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GIFT OF 
 
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 you examine this Review Copy with a 
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 Yours very truly, 
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IN THE SHADOW OF GOD, 
 
IN THE 
 
 SHADOW OF GOD 
 
 BY 
 
 GUY ARTHUR JAMIESON 
 
 author of 
 
 "At the Edge of the Yellow Sky" 
 
 Etc., Etc. 
 
 
 R. F. Fenno & Company 
 
 18 East 17th Street, New York 
 
COPYRIGHT 1910 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
 
 
 Jn the ShadoiJu of God 
 
 />■ 
 
 
To 
 ALFRED L. CLARK. 
 
 304036 
 
IN THE SHADOW OF GOD- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Over the face of Devil's Backbone hung a low, 
 far-reaching blanket of dun clouds, making prema- 
 turely somber the close of the October day. One sud- 
 denly set down here at this hour might easily imag- 
 ine he had come to the top of the world. The narrow 
 neck of land rose sheer from encompassing shadows ; 
 no sign of life or habitation met the eye. The sky- 
 line melted vaguely into the lower obscurity, save in 
 the west, where still lingered a brown smudge of ten- 
 uous vapor. On the highway that wound along the 
 Backbone appeared a moving silhouette that grew 
 slowly into the figure of a man. He stopped and 
 peered about him into the night. On the end of a 
 staff thrown across his shoulder depended a handbag, 
 and in his hand he carried a square, bulky package. 
 This he placed upon the ground and sank with a mo- 
 tion of weariness upon it. There was a dejection on 
 the face of the youth in keeping witli the gloom 
 around him. The toilsome ascent of the hill would 
 
 9 
 
10 ^ii tfte S>&a»oto of &on. 
 
 account for the weariness, but the dejection was out 
 of place on the face of one so young. The cause : He 
 was drinking the first bitter draught from the cup 
 of failure. Thus early in his career he was con- 
 fronted with the question of his worth. The one thing 
 that he had felt that he could do, that his soul cried 
 out to him to do, he had been told was hopeless. It 
 was rebellion at this ultimatum that embittered his 
 soul. His ambition refused to accept its incapacity. 
 He would not acknowledge his disillusionment. For 
 a moment he was oblivious of his environment; he 
 might have been a thousand miles away, for all the 
 impression it made on his brain. Then his jaws shut 
 to with a snap, his clenched hand came down on the 
 bundle with a sharp clack. 
 
 "I will, I will," he cried, determinedly, to the 
 night. 
 
 There was a quick intake of breath and the youth 
 stood erect, an air of defiance, undaunted strength, 
 in the poise of his head as he faced the solitude. The 
 mood of depression had fallen from him. He became 
 keenly alive to the magic of the nocturnal scene. 
 The moon slipped above the horizon and a mystical 
 transformation touched land and sky. The convolu- 
 tions of the slow moving clouds glowed with a soft 
 luminousness ; films of vague light etched fantastic 
 shapes, weird outlines on the inky shadows. From 
 the depths of the valley the tree tops rose up ranks of 
 
3n the @)i)aDato of <9dD. u 
 
 crouching soldiers; the plain stretched a limitless, 
 mist-shrouded sea. 
 
 As he stood here alone, his head among the clouds, 
 his shadow falling into the abyss at his feet, and 
 gazed at the colossal, mystery-touched spaces, he was 
 lifted up out of himself — his imagination glowed, 
 his soul thrilled within him. 
 
 "If I could only put it on canvas," he muttered 
 earnestly. 
 
 He lifted the bag to his shoulder and resumed the 
 journey. 
 
 Some six months before Marvin Garner had gone 
 to 'New York to study art For two years he had 
 hoarded his money, earned teaching coimtry schools, 
 looking forward to this event. During the time he 
 had studied and painted, confident that with a few 
 months of instruction in the city he would be able 
 to make his way. He saw and felt so keenly the 
 strange, wild beauty of the untouched Texas world 
 in which he lived that he did not doubt for a mo- 
 ment that in time he would come adequately to ex- 
 press it in colors. Like all artists he was endowed 
 with a passion to create, and his soul was eager for 
 tangible expression. He wanted to give the world 
 what he alone could give. His egotism lay in the 
 belief that he had something to give; his reward 
 would be in the world's acceptance of it. 
 
 He had corresponded with officers of the school 
 
12 3n tbt ^baDotti of (S^oO* 
 
 before his departure and had been encouraged and 
 urged to come on. But three months in the metropo- 
 lis saw the end of his resources; then he turned to 
 his teachers for advice, hoping some way might be 
 found for him to earn his keep while he continued 
 his studies. They questioned him, looked over his 
 work, — a few figures, drawings from models and still 
 life, — shook their heads and advised him to return 
 to the West and teaching. Where there was unusual 
 talent help sometimes was forthcoming, but his case 
 was not promising. With warm regrets and a cold 
 touch of the hand he was dismissed. 
 
 Mechanically he found his way to the street, stood 
 in the din and bustle, stunned. ^tsTever before had it 
 occurred to him to question his powers. Always it 
 had been only a matter of time and work. To hear 
 himself pronounced incompetent, to be weighed in 
 the balance and found wanting, to have the divine 
 spark he had cherised pale into an ignis fatuus, 
 froze, momentarily, all the springs of his life. 
 
 While his mother had not sought to persuade him 
 from the artistic venture, he knew that she thought 
 it unwise. But his father had tried every means to 
 turn him from his purpose. "A wild goose chase" 
 had been the words used in referring to his visit to 
 the city. That his parents had been justified in their 
 disapproval added poignancy to his defeat. His 
 pride rebelled at the thought of writing home for 
 
3n tbc @{)aDDbi of <S^oD. 13 
 
 money with which to return, so he had been forced 
 to tramp the streets for days looking for work. At 
 length he found a position in a factory, where for 
 weeks he stood ten hours a day at a wheel and wound 
 wire into bed springs. But when the necessary funds 
 had been realized, though at the expense of great 
 bodily suffering, his pride was intact. 
 
 Now as he swung along the Backbone he recalled 
 the incidents of his brief, ill-stared career in the city. 
 While realizing that an end had been put to his 
 hopes, at least for some years, he still rejoiced that 
 he had made the venture. It had been worth while — 
 worth the price of his humiliation. He had had a 
 glimpse of the world — the great world of which he 
 had dreamed, and life could never be the same to him 
 again. He had seen the works of the great masters 
 and now had a standard by which to measure his 
 own efforts. Having recovered from the passing 
 mortification of the return, his spirits began to grow 
 bouyant He still believed in the goodwill of fate. 
 Then he did a strange thing. He took from his 
 pocket a square bit of lace, lifted it above his eyes, 
 where it fluttered a moment, a strange night motE, 
 pressed it gently to his lips and returned it to his 
 bosom. Again he became oblivious of the night and 
 the solitude. 
 
 There broke upon the quiet the rumble of a slow- 
 moving wagon. Marvin turned and glanced along 
 
14 3n tfte ©ftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 the way he had just traversed. A cotton wagon 
 lurched into view on the brow of the divide. Then 
 there floated on the air the words of the old song he 
 had heard his father sing so often at family prayer: 
 
 "How firm a foundation ye saints of the Lord, 
 Is laid for your faith in His excellent word." 
 
 As the words echoed and re-echoed in the depths of 
 the valley, he found himself revising the last two 
 into "wonderful world." Why should man go to 
 books for his faith, with the great world of sky and 
 earth hugging him to its bosom ? If one would only 
 open his eyes; only listen? What a wonderful God 
 to have made it all. Something out of the grey im- 
 mensity seemed to move, to touch him. He felt as 
 if in the presence of a sentient thing — this vague, 
 mysterious, shadowy expanse. If he could only catch 
 the subtle, evasive spirit that pervaded it, that stirred 
 the imagination, quickened the pulses, proclaimed 
 the God behind and in it all. Faith is easy to youth 
 and immaturity, though often but a pagan, panthe- 
 istic faith. But Marvin, looking back to that night 
 across the gulf of years, would have fain clothed him- 
 self again in that faith, that immaturity, but failed. 
 There are some journeys the soul may take that can- 
 not be retraced. 
 
 "Hello," said the man, friendlily from the wagon, 
 as he overtook the pedestrian. "Would you like a lift V 
 
Kn tfte ©ftaDoto of <©oB* i5 
 
 "Thank you," returned Marvin, making a place 
 for his bundles and climbing over the wheel to the 
 side of the stranger. 
 
 "Which way are you travelling?'' ^ 
 
 "Toward Diamond," answered Marvin, eyeing the 
 great, angular, bearded Samson. 
 
 "You're in luck. I live two miles the other side, 
 but I stop there to unload some freight IVe got fer 
 Gamer." 
 
 "He's my father." 
 
 "You don't say ?" He turned and looked the other 
 over. "Well, that's a new one on me. Always 
 heard he didn't have but one son ?" 
 
 "He hasn't." 
 
 "You ain't that picher son of his, now, air you ?" 
 
 A smile came onto Marvin's face that banished the 
 last trace of his unhappy mood. 
 
 "I guess hungry son would be more truthful." 
 
 The man hesitated, then fished a lunch-box from 
 beneath the seat. 
 
 "Xo, thank you," said Marvin, anticipating him; 
 "I'll soon be home now, and I'll not trouble you." 
 
 The driver pushed back the box. "I guess you're 
 wise to do so, though you might 'a' found a bite to 
 stay yer stomach. Herd you'd gone to Noo York to 
 make pichers?" 
 
 "I did. I'm returning." 
 
 "How'd you find the bizness?" 
 
16 M tbt ^gaDoto of &ott. 
 
 "Flourishing/^ 
 
 "You like it?" 
 
 "It is great/' 
 
 "Now, ain't it curious though how you find one 
 feller wanting to do this an' the other feller that ? I 
 take it it's a way Providence has a-leadin' men, 
 keepin' 'em, as it were, from trespassin' on each other 
 an' crowdin' the persuits. Though it do seem as all 
 the youngsters in our parts feel called to turn 'em- 
 selves into lawyers an' doctors — Providence er no 
 providence ; an' some of them ain't no more fittin' 'n 
 me. I tell 'em they've jest got a call to git outen the 
 6un." He threw back his head and laughed, his 
 turft of beard projecting a luminous brush into the 
 moonlight. "Curious though the different talents 
 Providence gives folks. But it's jest in keepin' with 
 the rest of his workin's — he works it 'bout right. See 
 how he moves in the hearts of men — an' wimin fer 
 that matter — ^makin' one fall in love here an' ernother 
 there. It's a wise foresight er, as the feller said, 
 'everybody might want my wife,' then the devil 'ud 
 be to pay." 
 
 He slashed the reins across the backs of the horses 
 and guffawed. The thought came to Marvin that 
 even Providence was not always successful in steer- 
 ing men clear of entanglements along that line, but 
 be remained silent. 
 
 "They sajr you air no common kind of a picher 
 
In tbt %|^aDotti of eon, 17 
 
 taker — make 'em with yer own hands — trees an^ 
 rocks an' the sky an' prairie ? Now curious, ain't it ? 
 But if Providence gives you a talent to make them 
 kinds of pichers, why, I guess he meant fer you to 
 make 'em." He hesitated a space, then continued 
 haltingly, as if -he were not sure of the propriety of 
 his confidences. "If the Lord's bestowed one of his 
 talents on me, an' I ain't shore he has, it would be 
 to preach" 
 
 "To preach?" 
 
 The other detected the note of surprise in Mar- 
 vin's voice, and hastened to add, "l^one yer circuit- 
 riders er station preachers er elders; jest a licensed 
 exhorter. I may have the talent an' then I mayn't. 
 If I have I wouldn't like to keep it wrapped in a 
 napkin, as the Scripchers says.'* 
 
 "Have you made an effort to develop your talent ?" 
 
 "Well, yes, I reckin so. Talk in prayer-meetin' 
 an' love-feasts, exhort the mourners — with demon- 
 stration of the spirit, if I do say it — ^but I've tried 
 fer license twice an' failed." 
 
 "Try again," said Marvin, encouragingly. He 
 felt a sudden sympathy going out to this crude, ig- 
 norant man who sought to realize the longing of his 
 soul. They were brothers in misfortune. 
 
 "What's your name ?" he asked. 
 
 "Oliver—Will Oliver." 
 
 "Well, I have enjoyed the ride, Mr. Oliver. Our 
 
18 an tbe @)t)aDott3 of &ot. 
 
 ambitions are not so different, after all. You want 
 to tell about a God you get from a book, I want to 
 paint a God I find in Nature. If you decide to try 
 for license again Fll be glad to help you." 
 
 "Oh, I'm tryin' agin — can't keep my candle hid 
 under a bushel, an* I'll 'predate yer help." 
 
 The Backbone dipped toward the valley and the 
 lights of the village blinked timidly through the 
 moonlight. Marvin clambered from the wagon, ask- 
 ing that his luggage be left at the store. It occurred 
 to him as a good way to prepare his parents for his 
 unannounced return. 
 
 The vehicle rattled on, and he swung down the 
 road in a long easy stride. The ride had rested him, 
 and somehow the companionship revived his spirits 
 like a tonic. The road made a detour and brought to 
 view a square of uncultivated ground. It was called 
 here a graveyard, and the headstones glistened white 
 in a tangle of decaying vegetation. He stopped and 
 gazed into the enclosure. He was studying the play 
 of light and shadow that here made an exquisite etch- 
 ing in black and white. The significance of the 
 ghostly slabs did not penetrate just yet to his intelli- 
 gence. He threw open the gate and entered. As he 
 sat on a broken stone his thoughts drifted future- 
 ward. In that direction the outlook was confused, 
 perplexing. The avenues of endeavor were limited; 
 there was but one thing unalterably fixed — somehow 
 
3n tfie SftaDoto of ©on* i9 
 
 he would find time to paint. He wondered vaguely 
 what the hidden years held in store for him, but the 
 wildest flight of his imagination brought back no in- 
 tuitions of the time when he would rest again upon 
 this same spot, a man ten years older, who instead of 
 seeking vainly to look beyond to-day's horizon, would 
 kneel at a newly carved monument and shed futile 
 tears as in regret he retraced the years. 
 
20 3n ttit ^fiaDotai of <$oD. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 When Marvin turned where the road, now a wire- 
 fenced lane, :^idened into the one street of Diamond, a 
 lone beacon flickered into the night. The tread of his 
 feet sounded preternaturally. With the roar of Broad- 
 way still in his ears, the quiet became almost audible. 
 How good to see the sky-line, to watch the moon rid- 
 ing the heavens. For a moment he was almost glad 
 he was home again. 
 
 Presently his eyes rested on two motionless figures 
 in the shadow of a porch; then there was a quick 
 movement, a sharp clack as a gate swung open — the 
 next moment his mother clung to his neck, kissed his 
 cheeks, a-tremble with joy. 
 
 "Son, what a glad surprise you gave us." 
 
 If there was a rival that could deflect Marvin from 
 art it now rested on his bosom. His love for his 
 mother was a passion. She led him to the door 
 where his father stood waiting. Mr. Garner gave 
 his son a hearty greeting, and, stooping, brushed his 
 cheek with his bearded lips, a formality he had clung 
 to, though otherwise undemonstrative toward his son. 
 
 When Marvin followed his parents into the house, 
 
In tijc %|)aDotD of &oti. 21 
 
 Aunt Molly, a derelict of a past order of things, 
 greeted him with a motherly hug. 
 
 "Bress yeh soul, honey, et do my eyes good to see 
 you ehgin. You ain't change a bit." 
 
 Supper had been prepared and Aunt Molly has- 
 tened to put it before him. Then feigning some 
 errand to the kitchen, retired, leaving him alone with 
 his mother. 
 
 There was a momentary silence. Mrs. Gamer's 
 intuitions, unerring where her son was concerned, 
 had already divined the reason of his return. And 
 while rejoicing in her soul at what she interpreted 
 as its prophetic significance, with rare delicacy re- 
 frained from any word or question that might reveal 
 to him that she knew. With motherly tact she soon 
 had him at his ease, and, forgetting himself, he 
 plunged with her into the w^hirl of the great metrop- 
 olis; bringing to her imagination vivid pictures of 
 its streets, crash of traffic, skyscrapers, ship-laden 
 rivers, and most vividly of all the wonderful gal- 
 leries where hung the works of the masters. But 
 there was a touch of regret in his voice as he closed 
 the glowing recital. 
 
 "But I had to give it up." 
 "Son, perhaps it will be for the best." 
 With his mother everything was for the best. 
 Often he had been irritated at her unreasoning opti- 
 mism, but now he answered cheerfully. 
 
"Well, I should hope so." 
 
 When his mother left him alone the door to the 
 kitchen was slowly opened and a colored head pro- 
 truded dubiously. 
 
 "Come in, Aunt Molly.*' 
 
 "Whar'syo'maT 
 
 "Gone up to see about my room.'' 
 
 Aunt Molly heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes in 
 a way that indicated great disturbance of mind. 
 
 "What is it, Aunt Molly ?" said Marvin, encourag- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Mistah Marvin, you sho' has a great raysponsible- 
 ness — you sho' has." She paused to note the effect 
 of her words. 
 
 "How's that. Aunt Molly?" 
 
 "No, sah, wouldn't hab no sech raysponsibleness 
 on dese shoulders," and she gave those expansive 
 knobs of fat a deprecating shrug. 
 
 Marvin refused to gratify her by further show of 
 curiosity. 
 
 "I refuhs to that anjil mother ob yo'n — ^you don't 
 half suspicion dat mother you got." 
 
 "But not an angel for a long time, I hope." 
 
 "Yes, sah, I knows what you mean, but I'z done 
 an' recluded dat you don' hab to die foali you's an 
 anjil — ^not yo' mother. Ef you done ain' anjils 
 yere howsomedever you goin' to be anjils in the New 
 'Jerusalem ? No, sah, you jes' go on bein' what you 
 
In ttje g)l)aDoto of ©oD* 23 
 
 wah ober yere, er yer somebody else. Yes, sah, you 
 jes' gits yer wings an' robes of white ober dar. How- 
 somedever hadn't been you done come back yo' 
 mother done be gittin' ready fah de wings an' white 
 rayment. Yes, sah, been griebin' herself to deth 
 while you in de great city " 
 
 "Why, Aunty, she never said a word against my 
 going." 
 
 "N^o, sah, no she ain't ; no, sah, dat ain't her way 
 — ^go makin' trouble an' forcin' her will, but I knows. 
 Yes, sah, she's furd far you in de city. Don' tell 
 me I ain't done seed her griebin' an' griebin'. Ain't 
 I done come on her, time ner gin', when she think 
 nobody roun', cryin' an' prayin' ? Yes, sah, prayin' 
 fah you, an' beggin' de Lord to keep you from de 
 wicked way ob de city an' bring you back speedly. 
 Yes, sah, dat's what she say — speedly, an' her 
 prayer done been answered, an' you done come." 
 
 "But, Aunty, you know I was coming back ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know, sometime, maybe so, sometime, but 
 yo' mother say speedly, an' yere you is. The Lord's 
 'quainted wid dat mother ob yo'n. She jes' talk to 
 him like he right dar, an' he done hear her. Yes, 
 sah, if you don' love an' cherish dat mother ob yo'n 
 de Lord goin' to sen' some great calamty, he sho' is. 
 ^ow, I's done said it," she broke off abruptly, as 
 she turned to the dishes, with the air of having got 
 well rid of an unpleasant duty. 
 
24: 3n tfte ©ftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 Marvin's room was a little nest up near the roof, 
 and when he entered it he found it just as he had 
 left it five months before. His palette, whittled out 
 of a white pine board, his easel and brushes en- 
 crusted with paint, had remained untouched ; but the 
 crude pictures his mother had decorated with mat 
 and cardboard frames and hung on the wall. A 
 Bible had been placed conspicuously on the table, re- 
 placing the one his mother had slipped into his grip. 
 His window opened onto the valley, and he looked 
 out into the glory of the moonlight He felt a sudden 
 depression as if some unseen force was seeking to 
 influence him against his will. The words of Aunt 
 Molly had stuck in his ears. "Yes, speedily, that's 
 what she said." Could a mother's prayers cripple a 
 son's ambition? Was it possible God had anything 
 to do with his failure? Did he concern himself in 
 the affairs of unknown, struggling youths ? He had 
 never thought of the matter in this light before. 
 While religion had never made any special appeal to 
 him he had unquestioningly accepted what he had 
 been taught. But this new phase of it caused him to 
 wonder, to think. Was man after all a mere puppet 
 in the hands of the All-Powerf ul ? Could the God 
 who had seemed to speak to him on Devil's Backbone 
 exult in compassing his humiliation? Would he 
 have to take him into partnership if he succeeded in 
 art? Suppose his prayers should clash with his 
 
In tht %6alioiu of ©oD* 25 
 
 mother's? He became confused. He would try to 
 think it out sometime. A great drowsiness overcame 
 him and he fell asleep, the rasping voice of Will 
 Oliver dinning in his ears, "ITo, I ain't goin' to bury 
 my talent." 
 
26 3n tjbe @)i)aSoto of aoo^ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The following morning Marvin sat by the open 
 window gazing down the valley that yawned at his 
 feet. Across the black farmland workmen plodded 
 slowly, turning up endless glistening furrows to the 
 sun. Beyond, Devil's Backbone lifted its bald head 
 against the cold sky. As he looked he fell to ques- 
 tioning — why was he so out of harmony with the 
 life around him ? from whence came the dominating 
 instinct that obsessed him ? But he must go to work. 
 The world must see the great Texas he loved through 
 his eyes. There would be years of labor, perhaps 
 disappointments — ^but then ! Some day he would be 
 hailed as the new Corot, the untaught Millet of the 
 West. He was impatient to begin. But there was 
 a restraining hand on his arm, the pressure of which 
 was to dispel his dreams and fill his life with trag- 
 edy. His mother's arms slipped about his neck, her 
 lips were warm against his cheek. 
 
 "Why, son, you are most a man. I — ^I can feel 
 it." 
 
 "Yes, I must shave. '* 
 
 He turned and kissed her. How he loved this 
 timid mother of his. How proud she would be when 
 
3n tbt @f)aDoto of <SoD» 27 
 
 he had proven his powers. If he could lead her 
 through the Metropolitan, let her see what it meant 
 to be an artist? Perhaps he would some day. He 
 pulled her onto his knee, and holding her in his 
 strong arms motioned toward the valley. 
 
 "Look down there, ma," he said. "Some day I'll 
 have it all on canvas." 
 
 A look of fear came into her eyes. She became 
 suddenly sober, distressed. Then she said falter- 
 ingly: 
 
 "Son, don't you think it is more beautiful just as 
 it is?" She struggled from him and sank into a 
 rocker at his side. 
 
 "You mean unpainted?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, gazing to where the shadow of a 
 cloud flitted like a sinitser ghost across the radiance 
 of the fields. 
 
 "But, ma, none but blind eyes see it," he insisted. 
 "Think of it — there are hundreds who would gladly 
 give thousands of dollars for the landscape from this 
 window. But it is not just what you see that I'd 
 catch, but what it suggests — the mysterious some- 
 thing that fills the imagination wath thoughts — 
 thoughts of the wonderful God that moves in it all. 
 I can't express it — if you don't understand already 
 I can't make you understand," he said hopelessly. 
 
 "Son, I think I do understand, a little." The un- 
 easiness had gone from her eyes ; a glad light kindled 
 
in their depths. '^I think I know how you feel. 'Nsl- 
 ture often moves me in that way. But, son, God in 
 Nature is cold, illusive, impersonal. It is not in 
 hill and sky that He speaks plainest to the soul. His 
 nature, His attitude toward man, is revealed only 
 in His Son. If you would look to him w^ith the same 
 eagerness, openness of mind, that you bestow upon 
 the works of His hand, IleM come into your heart, 
 so fill it with love for Him that you'd long to cry 
 it out to the world. How much more noble to tell 
 of His mercy, goodness, forgiveness, love, to poor, 
 lost, sinful men than to paint the most beautiful pic- 
 tures ?" 
 
 She paused, her eyes searchingly on his face. But 
 he made no response. The full import of her words 
 had not yet dawned upon him. Somehow he always 
 felt embarrassed when his mother spoke to him in 
 this intimate way of religion. 
 
 "IVe thought, son, forgive me for speaking 
 plainly, perhaps I ought to have spoken sooner, that 
 this impulse you seem to have toward art is a mis- 
 taken one. What you feel and do not understand is 
 the Holy Spirit leading you toward a higher call- 
 ing." 
 
 Marvin understood now. The revelation came like 
 a shock. His imagination caught up the idea, turned 
 it about and viewed it in a dozen different lights. 
 
3n tl)e ©fiaDoto of &ot}. 29 
 
 Already he saw himself grotesque, bizarre, in the 
 role of preacher — the thought was r(Jpulsive. 
 
 ''Ma, it isn't possible — ^you can't mean that I 
 ought to preach?" 
 
 ''Yes, son, I feel as sure of it as I do that you are 
 here by my side and not in the faraway wicked city." 
 
 "But, ma, ought we not to do what we love to do ? 
 — what Nature seems to have meant for us to do?" 
 
 "Yes, son, that sounds plausible. But if we should 
 always do the things we love to do where would it 
 lead us ? The higher duties of life call for some sac- 
 rifice. Where would fallen man be to-day if Christ 
 had thought only of His own comfort, had not given 
 himself, even unto death, for us ? We must take up 
 our cross." 
 
 She moved her chair nearer and let her head rest 
 on his arm. 
 
 "Son, I am going to tell you why I am sure you 
 ought to preach, and why I have never spoken to you 
 before. When you were a babe, just beginning to 
 toddle about, a session of the annual conference was 
 held in the town where we lived. Bishop Marvin, 
 for whom you are named, presided. Your father 
 and I had the honor to entertain him. When he 
 arrived you had been sick some days. You rapidly 
 gi-ew worse, and all hope of your recovery had been 
 despaired of. We watched over you day and night 
 
30 3n ttt SftaDoto of &oi, 
 
 expecting the end at any moment. One morning at 
 the close of prayers, the Bishop asked if he might 
 see you. We led him to where you lay, feebly gasp- 
 ing for breath, your life flickering out. The Bishop 
 stood a moment looking do\vn at you silently, then 
 he took you in his arms and, lifting his fine thought- 
 ful eyes as if looking into the very face of God, 
 prayed for your life. Listen, son, these are his 
 words; they have never ceased to echo in my ears 
 and make music in my heart : ^Father, spare the life 
 of this babe, and, if it is thy will, call him into thy 
 holy ministry.' From that hour you began to re- 
 cover, and before the conference was ended you were 
 being tossed in the Bishop's arms and toddled at 
 his heels. Son, it seemed like a miracle, and IVe 
 felt that the Lord meant you to be a preacher. We 
 have never mentioned the incident for we did not 
 wish to influence your mind till you were old enough 
 to think for yourself. But all these years your f atlier 
 and I have not let a day pass that we did not add 
 our prayers to that of the Bishop. I did not oppose 
 your going to ^N'ew York for I felt that it might in 
 some way help you to a decision in the choice of 
 your life-work. When you returned so unexpectedly 
 I hoped that you might have given up art, and 
 thought it time for you to know what has been so 
 long in our ininds." 
 
 Marvin's chin had dropped to his hands. He still 
 
In tbt ©fiaDoto of ©oD^ si 
 
 stared fixedly into the sunlit spaces. His mother 
 Irose and stood a moment uncertainly. "Son, for- 
 give me if — if yon think I should have spoken 
 sooner." She bent and kissed him, and, turning, 
 glided softly away. 
 
 Marvin still thought upon his mother's revelation 
 and sought to face the new problem, when his father's 
 broad shoulders and great head of hair crossed his 
 line of vision. He had scarcely moved since his 
 mother left him an hour ago. Mr. Garner stopped 
 in the door hesitatingly, regarding his son. He 
 seemed to divine what had transpired. Marvin 
 looked up constrainedly, but turned again quickly to 
 the window. His father moved across the room to an 
 opposite one. Far beyond a stretch of sombre fields 
 and woods the brown prairie swelled onto the sky. 
 He fell to watching some cattle as they came single 
 file over the divide — their horns protruding at first 
 mysteriously, then the outline slowly growing till the 
 animal stood a black silhouette — to quickly pass from 
 sight. Though thinking of his son, searching for 
 words to express that which he w^ished to say, the 
 thought intruded on his mind — how like it was to 
 life. We emerge out of darkness, stand for a mo- 
 ment fullgrown in the light, then pass into the "val- 
 ley of the shadow." He turned with sudden resolve, 
 walked to his son and threw himself into the chair 
 his wife had lately vacated. 
 
32 3n tht %i)a&otti of <&»oD. 
 
 "Marvin, your mother has spoken to you?'' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Don't act hastily, son. Take plenty of time to 
 think it over. I wouldn't like to see you make a mis- 
 take that might spoil your life. Life at best is so 
 very short, so unsatisfactory, that we should seek to 
 make the most of it In making a choice of a career 
 we should keep in view what will be best for us and 
 others in the long run, in the end." 
 
 There was a silence. Then Mr. Garner rose halt- 
 ingly and walked back and forth the room; stood a 
 space looking down on the drooping figure, then 
 turned slowly and left his son alone with his 
 thoughts. 
 
3n tht 9)|baDotai of <$oD* 33 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 At the edge of a little farm, two miles across the 
 valley from Diamond, late one afternoon a shirt- 
 sleeved man worked havoc among the trees, the sound 
 of his ax ringing sharply on the air. His sleeves 
 were rolled back above his elbows, and as he lifted his 
 arm for the telling stroke the muscles bunched into 
 quivering knobs; his shock of yellow hair flared in 
 the wind. He was tall, straight of spine, the outline 
 of his erect figure, from the point of his shoulders to 
 his feet, forming a great letter V. His sun-tanned 
 features were coarse like the lineaments of a stone 
 statute; his movements suggested a large, well-built, 
 healthy animal. As he toiled, a pungent odor exuded 
 from his person into the air. He lopped the branches 
 from the felled tree and gathered them into conical- 
 shaped heaps. A number of these already dotted the 
 open between the trees — pigmy huts, soon to be- 
 come lurking places for night prowlers, isles of ref- 
 uge for the sorely pressed cottontail. Alongside these 
 were oblong stacks of cordwood, the red hearts of the 
 split oak giving a touch of color to the predominating 
 duns and browns. 
 
 Occasionally the woodman paused, leaning on the 
 
34 3n tfte ®J)aDoto of ©oO, 
 
 handle of his ax as he measured with calculating eye 
 the cords of wood. During one of these rests he 
 turned toward the west to ascertain the time of day, 
 his hand stretched out toward the horizon that 
 showed beneath the sun. As he drew it back he saw 
 a footman approaching from the direction of tjie vil- 
 lage. He stood a moment regarding him, then with 
 an air of recognition, he hastily put on his hat and 
 coat and advanced to meet him. 
 
 "Well, if it ain't Mr. Marvin," he exclaimed in a 
 loud bass, a broad grin gashing his face. He was evi- 
 dently pleased at the unexpected visit. 
 
 "I hope you ain't come up yere to make my 
 picher/' he said crushing the extended hand. 
 
 "^No, not to paint you ; I want to talk to you. Let 
 us sit do\vn." 
 
 They returned to the fallen log into which Oliver 
 had just sunk his ax to the helve. The odor of 
 bruised twigs, mold, new earth, and freshly cut wood 
 was in the air. Marvin's eyes wandered to the cabin 
 and he took in in a half -seeing way the activities of 
 small life going on there. Towheaded children ran 
 in and out the door, gazing curiously tow^ard the men 
 in the w^oods. Occasionally a form darkened the 
 window, and in a quavering treble the words, "Come 
 to the fountain filled with blood," floated out on the 
 ,evening. A pagan wail of superstition that still 
 vitally echoed down the closing years of the nine- 
 
In tfie SfiaDoto of ©oD» 35 
 
 teenth century, and would continue to echo — how 
 long? 
 
 "I want to know just how you felt, Mr. Oliver, 
 when you first thought you ought to preach ?" Marvin 
 hegan. 
 
 Oliver felt complimented. "Jest call me Bill; I 
 ain't never got used to nothin' else — less'n it's Brother 
 Will," he said meekly enough, but beginning to swell 
 with self-importance at finding himself an object of 
 interest. He took a damp plug of tobacco from his 
 hip-pocket and offered it to his visitor. But being 
 refused he liberally filled his own mouth. He was 
 not going to enter upon the recital of so important a 
 subject as his spiritual experiences without proper 
 nourishment. 
 
 "Well, Brother Marvin, it was an awful feelin'. 
 For a long time I didn't know what was the matter. 
 I seemed to lose interest in everything ; felt like some- 
 thing turrible was goin* to happen, and had bad 
 dreams nights. It went on that way fer months, then 
 one Sunday, while I was listening to Parson Hardy, 
 it flashed over me Vz called to preach, an' the feelin' 
 I had was jest the movin' of the Spirit. I spoke to 
 the parson an' he said it might be I had jest been 
 neglectin' my duty; that if I had a call there 
 wouldn't be no gettin' away from it. Well, I took 
 up my duty, but I didn't git no better, but I kept 
 procrastinatin'j thinkin' shorely the Lord wouldn't 
 
36 an tbt ^i)alioto of ($oD. 
 
 call an ignorant feller like me — I didn't feel fittin' 
 to preach. Then 'bout that time I met Mary an' 
 fell in love. After that the carnal man got the upper 
 hand of me, an' I didn't think of nothin' but Mary 
 till we got married. Then the Spirit seemed to 
 leave me. I got so at ease in Zion I couldn't 'a' felt 
 miserable if I had tried. Well, Tom come, an' the 
 nex' year Lulu, an' my min' was so taken up with 
 worldly things I fergot all 'bout religin an' the call. 
 Why, fer two year me an' Mary never went to a 
 camp-meetin'. Then there come 'long one fall the 
 'vangelist Clark from Dallas an' begin a revival over 
 on Brushy. The neighborhood went wild over him. 
 Me an' Mary drove over one night, more outen curi- 
 osity then fer any spiritual good. It was a wonder- 
 ful meetin'. The Spirit got hoi' of me agin, an' 
 'fore I knowed what I was doin' I'z standin' among 
 the mourners shoutin' an' exhortin'. Then I felt 
 shore I had the call. As I tol' you on Backbone 
 t'other night Tve tried twice fer license an' failed. 
 Maybe the Lord's jest puttin' obstacles in the way to 
 try my faith ; but I'm studyin' an' I'm goin' to try 
 agin." 
 
 He paused to note the effect of his experiences. 
 The sun was setting red on the rim of the valley, a 
 fringe of denude trees etching a black arabesque on 
 its disk. A long yellow bar shot athwart the gloom- 
 ing spaces, penetrated for moment the shadows of 
 
3n tbt ^t)aDoto of &oU, 37 
 
 the woods and illuminated the speaker's face. His 
 head was thrown back in sober poise, his ox eyes 
 glowed with earnest seriousness, the lines of his face 
 spoke a pathetic sincerity. Marvin almost envied 
 him. 
 
 "No, I ain't got no gifts er education fer the regu- 
 lar work, but if Vz jest a licensed exhorter, I'd be 
 the happiest man alive." 
 
 "I hope you will succeed next time. Brother Will. 
 Come over and perhaps we can study together," Mar- 
 vin said, rising. 
 
 Oliver watched him picking his way through the 
 underbrush till lost to 'view in the shadows; then 
 throwing his ax across his shoulder, he swung to- 
 ward the cabin, singing lustily, "How firm a founda- 
 tion." 
 
 Half-way the distance to the village, Marvin was 
 confronted with the almost perpendicular side of one 
 of the bare limestone mounds common to that section. 
 The path wound around its base, but he chose to climb 
 the barrier. In his present state of mind any physical 
 exertion was welcomed. Following one of the many 
 cow trails he soon emerged on its summit, and stood 
 a moment a black isolated column. The dome above 
 was filled with dense, opaque mist, and there was a 
 stillness in the air that presaged change. Somewhere 
 in the obscurity broke the staccato squak of geese 
 fleeing southward. 
 
38 3n tfte SiftaDoto of (SoD* 
 
 He sat down and peered into the dark. Up to this 
 time he had held in abeyance the final decision con- 
 cerning his future. The revelation of his mother 
 brought him face to face with unreckoned problems 
 that clamored for some solution. Here in this iso- 
 lated spot he would find the answer. Alone on the 
 mountain top, in the very presence of God. 
 
 Until a few days ago he had accepted religion as 
 he found it — blindly, loyally, unquestioningly. He 
 had not sought to pry into the way of it or delve into 
 its foundations. Now new phases of it confronted 
 him. God's personal interference in the life of the 
 individual challenged his faith. With all the egotism 
 of youth and temperament he had not assumed that 
 he was of so much value. How confused he became 
 when he thought of it. How confusing to God it 
 must be listening to all the prayers that welled up 
 from the millions of earth. Did he hear them ? And 
 hearing, did He pick and choose those He would 
 heed ? selecting one to honor and another to dishonor ? 
 humiliating this one, exalting that? Could one 
 fathom the secret of His rule of procedure ? deter- 
 mine if he fell among the favored? The time-old 
 problems — problems the theologians have given their 
 lives seeking to make plain, only to confuse in clouds 
 of obscurity — rose to baffle him, sink him deeper in 
 the mire. If God was going to order his life in spite 
 of him, why pray at all ? To be just He must do the 
 
3n tfie %)f)aDoto of <SJoa* 39 
 
 same with every life. Then if a man became a mur- 
 derer or thief, who was to blame ? Was it God who 
 kept Will Oliver from the ministry ? was forcing him 
 into it against his will? Was someone outpraying 
 Oliver? Was it possible if he prayed fervently 
 enough to prevail over his mother's prayers, and God 
 would make him a great artist instead of the preacher 
 that the Bishop and his parents had prayed that he 
 might become ? Was there a balance of power in the 
 amount of prayer? Could he by persistency over- 
 take, annul the years of prayer prayed while he was 
 helpless? Why should God put it in a man to love 
 one thing and damn him if he did not do something 
 else — something else that was repulsive — that he 
 could not do ? If he chose art God would checkmate 
 him, bring him to abject failure, damn his soul. 
 If he chose the ministry it seemed to him life would 
 not be worth while, damnation preferable. He had 
 gone over it again and again to always arrive in per- 
 plexity at the same blank wall. But he would not 
 leave this spot till the matter was settled. He pro- 
 jected his mind into the future and saw himself in 
 the role of preacher — a circuit-rider, going his rounds 
 horseback, his saddle-bags stuffed with books, preach- 
 ing in the bleak chapels, schoolhouses, under brush 
 arbors. As a town preacher, Sunday after Sunday 
 looking into the same faces, telling the same story; 
 he even imagined himself clothed with the authority 
 
^0 M tbt ^a Dotal of <&^oD. 
 
 of the presiding elder, moving a man of influence and 
 power throughout the country, but the picture only 
 filled him with repugnance ; then over against it was 
 that other picture that had burned itself into the very 
 texture of his soul — an artist among artists ; his pic- 
 tures in the homes of the great, in the galleries of the 
 world, his name among the immortals. No circum- 
 scribed honor must be his — his sphere of conquest 
 must be the world. Then before him, blotting out 
 the other pictures, rose his mother^s face with the 
 deep yearning eyes, grappling his soul^ moving him 
 against his will. She knew God, she talked to Him 
 face to face ; she it was who could bring him speedily 
 from afar to her side. There was no escaping her 
 intimacy with God. Had not God spared his life for 
 this very purpose ? Why did the Bishop interfere ? 
 why did he not die ? It was wrong, cruel, to take 
 advantage of a helpless, dying babe. He threw him- 
 self prone upon the ground, his face buried in his 
 hands. He was filled with unutterable woe. There 
 was borne to him through the night an etherialized 
 voice — a voice that seemed to speak to him from the 
 clouds. 
 
 "When through the deep waters I call thee to go 
 The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow." 
 
 He listened intently, wonderingly; then ceased to 
 reason. His imagination centered on his mother. 
 
3n tbt ^batjoto of (StoO* 4i 
 
 He saw her watching over him through the long 
 nights as he tottered on the borderland ; the look on 
 her face as the Bishop lifted him in his arms; saw 
 her through the years kneeling night after night alone 
 with God, praying, praying — always one prayer. 
 How her face would shine if he could go and tell her 
 the prayer was answered. Perhaps his teachers were 
 right ; his dream of art was a delusion. What if he 
 should succeed, become a great artist, and break his 
 mother's heart? Gain the whole world and lose his 
 own soul ? What would weigh in the balance against 
 the love of his mother ? She had borne him, nursed 
 him, he was bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh, his 
 very brain and blood were a part of her. 
 
 '^O God, I can't, I can't !" he cried. 
 
 He was now on his back, his eyes straining into the 
 dark. At last he seemed to feel the spell of his moth- 
 er's prayers, the silent kneeling form would not away, 
 her presence overwhelmed him. 
 
 "God help me, help me!" he moaned, desperate, 
 distraught. And the answer came in quavering dim- 
 enuendo. 
 
 "I'll never — no, never — no, never forsake " 
 
 then silence, and darkness, and the lone mountain 
 top. 
 
 An hour later he rose from the ground. His limbs 
 were numb with cold and his clothes dropped moist- 
 ure^ but he did not know. He went swinging blithely 
 
42 3n the ©fialioto of ©on* 
 
 along, tossing aside the bushes, whistling a snatcH 
 of nmsic-hall song that he had picked up in he city, 
 and was not conscious of its incongruity. The incu- 
 bus had fallen from his brain and he was conscious 
 only of an eagerness for the warmth of his home and 
 the presence of his mother. 
 
 His parents were waiting him. They looked up 
 relieved when he entered. 
 
 "Son, where have you been ? We could not imagine 
 what was keeping you.'* 
 
 He threw off his hat and sat down with the air 
 of a man who has just made a safe harbor, and is 
 glad. *'I've been up to see Will Oliver. We are 
 going to study for the ministry." 
 
 His mother gave a little joyous cry, tears coming 
 into her eyes. His father's face lit up. 
 
 "Son, you have made a wise choice," he said. 
 
 Before Mrs. Garner went to sleep that night she 
 said to her husband: 
 
 "I'll never doubt again that God answers prayer." 
 
 "Then pray that he become a bishop," returned 
 her husband. 
 
9n tlje ^jbaDoto of (S^oti. '43 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 There is nothing bleaker, less inviting to the in- 
 stinct of worship, or less calculated to rouse the es- 
 thetic and spiritual sensibilities than the "meetin' 
 house" that once dotted the settlements of the West- 
 ern prairies, and even yet linger in obscure places, 
 reminders of the stern fiber of the religious pioneer's 
 soul that needed not the stimuli of stained-glass and 
 pipe organ to coax it en rapport with the Unseen. 
 
 To one of these rude structures, crowning an emi- 
 nence, stark against the sky, could be seen converging 
 some months later on a raw December day, horsemen, 
 farm wagons, dilapidated buggies. In one of the 
 vehicles of the better kind travelled Marvin Garner 
 and his pastor, Rev. Stewart !N"elson. The Rev. 
 IN'elson was short and stocky. His sallow, flabby 
 cheeks had the appearance of having once been 
 bloated, but now succumbed to some inevitable 
 shrinking process in keeping with the downgrade of 
 his fortune. His pale blue eyes had a weary look 
 that persistently sought to appear deceptively cheer- 
 ful. In fact, a perennial good humor was Rev. Nel- 
 son's stock-in-trade. He seemed to realize his defi- 
 ciencies in those gifts that appealed to and win the 
 
^4^ 3tt m ®{)aDoto of (Sob* 
 
 hearts of the faithful — eloquence, power in prayer, 
 commanding presence. So he strove to make amends 
 in unfailing good fellowship — to amuse and enter- 
 tain. He was successful, but like all success it came 
 at the price of great effort. 'No one suspected the 
 cost of that easily wreathing, faded countenance, the 
 jolly word, the unheard of joke. But Nelson knew, 
 and often while he made merry for those who de- 
 manded merriment his thoughts were with an invalid 
 wife, a houseful of half-fed, half-clothed children — 
 and he must laugh and make others laugh or they go 
 hungry. His support, meager as it was, depended 
 upon his ability to please, and please he did. But 
 no one, not even his wife, knew that he as regularly 
 studied his Piick as he did his Bible preparatory to 
 a visit among his people. And how often that suc- 
 coring PucJc, and many of its ilk — the novel, the 
 Sunday paper, were dangled before their eyes in 
 scathing denunciation as vanity of vanities, off- 
 springs of the devil, wolves in sheep's clothing steal- 
 ing into the homes to desecrate its sanctity, destroy 
 its children. 
 
 O ye unknown punster, ye modem jester, fool! a 
 paeon to you — ^you who win the minister's flock, give 
 point to the orator's platitudes, make clever the din- 
 ner talk, embellish the scientist's lecture, help the 
 multitude recover from the Sunday sermon, coaxing 
 us to smile when the heart is sad — ^let others filch 
 
In tbt ®|)aDoti3 of (Son. 'is 
 
 your wit, hold you up to contempt; we praise and 
 envy you — ^you unsung fools! 
 
