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Title: The Portygee

Author: Joseph C. Lincoln

Release Date: June, 2002  [Etext #3263]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 03/03/01]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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THE PORTYGEE

by JOSEPH C. LINCOLN

CHAPTER I

Overhead the clouds cloaked the sky; a ragged cloak it was, and,
here and there, a star shone through a hole, to be obscured almost
instantly as more cloud tatters were hurled across the rent.  The
pines threshed on the hill tops.  The bare branches of the wild-
cherry and silverleaf trees scraped and rattled and tossed.  And
the wind, the raw, chilling December wind, driven in, wet and
salty, from the sea, tore over the dunes and brown uplands and
across the frozen salt-meadows, screamed through the telegraph
wires, and made the platform of the dismal South Harniss railway
station the lonesomest, coldest, darkest and most miserable spot on
the face of the earth.

At least that was the opinion of the seventeen-year-old boy whom
the down train--on time for once and a wonder--had just deposited
upon that platform.  He would not have discounted the statement one
iota.  The South Harniss station platform WAS the most miserable
spot on earth and he was the most miserable human being upon it.
And this last was probably true, for there were but three other
humans upon that platform and, judging by externals, they seemed
happy enough.  One was the station agent, who was just entering the
building preparatory to locking up for the night, and the others
were Jim Young, driver of the "depot wagon," and Doctor Holliday,
the South Harniss "homeopath," who had been up to a Boston hospital
with a patient and was returning home.  Jim was whistling "Silver
Bells," a tune much in vogue the previous summer, and Doctor
Holliday was puffing at a cigar and knocking his feet together to
keep them warm while waiting to get into the depot wagon.  These
were the only people in sight and they were paying no attention
whatever to the lonely figure at the other end of the platform.

The boy looked about him.  The station, with its sickly yellow
gleam of kerosene lamp behind its dingy windowpane, was apparently
the only inhabited spot in a barren wilderness.  At the edge of the
platform civilization seemed to end and beyond was nothing but a
black earth and a black sky, tossing trees and howling wind, and
cold--raw, damp, penetrating cold.  Compared with this even the
stuffy plush seats and smelly warmth of the car he had just left
appeared temptingly homelike and luxurious.  All the way down from
the city he had sneered inwardly at a one-horse railroad which ran
no Pullmans on its Cape branch in winter time.  Now he forgot his
longing for mahogany veneer and individual chairs and would gladly
have boarded a freight car, provided there were in it a lamp and a
stove.

The light in the station was extinguished and the agent came out
with a jingling bunch of keys and locked the door.  "Good-night,
Jim," he shouted, and walked off into the blackness.  Jim responded
with a "good-night" of his own and climbed aboard the wagon, into
the dark interior of which the doctor had preceded him.  The boy
at the other end of the platform began to be really alarmed.  It
looked as if all living things were abandoning him and he was to be
left marooned, to starve or freeze, provided he was not blown away
first.

He picked up the suitcase--an expensive suitcase it was, elaborately
strapped and buckled, with a telescope back and gold fittings--and
hastened toward the wagon.  Mr. Young had just picked up the reins.

"Oh,--oh, I say!" faltered the boy.  We have called him "the boy"
all this time, but he did not consider himself a boy, he esteemed
himself a man, if not full-grown physically, certainly so mentally.
A man, with all a man's wisdom, and more besides--the great, the
all-embracing wisdom of his age, or youth.

"Here, I say!  Just a minute!" he repeated.  Jim Young put his head
around the edge of the wagon curtain.  "Eh?" he queried.  "Eh?
Who's talkin'?  Oh, was it you, young feller?  Did you want me?"

The young fellow replied that he did.  "This is South Harniss,
isn't it?" he asked.

Mr. Young chuckled.  "Darn sure thing," he drawled.  "I give in
that it looks consider'ble like Boston, or Providence, R. I., or
some of them capitols, but it ain't, it's South Harniss, Cape Cod."

Doctor Holliday, on the back seat of the depot wagon, chuckled.
Jim did not; he never laughed at his own jokes.  And his questioner
did not chuckle, either.

"Does a--does a Mr. Snow live here?" he asked.

The answer was prompt, if rather indefinite.  "Um-hm," said the
driver.  "No less'n fourteen of him lives here.  Which one do you
want?"

"A Mr. Z. Snow."

"Mr. Z. Snow, eh?  Humph!  I don't seem to recollect any Mr. Z.
Snow around nowadays.  There used to be a Ziba Snow, but he's dead.
'Twan't him you wanted, was it?"

"No.  The one I want is--is a Captain Snow.  Captain--" he paused
before uttering the name which to his critical metropolitan ear had
seemed so dreadfully countrified and humiliating; "Captain Zelotes
Snow," he blurted, desperately.

Jim Young laughed aloud.  "Good land, Doc!" he cried, turning
toward his passenger; "I swan I clean forgot that Cap'n Lote's name
begun with a Z.  Cap'n Lote Snow?  Why, darn sure!  I . . .  Eh?"
He stopped short, evidently struck by a new idea.  "Sho!" he
drawled, slowly.  "Why, I declare I believe you're . . .  Yes, of
course!  I heard they was expectin' you.  Doc, you know who 'tis,
don't you?  Cap'n Lote's grandson; Janie's boy."

He took the lighted lantern from under the wagon seat and held it
up so that its glow shone upon the face of the youth standing by
the wheel.

"Hum," he mused.  "Don't seem to favor Janie much, does he, Doc.
Kind of got her mouth and chin, though.  Remember that sort of
good-lookin' set to her mouth she had?  And SHE got it from old
Cap'n Lo himself.  This boy's face must be more like his pa's, I
cal'late.  Don't you cal'late so, Doc?"

Whether Doctor Holliday cal'lated so or not he did not say.  It
may be that he thought this cool inspection of and discussion
concerning a stranger, even a juvenile stranger, somewhat
embarrassing to its object.  Or the lantern light may have shown
him an ominous pucker between the boy's black brows and a flash of
temper in the big black eyes beneath them.  At any rate, instead of
replying to Mr. Young, he said, kindly:

"Yes, Captain Snow lives in the village.  If you are going to his
house get right in here.  I live close by, myself."

"Darned sure!" agreed Mr. Young, with enthusiasm.  "Hop right in,
sonny."

But the boy hesitated.  Then, haughtily ignoring the driver, he
said:  "I thought Captain Snow would be here to meet me.  He wrote
that he would."

The irrepressible Jim had no idea of remaining ignored.  "Did Cap'n
Lote write you that he'd be here to the depot?" he demanded.  "All
right, then he'll be here, don't you fret.  I presume likely that
everlastin' mare of his has eat herself sick again; eh, Doc?  By
godfreys domino, the way they pet and stuff that fool horse is a
sin and a shame.  It ain't Lote's fault so much as 'tis his wife's--
she's responsible.  Don't you fret, Bub, the cap'n'll be here for
you some time to-night.  If he said he'll come he'll come, even if
he has to hire one of them limmysines.  He, he, he!  All you've got
to do is wait, and . . .  Hey! . . .  Hold on a minute! . . .  Bub!"

The boy was walking away.  And to hail him as "Bub" was, although
Jim Young did not know it, the one way least likely to bring him
back.

"Bub!" shouted Jim again.  Receiving no reply he added what he had
intended saying.  "If I run afoul of Cap'n Lote anywheres on the
road," he called, "I'll tell him you're here a-waitin'.  So long,
Bub.  Git dap, Chain Lightnin'."

The horse, thus complimented, pricked up one ear, lifted a foot,
and jogged off.  The depot wagon became merely a shadowy smudge
against the darkness of the night.  For a few minutes the "chock,
chock" of the hoofs upon the frozen road and the rattle of wheels
gave audible evidence of its progress.  Then these died away and
upon the windswept platform of the South Harniss station descended
the black gloom of lonesomeness so complete as to make that which
had been before seem, by comparison, almost cheerful.

The youth upon that platform turned up his coat collar, thrust his
gloved hands into his pockets, and shivered.  Then, still
shivering, he took a brisk walk up and down beside the suitcase
and, finally, circumnavigated the little station.  The voyage of
discovery was unprofitable; there was nothing to discover.  So far
as he could see--which was by no means far--upon each side of the
building was nothing but bare fields and tossing pines, and wind
and cold and blackness.  He came to anchor once more by the
suitcase and drew a long, hopeless breath.

He thought of the cheery dining room at the school he had left the
day before.  Dinner would be nearly over by now.  The fellows were
having dessert, or, probably, were filing out into the corridors,
the younger chaps to go to the study hall and the older ones--the
lordly seniors, of whom he had been one--on the way to their rooms.
The picture of his own cheerful, gay room in the senior corridor
was before his mind; of that room as it was before the telegram
came, before the lawyer came with the letter, before the end of
everything as he knew it and the beginning of--this.  He had not
always loved and longed for that school as he loved and longed for
it now.  There had been times when he referred to it as "the old
jail," and professed to hate it.  But it had been the only real
home he had known since he was eight years old and now he looked
back upon it as a fallen angel might have looked back upon
Paradise.  He sighed again, choked and hastily drew his gloved hand
across his eyes.  At the age of seventeen it is very unmanly to
cry, but, at that age also, manhood and boyhood are closely
intermingled.  He choked again and then, squaring his shoulders,
reached into his coat pocket for the silver cigarette case which,
as a recent acquisition, was the pride of his soul.  He had just
succeeded in lighting a cigarette when, borne upon the wind, he
heard once more the sound of hoofs and wheels and saw in the
distance a speck of light advancing toward the station.

The sounds drew nearer, so did the light.  Then an old-fashioned
buggy, drawn by a plump little sorrel, pulled up by the platform
and a hand held a lantern aloft.

"Hello!" hailed a voice.  "Where are you?"

The hail did not have to be repeated.  Before the vehicle reached
the station the boy had tossed away the cigarette, picked up the
suitcase, and was waiting.  Now he strode into the lantern light.

"Here I am," he answered, trying hard not to appear too eager.
"Were you looking for me?"

The holder of the lantern tucked the reins between the whip-socket
and the dash and climbed out of the buggy.  He was a little man,
perhaps about forty-eight or fifty, with a smooth-shaven face
wrinkled at the corners of the mouth and eyes.  His voice was the
most curious thing about him; it was high and piping, more like a
woman's than a man's.  Yet his words and manner were masculine
enough, and he moved and spoke with a nervous, jerky quickness.

He answered the question promptly.  "Guess I be, guess I be," he
said briskly.  "Anyhow, I'm lookin' for a boy name of--name of--
My soul to heavens, I've forgot it again, I do believe!  What did
you say your name was?"

"Speranza.  Albert Speranza."

"Sartin, sartin!  Sper--er--um--yes, yes.  Knew it just as well as
I did my own.  Well, well, well!  Ye-es, yes, yes.  Get right
aboard, Alfred.  Let me take your satchel."

He picked up the suitcase.  The boy, his foot upon the buggy step,
still hesitated.  "Then you're--you're not my grandfather?" he
faltered.

"Eh?  Who?  Your grandfather?  Me?  He, he, he!"  He chuckled
shrilly.  "No, no!  No such luck.  If I was Cap'n Lote Snow, I'd be
some older'n I be now and a dum sight richer.  Yes, yes.  No, I'm
Cap'n Lote's bookkeeper over at the lumber consarn.  He's got a
cold, and Olive--that's his wife--she said he shouldn't come out
to-night.  He said he should, and while they was Katy-didin' back
and forth about it, Rachel--Mrs. Ellis--she's the hired housekeeper
there--she telephoned me to harness up and come meet you up here to
the depot.  Er--er--little mite late, wan't I?"

"Why, yes, just a little.  The other man, the one who drives the
mail cart--I think that was what it was--said perhaps the horse was
sick, or something like that."

"No-o, no, that wan't it this time.  I--er--  All tucked in and
warm enough, be you?  Ye-es, yes, yes.  No, I'm to blame, I
shouldn't wonder.  I stopped at the--at the store a minute and met
one or two of the fellers, and that kind of held me up.  All right
now?  Ye-es, yes, yes.  G'long, gal."

The buggy moved away from the platform.  Its passenger, his chilly
feet and legs tightly wrapped in the robes, drew a breath of relief
between his chattering teeth.  He was actually going somewhere at
last; whatever happened, morning would not find him propped frozen
stiff against the scarred and mangy clapboards of the South Harniss
station.

"Warm enough, be you?" inquired his driver cheerfully.

"Yes, thank you."

"That's good, that's good, that's good.  Ye-es, yes, yes.  Well--
er--  Frederick, how do you think you're goin' to like South
Harniss?"

The answer was rather non-committal.  The boy replied that he had
not seen very much of it as yet.  His companion seemed to find the
statement highly amusing.  He chuckled and slapped his knee.

"Ain't seen much of it, eh?  No-o, no, no.  I guess you ain't,
guess you ain't.  He, he, he . . .  Um . . .  Let's see, what was I
talkin' about?"

"Why, nothing in particular, I think, Mr.--Mr.--"

"Didn't I tell you my name?  Sho, sho!  That's funny.  My name's
Keeler--Laban B. Keeler.  That's my name and bookkeeper is my
station.  South Harniss is my dwellin' place--and I guess likely
you'll have to see the minister about the rest of it.  He, he, he!"

His passenger, to whom the old schoolbook quatrain was entirely
unknown, wondered what on earth the man was talking about.
However, he smiled politely and sniffed with a dawning suspicion.
It seemed to him there was an unusual scent in the air, a
spirituous scent, a--

"Have a peppermint lozenger," suggested Mr. Keeler, with sudden
enthusiasm.  "Peppermint is good for what ails you, so they tell
me.  Ye-es, yes, yes.  Have one.  Have two, have a lot."

He proceeded to have a lot himself, and the buggy was straightway
reflavored, so to speak.  The boy, his suspicions by no means
dispelled, leaned back in the corner behind the curtains and
awaited developments.  He was warmer, that was a real physical and
consequently a slight mental comfort, but the feeling of
lonesomeness was still acute.  So far his acquaintanceship with the
citizens of South Harniss had not filled him with enthusiasm.  They
were what he, in his former and very recent state of existence,
would have called "Rubes."  Were the grandparents whom he had never
met this sort of people?  It seemed probable.  What sort of a place
was this to which Fate had consigned him?  The sense of utter
helplessness which had had him in its clutches since the day when
he received the news of his father's death was as dreadfully real
as ever.  He had not been consulted at all.  No one had asked him
what he wished to do, or where he wished to go.  The letter had
come from these people, the Cape Cod grandparents of whom, up to
that time, he had never even heard, and he had been shipped to them
as though he were a piece of merchandise.  And what was to become
of him now, after he reached his destination?  What would they
expect him to do?  Or be?  How would he be treated?

In his extensive reading--he had been an omnivorous reader--there
were numerous examples of youths left, like him, to the care of
distant relatives, or step-parents, or utter strangers.  Their
experiences, generally speaking, had not been cheerful ones.  Most
of them had run away.  He might run away; but somehow the idea of
running away, with no money, to face hardship and poverty and all
the rest, did not make an alluring appeal.  He had been used to
comfort and luxury ever since he could remember, and his imagination,
an unusually active one, visualized much more keenly than the
average the tribulations and struggles of a runaway.  David
Copperfield, he remembered, had run away, but he did it when a kid,
not a man like himself.  Nicholas Nickleby--no, Nicholas had not run
away exactly, but his father had died and he had been left to an
uncle.  It would be dreadful if his grandfather should turn out to
be a man like Ralph Nickleby.  Yet Nicholas had gotten on well in
spite of his wicked relative.  Yes, and how gloriously he had defied
the old rascal, too!  He wondered if he would ever be called upon to
defy his grandfather.  He saw himself doing it--quietly, a perfect
gentleman always, but with the noble determination of one performing
a disagreeable duty.  His chin lifted and his shoulders squared
against the back of the buggy.

Mr. Keeler, who had apparently forgotten his passenger altogether,
broke into song,

"She's my darlin' hanky-panky
And she wears a number two,
Her father keeps a barber shop
Way out in Kalamazoo."

He sang the foregoing twice over and then added a chorus, plainly
improvised, made up of "Di doos" and "Di dums" ad lib.  And the
buggy rolled up and over the slope of a little hill and, in the
face of a screaming sea wind, descended a long, gentle slope to
where, scattered along a two-mile water frontage, the lights of
South Harniss twinkled sparsely.

"Did doo dum, dee dum, doo dum
Di doo dum, doo dum dee."

So sang Mr. Keeler.  Then he broke off his solo as the little mare
turned in between a pair of high wooden posts bordering a drive,
jogged along that drive for perhaps fifty feet, and stopped beside
the stone step of a white front door.  Through the arched window
above that door shone lamplight warm and yellow.

"Whoa!" commanded Mr. Keeler, most unnecessarily.  Then, as if
himself a bit uncertain as to his exact whereabouts, he peered out
at the door and the house of which it was a part, afterward
settling back to announce triumphantly:  "And here we be!  Yes,
sir, here we be!"

Then the door opened.  A flood of lamplight poured upon the buggy
and its occupants.  And the boy saw two people standing in the
doorway, a man and a woman.

It was the woman who spoke first.  It was she who had opened the
door.  The man was standing behind her looking over her shoulder--
over her head really, for he was tall and broad and she short and
slender.

"Is it--?" she faltered.

Mr. Keeler answered.  "Yes, ma'am," he declared emphatically,
"that's who 'tis.  Here we be--er--er--what's-your-name--Edward.
Jump right out."

His passenger alighted from the buggy.  The woman bent forward to
look at him, her hands clasped.

"It--it's Albert, isn't it?" she asked.

The boy nodded.  "Yes," he said.

The hands unclasped and she held them out toward him.  "Oh,
Albert," she cried, "I'm your grandmother.  I--"

The man interrupted.  "Wait till we get him inside, Olive," he
said.  "Come in, son."  Then, addressing the driver, he ordered:
"Labe, take the horse and team out to the barn and unharness for
me, will you?"

"Ye-es, yes, yes," replied Mr. Keeler.  "Yes indeed, Cap'n.  Take
her right along--right off.  Yes indeedy.  Git dap!"

He drove off toward the end of the yard, where a large building,
presumably a barn, loomed black against the dark sky.  He sang as
he drove and the big man on the step looked after him and sniffed
suspiciously.

Meanwhile the boy had followed the little woman into the house
through a small front hall, from which a narrow flight of stairs
shot aloft with almost unbelievable steepness, and into a large
room.  Albert had a swift impression of big windows full of plants,
of pictures of ships and schooners on the walls, of a table set for
four.

"Take your things right off," cried his grandmother.  "Here, I'll
take 'em.  There! now turn 'round and let me look at you.  Don't
move till I get a good look."

He stood perfectly still while she inspected him from head to foot.

"You've got her mouth," she said slowly.  "Yes, you've got her
mouth.  Her hair and eyes were brown and yours are black, but--but
I THINK you look like her.  Oh, I did so want you to!  May I kiss
you, Albert?  I'm your grandmother, you know."

With embarrassed shyness he leaned forward while she put her arms
about his neck and kissed him on the cheek.  As he straightened
again he became aware that the big man had entered the room and was
regarding him intently beneath a pair of shaggy gray eyebrows.
Mrs. Snow turned.

"Oh, Zelotes," she cried, "he's got Janie's mouth, don't you think
so?  And he DOES look like her, doesn't he?"

Her husband shook his head.  "Maybe so, Mother," he said, with a
half smile.  "I ain't a great hand for locatin' who folks look
like.  How are you, boy?  Glad to see you.  I'm your grandfather,
you know."

They shook hands, while each inspected and made a mental estimate
of the other.  Albert saw a square, bearded jaw, a firm mouth, gray
eyes with many wrinkles at the corners, and a shock of thick gray
hair.  The eyes had a way of looking straight at you, through you,
as if reading your thoughts, divining your motives and making a
general appraisal of you and them.

Captain Zelotes Snow, for his part, saw a tall young fellow, slim
and straight, with black curly hair, large black eyes and regular
features.  A good-looking boy, a handsome boy--almost too handsome,
perhaps, or with just a touch of the effeminate in the good looks.
The captain's glance took in the well-fitting suit of clothes, the
expensive tie, the gold watch chain.

"Humph!" grunted Captain Zelotes.  "Well, your grandma and I are
glad to have you with us.  Let me see, Albert--that's your right
name, ain't it--Albert?"

Something in his grandfather's looks or tone aroused a curious
feeling in the youth.  It was not a feeling of antagonism, exactly,
but more of defiance, of obstinacy.  He felt as if this big man,
regarding him so keenly from under the heavy brows, was looking for
faults, was expecting to find something wrong, might almost be
disappointed if he did not find it.  He met the gaze for a moment,
the color rising to his cheeks.

"My name," he said deliberately, "is Alberto Miguel Carlos
Speranza."

Mrs. Snow uttered a little exclamation.  "Oh!" she ejaculated.  And
then added:  "Why--why, I thought--we--we understood 'twas
'Albert.'  We didn't know there was--we didn't know there was any
more to it.  What did you say it was?"

Her grandson squared his shoulders.  "Alberto Miguel Carlos
Speranza," he repeated.  "My father"--there was pride in his voice
now--"my father's name was Miguel Carlos.  Of course you knew
that."

He spoke as if all creation must have known it.  Mrs. Snow looked
helplessly at her husband.  Captain Zelotes rubbed his chin.

"We--ll," he drawled dryly, "I guess likely we'll get along with
'Albert' for a spell.  I cal'late 'twill come more handy to us Cape
folks.  We're kind of plain and everyday 'round here.  Sapper's
ready, ain't it, Mother?  Al must be hungry.  I'm plaguey sure _I_
am."

"But, Zelotes, maybe he'd like to go up to his bedroom first.  He's
been ridin' a long ways in the cars and maybe he'd like to wash up
or change his clothes?"

"Change his clothes!  Lord sakes, Olive, what would he want to
change his clothes this time of night for?  You don't want to
change your clothes, do you, boy?"

"No, sir, I guess not."

"Sartin sure you don't.  Want to wash?  There's a basin and soap
and towel right out there in the kitchen."

He pointed to the kitchen door.  At that moment the door was
partially opened and a brisk feminine voice from behind it
inquired:  "How about eatin'?  Are you all ready in there?"

It was Captain Snow who answered.

"You bet we are, Rachel!" he declared.  "All ready and then some.
Trot her out.  Sit down, Mother.  Sit down, Al.  Now then, Rachel,
all aboard."

Rachel, it appeared, was the owner of the brisk feminine voice just
mentioned.  She was brisk herself, as to age about forty, plump,
rosy and very business-like.  She whisked the platter of fried
mackerel and the dishes of baked potatoes, stewed corn, hot
biscuits and all the rest, to the table is no time, and then, to
Albert's astonishment, sat down at that table herself.  Mrs. Snow
did the honors.

"Albert," she said, "this is Mrs. Ellis, who helps me keep house.
Rachel, this is my grandson, Albert--er--Speranza."

She pronounced the surname in a tone almost apologetic.  Mrs. Ellis
did not attempt to pronounce it.  She extended a plump hand and
observed:  "Is that so?  Real glad to know you, Albert.  How do you
think you're goin' to like South Harniss?"

Considering that his acquaintance with the village had been so
decidedly limited, Albert was somewhat puzzled how to reply.  His
grandfather saved him the trouble.

"Lord sakes, Rachel," he declared, "he ain't seen more'n three
square foot of it yet.  It's darker'n the inside of a nigger's
undershirt outdoors to-night.  Well, Al--Albert, I mean, how are
you on mackerel?  Pretty good stowage room below decks?  About so
much, eh?"

Mrs. Snow interrupted.

"Zelotes," she said reprovingly, "ain't you forgettin' somethin'?"

"Eh?  Forgettin'?  Heavens to Betsy, so I am!  Lord, we thank thee
for these and all other gifts, Amen.  What did I do with the fork;
swallow it?"

As long as he lives Albert Speranza will not forget that first meal
in the home of his grandparents.  It was so strange, so different
from any other meal he had ever eaten.  The food was good and there
was an abundance of it, but the surroundings were so queer.
Instead of the well-ordered and sedate school meal, here all the
eatables from fish to pie were put upon the table at the same time
and the servant--or housekeeper, which to his mind were one and the
same--sat down, not only to eat with the family, but to take at
least an equal part in the conversation.  And the conversation
itself was so different.  Beginning with questions concerning his
own journey from the New York town where the school was located, it
at length reached South Harniss and there centered about the
diminutive person of Laban Keeler, his loquacious and tuneful
rescuer from the platform of the railway station.

"Where are your things, Albert?" asked Mrs. Snow.  "Your trunk or
travelin' bag, or whatever you had, I mean?"

"My trunks are coming by express," began the boy.  Captain Zelotes
interrupted him.

"Your trunks?" he repeated.  "Got more'n one, have you?"

"Why--why, yes, there are three.  Mr. Holden--he is the headmaster,
you know--"

"Eh?  Headmaster?  Oh, you mean the boss teacher up there at the
school?  Yes, yes.  Um-hm."

"Yes, sir.  Mr. Holden says the trunks should get here in a few
days."

Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, made the next remark.  "Did I
understand you to say you had THREE trunks?" she demanded.

"Why, yes."

"Three trunks for one boy!  For mercy sakes, what have you got in
'em?"

"Why--why, my things.  My clothes and--and--everything."

"Everything, or just about, I should say.  Goodness gracious me,
when I go up to Boston I have all I can do to fill up one trunk.
And I'm bigger'n you are--bigger 'round, anyway."

There was no doubt about that.  Captain Zelotes laughed shortly.

"That statement ain't what I'd call exaggerated, Rachel," he
declared.  "Every time I see you and Laban out walkin' together he
has to keep on the sunny side or be in a total eclipse.  And, by
the way, speakin' of Laban--  Say, son, how did you and he get
along comin' down from the depot?"

"All right.  It was pretty dark."

"I'll bet you!  Laban wasn't very talkative, was he?"

"Why, yes, sir, he talked a good deal but he sang most of the
time."

This simple statement appeared to cause a most surprising sensation.
The Snows and their housekeeper looked at each other.  Captain
Zelotes leaned back in his chair and whistled.

"Whew!" he observed.  "Hum!  Sho!  Thunderation!"

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed his wife.

Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, drew a long breath.  "I might have
expected it," she said tartly.  "It's past time.  He's pretty nigh
a month overdue, as 'tis."

Captain Snow rose to his feet.  "I was kind of suspicious when he
started for the barn," he declared.  "Seemed to me he was singin'
then.  WHAT did he sing, boy?" he asked, turning suddenly upon his
grandson.

"Why--why, I don't know.  I didn't notice particularly.  You see,
it was pretty cold and--"

Mrs. Ellis interrupted.  "Did he sing anything about somebody's
bein' his darlin' hanky-panky and wearin' a number two?" she
demanded sharply.

"Why--why, yes, he did."

Apparently that settled it.  Mrs. Snow said, "Oh, dear!" again and
the housekeeper also rose from the table.

"You'd better go right out to the barn this minute, Cap'n Lote,"
she said, "and I guess likely I'd better go with you."

The captain already had his cap on his head.

"No, Rachel," he said, "I don't need you.  Cal'late I can take care
of 'most anything that's liable to have happened.  If he ain't put
the bridle to bed in the stall and hung the mare up on the harness
pegs I judge I can handle the job.  Wonder how fur along he'd got.
Didn't hear him singin' anything about 'Hyannis on the Cape,' did
you, boy?"

"No."

"That's some comfort.  Now, don't you worry, Mother.  I'll be back
in a few minutes."

Mrs. Snow clasped her hands.  "Oh, I HOPE he hasn't set the barn
afire," she wailed.

"No danger of that, I guess.  No, Rachel, you 'tend to your supper.
I don't need you."

He tramped out into the hall and the door closed behind him.  Mrs.
Snow turned apologetically to her puzzled grandson, who was
entirely at a loss to know what the trouble was about.

"You see, Albert," she hesitatingly explained, "Laban--Mr. Keeler--
the man who drove you down from the depot--he--he's an awful nice
man and your grandfather thinks the world and all of him, but--but
every once in a while he--  Oh, dear, I don't know how to say it to
you, but--"

Evidently Mrs. Ellis knew how to say it, for she broke into the
conversation and said it then and there.

"Every once in a while he gets tipsy," she snapped.  "And I only
wish I had my fingers this minute in the hair of the scamp that
gave him the liquor."

A light broke upon Albert's mind.  "Oh!  Oh, yes!" he exclaimed.
"I thought he acted a little queer, and once I thought I smelt--
Oh, that was why he was eating the peppermints!"

Mrs. Snow nodded.  There was a moment of silence.  Suddenly the
housekeeper, who had resumed her seat in compliance with Captain
Zelotes' order, slammed back her chair and stood up.

"I've hated the smell of peppermint for twenty-two year," she
declared, and went out into the kitchen.  Albert, looking after
her, felt his grandmother's touch upon his sleeve.

"I wouldn't say any more about it before her," she whispered.
"She's awful sensitive."

Why in the world the housekeeper should be particularly sensitive
because the man who had driven him from the station ate peppermint
was quite beyond the boy's comprehension.  Nor could he thoroughly
understand why the suspicion of Mr. Keeler's slight inebriety
should cause such a sensation in the Snow household.  He was
inclined to think the tipsiness rather funny.  Of course alcohol
was lectured against often enough at school and on one occasion a
member of the senior class--a twenty-year-old "hold-over" who
should have graduated the fall before--had been expelled for having
beer in his room; but during his long summer vacations, spent
precariously at hotels or in short visits to his father's friends,
young Speranza had learned to be tolerant.  Tolerance was a
necessary virtue in the circle surrounding Speranza Senior, in his
later years.  The popping of corks at all hours of the night and
bottles full, half full or empty, were sounds and sights to which
Albert had been well accustomed.  When one has more than once seen
his own father overcome by conviviality and the affair treated as
a huge joke, one is not inclined to be too censorious when others
slip.  What if the queer old Keeler guy was tight?  Was that
anything to raise such a row about?

Plainly, he decided, this was a strange place, this household of
his grandparents.  His premonition that they might be "Rubes"
seemed likely to have been well founded.  What would his father--
his great, world-famous father--have thought of them?  "Bah! these
Yankee bourgeoisie!"  He could almost hear him say it.  Miguel
Carlos Speranza detested--in private--the Yankee bourgeoisie.  He
took their money and he married one of their daughters, but he
detested them.  During his last years, when the money had not
flowed his way as copiously, the detest grew.

"You won't say anything about Laban before Mrs. Ellis, will you,
Albert?" persisted Mrs. Snow.  "She's dreadful sensitive.  I'll
explain by and by."

He promised, repressing a condescending smile.

Both the housekeeper and Captain Snow returned in a few minutes.
The latter reported that the mare was safe and sound in her stall.

"The harness was mostly on the floor, but Jess was all right, thank
the Lord," observed the captain.

"Jess is our horse's name, Albert," explained Mrs. Snow.  "That is,
her name's Jessamine, but Zelotes can't ever seem to say the whole
of any name.  When we first bought Jessamine I named her Magnolia,
but he called her 'Mag' all the time and I COULDN'T stand that.
Have some more preserves, Albert, do."

All through the meal Albert was uneasily conscious that his
grandfather was looking at him from under the shaggy brows,
measuring him, estimating him, reading him through and through.  He
resented the scrutiny and the twinkle of sardonic humor which, it
seemed to him, accompanied it.  His way of handling his knife and
fork, his clothes, his tie, his manner of eating and drinking and
speaking, all these Captain Zelotes seemed to note and appraise.
But whatever the results of his scrutiny and appraisal might be
he kept them entirely to himself.  When he addressed his grandson
directly, which was not often, his remarks were trivial commonplaces
and, although pleasant enough, were terse and to the point.

Several times Mrs. Snow would have questioned Albert concerning the
life at school, but each time her husband interfered.

"Not now, not now, Mother," he said.  "The boy ain't goin' to run
away to-night.  He'll be here to-morrow and a good many to-morrows,
if"--and here again Albert seemed to detect the slight sarcasm and
the twinkle--"if we old-fashioned 'down easters' ain't too common
and every-day for a high-toned young chap like him to put up with.
No, no, don't make him talk to-night.  Can't you see he's so sleepy
that it's only the exercise of openin' his mouth to eat that keeps
his eyes from shuttin'?  How about that, son?"

It was perfectly true.  The long train ride, the excitement, the
cold wait on the station platform and the subsequent warmth of the
room, the hearty meal, all these combined to make for sleepiness
so overpowering that several times the boy had caught his nose
descending toward his plate in a most inelegant nod.  But it hurt
his pride to think his grandfather had noticed his condition.

"Oh, I'm all right," he said, with dignity.

Somehow the dignity seemed to have little effect upon Captain
Zelotes.

"Um--yes, I know," observed the latter dryly, "but I guess likely
you'll be more all right in bed.  Mother, you'll show Albert where
to turn in, won't you?  There's your suitcase out there in the
hall, son.  I fetched it in from the barn just now."

Mrs. Snow ventured a protest.

"Oh, Zelotes," she cried, "ain't we goin' to talk with him at ALL?
Why, there is so much to say!"

"'Twill say just as well to-morrow mornin', Mother; better, because
we'll have all day to say it in.  Get the lamp."

Albert looked at his watch.

"Why, it's only half-past nine," he said.

Captain Zelotes, who also had been looking at the watch, which was
a very fine and very expensive one, smiled slightly.  "Half-past
nine some nights," he said, "is equal to half-past twelve others.
This is one of the some.  There, there, son, you're so sleepy this
minute that you've got a list to starboard.  When you and I have
that talk that's comin' to us we want to be shipshape and on an
even keel.  Rachel, light that lamp."

The housekeeper brought in and lighted a small hand lamp.  Mrs.
Snow took it and led the way to the hall and the narrow, breakneck
flight of stairs.  Captain Zelotes laid a hand on his grandson's
shoulder.

"Good-night, son," he said quietly.

Albert looked into the gray eyes.  Their expression was not
unkindly, but there was, or he imagined there was, the same
quizzical, sardonic twinkle.  He resented that twinkle more than
ever; it made him feel very young indeed, and correspondingly
obstinate.  Something of that obstinacy showed in his own eyes as
he returned his grandfather's look.

"Good-night--sir," he said, and for the life of him he could not
resist hesitating before adding the "sir."  As he climbed the steep
stairs he fancied he heard a short sniff or chuckle--he was not
certain which--from the big man in the dining-room.

His bedroom was a good-sized room; that is, it would have been of
good size if the person who designed it had known what the term
"square" meant.  Apparently he did not, and had built the apartment
on the hit-or-miss, higglety-pigglety pattern, with unexpected
alcoves cut into the walls and closets and chimneys built out from
them.  There were three windows, a big bed, an old-fashioned
bureau, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and several old-fashioned
chairs.  Mrs. Snow put the lamp upon the bureau.  She watched him
anxiously as he looked about the room.

"Do--do you like it?" she asked.

Albert replied that he guessed he did.  Perhaps there was not too
much certainty in his tone.  He had never before seen a room like
it.

"Oh, I hope you will like it!  It was your mother's room, Albert.
She slept here from the time she was seven until--until she went
away."

The boy looked about him with a new interest, an odd thrill.  His
mother's room.  His mother.  He could just remember her, but that
was all.  The memories were childish and unsatisfactory, but they
were memories.  And she had slept there; this had been her room
when she was a girl, before she married, before--long before such a
person as Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza had been even dreamed of.
That was strange, it was queer to think about.  Long before he was
born, when she was years younger than he as he stood there now, she
had stood there, had looked from those windows, had--

His grandmother threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.  Her
cheek was wet.

"Good-night, Albert," she said chokingly, and hurried out of the
room.

He undressed quickly, for the room was very cold.  He opened the
window, after a desperate struggle, and climbed into bed.  The
wind, whistling in, obligingly blew out the lamp for him.  It
shrieked and howled about the eaves and the old house squeaked and
groaned.  Albert pulled the comforter up about his neck and
concentrated upon the business of going to sleep.  He, who could
scarcely remember when he had had a real home, was desperately
homesick.

Downstairs in the dining-room Captain Zelotes stood, his hands in
his pockets, looking through the mica panes of the stove door at
the fire within.  His wife came up behind him and laid a hand on
his sleeve.

"What are you thinkin' about, Father?" she asked.

Her husband shook his head.  "I was wonderin'," he said, "what my
granddad, the original Cap'n Lote Snow that built this house, would
have said if he'd known that he'd have a great-great-grandson come
to live in it who was," scornfully, "a half-breed."

Olive's grip tightened on his arm.

"Oh, DON'T talk so, Zelotes," she begged.  "He's our Janie's boy."

The captain opened the stove door, regarded the red-hot coals for
an instant, and then slammed the door shut again.

"I know, Mother," he said grimly.  "It's for the sake of Janie's
half that I'm takin' in the other."

"But--but, Zelotes, don't you think he seems like a nice boy?"

The twinkle reappeared in Captain Lote's eyes.

"I think HE thinks he's a nice boy, Mother," he said.  "There,
there, let's go to bed."

CHAPTER II

The story of the events which led up to the coming, on this
December night, of a "half-breed" grandson to the Snow homestead,
was an old story in South Harniss.  The date of its beginning was
as far back as the year 1892.

In the fall of that year Captain Zelotes Snow was in Savannah.
He was in command of the coasting schooner Olive S. and the said
schooner was then discharging a general cargo, preparatory to
loading with rice and cotton for Philadelphia.  With the captain in
Savannah was his only daughter, Jane Olivia, age a scant eighteen,
pretty, charming, romantic and head over heels in love with a
handsome baritone then singing in a popular-priced grand opera
company.  It was because of this handsome baritone, who, by the
way, was a Spaniard named Miguel Carlos Speranza, that Jane Snow
was then aboard her father's vessel.  Captain Lote was not in the
habit of taking his women-folks on his voyages with him.  "Skirts
clutter up the deck too much," was his opinion.

He had taken Jane, however, not only on this voyage, but on that
preceding it, which had been to Rio.  It was Captain Lote's belief,
and his wife's hope, that a succession of sea winds might blow away
recollections of Senor Speranza--"fan the garlic out of her head,"
as the captain inelegantly expressed it.  Jane had spent her
sixteenth and seventeenth years at a school for girls near Boston.
The opera company of which Speranza was a member was performing at
one of the minor theaters.  A party of the school girls, duly
chaperoned and faculty-guarded, of course, attended a series of
matinees.  At these matinees Jane first saw her hero, brave in
doublet and hose, and braver still in melody and romance.  She and
her mates looked and listened and worshiped from afar, as is the
habit of maidenly youth under such circumstances.  There is no
particular danger in such worship provided the worshiper remains
always at a safely remote distance from the idol.  But in Jane's
case this safety-bar was removed by Fate.  The wife of a friend of
her father's, the friend being a Boston merchant named Cole with
whom Captain Zelotes had had business dealings for many years, was
a music lover.  She was in the habit of giving what she was pleased
to call "musical teas" at her home.  Jane, to whom Mr. and Mrs.
Cole had taken a marked fancy, was often invited to those teas and,
because the Coles were "among our nicest people," she was permitted
by the school authorities to attend.

At one of those teas Senor Miguel Carlos Speranza was the brightest
star.  The Senor, then in his twenty-ninth year, handsome, talented
and picturesque, shone refulgent.  Other and far more experienced
feminine hearts than Jane Snow's were flutteringly disturbed by the
glory of his rays.  Jane and he met, they shook hands, they
conversed.  And at subsequent teas they met again, for Speranza, on
his part, was strongly attracted to the simple, unaffected Cape Cod
schoolgirl.  It was not her beauty alone--though beauty she had and
of an unusual type--it was something else, a personality which
attracted all who met her.  The handsome Spaniard had had many love
affairs of a more or less perfunctory kind, but here was something
different, something he had not known.  He began by exerting his
powers of fascination in a lazy, careless way.  To his astonishment
the said powers were not overwhelming.  If Jane was fascinated she
was not conquered.  She remained sweet, simple, direct, charmingly
aloof.

And Speranza was at first puzzled, then piqued, then himself madly
fascinated.  He wrote fervid letters, he begged for interviews, he
haunted each one of Mrs. Cole's "teas."  And, at last, he wrung
from Jane a confession of her love, her promise to marry him.  And
that very week Miss Donaldson, the head of the school, discovered
and read a package of the Senor's letters to her pupil.

Captain Zelotes happened to be at home from a voyage.  Being
summoned from South Harniss, he came to Boston and heard the tale
from Miss Donaldson's agitated lips.  Jane was his joy, his pride;
her future was the great hope and dream of his life.  WHEN she
married--which was not to be thought of for an indefinite number of
years to come--she would of course marry a--well, not a President
of the United States, perhaps--but an admiral possibly, or a
millionaire, or the owner of a fleet of steamships, or something
like that.  The idea that she should even think of marrying a
play-actor was unbelievable.  The captain had never attended the
performance of an opera; what was more, he never expected to attend
one.  He had been given to understand that a "parcel of play-actin'
men and women hollered and screamed to music for a couple of
hours."  Olive, his wife, had attended an opera once and, according
to her, it was more like a cat fight than anything else.  Nobody
but foreigners ever had anything to do with operas.  And for
foreigners of all kinds--but the Latin variety of foreigner in
particular--Captain Zelotes Snow cherished a detest which was
almost fanatic.

And now his daughter, his own Janie, was receiving ardent love
letters from a play-acting foreigner, a Spaniard, a "Portygee," a
"macaroni-eater"!  When finally convinced that it was true, that
the letters had really been written to Jane, which took some time,
he demanded first of all to be shown the "Portygee."  Miss
Donaldson could not, of course, produce the latter forthwith, but
she directed her irate visitor to the theater where the opera
company was then performing.  To the theater Captain Zelotes went.
He did not find Speranza there, but from a frightened attendant he
browbeat the information that the singer was staying at a certain
hotel.  So the captain went to the hotel.  It was eleven o'clock in
the morning, Senor Speranza was in bed and could not be disturbed.
Couldn't, eh?  By the great and everlasting et cetera and continued
he was going to be disturbed then and there.  And unless some of
the hotel's "hired help" set about the disturbing it would be done
for them.  So, rather than summon the police, the hotel management
summoned its guest, and the first, and only, interview between the
father and lover of Jane Snow took place.

It was not a long interview, but it was spirited.  Captain Zelotes
began by being what he considered diplomatic.  Having assured his
wife before leaving home, and the alarmed Miss Donaldson
subsequently, that there was to be no trouble whatever--everything
would be settled as smooth and easy as slidin' downhill; "that
feller won't make any fuss, you'll see"--having thus prophesied,
the captain felt it incumbent upon himself to see to the
fulfillment.  So he began by condescendingly explaining that of
course he was kind of sorry for the young man before him, young
folks were young folks and of course he presumed likely 'twas
natural enough, and the like of that, you understand.  But of
course also Mr. Speranza must realize that the thing could not go
on any further.  Jane was his daughter and her people were nice
people, and naturally, that being the case, her mother and he would
be pretty particular as to who she kept company with, to say
nothing of marrying, which event was not to be thought of for ten
years, anyway.  Now he didn't want to be--er--personal or anything
like that, and of course he wouldn't think of saying that Mr.
Speranza wasn't a nice enough man for--well, for--for . . .  You
see, everybody wasn't as particular as he and Mrs. Snow were.  But--

Here Senor Speranza interrupted.  He politely desired to know if
the person speaking was endeavoring to convey the idea that he,
Miguel Carlos Speranza, was not of sufficient poseetion, goodness,
standing, what it is? to be considered as suitor for that person's
daughter's hand.  Did Meester Snow comprehend to whom he addressed
himself?

The interview terminated not long after.  The captain's parting
remark was in the nature of an ultimatum.  It was to the effect
that if Speranza, or any other condemned undesirable like him,
dared to so much as look in the direction of Jane Olivia Snow, his
daughter, he personally would see that the return for that look
was a charge of buckshot.  Speranza, white-faced and furiously
gesticulative, commanded the astonished bellboy to put that "Bah!
pig-idiot!" out into the hall and air the room immediately
afterward.

Having, as he considered, satisfactorily attended to the presumptuous
lover, Captain Zelotes returned to the school and to what he
believed would be the comparatively easy task, the bringing of his
daughter to reason.  Jane had always been an obedient girl, she was
devoted to her parents.  Of course, although she might feel rather
disappointed at first, she would soon get over it.  The idea that
she might flatly refuse to get over it, that she might have a will
of her own, and a determination equal to that of the father from
whom she inherited it, did not occur to the captain at all.

But his enlightenment was prompt and complete.  Jane did not rage
or become hysterical, she did not even weep in his presence.  But,
quietly, with a set of her square little chin, she informed Captain
Zelotes that she loved Speranza, that she meant to marry him and
that she should marry him, some day or other.  The captain raged,
commanded, pleaded, begged.  What was the matter with her?  What
had come over her?  Didn't she love her father and mother any more
that she should set out to act this way?  Yes, she declared that
she loved them as much as ever, but that she loved her lover more
than all the world, and no one--not even her parents--should
separate them.

Captain Zelotes gave it up at last.  That is, he gave up the appeal
to reason and the pleadings.  But he did not give up the idea of
having his own way in the matter; being Zelotes Snow, he certainly
did not give that up.  Instead he took his daughter home with him
to South Harniss, where a tearful and heart-broken Olive added her
persuasions to his.  But, when she found Jane obdurate, Mrs. Snow
might have surrendered.  Not her husband, however.  Instead he
conceived a brilliant idea.  He was about to start on a voyage to
Rio Janeiro; he would take his wife and daughter with him.  Under
their immediate observation and far removed from the influence of
"that Portygee," Jane would be in no danger and might forget.

Jane made no remonstrance.  She went to Rio and returned.  She was
always calm, outwardly pleasant and quiet, never mentioned her
lover unless in answer to a question; but she never once varied
from her determination not to give him up.  The Snows remained at
home for a month.  Then Zelotes, Jane accompanying him, sailed from
Boston to Savannah.  Olive did not go with them; she hated the sea
and by this time both she and her husband were somewhat reassured.
So far as they could learn by watchful observation of their
daughter, the latter had not communicated with Speranza nor
received communications from him.  If she had not forgotten him it
seemed likely that he had forgotten her.  The thought made the
captain furiously angry, but it comforted him, too.

During the voyage to Savannah this sense of comfort became
stronger.  Jane seemed in better spirits.  She was always obedient,
but now she began to seem almost cheerful, to speak, and even laugh
occasionally just as she used to.  Captain Zelotes patted himself
on the back, figuratively.  His scheme had been a good one.

And in Savannah, one afternoon, Jane managed to elude her father's
observation, to leave the schooner and to disappear completely.
And that night came a letter.  She and Miguel Carlos Speranza had
been in correspondence all the time, how or through whose
connivance is a mystery never disclosed.  He had come to Savannah,
in accordance with mutual arrangement; they had met, were married,
and had gone away together.

"I love you, Father," Jane wrote in the letter.  "I love you and
Mother so very, VERY much.  Oh, PLEASE believe that!  But I love
him, too.  And I could not give him up.  You will see why when you
know him, really know him.  If it were not for you I should be SO
happy.  I know you can't forgive me now, but some day I am sure you
will forgive us both."

Captain Zelotes was far, far from forgiveness as he read that
letter.  His first mate, who was beside him when he opened and read
it, was actually frightened when he saw the look on the skipper's
face.  "He went white," said the mate; "not pale, but white, same
as a dead man, or--or the underside of a flatfish, or somethin'.
'For the Lord sakes, Cap'n,' says I, 'what's the matter?'  He never
answered me, stood starin' at the letter.  Then he looked up, not
at me, but as if somebody else was standin' there on t'other side
of the cabin table.  'Forgive him!' he says, kind of slow and under
his breath.  'I won't forgive his black soul in hell.'  When I
heard him say it I give you my word my hair riz under my cap.  If
ever there was killin' in a man's voice and in his looks 'twas in
Cap'n Lote's that night.  When I asked him again what was the
matter he didn't answer any more than he had the first time.  A few
minutes afterwards he went into his stateroom and shut the door.  I
didn't see him again until the next mornin'."

Captain Zelotes made no attempt to follow the runaway couple.  He
did take pains to ascertain that they were legally married, but
that was all.  He left his schooner in charge of the mate at
Savannah and journeyed north to South Harniss and his wife.  A week
he remained at home with her, then returned to the Olive S. and
took up his command and its duties as if nothing had happened.  But
what had happened changed his whole life.  He became more taciturn,
a trifle less charitable, a little harder and more worldly.  Before
the catastrophe he had been interested in business success and the
making of money chiefly because of his plans for his daughter's
future.  Now he worked even harder because it helped him to forget.
He became sole owner of the Olive S., then of other schooners.
People spoke of him as one destined to become a wealthy man.

Jane lived only a few years after her marriage.  She died at the
birth of her second child, who died with her.  Her first, a boy,
was born a year after the elopement.  She wrote her mother to tell
that news and Olive answered the letter.  She begged permission of
her husband to invite Jane and the baby to visit the old home.  At
first Zelotes said no, flatly; the girl had made her bed, let her
lie in it.  But a year later he had so far relented as to give
reluctant consent for Jane and the child to come, provided her
condemned husband did not accompany them.  "If that low-lived
Portygee sets foot on my premises, so help me God, I'll kill him!"
declared the captain.  In his vernacular all foreigners were
"Portygees."

But Jane was as proud and stubborn as he.  Where her husband was
not welcome she would not go.  And a little later she had gone on
the longest of all journeys.  Speranza did not notify her parents
except to send a clipped newspaper account of her death and burial,
which arrived a week after the latter had taken place.  The news
prostrated Olive, who was ill for a month.  Captain Zelotes bore
it, as he had borne the other great shock, with outward calm and
quiet.  Yet a year afterward he suddenly announced his determination
of giving up the sea and his prosperous and growing shipping
business and of spending the rest of his days on the Cape.

Olive was delighted, of course.  Riches--that is, more than a
comfortable competency--had no temptations for her.  The old house,
home of three generations of Snows, was painted, repaired and, to
some extent, modernized.  For another year Captain Zelotes
"loafed," as he called it, although others might have considered
his activities about the place anything but that.  At the end of
that year he surprised every one by buying from the heirs of the
estate the business equipment of the late Eben Raymond, hardware
dealer and lumber merchant of South Harniss, said equipment
comprising an office, a store and lumber yards near the railway
station.  "Got to have somethin' to keep me from gettin'
barnacled," declared Captain Lote.  "There's enough old hulks
rottin' at their moorin's down here as 'tis.  I don't know anything
about lumber and half as much about hardware, but I cal'late I can
learn."  As an aid in the learning process he retained as
bookkeeper Laban Keeler, who had acted in that capacity for the
former proprietor.

The years slipped away, a dozen of them, as smoothly and lazily as
South Harniss years have always slipped.  Captain Zelotes was past
sixty now, but as vigorous as when forty, stubborn as ever, fond of
using quarter-deck methods on shore and especially in town-meeting,
and very often in trouble in consequence.  He was a member of the
Board of Selectmen and was in the habit of characterizing those
whose opinions differed from his as "narrow-minded."  They retorted
by accusing him of being "pig-headed."  There was some truth on
both sides.  His detest of foreigners had not abated in the least.

And then, in this December of the year 1910, fell as from a clear
sky the legacy of a grandson.  From Senor Miguel Carlos Speranza
the Snows had had no direct word, had received nothing save the
newspaper clipping already mentioned.  Olive had never seen him;
her husband had seen him only on the occasion of the memorable
interview in the hotel room.  They never spoke of him, never
mentioned him to each other.  Occasionally, in the Boston
newspapers, his likeness in costume had appeared amid the music
notes or theatrical jottings.  But these had not been as numerous
of late.  Of his son, their own daughter's child, they knew
nothing; he might be alive or he might be dead.  Sometimes Olive
found herself speculating concerning him, wondering if he was
alive, and if he resembled Jane.  But she put the speculation from
her thoughts; she could not bear to bring back memories of the old
hopes and their bitter ending.  Sometimes Captain Lote at his desk
in the office of "Z. Snow & Co., Lumber and Builders' Hardware,"
caught himself dreaming of his idolized daughter and thinking how
different the future might have been for him had she married a
"white man," the kind of man he had meant for her to marry.  There
might be grandchildren growing up now, fine boys and girls, to
visit the old home at South Harniss.  "Ah hum!  Well! . . .  Labe,
how long has this bill of Abner Parker's been hangin' on?  For
thunder sakes, why don't he pay up?  He must think we're runnin' a
meetin'-house Christmas tree."

The letter from the lawyer had come first.  It was written in New
York, was addressed to "Captain Lotus Snow," and began by taking
for granted the fact that the recipient knew all about matters of
which he knew nothing.  Speranza was dead, so much was plain, and
the inference was that he had been fatally injured in an automobile
accident, "particulars of which you have of course read in the
papers."  Neither Captain Lote nor his wife had read anything of
the kind in the papers.  The captain had been very busy of late and
had read little except political news, and Mrs. Snow never read of
murders and accidents, their details at least.  She looked up from
the letter, which her husband had hastened home from the office to
bring her, with a startled face.

"Oh, Zelotes," she cried, "he's dead!"

The captain nodded.

"Seems so," he said.  "That part's plain enough, but go on.  The
rest of it is what I can't get a hand-hold on.  See what you make
of the rest of it, Olive."

The rest of it was to the effect that the writer, being Mr.
Speranza's business adviser, "that is to say, as much or more so
than any one else," had been called in at the time of the accident,
had conferred with the injured man, and had learned his last
wishes.  "He expressed himself coherently concerning his son," went
on the letter, "and it is in regard to that son that I am asking an
interview with you.  I should have written sooner, but have been
engaged with matters pertaining to Mr. Speranza's estate and
personal debts.  The latter seem to be large--"

"I'LL bet you!" observed Captain Zelotes, sententiously,
interrupting his wife's reading by pointing to this sentence
with a big forefinger.

"'And the estate's affairs much tangled,'" went on Olive, reading
aloud.  "'It seems best that I should see you concerning the boy at
once.  I don't know whether or not you are aware that he is at
school in ----, New York.  I am inclined to think that the estate
itself will scarcely warrant the expense of his remaining there.
Could you make it convenient to come to New York and see me at
once?  Or, if not, I shall be in Boston on Friday of next week and
can you meet me there?  It seems almost impossible for me to come
to you just now, and, of course, you will understand that I am
acting as a sort of temporary executor merely because Mr. Speranza
was formerly my friend and not because I have any pecuniary
interest in the settlement of his affairs.

"'Very truly yours,

"'MARCUS W. WEISSMANN.'"

"Weissman!  Another Portygee!" snorted Captain Lote.

"But--but what does it MEAN?" begged Mrs. Snow.  "Why--why should
he want to see you, Zelotes?  And the boy--why--why, that's HER
boy.  It's Janie's boy he must mean, Zelotes."

Her husband nodded.

"Hers and that blasted furriner's," he muttered.  "I suppose so."

"Oh, DON'T speak that way, Zelotes!  Don't!  He's dead."

Captain Lote's lips tightened.  "If he'd died twenty years ago
'twould have been better for all hands," he growled.

"Janie's boy!" repeated Olive slowly.  "Why--why, he must be a big
boy now.  Almost grown up."

Her husband did not speak.  He was pacing the floor, his hands in
his pockets.

"And this man wants to see you about him," said Olive.  Then, after
a moment, she added timidly:  "Are you goin', Zelotes?"

"Goin'?  Where?"

"To New York?  To see this lawyer man?"

"I?  Not by a jugful!  What in blazes should I go to see him for?"

"Well--well, he wants you to, you know.  He wants to talk with you
about the--the boy."

"Humph!"

"It's her boy, Zelotes."

"Humph!  Young Portygee!"

"Don't, Zelotes!  Please! . . .  I know you can't forgive that--
that man.  We can't either of us forgive him; but--"

The captain stopped in his stride.  "Forgive him!" he repeated.
"Mother, don't talk like a fool.  Didn't he take away the one thing
that I was workin' for, that I was plannin' for, that I was LIVIN'
for?  I--"

She interrupted, putting a hand on his sleeve.

"Not the only thing, dear," she said.  "You had me, you know."

His expression changed.  He looked down at her and smiled.

"That's right, old lady," he admitted.  "I had you, and thank the
Almighty for it.  Yes, I had you . . .  But," his anger returning,
"when I think how that damned scamp stole our girl from us and then
neglected her and killed her--"

"ZELOTES!  How you talk!  He DIDN'T kill her.  How can you!"

"Oh, I don't mean he murdered her, of course.  But I'll bet all
I've got that he made her miserable.  Look here, Mother, you and
she used to write back and forth once in a while.  In any one of
those letters did she ever say she was happy?"

Mrs. Snow's answer was somewhat equivocal.  "She never said she was
unhappy," she replied.  Her husband sniffed and resumed his pacing
up and down.

After a little Olive spoke again.

"New York IS a good ways," she said.  "Maybe 'twould be better for
you to meet this lawyer man in Boston.  Don't you think so?"

"Bah!"

Another interval.  Then:  "Zelotes?"

"Yes," impatiently.  "What is it?"

"It's her boy, after all, isn't it?  Our grandson, yours and mine.
Don't you think--don't you think it's your duty to go, Zelotes?"

Captain Lote stamped his foot.

"For thunderation sakes, Olive, let up!" he commanded.  "You ought
to know by this time that there's one thing I hate worse than doin'
my duty, that's bein' preached to about it.  Let up!  Don't you say
another word."

She did not, having learned much by years of experience.  He said
the next word on the subject himself.  At noon, when he came home
for dinner, he said, as they rose from the table:  "Where's my
suitcase, up attic?"

"Why, yes, I guess likely 'tis.  Why?"

Instead of answering he turned to the housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis.

"Rachel," he said, "go up and get that case and fetch it down to
the bedroom, will you?  Hurry up!  Train leaves at half-past two
and it's 'most one now."

Both women stared at him.  Mrs. Ellis spoke first.

"Why, Cap'n Lote," she cried; "be you goin' away?"

Her employer's answer was crisp and very much to the point.  "I am
if I can get that case time enough to pack it and make the train,"
he observed.  "If you stand here askin' questions I probably shall
stay to home."

The housekeeper made a hasty exit by way of the back stairs.  Mrs.
Snow still gazed wonderingly at her husband.

"Zelotes," she faltered, "are you--are you--"

"I'm goin' to New York on to-night's boat.  I've telegraphed that--
that Weiss--Weiss--what-do-you-call-it--that Portygee lawyer--that
I'll be to his office to-morrow mornin'."

"But, Zelotes, we haven't scarcely talked about it, you and I, at
all.  You might have waited till he came to Boston.  Why do you go
so SOON?"

The captain's heavy brows drew together.

"You went to the dentist's last Friday," he said.  "Why didn't you
wait till next week?"

"Why--why, what a question!  My tooth ached and I wanted to have it
fixed quick as possible."

"Um-m, yes.  Well, this tooth aches and I want it fixed or hauled
out, one or t'other.  I want the thing off my mind. . . .  Don't
TALK to me?" he added, irritably.  "I know I'm a fool.  And," with
a peremptory wave of the hand, "don't you DARE say anything about
DUTY!"

He was back again two days later.  His wife did not question him,
but waited for him to speak.  Those years of experience already
mentioned had taught her diplomacy.  He looked at her and pulled
his beard.  "Well," he observed, when they were alone together, "I
saw him."

"The--the boy?" eagerly.

"No, no!  Course not!  The boy's at school somewhere up in New York
State; how could I see him!  I saw that lawyer and I found out
about--about the other scamp.  He was killed in an auto accident,
drunk at the time, I cal'late.  Nigh's I can gather he's been
drinkin' pretty heavy for the last six or seven years.  Always
lived high, same as his kind generally does, and spent money like
water, I judge--but goin' down hill fast lately.  His voice was
givin' out on him and he realized it, I presume likely.  Now he's
dead and left nothin' but trunks full of stage clothes and
photographs and," contemptuously, "letters from fool women, and
debts--Lord, yes! debts enough."

"But the boy, Zelotes.  Janie's boy?"

"He's been at this school place for pretty nigh ten years, so the
lawyer feller said.  That lawyer was a pretty decent chap, too, for
a furriner.  Seems he used to know this--Speranza rascal--when
Speranza was younger and more decent--if he ever was really decent,
which I doubt.  But this lawyer man was his friend then and about
the only one he really had when he was hurt.  There was plenty of
make-believe friends hangin' on, like pilot-fish to a shark, for
what they could get by spongin' on him, but real friends were
scarce."

"And the boy--"

"For the Lord sakes, Mother, don't keep sayin' 'The boy,' 'the
boy,' over and over again like a talkin' machine!  Let me finish
about the father first.  This Weis--er--thingamajig--the lawyer,
had quite a talk with Speranza afore he died, or while he was
dyin'; he only lived a few hours after the accident and was out of
his head part of that.  But he said enough to let Weiss--er--er--
Oh, why CAN'T I remember that Portygee's name?--to let him know
that he'd like to have him settle up what was left of his affairs,
and to send word to us about--about the boy.  There!  I hope you
feel easier, Mother; I've got 'round to 'the boy' at last."

"But why did he want word sent to us, Zelotes?  He never wrote a
line to us in his life."

"You bet he didn't!" bitterly; "he knew better.  Why did he want
word sent now?  The answer to that's easy enough.  'Cause he wanted
to get somethin' out of us, that's the reason.  From what that
lawyer could gather, and from what he's found out since, there
ain't money enough for the boy to stay another six weeks at that
school, or anywhere else, unless the young feller earns it himself.
And, leavin' us out of the count, there isn't a relation this side
of the salt pond.  There's probably a million or so over there in
Portygee-land," with a derisive sniff; "those foreigners breed like
flies.  But THEY don't count."

"But did he want word sent to us about the--"

"Sshh!  I'm tellin' you, Olive, I'm tellin' you.  He wanted word
sent because he was in hopes that we--you and I, Mother--would take
that son of his in at our house here and give him a home.  The
cheek of it!  After what he'd done to you and me, blast him!  The
solid brass nerve of it!"

He stormed up and down the room.  His wife did not seem nearly so
much disturbed as he at the thought of the Speranza presumption.
She looked anxious--yes, but she looked eager, too, and her gaze
was fixed upon her husband's face.

"Oh!" she said, softly.  "Oh! . . .  And--and what did you say,
Zelotes?"

"What did I say?  What do you suppose I said?  I said no, and I
said it good and loud, too."

Olive made no comment.  She turned away her head, and the captain,
who now in his turn was watching her, saw a suspicious gleam, as of
moisture, on her cheek.  He stopped his pacing and laid a hand on
her shoulder.

"There, there, Mother," he said, gently.  "Don't cry.  He's
comin'."

"Comin'?"  She turned pale.  "Comin'?" she repeated.  "Who?"

"That boy! . . .  Sshh! shh!" impatiently.  "Now don't go askin' me
questions or tellin' me what I just said I said.  I SAID the right
thing, but--  Well, hang it all, what else could I DO?  I wrote the
boy--Albert--a letter and I wrote the boss of the school another
one.  I sent a check along for expenses and--  Well, he'll be here
'most any day now, I shouldn't wonder.  And WHAT in the devil are
we goin' to do with him?"

His wife did not reply to this outburst.  She was trembling with
excitement.

"Is--is his name Albert?" she faltered.

"Um-hm.  Seems so."

"Why, that's your middle name!  Do you--do you s'pose Janie could
have named him for--for you?"

"I don't know."

"Of course," with some hesitation, "it may be she didn't.  If she'd
named him Zelotes--"

"Good heavens, woman!  Isn't one name like that enough in the
family?  Thank the Lord we're spared two of 'em!  But there! he's
comin'.  And when he gets here--then what?"

Olive put her arm about her big husband.

"I hope--yes, I'm sure you did right, Zelotes, and that all's goin'
to turn out to be for the best."

"Are you?  Well, _I_ ain't sure, not by a thousand fathom."

"He's Janie's boy."

"Yes.  And he's that play-actor's boy, too.  One Speranza pretty
nigh ruined your life and mine, Olive.  What'll this one do? . . .
Well, God knows, I suppose likely, but He won't tell.  All we can
do is wait and see.  I tell you honest I ain't very hopeful."

CHAPTER III

A brisk rap on the door; then a man's voice.

"Hello, there!  Wake up."

Albert rolled over, opened one eye, then the other and raised
himself on his elbow.

"Eh?  Wh-what?" he stammered.

"Seven o'clock!  Time to turn out."

The voice was his grandfather's.  "Oh--oh, all right!" he answered.

"Understand me, do you?"

"Yes--yes, sir.  I'll be right down."

The stairs creaked as Captain Zelotes descended them.  Albert
yawned cavernously, stretched and slid one foot out of bed.  He
drew it back instantly, however, for the sensation was that of
having thrust it into a bucket of cold water.  The room had been
cold the previous evening; plainly it was colder still now.  The
temptation was to turn back and go to sleep again, but he fought
against it.  Somehow he had a feeling that to disregard his
grandfather's summons would be poor diplomacy.

He set his teeth and, tossing back the bed clothes, jumped to the
floor.  Then he jumped again, for the floor was like ice.  The
window was wide open and he closed it, but there was no warm
radiator to cuddle against while dressing.  He missed his
compulsory morning shower, a miss which did not distress him
greatly.  He shook himself into his clothes, soused his head and
neck in a basin of ice water poured from a pitcher, and, before
brushing his hair, looked out of the window.

It was a sharp winter morning.  The wind had gone down, but before
subsiding it had blown every trace of mist or haze from the air,
and from his window-sill to the horizon every detail was clean cut
and distinct.  He was looking out, it seemed, from the back of the
house.  The roof of the kitchen extension was below him and, to the
right, the high roof of the barn.  Over the kitchen roof and to the
left he saw little rolling hills, valleys, cranberry swamps, a
pond.  A road wound in and out and, scattered along it, were
houses, mostly white with green blinds, but occasionally varied by
the gray of unpainted, weathered shingles.  A long, low-spreading
building a half mile off looked as if it might be a summer hotel,
now closed and shuttered.  Beyond it was a cluster of gray shanties
and a gleam of water, evidently a wharf and a miniature harbor.
And, beyond that, the deep, brilliant blue of the sea.  Brown and
blue were the prevailing colors, but, here and there, clumps and
groves of pines gave splashes of green.

There was an exhilaration in the crisp air.  He felt an unwonted
liveliness and a desire to be active which would have surprised some
of his teachers at the school he had just left.  The depression of
spirits of which he had been conscious the previous night had
disappeared along with his premonitions of unpleasantness.  He felt
optimistic this morning.  After giving his curls a rake with the
comb, he opened the door and descended the steep stairs to the lower
floor.

His grandmother was setting the breakfast table.  He was a little
surprised to see her doing it.  What was the use of having servants
if one did the work oneself?  But perhaps the housekeeper was ill.

"Good morning," he said.

Mrs. Snow, who had not heard him enter, turned and saw him.  When
he crossed the room, she kissed him on the cheek.

"Good morning, Albert," she said.  "I hope you slept well."

Albert replied that he had slept very well indeed.  He was a trifle
disappointed that she made no comment on his promptness in answering
his grandfather's summons.  He felt such promptness deserved
commendation.  At school they rang two bells at ten minute intervals,
thus giving a fellow a second chance.  It had been a point of senior
etiquette to accept nothing but that second chance.  Here,
apparently, he was expected to jump at the first.  There was a
matter of course about his grandmother's attitude which was
disturbing.

She went on setting the table, talking as she did so.

"I'm real glad you did sleep," she said.  "Some folks can hardly
ever sleep the first night in a strange room.  Zelotes--I mean your
grandpa--'s gone out to see to the horse and feed the hens and the
pig.  He'll be in pretty soon.  Then we'll have breakfast.  I
suppose you're awful hungry."

As a matter of fact he was not very hungry.  Breakfast was always a
more or less perfunctory meal with him.  But he was surprised to
see the variety of eatables upon that table.  There were cookies
there, and doughnuts, and even half an apple pie.  Pie for
breakfast!  It had been a newspaper joke at which he had laughed
many times.  But it seemed not to be a joke here, rather a solemn
reality.

The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Ellis put in her head.  To
Albert's astonishment the upper part of the head, beginning just
above the brows, was swathed in a huge bandage.  The lower part was
a picture of hopeless misery.

"Has Cap'n Lote come in yet?" inquired the housekeeper, faintly.

"Not yet, Rachel," replied Mrs. Snow.  "He'll be here in a minute,
though.  Albert's down, so you can begin takin' up the things."

The head disappeared.  A sigh of complete wretchedness drifted in
as the door closed.  Albert looked at his grandmother in alarm.

"Is she sick?" he faltered.

"Who?  Rachel?  No, she ain't exactly sick . . .  Dear me!  Where
did I put that clean napkin?"

The boy stared at the kitchen door.  If his grandmother had said
the housekeeper was not exactly dead he might have understood.  But
to say she was not exactly sick--

"But--but what makes her look so?" he stammered.  "And--and what's
she got that on her head for?  And she groaned!  Why, she MUST be
sick!"

Mrs. Snow, having found the clean napkin, laid it beside her
husband's plate.

"No," she said calmly.  "It's one of her sympathetic attacks;
that's what she calls 'em, sympathetic attacks.  She has 'em every
time Laban Keeler starts in on one of his periodics.  It's nerves,
I suppose.  Cap'n Zelotes--your grandfather--says it's everlastin'
foolishness.  Whatever 'tis, it's a nuisance.  And she's so
sensible other times, too."

Albert was more puzzled than ever.  Why in the world Mrs. Ellis
should tie up her head and groan because the little Keeler person
had gone on a spree was beyond his comprehension.

His grandmother enlightened him a trifle.

"You see," she went on, "she and Laban have been engaged to be
married ever since they were young folks.  It's Laban's weakness
for liquor that's kept 'em apart so long.  She won't marry him
while he drinks and he keeps swearin' off and then breaking down.
He's a good man, too; an awful good man and capable as all get-out
when he's sober.  Lately that is, for the last seven or eight
years, beginnin' with the time when that lecturer on mesmerism and
telegraphy--no, telepathy--thought-transfers and such--was at the
town hall--Rachel has been havin' these sympathetic attacks of
hers.  She declares that alcohol-takin' is a disease and that Laban
suffers when he's tipsy and that she and he are so bound up
together that she suffers just the same as he does.  I must say I
never noticed him sufferin' very much, not at the beginnin,'
anyhow--acts more as he was havin' a good time--but she seems to.
I don't wonder you smile," she added.  "'Tis funny, in a way, and
it's queer that such a practical, common-sense woman as Rachel
Ellis is, should have such a notion.  It's hard on us, though.
Don't say anything to her about it, and don't laugh at her,
whatever you do."

Albert wanted to laugh very much.  "But, Mrs. Snow--" he began.

"Mercy sakes alive!  You ain't goin' to call me 'Mrs. Snow,' I
hope."

"No, of course not.  But, Grandmother why do you and Captain--you
and Grandfather keep her and Keeler if they are so much trouble?
Why don't you let them go and get someone else?"

"Let 'em go?  Get someone else!  Why, we COULDN'T get anybody else,
anyone who would be like them.  They're almost a part of our
family; that is, Rachel is, she's been here since goodness knows
when.  And, when he's sober Laban almost runs the lumber business.
Besides, they're nice folks--almost always."

Plainly the ways of South Harniss were not the ways of the world he
had known.  Certainly these people were "Rubes" and queer Rubes,
too.  Then he remembered that two of them were his grandparents and
that his immediate future was, so to speak, in their hands.  The
thought was not entirely comforting or delightful.  He was still
pondering upon it when his grandfather came in from the barn.

The captain said good morning in the same way he had said good
night, that is, he and Albert shook hands and the boy was again
conscious of the gaze which took him in from head to foot and of
the quiet twinkle in the gray eyes.

"Sleep well, son?" inquired Captain Zelotes.

"Yes . . .  Yes, sir."

"That's good.  I judged you was makin' a pretty good try at it when
I thumped on your door this mornin'.  Somethin' new for you to be
turned out at seven, eh?"

"No, sir."

"Eh?  It wasn't?"

"No, sir.  The rising bell rang at seven up at school.  We were
supposed to be down at breakfast at a quarter past."

"Humph!  You were, eh?  Supposed to be?  Does that mean that you
were there?"

"Yes, sir."

There was a surprised look in the gray eyes now, a fact which
Albert noticed with inward delight.  He had taken one "rise" out
of his grandfather, at any rate.  He waited, hoping for another
opportunity, but it did not come.  Instead they sat down to
breakfast.

Breakfast, in spite of the morning sunshine at the windows, was
somewhat gloomy.  The homesickness, although not as acute as on the
previous night, was still in evidence.  Albert felt lost, out of
his element, lonely.  And, to add a touch of real miserableness,
the housekeeper served and ate like a near relative of the deceased
at a funeral feast.  She moved slowly, she sighed heavily, and the
bandage upon her forehead loomed large and portentous.  When spoken
to she seldom replied before the third attempt.  Captain Zelotes
lost patience.

"Have another egg?" he roared, brandishing the spoon containing it
at arm's length and almost under her nose.  "Egg!  Egg!  EGG!  If
you can't hear it, smell it.  Only answer, for heaven sakes!"

The effect of this outburst was obviously not what he had hoped.
Mrs. Ellis stared first at the egg quivering before her face, then
at the captain.  Then she rose and marched majestically to the
kitchen.  The door closed, but a heartrending sniff drifted in
through the crack.  Olive laid down her knife and fork.

"There!" she exclaimed, despairingly.  "Now see what you've done.
Oh, Zelotes, how many times have I told you you've got to treat her
tactful when she's this way?"

Captain Lote put the egg back in the bowl.

"DAMN!" he observed, with intense enthusiasm.

His wife shook her head.

"Swearin' don't help it a mite, either," she declared.  "Besides I
don't know what Albert here must think of you."  Albert, who,
between astonishment and a wild desire to laugh, was in a critical
condition, appeared rather embarrassed.  His grandfather looked at
him and smiled grimly.

"I cal'late one damn won't scare him to death," he observed.
"Maybe he's heard somethin' like it afore.  Or do they say, 'Oh,
sugar!' up at that school you come from?" he added.

Albert, not knowing how to reply, looked more embarrassed than
ever.  Olive seemed on the point of weeping.

"Oh, Zelotes, how CAN you!" she wailed.  "And to-day, of all days!
His very first mornin'!"

Captain Lote relented.

"There, there, Mother!" he said.  "I'm sorry.  Forget it.  Sorry if
I shocked you, Albert.  There's times when salt-water language is
the only thing that seems to help me out . . .  Well, Mother, what
next?  What'll we do now?"

