Chapter 2

not so strong. He was of a more gentle and winning disposition, for his life was not ignorant of the frailties. The girl to whom he had been engaged had died, and that had left a kind of sweetness, almost beseechingness, in his manner, very engaging in so tall and strong a man.

“Mr. O’Brien?” said John St. John.

Aladdin arose and held out his long, slender hand.

Aladdin had a way of moving which was very individual to himself, a slight, ever so slight, exaggeration of stride and gesture, a kind of captivating awkwardness and diffidence that was on the borderland of grace and assurance. Like all slender people who work much with their heads, he had a strong grip, but he felt that his hand was as inconsistent as an eel when St. John’s closed over it.

“I came in for a moment,” said St. John, “to say that we are all exceedingly grateful to you. Your song was a great factor in my father’s reelection to the Senate. But we do not hold so much by the song as by the good will which you showed us in writing it. I want you to understand and believe that if I can ever be of the slightest service to you, I will go very far to render it.”

“I’m as obliged as I can be,” said Aladdin. “It’s mighty good of you to come and talk to me like this, and except for the good will I have toward all your family, I don’t deserve it a bit.”

When John St. John had gone, the inky boy came to announce that another gentleman wished to speak with Mr. O’Brien.

The second gentleman proved to be the second brother, Hamilton St. John.

“Mr. O’Brien?” said he.

Aladdin shook hands with him.

“I came in for a moment,” said Hamilton St. John, “for the pleasure of telling you how tremendously grateful we all are to you for your song, which was such a big factor in my father’s redirection to the Senate. But I want to say, too, that we’re more grateful for your good will than for the song, and if I can ever do you a service, I want you to feel perfectly free to come and ask it of me, whatever it is.”

Aladdin could have laughed for joy. Margaret did not seem so far away as sometimes.

“I’m as obliged as I can be,” he said. “It’s mighty good of you to come and talk to me like this, and except for the good will I have toward all your family, I don’t deserve it a bit, but I appreciate it just the same.”

Presently Hamilton St. John departed.

Again the inky boy, and this time grinning.

“There’s a gentleman would like to speak with you, sir,” he said.

“Show him in,” said Aladdin.

Hannibal St. John, Jr., entered.

“O’Brien,” he said, “I’ve often heard my sister Margaret speak about you, and I’ve been meaning for ever so long to look you up. And I wish I’d done it before I had such an awfully good excuse as that song of yours, because I don’t know how to thank you, quite. But I want you to understand that if at any time--rubbish, you know what I mean. Come up to the club, and we’ll make a drink and talk things over.”

He drew Aladdin’s arm into his, and they went out.

Aladdin had never before felt so near Margaret.

He returned to the office in half an hour, happy and a slave. Hannibal St. John, Jr., had won the heart right out of him in ten minutes. He sat musing and dreaming. Was he to be one of those chosen?

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

“Show him in.”

The inky snickered and hurried out. He could be heard saying with importance, “This way, sir. Look out for that press, sir. It’s very dark in here, sir.” And then, like a smart flunky in a house of condition, he appeared again at the door and announced

“Senator Hannibal St. John.”

Aladdin sprang up.

The senator, still suffering from the gout, and leaning heavily on his whalebone cane, limped majestically in. There was an amiability on his face, which Aladdin had never seen there before. He placed a chair for his distinguished guest. The senator removed his high hat and stood it upon the edge of Aladdin’s desk.

“My boy,” he said,--the word tingled from Aladdin’s ears to his heart, for it was a word of great approachment and unbending,--“I am very grateful for your efforts in my behalf. I will place honor where honor is due, and say that I owe my recent reflection to the United States Senate not so much to my more experienced political friends as to you. The present crisis in the affairs of the nation calls for men of feeling and honor, and not for politicians. I hope that you will not misconstrue me into a braggart if I say from the bottom of my heart I believe that, in returning a man of integrity and tradition to his seat in the Congress of the nation, you have rendered a service to the nation.”

The senator paused, and Aladdin, still standing, waited for him to finish.

“After a week,” said the senator, “I shall return to my duties in Washington. In the meanwhile, Margaret” (he had hitherto always referred to her before Aladdin as “my daughter”) “and I are keeping open house, and if it will give you pleasure we shall be charmed” (the word fell from the senator’s lips like a complete poem) “to have you make us a visit. Two of my sons will be at home, and other young people.”

