found 
 Mary little inclined to defer to anyone unless it were 
 her father. 
 
 "Mr. Farnham knew what he was about," she said 
 to Susan, as she helped with the dishes after the sim- 
 ple lunch was finished it could hardly be said to 
 have been eaten. "Any girl might be happy to be 
 left in charge of a man like that!" 
 
 Susan grunted something that seemed to be meant 
 for assent. "I suppose he'll take her to live with 
 him as soon as things get straightened out here?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I made free to ask that, and she said his 
 mother mightn't want her, and she is to go to a friend 
 who keeps a school. She's going now to her old 
 nurse who lives in the country, somewhere out of 
 Philadelphia. She was with them from the time 
 Miss Mary was a baby, and wouldn't have married 
 the man she was engaged to if Miss Mary hadn't 
 found it out and told her father. He made her go. 
 Miss Mary was about eleven; too old for a nurse 
 anyhow; but she told me she'd often cried for her 
 when her father didn't know. I guess he did though, 
 for there wasn't much he missed where she was con- 
 cerned. He was the patientest man I ever nursed." 
 (She wiped her eyes, unaffectedly.) "The nurse 
 didn't have long to enjoy her married life either, for 
 her husband died a year ago, I believe." 
 
 "Mr. Farnham 's wife died when Miss Mary was 
 a baby, didn't she?" 
 
 4
 
 50 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Law, no, she ran away and left him. I only 
 found it out accidentally, and I don't believe he ever 
 told her" with a motion of her head toward the 
 upper regions. "She died a year or two after, in 
 childbirth I did hear say, and she had some relations, 
 but of course Mr. Farnham wouldn't want Miss 
 Mary to know them." 
 
 "Good land! Well, dyin' served her right! What 
 kind of a woman could she have been to leave such a 
 nice husband and such a pretty baby; for she's about 
 the best lookin' girl ever I saw. I expect the 
 mother was one o' them handsome hussies that turn 
 so many men's heads," and Susan looked volumes 
 on the infatuation of men and the frailties of women. 
 
 Meantime the object of their discussion was sit- 
 ting idly with her head against the frame of the win- 
 dow, and her eyes fixed on space. The clock strik- 
 ing four roused her from her reverie, and she started 
 up. "I will go down to the parlor window where I 
 can see him when he comes, " she thought, and John's 
 heart gave a bound when, a half-hour later, his eyes 
 encountered the waiting figure framed in the ivy- 
 grown embrasure of the window. Almost on his 
 heels came Catharine, and it gave him unspeakable 
 relief to see the motherly arms about her beloved 
 "child," and hear the familiar, tender questioning, 
 the simple expressions of grief natural to the true 
 woman.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE NATURE OF THE TRUST 
 
 THREE days later, the last sad rites performed, 
 they left the old house, so full of sweet and 
 melancholy memories, and John escorted 
 Catharine and Mary to the little cottage at Fernwood. 
 
 Mary had been very quiet, and even cheerful, on 
 the short journey, and showed an interest in looking 
 over the neat premises, with a trim garden behind 
 the house, and scrap of lawn about it; in examining 
 the rooms, filled with many souvenirs of bygone days ; 
 and in arranging some of her possessions in the spot- 
 less little chamber which was to be hers. But when 
 John rose to go, with an assurance of his return next 
 day, she suddenly clung to him in such a passion of 
 tears that he could not make up his mind to leave her. 
 It was only on a hint from Catharine, who was too 
 sweet-natured to be hurt by this display of feeling 
 for another, that Mary finally told him to go, and even 
 tried to reassure him by a smile. 
 
 Dinner was over when he reached home, and his 
 mother received him with a rather aggrieved expres- 
 sion, without, however, uttering any word of reproach 
 even when she found that he must have finished his 
 escort of his new ward hours before. She had made 
 some excuse for not going to the funeral that morn- 
 
 (51)
 
 52 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 ing, as she had found good reasons for not "intruding 
 upon Mary's grief" before; and John felt a secret relief 
 that for the time being, they were not to be brought 
 together. He was not given to self-analysis, and per- 
 haps if he had been, he would not have understood 
 why he dreaded his mother's eye upon Mary just yet. 
 He was hardly conscious of the feeling itself, but was 
 thankful to Mrs. Brown for asking only perfunctory 
 questions. Her positive dislike for Dick had been 
 something entirely incomprehensible to John, and he 
 was instinctively on the defensive now with regard 
 to Mary. What would his mother think of the atti- 
 tude in which he already stood to the child? To him 
 it seemed so natural that she should turn to him as 
 the man whom her father had most loved and trusted, 
 and to whom he had entrusted her, and that the same 
 free-masonry of spiritual kinship which had knit him 
 so closely to Dick in his boyhood, should develop at 
 once between himself and this girlish epitome of 
 Dick. In the forcing-house of intimate intercourse 
 of these few days, every opinion she expressed or 
 left unexpressed every unstudied show of emotion, 
 had laid her heart before him like an open book, in 
 which each page he turned deepened the interest 
 and delight of the study. He knew that he was only 
 in the very early chapters; what those closed pages 
 would contain, no one could prophesy; but nothing 
 false or mean, that he would vouch for, to all the world ! 
 And yet, he knew that this loving, jealously tender 
 mother of his, so kindly, cordially open toward 
 those whom she understood, and liked, could close 
 her nature like a vise against those who were anti-
 
 THE NATURE OF THE TRUST 53 
 
 pathetic to her; and an unerring instinct told him 
 that the first sight of Mary would have closed it, 
 even if the conviction of an imposition put upon her 
 beloved "boy" had not already set the seal of her dis- 
 approval on all that concerned his charge. John knew, 
 too, that she was hoping for his company to North- 
 east Harbor, now that his immediate duties here were 
 over; knew it as well as though she had spoken in the 
 plainest language; and that she would confidently 
 expect him to spend a considerable part of his vacation 
 with her, now that his trip to Switzerland had been 
 given up. He also knew that he would not have 
 thought of doing so, even if it had been his dearest 
 wish. Had it not all been arranged long ago, even 
 to her journey up in the company of intimate friends? 
 Perhaps he ought to go as far as Boston with her, and 
 see her on the Bar Harbor train? He had certainly 
 meant to do that before he sailed, but now, the time 
 necessary for the journey seemed ages long! 
 
 His mother's train left Boston at 8.00 A. M. There 
 was no way of shortening his time of absence by 
 traveling at night. The pain and sweetness of that 
 last hour in the little parlor at Fernwood were still 
 quivering through his whole frame. He felt his 
 firmness and resolve slipping from him. "Of course 
 I shall go to Boston with you, Mother," he said with 
 almost startling suddenness; he felt that he must 
 commit himself at once, and shut off all avenues for 
 back-sliding. "I wish you might go all the way, and 
 spend a few days," Mrs. Brown found courage to say. 
 "Now that the child is settled with her nurse, you need 
 have no concern about her for a while, and I suppose
 
 54 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 you won't have to attend to any business connected 
 with your executorship for a few days?" 
 
 "Why, Mother, of course there will be a great 
 many things to attend to at once, and for some time 
 to come," he exclaimed almost indignantly. Then, 
 his native honesty forcing the words from him, 
 "And I should not like to go so far away from Mary 
 this summer." 
 
 "This summer! Do you mean to say that you are 
 to give up your whole vacation and spend the summer 
 in the city looking after a child who ' she checked 
 herself. "If Miss Newlin is going to take her, why 
 doesn't she go to her at once? It would be a much 
 more fitting arrangement than leaving her with a 
 servant, I don't care how faithful she may be." 
 Mrs. Brown's "she's" almost tripped up her mean- 
 ing. 
 
 "She has not seen much of Miss Newlin yet," 
 John answered gently, "and she needs familiar faces 
 about her now, and the mothering Catharine can give 
 her. She is to go to Miss Newlin a week before school 
 opens, and, meantime, they will meet occasionally 
 and get better acquainted." There was a suspicious 
 tremor in his voice, in spite of his effort to make 
 it matter-of-fact. 
 
 "Well your face wasn't familiar to her a few days 
 ago; but, by this time, it must be. Who got her 
 clothes for her?" 
 
 "If you mean her mourning, she is not going to wear 
 any," he said, with some trepidation. 
 
 "I suppose that was her father's request," Mrs. 
 Brown said with ominous gentleness, as who should
 
 THE NATURE OF THE TRUST 55 
 
 say, "You cannot surprise me with anything from that 
 source." 
 
 "No," John said steadily, "I think Dick made 
 no request about it, but she has been constantly 
 with him, and knows his feelings on most sub- 
 jects." 
 
 "And do you think it wise to let a child of her age 
 decide such questions?" 
 
 John had given his mother his own impression of 
 Mary's age, before going to Germantown, and had 
 never corrected his statement since finding out his 
 mistake. It had never seemed necessary to mention 
 the subject. Now, however, he felt himself guilty 
 of absolute duplicity when he let her remark go un- 
 challenged, but he was a coward in the face of Mary's 
 sixteen years. His mother would inevitably look on 
 her as a young lady, and how could he make her under- 
 stand? It was suddenly laid bare to his accusing 
 conscience that he had a reason, and what that 
 reason was, for wishing to postpone the meeting 
 between the two. It was his turn to dread his mother's 
 eye, and the sugaring of his strawberries seemed to 
 require very close attention, as he remarked, rather 
 lamely, that he had never thought the wearing of 
 mourning a matter of any importance, it was a ques- 
 tion of feeling only. 
 
 There was a short pause in which conscience put in 
 some solid work; then he said in as matter-of-fact 
 a voice as he could command: "I was mistaken about 
 her age, Mother, and perhaps I gave you a wrong 
 impression. She is nearly sixteen; and though she is 
 entirely a child in her ways, she has a very mature
 
 56 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 judgment in matters of principle and feeling." Mrs. 
 Brown said nothing. 
 
 "I can't tell how things may turn out later;" he 
 calmly changed the subject, feeling the look his 
 mother gave him, even if he did not see it, "nor 
 what there may be to do. Of course Dick's property 
 is all left to Mary, with provision for her education 
 and immediate needs; but it is in trust, not only till 
 her majority, but for life to revert to her children 
 if she have any and I am sole trustee. It is not a 
 large estate, and Dick wanted me to do as I thought 
 best about selling the old house or renting it. He 
 left a generous bequest of five thousand each to the 
 cousin who has lived in the house, and to Catharine, 
 Mary's nurse. In the event of Mary's death without 
 heirs, the property reverts to me, with the informal 
 understanding that I am to use it for the benefit of 
 girls who are left alone in the world, and have a living 
 to make; and I am to leave it where I think it will 
 help most." 
 
 Mrs. Brown showed her appreciation of the con- 
 fidence reposed in her, and was, moreover, touched 
 by the confidence shown in John. She spoke with 
 cordial approval of the will, and especially of the wis- 
 dom of not giving Mary control of her money when she 
 came of age. "Dick Farnham knew by experience 
 that no power can prevent her throwing herself away 
 on a rascal, if one happens to take her fancy, and he 
 has had the sense to guard against her coming to want 
 through her own fault. Is she like her mother? 
 You said she was very handsome. Is Mary 
 pretty?"
 
 THE NATURE OF THE TRUST 57 
 
 "Yes, she looks a good deal like her mother as I 
 remember her," John admitted as though unwillingly. 
 
 "And is she likely to be as beautiful?" Mrs Brown 
 persisted. 
 
 "She is far more beautiful now." Again the words 
 seemed rather wrung from him than volunteered. 
 The voice was without enthusiasm. 
 
 "H'm!" A very pregnant exclamation, though 
 hardly uttered aloud. "I am afraid she is likely to 
 give you a good deal of trouble, John. People are 
 always piling their troubles on your shoulders; but 
 this is by far the biggest load you have ever had to 
 carry. Miss Newlin is a fine woman, and a good 
 church-woman. She will teach her good morals, 
 and sound religious beliefs, besides giving her a good 
 education and good manners. I suppose she is very 
 backward, as she hasn't been to school?" 
 
 "I am going to look into that a little, myself, before 
 consulting with Miss Newlin. She, poor woman, is 
 so overworked just now, with their closing exercises, 
 that she has only been able to see Mary once. She 
 was out for a little while yesterday, but she could not 
 even get to the funeral to-day. Mary saw something 
 of her in Lausanne, several years ago, and took to her 
 so kindly that it settled the question of her schooling 
 in Dick's mind. He told me he would have brought 
 
 her over a year ago, and settled at , near the school, 
 
 so that Mary could attend, as a day scholar; but his 
 doctor absolutely forbade his thinking of it. It was 
 this same Dr. Holman who crossed over with him 
 this year when he found that Dick was determined 
 to come at all hazards. He suspected that the end
 
 58 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 was not far off, but had no idea how soon it would 
 come. He had come at a great sacrifice of time 
 (which Dick made good as far as money went) and he 
 had to go back at once, but if he had only known the 
 outcome, he would have waited over at least one 
 steamer. He sailed from New York on Saturday 
 morning without knowing that 
 
 John choked, and it was some time before he 
 resumed: "Miss Newlin is very much in need of rest, 
 and is to go off somewhere (I forget where) as soon as 
 school closes on the eighth, I think she said. She 
 would be willing to take Mary, but Dick thought she 
 would be happier with Catharine, and I promised him 
 that I would be on hand to do what I could." 
 
 His mother did not dare to express all the disappoint- 
 ment and disapproval she felt at his thus "sacrificing" 
 himself. She knew it would be useless, at present. 
 Mrs. Brown was one of those women who, with a 
 commanding presence, an imperious temper, and really 
 good executive ability, combine a very dependent 
 and timid nature, that always surprises those who 
 find it out. Though not by nature either tolerant 
 or loving, she was capable of great kindness and 
 generosity toward those who touched her sympathies, 
 and of intense affection for those who belonged to her. 
 She had made her husband's every wish her law, and 
 felt that she would sacrifice anything in the world 
 for this adored son; but there were two things that 
 she never even considered sacrificing the first place 
 in his heart, and his constant companionship. They 
 were her natural, and inalienable, right. The very 
 thought of his leaving her for a visit to Dick in Europe
 
 THE NATURE OF THE TRUST 59 
 
 had several times been enough to fret her into so 
 real an attack of ill health that he had each time given 
 up the plan. To do her jus dee, it never occurred to 
 her that John could be so happy anywhere as with her, 
 and she spared no pains to satisfy every creature want 
 to which man is heir. That this particular man was 
 somewhat indifferent to creature comforts, and had a 
 big hungry heart and soul beyond her comprehension, 
 was a fact that she always partly, but never fully, 
 realized. The half acknowledgment of it was the 
 most real pain she knew, and yet it did not prevent 
 her fretting, and worrying him in an infinite variety 
 of ways. She resented the escape from her supremacy 
 of even a part of his nature; and was jealously on the 
 alert for rivals in his interests and affections. 
 
 She had done her utmost to spoil him, as a child, 
 but the material in hand was incapable of being 
 spoiled. George Raymond had lately described him 
 as "six feet and a half of pure gold, and perfect 
 gentleman," and the child had been father of the man. 
 He was not "goody," he was just good. Honest, 
 bright, unselfish, full of fun, intensely alive to all that 
 was beautiful and good, as well as to all that was 
 incongruous or droll; quickly kindled to indignation 
 at injustice, or enthusiasm for the right; the only 
 fault that either father or mother could find in him 
 was that he lacked "a proper spirit"; he was "too 
 tame." "I don't understand him," Mr. Brown had once 
 remarked to a friend. "He has sense enough to know 
 when he's imposed upon, but not spunk enough to 
 resent it. He isn't a coward, but he seems to lack 
 red blood somewhere!"
 
 60 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 When, in his fourteenth year, Rev. Phillips Brooks, 
 who was soon to resign the charge of Holy Trinity 
 parish, asked him, in his mother's presence, about 
 joining the Church, John instantly acquiesced. 
 "I don't know that I can ever understand the Creeds, 
 or the catechism," he had said simply, "but I should 
 like to be as much like Christ as I can." 
 
 Mr. Brooks had answered him only by a look and 
 a warm handclasp, reserving further conversation for 
 a tete-a-tete; but Mrs. Brown had been somewhat 
 abashed. No one could accuse John of conceit or 
 presumption, but she wondered whether the rector's 
 silence did not mean that he considered such an idea 
 slightly sacrilegious. She was one of the many staunch 
 admirers of the great preacher, who listened with 
 rapt attention to his every utterance, feeling sure that 
 they endorsed his every sentiment, and never in the 
 least understanding what were his real beliefs. She 
 rarely spoke to John of religious questions, beyond 
 suggesting the outward observance of certain forms 
 and ceremonies; but she was always conscious of 
 that under-world of thought and feeling which she 
 could not read, and to which he rarely gave expression. 
 Was it wonderful that Dick Farnham, who did under- 
 stand him well, should have said his "Nunc Dimit- 
 tis" from his heart of hearts, with the sound of this 
 man's promise in his ear, and the sight of this man's 
 arm around his cherished child?
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 THE GULF OF YEARS 
 
 CATHARINE'S cottage was only five minutes 
 distant from the railway station on the shaded 
 country road. There was no village, properly 
 speaking, at the time of which I write; for the hand- 
 ful of houses, scattered on both sides of the track, 
 could not have been dignified by any such name. 
 Though inside the city limits, and not far from several 
 flourishing suburbs, its rural loveliness had thus far 
 been spared the encroachments of the army of city 
 commuters, so soon to gain possession there. The 
 land about it was held by people tenacious of their 
 old properties, and jealous of their privacy. The old, 
 long established families were breaking up, however, 
 and it would not be many years before this secluded 
 little section would follow the example of its neighbors. 
 As John turned a curve in the road that brought the 
 house into view, his eager eyes were gladdened by the 
 sight of a girlish figure coming quickly toward him 
 along the path. She seemed very subdued, however, 
 as, the first greeting over, they moved hand in hand 
 toward the cottage. " Mr. Brown, I was sorry I made 
 you miss your train last night," she said finally, the 
 tears sounding again in her voice. John only answered 
 by a close pressure of the hand he held, but she was 
 
 (61)
 
 62 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 satisfied. She made no further apology. She glanced 
 once or twice, with some curiosity, at a bulky parcel 
 he was carrying in his left hand, but she asked no 
 questions. He saw the glances, however, and supplied 
 the information as soon as they reached the little 
 porch, and he could deposit his burden. Then, with 
 a cordial handclasp for Catharine, who appeared in 
 the door, he proceeded at once to untie the package, 
 or bundle of packages, securely tied together. As he 
 produced two light, jointed, bamboo easels, two camp 
 stools one of very sturdy make a pair of drawing- 
 pads and some minor articles, he watched the bright- 
 ness of pleased understanding grow in Mary's face. 
 "How good of you to remember!" she said, with 
 a warm blush. "There are two of everything! For 
 you and me." It was not a question. "Yes, I 
 thought we could have some good times experimenting 
 around here when I get back." (Mary had spoken 
 of her wish to learn to sketch.) "I am going to take 
 my mother to Boston, to-morrow, to start her for North 
 East Harbor, so we won't be able to work together 
 for a couple of days, but I have two or three flat 
 studies here for you to try your hand on, meantime, 
 if you like, and I shall be anxious to see what progress 
 you have made when I get back." John was talking 
 against time a new thing for him. He gave his clos- 
 est attention to the unwrapping of the rest of his 
 treasures, which included a very complete outfit of 
 moist colors and brushes; but when he did at last 
 look up, he saw that the transient brightness was 
 gone from Mary's face, and eyes and lips were 
 quietly sad. She said nothing.
 
 THE GULF OF YEARS 63 
 
 "I have my own paint-box," he went on quickly; 
 "I hadn't time to look it up this morning, but I know 
 it will need some replenishing. I will bring it out on 
 Saturday, and if Catharine will give me my lunch, I 
 will spend the day, and we can do great execution." 
 
 "Saturday will be my birthday. Did you know it, 
 and mean all these for presents? " Mary asked timidly, 
 the color coming back in a flood. 
 
 "Yes," he said simply, while the same thought, 
 coming into both minds at once, was telegraphed from 
 eye to eye. Each paid silent tribute to the one loved 
 presence that would be missing from this birthday for 
 the first time in her sixteen years. 
 
 " Could you stay and have your supper with Mary 
 this evening, Mr. Brown?" Catharine asked hesi- 
 tatingly. "She picked the first strawberries this 
 morning and is saving them for you." John's regret- 
 ful eyes answered Mary's questioning ones. 
 
 "I wish I could," he said, "but my visit to-day 
 must be short. Later on I am going to tire you out 
 with my staying. Why mayn't I have the strawber- 
 ries now?" he asked, still watching Mary's wistful face. 
 
 "Would you eat them now?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "I don't know any time of day that I couldn't eat 
 strawberries," he answered with convincing enthu- 
 siasm, and Mary disappeared like an arrow from the 
 bow. Catharine, with John's help, collected the 
 scattered papers and strings, answering meanwhile 
 his anxious questions as to his new ward's state of 
 mind. They were not altogether reassuring answers; 
 for Mary's realization of her loneliness was coming in 
 full force, after the excitement and stress of the last
 
 64 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 few days. They were soon interrupted by the appear- 
 ance of the child herself the veriest child she looked 
 as she came toward them with her basket of berries 
 in one hand and a little tray, properly equipped, in 
 the other. 
 
 "Oh, Catharine, leave me a piece of paper for my 
 stems," she said, as Catharine was smilingly passing 
 her with her armload of spoil. John rescued a large 
 piece, and she seated herself on the steps of that end 
 of the porch which was screened by foliage and vines 
 from the view of the few passers-by. He dropped 
 down beside her, spreading the paper out between them. 
 
 "You needn't help me; you'd just get your fingers 
 all stained, and it won't take me a minute," she 
 remarked briskly. Service for those she loved was 
 second nature to her, and thus far the service had 
 been all on John's side. 
 
 He acquiesced for reasons of his own, and watched 
 her operations with a sensation as delicious as it was 
 new. In all his life it had never occurred to him to say 
 to any woman in gallantry, that something had been 
 the sweeter for her touch. It as little occurred to 
 him to say it now. It pleased him that she was a 
 little awkward in the handling of them, and had per- 
 haps been overeager in the plucking of some. When a 
 calyx refused to come neatly out of its little hole, or 
 left a refractory sepal clinging to the berry, his eyes 
 rested like a caress on the dainty thumb and ringers 
 that went to work at it. Neither of them spoke much. 
 It was not till the saucer showed a more than generous 
 heap that he suddenly called a halt, and asked her if 
 she wanted to make him sick.
 
 THE GULF OF YEARS 65 
 
 "Were you ever sick?" she asked, looking incredu- 
 lously at his stalwart figure. 
 
 "Well, I have a memory of measles, or chicken- 
 pox, or some itchy complaint, but it is a good while 
 back," he confessed smiling. 
 
 "Oh, I must get the sugar and cream!" she 
 exclaimed, starting up to go for them, but John stopped 
 her with a gesture. "No, no; I don't want any," he 
 said. 
 
 "Don't you like them?" She seemed surprised. 
 
 " Catharine gets lovely rich cream from the H 's 
 
 (mentioning the owners of the neighboring estate, 
 whose herd of cows was visible, grazing in the opposite 
 meadow). 
 
 "Yes, I like them very much, sometimes, but I 
 would rather have these just as they are." He had 
 not meant to make any special emphasis, but some- 
 thing in his voice and manner struck her. 
 
 "Because I stemmed them for you?" she asked 
 shyly. 
 
 If the babe in the cradle had put such a question to 
 him, John could hardly have been more startled and 
 confused. He could not summon a word in reply; 
 but fortunately none was needed. Some memory, 
 evidently born of her own words, had brought the 
 sudden tears to her eyes and made her turn her face 
 away. John understood. Nurtured from babyhood 
 in the atmosphere of Dick's loverlike tenderness, it had 
 not needed a precocious clairvoyance to make her 
 recognize a sentiment that was no new one to her. 
 Poor child! He took the hand nearest htm, and 
 gazed down on its stained fingers with an overwhelm-
 
 66 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 ing desire to press them to his lips, to pour out some- 
 thing of the flood of feeling pent up within him. The 
 temptation was only momentary; the next instant 
 his eyes met hers smilingly. 
 
 "I ought to go in and wash them," she said, looking 
 down, too, on her imprisoned fingers; "but I want to 
 see you eat your strawberries first." 
 
 He took the little tray and raised the spoon. 
 "But I feel so greedy eating all by myself. One 
 has to have company to enjoy a treat," he said 
 quizzically. 
 
 Mary immediately turned over a leaf of her book, 
 and showed him a new face a face bright with mis- 
 chief, and a dash of coquetry as she moved nearer 
 to him, picked up a very large berry from his plate, 
 and took a bite. 
 
 "Now do you feel better?" she asked. "I got the 
 very biggest one." 
 
 "Not all of it!" repossessing himself of the half 
 that was left. 
 
 Catharine stopped her work inside, and listened in 
 pleased surprise. It was years since she had heard 
 that little rippling, infectious laugh that came to her 
 through the open window. It fell like music on her 
 ears, and not on hers alone. John had forgotten 
 Mary's troubles, and his; and was a light-hearted 
 boy for the moment. She took another berry and 
 made herself secure against rebates. For the length 
 of time it took them to empty that plate they 
 were both children. John was drinking stronger wine 
 than the juice of the berries; but all at once the little 
 laugh was hushed, and Mary turned another leaf and
 
 THE GULF OF YEARS 67 
 
 grew shy. She interlaced her fingers, palms upward, 
 on her knees, as children do when they have made 
 "the church and steeple," and suddenly reverse it 
 and show "the parson and all the people"; and with 
 her eyes on this berry-stained congregation she asked 
 timidly: "Mr. Brown, would you like me to call you 
 Uncle John?" 
 
 "No!" John said bluntly. 
 
 She raised startled, half incredulous eyes to his face; 
 the curves of her lips were both proud and sensitive. 
 How odd and still he looked! All the fun and youth 
 had gone out of his face. He was not joking; she 
 saw that. "You mustn't take me too seriously," he 
 said hastily, seeing his blunder. "I am just a cranky 
 old bachelor, but I should be glad to have you call 
 me whatever you like." 
 
 Her eyes fell, and she grew deeply thoughtful. 
 
 She was only partly reassured. He was not 
 offended, but the great change in his face had not 
 been caused by "crankiness." She was too intelli- 
 gent not to see that she had touched some sensitive 
 spot; perhaps stirred some painful memory. She 
 had meant to please him and she had only hurt! 
 Her lips quivered: 
 
 "I only thought 'Mr. Brown' seemed so formal, 
 when I when we I should like to pretend I was 
 some relation to you." 
 
 There was a moment's silence; then he said in a 
 low, constrained voice, as timid as hers had been: 
 "Mary, would you be willing" he leaned far for- 
 ward and picked up a twig that had fallen on the 
 lowest step "would you just call me John?"
 
 68 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said readily, almost eagerly; "would 
 you like that?" 
 
 "I should like it very much." He straightened 
 himself and glanced keenly at her to see whether 
 the suggestion had discomposed her; whether she 
 seemed to find it strange. No, her eyes met his, 
 bright with feeling, and frankly loving. 
 
 The gulf of years that her proposal had opened 
 between them was lessened, but not bridged. John 
 did not deceive himself. He suspected that she 
 would have called Mr. Lincoln, "Abraham," with 
 equal readiness. 
 
 After he had helped her to carry in the remains 
 of the strawberry festival she got her new paint-box 
 and the studies, and went over them with a child's 
 eager anticipation, reading the name on each paint, 
 and inquiring the shades of those that were new to 
 her, drawing the soft brushes lovingly across her 
 fingers, and examining the flower studies. 
 
 "I think I will wait for you to commence John" 
 just a trifle of shy hesitation before the new title 
 "I could never do these by myself." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you could! Try this simple part first," 
 John said easily, only showing by a sudden soft 
 brightness in his eyes the pleasure his name gave 
 him so spoken. He had always thought it very 
 prosaic before. 
 
 Why he should have stood long before his dressing- 
 glass that night studying his dark, rugged face with 
 a quite new interest, and have turned away with a 
 muttered exclamation very like "blue mud"; and 
 why he should have scanned, with such grave wistful-
 
 THE GULF OF YEARS 69 
 
 ness, the faces of the Yale students who bustled, 
 hatless and eager, about the New Haven platform 
 next day, greeting the many complacent matrons 
 and blushing maidens that the Boston train set 
 down there, the experienced reader may be able 
 to guess.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 IN WHICH CATHARINE HEARS OF KING ARTHUR 
 
 THAT evening after John left them, Catharine 
 and Mary ate their simple supper in almost 
 unbroken silence. The good woman's mind 
 was full of memories of the honest face that, for 
 four years, had beamed upon her from the opposite 
 side of the little table. Mary's loss had brought her 
 own freshly to her mind, and had wakened besides 
 a throng of older memories. When they betook 
 themselves to the little parlor, so hung about and 
 decorated with samples of Mary's childish handi- 
 work, and souvenirs of the life abroad, she took 
 the girl's bright head on her lap, and made no effort 
 to check the tears that rolled down her cheeks and 
 dropped on the neatly braided hair, flecked with 
 gold in the lamplight. 
 
 "I ought to be ashamed of myself," she said 
 penitently, after a long silence, making a poor busi- 
 ness of drying her eyes. "I dare say Mr. Brown 
 feels most as bad as we do, but he's always cheerful 
 and bright, and he makes you cheerful right away," 
 she said the last words with a twinge of involuntary 
 jealousy. 
 
 "Yes, but I don't think he's exactly trying to be 
 cheerful. There seems a kind of happiness hi him 
 
 (70)
 
 CATHARINE HEARS OF KING ARTHUR 71 
 
 that sorrow couldn't change." Mary seemed consider- 
 ing the meaning of her own words. " Father said 
 he was the best man he ever knew; but that isn't 
 the reason I just love him. I don't like good people 
 oh, you know what I mean!" as Catharine remon- 
 strated. "I don't know what there is about him, 
 but I love him to touch me; I love to get close to 
 him. He makes me happy all over even in the midst 
 of being so lonely and sad. Father understands." 
 
 There was a long silence while Mary's wet eyes 
 roamed from object to object in the cosy room. 
 "So many things in this room make me want to cry, 
 and yet I just love to look at them. I remember 
 when father let me buy that chalet for you for 'a 
 surprise, and the Bernese doll. I was sure you would 
 like them because I did." 
 
 "And so I did, dearie, I often go over the old days 
 when I'm dustin' in here. Mr. Brown was so in- 
 terested lookin' around here, when you were up- 
 stairs." 
 
 "He says I may call him John," Mary said, 
 with an approach to shyness at the recollection. 
 
 "Did you ask him that, Mary?" Catharine in- 
 quired, scandalized. 
 
 "No, not exactly. I asked him if he would like 
 me to call him 'Uncle John,' and he said he would 
 rather I just called him John." Both lapsed into 
 "brown studies" with capital Bs. Mary did not feel 
 like repeating all the words of that dialogue, or 
 speaking of John's emotion, or her own conjectures 
 as to the cause of it. She saw no special significance 
 in it, but it seemed a sort of involuntary confidence
 
 72 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 not to be divulged to anyone. It was the manner 
 of that asking and offering that Catharine would 
 most have liked to know; but she only stroked 
 Mary's hair gently, trying to read her averted face 
 the while, and not succeeding. She marveled at 
 the wonderful intimacy so quickly sprung up between 
 these two; but John's manner to his new ward had 
 no trace of that indescribable something that she 
 had often seen and hated in the behavior of middle- 
 aged or elderly men toward young girls thrown into 
 intimate relations with them. She had watched 
 them together with an instinctive appreciation of 
 his great delicacy and reserve. She saw that he was 
 ready to respond to the least appeal for sympathy 
 and love; and had not Mary just frankly acknowl- 
 edged her wish for his caresses? But Catharine saw, 
 too, that he refrained from touching her except 
 when he felt her need. A feeling of apprehension, 
 almost of pity, was fast taking the place of even 
 the tiny spark of jealousy in her simple heart. By 
 some occult connection of ideas her mind was drawn 
 to an event of a few weeks before. 
 
 "Mary," she said with a brisk change of voice, 
 "do you remember little Jack Wurts that you used 
 to play with?" 
 
 "I think I do, but maybe I only remember remem- 
 bering. Father was talking to me one day about 
 having grown so patient and gentle as if anybody 
 could help being gentle with him and he reminded 
 me of the time I bit Jack, and some other things 
 I did when I was little. But I'm not the least bit 
 patient; I get awfully cross at people yet, and I've
 
 CATHARINE HEARS OF KING ARTHUR 73 
 
 seen some people I'd like to bite if I could use some- 
 body else's teeth to do it with. Did I ever slap or 
 bite you, Catharine?" 
 
 "No, my precious, ye were the best dispositioned 
 child I ever saw, and happy from morning till night. 
 Ye did things some people might call naughty, but 
 never an ugly, mean one, and you always had the 
 sweetest, little, cunning, lovin' ways with ye." 
 
 Mary drew the labor-rough hand from her hair 
 and kissed it in spite of Catharine's resistance. She 
 was very strong even with the indoor life which had 
 so worried her father. 
 
 "Catharine," she said suddenly, with a far-off 
 look in her eyes, and a soft color on her cheeks, 
 "I can hardly wait till I get old enough to get mar- 
 ried and have a whole lot of little children!" 
 
 "Lord love ye," was Catharine's sole, astonished 
 rejoinder. "And what about ye'r husband?" 
 
 "I don't know what I want my husband to be 
 like. Once I told father I wanted to marry a man 
 like the King Arthur at Innsbruck, and he laughed 
 and said he would look very different in ordinary 
 clothes, and armor was unhandy for every day." 
 Then, with a sudden recollection of Catharine's loss 
 of husband and child, and of her own great loss, 
 she rose and threw her arms around the motherly 
 neck with a sympathy entirely womanly. Cath- 
 arine's ready tears came again, but she was think- 
 ing of the future as well as of the past while she 
 heartily returned the embrace. 
 
 "The good Lord grant ye a King Arthur and all 
 the children ye want, my dearie," she said aloud,
 
 74 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and added to herself, "and there'll be a many ready 
 to fill King Arthur's place, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "And you are to come and live with me, and I 
 will name one of them after you." Mary was laugh- 
 ing now at her own childish conceit, but something 
 had been stirred within her that kept her dreaming 
 until Catharine reminded her that it was time for 
 sleeping dreams. 
 
 Later, when Catharine came to "tuck her in" 
 and give her the usual good-night kiss, Mary said 
 rather shamefacedly: "Catharine, never tell any- 
 body what I was talking about." 
 
 "And who would I be telling?" Catharine asked 
 sadly, in spite of wonder and amusement. Later, 
 as she returned to her own widowed couch, she said 
 to herself: "It's not me that will be tellin' Mr. 
 Brown about yer King Arthurs; he'll find 'em out 
 soon enough, I'm afraid." 
 
 Next morning, while they were clearing away 
 the breakfast dishes, she suddenly recalled an inter- 
 rupted topic of last night. 
 
 "Mary, ye put me out so with yer gettin'-married 
 talk that I never finished telling ye that I saw Mrs. 
 Wurts on the street one day not long ago, and she 
 knew me at once, and asked all manner o' questions 
 about yer father and you. Of course I didn't know 
 then that he was thinkin' of comin' home, nor all 
 that was ahead of us." She drew the back of her 
 hand across her eyes, and continued, "but I told 
 her a good deal. She said Jack was a scholar at one 
 o' those big colleges (I forget the name of it now; 
 I hardly noticed it, anyhow, I was that upset talkin'
 
 CATHARINE HEARS OF KING ARTHUR 75 
 
 of old times). She was sorry to hear about my trou- 
 bles, too. She's a right nice lady, and she thought a 
 lot of yer father. I could see she felt terrible bad 
 to hear what had come to him. He was as straight 
 and strong as a pine tree when she knew him." 
 
 "Father always said he believed people's bodies 
 would match their souls in Heaven, and I have been 
 thinking a great many times that he must be the most 
 beautiful, straight, strong man there except Jesus." 
 
 She had been interested to hear of Mrs. Wurts; but 
 the other interest, suggested by that train of thought, 
 swallowed up all minor ones.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE SIGNIFICANCE OF A TAILOR'S GOOSE 
 
 MISS NEWLIN spent an afternoon with Mary 
 before betaking herself to the quiet moun- 
 tain resort where she planned a modified 
 rest cure. She was a woman whose strong frame, 
 broad shoulders, and resolute, energetic carriage 
 suggested robust health, but she had in reality only 
 made an indomitable will do the work of a strong 
 constitution, and nature was taking her revenge 
 now in periods of extreme fatigue which her doctor 
 warned her was an indication of an overtaxed heart. 
 It was on one of her quests for renewed strength 
 that she had come upon Dick Farnham in his retired 
 corner, and led by womanly sympathy as much as 
 by old association, had become rapidly intimate with 
 him, and warmly interested in Mary. Remembering 
 Margaret Brown's school-days, Dick had often 
 thought of Miss Newlin as a possible solution of the 
 problem of Mary's future; but a voyage home was 
 strictly forbidden him, and he saw no prospect of 
 carrying out any such plan. When Providence seemed 
 to have so opportunely brought them together, he 
 eagerly grasped at the friendship, feeling more and 
 more that the time could not be far off when the child 
 would be in sore need of it. 
 
 (76)
 
 SIGNIFICANCE OF A TAILOR'S GOOSE 77 
 
 Miss Newlin was a woman of unusual power both 
 of mind and soul, and withal capable of great tender- 
 ness toward those who came close enough to her to 
 awaken it. The prevailing sentiment that she in- 
 spired, in school and out, was a respectful awe, more 
 or less mixed with admiration. In her presence one 
 felt the contact with a great personality, and small- 
 ness always shrank back under the gaze of her won- 
 derfully penetrating and expressive little brown 
 eyes. Her somewhat low forehead, from which the 
 hair was uncompromisingly drawn back and twisted 
 into a round knob, would. not have suggested ideality, 
 nor would the square jaw and high cheek-bones; 
 but one had only to hear her read great poetry, or 
 noble oratory; had only to see her plain, strong 
 face transfigured with the glow of an inward fire, 
 to realize that he was in the presence of one of the 
 world's mute poets and seers; of a great spirit that 
 could only find its wings through communion with 
 other great spirits. Mary was too really simple to 
 be intimidated by the reputation of learning in others, 
 and she had felt herself strongly drawn to Miss Newlin, 
 whose manner toward her father was replete with 
 sympathy and charm; but it was that first time the 
 lady had read aloud to them, which had completed 
 the conquest. The poem she had chosen was Brown- 
 ing's "Saul," and Mary had sat enthralled, looking 
 up at her from the stool at her father's side, and drink- 
 ing in each phrase of the poet, and tone of the 
 reader, with a soul so kindled by the majesty and 
 beauty of what she only partly comprehended, that 
 she never knew the wonderful brown eyes were no
 
 78 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 longer looking at the book, but deep, deep, down 
 into hers. 
 
 "OSaul.it shall be 
 
 A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, 
 Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever ! a Hand like this hand 
 Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ 
 stand!" 
 
 The rich, deep voice suddenly ceased. Mary 
 became conscious that it was no longer David who 
 was speaking; that it was Miss Newlin's voice talk- 
 ing to her, and Miss Newlin's strong hand holding 
 hers. 
 
 "Child, I must have you one of these days. Oh, 
 I will take your father too!" 
 
 The meetings at Germantown and Fernwood, 
 after nearly two years' separation, had been more 
 conventional, however full of sympathetic gentle- 
 ness on the one hand and grateful response on the 
 other. Miss Newlin was tired out, and the very spirit 
 within her was dimmed; and Mary had been too 
 full of her trouble and too much in awe of that future 
 which Miss Newlin represented, to have much to 
 say. John's coming had been welcome to them both. 
 
 That wondrous month of June found John, day 
 after day, at Fernwood, and when he was not there 
 in the flesh (the term is singularly inappropriate to 
 him) he was there in the spirit. 
 
 John Patterson and his wife Hannah, who had 
 married in Mrs. Brown's service ten years before, and 
 felt themselves as much a part of the family as though 
 they had been born into it, had many chats together
 
 SIGNIFICANCE OF A TAILOR'S GOOSE 79 
 
 over "Mr. John's child"; and both had a consuming 
 curiosity to see her. John filled the post of butler, 
 and would also have been valet con amore to John 
 Brown, if that gentleman's simple habits had admitted 
 of such a functionary. Brushing his clothes or 
 blacking his boots was all John Patterson ever seemed 
 able to find to do for his beloved employer; while 
 to Hannah, who combined the light duties of cham- 
 bermaid with those of attendance on Mrs. Brown, 
 was accorded the more intimate joy of "making up 
 his room," not to mention the delights of darning 
 his stockings and sewing on his buttons. Both had 
 a sincere respect and admiration for Mrs. Brown, 
 who was their ideal of what a real lady and a good 
 mistress ought to be; but for "Mr. John" their regard 
 was of a kind that bordered upon idolatry. It was 
 the keenest regret to them both that he had never 
 married, but as they saw no likelihood of that, they 
 wished that, at least, he would bring this child home. 
 Only they did have some misgivings as to their 
 mistress' acceptance of such an arrangement. 
 
 "John," said "Mr. John" one warm morning 
 late in the month, "it seems to me that these thin 
 trousers have got a little baggy in the knees. What 
 do you think?" 
 
 "So they have, sir," John Patterson rejoined with 
 alacrity, "and I could run around and let Tom Ford 
 press the whole suit for you this morning, if you'd 
 just change before you go out. They'd look a lot 
 better." John acquiesced with a gratified smile. 
 
 "Well, I declare!" said his humble adorer to Han- 
 nah, "I never knew him to notice that before! I'm
 
 80 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 goin' to get a tailor's goose and board and keep a 
 crease in all his trousers. I'd ought to thought o' 
 that long ago. It seems to me he looks younger 
 lately, and carries himself straighter." 
 
 Even Mary began to notice a difference in him, 
 though she was not versed enough in matters of male 
 attire to attribute the change to unrumpled coats 
 and freshly creased trousers. Personal appearance 
 in "King Arthur" was really important, but in 
 "John" she had got well used to the title in those 
 intimate weeks it didn't make a bit of difference. 
 
 "John, why did you never want to get married?" 
 she asked one morning, looking up suddenly from her 
 work, and fixing a grave, inquiring gaze full upon 
 him. 
 
 He noted the use of the past-definite with a twinge, 
 but it was with a quizzical smile that he turned to 
 her. "How do you know that I never did?" 
 
 She answered the smile with one so frankly loving 
 as to preclude all idea of coquetry in dealing with 
 this very personal topic. If her color rose, it was with 
 affectionate interest. 
 
 "I think if you really wanted anything very much" 
 (present tense now) "you'd get it unless" with 
 a subdued afterthought "it might harm somebody 
 else." 
 
 If she dropped her eyes it was only for the prosaic 
 reason that her brush had fallen from her hand in 
 the moment of absorption. John quickly restored 
 it to her with a merry little laugh. She thanked 
 him with hardly a glance; she was intent on seeing 
 whether the falling brush had stained her skirt;
 
 SIGNIFICANCE OF A TAILOR'S GOOSE 81 
 
 but he wanted another look into those wells of truth. 
 He would make her turn to him again. 
 
 "Suppose," he said solemnly, "I had wanted to 
 marry someone very much, and she would not have 
 me?" His purpose was instantly effected; the 
 paint-brush was again in imminent danger, while 
 eyes of startled incredulity tried to discover some 
 twinkle in his, and saw only an inscrutable gravity. 
 Her color rose high, and her lips half opened. Sud- 
 denly the dimples appeared and the eyelids fell; 
 "I almost believed you," she said with the half- 
 embarrassed little laugh of one who has been the easy 
 victim of a practical joke. No finished coquette 
 could have expressed so subtle a flattery. Nature 
 is always the mistress of art. The lowered lashes 
 of the coquette would have tried to imply some- 
 thing else, however, which this child of nature never 
 thought of. 
 
 John called himself a fool for the unreasoning 
 gladness that shot through him; it was dampened 
 in a moment. 
 
 "Do you think I am too old ever to think of such 
 a thing now?" he asked with teasing gravity. 
 
 "No-o, I suppose not," with sudden seriousness, 
 "but I do hope you won't!" 
 
 The very idea was so disturbing that she pushed 
 back and overturned her stool, while she fell upon 
 her knees on the grass at John's side and leaned her 
 head against his arm. The arm came around her at 
 once, but John's voice was strange. "You needn't 
 be afraid," he said quietly, "I shall never belong to 
 anybody but you."
 
 82 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Her quick ear detected the new note in his tone, 
 and it marred the relief she felt at his assurance. 
 " Oh, John, I know I ought to want you to get married 
 if you would really be happy ever after." 
 
 "But I wouldn't. I shall have a much better time 
 looking after you," he said, smiling down into her 
 upturned, wistful face.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 
 
 " T SUPPOSE my sketch must wait to-day, as 
 
 v John isn't coming; unless I go over there 
 
 myself," Mary said disconsolately, one warm 
 
 day in early July, as she sat in the shade by Catharine 
 
 on the little back porch, shelling peas. 
 
 "Why couldn't ye sketch the buttonwood tree? 
 Ye're so fond of looking at it," Catharine answered 
 soothingly. 
 
 "It's too hard; I could never do it; but I was so 
 interested in those lovely posts and the piece of stone 
 wall. Why couldn't we both go over there after dinner, 
 Catharine? There are ever so comfortable places to 
 sit, and you could sew, and I could work on my sketch 
 and surprise John. He works so much faster than I 
 do. Besides, you've never been over there once, and 
 you ought to see how pretty it is." 
 
 The object of discussion was the partly ruined 
 barn-yard of a deserted farm a quarter of a mile 
 away. It was a most picturesque spot and also a 
 singularly lonely one, which they had discovered on 
 a ramble a few days before, and had immediately 
 seized upon as a perfect subject for sketching. The 
 beautiful summer weather was well fitted for outdoor 
 work of a quiet kind, and she grudged this exquisite 
 
 (83)
 
 84 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 day. Truth to tell, John had so spoiled her that she 
 felt almost aggrieved if a day passed without seeing 
 him. "It's a wonder he don't try his hand on ye," 
 Catharine thought, as her eyes rested on the picture 
 before her; "but I doubt paint could ever make the 
 color of her eyes or the little shiny places on her hair." 
 It was her opinion that Mr. Brown would give a 
 good sum for the picture if it could be done. 
 
 "Well, I don't mind," was her indulgent response 
 to Mary's proposal. She much preferred her com- 
 fortable rocker on the porch to an "ever so" comfor- 
 table stump or bench on the ground; and it was a 
 warm day, but she could not bring herself to throw 
 cold water on any pleasure of this darling of her 
 heart, even though it meant a much greater incon- 
 venience to herself. In her secret heart she was still 
 a little jealous of Mr. Brown, both for herself and Mr. 
 Farnham. It astonished her that Mary could seem 
 really happy with anyone so soon after her great 
 loss. "No child ever loved her father better than 
 she did," she ruminated; and she had felt that it 
 would take her utmost efforts to rouse her charge 
 from despair. She almost resented the fact that this 
 man, who had been a comparative stranger only a 
 little while ago, could so occupy the child's thoughts 
 that there was hardly any time left to indulge in 
 grief. She told herself that it was because Mary 
 connected him with her father and remembered her 
 father's great fondness for him; and she often heard 
 them talking of Dick with tears in their eyes; but 
 it was wonderful "all the same." With the tact and 
 fine feeling of a native gentlewoman, she always spoke
 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 85 
 
 to Mary of John's affection as not only a natural, 
 but an inevitable thing, and of his constant visits 
 as the faithful and glad fulfilling of a trust; but in 
 her own mind she knew that she had never seen a 
 trust accepted and carried out in just this spirit, 
 and to this extent, and she was convinced that the 
 short intervals between John's visits were all too 
 long to him. 
 
 Mary was in haste to be off as soon as her midday 
 dinner was swallowed, but Catharine demurred. It 
 was too hot, and she must take time to "clear up and 
 fix herself up a little" before going out on the road. 
 Finally Mary urged her to let her go on ahead with 
 her apparatus and she (Catharine) could follow at 
 her leisure. 
 
 "I will wipe the dishes and put them away for 
 you," she said, "and then you can take your time 
 about changing your dress. You know the lane, 
 and it's only a step after you turn in, and nobody 
 ever comes there. It's shady nearly all the way," 
 she ended, "and I don't call it hot to-day!" 
 
 Catharine made many objections, but her head- 
 strong "child" overruled them all, and finally whee- 
 dled her into a reluctant consent. Mary allowed no 
 retracting when the dishes were put away; and 
 Catharine saw her start off, with easel and painting 
 outfit, at a gait suggestive of October frosts. 
 
 "I must hurry up and get ready," she said to her- 
 self; "I oughtn't to have let her go around by herself, 
 but I couldn't bear to deny her. She's seemed low- 
 spirited all the morning." Again the little jealous 
 pang shot through her and made her scold herself
 
 86 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 vigorously as she hurried about and got well heated 
 up before starting. 
 
 Mary, meantime, found it comfortable to slacken 
 her energetic pace. As she walked along under the 
 overhanging branches, she made a picture that any- 
 one might have been excused for turning to look at, 
 and in which no one but Mrs. Grundy could have 
 discovered a flaw. That exacting lady would un- 
 questionably have criticized the "hang" of her blue 
 gingham skirt and the fit of the simple waist; but 
 to the artist, the bit of white throat exposed would 
 have condoned the sagging collar, and he would have 
 rejoiced in the overlong sleeves which made the 
 turning back of the frills almost a necessity. Whether 
 the nondescript young man who passed her near the 
 entrance to the farm lane was an artist or not, this 
 true history cannot undertake to say; but it is an 
 undisputed fact that he not only stared her out of 
 countenance in passing, but turned and looked after 
 her in a much livelier manner than one would have 
 believed possible in seeing him mount the hill a little 
 while before. 
 
 Mary had a rather uncomfortable sensation, but 
 she was "not a bit afraid." He wouldn't dare say 
 anything to her, and she was "plenty big enough and 
 old enough to look out for herself!" She did not 
 know that she was a bait for just this sort of fish, 
 but she was conscious as she turned down the lane, 
 that he was Loking l-ack after her, and she almost 
 wished she had waited for Catharine. She went 
 resolutely forward, however, and reached the barn- 
 yard quite reassured. She put up her easel and camp-
 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 87 
 
 stool, and filled her water-can at a pipe through which 
 a spring eternally trickled into a disused sheep-trough 
 near by. What a very quiet place it was ! It seemed 
 so different without John. She thought she would 
 not come again till he was with her, but now she would 
 make the most of her time and surprise him. She 
 would put in the dark background behind those 
 beautiful round posts, whose whiteness was tempered 
 by so many spots of delicious, mouldy, licheny color. 
 The ragged edge of the overhanging hay-loft was not 
 quite right in her drawing; she wished she had John's 
 to look at. This sun made perfect light and shade. 
 She was sure that sepia was too brown to use in the 
 shadow; neutral tint with a touch of rose and green 
 and yellow would be best, but there was a brownish 
 color, especially in the corner. 
 
 "You've got a very pretty place for your work, 
 Miss," a voice said not far from her. She was startled 
 beyond all power of self-possession. How could he 
 have got there without her seeing or hearing him? 
 There was something sinister in that fact, as well 
 as in the look on his face, which turned her hot and 
 cold, she hardly knew why. His tone was quite 
 respectful, but his eyes were well, anyhow she hated 
 and feared him. 
 
 "Now if I knew how to paint I would never waste 
 my time on an old shack like that." He approached 
 her without haste, as though to look at the sketch. 
 She had risen at sight of him, and now lifted the stool 
 with some undefined purpose. He turned his leering 
 eyes on her face as she drew back. "I would paint 
 something better worth while." Mary's emotion
 
 88 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 only heightened the "worth while," and he moved 
 another step toward her. 
 
 "But I'd just as soon have a kiss as a picture, and 
 I like 'em all the better when they're not too easy to 
 get." 
 
 He made a sudden attempt to seize the camp- 
 stool and her waist at the same time, but she was lithe 
 and robust. She drew away like a flash, and brought 
 the legs of the stool around across his face with a 
 suddenness and strength that sent him reeling back- 
 ward. He was livid now, but he took a moment to 
 collect himself before beginning a second round with 
 this young Amazon; and that moment she used to 
 advantage. Throwing the stool as far behind her 
 as she could, she seized the easel and rushed at him, 
 swinging its long, tough legs from side to side in truly 
 formidable style. Too astonished to do more than 
 raise his arm to his head, the cowardly ruffian received 
 a blow that sent him down on the ground like a log, 
 with no inclination to get up at once. Mary did not 
 stop to see whether she might have killed him, but 
 took to her heels with as much energy as she had 
 shown in the fight, never letting go her weapon. 
 She did not slacken speed till she reached the road 
 and saw Catharine's matronly figure advancing under 
 the trees not far off; then she gave a look behind, 
 but could see no one. 
 
 Catharine's heated face took on a look of absolute 
 terror as Mary rushed toward her, and its expression 
 was not altered for the better when she had heard 
 the gasping recital. She was far more alarmed than 
 her ignorant, wrong-headed charge, who treated the
 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 89 
 
 matter, now that it was over, as almost a joke, and 
 was not a little elated at her own performance. On 
 that point Catharine did not gainsay her. She had 
 had many experiences of the independence and 
 resourcefulness of this young person as a child, but 
 she was amazed at her coolness and presence of mind 
 now. The last weeks had gone far to prove her 
 more dependent than of old. 
 
 The trouble was that she seemed to have no con- 
 ception of the seriousness of the matter, and Catharine 
 hesitated to open her eyes, or give her more fear 
 than was necessary for prudence. If only Mr. Brown 
 were here! But what would he say to her for her 
 dereliction from duty? (For thus she put it to her- 
 self.) She had hardly a word to answer to Mary's 
 excited chatter as they traversed the short distance 
 to their own gate. She felt so sick and faint, it 
 seemed to her that she would never be able to reach 
 that longed-for haven, and in spite of the heat her 
 face was as nearly white as the nature of her com- 
 plexion permitted. 
 
 Great was their astonishment to see John's tall 
 figure coming toward them from the porch, where 
 he had waited, not knowing which way to look for 
 them. There was no time to find out the cause of 
 his unexpected and welcome appearance, for his 
 first glance at the two faces told him that something 
 unusual and exciting had happened. The soft rings 
 of hair about Mary's face and neck were dripping 
 with perspiration. He took out his handkerchief, 
 shook out its immaculate folds and dried her hot 
 face as though she had been a little child, asking,
 
 90 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 in some anxiety, for an explanation. It was not 
 immediately forthcoming. 
 
 Catharine's tongue seemed to cleave to the roof 
 of her mouth, and Mary was considering where to 
 begin when his eye fell on the broken easel. He 
 grasped her arm almost fiercely, and asked what it 
 meant. Mary, to do her justice, made no more 
 than necessary of the story, and tried to clear Catha- 
 rine of the blame with which that penitent soul was 
 heaping herself. She ended with, "he was nothing 
 but a sneak who thought he could go about kissing 
 girls"; but John's face frightened her before she 
 reached this point, and his grasp of her arm hurt her 
 so much that she cried out. He relaxed his hold, 
 but in mechanical fashion, without asking her pardon. 
 He asked instead, so fiercely that she drew away from 
 him: "Did he kiss you? Did he touch you?" Again 
 he almost shook her. 
 
 "Do you think I would let him?" she rejoined with 
 offended dignity. Then she added with pardonable 
 pride: "I swung the easel around as hard as I could 
 and hit him on the head, and he fell down, and I 
 ran away as fast as lightning." 
 
 "She may have killed him, for he never followed 
 her, and those legs have brass points!" was Catha- 
 rine's excited comment. Without waiting for another 
 word, John was off at top speed. 
 
 "What did he want to do?" Mary wondered. 
 "To find out whether the man was dead? Of course 
 he wasn't dead!" A nervous shudder went through 
 her at the idea. "He was just a coward who didn't 
 dare come after her!"
 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 91 
 
 John was back in an incredibly short time, carrying 
 the remains of the scattered sketching outfit and 
 drying his face in much more vigorous fashion than 
 he had followed with Mary's. Only Catharine was 
 on the porch to greet him. He told her briefly that 
 he had seen no one, and had found only the scattered 
 objects which he still held. He had hurried back 
 for fear of the villain's lurking somewhere near the 
 cottage. He sank down on the nearest chair, and 
 Catharine forebore any comment, seeing that he 
 was utterly unnerved. He looked like a man enduring 
 some sharp physical pain. 
 
 "Where is Mary?" he asked after a long silence. 
 
 "She went up to her room." 
 
 "Would you send her down to me? I want to 
 speak to her," he said wearily. 
 
 It must be confessed that our heroine was not 
 in an admirable frame of mind; for she had been 
 much hurt at John's incomprehensible behavior to 
 her. " She ought not to have gone to the farm alone, 
 perhaps, but it wasn't a very dreadful thing to do; 
 and he had looked at her so sternly he frightened 
 her, and had hurt her arm badly." She looked in 
 the glass at the injured member as she changed her 
 damp clothes, and tears rose to her eyes as she saw 
 the marks of his powerful fingers distinct on the 
 white skin. They came still faster as she told herself 
 that her father would never have been so harsh with 
 her. He would have understood why she had been 
 impatient to commence her work, and he would have 
 praised her for being brave and self-reliant; he had 
 tried to teach her to be independent, but John had
 
 92 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 never thought of that! She had been more nervous 
 than she knew, and she found it hard to stop crying, 
 once fairly launched on the luxurious course of self- 
 pity. But she was not going to cry before John; 
 she was going to be very dignified and let him see that 
 he had offended her, and make him beg her pardon 
 for being so rough. The memory of all his tenderness 
 and care rose up in her throat and choked her, but 
 "she had never done anything he disapproved before." 
 
 When she heard his returning steps she hastened 
 her toilet and bathed her eyes. She was arrayed in a 
 fresh white lawn frock, with her favorite blue ribbons, 
 when Catharine came to seek her, and she drew out 
 a string of gold beads that the Swiss doctor had 
 given her, and fastened them around her neck. Some 
 obscure instinct made her want to look as pretty as 
 possible, and as much like a young lady. No such 
 thought had ever entered her head before with 
 reference to John, but she wanted to impress him, 
 and conciliate him at the same time. Her heart 
 was aching as well as her dignity. 
 
 "Perhaps he was sorry he had been so cross, and 
 had sent for her to make up," she thought as she went 
 slowly down the stairs. "Perhaps it was just because 
 he was worried." 
 
 As she stood for a moment in the doorway, against 
 the dark background of the little entry, she made a 
 picture of such extraordinary loveliness that John 
 was dazzled. He rose, but stood motionless, his 
 grave eyes resting on her with an expression she 
 could not understand; the smile she hoped for did 
 not come, nor any word of regret for being "cross."
 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 93 
 
 "Mary," he said sternly, his brows contracting 
 with what looked like displeasure, "I want you to 
 promise me never to go outside the gate again with- 
 out Catharine or me." 
 
 Mary's lips quivered, but she answered with spirit: 
 "Why, John, I wouldn't think of promising such a 
 thing. I don't want to be penned up like a 
 baby! Lots of children go along this road every 
 day!" 
 
 John was staggered. He thought she had had 
 an object lesson more effective than any request, 
 but an overpowering sense of his responsibility, a 
 sudden doubt of his power over her, seized him. He 
 recalled the accounts of her waywardness and self- 
 will. What imprudence might she not be capable 
 of? He went toward her and seized her hand: "If 
 you will not do as I ask, I shall have to write to Miss 
 Newlin to let me put you at once under her care," 
 he said. 
 
 She shook off his hand, and drew herself up with an 
 air of defiance that made her look years older. 
 
 "You wouldn't dare to treat me so!" she declared 
 passionately. "I am not a child!" 
 
 She had never been more of a spoiled child than at 
 that moment, and if John's unruly heart had not 
 played havoc with his judgment he would have 
 recognized the cause of this ebullition and been partly 
 amused by it. As it was, he winced, and turned as 
 white as though she had struck him in the face. 
 He seemed to himself to be standing at that Rubicon 
 that he had once dreaded, but lately forgotten. He 
 looked steadily in the beautiful, hostile eyes and
 
 94 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 believed that he was staking what he cared for most 
 in the world, when he answered as steadily: "I will 
 'dare' to do what I think right." 
 
 Blinded as he was, it required courage worthy of 
 the Victoria Cross to stand to his guns; the next 
 moment the Cross was awarded him. His arm was 
 clasped in both her hands, and her face buried against 
 it. "Oh, John, forgive me," she said brokenly. 
 "I will promise anything you want, only don't send 
 me away from Catharine and from you!" 
 
 The revulsion of feeling was so sudden, and over- 
 powering that a short sharp sound like a sob burst 
 from John's swelling chest. He was perfectly still 
 for a moment; then he took the hands from his arm 
 and held them fast. She saw that his eyes were wet. 
 
 Mary was in waters beyond her depth. She knew 
 he was not angry with her; but she must have hurt 
 his feelings very much. She wanted some warmer, 
 less solemn token of forgiveness. " Won't you kiss 
 me?" she asked wistfully, and John put a very big 
 stone in his new dyke as he stooped and kissed her 
 cheek. 
 
 "I don't know what made me so hateful, 
 John!" 
 
 "I think I understand it all very well," John 
 answered, "and I dare say I am unreasonable in my 
 fears. I hate to curtail your liberty in the smallest 
 degree. You need all we can give you." (He was 
 thinking of her long years of confinement.) "But 
 if I am obliged to be a little tyrannical, some day, 
 perhaps, you will understand and forgive me even 
 a mistake in judgment."
 
 A "SPOILED CHILD" 95 
 
 They spent a rather silent evening. All seemed 
 disinclined for conversation, and John's mind and 
 heart were full of matters of which he could not 
 speak. He asked very few questions about the 
 afternoon's adventure. He preferred going without 
 more information to touching again upon that pain- 
 ful subject. He was revolving the chances of bringing 
 the miscreant to account, but felt he could not do 
 that. He would rather leave the man unpunished 
 fiercely indignant as he felt than run the risk of 
 bringing this innocent child before a court or magis- 
 trate. 
 
 He overstayed his usual time, but suddenly recol- 
 lected that Mary ought to be in bed, and rose to go. 
 
 "Mary," he said in a matter-of-fact voice, "I have 
 been thinking that I should like to get away from the 
 hot city for a while, and that I might take you and 
 Catharine to the seashore somewhere for a few weeks." 
 He did not say, "where I could have you constantly 
 under my eye," but one, at least, of his hearers under- 
 stood and felt a guilty pang. 
 
 "It would be great for me," he went on, without 
 waiting for any answer, "and you could have much 
 more liberty to roam around. If you would let me 
 be somewhere in call, I would take a book, and you 
 could try to forget I was anywhere about, and go 
 exactly where you liked without consulting me." 
 
 The novel, humble proposition touched Mary to 
 the quick; for she saw that it was perfectly genuine, 
 and without a taint of wounded self-love. She 
 leaned her head against his arm, and, though he could 
 not see her upturned face distinctly in the darkness,
 
 96 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 there was a sound of tears in her voice as she said 
 eagerly, "Why, John, I don't like to be alone, and I 
 would rather have you with me than anything in 
 the world!"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 JOHN PLANS A TEST 
 
 THAT evening as John reached his solitary 
 home, pondering the events of the day and 
 his new plan, his eye fell on a little book that 
 a cricketing acquaintance had lent him in the morn- 
 ing. "A fascinating study in human nature," he 
 had said. John was fond of studying "human 
 nature"; but if he picked up the book, as he seated 
 himself in his big chair by the library table, it was 
 only to "give himself a countenance." John Patter- 
 son looked disapprovingly at the performance. In 
 his opinion it was high time to be going to bed, 
 and he never could see why people wanted to sit up 
 "all hours" and spoil a good night's sleep. John 
 told him that he would attend to closing the windows 
 when he was ready to go up, and the faithful fac- 
 totum went reluctantly to bed, after warning his 
 master of a threatened shower. If he had seen John 
 sitting motionless hour after hour, without turning 
 a page, his wonder would have turned to anxiety. 
 Now that John's excitement and passion were sub- 
 siding and he had not known that anything could 
 so stir him his thoughts concentrated on the 
 study of "human nature" that was his daily, and, 
 indeed, often his nightly, preoccupation. In this 
 7 (97)
 
 98 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 season of idleness, cut off by the circumstances from 
 even his accustomed sport, and with few associates, 
 and an acknowledged void in his life made by the 
 absence of young womanhood, it w r as not strange 
 that fate had him in her grasp. He would have 
 been horrified to have thought himself "in love." The 
 term constantly used to describe every shade of 
 passion from the noblest to the most vulgar, would 
 have seemed a positive indelicacy toward this uncon- 
 scious childhood which was his to guard. And yet 
 he knew that he loved her with aching intensity. 
 This student of facts and righter of wrongs was also 
 a reader of poetry and dreamer of dreams, and had 
 been storing up a hoard of sentiment and passion 
 that he had as little thought of ever spending upon 
 a living woman as the miser has of squandering his 
 treasured gold. He had always put marriage out 
 of his calculations for the simple but sufficient reason 
 that no one who would satisfy his romantic heart 
 (and hearts can be just as romantic in ugly bodies) 
 would ever be at all likely to fall in love with him. 
 He was not entirely humble, nor had he entered the 
 lodge gates of middle age without having encoun- 
 tered soft glances on the highway of life; he did not 
 call himself a " Caliban" nor was he looking for a 
 "Miranda," for, with all his day dreams, he never 
 encroached on that corner of heart or brain where 
 common sense is, or should be, lodged. But he had 
 a very exalted ideal of married life, and felt himself 
 strong enough to set aside any temptation to com- 
 promise. 
 
 He closed his eyes as the memory of Mary's
 
 JOHN PLANS A TEST 99 
 
 frankly offered lips came vividly before them. Could 
 it be possible that she had no sex consciousness at 
 sixteen years? Or was it only that he was so out 
 of the line of possible romance that ? His hands 
 closed tightly over the book on his knee, as the 
 vision of her eyes tormented him. She looked on 
 him as her father's chosen substitute or she would 
 not have thought of kissing him! He tried to recall 
 what Margaret had been like at sixteen. Yes, she 
 had been just sixteen on those first Christmas holi- 
 days. He smiled at the recollection of the dinner 
 and theater parties, the cotillions and engagements 
 to walk or skate; the budding romances shyly con- 
 fided to him who "never thought her silly nor teased 
 her." How fond of her he had been, and how proud 
 of her popularity and quiet savoir faire! Affec- 
 tionate, merry, but perfectly sophisticated, she had 
 managed her little court with a mixture of good 
 humor and dignity very pretty to see, and not the 
 less so for the dash of coquetry that belonged of 
 right to a general favorite. It would not have 
 occurred to her to kiss her father's dearest and most 
 intimate friend, and she would have been confused 
 or offended if he had taken such a liberty. And 
 Mary could she, however exceptional her up- 
 bringing, could she, with a beauty and presence that 
 made Margaret's fair share of good looks a negligible 
 quantity, have the unconsciousness of a little child? 
 She must miss her father tremendously. It was 
 loneliness and the habit of being fondled that made 
 her constantly invite his caresses; that slipped her 
 hand into his when she wanted comfort. Once he
 
 100 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 had drawn his away roughly because she had kissed 
 it, and had told her in peremptory fashion "never 
 to do that." He recalled with a pang of remorse 
 the proud lips and starting tears with which she had 
 told him that "Father never minded." What was 
 there left for him but to be as tenderly paternal as 
 possible and try to efface the impression his rudeness 
 had left? 
 
