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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Toys, by 
+Henry Russell Miller
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The House of Toys
+
+Author: Henry Russell Miller
+
+Illustrator: Frank Snapp
+
+Release Date: February 13, 2008 [EBook #24603]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF TOYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HOUSE OF TOYS
+
+
+By
+
+HENRY RUSSELL MILLER
+
+
+
+_Author of_
+
+  THE MAN HIGHER UP, HIS RISE TO POWER
+  THE AMBITION OF MARK TRUITT
+
+
+
+
+WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
+
+FRANK SNAPP
+
+
+[Transcriber's note: Frontispiece missing from book]
+
+
+
+
+INDIANAPOLIS
+
+THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
+
+PUBLISHERS
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT 1914
+
+THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+CHAPTER.
+
+    I THE PLANS
+   II THE WITCH
+  III ON THE SANDS
+   IV TO THE RESCUE
+    V GOOD FAIRIES
+   VI SPELLS
+  VII SANCTUARY
+ VIII CERTAIN PLOTS
+   IX A NEW HOUSE
+    X AT THE DOOR
+   XI THE WITCH LAUGHS
+  XII WHICH HOUSE?
+ XIII THE HAPPY ENDING
+
+
+
+
+THE HOUSE OF TOYS
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+THE PLANS
+
+This is not a fairy tale, although you will find some old friends here.
+There is, for example, a witch, a horrid old creature who tricks the best
+and wisest of us: Circumstance is one of her many names, and a horde of
+grisly goblins follow in her train.  For crabbed beldame an aunt, who
+meant well but was rich and used to having her own way, will do fairly
+well.  Good fairies there are, quite a number; you must decide for
+yourself which one is the best.  But the tale has chiefly to do with a
+youth to whom the witch had made one gift, well knowing that one would
+not be enough.  Together with a girl--a sunflower who did not thrive in
+the shade, as Jim Blaisdell has said--he undertook to build, among other
+things, a house of love wherein she should dwell and reign.  But when it
+was built he met another girl, who was--say, an iris.  There are white
+irises, and very beautiful flowers they are.  From her--
+
+But that is the story.
+
+He was, then, tall, as well favored as is good for a young man, with
+straight-gazing though at times rather dreamy gray-green eyes, kinky
+brown hair and a frank friendly manner that was very engaging.  Since his
+tenth year he had been alone in the world, with a guardian trust company
+for sole relative.  But he tried to make up for that by having many
+friends.  He did not have to try very hard.
+
+Men liked him, which was much to his credit.  Those near his own age
+often made him a confidant in such matters as their ambitions and loves.
+His elders saw to it that he was asked not only to the things their wives
+and sisters gave but to week-ends in the family bosom as well.
+
+And women liked him, which was not so much to his credit, since we judge
+our own sex far more wisely than the other.  Old ladies praised his
+manners and visited his rooms, taking an active interest in his intimate
+wardrobe.  Younger women flirted with him ad libitum and used him
+unconscionably, sure that he would take no advantage.  Girls of sixteen
+or thereabouts secretly held him in awe and spun romances around him.  In
+return he gave them all a sort of reverence, thinking them superfine
+creatures who could do no meanness or wrong.  He envied his men friends
+who had mothers or sisters or wives to be served; in the life of a young
+man alone in the world there are gaps that even pleasant friendships can
+not fill.  He had a dream over which he used to burn much tobacco: of a
+day when he should not be alone.  He awaited impatiently the coming of
+that splendid day.
+
+Therefore he dabbled recklessly in the tender passion.  About twice a
+year on an average he fell experimentally in love.  It made him very sad
+that after a brief captivity his heart was always set free.
+
+Moreover, there was something about him that made his friends, men as
+well as women, say to one another, "Some of these days that Davy Quentin
+is going to do big things."  You have known young men like that; as often
+as not they continue through life a promise unfulfilled.
+
+In David's case the faith survived stubbornly on scanty nourishment.  He
+had been left a little patrimony sufficient to carry him beyond college,
+where he smoked the usual number of cigarettes, drank a limited quantity
+of beer and managed to pass his examinations respectably though not even
+_cum laude_.  After that he studied architecture, with more distinction
+because he had a real enthusiasm for the work, especially the
+ecclesiastical branch.  And it happened that soon after he hung out his
+shingle he won a prize offered by a magazine for plans for a
+three-thousand-dollar bungalow.  This, when they heard of it, fortified
+the faith of his friends, who carelessly supposed the prize to have been
+much bigger than it was and a brilliant career thus to have been safely
+launched.  Oddly enough, however, it never occurred to them to lend a
+hand at the launching.  They took its success for granted and saved their
+help and their business for young men, such as the energetic but
+otherwise untalented Dick Holden, of whom less was expected.  It is so
+hard to make friends understand that even a brilliant career needs
+support at first.
+
+It was not wholly their fault; a very creditable pride kept David from
+hinting that he was in need of help, which indeed became the fact.  The
+little patrimony had dwindled to a cipher.  Clients were few and
+commissions small.  But David, less from design than from habit and
+taste, maintained the front of prosperity.  He had the trick of wearing
+clothes well, lived in nice rooms, played golf at the country club and
+was always his jolly, cheerful self.
+
+His good cheer was not a pretense, for he was never made to feel a pinch.
+This was a misfortune and the blame must be laid to his own engaging
+qualities.  He found that he could borrow as easily as, when in funds, he
+had lent.  Even Jim Blaisdell who, in his cashier's office, was held a
+skinflint and a keen judge of men, was cordiality itself when David went
+to him with a note for discount.
+
+"Gladly," he said.  "But you'll have to have an indorser, you know."
+
+"I didn't know," laughed David.  "You see, I never tried this before.  Am
+I an innocent?"
+
+"It'll be all right, though," Blaisdell answered.  "I'll indorse for you."
+
+Something made David hesitate.  "It's fair to say I mightn't be able to
+meet it promptly."
+
+"Then we'll carry you.  Your face is collateral enough for me.  Beat it
+now--I'm busy.  And come out for dinner to-night, Davy."
+
+Sometimes David would feel a qualm of discomfort as he found himself
+gradually getting behind and sometimes he would wonder, a little
+sensitively, at the slowness of recognition.  But such moments were
+brief.  Unconsciously he had imbibed his friends' vague confidence in his
+future.  Some day he would win a big commission which, brilliantly
+executed, would make him forever secure.  In the meantime, because he was
+an honest workman, he gave to his few clients the best he had, a really
+fine best, worthy of wider notice.  And because he grew daily more in
+love with his art and proposed to be found ready when his great chance
+came, he put in his spare hours studying hard, making sketches--he had a
+pretty knack for that and might have become a third-rate painter--of the
+numberless ideas that floated to him out of tobacco clouds or down from a
+moonlit sky or across a music-filled room.  Sometimes he would tear the
+sketches to bits.  But sometimes, lingering lovingly over one, he would
+know a deep thrill.
+
+"Why, this," he would exclaim, "this is good.  Oh!" hugging himself,
+"they'll have to come to me yet."
+
+On the strength of this conclusion he would allow himself some special
+extravagance.
+
+When he was twenty-seven he was making about nine hundred a year,
+spending it all as it came, and owed more than five hundred dollars.
+
+Then he met Shirley Lord.
+
+It was at a dinner given by the Jim Blaisdells, whose guest she was.
+Mrs. Jim introduced them.
+
+"Shirley dear, this is our Davy Quentin.  As a special favor--to each of
+you--I'm putting you together to-night.  You have just a minute now to
+get acquainted."  And Mrs. Jim fluttered away.
+
+David spent most of that minute looking with a thrill--much the sort he
+felt when he was pleased with his sketches--into a pair of blue eyes that
+smiled at him out of the prettiest, sweetest, kindest face he thought he
+had ever seen.  And it was very pretty and sweet and kind just then, as
+she looked at him with the friendliness he always inspired.  Framing the
+face was a lot of wavy brown hair with golden lights dancing in it, her
+neck and shoulders were slender but softly rounded, the figure hinted at
+by the soft clinging gown was trim and girlish.  But those were details
+that he drank in later.
+
+He heaved a sigh, so patently one of content with his lot that she
+laughed outright.  To laugh well is a gift from the gods.
+
+"You're not a bit as I thought you would be."
+
+"How did you think I should be?" stammered David, trying to grasp the
+fact that this dainty creature had been thinking of him at all.
+
+"Why, grim and haughty and altogether overwhelming.  You know, you're
+supposed to be rather wonderful."
+
+David felt anxiously for his head.
+
+"Does it expand so easily?"
+
+"I just wanted to be sure it was still there.  I can see it would be easy
+to lose it."
+
+She laughed again.
+
+It is probable that they talked a polite amount with their respective
+neighbors.  But if so, they regarded it as untimely interruption of the
+real business of the evening.  It was amazing the number of things they
+found to discuss and they discussed them so earnestly and withal, as it
+seemed to them, so wittily and wisely that they were blissfully unaware
+of the significant smiles going around the table.  When the coffee was
+served, David surveyed his cup stupidly.
+
+"Does it strike you," he inquired, "that they've hurried this dinner out
+of all reason?"
+
+"It has been the usual length, I believe."
+
+"Funny--I've a hazy recollection of fish--and of an ice just now--but
+entrée and salad and the rest are a total blank."
+
+"Very funny!" she agreed.
+
+"But the queerest of all--"  He broke off, with a laugh that did not
+quite reach his eyes.
+
+"Yes?" she queried provocatively, knowing that one of his daring bits was
+coming.
+
+"The queerest of all," he repeated, "is that you should turn out to
+be--_you_."
+
+"No queerer than--"  Then she broke off, with a laugh that did reach her
+eyes.
+
+The next afternoon they played golf.  It was at the fifth tee that they
+abandoned the last pretense of formality.  She topped her drive
+wretchedly; the ball rolled a scant ten feet.
+
+"Oh, David!" she cried.  "Did you ever see anything so _awful_?"
+
+"Many times," answered David, who was looking at her, not at the ball.
+"I've often wondered," he mused raptly, "how 'David' would sound, set to
+music."
+
+He was rewarded by her rippling, musical laugh.  "You say the absurdest
+things--and the nicest."
+
+They pursued her recalcitrant ball until it led them, by many zigzags, to
+an old elm that had upset more than one good game.  But they did not
+swear at it.  They sat down under its generous shade, David lighted a
+cigarette and they gave themselves to a more agreeable exercise.  They
+pretended to define it.
+
+"I suppose," Shirley broke a brief intimate silence, "people think we're
+having a violent flirtation.  But we're not, are we?"
+
+"Certainly not," said David with emphasis.
+
+"They couldn't understand.  We're just naturally meant to be good friends
+and it didn't take us an age to find that out."
+
+"Yes," said David slowly.
+
+"Tell me about yourself."
+
+He tried to make it interesting but when he came to the point there was
+really little to tell.
+
+"But that isn't all.  You haven't told me why people are so confident of
+your future."
+
+"I don't know that.  Sometimes I wonder whether they've the right to be
+confident."
+
+"You've been very successful, haven't you?"
+
+He shook his head.  "I'm still poor--so poor you'd probably call it
+indecent--with my way to make.  It seems a very slow way, too."
+
+There was a hint of disappointment in the quick glance she turned upon
+him.
+
+"Have I lost caste?"
+
+"No.  I was just wondering--  But you're going to be successful, aren't
+you?  _Everybody_ can't be mistaken in you.  Tell me what you want to do."
+
+So he told her of his love for his work, of his studies and sketches, of
+the beautiful churches that he hoped he should some day build.
+
+It was early October; which is not unimportant.  Before them opened a
+vista of wooded hills, tinted by the first frosts dull yellows and
+maroons, here and there a flash of rich crimson.  A thin haze lay over
+the land, violet in the distance, about them an almost imperceptible
+golden.  The voices of other players came softly to them, subdued and
+lazy as an echo.  Fading hillsides, dying leaves, blue horizons--autumn,
+too, has its wistful charm, as potent as spring to bring young hearts
+together.
+
+"Everybody can't be mistaken," she repeated.  "All those things you will
+do.  I feel it, too.  It's something you can't explain.  You _know_ a man
+is big, just as you know a woman is good--  And you couldn't lose caste
+with me.  I'm poor, too."
+
+He swept her with an incredulous glance that took in the beautiful, soft,
+hand-knit sweater jacket, the white flannel skirt with its air of having
+been fashioned by an expensive tailor, the white buckskins and bit of
+white silk stocking.  He knew girls, daughters of rich fathers, who did
+not wear silk stockings for golfing.
+
+She caught his glance.  "Mostly presents," she answered it, "from an aunt
+who has more money than she knows what to do with.  The rest is just
+splurge.  It's quite true about my poverty.  Ever since we were left
+alone Maizie and I have had to work.  We could have gone to live with my
+aunt, but we wanted to be independent, to make our own living.  And we've
+made it, though," laughingly, "we've been pretty hard up sometimes.  So
+you see, I'm not a butterfly but just a working girl on her vacation.
+Have _I_ lost caste?"
+
+Needless question!  As she asked it, her chin--her prettiest feature,
+cleanly molded, curving gently back to the soft throat--went up
+spiritedly.  He caught a picture of a struggle far more cruel than her
+light words implied.  A wave of protest swept over him, of tender
+protectiveness.  He had to fight down an impulse to catch her close, to
+cry out that thenceforth he would assume her burden.  He rejoiced
+intensely that he had found so rare a spirit, fragile yet brave and equal
+to all the hard emergencies life had put upon her.
+
+Then he took thought of his income and the brevity of their acquaintance
+and was abashed.
+
+The Jim Blaisdells met them at the club for a dinner at which David was
+host.  It was a nicely appointed dinner, the best the chef could
+contrive.  Also it was distinctly an extravagance.  But David did not
+care.  His spirits ran high, in a gaiety that was infectious.  It was a
+very successful party.
+
+After that came two short hours on the veranda, while a three-quarters
+moon rose to shower the world with silver, gaiety dwindled and a solemn
+tender happiness mounted.  Then they drove homeward, by a roundabout way,
+in Jim's car.  David and Shirley had the back seat, for the most part in
+a free intimate silence that was delicious indeed.
+
+Later Mrs. Jim found her guest dreamily braiding her hair for the night.
+
+"Shirley," she began directly, "this is going too fast.  David's too nice
+a boy to be hurt.  He's taking your flirtation seriously."
+
+"I'm not flirting with him.  At least I don't think I am," Shirley
+amended slowly.
+
+"I thought you were interested only in rich men?"
+
+"I did think so.  But now--  It might be fun to be poor--with him--for a
+while.  It wouldn't be for long.  You said yourself he'll have a
+brilliant future."
+
+"I think so.  But it _might_ be long coming.  A professional career is so
+uncertain at the start.  And it's never fun to be poor--unless you're
+equipped.  Married life is more than parties and golf and dinners at the
+club.  Shirley, dear," she concluded pleadingly, "do be sensible."
+
+"Of course, I will be.  You forget I know all about poverty from
+experience."  Shirley looked up suddenly, keenly.  "Why do you warn me?
+Is there any reason why you're afraid to entrust me to David Quentin?"
+
+"No-o," said Mrs. Jim.
+
+How could she voice the question in her mind?  It was, could she entrust
+David Quentin to Shirley?
+
+Still later, "Jim," she said to her almost sleeping husband, "I'm
+worried.  I'm afraid David and Shirley will get themselves engaged."
+
+"Won't hurt 'em," grunted Jim.
+
+"But they might get married."
+
+"People do it sometimes.  Be good for him.  Life's been too easy for
+Davy."
+
+"I feel responsible.  Couldn't you speak to Davy and warn him to go slow?"
+
+"I thought," mumbled Jim, "you were a wise woman," and dropped off to
+sleep.
+
+At the same late hour David was sitting at the window of his darkened
+room, smoking pipe after pipe, gazing raptly up at the moon-lit sky.  "By
+George!" he would breathe ecstatically, "By George!" as though he had
+been seeing something wonderful in ecclesiastical architecture.  In fact
+he was planning that wondrous house of love, none the less entrancing for
+that many other young lovers had designed it before.
+
+Every day during Shirley's two weeks' visit she and David were together,
+sometimes, through Mrs. Jim's contrivance, with others and often, by
+grace of their own ingenuity, alone, drifting carelessly down the most
+traveled stream of life.  If Mrs. Jim's warning had awakened any doubts
+in Shirley's mind--and it had--the doubts were quickly laid by David's
+presence.  She let herself drift; this in spite of certain very definite
+and very different plans which she had made for her future.  (In her home
+city was one Sam Hardy, a money-maker, very attractive, very devoted.)
+People saw it and were charmed; a young woman simply, daringly,
+unquestioningly yielding to love is a picture from whose wonder neither
+time nor repetition can subtract.  Only to Mrs. Jim did it occur to
+ponder whether the impulse to surrender sprang from deeps or shallows.
+
+And only Dick Holden, who was then David's chief chum, ventured to hang
+out a danger signal.
+
+"My son," he said one day when he managed to find David alone, "I'm
+afraid you're growing susceptible to women."
+
+"Always was.  Any great harm in that?"
+
+"Huh!  If you'd had sisters," grunted the ungallant Dick, "you wouldn't
+ask that.  You don't know 'em.  You think they're nice, fluffy little
+angels, don't you?  Well, they're not.  They--they say catty things.  And
+they've claws in their white, soft little paws, and they'd rather scratch
+than eat.  And they don't understand men."
+
+"Whoopee!" said David.  "Do it some more."
+
+"Huh!  _You_ think they're kind and sympathetic, don't you?  You think
+because they look soulfully up at you when you're gabbling about
+ecclesiastical architecture they're taking it all in.  Well, they're not.
+They're thinking, 'He has nice eyes--too bad he hasn't money!'  I know.
+I've heard 'em talking behind the scenes.  They don't understand the
+_game_ of things.  They only want a husband for a provider and they soon
+let him know it.  Then he might as well go lie down and die.  Take it
+from me.  Few men," Dick concluded sagely, "survive matrimony."
+
+David laughed uproariously at this counsel.
+
+"You blooming old cynic!  You poor old he-Cassandra!  Where did you get
+all your wisdom?  Just wait until you find some one--"
+
+"Huh!  I have found her.  Or rather she's found me.  I could let her make
+a fool of me.  But I won't.  A long life and my own life for me.  I'm
+wearing a sign, 'Nothing doing!'  You'd better get one just like it."
+
+David roared again.
+
+"All right, laugh!" growled Dick.  "Rope, tie and brand yourself.  And
+then some of these days when you're one woman's property and you find the
+other woman is just around the corner waiting--  That's another thing,
+Davy."
+
+But David turned his back on the counselor and fled.  What did Dick know
+about it?
+
+The dream was being realized, the lonely gaps filled.  He was to have
+some one of his own to love and to serve.  This time his heart was a
+captive for life; any one who had been in love a baker's dozen of times
+could tell that.  He expected great things of love.  He saw it as
+something exquisitely fine and beautiful and yet proof against the vandal
+fingers of familiarity; a joy always, a light for the dark places, a
+guide and comrade in stressful times; and everlasting as the hills.  Just
+as the poets have always sung of it.  Would any man wear a sign, "Nothing
+doing!" in the face of that?
+
+The last afternoon of Shirley's visit came, clear and crisp, a strong
+west wind lifting the haze from the tinted hills.  They pretended to play
+golf, but their strokes were perfunctory, absent-minded.  They talked
+little and that in strangely low tones, always soberly.  After a while
+they gave up the pretense, sought a seat on a secluded sunny slope and
+fell into a long silence.
+
+"Shirley!" he broke it at length.
+
+"Yes, David?"
+
+"I'll hate to see you go back."
+
+"I know.  I'll hate to go, too."
+
+"It--hurts me to think of your going back to work."
+
+"Oh, I'm used to it."  She smiled.  A world of sweet courage was in that
+smile.
+
+"Shirley--_dear_!"
+
+She raised her eyes to his.
+
+"A poor man--I suppose he's a coward to ask a woman to share--  But it
+wouldn't be for always.  You believe that, don't you?"
+
+"I believe that."
+
+"I'd try to make up for the lack of money with other things--worth more
+than money maybe.  Are you willing to be poor with me for a while?"
+
+"Yes, David."
+
+He sat very still.  His face went white.  A happiness, so intense that it
+hurt, flooded his being.
+
+"You really--mean that?" he whispered.
+
+Tears of tenderness stood in her eyes.  She had the sense of having found
+a rare treasure, worth any sacrifice.  She was a little awed by it and
+lifted to a plane she had never reached before.
+
+"Of course, I do."  She laughed tremulously.  "We'll wait six months, to
+give you a chance to get ready.  Then I'll come to you.  We'll start very
+small at first and live on what we have, whatever it is.  If it's only
+seventy-five dollars a month, we'll hold our heads as high as if we had
+millions.  We'll make the fight together.  I used to think I never could
+do that.  But now I want to.  And then when your success comes it will be
+partly _mine_."
+
+Her head was lifted in the pretty brave gesture.  The glow of a crimson
+sunset was about her.  In her eyes was the glow of the flame he had
+lighted.
+
+If only the spirit of sunset might abide with us always! . . . .
+
+The witch often turns herself into an old cat and plays with us poor mice
+before she rends us.
+
+Almost from the beginning of the engagement David's clients increased in
+number.  During the six months which Shirley had set as the term of their
+waiting his income was almost as big as that of the whole year before;
+partly because he was taken in by Dick Holden--who had the knack of
+getting business--on a commission to which that energetic young cynic
+felt himself unequal.  The fee thus shared was a substantial one.
+
+"Our love," David wrote to Shirley, "was born under a lucky star.  I
+believe we are going to have more than we expected.  That makes me very
+happy--on your account."
+
+Nevertheless, when the six months were at an end, he was not out of debt.
+
+"David, dear," Shirley wrote, when she had been scarce a month gone,
+"couldn't you manage to come on for a few days?  Maizie thinks I'm crazy,
+and I want her to see you and be convinced that I'm not.  And I want to
+show off my wonderful lover to my friends."
+
+David, nothing loath, went--a night's journey into the West, to a city
+where hotels mounted high in the air and rates mounted with them.  This
+journey became a monthly event.  And when they were together, thought of
+the exchequer took wings.  There were theater parties, at which tired
+Maizie was a happy though protestant third.  There were boxes of candy
+and flowers, seeing which Shirley would cry, "Oh, you extravagant boy!"
+in a tone that made David very glad of his extravagance.  They loved;
+therefore they were rich.  What had they to do with caution and economy?
+
+"We can be engaged only once," they said.  "Let us make it beautiful.
+Let us have something to remember."
+
+Money, it seemed, was necessary to a memorable engagement.
+
+Maizie at sight of him opened her heart.  Shirley's friends hugged and
+kissed her and declared her lover to be all she had promised.  The rich
+aunt regarded him with a disfavor she was at some pains to voice.
+
+"Shirley tells me," she informed him, with the arrogant assurance of the
+very rich, "that you're poor.  Then I think you're foolish to get
+married--to Shirley, at least.  _I_ wanted her to take Sam Hardy.  I hope
+you understand my checks will stop when she's married."
+
+"But you'll still give her your love, won't you?"
+
+"Of course, but what's that got to do with it?"
+
+"Having that," said David, with the arrogant assurance of young men in
+love, "Shirley will be content."
+
+The rich aunt stared.  "Humph!" she sniffed, "You're not even grown up.
+On your own head be it!"
+
+Shirley took some risks in inviting these visits.  The picture David had
+got had her and Maizie living in dingy rooms, marks of hardship and
+privation thick around them.  In fact, he found her a charming hostess in
+a cozy little apartment, comfortably furnished, with pretty dishes on the
+table and even a few pictures on the walls.  And clearly, to eyes that
+saw, it was homely faithful Maizie whose arduous but well-paid
+secretaryship financed this ménage; Maizie who, returning home tired from
+her long day, got the dinner; Maizie who washed the dishes, that
+Shirley's hands might not be spoiled, and did the mending when the weekly
+wash came back.  Shirley set the table, sewed on jabots and did yards of
+tatting.  Her "work" consisted of presiding over the reference room of a
+public library, telling shabby uninteresting young men where to find
+works on evolution and Assyrian temples and Charlemagne.  This position
+was hers because her rich aunt's husband had political influence and her
+salary, together with the checks from Aunt Clara--not so big as the
+latter would have had David suppose but still not to be sneezed
+at--generally went to buy "extras," little luxuries working girls do not
+often enjoy.
+
+But David was in love; he saw only the mistress of his heart.  And
+Shirley, who had the habit of contrasting what she had with what she
+wanted to have, did not see any risk incurred.
+
+"It's been such a grind to-day," she sighed, one afternoon when David
+went to the library to escort her home.  "Fussing half the day with a
+long-haired Dutchman who wanted to know all about the origin of fire
+worship.  Why should any one want to know about the origin of fire
+worship?"
+
+David didn't know, but thought it a shame she had to fuss with
+long-haired Dutchmen.
+
+"It's so deadly dull," she went on in the same plaintive voice.  "Oh,
+David, you don't know what a rescuer you are, taking me away from this.
+I'll be so happy when we're in our own little home and I'll be
+_dependent_ again."
+
+David's emotions were too deep for words but he gave her a look more
+eloquent than speech.
+
+The experts are in accord as to the purblindness of love.  No scales fell
+from his eyes, even when Maizie, on his next to last visit, made an
+occasion for a serious chat.
+
+"David," she suggested a little timidly, "don't you think you and Shirley
+had better wait a little longer?"
+
+He laughed at the notion.  "Do you think we're not sure of ourselves?"
+
+"Oh, no!  I've no doubts there.  Just until you're a little better fixed
+financially."
+
+He shook his head decidedly.  "Things are going pretty well with me now.
+And I've got to get Shirley out of this awful grind at the library."
+
+Maizie smiled faintly.  "It isn't hard.  Not so very hard, that is," she
+amended hastily.  "It wouldn't hurt her to stay there a little while
+longer.  You see," picking her words very carefully, "Shirley
+isn't--she's such a dear we've all petted her a good deal--and maybe
+spoiled her a little.  She hasn't had to give up much that she wanted.
+People like to do things for her and give her things and save her from
+things.  I think she doesn't quite realize how much has been done for
+her."
+
+"Do you think that is quite just?"  David was very grave.  "She is very
+appreciative of what you've done for her."
+
+Maizie flushed under the reproof.  "Oh, yes," she went bravely on, "she's
+a dear about that.  That's one reason why every one likes to do things
+for her.  What I meant was, I don't think she quite realizes how
+important it has been to her.  You see, she has never had to face any
+real trials.  If any came, they would be _very_ real trials to her.  And
+I'm not sure just what she--just how she--"  Poor Maizie, torn between
+loyalty to and fear for her Shirley, floundered miserably and fell into
+an ashamed silence.
+
+"You don't know how brave Shirley is.  Sisters are apt to be that way, I
+suppose."  Poor Maizie!  She flushed again and hung her head in shame
+because she had dared to suggest, however gently, a latent flaw in
+Shirley.  "What you forget is, we have something that makes other things
+of no account.  And besides, trials are just what you make them.  If you
+look at them just as an adventure, part of a big splendid fight you're
+making, they become very simple--you can even get fun out of them.  And
+that's what we're going to do."
+
+Maizie, with a sigh, yielded the point.  But, "David," she said
+earnestly, "promise me one thing, won't you?"
+
+"Of course, Maizie.  Anything but the one."
+
+"Then, if anything happens and if you should happen to mislay those
+spectacles and--by mistake, of course--put on another pair, you won't
+judge her too harshly, will you?  Just say, 'It's all the fault of that
+homely old Maizie, who didn't teach Shirley to take life so seriously as
+she ought to have done.'  You'll say that--and think it--won't you?"
+
+David laughed at the absurd notion.  "That's easy to promise."
+
+They were married in May, on a night when the wind howled and the rain
+drove fiercely.  The rich aunt gave Shirley the wedding, in the big house
+on the hill, and intimated that therewith the term of her largess had
+expired.  All of Shirley's home friends were there, exuberantly gay and
+festive, making merry because two lives were to be mated, as though that
+were a light matter.  The Jim Blaisdells and Dick Holden, who was to be
+best man, were there thinking of David.
+
+In the room reserved for the groom Dick turned from the mirror where he
+had been complacently regarding his gardenia, and caught a glimpse of
+David's face.
+
+"I say, old man, what's wrong?  Funk?  Cheer up.  It'll soon be over."
+
+"It isn't that."
+
+Over David it had suddenly come that the mating of lives is not a light
+matter.  Standing at a window, he had caught from the storm a vague
+presage of perils and pitfalls approaching, through and around which he
+must be guide for another.  That other was very, very dear to him.  The
+thought set him to quaking.  It was the first responsibility he had had
+in all his life.
+
+Then quick upon the thought surged a wave of deep poignant tenderness for
+her to whom he must be guide.
+
+There was a tap at the door, answered by Dick.
+
+"They're ready.  All right, old man?"
+
+"All right," David said.  "I'm ready."
+
+A minute later he stood waiting, while the old music rolled from the
+organ.  A slender veiled figure appeared in a doorway.  The mist in his
+eyes cleared away.  Very steadily he took her. . . . .
+
+They entered their machine amid a shower of rice and old slippers.  He
+caught her close to him and held her, silent.  After a while he felt a
+sob shake her.
+
+"Why, dearest, crying!"
+
+"Oh, David, be good to me!  I'm afraid.  A girl gives so much.  Be good
+to me always!"
+
+He drew her closer, if that were possible.
+
+"Of course, Shirley--always.  You mustn't be frightened.  It's the storm.
+In the morning the sun will be shining and things will seem different."
+
+And sure enough, in the morning the sun was shining and things seemed
+different.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE WITCH
+
+The perils and pitfalls appeared.  But they were not seen for what they
+were.  As a guide David left something to be desired.
+
+Very carefully the lovers had planned the disbursement of their income:
+so much for rent, so much for the household and "extras," so much for
+David's down-town expenses.  A limited amount was set for the
+furnishing of their home-to-be.  With many declarations that love made
+up for all lacks and with many tiltings of Shirley's pretty chin, they
+had vowed to adhere rigidly to this budget.
+
+But the choice of the abode of so much love and happiness had been put
+off until after the brief honeymoon, that Shirley might share the fun
+of house-hunting.  They thought it would be fun.
+
+It was not.
+
+That week, as they inspected an indefinite number of apartments of as
+many degrees of shabbiness and general undesirableness, Shirley's
+spirits and chin fell steadily.  David's heart, seeing, fell with them.
+
+"Discouraged?" he asked at the end of the last day's hunt.
+
+She nodded wearily.  "Landlords are pigs.  They want so much for so
+little.  Are you sure there's nothing else we can look at?"
+
+"I'm afraid not.  I've gone through the lists thoroughly."
+
+"I wouldn't mind being _shabby_, if it weren't for the neighborhoods."
+
+She was tired.  Her lip quivered.  His heart misgave him.  He tried to
+be gay.
+
+"Oh, let's forget it for a while.  Let's go out to the club and play
+nine holes and then have a little twosome at dinner out there."
+
+They went.  Low spirits rose on the scented May breeze.  The dinner was
+a success.  Afterward they met friends, who were regaled with a
+humorous account of the week's adventures.
+
+The friends, of course, made suggestions.  One in particular knew "the
+very thing you want, and really absurdly cheap."  She was enthusiastic
+in description.  Then the rental was named--fifteen dollars a month
+more than the budget allowed.  David made a great show of taking the
+address and promised to inspect the "find" on the morrow.
+
+"Let's really see it," Shirley suggested, as they rode home on the
+front seat of a trolley-car.
+
+"We'd better not," said David, clinging desperately to a dwindling
+remnant of caution.
+
+"Not to take it, of course.  Only to remind us that there _are_ pretty
+places in the world--waiting for us later on."  She snuggled closer to
+him.
+
+In the morning, of course, they saw the apartment.  And it was almost
+uncanny, Shirley declared, how exactly it matched what she had had in
+mind.  She proceeded to place in fancy David's chairs and desk and
+lamps, the dining-room furniture that was to be Maizie's wedding gift
+and the mahogany bedroom suite the Jim Blaisdells had given them.  She
+went into ecstasies over the china closet, the dainty bathroom, the
+clean convenient kitchen.
+
+"David, can't you _see_ it?  With a few small rugs and plain
+inexpensive curtains and the pictures we have it would be a gem.  We'd
+never feel shabby here.  And with the hardwood floors and tiled bath
+and that kitchen the housework would be so easy."  She sighed
+rapturously.
+
+"We'd better get away.  My mouth is beginning to water.  I'm sorry,
+dear."  He kissed her to prove it.  "But we oughtn't even to consider
+it."
+
+But at the door she stopped and looked back--a risky business, as Lot's
+wife once proved.  She surveyed the place with a lingering wishful
+glance.
+
+"I wonder if we couldn't make up the difference in rent by cutting down
+somewhere else.  We could cut the extras in half.  And I won't need any
+new clothes for a whole year--not a single stitch.  By that time--"
+She paused, as it seemed for a reply.
+
+"Do you want it so much, Shirley?"
+
+"Oh, if we only could do it, David!"
+
+David, too, did sums in subtraction and found that, with care, he could
+cut his expenses down-town.
+
+They took the apartment.
+
+In fact, there came a time when David remembered, with a sickening
+qualm, that in almost every item they had stepped little or far beyond
+the limits of their budget.  They did it because the disappointment
+written on Shirley's pretty face when something on which she had set
+her heart seemed beyond their reach, was more than he could bear.
+
+But the old cat was still playing.  It was a "boom year": the
+beginning, said the wise statesmen and newspapers, of an era of
+unprecedented prosperity.  The city was growing rapidly.  Architects'
+services were in demand.  David's business continued good.  Among his
+clients was a gambling contractor who shaved his architects' fees but
+made up for that by the largeness of his operations.  There seemed to
+be no need of cutting down "extras."  They were not cut down.
+
+It was on the whole a cloudless year.  There were, to be sure, a few
+little quarrels, impatient words sharply answered, but there was also
+the exquisite joy of harmony restored.  There were occasions when David
+found Shirley in tears, both cake or roast and fingers burned;
+occasions which he made festive by carrying her off to the club for
+dinner.  There were evenings at the theater and concerts, gifts
+impulsively bought and rewarded with kisses, little household purchases
+that gave a pleasure out of all proportion to their cost, as it seemed
+at the time.  But there were never any doubts, nor any fears.  For all
+their demands there was money.  The handicap of debt under which they
+had started was even a little diminished.  As for rainy days--but why
+should happy young love take thought of them?
+
+On their first anniversary they gave a dinner in the apartment, twelve
+covers with flowers and all the wedding silver on display and a
+caterer's man to serve.  Shirley, in a new gown, was at her loveliest,
+beaming with the happiness of hospitality prettily dispensed.  When the
+last guest was gone, they turned out all the lights but one shaded
+lamp, she found a seat on his knee, snuggled close to him, and they
+fell into a long silence.
+
+After a while she stirred.  "It's been a wonderful year, hasn't it?"
+
+"You express the sense of the meeting, dear."
+
+"Being poor isn't so bad, after all, is it?"
+
+"Not bad at all, I find."  He took up the catechism.  "You haven't once
+regretted that Sam Hardy chap, have you?  With all his money--let's
+see, was it millions or billions?"
+
+"Hush!"  She laid a hand over his lips.  "Not even in fun.  That's
+almost profane."
+
+There was another silence, broken at length by a contented chuckle from
+David.
+
+"Am I doing anything specially ridiculous?" she murmured sleepily from
+his shoulder.
+
+"I was just remembering.  A year ago tonight I was frightened almost
+into a faint.  I thought living together might turn out to be _hard_."
+
+"And _we_ know that is perfectly absurd."
+
+You must excuse them.  If they had been lovers out of a book, they
+would have talked in dithyrambs or long perfervid paragraphs.  Since
+they were real, they could bear witness to their happiness only by
+spooning and being a little bit silly.  But--it was part of their
+happiness--they did not know they were silly.
+
+
+The beginning of the second year was like unto the first.  But the
+witch was biding her time.  Toward the end of that year the sky
+darkened and the winds howled roughly around the house of love.
+Sometimes the designer of this pretty abode--if he was the
+designer--bethought him to look to its foundations.  But they seemed
+strong and safe.
+
+In the first place, there was a sudden falling-off of new business.  It
+was so with others than David.  Only a temporary slump, said the wise
+statesmen and newspapers, due to trivial causes and not long to
+interrupt the era of prosperity.  Jim Blaisdell shook his head and
+advised his friends to prepare for heavy weather.  The reception of his
+counsel made him growl, "Asses!"--a sweeping epithet that included
+David, who was not so deeply troubled as he should have been.
+Unfinished commissions kept him reasonably busy, and when they were
+concluded others would come to meet his needs.  They always had;
+therefore, they always would.  David was content with this logic.
+
+In the second place, a baby was coming.  And many and elaborate were
+the preparations for this momentous event.  Countless stitches must be
+taken, a serious number of dollars spent, that the prettiest layette
+possible might await the coming mite.  But Shirley, in one of her soft
+house dresses, head bent over her dainty stitching or laying out before
+him for the hundredth time the tiny articles she had collected or her
+friends donated, made too pretty a picture; he had not the heart to
+ruffle it with discussions of economy.  And when, her time drawing
+near, she complained of the work in the flat, a maid was installed.  He
+was glad summer was coming; his overcoat was getting shabby and he felt
+he could not afford a new one.
+
+For despite his optimism David was beginning to take thought of the
+morrow.  And this leads to our tertium.
+
+Sometimes he had moments of restiveness, so vague and fleeting that he
+could not define them, under what he did not know.  There were times
+when little criticisms of Shirley would pop maliciously into his mind,
+never worded, hastily banished and always followed by a reaction of
+shame that he should have become critical even in thought at such a
+time.  To correct this disquieting tendency he took medicine for his
+liver.
+
+And growing upon him was his joy in his work: not the old boyish
+enthusiasm at the thought of ultimate recognition, nor yet the later
+gratification that he was earning money against their needs, but a
+deep-seated content merely to be in it, an almost personal affection
+for the sketches which, after a lapse, had once more begun to multiply.
+Gently overruling Shirley's protests, he had taken to sitting up late
+of nights after she had retired.  Then in the pregnant silence of
+midnight he would sit before his easel, smoking furiously and
+occasionally making a light swift stroke, until the clock struck one or
+two or even three.  Many nights would pass thus, and there on the easel
+would stand a restful little chapel or a noble cathedral, with separate
+sketches for details such as doors or rood screen or altar, the very
+presentment of which, if only in black-and-white, filled him with a
+solemn worshipful glow.  He did not hug himself or say that "they"
+would have to come to him yet, but would pat the sketch lingeringly,
+thinking, "I'd like to see you _real_."
+
+The next evening he would show the completed sketch to Shirley, who
+would give it a cursory glance and say:
+
+"It's very pretty.  I wish some one would let you build it.  It would
+be a big commission, wouldn't it?"
+
+"Yes," he would answer, with a slight sinking of his heart.  For some
+reason he would tuck the sketch away in the big portfolio and hastily
+change the subject.
+
+One evening the house shook in the wind.  It was after dinner and David
+was opening a new book he had brought home, a bulky volume bearing the
+formidable title, _Ecclesiastical Architecture Since the Renaissance_.
+Shirley found a seat as close as possible to him and began.
+
+"David, I have a confession to make."  A smile proclaimed her assurance
+of absolution.
+
+"Yes," he smiled back.
+
+"I broke a rule.  I--had something charged."
+
+"Oh, Shirley, when we--"
+
+"But wait until you see what it is.  Then scold me if you can."
+
+She led him into another room where on a bed reposed a hooded wicker
+basket, lined and covered in silk--blue for a boy--with fine lace
+trimmings.  She awaited his verdict.
+
+"It's very pretty.  But--  How much was it?"
+
+She named the price.
+
+He whistled.  "Wouldn't something cheaper have done as well?"
+
+"David, you ought to be ashamed of yourself."  Her indignation was
+three-fourths in earnest.  "_I'd_ be ashamed not to get Davy Junior the
+very best of everything.  It's the duty of parents to get their
+children the very best of everything."
+
+"The best they can afford, yes.  But--  However, it's here and the only
+thing to do is to pay for it.  I'll send a check in the morning."
+
+He returned to the living-room.  Shirley followed.  He stood for a long
+minute by the table, looking down at the new book.  Then he restored it
+to its wrappings.
+
+"What are you doing?"
+
+"I think I'll not keep it, after all."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"A book I wanted for some cathedral sketches I'm making."
+
+She studied his face intently.
+
+"David Quentin, do you mean to say you begrudge things for Davy Junior,
+when you can buy expensive books for plans nobody will ever want?"
+
+A retort sprang to his lips--that professional knowledge is always an
+asset.  But the words did not fall.  Nor did it seem worth while to
+tell her that for three weeks he had had his lunches over a dairy
+counter to save money for the book.  Instead he mustered a smile.
+
+"As you see, we're keeping the bassinet and the book goes back."
+
+She saw only the smile.  "Why, we almost had a tiff, didn't we.  Brrr!"
+She pretended to shiver.  "And you know we mustn't have them, because
+they'd have a bad effect on Davy Junior."
+
+So that squall passed, and they talked of Davy Junior.  And Davy
+Junior--they were sure it was to be a boy--was already a personage in
+that household, a hope and a love in which both shared.
+
+But long after Shirley had gone to bed David sat thinking of the
+episode.  One of the little criticisms, quite definite now, lingered: a
+suspicion that Shirley's words were not always pearls of wisdom, that
+her attitude was a little too possessive, her demands upon his time and
+thought and scanty store of money a trifle less than reasonable
+sometimes.  Sternly he crushed the suspicion back.
+
+"It must be that I'm settling down.  The novelty's wearing off.  And I
+suppose, having no one but myself to think of for so long, I did get to
+be pretty selfish.  I must be very careful."  But somehow the argument
+did not quite convince.  "I wish--  Maybe when the baby comes Shirley
+will take things a little more"--he halted before the word so
+disloyal--"sensibly." . . .
+
+Davy Junior and the panic came at the same time.
+
+And with them came Worry.
+
+The wise statesmen and newspapers offered many explanations of the
+panic.  But explanations could not soften the grim fact.  Ruin stalked
+through the land, and its ghostly twin, Fear.  Men who had been
+accounted rich, men who had been rich, heard the approach of the
+fearsome twain and trembled.  And what shall be said of their
+dependents, the small fry, earners of salaries, young men of the
+professions, who saw incomes curtailed or cut off; to whom frank
+poverty would have been almost a relief but who must, as habit and the
+custom, of their kind decreed, keep up their sham and shabby gentility?
+
+Business was at a standstill.  The city ceased to expand.  There was no
+building.  Dick Holden closed his desk and locked his office door.
+
+"There'll be nothing doing in our line for some while.  I'm going to
+Europe for two or three months to learn something about architecture.
+Better pack up your family and come along, Davy."
+
+David laughed grimly.  "My Dickybird, you're quite a joker."
+
+Trips to Europe!--when the apartment was a miniature hospital.  Davy
+Junior was sickly.  Shirley's strength came back slowly.  For six weeks
+the trained nurse stayed, ordering expensive things for her patients.
+
+Anxiously David saw his scanty resources dwindling fast.  One by one
+his old commissions were paid and disappeared down the hopper of
+household expenses.  He took to thinking of what would happen when the
+commissions were all paid, and to haunting Fisher's office.  Fisher was
+his contractor client and owed him five hundred dollars.  But Fisher
+always put him off.
+
+In the meantime the dairy lunch became a habit.  He smoked only a pipe
+now.  The books he loved and needed, little things he used to think
+were necessaries, were foregone.  He thought wistfully of the
+indulgences he might have gone without in the past.
+
+Fisher continued to put him off.  Then Worry began to shadow David by
+day, to share his pillow at night.  If Fisher, like so many others,
+should fail--!  But with an effort he concealed the unbidden guest from
+Shirley.  With her he was always cheery, ready with quip and laugh,
+teasing her over her devotion to that red-faced bit of humanity, hight
+Davy Junior.  And in truth, the sight of her, still weak and fragile
+but happy in the possession of her baby, would give him a fresh
+courage.  Things _couldn't_ happen to hurt her, he assured himself.
+For her, for them; he would weather the storm--somehow.  "Why," thus he
+would snub intrusive Worry, "we've got Fisher, anyhow.  When he pays,
+we'll simply _make_ it last until business picks up." . . . .
+
+The doctor's bill and word that Fisher had gone into bankruptcy reached
+him by the same mail.  Dazed and trembling, he got out his bank-book
+and tried to strike a balance; the figures danced crazily before him.
+But too well he knew that slender sum!  He could see barely a month
+ahead.
+
+He walked home that evening, to get a new grip on his courage.  He
+found Shirley almost breathless with excitement.
+
+She waved a letter before him.  "You can have two guesses to what's in
+it."
+
+But David was unequal even to one guess just then.
+
+"It's from Aunt Clara.  She wants me to take the baby out there for two
+or three weeks.  You don't mind, do you, David?"
+
+"Do you want to go so much?"
+
+"I'm just crazy to have them see Davy Junior.  And I haven't seen
+Maizie and auntie and the rest of them for so long.  And I think the
+change will do me good.  I get tired so easily, you know."
+
+This last was a convincing argument and quite true.  "I know.  But I'm
+afraid, dear, we can't afford it."
+
+"Is business so bad?"
+
+"It's pretty slow---and getting no better."
+
+"Hasn't that Fisher man paid up yet?"
+
+He hesitated.  But he could not find the heart--perhaps it was courage
+he lacked--to break his evil tidings to her.
+
+"Not yet."
+
+"I'd like to shake him.  But he must pay soon.  And anyhow," she
+reverted to the original topic, "it wouldn't cost so much.  There'd be
+only railroad fare and in two weeks--or maybe three--we'd save that in
+house expenses.  We could let the maid go, you know."
+
+He caught at that straw.  "And maybe, when you come back, you'll be
+strong enough to get along without her--for a while?"
+
+"Maybe."  Her tone lacked assurance.  "We'll try it, anyhow."
+
+Two mornings later David stood on a platform and watched a train pull
+slowly out of the shed.  Then he gulped twice, sternly set his teeth
+together and walked swiftly to his office.
+
+Shirley and the baby stayed, not two weeks nor three, but five.  There
+were other expenses than railroad fare, just what her letters did not
+set out in detail.  Twice she had to write to David for money; in the
+midst of riches she found it hard to economize.  Still David, by taking
+his meals at a cheap boarding-house, managed to save a little.
+
+In other ways the trip was a great success.  Shirley's letters were
+glowing.  She was getting stronger every day.  She could lie
+deliciously in bed all morning, if she chose.  Aunt Clara had a nurse
+for the baby.  The weather was fine and there was motoring daily.  All
+her old friends came to see her with warm words of welcome on their
+lips.  Among them was Sam Hardy.
+
+"He is very nice.  (But you mustn't think _anything_ of that.  Every
+man I see makes me glad I married my David.)  He has a gorgeous new
+machine and takes us all out.  He gets his clothes made in New York
+now.  Such good times as we're having!"  And down in one corner of the
+last page was, "If only you were here!"
+
+"P. S.," popped into his mind.  But very sternly he drove it out,
+calling himself hard names.  Ought he not be glad that Shirley was
+having a good time?
+
+"I _am_ glad.  Poor dear!  It's going to be very hard for her if things
+don't get better soon.  You see," he explained to himself, "in some
+things Shirley hasn't quite grown up yet, just as Maizie said, and good
+times mean so much to her."
+
+He sat down and wrote her the cheeriest letter he could compose.
+
+He himself felt old enough to interest an antiquarian.  Before Shirley
+came back he felt older, with nothing to do but sit idly in his office,
+figuring his bank balance for the thousandth time or working over some
+of his old sketches, jumping nervously every time the door opened.
+(But the visitor always turned out to be some one who wanted to sigh
+and groan in company over the hard times.)  Of evenings in the
+apartment, which grew dustier and lonelier every day, he would write
+his letter to Shirley, mail it and then get out his easel.  Frowning
+with determination, he would put and keep his mind firmly on a new idea
+for a Norman Gothic cathedral, until, about midnight, worry and
+loneliness would steal away and leave him with the swiftly growing
+sketch.
+
+Shirley's visit ended at last.  David was pacing up and down the
+platform a full hour before her train was due.  In the street-car that
+evening people smiled kindly at the pretty little family group--the
+gravely smiling young man who held the baby so awkwardly, the pretty
+wife bubbling over with joy in the reunion and with accounts of the
+good times she had been having.
+
+Afterward, when Davy Junior had had his bottle and closed his eyes,
+Shirley dusted off one chair and they sat down in it.
+
+"Now tell me about yourself and business and everything."
+
+So, finding it harder than he had thought it could be, he told her of
+the panic and what it meant to them.  She listened with a pretty air of
+taking it all in and making ready to meet the situation.
+
+When his account was ended, she pushed herself back to look into his
+eyes.
+
+"David, when did you know about that Fisher man?"
+
+"The day you got your aunt's letter."  David flushed as though he had
+done something shameful.
+
+Her eyes filled with tears.  "And you kept it from me so my visit
+wouldn't be spoiled, and stayed here worrying by yourself while I was
+out there having a good time.  Oh, David--  Oh, David!  Well," she got
+to her feet and stood upright before him, "I'll tell you this much.
+Let the old panic come on--I'm not afraid.  We'll make out somehow.
+And we won't worry either.  What if we do have to give up things?  We
+have each other--and Davy Junior--and nothing else counts."
+
+They repeated in chorus.  "We have each other and Davy Junior and
+nothing else counts."
+
+They were very happy just then and so it was easy to be brave.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+ON THE SANDS
+
+In a few months the first stress of the panic lifted.  The worry
+creases between men's eyes were being ironed out.  A few who had money,
+taking advantage of cheap labor and materials, began to build.  Dick
+Holden came home, with a trunkful of presents for his friends and
+another of English clothes for himself, and at once became busy.
+
+The Quentins were still hanging on--"by a frog's hair," David said.
+But they had paid.  It always costs to survive.
+
+They had paid, despite their brave words, in the coin of worry.  More
+than once David had jingled a few coins in his pocket, wondering where
+he could add to them on the morrow and when he had borrowed how he
+could repay.
+
+But they had paid with a bigger price than that.  The pretty flower of
+romance was withering in the shade.  The cozy little times, when one
+chair did for both and they became beautifully silly, were fewer and
+briefer now.  When they tucked Davy Junior in at night and whispered
+that he was almost too bright to be healthy, shadowing their pride was
+the chill cloud of fear that he, too, might have to feel the pinch.
+Often they moved restlessly about the apartment or sat listlessly
+yawning, wishing there were something to do.  And sometimes, without
+warning, quarrels would blaze, over nothing at all.  It is so easy to
+mislay your temper when worry is gnawing at your heart, and perhaps you
+don't try very hard to find it.  David always had to find his first,
+but the making up was never quite perfect.
+
+And, though their well-to-do friends were beginning to talk of new
+model cars and going abroad once more, the Quentins continued to be
+hard up.  David seemed to have struck a dead level.  One month business
+would be pretty good; the next he would make almost nothing.  But the
+average was always the same, and always a little less than they spent.
+The note at Jim Blaisdell's bank and the little loans from Dick Holden
+kept slowly piling up, and though neither Jim nor Dick ever dunned him,
+the thought of his debts weighed heavily on David's heart.
+
+It was worse than if they had had a steady income.  They were kept
+zigzagging between hope and disappointment, and when they had money, it
+was often spent foolishly.  David did his best to save.  His suits and
+overcoat had shiny spots.  He smoked only cheap tobacco that burned his
+tongue.  He gave up even the dairy lunch, saying that two meals a day
+were enough for any man.  He walked, rain or shine, to and from his
+office, and bought no more books.  But the sum of these savings seemed
+pitifully small.  Shirley, too, did without things during the lean
+months.  But when a fee came in she could never say no to her wants.
+
+"We must have this.  We must do that," she would say.
+
+"Dear, don't you think we'd better go slow?" he would venture.
+
+"Oh, what's the use of having money, if not to get what we want?"
+
+"We could use it to pay a little to Jim and--"
+
+"Oh, let Jim and Dick wait.  They can afford it.  I've had to do
+without so much I think I've a right to this little spree.  And I
+_hate_ to wait for things.  If I wait, they lose all their fun."
+
+It always ended in her having her own way.  But sometimes David
+wondered whether she would have lost interest in him, too, if she had
+had to wait.
+
+For he saw that another goblin had come unbidden into their home:
+Discontent.  He had learned to seek and always found the wistful look
+with which she regarded their callers' pretty gowns or heard tales of
+jolly dinners at the club.  (Months ago the club had been dropped.)
+And he knew that in her heart she was drawing comparisons.
+
+Once she said, "It wasn't like this when Maizie and I were together."
+She did not guess the barb she left quivering in his heart.
+
+Dick Holden was making no such heavy weather of it.  He was even so
+busy that little odds and ends of his work were turned over to David,
+crusts for which the latter was as grateful as the Lazaruses always
+have been.  But this suggested another comparison to Shirley.
+
+"Dick Holden gets business and makes money, and everybody says he's not
+half so clever as you.  How does he do it?"
+
+"He works people for their business."
+
+"Then why don't you do that?"
+
+"I don't know how.  And if I did know, I couldn't, anyhow.  The people
+that come to me come because they have confidence in my ability.  If
+they don't have confidence, I couldn't work them because--I just
+couldn't, that's all."
+
+"You're too thin-skinned.  If I were a man I'd _make_ them come to me,
+and then I'd teach them to have confidence--the way Dick Holden does."
+
+"Dick Holden's way, somebody else's, never mine," he thought bitterly,
+"is always the best."
+
+But he did not let her see him wince.  Instead, he said gently, "In the
+long run it's not the sound way.  If I do good work, some day people
+will realize it and come to me.  And I _do_ good work," he cried, not
+to boast, but because their courage needed a tonic, "and some day when
+I get my chance I'll do far finer."
+
+She smiled wearily.  "Some day!  It's always some day.  Why don't you
+_make_ your chance--as Dick does?"
+
+That talk rankled in David's heart long after Shirley had forgotten it.
+She could say such things and forget them in an hour.  But her
+comparisons never angered him, only hurt.  He tried to be just, and
+blamed himself for their predicament.  If he had been wise and firm at
+the beginning, when the temptations to indulgences came, they could
+have escaped these troublous waters.  Firmness now seemed only cruel.
+
+"You see," he would explain to himself, trying to believe, "she's
+really only a child still.  It is very hard on her.  If I said no to
+things now, she wouldn't understand.  I must just make it as easy as
+possible for her--somehow."  But he sighed, "If only we could give up
+this apartment and live cheaply and--and honestly until we're on our
+feet.  If only she'd look at it that way!"
+
+He had suggested that to Shirley once--but only once.  "Oh, no!" she
+had cried.  "That would be a confession to everybody.  It would be
+humiliating, more than I could bear.  We've got to keep this apartment
+and not let people know we're hard up."
+
+They thought people did not know.
+
+So it went for nearly two years.  You must not think there were no
+happy times, hours or days or even weeks when they took joy in their
+love and Davy Junior; though more and more these times lost their
+wonderfulness and the power to charm away the grisly goblin Care.  But
+the ugly or weary or despondent hours bulked largest in David's mind
+because he took them so keenly to heart.  Yet, though his debts slowly
+grew, and he was always a month behind in his office and apartment
+rent, he did not lose faith in himself; he gave his very best to the
+little business he had and worked away at his sketches, which grew
+better all the time.  (It hurt him more than a little that Shirley took
+no interest in them.)  And though he saw clearly that she had faults,
+even as you and I, he did not lose faith in Shirley nor cease to love
+her.  Often at nights, especially after there had been a quarrel, he
+stole away from his sketching to the room where she slept with the baby
+by her side and lightly kissed her hair or an outflung arm.  Then the
+old tender protective impulse swept over him; he wished he were the
+sort of man that could give her all the things she wanted, thinking
+that the way to prove a love.
+
+Then a "chance" came.  Or, rather, he tried to make one.  A rich parish
+decided that it could best honor God by building a new church, finer
+and costlier than anything else in the city, and invited several
+architects to submit plans.  David entered the competition, not by the
+adroit methods Dick Holden practised, but in the simple open-handed
+fashion which alone was possible to him.  He went to the chairman of
+the building committee.
+
+"Will you let me submit plans?" he asked.
+
+"I suppose so," Bixby said carelessly, eying his caller dubiously.
+
+For David, though he had carefully pressed his trousers for the
+occasion, was getting to be a little shabby.  If you looked close you
+saw that his cuffs were trimmed, his necktie was threadbare and his
+shoes were run down at the heels.  And he had not the look that speaks
+of success.  Seeing him, Bixby did not think as people had used to
+think, "This is a young man who will do big things some day."
+
+"When must the plans be filed?"
+
+The chairman told him, and added, "You understand, of course, they have
+to be bang-up--up-to-date in every particular, and _impressive_?"
+
+"Some things," David said gravely, "are so beautiful that they are
+up-to-date in every age.  And real beauty is always impressive because
+it is so rare."
+
+"Humph!" said Bixby, and dismissed his caller.
+
+David set to work that very night, going over all his old sketches in
+search of the best.  And because none of them had ever quite satisfied
+him, he discarded them all.  He began a new series of sketches, sitting
+up at nights long after he should have been asleep.  He discarded
+these, too.  For this idea must be so very good that the committee
+couldn't help accepting it.
+
+"I think," he told himself often, "I have reached the point where I can
+do something really worth while."
+
+One night when he had gone reluctantly to bed, sleep would not come.
+For a long while he lay staring at a white patch of moonlight on the
+floor.
+
+Suddenly he sat up, sprang out of bed and, still in his pajamas, sat
+down before his easel.
+
+In the morning Shirley found him there, looking raptly at the completed
+sketch.
+
+"David Quentin, what in the name of common sense are you doing here?"
+
+"Look!" he whispered, almost in awe.  "This is it."
+
+Shirley looked.  And she, who had picked up a little knowledge of
+architecture from him, knew that it was good.
+
+"Do you think," she asked, "do you think it really has a chance?"
+
+"Shirley, it's so good I can hardly believe it came out of my head.
+Maybe it didn't, but just passed through coming from--somewhere."
+
+He was thinking it was an inspiration. . . .  Well, since then many men
+who ought to know have thought and said the same thing about that
+church.
+
+For two months he toiled every spare moment of the day and in the still
+watches of the night, elaborating that first rough sketch, working out
+details, which came to him as of their own accord, making beautiful
+plans and elevations and long sheets of specifications.  He gave to the
+work enthusiasm, patience and stern criticism.  In return it gave him a
+new faith in himself.  And hope.  He _knew_ he would not fail in this.
+
+It was not really hard work.  For, as the weeks sped by, there grew up
+in his heart a love for the thing to which he was giving birth, deep,
+warm and abiding, a love that counted no hour of labor too heavy, no
+task too exacting.  He did not care to think of the day when the work
+must pass out of his hands.
+
+A little of his ardor entered into Shirley.  She, too, hoped.  She
+thought of the fee such a commission would bring, of the release from
+care and the good times that fee would buy.  Sometimes she had a
+glimpse of the new love growing up in David's heart, but, though she
+did not wholly like that, she gave it no serious thought.
+
+"Would you mind coming back to me?" she asked one evening, thus
+bringing him out of a smiling brown study.
+
+"I was just thinking what it would feel like to see the church _real_."
+
+"Don't you ever think of the money it will bring?"
+
+"That, too, sometimes.  But I never knew before how much the work--just
+being in it, you know--means to me."
+
+"That's very temperamental," she said with a shrug.  "Sometimes I
+believe you think more of your work than you do of your family."
+
+"I love you both," he answered gently.  "And I don't love you and Davy
+Junior less because I think so much of the work."
+
+It was a fleeting shadow.  Those months of preparation and hope were
+the happiest they had had since the panic began.
+
+Only once did his faith waver.  It was on the day when Dick Holden, a
+roll of plans under his arm, came into the office.
+
+"Davy, are you too busy to do a little job for me?"
+
+That was the formula Dick, who was very thoughtful in little things,
+always used when he turned work over to David.
+
+"I guess I can make room--with crowding."  That was the reply David,
+with a smile only half humorous, always made.  "What is it?"
+
+"I want you to make one of your pretty-pretty pictures of some church
+plans I'm making."
+
+"What church?"
+
+"St. Christopher's."
+
+David looked up quickly.  "Let's see the plans."
+
+Dick spread them out on the table.  David glanced over them hastily.
+
+"You're trying for it with that?"
+
+"Even so."  Dick laughed.  Dick at that stage of his career laid no
+claims to genius.  "But I know what I'm doing.  I've been talking with
+old man Bixby."
+
+David looked up again.
+
+"Dick, it's fair to tell you that I'm trying for that St. Christopher's
+job myself."
+
+"Meaning you'd rather not make pretty-pretty pictures for a competitor?"
+
+"No.  I mean you'd be wasting your money."
+
+"Why?"
+
+David drew out his original sketch and laid it before Dick.
+
+Dick looked--and looked again.  He leaned over and studied it intently,
+his eyes widening and shining.  Suddenly with a queer gesture he rose
+and went to a window.  He stood there, back turned to David, for
+several minutes.
+
+When he turned a flush was on his face and he found it hard to meet
+David's questioning eyes.
+
+"Davy, it's good.  It's damn good.  It's so much better than mine that
+I can't find a comparison.  I know just enough architecture to be sure
+of that.  I take off my hat to you.  But it's fair to tell you--it
+won't win."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"_I'm_ going to win."
+
+"With that?"  David nodded toward Dick's plans.
+
+"With that."
+
+"How?"
+
+"I'm giving old Bixby what he wants, and I'm--"  Dick made gestures of
+pulling wires.
+
+David was silent.