“Indeed, and it will give me pleasure!” cried Aladdin, falling into the least suspicion of a brogue.

“I will write a line to your chief,” continued the senator, “and I have reason to believe that he will see you excused. We shall expect you to-morrow by the fourthirty.”

“I’m ever so much obliged, sir,” said Aladdin.

“My boy,” said the senator, gravely, after a full minute’s pause, “we are all concerned in your future, which promises to be a brilliant one. It rests with you. But, if an old man may be permitted a word of caution, it would be this: Let your chief recreation lie in your work; leave the other things. Do I make myself clear enough?” (Aladdin nodded guiltily.) “Leave the frailties to the dullards of this world.”

He rose to go.

“My young friend,” said the senator, “you have my best wishes.”

Grimacing with the pain in his foot, limping badly, but always stately and impressive,--almost superimpending,--Hannibal St. John moved slowly out of the office.

XV

The weather turned suddenly gusty and cold, and that afternoon it began to snow, and it kept on snowing. All night fine dry flakes fell in unexampled profusion, and by morning the face of the land was many inches deep. Nor did the snow then cease. All the morning it continued to fall with vigor. The train by which Aladdin was to go to the St. Johns’ left at two-thirty, arriving there two hours later; and it was with numb feet and stinging ears that he entered the car reserved for smokers, and, bundling in a somewhat threadbare over coat, endeavored to make himself comfortable for the journey. As the train creaked and jerked out of the protecting station, the storm smote upon the windows with a noise like thrown sand, and a back draft down the chimney of the iron stove in one end of the car sent out puffs of smutty smoke at whatever points the various castings of the stove came together with insufficient snugness. There were but half a dozen people in the whole train.

“Troubles, old man,” said Aladdin, for so he was in the habit of addressing himself at moments of self-communication, “this is going to be the slowest kind of a trip, but we’re going to enjoy every minute of it, because it’s taking us to the place where we would be-God bless her!”

Aladdin took a cigar from his breast pocket.

“Troubles,” said he, “may I offer you a smoke? What? Oh, you’re very much obliged and don’t mind if you do. There you are, then.” Aladdin sent out a great puff of white smoke; this turned into a blue wraith, drifted down the aisle, between the seats, gathering momentum as it went, and finally, with the rapidity of a mint julep mounting a sucked straw (that isn’t split) and spun long and fine, it was drawn through a puncture of the isinglass in the stove door and went up the chimney in company with other smoke, and out into the storm. Aladdin, full of anticipation and glee, smoked away with great spirit. Presently, for the car was empty but for himself, Aladdin launched into the rollicking air of “Red Renard”

“Three scarlet huntsmen rode up to White Plains With a carol of voices and jangle of chains, For the morning was blue and the morning was fair, And the word ran, “Red Renard” is waiting us there.”

He puffed at his cigar a moment to be sure that its fire should not flag, and sang on:

“The first scarlet huntsman blew into his horn, Lirala, Lovely Morning, I’m glad I was born”; The second red huntsman he whistled an air, And the third sang, “Red Renard” is waiting us there.”

“Just such weather as this, Troubles,” he said, looking out into the swirl of snow. “Just the beautifulest kind of cross-country weather!” He sang on:

Three lovely ladies they met at the meet, With whips in their hands and with boots on their feet; And the gentlemen lifted their hats with a cheer, As the girls said, “Red Renard is waiting you here.”

He quickened into the stanza he liked best:

Three scarlet huntsmen rode off by the side Of three lovely ladies on horses of pride. Said the first, “Call me Ellen”; the second, “I’m Claire”; Said the third, “I’m Red Renard--so called from my hair.”

The train, which had been running more slowly, drew up with a chug, and some minutes passed before it again gathered itself and lurched on.

“That’s all right,” said Aladdin. He was quite warm now, and thoroughly happy.

Three scarlet huntsmen rode home from White Plains, With its mud on their boots, and its girls on their brains; And the first sang of Ellen, the second of Claire, But the third sang, “Red Renard is waiting back there.”