 To-day was the occasion of the Brushy quarterly 
 conference. Marvin and his pastor tied their horses 
 to the low-hanging branches of a live-oak and turned 
 toward the chapel. Two woe-begone figures stood be- 
 fore the door. They faced each other in conversa- 
 tion, occasionally glancing toward the house fear- 
 fully, as if within lurked some threatening foe. The 
 ogre was Presiding Elder May; the uneasy youths 
 were candidates for the ministry — Will Oliver and 
 J. Martin Nichols. 
 
 Once in the semi-darkness of the unceiled walls, 
 and the eye had grown used to the obscurity, a mass- 
 ive, silent form in the pulpit challenged attention. 
 The Elder was broad of girth, with round bullet head 
 of closely cropped hair. Two ferret eyes looked over 
 the round, well-fed cheeks, and from their outer angle 
 there radiated fanshaped fields of weblike wrinkles. 
 The dignity of his office sat heavily upon him. He 
 was a good man. A man of convictions, though nar- 
 row ones. Few men can be broader than their hori- 
 zon, and his was not broad. His knowledge was 
 small, but the pity of it was not in its smallness, but 
 in its wrongness. But his limitations, perhaps, the 
 better fitted him for his sphere. A religious pioneer, 
 exerting a restraining influence, sowing seed best 
 fitted to the soil he farmed ; but who can say how long 
 
46 3n tfie ^ftalioto of ©oD^ 
 
 those seed will go on multiplying, cumbering the 
 ground, when it has become ripe for a richer sow- 
 ing? 
 
 He rose and "lined" a hymn in a deep, sonorous 
 voice. The congregation sang it leisurely, laggingly, 
 treasuring the words as rich morsels under the 
 tongue. The couplet finished, he flung them another, 
 and thus antiphonally they slowly plodded through 
 the verses. After a prayer, that in its comprehensive- 
 ness took in "before time was," all time to come, all 
 things animate and inanimate, up to and including 
 the trembling recruits, the business of the day was 
 taken up and dispatched. The important item was a 
 report of the Elder's and pastor's salaries. Puch's 
 jokes had made good. 
 
 The candidates were given seats of honor facing 
 the pulpit, and the examination into their fitness was 
 begun. It was meager enough, but not too meager to 
 fill one aspirant's soul with terror. Marvin had 
 spent many nights preparing Oliver for this ordeal; 
 but the memory of other failures played havoc with 
 any measure of knowledge that might have been 
 instilled. 
 
 "Brother Oliver, what is gender ?" 
 
 Brother Oliver straightened up, scratching his 
 head in perplexity. "Gender? yes, gender — who is 
 
 gender? Yes, I know — ^gender " He assumed 
 
 a sudden affectionate attitude toward his neighbor, 
 
In tfte ©ftaDoto of &oU. 47 
 
 caught desperately at the whispered words — "gender 
 — why — to be shore — gender. Gender is the differ- 
 ence between sex." He sank back relieved, mopping 
 his brow with a red bandanna. 
 
 "You have the idea — ^denotes the distinction in 
 sex/ I believe is the way Smith puts it. Now, 
 Brother Oliver, tell me to which gender you belong V^ 
 
 Oliver's eyes fairly started from his head; he 
 leaned sidewise again painfully, betrayingly. "Me 
 
 — ^gender — which gender I belong '' He searched 
 
 his brain in vain. Then he remembered. Brother 
 Marvin drilled him on that, it was coming back to 
 him — common — neuter — neuter — now, which was 
 it ? He became confused, but at last looked up beam- 
 ingly. "Gender — me ? Why, to be shore — I'm com- 
 mon gender." 
 
 At last the examination came to an end. Oliver's 
 dream was realized. He was licensed to exhort. He 
 was cast down with humility. He hugged the slip 
 of paper giving him man's permission to do what 
 he believed God wanted him to do, but without which 
 he dared not do, as a miser would hug a sack of gold. 
 It was the final, the unquestionable proof of his call 
 — the paper was in his pocket and he could free his 
 talent from its swaddling clothes, throw the napkin 
 to the winds ; he was as he expected to be — the hap- 
 piest man alive. He bubbled over with gratitude. 
 He loved everybody and everything. 
 
48 3n tbt 9|)alioto of (SkiO. 
 
 PAET TWO. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 'A March sun poured floods of yellow light over the 
 black level stretches of farmland. The great oval 
 dome that shut down on it glistened like blue crys- 
 tal; but high in the wide spaces and over the land- 
 scape swept a fierce commotion in which still lingered 
 the bite of winter. 
 
 Marvin buttoned his overcoat closer, encouraged 
 his horse to quicken his pace, and wished himself at 
 the end of the journey. Presently he turned from the 
 road and stopped at a rude cabin. A bareheaded, 
 bearded man, followed by numerous towheaded prog- 
 eny, stepped out the door at his approach and re- 
 garded him with curious interest. 
 
 "I want to go to Whiterock schoolhouse, and I'm 
 not sure Pm on the right road ?" Marvin inquired. 
 
 "Yes, you'r O. K. Keep straight ahead till you 
 come to the next turn; take the left hand — it runs 
 right to the door. Something goin' on over there 
 to-day ?" the stranger asked. 
 
 "Preaching," Marvin replied. Then it struck him 
 
In tbt ^I)aDota3 of <$oD* '^9 
 
 that this man might be one of his flock and he ought 
 to be more specific. It was possible he had not heard 
 of his "appointment." 
 
 "I'm the new circuit-rider," he hastened to add. 
 "I wrote my steward, Mr. Simons, that I'd preach 
 there to-day." 
 
 "Hadn't heard," said the other, evidently disap- 
 pointed, turning to go. 
 
 "I'd be glad to have you come over and hear me 
 sometime," said Marvin, cordially. Instinctively he 
 felt that the man did not have an exalted opinion 
 of the cloth. It piqued him. He would like to show 
 him that his generalization was based on too scant a 
 showing — there were preachers and preachers. 
 
 "Oh, I'm much obliged to you." The stranger 
 turned and faced the horseman again. "But if you 
 want to know the truth, Parson, I don't take no stock 
 in religin an' religin don't take no stock in me. You'r 
 a stranger er you wouldn't ask Bill Hinkle over to 
 yer meetin'. I'd stampede yer flock, shore. 01' 
 Parson Hightower's done prayed me into hell five 
 year ago. No, if you want to stand in with the 
 pillars fight shy of Bill Hinkle an' his crowd." 
 
 "Mr. Hinkle, my name is Garner. I am glad I 
 met you. I like your frankness, and I'd like to see 
 more of you. If you won't come to hear me preach 
 may I come over to see you sometime ? I'll promise 
 not to talk religion — unless you say so." 
 
50 3n tbt ©fiaDoto of &ot, 
 
 Hinkle was pleased at this unexpected friendliness. 
 But it was against his principles to make any show 
 of compromise with things religious since he had 
 been so summarily disposed of. Then it flashed into 
 his mind that here was an opportunity to get revenge 
 on his Elisha. By cultivating the young preacher 
 he woidd spite Parson Ilightower and perhaps cause 
 dissension in the fold. 
 
 "Well, now, if you ain't furd of the consequences, 
 you'll find me roun' ycre most any day 'tendin' to 
 my own bizness. Farmin' an' horseracin' is my 
 lines." 
 
 "Thank you," said Marvin. He rode nearer and 
 offered his hand. Hinkle took it, looking the other 
 over dubiously. "Goodbye, Mr. Hinkle, and you 
 may look for me." 
 
 The weeks slipped by. Spring was stealing over 
 the land, and the hedges and meadows were veiled in 
 a faint green mist. One evening at this time, Mar- 
 vin sat thoughtfully at the window of his rude study. 
 Across the line of his vision plowmen moved back 
 and forth, back and forth. He faced the west and 
 as their gaunt, black figures crept against the red 
 glow of the sky, he thought of them, millions of 
 others, toiling from sun to sun, in heat and cold, that 
 they might feed and clothe themselves and keep up 
 the toil — and in the end, perhaps, burn in a lake of 
 fire and brimstone forever, for he had not yet come 
 
In tbt @){)aDoto of (Son* si 
 
 to question the dogmas taught at that ime. He felt 
 a great pity stir within him, not dreaming that the 
 objects of it were happier than he. Happy in their 
 ignorance and narrowness, for they were not con- 
 scious of either. That only by bringing to them 
 knowledge and a wider vision would they be filled 
 with unrest Perhaps the happiest are those who 
 keep nearest to the ground, who live closest within 
 the round of the animal functions. But did God in- 
 tend that man should be happy ? 
 
 Marvin rose, put on his hat, and struck across the 
 fields. During the months he had been in Whiterock 
 he had made good his word to Bill Hinkle. In fact, 
 he had come to find in that individuaFs frank orig- 
 inality an unexpected source of entertainment It 
 was toward his farm that he now turned his steps. 
 Already he could see him across the black levels 
 crawling behind his plow. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Hinkle." 
 
 "Hello, Parson," the other said, lifting the plow 
 from the furrow and scraping the clinging dirt from 
 its point. He turned it on its side and stood facing 
 his visitor. "Glad to see you," he said. 
 
 "You won't let me interfere with your work, Mr. 
 Hinkle?" Marvin began tentatively. 
 
 "Oh, I'm always ready for an excuse to take a 
 rest. There ain't no danger of Bill Hinkle ever 
 workin' hisself to death." 
 
52 an tU %|^aOotti of &ot}. 
 
 '^Yet they tell me that you are one of the best 
 farmers on Whiterock." 
 
 There was a movement of Hinkle's beard that told 
 of a hidden smile. 
 
 "Well, I don't know. When a man has a wife and 
 a houseful of children to support he nacherly does 
 his darndest, but he don't deserve no credit fer that. 
 I guess, though, you've heard a good many things 
 'bout Hinkle you wouldn't care to mention to his 
 face?" 
 
 "!N'o, Mr. Hinkle, nothing you have not told me." 
 
 "Guess ol' Parson Hightower ain't been doin' his 
 duty, then." 
 
 "But I have wondered, Mr. Hinkle, what you 
 farmers think of as you work alone all day in the 
 fields." 
 
 "Well, Parson, I wouldn't like to slander my 
 neighbor, so I couldn't speak fer nobody but myself." 
 
 "Then suppose you speak for yourself?" 
 
 "If you put it that way, I reckin I might 'commer- 
 date you, an' I'm as 'commerdatin' as the next, if it 
 don't hit my pocket too hard. I don't keep no tab 
 on my headpiece, but I guess mostly I wonder 'bout 
 the seasons — if there'U be too much rain er too 
 little — how cotton an' corn will turn out ; if I'll 
 make enough to pay my store account, keep the stock 
 through the winter an' feed an' clothe my family ; an' 
 
3fn tfie ^fiaDoto of (S5oD» 63 
 
 you know there's a new mouth an* little red squirmin' 
 body comin' regular as spring." 
 
 He looked up, a sly twinkle in his eye, to see how 
 the Parson was taking his confidences. "If my wife 
 keeps it up same's she's been doin' last ten years, 
 Hinkles '11 be as plenty as blackbirds. But I guess 
 
 she ain't no more to blame than I am " He 
 
 looked down sheepishly in spite of his evident inten- 
 tion of embarrassing the youth. He kicked his foot 
 into a clod. "When you git enough, Parson, jest 
 say so.' 
 
 "It's very interesting — go on." 
 
 "Well, Parson, to be square with you, I think 'bout 
 my children biggest part of the time — 'bout their 
 schoolin' an' what's goin' to become of them. Edju- 
 cation conies higher every year with all the outlandish 
 books they put children to studyin' nowaday. Though 
 I can't see they'r any better fer it. But you can't 
 tell, an' I give 'em every chanct — maybe Mary will 
 turn out a teacher er Bill take to the law er docterin' 
   — an' I think 'bout all that. Then when the sun goes 
 down an' I crawl on ol' Jack there an' start fer home, 
 I think of the cornbread bakin' an' ham fryin' an' 
 coffee boilin', till I can almost taste 'em; an' the 
 children crowdin' roun' me, remindin' me of different 
 
 sizes of myself, an' the baby in my lap, an' " he 
 
 hesitated, — "an' the long night of sleep an' rest — 
 
54 M m g)6aOoto of ©oD* 
 
 an' " He burst into a wide-mouth laugh. 
 
 "Pshaw, Parson, this sounds foolish. I guess I think 
 a little 'bout everything — things come an' go in 
 yer head till you can't keep track of 'em. Most of 
 the time I ain't really thinkin'; I'm jest tendin' to 
 my bizness, watchin the harness, whippin' up the 
 horses, turnin' the corners, lookin' at the dirt curl 
 off the plow. Often I fergit everything, an' when I 
 come to myself it seems I'd jest woke from a dream, 
 an' jest goin' roun' an' roun' the field like a dead 
 man er a machine — I guess it's mostly that way." 
 He paused, his face sober. Taking a fresh chew of 
 tobacco he looked up. "That 'bout covers the 
 ground, Parson, less'n I'd touch on the subject you 
 said we wouldn't discuss." 
 
 "Religion, you mean ? Do you think about that ?" 
 "Well, I guess, nacherly, a feller would think 'bout 
 what's done put 'im in hell. An' I don't mind talkin' 
 to you. You'r different from the preachers 'bout 
 yere. Somehow you make me feel you really care a 
 little fer Bill Hinkle, an' not jest after gittin' him 
 to jine the church an' go through some rigamarole to 
 save his soul when he dies. I think 'bout that a good 
 deal, off an' on, an' I have concluded I'm not in- 
 vestin' much in the grave. I'm interested in Bill 
 Hinkle an' his family now. Woudn't want to hurt 
 yer feelin's. Parson, but if you want my honest opin- 
 ion, I don't have much respect fer the God they 
 
3n tht ^liaDobi of <S^aD. 55 
 
 preach 'bout yere. Why, I wouldn't treat a dog like 
 He did that feller Adam fer eatin' the apple. They 
 say He was so mad 'bout it He had to kill a son to git 
 hisself in a good humor with the rest of us pore devils 
 who didn't have a chanct at the apple. Why, it would 
 be jest as sensible fer me to whip all my ten kids fer 
 the fault of one, not to speak of killin' one to git 
 myself in a good humor. An' it seems the Son's dyin' 
 was a failure after all, fer you've got to be converted 
 an' baptized an' jine the church er you'll be damned 
 jest the same. An' then you'd have to have it done 
 by all the churches to make shore you'd wake up in 
 kingdom come. Must 'a' been a God of some kind 
 to 'a' started things, but I'd stake my last dollar the 
 one that made this world an' man never was guilty 
 of no sech tomfoolery." 
 
 He paused, but Marvin remained silent. 
 
 "I think ol' Hightower would be disappointed if 
 I happened to miss hell, he's been perdictin' an' pro- 
 nouncin' curses on me so long. You see it happened 
 this way. At one of his big meetin's he ast all who 
 wanted to go to heaven to stan' up. Well, everybody 
 stood up but me an' a han'ful on the back benches. 
 That seemed to rile Hightower, an' pintin' to us an' 
 callin' us pore deluded fools, he thundered out if 
 we wanted to go to hell, to rise. Well, it was too 
 great a chanct to let slip, an' I rose up an' tol' him I 
 did, that it looked like the other place was goin' to 
 
56 an tbt %t^tio\jo of (S^oD. 
 
 be too crowded. An' to rub it in, I ast him to pray 
 fer me to 'rive safe. Well, it 'most broke up the 
 meetin'. But he took me at my word an' prayed most 
 onmerciful fer my eternal damnation in the fire 
 that's never quenched — an' somethin' 'bout the worm 
 that never dies. But I've got the joke on him. I tell 
 him I'm shore of the other place fer I've never 
 knowed one of his prayers to be answered. But we 
 git 'long first rate — belong to the same lodge, tell 
 each other yarns, an' 'casionally I give him a dollar 
 fer the missionary." 
 
Hn ti)e ^I)aDoU) of <£^dD* 57 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 The hedges hung wilted under the vertical rays of 
 the August sun, grey with a film of dust that set- 
 tled on them from the highway. The face of the 
 country was a dark green expanse of languidly rus- 
 tling corn and drooping cotton. They were silent 
 and deserted now save where a bird panted in the 
 shadows of rank stalks or a rabbit, made bold by the 
 stillness, hopped cautiously along the rows. 
 
 Along the black road, men on foot and horseback 
 crawled slowly through the white glare toward a 
 common point. This was Hunt's woods, the scene of 
 the annual camp-meeting. Here in the centre of a 
 small clearing stood a great framework of tree trunks 
 covered with decaying boughs and leaves — a great 
 elevated brush heap. It was this that the men came 
 to rehabilitate. Already the early arrivals squatted 
 about on the ground, smoking as they engaged in 
 desultory conversation. Two wagons, with high side- 
 boards, stood in the shadows of the trees. Others 
 joined the group at intervals with friendly greetings 
 and bantering remarks. 
 
 "Well, yere he comes at last," said one of the men, 
 rising. "Now, we'll git to work." 
 
58 3tt tfte SbaUoto of ©oti^ 
 
 "Yes, it's Barton." There was a movement of 
 "welcomed activity. 
 
 "Well, boys,'' said the individual, coming up; "I 
 see you air watin' as usual. Best crowd of waiters I 
 ever seen." 
 
 "None yer jokes. Barton, er we'll send you home. 
 We knowed we'd have to do everything over when 
 you come, so we didn't do it. This ain't a day to 
 throw away yer energy on extra work." 
 
 "Well, that excuse ain't good no longer. Let's git 
 at it. Yer boys git a move on you — we'll need a 
 couple loads of bresh time you git it yere." 
 
 The wagon manned by two overgrown youths, 
 rolled into the woods. The men under Barton's di- 
 rections began to demolish the decayed roof. 
 
 "Wouldn't like to be hard on the Lord's anointed, 
 but the last man that held forth yere was a weak 
 brother," said Barton, standing in the shade of the 
 trees and looking up at the men. 
 
 "Bloodsworth, you mean ? Well, he had his pints. 
 "Not every parson is cut out fer camp-meetin' work. 
 Then he'd jest married him a wife, an' you can for- 
 give a man a good deal under them circumstances." 
 
 The speaker was a tall, angular, bony faced man, 
 with a scant beard. 
 
 "There you begin the ol' song, Jones," said a little 
 wiry fellow, from his perch on one of the cross-beams, 
 talking over an armful of brush. "Always blamin' 
 
3n tbt ©fia Dotal of <eoD* so 
 
 it on the wimin. Anyway you can't make that excuse 
 fer Brother Garner." 
 
 "Ko; an' I doubt if I ever will, Banks. There's 
 a man that thinks of nothin' but savin' souls — then 
 he's too sensible. I think it 'uz time the conference 
 was sendin' us some one who can mix it with the 
 other preachers. ^N'ot a parson that makes Whiterock 
 gits better crowds 'n he does." 
 
 "Well, you know my opinion of Garner. He's one 
 in a thousand. Hadn't been he's jest beginnin' we'd 
 never got 'im, an' it'll be jest like 'em to move him at 
 the end of the year," said Barton. 
 
 A little stocky man, with a mop of white beard, 
 interrupted in a cracked voice. 
 
 "Sensible er not, an' with all his vartues, I guess 
 you'll find Garner's a man. An' Jones'll find he'll 
 be fallin' in love an' maryin' like the rest of us as be 
 nacheral men " 
 
 "Right you air Hunt," said the voice from the 
 roof. "They never git so wrapped up in savin' souls 
 that somebody in the shape of a female don't come 
 'long, sooner er later, an' wake up the flesh. I ain't 
 sayin' it's anything agin him. The Lord made us 
 that way — preachers same as the rest. Then the 
 Scripchers says ^increase an' multiply.' Men like 
 Jones yere don't count Why the good Lord lets 
 sech specimens be bom is a miracle of extravagance — 
 jest a wastin' of his power. An' what 'ud become of 
 
60 3n tbt @)i)atiDb] of <9oD« 
 
 the race if we all shirked our duty like he does, the 
 Lord only knows." 
 
 There was a chorus of approvals. 
 
 "Good thing you air out of reach, Jim Banks ; an' 
 a good Christian you air, slanderin 'a man to his 
 face. It makes me blush fer you. If you knowed it 
 you'r better cut out fer pilin' bresh then usin' yer 
 headpiece." 
 
 What might have been an interminable personal 
 bandinage w^as cut short by the arrival of the wagons 
 piled high with freshly lopped boughs. When they 
 were emptied, the conversation was set goin' by one 
 of the workers heretofore silent. 
 
 "Speakin' of Brother Garner, I guess Brother Bar- 
 ton 'bout took his measure — he's one in a thousand. 
 To know a man you want to live with him when he 
 ain't got on his Sunday clothes. Well, I've lived 
 with him all week an' listened to him preach on Sun- 
 day, an' he preaches better in the home than in the 
 pulpit If I ever seen a man of prayer he's one. 
 Many's the time my wife's gone to his room, thinkin' 
 he's out, an' foun' him on his knees. An' he pours 
 over his books day an' night. Weren't fer sustainin' 
 grace he couldn't stand the strain. Sally says if she 
 ever gits religin it'll be at his meetin'. Yes, if the 
 Lord don't bless his labors, the fault will be with the 
 Lord, fer he's shorely a marvel of grace." 
 
 "An' you do right in tellin' us Hays. It ain't no 
 
In tU ^tiaDoto of aoQ« 6i 
 
 betrayin' of confidence, an' it do raise a man in yer 
 estimation to hear them as knows 'im best speak high 
 of him. An' one could 'a' gussed from his sermons 
 he's a man of prayer — though 't ain't always fine 
 words that makes fine deeds." 
 
 "An' yet," said Hunt; "Parson Hightower says 
 his sermons lack meat. He don't stress the doctrines ; 
 though he do tell movin' stories an' make you see 
 pichers. It's doctrine that counts. Without 'em we'd 
 might as well belong to any other of the sects. What 
 our youngsters need to bring 'em to repentance is fire 
 an' brimstone. They w^ant to be dangled over hell 
 till they smell it burnin'. I ain't sayin' nothin' agin 
 Brother Marvin's preachin', fer it's shorely edifyin', 
 but it lacks the doctrines. But he's young an' will 
 likely take 'em on in time." 
 
 "Well, I guess the main thing is savin' souls, an' 
 if pichers an' stories w^ill do it, I say let's have 'em. 
 Parson Hightower's had his try, an' you can't say 
 he ain't give us plenty doctrine an' hell fire. Why, 
 he's already prayed Hinkle " 
 
 "To the devil," broke in a deep voice behind the 
 men. They looked up in consternation. They were 
 superstitious enough to feel uneasy at the unlooked 
 for interruption. Banks, from his eminence, whose 
 outlook Avas limited to the trees and the outlying fields, 
 was taken so by surprise, thinking the voice came 
 from the sky, that he lost his balance and fell head- 
 
62 an tht @{)aDoto of (S^oQ. 
 
 long into the brush. But the men's incipient fear was 
 quickly allayed. Turning, they discovered Hinkle 
 at the edge of the woods writhing in silent laughter. 
 
 "Talk of angels an' you'll hear the rustle of their 
 wings," said Jones, facetiously, as Hinkle ap- 
 proached. 
 
 "You look more like you'd smelt the breath of the 
 forked-tongue. Though you know I don't believe in 
 neither." 
 
 "Now, we'll have it," said Banks, recovering his 
 feet and flinging a bough at the newcomer, as he 
 peered down from his perch. 
 
 "Hello, Banks," said Hinkle, glancing upward to 
 the speaker outlined against a white cloud. "I'd 
 think you'd feel embarrassed up so close to heaven ?" 
 
 "None yer irreverence, Hinkle," said Jones. 
 
 "Don't talk to me of irreverence after what I've 
 heard. I ain't questionin' the powerfulness an' good 
 intentions of yer God. I ain't sayin' He can't save 
 souls through Bloodsworth an' Hightower, with er 
 without doctrine, which is what you do. You seem 
 to have great faith in the Lord usin' Garner in savin' 
 the lost as you call 'em, but what you mean is that 
 you've great faith in Parson Garner usin' the Lord. 
 The power is all in the man. Yer God can't git up a 
 whimper 'thout 'im " 
 
 "Blasphemy, blasphemy I Wonder the Lord don't 
 
Jn tbt ^I)aDott3 of ®oD* ea 
 
 strike you down in yer tracks, Bill Hinkle," pro- 
 tested old man Barton. 
 
 "Fer sayin' what you think ? But he don't — takes 
 a man to do that, an' none of you air goin' to let God 
 use you that way — ^you know Hinkle too well. I 
 notice God don't make you do what you don't 
 like " 
 
 ''Give 'im rope," interrupted Barton; "he'll hang 
 hisself." 
 
 "Course, I'm standin' yere sizzlin' 'cause I like it," 
 said Banks, sarcastically. 
 
 "What makes you do it ?" 
 
 "The hope of savin' sinners like you from a hotter 
 place than this." 
 
 "Good fer you, Banks," said Jones, elated. "Give 
 'im ernother.' 
 
 "Down at Greenville Crossin' while ago," went on 
 Hinkle, unheedingly, "I passed Elder Savage an' a 
 batch of Campbellites cleanin' out the long hole, an' 
 when I ast 'em what they'z doin' in the water they 
 said jest what you did. Banks, 'Goin' to save ten 
 sinners like you, Hinkle'; an' the Baptists up at 
 Union, an' the Hardshells over at Firm Foundation, 
 an' the Presbyterians on Everlastin' Hill, an' the 
 Sanctificationists over on the prairie, air all goin' to 
 open up 'long the same lines. All savin' sinners an' 
 Samnin' everybody that ain't saved their way, an' it's 
 
6^ 3n tbt &i)atioto of <S^oD. 
 
 all the doin's of the Lord to let them tell it. Now, 
 suppose Bill Hinkle takes a notion to be saved, 
 where'd he go? Which outfit can give him a clear 
 title to kingdom come ? Which can give Bill Hinkle 
 what he ain't already got ? Who'd trust Hinkle any 
 quicker after he got up from the mourner's bench 
 shoutin' glory, er crawled out of the creek with salva- 
 tion drippin' from him, er went up respectable an' 
 give his han' to the parson, believin' he's one of the 
 elected an' chosen from before the foundation " 
 
 "Bill you'r a regular Jannes an' Jambres kind of 
 a feller — settin' yerself agin the truth," said Jones. 
 
 "I'm not 'quainted with the team," said Hinkle, 
 sarcastically ; "but I'm glad to hear I ain't the only 
 sensible man hereabout." 
 
 "Bill, you've missed yer callin' — ^you 's cut out fer 
 a spouter; but you sing a mighty ol' song. I guess 
 there's ten thousand in hell to-day that said jest what 
 you've said, an' repentin' when it's too late, jest as 
 you'll do," said Hays, reprovingly. 
 
 "Yes, Bill, you ought to rig up an arbor an' start 
 a meetin' of yer own — you'd " 
 
 "Too many fools," Hinkle returned with good 
 humored hopelessness. 
 
 "Present company excepted, of course," said Jones. 
 
 "No ; there's no fools yere, an' you'd never find it 
 out if there was, Jones. But this will never do men," 
 he broke off ; "argyfyin' never built a tabernickle yet. 
 
In tbt ^dDotai of &on. ^ 
 
 Let's git to work," and he began tossing up the boughs. 
 
 "You'r the queerest feller I ever seen, Bill," said 
 Banks. "You don't believe half you say. Yere you 
 been a hour makin' light of the Lord's work an' now 
 you turn right roun' an' begin to help it on." 
 
 "I ain't doin' this fer the Lord; it's fer Garner. 
 He's a man. I take stock in men. I'll bet my ol' hat 
 he knocks the socks off any meetin' in the neighbor- 
 hood. Yes, I'm bettin' on Garner. When a man like 
 that gits hoi' of God he does something with 'im." 
 
 "Bill Hinkle, that's the worst word Brother Gar- 
 ner's got yet. I'm 'fraid something must be wrong 
 with 'im after all. I hope not, but " 
 
 The arrival of another load of brush turned the 
 conversation into other channels. 
 
 All the afternoon they worked industriously con- 
 structing the primitive temple, moved by the same 
 instincts, impulses, that inspired men ten centuries 
 before to build rude altars and offer sacrifices. 
 
 At last the sun blazed in its firey course down the 
 heavens, dropped a red disk in the green fields, rolled 
 from sight, leaving behind it a bloody wake ; but not 
 more sanguinary than the path over which had 
 travelled the religion of these men. 
 
 "Boys, that's the best arbor we've ever had at 
 Whiterock," said Barton, puffing a cloud of smoke 
 from his freshly lighted pipe. 
 
66 3n tbt ^baDota) of <S^oD* 
 
 "An' the best man you ever had at Whiterock '11 
 preach in it," returned Hinkle. 
 
 "An' the devil's own '11 be yere to hear 'im," said 
 Jones. 
 
 "Jones fer once you speak better'n you know," said 
 Hinkle. 
 
 "Well, I hope Brother Garner'll convert 'em — 
 'long with Hinkle," said Banks, conciliatingly. 
 
 They began to disperse. Rising with slow, stiff- 
 ened movements they walked off in the gathering 
 dusk, singly, in groups; their pipes trailing an acrid 
 incense on the air. 
 
 The arbor stood a huge top-heavy spider; its roof 
 projecting on the sky a thousand gasping, writhing 
 tentacles. 
 
3n tfie ©ftaDoto of (SoD* 67 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The camp-meeting had been in progress some days. 
 The arbor that was the pride of Barton could no 
 longer shelter the throngs that nightly were drawn 
 to it. He and his satelites were exultant. Already 
 they were winning people from the competing serv- 
 ices a few miles distant by force of their greater 
 crowds, enthusiasm and popularity of their preacher. 
 To-night Marvin sought the seclusion of the 
 woods for a season of prayer. As he knelt in the 
 dark there floated on the air the hum and bustle of 
 the camp — fragments of conversation, cries and 
 laughter of children, neighing of horses, the rattle of 
 cooking utensils. Far across the fields, where, the 
 last few days, there seemed to brood a mystical, faith- 
 compelling sombreness, to those who could see and 
 feel, there sounded the rumble of wagons, the quick 
 beat of hurrying hoofs, the steed of some wild youth 
 who hastened to the scene of the religious exhibition. 
 Perhaps the personality of the preacher, the crowd, 
 the sermon, the presence of a face, would win his 
 allegiance and faith, and make of him a life-long 
 partisan of a dogma the import of which he would 
 never understand. 
 
ed Jn tfie %|)aDoto of &ot. 
 
 But the notes of the activities going on about him 
 struck upon an unresponsive ear; Marvin's whole 
 being was concentrated in a mighty besiegment of 
 the All-Powerful. He demanded a definite token of 
 recognition. He must have tangible proof from the 
 Unseen. The burden of his prayer was, "Give me 
 fifty souls — give me Bill Hinkle — to-night." He 
 looked up, his wide-open eyes straining into the 
 dark. Through rifts in the foliage he saw a patch 
 of sky, one white star glinted in his face. He gazed 
 at it as if it might be the eye of God; then, like a 
 throb of the pulses, the supreme egotism and pre- 
 sumption of his demands flashed through his mind. 
 He, an obscure, ignorant youth, who was an object of 
 interest to only a few hundred people, to a father and 
 mother miles away, seeking to influence, put to the 
 test, the God who created the universe, flung the 
 worlds and planets into space and held them eternally 
 in their orbits. Could that being heed any cry he 
 might send up from this silent spot in the woods ? He 
 fell on his face groaning in spirit against the thought. 
 It was the devil assaulting him. He remembered the 
 temptation on the mount, and cried, "Get thee behind 
 me, satan." Persuaded himself that he did not 
 doubt; insisted to his soul that he did have faith, 
 that God would hear him. As he lay on the damp 
 mould, he found himself listening to the small sounds 
 in the woods — the birds flitting in the treetops ; rab- 
 
In tfte §){)aDotP of aoD» 69 
 
 bits hopping on the dead leaves ; popping of branches, 
 that began to straighten with the cool of night. He 
 felt something cold on his hand and drew it back with 
 an instinctive sense of fear. Then an awkward pup 
 of precocious growth began to jump fawningly onto 
 his knee. It pleased him to take this unlooked for ap- 
 pearance as a hopeful omen. The insistent friendli- 
 ness of the pup appealed to his mood. God had 
 made it too. He was conscious of a sudden kinship, 
 of a tenderness going out to it, going out to all 
 created things. In his soul there throbbed an all- 
 compassing love. He drew the wriggling cub to him 
 and pressed it a moment to his bosom. Ah, the dumb 
 animals. What part did they play in the plans of 
 God ? Were they left helpless to a blind fate ? Did 
 God not concern himself with the lowest of his 
 creatures ? Did he give them no instinct of worship ? 
 no voice to speak to him ? to tell of their woes ? to ask 
 for his intervention? Was it to the powerful alone 
 he gave ear, laid bare his arm, reversed his laws, 
 worked his miracles ? Were the poor, helpless things 
 that creep and crawl at the mercy of all the higher 
 orders above them? He rose and hastened from the 
 trees. He must get away from his thoughts. 
 
 When he reached the open he could see the throng 
 already surging into the tabernacle, the torch-lights 
 throwing their shadows in grotesque shapes against 
 the foliage and dark expanse of sky. A subdued 
 
70 3n tfte SiftaDPto of (©oD* 
 
 rumble of voices rose from the multitude. There 
 floated on the air the odor of fresh dirt, burning 
 wood, decaying vegetation, stale food, and an acrid 
 smell of animals. In the dark sounded the stamping 
 of feet, neighing of horses, staccato yelp of dogs, 
 prowling for the oifal of the camp. 
 
 At Marvin's appearance some one started a camp- 
 meeting tune that was eagerly caught up by the wor- 
 shipers and grew in volume till it drowned all other 
 sounds. When it was finished, he rose and stood a 
 moment silently looking down upon the upturned 
 faces, his tall form a black silhouette against the glare 
 of light. There was an expectant hush. Then he 
 spoke ; his clear magnetic voice ringing musically. In 
 simple, forceful words he pictured vividly, as with 
 stroke of skilled brush, the doom of the lost, the 
 heaven of the saved. In an earnestness tender with 
 solicitude he pleaded with the sinners to come to the 
 mourners' bench and seek salvation. Talked like a 
 mother persuading a wayward child. So sensitive 
 was his imagination to its own images, he saw them 
 lost — burning forever in unquenchable fires. How 
 he yearned to see them saved. Tears began to roll 
 down his cheeks; with outstretched arms, his body 
 tense with vibrant emotion, he sobbed, ^^Come." 
 
 The effect of the word was electric. He paused. 
 There was a moment of intense silence, then the 
 
In tfie S)6aDoto of <5oD* W 
 
 congregation burst with a mightj assaulting voic« 
 into song: 
 
 "Oh, turn, sinner turn, turn, sinner turn, 
 May the Lord help you turn, 
 Oh, turn, sinner turn, why will you die ?" 
 
 The pentients began to hurry forward with 
 blanched faces, staring eyes, weeping convulsively. 
 Falling at the benches they cried out as if in mortal 
 fear, begging for mercy, groaning, agonizing in 
 shrieks and wails that broke like a bedlam through 
 the din of song. 
 
 Then above the multitude towered a great shaggy 
 head, and Bill Hinkle came forward with steady 
 tread, unabashed, and, shaking Marvin^s hand, 
 dropped in the straw. Following close upon his heels 
 came ten, twenty, thirty young men, and knelt about 
 him. The religious stared in amazement. For an 
 instant they forgot to sing. There broke in every 
 direction shouts of exultation: "Thank he Lord," 
 "Glory to God," "The devil trimbles," from Parson 
 Hightower. Someone started a new tune and they 
 caught it up like things possessed : 
 
 "Shout^ shout, we're gainin' groun', 
 Oh, glory halleujah. 
 The love of Grod is a-comin* down, 
 Oh, glory halleujah." 
 
7^ 3n tfje ©fiaBoto of (Sotr* 
 
 The saved pushed their way among the mourners — 
 trampled them, shouted unintelligable words in their 
 ears, beat them on the back, smothered them in their 
 eagerness to save. Barton and Jones were beside 
 themselves. The Campbellites were routed. There 
 had never been anything like it at Whiterock. If 
 Hinkle "come through" his influence would sweep a 
 hundred into the fold. They went wild in anticipa- 
 tion. They hugged each other, pounded each other, 
 jumped on the benches and shouted "glory" at the 
 top of their voices. The women rushed about scream- 
 ing, throwing themselves in the straw, fainting, going 
 into trances. 
 
 Marvin moved about carried out of himself — he 
 felt possessed of superhuman power. He had but to 
 grasp the hand of a penitent, lift him to his feet, look 
 into his eye and tell him he was saved, to see him 
 break into rejoicing, crying out his deliverance ; some 
 declaring they could see into the very throne of 
 heaven, see the great king seated upon it, hear the 
 angels singing songs of rejoicing. 
 
 Sally Hays was one of the penitents. As Marvin 
 took her hand she threw herself upon his bosom in 
 passionate abandon, clinging to him convulsively. 
 Marvin freed himself as best he could and led her to 
 her mother. But again and again she returned, 
 throwing her arms about him, looking into his eyes, 
 shouting his praises, her gratitude. 
 
In tbt ^{)aDoUi of (S^oD« 73 
 
 Then Bill H inkle rose, flinging his arms right and 
 left, sweeping all obstructions down before him. He 
 grasped his friends and enemies, impartially, in his 
 bear-like embrace, belaboring them unmercifully. 
 They bore it heroically — Hinkle's conversion was 
 unmistakably orthodox. The young men broke into 
 like demonstrations. But as Marvin stood among 
 them proudly, triumphantly, he suddenly fell sober; 
 staggered like one dazed by an unexpected blow. A 
 terrible truth was forced upon him. The odor of 
 spirits that were not holy was strong upon the air. 
 
 Marvin had thought he and God alone were re- 
 sponsible for the great work. But Hinkle knew 
 better. 
 
74 an ti)e @i!)aDota) of &ol}. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Marvin took his seat beside Sally. Mr. Hays gave 
 the sleepy horses a lash, and they rolled into the lane. 
 Marvin still lived in the incidents of the night. 
 Surely his faith had been justified, his prayers an- 
 swered; yet he was overcome with uneasiness and 
 misgiving. A reaction had set in that left him 
 supremely dejected. His success had been his un- 
 doing. It had brought him, instead of confidence and 
 assurance, confusion and doubt. Perhaps it was not 
 wise to seek to deflect the Ruling Powers from their 
 commonplace course of activity. But had he ? When 
 the religious frenzy was raging at its zenith, when 
 souls were being saved by the score, the thought was 
 suddenly borne in upon him: Is this God's work? 
 does he save in this way ? Was not it a fanatical out- 
 burst of pure animal emotion? Why should God 
 plunge men into uncontrolable madness so that they 
 would wound themselves, trample upon others, to be- 
 speak to them his forgiveness ? He sought to dismiss 
 the thought as a temptation of the evil one. All his 
 life he had heard good men and women speak of their 
 entrance upon the religious life through similar ex- 
 periences. Perhaps God allowed good to come out of 
 
3n tbt ©fiaDoto of ©oD* Y5 
 
 evil in his great compassion for human ignorance and 
 weakness. But the doubt came again and again. He 
 knew nothing of psychology, hypnotic suggestion and 
 kindred subjects, and so could not seek in them an 
 explanation of the phenomena. 
 
 Then he thought of Bill Hinkle's unaccoimtable 
 conversion ; of the young men who flocked after him ; 
 of the odor of whiskey. What could be Hinkle's 
 motive ? Would he stop at no irreverence, no humilia- 
 tion of himself, to please him ? Surely God would 
 not resort to such methods to answer prayer, compass 
 his ends. Did God have anything to do with it after 
 all ? — no more than the puppy that licked his hand in 
 the dark. 
 
 When the horses stopped at the gate, Marvin helped 
 Sally and Mrs. Hays to the ground, and hastened to 
 his room. He wanted to be alone. He sank into a 
 chair in deep depression of spirit, vaguely conscious 
 of the movements about him. He could hear the 
 women preparing for bed; the noises at the barn, 
 where Mr. Hays put up his team; the rattle of corn 
 in the trough as he threw them their belated supper ; 
 the slamming of the barn door. He traced his move- 
 ments as he approached the house and entered his 
 wife's room. Then there was silence. He rose, lit a 
 candle and began to undress slowly, moving hesitat- 
 ingly, indefinately, about the room. At last he sat 
 down in his night shirt, his head drooping forward, 
 
T6 3n tfie S){)aDoto of (Soft* 
 
 his eyes on the spot where he was accustomed to kneel 
 before retiring. His mind began to search mechan- 
 ically for petitions he would address to God. It 
 seemed that the generosity of that being had estopped 
 him. He would have to make larger demands. He 
 did not feel equal to it; his enthusiasm was gone — 
 his spirit cold and lifeless. His mood puzzled him. 
 He felt he ought to be alarmed, but was not. After 
 the high tension in which he had lived the past days, 
 it came as a welcomed change. 
 
 As he sat thus, he became aware of a movement at 
 his back. Some one had entered the room. He 
 looked quickly around. A white-robed figure glided 
 across the floor, and Sally stood before him, her eyes 
 staring wildly, her boson rising and falling convul- 
 sively. She threw herself upon him and cried noise- 
 lessly on his breast, her lips against his cheek. A 
 great pity for her rose up within him, mastered him. 
 He thought only of saving the girl from herself, of 
 sparing her the humiliation that he knew would come 
 with the morning. He lifted her in his arms, pushed 
 her into the room and closed the door. For some 
 minutes he stood leaning weak and trembling against 
 the wall, then there was a sudden tumultious response 
 of passion. His blood began to burn through his 
 veins with made impulse. He could still feel the 
 warm embrace, the touch of naked flesh on naked 
 flesh ; the animal had at last responded to the animal. 
 
In tfie ©fiaDoto of <SoB* 17 
 
 He felt himself a fool — a weakling, effeminate. He 
 turned to the door, his hand on the knob — it was not 
 yet too late. Here at last was an impulse that could 
 be calmed, that could find its answer and justification. 
 The door opened to his pressure — from the dark there 
 broke on his ear suppressed, muffled sobs. He closed 
 the door and falling on his knees tried to pray. 
 Again he felt the need of God. Long he lay with his 
 face to the bare floor, muttering incoherently. 
 
78 3n tfte ©ftaDoto of (©oD^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "I tell you, I've had a tough time of it," said J. 
 Martin Nichols, boisterously confidential. "Worked 
 my brain like a Trojan." He had indefinite ideas 
 of Trojan activities, but liked to make the impression 
 that he had a wide acquaintance with literature, and 
 fell frequently into scholarly allusions. "You know 
 I followed one of the biggest preachers in the confer- 
 ence — a regular Demosthenese. He had spoiled the 
 people for anything but the very best. And there I 
 was. You can imagine what a time I had. l^ot a 
 conversion — camp-meeting a regular frost. The 
 spiritual atmosphere at Post Oak is down to zero. 
 Nothing but a bishop would satisfy them af terMcVoy. 
 If you want a snap — follow some fellow that can't 
 preach no better'n a calf, that's made a muddle of 
 things till the people's disgusted — then it's a walk 
 over. You may not preach a little bit, but it's so 
 much better than they're used to they'll praise you 
 to the sky and shell out the money like water. Any- 
 body can succeed in them circumstances." 
 
 Marvin ignored the evident hint at the conditions 
 under which he had labored ; in fact he was too indif- 
 ferent to be moved to resentment. But he was con- 
 
3n tfie Sftanoto of aoD. ro 
 
 scious of a feeling of disappointment. He had envied 
 !N'ichols and Oliver, believing that their entrance into 
 the ministry was free from mixed motives. They 
 at least had the single eye ; were moved solely by the 
 love of the work. He regretted these frank confi- 
 dences, but he could not turn away and he could not 
 stop his friend. 
 
 "But I'm up on the apportionment," Nichols went 
 on exultantly. "And let me tell you — I've learned 
 already that's the main thing. You can save souls by 
 the hundred, preach like a Cicero, but if you don't 
 rustle the money, you're no good. I've had my eyes 
 skinned, I tell you, and the sooner you catch on the 
 better. If you don't want to starve half your life on 
 some Cross Timber mission, stand in with the Elder. 
 Let me tell you how — ^get the money. Learn to 
 preach, but first learn to collect if you want to preach 
 where it's worth while." He edged closer, grasping 
 the lapel of Marvin's coat. "Yes, I have everything 
 in full, but, between us, I had to take ten dollars out 
 of my salary to do it. How you making it ? Ain*t 
 heard a word from you for months." 
 
 As Marvin listened to Nichol's bluster, he found 
 himself wondering if the career upon which he had 
 entered so reluctantly was, after all, simply a matter 
 of livelihood, salary — a scramble for the easy place 
 and best pay? He had not come yet to know that 
 salary is a standard by which man's ability and use- 
 
80 3n tbe S^ftaDoto of <5od* 
 
 fulness are measured. It is not, perhaps, the large 
 salary that men covert, scheme and fight for, but the 
 larger usefulness and responsibility that go with it. 
 A kind of altruistic egotism justifies their aspirations 
 and efforts. 
 
