Chapter VI: Part 6

Some days later Mrs. Thorpe met the doctor again. He had finished his round of calls and was on his homeward way when he overtook her near her gate.

"Come in with me and rest a bit before the long climb up the hill," she said.

"Always a long, hard climb to the top of the hill," he replied. And Mrs. Thorpe, seeing that he hesitated to accept her invitation, said:

"Margaret and Geraldine have gone across the Flat to see a sick child; they will not be back for some time, I think."

Then, without further words, he opened the gate for her and accompanied her to the house. She gave him a chair by the fire and stirred up the coals in the grate, then she removed her wraps and seated herself by the fire. There was no uncertainty in her mind as to why she had asked him to come in; she knew exactly what it was she wished to say to him; but she felt that kind Providence must aid her in finding a way to say it. Since that night, when in the tragic silence a bond of sympathy had sprung up between them, she had learned a fact which she was desirous of communicating to him.

She had a personal liking for this man, and a great admiration for the manner in which he was devoting his time and skill to the relief of the unfortunate. Then, too, she had not forgotten that he had been her friend in the days of her sorest perplexity; and she knew as well as did he that his judgment and prompt action had once saved her reason. And then, when all her skies were black, at that time in her affairs when she knew not whether in all this world she had more than one thing left her, when of all she had believed she had, she was sure of just this one thing--the love of God--at this time she knew that Dr. Eldrige had by his actions, rather than by words or arguments, defended her against the malevolence of his father, and with his quiet scorn had removed the venom from the wild, improbable reports that the older man had circulated, and had maintained before her friends and acquaintances that these unreasonable tales were a disgrace, not to the one lone woman, but to the community which countenanced and repeated them.

When her friends came back to her and life began to flow again on the old level, a word dropped by one or another, a statement or a half confession from friend or casual acquaintance, revealed to Mrs. Thorpe the sincerity of this man's quiet, unostentatious friendship. Now the knowledge came to her that his life had been robbed of its happiness and all its sweetest harmonies had given place to discord. And she longed to tell him that which she knew to be a fact, that it was his own unskilled touch that was producing the discords.

"You are finding plenty of work here this winter, Mrs. Thorpe," he said. "The good you are doing is inestimable."

"An appreciation which might easily be returned, Dr. Eldrige. I know whose name is a household word over all this Flat."

"Yet the lives of these people are hard," he said; "hard and pitiable, for all your efforts and mine."

"But not so hard as they might otherwise be; and as for that, many lives are hard--every life that lives and labors under false impressions is hard."

He glanced at her as though to catch the import of her words, and then he knew that there was something in her thought more than her words signified; but he waited for her to continue.

"A mistaken idea is quite as capable of causing unhappiness as the sternest reality," she said.

"There is something you wish to say to me, Mrs. Thorpe. Why do you disguise your meaning? Can we not be frank with each other?"

"Thank you, Dr. Eldrige; I hope that our friendship is not so poor a thing that it cannot stand a straightforward word. This, then, is what I wish to say: I believe your standards to be excellent and your sense of justice fine and true, yet in your estimate of another you have allowed yourself to be influenced by outside appearances; and while I can see your point of view, yet I know you are condemning as good and true a woman as ever lived, for something she did not know existed."

Mrs. Thorpe saw the man's face harden, his brows contract, and pain, keen and sharp, flash in his eyes; and when he spoke there was severity in his voice.

"She knew the man's character," he said.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes, level, unflinching, met his.

"What is your authority for your statement?" she asked.

The doctor arose and came over to Mrs. Thorpe's side.

"Mrs. Thorpe," he said, "can it be--can it be possible that she did not know?"

"She did not know, Dr. Eldrige; she has told me that she did not know."

"She has told you--Geraldine has told you?"

"Geraldine has told me that she did not know the man's character; that she never dreamed of the thing that you and I know. Mrs. Mayhew has told me that at one time she tried to enlighten the girl, but she confesses that she did not handle the subject fearlessly as she should. I, myself, told Geraldine the truth as I know it; but it was not until after Max had gone."

The doctor resumed his seat; he rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and covered his face with his hand.

Mrs. Thorpe arose and left the fireside and went over to the window; her eyes wandered far across the frost-covered Flat, but her heart was with the man sitting in silence before her fire--her whole heart was with him--his happiness--his future--his life. Had she made possible for him that condition of life which she knew to be so perfect, so near to Heaven?--knew because it had once been hers. Then she felt his presence near her and turned and faced him. He took her hands in his.

"You are the best friend I have ever known," he said; "a better friend than I deserve. Your loving kindness has made you dear to me--dear as friend can be to friend."

She looked into his face, strong, steadfast beneath the flush of happiness that illumined it.

"If I have been able to help you to your happiness this will make me glad all my life," she said. Then a gleam of humor lighted up her face. "I do not know whether you can ever make your peace with Geraldine or not," she said, "but I thought it right that you should know the truth."

