Chapter V: Part 5

“I don’t quite like to go on Sunday evening,” said the girl. “But we wouldn’t stay long, would we?”

“Oh, no, only till the sun went down! And we have just come from church, so where’s the harm?”

So a little rowboat was engaged for an hour, and two happy persons pushed off the Jersey Island coast. They chatted merrily as the red and yellow of the clouds played on the waters, and let the boat half drift toward the sunset.

Suddenly the young man dropped one of the oars. A shade of fear passed over Louise Arnot’s face.

“Can you reach it?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes, don’t fear!” and he took the other oar and guided the boat toward the missing paddle.

The breeze was blowing off the land, and increasing. The boat was not easily managed with one oar, and the cheery face of young Farneaux grew a little troubled as the oar drifted faster than the boat.

Anxiety does not give a steady hand, and before he knew it the other oar had slipped from his grasp.

Miss Arnot’s face grew white. “What shall we do? We are drifting out to sea. Would they see us if we were to signal to the shore? Ours is the only boat out. Oh! why did we start at all?”

“Accidents will happen. I must jump for the oars. I am a good swimmer. Don’t get frightened and let the boat tip and fill with water. I’ll soon be back.”

“But you may be drowned,” said the frightened girl. “I wish I could swim, and so help you.”

“No, no! Keep the boat steady as I jump, and I’ll have them in hand soon. I must throw off this coat, so I can swim.” He rose, put his hand on the side, and gave a leap into the ocean.

Her heart sank within her as he went, but there was nothing else possible to be done.

The boat, lightened of its freight, glided on further and further from shore. She wished she were heavier to hold it down. She wished she could reach one oar while he obtained the other, as both had now floated far apart. She watched him breathlessly as he swam away. Impeded somewhat by his clothes, he yet swam hastily and caught one oar, holding it up to Louise’s delighted eyes.

He did not see that the boat was drifting fast away from him. But he must have the other oar. Both persons were helpless without it, so he redoubled his efforts. He felt the breeze stiffening. What if he could not reach the oar? What if he could not reach the boat with its fair owner? What if Louise were to drift out to sea and be drowned, and her death be laid at his door? No, that should not be; and he put his whole strength against the waves. He gained in speed, and soon held the coveted oar in his grasp.

He looked toward the skiff. Alas! it was smaller to his sight and almost flying before the wind. He started with the oars, but he felt himself weakening. He must throw them away if he would overtake the boat, and then it would be certain death to both. The moments were agonizing. Even if he did reach Louise, he could not swim with her to the shore. If he reached the bank himself, he could get friends to put out and save her.

Thus reasoning, he sorrowfully dropped the oars and swam for life. The wind had now become violent and he was losing strength, but fear and despair nerve us to our uttermost; and finally, well nigh exhausted, he touched the shore. He was grateful, but almost overcome with sorrow as well as fatigue.

An excited crowd gathered around him.

“Where is the young lady?” they asked.

“We lost the oars, and she has drifted out to sea. God help her!”

“Coward!” shouted the crowd, who are usually blind and unreasoning.

“Nobody’ll believe such a yarn,” said one.

“We heard cries of ‘Murder!’ ’way back here on the shore,” shouted others, for there is always a class of persons who fill life with imaginary evils, as though it were not full enough of real ones.

“Arrest him—he deserves lynching,” said others, who knew and honored the young girl who was now missing.

“Man a boat and let us go and bring her back,” persisted young Farneaux, but the people laughed him to scorn. The case was plainly against him. He had taken her out and came back without her. He could swim and she could not, and he had basely deserted or murdered her. Besides, no rowboat could live in the fast-increasing waves. The officers hurried Farneaux off to jail, and he was indicted for homicide. In vain he protested; in vain he begged for clemency till the matter could be investigated. No, they would keep him close in hand, and if anything favorable developed they would give him the benefit.

Meantime what had become of the rowboat? It had drifted out into the deep ocean with its helpless occupant. The sun went down in a blaze of light, but the beautiful red and orange colors brought no joy to the eyes that peered in vain toward the horizon.

“Mr. Farneaux would not desert me,” she murmured. “Where can he be?” and she shaded her eyes with her hand, hoping to see the dim outline of a human being.

The stars came out slowly one by one, and gradually she knew that she was at the mercy of the great ocean and the God who rules over all. What might come she hardly dared to think. If a storm did not arise, she might float on and on. If the wind rose higher, more water would come into the boat, for it dipped already, and then death was certain.

She began to grow hungry and faint, but she must not give up. The hours grew toward midnight. There was no use to call aloud, for there was no soul to respond. The boat lurched, and was now half full of water. She could only pray and wait in agony.