 He regarded his companion in mild surprise; his 
 disappointment slowly deepened into contempt. Ever 
 after he thought of him as shallow, cheap. 
 
 In the vestibule of the church had been improvised 
 a book-stall, on which were displayed Bibles, hymnals, 
 theological and religious works of the denomination. 
 It was an attractive display — the velvety black covers 
 and bright red and gold edges. An odor of printer's 
 ink hovered in the air, touching the imagination with 
 visions of long hours in close intimacy with clean 
 pages and quickening thoughts of a brain long since 
 crumbled into dust. Here was immortality incar- 
 nated in dead cold paper and ink. The flash of the 
 eye and the thrill of the voice were gone, but the 
 spirit still spoke with undying vitality. 
 
 Here, Marvin was attracted one day by a striking 
 personage who stood above a lot of books that hereto- 
 fore had not caught his eye. He stopped to take a 
 closer survey of the man. He was of medium build, 
 of plethoric habit, and his person seemed to radiate a 
 compelling magnetism. A silk hat set jauntily on a 
 round head of closely cropped hair. In his restless 
 eyes there shone a good-humored twinkle. He was 
 
M tht ^liaDoto of aoO« 31 
 
 evidently on the best of terms with himself and the 
 world. Marvin made inquiry, and was glad to learn 
 that he looked upon the well-known, popular and ver- 
 satile Doctor Hill, of whom he had heard much and 
 worshipped from afar. He drew nearer as if to touch 
 the hem of his garment. The Doctor was talking to a 
 crowd that now thronged him. Marvin listened, eager 
 to treasure any pearl that might fall from his eloquent 
 lips. 
 
 "Yes, brethren, take my word for it, it'll save twice 
 the price in doctor's bills. I guarantee three chapters 
 will cure the worst case of blues, melancholy, indis- 
 position; five's a specific for nervousness, insomnia 
 and that tired feeling. Yes, gentlemen, I don't guar- 
 antee it, but I believe the entire book will cure any 
 mild case of insanity — how many copies ? Beg your 
 pardon — that's not what's the matter with you? 
 Well, I wrote it an ought to know — ^buy a copy, read 
 it, if you don't feel better, preach better, love your 
 wife better, come back and get your — wife a copy." 
 
 "Oh, Hill ring off — of course we'll buy a copy. 
 Anything, if you'll stop." 
 
 "Physician heal thyself " 
 
 "It must be homeopathic " 
 
 "!N"o, patent," broke in the Doctor, "and I own the 
 formula. Introductory price one dollar — ^mere mat- 
 ter of advertising the book. She's goes up to one-fifty 
 next edition — ^now's your time to buy." 
 
82 3n tfte SfiaDoto of ©oo* 
 
 A bell clanged in the tower, and Hill hurried into 
 the church with the men, keeping up a fusilade of 
 jokes to the very door of the sanctuary. 
 
 When they were gone Marvin picked up the book 
 and read the title, "Experiences and Worse." He 
 bought a copy and slipping into a back pew opened 
 it and began to read. It was simply an attempt at 
 humor — crude, commonplace, even irreverent. When 
 he had gone through it, he sat for some space musing, 
 his eyes on the sea of heads, the hum of the proceed- 
 ings in his ears, but he did not see or hear; he was 
 undergoing again that hard fought battle of the 
 mountain top, when alone with God, the stars in his 
 eyes, he had given the fatal stab to his master passion 
 and turned his back on its dead corpse, another's 
 hope and aspiration animating his bosom. The 
 waste of heart-aches, tears and bitter hours! How 
 utterly useless in the light of recent revelations. 
 
 "Fool, fool," burst from his lips. His neighbor 
 turned in surprise and he shrank back in confusion. 
 The noted Hill — eloquent preacher, evangelist, what- 
 not, the writer of a humorous book, a book of bad 
 humor, and glorying in it. And Marvin Garner, silly 
 that he was, had refrained from giving expression to 
 the holiest sentiments, emotions, images that had 
 stirred his soul as a wicked act. Cheap humor — ^noble 
 painting. He could have laughed for joy. A light- 
 ness of spirit, a freedom, as if a burden had been 
 
In tbt ^ftaDoto of ©oD* 83 
 
 rolled from his shoulders, stole over him. He was 
 conscious of a revitalizing process going on within. 
 He would no longer feel shame-faced in the presence 
 of the brethren; no longer walk among them con- 
 demning himself as guilty and unworthy. It was 
 plain to him now that his mother was mistaken, her 
 ideas old fashioned, and she had given the color of 
 her conscience to his. 
 
 His old ambition sprang again into dominating 
 life, and was welcomed. He would again take up 
 his art, and while he proved his powers he would not 
 only be earning a support but would gratify his 
 parents and be engaged in a noble work. How he re- 
 gretted the lost opportunities of the past year. He 
 smiled as he though of himself dropping on his knees 
 crying out to God to take the love of art from his 
 soul when he felt the impulse to paint stir within him. 
 It was God who had given him the instinct, had meant 
 that he should use it. He recalled the parable of the 
 talents. Perhaps he was the man witli the two. If so, 
 it would be wrong not to put them out to usury. He 
 felt now that he would find a satisfaction in his 
 religious work that had heretofore been withheld. So 
 he reasoned. 
 
 A few days before the close of the conference, the 
 Bishop made an address on Home Missions. He had 
 lately made a visitation in what was known as the 
 Panhandle, a portion of the state bordering on the 
 
84 3n tfje S»{)aODto of ©oti* 
 
 Great Staked Plain, that at that time was rapidly 
 filling with homeseekers, who were attracted to it 
 by the cheapness of railroad and state lands that were 
 being thrown on the market. Bishop Kneys pictured 
 the conditions under which they lived with rare real- 
 ism — ^the hardships of life in a new country, the crude 
 homes in huts and dugouts, the drouths, the struggle 
 for existence against a seemingly pitiless environ- 
 ment, the religious privations, and the eagerness of 
 the people for the association and ministration of the 
 missionary. In closing he spoke of the need of con- 
 secrated, self-sacrificing men for the work; but be- 
 cause of the meager salaries and the many hardships, 
 he had hesitated to send men without their consent, 
 and had sought this opportunity to ask for volunteers. 
 It would be hard, but it would be heroic work, and 
 would have its reward. He expressed the belief that 
 there were still young men with the spirit of St. Paul 
 who would heed the Macedonion cry. 
 
 He made a strong appeal, the audience was visibly 
 moved ; it seemed that under the spell of his eloquence 
 he would be embarrassed by the number who would 
 court martyrdom to prove their devotion and faith. 
 When he sat down there was an instant of expectant 
 silence. The speaker's hypnosis still rested on the 
 multitude. There pulsed a current of telepathic 
 waves from soul to soul. They waited anxiously for 
 the appearance of the volunteer. The one who should 
 
In tbt ^fjaDoto of &oU. 85 
 
 first offer himself for the work would be acclaimed a 
 hero and move mightily upon the wrought-up senti- 
 ments of the people. It was a moment the politician 
 would have coveted — that stage when the individual 
 no longer thinks ; reason for a time loses itself unac- 
 countably, and a composite feeling dominates the 
 audience as if it possessed but a single personality. 
 Marvin had enough of the orator to recognize this. 
 He felt an irresistible impulse to speak the word, drop 
 on the smouldering tinder the spark, to see the multi- 
 tude break to pieces at the glance of his eye, the wave 
 of his hand, the sound of his voice. The Bishop had 
 led up to a masterly climax, but another must give 
 it completion. 
 
 His mother sat at his side. He turned quickly and 
 asked her if she would like him to go. There was a 
 moment's hesitation, then she bravely said : "If you 
 feel that you ought, son, I'll be glad." The next 
 moment he was on his feet, his straight, handsome 
 form towering above the mass of heads. He walked 
 lightly, with confident tread half way up the aisle. 
 A thousand eyes were upon him ; their hopes were to 
 be realized ; the hero had appeared ; the Bishop's im- 
 passioned appeal was to bear speedy fruit. With an 
 effort they held in check their pent up emotions as 
 they waited for the youth to speak. With an in- 
 clination of his head toward the Bishop, who looked 
 out over the tense faces beamingly, he addressed him ; 
 
86 3n tfie S)|iatioto of ©oD* 
 
 swept the throng at a glance, then in a full, vibrant 
 voice that fell on the ear like compelling music, he 
 offered himself for the field. 
 
 "I am young, inexperienced, have little to offer, 
 but. Bishop, if you can do no better, here am I, send 
 me," he ended. Then he hesitated a moment, his head 
 slightly bent forward, his face in thoughtful humility 
 on the floor, and, turning, passed quickly to his 
 mother's side. The multitude gasped, staring 
 blankly, then broke into unreasoning tears as if 
 stricken suddenly witli dire calamity ; the air quivered 
 with a hissing intake of breath. The more emotional 
 sprang to their feet in wild shouts of ecstacy, thank- 
 ing God for such youths, praying benedictions upon 
 him. The Bishop rose, shouting, ^^Glory to God," and 
 began singing one of those hymns with sentimental 
 words and sensuous music that wrench the emotions 
 like a powerful stimulant. Men and women sur- 
 rendered themselves to the impulse of the moment. 
 They enjoyed all the thrill, the fine spiritual exalta- 
 tion of the hero without any of the hardships he is 
 called to undergo. They fell upon Marvin and his 
 mother, shaking their hands, hugging them impar- 
 tially, mobbing them in a religious frenzy. 
 
 From that moment Marvin was a marked man. "No 
 incident of the session produced so profound an im- 
 pression. He became a hero in spite of himself. Men 
 who had grown old in a life of sublime self-sacrifice 
 
3tt tfte @)&aDota3 of &oh, 87 
 
 felt honored to shake his hand ; strangers stopped him 
 on the street to make his acquaintance; wonderful 
 things were predicted of him. Men lost sight of the 
 heroic spirit he had exhibited in admiration of him 
 as an orator. But the recipient of all this interest 
 was deeply humiliated after the first flush of triumph. 
 For when he looked into his heart he knew that selfish 
 motives alone had moved him — to try his powers, to 
 please his mother, to go to a field where he could 
 study Xature in the wild. That night he prayed fer- 
 vently in deep contrition of spirit for forgiveness for 
 what he had done. A hundred other preachers closed 
 their eyes in unavailing regret that they had not been 
 the fortunate one to make the most of the psycholo- 
 gical moment. If the opportunity was presented 
 again they would be equal to it. Such is the differ- 
 ences in the destinies of men. The few blaze the 
 way ; the mediocre masses see how easily it was done, 
 could have done it themselves just as easily could they 
 have seen, could they have known — ^perhaps they; 
 could. 
 
88 M ti)e @i)aDotai of <a^oQ. 
 
 PART THREE. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The shadows thickened on the limitless stretches of 
 the brown prarie. Below the sky-line objects were no 
 longer distinguishable, but presented to the eye a 
 formless monotonous drab, against which feeble yel- 
 low lights marked the straggling village of Benvanue. 
 Along the crest of an adjacent divide a lone horseman 
 moved slowly, dropped from sight, and presently re- 
 appeared within a square radiance that streamed from 
 an open doorway. In answer to his haloo, a slim 
 girlish figure rose indistinctly on a porch, and called 
 out : "Is that you, Uncle Jim ?" 
 
 "I'm Mr. Garner. I'm looking for Mr. Grogan's," 
 Marvin replied, evasively. 
 
 "Oh, come in, come in, he's eating his supper," the 
 voice said with impatient friendliness. 
 
 The traveller slipped from his horse and stepped 
 toward the gate. It was suddenly thrown open and 
 the girl rushed into his arms. 
 
 "Oh, you think you'll fool me again, but you can't. 
 
3n tfte »6aDoto of ©oD* 89 
 
 I've been looking for you." She planted a kiss on his 
 cheek and drew her arm through his. "I'm awfully 
 glad to see you, Jim. What made you so late ?" 
 
 The other sought to disengage himself, conscious 
 that his face was flaming at this cordial but mistaken 
 welcome. 
 
 "I'm not Jim — I'm the new preacher — ^Marvin 
 Garner," he stammered. 
 
 "Jim quit your fooling. I am on to you this time. 
 It was Capt. Lany before, now it's Parson Garner. 
 "No, you don't catch me twice with the same trick." 
 She led him toward the house, plying him with ques- 
 tions. Marvin remained silent, imagining her dis- 
 comfiture when they should come into the light. 
 
 A man stood waiting them in the doorway. 
 
 "Hello, Jim, how's things over at Eetta ?" he asked, 
 stepping aside for them to enter. 
 
 "Oh, this ain't Jim — this is Parson Garner, who- 
 ever he is," said Marvin's companion, sarcastically. 
 "Thinks he's awful sly slipping up on us this way." 
 They entered the hall, and she turned to confront the 
 culprit she had caught red-handed. 
 
 Then she screamed and fled precipitately. 
 
 Marvin was left facing her father. 
 
 "This is Mr. Grogan, I believe ?" he began, offering 
 his hand. "It seems I've been taken for Uncle Jim. 
 I'm Marvin Garner, the new preacher sent to the 
 Mission." 
 
90 3n tfte S)f)aDoto of (25oO» 
 
 Mr. Grogan took the proffered hand gingerly, his 
 face crinkling with enjoyment of the situation. 
 
 "Glad to see you, Brother Garner; have a chair. 
 You'll have to excuse Ida; she's rather upset at her 
 mistake. We hadn't heard if we were to get a 
 preacher this year or not, and were not expecting you. 
 We have just finished supper. Keep your seat, and 
 I'll speak to my wife." 
 
 Marvin left alone, imconsciously put his finger tips 
 to the spot where Miss Grogan had meant to kiss 
 Uncle Jim. Presently Mrs. Grogan entered and made 
 further explanation of his unusual reception. "Jim's 
 such a tease," she said in a soft, pleasant voice. 
 "Thinks it a great joke to ride up in the night and 
 ask for lodging, pretending he's a stranger. Ida 
 learned from the stage-driver that he was coming out 
 to-day and thought she would get even with him. 
 She's very sorry for her blunder " 
 
 "It was quite natural," returned Marvin. 
 
 Later w^hen he had fiinished his supper, Ida stepped 
 into the doorway haltingly, and waited for her mother 
 to introduce her. Then she came forward with a de- 
 termined air and offered her hand. 
 
 "You'll pardon my rudeness. Brother Garner. I 
 never dreamed that it could be anybody but Uncle 
 Jim. Ma has told you hoAV it came to happen ?" 
 
 Then the incident was dropped. Soon afterward 
 Mrs. Grogan excused herself. It suddenly struck 
 
In t6e §)|)atioto of ©oD* oi 
 
 Marvin as odd that he should be in this home, sur- 
 passing in elegance and refinement any he had known 
 during his encumbency at Whiterock, being enter- 
 tained by a charming young lady, when he expected 
 to be spending the night in a settler's hut or dugout. 
 But when he confided his expectations to Miss Ida, 
 he learned that they would have been realized had he 
 sought hospitality at the home of any other member 
 of his flock. Mr. Grogan was one of the few men of 
 means living on the prairie, most of the large land 
 owners and ranchers being non-resident. 
 
 Miss Ida had lately returned from a term at the 
 Eetta Female College, and still prided herself upon 
 her accomplishments. She played and sang for her 
 guest, and finally offered a portfolio of sketches and 
 paintings for his approval. 
 
 "I'm sure these pictures are quite well done," Mar- 
 vin assured her, examining them critically. 
 
 "To be honest with you," she explained; "I don't 
 deserve credit for them. The fact is, my teacher 
 touched them up considerably. I'm enlarging a 
 Dutch landscape from an advertising card. I'll show 
 it to you some time." 
 
 "I'd think you'd find the prairie about here a 
 splendid subject?" 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't think of doing anything like that. 
 I just copy, badly at that. I haven't any talent for 
 original work, but I dearly love art," 
 
92 3n tfie ^ftaDoto of (2)oD* 
 
 ^^iss Ida, I'm so glad you do, and it tempts me 
 to let you into a little secret of mine," Marvin said 
 impulsively, led into a confidence by his entertainer's 
 evident appreciation of art. "I paint a little myself." 
 
 "Oh, you do — how nice. Then you'll help me ?" 
 
 He could not draw back now, though he had a feel- 
 ing of having blundered. 
 
 "I'm sure I'll be very glad to — if I can," he said. 
 
 A shadow came into Miss Ida's face. 
 
 "I — I don't think, though, father would approve if 
 he knew. He thinks it a waste of time — my trying 
 to paint. He says it's silly to be daubing fields and 
 animals when you can look out the window any hour 
 and see the real thing. But you can trust me." 
 
 The next day Marvin moved into the parsonage. It 
 was a rude little boxed house of rough pine. There 
 were two rooms above and two below, all of the same 
 size, connected by a ladder-like stairway. It was 
 little more than a mile from Mr. Grogan's, just over 
 a swell of the prairie, and from his door the roofs of 
 the houses could be seen on the sky like the dirty tents 
 of travellers. The nearest settlement south of him 
 was some five miles distant, and four miles to the 
 north wound the sluggish Red River, the timber along 
 its course hovering on the plain like a fringe of cloud. 
 The view was colossal, and as Marvin stood before the 
 door and swept the horizon, it was as if he had been 
 set down upon an uninhabited world, he a lone dweller 
 
In tht ^fiaDoto of ©oD* 93 
 
 on a brown solitude. It was the environment of which 
 he had dreamed ; he felt as if God had answered the 
 nnworded prayer of his heart. As he stood there at 
 the close of the day, tired with the moving in, and 
 watched the sun go down through fields of yellow radi- 
 ance, he lifted his eyes toward the glory that opened 
 to his view — prayed for power to put what he saw, 
 what he felt, on canvas. God moved a tangible, per- 
 sonal presence in the vast glooming spaces, thrilled 
 him. 
 
 "God, God," he cried from the very depths of his 
 soul. 
 
04 3n tU S)j)aDoto of (SoD* 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Four miles from Benvanue on the river, high on 
 the second bank, above the overflow mark, there were 
 clustered a dozen or so huts, known as Dugout Town. 
 These were inhabited by squatters, peripatetic front- 
 iersmen, who spent their lives drifting just in advance 
 of the oncoming wave of civilization. Here Marvin 
 often came and spent a day visiting among the people. 
 Late one afternoon returning from this village, he 
 descried Miss Ida moving afoot across the prairie 
 toward Benvanue. She walked slowly, swinging an 
 empty basket on her arm. At his approach she turned, 
 a look of startled surprise on her face. 
 
 "Why, Brother Garner, how you frightened me." 
 
 He dismounted and walked beside her. 
 
 Her wide-brimmed hat had fallen coquetishly awry, 
 and the wind flung her hair a black aureole about her 
 face and neck. There was a fine bronze beneath the 
 red of her cheeks, the vitality of health sparkled in 
 her eyes, and, as Marvin watched her move knee deep 
 in the rank grass, he thought of her as the embodi- 
 ment of the spirit of the prairie. He suddenly con- 
 ceived the idea of having her pose for him. He 
 
In tfie §)i)aDoto of (fiJoa* 95 
 
 would paint a picture and call it "The Spirit of the 
 Prairie." 
 
 The sun was sinking low behind the divide. He 
 stopped and studied her lithe form as it swung firmly 
 against the yellow glow. The soft light gilded her 
 like a statute done in gold. 
 
 "Miss Ida I want to paint you like that," he called. 
 Then he told her of the idea that had come to him. 
 She was flattered and entered heartily into his plans. 
 
 Some days later at a prearranged hour, she has- 
 tened across the stretch of pasture between her home 
 and the parsonage. Coming to a spot that had been 
 marked by the artist, she assumed a pose, in the de- 
 tails of which she had been instructed. Here she 
 stood motionless, gazing into the luminous west. She 
 at intervals moved about, picking the belated flowers 
 that she found there, her eyes wandering furtively to 
 the window where she knew the artist worked. Had 
 a passerby seen her at these times he might have con- 
 jectured that some other reason than the faded blos- 
 soms and sunset led her to visit the spot; and this 
 is exactly what did take place some weeks later. Mr. 
 Grogan, on his way to a distant part of the ranch, 
 upon coming to the top of the divide, espied the 
 strange figure beyond staring skyward. He stopped 
 and regarded the apparition curiously. In the cos- 
 tume of the Spirit of the Prairie he did not recognize 
 his daughter. While he hesitated, he saw her turn 
 
96 Sn tfte ^ftaDoto of (SoO* 
 
 toward the window, then stoop and busy herself with 
 something in the grass. He at once suspected a com- 
 munication of some kind between the person within 
 doors and the one acting so oddly without. He 
 slipped into the grass, and from this point of vantage 
 continued his observations. He was perplexed when 
 the object of them presently resumed the statue-like 
 attitude and fixity of gaze. But when, at the next 
 interval of rest, the actor of the mystifying drama 
 turned toward him, he perceived that it was Ida. For 
 a moment he was puzzled. Then a black suspicion 
 flashed through his mind. He rose from his conceal- 
 ment and strode toward her. "Ida, what are you 
 doing here ? — how strange you look." 
 
 "Oh," cried Ida, startled, fear in her eyes. She 
 stood an instant regarding her father dubiously, her 
 face crimson. "Why, pa, how you frightened me," 
 she said. "IVe been picking flowers that I knew ^ew 
 hereabout. See," she went on hurriedly, holding up 
 a few stalks of faded blossoms. 
 
 Marvin witnessed the little tragedy and was filled 
 with a sudden apprehension. He threw down his 
 brush and hastened below. This secrecy was unwise. 
 If he must paint, he should do it openly. If wrong 
 be should give it up; if right it was cowardly to 
 humor the ignorance and prejudice of his people. The 
 words of St. Paul came to him, "If meat make my 
 brother to offend I will eat no more meat." .Wasn't St. 
 
In tht ^fiaoobi of (S^oo. or 
 
 Paul a time-server ? Why did he not teach the people 
 that it was not wrong to eat meat instead of compro- 
 mising with their superstition ? 
 
 But he was no longer in a mood to paint. He was 
 almost tempted to make a vow never to touch canvas 
 again. He could not go on in this way. Some evil 
 would surely grow out of it. Other men might serve 
 two masters, but he was not large enough, he must 
 swear allegiance to one or the other. Saddling his 
 horse, he started in a canter across the plain, and rode 
 on and on, oblivious of time, distance, direction. 
 When the mood passed, he realized that he had wan- 
 dered miles from the village. The sun had gone 
 down and night had fallen gloomily about him. From 
 the elevation he could follow the leaden gleam of the 
 river winding into impenetrable shadows. Presently 
 this melted into black night. The face of the plain 
 vanished. Overhead, a low curtain of cloud shut out 
 the heavens. The wind swept through the grass in 
 mournful dirge. A great sense of lonliness settled 
 upon him, an undefinable unrest moved within him 
 that he could not calm, could not fathom. He stared 
 into the silent, obscure spaces bewildered, trackless, 
 chartless, isolated, engulfed. 
 
 He still stood perplexed, knowing not which way 
 to turn, when there broke upon the stillness the clatter 
 of hoofs. He called lustily. The horseman came to 
 a halting stop. "Hello, stranger," came from the 
 
98 3n tfte SftaDolti of ©oD* 
 
 dark. Guided by the voice, Marvin soon joined the 
 traveller. He was going to Benvanue for a doctor, 
 and the horses now walked briskly in that direction. 
 
 "Been hearin' of you," began the stranger after he 
 had learned Marvin's name; "an' they tell me you 
 ain't no common cayuse of a word slinger, not mean- 
 in' no offense ; an' I've been promisin' myself I'd go 
 over some time an' hear the way you done it." 
 
 Marvin murmured that he would be glad to see him 
 at his services. An interval of silence followed, then 
 the stranger, with the feeling common to unsophisti- 
 cated minds that religion is the only subject a 
 preacher is interested in, began hesitatingly, but 
 reverently : 
 
 "I ain't religus. Parson, but it ain't because I 
 wouldn't like to be. An' I reckin a feller never tried 
 harder to git it than yer's truly. Yes, I 'tended three 
 camp-meetin's, han' runnin', an' I went to the mourn- 
 er's bench every chanct I got, but it weren't no good. 
 Somehow I couldn't ketch on to the trick of the thing, 
 though I ain't blamin' nobody but myself. Every- 
 body seemed to do their best. Parson Pertil would 
 come an' kneel down by me an' put his arms lovin' 
 roun' my neck, an' say, 'Dear Frien', can't you say, 
 "Here, Lord, I give myself away, 'tis all as I can 
 do." ' An' then I'd say it an' keep say in' it, an' run- 
 nin' over it in my min' till I could see the Lord his- 
 self stan'nin' there afore me, his ban's an' tender 
 
In tbt ^fiaDoto of (SoD* 99 
 
 brow a-droppin' blood, an' the sorrowful look on his 
 face, an' I see myself kneelin' in the dust at his feet, 
 wringin' my ban's an' cryin', 'Tis all as I can do.' 
 But somehow I couldn't git no religin. 
 
 "Then ol' Sister Durin, from town, who 'tends all 
 the camp-meetin's an' lechineers fer her son that's 
 jedge, she'd come 'long shakin' ban's right an' left, 
 an' sayin', 'I love you, an' my son loves you, an' I 
 want to see you shoutin' happy. Oh, frien' don't 
 never turn back.' But I noticed when she learned a 
 feller didn't live in the county she weren't so lovin' 
 to him no more, an' then kind of a hard lump 'ud 
 come up in my throat an' I'd feel like I'd never git 
 religin in the world. 
 
 "Then they'd come an' crowd on you with their 
 feet an' arms an' cry into yer ears till you couldn't 
 think, an' I thought shorely I'd smother to death. My 
 eyes 'ud git that dry I couldn't force a tear, an' I'd 
 feel I 'z shore lost. 
 
 "Wern't fer George Bridgeman, I guess I'd 'a' 
 give up. Maybe you know him. He'z one of yer 
 members, an' has a ranch over on Whichita. Well, 
 he never was much to shout, but he'z one of the best 
 fellers God ever made. When I landed yere broke, 
 an' no credit an' no frien's, he stood fer me over at 
 Grogan's, an' I ain't never forgot Well, he come an' 
 took my ban' sof like, an' says something sensible, 
 an' 'fore I knowed it the tears come floodin' my eyes 
 
100 M tbt ^f)aDob) of ao&. 
 
 an' I felt like risin' up an' fetcliin' him a hug, remem- 
 berin' what he had done fer me. An' I'd pray the 
 Lord to let me profess while George was roun', but 
 he never did, an' I'm still onreligus." 
 
 Marvin made a non-committal remark, and, thus 
 encouraged, he continued : 
 
 "There was one feller that made sech a queer mis- 
 take, I fergot where I was an' broke out into sech out- 
 landish laughin' they thought I'd come through. It 
 was one night — the lights weren't nothin' to speak of 
 — an' he took me fer a frien' of his. It was a pity 
 how that feller banged me in the back. Says he, *01' 
 pard, can't you shell down the corn. Tell the Lord 
 how mean you've been, an' you want him to save you. 
 He'll do it You ain't no worser'n me, an' you know 
 I got drunk an' cust an' shot up things. An' you re- 
 member ol' nigger Dick as was in our way when we 
 wanted to bran' them yearlin's, you know which ones. 
 Well, I'm done forgive fer it all. I feel as innercent 
 as a new born babe, an' if Dick was back agin I could 
 forgive an' love 'im. Jest throw yerself on the prom- 
 ises. Say, pard, talk to me — how you feelin' ?' I 
 remained silent as death. Then he says, ^Bill, ol' boy, 
 can't you round her up ? Jest knuckle down an' give 
 way to yer feelin's.' I didn't dare open my mouth, 
 an' seems like he begin to smell a mouse. Then he got 
 quiet an' I could feel him peerin' closer, an' he 
 whispered sorter 'furd like, an' breathin' hard, ^Lord 
 
3n tfie S)|)aDoto of <SoD* loi 
 
 have mercy.' When I peeked under my elbow, he'd 
 done gone. Couple of fellers was missin' from the 
 range after that an' I knowed who shot nigger Dick. 
 
 "l^To, I guess there ain't no religin fer me," he 
 rattled on. "I've done my best. They'd say, 'Let 
 every breath be a prayer, an' I prayed an' prayed till 
 I thought shorely the Lord'ud give me religin to git 
 shet of me. Then I'd clear run out an' I'd jest lay 
 there an' lisen to the brothers an' sisters till I knowed 
 their prayers by heart, an' when Brother Brooks said 
 it would do me good if I'd pray aloud, I turned loose 
 on his. Well, there was some surprised folks, an' they 
 didn't call on me to pray no more. But I done my 
 best, an' I ain't blamin' nobody," he said with cheer- 
 full hopelessness. 
 
 A turn in the road brought into view a twinkling 
 light far on the horizon. 
 
 "You see that light yonder?" he asked. "Well, 
 that's Col. Whaley's. Though whether he's a colonel 
 er not, er his name's Whaley er not, is more'n I can 
 say. IsTow, he's one of yer straight out an' out onre- 
 ligus fellers. Cusses religin till you'd think if there's 
 a God he'd shore be struck down fer blasphemy." 
 
 Marvin expressed an interest in the blasphemous 
 colonel, and his companion continued : 
 
 "They do say if he had jestice he'd be wearin' 
 stripes. But a feller pays fer his meanness one way 
 er another, an' I guess if the Lord makes that kind 
 
102 M tfte ^ftaDoto of ©oD^ 
 
 of a man he's able to give him his proper punishment 
 without my interferin'. So if you ast me if it's 
 true what everybody thinks 'bout Whaley, I'd say it's 
 none of my bizness. Fer as my dealin's with him 
 goes, he's been white; an' that's more'n you can say 
 fer every one that makes a great bluff of vartue an' 
 religin. But 'tween us, Parson, that man's had 
 'speriences. If you ever see him, jest look into his 
 eyes. It makes you sad to look at that man when he 
 thinks nobody's noticin'. If he's done wicked, I guess 
 he's payin' fer it. You ain't hurd ? Well, it was like 
 this. He moved onto the river yere afore the Indians 
 quit debredatin' the country, opened up a big ranch 
 an' always seemed to have no end of money, though 
 where it come from nobody never knowed. He 
 wouldn't have nothin' to do with nobody, spent his 
 time with his books — ^got piles of 'em, like a lawyer. 
 'Casionally he goes off somewhere fer months, no- 
 body knows where, an' he always comes back lookin' 
 like he's jest gittin' up from a spell of sickness. 
 
 "Well, long time ago, so they say, one of his cow- 
 boys went back East somewhere an' married a young 
 wife. She was one of them fine lookin' creatures with 
 bewitchin' ways, an' wimin bein' a pretty scarce 
 article on the prairie, she soon had everybody's head 
 turned. Wasn't long afore they noticed things weren't 
 runnin' exactly civilized up at the ranch. Whaley 'ud 
 send off Purdy, that was her husband's name, an' then 
 
%n tbt ®6a0oto of ©oD* 103 
 
 he'd have her up to his house. !N'acherly folks went to 
 talkin' an' soon the carryin' on reached Purdy. He 
 got furious mad an' quarrelled with Whaley. Soon 
 after, as the say in' goes, he waked up one momin' an' 
 foun' hisself dead. Someone shot him while he's 
 'sleep. Suspicion pointed to his wife, an' she was 
 'rested an' tried, but Whaley stood by her, an' she 
 come clear. That's what circulates on the prairie." 
 
 They had by this time entered the sleeping village. 
 
 "I hope I ain't bored you?" said Marvin's loqua- 
 cious guide, turning toward him. "Wife says if I 
 could use my ban's like I do my tongue, I'd shore git 
 rich. My name is Bud Black, an' if you happen over 
 on the river, come an' see me — my wife's religus," 
 and with a curt good-night, he clattered down the 
 street. 
 
10^ In tbt @i)aDotai of aoD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ida kept no more the artistic tryst. But Marvin 
 mastered the passing compunction and went on with 
 his painting. "The Spirit of the Prairie" had reached 
 that stage where he could carry it on to its completion 
 unaided. He worked unflaggi.ngly, and so completely 
 were the spare hours of the day taken up with his 
 brush that he often sat far into the night pouring 
 over the books that he yet must be examined on for 
 orders. Occasionally he was conscious of a vague con- 
 viction that it was a useless waste of time, but he 
 conscientiously held himself to it 
 
 One night while thus engaged, his feeble light 
 streaming out into the dark, the only landmark on the 
 shrouded prairie, the faint thud of distant hoof beats 
 broke on his ear. He sat up, and, his hand as a 
 marker on the open page, he looked out the window 
 and listened. Nearer and nearer came the horseman, 
 and he found himself tracing the course of the clatter- 
 ing feet, till at length they stopped at his gate. 
 
 *^Hello," cried someone from the dark. 
 
 Marvin threw open the door. 
 
 "What is it The called. 
 
In t&e ©Jjaaoto of ©oD* 105 
 
 "Colonel Whaley is dying and wants you to come. 
 I brought a horse — he says you must hurry." 
 
 Marvin threw on his top coat and hat and was soon 
 plunging through the night after his reckless guide. 
 As he sped along, he wondered why the Colonel had 
 sent for him, what word of comfort he could offer to 
 one who had led the life imputed to the now dying 
 man. He was awed at the thought of a soul facing 
 eternity calling to him for help. He felt impotent, 
 what ministration of his could change that life ? what 
 promise did revelation hold out to the unbeliever? 
 He was sorely perplexed. But the Colonel made the 
 dreaded duty easier for him than he had hoped. 
 
 When he entered the room where he lay, he found 
 the sick man in a stupor, his face haggard and drawn, 
 breathing heavily. Purdy's widow sat at his feet, her 
 face buried in the quilts. 
 
 The noise of the entry aroused him. He opened his 
 bloodshot eyes and stared into the visitor's face. 
 
 "You came?'' he said calmly. "I thought you 
 would. Not that you care a damn for me, but because 
 it is a part of your humbugging business." 
 
 He dismissed the woman and, after silently regard- 
 ing the preacher for a space, suddenly asked: 
 
 "!N'ow, what do you think you can do for me V 
 
 He waited for Marvin's reply. 
 
 "As you sent for me, I supposed you thought I 
 
106 M tfte S)&aDoto of (SoB* 
 
 might help you in some way. V\\ be glad to do any- 
 thing in my power." 
 
 ^'Do you believe in God ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you think he answers prayer ?" 
 
 "If offered in faith — according to His will " 
 
 "Oh, damn it, the old song — the old crawling out 
 place. You simpleton, don't you know with those 
 'ifs' I could pray to that crazy clock, my old hat, that 
 black tomcat, with just the same hope of an answer ? 
 If it's His will ? Isn't it His will to save the world ? 
 Didn't He let His Son be murdered for that purpose ? 
 For nineteen centuries ten millions of deluded fools 
 have been praying for the same thing and the damned 
 old world is going to the same old liell just the same. 
 You can't, to save your life, put your finger on a 
 single soul, from Adam to damned old Whaley, and 
 convince anybody but an idiot whether he's saved or 
 not. And here you go on droning your prayers and 
 preaching your tommy-rot till domesday. 'Now, if 
 you want to try a prayer of faith, according to His 
 will, pray that I be free of this pain in ten minutes. 
 That will give you time enough to reach headquarters. 
 !N^o, you wouldn't pray any such prayer. Well, then, 
 pray, do your damnedest, that I be dead as a mummy 
 in ten minutes. Your God ought to find that an easy 
 one — but He can't answer it. He can't kill a wretched 
 old blasphemer, that defies Him, till this body plays 
 
3n tfte ©fiaaoto of ©oD^ lor 
 
 out, till !N'atiire gets ready. No, He never heard a 
 prayer and He never will hear one. He's as imper- 
 sonal as the air and sunshine. What you call God is 
 a superstition of the soul — there's no God but Nat- 
 ure's laws, and they will no more heed your sniffling 
 than the cry of the cayote caught in a trap. 
 
 "Ten minutes for your God to stop this pain or put 
 me out of my misery for quits. Take your choice. 
 Damn your God !" 
 
 He broke into a sarcastic laugh. Then calming 
 himself, he went on : 
 
 "You wouldn't try it? Well, I don't blame you, 
 and I beg your pardon. I was over to hear your first 
 sermon; I always go over to size up the new men. 
 Usually that is the end of it. Sometimes a parson 
 rounds me up before I can get away and gives me a 
 regular song and dance of a welcome. Then he 
 learns of my unsavory reputation and doesn't know 
 me the next time we meet. You fellows seem to have 
 a fancy for respectable sinners. You preach that 
 Christ came to save the lost, but you don't want them 
 too damned lost. But I liked your looks. You've 
 got brains, if you are throwing them away " 
 
 He sank back on the pillows, seized with a paroxism 
 of pain. He closed his eyes and was silent. 
 
 "Why don't you tell them the truth ?" he said, after 
 a little, starting up. "Instead of preaching hell and 
 brimstone hereafter, tell them it is here in this life. 
 
108 3n tbt S)|)aDoto of ©oO^ 
 
 Oh, the fools! They lead their narrow, selfish lives; 
 make the most of their animal impulses, then when 
 all the vitality is squeezed out of the flesh, in their 
 impotency they turn to God, thinking a few tears, a 
 prayer, a foolish ceremony will win them an eternal 
 glory. The fools, crying to Christ who could not save 
 himself. He didn't die for men, but because of men. 
 To make Him forgive sins, to save men from a hell 
 hereafter, is to make Him a fraud and a failure ; to 
 teach that He saves men from their worst selves here, 
 by seeking to live as He lived, is to make Him the best 
 and greatest man the world has ever known. But He 
 condemned the hypocritical lives of men and they 
 killed Him. Go tell men that they save or damn 
 themselves as they live or refuse to live like Christ — 
 throw your creeds, dogmas, mechanical formulas, to 
 the devil, the author of them. I know what hell is — 
 I've been in it thirty years; and no Christ, no God, 
 no devil, no power on earth or in heaven, can get me 
 out. But I'll not preach — that's more in your line," 
 he broke off with a bitter smile, a pathetic gloom 
 settling in his eyes. 
 
 "I guess you wonder why I sent for you ?" he said 
 after an instant. "Because you are a man; because 
 you had a kindly face ; because you are trying to be 
 honest. It's a man I want, not a God. It's human 
 sympathy the soul cries out for, not a vague, imper- 
 sonal something called God. The reason men made 
 
In tbt ©feaDoto of ©oD* 109 
 
 a God of Christ was because He was so human; be- 
 cause of His gentleness, His mercy, His love. I 
 could cry out to Christ, but He's dead, dead as 
 Socrates and Moses ; He can't hear me, can't talk to 
 me. I refused to live the life He taught, rejected all 
 He might have been to me — what I want now is 
 human companionship, sympathy, the touch of a live 
 hand, the look of an honest eye, the sound of a 
 sincere voice." 
 
 Marvin grasped the extended hand in silence. 
 
 "Thank you, thank you," he said, his voice growing 
 feeble. "I'm a miserable old sinner — hell rages in 
 my bosom. But I once was as young as you — had 
 health, friends, wealth, brains, prospects. I threw 
 them all away — and now I lie dying, a damned, lost 
 soul, the only power left me the power to feel remorse. 
 Don't tell me there is no hell — hell ? — which way I 
 turn is hell — myself am hell — damned, lost soul, 
 damned, lost soul !" His voice sank to a whisper, his 
 eyes rolled vacantly, he seemed to be losing conscious- 
 ness when he suddenly flared up, looking into the 
 other's face : 
 
 "Young man, don't spoil your life — don't spoil 
 your life." 
 
 Marvin sat for a long time in the silent room, hold- 
 ing the old man's hand, listening to the ticking of the 
 clock, the purring of the black cat, his heart full of 
 pity for the miserable soul he could not help. At last 
 
110 3n tfte e){)aDoto of ©oB* 
 
 he rose and crept from the room. He paused in the 
 door and glanced back to the bed — the gaunt form 
 and contorted face haunted him for days. 
 
 The next day he began a new picture — "The Lost 
 Soul." 
 
In tht g>l)a»oto of <eoD* m 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A luminous day late in December, Marvin rode 
 across the dun stretches, his sketch book in hand. It 
 was one of those balmy, delusive days, common to that 
 section, that makes the uninitiated think Spring has 
 prematurely arrived, but to the old timer and weather- 
 wise only a presage and warning of the "norther" 
 that is on the way. As Marvin's eyes followed the 
 white tortuous gleam of the river, he saw rising from 
 the earth a greenish-black curtain that spread rapidly 
 over the west, as if unfolded by some unseen mechan- 
 ism. Before he was aware the heavens in that direc- 
 tion were blotted out. An ominous silence settled on 
 the plain; not a grass blade stirred. The air be- 
 came dense, oppressive. It was as if Nature in awe 
 of some unusual upheaval of her own making, had 
 held her breath. One was filled with a sense of im- 
 pending danger. The cattle grazing on the uplands 
 lifted their heads and, sniffing the air, sped in a panic 
 toward the breaks of the river. In the stampede, 
 mother and offspring became separated and the still- 
 ness was soon alive with insistent, distracted bellow- 
 ing; forlorn, terror-stricken bleating. Then there 
 
112 Hn tfte ©jMitioto of ©oO. 
 
 were a few premonitory breaths of air belched from 
 out the sky, and the storm broke in all its fury, sweep- 
 iijg across the prairie like a thousand keen-edged 
 knives, chilling to the marrow every living thing. 
 
 Marvin turned and galloped toward home. He had 
 not gone far when a feeble cry struck his ear. He 
 stopped and listened. On a bluff his eye picked out 
 the skeleton outline of a hapless cow that had stuck 
 fast in the rocks. Below was a month's old calf that 
 made fruitless efforts to reach her side. 
 
 "Oh, the cruelty of I^ature," burst involuntary 
 from his lips, as he sprang to the ground and hurried 
 to the rescue. As he exerted himself to this end, he 
 heard his name called, as if from the spaces of 
 heaven. 
 
 "Brother Garner, you better let the cow be and look 
 out for yourself — lots of them die in these northers." 
 
 He stood up and confronted Ida. She was- sitting 
 on her pony at the top of the butte watching his 
 maneuvers. The wind played havoc with her hair 
 and it floated about her face like stranded sea weeds. 
 He stared at her a moment as if she were an appari- 
 tion. 
 
 "Miss Ida, what are you doing on the prairie in 
 this storm ?" 
 
 Slie explained that she was returning from Dugout 
 Town when she saw him, and, thinking he had lost 
 the way, followed. "They wouldn't likely make it 
 
In tht ©feaDPto of aoO* iis 
 
 through the winter, anyway," she said, referring 
 again to the helpless animals. 
 
 "But how heartless to leave them to freeze this 
 way,'' he replied, renewing his efforts. 
 
 "Oh, we never think of that. It's cheaper to let a 
 few hundred starve and freeze than to feed and 
 shelter them. In the spring the prairie will be dotted 
 with their bones." 
 
 Marvin worked on obliviously. Seeing that he 
 persisted in his purpose, she dismounted and went to 
 his assistance. Between them they succeeded in free- 
 ing the cow. She went tottering down the declivity 
 to her offspring. Turning her back to the fierce wind 
 she sought to shield it between her legs, pressing her 
 neck against its quivering side in further effort to 
 protect it. Thus bent against the storm, weak till 
 she could scarcely stand, the cold cutting into every 
 nerve, the mother instinct made the dumb animal, 
 in Marvin's thoughts, heroically human. As he 
 looked at the trembling bits of life, utterly defense- 
 less against the pitiless elements, the thoughts came 
 to his mind that had come to him months before as 
 he knelt in a wood and prayed for the salvation of 
 fifty souls, the prayer and praise of a multitude 
 breaking on his ear. Then the question was, does 
 God hear the cry only of the strong and great? Do 
 the weak things that creep and crawl have no voice 
 to reach his ear ? I^ow it was the same question, and 
 
114! 3n m SbaDoto of ©oti* 
 
 with it the same old doubt that he sought vainly 
 to stifle. God does not help the weak; therefore he 
 does not help the strong. Perhaps Col. Whaley was 
 right — God is impersonal — another name for the 
 inevitable, relentless laws of Nature. 
 
 The cow, under the lash of the wind, lifted her 
 head, her dumb, pathetic eyes, staring a mute ap- 
 peal to the sky. | 
 
 *^Why, I do believe she's praying," said Ida, 
 touched by the suggestive attitude. Marvin, follow- 
 ing his thoughts, answered: "And no one to hear her 
 prayers but us, and we powerless to heed them." 
 
 It became suddenly darker and a white mist filled 
 the air. Ida sprang to her horse. "We must get 
 out of this. Brother Garner. It's going to snow, and 
 if we get lost out here " 
 
 "There'll be no one to answer our prayers." 
 
 He still thought of the cow and calf that he knew 
 to-morrow would lay stark beneath the snow. 
 