+
+"Maybe," Dick went on after a moment, "you think I oughtn't to work
+this game against you.  And maybe I oughtn't.  But if I didn't somebody
+would beat us both out.  They're all working it.  It's the only game
+that pays nowadays.  And besides, I need the money.  It isn't out yet,
+but I'm going to be married--and she's used to a lot of money.  I've
+been doing pretty well, but if I land this job I'll be fixed and able
+to give her the things she deserves.  Do you blame me, old man?"
+
+A troubled smile was on David's lips.  "Not wholly, Dick."
+
+There was another silence, awkward now, and then Dick began to move
+toward the door.  But with his hand on the knob he turned.
+
+"Davy, why don't you play the game?  You've got the stuff.  If you only
+could put it across, if you had the punch, you could go any distance.
+I--I'm not quite big enough to step down for a better man, but I'd
+rather have you beat me than any other man alive.  Why don't you try
+it?"
+
+The troubled smile lingered.  "I can't, old man."
+
+David did not hear the door close.  For a long time he sat staring
+vaguely at his sketch.
+
+But that night, when he was alone with his work once more, the old
+faith rushed back into his heart.  Dick was wrong--he must be wrong!
+The committee were honorable men; they held a position of trust.
+Surely they could see how much better his plans were than Dick's.  And
+surely they could not be tricked into passing them by for a hodgepodge
+that would only bring ridicule down upon their church.
+
+He was ashamed that he had lost faith, even for a day.
+
+Toward the end of the two months Shirley began to grow a little
+impatient with his industry.
+
+"Will it never be finished?" she would sigh plaintively.  "You never
+have any time to spare for me any more."
+
+"You see," he would explain, "there are so many details to be worked
+out in a thing like this, and I mustn't slur over any of them.  We must
+make it the best we can.  And it will soon be done."
+
+But a little throb of regret would clutch his heart as he said that.
+
+And one evening he did come to the end, the illustrative sketches
+complete, the beautiful plans all made, the last calculation for the
+specifications set down.
+
+"There!  It's done."
+
+He propped a sketch on the easel and leaned back, sighing.
+
+Shirley looked up from her novel.  "Thank goodness--at last!  Are you
+sure you've made it the very best you can?"
+
+"Yes."  He looked long at the sketch, a strange wistfulness in his
+eyes.  "Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever do as well again."
+
+"Suppose it shouldn't win, after all?"
+
+"Oh, don't!" he cried.  "Don't suggest that--just now."
+
+She caught the sudden sharp pain in his voice and looked at him
+wonderingly.
+
+"Why, what's the matter?"
+
+"Nothing," he answered, his voice gone dull now.  "I guess I've been
+working harder than I thought and am pretty tired."
+
+"You'd better go to bed early and get a good sleep."
+
+"Yes," he said, "I'm going to do that."
+
+But he did not do that.  Instead, for the last time, he stayed up until
+nearly morning in the company of his completed work.  It was as if he
+watched the night out with a loved one who in the morning must go upon
+a long uncertain journey. . . .  This also Shirley, had she known,
+would have called very temperamental.
+
+For a month they waited, a feverish, anxious but always hopeful month,
+for the committee's decision.
+
+And then one morning as he sat idly in his office an errand boy came,
+under his arm a long round parcel.
+
+"Mr. Bixby sent me with this."
+
+When the boy was gone David quickly ripped open the parcel.  It
+contained his sketches and plans.  With them was a note.
+
+
+"As we have accepted the plans submitted by Mr. Richard Holden, we
+return yours herewith.  Thanking you for. . . ."
+
+
+The rest was a dancing blur. . . .
+
+It was mid-afternoon when he rose from his table.  The first dizzying
+shock had passed, but a dull unceasing ache was left and he was very
+tired.  He tried to smile, to gather together the tatters of his
+courage and faith, but he could not think of the future.  When he tried
+to think of Shirley a sickening qualm rushed over him, leaving him weak
+and nerveless.
+
+"Poor Shirley!" he muttered.  "How can I tell her?  Poor Shirley!"
+
+Mechanically he put on his hat and overcoat and went out.  It was
+storming.  He had no umbrella, and if he had had one it would have been
+but scanty shelter against the driving rain.  But he did not care.  He
+was even glad of the storm and the discomfort of wet feet and clothes.
+
+For an hour he splashed aimlessly through the city's streets.  Then he
+turned slowly but doggedly homeward.
+
+"Poor Shirley!" he kept saying to himself.  "I mustn't let her see how
+it hurts.  I must put a brave face on it before her."
+
+He was half-way home when he stopped with a sudden "Oh!" that was
+almost a groan.  A memory had cut even through his misery.  It was
+their fourth anniversary!
+
+He took out what money was in his pocket, counted it and tramped back
+through the rain until he came to a florist's.  There he got a small
+bunch of carnations.  It was all he could buy with the money he had
+with him, and it was too late to go to the bank--and little enough was
+there!  He started homeward once more.
+
+By the time the apartment was reached he had pulled himself together a
+little.  With an effort he achieved a smile and went in.
+
+Shirley was waiting for him.  "Any word?"
+
+He shook his head.  He could not tell her just then, but he could not
+trust his voice with a kindly lie.
+
+"Oh, I thought surely we'd hear to-day--  You've brought something for
+me?"
+
+"It isn't much."
+
+He gave her the little box--it was rain-soaked now--and saw her face
+fall as she peeped within.  Always he had brought her some pretty
+extravagance on their anniversary.  But she kissed him and sent him to
+his room to put on dry clothes.
+
+They sat down to dinner, a special dinner with things they both liked
+and could not always have.  And for a while he tried to be as merry as
+the occasion demanded.  But not for long.  His tongue fumbled over his
+poor little jokes and his laughter was lifeless.  Shirley saw.
+
+"David, look at me."
+
+His eyes wavered, fell, then rose doggedly to hers.
+
+"What's the matter?  Something has happened.  Do you mean it's--"
+
+"Yes, Shirley.  Dick Holden won."
+
+For a moment she stared blankly at him, then burst into a storm of
+weeping.  In an instant his own heartache was swallowed up in sorrow
+for her.  He sprang to her side, catching her close and petting her,
+begging her "not to take it so," saying foolish brave things.
+
+The storm subsided as suddenly as it rose.  With a sharp movement she
+pushed herself away from him and sat looking at him with eyes in which
+he would have said, if he could have trusted his senses just then,
+anger and--almost--hate were blazing.
+
+"Shirley," he pleaded, "don't take it so.  Our plans _were_ good.  It
+was only pull that beat us.  Dick told me--"
+
+The eyes did not change.  "It doesn't matter why, does it?  They didn't
+take them--that's all.  What difference does it make if things are good
+when nobody will buy them?  And I had hoped--"
+
+"Dear, don't take it so," he repeated.  "We must be brave.  This is
+only a test--the hardest of all.  If we're brave and keep hanging
+on--you remember what we used to say--"
+
+She laughed, not her old beautiful laugh, but a shrill outpouring of
+her bitter disappointment.
+
+"Oh, we said a lot of silly things.  We were fools.  I didn't know what
+it would be like."  Anger--yes, and even hate--were unmistakable in
+that moment.  She sat up sharply.  "And, David, you've got to do
+something to change it.  I'm tired of it all--sick and tired of
+scrimping and worrying and wearing made-over dresses and being--just
+shabby genteel.  You've got to do something."
+
+Every word was a knife in his heart.  But he could not be angry with
+her; he was thinking of her disappointment.
+
+"But, dear, I'm doing all I can.  How can I--"
+
+"You can get a position somewhere and at least have a steady income
+that would--"
+
+"Why, Shirley, you don't mean--give up my profession?  You _couldn't_
+mean that!"
+
+"I mean just that.  It would give us a steady income at least."
+
+"But I can't give it up.  There's more than money to working.  There's
+being in the work you want to do and are fitted for--"
+
+"Ah!"  She turned on him fiercely.  "I thought you cared more for your
+work than for your family.  Now I know it.  You would keep us poor,
+just so you can do the things you like to do.  And what right have you
+to think you're fitted for it?  Why can't you be sensible and see what
+everybody else sees--that as an architect you are--"
+
+"Shirley!"
+
+But she said it.
+
+"--a failure."
+
+For a little he stared blindly at her.  All other aches were as nothing
+beside this. . . .  Then something within, that had sustained him since
+he left the office, snapped, gave way.  His head and shoulders sagged
+forward.  With a weary gesture he turned and went into the living-room.
+
+That storm, too, passed.  It had been more than half the hysteria of
+shattered hope.  She had hardly known what she was saying.  Now she
+remembered his eyes as she had dealt her thrust.  She was a little
+frightened at what she had done.  She waited nervously for him to come
+back to her; always David had been first to mend their quarrels, and
+Shirley thought her kisses balm to heal all wounds.
+
+But he did not come back.  In the living-room was a heavy silence.
+
+At last she went softly to the door.  He was standing by the table,
+still in the broken attitude, with the same dazed eyes.  He did not see
+her.
+
+"David!"
+
+He did not seem to hear.  She went to him and put an arm around his
+shoulder.
+
+"David, I didn't mean to be nasty.  It really isn't your fault.  I
+didn't mean--"
+
+The sound of her voice brought him out of his daze.  He shrank from her
+touch and, turning, regarded her with a queer new look that held her
+from him.  After a little the sense of her words seemed to come to him.
+
+"I think you did mean it," he said wearily.  "And I think--I think you
+are quite right."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+TO THE RESCUE
+
+In the morning the world, strangely enough, was outwardly the same.
+Even the sun had the bad taste to shine, as though a black shadow were
+not on their hearts.
+
+They went through the routine of bath and toilet and breakfast.  David
+glanced over his newspaper and romped a bit with Davy Junior.  And
+because he kissed her as he left for the day, Shirley supposed that the
+scene of the night before had been filed away with their other tiffs,
+in a remote pigeonhole labeled "To Be Forgotten."  She was glad of that.
+
+"And maybe," she thought hopefully, "it was a good thing I said that to
+him.  David is clever and good and dear and all that, but the trouble
+is he lacks ambition and push.  He needs bracing up and to take things
+more seriously.  Perhaps it will be just as well if I take the reins
+for a while."
+
+Her first act as whip was to write a long letter to Aunt Clara.
+
+David, not guessing that the reins had been transferred to Shirley's
+hands--not guessing, in fact, that they had ever been out of Shirley's
+hands--was trudging listlessly, not to his office, but to Jim
+Blaisdell's bank.  His note fell due that day.
+
+"Same old story," he told Jim.  "I'd like to renew, if you don't mind."
+
+Jim fingered the note thoughtfully.
+
+"Davy," he said at last, "don't you think it's about time to clean this
+up?  It's been running a good while."
+
+David flushed and his head went up.  "Of course, if you'd rather not
+indorse--"
+
+"Don't be a fool, Davy.  It isn't that.  There's nothing Mrs. Jim and I
+wouldn't do for you and Shirley, and you know it.  What I mean is,
+debt's a bad habit.  It grows on you and you get to a point where it
+doesn't worry you as it ought.  And it leads to other bad
+habits--living beyond one's means, and so on."
+
+David's prideful pose collapsed suddenly.  "I know," he said wearily.
+"I'd like to clean this note up.  It worries me quite enough.  But the
+fact is--the fact is, I'm strapped and can't.  We've been living from
+hand to mouth for a good while.  And it begins to look"--David's laugh
+went to Jim's heart--"as if both hand and mouth would be empty soon."
+
+"It's really as bad as that?"
+
+"Worse than that."
+
+Jim slowly scrawled his name across the back of a new note.  David got
+up and crossed the office, fixing his eyes--which saw not--on a
+flashlight photograph of the last bankers' association banquet.  He
+cleared his throat vigorously.
+
+"It's worse than that.  Jim--" He paused.
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"Jim, you don't happen to know any one with a job--living salary
+attached--concealed about his person, do you?"
+
+"What!"
+
+Jim whirled around in his swivel chair and stared hard at David's back.
+David continued his regard of the bankers' association banquet.  "This
+is you in the corner, isn't it?--  Because, if you know of any such job
+I'd be glad to take it over."
+
+"In your own line, of course?"
+
+"In any line.  Preferably _not_ in my line."
+
+"But--good lord, man!  You're not losing your nerve, are you--just
+because business has slumped a little?  What about your profession?"
+
+"As to that," David cleared his throat again, "as to that, I think we
+may say--safely--I haven't made good."
+
+"Oh, piffle!  You're too young a man to say a fool thing like that.  If
+it's this note that's bothering you--"  He stopped, because David had
+turned and Jim saw his eyes.
+
+"The note is only part of it.  But, if you don't mind, we'll not
+discuss it.  I'll be glad if you can help me out.  And I'll try to cut
+this loan down a little next time--somehow.  I'll not keep you any
+longer now."  David moved toward the door.  "Remember us to Mrs. Jim,
+won't you?"  And he went hastily out.
+
+"Why, damn it!" muttered Jim, left alone.  "This is bad.  This is
+entirely too bad."
+
+David went to a long weary day at his office, where he had nothing to
+do but sit at his desk and gaze into space.  Shirley was mistaken.  Her
+words had not been filed away in the remote pigeonhole, "To Be
+Forgotten."
+
+For a while Jim stared frowningly at the crumpled note in his hand.
+Then he began a long series of telephone calls.
+
+The thing was still on his mind that evening when Mrs. Jim descended
+from the children's dormitory and silence reigned at last through the
+house.
+
+"You might as well out with it now as later," she observed, as she took
+up her sewing.  "What has been bothering you all evening?"
+
+"I've been congratulating myself on my cleverness in the matter of
+choosing a wife."
+
+Mrs. Jim surveyed him suspiciously.  "What put that into your head?"
+
+"Davy Quentin--by way of contrast, I suppose."
+
+"What about Davy?"
+
+"I'm afraid he's got into a pretty sour pickle."
+
+"He's been there for four years.  Though he didn't always know it.
+What is the particular development now?"
+
+"Debt, insolvency--in fact, genteel poverty."
+
+"And worry, discontent and disillusionment at home.  I've been afraid
+of that."
+
+"He didn't say so."
+
+"Davy wouldn't, of course."
+
+"It must be pretty bad, for he wants to give up his profession and take
+a job.  You know, Davy's liking for his work amounted almost to a
+mania."
+
+"Does he _have_ to give it up?"
+
+"It doesn't meet their needs--at least, their requirements.  And worst
+of all, he's got it into his head that he hasn't made good."
+
+"But he has made good.  He has done good work.  And he has talent.
+Hasn't he?"
+
+"In a way.  But there's only one divine spark nowadays--push.  He
+hasn't that.  He prefers to let his work speak and push for itself.
+Poor Davy!"
+
+"Poor Davy!  But you'll get him a position, of course."
+
+"There are times," remarked Jim, "when you're as innocent and credulous
+as Davy himself.  It isn't so simple.  He's fitted only for his own
+line.  And there are very few men willing to pay a living salary to a
+greenhorn just for learning a business.  In fact, after to-day I'm
+ready to say there is none."
+
+"Poor Davy!" Mrs. Jim repeated softly.  She threaded a needle and bent
+over her sewing.  Jim watched the swift deft fingers proudly; they had
+acquired the habit of industry in a day when the Blaisdells had had to
+wrestle with the problem of slender income.  After a few minutes'
+silence she let her sewing fall to her lap.
+
+"I think, Jim, if you'll have the machine around I'll go down-town with
+you in the morning."
+
+Jim sighed in relief.  "You've solved it, then?"
+
+"I want to call on my latest acquisition.  You remember asking, 'Why is
+Jonathan Radbourne?'"
+
+Jim nodded, with the smile the thought of that gentleman always evoked.
+
+"The answer is, of course--Davy."
+
+"I'm wondering," said Jim thoughtfully, "just how Davy would like it if
+he knew you were going to beg a job for him."
+
+"I'm not going to beg a job.  I will merely state the case to Mr.
+Radbourne."
+
+"Suppose he concludes that making a job for Davy is too high a price to
+pay even for your ladyship's favor?"
+
+Mrs. Jim smiled confidently.  "Mr. Radbourne and I understand each
+other.  And he doesn't have to pay for my favor.  I have made him a
+present of it."
+
+Two mornings later David found a note from Jim, asking him to call at
+the bank.  David obeyed the summons at once.
+
+"Davy," Jim began, "did you mean what you said the other day about a
+job?"
+
+"Yes," David answered quietly.
+
+"Well, I took you at your word.  And I think I've landed you one.
+Radbourne & Company want a good man to do mechanical drawing.  They'll
+pay a hundred and fifty to the right man at the start, and they'll
+raise that later if you turn out well.  Do you care to try it on?"
+
+"Yes," David said again.
+
+"I still think you're making a mistake--but that's your business.
+Shall we go around to Radbourne's now?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+To those three monosyllables David added nothing during the few
+minutes' walk.  Had Jim been leading him to the prisoner's dock David
+could not have taken less joy in the journey.  Jim discoursed of the
+judge before whom the prisoner was being led.
+
+"Odd fish, this Radbourne.  Dinky little man.  With whiskers.  You're
+apt to think he's a fool at first.  But that's a mistake.  He isn't at
+all--I'd hate to lose his account.  He makes machines in a small way,
+but very well _and_ quite profitably.  His father made a reputation for
+turning out high-class work and the son keeps it up.  We got to know
+him at St. Mark's.  Mrs. Jim says he's the only man of real charity she
+knows--not even excepting me."
+
+David forgot to smile.
+
+They were shown into a small bare office, where, behind a littered
+flat-top desk, the judge got nimbly to his feet; although "judge" was
+in this case a queer fancy indeed, as David had later to confess.
+
+There are several ways in which men can be homely, and Radbourne, of
+Radbourne & Company, had chosen the worst way of all.  When you saw him
+you wanted to smile.  He was little and roly-poly.  His eyes were too
+small, their blue too light.  His nose was acutely and ungracefully
+pug.  His ears were too big and stood out from his head.  His mouth was
+too wide.  His hair and eyebrows were thick and red, too red, and his
+round chubby face was flanked by a pair of silky, luxuriant red
+Dundrearies that would have done credit to a day of hirsute
+achievements.  His linen was strictly without blemish, and he wore a
+creaseless black frock coat and a waistcoat of brown broadcloth.  And
+as he stood looking up at his tall visitors, head on one side, he
+reminded them of nothing so much as a sleek cock-robin who had just
+dined to his taste.  He seemed to be in his late thirties.
+
+David would have smiled at any other time.  "Why, this," he thought
+unkindly, "is a mere comic valentine."
+
+The comic valentine smiled, a little shyly it seemed, and put out a
+slender long-fingered hand.
+
+"This," he announced, "is a great pleasure."
+
+David took the hand and murmured something polite.
+
+Blaisdell chatted briskly for a few minutes, then departed.  Radbourne
+turned to his draftsman-to-be.
+
+"Perhaps Mr. Blaisdell has told you we are needing a man here.  Do you
+think, now you've had a look at us, you would care to come and help us?"
+
+"That's a pleasant way of putting it," said David a bit grimly.  "I'm
+needing a job badly.  If you think you aren't afraid to try me--"
+
+Radbourne smiled protestingly.  "If you knew all Mr. Blaisdell has said
+of you, you wouldn't say that.  You have warm friends, Mr. Quentin, if
+he is a sample."
+
+"Did he tell you I've failed in the only thing I ever tried?"
+
+"He didn't put it that way," the little man said gently.  "Nor would I,
+if I were you.  There's such a thing as getting into the wrong
+niche--which isn't failure at all.  Shall we consider it settled that
+you will come?"
+
+"I'd like to be sure," David said, flushing, "that this job isn't one
+of your--charities."
+
+The little man flushed, too.  "Oh, I _beg_ of you not to think that.  I
+expect you to prove it a good stroke of business for me.  And I hope we
+shall please each other.  Your first name is David, isn't it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And mine is Jonathan.  That ought to be a good omen.  Don't you think
+so?"  And that diffident smile, so absurdly out of place on the face of
+an employer, appeared again.
+
+"Why, I hope so," said David.
+
+"And I hope you will like the work, though it may not be very big at
+first.  I understand how important that is to a man."  Radbourne nodded
+gravely.  "But I have a theory that if he puts his heart into his work
+he is bound to get a good deal of happiness out of it.  Don't you think
+so?"
+
+"I'll try to remember that.  When do you want me to come?"
+
+"Could you make it next Monday?"
+
+"I will be here then."
+
+David went away from Jonathan Radbourne, the comic valentine; and the
+heartache, for some reason, was a little eased, courage a little
+stiffened.
+
+"After all," he kept saying to himself, "it's only a gift to Shirley
+and the baby.  And I'm _glad_ to give it to them--they're worth
+anything.  It's a debt, too.  I owe them everything I can give.  And
+maybe now we can be happy as we used to be--no worries or quarrels."
+
+He tried to keep thinking of that--of the comfort in knowing that next
+month's expenses could be met, of debts growing less, not bigger, of a
+love happily reborn under freedom from worry.
+
+He went to Dick Holden's office.  That busy young man met him with
+visible embarrassment, which, however, David ignored.
+
+"Dick," he plunged at once into his errand, "I owe you a lot of money."
+
+"Oh, not much--not worth speaking about.  No hurry about that, old man."
+
+David smiled grimly at that.  "It won't be paid in a hurry--can't be.
+But I'm quitting the game and taking a job, and I can pay you some
+every month now; not much, but a nibble, anyhow.  And if ever you get
+rushed with business and I can help you out at nights, I'd be glad to
+work part of my debt off that way."
+
+"Why," said Dick very eagerly, "that'll be easy.  I've got three sets
+of plans I'd like to have you work out right now.  And there'll be
+more.  You know, I'll be pretty busy over that St. Chris--"  Dick's
+tongue halted sharply and the red crept over his face until even his
+ears were glowing.
+
+"Of course.  I haven't congratulated you yet.  I do most--"
+
+"Don't you, Davy Quentin!" Dick interrupted fiercely.  "Don't you go
+congratulating me.  I feel darn small potatoes just now.  You're
+quitting the game because I beat you out on the St. Christopher's job,
+and I--"
+
+"Not at all," David interrupted in his turn.  "You mustn't look at it
+that way.  I was foozling my approach right along anyway, and the St.
+Christopher thing couldn't have changed that.  One swallow doesn't kill
+a summer thirst, you know."  He laughed at this slender joke so
+heartily that Dick was almost deceived.
+
+"Is it a pretty fair job?"
+
+"I must say it is.  And I expect to make a mighty good draftsman for
+Radbourne & Company.  I've always been rather long on mechanical
+drawing, you may remember.  And I've got a first-rate boss, if I'm any
+judge.  On the whole, it looks pretty good--much better than dubbing
+along at a game where--where one hasn't the punch, as you put it."
+
+Dick flushed again.  For several minutes he was silent save for the
+drumming of his fingers on the desk.  Then he stirred, with a sharp
+irritable movement.
+
+"Well, I wish you luck.  And I'll have the data for those plans
+to-morrow."
+
+David took this as a hint to go.  When he had gone Dick heaved a sigh
+of relief.  During those silent minutes a strange inspiration had come
+to him, to suggest a partnership in lieu of the new job.  Dick felt
+that he had had a narrow escape from an expensive generosity.
+
+Next David called on a young architect who was looking for quarters.
+To him it was arranged to transfer the office lease and to sell enough
+of its furniture to pay the rent in arrears.
+
+Then David went home to lay his gift at Shirley's feet.
+
+And yet, as he neared the apartment, he felt a strange shrinking from
+telling her the news, lest she guess what his gift had cost him.  He
+wondered at that.
+
+He found Shirley flushed with excitement over news of her own.
+
+"Guess who's coming!"
+
+David could not guess.
+
+"Aunt Clara!"
+
+"Why, that's fine," he rejoiced weakly.
+
+Shirley kissed him nicely.
+
+"And, David, I think she's coming to talk over things."
+
+"Aunt Clara generally is--  What things?"
+
+"Why, our affairs.  Money, you know."
+
+His glance sharpened.  "Why do you think that?"
+
+"Because--now don't scold!"  She brushed an imaginary bit of dust from
+his shoulder.  "Because--I asked her."
+
+"Shirley!"  His clasp of her relaxed.
+
+"Now _please_, don't let's have another scene.  What's the use of rich
+relations if they can't help you out once in a while?  You've no right
+to let your foolish pride cut Davy Junior and me off from Aunt Clara's
+help."
+
+"Luckily we shan't need her help, because"--it was not so he had
+thought to tender his gift--"because to-day I got a job."
+
+"A job?  Oh, David!"  Her arms tightened around his neck, Aunt Clara
+for the moment forgotten.  "What is it?"
+
+He told her.
+
+"Just a draftsman?  That isn't a very high position, is it?"
+
+"Not very."
+
+"How much does it pay?"
+
+He told her and saw her face fall.
+
+"Why, that's only a little more than you have been making."
+
+"At least, it's steady and sure."
+
+"But even Maizie makes that much.  I used to get ninety from the
+library.  I thought men--clever men--"
+
+"Beggars," he said, "even clever beggars, can't be choosers."
+
+"But we're not beggars, are we?"
+
+"Your Aunt Clara will think so."
+
+He turned away into another room, leaving the matter of Aunt Clara
+suspended in the air.  He saw then that he ran no risk of Shirley
+guessing what his gift had cost him.  He wondered if _he_ yet guessed
+how much it would cost.
+
+Soon Aunt Clara arrived, in a taxicab and wearing a businesslike,
+purposeful air.  She made herself promptly and perfectly at home and
+freely passed judgment on all she saw; and very little escaped Aunt
+Clara's eyes.  She inspected the flat and, inquiry establishing the
+rent, sniffingly reminded them that she and Uncle John--now unhappily
+deceased--had begun their housekeeping in a fifteen-dollar-a-month
+cottage.  Pouncing upon a drawerful of Davy Junior's sweaters and
+slippers and lacy dresses, she cited the case of John, _fils_, who
+until he was three years old had never had more than two dresses and
+one coatie at a time.  David's books struck her as an appalling
+extravagance; she and the late Uncle John had never thought of a
+library until they had ten thousand in bank.
+
+"You are very poor managers, I must admit.  You've been married more
+than four years, and what have you to show for it but didoes--and
+debts, as I understand?"
+
+The question went home to David's heart.  But it was he who, catching
+up Davy Junior, held out the crowing youngster for her inspection.
+
+"We have this."
+
+And then, a sudden wave of emotion surging unbidden within him, he
+caught the child sharply to him.  He turned away quickly to hide this
+unwonted demonstration, but Aunt Clara saw.
+
+"Very pretty!  But sentiment butters no bread."
+
+"Sometimes," he returned gravely, "it makes dry bread palatable."
+
+"Humph!" remarked Aunt Clara.  "And now let us have dinner--something
+more than dry bread and sentiment, if you please.  I never talk
+business on an empty stomach."
+
+To David, love and pride quivering from hurts lately sustained, that
+dinner, eaten to the accompaniment of the jarring critical voice,
+seemed endless.  And yet, thinking of a worse thing to come, he could
+have wished it to last until midnight or that hour which found Aunt
+Clara too sleepy for business.  It lasted until Aunt Clara had slowly
+sipped her second cup of coffee--which, inquiry brought out, cost
+forty-three cents the pound.
+
+Perhaps the dinner had mellowed her humor a little, for:
+
+"You may smoke," she nodded to David, "provided it isn't one of those
+nasty little cigarettes."
+
+"It will have to be a pipe."
+
+"A pipe is the least objectionable," she graciously conceded.  "Your
+late Uncle John smoked one to the last."
+
+Then she produced and donned a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and
+through them fixed upon David the sternest of glances.
+
+"And now, since I must leave in the morning, let us get to business.
+You may tell me the situation."
+
+"What situation have you in mind?"
+
+"The one that made you write to me for help."
+
+"But I didn't write to you for help."
+
+"Shirley did, which is the same thing."
+
+"When Shirley wrote, without my knowledge, she hadn't all the facts.  I
+have just taken a position--"
+
+"That is very sensible.  What sort of a position?"
+
+"A very good position, quite sufficient for our needs.  And so we
+needn't spoil your visit by discussing our dull affairs."
+
+Aunt Clara glared.  "Young man, are you trying to snub me?  I remember
+you tried that the first time I saw you."
+
+"I hope," said David gently, "I haven't given you that impression."
+
+"It's just his silly pride, Aunt Clara," Shirley put in soothingly.
+
+Aunt Clara silenced Shirley with a gesture and kept her attention on
+David.  "You did leave that impression.  And you are thinking that I'm
+nosing into what is none of my business.  On the contrary, young man,
+it is my business.  You married against my advice, but it's no credit
+to me to have my relatives hard up and in debt.  You are in debt, I
+understand?"
+
+"That is true," David answered quietly, "but--"
+
+"But you don't want my money to pay them with, you were about to say?
+Young man, when you refuse my money, you're a little--_quite_ a
+little--in advance of the fact.  I'm not going to give you money.  I
+don't believe in giving money to able-bodied young men."
+
+"Thank you," said David.
+
+"But I will give you some advice and some help.  You can take them or
+leave them.  My advice is--get rid of this expensive apartment and
+store your goods.  For the rest, I will take Shirley and the baby to
+live with me, paying all their expenses, until you can get on your
+feet.  With your new position and no one but yourself to pay for, it
+oughtn't to take long."
+
+Shirley gasped--unmistakably with delight.
+
+David turned red, but he answered, still quietly, "It is good of you to
+make the offer, but of course it is out of the question.  I think
+Shirley would prefer--"
+
+"Young man," Aunt Clara reminded him, "in my family nothing I suggest
+is ever out of the question.  As for Shirley, let her answer for
+herself."
+
+"_I_ think it would be very sensible," Shirley answered for herself,
+eagerly.
+
+"She means," corrected Aunt Clara, who was nobody's fool, "she means it
+would be pleasanter living in my house than scrimping here to pay for
+dead horses.  So it would.  But it would be sensible, too.  You've got
+into hot water.  I blame Shirley--I know her.  But I blame you most.  A
+husband ought always to keep a tight rein on household affairs.  Your
+late Uncle John--well, never mind him.  Because you've been weak,
+you've run into debt, the worst disturber of household peace.  I give
+you a chance to be rid of it quickly.  Have you a quicker way?"
+
+"I have a better way.  Since we got into the hole through our own
+carelessness, let us work our own way out."
+
+"Humph!  More sentiment.  You'd make your family pay for your weakness.
+However," Aunt Clara rose with the air of having done her whole duty,
+"I've made my offer.  It is for you to decide.  I will now go into the
+other room while you and Shirley talk it over.  I make it a rule never
+to intrude into discussions between husband and wife."
+
+She moved toward the living-room.  David ushered her to the door and
+closed it behind her.  Then he turned to Shirley. . . . .
+
+He had made many mistakes, no doubt, been as weak and foolish as Aunt
+Clara said.  But they had been loving faults, born of a deep desire to
+make Shirley happy.  And he had atoned for them.  He had declared
+himself to his world a failure; he had swallowed and forgiven the word
+that ought never to be on a wife's tongue.  Because it seemed best for
+her, he had given up a work that was very dear to him, even in failure;
+how dear, he had not known until he had resigned it, as he thought,
+forever.  He had taken unto himself a master and a task that to his
+cast of mind could never be aught but drudgery.  It was no easy thing
+he had done.  But he had not whimpered, he had made an effort, none the
+less brave because so boyishly obvious, to keep up a smiling front.  He
+had sought to offer his gift from the heart, ungrudgingly, because he
+had loved her, still loved her, he thought.
+
+That which they had now to decide seemed big and vital to him.  His
+pride was touched.  A need was involved.  Good sense might counsel
+acceptance of Aunt Clara's offer, but he thought it cowardly.  Since
+they had failed in the issue of making a living, the brave course was
+to retrieve that failure by themselves.  More--it did not seem to him
+the act of a loving woman to leave him, even for a few months, when his
+need of her and her love was greatest.
+
+He did not ask her to count the cost of his gift; he knew she could
+not.  He did want her to _justify_ the gift, to prove that the love for
+which he had paid so big a price was real love dwelling in a fine brave
+woman's heart. . .
+
+Shirley was sitting at the table.  He went to a chair across from her.
+She looked up eagerly.
+
+"Shirley, shall you mind very much if I say, no?"
+
+"I think the only sensible thing is to take her at her word."
+
+"Perhaps.  But I'd rather not be under obligations to--to anybody."
+
+"Oh, that's just sentiment, as Aunt Clara says.  And it's quite time
+for us to begin being practical.  Think of being rid of all those
+horrid debts!  You don't seem to understand what a weight they've been
+on me."
+
+"I think I do understand, dear.  But it will be different now, because
+we know that if we're careful for a while we can clean them all up.
+Radbourne seems a good man to work for and maybe this job will develop
+into something better.  And I'll be doing work on the side for Dick for
+a while.  It won't be so long before the debts will melt away.  Then
+we'll have the satisfaction of knowing we did it by ourselves, without
+any one's help.  We'll have proved ourselves, don't you see?"
+
+"That's more sentiment.  I can't see anything so awful in going to Aunt
+Clara's.  It would be just a visit, such as any one would make.  It
+wouldn't be for so very long, and it would do us all good.  I would
+have a fine rest, and the change would be good for you, too.  You could
+read and work in the evenings with no one to bother you.  And you'd
+have a fine chance to see all your old men friends."
+
+"It isn't the men I want to see just now.  Shirley, dear--"  He was
+pleading now.  "Shirley, dear, I--  You see, it's cost me a little, a
+good deal maybe--letting my profession go and taking up work that
+isn't--isn't so very interesting and is for another man.  It'll be a
+little hard--just for a while of course, until I get used to the idea.
+And I'd like to have you here with me.  Don't you see, dear--I need
+you."
+
+But the plea failed.  With a sharp sinking of his heart he saw her
+pretty brow wrinkle in an impatient frown.
+
+"I don't see at all.  I should think, if the position is such a good
+one, you'd be glad you've taken it.  And you ought to be glad to think
+of Davy Junior and me out at Aunt Clara's instead of moping around a
+cheap dingy flat or boarding-house."
+
+"You mean," he tried to keep his voice steady, "you _want_ to go?
+You'd really rather--aside from saving money?"
+
+"Want to!  I'm wild to go.  Of course, I'll be homesick for you, but
+all husbands and wives expect to be apart sometimes on vacations and
+trips and--oh, David, can't you see?  It's been so long since I've had
+any really good times and I'm hungry for them--starving.  And out there
+at Aunt Clara's, where you don't have to think of money all the time--
+Why, you couldn't--it isn't like you to be so selfish as to refuse me
+that."
+
+He said no more.  He sat fumbling with a napkin, his eyes cast down.
+He dared not lift them to Shirley's, lest he see there a truth he had
+not the courage to face just then.  After a little he rose, went to the
+door and opened it.
+
+"Will you come in now?" he nodded to Aunt Clara.  "The family council
+is over."
+
+Aunt Clara marched into the room.
+
+"Well, what have you decided?"
+
+"Shirley has convinced me," he smiled queerly, "that you are right.
+But your hospitality is all we ought to accept.  For her other expenses
+I will send something from my salary every month."
+
+"But that isn't what I--"
+
+"I'm afraid," he interrupted quietly, "you will have to concede so much
+to me--and sentiment." . . .
+
+In the morning Aunt Clara left.
+
+"This is what comes," was her benediction, "of marrying before you're
+ready and living beyond your means.  I hope it will be a lesson to you
+never to do it again."
+
+David was too tired to smile.
+
+The rest of that week was too full for much thinking.  The office was
+to be cleaned out.  Trunks were to be packed, china and silver and
+bric-à-brac to be wrapped and boxed for storage, a thousand little
+preparations for moving when a new tenant for the apartment should have
+been found.  David was grateful for that.  He did not want time to
+think.  Especially he did not want time to feel.
+
+On Sunday morning he took Shirley and Davy Junior to the train.  Not
+once did he let the baby out of his arms.  At the very last a doubt
+seemed to disturb Shirley.
+
+"David--"  They were sitting in the station waiting-room then.  "David,
+it's dear of you to let me go like this."
+
+"It's better than moping around here."
+
+"You don't think I'm selfish in wanting to go, do you?"
+
+He shook his head and kept his eyes on the child's face.
+
+"It doesn't mean I don't love you--oh, with all my heart!  I'll be so
+lonesome for you.  I'll be thinking of you all the time and write you
+every day.  And when I come back--!  Do you know, dear, I have the
+feeling that now, with the new position and the debts cleaned up soon,
+things are going to be different with us, so much brighter."
+
+"Why, I think so, Shirley."
+
+"I'm sure of it."  She squeezed his hand.  "When people love as we do,
+things just have to come out right."
+
+"Yes, Shirley."
+
+The gates were thrown open and they went out on the platform.  The
+train thundered in.  David took Shirley and Davy Junior into their car.
+He kissed her hastily and lingered longer over his good-by to the baby.
+Then he ran out of the car and stood again on the platform, while
+Shirley made the youngster wave his hand.  David managed an answering
+smile.
+
+He walked homeward by a long roundabout way.  The rest of that day he
+spent in working feverishly at unfinished odds and ends of packing.
+Then he got out all his sketches and plans and slowly tore them into
+bits, until the floor around him was littered with the fragments.  Last
+of all he came to the St. Christopher's plans.  But his hands refused
+his command to destroy.  He sat looking at this evidence of his
+failure, until darkness fell and hid them from his sight.  He rose then
+and, wrapping them up carefully, put them with the boxes for storage.
+
+There was nothing more that he could do.  He had not eaten since
+morning but he was not hungry.  He leaned back in a chair and let all
+the thoughts and feelings he had held at bay during the busy days rush
+at him in the darkness.  An incredible loneliness was upon him, a sense
+of loss bitterer even than loneliness.  It seemed that something for
+which he had paid dearly had been stolen from him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+GOOD FAIRIES
+
+But what of the fairies?
+
+So far the old witch had had it all her own way, and that she had done
+very badly, if not quite her worst, you will have to admit.  She had
+David by day in a cubby-hole office adjoining a noisy throbbing shop,
+making drawings of mechanical devices out of Radbourne's or an
+irritable foreman's brain; by his easel in the lonesome apartment at
+night, working out on paper from Dick Holden's notes the ideas of
+Dick's clients, who knew exactly what they wanted but not how it would
+look; saying sadly but sternly, "Begone!" to ideas of his own (in
+ecclesiastic architecture) that might nevermore hope to have a real
+birth.  She had taken from him what no one could restore, the fine
+silky bloom of his youth; and something worth even more, though that
+was a loss he was not yet ready to admit.  Worst of all, she had him
+convinced that he was a failure, a weakling and misfit, a sort of green
+fool who had asked for the moon and been properly punished for his
+temerity.  And that was a skein even fairies would find hard to unravel.
+
+But there was one who was willing to try.
+
+Who ever heard of a fairy with red Dundrearies?  Nobody, of course, but
+you shall hear of one now.  Although the whiskers are really beside the
+case; all a good fairy needs is a pair of keen eyes and a heart as big
+as a drum.
+
+An odd fish, no doubt of it, was Jonathan Radbourne, though a good man
+to work for and, as Jim Blaisdell had said and David soon found, by no
+means a fool.  There was no hint of masterfulness about him, which was
+because he never thought of himself as a master.  He never gave orders
+and never reproved; he made polite requests and sometimes, gently and
+apologetically, he showed where mistakes had been made.  If you
+happened to do about what you were paid for doing, he beamed with
+delight and thanked you as though you had done him a favor.  He was
+always busy and nearly always on the move, flitting back and forth
+between office and shop with hopping little strides that made him more
+robin-like than ever, and really accomplished a great deal.  But he
+often found time for friendly little chats with his employees on topics
+that had no connection with the business, such as the babies at home,
+the rheumatic old mother, the state of the heart or the lungs; he made
+it a specialty to know all their troubles.  And he always was
+smiling--on that mouth it was really a grin--a crooked cheery smile
+that made others smile, too, and he never acknowledged bad weather.
+
+From the first he made a habit of seeking out David.  His manner on
+such occasions was one of shy wistful friendliness, not quite sure of
+its welcome, that gave David an impulse to pat him on the head and say,
+"There, there, little man!  It's all right.  You're my chief and my
+time is all yours--though _I'd_ rather use it for work."  However, he
+never said that, but was always respectful and polite.  He took
+advantage of these chats to learn more of his duties.  With unwearied
+patience Jonathan explained them, as well as other details of the
+business, expressing delight at David's interest.
+
+David saw that he had much to learn and he had grave doubts that he was
+earning his salary.  He knew next to nothing of mechanics and did not
+always understand when Jonathan or Hegner, the foreman, explained some
+new device for which drawings were needed.  But that wrought no change
+in Jonathan's manner.
+
+"I'm afraid," he would say, "we weren't very clear on that."  And he
+would go over the explanation once more.
+
+When the drawings were correct: "Very good!" he would beam.  "I wish I
+could draw as beautifully as you."
+
+"Do you think," David asked on one such occasion, when he had been in
+the position nearly a month, "that I'm really the man you want?
+Sometimes I seem pretty slow."
+
+"Oh, you mustn't think that," Jonathan said warmly.  "You're catching
+on faster than I ever hoped for.  You don't know what a help you are to
+me.  The draftsmen I've had before used only their hands.  You use your
+head."
+
+"Thank you," said David, grateful for the assurance, even if the good
+will behind it was a trifle obvious.
+
+"And you find your work interesting, don't you?"
+
+"I'm learning to like it--very much."
+
+He tried to make his answer convincing.  But when he had left the
+office, Jonathan shook his head and sought out his bookkeeper.
+
+"That's a very nice young man, Miss Summers," he said.  "Mr. Quentin, I
+mean."
+
+Miss Summers agreed.
+
+"But I'm afraid he's pretty heartsore yet."
+
+Miss Summers looked a question.
+
+"He's a young architect," Jonathan explained, "who didn't make good.
+I'm afraid this work seems a come-down to him."
+
+"That's too bad," said Miss Summers.
+
+"If you get a chance, I wish you would try to make things cheerful for
+him here."
+
+"Of course," said Miss Summers, who understood Jonathan quite well.
+
+"_We've_ got to try that.  We must make a little conspiracy to that
+end.  I'll try to think up some details."
+
+Miss Summers smiled as though she liked making little conspiracies with
+Jonathan.  "Of course," she said again, and looked upon that as a
+promise.
+
+Very quietly she set about keeping it.  A little timidly, too; which
+was strange, since with others in the office and shop she was not in
+the least timid.  She could do little, it is true--a cheery "Good
+morning" and a friendly nod at evening, an occasional smile when
+something brought David into her office, once in a long while a brief
+little chat in which she, with a breath-taking sense of having an
+adventure, took the lead.  Another young man might have detected her
+friendliness and considered his charms.  But David, though his grave
+courtesy never failed, neither thought of his charms nor was conscious
+of hers.  Her charms, to be sure, were not of a striking sort; at least
+at first glance.  She was a frail-looking body whose face was nearly
+always pale and sometimes, toward evening of a hot day, rather pinched;
+her arms were too slender to be pretty and the cords of her broad white
+neck stood out.  She was not very tall and, perched on her stool at the
+tall old-fashioned desk by the window, she seemed more girlish even
+than her years, which were four-and-twenty.  She did not look at all
+like an iris, even a white iris girl; David would almost as soon have
+suspected Miss Brown.
+
+"I might," thought Miss Summers, "be a part of the furniture, for all
+he sees in me."  She did not think it resentfully, though with an odd
+little twinge of disappointment.  She regarded him as a very superior
+young man, the sort she had always wanted to know.  But she had made a
+promise and she would not desert the conspiracy.
+
+She noticed that he never ate or went out at the noon hour, as if there
+were no such thing as an inner man demanding attention.  Thereafter her
+luncheon, which was always carried in a dainty little basket, was
+seasoned with a conviction of gross selfishness.  And one day, after
+she had eaten, she went, basket in hand, to the door of David's little
+room.
+
+"Mr. Quentin--" she began.
+
+Instantly David was on his feet--one of his habits she liked so well;
+other men in the office did not have it.  "Yes, Miss Summers?"
+
+She held out the basket.  In the bottom reposed two fat cookies and a
+big apple whose ruddy cheeks had a rival in hers at the moment.
+
+"My eyes were bigger than my appetite.  Would you care for them?"
+
+"Thank you, Miss Summers," he said politely, "but I never eat at noon."
+
+"I _wish_ you would," she insisted.  "If you don't, they--they'll
+spoil."
+
+"By to-morrow?  Hardly, I should think.  Thank you, no," he repeated.
+"I find it doesn't agree--"
+
+He saw her face fall.
+
+"On second thought I believe I will.  They look so tempting.  It's very
+good of you to think of it."
+
+He took the basket from her hands.  But she did not leave.  She stood,
+still hesitant, looking up at him.  He motioned to his chair, the only
+one in the room.
+
+"Won't you sit down?"
+
+"But where will you sit?"
+
+He answered by brushing some papers from the corner of the table and
+seating himself there.  She took the chair--and the sense of adventure
+was very vivid.
+
+David bit into a cooky.  "Fine!  This is good of you.  Ordinarily I'm
+not hungry at all at noon--habit, you know.  But to-day I am.  How did
+you happen to guess it?"
+
+"I didn't guess it.  I just thought--"  She looked up at him again,
+timidly.  "Often I bring more than I can eat, and if--"
+
+He had to smile at that.  "Isn't that a little obvious?  I could go out
+if I wanted to, you know."
+
+"Oh, I didn't mean _that_!"  She was overcome by confusion.
+
+"And I didn't mean to snub you," he smiled again.  "You needn't
+apologize.  One need never be ashamed of a bit of hospitality, need
+one?"  To give her time to recover, he went on, "There's a good deal of
+that around here, isn't there?  Tell me something about Mr. Radbourne.
+You've been here some time, I believe."
+
+"Two years.  He's the best and kindest--"
+
+She entered, eager to cover up her late awkwardness, upon a glowing
+history of their employer's multifarious kindness.  There was Miss
+Brown, the stenographer, rescued from the department store where she
+had been "dying on her feet," sent to a commercial school and given a
+position she never could fill.  And Blake, the collector, who had lung
+trouble and half the time was not able to report for duty.  And Hegner,
+who was a genius but had a burning palate, picked up almost from the
+gutter and given an important place in the shop in the hope that
+responsibility would restore the shattered will.  And Smith, the latest
+recruit, but recently out of the penitentiary.
+
+"Though I wish he hadn't taken _him_ in.  He looks bad and has fishy
+eyes and is always so surly."
+
+"Is this a business or a sort of hospital for broken lives?" David
+inquired.
+
+"I think in his heart Mr. Radbourne is more interested in the hospital."
+
+"It's too bad he's so homely, isn't it?  It's rather hard to take him
+very seriously."
+
+"Yes."  She sighed, then caught herself up loyally.  "_No_!  Because
+when you get to know him you don't think about his face at all."
+
+David was thinking he had not done full justice to her face.  It was
+spirited and really intelligent, he decided, though its prettiness was
+as yet open to question.  He perceived what hitherto he had missed:
+that she had hair and eyes quite worthy of consideration.  Black as
+night the former was, and fine and rebellious, with little curling
+wisps about her ears and neck.  The eyes were a peculiar slaty gray and
+had depths inviting inspection.  He found himself wishing he could see
+them really alight.
+
+"It would be something," he said thoughtfully, going back to Jonathan,
+"to be able to run that sort of hospital.  But what a crew of lame
+ducks we are!  Except you, of course!"
+
+She laughed.  "Oh, you needn't be polite.  I'm one, too.  Not a very
+big one or very tragic.  A lame duckling, shall we say?"
+
+He suggested that a lame duckling might grow up into a wonderful swan,
+and munched his apple ruminatively.  Neither happened to think of a
+certain incident, much discussed, in which that edible figured
+prominently.  And he did not ask a question.
+
+"But how does he get his work done, with such a crew?"
+
+"We're not all lame ducks, you know.  And--you work hard, don't you?"
+
+"Of course.  It would be only decent--"
+
+"We all think that.  Even the big strong ducks like to work for him."
+
+"I'm told he makes money."
+
+"A good deal more than he spends on himself.  I keep his personal
+accounts and I know.  Several of his specialties are very valuable,
+inventions of his father's that are still in demand.  He'd make more
+money if he had a better system.  Hegner says he can't accept all his
+orders.  Maybe," she suggested, "you could help him there?"
+
+He shook his head.  "I'm afraid, Miss Summers," his laugh was not
+pleasant this time, "I don't know much of anything useful."
+
+"You could learn, couldn't you?" she asked quietly.
+
+He flushed, because he had let himself whimper.  "Why--I suppose I
+could try."
+
+She left him then.  And strangely--how, he could not have
+told--soothing oil had been poured into his wounds.
+
+By most rules set by most men he should have been happy enough.  He had
+work, clean and honest, that he was learning to do well.  He had paid a
+first installment on his debts.  Dick Holden had been as good as his
+word, the evening hours were busy ones and Dick would soon cease to be
+a creditor.  Shirley wrote daily.  She was well, the good times had
+materialized, Davy Junior was learning a new word every day and they
+both were so homesick for him.
+
+He was learning a new thing--to work, not with the natural easy
+absorption in a well-loved calling, but with faculties through sheer
+force of will concentrated on tasks set by others, in which he had no
+heart; to shut out of mind and heart, while he was working, all other
+facts of his life.  It is a good thing for a man to know.
+
+But, let his will relax its grip, and instantly his hurts began to
+throb.  His pride had suffered; he had proclaimed himself to his little
+world a failure in his chosen calling.  The new work was not _his_
+work.  Desire for that would not die, despite failure.  His mind, once
+freed from his will's leash, would leap, unwontedly active, into the
+old groove, setting before him creations that tantalized him with their
+beauty and vigor and made him yearn to be at work upon them.  And that
+was a bad habit, he thought; if he was to learn content in the new
+work, he must first put off love for the old.  When the debts were
+paid, the work for the successful uninspired Dick should cease.
+
+And in idle moments, though they were few, and in sleepless hours, not
+so few, the incredible loneliness would rush upon him, not lessened by
+custom; and a more poignant sense of loss.  To that vague sense he
+carefully denied words, lest definition add to the hurt.
+
+Perhaps he was more than a little morbid.  Men are apt to be so, when
+harassed overlong by care.  And perhaps he made a mistake, shunning his
+friends and seeking an anodyne only in a wearying routine.
+
+That afternoon the subject of the noon hour's chat came into David's
+quarters to ask a question about some drawings.  The errand
+accomplished, he, too, lingered.  He refused the chair David vacated
+and sat on the table.
+
+"I heard you and Miss Summers talking a while ago," he said abruptly.
+
+"You said you heard--"  David looked up, self-conscious.
+
+"I heard you laughing."  Radbourne's eyes twinkled keenly down on his
+draftsman.  "So you were talking about me?"
+
+"There was nothing you couldn't have heard--without offense, sir."
+
+"I know that.  Miss Summers is a loyal friend."
+
+"I hope the same can be said of me, sir."
+
+"Would you mind," Jonathan asked, "not sirring me like that?  That's a
+very fine young lady, Mr. Quentin."
+
+"Evidently," said David, though with something less than his employer's
+enthusiasm.
+
+"An inspiration to any man," Jonathan continued.
+
+"I have no doubt."
+
+Jonathan smiled.  "Meaning you do doubt it?  But I forgot--you probably
+don't know.  She had a disappointment, Mr. Quentin, a heavy one, and
+she bore it as--as you and I would have been proud to.  She had a
+voice.  And just as she was beginning to make her living out of it and
+getting ready for bigger things, she took diphtheria.  It left her
+throat so weak that she had to give up singing, altogether for a while,
+professionally for good."
+
+"Why, that was too bad!"
+
+"It was very bad.  But she didn't whine.  Just put it behind her.
+Since she had to make her own living somehow, she went to a commercial
+school and studied bookkeeping.  I was lucky enough to get her."
+
+"She could really sing?"
+
+"She would have gone far, very far.  I had happened to hear her and I
+followed her progress closely enough to know.  I have never been
+reconciled--"
+
+Jonathan broke off sharply, staring hard at a crack in the wall.  The
+little blue eyes were very sad.  David, too, fell into a long
+thoughtful silence.
+
+He broke it at last.  "As you say--"
+
+Jonathan started, as if he had forgotten David's presence.
+
+"As you say, it called for more courage, because she was a real artist
+and not a proven failure."
+
+"But I didn't say that."
+
+"You had it in mind when you told me that.  You are quite right.  Thank
+you for telling me."
+
+"There!"  Jonathan beamed happily.  "I said she was an inspiration to
+any man."
+
+"At least," said David grimly, "she is a good example."
+
+Jonathan left.  But in a moment he returned.
+
+"Do you like music?"
+
+"Very much."
+
+"Then one of these evenings we'll go out to my house, we three, and
+have some, if you'd care for it."
+
+"I should be glad to."
+
+"Next Saturday, perhaps?"
+
+David repeated his polite formula.
+
+Jonathan eyed him wistfully.  "You know, you're not obliged to say that
+if there is something else you would rather do.  I shouldn't care to
+take advantage of my position to force my company and--and my
+friendship upon you."
+
+"I should be very glad to have them."  And when he had said it, David
+knew he had meant it.  "Both of them," he added.
+
+The little man's face lighted up eagerly.  "You really mean that?"
+
+"I certainly do."
+
+"I am very happy to hear you say so.  You see," Jonathan explained, "I
+lead a rather lonely life of it, away from the shop.  I am not equipped
+for social life.  People of talent and agreeable manners and taste do
+not seem to care for my company.  They are not to be blamed, of course."
+
+The homely face was sad again.  David was uncomfortable and silent.
+
+"However," Jonathan's smile reappeared, "I am fortunate to have found
+congenial friends here.  Miss Summers is one.  And now I add you to the
+list.  With two friends a man ought to count himself rich, don't you
+think?"
+
+David agreed smilingly.
+
+Jonathan started away for the second time, then caught himself.  "I
+forgot.  I am ashamed to have forgotten.  Perhaps you ought to be with
+your family Saturday evening.  I should hate to feel--"
+
+"My family is away."
+
+If David's voice had become suddenly curt, Jonathan did not seem to
+perceive it.
+
+"Then we'll consider it settled."
+
+This time his departure was final.  And the cloud, lifted a little by
+the efforts of a white-faced bookkeeper and a comically ugly manikin,
+settled upon David once more.  He bent grimly to his interrupted work.
+
+At that moment Radbourne was obtaining Miss Summers' assent to the
+occasion of Saturday.  It was not hard to obtain.
+
+"I like that young man," he confided.  "I think we're going to be very
+good friends."
+
+"I hope so."
+
+"Yes.  It would mean much to me, Miss Summers."
+
+"But I was thinking of him," she said gravely.
+
+And the slate-gray eyes, as they rested on the little man, were very
+gentle. . . . .
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+SPELLS
+
+A unwonted excitement pervaded the offices of Radbourne & Company on that
+Saturday morning, radiated no doubt from the head of the concern himself.
+He flitted about restlessly, tugged at his whiskers continually, and his
+voice, as he rattled off his correspondence to Miss Brown, had a happy
+boyish lilt.  Occasionally, chancing to catch Miss Summers' eye, he would
+nod with a sly knowing smile.
+
+For the original program for Saturday had been enlarged.  Miss Summers
+and David had been notified to be ready at mid-afternoon for an event as
+yet cloaked in secrecy.
+
+Mid-afternoon arrived.  Radbourne glanced out into the street, nodded
+with satisfaction, closed his desk with a bang--greatly to the relief of
+Miss Brown, who would now have leisure to recopy the letters she had
+bungled--and vanished into his cloak-room.
+
+At the same moment David strolled into Miss Summers' presence, watch in
+hand.
+
+"The hour has struck," he burlesqued.  "What doth it hold?"
+
+"Whatever it is," she answered, "you must seem to be delighted."
+
+"I think I shall be."  David was actually smiling.  "For the last hour
+I've been looking at my watch every five minutes.  This excitement is
+infectious.  He hasn't grown up, has he?"
+
+"But isn't that his great charm?"  Miss Summers seemed already delighted
+over something.
+
+"Charm?"  David looked doubtful.  "I hadn't thought of him as--"
+
+But he did not finish.  Quick staccato footsteps were heard.  Then a
+strange vision burst upon them--Jonathan Radbourne accoutered for
+motoring, in visored cap and duster, with a huge pair of shell-rimmed
+goggles that sat grotesquely athwart his beaming countenance.  On one arm
+he carried a veil and another coat.
+
+"Ready?"  And to their astonished gaze he explained, "First we're going
+for a little run--if it is agreeable to you?"
+
+They assured him, in italics, that it was.
+
+"Then let us hurry."  He handed the coat and veil to Miss Summers.  "I
+brought these along for you.  They are my mother's.  I got them for her
+but she never would go out in a machine.  She thinks it would be tempting
+Providence.  I'm sorry," this to David, "I had nothing to fit you.  Can
+you do without?"
+
+David put him at ease on that point, and Miss Summers retired.
+
+In a few minutes, fewer than you might suppose, she returned.  Radbourne
+clapped his hands in delight.
+
+"Look, David!"
+
+David obeyed.
+
+And then he was sure that he had never done justice to the face peering
+up at him from under the veiled hat.  He was bound to admit that it had,
+after all, certain elements of prettiness; he was astonished that he
+could have thought otherwise.  But then he had never seen her when cheeks
+glowed shell-pink and eyes danced with that undefined but delicious sense
+of adventure.
+
+As he looked he smiled.  It was a very friendly smile and the shell-pink
+deepened.
+
+A touch on his arm interrupted--it seems there was something to interrupt.
+
+"Have I taken a liberty?  I called you David."
+
+David turned the remnant of the friendly smile upon Jonathan Radbourne.
+
+"Of course not.  I hope you will do that again."
+
+Jonathan beamed.  "Thank you.  And now, shall we start?"
+
+An hour later they were bowling swiftly along, up hill and down dale,
+over a smooth country road.  Fields of young corn sped by, stretches of
+yellowing grain that rippled and tossed under the sweep of the breeze,
+fragrant wood-lots whose shadow was a caress.  The host of the occasion
+sat with the chauffeur, turning often to point out to his guests some
+beauty of landscape they already had seen, commenting tritely, obvious as
+always in his effort to be entertaining, happy in the belief that he was
+succeeding.  And he was succeeding; such is the uplifting power of the
+spirit of true friendliness, even when dwelling in a dinky little man
+with whiskers absurdly swept by the rushing wind.
+
+The guests were silent for the most part when his comments did not call
+for answer.  In the girl--she seemed very girlish that afternoon--the
+sense of holiday and adventure continued, her eyes shone softly and the
+pretty color did not fade.  This despite her seatmate's evident wish to
+be left to his thoughts.  She had no wish to break through his reserve.
+But she wondered, a bit gravely, what he was thinking, and she did wish
+she could make things brighter for him, the superior young man who for
+all his nice courtesy and friendly smiles held himself so aloof and was
+so evidently subject to the blues.  She thought she knew what troubled
+him.  She could understand that.  She was not always so contented as her
+quiet cheery manner proclaimed; sometimes, in the middle of the night,
+she awoke crying for the gift that had been taken from her.
+
+His thoughts were less somber than from his long face she supposed.  He,
+too, had his pleasurable sense--of respite.  For once, though idle,
+neither loneliness nor dejection oppressed him.  It was good to lean back
+lazily in the chariot of the rich, dreamily watching the ever-shifting
+picture, soaking in the sunshine.  It was good, too--but in no-wise
+alarming--to have beside him this pretty girl who knew when not to talk
+and in whose occasional smile was a new subtle flattery.  It was even
+good to be with that odd fish Jonathan Radbourne, for whose company, in a
+more fortunate case, he would have had no desire.  He was glad Radbourne
+had arranged this little party.
+
+They came, at the end of a long climb, to a ridge lifted high above those
+they had crossed.  On its crest, at a word from Radbourne, the chauffeur
+brought his machine to a stop.
+
+Behind them lay the rough broken country of the foot-hills through which
+they had passed.  And before--the mountains!  To them the eyes of the
+holiday-takers turned and clung.
+
+Range after range they rose, like mighty billows, mounting higher until
+the tallest, dimly outlined in a thickening purplish haze, cut the sky, a
+rampart vision could not pierce.  They seemed alive, those hills, the
+thick untouched growth stirring ceaselessly under the wind, a restless
+sea of sunlit green with flashes of white from laurel thickets and soft
+glintings where satiny oak-leaves caught and tossed back the slanting
+rays.  And they sang.
+
+"Listen!" Jonathan commanded, and the chauffeur shut off the panting
+motor.
+
+They listened--all but the chauffeur, that philistine, who opened the
+hood and gingerly felt of the heated engine.  And the voice of the wind,
+wandering through the forest, came to them.  David heard a long wondering
+sigh from the girl beside him.
+
+Jonathan, too, heard and turned quickly.
+
+"That is real music, isn't it?"
+
+She nodded.
+
+"Is it worth the long ride?"
+
+"The ride was good enough in itself, but this--!  I never saw mountains
+before and I--oh, there aren't words for it."
+
+"I know," Jonathan nodded, and the little twinkling eyes, even through
+the hideous goggles, seemed very tender as they rested on her.  "'I will
+lift mine eyes unto the hills.'  The old fellow who sang that knew what
+he was talking about, didn't he?  If you've happened to mislay a faith
+anywhere, the mountains are a good place to look for it."
+
+"Even faith in one's self?"
+
+"The easiest to lose and the hardest to recover?  Yes, even that.
+Particularly that.  To any one needing it, I'd prescribe a month over
+yonder.  I've never been able to do that, but often, when the world seems
+a little--gray, I ride up here for an hour.  It does me good."
+
+
+The philistine yawned and turned his passengers' thoughts to a more
+interesting matter.
+
+"See there."  He pointed to a thin low-lying cloud on the western
+horizon.  "That's the city.  'Most sixty miles.  Done it in two hours,
+up-hill more'n half the way, too."
+
+"That's very good time, isn't it?" said Jonathan politely.
