CHAPTER XXIII

When Jack, in reply to Breen's note, stepped into his uncle's office, no one would have recognized in the quick, alert, bronze-faced young fellow the retiring, almost timid, boy who once peered out of the port-hole of the cashier's desk. Nor did Jack's eyes fall on any human being he had ever seen before. New occupants filled the chairs about the ticker. A few lucky ones—very few—had pulled out and stayed out, and could now be found at their country seats in various parts of the State, or on the Riviera, or in Egypt; but by far the larger part had crawled out of the fight to nurse their wounds within the privacy of their own homes where the outward show had to be kept up no matter how stringent the inside economies, or how severe the privations. Others, less fortunate, had disappeared altogether from their accustomed haunts and were to be found filling minor positions in some far Western frontier town or camp, or menial berths on a railroad, while at least one victim, too cowardly to leave the field, had haunted the lunch counters, hotel lobbies, and race-tracks for months, preying on friends and acquaintances alike until dire poverty forced him into crime, and a stone cell and a steel grille had ended the struggle.

Failing to find any face he recognized, Jack approached a group around the ticker, and inquired for the head of the firm. The answer came from a red-cheeked, clean-shaven, bullet-headed, immaculately upholstered gentleman—(silk scarf, diamond horse-shoe stick-pin, high collar, cut-away coat, speckled-trout waistcoat—everything perfect)—who stood, paring his nails in front of the plate-glass window overlooking the street, and who conveyed news of the elder Breen's whereabouts by a bob of his head and a jerk of his fat forefinger in the direction of the familiar glass door.

Breen sat at his desk when Jack entered, but it was only when he spoke that his uncle looked up;—so many men swung back that door with favors to ask, that spontaneous affability was often bad policy.

“I received your letter, Uncle Arthur,” Jack began.

Breen raised his eyes, and a deep color suffused his face. In his heart he had a sneaking admiration for the boy. He liked his pluck. Strange, too, he liked him the better for having left him and striking out for himself, and stranger still, he was a little ashamed for having brought about the revolt.

“Why, Jack!” He was on his feet now, his hand extended, something of his old-time cordiality in his manner. “You got my letter, did you? Well, I wanted to talk to you about that ore property. You own it still, don't you?” The habit of his life of going straight at the business in hand, precluded every other topic. Then again he wanted a chance to look the boy over under fire,—“size him up,” in his own vocabulary. He might need his help later on.

“Oh, we don't own a foot of it,—don't want to. If Mr. MacFarlane decides to—”

“I'm not talking about MacFarlane's job; I'm talking about your own property,—the Cumberland ore property,—the one your father left you. You haven't sold it, have you?” This came in an anxious tone.

“No,” answered Jack simply, wondering what his father's legacy had to do with his Chief's proposed work.

“Have you paid the taxes?” Arthur's eyes were now boring into his.

“Yes, every year; they were not much. Why do you ask?”

“I'll tell you that later on,” answered his uncle with a more satisfied air. “You were up there with MacFarlane, weren't you?—when he went to look over the ground of the Maryland Mining Company where he is to cut the horizontal shaft?” Jack nodded. “So I heard. Well, it may interest you to learn that some of our Mukton people own the property. It was I who sent MacFarlane up, really, although he may not know it.”

“That was very kind of you, sir,” rejoined Jack, without a trace of either gratitude or surprise.

“Well, I'm glad you think so. Some of our directors also own a block of that new road MacFarlane is finishing. They wouldn't hire anybody else after they had gone up to Corklesville and had seen how he did his work, so I had the secretary of the company write MacFarlane, and that's how it came about.”

Jack nodded and waited; his uncle's drift was not yet apparent.

“Well, what I wanted to see you about, Jack, is this:” here he settled his fat back into the chair. “All the ore in that section of the county,—so our experts say, dips to the east. They've located the vein and they think a horizontal shaft and gravity will get the stuff to tide water much cheaper than a vertical shaft and hoist. Now if the ore should peter out—and the devil himself can't tell always about that—we've got to get some ore somewhere round there to brace up and make good our prospectus, even if it does cost a little more, and that's where your Cumberland property might come in,—see? One of our lawyers looked over a record of your deed in the town hall of Mulford—” here he bent forward and consulted a paper on his desk—“No,—that's not it,—Morfordsburg,—yes, that's it,—Morfordsburg,—looked up the deed, I say, Jack, and from what he says I don't believe your property is more than a quarter of a mile, as the crow flies, from where they want MacFarlane to begin cutting. If the lawyer's right there may be a few dollars in it for you—not much, but something; and if there is,—of course, I don't want to commit myself, and I don't want to encourage you too much—but if he's right I should advise your bringing me what papers you've got and have our attorney look them over, and if everything's O.K. in the title, your property might be turned over to the new company and form part of the deal. You can understand, of course, that we don't want any other deposits in that section but our own.”