 They galloped across the prairie. The storm grew 
 in violence, and the landmarks rapidly disappeared. 
 Marvin grasped Ida's bridle that they might not be- 
 come separated. At length they came to a gate that 
 opened into a wide lane that led to Benvanue. When 
 they came in sight of the village, night had settled 
 and the blizzard continued to increase in violence. 
 It was with difficulty that they urged their horses 
 against the blinding sweep of snow, and as last they 
 
In tfte ®J)aDoto of ©oD^ 115 
 
 were forced to get down and walk. Reaching the 
 parsonage, Ida suggested that they go in and wait 
 till the storm abated. 
 
 "But won't your parents be uneasy?" Marvin 
 asked, not liking the idea. "I think we can make it." 
 
 "No; they'll think I'm at Dugout Town. I spend 
 the night there sometimes — I'm nearly frozen — and 
 you promised I might see The Spirit of the 
 Prairie.' " 
 
 They had reached the gate and he threw it open. 
 Ida entered, not waiting for further invitation. He 
 was conscious that in thus yielding he had acted 
 unwisely, but he could not summon a refusal that 
 would not sound harsh. He led the horses to shelter, 
 and when he entered the parsonage, he found Ida on 
 her knees in front of the box stove, kindling the fire. 
 
 "You see I'm making myself at home," she said, 
 looking up at him with glowing eyes. He knelt be- 
 side her and they soon had the fire going briskly as 
 they fed it with driftwood from the river and white- 
 pine boards from the store. Night had settled thick 
 without and the room was in darkness save where the 
 open door of the roaring stove flooded the end of the 
 room with a fan-shaped radiance. In the heart of 
 this they sat, their arms touching as they leaned for- 
 ward, gazing into the popping fire. Marvin had a 
 passing sense of pleasure at this unexpected com- 
 panionship in his bleak quarters. He did not draw 
 
116 M tfie ©fiaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 himself away, and they sat for some time in silence. 
 
 "Ain't it jolly ?" Ida said presently, turning and 
 looking into his eyes. "It's most like camping out — 
 and I do like that. You must go with us on our 
 trips next spring." 
 
 Marvin expressed his pleasure at the prospect. 
 
 "Now, ain't you glad I stopped ?" 
 
 "It wouldn't be polite to say no," he returned, 
 evasively. 
 
 "No, don't you dare to or I'll plunge out in the 
 blizzard and lose myself." 
 
 "Please don't. Miss Ida,'* he said, seizing her arm 
 as if to restrain her. 
 
 She thrust to the stove door. 
 
 "Oh, how dark. Get a light quick," she cried, 
 clinging to him as she rose to her feet. 
 
 When a light was struck, she stood an instant sur- 
 veying the room. 
 
 "Where are the pictures ?" she asked, disappointed. 
 
 Marvin climbed to the attic and returned with 
 "The Spirit of the Prairie." When it had been ar- 
 ranged so that the light fell on it to the best advan- 
 tage, Ida, though not a competent judge, burst into 
 exclamations of approval. 
 
 "Why, Brother Garner, you are an artist— and 
 you've made me look beautiful." 
 
 "I had a beautiful subject." 
 
 "Oh, thanks," she returned, glancing up quickly, 
 
3n tbt SftaDoto of ©dd> 117 
 
 her eyes shining. '^Now show me the others, please." 
 
 He brought them down one at a time and placed 
 them in odd corners about the room. 
 
 Ida stared open-eyed. 
 
 "Did you paint them all — that one?" she asked, 
 nodding her head shyly toward a nude. 
 
 "Yes; that's a symbolical treatment of Spring." 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't have dreamed that a preacher 
 painted it." 
 
 Marvin appeared not to hear. "Here is one I call 
 The Lost Soul.' " 
 
 "What an awfully horrid face — ^why, Brother Gar- 
 ner, is that Col. Whaley ?" 
 
 When at last they thought of the hour, it was past 
 midnight. Marvin opened the door and peered out. 
 The slit of light lit up a grey wall of madly whirling 
 snow; the wind roared across the prairie like an en- 
 raged demon. He slammed to the door, and they 
 stood staring at each other blankly. 
 
 "Miss Ida, you can't go home to-night." 
 
 "Oh, I must, I must," she cried, starting up in 
 alarm. But when they had discussed the matter, they 
 knew that it was not possible. 
 
 Ida resigned herself to the inevitable. She became 
 unseemly cheerful and Marvin thought he detected a 
 suppressed elation at the outcome of their adventure. 
 
 "This is just my luck," she began, presently, re- 
 clining in an easy position in the rocker, her arms 
 
118 3n tfte SftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 crossed above her head. "I was camping with the 
 Browns, of Iletta, one spring, and Charley, an aw- 
 fully cute chap, and myself w^ere riding on the prairie 
 one afternoon when there came up a thunder shower. 
 We knew we'd get drenched before we could make 
 the camp, so w^e galloped about looking for some kind 
 of shelter. We found an old dugout the cowboys had 
 abandoned, and hurried into it. The roof had caved 
 in and we had to sit all doubled up. When it began 
 to rain it was almost dark as night, and water trickled 
 through and ran down our backs. Charley kept hold- 
 ing my hand and asking me if I was afraid. Now, 
 wasn't that silly ? But Charley is a great flirt. He 
 does all the girls that way and we don't mind him. 
 Well, there we sat holding each other's hands in the 
 dark — think of it — till the water rose to the tops of 
 our shoes. Then w^e had to get out. It was still 
 pouring down and by the time we reached camp we 
 looked like drowned rats. This is a regular snap. 
 Now, ain't it cozy ?" 
 
 Marvin was uncomfortable, uneasy. Somehow he 
 was filled with a secret dread. 
 
 ^^Well, we are at least dry and warm," he said, 
 glancing about the room. His eyes fell on the bare 
 spot where had rested the supply of wood for the 
 night. ^'Why, Miss Ida," he cried, in alarm, "we've 
 used all our fuel." 
 
 "Now, that's too bad." 
 
an tfie ©ijaDoto of &oi}, 119 
 
 In fact the fire had begun to burn low. The stove 
 that a few minutes ago glowed red, had faded to its 
 wonted color of dirty broAvn. The house was rudely 
 constructed and through crevices about the door and 
 windows a fine white powder sifted into the room. 
 As it grew colder they pulled their chairs closer and 
 closer to the stove, until at last they huddled against 
 its sides. Then the fire burned itself out. The tem- 
 perature dropped to freezing. 
 
 "Hadn't I better try to get you home, Miss Ida ?" 
 Marvin asked, tentatively. 
 
 "Oh, they wouldn't expect me now." 
 
 He went to the door and, opening it a fraction, 
 peered out. The blizzard still raged. 
 
 "Then you had better go to bed; you'll freeze if 
 you don't." 
 
 "But what will you do ?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, I'll go upstairs and manage somehow. I 
 can keep moving till morning." 
 
 "But I'll be frightened to death alone in the dark." 
 
 "You can keep the light burning." 
 
 "Oh, I'd see all kinds of horrible things staring at 
 me through the window." 
 
 "But we'll freeze sitting here," he insisted. 
 
 "Yes, we will," she admitted. 
 
 He took the key from the door opening onto the 
 stairway. "Here, Miss Ida, you must go to bed. 
 Lock the door when I go up, and blow out the light 
 
120 3n tlje ©ftaDoto of <a)oD^ 
 
 There's nothing to fear. Xo one would venture out 
 such a night as this." 
 
 "!N"o, no, I can't," she cried, pushing the key from 
 her. "I'm afraid to be down here alone." She bent 
 forward, her face in her hands. "Oh, what shall we 
 do, Brother Garner ? I didn't think it would be like 
 this — and we were having such a jolly visit " 
 
 "That's the question," he returned, perplexed. 
 "What shall we do ?" It was with difficulty that he 
 restrained a growing irritation. He saw now how 
 foolish he had been in yielding to her wish. 
 
 "Miss Ida, you must go to bed. It's out of the 
 question your sitting up longer," he said firmly. 
 
 "Oh, please don't scold," she said humbly; "I'm 
 awfully sorry it's — it's turned out this way." 
 
 "I'm not scolding," he insisted, relenting a little ; 
 "but you mustn't freeze." 
 
 "Nor you," she said solicitously. She stood up 
 suddenly, her eyes bright with the purpose that moved 
 her. "I know a plan," she ventured timidly; "if 
 you wouldn't mind — we — ^we could sit close together 
 on the bed — and wrap up with the quilts — I've done 
 that camping out " 
 
 Marvin regarded her thoughtfully. "No," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 Ida's head drooped forlornly, her eyes on the floor. 
 There was a troubled intake of breath. Marvin's 
 thoughts were sadly confused, His rejection of her 
 
In t8e ®6alioto of ©oD^ 121 
 
 proposal seemed to put a questionable color upon it; 
 to accept it seemed foolish. Perhaps a trial would 
 convince her of this. 
 
 "We might try your plan, Miss Ida — we must do 
 something." 
 
 '^No, you don't think it proper," she mumbled, not 
 looking up. 
 
 "Proper or not — we mustn't freeze." 
 
 "Well, come on, then," she said walking to the Led. 
 "I'm chilled to the bone." 
 
 She lifted the covers so that they could be easily 
 drawn about their shoulders, and, sitting down, 
 waited for him to take his place beside her. This he 
 did. They tucked in the quilts, their arms interlaced 
 as they held them in place. It was if they sat in 
 close embrace. The warmth of their bodies, thus 
 husbanded, they were soon in a comfortable glow. 
 They could feel the beating of each other's hearts, 
 and their breathing brought their bosoms together 
 in gentle, recurrent pressures. They sat for some- 
 time in silence. Marvin's imagination was keenly 
 active. He was thinking how awkward it would be 
 if a citizen of Benvanue should glance through the 
 window at this juncture, and how difficult an ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Ida seemed to sense her companion's uneasiness 
 and sat silently staring at the curtainless window. 
 Her buoyant spirit had forsaken her. An hour 
 
122 3n tfte ^ftaOoto of ©oD* 
 
 dragged by, and Marviu found the strained position 
 already growing extremely irksome. One of his legs 
 had gone to sleep, but he dared not move for fear of 
 disarranging the quilts and letting in the cold. He 
 could feel Ida's body sagging with increasing weight 
 against his. It was with a painful effort that he 
 maintained his upright position. Their breath had 
 frozen a crust of ice on the covers ; beneath the door 
 and windows were heaps of snow, and the wind 
 shrieked with growing fury about the rude structure 
 and swept through the room with an icy menace. 
 
 "I'm getting awfully tired," said Ida at last. 
 **Why can't we lay back on the bed and rest ?" 
 
 "Here goes," said Marvin, desperately. They sank 
 back simultaneously and found themselves in each 
 other's arms, their faces touching. 
 
 Another hour had passed, when Marvin's anxious 
 ear caught the faint crunching of snow, and he could 
 trace the course of feet battling the storm. 
 
 "What is it ?" Ida whispered, fearfully. 
 
 "Cow or horse," Marvin answered, reassuringly, 
 but trembling with a sense of impending danger. 
 
 The window was suddenly rattled violently. Mar- 
 vin lay breathless; he seemed powerless to move. 
 Then the pounding grew insistent, and a hoarse voice 
 cried threateningly: "Open up, open up." 
 
 Marvin sprang from the bed, tossing the quilts over 
 Ida, scarcely realizing that he did so, or the motive 
 
In tfte @J)aDoto of &oti, 123 
 
 prompting the act. ^^Come in, come in," he called, 
 stepping into the middle of the room. The door was 
 flung wide and Grogan, snow-encrusted, wild-eyed, 
 stood blinking into his face. 
 
 "Brother Grogan," Marvin gasped. 
 
 "Where's Ida ?" the other asked, glancing about 
 the room. "Hutton said he saw you together on the 
 prairie just before the storm broke." 
 
 Marvin stood like one suddenly struck dumb, his 
 mind running on ahead searching his brain for the 
 most fitting explanation, that he now saw was in- 
 evitable. 
 
 "Where's Ida?" Grogan demanded fiercely, step- 
 ping nearer. 
 
 "She's — here," Marvin stammered. ".We gol! 
 caught in the blizzard — we " 
 
 "Ida," he called, striding to the bed. 
 
 His daughter rose from the quilts and stood trem- 
 bling before him, her dishevelled hair falling about 
 her shoulders and hiding her downcast eyes. 
 
 "Ida, why didn't you come home ? — what are you 
 doing here ?" he thundered, grasping her arm roughly. 
 
 "Oh, pa, it was blowing terribly — and we stopped 
 — we thought it wouldn't last long — but it got harder 
 and harder — we couldn't get home " 
 
 Grogan glared a moment at the drooping, shiver- 
 ing figure ; glanced to the bed where she had lain, at 
 the fireless stove, at the pictures scattered about the 
 
124 M tbt ^baootD of aoD. 
 
 room, then, throwing the wraps he carried about her, 
 pushed her into the storm. He did not look back, nor 
 did he turn to close the door. 
 
 Marvin stood some minutes, staring into the wild 
 night at the point where they disappeared, the snow 
 whirling about him and settling down thick on his 
 clothes. Mechanically he moved to the door, shut it. 
 He glanced about the room in a dazed, unseeing way, 
 blew out the light and crawled into bed. He was 
 conscious of a numbing pain in his breast as if a 
 hbavy weight had been cast upon him. 
 
In tjbe ^i)aDobi of <$oD« 125 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 When Marvin woke the next morning, a blinding 
 glare of light streamed through the uncurtained win- 
 dow. He threw on his overcoat and stepped out into 
 the open. A silent world of white lay beneath the 
 eye; lifted against the clear sky a scintillating radi- 
 ance. It was as if he gazed on a field of alabaster 
 strewn with powdered diamonds. From the crystalline 
 vaults a new-faced sun glowed an orb of molten gold. 
 He stood dumb before the miracle of color, his senses 
 tingling with the keenest delight. The incidents of 
 the night came to him as the unrealities of a dream. 
 But there was present an uneasy premonition of 
 threatening disaster, and that it would work some 
 radical change in his life. His mood fluctuated from 
 deepest gloom to exultant buoyancy. When he 
 thought of his mother he was sad almost to despair; 
 "when he contemplated a release from the yoke of his 
 bondage he laughed aloud with joy. 
 
 But the day passed and nothing transpired to 
 justify his presentiments ; and as he began to go over 
 the situation he felt that his fears were ill-founded. 
 Grogan could take no step to injure him that would 
 
126 3n tfie SftaDoto of (SoD* 
 
 not compromise his daughter. She, it was, who would 
 suffer the most. He imagined her keen humiliation 
 under her father's censure and condemnation and 
 resolved at the earliest opportunity to see him and 
 take all the blame for the night's adventure upon him- 
 self. But the weather held him a prisoner for some 
 days, then the unhappy episode faded to an un- 
 pleasant memory as he again became absorbed in his 
 work. 
 
 He sat one day, some weeks later, before his easel 
 so intent upon his work that he was scarcely con- 
 scious of his own existence, when a loud rapping 
 brought him in alarm to his feet. His palette and 
 brush still in his hand, he opened the door. A half- 
 dozen grizzly, weather-beaten faces were lifted to him 
 from the steps. 
 
 ^^Come in, come in," he said cordially. The men 
 filed in, their eyes on the floor, touching gingerly 
 Marvin's proffered hand, as he greeted each one by 
 name. There were only two chairs in the room and 
 these Marvin brought forward. Fulton, his official 
 from Big Bend, plumped down in the rocker with an 
 air of proprietorship ; his tanned face bristled with a 
 black, brush-like beard, and as he turned his sunken, 
 beady eyes furtively toward Marvin, his head was 
 not unlike that of some shaggy animal. Grogan 
 seated himself in the cane-bottomed chair that the 
 artist had just pushed back from the easel. Marvin 
 
In the ®|)aDoto of ©oD* 127 
 
 turned to remove some things from the bed so that it 
 might be pressed into service as a settee. When he 
 faced about, he found his visitors staring open-eyed 
 upon the nude figure of "Spring." There was a pain- 
 ful silence, during which he glanced from face to 
 face inquiringly. A month ago these men regarded 
 him with admiration little short of reverence; his 
 word was law, his influence dominating. To them he 
 was an idol. Because of him they had become hero 
 worshippers. Kow, he knew they condemned him 
 unheard. 
 
 "Whar'd that come from V asked Fulton, pointing 
 to the offending picture. 
 
 Marvin recognized that any attempt toward con- 
 ciliation would be futile in the presence of the in- 
 criminating evidence of his guilt. And though he 
 tried to smother it, deep in his soul there glowed a 
 hope that the action of these men would give him an 
 excuse to break with his ill-advised career. He 
 stepped to the picture and turned it to a better light. 
 
 "That is some of my work." 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Brother Garner, that you 
 made that ?" asked Fulton, incredulously. 
 
 "Yes; I painted it." 
 
 "I swan," blurted Fulton. 
 
 The men glanced at each other sheepishly, their 
 eyes flashing back to the nude as if irresistibly under 
 its spell. 
 
128 3n tU ^l^aDota) of 0oti« 
 
 "Sit down, men, an' let's git to bizness," com- 
 manded Fulton. 
 
 The men silently arranged themselves along the 
 edge of the bed. 
 
 "Brother Garner, I guess you know what we come 
 yere fer?'' said Fulton, with business-like direct- 
 
 "No ; I'm not sure that I do." 
 
 "Well, it's them pichers. When I herd it goin' 
 ronn' the prairie that you'z puttin' in yer time makin' 
 pichers of naked wimin, I said it weren't so, but seein' 
 is believin', an' you don't deny makin' 'em ?" 
 
 "I rather think I'm proud I can do it," returned 
 Marvin, with calm indifference. 
 
 "Well, I'd a-never believed a man that can preach 
 the powerful sermons as you do would 'a' 'loud naked 
 wimin in his house, much less to 'a' made 'em, an' 
 havin' 'em where they'd stare you in the face every 
 minit of the day, rousin' the flesh. It 'ud make a ol' 
 man like me lose his religin, an' how you've got a 
 spark of grace in yer heart after makin' that crea- 
 ture's more'n I can tell. The thoughts you must 'a' 
 had in yer head to 'a' done it. I've been married 
 twenty year an' never afore have I seen a woman in 
 all her wicked nakedness like you've made that one. 
 Don't seem reasonable that a man who can draw tears 
 from yer eyes could find room in his heart for images 
 of the scarlet woman. It's onreasonable. I swan. 
 
3tt tht Si>aDoto of &oti. 129 
 
 if I hadn't heard you preach, I'd swear you'd missed 
 yer callin', though why the good God gives men power 
 to do sech wicked work is more'n I can guess. Makes 
 me feel like the way I do when I pass the Red Lights 
 over to Retta." ' 
 
 The men still stared at the helpless picture. A 
 spell of fascinated embarrassment seemed to hold 
 them. Fulton and Grogan alone maintained an out- 
 ward show of composure. The former leaned back in 
 the rocker and let his black beard drop on his boson 
 in judicial poise. He turned his eyes on Marvin as 
 if he had been some strange, mysterious animal ho 
 could not fathom. 
 
 "Brother Garner, there ain't no use beatin' roun' 
 the bush — the fact is, knowin' what we do, we 
 wouldn't like to hear you preach no more. We owe 
 it to our wimin an' children to withdraw our financial 
 an' moral support. We can't ast you to leave, though 
 it might be the best thing you could do ; but we here- 
 with notify you that we'll prefer charges of immoral- 
 ity agin you at the nex' quarterly conference. That's 
 what we decided on up at Grogan's store if we found 
 the reports 'bout the naked woman was true — an' you 
 ain't denied nothin'." 
 
 "But I do deny being guilty of immorality of any 
 kind,'' Marvin said, emphatically. 
 
 "Well, you know what the Scripchers says 'bout 
 iookin' on wimin an' so forth, an' I can't see, after 
 
130 M tfte ©baDoto of ©oB/ 
 
 havin' them naked images in yer min' an' 'fore yer 
 eyes, as it would be any worse to 'a' had 'em in yer 
 arms. What you want to do, Brother Marvin, is to 
 marry. A few weeks of married life 'ud git them 
 images of the scarlet woman outen yer 'magination. 
 !N'othin'll bring yer passions an' 'cupiscences to their 
 senses, as the Bible says, like a woman of yer own. 
 You know St. Paul says, ^better marry than burn,' 
 an' that's the text you want to put in practice. Ain't 
 I 'bout right, men?" The men pulled their eyes off 
 the nude an instant and nodded approval. 
 
 "Well, men, I reckin that's 'bout all we've got to 
 say," said Fulton, rising. "I must be goin'." 
 
 Marvin held open the door and the men filed out, 
 bobbing their heads and mumbling as they passed. 
 He closed the door and sat down to think the new 
 situation over, when there was a feeble knock. "Come 
 in," Marvin called. 
 
 Brown, of Yellow Prairie, slipped quietly in. He 
 had forgotten a package. When the artist found it 
 and placed it in his hand, he still stood hesitating, 
 regarding the other in perplexity. 
 
 "Brother Garner, I'm awful sorry," he began at 
 last. "I — I want you to know I don't believe you 
 meant no wrong. An' — an' — ^I understan' them 
 pichers. But I'm feurd Grogan's goin' to make it 
 awful hard fer you, but it won't do no good to say 
 nothin'. Maybe the Elder can straighten out things. 
 
In tht §)6aDoto of ©oD* i3i 
 
 I'm awful sorry — good-bye." He extended his hand 
 and giving Marvin's an awkward but hearty grasp, 
 hurried out. 
 
 Marvin was dumb. Tears sprang unbidden to his 
 eyes. A moment before he could have defied the 
 world, fought the world — now he felt himself weak, 
 unnerved at the sound of a sympathetic word. He 
 threw himself on the bed and groaned aloud. 
 
 "Oh, God, what have I done — what made you* let 
 me do it?" 
 
132 3n tht @)|^aDoto of <S^oti. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 An April day lay bright, warm, illusive on the 
 prairie. Marvin moved industriously about the room 
 packing his few belongings for the departure on the 
 morrow. From time to time he paused and looked out 
 the window on the blue-green world. At last he 
 picked up his hat and went out, swinging along 
 briskly — he would have one more day in the open. 
 He bared his head to the sunshine and soft breath of 
 Spring that rippled in the white spaces; and his 
 eyes on the young world, every care and hope dropped 
 from his mental horizon. As he looked into the blue 
 ocean above that mothered the green ocean below, 
 visions of the vast silent life that moved mysteriously 
 on the bosom of the one, swept the face of the other, 
 filled his imagination — the unseen, unheard comedies 
 and tragedies that played their unending round be- 
 neath the sun and stars, in calm and storm. He 
 threw himself on his back and gazed into the fathom- 
 less spaces; let his eyes wander over the infinite 
 stretches of green and blue and gold. He thrilled 
 with a mystical exaltation; felt himself akin to the 
 warm earth, the blue sky, the tilting grass, the pas- 
 
In m ©fiaBoto of <©oD* 133 
 
 sionate hawk that screamed in the heavens, the glow- 
 ing cloud — ^the vital essence that moved in it all — to 
 dream, to think, to aspire, to look toward God, to 
 see God, to feel one's self a god ! He was intoxicated 
 with a tremulous uplift of soul. 
 
 Then his eyes chanced to rest on a grey-bearded 
 head that slowly rose from the green bank. As he 
 looked, there followed the stooped outline of an old 
 man leaning on a staff — the figure of Father Time — 
 a clear-cut cameo against the blue of the sky. He 
 gazed at the apparition as a creature of a dream. 
 But as it hobbled forward, he recognized Colonel 
 iWhaley. That miserable old pessimist had not died 
 as he had hoped, and as Marvin had expected. Mar- 
 vin rose and greeted him. 
 
 "Damn you, don't you know you are liable for 
 trespass ?" the Colonel blurted in an emotionless bark, 
 his face like a tragic mask. "I'll have no renegade 
 preacher, obscene dauber, on my land." 
 
 Marvin looked at him in bewilderment. He had 
 felt a great pity for the wretched old sinner; had 
 been touched by his remorse, but surely he was lost 
 to all human feeling. 
 
 "I'm sorry. Colonel, but I did not know I had 
 wandered onto your premises." 
 
 "Ha, ha," cackled Whaley, in a mirthless voice. 
 "Oh, damn you. Garner, I'm glad to see you. And 
 you might just as well prayed for me, after all — 
 
134 3n tfte S)ftaDoto of (SoU* 
 
 you might have had an answered prayer to your 
 credit." 
 
 "I'm glad — you — are out," stammered Marvin. 
 
 "And I'm glad you are out — damn 'em — the fools. 
 I'd have come over to see you, but I knew they'd 
 hold it against you. But, damn 'em, they don't 
 know no better, and why waste words on 'em. But 
 it's the best thing that could have happened. You 
 made a mistake. You would never have been con- 
 tented to play the God for three hundred a year. 
 You'll be happier daubing your pictures and starving. 
 There's no lower hell to which a man can sink than 
 self -contempt, and in the end you would have come to 
 that. If Christ, who has almost been lost to the 
 world beneath the dogmas and superstitions heaped 
 upon pim, taught one thing worth while, it was to 
 be true to one's self. He gave humanity what He 
 alone could give and it killed Him for it; you have 
 dared to do what you were created to do, and you 
 find yourself condemned. But be true to yourself; 
 make the most of your instincts — ^your heaven or 
 hell depends upon that. You know what you want 
 to do, do it, though it bring you a crown of thorns, 
 a cross between thieves. 
 
 "ISTo, don't try to answer me," he broke off, as 
 Marvin essayed to speak. "We won't argue. Ee- 
 member what I say or forget it, Whaley'll never know. 
 
 As the Colonel talked, Marvin looked into his face, 
 
In tbt SfiaDoto of (©oD^ iss 
 
 every line of which depicted suffering, remorse of 
 soul, and the kindly, peaceful face of his mother rose 
 before him. He found himself wondering if the dif- 
 ference in their lives could be accounted for in their 
 differing attitudes toward God. Did the experiences 
 of life give color to the character of one's God? or 
 did the character one gave to his God color his life ? 
 If Whaley's belief made him the miserable creature 
 he beheld, how infinitely better to hold to the super- 
 stitions of his mother. 
 
 The Colonel inquired further of Marvin's troubles, 
 rumors of which he had heard. He sat down on the 
 ground close to his side, leaning upon his stick; his 
 grey beard dropped to his hands, his eyes resting on 
 a lone peak that upreared on the white distance. He 
 said nothing till Marvin had ceased speaking, then 
 he turned and looked him over as if moved to new 
 interest. 
 
 "May I see your pictures?" he asked. "I'm too 
 old to be corrupted by them," he added, with expres- 
 sionless irony. 
 
 "I've just been packing,'* said Marvin, when they 
 reached the parsonage. His pictures were heaped on 
 the bed and he lifted the top one and held it to the 
 light. It was one of the last painted — a large canvas 
 of a blizzard-swept plain. So realistic was it, one 
 could almost hear the swish of the wind, feel the 
 touch of cold. In the foreground, seen through the 
 
136 3n tht g)|)aDoto of &ot}. 
 
 swirling snow, stood the gaunt form of a cow with 
 lifted head, a pathetic agony in her eyes. Between 
 her legs she protected a dying calf. Whaley sat and 
 gazed a long time with growing amazement. 
 
 "Damn, you. Garner, you're a genius," he blurted 
 presently; "Why didn't you tell me you could do 
 this?" 
 
 Marvin murmured some words of thanks, as he 
 thrilled with the sincere, spontaneous praise. He 
 put down "God in the Blizzard," as the picture was 
 called, and took up another. It was a vast, shadow- 
 wrapt plain ; the limitless stretches melting into black 
 voids. Far on the eastern horizon burned a feeble 
 star. With his back to this only guiding ray, a 
 gaunt, stooped form, his hands clasped about his eyes, 
 sta^ered, as if under a burden, toward the abyss. 
 The attitude was instinctive of hopelessness, despair. 
 
 Whaley leaned forward, his eyes staring, his mask- 
 like face breaking into lines of wonder. "Why, damn 
 you, you've put me in your picture. You scoundrel, 
 to take advantage of a dying old man. The idea is 
 all wrong, but the art is great. But that's orthodox, 
 how could they condemn your pictures ?" 
 
 Marvin smiled. "They did not see them — I mean 
 they could not understand. Here is one they seemed 
 to appreciate. This is Fulton's Scarlet Woman." 
 It was simple enough. There was a background of 
 vague, dreamy sky, against which floated glistening 
 
In tbt ®f)aDoto of ©oD* 137 
 
 yellow clouds, their shadows cool on the green below. 
 In the foreground, stretched upon a bank, ablaze with 
 a tangle of wild flowers, was a nude girl watching the 
 coquetting of lover butterflies. 
 
 "I see — I see it all now — the fools to think that 
 vulgar — the fools ! Garner, damn you, you've got a 
 career before you. You'll never be happy — ^but you'll 
 be famous. Before you are half as old as I your 
 pictures will be in the galleries of the world, you'll 
 be a great American painter. I've been in all the 
 galleries of Europe — seen all the masters, and I know 
 originality when I see it. Stick to art." He paused, 
 his eyes on "The Lost Soul," then he turned to go. 
 "Good-bye," he said, almost reverently. He touched 
 Marvin's proffered hand and hobbled out. 
 
138 3n tfte S)6aDoto of &ot). 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Herd 'em say at Benvaniie yon'd been held up fer 
 immerality ?" broke in the driver with innocent, but 
 brutal frankness, when the lumbering stage got under 
 way. 
 
 ^^Yes," answered Marvin, unflinchingly, his eyes 
 on the green world that revolved about them in great 
 swelling billows. 
 
 "So you'r kinder out on bail — ^nobody but yerself 
 knows if yer guilty cr not ? But most everybody says 
 yer air — it's a kind of way people has. They seem 
 glad when a feller gives 'em a chanct to believe 'em 
 guilty of something. An' likely if you come clear 
 they'll say you didn't git jestice." 
 
 He paused for a reply, but Marvin vouchsafing no 
 response, he continued: "Folks air awful queer. 
 Wlien you first come, Grogan was always sayin', 
 'Boggs, you must come roun' an' hear our new 
 preacher — he's a regular top-notcher' ; an' everybody 
 was sayin' fine things. Got my curiosity so roused 
 up I'z 'most a-mind to drop in an' sample the salva- 
 tion you'z dishin' out. Then I thought if it pleased 
 Grogan it shore couldn't be the genuine article. Gro- 
 
In tbt S)f)aDoto ot ©oD* 139 
 
 gan ain't got no more conscience than a prairie rattler. 
 He says to me this mornin' when I went after the 
 mail, ^Be careful, Boggs, er the Parson'll 'tamernate 
 yer morals,' an' I says, ^Hardly, after 'sociatin' with 
 you so long.' 
 
 ^Tarson, you made one mistake. You ought to 'a' 
 'zibited them pichers. The good brothers would 'a' 
 fell over therselves fer a peep. There come a show 
 to Eetta onct durin' the Fair, where they danced 
 the couchie-couchie. Well, bless my eyes, w^ien the 
 talk go roun' what was goin' on, ever' shoutin' Meth- 
 odists, can't-fall Baptist, water-salvation Campbellite, 
 an' what-not had to go an' see it. They all come out 
 condemning the ongodly sight, an' if you ast 'em why 
 they went, they'd say they didn't want to condemn a 
 thing 'thout seein' it. 01' Hanks, w^ho runs the 
 Cattle King, said he guessed they'd all go to hell an' 
 sample it to see if the Parson's reports air true, an' 
 git 'quainted with the devil to see if he's black as 
 he's painted. Anyway, yer show wouldn't 'a' been 
 no worse 'n the shindig they had at Benvanue las' 
 year fer the heathen. You paid fifty cents to git in, 
 includin' a snack you could git down at the grocery 
 store fer fifteen cents — the extra thirty-five was fer 
 the heathen. Well, when they'd aggervated yer ap- 
 pertite with sanwishes an' pickles, you could git an 
 extra glass of pink lemonade fer a dime. After 
 we'd et all the doin's we w^ere goin' to, they put up 
 
140 3n tbt ©fiaHoto of (SoD^ 
 
 one of them fancy weddin'lookin' cakes, covered with 
 white sugar an' red gum drops, to be voted to the 
 handsomest girl at ten cents a vote. Well, they got 
 up an awful excitement. Every feller wanted his 
 girl to git the cake. The cowboys from one ranch 
 got to buckin' the cowboys from ernother, an' Grogan 
 an' ol' man Harkness aggin' 'em on. Well, some of 
 them fools spent their salaries months ahead. Widow 
 Smith's two boys from the river got to votin' on Bill's 
 sweetheart, who he was engaged to, an' they kept bor- 
 rowin' right an' left till by the time the thing was 
 over, they owed mor'n they's worth, an' didn't git 
 the cake neither. Miz Smith come over the nex' 
 day with blood in her eye an' rounded up the Parson. 
 Said it was the first time her boys ever gambled in 
 their lives, an' it was a shame fer 'em to learn it in a 
 meetin' house ; 'specially as Ida Grogan got the cake, 
 who could afford to have all the cake she wanted 
 'thout robbin' the community of their savin's. Yes, 
 you made a mistake. Parson — you ought to 'a' showed 
 them pichers. I'd 'a' give a roun' dollar myself to 
 'a' seen 'em. Kothin' I dote on like the female ^gger. 
 God done his levelist I'm thinkin' when he made it — 
 if he did build it out of a rib. My information of the 
 Bible is, she's the last thing he made, an' I can 
 believe it, fer he shore had his han' in. An' if I'm 
 not misinformed, he didn't make her any clothes. I 
 guess if he'd 'a' lived in this age of the world they'd 
 
In tbt ®f)aOcto of <eoD* ui 
 
 had 'im up fer immerality. Yes, they do go the Lord 
 Almighty one better, fer all the wonderful to-do they 
 make 'bout him. Ever since Adam an' Eve, folks 
 been actin' as if Grod didn't know his bizness. They 
 begin scramblin' fer fig leaves as soon as they seen 
 therselves, an' their offsprings has kept up the scram- 
 ble till you'd think God jest made 'em skellingtons to 
 hang clothes on. That's my idee," he said, question- 
 ingly, as if to draw out his companion. 
 
 "I see," said Marvin, encouragingly ; "that you are 
 in the habit of having ideas of your o^vn." 
 
 "Well, yes, you might put it that way; though I 
 ain't makin' no pretentions to force 'em on nobody 
 else. I take it the Lord gives us a headpiece fer more 
 purposes than to stick a hat on, though you might not 
 think so when you see how the wimin have taken to 
 riggin' it out. An' you can't tell what's in a head by 
 what's on it. 'Most any day over at Retta you can 
 see a fifty dollar hat carryin' roun' a fifteen cent head 
 that's got jest 'nough brains in it to make it giggle. 
 But I ain't sayin' nothin' agin it. This is a free 
 country. I has my idees an' lets folks have theirs. 
 Reckin, though, maybe, I do think more'n some. 
 Ridin' on the prairie by myself, winter an' summer, 
 day an' night, with nothin' to do but think, I cover 
 a lot of ground in the course of a year. Sometime I 
 think a feller can think too much. Some things you 
 jest better let alone an' let the other feller do the 
 
i42i 3n tbt ^i)aDob) of &ot. 
 
 thinkin' 'bout. I git to chasin' an' idee, an' I think 
 an' think, till my brain fairly burns an' I git so 
 mixed up I almost question if I'm me er not me. One 
 day I got to tryin' to solve the problem, who made 
 God, an' I do believe if I hadn't 'a' let up when I 
 did, I'd be a jibberin' idit in a lunatick 'sylum." 
 
 A turn in the road brought them in sight of the 
 spires of Retta. 
 
 "Well, yere's fer luck, an' I hope you'll come out 
 O.K.," he said, grasping Marvin's hand in a vise-like 
 grip and flinging it from him. "Good-bye." 
 
 Marvin clambered down, and Boggs lumbered off 
 against a red sunset, slashing the horses and bellowing : 
 
 "Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie 
 In a little grave jest six by three, 
 Where the cayotes will howl over me." 
 
In tfie ^ftalioto of (So&» 143 
 
 PAET FOUR. 
 CHAPTER T. 
 
 Marvin stood motionless on the bustling square, 
 watching the activities that flowed and ebbed about 
 him. Two motives had drawn him to Harris. It 
 was to be the meeting place of the next annual con- 
 ference, and, in the metropolis, he hoped it might be 
 possible to find work. But as he now caught glimpses 
 of the green lanes and blue sky at the ends of the 
 streets, and watched the sun-tanned farmers come 
 and go, there came to him a longing to bury himself 
 in the country with his paints and brush. It was 
 while debating the matter that scraps of a conversa- 
 tion that reached him, turned the scale. 
 
 "Bond, do you know of a boy that would like to 
 help with the chores for his keep ?" There was a soft, 
 musical cadence in the voice that fell pleasantly on 
 the ear. Marvin turned toward the speaker. He was 
 a man of fifty, broad of girth, of compact symmetrical 
 mold. His bearded face reminded him of pictures 
 he had seen of Moses. His small blue eyes twinkled 
 
144 3n tfte SiftaDoto of (Sou* 
 
 with good humor, and there was an expression about 
 his mouth that broadened into a smile at the slightest 
 provocation. Marvin was pleased with his striking 
 physique. 
 
 "You'll not likely find a boy on them terms, 
 Curry," returned the other in a nasal twang. "Cotton 
 choppin' will soon be yere an' then everything that 
 can hor a hoe handle will be wantin' his dollar a day. 
 Wish I could git a kid fer his keep." 
 
 They moved down the street. Marvin kept his eye 
 on the larger man and followed. It occurred to him 
 that this might be the opportunity that he was looking 
 for. When Curry at length turned from the crowd, 
 Marvin approached and touched him on the arm. 
 
 "I'd like to speak to you," he said, as the other 
 turned in surprise. 
 
 "Why, shore," said the stranger, grasping Marvin's 
 hand. "What can I do for you ?" 
 
 Marvin made known his desire to secure light work 
 of some kind in the country and referred to the con- 
 versation he had overheard. 
 
 "Well, now, I'll tell you," said the other; it's like 
 this: Wife's porely an' I have to hump myself to 
 keep things goin'. I jest want someone to help with 
 the chores, mornin' an' night. Cotton choppin' I'd 
 pay extra fer — what you been doin' ?" 
 
 Marvin hesitated, then answered: "School teach- 
 ing." 
 
Hn tbt ©fiaDoto of «>oB* 145 
 
 The other glanced him over critically. 
 
 "Well, Perfesser," he said, after an instant, "you'r 
 welcome to a try. Ain't nobody but me an' wife, an' 
 I'll be glad of yer company. When could you come 
 out, if you come ?" 
 
 "I'd like to go right out with you." 
 
 "Well, I like the way you have of makin' up yer 
 min'. I never have no patience with these hang-fire 
 people. They git me so mixed up with their hemmin' 
 an' hawin' an' perhaps an' I'll think 'bout it, till I 
 don't know my own min.' Bond's been 'scortin' me 
 roun' the streets of Harris all mornin' like a love sick 
 kid that wants to pop the question an' can't, tryin' 
 to decide if he'll swap his filly fer my ol' mule. He 
 ain't made up his min' yet an' he's got me so be- 
 fuddled I don't know if I want to er not." 
 
 Curry bubbled over with exuberance of spirits. He 
 was one of those health animals that make the most of 
 life, taking things as they come, philosophically, 
 cheerfully, letting the future take care of itself. 
 
 "I tell you, Perfesser," he began tentatively, as 
 they rolled along the country lanes ; "if you'r goin' to 
 stay out to my place, Pll have to ast a favor of you. 
 You know my wife's delicate an' she can't stan' fer 
 me to smoke, an' she thinks it's bad fer my heart. 
 Well, I humor her. So when she's roun' I talk awful 
 down on terbacker an' whisky. It pleases her an' 
 don't do me no harm. I hope you use 'em, fer it'll 
 
146 3n tbt ^i)aDoto of <S^oO« 
 
 make it a lot easier fer me. You see when I want 
 a nip er take a notion fer a smoke, IVe got to come 
 over town, go see a neighbor er take to the woods. 
 Then I take a pinch of this an' she ain't none the 
 wiser." He held up a kernel of assafoetida. "I tell 
 her the doctor prescribed it fer my heart. AVcll, she 
 Stan's it all right, though I'm shore it must be worser 
 then terbacker." He produced some cheap cheroots 
 and stopped the horses while they lighted them. 
 
 *'Yes," he went on, puffing contentedly; "since 
 wife's been porcly Tve humored her 'bout everything. 
 'Tain't good fer ailin' people to be crossed. She'll 
 be askin' you questions when I'm not roun' an' I 
 thought I'd better give you a hint. You jest tell her 
 I'm out an' out fer temperance, an' agree to every- 
 thing she says. You know sick people ain't hardly 
 responsible; an' I've noticed different diseases affect 
 people in different ways. Xow, wife's got liver com- 
 plaint an' stomach trouble an' it seems to make her 
 feel blue an' talk blue. 01' man Smith, over on the 
 creek, has consumption, but you couldn't never make 
 him believe it. He'z lively as a cricket an' says he's 
 goin' to live till he'z a hundred. Everybody can see 
 he'z already stand in' in the grave. Billings, he'z one 
 of my neighbors, has the rehumatiz. That's an awful 
 tetchy ailment. You don't dare to cross 'im even in 
 look er he'll rail oiit on you worse'n tarnation. You 
 never seen sech a fiery temper. But it ain't Billings, 
 
3n t&e S)!)aOoto of &ot. U7 
 
 it's jest his rheumatiz. Then there's Sam Doty, he'z 
 got heart troiible an' looks solemcholy as a funeral. 
 I feel like I'd made a visit to the graveyard every time 
 I go over to see him. An' it's jest that way with most 
 people. It's the ailments that make them what they 
 air, an' they can't help it. Sometime I think lyin' 
 an' stealin' an' general oneryness is jest a kind of 
 disease, an' a great many people ought to be taken 
 to the doctor 'stead of jail." He paused a moment 
 as if expecting Marvin to controvert his radical views, 
 then went on cheerfully : 
 
 "I reckin there ain't nothin' the matter with me, 
 onless it's jest general cussedness. Wife says I'm 
 too full of jokes an' frivolity fer a religus man an' 
 a deacon. But I believe that Schriptur which says 
 religin was never designed to make our pleasures less. 
 I guess the Lord knowed what he was 'bout when he 
 made man an' didn't put nothin' in him that oughtn't 
 be there. Anyway, I'm goin' to enjoy myself while 
 I can, fer, as the sayin' goes, when I die I'll be a long 
 time dead. But, of course, this is my private opinion. 
 When I'm with my wife what she says goes. I 
 thought I'd explain so you'd understan' the contra- 
 dictory way I have of expressin' myself. A married 
 man is jest half a man, you know, an' it's my idee 
 the better half's entitled to do the thinkin' an' have 
 her way. But it ain't nothin' but fair the other half 
 should have a private opinion in a private way. 
 
148 3n tfte ©ftasoto of (SoD^ 
 
 You'll soon learn bow to take my wife, an' you'll like 
 her. 
 
 "But yere's where we stop," he broke off, as he 
 drew up the horses before a large board gate, some 
 distance from a queer little house, in the door of 
 which stood a tall, slatternly woman. 
 
 "Youder's Elvira, now," he said, taking a pinch 
 of assafoetida. He handed Marvin the reins and 
 sprang down to open the gate. "You drive in," he 
 said, "I'll run on an' tell wife who you air, er she 
 might have a nervous spell. Elvira don't like onex- 
 pected visitors. But don't you fear," he added re- 
 assuringly, slamming to the gate and hurrying on 
 ahead. 
 
 Mrs. Curry was one of a too common type of house- 
 wife that can be found in almost any farm community 
 — prematurely old from overwork, m.ental inactivity 
 and patent medicine. Her face was like a yellow 
 paste ; there was a woebegone, vacant look in her eyes, 
 and in her veins ran sluggishly all the drugs of the 
 pharmacopoea. 
 
 "I don't see what ever possessed you to come out 
 yere to do chores, bein' a school teacher, as you say," 
 she whined, in a thin, quavering voice. 
 
 "Oh, I guess he jest wants to rough it a little," said 
 Curry, considerately. 
 
 "I'm sure I'll like it very much, if I can please 
 you with my work," Marvin added, cheerfully. 
 
3n tfje ^fiaDoto of ©oO* i49 
 
 Mrs. Curry gave vent to a sound suggesting a com- 
 bination of a hiss and clack. 
 
 ^'Well, I guess if you want to, you can. Any 
 nigger can feed stock an' carry slop to the hogs " 
 
 "Oh, I like that," said Marvin; "but Fm afraid 
 I'll hardly earn my board if that's all you can find 
 for me to do." 
 
 "Well, yer keep'll be rough enough. An' I reckin 
 Lem'll see that ye earn it." 
 
 "Well, ol' woman, time I was gittin' supper — I'm 
 hungry as a wolf," broke in Curry. "Jest make yer- 
 self at home, Perf esser. 
 
 He entered the kitchen, his wife following, drag- 
 ging herself wearily. 
 
 An hour later they sat down to a meal of fried 
 bacon, corn bread, sour milk and black coffee. 
 