He made a waggish face to finish with:

Three scarlet huntsmen got into frock-coats, And they pinched their poor feet, and they tortured their throats; And the first married Ellen, the second wed Claire, While the third said, “Re Renar izh waishing back zhere.”

He assumed the expression for a moment of one astutely drunk.

“A bas!” he said, for this much of the French language was his to command, and no more. He turned and attempted to look out. He yawned. Presently he threw away the reeking butt of his cigar, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

The water below the veranda was alive with struggling fishes in high hats and frock-coats. Each fish had a label painted across his back with his name and address neatly printed on it, and each fish was struggling to reach a tiny minnow-hook, naked of bait, which dangled just out of reach above the water. The baitless hook was connected by a fine line (who ever heard of baiting a line at the wrong end?) with Margaret’s hand. She had on a white dress stamped with big pink roses, and there was a pale-green ribbon round the middle of it; her hair was done up for the first time, and she was leaning over the railing, which was made of safety-lamps and stranglers alternately, painted light blue, regarding the struggling fishes with a look at once full of curiosity and pity. Presently one of the fishes’ labels soaked off, and went hurtling out to sea, with the fish weeping bitterly and following at express speed, until in less than one moment both label and fish were hull down below the horizon. Then another label washed off, and then another and another, and fish after fish, in varying states of distraction, followed after and disappeared, until all you could see were two, whereof the one was labeled Manners and the other O’Brien (these continued to fight for the hook), and all you could hear was Neptune, from down, down, down in the sea, saying coquettishly to Cleopatra, “I’m Red Renard--so called from my hair.” And then all of a sudden valiant Captain Kissed-by-Margaret went by on a log writing mottos for the wives of famous men. And then Manners and O’Brien, struggling desperately to drown each other, sank down, down, down, and Cleopatra could be heard saying perfectly logically to Neptune, “You didn’t!” And then there was a tremendous shower of roses, and the dream went out like a candle.

Aladdin opened his eyes and stroked his chin. He was troubled about the dream. The senator had spoken to him of “others.” Could Peter Manners possibly be there? Was that the especial demolishment that fate held in store for him? He was very wide awake now.

At times, owing to the opaqueness of the storm, it was impossible to see out of the car window. But there were moments when a sudden rush of wind blew a path for the eye, and by such occasional pictures--little long of the instantaneous--one could follow the progress of the blizzard. Aladdin saw a huddle of sheep big with snow; then a man getting into a house by the window; an ancient apple-tree with a huge limb torn off; two telegraph poles that leaned toward each other, like one man fixing another’s cravat; and he caught glimpses of wires broken, loosened, snarled, and fuzzy with snow. Then the train crawled over a remembered trestle, and Aladdin knew that he was within four miles of his station, and within three of the St. Johns’ house by the best of short cuts across country. He looked precisely in its direction, and kissed his fingers to Margaret, and wondered what she was doing. Then there was a rumbling, jumping jar, and the train stopped. Minute after minute went by. Aladdin waited impatiently for the train to start. The conductor passed hurriedly through.

“What’s up?” called Aladdin after him.

“Up!” cried the conductor. “We’re off the track.”

“Can’t we go on to-night?”

“Nup!” The conductor passed out of the car and banged the door.

“Got to sit here all night!” said Aladdin. “Not much! Get up, Troubles! If you don’t think I know the way about here, you can stay by the stove. I’m going to walk.”

Aladdin and Troubles rose, buttoned their coat, left the car, and set out in the direction of the St. Johns’. Aladdin’s watch at starting read five o’clock.

“Our luggage is all checked, Troubles,” he said, “and all we’ve got to face is the idea of walking three miles through very disagreeable weather, over a broad path that we know like the palm of our hand (which we don’t know as well as we might), arriving late, wet to the skin, and without a change of clothes. On the other hand, we shall deserve a long drink and much sympathy. As for you, Troubles, you’re the best company I know, and all is well.”

The first scarlet huntsman blew into his horn, “Lirala, Lovely Morning, I’m glad I was born.”

XVI

At first the way, lying through waist-high fir scrub, was pretty bad underfoot, but beyond was a stretch of fine timber, where the trees had done much to arrest the snow, and the going was not so severe. Aladdin calculated that he should make the distance in an hour and a half; and when the wood ended, he looked at his watch and found that the first mile, together with only twenty-five minutes, was behind him.

