Part 3

Her brother said nothing as he proceeded to fold up the rather generous remains of his dinner; poor laddie, he knew the taste of bread eaten with tears, even if he had never heard the phrase. His face brightened a little as his hand went out to the pocket of his blouse, extracting a parcel wrapped in paper. He held it with both hands behind his back, uncovering it the while.

"Shut your eyes, Jessie—and open your mouth," he directed, as enthusiastically as though the formula were being tested for the first and only time.

Jessie obeyed with a confidence born of long experience, and her brother, all care vanished meanwhile from his face, held the plum-cake to her lips. "Now, bite," he said. Jessie, already faintly tasting, made a slight incision. "Oh, Jessie, bite bigger—bite bigger, Jessie!" he cried in dismay; "you’re just trying how little you can take—and I kept it for you." But Jessie’s eyes were wide open now, fixed on the unwonted luxury. "Too much isn’t good for little girls," she said quaintly, swallowing eagerly, nevertheless; "I’ll eat one piece if you’ll eat the other, Harvey," she said, noticing the double portion.

"I’m keeping mine for mother," said the boy resolutely.

"So’m I," the other exclaimed before his words were out. "I’d sooner have the pancakes, anyhow," she added, fearing his protest. "Will you take it to her, Harvey—or me?"

"I think you’d better," replied her brother, "and I’ll eat the rest of the dinner if you’ll promise to eat your part of the cake when you get home."

Jessie nodded her consent, and a few minutes saw Harvey’s portion of the contract nobly executed, his sister as satisfied as he.

*V*

_*A FLOW OF SOUL*_

Good Dr. Fletcher always said a little longer grace than usual when he dined at Mr. Craig’s. Whether this was due to the length of the ensuing meal, or to the long intervals that separated these great occasions, or to the wealth that provided them, or to the special heart-needs of the wealthy, it were difficult to say. But one thing is beyond all doubt, and that is that the good minister of the Glenallen Presbyterian Church would no more have thought of using an old grace at Mrs. Craig’s table than she herself would have dreamed of serving the same kind of soup, or repeating a dessert whose predecessor was within the call of memory.

On this particular evening Dr. Fletcher’s invocation had been particularly long, due perhaps to the aroma, more than usually significant, that had escaped the kitchen to assure the sanguine guests; and a sort of muffled amen broke from their waiting lips, soon to confirm the word by all sincerity of action. This amen was doubtless due in part to gratitude for what had ended, as well as to anticipation of what was about to be begun. Cecil Craig, seated beside his mother, took no part in the terminal devotion; long before the time to utter it, his open eyes were turned towards the door through which the servants were to enter, and from which, so far as he could reckon, all blessings flow.

Soup came first, and young Craig dauntlessly led on in the attack. His mother tried eagerly to call to his attention, and to his alone, that he had seized the spoon meant for his dessert; but Cecil was already in full cry, the mistaken weapon plying like a paddle-wheel between his plate and his mouth—and no signal of distress could reach him. The most unfortunate feature of it all, however, was the speedy plight of one or two timorous guests, who, waiting for the lead of any members of the family, had followed Cecil’s; and, suddenly detecting whither he had led them, were soon floundering sadly in such a slough of despond as they scarce escaped from during the entire meal.

Mr. and Mrs. Borland were there, one on either side of Dr. Fletcher; and the light of temporary peace was upon Mrs. Borland’s brow—for the Craigs’ home was nearer to a mansion than any other in Glenallen. A slight shade of impatience flitted across her face as she glanced athwart Dr. Fletcher’s portly form, surveying her husband’s bosom swathed in snowy white, his napkin securely tucked beneath his chin. But David was all unconscious, the region beneath the napkin being exceeding comfortable; for the soup was good, and her spouse bade fair to give Cecil a stern chase for the honours of the finish.

Soup is a mighty lubricant of the inward parts; wherefore there broke out, when the first course was run, a very freshet of conversation; and the most conspicuous figure in the flow was that of Mr. Craig. He had the advantage, of course, of an erect position, for he had risen to inaugurate his attack upon the helpless fowl before him; an entrance once effected, he would resume his seat.

"It beats me," he was saying, glancing towards Dr. Fletcher as he spoke, "it beats me how any man can go and see sick folks every day—I’d sooner do hard labour. Don’t you get awful tired of it, Doctor?"