"You know just as well as I do, Zelotes.  There's only one thing
you can do.  That's go out and beg her pardon this minute.  There's
a dozen places she could get right here in South Harniss without
turnin' her hand over.  And if she should leave I don't know WHAT
I'd do."

"Leave!  She ain't goin' to leave any more'n than the ship's cat's
goin' to jump overboard.  She's been here so long she wouldn't know
how to leave if she wanted to."

"That don't make any difference.  The pitcher that goes to the
well--er--er--"

She had evidently forgotten the rest of the proverb.  Her husband
helped her out.

"Flocks together or gathers no moss, or somethin', eh?  All right,
Mother, don't fret.  There ain't really any occasion to, considerin'
we've been through somethin' like this at least once every six
months for ten years."

"Zelotes, won't you PLEASE go and ask her pardon?"

The captain pushed back his chair.  "I'll be hanged if it ain't a
healthy note," he grumbled, "when the skipper has to go and
apologize to the cook because the cook's made a fool of herself!
I'd like to know what kind of rum Labe drinks.  I never saw any but
his kind that would go to somebody else's head.  Two people gettin'
tight and only one of 'em drinkin' is somethin'--"

He disappeared into the kitchen, still muttering.  Mrs. Snow smiled
feebly at her grandson.

"I guess you think we're funny folks, Albert," she said.  "But
Rachel is one hired help in a thousand and she has to be treated
just so."

Five minutes later Cap'n 'Lote returned.  He shrugged his shoulders
and sat down at his place.

"All right, Mother, all right," he observed.  "I've been heavin'
ile on the troubled waters and the sea's smoothin' down.  She'll be
kind and condescendin' enough to eat with us in a minute or so."

She was.  She came into the dining-room with the air of a saint
going to martyrdom and the remainder of the meal was eaten by the
quartet almost in silence.  When it was over the captain said:

"Well, Al, feel like walkin', do you?"

"Why, why, yes, sir, I guess so."

"Humph!  You don't seem very wild at the prospect.  Walkin' ain't
much in your line, maybe.  More used to autoin', perhaps?"

Mrs. Snow put in a word.  "Don't talk so, Zelotes," she said.
"He'll think you're makin' fun of him."

"Who?  Me?  Not a bit of it.  Well, Al, do you want to walk down to
the lumber yard with me?"

The boy hesitated.  The quiet note of sarcasm in his grandfather's
voice was making him furiously angry once more, just as it had done
on the previous night.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, shortly.

"Why, yes, I cal'late I do."

Albert, without another word, walked to the hat-rack in the hall
and began putting on his coat.  Captain Lote watched him for a
moment and then put on his own.

"We'll be back to dinner, Mother," he said.  "Heave ahead, Al, if
you're ready."

There was little conversation between the pair during the half mile
walk to the office and yards of "Z. Snow and Co., Lumber and
Builders' Hardware."  Only once did the captain offer a remark.
That was just as they came out by the big posts at the entrance to
the driveway.  Then he said:

"Al, I don't want you to get the idea from what happened at the
table just now--that foolishness about Rachel Ellis--that your
grandmother ain't a sensible woman.  She is, and there's no better
one on earth.  Don't let that fact slip your mind."

Albert, somewhat startled by the abruptness of the observation,
looked up in surprise.  He found the gray eyes looking down at him.

"I noticed you lookin' at her," went on his grandfather, "as if you
was kind of wonderin' whether to laugh at her or pity her.  You
needn't do either.  She's kind-hearted and that makes her put up
with Rachel's silliness.  Then, besides, Rachel herself is common
sense and practical nine-tenths of the time.  It's always a good
idea, son, to sail one v'yage along with a person before you decide
whether to class 'em as A. B. or just roustabout."

The blood rushed to the boy's face.  He felt guilty and the feeling
made him angrier than ever.

"I don't see why," he burst out, indignantly, "you should say I was
laughing at--at Mrs. Snow--"

"At your grandmother."

"Well--yes--at my grandmother.  I don't see why you should say
that.  I wasn't."

"Wasn't you?  Good!  I'm glad of it.  I wouldn't, anyhow.  She's
liable to be about the best friend you'll have in this world."

To Albert's mind flashed the addition:  "Better than you, that
means," but he kept it to himself.

The lumber yards were on a spur track not very far from the railway
station where he had spent that miserable half hour the previous
evening.  The darkness then had prevented his seeing them.  Not
that he would have been greatly interested if he had seen them, nor
was he more interested now, although his grandfather took him on a
personally conducted tour between the piles of spruce and pine and
hemlock and pointed out which was which and added further details.
"Those are two by fours," he said.  Or, "Those are larger joist,
different sizes."  "This is good, clear stock, as good a lot of
white pine as we've got hold of for a long spell."  He gave
particulars concerning the "handiest way to drive a team" to one or
the other of the piles.  Albert found it rather boring.  He longed
to speak concerning enormous lumber yards he had seen in New York
or Chicago or elsewhere.  He felt almost a pitying condescension
toward this provincial grandparent who seemed to think his little
piles of "two by fours" so important.

It was much the same, perhaps a little worse, when they entered the
hardware shop and the office.  The rows and rows of little drawers
and boxes, each with samples of its contents--screws, or bolts, or
hooks, or knobs--affixed to its front, were even more boring than
the lumber piles.  There was a countryfied, middle-aged person in
overalls sweeping out the shop and Captain Zelotes introduced him.

"Albert," he said, "this is Mr. Issachar Price, who works around
the place here.  Issy, let me make you acquainted with my grandson,
Albert."

Mr. Price, looking over his spectacles, extended a horny hand and
observed:  "Yus, yus.  Pleased to meet you, Albert.  I've heard
tell of you."

Albert's private appraisal of "Issy" was that the latter was
another funny Rube.  Whatever Issy's estimate of his employer's
grandson might have been, he, also, kept it to himself.

Captain Zelotes looked about the shop and glanced into the office.

"Humph!" he grunted.  "No sign or symptoms of Laban this mornin', I
presume likely?"

Issachar went on with his sweeping.

"Nary one," was his laconic reply.

"Humph!  Heard anything about him?"

Mr. Price moistened his broom in a bucket of water.  "I see Tim
Kelley on my way down street," he said.  "Tim said he run afoul of
Laban along about ten last night.  Said he cal'lated Labe was on
his way.  He was singin' 'Hyannis on the Cape' and so Tim figgered
he'd got a pretty fair start already."

The captain shook his head.  "Tut, tut, tut!" he muttered.  "Well,
that means I'll have to do office work for the next week or so.
Humph!  I declare it's too bad just now when I was countin' on him
to--"  He did not finish the sentence, but instead turned to his
grandson and said:  "Al, why don't you look around the hardware
store here while I open the mail and the safe.  If there's anything
you see you don't understand Issy'll tell you about it."

He went into the office.  Albert sauntered listlessly to the window
and looked out.  So far as not understanding anything in the shop
was concerned he was quite willing to remain in ignorance.  It did
not interest him in the least.  A moment later he felt a touch on
his elbow.  He turned, to find Mr. Price standing beside him.

"I'm all ready to tell you about it now," volunteered the unsmiling
Issy.  "Sweepin's all finished up."

Albert was amused.  "I guess I can get along," he said.

"Don't worry."

"_I_ ain't worried none.  I don't believe in worryin'; worryin'
don't do folks no good, the way I look at it.  But long's Cap'n
Lote wants me to tell you about the hardware I'd ruther do it now,
than any time.  Henry Cahoon's team'll be here for a load of lath
in about ten minutes or so, and then I'll have to leave you.  This
here's the shelf where we keep the butts--hinges, you understand.
Brass along here, and iron here.  Got quite a stock, ain't we."

He took the visitor's arm in his mighty paw and led him from
shelves to drawers and from drawers to boxes, talking all the time,
so the boy thought, "like a catalogue."  Albert tried gently to
break away several times and yawned often, but yawns and hints were
quite lost on his guide, who was intent only upon the business--and
victim--in hand.  At the window looking across toward the main road
Albert paused longest.  There was a girl in sight--she looked, at
that distance, as if she might be a rather pretty girl--and the
young man was languidly interested.  He had recently made the
discovery that pretty girls may be quite interesting; and, moreover,
one or two of them whom he had met at the school dances--when the
young ladies from the Misses Bradshaws' seminary had come over, duly
guarded and chaperoned, to one-step and fox-trot with the young
gentlemen of the school--one or two of these young ladies had
intimated a certain interest in him.  So the feminine possibility
across the road attracted his notice--only slightly, of course; the
sophisticated metropolitan notice is not easily aroused--but still,
slightly.

"Come on, come on," urged Issachar Price.  "I ain't begun to show
ye the whole of it yet . . .  Eh?  Oh, Lord, there comes Cahoon's
team now!  Well, I got to go.  Show you the rest some other time.
So long . . .  Eh?  Cap'n Lote's callin' you, ain't he?"

Albert went into the office in response to his grandfather's call
to find the latter seated at an old-fashioned roll-top desk, piled
with papers.

"I've got to go down to the bank, Al," he said.  "Some business
about a note that Laban ought to be here to see to, but ain't.
I'll be back pretty soon.  You just stay here and wait for me.  You
might be lookin' over the books, if you want to.  I took 'em out of
the safe and they're on Labe's desk there," pointing to the high
standing desk by the window.  "They're worth lookin' at, if only to
see how neat they're kept.  A set of books like that is an example
to any young man.  You might be lookin' 'em over."

He hurried out.  Albert smiled condescendingly and, instead of
looking over Mr. Keeler's books, walked over to the window and
looked out of that.  The girl was not in sight now, but she might
be soon.  At any rate watching for her was as exciting as any
amusement he could think of about that dull hole.  Ah hum! he
wondered how the fellows were at school.

The girl did not reappear.  Signs of animation along the main road
were limited.  One or two men went by, then a group of children
obviously on their way to school.  Albert yawned again, took the
silver cigarette case from his pocket and looked longingly at its
contents.  He wondered what his grandfather's ideas might be on the
tobacco question.  But his grandfather was not there then . . .
and he might not return for some time . . . and . . .  He took a
cigarette from the case, tapped, with careful carelessness, its end
upon the case--he would not have dreamed of smoking without first
going through the tapping process--lighted the cigarette and blew a
large and satisfying cloud.  Between puffs he sang:

"To you, beautiful lady,
I raise my eyes.
My heart, beautiful lady,
To your heart cries:
Come, come, beautiful lady,
To Par-a-dise,
As the sweet, sweet--'"

Some one behind him said:  "Excuse me."  The appeal to the
beautiful lady broke off in the middle, and he whirled about to
find the girl whom he had seen across the road and for whose
reappearance he had been watching at the window, standing in the
office doorway.  He looked at her and she looked at him.  He was
embarrassed.  She did not seem to be.

"Excuse me," she said:  "Is Mr. Keeler here?"

She was a pretty girl, so his hasty estimate made when he had first
sighted her was correct.  Her hair was dark, so were her eyes, and
her cheeks were becomingly colored by the chill of the winter air.
She was a country girl, her hat and coat proved that; not that they
were in bad taste or unbecoming, but they were simple and their
style perhaps nearer to that which the young ladies of the Misses
Bradshaws' seminary had worn the previous winter.  All this Albert
noticed in detail later on.  Just then the particular point which
attracted his embarrassed attention was the look in the dark eyes.
They seemed to have almost the same disturbing quality which he had
noticed in his grandfather's gray ones.  Her mouth was very proper
and grave, but her eyes looked as if she were laughing at him.

Now to be laughed at by an attractive young lady is disturbing and
unpleasant.  It is particularly so when the laughter is from the
provinces and the laughee--so to speak--a dignified and sophisticated
city man.  Albert summoned the said dignity and sophistication to
his rescue, knocked the ashes from his cigarette and said, haughtily:

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is Mr. Keeler here?" repeated the girl.

"No, he is out."

"Will he be back soon, do you think?"

Recollections of Mr. Price's recent remark concerning the missing
bookkeeper's "good start" came to Albert's mind and he smiled,
slightly.  "I should say not," he observed, with delicate irony.

"Is Issy--I mean Mr. Price, busy?"

"He's out in the yard there somewhere, I believe.  Would you like
to have me call him?"

"Why, yes--if you please--sir."

The "sir" was flattering, if it was sincere.  He glanced at her.
The expression of the mouth was as grave as ever, but he was still
uncertain about those eyes.  However, he was disposed to give her
the benefit of the doubt, so, stepping to the side door of the
office--that leading to the yards--he opened it and shouted:
"Price! . . .  Hey, Price!"

There was no answer, although he could hear Issachar's voice and
another above the rattle of lath bundles.

"Price!" he shouted, again.  "Pri-i-ce!"

The rattling ceased.  Then, in the middle distance, above a pile of
"two by fours," appeared Issachar's head, the features agitated and
the forehead bedewed with the moisture of honest toil.

"Huh?" yelled Issy.  "What's the matter?  Be you hollerin' to me?"

"Yes.  There's some one here wants to see you."

"Hey?"

"I say there's some one here who wants to see you."

"What for?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find out, can't ye?  I'm busy."

Was that a laugh which Albert heard behind him?  He turned around,
but the young lady's face wore the same grave, even demure,
expression.

"What do you want to see him for?" he asked.

"I wanted to buy something."

"She wants to buy something," repeated Albert, shouting.

"Hey?"

"She wants to--BUY--something."  It was humiliating to have to
scream in this way.

"Buy?  Buy what?"

"What do you want to buy?"

"A hook, that's all.  A hook for our kitchen door.  Would you mind
asking him to hurry?  I haven't much time."

"She wants a hook."

"Eh?  We don't keep books.  What kind of a book?"

"Not book--HOOK.  H-O-O-K!  Oh, great Scott!  Hook!  HOOK!  Hook for
a door!  And she wants you to hurry."

"Eh?  Well, I can't hurry now for nobody.  I got to load these
laths and that's all there is to it.  Can't you wait on him?"
Evidently the customer's sex had not yet been made clear to the
Price understanding.  "You can get a hook for him, can't ye?  You
know where they be, I showed ye.  Ain't forgot so soon, 'tain't
likely."

The head disappeared behind the "two by fours."  Its face was red,
but no redder than Mr. Speranza's at that moment.

"Fool rube!" he snorted, disgustedly.

"Excuse me, but you've dropped your cigarette," observed the young
lady.

Albert savagely slammed down the window and turned away.  The
dropped cigarette stump lay where it had fallen, smudging and
smelling.

His caller looked at it and then at him.

"I'd pick it up, if I were you," she said.  "Cap'n Snow HATES
cigarettes."

Albert, his dignity and indignation forgotten, returned her look
with one of anxiety.

"Does he, honest?" he asked.

"Yes.  He hates them worse than anything."

The cigarette stump was hastily picked up by its owner.

"Where'll I put it?" he asked, hurriedly.

"Why don't you--  Oh, don't put it in your pocket!  It will set you
on fire.  Put it in the stove, quick."

Into the stove it went, all but its fragrance, which lingered.

"Do you think you COULD find me that hook?" asked the girl.

"I'll try.  _I_ don't know anything about the confounded things."

"Oh!" innocently.  "Don't you?"

"No, of course I don't.  Why should I?"

"Aren't you working here?"

"Here?  Work HERE?  ME?  Well, I--should--say--NOT!"

"Oh, excuse me.  I thought you must be a new bookkeeper, or--or a
new partner, or something."

Albert regarded her intently and suspiciously for some seconds
before making another remark.  She was as demurely grave as ever,
but his suspicions were again aroused.  However, she WAS pretty,
there could be no doubt about that.

"Maybe I can find the hook for you," he said.  "I can try, anyway."

"Oh, thank you ever so much," gratefully.  "It's VERY kind of you
to take so much trouble."

"Oh," airily, "that's all right.  Come on; perhaps we can find it
together."

They were still looking when Mr. Price came panting in.

"Whew!" he observed, with emphasis.  "If anybody tells you heavin'
bundles of laths aboard a truck-wagon ain't hard work you tell him
for me he's a liar, will ye.  Whew!  And I had to do the heft of
everything, 'cause Cahoon sent that one-armed nephew of his to
drive the team.  A healthy lot of good a one-armed man is to help
heave lumber!  I says to him, says I:  'What in time did--'  Eh?
Why, hello, Helen!  Good mornin'.  Land sakes! you're out airly,
ain't ye?"

The young lady nodded.  "Good morning, Issachar," she said.  "Yes,
I am pretty early and I'm in a dreadful hurry.  The wind blew our
kitchen door back against the house last night and broke the hook.
I promised Father I would run over here and get him a new one and
bring it back to him before I went to school.  And it's quarter to
nine now."

"Land sakes, so 'tis!  Ain't--er--er--what's-his-name--Albert here,
found it for you yet?  He ain't no kind of a hand to find things,
is he?  We'll have to larn him better'n that.  Yes indeed!"

Albert laughed, sarcastically.  He was about to make a satisfyingly
crushing reproof to this piece of impertinence when Mr. Price began
to sniff the air.

"What in tunket?" he demanded.  "Sn'f!  Sn'f!  Who's been smokin'
in here?  And cigarettes, too, by crimus!  Sn'f!  Sn'f!  Yes, sir,
cigarettes, by crimustee!  Who's been smokin' cigarettes in here?
If Cap'n Lote knew anybody'd smoked a cigarette in here I don't
know's he wouldn't kill 'em.  Who done it?"

Albert shivered.  The girl with the dark blue eyes flashed a quick
glance at him.  "I think perhaps someone went by the window when it
was open just now," she suggested.  "Perhaps they were smoking and
the smoke blew in."

"Eh?  Well, maybe so.  Must have been a mighty rank cigarette to
smell up the whole premises like this just goin' past a window.
Whew!  Gosh! no wonder they say them things are rank pison.  I'd
sooner smoke skunk-cabbage myself; 'twouldn't smell no worse and
'twould be a dum sight safer.  Whew! . . .  Well, Helen, there's
about the kind of hook I cal'late you need.  Fifteen cents 'll let
you out on that.  Cheap enough for half the money, eh?  Give my
respects to your pa, will ye.  Tell him that sermon he preached
last Sunday was fine, but I'd like it better if he'd laid it on to
the Univer'lists a little harder.  Folks that don't believe in hell
don't deserve no consideration, 'cordin' to my notion.  So long,
Helen . . .  Oh say," he added, as an afterthought, "I guess you
and Albert ain't been introduced, have ye?  Albert, this is Helen
Kendall, she's our Orthodox minister's daughter.  Helen, this young
feller is Albert--er--er--  Consarn it, I've asked Cap'n Lote that
name a dozen times if I have once!  What is it, anyway?"

"Speranza," replied the owner of the name.

"That's it, Sperandy.  This is Albert Sperandy, Cap'n Lote's
grandson."

Albert and Miss Kendall shook hands.

"Thanks," said the former, gratefully and significantly.

The young lady smiled.

"Oh, you're welcome," she said.  I knew who you were all the time--
or I guessed who you must be.  Cap'n Snow told me you were coming."

She went out.  Issachar, staring after her, chuckled admiringly.
"Smartest girl in THIS town," he observed, with emphasis.  "Head of
her class up to high school and only sixteen and three-quarters at
that."

Captain Zelotes came bustling in a few minutes later.  He went to
his desk, paying little attention to his grandson.  The latter
loitered idly up and down the office and hardware shop, watching
Issachar wait on customers or rush shouting into the yard to attend
to the wants of others there.  Plainly this was Issachar's busy
day.

"Crimus!" he exclaimed, returning from one such excursion and
mopping his forehead.  "This doin' two men's work ain't no fun.
Every time Labe goes on a time seem's if trade was brisker'n it's
been for a month.  Seems as if all creation and part of East
Harniss had been hangin' back waitin' till he had a shade on 'fore
they come to trade.  Makes a feller feel like votin' the
Prohibition ticket.  I WOULD vote it, by crimustee, if I thought
'twould do any good.  'Twouldn't though; Labe would take to
drinkin' bay rum or Florida water or somethin', same as Hoppy
Rogers done when he was alive.  Jim Young says he went into Hoppy's
barber-shop once and there was Hoppy with a bottle of a new kind of
hair-tonic in his hand.  'Drummer that was here left it for a
sample,' says Hoppy.  'Wanted me to try it and, if I liked it, he
cal'lated maybe I'd buy some.  I don't think I shall, though,' he
says; 'don't taste right to me.'  Yes, sir, Jim Young swears that's
true.  Wan't enough snake-killer in that hair tonic to suit Hoppy.
I--  Yes, Cap'n Lote, what is it?  Want me, do ye?"

But the captain did not, as it happened, want Mr. Price at that
time.  It was Albert whose name he had called.  The boy went into
the office and his grandfather rose and shut the door.

"Sit down, Al," he said, motioning toward a chair.  When his
grandson had seated himself Captain Zelotes tilted back his own
desk chair upon its springs and looked at him.

"Well, son," he said, after a moment, "what do you think of it?"

"Think of it?  I don't know exactly what--"

"Of the place here.  Shop, yards, the whole business.  Z. Snow and
Company--what do you think of it?"

Privately Albert was inclined to classify the entire outfit as one-
horse and countrified, but he deemed it wiser not to express this
opinion.  So he compromised and replied that it "seemed to be all
right."

His grandfather nodded.  "Thanks," he observed, dryly.  "Glad you
find it that way.  Well, then, changin' the subject for a minute or
two, what do you think about yourself?"

"About myself?  About me?  I don't understand?"

"No, I don't suppose you do.  That's what I got you over here this
mornin' for, so as we could understand--you and me.  Al, have you
given any thought to what you're goin' to do from this on?  How
you're goin' to live?"

Albert looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"How I'm going to live?" he repeated.  "Why--why, I thought--I
supposed I was going to live with you--with you and Grandmother."

"Um-hm, I see."

"I just kind of took that for granted, I guess.  You sent for me to
come here.  You took me away from school, you know."

"Yes, so I did.  You know why I took you from school?"

"No, I--I guess I DON'T, exactly.  I thought--I supposed it was
because you didn't want me to go there any more."

"'Twasn't that.  I don't know whether I would have wanted you to go
there or not if things had been different.  From what I hear it was
a pretty extravagant place, and lookin' at it from the outside
without knowin' too much about it, I should say it was liable to
put a lot of foolish and expensive notions into a boy's head.  I
may be wrong, of course; I have been wrong at least a few times in
my life."

It was evident that he considered the chances of his being wrong in
this instance very remote.  His tone again aroused in the youth the
feeling of obstinacy, of rebellion, of desire to take the other
side.

"It is one of the best schools in this country," he declared.  "My
father said so."

Captain Zelotes picked up a pencil on his desk and tapped his chin
lightly with the blunt end.  "Um," he mused.  "Well, I presume
likely he knew all about it."

"He knew as much as--most people," with a slight but significant
hesitation before the "most."

"Um-hm.  Naturally, havin' been schooled there himself, I suppose."

"He wasn't schooled there.  My father was a Spaniard."

"So I've heard. . . .  Well, we're kind of off the subject, ain't
we?  Let's leave your father's nationality out of it for a while.
And we'll leave the school, too, because no matter if it was the
best one on earth you couldn't go there.  I shouldn't feel 'twas
right to spend as much money as that at any school, and you--well,
son, you ain't got it to spend.  Did you have any idea what your
father left you, in the way of tangible assets?"

"No.  I knew he had plenty of money always.  He was one of the most
famous singers in this country."

"Maybe so."

"It WAS so," hotly.  "And he was paid enough in one week to buy
this whole town--or almost.  Why, my father--"

"Sshh!  Sssh!"

"No, I'm not going to hush.  I'm proud of my father.  He was a--a
great man.  And--and I'm not going to stand here and have you--"

Between indignation and emotion he choked and could not finish the
sentence.  The tears came to his eyes.

"I'm not going to have you or anyone else talk about him that way,"
he concluded, fiercely.

His grandfather regarded him with a steady, but not at all
unkindly, gaze.

"I ain't runnin' down your father, Albert," he said.

"Yes, you are.  You hated him.  Anybody could see you hated him."

The captain slowly rapped the desk with the pencil.  He did not
answer at once.

"Well," he said, after a moment, "I don't know as I ought to deny
that.  I don't know as I can deny it and be honest.  Years ago he
took away from me what amounted to three-quarters of everything
that made my life worth while.  Some day you'll know more about it
than you do now, and maybe you'll understand my p'int of view
better.  No, I didn't like your father--  Eh?  What was you
sayin'?"

Albert, who had muttered something, was rather confused.  However,
he did not attempt to equivocate.  "I said I guessed that didn't
make much difference to Father," he answered, sullenly.

"I presume likely it didn't.  But we won't go into that question
now.  What I'm tryin' to get at in this talk we're having is you
and your future.  Now you can't go back to school because you can't
afford it.  All your father left when he died was--this is the
honest truth I'm tellin' you now, and if I'm puttin' it pretty
blunt it's because I always think it's best to get a bad mess out
of the way in a hurry--all your father left was debts.  He didn't
leave money enough to bury him, hardly."

The boy stared at him aghast.  His grandfather, leaning a little
toward him, would have put a hand on his knee, but the knee was
jerked out of the way.

"There, that's over, Al," went on Captain Zelotes.  "You know the
worst now and you can say, 'What of it?'  I mean just that:  What
of it?  Bein' left without a cent, but with your health and a fair
chance to make good--that, at seventeen or eighteen ain't a bad
lookout, by any manner of means.  It's the outlook _I_ had at
fifteen--exceptin' the chance--and I ain't asked many favors of
anybody since.  At your age, or a month or two older, do you know
where I was?  I was first mate of a three-masted schooner.  At
twenty I was skipper; and at twenty-five, by the Almighty, I owned
a share in her.  Al, all you need now is a chance to go to work.
And I'm goin' to give you that chance."

Albert gasped.  "Do you mean--do you mean I've got to be a--a
sailor?" he stammered.

Captain Zelotes put back his head and laughed, laughed aloud.

"A sailor!" he repeated.  "Ho, ho!  No wonder you looked scared.
No, I wan't cal'latin' to make a sailor out of you, son.  For one
reason, sailorin' ain't what it used to be; and, for another, I
have my doubts whether a young feller of your bringin' up would
make much of a go handlin' a bunch of fo'mast hands the first day
out.  No, I wasn't figgerin' to send you to sea . . .  What do you
suppose I brought you down to this place for this mornin'?"

And then Albert understood.  He knew why he had been conducted
through the lumber yards, about the hardware shop, why his
grandfather and Mr. Price had taken so much pains to exhibit and
explain.  His heart sank.

"I brought you down here," continued the captain, "because it's a
first-rate idea to look a vessel over afore you ship aboard her.
It's kind of late to back out after you have shipped.  Ever since I
made up my mind to send for you and have you live along with your
grandmother and me I've been plannin' what to do with you.  I knew,
if you was a decent, ambitious young chap, you'd want to do
somethin' towards makin' a start in life.  We can use--that is,
this business can use that kind of a chap right now.  He could larn
to keep books and know lumber and hardware and how to sell and how
to buy.  He can larn the whole thing.  There's a chance here, son.
It's your chance; I'm givin' it to you.  How big a chance it turns
out to be 'll depend on you, yourself."

He stopped.  Albert was silent.  His thoughts were confused, but
out of their dismayed confusion two or three fixed ideas reared
themselves like crags from a whirlpool.  He was to live in South
Hamiss always--always; he was to keep books--  Heavens, how he hated
mathematics, detail work of any kind!--for drunken old Keeler; he
was to "heave lumber" with Issy Price.  He--  Oh, it was dreadful!
It was horrible.  He couldn't!  He wouldn't!  He--

Captain Zelotes had been watching him, his heavy brows drawing
closer together as the boy delayed answering.

"Well?" he asked, for another minute. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

"Understood, did you?"

"Yes--sir."

"Well?"

Albert was clutching at straws.  "I--I don't know how to keep
books," he faltered.

"I didn't suppose you did.  Don't imagine they teach anything as
practical as bookkeepin' up at that school of yours.  But you can
larn, can't you?"

"I--I guess so."

"I guess so, too.  Good Lord, I HOPE so!  Humph!  You don't seem to
be jumpin' for joy over the prospect.  There's a half dozen smart
young fellers here in South Harniss that would, I tell you that."

Albert devoutly wished they had jumped--and landed--before his
arrival.  His grandfather's tone grew more brusque.

"Don't you want to work?" he demanded.

"Why, yes, I--I suppose I do.  I--I hadn't thought much about it."

"Humph!  Then I think it's time you begun.  Hadn't you had ANY
notion of what you wanted to do when you got out of that school of
yours?"

"I was going to college."

"Humph! . . .  Yes, I presume likely.  Well, after you got out of
college, what was you plannin' to do then?"

"I wasn't sure.  I thought I might do something with my music.  I
can play a little.  I can't sing--that is, not well enough.  If I
could," wistfully, "I should have liked to be in opera, as father
was, of course."

Captain Zelotes' only comment was a sniff or snort, or combination
of both.  Albert went on.

"I had thought of writing--writing books and poems, you know.  I've
written quite a good deal for the school magazine.  And I think I
should like to be an actor, perhaps.  I--"

"Good God!"  His grandfather's fist came down upon the desk before
him.  Slowly he shook his head.

"A--a poetry writer and an actor!" he repeated.  "Whew! . . .
Well, there!  Perhaps maybe we hadn't better talk any more just
now.  You can have the rest of the day to run around town and sort
of get acquainted, if you want to.  Then to-morrow mornin' you and
I'll come over here together and we'll begin to break you in.  I
shouldn't wonder," he added, dryly, "if you found it kind of dull
at first--compared to that school and poetry makin' and such--but
it'll be respectable and it'll pay for board and clothes and
somethin' to eat once in a while, which may not seem so important
to you now as 'twill later on.  And some day I cal'late--anyhow
we'll hope--you'll be mighty glad you did it."

Poor Albert looked and felt anything but glad just then.  Captain
Zelotes, his hands in his pockets, stood regarding him.  He, too,
did not look particularly happy.

"You'll remember," he observed, "or perhaps you don't know, that
when your father asked us to look out for you--"

Albert interrupted.  "Did--did father ask you to take care of me?"
he cried, in surprise.

"Um-hm.  He asked somebody who was with him to ask us to do just
that."

The boy drew a long breath.  "Well, then," he said, hopelessly,
"I'll--I'll try."

"Thanks.  Now you run around town and see the sights.  Dinner's at
half past twelve prompt, so be on hand for that."

After his grandson had gone, the captain, hands still in his
pockets, stood for some time looking out of the window.  At length
he spoke aloud.

"A play actor or a poetry writer!" he exclaimed.  "Tut, tut, tut!
No use talkin', blood will tell!"

Issachar, who was putting coal on the office fire, turned his head.

"Eh?" he queried.

"Nothin'," said Captain Lote.

He would have been surprised if he could have seen his grandson
just at that moment.  Albert, on the beach whither he had strayed
in his desire to be alone, safely hidden from observation behind a
sand dune, was lying with his head upon his arms and sobbing
bitterly.

A disinterested person might have decided that the interview which
had just taken place and which Captain Zelotes hopefully told his
wife that morning would probably result in "a clear, comf'table
understandin' between the boy and me"--such a disinterested person
might have decided that it had resulted in exactly the opposite.
In calculating the results to be obtained from that interview the
captain had not taken into consideration two elements, one his own
and the other his grandson's.  These elements were prejudice and
temperament.

CHAPTER IV

The next morning, with much the same feeling that a convict must
experience when he enters upon a life imprisonment, Albert entered
the employ of "Z. Snow and Co., Lumber and Builders' Hardware."
The day, he would have sworn it, was at least a year long.  The
interval between breakfast and dinner was quite six months, yet the
dinner hour itself was the shortest sixty minutes he had ever
known.  Mr. Keeler had not yet returned to his labors, so there was
no instruction in bookkeeping; but his grandfather gave him letters
to file and long dreary columns of invoice figures to add.  Twice
Captain Zelotes went out and then, just as Albert settled back for
a rest and breathing spell, Issachar Price appeared, warned
apparently by some sort of devilish intuition, and invented
"checking up stock" and similar menial and tiresome tasks to keep
him uncomfortable till the captain returned.  The customers who
came in asked questions concerning him and he was introduced to at
least a dozen citizens of South Harniss, who observed "Sho!" and
"I want to know!" when told his identity and, in some instances,
addressed him as "Bub," which was of itself a crime deserving
capital punishment.

That night, as he lay in bed in the back bedroom, he fell asleep
facing the dreary prospect of another monotonous imprisonment the
following day, and the next day, and the day after that, and after
that--and after that--and so on--and on--and on--forever and ever,
as long as life should last.  This, then, was to be the end of all
his dreams, this drudgery in a country town among these commonplace
country people.  This was the end of his dreams of some day writing
deathless odes and sonnets or thrilling romances; of treading the
boards as the hero of romantic drama while star-eyed daughters of
multi-millionaires gazed from the boxes in spellbound rapture.
This . . .  The thought of the star-eyed ones reminded him of the
girl who had come into the office the afternoon of his first visit
to that torture chamber.  He had thought of her many times since
their meeting and always with humiliation and resentment.  It was
his own foolish tongue which had brought the humiliation upon him.
When she had suggested that he might be employed by Z. Snow and Co.
he had replied:  "Me?  Work HERE!  Well, I should say NOT!"  And
all the time she, knowing who he was, must have known he was doomed
to work there.  He resented that superior knowledge of hers.  He
had made a fool of himself but she was to blame for it.  Well, by
George, he would NOT work there!  He would run away, he would show
her, and his grandfather and all the rest what was what.  Night
after night he fell asleep vowing to run away, to do all sorts of
desperate deeds, and morning after morning he went back to that
office.

On the fourth morning the prodigal came home, the stray lamb
returned to the fold--Mr. Keeler returned to his desk and his
duties.  There was a premonition of his return at the Snow breakfast
table.  For three days Mrs. Ellis had swathed her head in white and
her soul in black.  For three days her favorite accompaniment to
conversation had been a groan or a sigh.  Now, on this fourth
morning, she appeared without the bandage on her brow or the crape
upon her spirit.  She was not hilarious but she did not groan once,
and twice during the meal she actually smiled. Captain Lote
commented upon the change, she being absent from table momentarily.

"Whew!" he observed, in an undertone, addressing his wife.  "If it
ain't a comfort to see the wrinkles on Rachel's face curvin' up
instead of down.  I'm scared to death that she'll go out some time
in a cold spell when she's havin' one of them sympathetics of hers,
and her face'll freeze that way.  Well, Albert," turning to his
grandson, "the colors'll be h'isted to the truck now instead of
half-mast and life'll be somethin' besides one everlastin' 'last
look at the remains.' Now we can take off the mournin' till the
next funeral."

"Yes," said Olive, "and Laban'll be back, too.  I'm sure you must
have missed him awfully, Zelotes."

"Missed him!  I should say so.  For one thing, I miss havin' him
between me and Issy.  When Labe's there Is talks to him and Labe
keeps on thinkin' of somethin' else and so it don't worry him any.
I can't do that, and my eardrums get to wearin' thin and that makes
me nervous.  Maybe you've noticed that Issy's flow of conversation
ain't what you'd call a trickle," he added, turning to Albert.

Albert had noticed it.  "But," he asked, "what makes Rachel--Mrs.
Ellis--so cheerful this morning?  Does she know that Mr. Keeler
will be back at work?  How does she know?  She hasn't seen him, has
she?"

"No," replied the captain.  "She ain't seen him.  Nobody sees him,
far's that goes.  He generally clears out somewheres and locks
himself up in a room, I judge, till his vacation's over.  I suppose
that's one way to have fun, but it ain't what I'd call hilarious."

"Don't, Zelotes," said Mrs. Snow.  "I do wish you wouldn't call it
fun."

"I don't, but Laban seems to.  If he don't do it for fun I don't
know what he does it for.  Maybe it's from a sense of duty.  It
ain't to oblige me, I know that."

Albert repeated his question.  "But how does she know he will be
back to-day?" he asked.

His grandmother shook her head.  "That's the mysterious part about
it," she whispered.  "It makes a person think there may be
somethin' in the sympathetic notion she talks so much about.  She
don't see him at all and yet we can always tell when he's comin'
back to work by her spirits.  If he ain't back to-day he will be
to-morrow, you'll see.  She never misses by more than a day.  _I_
think it's real sort of mysterious, but Zelotes laughs at me."

Captain Lote's lip twitched.  "Yes, Mother," he said, "it's about
as mysterious as the clock's strikin' twelve when it's noon.  _I_
know it's morally sartin that Labe'll be back aboard to-day or to-
morrow because his sprees don't ever last more than five days.  I
can't swear to how she knows, but that's how _I_ know--and I'm
darned sure there's no 'sympathy' about my part."  Then, as if
realizing that he had talked more than usual, he called, brusquely:
"Come on, Al, come on.  Time we were on the job, boy."

Sure enough, as they passed the window of the office, there, seated
on the stool behind the tall desk, Albert saw the diminutive figure
of the man who had been his driver on the night of his arrival.
He was curious to see how the delinquent would apologize for or
explain his absence.  But Mr. Keeler did neither, nor did Captain
Snow ask a question.  Instead the pair greeted each other as if
they had parted in that office at the close of business on the
previous day.

"Mornin', Cap'n Lote," said Laban, quietly.

"Mornin', Labe," replied the captain, just as calmly.

He went on and opened his own desk, leaving his grandson standing
by the door, not knowing whether to speak or offer to shake hands.
The situation was a little difficult, particularly as Mr. Keeler
gave no sign of recognition, but, after a glance at his employer's
companion, went on making entries in the ledger.

Captain Zelotes looked up a moment later.  His gray eyes inspected
the pair and the expression on Albert's face caused them to twinkle
slightly.  "Labe," he said, "this is my grandson, Albert, the one I
told you was comin' to live with us."

Laban turned on the stool, regarded Albert over his spectacles, and
extended a hand.

"Pleased to meet you," he said.  "Yes, yes . . .  Yes, yes, yes. . .
Pleased to meet you.  Cap'n Lote said you was comin'--er--er--
Alfred.  Howdy do."

They shook hands.  Mr. Keeler's hand trembled a little, but that
was the only symptom of his recent "vacation" which the youth could
notice.  Certain vivid remembrances of his father's bad humor on
mornings following convivial evenings recurred to him.  Was it
possible that this odd, precise, dried-up little man had been on a
spree for four days?  It did not seem possible.  He looked more as
if he might be expected to rap on the desk and ask the school to
come to order.

"Albert's goin' to take hold here with us in the office," went on
Captain Lote.  "You'll remember I spoke to you about that when we
talked about his comin'.  Al, Labe--Mr. Keeler here--will start you
in larnin' to bookkeep.  He'll be your first mate from now on.
Don't forget you're a fo'mast hand yet awhile and the way for a
fo'mast hand to get ahead is to obey orders.  And don't," he added,
with a quiet chuckle, "do any play-actin' or poetry-makin' when
it's your watch on deck.  Laban nor I ain't very strong for play-
actin', are we, Labe?"

Laban, to whom the reference was anything but clear, replied rather
vaguely that he didn't know as he was, very.  Albert's temper
flared up again.  His grandfather was sneering at him once more; he
was always sneering at him.  All right, let him sneer--now.  Some
day he would be shown.  He scowled and turned away.  And Captain
Zelotes, noticing the scowl, was reminded of a scowl he had seen
upon the face of a Spanish opera singer some twenty years before.
He did not like to be reminded of that man.

He went out soon afterward and then Laban, turning to Albert, asked
a few questions.

"How do you think you're goin' to like South Harniss, Ansel?" he
asked.

Albert was tempted to reply that he, Keeler, had asked him that
very question before, but he thought it best not to do so.

"I don't know yet," he answered, carelessly.  "Well enough, I
guess."

"You'll like it fust-rate bimeby.  Everybody does when they get
used to it.  Takes some time to get used to a place, don't you know
it does, Ansel?"

"My name is Albert."

"Eh?  Yes, yes, so 'tis.  Yes, yes, yes.  I don't know why I called
you Ansel, 'less 'twas on account of my knowin' an Ansel Olsen
once . . .  Hum . . .  Yes, yes.  Well, you'll like South Harniss
when you get used to it."

The boy did not answer.  He was of the opinion that he should die
long before the getting used process was completed.  Mr. Keeler
continued.

"Come on yesterday's train, did you?" he asked.

Albert looked at him.  Was the fellow joking?  He did not look as
if he was.

"Why no," he replied.  "I came last Monday night.  Don't you
remember?"

"Eh?  Oh, yes . . .  Yes, yes, yes . . .  Last Monday night you
come, eh?  On the night train, eh?"  He hesitated a moment and then
asked.  "Cap'n Lote fetch you down from the depot?"

Albert stared at him open-mouthed.

"Why, no!" he retorted.  "You drove me down yourself."

For the first time a slight shade of embarrassment crossed the
bookkeeper's features.  He drew a long breath.

"Yes," he mused.  "Yes, yes, yes.  I kind of thought I--yes, yes,--
I--I thought likely I did . . .  Yes, yes, course I did, course I
did.  Well, now maybe we'd better be startin' you in to work--er--
Augustus.  Know anything about double-entry, do you?"

Albert did not, nor had he the slightest desire to learn.  But
before the first hour was over he foresaw that he was destined to
learn, if he remained in that office, whether he wanted to or not.
Laban Keeler might be, and evidently was, peculiar in his ways, but
as a bookkeeper he was thoroughness personified.  And as a teacher
of his profession he was just as thorough.  All that forenoon
Albert practiced the first principles of "double entry" and, after
the blessed hour for dinner, came back to practice the remainder of
the working day.

And so for many days.  Little by little he learned to invoice and
journalize and "post in the ledger" and all the rest of the detail
of bookkeeping.  Not that his instructor permitted him to do a
great deal of actual work upon the books of Z. Snow and Co.  Those
books were too spotless and precious for that.  Looking over them
Albert was surprised and obliged to admit a grudging admiration at
the manner in which, for the most part, they had been kept.  Page
after page of the neatest of minute figures, not a blot, not a
blur, not an erasure.  So for months; then, in the minor books,
like the day-book or journal, would suddenly break out an eruption
of smudges and scrawls in the rugged handwriting of Captain
Zelotes.  When he first happened upon one of these Albert
unthinkingly spoke to Mr. Keeler about it.  He asked the latter
what it meant.

Laban slowly stroked his nose with his thumb and finger, a habit he
had.

"I cal'late I was away for a spell then," he said, gravely.  "Yes,
yes . . .  Yes, yes, yes.  I was away for a little spell."

He went soberly back to his desk.  His new assistant, catching a
glimpse of his face, felt a pang of real pity for the little man.
Of course the reason for the hiatus in the books was plain enough.
He knew about those "little spells."  Oddly enough Laban seemed to
feel sorry for them.  He remembered how funny the bookkeeper had
appeared at their first meeting, when one "spell" was just
developing, and the contrast between the singing, chirruping clown
and the precise, grave little person at the desk struck even his
youthful mind as peculiar.  He had read "Doctor Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde," and now here was an example of something similar.  He was
beginning to like Laban Keeler, although he was perfectly sure that
he should never like bookkeeping.

He did not slave at the books all the time, of course.  For
stretches, sometimes lasting whole days, his slavery was of another
sort.  Then he was working in the lumber yard with Issachar, or
waiting on customers in the hardware shop.  The cold of winter set
in in earnest now and handling "two by fours" and other timber out
where the raw winds swept piercingly through one's overcoat and
garments and flesh to the very bone was a trying experience.  His
hands were chapped and cracked, even though his grandmother had
knit him a pair of enormous red mittens.  He appreciated the warmth
of the mittens, but he hated the color.  Why in the name of all
that was inartistic did she choose red; not a deep, rich crimson,
but a screeching vermilion, like a fireman's shirt?

Issachar, when he had the opportunity, was a hard boss.  It suited
Mr. Price to display his superior knowledge and to find fault with
his helper's lack of skill.  Albert's hot temper was at the boiling
point many times, but he fought it down.  Occasionally he retorted
in kind, but his usual and most effective weapon was a more or less
delicate sarcasm.  Issachar did not understand sarcasm and under
rapid fire he was inclined to lose his head.

"Consarn it!" he snapped, irritably, on one occasion.  "Consarn it,
Al, why don't you h'ist up on t'other end of that j'ist?  What do
you cal'late you're out here along of me for; to look harnsome?"

Albert shook his head.  "No, Is," he answered, gravely.  "No, that
wouldn't be any use.  With you around nobody else has a look-in at
the 'handsome' game.  Issy, what do you do to your face?"

"Do to it?  What do you mean by do to it?"

"What do you do to it to make it look the way it does?  Don't tell
me it grew that way naturally."

"Grew!  Course it grew!  What kind of talk's that?"

"Issy, with a face like yours how do you keep the birds away?"

"Eh?  Keep the birds away!  Now look here, just--"

"Excuse me.  Did I say 'birds,' Issy?  I didn't mean birds like--
like crows.  Of course a face like yours would keep the crows away
all right enough.  I meant girls.  How do you keep the girls away?
I should think they would be making love all the time."

"Aw, you shut up!  Just 'cause you're Cap'n Lote's grandson I
presume likely you think you can talk any kind of talk, don't ye?"

"Not any kind, Is.  I can't talk like you.  Will you teach me?"

"Shut up!  Now, by Crimus, you--you furriner--you Speranzy--"

Mr. Keeler appeared at the office window.  His shrill voice rose
pipingly in the wintry air as he demanded to know what was the
trouble out there.

Mr. Price, still foaming, strode toward the window; Albert
laughingly followed him.

"What's the matter?" repeated Laban.  "There's enough noise for a
sewin' circle.  Be still, Is, can't you, for a minute.  Al, what's
the trouble?"

"Issy's been talking about his face," explained Albert, soberly.

"I ain't neither.  I was h'istin' up my end of a j'ist, same as I'm
paid to do, and, 'stead of helpin' he stands there and heaves out
talk about--about--"

"Well, about what?"

"Aw, about--about me and--and girls--and all sorts of dum
foolishness.  I tell ye, I've got somethin' else to do beside
listen to that kind of cheap talk."

"Um.  Yes, yes.  I see.  Well, Al, what have you got to say?"

"Nothing.  I'm sure I don't know what it is all about.  I was
working as hard as I could and all at once he began pitching into
me."

"Pitchin' into you?  How?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Something about my looks he didn't like, I
guess.  Wanted to know if I thought I was as handsome as he was, or
something like that."

"Eh?  I never neither!  All I said was--"

Mr. Keeler raised his hand.  "Seems to be a case for an umpire," he
observed.  "Um.  Seem's if 'twas, seems so, seems so.  Well,
Captain Lote's just comin' across the road and, if you say the
word, I'll call him in to referee.  What do you say?"

They said nothing relevant to the subject in hand.  Issachar made
the only remark.  "Crimus-TEE!" he ejaculated.  "Come on, Al, come
on."

The pair hurried away to resume lumber piling.  Laban smiled
slightly and closed the window.  It may be gathered from this
incident that when the captain was in charge of the deck there was
little idle persiflage among the "fo'mast hands."  They, like
others in South Harniss, did not presume to trifle with Captain
Lote Snow.

So the business education of Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza
progressed.  At the end of the first six weeks in South Harniss he
had learned a little about bookkeeping, a little about selling
hardware, a little about measuring and marking lumber.  And it must
be admitted that that little had been acquired, not because of
vigorous application on the part of the pupil, but because, being
naturally quick and intelligent, he could not help learning
something.  He liked the work just as little as he had in the
beginning of his apprenticeship.  And, although he was forgetting
his thoughts of running away, of attempting fortune on his own
hook, he was just as rebellious as ever against a future to be
spent in that office and at that work.

Outside the office and the hateful bookkeeping he was beginning to
find several real interests.  At the old house which had for
generations been called "the Snow place," he was beginning to feel
almost at home.  He and his grandmother were becoming close
friends.  She was not looking for trouble, she never sat for long
intervals gazing at him as if she were guessing, guessing, guessing
concerning him.  Captain Zelotes did that, but Olive did not.  She
had taken the boy, her "Janie's boy," to her heart from the moment
she saw him and she mothered him and loved him in a way which--so
long as it was not done in public--comforted his lonely soul.  They
had not yet reached the stage where he confided in her to any great
extent, but that was certain to come later.  It was his grandmother's
love and the affection he was already beginning to feel for her
which, during these first lonesome, miserable weeks, kept him from,
perhaps, turning the running away fantasy into a reality.

Another inmate of the Snow household with whom Albert was becoming
better acquainted with was Mrs. Rachel Ellis.  Their real
acquaintanceship began one Sunday forenoon when Captain Zelotes and
Olive had gone to church.  Ordinarily he would have accompanied
them, to sit in the straight-backed old pew on a cushion which felt
lumpy and smelt ancient and musty, and pretend to listen while old
Mr. Kendall preached a sermon which was ancient and musty likewise.

But this Sunday morning he awoke with a headache and his grandmother
had pleaded for him, declaring that he ought to "lay to bed" a while
and get over it.  He got over it with surprising quickness after the
church bell ceased ringing, and came downstairs to read Ivanhoe in
the sitting room.  He had read it several times before, but he
wanted to read something and the choice of volumes in the Snow
bookcase was limited.  He was stretched out on the sofa with the
book in his hand when the housekeeper entered, armed with a
dust-cloth.  She went to church only "every other" Sunday.  This
was one of the others without an every, and she was at home.

"What are you readin', Albert?" she asked, after a few' minutes
vigorous wielding of the dust-cloth.  "It must be awful interestin',
you stick at it so close."

The Black Knight was just then hammering with his battle-axe at the
gate of Front de Buef's castle, not minding the stones and beams
cast down upon him from above "no more than if they were thistle-
down or feathers."  Albert absently admitted that the story was
interesting.  The housekeeper repeated her request to be told its
name.

"Ivanhoe," replied the boy; adding, as the name did not seem to
convey any definite idea to his interrogator's mind:  "It's by
Walter Scott, you know."

Mrs. Ellis made no remark immediately.  When she did it was to the
effect that she used to know a colored man named Scott who worked
at the hotel once.  "He swept out and carried trunks and such
things," she explained.  "He seemed to be a real nice sort of
colored man, far as ever I heard."

Albert was more interested in the Black Knight of Ivanhoe than the
black man of the hotel, so he went on reading.  Rachel sat down in
a chair by the window and looked out, twisting and untwisting the
dust-cloth in her lap.

"I presume likely lots and lots of folks have read that book, ain't
they?" she asked, after another interval.

"What?  Oh, yes, almost everybody.  It's a classic, I suppose."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"What you said the book was.  A class-somethin' or other?"

"Oh, a classic.  Why, it's--it's something everybody knows about,
or--or ought to know about.  One of the big things, you know.
Like--like Shakespeare or--or Robinson Crusoe or Paradise Lost or--
lots of them.  It's a book everybody reads and always will."

"I see.  Humph!  Well, I never read it. . . .  I presume likely you
think that's pretty funny, don't you?"

Albert tore himself away from the fight at the gate.

"Why, I don't know," he replied.

"Yes, you do.  You think it's awful funny.  Well, you wouldn't if
you knew more about how busy I've been all my life.  I ain't had
time to read the way I'd ought to.  I read a book once though that
I'll never forget.  Did you ever read a book called Foul Play?"

"No. . . .  Why, hold on, though; I think I have.  By Charles
Reade, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's who wrote it, a man named Charles Reade.  Laban told
me that part of it; he reads a lot, Laban does.  I never noticed
who wrote it, myself.  I was too interested in it to notice little
extry things like that.  But ain't that a WONDERFUL book?  Ain't
that the best book you ever read in all your LIFE?"

She dropped the dust-cloth and was too excited and enthusiastic to
pick it up.  Albert did his best to recall something definite
concerning Foul Play.  The book had been in the school library and
he, who read almost everything, had read it along with the others.

"Let me see," he said musingly.  "About a shipwreck--something
about a shipwreck in it, wasn't there?"

"I should say there was!  My stars above!  Not the common kind of
shipwreck, neither, the kind they have down to Setuckit P'int on
the shoals.  No sir-ee!  This one was sunk on purpose.  That Joe
Wylie bored holes right down through her with a gimlet, the wicked
thing!  And that set 'em afloat right out on the sea in a boat, and
there wan't anything to eat till Robert Penfold--oh, HE was the
smart one; he'd find anything, that man!--he found the barnacles on
the bottom of the boat, just the same as he found out how to
diffuse intelligence tied onto a duck's leg over land knows how
many legs--leagues, I mean--of ocean.  But that come later.  Don't
you remember THAT?"

Albert laughed.  The story was beginning to come back to him.

"Oh, sure!" he exclaimed.  "I remember now.  He--the Penfold
fellow--and the girl landed on this island and had all sorts of
adventures, and fell in love and all that sort of stuff, and then
her dad came and took her back to England and she--she did
something or other there to--to get the Penfold guy out of
trouble."

"Did somethin'!  I should say she did!  Why, she found out all
about who forged the letter--the note, I mean--that's what she
done.  'Twas Arthur Wardlaw, that's who 'twas.  And he was tryin'
to get Helen all the time for himself, the skinner!  Don't talk to
me about that Arthur Wardlaw!  I never could bear HIM."

She spoke as if she had known the detested Wardlaw intimately from
childhood.  Young Speranza was hugely amused.  Ivanhoe was quite
forgotten.

"Foul Play was great stuff," he observed.  "When did you read it?"

"Eh?  When?  Oh, ever and ever so long ago.  When I was about
twenty, I guess, and laid up with the measles.  That's the only
time I ever was real what you might call down sick in my life, and
I commenced with measles.  That's the way a good many folks
commence, I know, but they don't generally wait till they're out of
their 'teens afore they start.  I was workin' for Mrs. Philander
Bassett at the time, and she says to me:  'Rachel,' she says,
'you're on the mendin' hand now, wouldn't you like a book to read?'
I says, 'Why, maybe I would.'  And she fetched up three of 'em.  I
can see 'em now, all three, plain as day.  One was Barriers Burned
Away.  She said that was somethin' about a big fire.  Well, I'm
awful nervous about fires, have been from a child, so I didn't read
that.  And another had the queerest kind of a name, if you'd call
it a name at all; 'twas She."

Albert nodded.

"Yes," he said.  "I've read that."

"Have you?  Well, I begun to, but my stars, THAT wasn't any book to
give to a person with nerve symptoms.  I got as far as where those
Indians or whatever they was started to put red-hot kettles on
folks's heads, and that was enough for ME.  'Give me somethin'
civilized,' says I, 'or not at all.'  So I commenced Foul Play, and
I tell you I kept right on to the end.

"I don't suppose," she went on, "that there ever was a much better
book than that wrote, was there?"

Albert temporized.  "It is a good one," he admitted.

"Don't seem to me there could be much better.  Laban says it's
good, though he won't go so far as to say it's the very best.  He's
read lots and lots of books, Laban has.  Reads an awful lot in his
spare time.  He's what you'd call an educated person, which is what
I ain't.  And I guess you'll say that last is plain enough without
bein' told," she added.

Her companion, not exactly knowing how to answer, was silent for a
moment.  Rachel, who had picked up and was again twisting the dust-
cloth, returned to the subject she so delighted in.

"But that Foul Play book," she continued, "I've read till I've
pretty nigh wore the covers off.  When Mrs. Bassett saw how much I
liked it she gave it to me for a present.  I read a little bit in
it every little while.  I kind of fit the folks in that book to
folks in real life, sort of compare 'em, you know.  Do you ever do
that?"

Albert, repressing a chuckle, said, "Sure!" again.  She nodded.

"Now there's General Rolleson in that book," she said.  "Do you
know who he makes me think of?  Cap'n Lote, your grandpa, that's
who."

General Rolleson, as Albert remembered him, was an extremely
dignified, cultured and precise old gentleman.  Just what
resemblance there might be between him and Captain Zelotes Snow,
ex-skipper of the Olive S., he could not imagine.  He could not
repress a grin, and the housekeeper noticed it.

"Seems funny to you, I presume likely," she said.  "Well, now you
think about it.  This General Rolleson man was kind of proud and
sot in his ways just as your grandpa is, Albert.  He had a daughter
he thought all the world of; so did Cap'n Lote.  Along come a
person that wanted to marry the daughter.  In the book 'twas Robert
Penfold, who had been a convict.  In your grandpa's case, 'twas
your pa, who had been a play-actor.  So you see--"

Albert sat up on the sofa.  "Hold on!" he interrupted indignantly.
"Do you mean to compare my father with a--with a CONVICT?  I want
you to understand--"

Mrs. Ellis held up the dust-cloth.  "Now, now, now," she protested.
"Don't go puttin' words in my mouth that I didn't say.  I don't
doubt your pa was a nice man, in his way, though I never met him.
But 'twan't Cap'n Lote's way any more than Robert Penfold's was
General Rolleson's."

"My father was famous," declared the youth hotly.  "He was one of
the most famous singers in this country.  Everybody knows that--
that is, everybody but Grandfather and the gang down here," he
added, in disgust.

"I don't say you're wrong.  Laban tells me that some of those
singin' folks get awful high wages, more than the cap'n of a
steamboat, he says, though that seems like stretchin' it to me.
But, as I say, Cap'n Lote was proud, and nobody but the best would
satisfy him for Janie, your mother.  Well, in that way, you see, he
reminds me of General Rolleson in the book."

"Look here, Mrs. Ellis.  Tell me about this business of Dad's
marrying my mother.  I never knew much of anything about it."

"You didn't?  Did your pa never tell you?"

"No."

"Humph!  That's funny.  Still, I don't know's as 'twas, after all,
considerin' you was only a boy.  Probably he'd have told you some
day.  Well, I don't suppose there's any secret about it.  'Twas
town talk down here when it happened."

She told him the story of the runaway marriage.  Albert listened
with interest and the almost incredulous amazement with which the
young always receive tales of their parents' love affairs.  Love,
for people of his age or a trifle older, was a natural and
understandable thing, but for his father, as he remembered him, to
have behaved in this way was incomprehensible.

"So," said Rachel, in conclusion, "that's how it happened.  That's
why Cap'n Lote couldn't ever forgive your father."

He tossed his head.  "Well, he ought to have forgiven him," he
declared.  "He was dead lucky to get such a man for a son-in-law,
if you ask me."

"He didn't think so.  And he wouldn't ever mention your pa's name."

"Oh, I don't doubt that.  Anybody can see how he hated Father.  And
he hates me the same way," he added moodily.

Mrs. Ellis was much disturbed.  "Oh, no, he don't," she cried.
"You mustn't think that, Albert.  He don't hate you, I'm sure of
it.  He's just kind of doubtful about you, that's all.  He
remembers how your pa acted--or how he thinks he acted--and so he
can't help bein' the least mite afraid the same thing may crop out
in you.  If you just stick to your job over there at the lumber
yards and keep on tryin' to please him, he'll get all over that
suspicion, see if he don't.  Cap'n Lote Snow is stubborn sometimes
and hard to turn, but he's square as a brick.  There's some that
don't like him, and a good many that don't agree with him--but
everybody respects him."

Albert did not answer.  The housekeeper rose from her chair.

"There!" she exclaimed.  "I don't know when I've set down for so
long.  Goodness knows I've got work enough to do without settin'
around talkin'.  I can't think what possessed me to do it this
time, unless 'twas seein' you readin' that book."  She paused a
moment and then said:  "Albert, I--I don't want you and your
grandpa to have any quarrels.  You see--well, you see, I used to
know your mother real well, and--and I thought an awful sight of
her.  I wish--I do wish when you and the cap'n have any trouble or
anything, or when you think you're liable to have any, you'd come
and talk it over with me.  I'm like the feller that Laban tells
about in his dog-fight yarn.  This feller was watchin' the fight
and when they asked him to stop it afore one or t'other of the dogs
was killed, he just shook his head.  'No-o,' he says, kind of slow
and moderate, 'I guess I shan't interfere.  One of 'em's been
stealin' my chickens and the other one bit me.  I'm a friend to
both parties,' he says.  Course I don't mean it exactly that way,"
she added, with a smile, "but you know what I do mean, I guess.
WILL you talk things over with me sometimes, Albert?"

His answer was not very enthusiastic, but he said he guessed so,
and Rachel seemed satisfied with that.  She went on with her
dusting, and he with his reading, but the conversation was the
first of many between the pair.  The housekeeper appeared to
consider his having read her beloved Foul Play a sort of password
admitting him to her lodge and that thereafter they were, in
consequence, to be confidants and comrades.  She never hesitated to
ask him the most personal questions concerning his work, his plans,
the friends or acquaintances he was making in the village.  Some of
those questions he answered honestly and fully, some he dodged,
some he did not answer at all.  Mrs. Ellis never resented his not
answering.  "I presume likely that ain't any of my business, is
it?" she would say, and ask about something else.

On the other hand, she was perfectly outspoken concerning her own
affairs.  He was nearly overcome with hilarious joy when, one day,
she admitted that, in her mind, Robert Penfold, the hero of Foul
Play, lived again in the person of Laban Keeler.

"Why, Mrs. Ellis," he cried, as soon as he could trust himself to
speak at all, "I don't see THAT.  Penfold was a six-footer, wasn't
he?  And--and athletic, you know, and--and a minister, and young--
younger, I mean--and--"

Rachel interrupted.  "Yes, yes, I know," she said.  "And Laban is
little, and not very young, and, whatever else he is, he ain't a
minister.  I know all that.  I know the outside of him don't look
like Robert Penfold at all.  But," somewhat apologetically, "you
see I've been acquainted with him so many years I've got into the
habit of seein' his INSIDE.  Now that sounds kind of ridiculous, I
know," she added.  "Sounds as if I--I--well, as if I was in the
habit of takin' him apart, like a watch or somethin'.  What I mean
is that I know him all through.  I've known him for a long, long
while.  He ain't much to look at, bein' so little and sort of dried
up, but he's got a big, fine heart and big brains.  He can do 'most
anything he sets his hand to.  When I used to know him, when I was
a girl, folks was always prophesyin' that Laban Keeler would turn
out to be a whole lot more'n the average.  He would, too, only for
one thing, and you know what that is.  It's what has kept me from
marryin' him all this time.  I swore I'd never marry a man that
drinks, and I never will.  Why, if it wasn't for liquor Labe would
have been runnin' his own business and gettin' rich long ago.  He
all but runs Cap'n Lote's place as 'tis.  The cap'n and a good many
other folks don't realize that, but it's so."

It was plain that she worshiped the little bookkeeper and, except
during the periods of "vacation" and "sympathetics," was
tremendously proud of him.  Albert soon discovered that Mr.
Keeler's feeling for her was equally strong.  In his case, though,
there was also a strong strain of gratitude.

"She's a fine woman, Al," he confided to his assistant on one
occasion.  "A fine woman. . . .  Yes, yes, yes.  They don't
make 'em any finer.  Ah hum!  And not so long ago I read about
a passel of darn fools arguin' that the angels in heaven was all
he-ones. . . .  Umph! . . .  Sho, sho!  If men was as good as women,
Ansel--Alfred--Albert, I mean--we could start an opposition heaven
down here most any time.  'Most any time--yes, yes."

It was considerable for him to say.  Except when on a vacation,
Laban was not loquacious.

Each Sunday afternoon, when the weather was pleasant, he came,
dressed in his best black cutaway, shiny at elbows and the under
part of the sleeves, striped trousers and a pearl gray soft hat
with a black band, a hat which looked as much out of place above
his round, withered little face as a red roof might have looked on
a family vault, and he and the housekeeper went for a walk.

Rachel, in her Sunday black, bulked large beside him.  As Captain
Zelotes said, the pair looked like "a tug takin' a liner out to
sea."

CHAPTER V

Outside of the gates of the Snow place Albert was making many
acquaintances and a few friends.  After church on Sundays his
grandmother had a distressful habit of suddenly seizing his arm or
his coat-tail as he was hurrying toward the vestibule and the
sunshine of outdoors, and saying:  "Oh, Albert, just a minute!
Here's somebody you haven't met yet, I guess.  Elsie"--or Nellie or
Mabel or Henry or Charlie or George, whichever it happened to be--
"this is my grandson, Albert Speranza."  And the young person to
whom he was thus introduced would, if a male, extend a hesitating
hand, give his own an embarrassed shake, smile uncertainly and say,
"Yes--er--yes.  Pleased to meet you."  Or, if of the other sex,
would blush a little and venture the observation that it was a
lovely morning, and wasn't the sermon splendid.

These Sabbath introductions led to week-day, or rather week-
evening, meetings.  The principal excitement in South Harniss was
"going for the mail."  At noon and after supper fully one-half of
the village population journeyed to the post office.  Albert's
labors for Z. Snow and Co. prevented his attending the noon
gatherings--his grandfather usually got the morning mail--but he
early formed the habit of sauntering "down street" in the evening
if the weather was not too cold or disagreeable.  There he was
certain to find groups of South Harniss youth of both sexes,
talking, giggling, skylarking and flirting.  Sometimes he joined
one or the other of these groups; quite as often he did not, but
kept aloof and by himself, for it may as well be acknowledged now,
if it is not already plain, that the son of Miguel Carlos Speranza
had inherited a share of his father's temperament and self-esteem.
The whim of the moment might lead him to favor these young people
with his society, but he was far from considering himself under
obligation to do so.  He had not the least idea that he was in any
way a snob, he would have hotly resented being called one, but he
accepted his estimate of his own worth as something absolute and
certain, to be taken for granted.

Now this attitude of mind had its dangers.  Coupled with its
possessor's extraordinary good looks, it was fascinating to a large
percentage of the village girls.  The Speranza eyes and the
Speranza curls and nose and chin were, when joined with the easy
condescension of the Speranza manner, a combination fatal to the
susceptible.  The South Harniss "flappers," most of them, enthused
over the new bookkeeper in the lumber office.  They ogled and
giggled and gushed in his presence, and he was tolerant or bored,
just as he happened to be feeling at the moment.  But he never
displayed a marked interest in any one of them, for the very good
reason that he had no such interest.  To him they were merely
girls, nice enough in their way, perhaps, but that way not his.
Most of the town young fellows of his age he found had a "girl" and
almost every girl had a "fellow"; there was calf love in abundance,
but he was a different brand of veal.

However, a great man must amuse himself, and so he accepted
invitations to church socials and suppers and to an occasional
dance or party.  His style of dancing was not that of South Harniss
in the winter.  It was common enough at the hotel or the "tea
house" in July and August when the summer people were there, but
not at the town hall at the Red Men's Annual Ball in February.  A
fellow who could foxtrot as he could swept all before him.  Sam
Thatcher, of last year's class in the high school, but now clerking
in the drug store, who had hitherto reigned as the best "two-
stepper" in town, suddenly became conscious of his feet.  Then,
too, the contents of the three trunks which had been sent on from
school were now in evidence.  No Boston or Brockton "Advanced
Styles" held a candle to those suits which the tailor of the late
Miguel Carlos had turned out for his patron's only son.  No other
eighteen-year-older among the town's year-around residents
possessed a suit of evening clothes.  Albert wore his "Tux" at the
Red Men's Ball and hearts palpitated beneath new muslin gowns and
bitter envy stirred beneath the Brockton "Advanced Styles."

In consequence, by spring the social status of Albert Speranza
among those of his own age in the village had become something
like this:  He was in high favor with most of the girls and in
corresponding disfavor with most of the young fellows.  The girls,
although they agreed that he was "stand-offish and kind of queer,"
voted him "just lovely, all the same."  Their envious beaux
referred to him sneeringly among themselves as a "stuck-up dude."
Some one of them remembered having been told that Captain Zelotes,
years before, had been accustomed to speak of his hated son-in-law
as "the Portygee."  Behind his back they formed the habit of
referring to their new rival in the same way.  The first time
Albert heard himself called a "Portygee" was after prayer meeting
on Friday evening, when, obeying a whim, he had walked home with
Gertie Kendrick, quite forgetful of the fact that Sam Thatcher, who
aspired to be Gertie's "steady," was himself waiting on the church
steps for that privilege.

Even then nothing might have come of it had he and Sam not met in
the path as he was sauntering back across lots to the main road
and home.  It was a brilliant moonlight night and the pair came
together, literally, at the bend where the path turns sharply
around the corner of Elijah Doane's cranberry shanty.  Sam, plowing
along, head down and hands in his pockets, swung around that corner
and bumped violently into Albert, who, a cigarette between his
lips--out here in the fields, away from civilization and Captain
Zelotes, was a satisfyingly comfortable place to smoke a cigarette--
was dreaming dreams of a future far away from South Harniss.  Sam
had been thinking of Gertie.  Albert had not.  She had been a mere
incident of the evening; he had walked home with her because he
happened to be in the mood for companionship and she was rather
pretty and always talkative.  His dreams during the stroll back
alone in the moonlight had been of lofty things, of poetry and fame
and high emprise; giggling Gerties had no place in them.  It was
distinctly different with Sam Thatcher.

They crashed together, gasped and recoiled.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Albert.

"Can't you see where you're goin', you darned Portygee half-breed?"
demanded Sam.

Albert, who had stepped past him, turned and came back.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I said you was a darned half-breed, and you are.  You're a no-good
Portygee, like your father."

It was all he had time to say.  For the next few minutes he was too
busy to talk.  The Speranzas, father and son, possessed temperament;
also they possessed temper.  Sam's face, usually placid and
good-natured, for Sam was by no means a bad fellow in his way, was
fiery red.  Albert's, on the contrary, went perfectly white.  He
seemed to settle back on his heels and from there almost to fly at
his insulter.  Five minutes or so later they were both dusty and
dirty and dishevelled and bruised, but Sam was pretty thoroughly
licked.  For one thing, he had been taken by surprise by his
adversary's quickness; for another, Albert's compulsory training in
athletics at school gave him an advantage.  He was by no means an
unscarred victor, but victor he was.  Sam was defeated, and very
much astonished.  He leaned against the cranberry house and held on
to his nose.  It had been a large nose in the beginning, it was
larger now.

Albert stood before him, his face--where it was not a pleasing
combination of black and blue--still white.

"If you--if you speak of my father or me again like that," he
panted, "I'll--I'll kill you!"

Then he strode off, a bit wobbly on his legs, but with dignity.

Oddly enough, no one except the two most interested ever knew of
this encounter.  Albert, of course, did not tell.  He was rather
ashamed of it.  For the son of Miguel Carlos Speranza to conquer
dragons was a worthy and heroic business, but there seemed to be
mighty little heroism in licking Sam Thatcher behind 'Lije Doane's
cranberry shack.  And Sam did not tell.  Gertie next day confided
that she didn't care two cents for that stuck-up Al Speranza,
anyway; she had let him see her home only because Sam had danced so
many times with Elsie Wixon at the ball that night.  So Sam said
nothing concerning the fight, explaining the condition of his nose
by saying that he had run into something in the dark.  And he did
not appear to hold a grudge against his conqueror; on the contrary
when others spoke of the latter as a "sissy," Sam defended him.
"He may be a dude," said Sam; "I don't say he ain't.  But he ain't
no sissy."

When pressed to tell why he was so certain, his answer was:
"Because he don't act like one."  It was not a convincing answer,
the general opinion being that that was exactly how Al Speranza did
act.

There was one young person in the village toward whom Albert found
himself making exceptions in his attitude of serenely impersonal
tolerance.  That person was Helen Kendall, the girl who had come
into his grandfather's office the first morning of his stay in
South Harniss.  He was forced to make these exceptions by the young
lady herself.  When he met her the second time--which was after
church on his first Sunday--his manner was even more loftily
reserved than usual.  He had distinct recollections of their first
conversation.  His own part in it had not been brilliant, and in it
he had made the absurd statement--absurd in the light of what came
after--that he was certainly NOT employed by Z. Snow and Co.

So he was cool and superior when his grandmother brought them
together after the meeting was over.  If Helen noticed the
superiority, she was certainly not over-awed by it, for she was so
simple and natural and pleasant that he was obliged to unbend and
be natural too.  In fact, at their third meeting he himself spoke
of the interview in the lumber office and again expressed his
thanks for warning him of his grandfather's detestation of
cigarettes.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, "I'm certainly glad that you put me on to the
old boy's feelings.  I think he'd have murdered me if he had come
back and found me puffing a Pall Mall in there."

She smiled.  "He does hate them, doesn't he?" she said.

"Hate them!  I should say he did.  Hating cigarettes is about the
only point where he and Issy get along without an argument.  If a
traveler for a hardware house comes into the office smoking a cig,
Issy opens all the windows to let the smell out, and Grandfather
opens the door to throw the salesman out.  Well, not exactly to
throw him out, of course, but he never buys a single cent's worth
of a cigarette smoker."

Helen glanced at him.  "You must be awfully glad you're not a
traveling salesman," she said demurely.

Albert did not know exactly what to make of that remark.  He, in
his turn, looked at her, but she was grave and quite unconcerned.

"Why?" he asked, after a moment.

"Why--what?"

"Why ought I to be glad I'm not a traveling salesman?"

"Oh, I don't know.  It just seemed to me that you ought, that's
all."

"But why?"

"Well, if you were you wouldn't make a great hit with your
grandfather, would you?"

"Eh? . . .  Oh, you mean because I smoke.  Say, YOU'RE not silly
enough to be down on cigarettes the way grandfather is, are you?"

"No-o, I'm not down on them, especially.  I'm not very well
acquainted with them."

"Neither is he.  He never smoked one in his life.  It's just
country prejudice, that's all."

"Well, I live in the country, too, you know."

"Yes, but you're different."

"How do you know I am?"

"Oh, because any one can see you are."  The manner in which this
remark was made, a manner implying a wide knowledge of humanity and
a hint of personal interest and discriminating appreciation, had
been found quite effective by the precocious young gentleman
uttering it.  With variations to suit the case and the individual
it had been pleasantly received by several of the Misses Bradshaw's
pupils.  He followed it with another equally tried and trustworthy.

"Say," he added, "would YOU rather I didn't smoke?"

The obvious reply should have been, "Oh, would you stop if I asked
you to?"  But Helen Kendall was a most disconcerting girl.  Instead
of purring a pleased recognition of the implied flattery, she
laughed merrily.  The Speranza dignity was hurt.

"What is there to laugh at?" he demanded.  "Are you laughing at
me?"

The answer was as truthful as truth itself.

"Why, of course I am," she replied; and then completed his
discomfiture by adding, "Why should I care whether you smoke or
not?  You had better ask your grandfather that question, I should
think."