One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours, five hours, which were as long as weeks, and then the sun streaked the eastern sky, and came up as grandly and joyously as though no hearts were breaking on land or sea.

“O Father in heaven, if some ship might only pass this way!” she moaned. So thirsty, but no water—so hungry, but no food—weak from loss of sleep, but with nerves strung to their utmost tension in the eager watching for a sail.

The whole forenoon passed. The mid-day sun grew hot and parching, and hope was finally giving way to despair. The whole of life had been reviewed, with thoughts of the dear ones waiting for her. The whole afternoon dragged on, the sun set, and the second weary night was to be lived through, or death might come before morning. Hunger and fear had blanched the face, and death even was beginning to lose its terrors from the numbness of the physical.

The night wore away, long and weary and desolate, and again morning dawned. Louise was sitting in the water of the boat, her limbs chilling, scarce knowing now if she were dead or alive. It was growing toward noon again; forty hours alone on the ocean, and death seemingly near at hand.

Something appeared in the distance. What! Did she see with her half-blind eyes the smoke of a coming vessel? Could it be, or was it only a mirage which had deceived again and again?

Yes, it actually came nearer; but would it see her, a mere speck on the ocean? She would gather strength enough to wave her handkerchief. Ah! it really was a vessel. God help her now in her one last gleam of hope! She had no strength to call, and even if she had probably such call would be useless. How earnestly she prayed, gaining new lease of life from this new hope!

“There’s something ahead,” said the man at the lookout. “Perhaps a body floating out at sea; no, it looks like a rowboat—perhaps a drifting lifeboat of some steamer.” And word was given to bring the ship alongside.

“Heaven help us—why, there’s a girl in the boat alone!”

“Lower a lifeboat, boys, and pull out for her.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said the men, with eager hearts, for none have warmer than those who sail the ocean.

Louise’s heart bounded for joy when she saw the sturdy oarsmen come near. She would have fainted hours before, but now she wept with gratitude.

“It’s a long way ye are from home,” said one broad-shouldered sailor, as he lifted her in his arms like a child, and carried her into the lifeboat.

She was too weak to tell the story now, and wondering how it all happened the men carried back their precious freight to the ship.

The captain and officers showed her every kindness, offering her food when she could partake of it, and giving her every chance for rest and sleep.

“But we cannot take you home,” said the kind-hearted man. “We are on our way to America. It must be weeks before our return.”

“I am so thankful for all your kindness. I can wait anywhere, only so I send them word of my safety.”

The steamer arrived on the Atlantic coast May 19, just one month after the almost fatal boat-ride.

On the other side of the ocean there was sorrow and suspense. Louise’s home was desolate for its lost one. Public opinion was still bitter against the author of her misfortune. With innocent heart, but blanched face, Mr. Farneaux was brought from jail to the crowded court-room for his trial on the charge of homicide. Every day and hour he had hoped for some word that would show him to be guiltless, but days grew into weeks, and neither the boat nor Louise Arnot was found. He supposed her dead, but hoped some vessel would report the empty boat, or have picked up at sea the missing one.

The prosecution made out a strong case.

“If Mr. Farneaux’s story were true,” said the attorney, “that he was unable to reach her, and therefore saved his life by swimming ashore, her body would have been found on the beach long before this. She was last seen in his company. It was an easy matter to sink the oars and then swim to shore after the deed was done. Thirty days have gone by, long enough for any vessel to have picked her up and restored her to her heart-broken family, if she were alive.”

And then for hours the enormity of the deed, the coaxing her to go upon the ocean that Sabbath evening, the cold-bloodedness of the whole affair, were gone over by able lawyers.

Mr. Farneaux’s face grew white, and his body trembled at the accusations. And then he told in straightforward language the story of his losing the oars, of the increasing wind so that he could scarcely gain the shore, of the impossibility of reaching her with his heavy oars in hands, and of the certainty of death for both if he attempted it.

“He talks like an innocent fellow,” said one.

“Yes, I have known him for years, and he’s a well-brought-up young man, but I’ve known well-brought-up people turn out to be fiends,” said another.

“Not often if they have Christian parents,” said a third. “That young man has a good mother, and it’s rare that the son of such a mother goes wrong. I believe in the man. I’d be willing to wager a good deal that his story is true.”

Several witnesses testified as to good character, but one fact was patent to all, that Louise Arnot went out with him and he came back alone, excited, anxious, and seemingly greatly disturbed. He could prove nothing, and circumstances were against him.