The minister’s gentle face flushed a little—the same face at sight of which the sad and the weary were wont to take new hope. "I don’t think you understand it, Mr. Craig," he answered quietly; "any one who regards it as you do could never see the beauty of it—it all depends on what you take with you."

"Good heavens, do you have to take things with you?" cried the astonished host. "Matters are come to a pretty pass when they expect a poor preacher to be giving—as well as praying," he affirmed, affirmed, savagely at the victim on the platter.

David Borland was listening intently, nabbing dexterously the while at a tray of salted almonds that lay a good arm’s length away from him. "The minister’s quite right," he now broke in; "you don’t understand, Mr. Craig—Dr. Fletcher don’t mean that he takes coal an’ tea, when he visits poor folks. But what he says is dead true just the same—any one can carry a bag of turnips, or such like, to any one that’s willin’ to take ’em. But a minister’s got to give somethin’ far more than that; even on Sundays—at least that’s my idea of it—even on Sundays, what a preacher gives is far more important than what he says."

"You mean he ought to give himself," Mrs. Craig suggested, stirring the gravy as she spoke, the dismembered turkey being now despatched to its anointing.

"That’s it exactly," rejoined David, beaming on his hostess, her own face aglow with the gentle light that flows from a sympathetic heart. "Everythin’s jest a question of how much you give of your own self; even here," his voice rising as he hailed the happy illustration, "even in this here house—with this here bird—we ain’t enjoyin’ it because we’re gettin’ so much turkey, but because we’re gettin’ so much Craig," he went on fervently. "I could buy this much turkey for a quarter," passing a well-laden plate as he spoke, "for twenty-five cents at an eatin’ house—but it wouldn’t jest taste the same. It wouldn’t have the Craig taste, you see—there wouldn’t be no human flavour to it, like; an’ turkey ain’t nothin’ without a human flavour. That’s what makes everythin’ taste good, you see," he concluded, smiling benignly around on the assembled guests.

"I don’t believe in any such," retorted Mr. Craig; "no mixture of that kind for mine. Turkey’s one thing, and humanity’s another—no stews for me," he directed, smiling broadly at this flash of unaccustomed wit; "people eat turkey—but not humanity," he concluded victoriously.

"You’re wrong there," replied David Borland quickly. "Folks lives on humanity—only it’s got to be served warm," he added, falling to upon the turkey nevertheless.

"What do you think about it, Doctor?" Mrs. Borland enquired absently, for her real concern was with David; his dinner knife was her constant terror when they were dining out. All was well so far, however, her husband devoting it as yet to surgery alone.

"I think exactly what your husband thinks," replied the minister. "He has said the very thing I have often wished to say. I have always felt that what a preacher _gives_ to his people—of his heart and love and sympathy—is far more than what he _says_ to them. If it were not so, they’d better stay home and read far finer things than he can say; I often feel that preparing to preach is far more important than preparing a sermon. And I think the same holds true of all giving—all philanthropy, for instance. What you give of yourself to the poor is far more than what you give from your pocketbook—and, if the truth were told, I believe it’s what the poor are looking for, far more than they are for money." The tenderness in Dr. Fletcher’s face and the slight quiver in his voice attested the sincerity of his feeling; they might, too, have afforded no little explanation of the love that all Glenallen felt for the humble and kindly man.

Mr. Craig laughed; and that laughter was the key to his character. Through that wave of metallic merriment, as through a tiny pane, one might see into all the apartments of a cold and cheerless heart.

"That’s mighty pretty, Doctor," he began jocosely; "but if I was poor I’d sooner have the cash—give me the turkey, and you can have the humanity. I believe in keeping these things separate, Dr. Fletcher," he went on sagaciously; "no mixin’ up business with religion, for me—of course, helping the poor isn’t exactly religion, but it comes mighty near it. And if I give anything to the poor—I used to, too, used to give—to give so much every year, till I found out one family that bought a watermelon with it, and then I thought it was about time to stop. But when I used to—to give to the poor, I always did it strictly as a matter of business; just gave so much to—to an official—and then I didn’t want to know how he dispensed it, or who got it, or anything about it."