 Would she have looked at him with those clear, 
 unwavering eyes if he had kissed her lips instead 
 of her cheek? He colored hotly at the importunate 
 thought. Her lips were not for him. That closed 
 bud of her womanhood was sacred. But he must 
 not kiss her at all! He must wean her from habits 
 that would seem to most people unfitting even now, 
 and would be sure to cause disagreeable comment 
 later on. But not now! Not while she needed all 
 he could give! Boarding school would change 
 everything; meanwhile he would just accept the 
 Garden of Eden that was offered him; for he knew 
 that, this summer past, the angel with the flaming 
 sword would guard the gates. 
 
 Would a time ever come ? He put the thought 
 from him, but the memory of her last words brought 
 it back with a force that would not be gainsaid. 
 He had told himself many times, without bitterness, 
 that no woman could fall in love with such a down- 
 right ugly, uncouth person as he at least none but 
 a starved and humble one; but might God have 
 given him the one opportunity in a thousand of 
 training a woman to love him through dependence 
 upon him, and inner congeniality? *****
 
 101 
 
 George Raymond had just moved his family, 
 which consisted of his mother and two sisters, down 
 to a cottage at Cape May; but he himself was always 
 rather a bird of passage, never taking long vacations, 
 and usually lodging at the Art Club and taking his 
 meals where it chanced. He often dropped in upon 
 John at meal times or of an evening, but now he 
 quizzically remarked that breakfast was the only 
 meal he was sure of. 
 
 John hoped much that he would appear on this 
 particular morning, and he was not disappointed. 
 And in five minutes after John Patterson had left 
 them to themselves, as he always did, John Brown 
 had laid his present difficulty before his friend and 
 told him the bald facts of the event of the day before. 
 He eagerly awaited some expression of opinion, 
 which George did not seem in a hurry to give. He 
 was evidently impressed with the gravity of John's 
 responsibility, and made an admiring exclamation 
 when he heard of Mary's rout of the enemy; then 
 he sat silent for some time, quietly eating his breakfast. 
 
 "I tell you what it is, old man," he said at last, 
 with the outspokenness they were accustomed to use 
 toward each other, "I think you'll be making a mis- 
 take if you try to keep too tight a rein on her. Girls 
 are kittle-cattle, and this one must be independent 
 and plucky. I could tell better what I thought if 
 I saw her once." 
 
 "That is just what I was going to suggest," John 
 broke in eagerly. The wish had come to him last 
 night that he might see her behavior with a young 
 man well with George at least. George looked as
 
 102 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 much younger than his thirty years as John, himself, 
 looked older than his thirty-four, and George was 
 good-looking, graceful, immaculately dressed alto- 
 gether the comme il faut man of the world in appear- 
 ance, with as honest gentleman-like a heart as ever 
 beat. John could not help a tiny jealous pang as 
 he made the comparison in his mind between George 
 and himself; but he would have to face worse jealousy 
 some day perhaps, and the discipline would be 
 wholesome. 
 
 "Why couldn't you go out with me this afternoon?" 
 He tried to say it easily. 
 
 "I'd be glad to," was George's laconic answer, 
 which showed little of the delight he really felt at 
 the idea. His curiosity on the subject was as keen, 
 at the very least, as either John Patterson's or 
 Hannah's, and he hailed with relish the opportunity 
 of satisfying it at once. 
 
 On the way out that afternoon he told John that 
 he had thought of just the thing for the vacation 
 outing. "Fred Branson spoke to me last month 
 about his cottage at Beach Haven way up at the 
 north end, you know and I knew my family wouldn't 
 like it there: it's too quiet. But it occurred to me, 
 after I was talking to you this morning, and I dropped 
 in to see him. It's rather simple and bare, I believe, 
 and it hasn't been rented. He says if you would 
 take it for a few weeks he'd let you have it for a 
 song." 
 
 John's eyes brightened and his color rose, but he 
 said nothing at once; a castle in the air was evidently 
 in the course of hurried construction. "I wonder if
 
 JOHN PLANS A TEST 103 
 
 Mrs. Wharton would come down and matronize the 
 establishment?" he said at last. 
 
 "Mrs. Wharton would break a whole list of engage- 
 ments to do you a good turn," was George's warm 
 comment; then, as though a thought had just struck 
 him: "I suppose you wouldn't want to take Mary 
 up to North East?" 
 
 "Oh, no," John answered emphatically. "It is 
 too far off for this business of Dick's estate, and too 
 gay for her now. Mary wouldn't be fitted out for 
 any such place, either, I think, and besides" he 
 hesitated "I am not at all sure that my mother 
 would enjoy having her." 
 
 "Or vice versa," was George's mental comment. 
 
 "Mrs. Wharton would like her, I know," John 
 remarked with unconscious significance.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE TEST SUCCEEDS 
 
 AS they started up the well-worn path toward 
 the cottage, John unconsciously put his com- 
 panion's walking abilities to a pretty severe 
 test, though John Patterson's predicted shower had 
 cooled the air. His feverish heart again slipped the 
 leash of his judgment, and beat as the hearts of those 
 must have beaten who were about to consult an oracle 
 on a vital issue. John's oracle was to speak in no 
 equivocal terms, however, and the suspense was not 
 to be long. 
 
 He had distanced George, to the latter's amusement, 
 by at least a hundred yards, when he came in view of 
 the white figure on the cottage steps. She sprang 
 up, and in a moment was through the gate and com- 
 ing quickly along the path to meet him. Meantime 
 a comico-tragic exclamation from George had made 
 John halt and look back, and before Mary reached 
 him she saw that he was not alone, and checked her 
 steps, with her eyes on the stranger. John's own 
 never left her face while he took her hand and went 
 through the commonplace form of presentation. 
 He felt like a "Peeping Tom" to so mercilessly sound 
 the deeps that were reflected in her transparent face; 
 the more so that she never even noticed his scrutiny. 
 
 (104)
 
 THE TEST SUCCEEDS 105 
 
 She was looking at George with the naive admiration 
 of a child, but answered his greeting with a dignified 
 shyness that was new to John. The sudden lowering 
 of the lids under George's equally frank gaze, and 
 the softly fluctuating color told plainly of that self- 
 consciousness which is the token of awakening 
 womanhood. She had never showed anything of this 
 to him, and yet he told himself with the nearest 
 approach to bitterness he had ever harbored, that he 
 was only four years older than George ! The tumul- 
 tuous beating of his heart gave place to a quiet that 
 was like an aching emptiness, a lassitude that reached 
 to the very palms of his hands. 
 
 The two were too much taken up with each other 
 to pay any heed to him as they all seated themselves 
 on the low steps which till now Mary had shared 
 only with him. He was not looking at her, and did 
 not even hear what they were saying as he sat, bent 
 forward, prodding the ground with a stick. Suddenly 
 he heard George say: "Won't you show them to me?" 
 and her ready assent, as she went in search, no doubt, 
 of the precious sketches. 
 
 An eloquent "Gee whiz, John!" followed her exit. 
 
 John turned and answered by a smile bright enough, 
 almost, to deceive the friend who was clever only where 
 his affections were involved. 
 
 "Mary, George can give you lots of points. He is 
 a real artist, you know, as well as an architect," 
 he said as she came back carrying an improvised 
 portfolio. His words were quietly matter-of-fact, 
 and his eyes had a steady gentleness as he turned 
 them toward her but something in them recalled the
 
 106 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 day before, and her lips trembled. Quick as thought 
 she was by his side, and had deliberately drawn his 
 arm around her and pressed close to him. The action 
 told clearly what she would not put into words. 
 George felt a mist come before his eyes, and he did 
 not look at John. Was it possible! Poor old John! 
 Yet, why poor? 
 
 "You don't care to swap horses crossing a stream," 
 he said genially. It was not a question. 
 
 She smiled a very sweet little smile as she busied 
 herself with the portfolio on her lap. The stirring 
 of her deepest feeling had destroyed even her uncon- 
 scious consciousness, but she seemed to feel words 
 unnecessary. 
 
 "I don't know anybody who would be willing to 
 swap your horse," George went on, looking straight 
 into her eyes as she raised them again, his face soft 
 with affectionate approval: "Once we have John on 
 our side, nothing else counts." 
 
 "George!" John remonstrated with heightened 
 color. His lips actually trembled, but whether at 
 George's words or because of the bright head that 
 leaned back against him, his loyal friend forbore to 
 ask himself. 
 
 "It is true," was Mary's grave rejoinder. 
 
 George leaned forward and held out his hand to her: 
 "Mary, we ought to be good friends, we have such a 
 bond I beg your pardon, Miss Farnham, but I feel 
 as though I knew you well and you are so different 
 from other girls!" 
 
 "I like you to call me Mary because you are John's 
 best friend" she stopped suddenly, and her chin
 
 THE TEST SUCCEEDS 107 
 
 quivered with a memory that made her eyes darken 
 marvelously. The arm around her grew eloquent. 
 George only said a simple "Thank you," and they 
 fell to examining the sketches. It was not till later 
 that he remembered the "John," and then it seemed 
 just what he would have expected her to say. 
 
 Catharine's appearance at the door just then 
 effected a diversion, and John soon rose and withdrew 
 with her into the little parlor, leaving the two to 
 cement their friendship. He loved that parlor already, 
 and he had an unconscious habit of studying its photo- 
 graphs and souvenirs as though, through them, he 
 were trying to get more in touch with all Mary's 
 past life. He had many times lifted the Bernese 
 doll off the mantel-shelf and half caressed it, never 
 dreaming what a strange picture he made. He did 
 not realize that it was in his hands now, as he laid his 
 plan before Catharine, and asked her cooperation. 
 
 "Mr. Brown," she said gravely, "if the lady ye 
 are thinking of could go with ye you wouldn't be 
 needin' me; and if she couldn't She hesitated, 
 her eyes on the doll; but John did not help her out. 
 "Of course you know better than me that it wouldn't 
 look just right for ye to have Mary with ye with only 
 a maid, like. She's gettin' to look most a woman, for 
 all she's such a child in her actions." Then, seeing 
 John about to interrupt her, she went on quickly: 
 "I know you always treat me as if I was a lady, and 
 I believe ye feel the same to everybody if ye respect 
 them. Mr. Farnham was that way; but the people 
 ye'd be meeting down at the sea would likely be differ- 
 ent and think different."
 
 108 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 John stood apparently in serious consultation with 
 the little Bernese; then he raised his head and looked 
 at Catharine very gravely and gently. He did not 
 contradict her. 
 
 "But I am sure I can get Mrs. Wharton to go, and 
 we certainly shall need you. I couldn't think of taking 
 Mary away from you!" 
 
 "Mary's very fond of me, and there would be odd 
 times when she would miss me, perhaps; but" she 
 went on without bitterness, rather as though the 
 wonder was always fresh in her, and out of the abun- 
 dance of the heart the mouth spoke "she doesn't 
 even seem to miss her father when you are here! I 
 doubt she'd think of anything else if she had ye with 
 her all the time." 
 
 She saw a dark flush mount to John's forehead, and 
 the doll suffered in his powerful hands. "I can hardly 
 believe that," he said huskily. 
 
 "You'll forgive me if I'm takin' a liberty to say so, 
 but it's a wonderful power the Lord has given ye over 
 people, Mr. Brown. I've often wondered what 
 would become of the child if Mr. Farnham was taken, 
 for it wasn't only the feelin' a loving child has for a 
 father; he used to know how to inters/ and amuse 
 her so ye could hardly get her away from him long 
 enough for her health; and since I left 'em, she has 
 often written me about the things they were doing 
 together, and studyin' together and now it isn't 
 that she forgets, for she's always talkin' about old 
 times, and she has a good many cryin' spells when you 
 are away, but 
 
 "But she is very young and perfectly healthy,"
 
 THE TEST SUCCEEDS 109 
 
 John broke in somewhat unsteadily. "We older 
 people"-- he said it bravely "find it harder to re- 
 act." 
 
 Catharine made a faint protest against John's 
 classing himself with her as to age, but it was only 
 a faint one. In reality she felt him entirely middle- 
 aged. They discussed the question of her leaving 
 her garden and premises for long, and finally com- 
 promised on her going with them for two weeks, 
 and Mary returning to her in four or five. John 
 explained it all to Mary and suggested wiring Mrs. 
 Wharton that they would both take lunch with her 
 next day if convenient. 
 
 "It will give you a chance to get acquainted and 
 you will be sure to like each other," he said, watching 
 Mary's dubious face with some suspense. 
 
 George strolled to the garden, leaving the trio deep 
 in consultation, and by the time he got back every- 
 thing seemed satisfactorily arranged. John and he 
 were both silent for half the distance to the station. 
 
 "Well?" John said at last, glancing at his friend's 
 thoughtful face. 
 
 "John, it would be simple cruelty to try to coop 
 her up!" was the impetuous answer: "I can't even 
 imagine her in a girl's boarding-school ! Will she ever 
 be happy there?" He was sorry for the thoughtless 
 words when he saw the look on John's face. 
 
 "I hope so," he answered dully, "but what can I 
 do?" 
 
 "Nothing, of course." George's thoughts were 
 flying to Mrs. Brown. "And, no doubt, she will get 
 on finely; but it seems like taking a fawn out of the
 
 110 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 woods, or a skylark off the moors, and penning them 
 in a barn-yard with cows and chickens. I declare, 
 I never felt so as if I could write poetry in my life!" 
 
 John turned upon him a very bright face and very 
 oblique lips. Then he said half sadly: "But the world 
 is full of cows and chickens!" 
 
 "I can't tell you how she impresses me," George 
 went on, disregarding the comment. "It isn't her 
 looks nor her cleverness I suppose she is clever? 
 it is a kind of indefinable untamedness and uncon- 
 sciousness about her. I couldn't help wondering 
 whether it came from being brought up among the 
 snow-mountains. She would look at home coming 
 down off the Alps, with the wind blowing her; or 
 rowing a lifeboat, like the pictures of Grace Darling." 
 
 John suddenly put his arm across his friend's shoul- 
 ders: "She has been brought up beside an invalid's 
 chair," he said quietly. 
 
 "He must have been an extraordinary invalid!" 
 was George's heart-felt rejoinder. He had never 
 known Dick Farnham well, except through John. 
 "He knew what he was doing when he left her in your 
 care, old man; she isn't like you, but she fits to you 
 like a cup to a saucer." 
 
 The arm was suddenly withdrawn and John walked 
 a few paces ahead. They were close to the station 
 now and the train was in sight. George did not 
 see his face till they were seated in the car. 
 
 "I suppose Miss Newlin will let you go to see her 
 as often as you like?" 
 
 "Hardly!" was the dry retort. 
 
 George's eyes fell. He saw the hand on John's
 
 THE TEST SUCCEEDS 111 
 
 knee close. He loved John's hands; they were so 
 character-revealing in their power, dexterity, gentle- 
 ness. Nothing further was said on the short journey. 
 
 "It is the sea her eyes remind me of, the deep sea, 
 with cloud-shadows flying across it," George said to 
 himself as he walked back to the club. He said it 
 with the complete satisfaction of one who has finally 
 grasped an elusive title or tune; then he added with 
 apparent irrelevance, "and he can't run away from 
 it now!" 
 
 Once, years ago, he had said quite seriously : "John, 
 if you ever fell in love !" The hiatus was more 
 expressive than words. 
 
 "I know it well enough," John had replied with 
 equal gravity; "and I don't mean to take any risks."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHICH SHOWS THAT A STORK CAN MAKE A MISTAKE 
 
 MRS. WHARTON sat on the piazza of her 
 country home with an open letter on her lap 
 and an expression of soft amusement on 
 her face that was almost, but not quite, a smile. 
 
 "Poor Jane!" she said aloud; for like many soli- 
 tary people, she sometimes forgot and thought aloud. 
 "She is not far wrong." The letter was a long one, 
 written in the close, fine, Spencerian hand so common 
 in the first half of the last century, so rare to-day. 
 The envelope, which had fallen on the board floor, 
 bore the postmark, "Northeast Harbor, Me., July 
 6, 188-" the last figure was illegible. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton spoke no more, but we are privileged 
 to read thoughts, or even to peep over shoulders. 
 The plaintive chronicle of a mother's trials began 
 with some local details, and news of mutual friends, 
 but soon centered on the question that was upper- 
 most in the lady's mind. The top of the open page 
 commenced pathetically: 
 
 I had made up my mind to do without him this summer, and I 
 don't mean to be selfish ; but it would be a very different thing to 
 feel him on the other side of the ocean, from knowing him roast- 
 ing there in the city, and spending his whole time looking after 
 that girl. No doubt he lets her feel that she has an absolute 
 
 (112)
 
 A STORK CAN MAKE A MISTAKE 113 
 
 claim on him (you know John) ; but from his letters, even when 
 he doesn't mention being out at Fernwood, he never mentions 
 being anywhere else. There is never a word about cricket or 
 tennis, or any of the things that used to take up so much of his 
 leisure time, nor a mention of any man except George. His 
 letters are generally short and there is something unnatural 
 about them. I wish someone could prevail upon him to come 
 up here for August. I don't like to say anything more, but I am 
 sure he could be spared by that time. Now that you are home, 
 won't you ask him out for a night and talk to him, and let me 
 know how the land lies? I have a feeling that it is not only a 
 matter of duty of fulfilling his trust to Dick Farnham but that 
 he has let himself get so wrapped up in the child that he doesn't 
 want to leave. And she isn't really a child any longer, as I wrote 
 you. You know what we were at sixteen. You were half engaged 
 to Jim Wharton, and I was dreaming and moping over poor 
 James Carey. (What a life I would have had if I'd ever married 
 him !) I can't help worrying a little over John. He's so unused 
 to women! And to have one literally thrown at him this way, 
 and a pretty one! He confessed to me, himself, when I asked 
 him point-blank, that she was more beautiful than her mother; 
 and I can't forget the way he looked when he said it. 
 
 It was on this part of the letter that Mrs. Wharton's 
 mind was dwelling as her eyes rested on the glory 
 of the western sky, where the setting sun had only 
 just disappeared. The remains of a light supper 
 were on a little damask-covered table beside her, 
 for her enjoyment of out-of-doors was so great that 
 most of her meals were taken on one or other of the 
 verandas flanking the old house. A generous margin 
 had been added to their original eight feet of width, 
 and an awning on the south one made it seem still 
 more spacious. The rooms inside were very homely, 
 comfortable ones; but Mrs. Wharton was rarely 
 to be found in them in the daytime; and, when she
 
 114 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 had a companion, her evenings, too, were generally 
 spent outside. 
 
 She sat gazing at the heavens till the vivid rose 
 color changed to violet and then faded to the soft 
 neutral tints of evening, while the moon began to 
 throw shadows on the smooth lawn in front of her. 
 "It will be clear to-morrow and hot," she said, again 
 thinking aloud. 
 
 The maid came to remove the little supper table. 
 Then her ample bosom heaved with a deep sigh and 
 she rose and moved over to a bed of sweet-scented 
 flowers close by the piazza. She always planted that 
 one with heliotrope, mignonette, rose geraniums, 
 lemon verbenas and whatever contributed to scent 
 the evening air. They were silent companions whose 
 sweetness was almost like an actual beloved person- 
 ality to her. She stooped and pulled a sprig of the 
 verbena, rubbing its leaves between her fingers and 
 inhaling its aromatic perfume. Her hands were 
 large, with knotted, swollen joints, that bore witness 
 to an enemy always lurking near. She was so used 
 to his assaults that she refused to notice them or be 
 guided by the many friendly recommendations and 
 warnings offered her. She sat in the open air of eve- 
 nings just as she had always done, and ate her straw- 
 berries and salads with unruffled enjoyment. For 
 if the truth must out, she was a very self-willed per- 
 son, with strong, emphatic likes and dislikes, and 
 there was nobody to whose opinion she felt called 
 upon to conform since her husband had died a few 
 years before. To him she had given the absolute 
 allegiance of a life-long affection; for had he not,
 
 A STORK CAN MAKE A MISTAKE 115 
 
 as Mrs. Brown had just reminded her, made his 
 first timid avowals as he carried her books home 
 from school? She had been almost grateful to him 
 for that steady, unswerving homage paid to her 
 when, as she knew, any of the pretty girls would have 
 received his attention with alacrity. She had never 
 been anything approaching pretty. She would have 
 been positively masculine in appearance with her 
 tall, powerful figure, strong features and high cheek- 
 bones, except for a something expressive of a possi- 
 bility of tenderness as well as indignation in her large 
 mouth, with its thick lips and strong big teeth; except 
 for an exceedingly genial and even gentle expression 
 in the deep-set twinkling brown eyes with their 
 strong black brows and short thick lashes. 
 
 She was as different as possible from Mrs. Brown, 
 whom, however, she had sincerely loved for fifty 
 years, or since they were first old enough to play 
 together with their beloved dolls. The motherly 
 instinct so strongly exhibited in the child of three 
 or four, and so early called into play for real babies, 
 had been bitterly thwarted later on when, one after 
 another, she had seen her children fade away from 
 her before reaching manhood or womanhood. That 
 she, who, except for the aforesaid gout, had scarcely 
 known an illness in her life, should have brought into 
 the world only delicate children whom all her devoted 
 care could not avail to make robust, while Jane Brown, 
 who, in spite of a good physique, was continually 
 ailing, should have been blessed with two children, 
 " kerngesund," as our German cousins so happily 
 express it, was a great mystery to her; for she was
 
 116 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 a firm believer in heredity and very proud of her 
 genealogy. 
 
 "I am sure the stork made a mistake in the number 
 when he brought you John!" she had once said to 
 Mrs. Brown, when John was causing his mother posi- 
 tive dismay by his extraordinary length and strength 
 and awkwardness, and when his ugly features were 
 at their most prominent. "I was always sure he was 
 meant for me and was left at the wrong door," for 
 they had been near neighbors for many years of their 
 young married life. 
 
 Mrs. Brown had smiled, though her sense of humor 
 was never of the keenest. "I'm afraid he's going 
 to be bigger than his father," she had said, anxiously. 
 
 If the stork had been more accurate, it is to be 
 doubted whether Mrs. Wharton's heart, which is a 
 big one, could have been capable of any stronger 
 sentiment for John Wharton than it had always held 
 for John Brown. George Raymond had been quite 
 within bounds when he had said that she would break 
 a whole string of engagements to do John a good 
 turn. What is more, unselfish, thoughtful John was 
 always ready to accept a sacrifice from this good 
 friend with whom he joyfully turned the tables. 
 He counted on her confidently now, and was not to 
 be disappointed. As she moved along to another 
 flower-border, regardless of the gathering evening 
 dew and her trailing skirts, she was startled by the 
 sound of a quick step on the brick path and moved 
 around to the front of the house to meet a messenger 
 from the station bearing one of those yellow envelopes 
 that have caused so many heart flutterings. Mrs.
 
 A STORK CAN MAKE A MISTAKE 117 
 
 Wharton's heart did not flutter easily, but she was 
 conscious of a certain anxiety as she carried the tele- 
 gram in to the light, bidding the messenger wait. 
 
 The student-lamp on the round table in the sitting- 
 room had just been lighted. She put on her glasses 
 and spread the paper under it. In a moment her 
 face was transformed by a brighter glow than the 
 lam'p had ever caused. "Speak of angels," she said 
 excitedly, going with her quick, heavy step to a 
 desk near by and drawing a telegraph blank from a 
 pigeon-hole. It was a short but exceedingly cordial 
 message that she gave the waiting boy; then she 
 crossed the hall to the dining-room and opened the 
 door of the big inner kitchen. 
 
 "Sarah!" she called, "are there any more of those 
 late pie-cherries?" And there followed one of those 
 weighty councils typical of old-fashioned Quaker 
 households where good cheer is a never-failing accom- 
 paniment to hospitality. 
 
 ******* 
 
 She was on the platform next day when the train 
 pulled up to the little country station, and the flush 
 on her cheeks was not entirely caused by the ardent 
 rays of the noon-day sun. . 
 
 "Well, well, to think of your coming out in this 
 broiling heat to meet us!" John said, kissing her 
 with a beaming face. "Mary" he turned to the 
 girl who, with wide, grave, eyes, was "taking Mrs. 
 Wharton in" with all her might "you two hardly 
 need an introduction." 
 
 The smile that stole over Mary's face was not 
 in the least like the usual one that courtesy dictates
 
 118 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 on such occasions. It was the spontaneous yielding 
 to the impression that Mrs. Wharton's smile of wel- 
 come made upon her, and Mrs. Wharton read it 
 correctly, and much beside, of which it was a symbol. 
 She took the girl's hand in both her misshappen 
 ones, and then suddenly stooped and kissed her 
 warmly. "I am very glad to see you, dear," was all 
 she said aloud ; but it was with difficulty she restrained 
 herself from giving way to her habit and making audi- 
 ble the rest of her thought. 
 
 They were soon seated in the roomy carriage which 
 stood waiting a little way off under a tree Mrs. 
 Wharton was more merciful to her beasts than to 
 herself and then, as John opened conversation 
 with his old friend Sam on the front seat, she turned 
 again and let her eyes rest on the flushed face beside 
 her. Mary had, at John's request, put on one of 
 the simple white dresses, but the blue ribbons were 
 replaced by black velvet and the gold beads by a 
 curious dull gold locket on a velvet band. The 
 buckle that clasped the girdle was of heavy Roman 
 gold, and both ornaments, which were too old for 
 a child, gave her a more mature young-womanly 
 air than usual. The round hat, which John had 
 lately bought her, because, as he explained with 
 some diffidence, it looked so like her he couldn't 
 help it, had surprised though it had not balked him 
 by its price, for its simple white straw was decorated 
 only with a black velvet bow and two clusters of 
 opening moss-rose-buds, so natural that one felt 
 sure they must smell. He had seen his taste endorsed 
 by so many pairs of eyes on that morning's trip that
 
 A STORK CAN MAKE A MISTAKE 119 
 
 he had half wished he had added a veil to its trim- 
 mings. 
 
 "Mary, I've wanted all these weeks to see you, 
 but I've been away for a month and I should have 
 hesitated about intruding on you anyhow." Mrs. 
 Wharton took one of the white-cotton-gloved hands 
 in hers and pressed it hard. Expressions of sym- 
 pathy did not come readily with her, but Mary under- 
 stood. John was not surprised when he turned around 
 a few minutes later to see the white glove in custody 
 and an expression on both faces that betokened the 
 plighting of friendship's troth. 
 
 "I knew they would soon hit it off," he said to 
 himself, while his eyes met Mrs. Wharton's with 
 grateful ardor and a mute appeal. 
 
 Her answering look promised: "To the bitter 
 end!" and some touch of solicitude in it foreboded 
 the possible "bitter." 
 
 They rumbled over the arched stone bridge that 
 crossed a wide, quiet stream, passed a screen of woods, 
 and turned into the shady driveway that approached 
 the old house. Its field-stone walls, so characteristic 
 of Pennsylvania country houses, had been plastered 
 and whitewashed on both gable ends, when or why 
 Mrs. Wharton herself had no idea, but they formed 
 a very attractive background for the ivy and rose- 
 bushes trained upon them. 
 
 The hall door stood hospitably open, and the eye, 
 piercing the shady length of the cool entry, was car- 
 ried on through the opposite doorway to the orchard 
 beyond. 
 
 "What a dear old house!" was Mary's heartfelt
 
 120 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 exclamation as she sprang out, hardly touching John's 
 offered hand, and stood looking delightedly about 
 her. 
 
 "I call this my second home," John said, pleased 
 with her pleasure. "I have had the happiest times 
 of my life in this old place, and your father used to 
 come here too when he was a boy." 
 
 "I hope you will get to feel it like home and let 
 John bring you here often," Mrs. Wharton said heart- 
 ily as she took her guest upstairs. 
 
 The curious old furniture came in for a fresh burst 
 of Mary's enthusiasm. And she ran her hand caress- 
 ingly over the smooth mahogany of the big chairs 
 and gazed in wonderment at the gigantic four-poster, 
 which Mrs. Wharton said was the only thing not 
 inherited from generations long past. "That is 
 the one piece I ever bought, and it didn't come from 
 a shop. I bought it in New Orleans from an old 
 Creole lady, because it was so enormous. I was 
 determined to have one bed in this house big enough 
 for John to luxuriate in, for he must have a hard time 
 most places he goes. He was only sixteen when I 
 got it, but as tall as he is now. It is a real inconve- 
 nience to be bigger than other people and have to 
 always try to fit into ordinary niches and sit on 
 ordinary, flimsy chairs. I happen to have inherited 
 some chairs big enough even for John." 
 
 "But I wouldn't for the world have him like other 
 people, would you? I love his bigness so. He 
 seems so big inside, he would burst a little body!" 
 
 The big body in question was leaning against a 
 pillar on the shady back piazza, his eyes on the rich
 
 A STORK CAN MAKE A MISTAKE 121 
 
 green of the orchard, which looked like spring again 
 since the harvesting of its first hay crop. It is doubt- 
 ful whether it occupied all his thoughts, however, 
 for his ear heard the steps on the stair, and his expect- 
 ant eyes were on the door as the two came out to 
 him. 
 
 Mary's right hand slipped at once into his left 
 one and she said in an undertone, "Ask her now, 
 John." 
 
 Mrs. Wharton did not catch her words, but she 
 saw the subtle reflection of her touch in John's face 
 independently of the smile with which he looked 
 down at her. Indeed, it struck the observer that 
 the smile came in spite of the other deeper feeling. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked, retaining her 
 hand as she was about to move quickly past him. 
 
 "Just to look around," she said, with a little, sly 
 smile. 
 
 "Aren't you going to back me up?" he asked; but 
 suddenly bethinking himself, he loosed the hand, 
 and she went lightly around the corner to the front 
 of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton's rather startled expression made 
 him laugh outright, and then he soberly told his 
 little story and made his request. 
 
 "I could not think of asking this sort of sacrifice 
 of anyone but you or George " he said in con- 
 clusion; "not even of mother. She would love to 
 do anything for me, I know, but Mrs. Wharton 
 understood the "but." 
 
 "Poor Jane!" she said aloud. Then, seeing John's 
 face sadden, she added quickly: "You are right in
 
 122 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 regard to this. It would not do; only I feel as though 
 in accepting your invitation, I was depriving her of 
 something precious that she ought to have." 
 
 "Mother gave me up to Dick this summer," John 
 said, in a low, pained voice; "and I promised him 
 my time should be Mary's. I have no choice or I 
 might feel it my duty. It is not unnatural that 
 mother should think Mrs. Wharton, I am sure she 
 would not understand Mary, and I am afraid she 
 will not like her." He tried in vain to steady his 
 voice and the trembling of his lips. Mrs. Wharton 
 met his wistful, direct gaze with one equally direct. 
 John felt he was answered. 
 
 They soon fell into the discussion of such prosaic 
 things as bed- and table-linen, and other domestic 
 details with which Mrs. Wharton insisted on burden- 
 ing herself. 
 
 "I think John Patterson and Hannah can attend 
 to all our needs," John said; "but there is Mary 
 I will call her."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "THE DEEPEST DEPTHS OF A FULL HEART" 
 
 OH, how lovely!" The direct object of Mrs. 
 Wharton's delighted exclamation was a low 
 stone-ware butter-crock filled with freshly 
 gathered wild roses, to which Mary was adding the 
 finishing touches on the breakfast table; but follow- 
 ing the direction of John's eyes, one would have 
 applied the adjective to another noun. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Wharton intended to include both. It was 
 the first Sunday of their Beach Haven stay, and 
 the first really "settled" day; for Saturday had 
 been full of commotion and arrangement. Mary 
 had been everywhere, up stairs and down, as pleased 
 as a child with a play house, and every face reflected 
 her interest and pleasure. One main object of her 
 search had been "nice" receptacles for flowers, for 
 she had scornfully spurned the slim, toppling or over- 
 decorated ornaments scatteringly disposed about the 
 bare rooms. 
 
 Opening the kitchen door to discover her where- 
 abouts, John had met her returning from a rear 
 shed with a glowing face and news of treasure trove 
 in the way of more or less dilapidated stone and 
 earthenware vessels. She carried a specimen under 
 each arm. That they had been discarded for lack 
 
 (123)
 
 124 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of lids, handles or noses was no detriment, in her 
 eyes, and indeed lids must have been dispensed with 
 in any case. 
 
 John and Hannah felt as though the whole arrange- 
 ment were a sort of continuous picnic, at which they 
 were all drinking from the fountain of youth. Al- 
 ready they were Mary's intimate friends and on 
 terms of respectful mutual understanding with 
 Catharine, who at once joined forces with them as a 
 matter of course, quietly but conclusively negativing 
 any other plan. 
 
 " Why, you must have been up since dawn," 
 Mrs. Wharton continued, looking around at two jugs 
 of daisies, a little brown pitcher of sea-pinks and 
 grasses and a bunch of glorified clover blossoms in 
 a tumbler. The unkempt yard of the cottage, with 
 its hillocky, sandy soil, furnished no more aristo- 
 cratic blossoms, unless the morning-glories on the 
 porch might lay claim to that distinction; and the 
 handful of pinks had been gathered by the grocer's 
 boy and dumbly offered at Mary's shrine. 
 
 John's toilet had been hindered by his apprecia- 
 tion of the picture that had appeared and disappeared 
 within his range of vision, and the prospect of coming 
 down morning after morning to find her there beside 
 him at breakfast, of having her beside him all day 
 long, on the beach, in the surf, along the few roads 
 that all merged into that long causeway out to the 
 boat- wharves, shopping for household things at the 
 store as she had done yesterday morning, or begging 
 her turn at steering the boat under Captain Smith's 
 guidance, as in the afternoon, filled him with a flood
 
 "DEPTHS OF A FULL HEART" 125 
 
 of ungovernable joy. He was to crowd a week of 
 ordinary happiness into each day. 
 
 Dick was ever present to him in Mary, but with 
 little pain. The loss which would have so heavily 
 clouded his summer was merged in the great gain 
 that loss had brought, and in the feeling that Dick 
 himself had foreseen this and arranged for it as far 
 as he could. 
 
 "I know nearly everything that ever happened 
 to you when you were a little boy," Mary had said 
 to him lately. "Father told me everything about 
 you. I suppose he knew I was going to belong to 
 you some day." She could not guess what a galvanic 
 thrill had shot through John at the matter-of-fact 
 statement. 
 
 "It didn't take me very long to pick these," was 
 her pleased answer to Mrs. Wharton's words. " Cath- 
 arine says the only way to keep wild roses from fading 
 right away is to pick them before the sun has been 
 on them long, and get them into water as quickly 
 as you can." 
 
 "John, don't you want to go to church?" she 
 asked gravely, when they were seated at breakfast. 
 "Father said you always went, and I know you have 
 been staying away all summer because of me." 
 
 John hesitated. He had always known that he 
 and Dick differed in their religious beliefs, but it 
 had made no difference to their close friendship. 
 Each had thoroughly respected the other's point of 
 view without definitely knowing it, and Dick made 
 it a point of honor never to try to influence his more 
 orthodox friend. But he had confessed to having
 
 126 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 made Mary "a little theologian," and John dreaded 
 any word or act that might open the least gulf between 
 himself and her. Somehow differing with her was 
 another thing than differing with Dick. She was so 
 young and so positive. She would not understand 
 any point of view but her father's, and would perhaps 
 feel him narrow and find his church-going Sunday 
 irksome. He meant to be true to himself and he 
 knew that he was a coward; but he could not bring 
 himself to hurry matters. He looked up at her now 
 with heightened color and a rather formal gravity. 
 
 "I do generally go to church, but I am not de- 
 pendent on it, and I should rather do what you would 
 like. Of course, you have not been used to going 
 anywhere?" 
 
 "But I want to," Mary said, her eyes filling at 
 the memory of those other Sundays. "I should 
 like to go with you" a faint accent on the "you." 
 "Are you an Episcopalian too, Mrs. Wharton?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "No, dear, I am a Friend." 
 
 "Oh, like Grandma!" The pleased inflection of 
 Mary's voice made both her listeners smile. 
 
 "Yes," Mrs. Wharton said, "only I belong to the 
 other branch: what they call the 'Hicksite' Friends. 
 Do you know the difference?" 
 
 "Yes, Father told me about why the break came, 
 and he said if he had been there he would have sided 
 with the 'Hicksites.' He wouldn't join them later 
 because he said it would hurt Grandma's feelings, 
 and anyhow, a Friend can believe anything he likes, 
 especially if he doesn't say anything in the meetings."
 
 "DEPTHS OF A FULL HEART" 127 
 
 Mrs. Wharton said she thought she should spend 
 the morning reading and writing in her own room, 
 and from its window she watched the setting forth 
 of the other two to the little Episcopal Church. 
 She saw John take the parasol and raise it. His 
 smile did her heart good. "I have never seen his 
 face look like it does now," she said to herself, with 
 a little sigh, and then turned to her desk and "Jane 
 Brown's" unanswered letter. She found it a harder 
 matter to begin than she had thought, judging by 
 the length of time her eyes rested immovably on the 
 fresh sheet before her and the number of times her 
 pen was dipped in the ink, only to dry unused. 
 
 "You are more particular to-day," John said, 
 teasingly, to Mary, referring to a reckless exposure 
 of her complexion the afternoon before, over which 
 he had felt obliged to remonstrate. 
 
 "I am particular about my roses," she said smil- 
 ingly. His eyes wandered from hat to cheeks, and 
 plainly asked the question he checked on his lips. 
 
 Mary laughed. "I mean your roses," she added, 
 a deeper shade in her own accompanying the frank 
 words. 
 
 The church was mainly supported by the contri- 
 butions of summer visitors; and a different clergy- 
 man officiated each Sunday. It was a very simple 
 service and the whole congregation joined heartily 
 in responses and hymns. Mary knew few hymns 
 and had not much voice; but her soul seemed lifted 
 up on wings and her eyes filled again and again. 
 She put her handkerchief to them as unobtrusively 
 as possible; yet she knew John noticed, and felt
 
 128 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 his sympathy in every decorous conventional little 
 service he tendered her. She knew the words of 
 most of the liturgy, though he had to find the places 
 for her, and she preferred singing with him from his 
 hymn-book, or rather looking on with him while he 
 sang. John always disclaimed the possession of a 
 singing voice, though his speaking voice had great 
 richness and variety in spite of the unmistakable 
 Philadelphia accent. His singing of those hymns 
 that he liked was the unaffected outpouring of his 
 heart, and Mary's was not the only heart that was 
 stirred in response. Once she raised her eyes from 
 the book to his face, as a child looks up with the 
 simple need of showing affection and getting sym- 
 pathy. The look she encountered gave her a new 
 sense of the sweetness of life of a world full of noble 
 endeavor, of infinite possibilities, of unbounded love. 
 
 The words of the old collect had never fallen on 
 more fertile soil: "Almighty God, unto whom all 
 hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom 
 no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts 
 by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may 
 perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy 
 name, through Christ, our Lord." 
 
 Her low "Amen" came from the deepest depths 
 of a full heart. 
 
 Dick Farnham had early recognized that he was 
 master of a little craft full-rigged for every wind of 
 impulse and emotion on the ocean of life. Should 
 he try to reef her or transform her to some safer, 
 more plodding form of vessel? No! All the sports- 
 man in him loved his racing yacht. Thank God,
 
 "DEPTHS OF A FULL HEART" 129 
 
 she was not meant for shallow water! He would 
 deepen her keel, ballast her as heavily as might be 
 and trust her to the open sea. He had no need to 
 strengthen her love to God; she caught fire in an 
 instant, and he recognized the stuff of which mystics 
 and martyrs are made. He turned his whole training 
 to her reason and judgment. They studied the Bible 
 together in the light of all the sane and reverent 
 criticism he could find suited to her years, and he 
 led her to weigh the true and false at every turn, 
 as they discussed books and sermons. She had seldom 
 been in a church and was unused to music. Her 
 father had never even been able to "turn a tune." 
 
 John knew this and thought he read what was 
 taking place in her. She occupied his thoughts to 
 the exclusion of the really excellent sermon; or, 
 rather, he heard it only through her ears, and he saw 
 that they missed no word. Her eyes scarcely left the 
 preacher's face, and her clasped hands, from which 
 she had drawn the gloves, never stirred on her lap. 
 Over and over John chid himself, and tried to follow 
 her example, and over and over his truant thoughts 
 came back. Had Dick foreseen how he too would 
 thrill with the rapture of seeing those white sails 
 spread? 
 
 The church was crowded, and they had slipped 
 into seats at the very back, but even there it seemed 
 to John that all eyes would turn to watch the pic- 
 ture at his side. He recognized the owners of some 
 of them, and as the congregation moved out after 
 those last solemn, beautiful words of benediction, he 
 turned to Mary and asked her to wait for him in the 
 
 o
 
 130 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 scanty scrap of shade. "I must speak to some of 
 these people," he said ruefully. 
 
 When he joined her the flushed, earnest face bore 
 witness to the depth of the impression she had 
 received. He only glanced at it as he took her 
 prayer-book Dick's old book and put it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "John," she said in a very low voice, as the whole 
 congregation moved toward the beach in procession, 
 "may I always go to church with you?" Always! 
 The word smote bitter sweet on John's ear. A 
 quick vision of his mother, of Miss Newlin, of a host 
 of shadowy figures out of the unknown future passed 
 before his mental eye. But he turned to her with a 
 smile and said simply, "I knew that you were glad 
 to be there." 
 
 "Oh!" He saw her lips tremble as she turned 
 her face away; then her eyes were raised dark and 
 deep as those of a young seer, "I never felt so near 
 to God before!" 
 
 He answered her gaze expressively enough, but 
 found no words for the wave of gratified feeling that 
 filled him. They were .nearing the crowded beach, 
 where many bathers were already in the surf, and 
 some of the church-goers were hastening to join 
 them. It was a dazzlingly gay scene, and both felt 
 it jar on their earnest mood. Without a word they 
 turned away and walked toward the cottage, in its 
 retired setting, through the scattered groups under 
 the beach umbrellas, the playing children and pic- 
 turesque bathers apparently more intent on basking 
 in the sun's rays than dipping in the ocean's waves.
 
 "DEPTHS OF A FULL HEART" 131 
 
 By common consent they halted some distance 
 beyond and seated themselves on a sand-hillock at 
 the top of the steep beach. 
 
 "John/' Mary said earnestly, "I wish I could 
 belong to your church and believe just what you 
 believe, for I do love you so dearly!" The warm 
 color and starting tears bore witness to the sincerity 
 of the impulsive words. 
 
 John's face quivered and his eyes fell. "Couldn't 
 you?" he said without trying to answer the rest of 
 her confession. 
 
 "Can anybody join the Episcopal Church without 
 being baptized?" 
 
 "No, but you wouldn't hesitate about that if it 
 were for somebody you were fond of, and surely 
 you would be willing to do it for Christ." 
 
 "Oh, no, it isn't that! Of course, I would be 
 willing to do almost anything, only I don't really 
 believe Christ wants me to do that; but I would 
 have to say I believed something, you see." 
 
 At another time John might have smiled at the 
 childlike words, but not now. "You didn't repeat 
 the Creed this morning," he said. "Was it because 
 you don't understand it, or" he hesitated "I am 
 afraid I would be a poor help, as I have my own 
 way of interpreting things, and it isn't a very logical 
 way, perhaps; but I would be willing to try." 
 
 "Oh, I think I understand it, " Mary said sadly, 
 "but I don't believe it. Perhaps I might believe it 
 your way." The gaze she turned upon him was not 
 a child's gaze. They were such eyes as that other 
 Mary in Bethany of old might have lifted to the
 
 132 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Master at whose feet she sat. A passer-by wondered 
 what could cause such distraction in the oddly as- 
 sorted pair. Could that beautiful girl possibly be 
 his daughter? And what had happened to them? 
 John had a sudden consciousness of the immense 
 influence it was in his power to exert over this eager, 
 impressionable nature whose love for him was so 
 deeply tinged with hero-worship, and yet he intui- 
 tively knew that in the last resort, when reason had 
 overtopped emotion, her influence would be the 
 stronger. 
 
 "I should like to try to make you believe as I 
 do," he said rather dully, "but truth is a very big 
 thing, and we none of us grasp it all and few of us 
 get just the same piece. You believe that I am as 
 anxious as your father or you to live by what I hold 
 to be true, don't you?" Her eyes were reassuring. 
 
 "I have been very much afraid of touching on these 
 things with you, because I I hate to differ with 
 you." He tried to smile frankly in her face. "I 
 wouldn't want to make you believe anything that 
 your father didn't believe, and I couldn't make you 
 if I would; you are too exactly like him. You will 
 always do your own judging." 
 
 "Well, won't you go over the prayer-book, espe- 
 cially the Creed, with me some time, and tell me how 
 you think?" 
 
 John's none too eager answer was prevented by a 
 dripping urchin who seemed to be a connoisseur of 
 pictures and to recognize a masterpiece under the 
 green parasol. His unembarrassed gaze put a merry 
 end to their talk.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 JOHN'S catechumenical lecture did not take place 
 at once, for there seemed no haste on the part 
 of either to broach a topic that might be fraught 
 with difference of opinion, and chance decreed that 
 it was to be Mary who should give the first teaching. 
 She was very fond of reading, and read aloud delight- 
 fully, without self-consciousness or elocutionary effect 
 and with a very intelligent appreciation of her subject 
 and a keen sense of humor. Both Mrs. Wharton and 
 John were astonished at the extent of her general 
 information. John always took his turn at connected 
 reading, and most of their evenings were passed in 
 this way, while Mrs. Wharton plied her indefatigable 
 knitting or crochet needles. 
 
 Once they happened upon a Biblical allusion that 
 brought up the question of Higher Criticism, and 
 Mary gave a very simple and clear opinion, gained 
 from her respectable knowledge of this subject. It 
 ended in her bringing out her well-worn Bible and 
 giving a little lecture to a very indulgent audience. 
 
 John knew little of Biblical criticism and had been 
 somewhat prejudiced against it by what he considered 
 unwarranted assumptions on the part of German 
 critics whom he had heard quoted. He had been busy 
 
 (133)
 
 134 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 with other matters and disinclined to critical study 
 for its own sake, while any Irreverent handling of the 
 sacred and time-honored text was repugnant to his 
 feelings. That Mary's training had been toward 
 reverence he had no doubt, and his mind and heart 
 were open to all she would tell him. Neither he nor 
 Mrs. Wharton had so good a knowledge of the Bible 
 as their youthful teacher, and Mrs. Wharton was 
 ignorant of the rudiments of criticism and hardly 
 knew the meaning of the word exegesis. She had 
 been no Bible student at any time and her devotional 
 reading was confined to the Psalms and Gospels, with 
 short excursions into the Prophets and Epistles. 
 When any passage or chapter puzzled her, she passed 
 it by and went on to what was plain, troubling herself 
 little about Verbal Inspiration, difference of authen- 
 ticity or chronology or any other of the burning 
 questions of the schools. Her simple faith in the 
 goodness of God, which repeated personal bereave- 
 ments had not succeeded in shaking, was sufficient 
 for her. She read the acts and teachings of Jesus 
 without any question as to sequence or context, and 
 accepted literally his injunction, "Let not your heart 
 be troubled." She was a woman of very moderate 
 education or culture, but her unassailable position 
 in the solider stratum of Philadelphia society, her 
 intercourse with many people of high culture and 
 attainment and her much traveling among the older 
 civilizations of Europe gave her an assured manner of 
 handling many subjects on which she frankly con- 
 fessed her ignorance ; and her knowledge of the world 
 and of people stood her in as good stead with society
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 135 
 
 at large as a much more considerable learning. The 
 terms that came so fluently from Mary's lips were 
 " Greek" to her, and it seemed quite unimportant 
 whether the whole Pentateuch had come down the 
 centuries in the undisputed handwriting of Moses 
 himself or had been a composite mass of material of 
 various epochs. She saw it was otherwise with John 
 and that his interest was real. She thought it likely 
 that he would not have undertaken this study from 
 pure love of it; but pure love of the teacher is a great 
 stimulus to learning. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton soon dropped out of all active share 
 in the discussions; for they developed into discussions, 
 as John had many pertinent questions to put and 
 doubts to raise, but she was generally present. She 
 was never at any time allowed to feel herself de trop, 
 and indeed she never was. They had no wish for 
 tete-a-tetes. Mary was happy so long as she was with 
 John, but had generally no desire to be with him 
 alone, and he on his side felt the presence of a 
 sympathetic friend rather a safeguard than otherwise. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton was a very sympathetic friend, but 
 after three or four weeks of observation of this other 
 friendship, she found herself growing a trifle impatient 
 and dissatisfied with John. It was unnatural for so 
 mature and sober-minded a man as he to pass one day 
 after another in this uninterrupted absorption in any 
 woman, still less in a mere child. To be sure, there 
 was neither monotony nor lack of activity in their 
 long days together. John taught her to swim and to 
 steer a sail-boat, and she was as enthusiastic a pupil 
 as heart could desire. His great height and strength
 
 136 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 enabled him to take her out beyond the surf, which 
 was often heavy on the coast, to where he could hold 
 her waistband with light touch and let her practice 
 her strokes under his critical instruction. Her native 
 fearlessness and entire confidence in her teacher made 
 her a most apt pupil. She would float on her back 
 far beyond her depth without a question, and no 
 rough surf or cold sea seemed sufficient reason for 
 missing a bath. This summer out of doors, after 
 her long years of confinement, gave her, in spite of 
 many sad thoughts, a sort of intoxication bred of 
 sunshine and fresh air; and her constant variety 
 would have made her an interesting companion to a 
 man much less "absorbed" in her than John. 
 
 Beach Haven is one of the many unlovely but 
 beloved bathing resorts that speckle the long line 
 of New Jersey's coast from Sandy Hook to Cape May. 
 It lies and it lies flat on one of those narrow, 
 treeless strips of sand which form a natural breakwater 
 to half the coast length, separated from the mainland 
 by a long succession of watery thoroughfares, navi- 
 gable for sail-boats of the "cat-boat" type at high 
 tide, and deepening and broadening occasionally into 
 fine bays. It is on one of these, Little Egg Harbor, 
 that Beach Haven is situated. At the time of which 
 I write, some twenty odd years ago, the old boat that 
 had plied backward and forward for many years be- 
 tween the mainland and the beach had been supplanted 
 by the railway, which, crossing where the bay narrows 
 into the thoroughfare, brought its trainloads of hot 
 and grimy passengers straight into the little town. 
 
 The bay forms a perfect sailing ground for boats
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 137 
 
 of light draught; and a centerboard that can be lifted 
 at will makes it possible to skim over the many sandy 
 flats where a keel would stick fast. Mary's pleasure 
 in this bay and her delight in being allowed to steer 
 gave almost as much enjoyment to the elderly captain 
 as to John himself. Neither of them cared much for 
 fishing. The pulling of fish out of the water for mere 
 sport was a horror to Mary's loving nature and John 
 agreed with her as to the cruelty, only reminding her 
 that their sensibility was not so keen as that of 
 warmer-blooded animals. 
 
 "But they jump about as if they felt awfully and 
 they must hate to die," she remonstrated. "I would 
 a great deal rather see them swimming about enjoying 
 themselves." 
 
 On an average of once a week John did go to the 
 city for a day's business, and on the eve of one of these 
 absences Mrs. Wharton, who was alone with him, 
 suggested his taking a little longer vacation and pay- 
 ing a visit to George at Cape May. 
 
 "Mary and I are good friends, and will be very 
 happy together, even without Catharine, and it will 
 do you good to have a little male companionship for 
 a change." 
 
 In spite of the genial tone in which the suggestion 
 was proffered, John easily detected the note of dis- 
 satisfaction. His eyes met hers with a steadiness 
 that was disconcerting as he answered quietly: "Mrs. 
 Wharton, I know what you are thinking and perhaps 
 you are right, but I am having what I never had before 
 and never shall have again after this summer, and I 
 would not give up one unnecessary hour of it."
 
 138 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Mrs. Wharton's eyes fell and her heavy nether lip 
 trembled a little. There was silence in the room for 
 a long minute; then she said in a very different tone: 
 "Perhaps you can never have just this again, but I 
 hope there may be still better things in store for you." 
 
 He changed color violently and opened his lips to 
 answer, when Mary's voice was heard at the kitchen 
 door. She had been sitting with Catharine, who was 
 to go back to Fernwood next day, and as she came 
 toward them her face was grave and her eyes had a 
 look of having been hastily dried. As John rose, she 
 came to him and took a little chair near by, drawing 
 it still closer and slipping her hand into his as he 
 reseated himself. Not a word was said for a long 
 while. Each heart was occupied with its own feelings. 
 Mrs. Wharton's eyes were lifted from the little sacque 
 she was knitting long enough to add to her memory 
 gallery a picture that moved her strangely. 
 
 "What will be the end of it?" she asked herself, 
 fearfully. "Poor Jane! I am a traitor to her, I am 
 afraid. 'He will let her feel she has a claim on him,' " 
 recalling the words of that letter of Mrs. Brown's. 
 "A claim!" Was a claim the word for entire posses- 
 sion? Mary's hand went into his as though it belonged 
 there; or, rather, every feeling of need in her seemed 
 to turn to him to be made good with a wordless 
 security that was absolute. "She will take all she 
 wants from him, and then perhaps want something 
 else from younger men," she thought, with some bitter- 
 ness. She had remarked that Mary was not blind 
 to the glances of the gilded youth who would probably 
 be willing to supply her needs if appealed to. A
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 139 
 
 deep, unconscious sigh escaped her, which was twin 
 sister to thinking aloud, but in a language intelligible 
 to only one of her listeners. His handclasp tightened 
 and he took no heed of the half-amused glance Mary 
 shot at him from the corner of her eye. His own were 
 bent on the ground. 
 
 "If I were a sculptor I would do your hand, John," 
 she said after a long pause. He started and colored. 
 His grasp relaxed and he looked in rueful astonishment 
 at her reddened fingers and mutely asked her pardon. 
 
 "Aren't his hands beautiful, Mrs. Wharton? They 
 are the hands of a really, truly, no-mistake gentleman." 
 
 "Why, Mary!" John laughed and colored like a 
 bashful, gratified school-boy. 
 
 She spread his hand out on the arm of his chair, 
 adjusting his passive fingers and making him pose. 
 
 "It is a very good-looking hand, Mary," Mrs. 
 Wharton assented as though just aroused to notice of 
 it, "and better than a gentleman's, because it looks so 
 much stronger than most gentlemen's." 
 
 "Oh, but I mean a real gentleman who's strong too," 
 was the quick rejoinder. "Now!" removing her own 
 hands to survey her model, her head a little on one 
 side, "Look at that ! But I don't like statues of hands 
 by themselves." 
 
 "And the rest of me would make a queer statue," 
 John said, laughing. She surveyed him with a critical, 
 teasing eye, which immediately softened and grew 
 bright with a sudden thought. "Oh, John, won't 
 you go to-morrow and have your picture taken the 
 whole of you, every bit, sitting like that? A big one," 
 making the proportions with her hands, "for me to
 
 140 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 take to school with me when I go." Her eyes suddenly 
 darkened dangerously and the shadow on her face 
 was reflected on John's, though he smiled bravely. 
 He did not answer for a moment. 
 
 "Please, John! Won't you? It would make such 
 a difference!" 
 
 Could he possibly refuse such a wish, so expressed, 
 Mrs. Wharton wondered. She committed the fault, 
 rare with her, of dropping two or three stitches on the 
 sleeve of the sacque she was knitting, to which, how- 
 ever, she seemed to give the most absorbed attention. 
 The interest she felt in the little drama enacted before 
 her became intense and not unmixed with embarrass- 
 ment. Didn't she know, and didn't John know that 
 she knew, that for twenty years his mother's one 
 valid cause of dissatisfaction with him had been his 
 obstinate, albeit good-humored, refusal to have him- 
 self photographed. What if he should weaken now! 
 There was no doubt that Mary was in earnest and her 
 allusion to the time of their separation was an uncon- 
 scious master-stroke. Of course, she knew nothing 
 of his previous attitude on this question. 
 
 He glanced at Mrs. Wharton's guilty face, and his 
 own color rose. He did not look at Mary, while he 
 made a semi-comic excuse which still had the final 
 sound of a refusal of her request. Mrs. Wharton made 
 sure that she would coax him further, but she did not. 
 She only looked at him in mournful surprise. She 
 saw he had some special feeling about it and forbore 
 annoying him. Could he be too vain ! They were all 
 silent for a time; then John changed the subject by 
 asking her to take her bath next day down the beach,
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 141 
 
 where the life-boat was and the crowd made it safe. 
 "There are holes in some places and a good deal of 
 undertow," he said. She assented very quietly. 
 (Mrs. Wharton had promised to bathe with her.) 
 Then she suddenly rose, saying she had forgotten 
 something she wanted to tell Catharine, and went 
 back to the kitchen. 
 
 Silence followed her exit. Mrs. Wharton hardly 
 knew whether she was glad or sorry that John had 
 refused the apparently simple request. His granting 
 it would certainly offend and hurt his mother, but on 
 the other hand "How could he refuse her?" she 
 wondered again, while her active needles put material 
 beyond those dropped stitches that would all have to 
 be pulled out next morning. 
 
 John got up, saying he must look for some papers, 
 and the social part of the evening was at an end. 
 
 She went with Mary to the little station next 
 morning to see the travelers off on the early train, 
 and was particularly tender in her manner to the 
 downcast girl as they returned to the cottage. 
 
 Mary, as she walked to the bath in her simple blue 
 suit, was to Mrs. Wharton's mind as lovely a picture 
 as eye could wish, always excepting Mary returning 
 from the bath. Then the rubber cap was off, and the 
 sun could play in the golden brown waves which, for 
 convenience's sake, were massed on top of her head, 
 giving her a more than usually grown-up air, while the 
 wet mohair clung to her nymph-like figure, revealing 
 all its elasticity and gra<;e. The sun had kissed cheeks 
 and nose, sprinkling them with tiny freckles, which 
 the rich glow of exercise and health hid from any
 
 142 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 but close observers. Mrs. Wharton, who was far 
 from nymph-like in figure, and usually longed to 
 scurry from her bath by the shortest and least fre- 
 quented paths, felt safe from observation as she walked 
 by this vision of girlhood on whom all eyes turned. 
 "Why isn't she ruined?" she asked herself. Then as 
 she saw two men approaching, she felt an unselfish 
 wish to intrude her bulk into the foreground between 
 them and Mary, who was stooping as she walked and 
 wringing the water from her short skirt, quite uncon- 
 scious of any eyes upon her. Mrs. Wharton's man- 
 euver was promptly outwitted by the men, who turned 
 toward the sea, cutting diagonally across Mary's 
 path. They were not in bathing clothes, but in the 
 morning garb of exquisites a V 'Anglais. The younger, 
 a strikingly thoroughbred, well "set-up" figure, 
 with clear-cut features and brilliant gray-blue eyes, 
 turned them on Mary with an expression that Mrs. 
 Wharton could not read. It almost seemed to her 
 that his lips trembled, and there was nothing offensive 
 in his steady regard, as there was in the bold gaze 
 of his comrade, whose face, originally good-looking, 
 perhaps, had been puffed and reddened by frequent 
 potations, and whose pale eyes held an insult in their 
 bold stare. Neither of them so much as glanced at 
 Mrs. Wharton, who involuntarily drew back. 
 
 As they passed directly in front of Mary, she 
 straightened herself and looked at them with the 
 startled, unconscious dignity of pure-hearted girl- 
 hood, coloring deeply under the double gaze so close 
 to her, but showing not a trace of the coquetry with 
 which girls sometimes receive homage of that sort.
 
 "Bv JOVE, WHAT A BEAUTY!" THE OLDER MAN EXCLAIMED.
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 143 
 
 "By Jove, what a beauty !" the older man exclaimed 
 before they were ten paces away. 
 
 "Shut up!" was his companion's exceedingly irri- 
 tated answer in a much lower key, but still distinctly 
 audible. "She heard you!" 
 
 "Well, you can bet it's no news to her," was the 
 older man's coarse retort, as he turned and looked after 
 the quickly retreating figures. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton glanced at the bright cheek nearest 
 her, but it was shaded by dark, drooping lashes. 
 
 "If we have to bathe over there often, I shall rent 
 a couple of the Engleside bath-houses," she said, 
 finally, in a very emphatic voice. 
 
 Mary looked up quickly, but made no reply, and 
 they soon reached their own very primitive dressing 
 rooms in the cottage basement. 
 
 "Mrs. Wharton," Mary asked her, when they were 
 sitting on the shady side of the piazza, a half hour 
 later, awaiting the luncheon summons, "do you think 
 being beautiful will ever make me disagreeable?" 
 
 The odd question brought a very tender smile to 
 Mrs. Wharton's plain, strong face. She looked deep 
 into her questioner's honest eyes, and her little brown 
 ones were suffused. "No, dear child," she said with 
 conviction and relief in her voice. "It never could!" 
 
 "Father said once that he would have been better 
 pleased if I had been ugly, or at least plain, because 
 then I would always have known the people who really 
 cared for me. He said he would rather I were loved 
 than admired, especially if it were just for looks. 
 Last year he told me about my mother." Her chin 
 quivered. "I suppose everybody knows about her,
 
 144 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 but I never spoke about it to anybody but John and 
 Catharine." 
 
 Mrs. Wharton looked at her compassionately. 
 "I suppose your father thought you might hear from 
 outside sources some day, and he wanted to prepare 
 you," she said gently. 
 
 " Perhaps," Mary assented, "but he said he wanted 
 me to see how little happiness it brought to be just 
 beautiful. He said he fell in love with Mother because 
 she was beautiful, and that perhaps men would fall 
 in love with me for the same reason!" Mrs. Wharton 
 could not forbear a slight smile. "But unless it were 
 love for my real self, and unless I were true and unself- 
 ish, they wouldn't keep on loving me. He said married 
 people were never happy together unless they were 
 good friends and understood each other's ways. He 
 said some day I would love somebody so much I 
 would want to die for him (she colored and quivered 
 as though she were capable now of understanding 
 that), and I wouldn't care whether he were good or 
 bad; but he made me write down and keep it always 
 by me, so I couldn't forget, that I promised him (I 
 mean Father) that I would never marry anybody 
 without John's consent, no matter how unhappy it 
 made me not to. He said John would know and 
 would never let anything but real reasons count 
 against a man. So I promised, and I wrote it down 
 and keep it in my treasure box." 
 
 She was very grave and her eyes were dark with the 
 solemn memory. "Father knew I would never break 
 a promise," she said proudly, "no matter how I 
 felt." Mrs. Wharton was silent before this revelation.
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 145 
 
 What an extraordinary training hers had been with 
 the father who had tried to prepare her for life at all 
 its vital points; and what unbounded trust Dick 
 Farnham had had in John! But the responsibility 
 for John of such a power of veto, under the circum- 
 stances! She shivered. 
 
 "If only I could live with John like this always, I 
 don't think I'd ever want to get married only- 
 She stopped and colored again. The speech she had 
 asked Catharine not to repeat recurred to her mind, 
 and the feeling that had prompted it. 
 
 "I should like to keep you always with me," Mrs. 
 Wharton said, with an impulse unusual to her unemo- 
 tional nature. "You must come to me for all your 
 vacations when you haven't something more attrac- 
 tive to do. Will you?" 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Wharton," Mary exclaimed, rising 
 and throwing her arms about the lady's neck, "and 
 John too?" 
 
 Mrs. Wharton laughed outright as she warmly 
 kissed the girl on both cheeks. "I can't get John when 
 I want him," she said, a little wistfully. "His mother 
 comes first, you know. He is devoted to her and is 
 never away from her as he has been this summer." 
 
 Mary became very grave and resumed her low 
 rocking-chair without a word. 
 
 "Poor child!" Mrs. Wharton said to herself. "I 
 wonder if Jane will ever ask her there or how she will 
 treat her if she does . ' ' Her first question was answered 
 that evening when John, who arrived by the after- 
 noon train, opened the mail it had brought with him. 
 
 "Mary," he said, turning to her with a smile and 
 
 10
 
 146 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 a mixture of eagerness and hesitation, "my mother 
 wants to know whether you will spend the week before 
 you go to Miss Newlin, with us in the city?" 
 
 He had been in great spirits since his return, and 
 looked distinctly excited at this idea. "Would you 
 like to come?" he asked. 
 
 Mary gave him a look both surprised and reproach- 
 ful. " Of course," she said simply. Then seeing some- 
 thing in his face that she did not understand, she 
 added, "I hope your mother will like me, John." 
 John winced and came as near prevarication as he 
 ever could. 
 
 "Why did you ask that? Doesn't everybody like 
 you?" He felt a strong curiosity to know what had 
 caused this unwonted misgiving. 
 
 "Only Mrs. Wharton said once that Mrs. Brown 
 wasn't a bit like her, nor like you," she paused, seeing 
 a pained look cross John's face; "and if you love her 
 more than anybody, it would make ever so much 
 difference to me." John understood the somewhat 
 lamely expressed thought. "I think she can't help 
 liking you," he said, trying to make his smile as 
 reassuring as he wished, but not perfectly succeeding. 
 
 "Perhaps she won't want you to come out to Fern- 
 wood every day? She gets home on the first, too?" 
 The question was a very wistful one. Some unusual 
 premonition was troubling her mind. John's face 
 clouded heavily. "I shouldn't feel it right, anyhow; 
 I have been away from her so long," he said with 
 sudden weariness. How near the end seemed! 
 
 Mary's head went down on the table with her face 
 turned from him. "Oh, I wish you hadn't let me get
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 147 
 
 so used to you!" she exclaimed in a broken, vehement 
 voice. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton saw a storm of feeling sweep over 
 John's face and his hands clasp the arms of his chair 
 as though to hold himself down. She dropped her 
 eyes to her work. There was a moment's breathless 
 stillness, then he rose and laid his hand on the bent 
 head. 
 