“That’s the rate of an hour and a quarter, Troubles,” he said. “And that’s good time. Are you listening?”

But following the wood was a great open space of country pitched up from the surrounding levels, and naked to every fury of nature. Across that upland the wind blew a wicked gale, scarifying the tops of knolls to the brown, dead grass, and filling the hollows flush with snow. At times, to keep from being blown over, it was necessary to lean against the gusts. Aladdin was conscious of not making very rapid progress, but there was something exhilarating in the wildness, the bitter cold, and the roar of the wind; it had an effect as of sea thundering upon beach, great views from mountain-tops, black wild nights, the coming of thunder and freshness after intense heat, or any of the thousand and one vaster demonstrations of nature. Now and again Aladdin sang snatches of song:

Gaily bedight, A gallant knight In sunshine and shadow Journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of El Dorado.

Or from “The Mole of Marimolena”

I was turning fifty-odd when the everlasting God Smote a path of molten gold across the blue, Says, “There’s many million men would have done the like again, But you didn’t, and, my man, there’s hope for you.

“Start sheets and sail for the Mole-- For the old rotten Mole of Marimolena; There’s maybe some one there That you’re longing to treat fair, On the dismal, woeful Mole of Marimolena.”

And other deep-sea chanteys,--the one in which the pirate found the Lady in the C-a-a-bin and slivered off her head, or back to Red Renard, or further to his own campaign song, and furthest of all to the bad, bad young dog of a crow. Then he got quite out of breath, and pausing for a moment to catch it, noted for the first time the extreme bitterness of the cold. It stung the face like insects. “Woof!” he said. “And now for lost time.”

Again he stepped out, but with each step the snow became deeper, and presently he floundered in to his waist. “Must be a ditch!” he said, turning a little to the right and exclaiming, “Thought so!” as the wading got shallower. Whereupon he stepped into a deep hole and fell. After plunging and plowing about, it was brought home to him that he had lost the path. Even at that the difficulty remained one of hard walking alone, for he had been familiar with that country since childhood, and knew the precise direction in which it was necessary for him to locomote. It was a pity that the only structure in the vicinity was an ancient and deserted house,--it lay just off there,--as he should have liked to have warmed himself by a good fire before going farther. He remembered that there were a partly preserved stove in the deserted house, broken laths, and naily boards, and swathes of curious old wall-papers, layer upon layer, which, dampening and rotting from the wall, hung raggedly down. He had once explored the house with Margaret, and it seemed almost wise to go to the place and make a fire. But on account of the delay involved and the approach of darkness, he discarded the notion, and, a little impatient at being badly used by a neighborhood he knew so well, struggled on.

“Troubles,” he said, “what sort of a storm is this anyway? Did you ever see anything quite like it round here? Because I never did. It must be like those things they have out West, when millions of poor little baa-sheeps and horses and cattles freeze to death. I’d hate to be a horse out in this, but I wish I had one. I--”

If, as a child, you have ever slipped, though only an inch, while climbing over roofs, you will know that sudden, stabbing, sinking feeling that came to Aladdin and stopped the beating of his heart by the hairbreadth of a second. He had been proceeding chin on breast, and head bent against the wind, or he would have seen it before, for it was a notable landmark in that part of the world, and showed him that he had been making way, not toward his destination, but toward the wilderness.

He gazed up at the great black blasted pine, its waist the height of a tall tree, and its two lonely lightning-scathed and white arms stretched out like a malediction; and for a moment he had to take himself in hand. After a little he mastered the fear that had seized him.

“It’s only a poor old lonely vegetable out in the cold,” he said. “And it shows us exactly where we are and exactly which way we have to go.”

He set himself right, and, with head lowered and hands clenched, again started on. But he was beginning to be very much bored, and sensible that his legs were not accustomed to being used so hard. Furthermore, there was a little difficulty--not by any means an insurmountable one--in steering straight, because of the constantly varying point of the compass in which the wind blew. He went on for a long time....

He began to look for the high ground to decline, as it should, about now, if it was the high ground he took it for. “I ought to be getting somewhere,” he said.