Away in America the sick girl, now coming to her usual health by care, was writing a cable message the hour the ship arrived. “How glad they will be! Poor Mr. Farneaux will be so anxious. He swam for the boat, I know, just as long as he could.”

So the words were sent: “Louise Arnot picked up at sea in open boat. Arrived in New York May 19. Well.”

A courier came to the crowded court-room and delivered the message. A hush fell upon the assembly, and then a cheer broke out, and tears rolled down the cheeks of the man accused of murder. The proceedings were stayed, and the townspeople waited eagerly for the coming of Miss Arnot, that she might tell the story of why she was left alone through those terrible forty hours.

The captain had taken Miss Arnot to his home till she should fully recover and be able to make the return voyage. One day as she was reading the daily paper her eye fell upon the words, “Supposed murder at sea,” and where was detailed the arrest of Mr. Farneaux and his unexpected deliverance by her cable.

“What if I had not been rescued,” she said, “and had died in the boat! Who could have saved my poor, dear friend then?” And anew she thanked God for her miraculous deliverance, and for saving the life of her friend.

A few weeks later Miss Arnot was home in her beloved island, her friends gathering about her. All were eager for her side of the story. “Mr. Farneaux has told the truth,” she said, “and I am more thankful for his life even than for my own. What would have been my agony if he had suffered death for me!”

Time will tell what the sequel will be! Whatever life has before them, neither will forget the awful experience of being on the sea alone, drifting helplessly, or on trial for murder with no power to prove one’s innocence. And each is thankful for that wonderful deliverance.

A NEW KIND OF WEDDING.

“I DO NOT want the usual kind of wedding,” said the pretty daughter of Jared Strong, the millionaire of Huntsville. “I would rather use the money spent for flowers and supper in a way that pleases me better.”

“And what would please you?” said the gracious man, who loved his daughter with an especial fondness now that her mother was dead. “You are a queer girl.”

“I will spend the money wisely, if I may have it.”

“But what will the young man you are to marry think of a simple and private wedding, and what will the people in society think, who have entertained you?”

“They know already that I care little for parties or clubs. Going into one of the ‘Settlements’ and seeing how the poor live cured me of extravagance. Why, the money spent for one grand party would make one hundred poor people comfortable for a year!”

“Well, the suppers and making the fine silks give employment to people,” said Mr. Strong.

“But you forget, father, how much further the money would go if spent otherwise. A florist receives one thousand dollars for flowers. His family and a few workmen are benefited, but that thousand dollars would keep scores of families from starving or cold, if properly used. Many, unable to obtain work,—and we know from statistics that quite a large per cent. cannot possibly get it, because there is not work enough for all,—would be cheered and kept from discouragement if rent could be paid for a time, or clothes furnished, or coal given, or comforts provided in sickness.”

“Do as you wish, my child. You shall have the money to spend as you like. I fear, however, that the world will call you peculiar. You know there has always been poverty and always will be.”

“But we who are rich have duties to those who are not so fortunate. I learned at the ‘Settlement’ how the luxuries of the rich make the poor feel discouraged and unhappy. They work, and they see idlers all about them who are haughty when they should be kind and courteous. The poor see many of the rich waste their time in hunting or useless pleasure. They see people living for self, with no thought of the homeless or over-worked. They see clothes thrown away or hoarded, when they might be of use to somebody.”

“What does my dear Louise wish for her wedding day? No jewels and laces and rejoicing over the happy event?”

“Well, let us see how much I can save to use as I like. I prefer to be married quietly in our own home, with only a few friends together. I do not want many outside presents, for people give more than they can afford generally, and because they feel that social customs demand it. The flowers, if the church and house were elaborately trimmed, would cost a thousand dollars, the supper for a large company another thousand, the elegant wardrobe, which I do not wish, another thousand. Now I would rather have this to spend for myself.”

“You shall have it, daughter, and we will see how you will spend it. You will be the talk of Huntsville.”

Louise Strong, college educated, was about to marry a young man who was graduated from the same class as herself. He had wealth and did not need her fortune; besides, he loved her well enough to let her decide what would make her happiest.

Soon after leaving college she entered one of the college “Settlements,” partly because some of her friends were trying the experiment, and partly because she had an interest in those less fortunate than herself. She found it true, indeed, that “one-half the world does not know how the other half lives.”

While one part dressed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, another had scarcely enough to eat or to wear, slept on poor beds if any, with insufficient bedding to keep them from the cold, in tumble-down tenement houses, with high rents and no conveniences. With pinched faces and oftentimes bitter hearts they looked on the showy equipages, elegant mansions, and extravagant dresses of many of the rich.