 "Don't you think I have got used to you too?" 
 he asked, huskily.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE PROVES A NEW ADMIRER 
 
 EVEN in their remote cottage and leading so 
 quiet a life, the little party was too conspic- 
 uous to escape attention, and John found 
 several guests of one or other of the two hotels who 
 were willing to improve a slight acquaintance, accost- 
 ing him at every turn, with eyes upon Mary, and 
 sometimes even suggesting that he and his "ward," 
 or "adopted daughter," or "young friend," more 
 seldom "Miss Farnham" (the titles varied with the 
 more or less knowledge of the situation), would like 
 to join in some of the many informal pleasure parties 
 of the simple place. John generally avoided intro- 
 ducing her, and always quietly declined the invita- 
 tions, sometimes explaining her recent loss, when 
 she was out of earshot, sometimes just urging other 
 plans. "I hope I did right to decline," he had said 
 to her early in their visit, and her ready assent sat- 
 isfied him. He did not mean to be selfish, he told 
 himself, and he wanted her to have young compan- 
 ions, "but just now" and so he continued in almost 
 uninterrupted enjoyment of his rare privilege, only 
 counting the days as the first of September drew 
 nearer, and almost frightened at the fierce attacks 
 of heartache which the approaching autumn brought. 
 
 (148)
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE, NEW ADMIRER 149 
 
 Over and over, Mary's broken words rang in his ear, 
 and he spent hours of the night working with storm- 
 and-flood-time energy on his dyke. She had so 
 twined herself around his heart-strings that it seemed 
 as though something must break, and bleed when 
 she was taken away. It was vain to call himself 
 hard names; to remind himself that she was not 
 going far from him, that he might see her often and 
 hear from her almost daily. "I believe I have done 
 wrong to us both in bringing her here," he thought. 
 "It would have been easier from Fern wood." 
 
 " She will soon be reconciled, though, and will be 
 happy at school, I know!" he told himself, not with- 
 out a selfish pang; but if not; if she were homesick 
 and wretched, what then? He thought of George's 
 words. Well, then there would be only one thing 
 to do. Go to his mother and lay his heart bare before 
 her, and beg her help; and then? Oh, no. He must 
 be a man, not a weakling, and help make a woman 
 of her. ."She must learn to stand alone if her char- 
 acter is to be what Dick wanted it to be. I must 
 not spoil her!" 
 
 Active, pleasure-filled days left little time for brood- 
 ing, but both Mrs. Wharton and Mary noticed a dif- 
 erence in him. They would have been at a loss to 
 point out any difference in his behavior. An event, 
 which happened soon after Mary's outbreak, gave 
 a new bent to all their thoughts. 
 
 One morning as she was standing by the steps of 
 the "Engleside" piazza, waiting for John to come 
 with the mail, a lady came toward her and held out 
 her hand with a very winning smile. Mary gave
 
 150 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 hers with responsive readiness, but there was no 
 spark of recognition in her mind. 
 
 "You don't remember Mrs. Wurts and Jack?" 
 the lady said, her admiring eyes on the girl's suddenly 
 brightened face. "But I saw you a day or two ago, 
 and asked who you were. I couldn't find out at first, 
 but when I did, and where you were staying, I made 
 up my mind to go and see you to-day." Her smile 
 suddenly died, and she said in a very gentle voice, 
 glancing at the girl's blue dress with carefully veiled 
 surprise, "I heard from Catharine, whom I met one 
 day on the street, of your great trouble; and since 
 then I hear that your father has been released from 
 his long suffering." She clasped Mary's hand tightly 
 and her eyes filled. "I can't tell you how sad it 
 made me to know of his illness! I have thought of 
 you so often and wished I might meet you, but I 
 only heard of you once and then the man only knew 
 that you were living abroad." Her kind volubility 
 spared Mary the need of any answer, and she went 
 on. "You look just as I should have thought you 
 would. You must be nearly sixteen, for I remember 
 you were two years younger than Jack. Oh, here 
 he comes!" A fresh-faced, wholesome looking lad 
 in white flannels, carrying a striped "blazer," came 
 swinging up the path, and gave his mother no time 
 to go through the formalities of an introduction. 
 
 "Well, this is jolly!" he exclaimed, taking the hand 
 his mother released, and looking with frankly admir- 
 ing eyes straight into Mary's blushing face. "Do 
 you still bite?" The unblushing effrontery with 
 which his gaze rested on her lips, made the short
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE, NEW ADMIRER 151 
 
 upper one rise in a very bright smile, and displayed 
 a formidable array of even white teeth. 
 
 "Jack! You outrageous boy!" his mother said, 
 in a really shocked voice; but seeing Mary's easy 
 reception of his impudence, she laughed too. This 
 solemn-looking giant coming toward them, must 
 be the guardian Dick's great friend, of whom she had 
 just been told. Jack let go Mary's hand as the "sol- 
 emn-looking giant" reached them (he did look 
 solemn), and she promptly slipped it into John's 
 left one as she introduced him to her newly discovered 
 friends. He greeted them with even more than his 
 usual cordial courtesy; but Mrs. Wurts thought, 
 as she entered into conversation with him, leaving 
 the youngsters free to renew their acquaintance, 
 that it could not be good for Mary to be constantly 
 in the society of so grave a man. It seemed as though 
 it cost him an effort to smile at all, and his eyes 
 they were good eyes too were so heavy. She was 
 glad they had come upon Mary in time to give her 
 a little young society and take her out of herself. 
 How bright her face had been when she smiled at 
 Jack a moment ago. No doubt this guardian, Mr. 
 Brown, was a fine man (he made one think of Lin- 
 coln), and Mary seemed fond of him; the look on 
 her face, and the fingers slipped into his as she pre- 
 sented him, spoke of affectionate ownership; but 
 he was deadly dull to talk to, and how quickly Mary 
 could chat with Jack. Their voices were low now. 
 They were touching on her troubles. But she was 
 not shy at all, and they would get on famously. 
 Mrs. Wurts decided that Jack would need no encour-
 
 152 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 agement to go often to see her. As these thoughts 
 went through her mind, she kept up a string of com- 
 monplaces about Beach Haven and her son and her 
 pleasure in meeting Mary. It is little wonder she 
 found John dull. But when she suddenly turned 
 the conversation to the old time and spoke of Dick 
 and pretty little Mary, and laughingly rehearsed 
 the episode of the bite, she began to feel she might 
 have misjudged John. He looked very far from dull 
 and his laugh was not the laugh of a stupid person. 
 They walked on together all the way to the cottage, 
 where Mrs. Wharton was introduced, and where 
 the newcomers very willingly accepted John's invi- 
 tation to sit down. Jack Wurts proved not only a 
 daily visitor, but would gladly have spent the days 
 if invited, and refused none of the invitations, of 
 which John was prodigal, to sail, or visit the life- 
 saving station, or the lily-pond at Tuckerton on the 
 mainland, or to share in any of their moderate dis- 
 sipations. In inviting him John felt much as Sir 
 Philip Sidney must have felt in performing the his- 
 toric act which has stood for the acme of chivalry, 
 only in his own case he had not the heart to say, or 
 feel, that Jack's "necessity" was "greater than his." 
 It was Mary's that concerned him nearly. The week 
 in the city under his mother's eye, which he had partly 
 dreaded, rose before him as an oasis, though that 
 too might turn out a mirage. If he had noticed any 
 lack of enjoyment of the lad on Mary's part, he 
 would soon have managed to avoid him; but he could 
 not help seeing that she took pleasure in this new 
 kind of intercourse and liked Jack's very jolly com-
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE, NEW ADMIRER 153 
 
 pany. There was not the least approach to senti- 
 mentality between them; but then they were rarely 
 tete-a-tete. John's magnanimity would have reached 
 easily to that point; but Mary herself had no 
 mind to dispense with his society, whoever else might 
 be with her. "Oh, John, aren't you coming?" or 
 "Where are you going?" would generally suffice to 
 change his purpose. Certain things were, in her 
 mind, John's special province, and when Jack asked 
 her to go to church, or to bathe with him, she calmly 
 declined with no other excuse than that she wanted 
 to go with John. 
 
 George Raymond had come down to spend the 
 first Sunday of this new regime with them, and he 
 listened in pleased and touched amusement to a 
 colloquy which took place under his nose on the piazza, 
 of the cottage. He had not heard the invitation 
 given, but he heard Mary's distinct refusal. 
 
 "Does Mr. Brown always expect you to go to 
 church with him?" John was upstairs at the moment. 
 
 "Expect!" was Mary's quick retort. "No, he 
 never expects anything, but I'm going to church 
 with him as long as I live if I can." A sudden 
 recollection clouded her face. "Only I won't have 
 many more chances now, for I have to go to school, 
 and She broke off abruptly, remembering that 
 Sundays after that were an unknown quantity. 
 Jack recognized the signs of feeling that was a little 
 too strong. He was very much disappointed; for 
 his mother had willingly excused his attendance on 
 her, and he had felt no little elation at the thought 
 of escorting this "prettiest girl in the whole place,"
 
 154 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and showing on what intimate terms they already 
 stood ; but he had good stuff in him, and he admired 
 real feeling, and was, moreover, touched by the 
 thought of Mary's fatherless condition. He supposed 
 her home was with John, in town or out, that she 
 was "adopted," or " something of that sort," but, 
 of course, John "wasn't her father by a jugful and it 
 was tough having to go to boarding-school." 
 
 "Don't you want to go to school?" he asked, 
 sympathetically. "I'm sure Mr. Brown 'd let you 
 go to day-school, if you liked better." 
 
 "You don't understand," Mary said, with a dignity 
 that George thought very womanly. He saw her 
 chin tremble and her brave and successful effort at 
 self-control, as she went on quietly. "I don't live 
 with John. I am to live with Miss Newlin, who 
 owns the school." 
 
 "Oh, I see!" He evidently saw a good deal. 
 "Well, I hope awfully much you'll like it, and I 
 know you will. Girls have great times at boarding- 
 school, and you're bound to make a heap of friends 
 in no time." Mary smiled a courageous little smile, 
 but said nothing. The boy's eyes rested on her with 
 an expression that was almost loverlike. "Will 
 they let fellows come out to see you sometimes?" 
 he asked, eagerly. 
 
 "I don't know. I suppose so. Miss Newlin only 
 said she hoped John would come out as often as he 
 wanted." The recollection seemed wonderfully 
 cheering. "I like Miss Newlin very much," she 
 added. 
 
 "Mr. Brown is in luck," Jack said, sententiously,
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE, NEW ADMIRER 155 
 
 "and you've got the right sort of grit. Well, if you 
 won't go to church, what are you going to do this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 "Entertain Mr. Raymond," Mary said demurely. 
 
 "Oh, I say!" Jack burst out laughing in George's 
 face and walked off in excellent humor, in spite of 
 his many reverses. 
 
 In the afternoon, as Mary sat on a rubber blanket 
 between her two cavaliers with breastworks of sand 
 as backing for the party, he strolled along and took 
 up a stand in front of her, looking ruefully down on 
 her barricaded state. "I hope you're enjoying your 
 entertainment, Mr. Raymond," he said at last, 
 making a wry face at George, who he decided was a 
 "darned good-looking fellow and not so awfully old, 
 either." 
 
 "I never enjoyed myself better," George said, 
 smiling provokingly up at him. As for John, his 
 face expressed absolute contentment. Mary's hand 
 had gone straight into his when she saw the youthful 
 swain approaching, and she had said in the tone of 
 supreme command which she knew how to use when 
 need was: "John, you're not to budge, for politeness 
 nor anything else!" So John retained his place, and 
 was slow about relinquishing the hand, the more so 
 that the roguish sea-breeze, turning accomplice, 
 covered it with a fold of the shawl, Mary had put 
 down between them. The fact that he might have 
 held her hand, unrebuked, before the world, made 
 the little happening none the less deliciously clan- 
 destine. 
 
 Jack stood awhile, chatting easily. He had all
 
 156 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the freshman's self-confidence, but he decided he was 
 out of it this time, and strolled off down the beach 
 to try his luck with a more approachable damsel 
 whom he knew. 
 
 As Mary's eyes came back from following him for 
 some distance, they suddenly met another pair 
 directed straight at her and she recognized the good- 
 looking man who had looked so intently at her the 
 other day on the beach, and who had told his com- 
 panion to "shut up." There had been some fascina- 
 tion about him for Mary, and she had seen those 
 same eyes in her mental vision several times, and had 
 even idly wondered what it would be like to talk to 
 a man who looked like that, and whether if "he" 
 looked like that when the time came for a "he," 
 John would approve of him. 
 
 He was walking slowly, his hands behind his back, 
 and his figure bent forward as though more intent 
 on his own thoughts than on the fine surf or scattered 
 groups of "beachers." His face, from listless, turned 
 to lively, as his eyes fell on Mary. His path was 
 directly in front of them, without malice prepense, 
 and he did not look at the trio more than courtesy 
 permitted; but in that instant he had contrived to 
 make her understand that he recognized her and was 
 pleased to recognize her. John saw nothing unusual 
 in the stranger's glance at Mary it was an old story 
 but he did notice her color rise and her lashes droop. 
 When she looked up at him a moment later, however, 
 her eyes were as frank as usual. 
 
 "That's Dave Chandler," George said, in the voice 
 of one who tells an interesting fact. "He's a very
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE, NEW ADMIRER 157 
 
 aristocratic looking fellow, isn't he? But from what 
 I hear, he's pretty fast." 
 
 "What does 'fast' mean, Mr. Raymond?" Mary 
 asked, with evident interest to know. "I asked 
 Father once and he said he didn't just know. He 
 had lived out of the world all his life and didn't know 
 just what 'fast' people did." 
 
 That from honest Dick ! George hesitated. "Does 
 it mean he hasn't good principles?" she asked. 
 
 "That's just about what it does mean," he answered, 
 with relief. "He may have good points. That man 
 has, I know; but he has a screw loose somewhere in 
 his moral machinery." 
 
 With this Mary was fain to be content, though 
 neither the subject nor its object entirely left her mind.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE " LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 
 
 THE Brown house on Arch Street was a double 
 one, with large rooms on each side of the 
 hall. The entrance was several feet above 
 the street and was approached by a flight of those 
 white marble steps, so typical of the Quaker City 
 and so trying to the souls of careful housekeepers. 
 If John Patterson had kept account of the hours he 
 had spent on his knees restoring the dazzling purity 
 of those steps, and could have subtracted it from 
 the sum total of his years, he would have looked 
 considerably younger than he did on the morning 
 of Mary's arrival, as he sprinkled marble-sand and 
 plied his much-used scrubbing-brush. (Other people 
 might find modern inventions for cleaning their steps, 
 but Mrs. Brown always used sand.) He was much 
 excited at the prospect of their visitor. Nothing 
 so unusual had happened in that house for years, 
 and though both he and Hannah had passed the age 
 when excitement was necessary to them, they had 
 enjoyed the weeks at Beach Haven extraordinarily, 
 and the house in Arch Street had seemed painfully 
 quiet afterward. One morning he had mildly hinted 
 as much to John, who was awaiting his mother in 
 the dining-room where our acquaintance with him 
 
 (158)
 
 THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 159 
 
 first began. John had given him a curious look, 
 with what tried to be a smile, and then had said 
 with a sigh: "We mustn't expect vacation all the 
 year round." 
 
 "No, but I wish we had Miss Mary all the year 
 round!" was the bold answer. Its boldness had so 
 surprised himself that he had beat a hasty retreat 
 to the pantry without even looking at his master, 
 whose head was bent over his letters. 
 
 And now they were to have her for a short week! 
 Would she seem the same in such different surround- 
 ings, and would Mrs. Brown "take to her" as both 
 John and Hannah devoutly hoped? If she only 
 would! And would suggest Mary's coming to live 
 there; or if "She'll be growin' up before long," 
 the honest soul said to himself, as he plied his brush 
 with renewed energy. Hannah put her head out 
 of the window of the right-hand, third-floor front, 
 and smiled down on his bent, unconscious back. 
 She had picked a little bunch of heliotrope and tea 
 rosebuds, and arranged them in just such a posy 
 as she had often watched Mary make, and disposed 
 it on the dressing table with tender care, adjusting 
 and readjusting it half a dozen times before she seemed 
 to find it satisfactory. 
 
 The modest trunk had come and was already in- 
 stalled at the foot of the bed. "I wish I had the key 
 to it," Hannah thought, "and could have her own 
 things about so she'd feel at home right away." She 
 shared her "better-half's" unspoken apprehension. 
 
 The house was divided, downstairs, into a square 
 library on the right, as you entered, with the stairs
 
 160 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 in an alcove behind it, and behind those, the afore- 
 said dining-room "giving" on the high- walled garden 
 which was John's pride. To the left of the hall 
 there had once been a single room of immense size, 
 such as one only finds in those old-fashioned, high- 
 ceiled houses; but John's father had had it parti- 
 tioned, and had converted the back end into a snug 
 "den" for himself, which was at the time of which 
 I write, John's own sanctum. Here no one disturbed 
 him without cause, and into it none of their rare 
 guests so much as peeped. Mr. Brown had always 
 been jealous of liberties with his room, and the chil- 
 dren had never gone into it except on an errand, or 
 by special invitation to play under their father's 
 eye. His wife had recognized the sanctity of every 
 book and paper and had always given strict injunc- 
 tions to the man or maid whose business it was to 
 clean it. She had seldom sat down in the room 
 unless to consult her husband on important business; 
 and gentle as John's whole regime was, the old feeling 
 of awe hovered over the little precincts, and no one 
 entered uninvited except to sweep or dust. John 
 had often asked his mother to come in and sit with 
 him, but she frankly confessed that she never felt 
 at home there, and he was, on the whole, relieved 
 to have this spot where he was left entirely to himself 
 and where every paper or book that he put down 
 stayed just where he could "put his hands on it," 
 to use his father's favorite expression. She had a 
 little sitting-room just above, separated from her 
 large front bedroom by a bathroom, added at a 
 later date, and lighted by a shaft to the roof. The
 
 THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 161 
 
 room had been Margaret's as a child, and only her 
 mother had used it since. John had expressed his 
 wish to give up his second floor bedroom to their 
 visitor, but had not pressed the point in the face of 
 his mother's astonished disapproval. He always 
 longed for his old third-story quarters, where he was 
 out of the way in case of a guest, and to make this 
 guest climb above him was a hard trial. 
 
 "You will completely spoil her, John," Mrs. Brown 
 said sharply, looking narrowly at his heightened color. 
 She had had his room connected with hers by a glass 
 partition across the end of the hall, over the lower 
 half of which ran crimson silk curtains. In this little 
 neutral space between their two rooms she loved to 
 sit with her sewing (she was not a great reader) and it 
 was here that she sat enthroned in state for her 
 backbone was unusually straight while John Pat- 
 terson and Hannah were so eagerly preparing for 
 their visitor. She felt the excitement in the air; 
 she had seen it in John's face in the morning, and in 
 the faces of both her servants; and had looked with 
 cool inquiry at the little nosegay that Hannah carried 
 to the upper regions. The glass door was wide and 
 the curtains drawn. She could see all that went on 
 and Hannah felt constrained to explain two or three 
 borrowed articles that "she thought Mr. John would 
 like put in Miss Mary's room." Mrs. Brown felt 
 sure that she had heard him go up there himself that 
 morning before breakfast; but when, prompted by 
 curiosity rather than hospitality, she had later climbed 
 the stairs, she had seen no signs of his visit. She was 
 determined to receive this girl very graciously, but 
 
 11
 
 162 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 resented the sort of covert ovation they seemed to be 
 planning for her. 
 
 A florist's box of generous proportions had come 
 soon after breakfast and she had looked with impassive 
 face at the address: "Miss Mary Farnham, care 
 of Mr. John Brown, etc.," while deciding that John 
 himself must have sent it. "She doesn't know any- 
 body else, does she?" was her mental question, as 
 she calmly told John Patterson to put it in the cellar 
 Cll "Miss Farnham" came. Poor lady, she had suf- 
 fered much that summer and suspected that there 
 was more in store for her. 
 
 She heard the sound of John's latch-key in the door 
 or, to be more exact, she heard the opening of the 
 door which she knew had followed the latch-key. 
 She rose and went to the landing of the staircase, 
 but as there were two turnings, she could not see 
 the hall below. 
 
 "I'm up here, John," she called in her pleasant, 
 well-bred voice. Surely, even her scrupulously 
 cordial plan of behavior did not require her to go 
 down stairs to receive this school-girl! 
 
 "Very well, Mother, we'll come right up," was the 
 ready answer. Was it imagination that the tone was 
 less cheery than usual? 
 
 "I'll put your umbrella in the rack, down here, 
 Mary," she heard him say; "it will be handier." 
 
 There was no audible reply and she did not see 
 the meeting of the two pairs of eyes as John stood 
 aside to give his companion precedence on the stairs. 
 Both were upturned as they rounded the landing, 
 and John said, with just a suspicion of effort in his
 
 THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 163 
 
 voice: "You didn't expect us so soon, did 
 you?" 
 
 "No," she answered abstractedly, her eyes on Mary. 
 Even while she smiled, a perfectly irreproachable, 
 welcoming smile, and held out her hand at the stair 
 head, her mind was busy wondering how much this 
 girl knew of her own power. No one could look like 
 that and not know it ! 
 
 "I'm very glad to see you," she said. "John has 
 written me so much about you." She had meant to 
 add a few words of sympathy, but the words balked. 
 
 Something of wistfulness in the grave, candid 
 eyes that met hers unwaveringly, destroyed her per- 
 fect composure and gave her the uncomfortable 
 sensation of being "weighed in the balance and found 
 wanting." Was it the same face that had responded 
 so warmly to Mrs. Wharton's first greeting, the same 
 Mary who had been all over the Beach Haven cot- 
 tage in ten minutes and whom Hannah had described 
 as "sunshine!" John felt the difference acutely. 
 He intuitively knew that his fears had not been 
 groundless. This quiet, self-possessed young woman 
 had pride as well as wistfulness in her face, and looked 
 years older than the child of Beach Haven. 
 
 "Your trunk has come. Would you rather go 
 straight to your room, or will you sit down here for 
 a little while first?" Mrs. Brown asked, hastily 
 covering Mary's lack of words. "I know Hannah 
 has tried to make things comfortable, but if there 
 is anything you want, you must let me know." 
 The tone was kind and the voice reminded Mary a 
 little of John's, but she felt no wish to sit down,
 
 164 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and was relieved that Mrs. Brown evidently did not 
 expect it. 
 
 "Thank you, I don't believe I shall want anything," 
 she said very quietly. 
 
 John's quick ear and eye detected what was hidden 
 to his mother. He would not let her leave them so! 
 All the cowardice of which he was capable was tug- 
 ging at his will. He downed it with a quick resolu- 
 tion. With the most matter-of-course tenderness 
 he put his arm around the girl and drew her close 
 to him, smiling down at her in a way to disperse any 
 possible cloud of formality. 
 
 "The city will seem strange to you, I am afraid," 
 he said, "but I will show you my little bit of country 
 when you come down. You won't be long, will you?" 
 
 His loyal effort was entirely successful so far as 
 Mary was concerned. Her face was transfigured 
 in a moment; but he could hardly have done anything 
 less calculated to unbend his mother. The sight of 
 John in such a relation to any girl, much less a girl 
 who looked as mature as this one, hurt Mrs.Brown 
 to the quick, and she could hardly summon enough 
 self-control to smile a wan little smile. There must 
 be many mothers who can deeply sympathize with 
 her. It seemed to her the hardest moment she had 
 known since Margaret's death. 
 
 "Hannah," she called in a constrained voice, 
 "will you show Miss Farnham her room." 
 
 Mary mounted the stairs like her old self as the 
 cordial response came from above, and Mrs. Brown 
 heard the pleasure in both voices as they greeted 
 each other. There was no doubt that this unwished-
 
 THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 165 
 
 for guest was regarded by most of the household as, 
 in some sense, a member of the family. If she had 
 seen Mary's arms thrown impulsively around the 
 beaming Hannah, and her hearty kiss as heartily 
 returned, she would have known that the conquest 
 was complete in that quarter. She could see that 
 it was complete with John, though she did not yet 
 understand what that meant. He tried to seem 
 his natural self, but the effort was unavailing, and 
 they had never talked together across such a gulf. 
 Dick Farnham had never so effectually come between 
 them as this child of his. If Mrs. Brown could only 
 have opened her heart to the girl as spontaneously 
 as Mrs. Wharton had done, this story would have 
 been quite different. 
 
 "She is very beautiful," she said in the manner 
 of one who is determined to be perfectly fair; but the 
 sequel soon came out: "She reminds me very much 
 of her father." 
 
 "Does she?" John exclaimed, surprised. "She 
 is very like him, but I didn't think of your seeing a 
 likeness in her face." 
 
 "It is in the way she has of looking at you and the 
 expression about her mouth and chin. She will not 
 always be easy to manage, I am afraid." She tried 
 to say it lightly, but her manner and voice had a touch 
 of asperity. John looked pained, but made no answer. 
 There was the sound of a laugh from above a very 
 pretty, merry little laugh it must have seemed to 
 anyone Mrs. Brown saw his face brighten and 
 soften. It told more than his smile and caress had 
 done a few minutes ago.
 
 166 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 On the way to the garden John showed Mary the 
 rooms on the ground floor, and her interest in all the 
 things that concerned him personally brought the 
 pleased color again and again to his face. She looked 
 all around the sacred "den" without knowing that 
 she was taking an unheard-of liberty; asking where 
 his favorite books were, taking them, one by one, 
 out of the cases and handling them with loving rin- 
 gers and evident curiosity as to their contents. 
 
 "You may come here at any time to read or amuse 
 yourself," he said eagerly, "whether I am here or 
 not. It will be a great pleasure to me to have you." 
 
 "And I shan't disturb you if you are writing or 
 reading?" Mary asked with adoring eyes raised to 
 his and the soft color flushing all her fair face. He 
 suspected that she would very much disturb the even 
 tenor of his thoughts, and it was characteristic of 
 him that he did not deny it, but said simply: "If 
 you do I shall like to be disturbed." 
 
 She did not thank him in words; she gave him a 
 look that made his pulses throb, and with the grace 
 and simplicity of a loving child, she stooped and 
 kissed the book she held, a much worn copy of Rob- 
 ert Browning's "Men and Women," which John 
 had just said was perhaps the one he loved best of 
 all. He suddenly drew away from her and seemed 
 to be hunting something on his desk. 
 
 When they came in from the garden to luncheon 
 John Patterson bethought himself of the florist's 
 box and produced it at once, smiling all over his broad 
 face. Mary looked in astonishment at the big box, 
 and colored prettily. It was her first experience
 
 THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 167 
 
 of this sort of attention, and even Mrs. Brown had 
 to own that her manner was natural and good. The 
 box held an over-sumptuous mass of roses and Jack 
 Wurts' card. He had shown a good deal of feeling 
 over a bathing accident she had had just before 
 leaving Beach Haven and had been at the station 
 to see her off next morning, with a notebook ready 
 for any number of addresses, and repeatedly expressed 
 intentions of seeing her soon and often. 
 
 "It is very nice of him," she said with shy pleasure, 
 "but I wish he hadn't sent so many!" 
 
 For a wonder John's jealousy of the lad had been 
 quite laid to rest. "Perhaps he thought the extent 
 of his regard could only be expressed in numbers," 
 he answered with a merry little smile. His mother 
 looked at him keenly, but she saw that he was not 
 acting. She did her best during luncheon, and Mary's 
 normal belief in the good will of all the world came 
 back in some degree. She was so patently simple and 
 direct that Mrs. Brown could not long accuse her of 
 designs to subjugate John; but the jealous pain was 
 none the less, as she marked the signs of her unconscious 
 influence. 
 
 "I always thought he was happy with me," she 
 said to herself with a sore heart, and as she met his 
 eyes with that look of soft content in their very 
 depths, she had much ado to keep back the tears. 
 
 But poor Mary was fated to rub against all her 
 hostess' pet theories and prejudices, and John's 
 happiness was to be of a very mixed kind. 
 
 Next morning he announced that, before starting 
 to his office, he must glance over some papers that had
 
 168 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 come by the morning's mail, and retired promptly 
 with them to his den. Mary went up to her room, 
 and Mrs. Brown thought her still there when, a half 
 hour later, she went to the door of the den to remind 
 John of an important engagement. What was her 
 astonishment and anger to see Mary seated on a stool 
 near him, "rummaging" (so Mrs. Brown denned it) 
 in a drawer of the sacred desk. Her face told her 
 feelings in no uncertain language as she stopped in the 
 doorway and said icily, "I beg pardon for disturbing 
 you, but I wanted you to be sure not to forget to go 
 to Carter's about the range." 
 
 John turned himself quickly on his screw-chair 
 and rose with color heightened by her tone. Mary, 
 too, scrambled to her feet, trying not to drop her 
 treasure trove, but several daguerrotype cases rolled 
 upon the floor. Mrs. Brown's indignant eyes took 
 pointed note of them, and then swept the innocent 
 offender as no one had ever looked at her in her life. 
 No words were needed. Not a word did either of her 
 listeners say as she turned away and mounted the 
 stairs with heavy tread. 
 
 Mary had reseated herself, and was picking up the 
 fallen daguerreotypes and putting them back in their 
 places. John sat down mechanically and seemed lost 
 in thought till he heard her softly shutting the drawer. 
 He started and turned toward her. "What are you 
 doing?" he asked sharply. 
 
 She did not look at him. "I would rather go away 
 now," she said pushing the drawer home and moving 
 as if to rise. "I know your mother thinks I ought 
 not to have come in here."
 
 THE "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" 169 
 
 But John had grasped her hands and held her fast. 
 His gaunt face was all a-quiver. 
 
 "No, no!" he said thickly. "My mother does not 
 understand! I will explain to her; I will tell her that 
 I asked you to come that I want you Oh, child !" 
 as he saw her pale and grave, the determination 
 on her face unshaken, "let me keep you with me every 
 minute I can!" It was like a cry of pain. He felt 
 that he had startled her by his passion, and let go her 
 hands, while he made a strong and successful effort 
 to control himself. "It was always the rule that we 
 were never to disturb Father when he was busy here," 
 he said quietly, "and Mother clings to the old tradition, 
 though I have often asked her to come in. I have 
 been fond of being alone here, but He took her 
 hand again and held it fast. There was a long pause. 
 
 "You have only been here a few minutes, but I " 
 He choked in spite of the effort to be calm. 
 
 Almost she understood. She did not look up, but 
 drew the hand that held hers till her hot cheek rested 
 upon it. Deep was answering unto deep. For many 
 minutes there was no sound in the little room but 
 the ticking of the clock.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 "FORM" AND SUBSTANCE 
 
 JOHN tried hard to make up to his mother for all 
 he knew she suffered on Mary's account, but even 
 his tenderness and tact were misinterpreted. 
 He felt it so, and forgave her because he understood 
 and knew himself to be an offender. How could he 
 give her the one thing she wanted the assurance 
 that she still held the first place with him? Mrs. 
 Brown, on her part, felt the futility the worse than 
 futility of criticizing Mary to John. She knew that 
 adverse criticism, however mildly and carefully uttered, 
 hurt and troubled him (though to her credit be it 
 said she had no idea how much). She did try to be 
 just, and even generous, but it was not in human nature 
 to refrain from pointing out to him certain palpably 
 weak spots in his idol. "She was thankful he was 
 fond of her since he must perforce be burdened with 
 the care of her, but it aggravated her to see him making 
 himself ridiculous. If he wanted her sitting in his den 
 while he was at work, why that was all there was 
 about it!" But it wasn't all by any means, as John 
 knew, and as Mary knew. Nothing would induce 
 Mary to accept the freedom of the sacred premises 
 during John's absence, and though she yielded to his 
 passionately expressed wish to have her with him 
 
 (170)
 
 "FORM" AND SUBSTANCE 171 
 
 when he was at home, the pleasure was inevitably 
 marred for them both. 
 
 Mrs. Brown had early voiced her disapproval of 
 Mary's calling her guardian by his "Christian" 
 name. " It is not fitting," she said severely, " and you 
 ought to tell her so for her own sake. People will 
 comment on her behavior to you, too, as well as on 
 the title." 
 
 John had the grace to blush hotly, but he answered 
 her steadily: "You are entirely mistaken, Mother. 
 I asked her to call me John instead of 'Uncle John', 
 which was her own choice." 
 
 Mrs. Brown looked at him sharply and searchingly. 
 "I don't understand you, John," she said coldly. 
 "If you wish to raise her to your own generation, 
 you should not fondle her as you do." 
 
 John's color faded out and left his face white and 
 set. His mother had thrust ruthlessly through the 
 weak spot in his armor and stabbed him home. He 
 waited a moment before he answered quietly: "You 
 don't suppose that I am just taking advantage of her 
 innocence and my position of trust! I have tried 
 not to to touch her except when it seemed right; 
 but she has been used to very affectionate little cus- 
 toms with her father, and she she is fond of me 
 and accepts me in his place. It would have been 
 cruel to have held off at first, when she needed every- 
 thing I could give her; but I do want to make her 
 understand by degrees." He tried unsuccessfully 
 to keep those tell-tale lips from trembling. His 
 mother was touched, but far from satisfied. 
 
 "I suppose staying with that Irish woman who
 
 172 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 nursed her has made her feel more at home in the 
 kitchen than in the parlor," she said with involuntary 
 sarcasm. "I never heard her say anything coarse," 
 she added in a milder tone; "but I do wish she could 
 be more like other girls!" 
 
 John could have found it in his sore heart to smile. 
 "You need not worry about that, Mother," he said 
 dryly. "Boarding school will change her fast enough." 
 
 "Well, I shall be thankful when she is there!" 
 The words were no sooner out than she regretted them, 
 but she could not say so. "I mean on your account," 
 she added lamely. 
 
 John went to his own room and began to get ready 
 for bed, but he stopped midway and sank into a chair 
 by the window, resting his head on his hand and let- 
 ting the night breeze cool his hot forehead. He was 
 forced to analyze the pain his mother's attitude toward 
 Mary caused him. Was there perhaps, unacknowl- 
 edged to himself, a little hope gaining lodgment in 
 his secret heart? Had he been trying to make Mary, 
 as his mother had said, "of his own generation"? 
 
 "Do you know anything about cricket, Mary?" 
 he asked her next morning at breakfast, looking up 
 from an open note in his hand, with a face full of 
 indecision. 
 
 Mary suspended operations on the shell of an egg, 
 and raised expectant eyes to his. "No," she said, 
 "but I want to." 
 
 His whole face brightened. "They want me to go 
 out to-morrow to substitute in a match with the 
 'Merion.' It is a sort of trial match, as we are both 
 to play the English team in a couple of weeks, and one
 
 "FORM" AND SUBSTANCE 173 
 
 of our best bowlers is taken ill. They say they must 
 have me, and I must get all the practice I can between 
 now and then." 
 
 A look of satisfaction settled over Mrs. Brown's 
 face. "You surely won't refuse, John," she said 
 quickly. 
 
 "No," hesitatingly "I guess not. I was thinking, 
 Mary. I told George's mother and sisters that I 
 would bring you to call on them some day, and we 
 might go this afternoon and invite one of them to go 
 out with us to the match to-morrow and keep you 
 company while I am playing. I am sure they would 
 be pleased." 
 
 "Are they nice?" Mary asked innocently, peering 
 down into her egg. (John Patterson had been well 
 trained in the matter of Mary's tastes. He knew her 
 foreign habits had disinclined her for the old-time meat- 
 and-fried-potato breakfast to which the Brown family 
 were used, and he never forgot anything that concerned 
 her. Mrs. Brown had ventured no remonstrance when 
 he had appeared with a large piece of honey on the 
 day before Mary's arrival, and had told her with 
 an air of simple finality that "Miss Mary" always 
 ate it.) She was offended with Mary's over-frank 
 question, the more so that she thought she detected 
 a twinkle in John's eyes before he bent them on his 
 plate. 
 
 "They are exceedingly nice ladylike girls," she 
 answered tartly. 
 
 Mary looked at her with those wide, grave eyes 
 that reminded her so disagreeably of Dick. The 
 question on the tip of the girl's tongue stayed there
 
 174 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 till she and John were on their way to the Raymonds' 
 after lunch. 
 
 "How old are they, John?" 
 
 "I wouldn't ask them for the world!" He turned 
 to her with a bright, amused glance. "But my memory 
 is good, and I know Miss Emma used to be ten years 
 older than George, and Miss Elsie a good deal younger. 
 That would make Miss Emma about forty now, and 
 I suppose Miss Elsie is twenty-five or six." 
 
 "Oh, they're grown-up ladies!" was Mary's dis- 
 illusioned comment. 
 
 In the old days Margaret had been inclined to 
 tease John over the conquest of Miss Emma Ray- 
 mond, and had always been properly rebuked, but 
 John was not wholly unconscious that George's older 
 sister had a regard for him that was not of his solicit- 
 ing, and that he certainly did nothing to encourage. 
 It was years now since he had thought anything about 
 it and Miss Emma's middle-aged primness and gentle- 
 ness were never broken through by any behavior 
 that could possibly give rise to comment. Neverthe- 
 less it was quite true that, through all the changing 
 years, that secret sentiment, which ought long ago 
 to have died of malnutrition, would persist in living 
 on as a sad, emaciated little inmate of Miss Emma's 
 kindly heart, always thrust into corners and never 
 presented to company. 
 
 Mary spent a rather uneasy twenty minutes among 
 the "cows and chickens" of George's family barn- 
 yard, for she was without barn-yard etiquette of any 
 kind and their volubility left her speechless. She was 
 little used to women, and their particular type (who
 
 "FORM" AND SUBSTANCE 175 
 
 talked a great deal about things of which she knew 
 nothing, asking her questions to which they fortu- 
 nately seemed to expect no answers), made her 
 register a vow never to go into "society." She did 
 not know that the Raymonds were not at all fashion- 
 able people and would probably have been much 
 improved by a larger social experience, though it is 
 to be doubted whether any surface polish could have 
 made them other than the kindly, commonplace 
 creatures they were. Mary had no suspicion that they 
 were shyer of her, for all their eloquence, than she had 
 ever been of anyone. She only knew that she longed 
 to get away. John knew it too, and broke off the 
 conversation he was trying to carry on with Miss 
 Emma, to say that he thought they must be going. 
 Mary looked at Miss Emma's gentle face and decided 
 to take the matter of the invitation into her own 
 hands. 
 
 "Have you asked Miss Emma to go with us to the 
 cricket to-morrow?" she asked with such an innocent 
 face that John was baffled. Had she misunderstood 
 his suggestion about "one" of George's sisters or was 
 this intended for a pointer? The invitation was 
 accepted with a pleasure that was evidently too strong 
 to find expression in ordinary words. Mary silently 
 noted the fluttered pink on Miss Emma's thin cheeks, 
 and as they started home her hand stole into John's 
 and she forgot to confess her coup till he asked 
 her. 
 
 "Do you know it isn't considered good form to 
 hold hands on the street?" He held hers tightly 
 as he looked laughingly down at her.
 
 176 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "But we don't care anything about 'form/ do we?" 
 She returned both the smile and pressure. 
 
 "I'm afraid I ought to try to make you care a little 
 more," he said ruefully. 
 
 " Now, Emma, do put on your new blue foulard 
 to-morrow. It's so becoming, and foulards don't spot 
 like Indias even if there should be a few drops of 
 rain," Mrs. Raymond urged with her most contented 
 purr. (George was used to purring in genuine house- 
 cat style, albeit his boarding-school metaphor had 
 been drawn from a barn-yard.) 
 
 " Catch her! " Miss Elsie laughed the short, high- 
 pitched laugh that had decided Mary's choice of a 
 companion for the morrow. " If there's a cloud as 
 big as my hat you'll see her getting off in her old 
 brown grenadine with an umbrella ! " 
 
 But from her shelter behind the lace curtains, Miss 
 Emma was watching a picture on the street, and 
 never heard a word.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 A CRICKET MATCH AND A "LUCK-PENNY" 
 
 THE round September sun seemed struggling 
 to cast his beams up Arch Street, through 
 the river mist and city smoke, for the express 
 purpose of darting them in at a certain third-story 
 window, where lay, he knew, as sweet a picture as 
 could be found in all the length and breadth of the 
 Quaker City. Balked in his effort to bend them 
 by so much as the fraction of an inch, he threw an 
 angry red glare over the white frame of the window, 
 and hung there in impotent fury. The picture within 
 was a good-humored one, and opening sleepy eyes 
 at his approach, quickly made them wider and sprang 
 up. She drew on a wrapper (for there were some 
 conventions that she did regard) and going straight 
 toward him, leaned a little forward and let him kiss 
 her happy face to his heart's content. Thus molli- 
 fied, his red countenance soon changed and he beamed 
 upon her like the lover of beauty he was. 'Tis true 
 he beamed with even added warmth upon Miss 
 Emma Raymond's equally happy but much less 
 lovely face, when, a half-hour later, having climbed 
 the intervening roofs, he looked full in at her eastern 
 chamber window. 
 
 Did John have second-sight to see the wooing 
 
 12 (177)
 
 178 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 going on over his head, or did his quick ear perchance 
 detect the light tread of bare feet on the floor above? 
 His mother, from her bed, heard him humming an 
 old, familiar air as he emerged from his bath; and just 
 at that moment it formed itself into words: "That 
 e'er the sun shone on," rang out in his low baritone, 
 and then, as though the unexpected sound of his 
 own voice brought sudden self-consciousness, the 
 music stopped. Mrs. Brown smiled; then her brows 
 drew together and she sighed. Singing at his toilet 
 was one of John's cheery habits, which had been 
 growing less of late years. If the sound of its renewal 
 was as sweet to her as the sight of his brighter, more 
 boyish face, the recognized cause of both smote on 
 her heart and made it contract painfully. If she 
 had seen the little party, whom George had joined, 
 settle itself, a few hours later, in the middle of the 
 grand-stand, she would have been still more forcibly 
 struck with the change. 
 
 "This is a good place," John said. "Here you are 
 as nearly as possible back of the wicket, and a little 
 out of the glare," appraising the rolling of the crease 
 with a critical eye. 
 
 "It doesn't matter where we sit so we can see you 
 play," Mary said, giving voice to Miss Emma's 
 sentiments with a simple matter-of-factness the elder 
 woman could not help envying. John left them almost 
 immediately to get ready for play, for Germantown 
 was to go first to the bat they had learned on enter- 
 ing the ground; but he promised to be back soon, 
 as "his services were not likely to be needed till 
 well on in the game."
 
 CRICKET MATCH AND "LUCK-PENNY" 179 
 
 "John isn't a good bat," George explained as the 
 tall figure disappeared into the club-house. "I 
 mean, he isn't steady; they can't count on him. 
 He's great if he gets 'set,' and he's so strong it's noth- 
 ing to him to send a ball over the grand-stand, let 
 alone the ropes; but he's apt to miscalculate and get 
 caught out, especially if the bowling bothers him. 
 It's bowling they're counting on him for to-day; 
 he's a splendid round-arm bowler when he's in 
 practice." 
 
 "I'm afraid I've kept him from practicing, but 
 he'll have some chance before the English match." 
 Mary said it bravely and George gave her an approv- 
 ing glance; but the signal for clearing the ground 
 changed the gloomy current of her thoughts. For 
 several minutes she was busy watching the awkward 
 movements of the roller horses, with their great 
 muffled feet, the groups of stragglers moving off 
 in every direction, and the explosive entrance of the 
 visiting team, who burst from the club-house like 
 a troop of boys just let loose from school. The white- 
 clad figures scattered themselves over the field, 
 playing at leap-frog, pitching and tossing the balls, 
 and going through an endless variety of antics on the 
 way to their appointed places. Mary watched the 
 bowler sending furious balls at the undefended wicket 
 "to get his hand in, " and was trying to imagine John 
 in the character when the object of her thoughts 
 rejoined them. He looked a new person, in his crick- 
 eting flannels with heavy leg-pads and blue and white 
 striped "blazer." He took off the canvas hat with 
 its gay band as he came up, and seated himself beside
 
 180 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Miss Emma; and something in Mary's almost 
 startled glance made his heart beat quicker. She 
 had never looked at him before with that half-shy 
 scrutiny. The fact was that he appeared full ten 
 years younger than usual, and consequently not more 
 than his real age, and he had been guilty of his first 
 act of vanity (unless we except the incident of the 
 trouser-creases) and had bought himself a tie of the 
 color of his coat, which became him well. He read 
 the success of his venture in truth's own mirrors 
 and his thin, bronzed cheeks took on a warmer tone 
 as he quietly answered Miss Emma's questions 
 about the men going in to the bat. 
 
 "The bowler at this end is a demon," he said, his 
 eyes intent on the preparatory gyrations of the wiry 
 little person in question: "His balls twist right in 
 to the wicket when they seem heading a yard off it. 
 Look at that!" He drew in his breath sharply and 
 half rose from his seat: "Clean bowled!" he gasped, 
 sitting heavily down again, with a face of consterna- 
 tion. "That's one of our very best bats. I can 
 see him making short work of me!" 
 
 "Bad beginning, good ending," Miss Emma said 
 with a little purring laugh and a delicious sense of 
 being in a position to offer consolation to John on 
 even so unimportant a matter as this seemed to her. 
 There was absolute quiet in the little group and then 
 a general rustle of satisfaction as the next man took 
 the demon's second ball successfully arid sent a third 
 to the ropes. The satisfaction was short-lived, 
 however, for after a timid half-dozen runs had been 
 added to the score, the new man sent a ball straight
 
 CRICKET MATCH AND "LUCK-PENNY" 181 
 
 into the hands of a jubilant fielder. Mary saw a 
 little blond man approaching them from behind, 
 and, as he took the vacant seat back of John, George 
 whispered to her that that was the captain of the 
 German town team. 
 
 "Good Lord, Johnny!" he groaned as he sank 
 down harder than would have seemed reasonably 
 possible to his small bulk, "that man's a demon!" 
 
 Mary smiled at the juvenile title for her dignified 
 giant, and the captain's admiring eyes meeting her's 
 made John's hasty introduction almost superfluous. 
 
 "If either of you ladies has a rabbit's foot or any 
 good strong charm, now is your time," the little man 
 said gravely. "Please do your level best to brace 
 up Brown." 
 
 "Oh, I've got a luck-penny in my purse!" Mary 
 cried with delighted recollection, as she drew forth 
 a pierced sixpence through which was knotted a bit 
 of foreign-looking string. 
 
 "That'll do the business!" the captain said, his 
 laughing eyes withdrawn from the field for the mo- 
 ment, but only for the moment. "Look at Tommy 
 Moran!" he exclaimed suddenly, addressing himself 
 again to John. "The crittur's got him all tied up 
 in a knot! Just what I expected!" as a dull thud 
 was accompanied by an attempt on Tommy's part 
 to fall over his own legs, and the ball was held aloft 
 by the challenging wicket-keep. "Leg before wicket; 
 three men out for nine. This is a funeral! John, 
 you go next, and you've got to stick, with that 
 charm!" He gave Mary a whimsical smile as he 
 rose and went to meet the crestfallen Tommy.
 
 182 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "I'm afraid I'll only lengthen the procession," 
 John said ruefully. 
 
 There was a long silence after the fifth man took 
 his place. Ball after ball was bowled and not a run 
 was made. 
 
 "I do wish they wouldn't waste so much time 
 walking around!" Mary said fretfully. "Just 
 when you think the batter may be going to do some- 
 thing, they stop playing and all begin to change places. 
 What do they do it for? It's dreadfully tiresome!" 
 
 George doubled up with enjoyment of the, to him, 
 pertinent criticism, while John leaned around Miss 
 Emma and, with twinkling eyes, explained the mean- 
 ing of a "maiden over." 
 
 "Was that five maidens or six?" George asked 
 gloomily a minute later. 
 
 "Six," was the sober answer. 
 
 A sudden ball went whizzing up in the air to Mary's 
 delight; but the sight of the men's anxious faces 
 checked her transports. "Oh, it's caught!" she 
 said mournfully. 
 
 "It certainly is," George answered grimly. 
 
 John said nothing, but rose to go. 
 
 "Oh, don't forget the luck-penny!" Mary handed 
 it hurriedly across to him. "I should have been 
 ungrateful," he said laughing; but the shine in his 
 eyes made Miss Emma grave for a while and caused 
 her to reconsider the purely fraternal, or rather paternal, 
 diagnosis she had just been making of this interest- 
 ing case. Miss Emma must be forgiven if she made 
 the most of the disparity in years. 
 
 Mary took a gold sheath-pin from her dress and
 
 CRICKET MATCH AND "LUCK-PENNY*' 183 
 
 darted after him regardless of the amused and appre- 
 ciative audience. "Pin it in your pocket with that," 
 she said breathlessly. He gave her a brilliant little 
 smile and was gone. 
 
 "By George! he's lucky!" said a man behind 
 them to a friend. Then, as he saw more interest 
 in his companion's face than the circumstances 
 seemed to warrant, he added suddenly, "You know 
 her?" 
 
 "No" (it was Mr. Dave Chandler who spoke), 
 "but I saw her at Beach Haven, and heard that she 
 was an orphan, and that that fellow Brown? is 
 her guardian." 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't mind taking the job off his hands; 
 she's as sweet as a peach!" 
 
 Mary, quite unconscious of the comment she had 
 excited, was eagerly waiting for John to cross the 
 field and take his stand. There seemed to her a 
 very unnecessary amount of delay before he finally 
 stepped forward and bent his tall body over the bat. 
 
 "The same old story," George said tensely, "but 
 I'm glad to see him getting his bearings. I don't 
 want him to do anything rash." 
 
 John was blocking balls cautiously, and then there 
 was another "over" and the other man took his 
 turn at the same tedious performance. 
 
 "Oh, I do wish he would do something exciting!" 
 Mary said in a pathetic voice. The words were 
 hardly spoken when there was a sharp sound, and a 
 ball rose like a gun-shot straight over the grand- 
 stand. The applause was frantic from both friends 
 and enemies.
 
 184 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "He must have a muscle like iron," Mr. Chandler's 
 companion remarked. "I guess I won't meddle 
 much with his ward. I wouldn't care to come into 
 collision with him." He laughed gayly. Mr. Chand- 
 ler's handsome face wore an odd little smile. 
 "Another, I declare! No, only over the ropes. 
 Look at the girl ! Did you ever see anything prettier 
 than her excitement? Whatever she gave him must 
 have been the ticket." But some time later he turned 
 again and said testily: "See here, man, look at the 
 field once in a while! I'm sorry I called your atten- 
 tion to her." 
 
 "Oh, it's my luck-penny!" Mary exclaimed, 
 while the interest and excitement rose to boiling point 
 among the Germantown sympathizers and the 
 Merion faces grew longer. There would be occasional 
 lulls when nothing happened, but no one had time 
 to feel bored again that morning. One man after 
 another went in and out, making creditable scores 
 after the bowlers were changed (on John's running 
 up a rapid twenty-five) ; but still he stuck to his post. 
 "He's all right now," George said, looking into Mary's 
 sparkling eyes. "He's good for a hundred!" 
 
 He proved a true prophet, for when the last man 
 was caught out at a quarter past one, just in time 
 for the hungry spectators, John had "carried his bat" 
 for 102. 
 
 "They'd like to carry him off the field, if he wasn't 
 rather too much of a good thing," George said, cast- 
 ing a furtive glance at his sister's flushed and beam- 
 ing face and dropping his eyes meditatively to his 
 shoes.
 
 CRICKET MATCH AND "LUCK-PENNY" 185 
 
 John soon joined them, having run a gauntlet of 
 handshakes and slaps on the back, and looking 
 flushed, too, but more happy than triumphant. 
 
 "If everybody's as hungry as I am, there won't 
 be enough lunch to go round," he said, laughingly 
 parrying the congratulations showered upon him, 
 and looking into Mary's radiant face. He saw he 
 had gained more than a cricket match. 
 
 Have you ever been in your "teens," and seen 
 a losing game won on the cricket, or football, or 
 baseball fields by the man who was your particular 
 property? If so, you must agree that the President 
 of the United States is a very unimportant person 
 beside the man who "carries his bat" for a hundred. 
 John had won a new place in Mary's esteem if not 
 in her heart. To be our best-beloved friend is one 
 thing; to be a popular hero at the same time is 
 another. 
 
 The appetites were all good, but John Patterson's 
 lunch basket was equal to the test, and he won his 
 laurels too. 
 
 John's bowling proved much less successful than 
 usual, for he was quite out of practice, and the after- 
 noon would have been disappointing to Mary but 
 for the final victory. Just before the end a little 
 incident left its impress on her mind. She saw the 
 gentleman she had seen at Beach Haven, and whose 
 name she remembered, pass in front of her with a 
 lady. (They had moved their seats after lunch 
 and were close to the front aisle.) He looked at Mary 
 with the same perfectly well-bred but very expressive 
 glance that she had seen in his eyes before, and again
 
 186 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 she colored warmly and cast down her own, without 
 knowing why. Someone in the front row stopped 
 the lady to speak to her and Mary had a good chance 
 to look at her, for Mr. Chandler turned his attention 
 to the field, or appeared to do so. His companion 
 was a woman of from twenty to twenty-five, dressed 
 quite simply in a white linen suit with a very becom- 
 ing hat of dark scarlet straw, trimmed with field- 
 poppies and grasses, and a parasol to match. Mary 
 recognized the quiet elegance of the toilet, but would 
 have been much astonished had she been told its 
 cost. The lady was tall and very slender, without 
 being thin. She had a willowy ease and grace of 
 manner that were most engaging, and a charming 
 smile that would have been mocking but for the great 
 sweetness of the dark eyes. Her hair was black, 
 of a fine, silky texture that, like everything else 
 about her, bespoke good breeding, and Mary would 
 have thought her beautiful but for the almost sickly 
 pallor of her complexion. So attracted was she that 
 she quite forgot Mr. Chandler, until she found that 
 he had turned, and that his eyes were again upon 
 her. Then they moved away. 
 
 The lady had not noticed them ; but as Mary turned 
 to George to ask if he knew who she was, she saw that 
 he was very white and that his eyes, which were 
 following the handsome couple, had a strange look 
 as of pain. 
 
 "George, wasn't that Miss Caroline Hutchinson?" 
 Miss Emma asked, leaning forward to speak to him 
 across Mary. His face regained its wonted expres- 
 sion as he answered her in the affirmative; but he
 
 CRICKET MATCH AND "LUCK-PENNY" 187 
 
 was very grave all the way home, except when he 
 roused himself from time to time to take part in the 
 brisk conversation carried on by the others. Mary 
 saw John's eyes rest on him occasionally with a ques- 
 tioning gravity. 
 
 "John, who is Miss Caroline Hutchinson?" she 
 asked as soon as the other two were out of hearing. 
 
 "I don't know. Why do you ask?" 
 
 "I saw her at the match and I liked her looks so 
 much." She spoke with a reservation; but, as John 
 continued to look inquiringly at her, the context 
 came out, even to the mention of Mr. Chandler's 
 name too. John looked interested and grave. "I 
 don't go about enough to know who people are, 
 and I know very few of George's friends and 
 acquaintances," he said. (George was a so- 
 ciety favorite, in spite of his unfashionable up- 
 bringing.) John was recalling his friend's face, 
 and Mr. Chandler was a matter of absolute indiffer- 
 ence to him. 
 
 He had unpinned the sixpence and handed it 
 back to Mary before changing his flannels, expressing 
 his gratitude in comic fashion, but regretting that 
 its influence had not lasted out the game. "Oh, 
 I wanted you to keep it," she had answered, coloring, 
 "for luck and for a keepsake. If it helps for half a 
 game, that's something." 
 
 "It's a very great deal!" he said, laughing and offer- 
 ing no further thanks, but she saw that she had 
 pleased him very much by the little gift. She was 
 so proud of him, and so fond of him, that there were 
 two exceedingly happy people at Mrs. Brown's din-
 
 188 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 ner-table that evening, while mistress, man and maid 
 shared in the satisfaction over the day's event. 
 
 For long years Mrs. Brown had been used to 
 John's habit of easy chat with John Patterson dur- 
 ing meals, but to find Mary indulging in " familiari- 
 ties with the waiter man " had given an unpleasant 
 jar to her "sense of fitness." "John Patterson would 
 never take advantage of anyone," but that did not 
 alter the impropriety on Mary's part. It did not 
 occur to her that Mary knew by intuition what she 
 herself could only find out by years of experience. 
 
 To-night, however, she even smiled indulgently 
 when the girl lifted a merry face as her soup plate 
 was set before her and said affectionately there 
 really was no other word to describe it : 
 
 :< John, your lunch was so good, and we were all 
 so hungry, I guess when you looked in the basket 
 to-night you felt like the man who took up the col- 
 lection and was glad to get his hat back." 
 
 Mrs. Brown smiled because she was in her most 
 unbending frame of mind. As for the old story, 
 she never could see any joke in it. " Whoever 
 heard of a man losing his hat in taking up a col- 
 lection! "
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 "IT'S No USE" 
 
 HOW strange it seemed to John to be sitting 
 again in the old, familiar Holy Trinity pew 
 with his mother! Had the whole church 
 and service altered, or was it all the effect of the girl- 
 ish presence between Mrs. Brown and himself? He 
 looked back upon his old self as though it had been 
 someone else who had sat in that spot year after year. 
 
 The rector was away and the pulpit was occupied, 
 on this particular Sunday, by a visiting clergyman 
 from Chicago. He was a handsome man, with a 
 thoroughbred face, a commanding figure and a rich 
 voice that betokened long culture; while his sermon 
 gave evidence of the student as well as the devotee. 
 It was plain to see that the impression he was making 
 on the small congregation was a very favorable one; 
 but, again, that odd feeling came over John that the 
 John Brown who sat there six months ago would 
 have listened to him quite differently; that something 
 had vitally, fundamentally changed the John Brown 
 of the present. 
 
 Before the sermon Mary had drawn off her gloves, 
 oblivious of the critical glance from Mrs. Brown's 
 observing eyes, and had slipped them into her pocket. 
 She was sitting with her ringless, sunburned hands 
 
 (189)
 
 190 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 (they were well formed, but not small) folded in her 
 lap, in a way that John knew well and regarded as an 
 inheritance from her Quaker forebears. He had seen 
 his mother's disapproving look and felt a strong 
 inclination to cover the brown hands with his bigger, 
 browner one. The old John Brown had had no such 
 impulses; had never felt this warm, irresistible rush 
 of tenderness. As usual, she was drinking in every 
 word of the sermon, but to-day it was a very different 
 one from any that she had heard at Beach Haven, and 
 Beach Haven covered most of her church experience. 
 The minister was speaking, in his delightful, sym- 
 pathetic voice, of the, great legacy of the historic 
 Church; of that precious transfer of the priestly 
 gift, through the miraculous "laying on of hands;" 
 of the perfect, changeless nature of the truth that had 
 come down all the Christian centuries in the wondrous 
 words of the Creed. One perfectly rounded period 
 followed another. His voice trembled with feeling 
 when he spoke of the irreverent suggestion of alter- 
 ing one word in the great "Credo" which had come 
 from the hands of the Fathers. Surely they had 
 known how to interpret their Lord's belief and teach- 
 ing as no most gifted modern could ever know. He 
 urged his hearers, with real passion, not to be led to 
 believe that they were free even to interpret its 
 meaning differently to themselves. "That license 
 of interpretation of the great Articles of the Christian 
 faith was one of the most insidious wiles of the Devil 
 to undermine the purity of the 'Faith once delivered 
 to the saints.' Truth was the same in Athanasius' 
 time as it is to-day," he declared. " What Athanasius
 
 "IT'S NO USE" 191 
 
 meant we must mean if we would not be guilty of 
 imposture." 
 
 Whatever the old John Brown might have felt, 
 the present John knew that he was hearing the elo- 
 quent sermon through the ears of another; feeling 
 it through another; and that each thought that formed 
 itself behind that white forehead reached him uner- 
 ringly by some process surer than the newly-adopted 
 telephone, but known only to the great Maker of 
 spiritual telephones. 
 
 She never raised her eyes to him to-day; he missed 
 that exquisite little thrill for which he had learned 
 to wait. Mrs. Brown politely forestalled any idea 
 of his sharing his hymn-book with her, as he had 
 always done, by handing her one each time, opened 
 at the proper place. Mary did not sing at all and she 
 missed something in John's voice. He seemed to 
 be slipping away from her further and further, and 
 something choked her. 
 
 "That was a wonderfully fine sermon, John," 
 Mrs. Brown said as they started along Rittenhouse 
 Square, Mary still between them and still gloveless. 
 
 "I didn't like it at all!" Mary said, in a voice 
 which, without intentional impertinence, carried 
 a sufficiently emphatic contradiction. 
 
 John winced, and colored hotly. His mother's 
 lips curled with an expression bordering on triumph 
 as she noted his trouble. She went on without pay- 
 ing the least attention to the uncalled-for interrup- 
 tion. "Who is he? I don't know when I have heard 
 anyone who impressed me as so cultivated and 
 refined and with such an earnest spirituality."
 
 192 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 John saw Mary's face flame and her lips tremble. 
 She suddenly put her hand into his and he under- 
 stood that it was more in regret for her impulsive 
 rudeness than in solicitation of his championship. 
 He felt it a misplaced apology, however, and he saw 
 his mother's lips tighten warningly. Holding the 
 hand in a firm clasp, he tried to answer Mrs. Brown's 
 question and comment, but she was too much vexed 
 to heed him. "Mary," she said suddenly, "even 
 children wear gloves in the city, especially on Sunday." 
 
 It was John's lips that quivered now. Mary's 
 right hand went to her pocket without a word, but 
 he would not at once loose the left. His spiritual 
 telephone was to carry back a message, and all that 
 animal magnetism could do to further it the palm 
 and fingers of his strong hand did. "Nothing you 
 can ever say or do will make any difference with me," 
 it said, and Mary read the message aright, but it 
 only made her sorrier and more humble; it roused 
 the mettle in her, and as he released her hand, she 
 put the gloves on with a swelling heart and a resolve 
 not to offend again. She little knew how quickly 
 she was to yield to temptation and with what con- 
 sequences. 
 
 "Mrs. Brown," she said in a low voice, without 
 looking up, "I didn't mean to be impolite. Will 
 you excuse me?" The direct sincerity and sweetness 
 of the appeal did what soft answers are proverbially 
 said to do. Mrs. Brown felt some shame for her 
 own part and said hastily: "Why, certainly, Mary, 
 it was of no consequence. I shall never think of it." 
 The fact of childish conceit differing with her was a
 
 "IT'S NO USE" 193 
 
 trifle to her and it might help to disillusion John. 
 But she owned that "the girl had a very nice dispo- 
 sition," and had "only been ill trained." 
 
 With John it was far otherwise; and, gratified as 
 he was at Mary's apology and the more friendly 
 conversation that followed it, his heart was weighted 
 with a solemn portent. His was indeed to be "a 
 strait betwixt two." It was a cross-roads that made 
 him dizzy and uncertain where to turn or to what 
 stone wall of incompatibility any road might lead. 
 He knew better than to attribute Mary's remark 
 to childish conceit. The rude expression of opinion 
 had been only the result of her frank discussions with 
 her father, but the thought that lay behind was indic- 
 ative of the warp of her whole nature. Would he 
 wish to see it altered for the sake of for the sake 
 of what? 
 
 As he handed her into the Sixteenth Street car 
 his eyes met hers fully. Neither smiled and there 
 was something deeper and stronger than tenderness 
 or approval in his grave, steady look. 
 
 After the Sunday midday dinner was over, Mrs. 
 Brown announced her intention of taking a nap and 
 later paying a visit to a sick neighbor instead of going 
 to afternoon service. Mary looked inquiringly, 
 expectantly, at John. "What do you want to do?" 
 he asked smiling, as his mother left the room. 
 
 "I want you to talk to me about the Prayer-book; 
 about the Creeds. Will you? We can go out in 
 your garden." 
 
 He assented, but with a look that suggested a 
 painful operation which no doubt would better be
 
 194 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 performed at once. "I am afraid I shall be a broken 
 reed, though," he said sadly. 
 
 There was a long silence after they had seated 
 themselves side by side on the broad bench. Mary 
 had the old English book in her hands and was turn- 
 ing the leaves, but John saw that there was no method 
 in her apparent search; she was only finding words 
 to express some feeling that was uppermost in her 
 mind. He had no wish to hurry her. He, too, 
 wanted time; and the short, wordless prayer for 
 guidance came from a very full heart. He was not 
 looking at Mary, though he saw each movement 
 of her nervous fingers. At last she turned to him 
 and he saw that her eyes were full of tears and that 
 her lips were quivering painfully; she tried to steady 
 them. 
 
 " John, I am afraid it's no use!" 
 
 "No use." He repeated the two words dully, 
 but he thought he understood. 
 
 "I feel sure I can never believe what the Creeds 
 say, and I don't know how to make them mean 
 something else, even if it is right to try." John 
 felt that it was no longer a child that was asking 
 his help. There was an intensity in her face that 
 no child's face ever wore. "I have tried so hard 
 to believe them because of you and it seems as 
 though it ought to be very easy, when I know so 
 little, to believe what you believe and what Mr. 
 Brooks believes and what so many wise, good people 
 have believed. Father said it didn't matter to him 
 whether the people he loved had the same belief he 
 had or not; but it matters a great deal to me. I
 
 "IT'S NO USE" 195 
 
 would like to belong to something, but I think I 
 could never be happy if I belonged to anything dif- 
 ferent from you." 
 
 John looked at her with deep solemnity. "Where 
 are the difficulties?" he asked at length. 
 
 I think I have said before that John's voice was his 
 one beautiful possession no, not his only one; for 
 we remember that Mary was not alone in admiring 
 his hands. But his voice, which had a very different 
 beauty from that of the visiting clergyman of that 
 morning, had it not so much by reason of some happy 
 adjustment of the vocal chords, perhaps, as because 
 of a power of adaptation to the thought behind it 
 the gift of fitting the gamut of tones with perfect 
 fidelity to every shade of feeling, from indignation 
 or scorn to tenderness, sympathy or humor. 
 
 "I love to hear you say 'why?' John," Mary 
 had once said to him. "It sounds as though you 
 wanted so much to know the reason and would be 
 so sure to understand." 
 
 "I do want very much to know all your reasons," 
 he had answered with a very crooked little smile 
 of gratified surprise. His quiet question now carried 
 with it the most ardent wish to know and the most 
 complete promise of sympathy and understanding. 
 
 Mary opened the book without any uncertainty, 
 now, as to the place, and read the beautiful, solemn, 
 opening words of the great confession: "I believe 
 in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven 
 and earth: And in Jesus Christ his only Son our 
 Lord:" Was she going straight through it? he won- 
 dered with a curious tremor. She paused, and
 
 196 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 raised her eyes. "What do you mean by 'only Son?' 
 I always think of God as a person; a Heavenly Father, 
 who feels sorry when I am unhappy or wrong and 
 pleased when I am good; but do you believe He is 
 the kind of person who could have real children?" 
 