+
+"Humph!"  The philistine's disdain was marked.  "We'll do better'n that
+goin' back.  That is," he hinted, "if the dark don't catch us."
+
+It seemed best, on such sound considerations as a waiting dinner, to take
+the hint.  The big car panted once more, moved slowly along the ridge,
+then dipped sharply as it took the down grade.  They coasted, gathering
+headway with each turn of the wheels.  The girl, half turned, wistfully
+watched the mountains until the ridge rose to shut off the last crest
+from her sight.  Then she settled back in the seat as though she were
+very tired.
+
+David saw and on an impulse leaned toward her.
+
+"Do you mean," he asked in a voice so low that the others could not hear,
+"that you lose faith in yourself?"
+
+"It's the same thing, I suppose.  I lose courage sometimes.  I get tired
+of trying to like to do things I never really can like."
+
+"I understand," he said gently.  "Mr. Radbourne told me about you.  Will
+you let me say, I am very sorry?"
+
+She started, as if she had forgotten herself, and flushed deeply in her
+contrition.
+
+"There!  I'm perfectly nonsensical, letting myself be a cry-baby just
+when I'd intended--  It isn't my habit at all.  There's nothing really to
+be sorry for.  If you give any work your best and put your heart into it,
+you'll get--",
+
+"A great deal of happiness out of it," David finished dryly.  "Exactly!
+I recognize the formula.  Also its author.  I think you're just whistling
+to keep up your courage now."
+
+"But that isn't a bad thing at all to do.  Why--"  She turned to face
+him, with a little gasp for her daring.  "Why don't you try it?"
+
+It was his turn to grow red.  "You think I'd be more cheerful company?"
+
+"I think," she said, with a pretty gravity, "you make too much of being
+a--lame duck.  And I think that isn't like you."
+
+"How do you know whether it's like me or not?"
+
+"That," she laughed to cover her discomfiture, "is an embarrassing
+question.  But I do think it."
+
+"At least, I'm not such a grouch as I sound.  And I know how to be
+thankful when I find good--friends?"
+
+She nodded emphatically, and indicated their host.  "Two of us."
+
+"I'll hold you to that.  And," he continued, "you make me a little
+ashamed.  I should like to say that you, being with you, is very good
+medicine for lame ducks."
+
+Another flush--not of contrition this time nor yet of
+displeasure--deepened the pretty color.  He pursed his lips and whistled,
+as well as he could against the rushing wind, a bar or two of the latest
+popular melody.  They found humor in this and laughed, so merrily that
+their host turned and beamed approvingly upon them.
+
+It was a good car and the chauffeur was as good as his word.  The miles
+stretched out behind them, at a pace that forbade conversation.  The
+exhilaration of speed was upon David; and a deeper joy, born of a
+friendship found in a waste of loneliness.
+
+The late June sun was just sinking to rest when they entered the
+outskirts of the city and drew up before a rambling white house set well
+back on a velvety lawn.  Two great elms stood in the front of the yard
+and rhododendrons bloomed against the wide porch, their fragrance
+lingering on the evening air.
+
+"That," said Jonathan, "was a very spirited ride.  But I hope," this to
+David, "you aren't sorry it's ended, because this is my home, where we
+want you to come very often.  Miss Summers," he added, "already knows her
+welcome is sure."
+
+He got to the pavement and helped Miss Summers to alight, as
+deferentially as if she had been the finest lady in the land.  And,
+despite red whiskers and cap and goggles, to David the manner did not
+seem absurd. . . .
+
+A little later David descended from the room where he had removed the
+traces of their ride.  At the parlor door he stopped, looking uncertainly
+at the sole occupant of that cozy room.  She was reclining, eyes closed
+and hands folded, on a pillowed settee, where the glow of a shaded lamp
+fell softly upon her, and David thought her the most beautiful thing he
+had ever seen.  A very wisp of a woman she was; he could have held her in
+his arms and scarcely felt the weight.  But he would have taken her very
+tenderly, so fragile she seemed.  Under a filmy lace cap her hair, still
+fine and plentiful, shone silvery.  The face, though the face of age and
+white and thin almost to transparency, was strangely unlined.  She wore a
+black silk dress with many folds and flounces and fine ruching at neck
+and wrists.
+
+He thought she was taking one of those naps which are the prerogative of
+age at any hour, and began to tiptoe away.  But she started and sat
+upright, her face turned toward him.
+
+"Who is it?" she asked.  "But I know.  You are Mr. Quentin, of course.  I
+am Jonathan's mother."  She smiled.
+
+But something was wrong with that smile.  It seemed incomplete.
+
+"You may come in."
+
+She held out a hand.  David advanced and took it.  She caught his in both
+of hers, in a soft lingering clasp.
+
+She smiled again.  "It is a good strong hand.  You are quite tall, aren't
+you?"
+
+"Almost six feet."
+
+"And broad, too?"
+
+"Rather, I believe."
+
+He tried to speak lightly, but a hard lump was gathering in his throat.
+For he knew what was wrong with that smile.  She was blind.
+
+"I am glad of that."  She nodded brightly.  "I am very fond of large men.
+It has been my cross that Jonathan took his size from me and not from his
+father.  I could walk under his arm and not even graze his sleeve."
+
+She drew him down beside her.
+
+"Do you mind if I touch your face?"
+
+"It isn't much of a face, you know."  But that lump was very stubborn.
+
+She reached up and passed both hands over his face, a light caressing
+touch he scarcely felt.
+
+"Now," she smiled, "I see you.  You are quite mistaken.  It is a good
+true face and I like it very much.  Ah!"  She had touched his lashes.
+"You are feeling sorry for me.  But you must not," she chided gently.  "I
+don't like people to be sorry for me."
+
+To that David had no answer.  But on an impulse--or it may have been an
+inspiration--as the little hands left his face, he brushed one lightly
+with his lips.
+
+She beamed--always with that pathetic lack--just as Jonathan did when
+something pleased him.
+
+"That was very pretty."  She nodded again.  "I see I am to like
+Jonathan's new friend very much.  You know, you have quite won him.  He
+talks of you all the time.  You like him, do you not?"  The smile had
+become quite wistful.
+
+"Better all the time," David answered promptly and with truth.
+
+"I am glad of that.  And it is good of you to come here.  We have so few
+visitors--I suppose," she sighed, "because we aren't very interesting.  I
+am afraid Jonathan gets very lonely sometimes, having to spend most of
+his evenings here with no one but me.  Not," she made haste to add, "that
+he isn't always good to me."
+
+"I think he is good to every one."
+
+"You have found that out?  It is because he had a great disappointment
+once, I think."
+
+"One would never guess that."
+
+"No.  Of course, when one has had a disappointment or been made to
+suffer, one makes up for that by trying to make the world brighter for
+others."
+
+"It seems," said David, "that some people do that."
+
+"He wanted to play the violin professionally.  He had studied hard and
+his teachers said that he had talent.  But his father forbade it.  He
+said it wasn't a man's work to fiddle in public.  My husband," she
+sighed, "was a very firm man and wanted Jonathan to learn the business.
+So Jonathan went to the technical school here and studied engineering.
+Jonathan," she added proudly, "had been well brought up and knew that his
+parents were wiser than he."
+
+"I see," said David.
+
+"But I think," the little lady went on, after a pause, "we didn't know
+how hard it was for him.  I understand better now.  Sometimes, though he
+doesn't suspect, I hear it in his playing.  Then I wonder if we were
+wiser than he--and if I was selfish.  Of course, the music would have
+taken him away so much and it would have been very lonely for me--and
+very dark.  Sometimes I wonder if that wasn't his real reason for giving
+up his music."
+
+David was silent.
+
+"You say nothing."  Even without eyes to give meaning, her smile was
+wistful as a child's.  "Are you thinking he would have been happier--or
+better off--in the work he wanted than in taking care of me?"
+
+"I think," said David, "he is happy because he stayed with you."
+
+"He has said so himself."  She sighed.  "I wonder--I wonder!"
+
+For a little they said nothing, David thinking very hard.
+
+"And now," she said at last, "you may tell me what you think of Miss
+Summers."
+
+"Why," he answered, "she seems very attractive."
+
+"Jonathan has led me to believe so.  And a gentlewoman, should you say?"
+
+"I think so," said David, who had not thought of it at all.  "Oh, yes,
+undoubtedly."
+
+"That is my opinion.  And she sings very nicely."  Jonathan's mother
+sighed again.
+
+There was a dinner that included creations not found in cheap
+boarding-houses: fried chicken, for example, tender and flaky and brown,
+and crisp waffles with honey, and sweet potatoes in the southern style.
+It was cooked and served by a white-haired old negress whose round eyes
+popped with pride at the destruction David wrought.  She listened
+shamelessly, fat bosom aquiver, to her radiant master's quips,
+commenting, "Mistuh Jon'than,--_chuckle_--ef yo' ain'--_chuckle_--de
+beatenes' evuh!" and warned David in a stage whisper to save room for a
+miracle of a pudding to come.  Mrs. Radbourne opened the casket of her
+memory to display several well polished anecdotes of a day when the world
+must have been very bright indeed, full of light and color; chiefest
+jewel of which concerned a meeting with the elder Booth, from which
+occasion her husband--that very firm man--had emerged with credit.  If,
+as some wise man has said, wit is all a matter of the right audience,
+then David must have been very witty indeed.  And across the table from
+him sat a pair of slate-gray eyes, still aglow with that sense of
+adventure.
+
+Then there were cigars, mild and very good, smoked on the porch; both
+ladies protesting that they liked the fragrance of tobacco.  And then the
+host, with the air of having come to the real business of the meeting,
+rose and said:
+
+"Shall we have some music now?"
+
+"Oh, by all means!" said David politely, wondering how much credence he
+ought to place in the advance notices.
+
+They went into the parlor, where Jonathan turned to Miss Summers, "Do you
+feel like singing this evening?"
+
+"Yes," she said, and went at once to the piano.
+
+She played a few chords softly.  And then her voice rose in a low
+crooning note that went straight to David's heart.
+
+For she sang as the thrush sings--because God had put music in her heart
+and shaped her throat to give forth pure rich liquid sounds and meant her
+to be revealed through song.  And that evening, in the simple little
+slumber song she sang first, there was no faltering or roughened note to
+tell that part of her gift had been taken from her.  While she sang,
+there was nothing in the world but melody and the rest of which she
+sang . . . and the singer.
+
+She ended.  But over at least one of her audience the spell of her voice
+lingered.  For a long moment David sat motionless, lips parted, staring
+wonderingly at her, even after she had swung around to face them.
+
+"Why--" he stammered foolishly.  "Why--I didn't think--"
+
+The rose pink in her cheeks became rose madder and it was easy to see
+that she was happy over something.  "Oh," she said, "it just happens to
+be one of my good days.  Sometimes my voice leaves me in the middle of a
+note and lets me down flat."  She laughed, as though there were humor in
+that.
+
+David did not laugh.  He saw no humor in that.  He could not believe that
+it had ever happened. . . .
+
+And so she became the iris girl.  But he did not suspect that yet.  He
+was not looking for iris girls; it is much to his credit.
+
+They did not notice the excitement glistening in Jonathan's eyes.
+
+"You have been practising again," he declared.
+
+"Just a little.  And only for the fun of it.  Not in earnest of course.
+It's your turn now."
+
+He said no more about her practise but got out his violin, tuned it
+carefully, opened a book of music before her and waited for her to play
+the prelude.  Then, tucking the violin under his chin with an eager
+caressing gesture, he began to play.
+
+That was a night of wonders to David.  He was transported from a world of
+failures and disappointments into a delectable land where a dinky little
+man, armed with nothing but a horsehair bow and his own nimble fingers,
+compelled a gut-strung box to sing songs of love and throb with pain and
+dark passions and splendid triumphs.  That is always magic, though some
+call it genius.  And the magic did not cease there.  It touched the
+player, transformed him.  The homely manikin, a bit ridiculous with his
+mannerisms and whiskers, a trifle too obvious in his good will to others,
+disappeared.  Where he had been stood a man strong but fine and gentle in
+his strength, proud and passionate, as strong men are apt to be, but
+brave enough to turn willingly from his chosen path because another way
+seemed best.  David, watching the player's swaying body and transfigured
+face, understood, as even the blind little mother could never understand,
+how much her son had given to her.
+
+"If only he could be playing always!"
+
+Jonathan's mother slept.  But for two hours the man who was no longer
+manikin and the girl who in real life was only a frail little bookkeeper
+played to David: a brilliant polonaise, a nocturne that was moonlight and
+shadow set to music, a concerto that only the masters attempt, a few
+noble old classics.  Between them she sang thrice, songs chosen by
+Jonathan, each a little more taxing than the one before.  Not once did
+she falter and only once, in the last song where her contralto voice had
+to take _b_-flat above middle _c_, was there a hint of strain.
+
+More than rare harmonies and melodies and rhythms were coming to David.
+Player and singer, though they did not know it, were giving themselves to
+him.  This was the man, and that the girl, whom--rather patronizingly, as
+though he were conferring a favor--he had let proffer their simple
+unaffected friendship!  "He gave up his work of his own accord for that
+poor old woman who can't even guess at what it cost him.  _She_ was
+forced out of hers when success was in sight.  I don't know which is
+worse.  And _they_ don't make gloomy grandeur out of it."
+
+The last song, to which Jonathan improvised an obbligato, ended the
+music.  Esther--for that was her name--pointed in dismay, toward the
+clock and the sleeping hostess.
+
+"Thank you," said David from his heart.  He was thanking them for more
+than the music.
+
+Mrs. Radbourne stirred, yawning daintily.  "Are you stopping so soon?  My
+dear, you sang very prettily.  Jonathan, you surpassed yourself.
+Particularly in the _Largo_.  I remember Ole Bull, in 'sixty-seven. . . ."
+
+When that anecdote was concluded, the guests rose to leave.  Because it
+was very late, Mrs. Radbourne prevailed upon Esther to stay overnight.
+David would not be persuaded.  So they gathered around him at the door.
+And, having shaken hands, he said again:
+
+"Thank you.  And I should like to say--"
+
+A sudden awkward lump jumped into his throat.  He began anew, "I should
+like to say--"
+
+But what he would like to say would not be said.  "Good night," he forced
+out abruptly and hurried into the night.
+
+Jonathan Radbourne stood before the cold fireplace, tugging with both
+hands at his whiskers.
+
+"Miss Summers," he said, "that young man grows nicer all the time."
+
+"Yes," she said.
+
+"I wish I could make things brighter for him."
+
+"You are, I think."
+
+"No more than he has earned from me.  He's a very faithful worker, you
+know.  I must look up some of his professional work.  And I have an idea
+that concerns you, young lady.  There's a new throat specialist I've just
+heard of.  You're to call on him on Monday."
+
+David walked home.  When that absurd lump had been conquered he began to
+whistle determinedly, as became a young man who was no longer to make
+gloomy grandeur out of his failure.  He kept it up until he reached the
+apartment and its chill loneliness smote him.
+
+"Oh, Shirley," he cried, "if only you were--"  And that was another
+saying he did not complete, because it might have been lacking in
+loyalty. . . .
+
+A new tenant for the apartment had been found.  The next Saturday David
+turned the key for the last time on a scene of defeat.  He was not sorry
+to leave.  That night he took a train for an over-Sunday visit with
+Shirley.  She had been urging him to come.
+
+"I know it's an extravagance," she wrote.  "All the nice things are.  But
+Davy Junior and I are so homesick for you."  David's heart cut no capers
+at that, even before he read what followed.  "I'm afraid people will
+think it queer, your not coming, and of course, I can't tell them it's
+because we are _poor_."
+
+It was an unsuccessful trip from the beginning, though Shirley, all
+smiles and exclamations, met him at the station and hugged him so hard
+that she wrinkled his collar.  She took him to Aunt Clara's in that
+lady's new car, saying, "Home, Charles," as if she had been born to
+automobiles and chauffeurs.  There the day was taken up by many
+guests--including the resplendent Sam Hardy, in cutaway and silk
+waistcoat, New York made, that made David feel shabbier than he
+looked--come to inspect Shirley's husband.  The only real "aside" he had
+was with Aunt Clara, who quizzed him concerning the state of his debts.
+
+"You are doing quite well," she was pleased to approve.  "I begin to
+believe there's something in you, after all."
+
+"Thank you," David murmured, as politely as the case allowed.
+
+"Now don't get huffy with me, young man," she said.  "That's saying a
+great deal, from me to you.  You can't expect _me_ to fall on your neck."
+
+"Not exactly," said David.
+
+"Humph!" she sniffed.  "Sounds much like 'God forbid!'  Which isn't
+grateful.  You've much to thank me for, if you only knew it.  Shirley's
+better off here--and you're much better off having her here--than back
+there pinching pennies with you.  There are some things Shirley never
+could understand."
+
+David answered nothing, but a little voice within was piping, "It is
+true!  It is true!"
+
+Aunt Clara looked at him sharply, then suddenly--to her own great
+surprise--blew a trumpet blast from her long nose and said:
+
+"Tut! tut!  Don't mind my impertinent old tongue.  I like you better than
+I sound.  You may never set the river afire, but you have a pretty
+patience _I_ never had.  And I could be a fool over you, if I let myself.
+Do you want me to send her back home?  I will, if you say the word."
+
+David hesitated a moment.
+
+"Do you want her to go?"
+
+"No," said Aunt Clara.  "Shirley can be good company when things go to
+her taste."
+
+"Does she want to go?"
+
+"If she does," said Aunt Clara, quite herself once more, "she's bearing
+up under the disappointment remarkably well--for Shirley.  I take it my
+question is answered."
+
+Shirley and David went to the station as they had gone from it, alone in
+Aunt Clara's car.  All the way he was trying to tell her of the new
+resolve he had taken when Jonathan and Esther Summers made music for him.
+It was strangely hard to tell.  Not until they were in the station, with
+but a few minutes left, did he find words for the essay.
+
+"Shirley, I'm afraid you thought I was pretty babyish--about giving up my
+profession.  I--I _was_ babyish.  I'd like you to know I've got my nerve
+back."
+
+Shirley was very sweet about it.  "I did think you were a little foolish
+to take it so hard, dear, when the old architecture never brought us
+anything but disappointments.  I always knew you would come to look at it
+sensibly."
+
+And she dismissed the subject with the carelessness it may have deserved.
+"When do you think Mr. Radbourne will raise your salary?"
+
+"Probably before I have earned it."
+
+"David, do you think we'll _ever_ be rich?"
+
+"I suppose not.  There seems little chance of it."
+
+She sighed.
+
+"There is nothing in the world but money, is there?"
+
+Tears of self-pity were coming into her eyes.  "It's terrible, having to
+look forward to being poor forever."
+
+The train announcer made loud noises through a megaphone.  David rose and
+looked down in a sudden daze at the pretty young woman who was his
+wife--to whom he had become but a disappointing means to an end, to whom
+his heart, though he might thrust it naked and quivering before her eyes,
+would ever be a sealed book inspiring no interest.  His pretty house of
+love was swaying, falling, and he could not support it.
+
+"And I begin to think," he said queerly, "that we'll always be
+hopelessly, miserably poor."
+
+Even Shirley could perceive a cryptic quality in that speech.
+
+"What do you mean by that?"
+
+"Nothing that need disturb you.  I have no reason," he added grimly, "to
+believe that it will disturb you."
+
+She eyed him reproachfully and gave a sigh of patience sorely taxed.
+
+"David, I wonder if you never realize that in some of your moods you are
+very hard to understand."
+
+"Too temperamental, I suppose?  Right as always, my dear."  He laughed.
+Men sometimes laugh because they can not weep.  But Shirley did not know
+that.  "But I think I can promise you--no more temperament.  I'm learning
+a cure for that.  And now I'd better turn you over to Charles.  I think
+that noise means my train is ready."
+
+He took her to the car, kissed her and helped her into the seat and
+watched her ride away.  Then he went back into the station just in time
+to catch the train.
+
+Shirley found herself perturbed and close to tears; she hardly knew why.
+
+"I wonder what he meant by that about temperament?"  She sighed again.
+"Sometimes I think the worry and everything are turning David's temper
+sour.  I wish--I wish he were like other men.  He doesn't realize how
+trying he is sometimes."
+
+And Shirley being Shirley, she bade Charles drive faster and tried to put
+David's unlikeness to other men out of her mind.
+
+David being David, he sat up all night, submitting to his cure for
+temperament.  He was facing the truth from which he had been hiding ever
+since Shirley went away.  His heavy sense of loss had been defined.
+
+A little imp with a nasty sneering voice that jabbed like a hot needle
+perched itself on his shoulder and kept dinning into his ears:
+
+"The truth is, you had nothing to lose but a fancy.  Shirley never really
+loved you.  You were only one of her toys, one sort of a good time, and
+not worth the price.  You didn't really love Shirley, only what you
+thought she was, what you see now she is not.  Therefore . . ."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+SANCTUARY
+
+Some men fall out of love with their wives as easily and unconcernedly
+as they fell in.  They even feel a sort of relief, thinking a
+disturbing factor thus removed from their lives, and they live happily
+ever after.  But they are not "temperamental."
+
+It was not so with David.  He thought it a tragedy, at least for a
+while.  Even when it had failed him, when it had refused to shine in
+darkness, itself turned upon him in an hour of need, he had not lost
+faith in love.  He had said in his heart, "At least I have love left,
+which is worth while in itself; and having that, I can yet work out
+some sort of happiness for us all."  He had clung desperately to that
+hope, though the evidence was against it.
+
+He had been clinging to an illusion.  When he found that out, he had
+nothing left.  He was bewildered by the task of working out a happiness
+where no love was.  How could he rebuild when he had not even wreckage
+with which to build?
+
+He went to live at the boarding-house where he had been taking his
+meals, a dingy cheerless establishment that had but the one merit of
+cheapness.  He spent his evenings there alone, smoking too much,
+reading or working for Dick Holden.  The cheap tobacco burned his
+tongue and the loneliness, more than ever, ate into his soul.  He
+thought of going out to call on the Jim Blaisdells or for dinners with
+the men he had used to know.  But he shrank from that because he
+supposed his old friends must be saying, "That David Quentin--poor
+Davy!--has quite petered out, hasn't he?"  As probably they were.
+
+He had sense enough to understand that these nights were not good for
+him.
+
+"As far as I know, I've got to exist a good many years yet and make a
+living for myself and Shirley and Davy Junior.  So I mustn't let myself
+get into this sort of a rut.  I must hunt up a more cheerful place to
+stay."
+
+When a love is dead, it is dead, and there's an end to it.  After a
+decent period of mourning you get used to the fact. . . .
+
+The office, after all, was not so unbearably prison-like.  There was
+the balm of friendship--a double friendship--which is good for the
+self-respect of a man.  And there was the work, with which he was
+growing more familiar and which, therefore, was more easily and quickly
+and better done.  At his own suggestion the scope of his duties had
+been broadened; and he borrowed books from the library and tried to
+study out schemes to systematize Jonathan's business.  Some of these
+schemes were not wholly absurd and one or two were adopted, which
+pleased Jonathan far more than David.  Strictly speaking, David was not
+putting his heart into his work, but he was giving fidelity and a
+desire to do his best; and he was getting back, perhaps not happiness,
+but at least a measure of the honest workman's best reward.  So that
+Jonathan's theorem was given a partial demonstration.  Jonathan saw.
+
+"Mother," he said one evening, "I am more than a little ashamed.  I
+took David Quentin into the office because Mr. Blaisdell said he was
+badly in need of a position and nothing else offered.  I'm afraid I
+thought it a charity and was rather patronizing at first.  I'm afraid,"
+Jonathan sighed, "I am puffed up at times by my charities, which don't
+amount to so much, after all."
+
+"We are not required to be _too_ humble," she reminded him.  "Why are
+you ashamed just now?"
+
+"It wasn't charity at all.  David is really a very capable man and a
+hard worker.  He more than earns his salary--I'll have to raise that
+very soon.  I can't understand how he failed as an architect."
+
+"Perhaps he didn't have the right talent.  I understand architecture is
+a very difficult profession."
+
+"It is a noble art," said Jonathan, "and very few men have the talent.
+That must be the explanation, though I've looked up some of his work
+and it seems quite as good as that of many architects I know.  But I
+find it hard not to be glad that he was forced to come to me.  He is
+the most likable man I have ever met."
+
+"He seems attractive," said his mother, less sweepingly, "and has
+excellent manners.  He is good-looking, is he not?"
+
+"Very."  Jonathan winced.  "He is just what a man would like to be.
+And I never had a friendship that meant quite so much to me."
+
+"Has he displaced Miss Summers?"
+
+"Miss Summers," said Jonathan, "is--different.  What shall I read
+to-night--_Earnest Maltravers_?"
+
+Boarding-houses that are both good and cheap are not easy to find.
+David took his problem to Esther Summers.  It made an excuse for a
+minute's chat.  He liked to watch the dancing lights in those
+expressive gray eyes.
+
+"Do you happen to know of any pretty good boarding-house?  I say
+_pretty_ good, because it has to be pretty cheap, too.  The place I'm
+at now is a nightmare.  They're always frying onions.  And the
+star-boarder is a haberdashery clerk.  He looks like an advertisement
+of ready-made clothes and talks out of the side of his mouth in what he
+thinks is an English accent.  He's always talking to me about the
+squabs on his staff."
+
+"What is a squab?" she asked.
+
+"I'm not quite sure, but I think it's a wholly imaginary creature much
+taken by the charms of haberdashery clerks."
+
+"I see.  I don't think of any place now.  Unless--"  She hesitated
+doubtfully.
+
+"Unless what?"
+
+"My aunt has a third-story room that is empty.  It's a very nice room,
+though it isn't furnished now.  There are only two other roomers, who
+are very quiet and never bother any one.  We never fry onions and there
+is a pretty good boarding-house only a block away.  You could get your
+meals there."
+
+"It sounds like the very thing.  I could furnish the room myself with
+some of my stuff that's in storage.  And--  Do you happen to live
+there?"
+
+"I happen to.  Of course, if that's an objection--"  She laughed.
+
+"Would you let me set my door on a crack when you sing?"
+
+She nodded.  "Since you'd probably do it anyhow!"
+
+"Then I think I could waive that objection.  Would you mind speaking to
+your aunt about it?"
+
+"This very night," she said.
+
+That is how David went to live under the same roof that sheltered
+Esther Summers.
+
+It seemed a harmless arrangement.  He saw her very rarely there.  In
+the morning he left the house before she did, at the end of the day
+stayed longer at the office; not by intention but because his work
+called for longer hours.  In the evening she stayed with her faded old
+aunt in their part of the house.  The other roomers were as quiet and
+exclusive as the prospectus had promised.  So David, in his new
+quarters--pleasant enough once his things had been installed--was left
+alone with his books, his letters to Shirley and his work for the
+successful Dick Holden.
+
+But there was something in that house--not to be accounted for by mere
+creature comforts--that made it easier to fight off the blue devils of
+loneliness and took away a little of the reminder's stings when some
+tantalizing shape appeared in his tobacco clouds.  Every morning he was
+awakened by her voice at the piano, a few minutes of scales and then
+one song, always a true matin song, full of hope and the sheer joy of
+living.  In the evening she sang again, a little longer at scales and
+another song, sometimes two.  Then David's door would be set on a crack
+and he would lean back in his chair, listening and thrilling with some
+emotion as vague but as beautiful as a very good idea in ecclesiastical
+architecture.  Sometimes a film would come over his eyes; it is not
+clear why, for when she sang he forgot to remember that he was a
+failure, that he was in mourning for a love lately dead and that he had
+become a mere drudge for money.
+
+One evening when he had been under that roof for nearly three weeks she
+did not stop with the second or even the third song.  Ballads and arias
+followed until she had sung steadily for more than an hour.  Wondering,
+David stole from his room and sat with the other roomers on the stairs,
+listening raptly to the golden voice that floated up to them.  And not
+once did it falter or lose its pure timbre.
+
+Silence fell at last.  The other roomers, sighing, went back to their
+rooms.  David went down to the parlor.
+
+The singer was still sitting before the piano, absent eyes fixed on the
+open sheet of music; a happy but half-incredulous smile was playing
+about her lips.  It became a friendly welcoming smile when she saw him
+at the door.
+
+"Did you like my little concert?"
+
+"Like it!"  He used a gesture to explain that she had set too big a
+task for his tongue.
+
+Her cheeks made answer.
+
+"Do you know," he asked abruptly, "that your voice is getting better
+and stronger all the time?"
+
+"I think so," she said quietly.
+
+"Don't you think that maybe your throat is getting well?"
+
+"I think so.  But I can't be sure.  It's too soon to tell yet.  And
+it's too good to be true."
+
+"Oh, no!" he protested.  "You mustn't say that.  You mustn't _think_--"
+He stopped with a curt laugh.  "That's queer advice from me."
+
+"But it's very good advice--for any one, I am sure."  Her eyes had
+become very grave.  "And I shouldn't have said that, for it really
+doesn't matter so much as it did once.  You see, I was pretty cowardly
+about it at first, when I found I couldn't depend on my voice.  Because
+I couldn't have all I wanted I wouldn't have anything at all.  For two
+years I wouldn't sing a note.  The doctor says the long rest is what
+gives me a chance now, but I don't deserve that.  I made myself
+foolishly unhappy.  But it's different now.  Even if I can't go back to
+studying or ever hope to do big things, I know I can sing a little for
+myself and get a great deal of happiness out of that."
+
+It may be that her smile was a little too bright.
+
+"Do you really mean that?" he asked.  "Or are you only whistling again
+to keep up your courage?"
+
+"If I'm only whistling--why, please let me whistle.  But I think I do
+mean it.  It's very sound philosophy.  Even if the lame duckling can't
+fly, is there any reason why it shouldn't waddle for the fun of it?"
+And now the smile was just as it should have been.
+
+David considered that.  For some reason hidden from her his cheeks were
+burning; you would have said that he was ashamed again.
+
+"No reason at all," he said at last, "if the duckling happens to be
+very brave.  But I hope she is going to fly very high and very far."
+
+And with that he left her, more abruptly than was polite.  She would
+have been glad to have him stay longer.
+
+For many minutes she sat there by the piano, thinking not of the gift
+that seemed to be coming back, but of the queer lame duck who took his
+lameness so much to heart.  She saw no harm in such employment.  She
+wished she were a fairy godmother, so that she could by a wave of her
+wand make his wings whole once more.
+
+Up in his room David, too, was thinking earnestly.  After a long while
+he rose from his chair, set up the easel and began to work, not on a
+pretty-pretty picture for Dick Holden, but on an idea of his own that
+lately had been haunting him.
+
+That became a habit in his spare hours.
+
+
+Swiftly the new idea took form, as the flower grows in the field,
+without travail or effort.  He worked harder than ever at Jonathan's
+drawings those days--hot lazy days they were, too--to earn release a
+half-hour earlier; and he swallowed his dinners more hastily than was
+wise.  Then, when no hack work for Dick Holden was to be done, he sat
+at his easel sketching until the clock struck an hour--more often
+two--after midnight.  Esther's aunt was a model landlady and had
+nothing to say about extravagance in gas.
+
+He did not pat himself with the remark, "They will have to come to me
+yet."  He never even thought of that.  Neither did he say, "I am doing
+a big thing," having no opinion at all as to whether the thing was
+little or big.  But he whistled sometimes as he worked, quite softly,
+and he went to bed always in a warm mellow glow that merged easily into
+sound restful sleep.  In the morning he awoke ready, even eager, for
+the new day.
+
+He even took some pleasure in his work for Dick Holden.  It was Dick
+who gave him a bit of interesting news.  David had called that noon to
+get data for some plans Dick wanted him to make.
+
+"I could do them myself," the latter explained.  "But I'm loafing this
+summer.  I'm in town only because there's talk that St. Mark's is going
+to build."
+
+David did not wince.  "And to pay tribute into your coffers?"
+
+"That's what I'm here for," grinned Dick.
+
+"And what are you going to give them?"
+
+"_I_ don't know."  Dick waved a confident hand.  "Whatever they want."
+
+"I'm working out an idea," David suggested a little timidly, "that
+maybe you can use.  Drop around to my room some time and I'll show it
+to you."
+
+"Why, yes, I'll drop around some time," rather too carelessly said
+Dick, who was no longer so thoughtful in little things.  Too much
+success seemed to be going to his head.
+
+David flushed and dropped the subject.  Dick, too, dropped it, both
+from tongue and mind.
+
+A few evenings later, while David was working on his new idea, violin
+strains rose from the parlor.  But he did not go down or join his
+fellow roomers on the stairs, though Jonathan and Esther made music
+until the evening was no longer young.  It was a good hour for work;
+the harmonies from below awoke other harmonies in his heart and
+clarified his vision.  That evening he completed a first sketch of the
+interior: the picture you get looking toward the altar from a point
+well back in the nave.  It was good even as a sketch, for he had seen
+very clearly and worked eagerly.
+
+When it was finished he sat back and looked at it for a long time while
+the music from the parlor flooded up to him.  But he saw not a sketch.
+
+He was back in a simpler age when the symbols of faith had power;
+seeing with a new understanding a picture that had formed in his mind
+as he worked out this creation--for him it was already created. . . .
+A narrow crooked street, filled by a gay colorful throng that slackened
+its pace and lowered its voice before a gray, weathered old church.  A
+beggar crouching on the steps, mouthing his whining song.  A constant
+stream of worshipers passing in and out through the great open door:
+plumed cavaliers, their arrogant swagger for the nonce put off; gray
+pilgrims, weary and dusty, with blistered feet and splintered staves;
+mailed soldiers ready to march for the wars; tired-eyed crusaders home
+from a futile quest; a haughty lady, a troubled daughter of artisans, a
+faded wanton, brought into a brief gentle sisterhood by a common need;
+all seeking the same thing.  And perhaps in the doorway a faltering
+sinner unconfessed, fear of punishment a flaming sword in his
+path. . . .  Ah, well!  It was not so absurd, that picture.  For those
+seekers have even unto this day their children who, amid their
+pleasuring and warring and questing, sometimes grow faint and would
+rest.
+
+In such company he entered.  On the threshold they paused with a quick
+breath for the chaste beauty of vista and line, the soft play of color
+and shadow.  Then sense of beauty faded before a thing that eye can not
+see nor tongue express, what the seekers had needed and what they
+found: peace, passing understanding, unseen but undoubted; hovering
+above them in the noble nave, kneeling with them in shadowy aisle,
+winging toward them on the shaft of sunshine streaming from heaven
+itself upon the altar.  Here, for intrigant and ravager, penitent and
+saint, failure and world-weary, was sanctuary--respite, if only for an
+hour, from sin and strife, passion and hate and self.  It was good to
+stay there a while, humbled yet uplifted, aspiring anew.  For there was
+a Presence in His own house.
+
+A wonderful thing had happened to David Quentin.  His sensitive
+quivering heart had caught and recorded the great human need, and to
+him it had been given to build a rest house for many weary and poor in
+heart.  Perhaps if his commonplace little trials had not seemed big and
+tragic to him, he never could have known the need and so he never would
+have written in stone and wood the story of sanctuary that has meant so
+much to the ages.
+
+He did not foresee that.  He did not think of it as a possibility.  He
+was thinking only of the great discovery he had made: that a man may
+find sanctuary, as he may give worship, in a task well loved and well
+done.  Life was a pretty good thing after all, since it could not take
+from him eyes to perceive or heart to rejoice in the beauty he could
+create, though none else cared to see.  The days of his whimpering,
+even to himself, were ended.
+
+"I should have been doing this all along."
+
+Nor did he notice that the music had ceased.  He did not know even that
+he was no longer alone, until a voice broke in on his reverie.
+
+"He doesn't look very hospitable, does he?"
+
+"Maybe," said another, "he doesn't feel that way."
+
+David jumped to his feet and peered over the easel at Jonathan and
+Esther.
+
+"But he does, indeed.  Visitors," he announced, "are requested to stay
+on this side of the door."
+
+They stepped within.  "Since you wouldn't come down," Jonathan
+explained, "of course we had to come up.  Though Miss Summers almost
+lost her courage on the way.  She said we were taking a liberty."
+
+"But I didn't," she protested in some confusion.  "I only said--"
+
+"That you don't seem to care much for company," Jonathan completed her
+sentence.  "She was mistaken, I trust?"
+
+"Woefully," smiled David.  "And I've had company all evening.  They
+played and sang and helped me to work."  He waved a hand toward the
+easel.
+
+"Do you think," Jonathan inquired of Esther, "we may take that as a
+compliment?"
+
+"I'm not quite sure," she answered.
+
+"She means," chuckled Jonathan, who seemed to be enjoying himself
+hugely, "she must see the work before she commits herself.  Is it
+allowed--?"
+
+"Of course, if you care to," David said.  "And you'll find these chairs
+comfortable, I think.  Over here, where you get the light."  When they
+had sat down, he turned the easel toward them.  "Now, ladies and
+gentlemen," he burlesqued, "if you will look upon my right--"
+
+They looked.  And their sudden surprised interest made his heart skip a
+beat.
+
+"Why, I--I didn't know--" Esther began, in the words he had once
+stammered to her.  She gave him a quick questioning glance, then looked
+again at the sketch.
+
+Jonathan had become very grave.  "You have a gift for drawing."
+
+"Only a knack," said David.
+
+"A very pretty knack then.  Is that a copy?"
+
+"Just a sketch of an idea I've been trying to work out lately.  This,"
+David placed another drawing on the easel, "is about what it would be
+like outside."
+
+"It is," said Esther, "like seeing music."
+
+Jonathan studied that drawing for several silent minutes.
+
+"You keep up your professional work as a side issue?" he asked abruptly.
+
+"Oh, no!  But sometimes I--waddle for the fun of it.  Under advice,"
+David smiled at Esther, "of a very good fairy."
+
+Jonathan did not understand that saying, but he thought from her color
+he could guess the fairy's name.
+
+"And very good advice, too.  Have you done any other ecclesiastical
+work?"
+
+"Why, that," laughed David, "I used to think was my mission in life."
+
+"Is there anything else you could show us?"
+
+"I have a set of drawings I submitted to St. Christopher's last spring.
+They're all that escaped a general destruction when I took down my
+shingle."
+
+David got the plans from a closet, unrolled them and placed the
+illustrative sketches before his visitors.  Jonathan studied these
+drawings, too, very carefully.
+
+"St. Christopher's, you say?" he said at last.  "But I don't
+understand.  I happen to have seen the plans they accepted.  I don't
+know very much about architecture technically, but I should say yours
+are better--manifestly better.  Am I right?"
+
+"They weren't what St. Christopher's wanted."
+
+"But they are better, aren't they?"
+
+"I think they are," said David quietly.
+
+"But I believe I like the new idea even better.  Am I right again?"
+
+"I suppose it is better in a way.  It's less pretentious and
+spectacular, but has more warmth--more meaning, I suppose."
+
+David tried to speak casually, but excitement was mounting.  He caught
+up the new sketches and compared them eagerly with the old, forgetting
+for the moment what St. Christopher's had meant to him.  And he saw the
+new idea as he had not seen it before.
+
+"It _is_ better," he muttered.  "I--I hadn't realized."
+
+"David!"  It was hard to believe that Jonathan could be so stern.  "You
+are a fraud.  You came to me under false pretenses.  You gave me to
+believe that you had been a failure."
+
+"I was."
+
+"You know better than that.  Any man who can work out such things--!
+For a very little I would give you your discharge this moment."
+
+"But I beg of you--Mr. Radbourne, you don't know what my position means
+to me--"
+
+"I didn't mean that seriously, of course.  But you ought to be back in
+your own work.  Why did you ever leave it?"
+
+"Because I couldn't make a good enough living."  David flushed as he
+said it.  How pitifully poor, despite all his late philosophizing, that
+reason sounded!  "Mr. Radbourne, let us drop the subject."
+
+But the shining-eyed Jonathan would not drop it.
+
+"I think I can understand," he said gently.  "Because it seemed the
+best thing for others, you gave up the work you wanted to do and were
+fitted to do.  You didn't whine and you did my little drudgeries well
+and patiently, as though they were the big things you would have done--"
+
+"You don't understand.  I did whine--"
+
+"I never heard you.  Miss Summers, we owe David an apology.  We were
+sorry for him!"
+
+"Not now," she said.
+
+"No, not now.  David, how long will it take you to finish your new
+plans?"
+
+"But I'm not going to prepare plans.  A few sketches for my own
+amusement--that's all."
+
+"I happen to know that St. Mark's is about to build."
+
+"I am not interested, Mr. Radbourne."
+
+"But I am.  As a member of St. Mark's and as your friend, I am deeply
+interested.  How long will it take, David?"
+
+David only shook his head.
+
+"Man," cried Jonathan, "will you let one reverse--"
+
+"Mr. Radbourne, I beg of you, don't urge that.  It's all behind me.
+I'm not fitted for the work as you think--drawing pretty sketches isn't
+all of it.  I--a man told me once, I haven't the punch.  I don't know
+how to meet competition.  And it cost me something--it wasn't easy--to
+get settled in other work.  I don't want to get unsettled again, to
+face another disappointment.  I--"
+
+David stopped.  And Esther, watching him too closely to be conscious of
+her own heart's eccentric behavior, saw in his eyes the hurt which
+disappointment had left, and philosophy, even a very sound philosophy
+as formulated by a lame duckling, had not yet fully healed.  And she
+saw indecision there, a longing that she understood, and a fear--
+
+Of its own accord her hand went toward him in a quick pleading little
+gesture.  "You must!" she said softly.  "Please!" . . .
+
+Jonathan had left, beaming with joy, violin under one arm, a roll of
+sketches under the other.  They stood on the porch in an intimate
+silence they saw no reason to break.  A young half moon was sailing
+over the city, dodging in and out among lazy white cloudlets.  David
+watched it and wondered if he and his friends had not been more than a
+little foolish.  He shrank from the thought of another defeat.  He
+shrank even from the thought of a victory; for, should it come now, it
+would not be alone through his gift or any power that dwelt in him.
+
+"I believe you're sorry you promised him."
+
+He turned to the girl.  The disappointment in her tone reached him.
+
+"He isn't hard to read, is he?  He's planning to--to pull wires for me.
+He won't trust my work to win out."
+
+"Ah!  I was hoping you wouldn't think of that."
+
+"I can't help it.  It sticks out--you've thought of it yourself.  Do
+you think it is a foolish pride?"
+
+"Not foolish!" she answered quickly.  "And not just pride, I think.
+It's hard to realize that good work isn't always enough."
+
+"Then you don't think me--temperamental?"
+
+"I think you are--honest.  But after all, there's no real dishonesty if
+you do good work.  And I think"--there was a sudden return to her old
+shyness--"I think, if you win out, your great reward will be the good
+work you have done."
+
+"How do you know that?"
+
+"If it weren't true you wouldn't have made those sketches."
+
+And he knew a quick stirring of gratitude that he had found this girl
+who understood so well, who saw the verities as he saw them and had
+neither laugh nor sneer nor impatience for his finickiness.
+
+"I wish," she went on, "it could come to you as you want it.  But I am
+glad it is coming--even though some one does pull wires to bring it to
+you."
+
+"But the wires may not work.  I've got to remember that others may not
+see my work as you and he do."
+
+"That is possible," she said.  "What of that?"
+
+"I can try again, you mean?  I suppose I can do that.  I think I will
+do that, as I can.  And probably, if I turn out work that's worth
+while, some day my chance will come.  If I don't--why, there are other
+things to do, and if you put your heart into them you can get happiness
+out of them.  Do you mind if I plagiarize a bit?"
+
+"I don't mind at all," she smiled.
+
+"And I've got to remember that, win or lose, I owe a lot to you and
+him.  He doesn't understand what a quitter I was when I came to his
+office.  I'd turned sour.  I thought, because things hadn't gone the
+way I wanted, I'd been hardly used."
+
+"I know how that feels," she said.
+
+"The truth was--"  Moonlight loosens tongues that by day are tied fast.
+"The truth was, I'd had the best luck in the world.  I'd met him--and
+you.  You went out of your way to make things pleasant for me, a
+stranger.  And by just being yourselves you shamed me into looking at
+things from your point of view.  It's a very good point of view.  I'd
+rather have it now, I think, than build all the churches in
+Christendom."
+
+The moonlight revealed the friendliness in her eyes.  He could not
+fight down a new thrilling faith in his gift, in himself, in his
+strength to stand straight though he should fail again.
+
+"You'd have found it by yourself," she said.  "If you'd really been a
+quitter, if it hadn't been in you, you couldn't have found it, even
+through him.  But I know how you feel.  I feel the same way toward him.
+_Isn't_ he the dear, funny little man?"
+
+And that opened a fertile and profitable field.  Jonathan's ears must
+have burned a long while that night.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+CERTAIN PLOTS
+
+Three good fairies had their heads together.  One was an astute banker
+with a mouth delinquent borrowers hated to see, one was a woman who was
+known to be wise and one was a dinky little man with red whiskers.
+
+"The question before the house," said Jim Blaisdell, "is, are we
+justified in playing politics to bolster up a young man we're afraid
+can't stand on his merits?  _I_ don't fancy pulling wires--in church
+matters, that is."
+
+"The question," said Mrs. Jim, "is no such a thing.  It is, whether
+we're to let that insufferable Dick Holden give us another St.
+Christopher's?"
+
+"Or to help make a strong fruitful life?" amended Jonathan.
+
+"I can't quite see Davy as strong," said Jim, "though he is paying his
+debts.  But Dick certainly is getting to be a conceited duffer.  The
+ayes," he sighed, "seem to have it.  The next question is ways and
+means.  Old Bixby's method in St. X looks good to me.  A conditional
+contribution--what do you say?"
+
+"How much?" inquired the practical Mrs. Jim.
+
+Jim took out an envelope, did sums in subtraction and division and held
+out the result to his wife.  She took it from him, did a sum
+herself--in multiplication--and exhibited that result to him.
+
+"Woman," he cried, "would you rob me?  I'm no Standard Oil."
+
+"It's the least I can possibly consider," she answered him firmly.
+"You can't expect to play good fairy without paying for the privilege.
+Now, Mr. Radbourne, what will you do?"
+
+Jonathan, too, took out an envelope, wrote slowly a row of figures,
+scratched it out, wrote another and handed it doubtfully to Mrs. Jim.
+
+"Will that do," he inquired, "for a starter?"
+
+Mrs. Jim gave him a special smile.  "_That_ is something like."  She
+waved Jonathan's figures under her husband's nose.  "There, Mr.
+Pinchapenny!  Are you blushing for shame?"
+
+"Phew!" whistled Jim.  "If that's how he squanders his money, he
+needn't ever come asking credit of me."  He grinned at Jonathan.  "Davy
+must be a mighty poor workman, when you'll pay so high to get rid of
+him."
+
+"Oh, no," Jonathan protested.  "It will be very hard to fill his
+place--in one way entirely impossible.  But, you see, Davy and I have
+become good friends, and--"
+
+"And of course," Mrs. Jim put in sweetly, "in friendship one forgets
+one is a shaver of notes."
+
+"Oh, my hands are up," Jim groaned.  "I'll match your figures,
+Radbourne.  But, for heaven's sake, don't raise me again!"
+
+"What I'd like to know," said Jim, when Jonathan was gone, "is, why we
+are going to the poorhouse for Davy Quentin?"
+
+"First," said his wife, "because we know Davy will do work that is
+worth while and because he is Davy.  Second, because it is good for us
+to give a little out of our much."
+
+"No one helped me when I was poor," growled Jim.
+
+"That," she explained, "was because you were known to have a talent for
+helping yourself--and because you married me, who am help enough for
+any man."
+
+"There may be something in that," Jim was forced to concede.  "Shirley
+still at her aunt's?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Hmmmm!  Mighty long visit.  What's she doing there?"
+
+"Having a very good time."
+
+"While Davy--hmmmm!  Any trouble there, do you suppose?"
+
+"No-o-o!  But Shirley keeps writing about 'poor David, who doesn't seem
+to have the money-making knack'--with an air that says, 'Poor Shirley!'
+And when a woman begins to speak sadly of her husband's flaws, it is
+time they were together again with all flaws repaired.  Shirley being
+Shirley, it had better be in prosperity."
+
+"Who's going to repair Shirley's flaws?"
+
+"That's part of the scheme.  We must get her back somehow before she
+knows Davy's plans are accepted.  Then she will seem--"
+
+"I see."  said Jim dryly.  "That may allow her time for a very long
+visit--a lifetime, in fact.  But isn't there a theory that hard
+scratching is good for the soul?"
+
+Mrs. Jim eyed her lord with contempt.  "My dear Jim, you are old enough
+to know that no family ever came happily through money troubles unless
+the wife was patient and wise indeed.  Besides, I'm not trying to prove
+a theory, but to correct a mistake before it's too late."
+
+(But of all this David never was told.)  The old witch must have
+gnashed her teeth in rage as, peeping through his windows, she saw her
+spell broken.  There is a good fairy called Hard Work, and another
+hight, Hope, and both of these were standing guard.  David must have
+been happy, because he never thought of happiness, its causes or
+effects.  There was a new set to his jaw that meant far more--if you
+were looking for signs of the future--than the youthful enthusiasm once
+reflected on his face.  So the witch, shrieking grisly maledictions,
+rode away to vent her spite on colicky babies and gouty old men.
+
+There was one thing the fairies could not guard against, perhaps
+because they had not been warned.  Sometimes the witch perceived that
+David was not alone.  Those occasions were not many: a few minutes now
+and then when household errands were prolonged a trifle, or lemonade
+and cookies, sweetened by the aunt's good wishes, were carried to him.
+And sometimes he went down-stairs to listen to a song and to tell the
+singer that her high _b_-flat was unmistakably easier.  There was no
+great harm in that, to be sure.  But the witch, baleful creature that
+she was, took a hint and hatched a wicked plot.
+
+They had a bond, you see.  They faced the same adventure.  It did them
+good to compare notes of progress; and an audience was needed if they
+were to make a jest of setbacks, such as a throat that seemed all burrs
+or an idea that had for the moment lost its charm.  Also he needed some
+one to remind him that he took too little sleep and never exercised.
+He would have been wiser if he had listened.  Instead, he laughed at
+her and said, "Work never kills, and in summer I always get thin."  But
+evidence of her concern always left him pleasantly glowing.
+
+In August she took her vacation.  But she did not go away.  Part of
+each day she spent in his room, putting it to rights and keeping it
+sweet and clean.  She liked to do that, because he never failed to note
+the result of her labors or to thank her.  When she had finished her
+sweeping and dusting, she would sit for an hour or more studying the
+sketches and plans he had left on easel or table.  She thought it a
+marvel that a young man could think out a church so proportioned that
+its harmonies set one to dreaming and thinking, so devised that it
+would not fall down though the storms of centuries charged against it.
+And it was a relief to think of him and his work; it took her mind from
+an ugly little fear lurking in her heart.  Her throat did not always
+behave as a well-meaning throat should.
+
+Sometimes she studied also a new photograph on his mantel--of a pretty
+laughing-eyed young woman playing with a sailor-suited cherub.  The
+young woman, she knew must be the wife of whom he never spoke.
+
+"You are very pretty," she would whisper.  "Why do you stay away from
+him?  Don't you know he is lonely, with no one to cheer him up but a
+funny little man--and me?  You're the reason he gave up his own work."
+
+She tried not to be prejudiced against Mrs. David Quentin.  But she had
+a burning curiosity, which is a weakness of all women--and men.
+
+She mentioned the picture one evening, very casually.
+
+"This is your family, is it not?"
+
+"Yes," he said in a queer curt tone she had never heard him use.
+
+"She is very pretty, isn't she?"
+
+"Yes.  They are--spending the summer at an aunt's."
+
+"What a darling little boy!" she said.
+
+Soon after she left, thinking, "I wonder _why_ she is away from him?
+It isn't a happy reason, I'm sure. . . .  _I_ wouldn't stay away from
+him."
+
+David was thinking much the same thing.  The next day the picture was
+nowhere in evidence.
+
+When he went down-stairs one evening to tell her the plans were
+complete, she dissembled her excitement and said, "Now you'll be able
+to get enough sleep."  But when, after a few minutes of gay nonsense,
+he had left her to take her advice, and she thought what success would
+mean to him, she became very grave and had her first taste of a
+suspense that grew heavier with each waiting day. . . .
+
+The blind woman was first to see.
+
+There was another dinner at Jonathan's house, by way of celebration of
+the plans' completion, with music, most of which came from his violin.
+Esther sung only twice, because that was one of the days when the
+throat behaved ill.  "I've been working it a little too hard," she
+explained.
+
+Between times they were very gay.  It seemed to Jonathan that his
+guests were unusually witty and happy.
+
+Mrs. Radbourne was _not_ asleep, though the lids drooped over the poor
+sightless eyes.  She was listening.  But not to the music or jests.
+And she was seeing, through a sense that only blind people have.
+
+When Jonathan came back from his walk with his guests to the trolley,
+she was waiting for him.
+
+He began to pace back and forth across the room.  She listened closely
+to the quick staccato tread.
+
+"You seem very happy over something, Jonathan."
+
+"I am."  She did not need eyes to know that he was beaming.  "Did you
+notice that they both seemed in better spirits than usual?"
+
+"I noticed."
+
+"They are coming into their own.  I can't help feeling that our
+ventures are coming out well.  It will be something to have helped them
+a little.  There are compensations, you see--"  He caught himself
+abruptly.
+
+"Compensations for what?"
+
+"Oh, for all the things," Jonathan said vaguely, "that one would like
+to do and can not."
+
+"Even for giving your life to the care of a helpless, uninteresting old
+woman?"
+
+"Hush, mother!"  He reached her in a twinkling and patted the fine
+silver of her hair.  "You know better than that."
+
+"I know what you have given up for me.  It is only lately that I have
+begun to understand.  Oh, Jonathan--"
+
+"But think what I've gained by staying with you!  There have never been
+any regrets."
+
+"You have been a good son."  But her smile was very faint.  "Do you
+like David Quentin as well as ever?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"There are no 'whys' in friendship, mother."
+
+"Does he return your friendship in equal degree, do you think?"
+
+His answer was without hesitation.  "No."
+
+She was silent.
+
+"That is not to be expected, of course," he said simply.  "I think he
+would if he could.  But such matters are not to be forced."
+
+She lifted her face and the poor lifeless eyes seemed to be straining
+to see him.  "I am just beginning to know my son.  Ah! if I could see
+you--only once!  I would ask nothing more."
+
+Her hands reached toward his face.  But he caught them and held them
+gently.
+
+"Why do you never let me touch your face?"
+
+He mustered a laugh.  "I'm afraid you would be disappointed.  You know,
+your hands have seen David, and--"
+
+"Ah!" she breathed.  "Always your David!  Jonathan--"  She paused
+sharply.
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"Jonathan, there is a Mrs. David Quentin, is there not?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where is she now?"
+
+"Visiting relatives, I believe."
+
+"It is a strangely long visit, don't you think?  In my time husbands
+and wives lived together."
+
+"It is an arrangement for the sake of economy, Mrs. Blaisdell tells me.
+It seems David had got into debt."
+
+"I should think," she said slowly, "Mrs. Quentin would find it
+economical to return."
+
+"Mother!" Jonathan started.  "Just what do you mean?"
+
+"Her husband and you find Miss Summers quite agreeable, do you not?"
+
+"Mother," he reproved her gently, "you should not even hint such a
+thing.  David is a man of honor."
+
+"Say he is a man--and stop there.  A presentable young man whom people
+seem to like and whose wife has been long away.  And Miss Summers is an
+attractive young woman who has been thrown much with him. . . .  I have
+seen what I have seen."
+
+"Mother!"  Jonathan stood stiffly, as though he had been turned to
+stone.  "Oh, that is impossible.  You are unjust.  It isn't like you to
+be so suspicious.  There is nothing between them but a friendly
+attachment."
+
+"A friendly attachment!  In words, perhaps.  But--oh, my poor blind
+son!  Jonathan, sit here beside me."
+
+He went to her and sat down by her side.  She took both his hands.  And
+her voice was very gentle.
+
+"You are in love with her, are you not?"
+
+"Yes," he said.
+
+"Then press your suit quickly, my son."
+
+"But I can't--you must see that.  I am her employer.  She is dependent
+on me.  It would put her in a distressing position."
+
+"I approve of your delicacy.  Not many men display it in these greedy
+days, I am told.  But delicacy can be carried to excess.  Women love to
+be wooed strongly, masterfully.  I remember how your father--"
+
+"My father was equipped for masterfulness.  I," he smiled sadly, "am
+not."
+
+"You are small, I know, like me.  I had hoped my son would be tall."
+She sighed.  "But many small men have been great and strong."
+
+"You don't understand.  Mother, you have been blessed--you have never
+had to look on your son.  That is why I never let you touch my face.  I
+am more than merely small.  I am ugly.  I am ridiculous.  I am almost
+grotesque.  People smile in amusement when they see me and never take
+me seriously."
+
+"Does _she_ smile in amusement when she sees you?"
+
+"No.  She is too big-hearted for that.  She is gentle and kind and
+friendly, because she is a little sorry for me and because she thinks
+mistakenly that she has reason to be grateful.  As a friend, a helper,
+I am tolerable.  As a lover I should only be absurd.  See, mother, for
+yourself--this once!"  He lifted her sensitive hands and guided them
+over his face.  "My nose--my ears--my little pig's eyes--this grinning
+mouth--these silly whiskers that hide a little of my absurdity--"
+
+She drew her hands quickly away.
+
+"You are a gentleman, a fine, great-hearted gentleman--"
+
+"With a face like a comic valentine.  Even my mother can't say no to
+that.  What woman wants a comic valentine for her lover?  Don't you
+understand now?  I can have her friendship now and be with her a
+little.  And I can do little things to help her.  I can't risk losing
+that to seek something she never could give."
+
+"But she could have given it once.  I know it.  I knew it then, but I
+wouldn't tell you because I wanted to keep you for myself.  He--your
+friend David--had not come then.  You must take the risk for her sake.
+And before it is too late."
+
+"But I can't inflict myself on her.  It would be no kindness to her or
+to me."  He left her and began to pace back and forth agitatedly, in
+the pompous, hopping little strut.  "You are wrong--you must be wrong.
+It is impossible.  It would be terrible, tragic even though they are
+both good.  And it would be my fault.  I brought them together,
+thinking she would help make things cheerful for him. . . .  Mother, I
+wish you hadn't put this in my mind!  I can't believe it.  I won't
+believe it.  He is honorable--"
+
+The blind woman smiled sadly.  "It is a thing with which honor or duty
+or law has nothing to do.  And I fear--I fear it is already too
+late--because I kept silent when I should have opened your eyes."
+
+But Jonathan was not listening.  He was seeing the faces of his friends
+as they had been that evening.  The scales were falling from his eyes,
+an evil black fear entering into his heart.
+
+"Oh, Jonathan, my son--my dear son--"
+
+She held out her hands to him and he went to her and knelt at her side.
+And she mothered him, that dinky, absurd little man, and he bowed his
+head on her knee.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+A NEW HOUSE
+
+Radbourne & Company was in a daze.  And no wonder!  For a week the
+"little boss" had not once beamed, the spirited hop had gone out of his
+walk, a new querulous note had come into his voice.  When a matter went
+wrong--which, it seemed, happened oftener than usual--he reminded the
+delinquent of the fact, not gently, but sadly, as though deeply aweary
+of the frailty of men.  Miss Brown confided to Esther that she was well
+on the way to "nervous prostration."  Esther was worried, and wondered
+what grave mischance could have worked out such a change in Jonathan.
+He seemed to avoid both her and David, and when they did meet his
+manner was constrained and awkward.
+
+It was like chicken-pox and evil gossip and other contagious diseases.
+It spread.  Gloom hung like a fog over office and shop.  No one
+whistled or hummed at work.  Good friends lost their heads and
+exchanged cutting words.  And Hegner, the shop foreman, who had been
+sober for a year, lost his grip and got drunk.  Because he was ashamed
+and hated himself, his temper was always at half-cock.
+
+And Smith--poor Smith, the ex-convict, to whom Jonathan's kindness had
+been as water on a lame duck's back--had to bear the brunt of Hegner's
+distemper.  He stood it as long as he could; which was not very long.
+
+One noon hour he presented himself, sullen and whining and bleeding at
+the nose, with a grievance for Jonathan's ears.  The latter looked up
+frowningly from the pile of letters he was signing; they were sadly
+misspelled, the agitated Miss Brown having been at her worst.
+
+"Yes, Smith," he said wearily.  "What is it?  A complaint, I suppose?"
+
+"I wants to know," began Smith in a whine, "why I can't git a square
+deal here.  The shop boss he--"
+
+"Is Hegner mixed up in it?  Then go bring him here and say what you
+have to say before him."
+
+Smith departed, to return a few minutes later, an apprehensive eye cast
+back at the trailing Hegner.
+
+"Now, Smith," said Jonathan, "what is your complaint?"
+
+"The boss he keeps damnin' me up an' down all the time," Smith
+explained.  "An' this morning he slugs me--right here on the beak."  He
+laid a gentle finger on the corpus delicti.
+
+"Hegner," inquired Jonathan, "why do you keep damning him up and down
+all the time?  And why did you slug him on the beak?"
+
+"Because," Hegner grinned sheepishly, "his beak was the place most
+convenient."
+
+"This isn't a joking matter," Jonathan reminded him sharply.
+
+"So it ain't."  Hegner turned a glance of contempt on Smith.  "He's a
+bum an' a loafer, He won't learn an' he won't try to work.  Why, Braun,
+who'd ought to be in bed instead of at a lathe, turns out half as much
+again as him.  How can I jack the other men up if I let him lag behind?
+An' this morning I told him I'd had enough of his soldierin' an' what I
+thought he was good for.  He hauled off with a steelson to crack
+me--but I beat him to it.  That's all."  Hegner blew tenderly on his
+knuckles.