True, there were some who, either because of their refined tastes or Christian principles, made little display, and gave of their surplus to bless humanity, but the majority lived for self and let the rest of the world struggle as it might. They would not take on responsibility, and in no wise regarded themselves as holding their property in trust for the betterment of the world. They had made their money and they would spend it as they chose. To God or man they did not feel responsible. Only when death came did they begin to ask if life had been well spent.

Louise Strong had gone into poor homes and cared for sick children; she had given sympathy and money; she had read to weary and lonely persons; she had encouraged the despondent, tried to find situations for those out of work, helped to make the “Settlement” a social home and place of elevation and rest, and learned, best of all, that life is worse than useless unless lived for the sake of others.

And now what should she do with the three thousand dollars that were to be spent for the wedding if she did not use them in charity? There were so many ways to spend it that one could scarcely select. The libraries needed more books; some of the children in the Sunday School of her church needed proper clothing; the people in jails ought to have books and papers; the poor who hesitated to ask charity because it was so often grudgingly given at the public institutions, and often to the unworthy, needed coal and food and clothes; many boys and girls longed for a college education and were helpless in getting it; the colored people in the South needed education and to be taught industries; the temperance cause needed money and workers. How should she use her three thousand dollars?

One of the friends she had made at the “Settlement,” Alice Jameson, had often said she wished she could visit among the poor and be their friend, but she had no means. Louise knew that personal contact with human beings is the best way to improve them. She went to see her friend Alice.

“I have a proposition to make,” she said to Alice. “I can have the money for my wedding to use as I please. How would you like to be my missionary? I to pay you a salary, and you to visit in your own field and tell me all the needy and helpless, so that you and I can find a way to brighten their lives.”

“I should be more delighted than you can imagine,” said Alice. “Call me the ‘Louise Missionary.’ And now, as the cold weather is coming, I think you will want to provide me with one or two hundred pairs of mittens and warm stockings, and perhaps you will like to use some of the money in Christmas gifts for those who rarely have presents.”

“Capital,” said Louise. “And I have another suggestion. I love animals so much, dogs and horses especially, that I want children taught to be kind to them. Let us put two hundred copies of ‘Our Dumb Animals,’ each fifty cents a year, into as many homes, for nobody can read that paper without being kinder all his life.”

Louise Strong was married quietly to one of the noblest men of the city, and Alice Jameson began her labor of love. After one year of work, and gifts supplied by Louise, of course a generous father and husband would not see the enterprise abandoned. The incidents of the next few years, told by Alice to Louise, the dying cared for, children saved and placed in good homes, men helped and women cheered, would fill a volume. Louise, thus kept in touch with the world’s sorrow, did not forget and become selfish. How many lives were blessed with that wedding money!

LOST HIS PLACE.

“WE ARE sorry to let you go, James, but business is dull and we must cut down expenses.”

The speaker was the head of a hardware store, a man not unkind in nature, but who looked at business purely as a money-making matter. Men were not to be carried over a long winter if there was no need for their help.

James Leonard’s eyes fell on the paper where he was writing with a sadder expression than before, but he said nothing. Both of his parents were dead. He was not strong in body, and none too well fitted to cope with the obstacles one meets in the daily struggle for existence. He would, of course, look for work, but that it was not easy to find he had proved when attempting to get a situation several months before. He had very little money saved for his board, for wages had been small. He would keep his inexpensive room, eat but two meals a day, if need be, and hoped his money would last till a place could be found.

The next morning he started out, not over-courageous, but determined to be persevering. From store to store, from office to office, he asked for work, and received the same old reply—“We are discharging men, rather than hiring new ones.” Days went by and grew into weeks. He came home hungry, cold, and tired. There was nobody to confer with or to cheer him. He could not get bookkeeping—that was hopeless. He would take any kind of work that could be obtained, for his money was growing perilously scant.

Finally, despite his delicate appearance, a man hired him at small wages at heavy outdoor work. As might have been expected, his hands were soon blistered, insufficient food left him with little strength, and he broke down from the labor.

The woman at whose house James had his room cared for him as best she could, but she also was poor and could not long provide for him without remuneration. He must have money for food and fuel. He could not go to the poorhouse, he could not go to a hospital while half-way able to work, and he had no relatives upon whom he could depend.

Resolutions to do right are sometimes broken when everything seems against a person. James was cold and needed an overcoat. Possibly he could have begged one; possibly not, for the world is not over-generous with overcoats. He saw one in the hall of a house which he was passing; the night was bitter cold—he opened the unfastened door, stole the coat, and hurried away.

