Part 8

He went to a strange city. Counting-rooms were filled, and clerkships engaged for months in advance. He knew no trade, or he might have worked and given honor to that. At last he obtained a place in a hardware establishment, and for two years, on a small salary, the student did uncongenial work to live; then the firm failed, and he was again adrift. He would have loved manufacturing; he would have been proud to have aided America with the labor of his brain and hands combined; but the old question, the one that has settled upon and crushed so many young men, came back—“What business can be carried on without money?”

Many men have struggled through poverty up to affluence. Many more have struggled in it down to a grave. There are not wanting those who tell us that every man may succeed, if he will; and yet ninety of every hundred who enter the whirlpool of trade are lost.

Like many others, when his heart was saddest he sang—sang like Carligny, who was dying when he made Paris intoxicated with his wit. No publisher was obtained for his poems; he had not found that spring that opens all portals—a name. Every house was already filled with manuscripts, every journal with hastily-written fragments. A living earned by writing was one that too often gave straw for a bed, and bread and water for food. He was growing tired of the battle. There were no victories—all defeats. Perhaps he lacked proper training of self; perhaps the now weakened physical had dimmed the mental; perhaps circumstances without were as strong as the powers within. Men were no longer brothers to him. He sighed for the freedom of solitude, stepped one evening on a freight train going West, and, careless for the future, went forward to an unknown fate. He crossed foaming Lake Erie; flat, woody Michigan and its lake; passed through Milwaukee with its forests and few inhabitants, where now rises one of the loveliest cities of the West, out into the uncivilized country. The land was rolling, with here and there a prairie shut in by a border of oak or cotton-wood trees. The lakes—long Pewaukee; graceful Pine; clear Kotchee, that makes the highway an arch and circles under it; and Neponset, with green, scalloped bank and a tree in each scallop reflected by the waters—all these were like oases to him.

He reached the Indian village, Oconomowoc, and stood at the foot of the peninsula that almost touches the island. On one side was a lake bordered with hawthorn, on whose bank a neat church now stands; on the other, five lakes, some small, one seventeen miles in length, surrounding islands covered with spruce and hemlock and oak. Hills, with their outcropping quarries of limestone, stood out against the blue sky. Back of this landscape, one of the most beautiful of the West, he found a cave worn into the mountain—a gloomy place, but free from dampness, and comfortable for one who had no care for humanity.

Occasionally he made friends with an Indian and asked him to his hut, but this was rare. They looked upon him as a pale-face who, having vexed the Great Spirit, was repenting in solitude. He spent his days in wandering and study. He learned the geological history of the place from the hieroglyphics God puts upon the rocks for man to read. He pressed hundreds of flowers, and knew what Jehovah had intended for the gardens of the growing West. He wrote some, and grew happy in his isolated existence; yet there was no flow of animal life within him, no leaping of the heart for joy. The past was a sealed book; the present written with the indifference of a stoic; and the future a blank leaf with no desire to write upon it.

Such was Giles Mortimer when a tender child was laid before him—a magnet to draw out a heart.

He called her Waify. For days and weeks he dressed her, washed her delicate clothes with his own hands, fed her, and made a wagon of rough boards and drew her to the lakes, that she might dabble her hands and feet in the clear waters. Soon the baby lips, as if taught by angels, said “Papa!” and the man’s affections swept back upon him as a flood. He kissed her again and again, and she, all unconscious of the reason, put her fingers in his hair and beard, and laughed with that merry laugh that makes most homes, even in their decay, full of the echoes of childhood. A new look was born into his face, a look of manly protection, as though a soul was given to his charge.

Six months came and went. Little feet strolled outside the walls. She seemed to look vainly for something to play with, gathered blades of grass and flowers in her creeping, and showed a longing for a fuller life. Mortimer saw it, aroused his sleeping ambition, put out the fire in the old cave, put Waify into the wagon, with a blanket about her that he might keep in memory the first night she slept under it, tossed his half dozen books and small bundle of clothes at her feet, and started for the city. Kind people gave them a shelter at night, and Waify made friends everywhere.

