"Oh, shut up, can't you, Bobbie? It's only because I'm so cut up about the accident. Remember, it might have been me instead of him. You won't mind much if we don't have the canoe, will you?"
"No," was the low answer.
Neither of the boys spoke for some time.
Then Bob whispered:
"Have you thought, Van, that maybe the thing you are to do is something for that little lame boy, Tim McGrew?"
The spring term passed much faster than either Bob or Van dreamed it would and despite the absence of athletics Van Blake found plenty to do to fill the gap left by this customary activity.
In the first place there was his studying. Had not Bob assumed an obligation that must be lived up to and that was quite as binding as if it existed on paper instead of in a mere invisible point of honor? He was very grateful to Bob and had given bond that he would live up to the pledge his chum had made for him. Now he must fulfil his promise, Van argued. So although the call of the springtime was strong and difficult to resist he had been faithful to his work, "plugging away," as he expressed it, with all his strength. To his surprise the task, so irksome at first, became interesting. It was a novel experience to enter a classroom and instead of moving in a mental haze possess a clear idea of what was going on. Twice he was able to furnish the correct answers to Latin questions on which every one else had failed, and what a thrill of satisfaction accompanied the performance!
The attitude of his teachers changed, too. Formerly they had been polite; now they became even cordial, demonstrating by an unsuspected friendliness that they were after all ordinary human beings and rather likable ones at that. They were moreover amazingly sympathetic and met every endeavor of Van's with generous aid. Perhaps schools were not the prison-houses he had formerly thought them!
There had, of course, been no chance to conceal from the boys the reason of his banishment from the ball field and tennis-courts; such a story as the motor accident travels with insidious speed. Before a day had passed from one end of Colversham to the other everybody knew that Van Blake had disobeyed the school rules and had in consequence forfeited his place in out-of-door sports. Van, however, was a great favorite and the manly way in which he accepted his penalty provoked nothing but admiration and respect from his classmates. He frankly admitted his mistake, owning that while his sentence was severe it was perfectly just; nor would he permit a word of criticism of Dr. Maitland's decree to be voiced in his hearing.
"Maitland is all right!" was his hearty endorsement, and that remark was the only encouragement his pals received when they came to condone with him.
Gradually the affair dropped out of sight. Van went among the boys, cheerily giving advice as to the make-up of the school teams and even coaching the fellow who was to serve as his successor as pitcher on the nine.
Nevertheless there still remained quite a margin of leisure, and it was during this lonely interval when every one else was training for the coming games that he would stray off by himself and visit little Tim McGrew. Between the two a peculiar friendship sprang up. On Van's part it arose from forlornness mingled with a half formulated belief that he must do something to express his thankfulness that he himself had escaped from the fate that had overtaken the child. On the small lad's side it had its root in gratitude and hero-worship. In Tim's eyes Van Blake was an all-powerful person. Was it not he who had picked him up and carried him to the hospital? And had not this same big schoolboy bought the beautiful wheel-chair that enabled one to travel about the house and yard almost as readily as if on foot? In addition to all this was it not Van who came often to the house, never forgetting to bring in his pocket some toy or picture-book? Small things they often were—these gifts that meant so much to the child—often things of very slight money value; but to the invalid whose long, tedious days of convalescence were stretches of monotony the tiny presents seemed treasures from an enchanted land.
Tim was now at home in the shabby cottage on the outskirts of Colversham where he lived with his mother and four sisters. Poor as the place was it was spotlessly neat and Tim's family were spotlessly tidy too. Mrs. McGrew, who supported her household by doing washing for some of the families in the town, might have had a permanent and much more lucrative position elsewhere had it not been for leaving her five little ones; as it was, she clung to her children, struggling to meet her living expenses as best she could. It had been a sore grief to her when Tim, her only boy and the baby of the home, had become crippled. Perhaps she sensed more clearly than did the lad the full seriousness of the calamity. As for Tim, he accepted it in childish fashion, hopefully ignoring the problems of the future.
To Van Blake Mrs. McGrew was all gratitude. Of all her children her boy was her favorite.
"But for you, sir, little Timmie might have been left at the roadside to die," she would exclaim over and over. "We'll never forget it—never—neither I nor the children!"
It was thus that Van became the hero of the McGrew household, and the warmth and genuineness of the welcome he unfailingly received there aroused in him an answering friendliness. Many a time when he saw things either new or interesting he would find himself instinctively saying:
"I must tell Tim about that," or "I must take that to Tim."
But with his enthronement as the sovereign of Tim's universe there came to Van a very disquieting experience. Tim thought his big friend knew everything, and in consequence whenever he became puzzled about facts that were being read to him or that he heard he would instantly appeal to Van, whom he was sure could right every sort of dilemma that might arise. But too often the unlucky Van was forced to blush and falter that he would have to look it up; and when he did so he frequently learned something himself. For Tim never forgot. No sooner would Van be inside the gate than the shrill little voice would pipe: "And did you find out how far away Mars is, Mr. Blake?"
Poor Van, it kept him scrambling to satisfy Tim McGrew's intellectual curiosity, yet there was a tang in the game that rendered it very interesting. He found, too, ample reward in seeing the wee invalid's face brighten when the query was answered.
So the spring sped on.
In the meantime Van had heard only irregularly from his parents. In a long letter to his father he had sent all the facts of his disgrace at school and had added that he was truly sorry; the reply he received had been terse and rather stern but not unkind. Mr. Blake expressed much regret for his son's conduct and closed his epistle with the caustic comment that he should look for a proof of Van's desire to make good. That was all. Van knew that Dr. Maitland had also written; but what he did not know was that with the fearlessness so characteristic of him Bob Carlton had taken the time and trouble to pen a long note to Colorado as a plea for his chum. It was a remarkable composition from a boy so young—a letter full of affection and earnestness and voicing a surprising insight into his friend's character and disposition. Mr. Blake read it over three times, and when he finished sat in a reverie with it still between his fingers. The tone of it was so like the man he had known long ago, that friend from whom a misunderstanding that now seemed pitiably trivial had separated him. It had been his fault; Mr. Blake could see that now. He had been both hasty and unjust. Over him surged a great wave of regret. Well, it was too late to mend the matter at this late day. One chance was, however, left him—to make up to the son for the injustice done the father.
It therefore came about that at the close of the school term Bob Carlton was overjoyed to receive from Van's parents an invitation to come west with their boy and pass the summer holidays. Such a miracle seemed too good to be a reality, and the lads' instant fear was that the Carltons would be unwilling to spare Bob from home for such a long time. To their surprise, however, Mr. Carlton welcomed the plan with enthusiasm. A trip to Colorado would be a wonderful opportunity, the educational value of which could scarcely be estimated, he argued. Underneath this most excellent reason there also existed on Mr. Carlton's part a desire to show his former partner that he cherished no ill will for the past. Who knew but the boy might even be a messenger of peace?
So one June morning, after bidding good-bye to Colversham and to Tim McGrew, the two lads set forth on their western journey. They were in high spirits. Both had passed the examinations with honors, and as Van thought of his achievement again and again he wondered if it could be true that he was one of that light-hearted band who were starting off on their summer vacation with no conditions to work off.
The solitary cloud on the horizon was the grief of little Tim at having his friend go. But Van promised there should be letters—lots of them—and post-cards, too, all along the route; the parting would not be for long anyway.
These were some of the thoughts that surged through Van's mind as he and Bob settled themselves into their places on the train and began the attempt to fathom the reams of directions Mr. Blake had sent them; pages and pages there were of what to do and what not to do on the long trip, the letter closing with the single sentence:
"I am trusting you to make this journey alone because I believe your chum, Bob Carlton, has a level head."
"If your own head is not level, Bobbie, it is at least an honor to be associated with a head that is," remarked Van humorously. "I guess that is about all the recommendation you need from Dad, old boy. I wonder how he happened to take such a fancy to you without ever having met you."
"I wonder," echoed Bob quietly.
To Bob every mile of the western journey was a step into Wonderland; novel sights, novel ideas confronted him on every hand and viewed through the medium of his enthusiasm things that had become threadbare to Van became, as if by magic, suddenly new. The greatness of the country was a marvel of which Bob had never before had any adequate conception. Then there were the cities, alive with varying industries, and teeming with their strangely mixed American population. Above all was the amazing natural beauty of scenery hitherto undreamed of. Hour after hour Bob sat spellbound at the window of the observation-car, never tiring of watching the shifting landscape as it whirled past. His interest and intelligence caught the notice of a gentleman who occupied the section opposite the boys, and soon the three formed one of those pleasant acquaintances so frequently made in traveling.
Mr. Powers (for that was the stranger's name) was on his way back to his farm in Utah, and very eager was he to reach home.
"So many things on the place need my attention that the journey you are delighting in seems very long to me," he remarked to Bob one morning as they came from the dining-car.
"Is your farm a large one, Mr. Powers?" questioned Bob.
Mr. Powers smiled.
"It is larger than you would want to build a fence around," he returned humorously.
"I suppose you have all sorts of cows and pigs and horses on it, and raise every kind of fruit and vegetable that ever was invented," put in Van mischievously.
Mr. Powers shook his head and looked not a little amused.
"No. We have only enough stock for our own use—nothing fancy. I do not go in for show farming. I raise only one thing on my land, and I'm going to see if you are clever enough to guess what it is."
"Alfalfa!" cried Bob instantly.
"No. How did you happen to think of that?"
"Oh, I've read that lots of western farmers raised it."
"True enough. It wasn't a bad guess, but it was not the right one," said the stranger. "Now suppose we hear from your chum."
"Corn."
"Still wrong; but you are getting warmer."
"Wheat."
"Wheat is not as good a random shot as corn."
"It must be a vegetable," declared Bob thoughtfully. "Let me see. Not potatoes?"
"No."
"Of course it couldn't be peas, or beans, or squash, because you said once you had hundreds of acres, and you would never raise any of those things in such large quantities," argued Van. "Spinach, tomatoes—"
"I have it!" cried Bob. "You should have guessed it the first thing, Van."
"Why?"
"Can't you think? With your father right in the business you ought to."
"Beets," exclaimed Van.
"Beets it is!" agreed Mr. Powers. "So your father is interested in beets too, is he? You don't chance to be the son of Mr. Asa Blake, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is a coincidence," observed Mr. Powers much interested. "I sell all my crops to him. I expect then, young man, you know all there is to be known about growing beets."
"On the contrary, I don't know a thing," Van confessed laughing. "Dad has never talked to me much about his business. He is too busy to talk to anybody," he added a little dubiously.
"It is usually the doctor's children who never get any medicine," chuckled Mr. Powers. "Now, I could do better than that for you. I could tell you considerable about beets if you urged me to."
"I wish you would," answered the boys promptly.
"There, you see, you urge me at once—you insist upon hearing! What can I do? There is no escape for me but to comply with your request. Of course I was not expecting to be called upon to speak to-day and therefore I must crave the indulgence of the audience if I am but poorly prepared," began Mr. Powers with mock gravity.
"In the first place you must remember that while sugar-cane can only be cultivated in a hot, moist climate, beets grow best in the temperate zone. In the United States there is a belt of beet-sugar land two hundred miles wide that runs irregularly across the country from southern New England to the Pacific coast. Sugar-beets can, of course, be grown elsewhere, but it is in this particular region that they thrive best. If even a small proportion of this area were to be planted with beets we could get enough sugar from them to enable us to ship it to foreign markets instead of yearly importing a large amount of it. The trouble is that we Americans are so rich in land that we waste it and fail to get from it a tenth part of what we might. If you doubt that travel in Europe and see what is done with land on the other side; or, better yet, watch what some Italian in this country will get from a bit of land no bigger than your pocket handkerchief."
Mr. Powers stopped a minute and looked out of the window.
"The great objection our people make to growing beets is that they injure the soil so that nothing else planted afterward will flourish. Now to an extent this is true. Beets do run out the soil if they are raised year after year on the same land. If our farmers were not so slow to get a new idea they would raise beets in rotation as is done in Europe."
"What do you mean by rotation?" demanded Bob.
"A rotating crop is one that produces a sequence of different kinds of harvests," explained Mr. Powers. "By that I mean harvests of entirely varying nature. Abroad they have learned that a hoed crop, when planted annually, destroys the productivity of the earth; therefore foreigners plant beets one year in three or five and cereals, turnips, or something else in between times. Formerly they used to let the land lie fallow a year to rest it, but now they have worked out a scheme by which they get a crop every year. It was Napoleon, that Frenchman of wonderful brain, who first discovered the value of beets for making sugar, and thought out the plan for raising them in rotation with other varieties of crops. He commanded that ninety thousand acres of beets be planted in different parts of France, and he established in connection with this decree a great fund of money from which bonuses were to be paid to persons who built factories to manufacture beet-sugar. He went even further, furnishing free instruction to all who wished to learn the industry. In consequence at the end of a couple of years there were in France over three hundred small sugar factories; little by little this number has increased until now the sugar product of the French nation is enormous."
Fascinated by the story Bob and Van listened attentively.
"Didn't other countries steal the idea of the rotating crop?" inquired Van.
"Not at first. Germany tried to make her farmers believe in the new notion, but failed," answered Mr. Powers. "Later, however, as an inducement, the German government helped beet-sugar factories pay such good prices for beets that the farmers became anxious to raise them; at the same time a high duty was placed on imported sugar, and the result was that the German people were forced to manufacture their own. At the present time about one-half of the sugar used by all the world is made in foreign factories. I myself run my beet farm on the rotation principle, and find that the hoed root crops seem to stimulate the others; but I can't convince my neighbors of it."
"Does beet-sugar taste any different from cane?" inquired Bob.
"Not a whit; you couldn't tell the difference," was Mr. Powers' answer.
"I suppose sugar-beets are just like those in our gardens," ventured Van.
"No, they're not; they are, however, not unlike them. They differ in having more juice and in usually being white," replied Mr. Powers. "The ground has first to be plowed and harrowed, and is afterward laid off in eighteen-inch rows because beets, you know, are planted from seed. When the crop comes up trouble begins, for it has to be thinned until each plant has a good area in which to grow; the beets must also be carefully weeded and the soil round them loosened if they are to thrive."
"How long is it before they are ready for sugar making?" inquired Bob.
"Practically five months; it depends somewhat on the season. When they are ripe they are dug up, the tops are removed, and they are floated down small canals where washing machines with revolving brushes remove from them every atom of dirt."
"And then?"
"If they are to be made directly into syrup and do not have to be shipped in bulk they go into slicers which cut them into V-shaped pieces about the length and thickness of a slate pencil, these pieces being called cossettes. The sliced beet-root is next put into warm water tanks in order that the sugar contained in it may be drawn out. Built in a circle, these tanks are connected, and as the beets move from one vat to another more and more sugar is taken from them until they reach the last vat when the beet pulp is of no further use except to be used as fodder for live stock. The juice remains in the tanks, and in color it is—"
"Red!" cried Van, thoughtlessly interrupting.
"No, son, not red. It is black as ink."
"Black!" exclaimed the boys in a chorus.
"Black as your shoe."
"But—but I don't see how they—" Van stopped, bewildered.
"They bleach it by injecting fumes of sulphur gas into the tanks; lime is also used to—"
"To clear it after the dirt has come to the top," put in the boys in a breath.
"Exactly so," laughed Mr. Powers. "I observe you are now at the home plate."
[Illustration: "THESE TANKS ARE CONNECTED"]
"We saw it done at the sugar-cane refinery," explained Bob.
"I see," nodded Mr. Powers. "Well, the principle of making beet-sugar is the same as cane-sugar. By the use of chemical solutions the juice is cleared until it is perfectly white."
Bob nudged Van with his elbow and the lads smiled understandingly. There was no danger of their forgetting Mr. Hennessey and his secret chemical formula.
"The remainder of the process is also similar to that used in refining cane-sugar. The syrup passes from tank to tank, constantly thickening, and the molasses is extracted in the same fashion by being thrown off in the centrifugal machines when the sugar crystallizes. Molasses is often boiled two and three times to make second and third grade molasses for the trade, and you must remember in this connection that the namesNew OrleansandPorto Ricodo not necessarily indicate where the product was made, but rather its quality, these varieties being of the finest grade."
Mr. Powers rose and drew out a cigar.
"I think I'm quite a lecturer, don't you?" he said. "I imagine your father, Van, could have told you this story much better than I have if you could have captured him for two hours on a train when he had nothing else to do. As it is I have had to fill his place, and I want you to inform him with my compliments that I am surprised to discover how completely he has neglected his son's education."
With a mischievous twinkle in his eye Mr. Powers passed into the smoking-car.
On their arrival at Denver Van and Bob were met by Mr. Blake, and a delay in the train admitted of a passing greeting between Mr. Powers and Van's father; afterward the heavy express that had safely brought the travelers to their journey's end thundered on its way and the boys were left on the platform. Mr. Blake regarded each of them keenly for a moment before speaking; then he extended his hand to Bob, saying:
"The highest compliment I can pay you, young man, is to tell you you are like your father. Mrs. Blake and I are very grateful to you for what you've done for our son."
"I'm afraid—" protested Bob.
Mr. Blake cut him short.
"There, there, we won't discuss it," said he. "I simply wish you to know that both of us have appreciated your friendship for Van. He is a scatter-brained young dog, but he is all we have, and we believe in time he is going to make good. Eh, son?" Despite the words he smiled down at the lad kindly.
"I hope so, Father."
"With a wise friend at your elbow it will be your own fault if you do not," his father declared.
Summoning a porter to carry the luggage the trio followed him to the train which was to take them to the small town outside of Denver, where the Blakes resided.
Here they found Van's mother—very beautiful and very young, it seemed to Bob; a woman of soft voice and pretty southern manner who seemed always to appear in a different gown and many floating scarfs and ribbons. Bob felt at a glance that she would not be the sort of person to pack boxes of goodies and send to her boy; she would always be too busy to do that. That she was, nevertheless, genuinely fond of Van there could be not the smallest doubt, and she welcomed both boys to the great stone house with true Virginian hospitality.
To describe that western sojourn would be a book in itself.
Bob wrote home to his parents volumes about his good times, and still left half the wonders of his Colorado visit untold. There was the trip up Pike's Peak; a two days' jaunt to a gold mine; a horseback ride to a large beet farm in an adjoining town; three weeks of real mountain camping, the joy of which was enhanced by the capture of a good sized bear. In addition to all this there were several fishing trips, and toward the close of the holiday a tour to the Grand Canyon.
It was a never-to-be-forgotten vacation crowded with experiences novel and delightful.
"I wonder, Van, how you can ever be content to leave all this behind and come East to school," remarked Bob to his chum when toward the last of September they once more boarded the train and turned their faces toward Colversham.
"Oh, you see, Dad was born in the East, and he wanted me to have an eastern education," explained Van. "He laughs at himself for the idea though, and says it is only a sentimental notion, as he is convinced a western school would do exactly as well. He has lived out here twenty years now, and yet he still has a tender spot in his heart for New England. It is in his blood, he declares, and he can't get it out. Notwithstanding his love for the East, however, Mother and I say that wild horses couldn't drag him back there to live."
"I suppose you wouldn't want to come East, either," Bob said.
"Not on your life! Give me lots of hustle and plenty of room!" replied Van emphatically. "But I like the East and the eastern people, and I'll be almighty tickled to get back to Colversham and the fellows—to say nothing of Tim McGrew."
"You'll take up football again this fall, of course," said Bob. "We'll both duff right in with the practice squad as soon as the boys get out; it seems to me there is no earthly reason why each of us shouldn't land somewhere on the eleven this year."
Weeks afterward Bob thought with a grim smile of the remark.
How different that fall term proved to be from anything he had expected!
Colversham was reached without disaster and back into the chaos of trunks, suit-cases, and swarming arrivals came the western travelers. From morning until night a stream of boys crossed and recrossed the campus and the air was merry with such characteristic greetings as:
"Ah, there, Blakie! How is the old scout?"
"Snappy work, Bob Carlton! I say, you look pretty kippie. Where did you swipe the yellow shoes?"
"Just wearing them temporarily until I can step into yours as stroke of the crew!" called back Bob good-naturedly.
A shout went up from the boys who had heard the sally.
For nearly a week the school grounds were a-hum with voices. Then things began to settle down into the regular yearly routine. In spite of the stiff program ahead Van managed to spend some part of each day, if only a few moments of it, with Tim McGrew. How much there was to tell! Three months had worked marvels in the little fellow and it was a pleasure to see how his strength was returning.
"The doctor thinks there's a chance I may walk yet, Mr. Blake!" exclaimed the child. "He doesn't promise it, mind; he just says maybe things won't turn out as bad as we thought at first. I heard him tell Ma that perhaps later if I was to be operated on maybe I'd pull through and surprise everybody. Think of it! Think what it means to know there is even a chance. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I should walk again some time?"
Catching the glow in the wistful face Van's own beamed.
"You'll have us all fooled yet, Tim," he cried, "and be prancing round here like a young Kentucky colt—see if you don't."
The lads chuckled together.
Van was bubbling over with high spirits when he left Tim that afternoon and there was nothing to herald the approach of the calamity that fell like a thunderbolt upon him. It was late at night when the illness developed that so alarmed Bob Carlton that it sent him rushing to the telephone to call up the head master. From that moment on things moved with appalling rapidity. Van was carried from the dormitory to the school hospital and at the doctor's advice Mr. Carlton was summoned from New York by telephone. Within an incredibly few hours both he and his wife arrived by motor, and their first act was to wire Van's father.
The boy was very ill, so ill that in an operation lay the one slender chance of saving his life. The case could brook no delay. There was not sufficient time to consult Van's father, or learn from him his preferences as to what should be done. To Mr. Carlton fell the entire responsibility of taking command of the perilous situation. He it was who secured the famous surgeon from New York; who sent for nurses and doctors; who made the decision that meant life or death to the boy who lay suffering on the cot in that silent room.
How leaden were the hours while the lad's existence trembled in the balance!
Mr. Carlton paced the floor of the tiny office, his hands clinched behind him and his lips tightly set. If Van did not survive his would be the word that had sent him to his end. Should the worst befall how should he ever greet that desperate father who was even now hurrying eastward with all the speed that money could purchase? What should he say? What could he say, Mr. Carlton asked himself. To lose his own child would be a grief overwhelming enough; but to have given the order that hurried another man's only boy into eternity—that would be a tragedy that nothing could ever make right.
"I have done the best I knew," muttered Mr. Carlton over and over to himself. "I have done toward his son precisely as I would have done toward my own. Had I it all to decide over again I could do nothing different."
Yet try as he would to comfort himself the hours before he could have tidings from the operating room dragged with torturing slowness. Bob, crouched in a chair in the corner of the room, dared not speak to his father. Never had he seen him so unnerved. There was no need to question the seriousness of the moment; it brooded in the tenseness of the atmosphere, in the speed with which his heart beat, in the drawn face of the man who never ceased his measured tread up and down the narrow room.
And when the strain of the operation was actually over there was no lessening of anxiety, because for days following the battle for life had still to be waged. Would human strength hold through the combat? That was the question that filled the weary hours of the day and the sleepless watches of the night.
Mr. Carlton, ordinarily so bound up in business affairs that he never could leave town, now gave not a thought to them. Instead he took up his abode in the dormitory with Bob that he might be close at hand, and here he eagerly checked off the successive hours that brought nearer that man who was racing against Fate across the vast breadth of the country.
How would they meet, these two who had been so long divided by a gulf of years and bitterness? Would his former friend feel that the decisions he had made were wise, or would he heap reproaches upon him for putting in jeopardy a life over which he had no jurisdiction? With dread Mr. Carlton strove to put the thought of the coming interview out of his mind.
"I have done as well as I knew," he reiterated. "Would that it had been my own boy instead of his!"
Over and over he planned to himself what he would say at that crucial meeting. He would explain as nearly as he could the precise conditions that he felt justified him in assuming the immense financial responsibilities he had heaped up for his former friend. If the lad lived it would be worth it all; but if he did not it would all have gone for naught. Would not any father rather have had his child alive, invalid though he was, than to have lost him altogether?
The meeting when it came was quite different from anything Mr. Carlton had outlined. It was after midnight when the special arrived at the dim little station, and even before the train came to a stop its solitary passenger sprang impatiently to the platform.
There was no need for James Carlton to make certain who it was; every line of the form was familiar. He strode to the traveler's side.
The hands of the two men shot out and met in a firm clasp.
"The boy?"
"He is alive, Asa."
"God bless you, Jim!"
Van Blake faced the great crisis, fought his way courageously through it, and won.
Slowly he retraced his steps up the path to health again, and as soon as he was able to be moved he and his father and mother together with the Carltons went to Allenville and opened the old farmhouse for Christmas.
What a Christmas it was!
What a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving among young and old!
Tim McGrew and all his family were brought down for a holiday, and there was a royal tree decked with candles and loaded with gifts; there was a pudding which could nowhere have been matched; a southern plum-pudding made by Van's mother; there were carols sung as only those to whom they meant much could sing them; and there was joy and peace in every heart.
"Next summer it must be Colorado for you all, Jim," cried Asa Blake as he stood with his hand on the shoulder of his old partner. "We'll make this New Year the happiest of our lives. Tim shall go too; and if money can buy surgical skill he shall make the journey hither on his own two feet. Here's to the new year, Jim!"
"The new year, Asa, and may God bless us every one!" echoed Mr. Carlton, softly.