And, God help him! tired out, half frozen and very foot-sore, he was getting somewhere, for, glancing up, he again beheld the gigantic and demoniac shape of the blasted pine.

It is on prairies and among mountains, far from the habitations of men, that man is most readily terrified before nature, and not on the three-mile primrose way from a railway accident to a house-party. But for a moment cold terror struck at Aladdin like a serpent, and the marrow in his bones froze. Before he could succeed in reducing this awful feeling to one of acute anxiety alone, he had to talk to himself and explain things as to a child.

“Then it is true, Troubles, old man,” he said, “about a person’s tendency to go to the left. That’s interesting, isn’t it? But what do we care? Being gifted with a certain (flighty, it is true) intelligence, we will simply take pains, and every step pull a little to the right; and that will make us go straight. Come now-keep thinking about it-every step!”

As the end of the day approached, a lull came in the gale, and the snow fell less freely. The consequently widened horizon of vision was eminently comforting, and Aladdin’s unpleasant feeling of anxiety almost disappeared.

Suddenly he was aware of a red horse.

XVII

It was standing almost leg-clear, in an angle of what seemed a drifted-over snake-fence. Its ugly, Roman-nosed head was thrown up and out, as if about to neigh.

“Poor beastie,” said Aladdin, after a start. “You must be direfful cold, but we’ll ride you, and that will make you warm, and us cold, and we’ll all get along faster.”

Drawing near, he began to gentle the horse and call it pet names. It was a huge brute, over seventeen hands high, and Aladdin, aided only by a rickety fence, and a pair of legs that would hardly support him, was appalled by the idea of having to climb to that lofty eminence, its back. Without doubt he was dreadfully tired.

“The fence will help, old man” he said. “Here, you, pay attention and get over.” He tried to insinuate himself between the horse and the fence, but the horse did not seem inclined to move.

“Get over, you!” he said, and gave a shove. The horse moved a little, very unwillingly. “Farther yet,” said Aladdin: “Get over, you, get over.” Again he shoved; this time harder. He slapped the great shoulder with his open hand. And again the horse moved, but very slowly. “You’re an unwilling brute, aren’t you?” he said angrily.

For answer the thing tottered, and, to his horror, began to fall, at first slowly, but ever with accelerating speed, until, in the exact attitude in which it had stood by the fence,--the great Roman-nosed head thrown up and out, as if to neigh,--he beheld the horse stretched before him on the ground, and noted for the first time the awful death-like glint of the yellow teeth through the parting of the lips.

He went very gravely from that place, for he had been looking upon death by freezing, and he himself was terribly cold, terribly tired, and--he admitted it now--completely lost.

But he went on for a long time--four or five hundred years. And it grew darker and colder.

He began to talk to himself, to try and steady himself, as he had done ever since childhood at forsaken times.

“Troubles,” he said, “You’re full of troubles, aren’t you, old man? You always were. But this is the worst. You can’t walk very much farther, can you? I can’t. And if you don’t get helped by some one pretty soon, you’re going to come to the end of your troubles. And, Troubles, do you know, I think that’s what’s going to happen to you and me, and I want you to stand up to it if it comes [gulp] and face it like a man. Now let’s rest a little, Troubles, will we?”

Troubles and Aladdin rested a little. When the rest was over they could hardly move, and they began to see the end of a young man that they had hoped would live a long time and be very happy. They went on.

“Troubles,” said Aladdin, “do you suppose she knows that we are out here, perhaps dying? We would know if she were, wouldn’t we? And do you think she cares? Liar, you know she cares, and a lot. She wouldn’t be she if she didn’t care. But we didn’t think that all the years of waiting and hoping and loving and trying to be something would end like this, did we, Troubles? We thought that it might end with the godlike Manners (whom we wouldn’t help if he were freezing to death, would we?), but not like this--O Lord God, not like this!... And we weren’t sure it would end with Manners; we were going to fight it out to a mighty good finish, weren’t we, Troubles? But now it’s going to end in a mighty good storm, and you’re going to die for all your troubles, Troubles... And I’m talking to you so that we won’t lose our sand, even if we are afraid to die, and there’s no one looking on.”

Though Aladdin stopped making talk in his head, the talk kept going on by itself; and he suddenly shouted aloud for it to stop. Then he began to whimper and shiver, for he thought that his mind was going.