To the home of a lady he had known among the early settlers of Milwaukee he carried his precious charge, and started this time for business with a strength and energy that knew no failure. There were some struggles, but at length a place was found with a land-broker. The city was growing rapidly. Small pieces of land were purchased as by economy some money was saved.

After many months of labor a small house was hired, a pretty play-room arranged for the wee Waify, a good servant obtained, and Giles Mortimer was a happy man. No longer hating the world or its people, but having grown strong from obstacles overcome, he had sympathy for others and a genial look and manner that gave him the fascination of a woman.

Every night Waify came a little way to meet him. Then by the firelight he told her cheery stories, made rabbits for her on the wall, and with her on his knees thanked God for something human to love.

School life began. A tiny primer was purchased, and Mortimer, more the man than ever, taught her the alphabet. “A” she remembered from two rivers and a brook across. “B” was a river with two little crooked ones, and “C” stood for the cave. Every summer since they lived in the city he had taken her thither and showed her where she used to live.

“Here is the place where you were, Waify; here the table where I put my baby; here the old stove where I warmed your milk; here the green grass where you played.”

“Pretty! pretty!” said Waify. “Kind papa to take care of me! Papa, when Waify dies will you bury her here among the flowers, and make a big ‘C,’ for cave, on the stone?”

A hurried kiss was the answer, while a shock that seemed like a premonition struck every nerve.

“Will you, papa? Will you?” pleaded the child. “Right here where the double daisies grow?”

“The garden will be gone, Waify.”

“But won’t you keep it for me, and bring me here?”

“Yes, darling. Yes, little one!” and they went home, the one light-hearted with the prospect of school again, the other saddened with a thought that seemed a prophecy.

A few days of joyous life went by. The little school-girl seemed less fond of play, more clinging to her adopted father, more thoughtful; then a slow fever, that seemed to have been inherited rather than the result of contagion, came on, and Waify, now scarcely out of her babyhood, was going to sleep through a long night.

Giles Mortimer watched her by day and by night, speechless; brought the toys she loved, and laid them beside her; brought the blocks of letters, and she took the “C” and put it under her pillow.

“Papa, we’ve had nice times together. Who’ll be your little girl when Waify goes? Everybody has little girls. Perhaps somebody’ll bring you one.”

While he blessed God that she had been given to make him the man he was, he asked for no other in her place.

“But you must stay, Waify. I couldn’t be happy without you.”

“No, papa, I must go to ask God about my mamma, and perhaps I’ll come back and tell you.”

How little do children know of the land from whence there is no return!

The day looked for, dreaded, came.

“Where’s the ‘C,’ papa?”

Clasping this tightly with one hand and Mortimer’s with the other, looking sadly at the tears upon his cheeks, then joyfully out into the space, she said, “Kiss Waify!” and was dead.

Giles Mortimer’s heart was mangled. The only thing he loved was taken.

There was a quiet gathering, and then he, with the sexton, took the little one to the cave, dug a grave under the daisies in the very centre of the garden, put a little tablet above it, and upon it the large marble “C” that stood for cave, and went back to his duties to work faithfully because her memory was something like her presence. The house was desolate, but sacred because Waify had been there. Business was interesting because entered upon for her; life was blessed because she had lived. Prosperity came to him. He loved other children, but there was only one Waify.

She had done her work. Through her love a man had known and found his manhood—had taken his true place in the world, in genial intercourse, in business power, in Christian benevolence. He has grown in position with the growth of a large city, but he still calls it home where a heart is buried, by the cave in Oconomowoc.

Perchance God told Waify of her mother, or told the mother of her child, for, weeks after her death, Giles Mortimer found upon the grave a touching token of a mother’s love—a wreath of immortelles wrought into the word “Mother.”

THE BLACK AND TAN.

MRS. HENSON sat with her three children at their frugal supper. The house was neat, but very plain, and the dress of the children showed that they were only a trifle above actual want.