 The pure, earnest face looking up to his made the 
 little thrill of consciousness in John's heart slink 
 shamed away. This was not the young girl touching 
 on an unused subject with the man who loved her; 
 but the eager, ardent soul turning to a kindred soul 
 for help and sympathy. 
 
 "No, no," he said hurriedly. 
 
 "Father told me that God was a Spirit and we were 
 all His spiritual children; and Christ could not be 
 His Son any differently. He was only just full of 
 God, so he could not sin, and nobody else ever has 
 been." 
 
 "Your father probably did not believe in the mir- 
 acle of his birth?" 
 
 Mary only shook her head. "Father said it might 
 be we did not understand all the possibilities of nat- 
 ural laws, but it ought not to be necessary." 
 
 Dick had indeed made a mental companion of the 
 child, John thought, and not in vain. 
 
 "It is hard for me to explain just what I mean by 
 'only Son,'" he said; "for while I do believe in the 
 miracle, because of the Gospel record of it, I think 
 I understand your father's point and agree with it. 
 But Jesus was absolutely unique and he made many 
 declarations about himself that no mere man would 
 seem justified in making: 'No man cometh unto 
 the Father but by me;' 'before Abraham was I am;
 
 "IT'S NO USE" 197 
 
 'I am the Vine; ye are the branches.' There are so 
 many such expressions in the Gospels, while the 
 greatest of all the prophets said that 'all his right- 
 eousness was as filthy rags.' Then Christ gave us 
 the parable of the householder who sent his servants 
 first, and then his son, whom they killed. St. Paul 
 said, 'In the fullness of time, God sent his Son' to 
 be sure the phrase 'made under the law,' might seem 
 to contradict the theory of miracle." The idea had 
 evidently just occurred to him. 
 
 Mary was drinking in every word, but said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "It is a great mystery, but Jesus was surely con- 
 scious of some power and mission that no one else 
 has ever been conscious of. St. Paul or whoever 
 wrote the Epistle to the Hebrews" he smiled down 
 into her deeply thoughtful face as he referred to her 
 Beach Haven lessons in Criticism "says that 'God, 
 who, at sundry times, and in divers manners, spake 
 by the prophets/ has now spoken 'by His Son, whom 
 He hath appointed heir of all things; by whom, also, 
 He made the worlds.' Did your father teach you that 
 Jesus died, and was buried, and that that was the 
 end of his ministry?" 
 
 "No; Father said he didn't want to teach me about 
 the Resurrection, because he didn't know just what 
 he believed himself, except that no flesh can rise 
 again. He said flesh was not eternal, because none 
 of us was just the same this year as last; he was get- 
 ting thinner and sicker" her eyes filled at the rec- 
 ollection "and I was growing all the time; but he 
 believed all the spiritual part of Jesus, which he called
 
 198 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the Christ, was alive and near us all now, and we 
 could speak to him." 
 
 "I do not believe in the resurrection of the actual 
 flesh, either, but I only take that passage in the Creed 
 to mean the continuation of our personalities, through 
 a spiritual body, in such a way that we shall recog- 
 nize each other in the next world." 
 
 "But in my book it says 'flesh.' If the Americans 
 could change it to 'body/ why couldn't we change 
 some of the other words now, so they would mean 
 what we really think?" 
 
 A flash of amusement crossed the tender gravity 
 of John's face. "People would never all mean the 
 same thing, I am afraid," he said, "and the great 
 purpose of creeds and constitutions is to keep stabil- 
 ity and unity in an organization for long periods 
 of time. If the Constitution of the United States 
 had been changed every time a popular wave of 
 feeling demanded it, we should not be so strong a 
 nation as we are; and the same thing is true of creeds. 
 But I do believe, when a Constitution ceases to 
 express the people's will or when a creed is definitely 
 outgrown when very few hold its literal, original 
 meaning it should be revised (with the greatest 
 care) in spite of all we heard this morning to the 
 contrary." He had been talking as man to man, 
 but his color rose at the remembrance of the little 
 scene that had followed the sermon. His steadfast 
 eyes repeated the assurance of the morning. 
 
 Mary's eyes fell for a moment; when she lifted them 
 there was a spark of mischief showing. "I am sure 
 those old men who made the frescos and sculptures
 
 "IT'S NO USE" 199 
 
 believed the Creed literally," she said. "They 
 painted Jesus going down into a place where people 
 were in torment, and meeting Adam and Eve and 
 other people who were sinners; and I have seen 
 men and women rising up out of their graves, lifting 
 the lids as they came; and Michael is always stand- 
 ing blowing a trumpet." 
 
 John smiled. "I wonder how the minister this 
 morning would defend his position against you," 
 he said. Then his face resumed its former gravity. 
 "I have not studied these matters as much as I 
 should, but if men of his temper were the authori- 
 tative voice of the Episcopal Church I should be 
 forced to withdraw from it. Luckily they are not. 
 I think God will understand if I interpret the Creed 
 to conform with what I believe to be the truth, 
 though I know it is not what the men meant who 
 made it; but I could not ask you to take my inter- 
 pretation and I am afraid it would be impossible 
 for you if I did." 
 
 Two pairs of grave, wistful eyes carried on the 
 conversation without the help of words. Mary's 
 were the first to droop. She turned them again to 
 the open page of her book. 
 
 "Where did they think Heaven was when Christ 
 went up and sat down on God's right hand?" she 
 said after another long pause. 
 
 "They thought what people did think before 
 Copernicus; that the earth was stationary, and the 
 firmament a solid arch above it; and somewhere 
 lifted up on high, God sat on a great white throne 
 to regulate and judge the world that He had made.
 
 200 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 To me, that phrase of the Creed just means that 
 Christ, after having tasted human life and death, 
 is a glorified Spirit still, at God's right hand; that 
 is, the great spiritual force to carry out God's will 
 for His people; to save them and sustain them, and 
 to judge them. I believe Christ comes every day 
 'to judge both the quick and the dead/ though it 
 seems as if Jesus himself did not understand his 
 'Second Coming' as I do." 
 
 "Why, John, you think almost like Father, really," 
 Mary answered earnestly. "I wish I could say 
 those things, for I think I believe them that way; 
 but there is something here," pressing her clasped 
 hands to her bosom with unconscious eloquence, 
 "that won't let me." 
 
 "You are a Friend, Mary," he said gently. "You 
 follow the 'Inward Light/ and it is all you need. 
 I think it is all we, any of us, need." 
 
 "Oh, but I love to go to church, and I love the 
 service and the hymns. I would rather hear you 
 sing hymns than any music I ever heard!" (No 
 wonder the traitorous blood rose to John's forehead.) 
 "And I want to go with you to Communion. Miss 
 Newlin took me once, but I had to sit back by my- 
 self. I am sure I could say all that service. 'I 
 give myself; my soul and body/ " she repeated the 
 words in a hushed voice. "Don't you think they 
 would ever let anyone say that instead of saying they 
 believed in Jesus being 'Very God of Very God, 
 begotten, not made'?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not," John said with his eyes on the 
 ground, "but the Church is the poorer for its hedges."
 
 "IT'S NO USE" 201 
 
 "If I said the Creed because I believe, anything 
 you think must be right?" she ventured timidly. 
 
 "No, no," he exclaimed quickly, almost sternly. 
 
 "I might be offending against the Holy Spirit in 
 me, and God would not forgive me. The Bible 
 says that is the only sin that never can be forgiven 
 in Heaven or earth." 
 
 "Mary," he answered solemnly, "I love my Church, 
 and it would make me very happy to have you belong 
 to it too, to have you take the Communion with me; 
 but I wouldn't influence you against your inward 
 promptings for all the happiness in the world; not 
 to add a million communicants to the Episcopal 
 Church. Many people would think me overstrained 
 and foolish, I suppose," he added hi a quieter voice, 
 as if almost ashamed of his outburst. 
 
 "And you would rather have me go to church with 
 you always, when I can, and still just be a Friend? 
 We shall always know we understand each other, 
 sha'n't we? And believe almost exactly alike in 
 spite of all the creeds and catechisms?" 
 
 "The seat by me will always be your seat, whether 
 you are there or not, and I shall always be worship- 
 ing with you before God, however far we may be 
 apart or whatever kind of service we may be going 
 through." He spoke with a concentrated intensity 
 of feeling that was akin to passion.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 MARY FAILS TO KEEP HER RESOLUTION 
 
 DEAR, DARLINGEST CATHARINE: 
 I am all by myself till lunch tifne, and I told John 
 I would write a long letter to you. He always is out 
 in the morning and Mrs. Brown is going to meet him 
 for some business to-day. 
 
 He asked me to send you his love, and he made me promise 
 to write here at his desk, and he filled the inkstand and arranged 
 things for me; but I don't like to. I am only doing it because I 
 saw it would hurt his feelings if I didn't; but I never feel comfor- 
 table in this "den," as they call it, since I found out Mrs. Brown 
 doesn't like me to be here. I don't even feel quite easy when 
 John is with me; but then he says it is his very own room, and 
 he wants me, so I do come and sit while he is working; because, 
 of course, he ought to have what he wants, too, and we haven't 
 many more days to be together. 
 
 A tear-blot emphasized the sentence, though Mary 
 went on steadily. 
 
 But I should like Mrs. Brown to like me, and I know she doesn't 
 and it makes me sorry all the time. I never tried to make any- 
 body like me before; I always thought they did, or else I didn't 
 care. But you see this is her house, too, and if she doesn't 
 want to have me, why, of course John won't like to ask me to 
 come here. 
 
 The writing came to a stop at this point, and Mary's 
 head was down on her arms to the imminent peril 
 
 (202)
 
 MARY FAILS TO KEEP RESOLUTION 203 
 
 of the freshly filled inkstand. It was full fifteen 
 minutes later that she picked up the fallen pen and 
 laboriously began again, with a deep, trembling sigh. 
 
 I know I am always doing something that she doesn't think is 
 nice, and I stop when I find out; but then it's already done. 
 I never had to think about things before, because you and Father 
 never minded what I did, and John always understands just what 
 I feel like; but I'm going to be very very careful to behave 
 "like a lady." I have heard Mrs. Brown praise girls for being 
 " ladylike," and I don't sit in the kitchen any more since I saw her 
 look disapprovingly at me when I was doing the corn for the cook. 
 
 I like to be doing something useful, and at Beach Haven it was 
 all so different; but perhaps Mrs. Brown's kind of ladies don't 
 do things in the kitchen, or perhaps it's because she thinks I'm 
 company. I don't ask John about those things because I don't 
 want to trouble him, and I know it hurts him very much when he 
 sees that his mother is displeased with me. I love him so much 
 I feel as if I should burst; but I haven't once asked him to kiss 
 me since you told me not to. 
 
 There was another pause, while Mary's head rested 
 on her hand and her mind seemed to have wandered 
 far away. It soon came back and she dipped her 
 pen afresh. 
 
 You said men I mean "old bachelors" "didn't care for that 
 sore of thing, " but I'm sure that's not it. 
 
 She looked abstractedly at her pen, but could not 
 find words to express just what she did think was "it." 
 
 I should like to do something for him that was hard and 
 disagreeable, but all I can think of is trying to be ladylike, 
 and he doesn't really care about that: he only cares about his 
 mother's caring. And there's being cheerful about going to 
 school. I know he would feel dreadfully if he knew how I cried 
 about it at night, so I don't speak of school to him, or else I try
 
 204 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 to talk very cheerfully. That is as hard as anything I can do, 
 but now I have found it isn't any use; I never can deceive him. 
 This morning I said what a good time I was going to have and he 
 looked at me as though I had hurt his feelings ; and then he smiled 
 all of a sudden and the tears came into his eyes, and I'm just sure 
 he wanted to kiss me. But he didn't. I hoped he would, but 
 I never said a word. Perhaps he thinks I'm getting too old. 
 Oh, I don't want to get old. I want to keep a little girl and be 
 petted ! I wish I could put my head in your lap and cry. But I 
 am going to be brave. 
 
 Miss Newlin writes me nice letters, and she says my room-mate 
 is the very nicest girl in the whole school. She has been there two 
 years and she is a year older than I am. Her name is Ellen Logan. 
 I suppose she knows just how to behave, and I'm going to copy 
 everything she does. But I haven't told you about my beautiful 
 day, Saturday. 
 
 There followed two whole pages of glowing descrip- 
 tion of the game of cricket in general and of John's 
 performance in this particular game, followed by some 
 matters connected with her school wardrobe of too 
 personal a nature to be here set down. 
 
 Mrs. Brown offered to help me get some things. She tries to 
 be nice to me generally, but trying is very different from just 
 naturally being nice. Mrs. Wharton liked my ways without 
 trying. We are going to spend the day with her to-morrow. 
 I can't help wishing Mrs. Brown wasn't going, for it is the last 
 day I have with John. He has something important he must 
 attend to in the morning on Wednesday, and then right after 
 lunch he is going to take me to Beechfield. 
 
 She finished her letter and decided that she would 
 run out to the nearest letter-box and post it. " I won't 
 need a hat or gloves just that little way," she said 
 to herself. It was in truth but a little way and the 
 street was very quiet. She had reached the box and
 
 MARY FAILS TO KEEP RESOLUTION 205 
 
 was lifting the lid of the slot when the sound of a 
 child's screaming struck her ears. They were the 
 sort of cries to make one's heart stand still; but if 
 Mary's heart stood still it only added wings to her 
 feet. She was down Sixteenth Street like a very 
 Atalanta, and had turned the corner into the alley 
 whence the cries came, in time to see a young woman 
 dragging a little girl through a doorway, while she 
 struck her repeatedly with a stout stick. There were 
 no spectators but a handful of awestruck children 
 as Mary dashed by and followed the woman into the 
 house. One side of the street, which like so many 
 of its kind bore an aristocratic name was flanked 
 with the high, blind wall, and closed service-gates 
 of the Arch Street houses (mostly vacant at this 
 season). Two or three grumbling women came out 
 on neighboring doorsteps in time to see Mary dis- 
 appear, but their disapproval never took any more 
 active form than grumbling. It knew none to take. 
 
 The woman was just closing the door upon her 
 victim when Mary sprang at her like an avenging 
 fury and commanded her to stop in a voice which, 
 combined with the suddenness and strangeness of the 
 apparition, did make the vixen pause for an instant, 
 stick in air. Only an instant, however. 
 
 "Mind yer own business!" she hissed in a low voice 
 of concentrated fury, jerking the child away by its 
 arm and bringing her formidable weapon down on 
 it again. But she had underrated her adversary. 
 Like a flash Mary had wrested the stick from her 
 grasp and struck her across the shoulders with all 
 the strength that anger lent her. The child was
 
 206 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 loosed at once and ran sobbing through the doorway 
 while the woman flew at Mary like a tiger. But Mary 
 had the weapon and used it with telling effect, albeit 
 mainly in self-defence. (I can only say "mainly," 
 for our heroine's blood was up.) "I'll have the law 
 on ye!" the woman gasped, while cries of "give it 
 to her," came from the small but admiring audience 
 outside the door. 
 
 "The law!" It brought to Mary's mind a vision 
 of John, and she turned and fled as fast as she had 
 come. The woman saw that she had made a home 
 thrust and rushed after her, reiterating her threat 
 with ornaments of language not to be repeated. On 
 the pavement, huddled against the wall at the entrance 
 to Sixteenth Street, the child had sunk down in a sob- 
 bing, trembling heap, unable to go any further. A 
 poor, ugly, dirty little specimen of humanity she was. 
 Mary went straight to her and picked her up with no 
 clear idea of what she meant to do next. Half a 
 dozen women held back the child's tormentor and 
 expressed their minds in no measured terms. It had 
 only needed a leader to cause a revolution in the neigh- 
 borhood, and Mary suddenly found herself a heroine, 
 with all the world on her side. It was a small world, 
 and there was no noise except the storming of the 
 infuriated woman. The children were too much 
 astonished to do more than stare. If their educations 
 had included an acquaintance with the Archangel 
 Michael, it is probable that the feeling uppermost 
 in their minds would have shaped itself into the 
 belief that a feminine edition of Michael, halo and 
 all, had suddenly swooped down and vanquished the
 
 demon; for the noonday sun turned Mary's ruffled 
 hair into a very respectable halo, and she truly looked 
 a creature from some other world than that of her 
 companions or the forlorn child whom she held 
 defiantly to her bosom. It was this picture that met 
 the eye of her guardian as he forced his long, impatient 
 legs into leisurely step with his mother, on their way 
 home to lunch. He stopped short, and his sharp 
 exclamation brought Mrs. Brown also to a standstill 
 and made her eyes follow the direction of his. In 
 that one breathless moment John's heart made a 
 photograph that was never to fade from his memory; 
 then he was at Mary's side. 
 
 "How came you here, Mary?" he asked in keen 
 anxiety, attempting to take the child. "What has 
 happened?" But the little wretch felt that she was 
 being torn from her protector and clung to Mary 
 with the strength of desperation. Mary told him the 
 main facts as quickly as possible, while the furious 
 woman, from a little distance, hurled threats of 
 vengeance and of "the law." John turned and 
 measured her with one glance, but he only said calmly: 
 "You shall have all the law you want. I am a lawyer 
 and a member of the Society to Protect Children from 
 Cruelty and I will see that your case is attended to." 
 
 Her rage sank at once into a hysterical whimper, 
 and she declared that she had only been giving the 
 child the punishment it deserved, and that she had 
 been attacked and brutally assaulted in her own house. 
 
 "Did you go into her house?" he asked Mary in 
 consternation. She saw the gravity of his face at her 
 answer and understood that she had really been
 
 208 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 guilty of a punishable offence. "But, oh, John, you 
 won't give her back the child?" she cried her eyes 
 raised to his, unnaturally big and brilliant with 
 conflicting feelings. 
 
 "Not now"; he said quietly, succeeding in inducing 
 the little girl to let him take her. "I hope not at all." 
 He held the child on his arm, while with his left hand 
 he took Mary's to steady and reassure her. The 
 effect now as always was instantaneous. 
 
 "Get me a cab from the station," he said, turning 
 to a boy who stood near, and, by voice and manner, 
 taking him at once into partnership in an important 
 business. The urchin nodded and was off. 
 
 It was a strange picture that the steadily increas- 
 ing group of spectators gazed upon. The child had 
 recognized John's spirit, with a child's intuition, and 
 had buried her head on his shoulder; while Mary, 
 with her hand in his, stood close to him, absolutely 
 quiet, her torn and disarranged dress the only evi- 
 dence of a violent scene. 
 
 "Are you the child's mother?" he asked the 
 woman. 
 
 "No, she isn't!" came from a dozen lips at once, 
 followed by a confused mass of testimony that made 
 John feel sure of his case and of sufficient witnesses. 
 He wasted very few words now; but when the boy 
 came back, triumphantly enthroned on the seat of 
 a cab, he thanked him substantially, and, turning 
 to Mary, bade her go home with his mother and leave 
 the whole matter in his hands. 
 
 She started reluctantly toward Mrs. Brown, who 
 had not stirred during the whole drama and whose
 
 MARY FAILS TO KEEP RESOLUTION 209 
 
 face bore a look of ill-concealed disgust at being 
 made, in some sort, a participant in a street brawl. 
 "What were you doing without your hat?" she 
 asked Mary frigidly, as they walked toward the 
 house. She was not unkind and would have been 
 glad at any time to go to some trouble to save a 
 child from abuse, "but what possible business was it 
 of Mary's to be prying into the domestic affairs of 
 such people as these and evidently getting into a 
 hand-to-hand encounter with a disreputable woman! 
 She would be thankful to have her out of the house 
 and in the safe custody of a better disciplinarian than 
 John !" A not unnatural wish. 
 
 Mary put her hand to her hair in surprise. "I 
 forgot I hadn't on my hat," she said blushing deeply; 
 then she retold her story very briefly, feeling more 
 and more guilty. 
 
 "I suppose you meant no harm, but you must 
 be careful not to follow every impulse that comes 
 to you, even if it be a kind one. Wait to consult 
 someone as to the proper way to help. I am afraid 
 you have made a good deal of trouble for yourself 
 and for John." 
 
 Mary made no further excuse, and the thought 
 of getting John into trouble after all her resolutions, 
 went to her heart. Of course he would save her 
 from the consequences of her rashness; she never 
 doubted his ability to do so any more than she 
 doubted his will. "I would rather go to prison, 
 though, than let that woman have the child to kill!" 
 And it was no idle boast. She had read of people 
 beating children, but it had seemed something out
 
 210 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of a bygone time, or too remote from her experience 
 to touch her acutely. This sudden confronting with 
 the reality was too terrible to bear! When they 
 reached the door, she followed Mrs. Brown into the 
 house without a word, and without a glance at John 
 Patterson's solicitous face, ran up to her own room. 
 After changing her damaged frock she watched from 
 the window for John's coming, which was not long 
 delayed; but a shy pride prevented her going to 
 him at once. She would let his mother talk to him 
 first. Then she remembered that in a few minutes 
 it would be lunch time; she would wait and go 
 straight to the dining-room and say nothing to him 
 of her regret till the meal was over, and she could 
 find a chance to talk to him alone. Surely she had 
 no need to explain her motives to him ! 
 
 They were very kind to her, and after John had 
 assured her that the child was in safe, kind hands 
 and would be well cared for, the subject dropped 
 (to John Patterson's keen disappointment). She 
 felt the other John's eyes upon her constantly, though 
 she did not meet them, and the fact that there was 
 no disapproval of her in his voice or manner made 
 her feel none the better; indeed, it made her the 
 more contrite and depressed, and she hardly raised 
 her eyes or ate a mouthful of the things with which 
 John Patterson insisted on covering her plate. As 
 soon as they reached the library she went directly 
 to John and took his hand with the quiet air of 
 possession which Mrs. Brown always found so hard 
 to bear, in spite of her honest efforts to be generous. 
 "John, I am so sorry!" she said with crimsoning
 
 MARY FAILS TO KEEP RESOLUTION 211 
 
 cheeks. "I meant to be so careful and now I have 
 gone and got you into trouble." 
 
 John stood looking down on her, not trusting 
 himself to speak. Did he not love every one of her 
 childish impulses and actions with all the pure pas- 
 sion of tenderness she roused in him? But she 
 must be "more like other people" for her own safety 
 and good. He dare not encourage her in what he 
 understood so well and sympathized with from the 
 bottom of his big heart. 
 
 "I ought to disapprove of what you have done, 
 perhaps," he said finally, in a low voice, "for I am 
 afraid of the consequences for you; but I think if 
 I had been in your place, I should have done just 
 the same. You see" (his whole face responding to 
 the tremulous gladness in hers) "I am not a fit per- 
 son to have the care of you, for we are both wrong- 
 headed." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Brown! 
 
 "Oh, I never knew the world was such a wicked 
 place," Mary exclaimed, covering her face with her 
 hands and shuddering from head to foot. The 
 thought that this was only one of the many cases 
 with which the Cruelty Society had to deal seemed 
 more than she could bear. Mrs. Brown was touched, 
 and she followed a womanly impulse and put her 
 hand on Mary's shoulder. "There are a great 
 many hard things in the world," she said with grave 
 kindliness, "but wiser heads than ours are at work 
 to help them and we have to wait till we are sure 
 we are doing the best thing before we interfere. 
 John is giving his whole time to helping people out
 
 212 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of their troubles and you will be able to do your 
 share some day, I dare say." 
 
 The look on John's face as his eyes met hers sent 
 the rare color to her cheeks. Mary turned to him 
 at once, too much in earnest even to feel grateful 
 for Mrs. Brown's changed manner. "When I am 
 grown up will you teach me how to help you?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," he said simply. 
 ******* 
 
 The intelligent reader probably knows far better 
 than I what is the legal penalty attached to such a 
 misdemeanor as Mary's and what steps it was neces- 
 sary for John to take to free her from its consequences. 
 I only know that he did free her. How a magistrate 
 might reason in such a case, I cannot attempt to 
 say; but, in all humility, I would ask how that 
 could be called "assault and battery" which was 
 committed with the express purpose of preventing 
 "assault and battery"; and how a breach of peace 
 can occur when there is no peace to break. No 
 doubt I might inform myself on all these questions 
 and attempt to describe how Mary was brought into 
 court, for brought into court she assuredly was, and 
 just what occurred in the "Cruelty" case to which 
 she was forced to witness; but, after being at infinite 
 pains with the main facts, I should be sure to show 
 my ignorance in a minor detail and expose myself 
 to the cynical smiles of the well-informed. The 
 worst that befell her was the aforesaid obligation to 
 appear in court, and an occasional disturbance of 
 her healthy rest by hideous nightmares; the best
 
 MARY FAILS TO KEEP RESOLUTION 213 
 
 was a much more friendly relation established be- 
 tween herself and Mrs. Brown. It may seem strange 
 that her worst solecism should have gone far to heal 
 the breach made by her lesser ones; but so it was.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 
 
 IT had come at last, the day that had so long 
 loomed on their horizon; and now, as always, 
 the "hill of difficulty" which had looked so steep 
 ahead of them grew less as they began to mount it 
 and the summit already beckoned as to a view of a 
 land of hope beyond. 
 
 As Mary had written Catharine, John had no 
 trouble in seeing through her well-meant histrionic 
 efforts, but he felt that a brave facing of this tre- 
 mendous new change in her life was the only way 
 for her; and her conduct comforted and reassured 
 him. She was developing fast in these last weeks. 
 In spite of the fresh proof of her childish impetuosity 
 he had become conscious of a new self-control and 
 strength of character, and a new reserve, that were 
 making her older and more womanly. Looking 
 back over the months of their daily, almost hourly, 
 companionship, he saw the difference in her plainly, 
 and, above all, the difference in her attitude toward 
 himself. One period overlapped the next and many 
 single occurrences seemed to contradict him, but 
 looking broadly at the past four months, the lines 
 of demarcation were clear. 
 
 It was useless to try to go through the forms of 
 
 (214)
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 215 
 
 business that morning. He had important letters 
 to answer, and evidence to sift. He forced himself 
 to use his ordinary intelligence, but it all seemed 
 deadly unimportant compared to the trial for which 
 he was bracing himself. 
 
 Beechfield was about fifteen miles from the city 
 and they had to change trains to reach it. John was 
 extraordinarily calm and cheerful now that the time 
 had come, and they discussed their visit of the day 
 before and his engagement to spend as much of the 
 Thanksgiving holidays with Mrs. Wharton as he 
 could. He told Mary of a new game he had heard 
 about, which he was sure she would like, and Mrs. 
 Wharton was so fond of games! Then they touched 
 on the still brighter prospect of the Christmas holi- 
 days. Mrs. Brown had been forced to a somewhat 
 shamefaced comparison of her own attitude toward 
 Mary with Mrs. Wharton's whole-souled reception 
 of her yesterday, and had given her a really cordial 
 invitation to spend her two weeks of Christmas 
 vacation with them. She had felt repaid when she 
 saw the grateful color flood the girl's face and her 
 eyes brighten; and with the impulse that one kind 
 action gives toward another, she had kissed her with 
 evident heartiness on saying good-bye. 
 
 As they boarded the second train, which had but 
 a short distance to go, the cheery conversation 
 dragged a little. Their eyes met and John had an 
 odd sensation of panic, like a soldier who, marching 
 bravely to the very guns of the enemy, suddenly 
 feels all his courage gone and only the impulse to 
 turn and flee. He talked faster and laughed at
 
 216 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 things that were very mildly funny. His eyes avoided 
 further meetings with Mary's as he helped her from 
 the train and walked beside her to the house, which 
 was well set back from the road in beautiful old- 
 fashioned grounds. Two generations before it had 
 been the country home of a local magnate, and was 
 falling to decay from disuse when it had come into 
 Miss Newlin's hands, fifteen years ago, at a merely 
 nominal price, one-third of which was accepted in 
 the form of a mortgage. 
 
 Through the wide-open front door Miss Newlin 
 saw the oddly mated pair approaching and hastened 
 forward to welcome them. After a warm embrace, 
 she kept Mary's hand in hers, leading them thus 
 from room to room, while the keen brown eyes 
 studied them closely and her plain, strong face wore 
 a singularly gentle expression. She pointed out all 
 the places that were to be specially associated with 
 Mary; her desk in the study and seats in dining- 
 room and classrooms. She felt the girl's hand cold 
 in hers and saw that her interest in her new home 
 was by no means so keen as her guardian's. His 
 long, observant eyes missed no detail in the once 
 familiar rooms where the years had made few changes. 
 The sadness of the old association was swallowed up 
 in the interest of the new, and Miss Newlin shrewdly 
 suspected that he would be able to conjure up a 
 picture of Mary at every hour of the day. She 
 might have added "and night too," for the room in 
 which they ended their survey was the best known 
 to him of all. 
 
 "Mary," Miss Newlin said as they entered the
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 217 
 
 rather bare, old-fashioned, but cheerful and homely 
 chamber, where three windows let in the sunlight 
 from early till late, "this room is the one that Mr. 
 Brown's sister Margaret occupied for the whole 
 three years that she was with me, and he thought 
 it would please you to be here. You are to have 
 the same bed too." 
 
 Mary colored deeply with pleased surprise, but 
 John's eyes would not meet her eager ones and his 
 lips warned her to say nothing. The room was 
 longer than wide and duplicate articles of furniture 
 were so arranged as to make it serve the purpose 
 of two, with the help of a tall, folding screen, closed 
 just now. The single beds stood at its opposite 
 ends, and on the one nearest the door a half-dozen 
 packages were temptingly set forth, while a bunch 
 of autumn flowers stood on the dressing bureau near 
 it. Mary looked without a smile at the parcels that 
 would have thrilled her with excited curiosity at 
 another time. Her play-acting was getting more 
 and more faint-hearted, and the tears more and 
 more insistent. She drew her hand from Miss New- 
 lin's and went to the window. They could not see 
 her face. Miss Newlin found herself wondering 
 what was likely to follow John's exit. 
 
 "You'll have a busy time opening all these things, 
 Mary," he said briskly, pulling out his watch. 
 "I think I would better be leaving you to start to 
 work; I haven't any too much time for my train, 
 I see." 
 
 Mary turned sharply around, and though her 
 eyes looked suspicious, she was on her mettle and
 
 218 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 even tried to smile as she said decidedly, "I'm going 
 to the station with you!" 
 
 "Oh, no, Mary," both her companions exclaimed 
 at once, and both began to remonstrate; but they 
 spoke to deaf ears. She went straight to John and 
 seized his hand. "Oh, yes, I must," was all she said, 
 but her face made them decide to oppose her no 
 longer. 
 
 "Well, go down to the gate;" Miss Newlin said 
 with a sympathetic thrill in her voice, "and I will 
 wait for you on the piazza.." 
 
 Mary deigned no reply, and they started off hand 
 in hand by the short cut to the gate which Miss 
 Newlin pointed out across the lawn and through 
 the shrubberies. "I don't want a short cut," Mary 
 said, yielding nevertheless to John's leading. 
 
 He talked to her quietly of several matters of 
 business; told of some books that were to come 
 for her in a day or two, etc. He saw that her eyes 
 kept turning to his face, as though she marveled at 
 his coolness, and was trying to decipher his real 
 feeling amid so many commonplaces. He avoided 
 them till he had nearly reached the gate, when he 
 turned and looked straight down at her with an 
 unfeigned light in his own. 
 
 "Now, Mary, run back and open the packages. 
 There is something among them that I bought for 
 you; that I had specially made for you, and I want 
 very much to know how you like it. Write me this 
 evening and tell me, won't you? Don't forget!" 
 He did not say good-bye; he gave the hand he held 
 a quick strong pressure, stooped and kissed her fore-
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 219 
 
 head with the cool, hurried touch of compressed lips, 
 and was gone. He never looked back as he went 
 quickly behind the old trees, stumbled down a low 
 retaining wall that flanked part of the driveway and 
 made blindly for the gate. It was of no use, all his 
 common-sense and philosophy! He had climbed 
 this first steep to the top, and the whole plain beyond 
 was a desert waste! Suddenly he heard his name 
 called, with a panting sob, close beside him. Mary 
 was running straight toward him, her tear-wet face 
 all one flushed entreaty. He sprang to her as she 
 reached the wall, and then her wet cheek was against 
 his and she was wrapped in a close embrace. The 
 little wall leveled the difference in height between 
 them, and for the first time they stood thus, face 
 pressed to face, heart to heart. The old smoke tree 
 seemed to bend further forward to screen them from 
 impertinent glances of passers-by, but they were 
 beyond caring for passers-by. John had forgotten 
 his hardly maintained prudence, although it was he 
 who first recalled himself. 
 
 "Help me to be brave, my dearest!" The broken 
 words were wrung from his very heart and went 
 right to Mary's as no considered phrase of consola- 
 tion or appeal could possibly have done. She drew 
 away at once and let him go without a word. The 
 sense of utter desolation that a moment before had 
 robbed her of the last remnant of self-control, was 
 replaced by a wave of feeling so strong and sweet 
 that the bitterness of the parting was gone. A 
 happy tumult, a nameless unrest filled her heart; 
 but it was quick to change from languor to resolve.
 
 220 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 It was to be always thus with her; love of man or 
 love to God were to be forthwith translated into 
 action. It was a lonely figure that started back 
 across the smooth green, but Miss Newlin, who came 
 forward to meet her, saw the uplifted, resolute face, 
 and felt that she was encountering an unsuspected 
 force of character. The memory of Dick had been 
 strong upon her as she waited, and in the look that 
 met hers now she saw the selfsame traits that had 
 made his face an unfading picture in her mental 
 gallery. 
 
 "She has the same stuff in her, I believe," she said 
 to herself, and it was a tribute to Mary that she offered 
 none of the little condolences usually welcome to 
 homesick schoolgirls. This one would be an absorb- 
 ing study she decided. She drew Mary's hand through 
 her arm and led her to a broad garden seat under a 
 great beech worthy of its English sisters. "This 
 was Margaret's favorite seat," she said, drawing 
 Mary down beside her and launching at once into 
 a glowing description of Margaret, her talents, traits 
 of character, pastimes and favorite haunts; to all 
 of which Mary listened with rapt attention. 
 
 "I think Mr. Brown had never been here since 
 that old time, till he came to see me about you. 
 It would have been painful to him, no doubt; but 
 I am very glad he will have a reason for coming often 
 now. He always interested me, though he was so 
 reserved as a lad that I never got far with him." 
 A suspicious tremor on the listening face warned 
 her to change the subject for the present. She 
 spoke in quite another tone, of practical questions
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 221 
 
 to be settled at once, and of the seamstress coming 
 to-morrow to make some dresses for Mary. "I had 
 some pretty materials sent out on approval, so you 
 must take your choice and let the others go back 
 to-morrow. Will you come in and look at them now?" 
 
 Mary obeyed willingly enough and showed a chas- 
 tened interest in the materials and trimmings spread 
 before her. "She is not vain," was Miss Newlin's 
 surprised comment, as her new charge made quick 
 choice of three dress-stuffs and then turned away 
 with heightened color: 
 
 "I think I will open my parcels now," she said. 
 
 Her room was near the Principal's, but Miss New- 
 lin did not go back with her. She dismissed her with 
 an approving smile and pat on the shoulder which 
 was somewhat higher than her own. 
 
 Mary was almost blinded by the level rays of the 
 western sun as she opened the door of her room 
 the room that had been Margaret's for three years. 
 For how many years would it be hers? Was it to 
 be her home for always, perhaps? Something rose 
 in her throat that was hard to swallow. The bare- 
 ness of the roomy chamber was transfigured by the 
 rays of the descending sun, and her eyes fell on the 
 many tokens of loving thought for her comfort and 
 pleasure; but the lump only grew bigger. She 
 struggled hard against the aching sense of strange- 
 ness and loneliness. She drew her hand across her 
 eyes in boyish fashion. The feel of John's arms 
 around her, the sound of his parting words in her ear 
 quieted the rising sobs. His need of her was real! 
 He was lonely too ! Surely he would not let her stay
 
 222 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 there always; he would find a way to have her near 
 him ! She went quietly to work to untie the package 
 nearest her. She wished John had told her which 
 was his. The lid lifted from the big box showed a 
 pretty wrapper of soft flannel with her favorite blue 
 bows, to one of which was tied a little note in Cath- 
 arine's tremulous handwriting. As she untied the 
 string of the next in order, the lump in her throat 
 was better and it seemed to grow still less as she looked 
 at the . crimson knitted garment which Mrs. Whar- 
 ton's active ringers had made for her, and which in 
 those days was called a "Jersey," though now it 
 would receive the more euphonious name of " sweater." 
 She smiled a tremulous little smile as she thought 
 of this other good friend. And what was this big 
 odd-looking bundle? It began to be rather exciting. 
 Ah, this was it! That was John's writing on the 
 note attached to some collapsible book-shelves, held 
 at the corners by strong silk cord. He had had them 
 made specially for her! She was more eager for the 
 note than for the gift. 
 
 It told her that he had sent the box of her father's 
 favorite books to Beechfield, and she could choose 
 all she wanted for the shelves and let Miss Newlin 
 store the rest. Her eyes were bright through tears 
 as she said to herself "Oh, that is just like John; 
 he knew how homelike they would make my room 
 right away!" She must write him as soon as she 
 unpacked her paper. She rose to do it at once, but 
 something in the shape of the next parcel arrested 
 her attention; it looked like a portfolio! Yes a cor- 
 ner of dark blue leather showed through the inner
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 223 
 
 wrapper as she discarded the thick outer one Who 
 could have given her that? Her interest was much 
 less now, but curiosity was normal with her. She 
 gave the paper a pull and lifted the leather cover, 
 and then she was gazing down into John's- very 
 eyes. They were so real and live that she drew a 
 gasping astonished breath. There he sat just as he 
 had sat that evening at Beach Haven when she had 
 asked him for a picture and he had refused. It had 
 hurt her so much and seemed so unlike him not to 
 even give her a reason! And maybe all the time he 
 had been planning this surprise! Even the left hand 
 on the arm of the Morris chair was posed exactly 
 as she had posed it then, and the right one held a book 
 on his knee. The picture was three or four times 
 the size of a cabinet photograph and was focussed 
 near to the camera so that he seemed close to her, 
 and the eyes were looking straight into hers with 
 just the look they always had when he knew he was 
 going to please her. She gazed and gazed till they 
 were blotted out; then she sank on her knees beside 
 the bed and laid her face upon her new treasure. 
 It was not the cold, unresponsive celluloid that her 
 hot cheek pressed, but the living, palpitating reality 
 beneath it. Her eyes were open, but she did not 
 see the golden glory all around her. It was only 
 when the glory suddenly faded that she started, as 
 with a new thought, and rose to her feet. Miss 
 Newlin, who sat writing at her desk in her quiet 
 room, was startled by the tempestuous opening of 
 the door without any preceding knock. Mary's 
 glowing face quite dazzled her and put all thought
 
 224 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of remonstrance out of her mind. Perhaps some day 
 she should be able to make this child of nature con- 
 form to ordinary rules and conventions without 
 being restive and unhappy, but now was not the time 
 to begin. 
 
 "When does anyone go with the post, Miss New- 
 lin?" inquired the unceremonious visitor in a breath- 
 less voice. 
 
 Miss Newlin's eyes twinkled as they glanced at 
 the little clock in front of her. "In about fifteen 
 minutes," she said. 
 
 "Thank you." The door was shut again none 
 too gently and she heard Mary's own close almost 
 simultaneously. She smiled a knowing little smile. 
 
 "Someone will be reassured to-morrow morning, 
 and I doubt whether he will have enough peace of 
 mind to sleep before. How his heart is centered on 
 the child! He has a tremendous influence over her. 
 Will it be all he wants, I wonder?" she sighed. "If 
 it is ever in my power to help you to your heart's 
 desires, Mr. John Brown, you may count upon me. 
 People would say I was a very unsafe guardian of 
 young girls if they heard me," she ended with a rather 
 sad smile, "and the difference in age is much too great, 
 I know; but a man like that ought not to be wasted." 
 Wasted, indeed, and she an old maid who considered 
 herself a useful factor in the world ! 
 
 Miss Newlin's fears for John's rest that night were 
 not unfounded; but while he "dreed his wierd" 
 till the small hours, and Catharine's tender heart 
 could find no comfort, thinking of her darling "away 
 off there in a strange bed crying herself to sleep and
 
 A "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 225 
 
 no one to comfort her" (for had not Mary confessed 
 to nightly tears even under the roof of her beloved 
 "John?"); while even Mrs. Wharton lay awake far 
 beyond her usual time, remembering the child who 
 was making her start in life alone, the object of all 
 their solicitude was sleeping soundly and contentedly, 
 with a blue leather case under her pillow. 
 
 15
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 "THE LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" STINGS DEEPLY 
 
 THAT evening John managed to make a very 
 creditable attempt at conversation during 
 dinner, but he did not even deceive the sym- 
 pathetic John Patterson, who remarked to Hannah 
 in the privacy of the pantry that he thought "Mr. 
 John was feelin' powerful bad. He didn't eat hardly 
 a bite of his dinner," he said solemnly. "He just 
 pretended, and he talked like company and looked 
 absent-minded at the table-cloth or in his plate. 
 It's a great pity we can't have more young life in 
 this house. He's got old before his time and we 
 haven't thought much about it, he's always so cheer- 
 ful and contented. I never noticed it so much since 
 Miss Margaret died as I have this summer, when I 
 heard him laugh and make jokes with Miss Mary." 
 "Ah, I'm sure he's wishin' he could keep her for 
 good," Hannah answered. "Maybe when she gets 
 old enough he'll marry her." In Hannah's eyes all 
 "Mr. John" would ever have to do would be to 
 mention his desires to the chosen one. "The woman 
 he marries '11 be as happy as a queen, but he never 
 seems to take notice of anybody, and few ever come 
 here except them that are old enough to be his 
 mother." 
 
 (226)
 
 "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" STINGS 227 
 
 John only gave a little grunt. "She's certain sure 
 fond enough of him to do anything he wanted her 
 to, but I s'pect it'll be a good while before she knows 
 what that kind o' fondness means. She's a good 
 deal like a child, for all she's so big and can talk so 
 wise. I never heard such subjects as they'd get on 
 sometimes." 
 
 "She's a loving nature," Hannah rejoined. "She's 
 got to have somebody to pet her and make much 
 of her. She put her two arms around me and kissed 
 me when she was leavin', and says she, 'Hannah, 
 I wish't you were goin' to be at the school/ she says. 
 I declare I just had to wipe me eyes." Even in the 
 telling of it Hannah's apron was again brought into 
 play. "I can't bear to think of her bein' left all by 
 herself in a strange school." 
 
 "Ay, ye may be sure that's what's frettin* Mr. 
 John more than just missin' her. He's hardly thought 
 of anything but her this whole blessed summer. 
 It's a funny thing," he added with a little chuckle 
 and a confidentially lowered voice. "Ye know I 
 told ye about her gettin' him to eat rice puddin' 
 and macaroni, and sayin' he liked 'em. Well, I 
 declare, I don't think Mrs. Brown more'n half liked 
 it when she saw him eatin' 'em." 
 
 Hannah evidently had ideas on this phase of the 
 subject which she thought as well to keep to herself, 
 but she looked pleased as well as amused over the 
 conversion, and a soft little smile hovered about her 
 kindly face as she went up stairs to "turn down 
 the beds." 
 
 Meantime the object of their interest was under-
 
 228 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 going a narrow, if covert, scrutiny under the eyes of his 
 mother. She had spoken frankly and fully at table, 
 of missing Mary, and had asked several questions 
 as to the school arrangements, as to Mary's prospec- 
 tive room-mate, etc.; and had inquired whether 
 Miss Newlin were failing in health as some people 
 thought, and all through dinner had kept up what 
 John Patterson called "company talk" on other 
 subjects. But after she had been settled for some 
 time on one side of the library table plying her 
 needle, while John, on the other, was ostensibly 
 absorbed in the evening paper, she was very quiet, 
 and an expression of sorrowful determination gradually 
 overspread her face. He was partly turned from her 
 as though the better to catch the light over his 
 shoulder, but from time to time he had put down 
 his paper and gone to his den as though in search 
 of something. She had refrained from comment, 
 but she knew that he was not reading, let him turn 
 the paper about as often as he would. Finally after 
 a last excursion he broke the silence by an indifferent 
 remark on the news of the day. His mother quietly 
 put down her work and, going around the table 
 behind him, laid one hand on his shoulder: "My 
 dear boy, you trouble me," she said with an effort 
 to clear her throat of some choking obstruction. 
 
 John quickly put up his hand and took hers from 
 his shoulder, giving it a strong grasp and letting it 
 drop. It was a mute prayer to be spared and Mrs. 
 Brown partly understood it so; but she was a woman 
 not easily turned from her purpose and her whole 
 heart was in this one.
 
 "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" STINGS 229 
 
 "I wouldn't say anything, dear, if I did not feel 
 that you were probably storing up great unhappiness 
 for yourself in the future." Not a sound; not the 
 movement of a muscle. "I must warn you before 
 it is too late." 
 
 Another silence; she could not see his face, but she 
 had seen it many times this past week with an expres- 
 sion she could not forget. Finally, as she seemed 
 willing to wait indefinitely, but was determined on 
 some response, he said in an unnaturally quiet voice: 
 'I am afraid it is too late now." 
 
 "Oh, no," she exclaimed vehemently, "it cannot 
 be too late! Why, she is a mere child!" (She for- 
 got that she had used the opposite argument a few 
 days before.) "You are too strong a man to let your- 
 self be conquered by this weakness. Face it squarely 
 and make your feeling for her what you will, no doubt, 
 have to make it later. The longer you indulge this 
 the harder it will be. Now you have simply got 
 accustomed to having her about you and it is natural 
 that you should miss her for a while; but that will 
 pass, and He rose quickly and went to the open 
 window, drawing aside the curtains and leaning his 
 forehead against the high sash. "I am not strong," 
 he said without looking around, "or if I am my 
 strength is all on the wrong side." 
 
 Mrs. Brown hardly heeded his words, so eager 
 was she to press home her own point. 
 
 "She is very fond of you, of course, but can't 
 you see that she has no conception of " she stumbled 
 and hesitated. "She will be sure to have a very 
 different feeling for somebody else in a few years
 
 230 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and then she will expect your sympathy and approval. 
 I know I hurt you in speaking out so bluntly I 
 hurt myself, perhaps, just as much but you don't 
 understand women as well as I do, and it will break 
 my heart if I see you spoiling your life for a castle 
 in the air." 
 
 Her lips were trembling and the tears had long 
 ago brimmed over. There was not a word from the 
 motionless figure in the window. She stood with 
 her hand on the back of his deserted chair; her eyes 
 fixed piteously, irresolutely upon him. A sort of 
 passionate resentment was rising within her against 
 the disturber of their peace. She could not keep a 
 note of sharpness out of her voice as she went on 
 hurriedly; "she is beautiful enough even now to 
 turn all the men's heads, and she will be a regular 
 candle for the moths in a few years. And trust me, 
 she will not be at all indifferent to admiration." 
 
 John turned suddenly and faced her from between 
 the curtains; his white calm face towering above 
 her. 
 
 "Mother, I know you are right and I shall try not 
 to harbor any illusions. Mary" his lips trembled 
 as they uttered her name "must never suspect my 
 feeling for her. If she understood and were 
 repelled, as no doubt she would be, it would make 
 my work for her terribly hard. Don't you see?" 
 
 The memory of that close embrace, of her face 
 pressed to his, was vivid to him. She had not under- 
 stood even then; she had not made the slightest 
 effort to disengage herself. He hardly knew whether 
 her unconsciousness gave him more relief or pain.
 
 "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" STINGS 231 
 
 "I shall try not to deceive myself," he went on 
 unsteadily, "but she is a sacred trust to me and what- 
 ever happens, 7 can never give her up." 
 
 "Oh, John!" The poor lady went back to her 
 chair and took up her work as though it were the 
 shroud of her dead happiness. 
 
 "You have seen that she is fond of me," he spoke 
 in the same quiet voice. But suddenly self-control 
 gave way and his face and voice showed a passion 
 of which she had not believed him capable. "I 
 would undergo anything rather than give up what 
 I have. If I ever felt her shrink from me" he 
 broke off abruptly and in another moment he was 
 gone. She heard the door of his room shut and knew 
 that she should see him no more that night. Was 
 the old happy life together gone forever? 
 
 Involuntarily her hands clenched with a feeling 
 that was close to hatred for this girl of sixteen years 
 who held him so completely in her power. After 
 all, was John right in thinking that Mary would 
 shrink from him? That had not been his mother's 
 fear. She only resented the idea that this spoiled 
 child might take all as her right and give nothing. 
 For what would her grateful affection be to him if 
 he must stand by and see her give her life into another 
 man's keeping and still more tragic possibility see 
 another man hold her happiness in his power and 
 destroy it! What a task he had set himself! Never 
 to confess his own love, for fear of losing the power 
 to help her, and never to leave her that he might 
 try to conquer it or forget it! His words rang in 
 her ear. "7 can never give her up!" In a sudden
 
 232 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 illuminating flash she saw it all and knew that he 
 saw it too. 
 
 John was down before her in the morning, very 
 quiet and middle-aged after his night's vigil. He 
 did not even glance at the little pile of letters beside 
 his plate, but went straight to the garden and was 
 busily engaged in tying up one of his favorite rose- 
 bushes when John Patterson followed him with them. 
 He glanced up inquiringly, a branch in one hand and 
 a piece of twine in the other. It was unusual for 
 John Patterson to depart from an established custom ; 
 but something in the face of his humble adorer 
 arrested him. Was it possible? His sudden color 
 asked the question; a spark somewhere in the back 
 of John Patterson's blue eye answered it. He dropped 
 the branch and held out his hand for the packet. 
 
 "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes," John 
 Patterson reminded him as he moved lingeringly away. 
 
 John's hand trembled as he went hastily through 
 the bundle. There it was the childish round hand, 
 less assured and more childish than usual. She 
 had written in great haste. He tore the envelope 
 as he tried to open it, and the few penciled lines 
 were indistinct to him. Then he pulled himself 
 together and read them quietly, trying to profit 
 by his mother's advice. 
 
 Oh, John, I could never tell you and even you could never 
 guess! It is so wonderful and it makes me so happy! To 
 think that it is my very own to keep forever and ever and take 
 everywhere I go! It was almost the last parcel I opened Oh, 
 and I never opened the other! If I could love you any harder I 
 would, after this, but you know I couldn't.
 
 "LITTLE GREEN SNAKE" STINGS 233 
 
 The note ended without valedictory or signature. 
 
 He went in to breakfast with a very serene face 
 and met his mother's surprised glance with the sim- 
 ple statement that he had had a note from Mary 
 and that she seemed quite satisfied and happy. 
 
 Mrs. Brown's eyes filled, but she only said that she 
 was glad to hear it. The photograph for herself 
 was still to be presented and John had rarely faced 
 so much of an ordeal. Surely it ought to be easier 
 after last night's confession, but it only showed another 
 flagrant example of his weakness. The photograph 
 was not just like Mary's, though he told himself 
 that it was equally good. Perhaps it had been vanity 
 as well as the wish to please her that had made him 
 pose his hand for Mary and make the picture larger 
 in consequence of giving her so much of his big 
 person. This one was larger than ordinary cabinet 
 size, but was only a vignetted bust likeness. It was 
 an excellent one, however, and he felt sure that, 
 the first little jealous pang over, his mother would 
 be much pleased. She had gone into the library 
 after breakfast, and had seated herself to take her 
 usual glance over the Ledger before going about her 
 housekeeping duties. John came over to her and put 
 the picture in her lap without a word. He had many 
 misgivings, but was quite unprepared for her recep- 
 tion of it. She took it up and, for what seemed to 
 him an eternity, studied it with a perfectly immovable 
 face. Suddenly it fell from her hands and her face 
 was buried in them as she broke into hysterical 
 weeping. Her reign was ended indeed!
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 MARY WANTS TO BE "LIKE OTHER GIRLS" 
 
 AFTER the first week or two of orientation 
 there was never any doubt of Mary's school life 
 being happy. She was naturally of a buoyant, 
 enthusiastic disposition, and there was a great deal 
 to interest and stimulate her in her new world. The 
 newness itself was a constant excitement, and the 
 girls their language, their habits and ideals, their 
 complaints and criticisms, their little subterfuges 
 and shirkings aroused in her something of the same 
 curiosity and interest that the ethnologist feels in 
 coming upon a totally new tribe, while they, for 
 their part, looked on her as an exotic who must be 
 handled with care, and who, being under Miss New- 
 lin's special wing and having the freedom of Miss 
 Newlin's room, must be confided in with caution. 
 They soon discovered, however, that nothing that 
 Mary saw or heard was repeated at headquarters, 
 and even among the lighter weights in the little com- 
 munity she became a favorite. Some were inclined 
 to patronize her for her want of style and sophisti- 
 cation, but she did not even recognize patronage, 
 and took it in perfectly good part, even accepting 
 the loan of a lace collar and sash on the occasion 
 of the first entertainment. 
 
 . .C 234 )
 
 "LIKE OTHER GIRLS" 235 
 
 "Mary, dear," Ellen Logan said, putting her arm 
 around her friend's waist; for they were already 
 intimate and Mary accepted Ellen's advice on mat- 
 ters of social and school etiquette, "I know you won't 
 mind my telling you, but if I were you, I wouldn't 
 borrow things of the girls, and especially not of 
 those girls!" She rather stumbled at that point, 
 not knowing how to put into words, to this innocence, 
 the subtle class-distinction that made "those girls" 
 not comme il faut. She was not a snob, but had the 
 prejudices of her class in the uncompromising form 
 in which they are generally held by girls of seventeen 
 or eighteen, only covered by admirable manners. 
 Mary colored, but took the advice with wonderful 
 meekness, being conscious of many solecisms and 
 having made that resolve to learn to be "ladylike." 
 
 "I didn't care about them, for the lace in this 
 collar isn't fine, and I don't like lace and embroidery 
 much when they aren't fine; but they seemed so 
 interested to have me look nice I was afraid I would 
 hurt their feelings if I didn't take the things." Her 
 voice was deprecating; almost humble. 
 
 Ellen, who was half a head shorter than Mary and 
 very slenderly built, put her arms impulsively around 
 her new friend and kissed her warmly. "You darl- 
 ing!" was all she said. Again the worldly-wise 
 advice died on her lips and she felt ashamed of the 
 comments she had been about to make. She would 
 not even tell Mary that, homemade clothes and Miss 
 Newlin's rather peculiar taste notwithstanding, she 
 was a very princess beside her patronesses. All 
 she finally said was: "Your face is so perfectly
 
 236 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 lovely, Mary; no one will ever have time to look at 
 your clothes." 
 
 Mary colored with pleasure, but made no depreca- 
 tory answer. "Girls will," she said simply, showing 
 more astuteness than her friend had credited her 
 with. Then she added with a fleeting smile, "I 
 don't suppose John would ever know what I had on; 
 but I can see that my things, even my new dresses, 
 have a different look from yours. I don't know 
 why exactly, but I don't think they are cut out the 
 same way. Miss Lambert said they fitted me, and 
 there aren't any wrinkles exactly" she paused at 
 a loss "but your brown suit looks very different, 
 and there isn't a bit of trimming on it." 
 
 "That suit was made by a tailor, and they do cut 
 differently from women," Ellen said with some 
 embarrassment. She had no idea of Mary's pecuni- 
 ary status, and knew that the plain suit in question 
 had probably cost twice as much as Mary's best one. 
 
 "Do you know Miss Caroline Hutchinson?" was 
 the next surprising question, which did not seem 
 irrelevant to Ellen. 
 
 "Yes, they are sort of cousins of ours, I don't 
 know how, and we never see much of her because 
 she is 'out' and very gay, but we always call her 
 father 'Cousin James.' Do you know her?" 
 
 "No, I only saw her at the cricket match John 
 took me to; but I think she is perfectly lovely look- 
 ing and her clothes just seem as though they grew 
 on her, and yet they weren't a bit tight." 
 
 "I know exactly what you mean, but Mother said 
 once that Caroline spent a little fortune on her clothes.
 
 "LIKE OTHER GIRLS" 237 
 
 Those simple-looking things are made by very expen- 
 sive dressmakers and tailors and Mother thinks it 
 bad taste for girls like us to spend a lot on clothes. 
 Caroline has everything to accord, and dresses for 
 every possible kind of time or weather. Cousin 
 James is awfully rich millions and millions and 
 he hasn't a soul in the world but her, and he gives 
 her every single thing she wants and thousands of 
 dollars of spending money. She isn't really a bit 
 spoiled that is, she isn't disagreeable. She's very 
 affectionate, and nice to all the servants, and thought- 
 ful of her father, but she has no idea about money. 
 She wouldn't think anything of paying a hundred 
 dollars for a white dress to wear in the morning and 
 you'd only think how sweet and simple she looked." 
 
 Mary was petrified by these revelations. Some 
 day she meant to speak to John about this absorbing 
 question; but she saw him so seldom, and there was 
 always so much to talk about, and somehow she was 
 a little shy of financial questions. She was altogether 
 a little shyer with him than in the summer. 
 
 On the first visit he had paid her, John had seized 
 his courage and Mary with both hands and in spite 
 of her wistful, wondering eyes, which broke their 
 promise to Catharine, if her lips did not, had man- 
 aged to say lightly, almost gaily, that he must not 
 kiss her any more now that she was a "boarding- 
 school young lady." 
 
 He had seen the brilliant, welcoming flush fade 
 and give place to an unnatural stillness and pallor. 
 The long, dark lashes hid her eyes. "Do you mean 
 never?" The question had sounded breathless.
 
 238 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Did he? His pounding heart denied it while he 
 said quietly, "I suppose I do." 
 
 She had taken it very quietly; so quietly that 
 John marveled, and longed to read what was going 
 on behind those lowered lids. But prudence had 
 
 overcome curiosity. 
 
 ******* 
 
 "John," she said, on one of his visits, after she had 
 received him with a very demure hand-shake and 
 they had had a blissful half hour of companionship, 
 "how much money ought I to spend on my clothes in 
 a year?" 
 
 John looked as though the ground had suddenly 
 opened in front of him. 
 
 "Why?" he said, after a very keen glance up and 
 down her crimson stuff dress, with its white tucked 
 silk "guimpe" and the bands of velvet that had 
 seemed to Miss Newlin a very elegant little finishing 
 touch. "Is there something you want?" 
 
 Mary colored deeply and her eyes fell. "No, 
 nothing particular. Miss Newlin told me you wanted 
 me to have all the things I needed and I was to choose 
 what I liked, and they are very pretty, and good 
 material, so they will wear well, she said" she 
 hesitated and her eyes were lifted appealingly to 
 John's. It was so hard to explain to him. 
 
 "But the dresses don't quite satisfy you?" 
 
 "Oh, John!" Her face was flaming now and he 
 saw the tears behind the darkness of her eyes. "You 
 will think me so horrid and and ungrateful for all 
 your care, and vain!" It was no use; the tears 
 would come.
 
 "LIKE OTHER GIRLS" 239 
 
 "Did I ever think anything unkind of you?" he 
 asked very low. 
 
 She made a vehement protest and he went on with 
 his grave eyes on hers. "I think I can understand 
 anything you could feel. Try to tell me, as though 
 I were your father. It would hurt me to feel 
 I was losing your confidence." Mary put her hand 
 out impulsively and he took it and held it fast while 
 she told him all. She ceased to blush or stammer as 
 she saw the sympathetic interest in his face, and 
 her frank eyes never wavered. 
 
 When the confidence was ended he released her 
 hand and felt in an inner pocket for a thin Russia- 
 leather note-book. 
 
 "John, I could tell you about anything! And you 
 don't think me silly and vain," Mary said with no 
 interrogation point; his face had reassured her. 
 
 "I don't think it is silly to prefer a skilful piece of 
 work to a mediocre one, and it is always a good thing 
 to know the difference, but" his eyes were on the 
 little book and his color had risen slightly "I do 
 think it would be silly to spend a great deal on clothes 
 that were masterpieces when there are so many other 
 things to spend it on, and when" he gave her a 
 glance more significant than he knew "when it 
 makes so little difference." 
 
 "Not to you, I know," she said, smiling a frank 
 and very loving appreciation of his meaning; "but 
 I should like to look like Ellen and the Coates girls, 
 and- 
 
 John interrupted her by an irrepressible little laugh, 
 but he kept his dancing eyes on the account book and
 
 240 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 drew out its pencil. He tore out a leaf and made 
 a memorandum of several sums; then he turned to her 
 with a gravity that was not forced. 
 
 "Mary, you have told me your story and now I will 
 tell you mine. You are old enough and sensible 
 enough to be given a full account of your father's 
 affairs and your own prospects." And he went over 
 the whole matter with her, giving her the amount of 
 her father's property and the average income; and 
 explaining the nature of his trust. "Anything you 
 spend now is loaned from the estate before you are 
 twenty-one, and I hope to make your property larger 
 by at least two thousand dollars each year. After 
 that" he paused. 
 
 "But you will al 'ays help me, even when I am 
 twenty-one, won't you?" -gain the interrogation 
 point was absent. 
 
 John's color was unsteady as he explained that 
 Dick had left the money in his hands even after her 
 majority. He saw intelligence in her face before 
 she said gravely, "Father was afraid I would let 
 somebody get it away from me." She had hit the 
 nail fairly on the head at the first blow. 
 
 John blushed still more and hesitated. 
 
 "But I promised him I would never marry anybody 
 unless you approved," she said impulsively, too much 
 in earnest to blush, herself, or even to notice the change 
 her words made in John. Every drop of color was 
 gone from the face that bent over the little book. 
 There was a long pause before he lifted it and said 
 huskily: "That is a very heavy responsibility." 
 
 "Oh, no," she interrupted him eagerly, and added
 
 "LIKE OTHER GIRLS" 241 
 
 with heightened color and that look of awaking 
 womanhood he had lately seen in her eyes: "I 
 should never like anybody unless he She was 
 going to say "unless he were like you," but suddenly 
 considered the improbability of anyone's being the 
 least like John, and ended more quietly, "unless 
 you liked him too." 
 
 She did not notice his face now, but a sure intui- 
 tion told her that her marriage, whenever it came, 
 and to whomsoever, would be a pain to John. 
 
 "Perhaps I shall never want to get married," 
 she said quickly. "At any rate, not for a long, 
 long while." 
 
 "Ah, you don't know yourself," John answered, but 
 his face brightened. "I think I will put four hundred 
 dollars in the bank for your yearly spending money 
 and let you do your own managing. I will give you 
 a check-book and show you how to keep it, and I need 
 not know how you use it unless you overdraw." 
 
 "Oh, but John, I would never use so much as that!" 
 she said with brilliant eyes. 
 
 "Wait till you begin ordering your stylish suits," 
 he rejoined, laughing. But she was suddenly serious. 
 
 "Do you know, it seems as though I didn't care 
 about them at all now," she said. "I never spent 
 much money on anything, because I knew Father 
 wasn't rich, and being sick costs a good deal; and he 
 was always careful about expenses. He would have 
 wanted to give me things if he thought I cared about 
 them, but I really never thought much about clothes 
 till I came to school." 
 
 When John was leaving he said with evident zest: 
 
 16
 
 242 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "I will take you to the city on your next holiday 
 and introduce you at the ' Fidelity ' and show you how 
 to manage your own affairs; and later I will explain 
 to you how your money is placed, even though I 
 can't give you control of the capital!" 
 
 "I suppose Father was right about me," Mary 
 said reflectively; "because I love people so hard. 
 If you were to lose your money or need some for your 
 work, I should like to give you every cent I had!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Miss NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY 
 
 "~1~"XO you know, Mary, the postman has come 
 
 J to be the main interest in my days?" John 
 
 had said on that first visit when he had 
 
 declined to kiss her. He had had an undefined wish 
 
 to make amends somehow and his little speech had 
 
 succeeded beyond his hopes. 
 
 "But I mustn't let you write to me every day, 
 now that you are studying," he went on hastily, in 
 a more matter-of-fact tone. "And only two lines 
 will content me when you do. Just write to me that 
 you are well and happy, or let me know if you want 
 something." 
 
 "Oh, but I love to write!" She had forgotten 
 shyness and was looking earnestly at him. "The 
 mail-bag goes down to the post office every night 
 just before supper, and I always have some time to 
 myself, because I can dress faster than Ellen. I 
 might write on a whole lot of envelopes at once and 
 keep them in my desk all stamped, and then I could 
 go in the study and write for just ten or fifteen min- 
 utes by the clock before I go to my room every after- 
 noon, and you would get the note next morning, 
 as you did my first one." Her eyes and cheeks 
 were bright with the prospect. 
 
 (243)
 
 244 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 A sudden thought occurred to John. "How would 
 it do if I had my name printed on a pile of stamped 
 envelopes?" he said. 
 
 The idea had been welcomed enthusiastically, and 
 the square envelope never failed of its place on the 
 top of John's little breakfast pile, for John Patterson 
 had early discovered the secret, and felt sure that 
 that little four-by-five receptacle of no measurable 
 thickness contained compressed sunshine for his 
 master's whole day. 
 
 And so the weeks flew by, and the Thanksgiving 
 vacation at Mrs. Wharton's had come and gone, 
 leaving a beautiful reflection of full days and cosy 
 evenings, when a student lamp shone on three happy 
 faces (Mrs. Brown had declined the cordial invitation). 
 Even the coveted Christmas holidays were only 
 something to be treasured in the retrospect, as a 
 time of sad memories shared, and in the sharing 
 made a joy. They had left reminders more substan- 
 tial, however, and John opened his watch-case oftener 
 now than was needed to tell the time of day. Mary 
 had repaid him for the pleasure his photograph had 
 given her, by having a small one taken of herself 
 and colored by the painting teacher at Beechfield. 
 The light platinum print of her head and shoulders 
 had been treated in a masterly manner by Mr. Rey- 
 nolds, who contrived to give it a depth and charm 
 worthy of his name, and so satisfactory to himself that 
 only a robust sense of honor prevented his keeping 
 a copy for his private delectation. 
 
 John had not attempted a word of thanks when 
 he opened the little package that Mary had slipped
 
 MISS NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY 245 
 
 into his hands with her "Merry Christmas." He 
 had given her one look and had gone out of the room, 
 although they two were alone. 
 
 "Do you like it?" she had asked him softly when 
 he came back. He had tried to answer her, but had 
 completely choked, and his thanks had remained 
 unspoken. He never told her, either, of having 
 taken it from the pretty frame with which she had 
 encircled it, and cut it to fit into his big watch. 
 More than a year after, Mary asked him whether 
 his watch was his father's. "No," he answered, 
 looking oddly at her, as though he suspected her of 
 clairvoyance. "My father sent to England for it 
 for me the Christmas before he died." 
 
