CHAPTER TEN

_Vellun Parish--Jefferson Bernard_

Sidney Wyeth sat for a long time at his desk after he had looked through the statement before him. He could not for some time understand how it had all come about. He had been carried from the office unconscious ten weeks before, and during that time, or when he had come back into his senses after many weeks, he had concluded that his effort, which had not gone very far, was doomed to die, and had resigned himself to the inevitable. Now before him was a statement, which showed that more than a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each week, in excess of the cost of the books. More than five thousand dollars was to his credit in a local bank. What miracle had been wrought to make such a profit in so short a time--or any time at all? It had taken him two years to reach a fourth edition of this book, while now the copies before him stated ninth edition. How had it all happened?

There was but one answer, and that was, Mildred Latham.

He lived over again the years of the past. He saw her as he had met her on that first day. He recalled her patience and appreciation, while he explained to her the contents of the book, and the order she had given. He remembered the dance and the kiss, with a strange pang of the heart. In all his days, no kiss had seemed like that. And the look in her eyes afterward. Was that love? Surely that was life. If God, our Creator, made that possible, then life was worth the effort. He became so absorbed in his reflections, that he started when he recalled his last visit.

After that it was different. But for that--but he had worried himself sick, and had succeeded in forgetting it and her until the day he took sick. He was too weak and torn by the illness to think about the matter, while he lay on his back in the hospital. But when convalescence had set in, he had thought of it almost constantly. Try as he would, he had been unable to understand how it all happened. He pondered over it until he entered the office an hour ago, and now it was all plain.

"Who is this girl?" he asked himself. "What is she?" he demanded. "She has always puzzled me." But, at the end of it all, the old hag on the steps, with the words she had spoken, rose again before him, and he forgot--he felt he was compelled to forget, all the rest.

He got up, after a time, and walked about the office. He felt tired, and in view of her success, and of the circumstances surrounding it, he would go somewhere and rest, until he had thought it all out. But of one thing he was certain, and that was he must never see her again. He could love her; he could do anything within his power for her--he was only too glad to; but he felt he could never forget the few words he had heard a long time ago.

So he wrote a letter to the effect that he had gone away, but he did not state where.

* * * * *

"Oh, I have overslept myself dreadfully," cried Mildred, entering the kitchen where the other worked away in silence.

"I started to awaken you, and you were resting so quietly, that I desisted," Mrs. Jacques replied, regarding her with a fond glance that the other did not understand.

"I must hurry, for, of all mornings, this is the very one I would not have been late for anything," and she hurried through her breakfast and was turning to go, when the other came up, threw her arms about her impulsively, and kissed her long and lingeringly upon the lips. Mildred returned the embrace, but she did not understand the expression in the eyes of the other, as she took her leave.

She arrived at the office, and was surprised to find only Katherine working away on the books.

"Has--ah, any one been here?" she inquired, after waiting to hear something from the lips of the other.

"No, ma'am, no one," said the other, looking up in surprise for a moment.

"Very well," said Mildred, seating herself at her desk. As she did so, her eyes fell upon an envelope with her name written across it, and marked personal. She broke the seal nervously. Calming herself, she straightened out the folded sheet, and read it carefully.

_Miss Mildred Latham_,

_My Dear Madam_:

It is impossible to state how much you have done for the sale of the book during my illness. I do not hesitate to say, that in view of the fact that I have struggled over a period of two years, with only a small measure of success, as compared to that which has come about since you have looked after it, that it is beyond me. I cannot, however, conscientiously accept it in the way you have offered it according to your statement. So I have, therefore, made over to you the sum total that you placed in the bank to my credit.

I am leaving the city for parts unknown, and may not return for a long time--and possibly not at all.

Regretting that I cannot thank you more amply, but hoping you will accept what is no more than due you, I am,

Very sincerely yours,

SIDNEY WYETH.