+
+"Smith," said the judge, "what have you to say to that?"
+
+"'Tain't so.  He's only huntin' an excuse to fire me an' give some one
+else my lathe."
+
+"So I am," Hegner put in grimly.  "Some one who'll work an' who ain't
+an ex--"
+
+"Hegner, hold your tongue!"  Jonathan turned to Smith.  "I have to
+believe Hegner, because I've been watching you, Smith.  I took you on
+here, as I told you at the time, not to do you a favor, but because I
+thought you were in earnest and would justify it.  I was willing to be
+your friend.  And you soldiered.  You stole the time I paid you for,
+which is the same as stealing my money.  And you stole something
+else--my trust--which is worth more to me than my money.  But I suppose
+that is something you can't understand."
+
+"I un'erstan's when I ain't wanted," answered Smith, with an ugly
+laugh.  "I'll git my time an' git out."
+
+Then Jonathan's trouble found voice in a sharp querulous outburst.
+
+"Yes, get your time.  I'm tired keeping men who won't help themselves."
+
+Smith vanished, and his surly ugly face was only the reflection of the
+ugliness just then in his heart.
+
+"You, too, Hegner!"  Jonathan turned blazing eyes on his foreman.
+"You've been drinking again, when you promised me--"
+
+"You ain't more disgusted than me."  Big Hegner, ashamed, looked down
+at his feet.  "But I couldn't help it.  Honest, I couldn't.
+Everything's been goin' wrong here for a week."
+
+Jonathan's outburst ended as suddenly as it began.  "I know," he said
+wearily.  "I know."
+
+An hour later David, seeking Jonathan on a matter that was only a
+pretext, found him idle, elbows on the desk and head propped in his
+hands.  Jonathan looked up listlessly.  The matter disposed of, David
+ventured, uncertainly, because he had learned the last week to remember
+that he was an employee as well as a friend.
+
+"Mr. Radbourne, are you ill?"
+
+"No."
+
+"I'm afraid something's wrong."
+
+"Something's wrong, David."
+
+"I hope it is something that can be easily mended."
+
+"I'm afraid it can't."  Jonathan looked at him queerly.  "I'm afraid
+the damage has been done.  Will you please go to the shop and see if
+Smith is anywhere around?"
+
+David departed, to return with the word that Smith was gone.
+
+"Ah!  I'm sorry.  I owe him an apology and some amends.  A little while
+ago I lost my temper and did him an injustice, when he needed to be
+helped.  I had no excuse.  But it hurts to be disappointed in a man."
+Jonathan looked queerly at David again.  "In any one, David."
+
+"I have found that out," answered David.
+
+Jonathan picked up some papers.  "If you will excuse me now--I have
+some work--"
+
+David took the hint promptly, with the feeling that somehow he had been
+the one to disappoint his friend.  That hurt as deeply as it puzzled.
+
+That afternoon Jonathan went out for two hours.  When he returned he
+summoned Esther to his office.
+
+"Miss Summers," he began abruptly, "how is the voice?"
+
+"I'm afraid--"
+
+"You must be afraid of nothing," he interrupted.
+
+"I'm afraid," she repeated quietly, "I have come to a standstill.  Some
+days I feel as if I could sing forever, then the very next day one easy
+little song will seem too much.  And if I am in a draft for a minute or
+get caught in a shower, my throat gets sore and hoarse at once.  It
+doesn't seem to get any stronger."
+
+"Probably it won't until you do the right thing.  I took the liberty of
+talking to Doctor Jenkins.  He says the trouble is all with your
+general health.  You'll have to build it up.  So--so you must get away
+from this office, that takes up your time and strength, and live as
+much as possible outdoors and grow strong."
+
+"But I can't do that.  I can't afford it and I can't impose on my aunt."
+
+"Could you afford it if you had a good church position?"
+
+"Yes.  But I'm not ready for that.  I couldn't fill it.  No church
+would want me, with a voice so uncertain--"
+
+"The Second Presbyterian is looking for a new contralto.  I have asked
+them to give you a trial.  Will you sing for them?"
+
+"When?"
+
+"At the vespers service next Sunday afternoon."
+
+"But I can't do that.  It's too soon.  It wouldn't be fair to them,
+even if I should sing well at the trial.  I--I'm afraid I've been
+letting you expect too much--"  Her face had grown whiter than usual.
+
+"But you can."  Jonathan was very earnest.  "You must believe--you must
+_believe_ you can.  You must make up your mind to sing your very best
+next Sunday.  If they hear you at your best, they'll be glad to have
+you, even if your voice is a little uncertain at first.  And you must
+get away from this office."
+
+"You mean my work here isn't good enough--that you want to get rid of
+me?"
+
+"Not that!" Jonathan almost gasped.  He looked down at his desk and
+nervously ruffled his whiskers.  "Oh, not that!  I shall--miss you very
+much.  And if you ever want to come back, there's a place waiting for
+you.  But I want you to have your career--everything that is best for
+you.  And"--he raised his eyes to her again and they joined his tongue
+in the plea--"won't you try it for--for my sake?"
+
+She looked away quickly, a sudden catch in her throat.  And though her
+heart was filled with dread for herself, it was aching, too, for the
+little man--not so absurd to her just then--part of whose secret she
+had seen.
+
+"I will try it," she said. . . .
+
+Of course she told David that evening.  (How easily and naturally, now
+that his work on the plans was done, they had drifted into those little
+evening chats!)  He had a moment of grave doubt.  His face showed it.
+
+"Do you think I can't make it?"
+
+Doubt vanished on swift wings.  "I think nothing of the sort.  And you
+mustn't think of it, either.  You must believe you can.  It is half the
+battle.  Hear me preach!" he laughed.
+
+"That's what he--Mr. Radbourne--said."
+
+"He was right, as always.  This is very exciting.  Do you know, I've a
+feeling you're going to knock 'em galley-west.  And that," he nodded
+gaily down at her, "and that would be the finest thing that could
+happen."
+
+"You forget your church," she smiled back.
+
+"So I did!  But now I remember it, I have nothing whatever to take
+back."
+
+The witch chuckled as only witches can and sent her broomstick steed
+prancing madly across the sky. . . .
+
+He saw Esther and her aunt away that Sabbath afternoon with a jest--an
+extravagant salute and an "Up, lass, an' at 'em!" to which she made
+answer with a determined smile.  When they had been perhaps five
+minutes gone, he put on his hat and followed.
+
+He found a seat in the rear of the church and waited, nerves strung
+taut as if the ordeal were his, wishing the services would begin and
+yet dreading it.  His eyes swept the gathering worshipers idly until
+they happened upon a familiar face across the church, a homely face set
+sternly rigid toward the choir loft.
+
+"He would be here, of course," David mused.  "In a way, if ever she
+makes good, her success will be his.  It will be because he has given
+it to her."
+
+A nameless little regret followed that.  But before he could give it a
+name the organ burst into the prelude and the choir filed into the loft.
+
+In the first anthem her voice was heard only with the others.  The
+second was a trio in which she did not sing.  The offertory solo was
+hers.
+
+So, while the organ softly played the theme, she rose and faced her
+ordeal.  The late afternoon sun was streaming through the tall west
+window.  One amber shaft reached out and enfolded her caressingly,
+vivifying the white girlish face: a picture he has to this day.
+
+
+"By the waters of Babylon. . . ."
+
+
+For a breath fear clutched at his heart.  In those first few notes was
+a weak quaver, a huskiness that ought not to have been there.  His
+whole body grew tense with effort as mind and heart sent winging to her
+a silent message.  "You must not fear!  You must believe!"  Another was
+sending her the same word.  But David had forgotten him.
+
+One of those messages must have reached its mark, for of a sudden her
+voice grew true and steady and clear, shaken only by the poignant grief
+of her song.  Then there was no more ordeal, only a frail wisp of a
+girl singing as he had never heard it the exile's plaint.  David did
+not quite know her.  Up there in the loft, bathed in the mellow
+radiance that had singled her out as if in prophecy, letting out to the
+full, as she could not in the little parlor, a voice of power and
+passion to thrill multitudes, she did not seem the girl who had made
+music for him, who had offered him friendship in his loneliness.  She
+had grown as the occasion of her song had grown; she had become one of
+the custodians of great talents, set apart to keep alive and reveal the
+harmonies that men through centuries had been hearing and recording.
+Quivering with joy in her triumph, he was abashed as well.  He had too
+easily accepted the friendship, so naively tendered.  He had not
+appraised it justly. . . .  And then there was only the song.  He was a
+captive in a strange land and the ache of the exiled was in his heart.
+
+
+". . . By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."
+
+
+He realized at last that she had ended.  The ordeal was over; she had
+passed through unscathed.  He leaned back and smiled at the imprints of
+nails in his palms.  His eyes grew wet, but not with the exile's tears.
+. . .  When they had cleared, without his bidding they turned to where
+Jonathan sat, whiskers crushed upon his breast.
+
+It was a wonderful world through which David walked homeward that
+Sabbath evening.  He went by a roundabout way, that he might miss none
+of it.  He thrilled with a sense of victory, a song of thanksgiving was
+in his heart.  And from that he should have known what had happened to
+him.  But he was to have that hour perfect.
+
+She was sitting on the porch when he came in sight of the house.  She
+may have been waiting for him.  He quickened his pace.
+
+He stood before her, smiling down into her shining eyes.
+
+"A question of identity is disturbing me.  I'm still hearing a certain
+song--I think I can never forget it.  Are you by any chance the singer?"
+
+"As it happens, I sang a little this afternoon."
+
+"Then the finest thing in the world has happened."
+
+"Did I do pretty well?"
+
+"Pretty well?  Hmmm!" he considered the matter judicially.  "Yes, I
+think I may safely say that."
+
+She laughed as though he had been very witty, then quickly became grave.
+
+"Were you thinking hard for me at the first, when I almost fizzled?"
+
+"The hardest I knew how.  I was afraid you were losing your nerve."
+
+"I was.  I never was so scared in my life.  It came over me all at once
+that the next few minutes would probably decide everything for me, and
+I could see only strangers--critical strangers who wouldn't care.  Then
+I saw you sitting back there and--and then I could sing.  Thank you for
+coming."
+
+"You're quite welcome, I'm sure."  He laughed at her thanks.  "Did you
+think for a minute that I could stay away?  And are you aware that we
+have never shaken hands?  It is really high time.  Would you mind?"
+
+Her smile was sunshine itself.  "With all my heart."  She put out her
+hand.  He took it and held it.
+
+And he dropped it and stood looking strangely at his own hand.  For it
+was tingling deliciously.  And at her touch and the look that went with
+it his heart had burst into a sudden mad singing--a song not of exile
+or thanksgiving, but of a longing to which he might never give tongue.
+
+The hand fell slowly to his side.  With an effort he lifted his glance
+to her questioning, startled eyes.  He tried to make his voice easy and
+natural, but it was heavy and stiff.
+
+"I--I congratulate you.  I hope--I know--to-day is only the beginning
+of many fine things for you."
+
+Then he turned quickly and left her.
+
+In his room, when the first daze had cleared a little, he set himself
+sternly to face this new thing.  For he knew now why the old sense of
+loss--of the dream woman shrunk to a wife to whom love was only a
+bauble to be worn in fair weather--and why the failure of love had
+ceased to trouble, why Shirley had drifted so quickly, so easily into
+the shadowy background of his life.  He saw what had helped him to win
+his new brave philosophy, had builded the walls of his sanctuary.  His
+poor sanctuary!  What refuge could it offer now?  Another house of his
+building lay about him, a grim hopeless ruin.
+
+"Oh, Esther!" he whispered to the girl he might not have.  "Oh, Esther!"
+
+He sat there, trying to see what he must do.  Darkness fell.  But he
+wanted no light.  He did not stir until late in the evening chords from
+the piano reached him.
+
+He rose and opened the door and a voice, athrob with pain, floated up
+to him.
+
+
+"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept. . . ."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+AT THE DOOR
+
+But Shirley was a fact.  By morning--no sleep came to him that
+night--he had decided what he must do about that fact.  It was then not
+a very complex problem.
+
+He took a lightly packed bag with him to the office and at the first
+opportunity presented himself to Jonathan.
+
+"May I take to-morrow off?  There is a matter I must attend to at once.
+I can be back by day after to-morrow."
+
+"Certainly," said Jonathan, without looking up.
+
+"Thank you."  David hesitated.  "Mr. Radbourne, do you know anything
+definite of the situation at St. Mark's?"
+
+"Nothing definite."
+
+"Do you think there's any chance for me at all?"
+
+"The committee will decide this week.  There's a man named Holden--"
+
+"I know him."
+
+"He seems to have influence--and not much else.  But Mr. Blaisdell is
+trying to see that you get fair play."
+
+"Is it necessary for Mr. Blaisdell to use his influence very actively
+in my favor?"
+
+"I'm afraid it is."
+
+"I'm sorry.  I knew, of course, that you and he would do all you
+could--if it was needed.  But I thought perhaps my plans would justify
+the committee--"
+
+"They do.  And they justify any work that has been done for you.  There
+is no obligation that need weigh heavily on you."
+
+"It isn't that.  I appreciate my--my friends' willingness to help.  But
+I'd hoped to be able to win solely on my merits in this thing."
+
+"Do you wish us--Mr. Blaisdell to refrain?"
+
+"No.  I need to get back into my profession.  It means so much to
+me--in a new way--that I'll be glad to have it on any terms.  That
+doesn't mean that I'm not grateful for the kindness I've had here.--
+But I'm interrupting."  And David went back to his drawing.
+
+All that day he avoided Esther, sticking close to his table.  Not until
+she was leaving at the end of the afternoon did he seek her.
+
+"Miss Summers, I forgot to tell your aunt that I shan't be back until
+day after to-morrow.  Will you please tell her for me?"
+
+"You are going away?"
+
+"Yes."  He made no explanation.
+
+"I will tell her."
+
+"Thank you."  And because he was holding himself sternly rigid, lest
+eyes or tone cry out what must not be said, he spoke almost curtly.
+
+She moved quietly away from him and did not once look back, though she
+knew he was watching her.  But when a door was between them she stopped
+for a moment, quivering lips pressed hard, both hands tightly clenched.
+Then she, too, sought Jonathan.
+
+"Mr. Radbourne, the church people telephoned to-day that I can have the
+position."
+
+"I am very glad.  When shall you be leaving the office?"
+
+"At the end of the week, if you can get some one for my place."
+
+"So soon!  I--"
+
+"I will stay as long as I'm needed, of course."
+
+"Oh, no!  You're quite right to go at once.  I can get some one to do
+your work.  But not to take your place.  I shall--"  Jonathan seemed
+deeply interested in the crystal paperweight on his desk.  "We shall
+miss you very much."
+
+"I haven't thanked you--"
+
+"Please don't thank me for anything.  I have done nothing any one could
+not have done.  It is," he said huskily, "it is to my happiness, my
+great happiness, if I have been able to help you a very little."
+
+Then he looked up and saw her face.
+
+"Miss Summers!  You look overtired--and I have kept you standing.  You
+must sit down, and let me get you--"
+
+"It is nothing at all."  She forced a smile to her lips.  "It is only
+the reaction from yesterday.  The ride home in the car is all I need.
+Good night, Mr. Radbourne."
+
+"You are quite sure--"
+
+"Oh, yes.  Quite all right, Mr. Radbourne."
+
+"Good night, Miss Summers."
+
+And when she was gone, he sat down and took a small mirror from a
+drawer and looked long and sadly at what it recorded.  Suddenly he
+dropped the mirror and bowed his head on the desk.
+
+"Esther!"  It was almost a sob.  "If only I could help you now!" . . .
+
+David walked the next morning from the station to Aunt Clara's house.
+He walked slowly, because Aunt Clara lived on a hill and because he
+dreaded facing Shirley.  But he did not have to face her at once.  As
+he neared the house he saw an automobile, filled almost to overflowing,
+roll down the driveway and turn up the street; and Shirley was one of
+the party.  She did not notice her unexpected visitor.
+
+But as he turned into the grounds he met a little sailor-suited cherub
+in tow of a nurse who did not know David.  He dropped his bag and
+squatted before the child.
+
+"Hello, old man!  Aren't you going to shake hands?"
+
+Davy Junior clung tightly to the nurse's skirt, put one chubby finger
+into his rosebud mouth and stared, round-eyed, at the big man.
+
+"He's always that way with strangers," the nurse explained.
+
+"Oh!"  David winced and stood up.  "He's forgotten me, then.  When he
+has had his walk please bring him to the house.  I'd like to get
+acquainted with him again.  I'm his father, you know."  He picked up
+his bag and went on to the house.
+
+A few minutes later he was shown into Aunt Clara's sitting-room.  She
+greeted him in astonishment and offered her cheek for a kiss.
+
+"This is a surprise.  Shirley's out, too.  They're gone for a picnic
+and won't be back until dark."
+
+"Yes.  I saw them start out.  How is she?"
+
+"Shirley's quite well.  And seemingly enjoying herself."
+
+"I suppose so," he said.
+
+"And the boy, too."
+
+"Yes.  I just saw him.  He--"  David cleared his throat.  "He didn't
+know me."
+
+"That's to be expected.  Children forget easily.  You're not looking
+well yourself."
+
+"I've been working pretty hard of late."
+
+"Are you on your vacation?"  Aunt Clara was studying him curiously.
+
+"No.  I have just to-day.  I came to get Shirley to come back."
+
+"Are you out of debt then?"
+
+"Not quite."
+
+"You've had a raise?  Or has something better turned up?"
+
+"I've had one little raise.  Nothing else has happened--that I can
+count on.  But we can get along nicely now, thanks to your help."
+
+"For which you're not thankful at all," she smiled grimly.
+
+"It was a mistake."
+
+"Humph!" she sniffed.  "Have you lived with Shirley four years without
+learning that she can't stand--"
+
+"Suppose," he interrupted quietly, "suppose we don't criticize Shirley.
+I shan't criticize you, either.  I blame myself for letting her come
+here.  Now we're going to correct that mistake."
+
+Aunt Clara sniffed again.  "What has got into you?  You used to have no
+more spirit than a mouse.  Now you remind me of your late Uncle John in
+some of his moods.  Suppose Shirley thinks it better--_sniff_--to stay
+here a while longer?  If you're not out of debt you'll still have to
+pinch pennies and--"
+
+He interrupted again, still quietly.  "You must help to convince her it
+is best.  She must come--before it is too late."
+
+"What do you mean by that--'before it is too late'?"
+
+"I mean--while I still want her to come."
+
+"Eh?"  Aunt Clara stared sharply at him.  She put on her spectacles,
+that she might stare more effectively.
+
+Then a light broke in on her, a light too incredible, too dazing even
+for Aunt Clara's confident mind.  "Eh?  David Quentin!  Do you mean to
+tell me--do you mean--there is another woman?  Who is she?"
+
+He made no answer, but though his tired face went even whiter, steadily
+withstood her gaze.
+
+"Such a thing never happened in our family before," Aunt Clara gasped
+weakly, "that I ever heard of.  I don't know what to do about it."
+
+"There is only one thing," he said steadily.  "Shirley must come back
+at once."
+
+Aunt Clara took off her spectacles, rubbed them mechanically and donned
+them again.  Her hands fell nerveless to her lap.
+
+"I don't know what to do," she repeated.  "For the first time in all my
+existence.  I--I have no precedents.  You must leave me for a while
+until I can think this out."
+
+He rose.  "You can't think it out.  I have tried."
+
+"You'd better lie down and get some sleep.  You're looking quite badly."
+
+"No.  I'll go out and find David Junior."
+
+"Perhaps that would be better."
+
+He went.  For an hour Aunt Clara sat alone, trying to work out the
+hardest problem of life, how to raise a love from the dead.  And all
+she achieved was a bitter self-reproach.  For the first time in all her
+existence.
+
+A ripple of childish laughter came to her through an opened window.
+She rose and looked out.  She saw the Davids, little and big, sitting
+chummily on the lawn.  Then Aunt Clara thanked God that David and
+Shirley had been given a son.
+
+"We have that much to start with--though it seems little enough just
+now."
+
+She sniffed, as a matter of necessity, and hastily reached for her
+handkerchief.
+
+When it was time for Davy Junior's dinner and nap she summoned David to
+her sitting-room again.
+
+"David," she began, very meekly for Aunt Clara, "I've been thinking it
+over.  I ought to blame you.  But I can't.  I've had all I could do
+blaming myself.  Are you thinking I am a selfish, meddlesome old fool?"
+
+David shook his head wearily.
+
+"But I am.  I was lonesome alone here in this big old house and I
+really thought--  But never mind that now.  Does she--that other woman
+know?"
+
+"I think not."
+
+"Is she--is she in love with you?"
+
+"Oh, no!  That is impossible.  Oh, no!" he repeated.  "That couldn't
+be.  It would be too terrible."
+
+"It's terrible enough as it is.  Are you going to tell Shirley?"
+
+"That wouldn't help matters, would it?"
+
+"I suppose not," she sighed.  "David, you must be very gentle with her.
+It isn't her fault she wanted to run away from hard times.  All her
+life we have spoiled her, her father and mother and Maizie and I.  I
+did it worst of all, as I never spoiled my own child.  David, come over
+here."
+
+He went to the chair beside her and she reached for his hand very
+awkwardly.
+
+"Oh, David, it's going to be very hard for you--all because an old
+fool--"  Aunt Clara was crying now, noisily and unbeautifully because
+she had had little practise.  "And I'm afraid that when you see Shirley
+you'll find it even harder than you thought." . . .
+
+Shirley came only a little before it was time for him to start for his
+train.  He was playing on the library floor with Davy Junior when an
+automobile came to a panting stop before the house.  A minute later
+came Shirley's voice from the hall, "_Da_-vy!"  The little fellow
+scrambled to his feet and ran to meet her at the door.  She caught him
+and swung him strongly in her arms, hugging and kissing him.  And David
+saw that the months had been kind to Shirley.  The marks of worry and
+discontent had been erased, her eyes danced and her cheeks glowed with
+health and pleasure.  Oh, a very fair picture was Shirley, in the full
+flower of her loveliness.
+
+But his heart went not one beat faster for her.
+
+Then she saw him and set the child down.  "David!"  And she ran to him
+and kissed him--very prettily, as a loving wife should.
+
+"And now," said Aunt Clara, "I will say good-by to David and leave you
+alone to the last minute.  The car will be waiting for you when you're
+ready."  She held up her cheek to David and left them.
+
+Shirley gasped.  "You're not going to-night?"
+
+"In a few minutes.  I must."
+
+"But--but this is ridiculous.  Surely you can stay overnight at least."
+
+"No.  I promised to be back to-morrow morning.  My time isn't my own."
+Which was not quite fair to Jonathan in its implication.
+
+"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"
+
+"I didn't think of it until this morning when I got here and saw you
+going out.  I supposed I should find you."
+
+"Surely you're not piqued because I--  David, what is it?"  A look of
+dread came into the dancing eyes.  "You're looking wretchedly.  You're
+not going to tell me we've had some more bad luck?"
+
+"I hope," he said quietly, "you won't call it that I came to ask you to
+go back--home."
+
+"Why, I--"
+
+It was no glad eager light that took the place of dread.  It was
+consternation, a manifest, involuntary shrinking from what he
+asked. . . .  Then she was in like case with him.  He had not counted
+on that.
+
+He felt his heart turning hard and cold; and that was not the way of
+the gentleness he had planned.  He, too, had shrunk from what he asked;
+yet he had not hesitated to ask it, thinking to save her from some
+hurt.  She, without the key, thought only of the loss of her good
+times.  He could tell her the whole truth and she would not care--if it
+led to good times.  Couldn't she see, couldn't she _feel_, the tragedy
+in this end of their once pretty romance?  Since she could not, why try
+to save her from a hurt she would never really know?
+
+Yet he went on, though not just as he had planned.
+
+"So you do think it bad luck?  Don't you ever want to go back, Shirley?"
+
+"That's foolish.  Of course I do.  But--but the debts aren't paid yet."
+
+"Pretty nearly.  If we're careful we can clean them up quickly now."
+
+"But it seems so foolish--and so unnecessary.  We could wait a little
+longer.  The salary is so small at best.  How--how should we live?"
+
+"Very simply, I fear.  But," he added, in the same even, repressed
+tone, "always within our means, I'm sure.  We'll go to a boarding-house
+first and then look around for an apartment we can afford.  We'll be
+starting over again, Shirley."
+
+"But--"  She was still stammering.  "But it's been so good for Davy
+here.  And the weather's still warm--"
+
+"That's only an excuse, I think.  And it's a risk he'll have to take.
+It's better than--than some other risks."
+
+"What other risks?  Since we've waited so long, what difference would a
+few weeks more make?"
+
+She did not guess what a temptation she was putting before him.  It
+would be so easy to make this a fork in the road from which he and she
+should take different ways forever, in the end leaving him free, and at
+little cost to her!  But he fought that thought sternly.
+
+"Shirley, can't you see what has happened to us?  We've been drifting
+apart.  We're very far apart now.  You don't really want to come back
+at all.  And I--I could easily say, 'Then don't come.'  I'm capable of
+that just now.  And you wouldn't really care."
+
+"How can you say such a thing?  Of course, I would care.  I don't
+understand--"
+
+"You wouldn't care or you would have come of your own accord.  Shirley,
+I came here to coax you.  I can't, now I see how little it all means to
+you.  But--  You've mentioned Davy.  We've got to think of him."  He
+looked down at the child playing between them.  "I want the boy,
+Shirley--and I want you with him."
+
+There was an edge to his voice that she had never heard.
+
+"But I wouldn't think of leaving him.  I--I was going back--  When?"
+
+"As soon as I can find temporary quarters for us."
+
+"You say--I _must_?"
+
+"I don't say that.  I say only, if you are coming at all, come while I
+want you."
+
+They faced each other in silence, the pretty, pleasure-loving young
+woman to whom life had been only a house of toys, and the rather seedy
+young man who had been one of the toys.  The bond that held them was a
+slight one; a little more strain and it would have snapped.  But the
+toy man had grown--somehow--into a real man whom she did not want to
+let go, and she knew that, as he had said, he had got far away from
+her.  She could not understand; still she had not the key.  And she was
+afraid.
+
+"David!  What is it I feel about you?  You don't think--oh, you can't
+think--I don't love you?"
+
+"I suppose you think you do.  But it's not much of a love."  A clock
+struck.  He had forgotten his train.  "Let me know if you want to come.
+I've got to go now."
+
+He caught up the boy and held him close, then kissed her hastily.  And
+before she quite realized it, he was gone.
+
+Aunt Clara found her standing where he had left her, staring blankly at
+the door, unmindful of the little David tugging at her dress.
+
+"Aunt Clara!  What is it?  What has happened?  David has been talking
+about--about my never going back--"
+
+Aunt Clara made a good guess as to what had been said.  And she had
+been doing some more thinking of her own.
+
+"Between us we've nearly lost you a husband.  That's what _has_
+happened.  And you're going to pack up and pack off to win him back,
+for his sake if not your own.  That's what is going to happen."
+
+"Win him back!"  Shirley's world was fast sinking from under her feet.
+"Is--is that what Mrs. Jim has been hinting in her letters?  Do you
+mean--you think David has stopped--_loving_ me?"
+
+"You think it incredible?"
+
+"But he's my _husband_."
+
+"What's that got to do with it?  Oh," cried Aunt Clara, "can't you get
+it into your silly, selfish little head that you can't keep a love
+without earning it?  You've been a fool.  And I've been another.  I
+never was so foolish in my life.  I wonder your late Uncle John doesn't
+turn over in his grave.  Come, Davy, it's most nine o'clock.  To bed
+with you and leave your mother to think for once in her life."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+THE WITCH LAUGHS
+
+David was at his desk early the next day, working closely in the effort
+to shut out his own problems; it was not a very successful effort.  All
+morning he avoided Esther strictly; that was much easier.  She was
+avoiding him, too, but he did not guess that.
+
+During the noon hour he had a caller; Dick Holden, if you please, a
+Dick who was plainly perturbed.
+
+"Davy," quoth he, "have I done you some favors?"
+
+"You have," said David.
+
+"One good turn deserves another.  It has to do with St. Mark's.
+Something queer's stirring there.  My wires won't work.  You're pretty
+thick with Jim Blaisdell.  Get him to put in a word, a good strong
+word, for me, will you?"
+
+"I'm afraid I can't, Dick," said David, "very consistently."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"The fact is, I think Jim is putting in his best words for me."
+
+"What do you mean by that?"
+
+"I have plans in there myself."
+
+"The devil!"  Dick stared.  "I thought you were out of the game."
+
+"I'm back in to this extent."
+
+"Why didn't you tell me?"
+
+"I didn't suppose you would be interested."
+
+"Are your plans any good?"
+
+"I think so," said David.
+
+"Then I bet you're the one that's blocking me there."  Dick shook his
+head reproachfully.  "Davy, I'm disappointed in you.  I call it playing
+it low down on me.  You might at least have told me, so I could know
+what to meet.  It isn't fair.  It isn't friendly.  And after all I've
+done for you!  I didn't think you could do it."  Dick sighed
+sorrowfully, his faith in human nature evidently shattered.
+
+"I'm sorry, Dick," said David.  "I supposed you put all your faith in
+your wires."
+
+Dick thought a few minutes.
+
+"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do," he offered at last.  "When friends
+find themselves competing, they should meet half-way.  We'll pool on
+your plans--I'll take a chance on them, sight unseen.  I'll throw my
+pull over to you.  Then we'll split the spoils, two and one.  The two
+to me, of course."
+
+"Why the two to you--of course?"
+
+"The prestige of my name," said Dick with dignity, "is worth something,
+I think.  We'll have to get busy at once, because the committee meets
+this afternoon."
+
+"I'm afraid, Dick, I'll have to say no.  You had a chance at my plans
+before I thought of putting them in.  You could have had them for
+almost nothing, but you didn't think them worth looking over.  I think
+I'll stand or fall with them."
+
+"That's final?  After all I've--"
+
+"Yes, Dick, final.  But it doesn't mean I'm not grateful--"
+
+With a gesture Dick waived that.  "Very well," he said sadly, rising.
+"I thought there was such a thing as friendship in business.  I see I
+was mistaken."
+
+David wondered if Dick were losing his punch.
+
+That afternoon came a wire.
+
+"Am packing up now.  Love.  Shirley."
+
+He tore the yellow paper slowly to bits.  "Poor Shirley!" he muttered.
+
+Poor Shirley, with her house of toys!  Frightened now, no doubt, into
+thinking that she wanted what she did not really want, as he had been
+driven, by resentment at her blindness, into saying what he did not
+really mean.  She at least would never miss what he could no longer
+give.  She would be content with the hollow pretense their life
+together would be, missing only her good times.  But he must have her
+beside him, to remind him that he was not free and never should be free
+to go browsing in the green fields of love.
+
+She would never know.  Still, poor Shirley--none the less!
+
+He set wearily to work once more.
+
+The afternoon came to an end somehow.  The clamor of machinery from the
+shop was stilled.  The other offices became silent.  He supposed the
+others had gone.  A janitor made the rounds, closing the windows.
+Doggedly David stuck to his table until he had completed the design he
+was working on.  Then he put the table in order for the night, donned
+his hat and coat and started to leave.
+
+But the corridor door of the adjoining office was open.  He looked
+in--and saw Esther, hatted, but still on her high stool by the desk,
+looking out into the street.  She heard him, started and turned, then
+said:
+
+"Oh, I thought every one was gone."
+
+"Yes, I thought so, too."
+
+They fell silent, awkwardly silent.  The easy comradeship was no more.
+
+Then she smiled; no one but David could have told that the smile was
+forced.
+
+"I was just thinking--isn't it funny?--that I'll be sorry to say
+good-by to that dingy, rackety street.  I'll hate to leave this office.
+I've been here two years and--"
+
+"You are leaving, then?  I didn't know."
+
+"Yes.  At the end of the week."
+
+He commanded his feet to go on.  And they went--toward her.  He rested
+his folded arms heavily on the tall desk.
+
+"I'll miss you," he said.  "I'll miss you very much.  It won't seem the
+same here without you."
+
+"But maybe you'll be leaving, too.  If your plans are taken, you know."
+
+"I'd forgotten them.  I don't seem to care so much about them as I
+ought--now they're out of my hands.  And I can't count on them.  I
+suppose we'll not see each other very often after you leave here.  I'll
+be leaving your aunt's in a few days.  My--my people are coming home."
+
+"Oh!  You'll be glad of that."
+
+"Yes."  And again, "Yes."
+
+He let his eyes dwell hungrily on her, as though this were indeed their
+farewell, drinking in every detail of her--the dark curling wisps
+straying from under her hat, the slate-gray eyes, a little sad just
+then, the slender girlish figure that seemed so frail.  For that moment
+there were no Shirley, no law, no honor.
+
+"I'll miss you," he said again and fumbled at his collar.  "One way and
+another I owe you a great deal.  I shan't forget that.  I shan't forget
+you.  I'll remember that I came here--to prison, I thought--and found
+some good friends.  One very good friend who--"
+
+"Don't!"  The little hand lying on the desk clenched tightly.  "Don't
+talk about it.  I--"  She got slowly down from the stool.  "I must be
+going now."
+
+But her eyes did not leave his.  They went suddenly dark.  And in them
+he read the same hurt that was in his own heart.  He saw with a fierce
+blinding joy--then with horror--and then with joy again.
+
+"Esther!  You, too!  Oh, I never wanted that.  I hoped you--  Oh,
+Esther!"
+
+She gave him no answer but stood looking at him piteously.  No one,
+seeing them, could have failed to understand.  The man who had come to
+the door saw and understood.
+
+It was Jonathan.
+
+They saw him.  No word passed then; there was nothing to say.  She
+moved slowly out of the room by another door, the men, both as if in a
+daze, following her with their eyes.  When her footsteps had died away,
+they looked at each other helplessly.
+
+"David!"  Jonathan's voice broke like a boy's.  "David!  What have you
+done?"
+
+After a little that cry reached David's understanding.  "I never
+knew--"  He turned away from the stricken accusing face.
+
+He heard Jonathan start away at last, then turn and come toward him.  A
+letter was laid on the desk.
+
+"I was bringing this to you," said Jonathan's choking voice.  And
+again, "David!  David!"
+
+That time Jonathan did not return.
+
+Mechanically David took up and opened the letter.  He had to read it
+twice before he grasped its import.
+
+"The committee of St. Mark's has selected your plans. . . .  We shall
+want you to supervise the work . . . usual terms . . . congratulations."
+
+The letter fluttered from his hands to the floor, St. Mark's from his
+mind.
+
+So he was not to have even the consolation of knowing that no one but
+himself had been hurt.  It would be on his soul that he had hurt her,
+too--cruelly, hopelessly hurt her.  And he could not help her, only run
+away and leave her to face it alone.  And Jonathan, his kind
+friend--the meaning of the grief on that homely face was plain.
+
+The cup of David's misery ran over.  He fell forward on the desk, her
+desk, pillowing his head on his arms.
+
+"Esther!"
+
+As if summoned by the cry, another little imp took stand by David's
+ear.  And his tongue was specious and honeyed, and he had the trick of
+making black seem white and gray a golden splendor.
+
+Why run away and leave her to face it alone? . . .
+
+He was there a long time.  It grew dark.  The street, deserted by its
+daylight toilers, grew quiet except for the tramping of an occasional
+heavy-footed watchman or policeman.  David did not stir.  He was slowly
+draining his bitter cup--and listening to the eloquent imp.  Once to
+nearly every man comes an hour when he stands on a high mount and is
+shown the kingdom of his desire, to be his if he will--at a price.
+There David stood that evening.  And he fell.  He listened and looked
+too long.  He did not haggle with his tempter over the price but agreed
+to pay, if only he might have his beautiful kingdom.
+
+He did not hear stealthy footsteps along the corridor, nor the rustling
+of cautiously drawn shades in Jonathan's office.
+
+The visitor, too, supposed that he had the building to himself.  But he
+worked by the light of a dark-lantern and tiptoed instinctively.  Very
+carefully, as his former cell-mate had taught him, he made his
+preparations, substituting a sixty- for a six-ampere fuse--which would
+give him, the old cracksman had said, "juice" enough to cut through the
+ribs of a war-ship--and clamping one strand of his extension wire to
+the safe door.  This done, he unscrewed all the light bulbs from their
+sockets lest, when he turned the switch, a sudden glow through the
+shades arouse some prowling watchman's curiosity.  Then he took up the
+other strand of his wire, to which was attached a carbon electrode,
+knelt on the floor and--gingerly, for so much juice suggested many
+possibilities to a novice--touched the carbon to the safe door.
+
+He drew back hastily, almost unnerved.  The old cracksman had not
+warned him of that blinding flash or that sputtering, loud enough, so
+it seemed, to be heard a block away.  But he remembered that Jonathan
+often kept money overnight in the safe.  He forced himself to make the
+contact again.
+
+David heard a shuffling sound from a near-by office.  He straightened
+stiffly, wondering dully who the newcomer was.  The watchman probably,
+on a round of inspection.  Or perhaps Jonathan, who came to his office
+sometimes of nights to work off odds and ends that his lack of system
+allowed to pile up on him.  Jonathan, his friend, who had been hurt,
+whose stricken, accusing, contemptuous face danced before him.  David's
+heart gave a sharp twinge at that.  He hoped it was not Jonathan.  He
+did not want to face Jonathan just then.
+
+He started at a sudden crackling report that resounded through the
+lonely building, followed by a strange continued sputtering.  He went
+slowly into the corridor and to Jonathan's office.  At the door he
+stopped, staring in stupid surprise at the intent kneeling figure dimly
+outlined in the glow of hot metal and the bluish crackling flame.
+Then, with a vague notion that it was the wrong thing to do but his
+overwrought brain not quite grasping the situation, he took two steps
+into the room.
+
+"Get out of here--whoever you are."
+
+With a muttered ejaculation the intruder turned his head to look, then
+sprang back from the safe, breaking the contact.  Instantly the room
+became black.  David stared, still stupidly, at the dull red spot on
+the safe until it faded into blackness.  Then he realized.  He stood
+very still, muscles tense, senses sharply alert.  He heard a faint
+rustling but he could not make out from what part of the room it came.
+
+Smith crouched, rigid and breathless, waiting for a shot.  It did not
+come.  Slowly, as silently as possible, he reached for the sheath knife
+he carried and drew it.  He had a gun, but a knife, the old cracksman
+had said, was much better for a fight in the dark and it had the
+superlative virtue of noiselessness.  He became motionless again, his
+eyes vainly straining to pierce the darkness, waiting for the other to
+make a move.  The silence and inaction became unbearable.  He gathered
+his nerve and muscles for a rush to where the door ought to be and
+leaped forward.  At the third step a fist struck out and caught him on
+the neck.  He recoiled a little, then lashed out blindly with the
+knife.  He heard a sharp gasp and a body crumpling to the floor.  But
+Smith waited no longer.  Groping his way to the door, he sped along the
+corridor and through the shop to the rear window where he had entered.
+
+A quarter of an hour later a watchman espied the open window.  He
+whistled a policeman to his aid and together, after a period of
+timorous deliberation, they entered and with many discreet pauses
+tiptoed over the building.  They found David in the corridor, where he
+had given up crawling, weakly trying to stanch the flowing blood.
+
+The policeman was young and new to his job.  He mopped his brow
+nervously at sight of so much blood.
+
+"Are yez much hurted, d'yez think?" he inquired anxiously.
+
+"More scared than hurt, probably."  David smiled wanly.  "But, just the
+same, I think you'd better call up a doctor."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+WHICH HOUSE?
+
+The doctor did not share David's opinion.  He shook his head gravely,
+looked important and said, "It's lucky I got here so soon."  Then he
+brightened a little.  "But it's a lovely clean cut and we'll do what we
+can."
+
+So, he stopped the flow of blood, washed out the wound with an antiseptic
+solution and took several stitches; which hurt much worse than Smith's
+knife had.  Then he ordered David to the hospital.  But by that time some
+one had got Jonathan by telephone and he said, "No, bring him here."  And
+David protesting in vain, an ambulance took him to Jonathan's house and
+gentle hands laid him on the bed of the special guest-room.  A nurse was
+installed and in time David fell asleep.
+
+Through the night Jonathan watched, stealing every few minutes to David's
+bedside.  It was not at all necessary; the nurse slept, no fears
+disturbing her slumbers.  But Jonathan wanted to watch.  He kept thinking
+that David might have died.  He shuddered and went pale at the thought.
+For Jonathan had loved David; he loved him even now.
+
+The bitterness of that day was gone; so much could a little letting of
+blood accomplish.  But the thought of one tragedy, so narrowly escaped,
+did not help Jonathan to forget another impending--if it was to be
+tragedy.  His heart ached for his friends; it was only of them he thought
+now.  They faced each other across a chasm too wide to be leaped or
+bridged; only by a descent into chill dark depths could their
+outstretched hands meet.  He did not blame them for having strayed to
+that brink; not in the impulses of the heart do we sin, only in the
+yielding.
+
+But such chasms need not be tragic.  There grow the sweetest flowers for
+those having the will to see and gather.  All his life Jonathan had been
+schooled in that lesson, and he had learned to pluck happiness as he
+turned his back on desire.  He had even been happy in an unrequited love,
+he had not sought to cast it out of his heart, he had loved his love--at
+least until it had seemed helpless to save her from a hurt.  He could be
+happy in it still, if instead of tragedy they could find strength and
+courage and the greater triumph growing on the brink of their chasm.
+
+It seemed very simple and easy, what he wanted them to learn.  He did not
+understand that only the Greathearts find it simple and easy.  He never
+suspected that he was a Greatheart.  An odd fish, this Jonathan!
+
+But it was a knowledge that he could not give them.  They must win it, if
+at all, for themselves.
+
+In the morning the doctor came again, inspected the wound, discovered no
+evidence of infection and was mightily pleased with himself.
+
+"Don't look so sad," he adjured David.  "You got off lucky.  If that
+knife--"
+
+"I suppose so," David said querulously.  "If you've finished, would you
+mind going?  I'd like to sleep some more."
+
+The doctor nodded comprehendingly.  "Pretty weak yet," he confided to the
+nurse in a whisper.  "Lost quite a bit of blood before I could get to
+him.  Must humor him."
+
+David closed his eyes.  Not, however, to sleep.  Rather to listen to his
+tempter, who had returned to stand guard, to keep the victory it had won.
+But the imp's words were less plausible this morning, a certain sly
+malice had crept into his voice.  David remembered shrinkingly the
+resolve he had taken.
+
+"It's because I am weak."  He tried to stiffen himself.  "I have a right
+to be happy.  Why should two be made to suffer for one who wouldn't
+care?"  He repeated that over and over to himself and almost achieved
+belief.
+
+The nurse came to his bedside.  "I'm going out for my walk now.  Ring
+this bell if you want anything, and one of the maids will come."
+
+He nodded and she left.  A minute later he heard other steps coming into
+the room.
+
+"David--David!" said a voice over him.  A compassionate voice that was
+near to breaking.
+
+He opened his eyes and, not easily, met Jonathan's.  "I'm making a good
+deal of trouble.  You should have let them take me to the hospital."
+
+"Hush, David!  I wanted you to come here.  Is the wound very painful?"
+
+"I've had toothaches that were worse."
+
+"It's like you to make light of it."
+
+"It isn't like me to make light of it.  You've seen me and ought to know
+that.  It's more like me to whine."
+
+"But it's serious."  Jonathan shook his head gravely.  "The doctor says,
+if the knife had gone an eighth of an inch deeper--"
+
+"They always say that, don't they?  It didn't go an eighth of an inch
+deeper."
+
+"But it might have," Jonathan insisted.  "David, why did you do it?  Did
+you think a little money was worth such a risk?"
+
+David frowned petulantly.  "I'm no hero.  I didn't mean to take any
+risks.  I just blundered in and was too stupid to get out.  So I got
+hurt.  It's a habit of mine."
+
+"Ah!"  Jonathan understood the allusion.  "David, can you forgive me?
+Yesterday I was thinking you--what you are not.  I was bitter, not quite
+myself.  I was blaming you for what you couldn't help and thinking you
+were going--"
+
+"Don't!  Don't talk about that!  I--"  David turned his face to the wall.
+"I wish to God Smith's knife had gone deeper!"
+
+Jonathan started.  "Smith!  You say it was Smith?  Then this happened
+because of me.  I let myself get at odds with all the world and in that
+temper sent him from the shop.  You have much to forgive me for, David."
+
+"That's pretty far-fetched, isn't it?  If it's any consolation, I
+couldn't swear it was Smith.  I only had a glimpse of him."
+
+"It is a consolation.  Because now, if any one questions you about what
+happened, you needn't identify Smith.  I hate to think of any man having
+to go to jail.  Sin is its own punishment--and heavy enough.  God knows!
+We must find Smith, David, and try to help him.  You could help him most.
+When he knows that you, whom he hurt, are ready--"
+
+"Do whatever you want with him.  I have no wish to send him to jail."
+
+David stirred restlessly; his wound began to throb.  Why couldn't the
+manikin go away and take his silly exaggerated--and
+disturbing--sentimentalities with him?  Didn't he know that his very
+presence there was a reminder of something David wanted to forget--that
+the kingdom of desire was not to be entered without payment?
+
+But Jonathan did not leave, though he saw what the patient wished.  He
+went without further détours to the thing that lay between them.
+
+"David, what are you going to do?"
+
+David made no answer but stared unwinkingly at the wall.
+
+"What are you going to do, David?"
+
+David had not guessed how hard it would be to give tongue to his desire.
+
+"I don't know that you have any right to ask.  But if it will do you any
+good to know, I'm going to get free and--"
+
+He turned and looked defiantly into Jonathan's eyes.  He saw the
+suffering there.  But Jonathan's voice was still gentle.
+
+"You would do that?"
+
+"I would do that."
+
+"You mean," Jonathan persisted, "you will get a divorce?  And then go to
+her?"
+
+How ugly, how sordid, that seemed, spoken aloud in the clear light of
+morning!
+
+But David said, "I mean that."
+
+"Have you thought of--your wife?"
+
+"She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't really care."
+
+"And you have a boy.  A beautiful boy, I am told."
+
+"That--that is part of the--price."
+
+"Ah! the price!  You have thought of the price then.  And you are ready
+to pay it.  Other people have paid it, I know.  I have wondered if they
+didn't pay too much.  David--"  Jonathan looked away.  "Have you thought
+of--_her_?"
+
+"Can't you understand I am thinking of her?  I can't let her be hurt.
+And I want her--you can't know--"
+
+He flung an arm over his face.  And he was glad of the sharp pain that
+shot through his side.
+
+"I know," said Jonathan.  "I know."
+
+They were silent for a while.  The silence became almost unbearable to
+one of them.  He let his arm fall slowly to his side.
+
+"Well, say it!  If you have anything against it, say it."
+
+"No."  Jonathan turned to him once more, sadly.  "I have nothing to say
+against it.  I know it would do no good, if I had.  I say only, do it, if
+you think she will not be hurt--if you think you can. . . .  I must go
+now."
+
+He left.  Soon the nurse returned.  She looked closely at her patient and
+took a thermometer from the table.
+
+"No!" he said sharply.  "I'm all right.  Just go away and leave me alone."
+
+Being a wise nurse, she obeyed. . . .
+
+When Jonathan reached his office a trembling white-faced girl was
+awaiting him.
+
+"How is he?"
+
+He told her.  "It needn't be serious.  But he had a narrow escape."
+
+"Why didn't you let me know last night?"
+
+"It would have done no good."  He looked at her searchingly.  But neither
+shrinking nor shame was in her eyes.  "Will you go to him now?"
+
+"Go to him?  I--  Why do you ask that?"
+
+"He needs you," he said.  "There is no one else who can help him now.
+Will you go?"
+
+"Yes."  She understood the help that was needed.
+
+"Then come."
+
+Together they went out to the street.  He hailed a taxicab and they
+entered and drove away.  Neither spoke during that ride.  When they
+reached the house he led her to the parlor.
+
+"If you will wait here," he said, "I will get the nurse away."
+
+In a few minutes he returned.
+
+"You may go up now."
+
+He watched her ascend, heard her quick light tread along the hall above
+and the closing of a door.
+
+"Esther!" he whispered.  "My poor Esther!  Who will help you?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+THE HAPPY ENDING
+
+She halted just within the closed door.  At first he could not believe
+it was she.  For a little he went blind, a black streaming mist hiding
+her from him.  But when it cleared away she was still there.  Their
+eyes met and clung across the room.
+
+"Esther!  You came!  I didn't believe--"
+
+"He asked me to come."
+
+"He asked you!  I don't understand--"
+
+"Would you rather I had stayed away?"
+
+For answer he held out hungry arms toward her.  He would have sat
+upright; pain and weakness were forgotten.  But she was at his side in
+a breath.
+
+"You must not."
+
+She put her hands on his shoulders to restrain him.  He caught them and
+held them close to him.  She let him for a moment, then gently freed
+them from his clasp.
+
+"It is no worse than he says--your hurt?"
+
+"It isn't bad at all."
+
+"You're sure?  You see, I didn't know until I got to the office.  And
+they made it out very bad there.  They even said you mightn't live.
+And I had to wait until he came with definite word.  It was terrible.
+When I thought--oh, David!"
+
+The steadiness she had had to keep up before others gave way.  Suddenly
+she sat on the bed, pressing both hands tightly against her face.
+
+"Don't, Esther!"  Her weakness hurt him.  "Don't!  There's nothing to
+cry for."
+
+"Let me.  I'll be all right--in a minute."
+
+He let her then.  And he wished that the hot iron in his own heart
+could be cooled a little in tears.  But his eyes were dry and aching
+and the iron burned deeper.  There _was_ something to cry for.
+
+"Now!"  It was the tempter whispering.  "Now is the time to tell her."
+
+But a strange paralysis was on his tongue and will.
+
+She waited until she could achieve the smile she wanted him to see.
+Then she let her hands fall to her lap.  And in the brightness of that
+smile the tears on her lashes were dewdrops that had caught the morning
+sunlight.
+
+"Speak up!  Now!"  It was the imp again.
+
+"Why do you falter?"  Now was the time to tell her of that beautiful
+kingdom and how he proposed to win it for them, to ask her to wait
+until he could lead her through its gates.  And still he could
+not. . . .  And suddenly he knew that he never could. . . .
+
+"There!"  The smile was perfect.  "That is over.  I didn't mean to be
+so foolish.  It's only because I had been thinking it was so much
+worse.  Now I can take time to be glad.  About this, I mean."
+
+From the pocket of her jacket she drew forth a folded sheet of paper
+and held it out to him.  It was the letter from St. Mark's.
+
+"It seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it?--though we ought
+never to say that.  I found it on the floor by my desk this morning.  I
+thought it was some of the office correspondence and opened it and--do
+you mind?--when I saw what it was I read it through.  I hardly knew
+what I was doing.  It didn't seem important then.  But now--  Oh, I am
+glad--glad!"  She nodded brightly.  "The finest thing in the world has
+happened."
+
+He looked dully at the letter which ought to have meant so much to him.
+
+"I had forgotten that."
+
+"It means you can go back to your own profession, doesn't it?"
+
+"I suppose so.  Yes, it means that."
+
+"It has been like a story, hasn't it?  This summer, I mean.  A
+beautiful story!  In the beginning you came to the office--to prison,
+you said.  And I was plodding along, trying to make myself believe that
+I liked bookkeeping.  A pair of lame ducks we were, with broken wings.
+I'm a little sorry for us yet--aren't you?  But now we--  Do you think
+it would hurt you if I raised the shades?  It's such a glorious morning
+and I love sunshine."
+
+"It wouldn't hurt, of course."
+
+She went to the windows and raised the shades and the morning radiance,
+the light in which all hues are seen as they are, flooded the room.
+Then she went back to her seat beside him.
+
+"That is much better, isn't it? . . .  A beautiful story!  Now our
+wings are strong again. . . ."
+
+And so she went on, painting in the brightest colors she knew how to
+mix what she supposed the future held for them.  She tried to make it
+splendid.  St. Mark's was to be but a beginning.  He was to go very
+far, building many beautiful churches, striving to make each a little
+finer than the one before, until he was famous throughout the
+land--"Which is worth something, of course, but not half so much as
+knowing that you have done good work.  You remember, I said once that
+would be your great reward."  She was to live outdoors, careful not to
+overdo her voice practise at first.  After a while, when she had grown
+stronger, she would study hard to make up for the years she had lost,
+perhaps go abroad to work under the great voice builders and coaches
+there.  And "some day," perhaps, rumor would tell him of a new
+contralto whom people loved to hear sing. . . .  It was a little
+childish, no doubt, and rather overdone.
+
+But he did not think of that.  He was not listening.  He was seeing,
+not the picture she painted but that which she made, there in the
+sunshine.  She was whiter than ever.  Deep shadows were under her eyes.
+But the eyes themselves were very steady, her voice never quavered, nor
+did the smile flicker.  Where did she get her spirit, this slender
+fragile girl who seemed so in need of another's strength for support?
+
+And upon the bright brave soul of her he had wanted to put a stain.  He
+could not do that!  He no longer wanted to do that.
+
+For the questions Jonathan had left burning in David's heart had
+answered themselves.  As he watched her, he saw what on the high mount
+he had refused to see.  He had hurt her enough.  Not through another
+hurt could he find healing for her.  And it would hurt her, what he had
+planned.  It would take from her all that he loved; and it would add
+shame, the shame of cowardice, if not of cruelty to others.  He could
+not do that; even if she were willing he could not.  Yielding was not
+the simple thing it had seemed.  Something he lacked--or something he
+had--which forever shut the gates of that kingdom upon him.  It had
+been but an evil impossible dream.  But a beautiful dream!  There was
+yet no joy in renunciation.
+
+David went down from the mount into the valley where shadows were deep
+and unbroken.
+
+"And so the story ends happily, as it should.  Everything has come out
+right."
+
+"No!  Everything has not come out right!"
+
+"You mustn't say that.  You mustn't think--"
+
+"Esther!"  It was hard to meet her eyes then.  "I've got to say it--to
+let you see the sort of man I am.  Last night I was thinking of--of
+what has happened to us and what we would do.  There seemed only one
+way out that I could bear.  I made up my mind.  I was going to you to
+tell you that I would get free--I would have managed that somehow--and
+then come to you.  I could have done it--last night."
+
+The smile faded.  She waited for him to continue.
+
+"But Smith stopped me.  I am glad he stopped me.  For now--"  He could
+not go on.
+
+"Now you can't.  Is that it?"
+
+"I can't."
+
+"I am glad you can't."
+
+She said it very quietly.  Her eyes left his and turned to the sunny
+window.  But the light that shone on the thin tired face came not from
+without.
+
+The ugly tempter lifted its wings and flew swiftly away.
+
+"Are you," he began again at last, "revising your opinion of me?  I
+hope you are."
+
+A hand fell lightly on his lips.  "I don't want to revise my opinion of
+you.  I couldn't.  And I understand--what you wanted and why it is
+impossible for us.  Because--last night--  I could have let you do it."
+
+"Oh, Esther, I never meant to hurt you.  Can you believe that?"
+
+"I know.  But you haven't hurt me--even though for a while I was
+shameless as I never thought I could be.  I said the story has ended
+happily.  And it has--with the happiest ending possible, the only happy
+ending it could have.  Because there is nothing to regret."
+
+"Nothing to regret!"  Unbelief was in his gaze.
+
+"Ah!  We mustn't talk about it--but can't you see--can't you
+understand?"
+
+She leaned over him, giving him her eyes, letting him look to the very
+depths he had once wanted to explore.  He saw love there, and joy in
+love, but as well the will to renounce gladly--and no lurking shadow to
+say that she had bravely lied.
+
+"Do you believe--that I am not unhappy and will not be?"
+
+"I can't understand.  But I have to believe.  I am glad to believe."
+
+He closed his eyes and relaxed his tired body, to learn that the wound
+was throbbing sharply.  But that was a little thing.
+
+She sat beside him, her face turned again to the sunlight.  Once she
+reached out and touched his hand caressingly; he caught hers and clung
+to it as though he could not let it go.  It was not a long silence.
+
+But it was long enough.  In those few minutes he went up out of the
+valley again and stood with her on another mount.  And to him, too,
+came the free will to renounce; and understanding.  Sorrow abode with
+him still, an exquisite pang that was to leave a lasting scar.  But in
+his heart glowed a strange fire--as if for some splendid
+victory--lighted only for that hour, it may be, but revealing to him
+what he had found; a love that had not failed, that asked nothing, able
+to triumph over all things, even itself.  It was so he had dreamed love
+might be.  He was glad he had found it.  He was glad of the cup it had
+put to his lips.  He was the richer for her.  He would be the richer
+for seeing her go.  He hoped that the sorrow would never quite pass out
+of his heart, that the love would never shrink to a mere memory.
+
+He lifted shining eyes to hers.
+
+"Now I understand!  Some things aren't worth all they cost.  What I
+wanted last night is one of them.  But this--I would not be without it,
+even though--"
+
+"Nor would I."
+
+Tears were gemming her eyes once more.  But they were not sorrowful
+tears and they did not fall.
+
+It was time for her to go.  The hands that had not ceased to cling fell
+apart.  She went slowly across the room.
+
+At the door she lingered a moment, looking back.  Through the streaming
+mist he saw her face, bright in the white glory of renunciation.  She
+smiled . . . and was gone. . . .
+
+The same brightness was upon him.  But he did not know that.  He stood
+on the mount to which she had led him, still seeing her.  And still
+there were no regrets.  To him was coming the strength he was to need,
+a faith in himself that was to tide him over many gray morrows.  It was
+a very high place, the peak of his life.  Ever afterward he was to look
+up to that hour.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+That evening came Shirley, summoned by Mrs. Jim.  But the nurse turned
+her back at David's door.  He had fever and the dreaded infection had
+set in.  There must be no excitement.  So Shirley must wait.  Two days
+more she had to wait, anxious days during which she learned fast.  On
+the third the nurse raised the embargo for a few minutes, and Shirley,
+breathless and afraid, went to the door through which the other had
+gone.
+
+He was ready for her coming.  His only dread was that she might see
+what he must never let her know.  He had a deep pitying tenderness for
+her, to whom love had appeared only as a pretty toy.
+
+She halted uncertainly at the door.  He saw that she doubted her
+welcome.
+
+"David, do you still want me to come?"
+
+"Come, Shirley."
+
+She went quickly to him and knelt by his side, and kissed him.
+
+"Dear, I wanted to come.  I couldn't stay away.  And it wasn't because
+you gave me a choice.  Won't you believe that, David?"
+
+"I believe that, Shirley."
+
+"You only said, 'Come.'  Don't you really want me?  Do you think that
+after a while, when I've learned all I have to learn--and proved what I
+have to prove--you will be glad that I came?"
+
+"I am glad now."
+
+He touched the pretty gleaming hair caressingly.
+
+"I believe you are!  And they said--oh, David!"
+
+She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
+
+Then he saw that she had come to the threshold of her house of toys and
+stood looking out, trembling and frightened before the bigness of the
+real world.  He was staggered by that.  She had come to the door too
+late; for if she fared forth, she must go alone and untaught through a
+country whose loneliness he had known.  He must save her from that.  He
+could not give her the one thing which could companion her through
+those arid wastes.  The tender protective impulse surged stronger to
+his aid.
+
+Gently he sought to lead her back into her playhouse.
+
+"Shirley, I have a confession to make.  While you were gone St. Mark's
+decided to build.  I submitted some plans and--they were accepted.  Do
+you like my surprise?"
+
+"Then you can go back to your profession.  I am glad of that."
+
+"It's a big commission, Shirley.  Almost as big as St. Christopher's
+would have been.  We'll be rolling in wealth--for us."
+
+"You won't have to worry any more.  I am glad of that, too."
+
+She was resisting, looking back toward the still open door and the
+prospect beyond.  It had frightened her, but it had thrilled her, too.
+Anxiously he pointed inward.
+
+"It means more than that.  If I've done pretty well--and I'm sure I
+have--it will bring a lot more work.  We can have all the things our
+mouths used to water for.  We'll move into a very nice apartment at
+once, and have a maid, maybe a nurse for Davy Junior.  We'll take on
+the club again--think of hearing the crack of a good drive once more!
+There'll be theaters and concerts, with a taxi on rainy evenings.  And
+when we're settled in that new apartment we're going to give a
+beautiful dinner to celebrate our return to the surface.  My stars!
+can't you see our guests' eyes popping?  And when the first check comes
+in from the St. Mark's people I'm going to buy you--let's see, what
+_shall_ I buy you?--  Pinch me, please.  When I think of it I can't
+quite realize that it's true.  Isn't it bully, Shirley--dear?"
+
+"Of course," she said slowly.  "But somehow those things--they seem
+so--so little, now I have you back.  Do they really mean so much to
+you, David?"
+
+"You've come back--that's the great thing, of course.  And there'll be
+no worries to make things hard for us, no penny-pinching and
+discontent, no--misunderstandings.  Don't you see?  It's the whole
+thing.  And so--"  He tried to laugh gaily, but an echo was in his
+heart.  "And so the story ends happily."
+
+For a little a question rested in her eyes.  His laugh, trailing off
+into huskiness, puzzled her, vaguely hurt her.  She sighed.  Then habit
+began to prevail.  The poor little sentimental regret for this sudden
+prosperity died.  Her eyes rested on the pretty new toys tricking out
+her house.  And as she looked the door closed softly, shutting her in
+forever.  She did not know.
+
+"Do you know, I was almost sorry for a minute?  I hardly know why.  It
+is better this way.  We'll have to go back to believing in fairies,
+shan't we?"
+
+Her eyes were dancing.  Happiness tinted her velvety cheeks.  All that
+she saw was good.
+
+"Oh, David, I believe we're going to be happier than ever before!"