James, a boy of ten, sold newspapers and earned a little. Helen, between eight and nine, could help about the house when her mother was absent cleaning or washing, and Mary, seven, was the baby of the household, and the one for whom all the others sacrificed.

“Did you earn much this week, James?” said the mother, who had been a widow for several years. “You know I have been sick, and we can’t meet the rent this month, and we didn’t last month. I don’t know what we shall do,” said Mrs. Henson, in a tone of confidence with James, although she did not expect that her three small children could help her solve the problem. She knew that work alone would solve it, and this she was not always able to obtain, and had been too ill to labor even if the work were before her.

“I tried hard,” said the brown-eyed, slender boy, “but I didn’t sell as many papers as I do sometimes. I ran just as fast, but somehow I didn’t get so many customers, and there weren’t so many extras. You know a lady once in a while slips a nickel into your hand for a paper and won’t wait for change, and that helps a fellow along. But I didn’t have much of that last week. I didn’t spend anything for myself, either.”

“No, you wouldn’t do that. We all save for each other since father died. We shall get over these hard places when you are a little older.”

“Couldn’t you borrow of the lady on the hill who gave me the shoes?” said Helen. “She seems very nice, and she is rich.”

“She has been good to us,” said the mother, “but I hate to bother her. One can wear out generous people by too constant asking for aid.”

“I’ll tell you what to do, mamma,” said little Mary; “we’ll sell the black and tan to the big gentleman who always speaks to me so kind.”

“Oh, no!” said all the other voices together. “Blackie was given to you, and you have played with her, and we couldn’t spare her. She eats very little, and you love her very much. She is the life of the house, she is so frolicsome.”

“But he would pay money for her, and I could spare her if I had to. You said, mamma, we might be turned out of the house, and then what would Blackie do for a home? I think she would be happy in a big house, and we would give the man the basket she sleeps in, so she would be contented and remember us, too.”

“Well, who would take her to the gentleman?” said Mrs. Henson. “I fear he would think it foolish.”

“I will take her,” said the child.

In the afternoon Mary wended her way to the mansion, with Blackie and the basket, and asked for the Hon. Mr. Colebrook. That gentleman rarely had time to see adults, but he would not refuse a child.

When he entered the room he found little Mary Henson with her basket and her dog, her eyes very red with weeping, and the dog whining as though she had heard the whole plan of separation from those she loved in the poor home.

“I’ve brought you my Blackie, sir, to sell her to you. Mamma needs money for rent, and as you are rich I thought you would like to buy her. She will love you very much, and kiss your face. She always sleeps with me, and perhaps she would sleep with you.”

“And can you spare her?” said the millionaire. “I fear she would cry for her former home. It seems to me that you have been crying.”

“Oh, yes, I did cry some when I kissed her the last time, and mamma and Helen and James all cried, because, you see, Mr. Colebrook, she is all we have to love!”

“Well, what do you ask for her?”

“I don’t know. Mamma owes ten dollars for rent for the two months. I think, maybe, if you would pay that for her you could pay half now, and the landlady might wait for the other half, because she would know you would surely pay. I thought of selling Blackie to her, but Blackie needs a very nice home. Mme. Wainwright gave her to me, so you see Blackie comes from a good family, sir, and puts up with our poor home because we all love her so.”

“Well, I will take her,” said Mr. Colebrook, “and if she cries I will send for you to comfort her.”

All this time Blackie was laying her head close to the child, as much as to say: “We will not be separated.” When the millionaire attempted to take her she growled, and then looked plaintively toward her little mistress.

“He’ll be very good to you, Blackie,” said the child, who could not stop her tears. She wanted to sell the dog, and yet if she could only have the money and Blackie too! But that was impossible.

“I have no little girl to pet the dog,” said the great man, “and I fear she will be lonely. You must come and see her,” and he put the ten dollars into the child’s hand, bade her good afternoon, and closed the door on a very sad little heart. Blackie crouched down in her basket as though the fine house were of no importance, and whined piteously for the little girl who had left her.