He flushed with the confusion of a schoolboy.

"But to know the truth," he said; "just to know what you have told me, this has changed the face of all the earth for me. I can never thank you."

"We are even, then," she said, "for I have never tried to thank you for your many kindnesses to me."

Dr. Eldrige left the house as Margaret and Geraldine were seen coming up the street. He lifted his hat to Margaret as he passed her at the gate, and spoke to Geraldine, who was passing on.

"Miss Vane, permit me to join you," he said, and together they ascended the long hill. The setting sun blazed redly upon the church and its lingering rays shed a glory over the man and woman toiling up the long incline. When the summit was reached they paused for a few moments before the glorified church; then they passed on and down on the other side. When they parted at the door of Geraldine's home Dr. Eldrige had received permission to call later in the evening.

When he called again he found Geraldine in the library beside the fire, very much as he had seen her that other night, and his heart smote him for the injustice he had done her. She arose to meet him; he came over to her, and the love of his life, so long held in subjection, now ruled supreme. He held out his arms to her and she came straight into them.

"Geraldine, I have wanted you so--longed so for you."

"And I have loved you always, Allen Eldrige," she said.

The walk home in the winter sunshine brought a glow to Margaret's cheeks, but there was a look of pathos in her dark eyes; the slumbering fire of her spirit was burning there. She assisted Mrs. Thorpe with the evening meal, and in the fruitful silence that often means more than words, they sat together over their biscuit and tea. After supper Margaret drew her chair before the fire and remained silent with her thoughts. Mrs. Thorpe busied herself with her ever-ready work, but she spoke no word to intrude upon the girl's thoughts. When Margaret spoke at last, her voice was quiet and even.

"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I cannot allow this to go on. This restful life has meant much to me; it is hard for me to leave it, but I have been idle too long. I must get to work again."

Mrs. Thorpe understood the import of the words, and more; for there was more in tone and manner, in pause and silence, than the words conveyed.

There was little doubt that Margaret was done with the old life. The fierce, consuming struggle was over. The battle against her seeming foes, ever alive, alert, ever ready for open attack or covert sting, had been fought. There is much that one person can do for another in the struggle toward righteousness; there is the handclasp of comradeship, the countenance of faith, and, more potent than these, there is the force of thought held supreme and infallible. Yet when the test comes, when the enemy, grown strong, or snarling and impatient of delay, or crawling, insidious, in the dim shadows, makes a stand and demands its victim, then forever anew, and always alone, the old battle with the Serpent must be fought. Then the kingdoms of the world and all that they contain must be perceived, measured, weighed, balanced and judged for exactly what they are. The delusions of mortal sense have not lost their subtle deception since the days of the talking snake; and with undeviating certainty comes the time, even as it came to the first man and woman, when choose we must. Yet saving power of the Infinite, though we have lost our Eden, even as our first parents lost theirs, the Kingdom of Heaven is neither visionary nor transitory, but forever remains.

Margaret's Eden was gone; she had stepped out of her purity into darkness and evil, and the Angel with the flaming sword stood forbidding on one hand, and on the other the Beasts that had sought to destroy her. But into her life had come the understanding that there is but one real power--the Power of Eternal Good.

"What is it you have in mind to do, Margaret?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

"I have not decided upon anything, but I must work; I cannot remain idle."

"You have not been idle, Margaret; and there is work, quantities of it, not remunerative but humane, for both of us here on the Flat."

The firelight rose and fell and fitful shadows lingered about the room, and again there was silence. Margaret was again the first to speak.

"I am not fit for the work here, Mrs. Thorpe, even if I were at liberty to devote myself to it. My past stands between me and the Master's work."

It was the first mention that had been made of the past since that day, months before, when the anguish of her remorse had swept over her like the devouring billows of the sea; when her tears had flowed sufficient, if tears have efficacy, to wash away every crimson stain.

"If he who is without sin casts the first stone, Margaret, you need have no fear of the condemnation of men. Tune up the fine, invisible instrument of your better nature and let the words of the Divine Man ever sound there: 'Neither do I condemn thee.'"

Margaret slipped from her chair, and on her knees buried her face in Mrs. Thorpe's lap; and her form shook and quivered with the passion of her sobs.

"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I want my mother--my poor, broken-hearted, forsaken mother--mother--mother--and little, suffering Jamie!"

Mrs. Thorpe laid her hand caressingly on the girl's dark hair, and her own face was wet with tears.

"Tell me about your mother, Margaret. Where is she now, and what is she doing?"

"I have not seen her for over a year. I knew then that she never wished to see my face again--oh, poor mother! But a longing to hear from her came over me, and I asked Geraldine to-day if she had seen her. She told me that mother has given up sewing again, and that she goes out to service wherever she can get a day's work, and be with Jamie at night."

"We will go and see her, Margaret, you and I. It will gladden her heart to see her Lassie again, and it will do you good, too. We will go to-morrow, and I am sure we shall find some way to assist her."