Presently he shook himself.

“Troubles,” he said, “we’ve only a little farther to go--just as far as our feet will carry us, and no farther. That’s the proper way to finish. And for God’s sake keep sane. We won’t give her up yet!”

Ten steps and years passed.

“Troubles,” said Aladdin, “we’re going to call for help, and if it don’t come, which it won’t, we’re going to try and be calm. It seems simplest and looks best to be calm.”

Aladdin stood there crying aloud for the help of man, but it did not come. And then he cried for the help of God. And he stood there waiting--waiting for it to come.

“We must help ourselves, Troubles,” he said, with a desperate effort to be calm. “We’ve got ten steps left in us. Now, then, one--two--”

During the taking of those ten steps the snow ceased entirely to fall, and black night enveloped the earth.

Aladdin was all numb, and he wished to sleep, but he made the ten steps into eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, before his limbs refused to act, and he fell forward in the snow. He managed to raise himself and crawl a little way. He saw a light afar off, and guessing that it must be an angel, held out his hands to it--and one of them encountered a something in the dark.

Even through his thick mitten it felt round and smooth and colder than his fingers, like a ball of ice. Then Aladdin laughed aloud, for he knew that his last walk upon earth had been in the form of a silly circle. He had returned to the dead horse, and his gloved hand was resting upon its frozen eye. He shrieked with laughter and became heavy with a desire to sleep.

He sank deliciously down, and began to see showers of roses, when it flashed upon him that this was not sleep, but death.

It was like lifting prodigious dumb-bells to get his eyes to open, and a return to consciousness was like the stabbing of knives. But he opened his eyes and roused himself.

“I won’t give her up yet,” he cried.

And then, by the help of God Almighty, he crawled the whole length of the horse.

And fell asleep.

XVIII

It was a miserable, undressed thing wrapped in a horse-blanket and a buffalo-robe that woke up in front of a red-hot stove and remembered that it used to be Aladdin O’Brien. It had a dreadful headache, and could smell whisky and feel warm, and that for a long time was about all. Then it noticed that the wall opposite was ragged with loosened wall-paper and in places stripped of plaster, so that the lathing showed through, and that in its own head--no, in the room beyond the wall--an impatient stamping noise of iron on wood was occurring at intervals. Then it managed to turn its head, and it saw a big, beautiful man sitting on the end of an old soapbox and smoking a pipe. Then it was seized with a wrenching sickness, and the big man came quickly and held its head and was very good to it, and it felt better and went to sleep. After a while it descended into the Red Sea, with the avowed intention of calling Neptune Red Renard to his face, and when it got to the bottom, which was of red brick sprinkled with white door-knobs that people kept diving for, it became frightened and ran and ran until it came to the bottom of an iceberg, that had roots like a hyacinth bulb and was looking for a place to plant itself, and it climbed up to the top of the iceberg, which was all bulrushes, and said, “I beg your pardon, but I forgot; I must go back and make my apologies.” Then it woke up and spoke in a weak voice.

“Peter Manners,” said Aladdin, “come here.”

Manners came and sat on the floor beside him.

“Feel better now?” he said.

“Tell me--” said Aladdin.

“Oh, stuff!” said Manners.

“Manners,” said Aladdin, “you don’t look as if you hated me any more.”

“You sleep,” said Manners. “That’s what you need.”

Aladdin thought for a long time and tried to remember what he wanted to say, and shutting his eyes, to think better, fell asleep.

For the third time he awoke. Manners was back on the soap-box, still as a sphinx, and smoking his pipe.

“Please come and talk some more,” said Aladdin.

Again Manners came.

“Tell me about it,” said Aladdin.

“You be good and go to sleep,” said Manners.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly morning.”

“Still storming?”

“No; stars out and warmer.”

Aladdin thought a moment.

“Manners,” he said, “please talk to me. How did you find me?”

“Simply enough,” said Manners. “I took the senator’s cutter out for a little drive, and got lost. Then I heard somebody laughing, and I stumbled over you and your horse; that’s all. How the devil did you manage to lose your saddle and bridle?”

“It was a dead horse,” said Aladdin, and he shivered at the recollection.

“Quite so,” said Manners.