She laid the letter down and gazed into space for a long time, not trying to understand anything. He had gone, and left her. He had given her all she had earned, and the privilege of earning more, but he had gone. Would he ever return?... She was sorry now that she didn't tell him all when it had been convenient; and still, in the next thought, she was glad she hadn't.

She was not excited, but went about the work without any outward sign that she had been the recipient of anything unusual; but all the day through, she was thinking of what had just passed. She could not recall what she had expected, or that she had expected anything; but of one thing she was more conscious than ever before, and that was that she loved him with all her soul.

So she decided to allow matters to drift along and made no change.

* * * * *

Wyeth stood before the window of the city ticket office of a small railroad. He was attracted by a parish which appeared rather remote, but where a lake was advertised as a nice place to fish. He made up his mind to go there. It was a half day's journey by rail, and a train left in two hours. He returned to his room, and an hour later his trunk was at the depot. He passed near the building, and from where he paused, he caught a sight of her sitting at the desk where she had sat the night before.

He could go to her now, and say what had been on his lips more than a year before. He gazed at her for a long time, and was conscious of a longing. He had loved her--oh, so very much. Indeed, she was everything he had desired. Then he thought of the hag and what she had said, and went his way to the depot.

* * * * *

Vellun Parish is perhaps the most remote part of the state. It lies toward the southwest, and is bounded on one side by the Gulf of Mexico. Its land is all swamp, while no part of it is more than ten feet above the level of the sea. The most of it is under perhaps a foot of water. Upon the dry portion a few people live. They make no effort to raise crops further than a garden, but depend mostly upon fishing, and upon tourists for their living. One railroad pulls through the mighty swamps about it, and has a small station located on this dry spot. It is many miles to another station. Almost everybody leaves the place in summer, for mosquitoes hold sway, while sickness and swamp fever are prevalent.

It was high noon at this resort, and from down the track could be heard the whistle of a small locomotive--for the trestles would not hold up large, heavy ones, Presently, with a ringing of bells, it came to a stop before the station, and two people got off, other than members of the train crew. One from the rear, and the other from the front of the Jim Crow car.

The latter was Sidney Wyeth, and in his hands he carried a fishing outfit and other matter, together with a suit case. Before the station loafed a few of the inhabitants, including an old man whose age was perhaps sixty. He regarded Wyeth strangely, but returned the nod curteously, when the other had spoken.

"Have any idea where I can find lodging about here?" he inquired. It was at the end of the winter season, and those who live the summer months through, had resigned themselves to the heat and mosquitoes. The old man surveyed Wyeth a moment critically before replying.

"Well, I dunno exactly," said he at last, and Wyeth was startled at his command of language, for in those parts few spoke English, and when they did it was bad. Creole was customary. The old man looked about a moment before continuing, but presently he said. "I live alone over beyond that clump of trees," and he pointed to a grove that Wyeth saw plainly, "and if you are alone, you might go along and look it over, and if satisfied, why we might make a deal."

"That's fair enough," agreed Wyeth. "I'm alone, and may be here a month, a week, or it may be three months, I can't say."

"Very well then, follow me."

He took part of the luggage, and they went across one of the few cleared spots of the parish. Finally they came to a neat log house behind a paling fence, before which a dog barked viciously. "Don, Don, hush the noise," the old man said. "He won't bite, but he is fond of barking." The dog now rolled on his back at Wyeth's feet, and they soon became friends. Sidney patted his head and then rolled him over, much to the dog's delight.

"Well, well, Governor!" cried Wyeth enthusiastically, when they were inside, "but you're all fixed here, I must say."

"Yes," said the other, slowly and modestly, "I guess it'll do for an old relic like me," and he laughed humorously. Wyeth regarded him a moment, and then, for the first time told him his name.

"And mine is Jefferson Bernard."

"Well, Mr. Bernard, I have always taken pride in the fact that I am at home in the open," and he gazed out the window across the cleared spot, and into the forest that surrounded the house.