+
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Toys, by 
+Henry Russell Miller
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Toys, by
+Henry Russell Miller
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The House of Toys
+
+Author: Henry Russell Miller
+
+Illustrator: Frank Snapp
+
+Release Date: February 13, 2008 [EBook #24603]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF TOYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HOUSE OF TOYS
+
+
+By
+
+HENRY RUSSELL MILLER
+
+
+
+_Author of_
+
+  THE MAN HIGHER UP, HIS RISE TO POWER
+  THE AMBITION OF MARK TRUITT
+
+
+
+
+WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
+
+FRANK SNAPP
+
+
+[Transcriber's note: Frontispiece missing from book]
+
+
+
+
+INDIANAPOLIS
+
+THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
+
+PUBLISHERS
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT 1914
+
+THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+CHAPTER.
+
+    I THE PLANS
+   II THE WITCH
+  III ON THE SANDS
+   IV TO THE RESCUE
+    V GOOD FAIRIES
+   VI SPELLS
+  VII SANCTUARY
+ VIII CERTAIN PLOTS
+   IX A NEW HOUSE
+    X AT THE DOOR
+   XI THE WITCH LAUGHS
+  XII WHICH HOUSE?
+ XIII THE HAPPY ENDING
+
+
+
+
+THE HOUSE OF TOYS
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+THE PLANS
+
+This is not a fairy tale, although you will find some old friends here.
+There is, for example, a witch, a horrid old creature who tricks the best
+and wisest of us: Circumstance is one of her many names, and a horde of
+grisly goblins follow in her train.  For crabbed beldame an aunt, who
+meant well but was rich and used to having her own way, will do fairly
+well.  Good fairies there are, quite a number; you must decide for
+yourself which one is the best.  But the tale has chiefly to do with a
+youth to whom the witch had made one gift, well knowing that one would
+not be enough.  Together with a girl--a sunflower who did not thrive in
+the shade, as Jim Blaisdell has said--he undertook to build, among other
+things, a house of love wherein she should dwell and reign.  But when it
+was built he met another girl, who was--say, an iris.  There are white
+irises, and very beautiful flowers they are.  From her--
+
+But that is the story.
+
+He was, then, tall, as well favored as is good for a young man, with
+straight-gazing though at times rather dreamy gray-green eyes, kinky
+brown hair and a frank friendly manner that was very engaging.  Since his
+tenth year he had been alone in the world, with a guardian trust company
+for sole relative.  But he tried to make up for that by having many
+friends.  He did not have to try very hard.
+
+Men liked him, which was much to his credit.  Those near his own age
+often made him a confidant in such matters as their ambitions and loves.
+His elders saw to it that he was asked not only to the things their wives
+and sisters gave but to week-ends in the family bosom as well.
+
+And women liked him, which was not so much to his credit, since we judge
+our own sex far more wisely than the other.  Old ladies praised his
+manners and visited his rooms, taking an active interest in his intimate
+wardrobe.  Younger women flirted with him ad libitum and used him
+unconscionably, sure that he would take no advantage.  Girls of sixteen
+or thereabouts secretly held him in awe and spun romances around him.  In
+return he gave them all a sort of reverence, thinking them superfine
+creatures who could do no meanness or wrong.  He envied his men friends
+who had mothers or sisters or wives to be served; in the life of a young
+man alone in the world there are gaps that even pleasant friendships can
+not fill.  He had a dream over which he used to burn much tobacco: of a
+day when he should not be alone.  He awaited impatiently the coming of
+that splendid day.
+
+Therefore he dabbled recklessly in the tender passion.  About twice a
+year on an average he fell experimentally in love.  It made him very sad
+that after a brief captivity his heart was always set free.
+
+Moreover, there was something about him that made his friends, men as
+well as women, say to one another, "Some of these days that Davy Quentin
+is going to do big things."  You have known young men like that; as often
+as not they continue through life a promise unfulfilled.
+
+In David's case the faith survived stubbornly on scanty nourishment.  He
+had been left a little patrimony sufficient to carry him beyond college,
+where he smoked the usual number of cigarettes, drank a limited quantity
+of beer and managed to pass his examinations respectably though not even
+_cum laude_.  After that he studied architecture, with more distinction
+because he had a real enthusiasm for the work, especially the
+ecclesiastical branch.  And it happened that soon after he hung out his
+shingle he won a prize offered by a magazine for plans for a
+three-thousand-dollar bungalow.  This, when they heard of it, fortified
+the faith of his friends, who carelessly supposed the prize to have been
+much bigger than it was and a brilliant career thus to have been safely
+launched.  Oddly enough, however, it never occurred to them to lend a
+hand at the launching.  They took its success for granted and saved their
+help and their business for young men, such as the energetic but
+otherwise untalented Dick Holden, of whom less was expected.  It is so
+hard to make friends understand that even a brilliant career needs
+support at first.
+
+It was not wholly their fault; a very creditable pride kept David from
+hinting that he was in need of help, which indeed became the fact.  The
+little patrimony had dwindled to a cipher.  Clients were few and
+commissions small.  But David, less from design than from habit and
+taste, maintained the front of prosperity.  He had the trick of wearing
+clothes well, lived in nice rooms, played golf at the country club and
+was always his jolly, cheerful self.
+
+His good cheer was not a pretense, for he was never made to feel a pinch.
+This was a misfortune and the blame must be laid to his own engaging
+qualities.  He found that he could borrow as easily as, when in funds, he
+had lent.  Even Jim Blaisdell who, in his cashier's office, was held a
+skinflint and a keen judge of men, was cordiality itself when David went
+to him with a note for discount.
+
+"Gladly," he said.  "But you'll have to have an indorser, you know."
+
+"I didn't know," laughed David.  "You see, I never tried this before.  Am
+I an innocent?"
+
+"It'll be all right, though," Blaisdell answered.  "I'll indorse for you."
+
+Something made David hesitate.  "It's fair to say I mightn't be able to
+meet it promptly."
+
+"Then we'll carry you.  Your face is collateral enough for me.  Beat it
+now--I'm busy.  And come out for dinner to-night, Davy."
+
+Sometimes David would feel a qualm of discomfort as he found himself
+gradually getting behind and sometimes he would wonder, a little
+sensitively, at the slowness of recognition.  But such moments were
+brief.  Unconsciously he had imbibed his friends' vague confidence in his
+future.  Some day he would win a big commission which, brilliantly
+executed, would make him forever secure.  In the meantime, because he was
+an honest workman, he gave to his few clients the best he had, a really
+fine best, worthy of wider notice.  And because he grew daily more in
+love with his art and proposed to be found ready when his great chance
+came, he put in his spare hours studying hard, making sketches--he had a
+pretty knack for that and might have become a third-rate painter--of the
+numberless ideas that floated to him out of tobacco clouds or down from a
+moonlit sky or across a music-filled room.  Sometimes he would tear the
+sketches to bits.  But sometimes, lingering lovingly over one, he would
+know a deep thrill.
+
+"Why, this," he would exclaim, "this is good.  Oh!" hugging himself,
+"they'll have to come to me yet."
+
+On the strength of this conclusion he would allow himself some special
+extravagance.
+
+When he was twenty-seven he was making about nine hundred a year,
+spending it all as it came, and owed more than five hundred dollars.
+
+Then he met Shirley Lord.
+
+It was at a dinner given by the Jim Blaisdells, whose guest she was.
+Mrs. Jim introduced them.
+
+"Shirley dear, this is our Davy Quentin.  As a special favor--to each of
+you--I'm putting you together to-night.  You have just a minute now to
+get acquainted."  And Mrs. Jim fluttered away.
+
+David spent most of that minute looking with a thrill--much the sort he
+felt when he was pleased with his sketches--into a pair of blue eyes that
+smiled at him out of the prettiest, sweetest, kindest face he thought he
+had ever seen.  And it was very pretty and sweet and kind just then, as
+she looked at him with the friendliness he always inspired.  Framing the
+face was a lot of wavy brown hair with golden lights dancing in it, her
+neck and shoulders were slender but softly rounded, the figure hinted at
+by the soft clinging gown was trim and girlish.  But those were details
+that he drank in later.
+
+He heaved a sigh, so patently one of content with his lot that she
+laughed outright.  To laugh well is a gift from the gods.
+
+"You're not a bit as I thought you would be."
+
+"How did you think I should be?" stammered David, trying to grasp the
+fact that this dainty creature had been thinking of him at all.
+
+"Why, grim and haughty and altogether overwhelming.  You know, you're
+supposed to be rather wonderful."
+
+David felt anxiously for his head.
+
+"Does it expand so easily?"
+
+"I just wanted to be sure it was still there.  I can see it would be easy
+to lose it."
+
+She laughed again.
+
+It is probable that they talked a polite amount with their respective
+neighbors.  But if so, they regarded it as untimely interruption of the
+real business of the evening.  It was amazing the number of things they
+found to discuss and they discussed them so earnestly and withal, as it
+seemed to them, so wittily and wisely that they were blissfully unaware
+of the significant smiles going around the table.  When the coffee was
+served, David surveyed his cup stupidly.
+
+"Does it strike you," he inquired, "that they've hurried this dinner out
+of all reason?"
+
+"It has been the usual length, I believe."
+
+"Funny--I've a hazy recollection of fish--and of an ice just now--but
+entree and salad and the rest are a total blank."
+
+"Very funny!" she agreed.
+
+"But the queerest of all--"  He broke off, with a laugh that did not
+quite reach his eyes.
+
+"Yes?" she queried provocatively, knowing that one of his daring bits was
+coming.
+
+"The queerest of all," he repeated, "is that you should turn out to
+be--_you_."
+
+"No queerer than--"  Then she broke off, with a laugh that did reach her
+eyes.
+
+The next afternoon they played golf.  It was at the fifth tee that they
+abandoned the last pretense of formality.  She topped her drive
+wretchedly; the ball rolled a scant ten feet.
+
+"Oh, David!" she cried.  "Did you ever see anything so _awful_?"
+
+"Many times," answered David, who was looking at her, not at the ball.
+"I've often wondered," he mused raptly, "how 'David' would sound, set to
+music."
+
+He was rewarded by her rippling, musical laugh.  "You say the absurdest
+things--and the nicest."
+
+They pursued her recalcitrant ball until it led them, by many zigzags, to
+an old elm that had upset more than one good game.  But they did not
+swear at it.  They sat down under its generous shade, David lighted a
+cigarette and they gave themselves to a more agreeable exercise.  They
+pretended to define it.
+
+"I suppose," Shirley broke a brief intimate silence, "people think we're
+having a violent flirtation.  But we're not, are we?"
+
+"Certainly not," said David with emphasis.
+
+"They couldn't understand.  We're just naturally meant to be good friends
+and it didn't take us an age to find that out."
+
+"Yes," said David slowly.
+
+"Tell me about yourself."
+
+He tried to make it interesting but when he came to the point there was
+really little to tell.
+
+"But that isn't all.  You haven't told me why people are so confident of
+your future."
+
+"I don't know that.  Sometimes I wonder whether they've the right to be
+confident."
+
+"You've been very successful, haven't you?"
+
+He shook his head.  "I'm still poor--so poor you'd probably call it
+indecent--with my way to make.  It seems a very slow way, too."
+
+There was a hint of disappointment in the quick glance she turned upon
+him.
+
+"Have I lost caste?"
+
+"No.  I was just wondering--  But you're going to be successful, aren't
+you?  _Everybody_ can't be mistaken in you.  Tell me what you want to do."
+
+So he told her of his love for his work, of his studies and sketches, of
+the beautiful churches that he hoped he should some day build.
+
+It was early October; which is not unimportant.  Before them opened a
+vista of wooded hills, tinted by the first frosts dull yellows and
+maroons, here and there a flash of rich crimson.  A thin haze lay over
+the land, violet in the distance, about them an almost imperceptible
+golden.  The voices of other players came softly to them, subdued and
+lazy as an echo.  Fading hillsides, dying leaves, blue horizons--autumn,
+too, has its wistful charm, as potent as spring to bring young hearts
+together.
+
+"Everybody can't be mistaken," she repeated.  "All those things you will
+do.  I feel it, too.  It's something you can't explain.  You _know_ a man
+is big, just as you know a woman is good--  And you couldn't lose caste
+with me.  I'm poor, too."
+
+He swept her with an incredulous glance that took in the beautiful, soft,
+hand-knit sweater jacket, the white flannel skirt with its air of having
+been fashioned by an expensive tailor, the white buckskins and bit of
+white silk stocking.  He knew girls, daughters of rich fathers, who did
+not wear silk stockings for golfing.
+
+She caught his glance.  "Mostly presents," she answered it, "from an aunt
+who has more money than she knows what to do with.  The rest is just
+splurge.  It's quite true about my poverty.  Ever since we were left
+alone Maizie and I have had to work.  We could have gone to live with my
+aunt, but we wanted to be independent, to make our own living.  And we've
+made it, though," laughingly, "we've been pretty hard up sometimes.  So
+you see, I'm not a butterfly but just a working girl on her vacation.
+Have _I_ lost caste?"
+
+Needless question!  As she asked it, her chin--her prettiest feature,
+cleanly molded, curving gently back to the soft throat--went up
+spiritedly.  He caught a picture of a struggle far more cruel than her
+light words implied.  A wave of protest swept over him, of tender
+protectiveness.  He had to fight down an impulse to catch her close, to
+cry out that thenceforth he would assume her burden.  He rejoiced
+intensely that he had found so rare a spirit, fragile yet brave and equal
+to all the hard emergencies life had put upon her.
+
+Then he took thought of his income and the brevity of their acquaintance
+and was abashed.
+
+The Jim Blaisdells met them at the club for a dinner at which David was
+host.  It was a nicely appointed dinner, the best the chef could
+contrive.  Also it was distinctly an extravagance.  But David did not
+care.  His spirits ran high, in a gaiety that was infectious.  It was a
+very successful party.
+
+After that came two short hours on the veranda, while a three-quarters
+moon rose to shower the world with silver, gaiety dwindled and a solemn
+tender happiness mounted.  Then they drove homeward, by a roundabout way,
+in Jim's car.  David and Shirley had the back seat, for the most part in
+a free intimate silence that was delicious indeed.
+
+Later Mrs. Jim found her guest dreamily braiding her hair for the night.
+
+"Shirley," she began directly, "this is going too fast.  David's too nice
+a boy to be hurt.  He's taking your flirtation seriously."
+
+"I'm not flirting with him.  At least I don't think I am," Shirley
+amended slowly.
+
+"I thought you were interested only in rich men?"
+
+"I did think so.  But now--  It might be fun to be poor--with him--for a
+while.  It wouldn't be for long.  You said yourself he'll have a
+brilliant future."
+
+"I think so.  But it _might_ be long coming.  A professional career is so
+uncertain at the start.  And it's never fun to be poor--unless you're
+equipped.  Married life is more than parties and golf and dinners at the
+club.  Shirley, dear," she concluded pleadingly, "do be sensible."
+
+"Of course, I will be.  You forget I know all about poverty from
+experience."  Shirley looked up suddenly, keenly.  "Why do you warn me?
+Is there any reason why you're afraid to entrust me to David Quentin?"
+
+"No-o," said Mrs. Jim.
+
+How could she voice the question in her mind?  It was, could she entrust
+David Quentin to Shirley?
+
+Still later, "Jim," she said to her almost sleeping husband, "I'm
+worried.  I'm afraid David and Shirley will get themselves engaged."
+
+"Won't hurt 'em," grunted Jim.
+
+"But they might get married."
+
+"People do it sometimes.  Be good for him.  Life's been too easy for
+Davy."
+
+"I feel responsible.  Couldn't you speak to Davy and warn him to go slow?"
+
+"I thought," mumbled Jim, "you were a wise woman," and dropped off to
+sleep.
+
+At the same late hour David was sitting at the window of his darkened
+room, smoking pipe after pipe, gazing raptly up at the moon-lit sky.  "By
+George!" he would breathe ecstatically, "By George!" as though he had
+been seeing something wonderful in ecclesiastical architecture.  In fact
+he was planning that wondrous house of love, none the less entrancing for
+that many other young lovers had designed it before.
+
+Every day during Shirley's two weeks' visit she and David were together,
+sometimes, through Mrs. Jim's contrivance, with others and often, by
+grace of their own ingenuity, alone, drifting carelessly down the most
+traveled stream of life.  If Mrs. Jim's warning had awakened any doubts
+in Shirley's mind--and it had--the doubts were quickly laid by David's
+presence.  She let herself drift; this in spite of certain very definite
+and very different plans which she had made for her future.  (In her home
+city was one Sam Hardy, a money-maker, very attractive, very devoted.)
+People saw it and were charmed; a young woman simply, daringly,
+unquestioningly yielding to love is a picture from whose wonder neither
+time nor repetition can subtract.  Only to Mrs. Jim did it occur to
+ponder whether the impulse to surrender sprang from deeps or shallows.
+
+And only Dick Holden, who was then David's chief chum, ventured to hang
+out a danger signal.
+
+"My son," he said one day when he managed to find David alone, "I'm
+afraid you're growing susceptible to women."
+
+"Always was.  Any great harm in that?"
+
+"Huh!  If you'd had sisters," grunted the ungallant Dick, "you wouldn't
+ask that.  You don't know 'em.  You think they're nice, fluffy little
+angels, don't you?  Well, they're not.  They--they say catty things.  And
+they've claws in their white, soft little paws, and they'd rather scratch
+than eat.  And they don't understand men."
+
+"Whoopee!" said David.  "Do it some more."
+
+"Huh!  _You_ think they're kind and sympathetic, don't you?  You think
+because they look soulfully up at you when you're gabbling about
+ecclesiastical architecture they're taking it all in.  Well, they're not.
+They're thinking, 'He has nice eyes--too bad he hasn't money!'  I know.
+I've heard 'em talking behind the scenes.  They don't understand the
+_game_ of things.  They only want a husband for a provider and they soon
+let him know it.  Then he might as well go lie down and die.  Take it
+from me.  Few men," Dick concluded sagely, "survive matrimony."
+
+David laughed uproariously at this counsel.
+
+"You blooming old cynic!  You poor old he-Cassandra!  Where did you get
+all your wisdom?  Just wait until you find some one--"
+
+"Huh!  I have found her.  Or rather she's found me.  I could let her make
+a fool of me.  But I won't.  A long life and my own life for me.  I'm
+wearing a sign, 'Nothing doing!'  You'd better get one just like it."
+
+David roared again.
+
+"All right, laugh!" growled Dick.  "Rope, tie and brand yourself.  And
+then some of these days when you're one woman's property and you find the
+other woman is just around the corner waiting--  That's another thing,
+Davy."
+
+But David turned his back on the counselor and fled.  What did Dick know
+about it?
+
+The dream was being realized, the lonely gaps filled.  He was to have
+some one of his own to love and to serve.  This time his heart was a
+captive for life; any one who had been in love a baker's dozen of times
+could tell that.  He expected great things of love.  He saw it as
+something exquisitely fine and beautiful and yet proof against the vandal
+fingers of familiarity; a joy always, a light for the dark places, a
+guide and comrade in stressful times; and everlasting as the hills.  Just
+as the poets have always sung of it.  Would any man wear a sign, "Nothing
+doing!" in the face of that?
+
+The last afternoon of Shirley's visit came, clear and crisp, a strong
+west wind lifting the haze from the tinted hills.  They pretended to play
+golf, but their strokes were perfunctory, absent-minded.  They talked
+little and that in strangely low tones, always soberly.  After a while
+they gave up the pretense, sought a seat on a secluded sunny slope and
+fell into a long silence.
+
+"Shirley!" he broke it at length.
+
+"Yes, David?"
+
+"I'll hate to see you go back."
+
+"I know.  I'll hate to go, too."
+
+"It--hurts me to think of your going back to work."
+
+"Oh, I'm used to it."  She smiled.  A world of sweet courage was in that
+smile.
+
+"Shirley--_dear_!"
+
+She raised her eyes to his.
+
+"A poor man--I suppose he's a coward to ask a woman to share--  But it
+wouldn't be for always.  You believe that, don't you?"
+
+"I believe that."
+
+"I'd try to make up for the lack of money with other things--worth more
+than money maybe.  Are you willing to be poor with me for a while?"
+
+"Yes, David."
+
+He sat very still.  His face went white.  A happiness, so intense that it
+hurt, flooded his being.
+
+"You really--mean that?" he whispered.
+
+Tears of tenderness stood in her eyes.  She had the sense of having found
+a rare treasure, worth any sacrifice.  She was a little awed by it and
+lifted to a plane she had never reached before.
+
+"Of course, I do."  She laughed tremulously.  "We'll wait six months, to
+give you a chance to get ready.  Then I'll come to you.  We'll start very
+small at first and live on what we have, whatever it is.  If it's only
+seventy-five dollars a month, we'll hold our heads as high as if we had
+millions.  We'll make the fight together.  I used to think I never could
+do that.  But now I want to.  And then when your success comes it will be
+partly _mine_."
+
+Her head was lifted in the pretty brave gesture.  The glow of a crimson
+sunset was about her.  In her eyes was the glow of the flame he had
+lighted.
+
+If only the spirit of sunset might abide with us always! . . . .
+
+The witch often turns herself into an old cat and plays with us poor mice
+before she rends us.
+
+Almost from the beginning of the engagement David's clients increased in
+number.  During the six months which Shirley had set as the term of their
+waiting his income was almost as big as that of the whole year before;
+partly because he was taken in by Dick Holden--who had the knack of
+getting business--on a commission to which that energetic young cynic
+felt himself unequal.  The fee thus shared was a substantial one.
+
+"Our love," David wrote to Shirley, "was born under a lucky star.  I
+believe we are going to have more than we expected.  That makes me very
+happy--on your account."
+
+Nevertheless, when the six months were at an end, he was not out of debt.
+
+"David, dear," Shirley wrote, when she had been scarce a month gone,
+"couldn't you manage to come on for a few days?  Maizie thinks I'm crazy,
+and I want her to see you and be convinced that I'm not.  And I want to
+show off my wonderful lover to my friends."
+
+David, nothing loath, went--a night's journey into the West, to a city
+where hotels mounted high in the air and rates mounted with them.  This
+journey became a monthly event.  And when they were together, thought of
+the exchequer took wings.  There were theater parties, at which tired
+Maizie was a happy though protestant third.  There were boxes of candy
+and flowers, seeing which Shirley would cry, "Oh, you extravagant boy!"
+in a tone that made David very glad of his extravagance.  They loved;
+therefore they were rich.  What had they to do with caution and economy?
+
+"We can be engaged only once," they said.  "Let us make it beautiful.
+Let us have something to remember."
+
+Money, it seemed, was necessary to a memorable engagement.
+
+Maizie at sight of him opened her heart.  Shirley's friends hugged and
+kissed her and declared her lover to be all she had promised.  The rich
+aunt regarded him with a disfavor she was at some pains to voice.
+
+"Shirley tells me," she informed him, with the arrogant assurance of the
+very rich, "that you're poor.  Then I think you're foolish to get
+married--to Shirley, at least.  _I_ wanted her to take Sam Hardy.  I hope
+you understand my checks will stop when she's married."
+
+"But you'll still give her your love, won't you?"
+
+"Of course, but what's that got to do with it?"
+
+"Having that," said David, with the arrogant assurance of young men in
+love, "Shirley will be content."
+
+The rich aunt stared.  "Humph!" she sniffed, "You're not even grown up.
+On your own head be it!"
+
+Shirley took some risks in inviting these visits.  The picture David had
+got had her and Maizie living in dingy rooms, marks of hardship and
+privation thick around them.  In fact, he found her a charming hostess in
+a cozy little apartment, comfortably furnished, with pretty dishes on the
+table and even a few pictures on the walls.  And clearly, to eyes that
+saw, it was homely faithful Maizie whose arduous but well-paid
+secretaryship financed this menage; Maizie who, returning home tired from
+her long day, got the dinner; Maizie who washed the dishes, that
+Shirley's hands might not be spoiled, and did the mending when the weekly
+wash came back.  Shirley set the table, sewed on jabots and did yards of
+tatting.  Her "work" consisted of presiding over the reference room of a
+public library, telling shabby uninteresting young men where to find
+works on evolution and Assyrian temples and Charlemagne.  This position
+was hers because her rich aunt's husband had political influence and her
+salary, together with the checks from Aunt Clara--not so big as the
+latter would have had David suppose but still not to be sneezed
+at--generally went to buy "extras," little luxuries working girls do not
+often enjoy.
+
+But David was in love; he saw only the mistress of his heart.  And
+Shirley, who had the habit of contrasting what she had with what she
+wanted to have, did not see any risk incurred.
+
+"It's been such a grind to-day," she sighed, one afternoon when David
+went to the library to escort her home.  "Fussing half the day with a
+long-haired Dutchman who wanted to know all about the origin of fire
+worship.  Why should any one want to know about the origin of fire
+worship?"
+
+David didn't know, but thought it a shame she had to fuss with
+long-haired Dutchmen.
+
+"It's so deadly dull," she went on in the same plaintive voice.  "Oh,
+David, you don't know what a rescuer you are, taking me away from this.
+I'll be so happy when we're in our own little home and I'll be
+_dependent_ again."
+
+David's emotions were too deep for words but he gave her a look more
+eloquent than speech.
+
+The experts are in accord as to the purblindness of love.  No scales fell
+from his eyes, even when Maizie, on his next to last visit, made an
+occasion for a serious chat.
+
+"David," she suggested a little timidly, "don't you think you and Shirley
+had better wait a little longer?"
+
+He laughed at the notion.  "Do you think we're not sure of ourselves?"
+
+"Oh, no!  I've no doubts there.  Just until you're a little better fixed
+financially."
+
+He shook his head decidedly.  "Things are going pretty well with me now.
+And I've got to get Shirley out of this awful grind at the library."
+
+Maizie smiled faintly.  "It isn't hard.  Not so very hard, that is," she
+amended hastily.  "It wouldn't hurt her to stay there a little while
+longer.  You see," picking her words very carefully, "Shirley
+isn't--she's such a dear we've all petted her a good deal--and maybe
+spoiled her a little.  She hasn't had to give up much that she wanted.
+People like to do things for her and give her things and save her from
+things.  I think she doesn't quite realize how much has been done for
+her."
+
+"Do you think that is quite just?"  David was very grave.  "She is very
+appreciative of what you've done for her."
+
+Maizie flushed under the reproof.  "Oh, yes," she went bravely on, "she's
+a dear about that.  That's one reason why every one likes to do things
+for her.  What I meant was, I don't think she quite realizes how
+important it has been to her.  You see, she has never had to face any
+real trials.  If any came, they would be _very_ real trials to her.  And
+I'm not sure just what she--just how she--"  Poor Maizie, torn between
+loyalty to and fear for her Shirley, floundered miserably and fell into
+an ashamed silence.
+
+"You don't know how brave Shirley is.  Sisters are apt to be that way, I
+suppose."  Poor Maizie!  She flushed again and hung her head in shame
+because she had dared to suggest, however gently, a latent flaw in
+Shirley.  "What you forget is, we have something that makes other things
+of no account.  And besides, trials are just what you make them.  If you
+look at them just as an adventure, part of a big splendid fight you're
+making, they become very simple--you can even get fun out of them.  And
+that's what we're going to do."
+
+Maizie, with a sigh, yielded the point.  But, "David," she said
+earnestly, "promise me one thing, won't you?"
+
+"Of course, Maizie.  Anything but the one."
+
+"Then, if anything happens and if you should happen to mislay those
+spectacles and--by mistake, of course--put on another pair, you won't
+judge her too harshly, will you?  Just say, 'It's all the fault of that
+homely old Maizie, who didn't teach Shirley to take life so seriously as
+she ought to have done.'  You'll say that--and think it--won't you?"
+
+David laughed at the absurd notion.  "That's easy to promise."
+
+They were married in May, on a night when the wind howled and the rain
+drove fiercely.  The rich aunt gave Shirley the wedding, in the big house
+on the hill, and intimated that therewith the term of her largess had
+expired.  All of Shirley's home friends were there, exuberantly gay and
+festive, making merry because two lives were to be mated, as though that
+were a light matter.  The Jim Blaisdells and Dick Holden, who was to be
+best man, were there thinking of David.
+
+In the room reserved for the groom Dick turned from the mirror where he
+had been complacently regarding his gardenia, and caught a glimpse of
+David's face.
+
+"I say, old man, what's wrong?  Funk?  Cheer up.  It'll soon be over."
+
+"It isn't that."
+
+Over David it had suddenly come that the mating of lives is not a light
+matter.  Standing at a window, he had caught from the storm a vague
+presage of perils and pitfalls approaching, through and around which he
+must be guide for another.  That other was very, very dear to him.  The
+thought set him to quaking.  It was the first responsibility he had had
+in all his life.
+
+Then quick upon the thought surged a wave of deep poignant tenderness for
+her to whom he must be guide.
+
+There was a tap at the door, answered by Dick.
+
+"They're ready.  All right, old man?"
+
+"All right," David said.  "I'm ready."
+
+A minute later he stood waiting, while the old music rolled from the
+organ.  A slender veiled figure appeared in a doorway.  The mist in his
+eyes cleared away.  Very steadily he took her. . . . .
+
+They entered their machine amid a shower of rice and old slippers.  He
+caught her close to him and held her, silent.  After a while he felt a
+sob shake her.
+
+"Why, dearest, crying!"
+
+"Oh, David, be good to me!  I'm afraid.  A girl gives so much.  Be good
+to me always!"
+
+He drew her closer, if that were possible.
+
+"Of course, Shirley--always.  You mustn't be frightened.  It's the storm.
+In the morning the sun will be shining and things will seem different."
+
+And sure enough, in the morning the sun was shining and things seemed
+different.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE WITCH
+
+The perils and pitfalls appeared.  But they were not seen for what they
+were.  As a guide David left something to be desired.
+
+Very carefully the lovers had planned the disbursement of their income:
+so much for rent, so much for the household and "extras," so much for
+David's down-town expenses.  A limited amount was set for the
+furnishing of their home-to-be.  With many declarations that love made
+up for all lacks and with many tiltings of Shirley's pretty chin, they
+had vowed to adhere rigidly to this budget.
+
+But the choice of the abode of so much love and happiness had been put
+off until after the brief honeymoon, that Shirley might share the fun
+of house-hunting.  They thought it would be fun.
+
+It was not.
+
+That week, as they inspected an indefinite number of apartments of as
+many degrees of shabbiness and general undesirableness, Shirley's
+spirits and chin fell steadily.  David's heart, seeing, fell with them.
+
+"Discouraged?" he asked at the end of the last day's hunt.
+
+She nodded wearily.  "Landlords are pigs.  They want so much for so
+little.  Are you sure there's nothing else we can look at?"
+
+"I'm afraid not.  I've gone through the lists thoroughly."
+
+"I wouldn't mind being _shabby_, if it weren't for the neighborhoods."
+
+She was tired.  Her lip quivered.  His heart misgave him.  He tried to
+be gay.
+
+"Oh, let's forget it for a while.  Let's go out to the club and play
+nine holes and then have a little twosome at dinner out there."
+
+They went.  Low spirits rose on the scented May breeze.  The dinner was
+a success.  Afterward they met friends, who were regaled with a
+humorous account of the week's adventures.
+
+The friends, of course, made suggestions.  One in particular knew "the
+very thing you want, and really absurdly cheap."  She was enthusiastic
+in description.  Then the rental was named--fifteen dollars a month
+more than the budget allowed.  David made a great show of taking the
+address and promised to inspect the "find" on the morrow.
+
+"Let's really see it," Shirley suggested, as they rode home on the
+front seat of a trolley-car.
+
+"We'd better not," said David, clinging desperately to a dwindling
+remnant of caution.
+
+"Not to take it, of course.  Only to remind us that there _are_ pretty
+places in the world--waiting for us later on."  She snuggled closer to
+him.
+
+In the morning, of course, they saw the apartment.  And it was almost
+uncanny, Shirley declared, how exactly it matched what she had had in
+mind.  She proceeded to place in fancy David's chairs and desk and
+lamps, the dining-room furniture that was to be Maizie's wedding gift
+and the mahogany bedroom suite the Jim Blaisdells had given them.  She
+went into ecstasies over the china closet, the dainty bathroom, the
+clean convenient kitchen.
+
+"David, can't you _see_ it?  With a few small rugs and plain
+inexpensive curtains and the pictures we have it would be a gem.  We'd
+never feel shabby here.  And with the hardwood floors and tiled bath
+and that kitchen the housework would be so easy."  She sighed
+rapturously.
+
+"We'd better get away.  My mouth is beginning to water.  I'm sorry,
+dear."  He kissed her to prove it.  "But we oughtn't even to consider
+it."
+
+But at the door she stopped and looked back--a risky business, as Lot's
+wife once proved.  She surveyed the place with a lingering wishful
+glance.
+
+"I wonder if we couldn't make up the difference in rent by cutting down
+somewhere else.  We could cut the extras in half.  And I won't need any
+new clothes for a whole year--not a single stitch.  By that time--"
+She paused, as it seemed for a reply.
+
+"Do you want it so much, Shirley?"
+
+"Oh, if we only could do it, David!"
+
+David, too, did sums in subtraction and found that, with care, he could
+cut his expenses down-town.
+
+They took the apartment.
+
+In fact, there came a time when David remembered, with a sickening
+qualm, that in almost every item they had stepped little or far beyond
+the limits of their budget.  They did it because the disappointment
+written on Shirley's pretty face when something on which she had set
+her heart seemed beyond their reach, was more than he could bear.
+
+But the old cat was still playing.  It was a "boom year": the
+beginning, said the wise statesmen and newspapers, of an era of
+unprecedented prosperity.  The city was growing rapidly.  Architects'
+services were in demand.  David's business continued good.  Among his
+clients was a gambling contractor who shaved his architects' fees but
+made up for that by the largeness of his operations.  There seemed to
+be no need of cutting down "extras."  They were not cut down.
+
+It was on the whole a cloudless year.  There were, to be sure, a few
+little quarrels, impatient words sharply answered, but there was also
+the exquisite joy of harmony restored.  There were occasions when David
+found Shirley in tears, both cake or roast and fingers burned;
+occasions which he made festive by carrying her off to the club for
+dinner.  There were evenings at the theater and concerts, gifts
+impulsively bought and rewarded with kisses, little household purchases
+that gave a pleasure out of all proportion to their cost, as it seemed
+at the time.  But there were never any doubts, nor any fears.  For all
+their demands there was money.  The handicap of debt under which they
+had started was even a little diminished.  As for rainy days--but why
+should happy young love take thought of them?
+
+On their first anniversary they gave a dinner in the apartment, twelve
+covers with flowers and all the wedding silver on display and a
+caterer's man to serve.  Shirley, in a new gown, was at her loveliest,
+beaming with the happiness of hospitality prettily dispensed.  When the
+last guest was gone, they turned out all the lights but one shaded
+lamp, she found a seat on his knee, snuggled close to him, and they
+fell into a long silence.
+
+After a while she stirred.  "It's been a wonderful year, hasn't it?"
+
+"You express the sense of the meeting, dear."
+
+"Being poor isn't so bad, after all, is it?"
+
+"Not bad at all, I find."  He took up the catechism.  "You haven't once
+regretted that Sam Hardy chap, have you?  With all his money--let's
+see, was it millions or billions?"
+
+"Hush!"  She laid a hand over his lips.  "Not even in fun.  That's
+almost profane."
+
+There was another silence, broken at length by a contented chuckle from
+David.
+
+"Am I doing anything specially ridiculous?" she murmured sleepily from
+his shoulder.
+
+"I was just remembering.  A year ago tonight I was frightened almost
+into a faint.  I thought living together might turn out to be _hard_."
+
+"And _we_ know that is perfectly absurd."
+
+You must excuse them.  If they had been lovers out of a book, they
+would have talked in dithyrambs or long perfervid paragraphs.  Since
+they were real, they could bear witness to their happiness only by
+spooning and being a little bit silly.  But--it was part of their
+happiness--they did not know they were silly.
+
+
+The beginning of the second year was like unto the first.  But the
+witch was biding her time.  Toward the end of that year the sky
+darkened and the winds howled roughly around the house of love.
+Sometimes the designer of this pretty abode--if he was the
+designer--bethought him to look to its foundations.  But they seemed
+strong and safe.
+
+In the first place, there was a sudden falling-off of new business.  It
+was so with others than David.  Only a temporary slump, said the wise
+statesmen and newspapers, due to trivial causes and not long to
+interrupt the era of prosperity.  Jim Blaisdell shook his head and
+advised his friends to prepare for heavy weather.  The reception of his
+counsel made him growl, "Asses!"--a sweeping epithet that included
+David, who was not so deeply troubled as he should have been.
+Unfinished commissions kept him reasonably busy, and when they were
+concluded others would come to meet his needs.  They always had;
+therefore, they always would.  David was content with this logic.
+
+In the second place, a baby was coming.  And many and elaborate were
+the preparations for this momentous event.  Countless stitches must be
+taken, a serious number of dollars spent, that the prettiest layette
+possible might await the coming mite.  But Shirley, in one of her soft
+house dresses, head bent over her dainty stitching or laying out before
+him for the hundredth time the tiny articles she had collected or her
+friends donated, made too pretty a picture; he had not the heart to
+ruffle it with discussions of economy.  And when, her time drawing
+near, she complained of the work in the flat, a maid was installed.  He
+was glad summer was coming; his overcoat was getting shabby and he felt
+he could not afford a new one.
+
+For despite his optimism David was beginning to take thought of the
+morrow.  And this leads to our tertium.
+
+Sometimes he had moments of restiveness, so vague and fleeting that he
+could not define them, under what he did not know.  There were times
+when little criticisms of Shirley would pop maliciously into his mind,
+never worded, hastily banished and always followed by a reaction of
+shame that he should have become critical even in thought at such a
+time.  To correct this disquieting tendency he took medicine for his
+liver.
+
+And growing upon him was his joy in his work: not the old boyish
+enthusiasm at the thought of ultimate recognition, nor yet the later
+gratification that he was earning money against their needs, but a
+deep-seated content merely to be in it, an almost personal affection
+for the sketches which, after a lapse, had once more begun to multiply.
+Gently overruling Shirley's protests, he had taken to sitting up late
+of nights after she had retired.  Then in the pregnant silence of
+midnight he would sit before his easel, smoking furiously and
+occasionally making a light swift stroke, until the clock struck one or
+two or even three.  Many nights would pass thus, and there on the easel
+would stand a restful little chapel or a noble cathedral, with separate
+sketches for details such as doors or rood screen or altar, the very
+presentment of which, if only in black-and-white, filled him with a
+solemn worshipful glow.  He did not hug himself or say that "they"
+would have to come to him yet, but would pat the sketch lingeringly,
+thinking, "I'd like to see you _real_."
+
+The next evening he would show the completed sketch to Shirley, who
+would give it a cursory glance and say:
+
+"It's very pretty.  I wish some one would let you build it.  It would
+be a big commission, wouldn't it?"
+
+"Yes," he would answer, with a slight sinking of his heart.  For some
+reason he would tuck the sketch away in the big portfolio and hastily
+change the subject.
+
+One evening the house shook in the wind.  It was after dinner and David
+was opening a new book he had brought home, a bulky volume bearing the
+formidable title, _Ecclesiastical Architecture Since the Renaissance_.
+Shirley found a seat as close as possible to him and began.
+
+"David, I have a confession to make."  A smile proclaimed her assurance
+of absolution.
+
+"Yes," he smiled back.
+
+"I broke a rule.  I--had something charged."
+
+"Oh, Shirley, when we--"
+
+"But wait until you see what it is.  Then scold me if you can."
+
+She led him into another room where on a bed reposed a hooded wicker
+basket, lined and covered in silk--blue for a boy--with fine lace
+trimmings.  She awaited his verdict.
+
+"It's very pretty.  But--  How much was it?"
+
+She named the price.
+
+He whistled.  "Wouldn't something cheaper have done as well?"
+
+"David, you ought to be ashamed of yourself."  Her indignation was
+three-fourths in earnest.  "_I'd_ be ashamed not to get Davy Junior the
+very best of everything.  It's the duty of parents to get their
+children the very best of everything."
+
+"The best they can afford, yes.  But--  However, it's here and the only
+thing to do is to pay for it.  I'll send a check in the morning."
+
+He returned to the living-room.  Shirley followed.  He stood for a long
+minute by the table, looking down at the new book.  Then he restored it
+to its wrappings.
+
+"What are you doing?"
+
+"I think I'll not keep it, after all."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"A book I wanted for some cathedral sketches I'm making."
+
+She studied his face intently.
+
+"David Quentin, do you mean to say you begrudge things for Davy Junior,
+when you can buy expensive books for plans nobody will ever want?"
+
+A retort sprang to his lips--that professional knowledge is always an
+asset.  But the words did not fall.  Nor did it seem worth while to
+tell her that for three weeks he had had his lunches over a dairy
+counter to save money for the book.  Instead he mustered a smile.
+
+"As you see, we're keeping the bassinet and the book goes back."
+
+She saw only the smile.  "Why, we almost had a tiff, didn't we.  Brrr!"
+She pretended to shiver.  "And you know we mustn't have them, because
+they'd have a bad effect on Davy Junior."
+
+So that squall passed, and they talked of Davy Junior.  And Davy
+Junior--they were sure it was to be a boy--was already a personage in
+that household, a hope and a love in which both shared.
+
+But long after Shirley had gone to bed David sat thinking of the
+episode.  One of the little criticisms, quite definite now, lingered: a
+suspicion that Shirley's words were not always pearls of wisdom, that
+her attitude was a little too possessive, her demands upon his time and
+thought and scanty store of money a trifle less than reasonable
+sometimes.  Sternly he crushed the suspicion back.
+
+"It must be that I'm settling down.  The novelty's wearing off.  And I
+suppose, having no one but myself to think of for so long, I did get to
+be pretty selfish.  I must be very careful."  But somehow the argument
+did not quite convince.  "I wish--  Maybe when the baby comes Shirley
+will take things a little more"--he halted before the word so
+disloyal--"sensibly." . . .
+
+Davy Junior and the panic came at the same time.
+
+And with them came Worry.
+
+The wise statesmen and newspapers offered many explanations of the
+panic.  But explanations could not soften the grim fact.  Ruin stalked
+through the land, and its ghostly twin, Fear.  Men who had been
+accounted rich, men who had been rich, heard the approach of the
+fearsome twain and trembled.  And what shall be said of their
+dependents, the small fry, earners of salaries, young men of the
+professions, who saw incomes curtailed or cut off; to whom frank
+poverty would have been almost a relief but who must, as habit and the
+custom, of their kind decreed, keep up their sham and shabby gentility?
+
+Business was at a standstill.  The city ceased to expand.  There was no
+building.  Dick Holden closed his desk and locked his office door.
+
+"There'll be nothing doing in our line for some while.  I'm going to
+Europe for two or three months to learn something about architecture.
+Better pack up your family and come along, Davy."
+
+David laughed grimly.  "My Dickybird, you're quite a joker."
+
+Trips to Europe!--when the apartment was a miniature hospital.  Davy
+Junior was sickly.  Shirley's strength came back slowly.  For six weeks
+the trained nurse stayed, ordering expensive things for her patients.
+
+Anxiously David saw his scanty resources dwindling fast.  One by one
+his old commissions were paid and disappeared down the hopper of
+household expenses.  He took to thinking of what would happen when the
+commissions were all paid, and to haunting Fisher's office.  Fisher was
+his contractor client and owed him five hundred dollars.  But Fisher
+always put him off.
+
+In the meantime the dairy lunch became a habit.  He smoked only a pipe
+now.  The books he loved and needed, little things he used to think
+were necessaries, were foregone.  He thought wistfully of the
+indulgences he might have gone without in the past.
+
+Fisher continued to put him off.  Then Worry began to shadow David by
+day, to share his pillow at night.  If Fisher, like so many others,
+should fail--!  But with an effort he concealed the unbidden guest from
+Shirley.  With her he was always cheery, ready with quip and laugh,
+teasing her over her devotion to that red-faced bit of humanity, hight
+Davy Junior.  And in truth, the sight of her, still weak and fragile
+but happy in the possession of her baby, would give him a fresh
+courage.  Things _couldn't_ happen to hurt her, he assured himself.
+For her, for them; he would weather the storm--somehow.  "Why," thus he
+would snub intrusive Worry, "we've got Fisher, anyhow.  When he pays,
+we'll simply _make_ it last until business picks up." . . . .
+
+The doctor's bill and word that Fisher had gone into bankruptcy reached
+him by the same mail.  Dazed and trembling, he got out his bank-book
+and tried to strike a balance; the figures danced crazily before him.
+But too well he knew that slender sum!  He could see barely a month
+ahead.
+
+He walked home that evening, to get a new grip on his courage.  He
+found Shirley almost breathless with excitement.
+
+She waved a letter before him.  "You can have two guesses to what's in
+it."
+
+But David was unequal even to one guess just then.
+
+"It's from Aunt Clara.  She wants me to take the baby out there for two
+or three weeks.  You don't mind, do you, David?"
+
+"Do you want to go so much?"
+
+"I'm just crazy to have them see Davy Junior.  And I haven't seen
+Maizie and auntie and the rest of them for so long.  And I think the
+change will do me good.  I get tired so easily, you know."
+
+This last was a convincing argument and quite true.  "I know.  But I'm
+afraid, dear, we can't afford it."
+
+"Is business so bad?"
+
+"It's pretty slow---and getting no better."
+
+"Hasn't that Fisher man paid up yet?"
+
+He hesitated.  But he could not find the heart--perhaps it was courage
+he lacked--to break his evil tidings to her.
+
+"Not yet."
+
+"I'd like to shake him.  But he must pay soon.  And anyhow," she
+reverted to the original topic, "it wouldn't cost so much.  There'd be
+only railroad fare and in two weeks--or maybe three--we'd save that in
+house expenses.  We could let the maid go, you know."
+
+He caught at that straw.  "And maybe, when you come back, you'll be
+strong enough to get along without her--for a while?"
+
+"Maybe."  Her tone lacked assurance.  "We'll try it, anyhow."
+
+Two mornings later David stood on a platform and watched a train pull
+slowly out of the shed.  Then he gulped twice, sternly set his teeth
+together and walked swiftly to his office.
+
+Shirley and the baby stayed, not two weeks nor three, but five.  There
+were other expenses than railroad fare, just what her letters did not
+set out in detail.  Twice she had to write to David for money; in the
+midst of riches she found it hard to economize.  Still David, by taking
+his meals at a cheap boarding-house, managed to save a little.
+
+In other ways the trip was a great success.  Shirley's letters were
+glowing.  She was getting stronger every day.  She could lie
+deliciously in bed all morning, if she chose.  Aunt Clara had a nurse
+for the baby.  The weather was fine and there was motoring daily.  All
+her old friends came to see her with warm words of welcome on their
+lips.  Among them was Sam Hardy.
+
+"He is very nice.  (But you mustn't think _anything_ of that.  Every
+man I see makes me glad I married my David.)  He has a gorgeous new
+machine and takes us all out.  He gets his clothes made in New York
+now.  Such good times as we're having!"  And down in one corner of the
+last page was, "If only you were here!"
+
+"P. S.," popped into his mind.  But very sternly he drove it out,
+calling himself hard names.  Ought he not be glad that Shirley was
+having a good time?
+
+"I _am_ glad.  Poor dear!  It's going to be very hard for her if things
+don't get better soon.  You see," he explained to himself, "in some
+things Shirley hasn't quite grown up yet, just as Maizie said, and good
+times mean so much to her."
+
+He sat down and wrote her the cheeriest letter he could compose.
+
+He himself felt old enough to interest an antiquarian.  Before Shirley
+came back he felt older, with nothing to do but sit idly in his office,
+figuring his bank balance for the thousandth time or working over some
+of his old sketches, jumping nervously every time the door opened.
+(But the visitor always turned out to be some one who wanted to sigh
+and groan in company over the hard times.)  Of evenings in the
+apartment, which grew dustier and lonelier every day, he would write
+his letter to Shirley, mail it and then get out his easel.  Frowning
+with determination, he would put and keep his mind firmly on a new idea
+for a Norman Gothic cathedral, until, about midnight, worry and
+loneliness would steal away and leave him with the swiftly growing
+sketch.
+
+Shirley's visit ended at last.  David was pacing up and down the
+platform a full hour before her train was due.  In the street-car that
+evening people smiled kindly at the pretty little family group--the
+gravely smiling young man who held the baby so awkwardly, the pretty
+wife bubbling over with joy in the reunion and with accounts of the
+good times she had been having.
+
+Afterward, when Davy Junior had had his bottle and closed his eyes,
+Shirley dusted off one chair and they sat down in it.
+
+"Now tell me about yourself and business and everything."
+
+So, finding it harder than he had thought it could be, he told her of
+the panic and what it meant to them.  She listened with a pretty air of
+taking it all in and making ready to meet the situation.
+
+When his account was ended, she pushed herself back to look into his
+eyes.
+
+"David, when did you know about that Fisher man?"
+
+"The day you got your aunt's letter."  David flushed as though he had
+done something shameful.
+
+Her eyes filled with tears.  "And you kept it from me so my visit
+wouldn't be spoiled, and stayed here worrying by yourself while I was
+out there having a good time.  Oh, David--  Oh, David!  Well," she got
+to her feet and stood upright before him, "I'll tell you this much.
+Let the old panic come on--I'm not afraid.  We'll make out somehow.
+And we won't worry either.  What if we do have to give up things?  We
+have each other--and Davy Junior--and nothing else counts."
+
+They repeated in chorus.  "We have each other and Davy Junior and
+nothing else counts."
+
+They were very happy just then and so it was easy to be brave.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+ON THE SANDS
+
+In a few months the first stress of the panic lifted.  The worry
+creases between men's eyes were being ironed out.  A few who had money,
+taking advantage of cheap labor and materials, began to build.  Dick
+Holden came home, with a trunkful of presents for his friends and
+another of English clothes for himself, and at once became busy.
+
+The Quentins were still hanging on--"by a frog's hair," David said.
+But they had paid.  It always costs to survive.
+
+They had paid, despite their brave words, in the coin of worry.  More
+than once David had jingled a few coins in his pocket, wondering where
+he could add to them on the morrow and when he had borrowed how he
+could repay.
+
+But they had paid with a bigger price than that.  The pretty flower of
+romance was withering in the shade.  The cozy little times, when one
+chair did for both and they became beautifully silly, were fewer and
+briefer now.  When they tucked Davy Junior in at night and whispered
+that he was almost too bright to be healthy, shadowing their pride was
+the chill cloud of fear that he, too, might have to feel the pinch.
+Often they moved restlessly about the apartment or sat listlessly
+yawning, wishing there were something to do.  And sometimes, without
+warning, quarrels would blaze, over nothing at all.  It is so easy to
+mislay your temper when worry is gnawing at your heart, and perhaps you
+don't try very hard to find it.  David always had to find his first,
+but the making up was never quite perfect.
+
+And, though their well-to-do friends were beginning to talk of new
+model cars and going abroad once more, the Quentins continued to be
+hard up.  David seemed to have struck a dead level.  One month business
+would be pretty good; the next he would make almost nothing.  But the
+average was always the same, and always a little less than they spent.
+The note at Jim Blaisdell's bank and the little loans from Dick Holden
+kept slowly piling up, and though neither Jim nor Dick ever dunned him,
+the thought of his debts weighed heavily on David's heart.
+
+It was worse than if they had had a steady income.  They were kept
+zigzagging between hope and disappointment, and when they had money, it
+was often spent foolishly.  David did his best to save.  His suits and
+overcoat had shiny spots.  He smoked only cheap tobacco that burned his
+tongue.  He gave up even the dairy lunch, saying that two meals a day
+were enough for any man.  He walked, rain or shine, to and from his
+office, and bought no more books.  But the sum of these savings seemed
+pitifully small.  Shirley, too, did without things during the lean
+months.  But when a fee came in she could never say no to her wants.
+
+"We must have this.  We must do that," she would say.
+
+"Dear, don't you think we'd better go slow?" he would venture.
+
+"Oh, what's the use of having money, if not to get what we want?"
+
+"We could use it to pay a little to Jim and--"
+
+"Oh, let Jim and Dick wait.  They can afford it.  I've had to do
+without so much I think I've a right to this little spree.  And I
+_hate_ to wait for things.  If I wait, they lose all their fun."
+
+It always ended in her having her own way.  But sometimes David
+wondered whether she would have lost interest in him, too, if she had
+had to wait.
+
+For he saw that another goblin had come unbidden into their home:
+Discontent.  He had learned to seek and always found the wistful look
+with which she regarded their callers' pretty gowns or heard tales of
+jolly dinners at the club.  (Months ago the club had been dropped.)
+And he knew that in her heart she was drawing comparisons.
+
+Once she said, "It wasn't like this when Maizie and I were together."
+She did not guess the barb she left quivering in his heart.
+
+Dick Holden was making no such heavy weather of it.  He was even so
+busy that little odds and ends of his work were turned over to David,
+crusts for which the latter was as grateful as the Lazaruses always
+have been.  But this suggested another comparison to Shirley.
+
+"Dick Holden gets business and makes money, and everybody says he's not
+half so clever as you.  How does he do it?"
+
+"He works people for their business."
+
+"Then why don't you do that?"
+
+"I don't know how.  And if I did know, I couldn't, anyhow.  The people
+that come to me come because they have confidence in my ability.  If
+they don't have confidence, I couldn't work them because--I just
+couldn't, that's all."
+
+"You're too thin-skinned.  If I were a man I'd _make_ them come to me,
+and then I'd teach them to have confidence--the way Dick Holden does."
+
+"Dick Holden's way, somebody else's, never mine," he thought bitterly,
+"is always the best."
+
+But he did not let her see him wince.  Instead, he said gently, "In the
+long run it's not the sound way.  If I do good work, some day people
+will realize it and come to me.  And I _do_ good work," he cried, not
+to boast, but because their courage needed a tonic, "and some day when
+I get my chance I'll do far finer."
+
+She smiled wearily.  "Some day!  It's always some day.  Why don't you
+_make_ your chance--as Dick does?"
+
+That talk rankled in David's heart long after Shirley had forgotten it.
+She could say such things and forget them in an hour.  But her
+comparisons never angered him, only hurt.  He tried to be just, and
+blamed himself for their predicament.  If he had been wise and firm at
+the beginning, when the temptations to indulgences came, they could
+have escaped these troublous waters.  Firmness now seemed only cruel.
+
+"You see," he would explain to himself, trying to believe, "she's
+really only a child still.  It is very hard on her.  If I said no to
+things now, she wouldn't understand.  I must just make it as easy as
+possible for her--somehow."  But he sighed, "If only we could give up
+this apartment and live cheaply and--and honestly until we're on our
+feet.  If only she'd look at it that way!"
+
+He had suggested that to Shirley once--but only once.  "Oh, no!" she
+had cried.  "That would be a confession to everybody.  It would be
+humiliating, more than I could bear.  We've got to keep this apartment
+and not let people know we're hard up."
+
+They thought people did not know.
+
+So it went for nearly two years.  You must not think there were no
+happy times, hours or days or even weeks when they took joy in their
+love and Davy Junior; though more and more these times lost their
+wonderfulness and the power to charm away the grisly goblin Care.  But
+the ugly or weary or despondent hours bulked largest in David's mind
+because he took them so keenly to heart.  Yet, though his debts slowly
+grew, and he was always a month behind in his office and apartment
+rent, he did not lose faith in himself; he gave his very best to the
+little business he had and worked away at his sketches, which grew
+better all the time.  (It hurt him more than a little that Shirley took
+no interest in them.)  And though he saw clearly that she had faults,
+even as you and I, he did not lose faith in Shirley nor cease to love
+her.  Often at nights, especially after there had been a quarrel, he
+stole away from his sketching to the room where she slept with the baby
+by her side and lightly kissed her hair or an outflung arm.  Then the
+old tender protective impulse swept over him; he wished he were the
+sort of man that could give her all the things she wanted, thinking
+that the way to prove a love.
+
+Then a "chance" came.  Or, rather, he tried to make one.  A rich parish
+decided that it could best honor God by building a new church, finer
+and costlier than anything else in the city, and invited several
+architects to submit plans.  David entered the competition, not by the
+adroit methods Dick Holden practised, but in the simple open-handed
+fashion which alone was possible to him.  He went to the chairman of
+the building committee.
+
+"Will you let me submit plans?" he asked.
+
+"I suppose so," Bixby said carelessly, eying his caller dubiously.
+
+For David, though he had carefully pressed his trousers for the
+occasion, was getting to be a little shabby.  If you looked close you
+saw that his cuffs were trimmed, his necktie was threadbare and his
+shoes were run down at the heels.  And he had not the look that speaks
+of success.  Seeing him, Bixby did not think as people had used to
+think, "This is a young man who will do big things some day."
+
+"When must the plans be filed?"
+
+The chairman told him, and added, "You understand, of course, they have
+to be bang-up--up-to-date in every particular, and _impressive_?"
+
+"Some things," David said gravely, "are so beautiful that they are
+up-to-date in every age.  And real beauty is always impressive because
+it is so rare."
+
+"Humph!" said Bixby, and dismissed his caller.
+
+David set to work that very night, going over all his old sketches in
+search of the best.  And because none of them had ever quite satisfied
+him, he discarded them all.  He began a new series of sketches, sitting
+up at nights long after he should have been asleep.  He discarded
+these, too.  For this idea must be so very good that the committee
+couldn't help accepting it.
+
+"I think," he told himself often, "I have reached the point where I can
+do something really worth while."
+
+One night when he had gone reluctantly to bed, sleep would not come.
+For a long while he lay staring at a white patch of moonlight on the
+floor.
+
+Suddenly he sat up, sprang out of bed and, still in his pajamas, sat
+down before his easel.
+
+In the morning Shirley found him there, looking raptly at the completed
+sketch.
+
+"David Quentin, what in the name of common sense are you doing here?"
+
+"Look!" he whispered, almost in awe.  "This is it."
+
+Shirley looked.  And she, who had picked up a little knowledge of
+architecture from him, knew that it was good.
+
+"Do you think," she asked, "do you think it really has a chance?"
+
+"Shirley, it's so good I can hardly believe it came out of my head.
+Maybe it didn't, but just passed through coming from--somewhere."
+
+He was thinking it was an inspiration. . . .  Well, since then many men
+who ought to know have thought and said the same thing about that
+church.
+
+For two months he toiled every spare moment of the day and in the still
+watches of the night, elaborating that first rough sketch, working out
+details, which came to him as of their own accord, making beautiful
+plans and elevations and long sheets of specifications.  He gave to the
+work enthusiasm, patience and stern criticism.  In return it gave him a
+new faith in himself.  And hope.  He _knew_ he would not fail in this.
+
+It was not really hard work.  For, as the weeks sped by, there grew up
+in his heart a love for the thing to which he was giving birth, deep,
+warm and abiding, a love that counted no hour of labor too heavy, no
+task too exacting.  He did not care to think of the day when the work
+must pass out of his hands.
+
+A little of his ardor entered into Shirley.  She, too, hoped.  She
+thought of the fee such a commission would bring, of the release from
+care and the good times that fee would buy.  Sometimes she had a
+glimpse of the new love growing up in David's heart, but, though she
+did not wholly like that, she gave it no serious thought.
+
+"Would you mind coming back to me?" she asked one evening, thus
+bringing him out of a smiling brown study.
+
+"I was just thinking what it would feel like to see the church _real_."
+
+"Don't you ever think of the money it will bring?"
+
+"That, too, sometimes.  But I never knew before how much the work--just
+being in it, you know--means to me."
+
+"That's very temperamental," she said with a shrug.  "Sometimes I
+believe you think more of your work than you do of your family."
+
+"I love you both," he answered gently.  "And I don't love you and Davy
+Junior less because I think so much of the work."
+
+It was a fleeting shadow.  Those months of preparation and hope were
+the happiest they had had since the panic began.
+
+Only once did his faith waver.  It was on the day when Dick Holden, a
+roll of plans under his arm, came into the office.
+
+"Davy, are you too busy to do a little job for me?"
+
+That was the formula Dick, who was very thoughtful in little things,
+always used when he turned work over to David.
+
+"I guess I can make room--with crowding."  That was the reply David,
+with a smile only half humorous, always made.  "What is it?"
+
+"I want you to make one of your pretty-pretty pictures of some church
+plans I'm making."
+
+"What church?"
+
+"St. Christopher's."
+
+David looked up quickly.  "Let's see the plans."
+
+Dick spread them out on the table.  David glanced over them hastily.
+
+"You're trying for it with that?"
+
+"Even so."  Dick laughed.  Dick at that stage of his career laid no
+claims to genius.  "But I know what I'm doing.  I've been talking with
+old man Bixby."
+
+David looked up again.
+
+"Dick, it's fair to tell you that I'm trying for that St. Christopher's
+job myself."
+
+"Meaning you'd rather not make pretty-pretty pictures for a competitor?"
+
+"No.  I mean you'd be wasting your money."
+
+"Why?"
+
+David drew out his original sketch and laid it before Dick.
+
+Dick looked--and looked again.  He leaned over and studied it intently,
+his eyes widening and shining.  Suddenly with a queer gesture he rose
+and went to a window.  He stood there, back turned to David, for
+several minutes.
+
+When he turned a flush was on his face and he found it hard to meet
+David's questioning eyes.
+
+"Davy, it's good.  It's damn good.  It's so much better than mine that
+I can't find a comparison.  I know just enough architecture to be sure
+of that.  I take off my hat to you.  But it's fair to tell you--it
+won't win."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"_I'm_ going to win."
+
+"With that?"  David nodded toward Dick's plans.
+
+"With that."
+
+"How?"
+
+"I'm giving old Bixby what he wants, and I'm--"  Dick made gestures of
+pulling wires.
+
+David was silent.