"Did the—the official—did he give all his time to dispensin’ it, Mr. Craig? Or did he just do it nights and after hours?" enquired David Borland, detaching his napkin from his upper bosom and scouring an unduly merry mouth with it the while.

Mr. Craig glanced suspiciously at his guest. "I didn’t wish to know," he replied loftily in a moment; "all I’m making out is the principle that governed me. And I always take the same stand in my business—always assume the same attitude towards my men," he amplified, as proud of his language as of his attitude. "Of all the men I’ve got hired, I don’t believe I know a half dozen except the foremen. I get their work, and they get their pay every second and fourth Tuesday—and that’s the end of it."

"You don’t know how much you miss," the minister ventured, quite a glow of colour on his otherwise pallid cheek. "There’s nothing so interesting as human life."

"You bet—that’s just it," chimed David’s robust voice; "that’s where a fellow gets his recreation. I don’t think I’m master of my business till I know somethin’ about my men—there ain’t no process, even in manufacturing half so interestin’ as the doin’s of folks in their own lives. I know lots of their wives, too, an’ half the kids—please give me a little more stuffin’, Mrs. Craig: it’s powerful good," and David passed his plate as cheerfully as his opinion.

"That may be your way of taking your recreation, Mr. Borland, but it isn’t mine," retorted the host, obviously a little ruffled. "Business on business lines, that’s my motto. Just the other day a little gaffer asked me for work, on the plea that he wanted to fix up his mother’s eyes—wanted to send her to a specialist, I think—and I told him that had nothing to do with the case; if I wanted him I’d take him, and if I didn’t, nobody’s eyes could make any difference."

"Was his name Harvey Simmons?" David enquired somewhat eagerly.

"I believe it was. Why, what do you know about him?"

"Oh, nothin’ much—only I hired him. And he isn’t goin’ to have no blind mother if my givin’ him work will help—that’s more. She’s got a son worth lookin’ at—that’s one thing sure. An’ he earned every penny I ever gave him, too—what was you goin’ to say, Doctor?" For he saw the minister had something to offer.

"I know the little fellow well," said Dr. Fletcher, evidently glad of the opportunity. "Poor little chap, he’s had hard lines—his father was a slave to drink, I believe, and the poor mother has fought about as good a fight as I ever saw. I’m sure she carries about some burden of sorrow nobody knows anything about. She has two children. Well, a long time ago now, one of the richest couples in my church offered to adopt the little girl—and they got me to sound her on the subject. Goodness me! You should have seen the way the woman stood at bay. ’Not till the last crust’s gone,’ she said. She was fairly roused; ’I’m richer than they are,’ she said; ’I’ve got my two children, and I’ll keep them as long as I can lift a hand to toil for them.’ Really, I never felt more rebuked in my life—but I admired her more than I could tell. And the wee fellow raged like a little lion. ’Did he want to take sister?—tell him to go home, mother,’ and he was fairly shouting and stamping his little foot, though the tears were running down his cheeks all the while. I said she had two children," the minister added, "but I think she lost a baby through some sad accident years ago."

David Borland’s eyes were glistening. "Bully for you, Doctor!" his voice rang through the room. "Bully for you—I knew the lad was worth stickin’ to. I’m proud to be mixed up with a chap like that," thumping the table as he spoke.

"That’s what I often say to Peter," Mrs. Craig began mildly during the pause that followed. "I often feel what you sometimes say in your sermons, Doctor—that we ought all to be mixed up a little more together. The rich and the poor, I mean. They need us, and we need them—and we both have our own parts to play in the great plan."

"That’s it, Mrs. Craig," David broke in lustily again; "that’s exactly it—last Sunday when we sang that line, ’My web of time He wove,’ I jest stopped singin’—it struck me, like it never done before, as how God Himself couldn’t weave much without us helpin’ Him—the rich an’ the poor—it’s Him that designs, but it’s us that has to weave. An’ I reckon our hands has got to touch—if they’re workin’ on the same piece," he concluded, drinking in the approving smile with which Dr. Fletcher was showing his appreciation of the quaint philosophy.

A considerable silence followed, the host showing no disposition to break it. Cecil was the first to speak.

"Harvey wears patches on his knees," he informed the company. "What is there for dessert, mother?"

Mrs. Craig whispered the important information; the radiant son straightway published it to the world: "Plum pudding!—I like that—only I hope it has hard sauce."