He was restless that night as he attempted to sleep. He was cold, and in his dreams put on an overcoat that did not fit him, and he felt ill at ease. As he wore it next day, though it was black, he thought everybody looked at it. The owner might recognize it by the cut of the collar or the sleeves. He was not happy, but he was warm, and by and by, as he walked, he forgot that the coat was not really his own and paid for with his own money.

He could find nothing to do in the city. He could go out into the suburbs; perhaps in the homes of wealth they would feel neither the hard times nor the need for retrenchment in winter. He walked all day, and slept in a barn at night. The next day he went from house to house, and there was no more success than before.

As night came on he passed a beautiful home back from the street, where the windows were lighted and all seemed inviting and happy. He looked in at the window. The daughter of the house sat reading in the cosey library, and a servant was preparing supper in the kitchen.

He walked away, and then went back. There must be a good deal of food in so cheerful a home, and he needed some. He had asked for food before this, and sometimes a kind lady gave him hot coffee with his bread and butter, but oftener the servants refused.

He would wait till later, and then, unperceived, he would enter the pantry and take what he needed for the night and the day following. It was cold remaining outside, and the hours to wait seemed very long, but then he was used to waiting for everything. There was little else for him to do nowadays.

The lights were turned out early, for there had been a party at the house the previous night. He lifted the slightly fastened kitchen window, entered the pantry, and ate what food he needed, filling his pockets for the next day’s use.

He was going away when something bright gleamed before him. It was a basket of silver ready to be put into the safe, but carelessly left for the morrow. That, if sold, would give him money enough to last the winter through.

He had to think and act quickly. Before he had time to argue with himself the right or the wrong of it he had gathered all and put it into a satchel close at hand. The satchel was heavy, but he hurried away, secreting some of it, after he left the house, near or partly under a stone wall.

He feared somebody on the street would hear the silver rattle, or somebody in the street-car would hit his foot against it. Every eye seemed upon the satchel, and he was glad to get out of the car and take it to a pawn-shop. As usual, the pawn-broker beat him down in the price of the silver. He knew the young man’s necessities and offered him not over a fifth of its value. Young Leonard demurred, but finally took the money and hurried away.

Again he looked for work and found some for a day or two. He used his money carefully, and when it was gone went stealthily to the hidden place by the wall, dug up the silver, and took it to the pawn-broker. The police had an agreement with the dealer in stolen goods, and when Leonard came again to sell he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to prison.

The prison years, as those know who have tried them, went by painfully, with much of depression, much of good resolutions, much of hopelessness, much of weariness and mortification. When James Leonard was released he determined to begin life anew. He had the same old struggle to obtain a place, but finally succeeded as the coachman for two ladies. He was faithful, honest, and greatly liked by them.

One day a policeman recognized him. “Hello, James,” he said, “glad to see you in a good home. How did they happen to take you? Did they know you had been in prison?”

“Oh, no, and I wouldn’t have them for the world! They wouldn’t trust me, and would turn me off.”

“But they’ll find it out, I fear. Better be straight, I think. I would tell all and take my chances. If they hear it from outside you’ll be sure to lose your place.”

The next persons to recognize James were two servants, who, eager to be the bearer of news, told the cook who worked in the same house with James. To her a prison seemed an awful thing, and she told the ladies. They in turn told James they feared to trust a man who had stolen, and discharged him. They did not stop to ask themselves where the man would go for a home if they turned him away.

The old result happened. James searched for a situation, did not succeed, became discouraged, was without funds, stole, and again was sent to prison.

It is easy to say that James Leonard should have been strong enough to resist temptation. It is easy to say that all men and women can find places if they try long enough. At the same time, there is a responsibility resting upon the employer of labor when of necessity a man loses his position. To be our brother’s keeper is a vital point in a Christian community.

STRUCK IT RICH.

“IT’S NO USE, Martha,” said Asa Scranton to his wife, as he came in from the street, tired and discouraged. “I’ve tried day after day for a job, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you and the children are better off without me than with me.”

“Oh, no, Asa!” responded the pale, thin woman, who was cooking dinner for some workingmen who boarded with her. “We shall see better days.”

But her words only were hopeful; the voice showed the weariness of one who was almost tired of the daily struggle.

“I don’t know how it is. I’ve worked hard from a boy. The grocery business didn’t pay, though I never left the store till the last man had gone home. Then the builder I worked for failed, and I lost several months’ wages. I guess I’m unlucky. We had quite a bit of money when we married, didn’t we, Martha? And I never supposed you would come to such hard work as this. My debts have hung like a millstone about my neck. They all say: ‘Asa Scranton, you’re a good fellow. You’ll pay principal and interest,’ and never think that a wife and children have need for food and clothing. Sometimes I’ve a mind to run away, and I would if I didn’t hate a coward. I can’t stand seeing you so pale and hopeless-like. I’d like to try the mines—maybe I’d strike it rich.”