Mary sobbed all the way home, but she clasped the ten dollars tightly, and was thankful that they could all have a house over their heads for a little longer.

“I’ve brought the ten dollars, mamma,” said the child, and she laid it in her mother’s lap and stole away to weep alone over her sorrow.

Mrs. Henson was very sad over the matter. If she could earn but ten extra dollars! But she could not. The dog was probably not worth over a quarter of that sum, and the rich man had bought her just to help the family. Well, Blackie would have a home of luxury, and that was a comfort.

Hon. Mr. Colebrook had become interested in the child, and called at the little home a few days later to see how the widow and her family were prepared to meet the coming cold weather.

He asked for Mary. She was not well, the mother said, and had no appetite. “I suppose she misses Blackie,” said Mrs. Henson, “though she never speaks of her.”

“And the dog misses her, too, for she will neither eat nor play,” said Mr. Colebrook. “I hope she will be better soon, for she is a winsome little creature. We are already fond of her.”

“We are glad to have her in so good a home,” said Mrs. Henson.

“How do matters look for the winter?” said the man of means. “Is the rent provided for, and the coal in the cellar?”

“I think we can get along now, since you kindly paid the rent for two months. I am in better health, and James seems to be selling more papers.”

When Mr. Colebrook had gone Mary stole out to ask about Blackie. She could not go to see the dog,—that would give pain to two,—but she was eager to hear about her mute little playmate.

“Mr. Colebrook says Blackie will not eat much and misses you greatly,” said Mrs. Henson. A smile crept over the child’s face as she said: “I thought Blackie really loved me. I would go to see her if she wouldn’t feel bad when I came away, and I mustn’t make her heart ache.”

“Oh, I think she’ll forget about us all soon, and enjoy her new home very much!” said Helen.

“I think not,” said Mary. “Blackie never forgets. She never did.”

It was late in the autumn, and Mrs. Henson was too busy with work to think much more about a dog. James was up early and home late, and Helen’s little hands were more than filled with work too hard for a child.

Christmas was near at hand, and the rich and the poor were planning according to their means for a merry time. Mrs. Henson’s presents must necessarily be small, and along the line of the absolutely necessary. James must have boots, Helen a simple dress, and Mary some mittens, with a bag of parched corn, a little candy, and a few nuts.

Mr. Colebrook did not forget the widow’s family. He sent coal, a barrel of flour, some money for rent, and some articles of clothing for the children. There was one quite large package for Mary. What was in it nobody could imagine, though Mrs. Henson was in the secret. Finally a low whining was heard; the box was hastily opened, and out sprang Blackie into Mary’s lap, and kissed her over and over again. The child cried, and Blackie nestled her face against Mary’s neck and cried also. She was home again as a Christmas present, and she liked the plain home better than the grand one.

“Did you really want to come back, Blackie,” said Mary, “and sleep with me again, and not be rich and great any more?” and Blackie wagged her tail and whined approvingly, as though it were the happiest Christmas of her life.

THE CHRISTIAN HUNTER.

“THIS IS Mr. Graham, a leader in our church work,” said Miss Ward, as she introduced the fine-looking young man to her friend Miss Warburton.

“Oh, yes!” said the person addressed. “I remember seeing you at the lakes last summer. What a pleasant company we had at the hotel!”

“Yes, but I went especially for the shooting. Such fine game up there! Birds of many kinds, ducks, and now and then a deer. I went just for sport, though I didn’t care much about the things after they were shot. We went fishing one day, and the fish were so small we let a quantity die in the bottom of the boat rather than carry them home. We had quite an excitement one day when we found we had killed a robin and her youngsters were in a nest close by with open mouths.”

“What did you do with the little birds?” said Miss Warburton.

“Oh, they had to starve, of course!”

“And did you bring home the mother bird?”

“No, she was pretty badly hurt, and couldn’t live long. We had so many ducks and other things that we couldn’t carry all of them.”