Which it ultimately proved to have—and to Mrs. Borland’s great dismay. For David, loyal to ancient ways, yet ever open to the advantage of modern improvement, passed back his plate for a second helping.

"I used to think the kind of gravy-sauce you slashed all over it was the whole thing—but I believe that ointment’s got it beat," he said; whereat Mrs. Borland laid her spoon upon her plate, the ointment and the anointed untasted more.

*VI*

_*AN INVESTMENT*_

David Borland stood quite a little while gazing at the contents of the window before he entered the tiny store. Rather scanty those contents were; a few candy figures, chiefly chocolate creations, a tawdry toy or two, some samples of biscuits judiciously assorted, a gaudy tinselled box of chewing-gum, and a flaming card that proclaimed the merits of a modern brand of tea.

These all duly scrutinized, David pushed the door open and entered the humble place of business. The opening door threw a sleigh-bell, fastened above it, into quite an hysterical condition, and this in turn was answered by hurrying footsteps from the inner room. It was Harvey who appeared.

"Good-morning, Mr. Borland," the boy said respectfully. "Did you want to see mother?" he enquired a little anxiously; "she’s gone to the market, but I think she’ll soon be back."

"That’s all right, my boy," the man responded. "No, it wasn’t your mother I wanted; it was you—I come to do a little business."

"Oh," said Harvey, glancing hopefully towards the window.

"’Tain’t exactly shop business," David said, a little nervously, "I come to—to buy a hen," he blurted out. Harvey’s hand went like lightning into the glass case. Withdrawn, it produced a candy creature of many colours, its comb showing the damage that vandal tongues had done. "Totty Moore licked at it once or twice when we wasn’t lookin’," he explained apologetically; "it used to be in the window—it’s a settin’ hen," he enlarged, indicating with his finger a pasty pedestal on which the creative process was being carried on.

David grinned broadly. "’Tain’t that kind of a hen I’m wantin’," he said. "I want the real article—a real live two-legged hen."

"Oh," said Harvey, staring hard.

"Where’s your chicken-house?" enquired David, coming to business direct.

"It’s outside," the boy replied instructively—"but there ain’t very many."

"Let’s go and see them," said the man.

The boy led the way, David ducking his head several times en route, bowing profoundly at the last as they entered the little house.

"This your hennery?" he asked, surveying the inmates amid a storm of cackling; "sounds like you had hundreds of ’em."

"Just five," said Harvey, peering towards his customer through the semi-darkness.

"I think I’ll buy that there one on the roost," David said after due deliberation; "seems to be the highest-minded of the bunch."

"Can’t," said Harvey, "that’s Jessie’s; it’s only got just one eye—that’s why Jessie wanted it. Can’t sell Jessie’s," he concluded firmly.

David agreed. "Haven’t you got one called Pinky?" he enquired.

"No," Harvey replied solemnly, "she’s dead—we had her a long, long time ago. I can show you her grave outside in the yard."

"Never mind," said Mr. Borland; "this ain’t no day for inspectin’ graves. I might have known she’d passed away—how long does a hen live, anyhow—a healthy hen?"

"Depends on how they’re used," said the boy; "Pinky sneezed to death—too much pepper, I think. Who told you about Pinky, sir?"

"Depends a good deal, too, on how often the preacher comes to dinner, don’t it? It was Madeline told me about Pinky—you know my girl, don’t you?"

"Yes," and Harvey’s face was bright; "I’m awful sorry Pinky’s dead—I could sell you one of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children, Mr. Borland."

"What?" said Mr. Borland, turning a straw about and placing the unchewed end in his mouth, "one of what?"

"One of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children. You see, her child was Fluffy, and its child was Toppy—that was her grandchild; well, its child was Blackie—and that’s her scratchin’ her cheek with her left foot. She’s done scratchin’, but that’s her over there."

"She’s got the Pinky blood in her all right?" asked Mr. Borland.

"She’s bound to have it," the boy answered gravely; "they was all born right in this room; besides, I’ve got it all marked down on the door."

David surveyed the descendant critically. "Does she lay brown eggs?" he enquired presently. "Madeline said Pinky always laid brown eggs."

Harvey hesitated a moment. "They’re—they’re pretty brown," he said after a pause. "They mostly turn brown a little after they’re laid."