Now Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza had not been accustomed to this
sort of treatment from young persons of the other sex, and he
walked away in a huff.  But the unusual is always attractive, and
the next time he and Miss Kendall met he was as gracious and
cordial as ever.  But it was not long before he learned that the
graciousness was, in her case, a mistake.  Whenever he grew lofty,
she took him down, laughed at him with complete frankness, and
refused to treat him as anything but a boy.  So they gradually grew
friendly, and when they met at parties or church socials he spent
most of the time in her company, or, rather, he would have so spent
it had she permitted.  But she was provokingly impartial and was
quite as likely to refuse a dance with him to sit out one with Sam
Thatcher or Ben Hammond or any other village youth of her
acquaintance.  However, although she piqued and irritated him, he
was obliged to admit to his inner consciousness that she was the
most interesting person he had yet discovered in South Harniss,
also that even in the eyes of such connoisseurs as his fellow
members of the senior class at school she would have been judged a
"good looker," in spite of her country clothes.

He met her father, of course.  The Reverend Mr. Kendall was a dreamy
little old gentleman with white hair and the stooped shoulders of a
student.  Everybody liked him, and it was for that reason principally
that he was still the occupant of the Congregational pulpit, for to
quote Captain Zelotes, his sermons were inclined to be like the
sandy road down to Setuckit Point, "ten mile long and dry all the
way."  He was a widower and his daughter was his companion and
managing housekeeper.  There was a half-grown girl, one of the
numerous Price family, a cousin of Issachar's, who helped out with
the sweeping, dish-washing and cooking, but Helen was the real head
of the household.

"And she's a capable one, too," declared Mrs. Snow, when at supper
one evening Helen's name had come into the conversation.  "I
declare when I was there yesterday to see the minister about
readin' poetry to us at sewin'-circle next Monday that parlor was
as neat as wax.  And 'twas all Helen's work that kept it so, that
was plain enough.  You could see her way of settin' a vase or
puttin' on a table cloth wherever you looked.  Nobody else has just
that way.  And she does it after school or before school or 'most
any odd time.  And whatever 'tis is done right."

The housekeeper put in a word.  "There's no doubt about that," she
said, "and there ain't any more doubt that she don't get much help
from her pa or that Maria B."  There were so many Prices within the
township limits that individuals were usually distinguished by
their middle initial.  "As for Mr. Kendall," went on Rachel, "he
moves with his head in the clouds and his feet cruisin' with nobody
at the wheel two-thirds of the time.  Emma Smith says to me
yesterday, says she, 'Mr. Kendall is a saint on earth, ain't he,'
says she.  'Yes,' says I, 'and he'll be one in heaven any minute if
he goes stumblin' acrost the road in front of Doctor Holliday's
automobile the way I see him yesterday.'  The doctor put on the
brakes with a slam and a yell.  The minister stopped right there in
the middle of the road with the front wheels of that auto not
MORE'N two foot from his old baggy trousers' knees, and says he,
'Eh?  Did you want me, Doctor?'  The doctor fetched a long breath.
'Why, no, Mr. Kendall,' he says, 'I didn't, but I come darn nigh
gettin' you.'  I don't know what WOULD become of him if he didn't
have Helen to look out for him."

As they came to know each other better their conversation dealt
with matters more personal.  They sometimes spoke of plans for the
future.  Albert's plans and ambitions were lofty, but rather vague.
Helen's were practical and definite.  She was to graduate from high
school that spring.  Then she was hoping to teach in the primary
school there in the village; the selectmen had promised her the
opportunity.

"But, of course," she said, "I don't mean to stay here always.
When I can, after I have saved some money and if Father doesn't
need me too badly, I shall go away somewhere, to Bridgewater, or
perhaps to Radcliffe, and study.  I want to specialize in my
teaching, you know."

Albert regarded her with amused superiority.

"I don't see why on earth you are so anxious to be a school-marm,"
he said.  "That's the last job I'd want."

Her answer was given promptly, but without the least trace of
temper.  That was one of the most provoking things about this girl,
she would not lose her temper.  He usually lost his trying to make
her.  She spoke now, pleasantly, and deliberately, but as if she
were stating an undesirable fact.

"I think it would be the last one you would get," she said.

"Why?  Great Scott!  I guess I could teach school if I wanted to.
But you bet I wouldn't want to! . . .  NOW what are you laughing
at?"

"I'm not laughing."

"Yes, you are.  I can always tell when you're laughing; you get
that look in your eyes, that sort of--of--  Oh, I can't tell you
what kind of look it is, but it makes me mad.  It's the same kind
of look my grandfather has, and I could punch him for it sometimes.
Why should you and he think I'm not going to amount to anything?"

"I don't think so.  And I'm sure he doesn't either.  And I wasn't
laughing at you.  Or, if I was, it--it was only because--"

"Well, because what?"

"Oh, because you are so AWFULLY sure you know--well, know more than
most people."

"Meaning I'm stuck on myself, I suppose.  Well, now I tell you I'm
not going to hang around in this one-horse town all my life to
please grandfather or any one else."

When he mentioned his determination to win literary glory she was
always greatly interested.  Dreams of histrionic achievement were
more coldly received.  The daughter of a New England country
clergyman, even in these days of broadening horizons, could
scarcely be expected to look with favor upon an actor's career.

June came and with it the first of the summer visitors.  For the
next three months Albert was happy with a new set of acquaintances.
They were HIS kind, these young folks from the city, and his spare
moments were for the most part spent in their society.  He was
popular with them, too.  Some of them thought it queer that he
should be living all the year in the village and keeping books for
a concern like Z. Snow and Co., but juvenile society is tolerant
and a youth who could sing passably, dance wonderfully and, above
all, was as beautifully picturesque as Albert Speranza, was
welcomed, especially by the girls.  So the Saturdays and Sundays
and evenings of that summer were pleasant for him.  He saw little
of Helen or Gertie Kendrick while the hotel or the cottages
remained open.

Then came the fall and another long, dreary winter.  Albert plodded
on at his desk or in the yard, following Mr. Keeler's suggestions,
obeying his grandfather's orders, tormenting Issy, doing his daily
stint because he had to, not because he liked it.  For amusement he
read a good deal, went to the usual number of sociables and
entertainments, and once took part in amateur theatricals, a play
given by the church society in the town hall.  There was where he
shone.  As the dashing young hero he was resplendent.  Gertie
Kendrick gazed upon him from the third settee center with shining
eyes.  When he returned home after it was over his grandmother and
Mrs. Ellis overwhelmed him with praises.

"I declare you was perfectly splendid, Albert!" exclaimed Olive.
"I was so proud of you I didn't know what to do."

Rachel looked upon him as one might look upon a god from Olympus.

"All I could think of was Robert Penfold," she said.  "I says so to
Laban:  'Laban,' says I, ain't he Robert Penfold and nobody else?'
There you was, tellin' that Hannibal Ellis that you was innocent
and some day the world would know you was, just the way Robert
Penfold done in the book.  I never did like that Hannie Ellis!"

Mrs. Snow smiled.  "Mercy, Rachel," she said, "I hope you're not
blamin' Hannie because of what he did in that play.  That was his
part, he had to do it."

But Rachel was not convinced.  "He didn't have to be so everlastin'
mean and spiteful about it, anyhow," she declared.  "But there,
that family of Ellises never did amount to nothin' much.  But, as I
said to Laban, Albert, you was Robert Penfold all over."

"What did Labe say to that?" asked Albert, laughing.

"He never had a chance to say nothin'.  Afore he could answer,
that Maria B. Price--she was settin' right back of me and eatin'
molasses candy out of a rattly paper bag till I thought I SHOULD
die--she leaned forward and she whispered:  'He looks more to me
like that Stevie D. that used to work for Cap'n Crowell over to
the Center.  Stevie D. had curly hair like that and HE was part
Portygee, you remember; though there was a little nigger blood in
him, too,' she says.  I could have shook her!  And then she went to
rattlin' that bag again."

Even Mr. Keeler congratulated him at the office next morning.  "You
done well, Al," he said.  "Yes--yes--yes.  You done fust-rate,
fust-rate."

His grandfather was the only one who refused to enthuse.

"Well," inquired Captain Zelotes, sitting down at his desk and
glancing at his grandson over his spectacles, "do you cal'late to
be able to get down to earth this mornin' far enough to figger up
the payroll?  You can put what you made from play-actin' on a
separate sheet.  It's about as much as the average person makes at
that job," he added.

Albert's face flushed.  There were times when he hated his
grandfather.  Mr. Keeler, a moment later, put a hand on his
shoulder.

"You mustn't mind the old man, Al," he whispered.  "I expect that
seein' you last night brought your dad's job back to him strong.
He can't bear play-actin', you know, on your dad's account.  Yes--
yes.  That was it.  Yes--yes--yes."

It may have been a truthful explanation, but as an apology it was a
limited success.

"My father was a gentleman, at any rate," snapped Albert.  Laban
opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again and walked back to
his books.

In May, which was an unusually balmy month, the Congregational
Sunday School gave an automobile excursion and box-luncheon party
at High Point Light down at Trumet.  As Rachel Ellis said, it was
pretty early for picnickin', but if the Almighty's season was ahead
of time there didn't seem to be any real good reason why one of his
Sunday schools shouldn't be.  And, which was the principal excuse
for the hurry, the hotel busses could be secured, which would not
be the case after the season opened.

Albert went to the picnic.  He was not very keen on going, but his
grandfather had offered him a holiday for the purpose, and it was
one of his principles never to refuse a chance to get away from
that office.  Besides, a number of the young people of his age were
going, and Gertie Kendrick had been particularly insistent.

"You just MUST come, Al," she said.  "It won't be any fun at all if
you don't come."

It is possible that Gertie found it almost as little fun when he
did come.  He happened to be in one of his moods that day;
"Portygee streaks," his grandfather termed these moods, and told
Olive that they were "that play-actor breakin' out in him."  He
talked but little during the ride down in the bus, refused to sing
when called upon, and, after dinner, when the dancing in the
pavilion was going on, stepped quietly out of the side door and
went tramping along the edge of the bluff, looking out over the sea
or down to the beach, where, one hundred and fifty feet below, the
big waves were curling over to crash into a creamy mass of froth
and edge the strand with lacy ripples.

The high clay bluffs of Trumet are unique.  No other part of the
Cape shows anything just like them.  High Point Light crowns their
highest and steepest point and is the flashing beacon the rays of
which spell "America" to the incoming liner Boston bound.

Along the path skirting the edge of the bluff Albert strolled, his
hands in his pockets and his thoughts almost anywhere except on the
picnic and the picnickers of the South Harniss Congregational
Church.  His particular mood on this day was one of discontent and
rebellion against the fate which had sentenced him to the assistant
bookkeeper's position in the office of Z. Snow and Co.  At no time
had he reconciled himself to the idea of that position as a
permanent one; some day, somehow he was going to break away and
do--marvelous things.  But occasionally, and usually after a
disagreeable happening in the office, he awoke from his youthful
day dreams of glorious futures to a realization of the dismal to-
day.

The happening which had brought about realization in this instance
was humorous in the eyes of two-thirds of South Harniss's
population.  They were chuckling over it yet.  The majority of
the remaining third were shocked.  Albert, who was primarily
responsible for the whole affair, was neither amused nor shocked;
he was angry and humiliated.

The Reverend Seabury Calvin, of Providence, R. I., had arrived in
town and opened his summer cottage unusually early in the season.
What was quite as important, Mrs. Seabury Calvin had arrived with
him.  The Reverend Calvin, whose stay was in this case merely
temporary, was planning to build an addition to his cottage porch.
Mrs. Calvin, who was the head of the summer "Welfare Workers,"
whatever they were, had called a meeting at the Calvin house to
make Welfare plans for the season.

The lumber for the new porch was ordered of Z. Snow and Co.  The
Reverend Calvin ordered it himself in person.  Albert received the
order.

"I wish this delivered to-morrow without fail," said Mr. Calvin.
Albert promised.

But promises are not always easy to keep.  One of Z. Snow and Co.'s
teams was busy hauling lumber for the new schoolhouse at Bayport.
The other Issachar had commandeered for deliveries at Harniss
Center and refused to give up his claim.  And Laban Keeler, as it
happened, was absent on one of his "vacations."  Captain Zelotes
was attending a directors' meeting at Osham and from there was
going to Boston for a day's stay.

"The ship's in your hands, Al," he had said to his grandson.  "Let
me see how you handle her."

So, in spite of Albert's promise, the Calvin lumber was not
delivered on time.  The Reverend gentleman called to ask why.  His
manner was anything but receptive so far as excuses were concerned.

"Young man," he said loftily, "I am accustomed to do business with
business people.  Did you or did you not promise to deliver my
order yesterday?"

"Why, yes sir, I promised, but we couldn't do it.  We--"

"I don't care to know why you didn't do it.  The fact that you did
not is sufficient.  Will that order of mine be delivered to-day?"

"If it is a possible thing, Mr. Calvin, it--"

"Pardon me.  Will it be delivered?"

The Speranza temper was rising.  "Yes," said the owner of that
temper, succinctly.

"Does yes mean yes, in this case; or does it mean what it meant
before?"

"I have told you why--"

"Never mind.  Young man, if that lumber is not delivered to-day I
shall cancel the order.  Do you understand?"

Albert swallowed hard.  "I tell you, Mr. Calvin, that it shall be
delivered," he said.  "And it will be."

But delivering it was not so easy.  The team simply could NOT be
taken off the schoolhouse job, fulfillment of a contract was
involved there.  And the other horse had gone lame and Issachar
swore by all that was solemn that the animal must not be used.

"Let old Calvin wait till to-morrow," said Issy.  "You can use the
big team then.  And Cap'n Lote'll be home, besides."

But Albert was not going to let "old Calvin" wait.  That lumber was
going to be delivered, if he had to carry it himself, stick by
stick.  He asked Mr. Price if an extra team might not be hired.

"Ain't none," said Issy.  "Besides, where'd your granddad's profits
be if you spent money hirin' extry teams to haul that little mite
of stuff?  I've been in this business a good long spell, and I tell
you--"

He did not get a chance to tell it, for Albert walked off and left
him.  At half-past twelve that afternoon he engaged "Vessie" Young--
christened Sylvester Young and a brother to the driver of the
depot wagon--to haul the Calvin lumber in his rickety, fragrant old
wagon.  Simpson Mullen--commonly called "Simp"--was to help in the
delivery.

Against violent protests from Issy, who declared that Ves Young's
rattle-trap wan't fit to do nothin' but haul fish heads to the
fertilizer factory, the Calvin beams and boards were piled high on
the wagon and with Ves on the driver's seat and Simp perched, like
a disreputable carrion crow on top of the load, the equipage
started.

"There!" exclaimed Albert, with satisfaction.  "He can't say it
wasn't delivered this time according to promise."

"Godfreys!" snorted Issy, gazing after the departing wagon.  "He
won't be able to say nothin' when he sees that git-up--and smells
it.  Ves carts everything in that cart from dead cows to gurry
barrels.  Whew!  I'd hate to have to set on that porch when 'twas
built of that lumber.  And, unless I'm mistook, Ves and Simp had
been havin' a little somethin' strong to take, too."

Mr. Price, as it happened, was not "mistook."  Mr. Young had, as
the South Harniss saying used to be, "had a jug come down" on the
train from Boston that very morning.  The jug was under the seat of
his wagon and its contents had already been sampled by him and by
Simp.  The journey to the Calvin cottage was enlivened by frequent
stops for refreshment.

Consequently it happened that, just as Mrs. Calvin's gathering of
Welfare Workers had reached the cake and chocolate stage in their
proceedings and just as the Reverend Mr. Calvin had risen by
invitation to say a few words of encouragement, the westerly wind
blowing in at the open windows bore to the noses and ears of the
assembled faithful a perfume and a sound neither of which was
sweet.

Above the rattle and squeak of the Young wagon turning in at the
Calvin gate arose the voices of Vessie and Simp uplifted in song.

"'Here's to the good old whiskey, drink 'er daown,'" sang Mr.
Young.

"'Here's to the good old whiskey,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old whiskey,
It makes you feel so frisky,
Drink 'er--'

Git up there, blank blank ye!  What the blankety blank you stoppin'
here for?  Git up!"

The horse was not the only creature that got up.  Mrs. Calvin rose
from her chair and gazed in horror at the window.  Her husband,
being already on his feet, could not rise but he broke off short
the opening sentence of his "few words" and stared and listened.
Each Welfare Worker stared and listened also.

"Git up, you blankety blank blank," repeated Ves Young, with
cheerful enthusiasm.  Mr. Mullen, from the top of the load of
lumber, caroled dreamily on:

"'Here's to the good old rum,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old rum,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old rum,
Ain't you glad that you've got some?
Drink 'er daown!  Drink 'er daown!
Drink 'er daown!'"

And floating, as it were, upon the waves of melody came the odor of
the Young wagon, an odor combining deceased fish and late lamented
cow and goodness knows what beside.

The dissipated vehicle stopped beneath the parlor windows of the
Calvin cottage.  Mr. Young called to his assistant.

"Here we be, Simp!" he yelled.  "A-a-ll ashore that's goin' ashore!
Wake up there, you unmentionably described old rum barrel and help
unload this everlastingly condemned lumber."

Mr. Calvin rushed to the window.  "What does this mean?" he
demanded, in frothing indignation.

Vessie waved at him reassuringly.  "'Sall right, Mr. Calvin," he
shouted.  "Here's your lumber from Ze-lotes Snow and Co., South
Harniss, Mass., U. S. A.  'Sall right.  Let 'er go, Simp!  Let 'er
blankety-blank go!"

Mr. Mullen responded with alacrity and a whoop.  A half dozen
boards crashed to the ground beneath the parlor windows.  Mrs.
Calvin rushed to her husband's side.

"This is DREADFUL, Seabury!" she cried.  "Send those creatures and--
and that horrible wagon away at once."

The Reverend Calvin tried to obey orders.  He commanded Mr. Young
to go away from there that very moment.  Vessie was surprised.

"Ain't this your lumber?" he demanded.

"It doesn't make any difference whether it is or not, I--"

"Didn't you tell Z. Snow and Co. that this lumber'd got to be
delivered to-day or you'd cancel the order?"

"Never mind.  That is my business, sir.  You--"

"Hold on!  Ho-o-ld on!  _I_ got a business, too.  My business is
deliverin' what I'm paid to deliver.  Al Speranzy he says to me:
'Ves,' he says, 'if you don't deliver that lumber to old man Calvin
to-day you don't get no money, see.  Will you deliver it?'  Says I,
'You bet your crashety-blank life I'll (hic) d'liver it!  What I
say I'll do, I'll do!'  And I'm deliverin' it, ain't I?  Hey?
Ain't I?  Well, then, what the--"  And so forth and at length,
while Mrs. Calvin collapsed half fainting in an easy-chair, and
horrified Welfare Workers covered their ears--and longed to cover
their noses.

The lumber was delivered that day.  Its delivery was, from the
viewpoint of Messrs. Young and Mullen, a success.  The spring
meeting of the Welfare Workers was not a success.

The following day Mr. Calvin called at the office of Z. Snow and
Co.  He had things to say and said them.  Captain Zelotes, who had
returned from Boston, listened.  Then he called his grandson.

"Tell him what you've just told me, Mr. Calvin," he said.

The reverend gentleman told it, with added details.

"And in my opinion, if you'll excuse me, Captain Snow," he said, in
conclusion, "this young man knew what he was doing when he sent
those drunken scoundrels to my house.  He did it purposely, I am
convinced."

Captain Zelotes looked at him.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why, because--because of--of what I said to him--er--er--when I
called here yesterday morning.  He--I presume he took offense and--
and this outrage is the result.  I am convinced that--"

"Wait a minute.  What did you say for him to take offense at?"

"I demanded that order should be delivered as promised.  I am
accustomed to do business with business men and--"

"Hold on just a minute more, Mr. Calvin.  We don't seem to be
gettin' at the clam in this shell as fast as we'd ought to.  Al,
what have you got to say about all this business?"

Albert was white, almost as white as when he fought Sam Thatcher,
but as he stood up to Sam so also did he face the irate clergyman.
He told of the latter's visit to the office, of the threat to
cancel the order unless delivery was promised that day, of how his
promise to deliver was exacted, of his effort to keep that promise.

"I HAD to deliver it, Grandfather," he said hotly.  "He had all but
called me a liar and--and by George, I wasn't going to--"

His grandfather held up a warning hand.

"Sshh!  Ssh!" he said.  "Go on with your yarn, boy."

Albert told of the lame horse, of his effort to hire another team,
and finally how in desperation he had engaged Ves Young as a last
resort.  The captain's face was serious but there was the twinkle
under his heavy brows.  He pulled at his beard.

"Humph!" he grunted.  "Did you know Ves and Simp had been drinkin'
when you hired 'em?"

"Of course I didn't.  After they had gone Issy said he suspected
that they had been drinking a little, but _I_ didn't know it.  All
I wanted was to prove to HIM," with a motion toward Mr. Calvin,
"that I kept my word."

Captain Zelotes pulled at his beard.  "All right, Al," he said,
after a moment; "you can go."

Albert went out of the private office.  After he had gone the
captain turned to his irate customer.

"I'm sorry this happened, Mr. Calvin," he said, "and if Keeler or I
had been here it probably wouldn't.  But," he added, "as far as I
can see, the boy did what he thought was the best thing to do.
And," the twinkle reappeared in the gray eyes, "you sartinly did
get your lumber when 'twas promised."

Mr. Calvin stiffened.  He had his good points, but he suffered from
what Laban Keeler once called "ingrowin' importance," and this
ailment often affected his judgment.  Also he had to face Mrs.
Calvin upon his return home.

"Do I understand," he demanded, "that you are excusing that young
man for putting that outrage upon me?"

"We-ll, as I say, I'm sorry it happened.  But, honest, Mr. Calvin,
I don't know's the boy's to blame so very much, after all.  He
delivered your lumber, and that's somethin'."

"Is that all you have to say, Captain Snow?  Is that--that impudent
young clerk of yours to go unpunished?"

"Why, yes, I guess likely he is."

"Then I shall NEVER buy another dollar's worth of your house again,
sir."

Captain Zelotes bowed.  "I'm sorry to lose your trade, Mr. Calvin,"
he said.  "Good mornin'."

Albert, at his desk in the outer office, was waiting rebelliously
to be called before his grandfather and upbraided.  And when so
called he was in a mood to speak his mind.  He would say a few
things, no matter what happened in consequence.  But he had no
chance to say them.  Captain Zelotes did not mention the Calvin
affair to him, either that day or afterward.  Albert waited and
waited, expecting trouble, but the trouble, so far as his
grandfather was concerned, did not materialize.  He could not
understand it.

But if in that office there was silence concerning the unusual
delivery of the lumber for the Calvin porch, outside there was talk
enough and to spare.  Each Welfare Worker talked when she reached
home and the story spread.  Small boys shouted after Albert when he
walked down the main street, demanding to know how Ves Young's cart
was smellin' these days.  When he entered the post office some one
in the crowd was almost sure to hum, "Here's to the good old
whiskey, drink her down."  On the train on the way to the picnic,
girls and young fellows had slyly nagged him about it.  The affair
and its consequence were the principal causes of his mood that day;
this particular "Portygee streak" was due to it.

The path along the edge of the high bluff entered a grove of
scraggy pitch pines about a mile from the lighthouse and the picnic
ground.  Albert stalked gloomily through the shadows of the little
grove and emerged on the other side.  There he saw another person
ahead of him on the path.  This other person was a girl.  He
recognized her even at this distance.  She was Helen Kendall,

She and he had not been quite as friendly of late.  Not that there
was any unfriendliness between them, but she was teaching in the
primary school and, as her father had not been well, spent most of
her evenings at home.  During the early part of the winter he had
called occasionally but, somehow, it had seemed to him that she
was not quite as cordial, or as interested in his society and
conversation as she used to be.  It was but a slight indifference
on her part, perhaps, but Albert Speranza was not accustomed to
indifference on the part of his feminine acquaintances.  So he did
not call again.  He had seen her at the picnic ground and they had
spoken, but not at any length.

And he did not care to speak with her now.  He had left the
pavilion because of his desire to be alone, and that desire still
persisted.  However, she was some little distance ahead of him and
he waited in the edge of the grove until she should go over the
crest of the little hill at the next point.

But she did not go over the crest.  Instead, when she reached it,
she walked to the very edge of the bluff and stood there looking
off at the ocean.  The sea breeze ruffled her hair and blew her
skirts about her and she made a pretty picture.  But to Albert it
seemed that she was standing much too near the edge.  She could not
see it, of course, but from where he stood he could see that the
bank at that point was much undercut by the winter rains and winds,
and although the sod looked firm enough from above, in reality
there was little to support it.  Her standing there made him a
trifle uneasy and he had a mind to shout and warn her.  He
hesitated, however, and as he watched she stepped back of her own
accord.  He turned, re-entered the grove and started to walk back
to the pavilion.

He had scarcely done so when he heard a short scream followed by a
thump and a rumbling, rattling sound.  He turned like a flash, his
heart pounding violently.

The bluff edge was untenanted.  A semi-circular section of the sod
where Helen had stood was missing.  From the torn opening where it
had been rose a yellow cloud of dust.

CHAPTER VI

A goodly number of the South Harniss "natives," those who had not
seen him play tennis, would have been willing to swear that running
was, for Albert Speranza, an impossibility.  His usual gait was a
rather languid saunter.  They would have changed their minds had
they seen him now.

He ran along that path as he had run in school at the last track
meet, where he had been second in the hundred-yard dash.  He
reached the spot where the sod had broken and, dropping on his
knees, looked fearfully over.  The dust was still rising, the sand
and pebbles were still rattling in a diminishing shower down to the
beach so far below.  But he did not see what he had so feared to
see.

What he did see, however, was neither pleasant nor altogether
reassuring.  The bluff below the sod at its top dropped sheer and
undercut for perhaps ten feet.  Then the sand and clay sloped
outward and the slope extended down for another fifty feet, its
surface broken by occasional clinging chunks of beach grass.  Then
it broke sharply again, a straight drop of eighty feet to the
mounds and dunes bordering the beach.

Helen had of course fallen straight to the upper edge of the slope,
where she had struck feet first, and from there had slid and rolled
to the very edge of the long drop to the beach.  Her skirt had
caught in the branches of an enterprising bayberry bush which had
managed to find roothold there, and to this bush and a clump of
beach grass she was clinging, her hands outstretched and her body
extended along the edge of the clay precipice.

Albert gasped.

"Helen!" he called breathlessly.

She turned her head and looked up at him.  Her face was white, but
she did not scream.

"Helen!" cried Albert, again.  "Helen, do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Are you badly hurt?"

"No.  No, I don't think so."

"Can you hold on just as you are for a few minutes?"

"Yes, I--I think so."

"You've got to, you know.  Here!  You're not going to faint, are
you?"

"No, I--I don't think I am."

"You can't!  You mustn't!  Here!  Don't you do it!  Stop!"

There was just a trace of his grandfather in the way he shouted the
order.  Whether or not the vigor of the command produced the result
is a question, but at any rate she did not faint.

"Now you stay right where you are," he ordered again.  "And hang on
as tight as you can.  I'm coming down."

Come down he did, swinging over the brink with his face to the
bank, dropping on his toes to the upper edge of the slope and
digging boots and fingers into the clay to prevent sliding further.

"Hang on!" he cautioned, over his shoulder.  "I'll be there in a
second.  There!  Now wait until I get my feet braced.  Now give me
your hand--your left hand.  Hold on with your right."

Slowly and cautiously, clinging to his hand, he pulled her away
from the edge of the precipice and helped her to scramble up to
where he clung.  There she lay and panted.  He looked at her
apprehensively.

"Don't go and faint now, or any foolishness like that," he ordered
sharply.

"No, no, I won't.  I'll try not to.  But how are we ever going to
climb up--up there?"

Above them and at least four feet out of reach, even if they stood
up, and that would be a frightfully risky proceeding, the sod
projected over their heads like the eaves of a house.

Helen glanced up at it and shuddered.

"Oh, how CAN we?" she gasped.

"We can't.  And we won't try."

"Shall we call for help?"

"Not much use.  Nobody to hear us.  Besides, we can always do that
if we have to.  I think I see a way out of the mess.  If we can't
get up, perhaps we can get down."

"Get DOWN?"

"Yes, it isn't all as steep as it is here.  I believe we might sort
of zig-zag down if we were careful.  You hold on here just as you
are; I'm going to see what it looks like around this next point."

The "point" was merely a projection of the bluff about twenty feet
away.  He crawfished along the face of the slope, until he could
see beyond it.  Helen kept urging him to be careful--oh, be
careful!

"Of course I'll be careful," he said curtly.  "I don't want to
break my neck.  Yes--yes, by George, it IS easier around there!  We
could get down a good way.  Here, here; don't start until you take
my hand.  And be sure your feet are braced before you move.  Come
on, now."

"I--I don't believe I can."

"Of course you can.  You've GOT to.  Come on.  Don't look down.
Look at the sand right in front of you."

Getting around that point was a decidedly ticklish operation, but
they managed it, he leading the way, making sure of his foothold
before moving and then setting her foot in the print his own had
made.  On the other side of the projection the slope was less
abrupt and extended much nearer to the ground below.  They
zigzagged down until nearly to the edge of the steep drop.  Then
Albert looked about for a new path to safety.  He found it still
farther on.

"It takes us down farther," he said, "and there are bushes to hold
on to after we get there.  Come on, Helen!  Brace up now, be a
sport!"

She was trying her best to obey orders, but being a sport was no
slight undertaking under the circumstances.  When they reached the
clump of bushes her guide ordered her to rest.

"Just stop and catch your breath," he said.  "The rest is going to
be easier, I think.  And we haven't so very far to go."

He was too optimistic.  It was anything but easy; in fact, the last
thirty feet was almost a tumble, owing to the clay giving way
beneath their feet.  But there was soft sand to tumble into and
they reached the beach safe, though in a dishevelled, scratched and
thoroughly smeared condition.  Then Helen sat down and covered her
face with her hands.  Her rescuer gazed triumphantly up at the
distant rim of broken sod and grinned.

"There, by George!" he exclaimed.  "We did it, didn't we?  Say,
that was fun!"

She removed her hands and looked at him.

"WHAT did you say it was?" she faltered.

"I said it was fun.  It was great!  Like something out of a book,
eh?"

She began to laugh hysterically.  He turned to her in indignant
surprise.  "What are you laughing at?" he demanded.

"Oh--oh, don't, please!  Just let me laugh.  If I don't laugh I
shall cry, and I don't want to do that.  Just don't talk to me for
a few minutes, that's all."

When the few minutes were over she rose to her feet.

"Now we must get back to the pavilion, I suppose," she said.  "My,
but we are sights, though!  Do let's see if we can't make ourselves
a little more presentable."

She did her best to wipe off the thickest of the clay smears with
her handkerchief, but the experiment was rather a failure.  As they
started to walk back along the beach she suddenly turned to him and
said:

"I haven't told you how--how much obliged I am for--for what you
did.  If you hadn't come, I don't know what would have happened to
me."

"Oh, that's all right," he answered lightly.  He was reveling in
the dramatic qualities of the situation.  She did not speak again
for some time and he, too, walked on in silence enjoying his day
dream.  Suddenly he became aware that she was looking at him
steadily and with an odd expression on her face.

"What is it?" he asked.  "Why do you look at me that way?"

Her answer was, as usual, direct and frank.

"I was thinking about you," she said.  "I was thinking that I must
have been mistaken, partly mistaken, at least."

"Mistaken?  About me, do you mean?"

"Yes; I had made up my mind that you were--well, one sort of
fellow, and now I see that you are an entirely different sort.
That is, you've shown that you can be different."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Why, I mean--I mean--  Oh, I'm sure I had better not say it.  You
won't like it, and will think I had better mind my own affairs--
which I should do, of course."

"Go on; say it."

She looked at him again, evidently deliberating whether or not to
speak her thought.  Then she said:

"Well, I will say it.  Not that it is really my business, but
because in a way it is begging your pardon, and I ought to do that.
You see, I had begun to believe that you were--that you were--well,
that you were not very--very active, you know."

"Active?  Say, look here, Helen!  What--"

"Oh, I don't wonder you don't understand.  I mean that you were
rather--rather fond of not doing much--of--of--"

"Eh?  Not doing much?  That I was lazy, do you mean?"

"Why, not exactly lazy, perhaps, but--but--  Oh, how CAN I say just
what I mean!  I mean that you were always saying that you didn't
like the work in your grandfather's office."

"Which I don't."

"And that some day you were going to do something else."

Which I am."

"Write or act or do something--"

"Yes, and that's true, too."

"But you don't, you know.  You don't do anything.  You've been
talking that way ever since I knew you, calling this a one-horse
town and saying how you hated it, and that you weren't going to
waste your life here, and all that, but you keep staying here and
doing just the same things.  The last long talk we had together you
told me you knew you could write poems and plays and all sorts of
things, you just felt that you could.  You were going to begin
right away.  You said that some months ago, and you haven't done
any writing at all.  Now, have you?"

"No-o.  No, but that doesn't mean I shan't by and by."

"But you didn't begin as you said you would.  That was last spring,
more than a year ago, and I don't believe you have tried to write a
single poem.  Have you?"

He was beginning to be ruffled.  It was quite unusual for any one,
most of all for a girl, to talk to him in this way.

"I don't know that I have," he said loftily.  "And, anyway, I don't
see that it is--is--"

"My business whether you have or not.  I know it isn't.  I'm sorry
I spoke.  But, you see, I--  Oh, well, never mind.  And I do want
you to know how much I appreciate your helping me as you did just
now.  I don't know how to thank you for that."

But thanks were not exactly what he wanted at that moment.

"Go ahead and say the rest," he ordered, after a short pause.
"You've said so much that you had better finish it, seems to me.
I'm lazy, you think.  What else am I?"

"You're brave, awfully brave, and you are so strong and quick--yes,
and--and--masterful; I think that is the right word.  You ordered
me about as if I were a little girl.  I didn't want to keep still,
as you told me to; I wanted to scream.  And I wanted to faint, too,
but you wouldn't let me.  I had never seen you that way before.  I
didn't know you could be like that.  That is what surprises me so.
That is why I said you were so different."

Here was balm for wounded pride.  Albert's chin lifted.  "Oh, that
was nothing," he said.  "Whatever had to be done must be done right
off, I could see that.  You couldn't hang on where you were very
long."

She shuddered.  "No," she replied, "I could not.  But _I_ couldn't
think WHAT to do, and you could.  Yes, and did it, and made me do
it."

The chin lifted still more and the Speranza chest began to expand.
Helen's next remark was in the natures of a reducer for the said
expansion.

"If you could be so prompt and strong and--and energetic then," she
said, "I can't help wondering why you aren't like that all the
time.  I had begun to think you were just--just--"

"Lazy, eh?" he suggested.

"Why--why, no-o, but careless and indifferent and with not much
ambition, certainly.  You had talked so much about writing and yet
you never tried to write anything, that--that--"

"That you thought I was all bluff.  Thanks!  Any more compliments?"

She turned on him impulsively.  "Oh, don't!" she exclaimed.
"Please don't!  I know what I am saying sounds perfectly horrid,
and especially now when you have just saved me from being badly
hurt, if not killed.  But don't you see that--that I am saying it
because I am interested in you and sure you COULD do so much if you
only would?  If you would only try."

This speech was a compound of sweet and bitter.  Albert
characteristically selected the sweet.

"Helen," he asked, in his most confidential tone, "would you like
to have me try and write something?  Say, would you?"

"Of course I would.  Oh, will you?"

"Well, if YOU asked me I might.  For your sake, you know."

She stopped and stamped her foot impatiently.

"Oh, DON'T be silly!" she exclaimed.  "I don't want you to do it
for my sake.  I want you to do it for your own sake.  Yes, and for
your grandfather's sake."

"My grandfather's sake!  Great Scott, why do you drag him in?  HE
doesn't want me to write poetry."

"He wants you to do something, to succeed.  I know that."

"He wants me to stay here and help Labe Keeler and Issy Price.  He
wants me to spend all my life in that office of his; that's what HE
wants.  Now hold on, Helen!  I'm not saying anything against the
old fellow.  He doesn't like me, I know, but--"

"You DON'T know.  He does like you.  Or he wants to like you very
much indeed.  He would like to have you carry on the Snow Company's
business after he has gone, but if you can't--or won't--do that, I
know he would be very happy to see you succeed at anything--
anything."

Albert laughed scornfully.  "Even at writing poetry?" he asked.

"Why, yes, at writing; although of course he doesn't know a thing
about it and can't understand how any one can possibly earn a
living that way.  He has read or heard about poets and authors
starving in garrets and he thinks they're all like that.  But if
you could only show him and prove to him that you could succeed by
writing, he would be prouder of you than any one else would be.  I
know it."

He regarded her curiously.  "You seem to know a lot about my
grandfather," he observed.

"I do know something about him.  He and I have been friends ever
since I was a little girl, and I like him very much indeed.  If he
were my grandfather I should be proud of him.  And I think you
ought to be."

She flashed the last sentence at him in a sudden heat of enthusiasm.
He was surprised at her manner.

"Gee!  You ARE strong for the old chap, aren't you?" he said.
"Well, admitting that he is all right, just why should I be proud
of him?  I AM proud of my father, of course; he was somebody in the
world."

"You mean he was somebody just because he was celebrated and lots
of people knew about him.  Celebrated people aren't the only ones
who do worth while things.  If I were you, I should be proud of
Captain Zelotes because he is what he has made himself.  Nobody
helped him; he did it all.  He was a sea captain and a good one.
He has been a business man and a good one, even if the business
isn't so very big.  Everybody here in South Harniss--yes, and all
up and down the Cape--knows of him and respects him.  My father
says in all the years he has preached in his church he has never
heard a single person as much as hint that Captain Snow wasn't
absolutely honest, absolutely brave, and the same to everybody,
rich or poor.  And all his life he has worked and worked hard.
What HE has belongs to him; he has earned it.  That's why I should
be proud of him if he were my grandfather."

Her enthusiasm had continued all through this long speech.  Albert
whistled.

"Whew!" he exclaimed.  "Regular cheer for Zelotes, fellows!  One--
two--!  Grandfather's got one person to stand up for him, I'll say
that.  But why this sudden outbreak about him, anyhow?  It was me
you were talking about in the beginning--though I didn't notice any
loud calls for cheers in that direction," he added.

She ignored the last part of the speech.  "I think you yourself
made me think of him," she replied.  "Sometimes you remind me of
him.  Not often, but once in a while.  Just now, when we were
climbing down that awful place you seemed almost exactly like him.
The way you knew just what to do all the time, and your not
hesitating a minute, and the way you took command of the situation
and," with a sudden laugh, "bossed me around; every bit of that was
like him, and not like you at all.  Oh, I don't mean that," she
added hurriedly.  "I mean it wasn't like you as you usually are.
It was different."

"Humph!  Well, I must say--  See here, Helen Kendall, what is it
you expect me to do; sail in and write two or three sonnets and a
'Come Into the Garden, Maud,' some time next week?  You're terribly
keen about Grandfather, but he has rather got the edge on me so far
as age goes.  He's in the sixties, and I'm just about nineteen."

"When he was nineteen he was first mate of a ship."

"Yes, so I've heard him say.  Maybe first-mating is a little bit
easier than writing poetry."

"And maybe it isn't.  At any rate, he didn't know whether it was
easy or not until he tried.  Oh, THAT'S what I would like to see
you do--TRY to do something.  You could do it, too, almost anything
you tried, I do believe.  I am confident you could.  But--  Oh,
well, as you said at the beginning, it isn't my business at all,
and I've said ever and ever so much more than I meant to.  Please
forgive me, if you can.  I think my tumble and all the rest must
have made me silly.  I'm sorry, Albert.  There are the steps up to
the pavilion.  See them!"

He was tramping on beside her, his hands in his pockets.  He did
not look at the long flight of steps which had suddenly come into
view around the curve of the bluff.  When he did look up and speak
it was in a different tone, some such tone as she had heard him use
during her rescue.

"All right," he said, with decision, "I'll show you whether I can
try or not.  I know you think I won't, but I will.  I'm going up to
my room to-night and I'm going to try to write something or other.
It may be the rottenest poem that ever was ground out, but I'll
grind it if it kills me."

She was pleased, that was plain, but she shook her head.

"Not to-night, Albert," she said.  "To-night, after the picnic, is
Father's reception at the church.  Of course you'll come to that."

"Of course I won't.  Look here, you've called me lazy and
indifferent and a hundred other pet names this afternoon.  Well,
this evening I'll make you take some of 'em back.  Reception be
hanged!  I'm going to write to-night."

That evening both Mrs. Snow and Rachel Ellis were much disturbed
because Albert, pleading a headache, begged off from attendance at
the reception to the Reverend Mr. Kendall.  Either, or both ladies
would have been only too willing to remain at home and nurse the
sufferer through his attack, but he refused to permit the sacrifice
on their part.  After they had gone his headache disappeared and,
supplied with an abundance of paper, pens and ink, he sat down at
the table in his room to invoke the Muse.  The invocation lasted
until three A. M.  At that hour, with a genuine headache, but a
sense of triumph which conquered pain, Albert climbed into bed.
Upon the table lay a poem, a six stanza poem, having these words at
its head:

TO MY LADY'S SPRING HAT
By A. M. Speranza.

The following forenoon he posted that poem to the editor of The
Cape Cod Item.  And three weeks later it appeared in the pages of
that journal.  Of course there was no pecuniary recompense for its
author, and the fact was indisputable that the Item was generally
only too glad to publish contributions which helped to fill its
columns.  But, nevertheless, Albert Speranza had written a poem and
that poem had been published.

CHAPTER VII

It was Rachel who first discovered "To My Lady's Spring Hat" in the
Item three weeks later.  She came rushing into the sitting room
brandishing the paper.

"My soul!  My soul!  My soul!" she cried.

Olive, sitting sewing by the window, was, naturally, somewhat
startled.  "Mercy on us, Rachel!" she exclaimed.  "What IS it?"

"Look!" cried the housekeeper, pointing to the contribution in the
"Poets' Corner" as Queen Isabella may have pointed at the evidence
of her proteges discovery of a new world.  "LOOK!"

Mrs. Snow looked, read the verses to herself, and then aloud.

"Why, I declare, they're real sort of pretty, ain't they?" she
exclaimed, in astonished admiration.

"Pretty!  They're perfectly elegant!  And right here in the paper
for all hands to see.  Ain't you PROUD of him, Mrs. Snow?"

Olive had been growing more and more proud of her handsome grandson
ever since his arrival.  She was prouder still now and said so.
Rachel nodded, triumphantly.

"He'll be a Robert Penfold afore he dies, or I miss MY guess!" she
declared.

She showed it to feminine acquaintances all over town, and Olive,
when callers came, took pains to see that a copy of the Item,
folded with the "Poets' Corner" uppermost, lay on the center table.
Customers, dropping in at the office, occasionally mentioned the
poem to its author.

"See you had a piece in the Item, Al," was their usual way of
referring to it.  "Pretty cute piece 'twas, too, seemed to me.
Say, that girl of yours must have SOME spring bunnit.  Ho, ho!"

Issachar deigned to express approval, approval qualified with
discerning criticism of course, but approval nevertheless.

"Pretty good piece, Al," he observed.  "Pretty good.  Glad to see
you done so well.  Course you made one little mistake, but 'twan't
a very big one.  That part where you said--  What was it, now?
Where'd I put that piece of poetry?  Oh, yes, here 'tis!  Where you
said--er--er--

'It floats upon her golden curls
As froth upon the wave.'

Now of course nothin'--a hat or nothin' else--is goin' to float on
top of a person's head.  Froth floatin', that's all right, you
understand; but even if you took froth right out of the water and
slapped it up onto anybody's hair 'twouldn't FLOAT up there.  If
you'd said,

'It SETS up onto her golden curls,
Same as froth sets on top of a wave.'

that would have been all right and true.  But there, don't feel bad
about it.  It's only a little mistake, same as anybody's liable to
make.  Nine persons out of ten wouldn't have noticed it.  I'm extry
partic'lar, I presume likely.  I'm findin' mistakes like that all
the time."

Laban's comment was less critical, perhaps, but more reserved.

"It's pretty good, Al," he said.  "Yes--er--yes, sir, it's pretty
good.  It ain't all new, there's some of it that's been written
before, but I rather guess that might have been said about
Shakespeare's poetry when he fust commenced.  It's pretty good, Al.
Yes--yes, yes.  It is so."

Albert was inclined to resent the qualified strain in the
bookkeeper's praise.  He was tempted to be sarcastic.

"Well," he observed, "of course you've read so much real poetry
that you ought to know."

Laban nodded, slowly.  "I've read a good deal," he said quietly.
"Readin' is one of the few things I ain't made a failure of in this
life.  Um-hm.  One of the few.  Yes yes--yes."

He dipped his pen in the inkwell and carefully made an entry in the
ledger.  His assistant felt a sudden pang of compunction.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Keeler," he said.  "That was pretty fresh
of me.  I'm sorry."

Laban looked up in mild surprise.  "Sorry?" he repeated.  "What
for? . . .  Oh, that's all right, Al, that's all right.  Lord knows
I'm the last one on earth who'd ought to criticize anybody.  All I
had in mind in sayin' what I did was to--well, to kind of keep you
from bein' too well satisfied and not try harder on the next one.
It don't pay to be too well satisfied. . . .  Years ago, I can
remember, _I_ was pretty well satisfied--with myself and my work.
Sounds like a joke, I know, but 'twas so. . . .  Well, I've had a
nice long chance to get over it.  Um-hm.  Yes--yes.  So I have, so
I have."

Only Captain Zelotes at first said nothing about the poem.  He read
it, his wife saw to that, but his comment even to her was a non-
committal grunt.

"But don't you think it's real sort of pretty, Zelotes?" she asked.

The captain grunted again.  "Why, I guess likely 'tis if you say
so, Mother.  I don't know much about such things."

"But everybody says it is."

"Want to know!  Well, then 'twon't make much difference whether I
say it or not."

"But ain't you goin' to say a word to Albert about it, Zelotes?"

"Humph!  I don't know's I know what to say."

"Why, say you like it."

"Ye-es, and if I do he'll keep on writin' more.  That's exactly
what I don't want him to do.  Come now, Mother, be sensible.  This
piece of his may be good or it may not, _I_ wouldn't undertake to
say.  But this I do know: I don't want the boy to spend his time
writin' poetry slush for that 'Poets' Corner.'  Letitia Makepeace
did that--she had a piece in there about every week--and she died
in the Taunton asylum."

"But, Zelotes, it wasn't her poetry got her into the asylum."

"Wan't it?  Well, she was in the poorhouse afore that.  I don't
know whether 'twas her poetryin' that got her in there, but I know
darned well it didn't get her out."

"But ain't you goin' to say one word?  'Twould encourage him so."

"Good Lord!  We don't want to encourage him, do we?  If he was
takin' to thievin' you wouldn't encourage him in that, would you?"

"Thievin'!  Zelotes Snow, you don't mean to say you compare a poet
to a THIEF!"

The captain grinned.  "No-o, Mother," he observed drily.  "Sometimes
a thief can manage to earn a livin' at his job.  But there, there,
don't feel bad.  I'll say somethin' to Al, long's you think I ought
to."

The something was not much, and yet Captain Zelotes really meant it
to be kindly and to sound like praise.  But praising a thing of
which you have precious little understanding and with which you
have absolutely no sympathy is a hard job.

"See you had a piece in the Item this week, Al," observed the
captain.

"Why--yes, sir," said Albert.

"Um-hm.  I read it.  I don't know much about such things, but they
tell me it is pretty good."

"Thank you, sir."

"Eh?  Oh, you're welcome."

That was all.  Perhaps considering its source it was a good deal,
but Albert was not of the age where such considerations are likely
to be made.

Helen's praise was warm and enthusiastic.  "I knew you could do it
if you only would," she declared.  "And oh, I'm SO glad you did!
Now you must keep on trying."

That bit of advice was quite superfluous.  Young Speranza having
sampled the sublime intoxication of seeing himself in print, was
not ready to sober off yet a while.  He continued to bombard the
Item with verses.  They were invariably accepted, but when he sent
to a New York magazine a poem which he considered a gem, the
promptness with which it was returned staggered his conceit and was
in that respect a good thing for him.

However, he kept on trying.  Helen would not have permitted him to
give up even if he had wished.  She was quite as much interested in
his literary aspirations as he was himself and her encouragement
was a great help to him.  After months of repeated trial and
repeated rejection he opened an envelope bearing the name of a
fairly well-known periodical to find therein a kindly note stating
that his poem, "Sea Spaces" had been accepted.  And a week later
came a check for ten dollars.  That was a day of days.  Incidentally
it was the day of a trial balance in the office and the assistant
bookkeeper's additions and multiplications contained no less than
four ghastly errors.

The next afternoon there was an interview in the back office.
Captain Zelotes and his grandson were the participants.  The
subject discussed was "Business versus Poetry," and there was a
marked difference of opinion.  Albert had proclaimed his triumph at
home, of course, had exhibited his check, had been the recipient of
hugs and praises from his grandmother and had listened to paeans
and hallelujahs from Mrs. Ellis.  When he hurried around to the
parsonage after supper, Helen had been excited and delighted at the
good news.  Albert had been patted on the back quite as much as was
good for a young man whose bump of self-esteem was not inclined
toward under-development.  When he entered the private office of Z.
Snow and Co. in answer to his grandfather's summons, he did so
light-heartedly, triumphantly, with self-approval written large
upon him.

But though he came like a conquering hero, he was not received like
one.  Captain Zelotes sat at his desk, the copy of the Boston
morning paper which he had been reading sticking out of the waste
basket into which it had been savagely jammed a half hour before.
The news had not been to the captain's liking.  These were the
September days of 1914; the German Kaiser was marching forward "mit
Gott" through Belgium, and it began to look as if he could not be
stopped short of Paris.  Consequently, Captain Zelotes, his
sympathies from the first with England and the Allies, was not
happy in his newspaper reading.

Albert entered, head erect and eyes shining.  If Gertie Kendrick
could have seen him then she would have fallen down and worshiped.
His grandfather looked at him in silence for a moment, tapping his
desk with the stump of a pencil.  Albert, too, was silent; he was
already thinking of another poem with which to dazzle the world,
and his head was among the rosy clouds.

"Sit down, Al," said Captain Zelotes shortly.

Albert reluctantly descended to earth and took the battered
armchair standing beside the desk.  The captain tapped with his
pencil upon the figure-covered sheet of paper before him.  Then he
said:

"Al, you've been here three years come next December, ain't you?"

"Why--yes, sir, I believe I have."

"Um-hm, you have.  And for the heft of that time you've been in
this office."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes.  And Labe Keeler and I have been doin' our best to make a
business man out of you.  You understand we have, don't you?"

Albert looked puzzled and a little uneasy.  Into his roseate dreams
was just beginning to filter the idea that his grandfather's tone
and manner were peculiar.

"Why, yes, sir, of course I understand it," he replied.

"Well, I asked you because I wasn't quite sure whether you did or
not.  Can you guess what this is I've got on my desk here?"

He tapped the figure-covered sheet of paper once more.  Before
Albert could speak the captain answered his own question.

"I'll tell you what it is," he went on.  "It's one of the latest
samples of your smartness as a business man.  I presume likely you
know that Laban worked here in this office until three o'clock this
mornin', didn't you?"

Albert did not know it.  Mr. Keeler had told him nothing of the
sort.

"Why, no," he replied.  "Did he?  What for?"

"Ye-es, he did.  And what for?  Why, just to find out what was the
matter with his trial balance, that's all.  When one of Labe's
trial balances starts out for snug harbor and ends up on a reef
with six foot of water in her hold, naturally Labe wants to get her
afloat and pumped dry as quick as possible.  He ain't used to it,
for one thing, and it makes him nervous."

Albert's uneasiness grew.  When his grandfather's speech became
sarcastic and nautical, the young man had usually found that there
was trouble coming for somebody.

"I--I'm sorry Laban had to stay so late," he stammered.  "I should
have been glad to stay and help him, but he didn't ask me."

"No-o.  Well, it may possibly be that he cal'lated he was carryin'
about all your help that the craft would stand, as 'twas.  Any more
might sink her.  See here, young feller--"  Captain Zelotes dropped
his quiet sarcasm and spoke sharp and brisk:  "See here," he said,
"do you realize that this sheet of paper I've got here is what
stands for a day's work done by you yesterday?  And on this sheet
there was no less than four silly mistakes that a child ten years
old hadn't ought to make, that an able-bodied idiot hadn't ought to
make.  But YOU made 'em, and they kept Labe Keeler here till three
o'clock this mornin'.  Now what have you got to say for yourself?"

As a matter of fact, Albert had very little to say, except that he
was sorry, and that his grandfather evidently did not consider
worth the saying.  He waved the protestation aside.

"Sorry!" he repeated impatiently.  "Of course you're sorry, though
even at that I ain't sure you're sorry enough.  Labe was sorry,
too, I don't doubt, when his bedtime went by and he kept runnin'
afoul of one of your mistakes after another.  I'm sorry, darned
sorry, to find out that you can make such blunders after three
years on board here under such teachin' as you've had.  But bein'
sorry don't help any to speak of.  Any fool can be sorry for his
foolishness, but if that's all, it don't help a whole lot.  Is
bein' sorry the best excuse you've got to offer?  What made you
make the mistakes in the first place?"

Albert's face was darkly red under the lash of his grandfather's
tongue.  Captain Zelotes and he had had disagreements and verbal
encounters before, but never since they had been together had the
captain spoken like this.  And the young fellow was no longer
seventeen, he was twenty.  The flush began to fade from his cheeks
and the pallor which meant the rise of the Speranza temper took its
place.

"What made you make such fool blunders?" repeated the captain.
"You knew better, didn't you?"

"Yes," sullenly, "I suppose I did."

"You know mighty well you did.  And as nigh as I can larn from what
I got out of Laban--which wasn't much; I had to pump it out of him
word by word--this ain't the first set of mistakes you've made.
You make 'em right along.  If it wasn't for him helpin' you out and
coverin' up your mistakes, this firm would be in hot water with its
customers two-thirds of the time and the books would be fust-rate
as a puzzle, somethin' to use for a guessin' match, but plaguey
little good as straight accounts of a goin' concern.  Now what
makes you act this way?  Eh?  What makes you?"

"Oh, I don't know.  See here, Grandfather--"

"Hold on a minute.  You don't know, eh?  Well, I know.  It ain't
because you ain't smart enough to keep a set of books and keep 'em
well.  I don't expect you to be a Labe Keeler; there ain't many
bookkeepers like him on this earth.  But I do know you're smart
enough to keep my books and keep 'em as they'd ought to be, if you
want to keep 'em.  The trouble with you is that you don't want to.
You've got too much of your good-for-nothin--"  Captain Lote pulled
up short, cleared his throat, and went on:  "You've got too much
'poet' in you," he declared, "that's what's the matter."

Albert leaned forward.  "That wasn't what you were going to say,"
he said quickly.  "You were going to say that I had too much of my
father in me."

It was the captain's turn to redden.  "Eh?" he stammered.  "Why,
I--I--  How do you know what I was goin' to say?"

"Because I do.  You say it all the time.  Or, if you don't say it,
you look it.  There is hardly a day that I don't catch you looking
at me as if you were expecting me to commit murder or do some
outrageous thing or other.  And I know, too, that it is all because
I'm my father's son.  Well, that's all right; feel that way about
me if you want to, I can't help it."

"Here, here, Al!  Hold on!  Don't--"

"I won't hold on.  And I tell you this: I hate this work here.  You
say I don't want to keep books.  Well, I don't.  I'm sorry I made
the errors yesterday and put Keeler to so much trouble, but I'll
probably make more.  No," with a sudden outburst of determination,
"I won't make any more.  I won't, because I'm not going to keep
books any more.  I'm through."

Captain Zelotes leaned back in his chair.

"You're what?" he asked slowly.

"I'm through.  I'll never work in this office another day.  I'm
through."

The captain's brows drew together as he stared steadily at his
grandson.  He slowly tugged at his beard.

"Humph!" he grunted, after a moment.  "So you're through, eh?
Goin' to quit and go somewheres else, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Um-hm.  I see.  Where are you goin' to go?"

"I don't know.  But I'm not going to make a fool of myself at this
job any longer.  I can't keep books, and I won't keep them.  I hate
business.  I'm no good at it.  And I won't stay here."

"I see.  I see.  Well, if you won't keep on in business, what will
you do for a livin'?  Write poetry?"

"Perhaps."

"Um-m.  Be kind of slim livin', won't it?  You've been writin'
poetry for about a year and a half, as I recollect, and so far
you've made ten dollars."

"That's all right.  If I don't make it I may starve, as you are
always saying that writers do.  But, starve or not, I shan't ask
YOU to take care of me."

"I've taken care of you for three years or so."

"Yes.  But you did it because--because--  Well, I don't know why
you did, exactly, but you won't have to do it any longer.  I'm
through."

The captain still stared steadily, and what he saw in the dark eyes
which flashed defiance back at him seemed to trouble him a little.
His tugs at his beard became more strenuous.

"Humph!" he muttered.  "Humph! . . .  Well, Al, of course I can't
make you stay by main force.  Perhaps I could--you ain't of age
yet--but I shan't.  And you want to quit the ship altogether, do
you?"

"If you mean this office--yes, I do."

"I see, I see.  Want to quit South Harniss and your grandmother--
and Rachel--and Labe--and Helen--and all the rest of 'em?"

"Not particularly.  But I shall have to, of course."

"Yes. . . .  Um-hm. . . .  Yes.  Have you thought how your
grandmother's liable to feel when she hears you are goin' to clear
out and leave her?"

Albert had not thought in that way, but he did now.  His tone was a
trifle less combative as he answered.

"She'll be sorry at first, I suppose," he said, "but she'll get
over it."

"Um-hm.  Maybe she will.  You can get over 'most anything in time--
'MOST anything.  Well, and how about me?  How do you think I'll
feel?"

Albert's chin lifted.  "You!" he exclaimed.  "Why, you'll be mighty
glad of it."

Captain Zelotes picked up the pencil stump and twirled it in his
fingers.  "Shall I?" he asked.  "You think I will, do you?"

"Of course you will.  You don't like me, and never did."

"So I've heard you say.  Well, boy, don't you cal'late I like you
at least as much as you like me?"

"No.  What do you mean?  I like you well enough.  That is, I should
if you gave me half a chance.  But you don't do it.  You hate me
because my father--"

The captain interrupted.  His big palm struck the desk.

"DON'T say that again!" he commanded.  "Look here, if I hated you
do you suppose I'd be talkin' to you like this?  If I hated you do
you cal'late I'd argue when you gave me notice?  Not by a jugful!
No man ever came to me and said he was goin' to quit and had me beg
him to stay.  If we was at sea he stayed until we made port; then
he WENT, and he didn't hang around waitin' for a boat to take him
ashore neither.  I don't hate you, son.  I'd ask nothin' better
than a chance to like you, but you won't give it to me."

Albert's eyes and mouth opened.

"_I_ won't give YOU a chance?" he repeated.

"Sartin.  DO you give me one?  I ask you to keep these books of
mine.  You could keep 'em A Number One.  You're smart enough to do
it.  But you won't.  You let 'em go to thunder and waste your time
makin' up fool poetry and such stuff."

"But I like writing, and I don't like keeping books."

"Keepin' books is a part of l'arnin' the business, and business is
the way you're goin' to get your livin' by and by."

"No, it isn't.  I am going to be a writer."

"Now DON'T say that silly thing again!  I don't want to hear it."

"I shall say it because it is true."

"Look here, boy:  When I tell you or anybody else in this office to
do or not to do a thing, I expect 'em to obey orders.  And I tell
you not to talk any more of that foolishness about bein' a writer.
D'you understand?"

"Yes, of course I understand."

"All right, then, that much is settled. . . .  Here!  Where are you
goin'?"

Albert had turned and was on his way out of the office.  He stopped
and answered over his shoulder, "I'm going home," he said.

"Goin' HOME?  Why, you came from home not more than an hour and a
half ago!  What are you goin' there again now for?"

"To pack up my things."

"To pack up your things!  To pack up--  Humph!  So you really mean
it!  You're really goin' to quit me like this?  And your grandma,
too!"

The young man felt a sudden pang of compunction, a twinge of
conscience.

"Grandfather," he said, "I'm sorry.  I--"

But the change in his attitude and tone came too late.  Captain
Lote's temper was boiling now, contradiction was its worst
provocative.

"Goin' to quit!" he sneered.  "Goin' to quit because you don't like
to work.  All right, quit then!  Go ahead!  I've done all I can to
make a man of you.  Go to the devil in your own way."

"Grandfather, I--"

"Go ahead!  _I_ can't stop you.  It's in your breed, I cal'late."

That was sufficient.  Albert strode out of the private office, head
erect.  Captain Zelotes rose and slammed the door after his
departing grandson.

At ten that evening Albert was in his room, sitting in a chair by
the window, gloomily looking out.  The packing, most of it, had
been done.  He had not, as he told his grandfather he intended
doing, left the office immediately and come straight home to pack.
As he emerged from the inner office after the stormy interview with
the captain he found Laban Keeler hard at work upon the books.  The
sight of the little man, so patiently and cheerfully pegging away,
brought another twinge of conscience to the assistant bookkeeper.
Laban had been such a brick in all their relationships.  It must
have been a sore trial to his particular, business-like soul, those
errors in the trial balance.  Yet he had not found fault nor
complained.  Captain Zelotes himself had said that every item
concerning his grandson's mistakes and blunders had been dragged
from Mr. Keeler much against the latter's will.  Somehow Albert
could not bear to go off and leave him at once.  He would stay and
finish his day's work, for Labe Keeler's sake.

So stay he did and when Captain Zelotes later came out of his
private office and found him there neither of them spoke.  At home,
during supper, nothing was said concerning the quarrel of the
afternoon.  Yet Albert was as determined to leave as ever, and the
Captain, judging by the expression of his face, was just as
determined to do nothing more to prevent him.  After supper the
young man went to his room and began the packing.  His grandfather
went out, an unusual proceeding for him, saying that he guessed he
would go down street for a spell.

Now Albert, as he sat there by the window, was gloomy enough.  The
wind, howling and wailing about the gables of the old house, was
not an aid to cheerfulness and he needed every aid.  He had sworn
to go away, he was going away--but where should he go?  He had a
little money put by, not much but a little, which he had been
saving for quite another purpose.  This would take him a little
way, would pay his bills for a short time, but after that--  Well,
after that he could earn more.  With the optimism of youth and the
serene self-confidence which was natural to him he was sure of
succeeding sooner or later.  It was not the dread of failure and
privation which troubled him.  The weight which was pressing upon
his spirit was not the fear of what might happen to him.

There was a rap upon the door.  Then a voice, the housekeeper's
voice, whispered through the crack.

"It's me, Al," whispered Mrs. Ellis.  "You ain't in bed yet, are
you?  I'd like to talk with you a minute or two, if I might."

He was not anxious to talk to her or anyone else just then, but he
told her to come in.  She entered on tiptoe, with the mysterious
air of a conspirator, and shut the door carefully after her.

"May I set down just a minute?" she asked.  "I can generally talk
better settin'."

He pulled forward the ancient rocker with the rush seat.  The
cross-stitch "tidy" on the back was his mother's handiwork, she had
made it when she was fifteen.  Rachel sat down in the rocker.

"Al" she began, still in the same mysterious whisper, "I know all
about it."

He looked at her.  "All about what?" he asked.

"About the trouble you and Cap'n Lote had this afternoon.  I know
you're plannin' to leave us all and go away somewheres and that he
told you to go, and all that.  I know what you've been doin' up
here to-night.  Fur's that goes," she added, with a little catch in
her breath and a wave of her hand toward the open trunk and
suitcase upon the floor, "I wouldn't need to know, I could SEE."

Albert was surprised and confused.  He had supposed the whole
affair to be, so far, a secret between himself and his grandfather.

"You know?" he stammered.  "You--  How did you know?"

"Laban told me.  Labe came hurryin' over here just after supper and
told me the whole thing.  He's awful upset about it, Laban is.  He
thinks almost as much of you as he does of Cap'n Lote or--or me,"
with an apologetic little smile.

Albert was astonished and troubled.  "How did Labe know about it?"
he demanded.

"He heard it all.  He couldn't help hearin'."

"But he couldn't have heard.  The door to the private office was
shut."

"Yes, but the window at the top--the transom one, you know--was
wide open.  You and your grandpa never thought of that, I guess,
and Laban couldn't hop up off his stool and shut it without givin'
it away that he'd been hearin'.  So he had to just set and listen
and I know how he hated doin' that.  Laban Keeler ain't the
listenin' kind.  One thing about it all is a mercy," she added,
fervently.  "It's the Lord's own mercy that that Issy Price wasn't
where HE could hear it, too.  If Issy heard it you might as well
paint it up on the town-hall fence; all creation and his wife
wouldn't larn it any sooner."

Albert drew a long breath.  "Well," he said, after a moment, "I'm
sorry Labe heard, but I don't suppose it makes much difference.
Everyone will know all about it in a day or two . . .  I'm going."

Rachel leaned forward.

"No, you ain't, Al," she said.

"I'm not?  Indeed I am!  Why, what do you mean?"

"I mean just what I say.  You ain't goin'.  You're goin' to stay
right here.  At least I hope you are, and I THINK you are. . . .
Oh, I know," she added, quickly, "what you are goin' to say.
You're goin' to tell me that your grandpa is down on you on account
of your father, and that you don't like bookkeepin', and that you
want to write poetry and--and such.  You'll say all that, and maybe
it's all true, but whether 'tis or not ain't the point at all just
now.  The real point is that you're Janie Snow's son and your
grandpa's Cap'n Lote Snow and your grandma's Olive Snow and there
ain't goin' to be another smash-up in this family if I can help it.
I've been through one and one's enough.  Albert, didn't you promise
me that Sunday forenoon three years ago when I came into the
settin'-room and we got talkin' about books and Robert Penfold and
everything--didn't you promise me then that when things between you
and your grandpa got kind of--of snarled up and full of knots you'd
come to me with 'em and we'd see if we couldn't straighten 'em out
together?  Didn't you promise me that, Albert?"

Albert remembered the conversation to which she referred.  As he
remembered it, however, he had not made any definite promise.

"You asked me to talk them over with you, Rachel," he admitted.  "I
think that's about as far as it went."

"Well, maybe so, but now I ask you again.  Will you talk this over
with me, Albert?  Will you tell me every bit all about it, for my
sake?  And for your grandma's sake. . . .  Yes, more'n that, for
your mother's sake, Albert; she was pretty nigh like my own sister,
Jane Snow was.  Different as night from day of course, she was
pretty and educated and all that and I was just the same then as I
am now, but we did think a lot of each other, Albert.  Tell me the
whole story, won't you, please.  Just what Cap'n Lote said and what
you said and what you plan to do--and all?  Please, Albert."

There were tears in her eyes.  He had always liked her, but it was
a liking with a trace of condescension in it.  She was peculiar,
her "sympathetic attacks" were funny, and she and Laban together
were an odd pair.  Now he saw her in a new light and he felt a
sudden rush of real affection for her.  And with this feeling, and
inspired also by his loneliness, came the impulse to comply with
her request, to tell her all his troubles.

He began slowly at first, but as he went on the words came quicker.
She listened eagerly, nodding occasionally, but saying nothing.
When he had finished she nodded again.

"I see," she said.  "'Twas almost what Laban said and about what he
and I expected.  Well, Albert, I ain't goin' to be the one to blame
you, not very much anyhow.  I don't see as you are to blame; you
can't help the way you're made.  But your grandfather can't help
bein' made his way, either.  He can't see with your spectacles and
you can't see with his."

He stirred rebelliously.  "Then we had better go our own ways, I
should say," he muttered.

"No, you hadn't.  That's just what you mustn't do, not now, anyhow.
As I said before, there's been enough of all hands goin' their own
ways in this family and look what came of it."

"But what do you expect me to do?  I will not give up every plan
I've made and my chance in the world just because he is too
stubborn and cranky to understand them.  I will NOT do it."

"I don't want you to.  But I don't want you to upset the whole
kettle just because the steam has scalded your fingers.  I don't
want you to go off and leave your grandma to break her heart a
second time and your grandpa to give up all his plans and hopes
that he's been makin' about you."

"Plans about me?  He making plans about me?  What sort of plans?"

"All sorts.  Oh, he don't say much about 'em, of course; that ain't
his way.  But from things he's let drop I know he has hoped to take
you in with him as a partner one of these days, and to leave you
the business after he's gone."

"Nonsense, Rachel!"

"No, it ain't nonsense.  It's the one big dream of Cap'n Lote's
life.  That Z. Snow and Co. business is his pet child, as you might
say.  He built it up, he and Labe together, and when he figgered to
take you aboard with him 'twas SOME chance for you, 'cordin' to his
lookout.  Now you can't hardly blame him for bein' disappointed
when you chuck that chance away and take to writin' poetry pieces,
can you?"

"But--but--why, confound it, Rachel, you don't understand!"

"Yes, I do, but your grandpa don't.  And you don't understand
him. . . .  Oh, Albert, DON'T be as stubborn as he is, as your
mother was--the Lord and she forgive me for sayin' it.  She was
partly right about marryin' your pa and Cap'n Lote was partly right,
too. If they had met half way and put the two 'partlys' together the
whole thing might have been right in the end.  As 'twas, 'twas all
wrong.  Don't, don't, DON'T, Albert, be as stubborn as that.  For
their sakes, Al,--yes, and for my sake, for I'm one of your family,
too, or seems as if I was--don't."

She hastily wiped her eyes with her apron.  He, too was greatly
moved.

"Don't cry, Rachel," he muttered, hurriedly.  "Please don't. . . .
I didn't know you felt this way.  I didn't know anybody did.  I
don't want to make trouble in the family--any more trouble.
Grandmother has been awfully good to me; so, too, has Grandfather,
I suppose, in his way.  But--oh, what am I going to do?  I can't
stay in that office all my life.  I'm not good at business.  I
don't like it.  I can't give up--"

"No, no, course you mustn't.  I don't want you to give up."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to go to your grandpa and talk to him once more.  Not
givin' up your plans altogether but not forcin' him to give up his
either, not right away.  Tell him you realize he wants you to go on
with Z. Snow and Company and that you will--for a while--"

"But--"

"For a while, I said; three or four years, say.  You won't be so
dreadful old then, not exactly what you'd call a Methusalem.  Tell
him you'll do that and on his side he must let you write as much as
you please, provided you don't let the writin' interfere with the
Z. Snow and Co. work.  Then, at the end of the three or four years,
if you still feel the same as you do now, you can tackle your
poetry for keeps and he and you'll still be friends.  Tell him
that, Albert, and see what he says. . . .  Will you?"

Albert took some moments to consider.  At length he said:  "If I
did I doubt if he would listen."

"Oh, yes he would.  He'd more than listen, I'm pretty sartin.  I
think he'd agree."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do.  You see," with a smile, "while I've been talkin' to
you there's been somebody else talkin' to him. . . .  There, there!
don't you ask any questions.  I promised not to tell anybody and if
I ain't exactly broke that promise, I've sprained its ankle, I'm
afraid.  Good night, Albert, and thank you ever and ever so much
for listenin' so long without once tellin' me to mind my own
business."

"Good night, Rachel. . . .  And thank you for taking so much
interest in my affairs.  You're an awfully good friend, I can see
that."

"Don't--don't talk that way.  And you WILL have that talk with your
grandpa?"

"Yes, I will."

"Oh, I'm SO glad!  There!  Good night.  I come pretty nigh kissin'
you then and for a woman that's been engaged to be married for
upwards of eighteen years that's a nice way to act, ain't it!  Good
night, good night."

She hurried out of the room.  Albert sat down again in his chair by
the window.  He had promised to go to his grandfather and talk to
him.  As he sat there, thinking of the coming interview, he
realized more and more that the keeping of that promise was likely
to be no easy matter.  He must begin the talk, he must break the
ice--and how should he break it?  Timid and roundabout approaches
would be of little use; unless his grandfather's state of mind had
changed remarkably since their parting in the Z. Snow and Co.
office they and their motive would be misunderstood.  No, the only
way to break the ice was to break it, to plunge immediately into
the deepest part of the subject.  It promised to be a chilly
plunge.  He shivered at the prospect.

A half hour later he heard the door of the hall open and shut and
knew that Captain Zelotes had returned.  Rising, he descended the
stairs.  He descended slowly.  Just as he reached the foot of the
narrow flight Captain Zelotes entered the hall from the dining-room
and turned toward him.  Both were surprised at the meeting.  Albert
spoke first.

"Good evening, Grandfather," he stammered.  "I--I was just coming
down to see you.  Were you going to bed?"

Captain Lote shook his head.  "No-o," he said, slowly, "not
exactly."

"Do you mind waiting a minute?  I have a few things--I have
something to say to you and--and I guess I shall sleep better if I
say it to-night.  I--I won't keep you long."

The captain regarded him intently for an instant, then he turned
and led the way to the dining-room.

"Go ahead," he ordered, laconically.  Albert squared his shoulders,
preparatory to the plunge.

"Grandfather," he began, "first of all I want to tell you I am
sorry for--for some of the things I said this afternoon."

He had rehearsed this opening speech over and over again, but in
spite of the rehearsals it was dreadfully hard to make.  If his
grandfather had helped him even a little it might have been easier,
but the captain merely stood there, expressionless, saying nothing,
waiting for him to continue.

Albert swallowed, clenched his fists, and took a new start.

"Of course," he began, "I am sorry for the mistakes I made in my
bookkeeping, but that I have told you before.  Now--now I want to
say I am sorry for being so--well, so pig-headed about the rest of
it.  I realize that you have been mighty kind to me and that I owe
you about everything that I've got in this world."

He paused again.  It had seemed to him that Captain Zelotes was
about to speak.  However, he did not, so the young man stumbled on.

"And--and I realize, too," he said, "that you have, I guess, been
trying to give me a real start in business, the start you think I
ought to have."

The captain nodded slowly.  "That was my idea in startin' you," he
said.

"Yes--and fact that I haven't done more with the chance is because
I'm made that way, I guess.  But I do want to--yes, and I MEAN to
try to succeed at writing poetry or stories or plays or something.
I like that and I mean to give it a trial.  And so--and so, you
see, I've been thinking our talk over and I've concluded that
perhaps you may be right, maybe I'm not old enough to know what I
really am fitted for, and yet perhaps _I_ may be partly right, too.
I--I've been thinking that perhaps some sort of--of--"

"Of what?"

"Well, of half-way arrangement--some sort of--of compromise, you
know, might be arranged.  I might agree to stay in the office and
do my very best with bookkeeping and business for--well, say, three
years or so.  During that time I should be trying to write of
course, but I would only do that sort of writing evenings or on
Saturdays and holidays.  It shouldn't interfere with your work nor
be done in the time you pay me for.  And at the end of the three or
four years--"

He paused again.  This time the pause was longer than ever.
Captain Lote broke the silence.  His big right hand had wandered
upward and was tugging at his beard.