"Now go to your rest, my child, and never doubt that all good belongs to you and yours."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*MRS. THORPE'S WORK*

"The work of men--and what is that? Well we may, any of us, know very quickly, on the condition of being wholly ready to do it.

"But many of us are for the most part thinking, not of what we are to do, but of what we are to get; and the best of us are sunk into the sin of Ananias, and it is a mortal one--we want to keep back part of the price; and we continually talk of taking up our cross, as if the only harm in a cross were the weight of it--as if it were only a thing to be carried instead of to be crucified upon.

"'They that are His have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts.'

"Does that mean, think you, that in times of national distress, of religious trial, of crises for every interest and hope of humanity--none of you will cease jesting, none will cease idling, none put themselves to any wholesome work, none take so much as a tag of lace off their footmen's coats to save the world? Or does it rather mean that they are ready to leave houses and lands and kindred--yes, and life if need be? Life! Some of us are ready enough to throw that away, joyless as we have made it. But station in life--how many are ready to quit that? Is it not always the great objection when there is a question of finding something useful to do--we cannot leave our stations in life?"--(John Ruskin.)

Margaret found her mother ill. She had been working beyond her strength, and the exposure and hardship of the work had worn her out; and her eyes, tried beyond their strength, had almost failed her. Dr. Eldrige Jr. had told her that the only hope of saving them lay in rest and quiet. But how impossible was this; she had no means, for years she had worked beyond her strength to keep herself from beggary. Jamie, the cripple, was not able to leave his couch without help. Day after day, while his mother worked for the pittance that kept them alive, he lay on his little cot, alone; often in pain, always lonely, counting the hours until his mother's return.

"We will take your mother and Jamie home with us, Margaret," Mrs. Thorpe said. "We can all live together until your mother is well again, and Jamie need not be alone."

Margaret consented to the plan. She understood the power that ruled Mrs. Thorpe's life and prompted her actions. She had looked into her face and found it warm with kindness, and with keener vision she had looked into her heart and found it touched with the feeling of another's infirmities. She knew that this thing that she proposed to do was not an act of charity prompted by the desire to save the harrowing of her own feelings, but because of her loving kindness she desired to do it.

Mrs. McGowan was too much overcome by the restoration of her girl to protest, and Jamie was radiant at the prospect. Mrs. Thorpe called on Mrs. Mayhew and left Margaret alone with her mother for a time. And afterwards Mrs. Mayhew sent her carriage to take Mrs. McGowan and Jamie to Mrs. Thorpe's cottage. Before parting, Mrs. Mayhew pressed a banknote into Mrs. Thorpe's hand.

"You shall not have all the merit there is in the case, you loving soul, you good Samaritan," she said. "Let me share your good deed with you."

The day passed quietly at the cottage. It was mild and clear and the first indications of spring were visible. The great banks of snow were beginning to show reefs along their sides and the atmosphere contained a suggestion of the change of seasons.

Margaret was more like the winsome lass of former years than she had been for many months, and her mother's eyes followed her lovingly. Faith and Hope, immortal sisters, what magic in the tones they cause to vibrate upon the human heart-strings! All the world and all the glory of it is ours when Faith and Hope sing for us their seraphic song.

Margaret took Jamie to her room at bedtime.

"You shall have a little cot near me, my boy," she said. "I am going to be your nurse, and whatever your wants may be it shall be my pleasure to supply them."

The boy smiled happily.

"It is a good world, after all, Margy," he said, when they were alone for the night. "I have always tried to make mother believe it is a good world. Mother's eyes will get better now, wont they, sister?"

"There is a great Physician who heals all kinds of infirmities, Jamie. He used always to be especially kind to the blind."

"Did He pity them more because it is so very bad not to see?"

"Perhaps that was the reason. He was always very, very kind."

"Have you seen Him, this great man, Margy?"

"I have felt His healing power, little brother."

"Do you suppose--sister--could He make me walk like other boys, and run--oh, Margy, do you suppose I ever can run?"

"There is nothing the great Physician cannot do, Jamie."

Margaret reached for her Bible, one that Mrs. Thorpe had given her. She turned the leaves until she found the place that she desired.

"I am going to read you something that I have read many times, Jamie, and always with thoughts of you in mind:

"'And a certain man, lame from his mother's womb, was carried, whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them that entered into the temple.

"'Who, seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, asked an alms.

"'And Peter, fastening his eyes upon him with John, said: "Look on us."

"'And he gave heed unto them, expecting to receive something of them.

"'Then Peter said: "Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have I give to thee. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk." And he took him by the right hand and lifted him up, and immediately his feet and ankle bones received their strength.

"'And he, leaping up, stood and walked and entered with them into the temple, walking and leaping and praising God.'"