 "It's pretty rough fare," said Curry, "but eggs an' 
 butter will soon be cheai:>er an' you can have all you 
 care fer — you like eggs ^ They bring a fancy price 
 an' we're sellin' 'em all now. Money's pretty scarce 
 an' Elvira has to have her physic." 
 
 "The corn bread and milk just suit me," returned 
 Marvin. 
 
 "An' the vegetables will soon be in — you like 
 vegetables ? They fetch a good price over at Harris, 
 but we always raise plenty fer our own use. Though 
 Elvira don't care fer 'em. She thinks them store 
 things air best fer her health — wheatlum, prunelet, 
 
150 3n tfte S)6aDoto of ©oO* 
 
 forcem, an' the like — an' I guess she's right," he 
 hastened to add. "Persons in delicate health need 
 something of the kind," he said, gulping down cup 
 after cup of black coffee. 
 
 "Do you smoke, chew er drink?" asked Mrs. 
 Curry, gazing at Marvin with threatening vacuity. 
 
 "I am sorry to say that I smoke," returned Marvin, 
 deprecatingly. "I know it's a bad habit, but I formed 
 it when I didn't know any better." 
 
 "Xo terbacker fer me," said Curry, positively. 
 "It's bad fer the heart, an' worse fer the pocket, an' 
 Elvira can't stan' my breath. I love it, but I gave it 
 up." 
 
 "Well, if I was you, I'd quit, young man. I'd be 
 ashame to say I couldn't, when you can if you want 
 to. That's what I tol' Lem, an' when he made up his 
 min' he quit. If you'll take assafoetida it will help 
 you. Anyway, I won't have you smokin' 'bout the 
 house. I can't stan' it an' I won't," she insisted 
 shrilly. 
 
 "Quit, young man, quit short off," Curry advised 
 earnestly ; "I'll always be thankful to Elvira fer show- 
 in' me the errer of my way. Have some more of the 
 buttermilk. I see you like it. I can't drink it. 
 Makes me go dead to sleep on my feet. Wife can't 
 sleep nights an' I tell her to try buttermilk, but she 
 can't drink it neither. She takes Celery Sprouts 
 
3n tht ©ftaDoto of ©oD* 151 
 
 Cordial. That's a fine medicine. Elvira's taken onto 
 a hundred bottles, an' I don't doubt but she'd be in 
 her grave if she hadn't." 
 
 "Well, I ain't givin' the Cordial all the credit. L 
 think Sartin's Sa'sparilla, Filkin's Female Favorite 
 an' Brown's Blood Balm air doin' me jest as much 
 good. I take 'em turn about, after meals an' before, 
 an' Plain People's Pills at night. They seem to 
 keep me out of bed, but I don't git my strength back, 
 an' I don't feel like I use' to. I heard over at Miz 
 Smith's to-day that there was a new remedy fer my 
 complaints bein' sold over to Harris. Soon as I save 
 up egg money enough, I want to try it, an' " 
 
 ''Shore, Elvira, you'll have it, if I 'ave to git it 
 on tick. You make a note of it an' remin' me nex' 
 time I go over." 
 
 Curry rose from the table, "^ow, we'll feed an' 
 I'll show you 'bout the place, Perfesser. Elvira, you 
 let the dishes alone, I'll wash 'em up when I git back. 
 Go lay down." 
 
 They walked about the little farm and at length 
 entered a wood. Curry produced the remaining 
 cheroots and they sat down on a log to smoke. The 
 sun had gone down, and a cool breeze swept over the 
 darkening fields. Curry threw off his hat and lifting 
 his broad, good-humored face to the dimming sky, 
 remarked joyously ; 
 
152 3n the %!)a&ota3 of <$oB. 
 
 "Now, this is fine, Perfesser." Then after a little, 
 "An' I'm awful glad you smoke. I see you ketch on. 
 Oh, we'll git 'long swimmin'." 
 
 When they rose to go, he poked his companion in 
 the ribs. There was a pungent odor on the air. 
 
 "Have a nibble," he said. 
 
3n ttt ^{)aDota) of ($oti« 153 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 Marvin's quarters was a half story attic. Only in 
 a space of a few feet in the centre of the room could 
 one stand erect, the roof sloping down on either side 
 almost to the floor. 
 
 "Look out fer yer head an' keep in the middle of 
 the road/' sang out his guide. Curry turned down 
 the quilts, told Marvin to make himself at home, and 
 assuring him that he would "yell up" at the proper 
 time in the morning, began the descent. 
 
 When he was gone, Marvin stood for some minutes 
 looking about the room. On either side of the attic 
 were small square windows with sliding shutters. In 
 one gable a door opened onto a small porch. He 
 stepped out and sat do^^Ti on a chair he found there. 
 It was evidently an unfrequented spot, for he crushed 
 beneath his feet dry leaves that had likely fallen the 
 winter before. The branches of the trees that grew 
 near overshadowed the porch, giving one the feeling 
 of being perched among the treetops. As he sat 
 peering out into the dark, a grey luminousness crept 
 up the sky, bringing into visibility the ragged tracery 
 of woods across the black fields. Then the yellow rim 
 
1S4 In m ^iiaDoVu of <$oo. 
 
 of the moon, etched with fantastic lace, grew in di- 
 mensions till its great white disc floated free in the 
 steel-grey depths. Upon the air sounded a faint 
 musical note, and to this Marvin found himself 
 straining his ear and conjecturing its origin. It 
 brought to his mind the memory of a great city, and 
 with that memory came others — a face rose before 
 him against the night, a face that had haunted him, 
 and had a place in his dreams, since his inglorious 
 departure from the metropolis. He sighed, but not 
 in bitterness of soul. He was conscious even of a 
 negative calm and content to-night. At last he had 
 found a quiet harbor where he could rest awhile and 
 take his bearing. Already he was planning the work 
 he had set for himself. He rose and entered the 
 room, undressed and stretched himself between cool, 
 fragrant sheets. 
 
 When he woke the next morning, the sun had not 
 risen, but as he glanced out the window he saw Curry 
 already busy at work at the barn. He dressed and 
 hurried out to join him. 
 
 "If you want to toughen yer muscles, pitch in,'' 
 said Curry, greeting him. He was shoveling manure 
 from the stalls to a wagon. "This ain't as elegant as 
 teachin' school, but it's pretty much in the same line. 
 Edjucation develops the min', fertilizer grows corn 
 an' cotton. One sprouts the idee, the other the seed. 
 
In tbt §)6alioto of (SoD* 155 
 
 When you think about it, it's wonderful what a little 
 edjucation an' cow-dung will do. A few years ago 
 the hillside where I'm hawling this wouldn't sprout 
 peas — too pore fer anything. Well, I've been edju- 
 catin' it with plenty manure fer couple years, an' now 
 it beats the valley field. I call it my Jim Biggs patch. 
 Jim's the son of ol' man Biggs that lives on Kechi. 
 The ol' man got turrible discouraged 'bout Jim. He 
 jest nacherly wouldn't take to farmin', but he was 
 great on speechifyin' an' politics. Winters he kept 
 the whole neighborhood stirred up with his debates 
 at the school-house. Well, he got after his pa to let 
 him git an edjucation. He went over to the Harris 
 High School, then to college, then he studied law. 
 !N'ow he's a partner of Senator Herbert, an' prose- 
 cutin' attorney. That^s what a little edjucatin' done 
 fer Jim — ^jest what the manure done fer the hillside. 
 Jim was over lectioneerin' me one day an' I took 
 him over to see my fine crop of cotton. Well, when I 
 told him I called it my Jim Biggs patch, an' why, 
 he seemed kinder pleased, an' says: ^Curry, I guess 
 edjucation done the work; hadn't been fer that I'd 
 still be humpin' myself behind the plow.' But edju- 
 cation has got to have something to work on, he says, 
 an' if I'd dig down in the hillside I'd find a sub- 
 stratum of clay that held the fertilizer, er it would 
 all disappear to nowhere. 'Curry, I've got the sub- 
 stratum,' he says, givin' me a wink. 'Vote fer me 
 
156 3n tfie ©ftaDoto of ©oo* 
 
 an' I'll show you what kind of crop 111 grow.' Well, 
 I voted far 'im." 
 
 Some hens with large broods of chickens had been 
 following the movements of the shovels, looking for 
 turned up grain and insects. As Curry wheeled 
 toward the wagon, his big foot trod on a fluffy white 
 chick. There was a muffled shriek that threw the 
 brood into a panic, and the white ball turned on its 
 back, its little red feet jerking convulsively. It 
 gasped a time or two, and was dead. As Curry 
 glanced at what he had done a look of pain came 
 onto his face. 
 
 "Pore little, silly thing,'' he said, picking it up 
 and stroking it awkwardly. 
 
 He stepped to one side and dug out a spadeful of 
 dirt, dropped it in and covered it. 
 
 "Daren't leave it where an ol' sow'll find it. If 
 they once git the taste of young chickens, there's no 
 cure but to kill 'em. It's worse'n the terbacker habit 
 fer stickin'. I guess that chick was predestined never 
 to sizzle in a fry in' pan," he went on philosophizing 
 "An' I'z jest helpin' 'long the plans of Providence in 
 steppin' on it — not a sparrow falls to the groun' 
 'thout His knowledge, an' they wouldn't fall 'thout 
 He willed it. Yes, I believe God's running things, 
 an' to say things is runnin' wrong is to reflect on his 
 'bility an' jedgement. If He saves you, you'r saved, 
 an' if He damns you, you'r damned, an' there's an' 
 
3it tfte ^ftaDoto of ©oo* isr 
 
 end to it. I believe I'm one of the saved, an' I'll 
 never know no different till I wake np in the sweet- 
 bye-and-bje. An' if 1 fetch up at the 'tother place, 
 why, there ain't no use worryin' 'bout it yere. Yes, 
 God made Curry, an' he meant him to work this little 
 farm, have a sick wife, smoke terbacker, take his 
 dram, when he can git it, an' do a lot of devilish 
 things, an' I ain't blamin' Him fer it. I'm satisfied 
 if He is, but He mustn't expect me to be anybody but 
 Curry. Yes, it was predestinated before the founda- 
 tion of the world that I'd be shovelin' manure an' 
 talkin' to you this very momin', an' step on that 
 silly chick — God works in a mysterious way His won- 
 ders to perform, as the good book says. 
 
 "But there's wife callin', an' I guess it's predes- 
 tined we have some breakfast," he said, sw^inging his 
 great body toward the house, his broad face wreathed 
 with lines of contentment, his eyes reflecting back the 
 sparkle of the sky. 
 
 That evening as Marvin and Curry sat on the log 
 in the concealment of the w^oods, smoking their pipes, 
 there floated on the night the sound of distant music. 
 Marvin questioned his companion as to its origin. 
 
 "That comes from Laramore's house. He owns 
 these woods. He's from up T^orth somewhere — 'New 
 York, they say. He's wonderful rich, an' since he 
 bought the ranch, he spends a few months down yere 
 every year. That's his girl playin' the piano. They 
 
158 Sn tfte S){)aDoU) of ©oti* 
 
 say she's a holy terror — ^goes everywhere by herself, 
 hunts with a gun, climbs trees, an' goes in swimmin' 
 — but I ain't condemnin' her fer that. Though you 
 can't believe all you hear 'bout people when they're 
 doin' their best to please everybody, an' I guess you 
 can't believe nothin' you hear 'bout people that ain't 
 tryin' to please nobody. It's my idee a feller has a 
 right to live to please hisself, an' Laramore is as good 
 as any of us, I reckin. Never seen him but onct, but 
 he'z always treated me white. Two of my hogs got 
 through his fence, an' when I went over fer them I 
 shore thought I'd get a blowin' up, an' like as not 
 find my hogs killed, that's generally the way they do 
 'bout yere. Well, he said he was sorry I had to lose 
 the mornin', but he didn't know whose they were an' 
 couldn't sen' 'em home. He'd penned 'em up, an' 
 when I went out to git 'em they's layin' down stupid 
 with the feed he'd give 'em, an whole ears of corn 
 under their noses they hadn't touched. I'z shore 
 proud of them hogs fer their manners, fer they hadn't 
 had a mouthful of corn fer months. He had one of 
 the men fetch 'em home in a waggin, an' I rode with 
 him. An' that's the extent of my 'quaintance with 
 Laramore. 
 
an tfte SftaDoto of &oh. 159 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 An exuberant June day danced over the face of the 
 green world. That elusive, pervasive spirit we call 
 life was at its flood. A mystical vitality stirred and 
 trembled in every living thing — everywhere was 
 movement, activity. 
 
 Marvin sat before his easel at the edge of a clear- 
 ing, well in the shadow of a giant liveoak; about 
 him the grass, its white under surface quivering in 
 the breeze, rippled a young sea. The trees glistened 
 in the vivid green of fresh maturity. In the open, 
 about the stumps, a sappy growth of sprouts had 
 sprung up as if impatient to hide the unsightliness 
 of their vanquished ancestors. From the yellow sun- 
 light to the black shadows, wavering clouds of ephem- 
 era drifted joyously — making the most of their life- 
 span of a day. Hidden from the eye at the roots 
 of the grass and weeds, armies of ants and insects 
 played their liliputian comedies and tragedies. 
 
 Abutting on the clearing were Curry's patches — 
 rustling, snapping rows of corn, darker green ones of 
 cotton. Back and forth the green flood moved Curry, 
 his plow ripping a cool brown wave that bathed the 
 
160 3n tfte ®ftaDoto of ©oD^ 
 
 feet of the young corn. Midway the field bent the 
 slender figure of a girl, her head hid beneath the 
 poke of her bonnet. High in the crystalline blue, 
 white clouds, with oily, glistening Qonvolutions, moved 
 languidly, their shadows on the distant pasture lands, 
 that were dappled with lazily moving cattle. There 
 was a drousily throbbing note in the air ; the love-cry 
 of mating and building birds; the passionate bellow 
 of a penned-up bull, maddened at the stir of life he 
 could not understand, could not quiet. On a girdled 
 tree a hawk poised with wary eye, waiting a victim. 
 
 Marvin painted on obliviously, save when his eyes 
 occasionally roved the landscape. During the weeks 
 of work and isolation he had begun to learn that at 
 the heart of all self-conscious life there ever lurks 
 an insistent discontent — that to tliink is to be filled 
 ^vith uneasiness ; that the only escape from self, from 
 life, is in eager, persistent activity, and so he worked. 
 
 Mid-morning, when the sun blazed white toward 
 the zenith, at a point just behind him a girl came 
 swinging along the edge of the woods, her eyes sweep- 
 ing the view. Seeing the artist beneath the trees, 
 she stopped abruptly. Then stepping within the pro- 
 tection of the trees, she crept nearer, craning her 
 head for a better view. Her espial seemed to be 
 satisfactory. She gave a deft touch to the yellow 
 locks that strayed from her wide-brimmed hat; re- 
 arranged the folds of lace at her throat, and, giving 
 
In tie %|aDobi of <$oD. lei 
 
 her whole person a quick glance of inspection, as- 
 sumed a graceful poise and tiptoed into the open. 
 Some mystical influence seemed to move the worker 
 under the trees. He stirred in his seat uneasily, 
 threw a quick glance ahout the clearing, and rose to 
 his feet. The new comer, whatever had been her 
 intentions, was suddenly stricken with fear and fled 
 precipitately into the woods, the swish of her skirts 
 not imlike the whirr of wdngs. Marvin took a turn 
 about the easel, glanced up into the foliage, into 
 the sky, followed the line of woods, but saw nothing. 
 The disturbing presence had vanished. With an un- 
 accountable sense of disappointment he returned to 
 his painting. But presently he started up and lis- 
 tened intently, a look of surprise on his face. From 
 the depths of the woods there rose a soft musical 
 note. He threw down his brush and sprang to his 
 feet. It was a human voice — clear, liquid, com- 
 pelling. He recalled that he was in Mr. Laramore's 
 pasture and thought that this must be the tom-boy 
 girl that Curry had spoken of. He was glad that he 
 knew of the rancher's pacific attitude toward tres- 
 passers, and passed into the shadow of the trees, 
 guided by the song. Soon he came upon a sight that 
 held him rooted to the spot. From a branch of a tree 
 that projected over tlie stream had been fastened a 
 swing. Standing in this the singer swept back and 
 forth rhythmically, as if keeping time to the wild 
 
1G2 3n tfte ^ftaDoto of aoD* 
 
 burst of melody; now high amid the treetops, now 
 far over the water, her dress a white flashing re- 
 flection on the surface below. 
 
 While Marvin stood in open-eyed wonder and ad- 
 miration, the swing, with a few convulsive jerks, 
 came to a rest, and the occupant sprang to the ground. 
 Turning toward him, she busied herself with her hair 
 that had tumbled about her shoulders. There was a 
 fine color on her cheeks and her blue eyes glowed 
 with animation. Marvin gave a start of recognition. 
 Where had he seen that face before ? or was his sixth 
 sense playing him a trick? But he questioned only 
 for a second. His mind flashed back to a New York 
 ferryboat, a dining-car, and he knew that he stood 
 before the face of his dreams. She would not re- 
 member, but somehow he must let her know. But 
 how ? While he pondered she came briskly along the 
 path. The next moment they stood face to face, 
 looking into each other's eyes. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," Marvin said, confusedly; 
 "I hope I have not frightened you ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not afraid — just surprised,'' she said, 
 a frank fearlessness in her eyes. 
 
 They stood a moment regarding each other in 
 silence. 
 
 "May I pass ?" she asked, naively. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," he said, stepping aside. 
 She came forward slowlj, almost brushing against 
 
3n tfte S)&aaoto of ©oD* les 
 
 him as she passed. The nearness of her person filled 
 him with a glad intoxication. 'But' she was escaping 
 him. He became desperate, strode after her, was 
 soon at her side. 
 
 '^You don't remember me V he blurted recklessly. 
 
 Without slacking her pace, she glanced backward, 
 her eyes flashing in startled amusement. 
 
 "I haven't forgotten you." 
 
 "But you have seen me before " 
 
 She stopped haltingly. There was the slightest 
 restraint in her manner, as if she suspicioned he 
 might refer to her late espial. 
 
 "I — I — have seen you before?" she questioned. 
 
 "Years ago we were fellow travellers — I mean we 
 travelled on the same train. I saw you — you " 
 
 "IvTo, I'm sure I don't remember — I was very 
 young years ago." 
 
 "Of course you don't — you were crossing the 
 Pennsylvania ferry in New York with your father 
 — we stood close together against the railing — we 
 looked into each other's eyes — you smiled and I have 
 never forgotten," Man^in went on hurriedly. "I 
 saw you again in the dining-car — you dropped your 
 handkerchief — I picked it up and hastened after 
 you, but you entered the sleeper before I overtook 
 you. I was a passenger in the day coach — I didn't 
 see you again — I still have the handkerchief " 
 
164 3n ti)e ^ftaDoto of &oi. 
 
 "What a good memory you have — and thank you 
 for keeping the handkerchief. ' But how odd ?" 
 
 "I shall be very glad to return it." 
 
 "Oh, thank you." 
 
 "I mean if you'd like me to V 
 
 "It's very kind of you." 
 
 "You are Miss Laramore, I believe ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The people I am staying with spoke of you." 
 
 "Not very complimentary, I fear ?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Curry likes you " 
 
 "You are stopping there?" 
 
 "For a few months. I'm — I'm studying art — I've 
 been doing some sketching " 
 
 "Oh, you are an artist? How interesting." 
 
 "I was painting at the edge of the woods when I 
 heard you singing. I'll be glad to show you — if you 
 really care?" 
 
 They walked on together, Marvin holding the 
 boughs aside as she passed, the folds of her white 
 dress brushing his coatless arm. 
 
 During his absence the shadows had shifted and 
 his easel was in the sunlight. He drew it beneath the 
 tree and offered the stool. She sat down and looked 
 at his painting with curious interest. 
 
 "You are an artist," she said approvingly, glanc- 
 ing toward the fields. "But how odd to find you 
 here?" 
 
3n tf)e g)6aOoto of ©oD^ i65 
 
 ^'And you." 
 
 "I suppose my singing did sound a little out of 
 place V 
 
 "I thought it very beautiful." 
 
 "I hope to become an artist — ^I'm studying for 
 grand opera. But you — you're ever so far ahead 
 of me." 
 
 "Thank you. I'd be glad to show you some of my 
 paintings." 
 
 "I'd like very much to see them." 
 
 An hour later they still sat in the grass beneath the 
 tree, talking in that easy, confidential way possible 
 only to old friends or people who have much in com- 
 mon. She rose to go. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Artist.'* 
 
 "Good-bye, Miss Prima Donna." 
 
 Marvin gathered up his tubes and brushes, threw 
 the easel across his shoulder, and strode through the 
 sunshine, wliistling a tune in gleeful abandon. He 
 was not even conscious of the blazing sun, did not see 
 the landscape that danced under his eyes, was alive 
 only to the newly awakened passion that seemed to 
 lift him from earth up into heaven. 
 
16G 3n tfie ©fiaDotu of (SoD* 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "You don't eat enough to keep a hummin' bird 
 alive," said Curry one morning at breakfast, as he 
 gulped down his black coifee. "YouVe been stickin' 
 to yer room an' picher makin' too close — an' you 
 mope roun' like you'd lost yer last frien'. You need 
 a change. Git ready an' ride over with me to Harris 
 to-day. We'll drive over in the cool of mornin' an' 
 come back after night — an' I'll inquire fer them 
 Crimson Circulators, Elvira," he added, to forestall 
 any objections his wife might have to his plans. 
 
 Marvin consented. 
 
 Reaching Harris, he drifted leisurely about the 
 streets while Curry transacted his business. Coming 
 upon an imposing church in his wanderings, he ap- 
 proached a man that looked to be a native and made 
 inquiries. The man looked him over a moment. 
 "You don't live yere ?" he said. 
 
 When Marvin replied in the negative, he con- 
 tinued: "That's Parson Hill's church — er was till 
 he left." 
 
 "He hasn't quit preaching?" Marvin asked, con- 
 scious of a strange quickening of interest. 
 
3tt tiie ©fiaOato of (©oO* ler 
 
 "Ain't you heard the scandal?" the other said, 
 edging closer. "Why, it's common talk fer the last 
 month. Dyin' down now as them things will. Yes, 
 they say, Hill got to lovin' the sisters too permiscu- 
 ous, an' folks went to talkin'. Then he begin to act 
 queer in his head — ^kind of a religus insanity dodge. 
 The Elder sent him off to Colorado fer his health — 
 but everybody understands. He'll come back O. K. 
 an' be more popular with the sisters than ever. That's 
 the way with the highsteeples." 
 
 Marvin thanked the stranger and passed on down 
 the street. The spire of the church rose before him 
 piercing a pale green sky, silent and somber. As he 
 stood gazing on the darkening fagade, a flood of light 
 from the low sinking sun struck the windows — they 
 shone red like great splotches of blood. There was 
 something sinister about the great bleak structure 
 with the glaring red eyes. Marvin took it as an un- 
 happy omen. For he remembered that within its 
 walls would take place his trial. He was oppressed 
 with a presentiment of impending evil. He turned 
 away with a feeling of loneliness, uneasiness, name- 
 less dread. He walked hurriedly to the thronged 
 street, elbowing his way blindly along. Then there 
 was a friendly hand heavy on his back and a musical 
 voice in his ear. 
 
 "Look like you'd been to a funeral — come, let's 
 
1C8 M tht ^ftaDoto of (Soa* 
 
 have a bite to eat, an' we'll see if we can't find some- 
 thing to liven you up." 
 
 Marvin was conscious of a grateful response within 
 at the touch and familiarity of this coarse, vital man ; 
 for the moment he envied him. 
 
 "I'm glad you're back," he said heartily, in a tone 
 that pleased the other immensely. Involuntarily he 
 put his arm within Curry's. They came to a cheap 
 restaurant and entered. When the meal was under 
 way, his companion looked up and said : "I tell you, 
 Garner, what we'll do. When we finish this grub, 
 we'll go over an' see some ol' frien's of mine, an' 
 have some music. Now, this ain't no slouch of a 
 meal fer a quarter, is it ?" 
 
 When they stepped out into the street, Curry lit 
 a cigar. 
 
 "JS"© assafoetida fer mine over yere." He slapped 
 Marvin on the shoulder and broke into a loud guffaw. 
 "You'll be thinkin' me a regular ol' harry of a man," 
 he said complacently; "an' I reckin I am. Let's 
 have a drink, then we'll hunt up my frien's." 
 
 Marvin declined the invitation, but waited before 
 the saloon. Curry soon came out, wiping his mouth 
 with the back of his hairy hand. 
 
 "Some of the brethren go to the drug store when 
 they want a drink — ast fer soda an' wink fer whisky. 
 But when I want a drink I go where they don't 
 charge fer the wink. If it's pizen in the saloon, it's 
 
Hn ti)e ^baDoto of ©oD* i69 
 
 pizen in the drug store," he said, bubbling over with 
 good humor as the aforesaid poison began to stir in 
 his blood. 
 
 "Now, fer my frien's," he said, his arm around 
 the other as they moved down the street. 
 
 They walked some blocks and came to a silent part 
 of the town where the street-lamps made but a feeble 
 impression on the gloom. The thoroughfare was de- 
 serted but for the occasional cab that rattled over 
 the loose paving stones. Curry stopped before a 
 handsome house with a red transom. Marvin was 
 suddenly filled with misgiving. 
 
 "Your friends might not like visitors this time of 
 night," he said, drawing back. "I'll wait for you 
 here." 
 
 There was a queer chuckle in Curry's throat as he 
 pulled the door bell. 
 
 "Pshaw, they'll be glad to see you." 
 
 The door opened softly and bathed them in a flood 
 of red light. They were ushered into an elegant 
 drawing-room by a colored maid. Marvin wondered 
 to see how much at home Curry seemed amid such 
 surroundings. 
 
 "Send out the girls," he said with the easy assur- 
 ance of one long familiar with the inmates of the 
 house. "Tell Mable Uncle Joe is come to see her." 
 
 The maid who had regarded him with an im- 
 passive face, moved noiselessly through the door. 
 
170 3n tfte ^ftaDoto of &ot, 
 
 Curry sank back on the plush cushions, a fine sparkle 
 in his eyes, an eager expression on his face Marvin 
 had not seen there before. It flashed through his 
 mind that he must be very fond of his friends, and 
 wondered he had never spoken of them. Curry cast 
 a quick, furtive glance at his companion and looked 
 away quickly. Then a young woman entered. Mar- 
 vin rose involuntarily to be introduced. 
 
 "Why, hello, Uncle Joe, haven't seen you in a 
 coon's age,*' she said, plumping down on his lap, and 
 embracing him with mechanical ardor. "Who's yer 
 frien' ? Hello modest," she said, addressing the 
 artist. "Is this yer first visit to the Red Light ?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Marvin, instinctively 
 bowing to the speaker. "I see I am intruding. Good 
 night, madam." He turned to the door. It seemed 
 to him that he was a long time reaching it. As it 
 closed on him, there broke upon his ear shrieks of 
 laughter. He put his hands to them and ran down 
 the street. He was hot with a sense of shame. What 
 had he said or done to lead his friend to so mistake 
 his character. He became sadly confused ; found him- 
 self wondering if everybody was guilty of what he 
 knew himself innocent. Was it a secret understand- 
 ing that this was something common to all men — the 
 being found out the only crime ? Never before had 
 he entered the palace of the Scarlet Woman. The 
 thought of it, colored by the glimpse he had had. 
 
3n tfie @)f)aDoto of ©oB* in 
 
 filled him with loathing and pity. He had often 
 thought of men and women overcome by unexpected 
 temptation with a kind of fellow feeling since his 
 mortifing experience at Whiterock. But to deliber- 
 ately seek temptation, hunt out the fallen woman — 
 his sensitive nature was shocked at the thought. 
 How could he face Curry again ? But he had meant 
 a kindness — he must look at it in that light. He 
 began to plan how he might make their meeting least 
 embarrassing. He hurried up to the stores and 
 bought a box of cigars ; then found the wagon at the 
 Farmer's Campyard and sat down to wait. Growing 
 impatient, he hitched in the horses so that they could 
 start immediately upon his friend's return. When 
 at last the huge form of the farmer loomed against 
 the yellow flicker of the street-lights, Marvin began 
 to whistle cheerfully. 
 
 "Well, you're just in time," he called. "Jimip in 
 and drive out — I'll shut the gate." He thrust the 
 reins in Curry's hands and ran on ahead. He clam- 
 bered to the seat and produced the cigars. 
 
 "Here's a box of assafoetida antidote for us." 
 
 "Been blowin' yerself ?" said Curry in a flat tone 
 of gayety. His late effervescence of spirits had 
 evaporated. 
 
 "Yes, let's try one." They lighted their cigars, 
 avoiding each other's eyes. Then they fell to puffing 
 in silence. Marvin felt that he had indicated to his 
 
172 3n tfie ^SiftaliDto of (SoB* 
 
 companion that no word of apology was necessary 
 and made no further effort at conversation. 
 
 It was one of those open, luminous nights in mid- 
 summer. Not a cloud appeared in the wide grey 
 vaults, and every star seemed to dance with an ex- 
 uberance of brilliancy. The fields stretched shadowy 
 on either hand, a ripple of silver playing over them 
 as blade and leaf caught the star-light. As they 
 rattled along the top of the hill or plunged into the 
 damp of valley, pungent with rank vegetation, the 
 sky-line moved about them a shifting panorama. 
 Now a farm-house, with its cone-shaped cedars, stood 
 stark on the sky, now the edge of a wood like the 
 teeth of a colossal saw, now a gap in the hills opened 
 to the eye vistas into regions of mystically soft light. 
 A languid breeze stirred in the upper depths and 
 mingled with the hot breath that rose from the earth. 
 The bark of a dog, the rumble of a distant wagon, 
 occasionally floated on the air. Marvin had forgotten 
 his companion as his eye roved the scene. 
 
 "Garner, I'm a brute," Curry cried into the night 
 vehemently. There was genuine penitance in his 
 voice. "I know you think me a beastly oV hypocrite, 
 an' I am — I can't help it. I've tried an' tried, swore 
 to myself, to God, I'd never do it agin, an' I go 
 straight an' do it the first chanct. It was wrong to 
 deceive you — but I thought I'z doin' you a favor. 
 Most young men would 'a' thanked me." 
 
In tfie ©fiaDoto of &oU. 173 
 
 Marvin made no reply, and he went on : '^ You put 
 me to shame, Garner, me bein' a church member an' 
 a deacon ; but the Lord put it in me an' I can't help 
 it, an' if He can, He don't." He had talked himself 
 from repentance to justification. 
 
 "You'll not hoi' it agin me. Garner? You 
 know " 
 
 "We'll forget it," said Marvin in a calm tone of 
 finality. "Isn't this a fine night ?" 
 
 "Well, hadn't noticed it," returned the other, lift- 
 ing his head, disconcerted at Marvin's summary dis- 
 missal of the unsavory subject. 
 
 They rode for some time in silence. The dark 
 fields moving in slow procession past them; above, 
 the stars revolving in the mysterious spaces. Curry 
 let his hand fall caressingly on his companion's knee. 
 
 "Garner, you're a gentleman," he said with con- 
 yiction. 
 
iH 3n tfte S'JjaDoto of (Sod* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mrs. Curry had been in Harris some days taking 
 treatment of a magnetic healer. In the meantime 
 her husband had been holding high jinks. The flask 
 he brought from town set boldly on the mantle, and 
 he went about the place smoking without fear or 
 thought of assafoetida. 
 
 One day he came in from a tour of the fields his 
 face glowing like a coal, dripping with moisture and 
 blowing like an ox. 
 
 "I'm goin' to make half bale to the acre if I make 
 a pound," he said enthusiastically. "She's done 
 made, rain er shine. Three more weeks an' it'll be 
 ready to tackle," and he held out some plump green 
 boles for Marvin's inspection. 
 
 "I don't know what's got into that Laramore girl," 
 he said, after a little. "I can't go to that east field 
 that jines their pasture 'thout seein' her sittin' under 
 the big liveoak er hear her somewhere in the woods 
 singin' like she's tryin' to bust her throat. An' sech 
 outlandish songs, l^ow, there's a girl fer you, fer 
 all her tom-boy ways. Everytime I see her makes 
 me feel like a boy jest turned his teens." 
 
 "Well, bless my eyes," he broke off suddenly, star- 
 
3n tfte Sf)aDoto of ©oD* i75 
 
 ing across the fields. Marvin looked in that direc- 
 tion. Miss Laramore was midway the cotton rows, 
 the brownish green foliage in rank luxuriance laving 
 her breast. As she parted the boughs with her arms 
 she looked like a swimmer battling the waves. 
 
 "I wonder what she's after," mused Curry. "She 
 shorely can't know wife's gone, though I reckin it 
 wouldn't make no difference to her." 
 
 Marvin's heart beat riotously. He felt that Curry 
 must surely hear it and guess his secret. The cause 
 of their perturbation came on gracefully, riding the 
 green billows till at last they parted and she stood 
 at the end of the rows. It was a picture of dainty 
 elegance as she stood against the background of green 
 and glistening blue; a white compact cloud in the 
 far off space a halo above her head. She tossed a 
 straying curl from her cheek and waved her hand 
 toward the watchers. Marvin rose to his feet. 
 Curry's eyes widened in amazement as he glanced 
 from the girl to his companion. 
 
 "You know her ?" he asked. 
 
 "We have met," said Marvin, lifting his hat, 
 scarcely conscious of the other. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Artist," she said graciously, 
 as she came forward and offered her hand. 
 
 "Good morning. Miss Prima Donna," he returned, 
 admiration in his eyes as unmistakably as the sun in 
 the heavens. 
 
176 3n tfte ^ftasoto of ©oH* 
 
 "I hope I didn't trample your crop, Mr. Curry; 
 but I couldn't find the road, if really there is one." 
 
 "You're welcome to do all the tramplin' 'bout yere 
 you're min' to, Miss," he said, shifting awkwardly 
 from one foot to the other, glancing down at her 
 small patent-leather boot. Her presence seemed to 
 add a brightness to the white glow of the morning. 
 
 "What a nice cool place — and what a lovely view," 
 she said, sweeping the fields and sky. "How big the 
 world seems." 
 
 It was a tranquil morning of wide, clear distances, 
 and Marvin was glad that it appealed to her. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Artist, I've come for a private view." 
 
 "They are up in my room — I'll bring them down." 
 
 "No, no ; let me see your studio ?" 
 
 Marvin hesitated. He glanced to where Curry 
 stood, apparently rooted to the earth, regarding him 
 with admiring awe. He seemed suddenly to realize 
 that he made the proverbial crowd, and, turning, 
 walked away stiiSly, as if he felt two pair of eyes bor- 
 ing into him. When he was out of sight he sat down 
 on the kitchen steps and mopped his brow. 
 
 "You'll not find it so big as out here — and there 
 are steps to climb," said Marvin, dissuadingly. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind." 
 
 "Then I shall be honored," he said, leading the 
 way. 
 
 "Oh, what a cute little room/' she exclaimed, 
 
3n tfie SfiaDoto of ©oD* irr 
 
 emerging from the perpendicular steps into the attic. 
 
 "Be careful of your head," cautioned Marvin. 
 "You'll find it pleasanter out here," he said, stepping 
 onto the porch and offering a chair. 
 
 "What a bird's nest of a place. Why, you're right 
 up in the treetops and sky." She burst into a little 
 trill of song. "But I mustn't do that — I'll frighten 
 your birds," she said laughing, peering about into 
 the foliage. 
 
 "They'll think you are one of them." 
 
 "Oh, thank you." 
 
 "You sing like a mocking-bird." 
 
 "Thanks number two — now for the pictures.'' 
 
 He brought out the first of the series of prairie 
 views. She sat down and dropping her chin to the 
 palm of her hand, scanned it critically. Marvin 
 watched her narrowly, his eyes aglow with passion, 
 pride. He needed no words to tell him that she was 
 surprised and pleased. She could not conceal it. 
 
 "How cruel !" she exclaimed at last, as she studied 
 "God in the Blizzard," an expression of pain on her 
 face. "It almost makes me shiver. Mr. Garner^ I 
 think you must really be an artist." She looked up 
 with frank admiration in her eyes. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "And you've done all this work without having 
 studied abroad ?" she asked after a while. 
 
 "Only three months in l^ew York." 
 
178 3n tfte SftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 "It's wonderful. It makes me feel fearful I 
 haven't any talent. Why, I've been studying since 
 I was knee high and IVe got to take three years more 
 in Berlin. Mr. Garner, I don't know much about 
 such things, but it seems to me your pictures are 
 wonderful. Would you mind if father came over to 
 see them ?" 
 
 "Why, I'd be glad." 
 
 "I^ow, I must go," she said, rising. 
 
 "I've shown you all the pictures." 
 
 "And I thank you." 
 
 "And I thank you — for coming." 
 
 "To see the pictures — or as an old friend?" she 
 said archly. 
 
 "Both. I did not think you'd care — for the other." 
 
 "Have you forgotten how long we have known each 
 other?" 
 
 "I thought you — had forgotten ?" 
 
 "But you reminded me. I told father and he 
 thought it quite remarkable that we should meet 
 again, and that you should recognize me. You do 
 not paint under the trees any more? I'm afraid I 
 frightened you off." 
 
 "E^o, I've not been painting much lately." He had 
 an impulse to tell her why — how he had thought of 
 nothing but her — how he loved her. But he realized 
 how utterly foolish it would be. Even if she should 
 care for him it would be wrong to take advantage of 
 
Kn tfte ^{jaDoto of ©oD* iro 
 
 her innocence. He could not tell her that he was in 
 disgrace; he could not deceive her; the only thing 
 possible was for her to go quickly out of his life. A 
 gloom settled on him that numbed his tongue. His 
 spirits seemed for the moment to darken hers. She 
 regarded him in perplexity. Then, after a moment, 
 she said cheerfully. 
 
 "I know just how you feel. It's awful to get dis- 
 couraged. But you'll succeed — you'll succeed." 
 
 "Thank you," he said coloring. 
 
 She stepped quickly into the room. Turning to 
 look for the stairs, her eyes fell upon his easel. On 
 it was an unfinished sketch of herself. There was 
 just an instant hesitation, then she began the descent. 
 He conducted her along the turning-rows between the 
 patches and helped her over the fence. Then they 
 stood for a space in constrained silence. 
 
 "I shall expect you over soon to hear me sing." 
 
 "Thank you, very much." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye." He watched her picking her way 
 along the trees, till the last flutter of her dress had 
 vanished, a sickening oppression weighing him down. 
 He felt he had acted boorishly. But it was just the 
 same; he would see her no more. But on second 
 thought he wished it might have ended differently. 
 He turned and walked slowly toward the house. 
 Curry stood beneath the trees waiting him, a broad 
 
180 3n tlie ^gaDoto of <S^oD« 
 
 grin on his face. He slapped Marvin on the back and 
 broke into a loud laugh. 
 
 ^' Bully fer you, Garner. Oh, you're a sly one. How 
 long has it been goin' on ?" 
 
 Marvin's face went white. "Mr. Curry, what do 
 you mean ?" he cried, a tremor in his voice, his eyes 
 flashing. 
 
 Curry was confounded, and sank into a chair 
 shame-faced. 
 
 "Why, man," said Marvin, with vehement indig- 
 nation; "she's pure as a flower; she's an angel." 
 
 "I'm a foul-minded ol' sinner," moaned Curry. 
 "Garner, forgive me. I see it all now — ^you love 
 her?" 
 
 "Love her ? — God, I could worship her !" 
 
 He strode back and forth the baked earth, beside 
 himself with resentment, passion. His mind was in 
 a whirl of confusion. He thought for a moment of 
 Curry as the embodiment of the spirit of the world — 
 gross, animal, evil. One was a fool to try to be good 
 and pure. Then his eyes fell on the bowed head of 
 the offender ; he was filled with pity, for he had come 
 to love the crude old man sincerely. 
 
 "It's all right, Mr. Curry," he said kindly. "Of 
 course, you couldn't know." 
 
 "Garner, you put me to shame," Curry faltered, 
 not looking up. Marvin turned, leaving the drooping 
 figure staring stupidly at the hot earth. 
 
3n ttt ^iiaOobi of &oh. isi 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "Yes, you can bank on 'em bein' cold. Garner an' 
 me fetched 'em in this mornin' 'fore sun up," said 
 Curry, laying a watermelon on some boards, the third 
 he had brought up from the cellar. 
 
 "Well, tastin' is believin', " said Roberts, picking 
 up a long butcher's knife and slashing open the green 
 spheres. He then leaned back and surveyed the six 
 red, bleeding hearts as if he deserved credit for the 
 inviting feast. 
 
 "Pitch in, pitch in," urged Curry. "I did'nt fetch 
 'em out yere to look at." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said Brown. "Looks like 
 they might 'a' been cut from a catalogue." 
 
 "An' that's sayin' a good deal," returned Roberts ; 
 "fer they do color the pichers up wonderful." 
 
 ''Well, picher er no picher, yere goes. Can't stan' 
 the aggervatin' look of 'em no longer." 
 
 "Pine, Curry, fine — never tasted a better one. Jest 
 cold to the taste," said Smith, biting into a generous 
 slice. "But speakin' of pichers — I hear that young 
 feller Garner is makin' 'em out of everything in 
 
182 3n tbe S'ftaDoto of ©oD, 
 
 sight roun' yere? Queer how some folks wastes 
 their time?'' 
 
 "Well, Jim Smith, when you can make a picher 
 that'll fetch a hundred dollars clean cash, I reckin 
 you'll hardly call it wastin' of time.*' 
 
 "You don't say he sells 'em fer a hundred ?" 
 
 "That's what I do. That Laramore girl come over 
 one day to see his picher s, then in a few days tlie 
 ol' man turned up an' plunked down a hundred fer 
 one no bigger than the top of a cracker box. Why, 
 I could git my arms full of 'em jest as big an' jest as 
 much color to 'em, with a calendar stuck on to boot, 
 over to Harris fer the astin'. But Garner's none yer 
 ^ordinary chaps, an' I think I'm on to a thing er 
 two. He's got something in his min' bigger than 
 pichers. He's in love with that Laramore girl. It's 
 my idee he's follered 'em down from Xew York an' 
 the picher makin' is jest an excuse. But he's got 
 it bad. Whole days he don't do a blessed thing but 
 mope roun' the house er wander 'bout the woods like 
 he's lost. 'Ro appetite at all." 
 
 "Yes, them's the symptoms," said Brown. "I 
 remember when I'z courtin' Jane there'z weeks I 
 didn't scarcely know who I was. One day I went 
 over fer the mail an' stood starin' at the postmaster 
 till he says, ^what's yer name V Darn me, if I could 
 tell. Bill Simpson happened in 'bout that time, an' 
 I says, 'Bill, who am I V Well, Bill jest bust out 
 
3n tfie SijaDoto of <©ali* iss 
 
 in one of them idit laughs of his an' says, *You'r a 
 darn lunatik.' The postmaster grinned an' says I'd 
 come to the wrong place." 
 
 "A very unprovidential thing that a feller should 
 lose his senses jest at the time when he needs 'em 
 most," said Graham. 
 
 ^^Maybe it's the ol' man that's makin' Garner so 
 loony?" suggested Roberts. 
 
 "Well, throwin' good money away on that picher 
 looks like he might 'a' meant to encourage him. But 
 it's true 'bout him bein' a inferdel. I looked to see 
 him struck down the way he went on with his blas- 
 phemy the day he's over. When he come down from 
 seein' the pichers, I fetched out some China Clings 
 an' he set down an' talked jest as sociable as a com- 
 mon farmer. Well, 'bout that time Tom Rutan hap- 
 pened in, an' first thing you knowed he'd tackled 
 Laramore. Tom, you know, would tackle anything — 
 he ain't got no more sense. I've no doubt if he got a 
 chanct he'd buttonhole the President an' tell him jest 
 how to run the government. Always been a mystery 
 to me how these fellers that's never done nothin' can 
 tell the other feller exactly how he ought to do it; 
 without a breath of religin they know where every- 
 body else is wrong ; couldn't be 'lected dog pelter but 
 know how to run the world. Well, Tom had heard 
 of Laramore's onreligusness an' waded in to show 
 him the errer of his way. But wasn't no time till 
 
184 3n ti)e gi&aDotai of (fi^oO. 
 
 he was gawkin' with his mouth open like a fool, tHat 
 he is. Why, that man knows more in a niinit than 
 Tom Rutan ever hearn of. That's jest the trouble 
 with him — he knows too much. When a man gits so 
 edjucated he thinks he can ^x up a God an' religin to 
 suit his own idees, why, edjucation has overreached 
 itself. Why, he said there wasn't no God, jest laws 
 of Nature run things; that man growed up from 
 nothin', devoluted, I believe he called it, from tad- 
 poles, monkeys, an' sech. That there wasn't no 
 heaven er hell only in men's min's ; no sin, jest right 
 an' wrong, an' what follers 'em, an' that the greatest 
 evil in the world was to be ignorant an' not able to 
 think." 
 