"Glad to hear that," cried the other. "I was under the impression that you were one of the fly butlers who come here with their people."

"No, I'm a sort of globe trotter, you might say. In fact, at the present I have no plans whatever for the future, so I might bunk with you here a few months. Depends on how my mind is at the end of each day."

"Restless, eh?"

"That's it. Have spent eleven years on the prairies of Dakota, and very often, the 'Call of the Wild' gets into my veins, and I want to get out where I cannot see any one, and sort of--well, forget the strenuous ways of life for a while."

Both laughed agreeably.

"Well," said Jefferson Bernard. "I bunk here alone and do my own cooking of course, and hunt and fish and read and sleep whenever I get ready."

Wyeth wondered at this man. About the wall everything was clean, while the clothes the other wore were a forest suit of brown cloth, with lace boots and a belt; his hat was a broad brimmed Stetson. They were all the best of material, and the man's appearance was anything else but the back-woods Negro. He started to inquire who he was, but something about the other did not invite familiarity, so he talked on other topics instead.

He had been there two weeks, and had been over all the part of the parish that was accessible, when one of the periodic rainy spells set in. For days they were unable to get outside without getting wet, and at times they told a great deal about themselves.

"And that reminds me," said Bernard, "that you spoke of Cincinnati and that you came south from there, a bit over a year ago. I, then, left there after you did."

"Indeed," said Wyeth in surprise.

"Yes, I have been down here a little over a year only. I was reared in this same parish many years ago, and, since then, I always had a longing to come back and stay again until I got tired of it." He made himself comfortable as he drew away on a long pipe; while Wyeth, observing him, waited for the story he had to tell.

"Yes, I used to live in Cincinnati--in fact, I guess that is what I might call home, if not this."

"This is news to me," said Wyeth.

The other smiled languidly, and went on:

"I used to live on Walnut Hill, and was employed by Stephen Myer, a wealthy retired merchant, who not only was well-to-do in Cinci', but owned a number of interests in the south, in fact, he came to Cincinnati from the south not so long before, and never went back again, for he died.

"I was his valet for years. Got acquainted with him right here in this parish one winter, when he was staying at the hotel over there, and it was the second winter when he hired me and took me north with him.

"Stephen Myer was a good man at heart, but a sport until he died, and certainly believed in a good time with the women. He loved his family, but he would run around, which recalls his death whenever I think of it.

"He came back from the south about three years ago I think, and it was not long until I knew he was keeping a girl he had brought with him. I paid the matter no attention, because he always had somebody before; but strange to say, after that he had no other. It was kept very quiet and I knew nothing of it,--that is, from him, until the night he died. That took place while we were at a hotel in Detroit. His death was due to heart failure, but it didn't take him as it does most of its victims. He was conscious that he was going to die, although he was, to all appearances, well.

"It was then he told me the story.

"Calling me to his bedside, this is what he said. I do not think I shall ever forget it, because it was such an awful death. 'Jeff,' said he. 'I'm going to die.' I looked at him, saying: 'Oh, you're frightened;' but he shook his head in such a way that I became frightened, and waited. 'Yes, Jeff,' he resumed: 'I'm goin' to die, and Jeff, I'm going to hell,' I tried to soothe him, but he only frowned slightly, and went on. 'Yes, Jeff, I'm going to die and go to hell, because I deserve to go there. I deserve to go there, Jeff, because I have sinned. Yes, Jeff, I've committed an awful sin, and it's no more than my due to burn in hell in payment. I never believed much in such a place until not long ago, when I brought that girl to Cincinnati.' He breathed deeply and with some effort, and it was then I could see he wore a strange expression, and now, as I look back at it, I guess that meant death. He went on again, after a breathing spell:

"'Bring me that box over there Jeff, that one with the key in the lock. I want to leave that one whom I have wronged something before I'm done for.' I brought it to him, and he unlocked it, and took therefrom a lot of papers, and a certified check for twenty-five thousand dollars, all made out, and to be turned over to her through due recognition, as attested by his lawyers in Cincinnati. 'Hadn't I better wire for your family?' I inquired of him; but he waived it aside, and said he didn't want them to know until it was over.