“Oh, Asa, don’t think of such a thing! Only the few make any money in mines, and most are poor to the end of their days. Keep up courage. The children are getting larger, and better days are coming.”

“That’s the old story, Martha. Things are not very even in this world, but I don’t complain. If I had work I wouldn’t care how rich other folks are. But just think, Martha! If I strike a mine, as some people have, how good it would seem for you to have a silk dress, and Alice a hat with a feather, like the little girl on the hill. I always wanted John to go to college, seeing that his father couldn’t go. He maybe would be more lucky than I have been.”

While Martha Scranton mended by the open fireplace that evening, Asa sat still and thought—dreamed dreams, half wildly perhaps, of better days to come. They would never come in his present poverty. He would make one last venture. His family could live without him, for his wife for some time had earned all the money which they used.

He was not an indolent man, not a man who lacked ability, but, like thousands of others, he seemed to be in the current of failure, and was drifting down the stream to despair. He dreamed about the mines of Colorado that night as he slept, and during the many waking hours planned how he could reach the favored land. He could sell his silver watch, and pawn his overcoat, even if the coming winter pinched him with cold.

By morning he had decided. He ate breakfast quietly; patted little John upon the head, with a look of unusual pathos in his blue eyes; told Martha that he was going out to look for work; obtained what little money he could; hurried down the street to the station, wiping, with the back of his hand, the tears from his cheeks as he looked only once toward his home; and took the train for the mines.

For days he ate little, hoarding every cent to keep him from starvation till he should find work. At Granite Camp, on the side of the mountain, all was bustle and confusion. The varied machinery, the eager miners, the enthusiasm, the warm-hearted familiarity,—all excited Asa. He was ready for any kind of work, and soon found it. Mining was hard,—no work is easy,—but he would earn and save, and later prospect for himself, get hold of claims, and “strike it rich.”

Weeks and months passed. No letter came from Martha, for she did not know where Asa had gone. She wept when she found that she was left alone—wept with that half-deadened sense of loss which persons feel who have had the cheer of life taken out of them by the blows of circumstance.

Asa had been kind to her and the children, but in these days she had little time to think of love or loss, for work was never-ending, and rent and fuel were certainties. So she toiled on, and guessed that he had gone to seek his fortune in the mines, and clothed the children as well as she could, and sewed and washed and prayed and waited.

Years came and went. Asa Scranton in the mines and Martha Scranton at home were growing older. The miners liked Asa, though he joined little in their merry-making, and got the name of being miserly. They could not know that he was saving his money to make Martha rich. Sometimes, when he had earned money enough to work a claim, and had gotten other parties interested, he dug for treasure, but always failed. Then the hole was left in the mountain, and Asa went back to his daily digging in the mines.

His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success.

But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him. He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged clothes, and still dreamed of future success.

Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and hungry, and well nigh frenzied.

At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had struggled for years, had lost and won,—with many losings to one winning,—but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last dollar to push on the work.

Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken. Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it. “I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away. He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men hastened over to know the reason.

Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face—dead from an excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “_Darling Wife_: I have struck it rich, and you and the children”—

The pen had fallen from his hand.

FOOD AT THE DOOR.

“DON’T FEED him, because others will be sure to come.”

The speaker was a handsome woman who sat at dinner with her husband in one of the beautiful homes of C. She was dressed in a rich garnet satin, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums at her throat, which accorded with the dark garnet leather of the carved furniture.

All had gone well with Mrs. Heatherstone. Her husband, with hair prematurely gray from his hard financial struggles, had become rich, and his wife and only son were spending the money in fine clothes and stylish equipages.

A servant had just come in to say that an old man was at the door who had had nothing to eat all day, and to ask if she should give him a supper.

Mrs. Heatherstone reiterated her old rule, not to feed anybody at the door, lest other poor people be told of it, and the family be annoyed with tramps. “We never give anything at the door,” she was wont to say, and so in process of time poor people generally passed by the Heatherstone mansion, and she was glad of it.

The poor old man of to-night caught a glimpse of the well-filled table as he passed the window, and he felt hurt and bitter at fate. He was not a drinking man, but he had lost his property by reverses, his wife and children were dead, he was unable to do hard labor, and he could rarely find work that was light or heavy. There was not work enough for all, and the young and vigorous obtained what there was.