Breen's meaning was clear now. So was the purpose of the letter.

Jack leaned back in his chair, an expression first of triumph and then of disgust crossing his face. That his uncle should actually want him back in his business in any capacity was as complimentary as it was unexpected. That the basis of the copartnership—and it was this that brought the curl to his lip—was such that neither a quarter of a mile nor two miles would stand in the way of a connecting vein of ore on paper, was to be expected by any one at all familiar with his uncle's methods.

“Thank you, Uncle Arthur,” he answered simply, “but there's nothing decided yet about the Morfordsburg work. I heard a bit of news coming down on the train this morning that may cause Mr. MacFarlane to look upon the proposed work more favorably, but that is for him to say. As to my own property, when I am there again, if I do go,—I will look over the ground myself and have Mr. MacFarlane go with me and then I can decide.”

Breen knitted his brows. It was not the answer he had expected. In fact, he was very much astonished both at the reply and the way in which it was given. He began to be sorry he had raised the question at all. He would gladly have helped Jack in getting a good price for his property, provided it did not interfere with his own plans, but to educate him up to the position of an obstructionist, was quite another matter.

“Well, think it over,” he replied in a tone that was meant to show his entire indifference to the whole affair,—“and some time when you are in town drop in again. And now tell me about Ruth, as we must call her, I suppose. Your aunt just missed her at the Cosgroves' the other day.” Then came a short disquisition on Garry and Corinne and their life at Elm Crest, followed by an embarrassing pause, during which the head of the house of Breen lowered the flow line on a black bottle which he took from a closet behind his desk,—“his digestion being a little out that morning,” he explained. And so with renewed thanks for the interest he had taken in his behalf, and with his whole mind now concentrated on Peter and the unspeakable happiness in store for him when he poured into the old gentleman's willing and astonished ears the details of the interview, Mr. John Breen, Henry MacFarlane's Chief Assistant in Charge of Outside Work, bowed himself out.

He had not long to wait.

Indeed, that delightful old gentleman had but a short time before called to a second old gentleman, a more or less delightful fossil in black wig and spectacles, to take his place at the teller's window, and the first delightful old gentleman was at the precise moment standing on the top step of the Exeter, overlooking the street, where he had caught sight of Jack wending his way toward him.

“Jack! JACK!” Peter cried, waving his hand at the boy.

“Oh! that's you, Uncle Peter, is it? Shall I—?”

“No, Jack, stay where you are until I come to you.”

“And where are you going now?” burst out Jack, overjoyed at reaching his side.

“To luncheon, my dear boy! We'll go to Favre's, and have a stuffed pepper and a plate of spaghetti an inch deep, after my own receipt. Botti cooks it deliciously;—and a bottle of red wine, my boy,—WINE,—not logwood and vinegar. No standing up at a trough, or sitting on a high stool, or wandering about with a sandwich between your fingers,—ruining your table manners and your digestion. And now tell me about dear Ruth, and what she says about coming down to dinner next week?”

It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy he was, and how spry his step, as the two turned into William Street and so on to the cheap little French restaurant with its sanded floor, little tables for two and four, with their tiny pots of mustard and flagons of oil and red vinegar,—this last, the “left-overs” of countless bottles of Bordeaux,—to say nothing of the great piles of French bread weighing down a shelf beside the proprietor's desk, racked up like cordwood, and all of the same color, length, and thickness.

Every foot of the way through the room toward his own table—his for years, and which was placed in the far corner overlooking the doleful little garden with its half-starved vine and hanging baskets—Peter had been obliged to speak to everybody he passed (some of the younger men rose to their feet to shake his hand)—until he reached the proprietor and gave his order.

Auguste, plump and oily, his napkin over his arm, drew out his chair (it was always tipped back in reserve until he arrived), laid another plate and accessories for his guest, and then bent his head in attention until Peter indicated the particular brand of Bordeaux—the color of the wax sealing its top was the only label—with which he proposed to entertain his friend.

All this time Jack had been on the point of bursting. Once he had slipped his hand into his pocket for Breen's letter, in the belief that the best way to get the most enjoyment out of the incident of his visit and the result,—for it was still a joke to Jack,—would be to lay the half sheet on Peter's plate and watch the old fellow's face as he read it. Then he decided to lead gradually up to it, concealing the best part of the story—the prospectus and how it was to be braced—until the last.

But the boy could not wait; so, after he had told Peter about Ruth,—and that took ten minutes, try as hard as he could to shorten the telling,—during which the stuffed peppers were in evidence,—and after Peter had replied with certain messages to Ruth,—during which the spaghetti was served sizzling hot, with entrancing frazzlings of brown cheese clinging to the edges of the tin plate—the Chief Assistant squared his elbows and plunged head-foremost into the subject.

“And now, I have got a surprise for you, Uncle Peter,” cried Jack, smothering his eagerness as best he could.

The old fellow held up his hand, reached for the shabby, dust-begrimed bottle, that had been sound asleep under the sidewalk for years; filled Jack's glass, then his own; settled himself in his chair and said with a dry smile:

“If it's something startling, Jack, wait until we drink this,” and he lifted the slender rim to his lips. “If it's something delightful, you can spring it now.”

“It is both,” answered Jack. “Listen and doubt your ears. I had a letter from Uncle Arthur this morning asking me to come and see him about my Cumberland ore property, and I have just spent an hour with him.”

Peter put down his glass:

“You had a letter from Arthur Breen—about—what do you mean, Jack.”

“Just what I say.”

Peter moved close to the table, and looked at the boy in wonderment.

“Well, what did he want?” He was all attention now. Arthur Breen sending for Jack!—and after all that had happened! Well—well!

“Wants me to put the Cumberland ore property father left me into one of his companies.”

“That fox!” The explosion cleared the atmosphere for an instant.

“That fox!” answered Jack, in a confirmatory tone; and then followed an account of the interview, the boy chuckling at the end of every sentence in his delight over the situation.

“And what are YOU going to do?” asked Peter in an undecided tone. He had heard nothing so comical as this for years.

“Going to do nothing,—that is, nothing with Uncle Arthur. In the first place, the property is worthless, unless half a million of money is spent upon it.”

“Or is SAID to have been spent upon it,” rejoined Peter with a smile, remembering the Breen methods.

“Exactly so;—and in the second place, I would rather tear up the deed than have it added to Uncle Arthur's stock of balloons.”

Peter drummed on the table-cloth and looked out of the window. The boy was right in principle, but then the property might not be a balloon at all; might in fact be worth a great deal more than the boy dreamed of. That Arthur Breen had gone out of his way to send for Jack—knowing, as Peter did, how systematically both he and his wife had abused and ridiculed him whenever his name was mentioned—was positive evidence to Peter's mind not only that the property had a value of some kind but that the discovery was of recent origin.

“Would you know yourself, Jack, what the property was worth,—that is, do you feel yourself competent to pass upon its value?” asked Peter, lifting his glass to his lips. He was getting back to his normal condition now.

“Yes, to a certain extent, and if I fail, Mr. MacFarlane will help me out. He was superintendent of the Rockford Mines for five years. He received his early training there,—but there is no use talking about it, Uncle Peter. I only told you to let you see how the same old thing is going on day after day at Uncle Arthur's. If it isn't Mukton, it's Ginsing, or Black Royal, or some other gas bag.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,—not in all the hour I talked with him. He did the talking; I did the listening.”

“I hope you were courteous to him, my boy?”

“I was,—particularly so.”

“He wants your property, does he?” ruminated Peter, rolling a crumb of bread between his thumb and forefinger. “I wonder what's up? He has made some bad breaks lately and there were ugly rumors about the house for a time. He has withdrawn his account from the Exeter and so I've lost sight of all of his transactions.” Here a new idea seemed to strike him: “Did he seem very anxious about getting hold of the land?”

A queer smile played about Jack's lips:

“He seemed NOT to be, but he was”

“You're sure?”

“Very sure; and so would you be if you knew him as well as I do. I have heard him talk that way to dozens of men and then brag how he'd 'covered his tracks,' as he used to call it.”

“Then, Jack,” exclaimed Peter in a decided tone, “there is something in it. What it is you will find out before many weeks, but something. I will wager you he has not only had your title searched but has had test holes driven all over your land. These fellows stop at nothing. Let him alone for a while and keep him guessing. When he writes to you again to come and see him, answer that you are too busy, and if he adds a word about the ore beds tell him you have withdrawn them from the market. In the meantime I will have a talk with one of our directors who has an interest, so he told me, in a new steel company up in the Cumberland Mountains, somewhere near your property, I believe. He may know something of what's going on, if anything is going on.”

Jack's eyes blazed. Something going on! Suppose that after all he and Ruth would not have to wait. Peter read his thoughts and laid his hand on Jack's wrist:

“Keep your toes on the earth, my boy:—no balloon ascensions and no bubbles,—none of your own blowing. They are bad things to have burst in your hands—four hands now, remember, with Ruth's. If there's any money in your Cumberland ore bank, it will come to light without your help. Keep still and say nothing, and don't you sign your name to a piece of paper as big as a postage stamp until you let me see it.”

Here Peter looked at his watch and rose from the table.

“Time's up, my boy. I never allow myself but an hour at luncheon, and I am due at the bank in ten minutes. Thank you, Auguste,—and Auguste! please tell Botti the spaghetti was delicious. Come, Jack.”

It was when he held Ruth in his arms that same afternoon—behind the door, really,—she couldn't wait until they reached the room,—that Jack whispered in her astonished and delighted ears the good news of the expected check from Garry's committee.

“And daddy won't lose anything; and he can take the new work!” she cried joyously. “And we can all go up to the mountains together! Oh, Jack!—let me run and tell daddy!”

“No, my darling,—not a word, Garry had no business to tell me what he did; and it might leak out and get him into trouble:—No, don't say a word. It is only a few days off. We shall all know next week.”

He had led her to the sofa, their favorite seat.

“And now I am going to tell you something that would be a million times better than Garry's check if it were only true,—but it isn't.”

“Tell me, Jack,—quick!” Her lips were close to his.

“Uncle Arthur wants to buy my ore lands.”

“Buy your—And we are going to be—married right away! Oh, you darling Jack!”

“Wait,—wait, my precious, until I tell you!” She did not wait, and he did not want her to. Only when he could loosen her arms from his neck did he find her ear again, then he poured into it the rest of the story.

“But, oh, Jack!—wouldn't it be lovely if it were true,—and just think of all the things we could do.”

“Yes,—but it Isn't true.”

“But just suppose it WAS, Jack! You would have a horse of your own and we'd build the dearest little home and—”

“But it never can be true, blessed,—not out of the Cumberland property—” protested Jack.

“But, Jack! Can't we SUPPOSE? Why, supposing is the best fun in the world. I used to suppose all sorts of things when I was a little girl. Some of them came true, and some of them didn't, but I had just as much fun as if they HAD all come true.”

“Did you ever suppose ME?” asked Jack. He knew she never had,—he wasn't worth it;—but what difference did it make what they talked about!

“Yes,—a thousand times. I always knew, my blessed, that there was somebody like you in the world somewhere,—and when the girls would break out and say ugly things of men,—all men,—I just knew they were not true of everybody. I knew that you would come—and that I should always look for you until I found you! And now tell me! Did you suppose about me, too, you darling Jack?”

“No,—never. There couldn't be any supposing;—there isn't any now. It's just you I love, Ruth,—you,—and I love the 'YOU' in you—That's the best part of you.”

And so they talked on, she close in his arms, their cheeks together; building castles of rose marble and ivory, laying out gardens with vistas ending in summer sunsets; dreaming dreams that lovers only dream.

The check “struck” MacFarlane just as the chairman had said it would, wiping out his losses by the flood with something ahead for his next undertaking.

That the verdict was a just one was apparent from the reports of both McGowan's and the Railroad Company's experts. These showed that the McGowan mortar held but little cement, and that not of the best; that the backing of the masonry was composed of loose rubble instead of split stone, and that the collapse of his structure was not caused by the downpour, but by the caving in of culverts and spillways, which were built of materials in direct violation of the provisions of the contract. Even then there might have been some doubt as to the outcome but for Holker Morris's testimony. He not only sent in his report, but appeared himself, he told the Council, so as to answer any questions Mr. McGowan or his friends might ask. He had done this, as he said openly at the meeting, to aid his personal friend, Mr. MacFarlane, and also that he might raise his voice against the slipshod work that was being done by men who either did not know their business or purposely evaded their responsibilities. “This construction of McGowan's,” he continued, “is especially to be condemned, as there is not the slightest doubt that the contractor has intentionally slighted his work—a neglect which, but for the thorough manner in which MacFarlane had constructed the lower culvert, might have resulted in the loss of many lives.”

McGowan snarled and sputtered, denouncing Garry and his “swallow-tails” in the bar rooms and at the board meetings, but the decision was unanimous, two of his friends concurring, fearing, as they explained afterward, that the “New York crowd” might claim even a larger sum in a suit for damages.

The meeting over, Morris and Jack dined with MacFarlane and again the distinguished architect won Ruth's heart by the charm of his personality, she telling Jack the next day that he was the only OLD MAN—fifty was old for Ruth—she had ever seen with whom she could have fallen in love, and that she was not sure after all but that Jack was too young for her, at which there was a great scrimmage and a blind-man's-buff chase around the table, up the front stairs and into the corner by the window, where she was finally caught, smothered in kisses and made to correct her arithmetic.

This ghost of damages having been laid—it was buried the week after Jack had called on his uncle—the Chief, the First Assistant, and Bangs, the head foreman, disappeared from Corklesville and reappeared at Morfordsburg.

The Chief came to select a site for the entrance of the shaft; the First Assistant came to compare certain maps and documents, which he had taken from the trunk he had brought with him from his Maryland home, with the archives resting in the queer old courthouse; while Foreman Bangs was to help with the level and target, should a survey be found necessary.

The faded-out old town clerk looked Jack all over when he asked to see the duplicate of a certain deed, remarking, as he led the way to the Hall of Records,—it was under a table in the back room,—“Reckon there's somethin' goin' on jedgin' from the way you New Yorkers is lookin' into ore lands up here. There come a lawyer only last month from a man named Breen, huntin' up this same property.”

The comparisons over and found to be correct, “starting from a certain stone marked 'B' one hundred and eighty-seven feet East by South,” etc., etc., the whole party, including a small boy to help carry the level and target and a reliable citizen who said he could find the property blindfold—and who finally collapsed with a “Goll darn!—if I know where I'm at!”—the five jumped onto a mud-encrusted vehicle and started for the site.

Up hill and down hill, across one stream and then another; through the dense timber and into the open again. Here their work began, Jack handling the level (his Chief had taught him), Bangs holding the target, MacFarlane taking a squint now and then so as to be sure,—and then the final result,—to wit:—First, that the Maryland Company's property, Arthur Breen & Co., agents, lay under a hill some two miles from Morfordsburg; that Jack's lay some miles to the south of Breen's. Second, that outcroppings showed the Maryland Mining Company's ore dipped, as the Senior Breen had said, to the east, and third, that similar outcroppings showed Jack's dipped to the west.

And so the airy bubble filled with his own and Ruth's iridescent hopes,—a bubble which had floated before him as he tramped through the cool woods, and out upon the hillside, vanished into thin air.

For with Ruth's arms around him, her lips close to his, her boundless enthusiasm filling his soul, the boy's emotions had for the time overcome his judgment. So much so that all the way up in the train he had been “supposing” and resupposing. Even the reply of the town clerk had set his heart to thumping; his uncle had sent some one then! Then came the thought,—Yes, to boom one of his misleading prospectuses—and for a time the pounding had ceased: by no possible combination now, either honest or dishonest, could the two properties be considered one and the same mine.

Again his thoughts went back to Ruth. He knew how keenly she would be disappointed. She had made him promise to telegraph her at once if his own and her father's inspection of the ore lands should hold out any rose-colored prospects for the future. This he had not now the heart to do. One thing, however, he must do, and at once, and that was to write to Peter, or see him immediately on his return. There was no use now of the old fellow talking the matter over with the director; there was nothing to talk over, except a bare hill three miles from anywhere, covering a possible deposit of doubtful richness and which, whether good or bad, would cost more to get to market than it was worth.

They were on the extreme edge of the forest when the final decision was reached, MacFarlane leaning against a rock, the level and tripod tilted against his arm, Jack sitting on a fallen tree, the map spread out on his knees.

For some minutes Jack sat silent, his eyes roaming over the landscape. Below him stretched an undulating mantle of velvet, laid loosely over valley, ravine and hill, embroidered in tints of corn-yellow, purplings of full-blossomed clover and the softer greens of meadow and swamp. In and out, now straight, now in curves and bows, was threaded a ribbon of silver, with here and there a connecting mirror in which flashed the sun. Bordering its furthermost edge a chain of mountains lost themselves in low, rolling clouds, while here and there, in its many crumplings, were studded jewels of barn stack and house, their facets aflame in the morning light.

Jack absorbed it all, its beauty filling his soul, the sunshine bathing his cheeks. Soon all trace of his disappointment vanished: with Ruth here,—with his work to occupy him,—and this mighty, all-inspiring, all-intoxicating sweep of loveliness spread out, his own and Ruth's every hour of the day and night, what did ore beds or anything else matter?

MacFarlane's voice woke him to consciousness. He had called to him before, but the boy had not heard.

“As I have just remarked, Jack,” MacFarlane began again, “there is nothing but an earthquake will make your property of any use. It is a low-grade ore, I should say, and tunnelling and shoring would eat it up. Wipe it off the books. There are thousands of acres of this kind of land lying around loose from here to the Cumberland Valley. It may get better as you go down—only an assay can tell about that—but I don't think it will. To begin sinking shafts might mean sinking one or a dozen; and there's nothing so expensive. I am sorry, Jack, but wipe it out. Some bright scoundrel might sell stock on it, but they'll never melt any of it up into stove plate.”

“All right, sir,” Jack said at last, with a light laugh. “It is the same old piece of bread, I reckon, and it has fallen on the same old buttered side. Uncle Peter told me to beware of bubbles—said they were hard to carry around. This one has burst before I got my hand on it. All right—let her go! I hope Ruth won't take it too much to heart. Here, boy, get hold of this map and put it with the other traps in the wagon. And now, Mr. MacFarlane, what comes next?”

Before the day was over MacFarlane had perfected his plans. The town was to be avoided as too demoralizing a shelter for the men, and barracks were to be erected in which to house them. Locations of the principal derricks were selected and staked, as well as the sites for the entrance to the shaft, for the machine and blacksmith's shops and for a storage shanty for tools: the Maryland Mining Company's work would require at least two years to complete, and a rational, well-studied plan of procedure was imperative.

“And now, Jack, where are you going to live,—in the village?” asked his Chief, resting the level and tripod carefully against a tree trunk and seating himself beside Jack on a fallen log.

“Out here, if you don't mind, sir, where I can be on top of the work all the time. It's but a short ride for Ruth and she can come and go all the time. I am going to drop some of these trees; get two or three choppers from the village and knock up a log-house like the one I camped in when I was a boy.”

“Where will you put it?” asked MacFarlane with a smile, as he turned his head as if in search of a site. It was just where he wanted Jack to live, but he would not have suggested it.

“Not a hundred yards from where we sit, sir—a little back of those two big oaks. There's a spring above on the hill and sloping ground for drainage; and shade, and a great sweep of country in front. I've been hungry for this life ever since I left home; now I am going to have it.”

“It will be rather lonely, won't it?” The engineer's eyes softened as they rested on the young fellow, his face flushed with the enthusiasm of his new resolve. He and Ruth's mother had lived in just such a shanty, and not so very long ago, either, it seemed,—those were the happiest years of his life.

“No!” exclaimed Jack. “It's only a step to the town; I can walk it in half an hour. No, it won't be lonely. I will fix up a room for Uncle Peter somewhere, so he can be comfortable,—he would love to come here on his holidays; and Ruth can come out for the day,—she will be crazy about it when I tell her. No, I will get along. If the lightning had struck my ore beds I would probably have painted and papered some musty back room in the village and lived a respectable life. Now I am going to turn savage.”

The next day the contracts were signed: work to commence in three months. Henry MacFarlane, Engineer-in-Chief, John Breen in charge of construction.

It was on that same sofa in the far corner of the sitting-room that Jack told Ruth,—gently, one word at a time,—making the best of it, but telling her the exact truth.

“And then we are not going to have any of the things we dreamed about, Jack,” she said with a sigh.

“I am afraid not, my darling,—not now, unless the lightning strikes us, which it won't.”

She looked out of the window for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears. Then she thought of her father, and how hard he had worked, and what disappointments he had suffered, and yet how, with all his troubles, he had always put his best foot foremost—always encouraging her. She would not let Jack see her chagrin. This was part of Jack's life, just as similar disappointments had been part of her father's.

“Never mind, blessed. Well, we had lots of fun 'supposing,' didn't we, Jack. This one didn't come true, but some of the others will and what difference does it make, anyway, as long as I have you,” and she nestled her face in his neck. “And now tell me what sort of a place it is and where daddy and I are going to live, and all about it.”

And then, to soften the disappointment the more and to keep a new bubble afloat, Jack launched out into a description of the country and how beautiful the view was from the edge of the hill overlooking the valley, with the big oaks crowning the top and the lichen-covered rocks and fallen timber blanketed with green moss, and the spring of water that gushed out of the ground and ran laughing down the hillside, and the sweep of mountains losing themselves in the blue haze of the distance, and then finally to the log-cabin he was going to build for his own especial use.

“And only two miles away,” she cried in a joyous tone,—“and I can ride out every day! Oh, Jack!—just think of it!” And so, with the breath of this new enthusiasm filling their souls, a new bubble of hope and gladness was floated, and again the two fell to planning, and “supposing,” the rose-glow once more lightening up the peaks.

For days nothing else was talked of. An onslaught was at once made on Garry's office, two doors below Mrs. Hicks, for photographs, plans of bungalows, shanties, White Mountain lean-tos, and the like, and as quickly tucked under Ruth's arm and carried off, with only the permission of the office boy,—Garry himself being absent owing to some matters connected with a big warehouse company in which he was interested, the boy said, and which took him to New York on the early train and did not allow his return sometimes, until after midnight.

These plans were spread out under the lamp on the sitting-room table, the two studying the details, their heads together, MacFarlane sitting beside them reading or listening,—the light of the lamp falling on his earnest, thoughtful face,—Jack consulting him now and then as to the advisability of further extensions, the same being two rooms shingled inside and out, with an annex of bark and plank for Ruth's horse, and a kitchen and laundry and no end of comforts, big and little,—all to be occupied whenever their lucky day would come and the merry bells ring out the joyful tidings of their marriage.

Nor was this all this particularly radiant bubble contained. Not only was there to be a big open fireplace built of stone, and overhead rafters of birch, the bark left on and still glistening,—but there were to be palms, ferns, hanging baskets, chintz curtains, rugs, pots of flowers, Chinese lanterns, hammocks, easy chairs; and for all Jack knew, porcelain tubs, electric bells, steam heat and hot and cold water, so enthusiastic had Ruth become over the possibilities lurking in the 15 X 20 log-hut which Jack proposed to throw together as a shelter in his exile.

The news of MacFarlane's expected departure soon became known in the village. There were not many people to say good-by, the inhabitants having seen but little of the engineer and still less of his daughter, except as she flew past, in a mad gallop, on her brown mare, her hair sometimes down her back. The pastor of the new church came, however, to express his regrets, and to thank Mr. MacFarlane for his interest in the church building. He also took occasion to say many complimentary things about Garry, extolling him for the wonderful manner in which that brilliant young architect had kept within the sum set apart by the trustees for its construction, and for the skill with which the work was being done, adding that as a slight reward for such devotion the church trustees had made Mr. Minott treasurer of the building fund, believing that in this way all disputes could the better be avoided,—one of some importance having already arisen (here the reverend gentleman lowered his voice) in which Mr. McGowan, he was sorry to say, who was building the masonry, had attempted an overcharge which only Mr. Minott's watchful eye could have detected, adding, with a glance over his shoulder, that the collapse of the embankment had undermined the contractor's reputation quite as much as the freshet had his culvert, at which MacFarlane smiled but made no reply.

Corinne also came to express her regrets, bringing with her a scrap of an infant in a teetering baby carriage, the whole presided over by a nurse in a blue dress, white cap, and white apron, the ends reaching to her feet: not the Corinne, the Scribe is pained to say, who, in the old days would twist her head and stamp her little feet and have her way in everything. But a woman terribly shrunken, with deep lines in her face and under her eyes. Jack, man-like, did not notice the change, but Ruth did.

After the baby had been duly admired, Ruth tossing it in her arms until it crowed, Corinne being too tired for much enthusiasm, had sent it home, Ruth escorting it herself to the garden gate.

“I am sorry you are going,” Corinne said in Ruth's absence. “I suppose we must stay on here until Garry finishes the new church. I haven't seen much of Ruth,—or of you, either, Jack. But I don't see much of anybody now,—not even of Garry. He never gets home until midnight, or even later, if the train is behind time, and it generally is.”

“Then he must have lots of new work,” cried Jack in a cheerful tone. “He told me the last time I saw him on the train that he expected some big warehouse job.”

Corinne looked out of the window and fingered the handle of her parasol.

“I don't believe that is what keeps him in town, Jack,” she said slowly. “I hoped you would come and see him last Sunday. Did Garry give you my message? I heard you were at home to-day, and that is why I came.”

“No, he never said a single word about it or I would have come, of course. What do you think, then, keeps him in town so late?” Something in her voice made Jack leave his own and take a seat beside her. “Tell me, Corinne. I'll do anything I can for Garry and you too. What is it?”

“I don't know, Jack,—I wish I did. He has changed lately. When I went to his room the other night he was walking the floor; he said he couldn't sleep, and the next morning when he didn't come down to breakfast I went up and found him in a half stupor. I had hard work to wake him. Don't tell Ruth,—I don't want anybody but you to know, but I wish you'd come and see him. I've nobody else to turn to,—won't you, Jack?”

“Come! of course I'll come, Corinne,—now,—this minute, if he's home, or to-night, or any time you say. Suppose I go back with you and wait. Garry's working too hard, that's it,—he was always that way, puts his whole soul into anything he gets interested in and never lets up until it's accomplished.” He waited for some reply, but she was still toying with the handle of her parasol. Her mind had not been on his proffered help,—she had not heard him, in fact.

“And, Jack,” she went on in the same heart-broken tone through which an unbidden sob seemed to struggle.

“Yes, I am listening, Corinne,—what is it?”

“I want you to forgive me for the way I have always treated you. I have—”

“Why, Corinne, what nonsense! Don't you bother your head about such—”

“Yes, but I do, and it is because I have never done anything but be ugly to you. When you lived with us I—”

“But we were children then, Corinne, and neither of us knew any better. I won't hear one word of such nonsense. Why, my dear girl—“he had taken her hand as she spoke and the pair rested on his knee—“do you think I am—No—you are too sensible a woman to think anything of the kind. But that is not it, Corinne—something worries you;” he asked suddenly with a quick glance at her face. “What is it? You shall have the best in me, and Ruth will help too.”

Her fingers closed over his. The touch of the young fellow, so full of buoyant strength and hope and happiness, seemed to put new life into her.

“I don't know, Jack.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “There may not be anything, yet I live under an awful terror. Don't ask me;—only tell me you will help me if I need you. I have nobody else—my stepfather almost turned me out of his office when I went to see him the other day,—my mother doesn't care. She has only been here half a dozen times, and that was when baby was born. Hush,—here comes Ruth,—she must not know.”

“But she MUST know, Corinne. I never have any secrets from Ruth, and don't you have any either. Ruth couldn't be anything but kind to you and she never misunderstands, and she is so helpful. Here she is. Ruth, dear, we were just waiting for you. Corinne is nervous and depressed, and imagines all sorts of things, one of which is that we don't care for her: and I've just told her that we do?”

Ruth looked into Jack's eyes as if to get his meaning—she must always get her cue from him now—she was entirely unconscious of the cause of it all, or why Corinne should feel so, but if Jack thought Corinne was suffering and that she wanted comforting, all she had was at Corinne's and Jack's disposal. With a quick movement she leaned forward and laid her hand on Corinne's shoulder.

“Why, you dear Corinne,—Jack and I are not like that. What has gone wrong,—tell me,” she urged.

For a brief instant Corinne made no answer. Once she tried to speak but the words died in her throat. Then, lifting up her hands appealingly, she faltered out:

“I only said that I—Oh, Ruth!—I am so wretched!” and sank back on the lounge in an agony of tears.

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