"I’m terrible fond of brown eggs," remarked the purchaser.

"What for?" asked Harvey, looking full into his face.

"Well, really—I don’t know," and David grinned a little. "Only I always fancy they’re kind o’—kind o’ better done, don’t you think? Besides," he added quickly, "I always like my toast brown, too—and they kind o’ match better, you see."

"Yes," said Harvey reflectively; "I never thought of that before. Of course, there isn’t any hen can be taught _always_ to lay them brown—I think Blackie tries to make them as brown as she can," glancing fondly at the operator as he spoke. "If you was to feed her bran, Mr. Borland, I think she’d get them brown nearly all the time."

"That’s a thunderin’ good idea," affirmed Mr. Borland, Harvey chiming in with increasing assurance of success as he marked the favour with which his theory was received.

"We’ll call it a bargain," said David.

"All right," exclaimed the boy, "just wait a minute till I get a bag."

"Don’t bother about that; I’ll just leave her here till I send for her—she’ll earn her board. But I may as well pay you now—how much is she worth?"

The boy pondered. "I don’t hardly know—of course the brown kind comes a little dearer," he ventured, glancing cautiously at Mr. Borland. "She’s an awful well-bred hen—I can show you on the door. And she’ll eat anything—Jessie’s string of beads broke loose in the yard once and Blackie ate them all but two; that shows she’s healthy," he concluded earnestly.

"It’s a wonder she ain’t layin’ glass alleys," remarked David. "Well, about the price—I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. Here’s a bill—an’ if she keeps on at the brown business, mebbe I’ll give you a little more."

He handed the boy a crisp note, the lad’s hand trembling as he took it. He gave the door a push open that the light might fall on it. "Oh, Mr. Borland," he cried, in a loud, shrill voice, "I won’t—you mustn’t, you mustn’t. Mother wouldn’t let me—I can’t—please take it back, Mr. Borland," and David noticed in the fuller light that the boy was shaking with emotion, his face aglow with its eager excitement.

"Nonsense, my lad; what you going on about? I reckon I know somethin’ about the price of hens—especially the brown kind. No, I won’t take it back. She’s worth that much to me jest to keep the yard red up o’ glass."

"Oh, Mr. Borland—I wish I——"

"Tut, tut," David interrupted; "boys should take what’s set before ’em, an’ ask no questions—an’ don’t you tell nobody now, only your mother. Say, isn’t that her callin’? Listen—it is, sure enough—that’s your mother callin’ you," and David took advantage of the interruption to unlatch an adjoining gate, slipping through to the outer lane, his face the more radiant of the two.

*VII*

*"*_*EFFECTUAL CALLING*_*"*

"I’ll go with you as far as the door, dear—but the elders wouldn’t want me to come in, of course." Thus spoke Mrs. Simmons to her son as the little family were seated at their evening meal. Very humble it was, indeed, with its strawberry jam, and bread and cheese, these themselves carefully measured out.

"Come away, Jessie; what’s keeping you?" the mother called to the outer kitchen.

"I’ll come in a minute, mother," the child’s cheery voice replied. "I’m doing something," which was evident a little later when Jessie appeared, flushed and triumphant, bearing in one hand a little plate of well-browned toast, and in the other, her little fingers tingling with its heat, a large brown egg, evidently an unwonted luxury.

"Jessie, my child, what have you been doing?" the mother asked, peering rather closely at the dainties the child had laid upon her plate. "Oh, Jessie, you shouldn’t have done it—you know we can’t afford it, dear; we need to sell them all," she remonstrated, affection and gratitude nevertheless mingling in her voice.

"It was cracked, mother—it got a little fall," the child explained artfully.

"Jessie gave it a little fall; she always gets the biggest one cracked a little when there isn’t much for supper—don’t you, sister?" Harvey asked knowingly.

His sister blushed, but the reply she was struggling to provide was interrupted by the tinkling of the bell above the door in the little room without. This was a signal the mother was never slow to obey; customers were rare enough and must not be permitted to escape. Rising quickly, she made her way, her hands extended rather pitifully, to the little room that did duty as a store. Jessie bore the little delicacies back to the kitchen, lest they should cool in the interval.

The mother was back again in a minute, sighing as she resumed her seat.

"Did they buy anything, mother?" her son enquired.