 "No wonder you love it!" she said with suffused 
 eyes, marveling to see him turn red and look positively 
 guilty. 
 
 Now it was only three weeks till Easter, which 
 came late this year, and spring was awaking the whole 
 earth day by day, bringing myriads of nesting song- 
 birds, and making the girls by turns wild with exhil- 
 aration or languid with "spring fever." 
 
 Mary was to spend the Easter holidays with Ellen 
 Logan in the country home on the banks of the Del- 
 aware, to which the family always migrated with 
 the spring birds, and from which they reluctantly 
 returned with the first snows. She was a good deal 
 changed by the winter of school life, yet there was 
 very little outward alteration. The childish way 
 of wearing her hair in a "pump-handle" gave her a 
 simplicity which the more mature carriage and man- 
 ner did not destroy.
 
 246 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Don't let them interfere with your hair!" John 
 had besought her, and she had quietly resisted all 
 efforts to make her change her style of arrangement. 
 Most of them had to acknowledge that it became 
 her well. In spite of great possibilities of brightness, 
 her face had a gravity and her eyes a deep thoughtful- 
 ness quite different from the sadness of depression 
 or discontent to be seen occasionally on some of the 
 youthful faces about her. Her religious life, so vital 
 a factor in her development, was of a kind to isolate 
 her from her companions so far as confidential rela- 
 tions were concerned. They had nearly all been 
 received by confirmation or other ceremony into 
 some spiritual fold; and many of them were earnest 
 Christian girls, with a serious purpose in life, while 
 nearly all accepted the traditions of their fathers 
 without a qualm or question. But Mary instinctively 
 knew that they could not have fully sympathized 
 with her; that even Ellen, who was a very intelligent 
 girl of noble character and deeply religious temper, 
 had been unable to see the weight of the obstacles 
 that kept Mary a church waif; and the sensitive 
 nature retired more into itself and submitted to be 
 tacitly regarded by the others as peculiar, if not 
 slightly tainted with heresy. When she had called 
 herself a Friend, accepting John's classification as a 
 sort of haven for her wistful spirit, she had at once 
 been met with the question, "Orthodox or Hicksite?" 
 and had been quite at a loss how to reply. Even 
 among Friends one must be classified according to 
 doctrine, it seemed. How could the "Inward Light" 
 on which both depended, the "Christ Within" one
 
 MISS NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY 247 
 
 soul, be totally at variance with the "Christ Within" 
 another? The question troubled her, as it could 
 only have troubled a straightforward, intensely 
 earnest nature. After all, could one depend on that 
 "Inward Light?" 
 
 She spoke of her doubt to Miss Newlin when, by 
 virtue of her privileged position, she had been curled 
 up in the corner of the Principal's sofa one blustry 
 afternoon, when March seemed doing his best to 
 "go out as a lion." That lady was busy with a 
 thick sheaf of history-class papers, but met the inter- 
 ruption with a smile. "I wondered what you were 
 dreaming about," she said. "My dear child, I am 
 a great sceptic as to the 'Christ Within.' I believe 
 in it theoretically, of course, as everyone does, to a 
 certain extent; but unless you can get perfectly pure 
 hearts to contain Him, the image must be a more or 
 less marred one. Only an immaculate shrine could 
 enclose an infallible 'Inward Light.' I think the 
 Friends have 'hitched their wagon to a star' with 
 a vengeance, and I have known some saints among 
 them who did seem to me to come very close to 
 unerring communion with their Father in Heaven, 
 but a good many have surely been woefully mis- 
 guided." 
 
 "But what can we depend on?" Mary asked, her 
 lustrous eyes darkly shadowed. "We might try to 
 find someone good enough to have a perfect ' Inward 
 Light,' and ask him what to think or do." 
 
 "I think we are justified in doing that up to a 
 certain point, but it seems as though God had not 
 meant us to have anything infallible to lean upon,
 
 248 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 whether Pope, or Church, or Bible. All have their 
 place, but none is perfect, and it is dangerous to de- 
 pend too much on any human being's guidance. 
 Even Christ felt it 'expedient' to go away." 
 
 "But he promised to send 'the Comforter to guide 
 us into all truth.' I believe that as firmly as any- 
 thing. It seems to me John is about perfect and 
 yet I can't join the Church and say the catechism 
 and Creed because he does. He wouldn't let me if 
 I wanted to." 
 
 "He is right," Miss Newlin said promptly. "I 
 think, dear, you are one of those souls to whom 
 God speaks in no uncertain language. You are 
 absolutely honest to yourself as well as to other 
 people, and it is a rare quality. It means much that 
 I am not afraid of saying this to you." 
 
 A wave of gratified feeling sent a warm glow over 
 Mary's face and suffused her eyes. She said noth- 
 ing and there was a long silence while Miss Newlin 
 put the papers into a side drawer of the desk and 
 leaned back in her chair as though tired out. 
 
 "But people help me a great deal," Mary finally 
 went on. "Sometimes God seems far off, and when 
 I read the Bible because I know Christ is just the 
 same as God He seems far off too. They had such 
 different ways of doing, off there, and so long ago!" 
 Miss Newlin nodded her head slightly, her eyes fixed 
 broodingly on the face of the "Gran Duca" Madonna 
 above her desk. 
 
 "Sometimes I feel very near to Jesus and I seem 
 to understand him perfectly when he takes the 
 little children in his arms and when he calls the
 
 MISS NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY 249 
 
 Pharisees names; but then when he says to his 
 mother, 'Woman, what have I to do with thee?' and 
 when he drowns all those poor swine that must have 
 belonged to somebody, I suppose, and had nothing 
 to do with making the man crazy; or when he curses 
 the fig tree for not bearing, when it says in one 
 place that the 'time for bearing was not yet/ he 
 seems to get far away and the Christ in me tells me 
 differently. Only I always wonder if they really got 
 it down just right." 
 
 Miss Newlin looked over at her with a tender little 
 smile. She saw there was no flippancy or irreverence 
 in the comment, and the problem was a painful one 
 to the loving heart. "You are a wonderful child," 
 she said, but she said it to herself. 
 
 "But then," Mary continued, in a totally different 
 tone, "I just remember God made Father and John, 
 so I know I love Him. He wouldn't have known 
 how to make them have such ways if He hadn't 
 had them Himself, would He?" 
 
 "You are using one of the great arguments of a 
 certain school of thought, and I believe it is as true 
 as it is simple. The watch presupposes the watch- 
 maker," Miss Newlin answered with conviction. 
 "You have been favored with two unusual patterns," 
 she added gently. 
 
 Mary's face was softly pensive for a moment, 
 then a sudden, complete change crossed it. "Miss 
 Newlin, do you know Maud Harvey asked me to-day 
 how I would like it if John got married. She said, 
 'he wouldn't be sending me things and writing to 
 me so often if he had a wife and children to look
 
 250 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 after!' As if John would ever get married! He 
 never thinks of such a thing." 
 
 "Indeed, I hope and believe he will marry, one 
 of these days. He is a magnificent man and I should 
 feel very sorry to think he was not to have the expe- 
 rience of being a husband and father. It would be 
 a great loss to some fine woman and to the whole 
 community." Her observant brown eyes were taking 
 careful, though covert, note of the sudden blank 
 change in Mary's guileless face. 
 
 "But he told me he was never going to," Mary 
 said falteringly. 
 
 "That is one statement it is never safe to believe, 
 even from the most truthful person in the world. 
 But you will never be slighted, Mary. Married or 
 single, Mr. Brown is not the man to neglect his 
 trusts; and he is too fond of you to forget you." 
 
 "I think I put in a solid piece of work for you 
 then, Mr. John Brown," she added to herself. Then, 
 after a prolonged silence in which she seemed to find 
 a sudden absorbing interest in some memoranda, 
 she saw Mary quietly put down her book and leave 
 the room.
 
 "HAT'S the matter, Mary?" Ellen met 
 her friend coming hastily out of their 
 room decked in Mrs. Wharton's crimson 
 jersey, and a more recent gift of a "Tarn o'Shanter" 
 to match, and drawing on her warm gloves with 
 feverish energy; while her cheeks were brilliant and 
 her eyes It seems to have been settled from time 
 out of mind that eyes shine "like stars"; conse- 
 quently, though we may never have happened to 
 see an eye the least bit like a star, we must perforce 
 express ourselves in the language of comparison best 
 fitted to convey our meaning, even though it do 
 violence to our love of truth; and I am thus con- 
 strained to record that Mary's eyes were "shining 
 like stars." 
 
 "Oh, nothing," she answered hurriedly. "Only 
 the house seems so stuffy and the wind isn't so high 
 now; it's getting nicer out of doors." 
 
 Ellen said no more, but she stood in the door- 
 way a moment looking after the retreating figure with 
 a thoughtful face. Even the very slight prevarica- 
 tion was not like Mary's usual openness. "I am sure 
 someone has hurt her feelings or made her angry," 
 she said to herself. 
 
 (251)
 
 252 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 It was Mary's habit to smooth her ruffled plumage 
 by an escape out of doors when it was feasible; but 
 she always was willing to confide other than religious 
 troubles to her room-mate. This time she would 
 really have been at a loss to say what the matter 
 was. She had not put it into words and was far 
 from analyzing the pain and excitement she felt. 
 She almost thought that she was thinking only of 
 the value of fresh air. 
 
 The cold, blustering wind was in fact dying down 
 somewhat and the sun was sending golden beams 
 from time to time between the flying cloud masses 
 that quenched them just as they began to shed a 
 steady radiance. A little song sparrow on a bare 
 branch over Mary's head seemed bursting with rap- 
 ture over his spring housekeeping and nothing 
 daunted by March's lion-like exit. She looked up 
 at him, but his happy little warble hurt her. The 
 wind cooled her hot cheeks, but she was only half 
 conscious of it. The ground was beginning to freeze 
 again after the frost had been well out ; and she watched 
 it idly as it yielded grudgingly under her stout shoes. 
 Then she raised her head and looked across the 
 broad lawn which a week of mild sunshine had made 
 a fine emerald. It was literally strewn with robins 
 trotting about, intent on their suppers. Here and 
 there one tugged at a refractory worm that the 
 freezing ground was loath to give up. 
 
 In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast. 
 
 The words were fresh in her mind from a recent 
 reading of the poem with Miss Newlin. "Miss New-
 
 MARY FIGHTS THE "GREEN SNAKE" 253 
 
 lin says these aren't the same kind of robins," she 
 said as though to convince herself that her mind 
 was occupied only with what was before her eyes. 
 But the name recalled a still more recent utterance 
 of Miss Newlin's and her telltale face quivered as 
 her mind flew on to the concluding line of the verse. 
 "But John isn't a young man!" The stifled feeling 
 would push forth at last and put itself into words. 
 It would be denied no longer. Miss Newlin didn't 
 understand. John wasn't that kind of a man! "I 
 hope and believe" the words rang clear in her brain. 
 Ought she, too, to hope if she loved him? Oh, but 
 he didn't want to get married! She knew he didn't! 
 Hadn't he said he would have a "better time" look- 
 ing after her? A host of thronging memories came 
 over her. She had entered the garden mechanically 
 and was walking beside the neat border from which 
 the men had lately removed the winter litter. The 
 damp brown earth had been raked over, and there, 
 beyond, the first plantings of peas and onion-sets 
 were marked by large white labels at the ends of 
 the rows, and the whole vegetable garden had been 
 plowed and harrowed. 
 
 "If it freezes hard it'll just be to do over, I'm 
 afraid," Patrick, the head-gardener, and her good 
 friend, had said to her the day before, referring to 
 the neat enclosure, while she had watched him prun- 
 ing the hardy roses. John had written her that he 
 had spent an afternoon pruning and working over 
 his, and her heart had been full of warmth and 
 gladness as she chatted with the responsive Irishman 
 whose eyes looked at her with the open admiration
 
 254 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 he would have bestowed on a rare orchid or an extra 
 fine melon. The sight of those stubby bushes made 
 a lump rise in her throat. What a baby she was to 
 be fretting over a ridiculous speech! Her respect 
 for Miss Newlin tottered for the moment. She 
 wanted John to have every good thing in the world! 
 (The lump would not be scolded away.) But he 
 didn't know any women, "except older ones." A 
 sudden flash of memory brought Miss Emma Ray- 
 mond to her mind, and John's gentle, pleased expres- 
 sion as he explained some cricketing practice to her. 
 He had looked so happy that day and he hadn't 
 sat by her (Mary) once, even in the train. The 
 thought made her stop stock-still in the middle of 
 the path. Her very breathing was checked. A 
 tight, strained feeling made her throat ache. She 
 tried to banish the idea indignantly as she started 
 briskly on. "Miss Emma Raymond!" 
 
 She had reached a sheltered corner made by the 
 angle of a high brick wall and splendid hemlock 
 hedge. In the little nook the ground was thickly 
 bordered with purple and white crocuses, while here 
 and there a more timid yellow one pushed up his head, 
 and further around the turn there was a lovely 
 clump of blue squills. She stooped to gather a few 
 of the dainty little flowers, but surprised herself by 
 watering them with two or three hot tears. 
 
 Some other girls were tempted out of the house 
 by the brighter weather; she was not going to meet 
 them! She hurried out of the garden by the opposite 
 way and struck straight across the fresh spring grass 
 of the lawn toward the front of the house. Never
 
 MARY FIGHTS THE "GREEN SNAKE" 255 
 
 since .her father's death had she felt so lonely. John 
 had seemed her property her spiritual property at 
 least for his mother had by far the lion's share of 
 his bodily presence. But she felt his thoughts with 
 her every day. "He understood all her feelings 
 and they thought alike on almost everything." 
 Miss Newlin's assurance that she would never be 
 set aside or neglected was "Job's comfort." A 
 vision of the intimacy of married life, as she knew 
 it from books (poor child, she had seen nothing of 
 it in real life, either to confirm or banish her ideal), 
 rose before her mind's eye. Married people were 
 always together and told each other everything, 
 and when one felt badly the other was always at 
 hand to comfort or encourage. 
 
 She had reached the stretch of greensward across 
 which she and John had walked that first day, and 
 as she came toward the drive, the sight of the little 
 retaining wall made her feel John's arms again 
 around her, his thin cheek against hers. She pressed 
 her clumsily gloved hands against her bosom as 
 though to still the pain there. It was as real and 
 physical a thing as a "stitch" in one's side. "Would 
 John ever hold anyone else like that? Would some- 
 one else be the 'dearest' to him?" She was no 
 longer crying. Pride checked the tears and made 
 her try again to swallow that choking lump. She 
 was so utterly forlorn. She did not really belong to 
 anyone. Even to put her head in Catharine's lap 
 would bring no comfort for this ache. 
 
 Ever since her appearance in court, with its un- 
 veiling of the seamy side of child life and the brutal-
 
 256 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 ity possible to human nature, a fixed purpose had been 
 forming in her mind to settle herself somewhere near 
 John, when school days were over if his mother 
 did not ask her to come there to live, as she always 
 privately hoped and to be his helper in the work 
 of bettering conditions for the little helpless creatures. 
 She had often spoken to John of this intention, in 
 her daily letters. 7 hen she saw him, which was 
 not often, the present generally filled her mind. She 
 never spoke of her hope of his mother's invitation. 
 She felt that a delicate matter and one that might 
 make him sorry if it should be unfulfilled; but she 
 looked on the partnership as a settled thing; and in 
 her earnest heart it was gradually crowding out the 
 half -formed maiden dreams of the year before. 
 Marriage was less alluring as a castle in the air than 
 this philanthropic life, working every day with John. 
 An adapted King Arthur in up-to-date tailored garb 
 was fading away, and the brothers and cousins of the 
 girls to whom she was presented from time to time 
 seemed much less romantic and more ordinary than 
 even Jack Wurts, who had added considerably to her 
 prestige, all unknown to herself, by two visits and 
 an invitation to the Yale Commencement festivities 
 (where his mother was to chaperone her) , not to speak 
 of many offerings of sweets, organic and inorganic. 
 
 The girls liked her all the better, perhaps, when 
 they found that she was by no means a belle at the 
 little school entertainments where boys were admitted. 
 The modern young man of twenty cares much less 
 for beauty than his father or grandfather did, and 
 Mary could not dance and had declined to be taught
 
 MARY FIGHTS THE "GREEN SNAKE" 257 
 
 yet, saying that she did not feel like dancing, but 
 that she meant to learn some day. 
 
 The girls could not be made to remember her 
 recent bereavement, since she wore no mourning to 
 recall it to their minds; and few of them under- 
 stood that she had 'that within which passeth show.' 
 Even Ellen, who knew her deep feeling for her father, 
 looked on the wearing of everyday, colored clothes 
 as an unfortunate eccentricity. "Nobody under- 
 stands it," she argued to herself. 
 
 Mary's breaking of rules, which Catharine and 
 Miss Newlin had both feared, had turned out more 
 a bogey than a reality. She was maturing very 
 fast, and that purpose of pleasing Mrs. Brown by 
 being "ladylike" which she confided to no one but 
 Catharine, had prevented many lawless, if harmless, 
 escapades, while her sense of honor had never been 
 appealed to in vain. When she reached the gate 
 now, the force of already formed habit made her 
 stop and turn about, in spite of the turmoil within 
 her. 
 
 The sinking sun was drawing the wind down after 
 it, as one draws in a kite; and the scudding clouds 
 of a half hour ago were a dull canopy on the eastern 
 sky, while all the air to westward was flooded with 
 ethereal gold that glorified each commonest object. 
 Mary was suddenly recalled to the present and the 
 near departure of the mail bag. She glanced hastily 
 at the little silver watch tucked in the bosom of her 
 dress and quickened her pace. "I hardly have any 
 time at all, even if I get ready for supper in five 
 minutes," she said to herself contritely. She had 
 
 17
 
 258 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 never once forgotten her little evening bulletin nor 
 her longer Sunday letter. She felt a sensation of 
 panic as she raised her desk lid and drew out one of 
 the familiar envelopes and a tablet. 
 
 DEAR JOHN 
 
 The unwonted conventional beginning stood alone 
 for one anxious minute. Her eyes watched the busy 
 second-hand travel round his little circle in the big 
 circle of the clock face, then she made a desperate 
 plunge. 
 
 Do you see Miss Emma Raymond often? When you do, will 
 you remember me to her? 
 
 Why had she written that? She didn't really 
 care! Her chin sank into the hollow of her hand, 
 while her eyes were bent moodily on the few lines 
 to which it seemed impossible to add a word. Sud- 
 denly she raised them to the clock face again, and 
 this time it sent the blood back to her heart. 
 
 I got to thinking and my time is all gone. 
 
 An odd letter to send, but there was no time to 
 better it. She folded it awry, pushed it into the wait- 
 ing envelope and left the room. 
 
 John gazed bewildered at the little scrawl next 
 morning. "You ought to send Miss Mary an 'April 
 Fool, ' " John Patterson had said to him the day before, 
 and here was an "April Fool, "indeed. What did it 
 mean? There was no sign of a joke about it, and 
 John took himself to task for feeling hurt as well as
 
 MARY FIGHTS THE "GREEN SNAKE" 259 
 
 disappointed. He would not be childish! He and 
 Mary understood each other too well ever to take 
 offense. The next day's letter would explain; but 
 in spite of himself, he felt that Mary had somehow 
 put a barrier between them, and he could not rest 
 till it was gone. 
 
 As he was strolling down Chestnut Street toward 
 his office, at a pace very different from his usual 
 long, energetic stride, and with his eyes on the pave- 
 ment, a voice suddenly fitted so aptly into his revery 
 that he started and answered Miss Raymond's 
 greeting with evident self-consciousness. At sight 
 of his heightened color, Miss Emma's heart went 
 all of a flutter, and as he turned and walked back 
 with her for a short distance, her manner became 
 even more primly tremulous than its wont. When 
 he left her with a genial smile and a brisk " Wednesday 
 afternoon, then," she was not to be blamed that she 
 forgot a commission for Elsie and chose quite the 
 wrong shade of wool for her own knitting. 
 
 John, for his part, went very calmly on to the office 
 and sat down to write to his ward. 
 
 MY DEAR MARY: I met Miss Raymond just after receiving 
 your shabby little letter, and I gave her your message, which 
 evidently pleased her very much. She said she had thought 
 of you often and would like exceedingly to go out to see you. 
 I told her I would be glad to take her out next Wednesday if 
 it suited you. 
 
 The rest of the letter was taken up with the usual 
 friendly intimate talk. He would not question her. 
 There was probably nothing wrong. It was only 
 that she had been occupied and had forgotten the
 
 260 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 flight of time. "It is wonderful that she has never 
 once overlooked the time in all these months!" He 
 took her letter out again and looked at it as though 
 he expected to find some explanation hidden in it. 
 The prim "Dear John," standing alone on its line, 
 absolutely contradicted his theory of forgetfulness 
 and haste. He never knew her to waste precious 
 time on titles and addresses. "I got to thinking." 
 That had not happened before, either. Her writing 
 was much improved and her facility had made the 
 letters longer of late, while they always bore witness 
 to more matter than could be crowded comfortably 
 into the time. 
 
 He sighed deeply as he put this puzzling one with 
 the others into a locked drawer. Only a few were 
 carried always in the thin wallet which was warmed 
 by his active heart by day and his pillowed head by 
 night. "She has spoiled me," he thought. "I 
 must not expect her confidence in every little thing. 
 There always comes a time when a girl begins to keep 
 her own council." He did not know how close he had 
 come to the solving of the case in hand, and any sus- 
 picion of the actual truth would have seemed too 
 absurd for belief. 
 
 The Sunday letter was very different from usual and 
 much shorter. There was a wistful, even a pathetic, 
 note in it, though the wording was commonplace 
 enough and the answer to his suggestion of bringing 
 Miss Emma was very cordial. 
 
 Tuesday and Wednesday morning's notes were 
 even more unsatisfying, and he was burning to see 
 her and try to solve the riddle from her face. He
 
 MARY FIGHTS THE " GREEN SNAKE" 261 
 
 had stuck to his resolve not to go often to see her. 
 It had been nearly four weeks since his last visit, 
 and he felt that he deserved much credit for unsel- 
 fishly sharing this one with Miss Raymond. 
 
 Mary was at the station to meet them, in a new 
 tailor-made suit of gray homespun that became 
 her wonderfully, and made her look like a young 
 lady and a fashionable one. The close-fitting basque, 
 buttoned down the front with no adornment, showed 
 to perfection the graceful lines of her half-developed, 
 girlish figure, which was larger in the waist than was 
 at that time popular with young girls. She had been 
 guided in her toilet by her own native good sense 
 and Ellen's wise example, and the result gave John 
 a shock as she came forward to meet them, and made 
 his heart beat uncomfortably fast. No wonder the 
 letters were different! His greeting was quieter than 
 usual and he fell back and let the two walk ahead 
 of him up the path to the gate. 
 
 Miss Raymond thought Mary in fine spirits, her 
 cheeks were so bright and her eyes so lustrous as she 
 pointed out each object of interest and gave accounts 
 of their daily doings with a volubility which left 
 her listener no more than time for "Yes" or "No." 
 Inside the gate they met Miss Newlin in grave con- 
 sultation with Patrick, but she broke off and came 
 forward at once with the cordial smile she always 
 had for John. Mary presented Miss Raymond, 
 and as the two ladies fell into an interchange of 
 polite commonplaces (for Miss Newlin kept a stock 
 of these on hand for certain occasions) and Miss 
 Emma modestly recalled to her memory a previous
 
 262 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 meeting, John turned to Mary and compelled her 
 eyes to meet his for the first time. "Yes, there was 
 something very much amiss." 
 
 "We look very nice in our new spring clothes," 
 he said, smiling as he looked her up and down from 
 the blue bow at her throat where the basque was 
 slightly cut away to the neatly but sensibly shod 
 feet. 
 
 She answered the smile with even heightened 
 color. "It cost too much, I'm afraid," she said, 
 her old habit of confidence stronger than any new 
 reserve. "Sixty-five dollars!" looking at him to 
 see the effect of the shocking intelligence. 
 
 "But it will wear a long time and clean well. There 
 is no more serviceable material. Only you must try 
 not to outgrow it." He was watching her face nar- 
 rowly under cover of his bright smile. 
 
 "Outgrow it!" she exclaimed with a touch of 
 offended dignity. "Why, I've been done growing 
 for ever so long!" 
 
 "Have you?" he asked absently. 
 
 Miss Newlin had moved on toward the house with 
 her companion, but John did not notice. The line 
 of his lips was straight now, as he stood gazing into 
 Mary's eyes with a yearning effort to read what he 
 saw there. He seemed to hold them against her will 
 until he forced slow tears up from their depths. She 
 turned quickly from him to follow the others, but he 
 caught her hand and held it fast. 
 
 "Mary, there is something wrong with you. Can't 
 you tell me?" he asked as he allowed her to move 
 on slowly in spite of her evident haste to break from
 
 MARY FIGHTS THE "GREEN SNAKE" 263 
 
 him. No answer. Her face was half turned away, 
 but he saw it quiver. He loosed the hand. 
 
 "Forgive me. I won't tease you," he said in a con- 
 strained voice; but she turned quickly at the sound 
 and saw his face. It made an instant change in hers. 
 
 She came back to him at once and clasped her 
 fingers around his dejectedly hanging ones, which 
 responded with the suddenness of electricity. They 
 were passing the very spot so vivid in both their mem- 
 ories. Each knew that the other was remembering 
 what seemed ages ago and of a past and gone epoch 
 in their lives. 
 
 "John," Mary said, in her old headlong fashion, 
 crimsoning to the roots of her hair, "there was some- 
 thing the matter, but it was silly. I don't mind it 
 now, really. I'm not going to think about it again." 
 
 It was spoken with conviction, but John was not 
 quite satisfied. "Nothing is silly if it can trouble 
 you," he said; but seeing her agitation, he forbore 
 further questions in spite of his intense wish to know. 
 
 At that moment Miss Emma turned to speak to 
 Mary and her eyes fell on a picture that she had seen 
 once before on the city street; but Mary was rose-red 
 and John's face was grave and bore a look of ill con- 
 cealed annoyance at the interruption. 
 
 Miss Newlin gave them a very keen glance. " What 
 a child she is!" she said to herself with a smile and 
 half suppressed sigh. 
 
 The visit was not a very long one, and John had 
 no chance for a word with Mary alone till, having 
 helped Miss Raymond up the steps of the car, he 
 lingered one moment before the train moved off.
 
 264 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Mary, you are not offended with me?" he asked 
 in a low, hurried voice. 
 
 She looked up quickly and read the pain her reti- 
 cence was giving him. 
 
 "Oh, no!" she said as she drew back while the 
 train started and John swung himself up by the rail- 
 ing. "I " he was waiting on the lowest step as 
 he was carried slowly from her. "I was just jealous!" 
 The impetuous words seemed torn from her as she 
 felt her chance for an understanding disappear. 
 Then she turned and fled without one backward look. 
 
 Miss Emma, who was trying in vain to attract 
 her attention through the car window, and waving 
 an energetic but wasted good-bye, turned back as 
 John took his seat beside her and glanced curiously 
 up at his face. He looked as though he had dropped 
 from the clouds, but apparently he had dropped on 
 his feet.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Miss NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY Almost FAILS 
 
 JOHN found himself in much the state of mind 
 of the man who, consumed with curiosity to 
 know how his fellow traveler lost a leg, is prom- 
 ised the desired information on condition that he 
 ask no further question and is tersely told that "it 
 was bit off." But John had the advantage, in so far 
 that he had made no promises, and had only the 
 "inordinate slowness" of the United States mail ser- 
 vice (or so he hoped) between him and enlightenment. 
 As he talked with moderate intelligence to Miss 
 Emma, his mind was repeating the words of that 
 first singular note. Needless to say, he knew it by 
 heart, with every comma and pause; but the con- 
 nection of ideas was too incredible and bewildering. 
 He would not let himself think it out, but his heart 
 performed antics in the next few days which would 
 have astonished those who saw him going steadily 
 about his business. 
 
 He wrote a few lines to Mary that evening and 
 posted them himself. 
 
 Write to me soon and tell me what you meant to-day, and of 
 whom or what you could possibly be "jealous." I feel I must 
 have misunderstood the word, yet, surely, that was what you 
 said. I cannot write more till I hear from you. 
 
 (265)
 
 266 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 He was not surprised at the absence of the well- 
 known envelope next morning, but he seized it eagerly 
 the following day. She had got his note and it had 
 pleased her; he could read that between the lines, 
 and she confessed to having been very silly, but very 
 unhappy. 
 
 I will write you a long letter on Sunday. I couldn't tell you 
 in a little time. Now I have let you know what a baby I am, 
 I must go on and explain. 
 
 So John tried to possess his soul in patience and 
 finally reduced his temperature a degree or two by 
 recalling a small boy of seven who had been roman- 
 tically devoted to Margaret at eighteen, and had 
 really made himself ill with jealousy of her grown-up 
 admirers. He opened the thick letter when it came 
 with studied deliberation, but his hands would 
 tremble. They grew quiet/ as he read. Mary told 
 him of Maud Harvey's suggestion and her own 
 rejection of the idea; of Miss Newlin's extraordinary 
 words and the feeling they had roused in her. 
 
 She said she "believed you would marry" and she meant it 
 too! 
 
 John was too much astonished at this prophecy 
 to go on at once with his reading. His mind was 
 trying to discover Miss Newlin's grounds for such a 
 speech. 
 
 I ask God in all my prayers to give you every blessing possible, 
 but when I thought that getting married was one, and when 
 I remembered that you seemed to like Miss Emma very much, 
 I tried to pray for it, if you really wanted it, but I couldn't.
 
 MISS NEWLIN'S DIPLOMACY 267 
 
 I felt sure God would not want me to say something when he 
 could see into my heart and know I was praying for what I 
 didn't honestly want to happen; so I haven't mentioned your 
 name lately. I have only prayed with all my might to be 
 unselfish. But when I got your note and you seemed so sur- 
 prised, I knew there was a mistake. I felt it even before you 
 went away on Wednesday, for you looked at me so sorrowfully, 
 and oh! you don't know what a difference it made to me. 
 
 I think so much about that space in your office where you 
 said I could have my desk, and how I can hunt up things for 
 you out of your law books and make notes for you, and do 
 hundreds of little things; and I get so happy thinking about it, 
 and anxious for the time to come, I can hardly wait. Do you 
 really think I must keep on studying at school till I am twenty? 
 I would rather study law at least, enough to be a real help 
 to you and I study all my lessons with reference to the help 
 they can be to us in our work later on. 
 
 But if you were married it would be all different. You would 
 always be hurrying to get away to your wife, and, oh, John! 
 Miss Emma isn't nearly good enough for you, and she is too 
 old. I dare to say it now because I am sure you don't love her. 
 Nobody is nice enough for you! Couldn't we promise we would 
 neither of us ever get married, but just always work together 
 and try to make the world better? We have a patriotic club 
 here now, and we are all going to do something for the United 
 States when we can. Oh, I wrote you that before! 
 
 I used to think I would want to get married, but the older 
 I get the less I care about it and the more I long to really go to 
 work with you. 
 
 John had come home from his office very early, 
 being disappointed of his expected letter in the 
 lunch-time delivery, and knowing his mother to be 
 engaged for the afternoon. He had met the postman 
 at the door and retired promptly to his den with 
 his treasure. How many times he read it over we 
 need not inquire, but certain it is that three separate,
 
 268 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 closely written letters found their way to the fire 
 and his mother's entrance prevented the beginning of 
 a fourth. 
 
 In spite of his efforts to talk that evening, she 
 found him preoccupied; but whatever might be on 
 his mind, she decided, on glancing often at his ab- 
 stracted face, that it was nothing painful or worrying. 
 When she drew out her watch and wound it at half- 
 past nine, John knew that his time had come; and 
 bidding her an affectionate good-night at the foot 
 of the stairs, betook himself again to his sanctum. 
 His head rested on his hands for many minutes 
 before he wrote the following short note: 
 
 MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL: I thank you more than I can say 
 for your frank and full explanation. It seems extraordinary 
 that you who know me could imagine that Miss Emma Ray- 
 mond, or anyone else of my choosing, could ever come between 
 you and me. We need make no promises, for I shall not change, 
 and you are too young to know what you will feel one day. 
 Give me all the help and companionship and love you can with- 
 out robbing someone else, when that time comes; but never 
 doubt again that I shall be always and altogether and only 
 yoars. J. B. 
 
 He went out and posted the formal little note 
 before giving himself time to reconsider. 
 
 Thus with a few pen-strokes did he undo all Miss 
 Newlin's neat work. Well, perhaps not quite all.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 TELLING How JOHN CAME TO BE INVITED TO A 
 BIRTHDAY PARTY 
 
 A'TER all the confusion and bustle of packing 
 and leave-taking, of buying of tickets and 
 checking of trunks, Mary found herself sit- 
 ting beside Ellen in the Bristol train on the way 
 to the first visit of her life among people of her own 
 age. John had met them at Broad Street Station 
 and transferred them from one train to the other with 
 the brightest of faces and most cordial good wishes 
 for their holiday. Mary herself was full of anticipa- 
 tion and sure of a "good time." She had met Ellen's 
 mother several times during the term and they were 
 already good friends; and she had seen her elder 
 brother and two young sisters. She would not feel 
 strange in that cordial, happy circle; but as she 
 pressed her face to the window pane of the moving 
 car and caught a last glimpse of John; as she saw 
 his waving hat fall listlessly at his side while the smile 
 faded out of his face, a quick pang of something 
 like homesickness shot through her. Ellen knew 
 what was passing in her mind and hastened to say 
 in an unobservant, matter-of-fact voice, as she read- 
 justed her hand-bag beside her feet, "I just love 
 your guardian, Mary, and I do wish Mother and 
 
 (269)
 
 270 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Father could meet him. Don't you think he would 
 come out to dinner with us one night? If we only 
 had two Sundays we could ask him for one, but of 
 course he has his own plans for Easter." 
 
 Mary's pleased face at once rewarded the kind 
 impulse and made it a fixed purpose. 
 
 "I wonder if he would care to come for my birth- 
 day party," Ellen mused aloud. She was to celebrate 
 her eighteenth birthday the Tuesday in Easter week, 
 though the anniversary itself fell on the Monday. 
 But her cousin, Philip Dillwyn, whose holidays were 
 all spent with the Logan household, came of age 
 on Wednesday, and so they had compromised on a 
 double celebration of a modest sort on Tuesday. 
 Ellen knew that a large party would have been pain- 
 ful to Mary, and with the unselfish tact which was 
 her strongest trait, she had written her mother of her 
 wish to have just an informal good time and not a 
 dinner-party or dance. They were to have a double 
 cake with candles on top and all the orthodox sym- 
 bolic things inside, and they were to have all the jokes 
 and toasts and games they could think of, "but noth- 
 ing formal." 
 
 "Oh, Ellen, wouldn't it be perfect if he -would 
 come," Mary said excitedly. "But he never goes 
 anywhere," she added, with a sudden quieting after- 
 thought. 
 
 "I think he would go anywhere and everywhere 
 to see you," Ellen answered with an arch little smile 
 that was quite frank. Like everyone who saw John 
 in his ward's company, she had an intuition that 
 his love for Mary was not purely paternal, and she
 
 JOHN INVITED TO BIRTHDAY PARTY 271 
 
 felt the common stirring of regret and sympathy, 
 but considered him quite out of the question in any 
 other role than that which he filled at present. Mary 
 was far too beautiful and had too interesting a future 
 before her ever to marry a man of her father's age, 
 and a sort of philanthropic recluse into the bargain. 
 Yet, Ellen had told the simple truth when she said 
 "she just loved him." 
 
 Philip Dillwyn was on the platform as the 
 train drew up, and instantly possessed himself of 
 their bags with only a hasty, if interested, acknowl- 
 edgment of Ellen's introduction to her friend. He 
 had no time for handshakes; he scarcely touched his 
 cap, so eager was he to be serviceable. 
 
 "Edward is in the cart," he explained to Ellen; 
 then seeing her about to be waylaid by a gushing 
 girl acquaintance, he moved on through the little 
 station with Mary. They made a very handsome 
 pair, for Philip was as perfect a specimen of mascu- 
 line beauty as Mary of feminine. They had heard 
 much of each other, but this was their first meeting, 
 and they were too full of mutual curiosity and interest 
 even to be self-conscious. Philip was always conscious 
 of himself, as one who was secure of pleasing. He 
 knew he had only to smile to call forth an answer- 
 ing smile; and in girls of Mary's age it was 
 , always accompanied by a blush or preening of coquette 
 feathers. Mary blushed, it is true, but the frank, 
 clear gaze that met his as she fell readily into conver- 
 sation with him was quite different from the glances 
 he was used to. He felt aroused and stimulated in 
 a moment. Edward did not get off his high perch
 
 272 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 on the driver's seat as the two came out the back 
 door of the station close beside him. He was not 
 over-gallant, and "she had Philip to boost her up 
 and put in the bags." 
 
 He had grudgingly agreed with Ellen, on his first 
 visit to the school, that Mary was "pretty good- 
 looking," but he rather scorned pretty girls and con- 
 sidered his sister "Nell," who was no beauty, worth 
 a dozen of them. 
 
 He scanned the visitor closely as he raised his hat 
 and smiled a polite welcome; and then asked if she 
 cared to come in front with him. "Oh, no," she said 
 calmly, showing what even Edward considered "nice" 
 dimples. "Ellen will want to sit with you." He 
 gave her a rather surprised glance, but said nothing; 
 and at that moment Ellen joined them. The brother 
 and sister were enough alike to seem circumstantial 
 evidence of the personal appearance of at least one 
 parent. They were both undersized and colorless 
 as to hair, skin and eyes; and the daintiness of Ellen's 
 physical make-up would have leaned to insignificance 
 in him, but for an expression of strong intelligence 
 and purpose. They greeted each other without 
 effusion, but it would not have taken a close observer 
 to see that they were as congenial in mind as they 
 were alike in body; and Ellen's pleased acknowledg- 
 ment of Mary's modestly mounting to the back 
 seat showed how much she enjoyed the prospect of 
 her brother's neighborhood on the mile or more of 
 drive to the house. 
 
 Mrs. Logan and the younger girls, Priscilla and 
 Sophie, were watching for the cart, and received Ellen
 
 JOHN INVITED TO BIRTHDAY PARTY 273 
 
 with a jubilant demonstration, while they were exceed- 
 ingly cordial to Mary. But it was not till dinner- 
 time that she was introduced to her host a punc- 
 tiliously courteous, very retiring man, who left the 
 helm of the household ship absolutely in the hands 
 of his wife, in return for a larger share of his own sweet 
 will than falls to the lot of most men. He was tall 
 and lean, with black hair and moustache, an aquiline 
 nose and prominent cheek bones. He gave two fin- 
 gers of an exquisitely formed hand to Mary to shake, 
 and she went through that ceremony with a sort 
 of trepidation, as though she had been given a rare 
 vase to hold; but his bright, dark eyes had a twinkle 
 of kindliness as well as of humor. He turned them 
 upon her frequently as she sat at his right hand 
 during dinner, and she felt he was trying to recall 
 some half-forgotten face or tracing a hidden like- 
 ness. He talked little, and what he said was common- 
 place; but he looked with genial enjoyment on the 
 bright faces to right and left, and listened with a 
 pleased smile to the buzz of talk that made his own 
 taciturnity seem almost perforce. He politely offered 
 Mary a share of the little private dishes with which 
 he was surrounded, as the meal went on. It seemed 
 that he was a dyspeptic and could not eat anything 
 cooked with butter or cream, and that he also had 
 strong likes and dislikes, which his devoted wife 
 strictly regarded. 
 
 Mary entered with complete enjoyment into the 
 gay chat and found an unconscious stimulant in the 
 admiring looks turned upon her from all eyes, par- 
 ticularly in those from the very handsome pair oppo- 
 
 18
 
 274 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 site her. Mr. Logan smiled shrewdly to himself 
 as he poured tea from a special little brownware 
 pot, and recorded the fact that Philip was "taking 
 notice." 
 
 By the time they rose from the table, Philip had 
 made up his mind on one point. "Say, Sophie," 
 he said, as he grasped the arm of his fourteen-year- 
 old cousin, on quitting the dining-room, "would 
 Aunt Priscilla mind our taking up the rug in the par- 
 lor and having a little dance, just ourselves; and 
 you play us a couple of waltzes, that's a dear." 
 
 "Ellen's lots more particular about Holy Week 
 than Mother is; you'd better ask her," Sophie an- 
 swered, with ready yielding to his blandishments 
 for her own part. 
 
 "Oh, no, I think not, Philip," Ellen said, regret- 
 ful of thwarting him in so modest a wish; "and 
 anyhow, Mary doesn't dance." 
 
 "Don't you?" he asked, with sudden loss of inter- 
 est in his program. "Why not?" 
 
 "I don't know how," was the simple answer; 
 but it opened his eyes an eighth of an inch wider. 
 Mary colored and looked mortified at the admission. 
 She could not, off-hand, explain the reason. 
 
 "Oh, if that's all, we'll teach her; won't we, Ellen? 
 Come on, let's have a dancing class here in the hall. 
 We'll do without music for religion's sake." 
 
 "Philip, I don't like to hear you talk that way," 
 Ellen said gently, but with evident annoyance. 
 
 "Oh, come, don't be proper, Nell." He smiled 
 and patted her on the back, and she yielded in so 
 far as to return the smile. He was used to gaining
 
 JOHN INVITED TO BIRTHDAY PARTY 275 
 
 his point with all womankind, and Mary was to be 
 no exception, it seemed. 
 
 "I don't know that Mary wants to be taught," 
 Ellen said, looking questioningly at her friend. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," Mary answered readily, and the 
 lesson began forthwith; proving her a very intelli- 
 gent pupil, if not so light on her feet as her free and 
 graceful movements at other times would have seemed 
 to promise. Once, by way of illustration, Philip 
 caught Ellen round the waist and waltzed down 
 the hall with her, half against her will. It was only 
 a small half, for Ellen was like a piece of thistledown 
 on her feet, and yielded to her cousin's leading with 
 a gradual abandonment to the rhythmic charm of the 
 dance that was a revelation to Mary. 
 
 "I could never in the world dance like that!" 
 she said with grave conviction. "Your feet are so 
 little and so light, they don't seem to rest on the 
 floor at all. I could watch you any length of time, 
 but it discourages me dreadfully. I guess I have 
 what they call a Quaker foot, or else it's a Quaker 
 head, for I don't keep good time." 
 
 "Then I'll stop at once," Ellen said, slipping from 
 Philip's arm, in spite of his effort to keep her, and 
 running laughing to her father's "snuggery" at the 
 back of the house. A respite followed her exit, while 
 the younger girls hung admiringly around Mary, 
 and Edward followed his sister. 
 
 "I was just wishing for you, dear," Mrs. Logan 
 said, as Ellen came swooping into the room like a 
 swallow. There was evidently no awe attached to 
 this "den," nor was its proprietor looked on so much
 
 276 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 in the light of a father as of a petted elder brother. 
 They rarely consulted him seriously; and their 
 mother usually saved him even the trouble of express- 
 ing his own opinions aloud. 
 
 "I was just telling 'Daddy' of your wish to ask 
 Mary's guardian, Mr. Brown, to your birthday party," 
 she said, "and he thinks, as I do, that it will be a 
 mistake. It was like you to plan it, but an older 
 man would spoil your fun very much. He would 
 be like a fish out of water, I'm afraid." 
 
 Ellen was stooping over her father, who half re- 
 clined on an old-fashioned haircloth heirloom of a 
 chair with adjustable back and leg rests. She was 
 fingering the sleek black hair above his forehead, 
 and giving him little pecks of kisses in a half -caressing, 
 half-joking, fashion. She straightened herself at 
 once and looked at her mother with a troubled 
 expression. 
 
 "But, Mother, I spoke to Mary about it, and I 
 wouldn't disappoint her for anything! She is count- 
 ing on it already, I know." 
 
 "I don't mean to give up asking him, dear. It 
 would be very nice to have him come out, but when 
 we are by ourselves. Mary would have more chance 
 to enjoy him too, and I know she will understand if 
 you explain to her that there are just three or four 
 youngsters of your own ages coming." 
 
 "Why, the children are to be at the table, aren't 
 they?" Ellen asked quickly. "I should hate a 
 party without them; and as for Mary's understand- 
 ing, Mother, you don't know her as well as I do. 
 She isn't the least bit touchy, and if I told her we
 
 JOHN INVITED TO BIRTHDAY PARTY 277 
 
 were afraid of being crowded at the table, or some- 
 thing like that, she would agree at once without 
 another thought; but as for understanding that he 
 could ever be a misfit in any company, or that being 
 the same age has anything to do with enjoying peo- 
 ple, she would be perfectly astonished. I am sure 
 she would feel that not to have Mr. Brown, if we could 
 get him, would be like shutting out the sun. She 
 just adores the ground he walks on, and he really 
 is awfully nice." 
 
 "Well, it is to be a very informal time, and it is 
 your party and Philip's, so, if you think he will not 
 mind, I will write to Mr. Brown this evening," Mrs. 
 Logan said with an affectionate smile at Ellen's 
 warmth. 
 
 "I don't know anything about whether she's 
 pretty or not," Edward, Jr., broke in, "but I bet 
 she's the real thing!" It was a number one com- 
 pliment coming from that quarter, and caused Mr. 
 Logan to look with amused surprise at his one son 
 who was so utterly unlike him in every way except in 
 reserve. 
 
 "It is a curious thing," he said. "If anyone had 
 asked me a couple of hours ago what Dick Farnham 
 looked like, I should have said I hadn't the least 
 recollection of him. (He came to Haverford the year 
 I was leaving, and he was a mere boy.) But every 
 time I looked at Miss Farnham during dinner, his 
 face kept coming back till I can see him now as 
 plainly as I see you. And the funny part is that she 
 doesn't look much like him. There must be some 
 expression very like him to recall him so vividly to
 
 278 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 my mind after all these years. I was afraid she 
 noticed my staring at her." 
 
 "I guess she gets used to it," Edward said, with 
 a grim little smile. "Philip never took his eyes off 
 her." 
 
 "I hope you and Philip won't come to blows over 
 her," his father said, teasingly, as he took up the novel 
 he had dropped on his knee at Ellen's onslaught. 
 He knew it excited Edward's scorn to be accused 
 of any fancy for a girl, and his dark eyes twinkled 
 as he saw his son turn to poke the fire with a most 
 significant grunt. 
 
 Mrs. Logan seated herself at the desk, where she 
 did much of her husband's business for him, and asked 
 Ellen for Mr. Brown's address.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 JOHN GETS THE RING 
 
 ff f~\ H, Mary, you do look too lovely in that dress! 
 
 1 J It suits you exactly." 
 
 Ellen had come to get her friend on the 
 birthday evening. The dress was a present from Mrs. 
 Wharton, who had begged Mary to let her give her 
 this "for the party," and had shown such gratifica- 
 tion at the result that she almost made Mary feel 
 herself a benefactress. It was of white crepe-de-Chine, 
 simply but correctly made according to the fashion 
 of the time, with an over-skirt draped above a "foun- 
 dation" of white silk, a modest amount of that 
 bouffant effect in the back which the vulgar have 
 designated a "bustle," and sleeves that showed the 
 round, white arms half way to the elbow. She gave 
 herself a scrutiny in the glass as she turned. 
 
 "And so do you in yours," she answered. Ellen 
 did indeed look almost pretty hi a pink silk gown 
 with trimmings of soft lace, and a bunch of rose-buds 
 at the corner of the square-cut corsage. (It was her 
 first low-necked gown.) Her cheeks had a soft flush 
 of excitement and her eyes were several shades darker 
 than their wonted pale blue-gray. The color deepened 
 as Philip met her on the stair-landing with an 
 unfeigned exclamation of approval. His face was very 
 
 (279)
 
 280 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 expressive as Mary appeared behind her, but he said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Oh, isn't that the carriage?" Mary cried, pausing 
 to listen to the sound of nearing wheels, and then 
 darting down straight toward the front door. Philip 
 glanced at her radiant face as she sped by him. 
 
 "Is she as fond of him as all that?" he thought, 
 with a jealous pang that died the minute his eyes 
 encountered the tall figure ushered in by a flood 
 of light from the setting sun. "He had nothing to 
 fear from a man so old and ugly as that!" 
 
 Philip was a lord of creation who brooked no rivals 
 where he was pleased to give the rein to his fancy, 
 but he decided that she might beam on this guardian 
 of hers as brightly as she liked. She was a "vision 
 of delight" that seemed to dazzle John as she stood 
 in the golden glory. His manner was constrained 
 and formal as he turned to speak to Ellen, his eye 
 resting a moment, in passing, on Philip's waiting figure. 
 
 The latter's introduction to him was hardly accom- 
 plished when a young man who had driven up with 
 John from the train rushed at Adonis and grasped 
 him by both arms, while a hubbub of laughing and 
 joking ensued that was interrupted by Mrs. Logan 
 and Edward, Jr. 
 
 Quarter of an hour later the library was buzzing 
 with merriment. The three guests, besides John, 
 were young habitues of the house, on the most familiar 
 of terms with all the family; and the laughing and 
 talking verged on the boisterous. 
 
 Mrs. Logan glanced over to where her son stood 
 talking to John with the deferential courtesy one shows
 
 JOHN GETS THE RING 281 
 
 to an older man whom one "delights to honor;" but 
 his face had that look of effort to concentrate which 
 is unmistakable in spite of perfect manners, and he 
 could not help overhearing what went on around 
 him. Mary was in demand at once, and was in gay 
 spirits, excited by her new young-lady dress and by 
 the admiring glances of the newcomers. She was not 
 unmindful of her guardian, but had no chance to 
 speak to him yet, and she would not guess that a 
 short delay would matter much. 
 
 "I wish Edward would hurry up and come," Mrs. 
 Logan said to herself, looking anxiously for her hus- 
 band. "It is just as I expected. He really is a very 
 distinguished looking man for all his plainness, per- 
 haps because of it. There is an air about him." 
 Faithful dumb-bell practice had made John's shoulders 
 gain in breadth and erectness in the past year, and 
 in spite of painful self-consciousness for perhaps the 
 first time in his life his manner had its usual grave 
 dignity as he looked down very far down on his 
 young host. 
 
 He was agreeing with Mrs. Logan as to his own 
 misfit, and something of the pain the admission cost 
 him was visible in his face, despite his brave efforts 
 to interest himself in what this polite, intelligent 
 lad was saying to him. At that moment Mrs. Logan 
 brought her husband up, and the two ringers were 
 offered with a dancing master's bow and real courtesy. 
 Edward, Jr., released from his duty, moved in Mary's 
 direction and was rewarded for his attention to John 
 as perhaps he may have foreseen by a very friendly 
 glance. His face straightway gained unusal anima-
 
 282 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 tion and softness as he entered with zest into the lively 
 chatter. 
 
 When the dining-room doors were thrown open, 
 the little group moved out as helter-skelter as a flock 
 of chickens, amid exclamations of curiosity and 
 delight. John, with Mrs. Logan at his side, quietly 
 took up the rear, but she noticed his wistful glance 
 wander to Mary's brilliant face instead of to the 
 prettily decorated table with its glow from the big 
 hanging lamp and the thirty-nine candles burning 
 brightly on the " double" cake. 
 
 "Mr. Brown, I have put you between Mary and 
 me," Ellen said, smiling at him. His quick flush of 
 appreciation made her again have that impulse to 
 make up to him for something she did not define 
 to herself what. He pushed her chair up to the 
 round table as Joe Potter, the younger of the two 
 male guests, did the like for Mary; but as he seated 
 himself, Mary turned her happy face up to him and for 
 a moment her hand stole into his, and the whole 
 room was suddenly illumined with rose-color. 
 
 There was small chance for tete-a-tetes at that board. 
 But whether it were the magic of Mary's touch and 
 nearness or the impossibility of remaining a stranger 
 in that merry company, John's formality and stiffness 
 melted fast and he found himself laughing at the sal- 
 lies of the others and even adding a word now and 
 then when there was a chance, which was not often. 
 He was quite content to rest on the outskirts, and he 
 had to acquaint himself with another Mary than any 
 of those he had known. She would have seemed a 
 woman all at once, but for that childish handclasp
 
 JOHN GETS THE RING 283 
 
 and an occasional naive question or suggestion that 
 set them laughing. People always laughed with Mary 
 as well as at her. 
 
 When the time came to blow out the candles and 
 cut the cake, the hilarity increased. Philip won the 
 birthday wish, and for a second his brilliant eyes 
 met Mary's and she colored without knowing why. 
 A pair of grave, dark ones followed the glance to her 
 rose-red cheek and then lingered long on Philip's 
 glowing face. 
 
 "I am going to divide my side of the cake equally 
 for the men, and you must divide yours for the girls, 
 Philip," Ellen said, standing up and suiting the 
 action to the word. "Then we'll take up a subscrip- 
 tion for Mother and Father. Their fortunes are told! 
 Now, Mr. Brown, you shall be the first man to choose!" 
 
 "Oh, thank you," John said, smiling, but the smile 
 was no longer spontaneous. "I will come in on the 
 'subscription.' I'm sure you and Mary will share 
 with me?" 
 
 "Oh, but you must try your fortune!" Ellen cried, 
 while Marion Scott, who had been Ellen's dearest 
 friend from babyhood, exclaimed, "Oh, I thought 
 only bride-cake had rings and things in it!" 
 
 "Well, this is a double coming-of-age, and nearly 
 equal to a wedding," Mrs. Logan answered, laughing, 
 "and we have put two rings, two thimbles, and two 
 dimes, so everybody has an equal chance." 
 
 Finding that it was expected of him, John took the 
 huge wedge of cake nearest him, as the colored butler 
 lifted the stand and carried it around. As each one 
 fell to breaking up the cake, shouts of mirth sounded
 
 284 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 from all sides. John was so interested in Mary's 
 performance that he broke his own cake mechanically 
 without even glancing down. All eyes were suddenly 
 turned on little Priscilla, who jumped up and down 
 with excitement as she held up a gold wedding ring 
 in her thumb and ringer. Mr. Logan, who sat next 
 her, put his arm about her with a congratulatory 
 squeeze, and the whole table beamed at her. They 
 groaned over Ellen, whose dainty hand appeared 
 above the table decorated with a silver thimble. 
 "You too, Philip!" she cried, as her cousin, with a very 
 wry face displayed its mate, while two guests received 
 the dimes that promised riches. 
 
 "Where is the ? Why, Mr. Brown, you've got 
 the man's ring!" Her announcement was greeted 
 with such hearty applause and good will that John 
 had no chance to feel himself an interloper. He lifted 
 the little circlet with heightened color, but his own 
 crooked smile, as he looked across at Priscilla. 
 
 "Extremes meet, Miss Priscilla," he said. The 
 child was bright enough to catch his meaning, and no 
 child ever looked at John without an answering smile. 
 
 "Look at Mary!" Ellen exclaimed, with a rippling 
 laugh. "Don't take it so to heart, Mary." She was 
 almost afraid of having gone too far, for Mary's 
 eyes were fixed on her guardian's face with a startled, 
 wondering look, as at a portent. She looked at Ellen 
 and blushed when she was so directly alluded to, but 
 there was general merriment at her expense. 
 
 "You ought to have got the ring instead of this 
 little chit, Miss Mary," Mr. Logan said, pinching 
 his daughter's ear and quite misinterpreting Mary's
 
 JOHN GETS THE RING 285 
 
 ill-concealed seriousness. "But you won't have to 
 wait long! You'll find that sort of ring growing on 
 every bush." 
 
 "Hear Father paying compliments," Edward, Jr., 
 ejaculated, but his eyes were on Mary's blushing 
 face as she looked straight in Mr. Logan's twinkling, 
 kindly ones. "I don't want a ring," she said. "I'm 
 never going to get married. I'm going to study law 
 and go into partnership with John!" There was not 
 a vestige of a smile on her lips nor in her eyes. She 
 announced the fact as though it were hardly oppor- 
 tune for so large an audience, but were drawn from her 
 perforce. The banter which was on each tongue at 
 the incongruous idea could not find fit expression, 
 and at last it was Mr. Logan who entered the breach. 
 
 "Mr. Brown will find his place of business mobbed 
 and his windows broken if he tries that," he said 
 gravely, his agate-brown eyes very bright. 
 
 The need for a reply was obviated by the passing 
 of a brimming pitcher of claret punch and the filling 
 of all glasses for the toasts. Edward, Jr., rose and 
 with more facility than one would have expected from 
 him, made a serio-comic speech, ending in a request 
 to Tom Potter to propose the first health to Ellen, 
 as the queen of the occasion. 
 
 Mr. Potter, a bright-faced, intelligent youth of 
 twenty or thereabout, rose and made Ellen a very 
 neat and graceful little speech, at which the pink 
 in her cheeks almost rivaled her gown. Neither 
 John nor Mary could understand some joking allu- 
 sions, as they belonged to a past in which they had 
 no share, but the tone of heartfelt admiration and
 
 286 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 affection was evident. As Ellen put her glass to her 
 lips in response and held out her bethimbled hand 
 across John and Mary, Mr. Potter looked down on it 
 with a swift change of expression and gave it a hearty 
 squeeze. "I was going to say that I couldn't wish 
 anything better for you than to reap what you sow!" 
 he said laughing, "but I want to add that I hope you 
 may never rip what you sew!" With which bon-mot 
 he sat down amid a chorus of laughing applause from 
 a very indulgent audience. 
 
 "Now, Miss Farnham, may our other honored mem- 
 ber hear from you first?" Edward said, with mock 
 ceremony. 
 
 Mary got up at once and with a quick change from 
 the matter-of-fact simplicity of a moment before, 
 directed an arch smile toward Philip, who had risen 
 too, and faced her with expectant eyes that were as 
 beautiful as her own. 
 
 " I hope you may be as wise as Solomon, as rich as 
 Croesus, as strong as Samson, as patient as Job, as 
 great as Alexander, as old as Methusaleh and as 
 happy as a king," she said, coloring warmly as she 
 lifted the glass to her lips without taking her eyes 
 from Philip's. 
 
 "You didn't ask that my birthday wish might be 
 granted," he answered with a quick spark of daring 
 in his face. 
 
 "That mightn't be good for you," she answered 
 demurely, lowering her lashes as she sat down, glass 
 in hand. 
 
 "Did you ever read the 'Sleeping Beauty'?" 
 Philip asked. "Don't you know that one evil wish
 
 JOHN GETS THE RING 287 
 
 can undo all the good ones and sometimes a wish 
 left out is just the same?" 
 
 "Now shut up, Philip!" Edward interrupted his 
 audacious cousin, seeing Mary in the embarrassing 
 position of being unwilling to try to understand. 
 "Miss Sophia Logan is waiting to be heard from. 
 Like all the Logan family, she is a poetical genius, 
 and I seem to foresee that her remarks will ' drop into 
 poetry' and I am sure without 'extra charge." 
 
 "Oh, Edward, you put me all out!" Sophie stam- 
 mered, blushing painfully as she rose amid acclaiming 
 cheers. She read her toast from a bit of paper with- 
 out once smiling or raising her eyes: 
 
 "Here's to our Ellen, 
 Her praise I'm a' telliu'; 
 I hope she'll live long 
 And keep well and strong. 
 We wish she'd get fatter, 
 But that doesn't matter." 
 
 Ellen jumped up and ran around to show her 
 appreciation of this triumph of poetic tribute by a 
 hearty hug and kiss. "I'll begin to eat corn-meal 
 mush at once!" she promised, while Sophie quickly 
 regained her smiling composure. 
 
 "I couldn't make up a poem," Priscilla announced, 
 getting up before her turn in her eagerness to have her 
 say; "but I just changed the words of one to make 
 them do." 
 
 "In parentheses I would like to inform you, Pris- 
 cilla, that that is what is usually called a 'parody/ 
 and a very nice thing it is too; but don't let me delay 
 you."
 
 288 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Edward, you're just teasing me!" Priscilla said, 
 smiling with a sangfroid totally different from Sophie's 
 bashfulness. "You all know where I got this from 
 
 "We are sure that Philip cai 
 Be a little gentleman, 
 And we hope he'll soon be able 
 To keep ten horses in his stable." 
 
 Philip, who had that morning received a present 
 of a beautiful saddle horse from Mr. and Mrs. Logan, 
 answered Priscilla's "parody" in Ellen's fashion. 
 She sat down glowing with satisfaction, and looking 
 down on her ring finger with its unwonted decoration. 
 "You haven't said yours, Edward," she said. 
 
 "Mine!" Edward answered, making a sour face at 
 her. "I wish it known that if anything does come 
 into my mind to say, it will be perfectly impromptu." 
 His assurance was received with cries of "Go on! 
 go on!" He stood looking from one to the other with 
 a very whimsical face. Then he lifted his glass and 
 clinked it with Philip's in true student fashion. 
 
 "Well I drink to our prince among cousins: 
 I hope he'll have birthdays by dozens. 
 
 (Notice I don't say hundreds!) 
 He's never been much of a student, 
 For he thought application imprudent ; 
 When his elders advised him to hustle, 
 He put all his mind on his muscle; 
 And though he is soon to leave college, 
 We doubt the extent of his knowledge. 
 But in wisdom at least he's advancing; 
 He's now giving lessons in dancing, 
 And we're hopefully led to expect 
 He'll be teaching psychology ( ?) next. 
 (Please excuse the rhyme!) "
 
 JOHN GETS THE RING 289 
 
 While he recited his "impromptu" poem with 
 unmoved gravity, in spite of the laughter of the others, 
 his eyes traveled slowly around the little circle, but 
 as he finished he looked with melancholy significance 
 straight at Mary. 
 
 In the midst of the hubbub that followed, John 
 felt himself "a chiel amang them takin' notes." 
 Mr. Logan looked at him from time to time as the 
 fun proceeded. Finally he got to his feet with his 
 characteristic old-time, formal manner, but a very 
 bright twinkle in his eye. 
 
 "If you will just let me be heard for a moment," 
 he said, bowing profoundly to John, "I would like 
 to drink to the health of the future bridegroom of 
 the party, Mr. John Brown, whose 'body' in spite 
 of all reports to the contrary I rejoice to see is 'all 
 here' (laughing and cheers), and I hope it may have 
 many happy returns." 
 
 "Hear Father! Why I never knew what a brilliant 
 family I belonged to," Ellen cried; and the general 
 mirth smoothed over a miserably lame attempt on 
 John's part to respond to this surprising honor done 
 him. 
 
 "How wonderfully good to him they all were, and 
 how intent on proving their pleasure in his having 
 won the ring," he thought as he went home. It was 
 all for Mary's sake, of course. Already she seemed 
 to be adopted into the family and on affectionate 
 terms with each one. Already they called each other 
 by their first names and John's observant eyes in 
 noting Philip's admiration had not missed Edward's 
 less conspicuous glances. "Yes, this was where she 
 
 19
 
 290 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 belonged among these boys and girls of her own age." 
 He drew out his watch, but was apparently too 
 absent-minded to look at it. Instead, he held it in 
 his hand for the rest of the journey. His face was the 
 face of a man in pain. 
 
 "If I could only know and accept the worst, I am 
 sure I am strong enough to bear it ; but ' Why had 
 she looked at him like that when he had bid her good 
 bye? He saw her eyes now when he shut his own, 
 but each time the thrill of them reached his heart 
 they were blotted out by Philip Dillwyn's handsome 
 
 face and the memory of the dancing lessons. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 "Mary," Philip said, looking at her with changing 
 color on his cheeks and pleading humility in his 
 eyes, "you are going away this afternoon and I don't 
 know how long it will be before I see you again. 
 We have got to be such good friends in all these 
 days together wouldn't you kiss me good-bye 
 just once?" He had taken Mary for a walk on 
 this last day of their vacation. He took her hand 
 and pressed it hard, looking with ill-concealed sus- 
 pense at her downcast face. 
 
 He had decided that Mary was "too innocent to 
 know better," and he absolved himself of any disre- 
 spectful feeling toward her, but he had never in his 
 life wanted so much to kiss anyone. 
 
 "I wouldn't mind," she said at last, very low, 
 without looking up; "but I don't think I ought to." 
 
 "Why not?" he said eagerly, leaning toward her 
 without more ado, but she drew resolutely back. 
 
 "John won't let me kiss him!" she said, looking
 
 291 
 
 straight at Philip with grave eyes. He started and 
 changed color violently. 
 
 "Mr. Brown is a gentleman, Mary," was all he 
 said. He had learned his lesson. 
 
 More than once in his short life Philip had been 
 taken to task for faults that showed actual moral 
 obliquity, and he had always received reproof with a 
 humility which went far to disarm criticism; frankly 
 owning himself a sinner, and forgetting his offenses 
 as quickly as those he offended forgot them. The 
 "good" fellows at school had always seemed tame, 
 and he secretly prided himself on his reputation for 
 being something of a scapegrace. 
 
 But Mary's half unconscious rebuke struck him in 
 a vulnerable spot and rankled. To be convicted of 
 an offense against the ordinary rules of good breed- 
 ing pricked his self-love as nothing had ever pricked 
 his conscience, and left an indelible spot on his im- 
 maculate self-confidence. 
 
 How many of us are there, I wonder, who would 
 rather be written down a sinner than a boor ?
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SALVE FOR A SORE HEART 
 
 IT was house-cleaning time at the Browns', and 
 that meant a season of interrupted monotony 
 for every one but John. Except that he was 
 asked to stay away to lunch on the day when the 
 dining-room and hall carpets were up, he would 
 hardly have detected an iota of change in the daily 
 routine. Mrs. Brown was one of those excellent 
 housekeepers who never allow the great semi-annual 
 revival to disturb the comfort, or even so much as 
 catch the eye, of the male members of the family. 
 To have eaten his lunch above a bare floor would 
 have seemed to John a decidedly enlivening experi- 
 ence. Even to have been asked to lend a hand at 
 hanging a picture or mending a break, or lifting or 
 carrying, would have given him a warm human thrill 
 quite incomprehensible to his mother. His whole 
 nature was in revolt against the eternal sameness of 
 his life. Why had it never struck him before? Why 
 had his business and his cricket or tennis always made 
 variety enough? 
 
 Once he caught himself wondering as he entered 
 the still house, with its look of "apple-pie" order, 
 what Mary's housekeeping would be like? "Not 
 first class," he feared with a crooked drawing of his 
 
 (292)
 
 SALVE FOR A SORE HEART 293 
 
 lips, but at least there would be nothing monotonous 
 about it ! He colored violently at the vision his mind 
 conjured up. "I wish we might have Miss Mary 
 all the year round," John Patterson had said. How 
 could anyone who loved her and had seen her once 
 in the company of boys and girls echo such a wish? 
 To bring that warm, bright, living personality into 
 this he did not complete the thought. And yet, 
 there had been nothing dull about the house during 
 her visits. How often since the Christmas holidays 
 the words had rung in his ear: "I am come that 
 they might have life, and that they might have it 
 more abundantly;" and he had felt that he under- 
 stood their meaning for the first time. 
 