 "Well, now," said Brown; "no doubt he was 
 lamed. But it was the wrong kind. There's two 
 kinds of wisdom; that of the wise an' that of the 
 foolish. The Scripchers say, ^The fool has said in 
 his heart there is no God,' an' 'agin it says, ^It is 
 hid from the wise an' revealed unto babes,' an' if 
 I'd 'a' been Tom I'd 'a' quoted 'em to him an' 
 stopped his mouth." 
 
 "How you goin' to stop a feller's mouth when it's 
 done closed ?" said Roberts. "Why, Laramore don't 
 think no more of yer Scripchers than I do of a last 
 year's almanac. Scripcher was good enough fer them 
 that didn't know better, but we know better. An' it's 
 a weakkneed feller that's 'fraid of what he knows 
 
In tfte SftaDoto of ©oO^ 185 
 
 ^cause it don't fit what he'z been taught somebody else 
 thought they knowed. What did God Almighty give 
 us a headpiece fer, grantin' there is a Almighty, if it 
 wasn't fer us to use ? Laramore was right. We can 
 think jest the same as them Jews." 
 
 "Koberts, you air speakin' blasphemy. An' it's a 
 darin' thing fer a man in yer condition of life to do. 
 If you'z rich an' could have yer good time yere, ye 
 might snap yer finger in the face of Providence. But 
 we pore devils ought to try an' stan' in with the Al- 
 mighty, fer if he don't look after us in kingdom come, 
 we'll find ourselves in a hard row of stumps. The 
 trouble all grows out of thinkin'. We ain't no biz- 
 ness thinkin'. God put us yere to live. He'z thought 
 the whole thing out fer us an' none of yer head work 
 er mine is goin' to change it ; an' then, fer that matter, 
 you'll have all eternity to think in. Take my advice, 
 git the most out of this life an' stan' in with the Al- 
 mighty fer the nex'." 
 
 '^No doubt you'r right, Curry," said Graham ; "but 
 you must admit the Scripchers do say some hard say- 
 in's. An' show me the man that keeps 'em. When I 
 think of that, I jest says to myself I'll be lost any- 
 how, an' there ain't no use worryin' 'bout it." 
 
 "But there's where you'r wrong," returned Curry. 
 "The good Lord's done kept the sayin's fer us. He 
 died fer our sins. If we don't sin what's the use of 
 his dyin' ? He don't save us yere — we all know that. 
 
186 3n tfte ^baDoU) of ©oD* 
 
 Look at Laramore, rich an' blasphemous; an' look at 
 me, believin' an' pore as Job's turkey. But jest wait 
 till the nex' world. Then we'll see who wears the 
 purple an' fine linen an' dines sumptiously every 
 day " 
 
 "But you'll be spirits," insisted Koberts; "nobody 
 fer robes ner appetite fer sumptuous fare." 
 
 "Well, I don't know 'bout that kind of heaven. If 
 I don't have this body it won't be me, an' if it ain't 
 me where do I come in ? I don't take no stock in yer 
 spirit heaven. Think of eternity an' you never hear 
 the dinner horn, an' no marryin' er givin' in mar- 
 riage, an' the habit so strong on us." 
 
 "JSTow, that's a new idee," said Graham; "not 
 hearin' the dinner horn. But I wouldn't worry 'bout 
 t'other, less'n we all had a chanct to git a fresh part- 
 ner an' no likelihood of makin' a bad chice." 
 
 "There you go, Graham; always havin' a fling at 
 the female sex. One would think you made a mistake 
 when you got hitched to Jemima — but I remember 
 you were keen enough fer the harnessin'." 
 
 "Well," returned Graham ; "marryin' is like horse 
 tradin'. You want to know what you'r 'bout er keep 
 out, fer you never can tell what you'r gittin'. A 
 woman's sharper'n a jockey fer patchin' up defects. 
 But it's a mighty pore man that'll go 'bout the neigh- 
 borhood tellin' he's made a bad bargain." 
 
 "Well, it's my opinion," broke in Eoberts, "that 
 
3n tfie SfiaDDto of aoD* isr 
 
 it's a mighty pore woman that ain't better than we 
 deserve. We'r jest male animals when all's said. An' 
 speakin' of heaven — I guess a woman has as much 
 to do with makin' it as the Almighty you talk so much 
 about — I wouldn't care fer heaven without 'em, as 
 Curry says, ner " 
 
 "Beggin' yer pardin, Roberts, an' not meanin' to 
 change the subject, but how's yer wife doin' now, 
 Curry ?" asked Brown. 
 
 "Why, she says she's doin' fine — feels like a new 
 creature, though how long it'll last is another ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "What do you think of the healer ?" asked Roberts. 
 
 "Oh, he's a humbug, but w^fe believes in him. An' 
 if she can be humbugged into believin' she's well, it's 
 jest as good as docterin', though it do come a little 
 higher. But people like to be humbugged, an' the 
 higher it comes the better it is." 
 
 "Yes, you air right," assented Brown. "People 
 love to be humbugged. I took over my wife's eggs 
 to Harris t'other day, an' when the grocer looked at 
 'em he ast if they were fresh. I tol' him they were 
 'bout a week ol', fer I knowed my wife had been savin' 
 'em up 'bout that long. Well, he wouldn't look at 
 'em. Said he was buyin' only fresh eggs, not over 
 a day ol'. Well, I went out an' waited roun' the cor- 
 ner fer half an hour an' then went back an' hunted 
 up the same feller. ^Look yere,' I says, 'I've got some 
 
i8d 3n tbt @i)aOotu of (&^oD« 
 
 fresh eggs, jest gathered 'em up this mornin', what'll 
 you give me fer 'em?' 'Fifteen cents/ he says. 'I 
 won't take it,' I says. 'These air fresh eggs an' ought 
 to bring a fancy price.' Well, sir, he give me twenty- 
 two fer them eggs." 
 
 "You don't call that humbuggin' V* asked Roberts. 
 
 "Shore ; I'd like to know what else you'd call it ?" 
 
 "Why, I 'd call it straight lyin'." 
 
 "What's the difference ? You make a feller think 
 he'z gittin' what he'z payin' fer. If he don't it's his 
 lookout. That's bizness." 
 
 "Well, them melons ain't no humbug, fer a fact," 
 said Roberts, rising; "but I've got to go, men. All 
 
In the SfiaDoto of (DoD* i89 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 September with its grey haziness and purple dis- 
 tances stole over the land. The sun shone down ob- 
 liquely with a languid palor, and a vague somberness 
 touched the landscape. The fields of com and cotton 
 stretched great blotches of white and brown, a colos- 
 sal checker-board under the eye. Midway the rows 
 of Curry's patch, late one afternoon, Marvin crawled 
 slowly, his hands moving in and out the browning 
 stems as he plucked the white pods, his sack trailing 
 behind him like a collapsed balloon dragging on the 
 ground. A straw hat slouched over his eyes; his 
 flannel shirt was stained with bruised leaves, and his 
 trousers were encrusted with dirt from crawling on 
 his knees. A few rows off, slightly in advance, were 
 the stooped figures of Curry and Emma. He could 
 hear their voices occasionally in desultory remarks. 
 He straightened up, his hands on his hip, and threw 
 back his shoulder as if to ease them a moment from 
 the strained posture. His eyes wandered leisurely over 
 the view. In every direction groups of bowed toilers 
 moved across the fields. A distant hillside rose against 
 the sky like a white cloud. He looked in another 
 
190 3n tfie SftaDoto of &ot, 
 
 direction and followed the windings of a black road. 
 On it wagons moved slowly, piled high with cotton 
 for the gins or bales for the market. As he stood fac- 
 ing the low setting sun, there was nothing in his ap- 
 pearance out of harmony with his surroundings — he 
 looked native to the soil. Yet his thoughts were not 
 of corn and cotton ; the yield or market price. It was 
 now but a few days till the convening of the confer- 
 ence at Harris. Already he had received notification 
 of the date of the trial. Yet he found himself looking 
 forward to it with strange indifference. Since he had 
 given up, what he considered, his hopeless passion, he 
 had in spite of himself lost interest in his art. It 
 seemed to him that life or effort of any kind would 
 never again be worth while. His ambitions had sud- 
 denly dropped from him and he felt himself drifting. 
 It had come to him more than once not to attend the 
 conference ; to let it do its worst. He would remain 
 with Curry. The crude, simple life just at this junc- 
 ture appealed to him strongly. He was tired of the 
 struggle that brought only humiliation, unrest. But 
 these were only passing moods. He knew that he 
 could not be content long in the monotonous round of 
 mere physical exertion, however numbing to his pain 
 at present. He had gone too far; he had realized 
 glimpses of another life that he could not forget. He 
 could not go back to the plain on which Curry moved 
 no more than Curry could climb to his. 
 
In tfte ^ftaDoto of (SoD* i9i 
 
 The sun sank a great yellow ball through the grey 
 haze. He reached the end of the row and went with 
 his companions to the pen to weigh his cotton and 
 empty his sack. 
 
 "Hundred and fifty for you to-day, Garner/' said 
 Curry. "You'd make a number one cotton-picker in 
 a season er two. But wliy you'd rather pick cotton at 
 six-bits a day than paint hundred-dollar pichers is 
 more'n I can guess. You wouldn't ketch me breakin' 
 my back at it if it wasn't that er starve. If we keep 
 up this lick, we'll have it out in two more weeks." 
 
 "When are you going over to Harris with a load, 
 Mr. Curry ?" asked Marvin. 
 
 " 'Bout day after termorrow. I've got two bales I'd 
 like to git on the market while the price is up." 
 
 "I'll get you to take my things over, then." 
 
 "Leavin' us Saturday?" said Curry, astonished. 
 "Why, you ain't said a word about it ?" 
 
 "i^o, I didn't think it necessary till I got ready to 
 go." 
 
 "Where you goin' ? — "New York ? I hear the Lara- 
 mores air leavin' in a few days." 
 
 "E'o ; I'll not go to ]N'ew York. I'll remain in Har- 
 ris a while. I've not settled on any plans." 
 
 "Well, I shore hate to see you go." 
 
 Curry looked disappointed. He was sure now that 
 his conjectures were correct. He had thought a lot 
 of the change that had come over Marvin since Miss 
 
102 3n tbt *l)aDoto of ©oD. 
 
 Laramore's visit. lie could account for it in no other 
 way than that something had gone wrong between 
 them. He walked with Marvin along the turning 
 rows, now grown up with weeds, passed under the 
 trees before the house, and out to the barn, in silence. 
 Here he stopped and faced his companion. 
 
 "Garner, I don't want to interfere where it ain't 
 none of my bizness, but you'r in trouble. If I can 
 help you any way, er it will do you good to talk it 
 over with some one, why, out with it. It won't go no 
 further. I like you an' it makes me feel sad to see 
 you goin' 'bout all weighed down in yer min'. It'll do 
 you good to let it out. Trouble is like biliousness, the 
 quicker you git it out of yer system the better. You've 
 been tryin' to work it out an' failed, now 'spose you 
 try talking. 'Tain't good for yer health to be nursin' 
 yer woes." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Curry ; if you could help me I'd 
 be glad to have you do so. You've been very kind to 
 me." 
 
 "Now, look yere, Garner, you can't fool me. I've 
 lived too long not to 'a' had a few things soak into 
 my head. I know what's the matter — you've quar- 
 relled with yer swetheart. Now, honest ?" 
 
 "No/ I've quarrelled with no one." 
 
 Curry regarded him in perplexity. He was at his 
 wits'-end. "Well, I hope whatever it is, you'll come 
 out all right. But I want you to know I'm yer frien', 
 
In tfie SftaDoto of (&oD* 193 
 
 when you need me," and he turned and began the 
 feeding. 
 
 After supper he told his wife he had to go to see a 
 neighbor. He passed into the lane and followed it 
 till out of sight of the house; then he climbed the 
 fence and plunged into the woods in the direction of 
 Laramore's. Reaching the house, he inquired for 
 Miss Mildred. She came out, and, though surprised 
 at his visit, greeted him pleasantly and asked him in. 
 
 "E'o, thank you," he said hurriedly; "jest come 
 over to speak a word with you, if you don't min', Miss 
 Laramore." 
 
 "Why, no," she said, coming down the steps to hi* 
 side. "Is there something I can do for you ?" 
 
 Curry hesitated but an instant. "Mr. Garner is 
 leavin' day after termorrow," he said abruptly. "He's 
 been terrible troubled since you were over to see him." 
 
 "Why, I'm sure I'm sorry." 
 
 "I thought maybe something had happened between 
 you," he went on bluntly. "An' — an' I happen to 
 know Garner worships the ground you walk on." 
 
 "It's very kind of you to tell me. Did he ask you 
 to?" 
 
 "Oh, gracious, no. I couldn't git a word outen him, 
 that's why I come. He'd be roar in' mad if he knew 
 what I'm doin'. I seen something was prayin' on his 
 min' an' as you didn't come over agin I thought maybe 
 you'd quarrelled er something. You'll not min' my 
 
194 3n tht Siftaooto of (Soa* 
 
 interferin' an' not breathe a word to him. Garner^s 
 my fren' an' I'd like to do him a good turn if I can. 
 I jest thought I'd let you know he's goin'." 
 
 "It's very kind of you." She turned to the door. 
 "Good night, Mr. Curry." 
 
 The following day as the cotton-pickers were 
 emptying their sacks at the end of the rows, a song 
 burst from the trees just beyond. They turned in sur- 
 prise and saw Miss Laramore coming across the past- 
 ure knee-deep in the tangle of weeds, spikes of scarlet 
 flowers in her hand, pinned on her bosom and festoon- 
 ing her hat. 
 
 "See what I have been picking, Mr. Artist," she 
 said, holding out the blossoms. Marvin's face went as 
 red as the flowers as he glanced down at his clothes. 
 
 "So you've given up painting fields and gone to 
 picking them ?" she said, appearing not to notice his 
 embarrassment. "Mr. Curry, won't you let me help 
 you too ? I'm sure it must be ever so nice. Why, it 
 looks like a heap of snow," she said, running her hand 
 over the loose cotton in the pen. 
 
 "You'd not find cotton-picking as nice as picking 
 flowers. Miss Laramore, if you should try," said Mar- 
 vin quietly, recovering his composure. 
 
 "I'm sure I'd like it for a while. May I have some 
 of these stalks to go with my blossoms, Mr. Curry ?" 
 she said, breaking off some full-opened boles. "My 
 
In tfte @)I)aDoto of ©oD* 195 
 
 friends in New York would think them beautiful 
 flowers." 
 
 '^Well, Em, we must go," said Curry, turning. He 
 moved off briskly, Emma trotting at his side. The two 
 left alone stood facing each other a moment in silence. 
 
 "How unkind of you not to keep your word ?" she 
 said reproachfully. 
 
 "It is not because I did not care to — I've been very 
 busy," he returned, hardening himself to the impulses 
 that began to stir within his soul. 
 
 "I thought we were going to be such good friends ?" 
 
 "I hope we are." 
 
 "Friends find time to see each other. You 
 didn't care to hear me sing ?" 
 
 "I can't tell how much I desire it. Some day I 
 hope I may — ^when you are a great prima donna." 
 
 "One does not like to have their friends wait till 
 they have succeeded before showing their apprecia- 
 tion." 
 
 "I do appreciate — your kindness — and your 
 father's. I — do not deserve it." 
 
 "But you do. Father said you have unusual talent. 
 He meant to speak to you when you came over." 
 
 "I ^m very sorry." 
 
 "You do not work nights ?" 
 
 "!N'o, but unfortunately I have no company hands," 
 he said, smiling bitterly, holding up his soiled, blood- 
 stained fingers. 
 
196 3n ttt @)i)aOoto of (S^oO. 
 
 ^^Oh," she gasped, pity coming into her eyes. 
 "What makes you do it r 
 
 "Why do we do a great many things we do not like 
 to dor 
 
 "But you can paint. If you'd take your pictures to 
 New York I'm sure you'd be able to sell them. Father 
 said so." 
 
 "It's very kind of you to take an interest in my 
 work, but I can't go to I^ew York. I may give up 
 painting." 
 
 "I can't understand why you should." 
 
 "My mother does not approve." 
 
 "How very odd. I'd think she'd be proud of you." 
 
 He looked at her a moment, his passion burning in 
 his eyes. If he could only tell her everything — how 
 he was torn asunder by a conflict of emotions and 
 motives. But he could not explain so that she would 
 understand — it would serve no purpose. In the end 
 he must give her up. Wishing to close the interview 
 that now was becoming painful, fearing that he might 
 be tempted to some rash act, he said, still looking 
 into her eyes, "I leave to-morrow." 
 
 "That means I will see you no more." 
 
 "I hope not." Then he fell silent ; his face became 
 ashen and drawn. 
 
 "I suppose I must tell you good-bye," she said, lift- 
 ing her eyes from the ground. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
3n tfte @)|)aDato of ©oD* 197 
 
 "I had hoped that I might have you paint me — be- 
 fore we parted?" 
 
 "I have. I am leaving the picture for you. Mr. 
 Curry will give it to you when I am g3ne." 
 
 "How kind of you. But how "ould you do it — 
 never to have had a sitting." 
 
 "I couldn't help doing it." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Garner, how puzzling you are !" 
 
 "Everything is a puzzle — ambition, life, love." 
 
 "I don't think I understand ?" 
 
 "ISTor I." He at last had forgotten himself. Un- 
 consciously he had moved nearer. "But I do know 
 I've seen nothing but you, waking and sleeping, since 
 I met you in the woods. I've thought of you, dreamed 
 of you, loved you — yes, loved you" — he lifted 
 his arms as if to enfold her within them, saw how 
 stained they were, and dropped them shame-faced — 
 "till it's made me foolish, mad." 
 
 She gave a little startled cry. He snatched her 
 hand and pressed his lips upon it passionately. 
 
 "Good-bye," he cried hoarsely, turning abruptly 
 and hurrying away. 
 
198 M tfte SftaDoto of &ot. 
 
 PAET FIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Why, hello, Garner, I'm glad to see you," said 
 Nichols, shaking Marvin's hand with extravagant 
 friendliness. "How have you been making it with the 
 cowboys and coyotes? You might have let us hear 
 from you occasionally in the ^Advocate' after that 
 spread-eagle send-off you got. You must tell me 
 about it. I've had a regular walk-over this year — • 
 over a hundred conversions — fifty dollars over on the 
 apportionment. It's a secret, but I know you'll keep 
 it — the Elder has promised me Blossom Station — 
 parsonage — six hundred dollars. I've learned a few 
 things all right. If you want to go up you must col- 
 lect up, and a little over," he said exultantly, edging 
 closer, a self-important grimace on his face; "and 
 stand in with the Elder. I had my folks present him 
 with a silk hat and goldheaded cane. He knew who 
 was at the bottom of it, and it did the work. Where 
 you going to stop ? I'm up at Colonel Bumby's — he 
 met me at the station with a carriage — makes me see 
 visions to think of how they feed. By the way, have 
 
3n tfie SfiaDoto of ©oD* 199 
 
 you heard the news ? — I'm married. Just last week — 
 I'm on my bridal tour, as it were. You remember 
 Sally Hays ? — you boarded with her uncle at White- 
 rock. She's now Mrs. Xichols. Since you saw her 
 she's been left a black land farm. You must drop 
 round and see her. Get married — it pays. Come, I 
 want to introduce you to Col. Bumby and the 
 brethren." 
 
 They entered the lobby of the church. They found 
 the Rev. Dr. Hill the centre of a group of men, who 
 listened intently to a story he was telling. He stood 
 with his head thrown back, a fine light in his eyes, a 
 smile hovering about his lips that betrayed his con- 
 sciousness of power. The climax came and he joined 
 the men in the convulsive laughter that greeted it. 
 
 "Yes, it's rich," he said, his face quickly assuming 
 its usual expression. "I got that from an Eastern 
 guy out at Colorado Springs." His eyes fell on the 
 newcomer. "Why, how are you. Garner ? I'm glad 
 to see you. I haven't forgot that thrill you gave us 
 at Herman. How'd you find the wild and woolly ?" 
 
 Marvin murmured some evasive commonplaces, 
 conscious of a vague sense of gratitude, for he now 
 knew that his disgrace was not generally known. He 
 moved as one in a dream ; uneasy with a secret dread 
 that these men would suddenly turn their backs and 
 hurry away, leaving him alone to be derided by the 
 loquacious Nichols. He was impatient to anticipate 
 
200 3n tbe SfiaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 them and save himself at least this humiliation. He 
 made some excuse and escaped into the streets. He 
 was conscious of a hardening process going on within 
 to meet the inevitable blow when it fell. Then his 
 mind underwent one of those unaccountable freaks, 
 and he laughed aloud as he pictured Nichols's change 
 of attitude when he learned the truth. 
 
 Two days dragged by, then the long-dreaded event- 
 ful morning arrived. The secretary rose and an- 
 nounced the trial of Kev. Marvin Garner that after- 
 noon in the First Baptist Church. He named the 
 Rev. Stucky as counsel for the church, and sat down. 
 The intelligence fell upon the audience like a shock. 
 The silent spaces of the church seemed suddenly filled 
 with a tense gloom. 
 
 "Is Brother Garner present ?" asked the Bishop in 
 a solemn voice, looking out over the blank faces. 
 Marvin rose, his head lifted in defiant poise, as he 
 looked straight into the Bishop's eyes. 
 
 "I am,'' he answered unfalteringly. 
 
 "Have you selected your counsel ?" 
 
 "I am innocent. I desire no counsel," he said, 
 sweeping the faces lifted to his. When he sat down 
 a buzz of voices filled the room. The Bishop rapped 
 for silence and the proceedings went on as usual. 
 Marvin shrank into his seat, feeling as isolated as if 
 he were on the other side of the globe. A cynical 
 smile marred for a moment his fine face as he 
 
3n tbt ^ftaDoto of ©oD* 201 
 
 watched Nichols slink from his side. He sat there 
 a long time; it seemed to him days, weeks, seeing 
 nothing, hearing nothing. At last he was brought to 
 his senses by a persistent tugging at his knee. He 
 glanced down and saw a closed hand resting on it. 
 It opened slightly and he saw a bit of paper. He took 
 it and crushed it in his palm. When he found an 
 opportunity he read : "Get the best counsel you can. 
 Stucky will ruin you — innocent or not. It is his 
 boast never to have been defeated in a debate or trial. 
 He'd wreck a dozen lives to make good his boast. 
 Take my advice for God's sake." 
 
 Marvin turned the paper and wrote : "I have done 
 no wrong. God is my counsel. If he can't win 
 against Stucky, I shall believe in Stucky. Thank you 
 sincerely." He handed it to his well-wisher and took 
 a good look at his face. He could not remember to 
 have seen him before, but he felt sure that he was a 
 layman, and in the months to come, often in hours of 
 blackness, when almost in despair, that face rose be- 
 fore him and kept him from losing faith utterly in 
 his kind. 
 
$02 3n tbt ©fia&oto of ©oO* 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The First Baptist Church stood at the end of the 
 street where the city and country met. Looking east, 
 miles of farm land lay brown beneath the eye, fretted 
 here and there by the winding black roads. In the 
 other direction, the street lifted in gradual slope to the 
 more active part of the town, and at the point where 
 it opened onto the square, the heads of men and 
 horses, tops of buggies, rims of wheels, moved in 
 bizarre procession. As Marvin stood in front of the 
 little church, he recalled the times he had passed it 
 with no intuitions of the enactments soon to take 
 place within. He had rode by with Curry the first day 
 of their meeting, and again only three days ago when 
 he had driven him over for the last time. And now 
 he found himself trying to imagine the activities of 
 his friend rather than conjecturing the outcome of 
 the proceedings that concerned him so vitally. At 
 last he turned and entered the building. Fifteen or 
 twenty men eyed him curiously as he took a seat. 
 Nichols, who had managed to have himself appointed 
 clerk, glanced at Marvin with a sneering look of tri- 
 
3n tbt @)J)aDoto of <SoD* 203 
 
 nmph. They were waiting him, and Stucky rose and 
 said: 
 
 ^'Let us pray." Marvin mechanically got on his 
 knees. He no longer felt any inclination to pray. 
 He even found himself thinking of Stucky's familiar- 
 ity with God as mockery. The deed was done ; what 
 muttering toward God would change it ? For all the 
 prayers that might be said these men would act in 
 keeping with their enlightenment and prejudices. If 
 they thought it immoral to paint a nude picture, 
 prayer would not make them think otherwise. And 
 the conviction grew upon him that God was powerless 
 in the hands of ignorant, prejudiced men. 
 
 The lower half of the window had been raised to 
 let in the air. From his position Marvin could see 
 framed in the opening a patch of blue sky and hilltops 
 miles away. As he looked a wagon came to view and 
 crawled along the glistening road. Above it a white 
 cloud floated. Upon this his eyes became fixed and 
 it resolved itself into a face. He no longer heard 
 Stucky's voice and was not aware when it ceased. He 
 still knelt, his head bent toward the window, his eyes 
 on the white cloud, when someone touched him on the 
 arm. He looked up with a slight start and resumed 
 his seat. Stucky was regarding him with a puzzled 
 stare. 
 
 The offending picture was brought forward by an 
 assistant. He handled it in a bungling manner, and 
 
204 3tt tfie SfiaDDto of ©oB* 
 
 Marvin stepped across the room and took it from him. 
 
 "You have got to have a proper light on a picture/' 
 he said. 
 
 The eyes of the men turned to the canvas. It was 
 plain they saw only a naked woman; and a naked 
 woman meant only one thing to them. Marvin had 
 painted that picture ; that one thing was in his mind, 
 was a moving motive. And that one thing was im- 
 moral outside the license vouchsafed iif marriage, 
 therefore Marvin was immoral. Thus they reasoned. 
 
 "Think of a man holding that image in his mind 
 during the weeks that it took to paint it, and at the 
 same time preaching the gospel," said Stucky, going 
 on with his argument. 
 
 "Who made the human form. Brother Stucky?" 
 Marvin asked abruptly. 
 
 "Why, God Almighty." 
 
 "Then God Almighty is immoral. I only " 
 
 But Stucky silenced him, ranting of blasphemy and 
 irreverance. Marvin sank back, a look of weary in- 
 difference on his face. He did not open his mouth 
 
 again. 
 
 * * ^ * * * 
 
 "Yes, you might call it a brave act, standing up 
 there protesting his innocence and refusing assist- 
 ance, but it was foolhardy, and like most foolhardy 
 acts it will cost him dear," said Laney, the hotel man, 
 addressing a coterie of men-about-town who had 
 
In tbt ©fiaDoto of (SoD* 205 
 
 dropped into his office. Do I think he's innocent? 
 Ain't no doubt he thinks so. Fur's I can learn it's 
 all a question 'bout a picture he painted — a naked 
 woman — an' of course that's jest a matter of opinion 
 — like most questions of morality. Some set of men 
 would congratulate him on producin' a work of art, 
 the question of right an' wrong wouldn't enter into 
 it; but these parsons will make it all a question of 
 right an' wrong, an' none of art. Most of them don't 
 know no more 'bout art than a hog about heaven." 
 
 "Yes, he made a wrong play-7-he set out defyin' 
 ^em, as it were, to prove his guilt, an' they'll do it 
 jest to show him they can." 
 
 "You're right. Parsons air great sticklers fer their 
 reputations — it's their stock-in-trade — ^what people 
 think of them. It's my idee if you strip 'em of their 
 cloth they ain't no different from the rest of us. They 
 put up a fine bluff with their sanctimonious ways, but 
 if you'll scratch 'em you'll find the same human na- 
 ture. Then they're jest like wimin — harder on each 
 other than anybody else " 
 
 "Yes, guess there's got to be a good deal of the 
 woman in a preacher fer him to like his job. The 
 church has got to be mostly a matter of wimin's aid 
 societies, entertainments and pink teas, nowaday, any- 
 how. An' a man that's all man can't stomick that 
 kind of thing fer a steady job. !N'ow, that feller Hill 
 — he's a sharp one fer you. That insanity dcdge was 
 
206 3n tbt ^ftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 a fine trick. The preacher don't know no sin but 
 bein' found out — an' Hill was too slick fer 'em. 
 
 "Trouble with Garner, he's green ; an' I guess it's 
 a case of gittin' on the wrong job. He'll not think so, 
 but it's the best thing that could 'a' happened. If 
 reports air true, he's got a lot to him. He regular 
 paralized the Bishop an' the whole caboodle over at 
 Herman last conference. I heard a drummer tellin' 
 'bout it He said he never seen nothin' like it, an' it 
 was a pity to let that kind of talent go to waste " 
 
 "Well, then, he'll likely go in fer law after the par- 
 sons git through with him. Chances air he'll be dis- 
 trict attorney er state senator when the men who con- 
 demned him will still be humpin' therselves to make 
 ends meet on a four-hundred-dollar circuit. I've 
 knowed it to turn out that way before. Though be 
 may be one of them visionary fools an' stick to his 
 picher-making an' starve." 
 
 "Well, he's considerable cut up, fer all his brave 
 way. Been walkin' 'bout yere like he didn't have a 
 Bpeakin' acquaintance in the world; an' day before 
 yesterday Miss More, the banker's daughter, ridin' 
 him roun' in her buggy, showin' him off proud." 
 
 "Yes, that's the way of the world." 
 
 "Why, if I hadn't taken him in, he'd had to camp 
 on the street. Think of it — all because he painted a 
 naked woman — an' they call that Christian!" 
 
 "Pore devil." 
 
In tfte e)j)aDoto of ©oD* 207 
 
 "Lucky devil, you better say. It'll be the makin' 
 of him, if the stuff's in him. Mark my word, you 
 can't down a man fer long that ought'n to be down. 
 That's my observation." 
 
 "But he ain't gettin' a square deal. Hill's the man 
 to stick, if they've got blood in their eye." 
 
 "Bein' in the hotel bizness, I've learned a lot 'bout 
 human nature, an' if young Garner ain't a gentleman 
 I ain't never seen one." 
 
 " 'Tain't a matter of bein' a gentleman ; it's a 
 matter of opinion. An' knowin' the men — ^the opin- 
 ion will be agin him." 
 
208 %n tU ^baDotu of ($00. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The afternoon business dragged wearily. To Mar- 
 vin it seemed interminable as he sat alone, outwardly 
 calm, meeting stoically the curious, condemning, pity- 
 ing eyes that were turned upon him from time to 
 time. The sun had already found the western win- 
 dows and poured a broadside through the stained- 
 glass upon the heads of the multitude, when Nichols 
 stepped upon the platform and passed a paper to the 
 Bishop. An expectant hush fell upon the house. All 
 seemed to feel what was imminent. Already there 
 was a craning of heads for a better view of the of- 
 fender. The Bishop read in a calm, solemn voice: 
 "We the jury find Marvin Garner guilty as charged.'' 
 The sheet fell from his hand, and his head dropped 
 forward thoughtfully as if he prayed for the unfor- 
 tunate youth. 
 
 Marvin rose slowly to his feet, his face white with 
 suppressed emotion. "Bishop, I am as innocent as 
 you " he began in a tense, tremulous voice. 
 
 Stucky sprang to his feet as if to stop the speaker ; 
 but Marvin turned toward him, a dominating light 
 flashing in his eyes. "Stucky, sit down/' he com- 
 
In tbt ^gaooui of &oh. 209 
 
 manded sharply. Stucky staggered as if struck in 
 the face, and, staring in impotent astonishment, 
 dropped into his seat. 
 
 "That's all I have to say," Marvin added calmly, 
 and picking up his hat walked proudly from the room. 
 Not a soul stirred till his form had vanished; then a 
 woman sobbed shrilly. Many heads bowed in prayer. 
 Could Marvin have known of the hearts that went out 
 to him helplessly he would have been moved to tears 
 — but he did not know. 
 
 He plunged into the sunlight scarcely conscious of 
 his movements, hurried on blindly, till it seemed to 
 him years had rolled by since he faced the staring 
 eyes of the throng. A great heaviness weighed him 
 down. He could scarcely drag his feet. There was 
 a wild turmoil in his brain. At length he found him- 
 self in a wide country lane, staring into a red, sinister 
 sunset. Involuntarily he began to pray; checked 
 himself; then, still gazing into the sky, he shook his 
 clenched fist toward it: "God," he shouted vehe- 
 mently, "damn you ! see what you have done. Damn 
 to hell such a God !" He broke into incoherent laugh- 
 ter, crying, "Fool, there is no God; it's all a lie, a 
 lie !" Then lifting his arm, as if in defiance, he ex- 
 claimed: "Hear me, God or devil, whatever you be, 
 from this day forth, forever, I defy you; do your 
 damnedest, I shall rule my own life! God damn 
 
 you!" 
 
210 3n tht ©ftaDoto of (5oD* 
 
 He tottered to a fallen log, overcome, weak and 
 limp from sheer strength of his passion. He buried 
 his face in his hands and groaned. Life seemed too 
 much for him. He had a vague feeling that he was 
 not equal to the cruel world in which he found him- 
 self, in which he knew he must live. Deep in his 
 soul he cried out that he might be like other men. 
 He found himself wishing that he were Curry, Hill, 
 anyone but himself. 
 
 When he lifted his face the sun had gone down ; a 
 pale afterglow lingered on the heavens, and shadows 
 lay thick on field and wood. As he stared into the 
 night, he was startled by the report of a gun near at 
 hand. Presently a wounded rabbit crawled beneath 
 the fence into the road, dragging a broken leg. With 
 a quick glance around to make sure it had escaped 
 the enemy, it began to apply the only surgery it knew 
 — ^gnawing at the tendon that held the dangling limb. 
 Suddenly it ceased, became as rigid as a bit of grey 
 stone, its eyes points of wild light. It had become 
 conscious of another presence, and hobbled into the 
 brush. The wounded rabbit brought to Marvin's mind 
 by some mysterious association of ideas thoughts of 
 his mother — the one had a broken leg, the other would 
 have a broken heart, and there was no God to heal 
 either. He rose with a quick motion and turned to- 
 ward the town. He plunged blindly along through 
 the night, unseeing, on and on, no longer conscious of 
 
3n tfie ©baDDto of ©otr* 211 
 
 time or place. He walked as one walks in a dream. 
 Then he became vaguely aware of dim lights blinking 
 about him in the dark, that someone approached, 
 walked by his side, clutched his arm, was addressing 
 him. 
 
 "Hello, Mr. Modest. Don't you know me ?" 
 
 He stopped and stared at the speaker, dazed. Then 
 like a memory-ghost of the past the face came back 
 to him. 
 
 "You — ^you're Uncle Joe's girl," he mumbled. 
 
 "How good of you to remember me, you timid 
 dear," she said, hurrying him along the street. They 
 entered the house with the red transom, and she led 
 him to her room. She ordered a bottle of wine and, 
 pouring out a glass, pressed it to his lips. 
 
 "You don't know who I am ?" he said, looking into 
 her face as if she were an apparition or the creature 
 of a bad dream. 
 
 "Why, yes, you're Uncle Joe's frien*. He tol' me 
 'bout you — you make pichers." 
 
 "That's all he knew — I was a preacher urtil to- 
 day. I'm nothing now " 
 
 "Oh, what you givin' me ?" 
 
 "But it's true. Didn't you see it in the papers — 
 about Garner?" 
 
 "But you ain't Garner ?" 
 
 "But I am." 
 
 "Oh, come off ; you can't fool me." 
 
212 3n tbt S>ftaDato of ©oD* 
 
 "But I am — I tell you I am." He drew a letter 
 from his pocket — his mother's letter. "Read it," he 
 said, thrusting it into her hand. 
 
 "Rev. Marvin Garner," she read. Then she looked 
 at him, her cheeks suddenly pale. "True you'r 
 Brother Garner ?" she asked soberly. 
 
 "Of course — who do you think I am ?" 
 
 She rose up quickly and gazed down at him, a fine 
 pity coming onto her face. "Then you must go. I 
 use' to be a shoutin' Methodist myself. Yes, you 
 must git out — this ain't no place fer you ? Run like 
 you did before. Oh, it's a shame fer me to 'a' brought 
 you yere." She caught hold of him and led him to 
 the door. Seizing his hand, she kissed it impulsively. 
 You'r good — good — I'm awful sorry — but nobody'U 
 ever know — ^good-bye," and she closed the door. 
 
In tbt @)i)aDota) of <£^oD« 213 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 As Marvin splashed along the country lane through 
 a drizzling rain that hung a grey wall about him, blot- 
 ting out the distant view, his mind was actively pro- 
 jecting itself into the future. Occasionally there rose 
 before him visions of wealth, of fame, of love. Then 
 he would call himself a fool to entertain such wild 
 thoughts as he faced the facts of his life — disgraced, 
 penniless, a book agent, hawking his wares from house 
 to house. He felt himself almost a vagabond. Reali- 
 ties sobered him, and yet when soberest, deep in his 
 soul there lived the dream. Was there something in 
 the texture of the soul that matched the dream ? Vi- 
 sions of a palace never came to a clod. Years after- 
 ward he recalled these visions and wondered if the 
 soul has power to run ahead of life and bring back 
 truthful intuitions, prescient messages from the 
 future. 
 
 In the meantime he had gone calmly and thought- 
 fully over his religious beliefs and found a satisfying 
 adjustment. God had become a great, impersonal 
 fixed force ; the personification of good, as the devil 
 was of evil. Prayer was a rehearsing of the souFs 
 
214 3n tfte SiftaDoto of (Sou, 
 
 desires and hopes to itself ; the object of it mattered 
 nothing, the faith of the individual everything. The 
 same results would follow if one prayed with equal 
 faith to a stone, the sun or a miraculously born pian. 
 So he found himself continuing to pray when the 
 impulse was strong upon him ; poured out his soul to 
 the sky, the landscape, the great force in and behind 
 it all; breathed often his mother's name in fervent 
 petitions. He recognized that it all was the impulse 
 of a superstitious atavism that had its source in some 
 far-oif savage ancestor. Yet in his way he continued 
 to pray and laugh at his prayers. Heaven was simply 
 a state of the soul, the result of its faithfulness to 
 its highest ideals. As to the hereafter he troubled 
 little. He came to have no more fear of death than of 
 sleep. He would fight it because there was work he 
 wanted it to do, because he loved life. But he be- 
 lieved his death would mean no more than the death 
 of a flower. From the seed scattered on the wind it 
 would live again in a hundred flowers ; so he would 
 live again in the lives of others — through his work, 
 his influence. He would be conscious of it no more 
 than the dead flower would recognize itself in the 
 blossoming offspring. Life was the important thing. 
 Christ he believed in as a great and good man, and he 
 prayed to him in the same way that he prayed to his 
 ovni soul, and sought to mold his character in the 
 light of his ethics. Keligion was no longer to him 
 
3n tfie SiftaDoto of <5oD^ 215 
 
 an object in itself ; was valuable only as it affected the 
 life for good. It was very simple, very inconsistent 
 perhaps, but he found it very satisfying and it 
 brought him great peace of mind. He realized that 
 his beliefs were largely the product of his tempera- 
 ment and his experiences; and it seemed as sensible 
 to him to seek to convert everyone to his artistic ideals 
 as to his peculiar faith. One's religion was a result 
 of one's self plus early influences and life's expe- 
 riences. 
 
 Several months had passed when he stopped at a 
 cross-road post ofiice to inquire for mail. Among the 
 letters that had been forwarded from place to place, 
 was one some days old. It read: "Mother seriously 
 ill. Come home at once." He left his prospectus and 
 books with the postmaster and turned his horse to- 
 ward Diamond, anxious, fearful. Two nights later, 
 beneath a pale winter afterglow, he drove into the 
 village. There was a look of ragged desolation about 
 the crude clustered houses that saddened him. 
 Devil's Backbone lifted in sinister aspect against the 
 dun sky. The scene brought to his mind only the 
 unhappy incidents lived in sight of it. He shuddered 
 at the thought of having to bury himself here; was 
 filled with pity as he imagined the lonely life his 
 parents must live, bowed down to the earth with the 
 humiliation of his disgrace. A fierce resentment 
 flared up in his bosom. Why should he be disgraced ? 
 
216 in tht ^!)aliota of &oD. 
 
 Why should his parents suffer? Because of a blind 
 superstitious belief that a God was directing their 
 lives. It was all a lie. As well teach that He pur- 
 posely let an idiot child be born of a drunken em- 
 brace; that He crippled innocent children and sent 
 loathsome diseases to the helpless that they might be 
 brought to accept salvation as laid down in some one 
 of the thousand and one creeds. "Ignorance, super- 
 stition," he cried in the depths of his soul. 
 
 He drove his horse into the barn and cared for him, 
 for he was cruelly fagged from the forced trip. He 
 then walked slowly to the house, drawing back from 
 the meeting he so anxiously desired. He stood hesi- 
 tating at the door, gazing through the window into the 
 lighted room. His father and Molly moved back and 
 forth to the bedside of his mother. Her face was 
 turned away, and he could see only the shrunken out- 
 line beneath the sheets. If his mother should die? 
 He felt a keen sense of remorse that his pride had 
 held him aloof from her as he remembered her letters 
 breathing an unshaken faith in him and pathetic with 
 an unworded appeal for his return. A sudden fear 
 seized upon him, and he hurried in. 
 
 His father greeted him emotionlessly. 
 
 "Son," he said in a weak, unnatural voice, "I was 
 afraid you would be too late." There was a haggard, 
 hopeless look on his face ; he moved with a weariness 
 that filled Marvin with apprehension. He too must 
 
}n tU ^aaoki of (Son, 217 
 
 be ill. It was borne in upon him that he had not been 
 the greatest sufferer. But there was no reproach in 
 his father's voice or manner, no restraint, no wel- 
 come ; a blighting indifference seemed to have settled 
 on his faculties. 
 
 There was a faint cry from the bed, and his mother 
 lifted a thin, trembling hand toward him. 
 
 Marvin stepped to her side and stood dumb as he 
 looked into the wasted face with the sad, wistful, 
 burning eyes lifted to his. He knelt and kissed the 
 white forehead, pressed the cold fingers between his 
 palms, then buried his face in the quilts and sobbed. 
 He no longer sought to reason or think — felt himself 
 only a guilty thing. What was art ? what did happi- 
 ness signify now that he saw his mother slipping 
 away — the only being who had never doubted him — 
 who believed in him, loved him. If he had only died 
 when he was a babe — better that than to have wrought 
 this ruin. Oh, the futility of regret ! 
 
 ''Son, I knew you'd come," whispered his mother. 
 "I prayed God — to spare my life — till you came — he 
 is so good" — She closed her eyes a moment, exhausted, 
 struggling for breath. His father sat at the window 
 and stared out blankly into the night, his gaunt form 
 drooping forlornly. Marvin recalled the time he had 
 returned with his mother from conference — remem- 
 bered how proud his father was— how he prophesied 
 
218 3n tfte »l)aDoto of (SJoD* 
 
 he would some day be a bishop — now, he had brought 
 him to this. 
 
 "God is so good," repeated his mother, her hand 
 fluttering in his like a weak, wounded bird, "to bring 
 you back to me." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 She gave him an ineffable look, a look that is born 
 only of a mother's love, a feeble smile flitting on her 
 face. 
 
 "Son, I want you to pray for me." 
 
 "No, no, mother," he cried, shrinking as from a 
 blow. "I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy — you should 
 pray for me, dear mother," he protested. 
 
 "Son, for mamma," she insisted weakly. 
 
 His soul cried out against it. He felt that it would 
 be an irreverent deception. Anything but this — but 
 he must — his mother must never know. She must 
 die in peace. 
 
 His father knelt on the other side of the bed. Aunt 
 Molly threw herself face downward on the floor and 
 blubbered dolefully. Marvin, still holding his moth- 
 er's hand, began to pray in a low, tremulous voice. 
 Calling up in his mind the image of the Christ as he 
 was wont to do in the days of his faith, he repeated 
 some simple petitions. When the conventional amen 
 was said and he looked into his mother's face it shone 
 as if she looked upon the invisible. 
 
 "Thank you, son — God is so good. He has brought 
 
3tt tfie SifiaDoto of ©oD. 219 
 
 you back to me — with the old faith. Son, God has 
 great things — in store for you — he revealed it all to 
 
 me — in a vision " Her eyes closed, and a smile 
 
 illuminated her face at the memory of the vision. 
 "I saw you, son, honored, loved, happy — the multi- 
 tude thronged you — like the time at conference. Be 
 faithful, son — you pray so beautiful — ^voice like an 
 angel — God bless you — my precious son." She lay 
 back on the pillows, the smile still hovering on her 
 face, and soon fell asleep. His father continued to 
 kneel at the bed. How worn and exhausted he must 
 be with his vigils. Marvin felt a great yearning to- 
 ward the father he had never known. If he could 
 only in some way assure him of his love, comfort him. 
 He stepped to his side and touchel him. 
 
 ^^Father,'' he said gently, "you had better lie down. 
 I'll sit up with mother." He helped him to his feet, 
 where he stood tottering, looking into the other's face, 
 a strange look of tenderness coming onto his own. 
 *^Son, I've been sick — your mother doesn't know — 
 help me to bed — I'm so tired." Aunt Molly came 
 and they laid him by his sleeping wife. 
 