When the boy saw his sister take up a familiar-looking black book and begin turning the pages, his heart fell within him. He listened while she read of the compassionate act of love, then he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

"Oh, Margy, I didn't think you would--that's the Bible, Margy, the book mother used to read out of--the one Mr. Thorpe used to preach from--only the Bible, and I thought you meant it really, about the great doctor!"

"Only the Bible!" Margaret looked at the child and saw the disappointment in his face; and through him she seemed to see a great world of suffering people. This frail child, crippled, distorted, disappointed and faithless, seemed to her a symbol of the great suffering overwhelming the world, and his piteous cry an echo of the voice of the world: "Only the Bible!"

The whole world calling for power and turning dully from the great fountain-head of Power; crying for strength and ignoring that which constitutes all strength; desiring health and clasping close in their embrace the image of disease; pleading for light and joy and peace and turning their eyes resolutely away from the waiting angels standing ready to minister to them. "Only the Bible!"

Margaret knelt by the child's couch and put her arms about him.

"Little brother," she said, "little brother, let me tell you a story, as I used to do, Jamie.

"Once there was a great mine of gold, beautiful, shining gold, layer upon layer of it; and many men mined for it, and some dug in the ground, and a great many people worked day after day, some in one way and some in another, to find it. And many of the people disagreed about the best way to get at it. Some dug about the outer edges of the mine, and when they found a very few grains of gold they went away and told all the people that they had found all the gold there was; that they had explored the whole mine and knew all about it. Others did not dig deep enough to find the great golden layers, but they found a few glittering nuggets of the precious gold, and they went away and told all the people that they had gone to the bottom of the mine and had found all the gold there was there.

"Thousands and thousands of people went to the mine. Some found gold enough to satisfy them, others found only a few shining grains, and many went away disappointed. But the strange part of it was that all those who found any gold at all, even if it was only a tiny spark, believed they had found all there was.

"There were so many different opinions about it, and so many theories and beliefs, that after a time the people began to wonder whether there was really any gold in the mine at all. Some doubted and disbelieved, and a great many walked all about over the mine and had not faith enough to dig beneath the surface.

"Yet the gold was there, Jamie--it is there--a great mine of beautiful, shining gold. There is enough for everyone; yet few have obtained a supply sufficient for their own needs."

The story was finished and there was silence in the room. Then the thin little hand crept into Margaret's.

"Is that the way you think about the Bible, Margy?"

"Yes, Jamie. The Bible is a great mine of Truth; few, if any, have found the whole of it, and many, many have not found sufficient for their needs."

The boy's eyes were grave and serious; a grain of truth had been sown in fertile soil. Then after a time the blue-veined lids fluttered and closed and the boy fell asleep.

The spring opened early; the great drifts of snow yielded beneath the sun's warm rays and miniature rivulets and rills rushed and babbled down the hillside. Bare brown patches of earth showed here and there over the Flat, and unsightly piles of rubbish and debris were again laid bare; the mantle that had covered them melted and slipped away as though glad to be free.

The children of the Flat, long housed in close, cramped quarters, were hilarious at sight of the brown Mother Earth; and this great-hearted Mother to whom they turned instinctively never fails and never disappoints, but remains always heart to heart with the best in human nature. Poor waifs of children they were, unkept and ill-clad in spite of the efforts that had been made in their behalf.

There was no school on the Flat; the children who went to school climbed the long hill and went over into Edgerly and entered the ranks with the Edgerly fledglings. But many of these children never climbed the long hill, never saw the Christian city and never entered a schoolhouse.

Mrs. Thorpe had long felt that these children should be gathered together and instructed; now the conviction came to her that it must be done.

The fathers of these children wasted their substance in gambling houses and dens of vice, and their mothers eked out a wretched existence as best they could. Young men and women were walking in the footsteps of those who were lost in this wilderness, and the children were following on. Their scrawny limbs must reach out and grow to adult stature and their minds, already befogged by the uncleanliness that had been their portion from birth, were twining about the mean, demoralizing things that lead to destruction.

On the outskirts of the Flat where the Flat proper began to rise in undulations and low hills, from which could be seen stretches of field and upland, there stood an old, weather-beaten house. It was large and square and porches had once run the length of its sides. This old building had once been a summer hotel, or resort, as it was called. Vines that had been planted about it in those days now clambered about the partly fallen columns and endeavored, as Nature often endeavors, to hide from view unsightly blots and blemishes. There may be people who would cavil at using this building because of the various uses to which it had been put since the days of its freshness and popularity.

When the balance of interest became established on the Edgerly side, and the Resort fell off in the patronage of the better class of people, an unsavory fame came to attach itself to the place. We sometimes hear old tales of disembodied spirits who walk through halls and corridors and flit about apartments that they were wont to inhabit in the days of their flesh. But if the crime and suffering, the shame and woe that had existed beneath the roof of this crumbling old Resort had massed itself in one monster shape and walked the streets of the city over the hill, men and women would have cried out for a place to hide themselves, as did the Canaanites when the walls of Jericho fell down.