 At twenty-one John had found the society of his 
 contemporaries uninspiring at the very least, and 
 even before Margaret's death he lapsed easily into 
 the habits of middle age and was far happier by the 
 reading lamp at home than in the most attractive 
 gathering of his kind. And now when he faced 
 the fact that middle age was indeed close upon him, 
 his whole soul seemed rising in rebellion, as at the 
 closing round him of a living tomb. Evening after 
 evening he seated himself in his old chair opposite 
 his mother and took up his book, only to find himself 
 reading the same paragraph over and over. He 
 tried reading aloud with better success; two senses 
 were better than one; but if his mother had put him 
 through an examination on the subject matter of 
 what he read with just emphasis and intelligent 
 phrasing, she would often have been startled beyond 
 measure at the blank disclosed. She noticed a change
 
 294 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 in him; he seemed even thinner and darker than his 
 wont, and there was a look in his eyes sometimes 
 that made her vaguely uneasy. She could not 
 diagnose it. Six months ago she would have thought 
 that she could; but then he had astonished her by 
 his cheeriness. 
 
 She could not know that the lure of the spring was 
 on him, that he was longing for the country, for the 
 birds and flowers, for youth and life for something 
 stronger than youth or life. That he was feeling 
 himself an endless "misfit." Had he not been an 
 oddity in those parties of fifteen years ago, when 
 much of the talk about him had been meaningless to 
 him, and the fun often inane? And now the memory 
 of that evening at the Logans' was so fresh in his 
 mind! Certainly the wit had been of the college 
 class-day variety when not actually childish, and the 
 round games of the evening had been partly children's 
 games; but children are genuine, and the merry-mak- 
 ing at the birthday party had been genuine and a 
 quite new experience to John; and the knowledge 
 of what lay before Mary, now that she was really 
 leaving the nest and finding her wings, made his 
 own future seem empty and chill. 
 
 He had been oftener to see Catharine that winter 
 than to see Mary herself, and the hours he spent 
 with the lonely woman were an unfailing pleasure to 
 both. They talked of nothing but Mary; sometimes 
 they forgot to talk at all and would sit in sympa- 
 thetic silence, each wrapped in a veil of memories. 
 He always paid a visit to the little parlor, whither 
 Catharine never followed him, letting him browse
 
 SALVE FOR A SORE HEART 295 
 
 at will among its treasures and come back to her 
 with a quiet face that she had learned to know. 
 
 He came back from Fernwood one warm afternoon 
 in early May with a greater unrest than ever in his 
 heart and a look of steady patience on his face that 
 was almost endurance. The memory of a year ago 
 was vivid within him and he was full of feverish 
 uncertainty as to what this summer was to bring. 
 He knew that Mary had already received invitations 
 enough to more than fill her whole vacation, but in 
 all her letters there was a reserve on the subject that 
 was significant, and that same reserve he found 
 reflected in Catharine's honest face and speech. 
 
 "John," his mother said, looking solicitously 
 at his haggard face as he sat idly cutting the leaves 
 of the newest Atlantic Monthly, already a week old, 
 "I really think you need a tonic!" 
 
 He looked up quickly and colored, but answered 
 with a very fair imitation of a laugh. " Why, Mother, 
 I never needed a tonic in my life! Perhaps the warm 
 weather is making me seem lazy." 
 
 His mother was not listening. Her handsome 
 face was turned toward the picture of Margaret on 
 the wall. 
 
 "I think it will be a good plan to close the house 
 this summer," she said after a short pause. "There 
 will be nothing to keep you in town" coloring a 
 little in spite of her wish to seem unconcerned 
 "and I was talking to Hannah the other day, and 
 find that she and John would be more than thankful 
 to be able to spend two or three months up in Lebanon 
 County with her mother on the farm. Her mother
 
 296 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 is poorly and is getting on in years, and Eliza isn't 
 well this spring." 
 
 She stopped and glanced at John, whose eyes were 
 on the thin ivory blade which he was drawing across 
 the palm of his hand, but there was no inattention 
 in his face. 
 
 "It was a kind thought," he said quietly, "and 
 no doubt it would be the best plan." 
 
 "I want you to have a good vacation this year." 
 Could she be unconscious of the irony in her words? 
 "And if you did need to come down for anything, 
 you could go to the club with George and be very 
 comfortable." 
 
 No answer! The paper cutter moved gently back 
 and forth. A feeling of irritation and self-pity was 
 taking possession of her. 
 
 "Then I shall be glad of an excuse to get rid of 
 Matilda," she said sharply. "She is growing so care- 
 less and negligent, and nothing has been cooked as 
 it should be lately. Hannah says that she had some 
 misunderstanding with the man who has been coming 
 to see her all winter, and he has stopped his visits, 
 and Matilda is all upset about it. A cook with a 
 'beau' is a very unsatisfactory institution, and I did 
 think she was safe! She's past thirty, I know, but 
 the desire for 'beaux' dies hard. I'll look out for 
 one that's forty in the autumn." 
 
 The thin blade of the paper-cutter bent dangerously. 
 Then John looked up with an odd smile. 
 
 "You see, the Lord made her a woman before He 
 made her a cook." 
 
 "What in the world do you mean by that? You
 
 SALVE FOR A SORE HEART 297 
 
 do say such queer things sometimes. Don't you 
 suppose I know that! Oh," with a sudden complete 
 change of voice, drawing her hand from her pocket 
 with the handkerchief she had been seeking and an 
 opened letter which her fingers had encountered on 
 the quest, "I forgot to read Sarah's letter; I was 
 in such a state of vexation when it came this after- 
 noon." The letter from Mrs. Wharton had appar- 
 ently been commenced and then hastily thrust in 
 her pocket without the envelope. John looked up 
 quickly and watched her face as she opened it and 
 read a few lines with indifference. He saw indiffer- 
 ence change to displeasure and the line of her lips 
 thin perceptibly. 
 
 "I think Sarah must be crazy! She wants you to 
 come all the way back from Northeast before you've 
 more than got there, and spend the rest of June 
 with her." Her color rose and she did not look at 
 John. 
 
 The paper-cutter snapped in two with a sharp 
 report. Then she did indeed look up. "I'm so 
 sorry!" John said simply, looking at the broken 
 toy. "I ought never to touch such delicate things 
 with my big, awkward hands." 
 
 But his mother's face had become thoughtful. 
 Some feeling was struggling with the irritation of a 
 moment before. She read on as though nothing 
 had occurred to interrupt her. The letter was not 
 long. She had finished it some time before she lifted 
 her eyes. 
 
 "I suppose you know that Mary is to go there from 
 school for the rest of the month, and of course Sarah
 
 298 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 thinks you would like to be with her." A somber 
 cloud was settling over her face. "But I was think- 
 ing of asking Mary to pay us a visit at Northeast 
 some time during the summer, and I think it would 
 be perfectly absurd for you to come all the way down 
 to visit with her here. Of course, I wouldn't want 
 you to consider me; I shall have plenty of company; 
 but I can't approve your having that long, tiresome, 
 hot journey twice in a week. There's no sense in 
 it!" 
 
 "Mother!" The reproach was the sharper that 
 it was so gentle. He saw her lips begin to tremble 
 and her eyes to fill. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose I'm selfish and inhuman! You 
 might think so from the way Sarah talks, and you 
 look as though I did hope you'd gotten over being 
 so " She broke off, dried her eyes energetic- 
 ally with her handkerchief and abruptly left the 
 room. 
 
 John did not attempt to stop her nor follow her. 
 He held the ivory fragments so tightly in his right 
 hand that the carving on the handle was making deep 
 marks in the firm flesh, while he covered his eyes 
 with his left. 
 
 A step came toward the library door. It was not 
 his mother's, but John Patterson's. He raised his 
 flushed face, and met the frankly knowing smile 
 with which John handed him a letter the letter. 
 
 I had a hundred things I wanted to talk to you about, 
 and when you could not meet us last week it made me forget 
 most of them, and I'm sure I never mentioned in my horrid 
 little scrappy notes since that I had asked Mrs. Wurts and Jack
 
 SALVE FOR A SORE HEART 299 
 
 to let me give up going to his Commencement. I found it 
 wasn't just listening to exercises and looking at sports, but 
 dancing and gaiety of all kinds, and as the time comes around 
 again that Father and I landed here last year but you know! 
 This morning I had a letter from Jack and an enclosure from 
 his mother. He is very much disappointed, but they both 
 understand and think it is natural that I should rather go 
 straight to Mrs. Wharton; only they say I must promise to 
 come to them at York Harbor for all of July. Ellen says I 
 must go camping in the Adirondacks with them the middle of 
 August, and I should like that, being in the woods and on the 
 water all the time. If only you could go too ! 
 
 Not another word of wishing she were to be with 
 him as they had been last summer. 
 
 I had such a lovely visit with them I couldn't have time to 
 feel sad, and everybody was so good to me! But since I got 
 back here, I don't know what is the matter. I can't seem to 
 "brace up" at all, and the preparations and fussing for Com- 
 mencement make me want to run away. 
 
 You will come on Saturday, won't you? Miss Newlin said 
 that if she had only known you could have come on Wednesday, 
 she would have made a special exception in your favor, even 
 if it offended some other people. 
 
 I want you to tell me about the people who have bought the 
 old house. It is a great deal of money, isn't it? I feel as though 
 I shall be almost rich, and I'm glad you think it is best to keep 
 the furniture. It is very old-fashioned, like Mrs. Wharton's; 
 b'ut I love that kind, and I shall be so glad to know I can have 
 it if I ever have any place to put it. Anyhow, I wouldn't like 
 to have anyone strange sleep in Grandma's old bed where Father 
 died, nor sit on that dear old sofa. 
 
 "John," Mrs. Brown's voice said at his elbow. 
 He started and rose abruptly, trying to hide the tears 
 in his eyes for there were tears enough to brim over,
 
 300 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 although his heart had not felt so warmed for 
 weeks. 
 
 "Sarah Wharton says that Mary knows nothing 
 of the possibility of your being there, and she wants 
 you to say nothing to her. It is to be a surprise. 
 She has evidently settled it in her mind that you 
 are coming, and I see how you feel about it, so I will 
 say no more." 
 
 John knew that any demonstration on his part 
 would be ill-timed. He only said, "Thank you, 
 Mother," in a rather unsteady voice.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 " T |"OW I do love the country!" Mary ex- 
 I I claimed as she sat on the back porch of 
 the old Wharton homestead with her hostess 
 and John. Mrs. Wharton was busy with her summer 
 work crocheting cotton mats while both her guests 
 were idle. The scent of the hay that was being mowed 
 in the orchard came to them stronger and stronger 
 as the sun grew hotter and hotter, and the whirr of 
 the machine put an end to conversation when it came 
 on their side of the square. 
 
 "I love everything that grows and everything they 
 do on farms. Sarah said I might help her again 
 with the butter to-morrow. You don't mind, do 
 you? I just love to turn it over and over and make 
 the drops of buttermilk come out of it. My arms 
 are ever so strong," feeling her muscle critically 
 and extending her right arm to John for corroboration. 
 "Do you know," with a rather shamefaced glance 
 from one of her listeners to the other, "I shocked 
 Ellen by vaulting over a fence one day while I was 
 there. Philip and Edward were along too, but they 
 only laughed." 
 
 "I wonder what your grandmother would have 
 (301)
 
 302 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 thought of that!" Mrs. Wharton said in a teasing 
 voice. "I used to be considered as wild as a colt, 
 but I never remember doing anything so bad as that; 
 after I was in long skirts, anyway." 
 
 Mary colored warmly. 
 
 "You could never do anything really unwomanly 
 or immodest, Mary," John hastened to say, winning 
 his reward in the half shy, entirely grateful glance she 
 gave him. "You are impulsive, but not daring." 
 
 "Mr. Logan said he could see my "Quaker back- 
 ing sticking out all around me," she said as though it 
 were a sort of justification. "But" with a sudden 
 after- thought "he said I was what they used to 
 call a 'free Quaker.' They were the kind who would 
 fight in self-defense or for their liberties. I am sure 
 I would have been that kind. What makes me most 
 inclined to join the Friends now is their liberty. 
 There isn't really any other good reason; for John 
 believes just as much in the 'Inward Light' as you 
 and I do, Mrs. Wharton, even if he is an Episcopalian, 
 and he said on Sunday that the quiet meeting was 
 just as real a Communion service as he ever attended." 
 Her face softened with sudden solemnity and her 
 voice dropped. "Meeting seems very peaceful," 
 she went on thoughtfully; "but," with a deprecating 
 glance up in John's attentive face, "I don't really 
 care much for peace. I would rather do something 
 or be stirred all up by a fine sermon." 
 
 "Fine sermons are rare in any church, I am afraid," 
 John said with a sympathetic smile. " I believe choos- 
 ing a denomination is a good deal like choosing a 
 family would be. If we had to start out to select a
 
 A PICTURE OF HER IDEAL HUSBAND 303 
 
 father and mother from among the best people in 
 the land, we should find it hard work, in cold blood. 
 We should see the faults in all of them, for we all 
 have some, and we should make up our minds to 
 stay orphans and be free. And on the other hand, 
 if we make it our duty to do all we can to better 
 the church in which we happen to be born, and over- 
 look its faults where we can't help them, we are 
 pretty sure to grow to love it. Matters of belief 
 are different, of course, but in the essential things 
 we all believe a good deal alike." 
 
 "We do," Mary said with a quick flush. 
 
 "I don't know what I believe," Mrs. Wharton 
 put in; "at least, I could never tell anybody. I 
 think that is the way with a good many of our branch 
 of Friends, and I suppose it is a weakness. They 
 have been so much misunderstood and have heard 
 themselves set down so often as a sort of heathens 
 with no belief, that I think they are shy of committing 
 themselves. You have a straight, intelligent idea 
 of what you believe, Mary." 
 
 "Do you think that matters much?" Mary 
 asked seriously. 
 
 "Well, I think we need just such stuff as there is 
 in you, especially we 'Hicksites.' So many of our 
 nice, pleasant, honest young people even the young 
 married ones don't feel any sense of responsibility 
 toward the Meeting and don't teach their children 
 to go to Meeting. They drift into churches, espe- 
 cially the Episcopal Church, because they like the 
 service; but they have no idea of joining it. They 
 call themselves Friends and are proud of the Quaker
 
 304 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 traditions, but they have no loyalty to the Friends 
 to-day. They think too much about the peculiar- 
 ities, and they don't like peculiarities. The Orthodox 
 Friends are much more 'concerned' and I believe 
 you would be happier with them, Mary." 
 
 "But Father said he never agreed with the ser- 
 mons," Mary answered with grave surprise at such 
 a suggestion coming from Mrs. Wharton. 
 
 "Well, I have an idea they have broadened a good 
 deal since your father was a boy, especially the young 
 ones, and they're likely to keep on; and there is a 
 great deal more life in their meetings, and more 
 I suppose you would call it ' spirituality ' than there 
 is in ours, and much more general culture." 
 
 "I am sure that is so," John said, "and I have 
 noticed myself the difference in the devotional feel- 
 ing; but" he was thinking of the primness and 
 smugness of some he had known, and their intellectual 
 timidity, and picturing Mary in the company of those 
 sweet, modest girls, some of whom were not allowed 
 to study Shakespeare's plays nor even to read a stand- 
 ard novel. 
 
 "You are too much like your father to feel at home 
 in the Orthodox Friends' Meeting, I am afraid," 
 he said, recalling Dick's boyish explosions. " I believe 
 you could do without culture and refinement better 
 than some other things, but there seems to me a great 
 change coming over the tone of thought in all denomi- 
 nations, and I think twenty years, or even ten, will 
 see the two branches of Friends much nearer together." 
 
 "Oh, well, I don't need to make up my mind yet," 
 Mary said, drawing a long breath. "I don't care so
 
 A PICTURE OF HER IDEAL HUSBAND 305 
 
 much about belonging to something as I did last 
 year." She seemed to dismiss the subject. The 
 long silence was full of sweet scents and sights and 
 sounds. 
 
 "I smelled that gingerbread!" she exclaimed, as the 
 little maid appeared with a plateful, and a pitcher of 
 lemonade. 
 
 "You will find that the Friends are very much given 
 to good things, Mary," John said, laughing as he 
 helped himself to a generous piece and took a bite. 
 
 Night after night he knelt by the big Creole bed 
 trying to bring his unruly thoughts into line and only 
 able to repeat over and over that one more day was 
 gone; one more note had fallen due and must be paid 
 from his fast-waning treasury of happiness. If the 
 next two years could have been unveiled for him 
 he would have felt bankrupt indeed. But the future 
 is merciful, and when, early in July, he left Mary at 
 York Harbor and wended his way northward, his 
 mind was on that other visit that was to follow and 
 the importance of getting his mother to set a date. 
 He had spoken to Mary of Mrs. Brown's suggestion 
 and her face had been expressive enough. Attractive 
 as the invitations were to pleasure-parties of her con- 
 temporaries, and much as she liked the Logan family 
 and Mrs. Wurts and Jack, the intercourse with a man 
 of John's calibre, the honest deference he showed to 
 her opinions, and the readiness with which he consulted 
 her on questions that concerned him deeply, were a 
 far more thrilling satisfaction to her earnest nature 
 than Philip Dillwyn's thinly- veiled love-making or 
 Jack Wurts' impetuous admiration. Her training had 
 
 20
 
 306 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 made her mentally and spiritually too mature for her 
 age, childlike as she still was on the social side. It 
 proved a summer of rapid development in that way 
 too, and John, who had a trick of reading between the 
 lines, was not surprised that her letters were full of 
 new reserves. 
 
 Perhaps Mary was hardly conscious of having any- 
 thing to conceal so far as her own feelings were con- 
 cerned; but the same sense of loyalty that had pre- 
 vented her telling of the little episode with Philip, 
 kept her from writing of Jack's confession of love for 
 her and wish to exact a promise for that future when 
 they should be old enough to marry. Writing was 
 her only means of confession, after all, for Mrs. 
 Brown's invitation came so late that she was definitely 
 pledged to other people. John could not understand 
 his mother, but finally came to the conclusion that she 
 felt that too many sweets were not good for him and 
 really only intended the visit from Mary to be con- 
 tingent on his declining Mrs. Wharton's invitation. 
 
 Mary would gladly have put aside other things, 
 when the note finally came, though her pride was 
 touched, and she realized that Mrs. Brown was not 
 eager for her acceptance ; but she would not subtract 
 a day from the two weeks promised to Catharine, 
 nor fall short of her promise of help to Miss Newlin 
 before the school term began. The Browns would 
 be home by that time, anyhow, she thought. 
 
 Miss Newlin, who asked Mary pointed questions, 
 found her less reticent than she had been with John, 
 and soon learned of Jack's boyish proposal and Mary's 
 surprise and regret.
 
 A PICTURE OF HER IDEAL HUSBAND 307 
 
 "I do wish he would be friends with me just the 
 same," the girl said with starting tears. "But he 
 was so hurt in his feelings he said he didn't want to 
 see me if I didn't care about him that way, and he was 
 so jealous of Philip and Edward and every boy I ever 
 knew. He was too much of a gentleman to speak to 
 me till just as I was coming away. I told him I didn't 
 like the others any better than I did him, but only 
 imagine me engaged to be married, now, Miss Newlin !" 
 She spoke with the hot blush of an outraged child. 
 
 "If I ever was going to be engaged it wouldn't 
 be to a boy like Jack. I would want to marry someone 
 that I could look up to; somebody who was strong 
 and good and I would always know was right, and who 
 would understand me and be interested in the same 
 things I was, and ' She checked herself, suddenly 
 aware that she had been carried away by her topic 
 and that Miss Newlin was looking at her with a curious 
 light in her eyes. 
 
 "And I believe, with your nature, you would be 
 making a wise choice, dear," she said quietly; "but 
 where will you ever find such a man?" 
 
 "Oh," Mary began impulsively, and stopped short. 
 She did not color now; a strange, arrested expression 
 met Miss Newlin's observant gaze, and the rich rose 
 tint faded from her cheeks. She looked like one sud- 
 denly confronted with a new and startling experience 
 for which she is all unprepared. Self-knowledge was 
 born at last within her, not a full-grown, panoplied 
 Minerva, but a "naked, new-born babe," dazzled 
 by the light in which he finds himself, and all un- 
 conscious of that identity to which he is to grow. It
 
 308 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 was a vastly different thing from the self-knowledge 
 of the woman who all at once knows herself to be 
 in love. It was only borne swiftly in upon her 
 trembling heart that her maiden ideal was drawn 
 from a living model and who that model was.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 ANOTHER "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 
 
 THAT was the busiest winter John had ever 
 known, for his practice was growing apace. 
 He had long ago availed himself of a mild 
 detective service, or his generosity would have been 
 imposed upon at every turn by those who could well 
 afford to pay. He did not decline paying clients, as 
 such, and he found them more and more insistent 
 after each successful case. For some reason, best 
 known to himself, money had begun to be more of a 
 temptation to him; but he resolutely resisted allow- 
 ing time needed by poor clients to be usurped by 
 rich ones. He always reminded himself that his 
 purpose was service, but he considered that he gave 
 his best service when he used his strong personal 
 influence in getting people to adjust their differences 
 without recourse to the law. "Mr. Brown spends 
 most of his time keeping folks out of court," his old 
 bookkeeper was often heard to say, and nothing 
 could tempt John to use his time or talents to clear 
 a man whom be believed to be guilty. 
 
 "But everyone has a right to the benefit of law," 
 a friend had said to him at the beginning of his career; 
 "and a man must be proved guilty before he is con- 
 demned." 
 
 (309)
 
 310 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "That's true," John had replied quietly; "but 
 that's not what I'm in business for. If I'm caught by 
 a client who seems to me innocent at first, I shall go 
 through with the defense to the best of my ability 
 and not give him away by backing out, but I don't 
 think I'll often be caught; at least, not in criminal 
 cases." And he rarely was. Any case that seemed 
 to him of doubtful righteousness he calmly declined; 
 and, indeed, it was years now since a man or woman 
 conscious of actual guilt had visited that office. 
 If it once leaked out that Mr. Brown had declined a 
 case the evidence was damning to the applicant, 
 whether prosecutor or defendant. 
 
 Much of his precious time was taken up in giving 
 simple business advice, especially to women, and for 
 years he had paid the taxes not heavy ones, to 
 be sure on a large tract of Tennessee lands owned 
 by two little ladies who had always been land-poor, 
 and were urging his consent this winter to their 
 accepting what seemed to them a princely sum from 
 a man whom any business man would have recognized 
 as a sharper. John had sympathetically but stoutly 
 stood his ground, scenting a coal vein or a railroad 
 or both. 
 
 "I'm going down there one of these days and look 
 the place over myself," he had said, setting aside 
 poor little Miss Letitia Morgan's protests. "You're 
 going to pay me for everything, with interest and 
 compound interest, when your ship comes in, and it's 
 coming." 
 
 He had seen little of Mary, the winter through, 
 beyond those tantalizing visits to the school when it
 
 ANOTHER "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 311 
 
 seemed to him that he discounted all his pleasure 
 by "counting the moments that too quickly flee." 
 At Thanksgiving, Miss Newlin, who had commenced 
 the term in poor condition, was so ill that Mary would 
 not leave her, and when the longed-for Christmas 
 vacation was near, Mary herself had succumbed to 
 the newly imported " grippe, " and had narrowly 
 escaped pneumonia. Rigidly excluded from the 
 Beechfield nursery by Mary's orders, poor John 
 passed many evil quarters-of-an-hour in those two 
 long weeks. 
 
 "They say strong people get it just as easily as 
 weak ones, and have it even worse," she had insisted; 
 and as usual she had had her way. When, a fortnight 
 later, she and Ellen had been invited by Mrs. Brown 
 to pour tea at an afternoon reception, the white 
 birthday-party dress had needed taking in, and the 
 brilliant school-girl complexion had been several 
 shades paler. Miss Newlin had seemed so tired when 
 John escorted her and her charges to the station that 
 evening that he was not surprised to receive a letter 
 shortly after, telling of her resolution to give the reins 
 of government at the school to her two able coadjutors, 
 who were to be married in the spring. "I shall keep 
 my literature and early English," she wrote; "but 
 everything else must go. There is no use trying longer 
 to deceive myself with the hope of resuming it at some 
 future time. I feel old and broken, with no power 
 to gain back what I have lost; but God grant that I 
 be not altogether useless if I can only learn to accept 
 my limitations." 
 
 The letter had commenced in brighter vein, with an
 
 312 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 account of Mary's victory in one of the impromptu 
 debates that always followed the "current events" 
 class. In this instance the subject given out had been 
 the burning one of Woman Suffrage, and Mary's 
 side, with Mary easily leading, had championed the 
 unpopular cause. John's eyes were full of mirth as 
 he read the record, but the mirth had been short- 
 lived. Miss Newlin's quiet acceptance of her fate 
 went to his heart and the letter filled him with sad- 
 ness and uncertainty. 
 
 Its sequel reached him some weeks later across the 
 counter of a dingy hotel in Northern Tennessee, 
 where he had gone on his detective quest for the pa- 
 thetic little ladies who were good friends, if unprofita- 
 ble clients. He had come in from a very fatiguing 
 but highly satisfactory day's work and was thinking 
 exultantly that he might pack his valise and say good- 
 bye to rancid butter and dirty table-cloths as early 
 on the morrow as the stage would start. He did not 
 carry the letter to his room for the good reason that 
 its cramped accommodations were no more alluring 
 than the untidy hall, with its array of cuspidors, 
 where at least he could be by himself at this supper 
 hour and where there were one or two chairs on which 
 he was not afraid to stretch his tired limbs. 
 
 Miss Newlin told in briefest fashion that the doctor 
 wished her to give up work altogether and go abroad 
 for a year at least. 
 
 I should like to take Mary, of course, but you and she must 
 decide. I shall take my valuable maid, Rachel, so Mary will 
 have no responsibility nor care. But I am afraid she will not 
 go unless you urge it, and I know what that would mean for
 
 ANOTHER "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 313 
 
 you to do. I am too great a coward even to break the news to 
 her. There is not much left of the school term, and in the 
 vacation it is probable that I should not see much of her if I 
 were at home, so she need not come against her will; but I am 
 not ill, and hope to avert illness by this means and to give her 
 a great deal of enjoyment as well as profit by a European jour- 
 ney. She has lived much abroad, but you know she has seen 
 little and is at a most receptive age. 
 
 John's eyes were on the floor and his intent face 
 seemed considering only how it was possible, with 
 so many targets provided, for so many shots to miss 
 the mark. At length he took up the letter and read 
 it over again, weighing each clause as he would have 
 weighed the evidence for a baffling case. Reared 
 though he had been in the "old school" systems in 
 every department of life, he was not one of those who 
 hold that to do good a medicine must needs be bad. 
 The fact that his whole soul rose in protest against 
 this medicine was in his eyes no reason for taking it. 
 
 The gray-haired negro who came to remind him 
 that supper was on, looked at his face and hoped with 
 respectful familiarity that "his folks was all well." 
 John was already on good terms with the whole work- 
 ing force of the tavern, from the manager, who was 
 man of all work, to the jolly black cook; and the 
 best the house afforded was his to command. Could 
 angels do more? Well, John had a private conviction 
 that an energetic angel with a pail of suds, a pot of 
 glue and a few nails, could have materially altered the 
 "circumstances," but, as usual, he kept his own council 
 where it was unasked. He tried not to seem unappre- 
 ciative of stringy fried chicken and corn griddle-cakes
 
 314 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and molasses (the molasses was good, and made a 
 substitute for butter), and even managed to exchange 
 ideas with the waiter who had some while steadily 
 revolving in his mind the pros and cons of Miss New- 
 lin's plan. 
 
 The coming sun had only just reddened the eastern 
 sky when he set out in the ramshackle stage for Bridge- 
 ville, the railway station, ten miles away. He had 
 spent the night to some purpose, and his mind was 
 made up provided, always, that Mary would agree 
 with him. He knew that Mrs. Wharton was to spend 
 the summer abroad and that her passage out was 
 engaged for early May. He had carefully considered 
 the question of asking his mother's chaperonage 
 for Mary for the summer, and the mere thought made 
 a sledge-hammer of his heart. Mrs. Brown was much 
 more unbending toward the beautiful, graceful young 
 woman, whose manners were no longer open to criti- 
 cism, and who had made a distinct sensation at the 
 reception. She had acknowledged to John afterward 
 that it had seemed more like "old times," and the 
 enthusiastic comments reaching her from all sides 
 had not left her unmoved. She had even felt a certain 
 pride of proprietorship in this universally acclaimed 
 loveliness, and had announced her intention of giving 
 Mary a "coming-out" tea when she finished school, 
 and properly introducing her to their friends. 
 
 But John knew that her ingrained jealousy of the 
 girl was not really less, and he remembered the episode 
 of the sermon, little more than a year ago. Perhaps 
 he also recalled the Woman Suffrage debate. His 
 mother's state of feeling toward his ward was too
 
 ANOTHER "HILL OF DIFFICULTY" 315 
 
 gratifying and delightful to risk spoiling, and he told 
 himself with a deep-drawn sigh that it was more likely 
 to grow if it was not over-forced for the present. 
 One other thought knocked at the door of his heart; 
 but his mind hardly dared admit it. He would wait 
 and see how Mary took the news. 
 
 She was so changed in many ways that he could 
 not count on her as he used, except in matters of 
 principle. Especially, he could not help noticing 
 the difference in her manner toward himself. As he 
 laid the plan before her a few days later he watched 
 her face, his own immovable except for the changing 
 color. There was no impetuous exclamation; no 
 frank resistance to such a proposal, as there undoubt- 
 edly would have been a year ago. Only a white still- 
 ness and widened eyes that refused to meet his. 
 The blood was behaving strangely in John's arteries. 
 
 "Do you want me to go?" 
 
 "I!" 
 
 She raised her eyes as high as his lips, but dropped 
 them quickly, and a warm flush mounted to her fore- 
 head. 
 
 "I mean, do you think I ought to go?" 
 
 John tried to steady his voice as he gave her part 
 of his reasons for thinking so. He saw she understood 
 the rest. With sudden resolution, he played his 
 trump card. 
 
 "Would you feel differently if I went over and 
 joined you for two or three months in the summer?" 
 
 "Oh, John!" Her face was a sunrise. "Could 
 you possibly?" 
 
 John's dyke was in imminent peril. No humblest
 
 316 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 man but would have gained hope from the eyes 
 raised to his then; but he must not take advantage: 
 the watchword of his conscience must be firmly, 
 unalterably, "Wait!" 
 
 No one who saw that quiet parting on the deck 
 of the great ocean liner a few weeks later would have 
 suspected the feeling underlying it. No one, that 
 is, who had not Miss Newlin's key.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IN WHICH MARY RECEIVES AN EXCITING LETTER 
 AND HER GUARDIAN GETS ANOTHER RING 
 
 THE post-boy had been good to Mary that 
 midsummer day in the little Tyrolese village 
 of Bad Gastein, and she sat in the flickering 
 shade with the roar of the waterfalls in her ears, and 
 her eyes lifted for the moment from the treasures 
 in her lap to the glory of the sapphire sky above the 
 mountain-tops. But she was not thinking of the 
 beauties of nature nor "the witchery of the soft 
 blue sky." She took up one of the letters again, 
 and Ellen's bodily presence seemed beside her, so 
 vivid was the stamp of her personality on the well- 
 filled pages. 
 
 WOOD LEDGE, June 17th. 
 DEAREST MARY: 
 
 I am just bursting to have a good talk with you, but I must 
 try to content myself with pen and paper. I am always running 
 out of foreign stamps. Well, I saw Edward and Philip off yes- 
 terday by the "Etruria," and then came back here. Mother 
 feels it is too sad a place for me, and of course she misses me 
 at home, but I know she is pleased that Caroline has taken 
 such a fancy to me (indeed it's much more than just a fancy) 
 and she would like to do anything we can to help her. It is 
 tremendous to be left alone with all that responsibility. Money 
 is a splendid thing, but I think I prefer having just enough. 
 You never saw anything like the avalanche of begging letters 
 
 (317)
 
 318 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 that come by every mail. Perhaps some of the other letters 
 are influenced by her millions too, but she is so perfectly dear 
 I should think everyone would fall in love with her for herself. 
 
 It is very exciting to be here and see the bouquets and pres- 
 ents and notes, and the constant stream of men coming out 
 to call. She makes me come into the reception room or out 
 on the piazza with her, generally, when one is announced, but 
 I am not willing to be a spoil-sport, so I escape when I can. 
 I was caught the other day, and you could never guess by whom. 
 Mr. Chandler! I had gone into the library to hunt for a 
 book, and Graves, the grand English butler who almost scares 
 me stiff every time he looks at me, showed him in, not knowing 
 there was anyone there. He knew me at once, I saw, so I just 
 came forward and spoke to him, and said I always felt so grateful 
 to him for helping us out in the woods that day, and that we 
 were both sorry that Edward forgot to introduce him to us. 
 
 He changed color and gave me a very odd look, and I saw 
 perfectly that he knew Edward didn't forget at all. I told him 
 that Edward was just sailing for Europe and that you had been 
 over there for some time, and he said he knew. I wondered 
 how. I knew he .was very much impressed with you, Mary, 
 and would have liked to meet you, but I know now why Mrs. 
 Townsend didn't introduce him either when he turned up at 
 the hotel. They say she is very sensitive over the gossip about 
 him. 
 
 While I was talking to him, standing up, Caroline came in 
 and I tried to slip away. She looks very frail in her black 
 clothes, and his expression was so nice and sympathetic as he 
 shook hands with her, but not a bit like a man in love, and he 
 even tried to call me back. I only made some excuse and ran 
 away. 
 
 Afterward Caroline called me into her sitting-room, and she 
 was more unnerved than I had seen her through all her trouble. 
 She said I was so sensible she was going to confide in me, and 
 she told me a long story about Mr. Chandler. It seems she was 
 very much attracted by him and she made up her mind she 
 was going to be nice to him no matter what stories they told, 
 but Cousin James was very much opposed to her receiving
 
 MARY RECEIVES A LETTER 319 
 
 him. He didn't absolutely forbid it, but he told her straight 
 out that Mr. Chandler was a very immoral man and had been 
 found guilty in a notorious divorce suit when he was hardly 
 more than a boy; that he hardly ever went with women, and 
 really nice ones wouldn't have anything to do with him; and 
 he had seen him in very gay company. Caroline said they 
 came nearer quarreling than they ever had in their lives, and she 
 had actually opposed her father and let Mr. Chandler call on 
 her. She said, "I told father that he didn't want to marry 
 me and never was the least bit loverlike or even familiar"; 
 but now that Cousin James is dead, she made up her mind to 
 tell Mr. Chandler that she couldn't receive him again. She 
 said she had never done such a hard thing in her life, but she 
 felt she owed it to her father. 
 
 Mr. Chandler behaved so beautifully about it that she broke 
 down before him and cried like a baby. He turned perfectly 
 white, she said, but he only said that he honored her feeling 
 and admired her courage, and that Cousin James was right. 
 He said he would always value the friendship she had shown 
 him, and that her tears proved that she was a true woman. 
 If you'll believe me, Mary, I cried too, nearly as hard as she 
 did. It was really very delicate of him not to put her display 
 of feeling down to a secret penchant for himself. She held out 
 her hand when he rose to go, which he did very soon, and he 
 took it and hesitated a moment, and then he said: "Miss 
 Hutchinson, I should like you to believe one thing of me. If I 
 have forfeited the friendship of good women, at least I have 
 never betrayed one nor associated with any not in my own 
 class." I can see she hasn't got over it yet, but neither have 
 I for that matter. 
 
 There are some drawbacks about being so popular: you have 
 to hurt so many people's feelings. I don't know whether I 
 am letting "cats out," but you know Mr. Brown's friend, Mr. 
 Raymond, altered this house for Cousin James, and he has 
 been here a good deal since. It seems Cousin James liked him 
 ever so much and encouraged his coming. Cousin Mary Pot- 
 ter, who came here to live before the house was changed, says 
 that Caroline finally felt obliged to hint to Mr. Raymond that
 
 320 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 she was a very good friend, but she didn't want him to get any 
 false ideas in his head; and he hasn't been here since. She did 
 it very nicely, Cousin Mary says, but he took it to heart far 
 more than she expected. She thought a "stitch in time would 
 save nine," but I suppose the nine were needed already. That 
 was just after Cousin James' death, more than a month ago. 
 
 Cousin Mary knows Mrs. Brown very well. She has done 
 a lot of work with her on the Women's Auxiliary, and she says 
 she thinks the only thing that made her sick was the thought 
 of her son's going away. Since he gave it up she seems well 
 enough. She has gone all the way up to Northeast and she 
 couldn't have done that if she'd been really ill. I do think 
 it is a burning shame if he had to stay at home for nothing but 
 hysterics! Saints are grand things, but they never get any fun 
 in this world; I am sure Mr. Brown will have a perfect time in 
 the next one. You said he might go over later and bring you 
 back. I do hope he can, and I wish it was going to be next 
 week, only I should hate to disappoint the boys. They are 
 looking forward to having a gorgeous time with you in the 
 Tyrol and Switzerland. I never saw Edward so excited about 
 anything. 
 
 Mary was already in receipt of the messages from 
 the travelers telling of Edward's hope of joining her 
 in a few days and of Philip's making a pilgrimage 
 to Bayreuth to the Wagner Festival and taking a 
 look at some of the Northern galleries while he was 
 in Germany. Mary and Miss Newlin had already 
 passed through Berlin and Dresden on their way to 
 the Saltzkammergut. 
 
 Mary was a little surprised. She would have been 
 more so, perhaps, if she had heard a colloquy in the 
 compartment of a continental train, which two young 
 Americans had to themselves. 
 
 "You go on and join them first, Ed. You needn't
 
 MARY RECEIVES A LETTER 321 
 
 try to hoodwink me. I can see through you like 
 a window-pane. But see here, old man," with an 
 entire change of manner, "you need never be jealous 
 of me. I'm out of the running in that quarter. I 
 was rather smitten at first, and I'm awfully fond of 
 her, but she's a little too high-flown and serious 
 for me for keeps. She likes you a good deal better 
 than she does me, anyhow; so if either of us has a 
 right to play second fiddle, it's me. That from a 
 fresh B.A. of Harvard University." 
 
 Edward Logan's face had been very grave as he 
 said stoutly: "She's almost too young yet, even to 
 think about in that way, but if I were willing to wait 
 for a couple of years to speak to her, some other 
 fellow wouldn't be, and would cut in ahead. I should 
 like to think I had any chance with her, but just 
 now she cares more for her guardian than for the whole 
 kit and crew of us. Only he's too old for her to 
 marry." He colored hotly as he uttered the word. 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" was Philip's easy rejoinder, as he 
 made himself comfortable with his feet on the oppo- 
 site seat. 
 
 The object of his ejaculatory prayer was at that 
 very moment I am allowing for difference of time 
 between Aix-la-Chapelle and Northeast Harbor 
 thinking of the self-same subject, but in different 
 vein. 
 
 Soon after his parting with Mary, John had paid 
 a visit to a little shop on Thirteenth Street, where 
 the family clocks and watches were always cleaned 
 and repaired. The jeweler, for so he labeled him- 
 self in gilt letters on the show window, made very 
 
 21
 
 322 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 few sales from his small stock and spent most of his 
 time squinting through a magnifying glass at the 
 interior workings of the timepieces entrusted to his 
 care. Perhaps it was this habit that had surrounded 
 his eyes with such an array of crows' feet. He rose 
 with a bright smile as John entered, and they chatted 
 like old friends, while the big customer, who seemed 
 to fill the whole shop, detached his watch and handed 
 it across the glass show case. 
 
 "I see you still have the ring," he said, looking 
 down into a velvet tray where a few trinkets were 
 displayed in haphazard style. 
 
 "Yes," the man answered, with a patient smile, 
 "I guess I'm not likely to part with it in a hurry." 
 
 John stood looking down at it with a very thought- 
 ful face and heightened color, while the other seated 
 himself and opened the watch, screwing a monocle 
 into his left eye preparatory to giving the little wheels 
 his whole attention. 
 
 There was silence for several minutes; then John 
 said quietly, "I've made up my mind I'd like to have 
 it." 
 
 The jeweler almost dropped his precious handful 
 as he looked up in amazement. 
 
 "I have a windfall now and then, and I had one 
 yesterday," John went on. "A thousand dollars 
 dropped from the clouds, you might say, and is burn- 
 ing my pocket already. I think you told me once 
 that that was what the ring was worth." 
 
 "I said I would be glad to take eight hundred 
 and come out whole, barring interest," the jeweler 
 said, with a vivid flush and trembling fingers, as he
 
 MARY RECEIVES A LETTER 323 
 
 opened the back of the case and lifted out the tray. 
 "I'll never be as big a fool again, I know that; but in 
 this case I really hadn't much choice." 
 
 The ring in question was adorned with two dia- 
 monds, not very large, but of extraordinary bril- 
 liance and perfectly matched. It had been accepted 
 in settlement of a debt some years before, and John 
 knew it by heart, and all the circumstances connected 
 with it. It was not a ring to be easily disposed of 
 in such a shop, and the jeweler had found his brothers 
 in the trade disinclined to pay half the value of the 
 stones. Their real value was not evident to the 
 uninitiated, and the arrangement was not happy 
 from an esthetic point of view. The two brilliant 
 gems were embedded side by side in a heavy wrought 
 gold band, and the invariable criticism was that 
 there should be three stones, or that they should be 
 differently set. 
 
 "I have a kind of superstition about it, I think," 
 their owner had once told John. "It was intended 
 for a betrothal ring, and the stones are such perfect 
 matches I never could bring myself to separate them 
 or change them." 
 
 John had never forgotten the simple statement. 
 "And yet he needs that money," he had thought 
 with a quickening of sympathetic kinship. 
 
 This time he had drawn the "windfall" check from 
 his wallet and asked for a pen. "I'll just endorse 
 this over to you," he said. "You ought to have at 
 least two hundred for back interest, not counting 
 profit." 
 
 And the man had been cut short in his stammered
 
 324 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 thanks by John's seizing the ring and beating a hasty 
 retreat. 
 
 Now he looked at it on its little velvet bed and his 
 will repeated that resolve to wait. "She is too young 
 to know her own heart yet." His thoughts flew to 
 Edward Logan and Philip Dillwyn on their way to 
 join her, perhaps, while he might not stir hand nor 
 foot! "I must not bind her in any way; not until 
 she is twenty at least and has had more experience. 
 Better for her to change now than when it is too 
 late; and she would never break a promise." But 
 the two "perfectly matched" stones were like an 
 omen. A hundred influences of the flesh might come 
 between him and Mary now. He looked at himself 
 in the common little glass over his bureau. There 
 were some influences he could never exert over her 
 as another man might. His uncouth middle age 
 (he did not mince matters) was a poor match for her 
 his face contracted painfully at the memory of 
 hers. "But our spirits match; I understand her!" 
 
 After all, would it be wrong to bind her by a promise 
 for her own sake? Philip Dillwyn or Edward 
 Logan might be able to make her happy in the long 
 run, if either of them was able to satisfy her at first. 
 There was no danger for her in this sort of intercourse. 
 He could reason it all calmly out. But did he not 
 know her well enough to realize the possibility of 
 other dangers? He had not heard her confession 
 to Mrs. Wharton of her father's opinion of her; but 
 that same opinion he had reached by different roads. 
 He knew she had it in her to forget all prudence, 
 as her father had forgotten, and to be more unhappy
 
 MARY RECEIVES A LETTER 325 
 
 than her father had ever been. If, the first glamor 
 past, she even found herself tied to a man who mis- 
 understood her; who shared none of her ideals; 
 who John's imagination tried not to go beyond 
 that, but a black fog seemed to rise over his eyes. 
 Of her promise to her father she had told him. From 
 marriage he knew he had the power to save her; but 
 might he not try to use his other power over her to save 
 her from the mistaken passion itself? Her eyes had 
 told him that she loved him not as she was capable 
 of loving but he would try to win that too, in spite 
 of his handicaps. The only marriage that could 
 ever make her permanently happy was a true marriage 
 of the spirit; he knew that. And yet, at eighteen, 
 with her temperament ! Why had God ordained 
 that the mating-time of humanity was the age least 
 governed by judgment? That tremendous "Why!" 
 And yet He had so ordained. Was there a purpose 
 in the Infinite Thought further reaching than our 
 finite ideals of congeniality and lasting happiness? 
 Was the marriage "made in Heaven" a marriage 
 of sense, then not a marriage of spirit? Looking 
 "through Nature up to Nature's God," one came 
 only to "natural selection" and the "survival of the 
 fittest." 
 
 "Who am I that I should try to make myself a 
 little Providence for her!" he said, with a sudden 
 sense of impotent pain. "Sophistry! Humbug!" 
 He looked down again at the twin stones and his 
 hand closed over them fiercely, while the hot blood 
 surged to his face: "Iwaw/her!" The concentrated 
 force of the three short words was the same; the power
 
 326 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of those clenched hands was the same that had sent 
 his balls over the club-house. A half hour later 
 that same right hand was guiding a steady pen across 
 the thin sheets of "overland mail." Twelve closely 
 written pages of what? Of heartfelt commentary 
 
 on Stanley's " Christian Institutions." 
 
 ******* 
 
 "Cousin Mary" Potter quite at variance with 
 her usual habit of charitable construction had 
 done Mrs. Brown an injustice. If her ill-health did 
 seem to have been caused by the thought of parting 
 with John, it was far from being "hysterics." No 
 such idea could ever have entered John's head, though 
 he knew that she improved at once when his proposed 
 journey was given up. Late in the summer, however, 
 she flagged alarmingly, and when she entered the 
 door of her Arch Street home, so tired with her long 
 journey that John had almost to carry her up the 
 steep white steps, it was never to leave it again. 
 
 The eminent diagnostician called in to consult 
 with the family doctor, pronounced her the victim 
 of an incurable organic disease; but she suffered 
 little, and seemed even to be improving. When the 
 first mild days of early spring came, John spoke 
 confidently of taking her for a drive in the Park as 
 soon as the frost had entirely left the ground and the 
 damp winds were past; but the drive was postponed 
 from day to day, and early in April a paralytic stroke 
 put all thought of improvement out of the question. 
 
 A fortnight later, a second and still severer stroke 
 cut short the helpless, speechless misery of those 
 long days and nights, and John was alone.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 AN ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT CHANCE 
 
 "TF'M sure John must have answered my cable, 
 
 and our sudden move has made us miss his 
 
 message. Of course, we shall have to miss 
 
 two or three letters, but that doesn't matter; he is 
 
 sure to be at the dock to meet us. Only I should 
 
 have liked some definite word. It was no use cabling 
 
 Mrs. Wharton; but I wrote to the White Star dock 
 
 here, so she will get the letter as soon as she lands." 
 
 ''She will be dreadfully disappointed not to see 
 you. Didn't she say this was to be a whole year's 
 trip?" 
 
 "Yes, and she expected John to come over next 
 month 'as soon as he could settle the most impor- 
 tant things about his mother's estate,' she said. He 
 never wrote me of any such possibility." Suddenly 
 her face was suffused with a warm glow. "It seems 
 impossible that we shall see him in how many days 
 does this old tub take to cross?" She breathed 
 quickly. 
 
 "Ten, I think." Miss Newlin, leaning back in 
 her steamer chair, closed her eyes and sighed. "Ten 
 days of purgatory for me, I am afraid, in spite of the 
 medicine. I can feel the motion already." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Newlin!" Mary laughed. "Why 
 
 (327)
 
 328 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the water is as quiet as a lamb! The head steward 
 has put our chairs in a very nice place, so near the 
 door and right behind that bulkhead that's what 
 he called it. It's a great protection from the wind." 
 
 "I'm sorry they aren't on the sunny side for your 
 sake. I don't expect to spend much time up here 
 myself. One thing, we are quite away from the 
 crowd. I get so tired of the everlasting tramp, 
 tramp. I hope they won't come round here much. 
 Rachel can act as a duenna for you when I am not 
 able to, but I am afraid you'll see more of your aunt 
 and cousins than you want to. It is very strange 
 your coming upon them so, after all these years!" 
 
 "Their seats are on the other side; I looked. My 
 aunt is awfully nice to me," Mary said with sudden 
 gravity. "She really did show a great deal of feeling 
 when we met and I think she is fond of me already. 
 I like her too, and Kitty is a nice, harmless little 
 thing and very pretty; but I just hate Estelle. I 
 can't tell you the way she affects me. I feel as Martin 
 Luther must have when he threw that inkstand at 
 the Devil. I do," relaxing from an expression so 
 hard that Miss Newlin looked at her in astonishment, 
 to a shamefaced smile. "And the worst of it is, 
 I can't help seeing that I look horribly like her!" 
 
 Miss Newlin burst into one of her genial laughs 
 and patted the hand on the arm of the chair beside 
 her. "Don't worry," she said. "Your features 
 are really a good deal in the same mould, but the 
 expression is as different as day and night and her 
 eyes She seemed to consider words unequal 
 to the task of comparison. "What would Mr.
 
 ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT CHANCE 329 
 
 Brown say to such a vindictive spirit?" with a quiz- 
 zical, sidewise glance. 
 
 "John!" Mary smiled softly. "He is as good as 
 gold himself, but he never expects anybody else to 
 be, especially me oh!" 
 
 She had glanced along the deck, and Miss 
 Newlin attributed the sudden start and violent 
 change of color to the fact that the obnoxious 
 Estelle was bearing down upon them in the company 
 of a man a strikingly handsome man in a long 
 ulster and regulation steamer cap. Apparently 
 they had come on this side to enjoy greater privacy 
 in their stroll, for Miss Gill's face did not express 
 unalloyed pleasure in the encounter. She had per- 
 fect command of herself, however, and it was not 
 in her plan to be cool to Mary. Just now, too, she 
 was in a state of high good humor and disposed to 
 be condescending to all the world, even Mary, whose 
 dislike she instinctively returned. She was convinced 
 that Mr. Chandler, the best bred and best looking 
 man she had ever met, had already succumbed to 
 her own charms, and gave herself little self-satisfied 
 "airs" in consequence. She had met him in Paris 
 only a couple of weeks previously (a day or two before 
 her meeting with this unknown cousin), and he had 
 very soon begun to cultivate her society in a dignified 
 way. She had not built high hopes on his somewhat 
 cold courtesy until she suddenly discovered that he 
 had changed his plans and was sailing home on their 
 steamer. He had never been very communicative 
 as to his own affairs, but she was sure his resolution 
 to go home at once was a sudden one, and his choosing
 
 330 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 that particular steamer "when he had no need for 
 economy," was a very exciting coincidence. 
 
 She half halted a moment abreast of the two chairs 
 behind the bulkhead and made a commonplace remark. 
 It was no part of her plan, however, to introduce her 
 companion just yet, and he may have seen that; 
 for, after a moment's hesitation, and when Miss Gill 
 was already moving forward, he stopped stock-still 
 in front of Mary. 
 
 "Miss Farnham," he said, with entire self-possession 
 and only an unusual spark in the brilliant gray eyes, 
 as he stood uncovered before her. "You would hardly 
 remember me, but I have a very clear memory of 
 you, with a bucket in one hand and a basket in the 
 other. It was a strenuous occasion." 
 
 Mary was no longer a child. She was not only a 
 woman, but a woman with some experience of her 
 own power; and her ease of manner was equal to 
 his, in spite of her heightened color. 
 
 "I am sure you are not used to being so quickly 
 forgotten. If you remember my muscle, I had much 
 greater reason to remember yours. Miss Newlin," 
 turning toward her companion with smiling readiness, 
 "Mr. Chandler came to our assistance one time in the 
 Adirondacks, when one of our guides hurt his arm 
 on a long carry and we were stalled late in the after- 
 noon. He carried the canoe on his back for half 
 a mile." 
 
 Miss Newlin acknowledged the introduction with 
 a certain primness, and her little brown eyes looked 
 intently into the gray ones. 
 
 "Why, how exciting! I never knew you were
 
 ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT CHANCE 331 
 
 friends," Estelle Gill exclaimed with ill-concealed 
 chagrin. 
 
 "We hardly had a chance to get so far as that," 
 Mary said quietly, her smiling face touched with a 
 spark of daring, "but we made a first-rate beginning." 
 
 Her hearers wore very different expressions as 
 they turned to resume their walk. 
 
 "Mutual helpfulness is said to be a good founda- 
 tion," Mr. Chandler said easily, as he replaced his 
 cap. There was something very like gratitude in 
 his face. 
 
 Before night settled down the "motion" was evi- 
 dent to others beside Miss Newlin, and next morning 
 saw a scanty attendance at the long tables in the 
 saloon. There were not more than seventy or eighty 
 first-cabin passengers, and most of them had appar- 
 ently not yet found their "sea legs," or, in common 
 parlance, had not yet settled their land stomachs. 
 
 Father Neptune is a tremendous practical joker, 
 and perhaps no one suffered more from his pranks 
 than Estelle Gill when she learned from the much- 
 enduring stewardess that Miss Farnham was "as 
 bright as a lark;" but Miss Newlin was ill and the 
 maid the worst off of all. She knew from Mr. Chand- 
 ler that he was a stranger to sea-sickness, and for 
 that day and the two or three that intervened before 
 she could drag herself on deck, the greenish yellow 
 tone of her complexion was not all due to that cause. 
 When she did make her exit she was wise enough to 
 cover her face with a heavy veil. Mary, who had 
 busied herself with Miss Newlin and paid a visit 
 to the forlorn Rachel, was very late at breakfast.
 
 332 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 As she crossed the companion-way to the saloon, 
 Mr. Chandler met her, rug on arm, on his way to the 
 deck. At sight of her, the somewhat haughty repose 
 of his face brightened marvelously. 
 
 "Ah, so you are not with the majority, after all!" 
 he said, coming quickly toward her. He had no idea 
 how significant that "after all" was. 
 
 "I'm very late," she said, innocently reading it 
 aright. " I was looking after some of the ' majority.' ' 
 
 An hour later, driven from her post of nurse into 
 the open air by Miss Newlin's command, she en- 
 sconced herself in the sheltered corner and, carefully 
 mummified by the zealous deck-steward, opened her 
 book. Canvas was drawn over the rail as a pro- 
 tection from the flying spray and her view of the ocean 
 was obscured except when the long, rolling swells 
 brought her side down. She tried to bury herself 
 in the time-honored novel in her hands, and at last 
 succeeded, though her thoughts did occasionally 
 wander to surmise as to the whereabouts of Mr. 
 Chandler's chair. Her native frankness made her un- 
 ashamed of the wish to know. 
 
 Suddenly he appeared before her around the bulk- 
 head. He glanced down at her book. "I am inter- 
 rupting something very interesting, I am afraid." 
 
 "No, I am glad to be interrupted." She turned the 
 title toward him. 
 
 " 'Vanity Fair!' " with a bright, half -amused smile. 
 "Are you fond of Thackeray?" 
 
 He asked the question absently, his eyes more 
 alive to her face than to her answer. A curt "No!" 
 waked him to interest. "I'm not reading this because
 
 ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT CHANCE 333 
 
 I like it, but because I ought to like it. That seems 
 to you bad taste, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Rather," he said smiling again. "Thackeray is 
 a delight to me; but perhaps I understand your 
 reasons. He is too much of a sceptic for you. You 
 like to think better of human nature than he lets 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes," Mary answered, surprised that a stranger 
 should read her so well. "Because most human 
 nature is better. I would like to have introduced 
 Mr. Thackeray to some good honest Americans, and 
 especially some American women. I've just been 
 reading where little Georgie leaves his mother, with- 
 out a pang, to go to his horrid old grandfather and 
 make a splurge." 
 
 "And you think that is unnatural?" 
 
 "Perhaps not, if a boy had that kind of mother. 
 She wasn't capable of doing anything but adore him 
 and throw herself under his feet. She was deadly 
 uninteresting, and I should think he might have liked 
 a change." 
 
 Her hearer's face was calculated to draw her out 
 as he leaned easily against the bulkhead looking down 
 at her. 
 
 "You hear a lot of talk about woman's place being 
 in the home, but some of those sweet, domestic women 
 have no more idea how to interest a child when it 
 begins to develop a mind than a nice old motherly 
 hen. Motherliness, to me, doesn't mean just washing 
 and cuddling and singing nursery songs and hearing 
 prayers; but it means keeping in touch with the big 
 interests of the world, and with your children's souls
 
 334 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and brains, as well as their hearts. Mr. Thack- 
 eray's 'angelical' mothers didn't know anything about 
 what was going on in the world. They had no per- 
 spective." 
 
 Mary's face was aglow with earnestness; her eyes 
 beautiful with a sudden memory. Her mind had 
 gone back to her father. Her hearer turned his own 
 eyes away. 
 
 "Won't you sit down?" she said gently, recalled 
 to herself by the sight of the fire she had kindled. 
 He hesitated definitely, and then said simply, "I 
 should like to." 
 
 "You'd better get your rug first," was her practical 
 suggestion. A warm wave of color swept over his 
 face as he went away without a word. 
 
 The deck-pacers were few that morning. One old 
 man, his slouch hat tied under his chin with a silk 
 handkerchief, looked hard at them as he went by, 
 but they were too deep in conversation even to notice 
 him. The luncheon bugle roused them and made 
 Mary say contritely, "Oh, I ought to have gone down 
 long ago. I am worried about Miss Newlin. She 
 had a horrid attack of pain in her chest in Paris, and 
 the doctor called it by some Latin name that means 
 neuralgia of the heart, I think, and told me she must 
 be very careful, and that it was important she 
 shouldn't be seasick. He gave her a medicine to 
 prevent it, but she must keep perfectly quiet. It is 
 a very dangerous disease." She was unwinding her 
 rugs with the help of the solicitous steward and did 
 not see the look of startled intelligence on Mr. Chand- 
 ler's face as he struggled to his feet.
 
 ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT CHANCE 335 
 
 "If I could do anything to help you at any time, it 
 would be a great pleasure," he said with a solemnity 
 that seemed disproportionate to the occasion. 
 
 Miss Newlin welcomed her with a tender smile 
 that covered a close scrutiny. "You have been 
 enjoying your book at last?" she asked. 
 
 "No," Mary answered, looking frankly in her face. 
 "I have been talking to Mr. Chandler." She saw a 
 cloud of uncertainty settle over Miss Newlin's strong 
 features. She wished they were not so white. 
 
 "We were not flirting, Miss Newlin," she said, 
 playfully, seating herself on the edge of the berth and 
 kissing her friend on both cheeks to drive away the 
 disapproval she read. "If you want to know what we 
 were talking about most of the time, it was the 
 Friends Quakers. His grandparents were all Friends, 
 and he says he thinks it the purest and noblest religion 
 of all or that it would have been if they hadn't 
 cramped it by a lot of little formalities. He said 
 they were beginning to find that out." She was 
 running on in her wish to disarm Miss Newlin's 
 distrust, but she did not quite succeed. 
 
 "You must run and get your lunch now," was all 
 the answer she got. 
 
 "Those very handsome eyes know how to take 
 one's measure pretty accurately, it seems," Miss 
 Newlin said to herself, with a grim smile. "I guaran- 
 tee he didn't talk religion to Miss Gill!" 
 
 She lay for some time with puckered brows that 
 were not altogether caused by perplexity or dissatis- 
 faction. There was a nasty, growling pain in her left 
 arm and shoulder. She knew what it meant and
 
 336 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 that her very life depended on extreme caution. 
 "A violent attack of vomiting would end it all, I 
 think," was her calm comment. "I must take no 
 chances." A note was brought her by the stewardess. 
 She asked for her glasses and opened it, turning at 
 once to the signature. 
 
 "Old Mr. Marquand!" she exclaimed aloud in a 
 voice of pleased surprise. "I shall enjoy seeing him 
 again if I ever get on deck." 
 
 She turned the note again and commenced it, but 
 in a moment her face had changed darkly and she 
 read to the end with feverish haste. Then she closed 
 her eyes and lay still, while a dull crimson of excite- 
 ment gradually spread over her face. 
 
 "Why, Miss Newlin, how flushed you look. What 
 is the matter?" Mary's voice suddenly asked from 
 the doorway. Miss Newlin grasped the letter and 
 crushed it in her fingers as though to hide it, before 
 she realized the futility of the attempt. Mary was 
 thoroughly alarmed at her appearance and at once 
 took a bottle from one of the little barricaded shelves 
 on top of the washstand and dropped several drops 
 of the liquid into a medicine glass which she hurriedly 
 filled. "Drink this," she said, in her usual positive 
 fashion, lifting Miss Newlin's unresisting head on 
 her strong young arm. The imperious, masterful 
 woman was as wax in the hands of this girl, who made 
 the sunshine of her life. 
 
 There was absolute silence for a few minutes, while 
 Mary passed her cool hand across the flushed forehead 
 and cheeks. The effect of the drops was almost 
 instantaneous. The color receded.
 
 ENCOUNTER THAT WAS NOT CHANCE 337 
 
 "Read this, dear," Miss Newlin said, smoothing out 
 the letter again and handing it to her anxious nurse. 
 
 She watched Mary's face narrowly while the long 
 lashes drooped and rose again at a turned page. 
 
 "Old busybody!" was the first vexed exclamation. 
 " I suppose he meant it all right though." She paused 
 a moment and lifted her eyes quietly to Miss Newlin's. 
 "I knew all that before." 
 
 "And you never told me!" 
 
 "I never thought of meeting him; certainly not 
 of talking to him as I have this morning. It was not 
 my secret, but I should have told you something very 
 soon. I really never ought to have heard what I 
 did." Mary proceeded at once to give the substance 
 of Ellen Logan's story. Miss Newlin listened with 
 deep interest, but the anxiety on her brow did not 
 smooth away. 
 
 "Don't let him sit by you again or draw you into 
 intimate conversation. A nature like yours makes a 
 famous champion. I know your motives are above 
 suspicion; but, dear child, you are not a fit person to 
 undertake the conversion or consolation of that sort 
 of sinner." 
 
 "Miss Newlin, you surely couldn't be afraid of my 
 losing my heart to him! You must know that 
 the rest of the sentence was buried in the pillow be- 
 side Miss Newlin's cheek. 
 
 "I am very thankful, Mary," she said in a low, 
 uncertain voice, "and I will trust you, dearest. You 
 are not a foolish child, but a good woman. But you 
 are very young and 
 
 Mary readily promised moderation, and Miss 
 
 22
 
 338 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Newlin's health made sufficient excuse for her absent- 
 ing herself from the deck a good deal without seeming 
 to do so for a purpose. She also paid daily calls upon 
 her aunt. 
 
 The intimacy so begun progressed rapidly, however, 
 and Mary could not hope to escape comment and never 
 thought of trying. On the contrary she took pains 
 to treat Mr. Chandler with especial friendliness when 
 the decks began to fill up; and never missed long 
 daily promenades with him. 
 
 But he read the difference in her and made a bold 
 resolve.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 THE DISEASE "WITH A LATIN NAME" 
 
 A PERFECT day above and a quiet sea below 
 had emboldened Miss Newlin to risk a journey 
 to the deck, and she was reclining in her corner, 
 fed by Mary on morsels as tempting and digestible 
 as the bill-of-fare afforded, while she drew deep breaths 
 of the fresh sea air. 
 
 "No one knows how good it is to be out again," 
 she said, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, as she chewed 
 contentedly on a bit of chicken. "It did seem as 
 though I should smother, sometimes." 
 
 "You have such a good color! And your eyes are 
 as bright as usual," Mary said, looking affectionately 
 into the strong, dark face encircled by a "nubia" 
 of a violent bluish pink calculated to have taken the 
 color out of a milkmaid's cheeks. (Milkmaids always 
 have red cheeks, haven't they?) Miss Newlin's 
 love of gay colors was as inborn as her lack of judgment 
 in their use. 
 
 "That's enough. Now go down to your own lunch. 
 I shall be as comfortable and happy as can be hi this 
 heavenly air." Left alone, her face took on a singu- 
 larly uplifted and ennobled gravity as her eyes swept 
 the blue, calm expanse before her. A voice broke 
 jarringly upon her revery. 
 
 (339)
 
 340 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Miss Newlin, may I come and talk to you for a 
 little?" 
 
 The tone and words were simple enough, but there 
 was something in Mr. Chandler's face that made her 
 conscious of a disagreeable foreboding. "Why should 
 he want to talk to her, an old woman whom he had 
 barely met." She assented with a coldness that did 
 not escape him. Very little did escape him. He 
 seated himself on the raised foot-rest of Mary's 
 chair, almost facing Miss Newlin. She noticed the 
 unconscious tenderness with which he touched the 
 tumbled heap of rugs in moving them aside. It was 
 painfully suggestive. Suddenly he raised a face of 
 such passionate earnestness that his listener waited 
 spellbound, her sombre eyes on his. She had not 
 long to wait. 
 
 "Do you believe it is possible for one to love with 
 every fiber of his being all that is pure and good, and 
 yet be a miserable failure in even the common task 
 of clean and honest living?" 
 
 He had taken Miss Newlin's measure, too. Her 
 whole nature responded to a challenge so given. There 
 was an almost unearthly beauty in her plain face as 
 she answered with an intensity equal to his own. 
 
 "We must believe so if we trust St. Paul's witness: 
 'For I delight in the law of God, after the inward 
 man; but I see another law in my members, warring 
 against the law of my mind and bringing me into 
 captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.' ' 
 She saw his face quiver, but his eyes did not flinch. 
 
 "Will you let me tell you something about myself?" 
 he asked huskily.
 
 WILL You LET ME TELL You SOMETHING ABOUT MYSELF?" 
 HE ASKED.
 
 DISEASE "WITH A LATIN NAME" 341 
 
 She only nodded; her absorbed attention answered 
 for her. 
 
 "When I was twenty-one, I fell in love as deeply 
 as I was capable of falling in love with a married 
 woman. I did not try to fight it. It seemed as though 
 the very strength of my feeling were a justification. 
 I was not vulgar. I was as innocent as a girl and 
 intensely religious in my nature, but there was a big 
 force there beside. She was a few years older than I 
 and was unhappy in her marriage. It is no use to 
 go through it all again. I seemed to be drawn into 
 sin with an irresistible force, and everything con- 
 spired to pull me down." His lips curled with tremu- 
 lous sarcasm. "No doubt every sinner has said the 
 same since the world began." 
 
 Miss Newlin made no answer. Her face was con- 
 tracted with a sympathy that was as strong as pain. 
 