+
+"Maybe," Dick went on after a moment, "you think I oughtn't to work
+this game against you.  And maybe I oughtn't.  But if I didn't somebody
+would beat us both out.  They're all working it.  It's the only game
+that pays nowadays.  And besides, I need the money.  It isn't out yet,
+but I'm going to be married--and she's used to a lot of money.  I've
+been doing pretty well, but if I land this job I'll be fixed and able
+to give her the things she deserves.  Do you blame me, old man?"
+
+A troubled smile was on David's lips.  "Not wholly, Dick."
+
+There was another silence, awkward now, and then Dick began to move
+toward the door.  But with his hand on the knob he turned.
+
+"Davy, why don't you play the game?  You've got the stuff.  If you only
+could put it across, if you had the punch, you could go any distance.
+I--I'm not quite big enough to step down for a better man, but I'd
+rather have you beat me than any other man alive.  Why don't you try
+it?"
+
+The troubled smile lingered.  "I can't, old man."
+
+David did not hear the door close.  For a long time he sat staring
+vaguely at his sketch.
+
+But that night, when he was alone with his work once more, the old
+faith rushed back into his heart.  Dick was wrong--he must be wrong!
+The committee were honorable men; they held a position of trust.
+Surely they could see how much better his plans were than Dick's.  And
+surely they could not be tricked into passing them by for a hodgepodge
+that would only bring ridicule down upon their church.
+
+He was ashamed that he had lost faith, even for a day.
+
+Toward the end of the two months Shirley began to grow a little
+impatient with his industry.
+
+"Will it never be finished?" she would sigh plaintively.  "You never
+have any time to spare for me any more."
+
+"You see," he would explain, "there are so many details to be worked
+out in a thing like this, and I mustn't slur over any of them.  We must
+make it the best we can.  And it will soon be done."
+
+But a little throb of regret would clutch his heart as he said that.
+
+And one evening he did come to the end, the illustrative sketches
+complete, the beautiful plans all made, the last calculation for the
+specifications set down.
+
+"There!  It's done."
+
+He propped a sketch on the easel and leaned back, sighing.
+
+Shirley looked up from her novel.  "Thank goodness--at last!  Are you
+sure you've made it the very best you can?"
+
+"Yes."  He looked long at the sketch, a strange wistfulness in his
+eyes.  "Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever do as well again."
+
+"Suppose it shouldn't win, after all?"
+
+"Oh, don't!" he cried.  "Don't suggest that--just now."
+
+She caught the sudden sharp pain in his voice and looked at him
+wonderingly.
+
+"Why, what's the matter?"
+
+"Nothing," he answered, his voice gone dull now.  "I guess I've been
+working harder than I thought and am pretty tired."
+
+"You'd better go to bed early and get a good sleep."
+
+"Yes," he said, "I'm going to do that."
+
+But he did not do that.  Instead, for the last time, he stayed up until
+nearly morning in the company of his completed work.  It was as if he
+watched the night out with a loved one who in the morning must go upon
+a long uncertain journey. . . .  This also Shirley, had she known,
+would have called very temperamental.
+
+For a month they waited, a feverish, anxious but always hopeful month,
+for the committee's decision.
+
+And then one morning as he sat idly in his office an errand boy came,
+under his arm a long round parcel.
+
+"Mr. Bixby sent me with this."
+
+When the boy was gone David quickly ripped open the parcel.  It
+contained his sketches and plans.  With them was a note.
+
+
+"As we have accepted the plans submitted by Mr. Richard Holden, we
+return yours herewith.  Thanking you for. . . ."
+
+
+The rest was a dancing blur. . . .
+
+It was mid-afternoon when he rose from his table.  The first dizzying
+shock had passed, but a dull unceasing ache was left and he was very
+tired.  He tried to smile, to gather together the tatters of his
+courage and faith, but he could not think of the future.  When he tried
+to think of Shirley a sickening qualm rushed over him, leaving him weak
+and nerveless.
+
+"Poor Shirley!" he muttered.  "How can I tell her?  Poor Shirley!"
+
+Mechanically he put on his hat and overcoat and went out.  It was
+storming.  He had no umbrella, and if he had had one it would have been
+but scanty shelter against the driving rain.  But he did not care.  He
+was even glad of the storm and the discomfort of wet feet and clothes.
+
+For an hour he splashed aimlessly through the city's streets.  Then he
+turned slowly but doggedly homeward.
+
+"Poor Shirley!" he kept saying to himself.  "I mustn't let her see how
+it hurts.  I must put a brave face on it before her."
+
+He was half-way home when he stopped with a sudden "Oh!" that was
+almost a groan.  A memory had cut even through his misery.  It was
+their fourth anniversary!
+
+He took out what money was in his pocket, counted it and tramped back
+through the rain until he came to a florist's.  There he got a small
+bunch of carnations.  It was all he could buy with the money he had
+with him, and it was too late to go to the bank--and little enough was
+there!  He started homeward once more.
+
+By the time the apartment was reached he had pulled himself together a
+little.  With an effort he achieved a smile and went in.
+
+Shirley was waiting for him.  "Any word?"
+
+He shook his head.  He could not tell her just then, but he could not
+trust his voice with a kindly lie.
+
+"Oh, I thought surely we'd hear to-day--  You've brought something for
+me?"
+
+"It isn't much."
+
+He gave her the little box--it was rain-soaked now--and saw her face
+fall as she peeped within.  Always he had brought her some pretty
+extravagance on their anniversary.  But she kissed him and sent him to
+his room to put on dry clothes.
+
+They sat down to dinner, a special dinner with things they both liked
+and could not always have.  And for a while he tried to be as merry as
+the occasion demanded.  But not for long.  His tongue fumbled over his
+poor little jokes and his laughter was lifeless.  Shirley saw.
+
+"David, look at me."
+
+His eyes wavered, fell, then rose doggedly to hers.
+
+"What's the matter?  Something has happened.  Do you mean it's--"
+
+"Yes, Shirley.  Dick Holden won."
+
+For a moment she stared blankly at him, then burst into a storm of
+weeping.  In an instant his own heartache was swallowed up in sorrow
+for her.  He sprang to her side, catching her close and petting her,
+begging her "not to take it so," saying foolish brave things.
+
+The storm subsided as suddenly as it rose.  With a sharp movement she
+pushed herself away from him and sat looking at him with eyes in which
+he would have said, if he could have trusted his senses just then,
+anger and--almost--hate were blazing.
+
+"Shirley," he pleaded, "don't take it so.  Our plans _were_ good.  It
+was only pull that beat us.  Dick told me--"
+
+The eyes did not change.  "It doesn't matter why, does it?  They didn't
+take them--that's all.  What difference does it make if things are good
+when nobody will buy them?  And I had hoped--"
+
+"Dear, don't take it so," he repeated.  "We must be brave.  This is
+only a test--the hardest of all.  If we're brave and keep hanging
+on--you remember what we used to say--"
+
+She laughed, not her old beautiful laugh, but a shrill outpouring of
+her bitter disappointment.
+
+"Oh, we said a lot of silly things.  We were fools.  I didn't know what
+it would be like."  Anger--yes, and even hate--were unmistakable in
+that moment.  She sat up sharply.  "And, David, you've got to do
+something to change it.  I'm tired of it all--sick and tired of
+scrimping and worrying and wearing made-over dresses and being--just
+shabby genteel.  You've got to do something."
+
+Every word was a knife in his heart.  But he could not be angry with
+her; he was thinking of her disappointment.
+
+"But, dear, I'm doing all I can.  How can I--"
+
+"You can get a position somewhere and at least have a steady income
+that would--"
+
+"Why, Shirley, you don't mean--give up my profession?  You _couldn't_
+mean that!"
+
+"I mean just that.  It would give us a steady income at least."
+
+"But I can't give it up.  There's more than money to working.  There's
+being in the work you want to do and are fitted for--"
+
+"Ah!"  She turned on him fiercely.  "I thought you cared more for your
+work than for your family.  Now I know it.  You would keep us poor,
+just so you can do the things you like to do.  And what right have you
+to think you're fitted for it?  Why can't you be sensible and see what
+everybody else sees--that as an architect you are--"
+
+"Shirley!"
+
+But she said it.
+
+"--a failure."
+
+For a little he stared blindly at her.  All other aches were as nothing
+beside this. . . .  Then something within, that had sustained him since
+he left the office, snapped, gave way.  His head and shoulders sagged
+forward.  With a weary gesture he turned and went into the living-room.
+
+That storm, too, passed.  It had been more than half the hysteria of
+shattered hope.  She had hardly known what she was saying.  Now she
+remembered his eyes as she had dealt her thrust.  She was a little
+frightened at what she had done.  She waited nervously for him to come
+back to her; always David had been first to mend their quarrels, and
+Shirley thought her kisses balm to heal all wounds.
+
+But he did not come back.  In the living-room was a heavy silence.
+
+At last she went softly to the door.  He was standing by the table,
+still in the broken attitude, with the same dazed eyes.  He did not see
+her.
+
+"David!"
+
+He did not seem to hear.  She went to him and put an arm around his
+shoulder.
+
+"David, I didn't mean to be nasty.  It really isn't your fault.  I
+didn't mean--"
+
+The sound of her voice brought him out of his daze.  He shrank from her
+touch and, turning, regarded her with a queer new look that held her
+from him.  After a little the sense of her words seemed to come to him.
+
+"I think you did mean it," he said wearily.  "And I think--I think you
+are quite right."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+TO THE RESCUE
+
+In the morning the world, strangely enough, was outwardly the same.
+Even the sun had the bad taste to shine, as though a black shadow were
+not on their hearts.
+
+They went through the routine of bath and toilet and breakfast.  David
+glanced over his newspaper and romped a bit with Davy Junior.  And
+because he kissed her as he left for the day, Shirley supposed that the
+scene of the night before had been filed away with their other tiffs,
+in a remote pigeonhole labeled "To Be Forgotten."  She was glad of that.
+
+"And maybe," she thought hopefully, "it was a good thing I said that to
+him.  David is clever and good and dear and all that, but the trouble
+is he lacks ambition and push.  He needs bracing up and to take things
+more seriously.  Perhaps it will be just as well if I take the reins
+for a while."
+
+Her first act as whip was to write a long letter to Aunt Clara.
+
+David, not guessing that the reins had been transferred to Shirley's
+hands--not guessing, in fact, that they had ever been out of Shirley's
+hands--was trudging listlessly, not to his office, but to Jim
+Blaisdell's bank.  His note fell due that day.
+
+"Same old story," he told Jim.  "I'd like to renew, if you don't mind."
+
+Jim fingered the note thoughtfully.
+
+"Davy," he said at last, "don't you think it's about time to clean this
+up?  It's been running a good while."
+
+David flushed and his head went up.  "Of course, if you'd rather not
+indorse--"
+
+"Don't be a fool, Davy.  It isn't that.  There's nothing Mrs. Jim and I
+wouldn't do for you and Shirley, and you know it.  What I mean is,
+debt's a bad habit.  It grows on you and you get to a point where it
+doesn't worry you as it ought.  And it leads to other bad
+habits--living beyond one's means, and so on."
+
+David's prideful pose collapsed suddenly.  "I know," he said wearily.
+"I'd like to clean this note up.  It worries me quite enough.  But the
+fact is--the fact is, I'm strapped and can't.  We've been living from
+hand to mouth for a good while.  And it begins to look"--David's laugh
+went to Jim's heart--"as if both hand and mouth would be empty soon."
+
+"It's really as bad as that?"
+
+"Worse than that."
+
+Jim slowly scrawled his name across the back of a new note.  David got
+up and crossed the office, fixing his eyes--which saw not--on a
+flashlight photograph of the last bankers' association banquet.  He
+cleared his throat vigorously.
+
+"It's worse than that.  Jim--" He paused.
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"Jim, you don't happen to know any one with a job--living salary
+attached--concealed about his person, do you?"
+
+"What!"
+
+Jim whirled around in his swivel chair and stared hard at David's back.
+David continued his regard of the bankers' association banquet.  "This
+is you in the corner, isn't it?--  Because, if you know of any such job
+I'd be glad to take it over."
+
+"In your own line, of course?"
+
+"In any line.  Preferably _not_ in my line."
+
+"But--good lord, man!  You're not losing your nerve, are you--just
+because business has slumped a little?  What about your profession?"
+
+"As to that," David cleared his throat again, "as to that, I think we
+may say--safely--I haven't made good."
+
+"Oh, piffle!  You're too young a man to say a fool thing like that.  If
+it's this note that's bothering you--"  He stopped, because David had
+turned and Jim saw his eyes.
+
+"The note is only part of it.  But, if you don't mind, we'll not
+discuss it.  I'll be glad if you can help me out.  And I'll try to cut
+this loan down a little next time--somehow.  I'll not keep you any
+longer now."  David moved toward the door.  "Remember us to Mrs. Jim,
+won't you?"  And he went hastily out.
+
+"Why, damn it!" muttered Jim, left alone.  "This is bad.  This is
+entirely too bad."
+
+David went to a long weary day at his office, where he had nothing to
+do but sit at his desk and gaze into space.  Shirley was mistaken.  Her
+words had not been filed away in the remote pigeonhole, "To Be
+Forgotten."
+
+For a while Jim stared frowningly at the crumpled note in his hand.
+Then he began a long series of telephone calls.
+
+The thing was still on his mind that evening when Mrs. Jim descended
+from the children's dormitory and silence reigned at last through the
+house.
+
+"You might as well out with it now as later," she observed, as she took
+up her sewing.  "What has been bothering you all evening?"
+
+"I've been congratulating myself on my cleverness in the matter of
+choosing a wife."
+
+Mrs. Jim surveyed him suspiciously.  "What put that into your head?"
+
+"Davy Quentin--by way of contrast, I suppose."
+
+"What about Davy?"
+
+"I'm afraid he's got into a pretty sour pickle."
+
+"He's been there for four years.  Though he didn't always know it.
+What is the particular development now?"
+
+"Debt, insolvency--in fact, genteel poverty."
+
+"And worry, discontent and disillusionment at home.  I've been afraid
+of that."
+
+"He didn't say so."
+
+"Davy wouldn't, of course."
+
+"It must be pretty bad, for he wants to give up his profession and take
+a job.  You know, Davy's liking for his work amounted almost to a
+mania."
+
+"Does he _have_ to give it up?"
+
+"It doesn't meet their needs--at least, their requirements.  And worst
+of all, he's got it into his head that he hasn't made good."
+
+"But he has made good.  He has done good work.  And he has talent.
+Hasn't he?"
+
+"In a way.  But there's only one divine spark nowadays--push.  He
+hasn't that.  He prefers to let his work speak and push for itself.
+Poor Davy!"
+
+"Poor Davy!  But you'll get him a position, of course."
+
+"There are times," remarked Jim, "when you're as innocent and credulous
+as Davy himself.  It isn't so simple.  He's fitted only for his own
+line.  And there are very few men willing to pay a living salary to a
+greenhorn just for learning a business.  In fact, after to-day I'm
+ready to say there is none."
+
+"Poor Davy!" Mrs. Jim repeated softly.  She threaded a needle and bent
+over her sewing.  Jim watched the swift deft fingers proudly; they had
+acquired the habit of industry in a day when the Blaisdells had had to
+wrestle with the problem of slender income.  After a few minutes'
+silence she let her sewing fall to her lap.
+
+"I think, Jim, if you'll have the machine around I'll go down-town with
+you in the morning."
+
+Jim sighed in relief.  "You've solved it, then?"
+
+"I want to call on my latest acquisition.  You remember asking, 'Why is
+Jonathan Radbourne?'"
+
+Jim nodded, with the smile the thought of that gentleman always evoked.
+
+"The answer is, of course--Davy."
+
+"I'm wondering," said Jim thoughtfully, "just how Davy would like it if
+he knew you were going to beg a job for him."
+
+"I'm not going to beg a job.  I will merely state the case to Mr.
+Radbourne."
+
+"Suppose he concludes that making a job for Davy is too high a price to
+pay even for your ladyship's favor?"
+
+Mrs. Jim smiled confidently.  "Mr. Radbourne and I understand each
+other.  And he doesn't have to pay for my favor.  I have made him a
+present of it."
+
+Two mornings later David found a note from Jim, asking him to call at
+the bank.  David obeyed the summons at once.
+
+"Davy," Jim began, "did you mean what you said the other day about a
+job?"
+
+"Yes," David answered quietly.
+
+"Well, I took you at your word.  And I think I've landed you one.
+Radbourne & Company want a good man to do mechanical drawing.  They'll
+pay a hundred and fifty to the right man at the start, and they'll
+raise that later if you turn out well.  Do you care to try it on?"
+
+"Yes," David said again.
+
+"I still think you're making a mistake--but that's your business.
+Shall we go around to Radbourne's now?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+To those three monosyllables David added nothing during the few
+minutes' walk.  Had Jim been leading him to the prisoner's dock David
+could not have taken less joy in the journey.  Jim discoursed of the
+judge before whom the prisoner was being led.
+
+"Odd fish, this Radbourne.  Dinky little man.  With whiskers.  You're
+apt to think he's a fool at first.  But that's a mistake.  He isn't at
+all--I'd hate to lose his account.  He makes machines in a small way,
+but very well _and_ quite profitably.  His father made a reputation for
+turning out high-class work and the son keeps it up.  We got to know
+him at St. Mark's.  Mrs. Jim says he's the only man of real charity she
+knows--not even excepting me."
+
+David forgot to smile.
+
+They were shown into a small bare office, where, behind a littered
+flat-top desk, the judge got nimbly to his feet; although "judge" was
+in this case a queer fancy indeed, as David had later to confess.
+
+There are several ways in which men can be homely, and Radbourne, of
+Radbourne & Company, had chosen the worst way of all.  When you saw him
+you wanted to smile.  He was little and roly-poly.  His eyes were too
+small, their blue too light.  His nose was acutely and ungracefully
+pug.  His ears were too big and stood out from his head.  His mouth was
+too wide.  His hair and eyebrows were thick and red, too red, and his
+round chubby face was flanked by a pair of silky, luxuriant red
+Dundrearies that would have done credit to a day of hirsute
+achievements.  His linen was strictly without blemish, and he wore a
+creaseless black frock coat and a waistcoat of brown broadcloth.  And
+as he stood looking up at his tall visitors, head on one side, he
+reminded them of nothing so much as a sleek cock-robin who had just
+dined to his taste.  He seemed to be in his late thirties.
+
+David would have smiled at any other time.  "Why, this," he thought
+unkindly, "is a mere comic valentine."
+
+The comic valentine smiled, a little shyly it seemed, and put out a
+slender long-fingered hand.
+
+"This," he announced, "is a great pleasure."
+
+David took the hand and murmured something polite.
+
+Blaisdell chatted briskly for a few minutes, then departed.  Radbourne
+turned to his draftsman-to-be.
+
+"Perhaps Mr. Blaisdell has told you we are needing a man here.  Do you
+think, now you've had a look at us, you would care to come and help us?"
+
+"That's a pleasant way of putting it," said David a bit grimly.  "I'm
+needing a job badly.  If you think you aren't afraid to try me--"
+
+Radbourne smiled protestingly.  "If you knew all Mr. Blaisdell has said
+of you, you wouldn't say that.  You have warm friends, Mr. Quentin, if
+he is a sample."
+
+"Did he tell you I've failed in the only thing I ever tried?"
+
+"He didn't put it that way," the little man said gently.  "Nor would I,
+if I were you.  There's such a thing as getting into the wrong
+niche--which isn't failure at all.  Shall we consider it settled that
+you will come?"
+
+"I'd like to be sure," David said, flushing, "that this job isn't one
+of your--charities."
+
+The little man flushed, too.  "Oh, I _beg_ of you not to think that.  I
+expect you to prove it a good stroke of business for me.  And I hope we
+shall please each other.  Your first name is David, isn't it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And mine is Jonathan.  That ought to be a good omen.  Don't you think
+so?"  And that diffident smile, so absurdly out of place on the face of
+an employer, appeared again.
+
+"Why, I hope so," said David.
+
+"And I hope you will like the work, though it may not be very big at
+first.  I understand how important that is to a man."  Radbourne nodded
+gravely.  "But I have a theory that if he puts his heart into his work
+he is bound to get a good deal of happiness out of it.  Don't you think
+so?"
+
+"I'll try to remember that.  When do you want me to come?"
+
+"Could you make it next Monday?"
+
+"I will be here then."
+
+David went away from Jonathan Radbourne, the comic valentine; and the
+heartache, for some reason, was a little eased, courage a little
+stiffened.
+
+"After all," he kept saying to himself, "it's only a gift to Shirley
+and the baby.  And I'm _glad_ to give it to them--they're worth
+anything.  It's a debt, too.  I owe them everything I can give.  And
+maybe now we can be happy as we used to be--no worries or quarrels."
+
+He tried to keep thinking of that--of the comfort in knowing that next
+month's expenses could be met, of debts growing less, not bigger, of a
+love happily reborn under freedom from worry.
+
+He went to Dick Holden's office.  That busy young man met him with
+visible embarrassment, which, however, David ignored.
+
+"Dick," he plunged at once into his errand, "I owe you a lot of money."
+
+"Oh, not much--not worth speaking about.  No hurry about that, old man."
+
+David smiled grimly at that.  "It won't be paid in a hurry--can't be.
+But I'm quitting the game and taking a job, and I can pay you some
+every month now; not much, but a nibble, anyhow.  And if ever you get
+rushed with business and I can help you out at nights, I'd be glad to
+work part of my debt off that way."
+
+"Why," said Dick very eagerly, "that'll be easy.  I've got three sets
+of plans I'd like to have you work out right now.  And there'll be
+more.  You know, I'll be pretty busy over that St. Chris--"  Dick's
+tongue halted sharply and the red crept over his face until even his
+ears were glowing.
+
+"Of course.  I haven't congratulated you yet.  I do most--"
+
+"Don't you, Davy Quentin!" Dick interrupted fiercely.  "Don't you go
+congratulating me.  I feel darn small potatoes just now.  You're
+quitting the game because I beat you out on the St. Christopher's job,
+and I--"
+
+"Not at all," David interrupted in his turn.  "You mustn't look at it
+that way.  I was foozling my approach right along anyway, and the St.
+Christopher thing couldn't have changed that.  One swallow doesn't kill
+a summer thirst, you know."  He laughed at this slender joke so
+heartily that Dick was almost deceived.
+
+"Is it a pretty fair job?"
+
+"I must say it is.  And I expect to make a mighty good draftsman for
+Radbourne & Company.  I've always been rather long on mechanical
+drawing, you may remember.  And I've got a first-rate boss, if I'm any
+judge.  On the whole, it looks pretty good--much better than dubbing
+along at a game where--where one hasn't the punch, as you put it."
+
+Dick flushed again.  For several minutes he was silent save for the
+drumming of his fingers on the desk.  Then he stirred, with a sharp
+irritable movement.
+
+"Well, I wish you luck.  And I'll have the data for those plans
+to-morrow."
+
+David took this as a hint to go.  When he had gone Dick heaved a sigh
+of relief.  During those silent minutes a strange inspiration had come
+to him, to suggest a partnership in lieu of the new job.  Dick felt
+that he had had a narrow escape from an expensive generosity.
+
+Next David called on a young architect who was looking for quarters.
+To him it was arranged to transfer the office lease and to sell enough
+of its furniture to pay the rent in arrears.
+
+Then David went home to lay his gift at Shirley's feet.
+
+And yet, as he neared the apartment, he felt a strange shrinking from
+telling her the news, lest she guess what his gift had cost him.  He
+wondered at that.
+
+He found Shirley flushed with excitement over news of her own.
+
+"Guess who's coming!"
+
+David could not guess.
+
+"Aunt Clara!"
+
+"Why, that's fine," he rejoiced weakly.
+
+Shirley kissed him nicely.
+
+"And, David, I think she's coming to talk over things."
+
+"Aunt Clara generally is--  What things?"
+
+"Why, our affairs.  Money, you know."
+
+His glance sharpened.  "Why do you think that?"
+
+"Because--now don't scold!"  She brushed an imaginary bit of dust from
+his shoulder.  "Because--I asked her."
+
+"Shirley!"  His clasp of her relaxed.
+
+"Now _please_, don't let's have another scene.  What's the use of rich
+relations if they can't help you out once in a while?  You've no right
+to let your foolish pride cut Davy Junior and me off from Aunt Clara's
+help."
+
+"Luckily we shan't need her help, because"--it was not so he had
+thought to tender his gift--"because to-day I got a job."
+
+"A job?  Oh, David!"  Her arms tightened around his neck, Aunt Clara
+for the moment forgotten.  "What is it?"
+
+He told her.
+
+"Just a draftsman?  That isn't a very high position, is it?"
+
+"Not very."
+
+"How much does it pay?"
+
+He told her and saw her face fall.
+
+"Why, that's only a little more than you have been making."
+
+"At least, it's steady and sure."
+
+"But even Maizie makes that much.  I used to get ninety from the
+library.  I thought men--clever men--"
+
+"Beggars," he said, "even clever beggars, can't be choosers."
+
+"But we're not beggars, are we?"
+
+"Your Aunt Clara will think so."
+
+He turned away into another room, leaving the matter of Aunt Clara
+suspended in the air.  He saw then that he ran no risk of Shirley
+guessing what his gift had cost him.  He wondered if _he_ yet guessed
+how much it would cost.
+
+Soon Aunt Clara arrived, in a taxicab and wearing a businesslike,
+purposeful air.  She made herself promptly and perfectly at home and
+freely passed judgment on all she saw; and very little escaped Aunt
+Clara's eyes.  She inspected the flat and, inquiry establishing the
+rent, sniffingly reminded them that she and Uncle John--now unhappily
+deceased--had begun their housekeeping in a fifteen-dollar-a-month
+cottage.  Pouncing upon a drawerful of Davy Junior's sweaters and
+slippers and lacy dresses, she cited the case of John, _fils_, who
+until he was three years old had never had more than two dresses and
+one coatie at a time.  David's books struck her as an appalling
+extravagance; she and the late Uncle John had never thought of a
+library until they had ten thousand in bank.
+
+"You are very poor managers, I must admit.  You've been married more
+than four years, and what have you to show for it but didoes--and
+debts, as I understand?"
+
+The question went home to David's heart.  But it was he who, catching
+up Davy Junior, held out the crowing youngster for her inspection.
+
+"We have this."
+
+And then, a sudden wave of emotion surging unbidden within him, he
+caught the child sharply to him.  He turned away quickly to hide this
+unwonted demonstration, but Aunt Clara saw.
+
+"Very pretty!  But sentiment butters no bread."
+
+"Sometimes," he returned gravely, "it makes dry bread palatable."
+
+"Humph!" remarked Aunt Clara.  "And now let us have dinner--something
+more than dry bread and sentiment, if you please.  I never talk
+business on an empty stomach."
+
+To David, love and pride quivering from hurts lately sustained, that
+dinner, eaten to the accompaniment of the jarring critical voice,
+seemed endless.  And yet, thinking of a worse thing to come, he could
+have wished it to last until midnight or that hour which found Aunt
+Clara too sleepy for business.  It lasted until Aunt Clara had slowly
+sipped her second cup of coffee--which, inquiry brought out, cost
+forty-three cents the pound.
+
+Perhaps the dinner had mellowed her humor a little, for:
+
+"You may smoke," she nodded to David, "provided it isn't one of those
+nasty little cigarettes."
+
+"It will have to be a pipe."
+
+"A pipe is the least objectionable," she graciously conceded.  "Your
+late Uncle John smoked one to the last."
+
+Then she produced and donned a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and
+through them fixed upon David the sternest of glances.
+
+"And now, since I must leave in the morning, let us get to business.
+You may tell me the situation."
+
+"What situation have you in mind?"
+
+"The one that made you write to me for help."
+
+"But I didn't write to you for help."
+
+"Shirley did, which is the same thing."
+
+"When Shirley wrote, without my knowledge, she hadn't all the facts.  I
+have just taken a position--"
+
+"That is very sensible.  What sort of a position?"
+
+"A very good position, quite sufficient for our needs.  And so we
+needn't spoil your visit by discussing our dull affairs."
+
+Aunt Clara glared.  "Young man, are you trying to snub me?  I remember
+you tried that the first time I saw you."
+
+"I hope," said David gently, "I haven't given you that impression."
+
+"It's just his silly pride, Aunt Clara," Shirley put in soothingly.
+
+Aunt Clara silenced Shirley with a gesture and kept her attention on
+David.  "You did leave that impression.  And you are thinking that I'm
+nosing into what is none of my business.  On the contrary, young man,
+it is my business.  You married against my advice, but it's no credit
+to me to have my relatives hard up and in debt.  You are in debt, I
+understand?"
+
+"That is true," David answered quietly, "but--"
+
+"But you don't want my money to pay them with, you were about to say?
+Young man, when you refuse my money, you're a little--_quite_ a
+little--in advance of the fact.  I'm not going to give you money.  I
+don't believe in giving money to able-bodied young men."
+
+"Thank you," said David.
+
+"But I will give you some advice and some help.  You can take them or
+leave them.  My advice is--get rid of this expensive apartment and
+store your goods.  For the rest, I will take Shirley and the baby to
+live with me, paying all their expenses, until you can get on your
+feet.  With your new position and no one but yourself to pay for, it
+oughtn't to take long."
+
+Shirley gasped--unmistakably with delight.
+
+David turned red, but he answered, still quietly, "It is good of you to
+make the offer, but of course it is out of the question.  I think
+Shirley would prefer--"
+
+"Young man," Aunt Clara reminded him, "in my family nothing I suggest
+is ever out of the question.  As for Shirley, let her answer for
+herself."
+
+"_I_ think it would be very sensible," Shirley answered for herself,
+eagerly.
+
+"She means," corrected Aunt Clara, who was nobody's fool, "she means it
+would be pleasanter living in my house than scrimping here to pay for
+dead horses.  So it would.  But it would be sensible, too.  You've got
+into hot water.  I blame Shirley--I know her.  But I blame you most.  A
+husband ought always to keep a tight rein on household affairs.  Your
+late Uncle John--well, never mind him.  Because you've been weak,
+you've run into debt, the worst disturber of household peace.  I give
+you a chance to be rid of it quickly.  Have you a quicker way?"
+
+"I have a better way.  Since we got into the hole through our own
+carelessness, let us work our own way out."
+
+"Humph!  More sentiment.  You'd make your family pay for your weakness.
+However," Aunt Clara rose with the air of having done her whole duty,
+"I've made my offer.  It is for you to decide.  I will now go into the
+other room while you and Shirley talk it over.  I make it a rule never
+to intrude into discussions between husband and wife."
+
+She moved toward the living-room.  David ushered her to the door and
+closed it behind her.  Then he turned to Shirley. . . . .
+
+He had made many mistakes, no doubt, been as weak and foolish as Aunt
+Clara said.  But they had been loving faults, born of a deep desire to
+make Shirley happy.  And he had atoned for them.  He had declared
+himself to his world a failure; he had swallowed and forgiven the word
+that ought never to be on a wife's tongue.  Because it seemed best for
+her, he had given up a work that was very dear to him, even in failure;
+how dear, he had not known until he had resigned it, as he thought,
+forever.  He had taken unto himself a master and a task that to his
+cast of mind could never be aught but drudgery.  It was no easy thing
+he had done.  But he had not whimpered, he had made an effort, none the
+less brave because so boyishly obvious, to keep up a smiling front.  He
+had sought to offer his gift from the heart, ungrudgingly, because he
+had loved her, still loved her, he thought.
+
+That which they had now to decide seemed big and vital to him.  His
+pride was touched.  A need was involved.  Good sense might counsel
+acceptance of Aunt Clara's offer, but he thought it cowardly.  Since
+they had failed in the issue of making a living, the brave course was
+to retrieve that failure by themselves.  More--it did not seem to him
+the act of a loving woman to leave him, even for a few months, when his
+need of her and her love was greatest.
+
+He did not ask her to count the cost of his gift; he knew she could
+not.  He did want her to _justify_ the gift, to prove that the love for
+which he had paid so big a price was real love dwelling in a fine brave
+woman's heart. . .
+
+Shirley was sitting at the table.  He went to a chair across from her.
+She looked up eagerly.
+
+"Shirley, shall you mind very much if I say, no?"
+
+"I think the only sensible thing is to take her at her word."
+
+"Perhaps.  But I'd rather not be under obligations to--to anybody."
+
+"Oh, that's just sentiment, as Aunt Clara says.  And it's quite time
+for us to begin being practical.  Think of being rid of all those
+horrid debts!  You don't seem to understand what a weight they've been
+on me."
+
+"I think I do understand, dear.  But it will be different now, because
+we know that if we're careful for a while we can clean them all up.
+Radbourne seems a good man to work for and maybe this job will develop
+into something better.  And I'll be doing work on the side for Dick for
+a while.  It won't be so long before the debts will melt away.  Then
+we'll have the satisfaction of knowing we did it by ourselves, without
+any one's help.  We'll have proved ourselves, don't you see?"
+
+"That's more sentiment.  I can't see anything so awful in going to Aunt
+Clara's.  It would be just a visit, such as any one would make.  It
+wouldn't be for so very long, and it would do us all good.  I would
+have a fine rest, and the change would be good for you, too.  You could
+read and work in the evenings with no one to bother you.  And you'd
+have a fine chance to see all your old men friends."
+
+"It isn't the men I want to see just now.  Shirley, dear--"  He was
+pleading now.  "Shirley, dear, I--  You see, it's cost me a little, a
+good deal maybe--letting my profession go and taking up work that
+isn't--isn't so very interesting and is for another man.  It'll be a
+little hard--just for a while of course, until I get used to the idea.
+And I'd like to have you here with me.  Don't you see, dear--I need
+you."
+
+But the plea failed.  With a sharp sinking of his heart he saw her
+pretty brow wrinkle in an impatient frown.
+
+"I don't see at all.  I should think, if the position is such a good
+one, you'd be glad you've taken it.  And you ought to be glad to think
+of Davy Junior and me out at Aunt Clara's instead of moping around a
+cheap dingy flat or boarding-house."
+
+"You mean," he tried to keep his voice steady, "you _want_ to go?
+You'd really rather--aside from saving money?"
+
+"Want to!  I'm wild to go.  Of course, I'll be homesick for you, but
+all husbands and wives expect to be apart sometimes on vacations and
+trips and--oh, David, can't you see?  It's been so long since I've had
+any really good times and I'm hungry for them--starving.  And out there
+at Aunt Clara's, where you don't have to think of money all the time--
+Why, you couldn't--it isn't like you to be so selfish as to refuse me
+that."
+
+He said no more.  He sat fumbling with a napkin, his eyes cast down.
+He dared not lift them to Shirley's, lest he see there a truth he had
+not the courage to face just then.  After a little he rose, went to the
+door and opened it.
+
+"Will you come in now?" he nodded to Aunt Clara.  "The family council
+is over."
+
+Aunt Clara marched into the room.
+
+"Well, what have you decided?"
+
+"Shirley has convinced me," he smiled queerly, "that you are right.
+But your hospitality is all we ought to accept.  For her other expenses
+I will send something from my salary every month."
+
+"But that isn't what I--"
+
+"I'm afraid," he interrupted quietly, "you will have to concede so much
+to me--and sentiment." . . .
+
+In the morning Aunt Clara left.
+
+"This is what comes," was her benediction, "of marrying before you're
+ready and living beyond your means.  I hope it will be a lesson to you
+never to do it again."
+
+David was too tired to smile.
+
+The rest of that week was too full for much thinking.  The office was
+to be cleaned out.  Trunks were to be packed, china and silver and
+bric-a-brac to be wrapped and boxed for storage, a thousand little
+preparations for moving when a new tenant for the apartment should have
+been found.  David was grateful for that.  He did not want time to
+think.  Especially he did not want time to feel.
+
+On Sunday morning he took Shirley and Davy Junior to the train.  Not
+once did he let the baby out of his arms.  At the very last a doubt
+seemed to disturb Shirley.
+
+"David--"  They were sitting in the station waiting-room then.  "David,
+it's dear of you to let me go like this."
+
+"It's better than moping around here."
+
+"You don't think I'm selfish in wanting to go, do you?"
+
+He shook his head and kept his eyes on the child's face.
+
+"It doesn't mean I don't love you--oh, with all my heart!  I'll be so
+lonesome for you.  I'll be thinking of you all the time and write you
+every day.  And when I come back--!  Do you know, dear, I have the
+feeling that now, with the new position and the debts cleaned up soon,
+things are going to be different with us, so much brighter."
+
+"Why, I think so, Shirley."
+
+"I'm sure of it."  She squeezed his hand.  "When people love as we do,
+things just have to come out right."
+
+"Yes, Shirley."
+
+The gates were thrown open and they went out on the platform.  The
+train thundered in.  David took Shirley and Davy Junior into their car.
+He kissed her hastily and lingered longer over his good-by to the baby.
+Then he ran out of the car and stood again on the platform, while
+Shirley made the youngster wave his hand.  David managed an answering
+smile.
+
+He walked homeward by a long roundabout way.  The rest of that day he
+spent in working feverishly at unfinished odds and ends of packing.
+Then he got out all his sketches and plans and slowly tore them into
+bits, until the floor around him was littered with the fragments.  Last
+of all he came to the St. Christopher's plans.  But his hands refused
+his command to destroy.  He sat looking at this evidence of his
+failure, until darkness fell and hid them from his sight.  He rose then
+and, wrapping them up carefully, put them with the boxes for storage.
+
+There was nothing more that he could do.  He had not eaten since
+morning but he was not hungry.  He leaned back in a chair and let all
+the thoughts and feelings he had held at bay during the busy days rush
+at him in the darkness.  An incredible loneliness was upon him, a sense
+of loss bitterer even than loneliness.  It seemed that something for
+which he had paid dearly had been stolen from him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+GOOD FAIRIES
+
+But what of the fairies?
+
+So far the old witch had had it all her own way, and that she had done
+very badly, if not quite her worst, you will have to admit.  She had
+David by day in a cubby-hole office adjoining a noisy throbbing shop,
+making drawings of mechanical devices out of Radbourne's or an
+irritable foreman's brain; by his easel in the lonesome apartment at
+night, working out on paper from Dick Holden's notes the ideas of
+Dick's clients, who knew exactly what they wanted but not how it would
+look; saying sadly but sternly, "Begone!" to ideas of his own (in
+ecclesiastic architecture) that might nevermore hope to have a real
+birth.  She had taken from him what no one could restore, the fine
+silky bloom of his youth; and something worth even more, though that
+was a loss he was not yet ready to admit.  Worst of all, she had him
+convinced that he was a failure, a weakling and misfit, a sort of green
+fool who had asked for the moon and been properly punished for his
+temerity.  And that was a skein even fairies would find hard to unravel.
+
+But there was one who was willing to try.
+
+Who ever heard of a fairy with red Dundrearies?  Nobody, of course, but
+you shall hear of one now.  Although the whiskers are really beside the
+case; all a good fairy needs is a pair of keen eyes and a heart as big
+as a drum.
+
+An odd fish, no doubt of it, was Jonathan Radbourne, though a good man
+to work for and, as Jim Blaisdell had said and David soon found, by no
+means a fool.  There was no hint of masterfulness about him, which was
+because he never thought of himself as a master.  He never gave orders
+and never reproved; he made polite requests and sometimes, gently and
+apologetically, he showed where mistakes had been made.  If you
+happened to do about what you were paid for doing, he beamed with
+delight and thanked you as though you had done him a favor.  He was
+always busy and nearly always on the move, flitting back and forth
+between office and shop with hopping little strides that made him more
+robin-like than ever, and really accomplished a great deal.  But he
+often found time for friendly little chats with his employees on topics
+that had no connection with the business, such as the babies at home,
+the rheumatic old mother, the state of the heart or the lungs; he made
+it a specialty to know all their troubles.  And he always was
+smiling--on that mouth it was really a grin--a crooked cheery smile
+that made others smile, too, and he never acknowledged bad weather.
+
+From the first he made a habit of seeking out David.  His manner on
+such occasions was one of shy wistful friendliness, not quite sure of
+its welcome, that gave David an impulse to pat him on the head and say,
+"There, there, little man!  It's all right.  You're my chief and my
+time is all yours--though _I'd_ rather use it for work."  However, he
+never said that, but was always respectful and polite.  He took
+advantage of these chats to learn more of his duties.  With unwearied
+patience Jonathan explained them, as well as other details of the
+business, expressing delight at David's interest.
+
+David saw that he had much to learn and he had grave doubts that he was
+earning his salary.  He knew next to nothing of mechanics and did not
+always understand when Jonathan or Hegner, the foreman, explained some
+new device for which drawings were needed.  But that wrought no change
+in Jonathan's manner.
+
+"I'm afraid," he would say, "we weren't very clear on that."  And he
+would go over the explanation once more.
+
+When the drawings were correct: "Very good!" he would beam.  "I wish I
+could draw as beautifully as you."
+
+"Do you think," David asked on one such occasion, when he had been in
+the position nearly a month, "that I'm really the man you want?
+Sometimes I seem pretty slow."
+
+"Oh, you mustn't think that," Jonathan said warmly.  "You're catching
+on faster than I ever hoped for.  You don't know what a help you are to
+me.  The draftsmen I've had before used only their hands.  You use your
+head."
+
+"Thank you," said David, grateful for the assurance, even if the good
+will behind it was a trifle obvious.
+
+"And you find your work interesting, don't you?"
+
+"I'm learning to like it--very much."
+
+He tried to make his answer convincing.  But when he had left the
+office, Jonathan shook his head and sought out his bookkeeper.
+
+"That's a very nice young man, Miss Summers," he said.  "Mr. Quentin, I
+mean."
+
+Miss Summers agreed.
+
+"But I'm afraid he's pretty heartsore yet."
+
+Miss Summers looked a question.
+
+"He's a young architect," Jonathan explained, "who didn't make good.
+I'm afraid this work seems a come-down to him."
+
+"That's too bad," said Miss Summers.
+
+"If you get a chance, I wish you would try to make things cheerful for
+him here."
+
+"Of course," said Miss Summers, who understood Jonathan quite well.
+
+"_We've_ got to try that.  We must make a little conspiracy to that
+end.  I'll try to think up some details."
+
+Miss Summers smiled as though she liked making little conspiracies with
+Jonathan.  "Of course," she said again, and looked upon that as a
+promise.
+
+Very quietly she set about keeping it.  A little timidly, too; which
+was strange, since with others in the office and shop she was not in
+the least timid.  She could do little, it is true--a cheery "Good
+morning" and a friendly nod at evening, an occasional smile when
+something brought David into her office, once in a long while a brief
+little chat in which she, with a breath-taking sense of having an
+adventure, took the lead.  Another young man might have detected her
+friendliness and considered his charms.  But David, though his grave
+courtesy never failed, neither thought of his charms nor was conscious
+of hers.  Her charms, to be sure, were not of a striking sort; at least
+at first glance.  She was a frail-looking body whose face was nearly
+always pale and sometimes, toward evening of a hot day, rather pinched;
+her arms were too slender to be pretty and the cords of her broad white
+neck stood out.  She was not very tall and, perched on her stool at the
+tall old-fashioned desk by the window, she seemed more girlish even
+than her years, which were four-and-twenty.  She did not look at all
+like an iris, even a white iris girl; David would almost as soon have
+suspected Miss Brown.
+
+"I might," thought Miss Summers, "be a part of the furniture, for all
+he sees in me."  She did not think it resentfully, though with an odd
+little twinge of disappointment.  She regarded him as a very superior
+young man, the sort she had always wanted to know.  But she had made a
+promise and she would not desert the conspiracy.
+
+She noticed that he never ate or went out at the noon hour, as if there
+were no such thing as an inner man demanding attention.  Thereafter her
+luncheon, which was always carried in a dainty little basket, was
+seasoned with a conviction of gross selfishness.  And one day, after
+she had eaten, she went, basket in hand, to the door of David's little
+room.
+
+"Mr. Quentin--" she began.
+
+Instantly David was on his feet--one of his habits she liked so well;
+other men in the office did not have it.  "Yes, Miss Summers?"
+
+She held out the basket.  In the bottom reposed two fat cookies and a
+big apple whose ruddy cheeks had a rival in hers at the moment.
+
+"My eyes were bigger than my appetite.  Would you care for them?"
+
+"Thank you, Miss Summers," he said politely, "but I never eat at noon."
+
+"I _wish_ you would," she insisted.  "If you don't, they--they'll
+spoil."
+
+"By to-morrow?  Hardly, I should think.  Thank you, no," he repeated.
+"I find it doesn't agree--"
+
+He saw her face fall.
+
+"On second thought I believe I will.  They look so tempting.  It's very
+good of you to think of it."
+
+He took the basket from her hands.  But she did not leave.  She stood,
+still hesitant, looking up at him.  He motioned to his chair, the only
+one in the room.
+
+"Won't you sit down?"
+
+"But where will you sit?"
+
+He answered by brushing some papers from the corner of the table and
+seating himself there.  She took the chair--and the sense of adventure
+was very vivid.
+
+David bit into a cooky.  "Fine!  This is good of you.  Ordinarily I'm
+not hungry at all at noon--habit, you know.  But to-day I am.  How did
+you happen to guess it?"
+
+"I didn't guess it.  I just thought--"  She looked up at him again,
+timidly.  "Often I bring more than I can eat, and if--"
+
+He had to smile at that.  "Isn't that a little obvious?  I could go out
+if I wanted to, you know."
+
+"Oh, I didn't mean _that_!"  She was overcome by confusion.
+
+"And I didn't mean to snub you," he smiled again.  "You needn't
+apologize.  One need never be ashamed of a bit of hospitality, need
+one?"  To give her time to recover, he went on, "There's a good deal of
+that around here, isn't there?  Tell me something about Mr. Radbourne.
+You've been here some time, I believe."
+
+"Two years.  He's the best and kindest--"
+
+She entered, eager to cover up her late awkwardness, upon a glowing
+history of their employer's multifarious kindness.  There was Miss
+Brown, the stenographer, rescued from the department store where she
+had been "dying on her feet," sent to a commercial school and given a
+position she never could fill.  And Blake, the collector, who had lung
+trouble and half the time was not able to report for duty.  And Hegner,
+who was a genius but had a burning palate, picked up almost from the
+gutter and given an important place in the shop in the hope that
+responsibility would restore the shattered will.  And Smith, the latest
+recruit, but recently out of the penitentiary.
+
+"Though I wish he hadn't taken _him_ in.  He looks bad and has fishy
+eyes and is always so surly."
+
+"Is this a business or a sort of hospital for broken lives?" David
+inquired.
+
+"I think in his heart Mr. Radbourne is more interested in the hospital."
+
+"It's too bad he's so homely, isn't it?  It's rather hard to take him
+very seriously."
+
+"Yes."  She sighed, then caught herself up loyally.  "_No_!  Because
+when you get to know him you don't think about his face at all."
+
+David was thinking he had not done full justice to her face.  It was
+spirited and really intelligent, he decided, though its prettiness was
+as yet open to question.  He perceived what hitherto he had missed:
+that she had hair and eyes quite worthy of consideration.  Black as
+night the former was, and fine and rebellious, with little curling
+wisps about her ears and neck.  The eyes were a peculiar slaty gray and
+had depths inviting inspection.  He found himself wishing he could see
+them really alight.
+
+"It would be something," he said thoughtfully, going back to Jonathan,
+"to be able to run that sort of hospital.  But what a crew of lame
+ducks we are!  Except you, of course!"
+
+She laughed.  "Oh, you needn't be polite.  I'm one, too.  Not a very
+big one or very tragic.  A lame duckling, shall we say?"
+
+He suggested that a lame duckling might grow up into a wonderful swan,
+and munched his apple ruminatively.  Neither happened to think of a
+certain incident, much discussed, in which that edible figured
+prominently.  And he did not ask a question.
+
+"But how does he get his work done, with such a crew?"
+
+"We're not all lame ducks, you know.  And--you work hard, don't you?"
+
+"Of course.  It would be only decent--"
+
+"We all think that.  Even the big strong ducks like to work for him."
+
+"I'm told he makes money."
+
+"A good deal more than he spends on himself.  I keep his personal
+accounts and I know.  Several of his specialties are very valuable,
+inventions of his father's that are still in demand.  He'd make more
+money if he had a better system.  Hegner says he can't accept all his
+orders.  Maybe," she suggested, "you could help him there?"
+
+He shook his head.  "I'm afraid, Miss Summers," his laugh was not
+pleasant this time, "I don't know much of anything useful."
+
+"You could learn, couldn't you?" she asked quietly.
+
+He flushed, because he had let himself whimper.  "Why--I suppose I
+could try."
+
+She left him then.  And strangely--how, he could not have
+told--soothing oil had been poured into his wounds.
+
+By most rules set by most men he should have been happy enough.  He had
+work, clean and honest, that he was learning to do well.  He had paid a
+first installment on his debts.  Dick Holden had been as good as his
+word, the evening hours were busy ones and Dick would soon cease to be
+a creditor.  Shirley wrote daily.  She was well, the good times had
+materialized, Davy Junior was learning a new word every day and they
+both were so homesick for him.
+
+He was learning a new thing--to work, not with the natural easy
+absorption in a well-loved calling, but with faculties through sheer
+force of will concentrated on tasks set by others, in which he had no
+heart; to shut out of mind and heart, while he was working, all other
+facts of his life.  It is a good thing for a man to know.
+
+But, let his will relax its grip, and instantly his hurts began to
+throb.  His pride had suffered; he had proclaimed himself to his little
+world a failure in his chosen calling.  The new work was not _his_
+work.  Desire for that would not die, despite failure.  His mind, once
+freed from his will's leash, would leap, unwontedly active, into the
+old groove, setting before him creations that tantalized him with their
+beauty and vigor and made him yearn to be at work upon them.  And that
+was a bad habit, he thought; if he was to learn content in the new
+work, he must first put off love for the old.  When the debts were
+paid, the work for the successful uninspired Dick should cease.
+
+And in idle moments, though they were few, and in sleepless hours, not
+so few, the incredible loneliness would rush upon him, not lessened by
+custom; and a more poignant sense of loss.  To that vague sense he
+carefully denied words, lest definition add to the hurt.
+
+Perhaps he was more than a little morbid.  Men are apt to be so, when
+harassed overlong by care.  And perhaps he made a mistake, shunning his
+friends and seeking an anodyne only in a wearying routine.
+
+That afternoon the subject of the noon hour's chat came into David's
+quarters to ask a question about some drawings.  The errand
+accomplished, he, too, lingered.  He refused the chair David vacated
+and sat on the table.
+
+"I heard you and Miss Summers talking a while ago," he said abruptly.
+
+"You said you heard--"  David looked up, self-conscious.
+
+"I heard you laughing."  Radbourne's eyes twinkled keenly down on his
+draftsman.  "So you were talking about me?"
+
+"There was nothing you couldn't have heard--without offense, sir."
+
+"I know that.  Miss Summers is a loyal friend."
+
+"I hope the same can be said of me, sir."
+
+"Would you mind," Jonathan asked, "not sirring me like that?  That's a
+very fine young lady, Mr. Quentin."
+
+"Evidently," said David, though with something less than his employer's
+enthusiasm.
+
+"An inspiration to any man," Jonathan continued.
+
+"I have no doubt."
+
+Jonathan smiled.  "Meaning you do doubt it?  But I forgot--you probably
+don't know.  She had a disappointment, Mr. Quentin, a heavy one, and
+she bore it as--as you and I would have been proud to.  She had a
+voice.  And just as she was beginning to make her living out of it and
+getting ready for bigger things, she took diphtheria.  It left her
+throat so weak that she had to give up singing, altogether for a while,
+professionally for good."
+
+"Why, that was too bad!"
+
+"It was very bad.  But she didn't whine.  Just put it behind her.
+Since she had to make her own living somehow, she went to a commercial
+school and studied bookkeeping.  I was lucky enough to get her."
+
+"She could really sing?"
+
+"She would have gone far, very far.  I had happened to hear her and I
+followed her progress closely enough to know.  I have never been
+reconciled--"
+
+Jonathan broke off sharply, staring hard at a crack in the wall.  The
+little blue eyes were very sad.  David, too, fell into a long
+thoughtful silence.
+
+He broke it at last.  "As you say--"
+
+Jonathan started, as if he had forgotten David's presence.
+
+"As you say, it called for more courage, because she was a real artist
+and not a proven failure."
+
+"But I didn't say that."
+
+"You had it in mind when you told me that.  You are quite right.  Thank
+you for telling me."
+
+"There!"  Jonathan beamed happily.  "I said she was an inspiration to
+any man."
+
+"At least," said David grimly, "she is a good example."
+
+Jonathan left.  But in a moment he returned.
+
+"Do you like music?"
+
+"Very much."
+
+"Then one of these evenings we'll go out to my house, we three, and
+have some, if you'd care for it."
+
+"I should be glad to."
+
+"Next Saturday, perhaps?"
+
+David repeated his polite formula.
+
+Jonathan eyed him wistfully.  "You know, you're not obliged to say that
+if there is something else you would rather do.  I shouldn't care to
+take advantage of my position to force my company and--and my
+friendship upon you."
+
+"I should be very glad to have them."  And when he had said it, David
+knew he had meant it.  "Both of them," he added.
+
+The little man's face lighted up eagerly.  "You really mean that?"
+
+"I certainly do."
+
+"I am very happy to hear you say so.  You see," Jonathan explained, "I
+lead a rather lonely life of it, away from the shop.  I am not equipped
+for social life.  People of talent and agreeable manners and taste do
+not seem to care for my company.  They are not to be blamed, of course."
+
+The homely face was sad again.  David was uncomfortable and silent.
+
+"However," Jonathan's smile reappeared, "I am fortunate to have found
+congenial friends here.  Miss Summers is one.  And now I add you to the
+list.  With two friends a man ought to count himself rich, don't you
+think?"
+
+David agreed smilingly.
+
+Jonathan started away for the second time, then caught himself.  "I
+forgot.  I am ashamed to have forgotten.  Perhaps you ought to be with
+your family Saturday evening.  I should hate to feel--"
+
+"My family is away."
+
+If David's voice had become suddenly curt, Jonathan did not seem to
+perceive it.
+
+"Then we'll consider it settled."
+
+This time his departure was final.  And the cloud, lifted a little by
+the efforts of a white-faced bookkeeper and a comically ugly manikin,
+settled upon David once more.  He bent grimly to his interrupted work.
+
+At that moment Radbourne was obtaining Miss Summers' assent to the
+occasion of Saturday.  It was not hard to obtain.
+
+"I like that young man," he confided.  "I think we're going to be very
+good friends."
+
+"I hope so."
+
+"Yes.  It would mean much to me, Miss Summers."
+
+"But I was thinking of him," she said gravely.
+
+And the slate-gray eyes, as they rested on the little man, were very
+gentle. . . . .
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+SPELLS
+
+A unwonted excitement pervaded the offices of Radbourne & Company on that
+Saturday morning, radiated no doubt from the head of the concern himself.
+He flitted about restlessly, tugged at his whiskers continually, and his
+voice, as he rattled off his correspondence to Miss Brown, had a happy
+boyish lilt.  Occasionally, chancing to catch Miss Summers' eye, he would
+nod with a sly knowing smile.
+
+For the original program for Saturday had been enlarged.  Miss Summers
+and David had been notified to be ready at mid-afternoon for an event as
+yet cloaked in secrecy.
+
+Mid-afternoon arrived.  Radbourne glanced out into the street, nodded
+with satisfaction, closed his desk with a bang--greatly to the relief of
+Miss Brown, who would now have leisure to recopy the letters she had
+bungled--and vanished into his cloak-room.
+
+At the same moment David strolled into Miss Summers' presence, watch in
+hand.
+
+"The hour has struck," he burlesqued.  "What doth it hold?"
+
+"Whatever it is," she answered, "you must seem to be delighted."
+
+"I think I shall be."  David was actually smiling.  "For the last hour
+I've been looking at my watch every five minutes.  This excitement is
+infectious.  He hasn't grown up, has he?"
+
+"But isn't that his great charm?"  Miss Summers seemed already delighted
+over something.
+
+"Charm?"  David looked doubtful.  "I hadn't thought of him as--"
+
+But he did not finish.  Quick staccato footsteps were heard.  Then a
+strange vision burst upon them--Jonathan Radbourne accoutered for
+motoring, in visored cap and duster, with a huge pair of shell-rimmed
+goggles that sat grotesquely athwart his beaming countenance.  On one arm
+he carried a veil and another coat.
+
+"Ready?"  And to their astonished gaze he explained, "First we're going
+for a little run--if it is agreeable to you?"
+
+They assured him, in italics, that it was.
+
+"Then let us hurry."  He handed the coat and veil to Miss Summers.  "I
+brought these along for you.  They are my mother's.  I got them for her
+but she never would go out in a machine.  She thinks it would be tempting
+Providence.  I'm sorry," this to David, "I had nothing to fit you.  Can
+you do without?"
+
+David put him at ease on that point, and Miss Summers retired.
+
+In a few minutes, fewer than you might suppose, she returned.  Radbourne
+clapped his hands in delight.
+
+"Look, David!"
+
+David obeyed.
+
+And then he was sure that he had never done justice to the face peering
+up at him from under the veiled hat.  He was bound to admit that it had,
+after all, certain elements of prettiness; he was astonished that he
+could have thought otherwise.  But then he had never seen her when cheeks
+glowed shell-pink and eyes danced with that undefined but delicious sense
+of adventure.
+
+As he looked he smiled.  It was a very friendly smile and the shell-pink
+deepened.
+
+A touch on his arm interrupted--it seems there was something to interrupt.
+
+"Have I taken a liberty?  I called you David."
+
+David turned the remnant of the friendly smile upon Jonathan Radbourne.
+
+"Of course not.  I hope you will do that again."
+
+Jonathan beamed.  "Thank you.  And now, shall we start?"
+
+An hour later they were bowling swiftly along, up hill and down dale,
+over a smooth country road.  Fields of young corn sped by, stretches of
+yellowing grain that rippled and tossed under the sweep of the breeze,
+fragrant wood-lots whose shadow was a caress.  The host of the occasion
+sat with the chauffeur, turning often to point out to his guests some
+beauty of landscape they already had seen, commenting tritely, obvious as
+always in his effort to be entertaining, happy in the belief that he was
+succeeding.  And he was succeeding; such is the uplifting power of the
+spirit of true friendliness, even when dwelling in a dinky little man
+with whiskers absurdly swept by the rushing wind.
+
+The guests were silent for the most part when his comments did not call
+for answer.  In the girl--she seemed very girlish that afternoon--the
+sense of holiday and adventure continued, her eyes shone softly and the
+pretty color did not fade.  This despite her seatmate's evident wish to
+be left to his thoughts.  She had no wish to break through his reserve.
+But she wondered, a bit gravely, what he was thinking, and she did wish
+she could make things brighter for him, the superior young man who for
+all his nice courtesy and friendly smiles held himself so aloof and was
+so evidently subject to the blues.  She thought she knew what troubled
+him.  She could understand that.  She was not always so contented as her
+quiet cheery manner proclaimed; sometimes, in the middle of the night,
+she awoke crying for the gift that had been taken from her.
+
+His thoughts were less somber than from his long face she supposed.  He,
+too, had his pleasurable sense--of respite.  For once, though idle,
+neither loneliness nor dejection oppressed him.  It was good to lean back
+lazily in the chariot of the rich, dreamily watching the ever-shifting
+picture, soaking in the sunshine.  It was good, too--but in no-wise
+alarming--to have beside him this pretty girl who knew when not to talk
+and in whose occasional smile was a new subtle flattery.  It was even
+good to be with that odd fish Jonathan Radbourne, for whose company, in a
+more fortunate case, he would have had no desire.  He was glad Radbourne
+had arranged this little party.
+
+They came, at the end of a long climb, to a ridge lifted high above those
+they had crossed.  On its crest, at a word from Radbourne, the chauffeur
+brought his machine to a stop.
+
+Behind them lay the rough broken country of the foot-hills through which
+they had passed.  And before--the mountains!  To them the eyes of the
+holiday-takers turned and clung.
+
+Range after range they rose, like mighty billows, mounting higher until
+the tallest, dimly outlined in a thickening purplish haze, cut the sky, a
+rampart vision could not pierce.  They seemed alive, those hills, the
+thick untouched growth stirring ceaselessly under the wind, a restless
+sea of sunlit green with flashes of white from laurel thickets and soft
+glintings where satiny oak-leaves caught and tossed back the slanting
+rays.  And they sang.
+
+"Listen!" Jonathan commanded, and the chauffeur shut off the panting
+motor.
+
+They listened--all but the chauffeur, that philistine, who opened the
+hood and gingerly felt of the heated engine.  And the voice of the wind,
+wandering through the forest, came to them.  David heard a long wondering
+sigh from the girl beside him.
+
+Jonathan, too, heard and turned quickly.
+
+"That is real music, isn't it?"
+
+She nodded.
+
+"Is it worth the long ride?"
+
+"The ride was good enough in itself, but this--!  I never saw mountains
+before and I--oh, there aren't words for it."
+
+"I know," Jonathan nodded, and the little twinkling eyes, even through
+the hideous goggles, seemed very tender as they rested on her.  "'I will
+lift mine eyes unto the hills.'  The old fellow who sang that knew what
+he was talking about, didn't he?  If you've happened to mislay a faith
+anywhere, the mountains are a good place to look for it."
+
+"Even faith in one's self?"
+
+"The easiest to lose and the hardest to recover?  Yes, even that.
+Particularly that.  To any one needing it, I'd prescribe a month over
+yonder.  I've never been able to do that, but often, when the world seems
+a little--gray, I ride up here for an hour.  It does me good."
+
+
+The philistine yawned and turned his passengers' thoughts to a more
+interesting matter.
+
+"See there."  He pointed to a thin low-lying cloud on the western
+horizon.  "That's the city.  'Most sixty miles.  Done it in two hours,
+up-hill more'n half the way, too."
+
+"That's very good time, isn't it?" said Jonathan politely.