When gruesome stories regarding the place began to float about, when the scurry of rats and the rattling of blinds and the whistling of the wind through the crevices came to be known as the wailing and moaning of lost spirits, the place was deserted; and so it had stood for years, ruined and forsaken. But whoever might cavil at the building because of its infamous notoriety of the past, Mrs. Thorpe had no compunctions and no fears. She saw in the deserted rooms beneath the crumbling roof a place for the children, the neglected, untaught children of the Flat. Bit by bit a plan formed in her mind and grew from day to day until, full-fledged, but lacking yet in detail, she laid it before Margaret. And as though while she had been pondering the main plan, Margaret had been arranging the minor parts; now all the way seemed open before them.

The first step was to see the owner of the building and get his consent to use it for a school and kindergarten. The greater part of the Flat district was owned by a descendant of the first Bolton. This man in his younger days had cherished the old hope that the Flat would yet make a prosperous town. There is more money to be made from ownership of a prosperous, respectable town than from a disreputable Flat; but if he could not own a respectable town and make his money in a creditable manner there was but one thing left for him to do, and he put his foot squarely on his honor and did it. He saw that saloons and places of vice were erected to lure the sort of population that must people a wretched Flat.

Mrs. Thorpe called on this man at his business office in Edgerly. He regarded her keenly as she explained to him the use she wished to make of the old Resort.

"So you wish to open a school on the Flat?" he said. The expression on his face was inscrutable and his small eyes were so far sunk into the folds of flesh which surrounded them that it was difficult to know just where his gaze was directed.

"It is a long walk to the Edgerly school for the little children," she said, "and if they do not go when they are small it is difficult to get them started later."

"Exactly. I think I understand, Mrs. Thorpe." The small eyes, sunken in their folds of flesh, were looking for the future recruits for the saloons and places of vice, and the man's mind was busy with a fine calculation as to where they were coming from if these children were to be so taught as to make self-respecting citizens of them.

Sometimes we feel the atmosphere about us to be keen and rare, sometimes fragrant with the breath of flowers and the incense of morning dew; again we are aware that it is charged with a coming storm, or dark with impurities, or heavy with moisture. There are those who are as keenly sensitive to the mental atmosphere about them. Mrs. Thorpe felt strongly that unless her faith in the integrity of her purpose sustained her, her undertaking must fail before it had drawn the first full breath of life. She had stated her purpose and asked the favor and she felt little inclined to beg or plead for its fulfillment. Yet a battle was fought, keen and sharp. There was no flashing of swords nor pomp nor parade, neither were there words nor argument. It was the play of mind upon mind; penetrating, forceful. It was thought pitted against thought; right demanding its own. The small eyes shifted about uneasily and the man moved ponderously in his chair. When he spoke again his voice expressed his irritability.

"It is not my policy to let my buildings free of charge, Mrs. Thorpe. What consideration can you offer me for the use of this building?"

Mrs. Thorpe realized that she had not fallen into the hands of a philanthropist; she was fully aware that the man was not in sympathy with her plans. Without a moment's hesitation or a word of protest she drew from her purse the banknote that Mrs. Mayhew had pressed upon her, and handed it to him.

"How long may I have the use of the place for that amount?" she asked.

He held the money in his fingers as though testing its quality, and his eyes were fixed upon it, but the struggling soul within him was making him very uncomfortable. How merciless are the voices that contend in the soul of a man! These children of the Flat--was he in any way responsible for them? They were no better than so many rats in their holes--the houses that he provided were miserable holes--the wretched children--but why should he charge this woman rent for an old, deserted building set in a thicket of briars and brambles?

"You may have the building for the summer, if you like," he said aloud.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes were upon him curiously. She could not tell how it happened, nor when, nor why, but she became aware that this pompous man of wealth had lost his air of condescension and self-conscious superiority.

"And now as I am paying you rent for this property," she said, "you will, I hope, make some needed repairs on the building and perhaps put the ground in a little better shape?"

The small eyes seemed to stand out from the enfolding flesh to look her full in the face. And that which they saw there aroused a smouldering spark of manhood. He turned to his desk and wrote rapidly for a few minutes. He handed her the paper. It was an order for whatever improvements she wished for both building and grounds.

"Present this to my business manager," he said, "and your bills will be paid."

Mrs. Thorpe arose at once and thanked him very sincerely.

"You are very kind," she said, "and I believe that you will never regret this day's work, liberal though it has been."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*EVERY WHIT WHOLE*

Poverty, poverty, the curse of the Flat--the curse of all on whom its blighting influence falls! We have been told that the love of money is the root of all evil. The misuse of money is the most atrocious thing in our civilization; but poverty is a devastating monster that crushes out the better nature of men as relentlessly as any monster of the jungle crushes its victim between its giant jaws.