 "I knew I was breaking a commandment, but the 
 laws of nature seemed stronger than the laws of Moses. 
 Then came a divorce suit in which the husband's 
 case was absolutely perfect, and I found that for 
 weeks we had been spied upon with consummate 
 ingenuity. Every word we had spoken, every I 
 cannot think of it even now. Miss Newlin, Hester 
 Prynne only wore the scarlet letter on her clothing, 
 It was branded into my very soul by the revelations 
 of that trial. Every fact was distorted, every emotion 
 vulgarized. She took refuge in blank denial. I 
 tried to keep silence, for I cared nothing for 'contempt 
 of court/ but silence was as damning to her as words 
 would have been. I ended by backing her up." 
 He breathed like a man who has been running. "Of
 
 342 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 course, the lies were proved against us. The men who 
 had shown me sympathy at first grew cold all but 
 one, an old man who died not long after. He took 
 me aside by the arm and said: 'Mr. Chandler, there 
 is the making of a man in you. The Lord forgives 
 such perjury as that.' I never forgot the words, but 
 the fact of being a proven liar before the world cut 
 me deeper than anything. I had always been proud 
 of my truth-telling. A lie under oath was no different 
 to me from any other kind I had the Quaker tradi- 
 tions but what I suffered for those I told in that 
 court, killed every atom of the love I had for her. 
 Afterward I wrote, offering to marry her as soon as 
 or wherever the laws would permit it. She never 
 answered the letter. She refused to see me. It was 
 the kindest thing she could have done; but it made me 
 even more morose and full of gall than I should have 
 been." 
 
 Miss Newlin's face was expressive of physical as 
 well as mental pain and her hand went to her heart. 
 Mr. Chandler looked at her in sudden alarm. 
 
 "I ought not to stir you up with this wretched 
 story," he said penitently. "Can't I get you some- 
 thing?" He half rose. 
 
 "No, no; go on." 
 
 He hesitated, watching her face, but finally com- 
 plied. 
 
 "If I might have confided then in such a woman as 
 you," he said, with a sigh, which quickly gave place 
 to a mocking smile. "I expected social ostracism, 
 but I found myself received with open arms by women 
 of good family and position, of what is called the
 
 DISEASE "WITH A LATIN NAME" 343 
 
 'gay set/ and inundated with invitations. There 
 was a good deal of real kindliness among them, but 
 I soon discovered that it was not only the sinner they 
 were willing to pardon; they condoned the sin. 
 Every honest instinct in me was outraged by the 
 sort of tacit complicity. I stayed away from social 
 functions and moped in the bitterest spirit it is pos- 
 sible for a man to feel. I was only a boy after all. 
 My sister was an angel to me, but I knew I could not 
 make her understand. I let her think I was suffering 
 from thwarted love. The after-taste of dead passion 
 is far worse." 
 
 Again he looked in Miss Newlin's flushed and frown- 
 ing face with eager solicitude. "Forgive me!" he 
 said brokenly. " I am sure you know why I am telling 
 you what I never told anyone before, but I will say 
 no more now. Let me stay here with you in quiet 
 till your maid or Miss Farnham comes back." 
 
 "If you will get a little water and drop five drops 
 of this into it," Miss Newlin said, pressing her hand 
 again to her heart. "I ate more than usual and 
 perhaps 
 
 "And I have excited you right on top of it," he 
 said, crimsoning with mortification and anxiety, as 
 he called a steward and sent him for the water. 
 They sat hi unbroken silence till the man returned 
 and Mr. Chandler administered the stimulant 
 even for a few minutes after. Miss Newlin felt they 
 were losing precious time. The luncheon-eaters would 
 soon be back. 
 
 "I am all right now. I want to hear the rest 
 before we are interrupted," she said commandingly.
 
 344 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 He hesitated again, but saw that it would irritate 
 her to refuse, and went on very calmly. 
 
 "After a year or two of sulking, the hot blood began 
 to work in me again. I began to long for society. 
 I found plenty of it ready, and I ended by accepting 
 things as I found them. For five years I stifled the 
 craving for a higher plane of living. I met a woman 
 a divorced woman nearly my own age, witty, 
 intellectual, more fascinating than most beautiful 
 women (she wasn't even passable), and we soon 
 became intimate. She made me feel that we were 
 congenial spirits of a finer clay than the others. I 
 was not in love with her, but " his face expressed a 
 scornful indulgence for his old self, mixed with shame 
 and pain "you will not think me a coxcomb, Miss 
 Newlin, for telling you that she was in love with me; 
 so much so that she disregarded the commonest 
 prudence. For years we were an open book to the 
 whole social world. Part of it cut us dead, but we 
 had plenty of company. Our connection soon began 
 to gall me horribly men are brutal egotists for the 
 most part: whatever they can get easily, they soon 
 cease to care for. I had the manhood to try to hide 
 my defection, but those things can't be hid long. I 
 even offered to marry her, but she was too clever. 
 She was a past-mistress in the art of creating fire 
 out of ashes, but the ashes got too hopeless, and for 
 years, while the world looked on us as happy in de- 
 fiance of its laws, we were as wretched as we could 
 well be. At last she put an end to it. I have not seen 
 her since. I gave up women's society altogether 
 and went nowhere but on sporting expeditions or to
 
 DISEASE "WITH A LATIN NAME" 345 
 
 athletic contests. I traveled a great deal. I was 
 thoroughly unhappy, but I had learned to accept 
 things as I found them. There is good in everyone, 
 and I grew confused in my standards. I had found 
 fine impulses in men and women who were notori- 
 ously fast, and I had a contempt for prudes. Many 
 a young girl has given me side glances from under her 
 mother's wing that were very enlightening. I began 
 to think the world was made up of people who frankly 
 followed their natural impulses and those who were 
 hypocrites enough to act virtue and pretend scorn." 
 He was looking moodily down on his interlaced fingers; 
 suddenly he raised his eyes and an extraordinary 
 change passed over his face. 
 
 "One day, just three years ago, I came face to face 
 with a girl I need not describe her- if ever eyes 
 were 'windows of the soul/ hers are" he stopped 
 a moment to gain composure. "She looked straight 
 at me and I recognized the unattainable good. The 
 craving for it had always haunted a corner of my 
 stained soul, and all the faith of my boyhood seemed 
 to come back in a flash and I saw the life I was living 
 in its true light. It was a wonderful experience. 
 It made a different man of me. I did not break with 
 all my old acquaintances, but it changed my whole 
 attitude toward life. I was never what is called 
 dissipated; I never drank much nor gambled. Low 
 resorts had never had any temptation for me."- 
 Another pause. Miss Newlin unaffectedly dried her 
 eyes. "I saw her again by chance very seldom . 
 I never tried to meet her. I knew I had no right to 
 her acquaintance, but I have kept in touch with her
 
 346 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and known all that happened to her and worshiped 
 her from afar as a good Catholic worships the Virgin 
 Mary." He colored warmly as he pronounced the 
 name. 
 
 "It is a wonderful story," Miss Newlin said in a 
 low, thrilled voice; "and I can hardly express all the 
 
 sympathy and interest I feel; but A tremor of 
 
 pain that was not physical crossed her eloquent face. 
 
 "I know what you will say. I have no right to 
 touch the hem of her skirt." 
 
 "No, I do not say that. Who are we to refuse 
 forgiveness where our Lord forgave. I acknowledge 
 that I have warned her against you; but she has a 
 very strong will, with all her sweetness; and I have 
 found it best to give her a long rein. I can trust her 
 honor absolutely, but she is a creature of impulse 
 where her deeper feelings are stirred and ' she 
 stopped. She had almost said: "and you are peril- 
 ously attractive." 
 
 "I told you I had not meant to meet her," Mr. 
 Chandler went on. "Indeed, I was afraid at first that 
 something in me that seemed to draw out the wrong 
 side of women would draw out some hidden quality 
 in her and spoil the idea of her I had in my mind. 
 Afterward, I found that there were women, of fine 
 quality, who seemed willing to give me their friend- 
 ship, and I wanted no more. I was resolved never to 
 marry. 
 
 "When I saw Miss Farnham in Paris she did not 
 see me I recognized that she was a woman now and 
 a woman capable of deciding for herself. It came to 
 me all at once that if I laid bare my heart to her
 
 DISEASE "WITH A LATIN NAME" 347 
 
 after I had gained her confidence by quiet acquaint- 
 ance she might be one of the women who can for- 
 give without loss of self-respect and purity. The 
 temptation was so great that I made all my plans; 
 especially as chance had favored me by introducing 
 me to her aunt and cousins. It was the cousin's 
 likeness to her that made me seek the introduction 
 in the first place, feeling sure there must be a blood 
 tie. It didn't take long to discover that there was 
 no other kind. The soul that looks out of Miss Gill's 
 windows is of a very different sort." 
 
 At that moment they were favored by a good 
 chance for comparison, for the two girls emerged 
 from the companionway together, Estelle smiling 
 sweetly and falsely under the raised veil. She had 
 kept her family at the luncheon table as long as 
 possible, in the hope of Mr. Chandler's appearing, 
 little dreaming that by so doing she was playing 
 straight into his hand. Mary's expression was of 
 unmistakably pleased surprise when she saw the two 
 together, evidently in interested conversation; not 
 so Estelle 's, although she made a very good attempt 
 at a pleasant smile, and there were solid reasons why 
 her soft pink color did not change. 
 
 "Mary, dear, Mr. Chandler has been keeping me 
 company and entertaining me so well that I hope 
 he will be willing to tell me more soon. We old maids 
 never get too far along to enjoy attention from inter- 
 esting men." 
 
 Mary was too much astonished even to be pleased. 
 She turned to Mr. Chandler with unconscious inquiry 
 in her face, but he only smiled. His heightened color
 
 348 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 might easily have come from gratification at the 
 
 compliment paid him. 
 
 ******* 
 
 One calm, blue day followed another, till there 
 were but two left of that memorable voyage. 
 
 Miss Newlin had graced the deck from morning till 
 night, though the "nubia" had at last to be discarded 
 because of the extreme mildness of the weather. For 
 more than selfish reasons she blessed the quiet sea. 
 On deck she could take the helm of affairs and disarm 
 offensive criticism of Mary by her apparent sanction 
 of the acquaintance with Mr. Chandler, who was far 
 too politic to follow the bent of his inclinations, and 
 to all outward appearance divided his attentions 
 equally between the two girls and between the mother 
 and chaperon. Miss Newlin's anxiety was bad for 
 that disease "with a Latin name," and she was forced 
 to have frequent recourse to heart stimulants, though 
 there were no more exciting confidences. She had 
 told Mr. Chandler that even if she wished it, she had 
 no power to forbid Mary's listening to him. "But 
 her guardian has; you must go to him," she added, 
 with a fresh twinge of the ever-present pain that the 
 thought of such a contingency brought her. Mary's 
 confession had been balm to her troubled spirit, but 
 the doubt would rise when she saw Mr. Chandler 
 with her, whether loyalty to John might not be 
 weakened in spite of herself. "If I were a girl and he 
 looked at me as he does at her, I wonder whether I 
 could make a sane choice," she said to herself, com- 
 paring the handsome, clean-cut features before her 
 with John's large rough-hewn ones. "If he were only
 
 DISEASE "WITH A LATIN NAME" 349 
 
 here, his influence would be strong enough, I feel sure 
 
 but ." Why had fate decreed that the love of so 
 
 many men should be showered upon one innocent 
 woman, who could satisfy but one? She recalled 
 Edward Logan's parting last year and Jack Wurts' 
 long journey to try his fate a second time. 
 
 "I seem to see Mr. Brown's impatience as we get 
 slowly nearer, Mary. Only two more days now." 
 She watched Mary's face covertly and was reassured 
 to see it quiver and flush, but "perilously attractive" 
 had not been too strong a word for John's present rival. 
 
 "I believe I love him myself," was Miss Newlin's 
 grudging admission, "and it hurts me to think of the 
 pain that must come to one or the other." 
 
 "Only one day now," she said next morning; "but 
 I do wish this storm could have waited. I'm afraid 
 the bromide isn't going to have enough effect." 
 
 A night of thunder-storms had again made a very 
 rough sea, and Miss Newlin's fears were not ground- 
 less. An hour later, a fit of nausea was followed by 
 an attack of pain that frightened Mary and the faith- 
 ful Rachel beyond power of concealment. 
 
 "I am easier now," Miss Newlin said, trying to 
 smile as she looked with dull eyes into Mary's tear- 
 filled ones. "My dear little girl, your life has been 
 very full of anxiety. It is the penalty of loving." 
 She closed her eyes. "It will soon be over now and 
 port will be more welcome than ever before." 
 
 A few minutes later there was a quick sobbing 
 breath, a short, violent struggle, as with a throttling 
 enemy, and she had entered "the haven where we 
 all would be."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 "PERILOUSLY ATTRACTIVE" 
 
 WHEN in the years to come the waking 
 nightmare of that home-coming should 
 recur to Mary's mind, its every incident 
 must stand in the light of one all-pervading personal- 
 ity. It was Mr. Chandler who arranged everything, 
 who reassured her when no waiting figure was to be 
 seen towering above the crowd as they drew up to 
 the dock and who went at once in search of news. 
 Finding the Brown's and Raymond's houses closed, 
 and no George at the Art Club, he himself accompanied 
 the mortal remains of Miss Newlin to her brother's 
 home in Delaware, and the mute plea of his expressive 
 eyes induced Mary to accept her aunt's invitation 
 to go with them to the Aldine Hotel instead of going 
 at once to Catharine. She told herself with rare 
 want of candor that her willingness to fall in with this 
 plan was owing to the greater accessibility of the city 
 in her effort to get word of John, and the reason was 
 plausible enough to hoodwink even so straightforward 
 a conscience as hers. 
 
 Fate had been too strong for Mr. Chandler and he 
 had abandoned all pretense of neutrality in his hom- 
 age; but he knew, and he managed to let Mary know, 
 that it would not do for him to go out to Fernwood 
 
 (350)
 
 "PERILOUSLY ATTRACTIVE" 351 
 
 as he might to a hotel. He was willing for the present 
 to let his attentions seem (to Mary herself) no more 
 than were justified by the urgency of her need. Yet, 
 with all her grief for Miss Newlin and anxiety about 
 John, she could not misunderstand. She was accept- 
 ing a great deal from a stranger, but he had become in 
 that short time almost an intimate friend, and to warn 
 him off when he had given her no "absolute proof" 
 of more than friendly feeling would have been, she 
 argued, both ungrateful and ridiculous. 
 
 Her heavy heart grew heavier with each hour and 
 she dimly knew that in part of that dull pain neither 
 John nor Miss Newlin had any share. In the quiet 
 of her own room she took out the worn, blue leather 
 case, her constant companion, and gazed through 
 blinding tears into the beloved face. She had told 
 Miss Newlin the simple truth. Her heart was so 
 full of this one deep feeling, there could be, she felt 
 sure, no chance for another to come between. Yet 
 she pressed her face against John's pictured one, 
 as though this firm anchor of actual contact could 
 keep her from drifting out on some unknown sea. 
 
 Mrs. Gill, like a true mother, was so sure of her own 
 daughter's greater beauty and sprightliness and style 
 that she did not even look on pale, dispirited Mary 
 as a dangerous rival, except for the knowledge that 
 there is attraction to a strong man in a woman's 
 dependence upon him. Mary was calm enough and 
 executive enough in all her trouble to have set on foot 
 all the necessary agencies with regard to Miss Newlin 
 and to finding John; but it was pleasant to lean on a 
 congenial strength. Miss Gill had much clearer
 
 352 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 vision than her mother and recognized the true state 
 of the case with a concentrated jealousy capable of 
 all that Mary had ever accredited her with and more 
 than Mary's pure mind was able to conceive of. 
 
 One consideration the fact that it might be com- 
 promising to her to be seen in such relations to a man 
 whose past record was well-known in his own city 
 Mary put from her with a scorn as noble as it was 
 imprudent. Her attitude was the very opposite of 
 Mrs. Gill's tolerance, which rested entirely on the 
 gentleman's social standing his birthright, and his 
 evidently easy circumstances. She had already found 
 out that he was rich. 
 
 Before that first nightfall on land, Mr. Chandler, 
 following Mary's suggestions, had succeeded in learn- 
 ing from a neighboring grocer that Mr. Brown had 
 gone away more than a week ago somewhere in the 
 far west, he thought and that the servants had only 
 closed the house a few days before. 
 
 Mary sent a telegram to Hannah Patterson at 
 Lebanon on the chance of finding her there, and 
 another to George Raymond, whose whereabouts 
 was quickly discovered to be in the Pocono Moun- 
 tains only a few hours away. There was no reply 
 that night. "There would probably be some delay, 
 as local offices were apt to close early in out-of-the-way 
 places." 
 
 Toward noon next day, came a message from her 
 old friend Hannah, so confused through excess of 
 feeling as to be almost unintelligible, but holding one 
 clear fact: John had gone to British Columbia on 
 business. Still no word from George, but as she came
 
 "PERILOUSLY ATTRACTIVE" 353 
 
 out of the Aldine restaurant with her aunt, after a 
 vain attempt to eat her lunch, a hurrying bell-boy 
 approached her and handed her a card. One glance 
 at it sent the color surging over her white face. 
 "Where is the gentleman?" she said quietly. A 
 minute later she was standing with both her hands in 
 George Raymond's strong clasp, while his eager eyes 
 took in all the changes of the eighteen months since 
 he had seen her, and especially the sad changes of 
 these last days. 
 
 His questions must be answered first, and in the 
 process, her aunt's name came out and Mr. Chandler's. 
 She saw the pained surprise on his face at hearing 
 of her present connection with the Gills, of whose 
 existence he had heard from John, and the startled 
 gravity with which he received the first mention of 
 Mr. Chandler's name. 
 
 Then came his turn, and he explained the nature 
 of the business that had taken John to that remote, 
 uninhabited woodland district, and the extra pre- 
 cautions he had taken to have all letters or telegrams 
 forwarded. "He has probably found much greater 
 difficulties than he thought," George said seriously. 
 "Your cablegram telling of your sudden start home 
 must have reached here a day or two after he left 
 and has somehow missed him. Of course, he was not 
 expecting a cable, but he would be sure to inquire 
 for mail at each stop. He was going abroad as soon 
 as all this necessary business of his mother's estate 
 was settled, and went west at once on that account. 
 You know Mrs. Brown's father was a Canadian and 
 he owned land in two or three places that he took for 
 
 23
 
 354 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 speculation. He came to Philadelphia to study 
 medicine and fell in love and settled here. Mrs. 
 Brown's will left all that real estate, or the proceeds 
 of it, to Episcopal Missions, and it means a great deal 
 of work for John. There is some of it north of Mon- 
 treal or Quebec. I sent a telegram this morning to 
 New Westminster, the nearest telegraph station, 
 telling of Miss Newlin's death and your home-coming, 
 and that I was on my way to you." He wrote down 
 the address and gave it to her. 
 
 "I don't know just how far from the town he may 
 be, but I imagine some distance, and where he is there 
 are no roads. Mail would have to be taken by woods- 
 men on foot." 
 
 Mary explained that her aunt had seemed pleased 
 to have her with them, but that she meant to go to 
 Catharine the following week, when the Gills would 
 probably start for their home near Cleveland. She 
 spoke of Mr. Chandler's kindness, not without a cer- 
 tain self-consciousness, both by reason of her own 
 present relation to him and because of that connection 
 with Miss Hutchinson, and the memory of George's 
 face at the cricket match years ago, when he had seen 
 them together. 
 
 "I should be glad to go down with you," George 
 said warmly, when she told him the day and hour of 
 Miss Newlin's funeral. He saw her hesitate and color, 
 then she said simply, "Mr. Chandler has planned to 
 go with me." 
 
 "But I may go too, mayn't I?" 
 
 She saw a quiet purpose in his face, and understood. 
 She was not offended, for she knew George's natural
 
 "PERILOUSLY ATTRACTIVE" 355 
 
 modesty and that his hardihood now was for John's 
 sake, but it stirred up that persistent pain. The 
 cross-roads that she dreaded were coming near. 
 George's manner was perfect toward the man whom 
 he yet deliberately relegated to a position of super- 
 numerary, on that sad journey. His jaws were 
 squarely set as he watched Mary's treatment of this 
 new acquaintance. 
 
 "I believe no woman is able to resist him," he said 
 bitterly to himself, thinking of John and his patient 
 waiting, and of his own failure where he had seen Mr. 
 Chandler steadily gaining ground. 
 
 The following day he came to Mary with a very 
 bright face and a yellow envelope in his hand: 
 
 "Starting home at once; I know you will do all you can for 
 Mary. My love and sympathy to her." 
 
 A very ordinary little message, but enough for Mary. 
 Yet she had not seen John closeted half the night in 
 a logging cabin with two strange specimens of human- 
 ity, who regarded him as coming down with a fever. 
 That it seemed only to sharpen his wits made them 
 none the less anxious, and it was with genuine solici- 
 tude that they saw him start before daylight on the 
 long return tramp, with the guide who had brought 
 in the message. Only two things, they argued, could 
 excite a man like that (yet he was "damned cool- 
 headed, too"). It wasn't likely that he had done 
 murder and the law was on his tracks; he didn't 
 seem just like that; yet that might cause the red and 
 white trembling fit that had come on him when he got 
 that telegram ! The other alternative seemed almost
 
 356 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 equally improbable. They had seen men take on so 
 when another fellow had gone off with their girl, 
 but this one was too old and settled. Why, he might 
 be forty ! And forty in their social code was the begin- 
 ning of old age, and should be dead to passion. 
 
 "John won't lose any time," George said emphatic- 
 ally, "but the soonest he can possibly get here will be 
 a week. This message is sent from a place that isn't 
 in the Art Club gazetteer, but he would come by the 
 Canadian Pacific, I should think; unless he could 
 get a faster train by going to Seattle." 
 
 George had been presented to the Gill family and 
 had been agreeably surprised, especially with the 
 mother. It was ungrateful of him to feel cool toward 
 Estelle, for her handsome eyes had conveyed unmis- 
 takable messages of encouragement and she had hoped 
 to arouse Mr. Chandler's jealousy by flirting with this 
 "awfully" good-looking man. Mr. Chandler's defec- 
 tion rankled in the inmost depths of all the heart she 
 had, and "hell has no fury like a woman scorned." 
 It was no mere blow to her self-love and vanity. 
 The passionate pain that filled her with gall and fire 
 was the most intense emotion her cold nature had ever 
 known. 
 
 The weather, which had been unusually cool after 
 those heavy electric storms, was beginning to warm up 
 uncomfortably, and the city seemed a very undesir- 
 able loitering place; yet wild horses could not have 
 dragged Estelle from the spot yet. 
 
 "Couldn't we go somewhere for the day where it 
 is cool?" she had suggested at breakfast that morn- 
 ing. Mary had begged them to leave her out of the
 
 "PERILOUSLY ATTRACTIVE" 357 
 
 question. She would not move from the hotel while 
 there was a chance of an answer to George's telegram. 
 Both girls were inclined to sulk over this calmly 
 expressed decision. 
 
 "It's abominably selfish when she knows we 
 wouldn't go and leave her," was Estelle's biting com- 
 ment, delivered hardly out of earshot of Mary, who, 
 though she did not catch the muttered words, knew 
 very well what was their temper. She begged her 
 aunt to leave her at home alone; but when Mrs. Gill 
 was on the point of yielding, rather than disappoint 
 her darlings, an emphatic refusal from Estelle settled 
 the matter. That young woman had no notion of 
 leaving her rival a fair field and she had a conviction 
 that Mary's presence would be needed to insure some- 
 one else's. She sauntered into the room just as George 
 was calculating John's chances of speed, and offered 
 congratulations in a voice as hearty and sincere as 
 Bernhardt herself could have managed. 
 
 "Now, Mary, you won't mind going out of town," 
 she said sweetly. "I have been talking to the clerk, 
 and he says Valley Forge is just as pretty as it can be 
 and awfully interesting, and none of us have been 
 there. Mr. Raymond, couldn't you go out there with 
 us this afternoon? We can take our supper with us 
 and have a picnic, for it's bright moonlight to come 
 home." 
 
 George glanced at Mary's unresponsive face and 
 hesitated a moment. 
 
 "My cousin from Bryn Mawr is here calling now, 
 and I know he'd go, and I'm sure Mr. Chandler would. 
 We can send a note to the Rittenhouse Club at once."
 
 358 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 George's short-lived hesitation was over. "I 
 should be very glad to go," he said, smiling, "and it 
 is a perfectly beautiful country and full of interest. 
 You've been out there, haven't you, Mary?" 
 
 "No," Mary said, without enthusiasm. John had 
 meant to take her there some time. This picnic was 
 a very different thing, and the idea of anything 
 approaching a merry-making was almost as distaste- 
 ful to her as her cousin's share in it. 
 
 "Why don't I go to Catharine to-day?" she asked, 
 the mournful eyes gazing back into hers from the look- 
 ing-glass. "Now that Mr. Raymond is going, I 
 couldn't" she checked herself and those honest 
 eyes in the glass filled with slow tears "Because I 
 want to be with Mr. Chandler" they said bravely 
 "and Mr. Raymond knows it."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 A MODERN SIEGE AT VALLEY FORGE 
 
 MRS. GILL was suffering from a severe head- 
 ache, and before the starting hour, three 
 o'clock, was obliged to go to bed instead of 
 preparing for the excursion. Kitty declared her 
 intention of staying with her mother, for she was both 
 affectionate and unselfish (a complete tool in the hands 
 of her cleverer sister) ; but Estelle would not permit 
 it, and Kitty accompanied her and Mary downstairs 
 in a subdued frame of mind. The only gay member of 
 the trio was Estelle, who had planned a campaign 
 in which she cleverly foresaw George Raymond's 
 hearty co-operation. She had found it up-hill work 
 using George as a stimulus to Mr. Chandler's jealousy 
 of herself; she would use him as a barrier between the 
 other two, and with her sister to engage the "stupid" 
 cousin, when it came to pairing (and she would see 
 that it did come to pairing), it would be strange 
 indeed if George did not relieve her of all care of Mary. 
 The three men were in friendly conversation in the 
 big hotel lobby. George was acknowledging to him- 
 self that he would have liked Mr. Chandler very much 
 if he had not been such a "fire-brand." When he 
 saw the look on the thoroughbred face as it turned to 
 greet Mary, and the quick response in hers, he felt 
 
 (359)
 
 360 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 inclined to wish himself a knight of those romantic 
 days when a fair one might be spirited away and held 
 captive for good ends as well as evil. 
 
 "I believe I might keep him from breaking John's 
 heart first and hers after," he thought, yet without 
 vindictiveness rather with a sad wonder whether the 
 man really knew the devil's power that was in him. 
 "He doesn't mean her any harm now, that's certain. 
 He looks as though he wanted to fall down and wor- 
 ship her! If any woman ever could have power to 
 reform a man, she might!" but the thought of John 
 choked him. So absorbed was he in his somber 
 musing that he did not notice a messenger till the boy 
 stood squarely in front of him, touching his cap and 
 holding out a telegram. "You're Mr. Raymond, 
 ain't you?" 
 
 George admitted his identity with a look of one 
 suddenly waked from sleep. He opened the envelope, 
 read the few words, and a flush of annoyance or of 
 something deeper rushed over his face. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said, turning to Mary 
 instead of to Estelle. "My mother has been having 
 trouble with a tooth and Emma says she is coming 
 down to the dentist this afternoon. They arrive at 
 Broad Street at 6.11, so it will be out of the question 
 for me to go with you." Mary was heartily sorry 
 and looked it. Estelle's conventional expressions of 
 regret were but a faint show of the chagrin that 
 filled her soul. 
 
 The indecision on both faces made George hope, 
 for one anxious moment, that the whole expedition 
 would be put off till another day, since they were
 
 MODERN SIEGE AT VALLEY FORGE 361 
 
 minus a chaperon; but his unkind wish was doomed 
 to disappointment. Mary stood like some passive 
 instrument in the hands of fate, and, as usual, Estelle 
 took command of the strangely assorted party. 
 
 It would be odd if she could not play her cards 
 successfully once they were away. Anything was 
 better than the rest of the afternoon and evening in 
 the hot city ! She never gave a thought to her mother. 
 " Well, we must be off if we're going to catch the train," 
 she said, decidedly, and George saw the quick flash 
 in one pair of eyes. 
 
 Mr. Chandler had taken the precaution of tele- 
 graphing for an open coach for the party, and the jog- 
 trot drive in the late afternoon was full of interest and 
 enjoyment. He constituted himself leader and 
 managed to hold each one with the charm of his per- 
 sonality and the extent of his information. Mary 
 was bewitched into complete enjoyment, as they 
 listened to anecdotes of Washington's army and that 
 thrilling winter, while they sat in the woods over their 
 picnic supper. Tom Gill decided that his cousins 
 were lucky to pick up a man like Mr. Chandler. 
 "He's the best fellow I've met in a long while," he 
 said to Kitty sotto wee. "But he's no go for Estelle. 
 He's dead stuck on Miss Farnham." Kitty looked 
 incredulous. The idea that he was more than kind 
 to Mary in her trouble had not occurred to her, and 
 she thought of him as already Estelle's property. 
 
 Estelle, however, was wide awake; and impartial 
 as Mr. Chandler might try to make his attentions 
 to-day, she saw that every little civility to Mary was 
 charged with an electric current of restrained tender-
 
 362 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 ness and passion, and a very demon of pain and hate 
 took possession of her heart. 
 
 "Do you feel energetic enough to walk up to the 
 observatory and see the sunset view?" Mr. Chandler 
 asked of the company in general, though his eyes 
 involuntarily turned to Mary. 
 
 "Oh, dear, no, it's too hot, and we've got to walk 
 to the station," Miss Gill answered tartly, forgetting 
 her amiable role for the moment. It had been Mary's 
 suggestion to send the coach back when they stopped 
 for supper and Estelle had not dared to oppose it. 
 Her abrupt speech now made Mr. Chandler color 
 slightly. 
 
 "I am sorry we didn't keep the coach," he said 
 courteously. 
 
 " Oh, not for me," Estelle's temper was getting away 
 with her. She had a naturally good complexion, 
 and it had taken two or three years of late hours and 
 irregular habits to reduce the healthful bloom which 
 was Kitty's strongest present claim to good looks. 
 Of late her rest had been spoiled by cankering, pas- 
 sionate jealousy, and she was forced to hide the rav- 
 ages by every art in her power. "Mary looks like 
 a ghost," Mrs. Gill had remarked that morning. 
 "If it wasn't for a certain something about her she 
 would hardly be pretty any more." 
 
 "She's perfectly washed out, and her eyes are as 
 dull as fishes," was Estelle's cousinly answer. 
 
 "But Mr. Chandler doesn't seem to notice her 
 looks," she added to herself. "I believe he likes her 
 all the better with circles under her eyes and that die- 
 away air."
 
 MODERN SIEGE AT VALLEY FORGE 363 
 
 The spiteful pain was not lessened this afternoon 
 by the fact that she had been incautious enough to 
 trust to Madame Elise's recommendation of a "water- 
 proof" coloring matter for the cheeks, and that she 
 was on "pins and needles" ever since a covert trial 
 with her handkerchief had shown her her danger. 
 Then, too, she saw Mary's pale cheeks and heavy 
 eyes vanishing before the interest and pleasure that 
 were quickened in her. There was no lack of color 
 or life in her face as she shook the crumbs from her 
 napkin and sprang up. "I should like to go ever so 
 much! Come on, Kitty. It's only a little distance 
 from here." Kitty, who always followed the strongest 
 lead, was preparing to get on her feet, when a sly pull 
 at her gown and a low "cut it, Kit," from her cousin 
 changed her purpose. Estelle saw and it added fuel 
 to her fire, but she said in a quiet, unconcerned voice, 
 "you know the train goes at 7.28 and there isn't 
 another from this benighted place. You'll have to 
 hurry pretty hard to get back. I think we'll stroll 
 on down and take our^time." 
 
 "I know a shorter cut from the observatory, by the 
 road along the dam," Mr. Chandler said with equal 
 calmness, though there was a traitorous shining in 
 his eyes. "We will go back that way and join you 
 at the station." 
 
 Mary was a little frightened at the result of her 
 own impulse, but Mr. Chandler walked quietly by 
 her side, making only trite comments on scenery and 
 wood. He stopped from time to time and collected 
 a handful of tiny roadside greenery there were no 
 flowers. Mary grew more at her ease as he called her
 
 364 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 attention to the spores on a little fern, and opened a 
 seed-pod with the blade of his penknife. The subtle 
 charm of his companionship was mixed with dull pain, 
 with a sense of impending crisis. She was very silent. 
 
 When they reached the observatory, he asked if 
 she did not want a breathing space before starting 
 the climb, and she saw that he was rather pale than 
 flushed and that his whole face was changed, as with 
 a solemn purpose. She only shook her head as she 
 gathered her light skirt about her with one hand. 
 Mr. Chandler started up at once, leaving her to follow. 
 He paused at the landings, and she felt his eyes on her 
 face as he waited for her to recover her breath, but 
 it was not the steep climb that was troubling it. 
 "Why had she come?" she asked herself. "Partly 
 to spite Estelle, perhaps, but not only for that." 
 Now she wished herself away and yet . She tried 
 to talk as they came out on the uppermost platform 
 and gazed over the rich panorama of harvested fields 
 and midsummer woods, with glimpses of the winding 
 river and the white lines of road dividing the waving 
 corn. The beauty and peace of it all under the level 
 rays of the fast sinking sun made her attempt at small 
 talk fall hushed. She yielded to an irresistible power 
 and stood beside him without a word. 
 
 "I am sorry the sun is going to be too late for us." 
 It was he who finally broke the silence. 
 
 Mary started and looked at him. "How long will 
 it take us to walk to the station?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "I am not sure. I should think not more than 
 twenty minutes. He drew out his watch and uttered 
 an exclamation as he saw that the hands already
 
 MODERN SIEGE AT VALLEY FORGE 365 
 
 pointed to ten minutes past seven, but Mary said 
 composedly, "I suppose we might as well start. We 
 don't want to rush, and Estelle said the train left 
 at 7.48. It is so beautiful!" with a long-drawn sigh 
 as her eyes bade farewell to the loveliness all about 
 her. She did not see Mr. Chandler's lips open impul- 
 sively and close again and a vivid flush pass over his 
 face. He had not misunderstood the train's starting 
 time, but he yielded to a sudden strong temptation 
 and said nothing. He would get the coach again and 
 drive to Phcenixville or Paoli. There would be a 
 moon. He tried to smother the secret hope that the 
 others might not wait for them. It was a very small 
 hope, but intoxicating. He could hardly misconstrue 
 Mary's silence or studied effort at talk as they started 
 down the steep woodpath to the spring where they were 
 to join the road by the long pond or dam. It was get- 
 ting dark here and seemed darker after the dazzling 
 light on top of the tower. He went a little ahead, 
 holding back an obtrusive branch from time to time, 
 but he did not try to talk. There was a spell upon 
 them both. 
 
 Mary suddenly stumbled and fell forward and he 
 turned and caught her. Then, even in the dim light 
 he saw that her eyes were full of tears, and in a moment 
 his arms were round her and he had kissed her pas- 
 sionately on averted cheek and hair and where the 
 tantalizing tiny rings escaped to nestle against her 
 white throat. She tried to loose herself. He let her 
 go at once and she sank down in a little heap on the 
 moss and stones beside the path and buried her face 
 in her hands.
 
 366 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Forgive me," he said, panting and hoarse. "The 
 temptation was great, and I love you. I " 
 
 "And you thought I would not mind." The low, 
 shamed voice was full of unmistakable pain. 
 
 "I thought " he made no effort to help her up. 
 "I have been mad enough to hope lately that you were 
 growing to care for me too that you might be willing 
 to be my wife some day, little as I deserved such a 
 happiness. Was I altogether wrong? Don't you love 
 me at all, Mary?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" she said vehemently, "I don't love you; 
 I mustn't love you ! I love John. I have always loved 
 him. Oh " with a sudden sob "it isn't possible 
 to love two men at once?" 
 
 Mr. Chandler's set, white face relaxed, and it was 
 not strange that hope revived in him. He thought 
 he understood. 
 
 "Have you given a promise of some sort to your 
 guardian?" 
 
 "No, John has never spoken to me of such things 
 even in the semi-darkness he saw the crimson color 
 flood her face. She made an attempt to rise and he 
 gave her his hand. He felt hers tremble. 
 
 "Mr. Chandler," she said, as she stood beside him 
 in the narrow path, with downcast face and quivering 
 lips. "I have been wrong not to let you know before 
 this, that that I belonged to John; that I want to 
 belong to him but" the words were evidently very 
 hard for her "I I wanted you near me. I was 
 afraid you would go away and He forced himself 
 to take no advantage of the reluctant admission. 
 "Oh, I think I shall never marry anybody, but I see
 
 MODERN SIEGE AT VALLEY FORGE 367 
 
 now" the thrill of his passionate kisses was still in 
 her veins "it is best for you to go." 
 
 Mr. Chandler should be forgiven if he made a firm 
 resolution to stay. He opened his lips to answer her, 
 but a shrill sound broke the twilight stillness and 
 made them both start. It was the whistle of the 
 down train.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL 
 
 ** "T IT THERE is she, George?" 
 
 ^^ The words accompanied the warm, 
 strong handclasp which was to serve for 
 all other greeting. 
 
 "At Catharine's but John, you must sit down five 
 minutes. There are some things" George broke 
 off abruptly, frightened by the sudden pallor that 
 replaced the eager glow on his friend's face. How 
 could he ever prepare John for what he feared was 
 coming; for what had already come! 
 
 John searched his face with eyes that tried to pene- 
 trate his very soul. "Is something wrong?" he asked 
 in a level voice, putting one trembling hand on the 
 back of the office chair. "Is she ill?" 
 
 George took a step toward him and stopped. 
 
 "No, no, she is well; but don't look at me like 
 that! I am bungling terribly. I hope there is no 
 harm done that may not be remedied; but it is a 
 long story and you must let me begin at the beginning. 
 Sit down!" The same feeling that prompted that 
 push would have meant his arms around John's neck 
 had they been girls. For one moment John's face 
 was buried in his hands; then he raised it. " Go on," 
 he said quietly. 
 
 (368)
 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL 369 
 
 George told what he knew of Mary's meeting with 
 her aunt and Mr. Chandler. 
 
 "You remember old Marquand, don't you?" 
 
 John nodded, the pain in his face was touched with 
 amazement at the digression. 
 
 "Well, he came to see me yesterday and told me 
 what I want to tell you. He crossed on the steamer 
 with them all, and he said it was very rough for a few 
 days at starting and Mary was the only one of the 
 whole party who was not seasick, and that Mr. 
 Chandler soon singled her out and the very first 
 morning he was tete-a-tete with her for hours in a 
 retired part of the deck. Marquand has good reason 
 to know something of Chandler's history it was his 
 niece that but he said even if Mr. Chandler had 
 known him he was too absorbed to have noticed him. 
 He took it upon himself to write a warning note to 
 Miss Newlin, whom he had known long before, but 
 it had little effect. When Miss Newlin came on deck 
 she had a talk with him (Marquand), and thanked 
 him for his interest; but she told him there were 
 circumstances that made it seem best not to interfere 
 just then with the flirtation (that was what he called 
 it). He said Mary behaved with absolute propriety, 
 and so did Mr. Chandler, for that matter. 'He 
 behaved so well and got around the chaperon so 
 tactfully that I saw he was in dead earnest,' he said; 
 'and it made me sick to have him look at such a girl 
 as that. It was all I could do to keep from knocking 
 him down on the spot.' 
 
 "Then, after Miss Newlin's death, which occurred 
 suddenly only a day or so out from New York, it 
 
 24
 
 370 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 was very natural that Mr. Chandler should take 
 hold and should keep hold when you were not there 
 to meet them.'"' 
 
 Again John's face went down in his hands. Again 
 a hoarse "Go on!" was his only comment. 
 
 "Of course, Mary expected you and did all she 
 could to find out about you, but Mr. Chandler acted 
 as her helper all along the line. He went to Chester 
 with the body and was going to take Mary to the 
 funeral, but I turned up before that and I butted 
 right in and went along." 
 
 There was an inarticulate sound which George 
 interpreted as thanks. He then related how he had 
 haunted the hotel until that unfortunate tooth of 
 his mother's had interfered with his police duty. 
 He told how, knowing the train by which they must 
 come back, some intuition had prompted him to go 
 to the station with a cock-and-bull pretext, and there 
 he had met the party, minus Mary and Mr. Chandler. 
 "The cousin is rabidly jealous and the tone in which 
 she told me they had 'missed the train' was pretty 
 expressive. Of course, I don't know what did go on 
 and I wouldn't be likely to question Mary. We know 
 she is incapable of doing anything underhand, but 
 I wouldn't promise so much for Mr. Chandler, with 
 such a temptation in his way. He's not a half bad 
 fellow, and if I had him away from women I should 
 enjoy his company ever so much." A smothered 
 sound, like a groan repressed, made George's face 
 quiver. He cleared his throat. The rest was terribly 
 difficult. 
 
 "John, you must make allowance for scandal-
 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL 371 
 
 mongers, and I believe that cousin is capable of mak- 
 ing up stories and circulating them, but Mr. Marquand 
 is honest even if he is an old busybody, and he has 
 taken a real fancy to Mary and always liked you. 
 He says" George hesitated with compassionate 
 eyes on the bent head "that Chandler was seen by 
 a friend of his driving up to the station at Paoli, 
 with a beautiful girl, that evening around ten o'clock. 
 I acted spy enough to know that they were back in 
 the hotel before eleven. 
 
 "I know from Mary herself that she had a violent 
 scene with her aunt and cousin next day. She just 
 said that they insulted her in the most outrageous 
 way, and she rushed off to Catharine's. I'm sorry 
 she didn't go there first, but she was in a great deal 
 of trouble (about you even more than Miss Newlin), 
 and she wanted to be in touch with things, of course." 
 George did not feel it necessary to give his whole 
 opinion on that point, but something told him John 
 understood. 
 
 "She got to Catharine's and found the house closed 
 (she told me this herself), and the neighbor who keeps 
 the key said Catharine had gone to a cousin of her 
 husband's at Doylestown, who was about to be con- 
 fined, and whose nurse was hurt somehow. The 
 woman expected Catharine back at Fernwood by 
 evening it was six o'clock then. She told Mary she 
 would go over and cook supper for her, only her child 
 was very sick and she couldn't leave him a minute. 
 She felt sure Catharine would be back before bedtime. 
 Mary isn't timid, as you know, and she said she was 
 all right. She didn't even mind staying there alone for
 
 372 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the night; but in the evening Mr. Chandler turned up. 
 I suppose he just discovered where she was, and they 
 waited for Catharine till the last train from up the 
 road, and then she said Mr. Chandler wouldn't be 
 persuaded to leave her, but sat on the piazza all the 
 rest of the night after she went upstairs. He went 
 away early in the morning, and Catharine arrived 
 soon after." 
 
 For some minutes there was no sound in the room 
 but the hurried breathing of the two men. 
 
 "John, I didn't need to vindicate Mary in your 
 eyes. We know she could not lie in the least detail." 
 John's face was suddenly raised with a white resolve 
 in which there was absolute scorn of a doubt. 
 
 "But ' George hesitated, but the intent eyes 
 on his forbade his hiding anything. "Mr. Marquand 
 says that the whole story, with the worst possible 
 construction on it, is in a dozen mouths, and someone 
 has evidently spied on Mary's movements, and not 
 only spied but circulated a malicious report. Of 
 course, Mr. Chandler's character makes matters far 
 worse, and it seems that the whole story of Mary's 
 mother has been revived and added to it. I hate 
 to tell you all this, old man, but of course you ought 
 to know. I've been pretty blue lately on my own 
 account, but if I could have spared you this, I would 
 be willing to be unhappier than I ever have been. 
 You know that." His eyes were full of tears as he 
 held out his hand. John rose quickly, wrung it hard, 
 seized the straw hat he had flung on the table on 
 entering the room, and was gone. 
 
 It was a dull afternoon with a sultry wind that
 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL 373 
 
 brought occasional sprinkles of fine rain, too light to 
 be called showers the sort of day when you wish 
 it would rain hard and have done with it. The little 
 house looked melancholy and deserted, but, of 
 course they would not be sitting on the wet piazza. 
 Where was she? John's breathing was so hard and 
 quick he had to stop to recover himself. He would 
 take her by surprise; he would not step upon the 
 path nor porch; he would go around on the grass to 
 the kitchen. If no one were in sight, he would find 
 a sheltered corner of the little porch and wait. As 
 he stole around the house to the left, he did not try 
 to hide himself from the windows, for he felt sure they 
 would not be in the parlor at that time of day, and the 
 one kitchen window on that side showed no sign of 
 life as he came abreast of it, and emitted no sound, 
 though it was wide open. A feeling of apprehension 
 seized him. Were they lying down? It was so un- 
 like tireless Mary to be lying down. Was she much 
 changed ill, perhaps, and Catharine in charge? 
 He could not wait to know. He must call them. 
 He no longer tried to walk softly, but the thick grass 
 deadened the sound of his footsteps and unconsciously 
 furthered his first purpose. As he turned the corner 
 his heart gave a bound and stopped beating. Then 
 it went on at such a headlong pace that it made a 
 thundering in his ears and a mist before his eyes. 
 She was so close to him and so unconscious! Seated 
 in the little rocker, her face was buried on her arms 
 on the table while a dress-waist on which she had 
 evidently been sewing trailed one of its sleeves upon 
 the floor as it hung half off her lap. Only once had
 
 374 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 he ever seen this drooping, discouraged pose. The 
 memory of that evening at Beach Haven when she 
 had wished "he had not let her get so used to him" 
 came vividly to his mind, bringing a thrill of hope 
 and courage. Oh, to make her "used to him" again! 
 
 "Mary," he said softly. He expected her face to 
 brighten with sudden joy. How often he had been 
 welcomed by that radiant gladness! But he was 
 quite unprepared for the emotion he read there now. 
 She had sprung up and stood motionless, looking at 
 him as though she could not trust her senses, her face 
 white and quivering, her hands pressed to her bosom. 
 John sprang up the steps at a bound and caught her 
 in his arms, and with her face buried on his breast, 
 she sobbed with a child's abandon. Neither could 
 have spoken just then, but words were not needed. 
 
 Catharine, who came running downstairs, her 
 dress only half on and a buttonhook in one hand, 
 gave a loud, joyous exclamation as she reached the 
 kitchen door, and then covered her face and sank 
 upon the nearest chair, dropping the buttonhook 
 with a clatter and utterly forgetting her partial 
 dishabille. 
 
 "The Lord be praised!" she ejaculated at last. 
 "Now she'll be all right, poor lamb." Then, with a 
 sudden recollection of her open dress, she beat a 
 hasty retreat to the upper regions, feeling, moreover, 
 that her presence was not needed below stairs. 
 
 It was a long time before either John or Mary 
 moved or uttered a word. She tried to draw away 
 at last, but he would not let her go, and she laid her 
 head against him again and asked with downcast
 
 375 
 
 eyes and a broken voice: "Where did you come from, 
 John? Did Mr. Raymond tell you ?" 
 
 "I got back from the west at one o'clock and saw 
 George at once. I know a little of what has happened. 
 I came here to know the rest." 
 
 "Oh, I have wanted you so!" she said, the tears 
 starting afresh. 
 
 "Come in where we can sit down," John said, 
 feeling her tremble and droop as though her strength 
 failed her. He did not sit beside her when they 
 reached the little parlor, but faced her with his back 
 to the window, where he could watch the face he had 
 not seen in so long a time, his own in shadow. He 
 had not thought to find her so changed! 
 
 He told her then of his having missed the cablegram 
 with the news of their homecoming, and of his careful 
 arrangements about mail having miscarried through 
 an accident to a guide. Of his forced journeys on 
 foot and by canoe he did not speak only mentioning 
 his receipt of the bundle of letters at the same time 
 as George's telegram. Mary's story was a longer 
 one and her face made a very varied accompaniment 
 to the recital. John hardly spoke, but his whole 
 body listened, and she saw his hands clench more than 
 once. She forbore to quote her aunt and cousin in 
 full, but John understood enough. She saw him 
 shiver when she told of Mr. Chandler's following her 
 there to Fernwood. 
 
 "He has asked you to marry him, Mary?" he said 
 in a hoarse voice, utterly unlike his own. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" The inflection was significant. 
 
 ''And you?"
 
 376 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" The blood rushed to the roots 
 of her soft hair. 
 
 "Because you do not care for him?" Still that 
 strange low voice. 
 
 "I am sure I don't love him!" she said hurriedly, 
 the crimson deepening, if that were possible. "But 
 I do care a great deal about him. I cannot explain 
 it. I am almost afraid of him. I mean " inter- 
 rupting herself hastily as she saw John's hands tremble. 
 "I am almost afraid of myself. He would not touch 
 me again'' she had not omitted Mr. Chandler's 
 behavior at Valley Forge "but John waited 
 motionless except for that trembling that would 
 not be controlled "but I was not altogether angry 
 when he kissed me." The confession was made 
 with downcast eyes and quivering lips. 
 
 "Why do you think that you do not love him?" 
 
 She raised her eyes only one thrilling second, 
 but something in them went through and through 
 him. His half -formed purpose was suddenly a whole 
 one. "Because I know," she said faintly, while the 
 dark lashes swept her burning cheeks. 
 
 "Would you marry me, Mary?" 
 
 "You! Oh, no!" she said passionately, burying 
 her face in her hands. John did not move a muscle. 
 
 "I don't want to marry anyone/" her face was still 
 hidden. "I want to get away from it all and be 
 quiet." 
 
 "Understand me, dear," John went on as quietly 
 as though he were speaking of a suitable boarding 
 place for her, "I do not ask you He stopped and 
 drew a hard breath; "I only ask you to take my
 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL 377 
 
 name; to let me have the right to keep you with me. 
 You shall be just as free as you are now, and just as 
 much a child as you were at Beach Haven. You 
 shall study law and help me with my work as you 
 used to plan to do." His eyes were riveted upon her 
 downcast face, which she had uncovered, and what 
 he read there made this strangest of strange proposals 
 grow more and more assured. " You used to be happy 
 with me," he went on, but she interrupted him. 
 "Happy! Oh! But I couldn't! You don't know 
 what unkind things people are saying about me." 
 Her voice sank very low. 
 
 "Who told you so?" he asked with ominous calm- 
 ness. 
 
 "Aunt Annie wrote me that everybody was saying 
 that I had been in Mr. Chandler's company out 
 here. Oh, John! I cannot repeat all she said." 
 
 John rose suddenly and walked back and forth in 
 the little room like a caged lion, to the imminent 
 danger of the chairs and tables. 
 
 "Mary," he said, stopping abruptly in front of her. 
 "I am going to see your aunt to-day and have a little 
 talk with her. I shall tell her that you are to be 
 married next week I can get a license to-morrow 
 and that I shall soon find means to muzzle scandal- 
 mongers. I must see her this once, and then I never 
 want to set my eyes upon her again as long as I live." 
 
 "Oh, John!" Mary cried, utterly breathless and 
 scared. He sat down again and leaned toward her, 
 taking one hand and holding it tight. 
 
 "Don't be frightened; I shall behave with decent 
 self-control," he said gently, wilfully misinterpreting
 
 378 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 her. "I would wait to ask people, only everyone is 
 away. Perhaps it will be better to wait till I can 
 have announcements engraved and directed. I 
 wish Mrs. Wharton were at home and we could be 
 married from her house." (His coolness was having 
 its effect, but he saw he had need of all his powers.) 
 "If only Mrs. Logan would suggest our going there, 
 but Ellen's being away 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't be married from there!" The 
 suggestion evidently moved her deeply, but drew 
 her mind for an instant away from the main cause of 
 agitation. John understood. He waited for her to 
 regain composure, making no effort to keep the hand 
 she hastily withdrew; but composure was out of the 
 question just yet. 
 
 "Oh, John, I can't do what you ask. You don't 
 know 
 
 Again he waited. "You are quite sure you have 
 no least feeling for either Edward Logan or Philip? 
 that there is no younger man who ?" But his 
 voice no longer showed suspense. 
 
 "No indeed," raising her eyes frankly to his, 
 "nobody in the world, but (Self-control 
 
 would not come.) 
 
 "Then we will have no more 'buts,'" he answered 
 quickly, rising and moving away lest he should 
 succumb to temptation. 
 
 "She loves me better than she knows, and it is 
 the only way." Her eyes had spoken in a fashion 
 that went far to silence qualms. Those years of close 
 companionship, of full correspondence, had built a 
 foundation after all or so it seemed too strong to
 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL 379 
 
 be shaken by a sudden attraction, however strong. 
 He could wait longer. He was so used to waiting! 
 But surely there were considerations now that forbade 
 waiting, and made effectual protection for her impera- 
 tive. 
 
 "Mary." He stopped his peregrinations at the 
 other side of the room and looked toward her in a 
 shamefaced way, while he drew something from an 
 inner pocket, "I bought this ring once, because," 
 he paused, "I hoped I might give it to you some time, 
 if only as a pledge of our friendship, of our future 
 partnership." He came slowly toward her, opening 
 the little case. "You will let me put it on now?" 
 
 Mary looked down at the ring on its velvet back- 
 ground and tears rushed to her eyes. What ought 
 she to do? She was so alone but for him, and he 
 "Oh, it isn't right!" she cried brokenly, but she very 
 slowly reached her left hand toward him, and he took 
 it quickly and put it to his lips, as though he would 
 seal the contract before she had time to repent. 
 He slipped the little circlet on her finger and stood 
 looking down on it with an emotion that made words 
 impossible. The dull gray light from the window 
 sufficed to draw out the brilliance of the twin stones, 
 but Mary's eyes were too full to see, and her bosom 
 was rising and falling stormily. The firm clasp in 
 which her hand was held steadied her as it always 
 had in the old days, and quenched the tumult of doubt 
 and misgiving in a flood of warm, sweet remembrance. 
 
 "I have to go to Canada on business very soon," 
 John said in a matter-of-fact voice that belied the 
 underlying thrill. "I want you to go with me there,
 
 380 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 but afterward you are to be free to go or come just 
 as you like and do whatever you want only always 
 remember you are making me very happy." His 
 voice got beyond control for a moment, but he steadied 
 it quickly and let go her hand. 
 
 "Now we must tell Catharine," he said briskly. 
 "She is very tactful and patient." 
 
 He took down his old friend, the Bernese, as he 
 went by, and seemed to contemplate kissing her; 
 but he set her up again without a word and left her 
 to gaze on her surroundings as unmoved as though no 
 quiet revolution had just taken place in her immediate 
 neighborhood.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 MR. CHANDLER READS THE NEWSPAPER 
 
 MR. CHANDLER stood in the dining-room of 
 his sister's country house at Radnor. She 
 was away from home, but he had the freedom 
 of the premises, and since Mary was out of town, he 
 was glad to avail himself of the quiet of this retreat. 
 He had seen a curious look on the face of his fellow 
 club-members the day before, and had found a marked 
 copy of Town Topics in his morning mail, a perusal 
 of which had made his blood boil. The fact that no 
 names were mentioned served as a screen for the cow- 
 ardly attack, but he would gladly have driven the 
 editor from cover and made him swallow his words 
 if the charge had been more than a scandalous insinua- 
 tion. "And I could only do her more harm than 
 good by defending her. Even my word is of no account 
 in such a case!" "A good name is rather to be 
 chosen than great riches " the old proverb that he had 
 laboriously written and rewritten, line after line, 
 in his childish copy-book and long ago forgotten, came 
 flashing back before his eye in just the round cramped 
 hand in which it had stood on the carefully lined page. 
 Oh, to wipe out all that lay between then and now! 
 Bitterness and pain made eating impossible. 
 
 "I'm not feeling up to the mark, Hughes," he said 
 
 (381)
 
 382 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 to the solicitous butler. "I think I'll just go outside. 
 I'm better off without eating." 
 
 "Won't you take the paper, sir? I'm very sorry 
 you're not feeling yourself." Mr. Chandler was a 
 favorite with his sister's retainers and Hughes had got 
 him what he knew he liked best for breakfast, and cast 
 a mournful look now at the exquisite melon with its 
 burden of ice. 
 
 Mr. Chandler had a consciousness of being observed 
 from the library window, and turned his back to the 
 house, taking up the Press and ostensibly poring over 
 its contents. 
 
 "I will see her once again and use all the eloquence 
 I can command, but what can I say more than I have 
 said?" He knew he was not base enough to urge 
 her marrying him for conventional reasons. "Surely 
 she need never know that her good name was being 
 called in question." 
 
 He had looked a long time at that front sheet, and 
 the back of his head seemed to feel the butler's eye 
 upon it from afar. He turned the page with elaborate 
 care and glanced idly at the headlines "Patience 
 Rewarded " What did that matter to him? Suddenly 
 the words of that short article were burned into 
 his consciousness before he could even say that he 
 had read them. 
 
 We are interested to hear of the approaching marriage of 
 Philadelphia's rising lawyer, Mr. John Brown, who came prom- 
 inently before the public eye last winter through his successful 
 
 handling of the R case. Mr. Brown is about to crown his 
 
 success in another department of life, and his many warm friends 
 rejoice with him in the fulfilment of a long cherished hope. For
 
 MR. CHANDLER READS NEWSPAPER 383 
 
 it seems that there is a romantic story attached to the coming 
 event. 
 
 He has been for several years the guardian of his future 
 wife, who is only nineteen, and is the daughter of his oldest 
 and best friend, the late Richard Farnham, of the Quaker branch 
 of that well-known family. She has spent the years since her 
 father's death under the educational wing of Miss Harriet E. 
 Newlin, the distinguished principal of Beechfield School, who 
 died recently on the return voyage from Europe with her ward 
 and pupil. This sudden bereavement has served to hasten the 
 nuptials for which Mr. Brown, we are told, has been patiently 
 waiting. 
 
 Owing to the sad circumstances surrounding the pair for 
 Mr. Brown's mother, the widow of the late Joseph Brown, is 
 also recently deceased the wedding will be a very quiet one, 
 only intimate friends of the contracting parties being present. 
 The ceremony is to be performed on August 8th, at the Church 
 of the Holy Trinity, by the Rev. Dr. McVickar, rector of the 
 
 parish, who is coming back from , where he is passing 
 
 his vacation time, to officiate at this important crisis in the life 
 of one of his most valued parishioners. 
 
 If the eyes that Mr. Chandler suspected behind 
 him were really there, they only saw the paper slowly 
 lowered and a shapely brown hand reach for the Pan- 
 ama hat on the chair beside him and draw it low 
 over his eyes. 
 
 "A good nap will do 'im more good than medicine, 
 I dare say," the reassured butler remarked to himself 
 two hours later. " 'E 'asn't stirred since ten o'clock."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 A QUEST FOR A COUNTRY HOME 
 
 JOHN had never belonged to that wing of the 
 Church which holds that the human soul would 
 be unable to enter the highest heaven all at one 
 burst, but must pass through if not a real purgatory 
 at least an "intermediate place " a sort of prepara- 
 tory Paradise. He gave little time to speculation 
 of that kind, trusting his future life to God as one 
 trusts the itinerary of a voyage to a tried Friend, not 
 without interest, but without concern. 
 
 As regards the present, he did feel in those first 
 wonderful weeks of his "amazing marriage" that his 
 heart would have been unable to bear a more complete 
 happiness all at once after its long abstention. The 
 future was his, he believed ; he was amply content with 
 the existing state of things. All the chivalry of his 
 nature was enlisted, and he knew that he had barely 
 saved Mary from a peril, and must use his advantage 
 now with the greatest delicacy. That he had saved 
 her heart-whole, or nearly so, he did not doubt, even 
 after her frank confession ; and if her eyes were often 
 less ready to meet his than they used to be, there was 
 no fault to be found with them when they did. 
 
 Perfect married love must hold, in just proportion, 
 the elements of all other love. The true husband must 
 
 (384)
 
 A QUEST FOR A COUNTRY HOME 385 
 
 combine something of father and mother, brother, 
 sister, friend and lover. But are there many true 
 husbands, if that be the standard? I think there are; 
 at least, there are many who conform to it in some 
 particulars or in some degree. If "nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine" fall short in kind or quantity, I hope by 
 this time I have convinced my readers that in John 
 Brown we are dealing with "the thousandth mm"; 
 otherwise I have been but a poor chronicler. Yet even 
 Mary, who would have classed him rather as the 
 "millionth," and would then have denied the possi- 
 bility of ever finding eighty-nine others in the United 
 States (and indeed, in those days there were fewer to 
 select from!), began to doubt whether the paternal 
 and fraternal elements in him were not developed 
 at the expense of the passions, and to wonder whether 
 it would have been possible to "someone else" to 
 subsist so contentedly on a purely Platonic diet. 
 She put the thought from her over and over again 
 and declined to recognize the intruder as hers; but 
 have you ever tried to get rid of an importunate 
 thought? Just when the first doubt came to trouble 
 John's unselfish peace it would be hard to say. Not 
 during those weeks in Canadian town and country, 
 where they walked together, rowed together, visited 
 the sights of the great cities, explored the wonders of 
 the great rivers, and made friends with Indians and 
 French. They suited each other completely, as they 
 always had. John recognized that Mary was much 
 changed, and he would have been surprised not to 
 find her sobered by her recent experiences. He 
 knew she must mourn Miss Newlin, who had been so 
 
 25
 
 386 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 true and loving a friend, companion and guide. It 
 was but natural that her eyes should sometimes fill 
 and that her face should have that pensive, far-off 
 look when her voyage home was recalled. It was nat- 
 ural that the news of Mr. Chandler's leaving "for 
 big game hunting in India" should move her strongly. 
 There must be something good in the man, when even 
 George could not speak of him without feeling some- 
 thing apart from his physical and mental attractions. 
 John trusted Mary implicitly, but he could not help 
 a secret satisfaction that India was a long way off. 
 
 The city seemed stuffy and dirty after their free life 
 in the open, and the house dark and confining. They 
 were glad to get out to the last of the cricket matches, 
 which occurred the day after they got home; but for 
 the first time Mary was conscious not only of many 
 eyes upon her, but of more curiosity than friendliness 
 in some. Estelle Gill had done her work thoroughly 
 before she left the city. Instinctively Mary drew 
 a little nearer to her big protector, and the wonder 
 came over her what her position would have been now 
 without him. To be sure, she had some very loyal 
 friends., Had not every member of the Logan family 
 come from far and near to her wedding, from Mr. 
 Logan himself, who rarely moved from home, down 
 to ecstatic Priscilla, who felt that those birthday 
 rings had been the "real thing," and that she might 
 confidently look forward to the day when she too 
 should stand at the altar in a white dress with a trail 
 and a beautiful, filmy veil on her head. But she 
 decided that she would be married at a time of year 
 when satin or heavy silk would not be too warm.
 
 "Of course, Mary would look beautiful in anything," 
 but batiste, however daintily made and trimmed, 
 was too simple for the taste of the youngest Miss 
 Logan. 
 
 Mary's mind was full of the memory as she watched 
 the game with absent eyes. She recalled what she 
 had felt when Edward came up to her and grasped 
 her hand after that solemn ceremony. "Mary," he 
 had said, with a brave smile, "he deserves even you, 
 and there is no one else who ever could." 
 
 Did John notice the sensation they were making, 
 Mary wondered now? If he did, it seemed to trouble 
 him not at all. He noticed her involuntary movement 
 and looked down at her for a moment in a way to 
 make her heart beat faster, and convince all whom it 
 might concern that he was not ashamed of his bargain. 
 
 The trees had only just begun to show signs of 
 autumn, though October was already come. The air 
 was as mild as summer. As they waited for their 
 train, on the crowded platform, John suddenly looked 
 down at her with a very crooked smile. "Mary, how 
 would you like to live in the country?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh!" was all the answer he got, but her face spoke 
 for her. 
 
 "It would have to be for all the year, I think, unless 
 we come in to a hotel for a few months to give you 
 some dissipation. Wouldn't that frighten you?" 
 
 "The hotel might, but never the country," she 
 declared enthusiastically; and then they were inter- 
 rupted by an acquaintance. Next day John suggested 
 their going on quests of houses or building sites while 
 the fine autumn weather lasted, and it was the first
 
 388 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 of several excursions to the north and west of the city, 
 George sometimes being asked to join them. 
 
 "It is lucky for my business that this is a rainy 
 day," John said at lunch a couple of weeks later. 
 "I've got to shirking so I shall soon be snowed under." 
 He sighed at the thought of the autumn woods and 
 of Mary in the house alone. 
 
 " I had a note from Ellen this morning, asking if she 
 might bring Miss Hutchinson to call on me some 
 afternoon of course, she knew she might and when 
 it would suit me. So I sent John Patterson around 
 there at once to suggest their coming this afternoon, 
 because I knew we couldn't go land-hunting in this 
 weather. Ellen sent back word that she was free and 
 she was almost sure Miss Hutchinson was, so I suppose 
 they will come. I do wish you were going to be at 
 home, for I should like you to see her too; but it is 
 too good a chance for you to get on with your work. 
 When am I going to begin to help you?" She colored 
 brightly as she smiled up at him. 
 
 It must be confessed that John's dyke needed extra 
 vigilance these days, and the hope was growing fast 
 that he might soon lay it flat once, for all. His head 
 reeled at the thought when it came, and he dared not 
 look at her smiling lips; still less at her sad ones. 
 She was a tremendous tax on his self-control when he 
 found her dreaming over the fire that afternoon as 
 he came in from the raw darkness of the street. 
 
 "Oh, John!" It was the old, impulsive exclamation 
 that he loved, and her face was very bright as she 
 sprang up to meet him; but he saw that there had 
 been tears in her eyes the moment before the glim-
 
 A QUEST FOR A COUNTRY HOME 389 
 
 mer of them was still there. It was perfectly natural 
 that he should find that glimmer there oftener since 
 they got home. There were so many things to remind 
 her of Miss Newlin! 
 
 "Miss Hutchinson is charming, and what do you 
 think she said! When she heard about our country 
 plans and what a hard time we had had finding a 
 place that suited us and wasn't too expensive, she 
 asked if we would care for her part of the country, 
 and said she would gladly sell us some of her own 
 property fifteen or even twenty acres, if we wanted 
 so much for five hundred dollars an acre. Just 
 imagine! That is such an expensive section! But 
 money is nothing to her, I suppose, and she says her 
 place is so big she feels lonely, only she has been afraid 
 of neighbors not being congenial." 
 
 "How does she know that she would find us con- 
 genial? You must have made a rapid and complete 
 conquest." He spoke lightly, but a flush rose to his 
 forehead, and there was sudden fire in his eyes. 
 
 "She has heard a great deal about you," Mary 
 went on rather hurriedly and looking away from him. 
 "She seemed really eager to have you decide to take 
 the land. It is the site of a farm-house that was 
 burned down long ago, and there are lovely trees and 
 woods and a creek. Couldn't we go and see it to-mor- 
 row? I am sure from the way Ellen made eyes at 
 me behind Miss Hutchinson's back that she meant 
 that it was Mr. Raymond who had talked so much 
 about you. Do you suppose ?" 
 