+
+"Humph!"  The philistine's disdain was marked.  "We'll do better'n that
+goin' back.  That is," he hinted, "if the dark don't catch us."
+
+It seemed best, on such sound considerations as a waiting dinner, to take
+the hint.  The big car panted once more, moved slowly along the ridge,
+then dipped sharply as it took the down grade.  They coasted, gathering
+headway with each turn of the wheels.  The girl, half turned, wistfully
+watched the mountains until the ridge rose to shut off the last crest
+from her sight.  Then she settled back in the seat as though she were
+very tired.
+
+David saw and on an impulse leaned toward her.
+
+"Do you mean," he asked in a voice so low that the others could not hear,
+"that you lose faith in yourself?"
+
+"It's the same thing, I suppose.  I lose courage sometimes.  I get tired
+of trying to like to do things I never really can like."
+
+"I understand," he said gently.  "Mr. Radbourne told me about you.  Will
+you let me say, I am very sorry?"
+
+She started, as if she had forgotten herself, and flushed deeply in her
+contrition.
+
+"There!  I'm perfectly nonsensical, letting myself be a cry-baby just
+when I'd intended--  It isn't my habit at all.  There's nothing really to
+be sorry for.  If you give any work your best and put your heart into it,
+you'll get--",
+
+"A great deal of happiness out of it," David finished dryly.  "Exactly!
+I recognize the formula.  Also its author.  I think you're just whistling
+to keep up your courage now."
+
+"But that isn't a bad thing at all to do.  Why--"  She turned to face
+him, with a little gasp for her daring.  "Why don't you try it?"
+
+It was his turn to grow red.  "You think I'd be more cheerful company?"
+
+"I think," she said, with a pretty gravity, "you make too much of being
+a--lame duck.  And I think that isn't like you."
+
+"How do you know whether it's like me or not?"
+
+"That," she laughed to cover her discomfiture, "is an embarrassing
+question.  But I do think it."
+
+"At least, I'm not such a grouch as I sound.  And I know how to be
+thankful when I find good--friends?"
+
+She nodded emphatically, and indicated their host.  "Two of us."
+
+"I'll hold you to that.  And," he continued, "you make me a little
+ashamed.  I should like to say that you, being with you, is very good
+medicine for lame ducks."
+
+Another flush--not of contrition this time nor yet of
+displeasure--deepened the pretty color.  He pursed his lips and whistled,
+as well as he could against the rushing wind, a bar or two of the latest
+popular melody.  They found humor in this and laughed, so merrily that
+their host turned and beamed approvingly upon them.
+
+It was a good car and the chauffeur was as good as his word.  The miles
+stretched out behind them, at a pace that forbade conversation.  The
+exhilaration of speed was upon David; and a deeper joy, born of a
+friendship found in a waste of loneliness.
+
+The late June sun was just sinking to rest when they entered the
+outskirts of the city and drew up before a rambling white house set well
+back on a velvety lawn.  Two great elms stood in the front of the yard
+and rhododendrons bloomed against the wide porch, their fragrance
+lingering on the evening air.
+
+"That," said Jonathan, "was a very spirited ride.  But I hope," this to
+David, "you aren't sorry it's ended, because this is my home, where we
+want you to come very often.  Miss Summers," he added, "already knows her
+welcome is sure."
+
+He got to the pavement and helped Miss Summers to alight, as
+deferentially as if she had been the finest lady in the land.  And,
+despite red whiskers and cap and goggles, to David the manner did not
+seem absurd. . . .
+
+A little later David descended from the room where he had removed the
+traces of their ride.  At the parlor door he stopped, looking uncertainly
+at the sole occupant of that cozy room.  She was reclining, eyes closed
+and hands folded, on a pillowed settee, where the glow of a shaded lamp
+fell softly upon her, and David thought her the most beautiful thing he
+had ever seen.  A very wisp of a woman she was; he could have held her in
+his arms and scarcely felt the weight.  But he would have taken her very
+tenderly, so fragile she seemed.  Under a filmy lace cap her hair, still
+fine and plentiful, shone silvery.  The face, though the face of age and
+white and thin almost to transparency, was strangely unlined.  She wore a
+black silk dress with many folds and flounces and fine ruching at neck
+and wrists.
+
+He thought she was taking one of those naps which are the prerogative of
+age at any hour, and began to tiptoe away.  But she started and sat
+upright, her face turned toward him.
+
+"Who is it?" she asked.  "But I know.  You are Mr. Quentin, of course.  I
+am Jonathan's mother."  She smiled.
+
+But something was wrong with that smile.  It seemed incomplete.
+
+"You may come in."
+
+She held out a hand.  David advanced and took it.  She caught his in both
+of hers, in a soft lingering clasp.
+
+She smiled again.  "It is a good strong hand.  You are quite tall, aren't
+you?"
+
+"Almost six feet."
+
+"And broad, too?"
+
+"Rather, I believe."
+
+He tried to speak lightly, but a hard lump was gathering in his throat.
+For he knew what was wrong with that smile.  She was blind.
+
+"I am glad of that."  She nodded brightly.  "I am very fond of large men.
+It has been my cross that Jonathan took his size from me and not from his
+father.  I could walk under his arm and not even graze his sleeve."
+
+She drew him down beside her.
+
+"Do you mind if I touch your face?"
+
+"It isn't much of a face, you know."  But that lump was very stubborn.
+
+She reached up and passed both hands over his face, a light caressing
+touch he scarcely felt.
+
+"Now," she smiled, "I see you.  You are quite mistaken.  It is a good
+true face and I like it very much.  Ah!"  She had touched his lashes.
+"You are feeling sorry for me.  But you must not," she chided gently.  "I
+don't like people to be sorry for me."
+
+To that David had no answer.  But on an impulse--or it may have been an
+inspiration--as the little hands left his face, he brushed one lightly
+with his lips.
+
+She beamed--always with that pathetic lack--just as Jonathan did when
+something pleased him.
+
+"That was very pretty."  She nodded again.  "I see I am to like
+Jonathan's new friend very much.  You know, you have quite won him.  He
+talks of you all the time.  You like him, do you not?"  The smile had
+become quite wistful.
+
+"Better all the time," David answered promptly and with truth.
+
+"I am glad of that.  And it is good of you to come here.  We have so few
+visitors--I suppose," she sighed, "because we aren't very interesting.  I
+am afraid Jonathan gets very lonely sometimes, having to spend most of
+his evenings here with no one but me.  Not," she made haste to add, "that
+he isn't always good to me."
+
+"I think he is good to every one."
+
+"You have found that out?  It is because he had a great disappointment
+once, I think."
+
+"One would never guess that."
+
+"No.  Of course, when one has had a disappointment or been made to
+suffer, one makes up for that by trying to make the world brighter for
+others."
+
+"It seems," said David, "that some people do that."
+
+"He wanted to play the violin professionally.  He had studied hard and
+his teachers said that he had talent.  But his father forbade it.  He
+said it wasn't a man's work to fiddle in public.  My husband," she
+sighed, "was a very firm man and wanted Jonathan to learn the business.
+So Jonathan went to the technical school here and studied engineering.
+Jonathan," she added proudly, "had been well brought up and knew that his
+parents were wiser than he."
+
+"I see," said David.
+
+"But I think," the little lady went on, after a pause, "we didn't know
+how hard it was for him.  I understand better now.  Sometimes, though he
+doesn't suspect, I hear it in his playing.  Then I wonder if we were
+wiser than he--and if I was selfish.  Of course, the music would have
+taken him away so much and it would have been very lonely for me--and
+very dark.  Sometimes I wonder if that wasn't his real reason for giving
+up his music."
+
+David was silent.
+
+"You say nothing."  Even without eyes to give meaning, her smile was
+wistful as a child's.  "Are you thinking he would have been happier--or
+better off--in the work he wanted than in taking care of me?"
+
+"I think," said David, "he is happy because he stayed with you."
+
+"He has said so himself."  She sighed.  "I wonder--I wonder!"
+
+For a little they said nothing, David thinking very hard.
+
+"And now," she said at last, "you may tell me what you think of Miss
+Summers."
+
+"Why," he answered, "she seems very attractive."
+
+"Jonathan has led me to believe so.  And a gentlewoman, should you say?"
+
+"I think so," said David, who had not thought of it at all.  "Oh, yes,
+undoubtedly."
+
+"That is my opinion.  And she sings very nicely."  Jonathan's mother
+sighed again.
+
+There was a dinner that included creations not found in cheap
+boarding-houses: fried chicken, for example, tender and flaky and brown,
+and crisp waffles with honey, and sweet potatoes in the southern style.
+It was cooked and served by a white-haired old negress whose round eyes
+popped with pride at the destruction David wrought.  She listened
+shamelessly, fat bosom aquiver, to her radiant master's quips,
+commenting, "Mistuh Jon'than,--_chuckle_--ef yo' ain'--_chuckle_--de
+beatenes' evuh!" and warned David in a stage whisper to save room for a
+miracle of a pudding to come.  Mrs. Radbourne opened the casket of her
+memory to display several well polished anecdotes of a day when the world
+must have been very bright indeed, full of light and color; chiefest
+jewel of which concerned a meeting with the elder Booth, from which
+occasion her husband--that very firm man--had emerged with credit.  If,
+as some wise man has said, wit is all a matter of the right audience,
+then David must have been very witty indeed.  And across the table from
+him sat a pair of slate-gray eyes, still aglow with that sense of
+adventure.
+
+Then there were cigars, mild and very good, smoked on the porch; both
+ladies protesting that they liked the fragrance of tobacco.  And then the
+host, with the air of having come to the real business of the meeting,
+rose and said:
+
+"Shall we have some music now?"
+
+"Oh, by all means!" said David politely, wondering how much credence he
+ought to place in the advance notices.
+
+They went into the parlor, where Jonathan turned to Miss Summers, "Do you
+feel like singing this evening?"
+
+"Yes," she said, and went at once to the piano.
+
+She played a few chords softly.  And then her voice rose in a low
+crooning note that went straight to David's heart.
+
+For she sang as the thrush sings--because God had put music in her heart
+and shaped her throat to give forth pure rich liquid sounds and meant her
+to be revealed through song.  And that evening, in the simple little
+slumber song she sang first, there was no faltering or roughened note to
+tell that part of her gift had been taken from her.  While she sang,
+there was nothing in the world but melody and the rest of which she
+sang . . . and the singer.
+
+She ended.  But over at least one of her audience the spell of her voice
+lingered.  For a long moment David sat motionless, lips parted, staring
+wonderingly at her, even after she had swung around to face them.
+
+"Why--" he stammered foolishly.  "Why--I didn't think--"
+
+The rose pink in her cheeks became rose madder and it was easy to see
+that she was happy over something.  "Oh," she said, "it just happens to
+be one of my good days.  Sometimes my voice leaves me in the middle of a
+note and lets me down flat."  She laughed, as though there were humor in
+that.
+
+David did not laugh.  He saw no humor in that.  He could not believe that
+it had ever happened. . . .
+
+And so she became the iris girl.  But he did not suspect that yet.  He
+was not looking for iris girls; it is much to his credit.
+
+They did not notice the excitement glistening in Jonathan's eyes.
+
+"You have been practising again," he declared.
+
+"Just a little.  And only for the fun of it.  Not in earnest of course.
+It's your turn now."
+
+He said no more about her practise but got out his violin, tuned it
+carefully, opened a book of music before her and waited for her to play
+the prelude.  Then, tucking the violin under his chin with an eager
+caressing gesture, he began to play.
+
+That was a night of wonders to David.  He was transported from a world of
+failures and disappointments into a delectable land where a dinky little
+man, armed with nothing but a horsehair bow and his own nimble fingers,
+compelled a gut-strung box to sing songs of love and throb with pain and
+dark passions and splendid triumphs.  That is always magic, though some
+call it genius.  And the magic did not cease there.  It touched the
+player, transformed him.  The homely manikin, a bit ridiculous with his
+mannerisms and whiskers, a trifle too obvious in his good will to others,
+disappeared.  Where he had been stood a man strong but fine and gentle in
+his strength, proud and passionate, as strong men are apt to be, but
+brave enough to turn willingly from his chosen path because another way
+seemed best.  David, watching the player's swaying body and transfigured
+face, understood, as even the blind little mother could never understand,
+how much her son had given to her.
+
+"If only he could be playing always!"
+
+Jonathan's mother slept.  But for two hours the man who was no longer
+manikin and the girl who in real life was only a frail little bookkeeper
+played to David: a brilliant polonaise, a nocturne that was moonlight and
+shadow set to music, a concerto that only the masters attempt, a few
+noble old classics.  Between them she sang thrice, songs chosen by
+Jonathan, each a little more taxing than the one before.  Not once did
+she falter and only once, in the last song where her contralto voice had
+to take _b_-flat above middle _c_, was there a hint of strain.
+
+More than rare harmonies and melodies and rhythms were coming to David.
+Player and singer, though they did not know it, were giving themselves to
+him.  This was the man, and that the girl, whom--rather patronizingly, as
+though he were conferring a favor--he had let proffer their simple
+unaffected friendship!  "He gave up his work of his own accord for that
+poor old woman who can't even guess at what it cost him.  _She_ was
+forced out of hers when success was in sight.  I don't know which is
+worse.  And _they_ don't make gloomy grandeur out of it."
+
+The last song, to which Jonathan improvised an obbligato, ended the
+music.  Esther--for that was her name--pointed in dismay, toward the
+clock and the sleeping hostess.
+
+"Thank you," said David from his heart.  He was thanking them for more
+than the music.
+
+Mrs. Radbourne stirred, yawning daintily.  "Are you stopping so soon?  My
+dear, you sang very prettily.  Jonathan, you surpassed yourself.
+Particularly in the _Largo_.  I remember Ole Bull, in 'sixty-seven. . . ."
+
+When that anecdote was concluded, the guests rose to leave.  Because it
+was very late, Mrs. Radbourne prevailed upon Esther to stay overnight.
+David would not be persuaded.  So they gathered around him at the door.
+And, having shaken hands, he said again:
+
+"Thank you.  And I should like to say--"
+
+A sudden awkward lump jumped into his throat.  He began anew, "I should
+like to say--"
+
+But what he would like to say would not be said.  "Good night," he forced
+out abruptly and hurried into the night.
+
+Jonathan Radbourne stood before the cold fireplace, tugging with both
+hands at his whiskers.
+
+"Miss Summers," he said, "that young man grows nicer all the time."
+
+"Yes," she said.
+
+"I wish I could make things brighter for him."
+
+"You are, I think."
+
+"No more than he has earned from me.  He's a very faithful worker, you
+know.  I must look up some of his professional work.  And I have an idea
+that concerns you, young lady.  There's a new throat specialist I've just
+heard of.  You're to call on him on Monday."
+
+David walked home.  When that absurd lump had been conquered he began to
+whistle determinedly, as became a young man who was no longer to make
+gloomy grandeur out of his failure.  He kept it up until he reached the
+apartment and its chill loneliness smote him.
+
+"Oh, Shirley," he cried, "if only you were--"  And that was another
+saying he did not complete, because it might have been lacking in
+loyalty. . . .
+
+A new tenant for the apartment had been found.  The next Saturday David
+turned the key for the last time on a scene of defeat.  He was not sorry
+to leave.  That night he took a train for an over-Sunday visit with
+Shirley.  She had been urging him to come.
+
+"I know it's an extravagance," she wrote.  "All the nice things are.  But
+Davy Junior and I are so homesick for you."  David's heart cut no capers
+at that, even before he read what followed.  "I'm afraid people will
+think it queer, your not coming, and of course, I can't tell them it's
+because we are _poor_."
+
+It was an unsuccessful trip from the beginning, though Shirley, all
+smiles and exclamations, met him at the station and hugged him so hard
+that she wrinkled his collar.  She took him to Aunt Clara's in that
+lady's new car, saying, "Home, Charles," as if she had been born to
+automobiles and chauffeurs.  There the day was taken up by many
+guests--including the resplendent Sam Hardy, in cutaway and silk
+waistcoat, New York made, that made David feel shabbier than he
+looked--come to inspect Shirley's husband.  The only real "aside" he had
+was with Aunt Clara, who quizzed him concerning the state of his debts.
+
+"You are doing quite well," she was pleased to approve.  "I begin to
+believe there's something in you, after all."
+
+"Thank you," David murmured, as politely as the case allowed.
+
+"Now don't get huffy with me, young man," she said.  "That's saying a
+great deal, from me to you.  You can't expect _me_ to fall on your neck."
+
+"Not exactly," said David.
+
+"Humph!" she sniffed.  "Sounds much like 'God forbid!'  Which isn't
+grateful.  You've much to thank me for, if you only knew it.  Shirley's
+better off here--and you're much better off having her here--than back
+there pinching pennies with you.  There are some things Shirley never
+could understand."
+
+David answered nothing, but a little voice within was piping, "It is
+true!  It is true!"
+
+Aunt Clara looked at him sharply, then suddenly--to her own great
+surprise--blew a trumpet blast from her long nose and said:
+
+"Tut! tut!  Don't mind my impertinent old tongue.  I like you better than
+I sound.  You may never set the river afire, but you have a pretty
+patience _I_ never had.  And I could be a fool over you, if I let myself.
+Do you want me to send her back home?  I will, if you say the word."
+
+David hesitated a moment.
+
+"Do you want her to go?"
+
+"No," said Aunt Clara.  "Shirley can be good company when things go to
+her taste."
+
+"Does she want to go?"
+
+"If she does," said Aunt Clara, quite herself once more, "she's bearing
+up under the disappointment remarkably well--for Shirley.  I take it my
+question is answered."
+
+Shirley and David went to the station as they had gone from it, alone in
+Aunt Clara's car.  All the way he was trying to tell her of the new
+resolve he had taken when Jonathan and Esther Summers made music for him.
+It was strangely hard to tell.  Not until they were in the station, with
+but a few minutes left, did he find words for the essay.
+
+"Shirley, I'm afraid you thought I was pretty babyish--about giving up my
+profession.  I--I _was_ babyish.  I'd like you to know I've got my nerve
+back."
+
+Shirley was very sweet about it.  "I did think you were a little foolish
+to take it so hard, dear, when the old architecture never brought us
+anything but disappointments.  I always knew you would come to look at it
+sensibly."
+
+And she dismissed the subject with the carelessness it may have deserved.
+"When do you think Mr. Radbourne will raise your salary?"
+
+"Probably before I have earned it."
+
+"David, do you think we'll _ever_ be rich?"
+
+"I suppose not.  There seems little chance of it."
+
+She sighed.
+
+"There is nothing in the world but money, is there?"
+
+Tears of self-pity were coming into her eyes.  "It's terrible, having to
+look forward to being poor forever."
+
+The train announcer made loud noises through a megaphone.  David rose and
+looked down in a sudden daze at the pretty young woman who was his
+wife--to whom he had become but a disappointing means to an end, to whom
+his heart, though he might thrust it naked and quivering before her eyes,
+would ever be a sealed book inspiring no interest.  His pretty house of
+love was swaying, falling, and he could not support it.
+
+"And I begin to think," he said queerly, "that we'll always be
+hopelessly, miserably poor."
+
+Even Shirley could perceive a cryptic quality in that speech.
+
+"What do you mean by that?"
+
+"Nothing that need disturb you.  I have no reason," he added grimly, "to
+believe that it will disturb you."
+
+She eyed him reproachfully and gave a sigh of patience sorely taxed.
+
+"David, I wonder if you never realize that in some of your moods you are
+very hard to understand."
+
+"Too temperamental, I suppose?  Right as always, my dear."  He laughed.
+Men sometimes laugh because they can not weep.  But Shirley did not know
+that.  "But I think I can promise you--no more temperament.  I'm learning
+a cure for that.  And now I'd better turn you over to Charles.  I think
+that noise means my train is ready."
+
+He took her to the car, kissed her and helped her into the seat and
+watched her ride away.  Then he went back into the station just in time
+to catch the train.
+
+Shirley found herself perturbed and close to tears; she hardly knew why.
+
+"I wonder what he meant by that about temperament?"  She sighed again.
+"Sometimes I think the worry and everything are turning David's temper
+sour.  I wish--I wish he were like other men.  He doesn't realize how
+trying he is sometimes."
+
+And Shirley being Shirley, she bade Charles drive faster and tried to put
+David's unlikeness to other men out of her mind.
+
+David being David, he sat up all night, submitting to his cure for
+temperament.  He was facing the truth from which he had been hiding ever
+since Shirley went away.  His heavy sense of loss had been defined.
+
+A little imp with a nasty sneering voice that jabbed like a hot needle
+perched itself on his shoulder and kept dinning into his ears:
+
+"The truth is, you had nothing to lose but a fancy.  Shirley never really
+loved you.  You were only one of her toys, one sort of a good time, and
+not worth the price.  You didn't really love Shirley, only what you
+thought she was, what you see now she is not.  Therefore . . ."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+SANCTUARY
+
+Some men fall out of love with their wives as easily and unconcernedly
+as they fell in.  They even feel a sort of relief, thinking a
+disturbing factor thus removed from their lives, and they live happily
+ever after.  But they are not "temperamental."
+
+It was not so with David.  He thought it a tragedy, at least for a
+while.  Even when it had failed him, when it had refused to shine in
+darkness, itself turned upon him in an hour of need, he had not lost
+faith in love.  He had said in his heart, "At least I have love left,
+which is worth while in itself; and having that, I can yet work out
+some sort of happiness for us all."  He had clung desperately to that
+hope, though the evidence was against it.
+
+He had been clinging to an illusion.  When he found that out, he had
+nothing left.  He was bewildered by the task of working out a happiness
+where no love was.  How could he rebuild when he had not even wreckage
+with which to build?
+
+He went to live at the boarding-house where he had been taking his
+meals, a dingy cheerless establishment that had but the one merit of
+cheapness.  He spent his evenings there alone, smoking too much,
+reading or working for Dick Holden.  The cheap tobacco burned his
+tongue and the loneliness, more than ever, ate into his soul.  He
+thought of going out to call on the Jim Blaisdells or for dinners with
+the men he had used to know.  But he shrank from that because he
+supposed his old friends must be saying, "That David Quentin--poor
+Davy!--has quite petered out, hasn't he?"  As probably they were.
+
+He had sense enough to understand that these nights were not good for
+him.
+
+"As far as I know, I've got to exist a good many years yet and make a
+living for myself and Shirley and Davy Junior.  So I mustn't let myself
+get into this sort of a rut.  I must hunt up a more cheerful place to
+stay."
+
+When a love is dead, it is dead, and there's an end to it.  After a
+decent period of mourning you get used to the fact. . . .
+
+The office, after all, was not so unbearably prison-like.  There was
+the balm of friendship--a double friendship--which is good for the
+self-respect of a man.  And there was the work, with which he was
+growing more familiar and which, therefore, was more easily and quickly
+and better done.  At his own suggestion the scope of his duties had
+been broadened; and he borrowed books from the library and tried to
+study out schemes to systematize Jonathan's business.  Some of these
+schemes were not wholly absurd and one or two were adopted, which
+pleased Jonathan far more than David.  Strictly speaking, David was not
+putting his heart into his work, but he was giving fidelity and a
+desire to do his best; and he was getting back, perhaps not happiness,
+but at least a measure of the honest workman's best reward.  So that
+Jonathan's theorem was given a partial demonstration.  Jonathan saw.
+
+"Mother," he said one evening, "I am more than a little ashamed.  I
+took David Quentin into the office because Mr. Blaisdell said he was
+badly in need of a position and nothing else offered.  I'm afraid I
+thought it a charity and was rather patronizing at first.  I'm afraid,"
+Jonathan sighed, "I am puffed up at times by my charities, which don't
+amount to so much, after all."
+
+"We are not required to be _too_ humble," she reminded him.  "Why are
+you ashamed just now?"
+
+"It wasn't charity at all.  David is really a very capable man and a
+hard worker.  He more than earns his salary--I'll have to raise that
+very soon.  I can't understand how he failed as an architect."
+
+"Perhaps he didn't have the right talent.  I understand architecture is
+a very difficult profession."
+
+"It is a noble art," said Jonathan, "and very few men have the talent.
+That must be the explanation, though I've looked up some of his work
+and it seems quite as good as that of many architects I know.  But I
+find it hard not to be glad that he was forced to come to me.  He is
+the most likable man I have ever met."
+
+"He seems attractive," said his mother, less sweepingly, "and has
+excellent manners.  He is good-looking, is he not?"
+
+"Very."  Jonathan winced.  "He is just what a man would like to be.
+And I never had a friendship that meant quite so much to me."
+
+"Has he displaced Miss Summers?"
+
+"Miss Summers," said Jonathan, "is--different.  What shall I read
+to-night--_Earnest Maltravers_?"
+
+Boarding-houses that are both good and cheap are not easy to find.
+David took his problem to Esther Summers.  It made an excuse for a
+minute's chat.  He liked to watch the dancing lights in those
+expressive gray eyes.
+
+"Do you happen to know of any pretty good boarding-house?  I say
+_pretty_ good, because it has to be pretty cheap, too.  The place I'm
+at now is a nightmare.  They're always frying onions.  And the
+star-boarder is a haberdashery clerk.  He looks like an advertisement
+of ready-made clothes and talks out of the side of his mouth in what he
+thinks is an English accent.  He's always talking to me about the
+squabs on his staff."
+
+"What is a squab?" she asked.
+
+"I'm not quite sure, but I think it's a wholly imaginary creature much
+taken by the charms of haberdashery clerks."
+
+"I see.  I don't think of any place now.  Unless--"  She hesitated
+doubtfully.
+
+"Unless what?"
+
+"My aunt has a third-story room that is empty.  It's a very nice room,
+though it isn't furnished now.  There are only two other roomers, who
+are very quiet and never bother any one.  We never fry onions and there
+is a pretty good boarding-house only a block away.  You could get your
+meals there."
+
+"It sounds like the very thing.  I could furnish the room myself with
+some of my stuff that's in storage.  And--  Do you happen to live
+there?"
+
+"I happen to.  Of course, if that's an objection--"  She laughed.
+
+"Would you let me set my door on a crack when you sing?"
+
+She nodded.  "Since you'd probably do it anyhow!"
+
+"Then I think I could waive that objection.  Would you mind speaking to
+your aunt about it?"
+
+"This very night," she said.
+
+That is how David went to live under the same roof that sheltered
+Esther Summers.
+
+It seemed a harmless arrangement.  He saw her very rarely there.  In
+the morning he left the house before she did, at the end of the day
+stayed longer at the office; not by intention but because his work
+called for longer hours.  In the evening she stayed with her faded old
+aunt in their part of the house.  The other roomers were as quiet and
+exclusive as the prospectus had promised.  So David, in his new
+quarters--pleasant enough once his things had been installed--was left
+alone with his books, his letters to Shirley and his work for the
+successful Dick Holden.
+
+But there was something in that house--not to be accounted for by mere
+creature comforts--that made it easier to fight off the blue devils of
+loneliness and took away a little of the reminder's stings when some
+tantalizing shape appeared in his tobacco clouds.  Every morning he was
+awakened by her voice at the piano, a few minutes of scales and then
+one song, always a true matin song, full of hope and the sheer joy of
+living.  In the evening she sang again, a little longer at scales and
+another song, sometimes two.  Then David's door would be set on a crack
+and he would lean back in his chair, listening and thrilling with some
+emotion as vague but as beautiful as a very good idea in ecclesiastical
+architecture.  Sometimes a film would come over his eyes; it is not
+clear why, for when she sang he forgot to remember that he was a
+failure, that he was in mourning for a love lately dead and that he had
+become a mere drudge for money.
+
+One evening when he had been under that roof for nearly three weeks she
+did not stop with the second or even the third song.  Ballads and arias
+followed until she had sung steadily for more than an hour.  Wondering,
+David stole from his room and sat with the other roomers on the stairs,
+listening raptly to the golden voice that floated up to them.  And not
+once did it falter or lose its pure timbre.
+
+Silence fell at last.  The other roomers, sighing, went back to their
+rooms.  David went down to the parlor.
+
+The singer was still sitting before the piano, absent eyes fixed on the
+open sheet of music; a happy but half-incredulous smile was playing
+about her lips.  It became a friendly welcoming smile when she saw him
+at the door.
+
+"Did you like my little concert?"
+
+"Like it!"  He used a gesture to explain that she had set too big a
+task for his tongue.
+
+Her cheeks made answer.
+
+"Do you know," he asked abruptly, "that your voice is getting better
+and stronger all the time?"
+
+"I think so," she said quietly.
+
+"Don't you think that maybe your throat is getting well?"
+
+"I think so.  But I can't be sure.  It's too soon to tell yet.  And
+it's too good to be true."
+
+"Oh, no!" he protested.  "You mustn't say that.  You mustn't _think_--"
+He stopped with a curt laugh.  "That's queer advice from me."
+
+"But it's very good advice--for any one, I am sure."  Her eyes had
+become very grave.  "And I shouldn't have said that, for it really
+doesn't matter so much as it did once.  You see, I was pretty cowardly
+about it at first, when I found I couldn't depend on my voice.  Because
+I couldn't have all I wanted I wouldn't have anything at all.  For two
+years I wouldn't sing a note.  The doctor says the long rest is what
+gives me a chance now, but I don't deserve that.  I made myself
+foolishly unhappy.  But it's different now.  Even if I can't go back to
+studying or ever hope to do big things, I know I can sing a little for
+myself and get a great deal of happiness out of that."
+
+It may be that her smile was a little too bright.
+
+"Do you really mean that?" he asked.  "Or are you only whistling again
+to keep up your courage?"
+
+"If I'm only whistling--why, please let me whistle.  But I think I do
+mean it.  It's very sound philosophy.  Even if the lame duckling can't
+fly, is there any reason why it shouldn't waddle for the fun of it?"
+And now the smile was just as it should have been.
+
+David considered that.  For some reason hidden from her his cheeks were
+burning; you would have said that he was ashamed again.
+
+"No reason at all," he said at last, "if the duckling happens to be
+very brave.  But I hope she is going to fly very high and very far."
+
+And with that he left her, more abruptly than was polite.  She would
+have been glad to have him stay longer.
+
+For many minutes she sat there by the piano, thinking not of the gift
+that seemed to be coming back, but of the queer lame duck who took his
+lameness so much to heart.  She saw no harm in such employment.  She
+wished she were a fairy godmother, so that she could by a wave of her
+wand make his wings whole once more.
+
+Up in his room David, too, was thinking earnestly.  After a long while
+he rose from his chair, set up the easel and began to work, not on a
+pretty-pretty picture for Dick Holden, but on an idea of his own that
+lately had been haunting him.
+
+That became a habit in his spare hours.
+
+
+Swiftly the new idea took form, as the flower grows in the field,
+without travail or effort.  He worked harder than ever at Jonathan's
+drawings those days--hot lazy days they were, too--to earn release a
+half-hour earlier; and he swallowed his dinners more hastily than was
+wise.  Then, when no hack work for Dick Holden was to be done, he sat
+at his easel sketching until the clock struck an hour--more often
+two--after midnight.  Esther's aunt was a model landlady and had
+nothing to say about extravagance in gas.
+
+He did not pat himself with the remark, "They will have to come to me
+yet."  He never even thought of that.  Neither did he say, "I am doing
+a big thing," having no opinion at all as to whether the thing was
+little or big.  But he whistled sometimes as he worked, quite softly,
+and he went to bed always in a warm mellow glow that merged easily into
+sound restful sleep.  In the morning he awoke ready, even eager, for
+the new day.
+
+He even took some pleasure in his work for Dick Holden.  It was Dick
+who gave him a bit of interesting news.  David had called that noon to
+get data for some plans Dick wanted him to make.
+
+"I could do them myself," the latter explained.  "But I'm loafing this
+summer.  I'm in town only because there's talk that St. Mark's is going
+to build."
+
+David did not wince.  "And to pay tribute into your coffers?"
+
+"That's what I'm here for," grinned Dick.
+
+"And what are you going to give them?"
+
+"_I_ don't know."  Dick waved a confident hand.  "Whatever they want."
+
+"I'm working out an idea," David suggested a little timidly, "that
+maybe you can use.  Drop around to my room some time and I'll show it
+to you."
+
+"Why, yes, I'll drop around some time," rather too carelessly said
+Dick, who was no longer so thoughtful in little things.  Too much
+success seemed to be going to his head.
+
+David flushed and dropped the subject.  Dick, too, dropped it, both
+from tongue and mind.
+
+A few evenings later, while David was working on his new idea, violin
+strains rose from the parlor.  But he did not go down or join his
+fellow roomers on the stairs, though Jonathan and Esther made music
+until the evening was no longer young.  It was a good hour for work;
+the harmonies from below awoke other harmonies in his heart and
+clarified his vision.  That evening he completed a first sketch of the
+interior: the picture you get looking toward the altar from a point
+well back in the nave.  It was good even as a sketch, for he had seen
+very clearly and worked eagerly.
+
+When it was finished he sat back and looked at it for a long time while
+the music from the parlor flooded up to him.  But he saw not a sketch.
+
+He was back in a simpler age when the symbols of faith had power;
+seeing with a new understanding a picture that had formed in his mind
+as he worked out this creation--for him it was already created. . . .
+A narrow crooked street, filled by a gay colorful throng that slackened
+its pace and lowered its voice before a gray, weathered old church.  A
+beggar crouching on the steps, mouthing his whining song.  A constant
+stream of worshipers passing in and out through the great open door:
+plumed cavaliers, their arrogant swagger for the nonce put off; gray
+pilgrims, weary and dusty, with blistered feet and splintered staves;
+mailed soldiers ready to march for the wars; tired-eyed crusaders home
+from a futile quest; a haughty lady, a troubled daughter of artisans, a
+faded wanton, brought into a brief gentle sisterhood by a common need;
+all seeking the same thing.  And perhaps in the doorway a faltering
+sinner unconfessed, fear of punishment a flaming sword in his
+path. . . .  Ah, well!  It was not so absurd, that picture.  For those
+seekers have even unto this day their children who, amid their
+pleasuring and warring and questing, sometimes grow faint and would
+rest.
+
+In such company he entered.  On the threshold they paused with a quick
+breath for the chaste beauty of vista and line, the soft play of color
+and shadow.  Then sense of beauty faded before a thing that eye can not
+see nor tongue express, what the seekers had needed and what they
+found: peace, passing understanding, unseen but undoubted; hovering
+above them in the noble nave, kneeling with them in shadowy aisle,
+winging toward them on the shaft of sunshine streaming from heaven
+itself upon the altar.  Here, for intrigant and ravager, penitent and
+saint, failure and world-weary, was sanctuary--respite, if only for an
+hour, from sin and strife, passion and hate and self.  It was good to
+stay there a while, humbled yet uplifted, aspiring anew.  For there was
+a Presence in His own house.
+
+A wonderful thing had happened to David Quentin.  His sensitive
+quivering heart had caught and recorded the great human need, and to
+him it had been given to build a rest house for many weary and poor in
+heart.  Perhaps if his commonplace little trials had not seemed big and
+tragic to him, he never could have known the need and so he never would
+have written in stone and wood the story of sanctuary that has meant so
+much to the ages.
+
+He did not foresee that.  He did not think of it as a possibility.  He
+was thinking only of the great discovery he had made: that a man may
+find sanctuary, as he may give worship, in a task well loved and well
+done.  Life was a pretty good thing after all, since it could not take
+from him eyes to perceive or heart to rejoice in the beauty he could
+create, though none else cared to see.  The days of his whimpering,
+even to himself, were ended.
+
+"I should have been doing this all along."
+
+Nor did he notice that the music had ceased.  He did not know even that
+he was no longer alone, until a voice broke in on his reverie.
+
+"He doesn't look very hospitable, does he?"
+
+"Maybe," said another, "he doesn't feel that way."
+
+David jumped to his feet and peered over the easel at Jonathan and
+Esther.
+
+"But he does, indeed.  Visitors," he announced, "are requested to stay
+on this side of the door."
+
+They stepped within.  "Since you wouldn't come down," Jonathan
+explained, "of course we had to come up.  Though Miss Summers almost
+lost her courage on the way.  She said we were taking a liberty."
+
+"But I didn't," she protested in some confusion.  "I only said--"
+
+"That you don't seem to care much for company," Jonathan completed her
+sentence.  "She was mistaken, I trust?"
+
+"Woefully," smiled David.  "And I've had company all evening.  They
+played and sang and helped me to work."  He waved a hand toward the
+easel.
+
+"Do you think," Jonathan inquired of Esther, "we may take that as a
+compliment?"
+
+"I'm not quite sure," she answered.
+
+"She means," chuckled Jonathan, who seemed to be enjoying himself
+hugely, "she must see the work before she commits herself.  Is it
+allowed--?"
+
+"Of course, if you care to," David said.  "And you'll find these chairs
+comfortable, I think.  Over here, where you get the light."  When they
+had sat down, he turned the easel toward them.  "Now, ladies and
+gentlemen," he burlesqued, "if you will look upon my right--"
+
+They looked.  And their sudden surprised interest made his heart skip a
+beat.
+
+"Why, I--I didn't know--" Esther began, in the words he had once
+stammered to her.  She gave him a quick questioning glance, then looked
+again at the sketch.
+
+Jonathan had become very grave.  "You have a gift for drawing."
+
+"Only a knack," said David.
+
+"A very pretty knack then.  Is that a copy?"
+
+"Just a sketch of an idea I've been trying to work out lately.  This,"
+David placed another drawing on the easel, "is about what it would be
+like outside."
+
+"It is," said Esther, "like seeing music."
+
+Jonathan studied that drawing for several silent minutes.
+
+"You keep up your professional work as a side issue?" he asked abruptly.
+
+"Oh, no!  But sometimes I--waddle for the fun of it.  Under advice,"
+David smiled at Esther, "of a very good fairy."
+
+Jonathan did not understand that saying, but he thought from her color
+he could guess the fairy's name.
+
+"And very good advice, too.  Have you done any other ecclesiastical
+work?"
+
+"Why, that," laughed David, "I used to think was my mission in life."
+
+"Is there anything else you could show us?"
+
+"I have a set of drawings I submitted to St. Christopher's last spring.
+They're all that escaped a general destruction when I took down my
+shingle."
+
+David got the plans from a closet, unrolled them and placed the
+illustrative sketches before his visitors.  Jonathan studied these
+drawings, too, very carefully.
+
+"St. Christopher's, you say?" he said at last.  "But I don't
+understand.  I happen to have seen the plans they accepted.  I don't
+know very much about architecture technically, but I should say yours
+are better--manifestly better.  Am I right?"
+
+"They weren't what St. Christopher's wanted."
+
+"But they are better, aren't they?"
+
+"I think they are," said David quietly.
+
+"But I believe I like the new idea even better.  Am I right again?"
+
+"I suppose it is better in a way.  It's less pretentious and
+spectacular, but has more warmth--more meaning, I suppose."
+
+David tried to speak casually, but excitement was mounting.  He caught
+up the new sketches and compared them eagerly with the old, forgetting
+for the moment what St. Christopher's had meant to him.  And he saw the
+new idea as he had not seen it before.
+
+"It _is_ better," he muttered.  "I--I hadn't realized."
+
+"David!"  It was hard to believe that Jonathan could be so stern.  "You
+are a fraud.  You came to me under false pretenses.  You gave me to
+believe that you had been a failure."
+
+"I was."
+
+"You know better than that.  Any man who can work out such things--!
+For a very little I would give you your discharge this moment."
+
+"But I beg of you--Mr. Radbourne, you don't know what my position means
+to me--"
+
+"I didn't mean that seriously, of course.  But you ought to be back in
+your own work.  Why did you ever leave it?"
+
+"Because I couldn't make a good enough living."  David flushed as he
+said it.  How pitifully poor, despite all his late philosophizing, that
+reason sounded!  "Mr. Radbourne, let us drop the subject."
+
+But the shining-eyed Jonathan would not drop it.
+
+"I think I can understand," he said gently.  "Because it seemed the
+best thing for others, you gave up the work you wanted to do and were
+fitted to do.  You didn't whine and you did my little drudgeries well
+and patiently, as though they were the big things you would have done--"
+
+"You don't understand.  I did whine--"
+
+"I never heard you.  Miss Summers, we owe David an apology.  We were
+sorry for him!"
+
+"Not now," she said.
+
+"No, not now.  David, how long will it take you to finish your new
+plans?"
+
+"But I'm not going to prepare plans.  A few sketches for my own
+amusement--that's all."
+
+"I happen to know that St. Mark's is about to build."
+
+"I am not interested, Mr. Radbourne."
+
+"But I am.  As a member of St. Mark's and as your friend, I am deeply
+interested.  How long will it take, David?"
+
+David only shook his head.
+
+"Man," cried Jonathan, "will you let one reverse--"
+
+"Mr. Radbourne, I beg of you, don't urge that.  It's all behind me.
+I'm not fitted for the work as you think--drawing pretty sketches isn't
+all of it.  I--a man told me once, I haven't the punch.  I don't know
+how to meet competition.  And it cost me something--it wasn't easy--to
+get settled in other work.  I don't want to get unsettled again, to
+face another disappointment.  I--"
+
+David stopped.  And Esther, watching him too closely to be conscious of
+her own heart's eccentric behavior, saw in his eyes the hurt which
+disappointment had left, and philosophy, even a very sound philosophy
+as formulated by a lame duckling, had not yet fully healed.  And she
+saw indecision there, a longing that she understood, and a fear--
+
+Of its own accord her hand went toward him in a quick pleading little
+gesture.  "You must!" she said softly.  "Please!" . . .
+
+Jonathan had left, beaming with joy, violin under one arm, a roll of
+sketches under the other.  They stood on the porch in an intimate
+silence they saw no reason to break.  A young half moon was sailing
+over the city, dodging in and out among lazy white cloudlets.  David
+watched it and wondered if he and his friends had not been more than a
+little foolish.  He shrank from the thought of another defeat.  He
+shrank even from the thought of a victory; for, should it come now, it
+would not be alone through his gift or any power that dwelt in him.
+
+"I believe you're sorry you promised him."
+
+He turned to the girl.  The disappointment in her tone reached him.
+
+"He isn't hard to read, is he?  He's planning to--to pull wires for me.
+He won't trust my work to win out."
+
+"Ah!  I was hoping you wouldn't think of that."
+
+"I can't help it.  It sticks out--you've thought of it yourself.  Do
+you think it is a foolish pride?"
+
+"Not foolish!" she answered quickly.  "And not just pride, I think.
+It's hard to realize that good work isn't always enough."
+
+"Then you don't think me--temperamental?"
+
+"I think you are--honest.  But after all, there's no real dishonesty if
+you do good work.  And I think"--there was a sudden return to her old
+shyness--"I think, if you win out, your great reward will be the good
+work you have done."
+
+"How do you know that?"
+
+"If it weren't true you wouldn't have made those sketches."
+
+And he knew a quick stirring of gratitude that he had found this girl
+who understood so well, who saw the verities as he saw them and had
+neither laugh nor sneer nor impatience for his finickiness.
+
+"I wish," she went on, "it could come to you as you want it.  But I am
+glad it is coming--even though some one does pull wires to bring it to
+you."
+
+"But the wires may not work.  I've got to remember that others may not
+see my work as you and he do."
+
+"That is possible," she said.  "What of that?"
+
+"I can try again, you mean?  I suppose I can do that.  I think I will
+do that, as I can.  And probably, if I turn out work that's worth
+while, some day my chance will come.  If I don't--why, there are other
+things to do, and if you put your heart into them you can get happiness
+out of them.  Do you mind if I plagiarize a bit?"
+
+"I don't mind at all," she smiled.
+
+"And I've got to remember that, win or lose, I owe a lot to you and
+him.  He doesn't understand what a quitter I was when I came to his
+office.  I'd turned sour.  I thought, because things hadn't gone the
+way I wanted, I'd been hardly used."
+
+"I know how that feels," she said.
+
+"The truth was--"  Moonlight loosens tongues that by day are tied fast.
+"The truth was, I'd had the best luck in the world.  I'd met him--and
+you.  You went out of your way to make things pleasant for me, a
+stranger.  And by just being yourselves you shamed me into looking at
+things from your point of view.  It's a very good point of view.  I'd
+rather have it now, I think, than build all the churches in
+Christendom."
+
+The moonlight revealed the friendliness in her eyes.  He could not
+fight down a new thrilling faith in his gift, in himself, in his
+strength to stand straight though he should fail again.
+
+"You'd have found it by yourself," she said.  "If you'd really been a
+quitter, if it hadn't been in you, you couldn't have found it, even
+through him.  But I know how you feel.  I feel the same way toward him.
+_Isn't_ he the dear, funny little man?"
+
+And that opened a fertile and profitable field.  Jonathan's ears must
+have burned a long while that night.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+CERTAIN PLOTS
+
+Three good fairies had their heads together.  One was an astute banker
+with a mouth delinquent borrowers hated to see, one was a woman who was
+known to be wise and one was a dinky little man with red whiskers.
+
+"The question before the house," said Jim Blaisdell, "is, are we
+justified in playing politics to bolster up a young man we're afraid
+can't stand on his merits?  _I_ don't fancy pulling wires--in church
+matters, that is."
+
+"The question," said Mrs. Jim, "is no such a thing.  It is, whether
+we're to let that insufferable Dick Holden give us another St.
+Christopher's?"
+
+"Or to help make a strong fruitful life?" amended Jonathan.
+
+"I can't quite see Davy as strong," said Jim, "though he is paying his
+debts.  But Dick certainly is getting to be a conceited duffer.  The
+ayes," he sighed, "seem to have it.  The next question is ways and
+means.  Old Bixby's method in St. X looks good to me.  A conditional
+contribution--what do you say?"
+
+"How much?" inquired the practical Mrs. Jim.
+
+Jim took out an envelope, did sums in subtraction and division and held
+out the result to his wife.  She took it from him, did a sum
+herself--in multiplication--and exhibited that result to him.
+
+"Woman," he cried, "would you rob me?  I'm no Standard Oil."
+
+"It's the least I can possibly consider," she answered him firmly.
+"You can't expect to play good fairy without paying for the privilege.
+Now, Mr. Radbourne, what will you do?"
+
+Jonathan, too, took out an envelope, wrote slowly a row of figures,
+scratched it out, wrote another and handed it doubtfully to Mrs. Jim.
+
+"Will that do," he inquired, "for a starter?"
+
+Mrs. Jim gave him a special smile.  "_That_ is something like."  She
+waved Jonathan's figures under her husband's nose.  "There, Mr.
+Pinchapenny!  Are you blushing for shame?"
+
+"Phew!" whistled Jim.  "If that's how he squanders his money, he
+needn't ever come asking credit of me."  He grinned at Jonathan.  "Davy
+must be a mighty poor workman, when you'll pay so high to get rid of
+him."
+
+"Oh, no," Jonathan protested.  "It will be very hard to fill his
+place--in one way entirely impossible.  But, you see, Davy and I have
+become good friends, and--"
+
+"And of course," Mrs. Jim put in sweetly, "in friendship one forgets
+one is a shaver of notes."
+
+"Oh, my hands are up," Jim groaned.  "I'll match your figures,
+Radbourne.  But, for heaven's sake, don't raise me again!"
+
+"What I'd like to know," said Jim, when Jonathan was gone, "is, why we
+are going to the poorhouse for Davy Quentin?"
+
+"First," said his wife, "because we know Davy will do work that is
+worth while and because he is Davy.  Second, because it is good for us
+to give a little out of our much."
+
+"No one helped me when I was poor," growled Jim.
+
+"That," she explained, "was because you were known to have a talent for
+helping yourself--and because you married me, who am help enough for
+any man."
+
+"There may be something in that," Jim was forced to concede.  "Shirley
+still at her aunt's?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Hmmmm!  Mighty long visit.  What's she doing there?"
+
+"Having a very good time."
+
+"While Davy--hmmmm!  Any trouble there, do you suppose?"
+
+"No-o-o!  But Shirley keeps writing about 'poor David, who doesn't seem
+to have the money-making knack'--with an air that says, 'Poor Shirley!'
+And when a woman begins to speak sadly of her husband's flaws, it is
+time they were together again with all flaws repaired.  Shirley being
+Shirley, it had better be in prosperity."
+
+"Who's going to repair Shirley's flaws?"
+
+"That's part of the scheme.  We must get her back somehow before she
+knows Davy's plans are accepted.  Then she will seem--"
+
+"I see."  said Jim dryly.  "That may allow her time for a very long
+visit--a lifetime, in fact.  But isn't there a theory that hard
+scratching is good for the soul?"
+
+Mrs. Jim eyed her lord with contempt.  "My dear Jim, you are old enough
+to know that no family ever came happily through money troubles unless
+the wife was patient and wise indeed.  Besides, I'm not trying to prove
+a theory, but to correct a mistake before it's too late."
+
+(But of all this David never was told.)  The old witch must have
+gnashed her teeth in rage as, peeping through his windows, she saw her
+spell broken.  There is a good fairy called Hard Work, and another
+hight, Hope, and both of these were standing guard.  David must have
+been happy, because he never thought of happiness, its causes or
+effects.  There was a new set to his jaw that meant far more--if you
+were looking for signs of the future--than the youthful enthusiasm once
+reflected on his face.  So the witch, shrieking grisly maledictions,
+rode away to vent her spite on colicky babies and gouty old men.
+
+There was one thing the fairies could not guard against, perhaps
+because they had not been warned.  Sometimes the witch perceived that
+David was not alone.  Those occasions were not many: a few minutes now
+and then when household errands were prolonged a trifle, or lemonade
+and cookies, sweetened by the aunt's good wishes, were carried to him.
+And sometimes he went down-stairs to listen to a song and to tell the
+singer that her high _b_-flat was unmistakably easier.  There was no
+great harm in that, to be sure.  But the witch, baleful creature that
+she was, took a hint and hatched a wicked plot.
+
+They had a bond, you see.  They faced the same adventure.  It did them
+good to compare notes of progress; and an audience was needed if they
+were to make a jest of setbacks, such as a throat that seemed all burrs
+or an idea that had for the moment lost its charm.  Also he needed some
+one to remind him that he took too little sleep and never exercised.
+He would have been wiser if he had listened.  Instead, he laughed at
+her and said, "Work never kills, and in summer I always get thin."  But
+evidence of her concern always left him pleasantly glowing.
+
+In August she took her vacation.  But she did not go away.  Part of
+each day she spent in his room, putting it to rights and keeping it
+sweet and clean.  She liked to do that, because he never failed to note
+the result of her labors or to thank her.  When she had finished her
+sweeping and dusting, she would sit for an hour or more studying the
+sketches and plans he had left on easel or table.  She thought it a
+marvel that a young man could think out a church so proportioned that
+its harmonies set one to dreaming and thinking, so devised that it
+would not fall down though the storms of centuries charged against it.
+And it was a relief to think of him and his work; it took her mind from
+an ugly little fear lurking in her heart.  Her throat did not always
+behave as a well-meaning throat should.
+
+Sometimes she studied also a new photograph on his mantel--of a pretty
+laughing-eyed young woman playing with a sailor-suited cherub.  The
+young woman, she knew must be the wife of whom he never spoke.
+
+"You are very pretty," she would whisper.  "Why do you stay away from
+him?  Don't you know he is lonely, with no one to cheer him up but a
+funny little man--and me?  You're the reason he gave up his own work."
+
+She tried not to be prejudiced against Mrs. David Quentin.  But she had
+a burning curiosity, which is a weakness of all women--and men.
+
+She mentioned the picture one evening, very casually.
+
+"This is your family, is it not?"
+
+"Yes," he said in a queer curt tone she had never heard him use.
+
+"She is very pretty, isn't she?"
+
+"Yes.  They are--spending the summer at an aunt's."
+
+"What a darling little boy!" she said.
+
+Soon after she left, thinking, "I wonder _why_ she is away from him?
+It isn't a happy reason, I'm sure. . . .  _I_ wouldn't stay away from
+him."
+
+David was thinking much the same thing.  The next day the picture was
+nowhere in evidence.
+
+When he went down-stairs one evening to tell her the plans were
+complete, she dissembled her excitement and said, "Now you'll be able
+to get enough sleep."  But when, after a few minutes of gay nonsense,
+he had left her to take her advice, and she thought what success would
+mean to him, she became very grave and had her first taste of a
+suspense that grew heavier with each waiting day. . . .
+
+The blind woman was first to see.
+
+There was another dinner at Jonathan's house, by way of celebration of
+the plans' completion, with music, most of which came from his violin.
+Esther sung only twice, because that was one of the days when the
+throat behaved ill.  "I've been working it a little too hard," she
+explained.
+
+Between times they were very gay.  It seemed to Jonathan that his
+guests were unusually witty and happy.
+
+Mrs. Radbourne was _not_ asleep, though the lids drooped over the poor
+sightless eyes.  She was listening.  But not to the music or jests.
+And she was seeing, through a sense that only blind people have.
+
+When Jonathan came back from his walk with his guests to the trolley,
+she was waiting for him.
+
+He began to pace back and forth across the room.  She listened closely
+to the quick staccato tread.
+
+"You seem very happy over something, Jonathan."
+
+"I am."  She did not need eyes to know that he was beaming.  "Did you
+notice that they both seemed in better spirits than usual?"
+
+"I noticed."
+
+"They are coming into their own.  I can't help feeling that our
+ventures are coming out well.  It will be something to have helped them
+a little.  There are compensations, you see--"  He caught himself
+abruptly.
+
+"Compensations for what?"
+
+"Oh, for all the things," Jonathan said vaguely, "that one would like
+to do and can not."
+
+"Even for giving your life to the care of a helpless, uninteresting old
+woman?"
+
+"Hush, mother!"  He reached her in a twinkling and patted the fine
+silver of her hair.  "You know better than that."
+
+"I know what you have given up for me.  It is only lately that I have
+begun to understand.  Oh, Jonathan--"
+
+"But think what I've gained by staying with you!  There have never been
+any regrets."
+
+"You have been a good son."  But her smile was very faint.  "Do you
+like David Quentin as well as ever?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"There are no 'whys' in friendship, mother."
+
+"Does he return your friendship in equal degree, do you think?"
+
+His answer was without hesitation.  "No."
+
+She was silent.
+
+"That is not to be expected, of course," he said simply.  "I think he
+would if he could.  But such matters are not to be forced."
+
+She lifted her face and the poor lifeless eyes seemed to be straining
+to see him.  "I am just beginning to know my son.  Ah! if I could see
+you--only once!  I would ask nothing more."
+
+Her hands reached toward his face.  But he caught them and held them
+gently.
+
+"Why do you never let me touch your face?"
+
+He mustered a laugh.  "I'm afraid you would be disappointed.  You know,
+your hands have seen David, and--"
+
+"Ah!" she breathed.  "Always your David!  Jonathan--"  She paused
+sharply.
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"Jonathan, there is a Mrs. David Quentin, is there not?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where is she now?"
+
+"Visiting relatives, I believe."
+
+"It is a strangely long visit, don't you think?  In my time husbands
+and wives lived together."
+
+"It is an arrangement for the sake of economy, Mrs. Blaisdell tells me.
+It seems David had got into debt."
+
+"I should think," she said slowly, "Mrs. Quentin would find it
+economical to return."
+
+"Mother!" Jonathan started.  "Just what do you mean?"
+
+"Her husband and you find Miss Summers quite agreeable, do you not?"
+
+"Mother," he reproved her gently, "you should not even hint such a
+thing.  David is a man of honor."
+
+"Say he is a man--and stop there.  A presentable young man whom people
+seem to like and whose wife has been long away.  And Miss Summers is an
+attractive young woman who has been thrown much with him. . . .  I have
+seen what I have seen."
+
+"Mother!"  Jonathan stood stiffly, as though he had been turned to
+stone.  "Oh, that is impossible.  You are unjust.  It isn't like you to
+be so suspicious.  There is nothing between them but a friendly
+attachment."
+
+"A friendly attachment!  In words, perhaps.  But--oh, my poor blind
+son!  Jonathan, sit here beside me."
+
+He went to her and sat down by her side.  She took both his hands.  And
+her voice was very gentle.
+
+"You are in love with her, are you not?"
+
+"Yes," he said.
+
+"Then press your suit quickly, my son."
+
+"But I can't--you must see that.  I am her employer.  She is dependent
+on me.  It would put her in a distressing position."
+
+"I approve of your delicacy.  Not many men display it in these greedy
+days, I am told.  But delicacy can be carried to excess.  Women love to
+be wooed strongly, masterfully.  I remember how your father--"
+
+"My father was equipped for masterfulness.  I," he smiled sadly, "am
+not."
+
+"You are small, I know, like me.  I had hoped my son would be tall."
+She sighed.  "But many small men have been great and strong."
+
+"You don't understand.  Mother, you have been blessed--you have never
+had to look on your son.  That is why I never let you touch my face.  I
+am more than merely small.  I am ugly.  I am ridiculous.  I am almost
+grotesque.  People smile in amusement when they see me and never take
+me seriously."
+
+"Does _she_ smile in amusement when she sees you?"
+
+"No.  She is too big-hearted for that.  She is gentle and kind and
+friendly, because she is a little sorry for me and because she thinks
+mistakenly that she has reason to be grateful.  As a friend, a helper,
+I am tolerable.  As a lover I should only be absurd.  See, mother, for
+yourself--this once!"  He lifted her sensitive hands and guided them
+over his face.  "My nose--my ears--my little pig's eyes--this grinning
+mouth--these silly whiskers that hide a little of my absurdity--"
+
+She drew her hands quickly away.
+
+"You are a gentleman, a fine, great-hearted gentleman--"
+
+"With a face like a comic valentine.  Even my mother can't say no to
+that.  What woman wants a comic valentine for her lover?  Don't you
+understand now?  I can have her friendship now and be with her a
+little.  And I can do little things to help her.  I can't risk losing
+that to seek something she never could give."
+
+"But she could have given it once.  I know it.  I knew it then, but I
+wouldn't tell you because I wanted to keep you for myself.  He--your
+friend David--had not come then.  You must take the risk for her sake.
+And before it is too late."
+
+"But I can't inflict myself on her.  It would be no kindness to her or
+to me."  He left her and began to pace back and forth agitatedly, in
+the pompous, hopping little strut.  "You are wrong--you must be wrong.
+It is impossible.  It would be terrible, tragic even though they are
+both good.  And it would be my fault.  I brought them together,
+thinking she would help make things cheerful for him. . . .  Mother, I
+wish you hadn't put this in my mind!  I can't believe it.  I won't
+believe it.  He is honorable--"
+
+The blind woman smiled sadly.  "It is a thing with which honor or duty
+or law has nothing to do.  And I fear--I fear it is already too
+late--because I kept silent when I should have opened your eyes."
+
+But Jonathan was not listening.  He was seeing the faces of his friends
+as they had been that evening.  The scales were falling from his eyes,
+an evil black fear entering into his heart.
+
+"Oh, Jonathan, my son--my dear son--"
+
+She held out her hands to him and he went to her and knelt at her side.
+And she mothered him, that dinky, absurd little man, and he bowed his
+head on her knee.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+A NEW HOUSE
+
+Radbourne & Company was in a daze.  And no wonder!  For a week the
+"little boss" had not once beamed, the spirited hop had gone out of his
+walk, a new querulous note had come into his voice.  When a matter went
+wrong--which, it seemed, happened oftener than usual--he reminded the
+delinquent of the fact, not gently, but sadly, as though deeply aweary
+of the frailty of men.  Miss Brown confided to Esther that she was well
+on the way to "nervous prostration."  Esther was worried, and wondered
+what grave mischance could have worked out such a change in Jonathan.
+He seemed to avoid both her and David, and when they did meet his
+manner was constrained and awkward.
+
+It was like chicken-pox and evil gossip and other contagious diseases.
+It spread.  Gloom hung like a fog over office and shop.  No one
+whistled or hummed at work.  Good friends lost their heads and
+exchanged cutting words.  And Hegner, the shop foreman, who had been
+sober for a year, lost his grip and got drunk.  Because he was ashamed
+and hated himself, his temper was always at half-cock.
+
+And Smith--poor Smith, the ex-convict, to whom Jonathan's kindness had
+been as water on a lame duck's back--had to bear the brunt of Hegner's
+distemper.  He stood it as long as he could; which was not very long.
+
+One noon hour he presented himself, sullen and whining and bleeding at
+the nose, with a grievance for Jonathan's ears.  The latter looked up
+frowningly from the pile of letters he was signing; they were sadly
+misspelled, the agitated Miss Brown having been at her worst.
+
+"Yes, Smith," he said wearily.  "What is it?  A complaint, I suppose?"
+
+"I wants to know," began Smith in a whine, "why I can't git a square
+deal here.  The shop boss he--"
+
+"Is Hegner mixed up in it?  Then go bring him here and say what you
+have to say before him."
+
+Smith departed, to return a few minutes later, an apprehensive eye cast
+back at the trailing Hegner.
+
+"Now, Smith," said Jonathan, "what is your complaint?"
+
+"The boss he keeps damnin' me up an' down all the time," Smith
+explained.  "An' this morning he slugs me--right here on the beak."  He
+laid a gentle finger on the corpus delicti.
+
+"Hegner," inquired Jonathan, "why do you keep damning him up and down
+all the time?  And why did you slug him on the beak?"
+
+"Because," Hegner grinned sheepishly, "his beak was the place most
+convenient."
+
+"This isn't a joking matter," Jonathan reminded him sharply.
+
+"So it ain't."  Hegner turned a glance of contempt on Smith.  "He's a
+bum an' a loafer, He won't learn an' he won't try to work.  Why, Braun,
+who'd ought to be in bed instead of at a lathe, turns out half as much
+again as him.  How can I jack the other men up if I let him lag behind?
+An' this morning I told him I'd had enough of his soldierin' an' what I
+thought he was good for.  He hauled off with a steelson to crack
+me--but I beat him to it.  That's all."  Hegner blew tenderly on his
+knuckles.