“Don’t you feel badly to leave a wounded robin or duck to die slowly?”

“Oh, we men haven’t women’s hearts, Miss Warburton, or we shouldn’t shoot at all, I fear!”

“I never could see how a Christian man could find pleasure in giving pain. I know some of our professing Christians have hunted buffaloes on the American plains, and left them to die, just for the sport of killing, as some of the English hunters do in South Africa. And I suppose some who hunt foxes, and find pleasure in seeing dogs catch and tear them to pieces, profess Christianity.”

“Well, you ladies are eager to ride fast and get the brush.”

“I should not be. I would not take the tail of the fox after the poor thing had been frightened nearly to death before capture. We think bull-fights in Spain, where animals are killed for sport, brutal and wicked; but we seem to think that where foxes are killed for sport it is only a pleasant and exhilarating pastime. Does the size of the animal make the difference?”

“I think, Miss Warburton, you would deprive us of all pleasure. Nothing is more bracing than the eager run with the dogs over fields and fences, and the rivalry in reaching the game first is very exciting.”

“And the next day or the next week you come back and lead a prayer meeting, and urge us to be gentle and tender, and trust in Him who lets not even a sparrow fall to the ground without his notice! I think Cowper was right when he said—

“‘I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility), the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.’”

“But, Miss Warburton, you must remember that animals are killed for food for you and me, and for others.”

“That should be done as humanely as possible, Mr. Graham. Our stock-yards and places for killing animals should all be under the most careful city or State supervision. We can easily brutalize people. At first, most men and women shrink from inflicting pain or shedding blood, but even those high in church or State can become callous to cruelty.”

“I fear you wouldn’t approve of letting ministers and presidents have a little fun from shooting.”

“No, not if that ‘fun’ took even birds away from their young, and helpless creatures were shot for the mere pleasure of shooting. The Princess of Wales, thanks to her womanly heart, has helped to put an end to pigeon-shooting for sport, and balls are found to answer the purpose.”

“This is getting personal. I fear you will not enjoy having me lead our meetings and asking sinners to become converted.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Graham. Some persons may not feel as I do, but for myself it greatly lessens the force of your words or prayers. I have spoken plainly because I believe your killing for sport has a bad influence over others. To me it does not seem consistent with your profession of kindness and love to all of God’s creatures. I hope you are not offended.”

“Oh, no, far from it! You have set me thinking. It has been thoughtlessness on my part, for as a leader in Christian things I want to do what is right.”

LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

“I THINK George Thomas is fond of Edith, for he comes to the house often, and always gives her a delicate deference which shows his appreciation of woman.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Sinclair in reply to his wife, “Thomas is a good fellow, a hard worker, economical, and worthy of any girl, though of course he isn’t rich. That doesn’t matter, however, for I have enough for Edith. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t offer himself.”

“I can’t imagine,” replied his wife, “except that he does not earn enough to support Edith in the way she has been accustomed to live. Young men are unduly sensitive about that, when often the young woman would value a true affection more than a fine house and surroundings. I am sure Edith is fond of him, for although she says nothing her face and manner show it.”

“I don’t see how we can help matters, wife. Probably time will settle it.”

But time did not settle it, for Edith Sinclair, for some unexplained reason, was growing pale and listless. Something was wearing her nerves, and at last she was really ill. Naturally frail, and loving one to whom she could not make known her feelings, the repression, uncertainty, and perhaps surprise that no word was spoken finally culminated in her illness.

A physician was called, a woman who had long been the friend of the family; she divined some trouble that was not apparent to the world. One morning when she came, taking Edith’s hand she said, “Dear, I think something is worrying you. Would you mind telling me so that I can help you, perhaps?”

“There is nothing to be done, doctor,” said the girl sadly, as tears came into her large, dark eyes. “I have everything in this beautiful home, but I don’t care for it.”

“But what would make you happy—to go away for a time and have change of air and scenery?”

“No, I would rather stay here. I am too tired to go away.”