"'Now, Jeff,' he went on, 'you are to take this envelope to my attorney and see that you get their receipt of it, after which, when you get back to Cincinnati, you take this box as it is to her. I trust you, Jeff, and believe that you will attend to it. And, too, I've left you well cared for; but that is in the will, in due form. And now, if you'll just give me a drink of water, I'll tell you the story.

"'My company had their southern office in Attalia, and we had quite a bit of business with the financial department of one of the big denominations of Negro churches. And that was how we came to become involved in this deal. The financial secretary of the church very often gave us his note in payment, and soon became well known to me, and I liked him. Pretty soon, however, it came to me that he aspired to be a bishop; although the office he held was a good graft, and we knew it, altho' the niggers didn't. But he became crazy to be a bishop and a real big Negro, proper.

"'About this time, it came to my attention that something crooked, something underhanded was going on in the affairs of the church. Well, one of the boys who worked as porter, was reading a Negro paper one day, and I observed that this financial secretary's picture covered the whole front page. I took the paper, and when I had read all the stuff he had written under another's name, I began to figure what it was costing him to become a bishop. Other extravagances came under my observation, and, since the business we had with them was becoming involved, I began an investigation regarding the preacher. It developed that he had been married twice--that is, the present wife was his second. The first one had died and left him two daughters. My investigation, which came through a Negro detective by the name of Dejoie, although he was known during the investigation as Edwards, developed that he was a despot. His youngest daughter by his first wife realized this, and she threw it into his face, and left when she was thirteen, going to a place in Michigan where she educated herself. The other was a girl with much sense, but somewhat subservient to the old man, regardless of the fact that she possessed a mind of her own. Apparently it had been the old man's practice to have them regard him as the great I am. She stayed with her father, who lived with his second wife, and to that union were born several children, I don't know how many.

"'Edwards uncovered all this and some more. He revealed the fact that this preacher, who was so anxious to become a bishop, was not only seeking it by extravagant methods, but had employed the church's funds to the amount of more than five thousand dollars. And still, all those pig headed niggers knew nothing of it. It's a great wonder they have anything, they seem to know so little. My company was up against it for what was due us; but that was not the end of it. On top of this, what did that sinner do but write my name on a note for five thousand dollars, and, through his standing with the bank, got the money and covered the shortage before those niggers ever knew there was any! Wasn't that the limit? He was elected bishop, and became the big nigger his great ambition had aspired to.

"'I was too put out to do anything at once, although the note came due before I was aware it had been given.

"'The night I discovered it, was one when I happened to be in my office alone. I decided forthwith to place it in the hands of the law. It was then that this daughter came to the office with a note from him, asking for an appointment. I have an idea he was only then aware that the note was due or past due. She caught me as mad as a hornet, and I told her the whole thing. I shall not soon forget the expression on her face when I had told her. She looked like she would die right there. It was then, too, I saw how beautiful she was and so well formed. Suddenly a proposal entered my head. I have always been impulsive, but I have never been known to back up. So I got up and stood before her, and said my say. She was terribly indignant and would have fled, but I stood between her and the door. I became mad to have that girl. She fought me, but I grew worse. I finally said to her: "Come with me to Cincinnati, and save your rotten, sinning preacher father from the chain gang. A home it is up there with plenty of everything, or fifteen years for your now bishop father on the worst chain gang in the world." She regarded me wildly, as the substance of it became clear to her. "Oh, I mean it," I cried. "I'm going to send that dad of yours to the chain gang tomorrow--and you know what that means." I think all the horror of it rose before her in that moment. All the Negroes, spiteful, envious creatures crying: "Aw, you're a big nigger, huh. Your daddy's a bishop!" And the next day: "Um-um! What do you think of it! A big bishop done fo'ged a note!" And she had seen the chain gang. All those stripes and chains frightened her. She looked up at me with an appeal in her eyes that frightened me--even then; but I was too wild to have her at that moment, to give heed. And then she begged me to have mercy. She cried and beseeched--she did everything, and then--in the end--well, I'll not soon forget those appeals. "I'm a nice girl. Can you not appreciate what that means? I will--to save my father and those little ones; but before God: Hear him, please, see him. I may be yours in body, but never in soul; while--oh, can't you see what you ask? Can you not see that you take everything I have lived for? Don't you see, that when you rob a woman of her purity you have destroyed her womanhood?" She fell on her face and sobbed until, as I see it now, I can't imagine how I could have acted so.