+
+"Smith," said the judge, "what have you to say to that?"
+
+"'Tain't so.  He's only huntin' an excuse to fire me an' give some one
+else my lathe."
+
+"So I am," Hegner put in grimly.  "Some one who'll work an' who ain't
+an ex--"
+
+"Hegner, hold your tongue!"  Jonathan turned to Smith.  "I have to
+believe Hegner, because I've been watching you, Smith.  I took you on
+here, as I told you at the time, not to do you a favor, but because I
+thought you were in earnest and would justify it.  I was willing to be
+your friend.  And you soldiered.  You stole the time I paid you for,
+which is the same as stealing my money.  And you stole something
+else--my trust--which is worth more to me than my money.  But I suppose
+that is something you can't understand."
+
+"I un'erstan's when I ain't wanted," answered Smith, with an ugly
+laugh.  "I'll git my time an' git out."
+
+Then Jonathan's trouble found voice in a sharp querulous outburst.
+
+"Yes, get your time.  I'm tired keeping men who won't help themselves."
+
+Smith vanished, and his surly ugly face was only the reflection of the
+ugliness just then in his heart.
+
+"You, too, Hegner!"  Jonathan turned blazing eyes on his foreman.
+"You've been drinking again, when you promised me--"
+
+"You ain't more disgusted than me."  Big Hegner, ashamed, looked down
+at his feet.  "But I couldn't help it.  Honest, I couldn't.
+Everything's been goin' wrong here for a week."
+
+Jonathan's outburst ended as suddenly as it began.  "I know," he said
+wearily.  "I know."
+
+An hour later David, seeking Jonathan on a matter that was only a
+pretext, found him idle, elbows on the desk and head propped in his
+hands.  Jonathan looked up listlessly.  The matter disposed of, David
+ventured, uncertainly, because he had learned the last week to remember
+that he was an employee as well as a friend.
+
+"Mr. Radbourne, are you ill?"
+
+"No."
+
+"I'm afraid something's wrong."
+
+"Something's wrong, David."
+
+"I hope it is something that can be easily mended."
+
+"I'm afraid it can't."  Jonathan looked at him queerly.  "I'm afraid
+the damage has been done.  Will you please go to the shop and see if
+Smith is anywhere around?"
+
+David departed, to return with the word that Smith was gone.
+
+"Ah!  I'm sorry.  I owe him an apology and some amends.  A little while
+ago I lost my temper and did him an injustice, when he needed to be
+helped.  I had no excuse.  But it hurts to be disappointed in a man."
+Jonathan looked queerly at David again.  "In any one, David."
+
+"I have found that out," answered David.
+
+Jonathan picked up some papers.  "If you will excuse me now--I have
+some work--"
+
+David took the hint promptly, with the feeling that somehow he had been
+the one to disappoint his friend.  That hurt as deeply as it puzzled.
+
+That afternoon Jonathan went out for two hours.  When he returned he
+summoned Esther to his office.
+
+"Miss Summers," he began abruptly, "how is the voice?"
+
+"I'm afraid--"
+
+"You must be afraid of nothing," he interrupted.
+
+"I'm afraid," she repeated quietly, "I have come to a standstill.  Some
+days I feel as if I could sing forever, then the very next day one easy
+little song will seem too much.  And if I am in a draft for a minute or
+get caught in a shower, my throat gets sore and hoarse at once.  It
+doesn't seem to get any stronger."
+
+"Probably it won't until you do the right thing.  I took the liberty of
+talking to Doctor Jenkins.  He says the trouble is all with your
+general health.  You'll have to build it up.  So--so you must get away
+from this office, that takes up your time and strength, and live as
+much as possible outdoors and grow strong."
+
+"But I can't do that.  I can't afford it and I can't impose on my aunt."
+
+"Could you afford it if you had a good church position?"
+
+"Yes.  But I'm not ready for that.  I couldn't fill it.  No church
+would want me, with a voice so uncertain--"
+
+"The Second Presbyterian is looking for a new contralto.  I have asked
+them to give you a trial.  Will you sing for them?"
+
+"When?"
+
+"At the vespers service next Sunday afternoon."
+
+"But I can't do that.  It's too soon.  It wouldn't be fair to them,
+even if I should sing well at the trial.  I--I'm afraid I've been
+letting you expect too much--"  Her face had grown whiter than usual.
+
+"But you can."  Jonathan was very earnest.  "You must believe--you must
+_believe_ you can.  You must make up your mind to sing your very best
+next Sunday.  If they hear you at your best, they'll be glad to have
+you, even if your voice is a little uncertain at first.  And you must
+get away from this office."
+
+"You mean my work here isn't good enough--that you want to get rid of
+me?"
+
+"Not that!" Jonathan almost gasped.  He looked down at his desk and
+nervously ruffled his whiskers.  "Oh, not that!  I shall--miss you very
+much.  And if you ever want to come back, there's a place waiting for
+you.  But I want you to have your career--everything that is best for
+you.  And"--he raised his eyes to her again and they joined his tongue
+in the plea--"won't you try it for--for my sake?"
+
+She looked away quickly, a sudden catch in her throat.  And though her
+heart was filled with dread for herself, it was aching, too, for the
+little man--not so absurd to her just then--part of whose secret she
+had seen.
+
+"I will try it," she said. . . .
+
+Of course she told David that evening.  (How easily and naturally, now
+that his work on the plans was done, they had drifted into those little
+evening chats!)  He had a moment of grave doubt.  His face showed it.
+
+"Do you think I can't make it?"
+
+Doubt vanished on swift wings.  "I think nothing of the sort.  And you
+mustn't think of it, either.  You must believe you can.  It is half the
+battle.  Hear me preach!" he laughed.
+
+"That's what he--Mr. Radbourne--said."
+
+"He was right, as always.  This is very exciting.  Do you know, I've a
+feeling you're going to knock 'em galley-west.  And that," he nodded
+gaily down at her, "and that would be the finest thing that could
+happen."
+
+"You forget your church," she smiled back.
+
+"So I did!  But now I remember it, I have nothing whatever to take
+back."
+
+The witch chuckled as only witches can and sent her broomstick steed
+prancing madly across the sky. . . .
+
+He saw Esther and her aunt away that Sabbath afternoon with a jest--an
+extravagant salute and an "Up, lass, an' at 'em!" to which she made
+answer with a determined smile.  When they had been perhaps five
+minutes gone, he put on his hat and followed.
+
+He found a seat in the rear of the church and waited, nerves strung
+taut as if the ordeal were his, wishing the services would begin and
+yet dreading it.  His eyes swept the gathering worshipers idly until
+they happened upon a familiar face across the church, a homely face set
+sternly rigid toward the choir loft.
+
+"He would be here, of course," David mused.  "In a way, if ever she
+makes good, her success will be his.  It will be because he has given
+it to her."
+
+A nameless little regret followed that.  But before he could give it a
+name the organ burst into the prelude and the choir filed into the loft.
+
+In the first anthem her voice was heard only with the others.  The
+second was a trio in which she did not sing.  The offertory solo was
+hers.
+
+So, while the organ softly played the theme, she rose and faced her
+ordeal.  The late afternoon sun was streaming through the tall west
+window.  One amber shaft reached out and enfolded her caressingly,
+vivifying the white girlish face: a picture he has to this day.
+
+
+"By the waters of Babylon. . . ."
+
+
+For a breath fear clutched at his heart.  In those first few notes was
+a weak quaver, a huskiness that ought not to have been there.  His
+whole body grew tense with effort as mind and heart sent winging to her
+a silent message.  "You must not fear!  You must believe!"  Another was
+sending her the same word.  But David had forgotten him.
+
+One of those messages must have reached its mark, for of a sudden her
+voice grew true and steady and clear, shaken only by the poignant grief
+of her song.  Then there was no more ordeal, only a frail wisp of a
+girl singing as he had never heard it the exile's plaint.  David did
+not quite know her.  Up there in the loft, bathed in the mellow
+radiance that had singled her out as if in prophecy, letting out to the
+full, as she could not in the little parlor, a voice of power and
+passion to thrill multitudes, she did not seem the girl who had made
+music for him, who had offered him friendship in his loneliness.  She
+had grown as the occasion of her song had grown; she had become one of
+the custodians of great talents, set apart to keep alive and reveal the
+harmonies that men through centuries had been hearing and recording.
+Quivering with joy in her triumph, he was abashed as well.  He had too
+easily accepted the friendship, so naively tendered.  He had not
+appraised it justly. . . .  And then there was only the song.  He was a
+captive in a strange land and the ache of the exiled was in his heart.
+
+
+". . . By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."
+
+
+He realized at last that she had ended.  The ordeal was over; she had
+passed through unscathed.  He leaned back and smiled at the imprints of
+nails in his palms.  His eyes grew wet, but not with the exile's tears.
+. . .  When they had cleared, without his bidding they turned to where
+Jonathan sat, whiskers crushed upon his breast.
+
+It was a wonderful world through which David walked homeward that
+Sabbath evening.  He went by a roundabout way, that he might miss none
+of it.  He thrilled with a sense of victory, a song of thanksgiving was
+in his heart.  And from that he should have known what had happened to
+him.  But he was to have that hour perfect.
+
+She was sitting on the porch when he came in sight of the house.  She
+may have been waiting for him.  He quickened his pace.
+
+He stood before her, smiling down into her shining eyes.
+
+"A question of identity is disturbing me.  I'm still hearing a certain
+song--I think I can never forget it.  Are you by any chance the singer?"
+
+"As it happens, I sang a little this afternoon."
+
+"Then the finest thing in the world has happened."
+
+"Did I do pretty well?"
+
+"Pretty well?  Hmmm!" he considered the matter judicially.  "Yes, I
+think I may safely say that."
+
+She laughed as though he had been very witty, then quickly became grave.
+
+"Were you thinking hard for me at the first, when I almost fizzled?"
+
+"The hardest I knew how.  I was afraid you were losing your nerve."
+
+"I was.  I never was so scared in my life.  It came over me all at once
+that the next few minutes would probably decide everything for me, and
+I could see only strangers--critical strangers who wouldn't care.  Then
+I saw you sitting back there and--and then I could sing.  Thank you for
+coming."
+
+"You're quite welcome, I'm sure."  He laughed at her thanks.  "Did you
+think for a minute that I could stay away?  And are you aware that we
+have never shaken hands?  It is really high time.  Would you mind?"
+
+Her smile was sunshine itself.  "With all my heart."  She put out her
+hand.  He took it and held it.
+
+And he dropped it and stood looking strangely at his own hand.  For it
+was tingling deliciously.  And at her touch and the look that went with
+it his heart had burst into a sudden mad singing--a song not of exile
+or thanksgiving, but of a longing to which he might never give tongue.
+
+The hand fell slowly to his side.  With an effort he lifted his glance
+to her questioning, startled eyes.  He tried to make his voice easy and
+natural, but it was heavy and stiff.
+
+"I--I congratulate you.  I hope--I know--to-day is only the beginning
+of many fine things for you."
+
+Then he turned quickly and left her.
+
+In his room, when the first daze had cleared a little, he set himself
+sternly to face this new thing.  For he knew now why the old sense of
+loss--of the dream woman shrunk to a wife to whom love was only a
+bauble to be worn in fair weather--and why the failure of love had
+ceased to trouble, why Shirley had drifted so quickly, so easily into
+the shadowy background of his life.  He saw what had helped him to win
+his new brave philosophy, had builded the walls of his sanctuary.  His
+poor sanctuary!  What refuge could it offer now?  Another house of his
+building lay about him, a grim hopeless ruin.
+
+"Oh, Esther!" he whispered to the girl he might not have.  "Oh, Esther!"
+
+He sat there, trying to see what he must do.  Darkness fell.  But he
+wanted no light.  He did not stir until late in the evening chords from
+the piano reached him.
+
+He rose and opened the door and a voice, athrob with pain, floated up
+to him.
+
+
+"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept. . . ."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+AT THE DOOR
+
+But Shirley was a fact.  By morning--no sleep came to him that
+night--he had decided what he must do about that fact.  It was then not
+a very complex problem.
+
+He took a lightly packed bag with him to the office and at the first
+opportunity presented himself to Jonathan.
+
+"May I take to-morrow off?  There is a matter I must attend to at once.
+I can be back by day after to-morrow."
+
+"Certainly," said Jonathan, without looking up.
+
+"Thank you."  David hesitated.  "Mr. Radbourne, do you know anything
+definite of the situation at St. Mark's?"
+
+"Nothing definite."
+
+"Do you think there's any chance for me at all?"
+
+"The committee will decide this week.  There's a man named Holden--"
+
+"I know him."
+
+"He seems to have influence--and not much else.  But Mr. Blaisdell is
+trying to see that you get fair play."
+
+"Is it necessary for Mr. Blaisdell to use his influence very actively
+in my favor?"
+
+"I'm afraid it is."
+
+"I'm sorry.  I knew, of course, that you and he would do all you
+could--if it was needed.  But I thought perhaps my plans would justify
+the committee--"
+
+"They do.  And they justify any work that has been done for you.  There
+is no obligation that need weigh heavily on you."
+
+"It isn't that.  I appreciate my--my friends' willingness to help.  But
+I'd hoped to be able to win solely on my merits in this thing."
+
+"Do you wish us--Mr. Blaisdell to refrain?"
+
+"No.  I need to get back into my profession.  It means so much to
+me--in a new way--that I'll be glad to have it on any terms.  That
+doesn't mean that I'm not grateful for the kindness I've had here.--
+But I'm interrupting."  And David went back to his drawing.
+
+All that day he avoided Esther, sticking close to his table.  Not until
+she was leaving at the end of the afternoon did he seek her.
+
+"Miss Summers, I forgot to tell your aunt that I shan't be back until
+day after to-morrow.  Will you please tell her for me?"
+
+"You are going away?"
+
+"Yes."  He made no explanation.
+
+"I will tell her."
+
+"Thank you."  And because he was holding himself sternly rigid, lest
+eyes or tone cry out what must not be said, he spoke almost curtly.
+
+She moved quietly away from him and did not once look back, though she
+knew he was watching her.  But when a door was between them she stopped
+for a moment, quivering lips pressed hard, both hands tightly clenched.
+Then she, too, sought Jonathan.
+
+"Mr. Radbourne, the church people telephoned to-day that I can have the
+position."
+
+"I am very glad.  When shall you be leaving the office?"
+
+"At the end of the week, if you can get some one for my place."
+
+"So soon!  I--"
+
+"I will stay as long as I'm needed, of course."
+
+"Oh, no!  You're quite right to go at once.  I can get some one to do
+your work.  But not to take your place.  I shall--"  Jonathan seemed
+deeply interested in the crystal paperweight on his desk.  "We shall
+miss you very much."
+
+"I haven't thanked you--"
+
+"Please don't thank me for anything.  I have done nothing any one could
+not have done.  It is," he said huskily, "it is to my happiness, my
+great happiness, if I have been able to help you a very little."
+
+Then he looked up and saw her face.
+
+"Miss Summers!  You look overtired--and I have kept you standing.  You
+must sit down, and let me get you--"
+
+"It is nothing at all."  She forced a smile to her lips.  "It is only
+the reaction from yesterday.  The ride home in the car is all I need.
+Good night, Mr. Radbourne."
+
+"You are quite sure--"
+
+"Oh, yes.  Quite all right, Mr. Radbourne."
+
+"Good night, Miss Summers."
+
+And when she was gone, he sat down and took a small mirror from a
+drawer and looked long and sadly at what it recorded.  Suddenly he
+dropped the mirror and bowed his head on the desk.
+
+"Esther!"  It was almost a sob.  "If only I could help you now!" . . .
+
+David walked the next morning from the station to Aunt Clara's house.
+He walked slowly, because Aunt Clara lived on a hill and because he
+dreaded facing Shirley.  But he did not have to face her at once.  As
+he neared the house he saw an automobile, filled almost to overflowing,
+roll down the driveway and turn up the street; and Shirley was one of
+the party.  She did not notice her unexpected visitor.
+
+But as he turned into the grounds he met a little sailor-suited cherub
+in tow of a nurse who did not know David.  He dropped his bag and
+squatted before the child.
+
+"Hello, old man!  Aren't you going to shake hands?"
+
+Davy Junior clung tightly to the nurse's skirt, put one chubby finger
+into his rosebud mouth and stared, round-eyed, at the big man.
+
+"He's always that way with strangers," the nurse explained.
+
+"Oh!"  David winced and stood up.  "He's forgotten me, then.  When he
+has had his walk please bring him to the house.  I'd like to get
+acquainted with him again.  I'm his father, you know."  He picked up
+his bag and went on to the house.
+
+A few minutes later he was shown into Aunt Clara's sitting-room.  She
+greeted him in astonishment and offered her cheek for a kiss.
+
+"This is a surprise.  Shirley's out, too.  They're gone for a picnic
+and won't be back until dark."
+
+"Yes.  I saw them start out.  How is she?"
+
+"Shirley's quite well.  And seemingly enjoying herself."
+
+"I suppose so," he said.
+
+"And the boy, too."
+
+"Yes.  I just saw him.  He--"  David cleared his throat.  "He didn't
+know me."
+
+"That's to be expected.  Children forget easily.  You're not looking
+well yourself."
+
+"I've been working pretty hard of late."
+
+"Are you on your vacation?"  Aunt Clara was studying him curiously.
+
+"No.  I have just to-day.  I came to get Shirley to come back."
+
+"Are you out of debt then?"
+
+"Not quite."
+
+"You've had a raise?  Or has something better turned up?"
+
+"I've had one little raise.  Nothing else has happened--that I can
+count on.  But we can get along nicely now, thanks to your help."
+
+"For which you're not thankful at all," she smiled grimly.
+
+"It was a mistake."
+
+"Humph!" she sniffed.  "Have you lived with Shirley four years without
+learning that she can't stand--"
+
+"Suppose," he interrupted quietly, "suppose we don't criticize Shirley.
+I shan't criticize you, either.  I blame myself for letting her come
+here.  Now we're going to correct that mistake."
+
+Aunt Clara sniffed again.  "What has got into you?  You used to have no
+more spirit than a mouse.  Now you remind me of your late Uncle John in
+some of his moods.  Suppose Shirley thinks it better--_sniff_--to stay
+here a while longer?  If you're not out of debt you'll still have to
+pinch pennies and--"
+
+He interrupted again, still quietly.  "You must help to convince her it
+is best.  She must come--before it is too late."
+
+"What do you mean by that--'before it is too late'?"
+
+"I mean--while I still want her to come."
+
+"Eh?"  Aunt Clara stared sharply at him.  She put on her spectacles,
+that she might stare more effectively.
+
+Then a light broke in on her, a light too incredible, too dazing even
+for Aunt Clara's confident mind.  "Eh?  David Quentin!  Do you mean to
+tell me--do you mean--there is another woman?  Who is she?"
+
+He made no answer, but though his tired face went even whiter, steadily
+withstood her gaze.
+
+"Such a thing never happened in our family before," Aunt Clara gasped
+weakly, "that I ever heard of.  I don't know what to do about it."
+
+"There is only one thing," he said steadily.  "Shirley must come back
+at once."
+
+Aunt Clara took off her spectacles, rubbed them mechanically and donned
+them again.  Her hands fell nerveless to her lap.
+
+"I don't know what to do," she repeated.  "For the first time in all my
+existence.  I--I have no precedents.  You must leave me for a while
+until I can think this out."
+
+He rose.  "You can't think it out.  I have tried."
+
+"You'd better lie down and get some sleep.  You're looking quite badly."
+
+"No.  I'll go out and find David Junior."
+
+"Perhaps that would be better."
+
+He went.  For an hour Aunt Clara sat alone, trying to work out the
+hardest problem of life, how to raise a love from the dead.  And all
+she achieved was a bitter self-reproach.  For the first time in all her
+existence.
+
+A ripple of childish laughter came to her through an opened window.
+She rose and looked out.  She saw the Davids, little and big, sitting
+chummily on the lawn.  Then Aunt Clara thanked God that David and
+Shirley had been given a son.
+
+"We have that much to start with--though it seems little enough just
+now."
+
+She sniffed, as a matter of necessity, and hastily reached for her
+handkerchief.
+
+When it was time for Davy Junior's dinner and nap she summoned David to
+her sitting-room again.
+
+"David," she began, very meekly for Aunt Clara, "I've been thinking it
+over.  I ought to blame you.  But I can't.  I've had all I could do
+blaming myself.  Are you thinking I am a selfish, meddlesome old fool?"
+
+David shook his head wearily.
+
+"But I am.  I was lonesome alone here in this big old house and I
+really thought--  But never mind that now.  Does she--that other woman
+know?"
+
+"I think not."
+
+"Is she--is she in love with you?"
+
+"Oh, no!  That is impossible.  Oh, no!" he repeated.  "That couldn't
+be.  It would be too terrible."
+
+"It's terrible enough as it is.  Are you going to tell Shirley?"
+
+"That wouldn't help matters, would it?"
+
+"I suppose not," she sighed.  "David, you must be very gentle with her.
+It isn't her fault she wanted to run away from hard times.  All her
+life we have spoiled her, her father and mother and Maizie and I.  I
+did it worst of all, as I never spoiled my own child.  David, come over
+here."
+
+He went to the chair beside her and she reached for his hand very
+awkwardly.
+
+"Oh, David, it's going to be very hard for you--all because an old
+fool--"  Aunt Clara was crying now, noisily and unbeautifully because
+she had had little practise.  "And I'm afraid that when you see Shirley
+you'll find it even harder than you thought." . . .
+
+Shirley came only a little before it was time for him to start for his
+train.  He was playing on the library floor with Davy Junior when an
+automobile came to a panting stop before the house.  A minute later
+came Shirley's voice from the hall, "_Da_-vy!"  The little fellow
+scrambled to his feet and ran to meet her at the door.  She caught him
+and swung him strongly in her arms, hugging and kissing him.  And David
+saw that the months had been kind to Shirley.  The marks of worry and
+discontent had been erased, her eyes danced and her cheeks glowed with
+health and pleasure.  Oh, a very fair picture was Shirley, in the full
+flower of her loveliness.
+
+But his heart went not one beat faster for her.
+
+Then she saw him and set the child down.  "David!"  And she ran to him
+and kissed him--very prettily, as a loving wife should.
+
+"And now," said Aunt Clara, "I will say good-by to David and leave you
+alone to the last minute.  The car will be waiting for you when you're
+ready."  She held up her cheek to David and left them.
+
+Shirley gasped.  "You're not going to-night?"
+
+"In a few minutes.  I must."
+
+"But--but this is ridiculous.  Surely you can stay overnight at least."
+
+"No.  I promised to be back to-morrow morning.  My time isn't my own."
+Which was not quite fair to Jonathan in its implication.
+
+"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"
+
+"I didn't think of it until this morning when I got here and saw you
+going out.  I supposed I should find you."
+
+"Surely you're not piqued because I--  David, what is it?"  A look of
+dread came into the dancing eyes.  "You're looking wretchedly.  You're
+not going to tell me we've had some more bad luck?"
+
+"I hope," he said quietly, "you won't call it that I came to ask you to
+go back--home."
+
+"Why, I--"
+
+It was no glad eager light that took the place of dread.  It was
+consternation, a manifest, involuntary shrinking from what he
+asked. . . .  Then she was in like case with him.  He had not counted
+on that.
+
+He felt his heart turning hard and cold; and that was not the way of
+the gentleness he had planned.  He, too, had shrunk from what he asked;
+yet he had not hesitated to ask it, thinking to save her from some
+hurt.  She, without the key, thought only of the loss of her good
+times.  He could tell her the whole truth and she would not care--if it
+led to good times.  Couldn't she see, couldn't she _feel_, the tragedy
+in this end of their once pretty romance?  Since she could not, why try
+to save her from a hurt she would never really know?
+
+Yet he went on, though not just as he had planned.
+
+"So you do think it bad luck?  Don't you ever want to go back, Shirley?"
+
+"That's foolish.  Of course I do.  But--but the debts aren't paid yet."
+
+"Pretty nearly.  If we're careful we can clean them up quickly now."
+
+"But it seems so foolish--and so unnecessary.  We could wait a little
+longer.  The salary is so small at best.  How--how should we live?"
+
+"Very simply, I fear.  But," he added, in the same even, repressed
+tone, "always within our means, I'm sure.  We'll go to a boarding-house
+first and then look around for an apartment we can afford.  We'll be
+starting over again, Shirley."
+
+"But--"  She was still stammering.  "But it's been so good for Davy
+here.  And the weather's still warm--"
+
+"That's only an excuse, I think.  And it's a risk he'll have to take.
+It's better than--than some other risks."
+
+"What other risks?  Since we've waited so long, what difference would a
+few weeks more make?"
+
+She did not guess what a temptation she was putting before him.  It
+would be so easy to make this a fork in the road from which he and she
+should take different ways forever, in the end leaving him free, and at
+little cost to her!  But he fought that thought sternly.
+
+"Shirley, can't you see what has happened to us?  We've been drifting
+apart.  We're very far apart now.  You don't really want to come back
+at all.  And I--I could easily say, 'Then don't come.'  I'm capable of
+that just now.  And you wouldn't really care."
+
+"How can you say such a thing?  Of course, I would care.  I don't
+understand--"
+
+"You wouldn't care or you would have come of your own accord.  Shirley,
+I came here to coax you.  I can't, now I see how little it all means to
+you.  But--  You've mentioned Davy.  We've got to think of him."  He
+looked down at the child playing between them.  "I want the boy,
+Shirley--and I want you with him."
+
+There was an edge to his voice that she had never heard.
+
+"But I wouldn't think of leaving him.  I--I was going back--  When?"
+
+"As soon as I can find temporary quarters for us."
+
+"You say--I _must_?"
+
+"I don't say that.  I say only, if you are coming at all, come while I
+want you."
+
+They faced each other in silence, the pretty, pleasure-loving young
+woman to whom life had been only a house of toys, and the rather seedy
+young man who had been one of the toys.  The bond that held them was a
+slight one; a little more strain and it would have snapped.  But the
+toy man had grown--somehow--into a real man whom she did not want to
+let go, and she knew that, as he had said, he had got far away from
+her.  She could not understand; still she had not the key.  And she was
+afraid.
+
+"David!  What is it I feel about you?  You don't think--oh, you can't
+think--I don't love you?"
+
+"I suppose you think you do.  But it's not much of a love."  A clock
+struck.  He had forgotten his train.  "Let me know if you want to come.
+I've got to go now."
+
+He caught up the boy and held him close, then kissed her hastily.  And
+before she quite realized it, he was gone.
+
+Aunt Clara found her standing where he had left her, staring blankly at
+the door, unmindful of the little David tugging at her dress.
+
+"Aunt Clara!  What is it?  What has happened?  David has been talking
+about--about my never going back--"
+
+Aunt Clara made a good guess as to what had been said.  And she had
+been doing some more thinking of her own.
+
+"Between us we've nearly lost you a husband.  That's what _has_
+happened.  And you're going to pack up and pack off to win him back,
+for his sake if not your own.  That's what is going to happen."
+
+"Win him back!"  Shirley's world was fast sinking from under her feet.
+"Is--is that what Mrs. Jim has been hinting in her letters?  Do you
+mean--you think David has stopped--_loving_ me?"
+
+"You think it incredible?"
+
+"But he's my _husband_."
+
+"What's that got to do with it?  Oh," cried Aunt Clara, "can't you get
+it into your silly, selfish little head that you can't keep a love
+without earning it?  You've been a fool.  And I've been another.  I
+never was so foolish in my life.  I wonder your late Uncle John doesn't
+turn over in his grave.  Come, Davy, it's most nine o'clock.  To bed
+with you and leave your mother to think for once in her life."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+THE WITCH LAUGHS
+
+David was at his desk early the next day, working closely in the effort
+to shut out his own problems; it was not a very successful effort.  All
+morning he avoided Esther strictly; that was much easier.  She was
+avoiding him, too, but he did not guess that.
+
+During the noon hour he had a caller; Dick Holden, if you please, a
+Dick who was plainly perturbed.
+
+"Davy," quoth he, "have I done you some favors?"
+
+"You have," said David.
+
+"One good turn deserves another.  It has to do with St. Mark's.
+Something queer's stirring there.  My wires won't work.  You're pretty
+thick with Jim Blaisdell.  Get him to put in a word, a good strong
+word, for me, will you?"
+
+"I'm afraid I can't, Dick," said David, "very consistently."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"The fact is, I think Jim is putting in his best words for me."
+
+"What do you mean by that?"
+
+"I have plans in there myself."
+
+"The devil!"  Dick stared.  "I thought you were out of the game."
+
+"I'm back in to this extent."
+
+"Why didn't you tell me?"
+
+"I didn't suppose you would be interested."
+
+"Are your plans any good?"
+
+"I think so," said David.
+
+"Then I bet you're the one that's blocking me there."  Dick shook his
+head reproachfully.  "Davy, I'm disappointed in you.  I call it playing
+it low down on me.  You might at least have told me, so I could know
+what to meet.  It isn't fair.  It isn't friendly.  And after all I've
+done for you!  I didn't think you could do it."  Dick sighed
+sorrowfully, his faith in human nature evidently shattered.
+
+"I'm sorry, Dick," said David.  "I supposed you put all your faith in
+your wires."
+
+Dick thought a few minutes.
+
+"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do," he offered at last.  "When friends
+find themselves competing, they should meet half-way.  We'll pool on
+your plans--I'll take a chance on them, sight unseen.  I'll throw my
+pull over to you.  Then we'll split the spoils, two and one.  The two
+to me, of course."
+
+"Why the two to you--of course?"
+
+"The prestige of my name," said Dick with dignity, "is worth something,
+I think.  We'll have to get busy at once, because the committee meets
+this afternoon."
+
+"I'm afraid, Dick, I'll have to say no.  You had a chance at my plans
+before I thought of putting them in.  You could have had them for
+almost nothing, but you didn't think them worth looking over.  I think
+I'll stand or fall with them."
+
+"That's final?  After all I've--"
+
+"Yes, Dick, final.  But it doesn't mean I'm not grateful--"
+
+With a gesture Dick waived that.  "Very well," he said sadly, rising.
+"I thought there was such a thing as friendship in business.  I see I
+was mistaken."
+
+David wondered if Dick were losing his punch.
+
+That afternoon came a wire.
+
+"Am packing up now.  Love.  Shirley."
+
+He tore the yellow paper slowly to bits.  "Poor Shirley!" he muttered.
+
+Poor Shirley, with her house of toys!  Frightened now, no doubt, into
+thinking that she wanted what she did not really want, as he had been
+driven, by resentment at her blindness, into saying what he did not
+really mean.  She at least would never miss what he could no longer
+give.  She would be content with the hollow pretense their life
+together would be, missing only her good times.  But he must have her
+beside him, to remind him that he was not free and never should be free
+to go browsing in the green fields of love.
+
+She would never know.  Still, poor Shirley--none the less!
+
+He set wearily to work once more.
+
+The afternoon came to an end somehow.  The clamor of machinery from the
+shop was stilled.  The other offices became silent.  He supposed the
+others had gone.  A janitor made the rounds, closing the windows.
+Doggedly David stuck to his table until he had completed the design he
+was working on.  Then he put the table in order for the night, donned
+his hat and coat and started to leave.
+
+But the corridor door of the adjoining office was open.  He looked
+in--and saw Esther, hatted, but still on her high stool by the desk,
+looking out into the street.  She heard him, started and turned, then
+said:
+
+"Oh, I thought every one was gone."
+
+"Yes, I thought so, too."
+
+They fell silent, awkwardly silent.  The easy comradeship was no more.
+
+Then she smiled; no one but David could have told that the smile was
+forced.
+
+"I was just thinking--isn't it funny?--that I'll be sorry to say
+good-by to that dingy, rackety street.  I'll hate to leave this office.
+I've been here two years and--"
+
+"You are leaving, then?  I didn't know."
+
+"Yes.  At the end of the week."
+
+He commanded his feet to go on.  And they went--toward her.  He rested
+his folded arms heavily on the tall desk.
+
+"I'll miss you," he said.  "I'll miss you very much.  It won't seem the
+same here without you."
+
+"But maybe you'll be leaving, too.  If your plans are taken, you know."
+
+"I'd forgotten them.  I don't seem to care so much about them as I
+ought--now they're out of my hands.  And I can't count on them.  I
+suppose we'll not see each other very often after you leave here.  I'll
+be leaving your aunt's in a few days.  My--my people are coming home."
+
+"Oh!  You'll be glad of that."
+
+"Yes."  And again, "Yes."
+
+He let his eyes dwell hungrily on her, as though this were indeed their
+farewell, drinking in every detail of her--the dark curling wisps
+straying from under her hat, the slate-gray eyes, a little sad just
+then, the slender girlish figure that seemed so frail.  For that moment
+there were no Shirley, no law, no honor.
+
+"I'll miss you," he said again and fumbled at his collar.  "One way and
+another I owe you a great deal.  I shan't forget that.  I shan't forget
+you.  I'll remember that I came here--to prison, I thought--and found
+some good friends.  One very good friend who--"
+
+"Don't!"  The little hand lying on the desk clenched tightly.  "Don't
+talk about it.  I--"  She got slowly down from the stool.  "I must be
+going now."
+
+But her eyes did not leave his.  They went suddenly dark.  And in them
+he read the same hurt that was in his own heart.  He saw with a fierce
+blinding joy--then with horror--and then with joy again.
+
+"Esther!  You, too!  Oh, I never wanted that.  I hoped you--  Oh,
+Esther!"
+
+She gave him no answer but stood looking at him piteously.  No one,
+seeing them, could have failed to understand.  The man who had come to
+the door saw and understood.
+
+It was Jonathan.
+
+They saw him.  No word passed then; there was nothing to say.  She
+moved slowly out of the room by another door, the men, both as if in a
+daze, following her with their eyes.  When her footsteps had died away,
+they looked at each other helplessly.
+
+"David!"  Jonathan's voice broke like a boy's.  "David!  What have you
+done?"
+
+After a little that cry reached David's understanding.  "I never
+knew--"  He turned away from the stricken accusing face.
+
+He heard Jonathan start away at last, then turn and come toward him.  A
+letter was laid on the desk.
+
+"I was bringing this to you," said Jonathan's choking voice.  And
+again, "David!  David!"
+
+That time Jonathan did not return.
+
+Mechanically David took up and opened the letter.  He had to read it
+twice before he grasped its import.
+
+"The committee of St. Mark's has selected your plans. . . .  We shall
+want you to supervise the work . . . usual terms . . . congratulations."
+
+The letter fluttered from his hands to the floor, St. Mark's from his
+mind.
+
+So he was not to have even the consolation of knowing that no one but
+himself had been hurt.  It would be on his soul that he had hurt her,
+too--cruelly, hopelessly hurt her.  And he could not help her, only run
+away and leave her to face it alone.  And Jonathan, his kind
+friend--the meaning of the grief on that homely face was plain.
+
+The cup of David's misery ran over.  He fell forward on the desk, her
+desk, pillowing his head on his arms.
+
+"Esther!"
+
+As if summoned by the cry, another little imp took stand by David's
+ear.  And his tongue was specious and honeyed, and he had the trick of
+making black seem white and gray a golden splendor.
+
+Why run away and leave her to face it alone? . . .
+
+He was there a long time.  It grew dark.  The street, deserted by its
+daylight toilers, grew quiet except for the tramping of an occasional
+heavy-footed watchman or policeman.  David did not stir.  He was slowly
+draining his bitter cup--and listening to the eloquent imp.  Once to
+nearly every man comes an hour when he stands on a high mount and is
+shown the kingdom of his desire, to be his if he will--at a price.
+There David stood that evening.  And he fell.  He listened and looked
+too long.  He did not haggle with his tempter over the price but agreed
+to pay, if only he might have his beautiful kingdom.
+
+He did not hear stealthy footsteps along the corridor, nor the rustling
+of cautiously drawn shades in Jonathan's office.
+
+The visitor, too, supposed that he had the building to himself.  But he
+worked by the light of a dark-lantern and tiptoed instinctively.  Very
+carefully, as his former cell-mate had taught him, he made his
+preparations, substituting a sixty- for a six-ampere fuse--which would
+give him, the old cracksman had said, "juice" enough to cut through the
+ribs of a war-ship--and clamping one strand of his extension wire to
+the safe door.  This done, he unscrewed all the light bulbs from their
+sockets lest, when he turned the switch, a sudden glow through the
+shades arouse some prowling watchman's curiosity.  Then he took up the
+other strand of his wire, to which was attached a carbon electrode,
+knelt on the floor and--gingerly, for so much juice suggested many
+possibilities to a novice--touched the carbon to the safe door.
+
+He drew back hastily, almost unnerved.  The old cracksman had not
+warned him of that blinding flash or that sputtering, loud enough, so
+it seemed, to be heard a block away.  But he remembered that Jonathan
+often kept money overnight in the safe.  He forced himself to make the
+contact again.
+
+David heard a shuffling sound from a near-by office.  He straightened
+stiffly, wondering dully who the newcomer was.  The watchman probably,
+on a round of inspection.  Or perhaps Jonathan, who came to his office
+sometimes of nights to work off odds and ends that his lack of system
+allowed to pile up on him.  Jonathan, his friend, who had been hurt,
+whose stricken, accusing, contemptuous face danced before him.  David's
+heart gave a sharp twinge at that.  He hoped it was not Jonathan.  He
+did not want to face Jonathan just then.
+
+He started at a sudden crackling report that resounded through the
+lonely building, followed by a strange continued sputtering.  He went
+slowly into the corridor and to Jonathan's office.  At the door he
+stopped, staring in stupid surprise at the intent kneeling figure dimly
+outlined in the glow of hot metal and the bluish crackling flame.
+Then, with a vague notion that it was the wrong thing to do but his
+overwrought brain not quite grasping the situation, he took two steps
+into the room.
+
+"Get out of here--whoever you are."
+
+With a muttered ejaculation the intruder turned his head to look, then
+sprang back from the safe, breaking the contact.  Instantly the room
+became black.  David stared, still stupidly, at the dull red spot on
+the safe until it faded into blackness.  Then he realized.  He stood
+very still, muscles tense, senses sharply alert.  He heard a faint
+rustling but he could not make out from what part of the room it came.
+
+Smith crouched, rigid and breathless, waiting for a shot.  It did not
+come.  Slowly, as silently as possible, he reached for the sheath knife
+he carried and drew it.  He had a gun, but a knife, the old cracksman
+had said, was much better for a fight in the dark and it had the
+superlative virtue of noiselessness.  He became motionless again, his
+eyes vainly straining to pierce the darkness, waiting for the other to
+make a move.  The silence and inaction became unbearable.  He gathered
+his nerve and muscles for a rush to where the door ought to be and
+leaped forward.  At the third step a fist struck out and caught him on
+the neck.  He recoiled a little, then lashed out blindly with the
+knife.  He heard a sharp gasp and a body crumpling to the floor.  But
+Smith waited no longer.  Groping his way to the door, he sped along the
+corridor and through the shop to the rear window where he had entered.
+
+A quarter of an hour later a watchman espied the open window.  He
+whistled a policeman to his aid and together, after a period of
+timorous deliberation, they entered and with many discreet pauses
+tiptoed over the building.  They found David in the corridor, where he
+had given up crawling, weakly trying to stanch the flowing blood.
+
+The policeman was young and new to his job.  He mopped his brow
+nervously at sight of so much blood.
+
+"Are yez much hurted, d'yez think?" he inquired anxiously.
+
+"More scared than hurt, probably."  David smiled wanly.  "But, just the
+same, I think you'd better call up a doctor."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+WHICH HOUSE?
+
+The doctor did not share David's opinion.  He shook his head gravely,
+looked important and said, "It's lucky I got here so soon."  Then he
+brightened a little.  "But it's a lovely clean cut and we'll do what we
+can."
+
+So, he stopped the flow of blood, washed out the wound with an antiseptic
+solution and took several stitches; which hurt much worse than Smith's
+knife had.  Then he ordered David to the hospital.  But by that time some
+one had got Jonathan by telephone and he said, "No, bring him here."  And
+David protesting in vain, an ambulance took him to Jonathan's house and
+gentle hands laid him on the bed of the special guest-room.  A nurse was
+installed and in time David fell asleep.
+
+Through the night Jonathan watched, stealing every few minutes to David's
+bedside.  It was not at all necessary; the nurse slept, no fears
+disturbing her slumbers.  But Jonathan wanted to watch.  He kept thinking
+that David might have died.  He shuddered and went pale at the thought.
+For Jonathan had loved David; he loved him even now.
+
+The bitterness of that day was gone; so much could a little letting of
+blood accomplish.  But the thought of one tragedy, so narrowly escaped,
+did not help Jonathan to forget another impending--if it was to be
+tragedy.  His heart ached for his friends; it was only of them he thought
+now.  They faced each other across a chasm too wide to be leaped or
+bridged; only by a descent into chill dark depths could their
+outstretched hands meet.  He did not blame them for having strayed to
+that brink; not in the impulses of the heart do we sin, only in the
+yielding.
+
+But such chasms need not be tragic.  There grow the sweetest flowers for
+those having the will to see and gather.  All his life Jonathan had been
+schooled in that lesson, and he had learned to pluck happiness as he
+turned his back on desire.  He had even been happy in an unrequited love,
+he had not sought to cast it out of his heart, he had loved his love--at
+least until it had seemed helpless to save her from a hurt.  He could be
+happy in it still, if instead of tragedy they could find strength and
+courage and the greater triumph growing on the brink of their chasm.
+
+It seemed very simple and easy, what he wanted them to learn.  He did not
+understand that only the Greathearts find it simple and easy.  He never
+suspected that he was a Greatheart.  An odd fish, this Jonathan!
+
+But it was a knowledge that he could not give them.  They must win it, if
+at all, for themselves.
+
+In the morning the doctor came again, inspected the wound, discovered no
+evidence of infection and was mightily pleased with himself.
+
+"Don't look so sad," he adjured David.  "You got off lucky.  If that
+knife--"
+
+"I suppose so," David said querulously.  "If you've finished, would you
+mind going?  I'd like to sleep some more."
+
+The doctor nodded comprehendingly.  "Pretty weak yet," he confided to the
+nurse in a whisper.  "Lost quite a bit of blood before I could get to
+him.  Must humor him."
+
+David closed his eyes.  Not, however, to sleep.  Rather to listen to his
+tempter, who had returned to stand guard, to keep the victory it had won.
+But the imp's words were less plausible this morning, a certain sly
+malice had crept into his voice.  David remembered shrinkingly the
+resolve he had taken.
+
+"It's because I am weak."  He tried to stiffen himself.  "I have a right
+to be happy.  Why should two be made to suffer for one who wouldn't
+care?"  He repeated that over and over to himself and almost achieved
+belief.
+
+The nurse came to his bedside.  "I'm going out for my walk now.  Ring
+this bell if you want anything, and one of the maids will come."
+
+He nodded and she left.  A minute later he heard other steps coming into
+the room.
+
+"David--David!" said a voice over him.  A compassionate voice that was
+near to breaking.
+
+He opened his eyes and, not easily, met Jonathan's.  "I'm making a good
+deal of trouble.  You should have let them take me to the hospital."
+
+"Hush, David!  I wanted you to come here.  Is the wound very painful?"
+
+"I've had toothaches that were worse."
+
+"It's like you to make light of it."
+
+"It isn't like me to make light of it.  You've seen me and ought to know
+that.  It's more like me to whine."
+
+"But it's serious."  Jonathan shook his head gravely.  "The doctor says,
+if the knife had gone an eighth of an inch deeper--"
+
+"They always say that, don't they?  It didn't go an eighth of an inch
+deeper."
+
+"But it might have," Jonathan insisted.  "David, why did you do it?  Did
+you think a little money was worth such a risk?"
+
+David frowned petulantly.  "I'm no hero.  I didn't mean to take any
+risks.  I just blundered in and was too stupid to get out.  So I got
+hurt.  It's a habit of mine."
+
+"Ah!"  Jonathan understood the allusion.  "David, can you forgive me?
+Yesterday I was thinking you--what you are not.  I was bitter, not quite
+myself.  I was blaming you for what you couldn't help and thinking you
+were going--"
+
+"Don't!  Don't talk about that!  I--"  David turned his face to the wall.
+"I wish to God Smith's knife had gone deeper!"
+
+Jonathan started.  "Smith!  You say it was Smith?  Then this happened
+because of me.  I let myself get at odds with all the world and in that
+temper sent him from the shop.  You have much to forgive me for, David."
+
+"That's pretty far-fetched, isn't it?  If it's any consolation, I
+couldn't swear it was Smith.  I only had a glimpse of him."
+
+"It is a consolation.  Because now, if any one questions you about what
+happened, you needn't identify Smith.  I hate to think of any man having
+to go to jail.  Sin is its own punishment--and heavy enough.  God knows!
+We must find Smith, David, and try to help him.  You could help him most.
+When he knows that you, whom he hurt, are ready--"
+
+"Do whatever you want with him.  I have no wish to send him to jail."
+
+David stirred restlessly; his wound began to throb.  Why couldn't the
+manikin go away and take his silly exaggerated--and
+disturbing--sentimentalities with him?  Didn't he know that his very
+presence there was a reminder of something David wanted to forget--that
+the kingdom of desire was not to be entered without payment?
+
+But Jonathan did not leave, though he saw what the patient wished.  He
+went without further detours to the thing that lay between them.
+
+"David, what are you going to do?"
+
+David made no answer but stared unwinkingly at the wall.
+
+"What are you going to do, David?"
+
+David had not guessed how hard it would be to give tongue to his desire.
+
+"I don't know that you have any right to ask.  But if it will do you any
+good to know, I'm going to get free and--"
+
+He turned and looked defiantly into Jonathan's eyes.  He saw the
+suffering there.  But Jonathan's voice was still gentle.
+
+"You would do that?"
+
+"I would do that."
+
+"You mean," Jonathan persisted, "you will get a divorce?  And then go to
+her?"
+
+How ugly, how sordid, that seemed, spoken aloud in the clear light of
+morning!
+
+But David said, "I mean that."
+
+"Have you thought of--your wife?"
+
+"She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't really care."
+
+"And you have a boy.  A beautiful boy, I am told."
+
+"That--that is part of the--price."
+
+"Ah! the price!  You have thought of the price then.  And you are ready
+to pay it.  Other people have paid it, I know.  I have wondered if they
+didn't pay too much.  David--"  Jonathan looked away.  "Have you thought
+of--_her_?"
+
+"Can't you understand I am thinking of her?  I can't let her be hurt.
+And I want her--you can't know--"
+
+He flung an arm over his face.  And he was glad of the sharp pain that
+shot through his side.
+
+"I know," said Jonathan.  "I know."
+
+They were silent for a while.  The silence became almost unbearable to
+one of them.  He let his arm fall slowly to his side.
+
+"Well, say it!  If you have anything against it, say it."
+
+"No."  Jonathan turned to him once more, sadly.  "I have nothing to say
+against it.  I know it would do no good, if I had.  I say only, do it, if
+you think she will not be hurt--if you think you can. . . .  I must go
+now."
+
+He left.  Soon the nurse returned.  She looked closely at her patient and
+took a thermometer from the table.
+
+"No!" he said sharply.  "I'm all right.  Just go away and leave me alone."
+
+Being a wise nurse, she obeyed. . . .
+
+When Jonathan reached his office a trembling white-faced girl was
+awaiting him.
+
+"How is he?"
+
+He told her.  "It needn't be serious.  But he had a narrow escape."
+
+"Why didn't you let me know last night?"
+
+"It would have done no good."  He looked at her searchingly.  But neither
+shrinking nor shame was in her eyes.  "Will you go to him now?"
+
+"Go to him?  I--  Why do you ask that?"
+
+"He needs you," he said.  "There is no one else who can help him now.
+Will you go?"
+
+"Yes."  She understood the help that was needed.
+
+"Then come."
+
+Together they went out to the street.  He hailed a taxicab and they
+entered and drove away.  Neither spoke during that ride.  When they
+reached the house he led her to the parlor.
+
+"If you will wait here," he said, "I will get the nurse away."
+
+In a few minutes he returned.
+
+"You may go up now."
+
+He watched her ascend, heard her quick light tread along the hall above
+and the closing of a door.
+
+"Esther!" he whispered.  "My poor Esther!  Who will help you?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+THE HAPPY ENDING
+
+She halted just within the closed door.  At first he could not believe
+it was she.  For a little he went blind, a black streaming mist hiding
+her from him.  But when it cleared away she was still there.  Their
+eyes met and clung across the room.
+
+"Esther!  You came!  I didn't believe--"
+
+"He asked me to come."
+
+"He asked you!  I don't understand--"
+
+"Would you rather I had stayed away?"
+
+For answer he held out hungry arms toward her.  He would have sat
+upright; pain and weakness were forgotten.  But she was at his side in
+a breath.
+
+"You must not."
+
+She put her hands on his shoulders to restrain him.  He caught them and
+held them close to him.  She let him for a moment, then gently freed
+them from his clasp.
+
+"It is no worse than he says--your hurt?"
+
+"It isn't bad at all."
+
+"You're sure?  You see, I didn't know until I got to the office.  And
+they made it out very bad there.  They even said you mightn't live.
+And I had to wait until he came with definite word.  It was terrible.
+When I thought--oh, David!"
+
+The steadiness she had had to keep up before others gave way.  Suddenly
+she sat on the bed, pressing both hands tightly against her face.
+
+"Don't, Esther!"  Her weakness hurt him.  "Don't!  There's nothing to
+cry for."
+
+"Let me.  I'll be all right--in a minute."
+
+He let her then.  And he wished that the hot iron in his own heart
+could be cooled a little in tears.  But his eyes were dry and aching
+and the iron burned deeper.  There _was_ something to cry for.
+
+"Now!"  It was the tempter whispering.  "Now is the time to tell her."
+
+But a strange paralysis was on his tongue and will.
+
+She waited until she could achieve the smile she wanted him to see.
+Then she let her hands fall to her lap.  And in the brightness of that
+smile the tears on her lashes were dewdrops that had caught the morning
+sunlight.
+
+"Speak up!  Now!"  It was the imp again.
+
+"Why do you falter?"  Now was the time to tell her of that beautiful
+kingdom and how he proposed to win it for them, to ask her to wait
+until he could lead her through its gates.  And still he could
+not. . . .  And suddenly he knew that he never could. . . .
+
+"There!"  The smile was perfect.  "That is over.  I didn't mean to be
+so foolish.  It's only because I had been thinking it was so much
+worse.  Now I can take time to be glad.  About this, I mean."
+
+From the pocket of her jacket she drew forth a folded sheet of paper
+and held it out to him.  It was the letter from St. Mark's.
+
+"It seems almost too good to be true, doesn't it?--though we ought
+never to say that.  I found it on the floor by my desk this morning.  I
+thought it was some of the office correspondence and opened it and--do
+you mind?--when I saw what it was I read it through.  I hardly knew
+what I was doing.  It didn't seem important then.  But now--  Oh, I am
+glad--glad!"  She nodded brightly.  "The finest thing in the world has
+happened."
+
+He looked dully at the letter which ought to have meant so much to him.
+
+"I had forgotten that."
+
+"It means you can go back to your own profession, doesn't it?"
+
+"I suppose so.  Yes, it means that."
+
+"It has been like a story, hasn't it?  This summer, I mean.  A
+beautiful story!  In the beginning you came to the office--to prison,
+you said.  And I was plodding along, trying to make myself believe that
+I liked bookkeeping.  A pair of lame ducks we were, with broken wings.
+I'm a little sorry for us yet--aren't you?  But now we--  Do you think
+it would hurt you if I raised the shades?  It's such a glorious morning
+and I love sunshine."
+
+"It wouldn't hurt, of course."
+
+She went to the windows and raised the shades and the morning radiance,
+the light in which all hues are seen as they are, flooded the room.
+Then she went back to her seat beside him.
+
+"That is much better, isn't it? . . .  A beautiful story!  Now our
+wings are strong again. . . ."
+
+And so she went on, painting in the brightest colors she knew how to
+mix what she supposed the future held for them.  She tried to make it
+splendid.  St. Mark's was to be but a beginning.  He was to go very
+far, building many beautiful churches, striving to make each a little
+finer than the one before, until he was famous throughout the
+land--"Which is worth something, of course, but not half so much as
+knowing that you have done good work.  You remember, I said once that
+would be your great reward."  She was to live outdoors, careful not to
+overdo her voice practise at first.  After a while, when she had grown
+stronger, she would study hard to make up for the years she had lost,
+perhaps go abroad to work under the great voice builders and coaches
+there.  And "some day," perhaps, rumor would tell him of a new
+contralto whom people loved to hear sing. . . .  It was a little
+childish, no doubt, and rather overdone.
+
+But he did not think of that.  He was not listening.  He was seeing,
+not the picture she painted but that which she made, there in the
+sunshine.  She was whiter than ever.  Deep shadows were under her eyes.
+But the eyes themselves were very steady, her voice never quavered, nor
+did the smile flicker.  Where did she get her spirit, this slender
+fragile girl who seemed so in need of another's strength for support?
+
+And upon the bright brave soul of her he had wanted to put a stain.  He
+could not do that!  He no longer wanted to do that.
+
+For the questions Jonathan had left burning in David's heart had
+answered themselves.  As he watched her, he saw what on the high mount
+he had refused to see.  He had hurt her enough.  Not through another
+hurt could he find healing for her.  And it would hurt her, what he had
+planned.  It would take from her all that he loved; and it would add
+shame, the shame of cowardice, if not of cruelty to others.  He could
+not do that; even if she were willing he could not.  Yielding was not
+the simple thing it had seemed.  Something he lacked--or something he
+had--which forever shut the gates of that kingdom upon him.  It had
+been but an evil impossible dream.  But a beautiful dream!  There was
+yet no joy in renunciation.
+
+David went down from the mount into the valley where shadows were deep
+and unbroken.
+
+"And so the story ends happily, as it should.  Everything has come out
+right."
+
+"No!  Everything has not come out right!"
+
+"You mustn't say that.  You mustn't think--"
+
+"Esther!"  It was hard to meet her eyes then.  "I've got to say it--to
+let you see the sort of man I am.  Last night I was thinking of--of
+what has happened to us and what we would do.  There seemed only one
+way out that I could bear.  I made up my mind.  I was going to you to
+tell you that I would get free--I would have managed that somehow--and
+then come to you.  I could have done it--last night."
+
+The smile faded.  She waited for him to continue.
+
+"But Smith stopped me.  I am glad he stopped me.  For now--"  He could
+not go on.
+
+"Now you can't.  Is that it?"
+
+"I can't."
+
+"I am glad you can't."
+
+She said it very quietly.  Her eyes left his and turned to the sunny
+window.  But the light that shone on the thin tired face came not from
+without.
+
+The ugly tempter lifted its wings and flew swiftly away.
+
+"Are you," he began again at last, "revising your opinion of me?  I
+hope you are."
+
+A hand fell lightly on his lips.  "I don't want to revise my opinion of
+you.  I couldn't.  And I understand--what you wanted and why it is
+impossible for us.  Because--last night--  I could have let you do it."
+
+"Oh, Esther, I never meant to hurt you.  Can you believe that?"
+
+"I know.  But you haven't hurt me--even though for a while I was
+shameless as I never thought I could be.  I said the story has ended
+happily.  And it has--with the happiest ending possible, the only happy
+ending it could have.  Because there is nothing to regret."
+
+"Nothing to regret!"  Unbelief was in his gaze.
+
+"Ah!  We mustn't talk about it--but can't you see--can't you
+understand?"
+
+She leaned over him, giving him her eyes, letting him look to the very
+depths he had once wanted to explore.  He saw love there, and joy in
+love, but as well the will to renounce gladly--and no lurking shadow to
+say that she had bravely lied.
+
+"Do you believe--that I am not unhappy and will not be?"
+
+"I can't understand.  But I have to believe.  I am glad to believe."
+
+He closed his eyes and relaxed his tired body, to learn that the wound
+was throbbing sharply.  But that was a little thing.
+
+She sat beside him, her face turned again to the sunlight.  Once she
+reached out and touched his hand caressingly; he caught hers and clung
+to it as though he could not let it go.  It was not a long silence.
+
+But it was long enough.  In those few minutes he went up out of the
+valley again and stood with her on another mount.  And to him, too,
+came the free will to renounce; and understanding.  Sorrow abode with
+him still, an exquisite pang that was to leave a lasting scar.  But in
+his heart glowed a strange fire--as if for some splendid
+victory--lighted only for that hour, it may be, but revealing to him
+what he had found; a love that had not failed, that asked nothing, able
+to triumph over all things, even itself.  It was so he had dreamed love
+might be.  He was glad he had found it.  He was glad of the cup it had
+put to his lips.  He was the richer for her.  He would be the richer
+for seeing her go.  He hoped that the sorrow would never quite pass out
+of his heart, that the love would never shrink to a mere memory.
+
+He lifted shining eyes to hers.
+
+"Now I understand!  Some things aren't worth all they cost.  What I
+wanted last night is one of them.  But this--I would not be without it,
+even though--"
+
+"Nor would I."
+
+Tears were gemming her eyes once more.  But they were not sorrowful
+tears and they did not fall.
+
+It was time for her to go.  The hands that had not ceased to cling fell
+apart.  She went slowly across the room.
+
+At the door she lingered a moment, looking back.  Through the streaming
+mist he saw her face, bright in the white glory of renunciation.  She
+smiled . . . and was gone. . . .
+
+The same brightness was upon him.  But he did not know that.  He stood
+on the mount to which she had led him, still seeing her.  And still
+there were no regrets.  To him was coming the strength he was to need,
+a faith in himself that was to tide him over many gray morrows.  It was
+a very high place, the peak of his life.  Ever afterward he was to look
+up to that hour.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+That evening came Shirley, summoned by Mrs. Jim.  But the nurse turned
+her back at David's door.  He had fever and the dreaded infection had
+set in.  There must be no excitement.  So Shirley must wait.  Two days
+more she had to wait, anxious days during which she learned fast.  On
+the third the nurse raised the embargo for a few minutes, and Shirley,
+breathless and afraid, went to the door through which the other had
+gone.
+
+He was ready for her coming.  His only dread was that she might see
+what he must never let her know.  He had a deep pitying tenderness for
+her, to whom love had appeared only as a pretty toy.
+
+She halted uncertainly at the door.  He saw that she doubted her
+welcome.
+
+"David, do you still want me to come?"
+
+"Come, Shirley."
+
+She went quickly to him and knelt by his side, and kissed him.
+
+"Dear, I wanted to come.  I couldn't stay away.  And it wasn't because
+you gave me a choice.  Won't you believe that, David?"
+
+"I believe that, Shirley."
+
+"You only said, 'Come.'  Don't you really want me?  Do you think that
+after a while, when I've learned all I have to learn--and proved what I
+have to prove--you will be glad that I came?"
+
+"I am glad now."
+
+He touched the pretty gleaming hair caressingly.
+
+"I believe you are!  And they said--oh, David!"
+
+She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
+
+Then he saw that she had come to the threshold of her house of toys and
+stood looking out, trembling and frightened before the bigness of the
+real world.  He was staggered by that.  She had come to the door too
+late; for if she fared forth, she must go alone and untaught through a
+country whose loneliness he had known.  He must save her from that.  He
+could not give her the one thing which could companion her through
+those arid wastes.  The tender protective impulse surged stronger to
+his aid.
+
+Gently he sought to lead her back into her playhouse.
+
+"Shirley, I have a confession to make.  While you were gone St. Mark's
+decided to build.  I submitted some plans and--they were accepted.  Do
+you like my surprise?"
+
+"Then you can go back to your profession.  I am glad of that."
+
+"It's a big commission, Shirley.  Almost as big as St. Christopher's
+would have been.  We'll be rolling in wealth--for us."
+
+"You won't have to worry any more.  I am glad of that, too."
+
+She was resisting, looking back toward the still open door and the
+prospect beyond.  It had frightened her, but it had thrilled her, too.
+Anxiously he pointed inward.
+
+"It means more than that.  If I've done pretty well--and I'm sure I
+have--it will bring a lot more work.  We can have all the things our
+mouths used to water for.  We'll move into a very nice apartment at
+once, and have a maid, maybe a nurse for Davy Junior.  We'll take on
+the club again--think of hearing the crack of a good drive once more!
+There'll be theaters and concerts, with a taxi on rainy evenings.  And
+when we're settled in that new apartment we're going to give a
+beautiful dinner to celebrate our return to the surface.  My stars!
+can't you see our guests' eyes popping?  And when the first check comes
+in from the St. Mark's people I'm going to buy you--let's see, what
+_shall_ I buy you?--  Pinch me, please.  When I think of it I can't
+quite realize that it's true.  Isn't it bully, Shirley--dear?"
+
+"Of course," she said slowly.  "But somehow those things--they seem
+so--so little, now I have you back.  Do they really mean so much to
+you, David?"
+
+"You've come back--that's the great thing, of course.  And there'll be
+no worries to make things hard for us, no penny-pinching and
+discontent, no--misunderstandings.  Don't you see?  It's the whole
+thing.  And so--"  He tried to laugh gaily, but an echo was in his
+heart.  "And so the story ends happily."
+
+For a little a question rested in her eyes.  His laugh, trailing off
+into huskiness, puzzled her, vaguely hurt her.  She sighed.  Then habit
+began to prevail.  The poor little sentimental regret for this sudden
+prosperity died.  Her eyes rested on the pretty new toys tricking out
+her house.  And as she looked the door closed softly, shutting her in
+forever.  She did not know.
+
+"Do you know, I was almost sorry for a minute?  I hardly know why.  It
+is better this way.  We'll have to go back to believing in fairies,
+shan't we?"
+
+Her eyes were dancing.  Happiness tinted her velvety cheeks.  All that
+she saw was good.
+
+"Oh, David, I believe we're going to be happier than ever before!"
+
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Toys, by
+Henry Russell Miller
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