Nature is prolific, lavish, luxurious; there is neither limit nor measure to her bounty and generosity. The ever-faithful Friend of man withered the fig tree because it failed to bring forth fruit. Everywhere over the wide earth we see provision made for the needs of men. Food, shelter and clothing the world does not lack. Nature's storehouses circle the globe, and they are never empty. Vast, measureless seedbeds, watered and warmed from Heaven, impelled by an unseen Power, are growing and producing the seasons through. Forests of fruit trees yielding their succulent, sweet-flavored fruit; oceans of grain fields, whose length and breadth the eye cannot measure--to feed the human race. Cotton, wool and hemp and the patient spinning of the silk-worm--to clothe the children of men; quarries of stone and forests of wood to provide shelter from sun and storm. Let us never, even in our weakest, most irreverent moments, voice a protest against the great and generous Giver of this boundless, countless wealth because of the disposition men have made of it.

Some day, that bright, blessed day that even now is dawning, men will not keep and hoard that for which they have no need, and for the lack of which a fellow man perishes and dies. When this day dawns no man will desire more of this world's goods than he can use and enjoy. Men will not seat themselves at a feast and stuff and feed until their bodies distend and their eyes start from their sockets while the wail of hungry children echoes in the land.

The monster, cruel, relentless, immovable, that Mrs. Thorpe found everywhere on the Flat was Poverty. This monster may spring from a gentle mother, more sinned against than sinning, but it is sired by Ignorance and the stamp upon its forehead is Vice.

Mrs. Thorpe visited in these poor, barren homes; she became acquainted with the people and was a friend to all, and with tact and patience she presented to them the desirability of the school that she was about to open.

The boys, profane, reared in immorality, knew her and in their boyish hearts admired her. When she called upon them and solicited their aid they responded readily, and devastating war was waged upon the briers and brambles that cumbered the soil around the old Resort. And while the ground that she planned for flower beds and vegetable gardens yielded up its unprofitable growth and was made ready for the plowman's steel the boys were receiving Nature's best discipline, the tug and sweat of honest work.

A workman skilled with tools, but who had abandoned his trade for the gambler's fortunes, was called upon and pressed into service to mend the broken roof and place again the crumbling columns. And when this work was finished the man, feeling again the spirit of manhood revived by honest work, went over into Edgerly and obtained steady employment; and his wife and children awoke to a new appreciation of life. The wife took a lot of the ground that lay back of the old Resort and vied with her neighbors in raising her beds of vegetables--tender lettuce, green peas and cucumbers.

As the summer wore on, the old Resort, robbed of its superstitions and the evil hold its uncanny tales had had upon the minds of the people, stood forth erect in the midst of cultivated grounds. The babble and chatter of children's voices echoed through it and exorcised the last remaining trace of evil that may have lingered there.

It had been somewhat difficult to induce the women whose children attended the school to plant and care for the garden lots, and their somewhat reluctant consent to do this was given more as a favor to Mrs. Thorpe than from any interest in the work. But he who cultivates Nature becomes interested in spite of himself. And as the brown seeds quickened and sent forth their little flame of life and developed into vigorous plants, each after its kind, the flame of Truth and Immortality in the hearts of the workers revived and grew and expanded.

The goddess Ceres vied with the Bacchus of the Flat and in a measure was the winner. In the cool of the summer evenings, when the day was slipping away and the earth prepared her bath of cooling dew, men, vicious-faced and with bloodshot eyes and unkept hair and beards, had been wont to take themselves to the dens of vice and quaff the cup in which the hissing serpent lurks; but now there was another attraction on the Flat. The owners of the garden lots would gather around the old Resort in the evenings to dig and weed and hoe, and the men fell into the way of strolling over to view the work of their wives' hands, and before the summer was over there was not a place on the Flat more popular than this. And sometimes a man whose heart was not all bad would take the rake and hoe and assist in the work. And then there were some whose memories took them back to boyhood days on the old farm, before the Evil One came with his false promises of pleasure.

Sometimes Mrs. Thorpe would induce the parents to come into the schoolroom and she would show them the work that their children were doing; and sometimes she would talk to the mothers about the care and management of their children and of their homes, and other subjects of interest; and then sometimes in passing their houses she would see that a window had been cleaned and a curtain, or perhaps a clean newspaper answering the place of a curtain, had been put up; or perhaps she would observe that some rubbish pile had been removed, or that a walk had been cleaned, and as she noticed these small improvements she felt that she had received her reward, and went on her way with strengthened purpose.

Mrs. McGowan so far recovered her health and her eyesight that she was able to take the greater share of the household cares upon herself, thus leaving Mrs. Thorpe and Margaret free to devote their time to the school. A strange school it was; there were no hard and fast rules; no one was compelled or commanded, but he who denies that love has power to rule denies because he has not love in his heart and is a stranger to its transfiguring power. It was, perhaps, more of a community of interest than a well-regulated school, but its influence was unmistakable.