"'And that is why, Jeff, I'm going to hell. Yes, to hell!' He was going now, his eyes had a far away, an unearthly expression; but before he was gone, he said--and his voice seemed to come from another world as I held him. 'I'm going, Jeff, I'm going. Satan's waiting for me. And, say, Jeff,' his voice now came in gasps, and sounded as if from eternity: 'I don't mind it so much, no I don't, Jeff; but the only thing, and the last request of God, is to be sure to send that old preacher down to meet me sometime.' With that his muscles relaxed, a spasm contracted his form, and he lay dead."

The two were silent now. Outside a bird hopped about, and finally lit on the window sill, peering in as if to inquire the cause of the silence. After a long time, it seemed, Wyeth spoke.

"Strange. And did--you--ah--fulfill the request?"

"Yes," said the other slowly. "I did at once, and let me tell you, my friend, I will never forget that girl's face. Oh, I've seen many; but this girl's face told the story, and her story was that of a pure girl, a good girl, who had made a sublime sacrifice. Was that sacrifice worth the cost?" Again silence reigned supreme, each with his thoughts.

The birds outside made sweet music, as they flitted happily about. Sidney Wyeth was speaking again, and his voice was from a distance, as he said quietly:

"What became of her?"

"What became of her? Oh yes," cried the other, sitting up and shaking off his distraction, as though he had been awakened from sleep. "Why, she left soon after. Came south, and when I was on the way down here, I chanced to stop over in a town--I won't mention the name--because she was there. Was selling a book, so I understood, but was staying with the pastor of the Presbyterian church, and high in their favor. I was glad to see it and never let on; but there was a skunk aboard the same train from Cincinnati, and who stayed there. I've often thought about it since, and I hope that devil never knew her and made trouble. She was a good girl, and still may be saved if things go along right."

"Life is full of mysteries," Wyeth commented.

"Sure is," his companion replied, and then became dreary, as his mind wandered sadly, solemnly, back into the past. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, saying: "I trust you, and for that reason, since I have told it to you, I have a small picture that I found in the old man's effects, and considered it good policy to remove. So I have kept it, and I'm going to show it to you."

While the other fished away in an old trunk, a strange thought came to Sidney Wyeth, and he recalled singularly, the effort for the Y.M.C.A. in that town up the river, and how twenty-five thousand dollars from a source that no one could explain, was paid at almost the last minute.... He was doing some thinking and had forgotten all about the other, who had closed the trunk now, and came before him with a small picture. He sat up quickly when the other touched him, and held before his gaze the picture of Mildred Latham.

And in that moment there came a vision of a dark, dreary night, when he hurried through the streets of Cincinnati, and came to a place where an old woman sat, an evil hag; and who regarded him with malicious eyes--eyes that appeared to hate everyone--and the words in reply to his request, came back with a shock: "_Gwan! She's with her man!_"

Sidney continued to gaze at the picture. There was profound silence, for neither spoke. One was not in the mood to do so, the other could not. He raised his hand mechanically to his head, as though to rid his mind of some obstruction. He tried to think coherently, but his senses were confused.