 "Well, what, for instance?" 
 
 "You know." She was not looking at him ; was it
 
 390 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 only the firelight that made her cheeks so bright? 
 He took a quick step forward, but something arrested 
 him. 
 
 "Ellen said the , other day that 'Cousin Mary' 
 thought 'Caroline' missed Mr. Raymond more than 
 she knew herself. Perhaps part of her reason for 
 wanting us for neighbors is that of course, she must 
 know he would build our house for us, and 
 
 Why did John's good angel desert him? That 
 sudden strong impulse to take her in his arms gave 
 place to a timidity that made his manner unnatural 
 and constrained. 
 
 The visit was paid next day, and Miss Hutchinson's 
 cordial simplicity and sincerity won John almost as 
 easily as the beautiful land in its brilliant October 
 setting. The bargain was quickly made and the 
 papers were in course of preparation when the news 
 was broken to George. Mary's gossip had roused 
 John's curiosity and sympathy, but he was unprepared 
 for George's emotion. 
 
 "John," he said in a very unsteady voice after a 
 long, embarrassed pause, "I am going to ask you to 
 get somebody else to build that house for you." 
 
 John went over to him and put one hand on his 
 shoulder. "I can't let you off so easily," he said 
 lightly; then seeing the sensitive, pained flush on 
 George's face, he pressed the shoulder firmly, and said 
 with teasing emphasis on each word, " George, nobody 
 has confided in me, but I feel sure that our landlady 
 knew the name of our prospective architect when she 
 offered us the land."
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "No BIGGER THAN A MAN'S HAND" 
 
 THE plans for the new house went happily 
 forward, but the business partnership met with 
 a check in the very beginning. Mary found 
 herself an object of such interest that she knew she 
 interfered with John's work and stopped the mouths 
 of clients. He had bought an office desk for her and 
 fitted it completely, and her pleasure in it and interest 
 in the cases which were carefully explained to her were 
 reflected in his face. 
 
 Her quick, indignant sympathy with the wronged,and 
 impatience of the slowness of the law, her intelligent 
 grasp of rights and wrongs, and ardent longing to help 
 straighten things out, were altogether in keeping 
 with the Mary of three years ago and quite different 
 from the pensive, half-shy reserve John often encoun- 
 tered at home. Several times there he had seen tears 
 in her eyes when she thought herself unobserved, and 
 more than once she had opened her lips as though to 
 tell him something and had evidently checked the 
 impulse. One morning two clients eyed her with 
 such impertinent amusement that she promptly 
 retired, as indeed she generally did, foreseeing con- 
 fidences not intended for her ears. As they passed 
 out, they did not see her in the cloak closet where she 
 
 (391)
 
 392 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 had gone in search of something, and she heard ons 
 say with good-humored sarcasm, "If you want to 
 find an uxorious fool, look for a middle-aged man with 
 a pretty young wife. She's a beauty, all right; but 
 imagine him bringing her down here to his office to 
 show off." Both passed on laughing and Mary stood 
 rooted to the floor, one hand in the pocket she was 
 rifling; her face an indignant flame. 
 
 What did "uxorious" mean, anyhow? Her Latin 
 came to her aid, but she quietly verified her surmises 
 by a glance at the dictionary when she went back to 
 the office. 
 
 "John," she said a moment later, "I'm not coming 
 down here any more at least not when you are 
 receiving people. I will help you all I can at home." 
 John saw she had made up her mind and saw also that 
 she was averse to giving her reasons. He had been 
 conscious more than once of the sensation she was 
 causing, and felt that their simple, natural plan of 
 co-operation was not going to work well. He sighed, 
 but made no attempt to dissuade her, and she did 
 not come again. How much he missed that frank 
 work together no one knew, and he had a sense of 
 some barrier growing between them, none the less 
 real because it was intangible. Had he shown his 
 feeling for her too plainly, and was it fear of his over- 
 stepping the boundaries tacitly agreed upon between 
 them that made her often shy of him? He held him- 
 self more carefully in check, remembering how 
 completely she had put herself in his power. 
 
 Mary had opposed his wish to have a reception for 
 her and formally introduce her to his mother's circle.
 
 "NO BIGGER THAN A MAN'S HAND" 393 
 
 He told her of Mrs. Brown's plan, and saw that she 
 was touched and gratified, but she would not hear of 
 any large entertainment in the house so soon after 
 its mistress' leaving it, and he acquiesced for the time 
 being. Perhaps he might wait and make it a house- 
 warming for the new home. It was one day soon after 
 the dissolution of the business partnership that they 
 met Mrs. Townsend, Mr. Chandler's sister, at the 
 house of an old friend, where they were making an 
 afternoon call. Mary talked to her with perfect 
 dignity and self-possession, and John saw with what 
 a melancholy interest Mrs. Townsend's eyes dwelt 
 on the beautiful, earnest face when she thought her 
 observation unnoticed. 
 
 It was dark when they started to walk home in the 
 early evening, but as they passed a street lamp he 
 saw that Mary was struggling for composure and that 
 her eyes were full of tears. A dull, cold something 
 passed through his heart, but with it a resolve to face 
 the enemy in the open if there were one, and know his 
 strength and quality. 
 
 "What is it, Mary?" He put his hand on her 
 shoulder. "I think I could understand if you will 
 tell me." The touch and words unnerved her and for 
 a moment he thought she would utterly break down. 
 She drew one hand from her muff and slipped it 
 through his arm, while she pressed close to him. 
 
 "It's nothing, really," she said brokenly. "I 
 don't know what made me cry " trying hard to stop 
 the fast falling tears. "I must be nervous, I think." 
 
 John said no more. He knew she was not con- 
 sciously prevaricating, but the pain in his throat was
 
 394 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 harder. For days and even weeks after he saw an 
 appeal in her eyes. He felt there was always that 
 checked impulse to tell him something. He dared not 
 try to help her. Each time the impression was but 
 momentary, and then she would be like herself, and 
 some unconquerable cowardice a sensitive fear, as of 
 the rough probing of a wound, held him back. 
 
 A large check had come to him from the little ladies 
 whose fortunes he had made by helping them hold what 
 had proved valuable coal lands; and with it a note 
 asking him to buy something he most wanted, and not 
 to put the money at interest. John had acted 
 pomptly and lavishly, and the week before Christmas 
 slipped into the office safe a long, blue velvet case 
 that enclosed a string of lustrous pearls. "It is an 
 outrageous price to pay for an ornament," he said to 
 himself as he closed the heavy door and rose with a 
 shamefaced smile; "but she need not know that." 
 
 He pictured her pleasure as he walked home in the 
 frosty dusk. Would she perhaps offer to kiss him? 
 He colored hotly at the thought. Surely he was not 
 mean enough to want to buy her kisses! That sense 
 of foreboding was always on him, chilling the warmth 
 in his heart. She was to go to a little parish meeting 
 that afternoon to prepare for the Sunday-school 
 Christmas. She had taken an interest in the parish 
 work already, while frankly confessing to the rector 
 her scruples about joining the church. "If she had 
 not come back before this he would go for her," he 
 thought as he put his latch-key in the door. No sign 
 of her. John Patterson was just lighting the gas in 
 the hall. "
 
 "NO BIGGER THAN A MAN'S HAND" 395 
 
 " Mrs. Brown came in a while ago, but she said she 
 was going round to the news-stand for a paper. 
 She wouldn't let me go for her. She'll be back in a 
 minute, I guess." 
 
 John hesitated and then lingeringly took off his 
 coat and hung it on the rack. John Patterson looked 
 at his master's thoughtful face as he turned and slowly 
 mounted the stairs. At the top, John paused and 
 listened. What was that? A sound like a smothered 
 sob. It came from the little glass-partitioned hall- 
 room which had been his mother's favorite sitting- 
 room, but which was rarely used now. John's door 
 to it was never opened. The glass door was closed 
 and the curtains drawn, but as their top was barely 
 six feet from the floor, they made no barrier to his 
 sight. He did not try to soften his footfalls nor to 
 peep over. He meant to knock, but even as his hand 
 was put out for that purpose he stopped dumb- 
 struck by the sight that met his eyes across the silken 
 screen. 
 
 Mary had not heard his step. She was on the floor, 
 her hat and jacket still on, her arms on his mother's 
 old chair and her face buried in them. In the dim light 
 he saw the lithe body shaken with the sobs she strove 
 to control. A newspaper lay where she had dropped 
 it. His hand was on the knob his impulse to kneel 
 beside her and take her in his arms; to beg for her 
 whole confidence, however it might hurt. It could 
 not hurt him more to know all the truth he had tried 
 hard not to suspect. But something stayed him. 
 Why should he force her confidence? He felt he had 
 not strength just then to bear the truth. He drew
 
 396 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 back and went noiselessly down the stairs. If her 
 trouble were something she cared to explain she would 
 come to him. Perhaps in a few minutes she would 
 bring the paper down and tell him all? As he sat 
 waiting, he overcame the shrinking that had unmanned 
 him, and his heart was wrung more at the memory 
 of that lonely, childish figure than at the sense of 
 his own loneliness. 
 
 More than an hour passed before he heard her step 
 in the hall above and then on the stairs. He rose and 
 came toward her. She was paler than usual, but 
 quite composed, as she smiled and held out her hand. 
 There was no paper in it. But the hand was cold 
 and the eyes held a dumb appeal that cut him to the 
 quick. 
 
 She commenced at once to speak of the Christmas 
 preparations and was too full of her own self-con- 
 sciousness to notice John's constraint. 
 
 "Why, you aren't eating your dinner at all, John," 
 she said when they had been seated for some time 
 opposite each other, under the old-fashioned chandelier 
 that was an unbecoming light at best. "I thought 
 you were fond of chicken pie. Aren't you feeling well, 
 you look so pale?" 
 
 John smiled a disclaimer and fell to eating at once. 
 "You are in a conspiracy with Bridget to make me 
 fat," he said easily. 
 
 "We haven't succeeded very well." Mary looked 
 at him with eyes so full of unfeigned, wistful love 
 that the lump in his throat threatened to make further 
 inroad on the pie impossible. 
 
 He was down before her in the morning, and as his
 
 "NO BIGGER THAN A MAN'S HAND" 397 
 
 eye fell on the paper he saw at once an article that had 
 not been in his Bulletin of the evening before. It 
 was a message from a Bengal correspondent, copied 
 from the London Times. 
 
 Mr. David Chandler, an American sportsman, who arrived 
 here last month for the hunting, has barely escaped with his 
 life from the onslaught of a furious tiger. He was hunting in 
 
 company with Lord B and Mr. Miles Brandon and the 
 
 calamity is said to have been due to his own reckless disregard 
 of the proper precautions. The presence of mind and unerring 
 marksmanship of Mr. Brandon alone saved Mr. Chandler from 
 being torn to pieces. As it was, he was so badly mauled that 
 
 he is now in a critical condition in Lord B 's bungalow near 
 
 here. 
 
 John read no further. John Patterson had left 
 the room ; his heavy tread could be heard on the cellar 
 stairs. What was best to do? Speak to Mary frankly 
 and kindly of what he had seen? Say nothing and 
 pretend not to have looked at the paper? The recol- 
 lection of yesterday, of her grief, was too vivid. He 
 knew he could not subject either her or himself to 
 such a trial at least, before a third party. "Critical 
 condition" the words repeated themselves in his 
 brain. "God forgive me!" he prayed mutely. He 
 took two steps to the fire and hastily laid the crumpled 
 paper on the burning logs.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 "A LITTLE SOMETHING TO EARN HEAVEN" 
 
 JOHN sat in his office the afternoon before Christ- 
 mas, his head bowed on his hands, in deep 
 thought. Suddenly he lifted his heavy eyes 
 to a framed group of a cricketing eleven on the wall 
 above his desk, in the forefront of which Dick Farn- 
 ham's boyish figure sat cross-legged with his bat over 
 his knees. 
 
 "I thought it was the right thing when I did it," 
 John said, silently addressing the picture. "And now 
 I can only do my best. It is better for her to be a 
 little unhappy with me, than " 
 
 He drew out his watch and opened the case. The 
 childish face with the pure brow and clear eyes looked 
 straight at him. He gazed down at it till a tear 
 startled him by splashing on the painted card. He 
 dried it with apprehensive care, and his eyes afterward. 
 
 "Anything is better than that she should belong 
 to a man of that kind." But if she loved him? Could 
 not love, like charity, "cover a multitude of sins." 
 In that moment the realization came to him that if 
 Mary had been guilty of all that slander had imputed 
 to her, and had told him (John) that she loved him 
 best, he would have felt himself happy in taking her. 
 
 "I had no rival in her love then," he thought, 
 
 (398)
 
 "A LITTLE SOMETHING" 399 
 
 recalling her face when she had put the little picture 
 into his hand on Christmas morning three years ago. 
 But it had been a child's love. She loved him no 
 
 less now, only He closed the watch case and 
 
 covered his face. The soft brilliancy of her look which 
 it was always hard for him to meet, came before his 
 closed eyes. She had never meant to mislead him; 
 never thought of trying to convey more than she felt. 
 There was some physical property in the humors or 
 lenses of the eyes that would magnify feeling without 
 her will. Surely they were the honestest eyes in the 
 world! John Patterson called to the witness-stand 
 would have borne no uncertain testimony to the 
 message of those eyes, and would -stoutly have com- 
 bated the magnifying-glass theory; but he did feel that 
 married people in his master's walk of life had different 
 ways from "poor folks," and his most ardent wish 
 unconfessed even to the partner of his bosom was 
 that he might just once "see them kiss each other 
 good." 
 
 There was a brisk tap at the door. John had not 
 noticed steps, and his clerks were gone. He had given 
 them a holiday to-day. He unlocked the door and 
 stood face to face with George, whose beaming coun- 
 tenance suddenly shadowed as his eyes met John's. 
 
 "I went to the house to find you," he said, "and 
 Mary told me you had come down here again after 
 lunch. I told her my news" the brightness would 
 break through the momentary cloud! "Oh, John! 
 I think I owe it all to you." 
 
 "You don't tell me you have that news for us," 
 John said in a bantering voice, but grasping George's
 
 400 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 shoulder with a hand that trembled in spite of him. 
 "I am surprised," he smiled brightly; then he said 
 gravely: "George, I needn't tell you how happy 
 this has made me. She is a noble woman who 
 hasn't been a bit spoiled by prosperity, and it hasn't 
 needed superhuman perception to know something 
 of what she thinks of you." 
 
 "I can't possibly take it in," George said, winking 
 away some womanish moisture, and troubled amid 
 all his happiness with concern for his friend. John's 
 face was old and lined. 
 
 "Mary says you are to dress a tree this evening," 
 he said smiling, but looking keenly at John's eyes. 
 
 "Yes, we're both children on the subject of Christ- 
 mas trees, and I sent up a lot of gimcracks yesterday 
 to put on it." 
 
 Christmas brings warmth and cheer to the saddest 
 heart if haply no bitterness lurks at its core; and the 
 dressing of that tree, the tying of parcels and filling 
 of baskets that were to carry Christmas into many 
 humble homes, the practical consultations, the hun- 
 dred nameless intimacies of mutual labor, and above 
 all the knowledge of their oneness in love for the great 
 Cause of Christmas in desire for service under His 
 banner all these influences made John's cheerful- 
 ness not wholly forced, and for those few hours hope 
 struggled to life. It was gone again next morning 
 when he put the velvet case beside her plate ready 
 for the Christmas breakfast; and her face when she 
 opened it baffled him. Was there any joy in the con- 
 flict of emotions he read there? He could not see it, 
 but something in her brimming eyes and pale cheeks
 
 "A LITTLE SOMETHING" 401 
 
 as she laid the gift down and came toward him, 
 brought vividly to his mind the memory of that 
 tear- wet face that had pressed his on the day of their 
 first parting. The pain of the recollection unmanned 
 him, and the lips that touched her forehead for an 
 instant were cold. She knew that something was 
 wrong, but she had not courage to question. 
 
 In the days and weeks that followed he evidently 
 avoided her, and it seemed as though chance inter- 
 vened to keep them always apart; to fill the time 
 they might have been together with a host of trivial 
 engagements and interruptions. 
 
 Mary could not tell what was going on in his mind, 
 and his manner to her was tenderness itself; but it 
 seemed as though some trouble in which he would 
 not allow her to share was making him thin and worn, 
 and each timid effort on her part to approach him 
 was met with a gentle, but decided withdrawal. 
 
 In those three long, long years of his guardianship, 
 John had tried to follow his mother's advice and school 
 himself for every possible discipline later on. Many 
 times he had pictured himself beside Mary happily 
 married to someone else, but always dependent 
 (as he felt she always would be) on himself; but the 
 thought of her tied to him for "as long as they both 
 should live" and unhappy; trying to conquer love 
 for someone else mutely craving forgiveness in 
 numberless little wistful, affectionate ways oh, he 
 had never faced that, never schooled himself for that ! 
 
 The patient courage which had kept him sane 
 and helped him to understand her, gave place to fits 
 of utter depression and passionate longing that drove 
 
 26
 
 402 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 him to any subterfuge rather than be left alone to 
 face her eyes. 
 
 One raw, dull evening in early February he stood 
 in evening clothes, waiting in the hall for her. 
 They were to dine with Miss Hutchinson and go 
 afterward to see the Kendalls in "Still Waters Run 
 Deep." It was to be an informal party, Elsie Ray- 
 mond being asked, and Ellen Logan with Philip 
 Dillwyn, who was in pretty constant attendance 
 on his cousin of late; and there were a couple of extra 
 swains to balance "Cousin Mary" and Elsie. 
 
 John raised his eyes as the graceful figure in a dress 
 of soft violet blue silk, with square-cut neck, turned 
 the stair landing. Her beauty hurt him. She saw 
 the involuntary contraction of his face as he turned 
 his eyes away. 
 
 "John, I know you are not well. I wish you would 
 let us stay at home. I would so much rather!" She 
 seemed struggling with some inner agitation. 
 
 "Why, I am perfectly well, dear, and it would 
 never do to disappoint Miss Hutchinson at this 
 eleventh hour." He took the cloak from her arm 
 and prepared to hold it for her. "You wanted to 
 see this play, too, and so do I." 
 
 He knew there were tears in her eyes, although 
 he would not look in her face. "Not yet," she said, 
 warding off the wrap. "If I must go, I want my 
 pearls." There was no brightness of face or voice. 
 
 He opened the safe under the stairs and took out 
 the velvet case. 
 
 "Won't you clasp them on for me, please?" Why 
 did she want to test him thus? John thought. His
 
 "A LITTLE SOMETHING" 403 
 
 jaw was squared as he put the necklace around the 
 white throat. He tried not to touch her, and his 
 hands were trembling so much that the little bril- 
 liant-studded clasps would not join. 
 
 "I think my eyes are getting old," he said with a 
 forced laugh, "and the light is very poor. I believe 
 you can do it better by the feel." 
 
 She said nothing, but lifted her arms without 
 looking around, and took the clasps from his unsteady 
 fingers. 
 
 John was the gayest of the little party assembled 
 round the board in Miss Hutchinson's grand dining- 
 room, but Mary saw that he ate practically nothing, 
 and her own spirits were at the ebb. 
 
 "Mr. Brown, I hope you don't mind sitting on the 
 front row, but these seats are so cramped I know 
 you would be in misery on this one, and I will keep 
 you company." Miss Hutchinson steered her guests 
 into row B, while she moved around in front. 
 
 "That was a very kind thought, even without 
 the bonus," John said laughing and following her. 
 "Only I'm afraid of George's black looks on my 
 back; my coat is thin." 
 
 "Black looks never penetrate," she answered, but 
 she colored very prettily as her eye met a look which 
 certainly was not black. They were hardly settled 
 before the curtain went up and the play began. 
 
 John knew not and cared not what they were 
 talking about. His mam feeling was dead weariness 
 and a sense of thankfulness that for the time being 
 the acting was to be only on the stage. Did Miss 
 Hutchinson guess that something was amiss? At
 
 404 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 least she did not appeal to him when there was a joke 
 or bon mot, and there were many. Two or three times 
 she looked back with an appreciative twinkle, but 
 she quite ignored John. Even between the acts 
 she discussed the play volubly with Philip Dillwyn, 
 who was Mary's partner, and John was relieved. 
 
 It was near the end of the third act that there came 
 a sudden loud explosion followed by a cry of fire and 
 a spring of the audience to its feet, and the next 
 moment the house was in utter darkness. John rose 
 too, but like one suddenly wakened to a strange 
 world and uncertain what was happening. There 
 was a mad rush for the exits accompanied by sten- 
 torian shouts of "Keep your seats," which no one 
 heeded. The new electric-light plant was spoken of, 
 but there was little time or inclination for surmises. 
 
 John heard his own name in Mary's voice and felt 
 her hand on his arm. He was wide-awake now and 
 thinking fast. He turned and put his hands under 
 her elbows and lifted her lightly over the seats to 
 where he stood. "Through the boxes!" he called 
 to the others, and without an instant's delay, as 
 thick smoke was coming from below the stage, he 
 reached back and groped for Mary's wrap, drew her 
 to the parapet of the foremost box and lifted her over. 
 As he vaulted to her side he realized that none of 
 the others would be able to accomplish his feat. 
 
 "The second box is lower," he called with all the 
 power of his lungs, and then he felt for the velvet 
 hangings, and pushed Mary in front of him through 
 into the inky black of the passage behind. 
 
 "Don't be frightened, dearest, there is an exit
 
 "A LITTLE SOMETHING" 405 
 
 very near." Apparently the occupants of the boxes 
 were all rinding it, for they were quite alone. He 
 felt her nestle close to him, and involuntarily his arms 
 closed round her as he paused a moment from his 
 labors. 
 
 "I don't care about anything in the world if only 
 I am with you!" It was the tone more than the 
 words that pierced the veil of misunderstanding 
 and struck his heart. He bent over her with an inar- 
 ticulate murmur. In the palpitating darkness their 
 lips met, and time and place were not. The shouts 
 and groans, the sounds of striving and panic fell 
 on deaf ears. In that long, long kiss, the years of 
 patience and pain were blotted out, and John was 
 drinking life's elixir at its source. It was not long 
 "as men count time." A strong, cold draught told 
 them the exit was near, and he released her just 
 enough to wrap her in the warm folds of the cloak 
 before he lifted her high in his arms and moved stead- 
 ily forward. Even then he pressed but gently 
 through the struggling, panting crowd, taking care 
 how he used his advantage of height and strength. 
 Not a word was spoken between them till they gained 
 the little open passage outside, and he was pushing 
 on to the street. 
 
 Then Mary said suddenly, "Oh, it's snowing and 
 you have no hat nor coat." She was answered only 
 by a closer clasp and a happy little laugh. We have 
 all of us been told over and over again that content- 
 ment is a state of mind and has little to do with 
 outward circumstances. However it be in general, 
 it is an undeniable fact that the cold February wind
 
 406 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and the wet February snow beating upon John's 
 uncovered head and thinly-clad shoulders, had no 
 more power than the slush of the pavement, pene- 
 trating his evening shoes, to cool that warmth at his 
 heart's core. 
 
 He did not understand it. Explanations might 
 be possible or impossible. It might be some sudden 
 miracle, or a gradual unconscious growth. All need 
 of question or answer was far from him as yet. He 
 knew the one thing that made all others indifferent. 
 His pain of an hour ago had been as real as his rapture 
 now, but he did not ask for proofs. His heart was too 
 full for one word. 
 
 Barney McGonigle, his favorite Jehu, was ahead 
 of time at the appointed spot as he always was, his 
 motto being "first come, first served," and was 
 already alive to the fact that "something was up." 
 
 "Is your horse rough?" John asked as the man 
 clambered down and held open the door. 
 
 "I'm just afther gettin' fresh carkin's on 'im, 
 surrh." 
 
 "Good! then drive Mrs. Brown home as quickly 
 as you can and come right back here for me." He 
 placed his burden inside as he spoke and drew back. 
 But Mary was too quick. Her hands were clasped 
 around his arm and they were strong. "What are 
 you going to do?" she gasped. 
 
 "I must go back and help the others. It will 
 be only a little while. I feel " he spoke in her ear, 
 his cheek to hers "I feel strong enough to lift a 
 mountain." 
 
 She knew him too well to attempt to dissuade
 
 "A LITTLE SOMETHING" 407 
 
 him. She yielded and leaned back in the cab while 
 the willing Barney made the best of his "carkin's." 
 An hour later, John Patterson, drawn to the open 
 pantry door by the sound of his master's key (a lemon 
 in one hand and a decanter in the other), had that 
 ardent wish of his fulfilled. But the purring of the 
 kettle and Hannah at the same time prevented his 
 hearing those low words which were for Mary's ear 
 alone; "My precious wife! I had to try to do a little 
 something to earn heaven!"
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 
 
 " T~ SEE they had a scrimmage in the Street 
 
 | Theater last night that might have cost a good 
 
 many lives. Fortunately it seems to have 
 
 ended with nothing worse than a lot of people gettin' 
 
 their corns tramped on, and some women fainting 
 
 and havin' hysterics. They always keep 'em on 
 
 tap!" Dr. Ross folded his newspaper and laid it 
 
 on the table beside him, while he took the cup of 
 
 coffee his daughter reached across to him. 
 
 "A 'scrimmage'?" She spoke with a mixture of 
 displeasure and curiosity. Her father's language 
 was a thorn in the refined flesh of Miss Gladys Ross, 
 but curiosity was stronger than disdain, to judge by 
 the expression on her plain face. Her father was a 
 great favorite among his patients, she knew, and had 
 manners both courtly and elegant when he chose; 
 but "the older he got, the more license he allowed 
 himself, and the greater pleasure he seemed to take 
 in rubbing her the wrong way." 
 
 "Well, I haven't time to go into all the details; 
 I leave that for you. Some chemical or other exploded 
 under the stage and made a noise and smoke and a 
 bad smell, and right on top of it the lights went out. 
 The paper seems to think it was a put-up job of a 
 
 (408)
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 409 
 
 gang of pickpockets who knew about the lighting, 
 and that they probably made a big haul. I'd like 
 the chance to wring their necks, every mother's 
 son of 'em. What's that?" The last sharp remark 
 was addressed to the maid who handed him a note. 
 "Where did it come from?" 
 
 "Mrs. Brown's man brought it round a little while 
 ago. I was just goin' to give it to you when Mrs. 
 Ross rang for her breakfast." (Mrs. Ross was a 
 confirmed invalid who never came down to the 7.30 
 family breakfast.) 
 
 "Mrs. Brown's man? John Patterson?" The 
 doctor took the small, square envelope, addressed 
 in a clear, characteristic hand (Mary's writing had 
 improved much since the old days), and tore it hastily 
 open. He read the contents aloud: 
 
 John hurt his hand bursting open a door at the theater last 
 night. He says it is nothing, but I know it ought to be cared 
 for at once. Could you come around before your office hours? 
 
 Hastily yours, 
 
 MARY FARNHAM BROWN. 
 
 Dr. Ross glanced at the clock and commenced to 
 ply his knife and fork energetically, his eye still on 
 the little note. 
 
 "First time in twenty years I've been called in for 
 John Brown himself, often as we've confabbed over 
 other people." There was an entire transformation 
 hi the doctor's voice and manner. "What fool thing 
 has he been doing, I wonder. Trying to help, of 
 course. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear of his 
 being in bed, though," he added, with a somber brow;
 
 410 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "for I met him lately and he looked down and out. 
 I couldn't get his face out of my mind. I'm afraid 
 " the doctor checked himself and hastily drowned 
 his fears in the remains of his coffee. He did not feel 
 like communicating them to his daughter, but she 
 forestalled him. 
 
 "I think he's one of the cases that 'married in haste ' 
 and is 'repenting at leisure." 
 
 Dr. Ross winced perceptibly as he set down his 
 empty cup, but he only gave a contemptuous "Pooh!" 
 He did not rise at once, however, as he had meant to, 
 and the glance he gave his daughter showed a certain 
 interest in her grounds of diagnosis. If there was one 
 man whose welfare the doctor took to heart more 
 than another's, that man was his old patient's son. 
 
 "Well, I've always said it was a big risk for a set- 
 tled, quiet man like Mr. Brown to marry any girl 
 in her teens," Miss Gladys went on, sagely; "but 
 I've heard things about her lately, and she's not the 
 kind of woman to make any decent man happy." 
 In spite of her father's snort, she saw she had thor- 
 oughly roused his curiosity. She also thought she 
 saw that the idea was not a new one to him. "I've 
 not been listening to gossip. I know what I'm talking 
 about, and I got it straight. Mr. Brown married her 
 purely and simply to save her reputation. He 
 promised her father to do all he could for her, and that 
 was his idea of keeping his word." 
 
 "Nonsense! He has always been possessed about 
 the girl ! His mother told me herself that she had been 
 opposed to the idea of his marrying her on account 
 of the discrepancy in years. It came pretty hard on
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 411 
 
 Mrs. Brown to think of his marrying anybody "- 
 he smiled a wry little smile "but when she found 
 she was going to die, she was keen for it, and told me 
 John would never look at any other woman, and that 
 she knew his ward, if she would have him, could make 
 his life very happy. It was only a day or two before 
 the stroke that we were talking of it, and I spoke 
 about it to Raymond after her death, when I heard 
 John was going abroad. He said, in his opinion, the 
 girl was cut out for John. I've never seen her near 
 to, but she's good-lookin' in the distance. She wasn't 
 home when I called, you know." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she's pretty enough. That's what turns 
 men's heads. Even as clear-headed a man as Mr. 
 Brown isn't proof against a beauty. But he knew the 
 facts when he married her in such a hurry, and the 
 people who admire him most say he would have 
 
 married her just the same if she'd been as ugly as 
 
 The time-honored simile for ugliness being distasteful 
 to her, Miss Ross could only play an unconscious 
 charade. "You never would listen to the gossip 
 about her and Mr. Chandler; but I heard the other 
 day and it came to me perfectly straight that she 
 had run off from her aunt, or her chaperon, and met 
 Mr. Chandler at a deserted house somewhere in the 
 country, and wasn't found for days. That was when 
 Mr. Brown was out West, but he knew it as soon as 
 he got home, and - ." She got no further. 
 
 "Damn the women! Don't let me hear another 
 word of their scandalous blather!" The doctor rose 
 suddenly, with fiery eyes glaring through gold-rimmed 
 spectacles like strange gems in a thin gold setting,
 
 412 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 and brought his fist down on the table with a force 
 that made the cups jump up in the saucers. 
 
 Apparently he would not have heard another word 
 if he had stayed to listen, for his daughter's lips closed 
 like a vise and her whole figure was one disdainful 
 protest against his profanity, mixed with a conscious- 
 ness of her own unassailable authority. She did not 
 even turn her head as he went out. 
 
 "If I'm not back in time the people can wait," 
 the doctor said testily to the colored lad whose duty 
 it was to mind the door, as he went out into the snowy 
 street, not waiting for his carriage, and struggling 
 into his ulster. His daughter was quick to discover 
 his forgotten overshoes, but he was already out of the 
 range of her remonstrances. 
 
 "Come right in here, Dr. Ross," John said, moving 
 toward the door of the den, while he answered a volley 
 of abrupt questions, apropos of his accident, after 
 helping the old gentleman divest himself of his snowy 
 outer garments. "Tryin' to pull down the temple 
 of Gaza, as usual!" the doctor grunted, as he glanced 
 at John keenly over his shoulder. He spread his hands 
 above the blaze of the newly-lighted fire. In spite 
 of his violence toward his daughter's theory and news, 
 he had been secretly much perturbed. They both 
 tallied with his own private fears and privately 
 acquired information. John's face had seemed to him 
 the face of a man bearing a heavy load and beginning 
 to lose his grip and falter under it. What he saw there 
 now made him return his attention to the warming 
 of his hands with a sense of mystification. 
 
 "Now let me have a look at it. Hm!" drawing
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 413 
 
 John to the window and removing an amateur bandage 
 from the red, swollen hand. 
 
 "It's nothing! No tendons are broken, I'm sure; 
 but I suppose I strained them. The exit was frozen 
 and I jerked pretty hard. Mary tied it up with some 
 arnica we found, but it was probably very old. We 
 neither of us keep much of a drug store. We're so 
 outrageously healthy that I don't know whether you 
 ever met my wife. You were away last summer, 
 I remember." Dr. Ross had heard the step on the 
 stairs, and now turned expectantly toward the door 
 as John introduced them to each other. The words 
 of conventional greeting were checked on his lips, 
 and he felt the blood mount to his face. He had been 
 told she was a beauty, but he had not expected this 
 sort of beauty beauty of the soul, of the intellect. 
 The features were quite lost sight of in that marvelous 
 loveliness of expression. It made one's heart behave 
 strangely even at seventy. "Anyone who looked like 
 that ought not to be judged by the rules that govern 
 ordinary women." He did not realize that he was 
 staring at her and holding her hand an unconscionable 
 time till he heard John's laugh a laugh of pure bub- 
 bling amusement that surely came from some well of 
 deep content. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, smiling genially at 
 his own expense; "but you must be used to it." 
 
 Mary colored warmly, but joined frankly in John's 
 laugh, as she withdrew to the other side of the window. 
 She pressed forward as the doctor went on with his 
 interrupted examination of the wounded hand. "I 
 shall hurt you some," he said, when John involun-
 
 414 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 tarily winced and frowned at the probing, expert 
 though it was. 
 
 "Don't you worry yourself about John Brown's 
 'repentance at leisure. ' ' Dr. Ross said to his daugh- 
 ter at luncheon. "If he's made any mistake, he 
 would be mighty sorry to have it corrected. I saw 
 his wife this morning and I don't blame his forgiving 
 anything, if there was anything to forgive which I 
 don't believe. I hurt him like the mischief to-day 
 mauling his hand to find out what the trouble was; 
 but she slipped hers into the other one, and, Lord! 
 he never felt me. They thought my old eyes didn't 
 see what was going on, but I'm not such a bat as all 
 
 that." 
 
 # * * * * * 
 
 No doubt the doctor's old eyes would have enjoyed 
 the picture in the den after his departure. 
 
 "No, please, John," Mary had said, "I want to sit 
 on this stool just as I did that first day, only I'll have 
 to come on this side," pushing him back into his chair 
 while she drew the old well-remembered stool to his 
 side and possessed herself of his left hand. She looked 
 sorrowfully at the bandaged right one, slung across 
 his chest. She had him rather in her power thus, 
 but however supine that left hand lay in hers, with her 
 cheek against its palm as on that other eventful day, 
 she knew her withes were too slender to hold him if 
 he chose to break them. 
 
 "I understand so well what your mother must have 
 felt that day, John. Suppose I had had you all to 
 myself for years and years and I saw somebody steal- 
 ing you away from me! She was growing fond of me
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 415 
 
 before I went away, I am sure, and I meant to do my 
 best to make her love me. I think I loved you even 
 then; I mean I think I was in love with you, though 
 I didn't know it. It seems to me I always was, from 
 the minute I saw you first in Father's room. I never 
 remember 'getting religion' and I never remember 
 any sudden change in my love for you. I just loved 
 you always, as much as I possibly could." His hand 
 lifted the face resting upon it till it came within easy 
 reach of his lips. For the time being conversation 
 ceased. 
 
 "Dearest," he said, in a low voice, a few moments 
 later, "there is something I meant not to allude to, 
 but what you said just now makes me change my mind. 
 Before you went to Europe I hoped you were growing 
 to love me in the way I wanted. When I came to 
 you at Catharine's that day I would not have asked 
 you to marry me if I had not thought I read in your 
 face more than you knew yourself; if I had not con- 
 vinced myself then that your feeling for Mr. Chand- 
 ler" he choked a little as he uttered the name 
 "was a passing one, but since then I was afraid 
 I had made a mistake. I didn't blame you" he 
 spoke hurriedly as she dropped his hand and opened 
 her lips to answer, crimsoning to the roots of the bright, 
 dishevelled hair. The arm came quickly round her. 
 
 "Oh, John, that night we met Mrs. Townsend, I 
 was telling you the truth when I said I didn't know 
 why I cried, and even then I was afraid you might 
 think and I hadn't the courage to explain even if 
 I had known how. Once, before you came back from 
 Columbia, I was afraid I might be going to love Mr.
 
 416 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 Chandler in spite of myself, but when I saw you again 
 I knew that whatever I felt for him, I only wanted to 
 be with you always. I would have been your secre- 
 tary; your servant anything so you would keep me 
 with you but I dreaded love-making just then. 
 I was too stirred up; and I was so thankful to you for 
 understanding. I was so happy in Canada in spite 
 of being sorry about Miss Newlin and having the 
 heartache sometimes over Mr. Chandler's pain he 
 felt more than you think, dear and I had the feeling 
 that I could influence him for good, but" she seemed 
 unable to find words. John drew her unresisting figure 
 up onto his knee and she buried her face on. his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "And when you knew of his being hurt ?" he 
 
 asked at length, with an unsuccessful effort to steady 
 his voice, and putting his face down to hers. "I 
 didn't mean to spy on you, but I came upon you by 
 chance. I heard sobs, and the curtain was too low. 
 I started to go to you, but I hadn't courage somehow 
 to face what I feared was the truth. I didn't want to 
 force your confidence, but I hoped Mary had 
 
 started violently. A sudden realization of all he had 
 felt and concealed, the memory of his avoidance of her 
 since then, and of his altered looks and manner, smote 
 her with full force. She gasped and lifted her face, too 
 full of feeling for him to think of herself. 
 
 "Oh, John, if I had only known; if I only hadn't 
 been such a coward! I don't know how to tell you 
 but I must try. Perhaps you were too chivalrous. 
 Perhaps if you hadn't seemed so satisfied, and I 
 hadn't begun to feel lonely well, not exactly lonely
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 417 
 
 but" her eyes sinking suddenly "you seemed to be 
 getting farther away from me, and I I remembered 
 how Mr. Chandler had talked to me; and it seemed to 
 me you would never love me like that, and I loved you 
 all the time more and more. I got to crying to myself 
 sometimes, and I couldn't tell what ailed me, and now 
 I know" her breath was quick; the honest eyes 
 tried to meet his. "I only wanted this" Her face 
 was buried again. 
 
 A sudden flash of comprehension left John wordless 
 and made that bandaged hand a hateful thing. It 
 was some time before she turned her face and went on, 
 without lifting it. 
 
 "That day at the parish meeting, a girl referred to 
 a notice in the paper, and I heard Mr. Chandler's 
 name and saw a lady hush her up and look toward me. 
 I could hardly wait to get home, and then I saw there 
 was nothing in the Bulletin and I went around and 
 got another paper." She paused and gasped at the 
 memory. "It made me feel so terribly, John, and 
 when I got home, I threw myself down and began to 
 cry, and when I got to crying, everything that had 
 been pent up in me for weeks came over me and made 
 me lose all power to control myself. If I only had 
 known that you had seen me! But even then I 
 wouldn't have known how to tell you, and I might 
 only have made matters worse in your mind. I 
 didn't even dare to refer to the news for fear I should 
 break down." 
 
 John's lips were eloquent, if wordless. "Oh, my 
 dear love, please try to understand," she exclaimed 
 desperately. "7 almost love Mr. Chandler. I hate 
 
 27 .'^^
 
 418 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 to think of his being so horribly hurt, and unhappy, too. 
 I hate to have him go out of my lif e and I long to help 
 him somehow, but " she pressed her face to John's 
 "I oh, I would rather be your wife in prison, all my 
 life, than live in the seventh heaven with anyone else."
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 
 
 IT was a superb Sunday in September. Every 
 tree was laden with luxuriant greenness that 
 seemed to feel no fear of an impending autumn, 
 and the pastures which stretched on one side of the 
 country lane were as rich in grass as in early June. 
 
 " What a pretty place this is ! It's always a pleasure 
 to get where they don't clear away all this roadside 
 growth. The passion for neatness is the ruination 
 of half the country-side to me, especially near the big 
 cities." 
 
 It was a man who spoke, while he bent and broke 
 a sprig of half-blown goldenrod a man whom we 
 recognize as our old friend, Mr. Chandler. He turned 
 to the lady by his side for sympathy as he broke off 
 more of his flower-stem and drew the shortened plume 
 through his buttonhole. She smiled acquiescence. 
 
 "This is a private road," she said; "all this is part 
 of the old Hutchinson estate, but it has been a good 
 deal changed. Part has been sold and built on, and 
 the old house was enlarged and altered several years 
 ago. It's just up beyond this wood, and the new house 
 is further along. By the way, you knew Caroline 
 Hutchinson, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, coloring at a memory invoked, 
 
 (419)
 
 420 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 while his grave eye roamed over the meadow and its 
 grazing cattle, only reluctantly coming back to his 
 companion. 
 
 "I forget how long you have been in the wilds, but 
 I dare say you didn't hear of her marriage. It must 
 have been over a year ago." 
 
 "I have been away just two years and I know I 
 have missed a lot of news. Letters took a long time 
 to reach me, and my correspondents, except Anna, 
 are few and far between." 
 
 "She surprised everybody by marrying a Mr. 
 Raymond, an architect of no special prominence 
 and rather out of her set. To be sure, she has money 
 enough to please herself and she seems as happy as a 
 queen. She has sold the town house and lives in the 
 country all the year round. There's nothing love 
 can't accomplish." She laughed a very pleasant, 
 refined little laugh. 
 
 "There, you have a glimpse of the new house! 
 The woods run close up behind it. It's very simple, 
 but awfully attractive and homelike. I think that's 
 Mr. Brown now, leaning on the fence. I don't know 
 him to speak to, but his wife and I have exchanged 
 calls. She's sweet." 
 
 Her eyes, intent on the figure leaning on the high 
 gate a short distance ahead of them, did not notice 
 Mr. Chandler's violent start and change of expression. 
 He stopped short as though he would have turned 
 about, and when his companion stopped also and 
 looked curiously around, he was leaning forward with 
 his face from her looking for something in the road. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she asked.
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 421 
 
 "I have dropped the compass off my watch chain," 
 he answered coolly, but without lifting his head. 
 He had in fact dropped the said compass on his bed- 
 room floor that morning, and, finding its little ring 
 insecure, had left it on his dressing-table. As there 
 seemed no trace of it, the lady suggested their turning 
 back, judging from his disturbed face and heightened 
 color that the loss was important. 
 
 But for one moment, while her eyes were bent on the 
 ground, he had scanned the tall figure leaning with 
 such easy enjoyment over the gate, and saw that he 
 held a child. He must see that child! He was only 
 taking a Sunday's walk with a lady, and even if he 
 were recognized, no harm would be done. He was 
 not a coward and he had done this man no wrong. 
 On the contrary, he always felt sure that he had 
 flung Mary straight into her guardian's arms, and he 
 was determined now to discover, if possible, how 
 the match had turned out. It had seemed a prosaic 
 transaction and in that he had found a poor sort of 
 comfort. Brilliant, beautiful Mary the wife of an 
 ugly, middle-aged man whom she looked on as a 
 second father, was a much more congenial object 
 to his mental vision than Mary the wife of well 
 "that young Dillwyn," for example. 
 
 "It would be a needle in a haystack now," he said, 
 regaining his composure. "I may have lost it before 
 I left the house." 
 
 The lady expressed a proper amount of regret and 
 hesitation, and then they moved on. 
 
 Mr. Brown was apparently deep in thought. His 
 back was toward them, and he did not seem to hear
 
 422 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 their approaching footsteps. To be sure, it was a 
 dirt road and they had stopped talking and were both 
 looking intently at the baby. Its head, covered with 
 soft rings of almost black hair, was presented to 
 them crown first as it hung over its father's shoulder; 
 but having as yet no thoughts of the kind to cause 
 abstraction, it was at once awake to new sounds, and 
 lifted its face, regarding them with unembarrassed 
 curiosity. An unmistakable girl's face. Mr. Chand- 
 ler's heart seemed to stop beating as he traced Mary, 
 feature for feature, in this miniature edition. But 
 the hair was much too dark and the wide, intelligent 
 eyes were brown. 
 
 They had stopped involuntarily perhaps it was 
 Mr. Chandler who had stopped and the lady waved 
 her hand gayly to the child and was answered by a 
 bright smile that pulled at the heart-strings of one of 
 the spectators; then, immediately overcome by some 
 emotion which hardly seemed embarrassment, the 
 object of their scrutiny turned and burrowed her 
 little nose in her father's cheek. He turned to her 
 with a kiss and became aware of the two people 
 behind him, who were about to move past. 
 
 "I hope we are not trespassing. We have been 
 rewarded by a very pretty picture," the lady said 
 smiling as they went by. 
 
 John could not lift his hat, as both he and the baby 
 were bareheaded, but he smiled and made a courteous 
 answer before his eyes fell on the face of the man at 
 her side. 
 
 That was not a face easily forgotten, especially 
 when one had such good reason to remember it.
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 423 
 
 The gray and black eyes encountered each other for a 
 single instant, and Mr. Chandler moved quickly on. 
 John stood clasping the baby to him as though he 
 had been threatened with kidnappers. 
 
 "Come, let us go home, my blessing," he said, 
 kissing the back of the head which was turned to 
 watch the pedestrians, but he stood for a long minute, 
 lost in thought, in the middle of the road. 
 
 Mr. Chandler's mind and heart were in such a 
 whirl that only a long-established habit of manners 
 and conversation enabled him to eat his luncheon and 
 chat on indifferent subjects without giving rise to 
 comment. He was but lately arrived from his long 
 wanderings in Asia and Africa, and had discovered 
 only that Mr. and Mrs. Brown were no longer living 
 in the city. As he had hesitated to speak of Mary to 
 the people who could have given him most definite 
 information, and as he was, moreover, slow to take 
 up the threads of a time so full of pain the pain 
 that he had tried to run away from he had been 
 glad to ignore the past. It seemed like a stroke of 
 fate that he should come thus unexpectedly upon her 
 new home. Was it adverse or propitious? Adverse 
 it must be. There could be no hope for him of speak- 
 ing to her under that black eye that had looked into 
 his to-day, and he knew Mary too well to dream of 
 asking her to see him except in her husband's com- 
 pany. He had thought his feeling for her partly 
 cured, there had been such a dull apathy in his 
 heart for a year past; but the sight of the child had 
 stirred up a very tempest of emotion, not all unworthy, 
 in his deepest nature, and he could not go back to
 
 424 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 the city without knowing more; without making one 
 effort to see Mary, herself. 
 
 He took leave of his host and hostess in the after- 
 noon, saying that he would walk to the station, as 
 the day was so fine and the country so lovely. He 
 had no fixed purpose as yet. He would trust again 
 to fate; but he would help her or force her, if need 
 be. 
 
 He found his way back to the lane by the way that 
 he had quitted it. The afternoon light made the green 
 meadows and flickering shadows of the woods even 
 more witching than at noonday. He crossed a wide, 
 shallow, rippling creek on an old stone bridge, and 
 then discovered a trodden path through the woods 
 winding up the hill in the direction in which he felt 
 sure the house must be. He would risk it! If he 
 met John, he would make a manly avowal of his 
 wish to see Mary, since chance had brought him near 
 and if it should be Mary herself upon whom he should 
 come! His heart was beating so fast that he was 
 forced to stop and recover his breath. When he found 
 himself on the edge of the woods he suddenly saw the 
 back of the house close before him, and halted again, 
 this time to reconnoiter. The tall screen around 
 the drying ground hid his approach; then across 
 a space of open lawn he saw a white figure pushing 
 a baby carriage. It needed no second look to tell 
 him who it was. No other woman moved like that! 
 She turned the coach and started directly toward 
 him, and he went boldly to meet her. She had raised 
 her eyes and was looking across, but not at him, at 
 someone else who came at that moment off the broad
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 425 
 
 piazza, and went to her. His wonderful chance was 
 gone. He must do something quickly. They would 
 see him if he went back and how should he explain 
 his coming from that quarter. His composure such 
 as it was was so completely gone by this time that 
 he knew he could not utter a word. He moved so 
 that a tree came between him and them and walked 
 on trying to get his breath back and think what was 
 to be done. The realization came to him as he heard 
 their voices close to him on the other side of his 
 screen, that he had cut himself off from any straight- 
 forward program. He must hide in those thick 
 spruce boughs. There was no help for it! It was a 
 large tree in the prime of life, close by the end of the 
 piazza. no newly planted one. He would risk it. 
 If he was caught he would confess all : he had never 
 been a burglar, with all his sins, he thought bitterly. 
 
 They were so close to him that he only dared peep 
 with caution and was obliged to make every move- 
 ment noiseless. "She is getting too heavy for you 
 to carry, Mary !" What a good voice Mr. Brown had ! 
 
 "Nonsense," came the light response. It thrilled 
 him through and through. "I'd have to be a good 
 deal weaker than I am before I would give up carrying 
 you, my precious. Why, John, I'm ever so much 
 stronger than Anna, really." 
 
 Mr. Chandler had only seen glimpses of white 
 through the thick branches of the tree, but his im- 
 provised peep-hole brought them into full view as 
 they came up onto the piazza, and not a word could 
 escape him. Passion blinded him for the moment to 
 the part he was playing. He thought they were
 
 426 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 going in, but John seated himself in a great chair, 
 evidently his special property, with the baby on one 
 knee and his wife on the other. Her face was full 
 toward the eavesdropper at the moment and he gazed 
 as though he were filling his heart for the desert 
 beyond. It bore no sign of passivity, of "letting 
 herself be loved." She settled into the circle of that 
 long arm as into a favorite cosy corner of the sofa 
 and there was a day-in-and-day-out accustomedness 
 to the picture that stilled the onlooker's passion like 
 a cool hand on hot pulses. 
 
 "I never get a chance to carry her when you are 
 around. She loves you best. Oh, yes, she does!" 
 putting her fingers over his mouth and the right arm 
 around his neck. "Everybody loves you best!" 
 (Her gag had need to be a firm one.) "And I love 
 them to love you best, because you love me best." 
 
 John had no need of words, even when she removed 
 her hand, and there was a silence for some moments 
 while Mary's cheek was pressed against his dark 
 one and her eyes looked directly into the eyes of the 
 unseen witness. He felt that he must cry out to her 
 to spare him! The baby drew their attention to 
 herself by putting up her hand to be kissed first by 
 one and then by the other. 
 
 "John," Mary said whimsically, after she had 
 satisfied her small daughter, "I read an article in 
 last night's Bulletin. The title caught my eye: 
 "How to Keep Your Husband's Love"; and of course 
 I wanted to know. What do you think he said- 
 it was by a man, too he said not to pet your husband 
 nor fondle him too much ; to let him do most of that
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 427 
 
 not to make yourself cheap! What do you think of 
 that? Do you suppose it would be true, in general?" 
 She looked at him with naive gravity. 
 
 "I dare say it would be pretty good advice 'in 
 general' ' mimicking her voice and kissing her un- 
 smiling lips. 
 
 "Well, I'm thankful I didn't marry any of those 
 other men, 'in general,' ' with a fleeting smile, 
 but real interest in her subject: "I never should be 
 able to love anybody economically!" 
 
 John's laugh was interrupted by a sudden memory, 
 and his kiss this time was of a quite different kind. 
 
 "What makes you look at me like that, dear? 
 You have something on your mind, I know. That's 
 just the way you looked at me when you came in to 
 dinner, and you kissed me so hard you almost hurt 
 me. What is it?" John flushed and looked unde- 
 cided. 
 
 "The sun is going down, and this little girl has 
 only a thin sack," he said evasively. The maternal 
 instinct was not appealed to in vain. Mary at once 
 drew the big watch from his pocket and looked at it. 
 
 "Why, it's almost six; I had no idea. See how 
 contentedly she is playing with your buttons. It's 
 a shame to take her to bed. Sunday is our red-letter- 
 day, isn't it, Janet. I'll go in a minute, really; but 
 her hands are warm, and I can't wait to know what 
 ails you." 
 
 John drew her closer, as though he felt the eaves- 
 dropper's intrusive presence in the very air. He 
 hesitated a moment; then he told of the meeting of 
 the morning. He did not look at her closely, but he
 
 428 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 felt that she was moved, and Mr. Chandler blessed 
 her for the soft color that suffused her face, and the 
 grave sweetness with which she received news of him. 
 She was not troubled, but she was somewhat excited, 
 as women generally are at the mention of the man who 
 has once loved them. 
 
 "John," she said solemnly, "I always felt something 
 fine and uncommon in him in spite of everything. 
 It wasn't only that he fascinated me as they say he 
 does all women. It was because he showed me a 
 side that everyone didn't see. You don't believe it?" 
 as John only made an inarticulate sound, "but I am 
 sure, this time, I can judge better than you. Women 
 often go by intuition instead of evidence, and some- 
 times it is more to be trusted." She leaned her head 
 back, her eyes on the sky: "He loved what was best 
 in me not only my looks and I am sure if I had 
 married him he would not have been unfaithful to me." 
 
 John looked gravely down at her. "My darling, 
 I am ashamed of hating so to hear you praise him," 
 he said. "I ought not to be mean enough to grudge 
 him your good opinion when I have so much!" 
 
 "And you don't believe I am right?" 
 
 He rose up with his double burden preparatory to 
 moving in through the open window, but stood 
 looking down at her wistful, insistent face. 
 
 "Well, perhaps you may be. I can't imagine any- 
 body who had loved you ever looking twice at anyone 
 
 else." 
 
 ******* 
 
 When, under cover of darkness, Mr. Chandler 
 ventured from his hiding place and started for the
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER PERFORCE 429 
 
 station his heart was too full to feel shame at the tears 
 on his cheeks or at the despicable part he had been 
 playing. He had a sense of having been led into his 
 eavesdropping. 
 
 "She has chosen the better part," he said to him- 
 self, unconscious that he was quoting words spoken 
 by august lips of another Mary. "And if there is 
 any manhood left in me, I will deserve her good 
 opinion. At least, I will never be unfaithful to her!"
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 IN WHICH AN OLD FRIEND THINKS ALOUD 
 
 O 
 
 '* -^^ V H, Mrs. Wharton, it is so good to have you 
 back! There is nobody I can talk to as I 
 do to you, and my heart has been so heavy 
 with John's troubles! It is a tremendous thing to 
 separate from your church when you have loved it 
 as John has, and have worshiped in it all your life. 
 You know how he clings to old associations and hates 
 change unless it really stands for a principle or some 
 important gain. And he will be fifty-two to-morrow.' ' 
 
 "Will he, really?" Mrs. Wharton exclaimed. 
 "Well, of course he will, for I shall be seventy-two 
 myself this summer." She said it with a sigh, but 
 it did not seem to rest heavily on her mind. She 
 looked a very vigorous old lady and had just returned 
 from a journey to the far East which would have 
 tried the mettle of most young women. 
 
 "It doesn't seem to me that John looks a day older 
 than when I first came into his charge," Mary said 
 thoughtfully: "He's a good deal stouter or I ought 
 to say less thin, for it isn't in him ever to be stout 
 and his hair is getting very gray at the temples. 
 Only think, I'm just the age now that John was when 
 Father died! He seemed almost old to me then, and 
 I feel so young!" 
 
 (430)
 
 AN OLD FRIEND THINKS ALOUD 431 
 
 "And look so," Mrs. Wharton said, lifting her eyes 
 from her knitting to follow the active, graceful figure 
 that started in pursuit of her youngest "hopeful," 
 who had climbed onto a stool and was preparing to 
 pull the lamp off the table. 
 
 "No, no, Catharine!" trying to make her voice 
 and face as grave as possible, and looking straight 
 into the bright, impenitent eyes of the little mischief. 
 " Oh, dear, one needs the patience of Job, and I haven't 
 got it. I will ask Catharine to keep her while I have 
 a quiet hour with you. She never seems to tire of 
 her society, but now that she can walk, she is what 
 John Patterson calls 'stirring.' ' 
 
 "John Patterson seems as hearty as ever," Mrs. 
 Wharton said, as Mary came back from her embassy 
 with empty arms and seated herself in her favorite 
 low Shaker chair with a piece of sewing. "He must 
 miss Hannah very much; but he is so wrapped up in 
 this family that his own personal ties are almost 
 secondary." 
 
 "The children all love him dearly," Mary said, 
 applying her button-hole scissors to the little dress 
 in her hands. "Sometimes I think he and Catharine 
 get a little bit jealous of each other, but John always 
 smooths things out and makes them both feel happy. 
 Dear John!" with sudden tears in the eyes she raised 
 from her work. 
 
 "I have been full of sympathy with what you have 
 written me, and I'm so anxious to hear more," Mrs. 
 Wharton said, with voice and face that bore her out 
 in both assertions. 
 
 "I couldn't write much about it, even to you;
 
 432 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 at least, not till it was settled; but it has all been 
 coming for a long time. John's conscience has been 
 growing steadily more and more uncomfortable; for 
 he felt he did not believe the Creeds even as he used 
 to, and especially that one article that has been caus- 
 ing all this controversy. John came long ago to accept 
 my opinion about the Virgin Birth, but it was such a 
 sacred subject he hated to hear it bandied about, and 
 he thought he could go on being a good Churchman 
 and leaving that out when he said the Creed. He 
 never taught in the Sunday-school, you know, and we 
 don't teach the children more about doctrine than is 
 absolutely necessary. It was only when he found 
 other men being so severely criticised for the same 
 'heresy,' and now this trial of Dr. and the 
 general feeling against him! That has made John 
 feel he couldn't keep quiet any longer." 
 
 Mrs. Wharton only nodded with lips pressed to- 
 gether. The full lower one protruded more than it 
 used, and made her little grimace, when anything 
 moved her strongly, a trifle grimmer. 
 
 "The thing that has kept him so long undecided 
 what to do is the children." 
 
 Mrs. Wharton only looked her interest. 
 
 "You know the family 'Creed' has always been 
 that if 'Father ' disagrees with anyone or disapproves 
 anything, that person or thing must be wrong. John 
 knows that nothing his humility could urge would 
 ever change it." 
 
 "And who is responsible for such a state of things, 
 I wonder?" 
 
 Mary smiled and colored slightly, but the subject
 
 AN OLD FRIEND THINKS ALOUD 433 
 
 was too grave a one for self-consciousness. "Oh, 
 children's estimates of their elders are wonderfully 
 intelligent in the long run," she said with quiet con- 
 viction. "And, indeed, I wouldn't feel it right to 
 teach them that their father was infallible. He thinks 
 he has been cowardly not to have made a definite 
 decision long before, but when we have talked the 
 matter over, I have tried my best to keep him from 
 doing anything irrevocable, though I dare say people 
 will think his going out is all due to my influence." 
 
 "It has certainly been your influence if not your 
 will," Mrs. Wharton said, with an unusually tender 
 smile on her rugged face. 
 
 "Children are a big responsibility," Mary went 
 on, only half heeding. "When John wanted me to 
 join this Meeting because we enjoy going there, and 
 to make the children members, I wouldn't consent 
 because I have always hoped that the wave of more 
 liberal feeling would alter the Creeds some day or 
 make it possible to join the church with reserva- 
 tions." 
 
 "Ah!" Mrs. Wharton gave a deep-drawn sigh. 
 
 "I suppose it was a childish hope," Mary said 
 sadly, "but there has been a great wave of revolt 
 from dogma, and no one knows how much I have 
 wanted to belong with John; to have us all belong 
 together." The choke in her voice compelled a 
 pause. "I feel sure the time will come when church 
 membership will not be dependent on uniformity 
 of belief, but on likeness of ideals and purpose," 
 she went on; "but we may never live to see it, and it 
 is a sad time we are going through now." 
 
 28
 
 434 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 "I have often wondered whether the Friends 
 hadn't fulfilled their mission in the world," Mrs. 
 Wharton answered. "But it seems as though they 
 were needed so long as nearly every church keeps 
 'fenced in with doctrine. Do the children know any- 
 thing about their father's leaving?" she added in a 
 different tone. "Of course the little ones wouldn't?" 
 
 "Yes, the older ones do, even Dick, though, of 
 course, they're too young to understand the reasons. 
 Janet asked me years ago why none of us stayed for 
 Communion but Father, and when I said we weren't 
 members of the church, she seemed satisfied. I 
 suppose she thought people were born church-mem- 
 bers as they were born Americans, and that was all 
 there was about it; but last year George's George 
 was confirmed, and of course he talked about it to 
 Laddie and Lassie, and they went to the service." 
 (Laddie and Lassie are the twins, entered in the 
 family Bible as John and Mary.) 
 
 "I suppose they are as inseparable a trio as ever?" 
 
 " Oh, more so, if possible, and Lassie told me George 
 said she and Laddie could join the church if they 
 wanted to, and they had decided they did. She 
 looked up at me very wistfully and said, "Mother, 
 if we could join, why couldn't you? It seems lonely 
 for Father to be the only one who is a really Episco- 
 palian. I tried to explain that I couldn't quite be- 
 lieve what was necessary to say to become a church 
 member, but I saw I was on thin ice. She took me 
 up at once. 'But you believe just like Father, don't 
 you?' I felt as though I were about to be weighed 
 /n the balance, and I assured her that Father and I
 
 AN OLD FRIEND THINKS ALOUD 435 
 
 believed almost exactly alike, and, as that very natur- 
 ally puzzled her, I made a lame attempt to explain 
 that it was different going into the church from being 
 brought up in it." 
 
 "And what did she say to that?" 
 
 "She grasped me round the neck and kissed me 
 over and over; I think she felt I was in need of all 
 the sympathy she could show; but she never said 
 another word. In the evening she and Laddie both 
 perched up on John's knees and commenced to ask 
 his approval. I saw him get very white, and his 
 lips trembled, but he only said he wanted them to 
 wait till they were older and could understand better 
 what it meant to join church. We both feel that 
 little George is quite too young, but Caroline says 
 she wasn't thirteen when she was confirmed. Then, 
 their children have gone to Sunday-school and are 
 well up in the catechism. They are such nice children ! 
 But Caroline says it is very hard on her living along- 
 side of us and having George think everything we 
 do is perfect. She says her family 'could never be 
 governed on the Junior Republic plan, and our 
 children are remarkable.' ' 
 
 "Caroline always bears her trials good-naturedly," 
 Mrs. Wharton said, laughing; "and the last time I 
 saw George, he looked pretty well satisfied with his 
 lot. But," she added, in quite another voice, "I met 
 Mr. Chandler at the station this morning, and he 
 agreed with me that this household was about as 
 near the Kingdom of Heaven as one could ever find 
 on this earth. He looked very well and happy. I 
 told him I had heard a great deal about him, not only
 
 436 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 from your letters and John's, but from all the chil- 
 dren's. I was thinking as I came out what a wonder- 
 ful change you have made in his life. How long ago 
 was it that John brought him out?" 
 
 "Oh, more than ten years! It was just when 
 Laddie and Lassie were beginning to walk," Mary 
 answered, consulting the Mother's Standard Dic- 
 tionary of Dates, which never fails; "don't you 
 remember, they saw their father coming and both 
 started out for him and fell down and commenced to 
 cry. Dear little souls, they didn't know that they 
 had saved a very painful situation, and John broke 
 the rest of the ice by saying: 'Mr. Chandler, I wouldn't 
 have dared bring you out if I had known what an 
 upsetting effect you would have on my family.' He 
 said afterward that 'it was a bad pun in a good cause,' 
 but I thought it was a pretty good pun, too." 
 
 "Oh, yes! It all comes back to me now; I can see 
 your face when you saw them coming across the 
 orchard." Mrs. Wharton was very fond of reminis- 
 cing. 
 
 "He made a clean breast of everything to John, 
 and they have surely been firm friends ever since; 
 and if we have done him good, he has been a sort of 
 fairy godfather to the children. Do you know we 
 are going to let him take Janet to Europe this summer? 
 Mrs. Townsend is very much pleased about it too!" 
 
 " Your little Jane!" Mrs. Wharton actually gasped. 
 
 "Yes," Mary said, smiling in spite of an obtrusive 
 drop or two. "John offered it because he overheard 
 a conversation between Mr. Chandler and Jane. 
 I never saw anyone more touched. He told us then
 
 AN OLD FRIEND THINKS ALOUD 437 
 
 that it was his fiftieth birthday (it seems to be a 
 season of birthdays) and he said in all his half century 
 he had never had such a present as that." Mary 
 stopped a moment and swallowed hard at the recol- 
 lection. "Mrs. Townsend was out yesterday in her 
 new automobile and she promised to mother Janet 
 to the best of her ability. She has been lovely with 
 all the children, but she is especially fond of Janet. 
 The child is wild to go" Mary could not repress a 
 little sigh "she would go anywhere with Mr. Chand- 
 ler, but she does seem very young to go without us." 
 
 "I should think Mrs. Townsend would do anything 
 in the world for you. She knows what her brother 
 was and what he is." Mrs. Wharton was forgetting 
 to knit on the strength of this news. "She is too 
 proud a woman to acknowledge in words all she owes 
 you and John; but her manner and face tell enough. 
 There isn't one man in a thousand who could have 
 acted as John did" taking up her needles again 
 "but he knew his wife!" 
 
 "Oh, there he comes!" Mary said, rising quickly 
 and going into the hall. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton heard a hubbub of childish voices, 
 and looking from the window, she saw John coming 
 across the orchard, as on the day just recalled, the 
 center of an eager group. 
 
 Children clung to his hands, bestrode his neck and 
 got closer than free locomotion permitted. Mrs. 
 Wharton would not follow Mary to the hall door to 
 greet him. He would have news for her alone and 
 should have her to himself for a few moments if 
 that were possible of accomplishment. She saw him
 
 438 A LIVING LEGACY 
 
 detach himself from the children as his eye caught 
 sight of his wife at the door. She did not move as 
 she heard them come into the hall together, but a 
 treacherous mirror gave an unsought and unavoidable 
 picture. 
 
 "She will make up to him for everything he can 
 lose or suffer!" was her heart-felt exclamation. She 
 has never cured herself of the trick of thinking aloud. 
 
 In the privacy of her own room that night, she 
 sat long by Grandma Farnham's old four-poster, in 
 Grandma Farnham's easy chair, with reminders of 
 the past on every side. At last she adjusted her 
 spectacles and opened her Bible aimlessly and ab- 
 sently. Her eye rested on these words: 
 
 I am come a light into the world that whosoever believeth on 
 me should not abide in darkness. 
 
 And if any man hear my words and believe not, I judge him 
 not: for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world. 
 
 The Book slipped from her hands and her somber 
 eyes were fixed on space. "And His followers have 
 been hunting heresy ever since," she said in her 
 strong, emphatic voice. 
 
 The quiet bedroom confidences going on in another 
 room were suddenly interrupted by the sound of 
 scurrying bare feet in the dark, and the big bed was 
 hastily invaded. 
 
 "Father," an awestruck little voice whispered 
 from its safe shelter: "Somebody's talkin'."
 
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