The old man slept in a shed that night, and dreamed of the elegant home and the handsome lady in the garnet dress.

“I think you might have given him a supper,” said Mark Heatherstone, a boy of sixteen, with a kind heart, but lacking a strong will, and who had already caused his parents some solicitude.

“When once you begin, there is no end of it,” said the mother. “Let him go to the Associated Charities or to some soup-house.”

“But he will have a heavy heart to-night, besides being hungry,” said the youth.

“I can’t take care of all the suffering in the world, so I shut my eyes to it. We must enjoy ourselves, and leave some money for you also.”

“I don’t mind much about that,” said the boy, who knew nothing of the hardships of life, “but I’d do a little good as I went along.”

Mother and son did not think alike about many things, and after a time the lad left his home and disappeared from the town.

His parents were of course distressed beyond measure. They searched and searched in vain. Mrs. Heatherstone, with all her selfishness and lack of wisdom in rearing her son, was exceedingly fond of him. His absence aged her, and when after some years he did not return, the fine house and elegant clothes lost their attraction. The habit of giving, however, is usually a growth from early life, and closed hands do not unclose easily as we grow older.

Once away from his home, Mark Heatherstone was too proud to go back, if indeed he ever wished to do so. He soon spent what money he had brought away with him, and then learned the hard lessons of poverty. He looked for work, occasionally found some, but oftener was penniless, and, like the old man who had besought alms at his father’s house, slept in sheds or in barns. The increasing habit of drink fastened upon him, and exposure undermined his health.

Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town, and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being lighted. A cold sleet was falling.

He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for food.

“We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant, and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily on the porch.

Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh, Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a physician summoned.

“It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his living is only a question of time.”

When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?”

Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish through a great sorrow.

HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID.

TWO LITTLE children, Annie and James, were picking up stray pieces of coal near the railroad, to carry to a very poor home. Suddenly they espied a black lump that looked like coal, only it moved. With childish curiosity they crept towards it and found a thin, frightened, hungry dog that had been crippled and beaten by boys.

“Do you dare touch her?” said the girl of nine years. “She might bite.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jimmie, a rugged and alert little fellow of seven. “See, she wags her short tail, and I guess she wants to go home with us.”

“But mother couldn’t take care of her, we’re so poor, and baby Ned and Willie have to eat and have clothes.”

“Oh, I’ll give her some of my bread and milk every night, and Mrs. Martin next door will give her bones, I guess. She hasn’t any boy and she is good to me.”

The girl put her fingers carefully along the black dog’s forehead, and the animal pushed her cold nose against the child’s hand and licked it. She was not used to kind voices, and a girl’s fingers upon her head gave her courage. She half rose to her feet, looked from one to the other and seemed to say, “I will go with you if you will only take me.”

“I wouldn’t pick her up, Jimmie; she’ll follow us.”

“She can’t walk much,” said the boy, “but I’ll help her over the bad places if you’ll carry the basket of coal.”

The dog seemed to realize the conversation, for when the coal was ready to be moved, she was also ready, and hobbled on after the children.

“You must be tired, poor thing!” said Jimmie, taking her up as they crossed a muddy street, and thereby getting his torn jacket stained from her hurt back and bleeding foot.

The dog nestled up to him and seemed happy. When they reached home Jimmie ran ahead, showing his poor bruised friend to his mother.

“Why, Jimmie, what can you do with a dog?”

“Keep her to play with, and to guard the house when you are away washing.”

“I don’t know how we’ll feed her,” said Mrs. Conlon, who looked about as poor as the dog, “but we’ll try. We can keep her warm anyway if you’ll pick up enough coal.”

“We shall love her so,” said the boy, “and the baby will play with her when she gets well. Let’s call her ‘Pet,’ because we never have anything to play with.”

The dog crawled behind the stove and closed her eyes, as though thankful for a place to rest, where at least boys would not throw stones, and men would not kick her with their rough boots.

Days and weeks went by. The black dog, though not having a great supply of food, was living like a prince compared with the starvation of the street. Her bruises healed, her coat became blacker and her eyes brighter. She was indeed the baby’s pet, and the idol of the other children. She went with Annie and Jimmie as they gathered coal. She slept on the floor beside their humble bed at night, and guarded the household when the mother was absent. She shared their food, and would have returned their kindness with her life if need be. The whole family were happier and kinder since she came into it, as is always the case when a pet animal is in the home.