He turned, staggered slightly, groping as if blindly, for support, and passed on out into the open, and under God's pure heavens--anywhere away from the stifling air inside, and its hideous secret.

Sidney stood outside now, and the spring sun beat upon his bare head, as, with his trembling hand he shaded his eyes, and looked in the direction of the creole city. Back there he would go--he had to go! He couldn't say why--feel why--now. For, in the tangle of his confused thoughts, nothing seemed clear. But, he would go back. His hand sought his forehead again. Yes, he would go back.

* * * * *

Let us go back to a night when the heroine of our story got up from a drunken stupor, to find that the hour of fate--fate for the Y.M.C.A. was at hand. She had rushed breathlessly to the office of the Western Union, and had secured the money that had been transferred, at her request, from the Cincinnati bank some days before. She had known when Wilson Jacobs returned unsuccessful in his attempt, that some expedient was necessary.

When she realized a year before, that she was heiress to such a sum of money, she had worried as to what she would do with it. Her conscience would never let her touch a penny of it for personal use. It had been left on deposit, and, insofar as her daily life had been concerned, she had about forgotten it, until the climax of Wilson Jacobs' great effort had stood like a spectre before her.

For a time she had hesitated, feeling that such money should not be used for Christian purposes.... But, when she had awakened on that dreadful night, she came at once to appreciate how, through her and her alone, this effort should be realized.

So, she rushed pell mell through the streets that led to Wilson Jacobs' home. As she hurried along, visions of the great need passed fitfully through her mind. She recalled all the crime she had witnessed; thousands yearly herded on the gangs, torn mothers, prostituted sisters, homes broken up by that demon of liquor. She could see the condition which forced so many of her people to the belief that colored people could never be anything, regardless as to how much they might try.

Race prejudice, that demon of American society, had succeeded in convincing so many of these weak people that there was no future; that the only resort was to get all the excitement out of life that was possible. How they conducted themselves to secure such a life, was the one great detriment to the race, to the city, to the state, and in the end, to the United States.

As she rushed along, she could hear these poor creatures, and the words they uttered, when approached with offers for their salvation; for, in addition to the discouragement caused by race prejudice, there was another feature that was worse still--class prejudice. The folly of it. The effect was more damnable, she knew, than all the other causes, for, through it these poor creatures were made to feel that they were actually bad; bad beyond redemption, which made them unfit for the civilized world. Under this they fretted. They grew likewise to hate, and in the end, to become not only a disgrace to the race, community and state, but even enemies to society.

She recalled once a man, a mulatto and obviously a pervert, who answered a street preacher. She could never seem to forget his words.

"You say," he had said, "that I should get religion. _and I say, what's the use_? I'm a _nigger_, and that means I'm a vagabond, a cast-off, a thing to be hated, condemned and persecuted. You speak of brotherly love and the reward hereafter. I laugh when you make such assertions. _Heaven for a Negro?_ Why, do you suppose that even Satan would care for him? As to brotherly love, why don't you go to the white man that keeps my sister? Why don't you tell that man what you preach about? I am illegitimate. My youngest sister, the white man's mistress, is too, and so are all the rest! Then you speak of heaven and reward in the hereafter for Negroes. The hereafter is the chain gang, where my illegitimate brother is serving twenty years for murder. As for me, I'm going to a blind tiger and get a drink. I'm going to get drunk. The idea that a Negro can be anything is a joke. There may be a heaven for white people, but for a Negro, oh, you fool!"

As all this and other instances passed through her mind, Mildred became much excited. Then, as the reality dawned upon her, a picture of what that money could do became clear to her, and with Wilson Jacobs as its secretary, she presently came to feel that her sacrifice might be a blessing in disguise.