Little children were amused and instructed and taught to be kind to each other. There were classes at regular hours that were given instruction from the standard text-books. Boys and girls who had never been to school and who were ashamed to go to Edgerly now, came here to learn to read and write. Girls brought their sewing and were given instruction in the art of cutting and making garments. Housewives were encouraged to come in and learn to cook. Daily it was impressed upon Mrs. Thorpe's mind that the harvest was ripe but the laborers were few. She did each day all that the limit of her strength allowed, but she carried no burdens and permitted herself no load of care. The work was hers, her heart and soul were in it; it strengthened her and put heart and zest into her life.

In the evening after her day's work was done she often spent an hour with Jamie, teaching and amusing him. She felt strangely drawn to the unfortunate child, and often talked to him about her work and related to him any pleasing incident that occurred during the day.

The boy had never attempted to walk, had never stood upon his feet. Dr. Eldrige Jr. had taken a special interest in him and had done much toward removing his physical deformity and freeing him from pain. He still had hopes that continued treatment would enable him to walk, but all his efforts to get him on his feet had so far proved futile.

Mrs. Thorpe was sitting in the gloaming one evening talking to the boy. He sat in his invalid's chair facing a flaming, fire-like cloud, the trailing garment of the setting sun.

"Please sing for me to-night, Mrs. Thorpe," he said. "I love to hear you sing while I sit here and watch the glory cloud fade out of the sky."

Mrs. Thorpe went to the piano that had been hers from the days of her girlhood and let her hands wander over the keys, recalling snatches of song and old, half-forgotten melodies.

Mrs. McGowan came into the room and seated herself in the easy chair that had been set apart for her. She leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes, and a sense of peace and blessing welled up in her heart. She had seen many hard places in life and their influence had lingered with her. But to-night she had a peculiar feeling as of all her cares rolling from her and only that which was glad and good remained, and her spirit seemed light and free as in the days of her young womanhood, before care and trouble called her.

Mrs. Thorpe ceased the desultory snatches of song and melody and, turning the leaves of her song-book, she came to a song especially dear to her. Her voice was sweet and low, and when she sang her soul poured forth the joy of her spirit, and all that stood between her and her heart's happiness seemed to recede and slip away from her.

The low, sweet strains of the instrument rose and fell in pleasing cadence, and the tender, pleading voice floated out on the soft evening air.

Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh,
When the tired waketh, and the shadows flee,
Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight,
Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with Thee.

The words came to Mrs. McGowan like a confirmation of that which her heart had felt, and she seemed to feel the ever presence of infinite Love. An intensity of feeling swept over her, an ecstasy of peace and joy that seemed almost pain, so sure and keen it was. She did not move nor stir; she felt that she scarcely breathed.

Margaret, looking at her mother, saw the glory of the sunset reflected on her quiet face. How peaceful and quiet it was; how strangely still, as though it was the glory divine that rested there.

With an indescribable feeling in her heart, half worship, half wonder, she turned instinctively to Jamie and saw that his eyes had left the flaming west and were fixed upon Mrs. Thorpe's face. His lips were parted, his eyes aglow, his thin, white face eager with unspoken desire, and--was it the sunset that touched his yellow curls, transforming them into a crown of light?

Alone with Thee, amid the seeming shadows,
The solemn hush of being newly born,
Alone with Thee, in breathless adoration,
In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

Margaret, watching the boy, felt her awe and wonder growing upon her. His slight body inclined forward as though in waiting expectation. A warm glow had come to his cheeks and there was a strange light in his eyes.

And still the low, sweet words flowed on.

So shall it ever be in that bright morning,
When Divine sense bids ev'ry shadow flee,
And in that hour fairer than daylight dawning,
Remains the glorious thought I am with Thee.

Quietly, without seeming effort, the boy slid from his chair and, steadily, erect, he crossed the room and stood by Mrs. Thorpe's side. The red glory encircled him and the pleading melody seemed to fold him about, hold and sustain him.

Margaret, as though fearful that she was looking upon something too sacred for mortal vision, covered her face with her hands and a quivering sob fell from her lips.

Mrs. McGowan sat erect, and instantly her eyes sought the boy's chair; she arose in consternation. Then in the waning red light she saw him standing by Mrs. Thorpe's side. A great trembling seized her; but amid her confusion of thought, before words came to her, she was conscious that a prescience of this thing that had happened had been with her since she first came into the room.

"Jamie!" she cried, "oh, Jamie, Jamie!" She was by his side, her arms about him. "My child, my child! That I have lived to see the goodness of the Lord! That I have lived to see this blessed day!"

The song had ended, and with a quivering note the music ceased. Mrs. Thorpe turned and confronted the mother and child and at once comprehended the meaning of what she saw.

"Christ is the Healer Divine!" she cried, and she kissed the boy's white brow and clustering curls.

Margaret knelt beside them, and her tears flowed unrestrained. "Little brother, little brother!" she said, "cured by the great Physician!"

The boy threw his arms about her neck. "I can walk, Margy, I can walk! But why do you cry, Margy?--mother, Mrs. Thorpe--you are not surprised--you believed--the Lord has promised--don't you know? And I believed--I truly did believe!"