 "Son," he whispered, reaching out for his hand, 
 "Forgive me. I thought you guilty — sins of the 
 
 father — you understand — forgive me " He 
 
 turned his face toward the wife of his young man- 
 hood, the wife of his old age, and, slipping his hand 
 softly, tremblingly to her bosom, closed his eyes. 
 
220 3n tfte ^ftaDoto of <SJoD* 
 
 Marvin dismissed Molly, dimmed the light and sat 
 down at the foot of the bed. Often during the night 
 he looked long upon the silent forms — the beings who 
 had given him life — wondered and questioned. It 
 was a great mystery. The irony of life. The cruelty 
 of life. 
 
 A few days later he laid his parents away, side by 
 side, in the little hillside graveyard in the shadow of 
 Devil's Backbone. Then he sold the store and lands 
 for a few thousand dollars, deeded the house and plot 
 to Aunt Molly, and left for New York. 
 
3n tfte ®f)aDoUi of ©oD* 221 
 
 PAKT SIX. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a sultry morning in late June. Marvin 
 Garner sat in a little stuffy hall-bedroom of a Four- 
 teenth Street rooming-house, gazing abstractly out a 
 back window into a disreputable court. Across it, 
 from a window in which set a dingy flowerpot with a 
 dead geranium, a frowsy-headed woman, bare-armed, 
 was putting out her wash, the pulley screaking dis- 
 mally as she drew in the clothesline. In a patch of 
 sunlight that stole into the depths of the backyard 
 canyon, a lone parrot sat preening its bedraggled 
 plumage and making foolish gratuitous remarks. As 
 Marvin's eye took in these sundry objects, a dirty, 
 homeless cat crept cautiously into view, and eyed the 
 bird furtively. It had espied some crumbs dropped 
 beneath the cage and stole toward the tempting mor- 
 sels. At last it pounced upon them and fled terror- 
 stricken as Polly burst into blasphemous impreca- 
 tions. Marvin turned away in disgust. The image 
 of the forlorn cat stuck in his imagination. In a 
 
222 3n tfie ©ftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 confused way he associated it with himself in his 
 present friendless isolation. 
 
 He had now been in New York over three years, 
 and it seemed to him he was just as far from the 
 realization of his ambitions as when he left the west- 
 ern prairies. Ilis former experience in the city as a 
 student and his later ones in the West had engendered 
 in him a distrust of his kind. Because of this he had 
 put forth no efforts to make friends. Finding upon 
 his arrival that it was difficult to get interested again 
 in his work, he began to drift about the city seeking 
 to kill time and forget himself in visiting places of 
 interest and amusement. But after a while this grew 
 monotonous and he came to live more and more within 
 himself, often sitting for hours staring into the 
 gloomy backyard. Then he forced himself to take up 
 his painting. But his interest was intermittent and 
 often for days he was plunged into moods of black 
 despair. He was very lonely and the atmosphere of 
 the city oppressed and bewildered him. Often he 
 asked himself why he remained, seeking to blind 
 himself to the hope he still cherished. Fortunately 
 he had sufficient funds, with economy, to keep him a 
 few years longer, and he was spared uneasiness for 
 the present on that score. He even felt confident in 
 his happier moods that before that time he would 
 succeed in finding recognition and a market. Then 
 he became interested in the art galleries and exhibits, 
 
In tbt SftaBoto of &oh. 223 
 
 and the old enthusiasm slowly returned. He began a 
 careful study of the noted paintings of all schools, 
 searching for the distinctive note that had given them 
 universal interest. In the end he came to his own 
 conclusions. It was the individuality, originality, of 
 the artist that counted. They had seen things in a 
 new light, expressed it in a new way. He was en- 
 couraged, for he realized that he could never succeed 
 in painting pictures like the ones he studied. He 
 lacked the imitative faculty; he must paint in his 
 own way ; put in the canvas what he saw and felt, if 
 then it did not make an appeal he knew he must fail. 
 He got out his pictures and began to go over them 
 carefully, profiting by the new knowledge he had 
 gained in his studies. Then in a confident mood one 
 day he wrapped up "God in the Blizzard" and set out 
 with it under his arm to the nearest art dealer. The 
 proprietor looked it over with indifferent interest. 
 
 "^o; I woidd not care to buy it," he said with 
 friendly finality. 
 
 Marvin stood a moment hesitating, then picked up 
 the picture and turned away — it seemed to him that 
 it was the only thing he could do — when Mr. Sw^artz 
 asked casually, "How much did you want for it?" 
 Marvin remembered the canvas he had sold to Mr. 
 Laramore, one not so large nor as good. "Would 
 fifty dollars be too much ?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, you don't put a cheap valuation on your 
 
224 In tht ^i)atioto of <a^oti. 
 
 art," the other said, laughing. "Why, I couldn't sell 
 it for half of that." 
 
 "Isn't it worth it ?" 
 
 "!N"ot with that name on it." 
 
 With a keen sense of disappointment Marvin 
 turned again to the door. 
 
 "If you care to leave it here I'll be glad to sell it 
 for you, if I have an offer. Though that isn't likely," 
 said the dealer kindly. "I'd advise you to try the 
 Academy. If they'll admit it to their exhibit it might 
 help you." 
 
 Marvin inquired as to the necessary steps to be 
 taken in compassing that end, and returned to his 
 room. A few weeks later he received a note from 
 the Academy informing him that his picture had been 
 rejected. "You seem to see vividly," the note ran, 
 "and you have temperament, but your work is crude, 
 unconventional, devoid of technic. We would advise 
 a few years study in a good art school." 
 
 With a determination to succeed in spite of Acad- 
 emies and art schools, Marvin went after ^'God in the 
 Blizzard" and started forth again. After visiting 
 three or four places without receiving any encourage- 
 ment, he was directed to a new gallery on Fifth Av- 
 enue that made a specialty of exhibits of American 
 art. Here they agreed to hang his picture. Some 
 weeks passed, and he waited anxiously, hoping, yet 
 dreading, to see what comment the art columns of the 
 
In tht ^fiaDoto of aoO. 225 
 
 newspapers would give it. But he looked in vain. 
 They had not seen his picture, or had not considered 
 it worthy a notice. 
 
 Marvin turned at last from the survey of the un- 
 sightly court and glanced wearily about his close 
 quarters. It was little better than Curry's attic. 
 There was a cot-bed, a dilapidated washstand and a 
 table cluttered with paint brushes. Against the wall 
 was propped an easel with a half-finished picture. 
 This Marvin's eye rested on presently and he studied 
 it with growing dissatisfaction. He was conscious 
 of an impulse to toss it out of the window and be done 
 with art. He was a fool to waste his time and money 
 with the odds so heavily against him. 
 
 There was a timid knock at the door. He opened 
 it and faced liis landlady. She handed him a letter 
 and vanished down the shadowy stairway. He re- 
 turned to the cane-bottomed chair and looked the 
 envelope over curiously. It had been forwarded from 
 Mr. Donald's, the art dealer. It was seldom he re- 
 ceived a letter, and as he tore it open he wondered 
 what it could mean. He read : 
 
 ''My dear Mr. Garner: The merits of a picture 
 rarely arouse me to such enthusiasm as to inspire me 
 to write the artist. But that is exactly what I am 
 doing, and exactly what your picture did. Your strik- 
 ing originality deeply impressed me and I want you 
 to know it, and that you have at least one very sin- 
 
226 Un tfte g)l)aDDto of (Son* 
 
 cere admirer of your art. I have been in the West 
 and your picture makes one feel that he stands on 
 one of those vast plains and beholds the awful bliz- 
 zard sweep in fury across its face. The truthful 
 realism is wonderful — ^the pathetic, tragic suffering 
 of the dumb mother and calf. Of course I don't know 
 to whom I am writing, perhaps an artist of fame 
 whose work I have just happened upon, but I find 
 myself imagining you a person native to the West, 
 possessed of dreams great and limitless as the prai- 
 ries. All the same, I am an ardent admirer. 
 
 ''Sincerely, 
 
 "Mabel Wondells." 
 
 Marvin's first thought upon reading the letter was 
 that it was the impulsive effusions of some impres- 
 sionable girl ; but nevertheless he was conscious of a 
 warm glow of satisfaction. His soul was athirst for 
 some genuine expression of appreciation. And he 
 felt these words to be sincere, if ill-judged and unim- 
 portant as a criticism of the merits of his picture. 
 But they came like a gentle shower upon ground long 
 parched by continued drought. He drank them in and 
 was grateful, though conscious that they meant little 
 in answering the needs and expectations of his soul. 
 He was encouraged. There came to him a return of 
 the old buoyant hopefulness. He sat down while the 
 mood was on him and wrote ; 
 
In tbt 8)i)aDoto of ©oD* 227 
 
 "Dear Miss Wondells: I thank you heartily for 
 your kind note. Of course I think my pictures have 
 merit or I would not paint them, but I am finding it 
 difficult to convince others. But your appreciation is 
 very encouraging. If you like the ^Blizzard' why not 
 others ? I am going to begin work with new enthu- 
 siasm, so you see how your few lines helped me. Yes ; 
 I am of the West, and I suppose I have my dreams — 
 who hasn't ? 
 
 "I hope I may have the pleasure of thanking you 
 personally sometime for your kind words. 
 
 "Truly, 
 '^Marvin Gakner." 
 
 Marvin now began the most ambitious canvas he 
 had undertaken. The half-heartedness that had char- 
 acterized his efforts since coming to the city dropped 
 from him. He became absorbed in his work — forgot 
 that he was in the city ; forgot the picture that hung 
 in the gallery, even forgot his meals. Then after 
 some weeks he called on the dealer and showed the 
 letter he had received, and learned that others had 
 spoken favorably of his canvas. Mr. Donald sug- 
 gested that he put on exhibition all his pictures, to 
 which he readily agi'eed. He then returned to the 
 canvas, "At the Edge of the Prairie," and for some 
 weeks painted steadily. Then came a note from Mr. 
 Donald asking him to call. Marvin wrote him that 
 
228 3n tbe S>&aDoto of ©oD* 
 
 he would come down in a few days, and returned to 
 his work. Nearly a month slipped by when a second 
 note came from the dealer. *^At the Edge of the 
 Prairie" was nearly completed. He put down his 
 brush, jumped on a car and was soon walking up 
 Fifth Avenue. As he approached the art store, he 
 was attracted by a group of men standing before a 
 picture in the window. He joined them and found 
 that it was his "Spring" that held their attention. 
 The onlookers were strangers to each other and there 
 was little comment, but Marvin scanning their faces 
 thought he saw on them unequivocal approval. One 
 portly, well-dressed gentleman in turning away re- 
 marked to his neighbor, "Splendid work." Two 
 young men pushed their way into the group. "Here 
 it is. I want your opinion of it. I never heard of 
 the artist, but if I'm any judge of art everybody will 
 hear of him before long." The other scanned the pic- 
 ture critically, but he was evidently disappointed. 
 "Oh, you are always making finds. It's like the 
 others — just a trick of coloring. Seems rather 
 crude " 
 
 "But I tell you it's original — it's great. Wl;at do 
 you think of it ?" he asked, appealing to Marvin, no- 
 ticing that he listened to their conversation. 
 
 "Oh, I rather like it, but your friend is right — it's 
 crude." 
 
 "Well, crude or not, it holds you — that's the main 
 
3n tfie S)6aDoto of (SoD* 229 
 
 thing. Yes, sir, I predict the artist will make a hit — 
 he deserves it." 
 
 "Pshaw, Brown, geniuses would be as plentiful as 
 motormen if your judgment meant anything." They 
 turned away and Marvin entered the gallery. Mr, 
 Donald came toward him, smiling blandly, and ex- 
 tended his hand. "Good morning, Mr. Garner. 
 .Where have you been keeping yourself ?" 
 
 "IVe been painting — I forgot about your note." 
 
 "Well, it's not serious. I wanted to congratulate 
 you." 
 
 Then Marvin learned that five of his pictures had 
 been sold. One gentleman had bought three, but he 
 wished his name withheld, and had asked to be noti- 
 fied as soon as a new canvas was offered for sale. 
 
 Mr. Donald had filed the notices and criticisms. 
 These he now put into the artist's hand. It would be 
 futile to try to express the gratification with which 
 they were read, and unnecessary to reproduce them 
 here. A few spoke of the pictures as being the 
 work of a beginner; others referred to them as 
 being rather promising efforts, but a few accorded 
 to them high praise. We quote from one of the best : 
 
 "Mr. Garner has found a virgin soil — at least he 
 has made it so by his very original treatment. 'From 
 Out the Sky,' 'Two Firmaments,' and 'Under the 
 Sun,' as realistic studies of sky and prairie effects, 
 we do not think have been surpassed. They are illu- 
 
230 3n tf)e SftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 sive, suggestive, compelling. He seems to have caught 
 the distinctive note of the scene that appealed to him, 
 which he reproduces with such vigorous truthfulness 
 that the beholder shares the fine feeling that inspires 
 his brush. Mr. Garner is strikingly unconventional, 
 and has seemed to ignore all standards and accepted 
 lines of procedure, if, in fact, he was familiar with 
 them, which we doubt. He has seen clearly, felt 
 keenly, and in his own way put the result on canvas. 
 Some of his pictures remind one of the verses of 
 Dante, romances of Poe, the adagio in Tchaikowsky's 
 Symphonic Pathetique, passages from Wagner, Walt 
 Whitman at his best. Others are pastoral in their 
 simplicity; one, a symbolical canvas, ^Spring,' while a 
 praiseworthy piece of art, inclines more to the conven- 
 tional. We predict for Mr. Garner a place among 
 America's greatest artists, and Mr. Garner is intensely 
 American, which is not the least that can be said in 
 his favor. His work as a whole is remarkable and 
 should be seen by all interested in American art, 
 though they will find that it will cheapen the average 
 pictures." 
 
3n tbt ^iiaDoto of <SoD» 231 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Marvin went home in a glow of inward exultation. 
 He sat down and read over the criticisms again. Then 
 he drew his chair to the window and looked out on 
 the darkening court. Polly from the shadows below 
 was shrieking lustily for a cracker ; the muffled din of 
 the city struck on his ear; its acrid odors floated on 
 the languid breeze. He was conscious of a sudden 
 feeling of disappointment. He wondered at the 
 strange, unaccountable fluctuating of his moods as he 
 thought of the canvases in the gallery, the few hun- 
 dred dollars in his pocket and the extravagant crit- 
 icisms. Why did he find so little satisfaction in it 
 all? Why should his exaltation be so shortlived? 
 Was life to be always leading him on like an illusive 
 will-o'-the-wisp, only to disappoint him in the end? 
 He stared gloomily into the night. And on the dingy 
 curtain his imagination pictured a face. How the 
 blue eyes that glowed with tenderneps, pity, love, 
 haunted him. If he should become famous? He 
 must. Then he remembered that he had been in the 
 city nearly four years. She must be in the city even 
 now. He grew more cheerful ; picked up his hat and 
 
232 M m ^baDoto of ®0D. 
 
 hurried into the streets. He spent the evening wan- 
 dering about, scanning the faces of the passers-by, as 
 if he expected to encounter — the blue eyes of his 
 dreams. 
 
 A few days later he received a second letter from 
 Miss Wendells. It bore the postmark of a summer 
 resort in Canada. In part it ran : 
 
 "You don't know how glad I am to learn that you 
 are in New York and so close to us. We live at the 
 St. Denis — ^just ma and pa and I. As soon as we 
 return I shall expect you to call. 
 
 "If you needed encouragement I am glad my note 
 helped you, but I assure you it but tamely expressed 
 all your picture made me feel. And you really dream. 
 You know our dreams come true if we work and wait ? 
 Though I hope you will not have to wait long for the 
 recognition you deserve. I am confident you will not. 
 
 "Do you like music ? I am sure you do. Don't you 
 know, I think of you as being expressed in one of 
 Shubert's Impromptues. I will play it for you some- 
 time. 
 
 "I am directing my publishers, who happen to be 
 the firm of which my father is head, to forward you 
 a little story of mine, ^Miserere,' which I hope you 
 may enjoy, though don't feel under obligations to 
 praise it. It is very slight, and my friends say that 
 one can read it standing on one foot. 
 
 "May I hope to hear from you again ? for I assure 
 
In tbt ©ftaDoto of <SoD* 233 
 
 you I am very much interested in the creator of that 
 fine piece of art, 'God in the Blizzard'." 
 
 A musician ! a writer ! Then she was not the imma- 
 ture, sentimental girl that he had thought her. He 
 found himself wondering how old she was, how she 
 looked, and if he would like her. He had an im- 
 pression that he would. Anyone who could appreciate 
 his work would appeal to him as a friend, he was 
 sure. Wendells ? The name sounded familiar to him. 
 Then he recalled the publishing house of Wendells, 
 Fisk & Company, that was so well known and highly 
 esteemed in the West, from which the clergy pur- 
 chased their books. He had always thought of the 
 firm with a kind of reverent awe. Was it possible 
 that he was to be taken into the home of this eminent 
 man ? He must be very wealthy, and very prominent 
 in the city. 
 
 When "Miserere" came he read it with keen enjoy- 
 ment. He w^as not a judge of literature, but praised 
 it extravagantly in his next letter. "The reason your 
 friends say that it can be read standing on one foot 
 is not because of its length, but because of its absorb- 
 ing interest," he wrote. 
 
 With the prospect of a market and the promise of 
 new friends, he began to think of looking up more 
 comfortable quarters. He sat down and calculated 
 his probable income. The money he had in the bank 
 was drawing interest and he decided that he would 
 
234 3n tbt ^ba&oto of <S^oti. 
 
 not touch it only in case of need. He had realized 
 over two hundred dollars from his pictures, and he 
 thought it might be possible now to live on the returns 
 from his brush. He would try. 
 
 He spent the afternoons of three days looking for 
 rooms. But each time returned tired and disap- 
 pointed. He could find nothing he thought suitable 
 that was within his reach. In looking over the adver- 
 tisements in a morning paper he hit upon the follow- 
 ing: "A bachelor will let two rooms of his furnished 
 apartment to a suitable party for the summer. Terms 
 reasonable." Having an indefinite idea as to what 
 bachelor apartments were, he concluded to look up 
 the number and investigate. He soon stood before 
 an apartment hotel just off Broadway. A liveried 
 flunky whisked him up to the fifth floor, then there 
 was a flash of electric bulbs, black grinning face, and 
 Marvin found himself standing alone in the corridor. 
 He found a pearl button in the door facing and touched 
 it. The door opened slowly and he found himself 
 facing a stocky man of forty-five or six, well groomed, 
 handsome, a good-humored smile on his face. He 
 motioned his visitor to a chair, lighted a cigarette at 
 an alcohol lamp that burned at his elbow, and 
 stretched himself in a Morris chair. Marvin glanced 
 about the room. He had not expected such elegance. 
 It was a far cry from the ^^bach quarters" he had 
 known in the West. It occurred to him that "terms 
 
In the SfiaDoto of &on. 235 
 
 reasonable'' did not mean to this well-conditioned man 
 what it did to him. 
 
 "You came to see the rooms?" said Mr. Donham, 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "Yes," returned Marvin; "but I'm afraid I would 
 not be able to pay what you might expect." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said the other laughing. It 
 seemed to come easy for him to laugh. "You see, I 
 am expecting to be away a good deal this summer and 
 it is more to have someone in the apartment, than the 
 rent, that led me to insert the ^ad\ Of course, you'll 
 expect us to exchange references?" 
 
 "I hadn't thought of that," said Marvin frankly. 
 "I am a stranger in the city — and I'm afraid there is 
 no one to whom I could refer. I paint — Mr. Donald 
 knows me — that is, he handles my pictures." 
 
 "Oh, he'll do, I guess," said Donham, lighting a 
 fresh cigarette and offering his visitor one. "I'll show 
 you the rooms — they may not suit you after all." 
 
 In comparison with his hot, stuffy hall-bedroom 
 they seemed like veritable parlors in their roomy lux- 
 uriance. He had never occupied anything like them. 
 Donham during the while had been plying him with 
 questions, and apparently had satisfied himself as to 
 the character of his prospective tenant. 
 
 "If you like them, I think it will be all right about 
 the references." 
 
236 Kn tfte Sfjaaoto of (Son* 
 
 "I like them very much — ^but, you know, I'd want 
 to use one as a kind of studio." 
 
 *'Sure — paint anywhere — just make yourself at 
 home." The price was surprisingly low, Marvin 
 thought, and it was arranged that he move in. 
 
 That evening when his one small, much-battered 
 trunk and pine-box were brought in, Donham had a 
 hearty spell of laughing, but there was a kindliness 
 about it that took out the sting. Though nothing was 
 said about the cause of his merriment, Marvin knew 
 and joined in. Somehow he felt he could afford to be 
 laughed at by this big, good-natured, ambitionless 
 bachelor. He felt as superior to him as Donham's big, 
 rawhide, silver-mounted trunk was superior to his 
 antiquated pine-box. Then he liked him and felt 
 under obligations to him for taking him into his com- 
 fortable apartment. If he afforded him amusement 
 he was glad. When he was unpacking he asked Don- 
 ham in to see his pictures. He was evidently sur- 
 prised, and for an instant lost his easy air of assur- 
 ance. In fact, he was embarrassed. He had the 
 manner of one suddenly realizing that he has mis- 
 taken his man; or has been confidently explaining 
 what he knows little of to one who turns out to be 
 an expert. But his enlightenment only fed his good- 
 humor. He sat down and chatted friendly, giving 
 Marvin information about the locality and the best 
 feeding arrangements. When he was through his 
 
3n tht ©fiaDoto of ©oD* 237 
 
 unpacking, Donham had him go down and take din- 
 ner with him at a Broadway restaurant. This cour- 
 tesy Marvin would have declined, but did not because 
 he feared he could not do it gracefully enough not to 
 wound his new acquaintance. 
 
 He was delighted w^ith the new arrangement and 
 with his new friend. He began to have a kindlier 
 feeling toward his fellow, and to venture out of him- 
 self. Perhaps he was mistaken after all, and had 
 judged humanity on too little evidence. Anyway, life 
 began to take on brighter colors, and for a long time 
 he looked back to that first night in the bachelor's 
 apartment as one of the memorable ones in his life — 
 it marked the beginning of a new order of things. 
 
238 an tfte ©fiaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The sweltering days of August glared themselves 
 out over the city. Everyone who could hied them to 
 mountain and seashore. But Marvin found his fifth- 
 story apartment delightfully pleasant, and the sum- 
 mer months had been the most fruitful of his stay in 
 the city. Soon after he settled, Mr. Donham went to 
 the coast of Maine and temporarily he had been left 
 monarch of all he surveyed. Mr. Donald had advised 
 him not to place any more pictures on view till the 
 fall exhibits opened and art-lovers returned to town, 
 so he had put in the days painting, and the nights 
 dirfting abut the streets into all kinds of out-of-the- 
 way places. 
 
 September slipped by, and early in October he re- 
 ceived a note from Miss Wondells informing him of 
 her return and asking him to call. 
 
 Miss Wondells was not a beauty. She was tall, 
 muscular and blonde. Her eyes were purple and prom- 
 inent ; mouth self-confident and aggressive. Her age 
 was dubious, but easily nearing the forty mark. But 
 there was a kindliness in her manner that pleased 
 him. She came forward and took his hand cordially. 
 
In tfte giftaDoto of (SoD* 239 
 
 "Why, Mr. Garner/' she said, looking hina over 
 thoughtfully, "you are just as I pictured you." 
 
 "I suppose I should say thank you ?" 
 
 "Why, of course." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 When they were seated they fell to discussing 
 "Miserere" and the "Blizzard." Then in a lull in 
 the conversation he said: 
 
 "I suppose your father is a great churchworker, 
 Miss Wondells?" 
 
 She burst into a hearty laugh. "That's a good 
 joke," she explained. "I will have to tell father. He 
 hasn't been in a church for years." 
 
 "Oh," gasped Marvin, "I beg your pardon. You 
 know he publishes religious books and the ^Sermon 
 Maker' and 'The Pastor's Helper,' and I always had 
 an idea that he must be a very religious man." 
 
 "Quite naturally, I suppose. And I guess he once 
 was. Papa began life as a clergyman, you know; 
 then he took up law, now he is a publisher. Odd, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Then he isn't religious now ?" 
 
 She had to laugh again. "Well, you might call it 
 that, though not in the sense you mean, perhaps. At 
 present he seems to fluctuate between Ethical Culture 
 and Spiritualism. The seance seems to be his fad 
 just at this moment. Last year it was Theosophy. 
 Mother says it will be Christian Science next, or 'New 
 
240 3n ti)e ^|)aDPta3 of (S^oD* 
 
 Thought, unless something newer turns up in the 
 meantime." 
 
 "But your father believes in the Church ?" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure he ought to — he makes his money 
 out of it But I'm not sure he's interested further 
 than that. He says most of the city churches are little 
 more than fashionable clubs. Kich men give to them 
 as a kind of concession to their consciences, and their 
 wives and daughters run societies for the improve- 
 ment of — everything in sight. I'm sure, though, they 
 must do quite a good work among the poor in the way 
 of charity, but father says it could be done better and 
 cheaper by the city. I'm sure I'm not competent to 
 pass on the matter. I know New York is dotted with 
 churches of every faith and description. I guess most 
 people have to have that kind of thing, especially the 
 women — and it makes it nice for papa. Why, he 
 spent $100,000 preparing the Standard Church Ency- 
 clopedia before a copy was sold — I was awfully afraid 
 it was a risky undertaking. Well, it sold by the mill- 
 ions. You know, a great many people will buy any- 
 thiijg that is supposed to be religious if it is bound 
 attractively enough. I suppose I ought to be an ar- 
 dent church member and a woman of great faith, but, 
 you know, I was educated abroad, in Paris and Ber- 
 lin, and I've never cared for such things." 
 
 "What is your religion ?" asked Marvin. 
 
 "Grand opera and art. But I beg your pardon, Mr. 
 
In tbt S^ftaDoto of ©oB* 241 
 
 Gamer, I hope I have not offended you — I forgot that 
 you might be a church member." 
 
 "!N"o, I don't even believe in a God. "When I did I 
 cursed and defied him. Now it amuses me to think 
 I ever had that much faith in the old superstitions." 
 
 "Oh, how dreadful — and dangerous," she cried in 
 mock alarm. "Are you not afraid of some terrible 
 judgment — that you'll be struck suddenly blind ? lose 
 your right hand in a street-car accident, or something 
 awful like that? You know it used to happen that 
 way." 
 
 "It may again. 'Not as a judgment from or the 
 influence of any mythological supreme being, but as a 
 result of natural causes." 
 
 "Why, you almost shock me. I thought you green 
 from the West — unsophisticated — and — and I find 
 you've already developed beyond the Xew Thought. 
 Perhaps you might convert papa and myself to your 
 ideas. You know I've been dabbling in New Thought 
 a little to please my friends. It is so comforting, if 
 one can only persuade oneself to believe it — that all 
 the good things you may desire will tumble into your 
 lap if only you pray for and think of them hard 
 enough." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right. But one would get the same 
 results praying to the sun or his solar plexus. I often 
 pray to my mother and my own soul. It satisfies the 
 superstitious instinct, and then I find it helps me. It 
 
242 3n tfte ©fiatioto of &on. 
 
 keeps one's courage up and refreshes his egotism quite 
 as much as if he believed the great Creator was per- 
 sonally interested in his small affairs and listening to 
 his selfish petitions. I consider that the supreme ego- 
 tism. But it's good for those who like it, I suppose. 
 I have no desire to interfere with the other fellow's 
 belief if he'll let me alone with mine. I've concluded 
 one's religion is mostly a matter of temperament, 
 shape of the head, early influences and experiences, as 
 in mine ; or education, as in yours." 
 
 "How original — and how refreshing. Shake," she 
 said, stepping over and offering her hand. He rose 
 and clasped it firmly. As they stood thus, laughing 
 in mutual understanding and good fellowship, their 
 eyes met. Marvin's face went red and fell to the 
 floor. 
 
 "Let me hear you play that Shubert — what you call 
 it — you said I reminded you of," he said, recovering 
 himself, dropping her hand. 
 
 Miss Wendells was proud of her playing, and sat 
 down to the piano. Marvin sank into the embrace 
 of soft cushions and listened; watched her hands 
 move above the black and white keys and thought of 
 the wings of birds. The music seemed to drip, flow, 
 gush; fall in gentle showers from her finger-tips. 
 Then he forgot to watch her hands, became uncon- 
 scious of the player, carried out of himself by waves 
 of melody that vibrated to the very depth of his soul ; 
 
In tbt ^ftaDoto of 0oD* 243 
 
 that thrilled and moved him unaccountably; filling 
 his imagination with vivid pictures — ^grand, fantastic, 
 tragic, pathetic. His emotions seemed to find expres- 
 sion in images. He closed his eyes and yielded him- 
 self to the vibrant panorama that swept through his 
 brain. He felt as if he had suddenly come into a 
 new world — the world of which he had dreamed. 
 Then there flashed upon him that strange feeling that 
 he had lived through it all before — as he had gazed 
 on the limitless stretches of the prairie — into the 
 sunset sky. 
 
 There was an abrupt silence. He looked up. Miss 
 Wendells sat before the piano motionless, her hands 
 limp in her lap, gazing into space abstractedly, her 
 cheeks pale. She seemed to have forgotten his pres- 
 ence. 
 
 "Grand," he cried enthusiastically. "I can't e^ 
 press how you moved me." 
 
 "I thought you'd like it," she replied, smiling up 
 at him, animation sweeping into her cheeks. 
 
 "And that's what you think of me ?" 
 
 "No ; not exactly that — I can't explain. But some- 
 how when I think of you I associate you with that 
 impromptu." 
 
 "I think I understand. You see in melody just as 
 I feel in pictures. As you played I saw myself as a 
 boy again, stretched on the grass watching the flight 
 of swallows against the pale afterglow, the hushed 
 
244: 3n tfte SftaDoto of <SoD* 
 
 note of a lone bird rising from the shadowy tree-tops, 
 and above, a crescent moon on a pale-green sky." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, how beautiful. I think this would 
 express you in some of your moods — it's Beethoven.'' 
 When she turned and looked into his eyes no words of 
 his were needed to tell her how he had enjoyed it. She 
 smiled her thanks and whispered, "Liszt," as her 
 hands like sentient things plunged into the passionate 
 bars of "Mephisto Waltzer." 
 
 "Oh, that's fine. Pshaw," he cried impatiently, 
 rising and standing by her. "You'll think I don't 
 appreciate your playing — I can't express it — I never 
 heard anything like it — I could listen always." 
 
 "Thank you. I'm so glad you like music — I was 
 sure you would. Your pictures are music in colors — 
 Wagner, Beethoven, Chopin " 
 
 A maid entered with refreshments. 
 
 "I hope you won't mind. Mother thinks when two 
 or three are gathered together, as the Prayer Book 
 says — ^morning, noon or night — it's an occasion for 
 tea. So you'll have to make up your mind to like 
 tea if you wish ma's good opinion. This is some a 
 high official recommended to father when we were 
 travelling in China." 
 
 ."Oh, I'm fond of tea." 
 
 "How kind of you to say so. I'll tell mother." 
 
 "But I really am." 
 
Hn tbt ©ijaDoto of <©oD* 245 
 
 "Why, of course you are, but I am not. I like art 
 better. Tell me about your new pictures." 
 
 Then as they faced each other across the dainty 
 tea-table with its embroidered linen and eggshell 
 china, he told her of his exhibition and "At the Edge 
 of the Prairie." 
 
 "Let me congratulate you. It is wonderful. Don*t 
 you know, I have friends down at the Salmagundi 
 who have never done anything in their lives but study 
 art — here and abroad — and have painted and painted, 
 and with all their wealth and friends and influence 
 have not had half your success. Why, youVe arrived. 
 I told mamma that the ^Blizzard' was great — I'm so 
 glad my judgment is confirmed. And my note was 
 the first recognition of your work ?" 
 
 "Yes, in the city." 
 
 "Why, that makes me feel almost as proud as if I 
 had painted the ^Blizzard' myself. You know, the 
 next thing to being a genius is being able to appre- 
 ciate one." 
 
 When Marvin rose to go it was past twelve. Miss 
 Wendells walked with him to the elevator and smiled 
 and waved to him till he passed from sight. 
 
 Some hours later he sat at his fifth-story window, 
 reclining in Donham's Morris chair, gazing out across 
 the Hudson, where the night boats shot great caverns 
 of light into the night. He sat for a long time wonder- 
 ing, thinking, dreaming. Presently his thoughts 
 
246 In tfte ^batioto of (SoD» 
 
 drifted backward, and a strange longing touched his 
 spirit. There came to him an acrid yearning for 
 something his life did not possess. His head sank to 
 his arm and lay motionless. A cool breeze swept into 
 the room, rustling the papers on the table; the clock 
 ticked noiselessly; from the the street rose the in- 
 creasing rumble of the waking city. 
 
 There was a faint clack, and the door swung softly 
 open. Marvin started up. A shadowy form tiptoed 
 into the room. 
 
 "Hello, Garner, what you doing up this time of 
 morning? Vve been making a regular cracksman's 
 entry so's not to disturb your beauty sleep " 
 
 "It's very kind of you, Mr. Donham, but I have 
 been in only a short while." 
 
 "Oh, I see, you are getting to be a regular night 
 owl — well, how are you ?" 
 
3n tfte ^fiaDoto of <SoD* 247 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was the season of art exhibits, sales and auctions. 
 "At the Edge of the Prairie" had been an attraction 
 for some days in Donald's show-window. During the 
 time groups of the curious could be seen standing be- 
 fore it at almost any hour. The art critics had ac- 
 corded it warm praise and already the artist's name 
 was becoming known among a coterie of art dealers 
 and collectors. The individual who had patronized 
 Marvin's first sale so liberally, and who still withheld 
 his name, had offered five hundred dollars for the new 
 picture. "While it was more than Marvin expected to 
 realize, Mr. Donald advised that he let it remain on 
 view some days longer before closing the deal. Then 
 one night at the auction of a private collection at Men- 
 delssohn Hall, with his friend Donham, a bold scheme 
 occurred to him. The possibilities it opened up to his 
 fancy for a moment turned him cold. The idea had 
 its inception in the sale of a small canvas by Mauve, 
 "The Return from the Pasture," that had been 
 knocked down at $11,000. He knew that while the 
 picture was great, intrinsically it was not worth the 
 aaoney, and in spite of the fame of the artist would 
 
248 M tbt ^baDoto of aoD. 
 
 not have commanded it bad it not been for the spirit 
 of rivalry and recklessness engendered by the bidding. 
 He believed his picture was just as great in a differ- 
 ent way, and presently found himself speculating as 
 to the effect it would have upon the art-lovers if unex- 
 pectedly brought before them. Then flashed into his 
 mind the scheme to compass it. It seemed so wild, 
 so impractical, that he did not dare mention it for 
 some days. But finding that he could not get away 
 from the idea, he called on Mr. Sills, the auctioneer 
 and manager of the sales, and unfolded his plan. 
 That gentleman was disposed to dissuade him from 
 his purpose, kindly hinting that it would likely be 
 disappointing. But Marvin was determined, and 
 upon his advancing an amount to cover the expense 
 of handling the picture, a satisfactory arrangement 
 was consummated. 
 
 It was some days until the evening of the next auc- 
 tion, which was to be the collection of a noted connois- 
 seur. When it was too late to turn back, Marvin was 
 seized with a panic of fear, and grew restless and im- 
 patient. Sunday came and Donham asked him to at- 
 tend the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. He had not 
 been to church during his stay in the city, and par- 
 tially to please his friend, who had regularly invited 
 him, more to dispose of the time, he consented. He 
 had often wondered what his pleasure-loving, time- 
 killing friend found so attractive in the church ser- 
 
In tht S^ftaDoto of ©oD* 249 
 
 vices to cause him to be so faithful in his attendance. 
 He seldom missed a service, frequently getting up 
 before day that he might be present at some early cere- 
 mony. At these times he took no breakfast and had 
 asked Marvin not to speak to him until his return. To 
 take food or talk was supposed to annul in some mys- 
 terious way the full efficacy of this matutinal rite. 
 Marvin had not expressed his religious views and had 
 refrained from commenting on his friend's. Any con- 
 fidence or information on the subject had been listened 
 to in silence or dismissed with the simple statement 
 that he was not competent to pass on the matter. 
 
 The spectacular worship of St. Mary's appealed to 
 him in the same way that a novel theatrical perform- 
 ance would. The worship he had been used to was 
 of the simplest form. He had gone through no train- 
 ing to prepare him for the extreme contrast. It was 
 impossible for him to realize that he was in a church, 
 that this was supposed to be a Christian service. He 
 found himself wondering how men could evolve this 
 kind of thing from Christ's teaching. He could not 
 believe that Christ ever dreamed of the possibility of 
 such ritualistic ceremonies in his name ; would be con- 
 foimded if he could behold them. He thought the 
 music beautiful, though not as good as he had heard 
 at the opera, and he rather enjoyed the singsong in- 
 tonation of the priests and the censer calesthenics 
 of the acolytes, who seemed to be going through some 
 
250 3n tfte S^ftaDoto of ©oD* 
 
 Htrennous disinfectant process. The procession, 
 headed by a chief performer, whose superfluities of 
 robes required the "eternal vigilance" of two assist- 
 ants, reminded him of cheap stage processions of 
 tawdry royalty. He knew it all Avas supposed to be 
 a high act of worship and was symbolical of beautiful 
 thoughts and attitudes of soul; but what perplexed 
 him was that intelligent men should think an intelli- 
 gent God was pleased at such florid incantations or 
 complimented at such a waste of time and incense. 
 God at least must be an ideal man, infinitely superior 
 to him in character, and he could not conceive of a 
 man worthy respect and reverence being gratified at 
 such mummery. One impulse, thought or act toward 
 a righteous life would mean more to the God he 
 once believed in than volcanoes of incense, emporiums 
 of vestments and multitudes of priests genuflecting 
 to operatic music. 
 
 He was puzzled at his friend's intense devotional 
 attitude. He seemed lifted out of himself — overcome 
 by some mystical exaltation. He could not question 
 that he believed in it with all his heart, that it ap- 
 pealed to him strongly — esthetically, spectacularly, 
 dramatically. He could not fathom in which way. 
 He recalled the religious frenzies he had witnessed 
 in the meetings under brush arbors. It was a long 
 cry from one to the other, but he felt that they both 
 had their origin in the senses, were unchristian, and 
 
In tbt ®{)aDoto of <SoD» 251 
 
 did not necessarily iixJuence character. The ignorant 
 fanatic would have viewed the worship of the cultured 
 ritualist as heathenish, and the ritualist would have 
 looked upon the fanatic's orgies as savagery ; but both 
 alike wete still in the kindergarten of religion. But 
 he had no feelings of contempt or condemnation. 
 This was the only thing possible for these people. 
 As well get indignant at a child because it could not 
 comprehend geometry as to find fault with them. If 
 it appealed to them, helped them, why should they not 
 have it? So he broadened as he came into wider 
 observation, experience, knowledge. The clergyman's 
 remarks, however, provoked within him a passing an- 
 tagonism. It 'was short, but an ardently dogmatic 
 exortation on the necessity and beneficence of con- 
 fession. To Marvin it was the extreme of egotism to 
 believe the Creator was personally interested in the 
 individual, but for man to insist and teach that he was 
 a special agent of deity, and was necessary in the dis- 
 pensation of His grace, mercies and forgivenesses, 
 was a miracle of presumption and blasphemy. His 
 order of mind was such that the idea was unthinkable. 
 He had to accept this differing intelligence, or the 
 absence of it, as he did life, the world, and other 
 mysteries. They were here and there was no satis- 
 factory explanation for them. 
 
 "Well, how did you like the service ?" asked Don- 
 
252 3n tbt &i)dDDto of aoD« 
 
 ham, as they turned from the throng and walked 
 toward Broadway. 
 
 "I enjoyed it very much, and I am glad you 
 brought me with you. I never saw anything like it — 
 the music was fine." 
 
 "Father Fulistian is great. I think sometime he 
 must be inspired. 'No other clergyman in the city 
 could do it. You ought to attend a High Celebration 
 — I tell you it is great." 
 
 "It was very entertaining." 
 
 They had reached Broadway when a voice reached 
 them from an uncertain direction. 
 
 "Hello, Donham." They stopped and soon sighted 
 a tall, thin man in a Prince Albert leisurely approach- 
 ing them. Marvin thought he must be a clergyman 
 and instinctively shrank from an introduction. 
 
 "Glad to see you back, Hayers," said Donham, as 
 they shook hands. "Let me introduce you to my friend 
 Garner — the artist I was telling you of." 
 
 They crossed Broadway toward the Marlsborough. 
 
 "Had your dinner ?" asked Hayers. "Well, you'll 
 dine with me," he said, upon receiving a negative. 
 He led the way into the hotel, and they entered the 
 dining-room. 
 
 "I see you are up to your old tricks, Donham," 
 said Hayers, when they were seated and the orders 
 given. "Proselyting to high church. Oh, you needn't 
 deny it — I can smell it on your clothes. But I guess 
 
In tbt ^i)aDoh] of aoD« 253 
 
 you need a good fumigation occasionally, though I'm 
 afraid it doesn't get any deeper than your Sunday 
 suit — unless it gives you a holy influenza." 
 
 "]N'ow, don't begin your blasphemy, Hayers; Mr. 
 Garner may not understand you.'' 
 
 "You high church, Mr. Garner?" 
 
 "I don't belong to a church." 
 
 "Oh, good ; then you'll understand. You've learned 
 to think. These church people" " 
 
 "Don't believe half he says. Garner; he pays a 
 thousand a year for a pew in St. Thomas." 
 
 "And haven't been in it since I learned to think. 
 I'm a Christian, not a churchman, ^o intelligent 
 Christian can remain a good churchman " 
 
 "I admire your modesty " 
 
 "It isn't modesty, it's simply the truth. No; 
 there's not a church, and I've looked into them all, 
 that stands for Christ, pure and simple. Their teach- 
 ing and practice is a travesty on His life " 
 
 "You forget that the church existed before Christ ?" 
 
 "No; I remember, and that it fixed His divinity, 
 passed upon the canon of inspiration and still insists 
 that it alone can interpret it. If we accept that 
 theory, it means that a set of uninspired men, for the 
 most part ignorant, wholly so, in the light of present- 
 day knowledge, determined what was inspiration. 
 Men are as wise now as when Constantino called the 
 Fathers together and dominated and browbeat them 
 
254 3n tfie SfiaDoto of (SoD* 
 
 into a statement of the faith. Why not a new set of 
 men pass on inspiration and faith to-day? Inspira- 
 tion is nothing more than the highest ideals of the 
 "wisest and best of any age. Christ was a great and 
 good man, but a superstitious age made Him a God. 
 Let an intelligent, scientific age restore Him to His 
 true place, then people who think will be attracted 
 to the church, and it will not be given over to women 
 and effeminate men " 
 
 "You know, Hayers, that all the best people are in 
 the church ?" 
 
 "And the worst. That's the very point I make — it 
 doesn't mean anything. It's nothing more than a 
 powerful club people join to further some selfish end. 
 Why one already feels suspicious of a man if he 
 teaches in a Sunday School or passes an alms basin. 
 If the old theories are true why don't the clergy stick 
 to the mechanical formula — as Christ died for all 
 men, all men will be saved, and let it rest there. But 
 they condition and limit His work in order that they 
 may get a finger in the pie. So men are lost, if you 
 listen to them, unless they believe a creed made by 
 man, are baptized by man, confirmed by man, con- 
 fessed by man, communed by man, buried by man, 
 none of which Christ did or taught. But they are 
 wiser in their generation than was Christ. He had 
 not where to lay his head and was crucified because 
 He put to shame and condemned the church ; now His 
 
In tfte S)i)aDoto of ©oD* 255 
 
 professed representatives live in luxury, wear purple 
 and fine linen and dine sumptuously every day. They 
 cry out against unrighteousness in the pulpit and the 
 brethren in the pew cry amen — and they all go out 
 and worship at the shrine of mammon six days in 
 the week, yes " 
 
 "You are just talking, Hayers, and you know it." 
 
 "Yes ; talking facts. The trouble is they hopelessly 
 confuse morals, religion and salvation. The latter, so 
 far as the future is concerned, is nothing but a specu- 
 lation. They teach that if you go through a certain 
 process here you are saved from hell hereafter ; when, 
 in fact, you may not be either religious or moral. 
 Then there's no more virtue in being religious than in 
 being musical. It's a matter of temperament, and is 
 no guarantee of a correct life. You know you are 
 very religious and you know you have no morals to 
 speak of. You think high mass, incense, and con- 
 fession to a gouty, high-living old priest will even 
 things up. "No ; there's no such a thing as the salva- 
 tion taught in the churches. Every man saves him- 
 self — Christ, the church, civilization, counts for little 
 unless a man knows right and tries to live the right 
 he knows." 
 