"Well? . . .  And then?" he asked.

"Why, then--if--if--  Well, then we could see.  If business seemed
to be where I was most likely to succeed we'd call it settled and I
would stay with Z. Snow and Co.  If poetry-making or--or--literature
seemed more likely to be the job I was fitted for, that would be the
job I'd take.  You--you see, don't you, Grandfather?"

The captain's beard-pulling continued.  He was no longer looking
his grandson straight in the eye.  His gaze was fixed upon the
braided mat at his feet and he answered without looking up.

"Ye-es," he drawled, "I cal'late I see.  Well, was that all you had
to say?"

"No-o, not quite.  I--I wanted to say that which ever way it turned
out, I--I hoped we--you and I, you know--would agree to be--to be
good-natured about it and--and friends just the same.  I--I--
Well, there!  That's all, I guess.  I haven't put it very well, I'm
afraid, but--but what do you think about it, Grandfather?"

And now Captain Zelotes did look up.  The old twinkle was in his
eye.  His first remark was a question and that question was rather
surprising.

"Al," he asked, "Al, who's been talkin' to you?"

The blood rushed to his grandson's face.  "Talking to me?" he
stammered.  "Why--why, what do you mean?"

"I mean just that.  You didn't think out this scheme all by
yourself.  Somebody's been talkin' to you and puttin' you up to it.
Haven't they?"

"Why--why, Grandfather, I--"

"Haven't they?"

"Why--  Well, yes, someone has been talking to me, but the whole
idea isn't theirs.  I WAS sorry for speaking to you as I did and
sorry to think of leaving you and grandmother.  I--I was sitting up
there in my room and feeling blue and mean enough and--and--"

"And then Rachel came aboard and gave you your sailin' orders; eh?"

Albert gasped.  "For heaven's sake how did you know that?" he
demanded.  "She--  Why, she must have told you, after all!  But she
said--"

"Hold on, boy, hold on!" Captain Lote chuckled quietly.  "No," he
said, "Rachel didn't tell me; I guessed she was the one.  And it
didn't take a Solomon in all his glory to guess it, neither.  Labe
Keeler's been talkin' to ME, and when you come down here and began
proposin' the same scheme that I was just about headin' up to your
room with to propose to you, then--well, then the average whole-
witted person wouldn't need more'n one guess.  It couldn't be Labe,
'cause he'd been whisperin' in MY ear, so it must have been the
other partner in the firm.  That's all the miracle there is to it."

Albert's brain struggled with the situation.  "I see," he said,
after a moment.  "She hinted that someone had been talking to you
along the same line.  Yes, and she was so sure you would agree.  I
might have known it was Laban."

"Um-hm, so you might. . . .  Well, there have been times when if a
man had talked to me as Labe did to-night I'd have knocked him
down, or told him to go to--um--well, the tropics--told him to mind
his own business, at least.  But Labe is Labe, and besides MY
conscience was plaguin' me a little mite, maybe . . . maybe."

The young man shook his head.  "They must have talked it over,
those two, and agreed that one should talk to you and the other to
me.  By George, I wonder they had the nerve.  It wasn't their
business, really."

"Not a darn bit."

"Yet--yet I--I'm awfully glad she said it to me.  I--I needed it,
I guess."

"Maybe you did, son. . . .  And--humph--well, maybe I needed it,
too. . . .  Yes, I know that's consider'ble for me to say," he
added dryly.

Albert was still thinking of Laban and Rachel.

"They're queer people," he mused.  "When I first met them I thought
they were about the funniest pair I ever saw.  But--but now I can't
help liking them and--and--  Say, Grandfather, they must think a
lot of your--of our family."

"Cal'late they do, son. . . .  Well, boy, we've had our sermon, you
and me, what shall we do?  Willin' to sign for the five years trial
cruise if I will, are you?"

Albert couldn't help smiling.  "It was three years Rachel proposed,
not five," he said.

"Was, eh?  Suppose we split the difference and make it four?
Willin' to try that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Agreement bein' that you shall stick close to Z. Snow and Co.
durin' work hours and write as much poetry as you darned please
other times, neither side to interfere with those arrangements?
That right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good!  Shall we shake hands on it?"

They shook, solemnly.  Captain Lote was the first to speak after
ratification of the contract.

"There, now I cal'late I'll go aloft and turn in," he observed.
Then he added, with a little hesitation, "Say, Al, maybe we'd
better not trouble your grandma about all this fool business--the
row this afternoon and all.  'Twould only worry her and--" he
paused, looked embarrassed, cleared his throat, and said, "to tell
you the truth, I'm kind of ashamed of my part---er--er--that is,
some of it."

His grandson was very much astonished.  It was not often that
Captain Zelotes Snow admitted having been in the wrong.  He blurted
out the question he had been dying to ask.

"Grandfather," he queried, "had you--did you really mean what you
said about starting to come to my room and--and propose this scheme
of ours--I mean of Rachel's and Labe's--to me?"

"Eh? . . .  Ye-es--yes.  I was on my way up there when I met you
just now."

"Well, Grandfather, I--I--"

"That's all right, boy, that's all right.  Don't let's talk any
more about it."

"We won't.  And--and--  But, Grandfather, I just want you to know
that I guess I understand things a little better than I did, and--
and when my father--"

The captain's heavy hand descended upon his shoulder.

"Heave short, Al!" he commanded.  "I've been doin' consider'ble
thinkin' since Labe finished his--er--discourse and pronounced the
benediction, and I've come to a pretty definite conclusion on one
matter.  I've concluded that you and I had better cut out all the
bygones from this new arrangement of ours.  We won't have fathers
or--or--elopements--or past-and-done-with disapp'intments in it.
This new deal--this four year trial v'yage of ours--will be just
for Albert Speranza and Zelotes Snow, and no others need apply. . . .
Eh? . . .  Well, good night, Al."

CHAPTER VIII

So the game under the "new deal" began.  At first it was much
easier than the old.  And, as a matter of fact, it was never as
hard as before.  The heart to heart talk between Captain Zelotes
and his grandson had given each a glimpse of the other's inner
self, a look from the other's point of view, and thereafter it was
easier to make allowances.  But the necessity for the making of
those allowances was still there and would continue to be there.
At first Albert made almost no mistakes in his bookkeeping, was
almost painfully careful.  Then the carefulness relaxed, as it was
bound to do, and some mistakes occurred.  Captain Lote found little
fault, but at times he could not help showing some disappointment.
Then his grandson would set his teeth and buckle down to painstaking
effort again.  He was resolved to live up to the very letter of the
agreement.

In his spare time he continued to write and occasionally he sold
something.  Whenever he did so there was great rejoicing among the
feminine members of the Snow household; his grandmother and Rachel
Ellis were enraptured.  It was amusing to see Captain Zelotes
attempt to join the chorus.  He evidently felt that he ought to
praise, or at least that praise was expected from him, but it was
also evident that he did not approve of what he was praising.

"Your grandma says you got rid of another one of your poetry
pieces, Al," he would say.  "Pay you for it, did they?"

"Not yet, but they will, I suppose."

"I see, I see.  How much, think likely?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Ten dollars, perhaps."

"Um-hm . . . I see. . . .  Well, that's pretty good, considerin', I
suppose. . . .  We did first-rate on that Hyannis school-house
contract, didn't we.  Nigh's I can figger it we cleared over
fourteen hundred and eighty dollars on that."

He invariably followed any reference to the profit from the sale of
verses by the casual mention of a much larger sum derived from the
sale of lumber or hardware.  This was so noticeable that Laban
Keeler was impelled to speak of it.

"The old man don't want you to forget that you can get more for
hard pine than you can for soft sonnets, sellin' 'em both by the
foot," observed Labe, peering over his spectacles.  "More money in
shingles than there is in jingles, he cal'lates. . . .  Um. . . .
Yes, yes. . . .  Consider'ble more, consider'ble."

Albert smiled, but it astonished him to find that Mr. Keeler knew
what a sonnet was.  The little bookkeeper occasionally surprised
him by breaking out unexpectedly in that way.

From the indiscriminate praise at home, or the reluctant praise of
his grandfather, he found relief when he discussed his verses with
Helen Kendall.  Her praise was not indiscriminate, in fact
sometimes she did not praise at all, but expressed disapproval.
They had some disagreements, marked disagreements, but it did not
affect their friendship.  Albert was a trifle surprised to find
that it did not.

So as the months passed he ground away at the books of Z. Snow and
Company during office hours and at the poetry mill between times.
The seeing of his name in print was no longer a novelty and he
poetized not quite as steadily.  Occasionally he attempted prose,
but the two or three short stories of his composition failed to
sell.  Helen, however, urged him to try again and keep trying.  "I
know you can write a good story and some day you are going to," she
said.

His first real literary success, that which temporarily lifted him
into the outer circle of the limelight of fame, was a poem written
the day following that upon which came the news of the sinking of
the Lusitania.  Captain Zelotes came back from the post-office that
morning, a crumpled newspaper in his hand, and upon his face the
look which mutinous foremast hands had seen there just before the
mutiny ended.  Laban Keeler was the first to notice the look.  "For
the land sakes, Cap'n, what's gone wrong?" he asked.  The captain
flung the paper upon the desk.  "Read that," he grunted.  Labe
slowly spread open the paper; the big black headlines shrieked the
crime aloud.

"Good God Almighty!" exclaimed the little bookkeeper.  Captain
Zelotes snorted.  "He didn't have anything to do with it," he
declared.  "The bunch that pulled that off was handled from the
other end of the line.  And I wish to thunder I was young enough to
help send 'em back there," he added, savagely.

That evening Albert wrote his poem.  The next day he sent it to a
Boston paper.  It was published the following morning, spread
across two columns on the front page, and before the month was over
had been copied widely over the country.  Within the fortnight its
author received his first request, a bona fida request for verse
from a magazine.  Even Captain Lote's praise of the Lusitania poem
was whole-hearted and ungrudging.

That summer was a busy one in South Harniss.  There was the usual
amount of summer gaiety, but in addition there were the gatherings
of the various committees for war relief work.  Helen belonged to
many of these committees.  There were dances and theatrical
performances for the financial benefit of the various causes and
here Albert shone.  But he did not shine alone.  Helen Kendall was
very popular at the social gatherings, popular not only with the
permanent residents but with the summer youth as well.  Albert
noticed this, but he did not notice it so particularly until Issy
Price called his attention to it.

"Say, Al," observed Issy, one afternoon in late August of that
year, "how do YOU like that Raymond young feller?"

Albert looked up absently from the page of the daybook.

"Eh?  What?" he asked.

"I say how do YOU like that Eddie Raymond, the Down-at-the-Neck
one?"

"Down at the neck?  There's nothing the matter with his neck that I
know of."

"Who said there was?  He LIVES down to the Neck, don't he?  I mean
that young Raymond, son of the New York bank man, the ones that's
had the Cahoon house all summer.  How do you like him?"

Albert's attention was still divided between the day-book and Mr.
Price.  "Oh, I guess he's all right," he answered, carelessly.  "I
don't know him very well.  Don't bother me, Issy, I'm busy."

Issachar chuckled.  "He's busy, too," he observed.  "He, he, he!
He's busy trottin' after Helen Kendall.  Don't seem to have time
for much else these days.  Noticed that, ain't you, Al?  He, he!"

Albert had not noticed it.  His attention left the day-book
altogether.  Issachar chuckled again.

"Noticed it, ain't you, Al?" he repeated.  "If you ain't you're the
only one.  Everybody's cal'latin' you'll be cut out if you ain't
careful.  Folks used to figger you was Helen's steady comp'ny, but
it don't look as much so as it did.  He, he!  That's why I asked
you how you liked the Raymond one.  Eh?  How do you, Al?  Helen,
SHE seems to like him fust-rate.  He, he, he!"

Albert was conscious of a peculiar feeling, partly of irritation at
Issachar, partly something else.  Mr. Price crowed delightedly.

"Hi!" he chortled.  "Why, Al, your face is gettin' all redded up.
Haw, haw!  Blushin', ain't you, Al?  Haw, haw, haw!  Blushin', by
crimustee!"

Albert laid down his pen.  He had learned by experience that, in
Issy's case, the maxim of the best defensive being a strong
offensive was absolutely true.  He looked with concern about the
office.

"There's a window open somewhere, isn't there, Is?" he inquired.
"There's a dreadful draught anyhow."

"Eh?  Draught?  I don't feel no draught.  Course the window's open;
it's generally open in summer time, ain't it.  Haw, haw!"

"There it is again!  Where--  Oh, _I_ see!  It's your mouth that's
open, Issy.  That explains the draught, of course.  Yes, yes, of
course."

"Eh?  My mouth!  Never you mind my mouth.  What you've got to think
about is that Eddie Raymond.  Yes sir-ee!  Haw, haw!"

"Issy, what makes you make that noise?"

"What noise?"

"That awful cawing.  If you're trying to make me believe you're a
crow you're wasting your time."

"Say, look here, Al Speranzy, be you crazy?"

"No-o, I'M not.  But in your case--well, I'll leave it to any fair-
minded person--"

And so on until Mr. Price stamped disgustedly out of the office.
It was easy enough, and required nothing brilliant in the way of
strategy or repartee, to turn Issachar's attack into retreat.  But
all the rest of that afternoon Albert was conscious of that
peculiar feeling of uneasiness.  After supper that night he did not
go down town at once but sat in his room thinking deeply.  The
subjects of his thoughts were Edwin Raymond, the young chap from
New York, Yale, and "The Neck"--and Helen Kendall.  He succeeded
only in thinking himself into an even more uneasy and unpleasant
state of mind.  Then he walked moodily down to the post-office.  He
was a little late for the mail and the laughing and chatting groups
were already coming back after its distribution.  One such group he
met was made up of half a dozen young people on their way to the
drug store for ices and sodas.  Helen was among them and with her
was young Raymond.  They called to him to join them, but he
pretended not to hear.

Now, in all the years of their acquaintance it had not once
occurred to Albert Speranza that his interest in Helen Kendall was
anything more than that of a friend and comrade.  He liked her, had
enjoyed her society--when he happened to be in the mood to wish
society--and it pleased him to feel that she was interested in his
literary efforts and his career.  She was the only girl in South
Harniss who would have "talked turkey" to him as she had on the day
of their adventure at High Point Light and he rather admired her
for it.  But in all his dreams of romantic attachments and
sentimental adventure, and he had such dreams of course, she had
never played a part.  The heroines of these dreams were beautiful
and mysterious strangers, not daughters of Cape Cod clergymen.

But now, thanks to Issy's mischievous hints, his feelings were in a
puzzled and uncomfortable state.  He was astonished to find that he
did not relish the idea of Helen's being particularly interested in
Ed Raymond.  He, himself, had not seen her as frequently of late,
she having been busy with her war work and he with his own interests.
But that, according to his view, was no reason why she should permit
Raymond to become friendly to the point of causing people to talk.
He was not ready to admit that he himself cared, in a sentimental
way, for Helen, but he resented any other fellow's daring to do so.
And she should not have permitted it, either.  As a matter of fact,
Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, hitherto reigning undisputed king of
hearts in South Harniss, was for the first time in his imperial life
feeling the pangs of jealousy.

He stalked gloomily on to the post-office.  Gertie Kendrick, on the
arm of Sam Thatcher, passed him and he did not even notice her.
Gertie whispered to Sam that he, Albert, was a big stuck-up
nothing, but she looked back over Sam's shoulder, nevertheless.
Albert climbed the post-office steps and walked over to the rack of
letter boxes.  The Snow box contained little of interest to him,
and he was turning away when he heard his name spoken.

"Good evening, Mr. Speranza," said a feminine voice.

Albert turned again, to find Jane Kelsey and another young lady,
a stranger, standing beside him.  Miss Kelsey was one of South
Harniss's summer residents.  The Kelsey "cottage," which was larger
by considerable than the Snow house, was situated on the Bay Road,
the most exclusive section of the village.  Once, and not so many
years before, the Bay Road was contemptuously referred to as
"Poverty Lane" and dwellers along its winding, weed-grown track
vied with one another in shiftless shabbiness.  But now all
shabbiness had disappeared and many-gabled "cottages" proudly stood
where the shanties of the Poverty Laners once humbly leaned.

Albert had known Jane Kelsey for some time.  They had met at one of
the hotel tea-dances during his second summer in South Harniss.  He
and she were not intimate friends exactly, her mother saw to that,
but they were well acquainted.  She was short and piquant, had a
nose which freckled in the Cape Cod sunshine, and she talked and
laughed easily.

"Good evening, Mr. Speranza," she said, again.  "You looked so very
forlorn I couldn't resist speaking.  Do tell us why you are so sad;
we're dying to know."

Albert, taken by surprise, stammered that he didn't know that he
was sad.  Miss Kelsey laughed merrily and declared that everyone
who saw him knew it at once.  "Oh, excuse me, Madeline," she added.
"I forgot that you and Mr. Speranza had not met.  Of course as
you're going to live in South Harniss you must know him without
waiting another minute.  Everybody knows everybody down here.  He
is Albert Speranza--and we sometimes call him Albert because here
everybody calls everyone else by their first names.  There, now you
know each other and it's all very proper and formal.

The young lady who was her companion smiled.  The smile was
distinctly worth looking at, as was the young lady herself, for
that matter.

"I doubt if Mr. Speranza knows me very well, Jane," she observed.

"Doesn't know you!  Why, you silly thing, haven't I just introduced
you?"

"Well, I don't know much about South Harniss introductions, but
isn't it customary to mention names?  You haven't told him mine."

Miss Kelsey laughed in high delight.  "Oh, how perfectly ridiculous!"
she exclaimed.  "Albert--Mr. Speranza, I mean--this is my friend
Miss Madeline Fosdick.  She is from New York and she has decided to
spend her summers in South Harniss--which _I_ consider very good
judgment.  Her father is going to build a cottage for her to spend
them in down on the Bay Road on the hill at the corner above the
Inlet.  But of course you've heard of THAT!"

Of course he had.  The purchase of the Inlet Hill land by Fletcher
Fosdick, the New York banker, and the price paid Solomon Dadgett
for that land, had been the principal topics of conversation around
South Harniss supper tables for the past ten days.  Captain Lote
Snow had summed up local opinion of the transaction when he said:
"We-ll, Sol Dadgett's been talkin' in prayer-meetin' ever since I
can remember about the comin' of Paradise on earth.  Judgin' by the
price he got for the Inlet Hill sand heap he must have cal'lated
Paradise had got here and he was sellin' the golden streets by the
runnin' foot."  Or, as Laban Keeler put it:  "They say King Soloman
was a wise man, but I guess likely 'twas a good thing for him that
Sol Dadgett wasn't alive in his time.  King Sol would have needed
all his wisdom to keep Dadgett from talkin' him into buying the
Jerusalem salt-ma'sh to build the temple on. . . .  Um. . . .
Yes--yes--yes."

So Albert, as he shook hands with Miss Fosdick, regarded her with
unusual interest.  And, judging by the way in which she looked at
him, she too was interested.  After some minutes of the usual
conventional summer-time chat the young gentleman suggested that
they adjourn to the drug store for refreshments.  The invitation
was accepted, the vivacious Miss Kelsey acting as spokesman--or
spokeswoman--in the matter.

"I think you must be a mind-reader, Mr. Speranza," she declared.
"I am dying for a sundae and I have just discovered that I haven't
my purse or a penny with me.  I should have been reduced to the
humiliation of borrowing from Madeline here, or asking that deaf
old Burgess man to trust me until to-morrow.  And he is so
frightfully deaf," she added in explanation, "that when I asked him
the last time he made me repeat it until I thought I should die of
shame, or exhaustion, one or the other.  Every time I shouted he
would say 'Hey?' and I was obliged to shout again.  Of course, the
place was crowded, and--  Oh, well, I don't like to even think
about it.  Bless you, bless you, Albert Speranza!  And do please
let's hurry!"

When they entered the drug store--it also sold, according to its
sign, "Cigars, soda, ice-cream, patent medicines, candy, knick-
knacks, chewing gum, souvenirs and notions"--the sextette of which
Helen Kendall made one was just leaving.  She nodded pleasantly to
Albert and he nodded in return, but Ed Raymond's careless bow he
did not choose to see.  He had hitherto rather liked that young
gentleman; now he felt a sudden but violent detestation for him.

Sundaes pleasant to the palate and disastrous to all but youthful
digestions were ordered.  Albert's had a slight flavor of gall and
wormwood, but he endeavored to counterbalance this by the sweetness
derived from the society of Jane Kelsey and her friend.  His
conversation was particularly brilliant and sparkling that evening.
Jane laughed much and chatted more.  Miss Fosdick was quieter, but
she, too, appeared to be enjoying herself.  Jane demanded to know
how the poems were developing.  She begged him to have an
inspiration now--  "Do, PLEASE, so that Madeline and I can see
you."  It seemed to be her idea that having an inspiration was
similar to having a fit.  Miss Fosdick laughed at this, but she
declared that she adored poetry and specified certain poems which
were objects of her especial adoration.  The conversation
thereafter became what Miss Kelsey described as "high brow," and
took the form of a dialogue between Miss Fosdick and Albert.  It
was interrupted by the arrival of the Kelsey limousine, which
rolled majestically up to the drug store steps.  Jane spied it
first.

"Oh, mercy me, here's mother!" she exclaimed.  "And your mother,
too, Madeline.  We are tracked to our lair. . . .  No, no, Mr.
Speranza, you mustn't go out.  No, really, we had rather you
wouldn't.  Thanks, ever so much, for the sundaes.  Come, Madeline."

Miss Fosdick held out her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Speranza," she said.  "I have enjoyed our poetry
talk SO much.  It must be wonderful to write as you do.  Good
night."

She looked admiringly into his eyes as she said it.  In spite of
the gall and wormwood Albert found it not at all unpleasant to be
looked at in that way by a girl like Madeline Fosdick.  His
reflections on that point were interrupted by a voice from the car.

"Come, Madeline, come," it said, fussily.  "What ARE you waiting
for?"

Albert caught a glimpse of a majestic figure which, seated beside
Mrs. Kelsey on the rear seat of the limousine, towered above that
short, plump lady as a dreadnaught towers above a coal barge.  He
surmised this figure to be that of the maternal Fosdick.  Madeline
climbed in beside her parent and the limousine rolled away.

Albert's going-to-bed reflections that evening were divided in
flavor, like a fruit sundae, a combination of sweet and sour.  The
sour was furnished by thoughts of Edwin Raymond and Helen Kendall,
the former's presumption in daring to seek her society as he did,
and Helen's amazing silliness in permitting such a thing.  The
sweet, of course, was furnished by a voice which repeated to his
memory the words, "It must be wonderful to write as you do."  Also
the tone of that voice and the look in the eyes.

Could he have been privileged to hear the closing bits of a
conversation which was taking place at that moment his reflections
might have been still further saccharined.  Miss Jane Kelsey was
saying:  "And NOW what do you think of our Cape Cod poet?  Didn't I
promise you to show you something you couldn't find on Fifth
Avenue?"  And to this Miss Madeline Fosdick made reply:  "I think
he is the handsomest creature I ever saw.  And so clever!  Why, he
is wonderful, Jane!  How in the world does he happen to be living
here--all the time?"

It is perhaps, on the whole, a good thing that Albert Speranza
could not hear this.  It is certainly a good thing that Captain
Zelotes Snow did not hear it.

And although the balance of sweet and sour in Albert's mind that
night was almost even, the sour predominated next day and continued
to predominate.  Issachar Price had sowed the seed of jealousy in
the mind of the assistant bookkeeper of Z. Snow and Company, and
that seed took root and grew as it is only too likely to do under
such circumstances.  That evening Albert walked again to the post-
office.  Helen was not there, neither was Miss Kelsey or Miss
Fosdick.  He waited for a time and then determined to call at the
Kendall home, something he had not done for some time.  As he came
up to the front walk, between the arbor-vitae hedges, he saw that
the parlor windows were alight.  The window shade was but partially
drawn and beneath it he could see into the room.  Helen was seated
at the piano and Edwin Raymond was standing beside her, ready to
turn the page of her music.

Albert whirled on his heel and walked out of the yard and down the
street toward his own home.  His attitude of mind was a curious
one.  He had a mind to wait until Raymond left and then go into
the Kendall parlor and demand of Helen to know what she meant by
letting that fellow make such a fool of himself.  What right had
he--Raymond--to call upon her, and turn her music and--and set the
whole town talking?  Why--  Oh, he could think of many things to
ask and say.  The trouble was that the saying of them would, he
felt sure, be distinctly bad diplomacy on his part.  No one--not
even he--could talk to Helen Kendall in that fashion; not unless
he wished it to be their final conversation.

So he went home, to fret and toss angrily and miserably half the
night.  He had never before considered himself in the slightest
degree in love with Helen, but he had taken for granted the thought
that she liked him better than anyone else.  Now he was beginning
to fear that perhaps she did not, and, with his temperament,
wounded vanity and poetic imagination supplied the rest.  Within a
fortnight he considered himself desperately in love with her.

During this fortnight he called at the parsonage, the Kendall home,
several times.  On the first of these occasions the Reverend Mr.
Kendall, having just completed a sermon dealing with the war and,
being full of his subject, read the said sermon to his daughter and
to Albert.  The reading itself lasted for three-quarters of an hour
and Mr. Kendall's post-argument and general dissertation on German
perfidy another hour after that.  By that time it was late and
Albert went home.  The second call was even worse, for Ed Raymond
called also and the two young men glowered at each other until ten
o'clock.  They might have continued to glower indefinitely, for
neither meant to leave before the other, but Helen announced that
she had some home-study papers to look over and she knew they would
excuse her under the circumstances.  On that hint they departed
simultaneously, separating at the gate and walking with deliberate
dignity in opposite directions.

At his third attempt, however, Albert was successful to the extent
that Helen was alone when he called and there was no school work to
interrupt.  But in no other respect was the interview satisfactory.
All that week he had been boiling with the indignation of the
landed proprietor who discovers a trespasser on his estate, and
before this call was fifteen minutes old his feelings had boiled
over.

"What IS the matter with you, Al?" asked Helen.  "Do tell me and
let's see if I can't help you out of your trouble."

Her visitor flushed.  "Trouble?" he repeated, stiffly.  "I don't
know what you mean."

"Oh yes, do.  You must.  What IS the matter?"

"There is nothing the matter with me."

"Nonsense!  Of course there is.  You have scarcely spoken a word of
your own accord since you came, and you have been scowling like a
thundercloud all the time.  Now what is it?  Have I done something
you don't like?"

"There is nothing the matter, I tell you."

"Please don't be so silly.  Of course there is.  I thought there
must be something wrong the last time you were here, that evening,
when Ed called, too.  It seemed to me that you were rather queer
then.  Now you are queerer still.  What is it?"

This straightforward attack, although absolutely characteristic of
Helen, was disconcerting.  Albert met it by an attack of his own.

"Helen," he demanded, "what does that Raymond fellow mean by coming
to see you as he does?"

Now whether or not Helen was entirely in the dark as to the cause
of her visitor's "queerness" is a question not to be answered here.
She was far from being a stupid young person and it is at least
probable that she may have guessed a little of the truth.  But,
being feminine, she did not permit Albert to guess that she had
guessed.  If her astonishment at the question was not entirely
sincere, it certainly appeared to be so.

"What does he mean?" she repeated.  "What does he mean by coming
to see me?  Why, what do YOU mean?  I should think that was the
question.  Why shouldn't he come to see me, pray?"

Now Albert has a dozen reasons in his mind, each of which was to
him sufficiently convincing.  But expressing those reasons to Helen
Kendall he found singularly difficult.  He grew confused and
stammered.

"Well--well, because he has no business to come here so much," was
the best he could do.  Helen, strange to say, was not satisfied.

"Has no business to?" she repeated.  "Why, of course he has.  I
asked him to come."

"You did?  Good heavens, you don't LIKE him, do you?"

"Of course I like him.  I think he is a very nice fellow.  Don't
you?"

"No, I don't."

"Why not?"

"Well--well, because I don't, that's all.  He has no business to
monopolize you all the time.  Why, he is here about every night in
the week, or you're out with him, down town, or--or somewhere.
Everybody is talking about it and--"

"Wait a minute, please.  You say everybody is talking about Ed
Raymond and me.  What do you mean by that?  What are they saying?"

"They're saying. . . .  Oh, they're saying you and he are--are--"

"Are what?"

"Are--are--  Oh, they're saying all sorts of things.  Look here,
Helen, I--"

"Wait!  I want to know more about this.  What have you heard said
about me?"

"Oh, a lot of things. . . .  That is--er--well, nothing in
particular, perhaps, but--"

"Wait!  Who have you heard saying it?"

"Oh, never mind!  Helen--"

"But I do mind.  Who have you heard saying this 'lot of things'
about me?"

"Nobody, I tell you. . . .  Oh, well, if you must know, Issy Price
said--well, he said you and this Raymond fellow were what he called
'keeping company' and--and that the whole town was talking about
it."

She slowly shook her head.

"Issy Price!" she repeated.  "And you listened to what Issy Price
said.  Issy Price, of all people!"

"Well--well, he said everyone else said the same thing."

"Did he say more than that?"

"No, but that was enough, wasn't it.  Besides, the rest was plain.
I could see it myself.  He is calling here about every night in the
week, and--and being around everywhere with you and--and--  Oh,
anyone can see!"

Helen's usually placid temper was beginning to ruffle.

"Very well," she said, "then they may see.  Why shouldn't he call
here if he wishes--and I wish?  Why shouldn't I be 'around with
him,' as you say?  Why not?"

"Well, because I don't like it.  It isn't the right thing for you
to do.  You ought to be more careful of--of what people say."

He realized, almost as soon as this last sentence was blurted out,
the absolute tactlessness of it.  The quiet gleam of humor he had
so often noticed in Helen's eyes was succeeded now by a look he had
never before seen there.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he added, hastily.  "I beg your pardon, Helen.  I
didn't mean to say that.  Forgive me, will you?"

She did not answer immediately.  Then she said, "I don't know
whether I shall or not.  I think I shall have to think it over.
And perhaps you had better go now."

"But I'M sorry, Helen.  It was a fool thing to say.  I don't know
why I was such an idiot.  Do forgive me; come!"

She slowly shook her head.  "I can't--yet," she said.  "And this
you must understand:  If Ed Raymond, or anyone else, calls on me
and I choose to permit it, or if I choose to go out with him
anywhere at any time, that is my affair and not 'everyone else's'--
which includes Issachar Price.  And my FRIENDS--my real friends--
will not listen to mean, ridiculous gossip.  Good night."

So that was the end of that attempt at asserting the Divine Right
by the South Harniss king of hearts.  Albert was more miserable
than ever, angrier than ever--not only at Raymond and Helen, but at
himself--and his newly-discovered jealousy burned with a brighter
and greener flame.  The idea of throwing everything overboard,
going to Canada and enlisting in the Canadian Army--an idea which
had had a strong and alluring appeal ever since the war broke out--
came back with redoubled force.  But there was the agreement with
his grandfather.  He had given his word; how could he break it?
Besides, to go away and leave his rival with a clear field did not
appeal to him, either.

On a Wednesday evening in the middle of September the final social
event of the South Harniss summer season was to take place.  The
Society for the Relief of the French Wounded was to give a dance in
the ballroom of the hotel, the proceeds from the sale of tickets to
be devoted to the purpose defined by the name of this organization.
Every last member of the summer colony was to attend, of course,
and all those of the permanent residents who aspired to social
distinction and cared to pay the high price of admission.

Albert was going, naturally.  That is, he had at first planned to
go, then--after the disastrous call at the parsonage--decided that
he would go under no circumstances, and at the last changed his
mind once more to the affirmative.  Miss Madeline Fosdick, Jane
Kelsey's friend, was responsible for the final change.  She it was
who had sold him his ticket and urged him to be present.  He and
she had met several times since the first meeting at the post-
office.  Usually when they met they talked concerning poetry and
kindred lofty topics.  Albert liked Miss Fosdick.  It is hard not
to like a pretty, attractive young lady who takes such a flattering
interest in one's aspirations and literary efforts.  The "high brow
chit-chats"--quoting Miss Kelsey again--were pleasant in many ways;
for instance, they were in the nature of a tonic for weakened self-
esteem, and the Speranza self-esteem was suffering just at this
time, from shock.

Albert had, when he first heard that the dance was to take place,
intended inviting Helen to accompany him.  He had taken her
acceptance for granted, he having acted as her escort to so many
dances and social affairs.  So he neglected inviting her and then
came Issy's mischief-making remarks and the trouble which followed.
So, as inviting her was out of the question, he resolved not to
attend, himself.  But Miss Fosdick urged so prettily that he bought
his ticket and promised to be among those present.

"Provided, of course," he ventured, being in a reckless mood, "that
you save me at least four dances."  She raised her brows in mock
dismay.

"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed.  "I'm afraid I couldn't do that.
Four is much too many.  One I will promise, but no more."

However, as he persisted, she yielded another.  He was to have two
dances and, possibly an "extra."

"And you are a lucky young man," declared Jane Kelsey, who had also
promised two.  "If you knew how many fellows have begged for just
one.  But, of course," she added, "THEY were not poets, second
editions of Tennyson and Keats and all that.  It is Keats who was
the poet, isn't it, Madeline?" she added, turning to her friend.
"Oh, I'm so glad I got it right the first time.  I'm always mixing
him up with Watts, the man who invented the hymns and wrote the
steam-engine--or something."

The Wednesday evening in the middle of September was a beautiful
one and the hotel was crowded.  The Item, in its account the
following week, enumerating those present, spoke of "Our new
residents, Mrs. Fletcher Story Fosdick and Miss Madeline Fosdick,
who are to occupy the magnificent residence now about being built
on the Inlet Hill by their husband and father, respectively,
Fletcher Story Fosdick, Esquire, the well-known New York banker."
The phrasing of this news note caused much joy in South Harniss,
and the Item gained several new and hopeful subscribers.

But when the gushing reporter responsible for this added that "Miss
Fosdick was a dream of loveliness on this occasion" he was stating
only the truth.  She was very beautiful indeed and a certain young
man who stepped up to claim his first dance realized the fact.  The
said young man was outwardly cool, but red-hot within, the internal
rise in temperature being caused by the sight of Helen Kendall
crossing the floor arm in arm with Edwin Raymond.  Albert's face
was white with anger, except for two red spots on his cheeks, and
his black eyes flashed.  Consequently he, too, was considered quite
worth the looking at and feminine glances followed him.

"Who is that handsome, foreign-looking fellow your friend is
dancing with?" whispered one young lady, a guest at the hotel, to
Miss Kelsey.  Jane told her.

"But he isn't a foreigner," she added.  "He lives here in South
Harniss all the year.  He is a poet, I believe, and Madeline, who
knows about such things--inherits it from her mother, I suppose--
says his poetry is beautiful."

Her companion watched the subject of their conversation as, with
Miss Fosdick, he moved lightly and surely through the crowd on the
floor.

"He LOOKS like a poet," she said, slowly.  "He is wonderfully
handsome, so distinguished, and SUCH a dancer!  But why should a
poet live here--all the year?  Is that all he does for a living--
write poetry?"

Jane pretended not to hear her and, a masculine friend coming to
claim his dance, seized the opportunity to escape.  However,
another "sitter out" supplied the information.

"He is a sort of assistant bookkeeper at the lumber yard by the
railroad station," said this person.  "His grandfather owns the
place, I believe.  One would never guess it to look at him now. . . .
Humph!  I wonder if Mrs. Fosdick knows.  They say she is--well,
not democratically inclined, to say the least."

Albert had his two promised dances with Madeline Fosdick, but the
"extra" he did not obtain.  Mrs. Fosdick, the ever watchful, had
seen and made inquiries.  Then she called her daughter to her and
issued an ultimatum.

"I am SO sorry," said the young lady, in refusing the plea for the
"extra."  "I should like to, but I--but Mother has asked me to
dance with a friend of ours from home.  I--I AM sorry, really."

She looked as if she meant it.  Albert was sorry, too.  This had
been a strange evening, another combination of sweet and sour.  He
glanced across the floor and saw Helen and the inevitable Raymond
emerge together from the room where the refreshments were served.
Raging jealousy seized him at the sight.  Helen had not been near
him, had scarcely spoken to him since his arrival.  He forgot that
he had not been near nor spoken to her.

He danced twice or thrice more with acquaintances, "summer" or
permanent, and then decided to go home.  Madeline Fosdick he saw at
the other end of the room surrounded by a group of young masculinity.
Helen he could not see at the moment.  He moved in the direction of
the coatroom.  Just as he reached the door he was surprised to see
Ed Raymond stride by him, head down and looking anything but joyful.
He watched and was still more astonished to see the young man get
his coat and hat from the attendant and walk out of the hotel.  He
saw him stride away along the drive and down the moonlit road.  He
was, apparently, going home--going home alone.

He got his own coat and hat and, before putting them on, stepped
back for a final look at the ballroom.  As he stood by the
cloakroom door someone touched his arm.  Turning he saw Helen.

"Why--why, Helen!" he exclaimed, in surprise.

"Are you going home?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Yes, I--"

"And you are going alone?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind--would it trouble you too much to walk with me as
far as our house?"

"Why--why of course not.  I shall be delighted.  But I thought you--
I thought Ed Raymond--"

"No, I'm alone.  Wait here; I will be ready in just a minute."

She hurried away.  He gazed after her in bewilderment.  She and he
had scarcely exchanged a word during the evening, and now, when the
evening was almost over, she came and asked him to be her escort.
What in the wide world--?

The minute she had specified had hardly elapsed when she reappeared,
ready for out of doors.  She took his arm and they walked down the
steps of the hotel, past the group of lights at the head of the
drive and along the road, with the moon shining down upon it and the
damp, salt breeze from the ocean blowing across it.  They walked for
the first few minutes in silence.  There were a dozen questions he
would have liked to ask, but his jealous resentment had not entirely
vanished and his pride forbade.  It was she who spoke first.

"Albert," she said, "you must think this very odd."

He knew what she meant, but he did not choose to admit it.

"What?" he asked.

"Why, my asking you to walk home with me, after--after our trouble.
It is strange, I suppose, particularly as you had not spoken before
this whole evening."

"_I_--spoken to YOU?  Why, you bowed to me when I came into the
room and that was the only sign of recognition you gave me until
just now.  Not a dance--not one."

"Did you expect me to look you up and beg you to dance with me?"

"Did you expect me to trot at that fellow's heels and wait my
chance to get a word with you, to take what he left?  I should say
not!  By George, Helen, I--"

She interrupted him.  "Hush, hush!" she pleaded.  "This is all so
silly, so childish.  And we mustn't quarrel any more.  I have made
up my mind to that.  We mustn't."

"Humph!  All right, _I_ had no thought of quarreling in the
beginning.  But there are some things a self-respecting chap can't
stand.  I have SOME pride, I hope."

She caught her breath quickly.  "Do you think," she asked, "that it
was no sacrifice to my pride to beg you to walk home with me?
After--after the things you said the other evening?  Oh, Albert,
how could you say them!"

"Well--" he hesitated, and then added, "I told you I was sorry."

"Yes, but you weren't really sorry.  You must have believed the
things that hateful Issachar Price said or you wouldn't have
repeated them. . . .  Oh, but never mind that now, I didn't mean to
speak of it at all.  I asked you to walk home with me because I
wanted to make up our quarrel.  Yes, that was it.  I didn't want to
go away and feel that you and I were not as good friends as ever.
So, you see, I put all MY pride to one side--and asked."

One phrase in one sentence of this speech caught and held the young
man's attention.  He forgot the others.

"You are going away?" he repeated.  "What do you mean?  Where are
you going?"

"I am going to Cambridge to study.  I am going to take some courses
at Radcliffe.  You know I told you I hoped to some day.  Well, it
has been arranged.  I am to live with my cousin, father's half
sister in Somerville.  Father is well enough to leave now and I
have engaged a capable woman, Mrs. Peters, to help Maria with the
housework.  I am going Friday morning, the day after to-morrow."

He stopped short to stare at her.

"You are going away?" he asked, again.  "You are going to do that
and--and--  Why didn't you tell me before?"

It was a characteristic return to his attitude of outraged royalty.
She had made all these plans, had arranged to do this thing, and he
had not been informed.  At another time Helen might have laughed at
him; she generally did when he became what she called the "Grand
Bashaw."  She did not laugh now, however, but answered quietly.

"I didn't know I was going to do it until a little more than a week
ago," she said.  "And I have not seen you since then."

"No, you've been too busy seeing someone else."

She lost patience for the instant.  "Oh, don't, don't, don't!" she
cried.  "I know who you mean, of course.  You mean Ed Raymond.
Don't you know why he has been at the house so much of late?  Why
he and I have been so much together?  Don't you really know?"

"What? . . .  No, I don't--except that you and he wanted to be
together."

"And it didn't occur to you that there might be some other reason?
You forgot, I suppose, that he and I were appointed on the Ticket
Committee for this very dance?"

He had forgotten it entirely.  Now he remembered perfectly the
meeting of the French Relief Society at which the appointment had
been made.  In fact Helen herself had told him of it at the time.
For the moment he was staggered, but he rallied promptly.

"Committee meetings may do as an excuse for some things," he said,
"but they don't explain the rest--his calls here every other
evening and--and so on.  Honest now, Helen, you know he hasn't been
running after you in this way just because he is on that committee
with you; now don't you?"

They were almost at the parsonage.  The light from Mr. Kendall's
study window shone through the leaves of the lilac bush behind the
white fence.  Helen started to speak, but hesitated.  He repeated
his question.

"Now don't you?" he urged.

"Why, why, yes, I suppose I do," she said, slowly.  "I do know--
now.  But I didn't even think of such a thing until--until you came
that evening and told me what Issy Price said."

"You mean you didn't guess at all?"

"Well--well, perhaps I--I thought he liked to come--liked to--  Oh,
what is the use of being silly!  I did think he liked to call, but
only as a friend.  He was jolly and lots of fun and we were both
fond of music.  I enjoyed his company.  I never dreamed that there
was anything more than that until you came and were so--disagreeable.
And even then I didn't believe--until to-night."

Again she hesitated.  "To-night?" he repeated.  "What happened to-
night?"

"Oh nothing.  I can't tell you.  Oh, why can't friends be friends
and not. . . .  That is why I spoke to you, Albert, why I wanted to
have this talk with you.  I was going away so soon and I couldn't
bear to go with any unfriendliness between us.  There mustn't be.
Don't you see?"

He heard but a part of this.  The memory of Raymond's face as he
had seen it when the young man strode out of the cloakroom and out
of the hotel came back to him and with it a great heart-throbbing
sense of relief, of triumph.  He seized her hand.

"Helen," he cried, "did he--did you tell him--  Oh, by George,
Helen, you're the most wonderful girl in the world!  I'm--I--  Oh,
Helen, you know I--I--"

It was not his habit to be at a loss for words, but he was just
then.  He tried to retain her hand, to put his arm about her.

"Oh, Helen!" he cried.  "You're wonderful!  You're splendid!  I'm
crazy about you!  I really am!  I--"

She pushed him gently away.  "Don't!  Please don't!" she said.
"Oh, don't!"

"But I must.  Don't you see I. . . .  Why, you're crying!"

Her face had, for a moment, been upturned.  The moon at that moment
had slipped behind a cloud, but the lamplight from the window had
shown him the tears in her eyes.  He was amazed.  He could have
shouted, have laughed aloud from joy or triumphant exultation just
then, but to weep!  What occasion was there for tears, except on Ed
Raymond's part?

"You're crying!" he repeated.  "Why, Helen--!"

"Don't!" she said, again.  "Oh, don't!  Please don't talk that
way."

"But don't you want me to, Helen?  I--I want you to know how I
feel.  You don't understand.  I--"

"Hush! . . .  Don't, Al, don't, please.  Don't talk in that way.  I
don't want you to."

"But why not?"

"Oh, because I don't.  It's--it is foolish.  You're only a boy, you
know."

"A boy!  I'm more than a year older than you are."

"Are you?  Why yes, I suppose you are, really.  But that doesn't
make any difference.  I guess girls are older than boys when they
are our age, lots older."

"Oh, bother all that!  We aren't kids, either of us.  I want you to
listen.  You don't understand what I'm trying to say."

"Yes, I do.  But I'm sure you don't.  You are glad because you have
found you have no reason to be jealous of Ed Raymond and that makes
you say--foolish things.  But I'm not going to have our friendship
spoiled in that way.  I want us to be real friends, always.  So you
mustn't be silly."

"I'm not silly.  Helen, if you won't listen to anything else, will
you listen to this?  Will you promise me that while you are away
you won't have other fellows calling on you or--or anything like
that?  And I'll promise you that I'll have nothing to say to
another girl--in any way that counts, I mean.  Shall we promise
each other that, Helen?  Come!"

She paused for some moment before answering, but her reply, when it
came, was firm.

"No," she said, "I don't think we should promise anything, except
to remain friends.  You might promise and then be sorry, later."

"_I_ might?  How about you?"

"Perhaps we both might.  So we won't take the risk.  You may come
and see me to-morrow evening and say good-by, if you like.  But you
mustn't stay long.  It is my last night with father for some time
and I mustn't cheat him out of it.  Good night, Albert.  I'm so
glad our misunderstanding is over, aren't you?"

"Of course I am.  But, Helen--"

"I must go in now.  Good night."

The reflections of Alberto Speranza during his walk back to the
Snow place were varied but wonderful.  He thought of Raymond's
humiliation and gloried in it.  He thought of Helen and rhapsodized.
And if, occasionally, he thought also of the dance and of Madeline
Fosdick, forgive him.  He was barely twenty-one and the moon was
shining.

CHAPTER IX

The good-by call the following evening was, to him at least, not
very satisfactory.  Helen was tired, having been busy all day with
the final preparations for leaving, and old Mr. Kendall insisted
on being present during the entire visit and in telling long and
involved stories of the trip abroad he had made when a young man
and the unfavorable opinion which he had then formed of Prussians
as traveling companions.  Albert's opinion of Prussians was at
least as unfavorable as his own, but his complete and even eager
agreement with each of the old gentleman's statements did not have
the effect of choking the latter off, but rather seemed to act as
encouragement for more.  When ten o'clock came and it was time to
go Albert felt as if he had been listening to a lecture on the
Hohenzollerns.  "Great Scott, Helen," he whispered, as she came to
the door with him, "I don't feel as if I had talked with you a
minute.  Why, I scarcely--"

But just here Mr. Kendall came hurrying from the sitting-room to
tell of one incident which he had hitherto forgotten, and so even
this brief interval of privacy was denied.  But Albert made one
more attempt.

"I'm going to run over to the station to-morrow morning to see you
off," he called from the gate.  "Good night."

The morning train left at nine o'clock, and at a quarter to nine
Albert, who had kept his eye on the clock ever since eight, his
hour of arriving at the office, called to Mr. Price.

"I say," he said, in a low tone and one as casual as he could
assume, "I am going to run out for a few minutes.  I'll be right
back."

Issachar's response was as usual anything but low.

"Eh?" he shouted.  "Goin' out?  Where you goin'?"

"Oh, I'm just going out--er--on an errand."

"What kind of an errand?  I was cal'latin' to run out myself for a
little spell.  Can't I do your errand for you?"

"No, no. . .  There, there, don't bother me any more.  I'm in a
hurry."

"Hurry!  So'm I in a hurry.  I was cal'latin' to run acrost to the
deepo and see Helen Kendall start for Boston.  She's goin' this
morning; did you know it?"

Before the somewhat flustered assistant bookkeeper could reply
Captain Zelotes called from the inner office:

"Wouldn't wonder if that was where Al was bound, too," he observed.
"And I was thinkin' of the same thing.  Suppose we all go together.
Labe'll keep shop, won't you, Labe?"

Mr. Keeler looked over his spectacles.  "Eh?" he observed.  "Oh,
yes, yes . . .  yes, yes, yes.  And say good-by to Helen for me,
some of you, if you happen to think of it.  Not that 'twill make
much difference to her," he added, "whether she gets my good-bys or
not, but it might make some to me. . . .  Um, yes, yes."

Mr. Price was eager to oblige.

"I'll tell her you sent 'em, Labe," he said, patronizingly.  "Set
your mind to rest; I'll tell her."

Laban's lip twitched.  "Much obliged, Is," he chirruped.  "That's a
great relief!  My mind's rested some already."

So, instead of going alone to the railway station, Albert made one
of a delegation of three.  And at the station was Mr. Kendall, and
two of the school committee, and one or two members of the church
sewing circle, and the president and secretary of the Society for
the Relief of the French Wounded.  So far from being an intimate
confidential farewell, Helen's departure was in the nature of a
public ceremony with speech-making.  Mr. Price made most of the
speeches, in fact the lower portion of his countenance was in
violent motion most of the ten minutes.

"Take care of yourself, Helen," he urged loudly.  "Don't you worry
about your pa, we'll look out for him.  And don't let none of them
Boston fellers carry you off.  We'll watch and see that Eddie
Raymond and Al here don't get into mischief while you're gone.
I . . . Crimustee!  Jim Young, what in time's the matter with you?
Can't ye see nothin'?"

This last outburst was directed at the driver of the depot-wagon,
who, wheeling a trunk on a baggage truck, had bumped violently into
the rear of Mr. Price's legs, just at the knee joint, causing their
owner to bend backward unexpectedly, and with enthusiasm.

"Can't you see nothin' when it's right in front of ye?" demanded
Issachar, righteously indignant.

Jim Young winked over his shoulder at Albert.  "Sorry, Is," he
said, as he continued toward the baggage car.  "I didn't notice you
WAS in front of me."

"Well, then, you'd better. . . .  Eh?  See here, what do you mean
by that?"

Even after Mr. Price had thus been pushed out of the foreground, so
to speak, Albert was denied the opportunity of taking his place by
Helen's side.  Her father had a few last messages to deliver, then
Captain Zelotes shook her hand and talked for a moment, and, after
that, the ladies of the sewing circle and the war work society felt
it their duty to, severally and jointly, kiss her good-by.  This
last was a trying operation to watch.

Then the engine bell rang and the train began to move.  Albert,
running beside the platform of the last car, held up his hand for a
farewell clasp.

"Good-by," he said, and added in a whisper, "You'll write, won't
you?"

"Of course.  And so must you.  Good-by."

The last car and the handkerchief waving figure on its platform
disappeared around the curve.  The little group by the station
broke up.  Albert and his grandfather walked over to the office
together.

"There goes a good girl, Al," was Captain Lote's only comment.  "A
mighty good capable girl."

Albert nodded.  A moment later he lifted his hat to a group in a
passing automobile.

"Who were those folks?" asked the Captain.

"The Fosdicks," was the reply.  "The people who are going to build
down by the Inlet."

It was Madeline and her mother.  The latter had been serenely
indifferent, but the young lady had smiled and bowed behind the
maternal shoulders.

"Oh; that so?" observed Captain Zelotes, looking after the flying
car with interest.  "That's who 'tis, eh?  Nice lookin', the young
one, ain't she?"

Albert did not answer.  With the noise of the train which was
carrying Helen out of his life still ringing in his ears it seemed
wicked even to mention another girl's name, to say nothing of
commenting upon her good looks.  For the rest of that day he was a
gloomy spirit, a dark shadow in the office of Z. Snow and Co.

Before the end of another fortnight the season at South Harniss was
definitely over.  The hotel closed on the Saturday following the
dance, and by October first the last of the cottages was locked and
shuttered.  The Kelseys went on the twentieth and the Fosdicks went
with them.  Albert met Madeline and Jane at the post-office in the
evening of the nineteenth and there more farewells were said.

"Don't forget us down here in the sand, will you?" he suggested to
Miss Fosdick.  It was Jane Kelsey who answered.

"Oh, she won't forget," returned that young lady.  "Why she has
your photograph to remember you by."

Madeline colored becomingly and was, as Jane described it, "awfully
fussed."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, with much indignation, "I haven't any
such thing.  You know I haven't, Jane."

"Yes, you have, my dear.  You have a photograph of him standing
in front of the drug store and looking dreamily in at--at the
strawberry sundaes.  It is a most romantic pose, really."

Albert laughed.  He remembered the photograph.  It was one of a
series of snapshots taken with Miss Kelsey's camera one Saturday
afternoon when a party of young people had met in front of the
sundae dispensary.  Jane had insisted on "snapping" everyone.

"That reminds me that I have never seen the rest of those
photographs," he said.

"Haven't you?" exclaimed Jane.  "Well, you ought to see them.  I
have Madeline's with me.  It is a dream, if I do say it as I took
it."

She produced the snapshot, which showed her friend standing beside
the silver-leaf tree before the druggist's window and smiling at
the camera.  It was a good likeness and, consequently, a very
pretty picture.

"Isn't it a dream, just as I said?" demanded the artist.  "Honest
now, isn't it?

Albert of course declared it to be beyond praise.

"May I have this one?" he asked, on the impulse of the moment.

"Don't ask me, stupid," commanded Jane, mischievously.  "It isn't
my funeral--or my portrait, either."

"May I?" he repeated, turning to Madeline.  She hesitated.

"Why--why yes, you may, if you care for it," she said.  "That
particular one is Jane's, anyway, and if she chooses to give it
away I don't see how I can prevent her.  But why you should want
the old thing I can't conceive.  I look as stiff and wooden as a
sign-post."

Jane held up a protesting finger.

"Fibs, fibs, fibs," she observed.  "Can't conceive why he should
want it!  As if you weren't perfectly aware that he will wear it
next his heart and--  Oh, don't put it in THAT pocket!  I said next
your heart, and that isn't on your RIGHT side."

Albert took the photograph home and stuck it between the frame and
glass of his bureau.  Then came a sudden remembrance of his parting
with Helen and with it a twinge of conscience.  He had begged her
to have nothing to do with any other fellow.  True she had refused
to promise and consequently he also was unbound, but that made no
difference--should not make any.  So he put the photograph at the
back of the drawer where he kept his collars and ties, with a
resolve never to look at it.  He did not look at it--very often.

Then came another long winter.  He ground away at the bookkeeping--
he was more proficient at it, but he hated it as heartily as ever--
and wrote a good deal of verse and some prose.  For the first time
he sold a prose article, a short story, to a minor magazine.  He
wrote long letters to Helen and she replied.  She was studying
hard, she liked her work, and she had been offered the opportunity
to tutor in a girls' summer camp in Vermont during July and August
and meant to accept provided her father's health continued good.
Albert protested violently against her being absent from South
Harniss for so long.  "You will scarcely be home at all," he wrote.
"I shall hardly see you.  What am I going to do?  As it is now I
miss you--" and so on for four closely written pages.  Having
gotten into the spirit of composition he, so to speak, gloried in
his loneliness, so much so that Helen was moved to remonstrate.
"Your letter made me almost miserable," she wrote, "until I had
read it over twice.  Then I began to suspect that you were enjoying
your wretchedness, or enjoying writing about it.  I truly don't
believe anyone--you especially--could be quite as lonesome as all
that.  Honestly now, Albert, weren't you exaggerating a little?  I
rather think you were?"

He had been, of course, but it irritated him to think that she
recognized the fact.  She had an uncanny faculty of seeing through
his every pretense.  In his next letter he said nothing whatever
about being lonesome.

At home, and at the office, the war was what people talked about
most of the time.  Since the Lusitania's sinking Captain Zelotes
had been a battle charger chafing at the bit.  He wanted to fight
and to fight at once.

"We've got to do it, Mother," he declared, over and over again.
"Sooner or later we've got to fight that Kaiser gang.  What are we
waitin' for; will somebody tell me that?"

Olive, as usual, was mild and unruffled.

"Probably the President knows as much about it as you and me,
Zelotes," she suggested.  "I presume likely he has his own
reasons."

"Humph!  When Seth Bassett got up in the night and took a drink out
of the bottle of Paris Green by mistake 'Bial Cahoon asked him what
in time he kept Paris Green in his bedroom for, anyhow.  All that
Seth would say was that he had his own reasons.  The rest of the
town was left to guess what those reasons was.  That's what the
President's doin'--keepin' us guessin'.  By the everlastin', if I
was younger I'd ship aboard a British lime-juicer and go and fight,
myself!"

It was Rachel Ellis who caused the Captain to be a bit more
restrained in his remarks.

"You hadn't ought to talk that way, Cap'n Lote," she said.  "Not
when Albert's around, you hadn't."

"Eh?  Why not?"

"Because the first thing you know he'll be startin' for Canada to
enlist.  He's been crazy to do it for 'most a year."

"He has?  How do you know he has?"

"Because he's told me so, more'n once."

Her employer looked at her.

"Humph!" he grunted.  "He seems to tell you a good many things he
doesn't tell the rest of us."

The housekeeper nodded.  "Yes," she said gravely, "I shouldn't
wonder if he did."  A moment later she added, "Cap'n Lote, you will
be careful, won't you?  You wouldn't want Al to go off and leave Z.
Snow and Company when him and you are gettin' on so much better.
You ARE gettin' on better, ain't you?"

The captain pulled at his beard.

"Yes," he admitted, "seems as if we was.  He ain't any wonder at
bookkeepin', but he's better'n he used to be; and he does seem to
try hard, I'll say that for him."

Rachael beamed gratification.  "He'll be a Robert Penfold yet," she
declared; "see if he isn't.  So you musn't encourage him into
enlistin' in the Canadian army.  You wouldn't want him to do that
any more'n the rest of us would."

The captain gazed intently into the bowl of the pipe which he had
been cleaning.  He made no answer.

"You wouldn't want him to do that, would you?" repeated the
housekeeper.

Captain Lote blew through the pipe stem.  Then he said, "No, I
wouldn't . . . but I'm darn glad he's got the spunk to WANT to do
it.  We may get that Portygee streak out of him, poetry and all,
give us time; eh, Rachael?"

It was the first time in months that he had used the word "Portygee"
in connection with his grandson.  Mrs. Ellis smiled to herself.

In April the arbutus buds began to appear above the leaf mold
between the scrub oaks in the woods, and the walls of Fletcher
Fosdick's new summer home began to rise above the young pines on
the hill by the Inlet in the Bay Road.  The Item kept its readers
informed, by weekly installments, of the progress made by the
builders.

The lumber for Mr. Fletcher Fosdick's new cottage is beginning to
be hauled to his property on Inlet Hill in this town.  Our
enterprising firm of South Harniss dealers, Z. Snow & Co., are
furnishing said lumber.  Mr. Nehemiah Nickerson is to do the mason
work.  Mr. Fosdick shows good judgment as well as a commendable
spirit in engaging local talent in this way.  We venture to say he
will never regret it.

A week later:

Mr. Fletcher Fosdick's new residence is beginning building, the
foundation being pretty near laid.

And the following week:

The Fosdick mansion is growing fast.  South Harniss may well be
proud of its new ornament.

The rise in three successive numbers from "cottage" to "mansion" is
perhaps sufficient to indicate that the Fosdick summer home was to
be, as Issachar Price described it, "Some considerable house!  Yes
sir, by crimus, some considerable!"

In June, Helen came home for a week.  At the end of the week she
left to take up her new duties at the summer camp for girls in
Vermont.  Albert and she were together a good deal during that
week.  Anticipating her arrival, the young man's ardent imagination
had again fanned what he delighted to think of as his love for her
into flame.  During the last months of the winter he had not played
the languishing swain as conscientiously as during the autumn.
Like the sailor in the song "is 'eart was true to Poll" always, but
he had broken away from his self-imposed hermitage in his room at
the Snow place several times to attend sociables, entertainments
and, even, dances.  Now, when she returned he was eagerly awaiting
her and would have haunted the parsonage before and after working
hours of every day as well as the evening, if she had permitted,
and when with her assumed a proprietary air which was so obvious
that even Mr. Price felt called upon to comment on it.

"Say, Al," drawled Issachar, "cal'late you've cut out Eddie Raymond
along with Helen, ain't ye?  Don't see him hangin' around any since
she got back, and the way you was actin' when I see you struttin'
into the parsonage yard last night afore mail time made me think
you must have a first mortgage on Helen and her pa and the house
and the meetin'-house and two-thirds of the graveyard.  I never see
such an important-lookin' critter in MY life.  Haw, haw!  Eh?  How
'bout it?"

Albert did not mind the Price sarcasm; instead he felt rather
grateful to have the proletariat recognize that he had triumphed
again.  The fly in his ointment, so to speak, was the fact that
Helen herself did not in the least recognize that triumph.  She
laughed at him.

"Don't look at me like that, please, please, don't," she begged.

"Why not?" with a repetition of the look.

"Because it is silly."

"Silly!  Well, I like that!  Aren't you and I engaged?  Or just the
same as engaged?"

"No, of course we are not."

"But we promised each other--"

"No, we did not.  And you know we didn't."

"Helen, why do you treat me that way?  Don't you know that--that I
just worship the ground you tread on?  Don't you know you're the
only girl in this world I could ever care for?  Don't you know
that?"

They were walking home from church Sunday morning and had reached
the corner below the parsonage.  There, screened by the thicket of
young silver-leafs, she stopped momentarily and looked into his
face.  Then she walked on.

"Don't you know how much I care?" he repeated.

She shook her head.  "You think you do now, perhaps," she said,
"but you will change your mind."

"What do you mean by that?  How do you know I will?"

"Because I know you.  There, there, Albert, we won't quarrel, will
we?  And we won't be silly.  You're an awfully nice boy, but you
are just a boy, you know."

He was losing his temper.

"This is ridiculous!" he declared.  "I'm tired of being grandmothered
by you.  I'm older than you are, and I know what I'm doing.  Come,
Helen, listen to me."

But she would not listen, and although she was always kind and
frank and friendly, she invariably refused to permit him to become
sentimental.  It irritated him, and after she had gone the
irritation still remained.  He wrote her as before, although not
quite so often, and the letters were possibly not quite so long.
His pride was hurt and the Speranza pride was a tender and
important part of the Speranza being.  If Helen noted any change in
his letters she did not refer to it nor permit it to influence her
own, which were, as always, lengthy, cheerful, and full of interest
in him and his work and thoughts.

During the previous fall, while under the new influence aroused in
him by his discovery that Helen Kendall was "the most wonderful
girl in the world," said discovery of course having been previously
made for him by the unfortunate Raymond, he had developed a habit
of wandering off into the woods or by the seashore to be alone and
to seek inspiration.  When a young poet is in love, or fancies
himself in love, inspiration is usually to be found wherever
sought, but even at that age and to one in that condition solitude
is a marked aid in the search.  There were two or three spots which
had become Albert Speranza's favorites.  One was a high, wind-swept
knoll, overlooking the bay, about a half mile from the hotel,
another was a secluded nook in the pine grove beside Carver's Pond,
a pretty little sheet of water on the Bayport boundary.  On
pleasant Saturday afternoons or Sundays, when the poetic fit was on
him, Albert, with a half dozen pencils in his pocket, and a rhyming
dictionary and a scribbling pad in another, was wont to stroll
towards one or the other of these two retreats.  There he would
sprawl amid the beachgrass or upon the pine-needles and dream and
think and, perhaps, ultimately write.

One fair Saturday in late June he was at the first of these
respective points.  Lying prone on the beach grass at the top of
the knoll and peering idly out between its stems at the water
shimmering in the summer sun, he was endeavoring to find a subject
for a poem which should deal with love and war as requested by the
editor of the Columbian Magazine.  "Give us something with a girl
and a soldier in it," the editor had written.  Albert's mind was
lazily drifting in search of the pleasing combination.

The sun was warm, the breeze was light, the horizon was veiled with
a liquid haze.  Albert's mind was veiled with a similar haze and
the idea he wanted would not come.  He was losing his desire to
find it and was, in fact, dropping into a doze when aroused by a
blood-curdling outburst of barks and yelps and growls behind him,
at his very heels.  He came out of his nap with a jump and,
scrambling to a sitting position and turning, he saw a small Boston
bull-terrier standing within a yard of his ankles and, apparently,
trying to turn his brindled outside in, or his inside out, with
spiteful ferocity.  Plainly the dog had come upon him unexpectedly
and was expressing alarm, suspicion and disapproval.

Albert jerked his ankles out of the way and said "Hello, boy," in
as cheerfully cordial a tone as he could muster at such short
notice.  The dog took a step forward, evidently with the idea of
always keeping the ankles within jumping distance, showed a double
row of healthy teeth and growled and barked with renewed violence.

"Nice dog," observed Albert.  The nice dog made a snap at the
nearest ankle and, balked of his prey by a frenzied kick of the
foot attached to the ankle, shrieked, snarled and gurgled like a
canine lunatic.

"Go home, you ugly brute," commanded the young man, losing
patience, and looking about for a stone or stick.  On the top of
that knoll the largest stone was the size of a buckshot and the
nearest stick was, to be Irish, a straw.

"Nice doggie!  Nice old boy!  Come and be patted! . . .  Clear out
with you!  Go home, you beast!"

Flatteries and threats were alike in their result.  The dog continued
to snarl and growl, darting toward the ankles occasionally.
Evidently he was mustering courage for the attack.  Albert in
desperation scooped up a handful of sand.  If worst came to worst
he might blind the creature temporarily.  What would happen after
that was not clear.  Unless he might by a lucky cast fill the dog's
interior so full of sand that--like the famous "Jumping Frog"--it
would be too heavy to navigate, he saw no way of escape from a
painful bite, probably more than one.  What Captain Zelotes had
formerly called his "Portygee temper" flared up.

"Oh, damn you, clear out!" he shouted, springing to his feet.

From a little way below him; in fact, from behind the next dune,
between himself and the beach, a feminine voice called his name.

"Oh, Mr. Speranza!" it said.  "Is it you?  I'm so glad!"

Albert turned, but the moment he did so the dog made a dash at his
legs, so he was obliged to turn back again and kick violently.

"Oh, I am so glad it is you," said the voice again.  "I was sure it
was a dreadful tramp.  Googoo loathes tramps."

As an article of diet that meant, probably.  Googoo--if that was
the dog's name--was passionately fond of poets, that was self-
evident, and intended to make a meal of this one, forthwith.  He
flew at the Speranza ankles.  Albert performed a most undignified
war dance, and dashed his handful of sand into Googoo's open
countenance.  For a minute or so there was a lively shindy on top
of that knoll.  At the end of the minute the dog, held tightly in a
pair of feminine arms, was emitting growls and coughs and sand,
while Madeline Fosdick and Albert Speranza were kneeling in more
sand and looking at each other.

"Oh, did he bite you?" begged Miss Fosdick.

"No . . . no, I guess not," was the reply.  "I--I scarcely know
yet. . . .  Why, when did you come?  I didn't know you were in
town."

"We came yesterday.  Motored from home, you know.  I--be still,
Goo, you bad thing!  It was such a lovely day that I couldn't
resist going for a walk along the beach.  I took Googoo because he
does love it so, and--Goo, be still, I tell you!  I am sure he
thinks you are a tramp, out here all alone in the--in the
wilderness.  And what were you doing here?"

Albert drew a long breath.  "I was half asleep, I guess," he said,
"when he broke loose at my heels.  I woke up quick enough then, as
you may imagine.  And so you are here for the summer?  Your new
house isn't finished, is it?"

"No, not quite.  Mother and Goo and I are at the hotel for a month.
But you haven't answered my question.  What were you doing off here
all alone?  Have you been for a walk, too?"

"Not exactly.  I--well, I come here pretty often.  It is one of my
favorite hiding places.  You see, I . . . don't laugh if I tell
you, will you?"

"Of course not.  Go on; this is very mysterious and interesting."

"Well, I come here sometimes on pleasant days, to be alone--and
write."

"Write?  Write poetry, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how wonderful!  Were you writing when I--when Goo interrupted
you?"

"No; I had made two or three attempts, but nothing that I did
satisfied me.  I had just about decided to tear them up and to give
up trying for this afternoon."

"Oh, I hope you won't tear them up.  I'm sure they shouldn't be.
Perhaps you were not in a proper mood to judge, yourself."

"Perhaps not.  Perhaps they might look a little less hopeless to
some one else.  But that person would have to be really interested,
and there are few people in South Harniss who know or care anything
about poetry."

"I suppose that is true.  I--I don't suppose you would care to show
them to me, would you?"

"Why," eagerly, "would you really care to see them?"

"Indeed I should!  Not that my judgment or advice is worth
anything, of course.  But I am very, very fond of poetry, and to
see how a real poet wrote would be wonderful.  And if I could help
you, even the least little bit, it would be such an honor."

This sort of thing was balm to the Speranza spirit.  Albert's
temperamental ego expanded under it like a rosebud under a summer
sun.  Yet there was a faint shadow of doubt--she might be making
fun of him.  He looked at her intently and she seemed to read his
thoughts, for she said:

"Oh, I mean it!  Please believe I do.  I haven't spoken that way
when Jane was with me, for she wouldn't understand and would laugh,
but I mean it, Mr. Speranza.  It would be an honor--a great honor."

So the still protesting and rebellious Googoo was compelled to go a
few feet away and lie down, while his mistress and the young man
whom he had attempted to devour bent their heads together over a
scribbling-pad and talked and exclaimed during the whole of that
hour and a full three-quarters of the next.  Then the distant town
clock in the steeple of the Congregational church boomed five times
and Miss Fosdick rose to her feet.

"Oh," she said, "it can't really be five o'clock, can it?  But it
is!  What WILL mother fancy has become of me?  I must go this
minute.  Thank you, Mr. Speranza.  I have enjoyed this so much.
It has been a wonderful experience."

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining.  She had grown
handsomer than ever during the winter months.  Albert's eyes were
shining also as he impulsively seized her hand.

"Thank you, Miss Fosdick," he said.  "You have helped me more than
I can tell you.  I was about to give up in despair before you came,
and now--now I KNOW I shall write the best thing I have ever done.
And you will be responsible for it."

She caught her breath.  "Oh, not really!" she exclaimed.  "You
don't mean it, really?"

"Indeed I do!  If I might have your help and sympathy once in
awhile, I believe--I believe I could do almost anything.  Will you
help me again some day?  I shall be here almost every pleasant
Saturday and Sunday afternoon.  Will you come again?"

She hesitated.  "I--I'll see; perhaps," she answered hurriedly.
"But I must go now.  Come, Goo."

She hastened away, down the knoll and along the beach toward the
hotel.  Googoo followed her, turning occasionally to cast
diabolical glances at the Speranza ankles.  Albert gazed until the
graceful figure in the trim sport costume disappeared behind the
corner of the point of the beach.  Just at the point she paused to
wave to him.  He waved in return.  Then he tramped homeward.  There
was deep sand beneath his feet and, later, pine-needles and grass.
They were all alike to him, for he was traveling on air.

That evening at supper his radiant appearance caused comment.

"What makes you look so happy, Albert?" asked his grandmother.
"Seems to me I never saw you look so sort of--well, glorified, as
you might say.  What is the reason?"

The glorified one reddened and was confused.  He stammered that he
did not know, he was not aware of any particular reason.

Mrs. Ellis beamed upon him.  "I presume likely his bookkeepin' at
the office has been goin' pretty well lately," she suggested.

Captain Zelote's gray eyes twinkled.  "Cal'late he's been makin' up
more poetry about girls," was his offering.  "Another one of those
pieces about teeth like pearls and hair all curls, or somethin'
like that.  Say, Al, why don't you poetry-makin' fellers try a new
one once in a while?  Say, 'Her hair's like rope and her face has
lost hope.'  Eh?  Why not, for a change?"

The protests on the part of Olive and the housekeeper against the
captain's innovation in poetry-making had the effect of distracting
attention from Albert's "glorified" appearance.  The young man
himself was thankful for the respite.

That night before he retired he took Madeline Fosdick's photograph
from the back of the drawer among the ties and collars and looked
at it for five minutes at least.  She was a handsome girl,
certainly.  Not that that made any difference to him.  And she was
an intelligent girl; she understood his poetry and appreciated it.
Yes, and she understood him, too, almost as well as Helen. . . .
Helen!  He hastily returned the Fosdick photograph to the drawer;
but this time he did not put it quite so near the back.

On the following Saturday he was early at the knoll, a brand-new
scribbling-pad in his pocket and in his mind divine gems which were
later, and with Miss Fosdick's assistance, to be strung into a
glittering necklace of lyric song and draped, with the stringer's
compliments, about the throat of a grateful muse.  But no gems were
strung that day.  Madeline did not put in an appearance, and by and
by it began to rain, and Albert walked home, damp, dejected, and
disgusted.  When, a day or two later, he met Miss Fosdick at the
post office and asked why she had not come he learned that her
mother had insisted upon a motor trip to Wapatomac that afternoon.

"Besides," she said, "you surely mustn't expect me EVERY Saturday."

"No," he admitted grudgingly, "I suppose not.  But you will come
sometimes, won't you?  I have a perfectly lovely idea for a ballad
and I want to ask your advice about it."

"Oh, do you really?  You're not making fun?  You mean that my
advice is really worth something?  I can't believe it."

He convinced her that it was, and the next Saturday afternoon they
spent together at the inspiration point among the dunes, at work
upon the ballad.  It was not finished on that occasion, nor on the
next, for it was an unusually long ballad, but progress was made,
glorious progress.

And so, during that Summer, as the Fosdick residence upon the Bay
Road grew and grew, so did the acquaintanceship, the friendship,
the poetic partnership between the Fosdick daughter and the
grandson of Captain Zelotes Snow grow and grow.  They met almost
every Saturday, they met at the post office on week evenings,
occasionally they saw each other for a moment after church on
Sunday mornings.  Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick could not imagine why her
only child cared to attend that stuffy little country church and
hear that prosy Kendall minister drone on and on.  "I hope, my
dear, that I am as punctilious in my religious duties as the
average woman, but one Kendall sermon was sufficient for me, thank
you.  What you see in THAT church to please you, _I_ can't guess."

If she had attended as often as Madeline did she might have guessed
and saved herself much.  But she was busy organizing, in connection
with Mrs. Seabury Calvin, a Literary Society among the summer
people of South Harniss.  The Society was to begin work with the
discussion of the poetry of Rabindranath Tagore.  Mrs. Fosdick
said she doted on Tagore; Mrs. Calvin expressed herself as being
positively insane about him.  A warm friendship had sprung up
between the two ladies, as each was particularly fond of shining as
a literary light and neither under any circumstances permitted a
new lion to roar unheard in her neighborhood, provided, of course,
that the said roarings had been previously endorsed and well
advertised by the critics and the press.