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*THE HEART'S DESIRE*

At the approach of cold weather Mrs. Thorpe was obliged to close the school, but she and Margaret worked among the people during the winter and were rewarded by the fact that there was less suffering and sickness than there had been the year before.

Some of the older boys and girls came to Mrs. Thorpe's cottage for instruction, and prepared to enter the Edgerly school in the spring. The classes in sewing and cooking were also continued, although necessarily on a reduced scale.

In the spring when the school was again opened there was no difficulty in arousing interest and enthusiasm. The garden lots were in great demand, and the children begged for a corner for flowers. The vines that had been cared for and trained the year before now climbed about the posts and columns and transformed the old Resort into a mass of greenery and rioting bloom.

The sweet summer days drew on with golden sunshine and lavish promise, and the Flat received something of Nature's benediction. Throughout the summer Mrs. Thorpe and Margaret continued their work. Day by day they bound the sheaves; day by day they saw dear smiles break on childish faces and light dawn where darkness had reigned before.

Yet there were times when the magnitude of the work arose before Mrs. Thorpe and appeared to her like a Red sea in her path. The ignorance and immorality, the poverty and the want, the small, poorly built homes and lack of order and law massed themselves into a rolling sea which she could see no way around and no way through unless the Lord of Hosts should cleave the waters for her. But with characteristic faith she resolved that should the command ever come to her "To lift up thy rod and stretch out thine hand over the sea and divide it," she would be ready to obey. And for her there was consolation in the thought that her work had come to her with no uncertain appeal; she had sought it and it had found her. She loved it with her heart and soul, this work of hers, and stripped of its gruesome exterior, beneath the sackcloth of poverty and misfortune, the loving, throbbing heart of it responded to her.

The long summer days slipped by and the frost of autumn was again in the air. Red and yellow leaves fluttered down from the trees, sported with the winds, and lay in garlands along the streets and pathways. Mrs. Thorpe and Margaret left the school together at the close of one blue, balmy day; but at the gate they parted.

"I shall not go directly home," Margaret said. "I am going for a walk, over to Cedar Brook, perhaps; I shall be back before dark."

"Very well, my dear," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "The walk will do you good, no doubt." She stood for a minute at the gate and watched the retreating figure. Many times of late she had seen the fire of the girl's spirit leap into the dark eyes; and all that day her heart had ached at the sight of the restless pain in the thin, dark face. Was the turbulent nature warring again?--the restlessness of her spirit not yet subdued?

"Keep my girl, dear God, keep my girl," she murmured, as she turned in at the gate. "Keep my dear, dear girl."

A man, gaunt and worn, with signs of recent illness upon his face, stepped out of one of the prosperous-looking, well-kept homes of Edgerly. His step was not so elastic as it once had been, but the face had lost none of its alertness, nor the eyes their keenness. He passed the Mayhew house; how familiar it looked. Not a tree or shrub seemed changed; he noticed the sweet-brier by the library window, and in fancy he could hear it tapping against the window-pane. Farther out he passed the home of Dr. Eldrige and saw the old doctor in an invalid's chair on the porch. He had heard the harrowing story of the old man's affliction, also some gruesome reports concerning it. That blood and froth oozed from his nostrils and mouth during his attacks, which contained a virus that poisoned all flesh that came in contact with it was supposed to be a fact; but that this poison exuded continually from his body was believed by most people to be an exaggeration of the case.

The next house was the home of Dr. Eldrige Jr. This was a cottage less pretentious than the house where the old doctor lived; but there were shrubs and flowers in the yard; the grass was well kept and vines grew over the door. A woman, partly screened by the greenery, was sitting on the porch rocking back and forth in a wicker chair, a woman with golden hair coiled about her head and soft, clustering curls about her face. And tenderly in her arms she was cradling a wee bit of a rosy child. Perhaps she was crooning a lullaby; the little one put out his hand, a little roseleaf hand, and the mother bent her head and laid her lips upon it.

The man, in passing, saw the mother and child, and his face lighted with a smile. During his absence his friends had kept him informed about the happenings at home. He knew that the woman with the crown of golden hair was married; his sister had written him about it at the time, and he remembered now that the news had brought him no sadness and no regret, but that in his heart he had been glad that it was so. And as he went on his way his thoughts went back to that far-away foreign land, to an island of the sea where he had been when this letter of his sister's reached him. For weeks he, with his regiment, had been in the deep heart of a forest and sometimes there were marshes to cross and streams to ford and their beds at night was the damp, black ground. In fancy it all came back to him now: the dusky natives with their scant raiment; the towering forests with their weird majesty, and the call and cry of the wild creatures that inhabited them; the smell of the reeking mould, where year after year the decaying mass of vegetation had not been disturbed; the reedy marshes where all through the lonesome nights the wind sighed and moaned in the long marsh grass.