“It was the funniest thing,” said Aladdin, and again he shuddered with a kind of reminiscent revolt. “I pushed it, and it fell over frozen to death.” He was conscious of talking nonsense.

“Wait a minute, Manners,” he said. “I’ll be sensible in a minute.”

Presently he told Manners about the horse.

“I saw alight just then,” he said, “and I thought it was an angel.”

“It was I,” said Manners, naively.

“Yes, Manners, it was you,” said Aladdin.

He thought about an angel turning out to be Manners for a long time. Then a terrible recollection came to him, and, in a voice shaking with remorse and self-incrimination, he cried:

“God help me, Manners, I would have let you freeze.”

Manners pulled at his pipe.

“Manners,” said Aladdin, “it’s true I know it’s true, because, for all I knew, I was dying when I said it.”

Manners shook his head.

“Oh, no,” said Manners.

“Make me think that,” said Aladdin, with a quaver. “Please make me think that if you can, for, God help me, I think I would have let you freeze.”

“When I found you,” said Manners, “I--I was sorry that the Lord hadn’t sent somebody else to you, and me to somebody else. That was because you always hated me with no very good reason, and a man hates to be hated, and so, to be quite honest, I hated you back.”

“Right,” said Aladdin, “right.”

Light began to come in through the windows, whose broken panes Manners had stopped with crumpled wall-paper.

“But when I got you here,” said Manners, “and began to work over you, you stopped being Aladdin O’Brien, and were just a man in trouble.”

“Yes,” said Aladdin, “it must be like that. It’s got to be like that.”

“At first,” said Manners, “I worked because it seemed the proper thing to do, and then I got interested, and then it became terrible to think that you might die.”

“Yes,” said Aladdin. His face was ghastly in the pre-sunrise light.

“You wouldn’t get warm for hours,” said Manners, “and I got so tired that I couldn’t rub any more, and so I stripped and got into the blankets with you, and tried to keep you as warm as I could that way.”

He paused to relight his pipe.

Aladdin stared up at the tattered ceiling with wide, wondering eyes.

“When you got warm,” said Manners, “I gave you all the rest of the whisky, and I’m sorry it made you sick, and now you’re as fit as a fiddle.”

“Fit-as-a-fiddle,” said Aladdin, slowly, as the wonder grew. And then he began to cry like a little child. Manners waited till he had done, and then wiped his face for him.

“So you see,” said Manners, simply, though with difficulty,--for he was a man shy, to terror, of discussing his own feelings,--“I can’t help liking you now, and--and I hope you won’t feel so hard toward me any more.”

“I feel hard toward you!” said Aladdin. “Oh, Manners!” he cried. “I thought all along that you were just a man that knew about horses and dogs, but I see, I see; and I’m not going to worship anybody any more except you and God, I’m not!”

Then he had another great long, hot cry. Manners waited patiently till it was over.

“Manners,” said Aladdin, in a choky, hoarse voice, “I think you’re different from what you used to be. You look as if--as if you ‘d got the love of mankind in you.”

Manners did not answer. He appeared to be thinking of something wonderful.

“Do you think that’s it?” cried Aladdin.

Manners did not answer.

“Can’t I get it, too?” Aladdin cried. “Have I got to be little and mean always? So help me, Manners, I don’t love any one but you and her.”

“You ‘re not fit to talk,” said Manners, with great gentleness. “You go to sleep.” He arose, and going to the door of the house, opened it a little way and looked out.

“It’s warm as toast out, Aladdin,” he called. “There’s going to be a big thaw.” He closed the door and went into the next room, and Aladdin could hear him talking to the horse. After a little he came back.

“Greener says that she never was better stalled,” he said.

“Manners,” said Aladdin, “have I been raving?”

“Not been riding quite straight,” said Manners.

“How soon are we going to start?” said Aladdin.

“We’ve got to wait till the snow’s pretty well melted,” said Manners. “About noon, I think.”

Then, because he was very tired and sick and weak, and perhaps a trifle delirious, Aladdin asked Manners if he would mind holding his hand. Manners took the hand in his, and a thrill ran up Aladdin’s arm and all over him, till it settled deliciously about his heart, and he slept.

The sun rose, and dazzling beams of light filled the room.