So Mrs. Fosdick was too busy to accompany Madeline to church on
Sunday or to walk on Saturday, and the young lady was left to
wander pretty much at her own sweet will.  That sweet will led her
footsteps to trails frequented by Albert Speranza and they walked
and talked and poetized together.  As for Mr. Fletcher Fosdick, he
was busy at his office in New York and came to South Harniss only
for infrequent week-ends.

The walks and talks and poetizings were innocent enough.  Neither
of the partners in poesy had the least idea of anything more than
being just that.  They liked each other, they had come to call each
other by their Christian names, and on Albert's bureau Madeline's
photograph now stood openly and without apology.  Albert had
convinced himself there was nothing to apologize for.  She was his
friend, that was all.  He liked to write and she liked to help him--
er--well, just as Helen used to when she was at home.  He did not
think of Helen quite as often as formerly, nor were his letters to
her as frequent or as long.

So the summer passed and late August came, the last Saturday
afternoon of that month.  Albert and Madeline were together,
walking together along the beach from the knoll where they had met
so often.  It was six o'clock and the beach was deserted.  There
was little wind, the tiny waves were lapping and plashing along the
shore, and the rosy light of the sinking sun lay warm upon the
water and the sand.  They were thinking and speaking of the summer
which was so near its end.

"It has been a wonderful summer, hasn't it?" said Albert.

"Yes, wonderful," agreed Madeline.

"Yes, I--I--by George, I never believed a summer could be so
wonderful."

"Nor I."

Silence.  Then Albert, looking at her, saw her eyes looking into
his and saw in them--

He kissed her.

That morning Albert Speranza had arisen as usual, a casual,
careless, perfectly human young fellow.  He went to bed that night
a superman, an archangel, a demi-god, with his head in the clouds
and the earth a cloth of gold beneath his feet.  Life was a pathway
through Paradise arched with rainbows.

He and Madeline Fosdick loved each other madly, devotedly.  They
were engaged to be married.  They had plighted troth.  They were to
be each other's, and no one else's, for ever--and ever--and ever.

CHAPTER X

The remainder of that summer was a paradisical meandering over the
cloth of gold beneath the rainbows.  Albert and his Madeline met
often, very often.  Few poems were written at these meetings.  Why
trouble to put penciled lines on paper when the entire universe was
a poem especially composed for your benefit?  The lovers sat upon
the knoll amid the sand dunes and gazed at the bay and talked of
themselves separately, individually, and, more especially,
collectively.  They strolled through the same woody lanes and
discussed the same satisfactory subjects.  They met at the post
office or at the drug store and gazed into each other's eyes.  And,
what was the most astonishing thing about it all, their secret
remained undiscovered.  Undiscovered, that is to say, by those by
whom discovery would have meant calamity.  The gossips among the
townspeople winked and chuckled and cal'lated Fletcher Fosdick had
better look out or his girl would be took into the firm of Z. Snow
and Co.  Issachar Price uttered sarcastic and sly innuendoes.  Jane
Kelsey and her set ragged the pair occasionally.  But even these
never really suspected that the affair was serious.  And neither
Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick nor Captain and Mrs. Zelotes Snow gave it a
minute's attention.

It was serious enough with the principals, however.  To them it was
the only serious matter in the world.  Not that they faced or
discussed the future with earnest and complete attention.  Some day
or other--that was of course the mutually accepted idea--some day
or other they were to marry.  In the meantime here was the blissful
present with its roses and rainbows and here, for each, was the
other.  What would be likely to happen when the Fosdick parents
learned of the engagement of their only child to the assistant
bookkeeper of the South Harniss lumber and hardware company was
unpleasant to contemplate, so why contemplate it?  Upon one point
they were agreed--never, never, NEVER would they give each other
up.  No power on earth--which included parents and grandparents--
should or could separate them.

Albert's conscience troubled him slightly at first when he thought
of Helen Kendall.  It had been in reality such a short time--
although of course it seemed ages and ages--since he had fancied
himself in love with her.  Only the previous fall--yes, even
that very spring, he had asked her to pledge herself to him.
Fortunately--oh, how very fortunately!--she had refused, and he had
been left free.  Now he knew that his fancied love for her had been
merely a passing whim, a delusion of the moment.  This--THIS which
he was now experiencing was the grand passion of his life.  He
wrote a poem with the title, "The Greater Love"--and sold it, too,
to a sensational periodical which circulated largely among
sentimental shopgirls.  It is but truthful to state that the editor
of the magazine to which he first submitted it sent it back with
the brief note--"This is a trifle too syrupy for our use.  Fear the
pages might stick.  Why not send us another war verse?"  Albert
treated the note and the editor with the contempt they deserved.
He pitied the latter; poor soul, doubtless HE had never known the
greater love.

He and Madeline had agreed that they would tell no one--no one at
all--of their betrothal.  It should be their own precious secret
for the present.  So, under the circumstances, he could not write
Helen the news.  But ought he to write her at all?  That question
bothered him not a little.  He no longer loved her--in fact, he was
now certain that he never had loved her--but he liked her, and he
wanted her to keep on liking him.  And she wrote to him with
regularity.  What ought he to do about writing her?

He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with some
trepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter.
Her opinion was decisive and promptly given.  Of course he must not
write Helen again.  "How would you like it if I corresponded with
another fellow?" she asked.  Candor forced him to admit that he
should not like it at all.  "But I want to behave decently," he
said.  "She is merely a friend of mine"--oh, how short is memory!--
"but we have been friends for a long time and I wouldn't want to
hurt her feelings."  "No, instead you prefer to hurt mine."  "Now,
dearest, be reasonable."  It was their nearest approach to a
quarrel and was a very, very sad affair.  The making-up was sweet,
of course, but the question of further correspondence with Helen
Kendall remained just where it was at the beginning.  And,
meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed.

September came far, far too soon--came and ended.  And with it
ended also the stay of the Fosdicks in South Harniss.  Albert and
Madeline said good-by at their rendezvous by the beach.  It was a
sad, a tearful, but a very precious farewell.  They would write
each other every day, they would think of each other every minute
of every day, they would live through the winter somehow and look
forward to the next spring and their next meeting.

"You will write--oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?"
begged Madeline.  "You know how I love them.  And whenever I see
one of your poems in print I shall be so proud of you--of MY poet."

Albert promised to write ever and ever so many.  He felt that there
would be no difficulty in writing reams of poems--inspired,
glorious poems.  The difficulty would be in restraining himself
from writing too many of them.  With Madeline Fosdick as an
inspiration, poetizing became as natural as breathing.

Then, which was unusual for them, they spoke of the future, the
dim, vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation's
poet laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his glory
and wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels.  The disagreeable
problems connected with the future they ignored, or casually
dismissed with, "Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by."
Oh, it was a wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful,
bitter-sweet afternoon.

And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'s
office window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train,
saw that train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant a
small hand waved behind the dingy glass of the car window.  His own
hand waved in reply.  Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke the
silence.

"Who was you flappin' your flipper at?" inquired Issachar.  "Girl,
I'll bet you!  Never saw such a critter as you be to chase after
the girls.  Which one is it this time?"

Albert made no reply.  Between embarrassment and sorrow he was
incapable of speech.  Issachar, however, was not in that condition;
at all times when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Price
could, and usually did, speak.

"Which one is it this time, Al?" demanded Issy.  "Eh?  Crimus, see
him get red!  Haw, haw!  Labe," to Mr. Keeler, who came into the
office from the inner room, "which girl do you cal'late Al here is
wavin' by-bye to this mornin'?  Who's goin' away on the cars this
mornin', Labe?"

Laban, his hands full of the morning mail, absently replied that he
didn't know.

"Yes, you do, too," persisted Issy.  "You ain't listenin', that's
all.  Who's leavin' town on the train just now?"

"Eh?  Oh, I don't know.  The Small folks are goin' to Boston, I
believe.  And George Bartlett's goin' to Ostable on court business,
he told me.  Oh, yes, I believe Cap'n Lote said that Fosdick woman
and her daughter were goin' back to New York.  Back to New York--
yes--yes--yes."

Mr. Price crowed triumphantly.  "Ah, ha!" he crowed.  "Ah, ha!
That's the answer.  That's the one he's shakin' day-days to, that
Fosdick girl.  I've seen you 'round with her at the post office and
the ice cream s'loon.  I'm onto you, Al.  Haw, haw!  What's her
name?  Adeline?  Dandelion?  Madeline?--that's it!  Say, how do you
think Helen Kendall's goin' to like your throwin' kisses to the
Madeline one, eh?"

The assistant bookkeeper was still silent.  The crimson, however,
was leaving his face and the said face was paling rapidly.  This
was an ominous sign had Mr. Price but known it.  He did not know it
and cackled merrily on,

"Guess I'll have to tell Helen when she comes back home," he
announced.  "Cal'late I'll put a flea in her ear.  'Helen,' I'll
say, 'don't feel too bad now, don't cry and get your handkerchief
all soakin', or nothin' like that.  I just feel it's my duty to
tell ye that your little Albert is sparkin' up to somebody else.
He's waitin' on a party by the name of Padeline--no, Madeline--
Woodtick--no, Fosdick--and . . .'  Here! let go of me!  What are you
doin'?"

That last question was in the nature of a gurgle.  Albert, his face
now very white indeed, had strode across the office, seized the
speaker by the front of his flannel shirt and backed him against
the wall.

"Stop," commanded Albert, between his teeth.  "That's enough of
that.  Don't you say any more!"

"Eh?  Ugh!  Ur-gg!  Leggo of my shirt."

Albert let go, but he did not step back.  He remained where he was,
exactly in front of Mr. Price.

"Don't you say any more about--about what you were saying," he
repeated.

"Eh?  Not say any more?  Why not?  Who's goin' to stop me, I'd like
to know?"

"I am."

"I want to know!  What'll you do?"

"I don't know.  If you weren't so old, I would--but I'll stop you,
anyhow."

Albert felt a hand on his arm and heard Mr. Keeler's voice at his
ear.

"Careful, Al, careful," it said.  "Don't hit him."

"Of course I shan't hit him," indignantly.  "What do you think I
am?  But he must promise not to mention--er--Miss Fosdick's name
again."

"Better promise, Is," suggested Laban.  Issachar's mouth opened,
but no promise came forth.

"Promise be darned!" he yelled furiously.  "Mention her name!  I'll
mention any name I set out to, and no Italyun Portygee is goin' to
stop me, neither."

Albert glanced about the office.  By the wall stood two brimming
pails of water, brought in by Mr. Price for floor-washing purposes.
He lifted one of the pails.

"If you don't promise I'll duck you," he declared.  "Let go of me,
Keeler, I mean it."

"Careful, Al, careful," said Mr. Keeler.  "Better promise, Is."

"Promise nawthin'!  Fosdick!  What in time do I care for Fosdicks,
Madelines or Padelines or Dandelions or--"

His sentence stopped just there.  The remainder of it was washed
back and down his throat by the deluge from the bucket.  Overcome
by shock and surprise, Mr. Price leaned back against the wall and
slid slowly down that wall until he reclined in a sitting posture,
upon the floor.

"Crimustee," he gasped, as soon as he could articulate, "I'm--awk--
I'm drownded."

Albert put down the empty bucket and picked up the full one.

"Promise," he said again.

Laban Keeler rubbed his chin.

"I'd promise if I was you, Is," he said.  "You're some subject to
rheumatism, you know."

Issachar, sitting in a spreading puddle, looked damply upward at
the remaining bucket.  "By crimustee--" he began.  Albert drew the
bucket backward; the water dripped from its lower brim.

"I--I--darn ye, I promise!" shouted Issachar.  Albert put down the
bucket and walked back to his desk.  Laban watched him curiously,
smiling just a little.  Then he turned to Mr. Price, who was
scrambling to his feet.

"Better get your mop and swab up here, Is," he said.  "Cap'n
Lote'll be in 'most any minute."

When Captain Zelotes did return to the office, Issachar was
industriously sweeping out, Albert was hard at work at the books,
and Laban was still rubbing his chin and smiling at nothing in
particular.

The next day Albert and Issachar made it up.  Albert apologized.

"I'm sorry, Issy," he said.  "I shouldn't have done it, but you
made me mad.  I have a--rather mean temper, I'm afraid.  Forgive
me, will you?"

He held out his hand, and Issachar, after a momentary hesitation,
took it.

"I forgive you this time, Al," he said solemnly, "but don't never
do nothin' like it again, will ye?  When I went home for dinner
yesterday noon I give you my word my clothes was kind of dampish
even then.  If it hadn't been nice warm sunshine and I was out
doors and dried off considerable I'd a had to change everything,
underclothes and all, and 'tain't but the middle of the week yet."

His ducking had an effect which Albert noticed with considerable
satisfaction--he was never quite as flippantly personal in his
comments concerning the assistant bookkeeper.  He treated the
latter, if not with respect, at least with something distantly akin
to it.

After Madeline's departure the world was very lonely indeed.
Albert wrote long, long letters and received replies which varied
in length but never in devotion.  Miss Fosdick was obliged to be
cautious in her correspondence with her lover.  "You will forgive
me if this is not much more than a note, won't you, dear?" she
wrote.  "Mother seems to be very curious of late about my letters
and to whom I write and I had to just steal the opportunity this
morning."  An older and more apprehensive person might have found
Mrs. Fosdick's sudden interest in her daughter's correspondence
suspicious and a trifle alarming, but Albert never dreamed of being
alarmed.

He wrote many poems, all dealing with love and lovers, and sold
some of them.  He wrote no more letters to Helen.  She, too, had
ceased to write him, doubtless because of the lack of reply to her
last two or three letters.  His conscience still troubled him about
Helen; he could not help feeling that his treatment of her had not
been exactly honorable.  Yet what else under the circumstances
could he do?  From Mr. Kendall he learned that she was coming home
to spend Thanksgiving.  He would see her then.  She would ask him
questions?  What should his answer be?  He faced the situation in
anticipation many, many times, usually after he had gone to bed at
night, and lay awake through long torturing hours in consequence.

But when at last Helen and he did meet, the day before Thanksgiving,
their meeting was not at all the dreadful ordeal he had feared.  Her
greeting was as frank and cordial as it had always been, and there
was no reproach in her tone or manner.  She did not even ask him why
he had stopped writing.  It was he, himself, who referred to that
subject, and he did so as they walked together down the main road.
Just why he referred to it he could not probably have told.  He was
aware only that he felt mean and contemptible and that he must offer
some explanation.  His not having any to offer made the task rather
difficult.

But she saved him the trouble.  She interrupted one of his
blundering, stumbling sentences in the middle.

"Never mind, Albert," she said quietly.  "You needn't explain.  I
think I understand."

He stopped and stared at her.  "You understand?" he repeated.
"Why--why, no, you don't.  You can't."

"Yes, I can, or I think I can.  You have changed your mind, that is
all."

"Changed my mind?"

"Yes.  Don't you remember I told you you would change your mind
about--well, about me?  You were so sure you cared so very, very
much for me, you know.  And I said you mustn't promise anything
because I thought you would change your mind.  And you have.  That
is it, isn't it?  You have found some one else."

He gazed at her as if she were a witch who had performed a miracle.

"Why--why--well, by George!" he exclaimed.  "Helen--how--how did
you know?  Who told you?"

"No one told me.  But I think I can even guess who it is you have
found.  It is Madeline Fosdick, isn't it?"

His amazement now was so open-mouthed as well as open-eyed that she
could not help smiling.

"Don't!  Don't stare at me like that," she whispered.  "Every one
is looking at you.  There is old Captain Pease on the other side of
the street; I'm sure he thinks you have had a stroke or something.
Here!  Walk down our road a little way toward home with me.  We can
talk as we walk.  I'm sure," she added, with just the least bit of
change in her tone, "that your Madeline won't object to our being
together to that extent."

She led the way down the side street toward the parsonage and he
followed her.  He was still speechless from surprise.

"Well," she went on, after a moment, "aren't you going to say
anything?"

"But--but, Helen," he faltered, "how did you know?"

She smiled again.  "Then it IS Madeline," she said.  "I thought it
must be."

"You--you thought--  What made you think so?"

For an instant she seemed on the point of losing her patience.

Then she turned and laid her hand on his arm.

"Oh, Al," she said, "please don't think I am altogether an idiot.
I surmised when your letters began to grow shorter and--well,
different--that there was something or some one who was changing
them, and I suspected it was some one.  When you stopped writing
altogether, I KNEW there must be.  Then father wrote in his letters
about you and about meeting you, and so often Madeline Fosdick was
wherever he met you.  So I guessed--and, you see, I guessed right."

He seized her hand.

"Oh, Helen," he cried, "if you only knew how mean I have felt and
how ashamed I am of the way I have treated you!  But, you see, I--I
COULDN'T write you and tell you because we had agreed to keep it a
secret.  I couldn't tell ANY ONE."

"Oh, it is as serious as that!  Are you two really and truly
engaged?"

"Yes.  There!  I've told it, and I swore I would never tell."

"No, no, you didn't tell.  I guessed.  Now tell me all about her.
She is very lovely.  Is she as sweet as she looks?"

He rhapsodized for five minutes.  Then all at once he realized what
he was saying and to whom he was saying it.  He stopped, stammering,
in the very middle of a glowing eulogium.

"Go on," said Helen reassuringly.  But he could not go on, under
the circumstances.  Instead he turned very red.  As usual, she
divined his thought, noticed his confusion, and took pity on it.

"She must be awfully nice," she said.  "I don't wonder you fell in
love with her.  I wish I might know her better."

"I wish you might.  By and by you must.  And she must know you.
Helen, I--I feel so ashamed of--of--"

"Hush, or I shall begin to think you are ashamed because you liked
me--or thought you did."

"But I do like you.  Next to Madeline there is no one I like so
much.  But, but, you see, it is different."

"Of course it is.  And it ought to be.  Does her mother--do her
people know of the engagement?"

He hesitated momentarily.  "No-o," he admitted, "they don't yet.
She and I have decided to keep it a secret from any one for the
present.  I want to get on a little further with my writing, you
know.  She is like you in that, Helen--she's awfully fond of poetry
and literature."

"Especially yours, I'm sure.  Tell me about your writing.  How are
you getting on?"

So he told her and, until they stood together at the parsonage
gate, Madeline's name was not again mentioned.  Then Helen put out
her hand.

"Good morning, Albert," she said.  "I'm glad we have had this talk,
ever so glad."

"By George, so am I!  You're a corking friend, Helen.  The chap who
does marry you will be awfully lucky."

She smiled slightly.  "Perhaps there won't be any such chap," she
said.  "I shall always be a schoolmarm, I imagine."

"Indeed you won't," indignantly.  "I have too high an opinion of
men for that."

She smiled again, seemed about to speak, and then to change her
mind.  An instant later she said,

"I must go in now.  But I shall hope to see you again before I go
back to the city.  And, after your secret is out and the engagement
is announced, I want to write Madeline, may I?"

"Of course you may.  And she'll like you as much as I do."

"Will she? . . .  Well, perhaps; we'll hope so."

"Certainly she will.  And you won't let my treating you as--as I
have make any difference in our friendship?"

"No.  We shall always be friends, I hope.  Good-by."

She went into the house.  He waited a moment, hoping she might turn
again before entering, but she did not.  He walked home, pondering
deeply, his thoughts a curious jumble of relief and dissatisfaction.
He was glad Helen had seen her duty and given him over to Madeline,
but he felt a trifle piqued to think she had done it with such
apparent willingness.  If she had wept or scolded it would have been
unpleasant but much more gratifying to his self-importance.

He could not help realizing, however, that her attitude toward him
was exceptionally fine.  He knew well that he, if in her place,
would not have behaved as she had done.  No spite, no sarcasm, no
taunts, no unpleasant reminders of things said only a few months
before.  And with all her forgiveness and forbearance and
understanding there had been always that sense of greater age and
wisdom; she had treated him as she might have treated a boy,
younger brother, perhaps.

"She IS older than I am," he thought, "even if she really isn't.
It's funny, but it's a fact."

December came and Christmas, and then January and the new year, the
year 1917.  In January, Z. Snow and Co. took its yearly account of
stock, and Captain Lote and Laban and Albert and Issachar were
truly busy during the days of stock-taking week and tired when
evening came.  Laban worked the hardest of the quartette, but Issy
made the most fuss about it.  Labe, who had chosen the holiday
season to go on one of his periodical vacations, as rather white
and shaky and even more silent than usual.  Mr. Price, however,
talked with his customary fluency and continuity, so there was no
lack of conversation.  Captain Zelotes was moved to comment.

"Issy," he suggested gravely, looking up from a long column of
figures, "did you ever play 'Door'?"

Issachar stared at him.

"Play 'Door'?" he repeated.  "What's that?"

"It's a game.  Didn't you ever play it?"

"No, don't know's I ever did."

"Then you'd better begin right this minute.  The first thing to do
is to shut up and the next is to stay that way.  You play 'Door'
until I tell you to do somethin' else; d'you hear?"

At home the week between Christmas and the New Year was rather
dismal.  Mr. Keeler's holiday vacation had brought on one of his
fiancee's "sympathetic attacks," and she tied up her head and hung
crape upon her soul, as usual.  During these attacks the Snow
household walked on tiptoe, as if the housekeeper were an invalid
in reality.  Even consoling speeches from Albert, who with Laban
when the latter was sober, enjoyed in her mind the distinction of
being the reincarnation of "Robert Penfold," brought no relief to
the suffering Rachel.  Nothing but the news brought by the milkman,
that "Labe was taperin' off," and would probably return to his desk
in a few days, eased her pain.

One forenoon about the middle of the month Captain Zelotes himself
stopped in at the post office for the morning mail.  When he
returned to the lumber company's building he entered quietly and
walked to his own desk with a preoccupied air.  For the half hour
before dinner time he sat there, smoking his pipe, and speaking to
no one unless spoken to.  The office force noticed his preoccupation
and commented upon it.

"What ails the old man, Al?" whispered Issachar, peering in around
the corner of the door at the silent figure tilted back in the
revolving chair, its feet upon the corner of the desk.  "Ain't said
so much as 'Boo' for up'ards of twenty minutes, has he?  I was in
there just now fillin' up his ink-stand and, by crimus, I let a
great big gob of ink come down ker-souse right in the middle of the
nice, clean blottin' paper in front of him.  I held my breath,
cal'latin' to catch what Stephen Peter used to say he caught when
he went fishin' Sundays.  Stevey said he generally caught cold when
he went and always caught the Old Harry when he got back.  I
cal'lated to catch the Old Harry part sure, 'cause Captain Lote is
always neat and fussy 'bout his desk.  But no, the old man never
said a word.  I don't believe he knew the ink was spilled at all.
What's on his mind, Al; do you know?"

Albert did not know, so he asked Laban.  Laban shook his head.

"Give it up, Al," he whispered.  "Somethin's happened to bother
him, that's sartin'.  When Cap'n Lote gets his feet propped up and
his head tilted back that way I can 'most generally cal'late he's
doin' some real thinkin'.  Real thinkin'--yes, sir-ee--um-hm--yes--
yes.  When he h'ists his boots up to the masthead that way it's
safe to figger his brains have got steam up.  Um-hm--yes indeed."

"But what is he thinking about?  And why is he so quiet?"

"I give up both riddles, Al.  He's the only one's got the answers
and when he gets ready enough maybe he'll tell 'em.  Until then
it'll pay us fo'mast hands to make believe we're busy, even if we
ain't.  Hear that, do you, Is?"

"Hear what?" demanded Issachar, who was gazing out of the window,
his hands in his pockets.

"I say it will pay us--you and Al and me--to make believe we're
workin' even if we ain't."

"'Workin'!" indignantly.  "By crimus, I AM workin'!  I don't have to
make believe."

"That so?  Well, then, I'd pick up that coal-hod and make believe
play for a spell.  The fire's 'most out.  Almost--um-hm--pretty
nigh--yes--yes."

Albert and his grandfather walked home to dinner together, as was
their custom, but still the captain remained silent.  During dinner
he spoke not more than a dozen words and Albert several times
caught Mrs. Snow regarding her husband intently and with a rather
anxious look.  She did not question him, however, but Rachel was
not so reticent.

"Mercy on us, Cap'n Lote," she demanded, "what IS the matter?
You're as dumb as a mouthful of mush.  I don't believe you've said
ay, yes or no since we sat down to table.  Are you sick?"

Her employer's calm was unruffled.

"No-o," he answered, with deliberation.

"That's a comfort.  What's the matter, then; don't you WANT to
talk?"

"No-o."

"Oh," with a toss of the head, "well, I'm glad I know.  I was
beginnin' to be afraid you'd forgotten how."

The captain helped himself to another fried "tinker" mackerel.

"No danger of that around here, Rachel," he said serenely.  "So
long as my hearin's good I couldn't forget--not in this house."

Olive detained her grandson as he was following Captain Zelotes
from the dining room.

"What's wrong with him, Albert?" she whispered.  "Do you know?"

"No, I don't, Grandmother.  Do you think there is anything wrong?"

"I know there's somethin' troublin' him.  I've lived with him too
many years not to know the signs.  Oh, Albert--you haven't done
anything to displease him, have you?"

"No, indeed, Grandmother.  Whatever it is, it isn't that."

When they reached the office, the captain spoke to Mr. Keeler.

"Had your dinner, Labe?" he asked.

"Yes--yes, indeed.  Don't take me long to eat--not at my boardin'
house.  A feller'd have to have paralysis to make eatin' one of
Lindy Dadgett's meals take more'n a half hour.  Um-hm--yes."

Despite his preoccupation, Captain Zelotes could not help smiling.

"To make it take an hour he'd have to be ossified, wouldn't he,
like the feller in the circus sideshow?" he observed.

Laban nodded.  "That--or dead," he replied.  "Yes--just about--just
so, Cap'n."

"Where's Issachar?"

"He's eatin' yet, I cal'late.  He don't board at Lindy's."

"When he gets back set him to pilin' that new carload of spruce
under Number Three shed.  Keep him at it."

"Yes, sir.  Um-hm.  All right."

Captain Zelotes turned to his grandson.  "Come in here, Al," he
said.  "I want to see you for a few minutes."

Albert followed him into the inner office.  He wondered what in the
world his grandfather wished to see him about, in this very private
fashion.

"Sit down, Al," said the captain, taking his own chair and pointing
to another.  "Oh, wait a minute, though!  Maybe you'd better shut
that hatch first."

The "hatch" was the transom over the door between the offices.
Albert, remembering how a previous interview between them had been
overheard because of that open transom, glanced at his grandfather.
The twinkle in the latter's eye showed that he too, remembered.
Albert closed the "hatch."  When he came back to his seat the
twinkle had disappeared; Captain Zelotes looked serious enough.

"Well, Grandfather?" queried the young man, after waiting a moment.
The captain adjusted his spectacles, reached into the inside pocket
of his coat and produced an envelope.  It was a square envelope
with either a trade-mark or a crest upon the back.  Captain Lote
did not open the envelope, but instead tapped his desk with it and
regarded his grandson in a meditative way.

"Al," he said slowly, "has it seemed to you that your cruise aboard
this craft of ours here had been a little smoother the last year or
two than it used to be afore that?"

Albert, by this time well accustomed to his grandfather's nautical
phraseology, understood that the "cruise" referred to was his
voyage as assistant bookkeeper with Z. Snow and Co.  He nodded.

"I have tried to make it so," he answered.  "I mean I have tried to
make it smoother for you."

"Um-hm, I think you have tried.  I don't mind tellin' you that it
has pleased me consid'ble to watch you try.  I don't mean by that,"
he added, with a slight curve of the lip, "that you'd win first
prize as a lightnin'-calculator even yet, but you're a whole lot
better one than you used to be.  I've been considerable encouraged
about you; I don't mind tellin' you that either. . . .  And," he
added, after another interval during which he was, apparently,
debating just how much of an admission it was safe to make, "so far
as I can see, this poetry foolishness of yours hasn't interfered
with your work any to speak of."

Albert smiled.  "Thanks, Grandfather," he said.

"You're welcome.  So much for that.  But there's another side to
our relations together, yours and mine, that I haven't spoken of to
you afore.  And I have kept still on purpose.  I've figgered that
so long as you kept straight and didn't go off the course, didn't
drink or gamble, or go wild or the like of that, what you did was
pretty much your own business.  I've noticed you're considerable of
a feller with the girls, but I kept an eye on the kind of girls and
I will say that so far as I can see, you've picked the decent kind.
I say so far as I can see.  Of course I ain't fool enough to
believe I see all you do, or know all you do.  I've been young
myself, and when I get to thinkin' how much I know about you I try
to set down and remember how much my dad didn't know about me when
I was your age.  That--er--helps some toward givin' me my correct
position on the chart."

He paused.  Albert's brain was vainly striving to guess what all
this meant.  What was he driving at?  The captain crossed his legs
and continued.

"I did think for a spell," he said, "that you and Helen Kendall were
gettin' to understand each other pretty well.  Well, Helen's a good
girl and your grandma and I like her.  Course we didn't cal'late
anything very serious was liable to come of the understandin', not
for some time, anyhow, for with your salary and--well, sort of
unsettled prospects, I gave you credit for not figgerin' on pickin'
a wife right away. . . .  Haven't got much laid by to support a wife
on, have you, Al?"

Albert's expression had changed during the latter portion of the
speech.  Now he was gazing intently at his grandfather and at the
letter in the latter's hands.  He was beginning to guess, to dread,
to be fearful.

"Haven't got much to support a wife on, Al, have you?" repeated
Captain Zelotes.

"No, sir, not now."

"Um. . . .  But you hope to have by and by, eh?  Well, I hope you
will.  But UNTIL you have it would seem to older folks like me kind
of risky navigatin' to--to . . .  Oh, there was a letter in the
mail for you this mornin, Al."

He put down the envelope he had hitherto held in his hand and,
reaching into his pocket, produced another.  Even before he had
taken it from his grandfather's hand Albert recognized the
handwriting.  It was from Madeline.

Captain Zelotes, regarding him keenly, leaned back again in his
chair.  "Read it if you want to, Al," he said.  "Maybe you'd
better.  I can wait."

Albert hesitated a moment and then tore open the envelope.  The
note within was short, evidently written in great haste and
agitation and was spotted with tear stains.  He read it, his cheeks
paling and his hand shaking as he did so.  Something dreadful had
happened.  Mother--Mrs. Fosdick, of course--had discovered
everything.  She had found all his--Albert's--letters and read
them.  She was furious.  There had been the most terrible scene.
Madeline was in her own room and was smuggling him this letter by
Mary, her maid,

who will do anything for me, and has promised to mail it.  Oh,
dearest, they say I must give you up.  They say--  Oh, they say
dreadful things about you!  Mother declares she will take me to
Japan or some frightful place and keep me there until I forget you.
I don't care if they take me to the ends of the earth, I shall
NEVER forget you.  I will never--never--NEVER give you up.  And you
mustn't give me up, will you, darling?  They say I must never write
you again.  But you see I have--and I shall.  Oh, what SHALL we do?
I was SO happy and now I am so miserable.  Write me the minute you
get this, but oh, I KNOW they won't let me see your letters and
then I shall die.  But write, write just the same, every day.  Oh
what SHALL we do?

Yours, always and always, no matter what everyone does or says,
lovingly and devotedly,

MADELINE.

When the reading was finished Albert sat silently staring at the
floor, seeing it through a wet mist.  Captain Zelotes watched him,
his heavy brows drawn together and the smoke wreaths from his pipe
curling slowly upward toward the office ceiling.  At length he
said:

"Well, Al, I had a letter, too.  I presume likely it came from the
same port even if not from the same member of the family.  It's
about you, and I think you'd better read it, maybe.  I'll read it
to you, if you'd rather."

Albert shook his head and held out his hand for the second letter.
His grandfather gave it to him, saying as he did so:  "I'd like to
have you understand, Al, that I don't necessarily believe all that
she says about you in this thing."

"Thanks, Grandfather," mechanically.

"All right, boy."

The second letter was, as he had surmised, from Mrs. Fosdick.  It
had evidently been written at top speed and at a mental temperature
well above the boiling point.  Mrs. Fosdick addressed Captain
Zelotes Snow because she had been given to understand that he was
the nearest relative, or guardian, or whatever it was, of the
person concerning whom the letter was written and therefore, it was
presumed, might be expected to have some measure of control over
that person's actions.  The person was, of course, one Albert
Speranza, and Mrs. Fosdick proceeded to set forth her version of
his conduct in sentences which might almost have blistered the
paper.  Taking advantage of her trust in her daughter's good sense
and ability to take care of herself--which trust it appeared had
been in a measure misplaced--he, the Speranza person, had
sneakingly, underhandedly and in a despicably clandestine fashion--
the lady's temper had rather gotten away from her here--succeeded
in meeting her daughter in various places and by various
disgraceful means and had furthermore succeeded in ensnaring her
youthful affections, et cetera, et cetera.

"The poor child actually believes herself in love with him," wrote
the poor child's mother.  "She protests ridiculously that she is
engaged to him and will marry him in spite of her father or myself
or the protests of sensible people.  I write to you, therefore,
assuming you likewise to be a sensible person, and requesting that
you use your influence with the--to put the most charitable
interpretation of his conduct--misguided and foolish young man and
show him the preposterous folly of his pretended engagement to my
daughter.  Of course the whole affair, CORRESPONDENCE INCLUDED,
must cease and terminate AT ONCE."

And so on for two more pages.  The color had returned to Albert's
cheeks long before he finished reading.  When he had finished he
rose to his feet and, throwing the letter upon his grandfather's
desk, turned away.

"Well, Al?" queried Captain Zelotes.

Albert's face, when he turned back to answer, was whiter than ever,
but his eyes flashed fire.

"Do you believe that?" he demanded.

"What?"

"That--that stuff about my being a--a sneak and--and ensnaring her--
and all the rest?  Do you?"

The captain took his pipe from his mouth.

"Steady, son, steady," he said.  "Didn't I tell you before you
begun to read at all that I didn't necessarily believe it because
that woman wrote it."

"You--you or no one else had better believe it.  It's a lie."

"All right, I'm glad to hear you say so.  But there's a little mite
of truth here and there amongst the lies, I presume likely.  For
instance, you and this Fosdick girl have been--er--keepin' company?"

"Her name is Madeline--and we are engaged to be married."

"Oh!  Hum--I see--I see.  And, bein' as the old lady--her mother,
Mrs. Fosdick, I mean--hasn't suspected anything, or, at any rate,
hasn't found out anything until now, yesterday, or whenever it was,
I judge you have been meetin'--er--Madeline at places where there
wasn't--well, too large a crowd.  Eh?"

Albert hesitated and was, momentarily, a trifle embarrassed.  But
he recovered at once.

"I met her first at the drug store last summer," he said defiantly.
"Then I met her after that at the post office and at the hotel
dance last fall, and so on.  This year I met her--well, I met her
first down by the beach, where I went to write.  She liked poetry
and--and she helped me with mine.  After that she came--well, she
came to help me again.  And after that--after that--"

"After that it just moved along kind of natural, eh?  Um-hm, I
see."

"Look here, Grandfather, I want you to understand that she is--is--
by George, she is the cleanest, finest, best girl in the world.
Don't you get the idea that--that she isn't.  She came to meet me
just because she was interested in my verse and wanted to help.  It
wasn't until the very last that we--that we found out we cared for
each other."

"All right, boy, all right.  Go on, tell me the whole yarn, if you
feel like it.  I don't want to pry too much into your affairs, but,
after all, I AM interested in those affairs, Al.  Tell me as much
as you can."

"I'll tell you the whole.  There's nothing I can't tell, nothing
I'm not proud to tell.  By George, I ought to be proud!  Why,
Grandfather, she's wonderful!"

"Sartin, son, sartin.  They always are.  I mean she is, of course.
Heave ahead."

So Albert told his love story.  When he had finished Captain
Zelote's pipe was empty, and he put it down.

"Albert," he said slowly, "I judge you mean this thing seriously.
You mean to marry her some day."

"Yes, indeed I do.  And I won't give her up, either.  Her mother--
why, what right has her mother got to say--to treat her in this
way?  Or to call me what she calls me in that letter?  Why, by
George--"

"Easy, son.  As I understand it, this Madeline of yours is the only
child the Fosdicks have got and when our only child is in danger of
bein' carried off by somebody else--why, well, their mothers and
fathers are liable to be just a little upset, especially if it
comes on 'em sudden. . . .  Nobody knows that better than I do," he
added slowly.

Albert recognized the allusion, but he was not in the mood to be
affected by it.  He was not, just then, ready to make allowances
for any one, particularly the parental Fosdicks.

"They have no business to be upset--not like that, anyhow," he
declared.  "What does that woman know about me?  What right has she
to say that I ensnared Madeline's affection and all that rot?
Madeline and I fell in love with each other, just as other people
have, I suppose."

"You suppose right," observed Captain Zelotes, dryly.  "Other
people have--a good many of 'em since Adam's time."

"Well, then!  And what right has she to give orders that I stop
writing or seeing Madeline,--all that idiotic stuff about ceasing
and terminating at once?  She--she--"  His agitation was making him
incoherent--"She talks like Lord Somebody-or-other in an old-
fashioned novel or play or something.  Those old fools were always
rejecting undesirable suitors and ordering their daughters to do
this and that, breaking their hearts, and so on.  But that sort of
thing doesn't go nowadays.  Young people have their own ideas."

"Um-hm, Al; so I've noticed."

"Yes, indeed they have.  Now, if Madeline wants to marry me and I
want to marry her, who will stop us?"

The captain pulled at his beard.

"Why, nobody, Al, as I know of," he said; "provided you both keep
on wantin' to marry each other long enough."

"Keep on wanting long enough?  What do you mean by that?"

"Why, nothin' much, perhaps; only gettin' married isn't all just
goin' to the parson.  After the ceremony the rent begins and the
grocers' bills and the butchers' and the bakers' and a thousand or
so more.  Somebody's got to pay 'em, and the money's got to come
from somewhere.  Your wages here, Al, poetry counted in, ain't so
very big yet.  Better wait a spell before you settle down to
married life, hadn't you?"

"Well--well, I--I didn't say we were to be married right away,
Grandfather.  She and I aren't unreasonable.  I'm doing better and
better with my writings.  Some day I'll make enough, and more.  Why
not?"

There was enough of the Speranza egotism in this confident
assurance to bring the twinkle to the captain's eye.  He twisted
his beard between his finger and thumb and regarded his grandson
mildly.

"Have you any idea how much 'enough' is liable to be, Al?" he
inquired.  "I don't know the facts about 'em, of course, but from
what I have heard I judge the Fosdicks have got plenty of cash.
I've heard it estimated around town from one million to fifty
millions.  Allowin' it's only one million, it seems likely that
your--er--what's-her-name--Madeline has been used to havin' as much
as fifty cents to spend whenever she wanted it.  Do you cal'late to
be able to earn enough makin' up poetry to keep her the way her
folks have been doin'?"

"No, of course not--not at first."

"Oh, but later on--when the market price of poetry has gone up--you
can, eh?"

"Look here, Grandfather, if you're making fun of me I tell you I
won't stand it.  This is serious; I mean it.  Madeline and I are
going to be married some time and no one can stop us."

"All right, son, all right.  But it did seem to me that in the
light of this letter from--er--your mother-in-law that's goin' to
be, we ought to face the situation moderately square, anyhow.
First comes marriage.  Well, that's easy; any fool can get married,
lots of 'em do.  But then, as I said, comes supportin' yourself and
wife--bills, bills, and more bills.  You'll say that you and she
will economize and fight it out together.  Fine, first-rate, but
later on there may be more of you, a child, children perhaps--"

"Grandfather!"

"It's possible, son.  Such things do happen, and they cost money.
More mouths to feed.  Now I take it for granted that you aren't
marryin' the Fosdick girl for her money--"

The interruption was prompt and made with fiery indignation.

"I never thought of her money," declared Albert.  "I don't even
know that she has any.  If she has, I don't want it.  I wouldn't
take it.  She is all I want."

Captain Zelotes' lip twitched.

"Judgin' from the tone of her ma's last letter to me," he observed,
"she is all you would be liable to get.  It don't read as if many--
er--weddin' presents from the bride's folks would come along with
her.  But, there, there, Al don't get mad.  I know this is a long
ways from bein' a joke to you and, in a way, it's no joke for me.
Course I had realized that some day you'd be figgerin', maybe, on
gettin' married, but I did hope the figgerin' wouldn't begin for
some years yet.  And when you did, I rather hoped--well, I--I
hoped. . . .  However, we won't stop to bother with that now.
Let's stick to this letter of Mrs. Fosdick's here.  I must answer
that, I suppose, whether I want to or not, to-day.  Well, Al, you
tell me, I understand that there has been nothin' underhand in your
acquaintance with her daughter.  Other than keepin' the engagement
a secret, that is?"

"Yes, I do."

"And you mean to stick by your guns and. . . .  Well, what is it?
Come in!"

There had been a knock upon the office door.  In answer to his
employer's summons, Mr. Keeler appeared.  He held a card in his
hand.

"Sorry to disturb you, Cap'n Lote," he said.  "Yes, I be, yes, sir.
But I judged maybe 'twas somethin' important about the lumber for
his house and he seemed anxious to see you, so I took the risk and
knocked.  Um-hm--yes, yes, yes."

Captain Zelotes looked at the card.  Then he adjusted his spectacles
and looked again.

"Humph!" he grunted.  "Humph! . . .  We-ell, Labe, I guess likely
you might show him in here.  Wait just a minute before you do it,
though.  I'll open the door when I want him to come."

"All right, Cap'n Lote.  Yes, yes," observed Mr. Keeler and
departed.  The captain looked thoughtfully at the card.

"Al," he said, after a moment's reflection, "we'll have to cut this
talk of ours short for a little spell.  You go back to your desk
and wait there until I call you.  Hold on," as his grandson moved
toward the door of the outer office.  "Don't go that way.  Go out
through the side door into the yard and come in the front way.
There's--er--there's a man waitin' to see me, and--er--perhaps he'd
better not see you first."

Albert stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Better not see ME?" he repeated.  "Why shouldn't he see me?"

Captain Zelotes handed the card to Albert.

"Better let me talk with him first, Al," he said.  "You can have
your chance later on."

The card bore the name of Mr. Fletcher Story Fosdick.

CHAPTER XI

Albert read the name on the card.  He was too astonished to speak.
Her father!  He was here!  He--

His grandfather spoke again, and his tone was brisk and businesslike.

"Go on, Al," he ordered.  "Out through this side door and around to
the front.  Lively, son, lively!"

But the young man's wits were returning.  He scowled at the card.

"No," he said stoutly, "I'm not going to run away.  I'm not afraid
of him.  I haven't done anything to be ashamed of."

The captain nodded.  "If you had, I should ASK you to run away," he
said.  "As it is, I just ask you to step out and wait a little
while, that's all."

"But, Grandfather, I WANT to see him."

"All right, I want you to--but not until he and I have talked
first.  Come, boy, come!  I've lived a little longer than you have,
and maybe I know about half as much about some things.  This is one
of 'em.  You clear out and stand by.  I'll call you when I want
you."

Albert went, but reluctantly.  After he had gone his grandfather
walked to the door of the outer office and opened it.

"Step aboard, Mr. Fosdick," he said.  "Come in, sir."

Mr. Fletcher Fosdick was a large man, portly, and with a head which
was rapidly losing its thatch.  His smoot-shaven face was ruddy and
his blue eye mild.  He entered the private office of Z. Snow and
Co. and shook the hand which Captain Zelotes proffered.

"How do you do, Captain Snow?" he asked pleasantly.  "You and I
have had some business dealings, but we have never met before, I
believe."

The captain waved toward a chair.  "That's a fact, Mr. Fosdick," he
said.  "I don't believe we ever have, but it's better late than by
and by, as the feller said.  Sit down, sit down, Mr. Fosdick.
Throw off your coat, won't you?  It's sort of warm in here compared
to out door."

The visitor admitted the difference in temperature between the
interior and exterior of the building, and removed his overcoat.
Also he sat down.  Captain Zelotes opened a drawer of his desk and
produced a box of cigars.

"Have a smoke, won't you?" he inquired.

Mr. Fosdick glanced at the label on the box.

"Why--why, I was rather hoping you would smoke one of mine," he
said.  "I have a pocket full."

"When I come callin' on you at your place in New York I will smoke
yours.  Now it kind of looks to me as if you'd ought to smoke mine.
Seems reasonable when you think it over, don't it?"

Fosdick smiled.  "Perhaps you're right," he said.  He took one of
the gaudily banded perfectos from his host's box and accepted a
light from the match the captain held.  Both men blew a cloud of
smoke and through those clouds each looked at the other.  The
preliminaries were over, but neither seemed particularly anxious
to begin the real conversation.  It was the visitor who, at last,
began it.

"Captain Snow," he said, "I presume your clerk told you I wished to
see you on a matter of business."

"Who?  Oh, Labe, you mean?  Yes, he told me."

"I told him to tell you that.  It may surprise you, however, to
learn that the business I wished to see you about--that I came on
from New York to see you about--has nothing whatever to do with the
house I'm building down here."

Captain Zelotes removed his cigar from his lips and looked
meditatively at its burning end.  "No-o," he said slowly, "that
don't surprise me very much.  I cal'lated 'twasn't about the house
you wished to see me."

"Oh, I see! . . .  Humph!"  The Fosdick mild blue eye lost, for the
moment, just a trifle of its mildness and became almost keen, as
its owner flashed a glance at the big figure seated at the desk.
"I see," said Mr. Fosdick.  "And have you--er--guessed what I did
come to see you about?"

"No-o.  I wouldn't call it guessin', exactly."

"Wouldn't you?  What would you call it?"

"We-ll, I don't know but I'd risk callin' it knowin'.  Yes, I think
likely I would."

"Oh, I see. . . .  Humph!  Have you had a letter--on the subject?"

"Ye-es."

"I see.  From Mrs. Fosdick, of course.  She said she was going to
write--I'm not sure she didn't say she had written; but I had the
impression it was to--well, to another member of your family,
Captain Snow."

"No, 'twas to me.  Come this mornin's mail."

"I see.  My mistake.  Well, I'm obliged to her in a way.  If the
news has been broken to you, I shan't have to break it and we can
get down to brass tacks just so much sooner.  The surprise being
over--I take it, it WAS a surprise, Captain?"

"You take it right.  Just as much of a surprise to me as you."

"Of course.  Well, the surprise being over for both of us, we can
talk of the affair--calmly and coolly.  What do you think about it,
Captain?"

"Oh, I don't know as I know exactly what to think.  What do YOU
think about it, Mr. Fosdick?"

"I think--I imagine I think very much as you do."

"I shouldn't he surprised.  And--er--what's your notion of what I
think?"

Captain Zelotes' gray eye twinkled as he asked the question, and
the Fosdick blue eye twinkled in return.  Both men laughed.

"We aren't getting very far this way, Captain," observed the
visitor.  "There's no use dodging, I suppose.  I, for one, am not
very well pleased.  Mrs. Fosdick, for another, isn't pleased at
all; she is absolutely and entirely opposed to the whole affair.
She won't hear of it, that's all, and she said so much that I
thought perhaps I had better come down here at once, see you, and--
and the young fellow with the queer name--"

"My grandson."

"Why yes.  He is your grandson, isn't he?  I beg your pardon."

"That's all right.  I shan't fight with you because you don't like
his name.  Go ahead.  You decided to come and see him--and me--?"

"Yes, I did.  I decided to come because it has been my experience
that a frank, straight talk is better, in cases like this, than a
hundred letters.  And that the time to talk was now, before matters
between the young foo--the young people went any further.  Don't
you agree with me?"

Captain Zelotes nodded.

"That now is a good time to talk?  Yes, I do," he said.

"Good!  Then suppose we talk."

"All right."

There was another interval of silence.  Then Fosdick broke it with
a chuckle.  "And I'm the one to do the talking, eh?" he said.

Captain Lote's eye twinkled.  "We-ll, you came all the way from New
York on purpose, you know," he observed.  Then he added:  "But
there, Mr. Fosdick, I don't want you to think I ain't polite or
won't talk, myself.  I'll do my share when the time comes.  But it
does seem to me that you ought to do yours first as it's your
family so far that's done the objectin'. . . .  Your cigar's gone
out.  Have another light, won't you?"

The visitor shook his head.  "No, thank you, not now," he said
hastily, placing the defunct cigar carefully on the captain's desk.
"I won't smoke for the minute.  So you want me to begin the
talking, do you?  It seems to me I have begun it.  I told you that
I do not like the idea of my daughter's being engaged to--to say
nothing of marrying--your grandson.  My wife likes it even less
than I do.  That is enough of a statement to begin with, isn't it?"

"Why, no, not exactly, if you'll excuse my sayin' so.  Your
daughter herself--how does she feel about it?"

"Oh, she is enthusiastic, naturally.  She appears to be suffering
from temporary insanity on the subject."

"She don't seem to think it's quite as--er--preposterous, and
ridiculous and outrageous--and Lord knows what all--as your wife
does, eh?"

"No.  I say, Snow, I hope you're not too deeply offended by what
my wife wrote you.  I judge you are quoting from her letter and
apparently she piled it on red-hot.  You'll have to excuse her; she
was almost wild all day yesterday.  I'll ask your pardon on her
behalf."

"Sho, sho!  No need, Mr. Fosdick, no need at all.  I know what
women are, even the easy-goin' kind, when they've got steam up.
I've got a wife--and I had a daughter.  But, gettin' back on the
course again, you think your daughter's crazy because she wants to
marry my grandson.  Is that it?"

"Why, no, I wouldn't say that, exactly.  Of course, I wouldn't say
that."

"But, you see, you did say it.  However, we'll leave that to one
side for a spell.  What objection--what real objection is there to
those two marryin'--my grandson and your daughter--provided that
they care for each other as they'd ought to?"

Mr. Fosdick's expression changed slightly.  His tone, as he replied
to the question, was colder and his manner less cordial.

"I don't know that it is worth while answering that in detail," he
said, after an instant's pause.  "Frankly, Captain Snow, I had
rather hoped you would see, for yourself, the reasons why such a
marriage wouldn't be desirable.  If you don't see them, if you are
backing up your grandson in his business, why--well, there is no
use in our discussing the matter any further, is there?  We should
only lose our tempers and not gain much.  So we had better end it
now, I think."

He rose to his feet.  Captain Zelotes, leaning forward, held up a
protesting hand.

"Now--now, Mr. Fosdick," he said earnestly, "I don't want you to
misunderstand me.  And I'm sorry if what I said has made you mad."

Fosdick smiled.  "Oh, I'm not mad," he answered cheerfully.  "I
make it a rule in all my business dealings not to get mad, or, more
especially, not to let the other fellow know that I'm getting that
way.  My temper hasn't a ruffle in it just now, and I am leaving
merely because I want it to remain smooth.  I judge that you and I
aren't going to agree.  All right, then we'll differ, but we'll
differ without a fight, that's all.  Good afternoon, Captain."

But Captain Lote's hand still remained uplifted.

"Mr. Fosdick," he said.  "just a minute now--just a minute.  You
never have met Albert, my grandson, have you?  Never even seen him,
maybe?"

"No, but I intend to meet him and talk with him before I leave
South Harniss.  He was one of the two people I came here to meet."

"And I was the other, eh?  Um-hm. . . .  I see.  You think you've
found out where I stand and now you'll size him up.  Honest, Mr.
Fosdick, I . . .  Humph!  Mind if I tell you a little story?
'Twon't take long.  When I was a little shaver, me and my granddad,
the first Cap'n Lote Snow--there's been two since--were great
chums.  When he was home from sea he and I stuck together like hot
pitch and oakum.  One day we were sittin' out in the front yard of
his house--it's mine, now--watchin' a hoptoad catch flies.  You've
seen a toad catch flies, haven't you, Mr. Fosdick?  Mr. Toad sits
there, lookin' half asleep and as pious and demure as a pickpocket
at camp-meetin', until a fly comes along and gets too near.  Then,
Zip! out shoots about six inches of toad tongue and that fly's been
asked in to dinner.  Well, granddad and I sat lookin' at our
particular toad when along came a bumble-bee and lighted on a
honeysuckle blossom right in front of the critter.  The toad didn't
take time to think it over, all he saw was a square meal, and his
tongue flashed out and nailed that bumble-bee and snapped it into
the pantry.  In about a half second, though, there was a change.
The pantry had been emptied, the bumble-bee was on his way again,
and Mr. Toad was on his, hoppin' lively and huntin' for--well, for
ice water or somethin' coolin', I guess likely.  Granddad tapped me
on the shoulder.  'Sonny,' says he, 'there's a lesson for you.
That hoptoad didn't wait to make sure that bumble-bee was good to
eat; he took it for granted, and was sorry afterward.  It don't pay
to jump at conclusions, son,' he says.  'Some conclusions are like
that bumble-bee's, they have stings in 'em.'"

Captain Lote, having finished his story, felt in his pocket for
a match.  Fosdick, for an instant, appeared puzzled.  Then he
laughed.

"I see," he said.  "You think I made too quick a jump when I
concluded you were backing your grandson in this affair.  All
right, I'm glad to hear it.  What do you want me to do, sit down
again and listen?"

He resumed his seat as he asked the question.  Captain Zelotes
nodded.

"If you don't mind," he answered.  "You see, you misunderstood me,
Mr. Fosdick.  I didn't mean any more than what I said when I asked
you what real objection there was, in your opinion to Albert's
marryin' your--er--Madeline, that's her name, I believe.  Seems to
me the way for us to get to an understandin'--you and I--is to find
out just how the situation looks to each of us.  When we've found
out that, we'll know how nigh we come to agreein' or disagreein'
and can act accordin'.  Sounds reasonable, don't it?"

Fosdick nodded in his turn.  "Perfectly," he admitted.  "Well, ask
your questions, and I'll answer them.  After that perhaps I'll ask
some myself.  Go ahead."

"I have gone ahead.  I've asked one already."

"Yes, but it is such a general question.  There may be so many
objections."

"I see.  All right, then I'll ask some:  What do the lawyers call
'em?--Atlantic?  Pacific?  I've got it--I'll ask some specific
questions.  Here's one.  Do you object to Al personally?  To his
character?"

"Not at all.  We know nothing about his character.  Very likely he
may be a young saint."

"Well, he ain't, so we'll let that slide.  He's a good boy, though,
so far as I've ever been able to find out.  Is it his looks?
You've never seen him, but your wife has.  Don't she like his
looks?"

"She hasn't mentioned his looks to me."

"Is it his money?  He hasn't got any of his own."

"We-ell, of course that does count a little bit.  Madeline is our
only child, and naturally we should prefer to have her pick out a
husband with a dollar or so in reserve."

"Um-hm.  Al's twenty-one, Mr. Fosdick.  When I was twenty-one I had
some put by, but not much.  I presume likely 'twas different with
you, maybe.  Probably you were pretty well fixed."

Fosdick laughed aloud.  "You make a good cross-examiner, Snow," he
observed.  "As a matter of fact, when I was twenty-one I was
assistant bookkeeper in a New Haven broker's office.  I didn't have
a cent except my salary, and I had that only for the first five
days in the week."

"However, you got married?"

"Yes, I did.  More fool I!  If I had known anything, I should have
waited five years at least.  I didn't have any one to tell me so.
My father and mother were both dead."

"Think you'd have listened to 'em if they had been alive and had
told you?  However, however, that's all to one side.  Well,
Albert's havin' no money to speak of is an objection--and a good
honest one from your point of view.  His prospects here in this
business of mine are fair, and he is doin' better at it than he
was, so he may make a comf'table livin'--a comf'table South Harniss
livin', that is--by and by."

"Oh, he is with you, then?  Oh, yes, I remember my wife said he
worked in your office.  But she said more about his being some sort
of a--a poet, wasn't it?"

For the first time since the interview began the captain looked ill
at ease and embarrassed.

"Thunderation!" he exclaimed testily, "you mustn't pay attention to
that.  He does make up poetry' pieces--er--on the side, as you
might say, but I keep hopin' all the time he'll grow out of it,
give him time.  It 'ain't his regular job, you mustn't think 'tis."

The visitor laughed again.  "I'm glad of that," he said, "both for
your sake and mine.  I judge that you and I, Snow, are in complete
agreement as far as our opinion of poetry and that sort of stuff is
concerned.  Of course I'm not condemning all poetry, you understand.
Longfellow and Tennyson and the regular poets are all right.  You
understand what I'm getting at?"

"Sartin.  I used to know 'Down went the R'yal George with all her
crew complete,' and a lot more.  Used to say 'em over to myself
when I first went to sea and stood watch alone nights.  But they
were different, you know; they--they--"

"Sure!  My wife--why, I give you my word that my own wife and her
set go perfectly daffy over chaps who write stuff that rhymes and
that the papers are printing columns about.  Snow, if this grandson
of yours was a genuine press-touted, women's club poet instead of a
would-be--well, I don't know what might happen.  In that case she
might be as strong FOR this engagement as she is now against it."

He paused, seeming a bit ashamed of his own heat.  Captain Zelotes,
however, regarded him with more approval than he had yet shown.

"It's been my observation that women are likely to get off the
course chasin' false signals like that," he observed.  "When a man
begins lettin' his hair and his mouth run wild together seems as if
the combination had an attraction for a good many women folks.  Al
keeps his hair cut, though, I'll say that for him," he added.  "It
curls some, but it ain't long.  I wouldn't have him in the office
if 'twas."

"Well, Mr. Fosdick," he continued, "what other objections are they?
Manners?  Family and relations?  Education?  Any objections along
that line?"

"No-o, no; I--well, I don't know; you see, I don't know much about
the young fellow."

"Perhaps I can help you out.  As to manners--well, you can judge
them for yourself when you see him.  He seems to be in about every
kind of social doin's there is down here, and he's as much or more
popular with the summer folks than with the year-'rounders.
Education?  Well, that's fair to middlin', as I see it.  He spent
nine or ten years in a mighty expensive boardin' school up in New
York State."

"Did he?  What school?"

The captain gave the name of the school.  Fosdick looked surprised.

"Humph!  That IS a good school," he said.

"Is it?  Depends on what you call good, I cal'late.  Al learned a
good deal of this and that, a little bit of foreign language, some
that they call dead and some that ought to be dead--and buried,
'cordin' to my notion.  When he came to me he couldn't add up a
column of ten figgers without makin' a mistake, and as for
business--well, what he knew about business was about equal to what
Noah knew about a gas engine."

He paused to chuckle, and Fosdick chuckled with him.

"As to family," went on Captain Lote, "he's a Snow on his mother's
side, and there's been seven generations of Snow's in this part of
the Cape since the first one landed here.  So far as I know,
they've all managed to keep out of jail, which may have been more
good luck than deservin' in some cases."

"His father?" queried Fosdick.

The captain's heavy brows drew together.  "His father was a
Portygee--or Spaniard, I believe is right--and he was a play-actor,
one of those--what do you call 'em?--opera singers."

Fosdick seemed surprised and interested.  "Oh, indeed," he
exclaimed, "an opera singer? . . .  Why, he wasn't Speranza, the
baritone, was he?"

"Maybe; I believe he was.  He married my daughter and--well, we
won't talk about him, if you don't mind."

"But Speranza was a--"

"IF you don't mind, Mr. Fosdick."

Captain Lote lapsed into silence, drumming the desk with his big
fingers.  His visitor waited for a few moments.  At length he said:

"Well, Captain Snow, I have answered your questions and you have
answered mine.  Do you think we are any nearer an agreement now?"

Captain Zelotes seemed to awake with a start.  "Eh?" he queried.
"Agreement?  Oh, I don't know.  Did you find any--er--what you
might call vital objections in the boy's record?"

"No-o.  No, all that is all right.  His family and his education
and all the rest are good enough, I'm sure.  But, nevertheless--"

"You still object to the young folks gettin' married."

"Yes, I do.  Hang it all, Snow, this isn't a thing one can reason
out, exactly.  Madeline is our only child; she is our pet, our
baby.  Naturally her mother and I have planned for her, hoped for
her, figured that some day, when we had to give her up, it would
be to--to--"

"To somebody that wasn't Albert Speranza of South Harniss,
Mass. . . .  Eh?"

"Yes.  Not that your grandson isn't all right.  I have no doubt he
is a tip-top young fellow.  But, you see--"

Captain Lote suddenly leaned forward.  "Course I see, Mr. Fosdick,"
he interrupted.  "Course I see.  You object, and the objection
ain't a mite weaker on account of your not bein' able to say
exactly what 'tis."

"That's the idea.  Thank you, Captain."

"You're welcome.  I can understand.  I know just how you feel,
because I've been feelin' the same way myself."

"Oh, you have?  Good!  Then you can sympathize with Mrs. Fosdick
and with me.  You see--you understand why we had rather our
daughter did not marry your grandson."

"Sartin.  You see, I've had just the same sort of general kind of
objection to Al's marryin' your daughter."

Mr. Fletcher Fosdick leaned slowly backward in his chair.  His
appearance was suggestive of one who has received an unexpected
thump between the eyes.

"Oh, you have!" he said again, but not with the same expression.

"Um-hm," said Captain Zelotes gravely.  "I'm like you in one way;
I've never met your Madeline any more than you have met Al.  I've
seen her once or twice, and she is real pretty and nice-lookin'.
But I don't know her at all.  Now I don't doubt for a minute but
that she's a real nice girl and it might be that she'd make Al a
fairly good wife."

"Er--well,--thanks."

"Oh, that's all right, I mean it.  It might be she would.  And I
ain't got a thing against you or your folks."

"Humph,--er--thanks again."

"That's all right; you don't need to thank me.  But it's this way
with me--I live in South Harniss all the year round.  I want to
live here till I die, and--after I die I'd like first-rate to have
Al take up the Z. Snow and Co. business and the Snow house and land
and keep them goin' till HE dies.  Mind, I ain't at all sure that
he'll do it, or be capable of doin' it, but that's what I'd like.
Now you're in New York most of the year, and so's your wife and
daughter.  New York is all right--I ain't sayin' a word against it--
but New York and South Harniss are different."

The Fosdick lip twitched.  "Somewhat different," he admitted.

"Um-hm.  That sounds like a joke, I know; but I don't mean it so,
not now.  What I mean is that I know South Harniss and South
Harniss folks.  I don't know New York--not so very well, though
I've been there plenty of times--and I don't know New York ways.
But I do know South Harniss ways, and they suit me.  Would they
suit your daughter--not just for summer, but as a reg'lar thing
right straight along year in and out?  I doubt it, Mr. Fosdick, I
doubt it consid'able.  Course I don't know your daughter--"

"I do--and I share your doubts."

"Um-hm.  But whether she liked it or not she'd have to come here if
she married my grandson.  Either that or he'd have to go to New
York.  And if he went to New York, how would he earn his livin'?
Get a new bookkeepin' job and start all over again, or live on
poetry?"

Mr. Fosdick opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to change his
mind and closed it again, without speaking.  Captain Zelotes,
looking keenly at him, seemed to guess his thoughts.

"Of course," he said deliberately, but with a firmness which
permitted no misunderstanding of his meaning, "of course you
mustn't get it into your head for one minute that the boy is
figgerin' on your daughter's bein' a rich girl.  He hasn't given
that a thought.  You take my word for that, Mr. Fosdick.  He
doesn't know how much money she or you have got and he doesn't
care.  He doesn't care a continental darn."

His visitor smiled slightly.  "Nevertheless," he began.  The
captain interrupted him.

"No, there ain't any nevertheless," he said.  "Albert has been with
me enough years now so that I know a little about him.  And I know
that all he wants is your daughter.  As to how much she's worth in
money or how they're goin' to live after he's got her--I know that
he hasn't given it one thought.  I don't imagine she has, either.
For one reason," he added, with a smile, "he is too poor a business
man to think of marriage as a business, bill-payin' contract, and
for another,--for another--why, good Lord, Fosdick!" he exclaimed,
leaning forward, "don't you know what this thing means to those two
young folks?  It means just moonshine and mush and lookin' into
each other's eyes, that's about all.  THEY haven't thought any
practical thoughts about it.  Why, think what their ages are!
Think of yourself at that age!  Can't you remember. . . .  Humph!
Well, I'm talkin' fifty revolutions to the second.  I beg your
pardon."

"That's all right, Snow.  And I believe you have the situation
sized up as it is.  Still--"

"Excuse me, Mr. Fosdick, but don't you think it's about time you
had a look at the boy himself?  I'm goin' to ask him to come in
here and meet you."

Fosdick looked troubled.  "Think it is good policy?" he asked
doubtfully.  "I want to see him and speak with him, but I do hate a
scene."

"There won't be any scene.  You just meet him face to face and talk
enough with him to get a little idea of what your first impression
is.  Don't contradict or commit yourself or anything.  And I'll
send him out at the end of two or three minutes."

Without waiting for a reply, he rose, opened the door to the outer
office and called, "Al, come in here!"  When Albert had obeyed the
order he closed the door behind him and turning to the gentleman in
the visitor's chair, said:  "Mr. Fosdick, this is my grandson,
Albert Speranza.  Al, shake hands with Mr. Fosdick from New York."

While awaiting the summons to meet the father of his adored, Albert
had been rehearsing and re-rehearsing the speeches he intended
making when that meeting took place.  Sitting at his desk, pen in
hand and pretending to be busy with the bookkeeping of Z. Snow and
Company, he had seen, not the ruled page of the day book, but the
parental countenance of the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick.  And, to
his mind's eye, that countenance was as rugged and stern as the
rock-bound coast upon which the Pilgrims landed, and about as
unyielding and impregnable as the door of the office safe.  So,
when his grandfather called him, he descended from the tall desk
stool and crossed the threshold of the inner room, a trifle pale, a
little shaky at the knees, but with the set chin and erect head of
one who, facing almost hopeless odds, intends fighting to the last
gasp.

To his astonishment the Fosdick countenance was not as his
imagination had pictured it.  The blue eyes met his, not with a
glare or a glower, but with a look of interest and inquiry.  The
Fosdick hand shook his with politeness, and the Fosdick manner was,
if not genial, at least quiet and matter of fact.  He was taken
aback.  What did it mean?  Was it possible that Madeline's father
was inclined to regard her engagement to him with favor?  A great
throb of joy accompanied the thought.  Then he remembered the
letter he had just read, the letter from Madeline's mother, and the
hope subsided.

"Albert," said Captain Zelotes, "Mr. Fosdick has come on here to
talk with us; that is, with me and you, about your affairs.  He and
I have talked up to the point where it seemed to me you ought to
come in for a spell.  I've told him that the news that you and his
daughter were--er--favorably disposed toward each other was as
sudden and as big a surprise to me as 'twas to him.  Even your
grandma don't know it yet.  Now I presume likely he'd like to ask
you a few questions.  Heave ahead, Mr. Fosdick."

He relit his cigar stump and leaned back in his chair.  Mr. Fosdick
leaned forward in his.  Albert stood very straight, his shoulders
braced for the encounter.  The quizzical twinkle shone in Captain
Lote's eye as he regarded his grandson.  Fosdick also smiled
momentarily as he caught the expression of the youth's face.

"Well, Speranza," he began, in so cheerful a tone that Albert's
astonishment grew even greater, "your grandfather has been kind
enough to get us through the preliminaries, so we'll come at once
to the essentials.  You and my daughter consider yourselves engaged
to marry?"

"Yes, sir.  We ARE engaged."

"I see.  How long have you--um--been that way, so to speak?"

"Since last August."

"Why haven't you said anything about it to us--to Mrs. Fosdick or
me or your people here?  You must excuse these personal questions.
As I have just said to Captain Snow, Madeline is our only child,
and her happiness and welfare mean about all there is in life to
her mother and me.  So, naturally, the man she is going to marry is
an important consideration.  You and I have never met before, so
the quickest way of reaching an understanding between us is by the
question route.  You get my meaning?"

"Yes, sir, I guess I do."

"Good!  Then we'll go ahead.  Why have you two kept it a secret so
long?"

"Because--well, because we knew we couldn't marry yet a while, so
we thought we had better not announce it for the present."

"Oh! . . .  And the idea that perhaps Mrs. Fosdick and I might be
slightly interested didn't occur to you?"

"Why, yes, sir, it did.  But,--but we thought it best not to tell
you until later."

"Perhaps the suspicion that we might not be overjoyed by the news
had a little weight with you, eh?  Possibly that helped to delay
the--er--announcement?"

"No, sir, I--I don't think it did."

"Oh, don't you!  Perhaps you thought we WOULD be overjoyed?"

"No, sir.  We didn't think so very much about it.  Well, that's not
quite true.  Madeline felt that her mother--and you, too, sir, I
suppose, although she didn't speak as often of you in that way--she
felt that her mother would disapprove at first, and so we had
better wait."

"Until when?"

"Until--until by and by.  Until I had gone ahead further, you
know."

"I'm not sure that I do know.  Gone ahead how?  Until you had a
better position, more salary?"

"No, not exactly.  Until my writings were better known.  Until I
was a little more successful."

"Successful?  Until you wrote more poetry, do you mean?"

"Yes, sir.  Poetry and other things, stories and plays, perhaps."

"Do you mean--  Did you figure that you and Madeline were to live
on what you made by writing poetry and the other stuff?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

Fosdick looked across at Captain Zelotes.  The Captain's face was
worth looking at.

"Here, here, hold on!" he exclaimed, jumping into the conversation.
"Al, what are you talkin' about?  You're bookkeeper for me, ain't
you; for this concern right here where you are?  What do you mean
by talkin' as if your job was makin' up poetry pieces?  That's only
what you do on the side, and you know it.  Eh, ain't that so?"

Albert hesitated.  He had, momentarily, forgotten his grandfather
and the latter's prejudices.  After all, what was the use of
stirring up additional trouble.

"Yes, Grandfather," he said.

"Course it's so.  It's in this office that you draw your wages."

"Yes, Grandfather."

"All right.  Excuse me for nosin' in, Mr. Fosdick, but I knew the
boy wasn't puttin' the thing as plain as it ought to be, and I
didn't want you to get the wrong notion.  Heave ahead."

Fosdick smiled slightly.  "All right, Captain," he said.  "I get
it, I think.  Well, then," turning again to Albert, "your plan for
supporting my daughter was to wait until your position here, plus
the poetry, should bring in sufficient revenue.  It didn't occur to
you that--well, that there might be a possibility of getting money--
elsewhere?"

Albert plainly did not understand, but it was just as plain that
his grandfather did.  Captain Zelotes spoke sharply.

"Mr. Fosdick," he said, "I just answered that question for you."

"Yes, I know.  But if you were in my place you might like to have
him answer it.  I don't mean to be offensive, but business is
business, and, after all, this is a business talk.  So--"

The Captain interrupted.  "So we'll talk it in a business way, eh?"
he snapped.  "All right.  Al, what Mr. Fosdick means is had you
cal'lated that, if you married his daughter, maybe her dad's money
might help you and her to keep goin'?  To put it even plainer: had
you planned some on her bein' a rich girl?"

Fosdick looked annoyed.  "Oh, I say, Snow!" he cried.  "That's too
strong, altogether."

"Not a mite.  It's what you've had in the back of your head all
along.  I'm just helpin' it to come out of the front.  Well, Al?"

The red spots were burning in the Speranza cheeks.  He choked as he
answered.

"No," he cried fiercely.  "Of course I haven't planned on any such
thing.  I don't know how rich she is.  I don't care.  I wish she
was as poor as--as I am.  I want HER, that's all.  And she wants
me.  We don't either of us care about money.  I wouldn't take a
cent of your money, Mr. Fosdick.  But I--I want Madeline and--and--
I shall have her."

"In spite of her parents, eh?"

"Yes. . . .  I'm sorry to speak so, Mr. Fosdick, but it is true.
We--we love each other.  We--we've agreed to wait for each other,
no matter--no matter if it is years and years.  And as for the
money and all that, if you disinherit her, or--or whatever it is
they do--we don't care.  I--I hope you will.  I--she--"

Captain Zelotes' voice broke in upon the impassioned outburst.

"Steady, Al; steady, son," he cautioned quietly.  "I cal'late
you've said enough.  I don't think any more's necessary.  You'd
better go back to your desk now."

"But, Grandfather, I want him to understand--"

"I guess likely he does.  I should say you'd made it real plain.
Go now, Al."

Albert turned, but, with a shaking hand upon the doorknob, turned
back again.

"I'm--I--I'm sorry, Mr. Fosdick," he faltered.  "I--I didn't mean
to say anything to hurt your feelings.  But--but, you see,
Madeline--she and I--we--"

He could not go on.  Fosdick's nod and answer were not unkindly.
"All right, Speranza," he said, "I'm not offended.  Hope I wasn't
too blunt, myself.  Good-day."

When the door had closed behind the young man he turned to Captain
Lote.

"Sorry if I offended you, Snow," he observed.  "I threw in that
hint about marrying just to see what effect it would have, that's
all."

"Um-hm.  So I judged.  Well, you saw, didn't you?"

"I did.  Say, Captain, except as a prospective son-in-law, and then
only because I don't see him in that light--I rather like that
grandson of yours.  He's a fine, upstanding young chap."

The captain made no reply.  He merely pulled at his beard.
However, he did not look displeased.

"He's a handsome specimen, isn't he?" went on Fosdick.  "No wonder
Madeline fell for his looks.  Those and the poetry together are a
combination hard to resist--at her age.  And he's a gentleman.  He
handled himself mighty well while I was stringing him just now."

The beard tugging continued.  "Um-hm," observed Captain Zelotes
dryly; "he does pretty well for a--South Harniss gentleman.  But
we're kind of wastin' time, ain't we, Mr. Fosdick?  In spite of his
looks and his manners and all the rest, now that you've seen him
you still object to that engagement, I take it."

"Why, yes, I do.  The boy is all right, I'm sure, but--"

"Sartin, I understand.  I feel the same way about your girl.  She's
all right, I'm sure, but--"

"We're agreed on everything, includin' the 'but.'  And the 'but' is
that New York is one place and South Harniss is another."

"Exactly."

"So we don't want 'em to marry.  Fine.  First rate!  Only now we
come to the most important 'but' of all.  What are we going to do
about it?  Suppose we say no and they say yes and keep on sayin'
it?  Suppose they decide to get married no matter what we say.  How
are we goin' to stop it?"

His visitor regarded him for a moment and then broke into a hearty
laugh.

"Snow," he declared, "you're all right.  You surely have the
faculty of putting your finger on the weak spots.  Of course we
can't stop it.  If these two young idiots have a mind to marry and
keep that mind, they WILL marry and we can't prevent it any more
than we could prevent the tide coming in to-morrow morning.  _I_
realized that this was a sort of fool's errand, my coming down
here.  I know that this isn't the age when parents can forbid
marriages and get away with it, as they used to on the stage in the
old plays.  Boys and girls nowadays have a way of going their own
gait in such matters.  But my wife doesn't see it in exactly that
way, and she was so insistent on my coming down here to stop the
thing if I could that--well, I came."