Though poverty was a constant guest at the Conlon abode, with its bare floors, poor clothes, and common fare, yet they were not unhappy. The mother worked too hard to philosophize much about circumstances, and the children were too young to realize what was before them of struggle. A cloud was coming, and a man’s hand brought it. It was the arrival of the tax-gatherer.

A high official in the State found that the treasury was low, and decided that money must be raised in some way. Of course it was generally conceded that the liquor traffic caused so much of the poverty, crime, and sorrow that it would be wise to make it pay for some of its evil results. This was a difficult matter, however, as saloon keepers and their customers had votes. Corporations could be taxed more heavily, but corporations sometimes paid money to help carry elections.

There was at least one class that had no votes, and consequently little influence. Dogs could therefore be taxed. The rich could easily pay the tax, and if the poor could not, their dogs could be killed. Who stopped to think whether money raised through the sorrow of the poor, or the death of helpless animals, might prove a bane rather than a blessing? Who asked whether a dog did not love life as well as his master, and whether, for his devotion and courage and guarding of homes, he was not entitled to the consideration of the city and the State, rather than to be killed because his owner could not or did not pay a tax or a license fee? The dog had done no wrong, and though somebody loved him, as he could not earn the fee himself he must needs be destroyed.

The tax-gatherer, endowed with power by the officials, came to the Conlon home. There was little that could be taken from so poor a place, thought the collector, until he espied the black dog beside the baby’s cradle. “Your dog, madam, must be paid for. The fee is five dollars.”

“I haven’t the money,” said the woman. “Why, I couldn’t raise so much! I can hardly fill these four mouths with food.”

“Well, madam, then you shouldn’t keep a dog.”

“But she guards the children while I work, and she is such a comfort to them!”

“The law doesn’t take sentiment into the account. If you were a man I should arrest you, and shoot the dog. As it is, I will only shoot the dog. Bring the animal out and I will call that policeman over.”

“You wouldn’t shoot her before these crying children?”—for three of them had begun to cry, and were clasping the dog to their hearts, while the baby looked scared, and pressed his lips together, as though he realized that something was wrong.

“As I said before, madam, the law has no regard for sentiment. The State must have money.”

“I wish they would tax the saloons. If my husband hadn’t lost his money in them before he died we should have the money now to pay the tax for our dog. Could you wait a little for the money? I can give you a dollar, and perhaps I can borrow another, but I can’t possibly raise five dollars. Can you come to-morrow?”

“Yes, I’ll give you a trial, but it’s a long walk here. I’m afraid you’ll turn the dog on the street and then say you haven’t any.”

“Oh, no, sir, we are not as mean as that, even if we are poor! Pet would suffer and perhaps starve, and we all love her too much for that.”

After the man was gone Mrs. Conlon put on her faded shawl and bonnet and went to her neighbors, as poor as herself. One loaned her a quarter, another a half, till the whole dollar was secured.

When the assessor came on the following day, being somewhat impressed by the devotion of both family and dog, he took the two dollars and promised to wait a reasonable time for the remaining three.

Various plans were talked over in the Conlon home for the raising of the extra money. There was comparatively little work to be obtained, rent must be met or they would be turned upon the street, and there were five mouths to feed besides that of Pet.

Jimmie declared that a letter to the Governor of the State ought to do good, and Annie should write it. Accordingly a sheet of paper and an envelope were procured that very afternoon, and a letter was penned to that official. It read as follows:

“DEAR MR. GOVERNOR:

“We have a beautiful [this was a stretch of the imagination] black dog that we found sick and hurt, and we love her dearly, but can’t pay the tax of five dollars. Mother works, and I take care of the children, but I can’t earn any money for poor dear Pet. The police have killed lots of dogs on our street. One belonged to Mamie Fisher, my best friend, and we went together and found him in a pile of dogs, all dead. Mamie took him up in her arms and cried dreadfully. I helped her carry him, and we dug a grave in their little yard and buried him, and we took five cents that a lady gave me and bought two roses and laid on his grave. He was a big yellow puppy, and was so kind.

“Now, Mr. Governor, would you be willing to lend us three dollars till we can earn it, and pay you back? She has two dollars already. We wish there wasn’t any tax on dogs, for they make us poor children so happy. Perhaps you can stop the law.

“Yours most respectful,
“ANNIE CONLON.”

All pronounced this a proper letter, and Jimmie dropped it into the mail-box. All the family waited prayerfully for the answer.

The Governor was touched as he read this letter from a child. “I will give her the three dollars,” he said to his wife. “I didn’t suppose the enforcement of a dog tax would bring so much sorrow to little hearts and large ones too. I really wish there were no tax on dogs, for they are helpless creatures and most faithful friends to man. But the State needs money.”