On and on she hurried, until at last she came to the house. She paused at the gate, and caught her breath. Her thoughts were busy for a moment, as she tried to formulate a plan to deliver the money without being caught. She struggled nervously, with first one plan and then another, and then at last she boldly entered the gate and walked up to the front door. As she reached to push the bell, she looked through the glass door. Wilson sat nodding in the study. His position, she saw, was such that he could see the clock, and watch the fatal moments pass. It was then past eleven. She could see the clock and realized what those moments meant. He had, as she observed him, fallen asleep from sheer fatigue. As she watched him, there came to her mind a bold idea, and she put it into effect at once. She tried the door, fearing it might be locked, but was relieved when it opened with a turn of the knob.

She entered the house on tip-toe, passed through the hall to the study, which was to one side, entered the room in which he sat, and, with breath held, nerves tense, she cautiously crossed to where he sat. She slowly drew her breath, when she saw he was sleeping peacefully. She placed the package containing the price of her virtue upon the table. She looked at him again, and caught her breath in fear, as he moved slightly, but did not fully awaken.

The next moment she stole her way to the door, like a thief in the night, and was outside. She turned, as she heard a sound, and saw Constance, weary, tired, and apparently nervally exhausted, come from the rear and enter the study. She dared stand and watch her, as she entered the study where her brother sat, now fully awake, but oblivious to the presence of the package. He was watching the clock that was ticking away.

With a catch of her breath, she saw that Constance had discovered the package, and she saw them open it with curiosity. She noted the look of intense joy, as their eyes beheld the contents.

As she was leaving, these words floated out to her in the stillness of night, "_Go, brother, in God's name, go!_"

No one, so far as we know, guessed where the much needed money came from. But, strangely enough, the giving had relieved the giver. After she left the Jacobs' home, she felt as she had never felt before, and took life and what it brought very calmly. As she passed along, she looked with silent relief into the faces of those of her race, who were persecuted on one hand by fear of the superior white, and, on the other, by cast. At times she had regarded them as so many dogs, lurking, hungry dogs, who wait until darkness sets in, before lurking in the alleys and searching garbage cans, expecting to be kicked or be killed upon discovery, if, for no other reason, simply to give vent to a hatred. They felt, as she saw it, that it was the lot of the Negro to be hated. They got no kindness; they expected none; they even scoffed when it was offered, regarding it as some subtle means of inviting them to a worse fate, and this was what discrimination and prejudice had brought them to.

There still remained the dispensation. No person in all the world, she felt, was so fitted for the task as Wilson Jacobs. Care of the building, after its completion, would itself be a problem. Then there was that distrust to dispell. Too often, she knew, that arrogance on the part of the leaders of these institutions, had a tendency to keep away from their doors the very class whom they sought to attract. Unfortunately, the Negroes themselves realized that those conditions were true.

Wilson Jacobs was not such a character. She felt relieved as she realized this. When she thought again of her people, she appreciated what in time this genuine Christianity of his would mean to them, when they came to know him for the kind man he was. Her race was emotional, superstitious, but withal, patriotic and enthusiastic. Nothing, regardless of all she had seen, could make her think otherwise. And what could be the attitude of her race, her brothers, when they realized the efforts made in their behalf? Will they say:

"You want to help me? You _really_ want to be a brother, and take me into that place and help me to lead a good, clean life? And I doubted you! I scorned your offer and cursed you and all society. Oh, merciful God, but I knew not what I did! And you say, that I am not bad, that I never was bad? That I was merely weak--weak as other human beings were? Can all this be true? I can hardly realize it. I have _never_ known kindness. I have always been told that life held no future for me, a Negro; that by the will of our Creator, I was born to be hated, hunted and abused, a creature of no destiny, a thing to be spat upon and made a slave of, a creature without morals. You say that all this was wrong, and that I can be not only a good person, but an example for the good of others? That I am, after all, only the victim of circumstances?"

Wilson Jacobs would convince them, and, when this was done, her reward would come.