"I'm glad you did, Mr. Fosdick, real glad.  And, although I agree
with you that the very worst thing to do, if we want to stop this
team from pullin' together, is to haul back on the bits and holler
'Whoa,' still I'm kind of hopeful that, maybe . . . humph!  I
declare, it looks as if I'd have to tell you another story.  I'm
gettin' as bad as Cap'n Hannibal Doane used to be, and they used to
call him 'The Rope Walk' 'cause he spun so many yarns."

Fosdick laughed again.  "You may go as far as you like with your
stories, Captain," he said.  "I can grow fat on them."

"Thanks.  Well, this ain't a story exactly; it just kind of makes
the point I'm tryin' to get at.  Calvin Bangs had a white mare one
time and the critter had a habit of runnin' away.  Once his wife,
Hannah J., was in the buggy all by herself, over to the Ostable
Fair, Calvin havin' got out to buy some peanuts or somethin'.  The
mare got scared of the noise and crowd and bolted.  As luck would
have it, she went right through the fence and out onto the trottin'
track.  And around that track she went, hell bent for election.
All hands was runnin' alongside hollerin' 'Stop her!  Stop her!
'but not Calvin--no SIR!  He waited till the mare was abreast of
him, the mare on two legs and the buggy on two wheels and Hannah
'most anywheres between the dasher and the next world, and then he
sung out:  'Give her her head, Hannah!  Give her her head.  She'll
stop when she runs down.'"

He laughed and his visitor laughed with him.

"I gather," observed the New Yorker, "that you believe it the
better policy to give our young people their heads."

"In reason--yes, I do.  It's my judgment that an affair like this
will hurry more and more if you try too hard to stop it.  If you
don't try at all so any one would notice it, it may run down and
stop of itself, the way Calvin's mare did."

Fosdick nodded reflectively.  "I'm inclined to agree with you," he
said.  "But does that mean that they're to correspond, write love
letters, and all that?"

"Why, in reason, maybe.  If we say no to that, they'll write
anyhow, won't they?"

"Of course. . . .  How would it do to get them to promise to write
nothing that their parents might not see?  Of course I don't mean
for your grandson to show you his letters before he sends them to
Madeline.  He's too old for that, and he would refuse.  But suppose
you asked him to agree to write nothing that Madeline would not be
willing to show her mother--or me.  Do you think he would?"

"Maybe.  I'll ask him. . . .  Yes, I guess likely he'd do that."

"My reason for suggesting it is, frankly, not so much on account of
the young people as to pacify my wife.  I am not afraid--not very
much afraid of this love affair.  They are young, both of them.
Give them time, and--as you say, Snow, the thing may run down,
peter out."

"I'm in hopes 'twill.  It's calf love, as I see it, and I believe
'twill pay to give the calves rope enough."

"So do I.  No, I'm not much troubled about the young people.  But
Mrs. Fosdick--well, my trouble will be with her.  She'll want to
have your boy shot or jailed or hanged or something."

"I presume likely.  I guess you'll have to handle her the way
another feller who used to live here in South Harniss said he
handled his wife.  'We don't never have any trouble at all,' says
he.  'Whenever she says yes or no, I say the same thing.  Later on,
when it comes to doin', I do what I feel like.' . . .  Eh?  You're
not goin', are you, Mr. Fosdick?"

His visitor had risen and was reaching for his coat.  Captain
Zelotes also rose.

"Don't hurry, don't hurry," he begged.

"Sorry, but I must.  I want to be back in New York tomorrow
morning."

"But you can't, can you?  To do that you'll have to get up to
Boston or Fall River, and the afternoon train's gone.  You'd better
stay and have supper along with my wife and me, stay at our house
over night, and take the early train after breakfast to-morrow."

"I wish I could; I'd like nothing better.  But I can't."

"Sure?"  Then, with a smile, he added:  "Al needn't eat with us,
you know, if his bein' there makes either of you feel nervous."

Fosdick laughed again.  "I think I should be willing to risk the
nervousness," he replied.  "But I must go, really.  I've hired a
chap at the garage here to drive me to Boston in his car and I'll
take the midnight train over."

"Humph!  Well, if you must, you must.  Hope you have a comf'table
trip, Mr. Fosdick.  Better wrap up warm; it's pretty nigh a five-
hour run to Boston and there's some cool wind over the Ostable
marshes this time of year.  Good-by, sir.  Glad to have had this
talk with you."

His visitor held out his hand.  "So am I, Snow," he said heartily.
"Mighty glad."

"I hope I wasn't too short and brisk at the beginnin'.  You see,
I'd just read your wife's letter, and--er--well, of course, I
didn't know--just--you see, you and I had never met, and so--"

"Certainly, certainly.  I quite understand.  And, fool's errand or
not, I'm very glad I came here.  If you'll pardon my saying so, it
was worth the trip to get acquainted with you.  I hope, whatever
comes of the other thing, that our acquaintanceship will continue."

"Same here, same here.  Go right out the side door, Mr. Fosdick,
saves goin' through the office.  Good day, sir."

He watched the bulky figure of the New York banker tramping across
the yard between the piles of lumber.  A moment later he entered
the outer office.  Albert and Keeler were at their desks.  Captain
Zelotes approached the little bookkeeper.

"Labe," he queried, "there isn't anything particular you want me to
talk about just now, is there?"

Lahan looked up in surprise from his figuring.

"Why--why, no, Cap'n Lote, don't know's there is," he said.  "Don't
know's there is, not now, no, no, no."

His employer nodded.  "Good!" he exclaimed.  "Then I'm goin' back
inside there and sit down and rest my chin for an hour, anyhow.
I've talked so much to-day that my jaws squeak.  Don't disturb me
for anything short of a fire or a mutiny."

CHAPTER XII

He was not disturbed and that evening, after supper was over, he
was ready to talk again.  He and Albert sat together in the sitting
room--Mrs. Snow and Rachel were in the kitchen washing dishes--and
Captain Zelotes told his grandson as much as he thought advisable
to tell of his conversation with the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick.
At first Albert was inclined to rebel at the idea of permitting his
letters to Madeline to be read by the latter's parents, but at
length he agreed.

"I'll do it because it may make it easier for her," he said.
"She'll have a dreadful time, I suppose, with that unreasonable
mother of hers.  But, by George, Grandfather," he exclaimed, "isn't
she splendid, though!"

"Who?  Mrs. Fosdick?"

"No, of course not," indignantly.  "Madeline.  Isn't she splendid
and fine and loyal!  I want you to know her, Grandfather, you and
Grandmother."

"Um-hm.  Well, we'll hope to, some day.  Now, son, I'm goin' to ask
for another promise.  It may seem a hard one to make, but I'm
askin' you to make it.  I want you to give me your word that, no
matter what happens or how long you have to wait, you and Madeline
won't get married without tellin' her folks and yours beforehand.
You won't run away and marry.  Will you promise me that?"

Albert looked at him.  This WAS a hard promise to make.  In their
talks beneath the rainbows, whenever he and Madeline had referred
to the future and its doubts, they had always pushed those doubts
aside with vague hints of an elopement.  If the unreasonableness of
parents and grandparents should crowd them too far, they had always
as a last resort, the solution of their problem by way of a runaway
marriage.  And now Captain Zelotes was asking him to give up this
last resort.

The captain, watching him keenly, divined what was in his
grandson's mind.

"Think it over, Al," he said kindly.  "Don't answer me now, but
think it over, and to-morrow mornin' tell me how you feel about
it."  He hesitated a moment and then added:  "You know your
grandmother and I, we--well, we have maybe cause to be a little
mite prejudiced against this elopin' business."

So Albert thought, and the next morning, as the pair were walking
together to the office, he spoke his thought.  Captain Zelotes had
not mentioned the subject.

"Grandfather," said Albert, with some embarrassment, "I'm going to
give you that promise."

His grandfather, who had been striding along, his heavy brows drawn
together and his glance fixed upon the frozen ground beneath his
feet, looked up.

"Eh?" he queried, uncomprehendingly.

"You asked me last night to promise you something, you know. . . .
You asked me to think it over.  I have, and I'm going to promise
you that--Madeline and I won't marry without first telling you."

Captain Zelotes stopped in his stride; then he walked on again.

"Thank you, Al," he said quietly.  "I hoped you'd see it that way."

"Yes--yes, I--I do.  I don't want to bring any more--trouble of
that kind to you and Grandmother. . . .  It seems to me that you--
that you have had too much already."

"Thank you, son. . . .  Much obliged."

The captain's tone was almost gruff and that was his only reference
to the subject of the promise; but somehow Albert felt that at that
moment he and his grandfather were closer together, were nearer to
a mutual understanding and mutual appreciation than they had ever
been before.

To promise, however, is one thing, to fulfill the obligation
another.  As the days passed Albert found his promise concerning
letter-writing very, very hard to keep.  When, each evening he sat
down at the table in his room to pour out his soul upon paper it
was a most unsatisfactory outpouring.  The constantly enforced
recollection that whatever he wrote would be subject to the
chilling glance of the eye of Fosdick mater was of itself a check
upon the flow.  To write a love letter to Madeline had hitherto
been a joy, a rapture, to fill pages and pages a delight.  Now,
somehow, these pages were hard to fill.  Omitting the very things
you were dying to say, the precious, the intimate things--what was
there left?  He and she had, at their meetings and in their former
correspondence, invented many delightful little pet names for each
other.  Now those names were taboo; or, at any rate, they might as
well be.  The thought of Mrs. Fosdick's sniff of indignant disgust
at finding her daughter referred to as some one's ownest little
rosebud withered that bud before it reached the paper.

And Madeline's letters to him were quite as unsatisfactory.  They
were lengthy, but oh, so matter of fact!  Saharas of fact without
one oasis of sentiment.  She was well and she had done this and
that and had been to see such and such plays and operas.  Father
was well and very busy.  Mother, too, was well, so was Googoo--but
these last two bits of news failed to comfort him as they perhaps
should.  He could only try to glean between the lines, and as Mrs.
Fosdick had raked between those lines before him, the gleaning was
scant picking indeed.

He found himself growing disconsolate and despondent.  Summer
seemed ages away.  And when at last it should come--what would
happen then?  He could see her only when properly chaperoned, only
when Mother, and probably Googoo, were present.  He flew for
consolation to the Muse and the Muse refused to console.  The poems
he wrote were "blue" and despairing likewise.  Consequently they
did not sell.  He was growing desperate, ready for anything.  And
something came.  Germany delivered to our Government its arrogant
mandate concerning unlimited submarine warfare.  A long-suffering
President threw patience overboard and answered that mandate in
unmistakable terms.  Congress stood at his back and behind them a
united and indignant people.  The United States declared war upon
the Hun.

South Harniss, like every other community, became wildly excited.
Captain Zelotes Snow's gray eyes flashed fiery satisfaction.  The
flags at the Snow place and at the lumber yard flew high night and
day.  He bought newspapers galore and read from them aloud at
meals, in the evenings, and before breakfast.  Issachar, as usual,
talked much and said little.  Laban Keeler's comments were pithy
and dryly pointed.  Albert was very quiet.

But one forenoon he spoke.  Captain Lote was in the inner office,
the morning newspaper in his hand, when his grandson entered and
closed the door behind him.  The captain looked up.

"Well, Al, what is it?" he asked.

Albert came over and stood beside the desk.  The captain, after a
moment's scrutiny of the young man's face, put down his newspaper.

"Well, Al?" he said, again.

Albert seemed to find it hard to speak.

"Grandfather," he began, "I--I--Grandfather, I have come to ask a
favor of you."

The captain nodded, slowly, his gaze fixed upon his grandson's
face.

"All right; heave ahead," he said quietly.

"Grandfather, you and I have had a four years' agreement to work
together in this office.  It isn't up yet, but--but I want to break
it.  I want you to let me off."

"Humph! . . .  Let you off, eh? . . .  What for?"

"That's what I came here to tell you.  Grandfather, I can't stay
here--now.  I want to enlist."

Captain Zelotes did not answer.  His hand moved upward and pulled
at his beard.

"I want to enlist," repeated Albert.  "I can't stand it another
minute.  I must.  If it hadn't been for you and our promise and--
and Madeline, I think I should have joined the Canadian Army a year
or more ago.  But now that we have gone into the war, I CAN'T stay
out.  Grandfather, you don't want me to, do you?  Of course you
don't."

His grandfather appeared to ponder.

"If you can wait a spell," he said slowly, "I might be able to fix
it so's you can get a chance for an officer's commission.  I'd
ought to have some pull somewheres, seems so."

Albert sniffed impatient disgust.  "I don't want to get a
commission--in that way," he declared.

"Humph!  You'll find there's plenty that do, I shouldn't wonder."

"Perhaps, but I'm not one of them.  And I don't care so much for a
commission, unless I can earn it.  And I don't want to stay here
and study for it.  I want to go now.  I want to get into the thing.
I don't want to wait."

Captain Lote leaned forward.  His gray eyes snapped.

"Want to fight, do you?" he queried.

"You bet I do!"

"All right, my boy, then go--and fight.  I'd be ashamed of myself
if I held you back a minute.  Go and fight--and fight hard.  I only
wish to God I was young enough to go with you."

CHAPTER XIII

And so, in this unexpected fashion, came prematurely the end of the
four year trial agreement between Albert Speranza and Z. Snow and
Co.  Of course neither Captain Zelotes nor Albert admitted that it
had ended.  Each professed to regard the break as merely temporary.

"You'll be back at that desk in a little while, Al," said the
captain, "addin' up figgers and tormentin' Issy."  And Albert's
reply was invariably, "Why, of course, Grandfather."

He had dreaded his grandmother's reception of the news of his
intended enlistment.  Olive worshiped her daughter's boy and,
although an ardent patriot, was by no means as fiercely belligerent
as her husband.  She prayed each night for the defeat of the Hun,
whereas Captain Lote was for licking him first and praying
afterwards.  Albert feared a scene; he feared that she might be
prostrated when she learned that he was to go to war.  But she bore
it wonderfully well, and as for the dreaded "scene," there was
none.

"Zelotes says he thinks it's the right thing for you to do, Albert,"
she said, "so I suppose I ought to think so, too.  But, oh, my dear,
DO you really feel that you must?  I--it don't seem as I could bear
to . . . but there, I mustn't talk so.  It ain't a mite harder for
me than it is for thousands of women all over this world. . . .  And
perhaps the government folks won't take you, anyway.  Rachel said
she read in the Item about some young man over in Bayport who was
rejected because he had fat feet.  She meant flat feet, I suppose,
poor thing.  Oh, dear me, I'm laughin', and it seems wicked to laugh
a time like this.  And when I think of you goin', Albert, I--I . . .
but there, I promised Zelotes I wouldn't. . . .  And they MAY not
take you. . . .  But oh, of course they will, of course they
will! . . .  I'm goin' to make you a chicken pie for dinner to-day;
I know how you like it. . . .  If only they MIGHT reject you! . . .
But there, I said I wouldn't and I won't."

Rachel Ellis's opinion on the subject and her way of expressing
that opinion were distinctly her own.  Albert arose early in the
morning following the announcement of his decision to enter the
service.  He had not slept well; his mind was too busy with
problems and speculations to resign itself to sleep.  He had tossed
about until dawn and had then risen and sat down at the table in
his bedroom to write Madeline of the step he had determined to
take.  He had not written her while he was considering that step.
He felt, somehow, that he alone with no pressure from without
should make the decision.  Now that it was made, and irrevocably
made, she must of course be told.  Telling her, however, was not an
easy task.  He was sure she would agree that he had done the right
thing, the only thing, but--

"It is going to be very hard for you, dear," he wrote, heedless of
the fact that Mrs. Fosdick's censorious eye would see and condemn
the "dear."  "It is going to be hard for both of us.  But I am sure
you will feel as I do that I COULDN'T do anything else.  I am young
and strong and fit and I am an American.  I MUST go.  You see it,
don't you, Madeline.  I can hardly wait until your letter comes
telling me that you feel I did just the thing you would wish me to
do."

He hesitated and then, even more regardless of the censor, added
the quotation which countless young lovers were finding so apt just
then:

"I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more."

So when, fresh from the intimacy of this communication with his
adored and with the letter in his hand, he entered the sitting-room
at that early hour he was not overjoyed to find the housekeeper
there ahead of him.  And her first sentence showed that she had
been awaiting his coming.

"Good mornin', Albert," she said.  "I heard you stirrin' 'round up
in your room and I came down here so's you and I could talk
together for a minute without anybody's disturbin' us. . . .
Humph!  I guess likely you didn't sleep any too well last night,
did you?"

Albert shook his head.  "Not too well, Rachel," he replied.

"I shouldn't wonder.  Well, I doubt if there was too much sleep
anywheres in this house last night.  So you're really goin' to war,
are you, Albert?"

"Yes.  If the war will let me I certainly am."

"Dear, dear! . . .  Well, I--I think it's what Robert Penfold would
have done if he was in your place.  I've been goin' over it and
goin' over it half the night, myself, and I've come to that
conclusion.  It's goin' to be awful hard on your grandma and
grandfather and me and Labe, all us folks here at home, but I guess
it's the thing you'd ought to do, the Penfold kind of thing."

Albert smiled.  "I'm glad you think so, Rachel," he said.

"Well, I do, and if I'm goin' to tell the truth I might as well say
I tried terrible hard to find some good reasons for thinkin'
'twan't.  I did SO!  But the only good reasons I could scare up for
makin' you stay to home was because home was safe and comf'table
and where you was goin' wan't.  And that kind of reasonin' might do
fust-rate for a passel of clams out on the flats, but it wouldn't
be much credit to decent, self-respectin' humans.  When General
Rolleson came to that island and found his daughter and Robert
Penfold livin' there in that house made out of pearls he'd built
for her--  Wan't that him all over!  Another man, the common run
of man, would have been satisfied to build her a house out of wood
and lucky to get that, but no, nothin' would do him but pearls,
and if they'd have been di'monds he'd have been better satisfied.
Well. . . .  Where was I? . . .  Oh yes!  When General Rolleson came
there and says to his daughter, 'Helen, you come home along of me,'
and she says, 'No, I shan't leave him,' meanin' Robert Penfold, you
understand--  When she says that did Robert Penfold say, 'That's the
talk!  Put that in your pipe, old man, and smoke it?'  No, SIR, he
didn't!  He says, 'Helen, you go straight home along with your pa
and work like fury till you find out who forged that note and laid
it onto me.  You find that out,' he says, 'and then you can come
fetch me and not afore.'  That's the kind of man HE was!  And they
sailed off and left him behind."

Albert shook his head.  He had heard only about half of the
housekeeper's story.  "Pretty rough on him, I should say," he
commented, absently.

"I GUESS 'twas rough on him, poor thing!  But 'twas his duty and so
he done it.  It was rough on Helen, havin' to go and leave him, but
'twas rougher still on him.  It's always roughest, seems to me,"
she added, "on the ones that's left behind.  Those that go have
somethin' to take up their minds and keep 'em from thinkin' too
much.  The ones that stay to home don't have much to do EXCEPT
think.  I hope you don't get the notion that I feel your part of it
is easy, Al.  Only a poor, crazy idiot could read the papers these
days and feel that any part of this war was EASY!  It's awful, but--
but it WILL keep you too busy to think, maybe."

"I shouldn't wonder, Rachel.  I understand what you mean."

"We're all goin' to miss you, Albert.  This house is goin' to be
a pretty lonesome place, I cal'late.  Your grandma'll miss you
dreadful and so will I, but--but I have a notion that your
grandpa's goin' to miss you more'n anybody else."

He shook his head.  "Oh, not as much as all that, Rachel," he said.
"He and I have been getting on much better than we used to and we
have come to understand each other better, but he is still
disappointed in me.  I'm afraid I don't count for much as a
business man, you see; and, besides, Grandfather can never quite
forget that I am the son of what he calls a Portygee play actor."

Mrs. Ellis looked at him earnestly.  "He's forgettin' it better
every day, Albert," she said.  "I do declare I never believed
Capt'n Lote Snow could forget it the way he's doin'.  And you--
well, you've forgot a whole lot, too.  Memory's a good thing, the
land knows," she added, sagely, "but a nice healthy forgetery is
worth consider'ble--some times and in some cases."

Issachar Price's comments on his fellow employee's decision to
become a soldier were pointed.  Issy was disgusted.

"For thunder sakes, Al," he demanded, "'tain't true that you've
enlisted to go to war and fight them Germans, is it?"

Albert smiled.  "I guess it is, Issy," he replied.

"Well, by crimus!"

"Somebody had to go, you see, Is."

"Well, by crimustee!"

"What's the matter, Issy?  Don't you approve?"

"Approve!  No, by crimus, I don't approve!  I think it's a divil of
a note, that's what I think."

"Why?"

"WHY?  Who's goin' to do the work in this office while you're gone?
Labe and me, that's who; and I'll do the heft of it.  Slavin'
myself half to death as 'tis and now--  Oh, by crimustee!  This war
is a darned nuisance.  It hadn't ought to be allowed.  There'd
ought to be a law against it."

But of all the interviews which followed Albert's decision the most
surprising and that which he was the least likely to forget was his
interview with Laban Keeler.  It took place on the evening of the
third day following the announcement of his intention to enlist.
All that day, and indeed for several days, Albert had noted in the
little bookkeeper certain symptoms, familiar symptoms they were and
from experience the young man knew what they portended.  Laban was
very nervous, his fingers twitched as he wrote, occasionally he
rose from his chair and walked up and down the room, he ran his
hand through his scanty hair, he was inclined to be irritable--that
is, irritable for him.  Albert had noted the symptoms and was
sorry.  Captain Zelotes noted them and frowned and pulled his
beard.

"Al," he said to his grandson, "if you can put off goin' up to
enlist for a little spell, a few days, I wish you would.  Labe's
gettin' ready to go on one of his vacations."

Albert nodded.  "I'm afraid he is," he said.

"Oh, it's as sartin as two and two makes four.  I've lived with him
too many years not to know the signs.  And I did hope," he added,
regretfully, "that maybe he was tryin' to break off.  It's been a
good long spell, an extry long spell, since he had his last spree.
Ah hum! it's a pity a good man should have that weak spot in him,
ain't it?  But if you could hang around a few more days, while the
vacation's goin' on, I'd appreciate it, Al.  I kind of hate to be
left here alone with nobody but Issachar to lean on.  Issy's a good
deal like a post in some ways, especially in the makeup of his
head, but he's too ricketty to lean on for any length of time."

That evening Albert went to the post-office for the mail.  On his
way back as he passed the dark corner by the now closed and
shuttered moving-picture theater he was hailed in a whisper.

"Al," said a voice, "Al."

Albert turned and peered into the deep shadow of the theater
doorway.  In the summer this doorway was a blaze of light and
gaiety; now it was cold and bleak and black enough.  From the
shadow a small figure emerged on tiptoe.

"Al," whispered Mr. Keeler.  "That's you, ain't it?  Yes, yes--yes,
yes, yes--I thought 'twas, I thought so."

Albert was surprised.  For one thing it was most unusual to see the
little bookkeeper abroad after nine-thirty.  His usual evening
procedure, when not on a vacation, was to call upon Rachel Ellis at
the Snow place for an hour or so and then to return to his room
over Simond's shoe store, which room he had occupied ever since the
building was erected.

There he read, so people said, until eleven sharp, when his lamp was
extinguished.  During or at the beginning of the vacation periods he
usually departed for some unknown destination, destinations which,
apparently, varied.  He had been seen, hopelessly intoxicated, in
Bayport, in Ostable, in Boston, once in Providence.  When he
returned he never seemed to remember exactly where he had been.
And, as most people were fond of and pitied him, few questions were
asked.

"Why, Labe!" exclaimed Albert.  "Is that you?  What's the matter?"

"Busy, are you, Al?" queried Laban.  "In a hurry, eh?  Are you?  In
a hurry, Al, eh?"

"Why no, not especially."

"Could you--could you spare me two or three minutes?  Two or three
minutes--yes, yes?  Come up to my room, could you--could you, Al?"

"Yes indeed.  But what is it, Labe?"

"I want to talk.  Want to talk, I do.  Yes, yes, yes.  Saw you go
by and I've been waitin' for you.  Waitin'--yes, I have--yes."

He seized his assistant by the arm and led him across the road
toward the shoe store.  Albert felt the hand on his arm tremble
violently.

"Are you cold, Labe?" he asked.  "What makes you shiver so?"

"Eh?  Cold?  No, I ain't cold--no, no, no.  Come, Al, come."

Albert sniffed suspiciously, but no odor of alcohol rewarded the
sniff.  Neither was there any perfume of peppermint, Mr. Keeler's
transparent camouflage at a vacation's beginning.  And Laban was
not humming the refrain glorifying his "darling hanky-panky."
Apparently he had not yet embarked upon the spree which Captain
Lote had pronounced imminent.  But why did he behave so queerly?

"I ain't the way you think, Al," declared the little man, divining
his thought.  "I'm just kind of shaky and nervous, that's all.
That's all, that's all, that's all.  Yes, yes.  Come, come!  COME!"

The last "come" burst from him in an agony of impatience.  Albert
hastened up the narrow stairs, Laban leading the way.  The latter
fumbled with a key, his companion heard it rattling against the
keyhole plate.  Then the door opened.  There was a lamp, its wick
turned low, burning upon the table in the room.  Mr. Keeler turned
it up, making a trembly job of the turning.  Albert looked about
him; he had never been in that room before.

It was a small room and there was not much furniture in it.  And it
was a neat room, for the room of an old bachelor who was his own
chambermaid.  Most things seemed to have places where they belonged
and most of them appeared to be in those places.  What impressed
Albert even more was the number of books.  There were books
everywhere, in the cheap bookcase, on the pine shelf between the
windows, piled in the corners, heaped on the table beside the lamp.
They were worn and shabby volumes for the most part, some with but
half a cover remaining, some with none.  He picked up one of the
latter.  It was Locke on The Human Understanding; and next it, to
his astonishment, was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

Mr. Keeler looked over his shoulder and, for an instant, the
whimsical smile which was characteristic of him curved his lip.

"Philosophy, Al," he observed.  "If Locke don't suit you try the
'mad hatter' feller.  I get consider'ble comfort out of the hatter,
myself.  Do you remember when the mouse was tellin' the story about
the three sisters that lived in the well?  He said they lived on
everything that began with M.  Alice says 'Why with an M?'  And the
hatter, or the March hare, I forget which 'twas, says prompt, 'Why
not?' . . .  Yes, yes, why not? that's what he said. . . .  There's
some philosophy in that, Al.  Why does a hen go across the road?
Why not?  Why is Labe Keeler a disgrace to all his friends and the
town he lives in?  Why not? . . .  Eh? . . .  Yes, yes.  That's it--
why not?"

He smiled again, but there was bitterness and not humor in the
smile.  Albert put a hand on his shoulder.

"Why, Labe," he asked, in concern, "what is it?"

Laban turned away.

"Don't mind, me, Al," he said, hurriedly.  "I mean don't mind if I
act funny.  I'm--I'm kind of--of--  Oh, good Lord A'mighty, DON'T
look at me like that! . . .  I beg your pardon, Al.  I didn't mean
to bark like a dog at you.  No, I didn't--no, no.  Forgive me, will
you?  Will you, Al, eh?"

"Of course I will.  But what is the matter, Labe?  Sit down and
tell me about it."

Instead of sitting the little bookkeeper began to walk up and down.

"Don't mind me, Al," he said, hurriedly.  "Don't mind me.  Let me
go my own gait.  My own gait--yes, yes.  You see, Al, I--I'm tryin'
to enlist, same as you're goin' to do, and--and MY fight's begun
already.  Yes indeed--yes, yes--it has so."

Albert was more astonished than ever.  There was no smell of
alcohol, and Keeler had declared that he had not been drinking;
but--

"You're going to ENLIST?" repeated Albert.  "YOU?  Why, Labe, what--"

Laban laughed nervously.  "Not to kill the Kaiser," he replied.
"No, no, not that--not exactly.  I'd like to, only I wouldn't be
much help that way.  But--but Al, I--I want to do somethin'.  I--
I'd like to try to show--I'd like to be an American, a decent
American, and the best way to begin, seems to me, is to try and be
a man, a decent man.  Eh?  You understand, I--I--  Oh, Lord, what a
mess I am makin' of this!  I--I--  Al," turning and desperately
waving his hands, "I'm goin' to try to swear off.  Will you help
me?"

Albert's answer was enthusiastic.  "You bet I will!" he exclaimed.
Keeler smiled pathetically.

"It's goin' to be some job, I cal'late," he said.  "Some job, yes,
yes.  But I'm goin' to try it, Al.  I read in the papers 'tother
day that America needed every man.  Then you enlisted, Al,--or
you're goin' to enlist.  It set me to thinkin' I'd try to enlist,
too.  For the duration of the war, eh?  Yes, yes."

"Good for you, Labe!  Bully!"

Laban held up a protesting hand.  "Don't hurrah yet, Al," he said.
"This ain't the first time I've tried it.  I've swore off a dozen
times in the last fifteen years.  I've promised Rachel and broke
the promise over and over again.  Broke my promise to her, the best
woman in the world.  Shows what I am, what sort I am, don't it, Al?
Yes, it does,--yes, yes.  And she's stuck by me, too, Lord knows
why.  Last time I broke it I said I'd never promise her again.  Bad
enough to be a common drunk without bein' a liar--yes, yes.  But
this is a little different.  Seems to me--seems so."

He began his pacing up and down again.

"Seems different, somehow," he went on.  "Seems like a new chance.
I want to do somethin' for Uncle Sam.  I--I'd like to try and
enlist for the duration of the war--swear off for that long,
anyhow.  Then, maybe, I'd be able to keep on for life, you know--
duration of Labe Keeler, eh?  Yes, yes, yes.  But I could begin for
just the war, couldn't I?  Maybe, 'twould fool me into thinkin'
that was easier."

"Of course, Labe.  It's a good idea."

"Maybe; and maybe it's a fool one.  But I'm goin' to try it.  I AM
tryin' it, have been all day."

He paused, drew a shaking hand across his forehead and then asked,
"Al, will you help me?  I asked you up here hopin' you would.  Will
you, Al, eh?  Will you?"

Albert could not understand how he could possibly help another man
keep the pledge, but his promise was eagerly given.

"Certainly, Labe," he said.

"Thanks . . . thank you, Al. . . .  And now will you do something
for me--a favor?"

"Gladly.  What is it?"

Laban did not answer at once.  He appeared to be on the point of
doing so, but to be struggling either to find words or to overcome
a tremendous reluctance.  When he did speak the words came in a
burst.

"Go down stairs," he cried.  "Down those stairs you came up.  At
the foot of 'em, in a kind of cupboard place, under 'em, there's--
there probably is a jug, a full jug.  It was due to come by express
to-day and I cal'late it did, cal'late Jim Young fetched it down
this afternoon.  I--I could have looked for myself and seen if
'twas there," he added, after a momentary hesitation, "but--but I
didn't dare to.  I was afraid I'd--I'd--"

"All right, Labe.  I understand.  What do you want me to do with it
if it is there?"

"I want you--I want you to--to--"  The little bookkeeper seemed to
be fighting another internal battle between inclination and
resolution.  The latter won, for he finished with, "I want you to
take it out back of the buildin' and--and empty it.  That's what I
want you to do, empty it, Al, every drop. . . .  And, for the
Almighty's sake, go quick," he ordered, desperately, "or I'll tell
you not to before you start.  Go!"

Albert went.  He fumbled in the cupboard under the stairs, found
the jug--a large one and heavy--and hastened out into the night
with it in his hands.  Behind the shoe store, amid a heap of old
packing boxes and other rubbish, he emptied it.  The process was
rather lengthy and decidedly fragrant.  As a finish he smashed the
jug with a stone.  Then he climbed the stairs again.

Laban was waiting for him, drops of perspiration upon his forehead.

"Was--was it there?" he demanded.

Albert nodded.

"Yes, yes.  'Twas there, eh?  And did you--did you--?"

"Yes, I did, jug and all."

"Thank you, Al . . . thank you . . .  I--I've been trying to muster
up spunk enough to do it myself, but--but I swan I couldn't.  I
didn't dast to go nigh it . . .  I'm a fine specimen, ain't I,
now?" he added, with a twisted smile.  "Some coward, eh?  Yes, yes.
Some coward."

Albert, realizing a little of the fight the man was making, was
affected by it.  "You're a brick, Labe," he declared, heartily.
"And as for being a coward--  Well, if I am half as brave when my
turn comes I shall be satisfied."

Laban shook his head.  "I don't know how scared I'd be of a German
bombshell," he said, "but I'm everlastin' sure I wouldn't run from
it for fear of runnin' towards it, and that's how I felt about that
jug. . . .  Yes, yes, yes.  I did so . . .  I'm much obliged to
you, Al.  I shan't forget it--no, no.  I cal'late you can trot
along home now, if you want to.  I'm pretty safe--for to-night,
anyhow.  Guess likely the new recruit won't desert afore morning."

But Albert, watching him intently, refused to go.

"I'm going to stay for a while, Labe," he said.  "I'm not a bit
sleepy, really.  Let's have a smoke and talk together.  That is, of
course, unless you want to go to bed."

Mr. Keeler smiled his twisted smile.  "I ain't crazy to," he said.
"The way I feel now I'd get to sleep about week after next.  But I
hadn't ought to keep you up, Al."

"Rubbish! I'm not sleepy, I tell you.  Sit down.  Have a cigar.
Now what shall we talk about?  How would books do?  What have you
been reading lately, Labe?"

They smoked and talked books until nearly two.  Then Laban insisted
upon his guest departing.  "I'm all right, Al" he declared,
earnestly.  "I am honest--yes, yes, I am.  I'll go to sleep like a
lamb, yes indeed."

"You'll be at the office in the morning, won't you, Labe?"

The little bookkeeper nodded.  "I'll be there," he said.  "Got to
answer roll call the first mornin' after enlistment.  Yes, yes.
I'll be there, Al."

He was there, but he did not look as if his indulgence in the lamb-
like sleep had been excessive.  He was so pale and haggard that his
assistant was alarmed.

"You're not sick, are you, Labe?" he asked, anxiously.  Laban shook
his head.

"No," he said.  "No, I ain't sick.  Been doin' picket duty up and
down the room since half past three, that's all.  Um-hm, that's
all.  Say, Al, if General what's-his-name--er--von Hindenburg--is
any harder scrapper than old Field Marshal Barleycorn he's a pretty
tough one.  Say, Al, you didn't say anything about--about my--er--
enlistin' to Cap'n Lote, did you?  I meant to ask you not to."

"I didn't, Labe.  I thought you might want it kept a secret."

"Um-hm.  Better keep it in the ranks until we know how this first--
er--skirmish is comin' out.  Yes, yes.  Better keep it that way.
Um-hm."

All day he stuck manfully at his task and that evening, immediately
after supper, Albert went to the room over the shoe store, found
him there and insisted upon his coming over to call upon Rachel.
He had not intended doing so.

"You see, Al," he explained, "I'm--I'm kind of--er--shaky and
Rachel will be worried, I'm afraid.  She knows me pretty well and
she'll cal'late I'm just gettin' ready to--to bust loose again."

Albert interrupted.  "No, she won't, Laban," he said.  "We'll show
her that you're not."

"You won't say anything to her about my--er--enlistin', Al?  Don't.
No, no.  I've promised her too many times--and broke the promises.
If anything should come of this fight of mine I'd rather she'd find
it out for herself.  Better to surprise her than to disapp'int her.
Yes, yes, lots better."

Albert promised not to tell Rachel and so Laban made his call.
When it was over the young man walked home with him and the pair
sat and talked until after midnight, just as on the previous night.
The following evening it was much the same, except that, as Mr.
Keeler pronounced himself more than usually "shaky" and expressed a
desire to "keep movin'," they walked half way to Orham and back
before parting.  By the end of the week Laban declared the fight
won--for the time.

"You've pulled me through the fust tussle, Al," he said.  "I shan't
desert now, not till the next break-out, anyhow.  I cal'late it'll
get me harder than ever then.  Harder than ever--yes, yes.  And you
won't be here to help me, neither."

"Never mind; I shall be thinking of you, Labe.  And I know you're
going to win.  I feel it in my bones."

"Um-hm. . . .  Yes, yes, yes. . .  In your bones, eh?  Well, MY
bones don't seem to feel much, except rheumatics once in a while.
I hope yours are better prophets, but I wouldn't want to bet too
high on it.  No, I wouldn't--no, no.  However, we'll do our best,
and they say angels can't do any more--though they'd probably do it
in a different way . . . some different. . . .  Um-hm. . . .  Yes,
indeed."

Two letters came to Albert before that week ended.  The first was
from Madeline.  He had written her of his intention to enlist and
this was her reply.  The letter had evidently been smuggled past
the censor, for it contained much which Mrs. Fosdick would have
blue-penciled.  Its contents were a blend of praise and blame, of
exaltation and depression.  He was a hero, and so brave, and she
was so proud of him.  It was wonderful his daring to go, and just
what she would have expected of her hero.  If only she might see
him in his uniform.  So many of the fellows she knew had enlisted.
They were wonderfully brave, too, although of course nothing like
as wonderful as her own etcetera, etcetera.  She had seen some of
THEM in their uniforms and they were PERFECTLY SPLENDID.  But they
were officers, or they were going to be.  Why wasn't he going to be
an officer?  It was so much nicer to be an officer.  And if he were
one he might not have to go away to fight nearly so soon.  Officers
stayed here longer and studied, you know.  Mother had said
something about "a common private," and she did not like it.  But
never mind, she would be just as proud no matter what he was.  And
she should dream of him and think of him always and always.  And
perhaps he might be so brave and wonderful that he would be given
one of those war crosses, the Croix de Guerre or something.  She
was sure he would.  But oh, no matter what happened, he must not go
where it was TOO dangerous.  Suppose he should be wounded.  Oh,
suppose, SUPPOSE he should be killed.  What would she do then?
What would become of her?  MUST he go, after all?  Couldn't he stay
at home and study or something, for a while, you know?  She should
be so lonely after he was gone.  And so frightened and so anxious.
And he wouldn't forget her, would he, no matter where he went?
Because she never, never, never would forget him for a moment.  And
he must write every day.  And--

The letter was fourteen pages long.

The other letter was a surprise.  It was from Helen.  The Reverend
Mr. Kendall had been told of Albert's intended enlistment and had
written his daughter.

So you are going into the war, Albert (she wrote).  I am not
surprised because I expected you would do just that.  It is what
all of us would like to do, I'm sure, and you were always anxious
to go, even before the United States came in.  So I am writing this
merely to congratulate you and to wish you the very best of good
luck.  Father says you are not going to try for a commission but
intend enlisting as a private.  I suppose that is because you think
you may get to the actual fighting sooner.  I think I understand
and appreciate that feeling too, but are you sure it is the best
plan?  You want to be of the greatest service to the country and
with your education and brains--  This ISN'T flattery, because it
is true--don't you think you might help more if you were in command
of men?  Of course I don't know, being only a girl, but I have been
wondering.  No doubt you know best and probably it is settled
before this; at any rate, please don't think that I intend butting
in.  "Butting in" is not at all a proper expression for a
schoolmarm to use but it is a relief to be human occasionally.
Whatever you do I am sure will be the right thing and I know all
your friends are going to be very, very proud of you.  I shall hear
of you through the people at home, I know, and I shall be anxious
to hear.  I don't know what I shall do to help the cause, but I
hope to do something.  A musket is prohibitive to females but the
knitting needle is ours and I CAN handle that, if I do say it.  And
I MAY go in for Red Cross work altogether.  But I don't count much,
and you men do, and this is your day.  Please, for the sake of your
grandparents and all your friends, don't take unnecessary chances.
I can see your face as you read that and think that I am a silly
idiot.  I'm not and I mean what I say.  You see I know YOU and I
know you will not be content to do the ordinary thing.  We want you
to distinguish yourself, but also we want you to come back whole
and sound, if it is possible.  We shall think of you a great deal.
And please, in the midst of the excitement of the BIG work you are
doing, don't forget us home folk, including your friend,

HELEN KENDALL.

Albert's feelings when he read this letter were divided.  He
enjoyed hearing from Helen.  The letter was just like herself,
sensible and good-humored and friendly.  There were no hysterics in
it and no heroics but he knew that no one except his grandparents
and Rachel and Laban--and, of course, his own Madeline--would think
of him oftener or be more anxious for his safety and welfare than
Helen.  He was glad she was his friend, very glad.  But he almost
wished she had not written.  He felt a bit guilty at having
received the letter.  He was pretty sure that Madeline would not
like the idea.  He was tempted to say nothing concerning it in his
next letter to his affianced, but that seemed underhanded and
cowardly, so he told her.  And in her next letter to him Madeline
made no reference at all to Helen or her epistle, so he knew she
was displeased.  And he was miserable in consequence.

But his misery did not last long.  The happenings which followed
crowded it from his mind, and from Madeline's also, for that
matter.  One morning, having told no one except his grandfather
of his intention, he took the morning train to Boston.  When he
returned the next day he was Uncle Sam's man, sworn in and
accepted.  He had passed the physical examination with flying
colors and the recruiting officers expressed themselves as being
glad to get him.  He was home for but one day leave, then he must
go to stay.  He had debated the question of going in for a
commission, but those were the early days of our participation in
the war and a Plattsburg training or at least some sort of military
education was almost an essential.  He did not want to wait; as he
had told his grandfather, he wanted to fight.  So he enlisted as a
private.

And when the brief leave was over he took the train for Boston,
no longer Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, South Harniss's Beau
Brummel, poet and Portygee, but Private Speranza, U.S.A.  The
farewells were brief and no one cried--much.  His grandmother
hugged and kissed him, Rachel looked very much as if she wanted to.
Laban and Issachar shook hands with him.

"Good luck to you, boy," said Mr. Keeler.  "All the luck there is."

"Same to you, old man," replied Albert.  Then, in a lower tone, he
added, "We'll fight it out together, eh?"

"We'll try.  Yes, yes.  We'll try.  So long, Al."

Issachar struck the reassuring note.  "Don't fret about things in
the office," he said.  "I'll look out for 'em long's I keep my
health."

"Be sure and keep that, Issy."

"You bet you!  Only thing that's liable to break it down is over-
work."

Captain Zelotes said very little.  "Write us when you can, Al," he
said.  "And come home whenever you get leave."

"You may be sure of that, Grandfather.  And after I get to camp
perhaps you can come and see me."

"Maybe so.  Will if I can. . . .  Well, Al, I . . . I. . . .  Good
luck to you, son."

"Thank you, Grandfather."

They shook hands.  Each looked as if there was more he would have
liked to say but found the saying hard.  Then the engine bell rang
and the hands fell apart.  The little group on the station platform
watched the train disappear.  Mrs. Snow and Rachel wiped their eyes
with their handkerchiefs.  Captain Zelotes gently patted his wife's
shoulder.

"The team's waitin', Mother," he said.  "Labe'll drive you and
Rachel home."

"But--but ain't you comin', too, Zelotes?" faltered Olive.  Her
husband shook his head.

"Not now, Mother," he answered.  "Got to go back to the office."

He stood for an instant looking at the faint smear of smoke above
the curve in the track.  Then, without another word, he strode off
in the direction of Z. Snow and Co.'s buildings.  Issachar Price
sniffed.

"Crimus," he whispered to Laban, as the latter passed him on the
way to where Jessamine, the Snow horse, was tied, "the old man
takes it cool, don't he!  I kind of imagined he'd be sort of shook
up by Al's goin' off to war, but he don't seem to feel it a mite."

Keeler looked at him in wonder.  Then he drew a long breath.

"Is," he said, slowly, "it is a mighty good thing for the Seven
Wise Men of Greece that they ain't alive now."

It was Issachar's turn to stare.  "Eh?" he queried.  "The Seven
Wise Men of Which?  Good thing for 'em they ain't alive?  What kind
of talk's that?  Why is it a good thing?"

Laban spoke over his shoulder.  "Because," he drawled, "if they was
alive now they'd be so jealous of you they'd commit suicide.  Yes,
they would. . . .  Yes, yes."

With which enigmatical remark he left Mr. Price and turned his
attention to the tethered Jessamine.

And then began a new period, a new life at the Snow place and in
the office of Z. Snow and Co.  Or, rather, life in the old house
and at the lumber and hardware office slumped back into the groove
in which it had run before the opera singer's son was summoned
from the New York school to the home and into the lives of his
grandparents.  Three people instead of four sat down at the breakfast
table and at dinner and at supper.  Captain Zelotes walked alone to
and from the office.  Olive Snow no longer baked and iced large
chocolate layer cakes because a certain inmate of her household was
so fond of them.  Rachel Ellis discussed Foul Play and Robert
Penfold with no one.  The house was emptier, more old-fashioned and
behind the times, more lonely--surprisingly empty and behind the
times and lonely.

The daily mails became matters of intense interest and expectation.
Albert wrote regularly and of course well and entertainingly.  He
described the life at the camp where he and the other recruits were
training, a camp vastly different from the enormous military towns
built later on for housing and training the drafted men.  He liked
the life pretty well, he wrote, although it was hard and a fellow
had precious little opportunity to be lazy.  Mistakes, too, were
unprofitable for the maker.  Captain Lote's eye twinkled when he
read that.

Later on he wrote that he had been made a corporal and his
grandmother, to whom a major general and a corporal were of equal
rank, rejoiced much both at home and in church after meeting was
over and friends came to hear the news.  Mrs. Ellis declared
herself not surprised.  It was the Robert Penfold in him coming
out, so she said.

A month or two later one of Albert's letters contained an
interesting item of news.  In the little spare time which military
life afforded him he continued to write verse and stories.  Now a
New York publisher, not one of the most prominent but a reputable
and enterprising one, had written him suggesting the collecting of
his poems and their publication in book form.  The poet himself
was, naturally, elated.

"Isn't it splendid!" he wrote.  "The best part of it, of course, is
that he asked to publish, I did not ask him.  Please send me my
scrapbook and all loose manuscript.  When the book will come out
I'm sure I don't know.  In fact it may never come out, we have not
gotten as far as terms and contracts yet, but I feel we shall.
Send the scrapbook and manuscript right away, PLEASE."

They were sent.  In his next letter Albert was still enthusiastic.

"I have been looking over my stuff," he wrote, "and some of it is
pretty good, if you don't mind my saying so.  Tell Grandfather that
when this book of mine is out and selling I may be able to show him
that poetry making isn't a pauper's job, after all.  Of course I
don't know how much it will sell--perhaps not more than five or ten
thousand at first--but even at ten thousand at, say, twenty-five
cents royalty each, would be twenty-five hundred dollars, and
that's something.  Why, Ben Hur, the novel, you know, has sold a
million, I believe."

Mrs. Snow and Rachel were duly impressed by this prophecy of
affluence, but Captain Zelotes still played the skeptic.

"A million at twenty-five cents a piece!" exclaimed Olive.  "Why,
Zelotes, that's--that's an awful sight of money."

Mental arithmetic failing her, she set to work with a pencil and
paper and after a strenuous struggle triumphantly announced that it
came to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

"My soul and body!" she cried.  "Two hundred and fifty thousand
DOLLARS!  My SOUL, Zelotes!  Suppose--only suppose Albert's book
brought him in as much as that!"

Her husband shook his head.  "I can't, Olive," he said, without
looking up from his newspaper.  "My supposer wouldn't stand the
strain."

"But it might, Zelotes, it MIGHT.  Suppose it did, what would you
say then?"

The captain regarded her over the top of the Transcript.  "I
shouldn't say a word, Olive," he answered, solemnly.  "I should be
down sick by the time it got up as far as a thousand, and anything
past two thousand you could use to buy my tombstone with. . . .
There, there, Mother," he added, noticing the hurt look on her
face, "don't feel bad.  I'm only jokin'.  One of these days Al's
goin' to make a nice, comf'table livin' sellin' lumber and hardware
right here in South Harniss.  I can SEE that money in the offin'.
All this million or two that's comin' from poetry and such is out
of sight in the fog.  It may be there but--humph! well, I KNOW
where Z. Snow and Co. is located."

Olive was not entirely placated.  "I must say I think you're awful
discouragin' to the poor boy, Zelotes," she said.  Her husband put
down his paper.

"No, no, I ain't, Mother," he replied, earnestly.  "At least I
don't mean to be.  Way I look at it, this poetry-makin' and writin'
yarns and that sort of stuff is just part of the youngster's--er--
growin' up, as you might say.  Give him time he'll grow out of it,
same as I cal'late he will out of this girl business, this--er--
Madel--humph--er--ahem. . . .  Looks like a good day to-morrow,
don't it."

He pulled up suddenly, and with considerable confusion.  He had
kept the news of his grandson's infatuation and engagement even
from his wife.  No one in South Harniss knew of it, no one except
the captain.  Helen Kendall knew, but she was in Boston.

Rachel Ellis picked up the half knitted Red Cross mitten in her
lap.  "Well, I don't know whether he's right or you are, Cap'n
Lote," she said, with a sigh, "but this I do know--I wish this
awful war was over and he was back home again."

That remark ended the conversation.  Olive resumed her own knitting,
seeing it but indistinctly.  Her husband did not continue his
newspaper reading.  Instead he rose and, saying something about
cal'latin' he would go for a little walk before turning in, went out
into the yard.

But the war did not end, it went on; so too did the enlisting and
training.  In the early summer Albert came home for a two days'
leave.  He was broader and straighter and browner.  His uniform
became him and, more than ever, the eyes of South Harniss's
youthful femininity, native or imported, followed him as he walked
the village streets.  But the glances were not returned, not in
kind, that is.  The new Fosdick home, although completed, was not
occupied.  Mrs. Fosdick had, that summer, decided that her duties
as mover in goodness knows how many war work activities prevented
her taking her "usual summer rest."  Instead she and Madeline
occupied a rented villa at Greenwich, Connecticut, coming into town
for meetings of all sorts.  Captain Zelotes had his own suspicions
as to whether war work alone was the cause of the Fosdicks'
shunning of what was to have been their summer home, but he kept
those suspicions to himself.  Albert may have suspected also, but
he, too, said nothing.  The censored correspondence between
Greenwich and the training camp traveled regularly, and South
Harniss damsels looked and longed in vain.  He saw them, he bowed
to them, he even addressed them pleasantly and charmingly, but to
him they were merely incidents in his walks to and from the post-
office.  In his mind's eye he saw but one, and she, alas, was not
present in the flesh.

Then he returned to the camp where, later on, Captain Zelotes and
Olive visited him.  As they came away the captain and his grandson
exchanged a few significant words.

"It is likely to be almost any time, Grandfather," said Albert,
quietly.  "They are beginning to send them now, as you know by the
papers, and we have had the tip that our turn will be soon.  So--"

Captain Lote grasped the significance of the uncompleted sentence.

"I see, Al," he answered, "I see.  Well, boy, I--I--  Good luck."

"Good luck, Grandfather."

That was all, that and one more handclasp.  Our Anglo-Saxon
inheritance descends upon us in times like these.  The captain was
silent for most of the ride to the railroad station.

Then followed a long, significant interval during which there were
no letters from the young soldier.  After this a short reassuring
cablegram from "Somewhere in France."  "Safe.  Well," it read and
Olive Snow carried it about with her, in the bosom of her gown, all
that afternoon and put it upon retiring on her bureau top so that
she might see it the first thing in the morning.

Another long interval, then letters, the reassuring but so
tantalizingly unsatisfactory letters we American families were,
just at that time, beginning to receive.  Reading the newspapers
now had a personal interest, a terrifying, dreadful interest.  Then
the packing and sending of holiday boxes, over the contents of
which Olive and Rachel spent much careful planning and anxious
preparation.  Then another interval of more letters, letters which
hinted vaguely at big things just ahead.

Then no letter for more than a month.

And then, one noon, as Captain Zelotes returned to his desk after
the walk from home and dinner, Laban Keeler came in and stood
beside that desk.

The captain, looking up, saw the little bookkeeper's face.  "What
is it, Labe?" he asked, sharply.

Laban held a yellow envelope in his hand.

"It came while you were gone to dinner, Cap'n," he said.  "Ben
Kelley fetched it from the telegraph office himself.  He--he said
he didn't hardly want to take it to the house.  He cal'lated you'd
better have it here, to read to yourself, fust.  That's what he
said--yes, yes--that's what 'twas, Cap'n."

Slowly Captain Zelotes extended his hand for the envelope.  He did
not take his eyes from the bookkeeper's face.

"Ben--Ben, he told me what was in it, Cap'n Lote," faltered Laban.
"I--I don't know what to say to you, I don't--no, no."

Without a word the captain took the envelope from Keeler's fingers,
and tore it open.  He read the words upon the form within.

Laban leaned forward.

"For the Lord sakes, Lote Snow," he cried, in a burst of agony,
"why couldn't it have been some darn good-for-nothin' like me
instead--instead of him?  Oh, my God A'mighty, what a world this
is!  WHAT a world!"

Still Captain Zelotes said nothing.  His eyes were fixed upon the
yellow sheet of paper on the desk before him.  After a long minute
he spoke.

"Well," he said, very slowly, "well, Labe, there goes--there goes
Z. Snow and Company."

CHAPTER XIV

The telegram from the War Department was brief, as all such
telegrams were perforce obliged to be.  The Secretary of War,
through his representative, regretted to inform Captain Zelotes
Snow that Sergeant Albert Speranza had been killed in action upon a
certain day.  It was enough, however--for the time quite enough.
It was not until later that the little group of South Harniss
recovered sufficiently from the stunning effect of those few words
to think of seeking particulars.  Albert was dead; what did it
matter, then, to know how he died?

Olive bore the shock surprisingly well.  Her husband's fears for
her seemed quite unnecessary.  The Captain, knowing how she had
idolized her daughter's boy, had dreaded the effect which the news
might have upon her.  She was broken down by it, it is true, but
she was quiet and brave--astonishingly, wonderfully quiet and
brave.  And it was she, rather than her husband, who played the
part of the comforter in those black hours.

"He's gone, Zelotes," she said.  "It don't seem possible, I know,
but he's gone.  And he died doin' his duty, same as he would have
wanted to die if he'd known 'twas comin', poor boy.  So--so we must
do ours, I suppose, and bear up under it the very best we can.  It
won't be very long, Zelotes," she added.  "We're both gettin' old."

Captain Lote made no reply.  He was standing by the window of the
sitting-room looking out into the wet backyard across which the
wind-driven rain was beating in stormy gusts.

"We must be brave, Zelotes," whispered Olive, tremulously.  "He'd
want us to be and we MUST be."

He put his arm about her in a sudden heat of admiration.  "I'd be
ashamed not to be after seein' you, Mother," he exclaimed.

He went out to the barn a few moments later and Rachel, entering
the sitting-room, found Olive crumpled down in the big rocker in an
agony of grief.

"Oh, don't, Mrs. Snow, don't," she begged, the tears streaming down
her own cheeks.  "You mustn't give way to it like this; you mustn't."

Olive nodded.

"I know it, I know it," she admitted, chokingly, wiping her eyes
with a soaked handkerchief.  "I shan't, Rachel, only this once, I
promise you.  You see I can't.  I just can't on Zelotes's account.
I've got to bear up for his sake."

The housekeeper was surprised and a little indignant.

"For his sake!" she repeated.  "For mercy sakes why for his sake?
Is it any worse for him than 'tis for you."

"Oh, yes, yes, lots worse.  He won't say much, of course, bein'
Zelotes Snow, but you and I know how he's planned, especially these
last years, and how he's begun to count on--on Albert. . . .  No,
no, I ain't goin' to cry, Rachel, I ain't--I WON'T--but sayin' his
name, you know, kind of--"

"I know, I know.  Land sakes, DON'T I know!  Ain't I doin' it
myself?"

"Course you are, Rachel.  But we mustn't when Zelotes is around.
We women, we--well, times like these women HAVE to keep up.  What
would become of the men if we didn't?"

So she and Rachel "kept up" in public and when the captain was
present, and he for his part made no show of grief nor asked for
pity.  He was silent, talked little and to the callers who came
either at the house or office was uncomplaining.

"He died like a man," he told the Reverend Mr. Kendall when the
latter called.  "He took his chance, knowin' what that meant--"

"He was glad to take it," interrupted the minister.  "Proud and
glad to take it."

"Sartin.  Why not?  Wouldn't you or I have been glad to take ours,
if we could?"

"Well, Captain Snow, I am glad to find you so resigned."

Captain Zelotes looked at him.  "Resigned?" he repeated.  "What do
you mean by resigned?  Not to sit around and whimper is one thing--
any decent man or woman ought to be able to do that in these days;
but if by bein' resigned you mean I'm contented to have it so--
well, you're mistaken, that's all."

Only on one occasion, and then to Laban Keeler, did he open his
shell sufficiently to give a glimpse of what was inside.  Laban
entered the inner office that morning to find his employer sitting
in the desk chair, both hands jammed in his trousers' pockets and
his gaze fixed, apparently, upon the row of pigeon-holes.  When the
bookkeeper spoke to him he seemed to wake from a dream, for he
started and looked up.

"Cap'n Lote," began Keeler, "I'm sorry to bother you, but that last
carload of pine was--"

Captain Zelotes waved his hand, brushing the carload of pine out of
the conversation.

"Labe," he said, slowly, "did it seem to you that I was too hard on
him?"

Laban did not understand.  "Hard on him?" he repeated.  "I don't
know's I just get--"

"Hard on Al.  Did it seem to you as if I was a little too much of
the bucko mate to the boy?  Did I drive him too hard?  Was I
unreasonable?"

The answer was prompt.  "No, Cap'n Lote," replied Keeler.

"You mean that? . . .  Um-hm. . . .  Well, sometimes seems as if I
might have been.  You see, Labe, when he first come I--  Well, I
cal'late I was consider'ble prejudiced against him.  Account of his
father, you understand."

"Sartin.  Sure.  I understand."

"It took me a good while to get reconciled to the Portygee streak
in him.  It chafed me consider'ble to think there was a foreign
streak in our family.  The Snows have been straight Yankee for a
good long while. . . .  Fact is, I--I never got really reconciled
to it.  I kept bein' fearful all the time that that streak, his
father's streak, would break out in him.  It never did, except of
course in his poetry and that sort of foolishness, but I was always
scared 'twould, you see.  And now--now that this has happened I--I
kind of fret for fear that I may have let my notions get ahead of
my fair play.  You think I did give the boy a square deal, Labe?"

"Sure thing, Cap'n."

"I'm glad of that. . . .  And--and you cal'late he wasn't--wasn't
too prejudiced against me?  I don't mean along at first, I mean
this last year or two."

Laban hesitated.  He wished his answer to be not an overstatement,
but the exact truth.

"I think," he said, with emphasis, "that Al was comin' to understand
you better every day he lived, Cap'n.  Yes, and to think more and
more of you, too.  He was gettin' older, for one thing--older, more
of a man--yes, yes."

Captain Zelotes smiled sadly.  "He was more boy than man by a good
deal yet," he observed.  "Well, Labe, he's gone and I'm just
beginnin' to realize how much of life for me has gone along with
him.  He'd been doin' better here in the office for the last two or
three years, seemed to be catchin' on to business better.  Didn't
you think so, Labe?"

"Sartin.  Yes indeed.  Fust-rate, fust-rate."

"No, not first-rate.  He was a long ways from a business man yet,
but I did think he was doin' a lot better.  I could begin to see
him pilotin' this craft after I was called ashore.  Now he's gone
and . . . well, I don't see much use in my fightin' to keep it
afloat.  I'm gettin' along in years--and what's the use?"

It was the first time Laban had ever heard Captain Zelotes refer to
himself as an old man.  It shocked him into sharp expostulation.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed.  "You ain't old enough for the scrap heap
by a big stretch.  And besides, he made his fight, didn't he?  He
didn't quit, Al didn't, and he wouldn't want us to.  No sir-ee, he
wouldn't!  No, sir, no! . . .  I--I hope you'll excuse me, Cap'n
Lote.  I--declare it must seem to you as if I was talkin' pretty
fresh.  I swan I'm sorry.  I am so . . . sorry; yes, yes, I be."

The captain was not offended.  He waved the apologies aside.

"So you think it's worth while my fightin' it out, do you, Labe?"
he asked, reflectively.

"I--I think it's what you ought to do anyhow, whether it's worth
while or not.  The whole world's fightin'.  Uncle Sam's fightin'.
Al was fightin'.  You're fightin'.  I'm fightin'.  It's a darn
sight easier to quit, a darn sight, but--but Al didn't quit.  And--
and we mustn't--not if we can help it," he added, drawing a hand
across his forehead.

His agitation seemed to surprise Captain Zelotes.  "So all hands
are fightin', are they, Labe," he observed.  "Well, I presume
likely there's some truth in that.  What's your particular fight,
for instance?"

The little bookkeeper looked at him for an instant before replying.
The captain's question was kindly asked, but there was, or so Laban
imagined, the faintest trace of sarcasm in its tone.  That trace
decided him.  He leaned across the desk.

"My particular fight?" he repeated.  "You--you want to know what
'tis, Cap'n Lote?  All right, all right, I'll tell you."

And without waiting for further questioning and with, for him,
surprisingly few repetitions, he told of his "enlistment" to fight
John Barleycorn for the duration of the war.  Captain Zelotes
listened to the very end in silence.  Laban mopped his forehead
with a hand which shook much as it had done during the interview
with Albert in the room above the shoe store.

"There--there," he declared, in conclusion, "that's my fight, Cap'n
Lote.  Al and I, we--we kind of went into it together, as you might
say, though his enlistin' was consider'ble more heroic than mine--
yes indeed, I should say so . . . yes, yes, yes.  But I'm fightin'
too . . . er . . . I'm fightin' too."

Captain Zelotes pulled his beard.

"How's the fight goin', Labe?" he asked, quietly.

"Well--well, it's kind of--kind of spotty, as you might say.
There's spots when I get along fairly smooth and others when--well,
when it's pretty rough goin'.  I've had four hard spots since Al
went away, but there's two that was the hardest.  One was along
Christmas and New Year time; you know I 'most generally had one of
my--er--spells along about then.  And t'other is just now; I mean
since we got word about--about Al.  I don't suppose likely you
surmised it, Cap'n, but--but I'd come to think a lot of that boy--
yes, I had.  Seems funny to you, I don't doubt, but it's so.  And
since the word come, you know--I--I--well, I've had some fight,
some fight.  I--I don't cal'late I've slept more'n four hours in
the last four nights--not more'n that, no.  Walkin' helps me most,
seems so.  Last night I walked to West Orham."

"To West Orham!  You WALKED there?  Last NIGHT?"

"Um-hm.  Long's I can keep walkin' I--I seem to part way forget--to
forget the stuff, you know.  When I'm alone in my room I go 'most
crazy--pretty nigh loony. . . .  But there!  I don't know why I got
to talkin' like this to you, Cap'n Lote.  You've got your troubles
and--"

"Hold on, Labe.  Does Rachel know about your fight?"

"No.  No, no.  Course she must notice how long I've been--been
straight, but I haven't told her.  I want to be sure I'm goin' to
win before I tell her.  She's been disappointed times enough
before, poor woman. . . .  There, Cap'n Lote, don't let's talk
about it any more.  Please don't get the notion that I'm askin' for
pity or anything like that.  And don't think I'm comparin' what I
call my fight to the real one like Al's.  There's nothin' much
heroic about me, eh?  No, no, I guess not.  Tell that to look at
me, eh?"

Captain Zelotes rose and laid his big hand on his bookkeeper's
shoulder.

"Don't you believe it, Labe," he said.  "I'm proud of you. . . .
And, I declare, I'm ashamed of myself. . . .  Humph! . . .  Well,
to-night you come home with me and have supper at the house."

"Now, now, Cap'n Lote--"

"You do as I tell you.  After supper, if there's any walkin' to be
done--if you take a notion to frog it to Orham or San Francisco or
somewheres--maybe I'll go with you.  Walkin' may be good for my
fight, too; you can't tell till you try. . . .  There, don't argue,
Labe.  I'm skipper of this craft yet and you'll obey my orders;
d'you hear?"

The day following the receipt of the fateful telegram the captain
wrote a brief note to Fletcher Fosdick.  A day or two later he
received a reply.  Fosdick's letter was kindly and deeply
sympathetic.  He had been greatly shocked and grieved by the news.

Young Speranza seemed to me, (he wrote) in my one short interview
with him, to be a fine young fellow.  Madeline, poor girl, is
almost frantic.  She will recover by and by, recovery is easier at
her age, but it will be very, very hard for you and Mrs. Snow.  You
and I little thought when we discussed the problem of our young
people that it would be solved in this way.  To you and your wife
my sincerest sympathy.  When you hear particulars concerning your
grandson's death, please write me.  Madeline is anxious to know and
keeps asking for them.  Mrs. Fosdick is too much concerned with her
daughter's health to write just now, but she joins me in sympathetic
regards.

Captain Zelotes took Mrs. Fosdick's sympathy with a grain of salt.
When he showed this letter to his wife he, for the first time, told
her of the engagement, explaining that his previous silence had
been due to Albert's request that the affair be kept a secret for
the present.  Olive, even in the depth of her sorrow, was greatly
impressed by the grandeur of the alliance.

"Just think, Zelotes," she exclaimed, "the Fosdick girl--and our
Albert engaged to marry her!  Why, the Fosdicks are awful rich,
everybody says so.  Mrs. Fosdick is head of I don't know how many
societies and clubs and things in New York; her name is in the
paper almost every day, so another New York woman told me at Red
Cross meetin' last summer.  And Mr. Fosdick has been in politics,
way up in politics."

"Um-hm.  Well, he's reformed lately, I understand, so we mustn't
hold that against him."

"Why, Zelotes, what DO you mean?  How can you talk so?  Just think
what it would have meant to have our Albert marry a girl like
Madeline Fosdick."

The captain put his arm about her and gently patted her shoulder.

"There, there, Mother," he said, gently, "don't let that part of it
fret you."

"But, Zelotes," tearfully, "I don't understand.  It would have been
such a great thing for Albert."

"Would it?  Well, maybe.  Anyhow, there's no use worryin' about it
now.  It's done with--ended and done with . . . same as a good many
other plans that's been made in the world."

"Zelotes, don't speak like that, dear, so discouraged.  It makes me
feel worse than ever to hear you.  And--and he wouldn't want you
to, I'm sure."

"Wouldn't he?  No, I cal'late you're right, Mother.  We'll try not
to."

Other letters came, including one from Helen.  It was not long.
Mrs. Snow was a little inclined to feel hurt at its brevity.  Her
husband, however, did not share this feeling.

"Have you read it carefully, Mother?" he asked.

"Of course I have, Zelotes.  What do you mean?"

"I mean--well, I tell you, Mother, I've read it three time.  The
first time I was like you; seemed to me as good a friend of Al and
of us as Helen Kendall ought to have written more than that.  The
second time I read it I begun to wonder if--if--"

"If what, Zelotes?"

"Oh, nothin', Mother, nothin'.  She says she's comin' to see us
just as soon as she can get away for a day or two.  She'll come,
and when she does I cal'late both you and I are goin' to be
satisfied."

"But why didn't she WRITE more, Zelotes?  That's what I can't
understand."

Captain Zelotes tugged at his beard reflectively.  "When I wrote
Fosdick the other day," he said, "I couldn't write more than a
couple of pages.  I was too upset to do it.  I couldn't, that's
all."

"Yes, but you are Albert's grandfather."

"I know.  And Helen's always . . .  But there, Mother, don't you
worry about Helen Kendall.  I've known her since she was born,
pretty nigh, and _I_ tell you she's all RIGHT."

Fosdick, in his letter, had asked for particulars concerning
Albert's death.  Those particulars were slow in coming.  Captain
Zelotes wrote at once to the War Department, but received little
satisfaction.  The Department would inform him as soon as it
obtained the information.  The name of Sergeant Albert Speranza had
been cabled as one of a list of fatalities, that was all.

"And to think," as Rachel Ellis put it, "that we never knew that
he'd been made a sergeant until after he was gone.  He never had
time to write it, I expect likely, poor boy."

The first bit of additional information was furnished by the press.
A correspondent of one of the Boston dailies sent a brief dispatch
to his paper describing the fighting at a certain point on the
Allied front.  A small detachment of American troops had taken
part, with the French, in an attack on a village held by the enemy.
The enthusiastic reporter declared it to be one of the smartest
little actions in which our soldiers had so far taken part and was
eloquent concerning the bravery and dash of his fellow countrymen.
"They proved themselves," he went on, "and French officers with
whom I have talked are enthusiastic.  Our losses, considering the
number engaged, are said to be heavy.  Among those reported as
killed is Sergeant Albert Speranza, a Massachusetts boy whom
American readers will remember as a writer of poetry and magazine
fiction.  Sergeant Speranza is said to have led his company in the
capture of the village and to have acted with distinguished
bravery."  The editor of the Boston paper who first read this
dispatch turned to his associate at the next desk.

"Speranza? . . . Speranza?" he said aloud.  "Say, Jim, wasn't it
Albert Speranza who wrote that corking poem we published after the
Lusitania was sunk?"

Jim looked up.  "Yes," he said.  "He has written a lot of pretty
good stuff since, too.  Why?"

"He's just been killed in action over there, so Conway says in this
dispatch."

"So? . . .  Humph! . . .  Any particulars?"

"Not yet.  'Distinguished bravery,' according to Conway.  Couldn't
we have something done in the way of a Sunday special?  He was a
Massachusetts fellow."

"We might.  We haven't a photograph, have we?  If we haven't,
perhaps we can get one."

The photograph was obtained--bribery and corruption of the Orham
photographer--and, accompanied by a reprint of the Lusitania poem,
appeared in the "Magazine Section" of the Sunday newspaper.  With
these also appeared a short notice of the young poet's death in the
service of his country.

That was the beginning.  At the middle of that week Conway sent
another dispatch.  The editor who received it took it into the
office of the Sunday editor.

"Say," he said, "here are more particulars about that young chap
Speranza, the one we printed the special about last Sunday.  He
must have been a corker.  When his lieutenant was put out of
business by a shrapnel this Speranza chap rallied the men and
jammed 'em through the Huns like a hot knife through butter.
Killed the German officer and took three prisoners all by himself.
Carried his wounded lieutenant to the rear on his shoulders, too.
Then he went back into the ruins to get another wounded man and was
blown to slivers by a hand grenade.  He's been cited in orders and
will probably be decorated by the French--that is, his memory will
be.  Pretty good for a poet, I'd say.  No 'lilies and languors'
about that, eh?"

The Sunday editor nodded approval.

"Great stuff!" he exclaimed.  "Let me have that dispatch, will you,
when you've finished.  I've just discovered that this young
Speranza's father was Speranza, the opera baritone.  You remember
him?  And his mother was the daughter of a Cape Cod sea captain.
How's that?  Spain, Cape Cod, opera, poetry and the Croix de
Guerre.  And have you looked at the young fellow's photograph?
Combination of Adonis and 'Romeo, where art thou.'  I've had no
less than twenty letters about him and his poetry already.  Next
Sunday we'll have a special "as is."  Where can I get hold of a lot
of his poems?"

The "special as was" occupied an entire page.  A reporter had
visited South Harniss and had taken photographs of the Snow place
and some of its occupants.  Captain Zelotes had refused to pose,
but there was a view of the building and yards of "Z. Snow and Co."
with the picturesque figure of Mr. Issachar Price tastefully draped
against a pile of boards in the right foreground.  Issy had been a
find for the reporter; he supplied the latter with every fact
concerning Albert which he could remember and some that he invented
on the spur of the moment.  According to Issy, Albert was "a fine,
fust-class young feller.  Him and me was like brothers, as you
might say.  When he got into trouble, or was undecided or anything,
he'd come to me for advice and I always gave it to him.  Land, yes!
I always give to Albert.  No matter how busy I was I always stopped
work to help HIM out."  The reporter added that Mr. Price stopped
work even while speaking of it.

The special attracted the notice of other newspaper editors.  This
skirmish in which Albert had taken so gallant part was among the
first in which our soldiers had participated.  So the story was
copied and recopied.  The tale of the death of the young poet, the
"happy warrior," as some writer called him, was spread from the
Atlantic to the Pacific and from Canada to the Gulf.  And just at
this psychological moment the New York publisher brought out the
long deferred volume.  The Lances of Dawn, Being the Collected
Poems of Albert M. C. Speranza, such was its title.

Meanwhile, or, rather, within the week when the Lances of Dawn
flashed upon the public, Captain Zelotes received a letter from the
captain of Albert's regiment in France.  It was not a long letter,
for the captain was a busy man, but it was the kindly, sympathetic
letter of one who was, literally, that well-advertised combination,
an officer and a gentleman.  It told of Albert's promotion to the
rank of sergeant, "a promotion which, had the boy been spared,
would, I am sure, have been the forerunner of others."  It told of
that last fight, the struggle for the village, of Sergeant
Speranza's coolness and daring and of his rush back into the throat
of death to save a wounded comrade.

The men tell me they tried to stop him (wrote the captain).  He was
himself slightly wounded, he had just brought Lieutenant Stacey
back to safety and the enemy at that moment was again advancing
through the village.  But he insisted upon going.  The man he was
trying to rescue was a private in his company and the pair were
great friends.  So he started back alone, although several followed
him a moment later.  They saw him enter the ruined cottage where
his friend lay.  Then a party of the enemy appeared at the corner
and flung grenades.  The entire side of the cottage which he had
just entered was blown in and the Germans passed on over it,
causing our men to fall back temporarily.  We retook the place
within half an hour.  Private Kelly's body--it was Private Kelly
whom Sergeant Speranza was attempting to rescue--was found and
another, badly disfigured, which was at first supposed to be that
of your grandson.  But this body was subsequently identified as
that of a private named Hamlin who was killed when the enemy first
charged.  Sergeant Speranza's body is still missing, but is thought
to be buried beneath the ruins of the cottage.  These ruins were
subsequently blown into further chaos by a high explosive shell.

Then followed more expressions of regret and sympathy and
confirmation of the report concerning citation and the war cross.
Captain Lote read the letter at first alone in his private office.
Then he brought it home and gave it to his wife to read.  Afterward
he read it aloud to Mrs. Ellis and to Laban, who was making his
usual call in the Snow kitchen.

When the reading was ended Labe was the first to speak.  His eyes
were shining.

"Godfreys!" he exclaimed.  Godfreys, Cap'n Lote!"

The captain seemed to understand.

"You're right, Labe," he said.  "The boy's made us proud of
him. . . .  Prouder than some of us are of ourselves, I cal'late,"
he added, rising and moving toward the door.