 "The truth is, Hayers, you don't know what you 
 believe; and the more you talk the more befuddled 
 you get." 
 
 "You mustn't mind my harangue, Mr. Garner. If 
 
256 3n tbe SftaDoto of (SoD* 
 
 I didn't give Donham a rounding-up occasionally, he 
 would backslide. He takes a kind of pride in my 
 free-thinking ideas. It makes him feel safe and com- 
 fortable in his cussed piousness to hear me blaspheme, 
 as he calls it." 
 
 "Oh, you're all right as long as you keep talking. 
 Men who have fixed convictions are men who seldom 
 seek occasion to air them," said Donham, winking at 
 Marvin. 
 
 "By the way, Hayers, how much did you give that 
 clergyman you said had written you for a donation V* 
 
 "I'm glad you mentioned that. I invited him to 
 come down. I wanted value received for my money. 
 I gave him two thousand dollars and he took two bot- 
 tles of port. He drank wine like a fish drinks water. 
 But he agreed to everything I said. I have never 
 found so easy a convert. He acknowledged that the 
 creed was a statement of an ignorant, superstitious 
 age; that educated people no longer believed in the 
 miraculous birth ; that Christ was the natural son of 
 Joseph, or otherwise he would be illegitimate; that 
 Holy Ghost was symbolical language and meant sim- 
 ply love — love overpowered Mary, he read it; that 
 divinity as applied to Christ meant only a righteous 
 ideal. But he told me one thing I didn't know. He 
 said there was a St. Joseph Society in the church that 
 had for its chief tenets the statements I have just 
 made " 
 
In tfie ^fiaDoto of <SoD* ssr 
 
 "Tou are joking, Hajers " 
 
 "]^o; I repeat what he said; but when a man 
 gets on the outside of two bottles of port you can 
 expect him to say things — and a man ought to say 
 things for two thousand dollars. Then he'll find it 
 easy to absolve himself, and it's rather difiicult to 
 pick up two thousand dollars every day. I'm not 
 holding it against him. He earned his money so far 
 as I am concerned." 
 
 "Well, I'm not going to argue with you. By the 
 way, you must come over to Mendlesshon Hall Fri- 
 day night," said Donham, changing the subject. "Mr. 
 Garner is going to spring a sensation. His picture 
 is going to be put up at auction during the Peyster 
 sale. You must be there and try a bid." 
 
 "Why, yes, I will. I'm glad you mentioned it. 
 Beg your pardon, Mr. Garner, you never expressed 
 your religious views, or perhaps I ought to say that I 
 didn't give you an opportunity." 
 
 "Oh, about the only belief I have is that every be- 
 lief is the correct one for the person believing it." 
 
 "Well, you are liberal, at any rate." 
 
 "Yes, I think I'm liberal." 
 
258 M tfie SftaDoUi of (Sofl* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mendlesshon Hall was packed with the artistic elite 
 of the city. The sale had been extensively advertised 
 and when Marvin and his friends arrived the audi- 
 torium was already filled. Some had come with the 
 hope of securing a noted canvas; others that they 
 might add to their collection a picture from that of 
 the late Senator Peyster's, they were not particular 
 about the kind of picture or the reputation of the 
 artist ; but the large majority were dealers, art lovers 
 and the curious, who had come to buy, view the 
 pictures and enjoy the excitement incident to a sale 
 of this kind. 
 
 ^^Hello, there's Curgan. I wonder what he's 
 after ?" said Donham, pointing out a late arrival, who 
 was making his way to a reserved seat. 
 
 "Well, I guess he'll get what he came after," re- 
 turned Hayers. "He could buy the whole collection, 
 if it struck his fancy." 
 
 It seemed the auctioneer had been waiting for Cur- 
 gan, for he now mounted the platform and began his 
 announcements. There was a sudden silence, fol- 
 lowed by a brisk rustling sound as the leaves of many 
 
3n tfie ©fiaDoto of ©oB* 259 
 
 catalogues were turned. The first picture was a small 
 pastoral by McCord, and, after a little skirmish of 
 bidding, was knocked down for seventy-five dollars. 
 
 "A ridiculously low price,'' insisted Mr. Sills. "If 
 that canvas had some foreigner's name tacked to it — 
 isky or itti — it would easily bring ^ve hundred dol- 
 lars. Yes, if an American artist wants to sell his 
 pictures, let him adopt a foreign name — the harder 
 to pronounce the better." 
 
 The sale went on lively, the auctioneer provoking 
 the bidders into occasional ripples of mirth by his 
 interpolated witicisms. Once an assistant put a sea- 
 scape upside down on the easel. Mr. Sills, taking his 
 cue from the catalogue, rattled on glibly : " *A Windy 
 Day off Cape Cod' — a fine bit of sea and sky — re- 
 markable coloring — you seem to feel the cool breeze 
 blowing inland — observe the motion of the water. A 
 unique canvas by one of America's most noted paint- 
 ers. Everybody will have at any cost a canvas by 
 Richards — what am I bid? — I wait your pleasure, 
 gentlemen." 
 
 Some one noticed the blunder and began to clap his 
 hands. This provoked a general applause, though 
 many failing to understand why. The auctioneer 
 turned quickly to the picture. It was a second before 
 he perceived the trouble, but it did not disturb him 
 in the least, and he went on blandly, "Ah, you see, 
 gentlemen, still a picture, though reversed. Art will 
 
260 M tfte SftaDoto of &on, 
 
 tell — the highest test of skill — turn it how you will 
 — the picture's there still. Beg your pardon, not 
 meaning to drop into poetry." 
 
 The picture was righted. 
 
 "What am I offered for this seascape — a perfect 
 gem — fifty dollars — thank you — ^going — going " 
 
 As the sale proceeded, Marvin grew uneasy and 
 nervous. He did not know at what moment his pic- 
 ture might be offered, and the last incident filled him 
 with apprehension. Suppose it should suit the whim 
 of Mr. Sills to hold his picture up to ridicule ? He 
 excused himself and found a seat in a remote comer. 
 Here he had been a long time it seemed to him, 
 anxiously checking the pictures on the list as they 
 were disposed of, when he caught the words: '^The 
 next canvas, gentlemen, you'll not find in the cata- 
 logue. It is a picture we have been asked to sell 
 to-night purely on its merits. The artist requesting 
 that his name be withheld till after the sale. I have 
 no word of commendation or condemnation — judge 
 for yourselves." 
 
 Marvin shrank back into his seat, his heart beat- 
 ing like a trip-hammer ; there was a throbbing in his 
 ears that almost deafened him. He closed his eyes; 
 there was a moment of expectant silence as the crowd 
 waited the appearance of the picture; then it burst 
 simultaneously into applause. Marvin trembled as 
 if overcome by some great shock ; he opened his eyes 
 
In tfie ©ftatioto of &or), 261 
 
 fearfully and glanced toward the stage. Through 
 the frame of red plush curtains, miles and miles of 
 sunlit prairie lay before him; limitless distances led 
 the eye on to illusive peaks that lifted like shadowy 
 cloud masses against the far-off horizon; above, glis- 
 tened the bright noonday sky, clear, blue, of infinite 
 depths. Across it moved boiling white clouds, their 
 shadows on the landscape so life-like one expected to 
 see them flit along the canvas. In one corner rose 
 the outline of a dug-out against a fringe of cotton- 
 woods, and a plowman in the open breaking sod. As 
 a picture it was compelling, but it was the intangible 
 something that it suggested that held the thoughtful 
 observer. Here was thought, emotion, wrought out 
 in color, no mere trick of hand or brush. It was 
 Nature in its elemental round of vital activity — ^mov- 
 ing calmly, beautifully, inevitably toward its end, pro- 
 pelled by the law within it. Man was but a part of 
 the great scheme, insignificant in his setting — an atom 
 set adrift between the great blue ocean that stretched 
 above him and the limitless green one that spread its 
 gigantic dimensions beneath his feet. He, too, fol- 
 lowed the law within, battling here alone with the 
 greater, colossal, irresistible forces that played upon 
 him from without. 
 
 "Five hundred dollars," cried a voice above the ap- 
 plause. "Six hundred." "Seven hundred." Steadily 
 the bidding rose till it reached six thousand, then 
 
262 an tbt ^beiDDto of &oi}. 
 
 the auctioneer's voice rang out in the tense quiet, 
 Going, going, gone !" — and Marvin knew that he had 
 a market There was a keen thrill of exultation that 
 comes to a few once in a lifetime, but it is a passing, 
 evanescent glow of spirit; it is never satisfied — it 
 creates a hunger for what it feeds on. He was plan- 
 ning greater achievements before the applause died 
 in his ear. Truly the soul of the ambitious is always 
 to be, but never blest Caught up in a fresh flight 
 of his fancy, he already viewed his triumph as a 
 thing of long ago ; became oblivious of his surround- 
 ings. He had lost interest in the sale, and thought it 
 a favoring time to make bis escape. He hurried 
 toward the door. Here he was intercepted. '*0h, Mr. 
 Gamer," some one called ; "there are some gentlemen 
 who would like to speak to you." Before he could 
 realize what it meant, he found himself jostled into 
 an ante-room and was experiencing the acme of nine- 
 teenth century fame — an interview. A half dozen 
 reporters were plying him with questions. But he 
 did not mind. He knew that these men could do 
 more in the next twelve hours to make him a reputa- 
 tion than all the unaided efforts of a lifetime. That 
 thousands would read their lurid reports and flock 
 to gaze at his canvases who only yesterday passed 
 them with unseeing glance. He had thought it out 
 long ago. Perhaps there was a little of Barnum in 
 his philosophy; and his reflections on the success of 
 
3n tfie ©ftaDoto of (SoD* 263 
 
 the patent medicine "ad" had also helped him to 
 his conclusion. The American people were slow to 
 recognize merit, but quick to reward notoriety. He 
 had meant to combine the two, he had succeeded. 
 But it now seemed to him very foolish that the public 
 should care to know about his personal habits, his 
 past life, how he happened to become a painter — how 
 he dressed, ate, slept, and a thousand other insignifi- 
 cant things. But he knew they w^ould find more satis- 
 faction reading about him as a man who had sold a 
 canvas for six thousand dollars than in the art of his 
 pictures. The money value of his art gave it merit, 
 gave him distinction in the mind of the crowd. So 
 he answered questions graciously with all due mod- 
 esty, knowing full well the consequences, and the con- 
 sequences were not disappointing. The papers the 
 next morning blazed with catch-the-eye headlines ; "A 
 Cowboy Artist's Jump into Fame," "An Artistic 
 Coup," "An Unknown Western Painter Takes Fifth 
 Avenue by Storm." 
 
 The week was largely given up to interviewers and 
 photographers. For some months, Sunday editions 
 and monthlies bristled with his portrait and repro- 
 ductions of his noted picture. Soon the shop window^s 
 were filled with cheap lithographs of himself and his 
 canvas — were scattered broadcast over the country. 
 He was the artistic hit of the season. Orders rolled 
 in that would take him years to fill. There was but 
 
264 In tbt ^bnDoto of <0oD* 
 
 one thing for him to do— work while his star was in 
 the ascendant 
 
 "When Marvin called on Mr. Sills and asked for 
 the name of the purchaser of "At the Edge of the 
 Prairie" and learned that it was Mr. Laramore, a 
 queer expression came onto his face. 
 
 "Who is Mr. Laramore ?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, everybody knows Mr. Laramore. He's a 
 wealthy philanthropist, and has to his credit the 
 discovery of more geniuses than any other man in 
 l^ew York. It's a kind of hobby with him." 
 
 "Thank you," said Marvin. He turned and walked 
 thoughtfully into the street 
 
9n ttt @)t)aDoto o{ <S^dO* 265 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A few days after the incidents just recorded, Mar- 
 vin called on Miss Wondells. He had an engagement 
 to accompany her to the opera to hear a new singer 
 who was to make her debut in America. They had 
 become good chums by this time, and she received 
 him in mock awe. 
 
 "Mr. Xoted Artist, I think you might have given 
 your friends an opportunity to share your triumph," 
 she said, deprecatingly. 
 
 "I was not sure it would not be a humiliation." 
 
 "But your friends would have been glad to share 
 that. You will become a regular lion, now — but you 
 won't forget your old friends, will you ?" 
 
 "I don't think I'd find much pleasure in being a 
 lion, if I might. And I haven't so many friends that 
 I can afford to forget even one," he said, a little sadly. 
 
 "I don't think you appreciate your fame. You 
 don't enthuse a bit." 
 
 "Fame, as you call it, is something to look forward 
 to — it's somehow unsatisfying in the attainment." 
 
 She looked at him questioningly for an instant and 
 said: "Mr. Garner, may I ask you a question — a 
 
266 jn tht ©baooto of ©oD, 
 
 personal question — IVe often wished to. Now, that 
 we are such old friends, you won't mind V* 
 
 "Why, I'll be glad for you to ask me anything — ^you 
 care to." 
 
 "I've — IVe had a suspicion that your life has not 
 been happy — that you've had some hard experiences 
 — there — I hope I do not offend you ?" 
 
 "No, you do not offend. I'm not sensitive — that 
 way, and I have had some unhappy experiences," he 
 aaid calmly. 
 
 "Oh, I was sure you had. That's one reason I 
 wrote you. I told mother you had suffered — ^you 
 couldn't have painted the *Blizzard' if you had not. 
 I am glad you have arrived and that it is all over. 
 Tell me about it, if you don't mind ?" 
 
 "If you'd really care — but you'd find it very un- 
 interesting, I fear.'* 
 
 "I'm sure I would not" 
 
 Marvin was glad of this opportunity to confide in 
 some one. To-night he was in a reminiscent mood. 
 A reaction had set in from the late elation. As he 
 looked back it all seemed so futile. He found that he 
 still was the same old self, carried about with him 
 the same sad, hungry, restless world within. His 
 parents could never know of his success, possibly 
 would not approve if they could, and it seemed that 
 he was no nearer the realization of the secret hope 
 that had led him to the city, the hope that had made 
 
3n tfte ©ftaDoto of (SoD» 267 
 
 his art a means to an end. So it was with a kind of 
 melancholy pleasure that he gave his friend bits of 
 his life from the time of his first visit to Xew York 
 up to the last, omitting only reference to his meetings 
 with the Laramores. In concluding he said: "It 
 doesn't seem possible that I am the same person that 
 five years ago was picking cotton on a little farm in 
 Texas." 
 
 "Oh, how you must have suffered," cried Miss 
 Mabel. "And did no one in all that time give you a 
 word of encouragement ?" 
 
 Marvin looked at his companion a moment ques- 
 tioningly. Perhaps it would be best to confide in her 
 fully. She might be able to advise him as to his 
 future course. "Yes, there was a gentleman and his 
 daughter. They live in the city — it was he that 
 bought my pictures." Then he told of their meeting 
 in Texas, of the visits to his attic studio, of Miss 
 Laramore's ambitions. 
 
 "And the young lady — has she returned ?" 
 
 "I do not know — I have not tried to communicate 
 with them. It is about that I would like your ad- 
 vice." 
 
 "You would like to meet Miss Laramore ?" 
 
 "I would." 
 
 A sudden illumination came into Miss Mabel's 
 face, causing it to pale. She quickly recovered. "Mr. 
 Gamer, I think I know what the trouble is now — ^why 
 
268 3n tfie ©hatjoto of &on. 
 
 your succr— i- ili.-:ippoiming. You are in love— 
 with Miss l.araiiiort' ^'* 
 
 Man'in looked up quickly. 
 
 "I am — more than I can tell. It's the only thing 
 that seems worth while," he said earnestly. "You 
 are my friend — tell me what I must do ?" 
 
 Miss Wondells was conscious of a strange sensation 
 at the heart, of dismissing forever possibilities that 
 had been pleasant She sat a moment very quiet, 
 looking on the floor as if considering an answer to 
 the other's question. Then she rose. "We must 
 bo going — we'll be late if we don't hurry. We will 
 talk it over on the way," she said in an even voice. 
 But Marvin thought he detected an almost impercept- 
 ible restraint in her manner that caused him to won- 
 der. Could it be possible that she cared ? 
 
 "What you must do is to write Mr. Laramore 
 thanking him for the interest he has taken in you. 
 He will then likely invite you to call if he desires to 
 renew the acquaintance," she said, sinking back com- 
 fortably in the cab. "Miss Laramore may have re- 
 turned. You could hardly expect her to write you or 
 make any advances. I'm sure, though, she's still in- 
 terested — perhaps thinks more of you than you sus- 
 pect; yet it is possible she has forgotten you — six 
 years is a long time for a girl to remember a passing 
 acquaintance." 
 
 They were late in reaching the opera house. As 
 
In tht @i)aoobi of 0dOi« 26d 
 
 they settled in their seats the curtain went up, reveal- 
 ing a wonderful woodland scene ; the German king on 
 his throne, holding court. It was a bit of medieval 
 world, suggestive of wild revels — comedy, tragedy. 
 The swell of the orchestration, the deep baritone 
 voices, now rising clear, vibrant, now blending in 
 unison with the instruments, pulsed through the wide 
 spaces. Below, in dim outline, could be caught 
 glimpses of white shoulders, exquisite costumes, a 
 multitude of heads, here and there quivering jewels 
 like fireflies in passage. 
 
 Marvin remembered how he had been moved the 
 first time he heard grand opera ; but to-night he found 
 himself listening indiiferently. Then he fell to crit- 
 icizing the scenery, insisting that the scene-painter 
 was a real artist; that people did not value him as 
 they should. Finally he turned to the singers and 
 began to give attention. "When does the new singer, 
 Miss Darmstad, come on ? She's Elsa, is she not ? — 
 she's " 
 
 "She's coming now — listen — the king summons 
 her." Marvin turned his eyes toward the wing ex- 
 pectantly. A sudden, strange presentiment seized 
 him. What if it should be she ? "What is her real 
 name ? — Miss Dreamstad's " 
 
 "I don't know — look — that's she — that's Elsa. 
 Isn't she beautiful ? Listen, she's going to sing." 
 
 Marvin's eyes were riveted on the prima donna, 
 
270 3n tbt ^i)aDotu of 000* 
 
 who now stood with head drooping sorrowfully be- 
 fore the king. There was a swift quickening of the 
 pulses, followed by a sickening disappointment. It 
 could not be she. How could that lovely woman be 
 the girl he had told good-bye beneath the summer 
 blaze in the cotton-field ? Then she began to sing — 
 in a limpid, flute-like voice she told with simplo 
 pathos the story of her vision. Marvin leaned for- 
 ward eagerly, forgetting everything but tlic voice — 
 it brought back vividly the day he painted at the edge 
 of the wood, the meeting in the depths of the trees, 
 the day in the attic, the white cotton-field, the yellow 
 sunshine. It was the same voice — it was she. 
 
 Miss Wendells noticed his rapt, ecstatic look. 
 "You recognize her?" she whispered. 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure — it's Miss Laramore. I could 
 never forget that voice." 
 
 "How wonderful — how romantic. You must let 
 her know. Listen. She is great — she'll make a hit — 
 wait till she goes off." 
 
 Marvin straightened up. He must master his emo- 
 tions. He felt an insane impulse to shout her name, 
 to cast himself headlong toward her. Every word 
 that dropped from her lips sent vibrant waves ting- 
 ling through his body. When she at last came to 
 the prayer song, he was moved uncontrollably. He 
 bowed his face in his hands — felt the hot tears trick- 
 ling down his cheeks. Then the curtain rolled to; 
 
3n tfte ©ijaDoto of ©oD* 271 
 
 the lights flashed up ; the house burst into a storm of 
 applause. His companion was frantically clapping 
 her hands, waving her handkerchief, fan. 
 
 ^^She's made a hit — she's made a hit. They'll force 
 her to give an encore. Yes ; the curtain is going up." 
 Her hands dropped limp into her lap, and she sank 
 back panting. *'0h, it's foolish to go crazy like this 
 — but how can you help it ? She's great — I'm so glad. 
 There she is — listen." Elsa repeated the prayer 
 song; then the applause was terrific. Again and 
 again she was called before the curtain, nor would 
 the crowd desist till wearied into silence. A hush fell 
 on the house, then it broke into a babel of voices; 
 the men, like strange beetles, began to move in a 
 steady stream toward the foyer. 
 
 "Send in your card — write something that will re- 
 mind her — hurry — you'll have plenty time " 
 
 "Would you — would you " 
 
 "Hurry — hurry — she'll be. glad." 
 
 Thus urged, Marvin wrote on his card: "Dear 
 Prima Donna, If you remember the old oak tree, the 
 cotton pen, the attic and a Texas artist, he would be 
 honored to renew the acquaintance," found an usher 
 and sent it to her. 
 
 He hastened back to Miss Mabel in a fever of ex- 
 citement, anxiety. To hide his agitation he flung 
 himself recklessly into conversation. Small talk 
 came hard to him, but he now forced himself to it. 
 
27i 3n tfte Sfiaooto of ©oD* 
 
 The intermission seemed like hours. At last the cur- 
 tain rose on the next act At the close there was 
 again prolonged applause, encores, and the final fall 
 of the curtain. Then Marvin's heart jumped into 
 his mouth, he was conscious of waves of heat encir- 
 cling his body, as he saw an usher approaching. He 
 grasped the note, and read : "Yes, I remember. How 
 kind of you to recognize me. The bearer will conduct 
 you to me at the end of the next act." 
 
 He handed it to Miss Wondells. "Oh, how very 
 wonderful," she cried when she had glanced it over ; 
 ''and how lovely of her." 
 
 At last he rose to go; "I won't be long," he told 
 Miss Wondells, reassuringly. 
 
 "Good luck — ^good-bye,' she said encouragingly. 
 
 Following the guide through interminable pass- 
 ages, he at length was ushered into a dressing-room. 
 Miss Laramore and a gentleman, whom he recognized 
 as her father, stood waiting him. 
 
 "How kind of you," she said in a voice that 
 sounded like heavenly music, offering her hand. 
 Marvin grasped it, pressed it passionately, cruelly, 
 forgetting himself, her father. 
 
 "And how good of you," he returned ardently. 
 
 "You remember papa ? This is Mr. Garner, papa 
 — the artist we met in Texas." 
 
 "I am glad to meet you again, Mr. Gamer. I see 
 
Sn m S)j)aDoto of ©oD^ 273 
 
 in the papers that you are not disappointing my ex- 
 pectations." 
 
 "And I owe what little success I have had to you, 
 though I have known it only the last few weeks. I 
 thank you sincerely, Mr. Laramore." 
 
 "Mildred enjoyed your coup at Mendelssohn — that 
 was a great idea." 
 
 "And I have my revenge to-night, Miss Mildred, 
 You've had a great triumph. I wish I could find 
 words to congratulate you." 
 
 Mr. Laramore became interested in some stage 
 property just outside the door. And the two, left, 
 alone, fell silent for a minute. Then they looked up 
 frankly into each other's eyes. They knew now that 
 they loved each other. It was as if the compelling in- 
 telligence flashed from soul to soul. 
 
 "Miss Mildred, it is so good of you," he repeated 
 a little indefinitely, but earnestly enough. 
 
 "And so kind of you," returned Miss Mildred, 
 equally indefinitely and earnestly. 
 
 Then conversation became easy. "Can't you dine 
 with father and me after the opera ?" she asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "I'm afraid not — I'd be glad to — but I'm with a 
 friend " 
 
 "Why, bring him along — we'll be glad to have him 
 join us " 
 
 "Oh— it's —it's " 
 
274 9n t})t ^OaDotai of <SoO. 
 
 "Well, bring him. We'll wait for you at the stage 
 entrance on Thirty-ninth Street — there's the signal — 
 good-bye." 
 
 As Marvin was telling Miss Mabel good-night, he 
 felt a sudden uneasy tenderness for her; seemed to 
 realize how kind she had been to him, and felt a 
 sense of guilt as if he had not been grateful. 
 
 "Miss Mabel," he said impulsively; "how good 
 and kind you are. How can I ever show my appre- 
 ciation — I do appreciate " 
 
 There was a smile — a pathetic, understanding 
 smile on her lips as she answered with gentle fervor : 
 "We'll just continue to be good friends. I'm so glad 
 you've found Miss Laramore. Good night." 
 
 She stood as on the night of his first visit and 
 smiled and waved to him as the elevator dropped from 
 sight Then she stood some minutes longer staring 
 into the empty space. 
 
3n tfie SfiaDoto of ©oD* 275 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 A soft radiance still lingered low on the west — a 
 halo above a lone black peak that here lifted its 
 scraggy head — when the carriage turned from the 
 steep ascent and stopped for a moment on the brow 
 of Devil's Backbone. The occupants were evidently- 
 interested in the scene that spread around them, for 
 the man directed the attention of his companion to 
 different points of the view. It was Marvin bringing 
 his wife to the scene of his boyhood. 
 
 The face of the landscape had not changed. There 
 were the same fields, the same hills, the same yawning 
 gullies and ravines. Diamond, the same ragged vil- 
 lage, set on its high perch, indifferently, imperturb- 
 ably. Somewhere in the dark the yelping of a vigil- 
 ant dog announced their arrival on the one desolate 
 street. Here and there a figure bulked against the 
 dim light of an open door, a head darkened a window. 
 
 The carriage stopped before Aunt Molly's cottage 
 — the only home that Marvin could remember. He 
 was surprised to see lights streaming from the win- 
 dows and doors, and when he cried out the accus- 
 tomed "Hello!" these were magically filled with 
 
276 3n tbt ©ftaooto of ©oD* 
 
 peering faces. A tall, bearded man came to the gate 
 and greeted him. 
 
 "Does Aunt Molly live here ?" asked Marvin. 
 
 "Not any more, I hope/ said the man ; "she's been 
 dead over a year." As the other remained silent, he 
 added : "Thought maybe you wanted something at the 
 store?" 
 
 ''No; who lives here?" 
 
 "Me— Bill Hinkle." 
 
 "Bill Hinkle, once of Whiterock?" 
 
 "Well, I guess you'r right. I moved from there 
 *bout three year ago." 
 
 "Do you remember Parson Gamer ?" 
 
 "Well, I should say so. Whiterock never had any- 
 thing like him before er since. But you'll not find 
 him yere — nobody ain't heard from him since his 
 folks died, seven er eight years ago. He went to New 
 York to go into the picher bizness." 
 
 "Hinkle, don't you know me ?" 
 
 The other stepped back so tliat the light would fall 
 on the stranger. 
 
 "No, darned if I do. I've been wonderin' who it 
 could be that knowed me at Whiterock." 
 
 "I'm Garner." 
 
 "You ain't Parson Garner ?" 
 
 "No; just plain Garner." 
 
 "Well, I'm darned — boggin' yer pardon, lady — I'd 
 never knowed you with the beard. Come right in. 
 
In tfie SftaDoto of (SoD* 277 
 
 It shore do beat the Jews, you turnin' up this way. 
 Never expected to set eyes on you agin." 
 
 "This is my wife." 
 
 "I'm shore powerful glad to see her — fetch her 
 right in." 
 
 That night, sitting out in the moonlight, the grey 
 valley yawning beneath them, stretching mystically 
 to the black jagged line that lifted on the steely sky, 
 Marvin learned how Hinkle had moved into the vil- 
 lage, bought his father's old store, and, when Aunt 
 Molly became helpless, had bought the home and 
 cared for her until she died. He dwelt with pride 
 on the success of the business venture and the in- 
 crease in his family. 
 
 "I guess the good people are still trying to save 
 you, Hinkle ?" 
 
 Sh ! — sh ! " hissed Hinkle, as if in alarm. "I 
 
 ain't a inferdel no more. I've done been converted 
 an' saved." 
 
 "I'd hardly have believed it." 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you. It happened this way. 
 Tommy died — you remember Tommy — the brightest 
 little feller that was ever born of a woman. It al- 
 ways happens that way. Well, Nancy couldn't seem 
 to git over it. An' folks tol' her the only chanct she 
 had of seein' him agin was to be baptized an' jine the 
 church. She'd 'a' done anything to see Tommy agin, 
 so, knowin' it wouldn't do her no harm, an' might 
 
278 3n tfte SbaDoto of &oD. 
 
 ease her niin', I toF her to go an' do it, an' she did. 
 Then, when I went to storekeepin' I soon foun' it 
 wouldn't hurt my bizness any to be religus. So, one 
 protracted meetin' I perfessed — an' I'm now a deacon 
 in the church an' pass the hat fer the collections. 
 This is a powerful religus community " 
 
 "Did you find it difficult to make a choice of 
 churches ?" 
 
 "No ; not yere. You see, the Baptist air powerful 
 strong, an' have it all their way, so when Parson 
 Chase preached onct saved always saved, I liked that 
 an' jined him. I didn't care to be put to the trouble 
 of doin' it over agin every protracted meetiu'. You 
 see, I'm on the safe side if there's nothin' in it, an', 
 as I said, it don't hurt my bizness." 
 
 Marvin thought he detected a queer, sly twinkle in 
 the other's eyes, but it might have Ix^n a trick of the 
 moonlight. But the backsliding of his friend caused 
 him a keen disappointment. He had often thought 
 of him as a rare character, with a courage and hon- 
 esty that would hold him true to his convictions. 
 
 The next day as Hinkle was showing him through 
 the store, Marvin sat down on the counter facing the 
 open back door. He no longer heeded the words of 
 his talkative host, as his eyes drifted over the 
 stretches of fields and woods. In his mind he re-en- 
 acted other scenes that had transpired here. The 
 past came to him as a dream. He found it difficult to 
 
I 
 I 
 
 In tbt SfjaDotai of ©oD* 279 
 
 identify Limself with that other personality who had 
 sat here and looked into the radiant face, listened to 
 the gentle, wistful voice, of his father. Yet all the 
 years life had gone on her quietly, inevitably, relent- 
 lessly. The thought filled him with a vague disquiet. 
 Life, after all, was an accident — the toss of a coin. 
 Here or there — heads or tail — a span — and then — it 
 didn't matter. 
 
 There was a heavy tread on the porch, and a huge 
 form darkened the doorway. 
 
 '^Hello, Hinkle. Goin' to have another swinger," 
 the speaker roared with forceful cheerfulness, mop- 
 ping his brow. 
 
 "Why, good mornin'. Squire." 
 
 Marvin turned and looked at the newcomer. Then 
 he sprang from the counter and grasped his hand 
 heartily. 
 
 "Will Oliver, I'm glad to see you." 
 
 Oliver stood staring, for the once struck dumb. He 
 failed to recognize the stranger, but it was painfully 
 evident that he did not wish to confess it. 
 
 "I'm shore powerful glad to see you," he said, 
 holding Marvin's hand in a vise-like grip. "Jest 
 wait a minit — I know you — would 'a' knowed you 
 in Africa. I can't jest git the name — wait a 
 minit " 
 
 "Well, you ought to git it — you'r talkin' 'im up 
 often enough," said Hinkle. 
 
V 
 280 M tht ^i)aiioto of <£^oD. 
 
 "Jest wait a minit — of course I know' im— know 
 'im as well as I know myself — why, it's — it's right 
 on the end of my tongue " 
 
 "It's Parson Gamer — you'd never guess 'im with 
 the beard on." 
 
 Oliver blinked and gasped and stared dumb- 
 founded. 
 
 "Holy Moses, if I don't believe it is, shore's I'm 
 alive. Where in the world did you drop from ?" 
 
 He presently led Marvin across the street to the 
 shade of a lone live-oak for a confidential "confab." 
 
 Oliver had remained on his little farm all the 
 years, but latterly had managed to have himself 
 elected Justice of the Peace. He was serving his 
 second term and, elated with his growing popularity, 
 was aspiring to become County Judge. 
 
 "You still find time to preach. Will ?" 
 
 "Well, I tell you, I ain't preachin' no more. I 
 kinder lost faith in religin after the way they treated 
 you at Harris ; then I got into politicks, an' a feller 
 don't want to be too religus when he gits mixed up in 
 them. Then the Methodist was gittin' pretty weak 
 'bout yere, an' the Baptist — well, they 'bout run 
 things — an' I give up my license an' quit. I 'tend 
 the barbecues, picnics an' protracted meetin's an' jest 
 talk an' mix with the people. If it's a Baptist, I'm 
 a Baptist ; if it's a Campbellite, why I'm a Campbell- 
 ite; an' if it's a Methodist, why, I'm a Methodist. 
 
3n tfie *f)aDoto of <SoD^ 28i 
 
 Don't know as it makes any difference, nohow, an' 
 I'm takin' Paul's advice — all things to all men to 
 win a few — an' it works. Yes ; I know the lick, an' 
 if yers truly ain't 'lected County Jedge, there'll be a 
 tic. You ought to 'tend a Fourth of July an' hear 
 me speak — I can whoop up the boys to beat the 
 
 band " 
 
 "So you are not burying your talent, after all ?" 
 Oliver was silent for a minute, then he looked up 
 sheepishly. 
 
 "Parson, you ain't goin' to hoi' that agin me ?" he 
 said. 
 
 The little unkcpt graveyard slept peacefully on the 
 hillside. The whitewashed pailings that enclosed it 
 glared white agaiust the masses of green within ; the 
 grey headstones, time-stained, were mottled with the 
 shadows of slow-moving boughs. Deep in the tangle 
 of grass and creepers, rose and honeysuckle clambered 
 in wild abandon, breathing an incense upon the air, 
 IS if from an unseen altar. 
 
 Marvin and his wife, knee-deep in the bracken, 
 stood with bowed heads before a shaft of grey granite. 
 They read the simple inscription on its base: "Father 
 and Mother." When at last Marvdn looked up he 
 was alone. Then he knelt at the grave, the rank grass 
 closing above him caressingly. His soul trembled in 
 the fulness of memory. He seemed to sense the pres- 
 
282^ 3n tfte SIjaDoto of &on, 
 
 sence of the dead, feel again the potency of their 
 inflimce. 
 
 "Mother, mother !" burst from his lips. 
 
 Man may go far, and he may find all-encompassing 
 love, but never will he find love like the love of a 
 mother. 
 
 He lifted his eyes to the unfathomable sunlit 
 spaces, searched the unanswering depths — the God 
 who once spake there spake no more. He realized 
 how far he had travelled — so far there was no return. 
 A vague uneasiness seized upon his soul, mastered 
 him. 
 
 "Mildred, Mildred !" he cried fearfully. 
 
 An arm stole gently about his neck. For a long 
 time they sat in silence looking down the valley, into 
 the sky. Then he drew her lips to his, looked deep 
 into her eyes. 
 
 "Honey, I feel I ought to preach " 
 
 "You do ; your pictures are sermons." 
 
 "It seems to me the world still gropes in the 
 shadow of God — I'd lead it into His sunlight." 
 
 THE END. 
 
Love and Lonesomeness 
 
 At the Edge of the Yellow Sky 
 
 By GUY ARTHUR JAMIESON 
 
 ^^IV/rR. JAMIESON has done an admirable bit 
 ^^^ of work in his brief, vivid novel of the 
 Southwest. The land of wide expanses and wonder- 
 ful sunsets has been presented in a series of pictures 
 worthy of the best discriptive writers in America, and 
 the characters — a few in number — are as real as your 
 next-door neighbor, without being nearly so com- 
 monplace. There is a little family group— an old 
 man, a young lady and a boy — whose habitat seems 
 to be the Western trail; and atone of their stopping 
 places a young ranchman comes into their lives. 
 There are a few little episodes of the Western vari- 
 ety, ending with avowals of love on parts of the man 
 and the maid. It is slight enough as to theme, but 
 the artistic handling wuU appeal to every reader who 
 possesses a love of poetic writing, and a fondness for 
 unique yet natural people. **Tom'' is a boy after 
 James Whitcomb Rile/s heart— an odd litde chap 
 whose exuberance in the mere thought of living finds 
 outlets in a variety of ways that will make the oldest 
 reader feel young again. Stimer, the hero of the 
 tale, is such a chap as Wister might have drawn, and 
 Beth is the maidenly yet womanly figure who softens 
 the many hard phases of life which surrounds her. 
 And there is Cap, the dog, who gives his life to save 
 his master. It is all as simple as the classics in liter- 
 ature, yet picturesque almost beyond comparison 
 with any of the novels of the day." — Globe Democrat, 
 St, Louis. 
 
 l2mo., Ctoih - $t.Z$ 
 
^otoer of Jnnocenct 
 
 By ARTHUR J. WESTERMAYR 
 
 In Francesca we have a character unusual in modern 
 fiction. She is a Venetian by birth ; raised in the slums of 
 the back streets of Venice, she i; taken from an artist's 
 studio, where she has posed as a child model, by a student 
 of heredity, for the purpose of experiment, by whom she is 
 placed in refined and elevating environment. Though of 
 evil parentage she grows to womanhood gracefully, and her 
 beauty of form and teature is not less remarkable and striking 
 than that of her moral character. An evil deed, committed 
 without her fault, tears her away from her pleasant sur- 
 roundings, and when next we meet her she is in Munich, 
 the great art center of Europe, where she becomes acquainted 
 with William Blake, an American artist, for whose painting 
 "Power of Innocence'* she poses, thereby bringmg him 
 fame and fortune. Their love is overshadowed by Fran- 
 cesca's wrong, and after passing through a terrible ordeal, 
 she rises above selfishness and makes the supreme sacrifice. 
 Her life and character are a final refutation of crime by 
 heredity. 
 
 The character of Helen, the childhood playmate of the 
 artist, is developed unconventionally and along untried lines, 
 and affords a psychological undercurrent whose worth as a 
 contribution to the whole theme cannot be overestimated. 
 To prove that one may love and yet not know it until a 
 crucial event brings consciousness of its existence, is the 
 purpose of this uncommon character. 
 
 In lighter vein, yet with touches of pathos which win our 
 sympathies at once, is drawn Raymond Sylvester, the self- 
 constituted cynic, who thinks himself cold-blooded and hard- 
 hearted, but who is in fact a warm-hearted, generous friend 
 and typical Englishman. 
 
 l2mo, cloth. Illustrated. $1.50 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
 
 ia EAST 1 7th STREET NEW YORK 
 
A Drama in Sunshine 
 
 By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
 Author of "Brothers/* "Her Son/' Etc., Etc. 
 
 SOUTHERN California— the land of flowers and 
 sunshine — supply s the stage upon which this won- 
 derful drama unfolds itself. It is the modem story 
 of the effect of sudden wealth upon two comparatively 
 simple lives and characters, yet with a wealth of new 
 developments and details which b certain to make a per- 
 sonal appeal to every reader. 
 
 When his fortune is made, the man discovers that the 
 simple, whole-hearted little woman, who has been his 
 great support and incentive in the struggle, is no longer 
 his ideal; and she discovers that the successful man, 
 proud in the accomplishment of his desires, no longer at- 
 tracts her as when, striving and struggling against big 
 disadvantages he found in her sympathy and quiet sim- 
 plicity the necessary encouragement which gave him his 
 final success. 
 
 He turns his affection upon a brilliant, vivacious, 
 woman of the world — his wife's cousin; while, '/vith hidden 
 strain of Castilian blood changing her love to hate, the wife 
 finds an outlet for her slighted affection in the intimacy 
 of an Italian Prince, suave, polished and sympathetic. 
 
 12mo, Cloth Price, net, $1.00 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, NEW YORK 
 
THE LIGHT 
 OF STARS 
 
 BY 
 
 BATTIED.BOHANNON 
 
 12mo Cloth -$1.00 net 
 
 "... Revolves round the love of the young 
 man for a woman, divorced, wilful, passionate and 
 fickle. The young fellow himself is a nameless child, 
 and leaving his grandfather's home nearly kills the old 
 man. In the meantime, the woman in the case falls in 
 love herself with the young man's friend, a preacher, 
 and in this as in all else has her way. This is the talc, 
 but the charm of it lies wholly in the telling; it is 
 Barric and Texas, soft Southern dialect and fierce 
 Southern temperaments, all togetlier." —Boston Globe. 
 
 "... gives a tenderly sympathetic revelation of 
 character in a country doctor's narration of the life 
 story of his young protege, Robert March. He is one 
 who conquers the misfortunes of base birth, neglect 
 and poverty, whose religious faith is almost shattered 
 through the fickleness of a woman, but who overcomes 
 and becomes altogether worthy and exalted in char- 
 acter." — Chicago Daily News, 
 
 "A Tind !' A Strong Story by a New Writer." 
 'T knew nothing of Hattie Donovan Bohannon until 
 I saw her story called The Light of Stars.' But I 
 want to say that she is a woman who can write. She 
 creates that elusive thing called atmosphere, the quality 
 that hovers around tlie work of the strange Bronte 
 sisters, the quality that vibrates in the tales of Harriet 
 Prescott SpofFord. It has that quality of imaginative 
 sjmpathy that completes the electric circuit between the 
 reader and the people of the printed page. . . . Miss 
 Bohannon, please pass us down another book." 
 
 — Edwin Markhan in New York American. 
 
"Shrine of Silence" 
 
 By HENRY FRANK 
 
 John Burroughs says : " I find in the several chapters of this work, 
 which I have just read on its receipt, unmistakable evidence of the foot- 
 prints of the Spirit. I shall follow it further by and by." 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox says : " This is a beautiful, interesting and 
 most helpful work." 
 
 Elbert Hubbard says : " It is a charming book, and goes straight at 
 the heart of things in a way that is worth while." 
 
 SUNDAY PRESS (Albany, N. Y.): "A remarkable work. While 
 spiritual and philosophical, it possesses a charm that makes it as read- 
 able and interesting as a romance." 
 
 THE CALL (San Francisco, Cal.): " It is a book full of the spirit 
 of natural reverence; entirely free from dogmatic expressions. To 
 students who are sufficiently up to date to be interested in Cosmic Vibra- 
 tions, the chapter on that subject will be instructive." 
 
 THE DAILY PICAYUNE (New Orleans): "The book is both inter- 
 esting and logical. It appeals at once to the Christian heart and serves 
 as a beacon light to the Freethinker who, drifting from the shores of 
 faith, still yearns for the some port of spiritual comfort and repose." 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN INTELLIGENCER (N. Y. City): "The author 
 will be recognized as the brilliant Lecturer of the Metropolitan Indepen- 
 dent Church. We are, therefore, not surprised to find that these pages 
 abound with beautiful and poetic thoughts. 
 
 THE BULLETIN (San Francisco, Cah): " The author of this book, 
 seeking to obliterate the lines of demarkation between science and re- 
 ligion, carries the reader to the throne of truth guided by the torch of 
 reason." 
 
 THE ARENA (Boston, Mass.): " Here are over one hundred medi- 
 tations or soul-prayers giving expression to the higher aspirations. 
 Many of them are deeply thoughtful and characterized by great beauty. 
 Some of them, indeed, are prose poems." 
 
 HEALTH CULTURE (N. Y.): " Henry Frank is more than a great 
 thinker and splendid teacher. He is a poet and a music maker. His 
 book must appeal to many." 
 
 THIRD THOUSAND, 275 pages, beautifully printed, 
 with initial letters, $1.00 
 
 R. F. FENNO & CO., - New York 
 
"The Kingdom of Love" 
 
 By HENRY FRANK 
 
 From Ibt Leading Popular Economic Monthly. 
 
 '* This vork deals with Love from the view-point of the critical scien- 
 tist, an introspective philosopher and an imasinative poet, and is, we 
 think, the broadest and most comprehensive study of the master dynamic 
 force of creation that has been written. • * « Here is a full-orbed 
 view of the greatest thing in the world."— The Arena, B. O. Flotoer, 
 Editor, Boston. 
 
 From the Leading Baptist Weekly of the West. 
 
 ** The purpose of this book is to show that Love is a cosmic prin- 
 ciple, creative, nutritive, and supportive throughout the universe. It 
 creates, constructs and supports life everywhere. It is variegated in 
 form and experience, but it is the same principle in matter, chemistry, 
 vegetation — in social, ethical and religious life. The book is written in 
 •n exceedingly sententious style. It is prose in form but poetic in char- 
 acter. Its figures of speech are so abounding and luxuriant, that, like 
 leaves, they conceal the fruit. The rhetoric is turgid, fairly foaming 
 with ornamental aphorisms and pungent epigrams."— TAc Standard. 
 Chicag: m. 
 
 From the Leading Unitarian Weekly of the West. 
 
 " This is a book of exceptional scope, treating of universal advance- 
 ment, and, in its broadest sense, of the love principle, in such a way as 
 to harmonize, admirably, modern evolutionary and materialistic tenden- 
 cies, with the underlying spirit of orthodoxy. It emphasizes first that 
 Love and God are the same all-pervadine, beautifying, cosmic principle, 
 including the social, mutual affinity and mother principles, as well as 
 the healing grace ; and next, that contemplation of life's ideals, along 
 these lines, presents practical encouragement to the pessimistic and 
 needy toward social progress and individual development; and suggests 
 to the more fortunate the cultivation of deeper sympathy. In short, it 
 holds that God and Man when merged in the exercise of Love's beatific 
 powers are one, that earth's crowning glory is the attainment of high 
 ideals and unselfish ends, and thai the ' Resurrection * is but to rise from 
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 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY