My Darling Brother: I was so pleased when I received your loving letter and the money you sent. You do not know how it hurts me to feel we owe so much, and I have cried over it more than you will ever know. Last week I received my first month's pay,—thirty dollars,—and I was very proud of it, for it is the first money I ever earned. I took half and put it with the twenty-five you sent and gave it to Mr. Hobbs. I have only six dollars left, for I had to buy some boots and gloves, but that will last me a month, for I've not the heart to spend a penny I am not obliged to, until the debts are paid. I had to buy the boots, because walking four miles a day wears them out very fast.
My Darling Brother: I was so pleased when I received your loving letter and the money you sent. You do not know how it hurts me to feel we owe so much, and I have cried over it more than you will ever know. Last week I received my first month's pay,—thirty dollars,—and I was very proud of it, for it is the first money I ever earned. I took half and put it with the twenty-five you sent and gave it to Mr. Hobbs. I have only six dollars left, for I had to buy some boots and gloves, but that will last me a month, for I've not the heart to spend a penny I am not obliged to, until the debts are paid. I had to buy the boots, because walking four miles a day wears them out very fast.
And he had spent twenty dollars the night before to have a couple of ballet girls talk slang, smoke cigarettes, and call him "Cully"!
When he thought of his sweet and loving sister, with her perfect faith in his manhood, walking four miles a day to earn less than two dollars, while he had been induced to spend in one foolish evening as much as she could earn in two weeks, it was no wonder he did not feel proud of himself.
"He digged a pit, he digged it deep,He digged it for a brother;But oh, alas! he fell intoThe pit he digged for another."Old Saw.
"He digged a pit, he digged it deep,He digged it for a brother;But oh, alas! he fell intoThe pit he digged for another."
Old Saw.
Page was a little late at the office the next morning and Frye was there ahead of him.
"I was out with young Nason last evening," he explained, as the old lawyer bade him a rather crusty good morning, "and I overslept."
"Oh, that is all right," responded Frye, in an instantaneously sweetened tone, "I am glad you were, and, as I told you, you are wise to cultivate him. I suppose," he continued with a leer, "that you were buying wine for some of the gay girls?"
Page looked confused. "Well, we went to the theatre, and after that had a late supper," he explained, "and it was after one before I returned to my room."
"I don't care how late you are out, or what you did," said Frye, still eyeing Page, "so long as you were with young Nason and kept out of the lockup. His father pays me a salary to look after his law business, and his son is the pride of his heart. I trust you understand my meaning. If you don't feel like work this morning," he continued suavely, "mount your wheel and take a run out to Winchester and see if that mortgage on the Seaver estate has been satisfied. The exercise and air will do you good."
Page was nonplussed.
"He has some deep-laid plot in his mind," he thought as he looked at Frye, who, having delivered this amazing pat, turned at once to his mail. It was all the more amazing because at the start he had been assured that punctuality and good conduct on his part were obligatory. Now he was to all intents and purposes not only told he might lark it with young Nason all he chose, but even urged to do so. He was glad to escape the office, however, for his head felt full of bees, and thanking his employer for the permission, he quickly left the city behind him. The crisp October air and exercise soon cured his headache, and in a measure drove away some of the self-reproaches at his own foolish conduct of the night before.
The errand at Winchester was attended to, and then, after taking a glass of bromo-seltzer, he headed back for the city, taking another course. By the time he reached town he was faint from hunger, for he had eaten no breakfast. A good dinner restored him to his natural self-possession, and then he went to the office.
For a week he reproached himself every time he thought how much his escapade had cost, and felt too ashamed to answer Alice's letter. When he did he assured that innocent sister that he was saving all he could and should send more money as soon as possible. Frank called twice, and the second time urged him to join the club, to which Page assented.
"It will serve as a place to spend a lonesome evening," he thought. It was a wise step, for it is during lonesome hours, if ever, that one's steps are turned toward evil associations.
Several times Frye had made casual inquiries as to the progress of his intimacy with young Nason, all of which led Page to wonder what his object was and why it concerned him. At last, one day just at closing time, and after he had told the office boy he might go, Frye let a little light into that enigma.
"Sit down a moment, Mr. Page," he remarked, as the latter was preparing to leave; "I have a proposition of an important nature to make to you," and then as he fixed his merciless eyes on his clerk and began to slowly rub his hands together, he continued: "You have been nearly three months in my employ, Mr. Page, and have fulfilled your duties satisfactorily. I think the time has come when I may safely enlarge them a little. As I told you, John Nason pays me a yearly retainer to attend to all his law business. I have reason to feel he is not entirely satisfied to continue that arrangement, and I am forced to find some way to bring a little pressure to bear on him in order that he may see it is for his interest to still retain me. Now I believe John Nason is not entirely happy in his home relations and is leading a double life, and that a certain Miss Maud Vernon, a cashier in his store, receives a share of his attentions. She and a supposed aunt of hers occupy a flat in a block owned by Nason, and while they are never seen in public together, gossip links their names. What I want is for you to find out, through your acquaintance with the Nasons, just what bond there is between the elder Nason and this Miss Vernon, and report to me. I do not intend to use the knowledge for any illegal purpose, but merely as a leverage to retain Nason's business. I am aware that to prosecute your inquiries discreetly by means of your intimacy with young Nason will require more money than I am paying you, and therefore, if I can depend on you to do a little detective work, I shall from now on increase your salary from seventy-five to one hundred and seventy-five dollars. What do you say?"
The first impulse that Page felt was to absolutely refuse, there and then, to have anything to do with Frye's nefarious scheme, but the thought of his situation, the unpaid debt at home, and the certainty that a refusal would mean a loss of his position conquered his pride and kept him silent. For a moment he reflected, trying hard to see a way out of the dilemma; and then said:
"It is rather a hard task you ask, Mr. Frye, for I am not accustomed to the role of detective, but I am in your employ, and as long as I am I will do the best I can for your interests."
It was a temporizing reply, and Frye so construed it at once.
"I must insist, if you accept my offer," he said, "that you give me your promise to do your best to earn the money. It doesn't pay to be too squeamish in this world," he continued, in a soothing tone; "all business is to a certain extent a game of extortion—a question of do the other fellow or he will do you." Then arising, and holding out a skinny hand to grasp Page's, as if to bind the bargain, he added: "I shall expect you to keep faith with me, Mr. Page," and the interview ended.
When Albert entered the dining-room at his boarding-place that night he felt as if his face must show guilt, and when later he met Frank at the club that feeling increased. He was preoccupied and morose, and Frank, noticing his frame of mind, tried to cheer him.
"You look as if you had been given a facer, old man," he said. "What is the matter? Has Frye been calling you down for something?"
Page looked at his friend a moment, and the impulse to make a clean breast of it, and relieve his feelings, was strong, but he did not.
"I do not like Frye," he said instead, "and the more I see of him the less I like him. At times he makes me feel as if he was a snake ready to uncoil and strike. Did you ever notice his eyes, and the way he has of rubbing his hands when talking?"
"I have," was the answer, "and he has the most hideous eyes I ever saw in a human being. They look like a cat's in the dark. Dad told me once he saw Frye look at a witness he was cross-examining in such a way that the poor fellow forgot what his name was, and swore black was white. Those eyes are vicious weapons, they say, and he uses them to the utmost when he wants to scare a witness."
"They make me feel creepy every time I look at them," said Albert, and then, as if anxious to change the subject, he added, "Let's leave here, Frank, and you come with me to my room, where we can have a quiet talk together. I am in the dumps to-night, and want to unbosom my troubles to you."
"What ails you, old man?" asked Frank, after they were seated in Albert's room and were smoking fraternal pipes; "you look as if you had lost your best friend."
"I did, last June, as you know," was the rather sad answer, "and on top of that, I hate myself for one or two things; for instance, the escapade we indulged in the other night, and being Frye's slave, for another."
"I am sorry for the first," responded Frank; "it was my fault that you were coaxed into it. I won't do it again, I assure you. Don't worry over it, my boy. It wasn't anything serious; only just a little after-theatre fun, and hearing those sporty girls talk slang."
"Yes, and spending a lot of money for very poor fun," replied Albert. "I don't think any better of myself for doing it, do you?"
"Oh, I don't think about it one way or the other," answered Frank, "I have so much time to kill, and that's no worse than any other way. We go to the theatre and see those same girls half nude and hear them say just as naughty things as they said to us that night, so what's the harm? We are a little nearer to them, that is all, and pay extra for the privilege."
"Well, of course it's all right, and as you do not think any the less of yourself for doing it, there is no harm," replied Albert, "only I do; and so it is worse for me than for you." Then he added, looking curiously at his friend, "Tell me honestly, Frank, did you enjoy having cigarette smoke puffed in your face, being called 'Cully,' and hearing silly brag about 'mashes,' and how they 'worked' some other fellow? Did it occur to you that those same rouge-finished queens of the ballet would describe us, and how they 'worked' us for a wine supper, to other jays, and that no doubt they have done so to one or a dozen since that night? They were pert and saucy, it is true, and up to date so far as slang goes, but did you really enjoy their society?"
"No, I can't say I did," was the sober answer, "only there was a spice of excitement about it, a sort of novelty. I would not want it every night, however."
"And while I am about it," continued Albert, warming up, "did you notice that those same fairies of the footlights had been so busy putting red paint on their lips and black lead on their eyelashes that they forgot to use a toothbrush, and left their fingernails in mourning? And what is more to the point, was there one word they uttered that you and I could not have fore-stalled long before it fell from their lips? Now you have a mother and sisters who think well of you, no doubt: how would you have felt to have had any one of them peep in that night and see what manner of company you were in? My mother is in her grave, but maybe she could see where I was and with whom I was that evening, and the thought makes me feel mean. I have a sister, one of the purest and sweetest little women God ever blessed the earth with, and not for all that I can earn in one year would I have her know what a foolish thing I did. For two days I was so ashamed of myself I felt miserably."
Frank sat in stupefied silence at his friend's outburst. "If I had imagined you were going to feel that way, old man," he said at last, "I would never have urged you to go with me. I never will again, I assure you."
"Oh, I am as much to blame as you," observed Albert. "I went willingly, but after it was all over I was sorry I did. I am no prude, I enjoy a little excitement and don't mind a social evening with a few friends, but it doesn't pay to do things you despise yourself for the next day."
"But," put in his friend with a quizzical look, "do you know you are preaching a sermon, and I rather enjoy it, too? It sets me thinking. As for such girls as we wined, I don't care a rap for them. If I could find any other and better amusement, they might go hang for all I care. What you say of them is true enough, and I agree with you they are a profitless lot of trash, but what is a fellow going to do to kill time? I try tennis and golf with fellows and girls in our set, but that is tame sport. I go to 'functions' once in a while, and if I dance twice with a pretty girl who has nodot, mother glares at me, and says I've no family pride. Most of the girls talk silly nonsense that wearies a fellow, and the morepasséthey are the worse they gush. The only thing I really enjoy that is respectable is yachting, and then I have trouble to find good fellows who have time to go with me. Once in a while I get disgusted with myself, and wish I had to work for a living."
Albert looked surprised. Was it possible that this young and handsome fellow, with dark brown honest eyes, curly black hair, and garb and manner of refinement, who never had known what it was to work, really wanted to earn his own way in the world, just from sheerennui?
"Frank," he said at last, "you ought to be ashamed to talk so. You have plenty of money, nothing to do but enjoy yourself, and yet you complain! You ought to have a few months of old Frye. It would reconcile you to your lot."
Frank looked sympathetic. "Is he so bad as that?" he said.
"No worse than any other old skinflint who feels he owns you, body and brains," replied Albert, "but I do not want to talk about him to-night. I've got the blues."
"I am sorry, old man," rejoined Frank in a low tone, "I wish I could help you. Maybe I can in the near future."
Albert was silent, while the comparison of his lot with that of his friend passed slowly in review.
"It seems to me you have everything to be thankful for, Frank," he said at last in a dejected tone,—"a kind father, good home, plenty of friends, a nice yacht, all the money you want, and nothing to do. With me it is different. Would it bore you if I unloaded a little of my history? I feel like it to-night."
"Not a bit," answered Frank, "I would really like to hear it. I didn't know much of your home affairs at college, and since you came to Boston I hated to ask you, for fear you would think me impertinent."
"Well," continued Albert, "when we were at college I was a little too proud to let you know I was the only son of a poor widow who was denying herself every luxury to educate me; but it was a fact. After we separated, I tutored some, read law, and was admitted to the bar. I opened an office in my native town and wasted a year waiting for clients, while I read novels, sketched, and fished, to pass the time. Last June my mother died and left my sister and me an old house that has been in the family over a century, a few acres of meadow lands, and maybe two hundred dollars in debts. Then I wrote to you. I was more than grateful for the chance you obtained for me to work for even such a man as Frye. I am paying those debts as fast as I can, and my sister is helping by teaching in a cross-road schoolhouse and walking four miles each day to do it."
"And I coaxed you to go out and spend money on a couple of ballet girls!" responded Frank regretfully. "Say, old man," reaching out his hand and clasping Albert's, "if I had known all this that evening I would have bit my tongue before I asked you to go with me."
"That is all right," replied Albert; "I should have told you that night what I have told you now, but maybe I was a little ashamed to do so."
"I would like to see that brave sister of yours," said Frank after a pause. "From what you tell me, she must be a trump."
Albert made no answer, but going to the mantel he took a framed photograph that stood there and handed it to his friend. It was a picture of a young girl with a face like an artist's dream and eyes like two pansies.
Frank gazed at it long and earnestly. "Your sister, I suppose," he said at last, still looking at the face. "I do not wonder you preached me the sermon you have this evening. You must be proud of her."
When it came time for him to go the two shook hands with a warmer clasp than ever, and when he was gone the little room did not seem quite so cheerless to its occupant as before.
Albert Page had builded wiser than he knew.
"I should like to be excused to-morrow forenoon, Mr. Frye," said Albert a few days later. "Frank has promised to introduce me to his father."
"Certainly," replied Frye, cheerfully, "take the entire day, if you wish, and if you have a good chance try to make the acquaintance of Miss Maud Vernon, a cashier in Mr. Nason's store, or at least take a good look at her. She is the key that will unlock the information I need, and I shall depend upon you to obtain it."
"I will keep my eyes open," replied Albert aloud, mentally resolving that it would not be in the interest of Frye and his sinister plot. The next day he met Frank by appointment, and the two called upon John Nason at his office. Albert was greeted cordially, and, after an exchange of commonplaces, soon found himself being interrogated by a series of questions pertaining to his home and college life, his knowledge of law, and how he liked his present employer, all of which with their answers, not being pertinent to the thread of this narrative, need not be quoted. They were for a purpose, however, as all of John Nason's business questions were, and at their conclusion he said:
"I am glad to have met you, Mr. Page. My son has spoken in the highest terms of you, and what has interested me more, Mr. Frye has also. He does not usually bestow much praise on any one, but is more apt to sneer. After you are a little better acquainted with legal proceedings here, come and see me. I may be able to do something for you. You might," addressing Frank, as if to end the interview, "show Mr. Page over the store now; it may interest him."
After an hour spent walking through the vast human hive, where over one thousand clerks and salesgirls were employed, the two friends returned to their club for lunch.
"Well, what do you think of the old gent?" asked Frank, as he sat down.
"I like him," was the answer; "he talks to the purpose, though, and I fancy his rapid-fire questions were for an object."
"You may be sure they were," replied Frank, "and, what is more, I saw by his expression that you had made a good impression. Do you know what I did the other day? I told him all about our escapade with the two fairies, and repeated all I could recall of the sermon you preached about it."
Albert looked astonished.
"I am sorry you did that," he said; "he must have thought me very weak not to have refused in the first place. What did he say?"
"Oh, not much," replied Frank; "he laughed, and said he guessed the closer I stuck to you, the better I would behave myself."
"Do you make a practice of confessing all your larks to your father?" observed Albert.
"Oh, I don't conceal much," answered Frank laughingly; "he and I are the best of friends, and he is so good to me I haven't the heart to deceive him. I had an object in telling him of our racket, however;" and then after a pause, "I wish you were to be at liberty this afternoon, Bert; I am going to take the 'Gypsy' round to Beverly to her winter quarters and I'd like your company."
"Well, I can go if I've a mind to," answered Albert; "Frye said I might take a day off if I wished."
Frank looked astonished. "Isn't he in danger of heart-failure?" he said; "the old buzzard must be getting stuck on you, I should say."
When the two had boarded the yacht, and while the engineer was getting up steam, Frank showed his guest all over that craft.
"I am surprised at the size of your boat," said Albert; "why, she is large enough for an ocean voyage."
"We may take one in her some day," replied Frank; "stranger things have happened. I believe she cost over eighty thousand dollars, but dad bought her for less than half that at an assignee's sale."
When steam was up they took a run out around Minot's Light and across to Cape Ann, and as the day was a delightful one, Albert enjoyed it immensely.
"I can't imagine a more charming way of spending a summer than to have such a craft as this and a well-chosen party of friends for company, and go where you like. Why, it would seem like a dream of life in an enchanted world to me."
It was late in the afternoon when they ran in past Baker's Island, and at Beverly they went ashore, and leaving the crew to moor the yacht in the stream between the two bridges, returned to Boston.
It was almost Thanksgiving time ere Albert saw Mr. Nason again, and then one day Frank said to him: "I want you to call on dad to-morrow. He wants to see you."
It came as a most agreeable surprise to Albert, and yet, as he entered that magnate's palatial store the next day, he did not dare to allow himself to hope that it would mean anything to him. He took the elevator to the fourth floor, where Mr. Nason's private office was, and with beating heart entered. His greeting was more cordial than before, and Mr. Nason, who, it may be observed, was a man that went about business as a woodcutter chops a tree, said:
"Are you under contract or obligation to remain with Mr. Frye any specified time, Mr. Page?"
"Nothing more than to give him a reasonable notice that I wish to quit," replied Albert; "I am paid so much a month 'for the present,' as he put it when I went there, and I certainly shall leave him as soon as I see any chance of bettering myself."
"That being the case, I see no reason why you cannot entertain the proposition I have decided to make you," said the merchant, "which is that you sever your relations with Mr. Frye between now and the first of the year, and then take hold and see what you can do in looking after my legal matters. The fact is, Mr. Page, as I intimated to you a short time ago, I am not entirely satisfied with Mr. Frye. Just why need not be considered now. The only point is, do you feel yourself capable of acting as my attorney and assuming charge of any law business that may arise?"
"Well, so far as my knowledge of the law goes," replied Albert, "I passed a good examination when I was admitted to the bar, I had some practice in Sandgate, and since I've been with Frye I've learned a good deal of the usual procedure here. I think I can do all that is necessary."
"My needs in a legal line are not complicated," continued Mr. Nason; "it is mostly looking up deeds and making transfers, seeing that titles are clear, etc. You will have to watch the custom officers, and there are more or less collections to be made. Occasionally I have to resort to the courts, but try to avoid them as much as possible."
"I think I could attend to all such matters to your satisfaction," said Albert confidently; "they are not hard tasks."
"Very well," replied Mr. Nason. "I have decided, partly at the request of my son and partly from my own estimate of your ability, to give you the trial. I will pay you twenty-five hundred dollars per annum to look after my needs, and you are also at liberty to take such other business as comes to you so long as you do not neglect mine."
"I thank you, Mr. Nason, for this offer," replied Albert, rising and proffering his hand, "and I accept gladly and will devote all my time, if need be, to your service."
"Very good," responded Mr. Nason; "separate yourself from Frye at once, or between now and the new year, and in the meantime I would suggest that you rent a suitable office. There are one or two vacant in a building I own on Water street that will serve very well, and when you are through with Mr. Frye, come and see me. I shall consider you in my employ from now on, and as you may need funds in fitting up your office, I will advance you a little on your salary," and without further comment he turned to his desk and wrote and handed Albert a check for five hundred dollars. "I should prefer," he added hastily, as if to prevent any word of thanks, "that you make no mention whatever of our agreement to Mr. Frye, or in fact to any one, until after January first." Then rising and offering his hand to Albert as if to dismiss him, he added:
"Come out to my house any evening, Mr. Page; we shall be glad to see you, and I am usually at home."
There are moments when our emotions nullify all attempts at speech, and to Albert Page, who before had felt himself alone and almost friendless in a great city, this was such a one.
"Never mind the thanks now," said Mr. Nason, as he saw Albert's agitation; "put your thanks into your work, and in a year we will talk it over."
"And this is the man I had almost hired myself out to spy upon!" said Albert to himself as he left the store.
For a few days after his interview with John Nason Albert tried to find some plausible excuse for leaving Frye. He did not want to make an enemy of him, and more especially now that he was to succeed him as John Nason's legal adviser. He knew that Frye would know he could not easily better himself, and would reason that, unknown and without money in a great city as he was, it would be some unusual opening that would make him turn away from what Frye considered a large salary. Then again, he had promised Mr. Nason not to disclose their agreement to Frye, and more than that, he felt in honor bound not to let Frye even suspect it. It was while perplexed with the situation and trying to solve it that it solved itself in an unexpected way.
Frye was out that day, and Albert was, as he had been for three days, thinking how to escape, when a red-faced and rather bellicose sort of a man came in and inquired for Frye.
"My name is Staples," he said, "and I've got a lawsuit on my hands. I've laid the facts before your partner, I s'pose, but I thought I'd just drop in and give him a few pointers that might help my case."
"What is your case?" asked Albert, a little amused at being taken for Frye's partner.
"Wal, the facts are," replied Staples, "I've had to sue a miserable whelp in self-defence. I live in Lynnfield. It's a small place about ten miles out, and last spring I bought the good will, stock in trade, an' all of a man by the name of Hunt, who was in the meat business. He signed a paper, too, agreein' not to engage in the business in or within ten miles o' Lynnfield for a period o' five years, and a month ago he opened a shop almost 'cross the street from me and is cuttin' my prices right and left, confound him."
"And you are bringing an action for breach of contract?" interposed Albert, thinking to have a little fun at the expense of his caller.
"I'm a-suin' him for ten thousand dollars' damage, if that's what you mean," replied the belligerent Staples. "I won't get it all, but then, as your partner said, we may get more than if we sued for less. Law's a big game of bluff, I reckon."
Albert smiled. "And so you are basing your suit on this signed agreement, are you?" he said; "well, you might as well stop just now, for you have no case in law, though no doubt a good one in justice."
"But the agreement is all signed and witnessed," exclaimed Staples, "and Mr. Frye said I had good reason to bring suit, and I've paid him two hundred dollars on account to do it."
"That may be," said Albert, realizing he had put his foot in it, so to speak, "and perhaps you have other grounds to base a suit for damages on, but as for the agreement this man Hunt signed, it's of no value whatever."
"Then why in thunder did Frye tell me I had a good case, and take my money?" gasped the irate Staples.
"That I can't say," replied Albert, foreseeing the rumpus he had started, "you'd better come to-morrow and have a talk with him. He may have seen some loophole for you to win out through that I do not see, but so far as your agreement goes, it's not worth the paper it's written on."
When the law-thirsty Staples had departed it dawned upon Albert that he had unintentionally paved the way for his own escape from Frye. "I'll stay away to-morrow," he said to himself, "and let Staples get in his work, and then face the inevitable storm that I have started." He had surmised the results accurately, for when, two days later, he purposely reached the office late, Frye did not even bid him good morning.
"Where were you yesterday?" he said curtly, as Albert entered.
"I was availing myself of your express wish that I cultivate young Nason," was the answer. "We went to Beverly to see to the housing-in of his yacht for the winter."
"And what did you say to Mr. Staples the day before, I would like to know?" continued Frye in a sneering tone. "He has retained me for an action for breach of contract, and you have told him he had no grounds for suit. He came in yesterday, mad as a wet hen, and wanted his money back. Are you a fool?"
"Maybe I am," replied Albert, trying hard to keep cool, "but I do not care to be told of it. Mr. Staples explained his case to me, and I inadvertently told him that the agreement he held was of no value in law, which is the truth."
"And what has that to do with it?" said Frye, with biting sarcasm. "I didn't hire you to tell the truth and lose me a paying client. If that is your idea of law practice you had better go back to Sandgate and hoe corn for a living. I knew very well his agreement was of no value, but that was a matter for him to find out, not for us to tell him. You have made a mess of it now, and lost me several hundred dollars in fees."
Albert had remained standing through all this tirade, and looking squarely at his irate employer.
"You need not say any more," he put in, when Frye had paused for breath; "if you will further oblige me with a check for the small balance due me, I will not again upset your plans. You need not," he added, feeling himself blush, "consider that you owe me any part of the increase you recently promised. I do not want it."
It was Frye's turn to be astonished now. That this verdant limb of the law, as he considered Albert to be, could have the manliness to show any resentment at his scourging, and what was more surprising, coolly resign a good position, he could not understand. For a few minutes the two looked at each other, and then Frye, for reasons of his own, weakened first.
"You are foolish," he said, in a modified tone, "to act so hastily. Perhaps I have spoken rather rudely, but you must admit you gave me provocation. Do not throw away a good chance for a few hasty words."
"I do not care to discuss it," answered Albert firmly; "the role of private detective that you want me to assume is not to my taste, anyway, and your words have convinced me we can never get along together. I will not remain longer on any terms."
"And what will you do now?" sneered Frye, a sinister look entering his yellow eyes, "steal or starve?"
"Neither," replied Albert defiantly; "I'll go back to Sandgate and hoe corn first."
Then, as a realizing sense of how much he was in the power of this courageous stripling came to Frye, his arrogance all melted, and as he turned and began to play with a paper-cutter he said meekly:
"Come, Mr. Page, overlook it all. I spoke too hastily, and I apologize."
It was the guilty coward conquering the brute instinct, but it availed not.
"Will you oblige me with the small balance due me to-day," asked Albert, "or shall I call again for it?"
"And if we part company now," muttered Frye, "what am I to expect? Are you to be a friend or an enemy?"
"If you refer to your scheme to blackmail John Nason," replied Albert resolutely, and not mincing words, "I am too ashamed to think I ever listened to your proposals to even speak of it."
It was a hard blow and made Frye wince, for it was the first time he had ever been openly called a villain, but, craven hypocrite that he was, he made no protest. Instead, he silently wrote a check for Albert's due and handed it to him.
"I am much obliged, Mr. Frye. Good morning, sir," said Albert in a chilly tone, and putting on his hat, he left the office.
When the door was closed behind him he turned, shook his fist at it, and muttered: "You miserable old villainous vulture! I am glad I saved one victim from being robbed by you!"
But Albert cooled off in time. We always do.
That night when he met Frank at the club he grasped one of that young man's hands in both of his and as he shook it, exclaimed:
"If you were Alice now, I would hug and kiss you!"
"Well," responded Frank, "if you were Alice now, all I can say is, it would meet my entire approbation; but tell me what ails you? Have you had a fortune left you?"
"Yes and no," replied Albert; "your father has given me the chance of a lifetime and I am free from old Frye. I have you to thank for the chance, I am sure."
"Well, I put in a good word for you when I had the opportunity," said Frank modestly, "and the sermon you preached me once, and which I reported to dad, may have had some weight with him."
In a week Albert had his office fitted up, and then he presented himself to John Nason, and after that he not only had all the responsibility thrust upon him that he was able to assume, but he no longer felt himself in the position of a menial. To one of his proud spirit it meant self-respect, life, and sunshine.
There are two characteristics sure to be found among the residents of a small country village, and those are kindness of heart and a love of gossip. The former showed itself in Sandgate when Albert Page went to those his family were indebted to, and, with much humiliation to himself, asked them to wait. Mr. Hobbs' reply is all that is necessary to quote, as it was a reflex of all the others.
"Don't ye worry one whit, Mr. Page," he said; "take your own time, an' if it's a year it's no matter. The only reason I called with the bill was because it's customary when an estate is bein' settled. Tell your folks I expect and want 'em to keep right on tradin' with me."
When Alice appealed to Mr. Mears she also met only the kindest of words.
"Ye can drive back an' forth, an' not be away from home over night," said he, "till snow comes, an' then I'll git ye a boardin'-place clus by the schoolhouse and fetch and carry ye Mondays and Fridays."
The love of gossip showed itself as distinctly in a general discussion by the townsfolk of the affairs of the Pages. For a month after Albert had gone away and Alice had begun teaching, they were the subject of much after-church and sewing-circle talk.
"If Alice could only git married now," observed Mrs. Mears, who was perhaps the leader among the gossips in Sandgate, "it 'ud be the most fortunit thing that could happen, but she holds her head perty middlin' high for a poor girl, which p'raps is nat'ral, she comin' from one o' the oldest families. They say there wa'n't nothin' left to either on 'em when the Widder Page died, an' the wonder is how she managed to git along as well as she did."
Fortunately none of this gossip, of which Mrs. Mears' remarks are only a sample, reached Alice, for she had enough to bear as it was. The vexations of an effort to pound the rudiments of an education into the heads of two dozen or so barefooted boys and girls that comprised her charge were far less hard to bear than the desolation of a home bereft of mother and brother. Occasionally some one of the neighbors would drop in of an evening, or one or two of her girl friends come and stay all night. On Sundays she was, as she always had been, a regular attendant at the village church, where she formed one of the choir. She had never encouraged the attentions of any of the young men, who mostly wore the habiliments of farmers on week days and worse-fitting ones on Sundays, which accounted for Mrs. Mears' remark that "she held her head perty middlin' high." It was true in a way, not from any false pride, but rather because Alice was of a more refined and fastidious nature than those who "would a-wooing go."
She was like a flower herself, not only in looks, but in delicacy of feeling and sentiment, and her sweet face, sheltered by a mourning-hat on Sunday at church, was a magnet that drew the eyes of many a village swain. The days and weeks of her new life as a teacher passed in uneventful procession until one by one the leaves had fallen from the two big elm trees in front of the desolate home, the meadows were but level fields of snow, and Christmas was only two weeks away. Then she received a letter from the absent brother that caused her heart to beat with unusual excitement. It read:
Dear Sis: Three weeks ago I received a most flattering proposal from Mr. Nason, Frank's father, who offered me a good salary to take charge of his law business, and also the chance to accept anything else that came my way. I have a nice office now in a block he owns, and am so busy I do not find time to write to you even. It's an opening of a lifetime, and I owe it mainly to Frank. Now I am so homesick I am coming up to spend Christmas with you, and I've invited Frank to come also. We shall be up the day before and stay till the Monday after. Frank has done so much for me that I want to entertain him in the best way possible. He knows absolutely nothing about country life, and it may be dull for him, but he seems desirous of coming, and so I want you to help me to make it cheerful for him. To be candid, sis, I think the chance to see you, whom he has heard me say so much about, is the real loadstone. I enclose a bit of paper, and I want you to use it all in any way you wish.
Dear Sis: Three weeks ago I received a most flattering proposal from Mr. Nason, Frank's father, who offered me a good salary to take charge of his law business, and also the chance to accept anything else that came my way. I have a nice office now in a block he owns, and am so busy I do not find time to write to you even. It's an opening of a lifetime, and I owe it mainly to Frank. Now I am so homesick I am coming up to spend Christmas with you, and I've invited Frank to come also. We shall be up the day before and stay till the Monday after. Frank has done so much for me that I want to entertain him in the best way possible. He knows absolutely nothing about country life, and it may be dull for him, but he seems desirous of coming, and so I want you to help me to make it cheerful for him. To be candid, sis, I think the chance to see you, whom he has heard me say so much about, is the real loadstone. I enclose a bit of paper, and I want you to use it all in any way you wish.
It was a check for one hundred dollars!
It was not strange that at school next day Alice's thoughts were not on the recitations, and when one boy spelled beauty "b-o-o-t-i-e," and raised a laugh, she did not understand why it was. Children are in some ways as keen as briers, and her pupils soon discovered that "teacher" was absent-minded and they whispered right and left. When she discovered it she didn't have the heart to punish them, and was glad when the time came to dismiss school.
The instinct of her sex was strong within her, however, and that night she said to Aunt Susan:
"Do you think, auntie, we could manage between us to make up some sort of a pretty house-dress? Of course I must wear black when I go out, but it would be no harm to wear something brighter at home. I could get some delicate gray cashmere, and Mrs. Sloper can cut and fit it, and you and I can make it evenings. I want a sort of house-gown trimmed with satin. I wish I dared to have a new hat for church, with a little color in it,—my mourning-bonnet makes me look so old,—but I am afraid people would talk."
The feminine fear of looking old was needless in her case.
But how the days dragged, and how many times she counted them to see how many more were to pass ere that dearly beloved brother was to arrive! And what sort of a looking fellow was this Frank? she wondered. She hoped he was tall and dark, not too tall, but good and stout. And how could she ever entertain them? She could play and sing a few pretty ballads, and any number of hymns, but as for conversation she felt herself wholly deficient. Of the world of art, literature, and the drama she knew but little. She had read a good many novels, it is true, and had seen "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "East Lynne," and one or two other tear-moving dramas played in the town hall, but that was all. She had never even journeyed as far as Boston or New York. "He will think me as green as the hills around us," she thought ruefully, "but I can't help it. I can cook some nice things for him to eat, anyhow, and Bert must do the talking. I wonder if he plays the piano. I hope not, for if he does I'll not touch it."
Christmas came on Thursday that year and her school was to close for a week on the Friday before. She had a little plan in her mind, and the last day of school she called on two of the big boys to help her.
"My brother is coming home to spend Christmas," she said to them, "and I want a lot of ground-pine to trim up the house. Will you bring me some?"
If there is anything that will touch a country boy's heart it is to have "teacher"—and especially a young and pretty teacher—ask him to go for ground-pine; so it is needless to say that Alice was supplied with an ample outfit of that graceful vine. More than that, they begged for the privilege of helping her festoon it, and when long ropes of it were draped over the windows and above the fireplace in the big parlor, and the hall and dining-room received the same decoration, the house presented a cheerful appearance. The culinary department was not neglected either, and a great store of pies, frosted cake, and doughnuts was prepared.
"I do not know what I should do without you, Aunt Susan," the fair young hostess said the day before the guests were to arrive; "I couldn't do this all alone, and I want to give Bert a welcome."
It may be surmised that consideration for that big brother was not the sole force that moved her, but the veil that shelters the heart of a sweet young girl must not be rudely drawn aside. She had written: "I shall be only too glad to do all in my power, in my poor way, to entertain your friend who has done so much for you," and we will let that disclosure of gratitude suffice.
"You must not expect much excitement up in Sandgate," Albert said to his friend the day they started for that quiet village. "It is a small place, and all the people do in the winter is to chop wood, shovel snow, eat, and go to meeting. We shall go sleighing and I shall take you to church to be stared at, and for the rest Alice and Aunt Susan will give us plenty to eat."
It must be admitted that this same Alice, whose picture had so interested him, was the attraction which made young Nason glad to accept his friend's cordial invitation, and then he really felt a very warm friendship for that friend. It is likely that the perfect sincerity and wholesome ideas of Albert attracted and held his rather more pliable and easy-going nature. The strong attract the weak, among men, and Frank Nason, never having been hardened by adversity, looked up to and admired the man who had courage and perseverance. He wondered if Alice was like him, and rather hoped not. It was nearly dark and snowing when they reached Sandgate, and when he saw a plump girlish figure with slightly whitened garments rush forward, almost jump into his friend's arms, and kiss him vehemently, it occurred to him that a welcome home by such a sister was worth coming many miles for.
Then he heard his name mumbled in a hurried introduction and, as he raised his hat, saw this girl withdraw a small hand from a mitten and offer it to him.
"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Nason," she said with a bright smile; "my brother has told me so much about you I feel almost acquainted." And then, turning to that brother, she added: "I have the horse hitched outside, Bert, so we will go right home."
She led the way, and when they had stowed their belongings in the sleigh she said, "You can hold me in your lap, Bert, and I'll drive. I'm used to it now." She chirruped to the rather docile horse, and as the bells began to jingle she added: "What have you got in that box, Bertie?"
"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no fibs, Miss Curious," he answered. "Wait until to-morrow and then I'll show you."
When they drove into the yard he said: "Take Frank right in, sis, and I'll unharness."
It was quite dark now, but Frank noticed, as he gathered up the bags and bundles and followed his hostess, that the rather stately house was aglow with light.
"Leave your hat and coat here in the hall, Mr. Nason," she said cordially, "and go right into the parlor and get warm. You will kindly excuse me now. I'm first and second girl, housemaid and cook, and I must go and help Aunt Susan to get supper ready. You two gentlemen are hungry, I'm sure."
It was not a formal reception, but it was a cordial one, which was better, and when Frank entered the parlor he was surprised at the cheerful sight, for the room was festooned all around with ropes of evergreen. The long mantel over the fireplace, bright with flames, was banked with a mass of green, and against each white lace curtain hung a wreath. In one corner stood an upright piano, in sharp contrast with the rather antique hair-cloth chairs and sofa. He had just drawn a chair to the fire, when Albert came in and gave a low whistle at the sight of the decorations. "That's one of the perquisites of a country schoolma'am," he observed, "and I'll bet the boys that gathered all this green for Alice enjoyed getting it. I used to when I was a boy. Well, old fellow," he added, addressing Frank, "here we are, and you must make yourself at home."
Then Alice came in and announced supper, and after Aunt Susan had been introduced, they all sat down. It was an old-fashioned meal, for while the brother helped to the ham and eggs and fried potatoes, Aunt Susan served the quince preserves and passed the hot biscuit, and Alice poured the tea. The table too had a Christmas touch, for around the mat where the lamp stood was a green wreath brightened with clusters of red berries. It was all a charming picture, and not the least of it was the fair girl who so graciously played the hostess. When the meal was over she said:
"Now you two gentlemen must go into the parlor and smoke, and I'll join you later. I command you to smoke," she added imperiously, "for I want the house to smell as if there was a man around."
When she came in later, wearing her new house-dress, she drew her chair close to her brother's and resting her elbows on his knee and her chin in her open palms she looked up and said with a witching smile:
"Now, Bertie, I've fed you nicely, haven't I? and I've done all I could for your comfort, so now please tell me what is in that long flat box you brought."
It was charmingly done, but the big brother was proof against her wiles. "You are a bewitching coaxer, sis," he answered, "but I am hard-hearted. I'll make a trade with you, though. First tell us all about your school-teaching and sing us all the songs I ask for, and then I'll open the box."
"You are very modest in your wants," she replied archly, "but like all men you must be humored to keep you good-natured, I presume."
"I wish you would tell us about your school, Miss Page," put in Frank; "you are not a bit like the schoolma'am of my boyhood, and I would like to know how you manage children."
"Well, it was a little hard at first," she answered, "for boys and girls of ten and twelve have surprisingly keen intuitions, and it seemed to me they made a study of my face from the first and concluded I was soft-hearted. I had one little boy that was a born mischief-maker, but he had such winsome ways I had to love him in spite of it. But he had to be punished some way, and so one day I kept him after school and then told him I must whip him hard, but not at that time. I explained to him what I was going to punish him for, 'but,' I said, 'I shall not do it to-night. I may do it to-morrow or the day after, but I will not tell you when the whipping is to come until I am ready to do it.' My little plan was a success, for the next night he waited till all the rest had gone, and then came to me with tears in his eyes, and begged me to whip him then. I didn't, though, and told him I wouldn't until he disobeyed again. He has been the most obedient boy in the school ever since. There is one little girl who has won my heart, though, in the oddest way you can imagine. The day I received your letter, Bert, I was so happy that the school ran riot, and I never knew it. They must have seen it in my face, I think. Well, when school was out, this girl, a shy little body of ten, sidled up to my desk and said, 'Pleath may I kith you, teacher, 'fore I go home?' It was such an odd and pretty bit of feeling, it nearly brought tears to my eyes."
"I should like to give that little girl a box of candy, Miss Page," observed Frank, "and then ask her for a kiss myself."
For an hour Alice kept both the young men interested in her anecdotes of school-teaching, and then her brother said:
"Come, sis, you must sing some, or no box to-night!"
"Well," she replied, smiling, "what shall it be? a few gems from Moody and Sankey, or from 'Laurel Leaves'?" And then turning to Frank she added: "My brother just dotes on church music!"
"Alice," said her brother with mock sternness, "if you fib like that you know the penalty!"
"Do you play or sing, Mr. Nason?" she inquired, not heeding her brother.
"I do not know one note from another," he answered.
"Well, that is fortunate for me," she said; "I only sing a few old-fashioned ballads, and help out at church."
Then without further apology she went to the piano. "Come, Bertie," she said, "you must help me, and we will go through the College Songs." And go through them they did, beginning with "Clementine" and ending with "The Quilting Party."
"Now, sis," said her brother, "I want 'Old Folks at Home,' 'Annie Laurie,' 'Rock-a-bye,' and 'Ben Bolt,' and then I'll open the box."
It was a simple, old-fashioned home parlor entertainment, and no doubt most musical artists would have sneered at the programme, but Alice had a wonderfully sweet and sympathetic soprano voice, and as Frank sat watching the fitful flames play hide-and-seek in the open fire, and listened to those time-worn ballads, it seemed to him he had never heard singing quite so sweet. Much depends upon the time and place, and perhaps the romance of the open fire sparkling beneath the bank of evergreen, and making the roses come into the fair singer's cheeks, and warming the golden sheen of her hair, had much to do with it. When she came to "Ben Bolt," that old ditty that has all the pathos of our lost youth in it, there was a tiny quiver in her voice; and when she finished, had he been near he would have seen the glint of two unshed tears in her eyes, for the song carried her thoughts to where her mother was at rest.
It was the first time he had ever heard that song, and he never afterwards forgot it.
"Now, Bertie," said Alice coaxingly, after she had finished singing, "haven't I earned the box?"
It was an appeal that few men could resist, and certainly not Albert Page, and, true to his promise, he gave her the mysterious box. With excited fingers she untied the cords, tore off the wrapper, and as she lifted the cover she saw—a beautiful seal-skin sacque!
We will leave to the reader's imagination any and all the expressions that followed, for no pen can give them with all their girlish fervor, and when the exciting incident was over, it was time for retiring.
That evening, with its simple home enjoyments, sincere and wholesome, its bright open fire, the unaffected cordiality of brother and sister, and beyond all, the feeling that he was a welcome guest, made those few hours ones long to be remembered by Frank. To begin with, the cheerful fire was a novelty to him, and perhaps that added a touch of romance. Then Alice herself was a surprise. He had been captivated by her picture, but had half expected to find her a timid country girl, too shy to do aught but answer "yes" and "no," and look pleasant. Then her voice was also a surprise, and when he reached the seclusion of his room it haunted him. And more than that, so intently had its bird-like sweetness charmed him that it usurped all his thoughts. He had thanked her for the entertainment, of course, but now that he was alone, it seemed to him that his formal thanks had been too feeble an expression. "I don't wonder Bert adores her," he thought; "she is the most winsome, unaffected, and sweet little lady I ever met. If I were to remain in this house a week I should be madly in love with her myself."
He was a good deal so, as it was.
"I have directed our liveryman to send over his best nag and a cutter this morning," said Albert at breakfast the next day to his friend, "and you and Alice can take a sleigh-ride and see Sandgate snow-clad. I have some business matters to attend to."
Later, when he was alone with Alice, he added with a smile: "You need not feel obliged to wear your new sacque, sis; it's not very cold."
"Oh, you tease!" she replied, but the light in her eyes betrayed her feelings.
It was a delightful day for a sleigh-ride, for every bush and tree was covered with a white fleece of snow, and the morning sun added a tiny sparkle to every crystal. A thicket of spruce was changed to a grove of towering white cones and an alder swamp to a fantastic fairyland. It was all new to Frank, and as he drove away with that bright and vivacious girl for a companion it is needless to say he enjoyed it to the utmost.
"I had no idea your town was so hemmed in by mountains," he said after they started and he had a chance to look around; "why, you are completely shut in, and such grand ones, too! They are more beautiful than the White Mountains and more graceful in shape."
"They are all of that," answered Alice, "and yet at times they make me feel as if I was shut in, away from all the world. We who see them every day forget their beauty and only feel their desolation, for a great tree-clad mountain is desolate in winter, I think. At least it is apt to reflect one's mood. I suppose you have travelled a great deal, Mr. Nason?"
"Not nearly as much as I ought to," he answered, "for the reason that I can't find any one I like to go with me. My mother and sisters go away to some watering-place every summer and stay there, and father sticks to business. I either dawdle around where the folks are summers, or stay in town and hate myself, if I can't find some one to go off on my yacht with me. The fact is, Miss Page," he added mournfully, "I have hard work to kill time. I can get a little party to run to Newport or Bar Harbor in the summer, and that is all. I should like to go to Florida or the West Indies in the winter, or to Labrador or Greenland summers, but I can't find company."
Alice was silent for a moment, for the picture of a young man complaining because he had nothing to do but spend his time and money was new to her.
"You are to be pitied," she said at last, with a tinge of sarcasm, "but still, there are just a few who would envy you."
He made no reply, for he did not quite understand whether she meant to be sarcastic or not. They rode along in silence for a time, and then Alice pointed to a small square brown building just ahead, almost hid in bushes, and said:
"Do you see that magnificent structure we are coming to, and do you notice its grand columns and lofty dome? If you had been a country boy you would recollect seeing a picture of it in the spelling-book. Take a good look at it, for that is a temple of knowledge, and it is there I teach school!"
Frank was silent, for this time the sarcastic tone in her voice was more pronounced. When they reached it he stopped and said quietly, "Please hold the reins. I want to look into the room where you spend your days."
He took a good long look, and when he returned he said, "So that is what you call a temple, is it? And it was in there the little girl wanted to kiss you because you looked happy?" And then as they drove on he added, "Do you know, I've thought of that pretty little touch of feeling a dozen times since you told about it, and when I go home I shall send a box of candy to you and ask you to do me the favor of giving it to that little girl."
It was not what she expected he would say, and it rather pleased her.
Conversation is but an exchange of moods, and in spite of their inspiring surroundings, the moods of those two young people did not seem to appeal to each other. To Alice, whose constant life of self-denial had made her feel that the world was cold and selfish, his complaints seemed little short of sacrilege; and he felt he had made a mess of it somehow in his really honest desire to be sincere. But two people so placed must talk, whether they feel like it or not, and so these two tried hard to be sociable. He wisely allowed her to do the most talking, and was really interested in her humorous descriptions of school-teaching. When they were nearly home he said:
"You are not a bit like what I imagined a schoolma'am was like."
"Did you think I wore blue glasses and petted a black cat?" she asked laughingly.
"The glasses might be a protection to susceptible young men," he answered, "and for that reason I would advise you to wear them."
"Shall I get some to-morrow to wear while you are here?" she queried with a smile. "I will if you feel in danger."
"Would you do it if I admitted I was?" he replied, resolving to stand his ground, and looking squarely at her.
But that elusive young lady was not to be cornered.
"You remind me of a story Bert told once," she said, "about an Irishman who was called upon to plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of drunkenness. When asked afterwards how he pleaded he said: 'Bedad, I give the judge an equivocal answer.' 'And what was that?' said his friend. 'Begorra, whin the judge axed me was I guilty or not guilty, I answered, "Was yer grandfather a monkey?" And then he gave me sixty days.'"
"Well," replied Frank, "that is a good story, but it doesn't answer my question."
That afternoon when Alice was alone with her brother, he said: "Well, sis, how do you like my friend?"
"Oh, he means to be nice," she replied, "but he is a little thoughtless, and it would do him good to have to work for his living a year or two."
Albert looked at his sister, while an amused smile spread over his face, and then said:
"If you weren't so abominably pretty you wouldn't be so fussy. Most young ladies would consider the good-looking and only son of a millionaire absolutely perfect at sight."
"But I don't," she replied, "and if you weren't the best brother in the world I'd box your ears! 'Abominably pretty!' The idea!"
The two days intervening before Sunday passed all too quickly for the three young people. One day they drove to a distant country town and had dinner, and that evening Alice, true to her sex, invited Frank to go with her to call upon her dearest girl friend. Just why she did this we will leave to any young lady to answer, if she will. The next day Albert invited a little party, and that evening they all met at the old mill pond and had a skating frolic. Secluded as it was, between wooded banks, it was just the place for that kind of fun, and the young men added romance to the scene by lighting a bonfire! When Sunday morning came they of course attended church, and Frank, as promised, found himself slyly stared at by all the people of Sandgate. He did not pay much attention to the sermon, but a good deal to a certain sweet soprano voice in the choir, and when after service Alice joined them, he boldly walked right away with her and left Albert chatting with a neighbor. It is certain that this proceeding did not displease her, for no wise young lady is averse to the assumed protectorship of a good-looking and well-dressed young man, especially when other girls are looking on.
On the way home she, of course, asked the usual question as to how he liked the sermon.
"I don't think I heard ten words of it," he replied; "I was kept busy counting how many I caught looking at me, and whenever the choir sang I forgot to count. Why was it they stared at me so much? Is a stranger here a walking curiosity?"
"In a way, yes," answered Alice; "they don't mean to be rude, but a new face at church is a curio. I'll wager that nine out of ten who were there this morning are at this moment discussing your looks and wondering who and what you are."
But all visits come to an end, and Frank, already more than half in love with the girl who had treated him in a rather cool though perfectly courteous way, realized that he would soon be not only out of sight, but out of mind, so far as Alice was concerned. In a way he had been spoiled by being sought after by managing mammas and over-anxious daughters, and was unprepared for the slightly indifferent reception he had met with from Alice. He had been attracted by her face the first time he saw her picture, and five days' association had not lessened the attraction.
A realization of her cool indifference tinged his feelings that evening just at dusk, where he had been left alone beside the freshly started parlor fire, and when the object of his thought happened in, he sat staring moodily at the flames. She drew a chair opposite, and seating herself, said pleasantly:
"Why so pensive, Mr. Nason? Has going to church made you feel repentant?"
"I don't feel the need of repentance except in one way," he answered, "and that you would not be interested in. If I am looking pensive," he continued, turning towards her, "it's because I'm going away to-morrow."
It was a step towards dangerous ground, and she realized it, but a little spice of daring coquetry impelled her to say:
"Tell me what you feel to repent of; I may be able to offer you some good advice."
He had turned toward the fire again, and sat shading his face with one hand, and slowly passing his fingers across his forehead. For a moment he waited, and then answered:
"To be candid, Miss Page, I'm growing ashamed of the useless life I lead, and it's that I feel to repent of. A few things your brother said to me three months ago were the beginning, and a remark you made the day we first went sleighing has served to increase that feeling. Ever since I left college I have led an aimless life, bored to death byennui, and conscious that no one was made any happier by my existence. What Bert said to me, and your remark, have only served to make me realize it more fully."
They were both on risky ground now, and no one knew it better than Alice, but she did not lose her head.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Nason," she said pleasantly, "if any words of mine hurt you even a little. I have forgotten what they were, and wish you would. The visit which you and Bert are making me is a most delightful break in the monotony of my life, and I shall be very glad to see you again." And then rising she added, "If I hurt you, please say you forgive me, for I must go out and see to getting tea."
It was an adroit escape from a predicament, and she felt relieved. It must also be stated that her visitor had taken a long step upward in her estimation.
The last evening was passed much like the first, except that now the elusive Alice seemed to be transformed into a far more gracious hostess, and all her smiles and interest seemed to be lavished upon Frank instead of her brother. It was as if this occult little lady had come to feel a new and surprising curiosity in all that concerned the life and amusements of her visitor. With true feminine skill she plied him with all manner of questions, and affected the deepest interest in all he had to say. What were his sisters' amusements? Did they entertain much, play tennis, golf, or ride? Where did they usually go summers, and did he generally go with them? His own comings and goings, and where he had been and what he saw there, were also made a part of the grist he was encouraged to grind. She even professed a keen interest in his yacht, and listened patiently to a most elaborate description of that craft, although as a row-boat was the largest vessel she had ever set foot on, it is likely she did not gain a very clear idea of the "Gypsy."
"Your yacht has a very suggestive name," she said; "it makes one think of green woods and camp-fires. I should dearly love to take a sail in her. I have read so much about yachts and yachting that the idea of sailing along the shores in one's own floating house, as it were, has a fascination for me."
This expression of taste was so much in line with Frank's, and the idea of having this charming girl for a yachting companion so tempting, that his face glowed.
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he responded, "than to have you for a guest on my boat, Miss Page. I think it could be managed if I could only coax my mother and sisters to go, and you and your brother would join us. We would visit the Maine coast resorts and have no end of a good time."
"It's a delightful outing you suggest," she answered, "and I thank you very much; but I wouldn't think of coming if your family had to be coaxed to go, and then, it's not likely that Bert could find the time."
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," he said, looking serious, "only mother and the girls are afraid of the water, that is all."
When conversation lagged Frank begged that she would sing for him, and suggested selections from Moody and Sankey; and despite her brother's sarcastic remark that it wasn't a revival meeting they were holding, she not only played and sang all those time-worn melodies, but a lot of others from older collections. When retiring-time came, Frank asked that she conclude with "Ben Bolt."
"I shall not need to recall that song to remind me of you," he said in a low voice as he spread it on the music rack in front of her, "but I shall always feel its mood when I think of you."
"Does that mean that you will think of me as sleeping 'in a corner obscure and alone' in some churchyard?" she responded archly.
"By no means," he said, "only I may perhaps have a little of the same mood at times that Ben Bolt had when he heard of the fate of his sweet Alice."
It was a pretty speech and Frank imagined she threw a little more than usual pathos into the song after it; but then, no doubt his imagination was biased by his feelings.
When they stood on the platform the next morning awaiting the train, he said quietly:
"May I send you a few books and some new songs when I get home, Miss Page? I want to show you how much I have enjoyed this visit."
"It is very nice of you to say so," she replied, "and I shall be glad to be remembered, and hope you will visit us again."
When the train came in he rather hurriedly offered his hand and with a "Permit me to thank you again," as he raised his hat, turned away to gather up the satchels and so as not to be witness to her leave-taking from her brother.
It was a tactful act that was not lost upon her.