"Sho, sho, Cap'n, you mustn't feel that way.  No, no."

"Humph! . . .  Labe, I presume likely if I was a pious man, one of
the old-fashioned kind of pious, and believed the Almighty went out
of his way to get square with any human bein' that made a mistake
or didn't do the right thing--if I believed that I might figger all
this was a sort of special judgment on me for my prejudices, eh?"

Mr. Keeler was much disturbed.

"Nonsense, nonsense, Cap'n Lote!" he protested.  "You ain't fair to
yourself.  You never treated Al anyhow but just honest and fair and
square.  If he was here now instead of layin' dead over there in
France, poor feller, he'd say so, too.  Yes, he would.  Course he
would."

The captain made no reply, but walked from the room.  Laban turned
to Mrs. Ellis.

"The old man broods over that," he said.  "I wish. . . .  Eh?
What's the matter, Rachel?  What are you lookin' at me like that
for?"

The housekeeper was leaning forward in her chair, her cheeks
flushed and her hands clenched.

"How do you know he's dead?" she asked, in a mysterious whisper.

"Eh?  How do I know who's dead?"

"Albert.  How do you know he's dead?"

Laban stared at her.

"How do I know he's DEAD!" he repeated.  "How do I know--"

"Yes, yes, yes," impatiently; "that's what I said.  Don't run it
over three or four times more.  How do you know Albert's dead?"

"Why, Rachel, what kind of talk's that?  I know he's dead because
the newspapers say so, and the War Department folks say so, and
this cap'n man in France that was right there at the time, HE says
so.  All hands say so--yes, yes.  So don't--"

"Sh!  I don't care if they all say so ten times over.  How do they
KNOW?  They ain't found him dead, have they?  The report from the
War Department folks was sent when they thought that other body was
Albert's.  Now they know that wasn't him.  Where is he?"

"Why, under the ruins of that cottage.  'Twas all blown to pieces
and most likely--"

"Um-hm.  There you are!  'Most likely!'  Well, I ain't satisfied
with most likelys.  I want to KNOW."

"But--but--"

"Laban Keeler, until they find his body I shan't believe Albert's
dead."

"But, Rachel, you mustn't try to deceive yourself that way.  Don't
you see--"

"No, I don't see.  Labe, when Robert Penfold was lost and gone for
all them months all hands thought he was dead, didn't they?  But he
wasn't; he was on that island lost in the middle of all creation.
What's to hinder Albert bein' took prisoner by those Germans?  They
came back to that cottage place after Albert was left there, the
cap'n says so in that letter Cap'n Lote just read.  What's to
hinder their carryin' Al off with 'em?  Eh?  What's to hinder?"

"Why--why, nothin', I suppose, in one way.  But nine chances out of
ten--"

"That leaves one chance, don't it.  I ain't goin' to give up that
chance for--for my boy.  I--I--  Oh, Labe, I did think SO much of
him."

"I know, Rachel, I know.  Don't cry any more than you can help.
And if it helps you any to make believe--I mean to keep on hopin'
he's alive somewheres--why, do it.  It won't do any harm, I
suppose.  Only I wouldn't hint such a thing to Cap'n Lote or
Olive."

"Of course not," indignantly.  "I ain't quite a fool, I hope. . . .
And I presume likely you're right, Laban.  The poor boy is dead,
probably.  But I--I'm goin' to hope he isn't, anyhow, just to get
what comfort I can from it.  And Robert Penfold did come back, you
know."

For some time Laban found himself, against all reason, asking the
very question Rachel had asked:  Did they actually KNOW that Albert
was dead?  But as the months passed and no news came he ceased to
ask it.  Whenever he mentioned the subject to the housekeeper her
invariable reply was:  "But they haven't found his body, have
they?"  She would not give up that tenth chance.  As she seemed to
find some comfort in it he did not attempt to convince her of its
futility.

And, meanwhile The Lances of Dawn, Being the Collected Poems of
Albert M. C. Speranza was making a mild sensation.  The critics
were surprisingly kind to it.  The story of the young author's
recent and romantic death, of his gallantry, his handsome features
displayed in newspapers everywhere, all these helped toward the
generous welcome accorded the little volume.  If the verses were
not inspired--why, they were at least entertaining and pleasant.
And youth, high-hearted youth sang on every page.  So the reviewers
were kind and forbearing to the poems themselves, and, for the sake
of the dead soldier-poet, were often enthusiastic.  The book sold,
for a volume of poems it sold very well indeed.

At the Snow place in South Harniss pride and tears mingled.  Olive
read the verses over and over again, and wept as she read.  Rachel
Ellis learned many of them by heart, but she, too, wept as she
recited them to herself or to Laban.  In the little bookkeeper's
room above Simond's shoe store The Lances of Dawn lay under the
lamp upon the center table as before a shrine.  Captain Zelotes
read the verses.  Also he read all the newspaper notices which,
sent to the family by Helen Kendall, were promptly held before his
eyes by Olive and Rachel.  He read the publisher's advertisements,
he read the reviews.  And the more he read the more puzzled and
bewildered he became.

"I can't understand it, Laban," he confided in deep distress to Mr.
Keeler.  "I give in I don't know anything at all about this.  I'm
clean off soundin's.  If all this newspaper stuff is so Albert was
right all the time and I was plumb wrong.  Here's this feller,"
picking up a clipping from the desk, "callin' him a genius and 'a
gifted youth' and the land knows what.  And every day or so I get a
letter from somebody I never heard of tellin' me what a comfort to
'em those poetry pieces of his are.  I don't understand it, Labe.
It worries me.  If all this is true then--then I was all wrong.  I
tried to keep him from makin' up poetry, Labe--TRIED to, I did.  If
what these folks say is so somethin' ought to be done to me.  I--I--
by thunder, I don't know's I hadn't ought to be hung! . . .  And
yet--and yet, I did what I thought was right and did it for the
boy's sake . . .  And--and even now I--I ain't sartin I was wrong.
But if I wasn't wrong then this is . . .  Oh, I don't know, I don't
know!"

And not only in South Harniss were there changes of heart.  In New
York City and at Greenwich where Mrs. Fosdick was more than ever
busy with war work, there were changes.  When the newspaper
accounts of young Speranza's heroic death were first published the
lady paid little attention to them.  Her daughter needed all her
care just then--all the care, that is, which she could spare from
her duties as president of this society and corresponding secretary
of that.  If her feelings upon hearing the news could have been
analyzed it is probable that their larger proportion would have
been a huge sense of relief.  THAT problem was solved, at all
events.  She was sorry for poor Madeline, of course, but the dear
child was but a child and would recover.

But as with more and more intensity the limelight of publicity was
turned upon Albert Speranza's life and death and writing, the wife
of the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick could not but be impressed.  As
head of several so-called literary societies, societies rather
neglected since the outbreak of hostilities, she had made it her
business to hunt literary lions.  Recently it was true that
military lions--Major Vermicelli of the Roumanian light cavalry,
or Private Drinkwater of the Tank Corps--were more in demand than
Tagores, but, as Mrs. Fosdick read of Sergeant Speranza's perils
and poems, it could not help occurring to her that here was a lion
both literary and martial.  Decidedly she had not approved of her
daughter's engagement to that lion, but now the said lion was dead,
which rendered him a perfectly harmless yet not the less fascinating
animal.  And then appeared The Lances of Dawn and Mrs. Fosdick's
friends among the elect began to read and talk about it.

It was then that the change came.  Those friends, one by one,
individuals judiciously chosen, were told in strict confidence of
poor Madeline's romantic love affair and its tragic ending.  These
individuals, chosen judiciously as has been stated, whispered, also
in strict confidence, the tale to other friends and acquaintances.
Mrs. Fosdick began to receive condolences on her daughter's account
and on her own.  Soon she began to speak publicly of "My poor, dear
daughter's dead fiance.  Such a loss to American literature.  Sheer
genius.  Have you read the article in the Timepiece?  Madeline,
poor girl, is heartbroken, naturally, but very proud, even in the
midst of her grief.  So are we all, I assure you."

She quoted liberally from The Lances of Dawn.  A copy specially
bound, lay upon her library table.  Albert's photograph in uniform,
obtained from the Snows by Mr. Fosdick, who wrote for it at his
wife's request, stood beside it.  To callers and sister war workers
Mrs. Fosdick gave details of the hero's genius, his bravery, his
devotion to her daughter.  It was all so romantic and pleasantly
self-advertising--and perfectly safe.

Summer came again, the summer of 1918.  The newspapers now were
gravely personal reading to millions of Americans.  Our new army
was trying its metal on the French front and with the British
against the vaunted Hindenburg Line.  The transports were carrying
thousands on every trip to join those already "over there."  In
South Harniss and in Greenwich and New York, as in every town and
city, the ordinary summer vacations and playtime occupations were
forgotten or neglected and war charities and war labors took their
place.  Other soldiers than Sergeant Speranza were the newspaper
heroes now, other books than The Lances of Dawn talked about.

As on the previous summer the new Fosdick cottage was not occupied
by its owners.  Mrs. Fosdick was absorbed by her multitudinous war
duties and her husband was at Washington giving his counsel and
labor to the cause.  Captain Zelotes bought to his last spare
dollar of each successive issue of Liberty Bonds, and gave that
dollar to the Red Cross or the Y. M. C. A.; Laban and Rachel did
likewise.  Even Issachar Price bought Thrift Stamps and exhibited
them to anyone who would stop long enough to look.

"By crimus," declared Issy, "I'm makin' myself poor helpin' out the
gov'ment, but let 'er go and darn the Kaiser, that's my motto.  But
they ain't all like me.  I was down to the drug store yesterday and
old man Burgess had the cheek to tell me I owed him for some cigars
I bought--er--last fall, seems to me 'twas.  I turned right around
and looked at him--'I've got my opinion,' says I, 'of a man that
thinks of cigars and such luxuries when the country needs every
cent.  What have you got that gov'ment poster stuck up on your wall
for?' says I.  'Read it,' I says.  'It says' '"Save!  Save!
Save!"' don't it?  All right.  That's what I'M doin'.  I AM
savin'.'  Then when he was thinkin' of somethin' to answer back I
walked right out and left him.  Yes sir, by crimustee, I left him
right where he stood!"

August came; September--the Hindenburg Line was broken.  Each day
the triumphant headlines in the papers were big and black and also,
alas, the casualty lists on the inside pages long and longer.  Then
October.  The armistice was signed.  It was the end.  The Allied
world went wild, cheered, danced, celebrated.  Then it sat back,
thinking, thanking God, solemnly trying to realize that the killing
days, the frightful days of waiting and awful anxiety, were over.

And early in November another telegram came to the office of Z.
Snow and Co.  This time it came, not from the War Department
direct, but from the Boston headquarters of the American Red Cross.

And this time, just as on the day when the other fateful telegram
came, Laban Keeler was the first of the office regulars to learn
its contents.  Ben Kelley himself brought this message, just as he
had brought that telling of Albert Speranza's death.  And the
usually stolid Ben was greatly excited.  He strode straight from
the door to the bookkeeper's desk.

"Is the old man in, Labe?" he whispered, jerking his head toward
the private office, the door of which happened to be shut.

Laban looked at him over his spectacles.  "Cap'n Lote, you mean?"
he asked.  "Yes, he's in.  But he don't want to be disturbed--no,
no.  Goin' to write a couple of important letters, he said.
Important ones. . . .  Um-hm.  What is it, Ben?  Anything I can do
for you?"

Kelley did not answer that question.  Instead he took a telegram
from his pocket.

"Read it, Labe," he whispered.  "Read it.  It's the darndest news--
the--the darnedest good news ever you heard in your life.  It don't
seem as if it could he, but, by time, I guess 'tis.  Anyhow, it's
from the Red Cross folks and they'd ought to know."

Laban stared at the telegram.  It was not in the usual envelope;
Kelley had been too anxious to bring it to its destination to
bother with an envelope.

"Read it," commanded the operator again.  "See if you think Cap'n
Lote ought to have it broke easy to him or--or what?  Read it, I
tell you.  Lord sakes, it's no secret!  I hollered it right out
loud when it come in over the wire and the gang at the depot heard
it.  They know it and it'll be all over town in ten minutes.  READ
IT."

Keeler read the telegram.  His florid cheeks turned pale.

"Good Lord above!" he exclaimed, under his breath.

"Eh?  I bet you!  Shall I take it to the cap'n?  Eh?  What do you
think?"

"Wait. . . .  Wait . . .  I--I--  My soul!  My soul!  Why . . .
It's--it's true. . . .  And Rachel always said . . .  Why, she was
right . . . I . . ."

From without came the sound of running feet and a series of yells.

"Labe!  Labe!" shrieked Issy.  "Oh, my crimus! . . .  Labe!"

He burst into the office, his eyes and mouth wide open and his
hands waving wildly.

"Labe!  Labe!" he shouted again.  "Have you heard it?  Have you?
It's true, too.  He's alive!  He's alive!  He's alive!"

Laban sprang from his stool.  "Shut up, Is!" he commanded.  "Shut
up!  Hold on!  Don't--"

"But he's alive, I tell you!  He ain't dead!  He ain't never been
dead!  Oh, my crimus! . . .  Hey, Cap'n Lote!  HE'S ALIVE!"

Captain Zelotes was standing in the doorway of the private office.
The noise had aroused him from his letter writing.

"Who's alive?  What's the matter with you this time, Is?" he
demanded.

"Shut up, Issy," ordered Laban, seizing the frantic Mr. Price by
the collar.  "Be still!  Wait a minute."

"Be still?  What do I want to be still for?  I cal'late Cap'n
Lote'll holler some, too, when he hears.  He's alive, Cap'n Lote, I
tell ye.  Let go of me, Labe Keeler!  He's alive!"

"Who's alive?  What is it?  Labe, YOU answer me.  Who's alive?"

Laban's thoughts were still in a whirl.  He was still shaking from
the news the telegraph operator had brought.  Rachel Ellis was at
that moment in his mind and he answered as she might have done.

"Er--er--Robert Penfold," he said.

"Robert PENFOLD!  What--"

Issachar could hold in no longer.

"Robert Penfold nawthin'!" he shouted.  "Who in thunder's he?
'Tain't Robert Penfold nor Robert Penholder neither.  It's Al
Speranza, that's who 'tis.  He ain't killed, Cap'n Lote.  He's
alive and he's been alive all the time."

Kelley stepped forward.

"Looks as if 'twas so, Cap'n Snow," he said.  "Here's the telegram
from the Red Cross."

CHAPTER XV

There was nothing miraculous about it.  That is to say, it was no
more of a miracle than hundreds of similar cases in the World War.
The papers of those years were constantly printing stories of men
over whose supposed graves funeral sermons had been preached, to
whose heirs insurance payments had been made, in whose memory
grateful communities had made speeches and delivered eulogiums--
the papers were telling of instance after instance of those men
being discovered alive and in the flesh, as casuals in some French
hospital or as inmates of German prison camps.

Rachel Ellis had asked what was to hinder Albert's having been
taken prisoner by the Germans and carried off by them.  As a matter
of fact nothing had hindered and that was exactly what had
happened.  Sergeant Speranza, wounded by machine gun fire and again
by the explosion of the grenade, was found in the ruins of the
cottage when the detachment of the enemy captured it.  He was
conscious and able to speak, so instead of being bayonetted was
carried to the rear where he might be questioned concerning the
American forces.  The questioning was most unsatisfactory to the
Prussian officers who conducted it.  Albert fainted, recovered
consciousness and fainted again.  So at last the Yankee swine was
left to die or get well and his Prussian interrogators went about
other business, the business of escaping capture themselves.  But
when they retreated the few prisoners, mostly wounded men, were
taken with them.

Albert's recollections of the next few days were hazy and very
doubtful.  Pain, pain and more pain.  Hours and hours--they seemed
like years--of jolting over rough roads.  Pawing-over by a fat,
bearded surgeon, who may not have been intentionally brutal, but
quite as likely may.  A great desire to die, punctuated by
occasional feeble spurts of wishing to live.  Then more surgical
man-handling, more jolting--in freight cars this time--a slow,
miserable recovery, nurses who hated their patients and treated
them as if they did, then, a prison camp, a German prison camp.
Then horrors and starvation and brutality lasting many months.
Then fever.

He was wandering in that misty land between this world and the next
when, the armistice having been signed, an American Red Cross
representative found him.  In the interval between fits of delirium
he told this man his name and regiment and, later, the name of his
grandparents.  When it seemed sure that he was to recover the Red
Cross representative cabled the facts to this country.  And, still
later, those facts, or the all-important fact that Sergeant Albert
M. C. Speranza was not dead but alive, came by telegraph to Captain
Zelotes Snow of South Harniss.  And, two months after that, Captain
Zelotes himself, standing on the wharf in Boston and peering up at
a crowded deck above him, saw the face of his grandson, that face
which he had never expected to see again, looking eagerly down upon
him.

A few more weeks and it was over.  The brief interval of camp life
and the mustering out were things of the past.  Captain Lote and
Albert, seated in the train, were on their way down the Cape, bound
home.  Home!  The word had a significance now which it never had
before.  Home!

Albert drew a long breath.  "By George!" he exclaimed.  "By George,
Grandfather, this looks good to me!"

It might not have looked as good to another person.  It was
raining, the long stretches of salt marsh were windswept and brown
and bleak.  In the distance Cape Cod Bay showed gray and white
against a leaden sky.  The drops ran down the dingy car windows.

Captain Zelotes understood, however.  He nodded.

"It used to look good to me when I was bound home after a v'yage,"
he observed.  "Well, son, I cal'late your grandma and Rachel are up
to the depot by this time waitin' for you.  We ain't due for pretty
nigh an hour yet, but I'd be willin' to bet they're there."

Albert smiled.  "My, I do want to see them!" he said.

"Shouldn't wonder a mite if they wanted to see you, boy.  Well, I'm
kind of glad I shooed that reception committee out of the way.  I
presumed likely you'd rather have your first day home to yourself--
and us."

"I should say so!  Newspaper reporters are a lot of mighty good
fellows, but I hope I never see another one. . . .  That's rather
ungrateful, I know," he added, with a smile, "but I mean it--just
now."

He had some excuse for meaning it.  The death of Albert Speranza,
poet and warrior, had made a newspaper sensation.  His resurrection
and return furnished material for another.  Captain Zelotes was not
the only person to meet the transport at the pier; a delegation of
reporters was there also.  Photographs of Sergeant Speranza
appeared once more in print.  This time, however, they were
snapshots showing him in uniform, likenesses of a still handsome,
but less boyish young man, thinner, a scar upon his right cheek,
and the look in his eyes more serious, and infinitely older, the
look of one who had borne much and seen more.  The reporters found
it difficult to get a story from the returned hero.  He seemed to
shun the limelight and to be almost unduly modest and retiring,
which was of itself, had they but known it, a transformation
sufficiently marvelous to have warranted a special "Sunday
special."

"Will not talk about himself," so one writer headed his article.
Gertie Kendrick, with a brand-new ring upon her engagement finger,
sniffed as she read that headline to Sam Thatcher, who had
purchased the ring.  "Al Speranza won't talk about himself!"
exclaimed Gertie.  "Well, it's the FIRST time, then.  No wonder
they put it in the paper."

But Albert would not talk, claiming that he had done nothing worth
talking about, except to get himself taken prisoner in almost his
first engagement.  "Go and ask some of the other fellows aboard
here," he urged.  "They have been all through it."  As he would not
talk the newspaper men were obliged to talk for him, which they did
by describing his appearance and his manner, and by rehashing the
story of the fight in the French village.  Also, of course, they
republished some of his verses.  The Lances of Dawn appeared in a
special edition in honor of its author's reappearance on this
earth.

"Yes sir," continued Captain Zelotes, "the reception committee was
consider'ble disappointed.  They'd have met you with the Orham band
if they'd had their way.  I told 'em you'd heard all the band music
you wanted in camp, I guessed likely, and you'd rather come home
quiet.  There was goin' to be some speeches, too, but I had them
put off."

"Thanks, Grandfather."

"Um-hm.  I had a notion you wouldn't hanker for speeches.  If you
do Issy'll make one for you 'most any time.  Ever since you got
into the papers Issy's been swellin' up like a hot pop-over with
pride because you and he was what he calls chummies.  All last
summer Issachar spent his evenin's hangin' around the hotel waitin'
for the next boarder to mention your name.  Sure as one did Is was
ready for him.  'Know him?' he'd sing out.  'Did I know Al
Speranza?  ME?  Well, now say!--'  And so on, long as the feller
would listen.  I asked him once if he ever told any of 'em how you
ducked him with the bucket of water.  He didn't think I knew about
that and it kind of surprised him, I judged."

Albert smiled.  "Laban told you about it, I suppose," he said.
"What a kid trick that was, wasn't it?"

The captain turned his head and regarded him for an instant.  The
old twinkle was in his eye when he spoke.

"Wouldn't do a thing like that now, Al, I presume likely?" he said.
"Feel a good deal older now, eh?"

Albert's answer was seriously given.

"Sometimes I feel at least a hundred and fifty," he replied.

"Humph! . . .  Well, I wouldn't feel like that.  If you're a
hundred and fifty I must be a little older than Methuselah was in
his last years.  I'm feelin' younger to-day, younger than I have
for quite a spell.  Yes, for quite a spell."

His grandson put a hand on his knee.  "Good for you, Grandfather,"
he said.  "Now tell me more about Labe.  Do you know I think the
old chap's sticking by his pledge is the bulliest thing I've heard
since I've been home."

So they talked of Laban and of Rachel and of South Harniss
happenings until the train drew up at the platform of that station.
And upon that platform stepped Albert to feel his grandmother's
arms about him and her voice, tremulous with happiness, at his ear.
And behind her loomed Mrs. Ellis, her ample face a combination of
smiles and tears, "all sunshine and fair weather down below but
rainin' steady up aloft," as Captain Lote described it afterwards.
And behind her, like a foothill in the shadow of a mountain, was
Laban.  And behind Laban--  No, that is a mistake--in front of
Laban and beside Laban and in front of and beside everyone else
when opportunity presented was Issachar.  And Issachar's expression
and bearings were wonderful to see.  A stranger, and there were
several strangers amid the group at the station, might have gained
the impression that Mr. Price, with of course a very little help
from the Almighty, was responsible for everything.

"Why, Issy!" exclaimed Albert, when they shook hands.  "You're
here, too, eh?"

Mr. Price's already protuberant chest swelled still further.  His
reply had the calmness of finality.

"Yes, sir," said Issy, "I'm here.  'Who's goin' to look out for Z.
Snow and Co. if all hands walks out and leaves 'em?' Labe says.  'I
don't know,' says I, 'and I don't care.  I'm goin' to that depot to
meet Al Speranzy and if Z. Snow and Co. goes to pot while I'm gone
I can't help it.  I have sacrificed,' I says, 'and I stand ready to
sacrifice pretty nigh everything for my business, but there's
limits and this is one of 'em.  I'm goin' acrost to that depot to
meet him,' says I, 'and don't you try to stop me, Labe Keeler.'"

"Great stuff, Is!" said Albert, with a laugh.  "What did Labe say
to that?"

"What was there for him to say?  He could see I meant it.  Course
he hove out some of his cheap talk, but it didn't amount to
nothin'.  Asked if I wan't goin' to put up a sign sayin' when I'd
be back, so's to ease the customers' minds.  'I don't know when
I'll be back,' I says.  'All right,' says he, 'put that on the
sign.  That'll ease 'em still more.'  Just cheap talk 'twas.  He
thinks he's funny, but I don't pay no attention to him."

Others came to shake hands and voice a welcome.  The formal
reception, that with the band, had been called off at Captain
Zelotes's request, but the informal one was, in spite of the rain,
which was now much less heavy, quite a sizable gathering.

The Reverend Mr. Kendall held his hand for a long time and talked
much, it seemed to Albert that he had aged greatly since they last
met.  He wandered a bit in his remarks and repeated himself several
times.

"The poor old gentleman's failin' a good deal, Albert," said Mrs.
Snow, as they drove home together, he and his grandparents, three
on the seat of the buggy behind Jessamine.  "His sermons are pretty
tiresome nowadays, but we put up with 'em because he's been with us
so long. . . .  Ain't you squeezed 'most to death, Albert?  You two
big men and me all mashed together on this narrow seat.  It's lucky
I'm small.  Zelotes ought to get a two-seated carriage, but he
won't."

"Next thing I get, Mother," observed the captain, "will be an
automobile.  I'll stick to the old mare here as long as she's able
to navigate, but when she has to be hauled out of commission I'm
goin' to buy a car.  I believe I'm pretty nigh the last man in this
county to drive a horse, as 'tis.  Makes me feel like what Sol
Dadgett calls a cracked teapot--a 'genuine antique.'  One of these
city women will be collectin' me some of these days.  Better look
out, mother."

Olive sighed happily.  "It does me good to hear you joke again,
Zelotes," she said.  "He didn't joke much, Albert, while--when we
thought you--you--"

Albert interrupted in time to prevent the threatened shower.

"So Mr. Kendall is not well," he said.  "I'm very sorry to hear
it."

"Of course you would be.  You and he used to be so friendly when
Helen was home.  Oh, speakin' of Helen, she IS comin' home in a
fortni't or three weeks, so I hear.  She's goin' to give up her
teachin' and come back to be company for her father.  I suppose she
realizes he needs her, but it must be a big sacrifice for her,
givin' up the good position she's got now.  She's such a smart girl
and such a nice one.  Why, she came to see us after the news came--
the bad news--and she was so kind and so good.  I don't know what
we should have done without her.  Zelotes says so too, don't you,
Zelotes?"

Her husband did not answer.  Instead he said:  "Well, there's home,
Al.  Rachel's there ahead of us and dinner's on the way, judgin' by
the smoke from the kitchen chimney.  How does the old place look to
you, boy?"

Albert merely shook his head and drew a long breath, but his
grandparents seemed to be quite satisfied.

There were letters and telegrams awaiting him on the table in the
sitting-room.  Two of the letters were postmarked from a town on
the Florida coast.  The telegram also was from that same town.

"_I_ had one of those things," observed Captain Zelotes, alluding
to the telegram.  "Fosdick sent me one of those long ones, night-
letters I believe they call 'em.  He wants me to tell you that Mrs.
Fosdick is better and that they cal'late to be in New York before
very long and shall expect you there.  Of course you knew that, Al,
but I presume likely the main idea of the telegram was to help say,
'Welcome home' to you, that's all."

Albert nodded.  Madeline and her mother had been in Florida all
winter.  Mrs. Fosdick's health was not good.  She declared that her
nerves had given way under her frightful responsibilities during
the war.  There was, although it seems almost sacrilege to make
such a statement, a certain similarity between Mrs. Fletcher
Fosdick and Issachar Price.  The telegram was, as his grandfather
surmised, an expression of welcome and of regret that the senders
could not be there to share in the reception.  The two letters
which accompanied it he put in his pocket to read later on, when
alone.  Somehow he felt that the first hours in the old house
belonged exclusively to his grandparents.  Everything else, even
Madeline's letters, must take second place for that period.

Dinner was, to say the least, an ample meal.  Rachel and Olive had,
as Captain Lote said, "laid themselves out" on that dinner.  It
began well and continued well and ended best of all, for the
dessert was one of which Albert was especially fond.  They kept
pressing him to eat until Laban, who was an invited guest, was
moved to comment.

"Humph!" observed Mr. Keeler.  "I knew 'twas the reg'lar program to
kill the fatted calf when the prodigal got home, but I see now it's
the proper caper to fat up the prodigal to take the critter's place.
No, no, Rachel, I'd like fust-rate to eat another bushel or so to
please you, but somethin'--that still, small voice we're always
readin' about, or somethin'--seems to tell me 'twouldn't be good
jedgment. . . .  Um-hm. . . .  'Twouldn't be good jedgment. . . .
Cal'late it's right, too. . . .  Yes, yes, yes."

"Now, Cap'n Lote," he added, as they rose from the table, "you stay
right to home here for the rest of the day.  I'll hustle back to
the office and see if Issy's importance has bust his b'iler for
him.  So-long, Al.  See you pretty soon.  Got some things to talk
about, you and I have. . . .  Yes, yes."

Later, when Rachel was in the kitchen with the dishes, Olive left
the sitting room and reappeared with triumph written large upon her
face.  In one hand she held a mysterious envelope and in the other
a book.  Albert recognized that book.  It was his own, The Lances
of Dawn.  It was no novelty to him.  When first the outside world
and he had reopened communication, copies of that book had been
sent him.  His publisher had sent them, Madeline had sent them, his
grandparents had sent them, comrades had sent them, nurses and
doctors and newspaper men had brought them.  No, The Lances of Dawn
was not a novelty to its author.  But he wondered what was in the
envelope.

Mrs. Snow enlightened him.  "You sit right down now, Albert," she
said.  "Sit right down and listen because I've got somethin' to
tell you.  Yes, and somethin' to show you, too.  Here!  Stop now,
Zelotes!  You can't run away.  You've got to sit down and look on
and listen, too."

Captain Zelotes smiled resignedly.  There was, or so it seemed to
his grandson, an odd expression on his face.  He looked pleased,
but not altogether pleased.  However, he obeyed his wife's orders
and sat.

"Stop, look and listen," he observed.  "Mother, you sound like a
railroad crossin'.  All right, here I am.  Al, the society of 'What
did I tell you' is goin' to have a meetin'."

His wife nodded.  "Well," she said, triumphantly, "what DID I tell
you?  Wasn't I right?"

The captain pulled his beard and nodded.

"Right as right could be, Mother," he admitted.  "Your figgers was
a few hundred thousand out of the way, maybe, but barrin' that you
was perfectly right."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so for once in your life.  Albert,"
holding up the envelope, "do you know what this is?"

Albert, much puzzled, admitted that he did not.  His grandmother
put down the book, opened the envelope and took from it a slip of
paper.

"And can you guess what THIS is?" she asked.  Albert could not
guess.

"It's a check, that's what it is.  It's the first six months'
royalties, that's what they call 'em, on that beautiful book of
yours.  And how much do you suppose 'tis?"

Albert shook his head.  "Twenty-five dollars?" he suggested
jokingly.

"Twenty-five dollars!  It's over twenty-five HUNDRED dollars.  It's
twenty-eight hundred and forty-three dollars and sixty-five cents,
that's what it is.  Think of it!  Almost three thousand dollars!
And Zelotes prophesied that 'twouldn't be more than--"

Her husband held up his hand.  "Sh-sh!  Sh-sh, Mother," he said.
"Don't get started on what I prophesied or we won't be through till
doomsday.  I'll give in right off that I'm the worst prophet since
the feller that h'isted the 'Fair and Dry' signal the day afore
Noah's flood begun.  You see," he explained, turning to Albert,
"your grandma figgered out that you'd probably clear about half a
million on that book of poetry, Al.  I cal'lated 'twan't likely to
be much more'n a couple of hundred thousand, so--"

"Why, Zelotes Snow!  You said--"

"Yes, yes.  So I did, Mother, so I did.  You was right and I was
wrong.  Twenty-eight hundred ain't exactly a million, Al, but it's
a darn sight more than I ever cal'lated you'd make from that book.
Or 'most anybody else ever made from any book, fur's that goes," he
added, with a shake of the head.  "I declare, I--I don't understand
it yet.  And a poetry book, too!  Who in time BUYS 'em all?  Eh?"

Albert was looking at the check and the royalty statement.

"So this is why I couldn't get any satisfaction from the publisher,"
he observed.  "I wrote him two or three times about my royalties,
and he put me off each time.  I began to think there weren't any."

Captain Zelotes smiled.  "That's your grandma's doin's," he
observed.  "The check came to us a good while ago, when we thought
you was--was--well, when we thought--"

"Yes.  Surely, I understand," put in Albert, to help him out.

"Yes.  That's when 'twas.  And Mother, she was so proud of it,
because you'd earned it, Al, that she kept it and kept it, showin'
it to all hands and--and so on.  And then when we found out you
wasn't--that you'd be home some time or other--why, then she
wouldn't let me put it in the bank for you because she wanted to
give it to you herself.  That's what she said was the reason.  I
presume likely the real one was that she wanted to flap it in my
face every time she crowed over my bad prophesyin', which was about
three times a day and four on Sundays."

"Zelotes Snow, the idea!"

"All right, Mother, all right.  Anyhow, she got me to write your
publisher man and ask him not to give you any satisfaction about
those royalties, so's she could be the fust one to paralyze you
with 'em.  And," with a frank outburst, "if you ain't paralyzed,
Al, I own up that _I_ am.  Three thousand poetry profits beats me.
_I_ don't understand it."

His wife sniffed.  "Of course you don't," she declared.  "But
Albert does.  And so do I, only I think it ought to have been ever
and ever so much more.  Don't you, yourself, Albert?"

The author of The Lances of Dawn was still looking at the statement
of its earnings.

"Approximately eighteen thousand sold at fifteen cents royalty," he
observed.  "Humph!  Well, I'll be hanged!"

"But you said it would be twenty-five cents, not fifteen,"
protested Olive.  "In your letter when the book was first talked
about you said so."

Albert smiled.  "Did I?" he observed.  "Well, I said a good many
things in those days, I'm afraid.  Fifteen cents for a first book,
especially a book of verse, is fair enough, I guess.  But eighteen
thousand SOLD!  That is what gets me."

"You mean you think it ought to be a lot more.  So do I, Albert,
and so does Rachel.  Why, we like it a lot better than we do David
Harum.  That was a nice book, but it wasn't lovely poetry like
yours.  And David Harum sold a million.  Why shouldn't yours sell
as many?  Only eighteen thousand--why are you lookin' at me so
funny?"

Her grandson rose to his feet.  "Let's let well enough alone,
Grandmother," he said.  "Eighteen thousand will do, thank you.
I'm like Grandfather, I'm wondering who on earth bought them."

Mrs. Snow was surprised and a little troubled.

"Why, Albert," she said, "you act kind of--kind of queer, seems to
me.  You talk as if your poetry wasn't beautiful.  You know it is.
You used to say it was, yourself."

He interrupted her.  "Did I, Grandmother?" he said.  "All right,
then, probably I did.  Let's walk about the old place a little.  I
want to see it all.  By George, I've been dreaming about it long
enough!"

There were callers that afternoon, friends among the townsfolk, and
more still after supper.  It was late--late for South Harniss, that
is--when Albert, standing in the doorway of the bedroom he nor they
had ever expected he would occupy again, bade his grandparents good
night.  Olive kissed him again and again and, speech failing her,
hastened away down the hall.  Captain Zelotes shook his hand,
opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, repeated both operations,
and at last with a brief, "Well, good night, Al," hurried after his
wife.  Albert closed the door, put his lamp upon the bureau, and
sat down in the big rocker.

In a way the night was similar to that upon which he had first
entered that room.  It had ceased raining, but the wind, as on that
first night, was howling and whining about the eaves, the shutters
rattled and the old house creaked and groaned rheumatically.  It
was not as cold as on that occasion, though by no means warm.  He
remembered how bare and comfortless he had thought the room.  Now
it looked almost luxurious.  And he had been homesick, or fancied
himself in that condition.  Compared to the homesickness he had
known during the past eighteen months that youthful seizure seemed
contemptible and quite without excuse.  He looked about the room
again, looked long and lovingly.  Then, with a sigh of content,
drew from his pocket the two letters which had lain upon the
sitting-room table when he arrived, opened them and began to read.

Madeline wrote, as always, vivaciously and at length.  The maternal
censorship having been removed, she wrote exactly as she felt.  She
could scarcely believe he was really going to be at home when he
received this, at home in dear, quaint, queer old South Harniss.
Just think, she had not seen the place for ever and ever so long,
not for over two years.  How were all the funny, odd people who
lived there all the time?  Did he remember how he and she used to
go to church every Sunday and sit through those dreadful, DREADFUL
sermons by that prosy old minister just as an excuse for meeting
each other afterward?  She was SO sorry she could not have been
there to welcome her hero when he stepped from the train.  If it
hadn't been for Mother's poor nerves she surely would have been.
He knew it, didn't he?  Of course he did.  But she should see him
soon "because Mother is planning already to come back to New York
in a few weeks and then you are to run over immediately and make us
a LONG visit.  And I shall be so PROUD of you.  There are lots of
Army fellows down here now, officers for the most part.  So we
dance and are very gay--that is, the other girls are; I, being an
engaged young lady, am very circumspect and demure, of course.
Mother carries The Lances about with her wherever she goes, to teas
and such things, and reads aloud from it often.  Captain Blanchard,
he is one of the family's officer friends, is crazy about your
poetry, dear.  He thinks it WONDERFUL.  You know what _I_ think of
it, don't you, and when I think that _I_ actually helped you, or
played at helping you write some of it!

"And I am WILD to see your war cross.  Some of the officers here
have them--the crosses, I mean--but not many.  Captain Blanchard
has the military medal, and he is almost as modest about it as you
are about your decoration.  I don't see how you CAN be so modest.
If _I_ had a Croix de Guerre I should want EVERY ONE to know about
it.  At the tea dance the other afternoon there was a British major
who--"

And so on.  The second letter was really a continuation of the
first.  Albert read them both and, after the reading was finished,
sat for some time in the rocking chair, quite regardless of the
time and the cold, thinking.  He took from his pocketbook a
photograph, one which Madeline had sent him months before, which
had reached him while he lay in the French hospital after his
removal from the German camp.  He looked at the pretty face in the
photograph.  She looked just as he remembered her, almost exactly
as she had looked more than two years before, smiling, charming,
carefree.  She had not, apparently, grown older, those age-long
months had not changed her.  He rose and regarded his own
reflection in the mirror of the bureau.  He was surprised, as he
was constantly being surprised, to see that he, too, had not
changed greatly in personal appearance.

He walked about the room.  His grandmother had told him that his
room was just as he had left it.  "I wouldn't change it, Albert,"
she said, "even when we thought you--you wasn't comin' back.  I
couldn't touch it, somehow.  I kept thinkin', 'Some day I will.
Pretty soon I MUST.'  But I never did, and now I'm so glad."

He wandered back to the bureau and pulled open the upper drawers.
In those drawers were so many things, things which he had kept
there, either deliberately or because he was too indolent to
destroy them.  Old dance cards, invitations, and a bundle of
photographs, snapshots.  He removed the rubber band from the bundle
and stood looking them over.  Photographs of school fellows, of
picnic groups, of girls.  Sam Thatcher, Gertie Kendrick--and Helen
Kendall.  There were at least a dozen of Helen.

One in particular was very good.  From that photograph the face of
Helen as he had known it four years before looked straight up into
his--clear-eyed, honest, a hint of humor and understanding and
common-sense in the gaze and at the corners of the lips.  He looked
at the photograph, and the photograph looked up at him.  He had not
seen her for so long a time.  He wondered if the war had changed
her as it had changed him.  Somehow he hoped it had not.  Change
did not seem necessary in her case.

There had been no correspondence between them since her letter
written when she heard of his enlistment.  He had not replied to
that because he knew Madeline would not wish him to do so.  He
wondered if she ever thought of him now, if she remembered their
adventure at High Point light.  He had thought of her often enough.
In those days and nights of horror in the prison camp and hospital
he had found a little relief, a little solace in lying with closed
eyes and summoning back from memory the things of home and the
faces of home.  And her face had been one of these.  Her face and
those of his grandparents and Rachel and Laban, and visions of the
old house and the rooms--they were the substantial things to cling
to and he had clung to them.  They WERE home.  Madeline--ah! yes,
he had longed for her and dreamed of her, God knew, but Madeline,
of course, was different.

He snapped the rubber band once more about the bundle of photographs,
closed the drawer and prepared for bed.

For the two weeks following his return home he had a thoroughly
good time.  It was a tremendous comfort to get up when he pleased,
to eat the things he liked, to do much or little or nothing at his
own sweet will.  He walked a good deal, tramping along the beach in
the blustering wind and chilly sunshine and enjoying every breath
of the clean salt air.  He thought much during those solitary
walks, and at times, at home in the evenings, he would fall to
musing and sit silent for long periods.  His grandmother was
troubled.

"Don't it seem to you, Zelotes," she asked her husband, "as if
Albert was kind of discontented or unsatisfied these days?  He's
so--so sort of fidgety.  Talks like the very mischief for ten
minutes and then don't speak for half an hour.  Sits still for a
long stretch and then jumps up and starts off walkin' as if he was
crazy.  What makes him act so?  He's kind of changed from what he
used to be.  Don't you think so?"

The captain patted her shoulder.  "Don't worry, Mother," he said.
"Al's older than he was and what he's been through has made him
older still.  As for the fidgety part of it, the settin' down and
jumpin' up and all that, that's the way they all act, so far as I
can learn.  Elisha Warren, over to South Denboro, tells me his
nephew has been that way ever since he got back.  Don't fret,
Mother, Al will come round all right."

"I didn't know but he might be anxious to see--to see her, you
know."

"Her?  Oh, you mean the Fosdick girl.  Well, he'll be goin' to see
her pretty soon, I presume likely.  They're due back in New York
'most any time now, I believe. . . .  Oh, hum!  Why in time
couldn't he--"

"Couldn't he what, Zelotes?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'."

The summons came only a day after this conversation.  It came in
the form of another letter from Madeline and one from Mrs. Fosdick.
They were, so the latter wrote, back once more in their city home,
her nerves, thank Heaven, were quite strong again, and they were
expecting him, Albert, to come on at once.  "We are all dying to
see you," wrote Mrs. Fosdick.  "And poor, dear Madeline, of course,
is counting the moments."

"Stay as long as you feel like, Al," said the captain, when told of
the proposed visit.  "It's the dull season at the office, anyhow,
and Labe and I can get along first-rate, with Issy to superintend.
Stay as long as you want to, only--"

"Only what, Grandfather?"

"Only don't want to stay too long.  That is, don't fall in love
with New York so hard that you forget there is such a place as
South Harniss."

Albert smiled.  "I've been in places farther away than New York,"
he said, "and I never forgot South Harniss."

"Um-hm. . . .  Well, I shouldn't be surprised if that was so.  But
you'll have better company in New York than you did in some of
those places.  Give my regards to Fosdick.  So-long, Al."

CHAPTER XVI

The Fosdick car was at the Grand Central Station when the
Knickerbocker Limited pulled in.  And Madeline, a wonderfully
furred and veiled and hatted Madeline, was waiting there behind the
rail as he came up the runway from the train.  It was amazing the
fact that it was really she.  It was more amazing still to kiss her
there in public, to hold her hand without fear that some one might
see.  To--

"Shall I take your bags, sir?"

It was the Fosdick footman who asked it.  Albert started guiltily.
Then he laughed, realizing that the hand-holding and the rest were
no longer criminal offenses.  He surrendered his luggage to the
man.  A few minutes later he and Madeline were in the limousine,
which was moving rapidly up the Avenue.  And Madeline was asking
questions and he was answering and--and still it was all a dream.
It COULDN'T be real.

It was even more like a dream when the limousine drew up before the
door of the Fosdick home and they entered that home together.  For
there was Mrs. Fosdick, as ever majestic, commanding, awe-inspiring,
the same Mrs. Fosdick who had, in her letter to his grandfather,
written him down a despicable, underhanded sneak, here was that same
Mrs. Fosdick--but not at all the same.  For this lady was smiling
and gracious, welcoming him to her home, addressing him by his
Christian name, treating him kindly, with almost motherly tenderness.
Madeline's letters and Mrs. Fosdick's own letters received during
his convalescence abroad had prepared him, or so he had thought, for
some such change.  Now he realized that he had not been prepared at
all.  The reality was so much more revolutionary than the
anticipation that he simply could not believe it.

But it was not so very wonderful if he had known all the facts and
had been in a frame of mind to calmly analyze them.  Mrs. Fletcher
Fosdick was a seasoned veteran, a general who had planned and
fought many hard campaigns upon the political battlegrounds of
women's clubs and societies of various sorts.  From the majority of
those campaigns she had emerged victorious, but her experiences in
defeat had taught her that the next best thing to winning is to
lose gracefully, because by so doing much which appears to be lost
may be regained.  For Albert Speranza, bookkeeper and would-be poet
of South Harniss, Cape Cod, she had had no use whatever as a
prospective son-in-law.  Even toward a living Albert Speranza, hero
and newspaper-made genius, she might have been cold.  But when that
hero and genius was, as she and every one else supposed, safely and
satisfactorily dead and out of the way, she had seized the
opportunity to bask in the radiance of his memory.  She had talked
Albert Speranza and read Albert Speranza and boasted of Albert
Speranza's engagement to her daughter before the world.  Now that
the said Albert Speranza had been inconsiderate enough to "come
alive again," there was but one thing for her to do--that is, to
make the best of it.  And when Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick made the best
of anything she made the very best.

"It doesn't make any difference," she told her husband, "whether he
really is a genius or whether he isn't.  We have said he is and now
we must keep on saying it.  And if he can't earn his salt by his
writings--which he probably can't--then you must fix it in some way
so that he can make-believe earn it by something else.  He is
engaged to Madeline, and we have told every one that he is, so he
will have to marry her; at least, I see no way to prevent it."

"Humph!" grunted Fosdick.  "And after that I'll have to support
them, I suppose."

"Probably--unless you want your only child to starve."

"Well, I must say, Henrietta--"

"You needn't, for there is nothing more TO say.  We're in it and,
whether we like it or not, we must make the best of it.  To do
anything now except appear joyful about it would be to make
ourselves perfectly ridiculous.  We can't do that, and you know
it."

Her husband still looked everything but contented.

"So far as the young fellow himself goes," he said, "I like him,
rather.  I've talked with him only once, of course, and then he and
I weren't agreeing exactly.  But I liked him, nevertheless.  If he
were anything but a fool poet I should be more reconciled."

He was snubbed immediately.  "THAT," declared Mrs. Fosdick, with
decision, "is the only thing that makes him possible."

So Mrs. Fosdick's welcome was whole-handed if not whole-hearted.
And her husband's also was cordial and intimate.  The only member
of the Fosdick household who did not regard the guest with favor
was Googoo.  That aristocratic bull-pup was still irreconcilably
hostile.  When Albert attempted to pet him he appeared to be
planning to devour the caressing hand, and when rebuked by his
mistress retired beneath a davenport, growling ominously.  Even
when ignominiously expelled from the room he growled and cast
longing backward glances at the Speranza ankles.  No, Googoo did
not dissemble; Albert was perfectly sure of his standing in
Googoo's estimation.

Dinner that evening was a trifle more formal than he had expected,
and he was obliged to apologize for the limitations of his
wardrobe.  His dress suit of former days he had found much too
dilapidated for use.  Besides, he had outgrown it.

"I thought I was thinner," he said, "and I think I am.  But I must
have broadened a bit.  At any rate, all the coats I left behind
won't do at all.  I shall have to do what Captain Snow, my
grandfather, calls 'refit' here in New York.  In a day or two I
hope to be more presentable."

Mrs. Fosdick assured him that it was quite all right, really.
Madeline asked why he didn't wear his uniform.  "I was dying to see
you in it," she said.  "Just think, I never have."

Albert laughed.  "You have been spared," he told her.  "Mine was
not a triumph, so far as fit was concerned.  Of course, I had a
complete new rig when I came out of the hospital, but even that was
not beautiful.  It puckered where it should have bulged and bulged
where it should have been smooth."

Madeline professed not to believe him.

"Nonsense!" she declared.  "I don't believe it.  Why, almost all
the fellows I know have been in uniform for the past two years and
theirs fitted beautifully."

"But they were officers, weren't they, and their uniforms were
custom made."

"Why, I suppose so.  Aren't all uniforms custom made?"

Her father laughed.  "Scarcely, Maddie," he said.  "The privates
have their custom-made by the mile and cut off in chunks for the
individual.  That was about it, wasn't it, Speranza?"

"Just about, sir."

Mrs. Fosdick evidently thought that the conversation was taking a
rather low tone.  She elevated it by asking what his thoughts were
when taken prisoner by the Germans.  He looked puzzled.

"Thoughts, Mrs. Fosdick?" he repeated.  "I don't know that I
understand, exactly.  I was only partly conscious and in a good
deal of pain and my thoughts were rather incoherent, I'm afraid."

"But when you regained consciousness, you know.  What were your
thoughts then?  Did you realize that you had made the great
sacrifice for your country?  Risked your life and forfeited your
liberty and all that for the cause?  Wasn't it a great satisfaction
to feel that you had done that?"

Albert's laugh was hearty and unaffected.  "Why, no," he said.  "I
think what I was realizing most just then was that I had made a
miserable mess of the whole business.  Failed in doing what I set
out to do and been taken prisoner besides.  I remember thinking,
when I was clear-headed enough to think anything, 'You fool, you
spent months getting into this war, and then got yourself out of it
in fifteen minutes.'  And it WAS a silly trick, too."

Madeline was horrified.

"What DO you mean?" she cried.  "Your going back there to rescue
your comrade a silly trick!  The very thing that won you your Croix
de Guerre?"

"Why, yes, in a way.  I didn't save Mike, poor fellow--"

"Mike!  Was his name Mike?"

"Yes; Michael Francis Xavier Kelly.  A South Boston Mick he was,
and one of the finest, squarest boys that ever drew breath.  Well,
poor Mike was dead when I got to him, so my trip had been for
nothing, and if he had been alive I could not have prevented his
being taken.  As it was, he was dead and I was a prisoner.  So
nothing was gained and, for me, personally, a good deal was lost.
It wasn't a brilliant thing to do.  But," he added apologetically,
"a chap doesn't have time to think collectively in such a scrape.
And it was my first real scrap and I was frightened half to death,
besides."

"Frightened!  Why, I never heard anything so ridiculous!  What--"

"One moment, Madeline."  It was Mrs. Fosdick who interrupted.  "I
want to ask--er--Albert a question.  I want to ask him if during
his long imprisonment he composed--wrote, you know.  I should have
thought the sights and experiences would have forced one to express
one's self--that is, one to whom the gift of expression was so
generously granted," she added, with a gracious nod.

Albert hesitated.

"Why, at first I did," he said.  "When I first was well enough to
think, I used to try to write--verses.  I wrote a good many.
Afterwards I tore them up."

"Tore them up!"  Both Mrs. and Miss Fosdick uttered this exclamation.

"Why, yes.  You see, they were such rot.  The things I wanted to
write about, the things _I_ had seen and was seeing, the--the
fellows like Mike and their pluck and all that--well, it was all
too big for me to tackle.  My jingles sounded, when I read them
over, like tunes on a street piano. _I_ couldn't do it.  A genius
might have been equal to the job, but I wasn't."

Mrs. Fosdick glanced at her husband.  There was something of
alarmed apprehension in the glance.  Madeline's next remark covered
the situation.  It expressed the absolute truth, so much more of
the truth than even the young lady herself realized at the time.

"Why, Albert Speranza," she exclaimed, "I never heard you speak of
yourself and your work in that way before.  Always--ALWAYS you have
had such complete, such splendid confidence in yourself.  You were
never afraid to attempt ANYTHING.  You MUST not talk so.  Don't you
intend to write any more?"

Albert looked at her.  "Oh, yes, indeed," he said simply.  "That is
just what I do intend to do--or try to do."

That evening, alone in the library, he and Madeline had their first
long, intimate talk, the first since those days--to him they seemed
as far away as the last century--when they walked the South Harniss
beach together, walked beneath the rainbows and dreamed.  And now
here was their dream coming true.

Madeline, he was realizing it as he looked at her, was prettier
than ever.  She had grown a little older, of course, a little more
mature, but surprisingly little.  She was still a girl, a very,
very pretty girl and a charming girl.  And he--

"What are you thinking about?" she demanded suddenly.

He came to himself.  "I was thinking about you," he said.  "You are
just as you used to be, just as charming and just as sweet.  You
haven't changed."

She smiled and then pouted.

"I don't know whether to like that or not," she said.  "Did you
expect to find me less--charming and the rest?"

"Why, no, of course not.  That was clumsy on my part.  What I meant
was that--well, it seems ages, centuries, since we were together
there on the Cape--and yet you have not changed."

She regarded him reflectively.

"You have," she said.

"Have what?"

"Changed.  You have changed a good deal.  I don't know whether I
like it or not.  Perhaps I shall be more certain by and by.  Now
show me your war cross.  At least you have brought that, even if
you haven't brought your uniform."

He had the cross in his pocket-book and he showed it to her.  She
enthused over it, of course, and wished he might wear it even when
in citizen's clothes.  She didn't see why he couldn't.  And it was
SUCH a pity he could not be in uniform.  Captain Blanchard had
called the evening before, to see Mother about some war charities
she was interested in, and he was still in uniform and wearing his
decorations, too.  Albert suggested that probably Blanchard was
still in service.  Yes, she believed he was, but she could not see
why that should make the difference.  Albert had BEEN in service.

He laughed at this and attempted to explain.  She seemed to resent
the attempt or the tone.

"I do wish," she said almost pettishly, "that you wouldn't be so
superior."

He was surprised.  "Superior!" he repeated.  "Superior!  I?
Superiority is the very least of my feelings.  I--superior!  That's
a joke."

And, oddly enough, she resented that even more.  "Why is it a
joke?" she demanded.  "I should think you had the right to feel
superior to almost any one.  A hero--and a genius!  You ARE
superior."

However, the little flurry was but momentary, and she was all
sweetness and smiles when she kissed him good night.  He was shown
to his room by a servant and amid its array of comforts--to him,
fresh from France and the camp and his old room at South Harniss,
it was luxuriously magnificent--he sat for some time thinking.  His
thoughts should have been happy ones, yet they were not entirely
so.  This is a curiously unsatisfactory world, sometimes.

The next day he went shopping.  Fosdick had given him a card to his
own tailor and Madeline had given him the names of several shops
where, so she declared, he could buy the right sort of ties and
things.  From the tailor's Albert emerged looking a trifle dazed;
after a visit to two of the shops the dazed expression was even
more pronounced.  His next visits were at establishments farther
downtown and not as exclusive.  He returned to the Fosdick home
feeling fairly well satisfied with the results achieved.  Madeline,
however, did not share his satisfaction.

"But Dad sent you to his tailor," she said.  "Why in the world
didn't you order your evening clothes there?  And Brett has the
most stunning ties.  Every one says so.  Instead you buy yours at a
department store.  Now why?"

He smiled.  "My dear girl," he said, "your father's tailor
estimated that he might make me a very passable dress suit for one
hundred and seventy-five dollars.  Brett's ties were stunning, just
as you say, but the prices ranged from five to eight dollars, which
was more stunning still.  For a young person from the country out
of a job, which is my condition at present, such things may be
looked at but not handled.  I can't afford them."

She tossed her head.  "What nonsense!" she exclaimed.  "You're not
out of a job, as you call it.  You are a writer and a famous
writer.  You have written one book and you are going to write more.
Besides, you must have made heaps of money from The Lances.  Every
one has been reading it."

When he told her the amount of his royalty check she expressed the
opinion that the publisher must have cheated.  It ought to have
been ever and ever so much more than that.  Such wonderful poems!

The next day she went to Brett's and purchased a half dozen of the
most expensive ties, which she presented to him forthwith.

"There!" she demanded.  "Aren't those nicer than the ones you
bought at that old department store?  Well, then!"

"But, Madeline, I must not let you buy my ties."

"Why not?  It isn't such an unheard-of thing for an engaged girl to
give her fiance a necktie."

"That isn't the idea.  I should have bought ties like those myself,
but I couldn't afford them.  Now for you to--"

"Nonsense!  You talk as if you were a beggar.  Don't be so silly."

"But, Madeline--"

"Stop!  I don't want to hear it."

She rose and went out of the room.  She looked as if she were on
the verge of tears.  He felt obliged to accept the gift, but he
disliked the principle of the things as much as ever.  When she
returned she was very talkative and gay and chatted all through
luncheon.  The subject of the ties was not mentioned again by
either of them.  He was glad he had not told her that his new dress
suit was ready-made.

While in France, awaiting his return home, he had purchased a ring
and sent it to her.  She was wearing it, of course.  Compared with
other articles of jewelry which she wore from time to time, his
ring made an extremely modest showing.  She seemed quite unaware of
the discrepancy, but he was aware of it.

On an evening later in the week Mrs. Fosdick gave a reception.
"Quite an informal affair," she said, in announcing her intention.
"Just a few intimate friends to meet Mr. Speranza, that is all.
Mostly lovers of literature--discerning people, if I may say so."

The quite informal affair looked quite formidably formal to Albert.
The few intimate friends were many, so it seemed to him.  There was
still enough of the former Albert Speranza left in his make-up to
prevent his appearing in the least distressed or ill at ease.  He
was, as he had always been when in the public eye, even as far back
as the school dancing-classes with the Misses Bradshaw's young
ladies, perfectly self-possessed, charmingly polite, absolutely
self-assured.  And his good looks had not suffered during his years
of imprisonment and suffering.  He was no longer a handsome boy,
but he was an extraordinarily attractive and distinguished man.

Mrs. Fosdick marked his manner and appearance and breathed a sigh
of satisfaction.  Madeline noted them.  Her young friends of the
sex noted them and whispered and looked approval.  What the young
men thought does not matter so much, perhaps.  One of these was the
Captain Blanchard, of whom Madeline had written and spoken.  He was
a tall, athletic chap, who looked well in his uniform, and whose
face was that of a healthy, clean-living and clean-thinking young
American.  He and Albert shook hands and looked each other over.
Albert decided he should like Blanchard if he knew him better.  The
captain was not talkative; in fact, he seemed rather taciturn.
Maids and matrons gushed when presented to the lion of the evening.
It scarcely seemed possible that they were actually meeting the
author of The Lances of Dawn.  That wonderful book!  Those wonderful
poems!  "How CAN you write them, Mr. Speranza?"  "When do your best
inspirations come, Mr. Speranza?"  "Oh, if I could write as you do I
should walk on air."  The matron who breathed the last-quoted
ecstasy was distinctly weighty; the mental picture of her pedestrian
trip through the atmosphere was interesting.  Albert's hand was
patted by the elderly spinsters, young women's eyes lifted soulful
glances to his.

It was the sort of thing he would have revelled in three or four
years earlier.  Exactly the sort of thing he had dreamed of when
the majority of the poems they gushed over were written.  It was
much the same thing he remembered having seen his father undergo
in the days when he and the opera singer were together.  And his
father had, apparently, rather enjoyed it.  He realized all this--
and he realized, too, with a queer feeling that it should be so,
that he did not like it at all.  It was silly.  Nothing he had
written warranted such extravagances.  Hadn't these people any
sense of proportion?  They bored him to desperation.  The sole
relief was the behavior of the men, particularly the middle-aged or
elderly men, obviously present through feminine compulsion.  They
seized his hand, moved it up and down with a pumping motion,
uttered some stereotyped prevarications about their pleasure at
meeting him and their having enjoyed his poems very much, and then
slid on in the direction of the refreshment room.

And Albert, as he shook hands, bowed and smiled and was charmingly
affable, found his thoughts wandering until they settled upon
Private Mike Kelly and the picturesque language of the latter when
he, as sergeant, routed him out for guard duty.  Mike had not
gushed over him nor called him a genius.  He had called him many
things, but not that.

He was glad indeed when he could slip away for a dance with
Madeline.  He found her chatting gaily with Captain Blanchard, who
had been her most recent partner.  He claimed her from the captain
and as he led her out to the dance floor she whispered that she was
very proud of him.  "But I DO wish YOU could wear your war cross,"
she added.

The quite informal affair was the first of many quite as informally
formal.  Also Mrs. Fosdick's satellites and friends of the literary
clubs and the war work societies seized the opportunity to make
much of the heroic author of The Lances of Dawn.  His society was
requested at teas, at afternoon as well as evening gatherings.  He
would have refused most of these invitations, but Madeline and her
mother seemed to take his acceptance for granted; in fact, they
accepted for him.  A ghastly habit developed of asking him to read
a few of his own poems on these occasions.  "PLEASE, Mr. Speranza.
It will be such a treat, and such an HONOR."  Usually a particular
request was made that he read "The Greater Love."  Now "The Greater
Love" was the poem which, written in those rapturous days when he
and Madeline first became aware of their mutual adoration, was
refused by one editor as a "trifle too syrupy."  To read that
sticky effusion over and over again became a torment.  There were
occasions when if a man had referred to "The Greater Love," its
author might have howled profanely and offered bodily violence.
But no men ever did refer to "The Greater Love."

On one occasion when a sentimental matron and her gushing daughter
had begged to know if he did not himself adore that poem, if he did
not consider it the best he had ever written, he had answered
frankly.  He was satiated with cake and tea and compliments that
evening and recklessly truthful.  "You really wish to know my
opinion of that poem?" he asked.  Indeed and indeed they really
wished to knew just that thing.  "Well, then, I think it's rot," he
declared.  "I loathe it."

Of course mother and daughter were indignant.  Their comments
reached Madeline's ear.  She took him to task.

"But why did you say it?" she demanded.  "You know you don't mean
it."

"Yes, I do mean it.  It IS rot.  Lots of the stuff in that book of
mine is rot.  I did not think so once, but I do now.  If I had the
book to make over again, that sort wouldn't be included."

She looked at him for a moment as if studying a problem.

"I don't understand you sometimes," she said slowly.  "You are
different.  And I think what you said to Mrs. Bacon and Marian was
very rude."

Later when he went to look for her he found her seated with Captain
Blanchard in a corner.  They were eating ices and, apparently,
enjoying themselves.  He did not disturb them.  Instead he hunted
up the offended Bacons and apologized for his outbreak.  The
apology, although graciously accepted, had rather wearisome
consequences.  Mrs. Bacon declared she knew that he had not really
meant what he said.

"I realize how it must be," she declared.  "You people of
temperament, of genius, of aspirations, are never quite satisfied,
you cannot be.  You are always trying, always seeking the higher
attainment.  Achievements of the past, though to the rest of us
wonderful and sublime, are to you--as you say, 'rot.'  That is it,
is it not?"  Albert said he guessed it was, and wandered away,
seeking seclusion and solitude.  When the affair broke up he found
Madeline and Blanchard still enjoying each other's society.  Both
were surprised when told the hour.

CHAPTER XVII

So the first three weeks of his proposed month's visit passed and
the fourth began.  And more and more his feelings of dissatisfaction
and uneasiness increased.  The reasons for those feelings he found
hard to define.  The Fosdicks were most certainly doing their best
to make him comfortable and happy.  They were kind--yes, more than
kind.  Mr. Fosdick he really began to like.  Mrs. Fosdick's manner
had a trace of condescension in it, but as the lady treated all
creation with much the same measure of condescension, he was more
amused than resentful.  And Madeline--Madeline was sweet and
charming and beautiful.  There was in her manner toward him, or so
he fancied, a slight change, perhaps a change a trifle more marked
since the evening when his expressed opinion of "The Greater Love"
had offended her and the Bacons.  It seemed to him that she was more
impatient, more capricious, sometimes almost overwhelming him with
attention and tenderness and then appearing to forget him entirely
and to be quite indifferent to his thoughts and opinions.  Her moods
varied greatly and there were occasions when he found it almost
impossible to please her.  At these times she took offense when no
offense was intended and he found himself apologizing when, to say
the least, the fault, if there was any, was not more than half his.
But she always followed those moods with others of contrition and
penitence and then he was petted and fondled and his forgiveness
implored.

These slight changes in her he noticed, but they troubled him
little, principally because he was coming to realize the great
change in himself.  More and more that change was forcing itself
upon him.  The stories and novels he had read during the first
years of the war, the stories by English writers in which young
men, frivolous and inconsequential, had enlisted and fought and
emerged from the ordeal strong, purposeful and "made-over"--those
stories recurred to him now.  He had paid little attention to the
"making-over" idea when he read those tales, but now he was forced
to believe there might be something in it.  Certainly something,
the three years or the discipline and training and suffering, or
all combined, had changed him.  He was not as he used to be.
Things he liked very much he no longer liked at all.  And where,
oh where, was the serene self-satisfaction which once was his?

The change must be quite individual, he decided.  All soldiers were
not so affected.  Take Blanchard, for instance.  Blanchard had seen
service, more and quite as hard fighting as he had seen, but
Blanchard was, to all appearances, as light-hearted and serene and
confident as ever.  Blanchard was like Madeline; he was much the
same now as he had been before the war.  Blanchard could dance and
talk small talk and laugh and enjoy himself.  Well, so could he, on
occasions, for that matter, if that had been all.  But it was not
all, or if it was why was he at other times so discontented and
uncomfortable?  What was the matter with him, anyway?

He drew more and more into his shell and became more quiet and less
talkative.  Madeline, in one of her moods, reproached him for it.

"I do wish you wouldn't be grumpy," she said.

They had been sitting in the library and he had lapsed into a fit
of musing, answering her questions with absentminded monosyllables.
Now he looked up.

"Grumpy?" he repeated.  "Was I grumpy?  I beg your pardon."

"You should.  You answered every word I spoke to you with a grunt
or a growl.  I might as well have been talking to a bear."

"I'm awfully sorry, dear.  I didn't feel grumpy.  I was thinking, I
suppose."

"Thinking!  You are always thinking.  Why think, pray? . . .  If I
permitted myself to think, I should go insane."

"Madeline, what do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing.  I'm partially insane now, perhaps.  Come, let's go
to the piano.  I feel like playing.  You don't mind, do you?"

That evening Mrs. Fosdick made a suggestion to her husband.

"Fletcher," she said, "I am inclined to think it is time you and
Albert had a talk concerning the future.  A business talk, I mean.
I am a little uneasy about him.  From some things he has said to me
recently I gather that he is planning to earn his living with his
pen."

"Well, how else did you expect him to earn it; as bookkeeper for
the South Harniss lumber concern?"

"Don't be absurd.  What I mean is that he is thinking of devoting
himself to literature exclusively.  Don't interrupt me, please.
That is very beautiful and very idealistic, and I honor him for it,
but I cannot see Madeline as an attic poet's wife, can you?"

"I can't, and I told you so in the beginning."

"No.  Therefore I should take him to one side and tell him of the
opening in your firm.  With that as a means of keeping his feet on
the ground his brain may soar as it likes, the higher the better."

Mr. Fosdick, as usual, obeyed orders and that afternoon Albert and
he had the "business talk."  Conversation at dinner was somewhat
strained.  Mr. Fosdick was quietly observant and seemed rather
amused about something.  His wife was dignified and her manner
toward her guest was inclined to be abrupt.  Albert's appetite was
poor.  As for Madeline, she did not come down to dinner, having a
headache.

She came down later, however.  Albert, alone in the library, was
sitting, a book upon his knees and his eyes fixed upon nothing in
particular, when she came in.

"You are thinking again, I see," she said.

He had not heard her enter.  Now he rose, the book falling to the
floor.

"Why--why, yes," he stammered.  "How are you feeling?  How is your
head?"

"It is no worse.  And no better.  I have been thinking, too, which
perhaps explains it.  Sit down, Albert, please.  I want to talk
with you.  That is what I have been thinking about, that you and I
must talk."

She seated herself upon the davenport and he pulled forward a chair
and sat facing her.  For a moment she was silent.  When she did
speak, however, her question was very much to the point.

"Why did you say 'No' to Father's offer?" she asked.  He had been
expecting this very question, or one leading up to it.  Nevertheless,
he found answering difficult.  He hesitated, and she watched him,
her impatience growing.

"Well?" she asked.

He sighed.  "Madeline," he said, "I am afraid you think me very
unreasonable, certainly very ungrateful."

"I don't know what to think about you.  That is why I feel we must
have this talk.  Tell me, please, just what Father said to you this
afternoon."

"He said--well, the substance of what he said was to offer me a
position in his office, in his firm."

"What sort of a position?"

"Well, I--I scarcely know.  I was to have a desk there and--and be
generally--ornamental, I suppose.  It was not very definite, the
details of the position, but--"

"The salary was good, wasn't it?"

"Yes; more than good.  Much too good for the return I could make
for it, so it seemed to me."

"And your prospects for the future?  Wasn't the offer what people
call a good opportunity?"

"Why, yes, I suppose it was.  For the right sort of man it would
have been a wonderful opportunity.  Your father was most kind, most
generous, Madeline.  Please don't think I am not appreciative.  I
am, but--"

"Don't.  I want to understand it all.  He offered you this
opportunity, this partnership in his firm, and you would not
accept it?  Why?  Don't you like my father?"

"Yes, I like him very much."

"Didn't you," with the slightest possible curl of the lip, "think
the offer worthy of you? . . .  Oh, I don't mean that!  Please
forgive me.  I am trying not to be disagreeable.  I--I just want to
understand, Albert, that's all."

He nodded.  "I know, Madeline," he said.  "You have the right to
ask.  It wasn't so much a question of the offer being worthy of me
as of my being worthy the offer.  Oh, Madeline, why should you and
I pretend?  You know why Mr. Fosdick made me that offer.  It wasn't
because I was likely to be worth ten dollars a year to his firm.
In Heaven's name, what use would I be in a stockbroker's office,
with my make-up, with my lack of business ability?  He would be
making a place for me there and paying me a high salary for one
reason only, and you know what that is.  Now don't you?"

She hesitated now, but only for an instant.  She colored a little,
but she answered bravely.

"I suppose I do," she said, "but what of it?  It is not unheard of,
is it, the taking one's prospective son-in-law into partnership?"

"No, but--  We're dodging the issue again, Madeline.  If I were
likely to be of any help to your father's business, instead of a
hindrance, I might perhaps see it differently.  As it is, I
couldn't accept unless I were willing to be an object of charity."

"Did you tell Father that?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He said a good deal.  He was frank enough to say that he did not
expect me to be of great assistance to the firm.  But I might be of
SOME use--he didn't put it as baldly as that, of course--and at all
times I could keep on with my writing, with my poetry, you know.
The brokerage business should not interfere with my poetry, he
said; your mother would scalp him if it did that."

She smiled faintly.  "That sounds like dad," she commented.

"Yes.  Well, we talked and argued for some time on the subject.
He asked me what, supposing I did not accept this offer of his,
my plans for the future might be.  I told him they were pretty
unsettled as yet.  I meant to write, of course.  Not poetry
altogether.  I realized, I told him, that I was not a great poet, a
poet of genius."

Madeline interrupted.  Her eyes flashed.

"Why do you say that?" she demanded.  "I have heard you say it
before.  That is, recently.  In the old days you were as sure as
I that you were a real poet, or should be some day.  You never
doubted it.  You used to tell me so and I loved to hear you."

Albert shook his head.  "I was sure of so many things then," he
said.  "I must have been an insufferable kid."

She stamped her foot.  "It was less than three years ago that you
said it," she declared.  "You are not so frightfully ancient
now. . . .  Well, go on, go on.  How did it end, the talk with
Father, I mean?"

"I told him," he continued, "that I meant to write and to earn my
living by writing.  I meant to try magazine work--stories, you
know--and, soon, a novel.  He asked if earning enough to support a
wife on would not be a long job at that time.  I said I was afraid
it might, but that that seemed to me my particular game,
nevertheless."

She interrupted again.  "Did it occur to you to question whether or
not that determination of yours was quite fair to me?" she asked.

"Why--why, yes, it did.  And I don't know that it IS exactly fair
to you.  I--"

"Never mind.  Go on.  Tell me the rest.  How did it end?"

"Well, it ended in a sort of flare-up.  Mr. Fosdick was just a
little bit sarcastic, and I expressed my feelings rather freely--
too freely, I'm afraid."

"Never mind.  I want to know what you said."

"To be absolutely truthful, then, this is what I said:  I said that
I appreciated his kindness and was grateful for the offer.  But my
mind was made up.  I would not live upon his charity and draw a
large salary for doing nothing except be a little, damned tame
house-poet led around in leash and exhibited at his wife's club
meetings. . . .  That was about all, I think.  We shook hands at
the end.  He didn't seem to like me any the less for . . .  Why,
Madeline, have I offended you?  My language was pretty strong, I
know, but--"

She had bowed her head upon her arms amid the sofa cushions and was
crying.  He sprang to his feet and bent over her.

"Why, Madeline," he said again, "I beg your pardon.  I'm sorry--"

"Oh, it isn't that," she sobbed.  "It isn't that.  I don't care
what you said."

"What is it, then?"

She raised her head and looked at him.

"It is you," she cried.  "It is myself.  It is everything.  It is
all wrong.  I--I was so happy and--and now I am miserable.  Oh--oh,
I wish I were dead!"

She threw herself upon the cushions again and wept hysterically.
He stood above her, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her, to
comfort her, and all the time he felt like a brute, a heartless
beast.  At last she ceased crying, sat up and wiped her eyes with
her handkerchief.

"There!" she exclaimed.  "I will not be silly any longer.  I won't
be!  I WON'T! . . .  Now tell me:  Why have you changed so?"

He looked down at her and shook his head.  He was conscience-
stricken and fully as miserable as she professed to be.

"I don't know," he said.  "I am older and--and--and I DON'T see
things as I used to.  If that book of mine had appeared three years
ago I have no doubt I should have believed it to be the greatest
thing ever printed.  Now, when people tell me it is and I read what
the reviewers said and all that, I--I DON'T believe, I KNOW it
isn't great--that is, the most of it isn't.  There is some pretty
good stuff, of course, but--  You see, I think it wasn't the poems
themselves that made it sell; I think it was all the fool tommyrot
the papers printed about me, about my being a hero and all that
rubbish, when they thought I was dead, you know.  That--"

She interrupted.  "Oh, don't!" she cried.  "Don't!  I don't care
about the old book.  I'm not thinking about that.  I'm thinking
about you.  YOU aren't the same--the same toward me."

"Toward you, Madeline?  I don't understand what you mean."

"Yes, you do.  Of course you do.  If you were the same as you used
to be, you would let Father help you.  We used to talk about that
very thing and--and you didn't resent it then."

"Didn't I?  Well, perhaps I didn't.  But I think I remember our
speaking sometimes of sacrificing everything for each other.  We
were to live in poverty, if necessary, and I was to write, you
know, and--"

"Stop!  All that was nonsense, nonsense! you know it."

"Yes, I'm afraid it was."

"You know it was.  And if you were as you used to be, if you--"

"Madeline!"

"What?  Why did you interrupt me?"

"Because I wanted to ask you a question.  Do you think YOU are
exactly the same--as you used to be?"

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't YOU changed a little?  Are you as sure as you were then--
as sure of your feeling toward me?"

She gazed at him, wide-eyed.  "WHAT do you mean?"

"I mean ARE you sure?  It has seemed to me that perhaps--I was out
of your life for a long time, you know, and during a good deal of
that time it seemed certain that I had gone forever.  I am not
blaming you, goodness knows, but--Madeline, isn't there--  Well, if
I hadn't come back, mightn't there have been some one--else?"

She turned pale.

"What do--" she stammered, inarticulate.  "Why, why--"

"It was Captain Blanchard, wasn't it?"

The color came back to her cheeks with a rush.  She blushed
furiously and sprang to her feet.

"How--how can you say such things!" she cried.  "What do you mean?
How DARE you say Captain Blanchard took advantage of--  How--how
DARE you say I was not loyal to you?  It is not true.  It is not
true.  I was.  I am.  There hasn't been a word--a word between us
since--since the news came that you were--  I told him--I said--
And he has been splendid!  Splendid!  And now you say--  Oh, what
AM I saying?  What SHALL I do?"

She collapsed once more among the cushions.  He leaned forward.

"My dear girl--" he began, but she broke in.

"I HAVEN'T been disloyal," she cried.  "I have tried--  Oh, I have
tried so hard--"

"Hush, Madeline, hush.  I understand.  I understand perfectly.  It
is all right, really it is."

"And I should have kept on trying always--always."

"Yes, dear, yes.  But do you think a married life with so much
trying in it likely to be a happy one?  It is better to know it
now, isn't it, a great deal better for both of us?  Madeline, I am
going to my room.  I want you to think, to think over all this, and
then we will talk again.  I don't blame you.  I don't, dear,
really.  I think I realize everything--all of it.  Good night,
dear."

He stooped and kissed her.  She sobbed, but that was all.  The next
morning a servant came to his room with a parcel and a letter.  The
parcel was a tiny one.  It was the ring he had given her, in its
case.  The letter was short and much blotted.  It read:

Dear Albert:

I have thought and thought, as you told me to, and I have concluded
that you were right.  It IS best to know it now.  Forgive me,
please, PLEASE.  I feel wicked and horrid and I HATE myself, but I
think this is best.  Oh, do forgive me.  Good-by.

MADELINE.

His reply was longer.  At its end he wrote:

Of course I forgive you.  In the first place there is nothing to
forgive.  The unforgivable thing would have been the sacrifice of
your happiness and your future to a dream and a memory.  I hope you
will be very happy.  I am sure you will be, for Blanchard is, I
know, a fine fellow.  The best of fortune to you both.

The next forenoon he sat once more in the car of the morning train
for Cape Cod, looking out of the window.  He had made the journey
from New York by the night boat and had boarded the Cape train at
Middleboro.  All the previous day, and in the evening as he tramped
the cold wind-swept deck of the steamer, he had been trying to
collect his thoughts, to readjust them to the new situation, to
comprehend in its entirety the great change that had come in his
life.  The vague plans, the happy indefinite dreams, all the
rainbows and roses had gone, shivered to bits like the reflection
in a broken mirror.  Madeline, his Madeline, was his no longer.
Nor was he hers.  In a way it seemed impossible.

He tried to analyze his feelings.  It seemed as if he should have
been crushed, grief-stricken, broken.  He was inclined to reproach
himself because he was not.  Of course there was a sadness about
it, a regret that the wonder of those days of love and youth had
passed.  But the sorrow was not bitter, the regret was but a
wistful longing, the sweet, lingering fragrance of a memory, that
was all.  Toward her, Madeline, he felt--and it surprised him, too,
to find that he felt--not the slightest trace of resentment.  And
more surprising still he felt none toward Blanchard.  He had meant
what he said in his letter, he wished for them both the greatest
happiness.

And--there was no use attempting to shun the fact--his chief
feeling, as he sat there by the car window looking out at the
familiar landscape, was a great relief, a consciousness of escape
from what might have been a miserable, crushing mistake for him and
for her.  And with this a growing sense of freedom, of buoyancy.
It seemed wicked to feel like that.  Then it came to him, the
thought that Madeline, doubtless, was experiencing the same
feeling.  And he did not mind a bit; he hoped she was, bless her!

A youthful cigar "drummer," on his first Down-East trip, sat down
beside him.

"Kind of a flat, bare country, ain't it?" observed the drummer,
with a jerk of his head toward the window.  "Looks bleak enough to
me.  Know anything about this neck of the woods, do you?"

Albert turned to look at him.

"Meaning the Cape?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Indeed I do.  I know all about it."

"That so!  Say, you sound as if you liked it."

Albert turned back to the window again.

"Like it!" he repeated.  "I love it."  Then he sighed, a sigh of
satisfaction, and added:  "You see, I BELONG here."

His grandparents and Rachel were surprised when he walked into the
house that noon and announced that he hoped dinner was ready,
because he was hungry.  But their surprise was more than balanced
by their joy.  Captain Zelotes demanded to know how long he was
going to stay.

"As long as you'll have me, Grandfather," was the answer.

"Eh?  Well, that would be a consider'ble spell, if you left it to
us, but I cal'late that girl in New York will have somethin' to say
as to time limit, won't she?"

Albert smiled.  "I'll tell you about that by and by," he said.

He did not tell them until that evening after supper.  It was
Friday evening and Olive was going to prayer-meeting, but she
delayed "putting on her things" to hear the tale.  The news that
the engagement was off and that her grandson was not, after all, to
wed the daughter of the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick, shocked and
grieved her not a little.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed.  "I suppose you know what's best, Albert,
and maybe, as you say, you wouldn't have been happy, but I DID feel
sort of proud to think my boy was goin' to marry a millionaire's
daughter."

Captain Zelotes made no comment--then.  He asked to be told more
particulars.  Albert described the life at the Fosdick home, the
receptions, his enforced exhibitions and readings.  At length the
recital reached the point of the interview in Fosdick's office.

"So he offered you to take you into the firm--eh, son?" he
observed.

"Yes, sir."

"Humph!  Fosdick, Williamson and Hendricks are one of the biggest
brokerage houses goin', so a good many New Yorkers have told me."

"No doubt.  But, Grandfather, you've had some experience with me
as a business man; how do you think I would fit into a firm of
stockbrokers?"

Captain Lote's eye twinkled, but he did not answer the question.
Instead he asked:

"Just what did you give Fosdick as your reason for not sayin' yes?"

Albert laughed.  "Well, Grandfather," he said, "I'll tell you.  I
said that I appreciated his kindness and all that, but that I would
not draw a big salary for doing nothing except to be a little,
damned tame house-poet led around in leash and shown off at his
wife's club meetings."

Mrs. Snow uttered a faint scream.  "Oh, Albert!" she exclaimed.
She might have said more, but a shout from her husband prevented
her doing so.

Captain Zelotes had risen and his mighty hand descended with a
stinging slap upon his grandson's shoulder.

"Bully for you, boy!" he cried.  Then, turning to Olive, he added,
"Mother, I've always kind of cal'lated that you had one man around
this house.  Now, by the Lord A'Mighty, I know you've got TWO!"

Olive rose.  "Well," she declared emphatically, "that may be; but
if both those men are goin' to start in swearin' right here in the
sittin' room, I think it's high time SOMEBODY in that family went
to church."

So to prayer meeting she went, with Mrs. Ellis as escort, and her
husband and grandson, seated in armchairs before the sitting room
stove, both smoking, talked and talked, of the past and of the
future--not as man to boy, nor as grandparent to grandson, but for
the first time as equals, without reservations, as man to man.

CHAPTER XVIII

The next morning Albert met old Mr. Kendall.  After breakfast
Captain Zelotes had gone, as usual, directly to the office.  His
grandson, however, had not accompanied him.

"What are you cal'latin' to do this mornin', Al?" inquired the
captain.

"Oh, I don't know exactly, Grandfather.  I'm going to look about
the place a bit, write a letter to my publishers, and take a walk,
I think.  You will probably see me at the office pretty soon.  I'll
look in there by and by."

"Ain't goin' to write one or two of those five hundred dollar
stories before dinner time, are you?"

"I guess not, sir.  I'm afraid they won't be written as quickly as
all that."

Captain Lote shook his head.  "Godfreys!" he exclaimed; "it ain't
the writin' of 'em I'd worry about so much as the gettin' paid for
'em.  You're sure that editor man ain't crazy, you say?"

"I hope he isn't.  He seemed sane enough when I saw him."

"Well, I don't know.  It's live and learn, I suppose, but if
anybody but you had told me that magazine folks paid as much as
five hundred dollars a piece for yarns made up out of a feller's
head without a word of truth in 'em, I'd--well, I should have told
the feller that told me to go to a doctor right off and have HIS
head examined.  But--well, as 'tis I cal'late I'd better have my
own looked at.  So long, Al.  Come in to the office if you get a
chance."

He hurried out.  Albert walked to the window and watched the sturdy
figure swinging out of the yard.  He wondered if, should he live to
his grandfather's age, his step would be as firm and his shoulders
as square.

Olive laid a hand on his arm.

"You don't mind his talkin' that way about your writin' those
stories, do you, Albert?" she asked, a trace of anxiety in her
tone.  "He don't mean it, you know.  He don't understand it--says
he don't himself--but he's awful proud of you, just the same.  Why,
last night, after you and he had finished talkin' and he came up to
bed--and the land knows what time of night or mornin' THAT was--he
woke me out of a sound sleep to tell me about that New York
magazine man givin' you a written order to write six stories for
his magazine at five hundred dollars a piece.  Zelotes couldn't
seem to get over it.  'Think of it, Mother,' he kept sayin'.
'Think of it!  Pretty nigh twice what I pay as good a man as Labe
Keeler for keepin' books a whole year.  And Al says he ought to do
a story every forni't.  I used to jaw his head off, tellin' him he
was on the road to starvation and all that.  Tut, tut, tut!
Mother, I've waited a long time to say it, but it looks as if you
married a fool.' . . .  That's the way he talked, but he's a long
ways from bein' a fool, your grandfather is, Albert."

Albert nodded.  "No one knows that better than I," he said, with
emphasis.

"There's one thing," she went on, "that kind of troubled me.  He
said you was goin' to insist on payin' board here at home.  Now you
know this house is yours.  And we love to--"

He put his arm about her.  "I know it, Grandmother," he broke in,
quickly.  "But that is all settled.  I am going to try to make my
own living in my own way.  I am going to write and see what I am
really worth.  I have my royalty money, you know, most of it, and I
have this order for the series of stories.  I can afford to pay for
my keep and I shall.  You see, as I told Grandfather last night, I
don't propose to live on his charity any more than on Mr. Fosdick's."

She sighed.

"So Zelotes said," she admitted.  "He told me no less than three
times that you said it.  It seemed to tickle him most to death, for
some reason, and that's queer, too, for he's anything but stingy.
But there, I suppose you can pay board if you want to, though who
you'll pay it to is another thing.  _I_ shan't take a cent from the
only grandson I've got in the world."

It was while on his stroll down to the village that Albert met Mr.
Kendall.  The reverend gentleman was plodding along carrying a
market basket from the end of which, beneath a fragment of
newspaper, the tail and rear third of a huge codfish drooped.  The
basket and its contents must have weighed at least twelve pounds
and the old minister was, as Captain Zelotes would have said,
making heavy weather of it.  Albert went to his assistance.

"How do you do, Mr. Kendall," he said; "I'm afraid that basket is
rather heavy, isn't it.  Mayn't I help you with it?"  Then, seeing
that the old gentleman did not recognize him, he added, "I am
Albert Speranza."

Down went the basket and the codfish and Mr. Kendall seized him by
both hands.

"Why, of course, of course," he cried.  "Of course, of course.
It's our young hero, isn't it.  Our poet, our happy warrior.  Yes,--
yes, of course.  So glad to see you, Albert. . . .  Er . . . er . . .
How is your mother?"

"You mean my grandmother?  She is very well, thank you."

"Yes--er--yes, your grandmother, of course. . . .  Er . . . er. . . .
Did you see my codfish?  Isn't it a magnificent one.  I am very
fond of codfish and we almost never have it at home.  So just now,
I happened to be passing Jonathan Howes'--he is the--er--fishdealer,
you know, and . . . Jonathan is a very regular attendant at my
Sunday morning services.  He is--is. . . .  Dear me. . . .  What
was I about to say?"

Being switched back to the main track by Albert he explained that
he had seen a number of cod in Mr. Howes' possession and had bought
this specimen.  Howes had lent him the basket.

"And the newspaper," he explained; adding, with triumph, "I shall
dine on codfish to-day, I am happy to say."  Judging by appearances
he might dine and sup and breakfast on codfish and still have a
supply remaining.  Albert insisted on carrying the spoil to the
parsonage.  He was doing nothing in particular and it would be a
pleasure, he said.  Mr. Kendall protested for the first minute or
so but then forgot just what the protest was all about and rambled
garrulously on about affairs in the parish.  He had failed in other
faculties, but his flow of language was still unimpeded.  They
entered the gate of the parsonage.  Albert put the basket on the
upper step.

"There," he said; "now I must go.  Good morning, Mr. Kendall."

"Oh, but you aren't going?  You must come in a moment.  I want to
give you the manuscript of that sermon of mine on the casting down
of Baal, that is the one in which I liken the military power of
Germany to the brazen idol which. . . .  Just a moment, Albert.
The manuscript is in my desk and. . . .  Oh, dear me, the door is
locked. . . .  Helen, Helen!"

He was shaking the door and shouting his daughter's name.  Albert
was surprised and not a little disturbed.  It had not occurred to
him that Helen could be at home.  It is true that before he left
for New York his grandmother had said that she was planning to
return home to be with her father, but since then he had heard
nothing more concerning her.  Neither of his grandparents had
mentioned her name in their letters, nor since his arrival the day
before had they mentioned it.  And Mr. Kendall had not spoken of
her during their walk together.  Albert was troubled and taken
aback.  In one way he would have liked to meet Helen very much
indeed.  They had not met since before the war.  But he did not,
somehow, wish to meet her just then.  He did not wish to meet
anyone who would speak of Madeline, or ask embarrassing questions.
He turned to go.

"Another time, Mr. Kendall," he said.  "Good morning."

But he had gone only a few yards when the reverend gentleman was
calling to him to return.

"Albert!  Albert!" called Mr. Kendall.

He was obliged to turn back, he could do nothing else, and as he
did so the door opened.  It was Helen who opened it and she stood
there upon the threshold and looked down at him.  For a moment, a
barely perceptible interval, she looked, then he heard her catch
her breath quickly and saw her put one hand upon the door jamb as
if for support.  The next, and she was running down the steps, her
hands outstretched and the light of welcome in her eyes.

"Why, Albert Speranza!" she cried.  "Why, ALBERT!"

He seized her hands.  "Helen!" he cried, and added involuntarily,
"My, but it's good to see you again!"

She laughed and so did he.  All his embarrassment was gone.  They
were like two children, like the boy and girl who had known each
other in the old days.

"And when did you get here?" she asked.  "And what do you mean by
surprising us like this?  I saw your grandfather yesterday morning
and he didn't say a word about your coming."

"He didn't know I was coming.  I didn't know it myself until the
day before.  And when did you come?  Your father didn't tell me you
were here.  I didn't know until I heard him call your name."

He was calling it again.  Calling it and demanding attention for
his precious codfish.

"Yes, Father, yes, in a minute, " she said.  Then to Albert, "Come
in.  Oh, of course you'll come in."

"Why, yes, if I won't be interfering with the housekeeping."

"You won't.  Yes, Father, yes, I'm coming.  Mercy, where did you
get such a wonderful fish?  Come in, Albert.  As soon as I get
Father's treasure safe in the hands of Maria I'll be back.  Father
will keep you company.  No, pardon me, I am afraid he won't, he's
gone to the kitchen already.  And I shall have to go, too, for just
a minute.  I'll hurry."

She hastened to the kitchen, whither Mr. Kendall, tugging the fish
basket, had preceded her.  Albert entered the little sitting-room
and sat down in a chair by the window.  The room looked just as it
used to look, just as neat, just as homelike, just as well kept.
And when she came back and they began to talk, it seemed to him
that she, too, was just as she used to be.  She was a trifle less
girlish, more womanly perhaps, but she was just as good to look at,
just as bright and cheerful and in her conversation she had the
same quietly certain way of dealing directly with the common-sense
realities and not the fuss and feathers.  It seemed to him that she
had not changed at all, that she herself was one of the realities,
the wholesome home realities, like Captain Zelotes and Olive and
the old house they lived in.  He told her so.  She laughed.

"You make me feel as ancient as the pyramids," she said.

He shook his head.  "I am the ancient," he declared.  "This war
hasn't changed you a particle, Helen, but it has handed me an awful
jolt.  At times I feel as if I must have sailed with Noah.  And as
if I had wasted most of the time since."

She smiled.  "Just what do you mean by that?" she asked.

"I mean--well, I don't know exactly what I do mean, I guess.  I
seem to have an unsettled feeling.  I'm not satisfied with myself.
And as I remember myself," he added, with a shrug, "that condition
of mind was not usual with me."

She regarded him for a moment without speaking, with the appraising
look in her eyes which he remembered so well, which had always
reminded him of the look in his grandfather's eyes, and which when
a boy he resented so strongly.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I think you have changed.  Not because
you say you feel so much older or because you are uneasy and
dissatisfied.  So many of the men I talked with at the camp
hospital, the men who had been over there and had been wounded, as
you were, said they felt the same way.  That doesn't mean anything,
I think, except that it is dreadfully hard to get readjusted again
and settle down to everyday things.  But it seems to me that you
have changed in other ways.  You are a little thinner, but broader,
too, aren't you?  And you do look older, especially about the eyes.
And, of course--well, of course I think I do miss a little of the
Albert Speranza I used to know, the young chap with the chip on his
shoulder for all creation to knock off."

"Young jackass!"

"Oh, no indeed.  He had his good points.  But there! we're wasting
time and we have so much to talk about.  You--why, what am I
thinking of!  I have neglected the most important thing in the
world.  And you have just returned from New York, too.  Tell me,
how is Madeline Fosdick?"

"She is well.  But tell me about yourself.  You have been in all
sorts of war work, haven't you.  Tell me about it."

"Oh, my work didn't amount to much.  At first I 'Red Crossed' in
Boston, then I went to Devens and spent a long time in the camp
hospital there."

"Pretty trying, wasn't it?"

"Why--yes, some of it was.  When the 'flu' epidemic was raging and
the poor fellows were having such a dreadful time it was bad
enough.  After that I was sent to Eastview.  In the hospital there
I met the boys who had been wounded on the other side and who
talked about old age and dissatisfaction and uneasiness, just as
you do.  But MY work doesn't count.  You are the person to be
talked about.  Since I have seen you you have become a famous poet
and a hero and--"

"Don't!"

She had been smiling; now she was very serious.

"Forgive me, Albert," she said.  "We have been joking, you and I,
but there was a time when we--when your friends did not joke.  Oh,
Albert, if you could have seen the Snow place as I saw it then.  It
was as if all the hope and joy and everything worth while had been
crushed out of it.  Your grandmother, poor little woman, was brave
and quiet, but we all knew she was trying to keep up for Captain
Zelotes' sake.  And he--Albert, you can scarcely imagine how the
news of your death changed him. . . .  Ah! well, it was a hard
time, a dreadful time for--for every one."

She paused and he, turning to look at her, saw that there were
tears in her eyes.  He knew of her affection for his grandparents
and theirs for her.  Before he could speak she was smiling again.

"But now that is all over, isn't it?" she said.  "And the Snows are
the happiest people in the country, I do believe.  AND the proudest,
of course.  So now you must tell me all about it, about your
experiences, and about your war cross, and about your literary
work--oh, about everything."

The all-inclusive narrative was not destined to get very far.  Old
Mr. Kendall came hurrying in, the sermon on the casting down of
Baal in his hand.  Thereafter he led, guided, and to a large extent
monopolized the conversation.  His discourse had proceeded perhaps
as far as "Thirdly" when Albert, looking at his watch, was
surprised to find it almost dinner time.  Mr. Kendall, still
talking, departed to his study to hunt for another sermon.  The
young people said good-by in his absence.

"It has been awfully good to see you again, Helen," declared
Albert.  "But I told you that in the beginning, didn't I?  You
seem like--well, like a part of home, you know.  And home means
something to me nowadays."

"I'm glad to hear you speak of South Harniss as home.  Of course I
know you don't mean to make it a permanent home--I imagine Madeline
would have something to say about that--but it is nice to have you
speak as if the old town meant something to you."

He looked about him.

"I love the place," he said simply.

"I am glad.  So do I; but then I have lived here all my life.  The
next time we talk I want to know more about your plans for the
future--yours and Madeline's, I mean.  How proud she must be of
you."

He looked up at her; she was standing upon the upper step and he on
the walk below.

"Madeline and I--" he began.  Then he stopped.  What was the use?
He did not want to talk about it.  He waved his hand and turned
away.

After dinner he went out into the kitchen to talk to Mrs. Ellis,
who was washing dishes.  She was doing it as she did all her share
of the housework, with an energy and capability which would have
delighted the soul of a "scientific management" expert.  Except
when under the spell of a sympathetic attack Rachel was ever
distinctly on the job.

And of course she was, as always, glad to see her protege, her
Robert Penfold.  The proprietary interest which she had always felt
in him was more than ever hers now.  Had not she been the sole
person to hint at the possibility of his being alive, when every
one else had given him up for dead?  Had not she been the only one
to suggest that he might have been taken prisoner?  Had SHE ever
despaired of seeing him again--on this earth and in the flesh?
Indeed, she had not; at least, she had never admitted it, if she
had.  So then, hadn't she a RIGHT to feel that she owned a share in
him?  No one ventured to dispute that right.

She turned and smiled over one ample shoulder when he entered the
kitchen.

"Hello," she hailed cheerfully.  "Come callin', have you, Robert--
Albert, I mean?  It would have been a great help to me if you'd
been christened Robert.  I call you that so much to myself it comes
almost more natural than the other.  On account of you bein' so
just like Robert Penfold in the book, you know," she added.

"Yes, yes, of course, Rachel, I understand," put in Albert hastily.
He was not in the mood to listen to a dissertation on a text taken
from Foul Play.  He looked about the room and sighed happily.

"There isn't a speck anywhere, is there?" he observed.  "It is just
as it used to be, just as I used to think of it when I was laid up
over there.  When I wanted to try and eat a bit, so as to keep what
strength I had, I would think about this kitchen of yours, Rachel.
It didn't do to think of the places where the prison stuff was
cooked.  They were not--appetizing."

Mrs. Ellis nodded.  "I presume likely not," she observed.  "Well,
don't tell me about 'em.  I've just scrubbed this kitchen from stem
to stern.  If I heard about those prison places, I'd feel like
startin' right in and scrubbin' it all over again, I know I
should. . . .  Dirty pigs!  I wish I had the scourin' of some of
those Germans!  I'd--I don't know as I wouldn't skin 'em alive."

Albert laughed.  "Some of them pretty nearly deserved it," he said.

Rachel smiled grimly.  "Well, let's talk about nice things," she
said.  "Oh, Issy Price was here this forenoon; Cap'n Lote sent him
over from the office on an errand, and he said he saw you and Mr.
Kendall goin' down street together just as he was comin' along.  He
hollered at you, but you didn't hear him.  'Cordin' to Issachar's
tell, you was luggin' a basket with Jonah's whale in it, or
somethin' like that."

Albert described his encounter with the minister.  Rachel was much
interested.

"Oh, so you saw Helen," she said.  "Well, I guess she was surprised
to see you."

"Not more than I was to see her.  I didn't know she was in town.
Not a soul had mentioned it--you nor Grandfather nor Grandmother."

The housekeeper answered without turning her head.  "Guess we had
so many things to talk about we forgot it," she said.  "Yes, she's
been here over a week now.  High time, from what I hear.  The poor
old parson has failed consider'ble and Maria Price's housekeepin'
and cookin' is enough to make a well man sick--or wish he was.  But
he'll be looked after now.  Helen will look after him.  She's the
most capable girl there is in Ostable County.  Did she tell you
about what she done in the Red Cross and the hospitals?"

"She said something about it, not very much."

"Um-hm.  She wouldn't, bein' Helen Kendall.  But the Red Cross
folks said enough, and they're sayin' it yet.  Why--"

She went on to tell of Helen's work in the Red Cross depots and in
the camp, and hospitals.  It was an inspiring story.

"There they was," said Rachel, "the poor things, just boys most of
'em, dyin' of that dreadful influenza like rats, as you might say.
And, of course it's dreadful catchin', and a good many was more
afraid of it than they would have been of bullets, enough sight.
But Helen Kendall wa'n't afraid--no, siree!  Why--"

And so on.  Albert listened, hearing most of it, but losing some as
his thoughts wandered back to the Helen he had known as a boy and
the Helen he had met that forenoon.  Her face, as she had welcomed
him at the parsonage door--it was surprising how clearly it showed
before his mind's eye.  He had thought at first that she had not
changed in appearance.  That was not quite true--she had changed a
little, but it was merely the fulfillment of a promise, that was
all.  Her eyes, her smile above a hospital bed--he could imagine
what they must have seemed like to a lonely, homesick boy wrestling
with the "flu."

"And, don't talk!" he heard the housekeeper say, as he drifted out
of his reverie, "if she wa'n't popular around that hospital, around
both hospitals, fur's that goes!  The patients idolized her, and
the other nurses they loved her, and the doctors--"

"Did they love her, too?" Albert asked, with a smile, as she
hesitated.

She laughed.  "Some of 'em did, I cal'late," she answered.  "You
see, I got most of my news about it all from Bessie Ryder,
Cornelius Ryder's niece, lives up on the road to the Center; you
used to know her, Albert.  Bessie was nursin' in that same
hospital, the one Helen was at first.  'Cordin' to her, there was
some doctor or officer tryin' to shine up to Helen most of the
time.  When she was at Eastview, so Bessie heard, there was a real
big-bug in the Army, a sort of Admiral or Commodore amongst the
doctors he was, and HE was trottin' after her, or would have been
if she'd let him.  'Course you have to make some allowances for
Bessie--she wouldn't be a Ryder if she didn't take so many words to
say so little that the truth gets stretched pretty thin afore she
finished--but there must have been SOMETHIN' in it.  And all about
her bein' such a wonderful nurse and doin' so much for the Red
Cross I KNOW is true. . . .  Eh?  Did you say anything, Albert?"

Albert shook his head.  "No, Rachel," he replied.  "I didn't
speak."

"I thought I heard you or somebody say somethin'.  I--  Why, Laban
Keeler, what are you doin' away from your desk this time in the
afternoon?"

Laban grinned as he entered the kitchen.

"Did I hear you say you thought you heard somebody sayin' somethin',
Rachel?" he inquired.  "That's queer, ain't it?  Seemed to me _I_
heard somebody sayin' somethin' as I come up the path just now.
Seemed as if they was sayin' it right here in the kitchen, too.
'Twasn't your voice, Albert, and it couldn't have been Rachel's,
'cause she NEVER talks--'specially to you.  It's too bad, the
prejudice she's got against you, Albert," he added, with a wink.
"Um-hm, too bad--yes, 'tis--yes, yes."

Mrs. Ellis sniffed.

"And that's what the newspapers in war time used to call--er--er--
oh, dear, what was it?--camel--seems's if 'twas somethin' about a
camel--"

"Camouflage?" suggested Albert.

"That's it.  All that talk about me is just camouflage to save him
answerin' my question.  But he's goin' to answer it.  What are you
doin' away from the office this time in the afternoon, I want to
know?"

Mr. Keeler perched his small figure on the corner of the kitchen
table.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Rachel," he said solemnly.  "I'm here
to do what the folks in books call demand an explanation.  You and
I, Rachel, are just as good as engaged to be married, ain't we?
I've been keepin' company with you for the last twenty, forty or
sixty years, some such spell as that.  Now, just as I'm gettin'
used to it and beginnin' to consider it a settled arrangement, as
you may say, I come into this house and find you shut up in the
kitchen with another man.  Now, what--"

The housekeeper advanced toward him with the dripping dishcloth.

"Laban Keeler," she threatened, "if you don't stop your foolishness
and answer my question, I declare I'll--"

Laban slid from his perch and retired behind the table.

"Another man," he repeated.  "And SOME folks--not many, of course,
but some--might be crazy enough to say he was a better-lookin' man
than I am.  Now, bein' ragin' jealous,--  All right, Rachel, all
right, I surrender.  Don't hit me with all those soapsuds.  I don't
want to go back to the office foamin' at the mouth.  The reason I'm
here is that I had to go down street to see about the sheathin' for
the Red Men's lodge room.  Issy took the order, but he wasn't real
sure whether 'twas sheathin' or scantlin' they wanted, so I told
Cap'n Lote I'd run down myself and straighten it out.  On the way
back I saw you two through the window and I thought I'd drop in and
worry you.  So here I am."

Mrs. Ellis nodded.  "Yes," she sniffed.  "And all that camel--
camel--  Oh, DEAR, what DOES ail me?  All that camel--  No use,
I've forgot it again."

"Never mind, Rachel," said Mr. Keeler consolingly.  "All the--er--
menagerie was just that and nothin' more.  Oh, by the way, Al," he
added, "speakin' of camels--don't you think I've done pretty well
to go so long without any--er--liquid nourishment?  Not a drop
since you and I enlisted together. . . .  Oh, she knows about it
now," he added, with a jerk of his head in the housekeeper's
direction.  "I felt 'twas fairly safe and settled, so I told her.
I told her.  Yes, yes, yes.  Um-hm, so I did."

Albert turned to the lady.

"You should be very proud of him, Rachel," he said seriously.  "I
think I realize a little something of the fight he has made, and it
is bully.  You should be proud of him."

Rachel looked down at the little man.

"I am," she said quietly.  "I guess likely he knows it."

Laban smiled.  "The folks in Washington are doin' their best to
help me out," he said.  "They're goin' to take the stuff away from
everybody so's to make sure _I_ don't get any more.  They'll
probably put up a monument to me for startin' the thing; don't you
think they will, Al?  Eh?  Don't you, now?"

Albert and he walked up the road together.  Laban told a little
more of his battle with John Barleycorn.

"I had half a dozen spells when I had to set my teeth, those I've
got left, and hang on," he said.  "And the hangin'-on wa'n't as
easy as stickin' to fly-paper, neither.  Honest, though, I think
the hardest was when the news came that you was alive, Al.  I--I
just wanted to start in and celebrate.  Wanted to whoop her up, I
did."  He paused a moment and then added, "I tried whoopin' on
sass'parilla and vanilla sody, but 'twa'n't satisfactory.  Couldn't
seem to raise a real loud whisper, let alone a whoop.  No, I
couldn't--no, no."

Albert laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder.  "You're all right,
Labe," he declared.  "I know you, and I say so."

Laban slowly shook his head.  His smile, as he answered, was rather
pathetic.

"I'm a long, long ways from bein' all right, Al," he said.  "A long
ways from that, I am.  If I'd made my fight thirty year ago, I
might have been nigher to amountin' to somethin'. . . .  Oh, well,
for Rachel's sake I'm glad I've made it now.  She's stuck to me
when everybody would have praised her for chuckin' me to Tophet.  I
was readin' one of Thackeray's books t'other night--Henry Esmond,
'twas; you've read it, Al, of course; I was readin' it t'other
night for the ninety-ninth time or thereabouts, and I run across
the place where it says it's strange what a man can do and a woman
still keep thinkin' he's an angel.  That's true, too, Al.  Not,"
with the return of the slight smile, "that Rachel ever went so far
as to call me an angel.  No, no.  There's limits where you can't
stretch her common-sense any farther.  Callin' me an angel would be
just past the limit.  Yes, yes, yes.  I guess SO."

They spoke of Captain Zelotes and Olive and of their grief and
discouragement when the news of Albert's supposed death reached
them.

"Do you know," said Labe, "I believe Helen Kendall's comin' there
for a week did 'em more good than anything else.  She got away from
her soldier nursin' somehow--must have been able to pull the
strings consider'ble harder'n the average to do it--and just came
down to the Snow place and sort of took charge along with Rachel.
Course she didn't live there, her father thought she was visitin'
him, I guess likely, but she was with Cap'n Lote and Olive most of
the time.  Rachel says she never made a fuss, you understand, just
was there and helped and was quiet and soft-spoken and capable and--
and comfortin', that's about the word, I guess.  Rachel always
thought a sight of Helen afore that, but since then she swears by
her."

That evening--or, rather, that night, for they did not leave the
sitting room until after twelve--Mrs. Snow heard her grandson
walking the floor of his room, and called to ask if he was sick.

"I'm all right, Grandmother," he called in reply.  "Just taking a
little exercise before turning in, that's all.  Sorry if I
disturbed you."

The exercise was, as a matter of fact, almost entirely mental, the
pacing up and down merely an unconscious physical accompaniment.
Albert Speranza was indulging in introspection.  He was reviewing
and assorting his thoughts and his impulses and trying to determine
just what they were and why they were and whither they were
tending.  It was a mental and spiritual picking to pieces and the
result was humiliating and in its turn resulted in a brand-new
determination.

Ever since his meeting with Helen, a meeting which had been quite
unpremeditated, he had thought of but little except her.  During
his talk with her in the parsonage sitting room he had been--there
was no use pretending to himself that it was otherwise--more
contented with the world, more optimistic, happier, than he had
been for months, it seemed to him for years.  Even while he was
speaking to her of his uneasiness and dissatisfaction he was dimly
conscious that at that moment he was less uneasy and less
dissatisfied, conscious that the solid ground was beneath his feet
at last, that here was the haven after the storm, here was--

He pulled up sharply.  This line of thought was silly, dangerous,
wicked.  What did it mean?  Three days before, only three days, he
had left Madeline Fosdick, the girl whom he had worshiped, adored,
and who had loved him.  Yes, there was no use pretending there,
either; he and Madeline HAD loved each other.  Of course he
realized now that their love had nothing permanently substantial
about it.  It was the romance of youth, a dream which they had
shared together and from which, fortunately for both, they had
awakened in time.  And of course he realized, too, that the
awakening had begun long, long before the actual parting took
place.  But nevertheless only three days had elapsed since that
parting, and now--  What sort of a man was he?

Was he like his father?  Was it what Captain Zelotes used to call
the "Portygee streak" which was now cropping out?  The opera singer
had been of the butterfly type--in his later years a middle-aged
butterfly whose wings creaked somewhat--but decidedly a flitter
from flower to flower.  As a boy, Albert had been aware, in an
uncertain fashion, of his father's fondness for the sex.  Now,
older, his judgment of his parent was not as lenient, was clearer,
more discerning.  He understood now.  Was his own "Portygee
streak," his inherited temperament, responsible for his leaving one
girl on a Tuesday and on Friday finding his thoughts concerned so
deeply with another?

Well, no matter, no matter.  One thing was certain--Helen should
never know of that feeling.  He would crush it down, he would use
his common-sense.  He would be a decent man and not a blackguard.
For he had had his chance and had tossed it away.  What would she
think of him now if he came to her after Madeline had thrown him
over--that is what Mrs. Fosdick would say, would take pains that
every one else should say, that Madeline had thrown him over--what
would Helen think of him if he came to her with a second-hand love
like that?

And of course she would not think of him as a lover at all.  Why
should she?  In the boy and girl days she had refused to let him
speak of such a thing.  She was his friend, a glorious, a wonderful
friend, but that was all, all she ever dreamed of being.

Well, that was right; that was as it should be.  He should be
thankful for such a friend.  He was, of course.  And he would
concentrate all his energies upon his work, upon his writing.
That was it, that was it.  Good, it was settled!

So he went to bed and, eventually, to sleep.

CHAPTER XIX

While dressing in the cold light of dawn his perturbations of the
previous night appeared in retrospect as rather boyish and
unnecessary.  His sudden and unexpected meeting with Helen and
their talk together had tended to make him over-sentimental, that
was all.  He and she were to be friends, of course, but there was
no real danger of his allowing himself to think of her except as a
friend.  No, indeed.  He opened the bureau drawer in search of a
tie, and there was the package of "snapshots" just where he had
tossed them that night when he first returned home after muster-
out.  Helen's photograph was the uppermost.  He looked at it--
looked at it for several minutes.  Then he closed the drawer again
and hurriedly finished his dressing.  A part, at least, of his
resolve of the night before had been sound common-sense.  His brain
was suffering from lack of exercise.  Work was what he needed, hard
work.

So to work he went without delay.  A place to work in was the first
consideration.  He suggested the garret, but his grandmother and
Rachel held up their hands and lifted their voices in protest.

"No, INDEED," declared Olive.  "Zelotes has always talked about
writin' folks and poets starvin' in garrets.  If you went up attic
to work he'd be teasin' me from mornin' to night.  Besides, you'd
freeze up there, if the smell of moth-balls didn't choke you first.
No, you wait; I've got a notion.  There's that old table desk of
Zelotes' in the settin' room.  He don't hardly ever use it
nowadays.  You take it upstairs to your own room and work in there.
You can have the oil-heater to keep you warm."

So that was the arrangement made, and in his own room Albert sat
down at the battered old desk, which had been not only his
grandfather's but his great-grandfather's property, to concentrate
upon the first of the series of stories ordered by the New York
magazine.  He had already decided upon the general scheme for the
series.  A boy, ragamuffin son of immigrant parents, rising, after
a wrong start, by sheer grit and natural shrewdness and ability,
step by step to competence and success, winning a place in and the
respect of a community.  There was nothing new in the idea itself.
Some things his soldier chum Mike Kelley had told him concerning an
uncle of his--Mike's--suggested it.  The novelty he hoped might
come from the incidents, the various problems faced by his hero,
the solution of each being a step upward in the latter's career and
in the formation of his character.  He wanted to write, if he
could, the story of the building of one more worth-while American,
for Albert Speranza, like so many others set to thinking by the war
and the war experiences, was realizing strongly that the gabbling
of a formula and the swearing of an oath of naturalization did not
necessarily make an American.  There were too many eager to take
that oath with tongue in cheek and knife in sleeve.  Too many, for
the first time in their lives breathing and speaking as free men,
thanks to the protection of Columbia's arm, yet planning to stab
their protectress in the back.

So Albert's hero was to be an American, an American to whom the
term meant the highest and the best.  If he had hunted a lifetime
for something to please and interest his grandfather he could not
have hit the mark nearer the center.  Cap'n Lote, of course,
pretended a certain measure of indifference, but that was for Olive
and Rachel's benefit.  It would never do for the scoffer to become
a convert openly and at once.  The feminine members of the household
clamored each evening to have the author read aloud his day's
installment.  The captain sniffed.

"Oh, dear, dear," with a groan, "now I've got to hear all that
made-up stuff that happened to a parcel of made-up folks that never
lived and never will.  Waste of time, waste of time.  Where's my
Transcript?"

But it was noticed--and commented upon, you may be sure--by his
wife and housekeeper that the Transcript was likely to be, before
the reading had progressed far, either in the captain's lap or on
the floor.  And when the discussion following the reading was under
way Captain Zelotes' opinions were expressed quite as freely as any
one's else.  Laban Keeler got into the habit of dropping in to
listen.

One fateful evening the reading was interrupted by the arrival of
Mr. Kendall.  The reverend gentleman had come to make a pastoral
call.  Albert's hero was in the middle of a situation.  The old
clergyman insisted upon the continuation of the reading.  It was
continued and so was the discussion following it; in fact, the
discussion seemed likely to go on indefinitely, for the visitor
showed no inclination of leaving.  At ten-thirty his daughter
appeared to inquire about him and to escort him home.  Then he
went, but under protest.  Albert walked to the parsonage with them.

"Now we've started somethin'," groaned the captain, as the door
closed.  "That old critter'll be cruisin' over here six nights out
of five from now on to tell Al just how to spin those yarns of his.
And he'll talk--and talk--and talk.  Ain't it astonishin' how such
a feeble-lookin' craft as he is can keep blowin' off steam that way
and still be able to navigate."

His wife took him to task.  "The idea," she protested, "of your
callin' your own minister a 'critter'!  I should think you'd be
ashamed. . . .  But, oh, dear, I'm afraid he WILL be over here an
awful lot."

Her fears were realized.  Mr. Kendall, although not on hand "six
nights out of five," as the captain prophesied, was a frequent
visitor at the Snow place.  As Albert's story-writing progressed
the discussions concerning the growth and development of the hero's
character became more and more involved and spirited.  They were
for the most part confined, when the minister was present, to him
and Mrs. Snow and Rachel.  Laban, if he happened to be there, sat
well back in the corner, saying little except when appealed to, and
then answering with one of his dry, characteristic observations.
Captain Lote, in the rocker, his legs crossed, his hand stroking
his beard, and with the twinkle in his eyes, listened, and spoke
but seldom.  Occasionally, when he and his grandson exchanged
glances, the captain winked, indicating appreciation of the
situation.

"Say, Al," he said, one evening, after the old clergyman had
departed, "it must be kind of restful to have your work all laid
out for you this way.  Take it to-night, for instance; I don't see
but what everything's planned for this young feller you're writin'
about so you nor he won't have to think for yourselves for a
hundred year or such matter.  Course there's some little difference
in the plans.  Rachel wants him to get wrecked on an island or be
put in jail, and Mother, she wants him to be a soldier and a poet,
and Mr. Kendall thinks it's high time he joined the church or
signed the pledge or stopped swearin' or chewin' gum."

"Zelotes, how ridiculous you do talk!"

"All right, Mother, all right.  What strikes me, Al, is they don't
any of 'em stop to ask you what YOU mean to have him do.  Course I
know 'tain't any of your business, but still--seems 's if you might
be a little mite interested in the boy yourself."

Albert laughed.  "Don't worry, Grandfather," he said.  "I'm
enjoying it all very much.  And some of the suggestions may be just
what I'm looking for."

"Well, son, we'll hope so.  Say, Labe, I've got a notion for
keepin' the minister from doin' all the talkin.'  We'll ask Issy
Price to drop in; eh?"

Laban shook his head.  "I don't know, Cap'n Lote," he observed.
"Sounds to me a good deal like lettin' in a hurricane to blow out a
match with. . . .  Um-hm.  Seems so to me.  Yes, yes."

Mr. Kendall's calls would have been more frequent still had Helen
not interfered.  Very often, when he came she herself dropped in a
little later and insisted upon his making an early start for home.
Occasionally she came with him.  She, too, seemed much interested
in the progress of the stories, but she offered few suggestions.
When directly appealed to, she expressed her views, and they were
worth while.

Albert was resolutely adhering to his determination not to permit
himself to think of her except as a friend.  That is, he hoped he
was; thoughts are hard to control at times.  He saw her often.
They met on the street, at church on Sunday--his grandmother was
so delighted when he accompanied her to "meeting" that he did so
rather more frequently, perhaps, than he otherwise would--at the
homes of acquaintances, and, of course, at the Snow place.  When
she walked home with her father after a "story evening" he usually
went with them as additional escort.

She had not questioned him concerning Madeline since their first
meeting that morning at the parsonage.  He knew, therefore, that
some one--his grandmother, probably--had told her of the broken
engagement.  When they were alone together they talked of many
things, casual things, the generalities of which, so he told
himself, a conversation between mere friends was composed.  But
occasionally, after doing escort duty, after Mr. Kendall had gone
into the house to take his "throat medicine"--a medicine which
Captain Zelotes declared would have to be double-strength pretty
soon to offset the wear and tear of the story evenings--they talked
of matters more specific and which more directly concerned
themselves.  She spoke of her hospital work, of her teaching before
the war, and of her plans for the future.  The latter, of course,
were very indefinite now.

"Father needs me," she said, "and I shall not leave him while he
lives."

They spoke of Albert's work and plans most of all.  He began to ask
for advice concerning the former.  When those stories were written,
what then?  She hoped he would try the novel he had hinted at.

"I'm sure you can do it," she said.  "And you mustn't give up the
poems altogether.  It was the poetry, you know, which was the
beginning."

"YOU were the beginning," he said impulsively.  "Perhaps I should
never have written at all if you hadn't urged me, shamed me out of
my laziness."

"I was a presuming young person, I'm afraid," she said.  "I wonder
you didn't tell me to mind my own business.  I believe you did, but
I wouldn't mind."

June brought the summer weather and the summer boarders to South
Harniss.  One of the news sensations which came at the same time
was that the new Fosdick cottage had been sold.  The people who had
occupied it the previous season had bought it.  Mrs. Fosdick, so
rumor said, was not strong and her doctors had decided that the sea
air did not agree with her.

"Crimustee!" exclaimed Issachar, as he imparted the news to Mr.
Keeler, "if that ain't the worst.  Spend your money, and a pile of
money, too, buyin' ground, layin' of it out to build a house on to
live in, then buildin' that house and then, by crimus, sellin' it
to somebody else for THEM to live in.  That beats any foolishness
ever come MY way."

"And there's some consider'ble come your way at that, ain't they,
Is?" observed Laban, busy with his bookkeeping.

Issachar nodded.  "You're right there has," he said complacently.
"I . . .  What do you mean by that?  Tryin' to be funny again,
ain't you?"

Albert heard the news with a distinct feeling of relief.  While the
feeling on his part toward Madeline was of the kindliest, and
Madeline's was, he felt sure, the same toward him, nevertheless to
meet her day after day, as people must meet in a village no bigger
than South Harniss, would be awkward for both.  And to meet Mrs.
Fosdick might be more awkward still.  He smiled as he surmised that
the realization by the lady of that very awkwardness was probably
responsible for the discovery that sea air was not beneficial.

The story-writing and the story evenings continued.  Over the
fourth story in the series discussion was warm, for there were
marked differences of opinion among the listeners.  One of the
experiences through which Albert had brought his hero was that of
working as general assistant to a sharp, unscrupulous and smooth-
tongued rascal who was proprietor of a circus sideshow and fake
museum.  He was a kind-hearted swindler, but one who never let a
question of honesty interfere with the getting of a dollar.  In
this fourth story, to the town where the hero, now a man of twenty-
five, had established himself in business, came this cheat of other
days, but now he came as a duly ordained clergyman in answer to the
call of the local church.  The hero learned that he had not told
the governing body of that church of his former career.  Had he
done so, they most certainly would not have called him.  The
leading man in that church body was the hero's patron and kindest
friend.  The question:  What was the hero's duty in the matter?

Of course the first question asked was whether or not the ex-
sideshow proprietor was sincerely repentant and honestly trying to
walk the straight path and lead others along it.  Albert replied
that his hero had interviewed him and was satisfied that he was;
he had been "converted" at a revival and was now a religious
enthusiast whose one idea was to save sinners.

That was enough for Captain Zelotes.

"Let him alone, then," said the captain.  "He's tryin' to be a
decent man.  What do you want to do?  Tell on him and have him
chucked overboard from one church after another until he gets
discouraged and takes to swindlin' again?"

Rachel Ellis could not see it that way.

"If he was a saved sinner," she declared, "and repentant of his
sins, then he'd ought to repent 'em out loud.  Hidin' 'em ain't
repentin'.  And, besides, there's Donald's (Donald was the hero's
name) there's Donald's duty to the man that's been so good to him.
Is it fair to that man to keep still and let him hire a minister
that, like as not, will steal the collection, box and all, afore he
gets through?  No, sir, Donald ought to tell THAT man, anyhow."

Olive was pretty dubious about the whole scheme.  She doubted if
anybody connected with a circus COULD ever become a minister.

"The whole--er--er--trade is so different," she said.

Mr. Kendall was not there that evening, his attendance being
required at a meeting of the Sunday School teachers.  Helen,
however, was not at that meeting and Captain Zelotes declared his
intention of asking her opinion by telephone.

"She'll say same as I do--you see if she don't," he declared.  When
he called the parsonage, however, Maria Price answered the phone
and informed him that Helen was spending the evening with old Mrs.
Crowell, who lived but a little way from the Snow place.  The
captain promptly called up the Crowell house.

"She's there and she'll stop in here on her way along," he said
triumphantly.  "And she'll back me up--you see."

But she did not.  She did not "back up" any one.  She merely smiled
and declared the problem too complicated to answer offhand.

"Why don't you ask Albert?" she inquired.  "After all, he is the
one who must settle it eventually."

"He won't tell," said Olive.  "He's real provokin', isn't he?  And
now you won't tell, either, Helen."

"Oh, I don't know--yet.  But I think he does."

Albert, as usual, walked home with her.

"How are you going to answer your hero's riddle?" she asked.

"Before I tell you, suppose you tell me what your answer would be."

She reflected.  "Well," she said, "it seems to me that, all things
being as they are, he should do this:  He should go to the sideshow
man--the minister now--and have a very frank talk with him.  He
should tell him that he had decided to say nothing about the old
life and to help him in every way, to be his friend--provided that
he keep straight, that is all.  Of course more than that would be
meant, the alternative would be there and understood, but he need
not say it.  I think that course of action would be fair to himself
and to everybody.  That is my answer.  What is yours?"

He laughed quietly.  "Just that, of course," he said.  "You would
see it, I knew.  You always see down to the heart of things, Helen.
You have the gift."

She shook her head.  "It didn't really need a gift, this particular
problem, did it?" she said.  "It is not--excuse me--it isn't
exactly a new one."

"No, it isn't.  It is as old as the hills, but there are always new
twists to it."

"As there are to all our old problems."

"Yes.  By the way, your advice about the ending of my third story
was exactly what I needed.  The editor wrote me he should never
have forgiven me if it had ended in any other way.  It probably
WOULD have ended in another way if it hadn't been for you.  Thank
you, Helen."

"Oh, you know there was really nothing to thank me for.  It was all
you, as usual.  Have you planned the next story, the fifth, yet?"

"Not entirely.  I have some vague ideas.  Do you want to hear
them?"

"Of course."

So they discussed those ideas as they walked along the sidewalk of
the street leading down to the parsonage.  It was a warm evening, a
light mist, which was not substantial enough to be a fog, hanging
low over everything, wrapping them and the trees and the little
front yards and low houses of the old village in a sort of cozy,
velvety, confidential quiet.  The scent of lilacs was heavy in the
air.

They both were silent.  Just when they had ceased speaking neither
could have told.  They walked on arm in arm and suddenly Albert
became aware that this silence was dangerous for him; that in it
all his resolves and brave determinations were melting into mist
like that about him; that he must talk and talk at once and upon a
subject which was not personal, which--

And then Helen spoke.

"Do you know what this reminds me of?" she said.  "All this talk of
ours?  It reminds me of how we used to talk over those first poems
of yours.  You have gone a long way since then."

"I have gone to Kaiserville and back."

"You know what I mean.  I mean your work has improved wonderfully.
You write with a sure hand now, it seems to me.  And your view is
so much broader."

"I hope I'm not the narrow, conceited little rooster I used to be.
I told you, Helen, that the war handed me an awful jolt.  Well, it
did.  I think it, or my sickness or the whole business together,
knocked most of that self-confidence of mine galley-west.  For so
much I'm thankful."

"I don't know that I am, altogether.  I don't want you to lose
confidence in yourself.  You should be confident now because you
deserve to be.  And you write with confidence, or it reads as if
you did.  Don't you feel that you do, yourself?  Truly, don't you?"

"Well, perhaps, a little.  I have been at it for some time now.  I
ought to show some progress.  Perhaps I don't make as many mistakes."

"I can't see that you have made any."

"I have made one . . . a damnable one."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing.  I didn't mean to say that. . . .  Helen, do you know
it is awfully good of you to take all this interest in me--in my
work, I mean.  Why do you do it?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why?"

"Why, because--  Why shouldn't I?  Haven't we always talked about
your writings together, almost since we first knew each other?
Aren't we old friends?"

There it was again--friends.  It was like a splash of cold water in
the face, at once awakening and chilling.  Albert walked on in
silence for a few moments and then began speaking of some trivial
subject entirely disconnected with himself or his work or her.
When they reached the parsonage door he said good night at once and
strode off toward home.

Back in his room, however, he gave himself another mental picking
to pieces.  He was realizing most distinctly that this sort of
thing would not do.  It was easy to say that his attitude toward
Helen Kendall was to be that of a friend and nothing more, but it
was growing harder and harder to maintain that attitude.  He had
come within a breath that very night of saying what was in his
heart.

Well, if he had said it, if he did say it--what then?  After all,
was there any real reason why he should not say it?  It was true
that he had loved, or fancied that he loved, Madeline, that he had
been betrothed to her--but again, what of it?  Broken engagements
were common enough, and there was nothing disgraceful in this one.
Why not go to Helen and tell her that his fancied love for Madeline
had been the damnable mistake he had confessed making.  Why not
tell her that since the moment when he saw her standing in the
doorway of the parsonage on the morning following his return from
New York he had known that she was the only woman in the world for
him, that it was her image he had seen in his dreams, in the
delirium of fever, that it was she, and not that other, who--

But there, all this was foolishness, and he knew it.  He did not
dare say it.  Not for one instant had she, by speech or look or
action, given him the slightest encouragement to think her feeling
for him was anything but friendship.  And that friendship was far
too precious to risk.  He must not risk it.  He must keep still, he
must hide his thoughts, she must never guess.  Some day, perhaps,
after a year or two, after his position in his profession was more
assured, then he might speak.  But even then there would be that
risk.  And the idea of waiting was not pleasant.  What had Rachel
told him concerning the hosts of doctors and officers and generals
who had been "shining up" to her.  Some risk there, also.

Well, never mind.  He would try to keep on as he had been going for
the present.  He would try not to see her as frequently.  If the
strain became unbearable he might go away somewhere--for a time.

He did not go away, but he made it a point not to see her as
frequently.  However, they met often even as it was.  And he was
conscious always that the ice beneath his feet was very, very thin.

One wonderful August evening he was in his room upstairs.  He was
not writing.  He had come up there early because he wished to think,
to consider.  A proposition had been made to him that afternoon, a
surprising proposition--to him it had come as a complete surprise--
and before mentioning it even to his grandparents he wished to
think it over very carefully.

About ten o'clock his grandfather called to him from the foot of
the stairs and asked him to come down.

"Mr. Kendall's on the phone," said Captain Zelotes.  "He's worried
about Helen.  She's up to West Harniss sittin' up along of Lurany
Howes, who's been sick so long.  She ain't come home, and the old
gentleman's frettin' about her walkin' down from there alone so
late.  I told him I cal'lated you'd just as soon harness Jess and
drive up and get her.  You talk with him yourself, Al."

Albert did and, after assuring the nervous clergyman that he would
see that his daughter reached home safely, put on his hat and went
out to the barn.  Jessamine was asleep in her stall.  As he was
about to lead her out he suddenly remembered that one of the traces
had broken that morning and Captain Zelotes had left it at the
harness-maker's to be mended.  It was there yet.  The captain had
forgotten the fact, and so had he.  That settled the idea of using
Jessamine and the buggy.  Never mind, it was a beautiful night and
the walk was but little over a mile.

When he reached the tiny story-and-a-half Howes cottage, sitting
back from the road upon the knoll amid the tangle of silverleaf
sprouts, it was Helen herself who opened the door.  She was
surprised to see him, and when he explained his errand she was a
little vexed.

"The idea of Father's worrying," she said.  "Such a wonderful night
as this, bright moonlight, and in South Harniss, too.  Nothing ever
happens to people in South Harniss.  I will be ready in a minute or
two.  Mrs. Howes' niece is here now and will stay with her until
to-morrow.  Then her sister is coming to stay a month.  As soon as
I get her medicine ready we can go."

The door of the tiny bedroom adjoining the sitting room was open,
and Albert, sitting upon the lounge with the faded likeness of a
pink dog printed on the plush cover, could hear the querulous voice
of the invalid within.  The widow Howes was deaf and, as Laban
Keeler described it, "always hollered loud enough to make herself
hear" when she spoke.  Helen was moving quietly about the sick room
and speaking in a low tone.  Albert could not hear what she said,
but he could hear Lurania.

"You're a wonder, that's what you be," declared the latter, "and I
told your pa so last time he was here.  'She's a saint,' says I,
'if ever there was one on this earth.  She's the nicest, smartest,
best-lookin' girl in THIS town and . . .' eh?"

There had been a murmur, presumably of remonstrance, from Helen.

"Eh?"

Another murmur.

"EH?  WHO'D you say was there?"

A third murmur.

"WHO? . . .  Oh, that Speranzy one?  Lote Snow's grandson?  The one
they used to call the Portygee? . . .  Eh?  Well, all right, I
don't care if he did hear me.  If he don't know you're nice and
smart and good-lookin', it's high time he did."

Helen, a trifle embarrassed but laughing, emerged a moment later,
and when she had put on her hat she and Albert left the Howes
cottage and began their walk home.  It was one of those nights such
as Cape Codders, year-rounders or visitors, experience three or
four times during a summer and boast of the remainder of the year.
A sky clear, deep, stretched cloudless from horizon to horizon.
Every light at sea or on shore, in cottage window or at masthead or
in lighthouse or on lightship a twinkling diamond point.  A moon,
apparently as big as a barrel-head, hung up in the east and below
it a carpet of cold fire, of dancing, spangled silver spread upon
the ocean.  The sound of the surf, distant, soothing; and for the
rest quiet and the fragrance of the summer woods and fields.

They walked rather fast at first and the conversation was brisk,
but as the night began to work its spell upon them their progress
was slower and there were intervals of silence of which neither was
aware.  They came to the little hill where the narrow road from
West Harniss comes to join the broader highway leading to the
Center.  There were trees here, a pine grove, on the landward side,
and toward the sea nothing to break the glorious view.

Helen caught her breath.  "Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful!" she
said.

Albert did not answer.  "Why don't you talk?" she asked.  "What are
you thinking about?"

He did not tell her what he was thinking about.  Instead, having
caught himself just in time, he began telling her of what he had
been thinking when his grandfather called him to the telephone.

"Helen," he said, "I want to ask your advice.  I had an astonishing
proposal made to me this afternoon.  I must make a decision, I must
say yes or no, and I'm not sure which to say."

She looked up at him inquiringly.

"This afternoon," he went on, "Doctor Parker called me into his
office.  There was a group of men there, prominent men in politics
from about the country; Judge Baxter from Ostable was there, and
Captain Warren from South Denboro, and others like them.  What do
you suppose they want me to do?"

"I can't imagine."

"They offer me the party nomination for Congress from this section.
That is, of course, they want me to permit my name to stand and
they seem sure my nomination will be confirmed by the voters.  The
nomination, they say, is equivalent to election.  They seem certain
of it. . . .  And they were insistent that I accept."

"Oh--oh, Albert!"

"Yes.  They said a good many flattering things, things I should
like to believe.  They said my war record and my writing and all
that had made me a prominent man in the county--  Please don't
think I take any stock in that--"

"But _I_ do.  Go on."

"Well, that is all.  They seemed confident that I would make a good
congressman.  I am not so sure.  Of course the thing . . . well, it
does tempt me, I confess.  I could keep on with my writing, of
course.  I should have to leave the home people for a part of the
year, but I could be with them or near them the rest.  And . . .
well, Helen, I--I think I should like the job.  Just now, when
America needs Americans and the thing that isn't American must be
fought, I should like--if I were sure I was capable of it--"

"Oh, but you are--you ARE."

"Do you really think so?  Would you like to have me try?"

He felt her arm tremble upon his.  She drew a long breath.

"Oh, I should be so PROUD!" she breathed.

There was a quiver in her voice, almost a sob.  He bent toward her.
She was looking off toward the sea, the moonlight upon her face was
like a glory, her eyes were shining--and there were tears in them.
His heart throbbed wildly.

"Helen!" he cried.  "Helen!"

She turned and looked up into his face.  The next moment her own
face was hidden against his breast, his arms were about her,
and . . . and the risk, the risk he had feared to take, was taken.

They walked home after a time, but it was a slow, a very slow walk
with many interruptions.

"Oh, Helen," he kept saying, "I don't see how you can.  How can
you?  In spite of it all.  I--I treated you so badly.  I was SUCH
an idiot.  And you really care?  You really do?"

She laughed happily.  "I really do . . . and . . . and I really
have, all the time."

"Always?"

"Always."

"Well--well, by George!  And . . . Helen, do you know I think--
I think I did too--always--only I was such a young fool I didn't
realize it.  WHAT a young fool I was!"

"Don't say that, dear, don't. . . .  You are going to be a great
man.  You are a famous one already; you are going to be great.
Don't you know that?"

He stooped and kissed her.

"I think I shall have to be," he said, "if I am going to be worthy
of you."

CHAPTER XX

Albert, sitting in the private office of Z. Snow and Co., dropped
his newspaper and looked up with a smile as his grandfather came
in.  Captain Zelotes' florid face was redder even than usual, for
it was a cloudy day in October and blowing a gale.

"Whew!" puffed the captain, pulling off his overcoat and striding
over to warm his hands at the stove; "it's raw as January comin'
over the tops of those Trumet hills, and blowin' hard enough to
part your back hair, besides.  One time there I didn't know but
I'd have to reef, cal'late I would if I'd known how to reef an
automobile."

"Is the car running as well as ever?" asked Albert.

"You bet you!  Took all but two of those hills on full steam and
never slowed down a mite.  Think of goin' to Trumet and back in a
forenoon, and havin' time enough to do the talkin' I went to do
besides.  Why, Jess would have needed the whole day to make the
down cruise, to say nothin' of the return trip.  Well, the old
gal's havin' a good rest now, nothin' much to do but eat and sleep.
She deserves it; she's been a good horse for your grandma and me."

He rubbed his hands before the stove and chuckled.

"Olive's still scared to death for fear I'll get run into, or run
over somebody or somethin'," he observed.  "I tell her I can
navigate that car now the way I used to navigate the old President
Hayes, and I could do that walkin' in my sleep.  There's a little
exaggeration there," he added, with a grin.  "It takes about all my
gumption when I'm wide awake to turn the flivver around in a narrow
road, but I manage to do it. . . .  Well, what are you doin' in
here, Al?" he added.  "Readin' the Item's prophesy about how big
your majority's goin' to be?"

Albert smiled.  "I dropped in here to wait for you, Grandfather,"
he replied.  "The novel-writing mill wasn't working particularly
well, so I gave it up and took a walk."

"To the parsonage, I presume likely?"

"Well, I did stop there for a minute or two."

"You don't say!  I'm surprised to hear it.  How is Helen this
mornin'?  Did she think you'd changed much since you saw her last
night?"

"I don't know.  She didn't say so if she did.  She sent her love to
you and Grandmother--"

"What she had left over, you mean."

"And said to tell you not to tire yourself out electioneering for
me.  That was good advice, too.  Grandfather, don't you know that
you shouldn't motor all the way to Trumet and back a morning like
this?  I'd rather--much rather go without the votes than have you
do such things."

Captain Zelotes seated himself in his desk chair.

"But you ain't goin' to do without 'em," he chuckled.  Obed Nye--
he's chairman of the Trumet committee--figgers you'll have a five-
to-one majority.  He told me to practice callin' you 'the
Honorable' because that's what you'd be by Tuesday night of week
after next.  And next winter Mother and I will be takin' a trip to
Washin'ton so as to set in the gallery and listen to you makin'
speeches.  We'll be some consider'ble proud of you, too, boy," he
added, with a nod.

His grandson looked away, out of the window, over the bleak yard
with its piles of lumber.  The voice of Issacher raised in
expostulation with the driver of Cahoon's "truck-wagon" could be
faintly heard.

"I shall hate to leave you and Grandmother and the old place," he
said.  "If I am elected--"

"WHEN you're elected; there isn't any 'if.'"

"Well, all right.  I shall hate to leave South Harniss.  Every
person I really care for will be here.  Helen--and you people at
home."

"It's too bad you and Helen can't be married and go to Washin'ton
together.  Not to stay permanent," he added quickly, "but just
while Congress is in session.  Your grandma says then she'd feel as
if you had somebody to look after you.  She always figgers, you
know, that a man ain't capable of lookin' out for himself.  There'd
ought to be at least one woman to take care of him, see that he
don't get his feet wet and goes to meetin' reg'lar and so on; if
there could be two, so much the better.  Mother would have made a
pretty good Mormon, in some ways."

Albert laughed.  "Helen feels she must stay with her father for the
present," he said.  "Of course she is right.  Perhaps by and by we
can find some good capable housekeeper to share the responsibility,
but not this winter.  IF I am sent to Washington I shall come back
often, you may be sure."

"When ARE you cal'latin' to be married, if that ain't a secret?"

"Perhaps next spring.  Certainly next fall.  It will depend upon
Mr. Kendall's health.  But, Grandfather, I do feel rather like a
deserter, going off and leaving you here--"

"Good Lord!  You don't cal'late I'M breakin' down, runnin' strong
to talk and weakenin' everywhere else, like old Minister Kendall,
do you?"

"Well, hardly.  But . . . well, you see, I have felt a little
ungrateful ever since I came back from the war.  In a way I am
sorry that I feel I must give myself entirely to my writing--and my
political work.  I wish I might have gone on here in this office,
accepted that partnership you would have given me--"

"You can have it yet, you know.  Might take it and just keep it to
fall back on in case that story-mill of yours busts altogether or
all hands in Ostable County go crazy and vote the wrong ticket.
Just take it and wait.  Always well to have an anchor ready to let
go, you know."

"Thanks, but that wouldn't be fair.  I wish I MIGHT have taken it--
for your sake.  I wish for your sake I were so constituted as to be
good for something at it.  Of course I don't mean by that that I
should be willing to give up my writing--but--well, you see,
Grandfather, I owe you an awful lot in this world . . . and I know
you had set your heart on my being your partner in Z. Snow and Co.
I know you're disappointed."

Captain Lote did not answer instantly.  He seemed to be thinking.
Then he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a box of cigars
similar to those he had offered the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick on
the occasion of their memorable interview.

"Smoke, Al?" he asked.  Albert declined because of the nearness to
dinner time, but the captain, who never permitted meals or anything
else to interfere with his smoking, lighted one of the cigars and
leaned back in his chair, puffing steadily.

"We-ll, Al," he said slowly, "I'll tell you about that.  There was
a time--I'll own up that there was a time when the idea you wasn't
goin' to turn out a business man and the partner who would take
over this concern after I got my clearance papers was a notion I
wouldn't let myself think of for a minute.  I wouldn't THINK of it,
that's all.  But I've changed my mind about that, as I have about
some other things."  He paused, tugged at his beard, and then
added, "And I guess likely I might as well own up to the whole
truth while I'm about it:  I didn't change it because I wanted to,
but because I couldn't help it--'twas changed for me."

He made this statement more as if he were thinking aloud than as if
he expected a reply.  A moment later he continued.

"Yes, sir," he said, "'twas changed for me.  And," with a shrug,
"I'd rather prided myself that when my mind was made up it stayed
that way.  But--but, well, consarn it, I've about come to the
conclusion that I was a pig-headed old fool, Al, in some ways."

"Nonsense, Grandfather.  You are the last man to--"

"Oh, I don't mean a candidate for the feeble-minded school.  There
ain't been any Snows put there that I can remember, not our branch
of 'em, anyhow.  But, consarn it, I--I--" he was plainly finding
it hard to express his thought, "I--well, I used to think I knew
consider'ble, had what I liked to think was good, hard sense.
'Twas hard enough, I cal'late--pretty nigh petrified in spots."

Albert laid a hand on his knee.

"Don't talk like that," he replied impulsively.  "I don't like to
hear you."

"Don't you?  Then I won't.  But, you see, Al, it bothers me.  Look
how I used to talk about makin' up poetry and writin' yarns and all
that.  Used to call it silliness and a waste of time, I did--worse
names than that, generally.  And look what you're makin' at it in
money, to say nothin' of its shovin' you into Congress, and keepin'
the newspapers busy printin' stuff about you. . . .  Well, well,"
with a sigh of resignation, "I don't understand it yet, but know
it's so, and if I'd had my pig-headed way 'twouldn't have been so.
It's a dreadful belittlin' feelin' to a man at my time of life, a
man that's commanded ten-thousand-ton steamers and handled crews
and bossed a business like this.  It makes him wonder how many
other fool things he's done. . . .  Why, do you know, Al," he
added, in a sudden burst of confidence, "I was consider'ble
prejudiced against you when you first came here."

He made the statement as if he expected it to come as a stunning
surprise.  Albert would not have laughed for the world, nor in one
way did he feel like it, but it was funny.

"Well, perhaps you were, a little," he said gravely.  "I don't
wonder."

"Oh, I don't mean just because you was your father's son.  I mean
on your own account, in a way.  Somehow, you see, I couldn't
believe--eh?  Oh, come in, Labe!  It's all right.  Al and I are
just talkin' about nothin' in particular and all creation in
general."

Mr. Keeler entered with a paper in his hand.

"Sorry to bother you, Cap'n Lote," he said, "but this bill of Colby
and Sons for that last lot of hardware ain't accordin' to agreement.
The prices on those butts ain't right, and neither's those half-inch
screws.  Better send it back to em, eh?"

Captain Zelotes inspected the bill.

"Humph!" he grunted.  "You're right, Labe.  You generally are, I
notice.  Yes, send it back and tell 'em--anything you want to."

Laban smiled.  "I want to, all right," he said.  "This is the third
time they've sent wrong bills inside of two months.  Well, Al,"
turning toward him, "I cal'late this makes you kind of homesick,
don't it, this talk about bills and screws and bolts and such?
Wa'n't teasin' for your old job back again, was you, Al?  Cal'late
he could have it, couldn't he, Cap'n?  We'll need somebody to heave
a bucket of water on Issy pretty soon; he's gettin' kind of pert
and uppish again.  Pretty much so.  Yes, yes, yes."

He departed, chuckling.  Captain Zelotes looked after him.  He
tugged at his beard.

"Al," he said, "do you know what I've about made up my mind to do?"

Albert shook his head.

"I've about made up my mind to take Labe Keeler into the firm of
Z. Snow and Co.  YOU won't come in, and," with a twinkle, "I need
somebody to keep my name from gettin' lonesome on the sign."

Albert was delighted.

"Bully for you, Grandfather!" he exclaimed.  "You couldn't do a
better thing for Labe or for the firm.  And he deserves it, too."

"Ye-es, I think he does.  Labe's a mighty faithful, capable feller,
and now that he's sworn off on those vacations of his he can be
trusted anywheres.  Yes, I've as good as made up my mind to take
him in.  Of course," with the twinkle in evidence once more,
"Issachar'll be a little mite jealous, but we'll have to bear up
under that as best we can."

"I wonder what Labe will say when you tell him?"

"He'll say yes.  I'll tell Rachel first and she'll tell him to say
it.  And then I'll tell 'em both I won't do it unless they agree to
get married.  I've always said I didn't want to die till I'd been
to that weddin'.  I want to hear Rachel tell the minister she'll
'obey' Labe.  Ho, ho!"

"Do you suppose they ever will be married?"

"Why, yes, I kind of think so.  I shouldn't wonder if they would be
right off now if it wasn't that Rachel wouldn't think of givin' up
keepin' house for your grandmother.  She wouldn't do that and Labe
wouldn't want her to.  I've got to fix that somehow.  Perhaps they
could live along with us.  Land knows there's room enough.  They're
all right, those two.  Kind of funny to look at, and they match up
in size like a rubber boot and a slipper, but I declare I don't
know which has got the most common-sense or the biggest heart.  And
'twould be hard to tell which thinks the most of you, Al. . . .
Eh?  Why, it's after half-past twelve o'clock!  Olive'll be for
combin' our topknots with a belayin' pin if we keep her dinner
waitin' like this."

As they were putting on their coats the captain spoke again.

"I hadn't finished what I was sayin' to you when Labe came in," he
observed.  "'Twasn't much account; just a sort of confession, and
they say that's good for the soul.  I was just goin' to say that
when you first came here I was prejudiced against you, not only
because your father and I didn't agree, but because he was what he
was.  Because he was--was--"

Albert finished the sentence for him.

"A Portygee," he said.

"Why, yes, that's what I called him.  That's what I used to call
about everybody that wasn't born right down here in Yankeeland.  I
used to be prejudiced against you because you was what I called a
half-breed.  I'm sorry, Al.  I'm ashamed.  See what you've turned
out to be.  I declare, I--"

"Shh! shh!  Don't, Grandfather.  When I came here I was a little
snob, a conceited, insufferable little--"

"Here, here!  Hold on!  No, you wa'n't, neither.  Or if you was,
you was only a boy.  I was a man, and I ought to--"

"No, I'm going to finish.  Whatever I am now, or whatever I may be.
I owe to you, and to Grandmother, and Rachel and Laban--and Helen.
You made me over between you.  I know that now."

They walked home instead of riding in the new car.  Captain Zelotes
declared he had hung on to that steering wheel all the forenoon and
he was afraid if he took it again his fingers would grow fast to
the rim.  As they emerged from the office into the open air, he
said:

"Al, regardin' that makin'-over business, I shouldn't be surprised
if it was a kind of--er--mutual thing between you and me.  We both
had some prejudices to get rid of, eh?"

"Perhaps so.  I'm sure I did."

"And I'm sartin sure I did.  And the war and all that came with it
put the finishin' touches to the job.  When I think of what the
thousands and thousands of men did over there in those hell-holes
of trenches, men with names that run all the way from Jones and
Kelly to--er--"

"Speranza."

"Yes, and Whiskervitch and the land knows what more.  When I think
of that I'm ready to take off my hat to 'em and swear I'll never be
so narrow again as to look down on a feller because he don't happen
to be born in Ostable County.  There's only one thing I ask of 'em,
and that is that when they come here to live--to stay--under our
laws and takin' advantage of the privileges we offer 'em--they'll
stop bein' Portygees or Russians or Polacks or whatever they used
to be or their folks were, and just be Americans--like you, Al."

"That's what we must work for now, Grandfather.  It's a big job,
but it must be done."

They walked on in silence for a time.  Then the captain said:

"It's a pretty fine country, after all, ain't it, Albert?"

Albert looked about him over the rolling hills, the roofs of the
little town, the sea, the dunes, the pine groves, the scene which
had grown so familiar to him and which had become in his eyes so
precious.

"It is MY country," he declared, with emphasis.

His grandfather caught his meaning.

"I'm glad you feel that way, son," he said, "but 'twasn't just
South Harniss I meant then.  I meant all of it, the whole United
States.  It's got its faults, of course, lots of 'em.  And if I was
an Englishman or a Frenchman I'd probably say it wasn't as good as
England or France, whichever it happened to be.  That's all right;
I ain't findin' any fault with 'em for that--that's the way they'd
ought to feel.  But you and I, Al, we're Americans.  So the rest of
the world must excuse us if we say that, take it by and large, it's
a mighty good country.  We've planned for it, and worked for it,
and fought for it, and we know.  Eh?"

"Yes.  We know."

"Yes.  And no howlin', wild-eyed bunch from somewhere else that
haven't done any of these things are goin' to come here and run it
their way if we can help it--we Americans; eh?"

Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, American, drew a long breath.

"No!" he said, with emphasis.

"You bet!  Well, unless I'm mistaken, I smell salt fish and potatoes,
which, accordin' to Cape Cod notion, is a good American dinner.
I don't know how you feel, Al, but I'm hungry."

End of Project Gutenberg Etext of The Portygee by Joseph C. Lincoln